digifrizz-blog

[viviennevermillion]

flirting with them

notes: i present to you, the 3 absolute worst (best) people to flirt with: "cranky & in denial", "goes through a crisis when you compliment him" and "utterly confused but ready to marry you if you ask"

if you like my works, feel free to commission me!

contains: character x gn!reader, shameless flirting

characters included: rollo flamm, azul ashengrotto, malleus draconia

word count: 2.7k

warnings: glorious masquerade spoilers, enemies to lovers with rollo

dark content creators & consumers do not interact

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Listen, Rollo goes through enough of a crisis already over the fact that he likes you, one of those insufferable Night Raven College students who use magic so carelessly and gaze at it with wonder and excitement. But you flirting with him? He goes through all 5 stages of grief over that.

Up to the point where you start actively teasing him, Rollo does a good job at convincing himself that the reason he’s just particularly fixated on you of all the NRC students, is because he just hates you the most. Nevermind the way his heart skips a beat when you smile at him while touring the City of Flowers before he revealed his true colors to you. How you had invited him to sit with you and share some local food as you exchanged experiences and thoughts. 

He tries to ignore the way his heart is beating faster when he sees you at the Masquerade Ball. He tells himself it’s likely just that he’s anxious about not having succeeded with his plan. He pushes down the idea of kissing you breathless and being held in your arms gently as you run your hands through his hair and kiss his forehead- 

God, what am I thinking…they’re my enemy, he thinks to himself. With a hateful expression he makes his way over to you, determined to tell you how he’s not done yet and one day he’ll erase magic from this very world. That you’ll fear his name and- oh god you’re winking at him. 

He’s blushing furiously but he still has that angry expression on his face, so it just looks a little like Riddle when it’s off with your head. His mind is going haywire though. They winked at me…oh no…oh fuck…abort immediately, he decides to just avoid you and glare at you from a distance but at this point it is too late. A certain hunter had already told you how Rollo had been staring at you this entire evening whenever you weren’t looking and that he “probably wanted to have a dance with you”

So you make your way over to him and ask him. His heart skips a beat and he wants to reject you and tell you off but what he wants even more is to indulge you and have a nice evening with you. “What makes you think I’d want to dance with you?”, he spits out and crosses his arms. Yeah. That’ll work. Good job, Rollo.

“I don’t know, you seem pretty desperate”, you shrug, trying to suppress a smirk. The AUDACITY, he thinks but can’t say anything in response, just taking your hand and starting to dance with you. He remains silent and you poke his cheek. “You can be so cute when you stop being cranky for two minutes”, you tease and he can feel his cheeks burning. At this point you’re well aware that he’s got a little crush on you, because against his own perception of things, he wasn’t exactly subtle. 

He looks after you with rage written on his face and confusion in his heart as you and the other NRC students leave to head back to your own school. That’s all he can do. Watch you leave.

What did he care anyway? You were just an obnoxious magic enthusiast who- 

He gazes in surprise upon the small rose that had been placed on his desk. It is definitely enchanted, has a soft glow and some of the petals are floating around it. There is a little note attached to it: Thank you for the dance, Rollo ♡ - Love, y/n.

He looks at the mirror in shock when he notices the soft smile on his face upon seeing your note. He hates magic so much. But maybe…maybe he could make an exception for you and you only. 

Definitely rants to the gargoyles about how much he hates you and the way your eyes sparkle in the sun and how your laugh sounds like a thousand beautiful symphonies. Yeah he definitely hates you, no doubt.

He sometimes posts about school events on his Magicam and on pictures he’s on he tends to find little compliments from you. This makes his day every single time but god forbid anyone notices.

He eventually starts conversing with you over text, having quite a few long conversations and bonding despite how much he wants to deny it. You’re still flirting with him shamelessly and never miss out on wishing him a good night with a heart emoji attached. He sends one back once or twice, claiming his hand slipped on the keyboard.

When he sees you again, at the culture festival, he sits at the table with you and a couple of your friends. You ask him whether he is going to watch the VDC and he insists he sees no reason in watching a singing competition. “I mean we could always go backstage and kiss for a while if you’d prefer that”, you say nonchalantly and so casually, it makes Rollo choke on his drink. The other students at the table are definitely staring at you two and Rollo wishes he could merge with the ground at this moment.

He pulls you aside after the incident to a hallway where there’s no people. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”, he hisses at you and clutches onto his handkerchief until his knuckles turn white. “I apologize for putting you on the spot”, you say sincerely, “you look pretty when you’re flustered, though.” “Do you ever shut up?”, his breath hitches in his throat. 

“If you take me up on my offer I would”, you wink at him and find yourself with Rollo’s lips on yours within seconds. As soon as he gets to kiss you, the very thing he had been longing for for months now, it’s like a switch flips in his brain. His kiss is fiery and aggressive at first but then melts into your touch just like he had wanted for so long, kissing you softly as he feels his hands shake. He feels you smile into the kiss upon noticing how gentle and loving he is now and Rollo holds onto you, resting his head against your shoulder breathlessly as soon as the kiss was over. Both of you remain silent for a while before Rollo speaks quietly, his voice shaking: “I love you.” 

You chuckle and pat his head. “I know”, you kiss his forehead gently and he closes his eyes.

Rollo hated magic, he knew that much. But somehow every moment with you felt so magical and made him so happy…

Azul is used to people being mean to him and also to casual, neutral interactions but never has anyone been so blatantly verbally affectionate with him and this man doesn’t know how to handle it. 

It all started when he had asked you to come to the Mostro Lounge VIP room as Valentine’s Day was getting closer, because several people had declared that they were ready to sign a contract with him if he could get them a date with you. So he presented the terms to you and offered you help in a class you were bad at. He didn’t think you’d accept so easily. 

“So, let me get this straight, all I’d have to do for this is to go on a date with one of those guys involved in the whole contract thing with you?”, you raised an eyebrow and Azul nodded, extending his hand to you to seal the deal, as you had blatantly refused to sign a contract. But that didn’t matter. After all, he’d already get what he wanted from whoever you would pick to go on a date with. You shook his hand and Azul smiles at you. “Well then, shall I show you who was ready to make a contract with me for your company?”, he showed you his typical business smile and you just replied dryly. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve already picked.”

Azul was confused. “But you don’t even know who asked?”, he raised an eyebrow and threw Jade and Floyd a questioning glare. They didn’t seem to know what was going on either. “I said ‘someone involved in the whole contract thing’”, you reminded him, “do you have any plans on Friday?” Azul’s face fell. He was already blushing and glaring at the twins who were snickering quietly. “No?”, he croaked and pushed his glasses back with his eyes widened. “Great!”, you smiled at him and got up, waving him goodbye, “I’ll see you at 8 then? I’ll pick you up at Mostro Lounge!” 

As soon as you had closed the door behind you, Jade and Floyd started wheezing uncontrollably. “What just happened?”, Jade asked under his breath, “did they just scam you into a date?” Azul’s expression darkened, as did his blush. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT JUST HAPPENED”, his voice cracked and he wanted to curl up in his octopus pot, “stop laughing.”

Once you've learnt of his past, you've become much more gentle and less teasing with your flirting. He deserved the reassurance that you were serious and genuinely liked him. You’d often tell him that you thought he looked nice when he wore a new outfit and complimented him for his achievements in class and his business strategies. You even went as far as to tell him that his octopus form probably looked cute. He just didn’t know what to do with you. 

Upon being asked whether you were trying to make fun of him, you looked into his eyes with a serious expression and told him you meant everything you had said to him. 

As he took you and your friends to the Atlantica Memorial Museum to return the elementary school photo, Grim was excited. “Maybe we’ll bring back some sort of treasure from the ocean!”, he exclaimed. “But we already have Azul”, you insisted and the octopus merman blushed immediately. “Please just stop”, he begged and sighed, although your words definitely made him feel good, “not in front of people…”

Over such a short time he had already learnt to expect your flirting. That didn’t mean it made him any less flustered. 

Once you had returned the photo and had a moment alone with him, you took his hands into yours and told him you were proud of how far he had come. Azul squeezed your hand gently, a silent ‘thank you’ for the love and affection you were so ready to give to him after all of his hardships.

Malleus doesn’t actively recognize your flirting as such. Don’t get me wrong, he’s so on board with this and really flattered but until you tell him directly what you feel for him, he still assumes you just see him as a good friend.

“Shall I give you a blessing?”, he smirks as he asks you this question on your birthday. You cup his face gently. “You’re my blessing, Malleus”, you say with a soft smile on your face and Malleus looks at you with his signature surprised expression. Lilia chuckles, mumbling about how bold you are. Malleus is just awestruck. He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s blushing and then takes your hands in his. “Thank you. I feel honored. It means a lot to me to hear that”, he says genuinely and his thumb brushes over your hand softly.

Malleus loves your little affections so much. He didn’t know how starved he was for them until he experienced them for the first time. He treasures so much how ready you are to speak your mind, especially when it comes to telling him how you feel about him. Little does he know that’s only a small part of how much you truly love him. 

You were a little late to the Masquerade Ball during the student exchange meeting, eventually opening the big door to the entrance hall of Noble Bell College for your big entrance. Malleus spots you almost immediately, marveling at how beautiful you looked, dressed up for the occasion. Your eyes meet his across the hall and you make your way over to him straight away, taking his hand in yours. “I really like this song they’re playing right now. I think it’s time for our first dance of the evening”, you smirk at him, just waiting for him to follow you. Sebek is yelling at you how you could possibly have the audacity to not just assume you could dance with him but not even ask Prince Malleus Draconia ‘Would you please share a dance with me?’ first. But Malleus adores when you’re bold. After all this time of people being too afraid to even talk to him, he’s fascinated how assured you are to approach him with your wishes and requests with no hesitation. 

“You seem quite determined”, he chuckles and leads you to the dancefloor. He’s absolutely relishing in the fact that you walked into this event dead-set on getting a dance with him, implying your upcoming dance wouldn’t be the last one that night either. It makes him feel so special. More than the treatment he receives from others as a prince does. Because it feels like you have seen right through him, accepted every part of him and decided you wanted all of it. 

You dance through the evening with Malleus, telling him how much you liked the song he presented as a gift for the other students. “I could listen to your voice for hours”, you brush a strand of hair out of his face and Malleus leans into your touch. “I would gladly sing for you again. You need only ask”, he smirks. 

You later stop by his room, knocking on the door softly. Malleus opens it, having taken off the heavier, pompous parts of his masquerade outfit; now only dressed in a pair of black pants and the see-through black shirt worn under the complex and ornate fabrics of the costume. His hair is slightly disheveled and he has his bangs pushed up, letting you see his dragon markings. Upon seeing you, he instantly smiles. “You look so beautiful”, you mouth, making Malleus chuckle and smirk at you. “So do you”, he insists. “I’m never going to overshadow the talking gargoyle but I’ve made peace with that”, you sigh and step into the room, Malleus closing the door behind you. He laughs at your comment, then gazes out of the window. 

“The night in the City of Flowers seems to show a different expression than during the day”, he says and turns to you, seeing you smile at him with a mischievous expression, “that face…you are also interested?” His smirk matches yours now. “Malleus, what do you think I came here for at this hour, hmm?”, you chuckle, pulling out a map from your pocket, “so…you can teleport us out of Noble Bell College without being seen right?” Malleus puts his hands onto his hips. “Nothing easier than that.”

After you explored the city at night, you end up sitting at the roof of a tall building, looking down on the beautiful city. “I’m very glad I got to share these memories with you”, Malleus takes your hand in his again and you look into his eyes, cupping his cheek gently. “You’re so precious to me…you have no idea”, you mumble quietly, smiling at him fondly; filled with unconditional love. Malleus squeezes your hand and looks at you with the same expression. “I think I’m starting to understand”, he whispers as the sun rises on the horizon.

Malleus loves when you’re bold with your flirting, he loves when you show your teasing side and flatter him with a clever line. But he just as much craves the moments when you’re calm and serious, just smiling at him and letting him know how much he means to you, even if he doesn’t know yet whether you intend for it to be romantic or see him as a good friend. He treasures your affection and how you’re unafraid to give him your love and appreciation in a way no one ever has to him. 

[sunshinemayhem]

second chances - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 807

“Sirius, can we talk?” Remus makes an aborted motion at Sirius’s retreating back. James and Peter have already left, and transfiguration doesn't start for another thirty minutes. It’s the best time to have this conversation.

Sirius pauses, then raises an eyebrow, leaning against the door. His face is unreadable.

Remus nods. He’s grateful, at least, that Sirius hasn’t ignored him. “I’m sorry,” he says, unconsciously twisting the hem of his shirt.

Silence.

Remus takes a deep breath. This is harder than expected, but he promised himself he’d stop running away. He looks up, meeting Sirius’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I screwed up. I didn’t think of how I was hurting you. I.. I was afraid. I was so afraid of losing you –of losing what we had– that I chose to break my own heart before you could do it.” In the back of his head, he questions the Sorting Hat’s sanity for the millionth time.

Remus continues, “It’s not an excuse. I really am sorry.” He swallows. “I’m also sorry that I’m here now, putting you in this position, wanting to make up after I recklessly tore us apart.” He laughs, an ugly thing. “Merlin, I’m a selfish bastard, aren’t I? I’m sorry.” He’s long given up on eye contact. Remus stares at the ground, refusing to blink. He takes a deep breath.

“I.. I think I’m in love with you.” Remus thinks he hears a hitch in Sirius’s throat, but he can’t be sure. The next part is difficult, but it needs to be said. He owes it to the years of friendship between them.

His words come out faster. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I get it. Really, I do. I’m a pessimist, I’m flawed, I get in my own head. I’m trying, but I’m not perfect. And- And if you’d rather stay friends, I’ll be okay. Well, not okay but I’ll be fine-” Now it was Remus’s breath hitching. He blinks, then ducks his head, swiping his arm against his eyes. He’s humiliated himself enough.

There’s silence again, but Remus has finished his daily quota of courage. “I guess that’s all I had to say.” he shuffles his feet, lifts his head, looking anywhere but Sirius. He laughs once, bitter. “You know, I’d really appreciate a response.”

It’s quiet. Remus swallows. “I guess silence is an answer.” He screws his face up, willing himself not to cry. He really had fucked up, hadn’t he? He wonders if he’ll be okay.

“You-” He stops. He wants Sirius to leave. He starts again, “You’ll have to give me some time to deal with it, you understa-” Warm hands cup his face, and his words get stuck in his throat. They gently guide him to look forward, and Remus’s eyes widen as he realizes that Sirius –Sirius, who’d rather be humiliated publicly by Snape than cry– has puffy, red eyes. He still looks gorgeous, the git.

“Don’t cry, Moony.” he croaks, voice cracking after being silent for so long. Remus feels him gently cup his cheek, wiping away tears. Oh. He hadn’t realized that he was crying. He guesses willpower can only do so much. He feels exhausted, suddenly. 

Sirius is still talking, words tumbling over each other, frenetic. “You shouldn’t ever be sad. Never, never, never–” he cuts himself off. “You deserve to be happy. Always.”

Remus looks away, his face still being held hostage by the tenderness in Sirius’s movements. He can’t be comforted. What Sirius isn’t saying cuts like a sharp edge. He can feel acid at the back of his throat, and curses himself for expecting a different answer.

“Look at me,” Sirius says, his voice gentle. It rarely is, and Remus can’t fight it.

“I think I’m in love with you too.” Remus is caught off guard. There’s no way to misinterpret that. The voices in his head can’t contest it. 

“Don’t ever say that you’re not enough.” His voice is steady now. “I’m definitely more flawed than you are. I’m cruel, I’m superficial, I have too many trust issues.” Remus’s eyebrows draw together. He doesn’t agree, but his mouth has decided that that’s enough words for today. Sirius understands, like always. They’d always been like that, having conversations with glances, not needing words. In hindsight, that had become a bad thing when they’d stopped communicating. 

“Shh, let me finish. I’m sorry too. I didn’t know you were feeling like this. I noticed that you were acting differently, but I was too afraid that you were having second thoughts about me. I wanted to pretend everything was alright so that it didn’t end. ” Remus, again, wants to interrupt, but he’s stopped by Sirius’s earnest stare.

Sirius leans in. “I’m selfish too,” he whispers, “how about we try again?”

And just like that, Remus dares to hope.

[sheisjoeschateau]

"Oh, so we DO love Steve..." | PART VI

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Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

CHAPTER WARNINGS: tw - mention of death, injuries, emotional smut (minors: DNI), language, end-of-the-world terror talk, newfound shared codependency. 18+

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You felt like you could sleep for five years. 

That electric fence had robbed you of your energy, draining your battery completely.  No doubt you were useless at this point.  But you were just so exhausted, you couldn’t even bring yourself to fight against what you were physically experiencing.

Everything hurts.  Your chest.  Your shoulders and back.  Your legs, your lungs.  Even your neck. 

Guess being brought back from the dead can take it outta you.

A lot of what went down after you…well…blacked out… It’s honestly a blur. 

You remember Steve eventually lifting you up, carrying you bridal style.  And you remember seeing his eyes. Dark brown orbs, scanning you like a hawk and uncharacteristically glassy.  You also remember Hopper over the walkie, telling your group to abort the plan and head back to base for a re-group.  His crew was on their way back, and Group 1 would be back with the supplies later that night.

Jonathan offered multiple times to help carry you, along with Eddie. But Steve just shook his head every time, insisting he was fine, clinging to you tightly while tucking your head against his chest. Dustin worriedly asked them if you would be alright a handful of times, and you kept wanting to tell this sweet kid all sorts of sweet comforting things. But damn, you were wiped. So you just let the guys assure him that you are fine.

The way Steve held you felt so…safe.  Almost familiar, despite the nurturing touch from him being so foreign.  Just last week, you never would have thought him capable of being so gentle.  Then again, it seemed that the ones who show the least amount of affection tend to be the most capable. He definitely struck you as someone who is affectionate in a relationship, given how he used to be with Nancy.  You gathered that much.  Touchy, flirty, all that jazz. 

But this?  This was different.

He was different.

You were right.  You fucking knew it.

The past few days had changed so much between you and Steve. And if you could think straight at the moment, or even think at all, it would overwhelm you. You knew that it would eventually.

…you also knew that your uncle was never gonna let you live this down.  The thought made you internally laugh, as you were carried through the trees until you all reached your destination.  Although, Murray probably would cut you some slack. Given the whole… temporarily dying thing.  At least that would work to your benefit, you think to yourself morbidly.

You had drifted off in Steve’s arms during the journey back.  As you all approached the house, you stirred back awake.  You could hear everyone shuffling out the front door, getting closer to you guys.

Murray was the first to race his way over to you, hovering above you in Steve’s arms.  His eyes were uncharacteristically glassy, his scruffy face etched with worry and relief.  He struggled with what else to do or say.  Sentimentality did not come naturally to the Bauman bloodline…

But after he swallowed, thickly, he told you — “Don’t do that to me again kiddo, alright?  The rest of our family is crazy, you’re gonna have to…stick around.  Got it?”

You smiled faintly.  “Love you too, Murray.” 

Your uncle gave you a curt nod, but you could see him tearing up.  He sniffed aggressively, biting back emotion and looking up at Steve.  Lucas and Erica stepped closer, coming into view for you.  Poor babies looked so worried.

Murray managed to convince Steve to hand you over to him, but that didn’t stop him from staying glued to your uncle’s hip.  Everyone else shuffled inside, too.  Steve asked Eddie to stay and watch the kids, giving his shoulder a grateful squeeze.  Jonathan said he’d wait up for the rest of the gang to make it back while Steve moved to give Dustin a bone-crushing hug.

You were carried off to the master bedroom downstairs, where Joyce and Hopper have been sleeping.  Suddenly you hissed in pain as Murray sat you down on the bed. 

Steve knelt in front of you, immediately asked you nervously, voice soft, “What is it, what hurts, talk to me...”

You tried to lift your arm but couldn’t.  The adrenaline was wearing off, now letting your body really feel the damage done.  “M’shoulder.”

Your uncle and Steve looked you over, realizing. 

“Might be broken,” your uncle murmured, then sighing, “shit.”

“We have to tell Owens,” Steve said, his hand on your thigh. 

Murray nodded, “I’ll tell Jim we need to get him over here.”

Your uncle watched Steve gingerly take your hands into his, assessing the deep tears in your palms from where the fence had scorched through them.  Even Murray had to admit — the Harrington kid definitely exudes sex appeal, especially when he looks dismayed.  It’s very Patrick Swayze.  But more than that, your uncle could tell this wasn’t just some puppy love thing.  It seemed like the real deal.

...ahh fuck, he thought.

When Jim answered his call, Murray walked away to talk and let him know they’d need to get you medical attention.  Steve was examining every single inch of you, touching you carefully and protectively.  He stood, moving to carefully lift your good arm over his shoulders.

“Bathroom.  Need to wrap up those hands.”

You leaned into him, and when you finally got into the restroom inside of the master, Steve put the toilet seat down and helped you sit before moving to get the first aid kit out from underneath the sink.  Steve was back in seconds, kneeling in front of you and pulling out the items he needed for patching you up.  You watched his perfect hair flop in front of his eyes while his head was down, admiring him silently.

“Here,” he spoke gently, moving to delicately hold one of your hands.  He looked up at you, his eyes rimmed red from earlier.  “S’gonna sting.  But we’ll get them done quickly, yeah?  Tell me if I need to stop?” 

Off your dazed nod, he moved to peck the swiftest of kisses to your cheek before getting to work.

Your eyes were closed while he did, scrunched shut in pain with a small hiss as the antiseptic made contact with your ripped palms.  Steve murmured, so quietly, “Sorry, baby, I know,” along with other whispered apologies that included the word baby or angel.  It made something strange flutter inside your stomach, despite all the pain.

You made yourself find joy in the unlikeliness of it all, grateful for the fact that you all were still alive and in one piece.  Otherwise, the dreaded truth that you were all a day behind schedule — putting you all in even bigger trouble — would consume your mind. You felt guilty. Everyone had to slow down because you’d been the one to get hurt. You’re the one who went and died on everyone, having to be resuscitated. 

Jesus, you thought. As if I wasn’t already a nag.

The feeling of Steve’s fingers tenderly closing around both of your hands made you realize that Steve's self-appointed nurse work was finished. Yours hands were freshly wrapped up and covering the raw, bloody cuts that the electric fence had seared into your palms.

Steve carefully brought all of your fingers, curled around his, to his lips.  He planted a long, soft kiss over all of your knuckles. You opened your eyes and saw his gaze fixed on the gauze wrapped in a makeshift pattern, encasing your small damaged hands.  He held them delicately, more than you ever thought him capable. He was always so brash, cocky and arrogant with you. But right now, that person didn’t seem to exist. This Steve was gentle. Soft.  His pretty brown eyes seemed lost, deep in thought.

You looked at him fondly.  God, you loved this boy.  You realized that now, that you loved him. Truly loved him. You couldn’t help but reach one of your gauzed hands up to his cheek, and he turned his head to lightly kiss your palm and hold it there, his large hand curling around your wrist.

“Steve,” you breathed.

He still stared at nothing, but finally his eyes glanced up at you.  They were sad, bloodshot and strained.  You hated it.  This was your fault.  

“You alright?” you breathed.

He pinched his brows together, nodding with feigned assurance, pressing his lips into a tight-lipped smile.  But he didn’t speak.  And you knew that was because he wasn’t alright.  Not at all. 

But he clearly was not ready to say that.  He sniffed, standing up.  “Let’s get you some water, yeah?” he asked tightly. 

You nodded, letting him help you stand while minding your bad shoulder.

The kids were already outside of the bedroom door, anxious to see you.  Lucas, Erica, Mike, Will and El.  They all went to ask questions, hesitant but unable to help themselves.  They kept their voices lower, knowing they needed to not bombard you fully.  You gave the kids all a soft smile, wobbly on your legs as you reached to pull them in for a little group hug. 

“Careful of her arm, guys, it might be broken,” Steve told them, motherly.  They obeyed.  “Let’s get her some water,” Steve added.

Erica immediately went off to fulfill the request.

Steve and El guided you over to the living room with Murray, who walked over to you to put an arm around you and walk you over to sit. 

Hopper now stood in the living room.  Jonathan was standing with Argyle.  Dustin was there still, with Eddie.  Poor kid looked so shaken up.  You gave him an apologetic look, extending an arm to him -- and he raced over to you after you’d sat down.

You ruffled his hair, letting him wrap his arms around your waist for a hug.  “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled against your jacket. 

Your heart broke.  “Dude, don’t be.  Better me than you.  Still, I’m…m'sorry you had to see that.” 

Hopper was looking over at you with a relieved expression, walking in your direction.  He glanced over at Steve as he did, seeing him standing there with his arms crossed and teeth sunk into his bottom lip with a pensive expression.  Hopper gave his shoulder an assuring squeeze, and a hard pat on the shoulder. 

Then, looking back at you and kneeling, “How you doin’, champ?”

You sighed.  “Feel like my battery’s on its last percent.”

Hopper nodded, breathing a light laugh.  He ruffled your hair.  “A little static-y up here.  You been sticking your finger into some sockets?”  You snorted, feeling tired all over again.  

Erica got back with water for you, handing it over.  You sipped, feeling the couch sink down beside you.  It was Steve, sitting next to you.  He had to physically restrain himself from pulling you into his arms, knowing that the kids — well, aside from Dustin — didn’t know anything yet, or Hopper.  Maybe not even Murray.  Although, Steve was beginning to highly doubt that now.

Everyone began talking about what happened.  What went wrong, why didn’t it work?  Lucas explained that the calculations weren’t wrong, regarding the hacking into the breaker switch system.  Murray flusteredly agreed, saying it didn’t add up. 

But then Eleven spoke up, saying, “Another hacker.” 

You all looked at her, confused.  She explained. 

“With their mind.  Someone used their mind.” 

It turns out, she had used her powers to see that it was being tampered with by some invisible figure.  Meaning that they had sensed your whereabouts.  Who “they” were, exactly?  That had yet to be figured out.  Point was, you all were doomed from the start. 

The kids started saying something about El being able to control it with her mind — to “counter the counter.” 

Hopper wasn’t keen on the idea, nor was Murray.  Steve definitely had his doubts.  Eddie and Jonathan did, too.  But Eleven said it could work, as long as she went there in her mind. 

But that raised an even bigger question: were you all at even bigger risk now that your visit had clearly been known by someone?  Something? 

Eleven said it was just an entity.  Not human.  But that made everyone gulp… Was it Vecna?  Was he not dead after all?

“Regardless,” Hopper was saying.  “We’ll need to lay low.  The evacuation mandate starts next week.  If we’re gonna stay here and figure this thing out, we’ll need an entirely new plan.”

“Orrrr,” Mike interjected.  “We do this before the mandate happens.”

It was definitely a light argument amongst the group now.  More of a debate than anything.  The kids were insisting that it could work, while Steve was insistent it was too dangerous to risk it again. 

“Hopping that fence is clearly out of the question right now,” he said, shuddering. 

Jonathan looked at him sympathetically, along with you. 

“...what if we go over it?”

Everyone turned to look at Eddie, confused.  He looked at everyone nervously, but with an idea clearly in mind.  The lightbulb over his head flashed. 

“What if Miss Superpowers here — gets us over it?  Meaning we don’t climb it, or mount it.  We just…float…?...over it…?”

Dustin begins to grin, looking over and Mike and Lucas.  Even Eleven looks hopeful.  She turns to Hopper.  “I can do that.”

Hopper sighs, battling it still.  “That doesn’t mean we aren’t in for a rude awakening on the other side.”

“We’re in for a rude awakening no matter what we do,”  Lucas speaks with fervency.

It’s a lot of back and forth from there, and you feel Steve’s arm slip across the back of the couch so that he can massage your neck with his fingers.  You sigh at the touch, relieved to have him touching you somehow.  You inch closer to him, and he does everything in his power not to lift your legs so that they can drape over his.

“But if we all wait until after the mandate,” Jonathan is saying.  “That’ll only put us in even more danger rather than doing it now.  Or, well, before this weekend.  Before next week.”

“I think it’s worth it.” 

Your voice causes everyone to look in your directions.  Steve’s fingers halt but stay in place.  You take a breath, continuing. 

“If we…branch off again.  In our groups.  This time we’d only need 2.  The group here, and group 1, can go with us, or with Hopper and El over to where the gate might be re-opening.”

“That’s true,” your uncle agrees.

“Actually, no, we’d need 3,” Jonathan points out.  “Someone has to stay here.  Make sure no one seeks shelter here, or tries to break in and steal supplies.  Shit’s getting gnarly out there.  Nancy said so over the walkie.”

“Okay, so 3 groups,” Mike said.  “That’s worth it.” 

Lucas and Dustin verbally agreed with him.

Hopper was contemplating it deeply. 

Murray nodded at him, “Jim, this could work.” 

The retired cop pursed his lips, still thinking.  But he didn’t argue it.

Just then, the others got back.  Will, Joyce, Robin and Nancy all walked in.  When they saw you, they sagged with relief. 

Joyce made her way over with Robin, kneeling in front of you.

“Sweetie, how’re you doing?” Joyce stroked your arms while Robin gave you the saddest of smiles. 

You returned their smiles, weekly.  “M’alright.”

Joyce fawned over you like a doting mother, and you saw Robin looking over at Steve with a furrowed brow.  She could tell he wasn’t okay, and it worried her.

“We have a plan,” Dustin said enthusiastically.

“Nooo.  We have an idea,” Jim corrected firmly.  Dustin scoffed along with Mike, both beginning to argue back.

“Guys, we have to make sure no one else dies out there, alright?”

Steve’s words come out harsher than he meant for them too, and his voice slightly hitches at the end. 

Everyone stares, and the silence is thick. 

You look over to see Steve, his eyes hardened with trauma.  He sighs, feeling bad and running a hand through his hair as he looks down and mutters an apology to Dustin and Mike -- who both honestly can't even blame him. 

You reach out to squeeze Steve's thigh, unable to not offer him comfort.  You really don’t care who sees it right now as your thumb massages his pant leg.

Robin definitely pinches her brows together, looking between the two of you.  But she figures that Steve just probably feels bad, given how he has treated you like shit then had to deal with bringing you back from the dead.  That’s probably it…right?

But Nancy knows that look in Steve’s eyes.  He doesn’t ever look that way unless he’s…in love.  No matter how traumatizing or upsetting something is, this look is different.  And that’s confirmed for her whenever Steve goes back to massaging your neck, instinctively tilting his head towards you, even as he stares down at his lap.

Jim clocks Steve’s outburst, frowning.  “Exactly,” he agrees in a low voice, carefully.  “No one’s going through that again.”

Everyone shuffles their feet.  After some silence, Mike speaks first: “I’m really glad you’re alright, Bauman.” 

That breaks the ice, and everyone adds their verbal agreements.  You feel your cheeks flush.

“Bauman Squared is a badass,” Jonathan adds, smiling softly.

“Never seen someone cheat death like that,” Eddie nods.  “Most metal shit I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a breathy, sheepish chuckle while Steve’s fingers absentmindedly trace the nape of your neck and top of your spine, seeking silent comfort. 

“You guys saving my life was way more metal,” you say, voice weak but grateful.  You look at Eddie and Jonathan, then turn to Steve — squeezing his leg again.  His hand on your neck slips to rest there, wrapped around the curve protectively.  Almost possessively.

Now Robin is onto something.

“Steve never stopped,” Dustin adds.  "Not for a second."

Jonathan's nodding. "Not one."

Steve digs his toe into the ground, eyes staring a hole into the carpet.  He’s seated so close to you, letting it ground him as he frowns at the ground.

Jonathan can tell someone needs to change the subject, for both your sakes.  He clears his throat.  “So let’s figure this out then.  A plan that won’t cost any of us our lives again.”

You turn to look at him, nodding.  Everyone else nods, too.

Hopper takes a deep breath, looking at everyone intently before turning to Joyce.  “Alright.  First, let’s sift through the supplies you all got today.  Get it stashed.  We also need to start storing things in the basement soon, so that we can all stay there safely after the mandate gets put in place.  We'll need to do it this weekend.”

Joyce gets everyone to follow her outside to her car and unload everything into the kitchen, so that they can all sort through the canned food and other supplies.  Robin quickly knelt to give you a tight hug first, saying how fucking relieved she was that you were still here.  You hugged her back before she ran off to help the others.  Hopper stays behind with you, Murray and Steve.

“Dr. Owens will be coming here in the morning to check on your shoulder,” Hopper is telling you.  He really is a comforting father figure, and a strangely calming presence.  “Here, lemme take a look real quick.” 

You let him feel around, swallowing down the urge to hiss out in pain.  Hopper says it could just be sprained, or maybe even fractured.  But he says it's best if you don’t take any chances.  “Go ahead and lay down for the rest of the day, alright?  Get some sleep.  You’ve done…more than enough.”

You look down, ashamed.  “I’m so sorry.”

That makes Hopper look at you quizzically, brow furrowed.  Murray does too. 

“Why in the world are you sorry?” Hopper asks.

Steve looks at you in silent dismay. But you're sighing with your eyes downcast, not noticing...instead feeling his gaze.

“...'cause, if this hadn’t happened," you were saying, "We might’ve actually gotten something.  This put everyone behind.  I just…hate that I did that.”

Your uncle looked so disheartened.  “Kiddo, this isn’t your fault.  You didn’t do this.”

“It’s my fault,” Steve murmured, shamefully.  “I should’ve – should’ve…”

“No one is at fault here.  Period.”  Hopper spoke firmly, but with parental empathy and assurance.  He looked at Steve, hard now.  Then back at you.  “You guys did everything you could.  Alright?  We’re not behind.  If anything, we’re farther along now that we’re all safe and can actually come up with a better plan.”

You nodded.  He was right.  Hopper gave your knee a squeeze, ruffingling your hair for a moment before looking back at Steve sadly.  Steve hadn’t looked up again, frowning at his lap.  Hopper ducked his head to his eye level.  “Hey, kid.  You busted ass in making sure we didn’t let us lose a soldier today.  You get that, right?”

Steve shuddered a deep breath through his nose, curling in his lips.  After a few beats, he gave a curt nod.  Hopper’s frown deepened. 

“Steve.  You saved a life today.”

Steve looked up at him with the saddest eyes.  Murray was watching him with more empathy than you’ve ever seen.  You reached over to take Steve’s hand with your wrapped one.  He clutched it instantly, mindful of your injured palms and applying the pressure of his grasp to your fingers. 

“Yeah, you did,” you added softly.

Murray swallows, shuffling.  “Thank you.  For saving my niece today, Steve.”

Steve gives him the quickest of smiles and nods.  It’s clear that he’s fighting off emotion.

Hopper can tell that Steve is really struggling, and he gives his shoulder a squeeze before rising to stand.  He looks between the two of you.  He’s…picking up on the vibe.  He thought that maybe Steve just felt really shaken up about having to watch someone actually die today, then save their life.  That shit causes lifelong PTSD.  But Hopper could tell, it was more than that.  He cleared his throat.  “Let’s help her upstairs.”

But Steve immediately stood. “I got her.” 

Hopper and Murray watched him help you up, hooking your good arm over his shoulders.  Tenderly.  Kindly.  Protectively.  Steve's eyes, soft and fond, never looked away from you.

…yeah, the two grown men knew. They were 19 once.

Robin rounded the corner.  “Steve, can I help?”

Steve was walking up the stairs with you.  “S’okay, I got it.  Love you, Robs.” 

Robin scrunched her eyebrows together, confused as she watched her best friend continue to mount the stairs with you.  But Hopper, who was still watching you both as you walked upstairs, just gave her a reassuring nod.  Robin cocked an eyebrow.  What did Hopper know that she didn’t yet?  And Murray, who had an all-knowing expression on his face.  It was much more somber, compared to his usual shit-eating-grins that he wears when he’s onto something.  But still.  He was onto something. 

Murray cleared his throat awkwardly, before moving towards the kitchen. 

Hopper stopped him.  “Hey.  You alright?”

The smart-alec know-it-all actually paused to reflect before answering that question.  He took a deep breath. 

“You know that feeling you get when you’re worried sick El won’t come back, or something’ll take her?” 

Something flashes in Murray’s eyes, and it holds more vulnerability than he has ever shown. 

“I get it now.  That’s how I felt today.  And it did get her.  And I was the one here, telling them –” Murray stopped, intasking a sharp inhale and collecting himself.  “I get it now.”

Hopper’s concerned gaze exuded empathy and kindness towards Murray.  He patted his shoulder, hard, before Murray nodded and walked off to his room, muttering something about being back to help in a bit.  Hopper let him go.

Robin was still standing there, awkwardly.  “Hop, should I…do something?  I mean, my best friend just brought someone back from the dead today, and I’m not really sure he’s alright because he’s never one to crack but I know that he needs to eventually and —”

Hopper sighed, giving her a polite shake of the head and gently cutting her off.  “I think he needs to be with her for a while.  Trust me.  He’ll thank you for it.”

With a pat on her shoulder, he walked to the kitchen.  Robin stood there, perplexed.  Because while the circumstances were grim, and Steve was the most giving person that she knew — since when did her best friend fall hard for the girl he hated the most?

***

Steve was helping you slip out of your combat boots and socks.  Then your army pants.  He carefully helped slip some of his sweatpants over your legs, fasting them over your hips and tightening the string as tight as they’d go.  Then, he gingerly peeled your shirt off — mindful of your bad arm.  He slipped your hands into the arms of his yellow crewneck before you ducked to let him pull it over your head.  It was all definitely baggy on you...which you found yourself adoring. It felt intimate. Special.

The whole time, Steve was quiet.  The air felt tense.  And you knew that he was not about to make it much longer without finally releasing whatever it was that he was holding back.

Until today, you had never seen Steve Harrington cry.  You began to wonder if he ever let himself cry.  Even when the Russians were torturing him, he panicked instead of crying.  The only time that Steve had allowed himself to even get tearful was about Max.  But even so, he didn’t let it show much.  You figured that he maybe let himself cry whenever he was alone, or whenever it was just him in Max’s room.  He’d shown vulnerability that one day, when you both sat with her, when you read her letter to him out loud.  Steve was just…determined not to break down. 

So yeah, seeing him like that today?  Bawling his eyes out over you, of all things?  You were still processing that.

“Hey… How you feeling?” you asked him in a low voice, ducking your head and trying to catch his gaze.  Reaching up with your good arm, you played with the ends of his hair.  But he didn’t answer.  He seemed distracted, lost in thought as he stared at his shirt on you, his hands on your hips.

You swallowed, trying again.  “...wanna talk about it?”

He pursed his lips so you wouldn’t see them tremble. The words he should have said got stuck in his throat.  He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing.  He settled for —

“M’gonna shower real quick, okay?” 

Your heart sank at his words, breathed more than spoken.

Steve looked up at you with his best tight-lipped smile. You almost cried at the pain you saw behind it.  It was unfamiliar.  Completely foreign for him.  But there was a time for everything, and you knew it best not to push him right now. Not that anything had stopped you before. Normally, you’d grill him and not pay any mind to whatever argument it would cause.  But something about the way that Steve looked right now — so solemn, almost defeated — made you want to forget any sort of friction that the two of you so often had. It had seemed to subside a bit.

After that night.

Not completely, of course. Would it ever be gone completely? This catastrophic rivalry between the two of you? Unlikely. Then again, maybe it was just a matter of figuring out what to do with it.  For now, you knew it best to let him be.

You cautiously cupped his cheeks and dared to peck his lips. “Okay.  I’ll be right here.”

He didn’t say anything, but you knew that he was silently grateful.  He gave you a nod and headed into the bathroom.

You laid in bed, waiting patiently.  Some time passed before you heard the shower turning on.  Maybe ten minutes or so.  Finally, you could hear the faucet squeaking and the water began to run.  You laid underneath the covers, twiddling your thumbs and trying to not feel the pain in your shoulder.  But when another 20 minutes went by…then another 10…you couldn’t help but feel worried.  Something inside of you told you to go check on him.  It was like this…gut feeling. Still, you waited.

...and then you heard it.

A strangled choke.

The door had been left cracked, so you followed the sound and slowly pushed it open.  The air was hot, steamy.  You swallowed hard, hesitant to speak.

“Steve?”  Your tone was wary, timid. “I just…wanted to check on you.”

The silence that followed felt like it lasted a year.  The water splashing onto the ceramic floor of the tub is all you heard behind the shower curtain. 

"Can I come in?" you asked softly, pleading.

Then finally, a tight voice answered —

“Please."

Your clothes were on the floor in seconds, even though you grunted and hissed in pain when removing the shirt.  You couldn’t get into the shower fast enough.

Peeling back the shower curtain, you found Steve’s back to you with his head underneath the stream of water. He was engulfed in steam and mist, yet you could make out his back muscles and how tense he was as he leaned a palm against the tile wall.  His head was down, the hot water seeping down and hard onto the tub at his feet near the drain.  God, he was beautiful.  Even when he was such a prick in high school, you knew even then that Steve was still pretty. If you were being honest, though, he seemed far more beautiful now.  His toned, athletic torso glistened underneath the shower head, his skin the perfect shade of sun kissed tan.

Steve turned his head over his shoulder in your direction, slowly.  Almost afraid.  His gorgeous brown eyes were red and bloodshot, even more than they had been before.  Sad brown orbs stared back at you, water clinging to his lashes and his soaked hair.  There were unshed tears pooling inside those eyes, and he was just a blink away from letting them all fall down. 

He finally turned his whole body to you as you looked back at him, heartbroken, stepping towards him and reaching for his waist.  You could see his breathing intakes were short, the way you get just before you have a breakdown.

“Steve,” you started, devastated.

“I just — c-can you just —”

Hold me, you knew he was trying to ask.  Just hold me.

Steve’s voice broke halfway, timid in a way you’d never heard before. Not even that night, when you two had let all the walls come down. You knew what he was asking now. To be held, comforted. He just couldn’t say it, because he didn’t know how. For a fleeting second, you wondered if he considered the possibility of you saying no. If he thought that maybe his pain was some kind of burden, or shameful.

You brought him into your arms without saying a word, using your good arm to wrap up around his neck and your bad arm — screw it — to hold his waist.  You stroked and gripped at the wet hair that sat at the nape of his neck, feeling his lips dig into your shoulder.  You turned your head so that your lips were pressed to his temple, breathing against him.  Steve clung to you desperately, as if trying to use it as confirmation that you were actually still here...

Despite the last two nights, this is the first time you both truly felt naked in front of each other. You both stood, skin to skin, the water falling around you both, and while there was nothing sexual about this time — that seemed to make it stronger.  It felt as though your bodies were connecting in some sort of irreversible way.  Two souls being tethered, permanently intertwined.

“I almost lost you today.”  

Steve’s words sent shivers against your skin. You felt them more than you heard them. 

The memory of it was haunting for you, yes — but the way that his body trembled against yours with a barely restrained sob in his throat while in your hold, made you believe it had been even worse for him. It’s not every day that you witness someone’s eyes go lifeless in front of you. It’s not every day that you almost have the person you began to care about be taken from you in the worst possible way.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Harrington,” you tried, but when the only answer you got was him squeezing you tighter, you stopped deflecting. 

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured into his shoulder, brushing your lips against his skin. “M’really, really sorry.”

You felt him shake his head against you. No, don’t be sorry.

“I know that you…” you trailed off, sighing.  “You guys went through hell.  Bringing me back. But hey, I knew that you’d be there for me. Even when I was astral planing.”

He still didn’t laugh.  Not even a little.  He just clung to you like a lifeline, trembling against you and haunted by the memory. 

You knew he was mentally fucked up from it.  Hell, you were too. But if you were being honest, there’s not much hell you’d had to go through on your end.  You were out like a light, then back again.  Sure, the pain was excruciating.  But for you, it was over just as soon as it had started.

Steve didn’t have such luxury, though.  You realized now that he’d had to watch you.  

Watch you fall.  

Watch you get hurt.  

Watch you die. Before —

“You saved me, okay? I’m right here.”

Pulling back only enough to look at him, you dared to cup his cheeks again and brush away his stray tears with your thumbs. Normally, he’d cringe at the mere thought of being emotional in front of you. That just wasn’t like him to be that way in front of anyone, least of all you. But right now, he looked lost and afraid. And he didn’t seem to care in the slightest how weak he looked or felt in front of you right now. 

In fact, the way he was looking at you — so haunted and traumatized — brought your heart a sense of pain that it never usually felt. You wanted to take it away from him, make it go away.

“Not going anywhere,” you promised him in a whisper, gently pulling the nape of his neck towards you so that he was leaning his forehead against yours.

In this moment, you thought back on how Steve had always had an oddly comforting presence about him, despite his cocky attitude. It surprised you, really. It came so naturally to him. But right now, it’s him who needed it. And that was alright with you.

“You guys got me,” you murmured.

Steve closed his eyes, his sharp nose nuzzling yours. 

“But what if we didn’t?” he breathed.

You watched as trails of shower droplets and tears made trails, finally released and passing over his perfectly placed moles and faint freckles.

“Fuck, Bauman, if I didn’t — if you’d…”

You held your breath as he choked on his whispered words, scared of them as he bit down hard on his lip. He couldn’t say it. He just couldn’t. 

“God,” he shuddered in a whisper, clenching his eyes shut again as he leaned his forehead to yours. “If you were gone…”

“Hey, hey,” you shushed him gently.  

“After everything I’ve said, fuck…”

“Steve, it’s okay,” you breathed, your fingers stroking the wet locks of his hair near the nape of his neck.

“Can’t lose you,” Steve said in the most inaudible, croaked whisper.

“You didn’t, okay?” 

“I did,” he managed to wheeze, whispered and cracked. “I fucking did.”

You pulled back, forcing him to look at you.  His chocolate brown eyes were rimmed red, strained and distraught at the memory. 

Your hands still cupped his cheeks, gently tugging at the skin beneath his anguished eyes.  “You didn’t, and you won’t.”

You carded your fingers through his dropping locks of hair, pushing it away from his face so that you could look him dead in the eye when speaking to him.  You spoken in that foreign hushed tone that you seemed to only have reserved for Steve, breathing the words against his skin in the hot mist of the shower.  You pecked his lips between the words of comfort, letting each one linger long and longer.  And Steve leaned into each one, becoming more desperate and passionate each time.  And he physically refused to part his lips from yours, even when coming up for air was something you both needed. He just kept pressing short kisses, both feather-like yet urgent, to your lips in a series multiple pecks before burying his head back into your shoulder again. Steve curled more into you as you stroked his back.

“I’m right here, Steve,” you murmured to him.

Finally, he choked on a broken sob that he’d been so desperately holding back. The way it sounded so strangled and strained, you could tell just how painfully lodged it had been in his throat this whole time. It broke your heart into a million microscopic pieces, and as you held him in your arms you realized just how vulnerable this boy was despite never letting it show. Steve Harrington might’ve been an arrogant heartthrob in his teen years, but underneath it all he was just a boy longing for something more. He had so much love to give, despite not knowing what it felt like to have it given to him.

Except with you. With you, he could. 

He would.  He did.

“Here as long as you’ll have me,” you promised him.

The two of you stood there in the shower for God knows how long. You let him break down for however long he needed, which still felt cut off too soon. And after you both finally got out, Steve kissed you all the way from the bathroom to the bed, mindful of your injury. You let him lift you up and carry you there, lowering you onto the mattress with his lips still glued to yours. You let him feel every inch of your skin, delicately exploring it with hunger and need, as his lips glided across your jaw and his perfect teeth nipped at your neck. You let him suck your nipples as he squeezed your hips, keening in his grasp and allowing yourself to let go. 

And when Steve’s hard length pushed against your thigh, you let his hand lift you from underneath the bend of your knee so that he could push into you until you felt him up in your ribcage.

Everything was slow, lovesick and heartfelt.

This time it wasn't sex. This was lovemaking.

You let him groan into your mouth as you moaned into his. You let him whisper things to you that were somehow dirty yet beautiful, and when he began to quietly murmur into your lips something about needing you — something about not leaving him alone — you pulled his perfect mess of damp hair and swore into his lips that you would never leave him. Never never never, thrust thrust thrust.  He fell apart, and so did you. He was desperate, and so were you. He needed you, and you needed him.

Steve loves you.

And you love Steve.

Neither of you said it yet. But it didn't matter, because your uncle was right. 

We do love Steve.

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thank u angels sm or supporting this series. :''') it's been so fun writing a reader related to someone other than Dustin or Hopper, or even the Wheelers. feel free to send me requests related to this series -- do you have ideas or things you might wanna see unfold in this? I'm open.

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[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 63)

Trigger Warning: Heavily Implied Abortion. IT'S NOT UZI, DON'T PANIC.

“N, I need ya for something.” Hal walked by N's desk, two more weeks had gone by without either him or Uzi telling a soul about her pregnancy, and it was beginning to get to him, he understood why they had to keep it to themselves… with what was happening to her being unique. But… he was still so excited.

“What's up?”

“Need you to help me perform a wellness check on a… Miss Walker. Her employer said he hadn't seen her for a couple days.” Hal tangled his fingers in his beard as he read through a file, before turning back to N.

“Sure, now?”

“Now.”

N stood up immediately, following in behind Hal as they left through the office door and made their way through the hallways, it was still early, so the halls weren't filled with people yet, only a few making their way to their early morning jobs.

“How's Uzi?” Hal asked, his tone friendly, though clearly only making small talk for the sake of it.

“She's fine, why wouldn't she be?” N replied a little too quickly. Talking about Uzi made him think about the baby which made him want to scream it to every person passing by. So he tried to avoid talking about her at all while at work… which was nearly impossible, because he was always talking about a show they watched together, or how Tera was doing, or… everything to do with his family, really.

“You've been really quiet about her lately… you're not having issues are you?” Hal was still slightly in front of him, so he couldn't see the man's face, but he got the impression that Hal was at least somewhat genuinely worried.

“No! Nothing like that. We're perfect, never been better, really.” N quickly assured, though he wasn't sure how convincing he sounded, though it was the truth. Every night they spent together, weather it be watching a movie, playing a game or just… talking, had been magical.

“I heard she went to a mothers group. That seems… unlike her.” Hal mentioned, making N's visor fill with sweat as he realized how obvious that was. He was right, Uzi wouldn't just suddenly decide to go to something as sappy and cliché as a mother's group for no reason.

“I convinced her to, Tera doesn't spend a lot of time around kids her age, and we thought it would be good to start socializing her.” The half-lie left his mouth almost instantly, his time with Uzi had definitely made him a more convincing liar, but even still it wasn't entirely untruthful, they had talked about socializing Tera. Though it was more about preparing her for a little sibling.

“Ah… so it was your idea. That does make more sense.”

“How'd you know about that anyway?” N asked, cocking his head as they both rounded a corner, Hal raised an eyebrow at him.

“My sister was there, came to me ecstatic about a new member. Figured out it was Uzi by her description.”

“Oh.” N blinked, well that was good information to have.

“We're here, I'll let ya do the honors this time.” Hal stepped back from the steel door as N stepped forward, nodding as he lifted his fist and knocked on the door heavily, the sound echoed around them for a few seconds.

There was no response.

So he tried again, announcing himself this time.

“This is Officer N and Officer Stone here on a wellness check, we're just here to see if you're okay.” He shouted firmly into the closed door as he knocked again, once again there was no answer.

“What now?” He asked Hal, who pondered the question for a moment.

“We don't have a warrant, we can't just barge in without probable cause.” He explained and N nodded, pressing the side of his face into the door to try and hear what was going on inside.

There was a light scraping noise coming from the other side, like something sharp against tile. It was muffled heavily by the door, but it was audible to his enhanced hearing.

“Well there's something behind this door, I hear scraping.”

“H-Help…” Came faintly from behind the door, and N lept back in surprise, looking at his superior with a dreadful look.

“Someone just called for help!”

Hal didn't seem to hear the cry for help, but he did seem to trust N, as he took a device from his pocket and held it over the access panel for the door, there was a pause, then the device beeped twice as the door swished open.

“Hello probable cause.”

“Miss Walker? Are you alright?” N Called out into the seemingly empty apartment, nothing was out of place, the kitchen was clean, the living room empty, but N could still pick up gentle scraping from… somewhere.

He moved through the Apartment, Hal in behind him as he followed his senses into the apartments bedroom, where he stood at the doorway in shock for a moment.

There was a young woman, only half dressed with her grey tank top shredded down to ribbons, one of her purple eyelights were closed in pain as the other looked at him with a mixture of fear and relief. She was leaning against the bed, sitting on the floor clutching her core, her breath coming out in distressed, shallow huffs.

“Miss, are you alright? What happened?” N immediately crouched down beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder as he looked around, there was a small trail of oil leading from the bathroom into the bedroom.

“I'll check it out, see if you can get anything out of her.” Hal said as he moved into the bathroom, N turned his attention back to the girl.

She was still in shock, her long brown hair tousled and unkempt, she was whimpering softly, looking between him and the hand on her core.

“Hey… I'm N. I'm a WDF member. What's your name?” He started softly, easing her in with something simple as she looked like she was in a panic.

“M-Mary.” She replied, her voice small and weak, muffled by static. N tilted his head slightly, he could smell oil, and she seemed to be in pain, but nothing was visually wrong with her.

“Okay Mary, what happened? Are you hurt?” She leaned into the bed further, every ambient light on her body flickered at once and she winced, clutching her core tighter.

“Where are you hurt?” He changed his question and she gave him an answer by looking down at her core, and everything clicked for him, his eyes turned soft.

“May I see?”

He reached forward and slowly touched her hand, giving her time to respond. She nodded warily before N pulled her hand away and gasped as the smell and sight hit him.

The glass covering over her core had been punctured, by what, he didn't know, but the drones full cylindrical core was now exposed to the open air, oil drooled out of the opening profusely, and was all over Mary's hand from where she'd held it. Strangly, her core was glowing a different color then the rest of her, blue, instead of purple.

It was strange… seeing a working core just… exposed like that. But with the way it was flickering, it wouldn't be working for much longer.

He placed her hand back over it and met her eyelights, they had tears in them, one of her hands was gripping his knee like he was a lifeline, he tried to ignore how much her eyelights reminded him of Uzi.

“What happened? Who did this to you?”

Hal came out of the bathroom a moment later, a screwdriver covered in oil in his hands.

“Found this, no sign of any struggle.”

“Mary?” N asked softly, and the young woman buried herself into his shoulder as she sobbed, he caught a few words that made his oil freeze in his tubing.

“I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. I wasn't ready… I wasn't ready…” N blinked up at his boss, who looked like he'd just eaten a rock, N looked back down at her injury.

“You… did this to yourself?” The girl only sobbed harder as she nodded, and N felt himself gulp as, on autopilot, he scooped her up. Having no more questions.

‘Let's get you patched up okay? Can't have you going offline on us.”

The journey to the medical bay was both incredibly fast, and incredibly, torturously slow. Hal was right in front of him the whole time, sprinting as fast as he could go and N was the same, cradling the woman in his arms to protect her the best he could.

Why had she done this to herself? What wasn't she ready for?

The medical staff were waiting for them and whisked off the young woman in a gurney, leaving himself and Hal standing in the waiting room.

N was confused, but he also felt nauseous and the tips of his fingers felt like ice. Context was an informative bitch, even if he didn't have all the information, he could guess, but he didn't want to guess, he wanted to be wrong.

“Hal, why was her core a different color?” He asked, voice slightly shaky as he continued to stare foreward into the doors Mary had been taken through.

“Late Pregnancy.” Hal muttered simply, also staring at those cursed doors.

With that, N felt a dam snap and then crumble into a thousand tiny peices, tears sprung into his visor as the peices clicked into place. Oh God, oh robo-god.

“Woah, N are you-?”

N struggled to keep himself standing as he imagined those purple eyelights driving the screwdriver into her core, for the express purpose of… of killing.

“Uzi's pregnant.” Hal gasped out, holding onto N's shoulder as he tried to supress a complete meltdown. Hal pushed N into a waiting chair as N himself buried his head in his hands.

“Yeah… She is…” N croaked back, trying to expunge the horrible image of Uzi doing this to herself from his processors. Or of her going offline, killed by Doll, killed by… by carrying their baby and it having nowhere to go but through her.

“Does Khan know?”

“No. N-Nobody does.” He grunted, gripping his own hair as all the unpleasant emotions that had been building up and that he'd been repressing, for Uzi's sake and for Tera's sake, and for the sake that he just… didn't want to think about all the ways this could go wrong.

“No wonder you've been so quiet… that's been eating at ya for almost a month.” Hal tried to inject humor but N didn't even laugh, he just made a pathetic whine and looked at the ceiling.

Did Uzi feel this way too? Like she wasn't ready? Or was N unintentionally pressuring her into something that… she didn't want?

He didn't know.

[yaffles-world]

Can I pls request a Reigen x reader one shot in which Y/n finds out shes pregnant after having a one night stand with Reigen. She first told Serizawa about it but told him to keep it a secret but Serizawa accidentally spills it to Reigen when they were having a conversation. Reigen is shocked but also offended that he was not the first to know about it but Y/n tells him she just didnt want to make things awkward between them because theyre workmates and shes also scared of his reaction. Fluff and comfort plss

A/N: hey! Sorry about the wait. Thanks for being my first coherent request! I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it. Also I hope you don't mind but I still used gender neutral pronouns because.. well... it didn't feel necessary to make it a fem reader, as the author is someone who can get pregnant and uses they/them. Whew been a long time since I've done an x reader lol. I hope I covered everything you requested!

Warnings: lots of fluffy comfort hehe, brief mention of abortion but it's conclusion is very ambigious (Reigen is pro choice basically)

Word count: 1.3k

Taglist: @irummna @zooterscooter

I tapped my foot obsessively on the ground. I pulled open my phone, double checking the calendar… we were careful. I caught Reigen looking at me over his computer and I felt red creep up onto my cheeks. It was just a one time thing. It was a silly mistake. A wonderful, but ultimately one off, event. We knew that going in…

He was still looking at me. I smiled weakly, and he raised his eyebrow.

"You alright, y/n?"

A one time thing. We knew that moving forward.

"I'm fine!" I said, my voice cracking slightly. Serizawa looked up from his desk, eyebrows furrowed. "Are you alright?" I asked Reigen, trying to deter further questions.

He paused. "I'm… Fine… thanks?"

I checked my phone again. There was no doubt about it… definitely late. I don't know why it hadn't clicked until today. I just happened to notice and now I have to stay here for… 6 hours before I can check.

I tapped my feet incessantly. At least stimming was very commonplace in this office. But Reigen kept looking at me… I even felt Serizawa staring at me.

I took a deep breath. Worrying isn't going to change anything. I tried to focus on the bookkeeping, but my eyes keep blurring with tears.

I pushed my chair out, suddenly. It made a harsh scraping noise against the floor.

"Excuse me, I'll be back in a second."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Serizawa said, moving to get up, but I waved my hands dismissively.

"I'm really fine."

"Tch, okay, don't be too long then," Reigen said.

I went down the stairs and down the road to the chemist. Luckily there was one easily within walking distance of the office… It was a cold day, the wind was bristly. I rubbed my arms as I fought off the cold. It stung at my eyes. I pushed open the chemist doors and there was a whoosh of hot air from inside. And a strong smell of old people.

I made a beeline for the pregnancy tests and pushed it onto the counter. It was deserted. I made no eye contact, and hurriedly paid, before pushing into the office.

Conveniently, at least, I suddenly got the urge to pee. I pushed open the door to the toilet for our office. In all other circumstances it being outside the main room was inconvenient, but I was thankful now for the privacy.

…

Now we wait… I always hated waiting. My hands were shaking. It was just a one off thing… it wasn't meant to have CONSEQUENCES.

Two lines.

Faint, but clear as day.

What. The. Fuck.

I couldn't begin to process. I felt my body slump forward, and I just sobbed. I can't tell him. But doesn't he deserve to know? He can't know. It will ruin everything. It will be so awkward, he's gonna hate me, I'm pregnant oh my god I'm pregnant with Reigen Arataka's baby, I can't do this, I can't tell him, I'm-

I heard a knock on the door. I gasped and tried desperately to hold back the sobs.

"Y/n? Is that you?" Serozawa spoke softly.

I sniffled.

I heard him sit down on the other side of the door.

"Listen, I know I'm not the most put together person but I care about you. I'm a good listener I promise."

I shuffled over to the door and sat with my back against it.

"Do you wanna talk about it? I've been told I give great hugs."

I giggled slightly then sighed. "I think I'm pregnant."

He was silent for a long time.

"Oh. Right…"

"Yeah. I just took a test."

"Do you know who the father is?"

"Regrettably, yeah… It's Reigen."

"Oh. Well… I'm sure he'll be supportive. He can come off a bit… you know… sometimes, but, as you know, he's a great guy and he's good with kids so-"

"He can't know." I said suddenly, surprising myself. Serizawa went silent again. "At least not yet…"

"Okay. Well. It's gonna be okay. I promise."

I laughed. "I don't believe you."

"Try hugging me first." Serizawa said, and I stood up slowly. I opened the door, and he stood up. I basically fell into his arms. He wrapped his arms around me tight, and held my head with his hand, holding me close. He smelt like fresh laundry detergent, and he was unbelievably warm.

"You're right, you give great hugs." I squished my face into his chest. Maybe it was gonna be okay.

"Hey, what are you two doing?! I pay you to work!" Reigen said, walking out of the office to see where his two best employees had gone.

"Sorry boss. I just heard y/n crying so I came to check on them."

"Oh," Reigen's expression softened, as he looked at me. He went to reach out, but then shoved his hands in his pockets awkwardly. "What's wrong?"

"Oh nothing. Just that time of the month." I winced.

"Right… we could go for drinks later if you like? Cheer you up?"

"Um, maybe that's not the best idea." Serizawa said. I glared at him. Reigen looked at him confused, as panic started to set into his face and he stood like a deer in the headlights.

"What do you mean?"

Serizawa stammered. "Well, um, uhhh, your a lightweight?"

Reigen blinked slowly. "That's never changed anything. What's wrong? I'm not leaving until this is resolved. That's the boss's job." He waved his hands emphatically.

I looked desperately at Serizawa. I was sweating bullets and so was he. God damn it. I couldn't think of anything to say.

Reigen tapped his foot and waved his hands again. "Well? I'm waiting!"

"Y/n is pregnant!"

"What?!" Reigen and I both exclaimed loudly, staring incredulous at Serizawa.

Serizawa looked like he was about to cry. "I'm so sorry I was scared and it had to come out eventually but I'm still so so sorry-"

I sighed and wrapped my arm around a crying Serizawa as Reigen stared at me. I couldn't read his expression. He looked shocked but I couldn't tell beyond that. I gave Serizawa a hug. "Do you mind giving us a minute?"

He nodded and slunk back into the office.

Reigen stood there. Blinking. Expressionless.

"You're pregnant."

I wrung out my hands. "Well, it's too early to really tell, but the urine test was positive and I'm late for my period."

"It's mine."

"Mhm." I almost tore off my skin with how quick I was rubbing my hands together. Reigen silently reached out and took my hands, still staring into the distance.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I only found out 5 minutes ago."

"Serizawa said 'it was gonna come out eventually'. You were planning on keeping my child a secret?"

Oh boy.

"No, of course not, I just wanted some time. At least confirm it with a doctor. I didn'twant to make things awkward... I'm sorry. I was scared."

Reigen nodded slowly, still staring into the distance, before shrugging. "I suppose that makes sense…"

I nodded.

We stood in silence for what felt like hours. The buzz of the radiator is the only noise.

"What now…?"

Reigen took a deep breath. "I care about you deeply."

I blushed despite the cold.

"Whatever our relationship is, I want to be involved, and I want to help you." He squeezed my hands and finally made eye contact. "We're in this together. If you want to be."

"I do want to be…" I mumbled.

He pulled me in close for a hug. He was colder than Serizawa, and smaller, but he held on tighter. He held on like he was scared to let go.

"I want you to know I support you no matter what choice you take. Including a safe abortion, or putting it up for adoption. We're in this together, but it's your body, and it's up to you."

I squeezed him in tight, burying my nose in his neck.

"Now… How about we take the rest of the day off, hey?" He said, rubbing my shoulder. "Go drink some lemonade and talk about this."

I nodded. "I'd like that."

[halt-kun]

My Hero Academia Chapter 410 - Farewell ! All For One

So, AFO is dying or dead

we might see more of him or just switch to Shigaraki soon

Bakugou might not be in condition to pursue the fight

Oh no, another power up is in motion ?

Shigaraki is strong enough as it is

AFO, I'll be clear, your the unpleasant experience of a lot of people, being a lil' baby and losing once won't match up 9 holders of OFA that you pursued and horribly killed them and their loved ones

Tomura did suffer a lot too

but still, nobody wants to see you again, DISAPPEAR

just wanting to have a bigger impact on people is weird too

traumatic experiences actually tend to get forgotten even if they can arguably leave bigger impacts on the psyche and the life

it's dumb,

your horrible personality and opinions need to disappear

YESSSS THAT TITLE

YESSSSSSSSSSSSS

SEE YA SUCKERS

I'm so happy to hate on him until the end because after that I'll have to try and be nice to Shigaraki if Deku manages to save him

someone protect bakugou, he's dying

I'm not getting a good vibe here

NOOOOOOO

Killua flashback in my head

noooooooo

don't think that, the baby needs to get below 14 weeks (french laws) so we can abort it

Actually in japan it's 22 weeks it seems

Legally will this count as murder if AFO goes below that point?? His cells will definitely not have the structures needed to be a person and legally, he would be a fetus ???

Well anyway

someone protect Bakugou and prevent the baby from crawling to Shigaraki

KIRISHIMA !!!!

NO FLASHBACK

I need Kirishima to help Bakugou, he definitely can't walk anymore and needs his unshakeable horse

PERFECT VICTORY IS COMING

(I was thinking that the page before, that thematically for Bakugou, it'd be quite bad to let his final fight end on an imperfect victory where he let AFO go and failed to save Deku)

(unless he could somehow help against Shigaraki which I doubt)

Well regressing to a baby must really fuck up your consciousness and how you think,

say bye bye to the prefrontal cortex and a lot of other stuff too

Thank god Bakugou wasn't pierced by that spear

AFO is only relying on his mother quirk now

REALLY ????? EVEN AS COPIES ??????

YESSSS

HAWKSSSSSS RAGDOLL

most of them are dead though

NOOOOOO

he managed to prevent that ?????

an ass till the end

GOOD BAKUGOU

AWWWWWWW

cuute

and powerful

too bad

we're all with IZUKU now

Good job, someone hug him and bring him to some safe place (looking at you Kirishima)

TRUE THAT

but he'll manage to flee the arena

then Bakugou might turn into dust

(so happy to see Mirko and Tamaki)

he might do that indeed

protect yourself too, nothing will be gained if you turn into dust

Shigaraki wants to dig a hole then okay, but that's still only material destruction

it brings homelessness, destroys memories, costs a lot

but the people still have their own future left

so what's his plan after that, to attack a shelter ?

Another mom worrying

he should be fine but I get it

someone should hug them too

Well he really wants to raze the map, blindless destruction and then nothingness

You don't need to thank him, he caused you tremendous psychological trauma

how did he cut them ???? With his arm ?

I don't like that "but"

he didn't touch him I hope

Shit he stole danger sense

NOOOOOOOOOO

the one that managed to flee for that long

well

we're in danger *chuckle*

can Shigaraki even use the stolen quirk, their quirk factor must be quite tough to deal with and without OFA they're weak

Well, we'll see that next issue

[aikoiya]

DPxDC Rant - Superman Isn't A Clonophobe

Hey, this is basically just a compilation of all my thoughts in regards to the subject of Clark being a clonophobe & a bad person from @nelkcats & @wolfeyedwitch posts on the subject.

A lot of this is just retreading old ground, but I realized that I don't have a post of my own on the subject. I thought I did, but I don't. So, this is just me putting it all out there in one spot. I might add onto it later, but right now, this is good enough.

---

I think Supes is a genuinely good man & if someone were to actually try & talk to him about it, he could get to a point where he realizes that he was wrong about Kon & be genuinely apologetic.

Like, everyone's so busy demonizing him over the clone thing that a lot of people don't look at the situation from his perspective.

I just... I guess that I see it as victim-blaming. Not that Connor isn't also a victim, but Lex stole Clark's DNA without his permission & used it to create another person who he wanted to use against Superman. That's basically baby-trapping which is a thing that legit happens & it isn't right.

https://www.vanguardngr.com/2019/11/woman-who-impregnated-self-with-stolen-semen-from-billionaire-wins-child-support-battle/

At the same time, Supes' situation could also be considered analogous to a rape victim being forced to keep the baby & raise it despite having been so thoroughly traumatized by the experience.

Like, women these days can freely get abortions or give their kids up for adoption when the abortion doesn't work & it's considered brave & even merciful, but when Clark is put in that exact same situation & he wants nothing to do with the kid, he's a horrible clonophobe??

And that's perfectly fine, apparently!

Hell, there are even people these days debating if it's moral for a woman to tell the doctors not to aid the baby when the abortion does fail! And in California, a bill was suggested that would make it perfectly legal for a woman to just up & decide to let her child starve to death if she decides she doesn't want to be a mother anymore!

FYI, if a woman aborts her baby & if fails. Guess what? That isn't her baby anymore because she basically just washed her hands of the kid. My body, my choice, right? Well, that baby is no longer part of her body, therefore she has no damn say in the matter.

Yet, a man who doesn't want to be a father, is forced to provide child support? There are even situations where a woman knows that the baby isn't his, but tricks him into thinking it is in order to get that sweet, sweet child support.

You can't deny that it happens! Yet, *nasally voice* oh, the man's responsible. He shouldn't have had sex with her if he didn't want a kid. He did that to her! He got her pregnant! Nyeh-nyeh-nyeh-nyeh-nyeh!

*normal voice* Good grief, why the double standards?

If the man is responsible because if he didn't want a baby, he shouldn't have been having sex, then the same is true of women. Doubly so, in fact! Whether or not you like it, women are the gatekeepers of their bodies. If it isn't rape, then the consequences of sex mostly falls on her! If she didn't want kids, then she shouldn't have been having sex either!

Like, don't get me wrong, Clark is absolutely wrong for the way he treated Connor, but it's still understandable why he reacted that way. He was hurt!

Again, it's by no means a good reason to act that way, but it is a reason & an understandable one at that.

I just think that if the JL had informed Ma & Pa of the situation, then things would've been sorted out much sooner. They'd straighten their boy out quick! And if Clark is still determined to be stubborn & hard-headed about it, then if nothing else, I can see Ma & Pa taking Connor in & giving him all the love he deserves.

To me, this is the Superman I know:

And this is why I think that people are too hard on Supes:

All-in-all, I don't think that he'd be opposed to all clones. Rather, I feel like he has a problem with Kon, specifically, for a very misguided reason.

Besides, Danny has no room to criticize because even though he reacted differently to the revelation of Dani's existence, he is also canonically known to misplace his aggressions. It's even made into a joke.

One such instance is in the Fright Before Christmas episode where he says that he hates Christmas, but by seeing his reasoning, you realize that it isn't actually Christmas itself that he's angry at, but his parents who argue constantly during Christmas & allow said arguing to ruin the Christmases of those around them.

And, you can pretend that this wasn't a situation of misplaced aggression, but keep in mind that he went to the Ghost Zone to destroy a bunch of Christmas items to take out his aggression on the holiday even though it's just the background for the source of his anger. Then, upon learning that the book he'd destroyed was a Christmas one, his apology turned to satisfaction! He also said so himself!

That's a form of misplaced aggression.

Displaced aggression is defined as "occurs when an animal or human is fearful or agitated by external stimuli, a provocation, or perception, but is unable or unwilling to direct their aggression toward the stimulus. The aggressor may direct aggression toward whoever is nearest." That's exactly what's happening here!

I theorize that he subconsciously feels like it's preferable to hate Christmas than to actually confront his parents' negligence & be angry at them.

Keep in mind, he never blames his parents for their unsafe practices that lead to him half dying.

Danny points his frustrations towards those who aren't at fault all the time. Maybe not in the case of Dani, but definitely in other situations.

---

Furthermore, I also feel like I have to clarify that I grew up watching Smallville, which is sort of a prequel to the Superman saga.

And, in it, (spoiler warning) for a lot of the earlier seasons, Clark & Lex are friends. Like, legit good friends.

So, that probably colors my perspective as, from my point of view, being betrayed so severely by someone who was once your friend hurts a whole hell of a lot worse than someone who's always been your enemy. Especially when you've got as big of a heart with as much love in it as Clark. When you love so freely, it's easy to get hurt & in a lot of ways, it hurts worse when those you trust most betray you.

Also, Smallville? Fun show, ya'll should totally check it out. (Also, Tom Wellings is super hot in it. <3)

Now, anyway, I admit that this probably isn't the case with most iterations of Superman, but I can't help that this was one of my primary sources on the characters' personalities growing up.

Because of this, I might be a little biased & in some way think that Clark might've been experiencing that betrayal by Lex all over again &, to be fair, knowing that he hurt Supes so bad, even if it's only on an emotional level, would absolutely thrill Lex & Clark probably knows that.

Like, I wouldn't be surprised if Clark had mostly gotten over the betrayal, but then this shit happens & it's like the wound is fresh all over again.

So, in this situation, Clark has nowhere to really put all that anger than on Connor, which is wrong, but also understandable.

Because, he can't even let Lex know he's upset because it'd just make the other man happy. Why would Superman give him that satisfaction? In other words, he can't really hurt Lex beyond some annoyance which sucks.

On the other hand, Danny & Vlad were never friends, the millionaire's dumbass monologue about killing Jack & marrying Maddie nipped that prospect in the bud in the literal first episode that he appeared in. So, discovering that the guy cloned him didn't hurt Danny practically at all other than the violation itself because he'd already dismissed Vlad as a creepy frootloop.

Meanwhile, from the very start, Vlad wanted Danny as his son, so in some form or fashion, he does care about him. He obviously has zero idea how to show that care & when he tries, it comes out very toxic & harmful, but he does care. Thus, when Danny rejects him, it hurts. And, somewhere, Danny probably knows this.

Which is why he's free to point his anger at Vlad rather than Dani. To point all that anger & frustration at exactly the person that was responsible. Clark doesn't get to do that. At least, not to the extent that he probably wants to.

Whereas in the case of the Christmas debacle, Danny doesn't want to hate his parents, so he finds it easier to take that frustration out on Christmas because Christmas has never made him happy & won't have the same emotional fallout to it that confronting the fact that his parents are selfish & self-absorbed & negligent would.

Because of this, having Danny lecture Superman on not misplacing his anger actually makes him come across as a bit of a hypocrite & it isn't fair because I have yet to see this point brought up in fics. Instead, Danny is portrayed as completely in the right! Like, it'd be one thing if their version of Danny had grown out of displacing his anger & was even trying to actually move on from it.

Hell, they could even make it so Danny is lecturing Supes from the perspective of someone who used to do it himself & is working on getting better at it. But they don't & instead portray him as holier than thou.

At the end of the day, I just don't think that a lot of fic writers, at least, none of the ones I've read about, give the situation the nuance it deserves, instead going the easy route & turning Superman into an asshole when he really isn't. Not usually anyway.

In this situation, yeah, he was kinda a dick, but there's a reason & I feel like people either ignore that fact completely or just say "not good enough."

Hell, they don't even take into account the fact that even in Young Justice where he's an ass, he doesn't stay that way! He eventually accepts Connor, so why harp on him about it!?

Edit: Someone seemed to be under the impression that I thought Superman had it worse. To the contrary, he has it way better.

This isn't a victim contest, it's about understanding why the characters might've reacted the way they did & that has nothing to do with who has it worse.

You don't have to have a bad life to react badly to things. It's all in how you process information & experiences.

Clark just processed the situation in a very bad way in this particular instance.

The point was to show how the 2 aren't all that different. I can easily see the 2's reactions being switched in the right circumstances.

DP Character HC Masterlist

---

Re-Post: My original post of this was suddenly taken down without any warning as to why.

Like, there was no notification whatsoever! Just gone! No explanation!

Re-Post Edit: The original is back, but it's still suspicious that it just suddenly effed off, so I'm putting a link to it here, just in case:

[crazybagelbitch]

rollaro: "i don't argue like this with anyone but you"

ooooh good prompt thank you

Amanda hesitates before she turns around-- not because she's scared; a part of her loves this, wrong as it is, but because she's not sure she has the energy for it tonight. And she's not sure they should go down the road of fighting like dogs over every differing opinion at work.

"What, you can't even look at me?"

"I can, just choosin' not to."

"Mature. You really think that creep isn't guilty?"

"He's guilty of something, I'm just not sure he's guilty of what we're currently trying to solve."

"He--"

"I know, I know. I get it. I know all the circumstantial evidence."

"We can't definitively tie him yet, but where there's smoke, there's a fire. Circumstantial doesn't mean--"

"You think I don't know that?" she snaps, giving him the rise out of her that he wants, that he craves, "We're on the same team. I know that a mountain of circumstantial evidence usually means they're guilty-- I know. I'm just not sold on this guy, okay? Just a hunch."

"Just a hunch? Wow, that's real solid logic, Rollins."

"Like you're one to talk! You're the kind of coming up with some out of left field idea at the eleventh hour, and you're telling me--"

She stops, taking a deep breath. There's a dreaded sort of passion welling up within her that's hard to go against, but tonight, they'll interrupt the cycle. They'll go right back to the cycle, of course, but right now she's dead on her feet and wants to call a truce with him.

"You know," she muses, "I don't argue like this with anyone but you."

He pauses, biting his lip gently before sighing.

"Suppose you don't. Suppose I don't."

"So why do we do it? What is it about you or me, or you and me-- I can't do it tonight, Nick. Can we stay cool tonight?"

"Yeah, sure," he mumbles, "sorry for trying to start a fight.""

"Don't be sorry," she breathes, a lopsided, twisted kind of smirk across her face, "I love fighting with you."

"Oh yeah?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow and taking a step forward.

"Yeah," she tells him, eyes locked in on his as she steps toward him as well, "how 'bout we take twenty?"

"Yeah," he whispers, reaching out to touch her waist before aborting the movement, remembering where they are, "lets step out for a twenty."

[jonesyjonesyjonesy]

The First Breath You Take After You Give Up

a john paul jones x oc oneshot

summary: Actions always have consequences. She’s got away unscathed for too long. And now, she has to pay for it. Dearly.

part of the ’dead end friends’ universe

masterlist | ko-fi

notes: old!jonesy, nsfw, discussion of pregnancy and abortion, breeding, angst

a/n: I've had this written for awhile and I have been too scared to share it. So here we are. An installment in the DEF universe. Due to the content, I have changed it to third person, although she is still unnamed. I hope you enjoy.

"I’ll want you forever, even if I can only have you in LA.” “You know that will change.” "No, it won't."

Annual pap smears always have a hint of trauma, but when her gynecologist looks up from between her legs and casually asks if she’d be willing to give a urine sample, she knows something is wrong.

“Your cervix is a little soft and discolored. Perfectly normal. Have you been trying to get pregnant?”

Everything goes cloudy in an intense overwhelm. “No, I haven’t.”

The gynecologist observes her, eyes narrowing and quickly adds, “I just want to check. It’d still be early if you are. And the earlier you know, the better.”

She nods slowly. Normally, her doctor’s definitive and curt tone bothers her. But now, she craves it when she can barely make heads or tails of what’s happening. The gynecologist rattles through a list of symptoms if any of them sound familiar, but none of them do. She’s felt fine, save a loss of appetite, which she’s attributed to stress of the studio, to the music, to not hearing from him.

Then, she’s off to pee in a cup. It takes an inordinate amount of focus to make it happen, what with her thoughts tangled together. Each thought begins and is cut short by another swelling terror and this cycle continues right up until the doctor returns with results.

Positive. “Let’s do a blood test to confirm and we’ll know how far along you are, alright?”

She realizes what a mistake it was to take an appointment before she had to go into work when she has to returns to the studio and massage out a scheduling mishap. She can barely think straight. Even Rex notices: “God, you alright? You look like you’re going to break.”

She feels like she could break, like her hipbones could snap from their sockets.

In the late afternoon during a staff meeting, she gets the phone call. She excuses herself to the hall and presses up against the wall as the receptionist sunnily congratulates her on her pregnancy. The color drains from her face and her heart lodges itself in her throat.

“Hello?” the receptionist’s saccharine voice drips through the phone.

She cups her hand around her mouth and the receiver and whisper, “Is it – how early is it?”

“Seven weeks. Really early. You can start on those prenatals pronto, get that folic acid.”

She starts winding the clock back to the last time she saw him, which was five weeks ago. Two weeks before that was –  

“How about we get you in this Friday for a sonogram? I have an appointment bright and early at nine and we can get some images of your –”

“That won’t be necessary,” she says quickly. Gut reaction. The only option, she thinks.

“Oh,” the receptionist replies as if she’s the one who has been hurt. “Okay then, well –“

She hangs up the phone before she can hear anymore.

Seven weeks ago: the lost weekend in Malibu with the torrential downpour and power outage that lasted through the night. She was forbidden to leave the bed for most of it. Consequences such as a pregnancy were the farthest thing from her mind; she was too preoccupied with more immediate crimes and punishments.

They both had acted the entire time under the assumption, the gross assumption, that he was barren in his age. She wonders if perhaps that willful ignorance was actually just part of the thrill for them both.

She doesn’t return to the meeting, opting instead to lock herself in the office to figure out her next moves. She was clear on the phone to both the receptionist and herself: the sonogram won’t be necessary because she’s not getting attached. An unplanned pregnancy is one thing. An unplanned pregnancy under these circumstances, another. It would be foolish to say the affair is purely physical, but it is certainly an intimacy limited to LA. With John no longer in LA and his return at this point unclear, there’s no reason to bother him with this development or her decision about it. She can’t even imagine how he would react, nor does she really want to know.

She makes an appointment for the end of the week to get the situation taken care of, to put it mildly. If she puts too many words to it, she starts getting a lump in your throat that she refuses to contend with right now. If it dons on her while brushing her teeth or while wiping down the counter of the studio kitchen, she renames it – a tape worm, a cyst, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

She’s never believed in the give and take of the universe, but she starts to when she receives an unprompted phone call from John the next morning. She doesn’t pick up and waits to listen to his message until her lunch break.

“Sorry to bother you while you’re at the studio. I’ll be back in town this weekend for some press obligations. Stop by when you can. I’d love to see you.”

She doesn’t call him back. The last time they spoke was five weeks ago when he left her in his bed in the early morning hours to go catch his flight. It was a short and simple conversation, but she hasn’t forgotten the rasp of his voice in her hair: “See you soon.”

“When?” she had asked.

“Soon.”

Until yesterday, that ‘soon’ had been her lifeblood. Now, it feels full of doom.

His keys with the blue tag he had tempted her with, drawn her in like a spider to a web, have had a ceremonious place on her bedside table ever since. But when she gets home that night, she shoves them into the drawer.

The days come and they go. She keeps the news to herself. The only person she could probably tell would be Rex but that would be a rife conversation and she doesn’t want to talk him down from a ledge when she hasn’t yet climbed down from hers.

Two calls from John go unanswered on Wednesday. He doesn’t leave messages.

An appointment on Thursday at the clinic, several hours of waiting, the problem done away with, relief mixed with a sudden immense guilt.

Another call Friday. This one she doesn’t even let ring, sending it straight to voicemail with the click of a button.

She spends Friday and Saturday in bed. The physical pain is bearable; it’s her mind that feels like hell. She numbs herself with reality TV in the background and crap food which she can barely touch without feeling nauseous.  

Saturday night, John calls. She stares at the phone as it illuminates your darkened room like an angler fish in an oceanic trench. Lets it ring then returns to an email drafted on her laptop. Another call 5 minutes later. Ignored. And not a minute later, he calls again.

John is patient and, in most scenarios, a man of few words. He observes space in all things. A slurry of calls is not in his nature.  

She sits up and takes a deep breath before answering the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh, you’re alive.” There’s an edge in his voice.

“I am,” she says quietly. Barely.

“I was starting to worry.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – “

“Did you get my calls?” he asks, intent to get an answer. John won’t let her bullshit. 

 “Um, yeah. I did.”

“I guess things have been busy, then, hm?” He’s not just perturbed. He’s upset. She can’t blame him. To go from having her around his finger at every moment to not even getting a response would be unsettling.

She bites her lip and feels her cheeks blaze red. There are several ways to go about this, she’s just not sure where to start.

“Are you avoiding me?” John asks, a genuine wonder in his voice. “Did I do something?”

Perhaps it’s what he didn’t do. That she was left in the wake of the intense affair with the expectation to move on until it suited him to show up again. She resents that she had to be reminded of him with her entire body and that she was left to make the choice to rid herself of him in such a literal way.

“I’m sorry, I…I’ve had a very strange week,” she begins. She lets out a small, uncomfortable laugh. He remains silent. “Um, it’s funny actually I – well, I went to see my gynecologist, you know, just for my annual, um, and – I had no idea, actually, but – ” She just has to say it. “Long story short, I found out I was pregnant.”  

A small pause.  

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Mine?”

Her mouth breaks into a small smile and although she knows the definitive answer, she says, “Probably.”

“I see.”

“But I’m not – I got rid of it. Thursday,” she says and immediately regrets the way the words come out of her mouth. It feels so crude to say it that way, but she never let herself get beyond the idea that a bundle of nerves was manifesting in her uterus. It was always an it.

She can hear him breathing on the line, not knowing what to say next.

“So, I’m not pregnant anymore.”

“Right,” John replies quickly, noticing he’s been silent too long. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good, that’s good.”

She doesn’t reply, doesn’t feel the need to. The energy it took to reveal the truth to him has left her spent.

“Well, thank you for keeping me from going the way of McCartney, then,” John says, a light playfulness infusing his voice.

“Oh my god,” she laughs, putting a hand over her face. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

“I’m sorry if I was harsh, I…well, I wasn’t sure if I had done something to make you not want to see me,” he says. Then, he adds softly, “I suppose I did, in a way.”

“No, no, you didn’t know.” She finds a loose thread on her comforter and starts to pull on it. “I should have picked up.”  

John sighs, “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to.” A moment. “Could I come see you?”

She hesitates.

“It’s alright if not,” he starts to backtrack.

“No, no, I’d like that.”

The smile over the phone. The one she’s learned to hear. “I’ll head over now.”

After she hangs up, she leaps out of bed and rushes to the shower. She’s been laying around in her pajamas all day and hasn’t been picking up after herself since the beginning of the week. She spends the next forty minutes in a frenzy to make herself and the apartment look semi-decent.

When the doorbell rings, she freezes in her tracks and has the fleeting thought of just burying herself back in bed and pretending like he isn’t there. As she goes for the doorknob, she catches herself in the front hall mirror. She thinks she looks like an old sweater that’s gone too many times through the wash. The color is faded from her face, her hair is limp, and she practically hangs off her own skeleton. She swears under her breath and fluffs her hair manically before opening the door.

She’s never been able to plan for how it feels to see a lover after time apart. Like a candle that’s been almost entirely drained of its oxygen, she can never be sure if the wick will burst into flame again or if it has been snuffed entirely.

In the glow of the patio light, John stands there, holding a bottle of liquor in a brown paper bag. His eyes find her and an unassuming smile creep across his lips. “Hi.”

The candle sets alight.

“Hi.”  

John clears his throat and gestures toward the bag. “Wasn’t sure if you could use a drink. In celebration or…sorrow or –“

“General apathy?”

“That’s a new one, but I like it.”

She grins, “Come on in.”

John gives her a nod and walks into the apartment. She can’t help but peruse him from head to toe. He looks clean-pressed: a navy button down, dark washed jeans, and a pair of oxfords that plod sharply against the wooden floor. “Sorry, it’s a bit messy,” she says, closing the door behind him.

“It looks fine. Lovely,” he says, turning back to her.

She’d like to tell him how nice he looks. She knows he’d get red in the face and change the subject. “I can pour us a drink, if you like,” she says. It feels like that first day all over again, nervousness twitching all the way to her fingertips. John hands over the bag and quickly tucks his hands into his pockets as she makes her way into the kitchen. The place he was holding the bag is ragged from his sweaty grip. “Sit anywhere,” she calls through the pass-through window and sets to pouring the drinks.  

“Can’t believe this is the first time I’ve visited you at home,” John muses. She’s been grateful for that.  There aren’t any corners where memories linger that she has to avoid. Just the keys now tucked away in her nightstand.

“Your place is much nicer,” she says, dropping two ice cubes into his glass as he likes. “And no prying eyes.”

“You have nosy neighbors who give two shits about an old Englishman?”

She turns back and finds he hasn’t sat; he’s still standing in the middle of the room and letting his eyes linger on the personal touches she has that lazily adorn her space. From the books sorted by color on the shelf, to the framed picture of her friends from high school with the cracked glass on the wall, to the small water stain on the coffee table, and on and on.

She goes back out into the living room and, with a gentle ounce of courage, says, “You look nice, John.”

John looks at her, taken off-guard by her words. His blue eyes glint. “It’s a funny story, actually,” he begins.

“Is it?” she smiles and hands over the glass to him. She’s glad he’s still predictable.

“Thank you.” He wraps his fingers gingerly around the lowball glass, his wedding ring clinking against it. She holds her breath. “We were just doing an interview for the album, like a sort of cinematic teaser. I don’t know, I don’t pretend to. So, I actually showed up in a different shirt, a dark red one, you know.”

She makes her way to sit on the couch and John follows you as he speaks, finding a comfortable seat at the opposite end, “They told me to bring options, so I wore red and I brought blue. And they have me change into the blue one immediately. Alright, whatever. I thought I looked rather nice in the red, but – “

“I’m sure you did,” you say, drawing your legs up under you.

John eyes brighten, “Well, that’s the thing, we start filming but then they cut me off, have me go back to red, then we do a whole take in red. They talk. Put me back in blue. And then after all is said and done, they tell me they’re going to be cutting it together in black and white.”

She laughs, “Oh no. You must have been livid.”

“I was. Of course, I was. All that time, wasted.” John hates wasting time. He wants to be in complete control of his time. It’s why the affair worked so well. She has no problem letting him have that control.

“I bet you really ripped them apart then.”

“Oh, you know me. A prima donna,” he smirks and his eyes land on the rim of his glass. “No, I was pleasant as ever.” There’s a weariness to him. It’s been a long day. He’s probably jet-lagged too. She wonders if he ever gets worn down by being pleasant.

She holds up her glass toward him in a silent toast. He nods and holds his glass up toward hers. “What was it you said? To apathy.”

“Something like that.”

Their eyes meet. The glasses clink. They both drink. The whisky feels like smoke in her throat, as if she’s taken a puff of a cigar.

“You know,” John leans back a bit and raises his eyebrows. “I really didn’t know I had it in me.”

She frowns, but his glance down at her middle is enough to clarify. She looks away with a small smile, “Well, you did.”

The conversation has been opened, there’s no going back now.

“It’s not…” she takes in a deep breath. “I was only 7 weeks along.”

John’s brown knits together. “7 weeks ago would have been…”

“Malibu.”

John hums knowingly and leans forward, his elbows on his knees, “Malibu…”

“Spent plenty of time on my back,” she says under her breath.

He nods, “I recall. Very well.” His eyes meet hers and she gets a taste of that memory of the two of them entwined together on the California king bed. “A lovely weekend, really.” What a tempered way to describe the height of depravity. He takes another drink, the whisky going down in a thick gulp. “We’ve never been very careful, have we?”

“Never,” she affirms. The two of them are smart people, but when it comes to one another, they share a single, horny brain cell.

“I must admit, I have not felt that level of uh…dread as I did on the phone in a long, long time,” John says. She can tell he’s a bit embarrassed to even say it. A man of his age and experience being reduced to the fear of a 15-year-old.

She stares into her glass.

“I just thought maybe you were seeing someone and were trying to get rid of me.”

“No, no…” she says.

“Which would have been fine, you know, that would have been – “ he stops short. It wouldn’t have been fine, not entirely. Perhaps preferable. But not fine.

“If it hadn’t been for, um…I would have picked up right when you called. On the first ring.” She cringes at how desperate she sounds.

John is quiet at first; his lips curl up into a smile he probably doesn’t think he should have. “Of course, I can’t imagine it was very easy.”

It hasn’t been. She has tried to act as if this whole incident is normal and handleable. But it’s not.

“I sort of…” he pauses, his jaw falling slightly. “I sort of wish you had told me.”

That’s a punch to the gut.

John notices her sharp intake of breath and how she turns her body away and continues, “I don’t say that to make you feel bad.”

Conversation with John has almost always been easy and clear. Rarely has it ever been complicated. That’s what makes this so hard. “Well, it does.”

John’s gone red and his jaw tightens. “I’m sorry, then,” he says.

“What good would that have done?” she asks, her eyes firmly on her knees. Her blue jeans that she grabbed from the hamper are nearly worn through at the knees.  

 “Well, I – I don’t know. None, perhaps,” John stutters.

An aching begins at the back of her skull. “What would you have even said?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you have wanted me to keep it?”

“I never said that.”

That’s not a yes. But it’s also not a no. Suddenly, all the images she has been suppressing burst into her mind. She had avoided picturing herself swollen, in such obvious and open creation, avoided the idea of sleeplessly staring into a crib in the middle of the night with unfettered adoration, avoided the notion of having to logically and emotionally negotiate with John in that scenario. Now, she’s struck with the grief that she didn’t let her mind wander before she had made her decision. Even if the result would have been the same, at least possibility existed.

It no longer does.

“All I said is that I wish you would have let me know when you found out.”

She nods, “To be honest with you, I didn’t think you deserved to know.”

John’s narrows his eye, “Now, hold on – “

She doesn’t. “We haven’t spoken in over a month.”

“I know.”

“Then you can understand why I didn’t feel like calling you up to tell you, right?”

John sits up and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing it up.”

“Don’t do that,” she replies exasperatedly.

“Do what?”

“That. The unaware, nice thing. That if you’re just polite enough you can get away with saying just about anything. It’s gotten old.”  

John stares at her, at a loss for words. The anger that is bubbling inside her is not all his fault, but he’s certainly not helping matters. She knocks back the rest of her whisky (after all, she can) and immediately goes back to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle. It’s a long silence as she walks back, unscrews the cap, and pours herself another drink with abandon.

He watches her closely. “I didn’t realize my kindness was so inflammatory to you.”

He’s trying to endear himself to her. She won’t have it. “This,” she gestures between the two of them. “It has a clear premise. Unspoken rules, right?”

“I suppose,” John replies, unsure where she’s going with this.

“Sex. When you’re in town. That’s it.”

John resists scoffing. “Is that how you’d describe it? Just ‘sex when I’m in town’? That feels a bit disingenuous don’t you think?”

“Fine,” she concedes. “Add whatever minutiae you want to it. But me calling you out of the blue to tell you that kind of thing seems expressly out of your nuanced premise. Doesn’t it?”

John shakes his head. “You’re looking at this all wrong.”

“Oh, forgive me,” she says snidely. “I, who bore the brunt of any sort of literal impact, am looking at this all wrong?”

“It’s not something we could have planned for. Not really,” he says, not totally sure if that’s the truth. “You could have called me.” John is trying with everything in him to stay calm. She can see the slight gaps in him where steam is starting to slip out. She wants him to feel something. She wants to see the frustration make him do something stupid.

“Please, John –”

He doesn’t back down, determined but not forceful. “You could have. You’re the one who made the decision to do it entirely on your own, you know.”

She laughs scornfully, “What would I have said? ‘Hi, it’s me, sorry to bother you at home with your wife. Just want to give you a little update that we’ve hit a snag and it seems all the fucking we were doing has led to an unwanted pregnancy. But don’t worry, I’m gonna terminate it, so enjoy your afternoon tea.’”

John shifts in his seat. “Would you sit back down?”

“Would that have been satisfactory?”

“Don’t be flippant about this.”

“I’ll be however I like.”

John’s turn to finish his whisky. He stands and continues, approaching her like a stalking predator, “Are you sure apathy was the right thing to toast to? Because to me it seems like you care an awful lot.”

“Of course, I care a lot. Of course! I was –” She doesn’t want to say the word, she really doesn’t. It feels wrong to say because even though it was seven weeks, she only knew she was for a matter of days before it was over. “You should thank me.”

He looks at her, nearly repulsed. He thought he knew how to handle her. “For what?”

“I spared you.”

“Spared me?”

She doesn’t reply, shifting from foot to foot as she attempts to avoid him closing in on her.

John lets out a dark laugh, “You don’t need to spare me, I’m a grown fucking man.”

“You said yourself, it scared the shit out of you.”

“Yes, of course. It scared the shit out of you too, obviously.”

She feels cornered, between the hallway and the rest of the room. “Don’t tell me about how I felt. Don’t.”

“I’m not telling you anything that isn’t obvious. Would be terrifying for anyone, so –“

“Look, can we drop it? Can we just have a drink and not talk about it, John, please?” she turns to begging, something she knows he loves, although not in matters such of these, and presses a hand to his lower ribs. Touching him melts away all her anger. “You’re here and I’m here and let’s forget about it,” she tries to take hold of the trembling tone in the room and shove into a corner so that she can enjoy him.

“Christ, you’re acting like a child.”

She can’t even believe his choice of words. John’s never been condescending; she can’t believe this is the moment he’s decided to start. “Fuck off.” It just comes out.

John is rendered silent.

She drops her hand from him. She’s bleary-eyed and she hopes he doesn’t notice. “Just…fuck you.” She pushes past him, back into the room, still not knowing where to go or what to do.

He sighs and closes his eyes, “I’m sorry. It was a poor choice of words.” In all senses, it was probably the worst thing he could have said.

“You should probably go,” she says. The muscles in her neck are so tense that every word feels like retching. “I thought it’d be – I thought it’d be good to see you, but…”

John is usually very observant of her boundaries and wishes, which is why she’s surprised when he says, “No.”

“John –“

“I’m not going to leave you right now.”

She tries to speak but all that comes out is a strained groan. She covers her eyes before the hot tears spill into her hands. “I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she cries. Suddenly, she feels John’s arms wrap around her. The tension melts all at once. After all this time, his touch still manages to soften her from the inside. She leans into him, barely able to breathe as the sobs blubber forth onto the breast pocket of his shirt. All the thoughts disappear from her brain as she thinks about his hands. One pressed against her lower back, wide, as if to catch her from falling through his fingers. The other cupping her head tenderly to him. Perverse adoration floods through her; he holds her like a father would his child and even though she has just cursed him out for calling her one, she’s grateful to be held like this. She thinks she made the right choice when she still feels like such a baby herself.

“Let’s lie down.”

He guides her down the hall to her bedroom. It’s not a big place, not hard to find. There are no more words exchanged before she falls asleep with her head in his lap and his fingers tracing her hairline around her scalp.

She awakens hours later in the bruised early morning hours.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“You’re awake.”

“On and off. My sleep’s all a wreck this go around.”

She pulls at his shirt. “Lay down.”

“No, no, I’m alright,” John shrugs her off. He slides his hand down her side to her hip and back. “I’m alright.”

She can’t help but feel his resistance is because of his frustration, anger even at being left out until the bitter end. She grabs at the hem of his shirt and turns her face into his thighs, his jeans scraping up against her cheeks. She scrunches her eyes together and takes in a deep breath of day worn denim. “I should have told you.”

John pauses. “I understand why you didn’t.”

She smiles sadly and turns onto her back to look at him. “It’s just not…it wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m just your LA girl.”

“Now, don’t put it like that,” he grumbles.

She reaches for his hand and lets her fingers hang between his. “Right, right, I’m sorry, LA woman.”

“Thank you for that correction,” he replies sarcastically.

A moment hangs between them, deceptively soft and safe for talking about something so rife. She sighs and rests their clasped hands on her chest. “I don’t mind. I’ll want you forever, even if I can only have you in LA.”

John lets out a chuckle, “You know that will change.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Yes, it will. Because you’ll find someone else. Who isn’t so old.”

 “And married, while we’re at it.”

“Aha, yes, not to be forgotten,” he says with a grimace before returning to his point with a worn-out shake of his head. “It’s inevitable. And that’s alright. That’s the way it should be.”

She sighs, tapping her fingers on the back of his hand, feeling the protruding veins. “You’re clearly not old enough to be shooting blanks.”

John laughs, “Apparently.”

“No man is safe, not even the old ones.”

“Well, what, you’re not on anything?”

“No.”

They’re both quiet. It’s funny to her, to both of them, that they’ve shared so many intimacies, of the body and of the brain, that this fact slipped through the cracks. He assumed. Probably always did, even back when being a philanderer was a part of his job description. John’s hand tightens around her waist. “You want me to go?”

“No,” she says. She traces a finger down his cheek. “Do you want to go?”

He only chuckles in return. His eyes flutter shut, the leftover smile still on his face. Her finger trails down to his neck to the top button of his shirt. Her wonderment that felt so innocent and remarkable twists inexorably. She pulls on the button. He says her name; she pulls again.

“I’m asleep.”

She pushes herself up to sitting. Her hand splays against his chest and she brings her face close to his. “Don’t you want to?”

John’s eyes don’t open, but the corners of his lips betray him, perking up.

Her lips touch his tentatively, like space between leaves, unable to tell if they’re entwined or if it’s the canopy above. “Is that a yes?”

“You know I hate when you play dumb.”

“You love when I play dumb,” she murmurs, a buzz against his lips. She closes that tiny amount of space fully in a kiss that was bound to happen from the moment he said he was coming to see her. Five weeks since she’s seen him. And she doesn’t want to waste the moment they meet again. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a kiss is worth about the same, but the sentences are bent and broken and you’re left to put the words back together to make something that can’t be recreated. When she breaks away from him, she adds, “You hate that you love when I play dumb.”

John sighs, “I hate that I love when –“

It’s too late; her lips are on his again. They’re both languid in their motion, aching in a three am sort of way, and yet there is so much fire here from this reignited candle. John’s hands go to her waist, and hesitant to hold her the way he has before. Because she is fragile and vulnerable now in a way he had never considered. In fact, they both are, but he probably can’t put words to that.

Their lips break and a soft whimper falls from her lips. She straddles him and looks down into his now alert eyes. Her hips undulate deliberately against his. John gasps and then bites his lip. Between their shuttering eyes, they are shadows to one another, blue specters both terrifying and wondrous. She continues until he’s throbbing through his jeans, like in the good old days in the back of her high school boyfriend’s car.

“Are you sure?” John whispers suddenly.

She nods, her mouth hanging open.

“Are you –“

“Yes,” she answers firmly. “Yes, yes. We just…we have to be careful.”

John swallows.

“I have…” She leans over and opens the drawer of her bedside table, wading past the keys to a stack of condom. She pulls out the accordion of gold-foiled packets, longer than she expected. “They…shit maybe they’re expired,” she says breathlessly, squinting her eyes to see the faded black date stamp on the back.

John takes the other end of the accordion and looks too, even though it’s a lost cause. “Been that long, hm?”

 “Since I’ve used a condom, yes.” She leans toward the window where a streetlight lets in a sliver of light. “But not long enough for these to be expired, so.” She splits one off down the perforation and hands it to him, dropping the stack back in the drawer.

They’re both quiet. John stares at the small gold packet. He seems almost intimidated by the thought. Or perhaps it’s just the meaning behind using one that puts him on edge. Pinched between his fingers, it looks like a newfound specimen, a distant, strange sort of thing. She touches his wrist. “You don’t have to – not right away.”

“Whatever you want me to do,” John says and then purses his lips.

“How the tables have turned…” she says with a cheeky shrug of her shoulders.

John smiles and lets out a sigh of arousal. “You know what I mean.”

She leans into him again, lets her words crawl down his face: “I want to feel you.”

No more words from him. No more objections. He wants to feel her too.

“Let me feel you.”

It’s wrong. It’s headstrong. She knows this. And perhaps that’s how his belt comes off and his pants are undone in record time. John’s cock stands ready for her and, once her pants are off, she positions herself over him as she has so many times before. Tonight, she invites him inside her despite everything. Her head falls back. His hands tighten on the roundness of her hips. Their breath syncs. But once he is inside her, neither of them starts the inevitable thrusting, the primal quick pulse accompanied by slow-wittedness.

To be full of him. Brings words to her mind she would never say out loud. There is a love here, but it is not the love of tearful confessions. It is not the love of impossible romance. It is not the love of the star-crossed. It is just the love of another person showing up as who they are, always and entirely. And there is something tragic about it too.

He says her name worriedly, a hand to her face. But she shakes her head. “I’m fine.” There are tears in her eyes.

“You’re crying.”

“I’m not – no it’s not like that, really,” she murmurs. “I’m fine.” She turns her face into his hand and kisses his palm. “You just feel…I feel so good.”

A tear runs down the back of his hand. John doesn’t mind when she cries. But it is so rarely out this deep, heartful place. Usually pleasure and pain cultivate salty tears. When it is her heart, he still thinks she is divine. He still wants her.

John is the one to initiate again, his hips unable to hold out any longer against the pleasure of being inside her. She follows suit. The rocking, the breathing, the gripping. He groans, eyes fluttering shut until their pinched together and he frustratedly sighs, “We have to be careful.”

“We have to be careful,” she repeats.

They continue at it together, but their blisses are separate. Her nerve-endings are on fire. His head is swimming. No flourishes, nothing special, but they’re both building quickly to an end.  

“We have to be…careful,” John echoes again and reaches for the condom. It glints between his fingers. But before he can split the package open, she snatches it away and tosses it aside.

“Don’t.”

John’s eyes widen. “But –“

“I don’t care,” she whines. Her thighs tighten around him. And she’s shaking. Trembling.

“Darling,” John says breathlessly.

“I need to feel you, John, I need to feel all of you.”

He is used to her body and knows that she is close and if she is close then he is not far behind. He calls out her name with an erotic terror, knowing their impending doom.

She leans back and grabs onto his shins. “Come inside me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. John hooks his hands around his hips, tight. Tighter than tight. And as he drives harder, he pulls her into him as if they are the same body now. There is no space. There is no question.

This will end the same way it always has.

John’s chin juts forward, a ragged moan, eyes narrowed almost in pain. “I’m going to –“

She wilts toward him, head like that of a dying daisy. “Do it.”

John slides his hands up around her, pulling her into his embrace as hard as he can. He gives in, his stomach muscles flinching tightly. Warm, sticky seed up inside of her. And her already imminent orgasm bursts violently. A thrilled, grinning gasp of euphoria. She throbs around him, giving him another wave of intense pleasure. His broad hands spread against her lower back as he shudders.

They are still frenzied, hungry for each other. They kiss, deeply, breathlessly until they have no more. Not one more bit to give one another. John collapses back onto the pillows as if his bones no longer lock together in the right way. He is spent.

Together, they bathe in the warmth, the glow. She can’t point to an encounter between them that has ever been so unbridled in its simplicity. He gives her a lopsided smile and rubs his hands up and down her back. Soft, vulnerable, she presses a trail of kisses up his jaw, nuzzling into him as close as she can be.

“Some might call that entrapment, you know,” John says wryly in her ear, taking a handful of her thigh in his hand.

She draws back suddenly. “That’s not what I –“

“Joke, a joke,” John cuts her off. He runs a hand over the back of her head and through her hair delicately. “A bad joke.”

Her eyes land on the condom that sits on his stomach where she dropped it earlier, still wrapped. She lifts herself off him as he softens, watches how he drips out of her. “Oh my god,” she whispers. What’s wrong with me?   

“Thank god you…” John says through labored breaths and reaches for the condom, flicking it up between two of his fingers. “Thank god you had this.”

She puts a hand to her face and starts to laugh. “I’m so…why am I like this?”

“I very much like that you’re ‘like this’ for the most part,” he replies quietly. John puts his hand to her inner thigh and gingerly drags his thumb against her swollen labia, letting his cum slip onto his nail. He does not want to feel the possession that he does over her body, but seeing how he could be a part of her like this puts a thick knot in his stomach. “Me and you. Is a complicated sort of thing.”

She nods, eyes downcast to where his shirt has risen up and revealed the small curve of his belly. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be complicated.”

“No, that’s not what I said,” John tuts. He wraps a hand around her chin and directs her gaze back to him with an encouraging smile. “You’re not complicated.”

“We’re complicated.”

John’s eyes roll to the side and his brows lift in confirmation. She laughs and links her hand around his wrist, twisting her head down to press a kiss to his palm.

And before the silence can settle, just before it becomes the new default, John speaks again.

“Did you want it?” His voice is just as small as a creak in the floorboard, stifled but ever-present. It is the thing he’s wanted to ask all night. It’s the reason he was upset she didn’t call to tell him. It’s the thing he would regret not asking.  “Just tell me if you did.”

But she does not know the answer, not entirely. “I don’t know, John. I really don’t know.”

The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens.

“Not like that. Not like this.”

John nods, does not push further, instead welcoming her into an embrace against his chest, her face in his neck. He will take the answer and allow it to wander around his mind as long as it needs before it settles. But for now, there is still the matter of him dripping out of her which they agree they’ll handle in the morning.

Their disentanglement takes a long time. Tender and full of care. Unsure which movement will make the either break. But as soft as can be. And not long after, they are deeply asleep, twined together.  

In the morning, they rise heavily, like gravity has doubled. John insists on going with her to the drug store and she bristles at first. “You don’t trust me to follow through?”

He shakes his head. “Just trying to be a gentleman as best I can given the circumstances.”

She half-laughs. He’d be a bigger gentleman than many of the men she’s slept with, offering her a ride to the drugstore, probably offering to pay for the morning after pill. “What if someone sees?”

John smirks. “Just another day in LA, hm?”

An older man and a younger woman, yes that is just another day in LA. “But what if they recognize you?”

John blinks at her and shakes off her comment. “You’re paranoid.”

“You don’t know what it’s like when you’re getting one of these things,” she says. “The way people look at you.”

“Like you’re a sinner,” he says, swooning at the thought. “Well, if you are, I am and then some. Come on.”

He drives. The rental has black leather seats that already are burning from LA heat. She feels almost sick to her stomach even though he’s a competent driver and doesn’t jerk the car around.

At the drugstore, he insists on going in with her. She doesn’t fight him on it. She’s too tired. This week has been too much and she feels relatively guilty for trying to avoid him. That feeling won’t last forever. When she looks back on this moment, she’ll regret not asking him to stay in the car.

The Plan B is kept behind the counter. God forbid someone steal it because they can’t afford an unwanted pregnancy. Which means she has to go up and ask the pharmacist for it. The pharmacist is a portly fellow with the weak beginnings of a mustache. He seems so young. But rather jolly compared to most other pharmacists she’s interacted with. When she asks for the Plan B, John lingering nearby pretending to be interested in the literature on the back of a box of Band-Aids, the pharmacist doesn’t even bat an eye. He smiles. Not pityingly or condescendingly. “Sure thing,” he chirps and makes the least big deal of it possible. “Bottle of water too?”

For this, she is grateful.

Until it’s time to pay for it and John is suddenly at her elbow, wallet already in his hand.

“Please, don’t,” she says softly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replies in his tip-of-the-teeth tone that she’s learned to crave. Pavlovian the way his voice makes her salivate. He hands over his credit card without another word about it.

And that’s when the pharmacist becomes her nemesis. After running the card, he points at John. “I know you.”

Her stomach drops.

“I can’t imagine why,” John says, smiling pleasantly. Lying.

“Yeah, yeah…the accent…you’re in that band.”

She reaches for John’s arm, about to drag him away without even taking the bag with the Plan B off the counter.

“Pink Floyd!” the pharmacist snaps and smiles smugly. Triumphant.

Any amount of terror in John’s expression is replaced with a disdainful relief. “Floyd. Yes. You’ve got me pegged.”

And her nausea transforms into a stifled laughter. She grabs the bag and yanks on his arm. “Come on, Mr. Floyd.”

They hold their reaction back until they’re safely through the automatic doors and back in the sun. Their laughter bursts. A woman walking past them must think they’re lunatics. But they can’t help it. This laughter is everything they needed. Even if it’s not actually that funny.

“You should have seen your face,” she cackles, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Well, of all the people to get conflated with –”

“Who do you think he thought you were?” she asks. She hooks her hand around his bicep as he leads her too the car. So close to him she can smell his day-old shirt. His sweat.

Pavlovian.

“Oh, come on. Obviously Wright.”

“You don’t think you share some similarities with Roger Waters?”

“Take that back right now.”

In better times, this would be an invitation into bed. The rib that pushes him to the edge. Now, it’s just the way they are with each other.

They drive back to the apartment, laughing and chatting like old times (if she can even call them old times when they only met in January). He parks outside her apartment complex and eyes her in the way only he can. Trying to catch every beat.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, making no motion to the door.

“Of course,” John says and then repeats it under his breath.

She looks askance up to her window. The curtains are still drawn from the day before. “Well, you want me to do it in front of you so you don’t have to worry?”

John’s expression changes. He looks hurt.

“I was kidding. Mostly. I think sometimes people actually do that. Anyway,” she mutters. She doesn’t want to think about the time she and her ex-boyfriend sat on her bed while she took the pill and he watched her swallow as closely as one would observe a deer while hunting. “We should…”

John looks away, to the windshield.

“Disentangle,” she says. It’s the only word that makes sense. This isn’t a breakup. And she doesn’t want him to leave her. But they’ve gotten inexorably close for two people who just can’t.

“I understand,” he replies.

“Because I –” her voice cracks. “I don’t know, John. This has started to hurt.”

Not hurt in the fun way. In the way they’ve known. How does he patch her up this way? When he can’t physically have her or hold her?

“Because whenever you leave me I know…” She doesn’t want to cry. She’s not going to. She clutches the bag from the pharmacy in her lap. “You go home to your life and your work. To your family.” The word family sticks in her throat. It’s strange how it makes her feel. The thought of his wife and his children and grandchildren (dear god) doesn’t make her jealous. She’s envious of him. That he gets to return to that warmth and love, regardless of what is or isn’t broken. What does she have? An apartment and a recording studio and a half-finished album. Maybe it’s time to get a cat. “I know what this is. I’m not trying to kid myself or expecting…” Has she wished for him to be all hers? Yes. In a distant impossible way where no one gets hurt. Distant. Impossible.

John knows he shouldn’t, but touches her anyway, running the tips of his fingers through her hair, guiding her face toward him. “Look at me. Listen to me.”

She will hold the dam. She will not cry.

“If you want that…” He could back track now. He could rescind the idea entirely and it never has to be said. “I’m not going to make you take the pill.”  

An entire life that isn’t hers flashes before her eyes. The one she wouldn’t let herself linger on before the abortion. The swollen one. The up all night one. The always worrying one. The insurmountable lifechanging joy one.

“On the probably very slim chance it would take again –“

“John, I couldn’t.”

“I mean, I couldn’t participate, you understand.”

She smiles sadly. “Of course.”

“But I wouldn’t let you suffer. I could support you.”

“John.”

At the sound of his name, he seals his mouth closed. What was an inkling of an idea came out of his mouth like a fully-fledged plan. Embarrassing.

And she knows that though this idea is mostly one of friendship and kindness, it can never be wholly without want. Why else would John offer himself to her like this if not to bring her enough peace to continue on as they have?

“Thank you, but no.”

John takes a sharp inhale and nods. He’s not going to admit to himself he’s the smallest bit heartbroken.

She cracks open the impossible packaging, the gruff plastic nearly slicing her finger open, and pulls out the first of the pills. She sticks it on her tongue and swallows down the water. No changing her mind now. “Done.”

“Yes,” John says quietly. He nurses his rejection quietly. “Disentangling. What does that mean to you?”

“Just…less,” she sighs. “Less purposeful. Less at your disposal. Less of you and me.”

John crosses his arms and blinks, against staring out the windshield. “Alright.”

She touches his shoulder gingerly and he the tension in his body melts. In just a moment, they’re wrapped in each other’s arms tenderly, faces buried. With each passing second, their embrace grows tighter and tighter until there is nowhere more for it to go.

She pulls away first and touches his cheek. The line of his dimple. His lower lip bows downward in such a slight way that it’s obvious he’s holding in everything until she leaves. “I can’t wait for the record.”

He chuckles, trying to push down the despondency. “I can’t wait for yours.”

“Mm. Don’t hold your breath.”

“Do me a favor and whenever you do that, remember me scolding you,” John says with genuineness.

“I will. I will. And I’ll miss you. So much.”

Deep breath. John kisses her cheek. “I’ll see you. Some time.”

It is not a final goodbye. That will not come for a long time. But it is the first. And as soon as she realizes this, she regrets every choice she’s made this morning. She could have kept him. A piece of him. Maybe. “Goodbye, John.”

Bleary-eyed, she gets out of the car and heads for her apartment without looking back. When she gets back inside her apartment she checks the window that looks onto the street. John’s car idles. A moment. Two. And then, he drives off.

Gone. Completely. Except…

The goddamn keys in her dresser drawer. With tears now blooming down her cheeks, she snatches them from the drawer, drops them in the garbage, and takes the bag out to the trash downstairs.

A person should not have to endure so many goodbyes in so few days. But when they do, there are two options to continue.

Stay the same. Or move the fuck on. And the moment she wonders what would be the use of moving on when she is so broken inside, she hears his voice in the back of her head. Scolding her for her self-deprecation.

She laughs to herself. Every piece of John is not gone.

Never will be.

tag list: @jimmys-zeppelin, @kari-12-10, @grxtsch, @edal-weis, @ritacaroline, @kyunisixx, @salixfragilis, @rebel-without-a-zeppelin, @jimmypages, @dollyvandal, @cassiana-on-dark-side, @thepinklovewitch, @babyl222, @faisonsunreve, @sastrugie, @seventieswhore, @raptorcat1960, @t4ngerinedr3am, @mayspringcome, @barrettavenue, @foreverandadaydarling, @glimmerofsanity, @matty-heally, @lzep, @jimmysdragonsuit13 (let me know if you’d like to be added 💋)

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

2. "That's why I want them. I think I might be low-fi socialist junk myself."

+1 Communism

SIILENG - "No, officer, you're a high-class policeman who accepts nothing less than the best! Lucky for you, I've got the best on sale!"

"You don't know what I am. I don't even know it myself." (Pause). "I want the speakers."

"Wait, what if I *do* deserve more than a low-fi socialist sound system…"

SIILENG - "Well, if you *want* them..." He pauses for a moment, calculating.

"But see, they are the pedestal for my sneakers. If I let go of the speakers, where will the sneakers go? I can't leave premium lifestyle sneakers on the *ground*..."

"If, on the other hand, you wanted to buy the *sneakers*, too, I could maybe throw in the speakers for a little extra -- 50 cents."

5. [Leave.]

BOX OF SUNGLASSES - There's a pile of cheap sunglasses in a small box, a variety of shapes and colours.

SIILENG - "You like sunglasses, officer? I've got the latest styles, right here!" The vendor takes a pair of sunglasses and sticks them under your nose.

Try the shades on.

Rummage through the box.

[Leave for now.]

BOX OF SUNGLASSES - Abort! These are hideous. What's more, they don't even fit your face. You can feel them pinching your nose and chafing against your brow.

SIILENG - "Damn, officer, you look like a mega-secret spy, very secret," the man nods eagerly. "They're practically made for you. I'll let you have them for... two reál and fifty cents!"

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - It's going to be very difficult for anyone to take you seriously with these things on your face.

KIM KITSURAGI - "No," the lieutenant gently removes the glasses from your face, setting you free again. "You're definitely not buying those."

"Don't tell me what to do, Kim. I like those sunglassses."

"You're right, I'm too sensible for those."

SIILENG - "Are you sure? But they look so good on you!" The street vendor frowns. "You should think this through, officer."

2. Rummage through the box.

BOX OF SUNGLASSES - These are all boring. Boring third-rate ho-hum sunglasses made of cheap Seraise plastic. The kind of plastic that melts in the sun.

DRAMA [Easy: Success] - Those UV-stickers are almost certainly just there for show. If anything, these lenses probably direct more UV light *into* your pupils -- a UV magnifier.

SIILENG - "These are all first-rate sunglasses!" the man declares. "Premium design, superb material, *very cool* UV-resistant! These will definitely keep your eyes safe *and* cool while doing your dangerous police work."

3. [Conceptualization - Formidable 13] Try again, maybe you can find *some* interesting sunglasses in the box.

I'm also hoping to fail this one.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Formidable: Failure] - No luck. All you find is this... lime-coloured cellophane visor? Produced by a bargain sportswear brand called Amphibian, apparently. There's a malformed green frog on its bent cap.

SIILENG - "Oh, that visor is perfect for you, officer. It'll definitely keep the sun out of your eyes while you're shooting criminals." The street vendor makes a bang-bang sound. "And all for a mere six reál."

(Turn to the lieutenant). "Kim, are firefights something we should be prepared for?"

Put the visor back.

KIM KITSURAGI - "I hope not," he says, looking up from his browsing.

SIILENG - "You don't like it? Sure, square-jaw, no problem. Let's get you some real shades."

The Amphibian Sports Visor gives us +1 Perception, which is good, but not currently worth 6 reál.

6. [Leave for now.]

Hot air rises up from the sewer: sour, acidic, and strangely comforting.

[yippeecahier]

Tagged by @queerests !

I love talking about myself, so...

[art by @sugar-drift]

Here goes; much to everyone else's chagrin and my delight, this is a long post!

1. Are you named after anyone?

Yeah, my great-grandmother. Luckily it's a gender-neutral name so even though I'm trans, I kept it.

2. Last time you cried?

I was playing Dark Souls until midnight recently (last weekend iirc) fighting the Gaping Dragon and my partner was being sardonic in his jokes as usual but I was tired and started crying because I tilted and thought he was disparaging me/frustrated with me for dying to the boss so often with the constant "OK yeah, just...don't dodge!! Hahaha!!" and stuff. Luckily he apologized and helped me pull myself back together. I'm kind of a crybaby, to be honest.

3. Do you have/want kids?

I have no kids. I am really indecisive on the latter. My partner really wants kids, and would prefer to have a child with my genes; when he said he wanted a biological child I suggested surrogacy and sperm donation so that there would be humans with his genes and he was like, "no... I want them to have your genes..."

I don't dislike children at all considering I literally work with them in my career. I think they are delightful little people and it brings me joy to see how they grow and change. However, I also really like having boundaries in my life where I get undisturbed 8 hours of sleep every day and only interact with said children for 40 hours a week; I would have to give that up for 24/7 child duty if I became a parent. Also knowing myself and recommendations from my doctors, waking up every 2-3 hours to feed a baby would literally make me suicidal. In the words of my OB/GYN: "it's not a matter of if you get postpartum depression, given your mental health history, but when." Also where I currently live is extremely hostile to pregnant bodies and I would like very much not to risk death or jailtime and exorbitant fines/legal fees just to have a biological kid. 20% of all pregnancies result in miscarriage (especially early on, before the person knows they're pregnant) and I can be tried for a felony if literally anyone suspects or alleges it was an "abortion," and they get paid to do so. There is no medical difference or test to tell if pregnancy loss is one or the other. It's a whole thing.

At the same time, I work in a Title I school and I know and love many delightful foster children I would love to share my knowledge and resources with to improve their lives. The state is hostile to children, too, and those kids don't have a choice about living here the way adults do, since they're with the state department of children and family services. Our local DCFS is woefully in a perpetual crisis because they discriminate against queer and non-xtian households in fostering and adoption; the ratio of foster children to available homes is 40:1 here. I'm very passionate about this, and one way to put my money where my mouth is is to go into foster care. However, I would need my support network if I made that leap to parenthood and my family doesn't support fostering ("what if their trauma/issues are so bad it endangers you!!") and insists on biological children. Oh well.

TL;DR I'm on the fence regarding the future and if it includes children and in what form, but I know I definitely don't want any biological children right now. I've always thought about adopting or fostering an older child.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

No, I generally mean what I say. I have a hard time identifying sarcasm in others (thanks autism) so I generally avoid it. The only time it appears is in self-aggrandizing humor in lieu of self-deprecating humor (i.e., "I am the pinnacle of grace!" when I trip) to try to fix my mental health. Currently positive effects, I highly recommend.

5. What's the first thing you notice about people?

Hair and teeth. It's always been hair. I don't make eye contact if I don't know you very well but I generally look at people's heads to make it look like I am, and stare at mouths to lip-read a bit because of auditory processing issues. If you get a haircut or dye your hair, it takes me a bit to realize who you are, especially if it's a radical change (thanks autism for the prosopagnosia.) I scared my classmate in high school when I noticed that his two front teeth were pared down to be even with the others at the dentist. Apparently, no one else noticed? He freaked out when I asked him, "Hey why are your front two teeth shorter than they used to be?" I also respond to surprise significant hair changes in my loved ones...not that well. I got mad at my partner for shaving his head down to a buzzcut because it was such a drastic and sudden change, and was distressed to tears by my dad shaving the beard he'd had for 20 years.

6. What's your eye color?

Really deep chocolate brown. Not dark enough to be almost black, but much darker than any of the hazel hues my other family members have.

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

If it's not Jordan Peele, I'm going with happy endings. I'm really sensitive to gore, and vomited when watching the Aliens films.

(CW: Alien spoilers, death)

I liked the Alien franchise, but I puked in the popcorn when watching Prometheus during the improvised C-section to remove the alien in the protagonist's uterus scene and my brother was pissed. His friend helped me out of the movie theatre and rubbed my back while I couldn't stop shaking and puking and reassured me that he felt nauseated at that part too and personally wasn't mad at me for reacting like I did. I was crying about embarrassing myself in front of my brother and his friends. It brings tears to my eyes again to remember how gentle he was even though he was a teenage boy. He stopped talking to me after he became addicted to opiates, he was too embarrassed to tell me. He disappeared in the Russia-Ukraine war, presumed dead. He was a great person. Damn, crying again. Like I said, I'm a crybaby.

8. Special talents?

I'm told I'm a good cook. I failed o-chem once and withdrew the second time because I had a massive panic attack before my final exam, but at least I took away some skills from that. I use my knowledge of organic reactions and interactions between organic molecules to maximize flavors in coffee, curry, and other edible things I create.

I'm also told I'm a skilled 2-D artist. My mom saved this shoe I drew and shaded by smudging my pencil in 1st grade. The art teacher sent it home and told her I should go to art school. I even made a college art portfolio and took commissions for a bit, but when it came to having to do art for a grade or for money, it felt like my creativity and desire to create would just shut off under the pressure. I just do art as a hobby, now.

9. Where were you born?

In a hospital via emergency C-section in the middle of a thunderstorm like a badass.

10. What are your hobbies?

Drawing, embroidery, puzzles, reading non-fiction, tabletop and video games.

11. Have any pets?

Two little papillon dogs. One is a teenage boy, the other is an elderly lady.

12. What sports do you play or have you played?

Currently, I run. I recently got 2nd place in my age group in a 5k race this past fall. In the past, I did track and field, tennis, swimming, and kickboxing. I tried my hand at yoga and HEMA, but didn't stick with it. I got kicked out of ballet and basketball as a kid for being ADHD and autistic which made me awful at following directions and being a "team player," respectively; it's also why all my sports listed above are individual. 😅

13. How tall are you?

5' 6" when I don't slouch; I'm working on it!! I'm a short king.

14. Favorite subject in school?

It's a tie between science and art. If you read my other paragraphs, this seems obvious in retrospect.

15. Dream job?

I'm in it: dyslexia and reading interventionist! I do what I love (learning about the brain and how people learn and process things!!) and teach people how to do what I love (reading!! also learning about the brain!!) and it gives me meaning to serve others but still actually make good money above the average for people in my area with my degree and education.

No pressure tags 🩶 @deerstar4 @thatsoup @waflfurs @lemon--berry @woodrider @arthallea @pandatlas @jesterpup @litho-sphere

[mermaidsirennikita]

Can I ask your opinion on blonde. I’m always interesting in your opinions on movies.

Sure! And thanks, I appreciate that.

I think it's just a really bad movie. I was very open to it--I enjoyed the campiness of the early 2000s miniseries. I have nothing against biopics in theory, and I think it's okay for biopics to critically examine their subject... but I don't think that a clear misogynist who hates Marilyn Monroe should've made a movie about Marilyn Monroe.

Tbh, the idea of this being a biopic is flawed, because it's an adaptation of a Joyce Carol Oates novel that is in itself a work of fiction. But the promotion of the movie did not emphasize that at all; even JCO seems to not be as aware of that reality as she once did, and Dominik really only fell back on the book when he was getting heat from certain interviewers; otherwise, he just referred to Marilyn rather baldly, like this was a conventional biopic.

And even without his disgust for Marilyn being clear in those interviews, he obviously hated her based off the movie. The movie is about creating a fetishized wankfest of a woman for men who like idea of punishing hypersexualized (notice that I don't say hypersexual--because frankly, as long as you're being safe with yourself and your partners, you as an individual being hypersexual is not wrong, but Marilyn was NOT a hypersexual person) women. It literally felt like torture porn. I don't often feel like... triggered by movies? But this movie felt triggering at points. I don't even think it needed to connect to a specific experience to trigger you, tbh; you just have to be a woman who's experienced bullshit in the world, because it is just a violently misogynistic, woman-hating film. But truly, special shoutout to the loving night vision shot of Marilyn's nude form, hair fully done, as she cluelessly gets out of bed covered in blood following her second forced abortion.

Speaking of those abortions! Not that I require total accuracy from movies, but I've never seen super strong evidence either way that Marilyn had abortions. She could have; many actresses in the day did, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. Marilyn definitely had documented miscarriages, though, and fertility issues that gave her a lot of grief. So to see her fertility and her reproductive autonomy (or lackthereof) used as a plot point to elicit more shock and awe was really... gross. I have a big issue in general with fertility struggles being used as soapy drama in biopic content (I really hated the fucking goofy "I'm gonna have a stillborn baby on the lawn" moment in The Spanish Princess, for example, because it was so over the top and so easily mocked online that it seemed to just... make a joke out of a real woman's very real pregnancy losses). This took that to another level, because not only did Marilyn have forced abortions--it was like... They wanted us to see that she had no choice in the matter, was literally physically forced to have them, while also HATING HER FOR IT. Like oh, she considered the first abortion for a minute, so it's all her fault that she was then dragged into an operating room, strapped to bed, and forced into an abortion. Twice! With a vagina's eye view. And in case you didn't pick up on then, we have her fucking fetus talk to her while she's pregnant and blame her for it, before she like? Violently miscarries after tripping on the beach?

Never mind that like... The JFK shit was totally unnecessary, totally exploitative, and again, totally based on nothing, just there to make fun of her. I tend to raise an eyebrow at the Twitter threads that went to every effort to convince everyone that Marilyn didn't have an affair with JFK because... there's a lot of reason to believe that she did, and quite possibly (probably?) slept with his brother as well. And who cares if she did, honestly? That was JFK's asshole maneuver to do to his wife, and Marilyn does not lose merit as a person for sleeping with him--to me, bending over backwards to act like she didn't is reinforcing this idea that you must be evil if you make a mistake like that.

But... There's no evidence to suggest that it was anything other than a consensual affair. I mean, don't get me wrong, JFK was a rich, powerful, sex-obsessed man in the 1960s, so I feel that him assaulting women is totally on the table; but there's nothing legit out there indicating that he assaulted Marilyn. So that was just there to... shock us? I've seen some saying that it's meant to like, rattle the American idealism surrounding the Kennedys? My brother in Christ, we like... know... the Kennedys were into some shady shit.... And we certainly know that JFK fucked everything that moved, so MYTH: BUSTED on that one. A while ago!

I just think that it was a badly made movie for navel gazers who want to sound intellectual while enjoying torture porn starring America's most visually iconic actress (and really, most visually iconic sex symbol). Directed, worst of all, at someone who did fucking nothing to deserve this kind of backlash. She was an intelligent, talented, in many ways progressive, mentally ill woman who made some choices that hurt her, in large part because she was extremely traumatized from a young age, and the trauma piled on. She also had some fun times and some genuine friendships and complex relationships, and we never get to see that shit in media. We never see Marilyn happy, even though she totally was happy at points in her life. We never see Marilyn gossiping with other girls in the studio system and or vamping it up a bit for the fun of it.

And I also! Think! Ana did a shitty job as Marilyn! Lol I kept seeing people tout that performance as the movie's saving grace, but I'll be honest man... Homegirl didn't have much to go off with the script, to be fair--most of it was "say 'oh no daddy'" in a little girl lost voice or "look clueless" but... That was a rough go. I know Marilyn's accent is a hard one to get without it sounding like a mockery, and Ana's own natural accent is hard to cover, but uh... Yeah, bro. She sounded like a Cuban Marilyn Monroe impersonator the entire movie, and that was INCREDIBLY distracting. Bobby Cannavale was actually a really good DiMaggio, but like. I am not entirely sure that Bobby was in the same film as everyone else.

Anyway, I hated it, and I really like Be Kind Rewind's review of why this movie felt so much worse than two other not-good biopics about famous women we view with tragedy in mind (one of which I did actively loathe, but not as much as Blonde--Blonde makes Spencer look like a decent movie).

[apoombeam]

[This isn’t something I’ve ever really decided was true or not, just a thought I had while writing about James’ healing abilities.

But since James can heal Anders without touching him, and he’s usually nearby whenever Anders gets beaten, (like at the lake with Simon, for example), I think maybe the reason Anders survived so many brutal beatings without being accidentally killed is that James unconsciously kept him alive.

Healing starts internally first, so maybe the worst injuries (brain injuries, etc.) were avoided, while more external injuries that left scars weren't. This might also be why James picks up healing so quickly – because he’s been doing it all along, just without realizing it. But again, just a thought I had. I don't think I'll ever go into James' healing abilities again.]

This is an interesting idea, and whether or not I’d believe it to be likely depends mainly on whether partial, or complete healing is more difficult.

What I currently think from an analysis perspective is that he has been partially healed sometimes, but not by James.

It is said that Anders' healing is barely better than that of an omega, and it is my thinking hat any extend to which it is better is probably due to alpha-induced healing.

Yet I think that if James had been healing him it wouldn't have been partial healing. Or at least that if James had been healing him, that it would have been the case that injuries that had been inflicted by James would heal notably slower than injuries inflicted by anyone else.

I think that there was a part of James’ subconscious that very intently went ‘Grr, wipe away every mark that isn’t isn’t mine’ , any and every time Anders was hurt by anyone else. And then a different, slightly less subconscious part of him went ‘no, no, those marks and that pain are warranted, they’re being bestowed by someone from this pack with the standing to do it, and this pack is basically already mine, so that person is also mine, so those are my marks and I don’t have to wipe them away.*

(… and that is a large part of the reason that he threw Simon of a roof for healing Anders, instead of beating up people left and right for hurting him.)

While he’s been doing a whole olympic level mental gymnastics routines to refrain from healing Anders.other alphas had no such desire to heal him, but not so much compunction against it.

Meanwhile while Simon was carrying Anders back through the forest he might have had a thought of ‘man, that better not have killed him’. And while Simon isn’t nearly as invested in Anders as James is, and doesn’t know him as well, and is also less strong. He is still a strong alpha who has been Anders’ classmate for a long time, and he was touching Anders at the time. So it really might have prevented some brain swelling.

Or Rainey, he was often touching Anders for short moments, he is not as strong and he is kind of distractable, but he also knows Anders from being his classmate, and he definitely might have had thought of ‘oh, I hope that doesn’t hurt too much’ while seeing Anders’ battered ass.

James’ healing the first time that he consciously healed Anders wasn’t actually immediately very skilled. It was immediately very strong.

It’s like it was at overcapacity. It actually did a lot of things that weren’t intended by James. To me that doesn’t seem like it was a long time-subconsciously honed skill, I think that it was a frequently aborted impulse, that just build up and build up, and then finally the floodgates opened a little and the part of him that wanted to be healing Anders all along jumped on the opportunity with alacrity and just poured it all out.

* (Maybe there also was a part that went ‘make my mate be well, make my mate be happy’ and then that part was countered by a ‘no, first he has to say that he is mine, and also he’s really beautiful when he suffers, so no.’)

This is an interesting theory! I think it could also be a mix of both?

[I think that it was a frequently aborted impulse, that just build up and build up, and then finally the floodgates opened a little and the part of him that wanted to be healing Anders all along jumped on the opportunity with alacrity and just poured it all out.]

I think this is also why James immediately becomes obsessed with honing his healing abilities. He’s so used to being in perfect control of everything, so not being able to control his healing powers is a failure he won’t allow.

[‘no, first he has to say that he is mine, and also he’s really beautiful when he suffers, so no.’]

I do think about James saying no to Emily when she asked him to heal Anders. I think his refusal might have been more about anyone deigning to tell him what to do with his mate than about healing.

But then he also still had his head stuck in the sand back then. So who knows.

[thewestern]

Chapter 15

Jiggle the knob. You have to fuc-king jig-gle it.  

I am jiggling it. 

No, you’re j-j-j-erking it. It’s not some homeless guy you met under the highway. He’s not gonna share the rest of the ham sandwich he found in the dumpster in exchange for you grating the cheese off his dick. It’s a door knob. You have to Jiggle It. 

Hey Thadeus, guess what? 

What, Louisa?

I’m about to Jiggle this rusty old key in your fucking eye socket … fuuuck, dude. This was supposed to be my day off.

 Our Day Off, Lu. That’s just it — your selfishness. It’s limit does not exist. And that’s just as a twin sister, to say nothing of your fucking tending bar. Maybe if you weren’t such a [whispers] c-u-n-t to the customers, we could make some real money. Maybe then we wouldn’t have to take the extra shift from the first. 

Maybe blow me, Thad, you chode. 

Parked across the street from the green awning, over the gentle purr of his lithium-ion battery-powered engine, Billy could hear every word of this invective volleying, as if it were taking place in the backseat. Sometimes when people cursed a lot — such as Ari on Entourage or Hank on Californication, two of Billy’s favorite premium cable television anti-heroes — it could be kind of hilarious. You know, like if they knew creative swear words or how to incorporate clever puns into their insults and stuff. But this seemed more scary than anything. Borderline abusive, actually.

You know at the time I thought it was harsh but maybe mom was right when she said you were a mistake. 

Oh really … we’re twins, you twat. 

I know. That’s why I wish I was never born, only so that you wouldn’t have ever been born either. You make life worth not living. 

Well, I wish you could terminate one half of a pregnancy. Then I would travel back in time and drive mom to the clinic and pay the hundred and twenty-five dollars or whatever it cost back then to abort you.

Oh yeah? Because with you I bet she’d say, why bother with all the paperwork, when I’ve got a hand mirror right here, and there’s a closet full of perfectly good coat hangers. 

What if we were Chinese, and we were born under the One Child Policy? They probably would have put you up for adoption. Wait, you’re the girl, so it definitely would have been you, by fucking default. You’d have been sent to live with a couple in Paramus, New Jersey, who tried for years to get pregnant but couldn’t because the husband grew up downriver from a cat food factory. They’d name you Jennifer. You’d be their little China doll and they’d spoil you rotten. But they’d never love you. Not really. Not like they would have their own flesh and blood.

Listen, you creep. I don’t know what blood type we are, but you better hope you don’t ever need a life-saving plasma transplant because I will let the cancer eat away at your bone marrow until you fucking die slow. Bitch ass.

Jesus. Them two were mean, man. No doubt about it. But also, so fantastical with their dueling barbs as to render them mostly harmless. At least by Billy’s estimation. Hildy on the other hand didn’t have to resort to any profanity-laced threats of incurring bodily harm upon one’s unborn person to hurt his or her feelings. That’s not to say she couldn’t be passive-aggressive, which she could — with the best of them. Whatever she did say, however, you could be sure that she meant it. And that was the worst part. 

It goes without saying though that while Hildy practiced nonviolence in her campaigns against Billy’s self-esteem, the Jackson twins were willing to defend themselves by any means necessary. When she finally got the door to lock (thanks to some subtle jiggling, although she’d just as soon die than admit as such), Lulu raised her hand in the air and snapped her fingers repeatedly, creating a diversion that she used to then throw the keys at Thad, aiming for his groin. Somewhat haphazardly he blocked them by lifting his right leg, scrunching up into a standing fetal, and countered by bludgeoning her with his backpack whilst hopping on one foot like a defensive flamingo. Absorbing the off-balance blows, she readied to perform the fatality maneuver — every time … he started, she finished — a behind-the-leg, scorpion kick to his upper shin, buckling his knee just shy of hyper-extension. 

Argh, Full-blown AIDS, he shouted, thus signaling his submission as he crumbled unto the sidewalk of New Frontier.  

But right back up he sprung. And, with that out of their system, they carried on down the block as if nothing happened, walking right past Billy to their car. It was a hand-me-down minivan that their mother and father had previously used primarily as a means to promote the family orthodontistry practice. (Also they would take it out on weekends and holidays to the Less Fortunate neighborhoods, where they’d offer up orthodontic services on a pro bono basis. A nice gesture, albeit ill-conceived.) And damnit if there wasn’t a big old fucking incisor impacted right on the roof, crowned by a bracket fashioned out of aluminum foil and coat hangers, that which twins never bothered to have removed. 

  Billy waited for them to disappear around the corner before himself flipping another bitch and pulling around to the curb beside the front entrance. With the press of a button, the drivers’-side door flapped open, like a hydraulic wing. Billy suddenly regretted how difficult it was to subtly exit out of a vertically-hinged door, especially when it was attached to a canary yellow sport coupe. Stepping onto the curb, he could see how in all that commotion, the quarrelsome twosome had left the keys just sitting there, right beneath the chalk sign which today read: Our intent is for all your delight. 

Funnily enough, almost this exact scenario had played itself out once before. Although in that instance circumstances had been the reverse, in that it was Thadeus who’d flung the keys at Louisa, a short time after which a presumably homeless person happened upon them, entered the bar and beelined for the cash register, the key to which was situated there on the very same ring. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, this crime of utmost convenience was committed on what was among the slowest Monday’s in recent memory. The take, therefore, was less than fifty dollars in small bills. Probably feeling a little put out, before absconding with the paltry sum, he or she used the bar as a bathroom. And not the bathroom part either. 

It had to have been Hank who discovered the burglar’s fecal calling card there on the parquet floor. But then wouldn’t you believe he wasn’t all that upset? Not the first time, he said somehow wistfully, as if reminiscing about a past instance of a similar nature. Suppose then this was just an occupational bio-hazard. Another day in the bar business. Obviously, he left the mess for Thadeus and Louisa to clean up. You can only imagine how bitterly they argued over the how, the where and especially the who, when it came time to dispose of the turd. Hank didn’t fire them though, or really even offer much reproach. For crying out loud he let them keep their closing privileges. That was the kind of guy Hank was. Accepting of all shenanigans.   

Billy, though, might could have tested his patience. Experienced as he was in causing mischief, he knew better than to do … whatever he was going to do — he still hadn’t decided — on a downtown avenue, beneath the street lamps as they refracted off his highlighter-coloured, cry for help-of a motor vehicle. So he pulled it around the corner and ducked back down the alley. 

The greatest trick this car ever pulled was parking itself, which it proceeded to do between the dumpster and a brick wall. To interpret this as a testament to the benevolent sophistication of Artificial Intelligence and its potential myriad of positive applications for aiding humanity, or a demonic sign of the coming singularity, is your prerogative entirely. In either case, Billy didn’t have near enough room to open his driver’s side door. (Because it hinged open vertically, one could not crack it open and shimmy out like a regular schmuck. It required room enough to fully spread its wings. Before you fault the manufacturer for this, a rather obvious design flaw, consider that the typical driver of a car that costs more than your average three bed, two bath, in a great neighborhood with good schools, isn’t squeezing into many tight spots between two gigantic fucking pickups, because somehow it’s the single empty space in the entire Pacific Ocean-sized parking lot of the Save-a-Load. It’s called, Valet.)   

Just as soon as he was through hoisting himself out through the moonroof and sliding down the hood, Billy approached the back door with a privileged sense of calm — as if he owned the place, which according to his mother he bloody well would, pending board approval. There were five keys on the chain, and none of them were working. It occurred to Billy how he didn’t have much experience with analog locks. True, his parents weren’t around a lot when he got home from school, but you don’t qualify as a latchkey kid when your house has retinal scanner-enabled entry. And of course it goes without saying that his car’s ignition was push-button. On the whole, keys were very not swag at all. 

Readying to resort to his most time-honoured practice — quitting … just giving up — Billy remembered all the way back to five minutes before. You have to jiggle the handle. You fucking twat. 

###

Ask yourself. What would Billy do? Not as a Craft Beer Explorer, so much. As an individual. In this instance, a highly fucking suspicious one. Well, recall that crime comes down to motive. So what does he want? Right now he wants someone else (his mom) not to do something, which is hardly wanting anything at all. Suppose then, in the grander scheme of things, that he wants to become a successful beer executive and to carry on his family legacy. But does he want that, or does his mother want that? Or does he want his mother to want that. Or does he just want her to want something — anything — on his behalf. 

Now that we’re clear on his intentions, what are his available options? Counterintelligence, obviously, comes to mind. Corporate espionage. Gather, or better yet manufacture incriminating evidence against the New Frontier Brewing Company, and use it to sabotage the acquisition. Realistically, without Yayo-L standing by to help him hack the mainframe, he wouldn’t be likely to find a smoking gun among their electronic records, even if he knew what he was looking for, which he did not. Ah, but what about the art of sabotage, in and of itself … couldn’t he skip straight to that? Contaminate the beer with a foreign agent to somehow interfere with the fermentation. Again, he wasn’t fully up to speed on the microbiology of beer making. (Even the macro was beyond his tenuous grasp.) Perhaps that would be covered in his rotational leadership program, but then the whole point here was to avoid that bullshit straight away. There was always acting out of spite. That he had in spades. Take a dump on the floor? Who says no? 

All This was synchronized swimming laps around Billy’s head. Sometimes it was all he could do to tread water, try not to get kicked. The physical space was likewise pitch dark. Rather than flick the switch, Billy used the LED screen on his cell phone as a torch to light his way, slaloming between the tall metal tanks, hopscotching over hoses. Guided by only the faint blue glow, floating in all that darkness, he was like the captain of a deep-sea submersible, exploring the uncharted leagues along the ocean floor, searching for long lost shipwrecks and cataloguing new species of aquatic life forms.

All that was on the the Mick’s stark workstation was his marble composition notebook. Billy shined his light on the dog-eared page, faintly illuminating a vivid sketch of a man on a buffalo being chased off a cliff by a rocket ridden by … Doctor Ezekiel Lupustein. A big bad omen. Billy hated that fucking mutt. He would haunt him for all his days.

Entering the sanctum of Hank’s office, preserved in amber ale, for the first time in this particular breaking and entering, Billy felt like he was actually intruding on something. He was someone who had spent most of his upbringing in places that lacked a certain hospitality, to human life forms. Prep school, around his mother. And whereas these hallowed places, like the great halls of the Wolffenhaus, were intermittently occupied … this office, was a room that to him had seemed Lived In.  He could tell by all the cool shit there was everywhere. Like the furniture. Oriental rugs, a leather sofa, lamps galore. Items that had been walked, sat and turned on, many times over. 

 And books. A voluminous library with what figured to be many dozens of them. Dense biographies of Real Men of Genius. Such as Lyndon Johnson. The odd reference book about metallurgy. And of course, a robust stack of Hank’s favorite genre, Prepositional Phrase Adventure Porn. Into Thin Air, Into the Wild, Around the World in Eighty Days, In Harm’s Way, In the Heart of the Sea, (Twenty Thousand Leagues) Under the Sea, Between a Rock and a Hard Place, On Horseback Through Asia Minor, Through the Looking Glass. 

Kitty used to tease Hank about all his things. How he made his adult male doll house. A magnanimous man cave. He said, poke fun all you want, Kitty dear, but these things and this place are who I am. She thought better than to say so aloud, but what a sad thing that was to hear. 

Just like behind the bar, the office walls were covered almost every inch over. Although mostly by photographs. Also a mounted plastic fish that sang a song when you pressed a button, which Billy did instinctually.

Take me to the river, dip me in the water (Washing me down, washing me)

Billy fixated on one of a man he did not know to be Hank — khaki-clad, head-to-toe — standing in a row of what appeared to be tribesmen, all holding spears and shields. Then he inspected the various commendations, citations, honorary degrees, etcetera. Displayed most prominently among them was a plaque inscribed to John Henry W. O'Sullivan the distinguished recipient of the Randolph Scott Award for Innovation in Brewing as so recognized by the North American Master Brewers Labor Association. Somewhere, in the distance, the Mick stuck his tongue out and made a fart noise. 

Wasn’t much art to speak of, unless you count framed concert posters. Hank surely did. Winterland Arena, Nassau Coliseum, Avalon Ballroom, Wembley Empire Pool, King’s Beach Bowl, literally the Great Pyramids, in mother fucking Egypt. Souvenirs from faraway fantasy lands, were these illustrated relics from the bygone times of Kings, Emperors, Warlocks and Pharaohs. Only one painting without any accompanying copy. A lithographic portrait of Sadaam Hussein. Crude oil on canvas. You could expect that Billy didn’t much keep up with current events, but everybody knew Uncle Sadaam. He saw the video of him getting hung online. Like, bruh. See an opp in a spider hole. Catch a case in a tribunal. He want the glock. We got the noose. Neck go pop. Off your head top. 

Oh, cool, a ship in a bottle. There on the executive desk. Here was your classic old wooden ship with the full square rigging. Billy was once sent away as a teenager on a four-week Experiential Outdoor Education and Immersive Behavioural Optimization Expedition to the Caribbean, the first of several attempts at correctional recreation made on his behalf. The Bahamas was tight, but having to learn all those gay knots and eat canned pasta was whack as fhuck, dude. 

Having some sailing experience under his needlepoint belt, Billy took note of how this ship in a bottle wasn’t running triumphantly downwind, though. It was tilted at an acute angle, but it wasn’t sailing on a reach either — no, the masts were down. Was it capsizing? The water was white. For a fact, it wasn’t water at all; it was ice. The ensign was a Union Jack and the name on the stern read: ENDURANCE. Huh. Billy couldn’t make withdrawals from his trust until he turned thirty-five, and if he made it, he looked forward most to buying a Super Yacht, or at the very least a speed boat like the ones in Bad Boys II. BIG PIMPIN’, he would christen the goodship. Best part of getting a boat is you get to name it, he reckoned.

Then there was a shitload of other random ass shit. A totem pole in one corner. A grossvater clock catty-corner to that, which Hank never bothered to wound. (The time was currently set to quarter past eleven, actually only thirteen minutes slow, numbers which are not symbolic in any way, you can rest assured.) He kept a vintage milk crate filled of some of his favorite rock specimens he’d collected on various hikes. Chairs were set out in contradiction more than invitation — a royal blue plastic-molded seat he stole from the football stadium before it was imploded in a controlled demolition, an eames lounge chair notably sans ottoman, a set of two bean bags, a vintage wicker wheelchair and a t-bar, which was a primitive form of ski lift. (Somewhere in a faraway storage unit Hank had a one-hundred percent authentic electric chair. To be perfectly clear, he came by it organically. Insofar as he hadn’t sought it out or anything. And he only very briefly considered setting it out in the bar before he thought the better. He wasn’t one of those death perverts who collected blood relics and other assorted pain paraphernalia to put on public display.)  Right by the door there was a human skeleton — like they had in science class — with a crown of fake roses. (They looked and felt plastic, but they smelled real.) Kitty and the Mick got him that for his sixtieth. She grave dug it out from the janitor’s closet at West Middle, and he brought it back to life with a couple coats of spray paint, appropriately bone white. This specimen dated back to a simpler time when they used actual human tissue in classrooms, to Show the Children how exactly the knee bone connected to the shin bone. (Via what are called articulations, surfaces wherein two bones meet, the patellofemoral and the tibiofemoral in the knee joint.) Those were the days. Back in the present, some knuckleheaded smartasses had doodled tattoos all over it with permanent marker. The words Thug Life was written across the lower rib cage. A teardrop fell down the cheekbone. A monarch butterfly took flight from off the coccyx. In fairness to those kids though, they had no clue that Casey Bones, as Hank got to calling him, used to be a real living person, who very generously donated his or her body to Science, back in an era when that wouldn’t have been nearly as common a thing to do. (Long before it was a decision you could make at the Department of Motor Vehicles.) They probably had no idea then that they were desecrating that charitable person’s remains with these, their entirely coincidental symbols of life, death and rebirth. 

Beyond the cheap thrill of trespassing on someone’s property, as well as apparently their whole personality, nothing here was quite sustaining Billy’s interest. To be honest he was getting fairly bored. His phone phantom buzzed on his right hip. Out of habit he opened the Brick Blaster app before quickly closing it, something he did routinely — in important meetings, at the movies, one time while getting his ass et. It wasn’t easy to lose focus like that, in the act of committing a class-three felony, nor while reaching third base on a bend-over triple. But that was Billy. Always off someplace else, adrift in the tide pool of his own fucking head. 

On the way out he opened the mini fridge. Doing hoodrat stuff always made him thirsty. Hopefully there was a sparkling water in there or something. Damn. Just half a turkey sandwich, and two-thirds a six pack of Wolffenbeir Native. Or, Natty Dub, as it had been colloquialized by Billy and other like doofuses.

Taking a hard right out Hank’s door led him into the taproom proper. Billy could see a switch along the wall, marked by a little black tape label with embossed white letters which read: THE WALL of LIGHT. You already know he flicked that shit, and sure enough, son-a’-bitch lit up like the Fourth of Ju-ly. Red and green lights Hank hung for Christmas, blue and whites he hung for Hanukkah, despite the Mick’s repeated insistings how very much that he did not care, those paper lanterns for Chinese New Year … and for some pagan holiday for worshipping the occult, that neon likeness Doctor Lupustein — Billy could swear he stalked him — flashing red the color of hellfire ember. 

Although for once Billy’s animated nemesis wasn’t the center of attention. Not on THE WALL of LIGHT, at least. Like a nervous system, all of the bulbs and their corresponding circuitry seemed to lead to the middle top of the wall. There, the reason he came all this way was revealed unto him. Bertha, the prize bison head. Billy knew now. He was going to steal it. 

###

Billy was what you would call a Bad Kid. Objectively speaking. But, he didn’t do drugs. He didn’t even drink beer, it bears repeating. And he wasn’t a bully, not like a lot of his peers — rich pricks. For that he deserves some recognition from this board. Sure he liked to talk tough, but that boy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Still, by any measure, Billy was a Bad Kid. Or what you would call one. So, why? Because. Billy stole. 

Now your typical thief, Billy wasn’t. In so far as his crimes weren’t borne of necessity. Without the mean old Kraut Wilhelm I, Billy’s Grossvater, around to piss vinegar in his kids’ milk, this next generation of Wolffenbeir spawn had been spoiled rotten, almost as a matter of policy. One of familial diplomacy: Hard-earned entitlements by way of unilateral appeasement. Anything he ever wanted he could have. (Except that which he wanted most of all  — a boat … for now.) Usually in forty-eight hours or less. (And this was before two-day shipping.) All this is to say that Billy didn’t Have to Steal. He Wanted to Steal. Baby, he Needed to Steal. So Steal he Did. 

 Pre-school was his first score. Snuck away during nap time and cleaned out every last one of them cubbies. While he was able to nab the odd knapsack and lunchbox, mostly, it was an art heist. Finger paintings, macaroni pictures, hand turkeys. Damned if he didn’t get away with it, too, burying the loot in the sandbox, taking it home piece by piece throughout the remainder of the school year. 

Ms. Huey, his frizzly red-headed teacher, was beside herself. She hadn’t for a moment considered that one of her students could be capable of such an act, fearing surely it had to have been the work of a local pedophile. You can imagine then, when she expressed as such, the police were called in to investigate. They dusted off every inch of that classroom for fingerprints with which to cross-reference via the sex offender registry. Sure enough there was a hit, with Ms. Huey’s fiance, Geoff. It goes without saying that she was devastated to discover she’d been betrothed to a criminal pervert, who let the record reflect had courted her under false pretenses, and an assumed name, presumably because her job could afford him tangential and therefore untraceable access to a wellspring of toddlers. 

At least she hadn’t walked down the aisle to an awaiting Geoff (his real name, if you can believe it, was Jeff … now, this doesn’t apply to you pederasts, but pro tip to everybody else out there using aliases for non sexually-violent offenses, don’t just change the spelling of your name, and certainly don’t swap it out for something more conspicuous, like fucking Geoff … now there’s a guy who touches kids), before he could be perp walked out of their shared apartment in front seemingly the entire complex. That they had not recovered the stolen goods among his otherwise highly incriminating belongings, however, the proper authorities were not the least bit concerned, since they had quite obviously ID’d the culprit positively, and apprehended him peaceably.   

All the while, no one ever suspected Billy. It was the perfect crime. 

So perfect in fact, that Billy may well have peaked, prematurely. Thereafter, his lopsided record of W’s to L’s indicated he wasn’t a very good thief. He wasn’t a bad one either, necessarily. Not sloppy by any means. Really his was a problem of regression to the mean. You see, when it comes down to it, grand larceny is a numbers game. Any snatch and grab man that’s worth a shit will tell you you’re going to take a pinch, sooner rather than later. So you pick your spots. But that was just it for Billy. He had a different calculus. A high-volume shooter, you could call him. To be clear, it was not that he was trying to get caught, as if he had some kind of complex. You wouldn’t say he was compulsive about it, in that way. More … prolific. And with regard to consequences, it wasn’t that he didn’t care. Sure, he affected an air that he didn’t care, about anything, but it was painfully obvious to anyone paying attention that he cared —  desperately so — about every little thing. 

Perhaps it was partly because those consequences didn’t bear down upon him with anywheres near the severity as they would for your average hoodlum or hopper. To that end, Hildy spent much of Billy’s childhood into young adulthood covering his ass. For his benefit, certainly, but also for hers. Being a young and ambitious female executive within the chauvinistic corporate hierarchy that pervaded the Wolffenbeir Company, as it had been meticulously erected by its patriarch, Wilhelm I, Hildy’s career prospects were tenuous enough as it was. If somehow it was made widely known that her meteoric professional ascent as a working mother had come at the expense of her increasingly delinquent son, well, that would’ve reflected quite poorly on her wouldn’t it.

Mercifully for her sake then that criminals are territorial by their very nature, and Billy was no different. So it stands to reason how for many of his subsequent crimes, he returned to the scene of his original sin. The Canaan Country Day School. The ideal staging ground for an aspiring thief, this petri dish of deteriorating privilege. Those little human bacteria were isolated and cultured from pre-K all the way on through Twelve, although Billy only made it to Eleven. 

Though it ended thusly, just woefully short of completion, Billy made the most of his prep school tenure, rest assured. He robbed that place fucking blind. Offender on repeat. And he took big scores, too. For example like, at the start of every academic year, when it was often required that students of a certain grade level purchase a specific school supply, Billy took that as a personal challenge. In fourth grade it was recorders. He stole an entire symphony orchestra’s-worth on the eve of the big recital. Poor kids had to hum My Heart Will Go On. 

Thereafter, the middle school — or rather, Lower School, as the Canaanites insisted on calling it — mandated that students begin using three-ring binders to organize their assignments. Preliminary training for the diligent work that is Wealth Management, for the children of parents whose estates were to be meticulously stewarded through a convoluted network of byzantine financial instruments deployed in the name of charitable trusts, itemizing contributions only to worthy grantees such as the City Ballet or the Common Sense Institute for Economic Policymaking, or perhaps, say, the Canaan Country Day endowment fund, that which exceeded the GDP of some developing nations. So important a lesson indeed, that these parents — and acting executors of their family foundations — could not be bothered to pick up said binders or other learning implements on behalf of their brood at the local big box outlet. So that the binders were issued, included as part of the goods and services expense in their tuition, to each rising middle schooler, emblazoned with the Canaan Country Day motto: Values ​​​​ad vitam impletum (Values for a life fulfilled), or teaching the upper crust’s moldy fucking scraps how to hold on for dear life to the rest of what’s theirs.

But, before the all-important binders were to be distributed on the first day of sixth grade, Billy jimmied the door to the supply closet where they were stored, and lined them one by one, up, down and across the cloistered hallway, painstakingly popping open the flimsy metal claws to fashion them into bear traps for the pre-pubescent.

Come high school (beg your pardon, Upper School … fucking ugh), the nonlinear nature of polynomial algebra necessitated the ubiquitous use of sophisticated graphing calculators. Nevermind how he was a year-and-change behind, mired in eighth-grade-level pre-algebra. Billy resented the implication. However, by now you can bet the administration had picked up on the forensic patterns of his still-developing criminal mind, which by contrast were quite linear indeed. Which is to say, the heat was on; they had a Bolo out on Billy. Not subtle with their tails, either. These were obvious hall monitor types. With their snitch asses. They were working in shifts, in his khaki cargo pocket, coming and going in and out of every class. But somehow though, Slick Billy shook his tail, if only for a moment. That was all it took. In the span of a second period, every last calculator up and vanished from Mr. Kuntz’s advanced placement trigonometry classroom, using as a diversion one of his interminable lectures on the myriad practical applications of creating statistical models for means testing entitlements. Twenty-three calculators were taken in total, summing to a street market value of just a shade under two thousand dollars, the legal threshold constituting Grand Theft according to state law. (Again, Billy wasn’t a Master Thief by any measure, but he had his moments.) They were recovered on the first day of the following semester, stacked neatly on the headmaster’s desk, each bearing a numeric signature of sorts. Billy’s five-digit calling card: 80085. 

While the Canaan Country Day School was secular (godless, even), they did accept indulgences to pay for pupils’ past and future sins, as you might expect, in the form of in-kind donations. Ever the shrewd businesswoman, rather than pay an adjusted-rate premium for Billy’s a la carte offenses, Hildy negotiated a proto-subscription service model with the aforementioned headmaster, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Judd. In addition to providing a welcome stream of recurring revenue to the school’s general fund, the agreed-upon payment structure called for financing a semi-annual facilities upgrade. Before Billy could do long division, he was attending classes and participating in extracurricular activities on a completely renovated campus of state-of-the-art learning spaces, named almost exclusively for his familial ancestors and other figures of significance to the Wolffenbeir Company. up to and including the much-heralded dedication of the Doctor Lupustein Infirmary. To the utter delight of the assembled faculty and student body, Billy notwithstanding, the wolf himself, in the plush, attended the ribbon-cutting ceremony, with a trio of his sexy nurse practitioners in tow. 

Thereafter, running out of immediate relatives and beloved mascots (it should be noted how she refused to commemorate her Grossvater, Wilhelm I — joke’s on her though … Big Will would have burned that mother down and pissed on the ashes before suffering the disgrace of association with such a Rat Ship, as he referred to CCD), Hildy resorted to namesaking Conservative Women of Consequence whom she admired from throughout history. The Margaret Thatcher Dining Hall. The Shirley Temple Center for the Performing Arts. The Ayn Rand Endowed Teaching Chair. The Nancy Reagan Head of the Class Scholarship, given to that year’s Top-performing female student, pending results of comprehensive drug tests and an astrological reading. 

All this in lieu of expulsion, for which Billy would have been a prime candidate.  Not for nothing, but it was an outcome he would have vastly preferred to his rigorous program of deferred discipline, in favor of rigorous rehabilitation. As per his mother’s agreement, Billy was required to undergo an intense battery of one-on-one counseling sessioins, as well as additional Nature-based experiential therapy for troubled youths. (The latter was the reason for Billy having to earn his basic seamanship, as well as a full suite of other basic skills suitable for survival on land.) Headmeister Lieutenant Colonel Judd, you see, was a firm believer in the character-enriching properties of the Great Outdoors, drawing on his own personal crucible in the highlands of the Korean Peninsula, and later the flood planes of the Mekong Delta. Of course, if you could only line these ungrateful tenderfooted faggots on the business end of a Chinese-made AK-47, they’d fall right in line with a hop-to, lamented the Lieutenant Colonel. But, begrudgingly, he would settle for at least getting them outside, away from their perverted music videos. Marxist-Leninist indoctrination propaganda films, the lot of them. (Every afternoon he would watch Total Request Live and seeth, fantasizing about ripping out host Carson Daly’s polished nails, one by fucking one.) 

As for Billy’s shrinks, the diagnostic consensus was that here was your garden variety case of kleptomania, mostly benign. There was although some clinical disagreement among them therein — he was treated by a rotation of psychiatrist specialists over the years … the top docs in their respective fields, all — as to whether he also exhibited any symptomatic comorbidities, such as an elevated risk for substance abuse, latent homosexuality or perhaps even psychopathic tendencies. Now it was true that he lied, compulsively. Even Billy would admit that. But he only intentionally misled insofar as it enabled him to steal things. It wasn’t as if he was out here burning ants or drowning cats. Quite the contrary. Like his late grandfather, Wilhelm II — The Deuce, Billy-boy was a big-time softie for all the animal kingdom’s many multi-legged subjects. (There was one exception. He never did get along with man’s best friend. Obviously, there was Lupustein, M.D., his nemesis. Fucking doggy doctor, specializing in sniffing dudes’ dongs. Also he was aggravated by the constant mood swings of his mother’s manic depressive terriers. But to be honest, he couldn’t truly hate those two slobberpusses. Really, Billy only resented how they seemed to always take her side.) For a fact, when the day came to dissect bullfrogs in tenth-grade biology, he intercepted the shipment of live specimens and laid a plague upon his teacher Mrs. Toebbe’s hatchback, the one with the Darwin fish decal on the bumper. To be clear, no amphibians were injured in the making of this caper. The Canaan School stood on the grounds of a would otherwise-be wetland preserve and wildlife refuge, so this toad load thrived upon their stay of execution and subsequent release. (Yes, you are correct in assuming that these organisms are typically pre-euthanized and embalmed before being bulk-ordered and shipped off to classrooms for to be descecrated by teenagers. However, the Lieutenant Colonel pulled rank to intervene in Mrs. Toebbe’s lesson planning, insisting that if her students were to observe life in such a state, that they themselves see it drain from their subjects’ bulging eyes.)   

Despite his many trespasses, this delicate arrangement Hildy had made to shield her son from any repercussions whatsoever was holding up quite sturdily. Billy was a ball hair away from finishing his penultimate, third year. (A note on style. CCD didn’t go by grade numbers, like eleventh. There were no juniors, or sophomores or seniors or freshman, for that matter. Billy was a Third Year.) From there he could coast on through to graduation. (Commencement, in Canaan parlance.) Smooth sailing to the finish. That was until … he crossed a line so bold, his transgression, even his all-powerful mother could not erase. 

###

Without its tradition, the Canaan Country Day School would be but a husk of itself. In all his litany of larcenies, running up a rap sheet the length of the Condoleezza Rice Football Field and back, Billy had still yet to run afoul of the school’s ritual customs to an extent that which would narcissistically wound its stratospheric sense of institutionalized self-importance. Partly because Lt. Col.  Judd took great pains to prevent such occurrence. As the school year in question drew to its conclusion, the Lieutenant Colonel was preparing to unveil a bronze bust of the Canaan founding headmaster, his administrative mentor and father, Doctor J. Jerome Judd — a groundbreaking figure in the fields of preparatory education as well as eugenic theory, although this tribute would serve to emphasize the former. Several weeks preceding the ceremony, Judd the Younger spent bolstering his tactical defensive postures against Billy, the teenage insurgent. No expense would be spared, up to and including the subcontracting of a comprehensive risk assessment, to be drafted at exorbitant cost by a counterterrorism analyst from the Perlmutter Agency.  

Whosever fuckup was culpable for the binder debacle or the calculator calamity, this time, the Lieutenant Colonel wasn’t taking any chances. The evening before it was to be unveiled at the all-school assembly, he himself supervised the delivery, had it encased in bulletproof glass, and installed a laser tripwire alarm system, courtesy of the good people at ​​Karakuchi, Ltd., a high-ranking executive of which was the parent of a Canaan first-year. So help him god, if Billy or some other poor soul so much as set foot in the Ann Coulter Common Room, hell itself would descend upon them. 

The following morning, after making an excruciatingly lengthy speech covering a bevy of topics — scholarship and virtue, respect for one’s elders, the moral cowardice of guerilla warfare and others — Lieutenant Colonel Judd removed the velvet cover revealing to all his late father’s likeness ... fully caked in clown makeup. 

Billy styled the black and white countenance after one popularized by the rap duo Insane Clown Posse. During that time he was experimenting with Juggaloism. Juggal is the term of endearment with which ICP refers to their devoted fans, and they themselves and one another. Billy was more a casual Jugallo, though. Not a credentialed Jugallo for Lyfe. Which is to say he’d never had the pleasure of attending the Gathering (of the Juggalos), their annual pilgrimaje. However he was a one-time completist of the rap rock-slash-nu metal genre, and he had transformed the Canaan Country Day commemoration of its founder, Doctor J. Jerome Judd, into his own commemoration of the co-founder of the Insane Clown Posse, Violent J. 

(Some years after Billy’s rap palette matured to the extent it did, an infomercial for the Gathering of the Juggalos was parodied on the very same sketch comedy show that Doctor Lupustein made his much-heralded debut in primetime. It was very funny, and for a time the Juggalos became a kind of collective cultural punchline, especially among new media types, many of whom sent their Reporters out on Assignment, inland from their respective coasts to Cover the now-infamous music festival. From these hillbilly safaris, they brought back more low-brow fodder, masquerading as some socio-cultural taxonomy. Ironically cataloguing their various customs. What they drank, for example — Faygo, a budget-friendly brand of soft drink distributed exclusively to the Midwestern market. Their mating rituals — bartering beads or other goods in exchange for the baring of one's breasts, which are often also festively painted.] Their iconography — the Hatchetman, a silhouette of a running man with dreadlocks bearing a hatchet, is the trademarked logo of Psychopathic Records, and a symbol many Juggalos have tattooed on their person. Their terms of endearment — colloquially, Jugaloos and Jugalettes refer to one another as Ninja. This is because Joe Bruce and Joe Ulster, the Christian names of ICP frontmen Shaggy 2 Dope and the aforementioned Violent J, respectively, grew up dirt poor in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan. To entertain themselves, they watched television. Professional wrestling and horror movies were obviously their most profound influences. But, also, Kung Fu films. In popular folklore, the Ninja, or shinobi, was a peasant warrior whom the higher class Samurai warrior looked down upon for employing tactics they deemed to be dishonourable. Stealth assassinations, spying, sabotage, general sneakiness. But the ninjas weren’t concerned with anyone’s concept of honour. Perhaps as testament to their poor upbringing, these outcasts were concerned only with one thing — survival. And this their special set of skills, made them exceedingly difficult to kill. Jugallos, or Ninjas, likewise, live forever.    

Their war cry —

Although it wasn't all fun and games. You see they also documented a troubling pattern of harassment against female ICP fans [Juggalettes]. Okay, lookit. This is not to in any way excuse that kind of behavior [here it comes …], which is incorrigible [ … bu bu bu], But [Flex Bomb!] the notion that women being mistreated is somehow endemic to this tiny subgenre of a subgenre … well that’s just crazy, man. Ask yourself this. What about Grateful Dead shows? All about peace and love, right? Well, why don’t you ask Mary Ellen Moffet how the fairer sex faired on Shakedown Street, where the love wasn’t always so peaceful. The point is that The Genre of music — however fucking silly — has got nothing to do with it. At every fest, concert, rave, recital, drum circle, jamboree … you name it … wherever music is performed and judgment-impairing substances are served … you can bet that women are probably being taken advantage of if not outright abused. Pointing the finger at these mostly harmless hillbillies because they wear funny facepaint doesn’t make the rest of us any less ugly. 

Around about that same time the FBI officially classified the Juggalos as a criminal street gang. With backing from the ACLU, ICP, Inc. strenuously objected to this characterization of their fanbase, going so far as to file suit against the federal government, albeit unsuccessfully. Spurned by the courts, ninjas took to the streets, staging a hundred-or-so Hatchetman March on Washington. 

Whether or not the increased law enforcement scrutiny served to prevent any crimes from being committed, it no doubt resulted in many otherwise law-abiding juggalos being targeted and harassed by dragnet investigations and baseless accusations. 

Five or so years later, Donald Trump got himself elected president. 

Not so funny now, is it?) 

To this day, nobody knows how Billy did it. Shucking and jiving his way like Catherine Zeta-Jones through all them lasers. Then again, as far as the other students were concerned, well, none of them much cared. You might suppose he would have been lauded by his classmates as a crusader — sort of a combination of Robin Hood and Ferris Bueller — sticking it to the curmudgeonly principle. But it wasn’t like that. Not even close. For a fact, everybody thought that Billy — the Insane Class Clown — was weird. Whenever he pulled off one of his big scores, they collectively rolled their eyes. Mostly they were worried about getting into a good college. Canaan Country Day fostered a highly competitive environment. They didn’t have time for Billy’s shenanigans. So while he would have relished in their tacit approval, or perhaps even having a partner in crime, as all the best stick-up men do, Billy was left to work alone.

The Lieutenant Colonel on the other hand was very curious indeed about how Billy had thwarted him for the last time, so help him god. Worse than the crime itself, Billy had also managed to lock the bulletproof encasing in such a way that nobody could get the damn thing out and wipe the grease paint off. For hours on end, he enhanced interrogated him. But Billy wouldn’t budge. This despite the Lieutenant Colonel pulling out all the stops. Intermittently he’d leave the room. (Canaan did not yet have a dedicated interrogation space, so he resorted to retrofitting the maintenance shed.) When he returned with the sweet old Mrs. Huey to play good cop to his bad Lieutenant Colonel, Billy still kept his cool. So Judd put him on ice. He left him there alone from fourth through sixth period, playing at full volume a selection of his favorite music, courtesy of the Margaritaville station on satellite radio. Still, Billy wouldn’t say a word. Judd was beginning to begrudgingly respect his adversary’s resolve. The boy had sand. He would know, having himself withstood an all-inclusive stay in a beach-front villa at the Hanoi Hilton. Then, in that exact moment that the Lieutenant Colonel was starting to admire his fortitude, without breaking eye contact, Billy farted, audibly and olfactorily. At this, the old fart finally went fucking ballistic. How’d you do it? You little pinko commie pissant! You’re not worthy of a Canaan Cadet! (The school had no military affiliation, he just liked calling the kids that. Cadets.) You disgust me! You’re scum! 

It went on like this for some time, until finally, like an old dog barking at the wind, the Lieutenant Colonel wore himself down. Billy, for his part, still hadn’t fucking blinked. So Judd returned his gaze with as much contempt as he could muster and asked one final question. The rhetorical type, that better not come with some smartass answer. He said, son, what do you have to say to yourself? Billy looked down in repose as if to truly consider this condescending query. Then he answered.

Whoop whoop.

What did you say to me, maggot? 

Whoop whoop. 

Are you whooping? 

Whoop whoop. 

God damnit, boy, stop whooping at me!

Whoop whoop, Ninja.

You will address me as Lieutenant Colonel!

Whoop whoop. [With these latest whoops, Billy gave a mocking salute.] .

Don’t play games with me, Mister Wolff.  

WHOOP WHOOP!

Stop it, I said! You stop it this instant! 

WHOOP WHOOP!!

This is your final warning! Cease whooping at once!

WHOOP WHOOP!!!

Nihilo sanctum estne?

Billy stopped. Suddenly his expression was sorrowful, as if he meant to convey, here is where it ends. I will fight no more forever. 

Now the Lieutenant Colonel paused, satisfied with himself. He knew the boy would break. They all do.

Do I have your unconditional surrender then? Go on. I want to hear you say it. I, Billy Wolff, am a gutless little worm, and I hereby submit. 

Billy leaned across the desk ever so slightly and whispered: 

Whoop. Whoop.

Expelled! Wilhelm Wolff the Third, I expel thee! 

[devildairymilkfairy]

[luxaryllis]

Brainwashed!Younger Sibling!Reader with Riddle Rosehearts: Part 3

Note: 'Tis finally here!! The long-awaited Part 3!!

This one will have angst to comfort and has a definite ending (unless anyone asks for an alternate ending).

This will also be the end of the Brainwashed!Younger sibling!Reader series (unless people request for more). From now on, we will call this sibling, BR!MC; just for a shorter "nickname" for them.

Also, I may have strayed from where the comfort starts, but I believe it's the same idea!!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (here)

Warning/s: Overblot, Mrs. Rosehearts, Angst to comfort, Toxic parenting, Mentions of abortion, Toxic favoritism, Domestic abuse, Child abuse, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Self-deprecation, Objectification, Hyperventilation, Tell me if I missed anything

Anyway, let's get to it!

---

It has been nearly an hour.

At least, according to the clock on the side of the "room" Riddle and his sibling has been trapped in.

Nearly an hour since [Name] overblotted.

While Riddle was certainly experienced with overblots (Leona's overblot proves quite so), he's not used to fighting alone.

And he's certainly not used to seeing the overblot be of his younger sibling, of all people.

He's contacted Trey and other trusted Heartslabyul members about the situation and he can only hope that they could find a way to help.

Everytime Riddle would cast a spell to take down the overblot phantom behind [Name], the "room" would change.

The constant change of scenery, made Riddle dizzy, disturbing him from casting proper spells.

"AAAHHHGGGGG!!!", [Name] screams, summoning a ridiculously large amount of magic before sending it to Riddle.

Riddle, unable to summon a shield right away, gets blasted back onto one of the floating doors.

"Ack!"

The door suddenly opens, sucking Riddle in like some sort of vortex.

"[NAME]!!", Riddle calls, reaching his hand out to the overblotted student, hoping to get them back to their senses before getting separated.

What Riddle doesn't notice about the door is how it has a warning sign on it; though the words were mostly unintelligible.

---

Falling down to the floor of this new "room", Riddle immediately gets up, being careful of his back, which most certainly hurts from getting tossed.

Looking around, the "room" most certainly looks very different from the last one.

This room looks more like a prison or a cage than anything.

Suddenly, the room rumbles, and bars suddenly pop up from the ground, encasing Riddle, like a prisoner.

Riddle immediately tries to run away from the bars, to no avail.

He tries hitting the bars now trapping him, with magic and physically hitting it as well.

A voice stops him from continuing his attack.

A voice he knows, oh so well.

His mother.

He looks to the direction of the voice and sees two dark silhouettes standing.

One is standing tall and proud, the other is fiddling with their hands, slightly slouching.

From the features Riddle can see, the proudly standing one is his mother, and the smaller, and seemingly weaker one is his sibling.

"I can't believe that Riddle has broken a rule!! Did you do this?! It obviously isn't Riddle, but YOU who influenced him to go out! You did this, didn't you?!", the woman shouted at the younger silhouette.

Riddle's eyes widen. From context clues, he could tell this happened after... that incident...

'...mother blamed [Name] for something they had no part in... it... it isn't fair... it was my fault that I went out, not their's...'

"I-I... I didn't do it. I have not spoken to Riddle nor have I interacted with him the entire ti-"

The wobbling voice was cut off with a 'SLAP!'

Riddle flinches at the sudden hit against his sibling.

He can't believe his eyes...

His mother, while very strict and often ruthless, has never seemed to physically harm Riddle at all. At least, not intentionally...

"You are NOT to talk back to me, child. I am the adult here. Whatever I say, GOES! Am I understood?"

A small silence, until a small "yes, ma'am..." was uttered from the child.

Riddle couldn't say anything.

The scene quickly changes to a point where it seems that [Name] is much younger. About 3 years old, maybe...

Riddle's mother is still in the scene, standing as proud as she always has, looking down on the child in front of her.

"Always make Riddle shine. Never be better than him; not like that's even possible with you in the question. However, if Riddle ever falls even in the slightest, bring him up by bringing yourself down. Doing otherwise will result in swift punishment. Am I understood?"

The words were delivered quick and sharp, giving no space nor any way for rebuttals or disagreements.

A "yes mother" was heard in no time at all.

Mrs. Rosehearts lets out a sharp sigh in what Riddle recognizes as disappointment.

"Do not call me your 'mother'. Do not call Riddle your 'brother' either. We may be related by blood, but I can not stand being called such by a mistake like you. In fact, we are removing 'Rosehearts' from your name. From now on, you are simply '[Name]', am I understood?"

Riddle's eyes widen even more in disbelief.

Is... is that why [Name] has never called him their brother... nor have they ever referred to their mother, 'mother'...?

A sudden echo of what sounds like [Name]'s voice resounds across the "room" Riddle was trapped in.

"I've learned since I was a child that I have no place in this world. The only thing closest to a place in this world I'm supposed to have is below everyone. Below the woman... below Riddle... below those two people who Riddle played with... below the entire world."

Riddle stays quiet. He's still processing how badly his sibling has been treated...

The voice continues on, "No matter what I do, it will never be good enough. No matter what I say, it will never be heard. Even if I would scream, shout, and cry..."

The next words were the last straw for Riddle, as he started sobbing, clawing at his heart and falling down to his knees from guilt and sorrow.

"... no one would care."

"[Name]....", Riddle mutters softly, his voice cracking.

‘I’m sorry... had I listened more closely, had I looked more closely... I would have seen that you were suffering much more than I have... I’m sorry...’

The voice pauses, as if listening to Riddle’s silent plead.

And then the scene in front of Riddle changes.

He sees a couple of Heartslabyul students, those he recognize as [Name]’s roommates.

“Man... this version of Dorm Leader Rosehearts is SOOO much better than the old one. He’s really changed for the better, don’t cha think, [Name]?”

The silhouette of [Name], who seems to have been reading a book, perks up at the mention of their name, before going back to their book without looking at their roommates.

"I don't see why you're all celebrating this. He's letting rules be broken by troublemakers. The dorm was founded upon the Queen of Hearts's severity and strictness for the rules. The dorm leader's current behaviour does not follow the image the Queen of Hearts has for Heartslabyul."

Riddle stays quiet as he hears "[Name]" speak; and the voice pops up once again.

"Riddle... he was bringing himself down to the likes of others... to the likes of me. Mother has drilled into me never to let him do so. Which was why I started breaking rules to male Riddle start getting stricter..."

Riddle then heard his voice ring through the room.

"[Name], is something wrong? You've been breaking rules left and right. I truly wouldn't want to have to punish you, but you've forced my hand. *sigh* Just. Please don't do it again. I truly don't want to have to punish you."

The room darkens even more, as if responding to the silhouette-Riddle.

The voice speaks once more, however, it wasn't in the normal monotonous, and withdrawn tone it had. This time, it spoke with an emotion that could be closest described as hatred and frustration.

"Stop.... I have to do this..."

The room gets darker and darker, ink has started dripping all over the cage. Having been holding the bars the entire time, Riddle immediately takes his hand away the moment he felt the liquid.

Riddle takes a deep breath, tense and scared of what may happen. Not to mention, he was worried of what may have become of [Name]. It's been however long since they overblotted...

The dripping ink from outside the cage suddenly move straight to the middle, and forms a dark.... thing...?

Silhouette-Riddle speaks again, "This is the 46th rule you've broken this week. It's a Wednesday, [Name]!! Please tell me a good excuse or explanation to your sudden attitude!"

"I....", the [Name]-like voice speaks, before trailing off.

"As your dorm leader, it is important that I do my best to properly discipline my students. As your older brother, it is important that I understand my younger sibling properly."

At that moment, multiple voices started speaking, all simultaneously.

Some voices sounded familiar to Riddle; like Mother, Cater, Ace, Trey, and himself included.

Others sounded unfamiliar. Or... perhaps it was actually his mother's voice... just... distorted...

It was hard to tell in this excruciating noise. Pitches changed, voices distorted, and it feels like Riddle's mother was practically screeching at his ear with how distinct her voice became.

Riddle could hear only very few of what was being said.

"The only thing you excel at is making mistakes and being a mistake."

"Hmph. This is the best you can do? Your brither can do much better."

"Do you really think this will impress me?"

"You will NEVER be as good as Riddle."

"How dare you call me your mother."

"Love? You do not deserve such privelege."

"You would have been a lot better, had you become like Riddle."

"YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A MISTAKE!!"

"If only I had aborted you the moment I knew I was pregnant with such a monster."

"You will ALWAYS be NOTHING to me!!"

At the amount of degredation and harsh words being thrown, Riddle brings his hands to his ears to try drowning the noises out.

"Stop... stop it please...."

Sobs wracked Riddle's crouching body as he falls to his knees once again and lays down on the cold ground, clutching the sides of his head harder.

"I'm sorry... I'm so so sorry..."

"Make it stop... make it stop..."

Suddenly, Riddle hears another voice that... somehow... drowned out everything else.

"I'll... I'll... be better... I promise...."

He slowly opens his eyes, just now realizing that he had closed them, and looks to the voice.

It was [Name].... still in their overblot form; the overblot phantom right above them, but not exactly attached to them as it was dejectedly roaming around the medium-sized cage.

[Name] was sitting down on the ground, back against the bars and knees to their chest. Tears streamed down their cheeks, washing away some of the blot on their face.

At that moment, all Riddle could see was his younger sibling, needing a shoulder to cry on.

He takes a deep breath and stands up (albeit quite shakily) and walks to [Name].

The overblot phantom notices Riddle's sudden movement and sharply moves, as if to protect [Name].

Seeing this, Riddle puts his hands up silently saying that he means no harm.

The phantom stops and allows Riddle to go to his younger sibling, yet it did not relax, still cuatious in case Riddle would hurt its vessel in any way.

[Name] looks up, seeing Riddle's feet approaching them, and tenses up, as if anticipating something.

Riddle, stops just next to them, remembering to keep his distance and takes another deep breath, looking into his sibling's eyes.

Looking into them, he notices no shine in their eyes, [Name]'s dull irises just staring back at him.

"[Name]... I'm... I'm sorry..."

The aforementioned sibling blinks, their head slightly tilting to the side and their eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"...for what...?", [Name] speaks, voice cracking from having not spoken in a while.

Before Riddle could reply, they continue, "I should be apologizing... this is all my fault... I troubled you and screamed at you... I even casted magic upon you... I have broken many rules as well..."

"I've done... everything... I can to make her love me... to make her pay attention to me as she would pay attention to you..."

"I know that I make mistakes... and that mistakes like me can only make more mistakes... but... is there ever something I can do right... to make her proud... of me...?"

Riddle frowns, silently listening to [Name], knowing that their mother is certainly not the person [Name] thinks she is.

"I.... all I've ever wanted was to see her smile at me... for once in my life..."

"To at least make someone... proud of me and my efforts...."

Riddle swallows thickly, guilt boiling up in his gut. He truly should have been there for [Name]...

"[Name]... I... I'm... proud of you."

Riddle says, feeling certain of his words.

He knows that he is proud of [Name]. They've gone through so much and endured through it all. While he may have preferred that they opened up to him in different circumstances (and that the overblot may have messed up their mind at the moment), he knows that it takes true courage to admit to such feelings after having held it back for so long.

[Name] perks up at Riddle, eyes widening.

"H-huh...?"

Riddle continues on, a soft smile on his face.

"I... may not have been there for you at all, nor have I ever even bonded with you but... I can now see everything you've been through. Mother is... she isn't the best parental figure... I should have realized that far before. However... she isn't with us here in NRC. You... you can be free. From everything... from having to feel the pressure of constantly keeping up appearances or having to make yourself lower."

"What... what do you mean...?", [Name] speaks softly, their voice trembling.

Riddle's brows furrow slightly, unsure of how to word his thoughts in a coherent way. Just as he was about to just say 'nevermind' or somehow dismiss the topic, he looks at [Name].

Riddle notices how their eyes seemed to have some sort of... shine... of hope, perhaps. And as the silence continues, the little spark in their eyes slowly dwindle.

And it was then, Riddle realizes. This isn't just some student, nor was it just some other victim of overblot. This wasn't just [Name] either. This person was his sibling.

His sibling. The one person in the world to have experienced the pain he has experienced.

Riddle knew that he isn't cut out for the big brother role; nor does he know a thing about his younger sibling, depsite having lived with them his entire life.

And yet...

He wants to try. He wants to try being the older brother he sees Trey being. He wants [Name], his younger sibling, to be free. Free from all the pain, free from their mother, free from suffering just as he had.

He doesn't know a thing about being an older brother. But something in him, an instict, perhaps, is telling him to keep going.

So, Riddle will persist. Not just for the sake of calming the overblot, but for [Name] themself most of all.

Riddle wants them to feel free; to be free.

And he's most certainly willing to help them.

As an older brother should.

"Let me ask you a question..."

Riddle breaks the silence, making [Name] focus on him once more.

"Do you enjoy doing what you've done? Do you truly want to do it?"

[Name] blinks, confused. They try contemplating the question... do they like doing all this...?

All this... bringing Riddle up and bringing themselves down thing... do they really like doing it... do they even want to do it...

Frowning in frustration, [Name] makes a small shrug, a little "I... I don't know" coming out of their mouth.

For once in a long time, [Name] feels... conflicted. On one hand, they never particularly found any joy or pleasure getting punished when they break a rule to cover for their older brother. But... it's all they've ever known to do... and... taking that away makes their life feel... meaningless.

Riddle's eyes soften, seeing his sibling struggle what to say. He acknowledges [Name]'s answer, and continues.

"It... may seem hard to understand at the moment things are. But it's okay not to follow what mother says sometimes."

Riddle continues on, despite seeing [Name]'s mortified and horrified reaction to his words.

"Yes, mother may have drilled in to our heads that only she knows best. And that only she knows what is best for us. However... look at everyone else. I can tell for sure that even though they don't share the same childhood with us, they're still so happy anyway. We can be like that, [Name]. You... you don't have to do things that don't bring you any happiness or pleasure. You don't have to bury your emotions so much all the time. You can be free."

Riddle softly places his hands on [Name]'s shoulders, looking at them firmly and earnestly.

[Name] gazes back at Riddle, their mind still processing what he's said. They don't know what to say, or how to react. Riddle is asking a lot after all. This is everything they've ever known to do.

And just going against that... it just... doesn't feel right.

Riddle, mentally pleading to know what his sibling was thinking, spoke softly, "We can start right now. You can speak your mind. Say what you want."

[Name] starts to breath quickly, as if the mere concept of doing such a thing would physically hurt them (which, may as well be true).

Doubts, and concerns start to swirl around their head.

Can they truly do this? Is this really happening?

Is it even alright to do this?

What should they do?

Should they follow Riddle (which is what they've been ordered to always do), but break multiple rules? Or... should they stay with following what the woman has always told them, but disobey Riddle?

Who should they follow? What should they follow?

Their breaths quicken even more, as they start to hyperventilate.

Thoughts continue circling in your head as you don't notice Riddle trying to calm you down.

"Hey, hey, [Name]. Calm down, please. No one here can hurt you. I most certainly won't hurt you. You're safe here, I can promise you that. Mother can't reach you here. She can't reach me either. I... apologize... if my idea caused such a reaction. You don't have to force yourself, [Name]."

[Name] couldn't hear a thing Riddle said; everything sounded like sirens blaring in their ears, they can sort of see Riddle's mouth move but everything became too blurry.

They're feeling too much, but at the same time can't feel a thing. What is going on?

Everything seemed to fast for poor [Name]. One thing or another happened, and suddenly their arms are wrapped around something and they feel something softly caressing their head and securing them.

It took a while for [Name] to realize that Riddle had his arms wrapped around them and their arms were wrapped around Riddle. They've seen multiple other people do it, but they don't know what it's called...

But never mind that, all [Name] knows is that they feel... safe. And warm... and they start feeling a tad calmer.

Meawhile Riddle was surprised when [Name] suddenly hugged him. After all, they've never exactly been one for physical contact, especially a hug. Perhaps, he thinks, that they just needed something (or someone) to keep them grounded and comforted. So he carefully encloses his arms around his dear sibling, to hopefully show them that they aren't alone.

He brings a hand up to lightly caress the back of [Name]'s head, whispering encouraging words and soft murmurs to calm them down.

"It's okay... you're okay... take a deep breath in..... and take a deep breath out. Again, deep breath in..... deep breath out."

[Name] shakily follows Riddle's instructions. As time goes on, they start to relax into the embrace, stiff muscles starting to loosen, and eyes closing slightly.

Neither of the two notice the slowly clearing of the blot phantom and the blot around [Name] as they start to breath normally.

The siblings stay in that position for a while and Riddle realizes after a couple of minutes that [Name] has fallen asleep.

Riddle sighs in exhaustion and slight relief, just now realizing that the cage was quickly disappearing and the entire realm dissipitating along with it. He and his sibling are now in much safer circumstances.

As the "metal" floor of the realm gets replaced with the normal grassy terrain of the Heartslabyul Dorm's Rose Maze, Riddle truly relaxes, still trying to keep he and his sibling stable and not fall on the ground.

Suddenly, he hears a distinctive voice call out his name, "Riddle!!"

The mentioned Dorm Leader turns his head to the side, where the voice was coming from and sees Trey, running up to the siblings.

Riddle quickly makes a sushing gesture pointing to the resting [Name] and Trey quiets down.

Looking around, Riddle sees everything in tip-top condition; though.... why were many Heartslabyul students passed out on the floor. And... taking a good look at Trey, why were there a couple of bruises on him?!

Riddle raises his eyebrow, what happened to the students? The environment looks just as perfect as usual...

Trey, seeing Riddle's condition, quickly takes [Name] from Riddle. Riddle, slightly reaches out to [Name] before stopping and just telling his vice dorm leader to be careful with them. Trey nods his head and carefully fixes [Name] to a bridal position and brings Riddle over to the fallen students.

Riddle, now closer to his card soldiers, notices with relief that none of them had any very life-threatening injuries; just a few scratches and bruises here and there (the same was with Trey).

Riddle, still looking at the other students, whispers to Trey, "What... what happened here...?"

Trey takes a deep inhale and replies, "When you texted Cater and I, we gathered a couple of the Heartslabyul students over to the location you sent. Though, we couldn't see anything, we noticed some sort of barrier in the area. We tried breaking the barrier, but the moment we even touched it, a bunch of monsters made of blot started appearing. We had to fight quite a lot. It didn't take very long, though. Perhaps a couple of minutes, certainly less than an hour, and they all disappeared. The others got so exhausted, they fell asleep on the grass. A little while later, you and [Name] appeared."

Riddle stays quiet. Monsters made of blot...? He should try looking into this matter or ask the Headmage about this when he can...

---

A few days pass and everyone has physically recovered properly from the past events.

It is slowly nearing Winter Break and everyone has started packing their belongings and preparing to leave.

Riddle, having finished packing, goes to [Name]'s room and knocks, receiving a "come in", not long after.

Riddle carefully opens the door and sees [Name] with a conflicted look on their face.

They had already apologized to everyone for the inconvenience and for overblotting. They had also apologized to Riddle for attacking him. Though.... they still can't help but remember what Riddle had said to them before.

They weren't even sure if it was Riddle himself. Perhaps it was a figment of imagination their mind had made up. Everything had gone so quickly, they hadn't gotten a chance to speak to Riddle about it.

"[Name]? Are... are you okay? You seem... strange. Do you still feel dizzy? Are you experiencing a headache? Perhaps some muscle cramps?", Riddle's concerned voice breaks them out of their thoughts.

"Ah... no, Dorm Leader. Everything is fine."

"... Are you... feeling fine?"

"I.... yeah... I am."

"Well, if you say so. It appears that you have not finished packing, would you like some help with it?"

"No thank you, Dorm Leade-"

"Please. Call me Riddle."

"... Riddle. Ah... may I ask you a question? About the overblot incident...."

Riddle's eyes slightly widen at the mention of [Name]'s overblot. He finally has the time to speak to them about it.

"Of course. I'm all ears, [Name]."

"Well... do you perhaps remember anything like... a cage...? Or... speaking to me... whilst in overblot?"

[Name] sits down on their bed and picks up a folded shirt before placing it in a luggage.

Riddle nods, remembering that. He plans to use this moment to hopefully help [Name] feel free from the shackles of having to bring themselves down for the sake of someone else.

"Yes, I remember that. And I mean every word I said to you then. You most certainly don't have to always do what mother tells you. You aren't her puppet, and you don't have to hide your feelings. You should do what you want and what makes you happy."

[Name] stays silent, re-contemplating on Riddle's words.

"Then.... can... can I...", they take a deep breath, a small voice in their head encouraging them to go furthur. "Can I... can I not have to always get 20% of the tests wrong? Can... can I pursue perfect scores instead...?"

The small voice in [Name]'s head sighs in disappointment, and [Name] feels as though they shoulder was lightly smacked. [Name] knew that wasn't what they meant to ask. But... asking for that right off the bat seemed far too fast and too much for them.

Riddle laughs softly, "of course you can, [Name]. You're free to do whatever mother told you not to do. As long as it makes you feel happy, you may do it."

[Name] swallows and nods at Riddle, the edges of their lips twitching upwards.

This didn't go unnoticed by Riddle, who smiled fully at [Name] in hopes that they would form a true smile back at him.

[Name] tries to force their lips upwards further, but... can't. They stop trying, disciuraged and looked down in shame.

Riddle smiles comfortingly at his sibling and lightly pats their shoulder, before taking some clothes and folding them and putting them in the suitcase.

Though silent, what Riddle did seemed to have sent an unsaid message to [Name], filling them with a warm feeling inside.

'I'll be with you through every step of the way. I believe in you, my dear sibling.'

---

---

---

END!!!

... or is it?

(Idrk, I might make a small continuation of this if I want to or smthg-)

But anyway!!

FINALLY!! SOME COMFORT FOR [Name]!! I absolutely love them omggg

Thanks so much for reading this! Likes, reblogs, comments, and feedback are very much welcome and appreciated!! 💙