#she just sit down on that tile and casually rips this stage apart

[rex101111]

I tried the Penance Solo strat for 7-18 for the heck of it (well, nearly solo, I used one Surtr to chomp down half of phase 1 Patriot, but that’s it) and...it was honestly shocking how easy it was. My Penance is E2LV59, and her S3 only has M1, and it chewed through Patriot like nothing. Didn’t even reach her actual health bar.

Like, that is weird, because like, yeah you could cheese 7-18 pretty easily for a while now, or at least a part of it. Like, at this point most players know that if you have Mountain or Mudrock, you can just place them in front of the blue box and all you needed to worry about was Patriot and maybe the guys that come swarming in between phases. 

But, like, that was the thing. Even with operators that could “solo” 7-18 before, you still needed to pay a lot of attention to Patriot himself. You needed to find a way to get him down to phase 2 as fast as possible, and made sure that whatever skills you had were ready to go the second his invincibility went down so you could take him down as quick as possible because with his aura and spear throw every second Patriot is still alive is bad fucking news for your entire party.

But Penance? Just make sure you have him at phase 2 by the time he reaches her, pop S3, and he’s gone. The damage even at mastery 1 is just fucking insane. No mines for extra damage, no worries about the aura eating up health, just let the Judge bonk him on the head for a couple second and boom. Done. His aura actually makes things easier because Penance gets her skill back in like, five seconds. So you don’t even have to time it.

It isn’t brainless, but geez. This stage is a fucking nightmare for any player encountering it for the first time. It took me twenty tries to cinch it myself. Even veterans can struggle with it if they slip up. But with Penance? No fucking problemo mio amico, not a single fucking problem.

[shreddedparchment]

Absence Makes the Heart

04/17/2020

Pairing: Superman x Reader          Word Count: 5,431

Warnings: language, lots of language, violence, blood, wounds, injuries, plenty of angst

DCEU Canon

A/N: I’ve been meaning to write this one down for a while. It’s based on a dream I had but I just went and added details and a little bit of backstory. Nothing too crazy. This will probably just be a one shot. The top half is heavily edited while the second half I just spat out because I was inspired and I went with it. Hopefully it’s good. This is my first foray into something other than Marvel, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Edit: I forgot to thank @babiiface95​ @evansweaters​ and @sherrybaby14​ for giving me some feedback on this! It helped tons!! xoxo

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

In this moment, all you can feel is the pain in your side.

You stumble forward, hitting the chestnut wood of your door hard. With nothing to brace yourself on, you slide along the length of it until you’re sitting, shoulder pressed against it.

“Ugh…” You groan, letting your hand trace the smooth grain until it can latch onto the handle. “Fuck this shit. I quit.”

You tell no one.

There hasn’t been anyone for months.

The door gives as you twist the knob sending you falling onto the small foyer of your apartment. You’re on the top floor, beside the penthouse. Your own place is small. Compact. Just three rooms, four if you count your bathroom.

You pull yourself along the dated ceramic tile and watch as you leave a smear of red behind you.

“Honey…” You begin, kicking the door shut while you stay flattered against the floor. “…I’m home.”

No one responds.

You exhale through your nose as annoyance rips through your chest.

“Fucker.” You say at no one, but obviously someone.

It takes every ounce of strength you have left to haul yourself into your bathroom. You peel off your suit, letting it drop to the floor in a whip of heavy fabric, space quality tech that was not fashioned on Earth but created for you.

To protect you.

Because he said he cared.

“Fucking…fucker.” You huff, yanking the first aid kit from the open shelf beneath your sink.

Your sports bra is drenched in sweat and blood, sticky against your skin as you plop yourself at the small kitchen table. You pull open the kit and reach for needle and thread.

It’s a messy stitch, clumsy and crooked from the angle you’re forced to work in. However sloppy, you do seal the wound to your ribs and the bleeding finally stops.

In your blood-soaked underwear, you make yourself a sandwich and stand at your counter, staring at the primary blue coffee cup sitting beside your own in teal.

You chew loudly, smacking your mouth as the bread sticks to the roof of your mouth. Eyes glaring at the cup, you bite down more fiercely. Tearing the food apart angrily.

“You’re a stupid bitch, Y/N. Get over it.” You sigh, then retreat to your bathroom to tidy up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Exhaustion is not your friend. It makes you cranky and irritable and sad because you can’t stand the silence in your home.

You groan, pressing your hand against your side gently, then reach for the remote and turn on the TV to war the silence.

It’s a cacophony of sound and for a moment, it grates your nerves. Some cartoon, loud and full of slapstick.

Next channel has people screaming at each other from opposite sides of a stage. Chairs begin to get thrown. A guy with a mullet takes off his shoe and chucks it at a man with one ear.

Next channel has an old black and white movie. The pretty woman with dark curls and a heart shaped face leans across a table, chin in her hand as she moons over the composed man who is smirking at her casually.

Nope. You think. No romance.

Next channel is the news.

“-sure what to make of what we’re seeing. It’s like nothing we have witnessed before. Veronica, can you tell us what’s happening?” The news anchor presses his hand to his ear, eyes squinted as he stares ahead.

The screen shifts and Veronica—a pretty woman with flowing red hair and deep blue eyes fills your screen.

“Miguel, it looks as if all of the ocean’s water is being pulled away from our coastline and out towards the ocean. Where the water is going, we aren’t sure. There is no way to know what this means or what can be causing it. And although we’ve seen this phenomenon happen in films, doomsday blockbusters where a tidal wave the height of a skyscraper builds up before the subsequent flood, experts are sure this is not at all what’s going on.

There are dozens of meteorologists, marine biologists, oceanographers, and astronomers still searching for the cause. The only thing that they all can agree on for certain is that the oceans are not withdrawing, but rather, they are draining, leaving sea life, coral reefs, and the ocean floor exposed.

“Something is pulling this water away. Whatever is causing this, is not natural.”

Sitting up, you place your elbows on your knees as the video changes to that of a helicopter shot as it circles the ever-decreasing ocean line. A humpback whale and her calf attempt to outswim the retreat, but they fail and as the water falls away, the creatures are beached between two sheer ocean cliffs.

“What the hell…” Reaching up, you cover your mouth, watching as the video moves back to Veronica.

“If we can’t figure out why the ocean is draining, we will have hundreds if not thousands of species left without chance of survival. This is not only a loss of a life for many endangered species, but also leaves us to face the consequences within our fishing industries and the millions of people it not only feeds but employs as well. If we cannot stop-”

Veronica suddenly stops speaking, holding her hand to her ear as she listens for a moment.

“Sorry, Miguel, it looks as if Doctor Rashda has found a source point for the draining. Doctor Rashda can you hear me?” Veronica asks, waiting for a moment before the video splits vertically.

The second frame of video sits empty, a sloping sandbank visible in the distance. It curves around in a semi-circle at the center of which is a growing swirl of dark blue water.

“Doctor Rashda?” Veronica asks again, her eyes frantic as they search a monitor out of view.

“Surrender.” A voice says, high pitched. Female. “Surrender and you will not suffer. Surrender your planet, and I shall make your end quick.”

Veronica is silent as the column of swirling water parts a little, just enough so that a pale face is visible.

“Surrender.” The voice says again, the pale face’s lips moving as it speaks. “And you will die quickly.”

Frowning, you move to the edge of your seat, your anger doubling.

“M-Miguel are you seeing this?” Veronica asks, voice small with fear.

Miguel doesn’t answer.

The figure in the water holds out its hand and from the swirl comes a smaller sphere. In this sphere something moves. As the camera zooms in, you can make out the distinct shape of a body, thrashing within its bubble.

Veronica screams just as you and everyone else that must be watching realizes that within the bubble is Doctor Rashda, struggling and gasping for breath.

You’re up on your feet, racing to pull your suit back on when a commotion pulls your eyes back to the TV, legs already in but with one shoulder exposed as you freeze mid-dress.

“He’s back!” Veronica is shouting gleefully. Relief and reverence painting her voice. “Superman is back!”

You move two steps closer to the TV, not intending to take the word of a panicked reporter. Until you can lay your own eyes on him then it isn’t real.

A few seconds pass. Then, a blur of blue and red streaks through the center of the bubble and when the water stops rippling, Doctor Rashda isn’t there.

“Motherfucker.”

You pull your suit on roughly, ignoring the way the movement tugs at your side as you zip up and launch out your open window.

You fall fast, plummeting towards the ground in a streak of teal and gray. When you’re only three feet away, you feel a surge of power as your arms, and legs burn with white hot energy.

It pushes you upwards and propels you higher and higher until you’re soaring across the sky at incredible speeds, leaving a silver trail of light behind you.

It only takes you minutes to reach the coast but sometime between you jumping out of your living room window and arriving here by the Golden Gate, the fight has moved cityside.

You hear a deafening crunch as blue and red goes slamming into black, gray, and brown ocean floor, disappearing into the subsequent rubble.

Heart pounding, you propel yourself towards a thin figure, long stringy black hair, sallow skin, arm still stretched out from her hit. She turns to look at you just as you reach her, but you throw your own fist out in a powerful uppercut. It throws the strange woman high into the air.

You follow for a few feet, hovering in there as you watch her skyrocket out of sight into dark clouds overhead.

Behind you the heap of ocean floor rubble begins to shift.

Coming to rest on the cliffside above, six feet below he breaks through the rock and it falls around him, a flurry of fine sediment saturating the air.

Chest heaving, side burning, heart clenched so tight you think it might truly be shredding, you watch as the fucker stands up and does a quick scan of the area looking just as perfect as he did when he left.

His eyes are focused, searching the sky for sight of his attacker but instead he finds you.

His eyes soften and you’re still so angry you glare. You turn on your heel and walk away, staring up at the sky as you wait for the woman to fall.

“Y/N…” You hear him say, but you don’t turn to look at him.

You can feel the swirling of wind as he flies up to you, the soft pats as his feet hit the ground. He circles around your right, leaning forward to get a better look at your face.

In your peripherals you can see the gentle curl of his dark hair, falling along his forehead and a hundred memories of your hand gently sweeping it aside make your body tremble.

The pleasure that the memory brings makes your blood boil and you roll your eyes, ignoring the puppy eyes he gives you.

“Let’s just get this over and done with. I’m tired.” You assert and watch as the strange woman careens towards the two of you, an inhuman screech growing louder as she falls.

Moving forward a few steps you aim yourself, bend your knees and launch yourself up towards her. As you collide, she grabs hold of your shoulders, and the two of you twist and spin in the air, struggling to get the upper hand.

Shifting quickly, you pull her over you, grab hold of her shirt front and with all the force in your body, you spin and chuck her down as Clark flies towards you to finish the job.

~~~~~~~~~~

A tattered white dress is all that remains of the ocean thief.

“Who was she?” Clark wonders, moving to stand beside you as you watch the stain of saltwater grow as her body dissolves to nothing.

“You don’t know?” You ask him, turning to look at him and hating how much it pleases you to finally see him again.

His broad body, thick with muscle and stupidly accentuated by his damn blue skintight suit, feels larger than before he left though you know that’s silly. He’s as God like as ever, though he’s only an alien. To the world, he’s a savior. Invincible.

Superman.

What really hurts to look at are his eyes.

It chokes you, those baby blues, full of unspoken questions and expectation. For you. For the future. For the present. He wants to know you again.

You tear your gaze back down to the woman as Clark shakes his head.

“No. I was flying home when I saw the ocean empty and followed the trail to the spout she was in.” Clark explains.

“Well, it’s too late to find out now.” You point out. “The water will come back soon. You’ll need to make sure people stay away from the coastline.”

Turning towards him, you wait, your rage evened out and layered with betrayal.

That painful gaze of his so piercing it nearly steals your breath away.

“Where were you, Clark?” You ask quietly, your anger outweighing the hurt.

The apologetic look he gives you, the tilt of his head, the step he takes towards you grates your nerves.

“Y/N-”

“It’s been months. Almost a year.” You sigh, unwilling to give in.

He takes your hand and the impulse to pull away nearly overwhelms you.

His hands are rough, only in that masculine way. His skin is unblemished. Perfect.

The strength of his movements are carefully calculated. A natural habit he’s developed after a lifetime of having to be gentle to keep from breaking those he touches. The heat from his hands is familiar and it envelops yours easily.

“I was coming home.” He tells you.

“Home? How do you know that it’s still your home? Maybe someone else has moved in.” You threaten and there’s a visible fall in his eyes.

It nearly breaks your icy exterior. But you have every right to be angry and hurt that he left you. Out of the blue, no word as to where he was going or when he’d come back.

“I have to go.” He’d said, and left you sitting on the couch, wondering when he’d come home.

He looks down at your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

“You went to see her first, didn’t you?” You accuse and he quickly meets your gaze.

“No.” He assures you passionately, moving a little closer. “No, I was going straight home.”

“She’s been looking for you.” You tell him, tempted to confess how useless you’d been in those first few weeks he was gone. “All of them have been. Where is Superman? Is the million-dollar question. And now here you are.”

He’s back just as randomly as he’d left. Just as sudden. Just as quiet.

“There he is!” A familiar voice shouts. On the bank across the large ravine you both stand in Veronica appears looking dazzled and excited, her camera man hoisting up his camera to begin what will be the first clear footage of Superman finally back. Earth’s hero returned.

Quickly you pull your hand from his and turn to walk away.

“Where are you going?” He asks, following for a few steps.

“Home. I’ve been in Australia for the last month dismantling a new crime syndicate with Bruce. He and I are both very tired. He stayed behind.”

“Oh.” Clark says.

“Superman!” Someone calls. “Superman is back!”

Civilians have begun to gather along the empty waterway, all of them eager for a glance at the Man of Steel.

You know how you made it sound and maybe it’s your annoyance making you push him away now that he’s home, but all you can think about is getting back home and being alone.

“The water will be back, Kal.” You shift to his birthname with so many ears nearby. “Get these people away.”

You leave him standing there, watching you fly away, with those baby blues full of quiet yearning.

~~~~~~~~~~

The apartment…your home…it’s a void.

You sit on the arm of your sofa still in full uniform, hand gently resting on your thigh—palm up. You’re a mess again. Dirty with blood and dirt and sweat.

Needing a shower doesn’t do much to deter your silly brooding. Silly because you did this to yourself. You made it seem like you had someone new waiting for you here when really the bleak emptiness is in need of a six-foot, three-inch tall Kryptonian.

His presence is here. Loud and white hot. His coffee cup burns you from across the kitchen—asking where its owner is. His drawer still full of clothes. Comfy sweatshirts and crisp white t-shirts. Blues and grays and reds too.

There’s one you’d set aside. The last he’d worn. Only once. It had sat on the end of your bed night after night until you’d caved and pulled it on. Now it probably smells more like you than him.

The place is silent. Only the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom sink breaks the quiet.

Your gaze wanders to his shoes by the door, shoelaces left undone, a small speck of mud on the side of the left heel.

Shutting them, your eyes water.

No. You shake your head. I won’t cry.

You take a shaky breath and release it slowly, sighing as your body slumps forward.

The movement reminds you of your earlier wound and you gasp in pain as you sit up straight again, leaning to the side to look at the spot growing increasingly wet on your side.

“Shit.” Stitches are probably torn open. “Fuck.”

Maybe it’s your frustration with this whole situation or maybe your wound really just hurts a lot, but as you reach over to feel the bloody spot, your voice finally breaks. Though there are no tears, they really want to fall.

“Fucking, stupid, fucking…” You sigh again, this time faster, angry.

“That’s a lot of French.” Clark says, his voice smooth and even and excruciatingly beautiful to your ears.

You stand up, startled, and spin to watch him pull his left leg in through your open window, following his torso.

He’s still in his suit, cape and all. Once again, the sight of him reminds you of his Godlike status. His perfection unreachable and yet, here he is. In your home. Where he’d given himself to you openly and without reservation.

He stands there, his hands clenched into nervous fists. Skin just as dirty as yours but not sweaty. Not bloody. His hair is a little disheveled. The tresses normally so carefully tempered are free to curl and wave.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, voice still weak from your raw emotional outburst.

“I went to see Bruce.” He explains, and you might just kick yourself for implying Bruce would be waiting for you. “Why-?”

“Because I wanted to hurt you.” You admit, cutting him off before he can word the question. “Because I wanted you to regret leaving me the way you did.”

“I do regret it.” He sighs. “I-I only left because I thought I heard…”

He hesitates and you’re tempted to kick him out. You turn away from him and move into the kitchen, trying to ignore the wound that needs tending.

With your own coffee cup in hand, you pop a k-cup in your Keurig and punch the power button, waiting for it to power on before you select the largest cup option and listen to the whirr of the motors instead of Clark’s silence.

“I went to Krypton, or what’s left of it.” Clark finally says, this time from the mouth of your kitchen archway, hands still clamped tight.

You shut your eyes tight, hands clinging to the edge of your counter. Squeezing ever tighter until they begin to ache, and you still only keep squeezing.

“I wish I could be as impressed by that answer as I was the first time you told me that.” You shake your head.

“It was different this time, Y/N.” He shakes his head, then takes a step closer.

The movement draws your eyes and you watch the intense focus on his face, the uncertainty to speak.

“What is it?” You ask, still a little bitter.

Even though he looks as if he means it and this trip to Krypton is more serious, he’s not speaking. He’s keeping this from you. Holding it back.

“Jesus fucking Christ Clark, I guess you don’t trust me.”

“No.” He insists, moving another step closer which still leaves him a ways away from you in the kitchen. “It’s not that. I do trust you. More than anyone. But…”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to go to hell and to stay away from you and to shove his excuses up his ass, but your curiosity is growing.

There’s a small panic in his baby blue eyes. A fear.

So, you wait. You hold your tongue. You’re patient for now. You give him a familiar silence that tells him you will wait until he’s ready.

He recognizes it and meets your quizzical gaze as your coffee finishes brewing.

You don’t even realize it’s done as you stare into Clark’s eyes and he stares into yours.

The moment he decides, his shoulders relax. His jaw drops a fraction of an inch as he stops clenching his teeth.

As the weight on his shoulders is visibly lifted, you feel yourself relax too. Nearly a year of being without him and you’re still so attuned to his moods.

“I found someone.” He tells you. “On another planet, in a Kryptonian ship that had been sent only days after my own.”

“Another Kryptonian?” You ask, curious but also fearful.

You remember very clearly the last Kyrptonian that had come to Earth. Zod and his minions had torn Metropolis to shreds. They’d killed so many people and Clark had made the hardest decision in his life.

Not that you’d been there. She’d been there. But Clark had let you in on the weight of that moment. The choice that he hated to make but would gladly do so again.

He must see the fear in your eyes because he shakes his head and takes yet another step towards you.

“No. Don’t be scared. Really. She’s-”

She?!

“-she’s harmless.” You frown at him because that’s the stupidest fucking thing he’s said since getting back. Maybe the stupidest thing ever.

“Okay,” He amends. “Maybe not harmless, exactly. She’s my cousin, Y/N. And she needed help.”

“Your cousin?” You ask, voice low and full of questions.

“From what I can tell, she was sent here after me, but when her ship was knocked off course, she was trapped in form of hypersleep for a long time. She was older than me, but now she’s a lot younger.” Clark continues to explain, speaking with some gusto now that you’ve allowed him to pick up some momentum.

“Where is she?” You wonder.

“I left her with a family that can take care of her. Someone that I trust. Far away from me. She’s still very young and I think it would be best if she remained hidden for a while. Just until she learns how to control her abilities here on Earth and to give the world time to get used to the idea of another Kryptonian.” He takes one more step.

“After Zod, I don’t know that there is any amount of time that would prepare the world for a Supergirl.” You frown.

With your defenses lowered, Clark takes the opportunity to step even closer, finally stopping beside you.

He hesitates again, this time as he reaches to take hold of your elbow. His fingers press against your arm gently like he’s stroking piano keys. Testing to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

He lifts your arm a little and doesn’t break eye contact with you until your arm is lifted enough that he can get a clear look at the red on your side. Head tilted to the right as he assess the injury.

Straightening his head, he slides his hand down to your hand, taking it before gently pulling you away from the kitchen, through your bedroom, and into your bathroom, switching on lights as he goes.

Watching him be like this has always been your favorite. He moves with a purpose, eyes trained on what he’s looking for without a glance spared your way.

You stand beside him as he holds your hand, hunched over to look under the sink for your first aid kit.

After he retrieves it, he pulls you back out into the kitchen. There’s more room there for both your bodies, especially with his taking up so much space.

He places the kit on the floor before he pulls you in front of him. Both of his hands find your waist and he lifts you up onto the edge of the counter to sit.

Slightly surprised, you gasp and place your hands on his shoulders, tracing the muscle while you can do so discreetly until you must remove them and place them at your sides.

Clark steps towards you, his hard abdomen pressed up against your legs as he wraps both arms around you, hands searching for the zipper on your back. Leaning over your shoulder to get a look at it, he’s almost hugging you.

And you can’t stand the tease of it.

The movement is quick, and he leans back again once he’s got the suit undone.

“What happened?” He asks as he hooks his thumbs into the top of your suit and pulls it down over your shoulders, your biceps—then holds the arms still as he waits for you to pull them out—then bunches it down along your waist to expose your injured side. “Lift your arm.”

You do as he ass, wincing as it tugs on the reopened cut.

“This is deep.” He disapproves.

“Bruce and I really were in Australia. One of the guys caught me with a knife just as we were getting them rounded up.” You explain.

“This is gonna hurt.” He tells you as he pulls the kit onto the counter beside you and pulls out a pair of small scissors and tweezers.

It takes him almost no time at all to snip away the broken threads and clean the wound again.

He waits, thinking for a moment, then meeting your gaze.

“Do you want something for the pain?” He checks, eyebrows raised in worry.

“Just do it, Clark.” You sigh, frustrated because this is all too familiar. This proximity, the smells, the heat, the way his hands poke and prod at the edges of your cut.

His eyebrows gather together as his jaw flexes with a frown, staring at the cut as he threads the needle quickly.

A proper needle this time, sanitized and threaded properly.

Taking your lifted arm, he pulls it over his head onto the opposite shoulder and places your hand there where his cape meets his suit.

“It’s gonna hurt.” He says again, and you realize he’s giving you something to squeeze.

And he’s right. Without the adrenaline from before, you feel every stitch and you’d thin you would get used to this sensation. But it hurts like fuck all and you squeeze his cape tight until you can’t help but give a small yell in annoyance.

“Why is it always the little wounds that hurt the most?” You sigh as he sips the thread and moves to clean his work area.

“You should go shower.” Clark says as he sanitizes the counter. “Be careful with your stitches.”

You don’t fight him on this because you desperately need another shower. Maybe if you’d been fine, you would have argued, but you’re dirty and aching.

When you emerge from the bathroom, you find that the sky outside has darkened. You dress quickly, just a pair of black old cutoff sweats and one of Clark’s gray hoodies.

You’re absolutely swimming in it, but it’s so soft and comfortable. Loose so that it doesn’t add any pressure to your stitches.

The apartment is so quiet you stand there, pulling the sweatshirt down as you listen intently for any kind of movement.

“Clark?” You call, just a little insecure after months of his absence.

You move out into the living room. The floorboards creak and moan as they settle beneath your feet. The large carpet in your living room silences your steps but you also stop walking, staring at the empty kitchen, then the empty living room.

Had you dreamt him?

Maybe he really isn’t back?

What if you’ve finally gone crazy?

What if he’s never coming back and you’d passed out after you got back from Australia and everything with the ocean had been a dream?

Are you really going nuts?

There’s a soft thud from your bedroom and with eager footsteps you rush back in.

Sitting on his side of the bed with his bare feet planted on the ground, Clark is hunched over. Elbows on his knees. Hands resting relaxed at the wrist while he stares at the floorboard underneath your bedroom window.

“Clark…” You sigh, not realizing how relieved you sound.

He’s changed, wearing a pair of gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt.

He looks good. Showered. His curls just barely damp.

“Am I welcome here?” He asks, staring ahead.

You move to the bed and climb on, walking on your knees towards him until you stop just a foot away and sit back on your legs.

It’s a good question. One you think on for a moment.

“You didn’t come back for ten months, Clark.” You sigh, hating that fact. “I didn’t know if something had happened to you or maybe you’d decided to leave me and Earth behind altogether? Mostly I just thought you were dead. I spent most of my time convincing myself that you’re so close to invincible that killing you might be impossible but-”

“I’ve died before.” Clark says, hating the idea that people think him a God. He turns towards you and frowns.

His words, however true they may be, send painful clenches into your chest.

Your face does something that makes his demeanor shift. Suddenly he’s sitting beside you, arm wrapped around your waist as he reaches up to push your hair back and away from your face.

His fingers graze the skin of your neck and he hooks it there, squeezing gently.

“I’m not dead.” He says, maybe guessing your thoughts of madness? “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t.” You shake your head. “And I was so angry at you. I hated you. I cursed your name. Fuck that guy. Stupid fucker. I hate him.”

Clark simply watches you, his eyes moving side to side as he looks at your face and every expression that crosses your features.

The one thing that you’ve always loved about Clark, is the way that you can tell he’s really listening. Not once have you felt as if you weren’t being heard. Even if he doesn’t agree with whatever you’re saying, he listens so intently, trying to understand your point of view before he poses his own.

And you love him for it.

Shit. You still love him. Of course, you do. Of course, he’s always been yours.

Even in his absence, you were his and he was yours.

“I said that almost every night, hoping that you would hear me and come back. But you didn’t.”

“But I did.” Clark says. “I’m here. And I’m sorry I left without explanation. I’m sorry that I put you through that. And I know that you can’t forgive me for it. That I’ll be trying to earn your trust again every day that we’re together. But, please can I stay?”

He rubs your lower back, his large hand sending heat into every inch of your heart. Restarting it after he killed it ten months ago.

“Please?” He begs. “All I’ve thought about is getting back here. To you. To our home and our life together.”

You shut your eyes, relishing in the way his arms feel around you, his hands large and hot. His breath is sweet and warm. His scent is clean and so him that it makes your stomach flutter.

You won’t need that shirt of his anymore. Now you have him back, here with you. Where you can touch and feel and love and laugh and just be with him.

“Or should I leave?” He asks.

Your eyes pop open, red fury raging through them. “You do and I’ll hunt you down, Kent.”

He smiles, softly at first. But when your hand begins to trace the taut sinew of his muscly forearm, his smile grows wider. It grows and grows until it’s blinding and beautiful.

You trace the curve of his shoulder, tickle his neck before reaching up to smooth the curls that fall against his forehead gently.

He shuts his eyes, enjoying the affection before you push yourself forward between his legs and settle on your side.

You cuddle into the center of his chest, tucking yourself between his arms, head on his chest, under his chin, arms grabbing tight to the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I missed you.” He whispers against your hair.

You smile, shutting your eyes as you let yourself finally be at ease. Clark is home.

[hotelsonfire]

Ikari (And My Fixation With Friction)

Chapter 1

Underground clubs are a strange beast.

This one is like a goth kid threw his girlfriend’s favorite dark purple lipstick all over the walls, and the floor is the shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. White tiles with red lights spinning and swirling fluidly. The person in charge of decoration and presentation should have been shot.

Deep, grungy bass riffs out a rhythm that leaves the windows vibrating, while trap hats rip hard over an upbeat drum track. With every whip crack of the snare, a pulse of energy whips through the crowds, individuals swaying with the beats as an out of place gang of men dressed in red and white (The Bones, if my intel was right) rap in syncopation over the track. They finish and are rewarded with some appreciative claps.

Next up is Jennifer Violet (Violent J), Curt Douglas (Dirty Cutlass) and, penultimately, Headless, a local metal band that has recently been on break after touring. Each artist gets three minutes with a custom track or a preset of their choosing, and they are judged after each performs. The winners are announced at the end. I would go last.

I sit in an alcove up in the rafters of the building, a conversation with a friend while on top of a cliff playing through my head. They had mentioned either going down to the water, or up to the top of the cliff. I had merely responded “I like to get high”, then proceeded to light a joint. We sat up on the edge of the cliff and watched the waves crash below. This memory is shaken off as a door slams in The Box, the sound room for the pit that was directly below me.

I survey the people below without fear of being scene. Sitting on the metal frames that suspend the lights, wearing all black in a room that is nearly pitch where I sit, the audience below wouldn’t have a chance of spotting me.

As Violet takes the stage, I begin to get a feel for her set just from her appearance. She wears her white hair swept over one shoulder, a lone streak of red running from root to tip, wearing a black T-shirt that reads “Fuck you”, black skinny jeans, and checkerboard converse. She picks up an acoustic guitar from a stand off stage, then stands in front of the mike. She clear her throat and feigns confidence while introducing herself, then begins to play.

Strumming out a tune with some apprehension, she starts to sing in a voice high and clear. Any judgement drains out of the room, and as people start cheering and clapping along, the song picks up a little. Jennifer becomes more confident as she plays. Meanwhile, off stage, even the promoters and sound crew seem impressed; at one point, the sound guy even turns up the volume on her microphones.

As her song plays, I think of some of tunes I’ve written, in envy of the young girl on stage. Her music feels more matured in stating what it’s trying to say, and yet it doesn’t have any of the elements that I typically listen for. Still, it drags at my focus, and I find myself drawn into the tune. As my focus slips, I see a friend of mine. He’s the drummer of Headless. He’s also currently got his arms wrapped around a blonde girl that was fairly recently dear to my heart.

I feel a pulse of jealousy course through me. I drag my eyes off of the swaying couple, but I can’t shake the feeling of her body resting against mine in the same pose, or the way she smelled of cigarettes and sadness at this time of the evening. Sneaking another glance, I notice when her hips begin grinding against his. The current contents of my stomach lurch, and I decide that it’s time to focus on my lyrics and my upcoming set. If those two are here, then I need to put on a big ass show, I decide. There’s no way I’m letting that shake me.

Trying to recall the lyrics to a certain post chorus, I reach for my bag, only to remember that I’d placed it in the back corner of the green room prior to climbing up the sound room’s access ladder to find out where it went. Once I’d settled, I simply waited for the show to start.

Her song finished, Douglass comes to the stage. As a trap beat flows into the room, I walk across the walkway running to the roof of The Box, then climb down the access ladder. Making my way through the crowd, I pop back stage as Violet slips out of the green room, guitar case in hand.

“Hey, great song!” I say as we approach one another.

“Thanks!” She smiles, a sheen of sweat shining from her skin. “I got a little nervous, but the room seemed to like it.”

“Definitely,” I agree then offer my hand. “David.”

“Jennifer.” She takes my hand and shakes it, smiling. We’re doing that awkward standing lean, where you’re both headed in different directions, but you’re not quite finished interacting with someone.

“Are you sticking around?” I ask.

“Yep!” She jerks her head over her shoulder towards the door. “Just gotta get this baby safely stowed,” she says, hefting her guitar case in the air.

“Alright,” I reply, “I’ll be around.”

“Cool. See you!” She walks down the hall to the door. I walk to the green room to find my bag.

Passing through the door, I walked into a wall of smoke, an earthy, pungence that leaves my head reeling in seconds. The guys from Headless are mid-conversation, one throwing another a beer, my friend, the drummer, setting up coke to be snorted off a small compact mirror, and two guys each smoking large blunts. 

“Oh shit!” they cry in near unison when I emerge from the smokey doorway into the light. 

“Hey guys!” I cough, bending over near the unoccupied chair in the corner where I’d left my things.

“You came out of nowhere!” Daniel, the drummer I’d recognized in the crowd sat at the table, rolling what looked like a one hundred dollar bill into a straw. I pulled my phone, my wallet, a battery and a charging cord from the bag, then sat the bag back down. After a long snort on his part, I turned back and smiled.

“I’m sure it seems that way. Y’all are up next.” I stepped out. Unsure of how long they’d been here, or even if they knew where they were, Headless definitely seemed like they each had things they needed to address. Though they were somewhat successful, they were each also going through their own struggles, and each of them thought that they could handle it on their own. Which is merely human, to be fair, but they weren’t helping each other. Their set should be interesting.

On stage, Douglass is laying down a fast lyrical rap that rapidly swept through imagery and contextual information like he had been born to perform that style. I got a small twinge of sadness at the thought that I’d missed the better part of his set as he stepped off stage. I greeted him and shook his hand and told him what a great job he’d done. He responded with a calm composure, the casual press of someone who was aware of their talents and hadn’t blown his ego up because of it.

Headless passed me as they walked to the stage. Whatever I’d seen in the green room was replaced with calm determination and steady focus. Maybe they were serious about music, and not just seeing it as an excuse to live the life of a “rockstar”.

They push a drum set in from off stage, wheel on some amps and grab their instruments. A sample track starts and the room dims. They have a timed light set up.

“Nice touch,” I mutterfrom off stage. Danny catches me watching and winks. An eerie ringing fills the air and the beer thrower stepped up as the lights flashed. The vocalist begins whispering into the microphone, growing louder, until he is shouting:

The rotting corpse of your relation to everyone The smell sickens the bittersweet within What brought you to this point?   Can you relate for me whatever happened to you?

My blood runs cold. That’s my song. I wrote those lines. They are literally ripping me off at my own show. The fucking nerve.

I wait out their song - my song - and smile at them as they come back through the curtains.

“So you guys follow @hotelsonfire, huh?” I smile at them. They glance around at each other and snort. “What?”

“I said, so you follow my blog, huh? Those were my lyrics, dude.”

Danny pushes through the guys holding a bass drum.

“Dude, what the hell? Why would you steal my words?”

He blinks and says “What are you talking about?”

“The lyrics to your song! I wrote those words.”

“No, we wrote those.”

I pause and squint at him. “There’s no way in hell that you wrote those exact lines.”

He sets his drums down and and begins walking to his car. Knowing he’s not going to abandon his kit, I follow him to the vehicle. He opens up the glovebox and pulls out a notebook. There, written across the page, are my words. All of them. And even worse, in the upper right corner, there’s a date from 2010, a solid year before I even wrote the lyrics.

“Dude, what the fuck?!” I literally do not believe that they wrote this word for word, before I did, so they must have just chosen a date before I wrote and published the lyrics. Unfortunately for me, they’re just going to keep up the act. I already know this. Better for me to focus, the battle isn’t over.

I turn and walk back to the green room as the stage is cleared. I grab my change of clothing from my bag and quickly swap wardrobe, then go to wait at the wings of the stage. With my hood up, I don’t notice until I take the stage that Headless is watching from the wings, and a few of them don’t look as indifferent after noticing that “HotelsOnFire” is written on the banner behind me. The Sign-up sheet only allowed legal names on it. These acts were supposed to be small time, and my guess was that Headless hadn’t done any research about the competition.

A click track with snaps on the down beat began playing, and a horn came on in the background of the song. The music built, adding more instruments, until the drums gave three open cymbal hits and a snare, and the whole song slid into a groove. Then the groove settled and the vocals began. I sang:

“You walk like you out match me ten to one. You throw me your best line, but girls just want to have fun. Your attitude is sure respectful, but I don’t appreciate when you invalidate the things I’ve done”

I began stalking around the stage as the lyrics build, and make eye contact with nearly everyone in the crowd. As we build to the chorus, my eyes lock with Danny and my ex-girlfriend, Lynn, holding each other tight. Without breaking eye contact, I sing “This is weak”. The audience is dancing swaying and grooving a bit. The folks in the front bobbing their heads is helping to encourage me. The chorus wraps to a close, with an extra bar of drums and piano chords to add effect to the chill. The room is transfixed.

I sweap through the second chorus and I’m running around the room. Through the bridge, then through the final chorus, I’m dancing across the stage, and through my microphone. At one point, I turn around just put my head against the wall. I begin to speak and the music drifts into the outro.

“You guys enjoying yourselves?” I get a cheer and scattered claps back.

“Cool. If this has been a meaningful experience to you, I want you to chant with me. If this has NOT been a meaningful experience, I absolutely urge you to chant with me so that you can have one. And if you don’t want to have a meaningful experience, then this song is for you.” I turn around, and see nothing but open faces, curious for my next remark.

“You’re gonna say “This is weak. This is old. This won’t work.”

The crowd complied.

“This is weak, this is stale, this won’t help!”

My friends are shouting.

“1... 2... 1, 2, 3, Shout!”

The people I thought I was close to are shouting. The people that betrayed me are singing. The sight of my ex singing along to my song is bittersweet, but there’s more than enough other mixed emotions that I’m focused on handling first.

The strange whistles in the background of the music give the room a feel as if we were inside a forest, with the wind whistling and strange small creatures running about. I’m bobbing my head as I step up onto a riser, and spread my arms in front of the crowd. Feeling the flow of the song, I adlib a line into the end.

“I’m delighted to say that we can be apart!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cited

Nothing But A Weight

The 27th