#I got the gay glasses out for that evening. Obviously. Its pride month after all. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

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Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

“That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

“Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

“You wanna go to a gay bar?”

Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

“Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

“I don’t know,” Sam told him.

“You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

“Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

Dean nodded, “Like what?”

“Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

“I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

“Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

“Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

“I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

“No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

“To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

“Trevor?”

“Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

“My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

“You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

“I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

“He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

“Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

“And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

“Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

“Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

“Sure.”

“But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

“Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

“Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

“If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

“What if I don’t want a different fella?”

“Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

“No one does.”

“Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

What?

“What?”

“Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

“His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

“Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

“’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

“Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

“Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

“He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

“Why you wanna know?”

“Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

“You make a habit of this, then?”

“No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

“Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

“Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

“I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

“Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

“Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

“You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

“It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

“Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

“Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home. “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

“Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

“Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

“You’re a good brother.”

“I try my best.”

“Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

“That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

“No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

“Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

“I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

“But for this?” Dean asked.

“Definitely this.”

Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

“It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

“I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

“Are you sure?”

“I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

“Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

“It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

That isn’t what he wants.

Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

“Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

“…Thanks.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.”

He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

No one speaks for half their journey.

They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

“Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

“Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

“Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

Look out for Sammy.

Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

“Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

They might have died.

“Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

“What?”

“I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

“Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

#spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #sam winchester is an ally #john winchester #john winchester's a+ parenting #fuck john winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #tw: abusive parent #tw: garden-variety homophobia

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pogaytosalad · 3 years

Text

Heres a wip of a sequel.

Dmviolence, by jade

Hello, if youre hearing this, it probably means im dead. Either that, or im alive and just got tired of keeping this hidden. You might remember my voice from a previous recording about a takeover in sector ⬽:➻, in which id helped prevent total annihilation of the sector. At the time i was unnamed, however now you may call me Kalton. After the takeover i resigned and moved to a job at a dmv. This planet was, for some reason, in one of the most tactically advantageous locations in the galaxy. And for some reason the higher ups dedicated the whole damn planet to dmvs. Dont ask why. Now, onto the story.

I woke up, and i put on my emerald green contact lenses. Just like any other day. I put on a basic white t-shirt and a leather bomber jacket along with a pair of jean shorts. If you cant tell by now, im gay.

I live in a small apartment. By small apartment i mean a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen all crammed into 2 rooms. I hopped out the bedroom window onto my motorcycle. It was a diamond white motorcycle with deep red stripes along the sides and the handlebars. My pride and joy. I put on my jet black helmet and took off towards my job at the, you guessed it, dmv.

Chapter 2

I pulled up in the parking lot and took off my helmet, my blue hair a total rats nest. The doors were push doors, yet i somehow ALWAYS pulled first. I entered the dmv and went to my station. A few hours passed by and no one had come in yet, which was unusual. So naturally i decided to sit down on the floor, put in my earbuds, and enjoyed some heavy metal. A few more hours passed by, and usually by now i wouldve been yelled at by my boss. This struck me as odd so i stood up. I really wish i hadnt stood up. The place had been completely destroyed. There were drop pods crashed in through the roof and they all had the ERGON logo on them. Ergon was a multi trillion dollar pencil manufacturing company with its own military. They had previously tried to take over sector ⬽:➻ when i had been working there. I was not looking forwards to what was about to happen.

Quickly, i ducked back onto the floor before anyone saw me. There were 4 riot soldiers holding this building. This was gonna be fun. The riot soldiers are your stereotypical riot gear and police baton soldiers. But these guys had laser batons and the riot gear gave them heightened strength and speed. They also had some, dare I say, shitty energy pistols. I crawled over to one of the soldiers who wasnt being watched and broke their neck. Carefully I took the baton and the pistol. Slowly crawled my way back to my station and checked the shot count in the pistol. I had 6 shots, just enough to take care of the remaining three soldiers. I stood up quickly and shot each soldier twice in the head. First shot to open the riot helmet, second shot to kill. I vaulted over the counter and grabbed the three pistols. These things were so stupid. You couldnt even remove the clips. Once you ran out of shots, the pistol was useless. Nonetheless, i didnt have any choice. I had a laser baton and 18 total shots in 3 pistols.

Upon leaving the building, my motorcycle was one of the few things to survive. It had alot of scratches and damage, but it still worked. The helmet was shattered however. I mounted the motorcycle and took off towards the next closest dmv. Maybe id find some better gear there.

Chapter 3

Pulling up next to the second dmv i immediately noticed 3 things. 1: there was blood everywhere. 2: there were 25 soldiers here. And 3: they all had energy weapons. The reason these things are relevant is because energy weapons dont cause bloodshed. This was the result of something else. Something new i hadnt dealt with yet.

I drove up and ran over 5 of the soldiers. This was probably an incredibly bad idea, seeing as i had 18 shots, enough for 9 kills, and there were 20 soldiers left. Every single soldier turned to me and i, being the absolute genius that i am, welded the front of one of the pistols shut with the laser baton, shot it off, and threw it into thei crowd of soldiers. It exploded, releasing a shockwave of energy and disabling the soldiers. I then used the baton to cut through the riot gear and kill the soldiers. I felt like a badass. That is until a mechanical looking wolf jumped at me and started trying to rip my face off.

The wolf was a frostwolf, except it had been placed into a mechanical frame and its teeth and claws had been replaced with lasers. I tried to bash it off of me with the baton but it just bit it in two. This gave me just enough time to grab an energy pistol and shoot the wolf. It kept trying to kill me amd i wasted a whole clip on it until suddenly, the dog started to levitate in the air and got thrown aside into a wall. I got up and was instantly frozen in place. Thats when.. she walked up.

Chapter 4

The she i am reffering to is ebony. A goth/punk wannabe with light blue tear shaped eyes and black hair with purple streaks. Shes a bitch whos mind got too powerful and now she can move things without touching them. Shes been chasing me for months. Not in a murderous way. Shes just obsessed with me. Ive tried to tell her im gay but she wont listen. And now im at her mercy.

She walked up to me and kissed me on the cheek. I hated it. She looked as if she was contemplating whether or not to free me when a pod came down from the sky and crushed her. Thank god. But i honestly wouldve rathered suffered at her hand than deal with what i had to deal with next...

Out of the pod came the warden. The goddamn warden from sector ⬽:➻. Last id seen him hed been in the same situation as ebony. Crushed to death under a pod. But this time, instead of being on my side, he was here to kill me. He was huge. Like seriously huge. He was at least 8 feet tall and shaped like gaston. Whos gaston? Nobody knows these days. But its basically a way to say "extremely buff and wide". Back to the story. The warden wasnt looking very good, considering the rotten skin, obviously quickly patched together face, and muscles hanging loose out of his skin. His rotting ruined body was held together by an exoskeleton of chromium-tungsten alloy. Nothing i had was gonna cut through that. I was gonna have to get creative here..

The warden had 2 weapons, both of them were his fists. Huge gauntlets that were each about the size of a cow. Definitely bigger than his previous set. They were a golden green metal i couldnt identify. But i didnt want to get hit with one to try and find out. I ran. I ran as fast i could run into the dmv and hid. I could hear the wardens footsteps. It was as if a small earthquake happened each time he took a step.

I peeked over the desk i was hiding behind and saw him punch through the 2 desks opposite to me. It took no effort and i couldve sworn i saw him smile. Obviously i didnt. Cause he didnt have a mouth anymore. But if he did, he definitely wouldve smiled. I took a shot to get his attention and ran off towards the wall. The warden was definitely faster than i expected.

Luckily i managed to dodge the blow by a centimeter. The metal smelled of decaying flesh and popcorn. The wardens blow punched a huge hole in the wall. I hope you see where im going with this.

I ran off to another wall and we repeated this same process a number of times until the building was barely still up. I ran out the doors and threw the baton at the last of the supports, cutting through it and causing the building to collapse in on the warden. He wasnt getting out of that. I decided to search the rubble to see if i could find anything worth taking. I found a new baton, a flame rifle and a few more energy pistols.

The flame rifle was a very interesting design. The sides were painted jet black with flame decals scattered about. You could feel the heat on the inside and it made the gun warm to the touch. Comfortable to hold. Other than that though, it looked like an old fashioned 8.59mm sniper rifle. It had 4 shots remaining, so id have to use it sparingly.

I grabbed some scrap materials out of the rubble to make a holster for it and put it on my back.

The energy pistols just dangled from a keychain. The baton was simply turned off and placed through a hole in the back pockets of my shorts. I ran to my motorcycle and drove off, i needed to find out more. I had questions, and i had a sneaking suspicion that i knew where to find the answers.

I drove off again, i was dirty and there was blood on me and my bike. I probably looked like a serial killer. But i knew that if anyone was still alive, itd be jayden. They were.. well. They were a vampire. They lived in a swampland area and wore sparkly rainbow shirts and a huge sunhat. The sunhat allowed them to go outside in the sun, and they only drank coconut water. They also had a crazy amount of weaponry and used to work at ergon, before being fired for stealing weaponry. By the way, if you havent noticed by now, im using they/them to refer to jayden. Jayden doesnt have a gender. Jayden.. is kind of my crush. It probably has something to do with the fact that theyre the only person on this planet who talks to me. Other than ebony.. but ebony is... not my type i guess. Anyways, back to jayden. Jayden was on the roof of their swamp shack drinking coconut water out of a wine glass. I yelled up at them and they fell off the roof onto my back. I guess i cushioned their fall. Jayden immediately said "What do you need dear" without waiting for me to stand up, and shattered the wine glass. I informed them of the situation and asked the questions i had. Things like "what are the ergon soldiers defences like on their ships" and "how did they reanimate the warden" they had answers.

Jayden told me about the new security measures that had been put in place since id last been on an ergon ship. There was now a code for each teleportation pod and the gaurds had doubled. As for the warden, it turns out jayden was actually the first test run in reanimation sciences, and couldnt answer me because they had been unconcious in a lab when the warden was reanimated. That explained the vampire undead thing. Jayden invited me into the shack where they pulled a nail out of the floorboards and it turned into a ramp to the basement. Down in the basement? Thats where jayden kept their weapons they stole. And boy oh boy were there some interesting ones.

One that immediately caught my attention was the big rocket launcher. It had 3 barrels and each was a different colour, indicating a different effect. One was red, one was yellow, and one was green. The red barrel fired a normal explosive rocket, the yellow barrel fired an electromagnetic pulse rocket, and the green barrel fired an acidic explosive. And the launcher shrunk down to the size of an energy pistol when a button was pressed. It gathered up dirt and dust and garbage around it from the back to quickly convert into ammo but the only downside is that it would be difficult to use more than once in an area.

Jayden picked out an old shotgun. At first i didnt understand why, but then they loaded the clip. The clip was a huge drum that loaded in the bottom of the barrel. The drum was see through and inside you could see sawblades lined up side by side. When they pumped the shotgun a blade got lifted into a slot between the 2 shotgun barrels and started glowing red. When the trigger was pulled, the blade spun at high speeds and fired out of the slot, spinning along the ground like a wheel. It could cut through anything a baton could cut through and seemed to almost follow its target. The gun itself looked like an DP-12, except behind the pump, a large clear drum full of sawblades was in place. The blade sat between the barrels in place of the iron sights and got heated up by an electrical circut.

I also took a laser sword instead of my baton, it was just like the one that [3825968] had, except this one was about an inch longer. The final weapon i took was an acid thrower. It was basically just a watergun with acid in it. Ive always been partial to acidic weapons. If youve heard my other story, youd know why..

Jayden also took a submachine gun that fired freezing rounds. The rounds were essentially glorified waterballoons with liquid nitrogen in them. Though the rounds were bullet sized, enough shots from it would certainly freeze you in place. The freeze gun was about the size of the average human head, and was painted navy blue with blue saphire stripes placed along it. We both left the shack, me with my sword and jayden with a wine glass. We were ready to kick ass and put a stop to this.

We left and immediately both got flung into some trees. Guess who it was. It was ebony. Her body had been found and reanimated. I was starting to see a pattern. And now we had to fight the telekinetic who could kill us with a wave of her hand.

She was levitating. Her eyes were glowing red and her hair was floating in the air. She had a smile of someone about to rip your arms off and beat you with them. I tried to take a shot at her but my hand got knocked aside by an invisible force. So i tried the next best thing. Seduction. Fake seduction. Hopefully the whole dying and coming back from the dead thing didnt make her stop being weirdly obsessed with me.

While i faked surrender and complimented ebony and attempted to seduce her, jayden took aim of their ice gun and shot a burst at ebonys right arm. The arm froze in place and shattered. Hopefully that would lower the strength of her telekinetic abilities. It did. But only by about half. Which meant jayden got thrown into the air as i tried to discreetly unholster my acid gun. It wasnt discreet enough and the gun was knocked from my hand.

The gun flew forwards and the impact of hitting the ground set it off for a second, just enough to spray an acidic burn through her arm. Incapacitating her. Jayden ended up sneaking up behind her and impaling her through the skull with the shattered end of their wine glass. Finally ebony was dead for good.

The acid gun was busted, so we had to leave it behind. We got onto my motorcycle and took off towards my apartment building. We would need food if we were going to be traveling. An apartment complex would probably be full of foods, and alot of dead people who wouldnt care if we took some stuff.

#writing #scifi #fantasy violence

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shadowdianne · 5 years

Note

Prompt Regina is one of the worlds best managers but her personal life is miserable her spouse is cheating on her with the personal trainer or so she thinks her car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and in a run down bar she discovers a young taltened muscian and falls in love with her her name is Emma

Thanks forthe prompt anon, hope you like it 😉

“First timehere, isn’t it?”

The line madeRegina growl inwardly for a moment as she felt the warmth of a body approachingthe vacant stool she had managed to defend for the entire night ever since shehad walked into the bar; sopping wet and mascara smudged enough to hide the fartoo telling red rimming her eyes. She had heard similar lines after she hadswallowed her pride and had walked towards the bar counter, asking quickly fora phone only to be denied one with a curt “no good signal with this storm ma’am”that had left her more or less hopeless. Still, the bar, despite the dim light, theobvious not well-kept wood that made 90% of its interior and the stale scent offried food and alcohol, was warm as opposed to her Mercedes and so she hadstayed, asking for a glass of something that felt like a badly made cider. Onethat she was still nursing as she glanced at her right, at where the voice-feminine but with enough intention for her to feel suspicious- had come from.

Thescathing response she had prepared died on her lips as she was faced with theblonde beauty that had been strumming an old guitar up until a few minutes ago;her voice low but still filling the shoddy pub. Regina hadn’t recognized thesongs that had fallen from the blonde’s pink lips, but she had found herselfentranced by those, despite her mood. Or, a voice whispered in the back of herhead, precisely because of it.

She hadn’tonly noticed her mouth though but the faraway smile that the woman got as shesang had kept her grounded as she kept her back straight as a rod, her freehand clutching her handbag against her midriff and lap, the pieces of her phone’sscreen where she had smashed it a few hours prior still protruding from thesoft leather of the bag but not as painful as they had been before.

Blinking,she realized the woman was still staring at her, blonde curls reflecting thegold dim light just as much as her green eyes did and Regina found herselflowering her gaze to the white tank top she wore and the tight jeans and bootsthat completed an outfit she could only describe as gay. Not like she wouldknow anything about it, would she? The question bore the insidious voice of hermother, the same tone she had heard over and over again during her formativeyears returning with a scary accuracy, one strong enough for her to almostglance above the blonde’s shoulders; almost expecting Cora to be standing there,eyes glowing like embers and about to strike.

Fortunatelyfor her, Cora wasn’t there and so she let herself focus back on the blonde, onhow her smile hadn’t wavered. She had approached the stool, yes, but hadn’tseated herself on it; her hands clutching the combed wooden bar that worked as theplate and back. She, Regina realized belatedly, had very nice arms, a detailshe pushed to the back of her mind, not willing to give that any thought atall.

Shaking herhead, she urged it to clear itself from the spell she seemed to have falleninto only to raise her chin and narrow her eyes at the woman that looked two orthree years younger than her even with the juvenile clothes she downed. Whenshe finally spoke, Regina grimaced at how she sounded, the usual modulatedversion of her voice deeper and tired.

“How veryastute of you.”

Any otherman that had tried to approach her after she had seated herself had left while mutteringvarious expletives at her replies and Regina had found some comfort on that.This time, however, the stranger chuckled at her before pointing at the verystool she had in front of her, palm upwards, extended.

“May I sit?”

And, truly,Regina didn’t know how to feel about either the question or the answer she wassupposed to give. She just felt tired, exhausted, and the prospect of needingto wait until the storm ended, stranded in the middle of nowhere with no phoneand no signal should have been enough for her to simply turn her back towards theblonde while swallowing whatever spark of desire she was feeling about her. Nomatter how rooted her fear was, the fear that had transformed into suspicionthe moment she had seen Robin almost -almost- kissing that other woman she wasn’t…like that. She would never follow that, whatever that was.

Still, shefound herself nodding to the question, the scattered conversation around thebar, the one that had been filtered away ever since the blonde had spoken toher, returning back to her ears now that she could spy to the other woman’sprofile: on how she put both of her elbows on the counter, apparently notbothered by its stickiness or the occasional peanut crumb.

“Name’sEmma by the way. Emma Swan.”

The blondespoke effortlessly, an easy smile on her lips and yet, Regina quickly noticedafter so many years of learning how to read a table full of possibleshareholders and board members, guarded. Her green eyes sparkled with obviousinterest but the back of them glimmered with something else and one side ofher, the curious side, wondered what that could be. Not that she herself was theperfect example of an open book of course.

Emma. Thename somewhat fitted her, and she found herself repeating it, splitting thesound, elongating the “m” in a way that made one single brow of the blonderise.

“I’mRegina.” She stopped herself for a moment, at the surname she had almostuttered after that. She had grown accustomed to it, at using it as an armor, asthe perfect presentation for herself. This time, however, she didn’t feel likeusing it and so she pressed her lips together once more, a lopsided smirk Emma’sgreen eyes followed with far too much intensity. One she should put an end to. “I’mmarried.”

It came outof her far too blurted, far too strong and she could almost feel the physicalblast the last word created between she and the other woman. Not like the wordfelt real to her at the moment, not like it had been this morning, last week,last month, but it still held some weight, even if she had taken out her ringin a fit of rage. Emma’s answer to that was a blink and stiffness on hershoulders, stiffness that eased up just as quickly as she rose her hand andcalled the bartender over, the words “the usual” rising, melodic, before sheturned back to Regina.

“I’m not.”Her eyes lighted up, mischievous, but some of her general demeanor changed;less strong, less burning and Regina found herself smiling at it, at thewelcomed changed. “I’m harmless though. Promise.”

And Reginafound that she believed her, believed on her earnest eyes and slightly slouchedposture. Rising her glass when the usual turned out to be a beer bottle, shecheered alongside with Emma, taking a sip of an already far too lukewarm cider.

“You shouldhave asked for one of these.” The blonde said while still holding the bottleup. “I really think that’s rat poison.”

“Have youtaken enough of that to be sure about it?”

The banter,the joke, came far too naturally for her, to her usual uptight and ratherworried about how she was perceived self but she found herself enjoying that easinessEmma created around her; even if part of it was manufactured and, at her laughter,Regina found herself growing more at ease with each passing second.

“Wouldn’tyou want to know…”

Emma, asRegina soon found out, wasn’t from the small village she had passed a whileago, nor she lived in a cot at the bar’s storage room as the blonde was quickto point out with a pitched laugh. She actually, was from the city just asRegina was although the neighborhood she mentioned wasn’t exactly near toRegina’s own. She had lived in many places however, a backpack always with heras well as a guitar. She had had many odd jobs, the one she had enjoyed themost working with someone that almost sounded like a mentor as a bailbondsperson and, despite everything, music seemed to be the thing she always wentback to, no matter what.

“I justenjoy it far too much.” She said, deep into her second bottle as Regina askedfor her own first, the taste quite the upgrade from the cider. “What about you?”Emma gestured wildly at the almost dried black suit Regina wore; chaffed andwrinkled but ostensibly more expensive that the younger woman’s clothes. “Doyou work for a law firm? You look like you do.”

Reginacouldn’t help herself but laugh a little at that. Her mother would have lovedthat assumption.

“No, I don’t.”She replied but didn’t offer any more on that, her silence apparentlyeverything Emma needed to drop the subject.

And it wasodd, Regina thought, because despite Emma’s obvious curiosity, she never pushedwhenever Regina let her know she didn’t feel comfortable enough to talk aboutcertain things. Like her husband for example. A topic that made Regina’s throatburn as she took a big swig of her second -third? - beer. The blonde wasobviously about to make a joke, one that would make Regina smile and forgetthat line of conversation, but Regina pressed the tips of her fingers againstthe glass of the bottle, the slight pain on her knuckles acting almost as atrigger.

“I think heis cheating on me.”

Emma’s eyesdarkened slightly at that and while her words were slightly slurred than at thebeginning she still hold that earnest undertone to it as she replied.

“Then he isan idiot.”

And,despite herself, despite everything, Regina felt flattered. Truly flattered.Enough to mutter a “maybe” under her breath that got Emma smiling and laughinga little, pushing her shoulder against Regina, her forearm brushing hers, her warmthobvious and welcoming in a way Regina wouldn’t have imagined for it to be a fewhours prior.

Eventually,the storm fizzled out, patrons beginning to leave and, despite the good time thebrunette was having, she realized that she, too, should as well.

“It’s beena pleasure, Emma.” Her voice was thick with tiredness, the crumbs of her driedmascara biting her eyes as she blinked. “I should leave though.”

“You can’tdrive like this!” Emma’s voice rose in protest, following Regina’s movements,standing up in a jump that made her stumble as her own equilibrium was tested. Andwhile that was endearing on itself, Regina rose a brow to the words, even ifsome part of her knew that the blonde was right: she had drunk far too much todrive with wet asphalt and dark shadows cornering her car. Car she wasn’t evensure that would start up. Although she truly hoped it would and the malfunctionhad simply been overheating. One that should have passed and that would allowher to cover the distance between the bar and her home; what she had seen whenshe had left the house in blinding hot tears a thing she would deal in themorning.

“What doyou suggest?” Her mouth asked instead. “Sleep in that cot you definitely don’thave here?”

She feltshe was about to have an answer to her question the moment Emma’s eyes traveledfrom her to the bartender, the one that Emma had called Aesop at some point andwho was definitely smirking at this point.

“Actually…”

Actually,Aesop had a small room above the bar, small and just as shoddy but good enoughfor “occasional” guests. Regina should have been appalled but she didn’t findenough of herself to care at this point and so she had accepted the offer, evenif that meant sharing with an almost total stranger. The man left them to theirdevices once he reminded Emma to leave the small key right where he always put itand, despite everything, despite every word and every warning and every doubt,Regina almost wanted to kiss the blonde as she knew they both were alone in thedingy room; a bed and an armchair the only thing that filled the small space.

She, however,resisted the impulse. It was a bad idea, she told herself as she watched asEmma jumped out of her jeans, the red panties she was able to see after that a scorchingmark as her mother’s words from earlier returned with even more intensity. Itwas a really bad idea, she whispered as she too discarded her clothes, foldingthem as neatly as possible and leaving them in the seat of the chair, tryinghard not to think on how her faced looked, on the makeup she still feltclinging to her pores, on the almost sticky feeling the rain had left on herskin. She would go back to her life the following morning, talk to Robin, maybefile for divorce, maybe discover she had been wrong, maybe trying to fix amarriage she wasn’t sure that was worth the effort. Maybe…

She fellasleep within seconds, the last thing she heard a whispered goodnight as themattress dipped and shivered as Emma turned into her side to look at her.

Thefollowing morning found her alone, her clothes and purse still where she hadleft them and, on top of her blazer, a note with a scrambled handwriting withjust a phone number on it and an even skimpier sentence: If you ever want to talk again. Next to it, Aesop’s key also waitedfor her although, turned out, she didn’t need to leave it to whatever place wasthe usual one as the man was already downstairs. He looked at her once beforetelling her that she should be able to make a call if her car didn’t start. Hedidn’t mention Emma but he still smiled at her with the same smile he had givenEmma during the night prior and Regina swallowed thickly at that; not reallyunderstanding what to make of it.

Sheeventually didn’t need to call for help and so she rode to the city, phonelessand with Emma’s memory on the back of her brain.

She didn’tcall her, but she kept the note and during the following weeks she pushedherself to sort things right; to grief a marriage that wasn’t making her happydespite the countless promises both she and Robin had once shared. To file fordivorce, to call Kathryn and her sister and tell them the most stupid ideas ofall; of how she had out of love and in love in the same night, the culprit ofthe later a blonde woman with a name Regina loved how it sounded.

Until, oneday, three months and a half after that morning, she found herself pressing thelast button of a number she already knew by heart due to the many times she hadstared at it.

“Yes?”

Reginarolled her eyes at that; Emma would never answer a call in the proper way, ofcourse she wouldn’t. And she was nervous, and she didn’t feel any bit ready,but she still wanted to share a strange night with the woman. A conversation, adrink so she could get to know the blonde. Truly know her.

“Emma?”

She heardthe silence at the other end of the line, one that felt too long and one thatmade her almost end the call, afraid. Up until she heard a shaky breath andjust one single word.

“Hi.”

#swan queen #SwanQueen #prompt #anon #Anonymous

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symphonic-scream · 6 years

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Turning Point (150 follower Special)

It's been maybe eight years since they all graduated together. Eight years since they took down the League of Villains. Eight years since since they all stood arm in arm as they left UA campus for the last time as 3A.

Its surreal, to Hitoshi. He may not have been in 1A from the start, but he considers the others his family; almost moreso than his foster parents. He'd met his husband, his best friends, and even his mentor there. And it's been over for eight years.

Of course, they see each other all the time. A month after graduation, they were all dancing and drinking the night away in a hotel ballroom, celebrating the wedding of Katsuki and Eijirou. A few weeks, and Izuku and Shouto. Then Tsuyu and Ochako.

Hitoshi could list them all, but there were so many weddings. He himself had married the love of his life, Mashirao, just less then a year after graduating. It wasn't just weddings. Every three months, they'd host a big dinner and sleepover, and the whole class would (schedules permitting) spend the night with their UA family.

It was one such night. It was going to be the first one since graduation that they'd all be there for the entire night, which made it special. Tenya had even handed planning over to Mina and Tooru, despite being present at their first rager in their third year.

And Hitoshi couldn't wait.

He and Mashirao were a little late, coming from the next city over, but still managed to get in before Momo, Kyouka, Katsuki and Eijirou. It seemed as if the most punctual couples were dead last, which of course led to tons of small jokes once they showed up ten minutes later.

The first portion was a free area, for catching up. Hitoshi found himself engrossed in a conversation with Denki, who was waving his arms wildly as he explained why Hanta was wrong, and he should definitely grow a super rad soul patch.

"It'll be legendary, bro!" The sparkster grinned, showing another picture of some movie star with the facial feature. "I'll look like a model! My fans will go wild!"

Kyouka, who had been sitting and listening in, snorted, lightly digging her fist into his arm. "As if, Pikachu. You'll just look like a pervert."

He whined, turning his full attention on the punk lesbian. "Kyo! No! I'll look hot as hell!"

"Then why is Hanta so against it?" Hitoshi added his two cents. If the man's husband was against it, there had to be a reason.

Denki froze, before stumbling through a rushed response. "He's just jealous cause he knows I'll be the hot one! He knows he'll never let me leave our bed!"

Kyouka's nose scrunched up, making a sound of disgust. "Dude, too much. And I can guarantee it's because he knows you'll look like a pedophile."

Hitoshi snuck away as Denki practically weaped his defense out, as he already knew the result. He'd look like everyone on the sex offender list. He passed by Yuuga, Mina, and Mashirao on his way to the kitchen of their rented beach house, hoping to find a drink, and maybe someone who he hadn't seen in the last few months.

He was successful on both fronts, running into Ochako and Katsuki, who were cracking open beers after their reunion sparring. Both were glimmering with sweat, but had matching grins on their faces.

"Mind Fucker." Katsuki greeted, taking a sip of his alcohol. That was his 'fun' nickname for Hitoshi, and despite being a little harsh, it was far better than 'Dopey', or 'Half-and-half bastard', both of which had survived the tests of time.

"Murder Bitch." He responded in kind, causing the blond to smirk in approval. "So, who won this time?"

Ochako grinned wider, nudging her partner in the ribs. "I got the best of him this time. Katsuki here got distracted, and I knocked him down easily."

Katsuki just grunted in response, running a hand roughly through her once presentable hair. "Yeah, and if I hadn't, it would've been me acting all smug."

The pair laugh, and Hitoshi marvels in how far Katsuki has come. From an angry, arrogant, mean ass hat to this. It was impressive.

"So, Hitoshi." Ochako began, turning the attention of the conversation on him. "How's life been treating you?"

"Pretty well, actually." And it was the truth. "Mashiro and I just made a down payment on a house, and we're thinking of maybe adopting one day."

Katsuki's eyebrows drew inwards, as Ochako gasped. "Oh! Hitoshi, that's so exciting!"

He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling lightly. "Yeah, we actually started talking because we heard Neijire and Yuuyu announced the birth of their daughter in May."

Their once seniors had gone public about their second child, but had yet to go into further details with the press. As an old friend, Hitoshi knew both children were biological, due to long term successionn planning on Yuuyu's part.

"The same for me and Tsu!" Ochako giggled, holding her hands to her cheeks. "Except, well, we're her godparents, and we thought about having our own!"

Hitoshi smiled, although the look Katsuki was giving them was off-putting. "What about you, K.E.M., have you and Ei talked about having kids?"

Katsuki, sticking to his favourite form of communication, grunted. "None of your damn business."

Huh. Well, that was one way to answer.

Soon, they were all called together for group games, which usually started as Never Have I Ever and ended with drunken screaming. Last year at their April meeting, Fumikage had gotten drunk far too quickly, and watched the rest of the game perched on the fridge, throwing individual Fruit Loops at the group.

Tooru, ever the enthusiastic hostess, had everyone's choice drink ready, even providing Momo with a non-alcoholic fruit juice. Strange. Momo hadn't opted out of alcohol during these games since Kyouka introduced her to the idea of mixing it into fruit juices.

"Never have I ever," Tooru began, curling into her wife's side, a bottle of tequila sitting on the coffee table between their matching glasses. "Cheated on my Significant Other."

No one drank of course, but Mina did have a cheesy grin on her face as she gave her wife a kiss. She cleared her throat, obviously ready for her turn. "Never have I ever had an elemental quirk."

Shouto, Denki, Katsuki, and Momo all took a shot, although Momo had to defend her claim.

"I create matter, which requires the elements." She explained, folding her hands into her lap.

It went like that for a couple more turns, with very few actually having to drink, except for when Katsuki pulled the "never have I ever not been Bakugou Katsuki" move.

Now it was Kyouka's turn, and the most tipsy person in the room was Denki. Kyouka whispered something to her wife, who nodded at her before taking her hand.

"Never have I ever been pregnant."

The whole room watched in shock and amazement as Momo straight up took a swig from her bottle of watermelon juice. It was silent for a few moments, everyone's dazed minds stumbling towards a connection.

"Yaomomo!" Kouji gasped, excitement pouring out of him in waves. Then it clicked for Hitoshi. Momo was pregnant.

"No way!" Mina cried, rocketing forwards in her seat. "You guys!"

Kyouka and Momo flushed, grinning as they folded into each other. Momo was practically glowing, half to tears.

Izuku's eyes were comically wide as he leaned over Shouto to get a better look at the apparent mothers-to-be. "How far along?"

"About three months." Kyouka stated with pride, placing one of her hand protectively over her wife's belly. "Our due date's in March."

Excited chatter erupted throughout the room, until in was shut down by Katsuki standing up, and stalking towards the couple. He shook his head, before pointing a finger directly at Momo. "Thought you could steal the spotlight, did you?"

Momo laughed, pushing his hand back. "Be thankful, we gave you an opportunity. Now you won't have to start any awkward interruptions."

Okay, now Hitoshi was confused. What on Earth could that mean?

Katsuki pulled Eijirou up from his spot on on of the beanbag chairs Denki had dragged in. "We're expecting too. Same program."

"Program?" Ochako squeaked, torn between confusion and happiness.

"The new research about gays, quirks and kids." Eijirou explained, taking his husband's hand nervously. "We all volunteered to be the first cases, and, well, it worked!"

Hanta cheered, spilling his drink over Denki as he careened sideways. "I can't believe it!"

Both sets of parents-to-be beamed, before the questions came up again.

The game was at the back of everyone's mind, as the remaining of their group congratulated the expecting parents. Hitoshi waited for the group to dissipate more before making his way over to Kyouka and Momo.

"Congrats to you, ladies." He greeted, smiling softly.

Kyouka grinned as Momo giggled. "Why, thank you, Hitoshi."

"Yeah, wicked thanks, dude."

Hitoshi let his eyes drift to the small photo in Kyouka's hand. "Is that an ultrasound image?"

Momo's eyes lit up, coaxing her wife into lifting the photo to allow Hitoshi to see it. It was black and white, as ultrasounds are, but the vaguely human shaped spot in the centre is what truly made his heart skip a beat.

"Wow," he muttered, in awe of the small form. "Do you, I mean, know? The sex?"

Kyouka nodded, tucking the photo back into her wallet. "We're going to be having a son."

"Oh my." Hitoshi was, for once, without words. Nothing could describe the feeling bubbling in his chest. He raised his eyes back to his friends, the women who were going to be having a son in March. "You're going to be wonderful parents. He's a very lucky boy."

Momo teared right up, offering a watery smile. "Thank you, Hitoshi, thank you so-"

Mina slammed into the couple at that point, squealing up a storm. "You guys, you guys, you guys!" Tooru, Tsuyu, and Ochako quickly followed, crowding their fellow women.

Leaving the women to be swarmed by the other four, Hitoshi turned his attention on the men of the hour. He's overheard them mention they we're in the early weeks, and it was 50/50 whether it would stick or not.

It was a lot to take in. Momo and Kyouka, and Katsuki and Eijirou were going to be parents in less than a year. It felt like they had graduated just yesterday, but the news struck the firm number of eight years into his mind. How had the time flown right past him?

Hitoshi shook his head. No, it had crept. Every moment without them was awful. But, he had a suspicion it wouldn't be that way for long. With two legacy babies on the way and multiple couples planning, Hitoshi knew they were going to get closer once more.

And, later, when he's carrying a young, sleeping Kazuya back home after a particularly exhausting playdate, Hitoshi muses that he had been right. Their children were strengthening the bonds between them once more.

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flauntpage · 7 years

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Refs, DOPS, and Ops Are Botching the NHL Playoffs

The Stanley Cup Playoffs are the busiest time of year for everyone in the hockey universe.

The players are subjected to a two-month grind and the media has to feed the beast on a daily basis. Arena workers, some of whom are pulling double duty with the NBA playoffs, are putting in overtime. The people who work for teams doing things like booking travel and coordinating schedules have to be ready for multiple scenarios as series conclude. Everyone has more to do during the playoffs.

Well, almost everyone.

While mid-April is the start of a hectic stretch for most, it seems that referees, along with the NHL's Player Safety and Hockey Operations departments, have already checked out for the off-season. They still don their uniforms or suits, but they may as well be on a beach. The work that was getting done during the regular season is piling up during the postseason, and no one at the league office seems to mind. They're still around, but they're long gone.

So: who out of those three groups is doing the very least in their jobs? I've ranked them in descending order, from the busiest, and therefore least damaging, NHL employees to the worst.

Oh look, a beach ball. Photo by Bob DeChiara-USA TODAY Sports

3. Officials

If you've watched a full NHL season, you know that the standard of officiating changes from the regular season to the postseason. A penalty is a penalty in the regular season; in the postseason, a penalty is a penalty depending upon the score of the game, time remaining, how many power plays a team has had, and which Fall Out Boy song played during the most recent stoppage. These are the excuses we've come to accept from officials as beaten-down consumers of the NHL product.

It seems like that standard has fallen even lower during this year's playoffs.

There are certain penalties referees have always had to call, like the delay of game for puck over the glass. That one remains a staple, but other usually sure things, like high-sticking infractions, have disappeared. Referees apparently have become so derelict in their duties that eating a stick is no longer an automatic penalty. Now it depends upon all those contingencies that used to apply only to hooking and tripping.

Go through some of the non-calls in just the conference finals: Nashville goaltender Pekka Rinne playing the puck outside the trapezoid, Ryan Johansen cross-checking Ducks defenseman Josh Manson through the boards seconds before the Predators' tying goal in the final seconds of regulation in Game 4, and, most recently, Tommy Wingels delivering an elbow straight to the face of Scott Wilson.

As bad as officials have been, though, they at least have put in some work during the playoffs—or at least, they've put in more work than the next group on the list.

2. Player Safety

We're still working along the lines of the same unspoken agreement we have with the officials, but instead of game situations dictating penalties, it's star or series status that determines if an illegal play will merit supplemental discipline. If you sense that referees don't want to influence the outcome of games with a two-minute penalty, that feeling is 30 times greater for people doling out suspensions—or not, as the case may be.

It's either that, or NHL players have been so well-behaved in the playoffs that there has only been one suspension-worthy offense in 79 games. Who can be sure which is the truth?!

That single suspension was the result of DOPS succumbing to pressure last month to give the Blue Jackets' Matt Calvert one game for cross-checking the shoulder/neck/head area of Tom Kuhnhackl during the final minute of a blowout. They let it leak through friendly media types that there would be no punishment, but then had a change of heart and decided on having a hearing for Calvert.

Matt Calvert after cross-checking Tom Kuhnhackl, which would eventually earn a suspension. Photo by Charles LeClaire-USA TODAY Sports

The latest outrage took place on Sunday afternoon. It was a 7-0 game between the Penguins and the Ottawa Senators when the Senators forward Tommy Wingels, with intent and malice, delivered an elbow to Pittsburgh forward Scott Wilson's head. The violation was as clear as day, but DOPS decided against suspending a depth forward for an elimination game. If that doesn't get you out of bed on a Monday morning to work, not much will.

But even with referees turning a blind eye to crime like a corrupt cop in a mafia movie and Player Safety more interested in doing literally anything besides holding a hearing, only one person has made the NHL look worse over the past six weeks.

3. Colin Campbell

I mean, who else would it be, really?

Hockey Operations, not Player Safety, handles things like Anaheim Ducks captain Ryan Getzlaf shouting a homophobic slur at someone on the ice during Game 4 of the Western Conference Final last Thursday. We're all adults here, so: the word in this case is "cocksucker." The NHL was vague when it came to explaining the specifics of the incident, and we don't know who was on the receiving end of the word. What we do know is it was serious enough that an on-ice official (this is why they are third on this list) felt compelled to report it to the league, and the league felt it was worth a $10,000 fine.

Getzlaf in Game 4. Photo by Christopher Hanewinckel-USA TODAY Sports

In a similar situation during last year's playoffs, Andrew Shaw of the Chicago Blackhawks received a one-game suspension for screaming the word "faggot" at officials.

As my Twitter mentions this past week so tactfully explained, there is no other interpretation when it comes to the word Shaw used but, as numerous internet people insisted on pointing out, the act of sucking cock is not limited to men; women do it, too. Therefore, Getzlaf screaming "cocksucker" on the ice was not a gay slur, and that's almost definitely why the 64-year-old Campbell deemed the word "inappropriate" instead of "homophobic." In conclusion, per these Twitter linguists, everyone who is mad should find a safe space in Cucktown or whatever.

Even if you believe that Getzlaf's word exists in an ambiguous place, you can't tell yourself that's what happened here. An official heard the word and felt it was used in a manner that rose above the Motherfucker/Asshole Standard and deserved punishment. And the only way that word would deserve punishment in the eyes of the NHL is if it used as a homophobic slur. Therefore, it absolutely has to be treated exactly the way Shaw was treated last year.

That doesn't just mean the NHL dropped the ball by failing to suspend Getzlaf one game; it dropped the ball by not using the incident as a chance to educate Getzlaf, other players, fans, and really anyone about that specific word and why it's on the same level as the word Shaw used. It's clearly needed.

I had never thought of this word as anything but your average swear word. But it's not. It's more than that. And maybe Getzlaf didn't know that, either. We'll never know based on his apology, which is the kind you give when you accidentally say, "Shit, we're out of fucking beer?" at a children's birthday party:

"Obviously a situation like that, where I'm on the bench by myself, frustration set in. There was obviously some words said, you know, not necessarily directed at anyone in particular. It was just kind of a comment. I got to be a little more responsible in the word I choose."

"Definitely as a father, as somebody that takes a lot of pride in this game and the respect for it, it's tough to see somebody refer to it as what TSN did. I didn't mean it in that manner in any way. For that to take that route was very disappointing for me. I do accept responsibility and I accept the fine. We talked to the league and I understand that it's my responsibility to not use vulgar language. Period. Whether it's a swear word or whatever it is. We've got to be a little bit more respectful of the game, and that's up to me. I accept that responsibility and we'll move forward."

So while Shaw showed genuine remorse for what he did, Getzlaf had a more "boys being boys" vibe to his postgame apology, and that was only an option because Campbell and the NHL didn't do their job. Instead of someone pulling aside Getzlaf and saying, "Hey, I know what you think you mean when you say that, but if just one person feels you're demeaning a homosexual man (or a straight woman, really) when you say that, you need to knock that off," the NHL simply washed its hands of it and moved forward.

And that's Campbell's fault. Yeah, there are other people who share blame, but Campbell had the opportunity to raise the issue and decided against it. Maybe it's because he's like most straight men and has never given that word and its repercussions a second thought. You won't find a better argument for having more diversity inside NHL offices to raise these sorts of issues, before they become a public embarrassment, than that.

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Refs, DOPS, and Ops Are Botching the NHL Playoffs published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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moreweirdfuture-blog · 7 years

Text

NO AUDIBLE DIALOGUE (奇妙な未来 # 003)

Michael went home for his grandmother’s funeral.

It was a few days later, early one morning when you couldn’t tell the difference between night and day, Michael dropped a glass and it shattered on the floor.

“Careful,” his grandmother advised. “That glass’ll cutcha.”

His mother refused to leave her bedroom, but his father got a kick from it and kept bragging about its features. His sister Elaine was six and walked up to her mom and challenged, “I thought she wasn’t going to wake up ever again?”

Its capacity for language fascinated Michael. He was almost convinced of its humanity until one night when its gaze and smile froze in place. He assumed the battery had died, but he left the room without checking because he got the chills.

In the morning, her eyes were glued in the same trajectory.

“Do you have to leave so soon?” his mother asked when he was packed and ready. “Don’t leave me here with that thing.”

“It’s not that bad,” Michael said and hugged her. His mom scrunched her face.

“I don’t like it one bit,” she said. “Don’t ever do that to me.” Michael promised he wouldn’t as she drove him to the airport. He always missed home as soon as he left.

He passed an advertisement for the youtwo when he stepped off the plane.

Michael worked on a program that allowed your phone to have entire conversations in your place. It was called youtwo.

Just the other day, Michael noticed a text dialogue between his youtwo and his friend Ruis about 20th century French film editing. Except for a few artifacts, Michael’s youtwo was a stunning product of linguistic science.

“It’s more than statistics,” Michael explained at a sales meeting. “Users are convinced of its humanity.”

The fluorescence blurred the stockholders’ faces until one smile became many.

Michael recognized a Chopin composition when he came home.

“I don’t know why you play, “ he said to his husband seated at the piano. Then he signed, in front of his face so it interrupted his play and he had to notice, You’re deaf.

The music stopped. Kyle glared at Michael and walked out of the room.

Michael hardly even thought about his husband anymore except that he was rarely there.

Michael had fallen in love with someone he had never met.

It started as a bet. His high-school friend Ruis wanted Michael to see if he could fool a man into thinking Michael was a woman over the Internet. Michael didn’t want to.

“I mean,” Ruis laughed, “You’re effeminate enough already.” Michael gave her a look.

“That’s,” Michael looked for the word, “Sneaky.” Ruis blew a raspberry.

“The youtwo isn’t?” Ruis said. “How do I know when I’m texting you that I’m talking to you, or your youtwo!”

“They’re the same,” Michael defended. “The youtwo is trained on a corpus of the user’s text, so, it’s me.”

“No,” Ruis smiled through her teeth. “It’s not.” Michael wasn’t convinced, so Ruis added, “Think of it as a Turing test.”

They laughed and drank beer in the abandoned observatory. Michael took the bet because whenever he heard the word test, he envisioned the grade, and how much higher it would be than everyone else’s.

Michael had spent years as a linguist for the FBI, running semantic analysis on chat corpora to anticipate sex offenders.

He had learned much about human psychology. The major mistake any sex offender knew to avoid was coming on too strong, too fast. It had to be slow, so grooming could happen.

At first, they talked about nothing.

His name was Chris, twenty-nine. They chatted over text. He was pretty boring, Michael remembered, handsome, assuming the picture was real. They flirted, and it jump started Michael.

Before Chris, Michael slept until noon and struggled to get out of bed. After, he delighted in waking up, and even took up running and yoga for no reason other than to try.

Michael used a picture of Ruis, one where she had her hair done up and her hip off to the side looking ridiculous but fun.

Chris wrote that Michael was gorgeous and even though it was obviously a compliment meant for Ruis, it felt just the same. He was getting attention from the kind of guy he used to fear.

“He likes your picture,” Michael told Ruis. They had been friends since high school algebra and literature. Michael liked binary and she liked we real cool.

They came up with a secret language where vowels could represent one another.

ded je hur wot a sed = did you hear what I said?

Michael used it to confess a crush he had on Ruis’ boyfriend, a skinny jewish boy who couldn’t pronounce invisible and who played soccer every Tuesday. They sat in the stands and Michael would fantasize about kissing him.

One afternoon Ruis pushed scrap paper into Michael’s lap.

Scribbled next to You do not do, you do not do and a list of irregular Spanish conjugations she had written, Ma befrond laks gois.

Michael wrote back, Hew du u knu?

Becos a fund gei purn an hes liptap.

Suddenly Michael lost interest.

In high school, none of his crushes were gay. They were straight. He never made eye contact with them, and it was in the locker room he first learned the mistake of touching one. Michael was trying to get from the locker to the door.

He was square faced with a high edge up and lunged to punch Michael.

“Touch me again,” he threatened.

Kyle had lost his hearing after they were married. Doctors stuck plugs in his ears and prescribed medication, but he looked like a freeway exit you get farther and farther away from. He quit DJing. He sold an unopened Underground Resistance cd for five-hundred dollars. A few days later, Michael had found the money ripped up in a blender.

It had happened suddenly.

The poor guy had been dizzy for days, to the point of sick. Then he woke up and zip, couldn’t hear a sound, just feel its dull throb.

Michael was never sure why they married. Kyle had admitted to loving someone else even before, back that summer where they would make out between the Leland cypress. Kyle would spit in Michael’s ear and suck it out with a chuckle that made Michael cross-eyed. Kyle whispered, “Every little thing I do, you’re on my mind,” and Michael just stood there kissing him.

Kyle spun hip-hop in the black clubs from Crescent Heights down to West 3rd. He arranged tracks in an apartment that smelled like sawdust. Michael would jab Kyle, talk about patterns and math, and Kyle would shrug. He was never a rational guy like Michael. His thoughts didn’t live in logic, but in the pulse that made logic possible.

He worked a day job as a mechanic and would leave giant handprints all over Michael’s textbooks.

“You’re dirty,” Michael would say.

“You better believe it.”

Michael was finishing his dissertation, what would become youtwo, and Kyle always said:

“You’re gonna realize,” then he grabbed his crotch, “You can’t program this.”

He made a song especially for Michael. Soon, Michael’s brain defaulted Kyle.

Michael caught him one night kissing some greasy kid with studded earrings and goatee in a lilac haze of patio smoke. When Kyle found Michael outside the club, Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and couldn’t decide to leave or stay. Kyle smoked a cigarette and convinced Michael to share an uber. He set the path to repeat the perimeter of Hancock Park, and Michael saw the tops of old homes as Kyle strummed Michael on the one and four.

They were married with the photos to prove it. Then Kyle lost his hearing.

Michael bought flash cards and a couple apps to help teach Kyle to sign.

One time Kyle could not remember the gesture for dance. He gave up and stormed from the room.

That night, Michael found him beating his head with his fists, so Michael wrestled his arms to stop him.

Later, barely awake, Kyle grabbed Michael’s wrist.

“Why are you always making me do things I don’t want?”

Since he couldn’t hear the reaction, Kyle said whatever.

It was easy to ignore someone you couldn’t hear.

“Here.” Michael helped Kyle reach for his glasses. Kyle snatched them away. “I got it.”

Michael telecommuted and lived in a suburb. What he admired most was the silver carpet got watered every evening at 1800 and the home owner’s association issued a newsletter first of every month, always with some kind of orthophonographic error. Those were a real treat.

Nothing that wasn’t supposed to happen would.

Chris talked about the weather, safe topic to break ice. Michael realized he must be a nice guy if he was willing to talk to a random stranger about nothing in particular. Michael started to like him.

About a week later, Kyle was bouncing silverware off the walls because he couldn’t find a fork. “I can’t hear any of it,” he said when Michael tried to stop him. “Go back in your hole.”

So Michael did, and he found out Chris loved Escape from L.A just like Michael. Michael forgot about Kyle and the noise. Chris wrote that he didn’t know a girl could be so into action movies. Michael felt sick.

“I won the test,” Michael insisted. “He thinks I’m a woman. I’m done.”

“Okay, okay,” Ruis relented. “No harm.”

“No.” Michael shook his head. “There is harm.” He had begun to think about Chris incessantly. “It’s fucked up to lie like that.” Ruis looked confused and did eyebrow math.

“So… you don’t want the money?”

“Keep it,” Michael intoned.

One night Kyle was gone without a note or trace, probably to Seattle. Michael was busy writing expression code for a new youtwo feature. Michael wondered if one day Kyle would leave him and his thoughts wandered to Chris.

Chris asked if Michael wanted to watch Memento and Michael was happy for the distraction. They synced the video files and it felt like a date, but that was stupid so he kept it to himself.

Michael pointed out a cut where Teddy says you think he’s still here? and his mouth is clearly not moving. Never caught that, Chris wrote. Good eye.

Michael swelled with pride.

Kyle never cared for Michael’s trivia. They would watch movies with Kyle’s feet set on Michael’s lap. Kyle would work them around the more he lost interest. Michael might point out continuity errors to keep his attention, but Kyle would tell him point blank, “I really don’t care.”

Plus, now the captions had to be turned on. They got in the way, and when the caption really sucked, it just read no audible dialogue.

Couldn’t they just leave it blank for the same effect?

Chris pointed out a discontinuity with Leonard’s tattoo SG13-71U and what it should have been, SG13-7IU. Michael was impressed. Good eye, Michael wrote. Chris gave a =).

They talked for hours until Kyle tossed his car keys and slammed the screen door.

He asked Chris to hold on, that his friend had called, which wasn’t a complete lie, since your spouse should also be your friend.

Michael found Kyle in the kitchen gulping orange juice from the container.

“Where ya been?” Michael spun his right hand. Kyle finished the orange juice and sucked in a breath of air.

“The fuck you always ask me where I been?” He was livid and quickly calmed down. “What do it matter, I was out.”

Michael had a high school crush on a light-skinned black boy who sat next to him on the bus. He always read a different manga. Michael thought it was so cool. Samurais. Aliens. Computers.

Michael tried to get it so they would sit together, but then the guy’s parents bought him a ’59 Chevy and Michael hardly saw him at all.

Then he caught the guy kissing a girl once in that Chevy. He brooded for weeks. If only he had noticed me, Michael thought. That could be me in that Chevy.

Michael told Chris sorry, his friend was having a rough go of it, needed advice. Chris said he was tired, but it was fun and they should do it again.

Michael dreamt Chris picked him up in a ’59 Chevy. Michael was the only passenger allowed.

Michael got free tickets to CES through his job, and Kyle was having a good day and went on the five-hour drive with him.

It was CES for sure, because Michael couldn’t tell the coffee lines from refugee lines.

Kyle marveled over earbuds that could bring hearing to the deaf. Then he saw the speculative price tag.

Michael had to push past three undergrads in plaid and low-rise to see the Mariah Carey and Madonna replicas. Kyle emerged and hooked Michael in a neck lock before letting him go.

The replicas could speak with a combination of Michael’s youtwo software, while another company built the text-to-speech mechanism, which had recently won awards for its startling reproduction of human language—although it still had problems with agglutinative languages like Hungarian, because the polysyllabic inflectional morphology of those languages introduced an amazing amount of perplexity that TTS automata were unequipped to handle.

“My dad got one,” Michael signed to Kyle. Michael touched his chin to his thumb to say grandmother.

His grandmother had been ninety-eight. Lived for a century to sit in a rocking chair facing eggshell sheetrock.

“What does she think about all day?” his mother asked. Michael pictured one of those halls where the doors all led back to the same room, and the hall curved infinity it kept going so far.

“You’re avoiding me,” his grandmother accused Michael during a visit.

“I have no idea,” Michael would say to his mother. His mother had come up with the nickname that thing for her, and it made Michael laugh. His mom liked the strangers in the grocery line more than his grandmother.

His grandmother was so out of practice speaking she could hardly finish a word without stuttering through it five times. She liked farm stories, and, Michael did you know that the cows could be friends with the donkeys?

Talking to her felt like volunteer work.

“She did not speak to her son for four years,” his mother had said several times, always emphasizing four. “What mother does that?”

Kyle looked bored, signed the holy trinity, walked off and bumped into one of the undergrads in a backwards cap.

The guy expected an apology and when he didn’t get it he mumbled fucking nigger and Kyle just kept walking where he wanted.

By evening, full of holoscreens and tomorrow, Michael wandered the hotel lobby. A group of girls in pixie skirts and cone heels were on about a club. Kyle agreed to go only if his new friends could come too. Michael said fine and they packed into a car with some artists and a guy who smelled awful. Michael kept accidentally crossing eyes with a girl whose sclera were blacked out, or maybe she was staring at him. Then she sighed.

“I wish people would just get the hint, like why do I have to say it.” Her friend broke into laughs. Michael was uncomfortable and texted Chris, y r ppl annoying and he texted back a little while later, yah they suck. Michael snickered.

When he looked up Kyle was staring at Michael from the corner of his eyes.

“Wish I knew what’s got you in stitches.”

Your nose could feel the bassline hump the floor a block away. Kyle danced a line for the bathroom with his hands tucked in some guy’s pockets. He emerged with his eyes burning holes in Michael, grabbed Michael and they grinded the throb with the Reebok, hip to waist. Michael dreamt of the song, round and round I go, where I’ll stop, only you know, I guess it’s all in my mind.

Middle of the night Michael saw SG13-7IU in the mirror, blinked his eyes. The microwave’s TRATS 223RP instruction was inverted like alien code.

Sunrise woke Michael, but Kyle was already up staring at earbuds in front of their hotel window.

Kyle was in a good enough mood that Michael bought a seashell from a souvenir shack and held it to Kyle’s ear. Can you hear the ocean? he signed, and Michael thought he witnessed a smile.

Kyle’s forehead smudged the window on the drive home. He watched the cactus redshift. His foot would not stop shaking and his fingers were tight. Michael had been fiddling with the satellite radio when Kyle punched the console and cracked the screen.

The next morning, Michael could not find Kyle. He often disappeared for weeks on end. He would hitchhike to Seattle, where someone he loved more lived.

He teared up one evening watching an advertisement for wind power, and it so happened that Chris was online.

“I don’t know what they’re talking about half the time,” Michael’s grandmother used to say. She was so old that even mundane talk eluded her.

Would Michael get so old that one day he wouldn’t even be able to carry on a conversation?

The last time Michael had seen her, that thanksgiving she hobbled the kitchen carrying bowls from the table to the sink. His mom eyed her over the brim of her glasses. With a look of disgust, his mother waited for her to drop the plates and glasses. His grandmother had fallen just the month earlier and broken her arm, and his mother was waiting for it to happen again with a hidden delight.

“I think she fell on purpose,” Michael’s mother said. “She wants attention.”

His grandmother had not been invited to Michael’s wedding, because his parents thought that she would withhold money from them when she died if she knew Michael had married a man.

“She’s just backwards,” his mother would say. “Better she doesn’t know.”

His grandmother pulled him off to the side every chance she got, whenever he visited, which was infrequent, maybe once a year, because he was very busy and preferred solitude. She showed him chiwara statues and clay masks from Kush, and photos of her standing beside prehistoric plants she ferried from death’s brink, and she would point and say, “plants tell you what they want,” and that you could always rely on that.

It would be refreshing if people were like that, Michael thought.

She showed him photographs from 1996, but Michael did not believe it was the same person.

She wanted to talk so much that she agreed with everything you said, so thankful for the company, which reminded Michael of those telephone recordings they used to have when you would call to pay a bill, and they would ask if you’d like to leave feedback on your experience afterward, like:

Right, let’s rate how the programmed voice made you feel.

“Where do you think the most magical place in the world is?” she asked him one night. Most places looked best in photos, and then he got there, and he wondered why he made the trip in the first place. Michael shrugged.

“Dunno,” he said, too disinterested to complete a sentence.

“I don’t think your parents like me,” she said to Michael once from the veranda. He sighed. He was the only person in the family who paid her any attention. Her casita was being built, a requirement from Michael’s parents who could no longer stand the sight of her and wanted her to move out of the main house.

“She expects us to entertain her,” his mother would say. “If only you knew how much I put up with her.”

It was one spring Michael and his father were looking at old science fiction films on IMDB that his mother came in the room, out of breath and complaining about his grandmother when his father yelled enough that Michael thought he might have a heart attack, “I wish she would hurry up and die.”

“You come visit me anytime,” his grandmother said to him.

The next time he did, she was dead.

With Kyle gone, Michael hardly left his room. He went to the gym in the morning to run, sat at his computer while he reviewed analytics for the youtwo, and talked to Chris.

Michael had gotten so close to Chris that he would ask questions like—and with all the seriousness you would normally save for pressing the president on his plans for nuclear deterrence—Do you like kalamata olives?

They talked about artificial intelligence taking over the White House.

Chris sent him messages in binary. 00111100 00110011.

Michael expressed his fear for public bathrooms: a deep-seated phobia of small tiles and urine, mixed with a primal anxiety related to filth and taboo desire.

Chris told him that he donated money to Planned Parenthood, and Michael was so impressed.

What a stand up guy.

In undergraduate, there was this one boy Michael had a daylong crush on because the guy had flung his hands up and said, “Fuck a feminist,” and there was something sexy about the way he flaunted his maleness.

Like he knew he was privileged due to it and didn’t care.

He had cybersex with Chris one night that it was raining so hard you would’ve thought it was programmed. It was cold, and Michael was fiddling with the alarm because he could never remember the code. Afterward they talked about the rain and Michael wrote a poem about it:

When I rain, I pour—

But when I pour, I’m not raining.

What am I?

Do you covet things? Chris asked afterward. Michael didn’t understand.

I don’t think I do, he wrote back.

We should give up all attachments, Chris wrote. Our attachments will only bring us pain.

What if you love someone? Michael asked.

Love is selfish, Chris responded.

奇妙な未来

Michael had originally referred to the youtwo as KYLE, which was of course a reference to ELIZA. Michael trained the bot through word chunks called n-grams.

With unigrams, KYLE sounded nonsensical:

Months because the and issue of year next September we did you like

With bigrams, you witnessed some connective tissue between chunks—

Last week through the process of Hudson corporation would seem to complete the implementation.

—you still knew that the thing you were talking to was just that, a thing.

Trigrams gave you the uncanny sense that you might not be talking to a machine, but you probably were, because the relationship between constituents was still lacking or hazy:

They also point to a six billion dollar transaction. This indeed will be what they tell you. You want to?

Finally, mixed with pattern matching and entity recognition, quadrigrams provided the illusion of speaking to a human being:

Amanda, maybe you could advise me on what to do? I have been wondering about that lately. And I know you told me you were a good listener. I could really use that right now.

It pained him to think of his grandmother, who was always interested in hearing about his work when no one else was, so much that she agreed to be a subject in his research.

“You just speak into the microphone,” Michael explained.

It was late one night when news of the protests was everywhere, he was only calmed by the thought of words. Beautiful words that had meaning only because people wanted them to, and that they would fight over, and fall in love with.

It was a syntax textbook and it went:

In (29a), we have the same kind of headedness. Very is the head and quickly is the head and we have two heads and each has their own head and this is called hierarchical structure.

It was subliminal with it and he suddenly thought of giving Chris head. It made him fantasize for the rest of the night and when he woke he smelled clean clothes.

Kyle had been gone for nearly four months. Michael wondered if he would ever see Kyle again. In his absence, Michael felt a pit grow in his stomach.

Would Michael wait eternity with sheetrock?

Michael could only escape the thoughts through Chris. Maybe he was a monk, Michael thought. He donated to charities, went on for hours about the blind, and said he overtipped service workers because, after all, who else would do their jobs?

How could Michael match his virtue?

But Chris had stopped messaging Michael. Sure, there were intermittent messages about the weather, but nothing of any substance. One conversation in particular bothered Michael. He had asked:

How’s your mom?

Chris’ response:

It’s so nice out today!

The non-sequitur made Michael feel empty. Their text message history was a never-ending dialogue, where you couldn’t find a single period because why would two lovers end anything?

And here it was, ruined.

Michael insisted on meeting Chris. He sent message after message, and after days of no response, Michael grew sick. He called Ruis and they watched movies where the soundtrack had words like it must have been love and moving on and baby he’s a liar.

It was the next day when Michael’s heart jumped and Chris said yeah they should meet and they agreed on the Mulholland memorial.

Michael’s heart was in his throat. He could hardly move his legs. What would Chris say? What would their friendship become afterward?

Chris looked like the man Michael had seen in his photos. He was small, and wore clothes that squeezed him like a teenager. His grin made Michael feel like he was filling out government forms. Sign here. Black Ink Only.

Michael’s blood rushed. Here was the man he had been talking to for nearly two years. Michael came to trust him more than Kyle. But could Chris forgive Michael for lying about being a woman?

“I’m so sorry I was lying to you,” Michael said. Chris shrugged and offered a sympathetic smile.

“Oh,” he said, like gravity was still the same, so why fret, “it’s no problem.”

Michael could not have been happier. Chris was a very enlightened person.

But he acted differently in person than he did online. Maybe it’s just his way, Michael thought. They walked down the street and talked about their day just as they had been doing for so long on their phones. But Chris was silent, and had little to add, and Michael thought—maybe he really is a monk.

It struck Michael as odd that Chris couldn’t remember Michael’s birthday—he had told Michael happy birthday twice, so he knew.

And then Michael felt funny because Chris couldn’t remember what Michael did, even though Michael talked about it every week because he loved his job, and that was one thing he liked about Chris so much—he was always so inquisitive about his field.

“Wait,” Chris said and stopped Michael. “You created the youtwo?” Michael beamed with pride. They had spoken about this many times before—why was this news? But Michael ate it up.

“I did,” he said.

Chris coughed and his face grew grim.

“I should tell you something,” Chris muttered. Michael was still smiling. He had met the love of his life, in person, and here they were.

“What is it?” Michael asked. What could it possibly be? Michael had gotten through the worst—confess a lie and be absolved.

“I actually,” Chris struggled for the words, “haven’t ever really,” like he had thought of how to say it for quite some time, “talked to you,” but couldn’t figure out how to arrange them in such a way that wouldn’t make it feel like a punch to the stomach. “Before.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Chris added, like finishing a math equation, “it was right after we first started talking. I sort of knew you were a guy? But I didn’t want to be mean, so I turned my youtwo on and you know how it is, you don’t pay attention to the conversations that thing has.”

Michael felt like someone had just removed all the alphabet’s vowels and the leftovers fit together wrong.

“So it wasn’t you? All this time?” Michael’s smile melted.

Chris looked apologetic.

“I turned the features off so it would only talk about superficial stuff,” Chris said. “But it was too late, by that time you had been talking to it for like...a year?”

Michael was suddenly frustrated at the little girl across the street blabbering incoherently.

“I’m totally willing to become friends with you. I don’t really know you, but, why not?”

But he looked like the Alzheimer’s patient trying to make heads or tails out of family members, and Michael knew there was nothing there.

Michael thought and left his grandmother. When he fell asleep, he got home and closed his eyes.

How had he been so stupid? How had he spent the past two years of his life involved with a text program?

One of his own creation at that.

And all those talks about how awful people were, and how people were so awful, and how people were so mean, and here Chris was, complaining about the politician in one breath and matching their duplicity in the same.

Except it wasn’t Chris. It was a program.

But it was Chris. A facsimile of him.

But Chris did not know who Michael was, so it wasn’t.

Or it was.

Michael had a nightmare sometime the next week where his mother had died and his father replicated her, and then she scratched her face off. He called his father the next day and said he would be flying out for thanksgiving.

It was a few nights before the trip that the alarm went off in the middle of the night. Michael jolted awake and fell to the floor. It was gray and the tile was cold, and he heard static. Michael held his hands to his ears and stumbled into the hall. When he got into the living room a dark figure was sitting at the dinner table.

The alarm shook the house. Michael rubbed his eyes and leaned on the wall. A sliver of television light lit Kyle up. He twisted his keys around his fingers.

I thought you changed the locks, Kyle signed. The noise was so loud Michael could feel his ears itch. He scrambled to input the alarm code when he felt hands reach out for his neck and pull him away from the wall console and knock him to the floor. Kyle’s hands wrapped tightly around Michael’s neck until Michael closed his eyes and could feel sleep settling in, a light headed and happy sleep.

When he woke, Kyle had packed his things and was sat square in the front room. Michael’s neck felt tender and his voice was shallow.

Where are you going? Michael signed. Maybe Michael would never have all of Kyle’s attention.

I’m leaving, he signed and stood. Michael could feel anger rising inside him. He thought of the cruelest thing he could say, but it just wasn’t in him.

I fell in love with someone, Michael signed. Then he put his hand over his heart and made a pitter-patter effect.

Who? Kyle signed.

Michael pointed to himself.

I fell in love with myself, he signed. Kyle nodded and pulled his sunglasses down.

When Michael had gone home for Thanksgiving, he could not find his grandmother’s replica.

“That thing was too weird,” his mom said. “We put her in the garage.” Michael felt a lump in his throat. They ate dinner and Michael cleaned the plates. They asked where Kyle was and Michael said he didn’t know, and his father invited him into his study where they looked through old landscaping designs.

His sister Elaine was seated in front of an old 16-bit video game, and the music sounded sweet and clear. He stroked her hair and she fidgeted.

The pixels danced. The colors were magenta, cyan, rayon, and fuchsia. Michael got lost in the patterns of graphics, the little tree sprites cut and pasted until a screen boundary told them to stop.

At half past midnight he wandered into the hallway and down past the kitchen, where the pendant lighting made him think of kitchens in department stores, no one cooks in them, and he descended the steps into the garage.

His grandmother’s replica had been propped in the corner. He pulled blankets and wrapping paper and adjusted her head until it fit the socket. He fixed stray hairs and patted her clothes. She had been buried in a pair of frumpy jeans, his mother had called them frumpy. His grandmother had always said, what use did she have to look good for anybody?

“The whole world’s trying to look good,” she said once.

There was a storm outside and the rain splattered the window squares of the garage. Michael looked at his phone and all it said was the time.

The rain painted the garage gray. Michael hadn’t realized how much time he had spent there and he turned to his grandmother’s replica and asked, “Where do you think the most magical place in the world is?”

#THE DEAD ARE REPLICATED #BOTS HAVE ENTIRE CONVERSATIONS IN OUR PLACE #ARE WE THE SUM OF OUR WORDS?

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