#sorry if its illegible i wrote this half asleep :')

[kookiekittyp4nties]

An Eventful night in

words: 3.4k

Fic summery: Billy Butcher x fem reader x Hughie. Hughie and the reader have been dating for a while and recently started sleeping together with Butcher. After the rest of the boys crew decide to go out you decide to stay back with Butcher and Hughie to get changed but that quickly turns into something much more eventful then the night you had planned.

Tags: Smut, nsfw, double penetration, Eiffel tower, vaginal fingering, rimming, anal play, anal sex, creampie, praise kink, slight degradation, blowjobs, rough oral sex, finger sucking, threesome-FMM, handjobs, rough sex, light breeding kink. overstimulation, doggystyle, manhandling, unprotected sex

Notes: i wrote this all the way back in august hehe its an oldie but still a goodie

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

It was a cool evening in the streets of NYC and the boys were all huddled together in their base, desperately trying to figure out their next move. Amongst the frustrated silence, Frenchie spoke up. “It's late, and we've been on edge all month. Why don't we take the night off?” Had anyone walked into the room they could easily tell that the consensus was that everyone agreed. 

“It is important to take time off...” M.M agreed. “Great! How do drinks and dancing sound?!” Frenchie exclaimed. Kimiko nodded excitedly in agreement. “What about you y/n?'' Kimiko signed. “Clubbing might be fun actually. It’s been a while since I've had an excuse to dress up a bit” she grins. “Butcher? Hughie? Do you guys wanna come?” 

“Sorry love but I'm a bit tied up here at the moment.” Butcher gestures to the assortment of plans, guns and other illegal items on the table in front of him. “You feeling okay?” M.M laughs. “Because usually Butcher, you besides from Frenchie would be the first person to ditch work to go party.”  

“Yeah well, today I'm not M.M. My heads bloody killing me mate and I still have all this shit to sort out.” sensing the tension brewing Hughie chirps up i-Ill go” He enthusiastically replies, standing up so quickly he knocks the table and butcher beside him. Who shoots him a displeased look.

 “It'll take me a while to get ready so why don’t you go ahead guys and Hughie and I can hopefully in that time convince Butcher to pull the stick out his ass and come with us.”  you happily chirp. “You don't have to tell me twice mon Coeur,” Frenchie calls holding Kimiko's hand and throwing his jacket over his shoulder as he leaves, M.M trailing behind him. 

Awkward silence quickly filled the air as the other half of the group cleared out. “Well, I'm going to go change and do my makeup. Take your time finishing up with whatever this is.”You exclaim, grabbing your bag and sauntering to the bathroom winking as you close the door.

“A-Actually I need to shower too.” Hughie beams, and practically jumps to follow you.“Lad, she’s changing give her a second.” Butcher grumbles patting Hughie on the shoulder and lighting a cigarette.

It's a while before the sound of the shower stops and You walk out of the bathroom. Hughie’s eyes almost damn near fall out of his head when he sees what you’re wearing. And Butcher, for once, is at a loss for words. “Are you boys ready to leave yet?” you call bending over to re-apply her lipstick. Your short dress threatens to show your panties. 

Both men almost audibly groan as she stands on her tip ties to get a better look at her face in the mirror revealing her pink lacy panties. “While you were in the shower Hughie and I were talking and we realized that it's been a while since we have all spent time together... With this and the bullshit with Homelander and Stormfront, we haven't had any time to ourselves.”

“Hughie, baby do you really feel like that?” you stop putting on your makeup and regretfully glance at the two men on the sofa. “I mean we live together, so I guess it is easy to overlook how much we are having sex, versus how many times we attempted and fell asleep... And Butcher we see even less out of work. I’m sorry we haven't been having much fun together recently.”  

“Which is okay,” Hughie interjects quickly. “I mean, well, I am sorta, really pent up and seeing you in that dress isn't helping... But that's not to say this is our fault. If anything it's fucking Homelanders fault for making us so busy we bearly have any time to fuck, let alone do anything but worry.” Y/n’s breath hitches as she notices Hughie’s tent in his jeans. 

“He does have a point about the dress. You look fucking sexy in it. The thing is so short that if we wanted to fool around all we have to do is roll it up slightly. Which, I’m not opposed to in the slightest... I've always had a soft spot for short dresses.” he groans, grabbing Your waist. being so caught up in the moment, you hadn’t even noticed that both he and Hughie were towering over her looking down ravenously.

Shivering you experimentally grind yourself against Butcher's groin... And beckon Hughie to kiss you. “Wait, are we seriously going to do this here?” He mumbles as he pulls away. “I’m really fucking horny too but everyone is in here during the day. What will they say if they come back  tomorrow and it smells like sex?”  

“You act like it doesn't smell dubious here on the regular lad. It probably won't be noticed too much. And either way, if Frenchie of all people does say anything it's not like we haven't walked in on or seen the aftermath of this room when he’s had Kimiko peg him in here.” Hughie sheepishly nods and leans in for another kiss. “It's just a little team-building exercise…what do you say Y/n? Want me and Hughie to fuck you silly?” 

Legs trembling at his usage of words, you eagerly nod.  “Oh, Come on, you know you can do better than that.” Butcher groans, nibbling your ear and grabbing a handful of your breast. “Say it.” Hughie chimes in. “Say you want Me and Butcher to fuck you silly right here like a little slut.” By the way, butcher’s grope eases on your breast you can tell he is also surprised to hear how assertive the shorter man is being. “I- I want you and Butcher to fuck me silly.” 

“That's a good girl.” Butcher sighs, pulling your panties to the side to rub your clit.  Your eyes grow heavily lidded as you feel Butcher's thick fingers slipping between your labia. He swipes his fingers up your slit collecting all the sticky wetness before circling back to your bundle of nerves.

”Now, poor Hughie has been straining in his pants the past half hour, would you be a dear and help relive him a little before he jizzes his pants like fucking a schoolboy.” working quickly You unbutton and unzip his jeans and slips your hands into his boxers to free him from his fabric prison. You quickly take notice of how painfully hard he is. His cock throbbing and already dribbling pre down his shaft.

“Fuck,” he hisses when his cock hits the cool air of the room, Throwing his head back.“That feels good.” Butcher hums in agreement as he gently slips a finger into Y/n’s soaked pussy.”Remember, jerk him off slowly, just the way he likes it, love. That's right, thumb the tip and then drag your hand down his shaft using his precum as lube.” Hughie trembles at the stimulation and buries his face in your neck. Licking and sucking a hickey into it. He is already so sensitive, so pretty. His face is burning as he nuzzles it into you.

“Butcher….please” you moan. “Please what love? Use your words, I'm not a fucking mind reader.” he chuckles. “Please fuck me with your fingers.” you breathe out, legs starting to buckle. Your cheeks are burning in anticipation. At this point, you are practically dripping. “Sure thing y/n.” almost instantly you feel another finger slip into you and curl causing you to moan loudly and arch your back. "Fuck, your little cunny is so tight it's practically sucking me in. I can barely move." He chuckles.

“How close are you Hughie?” you exhale deeply, Quickening your stroke on his shaft. You can feel him throbbing in your hand. “Pretty, close.” he moans with half-lidded eyes, so eager for stimulation that he bucks his hips into your hand. Usually, he isn't this eager, but you can tell was as pent up as he said. He just can't help himself, you are so good, and your fingers are so skilled he almost feels selfish for having someone jerk him off this well. This is definitely better than touching himself.

 You feel a deep warm knot start to tighten in the pit of your stomach and involuntarily bounce yourself on Butcher's fingers. “Feels good, don’t it? Having your slutty little cunt played with so roughly. Right where anyone could walk in?” he doesn't need to hear an audible response as you clench tightly around his fingers. Wantonly moaning out both his and Hughie’s names. “I'm gonna .. cum” you whine as Hughie pulls you into another sloppy kiss. 

“Me too” he moans into your mouth. Grabbing your chin and turning you to face him, Butcher kisses you roughly, both his Hughies and your spit dripping down your chin. His pace quickens as he continues his assault on your sensitive clit and he drags you to orgasm quickly. Both you and Hughie throw your heads back in ecstasy and moan in unison. “Oh fuuuuck.” Hughie almost sobs. His cum painting your hand and the front of your panties. You would have worried about it getting on your dress had Butcher not rolled the thing up almost to your tits. 

Panting you and Hughie collapse onto each other.  And both eagerly stretch your hand out to Butcher and pull him to sit beside you two on the ground. After sucking and licking the cum off his fingers Butcher makes quick work of his leather jacket and his belt. “How do you reckon we do this Hughie?” he asks, palming his erection through his boxers. Still, in a haze from his orgasm, Hughie only groans. “Lad c’mon snap out of it. There's still more fun to be had. Surely you've wanked at least once this week. There isn't any reason for you to be that spent after a little handy.” 

“You guys could Eiffel tower me?” you finally speak up, and pull yourself into Butcher’s lap, grinding against his erection. You almost feel yourself get wetter at that comment. Butcher grins at you in agreement and you both look over to Hughie for his confirmation.  “Yeah, that could be fun, 've only ever seen them do it in porn though, is it an actual sex position?” Of course, he is questioning the validity of the position. You love Hughie, but he is inexperienced when it comes to these matters. He is almost like a lamb, while Butcher is like a ravenous wolf. "Try sounding any less pleased and porn addicted." Butcher chuckles. Ignoring his comment, you continue  to explain “Course it is.” 

 “Why would it be made up? All I have to do is get on my hands and knees and have one of you take me from behind and the other takes my mouth. It's pretty simple actually.”

“And bloody fun” Butcher adds. You can tell Hughie still looks a bit shy at the idea of something so lewd that you propose an idea. “If you want I can take you up the ass?” you giggle. Which seems to make him somehow even redder, almost as if he hadn't just painted your hand with his jizz. “Lad I can tell you this for free, almost every man I’ve met likes anal one way or another. I know you’ve wanted to do this for a while. Don't act like I haven't seen your search history. You're a filthy fucking pervert like the rest of us.” Both of you laugh and he blushes. “Here let me make it a little easier” you giggle, peeling off your panties and dress and sitting on his lap facing away from him.  You grind your ample exposed ass against his cock and you almost feel him grow hard under you. 

“Now butcher come here” you beckon him with your hand and he shuffles over to stand in front of you. Tentatively you lick your lips before pulling the front of his briefs down to expose his hard and twitching cock.

He was a bit bigger than Hughie; more girthy at least. You'd almost forgotten how big he was. You know for certain your jaw is going to hurt tomorrow.

 “Take a picture, it'll last longer Luv,” he smirks above you. Still grinding against Hughie you reach out to grab the base and jerk him a few times. Leaning forward you give him a few speculative licks. Usually, Hughie preferred to take your mouth, it's been so long since you've blown anyone you are a little intimidated by his size. All your inhibitions fade away the moment you put your mouth around his thick head. It's salty but not unbearable, you can taste the day's sweat on him.

Lust Clouds your mind as you practically bury his cock in your mouth, gagging slightly as you reach the base. Butcher groans loudly through gritted teeth and this only solidifies how badly you want to please him. It takes every atom in his body for Butcher not to skull fuck you right then. You look just perfect, lipstick smudged spit dripping down your chin and your puffy stolen lips wrapped around his cock. If he had his phone he'd take a photo. It'd be a shame to not save this moment. 

Behind you, Hughie is growing more and more impatient.  Trying to get your attention by licking a stripe up your back and tentatively grinding his thumb against your ass. “Hey don't forget about me Y/n. I’m still here too,” he whines, grinding himself against your taint.

He certainly wasn't this needy last time he, you and Butcher fucked, then again, he had two people stimulating him at once. Where was all his assertiveness from earlier?  “I didn't forget” you mumble around Butcher. “You are going to have to speak up if you want the lad to hear you Luv. You've got a bit of cock in your mouth.” A Bit was definitely an understatement. 

Smirking he pulls you off his cock with a pop. “Butcher get on your knees and Hughie hold on to my waist okay?” Both men do as they are told, either neither of them had any energy to protest or they were both too horny to care. “Hughie, I'm going to ease myself onto you okay? Don't start to thrust until I say so.” you look back over your shoulder and see his tongue dart out to wet his lips as he nods. 

Taking as you get back onto your hands and knees you are startled by a warm wet sensation prodding at your ass. “Are you okay Y/n?Did I do something wrong?” he quickly pulls away from your ass and you almost instinctively push his face back against you. “I'll take that as a no then.” Hughie smiles and presses his mouth flush against your ass again. Practically making out with your asshole.

 You arch your back and grind yourself against his mouth. Letting our a loud almost pornographic moan. “That's a bloody delicious sight. You've got a lot more balls than I thought son.” Butcher supplies leaning back and pulling your chin towards his now aching cock.  Lolling your tongue out he places his shaft back into your mouth jerking himself off into your mouth. You close your swollen lips around his head and start bobbing again. 

When you feel that you are sufficiently wet you pull away from Hughie’s mouth and playfully move your hips side to side to prompt him. Slipping Butcher out of your mouth you give the younger man a verbal cue. “You can put it in now Hughie, don't worry, she doesn't bite.” he and Butcher chuckle gently at your crude joke as he lines up the blunt head of his cock and starts to push in. 

 “Mmmm’ you moan out as he pushes in deeper. His hand snakes around your waist to pull you closer to him. “Just a bit more.” he groans. “Fuck, you are so tightt.” you feel his bottom out inside you and almost leap at the opportunity to grind your hips back against him. The slight burn of his intrusion feels fucking good. Hughie seems to think the same thing as he starts to thrust into you. 

Leaning forward you shove Butcher back into your mouth hungry for his cock. Quickly taking in the entirety of him without gagging at his size.  All three of you moan in unison as your bodies wetly connect. You grind your hips into Hughie's slowly, careful not to let an inch out of you. “You can be a little rougher than that with her son, you aren't gonna break her. She can take it. Cant you?” he looks down at you. “Yeah, she's a tough little thing. I bet you if we actually wanted to break her we couldn't.” 

With every thrust of his hips, Hughie can feel himself getting more and more wrecked. You’re just so perfectly tight. The way your ass is clapping against his hips looks just like the porn he had watched earlier that week. Unlike the girl in the video, he could tell that you were enjoying yourself. Leaning forward a bit he locks his hand with yours and starts to whisper gently into your ear as he teases and pinches your nipple.

“Y/n  fuck, I'm so close already. You are so good to us. So good to me. Taking me so deeply. Do you think I could feel my cock in your ass if I stuck a few fingers in that greedy pussy of yours?” He punctuates the last few words with some particularly hard thrusts, feeling you clench around him. Removing his hand from your nipple he slips 3 of his fingers into your needy pussy which sends you over the edge. Suddenly clamping around him with a vice-like grip you cum, hard. Your slick wetness gushing down his fingers. Pulling off of the butcher's cock you cry out an unintelligible string of words.

The sudden tightness around him sends Hughie over the edge too. His warm cum spills into you. His hips spasming as he stuffs your ass with his cum. Harder and harder until he collapses onto you. Kissing your neck and back. Looking up through your eyelashes you can tell Butcher is close too.

Lust clouding his eyes he pulls your head forward and you quickly engulf him in your mouth and let him fuck your throat to completion. His grunts and groans make you wetter and wetter every second. “Open your mouth Y/n.” Butcher gruffly pulls himself out of your mouth to roughly jerk himself off on our tongue. Throwing his head back he cums in your mouth. Not wanting to waste anything you wrap your lips around him and let him finish in your throat. Rope after rope of his seed slipping down your abused throat.

“Fuck me” he moans. “I needed that.” all three of you collapse into a mess of bodies and try to come down from your intense orgasm. “That was fucking good.” you all say in unison. “Fucking good.” you conceded. “Although I wish my pussy got a little more attention.” you playfully frown. “I do find it a bit unfair that both you and Hughie got to cum more than once while I've just had my first O.” Butcher pouts 

“Well, what do you suggest?” Hughie questions innocently. 

#the boys tv #billy butcher #hughie campbell #hughie x reader #butcher x reader

[cheesy09]

I apologize in advance, but here's some Fallen Angel Kiro brainrot. These scenarios are based off of his karma bylines for the Sacred Voice Halloween Event on the CN server :>

Even as arrows rained down on him, the sharp edges fiercely piercing into the tenderness of his wings, Kiro still clutched tightly onto that little light in his arms.

He covered it entirely with his body, his grasp on it never easing, even as the arrows stabbed at him and stained his pristine white feathers a dark and vengeful red, as if forcefully trying to strip him off that purity.

His body was screaming; fiery pain coursing through his blood, rendering him breathless. Cold sweat drenched his golden hair and made it uncomfortably stick to his forehead. His eyelashes quivered with delicate fragility, yet his azure eyes remained glued to the being in his arms.

He lowered his head and whispered softly.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice gentle, his gaze a mixture of sadness and faint yearning. "You're safe here with me."

"Even if the path ahead is covered in thorns, I will continue embracing you."

"Caught you~"

The soft and sweet voice that swirled near his ear in the darkness was like a Siren's song, luring him deeper into that gentle trap that she set up. A trap he threw himself into willingly. A sailor whose heart and soul found itself bewitched by that deadly yet beautiful songbird.

"Now, let me return the favor," she sang, her moist lips touching the back of his ear. Her hands slipped around him from behind and she pressed herself against his back in a sudden embrace. "It's my turn to embrace you."

He felt their horns touch, and in that moment, it was as if he could feel what she was feeling. See it in her gaze, her voice, her touch.

The love and the yearning. The possessive desire and obsession.

She felt the exact same things he did.

"I'm sorry I couldn't purify you," Kiro murmured, leaning into her arms. Those same arms that now felt like a fetter around his heart, commanding it to beat just for her.

In response, her hand lifted and ran over the side of his face: sensuous, tempting, exploratory - as if trying to map out every inch of him. He couldn't help the shiver of pleasure that ran down his spine.

"It's okay," she whispered, her fingers softly landing on his lips, tracing them. Their pitch black wings entwined together in a flurry of dark feathers, like their souls, starved and hungry for each other. Her voice was like honey, slowly dripping onto his heart and melting it. "I'm sorry for tainting you."

He lifted a hand and held hers, their fingers lacing tightly together. There was a drunken look in his eyes, and the smile on his face was one of longing and hopeless infatuation.

"It's okay. I wouldn't have it any other way. After all..."

"My body, my soul... they all belong to you."

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc kiro #sorry if its illegible i wrote this half asleep :') #mlqc drabble #kiro drabble

[uwusenpaiuwu]

Sleepovers At The Baji Household feat. A Fed-Up Chifuyu

Summary: Chifuyu just wants to sleep, man, but Baji wants to be a jealous crackhead at 2 AM.

Pairing: Sano Manjiro | Mikey x Male Reader

Note(s): I had a little free time and wrote this. So, please enjoy! ALSO, to the anon that sent me a request a few days ago, I saw it and have it filed on my to-do list!!! I will definitely get to it as soon as I get a break in my schedule :)

"Chifuyu, ya wanna see some real discrimination?"

No. No, Chifuyu does not want to see what Baji means by 'real discrimination.'

Does he tell him that, though?

Yes, actually, because it's 2 in the fucking morning and, as much as he respects the other boy, he wouldn't put it past himself to smother him with a pillow after having his dream of cuddling with a sea of puppies suddenly destroyed.

Unfortunately for his sanity, Baji either doesn't hear him or, more likely than not, doesn't give a fuck, because he's already flopping onto his belly and whipping out his phone to do God knows what.

The dial tone that sounds from the speaker a few seconds later makes Chifuyu cringe, especially since it's only ever been a calm silence fit for a good night's sleep prior to Baji bulldozing through it with his absurd question. (At the very least, he's thankful that the latter has half a mind to keep the brightness on the lowest setting, otherwise, Chifuyu would have had to fight.)

On the far end of the row of carefully-laid futons, you shift in your sleep, eyebrows furrowing together at the noise. Rotating onto your side, you unconsciously reach for Baji, and just when he thinks you're being cute and trying to cuddle him, you smack him in the head.

Baji doesn't flinch, instead, takes his pillow and shoves it in your grasp to keep your unconscious self occupied, so that he can focus on getting through to the person who reuses to pick up (understandably so).

Releasing a frustrated groan after being redirected to voice mail for the fifth time, he dials the number again, muttering an impatient, "Pick up already."

Chifuyu feels sorry for the poor soul on the other end. He would've blocked someone following the first call, because again, it's-

The blond has to squint his eyes up at the digital clock on Baji's nightstand, which confirms that it's already 2:22 A.M, further solidifying the fact that he shouldn't be awake right now. And this also applies to the ever persistent first division captain, who insists on bothering who Chifuyu soon discovers is Mikey from the contact ID that flashes across the screen.

Why Baji is so keen on bothering him is a question he doesn't have the mental capacity to ponder over. The most energy he'll expend is to listen in when the call miraculously connects.

"What...?" comes a muffled voice from the receiver, tone laced in an irked grogginess birthed from a slumber rudely interrupted.

There's an absurdly loud, almost angry, roar of Mikey's name, one that has Chifuyu curling in on himself in a futile attempt to escape a sound that should be illegal at this hour.

But you know what else should be illegal?

The fucking whiplash Chifuyu gets when Baji's deep voice takes an abrupt 180°, switching from its normal gruffness to a squeaky, ear-piercing shrill as he screams, "I love you, love you, love you! Do you love me, too, Mikey-kyun~♡?!"

The room is dead silent.

Not a word. Not a murmur. Not a breath.

Just pure, unadulterated silence as both Chifuyu and Mikey process the words that hang in the air, permeating it with a goosebumps-inducing eeriness from having heard such a...a girly, overtly cutesy screech from Baji.

Then-

"What the fuck? He hung on me!"

Chifuyu opens his mouth, thinks better of reacting to the cursed scene he had the misfortune of bearing witness to, and promptly closes it.

Other people may have sleep paralysis demons.

But Chifuyu?

Chifuyu has Baji.

With both hands partially raised in prayer, he begs for the shenanigans to be over and done with.

They are not.

While his eyes remain closed in a last ditch effort to convince himself that it's all a bad dream, he hears a lot of grumbling happening on your side of the room, courtesy of Baji, who's scrambling around in search of...something. One quick peek reveals him fiddling with a phone - yours, to be exact, as evidenced by the distinctive phone charm of your favorite anime character hanging from it.

"(Y/n), wake up for a second," he hears him whisper. It takes a bit of prompting, until he's able to successfully rouse you enough from sleep to elicit any kind of response, which is, essentially, nothing short of an incoherent, slurred mess. Although, Chifuyu is pretty damn certain he heard you call Baji a 'dickhead' for the trouble.

Unperturbed, he continues shaking your limp form, coaxing you into wakefulness with, "Repeat what I tell you, and I'll let you go back to asleep. Deal?"

You squint your eyes at him, only able to make out a vague outline of his visage in the lightless room. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die," he automatically responds with the same phrase he's become accustomed to saying whenever you two made a promise, something done purely out of habit, formed when the two of you were just kids and he wanted to get you to do something absolutely ridiculous either for him or with him. And just 'cause he knows you're more susceptible to complying if he does it, he also interlocks his pinky with yours.

"...Fine."

The approval is his cue to proceed, and it's as he's putting the phone on speaker that he turns back to a regretfully wide awake Chifuyu, mouthing a wordless, 'Watch.'

The phone rings, loud and clear, precisely once and only once.

"(Y/n), what's wrong?" It's important to note that even though Mikey still sounds tired as hell, his tone is much lighter, much happier really, than when it was Baji, which is an offense in itself to the said teen that's off to the side, attentively listening to the conversation unfold.

Then, it strikes Chifuyu, what Baji is trying to do, and fuck does it give him an instant headache.

Meanwhile, your mouth morphs into the dopiest of smiles with the pleasant surprise of hearing your boyfriend's voice, chest instantly overtaken by a warm fuzziness that never fails to make an appearance whenever he's involved. Sappy, you know, but it's true!

A light but firm nudge to your shoulder reminds you of your mission. It's too bad that, teetering along the edge of sleep as you are, the words Baji whispers are barely repeated correctly.

The initial phrase from before, the one Baji greeted Mikey with, is shortened to a simple, "You wuv I...?"

But, without missing a beat, you receive Mikey's confident reply of, "Mhm... I wuv you a lot."

There's a sleepy giggle then - a fucking giggle - before your voices drop to sweet whispers that the third and fourth wheels can't fully comprehend from where they are.

"Where the fuck was my 'I wuv you,' huh?!" Baji whisper-shouts, considerate of your conversation even when ranting and raving. "Shit, I would've taken a simple 'I love you,' too! I've known that bastard way longer than (Y/n), and this is what I get?!"

Okay. Toman's president answers his boyfriend's late night calls faster than he does anyone else's and openly expresses his love for him. So what? Chifuyu wouldn't exactly call it 'discrimination,' per se. 'Favoritism,' maybe if you wanna stretch it, but using as strong a word as discrimination, especially taking into account you two are dating; it's normal? Nah.

"You wanna say 'bye' to them? Mm. Baji and Chifuyu." A pause. "Fuyu, Mikey says 'bye.'"

"Bye, Mikey-kun."

The other person in the room waits, and waits, and waits, and when it's clear that there is no intention to address his presence whatsoever, Baji turns to Chifuyu with an almost scandalized expression, making wild gesticulations with his hands, clearly distressed. "See?!"

Blank blue eyes stare back at him, unblinking. Honestly, it's a common occurrence - Baji spiraling in a nonsensical rage - so it's easy for Chifuyu to block out the muted, jealousy-driven temper tantrum as he takes his pillow in both hands, raises it as high as he can, and-

Sigh.

-lets it flop right back onto his face.

He can't suffocate Baji. Shouldn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't. After all, they're best buds, meaning he has an obligation to put up with shit like this once in a while. (Plus, he'd probably get his ass kicked before he succeeds anyway. Totally not worth the beating.)

"Did you hear? Mikey said he wuvs me," he hears you drawl dreamily as soon as you hang up, sounding very close to clocking back out for the night.

"Yeah, yeah. Cute shit. Happy for ya, dude," Baji huffs. Thankfully, he sounds like he's in a similar state to yours, if the yawn that follows his sarcastic comment is anything to go by.

"...He soooo ignored you."

That warrants a punishing punch to the arm, dulled only slightly by the combination of the thick quilt you're swaddled in and the raven-haired boy's fatigue.

"I'll fucking throw you out right now, (Y/n). Don't test me."

"You won't."

"I will."

"Won't."

"Will."

The conversation gradually dies down shortly after, the exhaustion that took its sweet time getting to both of you having reached its peak with the help of the childish bickering. It takes 10 minutes, maybe 15, before two sets of light snores fill the room.

Finally.

Let it be known that there is a lesson to be learned from tonight's events. Really, there is. Y'know, something along the lines of 'Don't agree to a sleepover with Baji, if you plan on actually sleeping,' or whatever.

Alas, Chifuyu's consciousness fades before he realizes what it is.

~~~

"Mikey, be honest. Who do you love more? Me or-?"

"(Y/n)."

"But-"

(Y/n)."

"I-"

"(Y/n)."

Baji is only momentarily discouraged, sharp eyes glaring at the blond that lays his head on your lap after hi-fiving you. He didn't want to do this, but he's left with no choice.

"(Y/n) or Babu?"

From the way Mikey stiffens up, refusing to look at either him or you in the eyes, Baji knows he has him right where he wants him, has him torn between a cute face or a sweet ride.

"Oi! Don't pretend to be asleep! Answer the damn question! OI!"

(After hours of serious contemplation - even though you told him it doesn't particularly matter - it's revealed that, of course, Mikey loves you more. Babu just happens to trail behind as a very close second.)

#mikey x male reader #mikey x reader #sano manjiro x male reader #sano manjiro x reader #sano manjirou x male reader #sano manjirou x reader #sano manjiro #sano manjirou #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x male reader #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers x reader #baji keisuke #chifuyu matsuno

[olde-scratch]

So I watched LUCIDS 1-4 without any prior knowledge...

and here were my thoughts. I didn’t watch any backstory or anything so enjoy my suffering.

PART 1

“So what happens when the people inside of their dreams go to sleep?” They die

“What happens when we wake up? Do they go on living while we’re not there?” THEY DIE-

“Who are they anyway?” they’re faces that our brain catalogs and stores for later use, although it’s also arguable that every time we dream we go to an alternate reality and inhabit the body of another version of ourselves. Now, were you in a car accident and trapped underwater or-

Are they twins?

(Me tuning out to do something)

“-the squirrel in spongebob was your soulmate, making you a Sandy simp-”

Me, snapping back to the video: hold up-

[missed the part about the worksheet, realized it when i rewatched 10 mins later to make this post]

yall speakin gibberish idk what youre saying-

“I’m gonna go to bed.” bro it literally looks like morning-

“You should get some sleep you look terrible.” i get six hours of sleep a night minimum and i look worse than him shut up bro-

“jump into someone else’s dream” ah i know this con-

why they all got the same face-

haha funni meme

“--an interruptiion can create feedback and tear them apart.” Death. I long for thee.

Is that Karl Jacob’s jacket?

“a second grader” makes me think this is a different school system. [i was wrong? i think?]

“[get him to] eat your apple”

[in the dream sequence] weird dream, but ive had weirder. now, Why Pamper’s-

why does he suddenly have a knife-

“You put a filter on the Dreamscape feed?”

“Technically, you are seven years old.”

???????????

the second hand embarrassment is UGGGHHH

[reading the description] you mean like the guy who was knocked out for 2 minutes on a football field and woke to find he’d dreamt 17 years of his life? oh this shall be Fun

PART 2

[I check the description] “jasper cult” what the fu-

how many camp camp references can i make during this

Is the apple a reference to religion or does the creator just really ilke apples?

“meal.”

“meal?”

meal????

Wait why couldn’t that guy eat the apple? If he wanted it in the fruit bowl, wouldn’t there be a chance of the guy eating it anyways?? Why can’t the guy who brought the apple eat it?

well he’s Dead

[debating if I should read the backstory}

n a h h h h h -

Was he gonna feed the dead guy the apple or something? Why is he upset about the apple in this scene???

oooo the grownups are fightinnnngggg

Is he an antagonist?

HE WROTE A BOOK???

oh now i want food

ESTABLISH JUSTICE ENSURE DOMESTIC TRANQUILITYYYYYYYYYYYYY

“I watched all those aforementioned shows” what shows did i miss something what-

man why you gotta hate on her jane austen fanfic let her live bro

string theory! i can get behind that! sorta-

o no he found the memes-

BOY GOT KNOCKED OUT-

kim there’s people that are dying-

is SHE an antagonist?

quinn? calling himself jasper? u sure hes not just nonbinary? is this just a metaphor for transphobic parenting?

“He died... but somewhere, he grew up.” So is your plan to take a Quinn from a different universe and make him your own, thereby robbing another version of yourself from happiness? When does this ever go well?

Yknow most people, when they lose a kid,,,, kinda,,,,,,, dont go on a ceaseless quest to find another version of their kid that grew up without knowing that another version of his mother was invading other peoples’ dreams to find and kidnap him,,,,,,,, like aint u got a therapist-

“Once you get past the point of not knowing what’s real anymore, you realize it doesn’t matter.” Well, I Got Called Out-

PART 3

“you’re real, oliver.”

aRe yOu sUrE aBoUt tHaT-

“you’ve been infected by the anti-love parasite of Mandadon” the amatonormativity is strong

so anyways ive been infected since birth hbu-

“James Jasperson, creator of Japple” did you mean to Fancy Well-Educated Man in a Black Turtleneck? cause the only FWEMBT i allow near me is prof. hidgens

“are you winning?” says the capitalist

why did you rewind to see his face?? you have the same face????? is this just bc the creator doesnt like working with other people cause in that case same but???????

“it’s a bad idea. i’m not gonna do it.” we’ve all been there. and we’ve all done it.

looks like me trying to study. (i say, a person who has studied a total of five minutes throughout their entire life.)

your “Spartan trial” looks like a bunch of guys standing on a hill pretending to be something they’re not. Let The Man Bring His Snacks.

eat the apple.

is this your first existential crisis or something what a loser lets all point and laugh

“One of you should be spared, the other shall’nt.” did you mean shant or was that a choice-

yall gonna get called out for talking shut UP

“sorry if this is too personal, btw. are you okay?”

me, confused and half understanding what’s going on and also needing to sleep cause its almost one in the morning but wanting to finish what i can find of lucids which i only starting watching cause i saw an animatic of ranboo and dream w audio from it: i don’t know anymore

“i just want my life back... i was gonna get married-” AREN’T YOU LIKE SEVEN-

ay man if this is a sacrificial cult yall gotta get daniel-

UPDATE: I  H A V E  N O T  F O U N D  I T -

“oliver”

I  F O U N D   I  T -

WHICH ONE IS QUINN?? WHO’S JASPER???? WHICH ONE IS BENJAMIN???? I THOUGH BENJAMIN WAS SEVEN BUT I THOUGHT HE WAS THE ONE GETTING MARRIED WHAT-

oliver. eat the apple.

“Can you still have memories even when you’re dreaming?” One time I woke up to my alarm and fell back asleep and in my dream I remembered that I had class in a few minutes and my dream self woke my real self up so fast I thought I was gonna get whiplash. Anyways, I was late to class bc of my computer but that doesn’t matter.

NOPE I FOUND IT. HERE’S THE AUDIO. THE ANIMATIC ONE. FINALLY.

im thinking car crash. but also maybe murder. but also maybe both? is it raining or was he drowning? is he in a coma? hmmmmmm?

wait olivers the one with the apple does that mean he’s the one dreaming? is the ending gonna be him and jasper (quinn? idk) fighting against ben and mrs hills about jasper eating the apple to save oliver from the dream? hmmmmmmmmmm-

waitwaitwait i thought oliver was 7 how is benjamin 7 years younger than him if they look the same age what what what explain america explain what you mean arkansaw-

are the cuts on his nose plot-relevant or

“What if you hadn’t been driving?” So I was right about the car accident but Mrs. Hills still said he was seven so did i mishear her say that BENJAMIN was seven? but even then oliver would be 14 and that would still be illegal-

“How are you feeling?”

“Like you’re a pretty bad therapist.”

mood

“--it makes it all bearable to have power over the stories we write in our heads” that’s why i write fanfiction

HE’S GOT THE NOTEBOOK HE’S GONNA WRITE SOMETHING ONE OF US ONE OF US ONE OF US

WHAT YOU MEAN AN EXPERIMENT THAT’S HIS NAME-

[upon reading the description] so i was right.

wait was that supposed to be the twist in part 2 about the apple in his pocket is that what the existential crisis was about i thought it was because he was introduced to the multiple worlds theory-

PART 4

wait wasnt the other one january 2018 why we going back to 2017-

appol

“--the future and the past all already exist” mhm yep figured this out long ago

there was simultaneously a point in time in which i hadn’t known about this, had been looking it up, had been watching it, and had been writing an ending to this post, and had been posting it the next morning before class. that time is both now and not now. Welcome To The Multiverse Theory or whatever its called-

“--my favorite scene of the movie is waking up next to you.” Mine is eating fast food as I listen to AJJ and play Minecraft. We are not the same.

Now I’m hungry but it’s 1 in the morning and i already put my retainer in god fu-

[reading description] what do you mean previously??? she did that in the first episode????????

[still on description] WHAT DO YOU MEAN WILL QUINN BITE THE APPLE AND GO TO BENJAMINS REALITY ISNT THIS OLIVERS REALITY AND HE HAS TO GET BEN TO BITE THE APPLE WHY IS APPLE CAPITALIZED IS THIS THE DOING OF THE FWEMBT

i should have watched the backstory i should have watched the backstory i should have watched the backstory i should have wa-

[description] oh ive been spelling quinn right the whole time nice

i hope she rejects you /j

WAIT BENJAMIN WAS THE ONE GETTING MARRIED TO ISABELLE

ISNT HE IN SECOND GRADE-

HE IS SEVEN YEARS OLD HOW IS HE GETTING MARRIED ARE THERE TWO BENJAMINS THAT WE’RE FOCUSING ON-

bro get out of the road ull get hit

how do you knOW WHICH ONE IS QUINN THEY ARE THE SAME PERSON-

so

wait

hills wants ben to feed quinn the apple bc in his mind, that will give hills and quinn a happy ending and she doesnt want ben to see the apple bc thats gonna mean ben will know that his reality isnt reality at all. so then oliver has to,,,, not let anyone eat his apple? he just has to wake up?

IS HILLS THE VILLAIN AFTER ALL ORRRRR

wait but if ben sees the apple wont he realize that his reality is wrong and his reality will change, making it so that hills doesnt get her son? or is there some time-based rule that says they’re only transported to the reality that the person believes at that moment? or is this another stab at the multiverse thing where an infinite amount of hills gets their happy endings while an infinite amount of hills doesnt and etc etc?

i should have watched the ba-

oooo dramatique

they’re in a time loop?

nope thats a new powerpoint

wait so theyre,,,, no-

wait-

nvm-

IS THE BEN WE KNOW AN ADULT GETTING MARRIED TO ISABELLE OR NOT-

“they were actually pretty nice” didnt they throw someone off a cliff-

oh so it got confusing THEN??? NOT BEFORE?????

“it all seemed so real.” is that Not the point of vivid REM sleep hallucinations-

is oliver gonna show ben the apple and ruin hills’ whole operation

WHO ARE ALEX AND RYAN-

“what’s 25-8″ bro dont do this to me-

yep hes gonna show the apple

ayyy the guy who stole karl jacobs jacket it back

the second hand embarrassment is back and I Hate It

all that happens in episode ONE??? bro get some better writers that is bad pacing

“it’s the best!” wait until season eight. no show has a good season eight.

quinn knows about the apple thing w the dreams and multiverse and realities dont he

YOU KILLED HIM

NOT KARL JACOBS NOOOOO HES ALREADY DIED ONCE

oliver is v relatable

wHaT iN tArNaTiOn-

lemme hear that explanaton again-

is bill cipher gonna show up? i hope bill cipher shows up. i miss gravity falls

“ah! a tree! ah! a tree! ah a tree!” moooooooood

did hills murder quinn

is your family the jasper cult

TOXXIICCCCCC get that lady out of your life quinn that is so toxic

“ ah! a tree! ah! a tree! ah a tree!  ah! a tree! ah! a tree! ah a tree!” mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT’S THE END NO WHAT WHY NO

The Adventures of Benjamin and Oliver

he is Not Good

ope-

wait so ben is equal parts an adult AND a child?? okay that clears a lot up

I MEAN HE WAS RIGHT THO BEN U CAN’T REALLY ARGUE ON THAT-

ew get off the floor

butterfly effect, multiverse theory, memory decay, and your imagination ALL exist yall gonna ignore that cause you wanna be famous?

“We already know what the future looks like!”

aRe yOu sUrE aBoUt tHaT-

to add to the list of bad things: Cats (2019)

YA BOI THINKS IT’S NOT ALREADY FIFTY YEARS TOO LATE TO START FIGHTING CLIMATE CHANGE FFFFF

BINGO BABYYYY

get what what

what mapped-

awwwww he thinks THEY’RE creating the multiverse

you gonna dismiss the multiverse theory bc of something you created in your current reality? loooserrrrrr

ABUSE YOUR GODLIKE POWERS

she draggin that seven year old

a lot makes sense now why didnt i do this first-

Jasper

the food shortages-

bro that calculators like 90 bucks at walmart

imagine meeting a stranger and they know Everything about your life like that’s gotta be so weird

what’s even weirder is them telling you you’re the deity of a cult that sacrifices animals

THAT FOURTH WALL BREAK WAS-

KARL JACOBS IS DEAD NOOOOOO

ooohhh there’s context for that

OOOOHHHH THERE’S CONTEXT FOR THIS TOOOO

w h a t -

w  h  a  t  -

W   H   A   T   -

Conclusion:

it’s 2 in the morning and i need sleep but hOOOOO MY GODS THAT WAS GOOD IS IT OVER OR NOT IDK ANYMORE IM TIRED THAT WAS CRAZY I HOPE QUINN AND JASPER GO ON TO BE VERY GOOD FRIENDS, AND I HOPE BENJAMIN AND OLIVER STAY VERY GOOD FRIENDS AND I HOPE HILLS FINDS A THERAPIST WAS A LITTLE CONFUSING BUT I ENJOYED IT

if i dream about apples im suing /j /lh

#lucids #nicholas podany #there's a metaphor in there somewhere #but im not gonna be the one to find it #i dont think i dreamed about apples #youre safe for now podany #for now #EDIT #I PUT 'something their not' #WRONG THERE #I HAVE NO EXCUSE #IM SORRY

[dilly-oh]

Red Hoodie of Fate

The blaring of the fire alarm woke Kakashi from a particularly good dream about tacos. He bolted upright, cracked his forehead on the coffee table, swore horrifically, and stumbled to his feet, blearily remembering falling asleep on the couch several hours ago. He must have rolled off at some point, maybe when he’d been sprinkling some cheese on those delicious tacos- no, stop. Food later. Fire now.

Thank God the dogs were at Yamato’s for the night, otherwise he might never have gotten out of the apartment. Bisuke was scared of loud noises and liable to hide in the deepest, darkest corner of the flat, while Bull would refuse to budge after laying down for anything less than the apocalypse. Pakkun probably would have just puked in anxiety and made matters worse, while Uhei, Akino, and Guruko would have simply started howling along with the siren. Urushi and Shiba were the only ones who’d have listened, and that was only if he had treats, which he no longer kept in his pockets after an unfortunate incident he didn’t care to repeat. He made a face as he recalled the taste.

Pulling on a pair of sneakers and a frayed red hoodie from the floor, Kakashi stuffed his keys and phone into his pockets before throwing open the door and lurching out into the hallway. He couldn’t see any flames or smoke, but he wasn’t going to sit around and wait to see if this was legit.

Maybe it was the brat from downstairs, playing pranks again. Kakashi had caught him stuffing a cat into someone’s mailbox the other day, so he definitely wouldn’t put it past the little punk. It had better not be those two idiots down the hall smoking weed again. Doors opened all along the hallway as tenants began pouring from their own apartments, hurrying down the hall and clogging the stairs like sleepy zombies. Kakashi shuffled along with them, letting the river of half-awake people drag him down several flights and out the front doors.

Kakashi milled around the parking lot with the chattering crowd, shivering at the cool night breeze and stuffing his hands into the hoodie’s front pockets. With nothing better to do than stand around awkwardly waiting for the fire-trucks, he glanced about, studying his neighbors one by one.

There was the brat, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, clinging to his mother’s long red braid, still half asleep. Near him was the emo kid who never brushed his hair and wore nothing but black – Kakashi was tempted to ask which make-up tutorial he used for his smoky eye. The two pot-heads were in the back, leaning against each other, dozing in place. There were more - the old man who wrote dirty novels and sometimes asked Kakashi for his expert opinion, the married couple from the floor above, and-

There was a man standing in the middle of the parking lot in nothing but a towel. Kakashi did a double-take before it processed.  

He was dripping wet, water dribbling down his shoulders and pooling around his bare feet onto the pavement. Beads of moisture slowly made their way down the curve of his pectorals, glistening in the divots of his collarbone. Goosebumps had broken out over his tanned skin, pebbling his nipples, his long dark hair plastered to his neck and shoulders. He looked like some ancient Selkie come to seduce men to their watery graves, or a primordial God of the sea preparing to smite some mortals. And hopefully date him, dear God please.

Who the hell was that? Kakashi stared in shock, struggling to place him. He’d memorized every face in the building, and he certainly didn’t remember this Adonis, which was quite impossible. He had a whole grading system for every male in the building, and this knock-out would be graduating top of the class, Magna Cum Laud. Then the man turned his head and the light from the streetlamps hit just right, highlighting the faint slashing scar over the bridge of his nose-

Wait. Holy shit. Kakashi recognized him now, but could barely believe it. That was UMINO? Umino Iruka, the stuffy teacher’s aide who had just moved in next door like a month ago? The nerd whose idea of a good time was binge-watching a season of the Great British Bakeoff? Kakashi had given him a barely passing C+, having to dock points for the arsenal of pens in his shirt pocket and that one time he saw him wearing socks with sandals.

Damn. He’d totally misjudged him. This man was a BABE. The white towel only heightened his natural tan, accentuating the deep V of his hip-bones while the shadows played across his toned stomach. He looked…

He looked cold.

Umino stood stiffly upright, head high and without shame. In fact, he glared about, arms crossed, seemingly challenging anyone to make a comment or dare laugh. But Kakashi saw the goose-bumps on his skin, the subtle shiver of his shoulders. Summer had passed and, while winter was still a ways off, fall had begun muscling its way in. Kakashi wasn’t sure the clenched jaw was from irritation or to keep his teeth from chattering.

Kakashi gathered his courage and walked over.

“Hi,” he began, and almost stopped when Umino glared at him, eyes dark and daring. “Umino, right? Hatake Kakashi, from next door.” Umino studied him for a moment, then gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement. “Uh…want my jacket?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Umino bit out with a tight smile, pushing some wet strands of hair out of his face.

Someone wolf-whistled. Probably the old man.

Umino slowly went red, the flush starting in his cheeks, then traveling down his neck to bloom halfway down his chest.

“…Yes, please,” he said quietly, gripping his towel in a white-knuckled hand. Kakashi fought back a chuckle and yanked the hoodie off over his head, inadvertently pulling up his shirt as he did so. Blinded as he was, he missed the flicker of Umino’s eyes over his exposed abdomen and prominent hipbones, the flush darkening a degree. Finally free, Kakashi gave the hoodie a shake and held it out, grinning sheepishly.

“Smells a bit like dog. Sorry.”

“S’fine,” Umino muttered, quickly taking it and pulling it on. It was a little too big for him but did the job, covering that delicious expanse of tanned skin and muscle. Kakashi stepped back and studied him for a moment, his mouth going dry.

Shit. It didn’t help at all. If anything, it made it worse.

Umino was now wearing his hoodie, which draped over his body but only made it to mid-thigh. The result was even more alluring and provocative than him standing there in a towel. Kakashi cleared his throat and snapped his eyes away, praying for a fire-truck to come peeling around the corner and hose him down so he could cool the fuck off.

“…You have a dog?”

“Huh?” Kakashi’s eyes snapped away from Iruka’s meaty thighs as he realized the owner of said thighs had just asked a question. “Oh! Yes. Dog. Or, rather, dog-zuh. Plural.”

“Plural?” Iruka frowned in confusion. “How many are we talking-”

“Eight.”

“EIGHT?!”

“Yup.”

“You have eight dogs.”

“Yup.”

“How did you even sneak that by the super?”

“Oh, she thinks I only have four. I have a friend who keeps a couple at his place. I just rotate them out.”

Umino laughed. It was a nice sound, even when he snorted a little at the end.

“So, what do you do?” Umino asked. “Other than harbor illegal animals, that is.”

“I work at the gym down the street,” Kakashi said, jerking his head. “I’m a fitness trainer.”

“Well, that would explain your abs...sssolutely horrible fashion sense. What are those track pants from, the 80’s?” Umino cleared his throat suddenly and jammed his hands into the hoodie’s pockets, frowned, then pulled out a crumpled wad of receipts for fast-food takeout. He stared accusingly at Kakashi for a long, quiet moment.

“…I’m allowed a cheat day,” Kakashi said.

“These are all from the same HOUR-”

“Gai bet me I couldn’t eat it all. I had to defend my honor.”

“Did you throw it all up afterward?”

“…I can neither confirm nor deny that. I can, however, confirm that I won the bet.” Kakashi winked cheekily, and Umino rolled his eyes.

“Do you…enjoy your job?” he asked, stuffing the receipts back into the pockets.

“It’s not bad. I mean, it could be worse, I could teach brats all day.” Kakashi shrugged. “What do you do?”

“I teach brats all day.”

…Dammit.

Umino’s grin was mischievous, though, and there was no hostility in his tone, so there must have been no offense taken.

“How’s that go?” Kakashi asked, genuinely curious.

“About as horrible as you’d think. I have them just when puberty rears its ugly head and turns them into angst-ridden monsters. My classroom in a cesspool of hormones and crying.”

Kakashi laughed aloud. Umino wasn’t anything like he’d thought. Both inside and out. It was incredibly refreshing, not to mention incredibly attractive.

Which is why he was quite disappointed when the first fire-trucks started to pull into the parking lot. He’d rather the whole apartment complex burn down if it meant he could stand out here, chatting with the hot teacher all night.

The fire, just a microwavable popcorn-bag gone wrong, was put out in minutes, the complex deemed safe by the groggy super, a busty older woman who was either hung over or still drunk at this unholy hour. Tenants began milling back inside, clogging the entrance in their desire to return to bed. Kakashi lingered in the back of the crowd with Umino, reluctant to part ways.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you for your hospitality,” Umino said lightly, reaching up to grasp the hoodie’s zipper. “You can have this back n-”

“Keep it,” Kakashi said quickly. Perhaps too quickly, going by the surprise on Umino’s face. “I mean…just for now. Till you. You know. Get inside and get dressed. You don’t wanna catch a cold.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling his ears get hot.

“Oh…alright.” Umino's hand lowered and he gave him a shy smile, plucking at the loose red threads hanging from the sleeves, winding one around his pinky absently. “Thank you.” The quiet words warmed Kakashi, a delicate shiver traveling up his spine. Kakashi mumbled a response, then doubled over as the hyperactive blonde kid suddenly bowled right into him.

“Watch it, old man!” the brat shouted, dodging away.

“I’m not even thirty!” Kakashi barked after him, offended. “Friggin’ kid. Can you believe-” He turned to Umino and blinked.

He was gone.

---

A knock on the door woke Kakashi right as he was taking another big, crunchy bite of taco. He bolted upright, cracked the back of his head on the coffee table, swore horrifically at himself for not getting in the damn bed this time, and stumbled to his feet. Making a mental reminder to just go and eat some fucking tacos already, he lurched towards the door, tripping over the rug and falling against it with a loud thud. He fought with the handle for a moment before finally yanking it open, squinting at the light stabbing into his eyes from the hallway.

Umino stood there, not hot as hell towel-Umino, but pressed khakis and crisp button-up, array of pens and hair in a severe ponytail Umino, fully dressed and ready for the day. Kakashi, rather than feeling a twinge of disappointment, was surprised to find the man just as alluring covered from head-to-toe as he was three-fourths-naked.

“Good morning,” Umino said, horribly chipper considering the abominable hour.

“Mornin’. What’re you doing here so early?” Kakashi mumbled, rubbing his face. Umino stared at him.

“It’s 9 a.m.”

“Holy shit. Really?” Kakashi squinted down at his watch. “I thought 9 a.m. was a myth.” Umino’s mouth fell open. “You still haven’t answered my question, though.”

“Oh. Right. Um. Your hoodie. I have it,” Umino said quickly, tripping over the words. He was flustered and twitchy with nerves. If Kakashi were a predator, this was when he’d pounce. “I, um, washed it. For you. Here.” He thrust the jacket out, perfectly folded and smelling of lavender. Kakashi was impressed.

“What, did you wash it twice?” he asked, taking it in his hands and marveling at how soft it felt. The rich red color was much more vibrant, almost seeming to glow.

“Three times,” Umino replied flatly. “Then Febreeze.”

“Umino-”

“Iruka.”

Kakashi blinked, looking up to meet the other man’s gaze.

“You can call me Iruka,” he said, sincere.

“…Alright. I’m Kakashi.” Kakashi stuck out his hand, tucking the hoodie under his other arm. Iruka’s shake was firm, his hands surprisingly soft. He must moisturize or something classy like that.

“I want to thank you for helping me out last night,” Iruka went on, two spots of color appearing high on his cheeks. “I was in a rather…awkward predicament and even after I snapped at you, you still helped me despite my rudeness. I…really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Kakashi replied easily, scratching the back of his head. Oh God, his hair must be a nightmare- no, wait. It always was. Nevermind then. “Any time.”

“So, um.” Iruka shuffled his feet a little, clearing his throat. There was that predatory instinct, niggling Kakashi to jump on him and go for the jugular. “I was wondering how to thank you, and I thought I could, maybe…make you dinner?” he finished weakly, glancing up at Kakashi from beneath thick lashes, then looking away again, suddenly shy. “I’m pretty good in the kitchen, so, if there’s anything you’d like…”

“Tacos,” Kakashi said instantly.

“…Oh.” Iruka deflated, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. “Tacos. Really? I was hoping for something a bit more…challenging. Something that would allow me to show off my culinary skills a bit. But, I mean, if that’s what you want-”

“I like miso soup,” Kakashi said after a moment. “With eggplant.” Screw tacos. He could have tacos any day of the week. He’d take a bowl of cold cereal if it meant getting to spend the evening with this full-course meal.

Iruka lit up, his smile warm and inviting.

“Miso soup it is, then. I’ll have it done by tonight and bring it over. Does that sound alright?”

“Sure.” Kakashi waved as Iruka walked off down the hall, then slipped back inside and closed the door. He brought the hoodie up to his nose and inhaled the comforting scent of lavender, thinking how differently last night would have gone had he not grabbed the hoodie. What he would have missed out on. Fate, it seemed, really did exist.

Hopefully he’d be seeing more of Iruka…in more ways than one.

-End-

Months ago, I was chosen as a pinch-hitter for the Kakairuzine (I would step in if someone had to leave), so I completed two fics just in case they were needed. Since it wasn’t, I’m posting it here. Enjoy!

#kakairu #kakairu fanfic #hatake kakashi #umino iruka #red thread of fate #I know I wrote a Victuuri fic with a similar story but I just really like the trope #sue me #fanfic #red string of fate #iruka in a towel how can it go wrong

[a-spoopy-bird]

i um

yeah i wrote a naruto fanfic sue me. slight blood tw and hella angst because you know its ya boi

    Naruto fell from the windowsill into Sasuke’s living room with a grunt. The only thought sustaining him was the need to get somewhere safe. The ground wasn’t safe. He could get kicked down here, or stomped, he had to get to somewhere safe. 

    With a heavy groan, he hauled himself to his sore feet, listing to the right before stumbling forward. His knees hit the arm of the couch and sent him sprawling onto it. Naruto groaned again, body aching everywhere, face throbbing. 

    He faintly heard someone click on a light and winced at it. Everything seemed to be coming from far away, like he had fallen down a well. A face swam in front of him. He instantly felt better, relaxing his sore muscles and melting into the couch slightly. 

    “Sas...uke…” He coughed wetly.

    “You idiot, what happened?” Sasuke struggled to turn the blonde onto his back, hissing through his teeth when he inspected his face. 

    Naruto didn’t have the energy to cry out in pain. His eyes were sliding closed as Sasuke tried to get an answer out of him. A shake on his shoulder only jarred him back to reality so much. 

    “Naruto, who did this?” Sasuke’s voice was intense. His hand was gripping Naruto’s shoulder, the other on his phone. “Answer me, please, dammit!”

    Naruto blinked sluggishly. Why wouldn’t Sasuke let him sleep? He was so tired, and everything hurts… 

    The hand on his shoulder started to shake, and Naruto faintly heard half of a conversation. 

    “Sakura? Are you busy? It’s Naruto, the idiot’s all busted up. No, he’s not responding. Yes, of course I tried! Yeah… yeah, alright. See you in a few.” Sasuke turned back to his boyfriend. “Help me out here, alright?” 

    Sasuke wound his arm under Naruto’s and hauled him up. “Jesus, how much do you weigh?” He groaned, stumbling towards the door. 

    Naruto’s head lolled and rested against Sasuke’s shoulder. He stared hazily at the ground, falling asleep. He faintly heard Sasuke talked, but it wasn’t relevant. His feet dragged against the ground, too tall for Saske to fully support. 

    “Naruto, I swear to god, come on, snap out of it.” Sasuke jostled him a little. No reaction. “Hey, idiot, come on.” 

    Sasuke swore, trying to hurry out the door, but Naruto was dead weight at this point. He dragged the beaten boy to Kakashi’s car, knowing the keys would be in the center console. He managed to get him buckled into the front seat, before getting into the driver's seat. 

    Sasuke jumped when his phone rang. He hastily answered it. “Hello?” 

    “Sasuke, where are you?” 

    “I just got this idiot into the car, on my way. He’s responding less now, I’m- I’m getting worried.” What an understatement. He was beyond worried. Naruto was the only person besides Kakashi who understood, who knew what it was like, who could comfort him. He was half-dead in the passenger seat. 

    “Listen to me. Get him here. We have the emergency room prepped. We contacted the police, they’ll let it slide if they see Kakashi’s car speeding.” Sakura informed him. “Get Naruto here, quick.” And with that, she hung up. 

    After gently turning off his phone, Sasuke slammed the palms of his hands against the steering wheel. Tears threatened to spill over. He gripped the steering wheel hard with his left hand before slamming his right against the steering wheel. 

    With a final, steadying deep breath, he jammed the keys into the ignition and started the car, pulling out of the driveway and out of the neighborhood. All along the fast and slightly illegal journey, he kept sneaking glances at Naruto. The blonde haired boy slumped against the window, nose gently trickling blood against the cold glass. 

    Sasuke pulled into the hospital parking lot, roughly yanking the key out of the ignition and rushing out of the car. Sakura and a team of people came out of the hospital with a gurney. Sasuke helped then situate him on the gurney, careful to work with them. Then, before he could process what was happening, Sakura had lead Naruto away, leaving him alone in the parking lot. 

~~~ 

    The waiting room wasn’t large- there were two other families here. Sasuke checked his watch- two in the morning. Was it really that late? Sasuke sat in one of the uncomfortable plush chairs, jogging his legs and massaging his knuckles. His mind bounced around, latching onto irrelevant facts and onto anything about Naruto. 

    “Sasuke?” Sakura had peeked her head out of the door. “Could you come back here for a moment?” 

    Sasuke stood up, the fog in his head lifting a little. It had to be about Naruto. Maybe he was alright? Just concussed? He didn’t let himself hope that. He knew he attracted bad luck- it was his fault if Naruto wasn’t all right. Naruto was so happy and fun and bright, and Sasuke was just the complete opposite. He was going to suck all the bright sun out of Naruto just by being around him, just like his mom and his dad and Itachi- 

    “Hey. Snap out of it.” Sakura’s fingers snapped a few times under his nose. 

    “I- sorry.” 

    “He won’t calm down, he’s scared of the nurses and doctors. We can’t hold him still enough to sedate him.” She explained. “And I- I can’t stand seeing my friend hurt like that.” She turned her head, hiding her shame. 

    Sasuke nodded. She slid her card through a lock on a door and opened it. 

    The sound reached him immediately. Wet, harsh sobs punctured the air, along with the sound of several people struggling. Sasuke hesitantly stepped into the room, and resisted the urge to recoil. Five nurses were trying to hold him down, but he was putting up a better fight than Sasuke had expected him to. Tears streamed out of his eyes as he kicked and struggled against them, hyperventilating. He struggled to talk, half formed words breaking his sobs. 

    “No! Don’t- please- Stop! No! Don’t- don’t- please-” 

    Sasuke quickly wound around the nurses and placed his hands on either side of the other boy’s face. “Hey, Naruto, look at me.” 

    He struggled harder, jerking his head out of Sasuke’s hands. “Stop, stop, no, please stop,” He rasped, coughing wetly. 

    Sasuke tried again, but without touching him. “Naruto, please. Look at me.” 

    Wild, wet blue eyes hesitantly locked with the cool black ones. He huffed and sniffled, glancing at the nurses periodically. 

    “Hey, it’s going to be okay. Can you breathe for me?” He coaxed gently. 

    Naruto breathed harder, not anymore even. He kept glancing back at the nurses, fear clear in his eyes. 

    “That’s right, babe. In, and out. It’s alright. They’re trying to help. Promise.” Sasuke offered a small smile. 

    “P-p-promise?” Naruto hiccupped, still trying to steady his breathing. 

    “Promise.” 

    A nurse readied the sedative, waiting for a good moment to use it. 

    “What- what’re they going to do? I- I don’t want- don’t-” 

    “Naruto. They’re just here to help. Sakura is in charge of them. You know she’d never, ever hurt you.” 

    “S-Sakura?” 

    Sasuke nodded. “They’re going to give you something to relax, alright? It’s going to be alright, you’re safe.” 

    Naruto relaxed slightly, still sniffling. He nodded. “O-okay.” 

    The nurse gently eased the IV into his arm, and they all backed away, their job done. Sakura came back in, relieved. Sasuke reached for Naruto’s hand, gently rubbing circles on the back of his hand with his thumb. The sedative slowly took affect, and Naruto was out within five minutes. 

    Sakura pulled Sasuke from the room, back into the hallway. “I didn’t get a chance to thoroughly examine him, but he’s pretty beat up, Sasuke.” Her eyes searched his. “What happened?” 

    Sasuke looked away, shrugging. “He sneaks to my house sometimes, he practically lives there. I heard him crash in tonight, and he was on my couch half-dead.” Sasuke paused. “Is he- is he going to be alright?” 

    Sakura sighed lightly. “Knowing Naruto, he’ll be fine. He’s come closer to dying than this. But it’ll probably be touch and go for a while. Do you know how he ended up like this?” 

    Sasuke started to shake his head when it dawned on him. By her expression, Sakura realized what it was too. “It’s October 10th.” 

    She nodded. “He was probably over in Konoha’s graveyard.” 

    Sasuke cursed. “How many times have we told that idiot not to- not to go alone?” His voice stuck for a second. 

    Sakura shook her head helplessly. “He’s Naruto. It’s something he’d do. Even knowing the people there hate his guts. It’s just who he is.” She turned and went back into the room, leaving Sasuke to figure out how to get back to the waiting room. 

~~~

    Kakashi was in the waiting room when Sasuke came back. 

    “Yo.” 

    Sasuke sat down heavily beside him. “How’d you know I was here?” 

    “Blood in the living room.” 

    Sasuke cringed slightly. “I’ll clean that up.” 

    “I already did. Was it Naruto?” 

    Sasuke nodded, clenching his hands together. 

    Kakashi checked his phone. “Went to see their graves?” 

    Sasuke nodded again, starting to jog his leg. 

    “Hey. That kid’s strong. He was strong enough to convince you off the brink. He can do this.” 

    Sasuke shook his head slightly. “He- he was almost in a panic attack. They had to call me back. I just- I’ve taken all the joy out of his life. This is my fault, I should’ve-” 

    “But you didn’t.” Kakashi interrupted. Sasuke’s head snapped up, glaring reproachfully at the white haired man. “Besides, Naruto has enough joy to go around. You know he’s glad to be in your life.” 

    Sasuke nodded and let it drop. There wasn’t any point in pushing it any further. 

    Kakashi pulled up the news app on his phone. “Looks like it was reported to the Konoha police. Figures, ever since leadership changed it’s been a disaster.” 

    Sasuke wasn’t paying attention. “I think I’m going to get some fresh air.” He stood up abruptly and half ran out the doors. He leaned heavily against the metal railing, feeling the cool October air chill his cheeks. He squeezed his hands into around the metal pipe, trying to stop them from shaking so badly. It didn’t matter what Kakashi said, he should’ve known Naruto would’ve tried something like this. He did every year when he was alone. Sasuke should’ve done something. He should’ve been with him, and he should’ve talked to him, and not just in his room eating shredded mozzarella cheese. 

    Kakashi walked out to join him, probably offer some words of half-baked wisdom again. 

    “Before you say a word, please, don’t.” Sasuke said voice shaking, his grip on the bar increasing. 

    Kakashi simply nodded and leaned against the railing, book in hand. For some reason that irritated Sasuke more. He bit the inside of his lip, trying to quiet the noise in his head so he didn’t scream at one of the few people close to him. 

    Kakashi looked up. “This is just as bad huh? Sorry, sorry, I’ll go now.” He closed his book with a snap and went back inside. 

    Sasuke sighed again, easing some of the tension out of his shoulders and releasing his lower lip from between his teeth. His hands shook when he detached them from the railing. Countless thoughts swirled through his head. 

    It’s your fault he’s in here, if you had been a better boyfriend, if you could’ve just been there for once, maybe this wouldn’t have happened, you filthy Uchiha, you aren’t even welcomed in Konoha just because of your stupid parents. Maybe if he killed you too this wouldn’t have happened. If you had died then Naruto wouldn’t be in the hospital right now, it’s all your fault Sasuke it’s all yOUR FAULT-

    “Oi.” Kakashi’s familiar greeting shattered Sasuke’s spiral. He felt a hand firmly placed on his shoulder. “Breathe, kid.” 

    “I- I can’t,” He grit out. “I-it’s- it’s my fault, Kakashi, I-” 

    “Stop that.” He jostled Sasuke’s shoulder a bit. “It isn’t. He needs you here just as much as you need him. Who else would stop him from doing reckless stunts unsupervised?” 

    “But- but I-” 

    “You can’t save him every time, Sasuke. Life isn’t that simple.” Kakashi sighed, leaning against the railway beside him. “Listen, this time may be bad, but I’m confident he’ll recover. He’s had much worse.” 

    Sasuke would have laughed if he could remember how to breathe properly. He struggled to pull a full breath in. “I was- I was just eat- eating cheese, K-Ka-” He broke of, wheezing for breath. 

    His eyes began streaming when Kakashi held his inhaler in front his face. Hands shaking, Sasuke took it, desperately taking a puff. “Thanks,” He groaned once he could talk. 

    Kakashi shrugged. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, kid. It was what, two in the morning? You don’t have to be ready for everything all the time.” 

    They stood there for a long moment, each in their own thoughts, before going back into the waiting room. 

~~~

    Naruto was discharged the next morning. He was waiting at the receptionist’s desk when Kakashi woke Sasuke up. 

    He was there in an instant, quietly taking Naruto’s hand as he filled out forms with the other one. Naruto chuckled softly, rubbing the back of Sasuke’s hand gently. “I’m alright, Sas. Look, they even gave me free merch.” He joked, showing off his hospital tags. 

    Sasuke just stared before saying, “I equally want to kiss and punch you right now, dick.” 

    Naruto laughed again. “I’ve reached my punch allowance for the month, Sasuke. You gotta wait until November now.” His face stayed in the same carefully constructed, optimistic half-smirk he wore so often, but Sasuke knew different. 

    “Fine. I guess you’ll just get your ass kicked again in a few weeks. Better work to pay your hospital bills.” 

    At a concerned look from the secretary, Naruto jumped to explain. “Oh- oh no, he didn’t do this, don’t worry. We love each other very much.” He grinned widely, throwing his arm around Sasuke’s shoulders. 

    Sasuke’s worry and anger seemed to lessen as he watched Naruto spew actual sunlight. 

    That didn’t mean it was gone for good. 

    “Sooo. Naruto.” Sakura was waiting in the parking lot. 

    Naruto’s eyes widened, and he turned around, looking for a way out. Not finding one, he slowly turned back around to face her. “Hi, Sakura.” He grinned nervously.    

    She tapped her foot angrily. “What. The hell. Were you thinking.” 

    “Ha, you see, Sakura, I was-” 

    “Can it, off-brand Goku!” He recoiled slightly, the excuse dying in his mouth. “If you weren’t already beaten up so badly I would literally murder you right now.” 

    “Hey, Sakura, don’t you think that’s a bit intense?” Kakashi said from where he was leaning against the car. He peaked out from behind his book. “Besides, Sasuke and I already have first punching dibs. Get in line, kiddo.” 

    Sakura sulked for another moment. “I gotta get back to work. Naruto, if you do anything else stupid this month, I won’t hesitate to break your arms.” And with that, she stormed back into the building. 

    “Guess I have to break your ribs.” Sasuke remarked calmly, ducking into the passenger seat. 

    “Konoha beat you to it- fuck.” Naruto realized his slip up a little late. 

    “We been knew, Nards.” Sasuke said saltily.

    “Hey wait! Why do you get the front seat?” 

    “You got it on the way here, idiot.” 

    “Don’t remember! Didn’t happen!” Naruto said, getting into the backseat.

    “You probably don’t remember falling onto my couch at two a.m half dead but here we are.” Kakashi remarked simply. 

    Naruto shut up and sulked the rest of the way back to the house. 

~~~

    “Explain.” 

    He sat at the kitchen table, fiddling with the bandage on his left hand. “Guess I can’t really plead the fifth here, huh?” He felt hot shame and guilt eating away at his stomach. Which was fine. Nothing he couldn’t hide easily.

    “Obviously.” Sasuke was not impressed by Naruto’s stab at humor. “Why in God’s name would you go there? Especially on your birthday!” 

    Naruto blinked in surprise. “Y-you remembered?” 

    Sasuke rolled his eyes. “Of course I remembered, it’s your birthday, why wouldn’t I?” 

    He fiddled with the bandage some more. “No one else really did, ya know?” 

    Sasuke sighed. “Yeah, well, I did. Happy seventeenth or whatever.” 

    “That’s gay. Anyways, you still have to explain yourself.” Kakashi said from his corner. 

    Naruto looked at his hands. “Just- I wanted to see them, ya know? I don’t care what they think, they’re my parents, not theirs. I- I should be able to visit them peacefully without being chased down, ya know? It’s not- it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, I just wanted- just wanted to clean off the headstones.” 

    Sasuke reached his hand across the table. Naruto reached out to take it, but Sasuke slapped the back of his hand. 

    “Hey! What was that for?” He yelped, pulling it away. 

    “For being an idiot! How many times have we told you to not go to Konoha? Especially on the tenth!” Sasuke took a deep breath in. “I’m glad your not dead.” 

    “Yeah, me too.” He said saltily. “Man, why are old people so mean?” He whined. 

    “Maybe you’re just weak.” 

    “Sasuke I’ll- ouch!” Naruto had jumped up and disturbed his healing ribs. 

    “Don’t hurt yourself anymore, idiot!” Sasuke got up to look at his bandages. 

    “No, no, I’m good, just moved wrong.” 

    “If you’re shitting me I won’t hesitate to fully break your nose.” 

    “Oh, it’d be a lot scarier if you had just gotten beat up by old people with sticks and rocks.” He snarked. 

    Sasuke raised an eyebrow. “They beat you, Naruto Uzumaki, parkour expert and self proclaimed ninja, with sticks and rocks?” 

    “I can’t hit old people!” 

    “But you hit Kakashi the other day!” 

    “Stop. I’m not old. And if you two are gonna be this grossly in love, take it to your room. I don’t wanna see it.” Kakashi interrupted, pulling out his book. 

    “Still, if you ever go to Konoha alone I won’t hesitate to eat your eyebrows and steal your eyeliner.” Sasuke said before grabbing his boyfriend’s hands and tugging him upstairs. 

    “Gasp! Not my eyeliner!”

#sns #sasunaru #angst #angst fic #slight blood tw #slight blood #blood tw #blood #idk bro #naruto #naruto uzumaki #sasuke uchiya #kakashi hatake #sakura hanuro #i think idk #it my first naruto fanfic #and the idea hit me like a b u s #bc ive been in writers blockkk

[current-mcr-news]

Casual Interactions #5: Full Transcription

John: Alright Frank, so what did you bring us?

Frank: Okay so, I was just out in Chicago, and I was there for a couple weeks. And I came across some things. One of which is my favorite. I'll start with the good first.

J: Yeah.

F: So the good is, every time I see a root beer that I've never tried- Here's the thing, I'm not a huge root beer fan.

J: Yeah, I don't know many people who are.

F: I can have one root beer and then I'm like, "Okay, that's enough root beer."

J: Yeah.

F: Maybe even half. But if I see one that I've never tried before, I have to, something about it, I just have to try it.

J: Yeah.

F: So, one time I came across the one root beer and it's called WBC, and it's made by, like there's a brewery out there called Goose Island.

J: Oh yeah, I know Goose Island.

F: So Goose Island makes this root beer, and it is by far, my favorite root beer I've ever had. And it's Chicago style, but you could only get it in the Midwest, and I've tried to look, you know, on Amazon and all that stuff, and it's like fucking astronomical on Amazon. But when I was out in Chicago, I found that they had it at Costco, so I bought like, fucking 14 cases of it. So I brought that.

J: You brought it across state lines?

F: I smuggled it.

J: Calling it, you're bootlegging.

F: You know, hey, what are you gonna do? I tried to go the legal route with it, but I don't think it's illegal to just buy something and move it.

J: Right.

F: Anyway, so that's the best. Now, the other side of the spectrum is a drink that I believe is what you would call a Chicago staple.

J: And that's what's in the shot glass.

F: And that's what's in the shot glass. This is Jeppson's Malört and Malört is a wormwood derivative.

Shaun: That's a terrible word.

J: Oh, something they put they put in absinthe?

F: Yeah, but it's not in that, like it's not gonna make you like, it doesn't make you crazy.

J: Okay.

F: It's more, from what I've been told, like a digestive, and almost like a Fernet and stuff like that. But it is by far, one of the most foul things I have ever tasted, and I feel like it's something that you can't describe until you've had it.

J: Alright, so let's do it.

F: Yeah, so here's to those that wish us well, and all the rest can drink some more Malört. Cheers. 3 2 1, go.

S: Oh! Fuck you, man!

F: Yeah.

J: Oh my god, that's- it's like a-

F: So here's the thing, wait wait wait. The thing about it, it's not so much the original-

J: It's like a licorice Listerine!

F: It's not the original shot that gets you, it's the after taste that lingers on your tongue.

J: My heart's on fire!

F: It's like if a grapefruit took a shit out of its- and the shit tasted like earwax, is just what it would be like in liquid form, would taste like Malört.

J: Welcome to Casual Interactions podcast. We're dying here. Can we drink the root beer now?

F: Yes, crack the root beers. That'll help.

J: Jesus.

F: This is by far my favorite root beer.

J: Oh my god, thank god. It was delicious. I think anything would be delicious though, after the Malört.

F: Yeah. Kinda great though, right?

J: I can still feel it on my tonsils.

F: Yeah, it doesn't really go away. It's got that weird sour, yeah I know. Maybe we should've done that at the end of this. We're so sorry!

J: It's okay. So we're gonna pick up from last week. We were talking about writing processes. We talked about what got us- this is gonna be a hard one, man. We talked about what got us into writing, but made us believe that we could do it too, and chase our dreams. You know, one: we didn't actually hear from Shaun a lot last week, because we ran over time, so that's, I wanna lead off with Shaun right now. I wanna talk about writing.

S: You want me to use that? I'll use it.

F: The coffee might help you.

J: But see, that's a weird mix. I mean, coffee, Malört-

F: Yeah well, here's the thing. I'm sorry, the Malört kinda clings to the back of your tongue like a demon.

S: Yeah it's like stuck in your teeth.

F: It doesn't go away.

J: I can't get it off the back of my tongue.

F: Yeah, it's still there. The more you drink it, the more you can kinda laugh as other people try it, because it doesn't affect you as bad.

S: I don't know if we should keep drinking it.

F: No, you don't wanna have anymore of it.

J: No!

F: It's definitely, that's a one and done.

S: My stomach is weird now.

F: Yeah. Yeah.

S: It does weird things to your-

F: Everything makes weird to you.

J: You know what's-

F: I just said "everything makes weird to you."

S: There you go. That's the title of this episode.

F: That's the Malört. Everything makes weird to you!  

J: Yeah, I had a giant cup of coffee before, I did a shot of Malört, I'm drinking a root beer. The ride home is gonna be terrible.

F: Yeah.

J: You live, you learn. I feel like I lost a bet.

F: Hey, well here's the thing. Yeah, it tastes like you lost a bet. It tastes a lot like the writing process, to be honest because-

J: Bring it back, Frank.

F: You know, that's the thing, it does. Because like, you know, I don't know about you guys, but at least for me like, the artistic process and all that stuff is, I know that it affects me in such a severe way.

J: Right.

F: Like, when I write a song and I feel like things are going well, and I'm able to express myself in a way that I'm like, "Oh shit, I fucking nailed that one!" Like, oh wow, that's a good song, or I wrote a really good line. You know like, sometimes you'll hear stuff in your head, and if you nail it- like if it comes out through your hands the way you heard it in your head, or even better, you're like, "Motherfuck," and you can ride that high.

J: Oh that's a huge high.

F: For a long time. And sometimes, when you're trying trying trying to write something, or you're trying to recreate that thing that you heard in your head, or you lost that thing in your head, because you fell asleep. You know, like you heard it in the middle of the night and you didn't fucking write it down, or kinda do a voice memo thing, you feel like you just drank a bottle of Malört. That's like, "Man!" Like, you just, I'm so sour at all times, I fucking snap at people, I'm not happy in any way, I'm a fucking grump.

S: Well, what it's like, and it happens to me a lot too, it's almost like these single serving doses of being bipolar.

F: Mhm.

S: That's what I think of it like.

F: Yes.

J: Wow.

F: Because I can be manic.

S: Yeah.

F: And so depressed.

S: Because when you write that thing and you're on this high, the next day or the next hour when something happens, and you question that, and it sends you off on this other tangent, and you're the total opposite.

F: Oh absolutely.

S: You're at this total low.

F: How about those times when you write something and you're like, "Oh damn, I cracked it. I'm actually pretty good at this, I can-" you know like, "all these things that I wanted to believe about myself are ture," and then all of a sudden, you listen back and it sucks. You're like, "No!"

S: Right.

J: See, I know what the opposite of it's like. I actually watched Back to the Future this morning.

F: Okay, alright.

J: Because it's one of my go to movies.

F: Very nice.

J: I'm burping up Malört. The eureka moment, I think, you wanna look at the visual of the eureka moment is?

S: I thought you said urethra moment.

J: Different kind of party, Shaun. We'll talk about that in another episode. It's the one where we get our prostates checked, because we're old.

S: Let's do that, now.

J: No. Doc Brown, when the DeLorean goes back to the future and he gets down, he's looking around, and he sees the fire in the street, and he's jumping up and down like, "Holy shit, I'm not crazy. Holy shit." It's exactly as I imagined it to be, "This is it, I did it." That is one of the greatest highs you will ever feel in your life, when you have that. Whether you're painting, whether you're writing, whether you're drawing, whether you're building a house, when you get It, you'll never get that high off of anything else.

F: Right. And I think that's why we continue to chase it. And that's, you know, one of those things that my dad, I think, tried to instill. First off, my dad was a drummer, my grandfather was a drummer, so music happened a lot in my world, you know? And I would get to go see, if I was, you know, if my dad played a place that my mom would let me go to, I would get to see him play. And if he was playing a bar or something she felt or deemed to be too seedy, then I would get to go see my grandfather play. He played at this like, restaurant which was almost like a speakeasy, actually.

J: Oh, that's so cool.

F: It was kinda hidden in the forest and it was the same crowd-

S: The forest?

F: It was, it was, I swear to god. You had to know, it was like a secret turn, and you went back like-

S: That's cool.

F: You know, 2 or 3 miles into the forest, and there was this fucking little "restaurant." I used air quotes, "restaurant," back there. And the same people, the same you know, older crowd went every fucking weekend. They had their own- they had assigned seating, it was, "That was my table, that was this table," you know? And so, they would play the songs every weekend, or whatever. But I would get to see them, and if I was really good, I would get to stay up and I'd go to the diner after, with the band and that was really awesome.

J: That's awesome. I mean, your grandfather was a drummer's drummer.

F: Yes, yeah.

J: And that was the, you know, the kind of- your dad too, the kind of drums that they'd play, people who know them, they know them. Because it's a very special kind of- it's not like you go to Guitar Center, you hear someone in the drum shop trying out everything. They're, to me, true drummers.

F: Also like true musicians, right.

J: They're cats.

F: Yeah, it was like- yeah! Totally. Total cats, you know? And that was the thing when I said, "I wanna be a musician, or I wanna start a band," their first thing was like, "Don't." Their first advice was, "Don't do that ever." And I think the second form of advice was like, "Alright well, if you are going to do it, then you need to know this. And the thing that you need to know is that there's music, and then there's the music business. And very often, one has nothing to do with the other." And I feel like, that happens a lot too, in the writing. And the writing is very much the music, but then when you show it to other people, it becomes the music business.

J: Right.

F: And what is say, you know, maybe commercially viable, or what do other people like, you know, what's going to grab someone's attention, and you know, it's almost like you start to soil the process and you soil the art form by ever showing it to someone else.

J: Yeah.

F: You know? Because you want so bad to be liked, or to have someone appreciate the thing that you do, and very often, if you're not careful, you can stray from your original path to have someone reaffirm what you're doing is good.

J: Well I mean, at our core, everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants that affection, everyone wants to know that the work that they do gets that kind of love and attention back in the right way. And a lot of times, it just doesn't because you know, you said before, you have that moment in your head where your hand does what your head is actually thinking, it's awesome.

F: Yes.

J: It is subjective because what your head is now telling your hand to do something, it does it, you're like, "This is great," you show it to someone, and they're like, "Meh," and that's just, you know, it takes the wind completely out of the sails. Shaun, you've been writing comics now for how long?

S: I don't even know, man.

J: It's been a while, right?

F: It's been a long time.

S: Yeah.

J: By the time this comes out, Shaun will have published his fourth book, Wizard Beach for BOOM! Studios. And it's important because the books that you write, Shaun, are really not your traditional comic stories.

S: I try not to do what's been done before. I feel like if I did, what's the point?

F: Mhm.

J: Right.

S: You know? I also feel like what you guys were just talking about, you know, doing this for a period of time. You have to get to the point where it's kinda like, "Well fuck everyone." No one's gonna- not everyone's gonna like everything you do, right? So, for me and the people who are on my team, and my artist and my editors and letterers and colorists and everything, as long as we're happy, that's all that matters. If we're happy with what we put out, when we were in a band, we put out a record together, who cares what this one thinks or that one thinks? What matters is if we're happy.

J: Yeah.

S: That to me is what drives me and what my goal at the end of the day is.

F: In being say like, the sole writer of some stuff, right? Do you take input from say like, not co-creators but like, people that are drawing it or inking it, or stuff like that?

S: Oh absolutely. Absolutely.

F: So there is that collaborative.

S: Oh, comics are very collaborative. I mean, that's why it's important to work with people who are on the same wavelength as you are. And I feel like every book that I've been on, you know, the team behind it, the artist, the colorist, the editors, I feel like, first thing it's important to get your vision across. And after that, you know, it's important that they see what you're trying to do, and they help you get there. They're not trying to control it or trying to change it, they're trying to help you get to where you wanna be. I've been lucky enough to do that, and I feel like that's something that you know, I've done only create your own stuff so far, and I feel like I don't wanna do- I'm not interested in doing mainstream stuff because I feel like once you get into mainstream comics, that's when it becomes, you have 10 people over you, telling you what you can and cannot do, and at that point, is it even really your book anymore?

F: Right.

J: Right.

S: You know what I mean?

F: Yeah, I can see that. I can see that. I can see there being a lot of red tape and rules that you're gonna have to follow with an already established character.

S: Absolutely. Yeah.

J: So how is it different, Shaun, say than being in a band? We've all been in a band together, we've all played in bands where you- in a lot of ways, you're right. Your editor, your collaborating with the editor, the editor is giving you feedback, the editor is throwing ideas at you, but they're not sitting directly across from you when you're writing what you write. Like, in a band, you're in a room with 4 other dudes, or how many other people, you're looking people dead in the eye, you're coming up with ideas on the spot, you're riffing on it, you're bouncing it off together, like, what you do is, and I admire you so much for it. Like, the ability that you have to actually sit in front of a computer and just type things out, and write the books that way you do, I think that's an amazing gift. But you don't have to do it with anyone else looking at you. You get to do it as a singular pursuit. What's that like?

S: It's interesting because I look at it as very much like being in a band.

J: Right.

S: You know? I come to you with this riff I wrote, and then Frank's like, "Oh, I'm gonna play these chords over it," or Hambone's like, "I'm gonna play this bassline over it." And it's like, it's the same thing with comics. I'm gonna come to you with this idea, you know, sometimes you go with just an inkling of an idea, sometimes you go with a full blown out story. And then everyone gets together and they, being in a band obviously happens a lot faster, because you're right here. It's not over email and whatnot, but it's the same type of idea, you know? Everyone's collaborating, throwing in, and the goal and what the goal should be is to make what you're doing the best it can be, you know? If people start having egos, "I want this, I want that," then you need to get out.

J: Yep.

S: You know what I mean?

F: Yeah. I think that's always been such a pitfall of say like, a young artist is that like, "Just because I wrote it doesn't mean it has to be in the song or in the story."

S: Of course.

F: You know.

S: Of course. And that's something-

F: That's the thing, that's how you end up like, "Oh, this song is 27 minutes." Like, "Oh well, yeah."

S: We've done that.

F: "We had to get back to that main riff 16 times."

J: "I have this one shitty preset on this keyboard, and this jungle beat has to be in this song." "It doesn't fit the song at all." "It's fine, we're just gonna play it at the end."

F: "Yeah, we're just gonna put it in there."

J: "Just not gonna say anything about it."

F: "Just shove it in there."

J: Yeah.

S: But that's something that you learn over time in any medium, I feel like. You can be so sentimental about your ideas and creativity because you start off with this, but then that led to something else.

J: Right.

F: Right.

S: You know what I mean?

J: So let me ask you this, Shaun. Keeping in this theme now, you've done different comics for different studios.

S: Right.

J: You did Art Ops for Vertigo, you did the Killjoys for Dark Horse, now you're doing Wizard Beach for BOOM.

S: Right. I did Neverboy for Dark Horse too.

J: Did Neverboy for Dark Horse as well, right?

S: Yeah.

J: So is that like, say, working with different bands? Like, when you're working with a new editor, or working with new artists, and stuff like that? So it's different atmospheres?

S: Absolutely. Absolutely, it is. And that's why it's important to, you know, you wanna get to know these people a little bit before you jump into something.

F: Right.

S: You know what I mean? Like, even if it's from, you know, colleagues and people, your friends in the industry, and this person's great to work with and blah blah blah. You need to have a little kinda background, or even picking up books that they've done in the past. Like, what kind of books have they edited, what kind of stories are they doing? Are they, you know, if I'm gonna bring a story like Neverboy about an imaginary friend to a guy who only does war comics, that's not gonna work.

J: Right.

S: You know?

J: However though, you did Neverboy with Tyler-

S: Jenkins.

J: And he did, which I revere as one of the best comics to come out in the last 10 years, he did Peter Panzerfaust.

S: Right. That's interesting too because then you have an idea where you see someone's art and you're like, "Maybe he's only done this up to this point." You know?

J: Yeah.

S: Like, if you see a guitar player. You know, look at Ray Toro for example, he's a thrasher on the guitar, but then he can go back and play this classical kinda stuff, you know?

J: Yeah.

S: So you see something in there that you wanna maybe get out a little more.

F: Yeah. You see that there is versatility there.

S: Absolutely.

F: And you actually kinda expand upon it. One of the things I think about, say like, writing comics or writing books and of that nature, that I am envious of, yet also, I wonder if you are envious of the other side is, that you know like, being in a band and playing songs, sometimes you have to recreate those songs every night for a live show. But in doing that, sometimes those songs can kinda get fleshed out a little bit more, and you can expand upon them and they change, and you're able to, I guess, still be creative within a work of art that you've already made.

S: Right.

F: Is that something that you miss in the writing process, or is that so awesome that you don't have to worry about recreating it every night, and doing it in front of people live?

S: I feel like, I mean, there's upsides and downsides to both. I feel like a lot of people, you put out a book, you put out a record, I feel like a lot of people feel like they're defined by that one thing.

F: Right.

S: Whereas, you're not. This is just one thing you did, and then I'm gonna go do something else. I feel like a lot of people get caught up if something got bad reviews and whatnot, it's gonna bring them down to a point where they're just miserable, and it's like, you move on and you do something else.

F: But like, alright so say, with Neverboy. Issue 3 of that, if you were to get to, if you have to like, recreate that every night for a month.

S: Oh right, right.

F: Would it change and evolve?

S: Absolutely.

F: You know?

S: Absolutely.

F: Is that something that you maybe miss within this art form?

S: Yeah. You know, it's interesting because when you're writing, there's not one way to do it. Some people like to outline the whole thing first, and then go write it. Some people like to do it as they're writing it, and comics is so- precise 22 pages per issue, you can only fit so much, so many panels on a page.

F: Right.

S: So comics benefits from having an outline. However, having a very detailed outline prevents you from that kind of off the hook creativity that you would get if you were just stream of conscience writing.

F: Yeah.

S: But on the other hand, it's like you know where you're gonna end up. You know where the story's going. You know, it's like playing jazz in a club.

F: I like having restrictions and trying to use those barriers as inspirational tools. You know, sometimes that can kinda help with the process, you know? Being like, "Alright well, if I'm gonna write this song, if I can only do it with 8 notes," try to do something like that. Like, just see where it takes you, you know? Maybe you end up breaking that rule or what, but it gets you to a certain point and that's kinda fun.

J: It's challenging.

F: Yeah.

J: It's challenging instead of just verse, chorus, verse, hit the bridge, go home.

F: Yeah, just setting up different exercises for yourself and seeing what comes out.

S: Well sometimes that's where the best stuff comes. You'll write yourself into a corner, "How the fuck am I gonna get out of it?" You know what I mean?

F: Yeah exactly. Yeah. So alright well that's a question. When you're writing a book,right, and you need, what is it? Like a 6 issue story, right? Or like, story arc. Do you know where you're gonna end up at the end of it, or do you sometimes just start writing and be like, "I'm just gonna see how I can get the fuck out of this."

S: No, you should have an idea. Sometimes that changes during the course of writing it. But I feel like if you don't have an idea of where you're gonna end up, you're gonna have to go back and do a lot of fucking editing.

J: Yeah.

S: When you're done. You know what I mean? Some people do that. Usually when you're writing comics for these publishers and stuff, you're on a deadline and you don't have that luxury to just go off and free write for 6 issues and see where you end up, and then go back and edit the whole thing. I know someone like Stephen King for example, he comes up with this situation in his head and then just goes off and writes, and then when he's done he'll go back and edit it.

J: Right.

S: So if you saw his first draft, it would look nothing like the finished book. Comics, you don't have that luxury because you're on a timetable. You have to get the script in because the artist has to draw it and the colorist has to- and if you don't do it, then this one doesn't get paid, that one doesn't get paid. It's this whole stream of-

F: Oh god, that's so stressful.

J: That's gotta be so stressful.

F: Especially for me, because I'm such a fucking asshole when it comes to that kind of stuff. I'm like, yeah I'll butt fuck a song to the last possible second and make everybody hate me, and then go back to the original fucking version at the last second, you know what I mean?

J: Hey man, it's your nickel, you know?

F: Yeah.

J: So Shaun, how do you feel about say, you know, most of the stories that you tell are usually about 6 issues, sometimes just a little bit more. Is that something you prefer to do? Like, you're telling short but complete stories in a medium.

S: I would like to tell it even shorter.

J: Really?

F: Really?

S: Yeah, I feel like if you can tell something in 8 pages-

J: Right.

S: I mean.

J: Yeah, I mean, look, we all came up loving punk rock. We know less is more, all killer no filler. That's one of the things that I appreciate most about your style of writing, si that I know that I'm gonna get a complete story. You know, start to finish and some things, you kinda want more and you kinda are like, "Oh man, it'd be cool. Hopefully, maybe he does something else with it. Maybe he does something more with it." But you know, some of the best things that I've watched recently were like, "Oh, it's 1 season. This is all it needs to be. We're just doing this and we're gonna call it a day." So that's cool. That is, is that something that maybe you wanna do eventually, write a whole 700 page novel or-?

S: You mean prose? Yeah. I have prose stuff in the works right now. I've had that for a while. And it's interesting because it's very different from comics. Comics is very visual, you're looking. This is what we want you to see. When you're writing prose, it's your imagination. These are some words, take out of it what you get, you know what I mean?

J: Yeah. Awesome.

F: Yeah. I'm sorry, I'm just mulling that for a second.

J: Yeah.

F: To try to think of like, to go from the one medium which is so visual, and is showing you action without you actually having to kinda spoon feed it to a reader, and then having to- you know, then going to like a prose work and having to kinda, detail what's happening that's not being said, but it's actually happening and you have to make it flow.

S: But I feel like that's what's interesting and writing a comic script is like writing a screenplay. You're very direct, the shorter you are, the better. You wanna get, it's almost like directions, you know? This is your recipe. Whereas, prose it's like, you know, words are fun. You could come up with like, really interesting ways to say anything.

J: Yeah.

S: You know what I mean? And get any kinda imagery in your head.

J: See, I've always thought of a novelist as a writer, and half of an artist. And the half of the artist comes in where if you're reading a comic, you know, you tell the artist, "I kinda want this," and then they draw it out, so you visually get to see it. With a novelist, with you writing prose, you're actually painting the image or giving the broad strokes of that image to the reader, where they're gonna flesh it out in their own head. They're gonna visualize it in their own head, their own way. So you're kind of half the artist, right? You're kinda getting them to the set, nd they're gonna paint it themselves. Which I think is amazing.

F: How do you feel about, I guess, like alright say, maybe this is a premature question but, to write a novel and have people kinda fill in the blanks of, you know, what characters look like, or what things are actually happening, and then finding out about that later. Because I feel like that's a lot like, you know, writing songs where a listener kinda makes up their own interpretation of what that song's about, and you know, what it means to them. And sometimes you're like, oh that's, you know like, I love that it lives on in their imaginations. But when they get it so wrong, and you're like, "Oh, no. Goddamn it!"

J: Yeah, I think that's the dad. "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed."

F: Just disappointed, yeah. "So disappointed in your imagination."

J: Well I mean, but that's any kind of storytelling. I remember Kevin Smith used to hang out at this comic shop in Red Bank, Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash. I remember after seeing Chasing Amy I was down there with our friend Ian, and I went in, Kevin Smith was there. And I was like, I was young. This is a billion years ago. I was like, "Can you- what happened at the end of Chasing Amy?" And he looks at me, he's like, "What do you think happened, man?" And I'm like, "No man, I want you to-"

F: Oh man!

J: "Just fucking tell me."

F: Alright, Steve Albini.

J: "Just tell me, man. I've tried to figure this out on my own, like-"

F: Yeah.

J: "Talk to me like I'm a little kid, because I am." Like, you know?

S: I feel like if you're that-

F: "Hold my hand."

S: If you're that abstract, you're not really doing your job as a storyteller.

J: Right.

S: You know? If people are confused by what you're doing, and they don't understand what you're doing-

J: Yeah.

S: You're not doing your job.

J: There is that side of it, as well.

F: But what if that's what you wanted?

S: Well that's different. If that's what you're going for, you know? I mean, I'm all for surreal and abstract stuff. If you're telling a, if I'm telling a story in a comic, I want you to know what's happening. I want you to give a shit about these people it's happening to. You know what I mean?

J: Yeah. You know, it's interesting because I was actually sitting next to our friend George on the couch today, when he was like, "Hey, can I reach out to Shaun to tell him that I liked his book?" And so, our friend George texts you something along the lines of, he's like, "Your book is like Arc Rum and Mobius on like 70s psychedelic fever dream."

S: Yes, right.

J: And I saw that. When he- because he's a writer as well.

S: George is great.

J: And he said it, and I was like, "Wow, that is so on the money," yet I completely understand what's going on in the story, and I don't lose a step reading Wizard Beach, because I'm buying into it. It's stimulating my eyes, it's stimulating my brain, and I know what's going on.

S: Well here's the thing. The simpler the story, the more room you have to kinda go off and do all the weird and abstract stuff. If you had this big complicated story, it's a lot harder to do that kinda stuff.

F: I think that translates to music as well.

S: Absolutely.

F: You know?

S: Sure.

F: You start getting too busy, and you're gonna kinda lose all the intent and all of the power behind it.

J: Oh absolutely. As they say, 10 times of shit in a 5 pound bag.

F: But the bag's Gucci.

J: But the bag's Gucci. It's fine! Yeah. That's the equivalent of "I just went and bought a bunch of nice guitars and gear, but I don't know how to actually use it."

F: Yes, yes.

J: So we're gonna wrap up this episode and we will do a little more next time on writing processes. You guys have any final thoughts before we close it out?

F: You guys want another shot of that?

S: No.

J: No!

S: God.

J: No.

F: Never again? Never again?

S: Fuck.

F: Alright, I see how it is.

J: Yeah, so join- join us next month for another episode of Casual Interactions, where we definitely will not be drinking Malört again. So for Frank Iero and Shaun Simon, I'm John "Hambone" McGuire. Until we meet again, hold onto your friends.

#frank iero #hambone #shaun simon #casual interactions #5 #casual interactions 5 #full transcription

[gaytaztrash]

Bedtime

A fic based on this post: http://theoppositeofprofound.tumblr.com/post/164769171479/a-concept-lup-being-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night

           The moon base had fallen silent hours ago. Every able member of the Bureau had set to work repairing the damage done on the Day of Story and Song, and they’d gotten a lot done, but even three days later, the world was still reeling and exhausted from the shock. Work stopped about the time the sun went down, and everyone was asleep not long after.

           Except Lup.

           Barry and Taako had put the letter she’d sealed with a kiss over a decade ago now into the pod in the back room of the Fantasy Costco, and from the lingering DNA on the seal a fresh new Lup-body had begun to grow, but it wasn’t nearly inhabitable yet. This spectral form couldn’t meditate the way elves were supposed to. She had discovered that in the cycles after she and Barry had become liches. It hadn’t been pleasant during their journey, and it wasn’t pleasant now. For a little while, the quiet and solitude was peaceful, but after the first few hours of the first night it was boring; there was only so long she could feel content watching Barry snore peacefully or Lucretia toss and turn, and she wanted to give Taako and his spooky boyfriend some privacy. She and Barry were still on shaky ground with this world’s Raven Queen, and she wasn’t going to fuck up their chances of getting off easy by interrupting Kravitz’s private sappy time with her brother. No matter how bad she wanted to get back at Taako for doing the same to her and Barry or to her and Lucretia. They would have to strike a deal before she could ruin his good time.  

           So instead, she drifted across the Bureau of Balance campus, looking at the repairs that had been finished and what was still left to do, marveling at how much of Lucretia’s personality was reflected in its construction – the grassy quad covered in graceful trees, exactly the sort of place where she had always loved to sit while she watched and wrote in her notebooks; the glass domes, a style of architecture that she had fallen in love with during their…seventy-first? Seventy-second cycle? It was the seventy-second, right. That had been a peaceful one. They had found the Light in a matter of days and spent the rest sightseeing, and Lucretia had asked Lup along to tour one of the biggest cities in that plane. The downtown area had been filled with domes just like these, rising and falling all around and catching the light from the plane’s two suns, reflecting it off in prisms in every direction. She’d filled a whole notebook with sketches of them and conjectures about their construction. Lup could see it as if it were yesterday: Lucretia’s eyes bright as they flickered from the domes back to her notebook, curls falling into her face until Lup pinned them back with one of the dozen or so hairclips she’d learned to bring with her whenever she went out sightseeing with her. She’d been so vibrant, so full of energy, so young. Now she was the Director, and tired, and it would take time before she finally warmed up again. She’d cut her hair so short. She had always said it would be too difficult to deal with long if she hadn’t had the others’ help. But she had whispered to Lup yesterday that she thought she might start to grow it out again now.

           It was hard to believe after so long that things were finally right. Lup hoped that if she looked around the campus, silent and peaceful, for long enough, she might finally come to believe it.

           There was a light on inside one of the domes.

           Lup frowned. It was three a.m. What reasonable living person on the base was up? Gods, she hoped it wasn’t Lucretia again. The woman needed her rest. She drifted closer.

           A sign above the door into the dome proclaimed it to be the Bureau of Balance library. The light was coming from deep inside; probably a reading nook. Maybe someone had fallen asleep reading in there? It was probably that nerdlord with the beard. She could wake him up and scare him a bit. That would break the monotony just fine. She drifted inside.

           The library oozed Lucretia’s personality, too; the shelves were high and the aisles narrow, muffling sound so that it felt as if it were only her and the books in the world. The shelves opened into little nooks crammed with squashy armchairs and little tables where you could pile your books or set your favorite reading drink (on a coaster, naturally, and away from the books please). It took Lup several wrong turns to track the source of the light to a nook right in the center of the library, and for a moment, she didn’t see anyone there; only piles of books ranging from technical tomes on spellcasting and runes to what looked to be a young adult mystery series. Then she noticed the puff of curly black hair sticking up above the pile. Not the nerdlord; the nerdbaby. It was Angus McDonald. He was awake.

           “What the hell are you still doing up, little man?” Lup asked.

           Angus jumped and looked up from his book. His eyes were puffy and there were dark circles in the skin underneath them that his glasses didn’t quite cover. It wasn’t a good look for a kid. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, miss – Miss Lup, I’m sorry, I didn’t think that anyone else was awake and I just couldn’t sleep so I thought –”

           “You’re fine, kiddo,” Lup said. “Knock off that ‘Miss Lup’ garbage, though. We fought in a battle together, I think we’re there. Do you know what time it is?”

           “Three ten,” Angus said.

           “That’s right,” Lup said. “And you’re ten, and I’m going to bet that’s way past your bedtime. I know you’re the closest there is to a responsible adult on this base, but somebody ought to have put you to bed about six hours ago.”

           “I tried, Miss, but I couldn’t sleep,” Angus said. “I thought this was a good place to not bother anybody.”

           Lup couldn’t exactly sit, incorporeal as she was, but she drifted down into the armchair next to Angus’s and rested there. “You’re too polite for your own good, little man,” she told him. “You’re a smart kid – haven’t you figured out by now how many people on this base care about you?”

           Angus looked down. “I…I just don’t want to bother anyone,” he said. “Everyone’s so tired from Story and Song and working to repair the base. The only person who might be up is the Direc… Miss Lucretia, and she needs to sleep, too.”

           “You need it as much as she does,” Lup said. She rose. “Come on, Ango, we’re bringing you back to your room and I’ll tuck you in. I’d tell you a bedtime story, but I think Fisher and Junior already told you most of my best ones.” She waved a hand and a bookmark flew in to mark Angus’s spot before the book snapped shut.

           “I’m ten years old, I don’t need to be tucked in,” Angus said. He grabbed for the book as Lup moved it back onto the pile, but he missed. “I’m not going to sleep. Please give that back.”

           “You’re stubborn. I see why Taako likes you. Nope,” she said, and magicked the whole pile out of reach when Angus grabbed for it again. “You need sleep, kiddo! I’m making it my duty to not leave you alone until you get it.”

           “I’m not going to sleep, Miss Lup.”

           “And why the fuck not?”

           “I just can’t!”

           Lup folded her arms. “Well, I’ve got no choice then, have I?” she asked, and cast Sleep.

           A soft breeze spun around the armchair that Angus was in. The kid’s eyelids drooped, and he swayed in his seat for a moment; then the breeze faded, Angus blinked, and he frowned at Lup. “Did you just try to magic me to sleep, Miss?”

           “…Mayyyyybe,” Lup said. Internally, she swore. Son of a bitch. I thought that would work.

           Angus folded his arms. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Lup, but we fought a battle together, I think we’re there.”

           Lup stared at him for a moment. Then she broke down laughing. “I like you a lot, little man,” she said. “But you’ve met your stubborn match.” Then she flung the hem of her robe around and vanished from the library.

           She reappeared out in the middle of the grassy quad and started to pace. Who would be her best bet in helping to get the kid to bed? Magnus, Merle, and Taako had met him first. Magnus loved him unreservedly, but he could barely be trusted to be responsible for himself. Merle was also untrustworthy; he’d told her about his own children and Lup had had to work not to laugh at the idea. Merle fuckin’ Highchurch, a father of two? And moreover, he refused to admit he liked the kid, although after a hundred years with him Lup knew enough to be able to tell that he really did. Taako liked him, too, but he was more likely to keep him up encouraging him to use his newly-learned magic to play inconvenient and mildly illegal pranks on everyone in the Bureau than to get him to go to bed. Lucretia adored him, but Angus was right: she needed sleep just as much as he did. Lup was sure she hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in at least ten years. Barry had only known him a few days. Davenport him had known him as long as Lucretia, but he’d spent most of that time as a shadow of himself. The closest interaction they had had was silently playing chess one day, according to what Davenport had told her. He’d expressed affection for him, but he didn’t know the kid. That, and he was either currently asleep curled around Merle or awake, and if he was awake, Lup didn’t want to think about what was going on in Merle’s chambers.

           Magnus. Magnus was the best bet. She sighed, squared her shoulders, and headed for the elevator that led down to the boys’ chambers.

           It was dark in there, except for the faint light of the world below coming through the window in the floor. Plants lined every flat surface in the apartment that wasn’t covered in half-finished and completed woodcarvings; faint, long-ingrained smells of meals past emanated from the kitchen. Lup felt a wave of nostalgia hit her. Add several dozen books, scattered pens and notebooks, a few pairs of spare glasses, and instruments and novelties picked up from a hundred worlds, and it was the Starblaster in miniature. They’d forgotten everything, but they hadn’t changed. As soon as they’d come together again, they’d fallen into their old routines without even realizing.

           The bedrooms were alcoves on the left side of the room, blocked off from the rest by hanging curtains. Lup made for the one made from wood beads. She brushed through it without rustling the strings – there were benefits to being incorporeal.

           A large lump, covered by blankets despite the relative warmth of the night, marked Magnus in the bed. Muffled snoring came from below the pile. It shifted slightly as Lup whispered, “Magnus. Mags. Wake up.”

           Magnus muttered something incoherent. Lup repeated his name, a bit louder this time. “I need your help, Maggie.”

           The lump shifted again. After Lup called him a few more times, he finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Wassup Lulu?” he mumbled. “It’s the middleufthenight. I was sleepin’.”

           “I know, and I’m sorry about that,” Lup said. “I need you to give me a hand with something.”

           “What d’you need?” he asked.

           “Your boy detective,” she said. “He’s in the library and he won’t go to sleep.”

           Magnus hid a yawn behind a hand. “You’ve got magic,” he said.

           “Little shit resisted. Have I told you how much I love the kid?”

           “Uh-huh. ‘Kay, I’ll go with. Lemme find pants.”

           Lup sighed. “I was hoping you’d grow out of sleeping nude,” she said. “Do you know how many times I wanted to scrub my eyes out with bleach on the Starblaster?”

           Magnus grinned and flipped her off as he got up. Lup turned determinedly away. She heard Magnus rustling around on the floor. “You of all people oughtta get it,” he said. “How much time did you spend without a shirt on after that fantasy HRT kicked in? Same deal.”

           “Not the same deal. Boobs and penis are not in the same category of body parts.”

           “Whatever.” There was a bit more rustling. Lup kept her eyes averted until she heard a noise that definitely did not come from Magnus. Then she turned. There was still a lump, albeit much smaller, under the blankets, and it was moving.

           “Hey Maggie.”

           “Huh?”

           Lup folded her arms. “Who were you sleeping naked with in your bed?”

           “Uh.” Magnus had stopped with his pants halfway zipped. “Tits.”

           Lup grinned. She couldn’t see colors in the dark, but she knew Magnus was starting to blush bright red. “You wanna tell me who you’re fucking, my dude?”

           As Magnus scrambled for words, the lump moved again, and a head popped out of the mass of blankets. The face was almost covered with a mass of long bedhead curls, but Lup made out a short, curly beard and a pair of squinting, bleary eyes. “Mags?” the person asked in a voice that sounded as if they had a bad head cold. “Wuzgoinon?”

Lup clapped a hand to her mouth, but since they were both spectral, it didn’t do anything to hide her shout of laughter.

           “You’re fucking the nerdlord???”

           “Great, I’m glad the whole base knows now,” Magnus muttered, flushing deeper and deeper by the second. “Lucas, go back to sleep, apparently Angus won’t go to bed and I’m going to help.”

           There were sounds of stirring in the other boys’ bedrooms. Magnus sighed. “Fuck you,” he told Lup.

           “Why is he still awake?” Lucas asked blearily. “Do you need a hand, what’s up?” He reached for the bedside table and fumbled for a few seconds before he found his glasses and shoved them back onto his face. Lup had doubled over. She shouldn’t laugh, she shouldn’t laugh, she shouldn’t laugh –

           Four heads poked through the curtain, one above the other, and Lup lost it. “What the hell is going on in here?” Merle asked. “It’s fucking three in the morning! Some of us are trying to sleep.”

           “What in the world is he doing here?” Taako asked, looking at Lucas.

           “Would you all please shut up,” Davenport said. “Lup! What’s happening?”

           Lup tried to push down her laughter. “I – I was around the base because I can’t sleep like this and I found –” She stopped for a second and held back another peal of laughter – “I found Angus awake in the library and wanted Magnus’s help convincing him to go to bed, and when I came to get him I found – I found –” She burst out laughing again, pointing at Lucas.

           Magnus finished zipping up his pants. “I’m fucking coming, let’s just get Ango to bed and then forget about this,” he said.

           “No, no, no,” Taako said, “we are not forgetting about this. Since when have you and Lucy there been uhhhhh, doin’ it, huh?”

           “Please don’t call me Lucy,” Lucas said.

           “Please just go back to sleep, you guys,” Magnus said. “This isn’t a big deal.”

           “I would disagree,” Kravitz said.

           “Can I please just go make the little kid who is up at three in the morning go to bed?” Magnus asked. He picked another pair of pants up off the floor and threw them at Lucas, who didn’t raise his hands in time and caught them with his face. Lup started howling with laughter again. Taako joined her. Davenport had dropped his head into his hands. Lucas pulled the pants under his pile of blankets and started to put them on.

           “Well, we’re all up, we might as well make it a group mission at this point,” Merle said. “You wanna go muscle the kid to sleep, Dav?”

           “I guess,” Davenport said through his hands. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t want to think about what I just saw here.”

When Lup led her army of pseudo-parents into the library, she heard faint voices coming from the middle nook where Angus had holed up with his pile of books. She frowned and looked at the others. Most of them shrugged. Davenport cocked his head to listen and then said, “I think that’s Barry and Lucretia.”

           Lup sighed. “My useless insomniac partners,” she muttered. “All right, that’s just a couple more we have to put to bed.” She marched through the shelves and stopped in the middle of the nook, looking around at Angus, Barry, and Lucretia.

           “Why the fuck are you people all still awake.”

           “Dear, please don’t swear in front of Angus,” Lucretia said.

           “I work with adults, Miss Lucretia, I’m used to it,” Angus said.

           Barry looked around. “So babe,” he said, “not that I mind, but why are all of you here?”

           “Well, I was planning to just have Maggie pick the kid up and make him go to bed, but I ended up with a whole lot more backup,” Lup said. “Which is good, because apparently I have to force the two of you to go to sleep, too. What is going on?”

           “Miss Lucretia and Mr. Barry couldn’t sleep either and came here,” Angus said. “Why is Mr. Lucas here?”

           “You know, that is a good question,” Taako said. “Magnus, why is Mr. Lucas here?”

           “Shut the hell up, Taako.”

           “Watch your fucking language, Magnus,” Merle said.

           “Come on,” Lup said. “Time for bed, all three of you. Get up.”

           “Lup, dear, I’m perfectly capable of deciding for myself when I’ll go to bed –”

           “Lucretia, you look like you haven’t slept since we got to this plane. Magnus, do your thing.”

           Magnus picked Angus up out of his chair and slung him over his shoulder fireman-style. Lup caught Taako’s eye and winked; then she snapped and cast Levitation on Lucretia. Taako followed suit and cast on Barry. They both rose from their chairs with cries of protest.

           “Come on!” Lup ordered. “We’re all going the fuck to bed!”

           She turned and marched with the others out of the library and back towards the elevator.

           On the way there, she positioned herself between Kravitz and Lucas, who were helping to push Barry’s and Lucretia’s floating forms along. “Did the kid tell you why he couldn’t sleep?” she asked them.

           Lucretia sighed. “He’s had a difficult few days,” she said. “He couldn’t stand being alone in the dark.”

           “Lucretia and I were hoping to at least help him fall asleep in the library if he couldn’t fall asleep on his own in his room,” Barry said, “but apparently you had other plans.”

           Lup grinned. “I’ve always got a plan of my own, babe, that’s a guarantee,” she said.  

           Back in the chambers, they collected blankets and pillows from the boys’ rooms and the cushions from the couch and chair and made a sort of nest over the window in the floor. “Nobody is sleeping alone tonight,” Lup declared.

           With nine people curled up, the floor was crowded, but it looked incredibly cozy, Lup thought as the lights went out and the others began to fall asleep. She drifted down to occupy a clear space of floor a little bit away. She watched them and smiled.

The nest came again, night after night, and months later, when her body re-formed, she finally joined them. She closed her eyes happily, nestled between Barry and Lucretia, listening to the soft rise and fall of their breath and feeling their warmth against her. It had taken so long to find her family. None of them would ever let go again.

#xander writes #fic #lupcretia #blupjeans #davenchurch #taakitz #magcas #angus macdonald #fluf #taz #the adventure zone #taz balance #i cant believe i actually finished this whole thing in a day #my writing has been so slow recently #i love this though #im always here for fluff and if i cant find it ill make it my damn self #angus has a million parents and they love him dearly #also #trans magnus #the t in thb stands for trans didnt you know #there is not a single cishet on the bob staff or in the ipre #hmm i should be doing my chemistry homework rn #oh well

[minyavd]

The Foxhole Court Fic Rec IV Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V A ★ indicates fics I would reread every day if I had no life

Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Baltimore Blues by SpangleBangle He saw the duffel. It was battered all to hell and the strap was nearly torn from the bag, but it still glowed almost neon in the darkening night and streetlamp glare. Neil would never… He dropped to his knees beside it and rifled through it, looking for any sign, any clue as to where Neil might have run. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Until his fingers found the keyring. Until he found the phone.Andrew's perspective on the Binghamton riot and the walking tragedy that is Neil Josten.

Those That Broke Us by WriteThroughTheNight "Neil doesn't talk about his mom and doesn't think about what she'd do to him if she saw him now. He has a family, he has Exy, and he has Andrew. He has more than enough, more than he ever could have dreamed of.Neil doesn't talk about his mom until a warm fall day outside the locker room, waiting for the start of their game with his team and family. It's a place that she doesn't belong, where not even a memory of her belongs, but she wriggles her way in and takes root in his chest." Or Neil reveals, piece by piece, what life with his mom was like.

Alternate Universe

A Castle of Curses by Greenninjagal (WIP) Neil didn't mean to be found dying in the middle of the forest. He didn't mean to be saved by a couple mysterious voices. He definitely didn't mean to wake up in a castle.After a lifetime of run, run, running and lie, lie, lying Neil has no problem preparing to leave again. But upon waking up in a the rundown castle in the middle of nowhere, and no understanding of anything other than the people in it are extremely weird and hey-- wasn't that statue in another room before??-- Neil finds himself in a predicament he's never had to face before.Neil didn't mean to stay. And he most certainly didn't mean to wake the dragon.

★ call me in the afternoon by Jaylocked Neil had literally been tortured on several occasions, and that was still better than this. (written for the prompt: "andrew and neil meet in a group therapy")

Connection through Pain by sacchan Nathaniel was six years old, and he was in pain. His body ached, but the one actually in pain was his soulmate. Their connection started when he was born, but he noticed its existence only now, and the reminder was very cruel. From now on, Nathaniel would experience the pain and the nightmares of this other person, as they would do the same with his. Till one of them died.

★ Doe & Josten: Deductionists by SpangleBangle (WIP) Andrew Doe, rude but brilliant consulting detective, thought he had no need of a partner as he worked slowly away at dismantling the largest crime family in the country, helping out with other cases on the side to relieve the tedium. That was, until a scruffy runaway with a stupid amount of secrets stumbled into his life. Or, more accurately, broke into his kitchen.

★ Eyes Half Closed by constellationqueen (WIP) The A/B/O au that LITERALLY no one asked for. Sorry not sorry.Neil was promised to Riko when they were little, but Neil has no intention of being taken by that asshole. IDEK LEAVE ME ALONE

Like a River by Moonix (WIP)  Andrew was a statistical anomaly. He was both a Seer and a Squib, an unfortunate combination of genetic traits that still somehow got him into Hogwarts. He had both hands full babysitting Kevin Day, resident Quidditch prodigy, after the drama with Riko Moriyama in fifth year, and making sure his brother finished his last year of education after the death of their mother. What he did not need was another stray to take in – Neil Hatford, formerly Nathaniel Wesninski, prominent guest in Andrew's prophetic dreams with his blue, blue eyes and death omens flocking to him wherever he went. What he needed even less was to start pretending they were in a relationship, but then, Andrew never had been very interested in doing what was good for him.

My Way Home... by ionlyloveyouironically (WIP)  Two years after they run, Mary Hatford decides it's not working.At age 11, Andrew Doe moves into a massive house with his new foster mother, Stella Josten. They make a picture-perfect family: mother, son, and strange boy who lives inside the walls.

No Ordinary Cats by Nekojita  Andrew gets a little more than he bargained for when he rescues a tattered cat from some drunken idiots at work one night.

Nolite te Bastardes Carborundorum by redFreckles (WIP)  It's probably Stockholm syndrome. It was only a matter of time, Nathaniel supposes. Years of violence of all sorts finally catching up to him, these four walls finally collapsing around him, Neil's firm resolve to not be broken slipping out from underneath Nathaniel's uncertainty and folding in on it's own shattered surface.Nathaniel hates Neil, sometimes, for what he means, what he represents. A hope long lost in the hands of his father as he sold him to the devil.Or in which Neil is sold, but not to the Moriyama's.

ode to sleep by jaylocked  Andrew’s barely even noticing his surroundings by the time he walks through the automatic doors, more ready for a Slurpee than he’s ever been in his whole life, but the sight of an attractive man effectively disarming and disabling a guy with a gun gets his attention pretty quickly.(written for the prompt: "Ok, so what if neil & andrew meet in a 7-11 where they both go when they can't sleep at night bc both of them are insomniacs + they're always half asleep so it takes them a while to notice each other.")

Pressure Points by puddlejumper99 (WIP)  Neil enrolls at Columbia High School and remarkably fails at remaining invisibleI've had to fuck with the timeline a bit to make it work in my mind? But most of the canon backstory is intact. Just shuffled about a littleHope you like it! I've never wrote much fanfic before these dumb exy boys completely consumed my life but i cant get them out of my head so here we are.

Right Here in the Light by OrdinaryVegan  A few members of the domestic Andreil household find themselves awake in the middle of the night. In other words, Andrew Minyard is the best father in the universe, and no one will convince me otherwise.

She was Found by OrdinaryVegan AKA Piper: The Prequel

★ Something Sweet by horrorinabakset (WIP)  Neil's mother dies when he is fifteen. As a result, Neil ends up in Columbia, at a diner called Sweetie's. There he encounters a rather strange family, a boy raising his twin cousins.

staff recommendation by flybbfly Andrew works at a bookstore. Neil stumbles in during a bad storm.

Taking in Strays by Leahelisabeth (fortheloveofcamelot) Neil picks up a stray. He and Andrew get a little attached.

The Definition of Overkill by WriteThroughTheNight Neil and Andrew are neighbors and spiders that big should be illegal.

★ to know a man by moonix  In which the Foxes all work at a coffee shop run by Wymack, Neil is their newest recruit with a dark past, Andrew is obvious, Neil is oblivious, and everyone ships it apart from Aaron, who just wants to study in peace. With guest appearance by a stuffed jellyfish called Josephine.

Watermark by fairietailed (JereJean) He hops into the kitchen on one foot, catching his mother before she carries the bowl of peas she’s holding into the dining room.“Jeremy?” Her eyebrows pull together in concern at the look on his face. “What is it?”“I don’t know,” he says, sticking out his foot. “I think it’s my soul mate?”--In which bruises and scars from your soulmate appear on your skin, and Jeremy's skin is a myriad of colored stains.

★ we’re kings of the killing by OneSweetMelody (WIP) When Nathaniel Wesninski enters the Baltimore FBI field office, he comes out as Neil Josten and owes more than than a few favors FBI if he doesn't want to be slammed with a host of charges. With no choice but to work as an FBI agent to pay off his dues, Neil is assigned to a field office in Columbia, South Carolina. However, it only takes a few weeks for Neil's past start catching up with him and for him to start wondering if he's really all that safe in Columbia

Raven!Neil

dangerous and disquieting by feuchsli (WIP)  In which Mary's first attempt at stealing her son away has failed and she only succeeds five years later. But the damage is done and the lack of running-experience leads to Nathan catching up with them. What we see here is the aftermath of that and the hell that is Nathaniel Wesninski's life—at least up to the point when he meets the Foxes and slowly becomes another person under the name of Neil Josten.

Dare You To by quexnk (goldveines) (WIP) Nathaniel's place is at Riko's side, the hidden and elusive number three to Riko's perfect court. His identity is kept secret due to his father's history, but the three on his cheek tells the truth: some things can't be hidden - such as Nathaniel's inclination to his father's personality. Nathaniel isn't interested in being loyal to Riko, he's interested in playing Exy; and his methods aren't always to Riko or his partner, Jean's, benefit. He'll push both his own limits and those around him to play.

★ This is What Hollows by constellationqueen (WIP) (Rewritten) A month after Kevin runs from the Ravens, Nathaniel Wesninski is sent to the Foxes as a message from Riko.

Fluff

Ache in my Bones, Ache in my Heart by imagined_melody Andrew and Neil both find wintertime difficult to weather (pun intended). They take care of each other.

my heart is glowing fluorescent by dizzyondreams Neil woke briefly, shallow wakefulness, that dreamy, half-sleep where he barely opened his eyes. He could hear soft talking from somewhere behind him, could smell cigarettes and boy sweat and laundry detergent, an oddly familiar smell, and before he could really take anything in he was asleep again.

#i told you guys i might make another one today #:D:D:D #fic rec #tfc fic rec #the foxhole court #aftg #all for the game #tfc #andreil #andreil fanfiction #the foxhole court fanfiction #tfc fanfic #tfc fanfiction #aftg fanfiction #my posts #tfc ff

[kimnamjelly-blog]

Thicker Than the Water of the Womb

Write a self para about your character of at least 1800 {total is 2684} words about their love life and/or their wished for love life.  {a day late but i’m not trying to qualify so eh}

Peaches irreparably reminded him of Ares—from that first day he spoke to him, the first time he dipped down to touch lips and tasted traces of homemade peach ice cream left from it, falling asleep during his lessons under the peach trees... There was a tendency for the three of them to compare Ares to an angel. In some ways it was a joke, because no people knew better than them what Ares could be like, but it was also hopelessly genuine. Peaches and angelic smiles. That full-body laughter that made Namjoon’s heart ache like it’s too small to hold so much warmth. Those looks Ares gave him sometimes, like he was the whole world in some ways, and Namjoon was sure, absolutely sure, that he would die for him. Maybe die because of him.

Jazz was a king, the gentlest man, the youngest, silently still, soft stars. He was more than skin and scars and tattoos could contain. Meeting him was a fluke, and inarguably a brilliant blip in time. Those deviations persisted until he could feel harmonies singing under his blood. Jazz was his strength in ways he could never imagine, given that he saw him a few days a week past midnight like the universe’s most beautiful, captured dream. He imagined his fingers interlocked with his when he hadn’t quite learned for himself what steady hands were, and Jazz’s were the steadiest. There were fences he didn’t realize he could climb until Jazz was on the other side, asking him whether he had the strength to come along. He did, he found out, and wanted that love that didn’t leave him gripping the edge of the sink and sobbing. That love that was tucked into the soft smile Jazz got, that forgave him for things Namjoon hadn’t even gotten to yet, that asked him questions and sought answers he hadn’t realized were worth giving. Where Ares was still yet an unreachable seraphim, Jazz was tangible and more than enough. More than enough to realize his perspective on support and smiles was completely wrong. Love wasn’t a fluke like first meetings could be, it wasn’t an act of providence, it wasn’t just in passerby or just the local angel. It was close by and steady as a rock, even when its cracks showed.

There were laws in order that suggested when paths intertwined too many times without meaning, the world would conspire to make them meet. Burned cheeks under layers and layers of sunscreen, hands awash in painted rainbows like a gay pride parade, and the distinct memory of laughter caught under his tongue and an earnestness to know. There was a humor to Hazel that was aglow in the boniness of his arms, defiance and strength met head-on that had seen things Namjoon simply hadn’t yet. In so many ways, Namjoon yearned to be loved. He asked it of Hazel, and somewhere, somehow, he’d given it over because he was gentler than Jazz and sweeter than Ares under his bruised, grumbling eyes. He could have met him amongst honey bees, or under Jongup’s steady hands and ink, but he met him alone, surrounded by sunlight and brick and an almost-toppled glass of water. For a time, he was most afraid of failing him, of being less than Hazel had imagined him to be—especially when he had a moat, a cave, a whole decrepit childhood castle of worthlessness and injury—but somewhere, somehow, he realized he’d failed to see Hazel as so, so, so human. And that’s when he fell in love, sitting at the apartment table across the room and doing nothing. Nothing of import.

They’d snuck into his heart like he’d never had walls there in the first place, and he was pretty sure he’d let them. If there had been a fight, they bore no bruises. No stretch marks (no, he’d been to slow for that). Just him trying to remember when, exactly, he’d given them the key to the front gate one by one, and how they managed to see him broken and bleeding and bruised and sobbing and still wanted him.

Calling it a miracle wouldn’t do them justice.

Eventually, they’d find and ask about the journal he’d forgotten about, with entries so old his handwriting was not only chicken scratch but almost completely illegible. But they wouldn’t know about its companion for some time, and Namjoon kind of preferred it that way. It wasn’t that it was filled with horrors and nightmares. It was, in fact, the first’s exact opposite. Writing out all the bad things to make sense of them was nice in theory, but once the pages started being filled deep into the latter half of a hundred, the negativity was overwhelming. So he’d been given a second journal where the first twenty-three pages were in smudged lilac pen and the rest would make do in varying shades of purple. Most of the lilac pages were crowded with Kijung, sometimes Kitae or Jiha, and he’d memorized the pages where his parents had made it in so he never had to read them until he was ready.

But around when the magenta fountain pen had started being used, and what was Korean turned into shaky English, there were mentions of Ares. Right when the violet pen started running out came Jazz, and with the pinky-lavender was Hazel. He had a vague idea of what he was doing when he wrote about them, harboring a suspicion that if he looked back on these things he’d want to hide this journal both from himself and somewhere deep where no else one could find it either.

So he usually wrote with as much maturity as he could muster for the sake of whatever future self decided to self-inflict embarrassment, but still things like, “He’s so cute I’m going to vomit” made it in there. Luckily, given most contexts, he couldn’t really blame himself. It was still relatable and applicable and probably always would be.

2011/8/8

Didn’t mean to not write for so long. Hyunja locked me out of our room. The roof is better than sleeping next to him, anyway. There are some really bright stars even with all the street lamps on. Maybe I can sneak out to visit the library? To look up constellation names or something. Kinda need sleep, though, and the shingles aren’t exactly God’s best mattress. Work was gross today (temperature was in the high thirties and I wanted to peel my skin off), but the peaches are really pretty. They get this kinda reddish color. I expected them to be lighter for some reason. More pinkish. I met Park Jimin yesterday. He’s younger than me, I think? I was really embarrassing, but he made me smile. Some guy was being dumb and Jimin-ah punched him. I’d let him punch me, too. If he wanted. Forcing me to take credit for the peaches he picked was as close as I’ll get, though, probably. Equally as humbling. I was kind of thinking of his ears the whole time because I said some stupid things (I didn’t really expect him to speak Korean, actually, which I guess was pretty stupid of me) but he also has nice ears. If he blushes they go more pink than the peaches. The whole of him is really nice though. And I mean whole. He punched someone but I would have, too, if I were him, and he’s really nice. About as nice as his parents, so I guess it runs in families, huh? Gotta wonder about me, then. But if Jimin-ah liked me okay, I must be nice enough, too. (Consensus: “nice” is the word of the day) Remember when I said I thought maybe I could be gay? He was really cute. I wonder if he’s okay being called that? It’s probably not better to call him pretty, but. Yeah. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to if I see him again.

2011/8/9

On a scale of petty, where would I lie for locking Hyunja out of our room? Just hypothetically, really. I don’t feel like getting scalped today. Or ever. Update: Jimin-ah’s laugh just about killed me today. He still hasn’t punched me, but I’m waiting. It’s an open (unspoken) invitation. For the record, he did laugh that first day but I was kinda distracted by how embarrassed I was to be me. Existence is a real struggle. I’m fully prepared for this crush. But he’s not too distracting, which is nice. I mean, he’s distracting if he can be distracting, but I’m still getting plenty of work done. Accidentally broke some shit today and was ignored, which is better than literally any realistic alternative.

[...]

2011/9/3

Hey, America? English sucks. Kim Namjoon Kim Namjoon Kim Namjoon Kim Namjoon Park Jimin Park Jimin Park Jimin. He has good p a handriting. That looks wrong. I didn’t He’s really, really nice. I think noona would have liked him? I miss It was cooler out today because it rained last night. Grass grows really fast. There’s already some green everywhere, so I hope it rains again (even if I can’t go out at night). I miss the flowers.

[...]

2011/12/20

Somehow no one has noticed I d have my ears pierced. It has been more than two weeks. Eiht Eighteen days. They said six to eight weeks, so I will listen to them. My ears feel okay, though. It will be worth the money to buy earrings. Small circles? Hoops. If Hyunja sees them, I think he will rip them out, but I have been sleeping out on the roof again. I forgot the word, sorry. I was right. Jimin looks nice. I do not know how to describe him. Not in English, but I promised I would practice. Verb tenses are worst. Writing this has taken a long time. He looks at me sometimes and I do not think it. I freeze up and want to cry kind of. I have to leave this job soon, though, and I do not want to. I will miss the peaches. Jimin goes to the same high school as me. I will not miss him as much. Because of him I am far in my English classes even though it is not my language, but it still takes time to read assignments. I do not have a lot of time. The CHSPE does not need good grades before though. I will do my best.

[...]

10/21/2012

I still think America writes their dates... stupidly. I just took the CHSPE and I’m sending Jimin kisses for all he’s done for me (like I’ll ever kiss him aha). And my English teachers, of course. The test didn’t go so bad, but it’s hard to tell until we get the results back. I have to wait for those and pretend like someone’s not going to have my hide if I end up failing. The math was easiest, but I feel an okay sort of confident. It still sucks not having any classes with Jimin, but I never have. Also, Halloween still makes me laugh. If Hyunja goes to answer the door this year I’ll hit him with a frying pan. He can keep his gross hands off of the children dressed like Darth Vader and stuff. They’re so little every year oh my god. I mean I have my nieces and nephews but it’s different. Plus mine don’t dress up like Snow White, you know?

[...]

2/28/2013

okay okay okay okay I’m so gay it hurts. I’m okay.

So I met someone on one of my midnight things. It was the frozens section and I was embarrassing as usual but oh my god he had the cutest smile and I’m still hurting. His name is Moon Jongup, which I’m writing down so I don’t make a fool of myself when I see him again. I had to show him something so I asked him to find me on the street off of where I went when I was avoiding the dead body in our room. Which is morbid I guess but the place is really pretty, and it’s not like I’m going to tell him why I went there? I hope he likes it. It’s far enough from home that we should be okay. I wasn’t really thinking when I asked and now I’m really nervous. But what’s done is done and I’ll meet him. Bring a book, maybe, just in case he doesn’t show up. Which would make sense. I’m reading a really good book right now. I’ve been reading it for ages, though, so it’ll be nice to have an excuse to maybe get past chapter seven. I haven’t seen Jimin a lot lately, but sometimes he’ll drag me to sit with him at lunch if he finds me cleaning. Someone should tell him he’s beautiful since I’m in too deep to properly do it. He might hear it all the time, actually, but telling someone their appearance is beautiful is different than telling someone their personality is beautiful, you know? I’m usually really tired by lunchtime because I don’t know what sleep means, but he brightens my day if he’s there.

3/3/2013

So I had another gay awakening with Jongup, right? But that’s kind of whatever, because he’s just really easy to talk to. And that’s better than any gay awakening. We have to keep agreeing to meet each other because he doesn’t have a phone (he’s younger than me, which like wow. Where does he get off looking like that at 15? That feels really young, by the way, but only when I realize I’m 16, which still doesn’t feel real). He told me about constellations. We didn’t end up waiting for sunrise because the sky was cloudless and those sunrises are kind of boring, but it was a really nice night to look at the stars, and he seems really passionate about those. It suits his family name really well. Also, he has a few tattoos already and I know not to ask about them, but he’s kind of amazing. For making decisions like that already, and they’re really good looking. They’re just these small details, and I obviously can’t know if the ones I’ve seen are all he has visible because it’s cold as balls at night still and long sleeves are a survival measure, but yeah. They look good on him.

[...]

8/19/2014

I told Jongup about the artist who’s painting the side of the restaurant, and even if I didn’t make the artist laugh, I made Jongup laugh. So I’ll settle. Which yeah by the way, there’s an artist painting the side of the restaurant. Because I think there was some miscommunication about lunch, I ended up giving him some of mine. I don’t know the details, but it was super gross outside, so I figured he’d want something. Water and stuff. His art is really beautiful. He was painting this lily when I went out to talk to him first and... I guess I wouldn’t peg him as someone who paints flowers, but it’s really beautiful so far. I can’t wait to see it finished. Also, I hope he doesn’t get heatstroke. If I had a standup umbrella or something I’d bring it for him. Think I can make him smile? It’s gonna be a feat when it looks like he’s been running on two hours of sleep and has been sitting out in the sun for hours on end, but I kind of want to see it.

[...]

13/19/2014

GUESS WHO MADE HIM SMILE. It took fucking forever and he’s just about done with his mural but hey guess what. It’s really cute. Turns out grumpy artists paint the best flowers and have the best smiles. I gotta go but I had to make that announcement at least. Bye!

#self:past #namjoon:self #yankee:wildmustard #yankee:witchhazel #yankee:verbena

[dominodebt]

ding dong duch is back (with original work sorry)

HI okay sorry I know I’ve been very inactive but like, first it was finals and then it was a car accident and now it’s legal stuff (nothing major just part of the car accident thing Duch ain’t going to jail) so I’m just trying to stay on top of everything.

I’ve still been writing but I’ve been on more of an original kick lately than fan stuff (although Blackwatch AU is going up friday so like look forward to that I guess) and I’m trying to put together a portfolio of original work since I already have a portfolio of like, news pieces and journalistic things I’ve done.

Long story short here’s a short little character study (which is ironically about cars and legal trouble) that I wrote to put in such a portfolio and was edited by the lovely @woestar and @ullsumbra. I figured I’d slap it up here just to assure everyone that I’m still here and I still write stuff.

I’ll be back with fan stuff soon don’t fret! Thanks for your patience kids <3

Ophelia sees the ticket—an obnoxious flash of pink against the pitch of her vehicle—and feels her carefully worked down anger spike again.

           Fuckin’ peachy.

           She strides forward, heels clicking against the concrete as she approaches her—illegally—parked car, chewing on a manicured nail, stewing.

           This whole night had been a fucking waste, to be honest. Not even Rose, who was in no way an optimist but rather an exceptionally brutal opportunist, admitted that there was nothing useful in Ophelia’s findings.

           And when Rose—who would probably be called a vulture if this whole city didn’t already have her pegged as a viper—says something’s useless, it’s not even good enough to wipe your ass with.

           So Ophelia had, in effect, wasted her time, her money, her composure, and a damn good outfit on a useless party that had yielded none of the promised results. And someone had ticketed her Lotus.

           Her goddamn Lotus.

           She’s pissed, she’s hungry, and she’s not nearly as drunk as she’d like to be.

           She’s also—the heiress notes with interest as she reaches the side of her car—being watched.

           She knows what it’s like to feel eyes on her, to the point where it’s easier to tell when no one’s looking at her than the opposite. Paparazzi, business partners, criminals, cops, complete strangers—Ophelia draws everyone’s eye for one reason or another. This one wants her fortune, that one wants her dress. Some assess her as a threat, some just see a striking young woman.

          The thing, Ophelia’s learned, is when you wear this many masks, you have to be able to don the right one at the right time.

          She lets her gaze drift to the polished passenger window of her prized Lotus, taking in the officer who’s lurking behind, watching her closely.

          So the question is: what part does she have to play for this cop to leave her the hell alone?

          “Evening, Officer,” she greets him, turning around before he can announce himself. She lets some extra sweetness melt into her words, honeying them as best she can when all she can think about is food, alcohol, and the ticket on the hood of her Lotus shoved up this guy’s ass.

          The officer freezes mid-step, dark eyes narrowing as he considers her abrupt greeting, before his expression clears and he finishes his movement, standing a healthy distance away, but now bathed in the streetlight they stand beside.

          “You saw my reflection in the window,” he notes, and Ophelia has to fight to keep her charming smile.

          Oh, a clever cop. Her favorite.

          “Actually, I have eyes in the back of my head,” is her smooth response, as she leans back against the body of her prized car, lifting her leg back to hook the stiletto heel on the rim of her front tire and make the edge of her cocktail dress ride up just enough to pique some interest.

          He lifts an eyebrow, eyes never straying from her face. Ophelia’s smile strains again.

          “I stuck around because I wanted to see who owned the car,” he explains. “Although now that I see who it is, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” A pause. “Your plates are bad.”

          Ophelia drops the sweet smile, this time letting a sly smirk play across her lips, changing tactics.

          “Trust me, my plates aren’t nearly the baddest thing about me.”

          It’s a line so soaked in forced sensuality and false mystique that Ophelia nearly gags on it. She could not be more obvious. It should garner some reaction, at least. She’d welcome a rejection at this point—anything to clue her into what persona she should try next.

          Because it’s not as though she can’t pay the ticket. It’s not even that she doesn’t want to pay the ticket. It’s the simple fact that this cop put his hands on her Lotus, and he’s gonna answer for it one way or another.

          But as his gaze remains impassive under her alluring stare, Ophelia starts to wonder if she should just cut her losses, flip him off, and call it a night.

          “I don’t doubt that,” he replies evenly, and Ophelia’s hands twitch with the desire to crack her fist against that calm fucking face of his. She’s a wealthy heiress, dressed to the nines, openly flirting with him.

          She gets it—she’s not everyone’s taste, whatever. But his stoicism in the face of her performance is starting to grate her.

          Even if said performance is sloppy and kinda half-assed. She’s hungry, okay?

          She shifts gears again, smoothly extricating the heel of her shoe from where she’d hooked it over the rim of her tire and takes a few steps to skirt around the front of her Lotus, letting her fingertips glide over the polished pitch paint.

          “So, you said you wanted to see who owned the car.” Ophelia arches an eyebrow at him, off-handedly feeling like one of those models that showcase cars on game shows. The thought makes her cocksure smirk flicker, but she holds it together. God she wants to be unconscious—blackout or asleep, she kinda doesn’t care at this point. “Like what you see?”

            To her smug satisfaction, his eyes finally leave her face—only to settle on the body of the Lotus.

           Oh, fuck her.

            “It’s nice,” he agrees, crossing his arms as his dark eyes scan the car. “I thought they discontinued the Series 1 in in the 90’s.”

            His casual classification of such an old, stupidly expensive vehicle—no really, Rose had almost murdered her when it had finally come out how much of her fortune she’d spent on the damn thing—gives Ophelia pause, and there’s an audible falter in her smooth stride as she makes her way around to the driver’s side, still watching him closely.

            She half considers dropping the sultry act now just to see how far she can get talking shop with him, but decides against it. She’s too far in to make such a drastic change, and she honestly doesn’t give a shit what he thinks about her car.

          She’s tired, irritated, and wants to make this cop eat this fucking ticket.

          Quirking an eyebrow when he lifts his gaze back up to hers, she notes he’s watching her just as closely. Though she admits it’s probably because he’s waiting for her to make some kind of move as opposed to any sexual intrigue.

            Her eyes sweep over his uniform. The dark navy stands out against his rather fair skin, and she can see a shock of black hair beneath the cap he wears, the bill of it casting a shadow that hides his eyes. His belt contains nothing surprising—Officer Asshole here is not the first or the last cop she’ll see, definitely in her lifetime, probably not even tonight. She searches for something to catch on, but all she ends up looking at is the tarnished SCPD badge pinned slightly crookedly to his chest, and the nameplate fixed beside it.

           J. Zharkov

           “They did discontinue it,” she murmurs, smoothly picking up their conversational thread as she puts the Lotus between them, gazing at him over the roof. “But some things are too good to let go of, you know?”

          She plays her last card—a certain half-smile she couples with lowered lashes and an alluring tilt to her head. She’s honestly found more success in coercing people with the charming look than with flashing her gun.

          Although…Ophelia tips her stare down to the window of her car, knowing damn well such a gun is currently resting in the glove box. She could always try that—

          “You parked illegally.” The cop’s voice is low and terse—not a glimmer of interest in his dark eyes when Ophelia snaps her gaze back to his. “That ticket’s for two hundred bucks.”

          Ophelia’s fingers tense like harpy talons where she’d been skating them aimlessly across the smooth finish of her Lotus as her frisky façade melts away and her expression darkens with anger. Bullshit.

          “Fucking Christ man!” Ophelia steps back, no longer draping herself over the car, hands on her hips. “There are like, forty illegally parked cars here!” she waves a dark hand down the street, at the mass of cars all parked exactly like hers. Everyone parks illegally on Scape Street. And granted, her car is easily the most ostentatious, but still.

          “Did you give any of them tickets?” She swings her gaze around to the car parked behind her—some Ford model or another, ugly as sin—and her jaw tightens at the distinct lack of a ticket on its windshield.

            His lips twitch and she feels her ire rise. Oh, so that got him to smile, huh? Jackass.

            “I’ll get around to it,” he offers, shrugging casually in a way that tells Ophelia he will not, in fact, get around to it and she is the only one in a ten-mile radius getting fucked right now. And it isn’t even the good kind of fucked. Jesus.

            “You’re an ass,” she tell him shortly. She has two hundred dollars on her person right now easy—but it’s the principle of the thing.

           He quirks an eyebrow—the most emotion he’s displayed all night.

           “Just trying to do my job, ma’am.” He tips his hat then, and Ophelia wants to punch him square in the throat. “To serve and protect.”

           Ophelia chokes down a scoff. She’s not giving him the satisfaction, no fucking way.

           “Well, you’re doing a swell job there, rookie,” she drawls back, snapping him a sarcastic salute before leaning across the car to snatch the ticket off her windshield. She locks eyes with him as she does so, pulling on her least-liked mask. The one her parents used to wear.

           “Don’t ever touch my car again, okay? I don’t care how many laws it’s breaking. You see this—” she raps a knuckle against the polished pitch-black hood of her Lotus. “—you keep fuckin’ walking. Got it?”

           He gazes back at her impassively. “Not sure you really get to make that call, miss,” he answers. His voice doesn’t betray a shred of anxiety. Ophelia’s gaze hardens.

           “Yeah? Must be new in town.” She pulls back, making a show of crushing the ticket in her fist while making direct eye contact with him.

           She’s still gonna get it settled—mostly because Rose will absolutely eat her alive if she gives local authorities any reason to poke around in their affairs—but for the moment allows herself to smile at the sound of crumpling paper.

           “Do some research,” she suggests then. Her Lotus chirps as she unlocks it, pulling the door open and lifting an eyebrow at him as she climbs in. “Talk to some of your cop buddies. Poll the department. Ask them if they think it’s a good idea to pick a fight with a girl driving a car like this.”

           Her Lotus is legendary in Saint Cloud—it’s part of her pride, her image. Bad things usually follow its engine’s roar. Everyone knows it—the police department especially.

           She tosses the crumpled remains of her ticket into the cupholder and is about to slam the door and rev the engine for all she’s fucking worth when she sees him draw closer to the passenger side window, and her lips pull back in an honest to god snarl when he braces his forearm against the top of it, looking down at her through the tinted glass.

           Eyes narrowed, she rolls it down, giving him a flat glare.

           “Make it quick, rookie, or you aren’t getting that arm back,” she warns him.

           He looks right at her, and Ophelia lifts her chin.

           “I’ve lived in this city my whole life, Ms. Lévesque,” he tells her; voice that same timbre as before—as steady and solid as a heartbeat. “I don’t really scare all that easy.”

           Ophelia scoffs, rolling her eyes. Dramatic one-liners. Great.

           And a local. Even better. She glances at him sideways, trying to place his age, wondering if he’d been around back when her parents ran things.

           She eventually decides—with the flippancy of a flipped coin—she doesn’t give a shit, and turns back to the road, turning the key and letting the engine roar to life.

           “But you do scare,” she tells him off-handedly, not really caring if he’s listening or not. She throws the car into reverse, glances in her rear-view mirror, resists the urge to slam into the unticketed Ford parked behind her. “Easy or not. Everyone does.”

You can tell me what you think or you can totally ignore? Either way have a good one kids

#Original Work #Original Character #Portfolio Stuff #Ophelia Levesque #Rose de Rege #Not My Circus Not My Monkeys

[dramallamadingdang]

Oh, God! Question meme! A really long one! Run! Hide!

Tagged by @ajaysims. *points* It's his fault! His! Not mine! ;)

This is really long, since it's a synthesis of two of these questions memes and I have verbal diarrhea. So, I cut.

Name: Katrina

Nicknames: Most RL people other than my kids and grandkids call me Kat because one syllable is less than three. :) Simmers call me iCad because that's what I chose to call myself when I started participating in the community. Hubby calls me Kitten. Kids call me Ma, usually in exasperated/long-suffering tones. Grandkids call me Mimi because I hate the usual things that grandmothers are called because they're associated with old people. I may be old, but I'm not old, y'know? :)

Zodiac sign: Taurus, but astrology is still bullshit.

Height: A hair less than 6'0/about 182cm. And very underweight due to digestive/metabolic issues mostly because of a malfunctioning liver. (No, not from alcohol. From having had asymptomatic Hepatits C that I most likely got from a blood transfusion in the early 80s, before they screened donated blood for that. It sucks, y'all. Cherish your liver. Baby it. Seriously. Stop with the alcohol. Just stop. Do weed instead.)

Orientation: In experience/practice: A Kinsey 2. In terms of the kind of person who attracts me: People with IQs over 130. I really, truly don't care what you look like, what gender you identify as, or what sex organs you have or don't have. Smart is seriously sexy. So, I'm sapiosexual. :)

Ethnicity: Whitey-white-white, yay! :| Glow-in-the-dark white. I-start-burning-in-the-sun-in-30-seconds white. Damn-near-albino white. Also, mostly of Welsh descent. Only sort of half-second-generation American on one side; my paternal grandma was one of those horrible immigrants who took a job away from a Real American(TM). She was even a somewhat illegal one, for a few months. But she was white and British so I guess that's OK.

(Sorry, as a person married to a man whose mum -- who is awesome -- was born in Mexico and who came here legally with her family when she was 7 and is a citizen but she still gets shit these days because she’s “a Mexican,” I've sorta come to really hate the kind of people who tend to call themselves Real Americans(TM).)

Favorite fruit: Okra, especially when part of aloo bhindi masala, an Indian dish. Okra IS a fruit. Really. Look it up. Also, tomatoes.

Favorite season: Autumn, when everything is dying. MWAHAHAHAHAH!

Favorite book series: Still Sharon Kay Penman's "Welsh trilogy." Also, though not really a series, per se: The Star Trek novels that were published in the 80s. They got mostly stupid after that, but there were some gems that were published in the mid-80s, before The Next Generation was a thing.

Favorite flower: Calla lilies. Usually used in funeral arrangements, along with Easter lilies, yay. Flowers of death! MWAHAHAH!

Favorite scent: Lilacs. Lavender. Honeysuckle. And this "rain" scent scented candle. It's so clean and fresh and not-perfumey, yet it manages to drown out the brine smell that eventually permeates everything when you live close to the shore...

Favorite color: Greens. All shades, although I prefer the yellower shades, especially the darker ones like army green. Also, orange.

Favorite animal: The spotted hyena, but I already extolled their many virtues the last time I did this list, so I'll refrain. Also, elephants.

Coffee, tea, or hot cocoa: Hell no, maybe, and yes please (if it's vegan), respectively.

Average sleep hours: Sleep? What is this word? *just came off a 38-hour work "day" a few hours ago, and I'm too wired to sleep.* YAY SHOWBIZ! :| But generally, when life isn't crazy, usually about 6 hours per 24 hour period. And I'm nocturnal, so those six hours are usually between about 0900 and about 1500. :)

Cat or dog person: Both person. And llama person. And alpaca person. And horse person. And snake person. And spider person.

Favorite fictional characters: Spock. (Well, actually, pretty much the entire original Star Trek crew except, well, Kirk. Whom I hate. With a passion. I really like Abrams-Kirk, though. Oddly enough. So it might just be that I can't stand Shatner...) The Cardassian characters from Star Trek: DS9, but especially Garak. Also, Julian Bashir and Miles O'Brien from DS9. Jack O'Neill and Rodney McKay from the Stargate franchise. KITT from the original Knight Rider. And Jayne Cobb from Firefly. (Hi, @eulaliasims!)

Number of blankets you sleep with: I'm in SoCal at the moment. No blankets because I tend to sleep in the warm part of the day. And when I do sleep at night, there's a furnace-like husband and a large, furnace-like dog in the bed with me. Blankets would be overkill.

Dream trip: Still Antarctica. Or space. But Antarctica is more likely at this point. ;)

Blog created: I think it was December of 2013. Maybe November. Ahhhh, those halcyon pre-2016 years...

Number of followers: Right now? 1443. It might change in an hour or so.

Time right now: About 0220 Pacific Time, Wednesday, March 22. One month and one day until my birthday. I expect presents, people! (Nah, I kid. Birthdays after 50 don't mean much. Hell, birthdays after 18 -- or 21, nowadays, I guess -- don't mean much. :) )

Last thing you googled: I was looking for some textures to use for some recolors I'm working on during downtimes at work.

Fave music artist: In terms of non-classical stuff: Queen, always and forever. But I also really like the Barenaked Ladies and other such alternative groups from the 90s as well as 80s New Wave stuff. Also, Metallica. In terms of "classical" stuff: Beethoven, always and forever.

Song stuck in my head: Beethoven's 8th piano sonata, 3rd movement. I was playing it at work today...on my cello. I'm working on arranging the entire sonata for solo cello...starting with the 3rd movement because I do better working on things backward. (Since I'd be willing to bet most people don't know the tune off the top of their head, here's Dubravka Tomsic playing it on youtube, if you're curious.

Last movie I watched: Star Trek Beyond. I liked it better than Into Darkness but not as well as the first Abrams-verse one...

Last TV show I watched: I have Stargate Atlantis paused on my computer screen at the moment. I plan to work on furnishing/decorating the house I put up for download tonight when I'm done with this, and I usually have a TV show playing while I build/decorate stuff in my game. :)

What I’m wearing right now: A pair of black sweatpants and a Telluride Daily Planet T-shirt. (That's the local newspaper at home. :) ) Boring white underwear. My fleece-lined moccasins because my feet are always cold.

The kind of stuff I post: Sims stuff, duh! At least on this blog. :) The other blog has the ranty/political stuff.

Why did I choose my url: Because I like to point and laugh at silly internet drama and because I own llamas, and I added dingdang because dramallama was taken and because of this song.

Gender: According to every one of those silly "What Gender Are You?" online quizzes, I am male, mainly because I'm a self-confident, argumentative, assertive, non-empathetic asshole who doesn't do "feelings." Yet, I have girl plumbing. Go figure. Meh, it's all just social conditioning and expectations, anyway, so...I rebel. I reject gender labeling and their associated roles.

Hogwarts house: I took a quiz once and it said Gryffindor. I've never read Harry Potter or seen any of the movies except one of them during an airplane flight...and I fell asleep during it, so...Yeah, I don't know what it means to be Gryffindor. Don't much care, either.

Pokémon team: Don't know anything about Pokemon, either.

Lucky number: 13 because I am anti-superstition. (Well, except when it comes to white pianos, of course, but I have hard evidence that they are evil, so it’s not superstition. ;) ) Or 42. Take your pick.

Dream job: I once said "Not having one" but then followed it up with "but that's boring." So, I decided to take on some work through June. And you know what? I'm gonna go back to "Not having one." I just need to find some volunteer work to keep me occupied for a few hours a day. Not for 38-hour "days," though. :p

Relationship status: I is married to my second husband. He's cute. And a lot younger than me, woooooooo! First marriage wasn't nearly so fun, though. The only good thing that came of it was my kids.

Pets: Oh, God. Most of them are back home in Colorado (where I have a 39-acre ranch) while I'm here in California, but:

A herd of llamas and alpacas, about 50 total at the moment, but "unpacking" season is approaching, so that number will be going up to about 65 soon. 5 horses 2 nanny goats...which actually belong to a neighbor but they're currently housed on my property, so...they count! 8 dogs 5 cats...although sadly that will probably be going down to four soon because the 18-year-old whose had health problems all her life is currently quite sick and likely won't be getting better. :( Also, there are a ton of barn cats, but they don't really count as pets. A flock of chickens. 1 rooster, the rest hens. 1 California kingsnake 5 tarantulas, various species 8 dragonfly nymphs. I think 2 will become dragonflies this year because I've had them for a few years now...

Last song you listened to: Beethoven's 5th piano concerto, for somewhat sentimental reasons.

Favorite TV Show: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. I love the original series a lot, too, but DS9 surpassed it in my book.

First Fandom: Star Trek, of course. I remember declaring that I would marry Spock when I grew up. I was 3 at the time, in 1967, watching the episode "Amok Time" (in which Spock almost gets married) in its original run. We'd only just gotten a color TV a few months before, so it was REALLY COOL. I also wrote a crapton of fanfic in the 70s/80s and a bit in the 90s. Even published a 'zine in the 80s. It was expensive as hell back then but SO MUCH FUN!

Randomly Tagging People I Don’t Think I’ve Tagged For This Thing Before: @randommindtime (It's what you get for following me!), @yandereplumsim, @elfpuddle, @halousims, @nuttydazesublime, and @kayleigh-83. As always, feel free to ignore for whatever reason. :)

#non sims #meme #ye olde questions meme

[flonightingayle]

The Three

Author’s note: This is my first published story. 

Warnings: Mentions of sexual abuse and murder--it is graphic. Read at your discretion.

The freezing water enveloped me, pulling me further into its murky depths. My limbs thrashed fruitlessly. I didn’t know how to swim. Shock was rapidly overtaking me. It was over. I surrendered to the darkness seeping into the corners of my vision. Just as the inky curtain closed around me, I felt an arm wrap around my waist. The rest was unbeknownst to me.

“Sweetheart, you gotta wake up for me. Can you do that, darlin’?” The fatigue weighing down every limb seemed to pull at every eyelash, weighing them shut. “Come on, baby.” Finally, I was able to pry them open. A woman stood above me. Her amber eyes glowed with warmth. Tendrils of hair escaped her loose, grey streaked bun. Her light skin was crinkled around her eyes and mouth, worn from years of unabashed smiles. “Wes, she’s awake!” A man I assumed to be her husband ran into the room. “Good. I was worried about ‘er,” he drawled. They helped me to sit up. The woman held a cup to my lips. I drank deeply, refreshed by the water inside. “It’s a good thing you found her, Wes. Her vitals were almost nonexistent.” He nodded solemnly, “She was an inch from death’s door.” He shot me a grin, “But she’s still kickin’ now. Let’s introduce ourselves, hon. I’m Wesley Dawson. You can call me Wes, damn near everyone does.” He offered his dark, calloused hand. I took it, shaking it with all the strength I could muster. His wife placed a hand on my knee, “I’m Alice Dawson. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” I smiled, “It’s really a pleasure to meet you both. I wouldn’t be alive without you.” Wes shrugged it off, “It’s nothing, darlin’.”

The next morning, Alice had me up and walking. Their house was lovely. It was reminiscent of my grandparents’ house with its knitted afghans and various knick-knacks. Four rooms surrounded mine, which was at the end of the hall. The bathroom sat next to me on the left. A room decorated with a pink frilly quilt and an intricately carved oak vanity lay next to it. Across from it was a room stuffed with hockey memorabilia. Between that room and mine was a closed door. It had a finality about it. “Do you two have kids?” I asked brightly. A distinct wave of darkness clouded her otherwise sunny face. “We… used to. Three of them. Charlotte, Hunter, and Delilah. All of them have passed, God rest their souls.” I squeezed Alice’s shoulder, “I’m so sorry.” She avoided my eyes, “I am too.”

I investigated my room that night. I found a drawer full of letters in her desk. They were addressed to Charlotte. They were from... herself. She began writing them April third of four years ago. They spoke of the assignment her therapist had given her. She had begun writing them a week after the disappearance of Delilah. She wrote of the sorrow she felt every time she passed her younger sister’s room, knowing she could have stopped her from going out that night. She told of the hollow look in her parents’ eyes and the outbursts of rage her brother expressed. She wrote the day they found her body. The last phrase of the letter read, “The slaughtered the lamb will be revived.” The next letter, peppered with the same phrase, concluded with Hunter going off to murder his sister’s assailant. This time, the letter ended with, “The slaughtered lamb and the sacred hunter will be united in death.” The next letter described her brother’s attemped arrest and suicide. It had the same phrase repeated over and over, almost every other line. By the next letter, Charlotte had snapped. It was simply the phrase “The children of Dawson will be together in death as they were in life.” By the end of the letter, the writing had become illegible. Dried blood saturated the page. The three children of the Dawsons were dead. I just hoped they had found peace wherever they were now.

I was half asleep. I didn’t know what I was doing. Honestly. It was around midnight, I had gotten up to go to the bathroom. Instead of turning right, I turned left, pushing open the closed door. I was suddenly wide awake. The room was like the others for the most part. It had a quilt draped neatly over the bed. The antique carved vanity sat across from it. It was what was on the vanity--and the floor--that frightened me into consciousness. A large red pentagram sat in the center of the room. Candles sat in a holder on the vanity. Pictures of the three children sat in a semicircle around them. An item from each child lay before their picture. Charlotte’s was a letter to her parents. Hunter’s was a hockey puck with a message from his family. Delilah’s was a pink and white floral scrunchie. An ornate golden mask, reminiscent of one worn for a masquerade ball, hung from the corner of the mirror. It called to me. I don’t know why I listened. I lit the candles one by one before removing the mask from its perch. It shimmered in the dim candlelight. I pulled it over my face without hesitation.

Three children played without reservation. They chased each other, laughing exuberantly. The youngest tripped, crying out to her siblings. They scooped her into a hug. I saw them grow together. I saw Charlotte become the eloquent writer I knew from her earlier letters. I saw Hunter become an unmatched hockey player. I saw Delilah grow into a graceful ballerina. All of this flashed before my eyes before coming to a halt.

It picked back up with Delilah walking into Charlotte's room. “Char, can I borrow your red lipstick?” Charlotte looked up from her desk, “Why?” Delilah smiled cheekily, “I’m going to a party.” Charlotte raised her eyebrow, “Really? You know mom and dad would flip, right?” She flung her arms around her older sister, “That’s why neither of us are going to tell them.” Charlotte looked hesitant, “I don’t know, Lilah…” Delilah sighed, “It will be fine, Charlotte. Trust me.”

Delilah obviously got her way. She was talking to a boy who had a malevolence she obviously couldn’t sense. When she put down her drink to talk to another friend, he slipped something in her drink. She continued to drink it when she turned back to him. He smiled at her and slipped an arm around her waist. The next vision was terrible. She didn’t even have a chance of fighting back. After he was done, he strangled her. He wrapped her in a sheet and threw her into a nearby lake.

Charlotte told her parents the next morning. She made the right decision. The cops found her body in the lake. Delilah’s bloated and deformed figure looked nothing like her previous beauty. Her caramel complexion had become a sickly gray, spotted with red petechiae. Her hazel doe eyes had become red with burst blood vessels. Her body was painted with  bruises.

I saw Hunter hugging Charlotte. Tears streamed down her face as she begged him not to go. “I must, Char. We can’t let that sick fuck get away with this.” He marched out of the house, knife in hand. I saw him kidnap the boy who murdered his sister. Hunter tied him up, shoving a dirty sock into his mouth. He drove to the lake where his sister was abandoned. He shoved the boy out of his car. “You’re going to suffer, fucker,” Hunter growled. He cut off the boy’s clothes. When he had his bare canvas, he ran his knife over the boy, leaving him a crying, screaming, bloody mess. Hunter smiled wickedly at his prey before castrating him. The boy screamed in pain. Hunter pulled the boy back by his shaggy blond hair. “You’ll never hurt anyone again.” Hunter ripped his knife across the boys throat. He kept his hold on the boy’s hair until he stopped gurgling. Hunter kicked the boy’s body into the lake, got into his car, and drove away.

When Hunter arrived home, two police cars whipped in after him. His family ran onto the porch. “Hands up!” The officer yelled. Hunter looked back towards his family. He mouthed the words, “I love you,” before plunging the knife into his stomach. He fell to his knees, coughing blood. Charlotte shrieked, only kept on the porch by her father. Alice collapsed, wailing in agony. Delilah has been avenged at the cost of her brother’s life

Charlotte was huddled in the corner. From the bags under her eyes, I could tell it had been days since she slept. She felt responsible. She didn’t stop either sibling and they were dead. As the eldest child, it was her duty to protect them. She had failed. She broke down crying, mumbling to her fallen charges how sorry she was. Charlotte crept into the kitchen. It was the middle of the night. She drew a knife from the drawer and retreated to her room. She scribbled out a last letter to her parents. She began her last letter before slitting her arms from wrist to elbow. She continued until she fell unconscious, blood soaking the carpet. The last Dawson child met the same fate as her siblings.

The mask released me from the visions. The candles suddenly went out. I fell backwards in surprise, directly into the center of the pentagram. Shadows waltzed across the walls. Something pulled me to my feet. Oh. It was just Alice. “You shouldn’t be in here,” she asserted. I trembled beneath her fingers, “Are you going to kill me?” She hastily released  me, “What? No. You violated our trust. You’ve overstayed your welcome. You’re perfectly healthy. Get out.” I nodded, hurrying out of the room. I risked one glance back into the room. The mask seemed to be watching me.

I slipped into the Uber and told the driver my address. He driver smiled at me. We took off. He placed his hand on my upper thigh. I stared at him in horror as he pulled onto the side of the road. He climbed out. I unbuckled my seatbelt and scrambled out of the car. He caught me, pinning me down and yanking down my pants. I screamed. I saw three figures approaching us. I screamed again for a very different reason. Delilah’s bloated, strangled form accompanied Charlotte, with sunken eyes and slit wrists, and Hunter, with a knife in his abdomen and blood dripping from his chin. The dragged the man off of me. Hunter dragged the man off screaming while the sisters helped me off the ground. I gasped. Their grotesque forms had given way to the girls they were before the tragedy. Hunter reappeared, solemn but whole. “Thank you,” I cried. The sisters smiled and Hunter nodded. Without a word, they disappeared. I wondered what had become of my assailant. Deciding I had had enough snooping for a lifetime, I climbed in the car and drove home.

#horror story #short story #trigger warning #ghosts

[lodelss]

Soraya Roberts | Longreads | March 2019 | 8 minutes (2,111 words)

In the past, the bow tie seemed to hold him together, kind of. Tucker Carlson had always been as red-faced and obstreperous as so many other conservative pundits, but he had never been known to be “cunty” or “faggot”-level offensive. Still, it wasn’t much of a shock earlier this week when progressive watchdog Media Matters unearthed him spouting slurs like that — a couple of racist remarks rounded out the misogyny and homophobia — during a series of appearances on Bubba the Love Sponge Clem’s radio show between 2006 and 2011. From Monday to Tuesday, after the first recordings surfaced, Tucker Carlson Tonight hemorrhaged almost half its advertisers.

That bow tie had been a flourish of propriety: a strip of cloth separating him from a loudmouth like Howard Stern, the “shock jock” who looks and acts like a dollar store rock star, grabbing his crotch for whoever will listen. But he dropped it the year he appeared on that radio show. It was Stern who hired Bubba the Love Sponge Clem (yes, that’s his legal name) in the mid-2000s to host a show on his second satellite radio channel, and it was on that show that Carlson crossed the line. That was where the shock jock and the political commentator proved that they were one and the same — the former played off conservatism, the latter played it up, but both relied on its foundation. “Well, you’re talking about God and illegals,” Carlson told Clem. “I thought we were just going to be talking about blow jobs.”

But what’s the difference, really? Blow jobs were once used for shock value. Now it’s “illegals.” The punch line being that neither one of them is transgressive in the end.

* * *

No one used the words shock jock for Joe Pyne, the host of It’s Your Nickel (that’s a reference to pay phones, kids, and I’m including myself here) who pioneered in-your-face talk radio in the ’50s and went on to create TV’s The Joe Pyne Show, which sometimes devolved into actual physical altercations between him and guest. No one really knew what to make of him. His unconventional style — dressed-up to dress down “pinkos” and “women’s libbers” and riff on, rather than read, reports — was neither news nor entertainment. It seemed to be best described (well, The New York Times and Time both did anyway) as an “electronic peepshow.” The personality-free press of the time considered Walter Cronkite the most trusted man in America and Johnny Carson the funniest, but Pyne, with his syndicated show on more than 200 radio outlets, was the most Machiavellian. “When it comes to manipulating media,” Icons of Talk author Donna Halper told Smithsonian Magazine, “he was the father of them all.”

Pyne briefly descended from his soapbox in the mid-’60s — for a week’s “vacation” — after bringing a gun to his show during the Watts riots, suggesting the world wasn’t quite yet ready for his kind of conservative appeal. It took until the mid-’80s, when the FCC was no longer so hard-assed and political correctness was all the rage, for Howard Stern to turn the shock jock into a thing. The idea was that PC America was muting real America, and personalities like his were there to liberate our ids … usually on the way to work. “They were pushing the limits of what you could hear on the public airwaves,” TALKERS Magazine publisher Michael Harrison told Thrillist of mavericks like Pyne and Don Imus, who set the stage for Stern. “That was the key to the whole thing: that it was on the ‘sacred public airwaves.’”

Full disclosure: I have always hated Howard Stern. His banality offends me: “The closest I came to making love to a black woman was I masturbated to a picture of Aunt Jemima on a pancake box” — that’s the kind of joke he makes. It’s the sort of quip that leaves a dumb bro stuck in 1992 in stitches. To be offensive your words have to have power, and his … don’t. He swears a lot and cajoles his guests into talking about fucking and snorting and it’s all very Free Speech, Motherfuckers! He can be sexist and racist and classist, because, hey! He’s sexist about men too! He’s racist to everyone! He drags every class!

Sorry, I just fell asleep.

The rebellion is a pose, because at the heart of Stern and all the other shock jocks is conservatism — 2.1 kids, strong moral fiber. They can joke about fucking and inhaling, because they ostensibly aren’t doing either. So what positions itself against PC America, in fact, at its core, feeds into it — the conservatism is the rebellion. Knowing that, you can see how Don Imus calling the members of Rutgers’ women’s basketball team “nappy-headed hos” can happen as late as 2007 on his radio show Imus in the Morning (he was fired by CBS and NBC, then hired by ABC). As David Remnick wrote in The New Yorker 10 years before Imus’s offense, personalities like Stern and Mancow Muller and Opie and Anthony appeal to the “audience that feels put upon by a new set of rules — sexual harassment guidelines, the taboo against certain kinds of speech — and wants release, if only in the privacy of the drive to work.”

The audience meaning white heterosexual men. The shock jock industry itself is predominantly white men (Stern’s foil, Robin Quivers, is a black woman, but she has never been the star attraction). Which is not to say that women can’t be as “offensive,” it’s just that the people in charge of hiring them would prefer them to be barefoot and pregnant. There are shockingly few exceptions. Wendy Williams, who rode the wave of ’90s hip-hop and shamelessly confronted celebrities like Whitney Houston with tabloid gossip (she also had a bad habit of trying to out rappers) was christened by New York magazine in 2005 as the “shock jockette.” She was “the black Howard Stern” right down to the middle-class moralism. Other than Williams, the female media personalities who cause offense — Ann Coulter, Laura Ingraham — tend toward conservative commentary, presumably because the men on the top floor think they will be less likely to break a nail in those environs. “The complaints of Western feminists look like petty self-absorption when you line them up against human rights abuses in Third World military dictatorships,” is a thing Ingraham came up with — a misogynistic comment cloaked in doublespeak.

This genre of radio personality was dubbed by my colleague Ethan Chiel as the “outrage jock,” the political version of a culture and entertainment-aligned predecessor, who arose in the late 1980s after the FCC regulations on political talk became less clear. This is where a bow tie comes in handy. The outrage jocks market themselves as transgressive, but instead of fighting conservative America, they uphold it, a stance they brand subversive in a sea of progressive liberal media. Rush Limbaugh, who has the most popular talk radio show in America — 15.5 million listeners, according to Talk Magazine — was dubbed by National Review as the “Leader of the Opposition” back in the ’90s. “Rush took radio at a time when the norm was basically NPR. He comes into that church and blows it up,” radio host John Ziegler told The Washington Post in 2015. “Our presidential politics have become a kind of church. The media says, ‘You’re not allowed to say this, or this, or that, because we’re in church.’ People are sick of that.”

So: Stern 2.0, except instead of shouting about pussy, Limbaugh — not to mention Glenn Beck and Michael Savage — shouts about policy. You may remember him calling women’s rights activist Sandra Fluke a “slut” in 2012 for advocating for contraceptive insurance coverage. “She’s having so much sex she can’t afford the contraception,” said the man who has been married four times. “She wants you and me and the taxpayers to pay her to have sex. What does that make us? We’re the pimps.”

Limbaugh needs a brushup on his sex work nomenclature, among other things. But if you want to talk about pimp: Janet Jackson’s nipple ultimately killed the shock jock. In case you aren’t old, it happened during a performance of “Rock Your Body” at the Super Bowl XXXVIII halftime show in 2004, when Justin Timberlake tore off the right cup of Jackson’s bustier, exposing her breast. (Per Jackson, the red bra underneath the rubber was supposed to stay behind, but came away accidentally.) In response, more than 500,000 complaints, all of them from people presumably with nipples of their own, were reportedly lodged with the FCC. President Bush responded two years later by signing the Broadcast Decency Enforcement Act, which raised the penalty for broadcasting “indecency” tenfold. With that, Howard Stern fucked off to satellite radio and the rest of the shock jocks kind of followed suit. Tucker Carlson was what was left behind.

* * *

“Does she have a good body? No. Does she have a fat ass? Absolutely.” Tucker Carlson did not say that. That was Donald Trump in 2013 talking to Howard Stern about a pregnant Kim Kardashian in a radio show appearance that reemerged during his election campaign. On the same show, across almost two decades, the future president also agreed that his daughter was “a piece of ass” and dismissed flat-chested women and women over 35 (thank God). For all his work to divide the nation, Trump had a big hand in bringing shock and outrage jocks together, dissolving any sort of wall (!) between them. “If the political class is appalled by the notion that anything from the morass of ’90s shock-jock radio could become part of a presidential race,” wrote Virginia Heffernan in Politico in 2016, “it may be just as surprising to Stern’s fans, who proudly embraced the outsider-ness of a guy who couldn’t seem further from inside-the-Beltway political chatter.” TALKERS’s Harrison has called Trump “the first shock-politician.”

By the time Trump entered politics, shock jocks were no longer defining the culture and conservative commentators were filling the vacuum. They entered the mainstream on networks like Fox and the intellectual dark web via Ben Shapiro and Jordan Peterson and Dave Rubin. “The shock jocks weren’t defeated,” wrote Dan Jackson at Thrillist. “They went viral.” This is where Tucker Carlson fits in. He called his resurfaced xenophobic, misogynistic, and homophobic comments from Bubba the Love Sponge’s show (he described women as “extremely primitive,” supported child rapist Warren Jeffs, and compared the behavior of Muslims to animals) “naughty,” then equated contrition with betrayal. “We’ve always apologized when we’re wrong and will continue to do that,” he said on Tucker Carlson Tonight Monday. “That’s what decent people do; they apologize. But we will never bow to the mob.”

Almost 70 years after the first shock jock hit the air, Carlson was toeing the same party line as his predecessors. “They claim that they’re just entertainers and yet they deliver this toxic mix of pseudo journalism, misinformation, hate-filled speech, jokes,” Rory O’Connor, author of Shock Jocks: Hate Speech & Talk Radio, told The Guardian in 2009. “It’s all bound together so when it’s convenient for them to be entertainers they say, hey, it’s all just a joke. But when it’s not, they say they’re giving you information that you need.” Carlson’s comments were only shocking because they veered so sharply away from Beltway politics; with his regressive approach no longer couched in policy, they revealed him for the person he is. And even though advertisers have pulled out of his program, the notion that he could disappear like Stern is one from another time — conservatism is the status quo and there’s always room for it now, particularly when it masquerades as information rather than entertainment.

After Megyn Kelly left Fox, Tucker Carlson took her spot, and if Carlson were removed, a new version of him would sprout in his place. This whack-a-mole quality to outrage jocks extends, more troublingly, to their politics — if they are not outraged about one thing, they will immediately find another. They are as adaptive as comedians like Stern, use facts as props to play journalists like Cronkite, and influence voting and policy just as seriously. As Jon Stewart scolded Carlson and his cohost in 2004 on the CNN show Crossfire: “You’re doing theater, when you should be doing debate.” And without the FCC to shut them down for good, or at least out them as entertainers, the only hope is that their audience will realize that the most transgressive thing to do is to stop listening.

* * *

Soraya Roberts is a culture columnist at Longreads.

#IFTTT #Blogger

[sanguinolency]

Morning Coffee

Repost, since the old link is broken. The first Birdverse story I ever wrote, to fill in the RP gaps. Long since relegated to AU status.

It was morning. Gus was not ready for the morning. Sleep had offered him no reprise from the weight he felt in his chest. He’d been plagued with dreams of drowning, of thick sludge and something with too many eyes and too many voices muttering just beyond his comprehension. He felt no better upon awakening than he had falling asleep. Hey lay there under his comforter for the better part of an hour, repeating to himself as if it would make a difference “I’m asleep. I’m not awake yet. I’m not ready to be awake yet. I’m sleeping. I’m going to sleep forever.”

God, how did one feel so tired in the morning? Gus had never really been one to wallow in misery, but it was sorely tempting today. What was he supposed to say to Bart? “Morning, Brother! Don’t forget, you’ve got to get yourself out of here before the week is up! No dawdling, up and out and away you go!”

He groaned into his pillow. What kind of asshole threw his own brother out into the cold anyway? Not that either of them had been saints the night before- screaming and cursing in a manner that was quite unlike either of the usually very mild morticians. But… damn it that funeral of Gabat’s… it wasn’t illegal per se, but it was questionable at best, and Bart hadn’t even mentioned- probably wouldn’t have said a damn thing if Daria hadn’t brought it up. And when the one came out, the whole damn thing came spilling to the surface. Services held behind his back, shrouded in Bart’s abominable excuse for bookkeeping, and some of them were downright unnerving- taxidermy, for God’s sake! They were birds, not animals! You didn’t stuff and mount sweet Grannie Fran or whoever on the mantelpiece like some sort of hunting trophy, it wasn’t right! It was disrespectful, and one thing Gus had always believed was that Bart would never, ever in his own mind do the dead a disservice.

He supposed everyone had to be wrong at some point. He just wished it could have been about something else.

The alarm began shrieking at him- snooze time was over, time to get up and face… everything. Gus fumbled to turn the damn thing off, and sluggishly rolled out of bed.

They didn’t have anything in particular planned for today. The laundry needed to be done. They could probably stand to buy groceries. Gus had a flickering thought about how he was only going to need to buy for one soon and immediately pushed it to the back of his mind. That bridge when he crossed it. He ran a list through his head, looking for any excuse to be out of the house. Cowardly, he admitted, but he didn’t feel like brave-facing today.

He pulled on a sweater and pants- and after a moment of debate dug out a pair of his nicer shoes and pulled those on too. He’d just grab a cup of coffee and go for a walk. Maybe get breakfast at a diner (You little shit you’re going all out on this avoidance thing aren’t you?). Get out of the house, out of the parlor, just get out.

Sometimes, however, Gus forgot just how early his brother tended to rise. He had half a mind to slam his door shut and leave through the window, but before he could so much as budge the knob Bart was on his feet. “Gus, please. We need to talk.”

“Bart, I  really don’t think-”

“Gus, please.” Bart clasped his hands together in a placating way. Gus didn’t think he’d ever seen his brother beg before, and the sight sat badly in his stomach. “I’m your brother, just listento me.”

God damn it. Gus pushed the door slowly open and walked into the flat. It wasn’t large, and only occupied the second floor of the funeral home- morbid, maybe, but neither of the twins had ever thought much of it. The living room and the kitchen melded into one large, singular unit with only the change from rug to linoleum to mark the difference.

He pulled a chair from the table and sat down, slouching over the table. Bart looked like he was going to say something, but sighed ran his hand through his hair instead. He looked awful- bags under his eyes, and his movement was an oddly stilted sort of swaying. His head was nodding ever so slightly, like it was losing faith in this whole “staying upright” business. “Bart… did you even sleep last night?”

“What?” His head jerked up a bit, and he gave Gus a vaguely cross-eyed look. “No, no I… maybe a little. Around five.” He rubbed his hands anxiously. “I made… coffee. Made coffee.” He pushed a mug haphazardly toward his brother, who picked it up slowly.

He recognized this mug- He’d thought it was cute, with it’s cheery little “HANG IN THERE” plastered in large, block letters. And it had a cat on it- Gus liked cats, but Bart never seemed to get on with them. The fact that Bart didn’t get on with anythingseemed beside the point, and- damn it, he was avoiding the situation again. He looked up at his brother, who was sliding into his own seat, grasping his own mug as though it were a lifeline. Gus’s stomach turned again. “Thank you, Bart.” Bart shrugged.

The mug was cold. When had Bart made this? He swished it around, making a little whirlpool in the mug and resolved to discretely dump it out when he got the chance. He hated cold coffee, but it was the thought that counted. And his brother was trying (For once, now that he had something to lose) to reach out. It was something, it was the first olive branch his brother had extended in years, and Gus would be damned before he cast it aside.

“I can’t… I can’t just leave, Gus. This is my home.” Bart started, sounding as if he’d rehearsed this speech, but didn’t quite have the energy left to carry it out.

Gus stared fixedly at his coffee. “Bart, this isn’t working. I think…” he traced the rim with his finger. “Maybe I pushed it, a bit… too hard. But we’ve been at each other for… years now, and I can’t… it can’t go on like this. We need some distance, I think. Some time.”

“But why do I have to leave?” Bart was pleading. God damn it, Bart hadn’t plead for anything in his life. Not when he was starving his way through college, not when they were children and Bart had been handed another child to practically raise. It wasn’t in his nature, and it showed. His pleas were unpracticed, almost childlike in their logic, and Gus felt his insides squirm into sickening, guilty knots.

“You know why.” he said quietly, still staring into his mug. What a wretched excuse for a wretched excuse of a brother. The parlor was in his name, it belonged to him. Record-wise, Bart was just an employee. Gus wondered how much of this could have been avoided if his parents had just treated them like twins instead of partitioning them off into older and younger (You could have done it yourself you know. Too late for that now dipshit.).

The only reply from Bart was a choked sort of sob, and Gus couldn’t even bring himself to look up at him. He had to be strong on this. It wasn’t working, they weren’t working, they’d driven their sister to the other end of the damned country with their dysfunction, and if they kept along like this, they’d either kill each other or one of them would be found swinging from the ceiling fan.

Bart was trying and failing to cover his breakdown. Gus felt like sinking into the floor. He knew, he knew what the parlor meant to Bart, and he was still sending him out to fend for himself. Bart could get work anywhere- they had a mortuary college in this city and he was more than skilled enough to find work in another funeral home. But it wouldn’t be the same. Bart loved this place a hell of a lot more than Gus did, and Gus knew it. Just… damn it. Damn it all to hell.

The silence and the sobbing grew steadily heavier. It wasn’t that Gus was ignoring his brother’s breakdown, he just didn’t know what to do. What was he supposed to do? Absently, more to take his focus off of the situation and his own crushing guilt, Gus took a deep swig of the coffee.

It burned. For a brief second, Gus didn’t think anything of it. It was just another thing to focus on before he had to acknowledge his brother again, and… cold coffee didn’t burn, even hot coffee didn’t burn quite like this. This was chemical, it shot up his nose and shoved needles into his stomach. He slammed the mug onto the table, and some of its contents splashed over his hand and sleeve. He scrabbled at his throat with his free hand, pulling the turtleneck down to get at the skin where he rubbed it uselessly. “Bart,” he choked, his throat already raspy. He coughed. “Bart.”

His brother was still sobbing, much harder now. “I’m sorry.” He wiped his eyes, for all the good it did him. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

Gus tried to stand, but his legs weren’t capable of keeping him upright. He fell back into the chair. He was having trouble breathing, and his head was already swimming, little black sparks bursting before his eyes. His chest hurt. He was- oh God. He was going to die. He was going to die, and Bart…

Bart was still sobbing and repeating I can’t like a madman’s mantra. At least, he found himself thinking, I know why. It’s a small comfort.

Small comforts, like how cool the tabletop was, or how ugly the cat on his mug was. Did that count as a comfort? Maybe. HANG IN THERE floated in his vision before he forgot how to decipher words.

Then everything went black, and Gus disappeared into the void.

#Birdverse #Gus Dunhall #Bartholomew Dunhall

[lodelss]

How the Shock Jock Became the Outrage Jock

Soraya Roberts | Longreads | March 2019 | 8 minutes (2,111 words)

In the past, the bow tie seemed to hold him together, kind of. Tucker Carlson had always been as red-faced and obstreperous as so many other conservative pundits, but he had never been known to be “cunty” or “faggot”-level offensive. Still, it wasn’t much of a shock earlier this week when progressive watchdog Media Matters unearthed him spouting slurs like that — a couple of racist remarks rounded out the misogyny and homophobia — during a series of appearances on Bubba the Love Sponge Clem’s radio show between 2006 and 2011. From Monday to Tuesday, after the first recordings surfaced, Tucker Carlson Tonight hemorrhaged almost half its advertisers.

That bow tie had been a flourish of propriety: a strip of cloth separating him from a loudmouth like Howard Stern, the “shock jock” who looks and acts like a dollar store rock star, grabbing his crotch for whoever will listen. But he dropped it the year he appeared on that radio show. It was Stern who hired Bubba the Love Sponge Clem (yes, that’s his legal name) in the mid-2000s to host a show on his second satellite radio channel, and it was on that show that Carlson crossed the line. That was where the shock jock and the political commentator proved that they were one and the same — the former played off conservatism, the latter played it up, but both relied on its foundation. “Well, you’re talking about God and illegals,” Carlson told Clem. “I thought we were just going to be talking about blow jobs.”

But what’s the difference, really? Blow jobs were once used for shock value. Now it’s “illegals.” The punch line being that neither one of them is transgressive in the end.

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No one used the words shock jock for Joe Pyne, the host of It’s Your Nickel (that’s a reference to pay phones, kids, and I’m including myself here) who pioneered in-your-face talk radio in the ’50s and went on to create TV’s The Joe Pyne Show, which sometimes devolved into actual physical altercations between him and guest. No one really knew what to make of him. His unconventional style — dressed-up to dress down “pinkos” and “women’s libbers” and riff on, rather than read, reports — was neither news nor entertainment. It seemed to be best described (well, The New York Times and Time both did anyway) as an “electronic peepshow.” The personality-free press of the time considered Walter Cronkite the most trusted man in America and Johnny Carson the funniest, but Pyne, with his syndicated show on more than 200 radio outlets, was the most Machiavellian. “When it comes to manipulating media,” Icons of Talk author Donna Halper told Smithsonian Magazine, “he was the father of them all.”

Pyne briefly descended from his soapbox in the mid-’60s — for a week’s “vacation” — after bringing a gun to his show during the Watts riots, suggesting the world wasn’t quite yet ready for his kind of conservative appeal. It took until the mid-’80s, when the FCC was no longer so hard-assed and political correctness was all the rage, for Howard Stern to turn the shock jock into a thing. The idea was that PC America was muting real America, and personalities like his were there to liberate our ids … usually on the way to work. “They were pushing the limits of what you could hear on the public airwaves,” TALKERS Magazine publisher Michael Harrison told Thrillist of mavericks like Pyne and Don Imus, who set the stage for Stern. “That was the key to the whole thing: that it was on the ‘sacred public airwaves.’”

Full disclosure: I have always hated Howard Stern. His banality offends me: “The closest I came to making love to a black woman was I masturbated to a picture of Aunt Jemima on a pancake box” — that’s the kind of joke he makes. It’s the sort of quip that leaves a dumb bro stuck in 1992 in stitches. To be offensive your words have to have power, and his … don’t. He swears a lot and cajoles his guests into talking about fucking and snorting and it’s all very Free Speech, Motherfuckers! He can be sexist and racist and classist, because, hey! He’s sexist about men too! He’s racist to everyone! He drags every class!

Sorry, I just fell asleep.

The rebellion is a pose, because at the heart of Stern and all the other shock jocks is conservatism — 2.1 kids, strong moral fiber. They can joke about fucking and inhaling, because they ostensibly aren’t doing either. So what positions itself against PC America, in fact, at its core, feeds into it — the conservatism is the rebellion. Knowing that, you can see how Don Imus calling the members of Rutgers’ women’s basketball team “nappy-headed hos” can happen as late as 2007 on his radio show Imus in the Morning (he was fired by CBS and NBC, then hired by ABC). As David Remnick wrote in The New Yorker 10 years before Imus’s offense, personalities like Stern and Mancow Muller and Opie and Anthony appeal to the “audience that feels put upon by a new set of rules — sexual harassment guidelines, the taboo against certain kinds of speech — and wants release, if only in the privacy of the drive to work.”

The audience meaning white heterosexual men. The shock jock industry itself is predominantly white men (Stern’s foil, Robin Quivers, is a black woman, but she has never been the star attraction). Which is not to say that women can’t be as “offensive,” it’s just that the people in charge of hiring them would prefer them to be barefoot and pregnant. There are shockingly few exceptions. Wendy Williams, who rode the wave of ’90s hip-hop and shamelessly confronted celebrities like Whitney Houston with tabloid gossip (she also had a bad habit of trying to out rappers) was christened by New York magazine in 2005 as the “shock jockette.” She was “the black Howard Stern” right down to the middle-class moralism. Other than Williams, the female media personalities who cause offense — Ann Coulter, Laura Ingraham — tend toward conservative commentary, presumably because the men on the top floor think they will be less likely to break a nail in those environs. “The complaints of Western feminists look like petty self-absorption when you line them up against human rights abuses in Third World military dictatorships,” is a thing Ingraham came up with — a misogynistic comment cloaked in doublespeak.

This genre of radio personality was dubbed by my colleague Ethan Chiel as the “outrage jock,” the political version of a culture and entertainment-aligned predecessor, who arose in the late 1980s after the FCC regulations on political talk became less clear. This is where a bow tie comes in handy. The outrage jocks market themselves as transgressive, but instead of fighting conservative America, they uphold it, a stance they brand subversive in a sea of progressive liberal media. Rush Limbaugh, who has the most popular talk radio show in America — 15.5 million listeners, according to Talk Magazine — was dubbed by National Review as the “Leader of the Opposition” back in the ’90s. “Rush took radio at a time when the norm was basically NPR. He comes into that church and blows it up,” radio host John Ziegler told The Washington Post in 2015. “Our presidential politics have become a kind of church. The media says, ‘You’re not allowed to say this, or this, or that, because we’re in church.’ People are sick of that.”

So: Stern 2.0, except instead of shouting about pussy, Limbaugh — not to mention Glenn Beck and Michael Savage — shouts about policy. You may remember him calling women’s rights activist Sandra Fluke a “slut” in 2012 for advocating for contraceptive insurance coverage. “She’s having so much sex she can’t afford the contraception,” said the man who has been married four times. “She wants you and me and the taxpayers to pay her to have sex. What does that make us? We’re the pimps.”

Limbaugh needs a brushup on his sex work nomenclature, among other things. But if you want to talk about pimp: Janet Jackson’s nipple ultimately killed the shock jock. In case you aren’t old, it happened during a performance of “Rock Your Body” at the Super Bowl XXXVIII halftime show in 2004, when Justin Timberlake tore off the right cup of Jackson’s bustier, exposing her breast. (Per Jackson, the red bra underneath the rubber was supposed to stay behind, but came away accidentally.) In response, more than 500,000 complaints, all of them from people presumably with nipples of their own, were reportedly lodged with the FCC. President Bush responded two years later by signing the Broadcast Decency Enforcement Act, which raised the penalty for broadcasting “indecency” tenfold. With that, Howard Stern fucked off to satellite radio and the rest of the shock jocks kind of followed suit. Tucker Carlson was what was left behind.

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“Does she have a good body? No. Does she have a fat ass? Absolutely.” Tucker Carlson did not say that. That was Donald Trump in 2013 talking to Howard Stern about a pregnant Kim Kardashian in a radio show appearance that reemerged during his election campaign. On the same show, across almost two decades, the future president also agreed that his daughter was “a piece of ass” and dismissed flat-chested women and women over 35 (thank God). For all his work to divide the nation, Trump had a big hand in bringing shock and outrage jocks together, dissolving any sort of wall (!) between them. “If the political class is appalled by the notion that anything from the morass of ’90s shock-jock radio could become part of a presidential race,” wrote Virginia Heffernan in Politico in 2016, “it may be just as surprising to Stern’s fans, who proudly embraced the outsider-ness of a guy who couldn’t seem further from inside-the-Beltway political chatter.” TALKERS’s Harrison has called Trump “the first shock-politician.”

By the time Trump entered politics, shock jocks were no longer defining the culture and conservative commentators were filling the vacuum. They entered the mainstream on networks like Fox and the intellectual dark web via Ben Shapiro and Jordan Peterson and Dave Rubin. “The shock jocks weren’t defeated,” wrote Dan Jackson at Thrillist. “They went viral.” This is where Tucker Carlson fits in. He called his resurfaced xenophobic, misogynistic, and homophobic comments from Bubba the Love Sponge’s show (he described women as “extremely primitive,” supported child rapist Warren Jeffs, and compared the behavior of Muslims to animals) “naughty,” then equated contrition with betrayal. “We’ve always apologized when we’re wrong and will continue to do that,” he said on Tucker Carlson Tonight Monday. “That’s what decent people do; they apologize. But we will never bow to the mob.”

Almost 70 years after the first shock jock hit the air, Carlson was toeing the same party line as his predecessors. “They claim that they’re just entertainers and yet they deliver this toxic mix of pseudo journalism, misinformation, hate-filled speech, jokes,” Rory O’Connor, author of Shock Jocks: Hate Speech & Talk Radio, told The Guardian in 2009. “It’s all bound together so when it’s convenient for them to be entertainers they say, hey, it’s all just a joke. But when it’s not, they say they’re giving you information that you need.” Carlson’s comments were only shocking because they veered so sharply away from Beltway politics; with his regressive approach no longer couched in policy, they revealed him for the person he is. And even though advertisers have pulled out of his program, the notion that he could disappear like Stern is one from another time — conservatism is the status quo and there’s always room for it now, particularly when it masquerades as information rather than entertainment.

After Megyn Kelly left Fox, Tucker Carlson took her spot, and if Carlson were removed, a new version of him would sprout in his place. This whack-a-mole quality to outrage jocks extends, more troublingly, to their politics — if they are not outraged about one thing, they will immediately find another. They are as adaptive as comedians like Stern, use facts as props to play journalists like Cronkite, and influence voting and policy just as seriously. As Jon Stewart scolded Carlson and his cohost in 2004 on the CNN show Crossfire: “You’re doing theater, when you should be doing debate.” And without the FCC to shut them down for good, or at least out them as entertainers, the only hope is that their audience will realize that the most transgressive thing to do is to stop listening.

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Soraya Roberts is a culture columnist at Longreads.

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