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mabelstone · 5 months

Note

hello babie

little angst fic in light of the new matt pics? gruffy stubborn horknee matt? a little christmas miracle?

love u miss u

hi sugarpie miss u more

hope this suffices <3 i couldn't think of a 'christmas miracle' i am sorry xx maybe i'll write a soft christmas fic after this

18+ ofc, you know me by now

Nobody Compares to You

matt stone x reader

word count: 2.1k

***

Being with a prolific near-billionaire with a ridiculously successful TV show and a close-to cult following has its downsides. The copious amounts of groupies, stalkers, etc, etc. Not to mention that he's the textbook definition of a workaholic, which often meant you would go days without seeing each other due to your conflicting work schedules, despite sharing the same bed each night.

You knew this going into your relationship with him and you swore you wouldn't have it any other way.

That was until you found out about the new hire at South Park Studios. A painfully beautiful, bubbly young woman around your age, funny and oh, so intelligent. To your dismay, everyone in the studio had grown very fond of her, including your beloved boyfriend. The part he failed to mention was that she was now his personal assistant, hence why she would text him at inappropriate hours and was practically glued to him each time you visited him at work on one of your days off.

You could look past the groupies and die hard fans as you knew they wouldn't ever stand a chance. But a young woman so full of life, someone who made Matt cackle the way only you and his friends could unearthed something deep inside you. An unmistakable hatred for this girl, though she hadn't done anything wrong, per se. This created a rift in your relationship with him, and though you wanted to blame her, it was painfully clear that it was your doing.

One day you'd surprised him with lunch, taking in a container of his absolute favourite meal that you'd slaved over all morning.

"Oh, thank you, gorgeous," he'd kissed you tenderly, though his words to follow suggested he wouldn't be eating it any time soon. "I wish you'd called... Belle and I just got Chinese, I'm stuffed."

Your smile faltered, peering over at the twiggy blonde tapping away at her laptop with her long, neon orange nails. "I wanted to surprise you. My mistake."

Belle looked up intermittently with an unreadable expression, "yeah, so sorry. What was your name, again?"

"Y/N," you shot her a fake smile that was about as friendly as a kick to the jaw. He mustn't talk about me often. "Ah," was all you could muster, a pang of disappointment flooding your veins.

"I'm sorry," he frowned lightly, a gentle hand taking yours. "I'll have it for dinner! You know me so well."

"So you'll be staying late again?"

"At this rate, it's a safe bet," he smiled sympathetically. He looked tired, no surprise. You sometimes selfishly wished that he'd get a bad cold or something so he'd be forced to stay home with you. "I'm really sorry."

"Meeting in five, Matt," Belle spoke up, her tone a lot friendlier than it was with you.

"I'll get out of your hair then." You didn't say bye, instead speed walked to your car, fuelled by your rage toward his assistant.

Matt: Not even going to say goodbye to me?

Matt: This isn't my fault

You: i just didn't know you were having lunch dates with your assistant

You cursed yourself straight after your message sent, realising just how ridiculous you sounded. Like a jealous teenage girl.

Matt: Lunch date? You mean having lunch with your coworker is now considered a date?

You: does she even know you have a girlfriend?

Matt: Do I really have to share my personal life with my assistant? She does, yes. What has gotten into you?

You: she gets to spend every minute of every day with you

Matt: So this is about her? Don't be so jealous, this is a work relationship.

Matt: Gotta go.

Your eyes blurred with tears as you drove home in silence, your jaw ticking in frustration. You couldn't help but wonder if you were in the wrong. Surely he would have had to pick her as his assistant, right? Why couldn't he have picked a man. Or, as awful as it sounds, a girl who wasn't so attractive. Or maybe a girl who wouldn't have graduated the same year as you.

He got home at 11pm, a bit earlier than you had anticipated. You couldn't sleep though, your mind running wild at the possibilities. With all the time spent with her and away from you, would he fall for her? Would he stop loving you? Was she planning to whisk him away from you? Was your little argument today just pushing him further into her arms?

He walked into your bedroom and didn't say a word. He walked straight into the ensuite and locked the door before you had a chance to speak, closing your mouth immediately.

When he came out, he looked visibly more relaxed, newly grown out curls dripping beads of water onto his skin. He sat in front of you on the bed, only a towel keeping him decent.

"Care to tell me what that was earlier?" His voice was stern, eyebrows slightly raised.

"You tell me," you tone was unwavering as well, arms folded across your chest.

"I wish I could," he huffed, the frustration clearly creeping back. "I can see that you're jealous. But I think theres a bit more to it, isn't there?"

"I miss you."

"Of course I miss you too. But I have to go to work. I can't control the hours!" He raised his voice slightly. Maybe there was more to this for him, too.

"We haven't had sex in two weeks, Matt," you sighed, looking toward the ceiling as that awful, sad feeling reared its ugly head again. "You used to want it- need it, every second day, at least."

"We haven't had time!" He sighed now, running a hand over his face. "I've had to... deal with it myself."

"Does your assistant have to be there for that too? Does she add it into your calendar?" You bit, meeting his eyeline again, that now had narrowed on you, angry brows knotted together.

"You are a brat, you know that?" He spat, appearing as if he were about to double over in anger.

"I'm a brat, huh?" You laughed humourlessly, shaking your head at him. "I spent all morning cooking for you. Every day I do all the cleaning after I've been working all day. I iron your clothes for the next day and have them ready for you every night before I even think to do anything for myself. Before I even have dinner!"

He just stared back, not interjecting for a change. His expression softened as he let you get it all out.

"I have done that for you for four years now! Four years! But I'm a brat, huh? All because I miss you and yes, I'm upset that you have a pretty new assistant. I'm upset that she spends all day with you, gets to have lunch and sometimes dinner with you. She gets to eat and laugh with you, all the while I come home to our house alone. I go to sleep alone and wake up alone. Do you know the things I would do to have lunch with you just once a week? The fact that I'm even explaining myself is ridiculous, I-"

Your rambling was cut short but warm lips pressing gently against yours. Your hands instantly found damp curls, fighting the urge to cry at the fact he was finally at your fingertips, and not when he was snoring beside you in the small hours. He was finally there, finally, you had his undivided attention.

His fingers quickly hooked into your panties, pulling them off in one autonomous motion. He wasted no time disconnecting your lips, positioning himself between your thighs. His warm tongue flitting over your clit sent a shockwave of electricity through your body, a sharp gasp from your lips piercing the overwhelming tension in the room. You grabbed a fistful of his hair without a second thought, grinding down onto that beautiful face. The coarseness of his beard scratched your inner thighs, sending a chill down your spine. With your eyes screwed shut, you moaned his name just as you had imagined for nights on end, his own groan vibrating against your core. You opened your eyes when you thought he'd pulled out your vibrator, soon realised it was just his phone buzzing somewhere on the bed spread. He didn't slow his motions, continuing to lick dizzying stripes across your clit. You felt around for his phone, wishing you hadn't when you saw her caller ID on the screen.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Mm, what?" His voice was muffled against you, only pulling away when you pulled your hips away. "Oh, come on. I can't control when she calls me, babe. It's probably something really important."

You realised you weren't angry at him, but absolutely livid with her. You just had a gut feeling about her. You knew girls like her, you could tell from he minute you laid eyes on here. She just wanted to climb the hierarchal ladder that was your beloved boyfriend. Unfortunately he was going to have to figure that out on his own. You couldn't help but give him the cold shoulder that night.

***

Things had slightly improved between the two of you. You'd been intimate more frequently, things often getting so steamy that one time he'd bent you over the kitchen counter, resulting in very burnt chicken for dinner.

For the sake of your own sanity, you'd stopped torturing yourself with your imagination over his beautiful assistant. He loved you, he was as faithful as they come.

Matt: I'll be home in 30 xx

He'd messaged you that two hours ago. You were worried you'd have to start calling police stations, but he finally responded to your missed calls with another text.

Matt: Long story. Talk soon.

He returned home an hour later, the door slamming behind him. You startled from where you sitting on the couch, having stress drank through half a bottle of red wine at this stage. He scooped you up from your position on the couch, eliciting a loud squeal of surprise from you, followed by the thunk of your wine glass hitting the carpet, effectively painting the rug crimson.

"Don't worry about it," he breathed against your skin. "Missed you," he trailed kisses along your jaw and neck, your breath hitching when he would hit your sweet spots.

"Mm- what happened at work? Where were you?" You grabbed his jaw in an attempt to slow him to no avail. He continued to carry you to the bedroom, physically in front of you, but mentally somewhere deep between your thighs.

"Don't worry about it," he echoed, placing you down onto the bed. You felt a little worried - he only got like this if something really stressful happened. He was usually great at talking about his feelings, especially when something happened at work.

He continued to kiss down your body, trying to strip your clothes with such haste you could barely keep up.

"Babe- stop. Stop." You huffed, finally getting a grip on his tireless wrists. "What happened? Were you with her?"

Then he came back into his body, eyes narrowing on yours. "We're seriously still on this?" He groaned, sitting back on his knees. "I fired her."

"Fired her?!" You couldn't hide the surprise in your tone, but masked the happiness very well. "Why? I thought she was a hoot, no?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now," he sighed. Catching your expression, he realised you weren't going to let up until you had the full story. "Jesus- okay, she tried to make a move on me. Happy? You were right." He rolled his eyes.

Now you were beaming. You thought you'd be more upset, but his obvious disgust debunked that thought immediately. "Say that last part again."

"You were right," he rolled his eyes again, playfully this time. "Now take off your clothes."

"Yes, sir!" You laughed too, stripping off your clothes so fast, you'd miss it if you blinked. Immediately, he was on top of you, a growing hard on pressing into your thigh.

"Nobody compares to you," he mumbled against your lips, stripping his boxers without taking his eyes off you, drinking you in. "Nobody."

His words warmed you to your core, words you didn't know you needed to hear. Despite the intensity leading up to this moment, he slid himself in slowly, stretching and filling you inch by glorious inch. You arched your back into the feeling, bare chests rubbing against one another.

"I love you," you breathed, grinding gently into him, both of your hips connecting in slow synchronicity. His warm arms surrounding you, pulling you impossibly closer.

"I love you," he kissed you slowly, "so, so much."

You felt more connected than you had in weeks, months, even. And in that moment, you too though, nobody compares to you.

you know me by now. no proof reading sozzy and this ending sucks balls... but its dry out here

#matt stone #matt stone x reader #matt stone smut

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vertonghen · 4 months

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ben davies dream girl here again! no new dreams but I wanted to ask if you could share your fav ben moments :3

hiii ben davies dream girl, thank u for asking!!! i’ve got so many so this will be long, @erik-lamela helped me out with so many of them 🫶🏽

(links are all hyperlinks!)

i feel like there’s been such an influx of davieson all over twitter and tumblr recently, these are three of my recent fav posts of theirs:

x x x

the welsh (korean) mafia in general is just so dear to me, i love all of them so much but ben and joey’s relationship killsss me they’re so funny. this gifset of them messing around is so cute

somewhat related, ben speaking welsh & why it’s so important to him

also ben speaking in near perfect korean??? i shouldn’t be surprised because it’s ben but wow

EMILY. his wife is just as wonderful as he is and they are both so loving and sweet i love them so much. during covid he and emily were caring for one of their elderly neighbours during the lockdown

ben helping out this local bakery during covid to serve front line health workers 🥲🫶🏽

also ben with their dog (twiggy) is just too cute

and one that’s veeery important imo is ben having such an impact in the dressing room…i feel like some fans might not realize how important he is to the club so it’s nice to see it written out

some random videos that he’s in that i love are this embarrassing tweets one (might be biased because dele and chris are in it and i love them very much also), the quiplash video (i always come back to this one it’s sooo funny), and this ben and joey pals video (their bickering makes me laugh)

he’s so amazing and this post doesn’t even cover a fraction of his wonderfullness, but i hope you like it!!! i’m definitely a huge ben davies lover, but if you want to follow or look thru the tags of even bigger ben davies lovers then @jamesmaddisons @erik-lamela @heung-mins are your best bets 🫶🏽

#aj try an answer an ask without writing an essay challenge #i hope you found out some new moments of his ben davies dream anon <333 #ben davies #anon #asks

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lucysarah-c · 2 days

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It may not make it to the final cut of Erwin's spin off in Holy Ground. Yet, I love how dark humoured Twiggy and Erwin are when they are left alone:

"Of course, if I were to die and become a restless pacing ghost, I would haunt people, bother those that I knew, ruin lives. After all, what else is there for me to lose because of it? Nothing; I'm already a peaceless dead," she argued.

I couldn't help but chuckle. "You could lend me a hand, make my life easier."

Quickly, she frowned, clear from her side profile, as the teacup was raised to her lips. "If you want some divine protection, go to a church."

"What makes you believe that God would give me, in particular, his protection?"

Her loud scoff was followed by a soft laugh. "You're an upper-middle-class, tall, blonde, white man. God's agenda is full of giving men like you his protection," she said. "I dare to bet that if you were to run back into religion, God would quickly kick out some poor little street orphan kid and put your name right into the priority list."

It made me smile, how grotesquely acidic her humor was. "Look at you, more religious than I believed. If you believe, why don't you think God is protecting you?"

She chuckled once more. "I acknowledge God's existence... not that they were on my side."

Erwin's pov must be the funniest I have written after Thomas concepts somehow.

#holy ground

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wreywrites · 2 days

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Happy WIP Wednesday!

(It's still Wednesday at my house!!!!)

In honor of the occasion and me being in total panic mode over next week being the END (and I'm betting it'll be a doozy), have this fun little snippet of TBB + Omega + Order 66 survivor who they worked with exactly once during the Clone Wars.

Haven't worked out where the AU starts/how hard to AU, so I'm waiting for next week to see what all to change.

But Tech will still be alive, so there's that.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Remember that night at 79’s?”

Zara nodded, a soft little smile settling on her face. “You told me I was the prettiest girl you’d seen on seven systems.”

And that was totally sober. Now, with half a bottle of whatever this was in his system, he leaned forward. “You’re still the prettiest girl. And I’ve been to a lot of systems.” Tomorrow he would hate himself for that, but tonight… Well, maybe tonight Fives’s ghost was hanging an arm around his shoulder and laughing too. She’s so pretty, Echo, ’n’ someone’s gotta tell her, or how’ll she know? Except Echo was quite sure Ridge told her exactly that, and often, but there was no arguing with a drunk Fives.

Her nose crinkled as she laughed. “Thanks Echo. You’re still pretty cute yourself. But,” her expression fell and she stared over his shoulder and through the wall behind him, “you look an awful lot like someone who shot me.”

“Damn these genetics.”

She laughed again, her mood as changing as the tide. “Sorry, pal. Not like the Purge was your fault.”

They lapsed into silence and kept on drinking.

They were still drinking when Tech walked by and climbed up to the cockpit and Crosshair climbed down and stalked by going the other way.

Zara raised her bottle in his direction. “Here’s lookin’ at you, twiggy.”

“Kriff you, personally.”

“Oh, I am not drunk enough for that. But I’m honored you thought of me.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes and left without further comment.

Echo waited a good long while, and for Zara to drink a fair bit more, before he asked, “So… you two…?

She took another swig, looking philosophical. Then, “Have you ever felt his hair?”

Echo blinked. “What?”

“It’s very soft. Shockingly soft.”

“What?”

She finally looked at him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips, just like the one she had right before she pulled Fives up on the bar at 79’s. “That’s why he’s mad. Back on Etnex—the GAR sent us the Bad Batch because Ky and I couldn’t get it done fast enough for them. So they showed up, and he showed off, and then he took that damn helmet off…” Zara smiled and shook her head. “I actually interrupted a strategy meeting to make Ky go look at his hair. Then at supper I, uh, tripped on my way by their table and landed on him. And he’s not stupid, so he knew what I was doing. His hair is incredibly soft.”

Echo snorted, almost relieved by this turn of events. “Here I thought you two had some horrible betrayal of one-night stand etiquette in your past or something.”

She laughed. “You really thought I had a hit and run in my unofficial GAR file?”

Echo buried his head in his hands, laughing with her. "That's not what we called it, but... yeah."

#this is also a sequel/au to the protector if i ever get that baby posted #proofreading is a struggle so i procrastinate by starting new wips #wrey writes #wip wednesday #star wars #star wars fic #the bad batch #the bad batch fic

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iwonderwh0 · 5 months

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Watching again movies about androids, this time it's Ex Machina (watching it for the first time)

Below is just commentary as I'm watching it, no intellectual value in it whatsoever, just documenting it because I feel like it

+ spoilers

It's the most Kevin-looking Kevin I've ever seen

That local Kamski (I've missed his name if it was ever mentioned) creeps me out, and I'm not even 20 minutes into the movie. It's just how he looks like he's about to get angry, but then expresses a compliment or something

Kevin is too obviously into machines and they've been only talking for like a few minutes

Stop being dorky, Kevin.

Why did they have to give Ava this manner of talking 🙄

Damn, Kevin has the most typical sad character backstory and we've also got genius programmer Nathan who wrote something big at 13, oh fuck off

Honestly at this point it kinda looks like it'll be bad, I dunno.

The omnious red lighting was absolutely necessary for power cuts

Fuck Nathan honestly. What is it about rich fucks surrounding themselves with pretty young women just to treat them as shit?

Kevin, you fucking idiot. I feel like you made a mistake

Oh, I didn't expect to see Twiggy

Flirting already. I mean, she was kinda flirting the first scene she was introduced, I mean even her damn voice...I bet Nathan specifically had chosen Kevin because he knew he'd be into robots. He's just the kind to be.

Is that housekeeper a human, what's her deal? 🤔 She's not just a background character, is she?

Oh, knew ittt

This frame slaps

FUCK, fuckfuckfuck the cutting scene

WAIT, his name was CALEB not Kevin??

There's absolutely no way Nathan isn't suspecting Kevin Caleb doing whatever he's doing

Ooh, tell me they'll form an alliance (Ava and Kyoko)

Damn, it's like this knife is cutting through the butter

Love the twist

Oh, I love that she locked him lmao

I mean, I feel bad for him, poor dude was used, but I'm glad it didn't turn into the story about saving woman in trouble

I liked this movie more than I expected, for some reason I didn't expect much from it at all, despite it being so famous

#movies about androids #ex machina

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dragonmuse · 2 years

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I feel like miss buttons could kill like a mod/twiggy look or flapper.

Agreed, Anon! I generally picture Miss Buttons looking like a startled Victorian lady, but she would be an awesome flapper too.

I bet she and Leda have done a "I Can't Do It Alone" from Chicago once or twice.

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icannotgetoverbirds · 1 year

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I posted 6,358 times in 2022

That's 6,305 more posts than 2021!

223 posts created (4%)

6,135 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@the-cooler-anon

@twiggyfrogblog

@afreshlywoundgoose

@wisteriaalu

@carameloshaemployee

I tagged 1,331 of my posts in 2022

#byrd saves for later - 152 posts

#ty twiggy! - 142 posts

#byrd is an exmo - 81 posts

#byrd chirps - 72 posts

#exmo - 71 posts

#exmormon - 69 posts

#ex mormon - 68 posts

#im feeling very exmo in this chilis tonight - 66 posts

#ex cult - 65 posts

#ex religious - 35 posts

Longest Tag: 128 characters

#im out of the v̶̨̻̳̮͈͖̖̦͓̻̏̉͂o̶̖̝̳͒͜į̷͈͍̣̭̥̫̹͍̙̆̄́̍̍͒̀̓̎͒̈̚d̷̨̧̠̞̲̣̮͔̹̟͘͘͝ͅ so now maybe i can actually do something worthwhile

My Top Posts in 2022:

the model and the letter

a piece written by a friend of mine, who goes by Kea, about growing up as a little mormon girl.

A little girl does her best to sit quietly, her arms folded, her eyes closed, in the tiny plastic chair. She wears a dress that is too warm and a little itchy. Somebody is praying at the front of the room. Her eyes open accidentally, and her heart rate speeds up before she squeezes them shut, admonishing herself for making a mistake.

The sacrament is in a few minutes. She can repent of her sins then - though she reminds herself that she’s too young to need this: her sins are not her own until she turns eight. Her sins belong to her parents, and she feels a twinge of guilt for burdening them with her mistakes. Still, it’s such a small thing, which she recognizes, and it was an honest mistake that was immediately corrected.

When the sacrament is passed, she eyes the young men bringing around the bread and water. They look awfully nice in their suits. I bet I’d look nice in a suit, she thinks. I bet they’re more comfortable than this dress.

She does not realize that, despite what everyone tells her, she will grow up to be a man with a severe appreciation for button-downs and ties.

At eight, the little girl has spent much of her time wanting to tuck her hair into a baseball cap, to be the girl that everyone assumes is a boy. She doesn’t really want to pull the cap off to let her hair fall out, though. She’s not really sure what’s so exciting about that.

She wears a white dress as an older man conducts an interview for her baptism. He asks her questions. He asks her if she has what she needs.

She lies.

She does not have what she needs. She believes that being baptized will bring it to her. She believes that this lie is okay, because he does not catch it, and if she needs the baptism to gain what she does not have, surely it must be acceptable to say what is necessary to be baptized.

She changes into a white jumpsuit, and her father chants a predetermined prayer before pushing her under the water. When she comes back up, she feels… something.

If nothing else, she has completed the ritual that will allow her to be accepted by her family and the people around her. The water is warm, and she takes great pleasure in swimming away from her father with movements she categorizes as frog-like.

After she dries off and changes back into her ceremonial white dress, several men put their hands on her head, one chanting a different predetermined prayer to confirm the baptism.

She never truly receives what she was looking for.

At fourteen, she is confused, worried, and unsure. She is anxious, and she has realized that she is queer. She thinks she belongs, anyway. After all, her sexuality is the single most acceptable within her community: asexuality makes abstinence incredibly easy.

Her next ritual is with a prophesier of sorts, called the patriarch. Again, a man lays his hands on her head, and speaks her future. She hoped he would have answers for her.

He does not.

She leaves deflated but with a smile anyways - his words still meant something, right?

At seventeen, she begins to question things. After all, she wants to date eventually, but dating a man seems to not be in the cards. She wants to try and date women, but it’s forbidden by God Himself.

She tries to think her way out of it - if God loves humanity, how can He hate love? If He asked us to love one another, how can He accept the hatred His people have for those that love differently?

She can no longer think her way out of it. She shelves the issue, files it away neatly in her brain under conundrums she may never understand.

At nineteen, it hits him. First, that he refuses to be a part of an organization that treats queer people as less than human, as less worthy of glory in God, and secondly, that he is, in fact, a trans man.

Of all the things he is excited to do now that his community no longer restricts him, by far the most thrilling concept is being himself.

He finds a new community with others like him, and learns from the people within that there is more to his old community than he realized.

He learns of an evaluation first. The BITE model, which damns the organization he grew up in entirely, labeling it a cult.

He wants to think his way out of it, but he knows that he simply can’t do that anymore. His filing system has to be recategorized entirely. It’s time to relabel many of the things he learned as belonging to a cult.

On the bright side, he can now remove several concepts from the conundrums he may never understand and sort them into proper categories.

Suddenly, he is no longer an inactive or former member. He is a cult survivor, and he sees startling connections between the actions of the cult and the actions of abusers.

He tries to make a molehill out of a mountain, to level his cult with religions that have similar traits.

Then he hears about the CES letter. He reads it, and suddenly there is more recategorization to be done. An uncomfortably significant amount of fog clears from his thoughts. Things have never been right here.

See the full post

100 notes - Posted June 27, 2022

if you've got any ex-mormon friends/moots, be sure to check up on them this weekend. conference is happening and it can be a really hard time for us.

to all my exmo moots and any exmos that may see this post: it's going to be okay. i may not know what it is that you need to hear right now, but above all else, it's going to be okay.

it's okay to be scared. it's okay if this is triggering. it's okay if you watch it or don't. it's okay if you need to take some time away from everything today. it's okay if you need to keep yourself busy today. it's okay to be angry, to be bitter, to be sad.

be extra gentle with yourself this weekend. it's going to be okay.

110 notes - Posted October 1, 2022

so many mlm yearning blogs, so many of them single. WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE. I'M LONELY TOO. CAN WE AT LEAST BE FRIENDS. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CAN WE AT LEAST BE FRIENDS.

224 notes - Posted October 5, 2022

resource: good picrews for fat people

If anybody wants to help me put together a proper rating system, I'd love to hear about that. In the meantime, this post will be used as a place where I collect and share picrews that have any level of fat representation.

The following have fat in the title or are made specifically with fat people in mind:

Just a warning, I'm not sure if the second one was actually made benevolently or for less kind reasons than representation.

This one isn't made specifically for fat people but has a larger body type that's done surprisingly well.

See the full post

569 notes - Posted June 22, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Fat people deserve better.

We are not repulsive. We are not vile. We are not appalling.

We are people.

If my existence "promotes obesity"? Good!

You want to know why?

I am not promoting the idea that someone should become obese. I am not going to attempt to police someone else's body and lifestyle like sizeist people do.

I am promoting the idea that people of all sizes are deserving of the bare minimum of basic human respect.

This should not be a radical idea. This should not be something we have to fight about.

99% of the time? Being fat is not a choice. And you know what? Even if it was - even if I was shoving big macs into my greasy fucking maw every 2 hours?

I would still be deserving of basic decency.

I would still be deserving of proper medical care that takes into account things other than my size and diet.

I would still be deserving of comfort, of clothing that fits.

You want to know the worst part of all of this?

Fat kids deserve better, and all too often, they don't get it.

Fat kids deserve to be able to be active without being mocked for the way their body moves.

Fat kids deserve to be seen as children rather than medical problems that need solving.

Fat kids deserve clothing that fits them and makes them feel good about themselves.

Fat kids deserve to eat, and to eat good food.

Fat kids deserve to eat cake at birthday parties like everyone else.

Fat kids deserve to go trick-or-treating like all the other kids.

Fat kids deserve love. Fat kids deserve respect.

Fat kids deserve a proper childhood without having to pay a toll of trying to change their bodies.

Fat kids deserve acceptance for their bodies as they are and as they will be - not pleasantries about how they'll grow up to be skinny, so they don't need to learn to love themselves before then.

Fat people deserve better.

1,667 notes - Posted June 4, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #long post #byrd is an exmo #exmo #exmormon #ex mormon #im feeling very exmo in this chilis tonight #excult #ex cult #tw fatphobia #tw religious mention #ex religious

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grayintogreen · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday

I had a hard time picking what scene to do today because there's so many I want to share, but I also wanna save stuff for when it's posted so you can imagine how difficult this has been.

Here's a scene from the IMPOSSIBLY LONG Chapter Two of YCDHN!

Molly knew what the person who called this happy fun ball of nightmares home was doing the second they walked into the laboratory and the strange itch of his blood magic intensified into something new and maddening. He hadn’t even wanted to enter at all, but the moment Cree and Fjord looked at him with concern he pushed past it, brushed them off, and then the bottom dropped out of his stomach the moment he stepped within.

Most of the wall space was dedicated to diagrams and madman’s notes pinned up between snapped off horns and bits of bone and what Molly was certain was skin tacked up like it was ready for the tanner, spread taut and still marked by strange veins and sickly gray in color. Most of the diagrams depicted night hags though some were of a fiendish persuasion. The scribblings were in a language Molly couldn’t have read even if he was much of a reader.

He backed up against the wall closest to the door and smacked right into the closed bars of a human-sized cage that creaked and protested on hinges gone stiff with disuse.

“What was he doing?” He choked out.

“Research on the gathering of souls.” Cree pulled notes from the wall with reckless abandon, gathering them up and spreading them across a blood-covered wooden table set at the center. She was in a fervor about something. “See? These are diagrams of the bags that night hags carry with them. You remember, don’t you?”

“How could I forget?” Flashes of memory played before his eyes- Caleb under her thrall, fighting him, locking him away… Those claw marks on Caleb’s arm came from that fight, ensuring neither of them would ever forget what she had done.

That was also the only time he and Lucien had proven they could work together. It would likely be the last unless something gave.

“Why would that be of interest?” Fjord paced restlessly, fingers clenching and unclenching. It was a rhetorical question, but Cree answered anyway.

“To him? I have no idea.” She squinted at the notes and cursed when they failed to yield some arbitrary information for her. “All I know is that he was quite preoccupied with beings that can remove souls and trap them.” She shifted one of the notes around so Fjord could see. “See? This is a design for a soul jar- a device within which to hold a trapped soul for an eternity- or until it has use to him.”

“Y’know that means nothin’ to me, Cree.”

Twiggy had been uncharacteristically silent through all of this and, removing himself from this conversation that sent horrible shockwaves down his spine, Molly searched for her, hoping she wasn’t going to steal one of those jars (who knew if they were full or empty at this point) on accident somehow, but all he had to do was look down to find her right by his knees, touching the cage he was still pressed against.

“He put them in here…” She laughed, but it was humorless. There was a twitch in her smile like she couldn’t quite help wearing it but something in her wanted to scream. It reminded him a little of Vess’s annex in a way. “I bet he poked and prodded at them, too. I bet he made them feel so small and helpless.”

The idea of someone making night hags and fiends feel small and helpless was laughable, but Twiggy wasn’t talking about them, was she? She was faraway, just like Caleb had been when they first stepped into this space.

“Twiggy?” He glanced down at her. She looked up and her bright and cheerful smile returned like something had just clicked back on inside of her.

“I bet you guys would never do horrible things like that. I like trusting people, but sometimes you trust the wrong people. And I don’t know how to not do it, ‘cause a lot of people are great.” She folded her hands behind her back. “Some of them though…”

Oh fuck him sideways. What had happened to this girl? For a brief moment, he was reminded of Toya and all he wanted to do was pick her up and hold her. He didn’t like kids in spaces kids don't belong as a general rule, but Toya was an exception- Toya was circus and she could handle herself.

Twiggy… probably wasn’t a kid, though. He’d thought it before idly, but as she stepped into a patch of shadow cast by the cage he could almost see the telltale laugh lines that suggested age.

Seeing him staring at her, she stepped out of the shadows- like magic the lines vanished- and tugged his coat. “Don’t make that face. You have a great smile that lights up the whole room! And you’re so colorful! Frowning just makes you all gray.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Besides that mean Sir Cadigan can’t get at me anymore.”

Molly made a mental note to add Sir Cadigan of Port Damali to his shitlist.

“Hey, Molly?”

He looked up at Fjord, which made him vaguely aware of some moisture on his upper lip. Probably some post nasal drip from being in that cold water and the shift in temperature. Thanks for the susceptibility to colds, Lucien.

Fjord gestured to his own nose, his green skin a little paler than usual. “You got a little-“

Molly ran his fingers under his nose to wipe away whatever the hell Fjord was indicating.

They came back smeared with blood.

#wip wednesday #critical role fic #you can't deny high noon #life in the margins of redemption

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dirtandspitoftheworld · 2 years

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I have to be honest. I still stand by Manson, but I still get doubts that nag at me. When I read about trauma, lovebombing, trauma bonding, grooming, coercive control, trafficking....It makes me think about the SLIGHTEST possibility that Evan and Co are telling the truth. Notice how he has no original band guys left (I know 2 died). A LOT of musicians and other celebrities have said he's a terrible person. Just makes me think. I keep reminding myself that Evan & Illma impersonated a federal agent, but MM has to prove that. For all we know, he could be panicking.

Except the other guys don't hold grudges????

He and Twiggy split up because working together was starting to hurt their friendship, and they decided that it was worth more than making music together.

John 5 has stated that their fight onstage was widely misinterpreted and that he has no hard feelings toward Manson.

He and Tim Skold STILL work together sometimes.

Everyone else, it's a matter of creative differences. He's a constantly-changing artist. Every album is different, and when you join a band because you like its sound, but then it changes drastically and you're not into it anymore? That's a totally valid reason to leave.

I'm not going to say Marilyn Manson is easy to work with-- to begin with, I have no actual idea because i've never even met him once. But he's certainly some degree of narcissist, as all frontmen are. He has his ideas and wants them executed the way he envisions them. He's clearly able and willing to accept input from others, but i can bet it's only on his own terms. That can definitely be difficult and abrasive. I think he's the kind of person you have to choose your battles with very carefully if you care about maintaining a good creative/working relationship for a decent amount of time.

He has a history of saying and doing what he wants, sometimes for pure shock value, and there are definitely people who took it personally and never fucking got over it. I'm really not interested in the opinions of people who hold grudges that long over petty things and don't take a single second to consider if someone may have grown up and changed over the past 30-ish years.

As for love-bombing and such... That's only really valid if it was conscious and intentional. You can't accidentally manipulate someone. Having very intense feelings and expressing them in a very intense way isn't inherently malicious, but sure, I can understand how it might make someone feel trapped, if they have someone expressing that all of a sudden you're the center of their world and the one thing holding it all together. That's scary, but frankly I don't think it's INTENDED to be. That's worth taking into consideration, I think. You can have an unhealthy way of thinking about love without it being purposely malicious. Should it be corrected? Yes! Should the person be treated on the same level as a habitual, conscious abuser? Absolutely not.

#Pogo is an exception but also Pogo is a little bitch

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likeamothtofame · 2 months

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“Woah you’re super tall and imposing. Are you wearing heels under that fancy coat to gain some more height? I bet you are!” Dog brain definitely being dog brained

"Excuse me?" Valentino sneered down at the psychiatrist with a look not unlike the one you'd give a wad of gum stuck to your shoe, seemingly offended by his mere existence. Jeez, who shoved a stick up his ass today? Oh yeah. Nevermind. At least the chance to be a dick to some undeserving fool seemed to lift his spirits if only temporarily as a smirk slowly replaced his scowl.

"These are not heels," he hissed, sticking a twiggy leg out from under his wings to show Jack. The unflatteringly short shorts he was wearing really made him look like he was naked under there. "These are motherfucking platforms, and they're worth more than you are."

#🎥 Answered || ❝ Fucking FINALLY! ❞#kiboucounseling #hazbin hotel rp #hazbin hotel #valentino hazbin hotel #🎬 IC || ❝ And… Action. ❞

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damnrightshow · 2 years

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youtube

Thursday show is a special for Deep Funk fun. Select for your dancing. Images of selection is as you are on the dance floor. Please enjoy real Deep Funk thing.

1. "Funky Piper" STARBONE (New Bag)

2. "Fantasy Love" TELECLERE (Tele Music)

3. "Did You See Those Men" REV JAMEL & BOB JOHNSON (J.& S.)

4. "How Do You Like It" SANDI BLAIR (Matues)

5. "Mr. Fortune" THE HITCHIKERS feat THE MIGHTY POPE (Heart)

6. "Fast Man" THE PC'S LTD (Fran)

7. "Party Time" THE MASTERS (Masters)

8. "Funky 16 Corners" THE HIGHLIGHTERS BAND (Three Diamonds)

9. "My Mind Set Me Free" HOUSE GUESTS (House Guests)

10. "Funky Chick" THE MAJESTICS (Morsound)

11. "Nothin' But A Party" THE BLENDERS (Cobra)

12. "Tra La La" THE GREAT DELTAS (Englewood)

13. "No Words" FUNKA FIZE (Royce)

14. "Here I Stand" THE GETTO CHILDREN (So-Char)

15. "Free Man" SUGAR BOY AND THE SHADES OF BLACK (Shades)

16. "Party On The Moon" ODELL KNIGHT (Valiant)

17. "Boss Action" ENCHANTING ENCHANTERS (BenMoKeith)

18. "I Wanna Take You Uptown" THE VARIATIONS (Right On)

19. "I Need Your Love" THE IMPASSIONS (White Eagle)

20. "Lovely Day" LIBERATION OF MAN (CNR)

21. "Nothing Left Is Real" PURE FUNK (Planet Earth)

22. "Simple Song" ZEBRA (Zebra)

23. "Gotta Git Down" THE FAMILY SOUND BAND (Artist's Recording)

24. "Since I Was A Little Girl" HARD DRIVERS feat VIVIAN LEE (Hawes)

25. "Wake Up People" HEEM THE MUSIC MONSTER (Blood Leaf)

26. "Fell Into A Bag" RIVER CITY FUNK BAND (R.D.M.)

27. "Butter Nut Part 2" THE BLACK TRUTH BAND (The Black Truth)

28. "Get Up Off It Baby" THE SOUL AUTHORITY UNLIMITED (Bet)

29. "The World Part 2" SANDI & MATUES (Matues)

30. "Mind Wrecker" CRACK OF DAWN (Columbia)

31. "Need Your Love" THE UNION PACIFIC (UP)

32. "Gold Of My Life" MIXED EMOTIONS (Rock-Way)

33. "First Taste Of Hurt" WILLIE TEE (Gatur)

34. "I'll Know It's For Sure" PURE RELEASE (Release)

35. "Where Is The Love" JACK SASS BAND (Visa)

36. "Loveland" S.P.G. (Magick)

37. "What About You" CARL HALL (Columbia)

38. "I Told You So" DELFONICS (Philly Groove)

39. "I Don't Want That To Change" BIGGY TWIGGY BAND (Westmount)

#damnrightshow #soul #playlist #deep funk #deepfunk #mixcloud live #Youtube

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bornafter1993 · 3 years

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the summer breakdowns are hitting earlyyyy

#twiggy speaks #kinda struggling with the fact that no one has ever wanted me for me and it’s always because i’ve been one of their fetishes #then the one time i have an actual chance.... it was almost definitely a bet #like i know i’m still a kid or whatever #but it would be nice to not be deceived for once??#i would like to love and be loved in return #i just can’t help but feel like all my relationships are empty?

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beeposstuff · 2 years

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spot conlon/reader — scarred, but not broken

[w/c – 8k]

blurb: When trust is broken, it takes a long time to pick up the pieces. warnings: assault, coarse language, mentions of sexual assault a/n: requested by @cant-see-sam yonks ago. took me a while (a standard amount of time for my writing, not gonna lie), but here you go. it's probably more angsty than you were intending, and i forgot about the bet part until the end, so i squeezed it in. in dire need of an edit, plot and characters are likely all over the place, and i attempted slow burn simultaneously to the enemies 2 lovers trope. bon appetite

Your back hit the wall as you struggled for breath. The last blow had knocked the wind out of you and left you feeling woozy, but you were determined to stick your ground. The two figures across the alley seemed to dance across your vision as your dizzied eyes tried to focus. Breathe in, breathe out.

“I don’t got no money,” Your thin voice quaked. “I got nothin’!”

They both shared a look. “Money ain’t the only thing in the world, dollface.”

A shiver ran up your spine. You started crying for help as you had been when first dragged into the alley, but someone’s grimy hand clamped your mouth shut. At that moment, you sorely regretted not pestering Spot to sell with you this morning. He was better at fights than you were. Instead, he was probably out with Tommy or one of the older boys again, as recently they’d unofficially taken him under their wings, no doubt pissing off the police somewhere. You couldn’t help the whimper that escaped you.

The day had started out average enough. Wake up early, brush your hair, yell out another mediocre headline on your usual Brooklyn corner, shy away from some of your fellow newsies’ resentful looks. You’d think that after half a year they’d be used to selling alongside a girl. Instead, the attempts to push you out of the borough worsened with each passing day. Spot and a few of the younger boys were your only friends in Brooklyn — the only warmth in an otherwise stone-cold lodging house. Half a year younger than yourself, Spot was already shown to be a natural leader at ten years old, and was usually your selling partner.

Evidently, today you’d attracted the attention of two homebound highschoolers. Your twiggy eleven-year-old frame hardly felt special underneath a dirty frock, but even so, you found yourself pulled into an alley with only a few papers left to sell. At first, some of your flailing punches landed on your attackers, but you were quickly overpowered. You knew what they wanted, but they were having more fun kicking the daylight out of you.

Just after another punch hit you in the solar plexus, a group of familiar newsies walked past on the street. Your heart leapt with hope.

“SPOT!” You shrieked, “SPOT! TOMMY! SOMEONE, HELP!”

Spot lurched forward to your aid, but a firm hand on his shoulder kept him back. Tommy stooped down and whispered something in his ear. Your frantic eyes met his wide, blue ones. Spot had arrived at a fork in the road of his newsie career: to help his friend and risk his current standing, or to let you be and gain ultimate favour with some powerful Brooklyn newsies. He hadn’t made his decision yet, even as Tommy tugged him along, but he didn’t turn back. The desperate look in your eyes was branded onto his memory, the hot iron of regret gripping at his stomach. But he kept walking, and walking, and walking further away from your pleading calls. His choice was made for him.

A rough grip on your shoulder pulled you back into your struggle. A glinting switchblade tore at the seams of your dress. Though, an opportunity arose when the boy holding you widened his stance. A swift knee to the crotch had him keeled over, but the small victory didn’t come without a price. The other boy made a swipe at your face. A moment later, you were overcome with searing pain and couldn’t help the agonising cry that left your lips.

What happened next was, literally and metaphorically, a blur.

You remember being harshly pushed onto the cobbled ground, and the distant clang of police bells. The attackers must’ve been spooked by the sound, too, as you heard them bolt out of the alley. You blindly crawled until feeling the wall with your hand and sat against it. Rubbing your eyes, you tried to clear your vision but almost screamed when you touched your left eye. Your hands yanked away. Your face was on fire. You wanted to throw up. Instead, you curled into a ball and cried — for your dignity, for the pain, for your favourite dress. For the stinging betrayal.

It was in that moment, crying in that cursed alley at eleven-years-old, slick with your own blood, you made a vow. Actually, you made two. The first was that you’d never wear your favourite dress to work. Scratch that, you’d thought. You’d never wear a dress again. The second was less frivolous: You’d never trust anyone but yourself.

Somehow, you ended up in Queens. Just another broken orphan with nothing but the clothes on her back and a day’s selling profit in her pocket, looking for work. One of their newsies found you and brought you back to their lodge to clean you up. Unlike Brooklyn, Queens embraced you with open arms and by the evening of the day you arrived, you’d already been assigned a bunk and selling partner.

You didn’t bother going back to Brooklyn for your belongings. There wasn’t much, anyway. Not even your beloved rabbit doll could make you face that lodging-house again, so it was regretfully abandoned into the murky depths of your memory.

…

About six months after your disappearance, Spot had almost lost hope of you being alive. When he’d gotten back to the lodging house that fateful day, he stayed up all night in the lobby, waiting for you to come home. The next day at first light, he was searching the Brooklyn streets and alleys for your familiar smile, to no avail. He knew he’d messed up. But if only he could find you, you’d know that he’d never break your trust again. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, until he had almost accepted the dark truth: you were gone.

Then there was a faint whisper — not even a rumour — of a girl newsie with a gnarly scar over in Queens. Maybe it was a conviction in his spirit, or maybe it was wishful thinking, but Spot knew that it was you, simply because it had to be. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if it wasn’t. So, when the head honcho of Brooklyn at the time needed a message taken to Queens, Spot jumped at the opportunity.

It’d been a hot day. You were lounging on the steps to the lodge house, drinking in the afternoon sun after a good day’s selling. Two other newsies, Crackers and Pin Gregory, were engrossed in an intense game of marbles on the sidewalk in front of you, which you followed loosely. Doing a big stretch, you were about to stand up and stretch your legs when an approaching figure caught your eye.

The two newsies gave you a funny look as you stood up abruptly, then followed your eyes to the visitor standing a few paces away.

“It’s really you…” Spot said with a breathless smile. He’d grown a bit since you’d last seen him some odd months prior. You walked down the stairs slowly to stand before him. “I’se was beginning to think you’se was…”

“Dead, Conlon?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word, so you said it for him. He looked ashamedly at his feet.

“What happened to ya eye?” He was referring to your left one, which had paled to a cloudy grey.

“Same thing that happened to the rest o’ my face, Conlon.” You bit out. It was still a sore subject. He furrowed his brow and mouthed a small ‘oh’.

“Message for Jamesy,” Procuring a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, he dropped it into your outstretched hand. He seemed to catch your coldness because his smile had disappeared. “But I’se also wanted to… uhm, say…”

Your intense glare threw him off and he took a moment to gather his words.

“Look, I’se is real sorry about what I’se did — leaving you, that is — and I just wanted…” He faltered again. ‘This was a bad idea,’ he thought. “I really miss you, (Y/N). I’se just want us to be friends again. Just come back to Brooklyn, it’ll be different, I swear.”

Spot waited expectantly for your reaction, but as second after second ticked by, his leaden heart sunk deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. Then you spoke.

“Lemme get this straight,” You said after letting him stew for a moment. “Ya come to my turf, months after leaving me for dead, by the by, give that sorry excuse of an apology, and expect me to forgive you?”

You gave a single, sharp laugh before spitting at the ground between you. Despite your expectation, Spot didn’t shrink from your rejection. Instead, his face hardened into stone and met your glare with one of his own. You’d never been on the receiving side of his glares before, but there was a first time for everything.

You both stayed in a silent standoff for half a minute before he turned on his heel.

“Conlon!” You called out. He paused and looked over his shoulder, the slightest touch of hope in his eyes.

“It’s Scarface, to you.”

You stood and watched until he disappeared around the corner. A small voice in the back shelf of your mind told you that you were being too harsh, but the overwhelming emotions of hurt and anger drowned out everything else. ‘He deserves this,’ you told yourself. ‘He was just like the others all along.’

Something about Spot changed that day. The others couldn’t quite put their finger on it, but the young newsie who left the lodging doors that morning was not the same one who came back. He was more alert — on guard, and though he joked around with his friends as he always did, a new gravity surrounded him that wasn’t there before. Spot wasn’t missing a limb, but something had left him. It was almost like he’d left his childhood on the steps of Queens and never looked back.

…

Over the years, Scarface emerged from the rubble of your childhood: the hard-as-nails gladiator from Queens who kept nosey Brooklyn newsies on their side of the turf. You had a lot of anger to let out, and trespassing Brooklynites seemed a good enough excuse to blow your fuse. Quickly after joining Queens, you were eager to learn everything you could about defending yourself and the older boys were happy with teaching you one or two things. Though over time, defence turned into offence, and by fourteen years old, every newsie in New York worth their pennies knew that Scarface was not a newsie lightly trifled with. That is, unless you were in the mood for a thorough soaking.

Just as you had grown into your title, Spot grew as well. He became more ruthless, street smart, respected. Brooklyn’s reputation soared as Spot’s did, and it wasn’t long before you started hearing his name all over the place. It made you want to tear your hair out (what was left of it, anyway: you liked to keep it short nowadays. The less someone could grab in a fight, the better). By the time you both reached fifteen, he was already sitting at the throne of Brooklyn.

Your not-so-subtle eye-rolls at his mere mention didn’t pass unnoticed, and when you both ended up in the same room, the other newsies quickly learnt to duck, cover and hold! Nobody knew why, or what happened, but everyone knew that Queens and Brooklyn were at tension because of the two newsies’ feud.

…

The sun beat down from a cloudless, midday sky, giving you the classic New York summer sweat. The air was as thick and sweet as treacle. Walking down the street, you kept to the shadowed side. You took your hat off and fanned your face, kicking a stone.

“Ey, (Y/N), could’ya spot me a favour real quick?” You muttered bitterly to yourself, mimicking a conversation you had earlier that day with Jamesy. “Just’a, y’know, message run. Easy peasy.”

You were nearing the border between Queens and Brooklyn with a message for Spot tucked into your trouser pocket. Something about the eastern border, Jamsey’d said. You weren’t surprised: there was always something along the border nowadays. The Brooklyn boys were getting too comfortable, too cocky. Spot gave them more confidence, and because you couldn’t be everywhere along the boundary at once, they were getting more adventurous on your turf. You clicked your tongue in annoyance. You should’ve known he’d send you of all people. As of late, other messengers had been coming back broken and bruised from Brooklyn ‘roughhousing’, and you were one of the only newsies Queens had that could hold their own in a stacked fight. However, it didn’t make the trip any more pleasant.

A few blocks into Brooklyn territory, a couple of scowling newsies blocked your path. You vaguely remembered one of them from a fight you won in a previous week.

“Give us one reason why we’se don’t soak you right here and now.” The one that you recognised said. You pretended to think.

“I’se feelin’ generous today, so I got two reasons.” You said, taking a step into his personal space. “One: soak me, and the lot o’ ya’se won’t be able to walk back to whatever hole you’se crawled out of. Two: Spot ain’t gonna be very happy if you delay an important message from Queens.”

Truthfully, you’d read the message, and it wasn’t as important as you played it to be. But they didn’t need to know that.

Their leader narrowed his eyes at you. Your points were valid. He called the other two off, and just like that, the wall fell away. But even as you continued on your path, they trailed close behind.

By the time you’d reached the docks, a large entourage of teenage boys had accumulated in your shadow. At least seven boys were directly leering over you when you finally stopped in front of Spot’s crate.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair!” You called. You knew he hated it. One of the boys elbowed your ribs harshly as Spot dropped down from his perch, landing in front of you. His sudden appearance spooked you, but you didn’t waver.

“Ya boys are true gentemens, Spot. Escorted a defenceless dame like myself all the way from the border.” Sarcasm dripped from your tongue as you looked around at the aforementioned newsies breaching your personal bubble. Spot gave them a look and they stepped away.

“Got somethin’ for me, Scarface? Or are ya just here for the pleasure of my company?” He asked dryly, looking you up and down. Without breaking eye contact, you dug a hand into your pocket and fished out the message. You stayed silent as he read it.

After a while, he pocketed the letter and beckoned some of the newsies back over.

“Tell Jamsey I’ll keep an eye on it.” He said, resting his hands on his cane. “Now, beat it.”

You knew better than to argue with him on his own turf, so you slowly walked away while maintaining eye contact before turning around.

“See she gets to Queens.” You heard Spot order and couldn’t help but roll your eyes. What’d he think you were going to do, sell on his turf? As if you’d waste your time in Brooklyn.

Once you were out of earshot, the newsie that first intercepted you stood beside Spot. In a low voice, he asked if he and the others were able to ‘rough her up a bit’ on the way back to Queens.

“Touch one of the hairs on her head, and don’t bother coming back to Brooklyn unless you want ya head bashed in. Clear?” Spot replied in a dangerously low tone. The threat hit its mark, and the newsie’s voice cracked as he muttered a small “Clear, boss”. Then, he jogged to catch up with the group ahead.

Spot watched your back as you disappeared from view with his mouth set in a grim line. Then, he clicked his cane on the ground before walking away, too.

…

Jack Kelly, you’d decided, was a smug bastard. After annexing almost an hour of your time by bartering for Queens’ selling rights on Roosevelt Island with another patch of his turf, exactly at four o’clock he told you that he’d changed his mind. Effectively, another hour wasted on Manhattan’s resident cowboy. What it really was about, you knew, was him sizing you up: one leader to another. You tried to keep a cool head, but his flippancy was infuriating.

Just after the previous month’s citywide strike, Jamesy had stepped down from his long-held leadership of Queens. Despite your many protests, that mantle had been handed to you in his wake. It wasn’t a duty you took lightly, and though you already had your eye on eligible newsies to take you over, it felt wrong to give it away so quickly. Working in a team wasn’t your forté, but at that moment, Queens needed you. Even if it was just for a short while. Besides — you couldn’t bring yourself to turn Jamesy down. His tired eyes screamed for respite and at twenty, he was long overdue for adult life. You still had two years until eighteen, and therefore no excuse to say ‘heck no’.

You and Race talked about poker as he walked with you through the lodge. The building was quieter than you’d expected for a Manhattan lodging, but Jack had mentioned that a few of the boys were down at Medda’s. You didn’t blame them. You yourself had planned to pop in and say ‘Hi’ to her before going back to Queens.

“Surely ya try your luck next Thursday. Got a table running, chips ‘n’ all, with some Harlem kids.” Race said through his cigar as you both walked down the staircase.

“You sure? Ain’t a good look getting your ass kicked by the newbie at the table,” You grinned, giving him a playful shove. He stopped on the first step of the staircase while you continued through the room.

“Always the optimist, kid. So I’ll save a chair?” Race chuckled. You leaned against the doorframe, facing him.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. See ya, Racer!” You called, turning to the exit. But just as you did, you found yourself nose to nose with another newsie entering the lodge. He pushed his way past you after a moment, and once the initial shock wore off, you folded your arms defensively.

“Well, well. If it ain’t the filly o’ Queens.” He drawled. Your fingers itched to throw him against the wall by his red suspenders, but instead, your face settled in a scowl.

“Conlon. Always a pleasure.” You snarled. If you’d known he was coming, you would’ve left a whole lot sooner. He leaned against the other side of the doorframe.

“What brings you this far away from Queens, Scarface? Ain’t you supposed to be scarin’ the tourists off o’ the Queensboro bridge?”

“You tellin’ me what to do?”

“Maybe I am, but you don’t have the brains to listen,”

“As if you had the guts to make me,”

By now, you’d gotten so close you could feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest against yours. Your hands twitched at your sides whilst his hovered over his pimp cane. As you stared intensely up at him, you were close enough to see the light smattering of freckles across his nose, and the flecks of grey in his otherwise baby blue eyes. In that moment, with nostrils flared and jaws set harder than stone, there was something else, and you’d be lying if you said that you hated it. He wore his anger well, but then again, so did you.

“‘Ey, ‘ey! Take it outside! Don’t need none o’ that sexual tension in ‘ere.” Jack, who had appeared beside Race on the staircase, almost laughed as both of your heads snapped to look at him. The boy wore a shit-eating grin as if he were proud of himself.

“Can it, Kelly!”

“Go fuck yourself.”

You and Spot spoke at the same time. The Manhattan boys laughed in disbelief. You two were so dense.

Shooting Spot one last glare, you shoved past him and exited the lodge. However, as you were a few steps into the street, a new idea occurred to you.

“Hey, Jack!” You called. A few seconds later, Kelly appeared at the door beside Spot. A devilish grin spread across your face. “Don’t let ‘im bite too hard, you’ll be emasculated!”

You laughed at Spot as Jack held him back. Jack said something to him that you couldn’t quite hear as Spot was foaming at the mouth in rage. Then, you walked away with an extra pep in your step, knowing you’d won.

“Not on my turf, Conlon.” Jack had said, though he found it very tempting to let go and see the carnage unfold. That was why he invited you both to Manhattan, after all. Spot stared you down until you’d turned the corner. He might not have known what ‘emasculate’ meant, but he could tell that it was an insult. Shoving Jack’s hand away, he jutted out his chin at him in distaste. Nevertheless, he slowly backed down and his composure returned. He’d get you, one day. But that day was not today.

…

Sunday markets were one of the only displays of the otherwise stifled colours and cultures that New York City had. As you’d walk down the street, park, or lane, stalls bursting with colour would stretch onwards for entire blocks. Each stall with its own unique trinkets, flavours, and fashions — the culture of New York, squished into one afternoon each week. Sundays were slow selling days, due to most patrons and newsies alike attending church services, so the newsies typically had more downtime. In a city that never slept, Sunday certainly was the drowsiest day.

Spot slowly walked through one of these such markets, perusing merchandise as if he had the pennies to pay for it. Highland Park, on the border of Queens and Brooklyn, had a small market every other week. Though Spot tended to avoid the markets, some days he was too bored to resist their colours. They were another reminder of his lack. But as he stopped at a stall selling hats, a figure a few booths down caught his eye. He quickly hid behind a tall hat-stand before you had a chance to see him. The park was one of the only neutral zones between the two boroughs, so while your meeting wouldn’t be in breach of any treaties, the ice was thin.

You were at a clothing stall. Women's clothes, mostly, hung on racks and hooks from every part of the setup: coats, stockings, aprons, and an abundance of varied dresses. Of all of the vendors across the market, seeing you there seemed the least likely. The girl who exclusively wore pants and suspenders. Spot was further surprised when you extracted an elegant, (F/C) dress from the rack. Holding it up to your body, you turned to a full-length mirror and swished the dress over your hip. From his vantage, he saw you smile. It was a soft tug at your lips that seemed to make your crescent-shaped scar disappear. The scar that absorbed your face: travelling from your forehead, through an eyebrow, and disappeared into the apple of your cheek. For a pleasant moment, it felt like four years ago.

Spot wondered why you never wore dresses anymore. In truth, some days he forgot that you were a girl. But as he stood behind a hat rack, gaping at his worst enemy from across the marketplace, he didn’t think he could ever forget how charming you looked. He watched a thought, followed by a dark shadow, pass over your face. Your hand carefully slotted the dress back onto the rack, and he couldn’t help but feel your disappointment. The vendor said something to you, words Spot couldn’t quite pick up, but whatever it was made you smile. Though this time, your eyes were vacant.

Spot suddenly became aware that he had been there too long. Just as the owner was giving him a suspicious look, you walked away and further through the market. He followed you to avoid the eyes of the hat vendor, though at a distance.

You’d had a long week. Between selling and stocking up on supplies for the coming winter, you’d had problem after problem to solve with the newsies. It was a wonder how Jamesy had stuck around for so long. So, you found yourself at the market, looking at clothes you’d never be able to buy. To top it off, the bread roll you’d purchased ended up in stomachs other than yours after two sallow factory girls gave you a pleading look. Suffice to say that when you saw Spot Conlon, of all people, leaning against a wall a few streets into your turf, every part of you wanted to turn in the other direction. Or pretend that your right eye had also gone blind.

Instead, you stayed your course.

Stopping in front of him, you crossed your arms. He took a drag of his cigarette and gave you a lazy look, unmoving.

“This ain’t Brooklyn, hotshot.” You said blankly. Spot blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“I know.” He replied, offering no other explanation. Of course he did, and as he flicked the ashes to the cobblestones, you rolled your eyes.

“I ain’t in the mood for this, Spot. What’s your angle?” You sighed. He was doing this just to annoy you, you knew. Never was there anyone that drove you up the wall quite like he did.

“No angle,” Spot shrugged. His eyes narrowed briefly, challenging you. “Just enjoyin’ a nice day.”

As easy as it was to fire a snarky remark back at him, inevitably leading to a fistfight, you didn’t. Maybe it was because you were too tired, or maybe it was because you didn’t want to. You were tired of being offended by his every look, of the fighting. Yes, he had hurt you all those years ago, but waking up every morning, willing yourself to hate him, was wearing thin. Days like today made you wish that he was tired of it too. So while every reflex told you to stand your ground, bite back, you pushed against them. You walked away.

It took everything you had to not groan when he fell into step beside you.

“‘Aven’t seen ya in a dress for a while,” Spot probed after a while’s silence. “(F/C)’s a good colour.”

You stopped and gaped at him. So that was his angle — in reflection, you had felt eyes on you, but saw no one you recognised. That sneak. Quickly regaining your composure, you spoke venomously.

“Of course Brooklyn would want a girl in a dress. Dolled up, lacy, and panties off, right?!” You spat. Any previous attempts at cordiality were long abandoned. Spot took a sharp breath, but otherwise steeled his features. You continued your tirade.

“Brooklyn ain’t never done nothin’ for girls but take ‘em and throw ‘em away when they’s done with ‘em! If I had a penny for every time I’se was disrespected, stepped on, broken by you or your Brooklyn boys, I’d be able to buy new dresses to replace all the ones torn off a’ the girls of New York! Take a good look,” You pointed to your scar, “A good look, Conlon, at what happened last time I wore a dress. And I’se is one o’ the lucky ones, damnit! And you dare ask me why I’se ain’t wearin’ a dress?!”

A few passersby on the street had paused to look at you. As you finished, you heaved with anger and stared him down with a wild look in your eye. Spot’s cigarette hung loosely from his mouth as he stared at you. This was why you cut your hair short. This was why you carefully wrapped your chest each morning. This was why you chose a belted pair of pants over a dress. This was why you hated him.

He spat out his cigarette and stamped it under his foot.

“I get that you haven’t been to Brooklyn for a while, so I’ll run you over my changes.” He started calmly, even though your storm was fanning the flames of his own. “Nine girls are newsies. Four stay at the lodge. If anyone so much as breathes in their direction, I personally make sure they end up pulverised in an alley. Things ‘ave changed, (Y/N), and they’ve changed ‘cause of you.”

There was something sincere in his voice, something you hadn’t felt for a long while. But you heard none of it, for your anger had made you deaf.

“Pity you didn’t do that for me.”

You would’ve regretted the hurt in his eyes if you’d stayed long enough to see it. But as soon as the words left your lips, you’d turned heel in the direction of the Queen’s lodging house. It was unfair, but old wounds were once again bare and they stung the same as they had when the first stab of betrayal carved your face. He deserved it. He deserved it. He deserved it.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, but once in the safety of the lodging house, you keeled over onto the empty front desk. There was no helping the sobs that came from your lips. In the counter bell, you caught a miserable, scarred reflection. It was just as ugly as the first day you got it.

Who was it that said that time heals all wounds? They lied.

…

You’d been selling in your usual patch in Queens, on the corner of Eliot and Metropolitan avenue, when it happened again. The pavement was still wet in patches from the Autumn rains, and drifts of wet leaves made the roads slippery. New York wasn’t a beautiful city at any time of the year, however you always looked forward to the trees’ annual display of fiery colour. But with Spot’s words from a few days prior still echoing through your skull, the private joys you normally experienced at this time of the year had diminished.

You wouldn’t have been so careless normally. But as it was, the dreadful feeling of regret gnawed at your stomach, and your surroundings seemed to blur together as you retreated further and further into your mind. It was in the midst of your thoughts — things you could’ve said, should’ve said — that you were grabbed.

Now, you weren’t a stranger to these occurrences. Over the years of living in New York City’s eastern boroughs, you’d had more than your fair share of fights. Confrontation that began and ended with a fist was how Scarface got a name for herself, after all, so a little alley-grab was nothing you couldn’t handle. These days, anyway.

A pair of steely arms enveloped you from behind and dragged you into the shadowed alleyway. By reflex, you bit the hand covering your mouth and it yanked away. The back of your head smashed against your attacker’s face. The crack of a nose echoed through the space and their iron grip loosened momentarily. A male voice swore. You seized the opportunity to wiggle free from his grasp.

You had been brought to the belly of the alleyway, where the space had widened slightly and boxes towered in the corners. These were the worst places when one was outnumbered: dead-ended, and most of the pit was obscured from the street. The site of a perfect crime. You must admit, the satisfying rush of winning a fight you didn’t start almost made you look forward to encounters like these. But as you quickly scanned the situation, the threat was riskier than that which you could take lightly. As well as the brutish newsie who’d manhandled you, there were two others lurking in the deep shadow that stepped into view. You recognized them as Nassau County newsies. Ones that you’d seen in passing, during negotiations of the turf divide, who continued to skate the thin ice of the neutral streets. But now? That ice was well and truly broken.

“Afternoon, fellas. Let’s make this quick, I still got papes to sell.” They circled you like an ambush of tigers, offering no response to your snark. One snarled, and in doing so, exposed an incomplete set of yellowed teeth. Your hands twitched at your sides as you waited for someone to make the first move. You’d championed with worse odds than this, and you’d be damned if you let some stale Nassau boys get the better of you.

The gap-toothed newsie lunged at you first. Dodging, you elbowed his back and sent him to his knees on the ground. Before the second could land a punch, you jumped to stand on the wooden box behind you. Even without a slingshot, having the extra elevation had its advantages. You nimbly climbed the stack and sent a few of the highest crates crashing down on the three. Two fell backwards to avoid the falling wood, but the biggest one let them break over his shoulders with hardly a blink of an eye. He must’ve had the bone structure of a tank to withstand such an onslaught. The tank in question then grabbed hold of the stack you were balanced on and shoved it sideways. Your hands frantically went to grab the ledge of a window, but your fingers accidentally caught a pot plant on the sill. You fell.

The crates did you no favours by cushioning your fall. Being a sixteen-year-old orphan girl, your weight was lower than what was healthy and your form cracked and rolled down fallen boxes mercilessly with no padding to protect it. The feeling of wet cobblestones against your face was all you could process for a moment as your body fought its aches with adrenaline. You groaned into the ground.

With great difficulty, you pulled yourself up to stand against the wall. One of the boys had gotten pinned in the collapse, to your relief. But your eyes widened as another punch came flying your way. You ducked, and the sound of a fist hitting the bricks almost made you smile. Sweeping his feet out from underneath him, the boy fell to his knee and you sucker-punched him in the face. Letting out a breathy chuckle, you shifted away from the wall and scanned the back of the alley for any others.

However, as your back was turned to the mouth of the alley, hands suddenly gripped your neck. You missed one.

“Go on, Scarface, laugh again!” The tank jeered. You thrashed in his grip, but he only squeezed your neck tighter. Your voice croaked weakly as your lungs searched for air.

He was too strong for you, and you knew it. The others knew it. Maybe if you were at your best, you had a fighting chance. But after such a fall, you were far from it. You watched as they crawled their way out of the broken wood and terracotta, their faces littered with scrapes.

“Not so tough now, are we, Queens?”

Your thrashing movements began to drag as the seconds ticked into minutes, each wanted breath burning in your lungs. One of the boys picked up a sharp shard of the broken terracotta pot from the ground and spun it with his fingers. Another scar to add to the collection, you heard him say. It was just as your eyes were beginning to darken with spots when a new hope pulsed through your ears.

“Get your dirty mitts off’a her!” A familiar voice boomed. You never thought you’d be so relieved to hear his voice. The grip on your throat loosened as your attackers averted their attention to the new arrival. Through your fading eyesight, you saw the faces of the boys drop.

Seizing the interruption, you stamped on the toes of your captor and he yelled out in surprise, dropping you to the ground. You fell to your hands and knees as you gasped for air. While you recovered, the sounds of struggle seemed distant compared to the thumping in your ears. Knuckles cracked against flesh, and cane against bone.

Looking over to the action, you saw Spot beating one of the newsies while another lay curled into himself on the ground. You dizzily got to your feet. You couldn’t let Spot have all the fun, after all.

A kick to the back of the knee sent the large newsie to the ground, but he soon got back to his feet and swung around with a punch. You sidestepped, then again, and once more again as he threw swing after flailing swing in your direction. It wasn’t difficult to dodge his lethargic, though powerful movements, but you couldn’t find an opening to fight back.

“Scarface!” Spot called from his own predicament, and you looked at him just in time to catch the cane he’d thrown to you. His cane. It was heavier than you expected. Spot always made it look so effortless to use, and you took a moment to play with its weight in your hands as the tank newsie took another step towards you. You thrust the bottom end into the newsie’s stomach, and once he keeled over, finished with a whack over his head. He crumpled to the ground and you couldn’t imagine him getting up anytime soon.

A few seconds later, Spot’s opponent fell to the ground as well, and the alley was silent for all but both of your panting breaths. ‘Another day at the office,’ you thought. Then you both nodded at each other and exited the alley into the street. With so much to say, both of you stayed silent. Once you were both a few buildings down, Spot reached out to grab his cane from your hand but recoiled in pain with a grimace. His hand went to his collarbone and came away with bloodied fingertips. Rubbing the blood between the pads of his fingers, he threw his hand back down by his side with a sigh.

“Guess I should clean this up in Brooklyn,” He mumbled, mostly to himself, looking up the street. You looked at his collar and frowned. From your angle, you couldn’t see the cut, but his blue shirt had a growing crimson stain across the shoulder.

“No.” You said. He may have hurt you in the past, he may have been your enemy, but you were not going to let him soldier on back to Brooklyn, obviously injured, after he’d helped you — saved you. “No, I’ll patch you up at Queens.”

You spoke with such finality that Spot couldn’t refuse. Besides, he didn’t want to go back to Brooklyn just yet before he’d conducted the business he’d come to fulfil. So he nodded his head and followed you back to your lodging house.

…

It was quiet when you walked in. Though that was hardly a surprise as it was just after midday and all of the newsies were still out, selling to meet the lunchtime rush. The silence was a stark difference compared to the cacophony of headlines and carriage wheels outside, and the sudden change made you audibly sigh. Peace and quiet were hard to come by in your line of work.

At some point during the walk, Spot mentioned that the Nassau newsies had been encroaching on Brooklyn, too, and had been on his way to discuss it with you when he saw you. In all honesty, business was the last thing on your mind after such a close call, and you flippantly postponed that discussion for another time.

Spot followed you through the lobby, up the stairs, past rows of messy bunks, and out of a windowed door to a little balcony at the back of the building. You grabbed the medical supplies from under your bed as you passed. Queens didn’t have as many amenities as Brooklyn did, or even Manhattan. It was a small building to begin with, and with an ever-increasing number of occupants, any spare space it may have once possessed was now filled with bunks. As you slept on bunks like the rest of your newsies, the only ‘private’ area in the building was the balcony at the back of the lodge, which overlooked a small alley. A few empty pots sat in each corner, filled with ash and cigarette stubs.

“No office, huh?” Spot said as he looked through the glass into the main bunkroom. While he had been to the lodging house a handful of times, he’d never gotten past the lobby. You hummed.

“Not all of us have the luxury.” You said. Spot turned back to the balcony and walked over to the railing, taking his hat off and dropping it to the ground. He leaned with his back against the bars while you took an inventory of your kit. Some alcohol, a few gauze strips, a cloth, and a needle and thread. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to do the job. You ignored your screaming muscles as you stood up from your crouch. Walking over to Spot with the bag now placed on the ground, you reached out to his shirt but paused as your fingers grazed the fabric.

“Mind taking your shirt off?” You asked, withdrawing your hand. As awkward as it was to ask, there wasn’t much you could do with the wound obscured.

“Already tryna’ undress me, dollface?” He chuckled. You rolled your eyes and pretended not to notice his play on your nickname. It still had bad memories attached to it, but from Spot's mouth, it almost felt charming. You folded your arms and looked over at the uninteresting plant pots as he shrugged off his shirt and dropped it beside his hat. When you looked back, you fought the heat that threatened to rise in your cheeks at his toned chest. Taking a step closer, feather-light fingers traced the skin around the bloody gash as you inspected it.

With the bottle of alcohol in one hand and a cloth in the other, you got to work. He took in a sharp breath as you pressed the cloth to the wound without warning. Quickly, the tension eased as you focussed on your task, and Spot almost found himself enjoying the attention despite the pain. Nobody had ever cleaned his wounds for him — granted, he’d always done it himself, away from the other newsies. Weakness had no place in Brooklyn. But there was something in the gentle hand that rested on his chest, as if to hold him in place, that lit him on fire. It was evident you were unaware of it, being so absorbed in his damage, but a part of him was glad that you didn’t notice the heavy beating of his heart.

It was odd. You felt very, very odd. One minute, you were in a turbulent feud with Spot, and now here you were, cleaning his wounds. And the strangest thing was that you felt no conviction about being this close to him. Actually, all of the voices that had advocated against him in your heart now lay silent as you both stood in peace, together. But there was still a question that burnt on the tip of your tongue.

“Why?” You asked him as you were finishing cleaning the shards of clay from his wound. After you’d spoken, you realised the question may have been too cryptic. You elaborated, “Why’d ya step in, I mean.”

“I ain’t making the same mistake twice.” He took a breath and looked away as if searching for words. “ ‘Specially when the first one cost me so much.”

You looked back down the gauze that you’d procured from your pocket to avoid his eyes, but he gently lifted your head to look at him. His piercing baby blues probed yours, and for a moment, you forgot everything you’d learned. How to hate, how to fight, how to hurt. But you feared your vulnerability. You took his hand away from your face and turned your attention back to dressing his wound.

Spot wasn’t deterred by your vacant expression. It was better than a frown, and in the fragile territory behind your walls, he would take anything he could get. However, the slow progress was making him frustrated. Spot wasn’t normally the one to wait for people. He moved, and his newsies followed — that’s how it worked. Even in his private life, if a pretty girl tested his patience too much, he was already onto the next one. But there was something in you that he had never been able to fully leave behind. Something that he couldn’t as easily replace. So, despite his impatience, he remained in silence for a little while longer as you wrapped the gauze around his shoulder.

Once you were done, you didn’t move. Then you cleared your throat.

“Thank you.” You said quietly. After all these years of holding onto your hurt, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say anything more. So instead of speaking what you were really thinking, you did the next best thing and laced your fingers with his. It wasn’t a long-winded speech, nor a grand gesture, but it was enough. His hand felt rough and calloused in yours, knuckles undoubtedly split from the fight. You held his eyes. Vulnerability was a long way away, and trust lay even further, but now you were prepared to make the journey. Not against him, but for him.

He smiled, and so did you. And in that moment, you were happier than you had felt for a long, long time.

…

“Oi! That sure ain’t in the rules this time!”

“It sure is, blockhead. Ya memory’s gone lousy, now hand ‘em over!”

Bricker reluctantly slid his buttons over to the other side of the crate. Bricker and Patches had been in an intense game of blackjack for the previous couple of hours, with the same stack of buttons passing back and forth between them tirelessly. The Brooklyn docks were as busy as ever, with summer on the horizon and merchant ships coming in and out. Despite the commotion of sailors busying themselves about, the two Brooklyn newsies stayed locked in their game. Most of the other Brooklynites made themselves scarce around the docks during day hours to avoid the rush, but Spot and a few others stuck around.

In the midst of another round, Bricker kicked Patches' shins from around the crate. He yelped and gave his companion a murderous look.

“Look who just showed up,” Bricker said with an amused grin on his face. Patches followed his eyes across the docks and his face mirrored Bricker’s.

Spot was standing, talking, with another newsie. It was that Scarface girl from Queens, who they’d been seeing more and more of over the past few months. It was confusing to the Brooklyn newsies for their once sworn enemy to be seen buddy-buddy with Spot, without any warning. Not that they minded: an alliance meant that both Queens and Brooklyn newsies had fewer fights, and therefore less injuries. The gamblers watched them spit-shake, and maybe it was a trick of the eyes, but it looked like the two’s hands were clasped together for a few more seconds than commonly acceptable. Then, she followed Spot back to the lodging house. Undoubtedly to discuss more ‘business’. Patches rolled his eyes.

“Double or nothin’ they come out holdin’ hands,” Bricker said, slamming a half dollar on the cards. Patches shrugged. He thought they were too proud for that, it was at least another month before they’d slip. He turned to his friend with a sly smile.

“You’re on, Bricker.”

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