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sanstropfremir · 3 years

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I’d love your thoughts on BTS and their current image and music if you have them and aren’t afraid of the mindless internet hoards.

Personally, I liked a lot of their older stuff, but haven’t liked anything since I think the Fake Love promotions 3+ years ago. They’d started losing their personality and soul before that album cycle, but it feels like the sanitization of their image and artistry really kicked into hyperdrive after that. Now most of what they do seems like a sterile money grab driven by the Hybe hive mind which is a shame.

ok alrighty (cracks knuckles) let's get into it.

now that i've fully given myself a headache watching the majority of the bts videography, here are three points i'm going to cover:

performative character and the lack thereof

interesting aesthetics and the lack thereof, and

the inevitable cracking of perfection

ready, set, let's begin.

idol music is very clearly definited by spectacle based aesthetics. and it's had that structure for its entire existence. so i gotta hand it to hybe for this one, because they managed to revolutionize being utterly fucking average. the triumph of bts is that they're just some guys and they look like just some guys. hybe found a niche in the system and then gamed that system to the tune of one of the largest musical acts in the world. they're not marketing bts as a romantic parasocial relationship, they're marketing them as your friends. and that is just as insidious to lonely kids as a run of the mill romantic fantasy. but that's not what i'm here to talk about today.

there's a pattern i find very interesting with bts mvs and that is that i don't remember anything about them. specifically, i don't remember the stuff that's happening IN the video; not the styling, not the setpieces, if i didn't know the members i doubt i would remember them either. what i DO remember, is how expensive the production is, and specific shots. i couldn't tell you what a single member was wearing, but i sure as hell remember that first upward angle shot of jungkook and the rusted park ride in spring day. or every single time they do that birdseye shot of jin in like every video. honestly as far as i'm aware jin has only ever worn a loose fitting beige longsleeve shirt.

it took bts a long time to establish any kind of consistent visual character. and the character they did establish.... i don't know if you can call a family-friendly-style clean aesthetic 'character'. they debuted as a hip hop group to little (comparative) success, and then made a switch to doing an early version of where they're currently at right now. if you've seen any of the mvs, you know that this is a pretty significant visual change. i don't think it is inherently a bad change, since the visual branding for hiphop based groups always tips over into iffy terrritory, but it is dramatic enough and early enough that it doesn't strike me as a natural evolution. concept switch ups are common, but they usually work because the members have established a bit of character for themselves, used their performance abilities and presence to fit into a niche in the group. the idol mould is perfect for showcasing the performers; that's its function. the groups that are the most fun to watch are the ones with stage presence, the ones who know how to perform, who can act all the parts they need to play. and bts? 4/7 actual performers on a good day. in my personal opinion it's 2/7.

i'm gonna expand on what i said about jimin here (this is technically the first part of this series), because it does apply to the rest of the group on the whole:

and i think here is where we see the main crux of the difference between taemin and jimin as performers: taemin has both an artistic and an idol persona. we know and understand him to do solo work that has a separate artistic meaning to just him being an idol. even though this performance was pre-move, i would still say this applies, because he's hot off press your number, where he's acting in a story based mv. jimin on the other hand just has his idol persona. he's not known for creating the same kind of storytelling that taemin is.

bts has been very insistent on the image of the group as a single unit. despite having the size of fanbase and the revenue that would make any official solo debut a massive success, none of them have done any substantial solo work. this isn't artistically a problem, and i think it's very admirable of them to be so dedicated to the image and the legacy of the group, when that can be an uncommon trait in the industry. i do however, think it starts to become an issue when we want to discuss what the artistic visions and images of groups are. shinee taemin and solo taemin have two distinct artistic representations, and taemin himself will attest to that. it's the same with all the shinee members that have solo careers, and the same with other groups. jackson, bambam, yugyeom, and jaebeom's solo work is all very different from got7. yixing's solo work is very different from exo's. even the subunits within exo all have their own character (cbx and sc). kpop groups all ostensibly are trained under the same system, so why the disparity with bts? mostly, it's their brand of "authenticity." it's impossible to perform authentically, by the nature of performance as a medium it is unnatural, and tragically, not everyone is naturally interesting, or suited to performing: that's why the performing arts even exist in the first place. it required painstaking training to be good at performing; it is a complex set of skills and those skills are not learnt by "being authentic." being an idol is not just the singing, dancing, rapping; that's only half the work. you need to be able to act to be a compelling performer. pulling your true self and emotions out on stage every night is a fast track to burnout and psychological issues, there's plenty of evidence. the only member of bts of whom i can say for some certainty has a persona and a stage presence is jhope/hoseok, a) because he's kept up a very specific brand in the solo work that he has done, and b) he has actual dance training, not just kpop dance training. the rest of them may have the kpop dance and the kpop vocal training, but what they do not have is the ability to market themselves as compelling performers on stage. taehyung is the only other member i would hesitantly give a semblance of persona and ability to, but i think he stumbled onto that mostly by accident. and if all the pieces don't each have a distinctive colour, how can the whole machine be visually interesting?

bts may never have been able to establish an aesthetic brand, but what they did establish is an intellectual one. if you talk to a fan, the schtick they give is that "it's about the lyrics." as noble as having an intellectual or cerebral message is, what does that look like? how do you portray intellectual on stage, on film? what about intellectual is interesting to watch? cerebral, by it's literal nature as a descriptor, is very difficult to communicate in visual language because it is internal. to successfully communicate cerebrality and intellect in a short form medium like music videos requires a deft hand with metaphor that can elude even an experienced designer. and honestly? i don't know whether to applaud hybe's visual team for being the most successful subtle contemporary designers i've every seen, or to decry them as worst kpop designers i've ever seen. maybe both. regardless, i don't think they're able to cross the gap.

there are exactly four mvs where i actually remember the content of the mv and not the frame it sits in, and those are dna, idol, the singularity comeback trailer with taehyung, and war of hormone. and of an eight year career......that's not very many. these four mvs have at least an inkling of interesting spectacle and character, but even then, it's still a stretch. there is absolutely nothing to write home about in the styling for dna, other than it's well colour matched. I don't even know if I should include singularity because it involves none of the other members. idol is probably their most interesting mv because it actually has alternative styling and varies (at least a little bit) from the standard hybe boom crane shot-that-shows-off-how-we-can-afford-big-studio-spaces-and-locations. the company and the group would be loathe to admit it, but war of hormone is a well designed and interesting mv for the time it was made, with a well crafted gimmick and some actual showing of character from the members. it was the start of a potential that they squashed quite quickly because it wasn't picking up in the hiphop-group-saturated market of 2014. but the rest of their mvs? remarkably uninspired styling. like it's truly impressive how boring the styling is. and like i've said, that is the triumph in their aesthetics: they all look like normal dudes (if you had professional skin + makeup techs looking after them for the last 8 years).

all of this is a carefully crafted image that's tailored to hooking an audience, especially an international one. the mvs are boring in the relative scale of kpop, but they're just different enough from a western pop mv to catch attention. and once you do sink a hook, there's a direct clickfunnel of content that bills itself on these men being "authentic" and "self-producing," which is a huge draw to international fans, because people are racist and believe that the kpop industry is a factory that produces idols like clones, where none of them know how to do anything other than sing and dance and all the music is just handed to them by companies. and they have SO much content that there's no way a new fan can get to it all in a timely manner, so they'll never have to engage with any other kpop artists' work if they don't actively seek it out. but that's another essay for another time.

that brings us to current day, in which at least the last five bts releases have been in the same aesthetic vein of positive, sanitized, and pristine. i said it in one of my txt responses and i will say it again here: money scrubs the humanity from the aesthetic of living. minimalism is for rich white people. hybe and bts may have pivoted their style and brand directly into the lane of mass appeal, but when you pair that with the amount of money funding them, there's a cognitive dissonance between the message and the aesthetics in which it's portrayed. some people do like the clean cut looks, and i won't say that they don't work, but as you've likely gleaned from this response, it isn't my style and if you've been around and reading my writing for longer you'll know that my tastes runs much closer to the messy and the weird, so very little about any of bts' visuals have appeal to me. i do find the contradiction of applying the appeal of radical relatability with the aesthetics of expansive (and expensive) minimalism interesting; it's an extremely fine line that hybe is walking and eventually they are going to tip over, the porcelain mask will not hold forever. maintaining the all ages aesthetic is going to be difficult now that all of them are grown ass men. with other groups of this member age and generation there's very obviously been a shift to a more adult tone, and not necessarily explicitly. got7, mx, nu'est, btob, shinee, 2pm, and groups that have older members like a.c.e and sf9 have all made slow shifts in tone that are undeniably aimed at a maturing audience: they know their core fanbases are aging with them and they (the fans) are not as interested in the 'boy' in boy group. and most of them have telltale visual styles, enough so that i can distinguish a specific group's mv. the last year and change of mx mvs have a very distinctive character; got7 too, since easily as far back as if you do. i can always tell an a.c.e mv by its impeccable fashion and formic styling, and although shinee has always had a more experimental aesthetic edge, their sound and voices are unmistakable.

honestly, i can't predict what bts is going to do in the future, but i personally don't believe they can keep up their clean aesthetic indefinitely without some fallout. part of the fun of following bands is watching them grow musically, and the last couple of years of bts haven't felt like growth. there are fans that have already started realizing it, and there's likely to be more soon.

---

the third part is here, which is a short followup about some of bts' industry influence.

#this is long one dear readers #a very long one #strap in #i've sat on this for probably a week now in the hopes my brain can make some interesting connections but honestly?#not a lot about bts is interesting in comparision to the rest of the kpop industry #personally i am of the opinion that lyrics do not matter in idol music and i am not interested in them in the slightest #and bts videos ARE extremely bland visually #unless you like looking at expensive production. whatever floats your boat i guess #they make a lot of sense as an entry kpop group but once you get actually into the industry there is SO much happening #which i talk about in the third part a little bit #this is way too long i am so sorry anon and everyone else who has been asking about this topic #im not entirely sure it's coherent at this point but whatever. its out there now #i wanted this to be under 1k and that emphatically did not happen #it is double that. why am i like this #875 #kpop questions #kpop analysis #group analysis #text #answers

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spohkh · 3 years

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miracle on cornelia street [dean/castiel]

so BASICALLY sarah @adanceinasnowglobe and i were talking about what everyone would be up to post-series -- yknow, like, now that theyre all safe and healthy n everythings cool and destiel is officially together. yknow. as happened in canon -- and we were like so obviously destiel get a house, and thats kind of the basis of this verse so !! this is the foundational fic for what i HOPE will be a series of fun lil day-in-the-life drabbles, from both me and sarah!!

ehehehe :-) enjoy!

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The house is a quaint thing, sitting low and snug under a pair of shady oak trees in a quiet suburb just outside of downtown Lawrence. Its brickwork face is weathered—definitely in need of a good power wash—and the roof is just as worn. The bottom step to the porch slants unevenly, and the porch itself has cracks in the concrete. There are chips in the paint on the window frames, the iron porch railing is rusting, and who knows when the gutters were last given a proper cleaning.

There’s a lot of work to be done, but standing there in the small front lawn, Dean Winchester can’t say if he’s ever seen anyplace else so perfect as the house at 3767 Cornelia Street. Dean’s house—his home. His home with Cas.

“Can you believe it?” he quietly says to Miracle, who has been sitting patiently by Dean’s leg. Miracle tilts her head and wags her tail. Dean looks back up at the house. “Yeah, me neither.”

The sound of a familiar car rumbling up the road snaps Dean out of his reverie. He rubs a knuckle at his eye and clears his throat and tries to look like he hadn’t been standing in his front yard about to cry while talking to his dog, christ.

The car rolls to a stop on the curb just in front of the house. The driver’s side door opens, and Sam slowly unfolds his ridiculous limbs as he gets out. It’s always a wonder how he can fit himself into a car at all. Sam gives a dorky little wave as he ambles over to where Dean is standing.

Dean peers behind Sam, trying to see into the car. “What, no Eileen?”

“Hello to you, too. Dick,” he replies snarkily. “She’s wrapping up a work thing. She’ll come over when she’s done.”

Dean sucks his teeth in disappointment. “Ah, well. Guess you can go home then.” Sam shoves at his shoulder. Dean just laughs and pulls Sam in for a proper hello hug.

“Why are you standing out here, anyway?” Sam asks when they part.

“Can’t a man just hang out in his own front yard? Accompanied by a dashing canine companion?” He leans down to pat Miracle on the head.

“I guess…” Sam looks down at Miracle. When she tips her head up and gazes back at him, Sam snorts.

“What?”

“Miracle on Cornelia Street,” Sam says with mirth.

Dean squints at him. “What?” he repeats, now more incredulous.

“You know—like Miracle on 34th Street. But we’re on Cornelia, so.” He nods down at the dog. “Miracle on Cornelia Street.”

“Dude.” Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s goofy grin and starts walking up the path to the house, Miracle trotting behind him. “Shut up and come inside already.”

Sam follows after him, pausing just inside the threshold as he spots something on the doorframe. “Oh, classy,” he says, throwing a sardonic look to where D.W. and C.W. are scratched into the wood.

“Just wait,” Dean jokes with a toothy smile, “when I got the time I’m gonna draw a little heart around it.” He was joking, but now that he said it, he kind of wanted to.

Cas looks up from the stove when they walk into the dining room. He’s wearing one of Dean’s old AC/DC tees, the logo all but worn away from being washed so many times. He’s usually in some ratty tee or other when lounging around these days. But in honor of Sam’s visit today (Cas’ words) and to seem a little more dressy short of donning his usual button-downs (Dean’s private opinion), he’s also wearing the cable-knit cardigan Sam got him as a gift last Christmas. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam leans against the counter that separates the dining and kitchen areas, craning his giraffe neck to catch a glimpse at the stove. “Hey, Cas! What’cha cooking?”

“Nothing. Dean made it. I was just watching the pot so it didn’t boil over.” He locks eyes with Dean, his intent stare very clearly communicating I did not touch the chili I added nothing I did not touch the dial I was just watching it like you asked so don’t even start.

Dean just smiles as he walks past the counter and steps into Cas’ space. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, and busses Cas on the cheek.

“You’re welcome,” Cas replies warmly. He’s gazing up at Dean with those summer afternoon blue eyes, standing in one of Dean’s shirts and that dorky cardigan, and Dean starts to get full of that feeling from out in the front yard again. If they were alone, Dean would probably say something recklessly sappy like I am so stupid in love with you.

As it is, Dean clears his throat and turns back to Sam, slinging an arm around Cas’ shoulders, and says, “He did the salad.”

Cas sneaks him a knowing look before, thankfully, putting his attention on Sam without commenting on Dean’s hasty redirection. “I did the salad,” Cas agrees blithely, and places the salad bowl on the counter for Sam to see, seeming pleased with himself.

Sam looks between the two of them, an amused tilt to his eyebrow that Dean implicitly distrusts. He’s definitely thinking mocking thoughts about the two of them. But he just quirks a smile and says, “It looks great.” Shrewd little diplomat.

Cas shifts to the side to see past Sam’s shoulder. Sam glances behind himself before shooting Cas a confused look.

“She’s still at work,” Dean tells Cas, guessing who he’s looking for. “Sadly.”

“What, am I not good enough?”

“Of course you are,” Cas promises earnestly, just as Dean says, “Well…”

Sam’s opening his mouth to retort, probably something absolutely scathing, when his phone chimes. He pulls it out of his pocket, a smile spreading over his face. “Speak of the devil,” he says, then tips his head with a grimace, “as it were. That was Eileen. She’ll be here soon, so I’m gonna go wash up.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall—“

“Dude, I know where it is. I did help you guys move in.”

Dean spreads his hands in assent. “Fine, christ, I swear never to be a good host to you in my home ever again. Go ahead and go take your dump now.”

“I’m not gonna—ohmygodnevermind.” He turns on his heel and huffs down the hall, Miracle trotting after him, the tags on her collar clinking together jauntily.

Dean reaches past Cas to turn the burner off, then lands his hand on Cas’ hip. “Have I told you today how cute you are in that sweater?”

“Yes.” Cas brings his hands up to cradle Dean’s face. “Four times.”

“Make it five.” Dean kisses him. He pulls Cas into a hug, pressing his face against Castiel’s shoulder. They sway into each other. After a warm moment, Dean says in a low voice, “The first family dinner in our house.”

Cas hums a soft, contented sound in agreement. “The first of many,” he responds, just as quiet. Dean squeezes him tighter. He knows they’re both thinking about Jack and Claire, their bedrooms sitting empty and waiting for whenever they can find the time to visit—and Kaia and Alex and Jody with Claire, if they can, and Charlie and her girlfriend, and Bobby, and all the other wayward extensions of their sprawling family caught out in the wind. Their house isn’t big enough to host everyone, but with Sam and Eileen up the block and the bunker just a few miles out, there’s plenty of room to put up people who come out their way. Dean has the hope that 3767 Cornelia Street becomes a common pitstop for folks—a suburban Roadhouse, a tidier (much tidier) Singer Salvage.

Dean presses a kiss against Cas’ neck, and Cas breathes a sweet little sigh that pushes all thoughts about future dinners right out the window. Fuck, this dinner could go out the window, for all he cares. He kisses a little higher up, right under Cas’ jawline, before pulling back to catch Castiel’s darkened gaze. “How ‘bout we ditch the nag and go have a private party of our own?”

“Dean, no. I worked really hard on that salad.” He sounds perfectly serious, but the playful glint in his eye gives him away. Dean snorts, mumbling oh, forgive me, Chef Cas as he leans in again.

Just as they kiss, Sam walks back in. “Hey, I think something’s wrong with your sink–- oh, sorry.”

“Huh?” Dean reluctantly pulls away as Sam clears his throat, looking sheepish. “What’s wrong with what, Sammy?”

“Uh, with your bathroom.”

“The bathroom? Oh, what, you clogged the toilet?”

“Wha— N— I DID NOT SHIT IN YOUR BATHROOM.”

“Then how did the toilet get messed up?”

“It’s the SINK, the SINK—”

“You took a shit in the sink?”

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dean…”

“What? He started it.”

“Started WHAT?”

Dean snaps his fingers. “The end of the world.”

“Oh! My god!”

“I guess technically, yeah, since god is our kid...” He turns to Cas. “Weird, weird lives we lead.”

Cas just shakes his head, clearly exasperated. Sam has given up on speaking completely and has fallen back on making a gesture like he’s one second away from grabbing Dean by the throat.

“I was there for all twelve years of it,” Sam says to Cas, “and I still can’t believe you stayed with this guy.”

“Well,” Cas muses serenely, “you’ve been here a lot longer than me.”

Sam grimaces when Dean throws him his best shit-eating grin. Nothing like his two favorite people bonding over how much of a pain he is.

The sound of the front door opening distracts them, and then a voice calls, “Knock knock! The life of the party has arrived!”

“Eileen!” Sam exclaims happily. Miracle takes off down the hall, Sam hot on her heels.

Dean chuckles at Sam’s unabashed excitement, then gives Castiel another peck on the cheek before moving away from him. “Can you put everything out on the table? I’ll go check out the bathroom sitch real quick.”

Cas catches his hand as he starts to leave, softly saying his name. When Dean looks back at him, Cas smiles and says, “I love you.”

Dean wonders if maybe three time’s the charm and he should just give in to what his body wants him to do. If a man has a right to stand around and cry messily anywhere in his own home, surely the kitchen would be the place to do it. The kitchen, after all, is the heart of any house.

But Dean doesn’t. He indulges in a little sniffle, Cas’ eyes glimmering with knowing in the soft light. Dean brings Cas’ hand to his mouth and kisses the neat gold band around his finger, and he kisses each peaked knuckle, and he turns Cas’ hand over and kisses his palm and his wrist. Then he lets go and puts his own hand against Cas’ cheek, and says his recklessly sappy thing: “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

And the glowing feeling inside him doesn’t settle, only grows brighter.

Whatever’s wrong with the sink will be just one more thing to a long list of shit to deal with. Their house needs work, no denying. But Dean knows they’ve got plenty of time.

#destiel #deancastiel #dean winchester #castiel #supernatural #my writing

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sher-soc-the-famder · 6 years

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Miraculously Their Own- Chapter 6

Not Every Card’s A Trump Part 5

Word count: 5173

Pairings: Romantic Royaltiy, Platonic LAMP

Warnings: Child Abuse, Homophobia

Notes: Welp, this arc is almost officially twice the length I previously planned but I hope y’all love it anyways! We’re only about halfway through so make sure to buckle up <3 As always updates on Fridays and huge thanks to @wisepuma23!

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Tag List: @notveryglittery @milomeepit @beach-fan @ab-artist @i-read-by-lamp @honeythanvinegar @confinesofpersonalknowledge @bangthekobrakid@damienswifeolicitydallysgirl @unknownsandersfan @quietwords-loudthoughts@ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @mirandatheangel @ts-random-pictures

Logan couldn't feel his fingertips. Distantly he was aware of the fact that he had reached a point beyond panic, but he couldn't do more than focus on trying to get more air every time he took a breath.

Trumpbull's hand on his shoulder seared his skin even through his ragged shirt, and it took everything he had not to burst into tears then and there. She didn't like it when they cried. She didn't like it when the boys cried especially. He tried to take another breath as she all but shoved him down the stairs.

The silence weighed against his mind, an iron weight dragging him down into the unknowable depths of the ocean. Everything was spinning, and the lack of comment when he stumbled sent his fear skyrocketing even more.

"Please," he whispered as she pulled the basement door open. The old wood shuddered at the force of it. Logan's eyes burned as he tried not to blink and let the tears spill over. "I- I was good this time. I was, I did my best."

He yelped as her fingers dug into his hair and yanked. He stood on his tiptoes, bending his head back to try and relieve the pressure. His lips thinned, his chest shuddered and he finally lost the fight with his eyes.

"Please boy," Trumpbull snarled as he started to sob helplessly, silently, with heaving breaths that weren't enough. "Don't think that you can lie to me. Not only do you take every opportunity to be a know it all brat that gets on the last nerves of everyone around you, but you were with them. Being with them isn't good, and for that you'll be punished."

She released the hold on his hair and Logan crumpled to the floor. He pressed his hand to his face, wishing that he had the bravery to stand up and run. Run until he caught up with Roman and Patton and could bury his face in Roman's chest where it felt like nothing like this would ever reach him again. A brilliant sparkling lie, like the stories the man crafted.

"It's not fully your fault today," Trumpbull said, the anger finally leaving her voice. And oh Logan hated it. He hated how it still made him look up hopefully as if he hadn't learned that her letting him go now only meant worse pain later. She wasn't kind, he tried to remind himself, only different types of cruel.

"No, it's only your fault that you didn't inform me of the nature of their relationship. You've been in close contact with sin, young Logan. And you've been there willingly." Logan flinched back. He froze at the heavy gaze that she laid on him. The sobs in his chest turned into whimpers, helpless sounds that he couldn't hold back as she approached. "So I will punish you before God will. Cleanse your soul of all wrong doings."

"Please," Logan begged. His voice cracked, and his whole body froze even as all he wanted to was crawl away. "Please not that. Please- I'll be good- Anything but that- Please- please-"

Trumpbull gripped his arm hard enough to bruise. Logan had to scramble to his feet or risk being dragged along the rough floor of the basement. He sobbed, tugging at his arm as hard as he could, fingernails trying to pry Trumpbull's finger off of him.

"This is for your own good brat," Trumpbull spoke over his pleas. "A few hours will teach you the proper ways. It will put much needed steel in your spine as your soul is cleansed from sin."

Logan's feet scraped against the floor, thin shoes struggling to find purchase as she carried him to the corner he never wanted to see again. For all that he found himself there again and again.

Her fingers spasmed on his arm and Logan sobbed even hard, finally going limp as the door to the closet clicked while Trumpbull unlocked it. The smell that drifted from it clogged his nose. He gagged. The action clashed with his sobs and Logan coughed trying to get himself back under control.

"Straighten up, brat," Trumpbull's voice echoed in his ears and Logan tried, he really did. She scowled down at him. He trembled even harder. "Very well then. The pain won't be my fault in the end."

She shoved him into the box at the back of the closet. He could stand in it with room to spare, and Logan tried very hard not to wonder what she did with taller kids that made her this upset. His back straightened instinctively at the sharp edges it found against the wood, and he sobbed again.

Logan had seen a glimpse of it in the light, just once. The rusted nails and jagged pieces of glass that had been hammered into the wood. A deliberate act that meant he had to stand as straight and still as possible of face the consequences. Best case scenario was a short burst of pain, worst was another scar along his body and weeks of lying about what had happened to him.

Logan had long learned that no one would believe him.

Trumpbull shook her head; the door to the box creaked shut and Logan stood alone with the darkness and the intimate knowledge that movement in any direction would earn him pain.

Patton has messed up. The knowledge sat deep in his heart, to the point that even Roman’s arms around his body couldn’t help. He trembled, gripping his husband’s shirt even tighter as Roman made a meaningless gentle noise. Large hands tangled in his hair and scratched at his scalp, running circles as if that could chase away the tension he had rapidly gained.

Roman shushed him, and nuzzled at his hair. “We’re almost home, mi amor. Just a little bit farther Pat, you're doing amazing. I love you, god, I adore you so so much."

The words caught something in his chest and Patton barely felt the steps of their porch before the dam broke. His legs gave out underneath him, and even though Roman's arms were tight and steady around his waist and arms, Patton still felt as if he had tilted into a free fall.

He sobbed. Each breath in felt like a stab to his chest, and he couldn't help but remember Logan's head leaning against him. The thought made him sob harder. He couldn't lie down and take it, not with the way Roman's eyes had widened. The pale look on Roman's face had made him feel like they were all of nineteen again, and Patton had never wanted Roman to look that upset with himself again.

His arms flailed as Roman drew him into his lap, tugging Patton's head against his chest. Patton wound his arms around Roman's waist, gripping at the cloth he found there again until all he could feel was the pain of his palms and the vibrations of Roman's voice.

"It's- it's- it's my fault," Patton gasped out between breaths. He felt his bad mood grow as he realized he had cut off whatever Roman had been saying. He couldn't be a good husband, couldn't be a father at all. He squeezed his eyes shut and smashed his face against Roman's chest even more. "I should- should have- have stayed quiet. Or- or- or-"

Roman shushed him again, rocking back and forth. "It's not your fault, my dear." Roman swallowed heavily, and Patton wanted to tell him it was alright to be upset as much as he didn't want to interrupt again. "You were well within your right to try and slay such an evil dragon. She was encroaching on your territory after all."

Patton giggled. It felt rough and torn in his throat but so much smoother than even more sobs.

"You aren't responsible for her actions," Roman murmured, pressing a kiss to his scalp. "She is a horrible, evil woman who should never work with kids that much is clear. If you're an Evil Dragon than she is a gaping black hole of nothingness and hatred. Were you to be the Knight that slays her I would be the proudest man in the world."

"I can't-"

Roman shoved a finger at his face and Patton found himself crossed eyed trying to follow it. He giggled again. It didn't fix things but it did make him feel better. He adjusted his spot in Roman's lap, chasing the warmth that Roman always brought.

"You can!" Roman declared, "You can and you will! You may have struggled alone but now the Prince is-"

Patton looked up as Roman's voice cracked. He swiped at his face and Patton reached up to cup his cheeks. Roman glanced away and his voice was hoarse as he said, "I'm- I'm fine. I'll be fine. Just- Just give me a- a second."

Patton took a deep breath and wriggled in Roman’s hold, shifting until his back as flush against Roman’s chest. He hooked an ankle around Roman’s leg and threaded their fingers together. He brought Roman’s palm up to his face to give it a lingering kiss. He waited. He had waited before he could wait again. He’d wait forever for the man holding him if that’s what Roman needed.

“I’m sorry, I just-” Patton shook his head and pressed another to kiss to Roman’s hand, to a knuckle this time.

“It’s alright to be sad,” Patton whispered, wincing at the gravel of his own voice. “If I can be sad, which you insist on, then you can be sad too my Prince. You loved him. You love him, almost more than I do.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Roman blurted. Patton kissed the next knuckle on his hand; Roman buried his face in Patton’s neck and Patton could feel the tears that gathered there. “She insulted you, insulted us! And all I could do was shrink like a damsel in distress. Like a kid caught by his parents! I’m supposed to protect you! If I can’t protect you how can I protect Logan and if I can’t protect Logan-”

“What right do I have to be a father?” Patton asked, and felt Roman flinch against his back.

Patton leaned back against him even more, letting his weight ground Roman. "I've asked myself the same thing. What is a good parent Ro? Someone who snaps at a woman who upset him? Someone who stands up for what he believes in? There's just- people are just-! people! People Roman! They're little tangled balls of soft yarn and thorns- Roses! People are roses!"

Roman snickered wetly against his neck. "I have no idea what you just said Professor P-love."

Patton sighed and squeezed Roman's hand. He tilted his head back, feeling Roman hook his chin over the new space and watched the clouds drift over the sky, brilliant pinks and golds from the setting sun.

“How can we ever do more than what we think is right?” Patton whispered. “People aren’t perfect, and neither are we, we just-”

Roman’s arms tightened around his waist. “We want to be.”

Patton sighed and nodded. He felt exhausted. Today was supposed to be a good day; he had taken it off so that he could see Logan, not be told he could never see the boy again. He blinked rapidly at that thought, willing himself not to start crying together.

“You know what?” Roman said finally, “I think this calls for comfort food and Disney movies! A pile of blankets and junk food and each other until we feel better! Come Patton! I shall beat back at least this beast hounding you!”

He jostled Patton’s leg until the two of them were untangling from each other. Roman ushered Patton into the house, directing him towards the closet of blankets and disappearing into the kitchen himself.

Patton stared at the collection of fluffiness for a long moment, trying to scrub the thought that Logan’s hug had felt better than these from his mind. This was about feeling better, not worse.

His breath hitched and all Patton really wanted was a hug. He wanted someone to tell him that everything was going to be alright. That they were going to make it alright. Roman would; the moment Patton asked his arms would be open and the words would flow from his lips along with endless love. But it wouldn’t be quite enough when Roman was struggling to believe it himself.

Patton sniffled, swiping at his face again.

There was only one other person that he could think of and he hated to bother her.

Patton tugged a pile of the blankets out of the closet to take to the couch. He wrapped one around his shoulders immediately, sinking into the warmth that it provided. He could hear Roman shuffling around in the kitchen; the sound of the cupboards opening and closing meant that Roman was likely going to make them both drinks as well as snacks.

Patton blinked back tears, torn between a helpless deepening love of the man he had married, and an endlessly gaping hole torn in his heart. Roman had been right. Logan had been the one. Patton didn't know if he would be able to look at another child and not see Logan ever again. And didn't that make him a horrible person, let alone father.

His hands curled around the edges of his blanket and he trembled. He gave in.

Patton reached for his phone, hating that he still had to reach out for his sister at every opportunity. He fiddled with his sleeve as the phone rang. He hoped that she wasn't in the middle of a case, or busy, or asleep; she needed her rest and focus.

It clicked and Patton bit back a sob at the warm voice that greeted him.

"Yo little bro! What's up Pat? You went to see the kiddo today right? How'd that go?" Patton curled his legs up as he listened to her shuffle around her apartment. He could picture her setting down her razor and pulling on a her pajamas already. A cup of tequila in her hands and Patton thought he could hear her own TV blaring in the background.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to quiet his sniffles but from the sharp intake of breath on the other end it wasn't quiet enough.

"It went- It went- I mean-" His voice wavered.

"Oh Patty," Ana Marie sighed. "You sit your ass down, if Roman hasn't made you do that already and I'll be right over."

He winced, "You don't have to-"

"Nonsense," Ana Marie waved him off, "You know that Ma and Mother would have my head if they ever learned I let you cry your eyes out alone. I'll bring The Sadness Pack(tm). It'll be like that time you thought Roman dumped you, only with Roman being there. God that would have been awkward."

Patton giggled softly, and could practically hear his sister beam at the sound.

"There we go Patty. The world isn't right if I don't have my obnoxious cheery younger brother laughing. I love you. I'll be right over alright?"

"If you're sure-"

Patton didn't get to finish his sentence as Roman tugged the phone out of his hand. Patton blinked at the mug that Roman thrust into his hands instead.

"Early clock?" Roman asked, "What, no that nickname made perfect sense! Ana Marie, A-M! Early morning- fine be that way, see if I save any cookies for you."

Patton set the warm mug on his lap, leaning away from the steam that fogged up his glasses and watched Roman flinch at something Ana Marie said on the other end. "Yeah no it didn't go well at all. I know that says nothing but maybe we're not up for talking about it yet have you thought about that?"

Roman pinched the bridge of his nose, and all Patton could make out was the faint deeper tone of his sister's voice. "Look, you are more than welcome to come over Ana, just- just don't push too much alright?" Roman let out a bitter laugh, "That's us, pair of hypocrites, see you soon."

Roman let out a heavy breath. Patton tried to smile wobbly at him and got a weak grin in return. His husband flopped back onto the couch and curled up into his side. A low whine slipped from the back of Roman's throat as he tugged on Patton's blanket. "You're not going to share?"

Patton raised his arm, letting Roman slip under it and adjust the blanket to his liking. It wasn't much of a distraction but Patton would take it. Would take anything they offered him in times like this, even when he had to struggle not to feel guilty about it.

Once he was comfortable, Roman took a handful of cookies and stacked them on Patton's laugh. Patton sighed. Roman thought that sugar would solve all of Patton's feelings. The memory of the time he had brought an entire basket of pastries home after Patton had flunked a class usually brightened Patton right up. After all, it mean that Roman was thinking of him.

Cookies were better than flowers anyways.

But now all cookies made him think of was the fact that he had told Logan that he was going to bring more and now he couldn't. He poked at the cookies, not really feeling the urge to eat them. If anything his stomach still felt tight and nausea reigned from his upset heart.

Roman pressed in even closer, and Patton wondered if it was for himself or for his comfort. Either way, Patton sighed, leaning to rest his cheek against the top of Roman's scalp. He closed his eyes, and they say that was for he didn't know how long; the two of them curled together again, just taking in the feeling of the other breathing and trying not to let the day get to them too much.

Patton's head shot up as their door creaked open. Roman yelped as Patton threw the blanket off his shoulders and leapt off the couch, and threw himself into Ana Marie's open and waiting arms. The bags she had in her arms dropped to the floor with a light thump, but it didn't nothing to stop her arms from tightening around him.

Patton cracked again as she held him close, one hand wrapped around his waist and the other coming to rest along his neck.

"Oh Patty," she breathed, "It's going to be alright. Tell me all about it, and big sis will solve it for you. I used to box you remember, it'll be Charles all over again. I promise not to get caught this time. And even if I do I'm a lawyer, bitches won't be able to beat me in court. I'd like to see them try."

Patton tried to grin against her shoulder, but it came out feeling fake and strained. She shuffled him back to the couch, gently pushing him back down next to Roman.

"Stay," she commanded them both and went to grab the bags she had dropped.

Patton scrubbed at his red eyes again, wishing that his eyes were the only things that felt rubbed raw. Roman reached out for him, hand tangling with his and Patton wished desperately that he could find a balance between his grief and his love for the people that he did have in front of him.

"Alright losers!" Ana Marie called, sauntering over to the television. "Let's get this Sad Fest started. We're having a no holds barred Feelings Night. Completely with movies guaranteed to make Patty cry. Cookies and ice cream included."

She flicked the television on. Patton snuggled back down into the couch as she started up a movie and turned back with a grin. "But most importantly," she declared, bending down to dig through her bags again. "I have brought!" She held a small stuffed toy up triumphantly.

Patton squeaked at the sight of what was really nothing more than a patchwork blob of green and blue. "Sir Squiggles the Brave!"

"Damm gay," Ana Marie said, tossing the worn stuffie in his direction. Patton caught it and immediately smashed is face in the familiar soft fur. "I thought you'd need him more than I did right now. So I'm passing him back to you again."

She turned and leaned back to fall into the couch cushions. Roman hissed as she took the spot between the two of them and Ana Marie stuck her tongue out in return.

"Thank you," Patton whispered, his voice muffled by the blob he still had his face mashed into.

"Bah," Ana Marie shoved at Roman and wicked at Patton, "What are older siblings for? I'm the only one allowed to make you cry after all. Now sit back and be prepared to cry little bro. We're starting with Marley and Me."

Patton let out a cry of disbelief that was only beaten by the one that Roman howled. Ana Marie threw back her head to cackle, but Patton could feel the way her arm settled around his shoulder to give it a squeeze.

It wasn’t perfect, but Patton let his head lean against her shoulders and tried to pretend that it was.

“Hey Roman?” Patton stared at their ceiling in the dark, counting the rainbow stars that glowed there. Roman’s heavier weight shifted on their bed and Patton curled into the arm over his waist even more. He wanted to sleep; he was exhausted and had expected to fall asleep the moment his head had hit the pillow.

Only one stressed thought circled his head and refused to let him rest.

“Mmhm, yes dearest?” Roman murmured. He nuzzled into Patton’s neck and slipped a leg over Patton’s. The warm pressure of Roman pulling him even closer chased his thoughts away for a brief moment.

“What did Logan’s heart line really say?” Patton whispered.

Roman’s arm spasmed around his waist. Patton felt his heart sink; he tried not to put too much stock into things like palm reading, but his mind had never quite been able to stop his heart. The idea of magic and destiny appealed to them both. It was part of why they had slotted together so well.

The silence stretched on, long enough that Patton began to wonder if maybe Roman had fallen asleep again.

“Broken. It was a broken heart line, Pat,” Roman finally said.

Patton gasped. He turned to look at Roman, but Roman had turned away from him, looking up at the stars. The arm around Patton's waist slipped away, leaving him cold and strangely alone as Roman murmured mostly to himself, "Broken, meaning trauma. I had hoped that-"

His voice caught and Patton reached out for Roman himself. He wrapped an arm around Roman's chest, and brought the other up to run through Roman's hair. Roman trembled silently. They sat there in the dark, Patton clutching Roman's body as if he could hold his husband together through sheer force of will.

Patton took a deep breath.

And wished that things would be better in the morning.

He couldn't get a hold of the group home.

Roman scrubbed a hand through his hair, glaring down at the pile of mail on the table. He would have said they personally offended him if asked. Especially the one on the very top.

God, how was he going to break it to Patton? Roman could barely tear his eyes away from the damned thing, torn between a breathtaking anger, the never ending grief from the past few days, and a disgust in himself that he thought he had finally dealt with. The fancy script taunted him, digging claws into old wounds brought to the surface. He was bleeding out and trying to hide it from Patton.

And failing rather badly if the clinginess they had taken on at night said anything.

Roman wasn't sure what noise slipped from his throat, but it wasn't a pretty one as he snatched the offending paper from their table.

It is our deepest regrets to inform you that we can no longer welcome you on the premise of Happy Hearts and Homes for Orphaned Children...

His fingers trembled, the paper crinkling as he fought not to simply tear it to pieces. Roman was supposed to have been visiting Logan, was supposed to go with Patton today and any hope of that had been neatly smashed against the rocks. His throat closed up. His eyes burned.

Logan- so hesitant to open up- would never know why they didn’t stop by.

God, he wanted to hate the world. To grasp at bitterness again like he had for so long, and let it color his actions a bright brilliant red. He wanted let others feel the pain that he had and-

Roman sucked in a deep breath, setting the paper down. His hand smacked against the table and he winced at the sharp echo through the empty house that it had caused. Energy crackled under his skin, enough that Roman was glad for once that magic wasn't real. He wouldn't want Patton to come home to a destroyed house and one more thing to cry about.

He whirled on his heel without a thought, slamming the door open as he took off. He barely paused to make sure that it was locked behind him. Roman turned down the street and he ran.

His feet pounded down the sidewalk, and Roman spared a moment to wonder if he should have changed into better clothes for this. He normally didn't, at least for runs like this. These weren't for his health, at least not his physical health, or even to keep Dillan off of his back.

No, these were for when he needed to breathe. He ran when he needed to work off anger and grief and devastation and a million other negative emotions that he knew Patton was already struggling with. He wanted to be able to support his husband, and Roman knew that Patton did better if he had someone to lean on.

And Roman hated to be seen as weak.

Patton would never think that of him, but years of life with others thinking and saying different left him with scars. Scars that he had tried to scrub away, mentally and physically, until he bled. Until Patton laid a soft hand on his own and drew him into a soft hug.

God, that only made him think of Logan and the fact that Roman had wanted to help the kid in that way too.

He turned sharply around a corner. The air in his lungs burned already, trying to drag him out of his spiraling thoughts and memories. Every step pounded against his body, vibrating through his bones and climbing all the way to his teeth. They ground together, rattling as he picked up his pace, ignoring the way that his muscles protested the decision.

Patton wanted kids. He had never once shut up about the idea of a family. And god, Roman agreed with his whole heart and soul. He wanted a home and a family and a career he could be proud of and a man he could love with his whole being. No matter what the world said.

Roman had two of four, half way there. A third on the way.

The fourth snatched from his hands, because he had been too much of a fucking coward-

Roman staggered and leaned against the nearest wall, not caring what it was or where he had ended up. His chest heaved and his legs finally gave out underneath him as he curled into a ball to hold back sobs.

No matter how much he tried to tell himself that maybe Patton would be enough, or that there were countless other kids who needed help, he always saw the same thing. Logan's bright hesitant grin as he said his name. Sharp, excited eyes that matched a mouth that went on way too long about any sort of subject.

The truth was this: Roman didn't want to help just any kid anymore. He wanted to help Logan.

He laid his head on his knees, struggling to breathe. God, he was such a mess.

Roman carefully stretched his cramping muscles out. He welcomed the burn in his leg muscles as a distraction, swiping at his face. He could make it through this. He had made it through worse. He still had Patton and Ana Marie. He had a family, even if he didn't have kids.

Roman reached for his toes and winced as his phone rang. He reached for his pocket as the strains of Poor Unfortunate Souls grew even louder.

"Dragon Witch," he greeted, and winced at the gravel in his voice.

"God Princey," Ana Marie said, "You sound like you swallowed a grater. Please tell me you didn't. I don't want to have to track you down and drive you to the ER again. Please, I can't stand the sight of another weird object coming out of your mouth."

"That wasn't my fault," Roman protested.

"Whatever you say!" She said, and Roman could just hear the grin on her face. His hand twitched against his leg and Roman wondered if hauling himself up off the ground to punch his sister-in-law in the face would be to petty. Her voice sobered. "But seriously, are you alright Roman? Do you need me to pick you up?"

"I'm-"

"If you say fine I'm going to drive to your house and swap your favorite set of Disney movies with Star Trek box sets." Roman let out an unholy noise at her threat.

"Don't you touch my babies!" he yelped, finally scrambling to his feet.

"Then don't lie to someone who's job it is to sniff those out," Ana Marie shot back, "Patton texted me something completely unintelligible, where the fuck are you?"

Roman's heart sank and he pressed his free hand to his eyes. "I went on a run," he said quietly. Silence met his words, the kind that weighed down on his chest and made him wish that he had never opened his mouth.

"Oh Roman," she whispered, and something rustled on her end of the phone. "You'd better be back by the time I come over. Big sister is coming to the rescue today. I'm gonna lawyer punch some motherfuckers in the teeth for you."

Roman rolled his eyes. "I doubt that would help."

"Bah, I used to box, you'd be surprised how much a good right hook changes thing," she said.

"I think it would get you thrown out of court," Roman shot back. He stumbled his way back to the house, the grief in his chest lightening at the sound of her laughter. Ana Marie would help them sort through this. They'd fight and scream and protest until Logan was where he was supposed to be.

With them.

#Sanders sides #MTO #Adoption AU #Logan Sanders #Royality #Roman Sanders #Patton Sanders #Child abuse #Homophobia #The Matilda reference intensifies #Look!!#More focus on the Royality #Also like #Guys I really love Ana Marie #My trans daughter I love her <3 #The angst is real guys #angst

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wild-west-wind · 6 years

Text

Hey so below the cut is the beginning of my Western/Fantasy/Mystery story Coyote Draw. It’s a very rough draft, I’m not really trying to edit as I go so it should be readable by grammar/spelling alone (readable content-wise now that’s dubious). Tell me what you think, or tell me that it’s trash. Well, I guess if it’s trash tell me something constructive with it like “Do this better.” That’d be cool. Anon message me if that’s easier.

Synopsis: In this section Gertrude Bell and Elizabeth Cagney are introduced as members of the Hesselius National Detective Agency, a semi-international private detective firm specializing in supernatural cases. Gertrude and Elizabeth have been sent out to Sun Springs, NM to prove a potentially wrongly convicted man innocent of the brutal murder of a surveyor.

Notes: It’s probably pretty bad. The style is very brief and to-the-point and I don’t know if I’m going to stick with that. I’m not sure if it’s to brief or too long for the content that it covers. I think I should describe characters more. It starts with an animal dying. If that bothers you skip to the third sentence.

Anyway, here it is:

A few hours outside of Santa Fe the 8:45 to Springer hit a bison. The impact shook Elizabeth Cagney awake. Her companion on the trip, as in all matters, was still awake. It was too loud to sleep. Gertrude Bell thought it was funny how quick her Elizabeth nodded off. City folk sleep through anything.

Elizabeth grimaced as she stirred. Bags under her eyes betrayed a late night wasted in Santa Fe. She wished she could say it was spent drinking and gambling. It was spent reading. Drinking was a strictly a secondary venture. That is not to say that she had not drink a great deal. Elizabeth scrambled for her coffee. She held the canteen of muddy coffee so tight her knuckles went white. She whispered a bit, her eyes closed tight. The canteen popped and fizzled as it got hot. She offered it to Gertrude first.

Gertrude almost smiled. “I’m fine, I ‘spect you need that more than I do.”

Gertrude was right. Elizabeth threw back the canteen. Her face was red with pain, but she brightened up instantly. Gertrude appreciated the routine. Elizabeth always offered, she always refused. Elizabeth was always flushed. Always smiled.

“So how far out are we?” Elizabeth asked. She shook the residual heat out of her hands.

“About 3 hours,” Gertrude guessed. Her watch stopped working after a sand storm in Barstow. “We get off in Springer, then we ride the rest of the way.”

The Hesselius National Detective Agency gave them an advance to pay the thirty-one dollar train fare. They did not offer to pay 25 for a pack horse. They didn’t offer a ticket to ship Gertrude’s horse either. Gertrude never thought to ask for it.

Out in the desert flowers were blooming. Word was there was a big storm a few months back flooded most of the southern Rockies. As the train shot by there were explosions and gold and pink cactus flowers. The effervescent yellow of agave and ragleaf. A spatter of lilac Elizabeth said could have been columbine. Without much prompting she could rattle off every possible name and use for every one of those flowers. Every spell they were good for. It came with the territory. Gertrude mostly knew which ones you could eat, which ones could make a person sick, and which ones could kill a horse.

On a rainy January morning Elizabeth and Gertrude got a letter from the Hesselius National Detective Agency. The two of them had been Hessians in variously official capacities since the war. Usually they would take jobs off the board in their home office. Gertrude didn’t want to hear the message. She took the paper and sent the messenger away. She held it tight in her hand, crushing the paper and cracking the small wax seal on the back. Elizabeth had to read the letter for her. They had been called in. The Director wanted to see them personally.

“Aw hell,” Gertrude spat, “We walked headlong into this one Lizzie.” Her lip trembled, but her hands were dead still.

Elizabeth rested a hand on Gertrude’s shoulder. She brushed a lock of hair from her brow. “We’re not on the outs Gert,” Elizabeth spoke to Gertrude like a child. “It might be a job. May be a promotion.” Gertrude threw herself into her old rocking chair. The floor creaked loud.

“Listen Gertie,” Gertrude looked away. Elizabeth stepped in front of her and forced her head up. “Listen, if we get fired, we can just banish him. That old boggle won’t know what hit him. Hell, we’ll be on the outs but we might get a medal for the trouble.”

Gertrude coughed up a dry laugh. “Okay, but it better be a big medal.”

“Of course.”

“Gold.”

“I should expect nothing less.”

Elizabeth helped Gertrude dawn a white bodice and her hound’s-tooth riding jacket. Gertrude tossed Elizabeth her waxed canvas cape from the coat rack. They set out into the rain.

Cole Boggs was a squat, broad man. As a boy some poor soul must have asked him to speak up. He chose to head that advice literally, and has not spoken in less than a bellow since. For 15 years he had been the director of the American branch of the Hesselius National Detective Agency. He despised those under his employ that called themselves “Hessians,” and so almost all did.

Boggs’ office was littered with what might charitably be called mementos. On the wall behind him, between two bay windows, was a rack containing four medieval swords. Every wall was lined with mismatched glass-doored curios. Each was full of old books, tarnished jewelry, carved cubes and spheres with various arcane writings. A suit of rusted Viennese armor stood sentry over two seven foot tall safes in the opposite corner of the room. Save for three chairs and a path from the door, every horizontal surface of the office was covered with superficially valuable trash.

“Ladies?” He roared over a newspaper written in indecipherable script, “Do come in, I need just a moment to finish up here.”

Elizabeth and Gertrude stepped inside, and sat down in adjacent leather chairs. Their arms were worn through by hundreds of elbows. The leather was dry and cracking. They may have been the second oldest thing in the room.

After a moment’s pause, and without looking up, Boggs began to speak; “I presume you know why I’ve asked you to come in here.”

Gertrude’s face flushed. Elizabeth reached over and grabbed her hand.

“Now, you’re aware that our last client was less than pleased with your performance—“

“Sir allow me t’explain I—“ Gertrude tried to interject.

“Ms. Bell, please allow me to finish as I think you will be pleased by what I have to say,” Boggs filled his mammoth lungs, “but you were right. Entirely correct. Mr. Lux was indeed stealing from the town’s till, and he was indeed conspiring to use that money for nefarious purposes, though the authorities are not yet sure what those were.”

Gertrude slouched as much a whalebone corset would allow. Boggs continued; “While we were certainly not hired to have our client imprisoned, you’ve brought a spattering of good press for the agency.”

Cole Boggs finally lowered his newspaper. “We have a client in New Mexico. He has asked for you two specifically. He believes a man was wrongly accused of murder in Sun Springs. Charming little town. He’d like you to go out and prove him right.”

“Who—“ before Elizabeth could inhale Boggs barked, “Who is none of your business.”

“—Is the suspect?” Elizabeth finished. Her crystal blue eyes found Boggs’. A ripple coursed down his body, and for a brief moment something closer to his true form was visible.

“Of course. Yes. The suspect. The accused is a Mr. Balthazar Farkas. A lycanthrope. The evidence is quite damning. A surveyor by the name of Oramel Hawkins was working near Farkas’ home. He was slaughtered and dismembered early in the morning. A local magician, Grant Heston, saw the dismemberment. A local deputy found blood-soaked rags in Mr. Farkas’ cabin. Farkas has been in trouble with the law before: in ’67 he killed a Shiner who had a bounty for his hide, in broad daylight. The folks in Sun Springs remember that well. It’s a quiet town.”

“So he did it?” Elizabeth asked, sensing that Boggs was done.

“It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it.”

Elizabeth winced. “So, are we to try and get a guilty man freed from facing justice then?”

Boggs hummed, “No, I wouldn’t say that. He may not be guilty. It may be a case of mistaken identity. The murder wasn’t observed, focus on that.”

Gertrude, taking care to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room, mused, “Out in the country like that you see what you expect to see. If you’re scared of the werewolf down the way, you’ll see him when you may’ve seen a coyote or a damned cactus,” She glanced at Elizabeth. “Plenty of ways you could choose to see something when you’re looking right at another.”

Elizabeth laughed. Boggs didn’t get it.

To call Springer a town would be an overstatement verging on an outright lie. Most of the 320 acres called Springer on a map were farms. Right around the banks of the Cimarron River were a few buildings. Most of them were liable to get washed away if the river got any nearer to its banks. There were two general stores, a livery, a spattering of houses, a warehouse, and a tavern. The tavern must have been built old because no one lived here 7 years ago. Every month the trail was passable a wagon train full of copper would come in from Sun Springs. All spring and summer folks would drive their cattle and sheep out of the hills for sale.

#coyote draw #wip #for real though #it's pretty bad #it needs a lot of work #also posting this makes me really nervous #even though I know no one will read it

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[HR] A Wholly Superior Creature - Part IV: The God

Part IV: The God

We rolled out of Roger's neck of the woods and I set the wheels back toward the center of the city. My heart was in my throat and I wasn't sure why. I needed to get my mind off Roger and what he'd done.

"So what got you kicked out of the fold, Padre?"

I didn't actually expect him to answer, but he opened right up.

"The Church made the same damn mistake they've been making since the Christianity first got started," he said.

"What's that?"

"They forced a priest to decide between doing right, or being orthodox.."

"Didn't go over well, I take it."

"It's my happiest sin, the one that got me excommunicated."

I had to know. "You officiate a gay wedding or something?"

"I performed an unsanctioned exorcism on an unbaptized child despite receiving direct orders from the Vatican not to do so."

"Shit," I said.

He nodded. "Indeed."

"So you pulled a demon out of a little kid," the words sounded just as stupid coming out of my mouth.

"I did."

"So that's what you do. That's what you're in a rush to get to Chicago over, right? Some true believer has problems with the supernatural and you take a flight, smash the problem like King Kong, then head back to the city for a fresh cup of Joe and some esoteric reading."

I could see out of my peripheral vision that he was just staring ahead, his bone pale skin flashing like a ghost haunting the passing street lamps on Ellison Street.

"If I owned my own life," he said grimly. "I'd probably choose another line of work--but I don't, so here I am." He turned his head to look at me, I was pretty sure that he was done with my flippant probing. "It has to be hard hearing what Roger had to say about what he did with the Mueller case."

"If you're trying to turn this car into a confessional, Father, I can go ahead and pump those brakes for you." He had opened up about his professional tragedies, that didn't mean I had to do the same. "I can't blame Roger for what he did. I won't. Can't say I'd have made the same decision, hell, I'd like to think that I would have stuck it out."

"Isn't that what we're about to do, Detective?"

I gave my eyebrows an elevator ride. "Maybe we hear something, maybe we don't. Maybe we find these Faceless Children or maybe we come out of the sewer in a few hours smelling like shit, holding nothing but our dicks in our hand. Either way, I intend to find some answers."

"If you're so matter of fact about all this, Sam, if you're so calm about it, do you want to tell me why your knuckles are white around the wheel?"

He was right, I was on edge. I had a hold on the wheel like it had taken my lunch money in the fifth grade. I eased up. "My dad wasn't a religious man, but there was a kind of genuineness to him that I never really appreciated until after he was gone. He used to say, 'Son, the only thing that matters in this life are the promises we keep to the people we love.' That stuck with me and hearing Roger tonight reminded me of it."

Father Daniel nodded. "You think he was keeping a promise to Carol."

"I do," I said, as I wheeled the car to the curb of the intersection of Bass and Ellison. "I also think he broke a promise to the people he swore to protect."

"That's a tall ladder of piety to climb for any person, Sam."

I shifted the car into park and looked at him. "Well, Dan, it's hard to deal with the fact that my mentor, the man who helped shape everything about who I am as a police officer, allowed a couple of spooky echoes to convince him to destroy evidence and give up on a case that, if he'd solved it, might mean that Courtney Davidson would be at home tonight with her family instead of being prepared for a closed casket funeral."

His hands were folded in his lap as he regarded me. "You're angry with him."

"Goddamn right I am."

"OK. Are you going to forgive him for loving his wife more than he loved his oath?"

I don't think I've ever rolled my eyes so hard as I did then. "You're so full of it."

"You love Roger. If you didn't you wouldn't be this mad. Forgiveness is love in action. Roger rightly deserves your forgiveness, just like you have every right to be angry with his failure."

I'm not much for yelling, but this Sunday school bullshit was getting on my nerves. "I didn't ask for your counsel, Dan. I'm not a Christian and you sure as hell aren't my priest."

The way his mouth turned to a frown showed me that I'd found one of the ways to wound him. He said. "Of course I am."

I shook my head in frustration. "Jesus Christ," I said on purpose. "Can we please just go into the sewer and look for these Molech-worshiping dickheads?"

I got out, popped my trunk and grabbed two flashlights and my shotgun. I handed the priest a flashlight and nodded my head to the open trunk. "There's a crowbar in there for the manhole. Seeing as I'm sure you've taken a vow of not shooting people I figure you can use it in case the Faceless Children don't respond to a sermon."

Father Daniel proved stronger than he looked by the way he popped the top on the manhole with no more effort than cracking open a beer bottle. The damp, earthy smell hit me like a kick in the balls. I swallowed the lump in my throat and descended the iron rungs and splashed down into the ankle deep water. The priest followed suit and we both clicked on our flashlights, the beams punched shafts into the voided depths as the sound of rolling traffic bustled overhead.

I attached my flashlight to the barrel of my shotgun and pointed the killing end toward the darkness. My nose adjusted better than my eyes could as both the priest and I kept quiet, listening for the whispers that Roger was so sure we'd hear.

Roger was right. They found us.

They were more than a sound though, the noise of voices weren't so much audible in my ears as they were bouncing around in my skull. The words made no sense, a rolling jumble of noises that wore the trappings of language. Harsh consonants, like the snapping furious jaws, pounded into long vowel sounds. Before I felt my hands begin to shake, I noticed that my light was trembling in the open chasm.

Father Daniel put a hand on my shoulder, his offset eyes looking huge and owlish in the glow bleeding off his flashlight. The look of fear on his face set new wrinkles on his skin I hadn't seen before. This was not a man to be put off by such things, but he was.

It did not inspire me with confidence.

"I have no knowledge of what I'm hearing, Sam."

I grit my teeth, thinking that this grating noise was likely the last thing that Courtney Davidson ever heard. My mind's eye took me back to her crime scene and the violation made so clear in the afternoon sun.

"Let's go," I said, as we sloshed through the tepid waters in that maze of sewage and concrete. We carefully navigated to places where the voices grew in intensity and turned back from where their potency began to dwindle. Harsher and louder the voices rolled from chants into dissonant choruses that drowned out our ingress through the black water.

Our flashlights bloomed wide against something that didn't match the concave grayness of the concrete tunnel.

We stopped dead in our tracks.

My mouth fell open.

Where once had been a dead-end was a flat, rusted door that had been set in the wall like the face of a furnace. Etched in thick, crude lines was the outline of some kind of creature I'd never seen before.

I looked at Father Daniel.

He looked at me and nodded his head in confirmation of what I thought we were looking at.

I found myself so overwhelmed by the chorus burning against my brain that I found I couldn't speak for fear that I might join in the dark hymn. I turned to the priest and flicked my chin at the lever handle jutting from the door.

The door gave way with surprising ease, swinging open on heavy hinges bolted into the wall. With the doorway open, the chorus became more noise than voices, like a rolling blast of thunderclaps hammering away at my conscious mind.

Courtney Davidson's corpse flashed in my vision. The ruined flesh, the desolation of her humanity, gave me rage that pushed me through the doorway.

It was a small room and a brief inspection revealed a latched door cut into the floor. The priest reached down and pulled, the door came up a few inches, but proved too heavy for one man.

I set my shotgun aside and when he lifted again, I set my fingers underneath the cool metal as we wrenched the door open wide.

I picked up my shotgun. The flashlight lanced over Father Daniel's face to reveal a crimson pair of lines dripping from his nose. I gestured my hand across my nose to reveal the nosebleed to him, only to find that my own fingers smeared blood across my lips.

The malicious chants, oppressive now, chewed into my thoughts. I was struggling to concentrate, my heart was pounding like I was sprinting in a race I couldn't see or understand.

I shook my head, trying to throw the voices from my mind as blood from my nose slashed against my cheek. I blew out of my nostrils hard, and aimed my flashlight down into the open throat of the aperture. Where I expected to see another ladder I found a set of old stone steps that curled out of sight. A dusky, yellow light flickered in stark contrast of my own against a dark, brick wall glistening with condensation.

We made our way slowly down the steps, following the bend for several impossibly long minutes. The raging blast of abhorrent voices were so loud now that the edge of my vision began to blur. I turned back to look at Father Daniel. His face was ashen with fear. He slid the crowbar into the handles of his medical bag, and the glow of his flashlight showed a trickle of blood flowing from his ear running down his neck, staining the white collar scarlet.

The end of the steps opened like a mouth, a huge archway that gaped impossibly wide at us.

I didn't need my flashlight to see the darkly stained altar or the robed figures surrounding it—the ensconced torches gave me more light than I wanted. There were four of them standing there. Just behind them I could see two pale legs hanging over the edge of the stone lip. Set behind the altar was a huge, glowering statue; a massive bull with a giant ring of yellow metal looped among the hollows of a great iron nose. Its hands were upraised, palms facing us like the countless criminals I'd frozen in command as a beat cop. The stony skin was slathered in a crimson wash. Dozens of hollow mouths and eyes hung open, pinned to the statue's bulk in silent screams. This was a place of horror, a temple of constant slaughter where the titan god of insane men wore the skinned faces of the innocent.

I opened my mouth to let the butchers in this hellish tabernacle know what time it was. I barked an order I'd given a hundred times before, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was a hacking splatter.

I must have made some kind of noise, because one of the robed figures turned around to show us the featureless mask he wore and the crude knife he clutched in a bloody glove. He pointed at me.

The shotgun bucked in my hands.

The slug took the surprised cultist in the stomach, punching a hole in him the size of a baseball. Blood splashed against the stone altar behind him.

I went to rack another shell but the pump stalled on me, jamming the cartridge in the ejector like an old man chewing a cigar. I looked up only to find one of the cultists coming at me with murder in his eyes and a curved knife in his hands. I grabbed my shotgun by the warm barrel and swung the stock in a hard, flat arc that caught the cultist in the face. The mask he wore shattered like a fumbled dinner plate. I looked up thinking I'd see the last two cultist rushing me and the priest to finish our little reenactment of Bunker Hill.

The last two figures were still at the altar.

They were still carving into the body.

I pulled my revolver from inside my coat and fired the only warning shot I was willing to give that day, and they were lucky to get that. "Freeze, motherfuckers. Put your hands in the air, then, slowly, get those dicks in the dirt!"

"That is impossible." A woman's voice came from the taller of the two remaining cultists. She turned and slipped the featureless mask from her face. The hood of the robe fell back, her auburn hair shimmered in the torchlight. Whatever might have been her face was now a ruin of dark scars and pale flesh.

"Get on the ground. Now!" I could hear my voice again, the whispers were gone.

"We are subjects of the horned one, Police Man," she said, somehow making the title feel like the most insignificant position in the world. "Now is the moment of waking," she said, turning back to the limp form prostrated on the table. "With this," A quiet slurping sound whispered through the room. "We conjure." She pointed the skinned face at me, the flesh dangling in the open air like stretched out baking dough.

My guts rolled over and I swallowed what flowed up into my throat. "Goddamnit! Don't make me shoot you, lady. Now step away-"

She turned away from me as if I were a child throwing a sulking fit, the complete disregard for the gun I pointed at her sent a chill down my spine. I commanded her again, but she only kept walking toward the titan bull. The other cultist followed her, a crude stone hammer and long iron nail in their hand.

The cultist I smashed with the shotgun started to moan and open his eyes. I kicked him in the head and sent him back to La-La Land.

I looked over at Father Daniel, who up to this point had been absolutely shit at helping get control of the situation. He was kneeling on the ground, his hands buried deep in the medicine bag.

"The fuck are you doing in that bag? Help me out here." I said.

"Are you going to shoot that woman before she finishes the ritual?" His words came fast, his hands worked faster.

"No," I said.

"Then I need what's in the bag."

He pulled a purple stole, each end marked with a golden cross, wrapped it around his neck and reached back in the bag only to produce a large coffee canister in one hand and a crucifix in the other.

"You've got to be fucking shitting me, Dan. What the—"

The unmasked woman had turned and given a harrowing shriek. She was staring at Father Daniel.

"Curse you, Haruspex," she screamed. "Your god has no claim down here among the blood and suffering of the horned one! Moloch does not bow before lesser creatures!"

An unnatural wind, hot and fetid, sprayed out like two smoking jets from the statue. The steamy fog billowed through the room, snuffing out the torchlight faster than clicking off a light. Blackness dark as tar cloaked everything. I spun, looking all around for my flashlight.

It was next to the shotgun on the ground. Before I could reach for it I heard a peal of a bell, a great ringing. It was a strange sound, an old sound, and it threatened to cut the courage out of me forever. Following the hollow boom of what I assumed was the hammer strike, I heard the sound of a great animal breathing. A low rumbling noise that echoed from the depth of that dark temple all the way to the sewer above us. I do not know why, but such a terror came over me that I fell to my knees and pressed the flat of my palms into my ears. My gun flew from my hands in the effort, the darkness swallowing it whole.

There came a horrible grunt, a rush of wind, a woman's scream. Then I heard what sounded like a great sheet tearing and a rush of liquid splattering on the stony floor. Unnaturally loud crunches were followed by what sounded like the grinding of stones.

My flashlight illuminated the shattered face of the man at my knees, and as all went eerily quiet save for the angry, mammoth breathing.

I reached down and gripped my flashlight. I was shaking with such ferocity that my teeth chattered in my head. The beam jerked in my hands, cresting over the bloody altar and the slender arm hanging over the edge. When the light reached the top of the altar I saw a cloven hand, the two dark nails sparkling like obsidian. Unable to stop my primate brain from the rest of the discovery, the beam of my light flashed across an inhuman face. The huge iris of the menacing bull contracted.

From somewhere in the dark came the voice of the Priest. I turned to see his own flashlight burst into the void where what I once thought was a statue had now become a living, breathing entity of unbelievable oppression. The sheer weight of its presence invaded my faculties and cracked the foundation of all bravery I'd ever learned from being on the force.

I was helpless.

I wanted to scream.

But instead I listened to the voice of Father Daniel who spoke in a harsh, racking chant that created a kind of dark light around him. The canister was clutched in his hands and he held the crucifix high above his head. Wherever the dark light of the priest touched it pushed back against the cloak of shadow that radiated from the bull.

Louder and louder Father Daniel cried. With manic eyes of blue and green he pounded the deity with commands I somehow knew were never meant to be uttered by human lips.

Suddenly he spoke in English. "Sam! You must approach and remove the flesh nailed to him! It allows him to connect to the mortal plane!"

Insanity flooded over my mind, and before I could tell my muscles to move I had taken three massive lungfuls of air and was running into the darkness armed with only a flashlight and a priestly command. The bouncing beam of the flashlight showed my advance on the massive bull, and when I reached him, I grabbed one of the long-dead faces. The flesh squished between my fingers and I yanked hard.

Over the cacophony of Father Daniel's incantation I groped and pulled and jerked nail and flesh, Moloch's bellows threatened to shatter the walls that had stood in this dark place for a hundred years or more. I took hold of the last face I could see, and I went to rip it free and save us from this living nightmare.

Suddenly, a devastating sense of pressure bent me at the waist. A flash of pain lanced through my back and I was lifted high into the air. Hooting cries of abysmal pain followed me as I felt myself floating above the darkness, the innocent body atop the stone altar, and then down into the stone floor below.

Laying there, I touched my stomach. Though I could not see anything, I felt the gaping hole that I guessed had come from a swipe of the Babylonian god's horns. The cold from the ground seemed to seep into my feet, my legs, my bones. Breathing was soon a chore as well.

Blinking and blinking, awaiting the final closing of my eyes, I was startled by an explosion of light.

"Sam, oh Christ, Sam."

"Is it--"

"Without you, it would have been impossible, Sam. You did it," he said, a lips began to tremble. "You did it."

"It's so dark down here," I said. The heat was pouring out of me now, like a busted drainpipe. "so cold. Father," I spit the words. "Father, listen to me, would you?"

"Would you like to make your confession to holy God, Sam?"

I shook my head lazily. "No, Father. I want you reach into my jacket pocket."

He did, and he found what was there.

"Open it and read the inside," a deeper darkness than I have ever known began to edge in on my vision, something more palpable than mere absence of light.

"A man delights when he does what he was built to do," Father Daniel said, his voice quavering.

"Take it with you to Chicago," I said. The priest said something and kissed my brow.

I smiled. "Take it with you everywhere."

The End

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writethatrhythm · 5 years

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hmm

Phoenix is a shitty town. Far from the gleaming city of my youth, the grit and grime of the West has overtaken much of the commonwealth. Scorch marks mar the skyscrapers still standing, though most of the windows are blown out and shattered. A hot wind whistles through the skeletal remains of the city splayed out in front of me.

Somehow it feels more like home now than it ever did before.

“I can’t believe you’re gonna be in this shithole for three whole days,” the voice on the comm crackles through a burst of static, “there’s probably not even a decent bar here.” A flicker of annoyance burns in my chest. I smother it with ruthless precision. This place isn’t my home anymore, regardless of any familiarity pulsing through my veins.

“It’s a good thing I’m not here to drink, then,” I whisper back. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me, Lu? This seems like your kind of place.” She splutters indignantly in my ear.

This shithole is the crown jewel of the outlands. Made up of several small towns and camps strewn across the Sonoran desert, the city draws all types to its sun-soaked vistas. Mostly those who live outside of the law, smugglers and outlaws, gunslingers and gangsters. The black market flourishes here, beneath the unforgiving sun. Most of the more illegal contraband passes through Phoenix before dispersing throughout the West. From what I’ve heard, business is better than ever.

Forty miles to the west is the Stronghold. Started by some rich oil tycoon before the War, the Stronghold is home to the real criminals of the outlands. Rich retirees flocked to the Stronghold when their own cities were ravaged by death and suffering during the omnic crisis. They sit behind their walls in their fancy houses and hoard money and power. Their little paradise in the West keeps them from thinking about the people they abandoned to save their skins and their profits. A place like that breeds cowardice and corruption, and the Stronghold is no exception.

Lucky for me, it’s also our new job site.

“Alright cowboy,” her laugh comes through choppy, uneven, “I won’t talk shit about your town anymore. But promise you won’t miss our meet, yeah? Can’t have you getting distracted by all the pretty guns and fucking up our job.” I laugh in spite of myself. If everything goes according to plan, it won’t be the guns distracting me.

“I’ll be there, Lucky. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“No promises.” The comm channel slides into static, then fades to nothing. No doubt Lu is hurrying towards Stronghold already, in search of a strong drink and a decent ac unit. I squint against the sunlight that reflects off of chrome and steel. It’s the smart thing to do. The thought sends a nervous spark skittering down my hand and I pause to crack a knuckle. It gives with a satisfying pop, and I exhale anxiously with it. I’m too close now to turn back. I have to see this through.

I won't be able to forgive myself if I don't.

The city is ghostly as I walk through it. Hard-packed gravel crunches under each step I take through the steel graveyard. Enormous skyscrapers stretch high above me. If I crane my neck and squint, I can just barely make out the top of them. Even tilted and rusted as they are, they are a sight to behold. The original city fell in the omnic crisis, supposedly. I never saw it as it was meant to be seen, towers stretching towards the sky. We lived outside of the city, where the damage wasn’t was bad. Sneaking into the city ruins was expressly forbidden. Even if I had gotten the chance to see the city, it would have already been desolate. The war may have ended when I was a toddler, but people were still feeling the effects.

The camp doesn’t come into view until I’m standing in the shadow cast by the very last skyscraper. The sun glares down from a gloriously blue sky, casting shimmers against the sand that stretches to the horizon. Three tents, dark brown smudges against a drab tan landscape. If I squint I can almost see their canvas rippling in the distance. My heart stops in my throat. All I have to do is close the distance between us, and everything will be fine again.

At the base of the building, I carefully remove the comms system from my ear and bury it. Geotagging it does little to soothe the sharp rush of fear that pulses through me. Leaving the little device behind means severing my last contact with Lu and the handlers. It means for the first time in seven years, I am well and truly alone. The weight of the rifle strapped to my back is comforting, at least. It presses against my shoulders and I take a deep breath. Now is not the time to give in to fits of nerves.

I hesitate as I turn to leave. Maybe I should take it with me, just in case. Lu would tell me to take it, would expect me to call if something goes wrong. But she doesn’t know the full story. She’d eviscerate me herself if she knew my true motives for coming here. And besides, criminals don’t appreciate wired marksmen storming onto their property. I kick some sand over the spot where I buried the comms and glare at it. Then I take a deep breath and step into the sun.

By the time I reach the little campsite, my back is slick with sweat. The tent itself is a dark brown canvas, almost black. In front of it is a wide space before the camp fire. Two heavy crates sit off to the side. They look almost like a reception desk. It’s silly but I step toward them and wait. Just for a moment. If someone comes, great. If not, well, then no one needs to know about this.

The first crate nearly comes up to my waist. It’s thick green metal is dented and scored, signs of a rough passage. Most likely contraband originally, though what needs a crate so big to transport is beyond me. I catch the sharp edges of the Talon logo on the second crate. I blink at it, intrigued by the recognition. But then I turn away and see it.

The tent sits not two feet away from me. A shiver runs through me as I stare at it. A thick metal stake driven into the ground keeps the entrance uncovered. I catch flashes of plush red beyond the opening, before an angular figure steps into my view. I shuffle a half-step backwards.

“Alright, hand the weapons over,” the guard points an ancient revolver in my direction. Greasy black bangs hang limply over his forehead. Lord only knows how he can see through them to aim. I glance at the gun aimed at me; it doesn’t move. Shit.

“Look,” I say, already unslinging my rifle from its place on my back, “I was recommended by my employer to find another rifle here.” I grip it loosely to show I’m harmless. Technically it isn’t true; I could kill this man in six different ways without my rifle if I wanted to. If I weren’t so off-kilter. Just holding the weapon away from my person has tremors skittering through my body. The guard looks unimpressed, understandably. I had hoped being vague would be enough to let me skate right past the gates. I tap the stock with a finger to grab his attention. “Does this help? I’m really just looking to shop.”

He goes white when he sees it. They all do. A small logo engraved into the metal that marks me one of the most dangerous people on the globe. Only six of us have one, but officially, none of us exist. When he looks back at me I try a smile. He grips his weapon. For a moment he stares, like he could pull the trigger and be rid of me, but it passes. He spits off to the side and glares at me. Silence stretches between us, thick, stifling, before he holsters his gun. I sling my rifle back over my shoulder and let it settle there.

“I’m not the salesman,” he says finally, “that’d be the boss.” A bolt of energy shoots through my core. This is almost too easy. I’ll be on my way to meet Lu in no time. Maybe even get to her early. The guy says something else, but I’m too busy thinking about Lu to pay attention. Her laugh, her smile, her beautiful brown eyes. The way she shudders, from head to toe, when I finally crack, finally start begging. My mouth goes dry at the images running through my head.

#hale writes #ya this is self insert fic what do you want

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