I DON'T WANT TO BE THIS KIND OF ANIMAL ANYMORE.

A Burning Saint on Empty Skies (aka Nadeem for @camillathe6th yay🧡)

You could say Angler has me hooked 👈(❛ ᗜ ❛👈)

Disclaimer: Malin Rydén's freaks inspired me to write this. Context: It's FINALLY divorce time, BABY!! Two years after Retribution, Romare (still mostly incognito as a villain) is invited to wine and dine for Thankgsgiving at Ortega's, though they're definitely not dating Herald anymore. I'm sure this won't sour the evening. Post break-up psychic damage and political freak-outs ensue. What to expect: This time around everyone is here (Julia, Argent, Steel, Sentinel included), and most of them are of course huge dickheads. This is a chunky piece, if you read this through you are my personal hero and I appreciate you very much.

2023. November. (ROM)

You lean on the guardrail. You take a gulp. Your mouth burns. Your mouth burns, and it’s good. It’s good. What else—tell me, what else burns? Not you. Maybe you. Not this, though. Not enough. Not enough yet. Everything should burn. Everything should burn.

Below, the city dances with lights through the violet smog.

“I fucking hate Thanksgiving,” you reply in English, holding the flask out; she takes it. She takes it, and her shoulder is warm against your shoulder, and when she laughs you feel your face itch around an answering smile.

“¿Qué es lo que no odias, mi vida?”

 “A ti,” you shoulder back.

“Aw…” she croons around an easy swig. “Did I hear that right? You love me? You love me. You said it.”

“I definitely didn’t. Sounds like the next step is hearing aids, old woman.”

Look at you go. You almost sound convincing, acting like you don’t know about her augments. Acting like nothing has changed. Acting like she can still pull your hair, flick your ear, still dodge your slap, still make you laugh, still squeeze you close.

“I love you too.”

You push her back. You look away. No—you close your eyes. In the metal of the flask, her grin was still shining.

“Yeah?” you mutter. “But not enough to celebrate with me alone.”

You’re being an asshole; you’re the odd one out, not the other way around, you know that. But this isn’t a good night, and the scab looks good enough to scRatch.

“Thanksgiving is about friends. I don’t make the rules.”

You roll your eyes.

“That’s not what Thanksgiving is about…”

“Okay, Rom. Spare me the polit—”

“And they’re barely your friends.”

That does shock her out of teasing.

“Of course they are. And your friends too.”

“Sure,” you snort. “Chen is my friend, Yuli. Never mind that he probably learned to dance the jig just so he can celebrate properly when I finally decide to smash myself on the pavement again—”

“Don’t.”

Around your nape, the hand has gone hard, and tense, and crackling. Electricity buzzes up your skull, a soft current, a nail raking on your scalp.

“Don’t joke about that. You’re not funny.”

First batch of VGen commissions 🙏

Randy Ortiz, “Battles”