mon𖦹

Toji went back to the hollow apartment in the days that followed.

Jack Daniel’s proved to be his only dinner.

The week crawled toward Saturday. Fushigoru had been itching to talk to Reina, but didn’t know how. Didn’t have her number. Didn’t even know if she owned a cell phone. Half of him wanted to show up at her apartment—and then say what, exactly?

So he did what men like him did best. Bought things.

He walked into Ralph Lauren, looked at a jacket he guessed Reina might like, and tucked it under his arm as he made his way back to the car and into Olvera Street.

The courtyard seemed to exist in a perpetual loop—kids playing, shouting, arguing over nothing. The scene hadn’t changed much since his visit the week before, except the asphalt had cooked off and the streetlights flickered like they were tired of their job.

He parked along the curb and crossed toward the courtyard.

“Hey, kid,” he muttered from behind the checkered boundary.

His voice turned a few heads. Some kids scrambled. Olvera wasn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood where strange men called out to children. He had worked this area before—hit-and-runs, dope, bodies that stayed unnamed. The works.

One kid peeled off from the group and walked over.

“What’s up?”

Toji crouched so they were eye level.

“You know where Reina lives?”

The kid frowned.

“Man, we got like five Reina livin’ here. Which one you lookin’ for?”

Toji bit a curse under his breath. Fuck. He didn’t even know her last name.

“Uh— she uhh writes?” he said.

The kid rolled his eyes.

“Wears glasses?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

The kid pointed toward the third floor.

“34C.”

Fushigoru nodded and jogged up the stairs.

The building wasn’t exactly dirty. It wasn’t clean either. It existed in that in-between space—grime worn smooth by time. The staircase twisted upward, narrow and endless. No windows. The overhead light flickered like it might give up any second.

By the time he reached the third floor, his chest felt tight for reasons that had nothing to do with the climb.

The hallway smelled faintly of cigarettes and old cooking oil. Green paint peeled off the walls in tired strips. The switch beside her doorframe was busted clean through.

34C.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

“JESUS, I’M COMING.”

Fushigoru shifted his weight. The door opened with a reluctant groan.

Reina stood there, squinting. The knot at the back of her head was doing its best to be a bun and failing. Her pupils were blown wide. A threadbare Guns N’ Rosees shirt hung off her shoulders, swallowing her frame, shorts barely visible beneath it.

Recognition set in. A grin tugged at her mouth.

“Hey, jackie chan,” she drawled. “Got a bounty on me or some shit?”

Toji smiled despite himself. Her vowels slid into each other, her tone softened by whatever she’d taken.

“You forgot something at my place,” he said.

Her brows lifted. He handed her the jacket, folded neatly. She stared at it like it might bite.

“Huh?” She turned it over, fingers testing the leather. Then she laughed—short, incredulous.

“Ah, nah, man. This ain’t mine. Too costly. Can’t afford this shit. Probably some other chick’s.”

She handed it back.

His jaw tightened.

“You can have it—”

She froze, staring at him like he’d grown another head.

“Nah, man. I ain’t taking some chick’s jacket. That’s weird-ass voodoo shit. Bad luck.”

“You can keep it,” he said.

“Girl, what?”

Toji sighed, already feeling the headache bloom.

“I’m giving it to you.”

She opened her mouth to argue—then really looked at him. Something clicked.

“Oh,” she said. Then, quieter, amused. “Ohhh. Oh, man. You’re flirting with me.”

A beat.

“Oh shit. It’s a gift.”

She took the jacket.

“I’m a little high,” she added, almost apologetic.

He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She rubbed at her face. “You gonna snitch me for substance use or some shit?”

He chuckled.

“Not yet.”

Reina glanced back into her apartment, then down at the jacket in her hands. She exhaled.

“You, uh…” She hesitated, then shrugged. “You wanna come in?”

—fin

this is part II of my series hold up hollywood, go and read the first one<3 (next part coming soon)

hope ya'll liked this one, all notes appreciated T—T

stuntsman!toji | SFW | JJK!actor AU

Keiko had left. Taken Megumi and moved to New York. Apparently, that was supposed to help—at least, that’s what the therapist said.

Move. Away. From everything. Start a new life.

She’d left the post-modernist condo to him. Of course she did. Casually cruel.

Toji had met Reina at a bar. Very romantic. She looked bored; he looked lonely and horny. He bought her a drink, pretended to be interested in her insights on the world economy, and brought her home. Fucked her. The usual.

With men, the questions come after the sex.

Reina was still buried under the duvet, snoring softly, when Toji passed her. He bathed, clothed, and combed his hair in the vanity mirror. The man staring back at him looked older in the morning light—creases at the corners of the eyes, jaw set like it had something to prove.

She finally stirred awake, stretching as she pulled his shirt over her head. She yawned, blinking at the room like it was mildly offensive.

“Good morning,” she muttered, hair sticking up in odd directions, the duvet pooled around her waist.

“Mhm. Morning,” Toji said, watching her. She slumped back into the pillows with a groan.

“Fuck. Where are my glasses?”

“Here.” He handed them over.

“Ah. Thanks.”

Reina dressed with surprising efficiency—no fumbling, no performative modesty. Like she’d done this before. Toji hovered by the doorframe, trying to figure out how to phrase the this was just a hookup speech without sounding like a prick.

She beat him to it.

“Yeah, so…” she said, tugging on her boots, “you probably won’t see me after this.” She chuckled, awkward but unbothered. Toji let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Oh. Oh. Yeah. That’s alright.”

Reina smiled, like she could tell.

“I can drop you—on my way to work,” he muttered as she headed downstairs.

She turned around halfway to the door. “Huh. Thanks, man.”

Man. A weird name for someone you were riding last night, but he let it slide.

In the kitchen, Reins spotted the stale Pop-Tart on the dining table. She picked it up, inspecting it like a museum artifact.

“Oh. Breakfast. Don’t mind if I do.”

Toji just stared. “Right. Yes. Sorry about the food situation,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from the bowl.

“Nah, it’s alright,” she shrugged, already following him out the door and into the car.

“Where to?” he asked, not looking at her, eyes already on the mirrors.

“Eastside. Olvera Street,” she said, leaning back.

Toji felt the regret instantly. It was the opposite direction of the precinct. He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Reina caught the twitch in his jaw.

“Uh— it’s cool if you just drop me at a bus stop,” she added. “You don’t gotta go all the way.”

“I’m late already,” fushigoru muttered, though he didn’t steer toward a bus stop. He just kept driving.

“Mind if I smoke?” Reina asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

L.A. traffic was a soul-crushing grind. Palm trees lined the road like bad scenery in a movie that wouldn’t end. Every time Toji tried to switch lanes, some asshole sped up to close the gap. Fuck you, L.A. He hit another red light and groaned. He’d be lucky to make it in by lunch.

He turned to her, desperate for a distraction from the bumper of the Volvo in front of him.

“What do you do?”

Reina took a drag, flicking ash out the crack in the window. “I write.”

Toji suppressed a scoff. In this town, I write usually meant one of two things: I’m unemployed and would suck off a producer for them to read my script or I live off daddy's trust fund

“Yeah? What do you write?”

She exhaled a cloud of gray smoke. “Anything. Teleplays, films, ads. Magazines. Sometimes porno.”

Toji actually choked. “Anything I might’ve seen?”

Reina pondered, watching the smog smear the skyline. “Yeah. I wrote the Frutopia ad. The new flavor.”

He let out a short, sharp chuckle. “Really?”

She looked at him deadpan. “Really.”

“What about you?” she asked, blowing smoke straight at his face. “What do you do?”

“Film. TV..”

She laughed. A full-body rumble.

“Hooooly fuck. You’re in Hollywood too?,” she said, sliding down in her seat. “Jesus. I just can't get out, can I?.” She flicked the cigarette butt out the window.

Fushigoru rolled his eyes.

“What're you working on?”

“Stunts, I doubled for Shiu for this week's episode.”

“Shit,” Moxie grinned. “You gonna kick my ass one of these days, papi?”

Fushigoru felt his jaw click. Don’t let a five-foot-two brat ruin your day, Hanna.

“Why? You planning on sticking aroundl?” he asked, eyes fixed on the road.

“Nah. I usually fuck and duck.” She shrugged, pointing ahead. “Right there.”

He hit the brakes hard, tires screeching as he pulled to the curb near a courtyard where kids were playing basketball in the rising L.A. heat. Reina shoved the door open, then kicked it shut with her heel. It slammed with a metallic clang. Fushigoru's jaw ticked again.

A kid came running toward her, arms wrapping around her waist. toji's caught it from the corner of his eye. He didn’t turn over the ignition. He waited.

reina crouched, smiling soft and private. “Hey, baby. Missed me?”

The kid giggled, nodding furiously.

“Aww. I missed you too.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Pop-Tart. “Look, I got you a treat.”

The kid squealed, kissed her cheek, and bolted off again.

Just as he reached for the keys, a man’s voice yelled from across the way.

“Aye, mami! You owe—”

Reina didn’t even look back. She threw a middle finger over her shoulder.

“SHUT UP, CARLOS! I’LL PAY YOU!”

Toji chuckled softly, watching through the windshield.

She finally turned, realizing he was still there. She pouted, bending down to look at him through the passenger window. he gave her a dry, mock salute.

She grinned, rubbing a knuckle under her eye.

“See ya around, papi!”

—fin

a/n — ahhshahsh this was heavily reworked from another one of my fics cause I really wanted an actor Jjk fic, honestly this au keeps me alive after the nerve wreaking angst in the cannon. hope you'll enjoy

like, reblogs and comments highly appreciated babies <3

k baiii T—T

| HEAT 1995 | OC x Vincent Hanna | SFW |

Vincent had gone back to the hollow apartment in the days that followed. Jack Daniels had proved to be his only dinner.

The week crawled to Saturday. Hanna had been itching to talk to Venessa, but didn’t know how. Didn’t have her number, didn’t even know if she had a cell. Half of him wanted to show up to her apartment—and then say what?

So he did what men like him did best. Bought things. He walked into Ralph Lauren, looked at a jacket which he guessed Venessa might like, and tucked it under his arm as he made his way to the car and into Olvera Street.

The courtyard seemed to have a perennial flow of kids playing. The scene hadn’t changed much since the time he visited it last week, except the asphalt had cooked off and the streetlights flickered.

He parked the car on the road and made his way to the courtyard.

“Hey, kid,” he muttered from behind the checkered boundary.

His voice turned a few heads. Some scrambled. Olvera wasn’t exactly the best kidnap neighborhood. He’d been here a few times. Hit and runs, drugs. The works.

A kid made his way to him.

“What’s up?”

Vincent crouched to face him at eye level.

“Ya know where Venessa lives?” he asked.

The kid frowned.

“Man, we got five Venessas livin’ here. Which one you lookin’ for?”

Hanna bit a curse under his breath. Fuck. He didn’t even know her surname.

“Uh—she goes by Moxie,” he said.

The kid rolled his eyes.

“Wears glasses?”

Hanna nodded.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The kid pointed to a window on the third floor.

“34C.”

Hanna nodded, jogging his way up the stairs.

The building wasn’t exactly dirty. Neither was it clean. The staircase was crooked and seemed endless. The lack of windows added to the claustrophobia. The light flickered overhead.

Finally, he made his way into the hallway and noticed her apartment. The green paint on the wall was peeling. The switch beside the doorframe was already busted.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

“JESUS, I’M COMING,” someone yelled from the other side.

Hanna shifted on his knees. The door opened with a grunt, it seemed.

Venessa stood on the other side. The knot behind her head looked like it was trying its best to be a bun, but had failed. Pupils dilated behind her eyes. Shoulders sagged as the threadbare Guns N’ Roses shirt swallowed her frame, the shorts peeking from underneath it.

A grin tugged at her lips as recognition set in.

“Hey, officer. Got a warrant or some shit?”

Hanna grinned at her lazy drawl. Her vowels overlapped on one another, tone lulled by something.

“You forgot something at my place,” he said.

Her eyebrows raised. He handed her the jacket, folded neatly. She held it like it was radioactive.

“Huh?” She turned it around, felt the leather, then chuckled after a moment.

“Ah, nah, man. This ain’t mine. Too costly. Can’t afford this shit. Probably some other chick’s,” she said, handing it back to him.

Hanna bit into his cheeks.

“You can have it—”

She stared like he had grown a third head.

“Nah, man. I ain’t taking some chick’s jacket. Weird-ass voodoo shit, who knows.” She shrugged. “You can keep it, really.”

Hanna said again, “I’m giving it to you.”

“Girl, what?”

Hanna sighed, preempting the incoming headache.

“I’m giving it to you.”

“Huh, why—” she muttered, then saw his face.

“Oh. Oh. Oh, man. Oh—you’re flirting with me. Oh shit, it’s a gift. Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

She took the jacket from him now.

“I’m a little high,” she admitted.

Hanna rolled his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” She muttered, rubbing her eyes. “Gonna arrest me for substance use or some shit?”

Vincent chuckled.

“Not yet.”

Venessa looked back into her room, then at the jacket, and sighed.

“You, uh… you wanna come in?”

—fin

aaaaa hope ya'll like it.

reblog, comments and likes hugely appreciated babies.

I've a few more parts written I'll post them later.

There is something so depraved about the makeup wipes I used after I went out with you for the last time. The way they erased your touch from my face forever. The way they removed the crust of my mascara after I cried. The way my skin smelled like lemons instead of the smoke of the cigarette you held near my face.

Had it been this easy for you as well?

Did you erase me with an easy swipe? Did I no longer linger like a bitter aftertaste? Was your wipe efficient? Did I take at least half a pack to rub away? Was I stubborn?

Or did I give way to a docile erasure?

I keep imagining you trying to rub me away and failing. I live with the stolen parts of the people I've loved. And I leave parts of me with them. Did you find my pieces in you? Did you tear them out and trample on them? Was it easy to clean the mess?

I can no longer draw your face from memory, no longer remember the cadence of your voice, nor feel the warmth of your palm over mine.

This didn’t happen today, or yesterday. I just said it out loud today. Because all these days, I kept thinking that I could picture your face if I tried hard enough, or maybe remember the sound of your voice. I can’t.

Absence has eroded my memory. Absence makes you a deity. Waiting becomes ritual, love crystallizes into faith.

Because gods are untouchable anyways. They don’t answer, but you keep praying, because denouncing your faith doesn’t erase the doctrines you’ve etched into your bones.

I hope that I’m not easy to erase. That I, too, get to be the cruel god that doesn’t answer your penance.

—fin.

LMAOOO I LOVE ANGST

reblog, comment and like PRETTY PLEASEEEEE

| HEAT 1995 | OC x Vincent Hanna | SFW |

────୨ৎ────

Justine had left. Taken Lauren and moved to New York. Apparently, that was supposed to help—at least, that’s what the therapist said.

Move. Away. From everything. Start a new life.

She’d left the post-modernist condo to him. Of course she did. Casually cruel.

Hanna had met Venessa, aka Moxxie at a bar. Very romantic. She looked bored; he looked lonely and horny. He bought her a drink, pretended to be interested in her insights on the world economy, and brought her home. Fucked her. The usual.

With men, the questions come after the sex.

Moxie was still buried under the duvet, snoring softly, when Vincent passed her. He bathed, clothed, and combed his hair in the vanity mirror. The man staring back at him looked older in the morning light—creases at the corners of the eyes, jaw set like it had something to prove.

She finally stirred awake, stretching as she pulled his shirt over her head. She yawned, blinking at the room like it was mildly offensive.

“Good morning,” she muttered, hair sticking up in odd directions, the duvet pooled around her waist.

“Mhm. Morning,” Vincent said, watching her. She slumped back into the pillows with a groan.

“Fuck. Where are my glasses?”

“Here.” Hanna handed them over.

“Ah. Thanks.”

Moxie dressed with surprising efficiency—no fumbling, no performative modesty. Like she’d done this before. Hanna hovered by the doorframe, trying to figure out how to phrase the this was just a hookup speech without sounding like a prick.

Moxie beat him to it.

“Yeah, so…” she said, tugging on her boots, “you probably won’t see me after this.” She chuckled, awkward but unbothered. Vincent let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Oh. Oh. Yeah. That’s alright.”

Moxie smiled, like she could tell.

“I can drop you—on my way to work,” he muttered as she headed downstairs.

She turned around halfway to the door. “Huh. Thanks, man.”

Man. A weird name for someone you were riding last night, but he let it slide.

In the kitchen, Moxie spotted the stale Pop-Tart on the dining table. She picked it up, inspecting it like a museum artifact.

“Oh. Breakfast. Don’t mind if I do.”

Vincent just stared. “Right. Yes. Sorry about the food situation,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from the bowl.

“Nah, it’s alright,” she shrugged, already following him out the door and into the car.

“Where to?” he asked, not looking at her, eyes already on the mirrors.

“Eastside. Olvera Street,” she said, leaning back. Hanna felt the regret instantly. It was the opposite direction of the precinct. He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Moxie caught the twitch in his jaw.

“Uh— it’s cool if you just drop me at a bus stop,” she added. “You don’t gotta go all the way.”

“I’m late already,” Vincent muttered, though he didn’t steer toward a bus stop. He just kept driving.

“Mind if I smoke?” Moxie asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

L.A. traffic was a soul-crushing grind. Palm trees lined the road like bad scenery in a movie that wouldn’t end. Every time Vincent tried to switch lanes, some asshole sped up to close the gap. Fuck you, L.A. He hit another red light and groaned. He’d be lucky to make it in by lunch.

He turned to her, desperate for a distraction from the bumper of the Volvo in front of him.

“What do you do?”

Moxie took a drag, flicking ash out the crack in the window. “I write.”

Vincent suppressed a scoff. In this town, I write usually meant one of two things: "I'm unemployed and would definitely suck off a producer of that meant that they'd read my script, or I spend daddy's money and pretend to have a job.

“Yeah? What do you write?”

She exhaled a cloud of gray smoke. “Anything. Teleplays, films, ads. Magazines. Sometimes porno.”

Vincent actually choked.

“Anything I might’ve seen?”

Moxie pondered, watching the smog smear the skyline. “Yeah. I wrote the Frutopia ad. The new flavor.”

He let out a short, sharp chuckle. “Really?”

She looked at him deadpan. “Really.”

“What about you?” she asked, blowing smoke straight at his face. “What do you do?”

“Police. LAPD.”

She laughed. A full-body rumble.

“Hooooly fuck. You’re a cop,” she said, sliding down in her seat. “Jesus. I fucked a cop.” She flicked the cigarette butt out the window.

Vincent rolled his eyes.

“Which department?”

“Homicide. Narcotics.”

The last word rang.

“Shit,” Moxie grinned. “You gonna arrest me one of these days, papi?”

Vincent felt his jaw click. Don’t let a five-foot-two brat ruin your day, Hanna.

“Why? You deal?” he asked, eyes fixed on the road.

“Nah. Just do ’em sometimes. A little dope, a little acid.” She shrugged, pointing ahead. “Right there.”

He hit the brakes hard, tires screeching as he pulled to the curb near a courtyard where kids were playing basketball in the rising L.A. heat.

Moxie shoved the door open, then kicked it shut with her heel. It slammed with a metallic clang. Vincent’s jaw ticked again.

A kid came running toward her, arms wrapping around her waist. Vincent caught it from the corner of his eye. He didn’t turn over the ignition, waited.

Moxie crouched, smiling softly “Hey, baby. Missed me?”

The kid giggled, nodding furiously.

“Aww. I missed you too.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Pop-Tart, she had most definitely slipped from Hanna's office. “Look, I got you a treat.”

The kid squealed, kissed her cheek, and bolted off again.

Just as Hanna reached for the keys, a man’s voice yelled from across the way.

“Aye, mami! You owe—”

Moxie didn’t even look back. She threw a middle finger over her shoulder.

“SHUT UP, CARLOS! I’LL PAY YOU!”

Vincent chuckled softly, watching through the windshield.

She finally turned, realizing he was still there. She pouted, bending down to look at him through the passenger window. Hanna gave her a dry, mock salute.

She pouted harder, lip stick out, rubbing a knuckle from under her eye to her chin, tear rolling down motion. Then grinned.

“See ya around, papi!”

Hanna shook his head, turned the key, and pulled back into the slow, grinding flow of the city.

—fin.

lmao last sonny wortzik fic got banned or sm idkw, lmk how this was. al pacino obsession is getting outta hand.

reblog, comments and likes hugely appreciated babies.

home, for a while.

worst crimes have been carried out in the name of love.

Sonny Wortzik was the man who slept beside her. Who kissed her cheek after turning the lights off, who made sweet love to her on the days he was jumpy, who dropped her kids to school, who went to work with the lunch she packed, tucked under his arm, and complained about the government, he wasn’t the man that was supposed to be on the TV. He was utterly normal. In the most mundane, suburban way possible. But then… things happen irrespective of whether you want them or not.

“Mama! Dad’s on TV, Uncle Sal too!" Tony yelled across the room. Regina had been making dinner, grumbling about the bank robbery she’d been hearing about. “Mama look!” Tony cried again. Regina finally looked up, hands on her hips. “What is it, baby?” she mumbled, trying her best to sound soft; the poor kid had no hand in the day being so hard. “Dad on TV!” he chuckled, pointing to the screen.

“What—no baby, how can Dad be on TV?” Regina murmured, too tired to argue with a toddler. She went back to her vegetables. “But it is Dad!”

Jeez. The kid was relentless.

Gina finally dropped the knife onto the chopping board and walked towards Tony, mostly to shut the TV off.

The sound of the TV grew louder the more she walked towards it.

Local bank taken hostage by two homosexuals. Names were found out to be Sonny Wortzik and Salvatore Naturile.

The reporter read. Regina stopped dead . Tony, the kid at her feet, unknowing of the gravity, could only smile as he saw his father’s face on the screen. “Dad!” giggled.

Regina stood frozen in place, like all the air had been sucked out of her. Her throat ran dry. She dropped onto the couch. A strangled sob crawled its way out of her throat. The toddler turned to face his mother. Suddenly confused at his mother's tears.

“Don’t cry, Mama. Dad on TV,” the kid babbled, small hands soothing her knees. Regina sobbed louder. Her chest felt tight. A vice gripping itself around her heart and squeezing the life out of it..

Tears form hot and wet when you try to stand strong. Regina’s whole body had shuddered with each wretched sob. Tony, God bless his soul, had tried his best to soothe his crying mother with the tiny pats of his hands.

One night you’re laying beside your husband planning your vacation, and the next evening he’s branded a homosexual on national TV.

Regina picked Tony up in her arms and kissed his temples; the kid wrapped its arms around her neck.

When someone pulls the rug from under your feet, you fall flat on your ass. It hurts, until you realize the floor’s still there. It’s just no longer soft, or pretty.

Regina wiped her eyes, kissing the kid’s neck. Rocking him. Like touching something would ground her to reality. Like holding Tony would bring her back to her plane, like it would erase what she had just heard.

It didn’t take long for a tired and hungry toddler to fall asleep.

With Tony tucked in bed and the TV switched off, Regina realized that the clock read 12. The news wasn’t a misnomer. Neither was it her husband’s hypothetical evil twin.

She dragged her legs to the phone, hands shaking, as she pulled out the phone book and dialed the number to the bank.

If she calls Sonny and he picks up, it’s no longer Schrödinger’s heist. She can no longer tell herself that he was probably dragged into it or framed. The truth would be out. And to accept that the man you had married, that the father of your child, is not only a bank robber but also queer, wasn’t something that Regina was ready to do.

Grief was an absurd thing. It wants you to hold onto the semblance of comfort. To wrap a wound it gauze and let it heal, but it also wants to see the gaping slash, it wants to touch it, poke it till the hurt was memorized.

She dialed the number with shaky hands. The line stayed silent for a moment, then someone picked up.

She sucked in a breath. Sal’s unmistakable voice had answered into the receiver.

“We ain’t negotiating nothing."

Regina’s throat had given in once again. Dry.

“Where’s Sonny?” she whispered into the phone. Sal stiffened on the other side.

Blinked.

“Gina?”

She almost shrieked at the name.

“SHUT UP! WHERE’S SONNY!?” she yelled. The reporter's words still ingrained in the back of her mind..

Homosexual man holds hostages in bank downtown. Demands include money for trans partner’s surgery.

Gina could swear that her whole body retched at that thought.

God had given her everything for a while. Happy parents. Doting husband. Lovely child. A face that was easy to look at.

Then it took everything away. Gave it to someone who had to beg permission to exist in a way they liked.

Her sonny. Robbing a bank for some other woman. Cozying up to some man that pretends to be a woman.

The tragedy wasn't that Sonny was leaving her for a trans woman, neither was it that Sonny was queer. The tragedy laid in the fact that in a society where absurd gods and abstract scriptures had dictated their lives Sonny had chosen someone else over Regina. Man, woman, anything in between.

“Gina?” Sonny’s voice trailed through the other side. All the anger in her voice had crystallized into sorrow it seemed. All that came out of her was a sob.

“Why’d you do it?—why—why—why was I not enough?” she whimpered into the phone. Lord help Gina. She wanted to hurt him. Hurt him the way his erasure of her had hurt her. Make him bleed. Ask him why he’d ruin her life like this. But all that came out was a pathetic plea, dressed as a question. Why couldn't you love me?

Sonny froze on the other side. He had built an armor around himself. To defend his love for Leon. To defend Leon to anyone who called her anything other than what she considered herself to be. But Regina… sweet, angry Regina had found elsewhere to hit.

Sonny blinked, suddenly, his mouth feeling dry. “I—I, Gina—” he mumbled. Regina’s soft whimpers had travelled across the receiver, unwelcomed and prominent, like bruises blooming on our skin where you can't hide them.

“You’re my husband,” she choked again. Lie. A pathetic institution that now laid in ruins. “I married you. Why—why’re they saying you married her in secret? Why, Sonny, why? You are mine. You were mine.” She sobbed harder. Like loudness was proportional to validity. Maybe if she said it enough times, maybe if she'd say it loud enough it would hold meaning again. Be sacred again. Maybe Sonny would come back home again. Her voice anything but utterly broken.

Regina sounded like a child whose favorite plush was just given to some other kid. Sonny choked on his own saliva, heart clenching. He loved her, he truly did. Regina was his best friend. He just couldn’t love her the way she needed him to.

“Gina—I—I’m sorry,” Sonny croaked out, as if apologies can undo years of erasure and infedilty. His hand came up, rubbing over his face in an attempt to wipe his tears. The cold metal of his wedding touched his eyes like mockery. Cheap metal. Cheaper make. Nothing but a relic of a promise he had upheld and stamped on.

“I fucked up, Gina." He muttered. A strangled sob followed. "Baby—I—I ruined everything, God. Tony—oh God. I fucked everything up,” he whispered finally, tears running down his face now.

The sound of her name on his tongue felt like a dagger to her chest.

Regina had curled up on the sofa. Absence leaves you feeling cold. She pulled her legs up to her chest and sobbed.

“Sonny Wortzik, you’re the bane of my existence.”

Regina didn’t know when he hung up. Or she didn’t care. He’d hung up on their marriage way earlier anyways.

She had spent the night sobbing on the floor. When the sobbing had ceased, she’d looked around the room only for the realization to set that her marriage was a sham and was in a casket. The house smelt like Sonny. Heck, Tony looked like Sonny.

How long would it take for her to forget how his laughter sounded?

Regina sobbed again. Like that would tire her enough so she wouldn't have to feel anything , head in her hands, body wracking at the intensity. She sobbed till her sternum hurt and her brain swam. The bed still was dipped on the side where Sonny slept. His shirt still on the hanger.

How can someone make a life and then just get up and leave it in ruins?

She had called her sister to look after Tony just as the sun rose. Nellie didn’t ask many questions; sisters never do. She just held Gina’s shuddering body and whispered,

“Sonny’s an asshole, Gina.”

The drive to the bank had been quiet. The streets were crowded. Protestors, kids, adults, police. It was a mess.

Sonny was just at the door. Hands on his hips. Lips split. Hair a mess, shirt half unbuttoned. Yelling “Attica!” at the top of his voice like he was the devil himself.

The crowd chanted too.

Her heart jumped in leaps, clenching and unclenching. She jumped out the car in an instant and ran. Tore through the crowd and under the tape and towards Sonny before the police could grab her.

She sank into his frame with a collision. Sonny stumbled back but held her trembling body anyways. The police had taken a step, but he grabbed her and took a step back anyways.

Gina’s hands clutched around his shirt as she sobbed.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why’d you lie to me? Why, why? You’re my husband. I married you. You could have told me. Why’d you go and try to rob a bank, baby?” she sobbed.

He ran a hand through her hair. The crowd outside didn't matter anymore. The world zeroed into to the sobbing woman in his arms. His wife. The mother of his child. The woman he had slept beside for years.

“I’m sorry, baby, so sorry. I love Leon. I wish I didn’t.”

Some well-meaning person in the crowd had made the mistake of saying how queer folks are ruining the lives of good people. And that did it.

Oh no no no no no.

No one calls Regina Wortzik’s husband a faggot. She tore away from him and turned faced the crowd.

“SHUT UP!” she yelled, voice raw, louder than Sonny had ever heard her. He flinched.

“SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU! YOU AND YOUR STUPID LAWS AND YOUR MADE-UP GODS AND YOUR MADE-UP DOCTRINES. YOU. YES, YOU RUIN PEOPLE’S LIVES. NOT HIM. NOT PEOPLE LIKE LEON. YES, HE SCREWED ME OVER. YES, HE KNOCKED ME UP ALL THE WHILE SCREWING SOME OTHER BITCH, SOME MAN. SO WHAT? IT’S NOT LIKE HE COULD HAVE LEGALLY MARRIED LEON. YES, HE ROBBED A BANK! SO WHAT! NONE OF Y’ALL WOULD HAVE LOANED HIM TO GET THE SURGERY. SO GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSES. LOVE LOOKS A LOT OF DIFFERENT WAYS!”

Sonny froze. Regina was huffing. Her heart was pumping like it had run a marathon. Her knees wobbled. He held her back into his chest. An officer had taken a step forward. “Miss, I need you to move back.” Regina only clung to him more. “No, please no. I haven’t held him in a day,” she sniffled.

Sonny finally let himself feel the devastation of his actions . A lady officer had pried Regina off. Moretti, the officer, sighed as he handcuffed Sonny. Regina was still sobbing, a blabbering mess. The hostages were being taken out now. The crowd was clearing.

Sometimes you stand in the rubble, because even the ruins of an altar are sacred. Gina, Leon, Sonny too stood in the ruins of their love. The world was too stubborn to change its rules. And their love was too strong to let go.

Sonny Wortzik walked out as a hero for the queer community. And no famous hero was both alive and happy.

—fin.

i was home, for a while.

AAHAHAH OKAY so it's very loosely based upon the film, i really js wanted to write gut punching angst, also reworked angela as Regina. i wanted the conflict to be about how he lies and how society has forced him to lie, i wanted regina's rage directed towards her helpless situation and not just about the fact that sonny's gay/in love with a trans person.

'kay baiii hope ya'll liked it T—T

likes, reblogs and comments highly appreciated babies <3

reblogs;comments & likes hugely appreciated