just a word, just a word will do [to end this nightmare]

yeah. you knew this was coming.

Chloe falls asleep snuggled in bed with Trixie.

Coraline lies on the nightstand (she’s not entirely sure this is a bedtime story for an eight-year-old, but, well, Trixie knows where she is if she has nightmares). Their house is mostly packed. She’s feeling almost confident about the move, about starting over. She needed to rest and hide away what happened with Kimo, the way Lucifer was so insistent she was in danger from some wannabe mobster named Uriel, but she’s stood up to her demons and faced them, and she has no doubt he has done the same. It feels clear. Safe. Good. Right. A mother here with her child, reassuring them that the demons can’t get in. That she’s here. She always will be here.

Chloe wakes up sometime in the wee hours feeling as if she’s been thrown off a cliff.

It’s intense, physical as if she’s still falling, gasping and clutching at the sheets. Trixie is still asleep next to her, untroubled by bad dreams, and Chloe sits up slowly, shaken. She’s unable to quite dodge the sense that something is wrong, that something is really wrong. Nothing. Or at least, nothing that concerns her, even as she grabs for her phone and checks to see if there’s a message. There isn’t.

She’s sure Lucifer’s fine. Whatever he went to sort out.

She should go back to sleep.

She pauses a long moment, then gets up and sneaks quietly into the living room, heaped with boxes. Paces back and forth, trying to talk herself out of whatever weird hunch this is. She can’t just up and leave Trixie in the house by herself.  Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong.

She reaches for her phone again. God knows it’s been impossible to get Lucifer off his recently.

Hits Call.

It doesn’t even ring.

Chloe frowns, putting it down, pulling on a sweatshirt from the jacket rack, one of the last things she hasn’t packed. It’s at least five hours until Trixie will wake up for school. She can make a quick trip to Lux and back.

She steps outside, into the deep night. Walks down to her car –

And nearly stumbles over him.

Lucifer Morningstar is huddled against the side of her squad car, covered in blood, spaced out, shaking, and staring at nothing. His own car is parked rakishly, half on the curb. He looks as if he’s been driving half the night. His face is dead white. He looks like she has never, ever seen him before.

“Lucifer?” Her heart flips. “Lucifer. Jesus! Lucifer! What are you doing here? Why are you sitting in my driveway? What is – Lucifer.” She pulls off the sweatshirt and tries to wrap it around his shoulders, but he barely seems to notice. “What the hell happened? What about your – whoever you were worried about?”

He doesn’t even turn a hair. She speaks louder, as if that will get his attention. “Lucifer. Talk to me. What… you’re not all right. Lucifer.”

He lifts his head as if through mud. Voice as if a thousand yards away. “Detective.”

“Yes. It’s me, all right? Why are you – “ Chloe crouches down next to him. He edges back from her. He never does that.

“I’m sorry.” He struggles to his feet. “I– had to make sure the key wasn’t accidentally struck. I’ll. I’ll be going now. I don’t think you want to see me again.”

“What are you – “ He’s scaring her, genuinely scaring her. She runs after him, grabs his arm, and feels him flinch as if he’s been whipped under her touch. “Lucifer. You’re covered in blood.”

“Oh. Yes.” He laughs, thin and madly. “There is that, isn’t there?”

“Please.” Chloe has never been so frightened, and she doesn’t even know why. She has the sense that if she lets go of him, he might fly to pieces like a Roman sparkler and never gather himself up again. “Talk to me.”

He stares at her down eyes like two endless black tunnels. He has clearly been crying all night. He looks, in that moment, utterly like a stranger. He breathes only two words.

“I can’t.”

Turns again. Pulls away as if breaking the chains of hell. Starts toward his car. Stops.

“Stay away from me, Detective,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Stay away from the monster under the bed, for your own bloody good. Please. Please.”

“Lucifer, don’t go. Please, let me help you. I’ll clean you up, we can –”

“You can’t help, Detective.” He turns again. “You can’t. I’m sorry. Go back to your human life. Forget about me. Bloody forget. I don’t want – I don’t want to see. To see you.” He pauses. The whole world must hear his heart breaking.

“Any more.”

“Lucif – ”

He staggers to his car. Gets in. Pulls out. Drives away. His taillights vanish around the bend. She keeps waiting for him to come back. For this to somehow be a joke. Even if it’s nothing like a joke he’d pull on her.

She’s seen him do that countless times before, of course. Leave. Walk away. Go. But it’s never felt so final. So terrible. So clearly as if something has broken him beyond all hope of repair. Something that even Lucifer cannot bear. That has destroyed even the Devil.

This old life is over.

Chloe can only stand there, shaking.

The Revelation

thinking about the weak nature of the anon hate i get, and mostly it comes down to these sweet little dears worried about the amount of time i invest here, or how shattered i will be when i finally shut down.  and that’s really it.  there’s nothing else to come at me over.

these poor souls. all because i have denied you my identity. i must help them.  i must… reveal myself.

My true name is Inelda von Strudelshickle, and I was born a poor farmer’s daughter amongst the golden fields of Montana. Montana, Bulgaria, naturally. We raised the finest wheat for the local underground mice-racing scene. A cutthroat business, I must tell you. Ukrainian mobsters kept trying to sneak in white rats, but the race officials, they always knew. Sometimes there were bribes. Sometimes… there were knives. Those deadly squeaks, haunting the night of my beloved Bulgaria.

But when I was 14, still just a strip of a girl, my father fell in with one of these wicked schemes. He lost everything to the Ukrainians when it failed; my dead mother’s favorite plastic vase, the farm, even our own little racing mouse, Bobo. I miss Bobo. His little chirps in my ear at dawn helped me wake up so that I might begin the four mile walk to the little wooden schoolhouse where I learned my letters, my history, and that wonderfully dynamic programming language, Ruby.

 And so at 14, we fled to the heart of true America. We landed at Puerto Santa Cruz, smuggling our way through Argentina, fleeing those Ukrainian dogs at every step of the way. A midnight sail through the Panama Canal, and we came in along the west coast of Mexico. And then. One black night. Scuttling across the border carrying our parcels of Ebola strapped to our now-powerful, almost cantaloupe-like calves.

No, Representative King. It was never those wonderful people of Central and South America you needed to fear as smugglers and as that dangerous unknown other. It was us, the Bulgarians, fleeing the results of our illegal mouse-racing.

In desperation we found ourselves in this other America. Here we settled, forcibly. I was 17 now, attempting to keep up with my studies with a slide rule and an unbreakable Nokia phone. But I had a library card, that portal to the universe. Here I studied, and studied, but I could not help Father the way I wanted. So at 19, disheartened, willing to sell my soul for a breath of those lost fields of my childhood, I attempted to found our own racing-mice league, in the seedy underbelly of Peoria.

The bastard Ukrainains found it.  Found me.

I fled. I had that Nokia. I had a scrap of cash from the last race. And, tossed away in a dumpster, I found a cheap, cracked tablet and a really nice Otter case for it. I collected what I could as I went, roaming wherever the wind would take me. Following the scent of lost Bulgaria. Finding every damned Panera Bread on earth instead. And then, this summer, at my wit’s end… 

There was nothing else to do.

I had to become a narrowly focused, unpaid, entertainment blogger. I feed on electricity and anon letters. With the nickels I scrounge from trash cans, I send money back to Father, who is also blogging for pennies. Sports. Ping pong matches, to be specific. They adore him in China, though he lives in a filthy single room above a Subway in Ohio.

We talk little, now. I stole Mother’s vase when I left, I doubt he has forgiven me for this. It smells of the cherry Kool-Aid she used to make us, and is even still a little sticky inside to this day.

I miss Mother.

This… this disaster… this end of Hiddleswift… it’s all I have.


You monsters. Do you shame me for my broken American life?  DO YOU?


Oh Bobo. How I wish you still squeaked for me.


A mobster who has no idea how to play poker but his subordinates are too scared to tell him

i do gotta kind of wonder why the crew are so much more popular than their agent iterations. i love them too but derse is such a cool place. an entire plant with different culture and long history, constantly involved in a game that Creates Universes like that’s amazing? i love derse


Mobster whose accent is so thick his subordinates can’t understand him

In Goodfellas, the ‘Am I a clown? Do I amuse you?’ scene, where Tommy DeVito (Joe Pesci) attacks Henry Hill (Ray Liotta) for calling him a 'funny guy’, was Pesci’s idea. He’d once worked at a restaurant where he got a nasty reply after telling a real-life mobster he was funny, so he suggested it to director Martin Scorsese, and they filmed it without a script to get genuine reactions from the cast. Source


Anonymous said:

A mob boss who thinks guns are called “Poopy-pops”

Leave the poopy-pop.  Take the cannoli.