Watch it, Numbskull!

"You think you got what it takes to deal with me, huh? You really think you can pack a punch? Ha! I'd like to see you try. No--Really. Give it your best shot. I want it to hurt."Closed Guzma Roleplay blog, affiliated with Undella Bay. Mun and muse are 18+. All art by me unless tagged otherwise. Disclaimer for possibility of darker themes and a good dose of language. Rating this blog PG-14. 

[rubbinoffthepaint]

Prospect

[aithcras]

rubbinoffthepaint‌:

@aithcras

His circuit around the traphouses were done for the night. It was no secret that the heat wave in Alola had been affecting all of its inhabitants, but Team Skull took it the worst. Being in the run-down corner of Malie City served them no real favors, certainly, particularly for their health. Humidity and heat were festering together to create a wide outbreak of what Guzma only described as ‘bacteria fuckery,’ but it was elaborated by one of his educated underlings as ‘dysentery.’ Whatever the fuck that meant. Regardless, he and a couple of the healthy goons headed to the nearest pharmacy and bought out whatever medicine they could for the symptoms–causing quite the dent in the Team’s total budget. Whatever. He needed his people to be healthy, and they could pay him back later. But after going around the slums and passing out medicine to his sick members, Guzma had about enough for the night.

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     “ i SAID i’m fine, ”  gladion snapped, but the pink-haired girl staring him down merely kept her arms crossed, raising an eyebrow.

                                 “ you don’t look fucking fine, kid. ”

     and she had a point. everything felt sore—was that from sleeping on the ground for three days, or something else? his face definitely felt warm—but that could very well be the effects of this fucking heat wave  ( he had picked the worst time to leave home ).  he couldn’t deny that his head was pounding, and it was no secret that he looked like a mess. his skin was blotchy  ( sunburn or sickness? it was anyone’s guess ), his hair frizzy and sticking in… more directions than it was supposed to. and certainly, his all-black, skinny-jeans-and-sweatshirt getup were not helping matters. still, exhausted as he was, he continued to glower up at her.

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[rubbinoffthepaint]

Guzma had just begun his before-bed ritual of cracking open a beer on the couch when the sudden intrusion startled him. Nearly crushing the can in his hand in exhausted frustration, he bit into the aluminum and shotgunned the drink down in seconds. This better be fucking good, whatever was coming his way. Guzma stared to the source of the intrusion, to see one of his very own bring in...

a boy?

His expression went flat, if not anything, perhaps he was showing vague disappointment. Not to anyone in particular, but perhaps, general dismay. His brows furrowed, and he groaned audibly. The rush of negativity shooting down his brain and his spine was a tidal wave of weight. Concern, anger, disgust--all enveloped his nerves. Quickly, he stomped to Iolana, and gripped her shoulder tightly as he walked her a few yards from the boy. His whisper was harsh and assertive.

“Don’t--” he started, “bring anyone this young to me again. You see a kid like this? Take ‘em to the fucking shelter next time. I can not take in any more minors as it is, got it?”

He huffed, letting her go quite abruptly and standing over her.

“You’re not in trouble this time, Iolana. But--”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Just a tip. Tell er’rybody. I have no fucking idea if this kid’s even seen high school.”

Guzma stomped back to shift his focus before he gave Iolana a final glance and waved her off.

“Thassit. Oh--And you’re sleepin’ in P’s house tonight. Sick girls are quarantined in your room--sorry, i’s just what happened. They should have blankets for you. Tell the other not-sick girls to join you. ‘Kay? Now get outta here.”

As she left, he took some time to breathe. His arms crossed once his brief meditation finished, and he glared down to the kid. Not intentionally, but general anger and disdain oozed from his expression. The kids he was getting only seemed to be getting younger... what kind of adults are raising kids? What sick bastards let a child get into this neighborhood and not look for the guy?

“How fucking old are you?” his voice boomed interrogatively, “You’re like, eight. Ain’t got no business in this ‘hood. ‘Specially not in this heat. Look--look’a’chu. You look like a wet mop left in a sauna for three days.”

He held his hands up, gesturing for the boy not to answer yet. Guzma exhaled.

“You may have heard o’ me. I’m Guzma.”

As if on cue for his introduction, he had a string of nasty, throaty coughs nearly cut off his name.

“Sorry, not sure if y’heard right. I said Guzma,” he repeated.

“You’re deep in Skull territory, kid. An’ I mean deep. Ain’t got no business, I swear--”

His eyes looked over the boy more observantly, and he took some steps forward to get a closer look. His eyes widened. This was a really pale kid... some kind of small, Justin-Bieber looking kid. Kids this cleaned-up didn’t come from this area. He was disheveled, sure, but Guzma knew better than to overlook  minute details. Smooth, unscathed skin under the matted hair and sweat. Well-made clothes--good posture...

“Rich kid.”

Guzma almost laughed saying it out loud. He bounced his finger, playfully pointing it to the boy as he seemed to pin down his purpose.

“You’re a runaway.”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

Prospect

@aithcras

His circuit around the traphouses were done for the night. It was no secret that the heat wave in Alola had been affecting all of its inhabitants, but Team Skull took it the worst. Being in the run-down corner of Malie City served them no real favors, certainly, particularly for their health. Humidity and heat were festering together to create a wide outbreak of what Guzma only described as ‘bacteria fuckery,’ but it was elaborated by one of his educated underlings as ‘dysentery.’ Whatever the fuck that meant. Regardless, he and a couple of the healthy goons headed to the nearest pharmacy and bought out whatever medicine they could for the symptoms--causing quite the dent in the Team’s total budget. Whatever. He needed his people to be healthy, and they could pay him back later. But after going around the slums and passing out medicine to his sick members, Guzma had about enough for the night.

He swaggered back to his own trap house, albeit, it was the smallest one on the block, but its benefits came with it being the smallest. It housed less people. Less people he’d have to share with. Less people screaming in the middle of the night. Two goons standing outside, pretending to look tough, saluted Guzma before he entered. Disapprovingly, he scowled at them, including a sharp inhale through his teeth.

“The fuck I told you about saluting? I hate that shit! Just stand up straighter, it ain’t fuckin’ hard.”

Scared at his naturally projected voice and disappointment, they stood still, immediately standing up straight.

“Not too straight,” he corrected, “C’mon, I hate lookin’ like the goddamn military. Just look like club bouncers. Not too anal, but still tough. Jesus--Lucky, Tanya--we gotta run classes on this bullshit!? Did you both fail bodygaurd class!?”

They trembled, but Guzma eventually calmed himself.

“Y’know anyone else who’s sick? I got a couple more bottles o’ this.”

Both shook their head, then shrugged. He nodded.

“A’ight. Stay out here. Youse gonna be switched sometime in the next hour. Jus’ stay chillin.”

Guzma carelessly swung the already breaking door open to his humble abode, a house that had clearly failed past Home Owners Association’s census’. He took a deep breath in the home, taking in the stale smell of febreeze mixed with dirty dishes. He’d have to get some goons on that in the morning.

The man staggered to the couch that was falling apart, and let out an exhale. The two bedroom house made a great sanctuary--though he felt bad for putting P in the Girl House two doors down. She’d be alright, though, but he had enough of patrolling ‘Mansville’--the shacks at the end of the street where the male grunts lived--unless he was partying with them. Then it slapped. But he groaned at the thought of waking up in three hours to check on everybody--but that was his job as the leader to keep morale high.

How he’d be able to vaccinate them was beyond him.

[rubbinoffthepaint]

ʀᴜʙʙɪɴᴏꜰꜰᴛʜᴇᴘᴀɪɴᴛ

guzma’s back and ready to throw down! like this if you’d like to plot. taking up to 3!

[rubbinoffthepaint]

The Sun and the Moon

[prof-alola-deactivated20181120]

prof-alola:

rubbinoffthepaint:

A low whistle blew out of Guzma’s lips as he hadn’t seen a clean home in over… a long time. The last clean ‘living quarters’, as he would call them, were the living areas in the Aether Foundation far behind the blockades in the back of his mind. That sheer, pristine interior–he hated it. Something that clean had to be bad for the eyes. Humans weren’t meant to be in hyper-sterile areas.

But they weren’t meant for the near-toxic waste dump that was his apartment.

Long story short, this was a hell of a nice place.

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Kukui watches the way Guzma plows through the bag of chips with a detached sort of amusement. Is he even stopping for air, he can’t help but wonder through a sip of his hot cocoa. Thankfully, his choice of drink is approved, and the comment made elicits a chuckle out of the man. “Well, I agree with ya on that. There’s just somethin’ ‘bout ‘mallows that really spruces up a cup a’ Tapu Cocoa. If I had t’ add anythin’ else… maybe some whipped cream.”

He doesn’t have that in hand, though, so just marshmallows for them.

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[rubbinoffthepaint]

Guzma only nodded in acknowledgment at first as he agreed. Yeah, she was pretty, he supposed, definitely more of Kukui’s type than his own. Guzma stood to take a closer look at all the pictures—clearly taken during his wedding and the foreign scenery in some of the photos suggested quite the honeymoon. An odd sense of pride of his peer yet disappointment in himself grew in the pit of his stomach.

“Real cute. She’s a good match for you, Kooks. You both have that—I’unno. Really energetic smile? Y’all like, smile all the way in pictures. Like with your teeth and, y’know, everythin’.”

He faced Kukui with a nod of approval.

“Proud o’ you, I guess. Looked like a pretty good time.”

The words stung as they left his mouth, despite their sincere honesty. A good friend would want to wish the best for the other, right? And despite years of an unbridled grudge stemmed from jealousy, he could still find himself getting past that for Kukui. It was hard to be bitter to someone so sunny and positive.

To someone who deserved this amazing life.

“Long distance? Sounds lonely—like, what d’you do when like. Y’know. Or—the kid. What kid was that? You guys have a kid and like, what, fighting over custody? What’s goin’ on with that? Kid with Burnie?”

[haulasadas-blog]

Sun of a Beach | Hau & Guzma

[haulasadas-blog]

rubbinoffthepaint:

“Wh–What? Excuse me, kid, did you jus’ use the word ‘pops’ in a sentence, like, in a conversation? Why you soundin’ like some 1940′s Castelia mob man, or somethin’. Dude,” Guzma laughed at the end of his abrupt critique, shaking his own head.

The question itself did have some weight in it. Yeah, only very vaguely could he remember Hau’s old man… old was hardly the word. Both of his parents were hardly older than Guzma if he remembered right. But Hau’s dad…

“Eh, not as familiar as y’mom, but yeah, I seen ‘im. He was a shady lookin’ bastard. Shady and flighty.”

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“Yeah- What’s wrong with that?” He huffed, cheeks heating up a little in embarrassment. Let him say pops you monster. “I’m not a mob man though, don’t get the wrong idea!”

So Guzma thought his dad look shady, huh? For some reason, he wanted to deck Guzma in the face for that, but he didn’t. He couldn’t deny he was right, after all… Though for some reason, he couldn’t come to fully hate the man.

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[rubbinoffthepaint]

Guzma gave him an unimpressed look, then an amused sneer.

“Nah, if you swore on y’life that you was a mobman, you’d be shot dead. ‘Cause that promise wouldn’t be worth nothin’--soft lil’ kid that you are. Too fluffy. Too nice. Definitely not the kinda thing good kids should be doin’.”

He sat in silence after his ever-snarky commentary, mulling over memories of his own father that he could only dream of escaping. Why couldn’t his own father leave? Why couldn’t he have been that lucky?

Guzma stared blankly ahead, taking a large inhale of air.

“Yeah, didn’t think she’d be otherwise. Y’mom’s a nice lady.”

He peered over to Hau, his face scrunching in malice and trickery. He didn’t want to completely soften up. This kid might be fun to tease.

“She’s cute, too.”

A rather pleased grin stretched across his face, more interested to see the kid’s reaction. After all, he couldn’t let his guard down. He still had to cause every ounce of legal mayhem his bad moral compass could get its grubby hands on. Even if it just meant light teasing like this. Guzma truthfully hardly remembered what Hau’s mother looked like--he more remembered what a generous person she was. Despite his poor sense of judging character, he could sense this kid was a lot like her. Kind. Altruistic.

Nothing like Guzma.

He waved his hand dismissively, scratching his chin just after as he mindlessly continued to speak, as he always did, since thinking before speaking was nowhere in his skill set.

“Meh, there ain’t ever really a quiet time. There’s always the Biz’ goin’ on in my noggin. Sure can tell ya half of it ain’t worth thinkin’ about before late night. Not much you’re interrupting, kid. Y’think much goes on behind this nasty mug?”

He offered a reassuring smile coated with his usual jestering.

“So, where y’headed? Home?”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

The Sun and the Moon

[prof-alola-deactivated20181120]

prof-alola:

rubbinoffthepaint:

A nasty laugh bubbled from Guzma at the melodrama of Kukui. Perhaps not intentional, but it was usually Guzma himself that dabbled in the dramatics. Kukui? Fainting? If only the little rat pack could see the regional professor pass out from… emotional… stimulation… Guzma scrunched his lips into a disappointed pout. Er, probably wasn’t the best idea to laugh at him. He needed to check himself for his old, bully-like behavior that his therapist told him not to dabble in. The fact that he did anyway was just a reflection of his true character. Didn’t matter how big he was; on the inside, he always was a bit of a weasel.

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Kukui observes quietly, feeling his nerves go haywire. He didn’t expect to make the offer, but now that it’s out in the open, it’s not like he could take it back. A part of him truly wants Guzma to accept while the rest blares in warning. In the end, he has to treat a guest at somewhere around 3 AM in the morning and he finds it not a terrible prospect. He manages to flash him a genuine grin. “Don’t worry. I may like t’ eat healthy, but I do like t’ enjoy snacks every once in awhile. No kale chip in my home.”

Home. He’s inviting Guzma into his home. Before that thought could seize him, he gestures at the door. “Well, come on in.”

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[rubbinoffthepaint]

A low whistle blew out of Guzma’s lips as he hadn’t seen a clean home in over... a long time. The last clean ‘living quarters’, as he would call them, were the living areas in the Aether Foundation far behind the blockades in the back of his mind. That sheer, pristine interior--he hated it. Something that clean had to be bad for the eyes. Humans weren’t meant to be in hyper-sterile areas.

But they weren’t meant for the near-toxic waste dump that was his apartment.

Long story short, this was a hell of a nice place.

His eyes wandered around, almost overwhelmed that his once, er, younger brother-of-bond could grow up and own a place that belonged on that home makeover channel. Guzma stepped in abrasively, nearly pushing Kukui aside to barge in and really absorb the atmosphere of Kukui’s place. So... this was the kind of life he got to live, wasn’t it? All his hard work? His good luck? Guzma looked around, but by his own nature, flopped onto the sofa with a mighty thud, laying his back across its entire length, claiming it for himself. And how comfortable was this couch? This was nothing like the moldy, hand-me-down, rotted furniture at his Shady House.

This was real, legit furniture. People could actually afford this shit.

“Ain’t too shabby, kiddo,” he spoke, a hint of entitlement in his voice as he lied domineeringly on the sofa. He put his hands behind his head and simply enjoyed the cushiony comfort.

A filthy and growly ‘yeaaaaah!’ of approval came out of his mouth at the sight of chips and cookies. He was terrified of anything green coming his way. Without even asking, Guzma took one of the bags of chips and helped himself rather generously. Large handfuls of chips met his mouth every second as he watched Kukui in the kitchen. Damn, open concept kitchen too? This guy had everything.

He stood up to snoop around, though the more science-y items weren’t in his interest. Instead, his eyes moved to what seemed to be decorative photographs. His eyes widened in revelation.

No kidding.

Before he could comment, Kukui handed him a warm glass of the world’s all-time greatest drink in history, Tapu Cocoa, and he nearly squealed in delight (but that wouldn’t have been very tough.)

“You kiddin’? If I took this without marshmallows, y’might as well cut my balls off n’ shove ‘em in my mouth. Gotta have the ‘mallows. Ain’t no way I’m drinkin’ the Cocoa when it’s naked.”

Guzma chugged the boiling drink with little effort, though he had long outgrown his sweet tooth, a craving for his favorite comfort drink always remained. There was something about hot cocoa to him that horchata just couldn’t do.

He sat back onto the couch, this time, not laying fully across it, and sat in thoughtful but mildly tense silence. What to bring up first... should he talk about anything? What was there to say? So much has changed, no--everything changed.

Guzma’s eyes wandered to the photographs.

“Pretty girl,” he commented, gesturing his mug to the pictures.

“So. You really did grow up. You’re married.”

[haulasadas-blog]

Sun of a Beach | Hau & Guzma

[haulasadas-blog]

rubbinoffthepaint:

A sly grin grew on his face once again, this time, not one so menacing. It was simply a secretive smile–one that knew things the other person didn’t. Guzma nodded, tapping the side of his head with his finger.

“Yeah, surprising, ain’t it? A jughead like me ‘boutta get launched into the schoolworld. But… uh, circumstance prevented that reality, y’know? But it was my bad to let circumstance take that from me–you ain’t gotta do that. There is no obstacle in y’way, kid.”

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Circumstances, huh? What kind of circumstances could the man be talking about? Now that he was talking to him, he realized how little he knew about Guzma. To be fair, they had only briefly met years ago, at least that was the encounter he could remember. Back then he didn’t have much of a reason to pry though, seeing as he was simply focused on helping his friends and becoming stronger. There was the whole Aether Foundation thing too, but he’d tried to forget that mess.

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[rubbinoffthepaint]

“Wh--What? Excuse me, kid, did you jus’ use the word ‘pops’ in a sentence, like, in a conversation? Why you soundin’ like some 1940′s Castelia mob man, or somethin’. Dude,” Guzma laughed at the end of his abrupt critique, shaking his own head.

The question itself did have some weight in it. Yeah, only very vaguely could he remember Hau’s old man... old was hardly the word. Both of his parents were hardly older than Guzma if he remembered right. But Hau’s dad...

“Eh, not as familiar as y’mom, but yeah, I seen ‘im. He was a shady lookin’ bastard. Shady and flighty.”

Guzma paused at his own obtuse observation, not realizing he had to take Hau’s opinion of his father into consideration. He offered an awkward but apologetic grin.

“Heh, sorry. ‘M not the right guy to be raving ‘bout dads. But I knew y’mom, she’s a sweet lady. Always wanted to feed me before I had m’sessions with Hala. Can’t imagine she’s any different now. Bet she babies you still after all these years, eh?”

He playfully nudged Hau with his upper arm, then nodded sagely.

“Nah, they won’t mind. Like. Traveling isn’t permanent. You can come back n’ take the position any time you’re ready. Not like Hala never traveled or anythin’. He sure as fuck did before he was a Kahuna. But it ain’t anythin’ I haven’t said before. You ‘ready know I’m all for travelin’ n’ gettin’ that growth. Kinda. I mean, you can cause some mayhem in the process, then you grow from uh, how strong you get. From the mayhem. Then learnin’ from it--that’s the key.”

Guzma scratched his head.

“Kid, I’m just repeating cliché stuff at you at this point. Do what you want, y’know. I’m not the best guy for advice or getting answers from. Most o’ the time, or, back in the day, I’d just give the worst advice possible and laugh at whatever dumb fucktruck would actually listenin’. But I’m bein’ serious. I owe you n’ your family my honesty, at least. For takin’ care o’ me so much.”

He then scoffed at the further prying into his statements, waving his hand dismissively.

“Look, kiddo. I don’t need to get into family comparisons. But you one o’ the lucky ones. Do I need to indulge you further? Or do y’wanna call up the Ghost of Christmas Past?”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

Weight

[lightrecon-blog]

rubbinoffthepaint:

He still didn’t like this uppity kinda attitude. What, talking all clear and precise like he went to some good school or something. Was he trying to be condescending? That would have really sent Guzma over the edge, as he already hated privacy invasion, information sharing, and general friendliness.

Then he brought up the incident of time’s past… not one of many Guzma-induced incidents, but the big one that he once tried to run away from.

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He stiffened at Guzma’s harsh words. Yes, when they had met, he had seen a similar harshness in him, although that was to be expected, considering the situation surrounding the two of them at that point was rather grave, indeed. He was… furious, then, just as Dulse was, with heightened emotions of fear and anger beyond what they would normally exude — or at least… he assumed such with Guzma. But to be frank, he knew little about the man, and with his size and with his demeanor, he was beginning to get a tad bit… frightened of him.

Dulse understood where his hesitations lay in each of their encounters, but his display of such hesitation… frightened him slightly. He was very assumptive, aggressive, though… if these ‘reporters’ were hostile in nature, he supposed he could not blame him.

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[rubbinoffthepaint]

Could he call the police on this guy?

The answer was, well, unlikely, as Guzma was eternally at the mercy of the Alolan law as of just last year, so it would be no surprise for them to show up and help the weird stranger spewing nonsense in his living room. Fine. If he needed to take matters into his own hands for this obtusely nosy reporter, he would. He knew how to do it cleanly and quietly.

His eyes sized up his prey in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists as the sensitive subject wore his patience dangerously thin.

Guzma felt his arm about to swing clean at the little fucker’s head until the dude started... glowing?

This was.. some Naruto shit. Some Dragonball shit.

“What the fuuuuck?”

Humans can’t do any of the transforming, evolving, Chris Angel stuff that he just witnessed with his own two, yellowing eyes. Guzma was speechless, which was quite new since he was a master at spewing bullshit at an unrivaled quantity and speed. Guzma pointed dumbly, stammering at the alien that proceeded to speak. Yeah... yeah he was familiar now, but... what did he just see!? How did that even happen!?

Guzma could only pace around the room, staring at the anomalous, shapeshifting being. He wasn’t the intellectual type, not usually, so trying to critically think the science behind the whole... glowing, then turning blue... yeah... yeah, he was lost.

Though, on the bright side, distracted from confronting his past.

“Okay, uh, yeah, yeah, uh---” he stuttered out pathetically, hands both frantic and vague with confusion.

“So uh, like, before we maybe get into, uh, all o’ that, n’whatever. Y’mind explaining to me, like, what I just saw? Or are we just gonna drop that? Fuck, dude. I--I’unno. Could you kill me? Like right now? You got mind beams or something? Y’got a Russian Sleeper Agent code that I’m not aware of? Am I secretly brainwashed, I--?”

Pausing his own confusion and getting the sense that the alien’s arrival had no intention on explaining itself--and why would they, Guzma hated explaining himself in general. He pulled out two blunts from his own pocket with shaky hands, lighting them both at once in his mouth. He took a long, steady, thoughtful drag, and paused.

And paused some more.

Maybe another drag.

“Okay,” he breathed out after a good three minutes of silence.

“One more time--so, where were we? Uh, Lusa--guh. Her? What, ‘re we gonna talk about how much we hate her? Wanna turn her over a spit or somethin’?”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

The Sun and the Moon

[prof-alola-deactivated20181120]

prof-alola:

rubbinoffthepaint:

One trait that never benefit Guzma in dire times was his unchangeably loud natural volume, that, on a scientific basis, was pretty impressive, but in most social situations, led to bigger problems. It seemed now his abrasive speech was only making things worse for his company, despite the reassuring tone he did his best to genuinely display. Not that he didn’t mean it, he did, but his voice was such a megaphone of aggression, he tended to always sound mad.

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It feels like he’s in a relative free fall, suspended in a plane between wakefulness and endless darkness. Kukui isn’t sure where he lies right now, but it’s not necessarily a good feeling. His mind is like a room filled with white noise – it’s blissfully silent, except for a low, consistent hum. It’s a nice feeling, if a bit unnerving for his thoughts are never silent. Even in quietude, there still exists a sound that paves way to many dark thoughts. There’s none of that right now, and he’s unsure how to feel the long he’s stuck like this.

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[rubbinoffthepaint]

A nasty laugh bubbled from Guzma at the melodrama of Kukui. Perhaps not intentional, but it was usually Guzma himself that dabbled in the dramatics. Kukui? Fainting? If only the little rat pack could see the regional professor pass out from... emotional... stimulation... Guzma scrunched his lips into a disappointed pout. Er, probably wasn’t the best idea to laugh at him. He needed to check himself for his old, bully-like behavior that his therapist told him not to dabble in. The fact that he did anyway was just a reflection of his true character. Didn’t matter how big he was; on the inside, he always was a bit of a weasel.

As he trudges on in the direction he can only assume is correct, a small tip-tappy of paws on the grass followed close behind him. He didn’t trust this sound. All the times he’s been followed back to home, back to base, to the Shady House--no way anyone was going to fuck with him tonight. Guzma sharply turned around to leer at a...

Rockruff?

It wiggled its bottom with excitement. Finally, the attention it was looking for--kind of. Guzma glared at its bright, blue eyes, disapprovingly frowning at the happy face barking back at him. He was never big on the fluffy, cute Pokémon. Especially these little runts. Vague flashes of memory sporadically poked the corners of his mind of the several Lycanroc he fought off in the alley dumpsters during his homeless days... To him, the dogs were only a competitor for food.

On instinct, Guzma bared his own teeth and barked back, though it was more of an ugly, bitter growl from the bottom of his diaphragm. No matter. It was enough to scare the little runt away. He nodded with satisfaction. Good riddance--it probably just wanted to scavenge off of him, anyhow. Rule number one to survival was to never trust anything cute and fluffy--and that’s final.

His march toward the lab was uneventful from then on, as he hissed and growled at any brave (though unfortunate) Pokémon that dared to walk by him at this hour. Guzma wasn’t in the friendly mood for Pokémon unless it was his own team of buzzing badasses. A smirk of pride grew on his lips at the thought of them until--

Movement. On his shoulder?

“You up, ugly?” he teased, his signature ugly laugh following behind, “you sure knocked the fuck out. No worries--think I see your place. Close to the beach y’self, eh? Pretty nice.”

His remarks ended with a bad harmony of sing-songiness, chuckling to himself before setting his company onto his own two feet. Guzma placed his hands on his hips with pride. Kukui was easy weight to carry--no doubt he needed to put on some weight sometime soon.

“Mmm? Oh, yeah, no problem. I’ve carried so many people back home in m’day, honestly woulda lost track if P didn’t keep up with everyone. Someone’s gotta carry everyone back to tha’ house. Only makes sense it’s the strongest guy on these shitty islands.”

Guzma snarled his teeth into a smile rather vainly to show his ostentatiousness. Like he already knew, dramatics were always more of his bag.

“Welp--guess I’ll--”

he stopped at Kukui suddenly offering him inside, nearly making his heart sink. Or, it did sink, and it sank so quickly and so heavily he could hardly keep up. Someone... else’s house...? A younger facet of his mind seemed scared to accept the offer out of fear that something... something could...

No. He didn’t need permission to go to Makani’s house anymore. Both of the deadweights at his childhood home were dead and gone to him.

With spite fueling his judgment, and still riding the high of a long-awaited reunion, Guzma nodded.

“Y-Yeah, I think I will stop inside. N’ please--I’ll accept payment of my kindness in snacks, yeah? Make sure they ain’t no bitchass snacks! If you feed me kale chips, I will shit on you while you sleep.”

[echoesoforre]

Thick-Skulled | Wes & Guzma

Plotted Ahead! | @rubbinoffthepaint

Guzma was somebody he remembered. Strange as he was, he was genuine and full-hearted; he remembered his birthday when it’d come by, even though that was over a month ago by now, and even bought him a plane ticket to Alola for him and Jace to have a vacation actually worth having for once in their lives.

And honestly, being in Alola for the first time was… both a treat and a curse, really. It was a beautiful region, don’t mistake him — there were actually colors to look at, and flora abound, people were so friendly for once instead of keeping to themselves and shoving you if you happened to shoulder them too close. The place was bustling and booming and lively — but he supposed it was that stark contrast between this metropolis and the hellscape he was used to that just put him on edge. Or the jetlag. He blamed the jetlag.

Keep reading

[rubbinoffthepaint]

Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast...

What sounded good? Or rather, what even was available? Guzma never recalled going to the grocery store as he promised himself the week before, so making some simple chorizo and eggs was out of the question. He lazily trudged through the clutter of his apartment, kicking empty pizza boxes and crumpled foil to the sides of his hallway. Making it to his kitchen, which was as undeniably trashed as both the rest of his house and his own appearance, Guzma let out an indifferent sigh to his environment. Sleepy eyes darted from mugs with liquid and mold to unfinished, week-old boxes of take-out.

He never got the hang of cleaning up after himself.

Opening the fridge, he almost expected to see it chock-full of crappy beer as it was in the old days, but his suspended state of consciousness came to a halt with reality. Oversleeping always disoriented him pretty badly. His grip tightened on the handle of the fridge with disappointment.

Okay, so, day-old pizza, or pre-packaged tortellini?

Cold pizza, obviously.

Before he could shove two slices in his mouth at once, unwelcome knocking came to the door, immediately irritating him. Oh, a guest? This early at--his eyes moved to his greasy oven. 2:37 PM. Yeah, way too early. Almost intent on ignoring the knocking, he was too annoyed and tired to just let whoever was there to keep knocking.

Guzma stomped over, yelling through the door before opening.

“Whaddaya want!?”

He swung the door open, still yelling before registering who his guest was, accusingly pointing at them.

“Can’t you read!? Nobody allowed on this here property, a’ight!? And you sure as hell ain’t Rosa the Tamale Lady!”

He blinked, realizing his fault.

“Oh--Hey kiddo. Sorry, woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Guzma offered a proud smile, happy to receive the thanks.

“Yeah, yeah. You ain’t gotta be too mushy ‘bout it. But I appreciate you stopping by. Lucky you caught me on my off days--I don’t go back into the Pro Shop until Wednesday. So I been kinda doin’ me. Nice of you to take time outta your itinerary for lil’ ol’ me.”

He laughed disgustingly, snorting to himself with amusement.

“Kiddin’. I ain’t little. I’m a big motherfucker.”

He leaned against his doorframe, folding his arms.

“So, y’guys do anything cool? Seen the shrines? Scuba-dive? Startin’ trouble? I personally recommend the last activity. Funnest thing to do on these islands.”

[haulasadas-blog]

Sun of a Beach | Hau & Guzma

[haulasadas-blog]

rubbinoffthepaint:

“Well o’ goddamn course travelin’ makes you smart, kid. You talk t’people, you get connections, you see pyramids n’ old boats n’ shit. Seein’ history in person–good for your brain.”

Guzma tapped the side of his head, giving Hau a knowing glance. Was anything he was saying making any sort of goddamn sense? Fuck, he hoped so.

Keep reading

“Pyramids and old boats, huh?” He repeated after Guzma. “That does sound kinda interesting, yeah.”

Hau continued to listen to the man, trying his best to wipe his shocked expression off of his face quickly after hearing something he had NEVER guessed would be the case if he didn’t hear it from the guy himself. 

Keep reading

[rubbinoffthepaint]

A sly grin grew on his face once again, this time, not one so menacing. It was simply a secretive smile--one that knew things the other person didn’t. Guzma nodded, tapping the side of his head with his finger.

“Yeah, surprising, ain’t it? A jughead like me ‘boutta get launched into the schoolworld. But... uh, circumstance prevented that reality, y’know? But it was my bad to let circumstance take that from me--you ain’t gotta do that. There is no obstacle in y’way, kid.”

He then nodded again, snapping his finger as Hau was catching on.

“Bingo again, lil’ genius. I had all the makings of one too... tough, smart, and a monotype specialist. Of course, Kahunas don’t have to be monotype, but traditionally, they are. An’ by that time, I had Gumby n’ Gunner all locked and loaded. But... again, it wasn’t meant for me. Besides, I wouldn’t have been a good one--I’m too fuckin’ mean to be a good Kahuna. Kahunas gotta like... be friendly to the people on they island... and I cared more about bein’ strong.”

Amongst other things.

Solemn memories in shades of gray replayed in his mind, pausing his speech for a moment or two. Guzma hated to dwell in the past, but for the last year, it was all he had. All he had were his regrets and ‘should have beens’ collecting in the pit of his heart, now all gathering dust from never being reconciled. Wasted potential. Wasted gifts.

‘Would someone so gifted lose as much as I do, Hala!?’

He jolted back into reality after hearing his own younger voice creep into his ears. Right, we needed to focus on Hau.

“So--uh, yeah, ‘course since I knew Hala, I knew y’parents too, or like, kinda. I knew of them, I guess. Then some lil’ meatsack was born the same year I left. One o’ the last nice things my tired eyes would see before it all went down th’ shitter. What was it...? Kinda short after my own birthday, this little ugly brown, bloody thing came into the world. February.”

Guzma pointed casually to Hau.

“That was you. I even got t’hold you for a bit. Boy--did you hate me.You was screamin’, wigglin’ in my arms all like ‘Aaaaah!!! Get this ugly motherfucker away from me!’”

He laughed heartily, nodding in reminiscence.

“I used to be close to your family by default, I admit... kinda like, my second family. I wanted t’be like all o’ you, y’know? Close, trusting... happy. Maybe not all th’time--no family is perfect... some people leave...”

The man sighed.

“Sometimes y’fight. But in the end, everyone’s okay. I... I wanted a family like that too, y’know? One where everything would be okay in the end no matter what. And that’s why--that’s why if you tell your grandpa you wanna travel before settling into bein’ a Kahuna, I know he’d understand. He ain’t gonna disown you, fucko. It ain’t gonna undo all your crazy-ass trainin’. It ain’t gonna change anythin’ for him--travelin’ and growth is about you. And a good family would support that. ‘Nuff said.”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

Weight

[lightrecon-blog]

rubbinoffthepaint:

Every spray of the shades of yellow he splattered on the canvas were all tied together in creating an image in his mind’s eye. Across the canvas was an shape much similar to his own watch, though the shading was still a work in progress. With each stroke he embellished his own regrets and mistakes from the weight this object held. But what was he supposed to do with the gift? Lose his only collateral with his name to it? What kind of pathetic adult didn’t own anything to their own name? Nothing federally approved–the only thing left that was his was an overpriced reminder of the bitch he once served.

With each stroke, Guzma only felt more rage.

Keep reading

Well he… supposed he couldn’t blame Guzma for not recognizing him. That was the point of a disguise, no? To appear as human as possible, and not recognizable as the blue-skinned, jumpsuit-clad alien he had first arrived at. No, in this present state, he had already taken on human clothes, human skintone, even a human alias. In a way, past the shock, he was almost relieved that someone who had even known him as his original self did not recognize him now. It meant that his disguise was working.

He tilted his head to the side when the other went on that he may be a reporter of some kind; he supposed that would make sense ( as far as he could remember reporters… acting like ) that his questions seemed to be of the interview nature; without the connection to one-another personally having established itself, it seemed as though he was prying.

Keep reading

[rubbinoffthepaint]

He still didn’t like this uppity kinda attitude. What, talking all clear and precise like he went to some good school or something. Was he trying to be condescending? That would have really sent Guzma over the edge, as he already hated privacy invasion, information sharing, and general friendliness.

Then he brought up the incident of time’s past... not one of many Guzma-induced incidents, but the big one that he once tried to run away from.

His reaction was rather silent as he was processing the information. Dulse... he hardly remembered. Of course, not that he really went out of his way to acknowledge many people in general, but the name only gave him a faint hint of recollection. Why... did he not look familiar? Disguise? Guzma looked him over again, the same scowl on his face.

Guzma then bursted into ugly laughter.

“You--You? You’re an alien? Like--the ones we was runnin’ into? Oh my god, kid, please, you’re killin’ me. Wait, no, no, I got it.”

He stood menacingly from his former throne, still coated with the former marks of damage and destruction by his own wake, and loomed over the guest. This was just some puny little kid. Some kid that wanted to come in and test his patience--no way in hell this wasn’t a reporter or the feds trying to meddle with his progress for another primetime news story.

They weren’t getting that today.

“You’re here to mock me, aren’t ya kid? You think it’s funny to come in, pull some rusty skeletons outta the closet, and dump on my whole motherfuckin’ day. Youse Dulse--? You were there, huh? You was part of our whole evil little syndicate, huh? You were a bad guy, like me? Like her?”

Rather than asserting his aggression physically, he contained his annoyance and exhaled, only scoffing after a moment. He took a step back.

“Prove it.”

Guzma raised a finger, pointing it to the one named Dulse.

“Prove to me that you’re who y’say you are, and I’ll talk.”

[haulasadas-blog]

Sun of a Beach | Hau & Guzma

[haulasadas-blog]

rubbinoffthepaint:

Hell, did he break the damn kid?

Confused eyes focused in the midst of observing the younger man having some… kind of breakdown? Guzma wasn’t exactly sure–he himself was notorious for having several in a day, but his included episodes of vindictive words and punches–his outbursts were explosive, sudden–violent. This wasn’t typical for him to witness. Was the kid just shutting down? The quick string of words in his train of thought ran in circles, chasing itself into a panick-y vortex.

Guzma was actually becoming concerned.

Keep reading

Guzma’s voice sounded like it was far away now he was growing a little lightheaded. His shallow breaths made it harder and harder for him to get the oxygen needed to function, and balling himself up like that wasn’t helping much either. Neptune had caught up on this fact rather quickly, and white flippers gently pried the boy’s face away from his knees. Next up to be pried away were his hands, leaving his blubbering face open and vulnerable for both his Primarina and Guzma to see.

Keep reading

[rubbinoffthepaint]

“Well o’ goddamn course travelin’ makes you smart, kid. You talk t’people, you get connections, you see pyramids n’ old boats n’ shit. Seein’ history in person--good for your brain.”

Guzma tapped the side of his head, giving Hau a knowing glance. Was anything he was saying making any sort of goddamn sense? Fuck, he hoped so.

Come to think of it, he was actually enjoying talking to this kid. At least, since he was doing most of the talking, and he loved to talk and be as annoying as possible, this was pretty nice. Man, if only everyone liked to hear out his wacky and absurdist advice on everything--the world would be a much better place.

Or, better yet--the world would be a much worse place. Worse places were always a little more fun.

“But not bein’ the brightest tool in the shed... shit, you ain’t gotta be no genius, kid. Big G himself once was accepted into some good schools back in the day--They’s long ago days, but ‘s the truth. But you’re not a hot mess like me, kid--you got shit goin’ for you.”

But now the cat was out of the bag--he shared a little more information than intended, but assuming Hala was this kid’s grandpa, surely he’d heard of Guzma before. At least, maybe once he was mentioned. Even vaguely. Hala probably had all the stories of Guzma running back with yet another victory from his trial, happy to show his proud teacher the fruits of his work... he looked sadly to the ground. The unconditional support he got from Hala had so differently contrasted from the treatment at home. Despite being almost two decades ago, he could still remember the adrenaline rush he got from training with the man.

He smiled--the two had gotten back in touch after months of Guzma’s own stubbornness and pride, but it was a slow process. Hala was by no means stupid nor ignorant--he’d known what Guzma had done in his time away. At least, most of it.

“Yeah, yeah, once upon a time, I did, kid. I was in your exact position not nineteen years ago. I was.... well, same as you. I was once a captain-in-training--but Hala gave me extra treatment. He wanted me to be a Kahuna--no different than you. ‘Course--this island, I’m pretty sure it’s bloodbound--but he wanted me to take up Ula’ Ula or like, Akala... He trained me goddamn hard. Grinded my ugly lil’ ass into stone.”

Guzma gave a sly look.

“In a good way--not in the bad kinda way that the streets do.”

Okay, enough sharing.

“So--point is, kid. I know Hala--I know him well enough to tell y’he’d understand. Life ain’t about shit inherently--I mean, we get born, life sucks, then we die, but like--it ain’t like you can’t do shit in between.”

A comically pseudo-sage-like finger pointed to the kid’s face as Guzma’s ego inflated from his company’s interested and listening ears.

“Up to you t’do something ‘bout it.”

He paused.

“Y’know, I hate t’tell you like this kiddo, especially since I knew you when you was a screaming little hand-held chunk of baby meat--but--you’re... Hau right? Ain’t that your name?”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

The Sun and the Moon

[prof-alola-deactivated20181120]

rubbinoffthepaint:

One thing that Guzma had loved for years–decades–since he ran from home.

He loved, loved terrifying people. 

The raw rush of power he felt when watching people tremble under him, beg for his mercy, beg for any saving grace only for him to take it away and kick them even lower… he remembered how much he loved it. How his adrenaline would only pump faster the more a person would cry. That vulnerable, pathetic state people put themselves into when they were terrified used to make them laugh for being so easy to break. Weak–everyone was so weak to him. He’d openly point and laugh for how pathetic they were, how uncalloused their soft hearts were–he would laugh at how easy their lives were, how they never, not once, could even understand what true fear was until he lifted his fist to watch them cry for help.

Keep reading

It’s such an awful, awful feeling. Kukui hates feeling so vulnerable. He’s always told himself that he needed to be strong, that he can’t crumble because there’s so many people who’s looking at him for guidance. For if the strong falter, where does that leave the young ones? He thought he had better control, he really did but here he is, crying openly at the open beach, underneath the night sky, in the presence of the one who made him cry, and the one he’s crying for. 

Keep reading

[rubbinoffthepaint]

One trait that never benefit Guzma in dire times was his unchangeably loud natural volume, that, on a scientific basis, was pretty impressive, but in most social situations, led to bigger problems. It seemed now his abrasive speech was only making things worse for his company, despite the reassuring tone he did his best to genuinely display. Not that he didn’t mean it, he did, but his voice was such a megaphone of aggression, he tended to always sound mad.

With how Kukui was looking, this was not in his favor.

He could just see a reflection of himself in the behavior--the distance in his eyes as his brain spiraled down, hard and fast--reaching for lost things left buried that are meant to stay in the dark, things not meant to be resurfaced under any circumstance--thoughts forbidden to be brought into light.

Guzma knew this mindset very, very well. This was the same one that tore a rift in his own brain every time he warranted himself a failure--every time the gold medal wasn’t his, that rift would open and the echoes of time’s past would bellow to him the same thing a man once did in his cursed childhood home.

Guzma, what is wrong with you!?

The phrase was as clear as a bell to his ears whenever anything went sour, and even worse, the substantial fear that followed. The terrible, awful anticipation of pain once failure and disappointment found him--a fear so violent he had to deliver the pain to himself before anything else could.

When they were children, did Makani ever know how bad... it really was?

Did he know anything was bad at all?

“C’mon kiddo, let’s use our legs. We got walkin’ t’do, and you best be doin’ some sleep. Ain’t nothing better for tears than knockin’ the fuck out.”

Maybe a little too personal.

And judging by the sudden weight on one of his arms as Kukui fell limp, perhaps. A little too, er, accurate.

This was by far nowhere near the first time someone had passed out next to, on, or around Guzma. This was something, scenario-wise, he was pretty familiar with. But... nobody could see him with an unconscious body now in his rehabilitation stage. Even worse, the unconscious body of the Alola-recognized Professor Kukui!? If was was caught then and there, he’d be in prison for the rest of his days, behind the same sad, grey walls and rusty iron bars that still held Guzma in its clutches in his nightmares. His body shuddered at the thought of returning there.

He had to think quick before anyone could possibly see.

Guzma removed his own shirt, luckily for Kukui, washed that day--and lazily wrapped it around his head to cover his recognizable face--then held him up over his shoulder to carry him like a sack of potatoes. For Guzma, his company was nowhere near heavy--this kind of delivery was just fine.

He started to the lab, to which, he still recalled was near the beach. Or something. It was... somewhere. Not in the city, but it was a ways in Iki Town, kinda close to Hala. Or something. The time being the wee hours of the night, somewhere between two and three, worked especially to his advantage: this close to the sleepy town of Iki--nobody was going to be awake.

So, now that he could meditate on what just happened... did Kukui fall asleep, or did he, like, just check the fuck out for a second. Because if it was the latter, Guzma would have to get someone to call an ambulance, and bribe them with what little money he had to convince the police force that he wasn’t directly involved or responsible.

Which would be tough. The police loved dancing their shitty dance of mockery around him.

“We’re getting there, kiddo. You’ll be home soon,” he reassured to his unconscious friend. Pointless in the case of comfort, but at least he felt good about saying it.

[rubbinoffthepaint]

The Sun and the Moon

[prof-alola-deactivated20181120]

prof-alola:

rubbinoffthepaint:

They did share a singular nervous glance at each just beyond Guzma’s slip-up, possibly checking to see what the other thought. And if he could guess, they were looking for the same thing. A singular, doubting reach for the reassurance that the label was intended… that he meant it, and for the other… if the phrase was even remotely acceptable. The last thing he wanted was to mess up what may be his final chance–after messing up every single one before. Kukui could only have so much patience. What was the breaking point?

Keep reading

He’s a coward. He’s a huge fucking coward for upping and leaving like this. Kukui knows what he’s doing will give off the wrong impression but at the moment, the only thing on his mind is to leave before he’s hurt. Leave before he could find himself caring, only for it to be rejected. He’s an adult. He should be better than this, better at controlling his emotions but maybe, he never really grew up from that shy, chubby boy when it came to Guzma.

Before he’s even halfway through the beach, a hand suddenly yanks the back of his collar, stopping him in his tracks.

Keep reading

[rubbinoffthepaint]

One thing that Guzma had loved for years--decades--since he ran from home.

He loved, loved terrifying people. 

The raw rush of power he felt when watching people tremble under him, beg for his mercy, beg for any saving grace only for him to take it away and kick them even lower... he remembered how much he loved it. How his adrenaline would only pump faster the more a person would cry. That vulnerable, pathetic state people put themselves into when they were terrified used to make them laugh for being so easy to break. Weak--everyone was so weak to him. He’d openly point and laugh for how pathetic they were, how uncalloused their soft hearts were--he would laugh at how easy their lives were, how they never, not once, could even understand what true fear was until he lifted his fist to watch them cry for help.

Striking them was even better.

He was nothing more than a power-hungry dog in those days--no matter what his grunts would say about him, his generous acts lied outdone by his atrocities. All from his bloodlust for bringing people to their knees.

If there was anything he once loved so much, so much it would bring him to the edge of subconscious insanity--it was being the judge, the jury, and the executioner.

Yet, when he looked at his old friend shaking under him, guilt held his heart in its cold, icy clutches as he watched Kukui begin to cry. This was... not a person he’d hope to terrorize. Seeing him like this... so weak, so scared, all at the hands of his own doing...

He realized then and there he had grown past his obsession with power.

“Hey--”

Shit, he scared him, and bad. These raw, honest words pouring out of him... he didn’t just say this of his own free will--this was fear. This was fear beating the honesty out of the back of his brain, out of his heart, and all Guzma could bring himself to do was watch helplessly. And how helpless he felt after hearing each overly-honest word come for his heart and take a punch.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know any of this, surely he knew in the back of his head--everything he left behind. It used to haunt him the first couple years he had escaped his home, he could remember that clearly. His old friendships and home would hold his mind hostage and throw it around as they pleased. Of course, long ago, he thought of Kukui almost every day. But for him to survive the streets, the disgusting unforgiving side of the streets that only the homeless ever knew of--he had to bury those thoughts.

Now they were being dug up against his own will.

“Listen--!”

Guzma interrupted before Kukui could spiral further. He couldn’t bear to hear any more of this.

“You think I wanted to leave!? You think that was easy!? I know what I left behind! I don’t need a fucking reminder!”

He sounded more aggressive than he’d hoped, but now, both walls were down. Both Guzma and Kukui--both Makani and Diego--had finally found one person they could be honest with.

Each other.

“I know--what I left behind,” Guzma repeated, trying to not scare Kukui any more than he already had, “And, And those are times we can’t take back, Kooks. I know... I know what I missed.”

He sighed out of his nose.

“But you have to understan’--I couldn’t stay. Not another day--hour, minute--second. I could not stay in that house. I’m--I wasn’t in a place, for years--If I wanted to survive, I couldn’t think of home. I jus’--y’know, I just fuckin’ couldn’t. But we here now, okay--it’s you an’ me, like I said. It’s just us.”

Guzma’s hand delicately squeezed Kukui’s shoulder, and his reassuring smile nearly looked like a grimace. They both were tired.

“Hey--it’s okay Maka--how ‘bout Diego walks you home, eh? Let’s walk you home.”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

The Sun and the Moon

[prof-alola-deactivated20181120]

prof-alola:

rubbinoffthepaint:

Heavy familiarity seemed to wave through his companion’s expression at the mention of the trial. Shame turned Guzma’s veins to ice, and for a couple moments, he could feel and hear his own heart beating low in his chest. So, that many people had seen it. Being out of the loop the two weeks afterward and untouched with outside life had eschewed his perception of how much people knew about the whole ordeal. Come to think of it, it was the biggest social news in recent Alolan history. It was likely recapped several times on all broadcasting stations–showing the same footage of him fighting against security, crying out for his team. For freedom. For revenge.

Everyone saw that, didn’t they?

Keep reading

Talking about his passion helps ease him some, but not by a lot. Kukui is still waiting for the moment everything would come crashing down. He’s not usually a pessimist, but he wants to believe that he’s just being a realist. It started out like every other time he crossed paths with Guzma. Maybe it’s a lot more amicable but things are just proceeding far too smooth. He’s afraid that the moment he believes in a positive outcome, it’ll all be yanked away.

And the casual mentioning of brother– it feels like that moment he’s been struck full on by a Gigavolt Havoc. 

Keep reading

[rubbinoffthepaint]

They did share a singular nervous glance at each just beyond Guzma’s slip-up, possibly checking to see what the other thought. And if he could guess, they were looking for the same thing. A singular, doubting reach for the reassurance that the label was intended... that he meant it, and for the other... if the phrase was even remotely acceptable. The last thing he wanted was to mess up what may be his final chance--after messing up every single one before. Kukui could only have so much patience. What was the breaking point?

Guzma remained wary with the thought fresh in his mind. He generally didn’t have any patience for anybody--who’s to say people wouldn’t give him the same treatment, as unbearable as he typically was? He never gave anybody a second chance for anything, yet he was given the flexible luxury of chance all around him, whether he wanted it or not.

Or, the more weighted question, deserved it or not. Obviously, the answer was no, he didn’t deserve any of this after everything he’s done--and lucky for his own jackassery at the trial, he interrupted the judge before he could finish reading all of his charges. 

He’s done a lot to Alola and it’s people, and they’ll never know just how much. But he always will.

His wandering focus returned to Kukui once he spoke again, internally thankful he didn’t address the unintended term of endearment. Yeah. That was something he’d rather not go into full detail about. Good thing it was glossed over.

“Well no shit they gon’ tell you not withstand a fuckin’ oh-ko. Like--we ain’t Pokémon, y’know? Shit actually gon’ kill us if we ain’t careful. Like--what, what you gon’ do next? Fissure? You’d literally fall into th’ ground you goddamn sack’ o’ bricks!”

His playful name-calling brought a relaxed smile back on his face. It was in Guzma’s nature to playfully tease and bully, perhaps not the best strategy for gentle conversation, but it was natural to him. And it was hard not to be comfortable around Kukui. He never asked too many questions, and he was always good about letting things just be. Guzma nodded at the truthful remark... it was true, they hadn’t talked intimately in two decades. The last time was not months before...

Before that.

The same beach, the same distance, the same feeling--they lived out shadows of their own time’s past. One final heart-to-heart before his own departure, swearing to never return.

“Yeah... been a while, huh? We ain’t talk like this in years, ain’t we? At th’ same time, feels like no time’s passed.”

But everything changed since then. Everything about the two young boys had changed since their last heart-to-heart on the very same beach.

Before he could say anything else to his company, he suddenly felt his heart sink deep into his stomach as he saw Kukui nearly excuse himself entirely. What? He furrowed his brows, confused. Wasn’t... wasn’t this what he wanted? Did he just not get the right vibe from him... No, this is what he wanted the whole time, a genuine conversation without one injuring the other. Or, on more common terms, rejecting.

Was this some kind of petty revenge? For all the times Guzma had foolishly been an asshole? Was building up this trust, this sincerity, all for nothing?

Asshole.

Guzma stood up, and stormed after the man. Fuck no. Fuck no--Guzma knew what he damn well deserved, and that was a bullet to the head, if not worse, but he also damn well knew he hated being walked out on, and that was not going to happen on his watch. Any move that showed he was the lesser, that he wasn’t in charge always felt like a personal attack on him. Fuck what therapy said--he’s going to drag his ass back out to the sand, whether Kukui liked it or not.

His long strides beat the professor’s eventually grabbing him by the back collar of his shirt, and yanking him back. Impatience fueled Guzma’s already overflowing strength as he held the man in place. A malicious smile grew on his lips, and eyes teetering on an outburst scanned his victim.

“Where the fuck... you think you’re going?”

The words sounded both hostile... and, underneath the thick layer of violence, concerned. He’d never take these measures had he not cared for the person--whoever else it would be, but he’d be damned if he was going to let this time go. No. He was far too stubborn to let a good time, a relaxing night--fall through his fingers.

“You ain’t gonna sit back down with y’big brother? Huh? Fuck, y’got too much to do? Ain’t this what you wanted?”

Guzma’s volume only increased--unluckily for his company, his lungs were nearly unlimited with air and volume--as Guzma was already a naturally loud speaker.

“Ain’t you wanna sit down and jus’ talk!? You wanna help me!? Or you jus’ doin’ all this to make yourself feel better!? I’m not a charity case--I’m not a fucking burden--I’m not some shitty punching bag you can take care of, a’ight!? I’m a person. We--”

Finally, he felt his own volume decrease.

“We’re people. It’s you--and it’s me. It’s just us. And... and if this some petty shit you doin’, fine. I get it. I was an ass. But--I be growin’. And--I wouldn’t even be talkin’ if it was anyone else but you, man.”

Humility now coated his words, his initial anger seeping into the sand.

“I’m not as merciful as you. I’m not as patient as you. So--So I’m not letting you leave, okay? You were too patient with me--but I’m not giving you that leverage. I want you here.”

He finally let go, realizing his own aggression long after the fact.

“If. If you’ll have me.”

[rubbinoffthepaint]

a meme edit from me to you