#also the training is so boring and corporate

[echoes-lighthouse]

Ugh I’m having a messy start to a new job: they fucked up sending me the training links and then didn’t respond for two days and then paid me for eight hours of training but it’s literally worked out to over twelve hours so I have to hassle them about paying me for additional hours

Anyways my first actual in person training is tomorrow and I’m stressed because of how much of a disaster this online training has been

[red-ruth]

I like the rebranding I think the old logo needed updating and the new one is more dynamic. And I like that the GP kinda looks like a circuit

[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for being proud of my job as a regional Nightmare?

My sister told me she’s making her own post and that if I was so sure I wasn’t TA then I should make my own so here I am.

I’m a regional Nightmare. I’m very proud of how hard I worked to get here. Not many terrors in their 20s get this high up and it’s because I do the work. I get up at 8pm and I’m out in the woods grinding out those quotas until dawn. Sometimes I sleep out there in my uniform just so I can be the first on scene for the multi-part jobs. I’m efficient, I’m punctual, and I’m committed. My goal is to be a Cyptid by the time I’m 30 and, to do that, I have to stay on at all times.

As a result, I work a lot. I’m often not home for days at a time. I have a very strict training regimen and my time for friends and family is virtually nonexistent. That’s why when I do get the time to hang out, I prefer to spend my time intentionally. What I mean by that is that I don’t want to sit on a couch when I could be lifting weights. I don’t want to chill in the pool when I could be volunteering for new scares. I especially don’t want to gossip over tea when I could be getting overtime.

Last Saturday, my sister invited a bunch of family over to her house. My job in the Virginia woods fell through, so I decided to go. Silly (her childhood nickname) said she had something important to tell the family so I thought it wouldn’t be a waste of my time.

Key word: thought.

When I got to Silly’s house, I was surprised to see so many cars out front. Our parents were there and our older brother. The house was packed. There were cousins, aunts, uncles and a ton of people I didn’t know.

At first the event was fine. Silly’s always been a good cook (see, I know you’re reading this, Silly, and see? I do compliment you when do something actually good) and everyone was really enjoying the flank steak (though I did have to save it before she cooked it medium well). But as the day wore on, I could tell people were getting bored. Silly and Mom were focused on cleaning up and said that dessert would have to wait until her fiance got home. Which was kind of rude to be late and I felt really bad for Silly. It seems like my soon to be brother-in-law (BIL for short) is never around when she needs him.

In an effort to help, I engaged some of the people I didn’t know in conversation because the party was getting a little dead and I didn’t want one of my sister’s parties to fail. I was trying hard not to think about the time I was wasting waiting for my future BIL so it also served as a distraction.

It turns out one of the guys was a fellow terror. He worked a corporate job and we talked for a while about the pros of being freelance like me. He asked me a lot of questions and I was happy to mentor another terror.  Corporate can suck the art out of what we do. My clients only care if the quota for their mission is met and don’t enforce such strict timelines. They come to me for quality. Poor guy barely had time to mend his uniform between scares (his cloak was tattered and his hook hand was rusty) so I recommended my tailor and blacksmith.

The guy and I exchanged information. I gave him my business card and he looked for one of his. While he looked, I felt nature calling so I headed upstairs to use my sister’s bathroom (like hell I was going to use the same one as my Uncle Joe). From up there, I saw my future BIL pull into the driveway.

 Being a regional Nightmare is a tough job. Like I said, I have to train a lot to keep my certification. So I thought it’d be a good idea to get a scare on my BIL both to punish him for being late and to make up for all the time I’d already wasted at the party.

So I waited for him to come upstairs to change and, when he did, I pulled out the works. I darkened the room and fell back into the shadows. Then, while he groped for the light switch, I stretched out my leg (I have an extra joint in them) and tried to nudge him. I honestly didn’t expect for him to trip and I DEFINITELY didn’t expect for him to fall backwards. I’ve been practicing this skill on my family since I was sixteen and got the leg extension mod and none of them ever fell like that.

My future BIL fell down the stairs. I panicked and raced over to look over the banister. He was fine! He wasn’t bleeding or anything and, when I saw that, I started to laugh.

Everyone freaked out though. They all said I was being immature and bullying my BIL. I told them it wasn’t bullying, it was my actual job. I said that I was just joking and didn’t know my BIL, a former “Cryptid”, would take it so hard.

My mom jumped in and backed me up, but my sister has always been the Queen of the castle. Silly and Dad kicked me out ( I mean, I let them, I’ve got enhanced strength and I didn’t want to hurt them). Dad called me a disgrace and to not come back home.

I asked him if he was really kicking me out just because I wanted to show off my skills a little? And he said yes. And Silly said I had it coming to me for a long time.

I don’t even know what went wrong.

 So AITA for taking pride in my work?

---.

SillyCreeper says: Oh my god, you actually made this post? You’re an actual idiot. For anyone who believes this story, read mine before you vote. My brother left out a few details like how the party was my GENDER REVEAL PARTY and that he’s not a regional Nightmare, he’s a  Slasher for hire.

OP replies: I am TRAINED to operate as a regional Nightmare. That makes me an independent regional Nightmare.

SillyCreeper replies: Regional Nightmares don’t steal failed missions from corporate Slashers

OP replies: Get your own post, Silly

SillyCreeper: Oh, I already did. Have fun being torn apart on yours, dumbass.

-----

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to read Silly's AITA post a week early, please consider becoming a patron (X)!

Aita for going no contact with my brother after he pulled a Scare on my husband?

I'm working on this anthology during November and I'm having a blast with this story in particular! The family drama keeps going on and on

[soleilapproves]

Simon’s apartment window conveniently faces yours making him increasingly interested in you.

notes / warnings: fem!reader

Warnings: stalker behavior, spying.

Part 1 of ?

It all started when Simon caught something moving in the corner of his eye. His body shifted away from his computer to see a woman stretching in the window facing his. Messy hair, loose cropped t-shirt that barely covered her mid riff and shorts that one only wore when they knew no one was at home.

Regardless, he found her charming with how carefree she looked. Was she like that with people too? Maybe she was one those type of people that was super rigid with coworkers and strangers but laid back with friends. Or maybe she liked greeting every neighbor she happened to pass by while walking out the building.

Normally, he didn’t bother with people but something in him pulled him towards her. So much so that he moved his chair from his desk and towards the window to see her better. Comfortably sitting with his legs spread and arms folded. He mentally thanked himself for having tinted windows. He could add spying to his list of benefits.

She peered through the window, looking around to see the blurs of metal on the streets. She slumped her shoulders as if she seemed disappointed and went back into her apartment.

He wanted to see more. All he knew was that there was a woman with horrible taste in sleepwear living across from him. Even the fact that her window was full length didn’t help. He couldn’t see much aside from her white bed sheets and maybe a plushie. A couple posters, a small cup on her desk and a…. was that a cat?

His former military training had him seeing a bird eating worms many yards away but now he felt like all that was useless if he couldn’t know what her posters were actually about.

He shook his head to get him back into a more productive headspace and went right back to work. Surveillance work and private investigation felt a lot more taxing after leaving the military. He doesn’t have the patience he used to have back then.

Two hours pass by and he gets up to stretch. Following the woman’s routine, he walks up to the window and stretches his while looking down.

And lo and behold, there she was, by the bus stop, this time wearing some sort of slacks set with a colorful jacket (much better choice than what she was wearing before). Looked like regular office wear. Simon thought that it was good she was taking precautions against the cold.

He checked the time on his Fitbit.

8:27 am

Simon noticed that since she takes the 8:30 bus then she must have a boring corporate ‘9 to 5’ job nearby

-

As you waited for the bus, you plugged in your earphones to listen to a song you’ve been obsessed with lately. The beat couldn’t help but make you bob your head side to side, uncaring if people thought you were crazy or had too much caffeine than one should in the morning.

You continued bobbing your head in the bus. This song has probably been played fifteen times since you’d first heard it. You played to it on your speakers while swiping the floor, in the shower, grooming your cat, and much more.

You were a little bummed out that your friends didn’t like it as much but it was fine. You had your cat who was conditioned rub her fuzzy little head against your hand whenever that that song played through any speakers.

-

Simon had been staring at the bus stop outside his window since 5:00 pm sharp. He knew that the woman was going to arrive any moment now. It was Monday night. There was no way she had other places to be.

6:20 pm

She got out of the bus. A bit later than he expected but then he noticed a small plastic bag in her hand. Maybe a quick grocery run on the way back. He also accounted for the added traffic during rush hour.

‘I can go back to work now.’ He thought himself. ‘She’s safe at home.’

But no, he had to make sure that she was in her apartment. He waited for a few minutes and then saw her in her room. She fell back on her bed with a bounce and the left corner of his upper lip lifted at the scene.

‘She’s safe and sound in her room. Time to go back to work.’

He threw himself back into his work.

Work.

Working.

More work.

Yes, tracking down this old man’s gold digging wife to see if she actually deserves to be on the will or not. She indeed doesn’t. Cheating with her hair dresser. He drafted a quick email of all her reports that was to be sent to his client at 9 am in the morning.

He normally didn’t schedule his emails like that. He usually did it right when he was supposed to send them to make sure there weren’t any last minute changes needed to be made (he felt like it was done better in the morning than any other time). But now, he had the woman from the window. He had to make sure she didn’t get hurt on her way to work and returned back home safe.

He had to keep her safe. His job made him feel like he was compelled to, duh.

Switching off his computer and messily shoving all his notes in a locked drawer, he decided to call it a night.

As he went to lay down, his eyes caught her window again, this time she was dancing. He wondered what song she could possibly be listening to that made her so happy.

He decided to grab his binoculars and peek a little closer. Curiosity’s sake.

She was wearing the same ugly sleep wear from this morning. Meaning, she probably didn’t shower today.

Meaning, she must have dry shampoo.

Ghost doesn’t need any of that since his hair has always been cut short out of habit. Maybe he’ll go to the grocery store nearby tomorrow to see what kind of dry shampoo they sell.

He began to wonder what she smelled like. He was personally a huge fan of sweet scents like vanilla and cinnamon. But he’s heard many women say that it’s very basic so they like pairing it with something floral.

To him, she seemed like the creative type. No boring person would openly dance in front of their window like it was not one of the most embarrassing things in the world.

He began to think about ways he could find out what that song was. He didn’t know any sort of information about her besides where she lived. He could use that to his advantage and trace her email to her other accounts.

So that was that. His first assignment for the next day.

-

I see that all my stalker-phobia is finally coming to good use.

[qqueenofhades]

I don’t understand. Why is not only the NYT but EVERYONE screaming in circles about Biden’s age? I mean I too would love a slightly younger president, but faced with Trump, I don’t understand how this is even a discussion. What can the motive possibly be?

First answer: Money. The corporate media is not your friend for many reasons, but especially because it will happily shill for open fascism, and sabotage Biden left and right, because the corporations and/or oligarchs who own the media (think how hard Elon has been trying to shill for Trump partly due to Biden's promised 25% billionaire tax) do not give a shit about American democracy. It's kind of nice in theory, maybe, but they do not give a shit as long as they get their tax breaks and "pro-business" legislation, which Trump has perforce promised to give them again. They are also not fans of Biden for other reasons, especially since he has been busy promoting unions, new labor laws, new industrial requirements/standards (even as fast as SCOTUS is trying to strip them away) and other things that interfere with the Reagonomics pursuit of the rich getting richer by any means necessary. Biden is the first US president since Reagan to openly call trickle-down economics bullshit, say that it doesn't work, and try to install a new economic model. Everyone who got rich under Reagonomics, therefore, has incentive to get rid of him.

First-continued, the money element also extends to the fact that Trumpists/MAGA love reading stories about how old and frail Biden is (especially if this distracts from their candidate being a raging fascist lunatic), so they will click on the story and read it and gleefully share it with other Trumpists/MAGA to shout about how terrible Biden is and how the Trump Vengeance Train is coming. "Biden actively dying RIGHT NOW!!" stories also make Democrats panic, so they will click on it and read it to find out how much they should be panicking, then share it with other Democrats to let them know that they should ALSO be panicking. Either way, it drives page views and advertising revenue, so the media is once more financially incentivized to produce these kinds of stories and to find "facts" that fit these stories, regardless of whether or not they are, uh, true. American media swings conservative in many ways, but especially if they can promote the "both sides the same!" or "Horserace!!!" narrative to keep Republicans gleeful and Democrats nervous.

Basically, no mainstream media outlet (even the so-called liberal ones like MSNBC) has any financial interest or incentive in supplying Americans with accurate information (we live in late-stage capitalist hell, etc) and many of them are openly pining for Trump back in office so they can be Principled Truth Tellers In Exile, get clicks and coverage from reporting on the crazy things he does (think the CEO of CBS saying that Trump was "bad for America but great for CBS") and other activities that drive the bottom line. This also adds up to an impulse to shill for Trump and sabotage Biden, who is competent but boring. After, American politics are a reality show and should be Driving Headlines!!!! Fascist America would be a great story!!! Think of the ratings!!!

.... anyway. We! live! in! hell!

Second, the media also loves to push "Democrats in disarray" stories, because there has always been a WILD double standard in regard to how they cover the Democrats vis-a-vis the Republicans. As such, they have completely given up on mentioning anything even slightly critical about Trump, and the 500 disqualifying and awful things he has already done and continues to do every day, in favor of driving as hard as they can at the "Biden should step down!!" story. Now, I'm not denying that obviously, I wish we had a better (and younger) candidate and that Biden's health is a legitimate issue, but trying to do it to the incumbent FOUR MONTHS BEFORE THE ELECTION is an exercise in sheer insanity and something that the media wants to do because again, It Would Get Clicks!!, regardless of how insane it would in fact be. It's also insane because this is the same exact fucking thing that the media did to Hillary Clinton in 2016 (running MONTHS of stories about her health problems, her emails, how she was secretly ill and/or the Democrats should replace her, etc) and A LOT OF Y'ALL ARE FALLING FOR IT AGAIN. Which isn't terrifying or anything, but also.

Now, of course, the establishment Democratic party is partly complicit in the tone of this coverage, and that is also a problem. I personally want to smack every "anonymous Democratic adviser" or "Democratic politician" giving these Anxiety Concern Quotes to Politico, NYT, the BBC, and wherever else with a brick over the goddamn head and tell them to Shut the Absolute Fuck Up and dedicate all their energy to helping Biden win, instead of deliberately and unhelpfully perpetuating the narrative that he's about to die at any moment. (And also, if he did have to step aside before or after the election for any reason: THE ONLY DEMOCRATICALLY ELECTED CANDIDATE TO REPLACE HIM IS KAMALA HARRIS. KAMALA HARRIS IS THE ONLY PERSON WITH ANY LEGITIMACY TO TAKE OVER THE NOMINATION AND/OR OFFICE OF POTUS FROM BIDEN. IF YOU DON'T LIKE THAT AND THINK YOUR MAGICAL WHITE MAN WILL PARACHUTE IN THERE INSTEAD, SHUT UP. THERE IS NO OTHER OPTION EXCEPT HARRIS. SHUT THE FUCK UP FOREVER.)

/deep breaths

Anyway. That is how you end up here: where the media is still diligently pretending this is an absolutely normal race between a terrible degenerate ancient Sekritly Dying Biden and.... some totally normal establishment Republican and not literally Donald Goddamn Trump. They are running many of the exact same hatchet jobs that they ran on Hillary Clinton for the same exact reasons, and ask yourself this: if Biden is just the status-quo stooge who will never change anything, HAS never changed anything, and is otherwise completely acceptable to the American/global power structure, why are they SO FUCKING DESPERATE to get him out? Why are they throwing absolutely everything they have at prying out a successful (albeit yes, old) incumbent when that incumbent is, by any reasonable metric, the most progressive president since at LEAST FDR, very definitely in any of the post-Reagan years, and possibly ever? Why are they so shit-scared of Biden as demonstrably the only candidate who can (and has) already beaten Trump, and therefore his entire ghoulish agenda of American fascism forever?

I just think it's worth pondering these questions. Yes, I had an awful anxiety attack today and applied to several jobs in Europe because the Fight or Flight instinct kicked in HARD that I needed to start working on a plan to get out of Fascist America, just in case. However, we can still forestall it. Yet again, as I will include in every post on the subject between now and November:

The end.

[cranberrymoons]

a love to last past saturday night

here's the first 3,500-ish words of the coffee shop au i've been working on!

—

There’s a little cafe at the end of Steve’s block that he’s only ever been in once. 

It’s called Corroded Coffee and it’s dark in there and maybe a little pretentious, but not pretentious as in… people reading classic novels or having discussions about French Cinema. Pretentious in the sense that there’s an intimidating collection of vinyl records taking up half an entire wall and they use single origin arabica beans and the scary baristas look at you sideways if you order regular milk in your latte. 

He knows this last part because the one time he did stop in, shortly after he moved to the neighborhood, he asked for an iced vanilla cold brew with cream, and the redheaded girl behind the counter looked him up and down as she punched his order into an iPad. 

“Okay,” she said slowly, disdainful and bored like she was barely concealing an eye roll. “I guess that’s eleven dollars, if you’re sure that’s all you want.”

Steve was sure. He was also sure that he’d never forgive himself for spending so much on a single cup of coffee that he could probably make at home for about fifty cents, but… support local businesses? Use his company card? Also, he was too embarrassed to tell her to cancel the order. 

So. 

Anyway, it’s about three months later when he goes in there for the second time. This time, it’s because his coffee pot broke (a shitty off-brand Keurig that he bought on Amazon for about twenty bucks, which for the record is less than the cost of two iced coffees from this place), and he really has to get to work, and the coffee at the office is – fine, actually, but – whatever. 

Whatever.

The coffee in the office is fine, but he’s walking toward the train feeling like his hair and his tie are somehow both on sideways, and a customer pushes out of the café and into the street, bringing with them a wave of caffeinated air, and before Steve has the chance to make a conscious decision one way or another, he’s standing inside the shop, eyes adjusting to the sudden shift to dim lighting.

When he comes to his senses, there’s a brief moment where he considers just turning around and walking right back out, but before he has a chance, the guy behind the counter leans an elbow against the shoulder-height glass pastry case and says –

“Hey man, what can I get you?”

Too late. 

Steve blinks and focuses on him. He’s tallish with long hair that’s been pulled back into a puffy knot on top of his head, dish towel slung over his shoulder, indecipherable band tee, nails painted black, a flock of bats and a long line of perfect crescent moon phases running up his forearm, and – yeah. Steve, in his crisp Brooks Brothers button-up and ironed slacks, is definitely not the right kind of cool to be coming in here.

“You do want coffee, right?” the barista prompts. He raises his eyebrows in question. “I just watched you Pepe Le Pew your way in here, so.”

In spite of himself, Steve laughs. Call it the exhaustion. He takes a step closer to the counter. 

“You saw that?”

The man grins. “You’re hardly the first exhausted corporate zombie to stumble his way through my door.” He reaches for a paper cup, pen in hand. “What’ll it be?”

“Just – coffee?” Steve suggests, then he flushes. “That was dumb. Sorry. I uh – I don’t really know much about coffee. Just a normal one with milk?” Then, remembering last time, he says, “Oat milk. I guess.”

“One drip with oat milk, coming up. You want a muffin or anything with it?” He taps the glass case with the end of his pen. “These just came out of the oven. The cranberry orange.”

“Oh, I –” Steve eyes the muffins in the case, crystalline sugar on top, shiny and perfect-looking. He does kind of want one, but he pictures himself juggling it and the coffee and his phone and – “No, that’s fine. Just the coffee, thanks.”

The man shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He punches a few things into the iPad then flips it around for Steve to pay. “Three seventy five.”

Steve narrows his eyes. That… can’t possibly be correct based on his last experience with the place, but he taps his card and punches in a tip, then nods to the barista as he shuffles off to the end of the counter to wait for his drink. He sends another look toward the muffins, and his stomach grumbles; maybe there’ll be leftover bagels in the office from the morning’s sales meeting?

By the time his coffee is ready, he’s lost in a very detailed fantasy about veggie cream cheese, and the barista has to wave to get his attention to pass him the cup. When Steve takes it, the man produces a little brown paper box and wiggles it in his direction. Steve frowns, confused.

“Oh, that’s not mine. I didn’t –”

The man raises his eyebrows and holds it further toward Steve. “On the house," he says. "Take it.”

Steve sets down his coffee on top of the case and accepts the box, flipping it open to reveal a cranberry orange muffin wrapped in crinkly parchment paper. He closes the lid and gives the barista a smile. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“Obviously I didn’t have to,” the guy says. He rolls his eyes, but it’s not – it doesn’t make Steve feel stupid the way the other girl had. “You looked like you wanted one, so you got one. Now be a good boy and say thank you."

Steve feels his face heat. “Thank you.”

The barista nods in approval then gives him the ghost of a wink before turning to help another customer, and Steve reclaims his coffee, retreating to the door and back out into the cold.

—

He doesn’t really mean to go back the next day, but – well. The coffee had been good, okay, and the muffin had been really good. And it’s Friday, and he’s allowed a treat, and he obviously hasn’t had a chance to replace his own broken machine yet, so.

He doesn’t really have a choice. He’s here by necessity. That’s it.

“You’re back,” the barista says, eyeing him up and down when he gets to the front of the line. “Was my muffin that good, that you had to come crawling back for more the very next day?”

Steve, more alert this morning than he’d been yesterday, manages to smile like a normal human being. 

“Your muffin?”

“Our muffin,” the barista says. He spreads out his hands in front of himself. “New York’s muffin. The world’s muffin.”

“No, I meant –” Steve laughs. “You made them? It was good.”

“I know it was.” He shrugs, then taps the stack of cups on the counter next to him. “Coffee?”

Steve glances at the menu on the wall. He has a suburban Starbucks level of knowledge when it comes to this stuff, which basically means he knows the difference between like… a cappuccino and a latte, sort of but – not really?

“Just the same again, plain with oat milk,” he says. “That was fine yesterday.”

The barista narrows his eyes. “Fine?”

“Good,” Steve corrects. “It was good. Like I said, I don’t know a ton about –” He waves a hand through the air vaguely. “Whatever.” He fidgets under the barista’s continued scrutiny, then adds, “Maybe sweetened this time though? I added sugar when I got to my office yesterday.” Then belatedly, “Sorry.”

“Tell you what,” the man says at last, apparently taking pity on him. He picks up a cup. “I’ll make you something that I think you’ll like, and I won’t even charge you for it. That way if you hate it, you can just – dump it down the drain or something. No hard feelings.”

“I can pay,” Steve says, frowning. “I don’t want you to get in trouble for giving me a bunch of free stuff.”

“Oh, I won’t. The owner likes me,” the man says easily, already busy behind the espresso machine. A burst of steam comes shooting out in a cloud, and he offers Steve a smile. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Steve,” he says. He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder where it’s slipping down. “Sorry, you probably needed that for the… the cup, or whatever.”

The barista’s smile widens, and he gives Steve another up-and-down look as he waits for the espresso to finish bubbling into the cup. “Nope. Just wanted to know.”

“Oh,” Steve says, feeling himself flush. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets to keep himself from fidgeting even more than he already is. “Okay, what’s yours then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Kind of why I asked.”

The man places the cup on the counter and presses a lid into place, sliding it toward Steve along with another little paper box that, when Steve peeks inside, contains a single croissant. He takes a sip of the coffee, and it’s… delicious, unfortunately, vanilla and caramel and maybe chocolate too? And he’s pretty sure that’s real milk, thank god.

“Come back tomorrow and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“We’ll see,” Steve says mildly, taking another sip. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He gets a teasing little wave in return. 

“Have a good day at work, Steve.”

—

Robin is aghast when he tells her at drinks later that night.

“You’re saying he’s been there this whole time, and you’ve just been – what, walking past and not noticing?!” she asks, leaning forward in her seat. She takes a distressed sip of rosé and widens her eyes at him. “This whole time?”

“Maybe not,” he says defensively. “Maybe he’s new. Maybe – I don’t know.”

“You don’t just give out free coffee on your second day, Steve,” she says, exasperated. She picks up a fry and jabs it into the little pat of mayo on the edge of the plate, gesturing wildly with it before stuffing it in her mouth. “Free coffee and free pastries! He’s totally been there this whole time, and you were just too chicken shit to go in there and see him for yourself.”

“I literally met him by going in and seeing him.”

“Still.” She groans in frustration. “Ugh, I can’t believe you’re getting seduced via baked good. Literally if I could find one single solitary woman in this city who would give me free baked goods as a mating ritual, I’d let her step on my throat.” She places a hand on his forearm and gives him a very serious look. “My throat, Steve.”

He laughs and shakes her off. “You don’t know he’s trying to seduce me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right,” she says. She finishes her wine and sets the empty glass on the bar with force. “The hot tattooed barista who keeps winking at you and giving you free shit for no reason is totally just trying to drum up a loyal customer base for his coffee shop.”

“I didn’t say he was hot.”

She gives him a contemptuous look. “Is he hot?”

He pokes at the lime wedge that’s floating in his gin and tonic and doesn’t meet her eye. “Maybe.”

“You’re blushing. He’s obviously hot. I hate you so much.”

“Okay, don’t – we live in the Village. It can’t possibly be that hard for you to find a lesbian who likes to bake.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t stereotype. Just because we’re ladies and we have breasts.”

“I’m not stereotyping. I’m just saying: go to any plant store, pick a girl with a choppy haircut and a canvas tote bag.” He finishes his own drink and signals to the bartender for another round. “Odds are seventy thirty she’s a lesbian with a chocolate chip cookie recipe.”

“Literally every word out of your mouth just now was a stereotype. I’m breaking up with you.”

She turns her barstool away from him abruptly, and the guy seated on the other side of her blinks in alarm, looking at Steve over her shoulder with wide eyes. Steve gives him an apologetic look and places a hand on Robin’s arm, tugging her back around to face him. 

“Alright, come on, you’re scaring the public.”

She huffs, then gives the stranger a tight smile, then turns back to Steve. “You’re going back tomorrow, right? I’ll forgive you right now if you promise me you will.”

He sighs. “Why do you even care?”

“Because he’s hot,” she says, widening her eyes, “and he has tattoos, and he obviously wants to take you back to his place and do filthy, filthy things to you, Steve, and he knows how to make really good muffins.” She shakes him again. “Steve!”

“Yes!” he laughs, wrenching his arm free of her hold. “Fine, okay. Yes, I’ll go back tomorrow. I don’t even know his name yet. He said he’ll tell me if I do, so – I will.”

“Oh my god.” She buries her face in her hands. “I swear to god, if you fuck this up.”

—

Steve has always been a relatively confident guy. It’s not that. He’s not normally awkward or even shy. 

If anything, he’s better than average at blending in, even managing to convince his parents that he’s still the same person he was when he was a sports star back in high school: he finished his MBA without flaming out like half his class, he got a good-paying job in the city, he even goes back home to Indiana once or twice a year for Thanksgiving or Christmas. 

He’s normal. He’s… acceptable.

Just – he also knows when he doesn’t know something, and that’s when he gets flustered.

Like now, Saturday morning. He’s been standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom and staring at himself for a long time – probably too long – fiddling with the cuffs of his jeans and the swoop of his hair and the weird little… thing his sweater is doing where it bunches up around his waist. 

Maybe he should change. Or just… not go? Robin would forgive him, right?

Robin absolutely would not forgive you, says a horrible little voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like the woman herself. She absolutely would not, and then she’d come directly over to your apartment and let herself in and drag you there herself.

Fine. Just go. 

He takes a deep breath and releases it in a sharp huff. He can do this. He can totally, obviously, absolutely do this. It’s literally just leaving his building, walking three hundred feet down the street to the corner, and entering a coffee shop. That’s all he has to do. That’s all.

He does it.

When he walks in, he casts a curious glance around the space since, for the first time in here, he’s not in a hurry. It seems like no one else is either: it’s busy in a different way than it’s been for the past few mornings, fewer people calling out orders and pushing back and forth through doors, more occupied armchairs and tables with laptops. There’s a record playing in the background, something scratchy and smooth, interrupted by the sound of occasional jets of steam issuing from behind the counter.

And behind the counter is – Steve feels disappointment curdle in his stomach. 

Oh. 

The scary redhead. She’s sitting on a barstool with a knee drawn up to her chest, studying her nails and pretending like she hasn’t seen him. He steps closer to the counter, too close to ignore, and she sighs, looking up at him like his very presence is an affront to her. In spite of himself, he feels a little bubble of nervous laughter crawl up the back of his throat, and he swallows it down.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Just, uh – a coffee?”

“It’s all coffee,” she tells him in a bored voice. “Are you asking for a drip coffee?”

“Yeah, just that, with oat milk,” he says, then adds, “Thanks.”

She jabs at her iPad then flips it around for him. “Eight dollars. Oat milk’s at the end of the bar, you can add it yourself.”

He gives her an awkward smile as he pays, and she just stares back at him impassively. He’s slipping his card back into his wallet and preparing to run away with his tail between his legs when the door behind the counter pushes open, and Steve’s barista – the nice one who gives him real milk and doesn’t glare at him – backs through it, balancing a tray of cinnamon buns in his arms.

He turns, then spots Steve, and his face breaks into a smile. He sets down his tray.

“Knew you’d be back,” he says, tilting his head with a teasing smile on his face. “Max, this is Steve. We like Steve.”

“This is Steve?” She gives him a once-over, then turns to make a face at the other man. “Seriously?”

Now that’s – “Okay,” Steve says. “I’m literally standing right here.”

“Yes. This is Steve, and today Steve would like a white mocha with two pumps of cinnamon.”

“That’s disgusting.” She makes a face. “Anyway, he paid for a plain drip coffee.”

“I didn’t ask what he paid for. I told you what he’s going to get. Can you make it for him, please?”

She glares at Steve’s barista then slips off her stool with a groan and the deepest eye roll Steve has ever seen in his life. 

“Whatever. It’s your shop.”

“Ignore her,” he tells Steve in a voice loud enough for her to hear. “Max likes to think she’s funny, but she’s actually just judgmental.”

She sticks her tongue out at him then sets about ignoring them, disappearing into a cloud of steam. He lifts up onto his toes to lean forward over the top of the pastry case and get a look at Steve.

“You’re very comfy casual today,” he says, dropping back to his own side. He raises an eyebrow. “Cute sweater.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, feeling himself flush. He tugs at the hem of it as he casts another look around the room. “This is your shop? I didn’t realize when you said the owner liked you, you meant…”

“Yep, all mine,” he says. “I can shamelessly flirt with as many customers as I want. No boss to tell me to get back to work.”

Steve widens his eyes. “Flirting with me, and he won’t even tell me his name.”

The man grins at him, resting his face in one hand. “I guess you’ve earned it.” Steve feels his stomach do a flip. “I’m Eddie.”

“Eddie,” he says, trying it out. It suits him, Steve thinks. “Nice to meet you. Officially.”

“Likewise,” Eddie says as Max passes him the coffee and returns to her stool with a huff. Eddie slides it to Steve across the counter. “Your very disgusting sugary coffee, handcrafted with love by our sweetest barista.”

“Thanks,” Steve laughs, accepting the drink. He pries the lid off to peer inside. “Is this the same as yesterday?”

“Nah, I’m still figuring out what you like,” Eddie says. He waits for Steve to take a sip – another winner, maybe even better than yesterday – then says, “Are you busy tonight?”

Steve looks up from his coffee. Eddie is watching him with an amused tilt to his smile. Steve swallows.

“Am I busy tonight?”

“That’s what I asked. Are you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Steve clears his throat. “No.”

“Okay,” Eddie says as he folds a cinnamon roll into a box and nudges it in Steve’s direction. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

Steve accepts the box, and before he can second guess himself he says, “Yeah, okay.”

Eddie’s smile is slow and easy. “Good. I wrote my number on the inside of the lid. Text me your address? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

—

When he gets home, he calls Robin, freaking out.

“I didn’t fuck it up,” he says by way of greeting when she answers on the third ring.

“What?”

“Hot tattooed… barista guy,” Steve says, pacing frantic circles around his living room and ripping a hand through his hair. “I didn’t fuck it up. His name’s Eddie, and he gave me a cinnamon roll, and it was really good, and – okay, so it turns out he owns the shop, he doesn’t just work there and –” He stops, staring out the window at the building across the street, unseeing. “And we’re having dinner tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the phone, then a shout, then more silence, and then she says, “Holy shit. What are you going to wear?”

—

After much debate and two facetime calls and eventually Robin just physically marching the three blocks over to help him decide in person, and then him forbidding her from sticking around to interrogate Eddie – when the buzzer goes at seven sharp, 

When the buzzer goes at seven sharp, no games played, he stares at the box on the wall in alarm, half expecting it to come to life and bite his face off. When it doesn’t, he recovers (barely) and jabs at the button to let Eddie inside. 

[alexanderwales]

Castle Solutions was the only time travel company in the world. They had a giant corporate headquarters in downtown Chicago, which was the only place in the entire world with a time machine, at least as far as anyone knew. They were worth hundreds of billions, and the only reason they weren't worth more seemed to be that they didn't care all that much about money. The time machines were used for everything: reporting, media, market corrections, the surveillance state, and industry. Castle Solutions was the lynchpin of the modern world.

Daniel had thought the waiting room would be nicer.

He sat in a blue-gray chair that would have been at home in any waiting room anywhere else in Chicago. Slightly tinny music played over speakers from the ceiling. A fake potted plant sat in one corner, failing to look lively. There were no windows, because the waiting room was deep in the heart of the building, close to the machine itself.

Daniel was the only one in the waiting room. He'd come half an hour early, lugging all his gear, and now the only thing left was for the clock to run down. A bored-looking woman had come in to tell him that it might be awhile, that they were running behind schedule — the time travel company, running behind schedule. So there had been more waiting than expected.

A man in a charcoal gray suit with a simple blue backpack came in. He slung the backpack down onto the ground with a sigh and rubbed his face. He had stubble there, but an artful amount of it, like he'd spent some time in the mirror making sure that it was the right amount of scruff to offset his expensive suit.

Daniel looked straight ahead, trying not to look, keeping his face blank, like he was passing by a homeless person who might ask him for money he didn't have.

"Wow, you've got a lot of stuff," said the man. "Is that a sword?"

"It's a katana," said Daniel. He didn't match the eye contact the man was giving him.

"Oh, cool," said the man. "You're going to ... katana times?"

"Edo Japan, yeah," said Daniel.

Daniel was trying his best not to engage, to get this conversation over as quickly as possible. He wasn't making eye contact.

The man picked up his backpack and moved across the waiting room to be closer to Daniel.

"You speak Japanese?" the man asked.

"Hai, watashi wa nihongo o hanashimasu," replied Daniel. He wished that he were more fluent, that the words had come out less rote.

"Cool," said the man. He had apparently also come closer to get a look at all of Daniel's stuff. His eyes moved over the duffel bags. There wasn't much to see, everything had been carefully packed away. "Wow, you sure are prepared, huh?"

"It's a different time and place," said Daniel with a shrug. It represented five years of planning, five years of training, learning, honing himself.

"Personally, I'm going to 1946," said the man, though Daniel hadn't asked. He held out his hand. "Archie Vedder."

Daniel reluctantly took the hand. "Daniel Strom." He had never really gotten the hang of shaking hands. He worried that his hands were too clammy, a worry that proved founded when Archie wiped his hand on that expensive charcoal suit.

"I went with the kit," said Archie, pointing to his backpack. "I've got papers, I've got a computer with a backup, I've got a projector, a media library, a science library, the whole works, plus some forged bonds and a stack of cash. I got a sweet deal on it, they're overstocked now."

Retreating into the past had seen its heyday. Now most of the people who had been most enthusiastic were gone, and there were only the dissenters left. Everyone agreed with using the machine for the mundane stuff, but simply leaving, never to return, rubbed people the wrong way.

"I guess they don't sell kits for Edo," Archie ventured.

"They do," said Daniel. "They're trash."

"Ah," said Archie.

"This is all custom," said Daniel. "Higher quality, field tested, everything I'll need to set myself up there." Only some of it was stock. He had two computers, three smartphones, chargers and plugs, solar panels, replacement batteries, and redundant media libraries and science libraries.

Archie raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean, field tested? Because people don't come back. You're there for good, right?"

What it actually meant was that Daniel had gone out into a field and tested it, made sure that it worked under various conditions, set himself up like he might be explaining all this to a carefully chosen daimyo. There was only so much that camping in the woods and taking dry run vacations could tell him though.

"Some of it is theory," said Daniel. "Research."

"Yeah, see, that's why I went with 1946," said Archie. "It's really well-trod. You know, I was reading an article the other day that maybe the Baby Boom was a little overstated? Like, we're obviously living in the wake of time travelers, but that's the prime time to come back, anywhere from 1946 to 1960. The economy is doing well, tech is advancing, it's familiar enough. The culture is so close you can sell some stuff from a media library, it's brilliant. You're five steps away from becoming a multimillionaire in a time when that meant something."

"Sure," said Daniel.

"Any reason you're doing hard mode?" asked Archie. "I mean, samurai and ninjas are cool, sure, but —"

"It's not about that," said Daniel.

"Alright, sure," shrugged Archie.

Daniel looked over at the waiting room's lone clock. You would think that a waiting room for a time travel company would have better clocks, but it was a cheap utilitarian design, thin plastic and wobbly hands.

"What's it about then?" asked Archie.

"I was going to go with a friend," said Daniel. "We had practiced together, trained together. Then he got cancer."

"Ah, shit," said Archie.

"He lived," said Daniel. "He's fine. But he's on medications now, and will be for the rest of his life, and he can't go anymore."

"Huh," said Archie. "So there's a friend who you're leaving behind?"

"No," said Daniel. "I mean ... this was what we did together. We talked about it a lot. We read history books and practiced crafts and skills. At the start, I didn't really take it that seriously, it was just a hobby, but I got invested, and I guess I kept seeing it as — I don't know."

"I mean for me, it's a way out," said Archie. "Most people feel that way, yeah? My wife filed for divorce, I got fired from my job, so hey, time to start over in 1946, pretend I'm part of the Greatest Generation, ride the waves I know are coming. Exploit it."

Daniel grimaced. The Vietnam War, segregation, the Red Scare? People had a rosy view of that time. He'd never felt particularly aligned with people like Archie who were just looking to make a quick buck.

"Oh come on," said Archie. "You think you're better than me? You're a, you know, what's the word. Colonizer."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "No."

"What, just 'no', it's not, you know, what we did to the Native Americans?" asked Archie. "The whole 'conquer the past' thing?"

"I'm a single person," said Daniel. "I'm bringing back things that will change their culture forever, but I'm not an agent of my country, and even if I were, I think those people who want to be a god king are morons. And sorry, I'm not spending my last minutes in the present on badly rehashing a debate I've had a thousand times already."

"Why not?" asked Archie. "See, I think having arguments right before you go is great. You can leave on a high note. I've spent the last few days saying whatever the hell I wanted to people. It's great. I went to my dad and said 'hey, you were a terrible father, I never liked you, and it's sad that you thought I needed your approval'. And then you know what's hilarious? I get to just walk away and never be seen again. How's that for a power move? How's that for a mic drop?"

"Seems immature," said Daniel.

"Well, see, I'm actually fine being immature," said Archie with a little laugh. "And when this conversation is done, one or both of us is going into the past, never to be seen nor heard from again, and isn't that great? You don't like me, I don't like you, and then we're strangers again."

Daniel had been looking straight ahead, but he turned to Archie after that. "You don't like me?" he asked. "You don't know me."

"I know your type," said Archie. He leaned back. "You spent what, three years cooking up a plan, making this trip back in time your entire personality, and now you think you're better than me, better than everyone, like you've got it all figured out. You talked yourself into throwing away everything you've got going on here. You got dreams of a future in the past. It's quitter talk, is what it is."

"Fuck off," said Daniel. In his normal life he'd have never said it, but he was on the precipice.

"You think going into the past is going to transform you?" asked Archie. "That another world, a second chance, you'll somehow become the man you think you were supposed to be? Well let me tell you, if you were a loser here, you'll be a loser there."

Daniel stood up and drew his sword. He'd practiced the draw a thousand times. The sword gleamed, even under the ugly fluorescent lighting of the waiting room. "Fuck off, or you'll be going back to the 50s missing a hand."

"Bah," said Archie. "Fine." He stood up and took a seat further away, the same one he'd taken when he first came in. He was bouncing his leg and reading something on his phone.

Daniel was putting his sword back in its sheath when the receptionist came into the room.

"Daniel?" she asked, glancing only briefly at the sword. "They're ready for you."

"Finally," Daniel thought but didn't say, because even though he wasn't going to be around anymore, he believed in basic politeness.

He gathered his things and left the waiting room, ready to leave.

~~~~

Archie sat outside Castle Solutions, in their little courtyard, vaping.

It wasn't long before the receptionist, Lydia, came to sit next to him.

"It didn't really seem like you wanted to convince that one," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry."

She shrugged and pulled out a vape pen of her own. "Sometimes you just want to yell at someone. I get that. But you're risking us getting caught. And if we get caught in the future, we probably get caught in the present."

"Yup," he said. "Won't happen again."

"Give it a few days before you come back," she said. "Three, let's say. He didn't file a complaint, so there's nothing in the system."

"Mmm," said Archie. He made a long, slow drag of the pen. They sat there vaping together for a while. It had often occurred to him that vaping was impossibly lame, but it felt less lame when done with someone else. He watched as the vapor left her mouth in a thin, concentrated stream. "You wanna go out sometime?"

"On a date?" she asked. She gave the tip of her vape pen a casual look. "No, not really."

"Alright," said Archie.

"I don't really know what your deal is," she said. "Why this is important to you. Why you want to talk people back from the brink, or yell at them."

"Mmm," said Archie. "You want to tragic backstory?"

"Meh," Lydia replied. "I'm not going on a date with someone who has a tragic backstory. That's all. Sorry. I've got my own tragic backstory, thanks very much."

"Fair," said Archie. "It was my kid brother, that's the short version. He up and left one day, left us a note that read like ... well, you know." He drew a finger across his neck.

"Where'd he go?" asked Lydia.

"England, 16th century," said Archie. "He thought he was going to take Shakespeare's place." He shook his head. "Only eighteen, you know? Unconscionable that they let kids that young through. He had his whole life ahead of him and he just ... disappeared."

Lydia sighed. "Yeah."

She turned off her vape pen, then mimed stubbing it out on the bench like a cigarette before slipping it into her purse. He felt a surge of attraction for her.

"Alright, I'll go on the date," said Lydia. "But if we're going to be dating, you've gotta stop this."

"Vaping?" asked Archie.

"You know what I mean," said Lydia. "You going in there trying to convince them to back out, that's one thing. It's noble, almost. But if it's going to be fighting, if it's you trying to work through some shit, then I'm not sticking my neck out for you. Doubly so if you want to get together. You process your trauma some other way, or repress it like the rest of us, alright?"

Archie thought about that for a moment. "Alright. Sure."

"I've got to get back to work," said Lydia as she rose from the bench. "You have my number."

Archie nodded, and after she had left, he stayed, looking out at the courtyard.

He wondered how Daniel was doing out there, in that other timeline, but he supposed that he would never know.

[momotonescreaming]

Stardew Valley inspired AU where Steve works some boring corporate job for his father and he's absolutely miserable. His father has high expectations for him that he can't ever seem to meet, his mother just fawns under her husband's harsh gaze, and no one at work likes him because he's the bosses son. Doesn't seem to matter that his father doesn't like him much either.

So when he gets a call from their family lawyer, saying his granddads old farm has left legal hell and is officially his, he's very tempted to drop everything and leave. Get out of the city, escape his family, get a fresh start. The only thing holding him back, is his best friend Robin who also lives in the city. She tells him off for letting her hold him back. She'll miss him horribly, but she knows that he wasn't happy working for his father. He just has to promise to send her postcards and letters and to call her as often as he can. As soon as he’s settled she is going to visit and that is a fact Steve, you better get used to it.

Steve puts in his notice at work, cancels the lease on his apartment, and starts packing his things. He buys a trailer to hitch to the back of his Beamer to pack up all his stuff, has a very tearful goodbye with Robin, and drives to the small town of Hawkins.

He spends most of his time that first month getting everything sorted. Gives the house a deep clean, moves in what he bought of his stuff, and figures out what he still needs to buy. Does a check of everything he needs to repair or replace on the farm. Spends a lot of time clearing rocks and overgrown bushes and weeds and trees off of his land. Reads some books and takes some online classes on farming. Is determined to actually make this work.

Eddie has lived in Hawkins since he moved in with his uncle. Always had dreams of moving to the big city and making it big with his band. But for now he's still in Hawkins, working at Thatcher Tire, living with his uncle, trying not to get sucked into small town gossip. It's hard not to though, not when one of the local high school kids starts a rumour you're a cult leader because you run a DnD club and he thinks his girlfriend is cheating on him. It fucking sucked, but Eddie managed to graduate from high school the third time round, and the rumour mill slowly moved on.

Now, all everyone can talk about is the city boy who moved into the old abandoned farm just down the way. Apparently he's very handsome, very single, and looks like he hasn't worked a day in his life. And sue Eddie, he's fucking curious.

The first time Eddie meets the elusive city boy is at the post office, some months after he moved to town. The guy asks for the time, and politely introduces himself as Steve, the guy who's doing up the old farm. And the Hawkins gossips are right - the guy is handsome as hell. Carefully styled swooping brown hair that looks impossibly soft. Tanned skin dotted with moles. A tidy polo shirt that should look dorky but instead just really suits the guy. Fitting tight across his chest and straining against his biceps. For a supposed city boy, the man is unreasonably ripped. Maybe he is meant to be a farmer.

And then once they meet, it’s like the universe is playing a trick on Eddie because he can’t stop bumping into the guy. He sees him jogging through the city and Steve waves at him with a wiggle of his fingers. He sees him hiking through the woods with his new farm dog in training trotting after him happily. They’re in the supermarket at the same time, and they make small talk about food and Steve jokes that his stove is so old it’s like he has to teach himself how to cook all over again. Eddie goes to Merrill’s farm to drop something off for Wayne, and Steve is there, sleeves rolled up, glistening and sweaty, doing odd jobs on for a little extra cash.

A navy blue truck rolls into Thatcher’s one day, sturdy, big, with a small dent in the side. Good kit. And lo and behold Steve steps out. Clad in his usual blue jeans and a tight polo, twirling his keys around his fingers. He asks if there’s room for them to take a look at it, give it a service, or does he need to book in later? And Eddie says he’s free. There’s a lot of other things he needs to do, cars out the back to check over, but Steve is here. And so Eddie take a look at the truck so he has an excuse to talk to Steve. Asks him questions if there’s anything wrong with it, does he need to check anything in particular? And they chat, and Eddie brings up the beemer. Mentions it off handedly — did Steve swap it out for a truck? Something more farm appropriate?

And Steve just tilts his head like a confused puppy. Eddie know’s he has a beemer? And before he can think about it too much, Eddie says of course he does — it’s not every day that a handsome city boy rolls into a town like this in a fancy car like that. And Steve raises an eyebrow. Handsome? he asks. Eddie curses at himself under his breath. He could have pulled the mechanic card, said he keeps an eye out at all the cars in Hawkins. But of course he lost his tongue in front of the pretty stranger. But Steve just says he’ll take the compliment and smiles at Eddie in a way he hadn’t before.

Before it was small town polite — making conversation at the gas station or a smile of acknowledgement. But this is different. This smile is more. And so Eddie blushes, and rolls himself under the truck to hide his blushing cheeks. He thinks he hears Steve chuckle, bit graciously follows when Eddie steers the conversation away from the face he finds him pretty and onto a safer topic — farm.

And Steve sounds so genuinely excited when he talks about it. He finds the physical work really satisfying, he’s looking forward to getting to the point where he can actually plant crops. Wants to get a chicken coop, see how that goes, before he moves onto livestock. He likes the early mornings on the farm where he can watch the sun rise over the fields. He feels himself there on the farm.

Eddie jokes that the early mornings sound awful, he’s a night owl through and through — but the sunrise sounds nice. Steve laughs and says that's fair, he had to start waking up early in high school for swim team practice and now it’s ingrained into him. Handy for the farm now, which is a plus. Eddie admits that he’s been to the farm before — feels weird not too now — that he hopped the fence when he was teen and wandered the fields and the woods, having a smoke and a poke around. Steve is cool about it. The place was abandoned, and he would have done the same when he was young. He’s not as uptight as he looks — he had some semi-wild teen years of his own.

They talk, Eddie looks at the car, and then before he knows it — he’s done. The truck is all good. Runs like a dream. It’s time for Steve to pay and leave. And they’re both loitering in the doorway to the office, and Eddie knows it’s because he’s actually starting to really like the guy. He’s passionate, and kind, and also kind of a bitch which was delightful to find out. He’s handsome as all hell and is a genuine fucking guy. And he doesn’t want him to leave.

He looks over at Steve. Steve, who bites his lip, pink and plump, before looking up at Eddie through his lashes. And sorry if this sounds dumb, but does Eddie want to come visit the farm? Have a look around when it’s not abandoned and overgrown?

Eddie feels his cheeks flush, sees the identical blush now gracing Steve’s cheeks, and says yes. It’s a date.

[eashn]

Hunger | Kuroo Tetsuro Chapter 1

Part 2 of The Train's Coming (link to masterlist)

Pairing: businessman!Kuroo x fem!reader

Summary: You're colleagues and you're screwin'

Ao3 Link | Word count: ~2.2k

Tags/Warnings: Explicit smut, friends-with-benefits, Timeskip!Kuroo, sexual tension, dry humping, banter

“Fuck, Kuroo!” you cried, locking your arms and legs around him as he slammed your back against the wall. He ground his clothed cock against your bare heat, groaning as he watched the crotch of his best pair of work pants grow damp beneath you.

“I did good, right Y/N? Waited patiently all day, didn’t I?” His breath fanned heavily across your face as he whispered the words. He pressed feverishly hot lips against the side of your neck, burying his face into your skin. “But I can’t take it anymore—fuck. I need you.” 

8 hours earlier

The morning train into the city was like an airlock between home and work. It was a bridge between the solitude of your one-bedroom apartment and the restless, simmering energy of the corporate world. After all these years on the job—as a sports promoter for one of the nation’s top companies—you’d come to love the hustle and the grind. You thrived on it. And you knew, better than most, how easy it was to lose yourself in the work. 

Perhaps that was why the quiet routine of your commute felt as comforting as it did. There was a unique tranquility in watching the landscape speed past the tinted windows, the suburban condos morphing into towering high-rises as you sped further downtown. Alongside the shifting scenery, you’d feel yourself shift, too: from muted, to expectant, to hungry for the challenge and the spoils of a new day. The train’s low, mechanical rumble was your only company as you transformed. This was your time to clear your mind—to cultivate the razor-sharp focus which made you so good at what you did—and you treasured it. 

Then, he came along. 

“Morning, Y/N,” Tetsuro Kuroo drawled, looking up from his laptop as you took the seat across from him. 

“Hi,” you replied. 

“Ready for the big day?” 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

His white button-up was crisply ironed, as always, but today there was also a suit jacket folded neatly over the arm of his chair. “That’s cute,” you said, pointing at it. “You got all dolled up.” His canine flashed in a crooked smile as he silently stared at his computer. 

You’d been at the company for a couple years already when the Promotional Division hired Kuroo. Quick enough, everyone realized that he was a fucking force of nature: charming, ambitious, and wickedly intelligent, he climbed the ranks faster than anyone you’d seen before, and soon enough, he held the same position as you. You saw a lot of him after that. He was a workaholic. Partnered with him on new projects, you recognized the perfectionism—his need to do more, do better, to prove himself. You had that in common, you supposed. It was the reason you found yourself building easy rapport with him all those months ago, and now, it was why you were glad he was the one presenting the big proposal with you today.  

“Wanna run through the script again?” he asked.

You groaned. “How many more times, Kuroo? You might as well tattoo it behind your fucking eyelids.” 

“Hey, I want to nail this, alright?” He snapped his laptop shut, leaning forward in his seat. “Y/N, if they like this idea, we’re gonna be—” 

“Promoted. Right. You keep saying that—”

“Unstoppable,” he corrected. “We’re gonna be unstoppable.” 

Gold-rimmed irises bore into you. They glittered with anticipation, with intent. You stared right back into them—knowing. Understanding. 

The hunger had crept in. 

After all this time, you’d come to realize just how alike you and Kuroo were. He, too, was married to his work and addicted to the drug that was success. You were both a little bit neurotic in exactly the same way, and you liked that about him. You liked him. 

Yeah, you were fucking—but you were friends too, of course. 

Neither of you had what it took to commit to a relationship right now. You were both prioritizing your careers, and the sex had become a way to release all that stress at the end of the day. So it had always been a casual thing: you went home together after late nights at the office, and Kuroo pounded you into your mattress. You fucked on his kitchen counter in the morning before work. Sometimes you gave him fast, messy head in an empty conference room during lunch break. You were both a bit insatiable. A bit.

But Kuroo was…more than just a fuck-buddy. He was a friend—a real friend. He made you laugh, he bitched about your other coworkers with you, and, more than anything, his ambition continued to inspire you. He understood you on a wavelength that few others did. You remembered the first time you saw him on this train—the first time you met on relaxed terms, outside the office. It was complete luck: you boarded the train that morning, having barely rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and there he was, already seated. You were both cordial at first, you talked work stuff. Then, “I’m so sick of driving to the office,” he’d finally admitted. “I was this close to becoming an actual menace on the road.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, man,” he replied. “Rush hour in this city is insane. How’ve you not lost your mind yet?” 

You chuckled. “Well, I’ve been taking the train for years,” you sighed. “Honestly,” you lowered your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “this is my way of giving car-dependent infrastructure the finger.” 

You remembered the way he smiled wolfishly at that. “Fuck car-dependent infrastructure,” he agreed. And you spent the rest of the ride talking anything but work stuff: college and the transition to the corporate world. How Kuroo used to play volleyball in high school and the fact that you wanted to adopt a cat one day. Colleagues melted into friends so quickly, and you wondered how you’d ever tolerated the lonely silence of the train ride before. 

Now, here he was before you: brimming with anticipation for the day ahead, when you’d finally hatch the brainchild you’d been creating together over weeks of planning and diligence. There was no one you’d rather have done it with than Kuroo. Together, you really were: 

“Unstoppable, then,” you said. 

Kuroo gazed at you with those gleaming eyes, a smile playing on his lips. You matched him with your own grin. Sunlight flashed through the window periodically, streaking across his face as the train sped along, and you couldn’t help but stare as it happened. He looked beautiful. 

Was it time? Finally? You thought it might be. You’d been waiting for the right moment to ask. And right now, it was perfectly calm and quiet; you were gazing at each other like you were the only two people in the world. It certainly felt right.

You clenched your palms in your lap, working up the nerve to say it. “Kuroo,” you began. “If the board likes the proposal…and if they decide it is worth a promotion—” 

“Not if,” he interrupted. “When.”

“Fine. When.” There it was—that brazen confidence that never failed to electrify you. It made you want to believe that everything would work out, that the odds would always turn in your favor eventually. Right now, it made you feel brave enough to ask the question you’d been afraid of for weeks. “A promotion would mean a management position, Kuroo. For both of us. And…there’s something I’ve been wanting to, um, ask you. In case that happens.” 

His eyes narrowed slightly, in a way that told you he noticed your hesitance. But he didn’t remark on it yet. “Alright,” he replied. “Shoot.”

You swallowed. “What if…what if we try to leverage a position as co-managers? Of the Promotional Division?” you finally said. “I just—I mean, Washijo’s had the job for years and he’s practically senile at this point. We might have a shot at replacing him, if we play it right. Co-Heads of Promotion, Kuroo. And then we could run this place the way we want.” 

His mouth hung open in surprise. He said nothing for a moment. 

“I know,” you blurted frantically, scared you’d laid it on too quickly. “I know. It’s ballsy—and I know we can't afford to make any mistakes in front of the Board, but I just. I have a good feeling about this. And, I mean, obviously there’s no one I’d rather share the position with than you—hey! Don’t smile at me like that,” you snapped, for his lip had quirked up a bit at that last part. “We’re the two most competent people in the whole fucking department, you know that…and we make a good team. At least, I think so. I’ve always thought so. I dunno. Fuck,” you said, feeling your face burn hotter the longer he stayed quiet. “Forget it, Kuroo. I…I’m sor—” 

“Y/N!” 

Your name burst from his mouth like water breaking a dam—like he’d been holding it back this whole time. “Jesus, Y/N. Slow down,” he said. The embarrassment could’ve lit you on fire. 

“What are you sorry for?” he demanded. 

Your gaze snapped to him. That—the crackle of concern that edged the words—that was not what you expected. You expected howling laughter in your face. Or a declaration that both you and your harebrained idea were insane. 

But Kuroo didn’t do any of that. Instead, he made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re incredible,” he said. “You know that?” 

You blinked. “What?” 

“You’re fuckin’—” Before you knew what was happening, Kuroo leaned in and cupped your face in his hands. He hovered mere inches away from you. “You’re unreal.”

There was nothing else in the world right now. Nothing but his warm breath, gusting across your skin. His warm palms against your cheeks. His warm, hazel eyes. He was close enough that you could bump the tip of your nose against his if you wanted to. Or you could lean in and kiss him. 

“Um,” you lisped out as Kuroo smushed your cheeks together. “Thanks. Wait. What?” 

“That is,” he breathed, “an exceptional idea. Holy fuck, Y/N. I’m mad I didn’t think of it first.” 

How did he do that? you thought. How did he manage to make everything okay, every time? He said yes. You could’ve leapt with joy. Now, in hindsight, you wondered why you’d even been afraid to ask him in the first place. You should’ve remembered that he and you were inextricably synced. He’d never have said no. 

“God, I could kiss you,” he murmured, stroking your skin tenderly with one thumb. For the first time this morning, you looked at him properly, without anything else on your mind—not the proposal, not what would come after. You gazed at his fawn skin, always so stark in contrast to that dark, ruffled hair. The smooth line of his throat bobbed slightly as you raked your eyes over him. All of a sudden, he shifted his grip—catching your jaw in one, large hand. 

What are you staring at? he asked with his brows. Electric tension sizzled in the air between you. 

Your gazes met. He had you pinned with that deep, smoldering stare, that look that you knew so well. God, it made you want to burn. 

“Kiss me then, Tetsuro,” you said.

He exhaled sharply. And—

“ATTENTION PASSENGERS!” 

The automated female voice rang out, and you both jolted. “The train will be arriving at its destination in approximately one minute.” You giggled, pulling yourself from Kuroo’s grasp. 

“Well, so much for that,” you sighed, leaning back in your seat. “C’mon. Time to put on that cute little jacket.” You began to gather your things. When you rose to your feet, he was still seated. 

Oh, wow, you liked this.

He was staring up at you stupidly: open-mouthed, with color darkening his cheeks. What a pretty fucking sight, you thought, and you knew what it stemmed from, of course. You rarely said his given name. Usually, he had to coax it out of you—spear you open on his cock until that name clogged your senses and rotted your mind from the inside out. 

“‘S’matter?” you murmured. “Go on now.” 

A moment passed in silence. He rose. His eyes never left yours, and you had to tilt your chin incrementally—up, up, and up until he stood at full height in front of you. He grabbed the jacket and looped his arms into it, slowly. Languidly. The train was skidding to a halt now, whining softly against the tracks, and he caught the upper guard handle to balance himself. You leaned against the armrest behind you. And as the force of slowing velocity sent him tipping gently into your body, you felt it. Rock-hard, brushing against your inner thigh. 

“Your fault,” he whispered in your ear. 

People began filing past you out the vestibule door, but the two of you stayed put, leaning into each other. 

“Eight hours, Kuroo,” you said, letting a grin break across your face. He mirrored it, those catlike canines glinting. “Then I’m all yours.”

Part 2 is coming soon!

Thanks so much for reading!! Requests are currently open. Follow @eashn for more!

[casualaruanienjoyer]

What jobs could AOT characters have? 🌻

Ahhhhh I love this one! LET'S GO!

What jobs could AOT characters have?

Eren: He strikes me as someone who changes jobs often. He'd get bored of one activity pretty quickly. To him, his job is just a way to earn some money that he can use to have fun with his friends. Pensions who, am I right?

Mikasa: Kindergarten carer. Her motherly personality is perfect for this, and she loves kids so much. The kids also love being lifted high up in the air so they often use Mikasa as a seesaw.

Armin: Teacher, most likely geography. He's the type to travel the world and teach in different countries. This lifestyle allows him to learn more about local cultures, languages and traditions. It fascinates him!

Annie: Traveling the world with Armin means finding work can be quite tough unless you know the language. When she can, she will work as a bartender. She quite enjoys mixing drinks and listening to people's life stories. She gets fired pretty often for her lack of customer service etiquette though.

Jean: Corporate job. He wanted to be an artist but didn't quite try hard enough, so now he's stuck between grey walls that drive him insane. The pay is good thankfully, so in his spare time he can afford luxurious trips and dinners. Reiner often encourages him to keep working towards his dream of becoming an artist and even offers to pose for Jean to draw.

Reiner: Counsellor. He likes being able to help people get over their troubles just like he did with his own. It's not an easy job but it's very rewarding when successful. Though, sometimes he ends up being the patient while Jean listens to him complain about his life. Or Pieck... or Annie... or...

Connie: Personal trainer. This dude will get you into the exact shape that you want. It's so hard to keep up with him, he's way faster than you. More agile, more flexible. How the hell does he bend like that? One day you try to do the same, but you end up in hospital. Don't worry, Connie has insurance.

Sasha: Camp instructor! Loves organizing all sorts of activities with kids and teens including archery, canoeing, climbing, hiking. She loves being in nature. The only thing she hates about this job is the horror story time around the campfire.

Pieck: Work? Pieck? Nah! If anyone's got some sort of sugar daddy, it would be Pieck. She lives incredibly comfortably for someone who appears to be both single and unemployed. Ah, the joys of being both incredibly beautiful and incredibly devilish.

Falco and Gabi: They are still young, so the best they could do is work over the summer at a theme park. The pay is shit but the location is amazing and they get to ride for free!

Yelena: Lawyer. Like, we all know Yelena. It's better to have her on your side than be against her. And it's even better if she's your lawyer. You could get away with almost anything! Right??

Zeke: Baseball instructor. He trains the local team and is known as one of the best players in the area. Now he uses his time to help kids learn how to play. Legend says Zeke can throw a ball so far away that some are still stuck orbiting around Earth.

Onyankopon: Pilot. Passengers usually take a liking to him. He's so charismatic and friendly. He enjoys making jokes over the radio with the other members of the crew. The amazing views is what he loves the most about his job. And the free snacks.

Levi and Hange: This man's in no shape to do any kind of physical work right now, but instead aids Hange with her job. She owns a private Pathology clinic. How does Levi help, exactly? Well he makes sure she stays hydrated and does her taxes. Basically a secretary of some sorts. He even has a cute nameplate on his desk.

[thesirencult]

YOU NEED PEOPLE LIKE ME / DARK PSYCHOLOGY

You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your f*****’ fingers and say, “That’s the bad guy.” So what that make you? Good? You’re not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie.

(Tony Montana, Scarface)

Most people can not handle their darker side. They can not handle their ego and their deepest desires. Now, I'm not telling you to become like Tony Montana. He was consumed by his vices and they run the show for him. I'm telling you to do what you what to do and to stop lying to yourself and hiding from your true nature.

A couple of years ago, I met a girl who had an obsession with finding a wealthy man. She did not care about anything else other than the money. In her defense, she grew up in a poor family where, her dad beat her mom up and he even did that while her mom was pregnant with her.

That girl was studying finance. She took up Arabic and wanted to work for off shore companies where she could find a husband. She specifically told me she wanted her husband to drive a Porsche which has more prestige than a BMW and buy her a BMW cause the woman should be beneath her husband. Overall she was "micey" in character. If you didn't know her you would think she was shy and religious, but. you should know better guys, these people have more ego problems than the most outspoken, egomaniac extrovert.

So, she looked "weak" but had an agenda. She also was trying to give off the "trad wife" vibe but salivated as soon as a man breathed her direction and shamed any woman who showcased her seductiveness.

A few days ago, she messaged me. She wanted to grab a coffee with me as she would be in town. I was surprised when I saw her. In the "kindest" way I can put it, she looked like women who run on every single rally around and fight for justice (nothing wrong with taht, but if you're following me I bet you get what I'm trying to convey). A white girl with Bob Marley braids! Yup, there it is!

She told me she had given up Arabic and no longer wanted to work in a big shipping corporation because that supported big oil and their agenda. She then preached to me about equality and why the left is supreme. Now, I'm pretty straightforward so I asked her, how and why her views changed. She wanted to own 3 cars and be a stay at home mom! She looked outside the window of the coffee shop and saw my parked car.

"Do you see this car?"

I said "Yeah, I see it."

"Whoever drives this car is a right wing egomaniac who doesn't care about the environment and just wants to flaunt their money." (my car is a hybrid you guys!)

"Do you drive?"

"No, I can not afford a license and my family owns only one car. Also, I'm scared of driving. Also, did I tell you I'm running on the elections with the *left wing side*. Will you vote for me? If I make it I'll get 2k per month plus health care benefits."

"That's my car. I was going to ask you, do you want to take the train home or will you ride with me?" I just wanted this meeting to bo over, to tell you the truth.

She came with me.

Wanna know why? Here is my hypothesis (and it ties in with Tony Montana's words):

99% of people give up on their dreams by age 23. In order to make it easier for them and help them soothe the guilt this breeds, they begin to drift to the opposite "side" of the court. Pornstars turn to trad wives. Playboys turn to "faithful" husbands who preach the word of the Lord. Money and power hungry individuals take up boring jobs and blame the rich and the goverment for everything. Men who can not pick up women turn to red pill guys and so on and so forth.

Most people can not handle their darker side. They can not handle their ego and their deepest desires. Now, I'm not telling you to become like Tony Montana, he was consumed by his vices and that's who runs the show. Either you run the show or someone else or something (an addiction) runs it for you.

We see all that often with sex. Body counts, "I can not find a good man/woman" etc. People who can not get what they want hate those that have the GUTS to get it.

If my acquaintance's beliefs are that strong why did she enjoy the drive in the luxury SUV? Why did she then ask me when are we going out again and if I can bring "that" guy friend who runs a tech start up?

Because they are not her beliefs. They are just a cover up. A mask.

We've all seen how happy some people get when a dreamer fails.

So, go one. Fail. You''ll succeed at some point. You're better than those who sit on the sidelines running their mouth.

They would want to be at your shoes. They would want to run free on the court.

Own that. Own yourself and run after your goals and desires. Fuck them.

[limbuscompanysituations]

W-Corp sinners hearing rumors about a ghost on the warp train, appearing with unharmed/sleeping passengers. Through investigation they encounter the ghost, only for said ghost not only to recognize them, but recount the previous times they've encountered them. (Ghost Reader x W-Corp Sinners)

I'm not joking when I say this is VERY LONG. It goes as follows: a brief meeting about the WARP Train ghost, and then every sinner's individual meeting with them. It took me a while to get to this request because I was unsure about how to tackle it to begin with. Thank you for your patience!

As the meeting goes on, the head of the group, or rather the one relaying information to them, finally approaches the main topic at hand.

"It goes without saying that this matter should not be spoken of outside of this group, as it pertains to corporate secrets." Faust begins, "As every employee in this meeting, regardless of ranking, has encountered a strange phenomena within the boundaries of the WARP train, higher management has decided to address this... situation."

The word they gave her was "issue", but as far as she was aware the anomaly had yet to negatively affect any train trips.

"I would not like to assume, knowing that secrecy is of utmost importance here, however, am I correct in suggesting that this has something to do with a certain unexpected passenger?" Yi Sang speaks.

Faust nods and glances around the room. Her other coworkers have varying reactions to the mentioned passenger.

Hong Lu stares off into the distance, lips pressed into a firm, thin line. Don Quixote's usual high energy self is silent and pensive. Meursault shows no signs of emotions other than briefly closing his eyes with a low hum, while Outis crosses her arms and looks away. Ryoshu lits up another cigarette and huffs. Rodion has a slight smile on her lips but her eyes are as cold as ever.

"All of you seem to be on the same page. This saves us time." She nods, "You are to proceed with your work as per usual, and report any encounters with the anomaly to an appointed senior manager."

"Ah, so nothing changed, really." Rodion clicks her tongue. She didn't know what she was expecting.

"Are you sure this event will not cause any..." Hong Lu raises his hand, trying to pose his question.

"I cannot speculate on secrets that pertain to WARP Train functionality." But Faust swiftly cuts him off.

He lowers his hand and nods.

"Comrade Faust," Don Quixote begins, "Can't we do a thing about it...?"

Faust shakes her head. "There is no way to say for certain whether this anomaly is dangerous to passengers of the WARP Train, be them employees or customers. You're to observe but not interfere."

The bright blonde woman seems dejected at that response.

"Listen to those above you, and you may learn a thing or two." Outis scoffs. It seems she had already made up her mind regarding this matter.

Ryoshu clicks her tongue, "Boring."

Faust politely dismisses all of her coworkers. There is nothing else she can tell them, given their contracts, and also nothing else she can reliably say about it. This is something beyond the scope of information he has access to.

From here onward, they all have to handle the passenger as they see fit.

_______________________________

Yi Sang:

He's almost done with his part of the job when the ghost appears. He doesn't startle or react in any way to the sight of it. The passenger sits on a surprisingly clean bench, gazing at him with a longing that's familiar to him. They've met many times like this. He looks around and sees that as per usual, three or four asleep passengers are huddled in a corner. None of his coworkers have made it to this carriage either.

Yi Sang sits by their side, and they sigh.

"This trip is taking a lot longer than advertised, don't you think?" They say. He doesn't respond, merely resigning himself to stare out the window. "That's what the usual passenger thinks when the train departs from the station, did you know?"

He knows it would be better if he didn't interact with them, but cannot help it.

"I am aware." He keeps his thoughts about the corporation's methods to himself.

"It's alright, I think. As long as every passenger reaches their destination and the horrors are erased from their minds..." They stop to ponder for a second.

They sit together in silence. This is one of the many times they've met in the train, and yet Yi Sang can't seem to remember when was the first time. He somehow knows that in spite of his quietude, in spite of trying to keep his thoughts to himself, they seemed to already know every single one of them.

"When... Have we met?" He finally asks.

"A million lifetimes ago." They respond calmly, "Even though you forgot, I cannot let go."

Yi Sang shuts his eyes tight. For some unknown reason, the phrase makes him want to cry. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"It's okay, because you will keep coming back, and as long as you do, so will I." They reassure him.

He doesn't know if that's for better or for worse.

---------------------------

Meursault:

It's clear that their pristine looking self does not belong in the middle of a train that's otherwise filled to the brim with carnage. This is the anomaly W Corp is trying to understand. They stare at each other briefly, before he makes note of the group of unharmed passengers who sleep on a bench not too far.

When they smile at him, that sad smile he knows too well, he can't help but feel lonely. This must be one of the anomaly's many effects.

"You are a passenger." He is the first one to address the being in front of him.

They nod.

"Your destination is soon approaching." He thinks these words will comfort them, but instead they only make their smile disappear.

"There's no destination for me, as you know." They speak then smile again. A wave of melancholy takes over Meursault's heart.

"There is always a destination for a passenger. As certain as the sun rises and sets, you will go from point A to point B." He insists even though he knows the truth.

"You're always hopeful about it..." They laugh, "It's okay if I'm going nowhere. You're always here with me when I feel the most lonely."

"I'm an employee at W Corp. A cleanup agent will always-"

"Yes, yes, I'm familiar." They wave a hand in the air and dismiss his explanation. "It makes me happy that you're still this predictable."

He raises an eyebrow at them.

"Following a routine has always been soothing for both of us." They clarify.

"Ah."

This voyage will soon end, and the passengers in this carriage are already safe. Soon the unknown passenger will disappear.

Meursault hopes to meet them again.

______________________________

Faust:

There's only so much Faust knows, and yet inside the WARP train, she's as clueless about anything as every other employee. This anomaly, however, seems to know everything she's not privvy to and she's been trying to get it to open up. If only so she can for once have knowledge that belongs to her alone.

"Why do you think you keep coming back?" She asks.

They roll their eyes at her and then shake their head, chuckling a bit.

"You keep asking the same questions... At least you're as curious about me as ever. That's nice. It would be a lot better if you could remember me too..."

"It is impossible for me to remember you if I am not given-"

"Directions? Yes... yes, directions. Both of us would benefit from having them.

Faust frowns.

"What's with the frown? You're not the only one allowed to be cryptic." They laugh and that has Faust genuinely annoyed. She tries not to pout but fails.

"To pursue knowledge is a worthy endeavor, and one I am not ashamed of." She retorts.

"Aren't you scared I might make you just like myself, though? Are you not scared you'll become a ghost too, if you talk to me too much?" Suddenly the mood shifts, and the passenger's expression is taken by concern.

"Faust already expected this question." Faust can finally say with a smug smile, and she relishes on them being the one annoyed now, "It is a risk, as the source of your condition hasn't been uncovered. And yet..."

She pauses and ponders on it for a second longer, staring at the group of passengers that are uncannily still intact even if asleep. The passenger patiently waits for her answer.

"I cannot rest, unless I find out who you are."

The passenger crosses their arms, sadly staring out the window.

"It's not like it will change anything..."

"It will change me." Faust replies confidently. "I want you to change me."

The passenger smiles and shakes their head, but their eyes fill with tears. Their emotions are growing more volatile with each of these encounters, and this is something she notes. If she could ask any of the others, she would, but she knows that's not a possibility.

Could she be running out of time? She couldn't say. The best she could do was to keep returning to this passenger, and hope to find an answer before it became an impossibility.

_______________

Hong Lu:

He's overjoyed to see them still unharmed, along with a group of unscathed passengers. It not only is a sight for sore eyes, it also makes his work much easier.

"You're still here, how nice~" He chirps and strolls over to them, "Ah, I suppose it's not nice for you, is it?"

"Not at all." They reply, but they're smiling and walking over to meet him in the middle of the carriage, "You haven't changed a bit ever since our last meeting."

"I don't think I could change in a a little over a day, haha..."

"You have no idea how much you've changed already... Ever since the first time we..." Their words drift away.

Hong Lu casually kicks at the floor with the tip of his shoe. At least there weren't any corpses to butcher in this wagon. He hated the stench of blood and how it would stick to his hair even after washing it multiple times.

"It's not the first time you say this, and yet you never tell me when we met before. That's a little mean, isn't it?"

They shake their head, "If you don't remember, then why should I tell you?"

"Ah~ so you're hoping I will remember eventually, if only you keep coming back." He wonders if this is the reason this passenger in specific can never leave the train.

He knows very well how it feels to be confined to a role one does not want.

They shrug, "I can't say if you're right or wrong, I guess I'm just here."

He can't help but question himself if the roles aren't reversed here, if they're real and he's the ghost. After all, he always felt like he was simply a passenger inside his own body; never able to choose the destination of his journey and never able to get off the ride.

"I guess we will have to find out, isn't that fun?" He smiles but he feels anger and frustration bubbling inside himself.

Life is such an unfair succession of unfortunate events.

______________________

Ryoshu:

As much as she likes working with W Corp passengers, she has begun to despise her job as a whole. It is repetitive and boring, and most of her time is spent teaching new hires. Being able to enter the train once in a while and unwind is nice, however. That's what the ghost has earned her: a little downtime to herself.

They silently watch as she casually builds a statue of a varied assortment of limbs. She met them a couple carriages away, and since there was no carnage there she walked out of it, only to have them follow.

"I never understood why you do that." They comment as Ryoshu thinks about weaving a bunch of eyes and their nerves together into a crown. "I can see what you're doing, and it could be called revolutionary in the artistic fields but..."

She turns around and glares at them.

"I- I mean, I'm not saying I don't like it!" They frantically wave their hands in front of themself.

"As if I asked your opinion." Ryoshu scoffs. They give her an awkward smile.

"Don't you feel sad you'll have to dismount the statue later? You've assembled the passengers together where your job is to disassemble and separate them..."

"Don't care." she shrugs. "Hm..."

"It's like playing with clay for you, isn't it?"

She grins at them and her eyes glimmer with excitement.

"Did I say something wrong...?"

"You understand." Ryoshu hums and tosses her burnt cigarette to the floor. "Since when?"

"I keep saying we know each other, even if you don't remember, but you never believe me..."

"Hn." Ryoshu turns her back to them.

Normally, in a train full of abominations, one does not turn their back to the other passengers. She knows they are harmless, though. Even if the higher ups want her to report on their appearance in the train, she already made up her mind about refraining from doing so.

First because she does not owe those assholes anything more than what's in the contract, and second because she feels strongly about this passenger. She has yet to figure out if it's in a protective or possessive manner.

____________

Don Quixote:

"After me, helpless civilian! I shall guide thee towards safety!" Don Quixote exclaims.

"They're all dead already..." They try to explain to her for the hundredth time.

"Tis uncertain when the abominations will return! Come!"

They sigh and shake their head, already knowing there's no getting through to her. She's trying to guide them to the exit once more. They know this attempt is fated to failure.

"I told you I can't-"

"Nay! I shan't accept that as the undeniable truth! One day I shall bring you to safe harbor then-"

"Don..." They hold her bloody hand gently, a sad look in their eyes and a slight smile on their lips, "Thank you. You really are my hero."

Don Quixote blushes and freezes in place. She starts vibrating a little, as if about to have one of her usual outbursts of energy. Then, when her vibrating calms down again, she takes in a deep breath.

"Thou compliment is deeply appreciated," She begins to say in a solemn voice tone, "However, I have yet to save thee."

"You're already doing a lot, it's okay." They reassure her.

"Nay! Tis only when thou see the light of dawn again- only when thou art capable of exiting this damned place- only then I will accept being called a hero! This I swear on my honor, verily so!"

They shake their head and sigh. There is really no getting through to her. At least they aren't alone, and she keeps coming back often too.

"Okay... It's a promise then." They know it's an empty promise, but this seems to make her happy.

Working with W. Corp. is thoroughly soul-crushing, she hates it and can't admit that one of the Wings she so dearly admires is in truth a den of lies and injustice. This passenger is the only tether to her wish of becoming a knight of justice, and one of the few good souls who still care about the other passengers.

Don Quixote will gladly keep trying to save them again and again, no matter how many times it takes.

And even if all her attempts are doomed to fail.

_____________________

Outis:

She was already expecting this to be a difficult task. The Wing doesn't want to forfeit any bit of information to them, it's pretty much an impossible task. Perhaps higher management hopes to keep throwing them at the mysterious passenger until it disappears. She wouldn't put it past them.

Still whenever she meets them, she hopes that doesn't come to happen.

"You took a little longer to clean up this time." They say. They're sitting on the train's floor, leaning back on one of the tight-shut doors. Their eyes are closed and they seem to be tired.

Not too far from them is the usual three or four passengers who remain safely asleep.

"A second longer was the price for a job done to completion." She replies and takes a seat by their side, "You're still here."

"It took a little longer than a second, didn't it?" They retort and Outis squints at them.

"You're trying to tease me."

"You've gotten a lot better at picking it up!" They chuckle and she huffs.

"That's rich for someone confined to the space within the WARP Train. You should be trying to gain my favor, so then you could-"

"I'm never getting out of here. You know this."

Outis presses her lips into a thin line, lowering her head and looking at the metallic floor. They always gave her this odd sensation- a feeling that she couldn't explain into a single word. It wasn't longing or loneliness or anything in that spectrum it was... a feeling that she could never return home, or that there was no home to return to. She absolutely loathed it.

"If you have your mind set on failure, then you will not achieve anything."

"Of course you'd say that..." They sigh and rest their head on her shoulder. She doesn't feel it in herself to push them away, rather having the sudden urge to pet their hair. She refrains from doing so.

She wants to know them and what they mean to her, but can never seem to ask about it upfront. Instead they repeat this dance, back and forth trying to figure each other out.

Maybe one day they will return home, and maybe one day, so will Outis.

______________

Rodion:

"Alright, I'm all in!" She says as she pushes a pile of finger bones towards her opponent. "Whatcha say~?"

"Ugh..." They inspect the cards in their hands with a disgruntled look, "Can I still fold?"

"You don't remember the rules of the game? I thought your entire deal was remembering." Rodya laughs as they fumble with their own pile of finger bones and cards.

"I didn't think you'd remember promising to bring a deck of cards!"

"It seems like one of us doens't take gambling very seriously~" She teases them.

"Ah... I'm out anyway, look, my hand is terrible." They show their cards to her and she sees that they got at least two pairs, "Just take everything."

She happily claims the pile of finger bones which are being used as currency here and then reveals her hand. Not a single match worth a thing.

"What?! Not even a pair?! How?!" They throw their hands into the air, thoroughly infuriated with her bluff.

"You played well, but you weren't really playing." She grins wide as she shuffles the cards again, "Rematch?"

"Agh!" They hold their head in their hands. "I- I don't know!"

"C'mon, it's not like you have anything better to do. But then you'll have to find your own finger bones to bet, I'm not giving them back." They aren't worth a single thing and will be returned to their owners when her shift is over, but having them alone giver her a sense of power.

"I don't have a weapon like yours, you expect me to go disassembling hands and feet from the corpses?"

"What? I thought you were bored of being here all alone. At least now you'll have something to do with your time."

"Of all people to be stuck with..." They sigh.

Her assumption that smuggling a deck of cards within her uniform would give her something was right. People always reveal themselves when there's something on the line. This was all meaningless to Rodion, of course, she was just glad she could have a break from her exhausting work.

She watches them dig around corpses a small distance away from her. She'd met them in another carriage, one that was clear of blood and whose passengers remained safely in one piece.

"Oh yeah, where was your destination again, by the way? I mean, were you going home as everybody el-"

"You already know this..."

It was a long shot, and she missed it by far.

"Ah, right. After all we are good friends from way back and everything~"

They turn their head to squint at her.

"Somehow you're still terrible at lying outside of gambling."

"Don't be so mean out of the blue." She huffs, "Maybe you were just so bad at cards that I ended up forgetting."

She means it as a light jab, but their expression turns into one of agony and extreme sadness.

"Don't say that..." Their eyes well up with tears.

"Ah- I meant it as a joke. I didn't- I didn't really mean it..." She isn't used to apologizing like this, but the moment she saw how much they were hurt, she felt the instinct to comfort them immediately.

"It's not a big deal..." Their lie is as clear to her as a diamond.

That's one of the things she hates about them. No matter how many times she finds them, she cannot remember. No matter how much she wants to completely forget, to abandon them and to do whatever with her life, she keeps coming back to them. No matter what, she still has these painful emotions swirling inside of her that she can't even trace back to an origin. She resents the fact she can't resent them either.

"Okay, I'll lend you a few of my chips." She concedes, "Come here, let's have a rematch."

[feralferretxp]

Okay so this is a intro post about my headcanons for Bang's parents and his childhood. So yeah, buckle in guys :D

This is Meg, short for Margaret, and Ned, short for Edwin.

Meg was designed by @supgoddo while i designed Ned. These are just some early doodles of them.

Also this last one is my most recent drawing of them which was a while ago but I plan on drawing a lot of stuff of them and Bang for future posts ↴

I headcanon them to be rich/high class because:

Bang's whole canon name is pretty dang fancy, like come on there's no way he just has that name for no reason

As made in a older post of mine (this one) I talked about how Bang shows a lot of signs that he comes from a wealthy upbringing of some sorts. Including him having proper manners like when he greets a royal sand architect and some kid named "King"

Here's just a synopsis for Bang's parents and his childhood and how it all affected him:

Bangford "Bang" Bipplebop III grew up in a wealthy family under the weight of big expectations. His father, Ned (Bangford Edwin "Ned" Bipplebop II), was a self-made millionaire who pushed himself to succeed as his own father wanted. He hoped Bang would inherit this same drive and set high, often unrealistic goals for him to carry on the family legacy. Bang’s mother, Margaret "Meg", came from old money and embraced tradition, placing high value on elegance and respectability. Though she loved Bang, she struggled with his transition and often deadnamed or misgendered him, which only deepened the distance between them. As a kid, Bang struggled academically and socially, showing neurodivergent traits like his father has, but Ned is not even aware of his own traits so he's blind to Bang's struggles with causes more stain on their relationship. Bang was often clumsy and felt slow or “behind,” which led to frustration and yelling from his parents, leaving him feeling out of place even in his own home. Still, he idolized his dad, and when he transitioned, he chose to become Bangford "Bang" Bipplebop III. Ned was proud, but Meg quietly missed her “little girl”. Now an adult, Bang has adopted a chill, stoner-surfer vibe, projecting effortless cool demeanor. Beneath that, though, he constantly wrestles with feelings of inadequacy and failure. He dropped out of college, never achieving the high-class life his parents imagined. He even got his current job on Answer Team 341B by accident, after receiving someone else’s acceptance letter, which only adds to his sense of not belonging or “being behind,” since he was never properly trained. To cope, he uses weed to numb the pain and avoid his worries, but he fears this habit only reinforces the image of an ambitionless pothead that his parents likely suspect him to be. Beneath his mellow exterior, Bang battles with self-worth, struggling to break free of family expectations that never quite fit.

So in a nutshell, he’s a trans man dealing with generational trauma who masks his insecurities and self-doubt with a laid-back persona while using weed to numb the pain 👍

Also my headcanons for his childhood struggles help explain why he shields his face and head when he gets yelled at times, which i also talked about in a different post. (right here) Like him fearing of being scolded at again for doing something wrong. Or even just to shield and protect himself when he feels like he's in danger. Poor dude🥺

Also to point out that there are a few moments in Answer Time where you can see where Bang is not at all interested in business, like in the Internet episode where he looks disengaged and even a little bored when Stacy, the human calling them, was talking about his corporate job that's all about serious business. And plus the Stocks episode where Bang has no idea or interest in how to run a company when he was trying to figure out how stocks work. Which helps with my headcanon that he ofc doesn't find any interest in business like his father does and doesn't want to be in it.

Heck, even Sue tells Bang in the Stocks episode, "Some folks are just born with a innate talent for business." Which could hint that business is in his family blood somehow.

Anyways, back on track. My voice claims for Meg and Ned are Mother Gothel from Tangled and Wheatley from Portal, and those could also kind of show how they both act like but not entirely of course but just sorta the gist of it in a nutshell.

Since moving out for college, Bang has been living on his own away from his parents and after dropping out, he cut off all contact with them, being too ashamed to face them as their only child who was a far cry from what they had hoped for. But I do theorize that perhaps after the Stock episode when Bang's red t-shirt company flunked in stocks, Ned took notice of this (not to mention all of the adverts with Bang's face in them) and thus could lead to him and Meg soon finding Bang and meeting him after so many years. Which would scare the living hell out of him if he ever saw them knocking at his door, but that's for another time I think.

So yeah that's what i have for y'all so far with Med and Neg. I'll probably make other posts talking about Meg and Ned in more depth with their own backstories and lore. I hope you guys like my headcanons or whatever. Please feel free to comment or share your ideas or thoughts!

Thank you for reading this far and have a good day! ✨

[angelicnymph]

ᡣ𐭩🍑Voluptuous 🍑ᡣ𐭩 [1]]

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ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ Y/N perspective 🍥

Suguru went to work this morning while you had a day off today. You woke up around 9am, had breakfast, showered and did the laundry for you and Suguru. After half an hour, you decided to rearrange your wardrobe since you were bored. You started from the top shelf to the bottom, trying on every clothes you own.

To your surprise, many pants were too tight for you and you had to discard them eventhough you bought them around 2 years ago.

You were actually really skinny before until you joined Jujutsu High as a teacher last year due to Suguru and Shoko's incessant persuasion. You were a former student of the other Jujutsu school and after the completion of your studies, you were simply tired of the Jujutsu world so you decided to work a 9-5. You were met with Kento at work who was also a former Jujutsu student. Eventually both you and Kento quit your 9-5 and upon Kento's invitation, you visited Jujutsu High of Tokyo where Nanami studied. You were surprised to know that Shoko, your childhood bestfriend was there. Kento being a brother figure to you was the one to introduce you to the rest.

At first when you were first introduced to Suguru, you two were like dogs and cats until you were requested to pair with him on a dangerous mission by Principle Yaga. The mission was a bonding experience for both of you allowing you both to confess to each other.

Upon completion of the mission, Suguru asked you to join Jujutsu High as a teacher like him. At first you hesitated because you were always looked down due to your physique. You had a petite skinny frame which was a huge disadvantage to you in combat. The only reason you got in Jujutsu school was because of your immense curse energy. Your physique was your biggest weakness and that was one of the reason you left Jujutsu World for the corporate world which didn't do you good as well.

When Suguru came to know about that, he assured you that he'll help and protect you as much as he can. Since you joined Jujutsu High last year, you were actively training with Suguru. You both worked out regularly and he personally did your meal prep, count your calories and tracked your protein intake. He was kind of your personal gym coach.

Although you were finally reaching your goal and building your dream physique, you were quite insecure. Especially due to the fact that your old cute pants and shorts that you loved a lot and without forgetting the stretch marks on your thighs and ass cheeks.

You were standing in front of the mirror picking out your flaws with teary and glossy eyes when Suguru entered the room.

"Hello Princess, I'm bac-", he paused when he saw your teary faced.

"My love~", he said and sat on the bed and caught your wrist to pull you on his lap.

"Now tell me my love. Why was my babygirl crying? Did someone say anything to you?"

"No", you sniffed and hid your face in the crook of his neck, taking in his manly scent.

"It's just, I'm not used to this body. I- I've gained so many stretchmarks on my body"

You kept on rambling on and Suguru being a good listener, kept listening while caressing your thighs.

"Babe. Its completely normal to have stretchmarks. I've them too." He pulled off his black compression shirt to show you the stretchmarks on his well-sculpted boulder shoulders and a few on his inner chest.

You were somewhat comforted by your boyfriend but nevertheless the feeling was still there.

"BUT I've it on my ass", you whispered quietly.

"Oh yeah? Why don't you show me then?", he cocked an eyebrow.

You whined in embarrassment and hit his chest while he continued to look at you with a cocky smile and knead your thigh.

[flightfoot]

I'm so glad you love Kira Kira so much!!! It's such an underrated season ahhhh. The only thing keeping it from my own top spot is the treatment of Rio. He's my favorite precure character of all time and I simply can't let it slide T-T

Oooh yes it's so good! Like, it has the most well-constructed character arcs for each of the cures of any season, most are more lopsided.

Like with Ichika! She loves making sweets, but she's not very good at it at first. She's not a lethal chef or anything, she just isn't very experienced and doesn't know a lot. I loved watching her slowly work together with her friends to learn how to bake. It's not like some instant thing, you just notice her slow improvement throughout the season.

She does have something she's naturally gifted at, and that's decoration! She's really good at decorating treats in a way that will bring joy to the person who receives them, to the point that Ciel, a baking prodigy, actually learns from her in that regard.

Himari's arguably the most blatantly autistic cure there's ever been, and that's saying a lot. She loves baking and is an expert on the chemistry of it. Unfortunately, she's been discouraged from sharing her passion in the past, since her classmates got bored with her infodumping about the subject. I love her character arc about learning to come out of her shell and finding a way to use her infodumping tendencies for good by finding a receptive audience who enjoys being taught by her!

Aoi has my favorite character arc of the Cures. I love how she was inspired by her idol to become a musician and rock out with her bandmates, and how she's going against what's expected of her because, surprisingly enough, she's the heir to a wealthy family. She doesn't have any interest in running the corporation though. I loved her finding her voice and standing up for what she wants to do!

Cure Chocolat has one of the prettiest designs in Pretty Cure, in my opinion! Akira's character arc has some weaknesses, but it's still compelling. She's got a sick little sister she's protective of, and she tends to put too much on herself. I didn't really like that the show emphasized those self-sacrificial qualities - seriously she's gonna burn out at some point - but otherwise she's great!

She also has one of the most blatant queer relationships in the show. Like Kira Kira never SAYS that Akira and Yukari are a couple, but it sure hints at it.

There's never been a Pretty Cure character quite like Yukari. Even Yui, who's also a cat, is pretty different from her. Like she has this thing going on where she's good at everything instantly and it gets boring, which is why macarons interested her - she actually FAILED the first several times and had to work at making those to make them good.

I don't even really know how to describe her, she's so catlike. I don't think she actually changes a lot like the others do, you just see more facets of her. I love how easily she's able to act and fool villains, making them think they have the upper hand when she's actually playing them like a fiddle.

So her starting off as this haughty, slightly conceited prodigy who didn't think much of Ichika's merely alright pastries (given that she's world famous and has trained under the fanciest bakers in Paris), but slowly grows to see that even if Ichika's actual pastries are lackluster, they have a lot of heart, a lot of Kira Kira in them, and trying to figure out why that is. Her whole breakdown when she realizes how she just... didn't see what Pikario was going through, why he freaked out and ran away, and how he was then infected with evil and taken advantage of and STILL refused to talk to her even after being purified... she became a lot better at reading people as the season went on. I really love how she reached out to Biburi especially. She might not have been able to do much to save her brother, but she can help her at least.

On the bright side, at least Pikario got to be the first guy to have a claim to being a precure? Even if it was just a temporary power-up and he didn't get a Cure name, he was still first on that.

Pikario's the second-best Heel-Face Turn character I've seen in Precure (sorry Pikario, but Setsuna takes the top spot). I love how understandable his motives are. He and his sister went to Paris to learn how to be bakers together, but she's improving by leaps and bounds while he's being left behind and is becoming more and more frustrated, and she's rarely even around anymore. And then the last straw, when he makes the waffles she complimented so highly before, only for her to tell him they weren't as good as the ones from before... it was honest, but no wonder he snapped.

I love that he and his sister still had things to work out afterwards and that all his problems weren't instantly solved once he was freed of the brainwashing, the underlying problems that caused him to be vulnerable still had to actually be fixed first.

He definitely got cheated, he was one of the most interesting characters in the season (and the franchise, honesty), but he was put in a coma for a substantial portion of the show and didn't get to join the team permanently. But what WAS there still makes him a top-tier character.

---

I adore these characters so much, Kira Kira is SO underrated it's criminal.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #40 – Dead Silence by S. A. Barnes

This was yet another book that has been on my TBR list for so long I had entirely forgotten what the actual pitch was – I went into it pretty much entirely blind, just ‘sci fi horror’ from the glanced over marketing copy on the back. Which is really the best way to go about reading(/watching/playing) horror, anyway. It was an entertaining enough read? If an uneven one – the first half was really incredibly better than the second, unfortunately.

The story follows Claire Kovalik, the ‘team lead’ of a maintenance crew repairing com relays in the ass end of the solar system – at least until they finish this last run and are officially rendered obsolete. Too psychologically fragile for her corporate masters to trust her with an actual ship, the only future she has to look forward to is a deskbound sinecure revising training manuals on Earth. She’s seriously considering killing herself instead, when their sensors detect an archaic distress signal past the edge of charted space – the Aurora, first and last space liner for the rich and famous, vanished with all hands on its maiden voyage decades ago. The finder’s fee and accumulated bounties would be enough to set everyone on the team for life (not even counting any artifacts they pocket to auction on the side), so the five of them board and reactivate the old hulk, exploring its galleries and aiming it towards Earth. Just a 60 hour burn to reliable communications with the rest of the system, totally worth it for fame and fortune. Even once they start discovering the state of all the former passengers, and figuring out what happened in those last hours aboard the ship.

So! This is Event Horizon but with the Titanic. It’s other things too, but that’s the pitch. Now, I like Event Horizon, and adore exploited corporate serfs being slowly suffocated by looming dread as they explore the gore-stained ruins of past decadence, so that’s no bad thing for me. But still, even from the outset this is not a work that tries to break any molds. This honestly becomes much more of an issue in the third act, when the book basically shifts genre and also has to come up with answers and a resolution to the whole thing and just does not land it for me.

The main twist on the formula is that Claire is the only survivor of a Martian colony that was annihilated by plague (and a missed resupply) when she was a child, the physical and emotional trauma of which left her partially deaf in one ear, terrified of emotional connections and (most pertinently) already possessed of significant experience with hallucinating the bloody corpses of people she cares about wandering around when she’s stressed. Which turns out to be a very useful life skill, when they turn the ship back on and everyone starts having to deal with that. Which is mostly pretty fun! The paranoia and terror as everything goes to shit at the end of the first act are great. Sadly, the book then decides to keep going.

The first half of the book is the story of the initial salvage crew’s discovery of the Aurora, as relayed through Claire getting debriefed/interrogated by a couple of corporate goons after being found half-dead in an escape pod. The latter half is those same corporate goons conscripting her for a return journey to the ship, now guiding three platoons of mercenaries. It’s like if you watched a double-feature of Alien and one of its bad sequels. The book slips from well-executed to paint-by-numbers, and the big reveal is basically the most boring possible answer you could imagine. This is not helped by the book’s action sequences just not being very...good.

Part of that is just the book’s complete lack of faith in its audience, or understanding of subtlety. Several twists are telegraphed so obviously that it’s hard to believe Claire is actually surprised by them, and character beats are just repeated so often you want to grab the author and scream you get it already. Claire’s tragic backstory is repeated something like half a dozen times, and the surprise villain spends half the final confrontation basically giving a monologue about how he’d drown a nursery full of babies if it topped up his 401k.

Villains aside, the supporting cast is mostly fun-if-one-note. Decently executed, but all very much walked out of sci fi central casting. Which more or less works, in that they’re all energetic and mostly fun to have on page. The unfortunate and singular exception is Claire’s love interest, the team medic. Whose...nice? Has a daughter back on Earth? Might as well be a statue carved from literal white bread? You know the cliche about hollywood action movies where the hero’s girlfriend has zero personality or arc and mostly exists to be hot and motivate him by being imperilled? Basically the gender-flip of that.

One thing the book kind of teases but absolutely never really explores or tries to resolve is the fact that in addition to all the hallucinations and madness with (boring, but) mechanistic and materialistic explanations, ghosts might also just be real? There’s several points in the book where Claire sees the body she doesn’t recognize hovering around someone, and when she describes it to them, they know who it is. It’s also a recurring thing that her visions of her dead mom are supposed to be how she even knew how to send out the SOS that got her rescued from the dead colony as a child. You might expect that this would eventually build to something, or be key to the final resolution. You would be incorrect.

So yeah, would have been a very solid horror novella if it just cut the entire second act. As is, I mean I’m not angry I read it, but not sure I’d go out of my way to recommend it either.