#at least i think its sap it was sticky before i painted it

[critterbutt]

[dr33mtal3]

Pazazz Bitty

Since I drew a pippin before I had to draw a pazazz! Here have some fun facts!

A Pazazz is a subclass of Bonsai-Bitty (another of which is the Pippin)

Bonsai-Bitties are a kind of Plant-Bitty that use a skeletal structure to carry a root and branch system: a walking tree

Bonsai-Bitties have 'wings' which are actually their canopy: leaves, branches, and flowers make up the many structures

The wings of a Bonsai-bitty are sensitive to touch, capable of crude vision (light, color, movement, and shape), used for breathing and photosynthesis, and are also used in reproduction

The wings of a Bonsai-bitty may secrete pollen, nectar, or sap, given relevant circumstances

Bonsai-Bitties are capable of great chemical complexity, and will often change their chemical makeup to communicate (or for some other conscious purpose). This results in changes to their coloration, smell, taste, and toxicity.

A happy, healthy Bonsai-Bitty can be harvested from for edible or medicinal substances

The wings of a Bonsai Bitty has indeterminate growth

And about the Pazazz, specifically:

Pazazzes are a type of Bonsai Bitty which display warm-colored pigmentation

Pazazz prefer warmer temperatures and semi-humid to mildly damp conditions. They enjoy hot springs, and hot tubs.

A Pazazz can breathe in freshwater through their wings with little trouble, but cannot breathe in salt-water for more than an hour at a time. However, cool water may send them into a state of torpor.

They especially enjoy playing in mud puddles, slimes, paint, and other gooey globs, so long as they are room temperature or warmer.

Pazazz also enjoy fire, but should not be left near an average fire unsupervised (as they are somewhat flammable).

A Pazazz is boundlessly loyal to its chosen Person, even before becoming a proper bondmate. If they 'choose' a person, they will pursue them persistently.

A Pazazz that has found its chosen Person will desire to be beside them at all times, even when their Person cannot pay direct attention to them. They will hide in pockets or bags, sit on shoulders, or sit on the head, in order to remain as close as possible whenever they can get away with it.

Pazazz are energetic and rowdy bitties that have great reserves of energy during the day. They can be so active that it causes their wings to become unkempt.

However, Pazazz are highly diurnal, and will slow down once the sun sets. At a certain light level (of darkness), a Pazazz will have difficulty staying awake at all. You can trick a Pazazz into thinking it is time to sleep by keeping them in a dark place. A blindfold will also work partially, but not fully unless their wings are also covered.

Pazazzes are affectionate: they will show their affection with closeness, cuddles, nuzzles, and shedding. They may also bite to leave marks.

Pazazzes are active and talented, but not academically inclined. They do well in creative activities and sports, so art supplies, balls, and little weights are great for enrichment.

The Pazazz tends to have a loud and opinionated personality. They have a great capacity for jealousy and spite, and will pick fights for both entertainment and a desire for chaos. They prefer to pick fights with those who can fight back.

Although the Pazazz is slow to learn new tricks, they never forget a skill once learned. A Pazazz will do its best to learn new things for the people it loves (with mixed results).

Pazazz shed excessively when they feel intense emotions, to the point where their pollen, nectar, or sap will pool and stain the area around them. They become very sticky, and will need help cleaning and preening their wings after such an episode.

Pazazz are durable both emotionally and physically. They have a high tolerance for pain, to the point where some may actively seek it out. If a Pazazz complains about pain, there is something seriously wrong.

The wings of a Pazazz grow faster than other bonsai bitties. They require trims at least once a month to maintain good health. It is recommended to maintain a regiment of at-home edge trims once a week, or to bring them in for a close short trim with a trained professional once a month.

Pazazzes love climbing or flying up to high places. They also love knocking things off high places.

Pazazzes are voracious eaters, and will steal food even when they aren't hungry. They especially love sweets, spicy foods, and anything with caffeine in it.

Pazazzes have been known to climb into full coffee cups, drain the coffee, and then nap in the warm bottom of the cup. If paired with a Pippin, they may share the nap spot for extra cuddles.

Older or more clever Pazazzes may entertain themselves by making mischief or playing pranks. Some may find making messes more fun.

A stressed or anxious Pazazz may invert their behavior and obsessively clean. Although this is a known stress response, this behavior can be encouraged with ample praise and reward, so that they will know to clean their messes after making them. It is important to continuously reinforce the reward for this behavior to keep it from returning to a stress response.

[ghost-oftheriver]

Parent Guidance Recommended

word count: 3,281

focus characters: Pacifica Northwest, Fiddleford H. McGucket

warnings: child neglect, implications of alcoholism, implications of infidelity, mugging, knives, threatening, generally awful people

summary: On the worst birthday she’s ever had, Pacifica finds herself seeking support from a source she’d least expect; the new owner of the once-Northwest Manor, her own former home.

Pacifica was turning fourteen on the Fourth of July. A perfect birthday. Perfect girl. Perfect family.

Her parents would throw a party. Like any Northwest party, with gorgeous, itchy lace ball gowns and impeccable etiquette, each word in every conversation spoken with flawless flow, with purposeful posture and respect-demanding mannerisms. A perfect party for perfect people, with perfect food prepared.

After claiming her designated ruby-studded chair at the dinner table, she would be shocked when her plate was revealed to her. Deep-fried Roareos. Stacked in a small sweet-powdered delicious heap in front of her, chocolately, cream-filled cookies, dipped in batter and deep-fried to perfection. Sugary. Messy. Pacifica had never had it before. How did her parents know she wanted to try it?

She turned her head to cast a quizzical look to her parents, who’d been watching her, holding each other with loving smiles directed at her. A warm feeling spread inside her like warm butter. She reached for a fork.. but hesitated, and hovered her hand over the plate instead. She casted another glance at her parents to see their reaction. No cold response was elicited so far. In fact, she could have sworn her father nodded in approval.

She delicately picked one of the cookies up with her thumb and forefinger, and raised it to her lips to nibble at it. Her senses were flooded with warm, sweet goodness. Just as amazing as she imagined. She stuffed the rest in her mouth, going so far as to lick her fingers. Her lips were coated with melted cream. She neglected the napkins beside her plate to instead lick the sugar mixture from her lips. Barbaric. But her parents didn’t seem to mind either of the actions. She thought she even heard an amused giggle from her mother.

“Sweetie, would you like your presents now or after you’re finished?” Priscilla— no, this was Mom— asked. Pacifica paused. She had a say? Were they not on a schedule? She supposed if she was given the option, she would love to open gifts while she snacked on the rest of the Roareos.

“Now, please,” the young blond girl responded. On cue, one of the butlers was beside her, placing a neatly-packaged gift box on her lap. A beautiful purple silk ribbon sat on top, holding it together. She couldn’t recall the last time she felt so eager to reveal its contents.

What was inside? Some comfy clothes? Paint, perhaps? A cute animal plush that would contrast the creepy porcelain dolls in her room? The possibilities were endless.

Delightfully, she tugged at it. The box opened. As she peered inside, her excitement dissolved. The warm feeling turned to ice.

The bell. The one her father carried on his person at all times. The one that willed his command in the mansion. The one Pacifica hated. Suddenly Preston was standing over her, slowly picking the bronze item up.

Loving smile gone, replaced with a disapproving, even disgusted scowl. She shrank in her seat.

“Pacifica Elise Northwest,” he boomed. “So it’s true. You’re mingling with the common, ignoble crowds these days.”

“No!” she found herself crying out. “It’s not like that! I have to!”

“Have to what? Work a lowly job as a waitress in that slobbish cesspit? At that- that disgusting, sorry excuse for a dining destination? THAT’S NOT ACCEPTABLE EVER. How can you call yourself a Northwest? How can you call yourself our daughter?”

The very first thought she woke up to was that it was too good to be real.

Tangled in her sheets, warm tears trickling down her cheeks. She sniffled and quickly wiped them away before slipping out of bed.

The house was dark. Silent. The clock on the wall read 7:52. Her parents’ bedroom was empty as she passed. It smelled of wine. They would not be back for a while. Pacifica found herself releasing a sigh, her tension easing a little, even if that meant she’d be spending her birthday alone for the very first time. She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, trying to recall the good part of the dream, trying to revive the taste of the sugary treat, but it was gone. Soured by the unreality of it. All it was doing was making her hungry belly ache.

When checking the refrigerator, cabinets and pantry and coming to the realization that all that was left was a loaf of bread, a half-empty tube of Bringles and a couple dinner kits. No breakfast food. Not even a single egg. Not even leftovers. Something like despair and disappointment blossomed inside her. She would have to eat at the diner again…

She snagged her wallet from the counter only to find her twenty had disappeared, leaving only a couple measly ones and fives and whatever coins were loose inside. She felt the tears building a little again and slapped the wallet shut to try to stifle them. There was a time she had nearly everything, but now after Weirdmaggedon, she couldn’t even trust that her own hard-earned cash wouldn’t be snagged if left around her own greedy birthgivers. Her strength was being sapped by the will not to burst into a sobbing fit. There was enough in there to cover breakfast at work when she got to Greasy’s, at least.

With her belly still growling, she changed out of her nightwear, threw on her apron and a pair of aviators and began the walk to work.

The day was a bright one, sunny and a little breezy. A pleasant temperature. It did not reflect how Pacifica felt. Despite the summer weather, she pulled her scarf over her head, casting shade over her face. The neighborhood streets were mostly void of people, every house gated off. Just because they lost the mansion did not mean the Northwests were living in squalor, but her spending money was strictly monitored. Her parents now enforced that any money she spent, she’d have to earn. A fourteen year old. A child. Just so her birthgivers could ensure a few extra dollars in their account.

Pacifica couldn’t help but feel the fanciness of the neighborhood was almost deceitful. Her own household was a prime example. Her own rumbling tummy was a prime example. She wondered if there were others who lived in these houses that had similar problems as hers. Unlikely here.. however there were definitely others, people who’d been pushed to extremes just to get by.

Whether that was the reason behind why Pacifica soon found herself being followed halfway through the trip, she didn’t know. The feeling of being watched intensified by the minute, and glances into the reflections of shop windows told her there was a person. They refused to let up for at least a couple of blocks, the likelihood that they were just going the same direction by chance was steadily decreasing. They probably saw her leaving the wealthier neighborhood. The young girl picked up her pace. It did her no good.

The next moments were a blur. Her arm was snatched. When she struggled, a slice put a stop to it. Her arm began to bleed. Something sharp pressed to her throat, stiffening every muscle in her body. Vulgar language was hurled at her, demanding cooperation before her purse was yanked from her shoulder, and she was thrown to the curb. She was left winded, bruised, panicked and hyperventilating. She struggled for her breath back.

Mugged. She’d been mugged for the few measly dollars she had on her. And the fact that her first thought after all that was concern for what her parents would think that she let those precious dollars be nicked in the first place.. it only increased her distraught. Her breaths hastened more and more, and she didn’t realize her tears had finally started to flow until she was already sprinting down the street, her vision muddled. Every step felt like thunder to her ears. Home. She just wanted to go home. Maybe she couldn’t be herself as much, and maybe she was always busy, under constant supervision. But at least there was stability. At least there was certainty of the future. At least it was comfortable, at least there was always food on the table, breakfast, lunch and dinner. At least her father never stumbled around reeking of alcohol while only Lord knew where her mother was. Maybe her parents weren’t the best to other people but at least she could be certain they were true to each other. At least she could pretend everything was fine.

Pacifica wasn’t sure how far she’d gone. She was sweaty, she felt gross and sticky. Her legs were sore, threatening to give out if she went any further. She was still bleeding. She ached everywhere. But she’d reached her destination. She stood at the bottom of a familiar, long driveway, and at the top, sitting on a large hill, towering over the town stood the proud family mansion. Waves of nostalgia and sorrow crashed over her. Everything felt so gross. Every memory tainted by the knowledge of her parents’ true nature. She couldn’t even speak to anyone, not even her parents. Who would listen to a rich brat whine about how she used to be richer? Certainly not any of the townsfolk.

She found herself staring at the manor for a while, not entirely sure what to do.

“...What am I doing here…?” Pacifica whispered, sniffling and reaching for the tissues she kept in her purse, only to be hit with the whirlwind of events that had just happened again. Her arm stung. She could barely hold herself upright. She felt so… so tired. She meekly wiped her nose on her sleeve, and started to turn around when suddenly she bumped into someone.

“Wo-ah there, kiddo, careful, better watch where ya—” a cheerful voice piped, before cutting itself off when the sight of Pacifica in her disheveled state registered. “Huh? Hey.. Ah’ know you.”

Color drained from Pacifica’s cheeks. This guy again.. Why was he here? She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks as she tried a witty remark, but — “Y-y-ea-h, well-, wh-o w-ou-uldn’-t-” — ultimately failing when her quivering body wouldn’t stop heaving sobs. Again she sniffled. Disgusting. In front of the hillbilly too.

McGucket’s face morphed into something like sympathy. He kneeled down to her height. “Ah- hey, what’s goin’ on kiddo? Are ya alright?”

Pacifica parted her lips. She wanted to say yes. Her instincts screamed at her to say yes. She could practically hear her birthgivers demanding her to say yes. She had to be perfect. She had to be flawless. She had to be stoic, proud, happy, for her family.

But that’s not what came out.

“n-NO!” she cried, her knees finally buckling as if the years of abuse weighing down on her shoulders finally came crashing down on top of her. Her face buried in her hands, sobbing violently into them. She wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay. Wails and cries escaped. She couldn’t stop the tears anymore. She was in so much pain, she was so alone. The sobs wouldn’t stop. The raging storm of emotion only continued to demolish her walls, clawing at her pride and self esteem. Everything she pretended to be crashed and burned at that moment.

Fiddleford had been a little stunned by the sudden breakdown, but he started to piece the situation together from the bits and pieces the poor girl was babbling. He didn’t get up and walk away like Pacifica was expecting him to. He stayed put, even placed his hand on her shoulder to try to console her. When she didn’t flinch away from him, the old man started rubbing circles on her back as she cried and cried. Fiddleford never was the best at comfort.. though he could only imagine how long this outburst had been bottled up, and he thought it best that Pacifica let it all out before trying to say anything.

It was a while before Pacifica’s sobs began to calm enough to allow her to speak in more coherent sentences. The story became clearer. She spoke about how her parents had mistreated her, like she was an accessory rather than a human being, a literal child. How things had been getting worse this past year since they were forced to move due to her father’s irresponsible stock market decisions during Weirdmaggedon, to preserve what fortune they had left. How she felt more at home at the diner than she ever did at her own residence. How she hardly saw her parents anymore. How everything had changed for the worst. The way her parents had become about money, even how they scolded her for ‘nagging’ about her birthday the previous day, when it had been the first time she brought it up in half a year. It all hurt terribly to speak of but Pacifica couldn’t help but notice the sudden weightless feeling after getting everything out. She was surprised to find Old Man McGucket was still listening.

“Y’know,” he spoke finally, “Ah knew a fella once who thought ‘e had everythin’ before ‘e lost it all too. ‘Should’a been there for ‘im like he needed.”

Pacifica was quiet for a moment. “..W..ho was he?”

Fiddleford only waved his hand. “Ol’ college buddy. Doin’ mighty fine these days. Now whaddya say we get off’a the street an’ patch up that lil’ ol’ scratch a’ yours inside?”

It tooka moment to register the question through his southern accent, but when she did, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “..I- inside..?”

Inside the mansion. Pacifica almost couldn’t believe it. Old Man McGucket was the one that bought the Northwest Manor. She wondered how on earth a former homeless man was possibly able to afford such a grand purchase, until peeks into a couple rooms along the hallway that had been filled with computers and strange machinery told her she didn’t know nearly as much about McGucket as she previously thought.

It was so strange walking through the hallways again. Everything was the same, but different. Was the grand rustic architecture and furniture always so beautiful? And… were those.. raccoons she was spotting out of the corner of her eyes?

McGucket led her to a room with a couch- a familiar silver-themed room with a certain carpet pattern. It looked nearly the same, except for the banjo leaning against the couch’s armrest, and maybe a few more stains than its previous flawless condition “for guests- that is, for guests to look at”. Despite her emotional state, she found herself smiling at the memory of her adventures with Dipper Pines, trying to bust that ghost… until she recalled the punishment her parents had made for her after that was all over. She began to feel a little sick. Her gaze dropped to the floor as McGucket trudged into the room, plopped onto the couch and patted the cushions beside him. Hesitantly, she followed him and did as gestured. It was.. weird to be back. She wiped her eyes again.

“How’d that’a happen?”

“..What?” the question hit her like a slap.

“The cut.” He gestured to the bleeding injury with a bandaged hand.

“...Oh.” Again, her gaze dropped. Her eyes began to mist again before she shut them. “..I-I.. I was.. um.. mugged on the way here… They stole my favorite purse…” Shame burned at her belly. She didn’t see any sign of judgement in McGucket’s reaction, though. He didn’t ask why she let that happen, or why she wasn’t responsible enough to bring someone with her. There was only concern for her.

“Oh.. ‘Ahm sorry that’a happened. Gravity Falls’s usually safe.. er- ah..” The old man scratched the back of his head. “‘least, it’s not the people ya gotta usually worry ‘bout.”

“Heh.. yeah..” Shrugging, the old man pulled out a full-blown first aid kid, temporarily baffling Pacifica for a moment. “Wai- were you just carrying that—?”

The question went without a response as McGucket went straight to disinfecting the cut. “‘Doesn’t look terri-bubly deep,” he piped. “Should’a stopped bleeding by now but we’ll patch it up ta’ keep it safe while it’s a-healin’.”

“Wait.. how do you know how to do this..?” Pacifica asked, furrowing her eyebrows a little. The old man gave her a cheery grin.

“Well, ‘gotta pick up somethin’ ‘bout it after livin’ in the dump buildin’ evil whatsits and thingamajigs outta rusty metal for a couple’a decades.”

..Oh. Well, that would make sense, she supposed.. Briefly, the question as to why he was being so nice to her after the way she and her family treated him crossed her mind. She wondered if that friend he mentioned had something to do with it… Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d paid closer attention to the details of the relationships between the other people involved in the zodiac. She guessed it could be that hotter Mr. Pines (or.. Dr. Pines?), she recalled seeing some kind of emotional exchange between him and McGucket during Weirdmaggedon.

Occupied with her thoughts, she hardly realized McGucket had completely finished with the bandage until he announced it.

“Done!” he cheered, stuffing the first aid kit back into the oblivion from which it came. Weird. More Gravity Falls weirdness. “...Thanks.”

“Anytime, sweetie. Y’always got’a listenin’ ear right here if ya’ need it.”

Pacifica gave him a small, grateful smile. The old man would never know what that meant to her.

“I.. I don’t know..” she sighed softly. “Today was just… awful… It’s the first birthday I’ll be spending alone, and I guess it’s… getting to me…”

“Yer birthday’s today?? Ah, Ah’m sorry, sugerbun,” McGucket spoke. “Awful break, goin’ through somethin’ like a’this on’a birthday mornin’. Say, ya always got a place right ‘ere if ya need. Plenty a’ empty bedrooms.”

Pacifica raised her head. “...R...Really..?”

McGucket beamed. “Why sure! Ya remind me a’ my lil’ Tator Tot, Ah’ miss ‘em somethin’ terrible. It gets a lil’ lonely in this ‘ere big ol’ mansion sometimes and ah wouldn’t mind a visit from some young folk from a’time ta’ time.”

She could… she could visit. Whenever she wanted? Her old home, without her parents around. McGucket was that okay with her? Even going so far as to compare her to (presumably) his own kid? That was… incredible. Before thinking it through, she threw her arms around the old man, chorusing her ‘thank you’s with a bubble of laughter. Though startled, Fiddleford slowly returned the hug with a warm smile.

He stank quite a bit. Pacifica recoiled a little at the realization of what she was doing. Ew. What would people think of her if they caught her doing something so unthinkable? Willingly embracing this stinky old man who…. gave incredible hugs.. Her concern suddenly dissolved. In its stead, a certain safety appeared, and she melted into it a little more. It was the same feeling she craved in her dreams. Dirt didn’t matter at all anymore. The feeling of a parental embrace shielding her from the unpleasantness of the world was all she could bring herself to care about at that moment. It felt so warm… Before she knew it, she was tearing up again.

“...Thank you, McGucket..”

“Heheh, anytime, sugarbun. Say, since it is yer birthday, whaddya say we hit th’ town an’ find somethin’ ta’ cheer ya up?”

Pacifica wiped her eyes with her palm. What an offer... To think a year ago she would never had even considered walking around with the old kook as a possible option, but.. She found herself looking forward to it. “I… I would love that.”

[Part 1 of ??? possibly 2??]

[angrylizardjacket]

dirtbags // 4: Lola

Summary: High school AU. 1985. Winter. Heather’s party is huge; Lola makes new friends, get better acquainted with some underclassmen, and turns out to be far cozier with the hostess than anyone could guess. The next day, Nikki comes to work despite his hangover, while Charlotte and Eileen plan Vince’s murder. Razzle’s just there to have fun. 

A/N: 6603 words. For @misscharlottelee and @julymotel , my beloveds, as always. Sorry it's late, it's been a hell of a week. But, here's the kids. I should say that this chapter does include slight, implied internalised homophobia, just as a warning.

judge if you want, we are all going to die. i intend to deserve it.

For the record, Lola isn’t a party-goer by nature, and the fact that she’s been to two in as many months is baffling her. Usually she just goes to see bands, and sometimes hangs out at peoples’ houses, but high school parties specifically alluded her for most of her time in Boston. It’s not that she wasn’t invited, but her mom had been something of a hardass, and the closest she’d ever gotten was when drunk kids made their way to the diner right before closing on a Friday or Saturday.

Her dad’s fully supportive of her going out and partying, which is weird in it’s own right. He writes down their home phone number on a piece of paper, in case Lola can’t remember it when she’s drunk - his words - and tells her to call whenever she needs a lift. Don’t go get into a car with strangers. Drink plenty of water. Be safe. Have fun. 

“Dad, you’re being weird,” she’d told him flatly, applying eyeliner to her waterline in the bathroom. Leo, leaning against the door with his arms crossed, was watching her with a fond expression.

“If I was a hardass and banned you from going out, you’d probably still sneak out anyways -” Lola goes to protest, which Leo finds sweet, but he holds a hand up, and she lets him continue, “not that I don’t think you respect me, but I just know what it was like being a teenager; if you got into trouble while sneaking out, you wouldn’t feel like you could call me for help,” he explained, giving pause, “but I always will, you know that, right?” And Lola nods, but goes back to applying eyeliner, knowing her father’s tone of voice too well, anticipating the fact that he was about to dive into a story of his own to help prove his point.

“When I was your age, or maybe a bit younger, fifteen or sixteen, me and some friends snuck out to a bonfire one night that my parents had absolutely forbidden me from going to, and I ended up needing to go to the emergency room from a burn I got on my hand from being an idiot around the fire,” and he raised his left hand, to show the still visible, large scar on his palm, “I was more terrified of what my father would do than of the burn itself so I didn’t try and call him or mum; I walked home from the hospital alone the next morning, and lied about how I got the burn.”

Lola paused, lowering the eyeliner pencil, meeting her father’s gaze in the mirror. Leo’s smile had turned a little sad at the memory; Lola doesn’t hear much about her grandparents, and she wonders if stories like this are the reason why.

“You’re my kid, Keola, I never want you to think you can’t come to me for help, okay?” It’s rare for Leo to use Lola’s full first name, usually reserving it for more poignant and earnest moments, so every comment about how he’s being a sap, or that she already knows, dies on Lola’s tongue. 

“Thanks, dad,” she smiles soft, and Leo smiles back, all crows feet and laugh lines, before he tells her that she looks badass, and he steps out of the doorframe, heading back downstairs to the diner. 

By the time Lola shows up, it’s just edging past eight-thirty, though the party still seems to be in its early stages. There’s music that can be heard down the street, and fairy lights scattered throughout the garden, though most of the partygoers who had already arrived are still confined to the house. Apart from a gangly, dark-haired boy whose face she knows, but whose name she doesn’t, sitting on the wide, ostentatious front steps, looking up at the stars glittering overhead. There’s a cigarette in a loose grip between two fingers, though the ash has already burnt down half of it without him tapping it off; it’s almost comical, she’s pretty sure he hasn’t even put it to his lips yet.

“You’re wasting that,” Lola points out, and the guy is jolted from his thoughts, the movement sharp enough to have the ash falling from the cigarette and to the ground by his shoes. He looks to the cigarette, which has gone out, and then to Lola, a little helpless, “I could take it off your hands,” she offers, unsure of how to proceed, and he holds the cigarette out, smile blooming on his face.

“I can’t get the hang of it; I’m playing a smoker in this play I’m doing in a month, and I’ve been trying, you know, make it feel natural, never seems to,” his mouth is curved into a bemused smile as he shrugs helplessly, watching Lola tuck the half a cigarette behind her ear. For a moment, his eyes roam his face, like he’s searching for something to recognize, and she can read it all over him when he finds it, his eyes alight with familiarity, “you work at the diner!”

Lola hates how disarming she finds his earnestness. He doesn’t mention her reputation or the rumours around her, which she’s pretty sure he would have heard since she’s eighty-percent sure he goes to her school.

“Lola,” she offers her hand, and he takes it, using it as leverage to get to his feet before he gives it a proper shake.

“Keanu,” he says, matter-of-factly, still grinning, and Lola suddenly knows where she knows him from. The school musical sign-up sheet is on the Art Faculty’s notice board right outside her art classroom, and she’s been staring at his name amongst a small list of others, including Eileen’s, much to Lola’s surprise, while she and the rest of her art class wait to get into their room.

At least she’s pretty sure it’s him; Keanu’s not exactly a common name. The only other time she’d heard it was in one of her dad’s stories, it was the name of one of his childhood friends -

She leaves it be; he groans and stretches, and there’s an idle moment where his shirt rides up, and Lola reminds herself to focus on the person who actually invited her, and to stop getting fleeting feelings for people she barely knows just because they’re pretty. Lola mutters that she needs a drink, and Keanu claps her on the shoulder and agrees, the two of them heading inside.

Heather’s house is in the same part of town as Vince’s, almost an hour’s walk from the diner, but somehow Heather’s is even nicer. Sprawling front lawn, abstract paintings and movie props on little, pristine pedestals inside, Lola feels like she’s lowering the property value just by stepping foot inside. The party was easily both the nicest and most raucous Lola had ever been to, which, granted, wasn’t saying a lot, but their house was wired with speakers, all connected back to the jukebox in the living room, and Heather’s parents had even let her hire coloured lights.

“As long as the cops aren’t called, we can do whatever we want,” was the message passed around the school from Heather herself. Lola’s feels as though that probably won’t bode well for her parents’ elegantly displayed collectables, but whatever, it’s not like it’s Lola’s problem.

Already there’s a decent crowd inside, and Lola loses Keanu amongst them, making a beeline for the kitchen, manoeuvring around the house with easy familiarity. She reaches pushes past several people to get to the fridge, reaching all the way to the back, past a set of tupperware, to the bottle of wine Heather’s mom had stashed there. Lola removes the sticky note telling everyone not to touch it, and uncorks the bottle over the sink, scowling.

It feels like she’s floating through the night, no-one around that she knows just yet, disconnected from everyone else, carrying the bottle of wine by her side, occasionally taking a drink. Moving from room to room, she takes her time people watching, and guessing how long before the various, expensive props and bric-a-brac were being used for things counter to their intended purpose. 

In the front room, there’s finally someone she recognises, kind of; the the young redhead, the fruit one- Peach! She’s unsteady on her feet, beautiful and angry, defiantly making her way through a can of cheap beer, and Lola wonders where the rest of her clique is, that sister of hers, Eileen, even Charlotte. 

“You okay?” Lola’s never been great at comforting people, but Peach is currently leaning against a wall at a forty-five degree angle after losing her balance, and scowling. She’s drunk. Already. Fuck.

“I’m fine! Freaking- fucking great!” She’s not even looking at Lola properly, glaring out the window she’d narrowly missed falling on. Lola follows her gaze. It’s just passed nine, and Tommy and Charlotte can be seen walking up to the door; they don’t see Peach or Lola, thankfully. 

“You - you’re friends with that... that mean, asshole, punk guy, right?” Peach asks, standing upright so suddenly she overbalances again, and Lola has to catch her elbow to keep her from topping. Peach slaps her hand away, but keeps her balance, obviously with a bee in her bonnet about something that Lola couldn’t even begin it fathom.

“Nikki?” Lola clarifies flatly, amused but not wanting it to show. Peach nods solemnly. Lola bites back a laugh, “yes, I’m friends with him, why?”

“Is he coming tonight?” Peach asks, tone almost forcibly coy and casual, raising her can of drink, taking large gulps as Lola says that he mentioned that he should be, and then asks why. Peach goes quiet. Lola had thought it impossible for Peach’s scowl to grow deeper, but it did, as a blush began to creep up her neck. 

“You know my sister, right? Eileen?” Peach says, instead, and Lola nods slowly, and she takes a swig of wine, “she’s a year - a single goddamn year - older than me; I’m sixteen, Lola, she said I was too young to go to a party like this.” And yeah, okay, Lola makes a face at that; she was the same age as Tommy, and he’s done objectively worse stuff in front of Eileen and Charlotte with no complaints. The last house party flashes through Lola’s mind, and she grimaces - “exactly, it’s dumb! Charlie had been dating Duff for a year by the time she was my age, and let me tell you, they were proper gross!” Peach sways a little, and Lola reminds her that she has no idea who Duff is; Peach calls him a word that shocks Lola to hear her say it, especially for a girl who had to correct herself from saying freaking to fucking just moments ago.

“Noted,” Lola nods, and takes another drink; she’s almost a third through the bottle.

“I’m not a child, Lola,” Peach says, as seriously as she can muster, and, as if light a lightbulb has gone off above Lola’s head, she realises why Peach was asking after Nikki. 

“You’re not,” Lola agrees slowly, and looks around, hoping to spot Charlotte or Tommy around, someone better suited to talking an angry, determined Peach out of something she’d regret. 

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Peach huffed, standing to her full height, which unfortunately for Lola, made her taller by a few inches, “you know what, fuck you, Lola -”

“Peach -”

“No, fuck that, I know that tone -”

“Never thought I’d see you out at a place like this, Peach,” there’s a warm familiarity in the voice that joins them, and Peach visibly relaxes. Lola turns, and sees Vince Neil, bleach blonde, decked out in his usual, obnoxious white. 

“Fuck off, Vince,” Peach mumbles, turning back to the window in an attempt to hide her sudden blush. Lola raises her eyebrows and looks to Vince, intrigued. The moment his gaze meets Lola’s, Vince turns quietly awkward, and can do little more than offer a shrug. 

“Peach?” He tries again, and Peach finishes her drink, tipping her head back, and doesn’t even seem to notice that she’s started to topple back until he catches her, “fuck, Peach.” He says, still holding her.

“You really should fuck off,” Peach says, softer this time, leaning into him, and something pained flashes across Vince’s expression for the barest moment; Peach doesn’t notice in her state, but Lola sees it. 

“Eileen been in your ear lately?” Vince asks through gritted teeth. Peach’s scowl back in full force, and she’s righting herself.

“No,” she snaps, an obvious lie, and she pushes past Lola, making her unsteady way to the kitchen, Vince obviously feeling some sort of obligation to her, following quickly in her wake. Thank God. Lola really didn’t want to take care of a girl she barely knows all night. 

She’s two thirds of the way through the bottle of wine, feeling good and buzzed, and she’s made polite conversation with the people she knows and the people she doesn’t, the people who know her by reputation, or from the diner, polite to a fault, knowing too much and too little about her all at once.

Tommy’s roped them into a conversation with a few kids from his year that Lola doesn’t recognize any of them, and one, drunk, brunette, stupid, asks her about the rumours, in a crude, roundabout way. Tommy’s hand is firm on Lola’s shoulder, apology in his eyes as he silently pleads with her to not make a scene. Lola kicks his asshole friend in the shin anyways, and spits that he has terrible taste in friends. 

Charlotte waves to her, but Lola doesn’t see it in her angry state, storming up the stairs to the second floor. It’s quieter up here, mostly. There’s a group in a side room playing spin the bottle, and people taking advantage of Heather’s parents’ bedroom, and the door to Heather’s room is closed. Lola bangs her closed fist on the nondescript door. 

“Who is it?” Heather’s voice, strained, rings out from the other side.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Lola whined through a lie, banging again. There’s scuffling on the other side, Heather hissing for whoever’s with her to go, to get out the window, anything. Lola smirks, “please, all the other bathrooms are -” and she fake gags, right as the door wrenches open to show Heather’s flustered face, hair a mess, scowling.

“What?”

“I’m lying,” Lola whispered, leaning against the doorframe, pushing down all her annoyance at Tommy and his asshole friends, and playing at being coy. Heather huffs an annoyed breath through her nose.

“I know,” she snaps, but lets Lola in anyways, and Lola automatically closes the door behind herself, leaning her back against it, watching Heather try and act casual, heading to her bed, “should I be jealous?” Lola smirks, and Heather shoots her a filthy look. Lola takes a long drink of the wine, and Heather’s expression turns from angry, to simply annoyed.

“Of course, of fucking course, you, the only asshole who actually knew about it-”

“Your mom can buy another one, it’s not like you’re not -”

“Don’t say it,” Heather warns, sitting on the edge of her bed, and Lola’s smile grows sly and amused. Heather’s gaze flicks to the door handle, “lock that.” 

“Yes, Princess,” Lola smirks, reaching over with her free hand, making quick work of locking the door.

“Do not,” Heather hisses at the pet name, and Lola pushes off the door, heading towards her, and offers her the bottle. Heather’s lips press into a thin line as the regards the drink she knows is completely illicit for a number of reasons, before taking it, and taking a drink - “fuck, how much of this have you had?”

In answer, Lola takes the bottle back and finishes it off. 

“You’re a pig and a thief,” Heather tells her, but Lola’s smile is all teeth.

“And you kicked out someone - a boy, I’m guessing - for this thieving pig,” Lola reminds her, placing the empty bottle carefully on the nightstand of her luxurious double bed. Heather turns scarlet.

“I thought you’d at least wait until eleven to find me,” she deflects, defensive at the truth in Lola’s words, to which Lola herself actually laughs, flopping back onto the bed, arms spread, two fingers hooking into the back waistband of Heather’s flirty, short skirt.

“The fact that I’m here at all is a miracle, Princess -”

“Don’t.”

“And you know you could have told me to throw up in the garden,” Lola points out. A moment of silence follows, she tugs at Heather’s waistband, and Heather follows the unspoken prompt, leaning back onto the bed.

“Boys don’t know what they’re doing,” she says, staring up at the ceiling, arms folded but feet still planted firmly on the floor, and Lola’s eyes go wide, delighted, twisting onto her side to look at Heather’s blushing face.

“I knew you liked me,” Lola teases, grinning sharp.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Heather scoffs, angling her head back to level a glare at Lola, after a beat, she reaches back, fingers nimble and cold but her grip on Lola’s jaw secure. She frowns at Lola’s lips, rubbing her thumb none too gently over the bottom lip, taking off the black lipstick painted there, staining her own thumb in the process. 

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” Heather prompts, frustrated, tone icy. Lola raises her eyebrows at the blonde's impatience.

“As you command, your highness,” Lola pushes herself up on her elbows, and off the bed, smirking in the face of Heather’s annoyance, before she scrubs at her mouth with the back of her hand, getting rid of the rest of her lipstick.

“I’ll be quick so you can get back to your boytoy,” Lola smirks up at Heather, kneeling between her knees, and in the next moment Heather’s legs clamp painfully tight around her head, bony knees pressing into her temples.

“If you tell fucking anyone I did anything other than get you water while you threw up in my bathroom, I will ruin your fucking life,” she spits, and Lola’s expression contorts into one of furious annoyance as she wrenches her head free, sitting back on her heels.

“As if I’d tell anyone; if you tell anyone, I’ll burn your fucking house down, do not test me on that,” she warns in return, before Heather relaxes and lays back, eyes back on the ceiling, waiting, “fucking pillow princess, I wish you’d get me a glass of water once in a while,” Lola muttered, leaning back in.

“Hey!” Heather objects, looking down, only to see the barely concealed fury smouldering in Lola’s eyes as she looks at Heather through her lashes. Lola orders her to shut up, presses a pointed kiss to her inner thigh, and Heather obeys without any more fuss.

All it took, in the beginning, was for Lola to confront Heather and ask why the fuck she couldn’t keep her eyes to herself during class, fully expecting a fight. It was after school, Lola had followed her into the bathroom after class as the school was emptying. Heather’s lip had curled, derisive, giving Lola a look like she was a bug beneath her shoe.

“You see something you fucking like?” Lola had snarled, ready to square up, chest puffed out, and Heather had rolled her eyes, scoffing about how Lola wasn’t even close to her type, before she’d realised what she’d said. 

Neither had known how to proceed in that moment, both terrified of how the other would react, Lola could see the sudden fear in Heather’s eyes at the admission. Very deliberately, Lola had relaxed her posture, looking Heather over with a new appreciation, and Heather had flushed under her gaze.

“I didn’t know it was like that,” Lola had smirked, gaze locking onto Heather’s. The blonde was embarrassed, furious at herself, “well if I ever become your type -” those seven words had changed everything. Immediately, Heather knew exactly what Lola had meant, that she wasn’t a threat in the way she’d feared, and that Lola was like her, in some way, in a way that was safe.

“You’re -?” Heather raised a single, perfect eyebrow at her.

“I don’t advertise it,” Lola said, voice flat, hands in her pockets and shoulders carefully relaxed, “don’t know, you know, who else is... like me.”

“Like you?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it here,” Lola had muttered, gaze flicking to the empty stalls, and Heather had given her a long, evaluative look, before stepping forward, apparently finding something she likes. 

Heather’s kind of pinning over a straight girl and none of the rest of the school has any idea she likes anything other than boys, and she’d like to keep it that way. No-one really cares about Lola the way they do about Heather, so they feel safe fooling around together at Heather’s under the guise of ‘studying’; they don’t really even like each other as people, it’s more mutually beneficial than anything else, but it’s kind of nice to have this understanding between them, free to be themselves without fear, even if it’s only for short amounts of time.

Now, at the party, when Lola goes to leave the room after all is said and done, hair checked in the mirror, lipstick reapplied neatly, Heather grabs her arm, quiet but no longer irritate in Lola’s presence, and Lola’s eyes go wide with question, but she too is silent. Heather steels herself, steps up to Lola, and then she’s got her fingers carding through Lola’s hair, and holding tight, and Lola lets herself be maneuverer, her head tipping and Heather’s lips on her neck. 

When Heather steps back, there’s the beginning of a hickey blooming on the juncture where Lola’s shoulder meets her throat, aching faintly, pleasantly, and her hands are soft on Heather’s hips, lips twitching into a smirk.

“You could have just said thank you,” Lola snorted, and Heather’s frowning, but it doesn’t seem to be specifically at Lola; she rolls her eyes. Lola presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, quick and chaste, and scrubs at the mark she leaves behind before Heather slaps her hand away and tells her to get out, though there’s no anger behind it. 

When Lola opens the door, she puts on a show of being a little more unsteady than she really was, and is surprised to see Nikki leaning against the wall a few feet away, chatting to Tommy, looking so carefully casual. Lola’s pretty sure she hears Nikki sigh something about needing to find a guitarist, but that’s the moment Tommy spots Lola. He tries to apologise for his friends, but Lola shrugs, letting the incident go easily.

And then Nikki’s eyes flick to hers, and he asks if she’s okay, and Tommy seems confused but Lola’s hit with a realization. She pulls back her act and tries not to smile too wide.

“I’m fine now, great actually, it’s sweet of you to care,” its absolutely and completely innocent, but she raises an eyebrow at him, as if asking how he knows that she was unwell. In lieu of response, Nikki stands to his full height, walks to the door, and knocks. Lola and Tommy watch, the former far more confused than the latter.

Heather opens the door wide, not a hair out of place, makeup immaculate and untouched, and tells Nikki to fuck off, swanning past him and down to the rest of her party. Nikki turns on Lola. 

“You couldn’t have thrown your guts up in a bush somewhere?” Nikki hissed, frustrated, and Lola does a great job at biting back her laughter, shaking her head and shrugging helplessly. 

“We’re you waiting out here that whole time?” Lola asks, and Nikki turns amusingly pink, stalking past her to the stairs, to which both Lola and Tommy followed, with Lola calling out a half-hearted apology, and Nikki telling her to shove it up her ass. 

gandhi said 'be the change you want to see in the world.' fuck that. be the trouble you want to see in the world.

“Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last night,” the morning after the party, or was it afternoon - midday after Heather’s party - Lola’s tying her red bandana around her head, hip leaning against the counter out the back by the fryer where Nikki was scowling at an order of fries that was bubbling away.

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Lola,” Nikki snaps back, looking up at her, still frowning, and Lola’s smile widens, just a little. Nikki sighs, relenting, his voice dropping low, “I’m hungover as fuck, just piss off, can you?” But it doesn’t sound half as cruel as the words themselves imply, and Lola dips to press her cheek to his shoulder in a moment of affectionate familiarity before heading out to start serving customers. 

It’s almost one when Charlotte and that English kid, Razzle, walk in, with the tall, pretty ginger, Eileen, sans their usual extras, but they take their spot at their usual booth by the window, talking quietly but animatedly. 

“- the nerve on him! Hi, Lola,” Eileen’s practically vibrating with pent up, frustrated energy, greeting Lola with what Eileen probably assumed was a smile, but was still definitely a scowl.

“Everything alright here?” Lola asked, forcing her voice even brighter than she’d usually attempt, and Eileen’s gaze dropped to the menu, going quiet, brooding, while Charlotte sat up a little straighter and smiled, clearly not on such an intense wavelength as her friend.

“Everything’s just great; plotting Vince’s murder, kind of starving, the usual,” she shrugs, and Razzle, by her side, snorts a laugh.

“Good to see you survived the night, Honky Cat,” he adds in lieu of a greeting of his own, and Lola takes a moment to process all the information she’d just been exposed to.

“’course I did, I drank my weight in water between shots,” Lola smirks at Razzle, before her gaze slides to Charlotte, “and that’s very fair; I’d ask what he’s done now, but I think I’ll take care of your order first,” she grins amicably and pulls out her notepad and pen, as the three of them order their usual drinks and lunch preferences.

Lola heads back to the counter, calling out the order to the kitchen, taking another few order to their various destinations, before getting her friends’ drinks together to take them over.

“- home and didn’t even call, Razz, she didn’t even -” Eileen was still ranting by the time Lola deposits their drinks before them. Lola’s pretty sure she saw Razzle and Charlotte deliberately knocking knees beneath the table, but doesn’t think about it too hard. Nor does she dwell on the memory of seeing them at the party last night, of a gaggle of cheerleaders around talking to Razzle, though he just kept trying to talk to Charlotte. Later, she’d definitely seen them on the sofas, talking with Tommy and some of Charlotte’s other friends, leaning in to each other, Razzle’s arm around her shoulders, playing with the whispy ends of her hair. Lola hadn’t thought much of it at the time; she’d made out with Tommy at her first house party in the area, it hadn’t developed past friendship. 

It was cute, if it was anything. 

“Lola, you were there!” Eileen turned very suddenly, the moment her cup had been placed in front of her, and Lola’s eyebrows shot up, “did you see my sister last night?”

It feels like a trap, because yes, Lola definitely did, but also -

“Yes, why?” Lola asks, slowly, cocking a hip.

“They’re in the middle of a blue,” Razzle said, with a fond smile at Eileen’s carefully neutral expression, while she stirred her drink with intent.

“A fight,” Charlotte translated, “and Peach went to Heather’s last night, and got kind of shitfaced, and Vince took care of her, was really quite sweet, but she stayed with him because his place was closer and Peach refused to call Eileen.”

“She stayed with Vince?” Lola said carefully, trying not to imply she was jumping to conclusions, but Eileen’s stirring ceased in favour of vigorous drinking of the drink, obviously stuck on a similar train of thought.

“She slept on the couch,” Razzle filled in quickly, “was still there when I left, tucked in with a blanket, all above board.”

“And you didn’t know where she was -?” Lola frowns, confused.

“Vince called at three in the morning,” Eileen glowered out the window, voice low and even, “dad was mad until he was grateful; the man’s backbone is made of marshmallow fluff. She was meant to be home at one.”

“But she’s okay?”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Lola,” Eileen had said, giving Lola a look far older and longsuffering than her seventeen years. 

“If we brought in Vince’s heart, would your dad batter it up and fry it for Eileen to eat?” Charlotte asked, tone teasing and light, to which Eileen rolled her eyes, but at least it got her to smile, even a little. Even when Lola snorted a laugh and told her ‘absolutely not’.

Later, on their break, Lola and Nikki sit on the roof of the building and share a serve of chips that he’d overcooked, and a cigarette, and Lola asks about Vince. Turns out Nikki doesn’t know much; he hadn’t grown up with the rest of them, had moved to the neighbourhood near the start of high school, and all he really knows is that girls apparently think Vince’s dick developed some sort of Midas touch over Summer.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s always been stupid pretty,” Nikki shoves a chip in his mouth before leaning back on his elbows, “far as I know, but you’ve seen his car, right? That fuck-off, expensive red one that sits in the teacher’s carpark, with the massive scratch in the paint along the left? Yeah that’s his; got it for his birthday last year and he’s been getting tail like nobody’s business ever since.” And Lola tries to process all this information before he’s barrelling right on ahead with, “speaking of; if you’re gonna nail Tommy, can you do it soon and put the poor kid out of his misery?”

“Excuse me?!” Lola had choked on her lungful of smoke, turning red at the suggestion.

“Yeah, poor kid was pretty convinced we were a thing and didn’t want to make a move; kinda stupid, but I dunno, admirable? Noble?” Nikki groaned through his words, laying back against the gravel of the roof, hand out for the cigarette. Lola passed it to him, glad he couldn’t see her vaguely guilty expression, knowing she’d slept with the girl he’d been hitting on the night before.

“Tommy has a thing for anything halfway pretty that’s not related to him, he’d be just as happy to boink any other girl,” Lola points out, and Nikki snorts a laugh in mild agreement, “and the only reason we’re not fucking is because you’re afraid my dad’s gonna rip of your arms like he’s the fucking Wampa from Star Wars.” She punctuates it by eating the last chip, laying out beside Nikki on the gravel, checking her watch. Five minutes before their break ends.

“Leo wouldn’t rip off my arms- I don’t think Leo would rip off my arms!” Nikki counters defensively, but that just has Lola laughing as she corrects -

“Sorry, no, your exact wording was ‘I don’t want your dad to Kali Ma my fucking heart like I’m that little bastard from Indiana Jones’,” Lola does an absolutely atrocious impersonation of Nikki, who’s laughing despite himself, “which you only took back because I told you he wasn’t Indian, and even if he was, it’s kind of a fucked thing to say,” Lola tells him pointedly, shifting onto her side, propping her head up on her hand as she smirked at Nikki. 

When Nikki looks at her, green eyes shining in the overcast, afternoon light, there’s something unreadable, teasing and soft all at once, like he’s entertaining an idea he’d considered unthinkable.

“I don’t think I could look Leo in the eye if I banged his daughter,” Nikki’s voice is soft and low, though he’s grinning wide, tone coy, eyes creasing in the corners, and Lola’s gaze flicks to his lips. 

“For Leo’s sake, then,” Lola matches his tone, corner of her mouth twitching into a sharp smirk when she finally looks back to his eyes, “and Tommy’s too,” she teases, pushing herself into a sitting position; she can hear it when he presses his head further into the gravel in exasperation, swearing under his breath. When Lola stands and smiles, the picture of innocence, she offers Nikki her hand to help him up; Nikki rolls his eyes, but is still smiling when he accepts.

“Your hair looks dorky like that,” Lola teases as she climbs down the fire escape.

“I know,” Nikki sighs, “but its better than getting hair in everyone’s food; I’m not gonna be the reason your dad fails a health inspection,” Nikki adds, a strange hint of protectiveness in his voice that warms Lola’s heart in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“Don’t worry, Leo’s never failed a health inspection, he doesn’t intend to start any time soon.”

love is a dream someone else had last night.

Eileen and Razzle see fit to join their ragtag bunch of misfits at lunch the following Monday by the open gate and the science carpark, which Lola had been informed was the teachers’ carpark.

Lola doesn’t care who sits with them, except for the fact that she’d taken the leftover lemon merengue tart from the diner since it was being replaced with an apple crumble, and there was only enough for four. For the past week, Eileen’s been alternating sitting with them and sitting elsewhere, but she hadn’t been here last Monday, so Lola had assumed - anyways, now she’s worried she looks like a bitch, and not for an actual reasonable reason.

“What do you mean you almost got with Heather on Friday?!” Charlotte’s voice was somewhere between a horrified and disbelieving squeak where she was picking at the crust of the piece of tart she was sharing with Eileen. The lemon merengue debacle turned out to not be much of an issue, with Charlotte and Eileen sharing, and Tommy and Lola sharing too. Lola was incredibly focused on picking at a scab through the hole in the knee of her jeans.

“I mean I had my hand in her fucking panties when someone -” Nikki cast a very pointed look to Lola, “knocked on the door threatening to throw up, and I got shoved out a window,” Nikki played up being irritated, despite the fact that he was laying out on his side directly behind Lola, while she was leaning into him.

“You’re my hero,” Eileen told Lola, serious as ever, while Charlotte cackled with delight, and Razzle snickered from where he was touching up the left hand of Tommy’s sharpie-nails.

“You guys are a bunch of assholes,” Nikki huffed, shoving the remained or his own piece of tart into his mouth.

“I brought you food, show some fuckin’ respect,” Lola smirked despite herself, gently elbowing him in the ribs; he flicks her knee in retaliation.

“Absolutely not; you’re a cockblocking traitor and the worst friend I’ve got,” Nikki announced, nose in the air, and Lola leans all her weight back suddenly, tipping Nikki onto his back and laying heavy across his stomach as she demanded he take it back, the two of them getting into a petty squabbling match, shoving at each other while the others could only look on in exasperated amusement.

“I thought Heather had a boyfriend,” Eileen pipes up, to which Charlotte makes a a gentle ‘eh’ noise in the back of her throat.

“She’s getting laid,” Charlotte corrects with half a smirk, and everyone who was paying half attention understand easily. Tommy sighs, but it’s not nearly as dejected as he’s known for whenever the topic of girls he fancies being with other people comes up.

“Whatever, I got to second base with Pam that night, and no-one can take that away from me,” Tommy announces, watching Razzle finish off his pinkie.

“Good for you, man,” Razzle says, with his trademark sincerity. Eileen and Charlotte still can’t believe it happened, but unfortunately both Razzle and Vince had seen with their own two eyes and been able to confirm; Vince may be biased, but Charlotte trusted Razzle.

“Everyone got some fuckin’ action that night except for me,” Nikki whines, finally shoving himself off, “and the fuckin’ Vomit Comet over here,” he jerked his thumb to where Lola was righting herself; Lola flips him off in response. 

“I didn’t,” Eileen points out.

“You weren’t there,” Nikki rolls his eyes, “you don’t count.” 

Meanwhile Razzle and Charlotte had both gone very quiet, and very pink. However Lola, who had no patience for people trying to hide their somewhere-between-pining-and-sincere feelings from each other and from other people, instead turns her attention to Eileen as she’s sweeping her hair out of her face.

“Have things gotten any better with Peach?” She tried, tone hopeful, and Eileen’s expression barely changed, just the barest crease of a frown upon her forehead, though judging by the way Charlotte’s whole expression soured, things had not, in fact, gotten better.

“Came back on Saturday afternoon all sunny and smiley and mom was thrilled,” Eileen’s deadpan irritation really sold her exasperation at the whole situation, “that she was friends with Vince again, and she hasn’t said a word to me yet.” Eileen takes a deep breath, straightening up from where she’d been slouched without realizing, taking a deep breath, nose in the air as if rising above it all, “which is fine with me, because I have a ton of dialogue to learn and they want us off-book in a month.” 

This only sets them off fondly teasing the ever-unflappable Eileen, for her seemingly out of character choice to join the school’s musical, though they were all very proud of the fact that she scored the lead, even Nikki had voiced that he thought it was pretty cool. 

When Lola had asked about it, Eileen had made mention that it filled in a lot of free time, that it was something she could add to college applications, and that a friend had convinced her to do it; Keanu -

“I keep hearing that name around,” Lola muses, leaning back in her seat while they were waiting for their French teacher to arrive. Eileen raises her eyebrows, “is that the pretty, dark haired Senior?” Eileen, surprisingly, had flushed scarlet when nodding. Lola hummed thoughtfully, leaning back further until the front legs of her chair lifted from the ground; she hooked her feet around the legs of her desk as she contemplated.

“It’s a musical right?” Lola asked, and Eileen hummed in confirmation, “if you can sing, you know Nikki and Tommy are -”

“I’d rather eat an entire microphone,” Eileen responds flatly, already knowing what Lola was about to suggest before she’d even finished her sentence, and Lola really tries not to laugh, but she knows Eileen well enough by now that that response makes entirely too much sense.

“You make a fair -” and that’s when Lola’s grip on the table slips, her feet sliding quickly up the legs of the desk as she topples backwards, the momentum pulling the desk up with her legs and directly on top of her, winding her. At least it made Eileen laugh, mostly from shock, sure, but Lola counts it as a win.

[nautiscarader]

And what the hell: Yumalia, 3: Tentacles

()(Ao3)(next>>)

There has been many moments when Yugo had to prove his worth and manliness. He has defeated countless opponents, saved the World of Twelve numerous times, and in the end, he has entered the legends as a great warrior. And yet, right now he thought he was facing his most difficult opponent yet.

Amalia’s bedchamber in her palace, built inside a giant tree already looked like a botanical garden, but her magic made it look even more like it. Thanks to her magic, several, thick tentacles sprouted from the wooden beams, and coiled around the needy princess’ body, lifting her into the air, and spread her legs, just as she commanded them to do so. The lascivious look on her face taunted Yugo, and it was that cocky smirk, combined with her lustful voice that kept him going.

Amalia had a simple task: to make him defeat not just one, but a whole plantation of her animated vines in the strangest contest of virility one could have imagined. Yugo kept his hands on her thighs, bucking his hips, penetrating her overflowing pussy, reaching as deep as he could muster, while his rival, a thick, green tentacle invaded her other hole, making Amalia quake and jitter with every intrusion. Her eyes were rolled up, she stuck her tongue out, and overall, she looked as un-princesslike as possible.

And the worst thing was, that despite his efforts, Yugo was losing.

Though his brow was covered in sweat, and he was thrusting in and out with greater and greater force, it was her magical vines that brought her to an orgasm already, and from the looks of it, she was on an edge of another one. Amalia whimpered, letting only mangled bits of words escape her mouth, and much to Yugo’s disappointment, she wasn’t crying his name to praise him.

- You… Yugo… Are you… gonna lose to a… a plant? - she taunted him, looking into his tired, but determined eyes - Maybe I don’t need my personal boyfriend anymore?

She turned to her right, grabbed one of the thick vines and much to Yugo’s surprise, she licked the bulb on its end, before she unabashedly took it inside her mouth. The thick vine at once began sliding in and out, making Amalia’s moans and groans muffled, though since they didn’t lose any of its volume, it only meant she was crying her lungs out.  

A storm of thoughts was raging in Yugo’s mind. Before they became intimate with each other, Yugo fantasised about Amalia caressing herself with her magical plants, and hed’ be surprised if there was someone attracted to a Sadida that hasn’t had similar impure thoughts. But he never thought he’d have to rival them!

And in the meantime, Amalia’s eyes bulged when the vine in her mouth reached her throat, properly face-fucking her. Suddenly, Yugo noticed several bulges travelling fast alongside the thick plant, and he didn’t have to think twice what it was. The first portion of the plant’s seed filled Amalia’s stomach, second covered her tongue and mouth on the way out, while the third painted her face with green and sticky, sap-like juice, much to Amalia’s delight.

- Mhm, this one tastes… swe-et! - she cried, when another portion of the sap filled her ass, for the second time this evening.

And then, he felt a third vine creeping up around his cock, and just as it was about to push him from it, Yugo had it enough. In a literal blink of an eye, caused by the natural make-up Amalia was now wearing, Yugo’s behaviour changed. Amalia had just a second to react to it, but before she knew it, she was pulled from her plant-throne, her vines ripped from its course with a precise portal that cut them in half. Yugo’s body shimmered and became an almost blur, as his thrusts kept going faster and faster. But it wasn’t the strength and speed alone that surprised Amalia.

She gasped when she felt the now-dead vine being pulled from her behind by someone, and replaced by that someone’s cock. She met Yugo’s face, and it was time for him to wear a slightly cocky smile as he put his plan into motion. But the time Amalia opened her mouth for the third time, her mouth was occupied by a third cock of equally blurry and equally incorporeal Yugo, fucking the same mouth that just a moment ago humiliated him. And only then, when she was confronted with impossibility of the sight in front of her, Amalia understood.

Yugo was teleporting himself from one position to the other, faster than her eye could have noticed it, appearing in three different places at once, filling each of her holes in equal speed and ferocity. The Yugo behind her kept her body up, the one in front gripped her legs to be opened, while the one levitating above her took care of her face.

And confronted with not one, but three of her lovers, Amalia had no chance but to give up. When she let out her moan, muffled by Yugo’s cock in her mouth, he knew she was crying his name, and let himself and his two doubles lose themselves inside her. Three streams of his thick cream flooded her orifices, at least two setting her explosive orgasms that rocked her body, and she was sure that if his seed painting her face white could set off a third one, she was sure it would have.

When Amalia felt the lack of Yugo behind her, she knew it was over, and she gently slumped to the soft bedding, her body still twitching from a mind-breaking surge of pleasure she honestly didn’t expect. She scooped some of his cum from her face, just so she could see her boyfriend, lying tired and spent on her belly, taking one deep breath after another.

he looked up, and teir eyes met, just as he reached his hand to the thin blanket so she could clean herself up.  

- So, who’s winner now? - Yugo wheezed, with a weak and tired voice. - You have, Yugo, there is no doubt about that.

Amalia replied with a soft, calm voice, before she pulled him up and pressed her clean lips against his, linking them in a long, soothing kiss.

- I’m-I’m sorry, Yugo, for putting you through this. - she admitted. - That’s… that’s okay, I… I think. At least I know now I can do that. - Wait, so… that was something new? - Amalia suddenly came back to her senses, watching as Yugo’s face fills with crimson. She knew he was still training, of course, and she has seen many of his moves utilising various elements of Eliatrope magic, but never this one. - yeah, I, uh, I didn’t know if that would have worked… so… yeah. - And you decided to test it out in our bedroom? - she raised her voice - Hey, you started. - Yugo countered - Though I don’t think I’ll be able to do much more, Ami… - Hm, let me be the judge of that.

For a moment, Yugo didn’t know what she meant, and only when something slick and thick entered his ass, he realised why Amalia’s hand was glowing green. Before he knew, her vine massaged his prostate, and suddenly, the Eliatrope king felt as if he hasn’t pleasure his princess even once this night.

[sickandtideeeee]

By Bast - Chapter 14 (Erik x Reader)

A/N: This chapter was a tiny bit shorter than usual but I hope that it at least has a similar impact in terms of story progression :o. As usual, comments and reblogs are appreciated!! <3

How long exactly can this man run for? You were starting to feel the dull throb of ribs getting sore from the repeated impact of every step he took. This had gone on for about five minutes and you had had about enough.

“Is this really necessary?!” You shrieked, thumping him pointlessly on the back a couple of times.

“Nah, but it’s convenient as hell though.” He replied. Eventually, he plopped you down, but before you could straighten yourself up on your two feet, N’Jadaka pulled you back around a corner and softly clapped his large hand over your mouth. Your eyes grew wide in panic, but he put a finger to his lips, and brought you into a crouch with him.

Two guards passed by, their chattering louder as they approached. You wondered why you had not heard them initially while N’Jadaka clearly had. He peered around the wall and motioned for you to follow him.

You continued to sneak past station after station of surveillance in the castle. It was as though he knew the grounds like the back of his hand. Every footstep was quiet yet sure, and every turn was calculated. However, the most unnerving part of following him was that you seemed to traveling deeper and deeper to the center of the palace, rather than outside.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” You finally whispered, once you had reached the familiar ornate statues that adorned the entrance to the main wing. Instead of answering, he commanded you to stay hidden.

“Stay back.”

You nodded, and he went ahead, vanishing into the darkness. Out of view, you heard a muffled cry and a loud thud. Then a second.

N’Jadaka came back around to get you. You gulped, as you followed him back to collapsed bodies. Thankfully, bodies and not corpses. N’Jadaka caught you giving him a look, and raised an eyebrow. You quickly averted your eyes, looking to your feet.

Finally, the two of you stopped in a small room that seemed to house nothing but a large expansive mural. Your companion watched, almost transfixed at the image. On further inspection, you realized it was a painting depicting the royal family lineage from the time of the very first Black Panther to now. You noticed conspicuously that while his own father, T’Challa’s father and T’Challa and Shuri were accounted for in the image, N’Jadaka was not.

He made a sound between a half-hearted chuckle and a scoff, then reached into his shirt to pull out a plain necklace with a silver ring. He placed the ring on his finger and in seconds the mural appeared to dissolve. All that was left was a narrow, dark path and you both ventured inwards.

---

Nothing lay more than a foot before your eyes but pure darkness as you ventured through this secret passageway. However, staying close to N’Jadaka was a bit calming, if not dare you say, comforting. Never mind the fact that you were literally walking into the abyss with someone who could contend for the title of the real-life boogeyman. You made sure to keep a buffer of space between you as you followed closely behind him, so as to not accidentally touch him.

Too late. Losing your footing on what felt like uneven earth, you stumbled into his hard back. He stopped, and you felt a lead weight drop into your stomach.

“Walk in front of me.” He said, sternly.  You obliged, nervously. He closed the distance between you however, such that you could almost feel his presence physically. A few moments passed as you walked in silence before you were brave enough to speak.

“How did you know exactly where to go?”

Again your words were met with silence. N’Jadaka really was not trying to answer any questions today. You guessed you would just stay curious.

Suddenly, your leading foot tapped metal, and you stopped. N’Jadaka pushed past you and felt the air in front of him with his hands, then you heard the heavy creak of a metal door sliding open. He climbed up a couple of metal steps and then reached out his hand for you to follow.

You climbed up and found yourself in what looked like the inside of an old train car, about ten feet long from back to front. N’Jadaka had flipped a switch that illuminated the small enclosed space, and now he sat at the other end of the vehicle before an antique-looking control panel with switches, buttons and levers. He worked busily for a couple moments until the car shook and roared with life and suddenly you were moving.

You took a seat finally, and leaned against the window beside you. Outside you could make out train tracks, revealed by the bright yellow headlights at the front of the train. You were pretty sure Wakanda hadn’t had trains this primitive in the last hundred years. These must have been one of the routes of the original vibranium mines in the city you read about as a kid. Clearly it must have been sapped dry of all of its resources, since it was so dark, missing the soft purple glow of vibranium ore. This would have been perfect for an escape route for the royal family, now that you thought about it. You took a passenger seat, deciding to allow your legs to rest for however long this break would allow you.

You watched N’Jadaka from behind, noting how his broad shoulders relaxed as though he escaped imprisonment in foreign territory on the daily. Pressing your own hand to your chest, you recognized your own steady heartbeat and irrational calm. You were running away from your homeland with the man who had tried to turn it on his head and who had also murdered your only family. Things had stopped making sense the moment this man had arrived.

N’Jadaka had ruined your life, but seemed to be giving you a new one. Contemplating this, sleep came to overtake you like a sly thief, your eyes closing shut on the image of N’Jadaka finally turning back to look at you.

---

Your eyes creaked open the moment you sensed the train screech to a halt. Disoriented for a brief moment, you jolted back to life as N’Jadaka gave you a look before dismounting the train. Following him in a hurry, you trailed him as he made his way out of the mine.

For the first time in your life, you were in what could only have been called uncharted territory. The chirp of crickets and buzz of small insects that flew by night were sounds foreign to you, as were the hum of mosquitoes that attempted to bite your face and hands, the only exposed skin they could get to. Even though it was the few hours that separated the late night and the early morning, the cool breeze generated by the foliage was offset by a sticky, oppressive heat surrounding the two of you. You continued to venture into the jungle following your partner’s lead, N’Jadaka not saying a word to you.

You walked for what felt like hours, feeling more and more idiotic the further you traveled. Pursuing this man who would not speak to you, throwing away your whole life for what you think you saw, what you think you heard, and what you think you felt? This was dumb, so very dumb, you mentally scolded yourself.

Finally, you stopped in your tracks. N’Jadaka kept walking for several steps longer, then stopped once he no longer felt the echoing of steps behind him. He turned to look at you, wordlessly.

“Where are we going?” You demanding to know, calling out to him.

In the brightness of the full moon, you could see his neutral, tough expression soften ever-so-slightly. Finally, that familiar smirk materialized once again. You realized that you had begun to miss it in the span of just a few hours.

“I was waiting for you to ask, babygirl. Looked like you’d follow me to the ends of the earth, no questions asked. It was cute, though, no lie.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“We’re gonna find shelter for the night.” He reassured you. “Then there’s a cabin out-”

Your blood-curdling scream cut him off, as a beast came out of seemingly nowhere in the deep jungle and charged directly towards you with all its might. Your fight or flight response did neither in this instance, and instead as you crouched in a protective stance, hands above you to protect your face, all of your muscles and joints seemed to freeze. Your eyes clamped shut, waiting for the worst.

Nothing happened.

Your eyes peered open, and you found yourself surrounded by a translucent protective barrier. The animal must have been rebuffed and stunned by the shield once it pounced onto you, because it steadied itself shakily on its paws, shaking its monstrous head aggressively side to side. Still frozen in place, your eyes darted around trying to make sense of what was going on. They fell on N’Jadaka who looked at you in concerned shock. The jungle cat now seemed to have renewed rage at missing an easy meal and now repositioned itself to charge once more.

Before it could spring a second time, N’Jadaka charged the beast shoulder-first like a linebacker, knocking the snarling jungle cat to the ground once more. He gave it a crushing blow on its snout and you held your breath as he delivered next blow after blow, blood splattering and staining his face and clothing.

As the creature let out its agonal breaths, N’Jadaka stayed kneeling on the ground, heaving with fatigue after having pummeled this now helpless creature into the soil. Your barrier dropped as you moved slowly towards him. It was so, so easy to forget how violent this man could be, and this was your reminder.

He stayed still, watching the animal die for a moment as you approached. You placed a hand gingerly on his shoulder, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

“Thank you, N’Jadaka. For protecting me.” You said, softly.

His breathing slowed and he rose to his feet. You took a few steps back to give him space. You wondered if you had made that barrier yourself or it was divine intervention, or somehow even N’Jadaka himself. It really would not have been so strange considering you’d just forced your hand through a wall like a ghost just hours ago. You’d figure out what was going on later.

“Let’s keep moving. We gotta find somewhere to sleep.” N’Jadaka replied, his voice no louder than a murmur.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you and trailed him closely. He stopped suddenly, turned to take a long look at you, and with his expression still neutral despite a new warmth behind his eyes, spoke again.

“Call me Erik from now on.”

Tagging:  @syndrlla97 @iwantsomethingeternal@1killmonger @chasingsunlight @hoopshoney @destinio1 @wakanda-inspired @thadelightfulone @lalasparkles @pessimisfit @youreadthatright @stark-red19@ruruly20 @bossyboyd03 @autumn242 @heybriheyyy @thelovelyliterary@muse-of-mbaku @bidibidibombaclaat@supersizemeplz@romanceoftheeveryday @chaneajoyyy @lildashofmelanin @blackpinup22 @imayhavemisunderstood @raysunshine78

[the-walking-memelords]

A2 - Chapter 6: Search for Safety

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Series is rated M

Word Count: 2528

Clementine finds herself reintroduced to the horrors of the world outside her secluded home.

Read it on Ao3!

Read it on Wattpad!

The smell of pine sap permeated the air as the fallen green needles crunched under her boots. The hardness of the ground below her was the only real indication that this was a paved road as leaves and branches masked the abandoned route. White clouds formed in front of their faces with every exhale as the chilly morning air clung to their skin. The clouds above their heads danced with the strong winds as they darkened with every passing hour.

I hope we find the others before that storm hits.

Eli followed along in silence, hands jammed into his pockets and seemingly locked inside his own thoughts. Clementine walked behind him, not willing to let him out of her sight just yet. She wanted to trust him, she really did, but caution was required with someone unknown and unpredictable. 

Clementine had decided that she would do what she could to help the boy, but if he tried to throw it back at her, she wouldn’t hesitate.

Louis led the way with AJ at his side. The two of them talked in hushed voices that couldn’t reach her ears, but AJ was smiling, so she wasn’t worried.

Eventually, the trees grew sparse as they approached a hint of urbanization in the seemingly endless forest. At least in the forest, you could pretend all was right with the world. Untouched wilderness remaining uninterrupted by humanity. But approaching something like this, shells of burnt-out cars overtaken by vines scattered and crashed along the cracked pavement. The faded yellow lines that once divided the lanes became ignored as this flurry of people rushed to get away from the first of the walkers. The cars sat rusted and charred, crushed together in nearly unrecognizably twisted clusters.

The four of them walked past the automotive graveyard, ignoring the unmoving jaws of the scorched skeletal figures slumped in the seats. Their remains fused to the very material. 

A small, high-pitched gurgle was barely audible from one of the cars. It was a minivan. Red paint chipped and melted in the front half leaving the back to be weathered down but more or less intact. Another wheeze came out of the heat-shattered window.

The four of them stopped as the shuffling of the agitated walker became more apparent. Louis and Clem looked at each other as they gauged the possible threat.

Louis stepped forward silently, reaching his bat out in front of him as he tapped the metal under the opening. 

A small, bony hand gripped the edge on the window frame, unconcerned about the glass shards digging into its skin. The face of a child appeared over the frame, half of her face burned to a crisp with an empty eye socket. The other side that still had some remnants of functional flesh was twisted into a dark scowl. Locks of thin and matted hair hung from a ponytail still tied in a bow with a stained yellow ribbon. The little girl lunged out of the window, the glass tearing into her yellow dress staining it with her nearly black blood and holding her in place.

Clementine stared at her with eyes filled with shock. 

Why did it have to be a kid?

Even now in her 20’s, seeing a child as one of them made her think of how close she came to being just like that. She would have been dead in a week if Lee had never found her. Dead, and turned. Without ever knowing what was happening around her. Just like this little girl. 

Maybe that’s why the kids always made her hesitate. Killing an adult walker was more dangerous and more difficult, but she would never stop for even a second. But a kid? Looking into their blank eyes triggered a flash of all of the kids she knew to appear with those eyes in place. 

Looking at this little girl’s white, unfocused eye made her think of every kid she watched die.

She could feel Louis’ sympathetic gaze on her. Clementine forced herself to find more interest in the mud on her boots than the dead child and shook her head. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Louis’ boots walk towards the van as the growls intensified. There was the shing of a knife and then silence. One final thump and it was all over. When Clementine looked back up it scene was as empty as it had been when they arrived, save for a piece of torn yellow fabric stuck to the broken glass.

She can rest now.

You didn’t know her. 

Just don’t think about it.

“Let’s keep moving.” Clem said plainly as she took the lead.

---

The rushing rapids of the river could be heard from quite a ways away even over the whistling of the winds. The road approaching the substantially large steel bridge became even more clustered with abandoned vehicles lost to nature. 

The fence separating the solid ground from the cliff’s edge was nearly non-existent at this point, leaving little to prevent someone from talking the steep and long plunge should they get too close.

The bridge seemed like it was the site of another panicked tragedy that was never resolved. The lone trailer of a transport truck laid perpendicular to the road, sitting on top cars it must have rolled onto.

“How do we get through?” AJ asked as they surveyed the trailer caught in both sides of the bridge’s supports. 

Clementine walked to the edge and peered around. Looking down, barely visible in the water was the cab of the truck.

We go this way and we’ll end up down there with the driver.

“If the others made it around this thing then we’ll find a way too.” Louis said confidently as he looked around for a way across.

“What if we don’t.” Eli spoke for the first time in hours. 

“What if we don’t find a way through? What does that mean?”

“It means they didn’t go this way and we have to look somewhere else.” Clementine responded, looking him dead in the eyes. She refused to consider the alternative. 

A burst of thunder echoed in the distance. A warning of what was to come.

“We won’t be able to track them well in the rain so let’s hurry up and look around.” She walked past both Eli and AJ.

Louis sat crouched next to one of the crushed cars, rubbing something between his fingertips.

“What did you find?” She asked as she crouched next to him. 

“Blood.” Louis’ fingers were covered in the sticky red substance.

“Living blood.”

Louis pointed ahead to the area underneath the trailer. It was a gap a few feet wide and tall that was a straight shot to the other side where it was boosted up by the car. A small yet sharp piece of metal stuck out from the side, covered in red that dripped to the road below.

“It’s still a little wet, so it’s not old. And it’s too light to be a walker’s blood.” Louis reasoned as the light from the other side of the bridge became a small beacon of hope as he rambled on.

“The spike is easy to see normally, but if someone was in a hurry, if multiple people tried to get through at once, or if someone couldn’t see very well, they could easily get cut.”

“You think this is where they got through?”

“I know it.”

From what she could see, the other side of the bridge was clear. A few dead walkers littered the road as well as…

Shit.

A mess of orange hair whipped around in the wind, the body it was attached to limp as the walkers.

No.

She’s too tall.

It’s not Ruby.

“Something happened over there.” Louis said.

“Let’s check it out.”

“I’ll go first.” A voice came from behind them. 

Eli stood with a determined look in his eyes, and a hunting knife in his hand.

“I’ll look for walkers or signs of people being through here.” His determination faltered and revealed a tone of desperation in his voice.

“I can help.”

What is he trying to prove?

“Fine” Clementine relented. “I’ll go second, then AJ, then Louis.” Clementine stumbled onto her hands and knees as she crawled under the metal trailer, keeping in mind the sharp debris around her. This thing’s been solid for over a decade, what are the odds it falls now?

Her thoughts were halted by the boy frozen in place in front of her. Clem was about to ask what the matter was when she heard something unexpected answer her.

A horse whinnied from somewhere near the end of the bridge accompanied by the muted arguing of two men.

“What’s the holdup?” Louis asked from the other side.

“Gravediggers.” Eli growled.

Clementine squeezed in beside Eli to get a better look. Two men wrapped in fang-marked cloaks pulled a horse-drawn cart. The first man made a beeline to the dead woman, holding the sides of her head in his hands and bowing his head.

“She gonna come back?” The second man asked as he grabbed one of the walkers and threw its body into the cart.

“No.” He replied.

“Somebody put a bullet in her head.”

“Let’s just get her home and get her in the pit.” The second man said as he came to console the other.

“Word is the boss had his eye on her. She’s better off this way.”

“That don’t make this right.” His voice broke as he scooped her up in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

The man placed her into the back of the cart gently as the other threw in the last walker. Just as quickly as they arrived they pulled the horse alone a side trail and disappeared into the trees.

They waited several minutes under that trailer to make sure the men would not return. When they determined that they had truly left, the four of them crawled out to survey what remained of the battle scene.

“What the hell was that about?” Louis asked, breaking the silence.

“Scouts don’t usually go alone with just walkers. She probably had a partner that booked it and left her to die.” Eli explained with a dark expression.

“Gravediggers pick up the bodies. Human or Walker. You’re worth the same to Wolfgang.”

---

They walked for a few miles along the road as the trees faded into abandoned fields which opened up for the outlines of a few buildings to appear in the distance. Thunder continued to periodically boom across the sky, getting closer and closer as the clouds threatened to unleash the storm upon them.

A truck stop sat next to a few large retail buildings. As soon as their shoes hit the parking lot they realized they weren’t the only ones headed to the old Save-Lots.

A sizable herd had converged in the wide-open area. The sounds of nearly a hundred of the dead drowned out anything else as they wandered aimlessly.

So much for this place.

“I don’t think they’re here.” AJ said as he held his binoculars up to his eyes.

“Theres so many.”

“Do they look like they’re trying to get inside?” Clementine asked.

Who knows how long they’ve been here.

Could’ve been days, could’ve been hours.

We can’t give up on this place yet.

“The front doors are all boarded up. There’s a few standing close to it but they’re not hitting it.”

“Whether they’re here or not we gotta find a place to hide before those clouds break and we get drenched.” Louis pointed out. As if on cue, the sky lit up with a flash of lightning followed by the crash of thunder.

“No time to backtrack. We gotta go through them or around them.”

AJ handed Clementine the binoculars. Looking through, walkers surrounded nearly every building. Though thinly spread, there was no getting in anywhere without being seen.

“Looks like there’s less around that smaller building past the Save-Lots. If we have to hold up here tonight it should be easier to clear and less likely to be noticed.” Clementine pointed out.

“Now for the gross part.”

---

Slicing her machete down the abdomen of the fallen walker released a burst of foul air around them that made her stomach turn. Clementine bit her lip as she stuck her hands into the gorey mess, trying not to breathe as she stained her red shirt darker.

I liked this one, too.

Louis gagged and spit off to the side as he made sure AJ was good and covered. Eli didn’t hesitate to join in, smearing his face first before his clothes. He’d probably done this more often than any of them, being covered in guts to move walkers from place to place.

“Alright.” Louis said as they all donned their camouflage.

“This is where we’re starting. We all know where we’re going. Don’t clump together but don't spread too far apart. Got it?”

“See you on the other side.” Clementine squeezed Louis’ hand and nodded to the boys.

---

There was something surreal about walking through a herd. Being surrounded by the creatures that had hunted her for most of her life yet being utterly ignored. Walking as one of them, but the only one with a purpose in mind. The only one who knew where she was going. It made part of her wonder what drove them. What could they feel if anything at all? 

Was it a hunger? 

A rage?

What force made them walk one way while she walked the other?

Once the years numbed the horror into normality it sparked a morbid curiosity. Sadly, she knew she would never have the answers to any of her questions.

Where did they come from? And why? What made them tick? How did they manage to bring the entire world to its knees?

Now’s not the time for idle thoughts.

A cold droplet landed on the tip of her nose as Clementine gazed up at the foreboding dark clouds over her head. A second droplet hit her cheek and rolled down her face as more followed. The rain began to fall quickly as it soaked everything around her.

Clementine looked around her frantically for any quick way out of the herd, but everywhere she looked the dead swarmed. She wasn’t even sure what way she had came from anymore. Desperate but trying to maintain her composure, she pushed through the walkers wherever she could, trying not to attract too much attention while also getting the hell out of there.

There was nothing. No one. She resisted the urge to call out to the others. How far had she been separated? 

So much for sticking close…

She didn’t have time to worry no matter how much her heart wanted to. Her time was limited as the dribble slowly began to turn to a downpour. A red puddle formed underneath her as her camouflage began to wash away. 

She bit her lip and forced her breath to remain steady.

They’ll notice me soon.

Find a way out, Clementine.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the abrupt grip of a hand on her shoulder.

[rkmason]

2017 SEPTEMBER 6, MAKE A WISH ROME ┄ ·˚

it’s sad to think that this would be the first time in three years that she wouldn’t be spending his birthday with him. the first time in a number of years that she wouldn’t get to see his face ripple from surprise to happiness in a matter of seconds. a small wonder jihyun likes to add to her own very detailed list of things she adored about rome – whether he knows about said list has yet to be disclosed ( though, she was sure he did know a few of her favorite things about him ). this year comes a little too fast, too much happens within the span of days leading up to his birthday that plans that have been made from the month prior are stalled – they’re crossed off her list of things to do and instead changed to fit the time. 

gone were the silly costumes and the small, intimate gathering. she’s back to square one and left with nothing but her gifts and an unwritten note before her eyes. she hates to think he’ll be without her this year,  so she tries her hardest to make up for it. details are back into place, a new plan in motion as she hurries within the span of a week to get everything in order ( on top of packing her bags and not feeling overly emotional ). she prepares the notes in order; polaroids scattered at the bottom of the box on top of the jacket she has nestled at the bottom. each layer holds a piece of her heart, among the many others she knows rome cares for. if jihyun couldn’t be with him on his birthday, she hopes that a small piece of everyone could make up for it. 

she hides the box in the very same place, the most frequented place in her apartment – the coat closet at the end of the hall. a trail of pink sticky notes lead him quick; hung several days too early. the most remarkable is the red one placed at the surface of the box’s cap. 

    DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOUR BIRTHDAY ❤                    absolutely no peeking ! 

she has no way of knowing if he’s seen it before his birthday ( a text or so could spoil the surprise ) but she leaves it be, the fate of his gift is in his hands. whether he opens it early or not is if he so wishes – jihyun wouldn’t be there to stop him.

once opened: the box is covered like every other gift he receives from jihyun. a mess of confetti and tissue paper, of crumpled old seoul newspapers and crazy fashion pages. all of which cover up a perfectly wrapped box; sky blue wrapping paper with crisp edges and a red ribbon to lock it in tight. unwrapped lies a black cassette tape with scotch glued to the front. hangang 한강 scrawled in black expo marker casts a name to an otherwise unknown device. beneath the wrapped cassette tape lies another mess of white.

below the second crumpled mess that was white tissue paper and ripped up newspaper was a black letterman jacket; leather on the sleeves, wool lapels and gold accents. on the right side of the lapel, written in white calligraphy was his special moniker B.YU. jihyun knew the saying by heart, how could she not – it was one of the first things she remembered him saying when she first met him. his own special mantra, one that screamed individuality more than anything. another thing added to her list. the back was the prime jewel; written in white ink were names, signatures actually, of all his k-illustrate buddies, of seik and dabin, of his siblings, of yixing, yien, ariel, bobby and her own. ( she was going to get hyemin and jaewon to sign it but she couldn’t only do so much ) and to top it off, along the shoulders were his family’s signatures; a feat that literally did need the week intermission before his birthday, their signatures were the cherry on the cake. and if jihyun couldn’t be with him this year, the least she could do was get his family to somewhat be there. they’d be there with him, at least – hypothetically. 

and last, but certainly not least, were the photographs – something that had literally taken ages. what were supposed to be hung from the ceiling of a rented bar were the polaroids that jihyun had spent almost all summer collecting. from june to the very last second of august. each and every polaroid showcased every member she knew loved rome almost as much as she did. of all the people she had garnered signatures from, their faces shine bright in colored print. from those who held the jacket gifted in their hands, to just the people themselves, all smiles and notes written on each white plane. small greetings of birthday cheers and wishes for the birthday boy are scrawled in black ink. a tale jihyun knows will probably take rome ages to get through; especially when it comes to the polaroids of his parents and siblings. she knows it’s not enough but she hopes it makes up for her absence. her own frozen in time in her very own polaroid; the black letterman caved around her thin frame, her face all smiles for the camera, already knowing rome would be the one looking at the image. 

her message reads:

happy birthday, love ! oh my god, you’re getting so old.  i can’t believe you’re already 22 ! who knew you would survive this long here in seoul ~ !  hah, kidding ~ of course you’d survive. you’re wolverome, you can get through everything you put your mind through ! especially this year, you’ve been through so much and i’m so proud of everything you’ve overcome. i’m especially happy to be by your side, seeing you through everything. your ups and downs ( even though you’re literally the worst and never tell me when you’re hurt, istg if you break your arm again i’m going to break your ears ), and just being with you makes me happy because you’ve just been there and i’ve always needed someone to keep me sane, to remind me that i’m so much more than what i think of myself.  that’s why i’m in love with you and continue to love you because you never forget to help me remind myself of who i am. i also love who i’ve become since i’ve been with you, and i’ll never forget it. god, this is so cheesy. i’m running out of space and you better not bug me about any of this later but –

i love you, you goofy sap ❤

it’s all written in english, squiggly writing – nearly scrawled up and down, front and back; all the way from margin to margin until there’s no room left to write. 

and the very least is when the ‘hangang’ cassette tape, as it’s so labeled, is placed in the record player he had bought for her on her birthday two years ago. when play is pressed, it begins like any other song. the small change in tone is one jihyun is unfamiliar with when it comes to recording songs, it’s her first korean song she’s been able to record among the many she has written. it’s the first she’s given, ever. the fact that it’s for rome makes it all the more special, especially when he was on her mind the whole two years it took her to write it. of course she had help composing the beat, but the words, themselves, worked out for the best. 

they’re from the heart, every which way. truly, madly, deeply the song sparks memories from years ago, even before seoul. of blue seas and a new city to be explored. of a young boy and girl just meeting and blurring the lines of friendship before the first kiss that never came.

( until almost six years later ) 

it’s a small piece of her heart, a little more of her soul further placed in his hands – this time her voice comes along for the ride. what little she could do is nestled in this box, her heart, her smile – her voice was his to have. her love was already his, anyways. 

He’d been through it before. Hell, he could say he’s used to it. Days and even nights in the apartment without her. This is different. It feels empty without her and he used to feel her presence in the place when she wasn’t there. Now as she prepares to move, he feels pieces of himself fall out of place within the four walls. It wasn’t about the fact that she was achieving her dreams. He wanted that for her, he’d do anything to make sure she gets everything she wants, but it was that he felt like he was losing a piece of their history. They’d gone through so much in this apartment alone. His heart had been beaten and brought back to life with such small hands. He’d found sadness and the greatest joy he knows right here. Besides, Domo was starting to accept him more and more these days. Can’t dislike the hand that feeds you and takes you on walks, right? 

Leaving the apartment was leaving a piece of his head behind too, hoping she’ll come back to reclaim it and that’s the real reason he’s saddened over it. Because he wishes she could stay in his arms forever but she belongs on a stage. He’s known that from the moment he’s met her and he pushes a sigh away as he opens the door, Domo running in before him once the leash is off. When Domo crosses in front of him with a flash of pink, Rome panics. Fuck, what is this dog eating now? Since moving to Seoul, he’d never searched “can dogs eat _____” so much in his life. Chasing Domo takes a few years off his life and he questions his stamina as he plops down on the couch, smoothing out the paper against his thigh and staring at it confused. “How’d you get this, bud?” 

He’s ignored, to which Rome isn’t surprised, as the dog wanders back towards the source and he puzzledly realizes there’s more. Post-its form a line towards a familiar place and he can’t help chuckling under his breath as he opens the closet door, wonders if it’s their own hidden treasure trove because he can’t picture receiving anything he wouldn’t love in this closet. What was once a secret hiding spot for a gift she didn’t think she was ready to give him is clearly painted out for him this time around. It reminds him of how he wanted to make every memory better, stronger, the way he feels around her. The reason he wanted to go back to the beach from that night is probably the same reason she wanted to do this again because they deserve happier stories, because embracing their past and moving on to the future is what he does best when he has her. He can take on the whole world as long as he has her on his side. 

The next few days feel like pure torture and after being asked if he already opened it when he sent her a snapchat of his discovery, he told himself he had to have the will to wait. Rome can’t say patience isn’t a strong point of his when he waited so long to be with her. A few days to wait for whatever she’s prepared to capture his heart all over again isn’t too bad. His patience dwindles the closer to his birthday it gets and if it wasn’t for his friends taking him out, he would’ve opened it right at midnight, would’ve opened it during the phone call he makes to her just to hear her voice. He had no idea that he could’ve opened the gift to hear her voice again too. 

He can’t see her but she still takes his breath away like it’s her special skill and Rome has half a mind to tell her to list it the way she told him to list his shoulders years ago. It’s still a skill he proudly shows off. The sheer amount of time it would’ve taken to do this baffles him and he’s speechless, glad he opened it in private except for the curious eyes of Domo as he moves around the apartment. Restless legs taking him to the couch to the kitchen counter and back again as he holds onto the jacket for dear life, polaroids in his hands. What magic does she have to make him feel so weak, so hopelessly in love with her? He’s been holding back tears since he caught sight of his family’s familiar handwriting and he finally understands why Chris has been such an asshole sending him smirking emojis without a single word because he’s the last to understand just how much she loves him too. 

Years ago, he thought this was it, that he’d pine for her the way he did since that summer, since the kiss he waited months for, since he first heard that intoxicating siren song. Years ago, he thought he’d drift out at sea forever, now he knows she’s always gonna lead him home. He held back the tears the whole time until he read her letter, until he can read the words and swears he hears the i love you as he does. 

Years ago, they’d made a promise. Spend each other’s birthdays together and he isn’t with her right now, but this feels close. His heart swells and hell yeah this is pretty close. He hasn’t even gotten to the tape when he’s reminded of it by Domo nudging it with his nose. Listening to it brings him back to sand in his toes, the sun in his eyes, and his heart in someone else’s hands. She brings him home again and he wishes he could do that for her too, he wishes she was home. When his phone lights up, when a certain ringtone plays, he thinks he’s a fool again. Distance is nothing with a love like this. 

[activatingaggro]

there wasn’t any water in the wishing well

ICONIC CONETL

10.5 sweeps / 24 years old | somewhere in the continental core

2191 words

“Sweetling,” you say, “d’you figure I’m just bad at this?”

The bathroom smells like bleach and copper, sharp enough that it makes you want to gag. The cool of the tile against your forehead’s some help! It’s a distraction, at least, for a few moments at a time. And then you hear the scrape of metal on metal, and your gorge is back up, heavy as a softball in the back of your throat.

You’d known what you were getting into! But, oh, knowing your intolerances didn’t mean you’d realised it’d be quite this bad. If anyone’s going to be pawing at your ports, though, it might as well be Sipara.

She was the first to see them after they were installed. Why shouldn’t she be the first to see them now that they’re broken?

“Bad at what?” she says idly. When you glance back at her, she’s still digging through her toolkit, pulling things to the side and setting them on the sink. Her little sterilisation box is behind them, its mouth half-open and waiting with a patience that nearly feels palpable.

When you look at it, it winks at you.

“Don’t ask me. Oh, everything? Bonnie’s off in space. Vadadear is -” You drag your tongue across your lips. “- a bad idea,” you decide, slowly. “A terrible idea. Steamy’s - well, Bonnie’s off in space. D’you think she would be, if I were, y’know - better at this?”

“I think,” she drawls, “your face’s going white, nerd, so, like, stop watchin’ me set up?”

You turn back to the tile, closing your eyes as you rest your head against it. This isn’t Sipara or Hadean’s apartment, you don’t think. Maybe the little brownblood dawdling in the living rooms? The walls are all green and white, painted up in something that edges uncannily close to jade, and if you stare long enough, you think you could dig up the hex code. “So bossy, sweetling.”

“But fine! I’m looking away.”

“Good.” All you have to listen to is the clink of metal as she moves. A message from Cramel pops up in the corner of your vision, but it’s as scrambled as everything coming in from your wetware’s been, lately, so you blink the notification off. Oh, if it’s important, she’ll call. “And, umm - Bonnie’s your rail, yeah?”

“Mm~!” If you just focus on the conversation, this is all nearly tolerable. There’s something nostalgic about this, for all that you’d never let Sipara work on you back when you were still quadrants. Shepherd would’ve skinned the both of you if she’d so much as nicked any of her hardware, and the scars had still been fresh, back then.

No, it’s not the portwork that’s familiar. It’s just the feel of her, and the comfort of being near. Sipara’s practically a weight in any room she’s in, and it’s soothing enough to fall into her orbit. You’d mostly combed through her problems! She was a pupa. But that was a sweep ago, and she’d always wanted to try, at least, for yours. “Mm. She’s gone all the time. Policeradicator business, y’know,” you say, and you hear the twitch of her ear. “Which is fine, I’m not exactly a clingy sort of fellow, but - well - it’s just kind of wretched, isn’t it, when you don’t know when someone’ll be there, or when they’ll be gone?”

Your words are getting a little heavy. You roll your shoulders, letting your eyes drift up for all that no one can see it. “How did you manage with your dear fourprongs, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t reply. You give her twenty seconds, then thirty, but the silence is just dragging on, getting heavier with each passing moment, and then you give in. “Sipa?”

When you turn around to look at her, her shoulders are hunched in, and.. oh. She’s not looking at you. You step over, careful, and each step feels like weights are tied to your feet. (How do people ever manage without psionics?) “Sipa,” you croon, reaching out. Her hair’s covering her face, thick as a curtain. You have to tuck your hand under her face to tilt it up, one thumb on her chin, and -

- she’s crying, the sort of runny brown tears you haven’t seen since she was little. “Oh, no,” you say, alarmed. “Oh, no, sugarpop - Sipadear - what’re you doing?”

She snarls at you, baring every last one of those fangs, and just like that, you withdraw. There’s plenty of old scars on your wrists and arms from her snits as a pupa, rings of weals and chalk-white skin. You don’t need to add more. “Sipadear,” you scold, but that doesn’t bring down the threat display; she just whines instead like a broken car engine, with the sort of rasp that you don’t know where she got. “What’s wrong? C’mon, sweetling, you’ve got words. What’s the matter?”

She sniffs. You croon at her, voice pitched low and soft as a lusus. “Cinnamondumpling,” you half-sing, “c’mon, now, spit it out -”

She opens her mouth.

There’s a sharp knock at the door, loud as a gunshot, and just like that, Sipara wilts.

“Sips?” Hadean calls a moment later, and you’re going to strangle him.  “You okay in there?”

“I -”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, she actually sobs, before she clamps both hands over her mouth.

It’s a little too late. If it was anyone else, you’d be impressed by how quickly the door snatches open! Hadean’s certainly got a mind for dramatics; if he wasn’t as ruint as the rest of you, blood-dark shadows marring his skin and hollows in his cheeks, it’d be almost striking. His horns are up, his lip is curled. He looks like a hound stepping in front of his herd, after it went and got hit by a car.

It’s pathetic.

“We’re fine,” you drawl, stepping forward. There’s blood streaking down his face again, a sticky cherry river creeping down those cheekbones, and if Sipara wasn’t here, you’d lick your thumb and wipe it right off.

But she’s right here. It’s a shame, really! If she wasn’t, you can’t help but reflcet, this would be a nice enough opportunity to get rid of your little clone, once and for all.  (Even down to the initials - every time you’re over it, something reminds you of exactly how subpar her replacement for you was.) “We’re just talking, sweetheart. Y’might’ve heard of it~! It’s what folks do when they’re not cracking heads with strangers online, mm?”

“So don’t worry!” There’s the smaller brownblood peeking out from behind him, dull eyes wide as saucers in the dark. “You and your little sap-eyed potoobrain can just settle down.”

“We’re fine,” Sipara echoes behind you, scrubbing at her eyes with a palm. “I promiiise -”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure!”

He glances your way with a derisive flick of his eyes, and then he clicks his tongue, pulling the door shut.

You give it thirty seconds, then you tilt your head at her. “Sipara,” you coax, soft. “Sweetheart! What’s got you started, hmm?”

“.. Pheres’s dead.”

Oh.

You don’t think congratulations are what she’s after, exactly! Or, well, no. Of course it isn’t, for all that it’s warranted, and for all that he isn’t her quad any longer. But that’s alright. You can say something comforting, the sort of things she’s waiting to hear. You open up your mouth -

- and what comes out is a crackle of static instead, as the censoring device kicks in.

If you could, you’d scalp Raphae for this. But he’s over two hundred miles towards the sea, and you can’t focus on the swell of rage, not when Sipara’s right here. “Don’t cry over it,” you try instead, and this time, when you reach out, she doesn’t growl. Her hair’s wiry under your palm, the way it always was. Has been. And when’s the last time you had to comfort her when she cried? “C’mon, now, chin up, sweetling. What d’you think that’s gonna do?”

“It’s not fair.” She leans into your hand hard, eyes fluttering shut, and if her voice’s ragged, her expression’s just tight. “It’s not fair, Ico, it’s - he’s dead, and I couldn’t do anything - nobody even knew to do nothing - and - and Riccin’s hurt, and -”

“Everyone keeps leaving.” Her voice’s getting thick. Your throat’s tightening in response, a cold weight hanging in the back, somehow so different from the way you were gagging before. “Hads almost died, too, and - everyone keeps leaving, and so did you, and now you’re trying to pretend we’re normal.”

“I thought you were dead!”

You’d have preferred to stick with the gagging, you think.

Her eyes are shining red, now, that rheumy cusp-hue that you’ve never been sure what to think of. It’s trailing sticky tracks down her cheeks, for all of her swiping; there’s tears dripping off of her lashes and rolling down her nose, and it’s awful, because through it all, she’s watching you. And you don’t know what to do.

With Bonnie, you’d have papped her. Or shooshed her. A sweep ago, you might’ve done the same with Sipara, properity be damned! How many times is your fledging going to swing into the nest, singing her sad songs? These are the sort of things that her moirails should be dealing with, but..

Well. Sipara’s always had wretched taste in that sort of thing, hasn’t she?

So you ruffle her hair, running your fingers through the ironed-flat strands, letting your nails scrape at her scalp in the way you know she appreciates. “Oh, my poor little hellion. D’you want an apology?” Her eyes are so red. “Because I’m sorry I left you,” you say, warm and soft and carefully, meticulously free of your usual contempt. Sipara’s all shining light and brittle edges, right now. The wrong word could shatter her like a pane, you think, without even trying.

So you keep it docile. “I would’ve brought you with me, if I’d thought about it - but, gosh, I didn’t, and that was downright cruel. But I’m here now. And I’m not going to leave again, how’s that?” You free your hand from her hair, give her ear a little tug that sets all of the rings to jangling. “It’ll be you and me, from now on,” you half-croon, lusus-soft, but she’s just.. staring at you.

The last time you’d had to comfort her like this, she’d been round-cheeked and moptopped, nearly a whole sweep younger. Her face’s got angles, now. She looks older, and the shade of her pupa-self rests in the twist of her mouth, the cant of her ears. It’s painfully familiar. It’s distressingly new, too, and like a routine set to new music, you’re not sure exactly where to set your feet.

“Sipa -” you prompt, and then she flings down her tools in a clatter of metal, and throws herself at you.

Her face fits neatly into your collarbone. She’s just small enough that her curls tickle at the bottom of your chin, and her hands, when she wraps them tight around your back, are entirely too warm. She’s too warm, really, to be touching you; you can feel the heat of her sinking through your skin and burning each of your scars, wedging its way in like brands on your husk. You’ve gone stiff as a rod, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

You hate folks touching you like this, but it’s Sipara. You pat her head, awkwardly, twice, and you give her a moment before you start gently prying her off. She goes, grudgingly, ears drooping so low that they’re brushing her shoulders. “Don’t strangle me,” you tease her, once she’s finally loose. She looks like a half-drowned rat, poor pupa, so you sling an arm around her shoulder, haul her in as close as you can tolerate.

“It’s understandable you’re upset, sugarhorns.” There’s a fine line to dance here, between true sympathies and false, but you can manage it. Haven’t you spent sweeps learning how? “And I’m sorry for your loss. For everyone’s. But you’ve still got your little red-mite out there, don’t you?” A beat. “And you’ve got me.” You give her shoulder a tug, then you let go. Her hair’s all a mess from your tousling! Fingers through it straightens it out neat enough, at least. “So don’t fret -”

She exhales, deflating under you, and then she pulls back. “I don’t believe you,” she says, quiet. “I dunno how I can.” She’s not looking you in the eyes as she turns away, shoulders down, her ears still drooping, and.. oh. Oh, damn it all. “Sipa,” you try, coaxing, “hey -”

“We got work to do, dude.” Her voice’s getting steadier, now that she’s not looking at you, and somehow that hurts. It used to be that you could comfort her out of whatever ruts she was in, as easy as soothing your lusus.

But you suppose a lot changes, in half a sweep. “Go ahead and take off your shirt, and we’ll get started.”