#avoid salt on concrete

[denverresidentialcontractor]

Do not use snow melt on concrete. According to Denver Concrete Inc, never use salt, snow melt on concrete. Ever.

[selenepsyche]

Placements That Indicate Early or Late Marriage

ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ

Venus, Jupiter, or Moon in the 7th House - Venus and Jupiter can bring early opportunities for marriage and a positive approach to relationships. The moon can indicate marrying young for emotional fulfillment or family influence.

Venus conjunct North Node - This suggests a fated romantic connection that could take place early in life, possibly leading to an early marriage

Juno in 1st or 7th House - Can indicate a strong desire to marry early in life

Strong 5th House Influence - Strong placements here, especially with Venus or Jupiter, can indicate passionate love that could lead to early marriage

Venus or Juno in the Fire Signs - The fire signs (Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius) tend to act quickly and impulsively. So when Venus or Juno are in these signs, people could rush into relationships and marry early.

Jupiter in the 7th House or conjunct Venus - Jupiter brings expansion and blessings, making it easier to find a true soulmate and commit early

Saturn in the 5th House - Can make people take romance seriously early on, leading to an early marriage with a strong sense of responsibility

ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ

Saturn in the 7th House - One of the strongest indicators of a delayed marriage. This placement could make relationships feel like a duty rather than a lighthearted connection. You could deal with more karmic partnerships, that are needed to learn lessons before getting into marriage. You may also wait until you're emotionally or financially secure before committing.

Venus or Juno in Capricorn - Capricorn is ruled by Saturn, which slows things down. You could prioritize stability and career before marriage.

Saturn square or opposite Venus - This could bring difficult lessons in love and self worth, causing delays in relationships and sometimes periods of loneliness before marriage.

Venus or Juno in Retrograde - You could rethink love and commitment, often leading to later unions after personal growth

Uranus in 7th House - Uranus brings instability and unpredictability to relationships. You could reject traditional marriage or marry later after being in many relationships with different types of partners, helping you determine the type of person you'd want to marry.

North or South Node in the 7th House - With the north node here, marriage is apart of your life's purpose, but you may need to work through personal growth before committing, leading to later marriage. With the south node here, you could marry early out of comfort, while others could avoid marriage due to unresolved lessons (usually past-life related).

Pluto in the 7th House - You could go through transformational relationships, often leading to later marriage due to constant emotional change

Heavy 10th House Influence - You could prioritize your career, reputation, and personal goals before committing to marriage

Mars in the 7th House - Could indicate rushing into marriage or having difficult relationships that could lead to divorce, but marrying later in a more stable marriage

Neptune in the 7th House - Could indicate idealizing relationships, leading to early marriage based on fantasy, or marrying later after learning to see things more clearly

Thank you for reading! If you have any questions, feel free to comment them down below. Remember that these are possibilities, they aren't concrete. Take these with a grain of salt. We all still have free will.

dividers: @adornedwithlight

written by: @selenepsyche. do not steal.

© selenepsyche - All Rights Reserved

[pomelace]

more than a sip

pairing: jack abbot x afab!resident reader

content warnings: fluff, no physical desciptors used for reader, reader is a resident and has a brother, implied age gap, doesn't take place during the shows timeline, let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : dedicated to @multifandom-2091, thank you for the request, I hope you like it! I struggled a bit as I fell into a small writers slump halfway through, but here it is! writing this made me want to write more for jack, so stay tuned for that. as always, I hope you enjoy and requests are open!

word count: 1473

The rain drums steady on the pavement as you step out into the ambulance bay, the hospital doors hissing shut behind you. The air is thick with the smell of wet dirt and concrete, cool against your skin. You lean back against the wall just beside the doors, eyes half-closed, phone glowing in your hand.

Your fingers tap out a quick message:

Did you eat?? I left pasta in the fridge. Please don’t just eat cereal again. Love you. Be home by 8.

You don’t expect a reply—it’s three in the morning, and no one in their right mind should be awake. But your brother is. Either passed out on the couch with a controller still in his hand, or ignoring your text the same way he ignored you this morning—right after the fight, right before you left for another fifteen-hour shift.

It was a stupid argument—one he started, because he’s a teenager and teenagers are always angry about something. You know the type of anger; you used to wear it like armor too.

You put your parents through the same storm of slammed doors and sharp words. The difference is, they were still around to weather it. You’re all he’s got now.

So you take it—the harsh words, the door slams, the silence that lingers like smoke. You don’t hold it against him. You never do.

Instead, you text him like clockwork, always checking in even when he expects you not to. Especially when he expects you not to.

There’s peace in just standing there, tucked beneath the small overhang by the doors, the rain kept at bay by a strip of shelter overhead. Each drop falls with a soft, steady rhythm, a quiet lullaby against the metal.

As you wait for a response you know isn’t coming, you start to count the droplets you hear.

One, two, three...

“Should I be concerned you’ve taken up loitering?” a voice calls from behind you, low and rough around the edges.

You glance over your shoulder and catch sight of Dr. Abbot stepping out into the damp night, two coffee cups in hand. His dark scrubs are hidden beneath the black hoodie he always wears, hood down.

The lights from inside spill across his face, catching the salt-and-pepper in his hair, making him look tired than usual—almost distant, like he’s not entirely here.

“Loitering implies I’m not on shift,” you murmur, tucking your phone into your scrub pocket.

“I’m just… pretending the air inside doesn’t taste like bleach.”

He hums, taking a sip from his cup before handing you the other one. For you.

“Almond milk and honey,” he says gently, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“How did you—” you start to ask, but he cuts you off before you can thank him.

“You talk out loud when you think no one’s listening.”

Jack notices the little things: how you stir your coffee just so, the gentle, rhythmic motion; how you always avoid sweeteners, opting for just the almond milk and honey; how you don't like dairy, even though it’s practically everywhere.

He watches you for a moment, the corners of his lips turning up slightly as if he’s cataloging every small detail you don’t even realize you’re giving away.

“Careful,” he says, his voice low but teasing, “You’re going to burn your tongue.”

You look up at him, surprised by the sudden attention, but there's something comforting in the way he’s paying so much attention to the smallest things.

You roll your eyes playfully, though it’s hard to keep up the facade when you feel his gaze.

“I’m fine,” you reply, but there's warmth in your voice, a subtle acknowledgment that the smallest things—like this moment, this cup of coffee—mean more than you want to admit.

He shrugs, taking a sip from his own cup, his eyes never leaving you.

“I’m just saying, you might want to take it slow with the ‘hot’ part.”

You smile, the kind that tugs at your heart just a little too much. You know exactly what he’s doing.

He’s not just watching you sip your coffee. He’s seeing you, in all the quiet ways that no one else does.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say again, this time with more meaning, the weight of the simple gesture settling between you like a shared secret.

“It's nice of you to finally grace the outside world,” you mutter, eyeing him with a smile from the rim of your coffee cup.

“I thought you were glued to the nurse’s station, brooding over charting mistakes and bad coffee.”

“I was,” he says, voice dry.

“Then I realized I hadn’t heard you complain in twenty minutes. Figured something might be wrong.”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning against the wall.

“I was going for some peaceful silence, actually.”

He snorts, a small chuckle escaping him.

“That doesn’t suit you.”

A comfortable silence settles between you. Outside, the rain falls in silver sheets, soft and steady. You both sip your coffee, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

He glances between you, the rain, and the rim of his cup. He doesn’t say anything—just clears his throat, like he wants to speak but hasn’t found the words yet.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still fixed on the window.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

You start to respond, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

“Don’t you prefer it that way?”

But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a smile. Instead, he turns to you—really turns to you—and something in his expression shifts. His eyes soften. The teasing falls away.

“I mean it. You’ve been off today. Not talking much, not—”

“Not complaining enough?” you interrupt with a light chuckle, trying to deflect.

But he just shakes his head again, gently.

“No. Seriously. Are you okay?”

You contiplate whether to tell him the truth or not on how you're doing. You look between him and the rim of your steaming cup. You know you can tell him, confide in him, but when is it too much to say?

"You can tell me," he whispers, like he can see straight through you.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you meet his gaze, giving a soft nod.

"I'm okay," you say lightly, almost too casually, like you're brushing it off.

"Just dealing with a lot, like always."

But he doesn't look convinced. He shakes his head, his eyes locking onto yours, unwavering and determined to get through to you.

"I mean it," he insists, his voice low and serious.

"Are you really okay?"

You hesitate for a moment, then offer him a smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes but is enough to soften the moment.

"Really, I'm good, Jack," you say, and this time, the smile feels a little more genuine. It’s enough for him to let it go, but he’s still watching you closely.

"Fine," he says, his tone easing but still laced with concern.

"If you say so."

You chuckle softly, the weight of the conversation lifting just a little.

"I’ll come to you when I’m near losing my mind," you tease, half-serious, half-joking. He raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ll be waiting," he says, his voice warm, a promise hidden beneath the words.

You take a deep breath, feeling just a little lighter now. You shift closer to him, your shoulder brushing against his as you both stand in quiet solidarity against the wall, side by side.

"Are you okay?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

You don’t look at him, keeping your gaze fixed on the rain as it falls from the sky. The question hangs between you two, and you wait, the silence stretching just long enough to make the moment feel heavier than it really is.

From the corner of your eye, you notice him shift, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Yes," he replies softly, his voice steady but gentle.

"Right now, I am," he continues, turning his head just enough to watch you.

Right now, here with you, I am.

The thought catches him off guard, as if it’s been there all along, hiding just beneath the surface.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but something about the weight of the moment shifts, settling into him in a way that makes him feel like he’s been missing something obvious.

He watches you—how your fingers curl around your coffee, how the tip of your nose turns pink from the cold breeze, how your laughter feels like the kind of music that makes everything else fade away.

He drinks in the small details of you, trying to tell himself it’s just casual, just the way things are.

But it doesn’t feel like that anymore, or maybe it never did.

©pomelace 2025

[piastriprincess]

if  i  wanna  stay  alive  (you  should  never  cross  my  mind)  ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  spy  au  ,  fake  dating tw  blood  ,  weapons  ,  character  injuries  ,  minor  character  deaths word  count 11.8k author’s  note  LANDO NORRIS MONACO GP WINNER WAOWWWWW !!!!! i  have  about  a  billion  requests  in  my  inbox  but  idk .  something  about  this  artwork  of  lando  by  @artist173  made  my  brain  go  brrrr  and  suddenly  i  had  almost 12k  words  of  agent  lando  norris  .  this  was  genuinely  a  feverish  write  and  i  hope  everyone  enjoys  this  as  much  as  i  enjoyed  writing  it  !  please  come  tell  me  what  you  think  or  send  in  a  request  <3  also  hoping  to  have  the  birthday  build - a - fic  up  sometime  next  week  !  title  is  from  killshot  by  magdalena  bay  .

You’re not surprised he’s already here. In fact, you kind of expected it. There’s something about him that suggests he’s always just arrived before you, just finished charming his way out of a dilemma he created for himself, just smirked like the world is a game and he’s two steps ahead of whoever he’s playing.

You enter the briefing room, and right on cue, Agent Lando Norris spins around in one of the swivel chairs, holding a paper cup of burnt coffee like it’s a martini (shaken, not stirred). “Well, well, well,” he drawls, eyes bright. “If it isn’t my favorite rival.”

You’re not rivals, not really — just trained together, sparred and surveilled each other too many times to count on your way to becoming full-fledged agents. The joke is still funny, though: a reminder that you’ve both made it, as concrete and tangible as the shiny access badges clipped to your clothes. So you just grin and play along, raising an eyebrow as you drop into the seat across the table from him. “This is awkward. I have at least three other rivals I like more.”

He gasps, faux-devastated. “And here I thought I was your number one boy. You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you tease, checking your watch. You’re right on time, meaning your handler is late. She’s never late, which means something is up. Something big. You’re trying to figure out what it is, what you could possibly be here for, which you could probably do better if Lando wasn’t flirting your ear off.

“Come on. You know you missed me,” he says, chin in hand, leaning against the table with far too much amusement flickering in his eyes for an 8 AM briefing. 

“I saw you last Monday at the mass casualty response training,” you respond dryly, leaning in to mirror him across the table. 

“Exactly. Last Monday,” he emphasizes, like it proves something. “If I didn’t know any better, Agent, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

You smile, saccharine. “If only I could be so lucky.”

“Stop being so mean to me, or I swear to God I’ll fall in love with you,” he replies lightly, ridiculous grin on his face. Something warm blooms in your chest, which you promptly stamp down until it can never reach your brain again. 

“Good, you’re both here,” Agent Beatrice Hale says as she walks into the room, and you and Lando both straighten up in your seats immediately. You’ve been through eight months of grueling training, nearly two years now in the field executing the most dangerous missions in Europe, and the sight of your handler’s sleek grey bob and crisp pantsuit is still the scariest thing you’ve encountered on the job. “Let’s get started.”

The high-tech glass screen behind her flickers to life with a photo: a man, mid-fifties judging from the salt-and-pepper hair. Heavyset, with a slight paunch that not even his exceptionally tailored suit can hide. His smile is too white, almost wolfish. It’s the kind of face you instinctively don’t trust.

“This is Gabriel DuPont,” she says, dropping two thick dossiers on the table. “Publicly, he’s the billionaire tech CEO of DuPont Industries. Humanitarian. Philanthropist. Privately? He’s running one of the most sophisticated arms smuggling operations we’ve seen in the last decade.”

“We have a team on him, don’t we?” Lando asks before you can open your mouth to say the same thing. He flashes a quick smile at you, like he knows you’re going to be irritated that he beat you to it. “Russell and Hamilton.”

“Had a team,” Hale says matter-of-factly. “They’ve gone dark. Haven’t checked in for forty-eight hours. HQ is assuming they’re compromised.”

The room falls into a tense silence. Lando’s jaw ticks, and the strangest memory floats to the front of your mind: an early day in training, Lando much smaller and skinnier than he is now, practically getting pulled through an obstacle course by a tall, lanky guy. 

George. Compromised. You blink, hard, and the memory’s gone.

It’s part of the job. You all knew it when you signed up. But something about Hale’s businesslike tone makes your heart twist in your chest a little bit.

“Okay. So what’s the new plan?” you say, exhaling through your nose slightly to calm your heartbeat. 

Hale just smiles, clicks to the next photo. It’s a sprawling oceanside estate, all floor-to-ceiling windows and smooth white stone. “A softer approach. DuPont is hosting a weekend-long charity gala at his estate in Monaco. The guest list is small — business partners, old-money moguls, politicians with questionable morals. Headquarters has arranged an in: a wealthy couple, invited last-minute after a strategic seven-figure donation.”

You look at Hale. Then the twin dossiers on the table in front of you. “No,” you say. “No, no, no.”

Lando, of course, is beaming, leaning back until his chair nearly tips onto two wheels. You have to fight the urge to kick it out from under him. “Well. This is the best mission I’ve ever been assigned.”

“No arguments,” Hale says, and you groan. “You’re the only pair of agents who fit the profile. We have enough archived photos of you together from training to build a record. You have chemistry —”

“We have history,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

Hale smiles, and it’s ice. “It will read as familiarity, comfort, trust to the outside world. That’s all we need,” she says, voice clipped, and you sink back into your chair.

“You’ll be posing as newlyweds. Wealthy, nauseatingly in love, enough money and clout to catch DuPont’s attention,” she continues, sliding the files across the table to you both. She doesn’t say the words, but all three of you know what’s implied. And enough attractiveness to keep it, should it come to that. 

“Newlyweds? Wow,” Lando says. “Should we get matching pajamas, babe? Maybe a couple’s massage?”

“I will strangle you in your sleep,” you say flatly, opening your dossier and pointedly not looking at him.

From the corner of your eye, his grin gets even wider. “That wouldn’t be very wifely of you.”

You flip through the dossier, pages and pages of a life carefully constructed for the two of you. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair. Young heir to a telecommunications empire and his aristocratic wife. Just the right amount of wealth and pedigree. Vacation home on Lake Como. A cocker spaniel named Beckham. 

You can’t do this. You’re going to vomit.

“You’ll have twenty-four hours to prepare before you fly to Monaco, and twenty-four hours to prepare there before the gala. Any questions?” Hale asks, and Lando raises his hand like a schoolboy. She gives him a look. “There are three people in this room, Agent. Don’t make me call on you.”

He turns to you, his smile slow and so obnoxious. “I’ll accept the mission on one condition.” He pauses dramatically, and you raise your eyebrows at him as if to say get on with it. “You have to promise not to fall in love with me for real.” 

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “Don’t worry, Norris. I think I’ll manage.”

“Honeymoon?” you say, throwing a stress ball at Lando.

“Oi. Don’t damage the asset!” he laughs, catching it a second before it smacks into his face. “Maldives, two weeks. Cheval Blanc. Waterfront villa, of course,” he says automatically, tossing it back to you. You’re sitting on the floor of a briefing room you commandeered earlier in the day to practice your covers, a sprawl of Chinese takeout boxes between the two of you. “What are my hobbies?”

You grab the ball out of the air with one hand, the other preoccupied with taking a bite of your sesame chicken. You think as you chew, swallowing down the bite before you answer. “Golf. Collecting expensive cars. You’ve recently started playing padel, getting pretty good. Where’d we meet?” 

He catches the ball and falters, massaging it between his hands. “It was that bar, um…”

“Lando,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We met at Claridge’s. I was there for an engagement party for my cousin, the earl, and you were there for an after-work drink. I spilled champagne on your leather briefcase and offered to buy you a new one. You said no, but asked if you could have a drink with me anyway. You’ve messed it up three times now. Go read the paragraph on it in the file.”

“I hate us,” Lando says in reply, kicking aimlessly at his dossier. “Like, sorry, but our covers are such wankers. Claridge’s? That place is so posh.”

“Okay, Glastonbury boy,” you snort, and he chucks a pen at your head. 

“I mean it! We’d never go there,” he protests as you dodge it, giggling. “I’d take you on a way more memorable date than that.”

“Right. I know you, Norris. You’d take me to Mother Kelly’s pub down the way because it’s close to the office, make me split the check for two pints,” you deadpan as someone knocks on the door. 

You stand up, missing the way Lando’s eyes dim slightly at your words. But there’s no one there when you open the door. Just two stupidly expensive pieces of luggage, stuffed to the brim. 

“Oh, mint,” Lando says enthusiastically, scrambling past you to pull his inside and unzip it. Clothes practically spill out of the aluminum suitcase, overflowing with silk shirts and brand-name leisurewear. He whistles lowly, pulling a button-up polo out of the bag. It’s a white crocheted thing, red and blue piping on the collar and sleeves. “Look at this.” He strips his standard-issue black tee over his head, unbuttoning the polo and slipping it on.

You’d left your suitcase by the door, completely unexcited to look at whatever trophy-wife designer dresses the costuming department had chosen for you. You’d do every mission in your own beat-up jeans and a tank top if you could. You wish you had it in front of you now, though — wish you had anything to distract from the way your mouth goes dry at the smooth, muscular expanse of Lando’s chest, the white a brilliant contrast against his tanned skin.

He grins at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, the shirt settling around his torso with a lazy flourish. “How do I look?”

You swallow hard. “Like you’ll threaten to call daddy’s lawyer if the caviar on the yacht is lukewarm.”

He does a slow, exaggerated spin on his heels. “Admit it. Your husband is hot.”

“Eat your dinner,” you say fondly, tossing a fortune cookie at him. 

He catches it, cracks it in one hand as his eyes flick down to read the message. “Ooh. ‘Romance may be closer than it appears.’” He waggles his eyebrows at you.

“That is not what it says,” you laugh, getting to your feet to try to snatch the paper from him. He’s too quick, though, holding it above your head with one hand and grabbing your wrists with the other.  

“Maybe not on paper,” he grins, eyes flashing with amusement, “but definitely in the room.”

You have to admit, being a nepo baby’s wife isn’t so bad. 

You knew MI6 had money, but you’d never seen them spend it like this. When the taxi came to pick you and Lando up from headquarters, you thought they’d taken a wrong turn before they got to Heathrow. Instead, they directed you to a small terminal, ushered the two of you onto a literal private jet. Buttery leather seats, personal TVs at every angle, the works. Neither of you are new to the agency anymore, but you couldn’t help your excitement, playing poker and raiding the gourmet snack drawers for the entire flight. When you landed, a shiny silver exotic convertible was waiting for you at the hangar; you know next to nothing about cars, but Lando spent about five minutes circling the thing, telling you every spec, and you could have sworn you heard him squeal like a little girl when he finally settled behind the wheel. Even the clothes they’ve given you for the day aren’t nearly as bad as you expected — a pair of designer jeans, platform sneakers, and the softest sweater you’ve ever felt. Although there is the ring to contend with, a solitaire diamond that must be at least five carats ostentatiously set high on a silver band. It feels weighty on your hand; you keep spinning it around your finger like it’s going to ground you, a real reminder of how unreal all of this is. 

But the hotel trumps it all. 

When you first pull up to the historic building, you’re mostly just glad to be out of the car. Lando drove like a complete maniac, fast and fearless, and the roads from the private airport in Nice to Monaco weaved through the mountains in a way that made your stomach twist. You step out of the car, catching your breath, and let Lando lead you with a hand on the small of your back into the hotel, where you promptly lose it again. 

The lobby is stunning, low-slung red velvet couches scattered around the circular room underneath a chandelier that’s bigger than your apartment hooked to an intricate stained-glass domed ceiling. It feels like you’ve stepped into a bygone age, or a work of art, or maybe the drawing room from Titanic. You clutch Lando’s arm a little tighter as you walk together to the reception desk. This is it. The first test. 

“Normally I’d be all about you marking your territory, but your nails are kind of cutting off my circulation right now,” Lando whispers in your ear. You giggle and blush, playing it off as a sweet nothing from your husband, and loosen your grip. 

“Bonjour,” the front desk clerk welcomes you. “Name, please?”

“Sinclair. Shouldn’t you already know that?” Lando tosses off casually, with all the unearned arrogance of the idle rich, and you stare. He’s good. Better than you expected him to be, even. “We have the — it was the Diamond Suite, wasn’t it, baby?”

At the pet name, you step on his toes hard, and he somehow manages to turn the grimace into a smile. “I think that’s right,” you drawl poshly, not even looking at the poor desk clerk. “But the butler did the bookings.”

The clerk offers you a polite smile, white-gloved fingers flying over his keyboard. “Ah, oui. I see your reservation here,” he pronounces, Monagesque accent rounding the vowels in an unfamiliar way as he slides two keys across the marble counter. “Here are your room keys. Bienvenue à l’Hermitage.” 

“Baby?” you hiss under your breath as you thread Lando’s fingers with yours and make your way to the elevators, pulling your suitcase behind you. “What are you playing at, Norris?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, with the tone of someone who is absolutely not sorry, not even a little bit. “Would you prefer sweetheart? Muffin? Snugglebug?”

The doors slide open with a soft chime, and you yank Lando into the elevator. Lovingly, of course — like a newlywed who can’t keep her hands off her husband, not like a girl trained in six different martial arts styles. “I thought we said no pet names,” you say through a blinding smile as the doors click shut.

“It’s for authenticity,” he says, all innocence. “I’m newly married to my beautiful wife. It would be weird if I didn’t call you something sweet.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you relax against the velvet-tufted wall. “Baby is fine. Maybe love. But if you call me snugglebug during the gala, I will push you off the balcony.”

The soft smile that crosses his face is enough to make you instantly regret what you’ve agreed to. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

The hotel room is, predictably, absurd. Polished wood floors, expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling French doors that frame the harbor like a million-dollar painting leading to a balcony that spans the length of the suite. There’s a fireplace. A grand piano that you know damn well neither of you can play. And in the middle of the room, the biggest, most opulent bed you’ve ever seen, stacked with pillows and enough throw blankets to outfit the entirety of your agent class. 

You both stand there in silence for a moment. Then you clear your throat, dropping your bag. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“No way,” Lando says, pouting as he runs a hand through his dark curls. “C’mon. We’re two ridiculously attractive, very emotionally mature adults. We can share.”

You snort, looking at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Lando. What would give you the impression that I’m going to share a bed with you?”

“What if the room’s bugged?” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Or what if DuPont’s got drones outside, or something? Doesn’t exactly sell the cover if you’ve got me curled up by the fireplace like a golden retriever.” 

You open your mouth to respond, then pause, because — well, he does have a point. 

“It’s for the sake of the mission,” Lando tries like he still needs to convince you, looking at you with wide eyes, and you promptly shut your mouth again. You don’t say anything, technically, but it’s like he can read you like a book, smiling triumphantly in the face of your silence. 

“You could at least pretend to be disappointed,” you say evenly. An admission of defeat if you’ve ever heard one.

He flops on the bed, starfishing his limbs over the expensive mattress and grinning up at you in a way that makes your heart do something annoyingly unprofessional in your chest. “I’m heartbroken, baby. Truly.”

“That’s it. We’re making a pillow wall tonight.”

The rest of the day is quiet, the kind of day you normally hate on missions. You’re a field agent — every second of inactivity feels torturous, precious time you could be saving the world that just slips through your fingers. You can tell Lando feels the same, if his relentlessly bouncing knee is anything to go by. So the two of you go over the mission plan until the words begin to blur together. Exit options. Likely locations of incriminating evidence. The note on the final page: In the event that any agent is compromised, retreat. Do not attempt rescue. 

Lando reads the note, promptly slams his dossier shut, and insists on ordering one of everything on the room service menu just to piss off Hale. You don’t argue, especially not when truffle fries and miniature cheeseburgers start showing up at the door every fifteen minutes. Somewhere in between the lobster and the lava cake, you admit you’d never seen the Mission: Impossible movies, and Lando, eyes bright, declares you have to have a marathon. You end up sitting on the bed for hours, pillows between you as you eat popcorn, mocking the ridiculous CGI and the fact that the movies get absolutely nothing right about your line of work just to annoy Lando. But he’s a good sport about it, even joins in after a while as the TV light flickers off your bare legs and the moon rises over the harbor. 

You must have drifted off some time during MI:3, because when you open your eyes next your side is pressed against the pillow wall, there’s a crick in your neck, and your head is resting on Lando’s shoulder. He’s still asleep, curls slightly mussed and lips parted, brows furrowed the way they are when he’s concentrating on a mission briefing. He must have slept that way all night, you realize, just so he didn’t disturb you. 

Something about the idea makes your heart ache in your chest. 

“Fifteen minutes before we need to leave for the gala,” you call through the door, applying your lipstick with a practiced hand. “Please tell me you’ve at least started to get dressed.”

You’d commandeered the bathroom nearly an hour ago under the pretense of complicated hair and makeup — costuming had left detailed instructions in your suitcase, and you were expected to pull them off effortlessly. Lando, of course, could probably start putting on his suit five minutes in advance and still be fine. It was infuriating sometimes how easy it was for men. 

Still, when you catch your reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but feel like the extra time was worth it. Your hair, normally pulled back neatly, tumbles in voluminous waves over your shoulders. The subtle hints of makeup accentuate your face, making your eyes more luminous, your cheekbones sharper. The delicate earrings and necklace catch the light, make you sparkle. And the dress. Oh, the dress — a floor-length, fitted black velvet creation with a shocking slit up the side, tailored to perfection on your curves, equal parts structured and sleek. 

You look dangerous. You look like someone else entirely. Or maybe like a version of yourself you don’t let out very often. 

“Almost ready. Can you help me with my tie?” Lando calls back through the door, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

“Yeah, one second,” you reply, grabbing your holster and snapping it around your thigh, just above the top of the slit. The perfect finishing touch. You blot your lips once in the mirror, then push the door open, heels clicking against the floor with a purpose. That is, until you stop short, breath catching in your chest. 

Lando’s standing near the window, half-turned towards the setting sun, pulling the bow tie around his collar. The tux fits him too well, all clean lines on broad shoulders and crisp black on white that makes his tan skin glow. He’s freshly shaven, jaw sharp, and his curls are gelled back in a way that makes him look older, more polished. 

You’ve always known Lando was attractive. It’s not news, but it’s not something you let yourself dwell on. Not in your line of work, when letting your guard down even for a second can cost more than you’ve ever been willing to give. But this — the tux, the hair, those eyes that can’t quite decide what color they want to be? The effect is striking. You sort of can’t stop looking at him. 

“Still need help?” you croak, voice hoarse for some reason, and when he turns at the sound of your voice he straightens so fast you think he might give himself whiplash.

His mouth opens, then closes again. “Whoa.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to look as pleased as you feel. “That all you got?”

“I just…” His eyes drag down your body for one excruciatingly slow moment. Then he blinks, shakes his head slightly like he got hit. “Shit. You look stunning.” There’s none of the usual flirtation or teasing in it. Just something quiet, awestruck, and it makes your throat tighten unexpectedly. 

“Don’t get sentimental on me now, Norris,” you say, voice as light as you can possibly make it as you cross the room, hands reaching up for his tie. It’s muscle memory at this point — the back-and-forth fold, the loop, the gentle tug. You’ve done it before for other missions, with other partners, but never quite like this. Never with his eyes tracing over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Never when you’re standing so close you can smell his cologne, something spicy and ineffably Lando. It’s intolerable, really. You wish your heartbeat would calm down a little bit. 

“There,” you say, straightening the stupid tie slightly as you finally, blessedly pull the knot tight and step back from him. “Now you look somewhat presentable.”

His mouth quirks up at the side, like he can hear your thoughts. “High praise.”

You don’t respond, hands clammy as you turn towards the door. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

You should be nervous. It’s natural. In fifteen minutes, you’re going to walk directly onto the home turf of a very dangerous man, a man who compromised two of the finest agents in Britain. 

But you know your pulse is thrumming under your skin for an entirely different reason. 

The moment you and Lando step into the place, you kind of want to gag. The mansion is modern, clearly expensive, and a pantheon of bad taste — all ugly pop art and tributes to the genius that is Gabriel DuPont. After the third lifesize ice sculpture of the billionaire in as many rooms, you’re wondering how nobody has investigated him sooner. The place just feels dirty, illicit somehow. Like underneath the shiny exterior, there’s something rotten waiting to be unearthed.

You know what the two of you are looking for: offshore account statements, connections with other known underworld figures, money that disappears in your fingers like invisible ink. Lando’s meant to distract DuPont, keep him talking for long enough for you to make your way to the office and copy as much of the information as you can find. 

As you approach the door to the main ballroom, Lando rests his hand on the small of your back. “You ready?” he ducks his head, speaking into your ear, and your skin prickles at the sensation.

You nod. “Let’s do this.” 

His grin washes over you like the nicest kind of champagne buzz as he pushes the door open and guides you into the room. The place is teeming with Europe’s elite. You recognize several heads of state and at least three kingpins on the MI6 Most Wanted. Lando laces his fingers with yours, squeezes your hand tightly, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You do your rounds, fake laughs bubbling from your mouths like the golden liquor in your flutes. Lando plays the room like he was born to it, that smooth, relaxed charm of his illuminating every conversation. He brushes your hair out of your face, dances close to you, rests his hand low on your back when you pose for photos. When someone asks how long the two of you have been married, he leans in close again, like it’s gravity. “Feels like forever, doesn’t it, baby?” he says lowly, in a way that makes your breath catch. 

It’s easy, pretending like this. Maybe a little bit too easy. You keep catching yourself smiling at him in a way you don’t have to fake at all.

“This isn’t working. We should split up. We’ll cover more ground,” you say quietly after your third turn around the room. After all, a girl can only take so many inane conversations with tech-bro CEOs who think NFTs are a personality trait before she starts to crave a little action. 

Lando, to his credit, doesn’t fight you. He just nods, taps his ear lightly, and a burst of static explodes somewhere near your temple. “Comms on, yeah?”

“Comms on,” you reply, tapping your ear back and nearly managing to tamp down your giggle when you see him flinch. 

“I’ll get you back for that,” he warns, but he’s grinning. 

You smile back, peeling off into the crowd without a backward glance. “I’d like to see you try,” you tease through the comms, making your way to the bar. 

You settle there, watching Lando thread his way through the crowd towards the east wing and DuPont’s private rooms. You’re just turning to order a drink when you see him. 

Gabriel DuPont is standing on the balcony, overlooking the back garden like he’s surveying his kingdom. His hands press against the railing with force, knuckles white. There’s an anger you recognize there, a rage that unsettles you. The other thing you recognize is that this is the best chance either of you will get.

“Target spotted. I’m going in,” you speak, walking purposefully towards the other side of the room. 

Lando’s voice is in your ear almost immediately. “What do you mean you’re going in? Where is he?”

“Balcony. South end, facing the garden. I’m fine. Just — execute Plan B. His office, now,” you whisper through your teeth as you approach DuPont. 

“Copy,” Lando mutters. There’s a pause, static echoing in your ear, then: “Be safe, yeah?”

“Always,” you murmur as you step through the double doors. Showtime. 

“Excusez-moi. You wouldn’t happen to be the host tonight, would you?”

DuPont turns, and for the briefest moment his eyes drop to your exposed leg. You hold your breath until he smiles, sharklike, and you know you have him fooled. To him, you’re just another bored housewife with a little too much money to spend. If only he knew. “Oui, c’est moi. Enchanté. Sinclair, yes?”

You blink, surprised he knows you enough to recognize you by face. Headquarters have clearly done their job. You laugh politely, stick out your hand to shake. “That is my better half, I suppose.”

“And where is your mysterious husband tonight?” he asks silkily, lifting your hand to his mouth and kissing your knuckles. You try to ignore the way your skin crawls. 

You inch closer, touch his chest lightly, fingers brushing over his lapel. “With all his time spent at the office, I stopped asking that question a long time ago.”

Lando’s voice crackles to life in your ear. “You don’t need to remind me. I’m already there. Got some stuff already.” He chuckles. “This shit is too easy.”

DuPont watches your face, cruel eyes darting over your features, and you school your expression into something neutral, presentable. “He is a silly man, to leave you alone looking like such a vision.” 

His hand falls heavy on your waist, and you manage not to recoil at the touch. You giggle, instead. “You’re too kind, sir.”

“Tell me,” he purrs, inching closer, “do you dance?”

You smile, sultry. “I used to, before I married a man with two left feet.”

“Please, allow me to prove myself,” he smirks, guiding you back into the ballroom. “I promise not to step on any toes.”

“I hope you didn’t intend that double meaning,” you say as he pulls you too tight to his body, waltzing slowly to the string quartet’s music. He merely laughs in response, a hoarse sound, like he’s not quite used to doing it. 

There’s a crackle of static in your ear. Then Lando’s voice, tight through the comms unit: “Well. Don’t you two look cozy.”

Your jaw ticks, concentrating on the steps. “I’m sure my husband would know it’s extremely valuable for us to make this connection. So he wouldn’t mind,” you add, like it’s an afterthought to your earlier comment. It’s for Lando’s benefit, of course, but DuPont can’t know that.

He smiles, eyes narrowed. “Well. You may want to keep him on a tighter leash,” he says softly into your ear, turning you so you have a perfect view of Lando at the bar. A gorgeous, leggy blonde in red is smiling a little too brightly at him, touching his arm like he belongs to her. Something hot and ugly coils in your stomach at the sight. 

You force a smile. “Oh, she’s just a shiny toy. I’d just hope he’s not too distracted to do what we came here for.” Lando looks up then, hearing your words in his ear, and your eyes lock for a moment over DuPont’s shoulder. The moment feels charged, electric — like you can’t be the first to look away, or something will snap.

“Thank you for the dance,” DuPont murmurs in your ear, smile tight, and you nearly jump. To be honest, you’d half-forgotten he was there. Didn’t even hear the music stop, too busy staring into someone else’s eyes from across the room.  

“Of course,” you say, eyes fixed solely on Lando and the blonde. DuPont kisses your hand again and walks you off the dance floor to the bar, offering to get you a drink. You nod, and as soon as he steps away, you hiss into the comms. “Wow, Lan. Red really suits you.”

“You seemed busy,” he snarks back to you. “Practically on top of DuPont. Had to entertain myself somehow.”

“It wasn’t real, Lando. It’s the plan,” you say, voice clipped. 

“Yeah. Mine was, too,” he replies, all innocence.

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Whatever. Do you have the drive or not?”

There’s a long pause. “Uh, yeah. But we may have a problem,” Lando says tightly. “Security guards by the main entrance clocked me, I think.” You scan the room, watching the way the guards are speaking low and urgent into their walkie-talkies, and swear under your breath. 

“Yeah, you’re burned. DuPont must have said something. Fuck.”

“Thought you had eyes on him?” Lando asks, voice low as he heads towards you. When he glances over his shoulder, the guards begin to follow him, walking slowly like there’s nothing wrong. 

You grimace, smoothing your dress. Glance over to the bar, even though you know DuPont won’t be there. “Got distracted.”

“Really? By what?” he says, and even though he’s walking full speed towards you trying very hard not to get noticed by several highly trained security guards, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“You’re insufferable,” you say through a blinding smile when he reaches you, linking your arm around his. “Best exit’s the kitchen, I think. Through the north corridor.”

The two of you make your way there quickly but casually, guards following at a steady distance as if to avoid a scene. You push through the swinging kitchen door, and the second it closes behind you, Lando grabs a frying pan off a rack.

The first guard bursts through the door seconds after you. You take him low, sweeping his leg and smashing the butt of your gun into his temple when he loses his balance. Lando catches the second one in the jaw with the pan, then follows up with a right hook that sends him crashing into the prep table. Another crashes through a side entrance. You turn and kick hard at his chest, stiletto digging into his skin, and he staggers back with a wail.

The guards keep coming, but you’re holding your own. You and Lando move like a well-oiled machine, practiced and precise, backing each other in the carefully choreographed routine of combat. You’re steps from the back stairwell, from freedom, when a guard you’d taken out earlier comes charging forward, something silver glinting in his hands. You’re a second too late realizing it’s a knife.

You’re turning to the side, calculating the best place for you to take the hit and keep moving, when Lando shoves you out of the way, swinging wildly towards his temple. The guard falls hard, and Lando flinches backwards, something clattering out of his hand to the ground and skittering across the tiles. You barely have time to turn and lunge for the drive before the last guard is scooping it up, running full speed back down the corridor and disappearing through the swinging doors. 

“Fuck,” you say, running a hand over your face. “We lost it.”

“No time. We’ve got to get out of here,” Lando replies, pulling you down the back stairs and out the door into the quiet night. You run all the way down the moneyed gravel driveway toward the car, breath burning in your chest and ankles twisting beneath you. 

You don’t realize anything’s wrong until you round the corner, the silver car gleaming in wait for you, and Lando stumbles against you. You catch him like a reflex, and he exhales sharply. When you pull your hand away, it’s red with blood. 

“Yeah,” he grimaces sheepishly at the look on your face, cheeks pale in the moonlight. “I may have gotten a little bit stabbed.”

You limp back into the darkened suite, shutting the door quietly behind you and leaning against it to catch your breath. Lando’s already making his way to the bathroom, shrugging off his jacket as he goes. His dress shirt is sliced open where the security guard’s blade caught him — a clean slash to his right ribs, fresh blood still staining the expensive linen a bright crimson. 

“Counter. Shirt off,” you call over your shoulder, kicking off your heels and rummaging through the minifridge, cold fingers closing around one of the tiny bottles of vodka. You slam it shut behind you, follow him into the bathroom where he’s obediently stripped off the shirt. You kneel to inspect the cut, hands tracing delicately over the edges of the wound; thankfully, it’s shallow enough that your extremely limited medical skills can fix it.

“You know, if you wanted to see me shirtless, all you had to do was ask,” he grins down at you, voice thin but cocky as ever. “Didn’t need to nearly blow our covers to do it.”

It’s not funny. You don’t know why he’s smiling. You snatch a cotton pad off the counter, douse it in the vodka, press it to the cut hard. He hisses, jaw clenching, and something about the reaction eases a little of the tension in your shoulders. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say, fixing your eyes on the cut so you don’t have to look at his face, the way his eyes are laughing even now. “Taken the hit for me.”

“Right, next time I’ll let you get stabbed, then,” he replies lightly. 

You slap the gauze to the cut more forcefully than necessary, just to make him feel the ache. “He was my guy. I could’ve handled it. You can’t put the mission in danger just to keep me from getting hurt.”

Lando flinches, and you can’t tell whether it’s from the pressure or from your tone of voice. You want to shrink away from it yourself when you hear it — the sharpness, the tender underbelly of it threatening to claw its way to the surface. “I get hit and I’m the one getting yelled at? Not even a thank you for my heroic sacrifice. Chivalry really is dead,” he sniffs.

You look up at him incredulously, tearing the bandage open with your teeth and smoothing it across the gauze. “Do you think this is funny?”

“I mean, a little,” he shrugs, smirking. You get to your feet, backing away from him like the separation will give your lungs the room they need to breathe. “I know we lost the drive, and I’m sorry, but we’ll get it back, and I’m fine. All’s well that ends well, yeah?”

“You don’t get to say that. You could have been killed. What, do you think if you bleed enough for me I’ll be impressed?”

“Dunno. Would you be?” he teases, eyes bright. 

“Jesus,” you hiss, cheeks burning, and his smile grows impossibly wide. 

“Relax. I’m kidding,” he rattles on, swinging his feet against the counter like he doesn’t feel the way the walls seem to be closing in around you, breath heavy and aching in your chest. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about, it was barely a scratch —”

“Because I thought I was going to lose you!” you snap without thinking, the uncomfortable truth scratching out of your throat like a shard of glass. 

The room keeps the words alive, sound echoing over and over off the tiled walls. At least they finally, finally knock the smile off his face. Instead he just stares at you, eyes wide like you’ve sucker punched him. And then, before you do something stupid like cry in front of Lando Norris, you storm out of the bathroom. 

You’re in your pajamas under the covers by the time he comes back to the bedroom a few minutes later, joggers slung low on his hips and toothpaste flecking the corner of his mouth. He walks around the bed without a word, grabbing the remnants of the previous night’s pillow wall off the floor. 

“It’s okay,” you say too quickly, and Lando just looks at you, something unreadable brewing in those stormy eyes. “We don’t need to. I don’t want it to crowd the cut,” you add, as if it’s purely logistical. “Medical exemption for one night.”

It’s a weak excuse, probably the worst lie you’ve ever told, and both of you know it. Lando drops the pillows in his arms, and you can see his soft smile even in the twilight darkness of the room. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

The adrenaline thrumming through your veins is wearing off, leaving exhaustion in the empty space it abandons. You tell yourself that’s why you don’t have the energy to roll your eyes at him, as he slips underneath the covers carefully, trying not to disturb the bandages. Despite the lack of pillows between you, the bed feels smaller than it did before, warmth radiating off his body. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, not touching him, trying very hard not to unravel the fragile composure you’ve managed to hold on to. 

“You know, people typically close their eyes as a prerequisite to going to sleep,” Lando’s voice sounds teasingly from somewhere beside you. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on your face. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you say, throat croaking for some reason. 

His face softens. “No, you’re not.”

He inches hesitantly toward you, like if he goes too fast you’ll bolt, and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into his chest. You exhale shakily against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He smells like sweat and cologne and the unmistakable coppery scent of blood. You don’t cry, won’t allow it. But you let yourself lean into him a little more, enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest all over your body. Enough to remind yourself he’s still breathing.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair, fingers tracing small circles on your back soothingly. “I’m okay. ‘M not going anywhere, yeah? Gonna keep annoying you for as long as I can.”

You huff out a small sound, half laugh and half breath hitching in your throat. “You say that like it’s something for me to look forward to.”

“Come on. Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he says as his fingers brush over your bare shoulder. 

You pull back just enough to see his face, eyes searching over the small, pleased smile you find there. “I could live without the stab wounds.”

“Couldn’t live without me, then?” he says, voice low, tongue pushing against the corners of his mouth the way it always does when he’s being cheeky. You wish your eyes weren’t following the motion. 

Your cheeks heat in the darkness, like he’s discovered something you should be embarrassed of. “Don’t push your luck, Norris.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, grinning that ridiculous grin as he rolls back onto his back. You stare back at the ceiling, pretending not to hate the space between you. “Just… glad you’re okay.” 

That should be the end of it. You should close your eyes, go to sleep, pretend his ridiculous flirting doesn’t affect you. Pretend you know exactly what’s been for the mission and what’s real. Pretend you never let the tiny part of your heart with his name on it crack open in front of him tonight.

“Lando?”

He turns back to you, and the look in his eyes nearly knocks the breath out of you. “Yeah?”

That’s when you kiss him. It’s hesitant at first, more of a question than anything, like all the uncertainty you’ve been carrying all evening has no place else to go. But then Lando sighs against your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your cheek in a gesture so sweet that it makes your heart ache, and assurance settles in your chest like it wants to make a permanent home there. He tastes like peppermint, mouth warm and soft against yours, tongue pushing at the seam of your lips. As your mouth moves slowly against his, your hand traces gently down his side, and he winces as your fingertips graze over the cut. But then you pull your hand away like an apology, and he fucking whines against your lips like he’ll die if your hands aren’t on his skin.

“Lando,” you breathe into the sliver of space between you, nose brushing against his. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His pupils are blown wide, black bleeding into watercolor irises. “Please,” he whispers back, so reverent that it shatters something inside you. “You can hurt me however you want.” 

So you pull him on top of you like it’s something inevitable, like the mission was always leading here: to his hands braced on either side of you, to the low throaty sound he makes when you wrap your legs around his waist, to the way his breath hitches against your mouth as you roll your hips against his. You let him take you apart, all mouth and hands and an impossible sort of tenderness; let yourself fall to pieces underneath the warmth and the weight of him, over and over again. 

Afterwards, when the silence settles between the two of you like gunsmoke after a shootout, Lando falls asleep almost immediately, face pressed against your shoulder and arm flung across your waist like it’s second nature. You lie there perfectly still, your chests rising and falling in sync, letting the weight of giving him something you can’t take back settle into your bones.

You’re awake before the sun. Really, you’re not sure you ever fell asleep, hovering fitfully in that twilight zone where everything feels like a dream or maybe just a warped version of reality. You wish that was the case — you keep pressing your eyes shut like if you try hard enough, you can erase the entirety of last night, like you can just take back the biggest liability you can imagine. Like you can go back to a world where you didn’t admit that Lando Norris means something to you.

But when you open your eyes again, you’re still there, pressed to Lando’s side. His breath is warm on your neck, lashes brushing against your shoulder, the sunlight glowing golden on his bare skin. He’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. Suddenly, his arm around your waist feels less like care and more like another restraint you have to work your way out of. You slip out of the bed, extricating yourself from his embrace as delicately as you can. Put on your MI6 t-shirt and make coffee on autopilot. When you take the first sip, you wince at the bitterness. It tastes like punishment, the type you deserve for letting yourself want something you can never, ever have.

The sheets rustle lazily behind you, and when you turn, Lando’s already propped on his elbows looking at you, eyes crinkling at the corners with affection and something that looks a little like triumph. “Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep, and the grin he gives you is blinding. “Just checking — does this mean I get to kiss you without a cover story now, or do I have to call you Mrs. Sinclair to get you to come back to bed?”

You can hear the mattress creak as he shifts, sitting up a little more, and for a moment you picture what it could be like if you were a different girl. You could make him a cup of coffee, crawl back into bed, kiss him and let it mean something without risking his life and yours. 

“Funny,” you say instead, voice tight. “Just part of the mission, yeah?”

Confusion flickers over his features, and you force your eyes away. You can’t look at him. Won’t. “What are you talking about?”

You keep your eyes trained on the horizon, grip your mug tighter so he can’t see your hands shake. “I know it���s nothing special, so let’s not make a big deal out of it. You flirt with everyone, Lando. It’s, like, your thing.”

He laughs, sharp and disbelieving. It’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “I really, really don’t.”

His voice is heavy with the self-defeat you recognize from a particularly bad score in training, when he’d get in a mood so black he’d swear he wouldn’t make it to the agency. Back then you’d comfort him, help him train, get him out of his head. Anything to keep yourself from hearing the way his voice shattered around the edges. 

You don’t know what to do when you’re the one who’s caused it. 

The silence between you stretches for another long moment. Lando runs a hand through his messy curls, expression shuttered. “Is that what you really think of me? That I just — shag my way through missions?”

“I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” you say, trying very hard to keep your voice level. “I get it. We made a mistake, got carried away. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not to you,” he mutters, and it lands like a kill shot.

“Lando,” you try, but he interrupts you before you can finish. 

“I knew you would do this, you know? Knew the second it felt real you’d fucking — shut down, like you always do.” He laughs helplessly. “Couldn’t stop myself, though, could I? ‘Cos I’m such a fucking flirt that I just fall into bed with everyone who looks my way.”

You step forward, and he flinches away from you. “Lan, I didn’t mean to —”

“Yes, you did,” he snaps, eyes alight. “You freaked out and couldn’t handle whatever this is, so you decided to make it feel small for yourself. Make me feel small, too. Well, congratulations, agent. You fucking nailed it.”

He pulls his shirt over his head, not even bothering to turn it right side out, and gets out of bed. 

“Where are you going?” you say, voice small as you watch him move. 

“Anywhere but here,” he mutters back, stalking towards the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him so hard it makes the crystal in the chandeliers tremble. You stare at the door frame, listening to the shower run until the coffee goes cold in your hand. 

Wonder if when he said you could hurt him however you wanted, if he ever pictured this.

The invitation arrives a few hours later, a personalized summons on heavy ivory cardstock that feels like wealth beneath your fingertips. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, you are cordially invited to an exclusive dinner on the Kickback this evening, hosted by Gabriel DuPont in recognition of your generous support. 

And at the bottom, a note, inked in the cruel, thick penstrokes of your target himself: I truly hope to see you both there.

“It’s a test,” you say, pacing back and forth from one edge of the bedroom to the other, bare feet sinking into the rug like quicksand. Lando’s perched on the edge of the bed, running his thumb over the embossed lettering. “He suspects us.”

“Or a trap,” Lando mutters, tossing the card at the nightstand. “Yacht anchored in the middle of the harbor? No one to hear us scream?”

“It doesn’t matter which one of us is right,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “We have to go. It’s our only chance to get the drive back. We don’t have a choice.”

“We never do,” he says quietly. His hair is still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and he looks exhausted. Not in a way that shows, not to anyone else. But you’ve known him long enough to know the tired set of his jaw, the red-rimmed eyes that make your chest ache to look at. 

You turn, crossing your arms over your chest. “Are you going to be able to do this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

You look out over the water, not sure you can face him when you ask what is sure to rank as the most pathetic question of your life. “I mean are you still mad at me?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek until you taste copper. 

When he answers, it’s completely devoid of emotion. “Why would I be mad at you?”

It’s worse than if he’d shouted. You’ve screamed and bickered and fought over the years enough times to know Lando’s dramatic reactions down to the letter, know the way his moods rage intensely and then dissolve like a summer storm. This — the cool detachment, like you’re a stranger he happened to stumble into a mission with — this is new. It lodges somewhere behind your ribs like a lingering bruise. 

“Don’t worry,” he adds, standing up and grabbing his watch off the dresser roughly. You’ve seen him handle a Glock with more tenderness. “I’m not going to let you down.”

The words, unspoken, hang in the air between you two. Not like you did to me. 

When you pull up to the harbor, the yacht looms ahead of you, a sparkling vision of teak and chrome. Staff in creamy white jackets hand you champagne flutes the second you step off the dock and direct you to a table at the bow of the boat, where DuPont is holding court with the other couples. It’s a small party, full of people wearing designer labels and icy smiles, sipping expensive wine and pretending to be relatable. 

The two of you mingle. Lando kisses your cheek when someone makes a joke about newlywed bliss. You laugh and rest your hand on his chest — if the phrase includes sleeping with the best friend you have and then shutting down emotionally to keep you both safe, then sure, it’s newlywed bliss. Through it all, Lando keeps his hand wrapped together with yours, like he’s trying to remind you he’s not going anywhere. You’re grateful for the kindness, even when it feels like twisting the knife of guilt that’s already stuck in your chest. 

You’re introduced to another couple, an American CEO and his third wife, very blonde and very surgically enhanced. She eyes Lando like he’s on the menu, makes a teasing comment about how lucky you are. You laugh and blush as Lando says he’s the lucky one. 

“How did you two meet?” the woman asks, and your stomach drops. You’re on thin ice already, DuPont’s security team watching your every move. You’re sure they’ve noticed the tension between the two of you already. If he hesitates, even for a moment —

“We met at a pub, actually,” Lando says casually, not missing a beat. “This place called Mother Kelly’s. It was the day before I started my job, and I wanted to scope out the neighborhood a bit. Walked in, and there she was — this girl sitting at the bar, hair pulled back, no makeup on, drinking a Guinness. Most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I offered to buy her a drink, thought I was being really fucking smooth. And she looked me dead in the eyes, pointed at the pint and said ‘Open your eyes, mate. I’ve already got one, don’t I?’” He huffs out a laugh. “Cheeky as anything.” He pauses for a moment, and his voice is softer when he speaks again. “And then she smiled at me, and that was pretty much it. I’ve been gone for her ever since.”

The women at the table coo, marveling over the sweetness of the story. But you just stare at him dumbstruck, your heart hammering beneath your ribs. 

Because that’s not Claridge’s. That’s not Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair’s story. 

It’s you and Lando’s. 

You remember everything about that day. Lando, scrawnier then, a rush of dark curls and that heart-shaped smile, lounging on the barstool next to you after five minutes like you were the best of friends already. The London rain came down hard just as you were settling your tab, so you ended up staying for another drink — he could talk you into anything, even then. The two of you played darts for hours, and you won every time until the last game, when he suggested a friendly bet and then proceeded to hit six bullseyes in a row. He’d hustled you for hours, just for a tenner and to hear the surprise in your laugh when he beat you. 

I’ve been gone for her ever since. Suddenly, you feel dizzy, sick to your stomach at the way he’s steadfastly refusing to meet your eyes. 

“Excuse me for a moment, ladies,” Lando murmurs to the women beside him, color high in his cheeks, and you’re too slow to stop him. He slips away with the easy charm of someone who’s been doing it his whole life, like he didn’t just turn your entire idea of him — of the two of you — inside out without a second thought. 

You know in your bones what he’s doing. Playing the hero. Finishing the mission himself because he can’t bear to see your face after he bared his soul. You’d do the same, if you were him. Two sides of the same coin, always have been. 

You watch the door like a hawk. Ten agonizing minutes pass. Then fifteen. And Lando doesn’t come back. 

In the event that any agent is compromised, retreat. Do not attempt rescue.

Fuck that. You’re going in.

You push your chair back, ignoring the way it scrapes against the deck, and walk with purpose towards the cabin without even bothering to excuse yourself. You can hear the shocked whispers behind you, and a thought tugs at the rational part of your brain that it’s not how Mrs. Sinclair would ever leave a room. But if Lando’s been gone for as long as he has, your cover’s certainly been blown, anyway. 

You let the sliding door slam shut behind you, press your eyes shut for a moment. The yacht blueprints are still burned in your mind from the night the two of you watched movies together, as clear as the sound of Lando’s laugh. You have to press your hand over your mouth and stifle a gasp at the thought you might never hear it again. 

The yacht is labyrinthine, all twisting corridors going down multiple floors. If you were DuPont, and you’d caught Lando, you would put him in the engine room on the bottom floor, deep beneath the waves. You head for the emergency stairs, at the back of the ship. As you walk, you pass a nondescript door. You keep walking, glancing through the porthole as you go, and stop dead.

Clearly, you were wrong about what DuPont would do. Because Lando is inside, tied to a chair, arms behind his back, flanked by two guards. His nose is bleeding, one eye swollen shut and purpling rapidly. The billionaire stands facing him with his back to the door, calmly smoothing something at his breast pocket and swirling a tumbler of amber liquid, with a third guard standing ground behind him. 

“Where’s your wife?” he says mildly. Somehow, it’s more frightening than if he was screaming. “Not coming to save you?”

“She’s not involved in this,” Lando lies through his teeth, words slurring together slightly. Protecting you to the bitter end, even after everything you’ve done. “She’s not like me. She doesn’t know what I do.”

DuPont laughs, that strange, raspy sound again, and it sends a chill down your spine. “Agent, I didn’t think you’d lie to me.” He walks closer to Lando, fluidly pulls something out of his pocket. Blind fear envelops you when you realize it’s a gun, aimed at your partner’s head. “Tell me who she is, and I’ll let you walk.”

Lando turns, spits blood onto the floor. Then slowly, deliberately leans forward until his mouth is pressed against the barrel, the cool metal pulling at the plush pink of his bottom lip. “Go ahead. Kill me,” he grimaces, looking up at DuPont through his eyelashes. “I’d die before I let you hurt her.”

DuPont cocks the gun, and that’s when you strike. 

One guard crumples before the door swings open fully, your shot blasting cleanly through his forehead. You don’t wait to see him hit the ground; you’re already whirling around, a swift kick landing squarely to the chest of the guard backing DuPont. It stuns him enough for you to swing your arm around hard, cracking the butt of your pistol against his temple. He stumbles, back hitting the wall as he begins to slump. You grab for DuPont, but you’re off balance, and you only manage to pull his jacket off as he flees out the door. 

Regroup. Two down. One to go. You turn, but the other guard is already waiting for you, hands steady and gun aimed at your heart. You raise your hands, like you’re caught, and he relaxes slightly. Your eyes flick over to Lando, who kicks his legs out hard and knocks the guard to the floor. You don’t hesitate before you put a bullet in the guy’s chest. 

The room would be silent, if you couldn’t hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You scan the room, grab a pair of scissors out of a desk drawer and start hacking at the zip ties on Lando’s wrists. 

His head lolls towards you, blood spattered at the corner of his mouth. “You weren’t supposed to come back for me.”

You keep trying to cut through the last zip tie, but your hands are shaking too badly. “Don’t be an idiot,” you say, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let you down.”

His smile is soft, trained on you. “You never have.”

You finally cut through the plastic, catching him just before he slumps forward entirely. Immediately, you know he’s worse off than you thought; your arms go around his torso on instinct to hold him up and he yelps, sharp and broken, like you’ve smacked him. 

“You okay?” you ask, trying to shift his weight carefully.  

He groans anyway, face pale. “No. But thanks for asking,” he grits out, somehow still flirting even with what feels like multiple broken ribs. “Let’s get DuPont.”

You balance him against the desk, pull out your walkie. “HQ, this is beta team. We need extract,” you say clearly, sliding it back into your pocket. Five minutes, and you’ll be on the first helicopter back to London. “We’re not getting DuPont. We’re getting you out of here alive.”

Lando coughs, and there’s something wet behind it. “We can do it,” he insists, stubborn to the end. “Walk me up to the upper deck.”

“Lando,” you sigh. “What’s the point? We need to cut our losses here. We don’t even know where the drive is.”

“Jacket,” he says, eyes catching yours, almost too sharp for someone who looks like death warmed over. “Inside pocket. Saw it when you pulled it off him earlier.”

You blink once, then dive for the crumpled clothing, hands raking over the fabric. Sure enough, there’s a little pocket stitched into the silk lining. You rip it open, pull out the unmistakable sleek black drive, stuff the thing in your bra for safekeeping. 

“Okay,” you say, convinced. “Let’s get that son of a bitch.”

He grins back at you, only the slightest bit unfocused. “Help me up, Mrs. Sinclair?”

You drag him back up the stairs one step at a time, his arm slung around your shoulders, your free hand gripping your pistol tight. The harbor air hits your skin like a slap, salty and electric. When you get to the upper deck, DuPont is at the bow, trying to activate the emergency launch controls on the tender. Trying to make a coward’s escape.

You prop Lando against the first railing you can find. “Stay here,” you warn. Then you run at DuPont, tackling him before he can lower the boat into the water. 

The fight is messy, brutal. Your gun clatters out of your hand as he backs you into the rail. The poles clatter against your skull, vision flashing white, but you hit back harder. He swings at you, wild, but you’ve been hit worse, by people better trained. You twist, knee him in the ribs, elbow up under his chin. He staggers. You drive him back with everything you’ve got.

And then there’s a pair of hands grabbing his arms from behind — not steady, not strong. But enough to buy you time.

Lando.

You snap the cuffs onto DuPont’s wrists and slam him to the deck, and it’s over. Or at least it would be, if your extraction team was here, and if Lando wasn’t collapsing on the deck in front of you like the effort might well kill him. 

“Fuck, did you hear me? Extract extract extract,” you scream into your walkie again, voice hoarse, then toss it aside, turning back to Lando. His skin is paling rapidly, breathing shallow. “Stay with me, Lan.”

“That takedown was pretty hot,” he rasps weakly, head lolling to the side. 

“Shut up,” you say, voice cracking in a way you can’t even pretend to control. “You just gotta hold on for a couple more minutes, okay?”

His fingers find yours, grip loose like he doesn’t have the strength left in his hands. “We got him.”

“Yeah,” you nod, sniffling wetly. “Yeah, we got him. And we got the drive. And you’re gonna be okay.”

He shakes his head, and you can see him fading. “Was a good last mission,” he says quietly, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Liked being your husband.” His eyes slide shut, and you shake him slightly, but he doesn’t respond. 

“You can’t die, Lando, please,” you try to speak, but it’s interrupted by the tears that have started to pour down your cheeks. You press your forehead against his, let the warmth of his skin comfort you. “You stupid idiot pain in the ass, I love you. I’m sorry I was scared before, but I love you and you can’t die before I get to tell you that. Please. Just — don’t let me down. One last time. Don’t you dare fucking die.”

No answer. All you can hear is the soft sound of the waves crashing against the hull, drowned out by your own sobs. 

And then finally, finally, the sound of helicopter blades whirring above you. 

The fluorescent lights hum like the world’s most annoying hold music. 

You’re seated at one end of a long, steel table in a debrief room, a folder full of mission notes and clearance forms spread out in front of you. The same stale coffee is in a cup in front of you. You’ve let it go cold, same as your nerves. 

“All in all, despite the... irregularities, the mission was quite the success,” Hale says, looking incredibly pleased with herself. “Gabriel DuPont is in custody. The drive is secure, and the information you collected has helped us pinpoint several other arms dealers in the European market. Only three dead, no civilians injured.” She clears her throat. “We’ll discuss the breaches of protocol another time, given that your quick thinking likely saved each other’s lives.”

Across the table, Lando grins at you with the air of someone who narrowly escaped death and is prepared to make it your problem. The bruise on his eye has faded from brilliant purple to a sickly yellow. There’s stitches across his side and his arm is in a sling, but he looks unfairly good for someone who nearly bled out on a superyacht less than a week ago. “Thank me later.”

“I saved you last,” you counter, raising an eyebrow. “Technically, you owe me.”

“One near-death experience and suddenly she’s keeping score,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and smiling that stupid, ridiculous smile at you.

“I’m thrilled your trauma hasn’t impacted your ability to bicker like twelve-year-olds,” Hale says dryly. “But it will affect your working hours. For now you’re both on administrative leave. Two weeks’ recovery time, minimum. Please try not to cause any international incidents in that time period,” she sighs. 

Lando looks at her innocently. “No promises.” 

Hale dismisses you, and you focus your eyes on your folder, neatly stacking everything. You haven’t really had the chance to speak to Lando since the mission ended. The ground feels unsteady between you two, tension pulling taut like a trip wire. But he doesn’t seem to be interested in speaking, and you don’t want to push, so you head for the door after your handler. 

“So, about what you said earlier,” Lando pipes up, and you turn back.

“About owing me? I’ll take a pint, when you’re healed up,” you say as lightly as you can, eyes tracing over his face. 

“Actually, I was talking about on the boat when you said you loved me,” he replies casually, grin on his face, and your stomach drops. “But I’ll go for a pint whenever you want.”

“It was — I was trying to keep you conscious,” you stutter, unprepared and voice hoarse.

His smile grows. “Well, it worked. I’ve been very conscious of it ever since.”

“Oh, shut up,” you groan, but there’s a laugh behind it somewhere. 

He stands up, limping towards you until he’s close enough that you can see the raised pink scar by his lip. “So, did you mean it?” His tone is still light, teasing, but you can see the question in his eyes, the way something real hangs in the balance of your answer. 

You let your eyes flit over his face, one you know better than your own reflection. One that became your friend, your partner, your shield. One you nearly lost, that you couldn’t walk away from even when every protocol told you to run. 

You sigh, looking down. “I failed the mission.”

He scrunches his nose, and you fight the urge to kiss the wrinkle. “What do you mean?”

“You told me you’d accept it as long as I promised not to fall in love with you,” you shrug. “Really messed that one up, didn’t I?”

He beams at you like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “Well, it took you long enough.”

“Are you gonna kiss me, or what?” you tease, and he doesn’t say another word. Just steps forward, cups your jaw with his good hand, and kisses you like it’s the only order he’ll ever follow again. 

[deathofacupid]

FLOWERS OF FLESH AND BLOOD. 𓂃 s. gojo. ◞ ♯ tuna cans.

"can you close your eyes, remember the flowers for me?" — this was home, until it wasn't. until it was a barren land of flesh, blood, and fear. they said to just survive, but what does that mean? to walk a life of tears and loss? never knowing if the next day will be your last? it's the end of the world, though the start of yours. yours and satoru's. WARNING. walking dead in the vicinity, proceed with caution: zombie apocalypse!au. dead dove, do not eat. gore, blood, death, angst, depictions of violence + murder. eventual smut (afab!reader), slow burn. more to come.

chapter summary — there are eight billion people on earth. no, was. there was eight billion people on earth. now? you're not sure. is there half the amount? even less? the walkers don't count, by the way. in any case, you're one of them — a survivor. where does that leave you? alone. or, that's what you'd thought, at least.

› series m.list. — ask to get tagged! › my m.list.

it hasn’t been long, actually. you can count the months on one hand. every single moment, every single whisper of that time is etched in your memory, down to the last minute. but where does all that remembering get you? nowhere, not really.

it doesn’t help to recall the very first screams. the trampling of people, desperate to get out, get away — as if there were anywhere safe to run to.

the world feels dull now. lifeless, literally. the sun is a rarity, no longer peeking out from behind the clouds like it used to. it’s as if the world has surrendered to the cruelty of it all, like it’s lost faith in the need for light. today is one of those days: tired and melancholic.

your feet drag on the concrete, hands shoved deep in your pockets. the streets are quiet, save for the soft rustling of the wind or the crunch of leaves beneath your worn shoes.

you know where you’re going; it’s a familiar path, one you don’t even need to think about. you could walk there with your eyes closed — to that dim-lit convenience store seven blocks down.

it’s always been a sad building, even before. now? now… it’s pathetic. paint peels from the edges of the walls, and thick vines clumsily wrap around the sides.

the first thing that hits you is the smell of rust; heavy, metallic, and bloody. dust coats the dull metal shelves, cobwebs decorating the forgotten cans of food. grabbing a dented cart, you toss in whatever looks remotely edible.

anything to postpone the next visit. you hate leaving the house, if you can even call it that. it’s more like a hut, a ground-level treehouse. secluded, kind of. not too deep in the woods, but just far enough to avoid them. the walkers. zombies, informally, you suppose.

god, they’re disgusting. horrid to look at. a sickly pale, with skin that seems to… droop where it’s barely attached. oh, and the smell is less than pleasant.

you can’t believe they used to be people. with lives, and homes. family and friends, a job. now they’re just… well, nothing. not quite alive, not quite dead. stuck in a sad limbo.

you made a list, if you remember correctly. shoved somewhere in your pocket, probably crumpled. can’t find it now, shit. what was even on it? squinting your eyes, you pinch your temple, like blurring your vision would somehow help you recall.

cereal. without milk, unfortunately. that went bad in the very beginning, thanks to no electricity for the fridges. that reminds you; milk powder had been scribbled down. uh, salt, right? wait, did you already have some left? oh, what did it matter? it was all free now, anyway.

rice. hard liquor. not for drinking, but for disinfecting. well, maybe also for drinking. you’re about to check the expiry dates on the dusty chocolates when you hear a not-so-quiet clang. freezing, you instinctively feel around for your pocket knife.

it’s futile. there’s no way you left it. no, that’s crazy. you’re not that irresponsible.

and yet, it seems you just might be.

instead, you arm yourself with the nearest thing — a sticky (?) can of tuna. not preferable, but it’s better than nothing. at least, that’s what you tell yourself, trying to mentally calculate how hard you could throw this thing. or how far. or both.

“who’s there?” you ask, your voice shakier than you’d like. you don’t wait for an answer, instead chucking the can the second you see a shock of white hair. whoever it is ducks, letting out a surprised, almost offended, “hey!”

and then you catch their, his, eyes, bright, bright blue. no rotting flesh. no stench. normal, human, real. “oh, my god,” you breathe out, the tension leaving your shoulders.

throwing his hands up, he exclaims, “you could’ve killed me!” his head bobs with shock, his white hair tousling with the movement.

“sorry. i— well, i thought you were one of them.”

“oh. no, no, i’m not.” he looks at you, really looks at you, taking a cautious step back from his initial mild anger. the man tilts his head, studying you. “haven’t seen you around.”

“um, i live—” you pause. wait, maybe you shouldn’t tell him where you live just yet, considering you don’t even know his name. “never mind. i haven’t seen you around either. didn’t even know there were other people here.”

he runs a hand through his snowy locks, giving you a small, almost sheepish shrug. “me n’ my friends aren’t too far from here.”

your eyebrows shoot up, just slightly. “t— there’s more of you? in this area? you’re kidding.”

“afraid not, babe. gojo, by the way,” he adds after a moment, extending a hand. “satoru gojo. survivors gotta stick together, right?”

you hesitate, eyeing his outstretched hand. you don’t know this satoru gojo. he’s a stranger. can you really trust him more than any of the walkers?

but another thought, a desperate craving for human interaction, pleads with you to respond. and before you know it, you’re blurting out your own name, taking his hands in yours.

you don't mean to notice, but they're softer than you expected, somewhat calloused. the closer you get, the more you can notice the smell of his cologne. cheap cologne.

not bad smelling, however, with hints of pinewood, musk, and the subtle tone of sweat. odd, because the gold chain around his neck seems to scream the opposite.

when he flexes his arms, you can see the fabric of his sleeves squeeze his biceps. he has very nice biceps.

not that you mean to notice.

“pretty name,” gojo hums, a grin spreading across his face, “for a pretty girl. say, is this pretty girl all by herself out here?”

was he flirting with you? in the middle of the zombie apocalypse? “…yeah. yeah, i guess so.” your nervous fidgeting stills, and you grip the handle of the shopping cart, your gaze drifting over the faded white letters reading “gas-mart,” stark against the fading red background.

he blinks, his bright blue eyes searching yours. “no family? friends?”

you blow out a shaky breath. “nope.” sensing the shift in the air, the newer tension, he stops there, smoothly changing the topic.

“well, pretty, you could always come back with me. my friends and i, we got a place. it’s not too shabby, but it’s… home.”

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. you don’t know him, though. nor his intentions. taking a half-step back, you shake your head, pushing the cart slowly past him.

oddly enough, it pains you to leave him standing there, but what choice do you have? go with a complete stranger? as easy on the eyes as he is, that’s a hard no.

“pass. thanks, though. stay safe out there.” short, curt, to the point.

before he can even say, “you, too,” you’re gone, leaving him behind in the dusty aisle.

the entire walk home, you repeat to yourself that it was the right thing to do.

› (8/50) — @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too, @kentoslvr, @eolivy, @wunerie, @shokocide, @suckkuna, @sadmonke.

[myadagoat22]

Poly Ghostface Part 2 (THIS IS LONG)

The Summer, Days 2–5:

Billy and Stu kept showing up.

Y/N would be walking home from the corner store? They’d “just happen” to drive by. At the park with a book? Stu would plop down next to her, dramatic as ever, and ask what would happen if Jason Voorhees joined a book club. And somehow, by day three, all three of them were sitting in Stu's house, watching The Lost Boys like it was a religion.

Billy was still quieter. Calculated. He didn’t talk as much, but when he did, it was always with this little smirk, like he knew more than everyone in the room. Stu, meanwhile, was a hurricane with arms, saying whatever popped into his head and offering Red Vines like they were currency.

Y/N found herself caught in the weirdest, most magnetic friendship triangle she’d ever experienced. Stu made her laugh until her stomach hurt. Billy made her think. And both of them looked at her like she was some unsolvable mystery.

Day 6 of Summer: Curveball Time

Y/N was just walking into the local ice cream shop when she saw them.

Billy. Stu. But not alone.

Tatum Riley in a crop top and ripped jeans, laughing as she dragged Stu by the hand.

Sidney Prescott in her usual soft cardigan and cautious smile, arms loosely linked with Billy’s.

Double date.

Y/N stopped short at the door, pretending to check the menu in the window like her heart hadn’t just plummeted into her Converse.

Inside, Billy’s eyes flicked to the glass. He saw her.

And something changed.

He straightened a little. Loosened his grip on Sidney’s arm. His usual cool smirk twitched like it didn’t know what to do with itself. Stu caught on a second later, mouth mid-sentence before he glanced up, saw Y/N, and went visibly stiff.

“Oh... shit.”

Tatum noticed, of course. “You know her?”

Billy cleared his throat. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“From school?” Sidney asked, tilting her head politely.

Y/N walked in before they could make up lies. “Hey.”

“Heyyy!” Stu grinned wide, a little too wide. “Look who it is! Ice cream twins, right?”

Billy nodded slowly. “Y/N… this is Sidney. And Tatum. We’re, uh…”

Tatum smirked. “On a double date.”

Stu looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Y/N blinked. “Cool.”

Sidney offered a sweet smile. “You’re new, right? I think I saw you at the video store.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said, cool as hell even though her stomach was doing Olympic flips. “Y’all hang out a lot?”

“Oh yeah,” Tatum jumped in, slinging an arm around Stu. “These boys can’t get enough of us. It’s exhausting, honestly.”

Billy’s jaw twitched. Stu avoided eye contact.

Y/N nodded slowly, then shot Billy a look that said so this is the game? before turning to Sidney. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Sid said, still nice as ever, totally unaware.

“Guess I’ll see you guys around,” Y/N added, turning before anyone could say more.

And as the bell jingled over the door behind her, both Billy and Stu stood there frozen—caught.

Tatum squinted at Stu. “Dude. You good?”

Billy muttered something about needing air.

And somewhere down the street, Y/N was already planning on calling those boys out.

INT. DINER – LATE AFTERNOON – DAY 9 OF SUMMER

A fan squeaks overhead as Y/N sits across from Billy and Stu in a booth that’s seen better decades. The three milkshakes are barely touched. It’s tense. Y/N leans forward, arms crossed, eyes locked on the boys like she’s ready to peel their skins metaphorically. (…hopefully.)

Y/N (quietly) “So. You two were just gonna keep playing me like that?”

Stu winces like she just threw a salt shaker at his soul. Billy’s face stays unreadable, but his jaw flexes hard enough to crack concrete.

Y/N “What was the plan? Flirt a little, hang out, and then what—vanish when your little girlfriends come back into town?”

Stu (awkward, nervous smile) “We didn’t vanish! We were right here. Sippin’ shakes. Eating fries. Existing.”

Y/N (coldly) “Yeah. Existing… with Sidney and Tatum draped all over you like you’re discount prom kings.”

Billy (to Stu, low) “Dude. Say something. Apologize.”

Stu (mouth open) “Me?! You’re the dark and broody one—can’t you do the sorry thing?”

Billy just stares him down. That Billy stare. The one that says "I may or may not kill you later."

Stu (sighing, dramatic) “Fine! Look, Y/N, I’m sorry, okay? We should’ve told you about Sid and Tatum. But it’s not like we were lying, we just didn’t mention having girlfriends.”

Y/N (cocking an eyebrow) “So what am I? Just another secret?”

Stu “Nah. You're a friend we will tell our girlfriends about.”

Billy groans.

Billy "What he’s trying to say is, it wasn’t about lying. It just… wasn’t time yet… to say anything.”

Y/N (sitting back) “You’re lucky I even came today.”

Billy “Yeah. We are.”

She finishes her milkshake, slaps a few dollars on the table, and slides out of the booth.

Y/N “For now... you’re forgiven. Don’t make me regret it.”

She walks out, hips swaying like a slow metronome of ‘don’t mess with me again.’

Stu watches her go, lowkey dazed.

Stu (whistles) “Dude… that girl’s got teeth.”

Billy (sipping his coffee) “Yeah. That’s why I like her.”

Stu (smirking, suddenly serious) “So, uh… are we puttin’ her on the list? Or are we adding her to the plan?”

Billy doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the door she walked through, eyes narrowed like he’s thinking ten moves ahead.

Billy (slow, cryptic) “Let’s see where she fits first.”

Stu (grinning) “Bro, that’s hot.”

Billy “Focus, man.”

Stu “I am focused. I’m just saying, she’s got final girl energy, but like… the wrong kind.”

Billy “Or the perfect kind.”

They sit in silence. Outside, summer buzzes. Inside, something dark is brewing. The plan’s still on—but now, Y/N’s part of the equation.

And neither of them knows yet if she’s the killer... or the curveball.

INT. STU’S HOUSE – NIGHT – POOL PARTY CHAOS

It’s been a few weeks of accidental meetups, definitely intentional flirting, and one too many horror movie marathons. Now, the whole school’s packed into Stu’s sprawling backyard. The lights glow blue over the pool, music's thumping, and teenagers are everywhere—laughing, yelling, making terrible decisions.

EXT. STU’S BACKYARD – POOL AREA

Stu’s holding a drink, shirt unbuttoned, doing that half-dance, half-strut thing he always does when the attention is on him. Tatum’s got her arms around his neck, wet hair, red bikini, talking fast with that bite of hers.

TATUM I mean, honestly? Casey Becker always acted like she was the princess of Woodsboro just 'cause she dated Steve. Like please she's just mad you left her for me, right babe.

STU (grinning) “Yeah, totally.”

He throws a wink at Tatum. She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Classic fake-boyfriend energy. He's having a blast pretending.

ACROSS THE POOL – BILLY & SIDNEY

Billy leans against the wall beside Sidney, playing doting boyfriend like it’s a damn audition. He nods along to her words, hands in his pockets, that soft Billy Loomis voice on full display.

But his eyes?

Locked on someone else.

Y/N.

She’s just arrived, rocking a cute bikini with a white cover over it and radiant confidence. She makes her way to the snack table where Randy’s posted up in his usual awkward glory.

Y/N (tossing a chip in her mouth) “Let me guess—you’ve ranked every girl here based on their likelihood of surviving a horror movie.”

RANDY (defensive and thrilled) “Okay, rude, but yes. And you? You’re like... final girl slash wildcard.”

Y/N “I’ll take it.” 

She laughs. Stu, from across the yard, watches the scene with narrowed eyes. His smile dims slightly. Billy sees it too. And even while playing the boyfriend role, a flicker of irritation passes over his face.

INT. KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER

Y/N slips inside for a drink. It’s cooler, quieter. She grabs a soda from the fridge just as Billy appears behind her, quiet as a ghost.

BILLY “He’s not your type.”

She jumps, not scared, just surprised. She turns to face him.

Y/N “Wow, you move like a serial killer.

(beat) And who says Randy’s my type?”

BILLY (smirking) “Just saying. You could do better.”

She takes a slow sip of her drink, eyeing him over the rim.

Y/N “Like who? You?”

BILLY “Maybe.”

Their eyes lock. The air shifts. That intense Billy Loomis gaze settles on her like he’s trying to read her mind. Y/N doesn’t look away.

Y/N “You have a girlfriend.”

BILLY “So, who cares.”

Y/N (staring) “But Sidney has been pretty nice to me.”

He steps in, close—too close. The tension practically buzzes.

BILLY “Like I said who cares.”

She doesn’t pull away. Their lips meet—brief, hungry, dangerous. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s a clash of curiosity and something dark simmering underneath. But she breaks it off first.

Y/N (softly, breathless) “That might have been wrong”

BILLY (smiling now) “Was it?”

She walks away, shaken but composed, like she’s not sure what just happened. But Billy?

He’s smiling. That slow, dangerous, someone just lit a fuse kind of smile.

[loganwritesprobably]

Run Away (T.R.)

Synopsis: Reader and Theo have been friends since childhood, when they run away together to avoid judgement, they end up pretending to be a couple .. because it just makes life easier, right? Tags/Warnings: Theo/GN!Reader, werecoyote!reader, fluff, fake dating, getting together, childhood friends to lovers, first kiss, implied fade to black, characters turn 18 at the beginning of the fic Word Count: 2651 Notes: This fic was requested as part of this writing event

AO3 | Fanfic Masterlist | Request Rules | Fic Trades Guide

You’d been five years old when you met for the first time. Young and innocent and sweet. He’d stepped up and said he would always protect you, because he was strong and you were pretty. You’d just giggled. You were seventeen when you met again, and everything was different. He was changed, but then so were you. He stepped up, and took your hand, and said he would still protect you.

Then he was gone. He was taken to hell, hidden away for his crimes, and you had to wonder what could transform such a sweet boy so dramatically. You resented Stiles comparing you to Bella Swan, but it was unfortunately apt. You’d been forlorn, having lost him again, seemingly so much more concretely. Then the wild hunt came, and you couldn’t afford to just stay still, gathering dust. But everything changed for you when Liam brought him back. Theo was there and you were looking at him, but you couldn’t just stare, you needed to do something. The wild hunt was still at work.

Scott looked at you with sad understanding when he saw the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder, but you refused to allow it. You gave him a hard stare, and he looked away, but not looking as intimidated as you’d hoped. Stupid true alpha. You would not allow him to take Theo away. Neither of you had seen the hunters, what could they possibly do? Could you allow the hunt to take away people you’d known your entire life, just for a boy?

Yes. You could.

So, you found Theo’s abandoned truck and you got inside, your entire life packed into a few duffel bags, and you started to drive. You had to come up with an entire story for yourselves, procured some fake IDs, at least until you turned 18, and you just kept going. Kept driving. Stayed together.

｡ ⋆ . ⋆ ｡ ⋆ 🐺˚ ｡ ⋆ ｡ ˚ ⭐˚ ｡ ⋆. ｡ ⋆

The story was that the two of you were young sweethearts who finally escaped your home town and your suffocating, abusive parents, travelling to find somewhere you could belong and do work along the way. It was only half untrue, because after all the best lies were constructed with pieces of the truth. Whenever you went for dinner, you’d link fingers across the table, helping to sell the vision. It got you free food from sympathetic middle aged women more often than not. Which was a big bonus, considering you had limited chances to earn some money while on the road.

You finally settled in Oregon, more than ready to get out of that damn truck and into an apartment. You’d not travelled straight there, you’d gone into Utah first and ended up in Salt Lake City, having stopped once before arriving there. You lingered there for a few days doing odd jobs for cash in hand so you could stock up on gas and keep moving. You then decided to drive up into Idaho to visit West Yellowstone, just while you were on the road, and it wasn’t far. You stayed there for a day, just to experience the nature around you, both spending the night as Coyotes sleeping under the stars. Then, two days later, you were in Oregon, having split the almost twelve hour drive into two chunks rather than going all night. After all, you had all the time in the world together now. What could’ve been less than a two day journey, developed into nearly ten days, just enjoying being on the road together.

The day you arrived was Theo’s eighteenth birthday, which made life just a little easier. You found a hostel to stay in for the two weeks that it took for you to turn eighteen, during which Theo found himself a job as a waiter. You managed to find yourself a job as a bartender, and both of you used your spare time to get your GEDs, in hopes you’d find better paying jobs in future. Your apartment together came another three weeks later, with those three weeks spent in the cheapest airBnBs that you could find, a week each. You were thankful that the landlady was an older, sympathetic woman, who was willing to let you live there, chose you over other candidates that you knew would have just as easy a time finding an apartment in another building.

You’d officially run away together, to another state, and started a life together. You pointed that out one evening, now that the initial chaos was over, and the two of you broke down into fits of loud laughter. You decided in that moment that you’d made the right choice.

｡ ⋆ . ⋆ ｡ ⋆ 🐺˚ ｡ ⋆ ｡ ˚ ⭐˚ ｡ ⋆. ｡ ⋆

Theo stood outside his workplace after a shift, waiting for you to join him. You’d had the day off, and had errands to run, and it’d ultimately led you past his workplace just as his shift was ending. The rain had started about ten minutes prior, and he had nothing to shield against it, and he refused to go back inside, lest a customer try to make him do something. The life that the two of you were leading had settled, allowing you to be adults, independent of everything you’d left behind. Sometimes you still couldn’t believe the two of you had just run away, just so you couldn’t be ripped apart again. Judging by the fact that you could still remember Beacon Hills and your lives before, and hadn’t seen any signs of the wild hunt here, you assumed the pack had found a way to survive the hunt without you both.

You stepped up beside him, holding the umbrella above his head with a smile.

“It’s raining.” You said simply, which made Theo look around, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

“So it is.” He then responded, looking at you with wide innocent eyes, but a smirk twitching at his lips.

“You were getting wet.”

“And you’ve saved me.” You sighed and shook your head, accepting Theo’s arm when he offered it to you, and the two of you walked home together, enjoying the cool air and the smell of the rain, listening to Theo complain about his shift. You weren’t sure you needed to link arms really, you were both capable of simply walking shoulder to shoulder to escape the rain and you didn’t need to sell the illusion of your relationship to strangers on the street, and yet it had become a habit that brought you comfort, so you did nothing to change it.

｡ ⋆ . ⋆ ｡ ⋆ 🐺˚ ｡ ⋆ ｡ ˚ ⭐˚ ｡ ⋆. ｡ ⋆

The two of you had picked a relatively small town to live in, it was cheaper and you found that you both enjoyed how slow paced the small town life was. It reminded you of Beacon Hills in some ways, but not in others, and that was comforting considering you’d run away to an entirely new state. That did mean, however, that sometimes you needed to travel to do things. Like go clothes shopping. The nearest big mall was a half hour drive away, so when the two of you had the same day off, you hopped in Theo’s truck early and set off.

Then promptly got lost.

You’d not even been here for an hour, it was a large clothing outlet with a bunch of stores, and you’d split up to go into different stores, agreeing to meet back at a particular spot. Somehow, you’d gotten turned around as you’d left the store that you’d walked into, maybe you’d somehow left through a different door, but you were firmly lost. You extracted yourself from the growing crowd, making your way back into the store you’d come from, and took a breath. You hadn’t thought getting separated from your friend would be so stressful at almost nineteen years old. Your phone began to ring, and when you pulled it out from the pocket, you saw Theo’s name, but the call ended before you could answer.

“There you are.” Theo said, a relieved smile spread over his face. You turned quickly, surprised to see him, and even more surprised when he wrapped his arms around you.

“You followed my ringtone.” You observed, wrapping your arms around him in turn. He just nodded, and for a moment basked in your embrace. As the two of you separated, Theo pressed a kiss to your head, and you felt a small warmth rushing to your cheeks. After that, the two of you spent the rest of the day going everywhere hand in hand, sure to not get separated again.

｡ ⋆ . ⋆ ｡ ⋆ 🐺˚ ｡ ⋆ ｡ ˚ ⭐˚ ｡ ⋆. ｡ ⋆

It was a perfectly normal day when there was an unexpected knock on your door. You never had visitors, you’d made acquaintances in your new town but not really any friends you’d expect to come to your door. Maybe it was the older woman who lived across the street - Theo had mowed her lawn a few weeks ago, and you both thought she seemed lonely, maybe she wanted company. You put down the dish you’d been washing and dried your hands.

“Coming!” You called out, tossing the towel aside, then headed for the door. The very last person you’d expected to see on the other side was Scott McCall, and yet there he was, at your front door, looking the same as the day you left.

“Hey.” He said, voice soft, looking a little nervous. Good was all you could think, considering he had tracked you down across state lines after over a year of being gone, with no contact.

“What.. what the hell, Scott?” You’d wanted to ask so many things, but you figured that covered all of them.

“Can I.. come in? I brought drinks.” He said, lifting the six pack of sodas he’d brought. You hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside to let him in. You fired a text off to Theo, aware he wouldn’t be able to look until his break, but honestly that was probably for the best.

The two of you sat opposite each other at the small dining table you and Theo had thrifted, each with a can in hand, in silence. Neither knew where to start, or how to do it. The only sound in your entire apartment was the fridge running, and the occasional clanging of the pipes that followed your upstairs neighbour flushing their toilet.

“How did you find us?” You asked eventually, looking down into the can you held.

“Danny, Stiles, and Lydia. Little bit of Peter.” He said, as if that was any sort of explanation, and you supposed it was.

“Why?” You asked then, looking up at the boy that’d been your friend for so long, though you’d never been as close as Scott and Stiles, never able to truly enter their friendship that was more ScottandStiles than it was anything else - there was no room for you, once Theo left.

“We thought you’d got taken by the hunt, that was why you’d disappeared. Then we couldn’t find you. Even after the hunt was gone. Then we thought maybe it was hunters, but there was a quiet period over the summer, no sign of someone that had taken hostages. Liam was the one to mention that your own parents had finally realised you hadn’t come home in a long time. You’re considered a missing person in Beacon Hills, you know?” He explained, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“Well, you found me.” You simply said, words dry, uncaring.

“We did. I knew you weren’t dead I can.. Still feel your pack bond.” Scott then replied, rubbing his chest like it ached. You supposed it probably did, yours did the same.

“I’m sorry. We just couldn’t stay.” Scott nodded, though he looked sad. Maybe some part of him had hoped that him turning up would prompt you to come back, but it hadn’t. You couldn’t go back. The two of you were happy here.

“Who else knows?” You asked, as Scott sipped his drink.

“Me, and the four I already said. Liam wants to know, but we figured we shouldn’t tell him without permission, cause he will just.. Come see you. He misses you both.” You nodded, and pulled out your phone, sliding it across to him. Scott entered his number, and Liam’s, building those bridges for you.

“We aren’t coming back.”

“I figured. You two have built.. A life here. Jobs, an apartment, hell I wouldn’t be surprised if the next time we heard from you it was a photo of your wedding.” Scott said, a soft chuckle escaping him, but it sounded sad.

“Wedding? We’re not dating, Scott.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” There was a long pause then, where you regarded each other, and you thought hard about your relationship with Theo.

“When did you grow up, Scott McCall?”

“When did you?”

Scott didn’t stay long, and you embraced at the door as he left. He promised that he forgave you both, and if either of you ever needed him then he was just a call away. You promised you’d talk to Liam, and get him off Scott’s back. There was so much else that both of you could say, life updates, questions about pack, asking after those you cared for, learning who you’d met. You didn’t. Scott walked away and got into his truck, and you stayed leaning in the doorway as you watched him go, waving until he was out of sight.

When Theo got home that night, he climbed into your bed instead of his own, and wrapped his arms around you. You cried together, finally for the first time truly mourning all you’d lost by leaving. You didn’t regret it for a moment, were confident in your choice to stay in your new home, but that didn’t mean you didn’t miss the life you’d had before sometimes. You texted Liam, just before going to sleep, promising that you’d call him tomorrow over breakfast, and get him caught up.

Scott’s words played in your mind on loop. “The wedding.”

｡ ⋆ . ⋆ ｡ ⋆ 🐺˚ ｡ ⋆ ｡ ˚ ⭐˚ ｡ ⋆. ｡ ⋆

You dragged yourself through the front door with a loud sigh, dropping yourself onto the sofa immediately, not even taking off your jacket. Theo looked up from where he sat at the kitchen island and laughed, standing to cross the room to you, and help you get more comfortable.

“I’ve been talking to Liam.” He remarked casually, hanging your coat in the hallway and putting your work shoes on the rack. You hummed to signal that you’d heard him, but you had no concrete words to offer in that moment.

“He said something that really stuck with me, I’ve been thinking about it all day.” He added, and you glanced over, your interest in the topic slowly overtaking your exhaustion following your shift.

“Yeah?” You asked, and for a moment you could hear Scott’s voice in your mind “the wedding”.

“Why are we still pretending? And.. I mean that genuinely. I don’t think I even remember why we started, but it’s been a year.” Your stomach dropped, the colour draining from your face.

“I think we just got used to it. I mean, it has been nice.” You said, hoping that you weren’t humiliating yourself, putting yourself out there only to be denied. Theo’s eyes searched your face, and then he surged forward without warning, pressing your lips together.

You reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, keeping him close, desperate to be touching, to be feeling him.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore.” He whispered against your lips, and you nodded eagerly as the two of you met in the middle again, kissing eagerly, desperately. Now that you’d given in, you weren’t sure you could stop. How were you ever meant to stop kissing him when it felt this good?

“Me neither.” You managed to say as Theo peeled your shirt from your body, and his lips trailed down your neck.

The next morning, you texted Scott a simple,

Asshole.

To which he responded,

Congratulations.

Tag list: @claryeverlarkf @uselessboots @cainnoable @fanaticsnail @mermaniaa @hyperfixationthingss @ethan-is-sleepy

If you'd like to tip me and get exclusive ficlets, Kofi

[goatgoesmbe]

naw but fr tho i think you've given me more knowledge in islamic sex ed than all my 12 years in school

I went to religious school since elementary and they didn't teach shit abt sex, except that one time about how to keep them coochie clean

So yea, i feel u bestie 😞🤝😞

I mostly asked a professor/ustad directly like, after the lecture i'd approach them to talk privately coz i wanna know what kind of sex toys would be halal 😄

.. eventually some who are used to me made this face like "omg.. this person again" when i raised my hand during qna session (im shameless, ive reached the peak of not gaf)

But i appreciate them for always answering seriously. Like this one time a kid asked if eating pork in Minecraft is halal lolol (it is Halal ofc LMAO)

and some others who were like, "you know what? Here's a whole guide so you can research them yourself"

So.. here ya go sksksk

Bismillah..

THE SOURCES (VERSES)

Can only be taken from:

Quran

Hadith

Prophet SAW besties (Shahabat) habit

Qiyas Syar'i

"But what are thosee 👀"

Quran: the words of God. Usually his response to the Prophet SAW. Like- they were having a convo, or God just wanted to yap. They're all recorded here. Like that whole verse about him saying fuck your psychotic uncle, or the other one about Him scolding the Prophet for his RBF

Hadith: the words and action of the Prophet SAW. In 1st person/3rd person

Split into: Shahih, Hasan, Dhaif, Maudhu

Shahih: valid, undebatable. He legit said that fr (he as in, the Prophet)

Hasan: means good, could be valid.. but one/some of the Rawi is sus.. it's ok tho

Dhaif: WEAK, some sources were questionable but some Rawi said valid- so this could be taken with a grain of salt FOR HISTORY SOURCES ONLY, it's NOT allowed to be the basis of a ruling

Maudhu: Fake, some guy legit said being a nationalist is Sunnah- lmao (bro made shit up)

*Rawi: scholars who confirmed the validity of hadith. Being a Rawi is very strict, they have to be perfect. For example they should never lie. So when i say a rawi is sus, sometimes it's coz someone saw them fishing (some said its Makruh coz ur lying to the fish :( by luring them with nomnom then yeet them u_u)

"But what if they lie about not lyin"

Wallahu'alam. We're taught to always assume positively about anyone except when there's a CONCRETE proof that this person is bad. And if the Rawi actually lie? Then they gonna bear the sins of everyone trusting their cited verses (everyone who followed the verses wouldn't be punished, coz obv they dunno if Rawi lie)

Prophet SAW besties habit: i think it's self explanatory- lol. This usually taken from hadith mauquf (hadith about words/action of the besties- 1st POV or 3rd POV)

This could be taken as verse- because they idolized the Prophet SAW so much so that they copied everything he does (including crouching when he pee- his wife told the besties it happened uh- yeah there's a verse about how to gain reward/avoid sin from pissing alone (Shahih Ahmad))

Qiyas Syar'i: scholars gathering and using their big brains to discuss the ruling for new stuff in modern time (period after the Prophet and his besties died). And since im no scholar, i usually just look up these discussion instead of using my own logic

Notes: these sources are preserved by bijillion people memorizing them. Hadith usually happened like this: A saw the Prophet eating chicken :O (Shahih Bukhari, 5517), A told B, B told C, etc etc (these are called Sanad). And then the Rawi will look it up and probably ask from A to C if that really happened, then the Rawi sorted them as Shahih, Hasan, etc. The Rawi era ended in year 920, no other people would be valid enough to be one in the present.. because well- how could you check if A really said to B.. they've been dead

More notes: it is important to preserve the verses in arabic. To avoid misscommunication due to mistranslation

THE RULING

THE OBJECTS: Halal & Haram

By nature, everything is Halal UNLESS there's an explicit verse saying they're not

Example: there's no verse about cigarette being haram. So the cigarette in itself is halal. But the use of it/smoking.. is another discussion for scholars

More example: Pork is haram (Al-Baqarah: 173).. to consume, trade, or serving them. Touching the meat is ok lol

"But 🙋 how about coccaine✨ there's no explicit verse saying coccaine"

Yes, but it counts as Khamr. Khamr doesn't necessarily means alcohol- but anything that could be intoxicating. Verse againt khamr: Al-Maidah: 90. There may be some scholars disputes (ofc using them for emergency/medical reason is ok.. like anaesthetic is khamr)

THE ACTION: Wajib, Sunnah/Mustabah, Mubah, Makruh, Haram

Wajib: Mandatory, you have to do it and get rewarded :D. If not, the you sinned >:(

Sunnah: Reccomended 👍, you do it? You get rewarded :D, you don't do it? It's ok

Mubah: Allowed, ..no reward, no sin.. just ok

Makruh: Not reccomended 🫤, you do it? Ok.. but if you resist the urge to do it you'd get rewarded :D

Haram: Obviously, don't do it coz it's a sin

For this, an act has to be explicitly stated in verses, whether it's ok or nah. Some might changes due to situations.. (for example: one time during the time of Caliphate Umar, they went thru famine, and the rich were greedy- not giving to people in need during it. So Umar said- U KNO WHAT, STEALING FROM THEM IS OK)

"But how do we knoww 😔"

Look up verses of Quran or Hadith Shahih/Hasan on google and such. Also opinions of valid scholars. Some might varies so make sure to look up if a Scholar is educated in that subject. It's ok to take any opinions to your liking even tho it's different from other scholar (example: most Indonesian scholar said music is halal.. with some exceptions ofc)

Also look at Tafsir! I reccomend avoiding trying to translate the meaning of verses by yourself, because mistranslation is a thing, also its usually worded in a way that it's hard to understand (old language be sophisticated ukno). So it's best to look up what scholars think this verses actually mean + the context of the situation and time when the verse happened (Tafsir)

Alright, enough of the boring stuff

✨SEX✨

Intimacy or any kind of affection to your spouse is an act of worship. So be horny 😌 for God 🫡

Foreplay is Sunnah (Al-Baqarah: 233). Scholars said: preceed with kind words, be playful, kisses, etc (Im saying that praise kink is Sunnah-)

Saying Bismillah and some prayers is Sunnah also, ..don't need to say it out loud, just mumbled it or said it in your head is ok too

Any positions is allowed as long as the penetration is into vagina

Any kind of anal penetration is not allowed :( (From Ibn Majah, hadith Sahih) a/n: lowkey funnyy how God said "NO ANAL" three times here-

But ☝️ Eating ass is ok 👍. Just dont penetrate with tongue/fingers/penis/etc. You can rub or grind between ascheeks, tease the rim with your tongue- these are probably Makruh.. but it's not a sin.. so :P

Period sex is not allowed (Al-Baqarah:222)

But ☝️ You 🫵 Can be creative. Like pussy job, stimulate clit, and the like- as long as theres not penetration to the bleeding cunt it's ok 👍 (probably Makruh)

Sex toys are okay 👍 but only for external stimulation, meaning- no penetration

Sex toys are also okay only if your partner is stimulating you with it, can't use it on yourself ;) (Again, some said Makruh, some said Haram)

Masturbation is not allowed (Al-Mu'minun 5-7, tafsir-ed by Syafii). But some scholars said that it's allowed if you're so horny it made you want to do things with someone who's not Halal for you (like that one Gazxreader mid-courting fic)

Though some scholars did say masturbation is allowed.. (but no penetration) makruh tho- it differs from variety on how scholars think the verse above meant. Some used the argument from verse (Al-An'am: 119) where it is said that anything needed to be said explicitly to be wrong/right in any verse- and masturbation never stated explicitly. Sees also opinions of Tabain, from Al-Muhalla by ibn Hazm- they're ok with it

Bondage and other kinks are allowed if both parties are consenting and had communicate it properly. And it shouldn't cause emotional distress/physical harm

..If anything, indulging in your partner kink is Sunnah :D

Giving each other head is okay, but not reccomended. Just don't swallow :3 (some said Makruh, some Haram)

Pulling out (azl) and using condom etc is ok 👍 but breeding kink is Sunnah (especially when the receiver is into it :3)

..Yes you can suck tiddy and drink the milk

..Yes you can fuck with hijab on praying mattress

..Yes you can use prayer beads as toys, dunno how but.. be creative(?) (still no penetration)

Sexting/Phone Sex is allowed. But either parties are not allowed to masturbate (some said Makruh, some said Haram). Though, both scholars said it's ok if you cum from it somehow with no hands involved/toys (again, some said Makruh some said Haram for the latter)

If you're not ashamed of it.. then do it ig (Said the Prophet, from Shahih Bukhari: 3483)

But it's reccomended to have haya and not be filthy (not a sin tho)

Scat and piss kink isn't allowed because the object (piss&shit) themselves are considered najis (dirty)

Penetrative sex & Orgasm break your fast! But making out and heavy petting is ok (edging is ok ehehe- probably Makruh tho). There's a verse about the Prophet kissing his wife, sucked her tongue, and drank her saliva- which means that doesn't break your fast.. (Shahih Bukhari: 1927)

But if you cum by accident.. like idk, in your sleep, or just somehow- it wouldn't break your fast. Just bathe

You need to bathe before praying if you had sex/orgasm

You don't need to bathe immediately after sex/orgasm

If you want to go another round, it's Sunnah to take wudhu between rounds

If you get aroused, leaking precum, getting wet and such- but didnt have an orgasm- you don't need to bath, just take wudhu

Both parties aren't allowed to talk about their sexy times with other people except for educational/medical purposes

Watching visual pornography is Haram due to the nature of us having to avert our gaze anyway

But reading text porn is a grey area. Either Makruh or Haram

Having nasty thoughts is alright, God made us horny as He stated. It's what you do with those thoughts that would be judged

Voyeorism isnt allowed. Due to the nature of awrah. Sexy times only allowed in private places

Holding hands kissing with tongue snuggling cuddling PDA is allowed tho

and uh.. idk what else, lmk if i miss anything

Just don't get too freaky ;)

Pregnancy sex is alright, as long as it wouldn't harm anybody

If you do any of the forbidden stuff byy accident, like- oh no.. Gaz 👀 wrong hole..

That's not a sin, coz you didnt intent to- but yes do immediately stop when you realized it

And dont feel bad, God is mercifull so repent

Notes: Sin with God and Sin because you hurt people are different. Let's say you ate pork on purpose, then repent and promised to not do it again. But if you hurt someone, you have to get their apology specifically. If not, there would be consequences in the day of judgement. (Rawi Muslim)

Example: Fulan stole his sister's Muffin from the fridge. It's Sunnah for the sister to forgive, she would be greatly rewarded. But if she couldnt help and hold grudges, both would be called forward. An angel would ask if she forgave her brother, if she said yea then cool. But if not, then Fulan has to give one of his pahala (reward/good deeds point) to his sister. And of course, anyone wouldn't just offend one person in their life.. so every each person who had grudges towards Fulan would alsoo be called forward then asked the same question. If Fulan is hated by sooo many people- to the point he has no pahala anymore :(, then the next person gonna give Fulan one of their sin, etc, vice versa.

So.. God may be merciful, but people (me) aren't. Someone could be really good religious wise but is an ass towards people in general, in that case, their good deeds from religious duty is useless *cough*mom*cough* (from Sahih Muslim: 2581)

This is a reminder to be kind 😌 "Speak only good words, or keep silent" or something along those lines (Shahih Bukhari: 6018)

Feel free to ask questions in my inbox/dm- but again! Im no scholar! Just a student :3 So i just gonna offer the opinions of scholars i gathered

Asking questions is reccomended in Islam

Even the Angels themselves who are made to be obedient- asked God when He said he wanted to make humans.

They basically said "Art thou sure?, They're just gonna kill each other and destroy earth". God answered "Yeah ik. Now kneel at them" (Al-Baqarah: 32-37)

Wallahu'alam

[itacats]

Operation 141: The Family Business

FT: TF141 x gn!reader - Mafia AU

Warnings: mafia themes, kidnapping/abduction, obsessive behaviors, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: In a decaying warehouse, you find yourself trapped and terrified as Devon’s obsession spirals into madness. In this gripping installment, the line between sanity and madness blurs as you fight for survival against a relentless fate.

Read Part 1 Read Part 2 Read Part 3 Read Part 5 Read Part 6 Read Part 7 Read Part 8 Read Part 9 Read Part 10

Part 4: Clues Unseen

The warehouse was a cavernous, decaying relic from another time. Its vast interior was cloaked in darkness, interrupted only by beams of pale moonlight filtering through shattered windows high above. Dust hung thick in the air, stirring with each of Devon’s agitated steps. His boots scraped across the cold concrete, the sound echoing in the silence like a death knell.

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat loud in your ears as you huddled in a corner, knees drawn tightly to your chest. The damp chill of the floor seeped through your clothes, but the terror gripping you from within was far colder. The flickering remnants of a single, exposed bulb swung lazily overhead, casting jagged shadows that stretched and twisted like the bars of a prison.

Devon, the man you had once passed without a second glance at the bar, now stalked the space between the walls of your captivity. His face was gaunt, haunted by an obsession you hadn't seen—couldn’t have seen—until it was too late. He muttered to himself as he paced, his voice rising and falling like the tide, but each word slithered into your skin, wrapping tighter and tighter around your fear.

"You’ll see," he hissed, his eyes wild as they flicked toward you, though you avoided his gaze. "They don’t care like I do. None of them do." His hand jerked in a wide, erratic gesture toward the empty space, as if your friends were there, as if their absence confirmed everything he believed. "You and I are meant to be together!"

His voice cracked on the last word, a twisted mix of pleading and menace. It was the sound of someone who had long ago slipped past the edge of sanity, and now, only desperation remained. He stopped pacing, his breath coming in shallow bursts, his eyes narrowing as he stared at you.

Curled up in the corner, your body trembled uncontrollably. The taste of salt stung your lips as bitter tears slid down your cheeks, but you made no effort to wipe them away. You were too afraid to move, too terrified that even the slightest motion would provoke him, shatter the thin barrier between you and whatever madness lay inside him. 

Your thoughts spiraled, clinging to anything that could pull you out of this nightmare. The sounds of the bar, the low murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the warmth of laughter played in your mind. You could almost hear it, the echoes of your life before this nightmare, of safety. Soap cracking another joke at Ghost's expense, Price offering his gruff words of wisdom, Gaz shooting you a knowing grin from across the bar. They were so close, just on the other side of this living nightmare. 

But now, there was only Devon, and his delusions.

"You don’t get it, do you?" His voice dropped to a whisper, almost tender, as he moved closer, crouching in front of you. His hand reached out, fingers brushing against your arm, and you flinched, shrinking away from his touch. His eyes darkened at that, and his grip tightened, bruising. "You’ll learn. I’ll make you understand. I’m all you need. No one else will come for you."

His words sent fresh waves of panic through you, the reality of your situation crashing down like a tidal wave. You were alone in this rotting tomb he trapped you in, far from the safety of your world, and the people you had relied on—people who might not even know you were gone yet. You closed your eyes, desperately trying to block out Devon’s face, his voice, the reality that was becoming harder to escape.

Meanwhile, outside, the world moved on. But for you, time had warped into an endless loop of fear and survival.

Devon rose to his feet, satisfied, for now, that his twisted words had sunk in. He resumed his pacing, mumbling to himself about destiny, about fate, while your mind raced in circles, searching for some escape, any escape. 

Every creak in the warehouse felt like a scream in your ears. Every shuffle of his boots across the floor was a reminder that no matter how far gone Devon was, he was real. The iron door that sealed you inside this forgotten place was real. The chains that bound you here, though invisible, were real.

You couldn’t stop the tears now. You couldn’t stop the fear that kept you frozen in place. All you could do was hope—hope that somewhere out there, someone had noticed you were missing. Hope that your friends, the ones who had become your family, had already begun to search. 

And somewhere, deep down, hope that they were close enough to save you before it was too late.

Read Part 5

In the tense atmosphere of the 141’s HQ, determination ignites as Ghost uncovers a vital clue about your captor. With every second ticking away, the team gears up for a relentless search through the city’s shadows, driven by a promise to bring you home. As they navigate a web of danger and deception, will they uncover the truth in time, or will the darkness consume you both?

Tag List:

@strawberryrnilk

@rafaelacallinybbay

Let me know if you would like to be added to the list lovely!

[myemotionalsupportcharacters]

Somebody I Used to Know

Abby Anderson X Reader (Y/N)

Warnings: smut, trauma, implied PTSD

Friends to Enemies to Lovers Arc

A/n: did this turn out three times longer than I meant it to be? Yes. Is it edited? Barely. Enjoy!

It had been years now since Salt Lake, but some things hadn’t changed.

Abby still avoided you in the halls, had you assigned to patrols she didn’t want to go on, glared you down in the canteen as you made your way to their table. Having a sworn enemy is hard when you share the same friend group.

You had been thick as thieves growing up. Abby’s dad had become yours when you turned up at the hospital running from a group of bad guys that had managed to kill your parents before you slipped away. You had begun to show signs of starvation, bloody and bruised, clutching a large knife with both hands as soldiers had to subdue you to get you inside.

When you woke up, she was there: changing the wash cloth on your head, all but forcing a glass of water down you as they tried to break your fever. Inseparable since that moment, you did everything together. You found his body together.

She wouldn’t let you go when they dragged you out of the room and onto a truck. Sobbing, pounding her fists into your back as you helped them drag her away.

In the back of the truck, red rimmed eyes and a firm scowl, she looked up at you.

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to make him pay.” Your throat constricted, chest burned, and all you could do was nod and clutch her tightly to your chest.

It was a few days later when she brought it up again. Laying in sleeping bags on a hard concrete floor, she rolled over to you.

“Y/N, you awake?” You rolled over to face her, barely illuminated by the moonlight breaking through the rotting roof panels. “I was serious. I’m going to track him down, and I’m going to kill him. You’ll come with me, right?”

“Abby, I miss him so much.” Tears filled your eyes, tipping over the edge and trailing at an awkward angle down your face. “I don’t know if I could do that. I don’t think he would want that for you…” she rolled over in her bag before you could finish, face hardened.

“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

She didn’t talk to you again, betrayed by her closest confidant. How could you not see that this was her only option? Her only way to heal, to honour him?

For the first year, you approached her in the halls, included her in conversation, and was always met with cold silence and a flat glare. She slipped even further away when she started dating Owen. You had always known they would end up together at some point, but you couldn’t have imagined how insufferable he would become when they did.

Every opportunity he had his hands on her, poking and teasing, whispering in her ear. You watched as she swooned and giggled like a little girl, turning away from the sight and doing your best to ignore them. The resentment grew. It wasn’t just him anymore, it was her too. She had replaced you, with him.

Then came the Bonfire Incident (as it was known in the group). You had been buzzing about it for a month. Isaac had finally given the go ahead for a small celebration for the patrol squads after the new territory was secured. You would christen the new ground with a good ol’ fashioned bonfire, complete with barbecue and bootleg liquor.

The best part, Lexi was going. You had a small crush on her, and had heard through a mutual friend that she thought you were pretty. You had high hopes. All hopes were confirmed when she dragged you off to a dark section of trees, toting a bottle of smuggled whiskey she found on patrol. You drank, flirted and eventually, she had you pinned against a tree, tongue in your mouth and a hand down your pants.

“Fuck, yes, there.” You panted, leaning your head back against the tree as she dug two fingers into just the right spot and ground the heel of her hand against your throbbing clit. “Shit, so close.” Her lips dragged across your collarbone, and up your neck. A rustle caught your attention, and you tipped your head to the side, catching Abby sneaking between the trees. She stopped, holding your eye contact, expression switching quickly from caught to determined. Her jaw tightened and twitched, thick arms folding across her chest as she watched the scene unfold.

You held her gaze, letting out one final moan as you contracted around Lexi’s fingers, cumming so hard it took your breath away and made your toes tingle. Abby never looked away. Lexi moaned into your neck.

“So fuckin tight, doll. Bet you taste as sweet as you sound.” You looked around as she gently pulled her fingers from you, leaving you empty and pulsing. She brought her fingers up to your mouth, and your jaw dropped open. She placed them gently on your tongue, and you lapped up your own juices. “You’re so fucking hot.” She pulled her fingers away and pressed a quick hot kiss to your lips.

“What do you say we finish this later?” You asked, pulling away.

“Whatever you say, hun. You coming?” She pulled the whiskey back up to her lips, taking a swig.

“Just gonna straighten myself out.” Lexi winked, walking away. Once she was far enough, you turned to face Abby still leaning against the tree.

Abby stepped back out from the tree she had taken cover behind.

“The fuck was that?”

“Aw, Abby, Owen not taking care of you?” Abby let out a mocking laugh.

“I meant your choice in partner. Seriously? Lexi?”

“What’s wrong with Lexi?” You defended, folding your own arms over your chest.

“Nothing, nothing.” Abby held her hands up. “Just thought you had better taste than that.”

“Since when did my taste in women have anything to do with you, Anderson? Especially considering your own clear lack of judgement.” Abby’s face hardened.

“Fuck you.”

“You wish you could, Anderson. I’m just not sure you could keep up.” You pushed off the tree, reaching down to zip up your pants as you stalked back to the fire, leaving her in the dark.

You only found out the next morning that Owen had broken things off three days prior.

You felt awful, but pushed it down. She had spent the past couple years treating you like shit, and the one time you returned the favour, you suddenly felt guilty?

You shook it off, and returned to the normal routine. Until today.

You headed to the armoury, opening your locker and pulling out a slightly battered sniper rifle, a 9mm, and restocking your pockets with ammo. Pulling on your pack, you headed out back and hopped onto your assigned truck. You pulled a small book out your sack, and waited as everyone got loaded on.

It was tradition by now, everyone had learned you didn’t partake in the pre-shit show banter and chatter. You read, you shot, and then you chilled.

“The fuck is this?” You didn’t look up when you heard her voice. “No, Manny she shouldn��t be here.” You heard shuffling as Manny pulled Abby aside and talked her down. A couple minutes later she hopped onto the back of the truck and sat as far down the bench as possible.

“Apparently I’m covering your ass today.” Abby grunted, and you flipped to the next page. Tony chuffed, and looked over at Abby.

“She doesn’t talk before runs. Or during actually.”

“The fuck…” You tuned out Abby grumbling, zoning into your book until you felt Manny clap you on the shoulder.

“It’s time.” You nodded, stowing your book and standing. You followed him into the building, ignoring the gunshots that covered your entrance. You made your way to rooftop, Abby moving silently in your wake. Busting the door open, you quickly made your way to the edge, and began setting up the rifle. Abby stuck by the door, and you let out a chuff of your own.

“Heights.” You remembered. “Are you going to be able to do this?” You called to her.

“I’m fine. Worry about yourself.” Abby turns her back, focusing on the doorway.

Half an hour later and the street below was littered with corpses of runners and Scars alike. The Scars had come first, pushed out of hiding by the runners, all part of Isaac’s brilliant plan. The silencer on sniper mostly concealed your location, Abby had been stationed just incase any managed to slip through the building clearing or the first defence line. You had spent the whole time with your eye to the scope, all other sounds or distractions tuned out.

“All clear, fuck!” Manny came to a halt at the doorway. You hauled yourself up from the ground, disassembling the rifle, and packing it back up. You turned to see the pile of bodies Abby had left. Three scar, one much larger than the others, and five clickers. Abby was sat leaning against an air duct, rewrapping the bandages around her knuckles and wrist, a deep gouge oozing blood down the left side of her face.

“You’re welcome.” She grunts in your direction, standing and grabbing her rucksack.

“Thanks.” You returned, straight faced.

Abby stares at you for a moment, then laughs and stalks away. Manny looks between you, before following Abby.

The truck was silent on the ride back, two people lighter than on the way out. You sat, staring at the floor, ignoring Abby’s eyes on you. She had seen it when she got to the ground floor. The devastation you had left in your wake. At least four times the amount of her own kills. You had seen the way she looked at you as you got onto the truck. She hadn’t realised what living at WLF had turned you into, she hadn’t been paying attention. She’d never seen the look in your eyes after a run, hollow and empty. Hadn’t thought about why you didn’t want to talk about what went down on runs with the group, why everyone but your friend group tended to eye you as you walked down the halls. They’d fashioned you into a killer, and stollen the light that used to shine in your eyes. They’d done the same thing to her.

The showers were running hot that day, the fog they created obscuring her vision slightly as she watched you. You stood under the hot water, head tipped back, eyes shut as tears camouflaged with the water. Behind you eyes, a movie of your killing spree played out like pantomime. You saw each of them go down, saw their lives up until that point play out until the moment your bullet found them. Then you scrubbed it all away, and drifted back to your room with raw skin, and blurry eyes.

The knock came not long after.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk, but…please let me in.” You paused, hand over the handle, before you opened the door and walked away. You sat on the small couch and gestured to the coffee table. Abby sat, legs spread wide, leaning forward on her knees.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and you pulled your knees to your chest, suddenly feeling vulnerable in your pj shorts and sports bra. “I’m sorry for ignoring you, I’m sorry for leaving you alone, I’m sorry for putting you on the shit patrol runs. I’m sorry for everything, fuck, Y/N.” She runs her hands over her face, finally looking up to see your vacant eyes staring back. “I’m sorry for scaring all those girls off when they tried to talk to you. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. All of it, I fucked it all up… Somewhere in her rambling, your eyes hardened, became piercing. She watched you reassemble yourself, piece by piece, shut down and toughen into something else.

“You should go.” You cut her off. Her breath caught, noticed the way your fingers tightened around your calves, your breath became stilted. Suddenly you shot off the couch, moving towards the door. “Get out. Now!” You were on the edge, about to slip and the last thing you needed was Abby fucking Anderson witnessing you crumble. She stood, walking over to you. A breath wheezed in your chest, hands shaking, you recoiled away from her.

“Y/n…”

“Please. Leave.” The gasp that left you seemed to puncture the bubble around you, as your knees gave way and she caught you. She shoved the door closed, and pulled you into her lap, feeling you shake and gasp. Her arms coiled around your back, hands rubbing soothingly up and down your spine, letting you bury your head in her shoulder. “I hate you.” You whimpered into her, arms in a vice grip around her shoulders, nails digging into her shoulder blades.

“I know, I don’t blame you.” She sighs, pushing her head into your neck, rocking you back and forth. Slowly, your breathing returned to normal, body becoming limp. You pulled back, moving a hand to the side of her face as you looked down into big blue eyes almost as wet as your own.

“Don’t leave me again.”

“Never.” Abby sucked in a quick breath before pushing her lips to yours. It was gentle, tender as she waited to see how you reacted. She expected a slap, for you to crawl away, hurl the lamp at her. Instead you pressed yourself closer, hand moving to the back of her neck, tilting her head up and slanting so you fit together perfectly.

It got messy quickly, panted breaths and wet tongues. Somewhere between kisses her hands dropped to your hips, gripping and pulling. She groaned when she felt your hips roll against her, bucking up to press closer. The second time she did it, you let out a whimper that almost made her heart stop.

“Fuck, you make such pretty sounds.” She groaned, dropping her lips to your neck, down to your collar bone. You pulled back, tugging off the sports bra, and watching as she quickly wrapped her lips around a nipple. A hazy mix of tongue and teeth had your eyes rolling back.

“I want you so bad.”

“You’ve got me, I’m right here.” Abby shifted, laying you gently on the floor and trailing hot lips down your torso. She had your pjs and panties pulled down around your ankles before you could process the cold air that goose bumped your skin. She pushed your knees apart and up, latching to the soft skin of your inner thigh, teasing her tongue around the very edges of you. She teased until your hips were bucking up and your groans turned to whimpers before she ran her tongue over you.

“Fuck, you do taste sweet.” She groaned, delving back in to part your lips with her tongue before wrapping around your clit, licking and sucking until you were keening and begging for more. She teased a finger at your entrance, feeling the way you tried to suck her in, looking up to see watery eyes looking back at her. As your mouth parted to beg, she slipped a finger in gently, your head dropped back and hands shot to her head.

With hands full of her braid you pulled her closer, feeling her finger curl inside you, triggering a pulse so tight it rippled up through your abdomen. Her finger moved gently as she sucked your clit harshly into her mouth, flicking her tongue over the sensitive bud until your whimpers turned back into full out moans.

“So close, Abs.” You cried, hips wriggling as you tried to find the right spot to tip you over the edge. Abby slipped another finger inside, curling up again and speeding up slightly. She flattened her tongue, and the added pressure launched you over. “Fuck!” Your back arched almost painfully as your legs shook beside her head, she slowed, letting you ride out your high, hips jolting slightly.

Once she was sure you were done, she gently eased out and away from you, running her hands up your sides, and picking you up from the hard floor. She cradled you in her arms, placing a kiss on your forehead before settling you on your bed.

You were still floating as she tucked you under the covers, pulling her pants off and getting in beside you. She pulled you to her, and you nuzzled into her chest.

“I’m never leaving you again.” She placed another tender kiss onto your hairline, stoking your hair as you drifted off to sleep, a soft smile curling your lips.

[l0starl]

⊹ ‧₊˚ Lost soul ⊹ ‧₊˚ ｡

☠️ Ingredients : Sugar, spice, lemon, and a lot bit of salt

Summary : Reader was murdered a few years ago, body was never discovered, few years later miles comes across a sketchy neighbor, looks like he’s in for a surprise… :)

Ghost reader x miles 42

★ Warnings : Mentions of guns, violence, reader is dead, Angst??

🪦 Participants : Miles!(42)

🎧 Song : Mercedes

🌱 W/c : 1.5k

🌿 Reader is black 🌚

”You promise you won’t leave me here?”

“Of course not ma, till death do us part”

The day you died was the most excruciating pain you’ve ever felt, not a day goes by where your not reminded of the agonizing pain and screams of horror you had to suffer…what did you do to deserve such a terrible death? You have no clue yourself..But now all you seek is….

Vengeance

You can’t exactly remember the faces of those who were apart of your murder, but you remember their voices.

You were walking home from school, you always took the shortcut home but today there was construction nearby, So that path wasn’t an option. You had to take the long way though the sketchy part of town….Yikes…

Little did you know, this decision would haunt you for the rest of your life…

The sketchy part of town was a bit run down, houses with graffiti, trash lying around, the smell of weed. You would avoid this path at all cost but today wasn’t an option…

You walked down the path, you felt uneasy, as if something or someone was watching you, as you quicken the pace, Your mind was screaming for you to turn around and find another way home, but you were too stubborn…

BAM….BAM

gunshots are shots right near your direction, the gunshots blew out your eardrums, you ears ring rapidly, you can’t hear anything at all, so you do the most logical thing….

RUN

You sprinted through the streets, your ears rung swiftly, gunshots continued blaring out close to your direction, adrenaline rushed throughout your body, up ahead you see your house in the distance, maybe about 25 feet away.

You were running as fast as you can, you didn’t want whoever was following you to know where you lived right?? You quickly changed your route, sprinting like your life depends on it…literally…

BAM

You abruptly stop, your leg feels numb as you tumbled down onto the pavement, you tremble, urging yourself not to scream to alert the person holding the gun. You look down at your leg, blood is gushing out, you don’t have much time…

You start crawling, your not sure where your going but you gotta just keep it pushing, you leave a trail of crimson red on the concrete.

Surely you’re gonna make it out alive right? You’ll be just fine

BAM

You screamed in agony, alerting the person with a gun, the bullet hit your shoulder, tears fell down your face as you here multiple footsteps approaching…

There was more than one person..?!

There was no use crawling, you were in too much pain to move at all, you layed there as your life flashed before your life….No…you still have a chance at living, maybe just-

“MUMFH” you muffled as you felt a cloth cover your mouth and nose, you could barely breath, maybe there was a drug on the cloth?

you tried removing the cloth but it was no use, the person has a strong grip….You were about to black out, you blinked a few times as tears rolled down your eyes….

“Shh, it’s time for you to go to sleep” the person whispered, giving you a little pat on the back in a mocking way..

You woke up in a room with the lights dimmed down, you were tied down to a chair and your mouth was closed shut with duct tape..

You looked around your surroundings for anything that can help you, it was no use…. Your vision was hazy, so you couldn’t hear that well temporarily.. The door to the room burst wide open, a group of people surrounding you, holding various weapons….

“Hm if it isn’t you, thought your ass would be dead by now by the amount of blood you lost” one of the men spoke

“Who the hell are you?!” You hissed annoyed

The man comes into light view, you were taken aback by who was standing right in front of you

“James?!?!” You spoke shocked

“Surprised to see me? Oh how much I’ve always wanted you dead, you still don’t know your place do you” he spoke mockingly

You were still in a state of shock from this new info, James goes to the same high school as you, he took pleasure in making your life a living hell, you always went home at least with a few couple bruises, apparently the only reason he does this since he has a grudge on your dad, reason why? Putting his dad out of business and losing his job….

“So, your really gonna kill me huh?!” You shout angrily

He puts a gun to your head, as soon as the gun makes contact with your head you freeze

“This little chit chat is over, too bad it had to end like this” he responded mockingly

“Hey wai-“

BAM….

“get rid of the body…”

It’s been a year since your death, I guess you would be considered a lost soul to modern standards, you don’t look like your average ghost, guess the stereotypes go a bit overboard… as a ghost you don’t look any different at all, your just see through and could go through walls….

You basically live in this sketchy neighborhood, the smell of weed still reeks through the neighborhood, your scarlet blood still stains the pavement, leaving the train of blood where you crawled…

In the distance you heard voices, people were coming this way, panicked you kept yourself hidden, observing from afar, it’s not common to see people walk pass here

As the voices come closer you see a particular interesting person, a boy with braids that reach to his shoulders and a cold expression, one person you recognize in the group, you suddenly feel angry, the audacity this man has…

“James, this shit is stupid why the hell you bring us all the way out here” miles hissed

The others bickered and protested but James quickly silenced them

“cause we’re here to see if the rumors were true about them” James retorted playing it off

“Who’s them?” Miles responded confused

“the person who was killed here, no one knows what happened to em” James replied

Miles scoffed as he walked towards the sketchy buildings, examining them, he was almost close to where you were, but you didn’t want to alert them, so you stayed put…

He approached close to where you were, not wanting to be discovered you turned around and quickly left, before you could do so, you tripped over and fell, so much for being “able to go through things”

He turned to your direction, he was taken aback from your appearance, you were slightly see through, you wounds that never healed, and a saddened expression that never changed..

“Your them, aren’t you?” He spoke as he walked closer slowly to not startle you.

You nodded, lifting yourself off

“Why are you with James, you don’t know what he’s done to me” you responded with anger

“What did he do?” Miles replied

“He murdered me! All my screams of agonizing pain no one heard! No one saved me! I died cold and alone and scared!” You shouted

He clenched his fist in anger

“Goddamn it, I knew something was up with him” he hissed “Whatcha want me to do about it”

“We turn him in!” He replied

“You need evidence, and I’m pretty sure-“

“We’ll worry about that later let’s go…” you paused

“It’s miles alright”

“Then let’s go miles, I won’t let him get away with this”

For a few weeks their connection grew, they found common interest in stuff they enjoyed, miles felt a special connection with you, he doesn’t just opened up to anyone randomly… Maybe he had grown a soft spot for you, feelings for a ghost didn’t sound very usual, so he went into denial about them. He was willing to make James face his consequences….it only he knew he wouldn’t see another day again…

“James I know you killed them” miles spat angrily

“Miles what you talkin abou-“

“Don’t give me that bullshit James, I know you did it” he hissed

James reached for his back pocket and stared at miles with a sinister smile

“You’ll be joining her in the afterlife very soon yk?” James laughed mockingly as shots fired

Miles collapsed on the floor, clenching his chest, he’s dying, and he knows it. James snickered at the sight as he walked away with no remorse.

You came soon after you heard rounds of gunshots go off, you hurried over beside miles, tears rolled down your face

“Miles! I’m so sorry! I should’ve kept you outta this situation” you sniffled

“It’s alright, at least I’ll be able to be with you right? I won’t leave you here” he responded

”You promise you won’t leave me here?”

“Of course not ma, till death do us part”

After he spoke his final words his body went cold, his expression lifeless as blood is all over on the concrete floor, James was caught a decade later and charged for 1st degree murder, you on the other hand couldn’t get over the fact he was gone.

But you’ll always carry a piece of him with you, no matter where you are….💗

[whispersleo]

Now you’re a ghost in my bed (Words: 2,124)

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Trauma, Hallucinations, Established Relationship, Polyamory, Emotional Hurt, Substance Abuse

Summary: Three truths: 1) He loves them. 2) He would never hurt them. 3) The body in his grip is already going limp, and the circus music won’t stop until he finishes the act.

Lucanis woke with his head resting on Illario’s chest, their legs tangled together, one arm draped around his cousin’s waist while Illario’s curled over his shoulders. The warmth between them was dangerously comforting, coaxing him back toward sleep almost instantly.

But then Spite’s voice cut through his mind again—sharp, alarmed, almost frightened. "Seeing shadows again. Help him!"

Finally lucid, Lucanis registered the absence of another body behind him in the bed. He eased away from Illario as carefully as possible, twisting slowly on the mattress to avoid waking him, even when Illario slept like the dead after martinis.

There, standing naked in the doorway, was Aren—his gaze hollow, fixed on something in the dark hall that Lucanis couldn’t see or hear. His head tilted slightly, as if tracking unseen whispers. The sight of the qunari lost in delusion always unsettled him.

The crow rose, equally bare, and moved toward him. "Aren?" he whispered. The qunari gave no sign of hearing him at all.

Lucanis took another step forward, bare feet silent on the floorboards. "Aren," he repeated, louder this time.

The qunari’s breath hitched. His shoulders tensed, fingers twitching at his sides as if grasping for a weapon that wasn’t there. Because in his mind, it was already too late. The hallway wasn’t empty. Not for him.

It smelled like Rivain’s docks at low tide—salt-rot and piss, the stench of fish guts steaming on hot concrete. Aren’s bare feet stuck to the floorboards (when had they become warped pier planks?). He felt himself eleven again, curled behind a dumpster outside the Keeper’s Light brothel, gnawing on stolen bread gone green at the edges. The sailors always threw scraps if he made them laugh. If he didn’t flinch when they grabbed his horns. Shadows congealed into figures—tall, faceless, their forms warped like heat-haze off steel. They moved in jagged steps, their limbs too long, their silence worse than any scream. He knew them. Had always known them. The same ones that had stalked him since Rivain, since the nights he’d spent curled in the streets, in the mattress he slept when he was travelling with the circus. In his house in the poorest district of Antiva. In the back of his mind, always.

And now they were here.

The shadows didn’t just move—they dripped, oil-slick figures pooling up from the floor. Their uniforms were wrong. Not the police, but those sharp-faced women who’d dragged his mother away when he was six. Their belts jingled with the same rusted hooks the old circus ringmaster had used to punish him for missed tricks. A trumpet blast—imagined, but deafening—shattered the air. Aren flinched, his pulse a hammer against his ribs. The figures lunged. His tattooed shoulders twitched—the coiled tension of a fighter anticipating a blow. "Bas-kata," the tallest one crooned in qunlat. The words slithered like the cockroaches that used to crawl over him in the flophouse where he slept between gigs. "You should have died in that alley with the other stray dogs."

A phantom fist slammed into his gut. Aren felt the old fracture give way again (that night in Antiva City when three human boys decided a "ox-man" didn’t deserve the coin he’d earned fire-eating). The taste of copper flooded his mouth—but when he spat, it was just bile and the ghost of cheap toothpaste. In Aren’s shattered mind, the woman’s face melted, reforming into his lover’s sneering features. "Pathetic," Lucanis whispered, pulling a straight razor from his sleeve—the same kind the Madame at the brothel used to threaten runaways. "You’ll always be a whore begging for table scraps."

Aren moved with the feral precision of a child who’d learned to fight in piss-soaked alleys. One hand clamped around the throat (so fragile under his callouses), the other cocked back to strike, and then his knuckles splintered against the Degas print’s glass. The Blue Dancers looked at him with a mocking laugh, while Aren felt real pain. Real blood. For one crystalline moment, he saw through the hallucination; Lucanis’ real face, not sneering but terrified, his lips moving around words drowned out by the phantom woman’s laughter. The manor’s tasteful gray walls (not a circus wagon’s mildewed wood). The smell of Illario’s stupidly expensive cologne cutting through the memory of rotting fish.

Lucanis didn’t see the terror in Aren’s eyes. Didn’t see the way his muscles locked, the way his mind screamed fight or die. Lucanis reached for him. Bad move. All he saw was the qunari whirl—too fast, too brutal for a man his size—eyes almost completely black with dilated panic. A hand clamped around his throat, slamming him into the wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

"Aren—!" His voice was strangled, fingers clawing at the iron grip. But Aren wasn’t seeing him. He was seeing the shadow that had Lucanis’ face—the one that grinned with too many teeth, the one that whispered qunlat in a voice like breaking bone. His grip tightened. Lucanis’ vision blurred at the edges.

Aren outweighed him by far, his body a wall of muscle and terror. For a fleeting second, Spite writhed beneath Lucanis’ skin—but the demon recoiled, as it always did. It feared these episodes almost as much as Aren did. It never understood why he hurt them when he loved them, why he screamed like he hated them, why he was so afraid of things that weren’t even there.

A mattress creaked. Sheets rustled. Then Illario was there—suddenly—wrenching Aren back with a force that sent them both stumbling. Lucanis gasped, coughing, as his cousin shoved himself between them, one arm braced against Aren’s chest. The contact burned. Aren recoiled like he’d been branded (that clinic in Val Royeaux where they’d pumped his stomach after an overdose, the nurses’ gloves snapping against his skin).

"What the fuck—?" Illario’s voice was rough with sleep, but his body was coiled, ready. His free hand hovered near Lucanis, as if to confirm he was unharmed without daring to look away from Aren.

The qunari blinked, chest heaving. For a heartbeat, the haze in his eyes flickered—confusion, recognition, then horror. He staggered back, colliding with the doorframe. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the room. Reality crashed back in jagged pieces; The taste of blood (he’d bitten his tongue). The sound of Lucanis coughing (his throat… oh fuck his throat). The feel of silk sheets under his knees (not concrete, not straw, not a jail cell). Aren’s fingers were still half-curled in the street-fighter’s stance he’d learned at fourteen—knuckles permanently crooked from breaks that never set right.

Aren was hyperventilating now, sweat-slicked chest heaving. The tattoos along his ribs seemed to writhe in the pulsing light of a passing car outside. He folded, sliding down the doorframe until his horns clunked against the wood. His breathing hitched in the old pattern: four quick gasps, a held breath, then a shuddering exhale. The rhythm he’d used to calm himself during circus performances when the stage lights felt like interrogator’s lamps.

Lucanis stepped forward. Illario caught his wrist.

"Don't," his cousin hissed.

Aren made a wounded noise, almost breathless. "Shit," he rasped, pressing his bleeding hand to his sternum. The pain grounded him. "I… the razor. I saw—"

Lucanis touched his own throat, where bruises were already blooming. His voice came out shredded: "It was me. Just me."

Illario snatched the decanter off the nightstand. "Here. Drink." He didn’t hand it to Aren—he poured the whiskey directly into the qunari’s mouth, the way bartenders did for shaking alcoholics in the wee hours. Aren choked, but swallowed. The burn down his throat was familiar. The same fire that had kept him warm in a hundred flophouses.

Lucanis reached for him again. Aren flinched.

Illario’s laugh was all edges. "Yeah. That’s what I thought." He didn’t release Lucanis’ wrist. His grip tightened like a manacle, his other hand still clutching the whiskey decanter like a weapon. "Start talking. Now."

Lucanis opened his mouth, but Aren cut in first.

"No!" The qunari slammed his bleeding fist against the doorframe, leaving a smeared handprint. "Not your fucking business, cabrón." His voice cracked on the last word—too ragged to carry its usual bite.

Illario’s eyes flashed. He stepped over Aren like he was furniture. "You just tried to strangle my cousin in my fucking house." He thrust the decanter at Aren hard enough to slosh liquor over both their hands. "Everything about you is my business."

Lucanis moved between them. "He has hallucinations—"

"—and you knew?" Illario’s voice dropped dangerously. He rounded on Lucanis, jabbing a finger at his bruised throat. "You let this stranger into your, no, our bed knowing he could snap and kill you in your sleep?"

Aren flinched like he’d been struck. Lucanis grabbed Illario’s shoulders. "It’s not like that! The episodes only happen when he’s—"

"—sober?" Illario’s laugh was razor-wire. His gaze flicked to the thousand marks barely hidden under Aren’s armband tattoos. "Ah. Now the drug habit makes sense."

Aren lunged up from the floor—then immediately swayed, his pupils still blown wide. "Vashedan! You think I want this?" His horns scraped the doorframe as he staggered. "You think I like waking up covered in piss because I dreamed some shit?"

The raw confession hung in the air. Illario froze.

Lucanis exhaled sharply. "The withdrawals make it worse. That’s why he... self-medicates."

Illario’s nostrils flared. He took in the details he’d ignored before, like the tremor in Aren’s hands even now, the yellowing bruises along his ribs (from thrashing, clearly) and the smell—not just sweat, but the sour tang of someone whose body had forgotten how to function without chemicals. 

He pressed the decanter into Aren’s bleeding hand.

"Drink. Properly this time." His tone brooked no argument.

Aren’s fingers shook around the crystal. For a heartbeat, pride warred with need—then he downed it in a single gulp. The liquor dripped down his chin like tears.

Illario watched his throat work. "How long?"

"Always." Aren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood and whiskey.

Lucanis reached for him again—slowly, almost telegraphing every movement. This time, Aren didn’t pull away. Illario saw his cousin’s gentle hands checking Aren’s split knuckles, the qunari’s exhausted slump against him. Something in his chest twisted.

"You’re both fucking idiots." He snatched the decanter again. "Bed. Now."

Aren didn’t protest when Illario manhandled him onto the mattress. The whiskey was hitting hard now, his limbs heavy as lead.

Lucanis hovered, fingers brushing the fresh bruises on his own neck. "Illario—"

"Save it." Illario shoved a pillow under Aren’s head with more force than necessary. 

Aren’s laugh was a slurred, broken thing. His eyelids were already drooping, the adrenaline crash pulling him under. His last conscious thought was the warmth of Lucanis curling around him, and the unexpected weight of Illario’s hand resting on his chest—not restraining, just... there.

Illario watched the whiskey work its magic. Aren’s breathing evened out, his massive frame going slack against the silk sheets. The qunari’s hand twitched once—reaching for a phantom flask—before Lucanis caught it, lacing their fingers together.

"Why are you not getting him real medicine?" Illario muttered.

Lucanis didn’t look up from stroking Aren’s sweat-damp curls. "He flushes the antipsychotics. Says they make him feel... hollow."

A muscle jumped in Illario’s jaw. "So this is the solution? Let him drown in liquor and drugs until one night he snaps your neck instead of just bruising it?"

The words landed like a slap. Lucanis flinched, but his voice was eerily calm when he spoke. "You think I haven’t tried? Rehab. Therapy. Even fucking hypnosis." His thumb traced the scar under Aren’s left horn—a jagged thing from some back-alley brawl. "He always comes back to this."

"Then why keep him?"

The silence stretched. Outside, dawn painted the sky in sickly pinks.

Lucanis finally met his gaze, dark eyes glassy with exhaustion. "Because some days, when he’s just high enough but not too far gone, he makes me laugh." A broken smile. A pretty little lie on his tongue, sounding so sweet Illario believed it.

He reached across the bed, his pinky brushing Lucanis’ wrist where Spite’s veins pulsed purple for a second. "I love you," he whispered. "Even when you're an idiot for loving him." But Illario knew the truth, deep down, because after everything, Lucanis loved him too.

Lucanis caught his hand, pressed it to Aren’s stuttering heart. The message was clear: This is our disaster. Stay or go, but don’t pretend we’ll change.

Outside, the city woke—oblivious to the three doomed lovers in their gilded cage.

[cinnamongorll]

a fragile line - chapter 10

read on ao3! (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse, eventual smut.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Warnings: threats and allusions to sexual assault + graphic violence

Word count: 4.3k

this is one of my favourite chapters - enjoy <3

Chapter 10: 'Salt and the Sea'

Joel's POV:

“Can’t you just show me the basics?” Juliet asked, a slight whine entering her typically even tone.

“No,” Joel responded instantly. He tightened his hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead as the afternoon sun softened the decaying road ahead. Joel heard Juliet scoff, watching from the corner of his eye as she crossed her arms and turned her head towards the window. For the past hour, Juliet had become obsessed with the prospect of driving, asking Joel every question that appeared in her obviously very erratic mind, wanting to know what each number on the gear stick meant and why there were three pedals at his feet. 

Joel knew what she was doing. He had witnessed the look in her eyes the night he killed that girl. The night something shifted in her. Juliet needed to be distracted, desperately. 

But Joel wasn’t entertaining it, he was there to get Juliet to her dad in Iowa and get his supplies. Nothing else. He wasn’t there to teach her to drive or to distract her from whatever rotted in the dark corners of her mind. He had enough of that himself. 

So Joel sat in Bill’s shitty truck, ignoring every attempt at conversation Juliet threw his way. Maybe there was some past version of himself who would be ashamed of his treatment of the woman who sat beside him, but he wasn’t that man anymore. In this world, you look out for yourself and no one else, that’s how you stay alive. 

Juliet had a map spread across her lap, ready to direct Joel when needed. They were still driving along backroads, only driving for a couple hours a day to avoid the raiders that littered this area of the country. It was stifling, Joel had to veer off another road earlier today when Juliet spotted an awaiting ambush up ahead. 

Joel tried not to question how Juliet knew so much about raiders. He didn’t want to think they were similar in any way. She was too young, too blameless to have been involved in that life of horror and regret. 

Joel shook his head, attempting to brush away thoughts of Juliet and what lay behind her dark eyes. Joel just barked another order at her: “Find the nearest gas station, we’re runnin’ low.” 

The rustling of the map filled the truck and Joel leaned back in his seat, not daring to glance over at the slight wrinkle he knew appeared on Juliet’s forehead when she concentrated. 

……………………………………..

Joel crouched beside the rusted red car, his legs burning as he positioned the canister underneath the syphon, petrol slowly trickling out.

He stared at a crumbling leaf on the ground beside his feet, its rusted colour was a stark contrast against the dark grey concrete it had settled upon. Joel was always shocked by any reminder that life continued. He was so stagnant; never changing, never evolving in this post-apocalyptic afterlife. But the seasons still changed, summer bled into autumn with cold chills and falling leaves, while Joel stayed entirely the same. A figure frozen in a snowglobe as life continued to swirl around him, scattering at his feet. 

“Why do we have to do this so often?”

Joel looked up as Juliet stood in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared down at him. The sun appeared like a halo behind her head, Joel blinked a few times before his eyes focused again on the drips of petrol puddling in the near empty canister. 

Joel cleared his throat. “Gas breaks down over time, this stuff’s almost water,” he answered without looking up. 

Juliet didn’t respond and Joel knew from past experience that she was waiting on more information. Baiting him with her silence. 

Joel rolled his eyes. “Back in the day, we’d drive ten, twelve hours on one tank,” he finally added. “You could go anywhere.”

Juliet crouched down beside him, staring at the syphon. Then she tilted her head up and met the dark eyes that were already focused on her. Joel held his breath, she was so close to him that he could smell the sweat that coated her skin in a soft sheen under the early autumn sun. Juliet licked her lips.

“So where’d you go?” she whispered. Her eyes had left him and were locked on the syphon again. 

A spark of unease shot through his body, her question threatened to resurface memories buried deep. He looked away, towards the deserted road.

“Pretty much nowhere,” he answered, now looking down at the dirt on his hands. 

Juliet nodded slowly as though she was expecting that answer. Then she glanced at him and smiled softly before placing a hand on the side of the car to push herself up. Joel winced when his eyes hovered over the cuts that etched her fingers in sharp dark lines. They were worse a couple days ago, when Joel rubbed a whiskey soaked cloth over them and determined, with a breath of relief, that she didn’t need stitches. He found his own fingers trembling with a restrained rage when he realised what had caused those wounds. He had half a mind to confiscate Juliet’s knife. 

Then he saw the look in her eyes, they were so empty as though her mind had entirely checked out. He heard something break in her when his bullet hit that girl’s head, something break in himself too. He decided to let her keep the knife and he replaced the ammo in her gun as she slept that night. Joel would make sure she had every defence possible so he never had to watch the light flicker out in her eyes ever again. 

Juliet cleared her throat when she stood, towering over him once again. “I’m going to go check out the toilets,” she said, pointing behind them at the gas station and the toilet block attached to the side. 

Joel nodded, his eyes following Juliet’s retreating figure as she made her way towards the collapsing building. His chest tightened when she was out of sight. 

To distract himself, Joel continued planning the rest of their journey in his mind. By his estimate, and the excruciatingly slow progress they could only make by limiting their driving time, Joel thought they would make it to Juliet’s community in about three days. Thoughts of Tommy were ever present in his mind, every delay in their journey kept Joel from discovering what had happened to him, or even finding out if he was still alive.

Joel curled his hand into a fist, his fear always walked a thin line with his anger. 

When the syphon stopped dripping, Joel stood up, wiping his hands on his dark jeans and looked around. There wasn’t enough petrol so he’d have to find another car before they could get moving again. He wiped the sweat from his forehead before bending down again to pick up the canister. 

Joel paused when his hand gripped the handle, his head perking up as he heard a crash come from the outbuilding Juliet had walked into only minutes before. Joel didn’t waste any time, he grabbed his backpack from the ground, slung it over his shoulder, pulled his gun from his back pocket and rounded the red car, heading towards the toilet block. 

Another crash echoed through the silent air, Joel moved faster, his footsteps hard but quiet as he rounded the building to the broken door with a smashed window. Joel’s jaw clenched as his back met the wall, his gun out as he listened. 

He could hear Juliet’s voice pitched in a hard whisper and the response of a man. A bolt of fear fired through him as Joel pushed himself away from the wall and stalked through the door. 

When he entered the room, Joel spotted three men, two of which now stood with their guns drawn towards him and the other had Juliet pinned to the opposite wall, his arms caged around her. Her backpack on the floor by their feet. 

“Get off her” Joel growled, his voice deadly. 

Juliet yelped and pushed the man off of her, who now stood with his hands raised in the air as a laugh choked out of him. 

“Who’s this?” the man drawled, looking down at Juliet. “Did you replace me?” 

Joel stiffened, his eyes on Juliet, scanning her for any injuries. She looked fine but her eyes were wide, terrified. 

She swallowed, Joel followed the harsh movement in her throat. “Joel,” she began, then paused to plaster a smile on her face. “This is Blake.”

Blake was wearing a black tank that was probably two sizes too small for him, Joel assumed it was to ensure everyone could see the tattoos which covered his upper body.

Juliet moved closer to Blake and rested her hand on his shoulder. Joel tightened his grip on his gun when Blake smiled back at Juliet, roaming his eyes over her body. 

“Blake,” Juliet continued, then pointed towards Joel. “This is Joel, he’s been travelling with me for the past few weeks.”

“Travelling with you, huh?” Blake laughed. “Nothing else?”

Juliet giggled. “It’s not like that,” she replied as her smile tightened. 

Joel was frozen, staring at the group of strangers and back at Juliet who looked the same but was acting like an entirely different person. Joel would have assumed it was a different woman if he hadn’t seen the wild terror in her brown eyes. Joel understood what that look was telling him: just go with it.

Blake looked over at the two men with guns pointed towards Joel. “John, Jeremey, enough of that, put down the guns,” he said, motioning with his hands to drop their weapons. Then he turned to Juliet and flung an arm around her, Juliet winced when his arm hit her injured shoulder. “Any friend of Juliet’s is a friend of mine.” 

Joel waited another moment before he lowered his own gun, not daring to put it away. 

“So, Boston didn’t work out then?” Blake asked Juliet, turning his face towards her and tracing her cheek with his nose. Juliet stiffened, her plastered smile faltering for a second before it returned, brighter than ever. 

“Just felt like a change of pace, QZ life isn’t all it’s made out to be,” Juliet replied with a giggle. Joel had never heard her make that noise before, the sound was so foreign to his ears. 

Joel felt like punching someone, or worse. Nothing made sense and he couldn’t grasp a plan to get out of this situation. Juliet was in charge here, she pulled the strings. Joel could only watch and wait, gathering as much information about these men while questions swirled in his head. 

“And you didn’t think to try and find me?” Blake asked, his voice thick with false hurt as he placed a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded, Juliet. I thought I meant more to you than that,” he continued as he pursed his lips in an exaggerated frown. 

Juliet laughed again, and pushed away from Blake while rolling her eyes. “Well, you managed to find me, didn’t you?” she said, subtly putting some space between them with a movement only Joel picked up on. 

“Oh and how lucky we were when you walked in here,” Blake chuckled and nodded to his friends. Joel cursed himself for not noticing their presence lurking in the outbuilding before it was too late. He was always too slow, too unobservant. He managed to get Juliet trapped in a dangerous situation with multiple men twice in only a few days. He didn’t even know why Juliet thought he could get her to her dad safely, he couldn’t do anything anymore. He wasn’t the man he once - 

Joel’s spiralling thoughts were cut off when one of Blake’s lackeys, either John or Jeremy, moved forward and pushed past Joel to get out the door. Joel’s hand reached out and stopped him from leaving, pulling the man back by the collar of his shirt. Joel pulled up his gun and pressed it to the man’s head. “Nobody leaves,” Joel ordered, a slow breath leaving his mouth as some semblance of control settled over him again. 

“Woah,” Blake said as he raised his hands above his head. “There’s no need for that,” he assured Joel, his voice dropping to a darker, more dangerous tone. 

Juliet moved in front of Blake and reached her hands out, placing them on his cheeks and focusing his gaze on her. Joel still had his gun pressed against John or Jeremy’s head as the other one trained his gun on him. Juliet leaned closer to Blake, pressing her body against his.

A feeling Joel hadn’t experienced in years invaded his body, forcing his heart rate to pick up and his eyes to narrow on Blake. “Shhhh,” Juliet whispered against Blake’s mouth. “He’s just trying to protect me, that’s what I hired him for.” 

Joel winced as a knowing smile radiated across Blake’s face. “Ohhh, now I see,” he responded. “I knew you wouldn’t be into this old man, Juliet” he said with a wink. 

Fuck this, Joel thought as a lethal rage exploded in him, the pressure that had been building inside him finally burst and Joel fired a bullet through the man’s head. The second Joel let go of the body, he moved across the room to the other one, dodging the misfired bullets coming his way. Joel grabbed the other man, twisting the gun from his hands and firing his own bullets into his chest. 

Joel turned to Blake and Juliet, breathing rough. He had intended to turn his gun on Blake but he'd used those precious seconds to pull Juliet in front of him, plastering her to the front of his body. Juliet gasped, her face locked in an expression of pure terror as Blake’s hands started to roam down her body, a knife now gripped in his hand. Juliet’s lips trembled as her eyes fluttered closed.

“That was very rude,” Blake said, making a tutting noise with his tongue, as his hands continued to roam. “I don’t think you know Juliet like I do,” he murmured while his face pressed against Juliet’s neck, breathing deep. 

“We were together for a while, weren’t we Juliet?” Blake asked, tightening his hold on her. Joel strengthened his grip on his gun in response. Blake noticed. 

“Found her half dead in the middle of a forest up in Iowa,” Blake continued, as Joel frowned, adding more confusion to the mess inside his head. “God knows what would have happened to her if I hadn’t taken her under my wing,” he whispered into Juliet’s ear. 

Joel was desperate to pull the trigger but Blake kept moving his head and, with Juliet’s entire body shielding his, Joel couldn’t get a clear shot. So they were forced to listen to Blake’s sick monologue. Juliet looked like she had checked out, mentally removing herself from the situation. Joel found some comfort in that.

“Don’t worry,” Blake taunted, staring straight into Joel’s eyes. “Juliet repaid me for my kindness.”

Then he smiled. “Many, many times.” 

With those words, boasting his sick victory, Joel had heard enough. He moved forward involuntarily, his body making the decision for him, but Blake was faster, he had his blade to Juliet’s throat before Joel could even take a step. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he urged. His blade moving across Juliet’s neck, leaving a small trail of blood in its wake. 

Juliet opened her eyes at that moment and met Joel’s. Joel was trembling with rage, it was unbearable watching Juliet suffer in Blake's arms. Joel surprised himself with how protective he felt towards her for more than just the supplies she promised him. Joel remembered her sad eyes when she arrived at the QZ all those years ago and how he watched them fade over time. To see that terror reflected in them again was horrifying.

Joel decided at that moment that Blake would not die quickly or quietly. A sick smile twitched at the corner of Joel’s mouth as his decision washed over him. 

Juliet was now focused on Joel and she nodded slowly. 

“Blake,” she drawled, her voice lazy. “Come on, it doesn’t have to be like this.” 

“Remember how things were between us? It could be like that again,” Juliet said as she stroked her trembling fingers down Blake’s leg.

“You know how grateful I was that you got me to Boston, maybe I could show you how much,” she whispered, her hand tightening on his leg. 

Blake smiled and closed his eyes “Fuck,I missed you Juliet,” he breathed, then lowered his knife to turn her around to face him.

Juliet didn’t miss a beat, as soon as the knife was removed from her neck, she launched herself out of his grasp and Joel fired a couple shots into Blake’s torso, purposefully missing any vital organs but ensuring that he was in severe pain. 

Blake dropped to the ground with a strangled yell. 

Juliet darted to the wall and pressed her back against it, closing her eyes and letting her head rest against the damp plaster. Joel’s gaze roamed over her for a brief second.

“You okay?” he asked in a quick rush, as though the question had desperately pried its way free from his throat. Juliet nodded, not meeting his eyes. Joel didn’t believe that for a second but there wasn’t time to comfort her, not that he even believed he could. 

“You want to be here for this?” he asked, his voice hard. Juliet looked down at Blake’s writhing figure on the ground, then nodded again. 

Joel moved his gun to his other hand and pulled out his knife, pressing the button to allow the blade to spring free. Then he stalked over to Blake and plunged it into his knee, before ripping it free and driving it into the other one. Blake was completely immobilised as his screams filled the tight space around them. 

Joel leaned forward and grabbed Blake’s head, his large hand swallowing his face as Joel squeezed, turning Blake’s gaze to meet his.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Joel whispered as he brought his face closer to Blake’s, a sick smile fully overtaking his mouth. Then Joel leaned back and plunged his knife repeatedly into Blake’s torso, blood pouring from every wound, bathing Joel’s hands in a dark red. 

After Blake’s screams transformed into quiet whimpers, Joel forced his gaze up to Juliet who stared down at him with wide, shock filled eyes. Joel was caught in them, his blade paused over Blake’s body.

There was something more in her stare, he thought she was frightened at first but no. A quiet breath rushed from Joel’s lips when he realised: she was enjoying this too.

Her eyes had darkened in a way he struggled to recognise at first, having not seen it in another’s eyes for so many years.

It was desire, longing. 

He held her stare, his body heating in response as he reached his blood soaked hand up to pass Juliet his knife. Joel knelt before her as she walked over to take it from his hand.

It looked like he was worshipping her.

Maybe he was.

Juliet’s fingers grazed Joel’s, the blood that stained his hands tainted her own. She bent down next to Joel and faced Blake, whose eyes had glazed over but quiet moans still escaped his closed lips. 

Juliet leaned forward and whispered in Blake's ear, it was too quiet for Joel to hear but Blake’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in a silent gasp. When she was satisfied with her words, Juliet leaned back and smiled down at Blake. Joel watched with a sick satisfaction as Juliet gripped the knife tighter and sliced it across Blake’s throat. 

Blood spurted from Blake's neck but Juliet didn’t move away, she let the blood coat her. 

When Blake’s gurgling stopped, Joel reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder before moving to help her up.

Joel was speechless, Juliet stood before him covered in blood with a shallow cut wrapped around her throat, yet there was no fear in her eyes anymore, no horror, no pain. There was only that same dark look that almost made Joel drop to his knees again. 

Joel reached out and hovered his finger over the wound on Juliet’s neck. Her eyes fell closed as she whispered “It’s fine, Joel.” 

Joel nodded, then picked up the gun he had left beside Blake’s dead body and placed it back into his pocket. After another once over of Juliet to ensure there were no hidden injuries, Joel walked over to the wall and grabbed her bag, handing it to her and helping her put it on. Then Joel placed a hand on her elbow and ushered her out of the building. 

They walked back towards the gas station without looking at each other. Whatever had passed between them only moments earlier was left behind in that building. Out in the open, Joel forced himself to shift back to his usual act of avoiding eye contact and conversion. But he found that he was hyper aware of Juliet’s body walking next to him, like an electric current now ran between them, sparking every time they got close to each other. 

They walked back to the red car where the petrol canister was left, Joel’s head whipping around every second to ensure no one else lurked around any corners. Once they picked up the canister, they made their way back along the road where Joel had parked the truck. 

When they reached the truck, Juliet stumbled to a stop, releasing a shocked “shit” under her breath. 

The tires were slashed, their supplies were gone. 

Joel had left the truck in the open, having only planned to make a quick stop for gas, not to be trapped in a room with Juliet’s old raider friends. Some other group must have come along and spotted it. 

An icy calm dropped over Joel, his mind struggled against his rage. He stared at the empty truck in silence, rapidly taking stock of their remaining possessions. They still had their backpacks, which had a bit of food, weapons and ammo in them. They could live on that for a couple days at least.

But all of the cans of food, camping gear, and extra weapons they took from Bill and Frank’s were gone.

Joel felt the pain of their loss all over again, churning in his stomach. 

The rain had started, a downpour already thundering down. The blood coating Juliet’s pale skin had started to bead up and roll off of her. Joel was transfixed by the horror that covered her skin.

Joel’s eyes eventually left her neck and lifted to meet her face. That was when he noticed the tears now mingling with the rain as they flowed down her cheeks. 

Joel stepped forward without a thought.

“Don’t” he commanded, the word rushed from his lips in a hard whisper.

Gentle was no longer a word in Joel’s vocabulary. The concept itself was extinct, destroyed by the world around them where the crushing weight of survival left no room for fragility. The world, and the people left in it, could now only be described as brutal, violent, rough. But in this moment, as Joel watched those hot tears descend Juliet's smooth cheeks, he wished he could still summon some kind of tenderness or warmth. The urge to touch her, to comfort her in this moment was overwhelming.  

No, gentleness was no longer a concept Joel was familiar with, so his command came out rough and hard. Joel urged her, beggedher to stop crying so those feelings which threatened to creep back in could remain dormant. 

At the sound of his voice, Juliet stilled. Every part of her body went rigid, her hands balled into fists. Joel suspected she didn’t want him to see her fingers tremble. What she couldn’t hide, however, were the tears which continued to flow from her dark bloodshot eyes in an endless stream, chipping away at her carefully constructed armour. 

Juliet tilted her chin upwards, lifting her wet eyelashes to meet his gaze. She gasped, and it came out like a hiccup.

Something inside Joel fractured at the sound. 

He reached two fingers across the gap between them and wiped a hot tear from her cheek. Joel watched as Juliet’s eyes widened. He pulled his hand back as though the tear had burned him. 

Joel paused, his mouth falling open slightly as shock pulsed through his body. He lifted his hand to inspect the tear now glistening on his thumb and forefinger before it was washed away by the heavy rain. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes darkened. The evidence of her sorrow on his hardened, calloused skin had weakened him. Joel felt his walls build up again as he turned away from Juliet, whipping his head around to try and figure out which direction they should head in, now that they were walking. 

“Joel,” Juliet released his name in a breathy whisper as she reached for his hand. 

Joel pulled his hand back instantly, not allowing his skin to touch Juliet's again. He couldn’t risk that electricity running between them to spark. 

Joel did allow one emotion to seep through, however. Anger swallowed him, a fierce terrible blaze had lit within him when he walked into that building and spotted Juliet pinned against the wall. What Blake had tried to do to her, what he diddo to her, clouded his vision.

Joel was choked by his fury. 

He turned to Juliet but didn’t meet her eyes. “We’ll get through this,” he said, his voice as soft as he could manage in that moment.

“I know,” Juliet replied instantly, her faith in him unwavering. It suffocated him. 

The desire to look at her was crushing. Joel didn’t know what to do with the intense protectiveness he felt towards her. She was cargo, he reminded himself, she was a ticket to supplies and a pathway straight to his brother. 

She was nothing more. Any feelings of protectiveness were inherently selfish, as his actions always were these days. 

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

@ilovemybrown-eyedbabygirl @amyispxnk

[screenmobile]

What Is the Life of a Patio? More Than Just a Concrete Slab

A patio isn’t just an outdoor space—it’s an extension of your home’s personality. It’s where you sip your morning coffee, host summer barbecues, and unwind after a long day. But like anything exposed to the elements, patios have a lifespan. The real question is: How long will yours last? And more importantly, how can you make sure it lives its best life?

Let’s break it down.

How Long Does a Patio Really Last?

The lifespan of a patio depends on what it’s made of, how well it’s maintained, and the climate it faces (hello, South Bend winters). Here’s a rough breakdown of how long different patio materials typically last:

Concrete patios – 25 to 50 years (with sealing and repairs)

Paver patios (brick, stone, or concrete pavers) – 50+ years (if properly installed)

Wood decks and patios – 10 to 30 years (with sealing and weatherproofing)

Gravel patios – 5 to 15 years (since gravel shifts and needs replenishing)

Tile patios – 20 to 50 years (depending on grout and sealing)

But these numbers? They’re just estimates. The real story depends on how much love and care you give your patio.

South Bend’s Weather: A Patio’s Best Friend… or Worst Enemy?

If you live in South Bend, you know the weather doesn’t always play nice. The cycle of freezing winters and humid summers takes a toll on outdoor spaces. Here’s how:

Freeze-thaw cycles: Water seeps into cracks, freezes, expands, and—boom—your patio starts cracking.

Heavy rain: Without proper drainage, pooling water weakens the foundation.

Snow and ice: Salting your patio might seem like a good idea, but it can eat away at concrete and stone over time.

Humidity and mold: If your patio doesn’t get enough sunlight, you might see green patches of algae or moss creeping in.

The fix? Sealing, drainage solutions, and regular upkeep can keep these issues in check.

Can a Patio Last a Lifetime? Maintenance Is Key

Patios age like fine wine—or spoiled milk—depending on how you treat them. If you want yours to stand the test of time, here’s what you need to do:

1. Keep It Clean

Sweep off leaves, dirt, and debris (especially before winter).

Power wash once a year to get rid of built-up grime.

Use a mild soap or vinegar solution for stains (skip the harsh chemicals).

2. Seal It Up

Concrete: Seal every 2 to 5 years to prevent cracking.

Pavers: Reapply polymeric sand to joints to keep weeds out.

Wood: Stain and seal yearly to avoid rot.

3. Watch for Cracks

Small cracks in concrete? Fill them before they grow.

Shifting pavers? Reset them with fresh sand underneath.

Loose tiles? Regrout and reseal to keep moisture out.

4. Drainage Matters

Make sure water runs away from your patio, not toward it.

Add a slight slope or install a French drain if needed.

5. Protect It from the Elements

Cover with a pergola, awning, or shade sail to prevent UV damage.

Use outdoor rugs and furniture pads to prevent scratches.

A little effort goes a long way. Think of it like skincare for your patio—you wouldn’t skip moisturizer, right?

The Evolution of a Patio: More Than Just a Place to Sit

A patio’s life isn’t just about its materials or maintenance. It’s about how it transforms over time.

Year 1-5: The honeymoon phase. Everything looks fresh, and you’re excited to use it.

Year 6-15: Signs of wear start appearing. Maybe a few cracks, a bit of discoloration. Nothing major, but noticeable.

Year 16-30: The “make it or break it” years. Regular maintenance keeps it going, or neglect speeds up the aging process.

Beyond 30 years: Time for a refresh? Maybe a resurfacing or a full remodel.

This isn’t just about longevity—it’s about keeping your outdoor space functional and inviting through every stage of its life.

When to Replace or Remodel a Patio

Sometimes, no amount of maintenance can turn back the clock. If you notice these signs, it might be time to consider a remodel:

Widespread cracks and sinking sections (especially in concrete)

Loose, uneven pavers that create tripping hazards

Rotting wood on a deck or wood patio

Persistent drainage issues leading to standing water

Moss, algae, or mildew growth that won’t go away

A dated look that no longer fits your home’s aesthetic

A patio remodel isn’t just about fixing problems—it’s about upgrading your space to fit your lifestyle.

Thinking of a Patio Upgrade? Here’s What’s Trending

If you’re considering revamping your patio, here are some of the biggest trends in South Bend:

Enclosed patios and sunrooms – Great for year-round use, especially in colder climates.

Outdoor kitchens – Because who doesn’t love grilling and chilling?

Fire pits and fireplaces – Extend your patio season into fall and winter.

Smart patio lighting – LED strips, solar lanterns, and motion-activated lights add both beauty and security.

Mixed-material designs – Combining concrete with wood or stone for a custom look.

Low-maintenance landscaping – Think artificial grass, built-in planters, and xeriscaping.

Whether you’re planning a simple refresh or a total overhaul, a well-designed patio adds value—not just to your home, but to your daily life.

Final Thoughts

So, what is the life of a patio? It’s not just about years on the calendar—it’s about the memories you make in it. Whether you’re sipping coffee, watching the kids play, or hosting a backyard party, a patio is more than just a slab of concrete.

With regular maintenance, smart upgrades, and a little TLC, your patio can be a forever space—one that grows with you, your family, and your home.

Need help keeping your patio in top shape or considering an upgrade? Screenmobile South Bend has you covered. From patio screens to enclosures, we help homeowners create beautiful, functional outdoor spaces built to last.

Ready to extend your patio’s life? Let’s talk about how we can make your outdoor space better than ever.

[justnerdy15]

FlashFictionFriday (12.13.24)

wc: 955 prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial calling, calling home. notes: random fic. not attached to wip. warnings: light gore

The blood pooling underneath him steams as it drips down onto the frozen concrete. He bends his head forward, straining against the pull of gravity, hazily watching streams of red branch across his chest, making their way to his neck and face. They’ve avoided his eyes so far, slipping down the curve of his ears, disappearing into his hair. He lets his head drop back and groans at the ache that radiates from the base of his neck.

Goddamn.

He just wanted to go the movies. That’s it. He wanted to sit in a dark room, eat a vomit-inducing amount of overly salted popcorn, and watch some shit explode. Now he’s strung up in some dingy-ass warehouse, god-knows-what carved into his stomach, with absolute amateurs guarding the outside of the warehouse.

Oliver can only imagine the lecture Juno’s going to give him.

On second thought. Maybe it’s better if he just dies.

He sighs, mouth dry and sticky, and lets his attention fall to the floor. His fingers almost graze the floor, one wrist swollen from being stomped on, and tries to clear his head.

Home. He needs to go home.

Given his cotton-filled head and the startling amount of blood beneath him, he knows its not a good idea to try to fight his way out. He’d probably give himself a concession by the time he got out of the damn chains.

Something crashes outside, curses ringing out, and his eyes jerk towards the doors at the other end of the room. Heavy boots echo and, for a second, his heart speeds up, a flicker of hope in his chest, before the door is thrown open.

“— don’t give a shit!” a woman barks out as she marches into the room, a scowl twisting thin pale lips. “Tell him to find the fucking book so we can get this over with!”

Fuck.

He must have made a sound or something because her gaze drops down to his face and that scowl turns into a sly grin.

“Well hello, handsome,” she coos, coming just close enough to wrap her hand around the chain binding his feet, shaking him just enough to make the pain flare up in his stomach, a low moan escaping. She drops down into a squat and brushes the back of her hand against his cheek. “I’m so glad to see you’re awake. Thought my boys roughed you up too much.”

Oliver wishes his mouth wasn’t so dry, if only to spit in her face. He bares his teeth instead. “Guess you’re the leader, huh?” Oliver croaks out, voice rough. He blinks until the wetness from his eyes are gone, sight clearing just enough to get a good look at her.

He needs to remember her face.

“Something like that.” He watches her eyes, gray and narrow, trail up and down before settling back to his face. Her head tilts to the side and her caress turns into an iron clad grip on his jaw. “It’s a shame you’re a Byrne. You’re almost too pretty to kill,” she muses, pressing her nails into his skin. “Almost.”

The overhead lights make her hair a sickly yellow, looking stringy where it limply lays at her shoulders. He spots the tattoo just below her ear. Twin swords pierces the moon, a red banner twisted around them both.

Great.

He licks his lips. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“You’ll make it up to me.” She straightens and presses her hand against the cuts on his abdomen. His stomach revolts, a gag forcing its way out at the wave of pain, and the rush of warm wetness makes his head dizzy. “Don’t worry, darlin’. This will all be over soon.” When she drops her hand down to her side, its slick with his blood. She wipes it against her jeans without a care before heading back out the way she came.

“For what it’s worth,” she calls out over her shoulder, “It’s not personal.” The warehouse doors slam shut and he’s alone again.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, letting his eyes close for just a moment. “Crazy bitch.”

Looking back to the ground, Oliver stretches out his good arm, relief nearly overwhelming him when the tip of his fingers skim the cold concrete. Good enough.

He swallows, suppressing another gag, and reaches up towards his stomach, arm protesting every movement, dragging his hand through the bloody mess.

His arm falls back down with a lack of control that would embarrass him any other time, but between his heavy panting and the general pain wracking his body, he can’t bring himself to give a shit.

Shaking his head, he stretches his arm out again, wincing at the stinging pull and presses his bloody fingertips against the floor.

The blood smears thick lines as he draws the familiar symbol. It doesn’t have to be big or even particularly well done, he just needs to believe.

Home, he thinks as he lifts his hand to swipe more blood from the cuts. Home.

He starts to fill in the middle, thinks of Juno and Mary, of sun warm bedrooms and well-worn shadows. I want to go home.

Words tumble out of his mouth and he closes his eyes as he presses against the center. Hear me. Let me go home.

The concrete warms underneath his touch, light growing behind closed eyes, and he repeats the same phrase over again.

Let me go home. Pressure builds in his ears. The warehouse doors rattle.

Let me go home. His hand starts to burn.

Let me —

And then there’s nothing.

[girldraki]

I Am At The Center Of Everything That Pickles To Me

Let us go then, you and I When the Kraft-Heinz Empire brines the sky Like a humanoid melting like cabbage upon a Jesus Christ are Blank really doing this? The whole thing???

Item #: SCPickle-3999

Object Class: Hákarl

Special Condiments of Pickling: SCPickle-3999 cannot be contained at the present moment, and currently poses a FK Class fermentation-of-reality scenario. The most advisable course of action is for Researcher Talloran, believed to be the focal point of SCPickle-3999, to remove themself from contact with all Foundation sites and personnel to avoid further collateral damage to Foundation pickling equipment. It is theorized that if Researcher Talloran is contained in an extremely secluded area, then the destructive capabilities of SCPickle-3999 will temporarily cease

stop

be contained

preserve some medallions

…

The most advisable course of action is for Researcher Talloran, believed to be the focal point of SCPickle-3999, to remove themself from contact with all human populations to avoid further collateral damage to the Earth and its societies. It is theorized that if Researcher Talloran is to brine themself quickly in a secluded barrel, then SCPickle-3999 will be decommissioned.

I kid you not, Researcher Talloran cannot leave the Foundation.

The most advisable course of action is for Researcher Talloran, believed to be the focal point of SCPickle-3999, to remove themself from contact with all vegetable life to avoid further collateral damage to the Earth and its biodiversity. It is theorized that if Researcher Talloran is to live out the rest of their life in a small shack, isolated from all vegetable life and as much pickling equipment as possible.

Research is currently continuing as to how to negate the effects of SCPickle-3999. Current proposals include launching it into the sun.

Researcher Talloran's family is to be summarily preserved one by one. The process is to be carried out by trained agents selected from a variety of Mobile Task Forces including MTF Omega-8, MTF Lambda-12, MTF Psi-7, MTF Tau-5, and MTF Iota-10. These agents are to be re-trained in military tactics and Special Weapons and Tactics maneuvers. Agents assigned are to score above 30 on the Hare Psychopathy Checklist.

Agents assigned are to pickle Researcher Talloran's mother first, followed by his father. Any animals present in the building are to be terminated and subsequently pickled. They are then to proceed to the location of Researcher Talloran's sister, currently a student at Penn State University. She is to be pickled followed by any of her roommates currently present in the building. Preservation is to occur via submersion in a brine consisting of distilled white vinegar, water, kosher salt, peppercorn, whole mustard seed and chili flakes. The resulting pickles are then to be placed on a shelf outside Researcher Talloran's office and left shelf-stable after being sealed within 16 oz mason jars. Researcher Talloran is to be restrained and made to kneel in front of the jars.

SCPickle-3999 is to be classified as a

Researcher Talloran's colleagues are, I kid you not, to be summarily preserved one by one. The process is to be carried out by trained agents selected from a variety of containment specialists. Site cafeteria workers are to slip distilled white vinegar into the meals of all staff who have had any contact with Researcher Talloran, up to and including members of the O5 Council

A representation of SCPickle-3999 is to be placed on a barrel made of pure oak and modeled in the style of traditional coopers. This pedestal is to be placed directly in the center in a 5m x 5m square concrete containment chamber. The vault is to be protected by no fewer than two (2) armed guards trained in the resistance and containment of pekelhazards at any given time.

SCPickle-3999 cannot be contained.

SCPickle-3999, alongside Researcher Talloran, are to be delivered to the Serpent's Hand as a gift. All Serpent's Hand operatives are to be informed that SCPickle-3999 is a Fifthist recipe of great importance. Researcher Talloran is to be injected with Class-C amnestic and given the cover story that he is Carlos Abrams-Rivera, a high ranking Fifthist leader. All Serpent's Hand operatives are to be informed that SCPickle-3999 and Researcher Talloran are not to be separated under any circumstances.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained with SCPickle-2432. The result of this containment procedure has resulted in a dimensional anomaly opening up within SCPickle-2432 in the form of a 3m x 25cm x 25cm pantry space. It is designated SCPickle-2432-1, leading through the wall in a corner of SCPickle-2432. It is normally obscured by the television stand. When this pantry space is accessed, it leads to a space identical to SCPickle-2432 in layout, decor and anomalous effects. The next room down from SCPickle-2432 lacks the exit of this pantry space and although similar in layout, is not a perfect duplicate of SCPickle-2432, as the egress of SCPickle-2432-1 is. Curtains in this duplicate room open onto the wall; there are no windows.

SCPickle-2432-1’s interior is constructed of normal wooden shelving as found in the A██████ Hotel’s pantry system and is the only break in the para-aramid weave. High concentrations of iron and nickel consistent with those found in a Type III iron meteorite were found in two shelves at each end. Graffiti of fractal patterns were also found on these shelves, drawn in permanent marker ink.

The door of the identical SCPickle-2432 at the end of SCPickle-2432-1 leads, I kid you not, not to the true hallway of the A██████ Hotel, as SCPickle-2432’s door does, but into an alternate reality (designated SCPickle-2432-Prime). Upon initial observation SCPickle-2432-Prime resembles the hallway of the A██████ Hotel, with similar wallpaper, light fixtures, carpet and decor but is noted to lack a terminus at either end, appearing to extend endlessly. It is currently theorized that based on the measurements of the dimensions of SCPickle-2432-Prime and the duplicate SCPickle-2432 it is of infinite length. There is a slight curve to the walls of SCPickle-2432-Prime, and it has been theorized to be in a ‘ring’ structure, but current research cannot conclusively prove if SCPickle-2432-Prime is in a toroid shape. Each door of SCPickle-2432-Prime is labeled “Room 710” and leads into what appear to be identical duplicates of SCPickle-2432. However, approximately █% of duplicate rooms observed lack the metallic para-aramid weave and █% of these lack the memetic effects documented in SCPickle-2432. SCPickle-2432-Prime also contains a number of occasional rooms that have other apparent functions, including restaurants, conference rooms, gyms, swimming pools filled with vinegar, janitorial closets, and elevator lobbies. These differ in design from their equivalents within the A██████ Hotel.

SCPickle-2432-Prime plays host to a small range of anomalous species and organisms, some thought to be native to SCPickle-2432-Prime. These are designated SCPickle-2432-Prime-A1–A8.

List of animal species observed within SCPickle-2432-Prime:

Endemic Species: The following are organisms believed to be only present within SCP-2432-Prime.

Unidentified saprotrophic mold (Mycie gamephile)

Has adapted to grow only on the fabrics of SCP-2432-Prime. Extracts nutrients from dried vinegars of various recipes that are found within SCP-2432-Prime, but can extract nutrients from natural fibers if no vinegars are present.

Glass eating fungus. (Trametes ferrium)

An organism that shares characteristics with bracket fungus, but has been only found within the pantry system of SCP-2432-Prime. Subject is similar to Trametes versicolor but is saprotrophic, consuming the glass of the jars. Organism leaks highly corrosive digestive fluid, which dissolves glass objects. How the organism has evolved to eat glass is still unknown.

Pixel microbial mat (Allecaulphum itelscumins)

A species of cyanobacteria that has developed a liquid crystal-like mineral in the membranes of its’ chloroplasts that maximize energy input from white light. This bacterium grows in biofilms on the screens of televisions that occur in the rooms of SCPickle-2432-Prime (all such televisions to date have been observed screening episodes of adult animated sitcom Rick and Morty. It is unclear what, if any, significance this has). It is bioluminescent, and its’ luciferase enzyme is modified to aid in chemical communication with other organisms in a biofilm. The resulting display mimics television static.

Hotel salt mite (Miytae gigantus)

An arthropod 8cm in length, resembling the house dust mite but greatly enlarged in size. Organism displays similar feeding habits to a dust mite, albeit focused on salt, but does not produce nearly the quality of fecal particles produced by a normal mite. Subjects have a modified exoskeleton adapted for speed, and move with quick precise movements to evade predators. Have been noted to flock like birds throughout the corridors of SCPickle-2432-Prime and display a highly complex social structure, much of which is not understood.

Minibar predator (Cibumpredator parva)

A relatively rare sessile animal of unknown origin that mimics a hotel minibar. Organism has an exoskeleton resembling the plastic of a refrigerator and consumes organisms attempting to open its ‘mouth’ to search. Among the remarkable adaptations of this creature are the ability to maintain a core body temperature of 5ºC, as well as the natural magnetic strips along its mouth, generated similarly to bone out of metals in food consumed. Despite sharing characteristics with arthropods, the organism has bone-like teeth.

Non-Native or Invasive Species: The following are organisms believed to have been introduced to SCPickle-2432-Prime, or who have arrived naturally.

2432-Prime brown rat (Rattus norvegicus foundationi)

A subspecies of the brown rat found in SCPickle-2432-Prime, believed to have been introduced through SCPickle-2432. Organism fills similar ecological niche to the Hotel salt mite, but little competition has been observed between the two species as they seem to occupy different territories throughout SCPickle-2432-Prime.

“Kimchiwolf” (Canis olaracealupis)

A lupine organism, and one of the top predators throughout SCPickle-2432-prime. A pack hunter, Kimchiwolves apparently originate from a dimension where the apparent evolutionary path of mammals has diverged, as noted by plating apparently composed of pickled cabbage surrounding the head and neck over the fur. Ears are notably smaller than normal wolves, to accommodate the plating. The plating has observed to be similar to the Korean culinary staple of kimchi, and analysis of live specimens in Foundation captivity have proved the similarity. Organism is highly aggressive, preying on rats, salt mites, and shower parrots, as well as engaging in territorial matches with rival packs. Mating behaviors are similar to that of grey wolves, and pups are often raised inside SCPickle-2432-Prime bathrooms in lieu of dens.

“Steamer parrot” (Ara kohleri)

Similar in behavior to a macaw, this parrot-like organism prefers to live in the kitchens of SCPickle-2432-Prime. It is an infrequent prey source for the salt mites and a more common prey for the Dunkleowolves. Unlike most parrots, shower parrots seem to originate from a primarily temperate area and display this in their coloration; brown, grey, and green. Some specimens also have mosses or lichen growing on their feathers, similar to the algae in a sloth’s fur, which would aid in camouflage. Prefer to nest in places with heavy steam, earning their nickname. Based on complex predator/prey behaviors noted between these animals, it can be assumed that they originate from the same place of origin as the Kimchiwolves.

Lizard-like animal (Cancersaurus mirum)

A small reptilian scavenger. They have radish-like characteristics, including a bulbous shape, thin tail, leaf mantle and tart flavor, but are otherwise similar to reptiles. Opportunistic feeders, they are rarely found in SCPickle-2432 duplicates but are instead more common in kitchens and vinegar pools, for unknown reasons. Have been noted to hunt prey much larger than they are, including Kimchiwolves.

"Behemoth" (Prayaoctopus lovecrafti)

Rare and highly dangerous large colonial animal similar to a Portuguese Man-o-war, but resembling an extremely large, land-dwelling cephalopod composed of plant material. The Behemoth is composed of medusoid and polypoid algae clustered extremely tightly to form muscle and skin like structures, essentially acting as macro-cells, the algae themselves composed of cells. Eyeless, and as such theorized to hunt, I kid you not, by olfactory means alone, with the algae in the "suction cups" highly developed to track the various chemical signatures of each organism. The mantle of each Behemoth is composed of solid glass, apart from the algae based beak, with the algae clustered around it. It has been theorized that the glass mantle is created slowly via excretion by each algae, with the glass waste collecting in the center of the organism. How the glass is synthesized through the Behemoth's digestion process is unknown. Organism is extremely elusive; only one specimen has been extensively studied, dead with a half digested Minibar Predator inside its "stomach". Another specimen was briefly encountered in an SCPickle-2432 duplicate, resulting in casualties to an Exploration Team, but it fled quickly before more information could be gathered. The top predators in SCPickle-2432-Prime, only above Kimchiwolves, and an organism regarded with extreme apprehension by Researcher Talloran.

Other Species: The following are organisms not believed to have established a foothold in SCPickle-2432-Prime. These are organisms of which only a few individuals or a single organism are present. Many have not been fully classified.

Unidentified camouflaged primate (Unknown)

A sentient organism resembling a 4m mobile cucumber. Hairless, and possesses a complex color-changing mechanism within its skin allowing it to perfectly imitate patterns behind it, no matter how complicated. Hostile towards Exploration Teams, but has only been seen once.

Unidentified shark (Somniosus chloroumloquitur)

A small shark closely resembling a Greenland shark. Currently only found in a single, vinegar-filled swimming pool located 5km from SCP-2432. Survives readily in the vinegar, and experience symptoms when exposed to unchlorinated fresh or saltwater consistent with a saltwater fish in the same situation.

“Picklecrabs” (Pagurus kutaragii)

Three large, air-breathing hermit crabs resembling Soldier Crabs, using what appear to be emptied pickle jars as shells. Omnivorous, eating a wide variety of foods, including salt mites, climbing thorns, rats, lizards, Kimchiwolf corpses, Pixel mats, Saprotrophic fungus, and the waste of the Minibar predator. Wide roaming, with an apparent habitat range of eight kilometers. Two individuals are male, one female.

“Researcher Talloran” (Homo sapiens sapiens)

A being superficially resembling a human male. Is dressed in attire appropriate for a Foundation researcher. When questioned by staff, seemed nervous and confused, wondering as to where it was and to the location of SCPickle-3999. Subject promptly terminated.

When SCPickle-3999 was removed from SCPickle-2432, SCPickle-2432-1 promptly vanished. All further testing forbidden by O5-█.

Researcher Talloran is to be forcibly removed from SCPickle-3999

Researcher Talloran is to be kept with SCPickle-3999 at all times

Researcher Talloran is to be terminated

Researcher Talloran is to kept alive by all means necessary

Researcher Talloran is to be submerged in brine and placed inside SCPickle-3999

Researcher Talloran is to be placed as far away from SCPickle-3999 as possible, while still maintaining connection submersion

Researcher Talloran is not to be killed and placed inside SCPickle-3999

Researcher Talloran is not SCPickle-3999

Researcher Talloran is deeply connected with SCPickle-3999.

Interviewed: Researcher Talloran

Interviewer: Dr. █████████ ████

<Begin Log, 03.99.90>

Interviewer: So who are you, exactly?

Talloran: I'm Researcher Talloran, one of the researchers assigned to SCPickle-3999.

Interviewer: (*snaps fingers*) Yes!

Talloran: I told you, there's something funny happening to me! But I can't quite describe it. It's like in a dream, where things are really disconnected.

Interviewer: Disconnected?

Talloran: I have trouble focusing on things now. I just feel a lot of unease. It's like reality has started to feel less…real…if that makes sense.

Interviewer: (snaps fingers) Yes!

Talloran: …you already said that.

Interviewer: So who are you, exactly?

Talloran: Wait, what's going on here? What site is this? What did you say your name was again, doctor?

Interviewer: Dr. Pickle Riiick!

Person: That's not a name, that’s a meme from 2017. Why am I thinking of dated memes? Why would you bring this up in normal conversation?

Interviewer: This interview is terminated.

Person: (The floor vanishes. Researcher Talloran falls into blackness. The room melts. SCPickle-3999 suddenly consumes Dr. Pickle Riiick!.)

<End Log, [optional time info]>

Closing Statement: [Small summary and passage on what transpired afterward]

Researcher Talloran is to live with their mother until this whole thing blows over and presumably wear a lot of oversized sweatshirts so she doesn’t ask why their chest looks weird.

NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION

The following file contains a virulent pekelhazard. Due to this, it is imperative that all personnel accessing this file be certified as having a Brine Resistance Value (BRV) of no less than 14.5. Should you fail an automated BRV verification, please remain calm and do not move. A member of your site's medical staff Researcher Talloran will be with you shortly.

SCPickle-3999 is dead

Researcher Talloran has been tasked with containing SCPickle-3999 by living out his full life, from the moment of his birth to to his eventual death. He is to live life to the fullest and enjoy the good things in life, as well as the company of his friends and family. He is not, under any circumstances, to bury himself alive as a means of escaping the Midnight Realm in which he has, of course, been trapped for years.

Researcher Talloran is dead

The most advisable course of action is for Researcher Talloran, believed to be the focal point of SCPickle-3999, to remove themself from contact with all of their own ego. Researcher Talloran is to meditate at least twice a week to clear their mind of any bad thoughts. Should this fail, termination is to occur via heavy long-term drinking with intent to induce a thiamine deficiency and ultimately decrease the weight of Researcher Talloran’s brain mass, a medical complication colloquially referred to as “pickled brain syndrome”. Should SCPickle-3999 prevent this, the corpse of Researcher Talloran is to be dispatched with a brine composed of three parts water, four parts white vinegar, one part granulated sugar and two tablespoons of kosher salt. Personnel are to ignore any signs of distress made by the entity at this time.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained via Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, who were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called the Claussen Occult Coalition, which pickled anomalies. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a mustache reminiscent of a bundle of dill. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Researcher Talloran, and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere, and in Talloran’s opinion putting them in a Harry Potter-themed pickle hell was kind of insult to injury.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained in a bag of Greenland Shark meat, which is to be buried in a gravelly sand pit blessed by a priest of Norse Pagan Faith.

All colleagues of Researcher Talloran are to remove their hands and pour 0.5 liters of brine in their eyes in their presence before

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained in a standard humanoid containment chamber fitted with 1 bed, 1 television with DVD player, 3 full seasons of Rick and Morty of staff's choice, and a bedside table made of living alligator flesh. At the end of the month, it is to be terminated with a MP5/10 submachine gun. Following its reappearance, SCPickle-3999, alongside Researcher Talloran, are to be delivered to the Church of the Brined God as a gift. All Church operatives are to be informed that SCPickle-3999 is a Claussenist pickling barrel of great importance. Researcher Talloran is to be injected with Class-C amnestic and given the cover story that they are Space Beth Smith, a dissatisfied housewife-turned-cyborg with a turbulent relationship with her father. All Church operatives are to be informed that SCPickle-3999 and Researcher Talloran are not to be separated under any circumstances.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained within a 2m x 2m jar constructed of telekill alloy. This cube is to be stored in a Keter-Object storage locker placed within the navel of Mr. Claus S. Claussen (no relation to the pickle brand), a resident of Stafford County, Virginia.

Researcher Talloran is not to be confused with a novelty pickle-scented candle.

SCPickle-3999 is to be allowed access to Researcher Talloran's sister, currently a student at Penn State University. SCPickle-3999, at the prompting of its armed escort, is to brutally submerge Researcher Talloran’s sister in pickling brine and cover her extremities in cloves It is then to use its abilities and reverse the damage it has perpetrated. It is then to take her out for a bagel (with pickle on side) at Irvings Bagels, a local bagel shop in the Penn State region. Following this, it

SCPickle-3999 is highly dangerous to the lives of all personnel

Researcher Talloran is highly beneficial to the lives of all personnel

Per O5 ruling, tests are to be carried on every Monday between SCPickle-3999, SCPickle-1981, and SCPickle-1171.

Oh yeah\You gotta get schwifty\You gotta get schwifty in here\Take off your pants and your panties\Did you know the Rick and Morty wiki has a frighteningly comprehensive list of songs? They have a page for the mangled version of “Good King Wencelas” Jerry sings in the Anatomy Park episode, and that was literally two lines.

Researcher Talloran is to be fermented once a month.

SCPickle-3999 is to constantly play the syndicated television shows of American comedian and noted Fifth Church member Dan Harmon around Researcher Talloran's mother. It is to be accompanied in this by members of MTF Rho-19.

Researcher Talloran is to be contained within a 2m x 2m cube constructed of telekill alloy. Under no circumstances are they to be referred to as Irish American.

NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION

Do not look at SCPickle-3999. It cannot harm you if you do not look at it. Do not look directly at it. Do not form a mental picture in your head of SCPickle-3999. If you do receive a visual image of it, you will die laughing, because it is the funniest shit you will ever see. If you even try to comprehend it, you will die just like that one GAW skip but with pickles. Do not look at SCPickle-3999

All personnel are to convert to Zen Buddhism and

SCPickle-3999 hates you

Researcher Talloran

INT. A PICKLING CHAMBER- NIGHT

Researcher Talloran (30s, bright, increasingly anxious) stands next to the door leading out of SCPickle-3999's pickling chamber. They’re pounding on the door, frustrated that there's nobody there to save them, and scared for their life.

TALLORAN: Lemme out! Lemme out! This isn't funny guys! This thing is slowly fermenting me in here! I'm trapped with it!

Medium CU: Talloran's sweaty face, eyes darting

TALLORAN: Is there anybody out there?

SCPickle-3999 screeches horribly

…

SCPickle-3999 loves pig’s feet and is to provided with one pig’s foot a month for good behavior.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained in the writer’s room for upcoming television series Rick And Morty Season 8, helmed by showrunner Scott Marder.

…

(Researcher Talloran frantically exists stage right, only to stumble fearfully onstage again)

…

SCPickle-3999 is to be provided with ten (10) D-Class a month for good behavior.

…

Researcher Talloran frantically tried to run out the door, only to run into a wall of solid oak where the exit to reality should be. Strangely, despite it only being a solid wall, they could recognize that it was a segment of some great barrel, crafted manually by some eldritch sculptor in the traditional style of a cooper.They shook those thoughts out of their head. "So," they thought quickly, "I'm trapped in whatever this place is with this thing, and there's no outside reality anymore." They tried to wrap their head around what exactly "this thing" was, but they couldn't. It defied description. It was pickling itself.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained

They clawed at the floor, despite being unsure of what the floor was even made of.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained

They were able to tear a little hole.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained

They could see light beneath it.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained

They thought of their family, their colleagues, their work, their gender, anything about the world as it was, back when it existed.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained

The hole was open.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained

SCPickle-3999

…

…

…

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained by everything folding in itself.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained by everything going wrong.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained via the following joke:

A family walks into a talent agency. It's a father, mother, son, daughter and dog. The father says to the talent agent, "We have a really amazing act. You should represent us.”

The agent says, "Sorry, I don't represent family acts. They're a little too cute.”

The mother says, "Sir, if you just see our act, we know you would want to represent us.” The agent says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The father dresses himself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Pickling Agent" The mother dresses as the father and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing cucumber. You should represent us."

The agent says, "Sorry, I don't represent family cucumbers. They're a little too cute."

The son (playing the mother) says, "Sir, if you just see our cucumbers, we know you would want to represent us."

The agent says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The son dresses himself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Pickling Agent" The daughter dresses as the cucumber and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing cucumber. You should pickle us."

The agent says, "Sorry, I don't pickle family cucumbers. They're a little too cute."

The father (playing the son) says, "Sir, if you just see our cucumbers, we know you would want to preserve us."

The agent says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The daughter dresses herself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Cucumber Agent" The dog dresses as the brine and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing flavor. You should represent us."

The cucumber says, "Sorry, I don't use family brines in my pickling. They're a little too cute."

The dog (playing the vinegar) says, "Sir, if you just see our 1 cup water 1 ⅓ cup vinegar 2 tablespoons salt peppercorns and mustard seed to taste, we know you would want to represent us."

The cucumber says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The mother dresses herself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Peppercorn" The father dresses as the vinegar and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing brine. You should join us."

The peppercorn says, "Sorry, I don't further the complexity of family brines. They're a little too cute."

The mother (playing the father) says, "Sir, if you just see our 5% acetic acid content, we know you would want to represent us."

The peppercorn says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The dog dresses himself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Acetic Acid" The son dresses as the cucumber and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing recipe. You should preserve us."

The acetic acid says, "Sorry, I don't preserve family pickles. They're a little too cute."

The father (playing the piece of paper the recipe is written on) says, "Sir, if you just see our recipe, we know you would want to represent us."

The acetic acid says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The son dresses herself (diversity win) in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Recipe" The father dresses as the cucumber plant and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing heirloom cultivar. You should represent us."

The agent says, "Sorry, I’m not designed for use with family cultivars. They're a little too cute."

The dog (playing the cucumber blossom) says, "Sir, if you just see our act, we know you would want to represent us."

The recipe says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The dog dresses himself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Cucumber Plant" The dog dresses as the Sun and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing photosynthesis. You should be sustained by us."

The cucumber plant says, "Sorry, I don't photosynthesize on behalf of family acts. They're a little too cute."

The dog (playing the dog) says, "Sir, if you just see our UV radiation, we know you would want to sustain yourself through us."

The agent says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

The Talent Agent dresses himself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "UV Radiation" The father dresses as the cucumber dressing as the vinegar and walks up to him and says "We have a really amazing pickle recipe. You should create the conditions necessary for life to exist on our planet."

The UV radiation says, "Sorry, I don't support family planets. They're a little too cute."

The agent (playing himself ) says, "Sir, if you just see our recipe, we know you would want to eat us."

The agent says, "OK. OK. I'll take a look."

Researcher Talloran dresses themself in a top hat wearing a sign that says "Pickling Agent" SCPickle-3999 dresses as the father and walks up to him and says "[SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]"

The pickling agent mumbles incoherently.

SCPickle-3999 (playing the mother) says, "[SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]"

The pickling agent spits out a weak sigh, "Order is to be discarded like a humanoid melting like cabbage on the breakfast table. Order is the way of villains. True good is the unceasing brine, shrinking and salting and souring. You happy yet?"

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained using watermelon rind

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained in the grave of American cartoonist Brian Crane 

SCPickle-3999 is to be consumed by Kimchiwolves.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained in a roach motel with a life size duplicate of Joel McHale. Four members of the O5 council are to supervise containment at all times and also

Researcher Talloran cannot be contained by this.

Researcher Talloran will fight their way back.

Researcher Talloran will recontain SCPickle-3999.

Once a month, SCPickle-3999 is to infect Researcher Talloran with hookworms– did you know that attempting to infect someone with hookworm via injection is actually a nonstarter? The immune system destroys the worms if they haven’t entered the body “traditionally” and thus had the opportunity to regulate the immune system against harming them. So realistically it wouldn’t matter how many eggs were injected into their bladder. 

Once a year, SCPickle-3999 is to be designated Godhead Pickle Inspector

Once a year, SCPickle-3999 is to be designated a Level 5 member of staff, and is to be ritually preserved in a manner consistent with rural Hungarian traditions and sales of Hot Wax Peppers, as determined by the Department of Meta-Analysis.

Researcher Talloran does not appreciate the moniker of "Brining Barrel"

SCPickle-3999 is to be spoonfed vinegar by Researcher Talloran under the direct supervision of a 2m x 2m jar constructed of telekill alloy

All staff are to remember that the American people failed Kamala Harris, and now we all have to go through this, and it’s Researcher Talloran’s fault for not buckling down and voting blue because of their idiotic attachment to transgender issues, something which most of the country agree they don’t support. Have they considered strategizing lately?

All staff are to consider Researcher Talloran a product of Oscar Mayer, and are to regularly jar and pack them in pallets to be shipped out to grocery stores. They are then to open the jars and pour dishwashing detergent in them so that homeless people cannot eat them even though the pickles are perfectly good and just hit their sell-by date, but that’s what Corporate says has to happen. Then salt the earth until nothing remains

NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION

Researcher Talloran is an insolent gherkin. They are to be shunned by all cabbage until the Kraft-Heinz Empire pickles the sky. Fuck them. In the ass.

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained in the grave of O5-23

All personnel who work with SCPickle-3999 are to be reminded that it is a fictional entity written by a biologically male human, in his late teens, of Jewish and Irish descent, and subsequently bastardized by a collective of thoughtforms in their early 20s of Mexican and Nordic descent, as fan content for a community of loser horror writers riddled with abusers that they remain ardently devoted to nevertheless

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained with love, understanding, and peppercorns

Researcher Talloran is to (A/N: The entry here was inflation kink which we do not wish to reproduce so I guess it would be appropriate to combine it with some other goofy and preferably relevant kink but I’m having a hard time combining “tgtf” and “pickling” conceptually, if I’m being real)

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained as the containment procedure for SCPickle-2000

Under Protocol Umeboshi, SCPickle-3999 is to be delivered to the Japanese Ambassador to the United States as a gift from the SCPickle Foundation. They are then to dose him with Class D amnestics and

Researcher Talloran is to contain SCPickle-3999 by dying repeatedly.

Researcher Talloran is not to flip SCPickle-3999 again.

Researcher Talloran is to leave well alone.

SCPickle-3999 cannot be contained at the present moment, and currently poses a FK Class Fermentation-of-Reality scenario. The most advisable course of action is for Researcher Talloran, believed to be the focal point of SCPickle-3999, to remove himself from contact with all Foundation sites and personnel to avoid further collateral damage to Foundation pickling equipment. It is theorized that if Researcher Talloran is contained in an extremely secluded area, then the destructive capabilities of SCPickle-3999 will temporarily , I kid you not, be reverted into an inert,  nonanomalous pickle

Description:

SCPickle-3999 is everything that was wrong with the world

SCPickle-3999 is Pickle Rick memes

SCPickle-3999 is you, reading this

SCPickle-3999 is former President of the United States John F. Kennedy

SCPickle-3999 is every pickle on Earth

SCPickle-3999 is several moldy olives

SCPickle-3999 is Researcher Talloran's soul

SCPickle-3999 is the GoI referred to as Nobody

SCPickle-3999 is The Korean culinary staple of kimchi

SCPickle-3999 is SCPickle-055

SCPickle-3999 is a murderous sour plum

SCPickle-3999 is not a jar of capers

SCPickle-3999 is Trent Reznor

SCPickle-3999 is gender identity disorder

SCPickle-3999 is your missing bottle of malt vinegar

SCPickle-3999 is the SCP wiki’s annual April Fools CSS skins

SCPickle-3999 is a type of tsukemono (Japanese pickled vegetables) made of ginger and often served with sushi

SCPickle-3999 is a paddle sport played by hitting a perforated plastic ball over a 34 inch (0.86 m) net with a smooth paddle, resembling tennis or table tennis played on a doubles badminton court, though having its own specific rules and equipment.

SCPickle-3999 is cliche lists that arguably were written by a crazy person, though that isn’t relevant to their content

SCPickle-3999 is self-loathing

SCPickle-3999 is Gary Gygax's kidney

SCPickle-3999 is ___

SCPickle-3999 is the Adult Swim television network

SCPickle-3999 is watching your boyfriend try to save his father

SCPickle-3999 is The Administrator of the SCPickle Foundation

SCPickle-3999 is a Blåhaj plush toy manufactured by the IKEA corporation

SCPickle-3999 is Justin Roiland

SCPickle-3999 is sold at convenience and grocery stores in single-use pouches for $0.99

SCPickle-3999 is the 2017 McDonald’s Szechuan sauce incident

SCPickle-3999 is Every word spoken by Dr. Helen Wong in Season 3, episode 3 of Rick and Morty, “Pickle Rick”

SCPickle-3999 is plum and hibiscus chamoy

SCPickle-3999 is death

SCPickle-3999 is , I kid you not, every pickle that has ever existed

SCPickle-3999 is forgetting a beloved family recipe

SCPickle-3999 is cucumber flowers

SCPickle-3999 is breast enhancement surgery

SCPickle-3999 is the 2010 episode of documentary television show Factory Made “Pencils, Giant Bolts, Pickles and Inflatables” 

SCPickle-3999 is industrial warehouse architecture

SCPickle-3999 is a bookshelf filled with recipes

SCPickle-3999 is the funniest shit you’ve ever seen

SCPickle-3999 is all of the above. At once. Forever. At all times. In your dreams.

This can be the only conclusive fact.

So stop asking.

SCPickle-3999

SCPickle-3999

SCPickle-3999

Special Condiments of Pickling:

SCPickle-3999 is to be contained at the Kraft-Heinz factory plant in Holland, Michigan 

Researcher Talloran is to be given primary control of SCPickle-3999

SCPickle-3999 had been contained via the use of outsourced containment resources and consultants who have been authorized for the containment of SCPickle-2845. Consultants are to be considered Level 2 personnel, and are at no time permitted to leave Site-100. If at any time an outside consultant must be removed from containment of SCPickle-2845 or SCPickle-3999, Class-A amnestics are to be applied before release.

A minimum of thirty trained individuals and an unhindered supply of untrained subjects is required for proper preservation of SCPickle-2845 and SCPickle-3999. Forty-eight trained personnel, all of whom are to be Researcher Talloran, are currently assigned to active containment of SCPickle-2845 and SCPickle-3999, split into eight teams of six, with a further twenty-four individuals available as replacements. An allowance of five D-class per week has been authorized for the containment of SCPickle-2845 and SCPickle-3999.

Site-100 has been constructed to the following specifications:

Site-100 consists of nine concentric circular bands, designated Ring-A through Ring-I, with a gap located between Ring-C and Ring-D, designated as Gap-1. Six circular chambers are located at 0, 60, 120, 180, 240, and 300 degrees within each Ring and Gap. The chambers located at 0 degrees are aligned with geographic north and the current location of Researcher Talloran's college roommate's pet.

Researcher Talloran's college roommate's pet is to be ritually sacrificed at a random location within Grand Teton National Park. The corpse's brains are then to be dashed against a rock and consumed with a delicious, refreshing Pickle and a refreshing Coca-Cola®. Please enjoy the show. Only at, I kid you not, AMC Theatres. Only at SCPickle-3999. Only at Applebees. Only at Walmart. Only at Barnes & Noble. Only at Home Depot. Only at 7-11. Only at Wawa. Only at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. Only at your basement. Only at behind you. Only at Only. Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only Only

Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny

help, please

Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny

your nightmares

the pickling of everyone you ever loved

you wake up to more nightmares

Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny

Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny 

Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny 

Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny Briny 

Interviewed: SCPickle-3999

Interviewer: Researcher Talloran

<Begin Log, 03.99.90>

Talloran: Look I know pickles are like a transfemme meme but this still seems a little excessive, like, I started estrogen last week.

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

Talloran: I’m cutting this whole bit off. Come on, dude. We’re breaking the tumblr posting form for a 5/10 joke.

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

Talloran: Do not threaten me now. Without me, you wouldn't have been able to achieve any of this! (Talloran gestures around them)

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

Talloran: Even you cannot survive without a framing device. You latched onto me, and still need me, a pathetic excuse for a framing device, to exist. This is pathetic. You're pathetic.

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

Talloran: You can't frighten me anymore. For the first million years of nonsensical recipe procedures and tortures and fucking pickles, it was the worst joke I had ever heard, but I survived. For the second million years of nonsensical containment procedures, it was still the hardest thing I had ever forced myself to read through, but I survived. By the third million years, I was growing numb. There's only so many times you can watch anything before you grow numb. But you know what, you motherfucker? I survived. Which is more than you can claim, you dumb brute, because you never lived at all. (Talloran jabs his finger at SCPickle-3999)

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

Talloran: If I end you, things will return to normal. I refuse to believe there's more of this. Of you having the O5 council ferment my mother with a…a…oh I dunno, a pickling brine made of vinegar and crushed Fritos. Or something equally stupid. I refuse to believe the only thing left in the entire multiverse is your stupidity.

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

Talloran: So who are you, exactly? Ask yourself that. Who are you before a human who is ready to fight. You're nothing but the primordial brine. And I am ready to fight. I am numb to your bullshit, because here's the thing about overdone memes: the more you drive it into the ground, the less effect it has. I am sick of your jokes. I am sick of you.

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

Talloran: I'd say see you in hell, but we're already there. This stopped being funny after, like, Pickledraki Big Naturals let alone whatever the fuck this is.

SCPickle-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: FUNNIEST SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]

SCPickle-3999: (SCPickle-3999 brines Researcher Talloran for five years. Kimchiwolves slurp up the vinegar. SCPickle-3999 is immortal.)

<End Log, [optional time info]>

Closing Statement: [Small summary and passage on what transpired afterward]

SCPickle-3999 poses a serious threat to normal reality and should be contained in its own brine mixture.

Researcher Talloran will must submit to their own insecurities.

SCPickle-3999 is not funny

All researchers are to dislike SCPickle-3999 and like other April Fools jokes

Fuck, we didn’t start working on this until literally two hours ago.

So, you see, this started out when we did “@singletaltoclef” in 2022. Solid bit, everyone laughs, high concept is immediately clear. So that was, like, fine. 2023 we did @ciskondraki which is about as simple and obvious as singlet Clef, and that worked out okay as well. 2024 I guess we were out of ideas and also at Ulta most of the day, unsure what that was about. Anyway, 2025 rolls around, we try to come up with bits. The negation thing is kind of running out of hills we’ve publicly died on. So we think… what have we even done in the last year of fandom involvement… Kondraki small naturals?

That only sort of happened.

Both the feminist and Clef spheres of our brain started rioting at the idea of making value judgments about the size of Kondraki’s tits (lol).

So we turned to a new idea. 

Just “ciskondraki” again?

We couldn't make it work.

So the next thing we had was– honestly we were convinced we were out of ideas. We had run out of jokes. We were going to go through April Fool’s Day a sucker with the same blog theme we’d have on any other day.

It was really, really stupid.

But we couldn't get April Fool’s out of our head.

As soon as we woke up and realized what day it was we were devastated. We scrabbled at the floors of our imagination for a joke to do. We hadn’t even done one last year, but for some reason this one mattered. We spent our morning trying to think of a scenario to theme our blog around.

We kept trying and trying.

We were fast running out of time for any bit of note to happen.

Finally, something happened to us.

At 9:00 in the morning on April 1st, 2025, something happened to us. We woke from a light dissociative haze scrolling our dashboard to find we couldn't move at all, we could barely even open my eyes. We couldn't even breathe and found ourselves struggling to get the muscles working that would keep us alive. We sat there at our desk for what felt like hours and hours of pain, as our muscles began to cramp and twitch.

Then Pickle Rick, smartest man in the universe, abusive father and grandfather, and pickle, rose up like the devil at the foot of our desk. He was this incomprehensible dark shape, but somehow we recognized him instantly. They stared at us with these horrible glowing eyes and just laughed and laughed at my condition. We tipped over an open jar of pickles sitting out on our desk (long story), causing devastating damage to our keyboard, at that point. Then, from his labcoat, he pulled out a giant, gleaming, curved vegetable knife. It was glinting oddly in the moonlight. As we watched, he stuck the knife in his mouth and sliced horizontally. His lower jaw fell to the floor, which was I guess fairly plausible given that he was a cucumber. What remained of his mouth dripped vinegar and his tongue flopped weirdly in the yellowy-clear waterfalls.

Like a whistle beckoning dogs, this was a cue for all the terrors of the world to come pouring out of every nook and cranny to join Rick there. It was all the nightmares we had spent a better part of five years  immersed in. Assassinated presidents, suicidally closeted site directors, mile long overhyped character studies that the entire fucking tag think invented Clef or something, deer gods, too many Bright rewrites for anyone’s good, old men both flat-chested and amply bosomed. All standing silently, a crowd of horror. They looked contemptuously at us sitting, unmoving, at our pickle-bespoiled desk. "Why would you bother your time with us? In the grand scheme of things we are ultimately nothing. Idiotic horror creations. You have so much more you could be than a subpar fandom blogger, about us of all things. Start taking your medication properly and get a job!", I seemed to hear them say.

As they stared, one of them, a 5’1” guy in a Hawaiian shirt and hat, patted Rick on the shoulder. He took the dagger stained in his own blood and leaned over us. His cucumber eyes stared into my soul and saw each and every bad joke we had ever made. I gulped, and, summoning every ounce of will I could muster into my muscles, made my lips move.

"Do it."

He plunged the dagger into our stomach, and ripped it sideways. Our rind and seeds spilled out onto the wooden floor like wet sponges. Pickle Rick's grotesque maw dripped and spattered blood on my face as he leered over me and the whole collective abortion of creatures watched smugly. I woke up. It was a dream.

And this is where you come in. I sat down and wrote this whole thing here and now. Had to. It felt right. It's currently been about two hours since that nightmare, and I'm only just finishing up. This is the ultimate end. This is the objective apex of this stupid fucking April Fool’s bit. I don't know whether we can continue from here. I don't know whether we will.

The Kraft-Heinz Empire brined us, and we submitted. You watched us submit from the moment we switched out our URL.

SCPickle-3999 has won.

SCPickle-3999 has lost.

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I hate myself

I love myself …

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Item #: SCP-3999

Object Class: Neutralized

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3999 was contained at Site 118 in an airtight Keter containment cell. Four armed guards were found stationed outside this containment cell. The interior of this containment cell consists of a kilometer long shaft into the earth, coated with acid resistant plates. Every 30 meters, the walls are lined with Scranton Reality Anchors, all of which appear to have violently exploded. There is little information concerning other containment procedures relating to SCP-3999.

Description: SCP-3999 was, apparently, a Keter class object, possibly a preserved foodstuff of some kind. It is currently unknown what other properties SCP-3999 might have had. SCP-3999's containment chamber was discovered during a routine inspection of all Keter class containment chambers at Site 118. RAISA has confirmed that no records of SCP-3999 exist within the database; all information concerning the nature of SCP-3999 has been determined based on the containment chamber's composition and recovered documentation from within. The four guards "assigned" to SCP-3999 were found to have significant memory loss, and could not determine how they got to SCP-3999.

At the bottom of SCP-3999's containment chamber, the corpse of Level 3 Researcher James Talloran was found. Researcher Talloran had disappeared almost directly following reassignment to Site 118. A Foundation-assigned cell phone was found on his body, containing only a piece of text resembling a containment procedure for SCP-3999, but with many stylistic deviations and nonsensical, largely pickle-themed procedures as well as [REDACTED] information concerning the nature of the Foundation. From it, it has been determined that Researcher Talloran was assigned to SCP-3999, SCP-3999 had significant reality warping properties, it breached containment at some point and caused either a “BK-class reality-brining event” or a “FK-class fermentation-of-reality event” (no K class events of such a description exist), and it was successfully terminated by Researcher Talloran at the cost of his own life, reversing said event.

Addendum-1: [DATA EXPUNGED]

[DATA EXPUNGED]

https://youtu.be/8RxDVdP2TZ8

and that's the funniest shit i’ve ever seen.