#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.

[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.

[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!

[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….💗

[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

[thehomophobe]

Cash. 

You need it. I need it. We all need it. 

"Money can't buy you happiness" is a term of phrase you hated the most, with "Money doesn't grow on trees" being second place. Without it, how the hell are you supposed to sleep in a bed, or eat, or bathed and clothed yourself. "Money can't buy happiness", whoever coined that phrase should go fuck themselves. 

Your kvetch muttered around your mind, fogging it like a thick cloud of black smoke. You thought the alcohol would clear it out, but it only made it worse. It added a flood to your brain, rocking it like a boat on a stormy day. Great, another bad decision added to your huge pile. First you lost your job, then your spouse, then your house. And now your only friend is a bottle of beer.

Can you do anything right in you life?

You walked along the dark streets of the city, sad, drunk, alone and with a limp. Why were you limping you dumb fuck? The city lights illuminated your path to nowhereville; colorful neons and sensual moods aided your blurry eyes down the sidewalk. Trash bags with rats feasting better than you add salt to your financial wound. Homeless men and women, obese and reedy, fall slump with slumber and sweet rum in their veins, your fellow comrades. Life and the concrete jungle were really fucking you this time, and you don't know the safe word to save yourself. You might as well find a (crusty) comfy dumpster to crawl in to sleep.     

"There’s a place you gotta be

A thousand leagues beneath the sea

And it’s waitin' over here for you and me"

Huh? Where's that music coming from? You followed the sultry voice down the block, making sure you don't get hit by a car in the process, before tripping over a sewer grate and stumbling upon the biggest casino you've ever seen. Shimmering lights bedazzledu it like diamonds on a dress, neon signs signaling free drinks on tuesdays, ladies night on fridays, and winning big prizes. Dollars signs flashed in synchronized order, capturing your attention. The centerpiece was a giant orange sun with a wide (creepy) smile and rays spinning slowly like a clock. This place shined brighter than a star. 

"House of the Solar Eclipse." What a name. 

"Gonna take you for a ride

But first, you gotta come inside

Get ready for the party’s on tonight!"

You were never one for casinos. You tend to steer away from gambling as much as you can. While the thought of winning it big sounded exhilarating, there's also a chance of losing it all. The roll of a dice, the stroke of a lever, millions of dollars rewarding you for pushing some button. Life-changing, but incredibly risky.

In short terms, you hated leaving things to luck. 

...

Aw, the strobe lighting and cash register rings make you drool with desire. God are you desperate. You fiddled with your pocket, searching through hard balls of dust and crusty tissues. Until a starchy textures scratches your fingertips, you pull out the paper from your pocket. 

A single $1 bill.

George Washington's blank face stares at you, the crumples make him look more wrinkly than he is. Even he's displeased with your conundrum. Well you're not getting ridiculed by a old white man today, so you head inside with anxiety and a dollar bill.

So pack up, cash in

And get ready to begin

Toss the dice, once or twice

Baby, winning is no sin

So relax and just unwind

Leave your worries all behind

And get ready forthe party’s on tonight!

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

Bright ceiling lights, velvet rug flooring, chandeliers, ritzy dresses, fresh tuxedos and the smell of cologne, smoke and whiskey attack your senses. Boy, was this place big. You were overwhelmed by the sudden change in light that your eyes unblur in lightning speed, causing your brain to shut off for a bit and then wake up. The haze of your mind clears to take it all in. You're starstruck. And underdressed god what the hell were you wearing? Maybe keep to the back slots to avoid unwanted attention.

Walking through the casino, you spot multiple card tables and roulette wheels occupied by wealthy patrons gaggled together like ants on sugar. Chips stacked up and lined with the perimeters of the tables. Chunky dice rolled along the mellow green of the craps tables; the crowd roars and pats the back of the winner. Men and women crowded the bar area, they kept the bartenders busy with constant orders the house's very own cocktail, the 'Jenna Sweet'. A simple mixture of Pineapple juice, Cranberry juice, Diet Cola, a pinch of rum and decent amount of Bacardi. It may not have been an attractive recipe to you, but it goes down a treat, especially when it could win you a fine prize. You spot a stage with glittery curtains and a mic for the singers acting like surprised guests for the establishment. Below it was the jazz band, conveying the instrumental of the song, working meticulously through their suits. You bumped into a fellow drunkard, though his was dressed better than you did--tux in all. You didn't feel like getting into a bar fight tonight so you excused yourself and passed by him, his stupor mumbled an apology. Hey at least he was nice.

Finally managing to get pass though the glitz & glamour, you meandered your way through the rows upon rows upon small clusters of slot machines, each screaming with flashing lights and oversaturated colors that could make an epileptic spaz out, all advertising how "you can win big tonight!" 

"$10,000, $20,000, $50,000, $100,000; all yours if you just sit on my lap and grope my stick." Well gee who wouldn't love to do that?

You did.

You wanted to do that.

So you settled at a slot far away from the center, trying to not draw any attention to your homely self.  Looking at the screen, the prize was about $5,000. At least, that's what you think. With the one dollar bill past you must've bestowed you, you pressed your luck. The three reels spin in accelerated motion, each symbol passing by in a blur. You swear if you lose your money right no-

Oh 50 bucks not bad. Let's have another go.

You pull the lever, which felt stale as it needed both hands to tow down. The little jingle of the machine played as you watched the reels rolls, the colors swirl with the white. $75, great! 

Hm...let's make it $100. You crank the slot again. 

...

$20. Come on, another try.

...

Ok back to $50. Another roll won't hurt.

...

$75.

...

$95.

...

$170. You should really stop now, but the big prize made your drool. You want more...a little more...

As you slowly sink into the state of gambling (and your delusions of grandeur), your money rose and sank like tidal waves. Time slowed with each pull of a lever, anticipation killed you over and over again. Every dollar spent either mattered to you or didn't. 

Maybe this was why you don't like gambling. 

Maybe you had an addiction.

...

Wait.

Wait!

WAIT!

$ BIG WIN $1,000 $

It ain't the jackpot, but it's better than $50. You should really stop now...

But...that prize...what are the chances...and even if you didn't get it, you can still win more...

Just one more pull, you'll put $200 in this time. 

...darn, 20 bucks. You put more in to see if you can get it back. 

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

Time passed; it felt like molasses when really it was moving quickly. You sank into the cushion of the stool. God how long have you been here?  Whatever the time was, through the span of when you got here to now, you lost about $4,000. The closest you got to the big prize was that $1,000 you got before. And now you went from $1 to $0 in an instant. You rest your head onto the slot machine; the haze came back, along with a headache from all the flashing lights and colors. And it didn't help that you bought something to drink before you lost it all.

You didn't win big. You didn't win at all today. You should've left with that $1,000. Another bad decision, added to your collection.

"Poor dear...,"  A voice purred. "down on their luck..." Cool hands slither onto your shoulders, squeezing with slight pressure on your aches. "Looks like you need a pick-me-up." The hands press and massage the tender muscles of your aching back. Normally you wouldn't want a stranger touching you (and would bite back if someone had the balls to do so), but it felt so good...

You felt revitalized; revive and relieved from your headache. You stretch and moan in delight, god you needed that. The stranger kept going, seeming to be happy from your state. "That's it~. Feel that luck flowing in you." If luck means relief, you sure were feeling it. Their voice purrs, a siren's sonnet of sweet nothings slips through your ear. One hands slips from your shoulders, revealing a milky white arm with a cuff on their wrist. Their hand takes yours and places it on the lever.

"Come on, press your luck~."

Wait...? Are they bribing you to gamble? You don't have any money left. What the heck kind of scam is-

*Clink!*The jingle must've of played for 1 second before revealing a giant grinning face on screen.

 $ HUGE WIN $2,000 $

$2,000! How? Where? What?! The luck of the draw you guess. But you were sure you didn't have a dollar left. 

"My my~ what a surprise." The strange purred, their hand crawl back to you shoulders and continued kneading it. Their voice was silky and velvety like satin sheets on a luxurious bed. Utterly heavenly. "Keep going gorgeous~." You happily obliged to the stranger command as if they hypnotized you. The haze grew a little clearer, accompanied by the voice which acted like and dehumidifier and a motif for your gambling. You turned your head to look at the angel helping you but hand gently pushed you back to the screen. "Ah ah ah, eyes up front."

As the concubus deliciated you, you kept pulling the lever of the slot machine. The cash grew higher and higher. $2,500, $3,000, $4,750...

"CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU'RE A WINNER!!!"$5,000

Holy shit did you just win the jackpot?! Your eyes widen, the chips rolled out the slot with ease.

You won. You really won. 

You wanted to thank the nice stranger for helping; if it wasn't for them flipping your luck you wouldn't have won the big prize.

...

Hey where'd they go? Through the maze of slot machines, you couldn't see them. Weird, you didn't feel their hands slip from you when you won. First the luck boost, now they disappear. Was it God? Mother Nature? Lady Luck? (I think the alcohol's getting to your head). Whoever blessed you you thank them. you sat up from the stool, the sound of sweaty cloth peeling off the cushion disgusted you, and pocketed all your chips. You can cash it in at the corner.

*Moon's pov*

*A few minutes earlier

"My my~ what a surprise." Moon purred, his hands rub and cute patron's shoulders. A down-in-the-dumps homebody...with the lack of a true home and in need of some quick cash. Maybe he'll convince them to stay a while, if the pit boss doesn't catch him. He's surprised he stayed out here on the floor for so long. Hope Sun's keeping him entertained. Or at least busy.

Moon leaned closer to the patron's ear, hands soothingly rub against their upperback. "Keep going gorgeous." His vocal cords rumbled. With their drunken state (and probably high libido), the patron pulled the lever again. As the reels spin, Moon marveled the guest under his hypnosis, despite the raggedy clothes and awful scent of liquor, they looked lovely. A little freshing up would sure make a difference. Usually he would do this act on occasion like he's some children's mascot, which is not to far off from being the poster girl for the casino, but this guest was pretty cute. Weird thing to say to a potential hobo but still. The patron turned their head, wanting to face Moon, but he gently pushed a hand to stop them from peeing. "Ah ah ah, eyes up front." It's all part of the act after all, and Moon's giving the total package tonight.

More shoulder rubs and sweet nothings whispered into the ears of the patron, each moan arouses Moon and gently presses against the back of the stool with his lower half. The smooth black bunny suit felt tight and a little wet down on the crotch area, a small erection blooming from beneath. He tries to restraint himself from rutting the poor fool. How soft their curves would feel in his hands, how warm they would feel around his cock, how their voice would sound as they moaned his name...there were so many others and so many features of them all that Moon had used in his mind to please himself and ease his need over this week. He was tired of his boss, it's time to get a new--

"CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU'RE A WINNER!!!"$5,000

The wails and alarms of the slot machine snaps Moon from his sexual fantasies. Christ what has gotten into him? Was he drooling? Is there a wet spot on his suit? God he's sweating through this thing. How much time did he waste--

A firm hand grips his hip, latching tightly. A small and short exhale emitted from his lips, but he felt breathless.

"Shit!" Moon curse in his head. "I thought I had enough time to escape." The hand swiftly turns him around and walks him away from the patron, who current was in disbelief of their winnings. Moon looks back but that hand turned his sight away

."Naughty little bunny, leaving his little home when he's not supposed to." The voice tsked like a parent with their disobedient child. "I'd punished you properly, but your brother satisfied me enough." 

"What did you--?!"

"Let's get back to the loft, bunny."

Moon squirmed from their grasp, pulling away from their chest, "Get off--!" but they were stronger. An arm wrapped around his thin frame while its hand covered his mouth, muting him. The "lovely couple" waltz their way out of the floor and the upstairs to the loft.

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

"Now you stay in there, I deal with you later." The pit boss hissed. Luckily for both of the brothers, Eclipse, the pit boss, has to deal with some "important business" with him, his goons, and the other mafias that decided to bombard him early tonight at the casino. Moon took off his heel and threw it at the door, sadly Eclipse closed it before the shoe hit him. Moon grumbled and huffed in defeat as he hobbled over to pick up his stiletto. It wasn't hard to move in the bunny suit, but it did chafe in areas he didn't want to get chafed. The fishnet stockings rise against the pallor of his thighs as his bent over; the slit creased. A lovely sight to see from behind. 

While Moon was busy with put his heel back on, Sun sat on the velvet couch quietly with a bottle in his hand, swirling the liquid inside. He must've wanted a nice drink before the chaos brewed into the lobby. He was always, as Eclipse says, the good twin: sweet, playful, obedient, dare to say pious despite the sinful attraction he brings upon the patrons of the pit. In both of the brothers minds, having Sun hold down the fort while Moon roamed around the casino for a bit was a good idea, even if it only lasted for a little while. His silence worried Moon; usually a casual remark would comment about the commotion right about now. What disgusting horrors fell upon his brother tonight?

"Did he--

""No, he didn't." Sun huffed "He wanted to, but he wanted the two-for-one special tonight. That's when he left. And I tried to stop him but...you know how he is." A leg crossed over the other, causing the fabric of the suit to bunch up again. In contrast to Moon's black bunny suit, Sun dressed himself in a ruby red bunny suit with no stockings to cover his thin legs. The ears were red and sticking upward, and a sparkly red bowtie contrasted Moon's black four-in-hand tie.

"Greedy fucker..." Moon hissed as he took a sit next to his brother. An open pack of cigarettes was laying on the table, lovely waiting for him like a temptress in erotic clothing. He took one and lit it with the convenient lighter next to the pack. A vice, but what else is he suppose to use to treat himself?

"Oh forget about, were they cute~?" Sun smiled cheekily.

"I didn't get the best look at them, but they looked so innocent and lonely." Moon took a drag before speaking again. "So I gave them a..."special" treatment tonight." 

"Lucky! They must've been drooling when they saw you." 

"They didn't. You know are whole act, if you look at the bunnies your luck will slip away."

"You sure that's not just Eclipse telling people to keep their eyes to themselves?"

"Oh no I'm positive about that." Moon took another drag from his cigarette. "What did he do to you?" He looked to his brother, who was currently pouring himself a glass. 

"He had guests over for a drink and wanted a plus one for tonight. I swear sometimes I think he's got a split personality. The moment he's got someone over he's the host with the most, but when they leave he's Al Capone without "his little friend"." Sun took the shot, the burning sensation pleasured him, more than anything Eclipse ever done. Any alcohol was better than what Eclipse could deliver. That pillow princess. "Say, where's the cutie now?"

"Don't know. Let's check." Moon got up from the couch--cigarette still in hand--and stepped toward the giant glass window behind them. The glass had just been clean a few days ago so the brothers can see the overview of the casino. 

They spot the willowy patron heading towards the exit, cash stash inside their long coat to avoid drawing any attention.

"There they go. Rich and pleased."

"Think they're gonna come back?"

"I'm sure of it."

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xli // The Dealer

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

He runs every other morning. It’s the only time he actually turns off the notifications on his phone. Day and night, weekdays and weekends, holiday or not, people contact him, and he lets them – but that hour is his alone.

Seven and a half miles, starting from his apartment complex, a little route he has perfected over the years, carefully tailored to his own liking. It disbands from the concrete monotony of the city to wind through the walking trails and hills of a nearby dog park, nothing more than a dozen or so acres of deciduous woods surrounded by a chain link fence. There’s a small creek there, at roughly the four mile mark, and while he recognizes how foolish it is, he considers that creek his own little secret. He pretends to be the only person on earth who has seen it.

The visits are always brief, especially now that the seasons have turned. Keeping your pulse up is what saves you from hypothermia when it’s just you and your jogging clothes against the frigid mist. You’ll catch your death if you stop moving. Every runner knows that. No, he just notes how it’s doing in passing glances, as if checking in with an old friend. He notes whether the banks have fallen during summer droughts, or in winter, if the morning is cold enough for ice to have formed as thin sheets over the stiller parts of its bends. He needs to move. The creek needs to stay. They part ways. That’s how it goes.

He's so used to this route, so familiar with his body’s reaction to it, that he can predict when he has worked up enough of a sweat for it to start dripping. It usually happens right as he leaves the dog park, on those first hundred yards back on tarmac, when his heavy footfalls dislodge the black dirt from his running shoes. Every few minutes from then on, he has to wipe at his eyes with the long sleeve of his shirt. Tastes the salt on his upper lip. Feels the way the crisp wind rapidly cools down the damp parts of his clothes. On mornings like this, it’s a welcome reprieve from his usual habit of overanalysis. Keeping your body occupied is a form of meditation all on its own.

The cold is starting to bite when he reaches his apartment complex. He lets his momentum carry him the last few yards along the short walking path to the rear entryway, panting as he chips himself in, takes a deep breath, and rushes the stairs two at a time despite the ache in his thighs – he considers these four flights the final stretch of the run. Feels the satisfied reprieve when he finally reaches the platform of his own front door.

Keys jiggling in front of him, body buzzing, he unlocks it.

Melon starts yelling at him immediately. Like always, it makes him smile; the way she paces back and forth, head on a swivel, mouth wide open, eyes desperately searching for his attention. She aggressively rubs her face against his hands as he’s untying his shoes, and he has to relent and do it one-handed, just so he can scratch behind her ears with the other. “You’re such a brat,” he coos. Her orange fur sticks to the sweat on his fingers, and he rubs it off in his shirt.

Beyond the entryway, from the windowsill in the living room, Zorro watches, bright green eyes in a black void, seemingly unbothered. Lazarus gives him a respectful nod. It just feels appropriate.

There are tricks to avoiding that post-workout soreness. Half of it lies in cooling down as slowly as possible; the other half lies in a good stretching routine. He stands for the quadriceps and the calves, squats low for the hamstring stretch, lies flat on his back for the glutes, the muscles in his lower back, his sides. Five seconds on the inhale, five seconds of holding, seven seconds on the exhale, five seconds of holding. Six cycles for each exercise. Steadily, his heartrate returns to normal, and his extremities warm up to the ambient temperature of the room. The sweat dries on his skin, leaving faint trails of salt. Melon watches him curiously for the first few minutes, then gets bored and leaves for his bedroom.

Lazarus is still lying there on the thin rug by his front door, one leg crossed over the other, pulling at the muscles on the side of his thigh, when his thoughts begin to drift again. They’ve gone in circles over the last few days, always returning to the same man. Always the same bewilderment, the same burning questions.  

He was the acquaintance of another client. It usually spreads like that, via word of mouth. Hushed questions, do you know anyone… And in the northern part of town, among the rejected, people tend to know.

 He was homeless then, had been for a good few months, he said. Fresh off mandatory probation through a halfway home, following a fight that he supposedly didn’t start, although Lazarus still has his doubts about that. His whole life was stuffed into a backpack. Rips in a bomber jacket that looked to have been expensive at some point. Always bruised or cut up somehow. He talked about getting kicked out of shelters, about turned-down job applications, and fights he got into with his then-girlfriend. Talked about killing his dad, in a tone seeping with more contempt than the usual crass humor. He’d built up a decent dependence, fought tooth and nail to ward off the brunt of withdrawals. All his money went to pills.

To Lazarus.

Truth be told, Renee fit the mold of an outcast so well, Lazarus didn’t pay much mind to him at first. You see it all the time. People get sucked into the jaws of the machine, chewed up and spit out the other side, where they’re expected to seamlessly reintegrate into the very society that left them in the cold to begin with, often with no support network, no plan of action, no real prospects. They’re set up for failure so often, Lazarus sometimes wonders if the powers-that-be do it intentionally. He wouldn’t be surprised. All the faces on that wall start to blend together after a while.

It wasn’t until about two months in that something changed. Renee was sitting in the passenger seat of Lazarus’ car, picking at the product through a zip-lock bag as Lazarus counted the bills, and he got quiet. You don’t have to have known the guy for very long to realize how uncharacteristic that quietness was. Lazarus pressed on intuition, and Renee admitted he was considering going cold turkey. Said he finally realized he had zero control of his intake.

Ask Natalie to watch you.

Renee let out a bitter laugh. Nah, that’s been dead for a while. She hates my guts now.

Well, there’s gotta be someone else you can—

There’s really not. And he swallowed, looking away. Managed to compose a somewhat stoic demeanor. I’ll squat somewhere, lock myself in a bathroom or something. It’s just gonna suck for a while, that’s it.

Twenty-five years old.

Lazarus pushes himself off the floor, relishing in the familiar fatigue in his body as he makes his way to the kitchenette. Washes his hands thoroughly. As he fishes a small pot out of one of the low cabinets, Melon predictably returns, slows to a halt in the middle of the hallway, and sits down, paws kneading the rug. Wide yellow eyes watch the pot curiously, ears perched in his direction.

“You’re not getting anything,” Lazarus tells her with a low chuckle. “Fat fuck.”

He scoops half a cup of rolled oats and pours cold water on eye measurement. Spices it up with cinnamon and cardamom and nutmeg, a pinch of salt flakes from the jar on the counter. Lights up the stovetop, and stirs as he waits for it to warm up.

Did he make a mistake when he invited Renee back to his place? Most definitely. But the thought of just allowing the man curl up alone on the gross tiles of some public bathroom for a week straight left a sour taste in Lazarus’ mouth. Not to mention that benzos are up there among the worst things you can withdraw from, save for maybe alcohol or opioids. Renee didn’t know it – he still doesn’t – but he would’ve cracked on his own.

Shoes off.

Renee stepped on the heels of his worn down sneakers, one after the other. He eyed Melon awkwardly as she rubbed against his leg. Cats usually don’t like me, he muttered.

Lazarus smiled. You’re in luck, then. Melon is a terrible judge of character.

He had Renee shower almost immediately, while the guy still had the wherewithal to do so. Started hunkering down, preparing for the ride. Every blanket Lazarus owned, he laid on the armrest of the couch; he placed a thermos flask and packets of tea ready on the counter next to the kettle. Saline crackers, plenty of water in the fridge. That evening, when he cooked up tikka masala for them both, he went a little heavy on the salt in Renee’s portion.

Lazarus remembers sitting across from him, setting sun pouring in from the window. It made his eyes look almost golden. Renee was already getting noticeably restless then, chatting up and down the wall about every small thing that crossed his mind. The conversation was mostly one-sided, but neither of them really seemed to mind. Nineteen hours clean. The calm before the storm.

Do you have a girlfriend?

Nope.

Why not? Not to be weird, but you’re pretty good-looking, y’know.

Chuckling, Lazarus shook his head. I’m gay.

Fork hovering over his plate, Renee looked up then, through the strands of damp dark hair falling over his eyes, and the corner of his mouth tugged up. Lazarus was half preparing for a snide remark, but that’s not what Renee was going for. Do you have a problem with bi guys?

Lazarus snorted. Why would I?

Renee went back to stabbing at his food. Some guys get grossed out if they know you’ve touched a pussy. Scooping up a mouthful, he caught Lazarus’ gaze again, shrugging a shoulder as he chewed.

Yeah, that’s just stupid.

Lazarus eats his oatmeal by that same table, although he has since moved it to a spot farther back in the apartment, where the sun doesn’t blind his guests in summer. He turns on his phone again, and isn’t surprised to see a dozen missed calls and a handful of texts. One call is from a new supplier he’s heard positive things about – someone who, like him, stays as far removed from fent as humanly possible. The rest are all from the same client, Delilah. Forties, thin brown hair, gorgeous blue eyes. Something about an ongoing divorce, a custody dispute that isn’t going in her favor. She got hooked on opioids following a knee surgery, and, unlike the majority of his clients, hasn’t learned to stop making last-minute deals.

He threads his fingers to stretch his arms high above his head. An hour and a half won’t kill her, he decides, in fact it might serve as a wake-up call. Someone is always desperate, and Lazarus, too, has his own life to manage. Sighing, he lets his arms fall, and sends her a text for a time and place.

Her affirmative response comes less than five seconds later.

In the windowsill, Zorro has found a more comfortable position to sleep in. One that evidently involves sticking his hind leg out over the ledge, while his head rests on his front paws. Unbothered by the tumultuous mess of the world he lives in.

Lazarus leaves the empty bowl in the sink next to the pot before he makes his way to the bathroom, where he finally rids himself of the jogging clothes, stepping into the shower. It takes a moment before the water is comfortably warm, and Lazarus’s first shiver at being naked is replaced by satisfaction, as the dried sweat is washed from his skin.

Despite a reported sleepless night, the second day was alright, all things considered. Renee was feverish and spent the majority of the day huddled on the couch, buried in blankets. Left every so often to puke in the bathroom, but his trips slowly decreased in frequency when he had nothing left to expulse. His hands shook a little too much to hold a game controller, so he spent his time watching TV, or briefly sleeping whenever his restlessness gave him the opportunity.

But that night was rough on the both of them. Lazarus stayed up, listened to ramblings that slowly but surely lost any semblance of thought or coherence, interspersed with long stretches of silence. Some hours, he could see the flickering pain clearly in Renee’s features, the constant shifting against physical discomfort that rarely seemed to ease. He tried to pace a few times, and at first, Lazarus tried to help him, lent his shoulder for support. As the night went on, though, even walking seemed to do more harm than good. Not that Renee was ever clear-headed enough to recognize that he shouldn’t try. Lazarus’ attempts to keep him on the couch were met with hostility more than once, but despite his size, he was weak enough from fever for Lazarus to hold him down if he needed to. Renee would forget why they were fighting after a while, he would calm down. If Lazarus was lucky, the man would pass out from exhaustion for a quarter or two, which let him tend to his own physical needs – taking a piss, drinking some water, getting something to eat. Lazarus was not lucky often.

On the third day, he went on an errand run, just thirty odd minutes to pick up a delivery and buy some basic necessities. Renee had been asleep for about an hour then, and Lazarus thought he’d be able to get away with it. That was his fuck-up. He should’ve known better.

He came home to find the coffee table overturned, tissue papers and shards of glass strewn about the floor of the living room, along with crumbs of stearin from the candles that cracked in the fall. Zorro and Melon both hid wide-eyed behind the TV stand. The mirror in the bathroom was cracked, like a cobweb blooming from its center. From there, a trail of blood zigzagged its way across the hallway, into his dimly lit bedroom.

In the far corner, he found Renee curled up behind the nightstand, almost pressing himself against the walls. That a man of his size could take up so little space was a mystery in and of itself. Pale as a sheet, eyes shut tight, trembling violently. A cut spanned the skin over one knuckle, not bad enough to warrant medical attention, but it must’ve nicked a small blood vessel, because it looked like Renee’s entire hand was drenched in red.

Lazarus crouched down at a safe distance. Kept his voice as low and gentle as he could. What’s going on, bud?

No change, at first. Just the constant trembling, hands clenched tight around his shins, quick, ragged breaths. There’s something wrong with my shadow, he managed to stammer out eventually, barely intelligible through clattering teeth. And he hit a closed fist against the wall next to him, and again, before Lazarus had rushed forward to grab hold of his wrist so he couldn’t hurt himself further.

And Renee tried to fight again. Tried to pry himself out of Lazarus’ grip, tried to gain enough leverage to kick him away. But when he finally realized Lazarus wasn’t budging, he broke down completely. Sobbing inconsolably, hoarse cries of anguish. His whole body was shaking with it, unbearably warm against Lazarus’ own. Hands no longer pushing away, but clawing at his arms and clothes, as if desperate for stability.

It's still only time Lazarus has ever seen him cry.

They talked about it afterwards. Anything after the second night, right up until he woke up on the fourth day, only left fragments behind, bits and pieces Renee struggled to string together. Despite the part of him that still feels like these moments are better left forgotten, Lazarus did his best to fill him in. It’s not like he doesn’t know the important part that clarity plays in closure.

Shadow…?

I think that’s what you said, yeah.

That’s… some Peter Pan shit. Man, I was out of it, huh?

Yeah.

Two weeks later, Renee met up with him for ten grams of coke. Lazarus is relatively sure he just used the drugs as an excuse to get close enough to try to initiate sex.

A wiser man would’ve declined both.

Wiping fog off the mirror he replaced, Lazarus spends the better part of ten minutes on skincare. Exfoliator, shaving, serum, eye cream, moisturizer. He runs a little bit of wax through still-damp hair, just to get that slight edge to how it looks. The steam still lingering in the bathroom keeps him warm, but he feels his hairs rise as he crosses the hallway to his bedroom for a fresh set of clothes.

A wiser man would’ve kept it to a one-time hook-up. A wiser man would’ve distanced himself each time Renee showed up bruised again, each time his mood flashed black-and-white for months on end, each time he brazenly failed to learn from experience. A wiser man would’ve heeded the constant stream of red flags.

But something about Renee is compelling. Not just his over-the-top confidence, his spontaneity, his odd charm. Renee is a contradiction. A sociable loner. He’s self-aware and oblivious, simultaneously. Optimistic and cynical, blunt and secretive, easygoing and abrasive, every high and every low.

And it feels good to be in his eye.

Until it doesn’t.

The light though the curtains put the bruised half of his face in shadow. He sat naked on the edge of the bed, fingers hooked in the belt loops of Lazarus’ jeans, pulling him closer by the hips. His eyes were dark, insistent. You can do anything to me. Anything you want.

It’s awful again, in some vague way Lazarus can’t fully grasp, much less explain in a way that wouldn’t draw ire or diminish agency. Renee broke the mirror on the third day. Delirious, barely able to string a sentence together. Of all the other things he could’ve broken, he snapped at the sight of his own reflection.

And it hurts to think of this devotion as another way for Renee to tear away at his own personhood, but giving your heart to someone else isn’t love if you only do it to rid yourself of it.

Sometimes it feels like you’re not fully there, Lazarus said quietly. It’s the closest thing he got to the truth in that motel room. Like you’re so caught up in an idea that you lose yourself for a while. It feels like a breach of your trust to indulge it. You’re getting bad again.

And Renee, who never shies from conflict, was silent for a while, before he changed the subject entirely.

If someone is determined to run their life into the ground, there’s really not a whole lot you can do as a bystander. Lazarus knows that better than anyone, but it still keeps him up at night sometimes. Still bears on his conscience, that helpless uncertainty, the gnawing feeling that he’s missing something vital. A piece of the puzzle that, once found, would make the whole picture clearer. A crack in the walls of the labyrinth, a feasible way out he could point towards.

He drinks a full glass of water by the sink, and then fills up another. Sits down by a laptop, dispassionately scrolling through his social media, the latest happenings on forums and blogs he follows. Checks the local news, but apart from a fatal crash a few towns over, and some parade arrangements gone awry, nothing piques his interest. It's not until he checks a nationwide news site that the name comes up again. All the major sites have sort of unanimously decided to start each headline the same.

DeWitt Case.

Lazarus stops scrolling. Just sits there and looks at the name, chin resting on his hand. He’s known about it for a while, obviously, just like everyone else. He’s seen the memes, the quotes people have pulled from the videos. He’s heard of the theories, lackluster armchair investigations, speculation and rumors. Entire forums dedicated. Headlines of Clearnet hosts desperately scrubbing the footage from their sites to appease advertisers, and how it still manages to circulate. Weeding out anything on the internet would’ve been an uphill battle even if it wasn’t such a publicly discussed topic. Some people are obsessed with it.

Renee brought it up too, didn’t he? Just before he…

Lazarus clicks on the headline. He has barely oriented himself with the article’s layout before a newsletter pop-up blocks the screen, closely followed by a banner ad scrolling along the bottom of the browser window. Letting out a disgruntled sound, he closes both.

More than a week has passed since the last broadcast or communication, leading many to worry that…

There’s really no new information. Nothing Lazarus hasn’t picked up in passing or from skimming headlines through the weeks. They don’t seem closer to catching the host – at least the FBI keeps info about the investigation close at hand. And DeWitt’s condition, from what they’ve been able to discern from the streams, is on a steady decline. Lazarus doesn’t even want to consider how it ends for the poor guy. What an awful way to go.

Is that what caused the panic attack? Does Renee identify with DeWitt? Does he view DeWitt’s situation as somehow analogous to his own? Why? What on earth could the two have in common?

Lazarus is leaning back in his chair, fingers absentmindedly tapping over linoleum, when a thought crosses through his mind. He snorts, shakes his head. And the smile fades, slowly.

What if DeWitt isn’t the one Renee identifies with?

Lazarus hesitates. Opens a new tab, and his hands hover above the keyboard, undecided. It feels somewhat foolish to follow this trail of thought, but now that it’s there, he knows it won’t leave him. Not unless he’s sure it’s a dead end.

dewitt case “host” what do we know

He finds a forum – one of many – where users have attempted to collectively profile the perpetrator. Amid a myriad of links to news articles and transcripts of the streams themselves, Lazarus finds a list. And it starts out inconspicuous enough. The information is sparse, the descriptions removed, almost clinical.

Male, anywhere from twenty to late thirties. Estimated height, 6’1”, estimated weight, 180-205 pounds, lean build. Brown eyes, light skin. Western accent, whereas DeWitt speaks with Midland/Northern.

It’s when he reads about the guy’s behavior that a sense of unease begins to dawn, almost unnoticeable at first, like a subtle change in the temperature of the room.  

He swears frequently and makes quips which are often mocking, dehumanizing, or demeaning. Highly impulsive, and at times reckless. Sometimes disregards not only the safety of DeWitt, but his own as well (see the transcript of 10/11). Control-seeking sadist. Has sudden violent outbursts, sometimes with no direct provocation. Not overtly grandiose, but he displays arrogance at the very least.

Body language wise, the host uses exaggerated gestures, and has a lax, “confident” posture and gait. Very energetic, often restless. Like many have already pointed out, in a majority of streams, he exhibits an increased breathing rate, dilated pupils, excitability, rapid mood swings, and other signs of stimulant use.

A shiver runs down Lazarus’ spine at the last descriptor. Not that he’s oblivious to how common amphetamine users are, but a picture is forming in his mind, piece by piece. From the implicit, the tendency. Something uncanny, filtered through nauseating dread.

Something familiar.

He sits silent for a while, gaze drifting out the window, where the rush hour is in full swing. His living room overlooks an intersection, about half a block away, where cars line up at least hundred yards in each direction, disappearing behind the neighboring building. He watches as the closest light turns from red to green, to red, to green, to red.

conrad dewitt kidnapped from

Cleveland, Ohio.

Lazarus swallows. Green to red to green. He can barely get his fingers to type out the words. Each letter appears slowly on the screen, one after the other. Two words on the sting.

dewitt livestream

The sites he finds, buried under mounds of headlines, are questionable at best. Some make the promise but require payment, some are obvious scams harping on morbid curiosity. It takes him a while to find the real thing, linked in a comment deep in a forum thread. A nearly empty-looking site that seems to have been created for the purpose. There are six thumbnails in a three-by-two grid, all marked with the same white triangle. He’s so sure it’ll be another fake when he clicks it, it shocks him a little when a video player appears.

Lazarus grits his teeth, cursor lingering over the inevitable.

He hits play.

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[thefinalcinderella]

Tsurune Book 3 Chapter 2 - Rainbow-Colored (Part 1)

I don’t know if you guys can tell...but my motivation for working on this novel is kinda low. But thankfully the author has ways of pushing me by putting in some of the most insane shit that makes me question if I know how to read

Also for the Tsurune: Irodori no Issha audio dramas: it’s not that I’m too lazy to do them, it’s that I keep forgetting about them. I’ll get them all out eventually

Glossary here

Full list of translations here

Translation Notes

1. An oonusa is a wooden wand traditionally used in Shinto purification rituals, salt water is also used sometimes

2. Oshikura manju is a children’s game where children gather in a circle with their backs pressed close together and tried to push each other out

3. The words used here is チラ見えの帯 and I have no idea what this is referring to

4. Guu Choki Paa is some kind of Japanese rock-papers-scissors song

5. The Iroha poem is an ancient poem that contains each character of the Japanese syllabary exactly once

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In the morning, Minato was standing on the balcony of his room.

Raindrops beaded the railing. The transparent drops were bathed in the morning sun and glistened in orange, green, and blue. As he gazed at the sparkling water droplets glittering together like jewels, he heard his father’s voice calling him from downstairs. He hurriedly wiped the laundry pole.

Suddenly, a figure entered his field of vision. It seemed to be looking at him. He moved closer to the railing, but the figure was already gone. Thinking that it must have been his imagination, he held the empty laundry basket in his hands.

Recently, Minato had made some changes to his morning routine. He had added ritual chanting to the gods and sutra chanting after doing his run. He learned this from Saionji-sensei, and had stopped since he got target panic in his third year of middle school. Many foreign kyudo enthusiasts were inspired by Zen in the Art of Archery to start kyudo. Mindfulness was underpinned by Buddhist concepts.

The sutra Minato was reading was the Heart Sutra. It gave concrete examples of the Buddhist idea of emptiness and explained how to attain the wisdom of the Buddha. The author was unknown, but it was translated into Chinese by Xuanzang, made famous by Journey to the West. It was a very short sutra of 262 characters and was composed in the form of Kannon talking to Sariputra.

Minato, who was in fifth grade when he heard the Japanese translation, wondered what “All is empty.” When he told Saionji-sensei that he didn’t like the idea of enlightenment if it meant the absence of feelings of happiness and sadness because it wasn’t human-like, Saionji-sensei told him, “You aren’t capable of contemplation. Please study more.”

The Golden Week training camp of three days and two nights began today.

The venue was the same as last year, Yata Shrine.

The rain that lasted the night before cleared up, and red-purple mountain azaleas and white fringed irises were blooming in profusion. Because of the renovation work, the Yata no Mori kyudojo was now extremely bright with LED lightning instead of fluorescent lights.

But Minato’s spirits were heavy. Lately, Masa-san wasn’t looking him in the eye.

He would immediately look away whenever their eyes met, and he seemed somewhat distant. Minato hadn’t seen his grin in days. Was he avoiding him? Or rather, he felt like he was being ignored. Did I do something to make him hate me? He wondered if he yelled something like “Masa-san’s a dirty old geezer!” in his sleep without realizing it. Once he started worrying about it, he couldn’t stop himself from spiralling deeper and deeper. His head was spinning with delusions summoning more delusions.

Tommy-sensei was standing in front of the referee’s table.

“First of all, the selected members will do a demonstration of the competition format.”

The selected members, Kaito, Ryouhei, Seiya, Kanbayashi, and Minato, lined up at the entrance.

At last year’s training camp, they had a lot of trouble stepping together as five, but now they had grown to the point where they were able to match each other’s steps in an instant with someone they were grouped with for the first time. Kaito, walking in the lead, learnt to feel the presence of the people behind him and didn’t miss anyone. After he nocked his arrow and fixed his eyes on the target, he raised his bow towards the sky.

After everyone finished four shots, the results were announced. It was four, three, four, two, for a total of seventeen hits.

Kanbayashi sank down onto the floor after returning his bow to the rack.

“I didn’t think this when I was watching you all, but everyone’s kai is really long. Being between President Takehaya and Narumiya-senpai is really nerve-wracking.”

Seiya knelt down next to him.

“Don’t be so nervous. Just be your normal self.”

Overhearing their conversation, Kaito glared at them.

“Kai isn’t ‘long,’ but ‘deep.’ And it’s no good shrivelling or getting too worked up, no matter who’s in front of you or behind you. Well, I can’t blame you for getting distracted if Seiya’s in front of you, though.”

Seiya stood up and got his face right up to Kaito’s nose.

“I wonder what do you mean by that, Onogi-senpai.”

“I meant it exactly as it is.”

Kanbayashi blinked his eyes rapidly and Keyaki looked fed up as they watched Kaito and Seiya’s exchange. When Nanao was about to step in between them to divert the conversation, Tommy-sensei asked them to gather again.

“Now, the theme of this camp will be ‘Steady Mind and Body.’ The way you breathe is very important.”

The first-years, excluding the competitors, gathered near the makiwara, while the rest stood in front of the targets.

Masa-san undertook demonstrating the practical skills.

“Let’s start by practicing the ‘dantian breathing technique’ again. I want you to listen with the understanding that there are various theories about dantians and I may correct this at a later date.”

“Yes, sir,” everyone answered.

“First, about dantians. It means ‘a place where energy is cultivated.’ There’s a theory that there are three dantians: upper, middle, and lower, but generally speaking, dantian refers to the lower abdomen dantian, which is three sun below the navel. That is, about ten centimeters below. It’s in the middle of the belly, not in front. Next, let me explain the ‘martial arts-style dantian breathing technique.’ The reason why I added the words martial arts is because when we say abdominal breathing or dantian breathing, people are generally taught to expand their abdomens when inhaling and contract it when exhaling.”

Ryouhei raised his hand.

“My sister had childhood asthma, and she told me she learned how to do it at the hospital. They do the same thing in yoga, too.”

“However, in kyudo, exhaling doesn’t cause the stomach to depress. In recent years, there’s a theory that has been adopted by athletes and has proven successful. That is the Stanford-style ‘IAP breathing method,’ also known as the ‘intra-abdominal pressure breathing.’ It is a breathing method that increases the pressure in the abdomen and tightens the area around the abdomen when inhaling and exhaling. Top athletes and musicians can naturally do IAP breathing.”

“Musicians do IAP breathing too?”

“I’m sure some of you have been told to project your voices from your stomachs during choir or vocal training. An easy way to understand this is that clenching your butt holes can help you produce higher-pitched sounds.”

“Ahh, ahh,” Ryouhei tried it, and he certainly did sound different. It had a resonance to it, not just a flat sound.

“For a singer, their body is an instrument. It’s the same for archers. The tsurune is the sound of the bow and string when an arrow is shot. Bow, string, and person become a musical instrument and resonate. Even among ‘tsuruoto,’ ‘tsurune’ refers to a particularly clear and beautifully lingering sound. To be alive means to breathe. There are times when everyone unconsciously does dantian breathing, but that’s when they’re laughing like ‘ha-ha-ha.’”

Seiya sighed.

“It feels like we’re listening to a monk’s sermon rather than an explanation of shooting techniques.”

“I am a priest. Yata Shrine is a shrine that has its roots in Shugendo, so there’s a fusion of Shinto and Buddhism here. Many teachings have been handed down, such as the Buddhism of Gautama Buddha, the esoteric Buddhism of En no Ozunu, and the secret teachings of Kuukai.”

“In other words, Masa-san, you’re a hybrid of a priest, monk, and old man.”

“Hahaha, you sure have a way with words, Seiya.”

The two’s smiles froze the boys there. The six girls gathered, and Hanazawa and Shiragiku put their hands on their own abdomens and Seo’s to compare the firmness.

After that, they began practicing on their own. Before they knew it, the first-year Himuro became the oomae. Minato wondered just when did he get there. He was like a stagehand, someone who was on stage but treated as though they didn’t exist.

Masa-san looked at everyone’s shooting in order starting from the front, but he skipped over Minato and went straight to the person behind him.

His eyes blinked weakly. Kanbayashi was also doing the same thing in front of the makiwara.

Minato covered his eyes to hide how much he was blinking.

Early next morning.

Same as last year, Minato was woken up by Masa-san’s older brother Ren pulling his hair. When he turned around, he found that he was sprawled out on someone else’s futon with one elbow propped up. Ryouhei, awakened by Minato’s voice, tried to pull Ren’s arm away. Beside him, Nanao was still half-asleep.

After finishing the morning preparations, the club members gathered in the front shrine. They were attending the morning offering and worship.

Masa-san chanted the ritual prayer loudly. After reciting the words in a rite called the shubatsu, the purification was performed with the oonusa and hot salt water. (1) Minato couldn’t look at Masa-san in fear that he would avert his gaze again. He turned his eyes to the window and caught a dark shadow moving quickly.

The club members then proceeded to clean up. The second-year boys were in charge of the precincts. When Minato and Kaito finished sweeping around the pond and took a breather, they found a white tabby cat sitting under the shrubbery.

Minato slowly crouched next to the cat so as to not make eye contact. If you looked into the eyes of an animal you were meeting for the first time, it would think you were threatening them and run away. You hold out the back of you hand to have it sniff it, and if it gives you permission, you stroked its chin. His grandfather taught him this way to interact with cats when he was little.

The cat purred.

It was the sound of “I love it.”

As Minato was stroking its back, it got onto its back as though tell him to stroke its belly. Minato learned that it was a mother cat.

Kaito’s feet had become a puddle of cats in an instant. A brown tabby cat with one ear cut into a V-shape clung to him with its tail up.

“Oh, is this a Sakura cat?”

Sakura cats were stray cats that had been spayed and neutered by animal protection groups. They were also called local cats. They got their name because the V-shaped scar looked like a sakura petal.

The white tabby cat kicked him and left, perhaps because he stroked him too persistently.

Kaito’s cat puddle also disbanded. In their place, Ryouhei, Nanao, and Seiya gathered.

“Minato, you really love fluffy things,” Ryouhei said.

“I’ve always wondered this. Why aren’t humans covered with fur and feathers? We used to have them, didn’t we? Did we like clinging together?”

Hearing that, Seiya and Ryouhei sandwiched Minato between them and they ended up looking like a game of oshikura manju. (2)

“Stop it, you guys! I didn’t mean to clinging to me.”

“Really? Then what did you mean?”

Ryouhei separated from him with a puzzled look on his face. It seemed that his habit from childhood still hadn’t gone away. Not wanting to go through that again, Minato took a step away from his two childhood friends.

Kaito propped his chin on the end of the broom handle.

“Seiya, as the club president, you shouldn’t be fooling around.”

“Huh? Kaito, do you want to be squeezed too?”

“No way! I’m gonna punch you!”

Seiya covered his mouth with his hand and turned around, his shoulders shaking.

Minato expressed what was on his mind to Kaito.

“Actually, recently, I feel like someone’s been watching me. Ever since the training camp started.”

“Huh? Aren’t you just being too self-conscious?”

“It might be one of Nanao’s groupies. We have to be careful.”

Seiya smiled. The mole under his eye stood out. “I don’t think it’s either of them. It’s probably just your imagination. Come on, let’s go back and change into our hakama.”

“Yeah…I guess you’re right.”

Seiya, Ryouhei, and Nanao headed for the kyudojo.

Kaito, who was one step behind, couldn’t quite make sense of it. Seiya was so overprotective of Minato that Hanazawa, Shiragiku, and Seo teased him by saying, “Seiya Home Security, watching over you 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.” But for some reason, he wasn’t concerned about this case.

Minato was walking away from the four of them. Nanao walked in place to slow down his pace and naturally ended up next to Minato.

“Minato, I really am okay. Is there something you’re worrying about too? Tell me about it if you want to.”

“…Lately, our eyes aren’t meeting.”

“Oh, oh? Is this about romance?”

“Not at all.”

“Hmm, the eyes can say as much as the mouth, and you can pretty much tell what people are looking at. For example, who’s the person you care about looking at? Who’s the person you always care about looking at, Minato?”

“Mm, I guess it’s the gods?”

“Mm, that might be outside my area of expertise.”

A bird chirped.

The two looked up and they could see the blue sky and the fleecy clouds between the budding trees. At first, they couldn’t make out where the bird song was coming from, but when they strained their eyes, they were able to spot a varied tit on the treetops.

Minato’s eyes, which reflected the fresh green, shook.

“It’s so pretty.”

“That’s right …I realized that I wasn’t so frustrated when I didn’t make it into the regular lineup. I was fine with being a substitute.”

“You really are fine with that?”

“What’s important to me isn’t winning or receiving praise from anyone, but being able to feel Kacchan’s presence.”

“——I want you to stay by my side.”

“Whoa, Minato, you can read my mind?”

“Of course not. Maybe we just happened to think the same thing?”

“Yeah. If you had that ability, you’d be at the top of the class after reading Seiya’s mind. Oh, look, there’s Masa-san.”

In the direction Nanao pointed, there was Masa-san, who had changed into his practice clothes, and Ren, who had a camera in his hand. The two of them were smiling, and Masa-san had a childish expression on his face that wasn’t normally seen.

When Nanao waved at them with a “Merha,” they also replied with “Merha,” but Minato looked away.

The twins ripped the target papers together.

I’m so frustrated. I’m so frustrated.

They peeled off the hole-filled target papers from the target frames.

To lose to that newbie and have our places next to Shuu stolen. Ah, I can’t believe it.

They were cleaning up after practice at Kirisaki High School’s kyudo club.

In order to set a good example for the new members, the second-years were taking the initiative. After washing the target frames with water, they left the rest to the first-years and went to the azuchi. When they slammed their trowels against it, part of the azuchi crumbled, and they hurriedly scooped up the crumbled earth.

Senichi and Manji felt the same way. It was absolutely unacceptable to be disrespected by a cocky junior who had no idea what he was talking about, just when they were starting to communicate with their seniors, Kabashima and Yushima. They themselves had also done quite a lot of trouble, but they of course put that aside. They quickly swept inconvenient things under the carpet.

Shuu was silently facing the makiwara. Kuon asked him a question with a composed expression.

“Fujiwara-senpai, you promised to watch my shooting when we’re together, didn’t you?”

When someone around them remarked, “I hate to admit it, but the two of them are a perfect match in terms of looks, ability, and pedigree. Even the clothes they wear are first-rate,” the twins glared at the person who made that comment.

A few days later, Senichi and Manji sprang into action. At every possible location, they guarded Shuu by staying ahead of Kuon.

What should we do to win against him?

He’s a strong man. Men speak with their fists.

They started going to a kickboxing gym. Jumping rope, shadow boxing, hitting mitts. One-two hook and one-two uppercut, middle kick from cut, then straight right. Kyudo emphasized shooting form, but in kickboxing, even if your form was good, it was meaningless if it didn’t work on your opponent. Put your weight in it and bring your fist down!

After sweating, they took care of their hair and skin to master the art of beauty. Ayurvedic beauty treatments from India. Dripping oil on the forehead had a great detoxifying effect. Their tired skin and hair became glossy and lustrous, resulting in well-moisturized young men.

They decided to completely remake their appearances. Aiming to be fashionable men, they were stylish even down to the places that weren’t visible. They bought silk underwear and layered obis (3) at a long-established kimono shop, and wore intellectual-looking glasses. While they were at it, they put a wig and silk hat on Yushima. They had used those props for the Rokumeikan Café during the school festival.

Yushima Kaoru, dressed in his kyudo uniform and silver wig, stared at them with narrowed eyes. At this time, the kyudojo was only for second-years, but there was a stir coming from the female members.

Manji spoke. “Kaoru-senpai, the crew cut is cool and on, but have you considered growing out your hair?”

“…Hey, twins, do you see something wrong with the direction of questions here?”

Kabashima also chimed in. “I don’t care if you look nicer or got stronger, but what about kyudo practice? I hope you haven’t been slacking off.”

“Huh? We practice properly. Look at our feet. The gaps between our toes are open, and we were praised for having nice feet. Maybe we can be both archers and martial fighters.”

Senichi and Manji took off their tabi socks and showed off their bare feet. The two faced each other and began playing Guu Choki Paa (4) and feet rock-paper-scissors. Kabashima buried his head in his hands even more at their comical movements.

“You know, a fighting man has to put his life on the line. What do you think Fujiwara recommended hot and cold baths and home cooking for?”

“So we can become househusbands and mountain hermits.”

“No, you got it wrong. They are ways to recover and nourish the body, to develop the strength and steadfastness necessary for an athlete.”

“Nope, nope, no way. We’re living far away from that kind of thing.”

“Hey, Fujiwara. Say something to these disgraces of Kirisaki High School. It’s setting a bad example for the juniors if their senpais are messing around too much.”

Called to by Kabashima, Shuu put down his bow. He sat on his heels and took off his yugake. His straight back, graceful nape of his neck, and swaying bangs made all those who saw him fall into raptures.

“Isn’t it good to try different things? You never know if something’s good or bad until you try it, and you might get something out of it.”

“Fujiwara, are you aware that you actually spoil those twins too much?”

“My father told me that a well-bred person respects others. Life dwells even in the plants and roadside stones. The rock cannot be cut by those who cannot see its life. He said that this isn’t a metaphor, but him telling the truth as it is. Sen and Man put their hands after the meal. The two of them are fine just the way they are.”

“Shuu!”

Senichi and Manji rushed over and tugged on Shuu’s sleeves from both sides. As expected, he didn’t seem to like that and quickly brushed them off before returning to practice.

Kuon, who was watching the situation from afar, raised his eyebrows.

He had a dream the other day.

In it, he and Shuu were having a conversation on a wide lawn with a Western-style building behind them.

“I’m thinking of welcoming a dog into my family,” Shuu said.

“Have you decided on the breed?”

“It’s hard to decide between Japanese and Western. A black Shiba inu, a Labrador Retriever, or do I go with the classics and choose a standard poodle? It’s pleasant to imagine a furry creature snuggled up to one’s side.”

“It is wonderful.”

“That’s right. There’s a cute creature that’s always bright and energetic, and when it sees my face, it flies towards me, and even shrinks its huge body when it fails.”

And then, Shuu turned to a tall man.  “Your hand,” he said.

“Awoo,” he said and put out his hand.

“Your chin.”

“Awoo—wait, what are you doing, Shuu-kun!”

That was when he woke up. Kuon was covered in cold sweat.

What kind of dream was that?

Who is this guy who’s so familiar with my Fujiwara-senpai?

The crime of disrespect is also serious. Unforgivable, even if it’s just a dream, something like this would never happen. Fujiwara Shuu is a solitary genius. Everyone kneels before him in awe and reverence. Being the sublime Young Lord is his truth. Associating with lowly people will only degrade your status. Playing around with them is outrageous.

Dogs must be strictly disciplined.

The training camp at the Yata no Mori Kyudojo was on its last day.

A practice match was held. A total of twenty-five mixed male and female archers, excluding five first-year students who didn’t participate in the training camp, shot four arrows in zasha in teams of five. The order was decided with “yaburi.” Himura took an arrow from each participant, held it in a bundle behind his back, and then placed them in a random order on the floor, one at a time. The order was determined by checking the arrow and the owner calling out their own name.

The entrance ceremony began. The first-years were a bit slow, with their shoulders tensed and their steps not in sync with each other, but their spirit was well-conveyed.

It was fun shooting in a different lineup than usual. Seiya was behind Seo, and Hanazawa and Shiragiku were behind Kaito, neither of them giving an inch. What made kyudo great was that it allowed men and women of all ages to compete without handicaps.

The first-years were checking that they have memorized the shooting form and Eight Stages of Shooting, so hitting was of secondary importance. Still, they were so happy that they felt like they could soar when they hit one. Everyone shouted “Yes” as if it were their own. When all the shots were finished, there were three who hit with all four arrows. It became a tie-breaking match, and in order to shorten the time, it was an izume match instead of an enkin match.

Masa-san and Minato left the kyudojo to pick up the kimonos for the nosha.

The disciple followed the master who was walking in a hurry, but there was no casual chat as usual. The two of them were in the positions of working adult and student, and keenly aware of their different speeds and strides.

Unable to stand it, Minato called out to him.

“Masa-san.”

“What is it? If there’s something you need, it can wait until after camp is over.”

“Since this year’s beginners are using the bow earlier than usual, I know that you and Tommy-sensei must keep an eye on them in order to prevent accidents. But why are you only ignoring me?”

“Wait, Minato, let’s talk about this later.”

“It’s true that no matter how many times I’m told, I forget to tense the little finger on my left hand, and I can’t even do dantian breathing, but am I such a terrible disciple that I’m given up on?”

When Minato grabbed Masa-san’s arm, he heard a quiet voice.

“I’m sorry, but please don’t look at me with those eyes.”

Minato let go of his grasping hand.

In his blurry vision, he saw Masa-san covering his face with his left hand.

“It’s not what you think. When Seiya took a survey of the club members, he found that ‘Coach Takigawa shows favouritism towards the second-year boys. Especially Narumiya-senpai.’ So, to avoid misunderstandings, I tried not to talk to you too much in front of the first-years.”

“…Huh?”

“And Minato, you were the one who didn’t react when I waved to you.”

“I thought you didn’t want to make eye contact with me.”

“It’s more like there are times when it’s troublesome.”

“What do you mean, troublesome? Tell me clearly.”

“I sometimes find myself wanting to pat your forehead uncontrollably, but I can’t let anyone else see me like that, now can I?”

“Wh-wh-what are you talking about?”

Just when Minato was at a loss for words, two figures suddenly appeared and stood in front of him.

“Making our grandson cry, you’re a failure as a coach!”

Minato couldn’t believe his eyes. He had seen these faces before.

“…Grandpa!? Grandma!?”

“We thought that this club must be an exploitative club, since they have club activities during the holidays, but it seems that we were right. Isn’t it important to spend time with your family and friends outside of club activities?”

“Grandpa! There were people who were against training during the holidays, but we were the ones who asked for it. That’s why only volunteers are participating.”

His grandfather, who was about to grab Masa-san, loosened his clenched fist. After understanding the situation, the grandparents turned to Minato.

“When we learned about your kyudo activities, we really wanted to see you face to face. Since we were against the marriage of your parents, we were too embarrassed to go see you, so we hid and watched you,” his grandfather said.

“We’re sorry for coming to see you so late. We haven’t seen you since the funeral. Your mother had been sickly ever since she was little, so we were worried about letting her live so far away. Because we were so stubborn, we never got to see our precious daughter and grandchild. We weren’t able to properly express our feelings. We can never get rid of our regrets, so this is how…” his grandmother said.

“…I’m the only one who survived… I wondered if Mom was in more pain than I was, or if she was scared, but I couldn’t breathe…”

When Minato pressed his hand against his left side, his grandmother gripped that hand and his other hand.

“What are you saying! There’s a song your mother used to sing to herself when she was a child. It goes like, When I cross that mountain, I will feel very peaceful and content. Your mother always loves your smile.”

Masa-san placed his hand on Minato’s back.

“Ui no okuyama kyou koete, asaki yume miji yohi mo sezu—that’s the ‘Iroha poem.’ (5) It talks about how when you cross the mountains, Miroku-sama will come and greet you.”

“Yes, that is also an interpretation. You seem to be a diligent person who studies hard. I’m relieved that there’s someone like you by Minato’s side. Please continue to take good care of him for a long time.”

“No, I should be thanking you.”

While still holding Minato’s hands, his grandmother exchanged a few words, then let go of them in reassurance.

“We’ll come visit again!” Minato saw his waving grandparents off.

Kaito and Seiya, who were looking for Minato and Masa-san because they were late in coming back, hid behind a tree.

“Seiya, you knew that Narumiya’s grandparents were secretly checking on him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I knew. They visited us. That’s why I left it alone.”

“Good grief, you should have told me. If I had known, I wouldn’t have gotten worried.”

“Sorry, Kaito.”

Kaito stiffened at Seiya’s honest response.

Afterwards, the nosha was held. Nanao, who won the match, was the archer, and Minato served as the first kaizoe, and Kaito as the second. They wore peach, bamboo-green, and crimson kimonos respectively.

Previous | Next

[moodymisty]

no fear response, and more that it’s been turned nearly all of the way down.

I headcanon that it’s a similar situation with their feelings of romance or sex. That it’s not completely gone, but that it’s nullified just enough for them, under the right circumstances (a.k.a never truly interacting with baseline humans), to not feel those feelings ever. Because you can’t have your killing machines questioning their loyalty and running off with some mortal, right?

So I this brings me to the thought that a space marine can feel romantic or sexual feelings, it’s just that it’s probably got to be under some very specific circumstances. And that most of them would have no idea what to do when they get a crush on someone. Yes they’re grown adults but new emotion?? New emotion that is affection??? Affection that isn’t platonic or familial?!! Confusion!!!!

Cue a bunch of different reactions to this. Ranging from trying to impress their object of affection by showing off how well they can fight (“Check out how strong I am!” “Well yeah, you’re a space marine.” “Oh… right.”), to deciding to avoid them completely, or being weirdly obsessive/possessive of them because they never want to lose the person that made them feel this way, or getting angry at the baseline human for distracting them from their duties (even though they probably didn’t even realise the space marine had feelings for them), perhaps even deciding to do what they do best and bringing their human trophies of the enemies/heretics/xenos they killed like some kind of giant catboy.

Space marine: 7 years ago I had a crush on a serf in my chapter and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I wrote her a letter that just said “leave this place immediately”

(first part of the ask because dumblr cut it off)

Putting this ask on my fridge because you understood the fucking assignment.

Astartes start their transformation at around 10-13, so basically their entire formative years are taken away from them. How are you expected to know what a crush is or love or really any complex emotion if you’re too busy having a bakers dozen of extra organs shoved in you and running through the Tunnel of Terror?

'Yeah I didn't have a girlfriend I was too busy getting acid spit'

I imagine that having to deal with an Astartes who's figuring out how an entire array of emotions work is going to be, a handful. He ends up knocking someones lights out while sparring just to show off, or you end up with the hide of an entire Tyranid Warrior. What do you say to that? Thanks? Them being hyper vigilant of you being around other Astartes, almost obsessively. Also all this depends heavily on the chapter. It would probably be much easier with a White Scar, Lamenter( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), Ultramarine, or Blood Angel( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) than an Imperial Fist, World Eater, or Black Templar (I love my wall husbands but their heads are filled with concrete).

[PENDING COMFIRMATION LOL] And, some of this is actually canon! In a book, a space Marine thinks about how weird he feels when looking at an attractive young woman who’s a refugee they saved. I KNOW this is a thing but I cannot remember the source so I’m going to try and find it. I believe he was a blood angel. If I can't find it please take all this with a grain of salt.

And anyone who manages to land themself an Astartes BF pretty much got themself the himbo to end all himbos. Because while Astartes are super smart and have crazy fast reflexes, they’re fucking dumb as rocks in other regards. (Examples being any emotion that isn’t anger or respecting your superiors, stupid infighting between chapters, Talos Valcoran)

Also in the 41st millenium they’re pretty much mildly worshiped as 'angels', so you have a literal trophy husband. Congrats. Please keep him on a leash the guardsmen are very scared and he has no trigger discipline.

[sunnydbd]

finally have the courage to post a little writing exercise thats been sitting in my drafts for awhile enjoy ❤︎︎❤︎︎

word count : 673

also its a rewrite of silver bullet chapter 14 by puckparty(yes ik,, i promise this is my last post on this fic,,,)

Scar slumps forward, perching his forearm on his knees, lax hands clasped between them. A shiver racks throughout his body. Scar takes a cursory glance at Grian, his gaze already fixed onto him. A soft smile plays on his lips and Scar hadn’t realized how much he missed the faint crinkle pulling at his cheeks whenever Grian let Scar be privy to the odd sight.  Warmth fills his chest. A burst of air leaves his nose in a sigh, “So,” he drags out the syllable, leaning back into the couch cushions, “What now? I mean there’s a lot to unpack here.”  Grian’s hands move from his lap, mussing the thick fabric of his pants, mussing the wrinkles of the denim, crossing his arms as he pouts. “I know,” he starts softly in spite of the crease forming between his brows, “I’m asking myself the same question, but…” His gaze flickers to Scar, a confession embedded in the flush spreading across his nose bridge, “I just— had to make sure you were safe first.” Grian leans in on himself, elbow digging into the joint of his knee, torso sinking into the soft of his stomach— curling in on himself as if to coward behind the cover of his person. His chin rests in the cleft of his palm, fingers absent-mindedly brushing along the flesh of his bottom lip, avoiding Scar outright. That’s… also a sight he isn’t privy to. Scar swallows the dryness in his throat, warmth fogs his senses, fills his lungs with smoke, steeps his mouth in tea. And he keens— suppressing the saliva pooling in his mouth by tensing his jaw. An animal to a salt-lick, his mind provides. An all too Pavlovian response.  “That’s— uh…” Scar gives a sputtered clearing of his throat, akin to a shallow groan, taking the reins of mind by flitting his gaze from the angel sitting on his couch, “Thank you.” “It’s fine.” Grian dismisses the sentiment with a wave. “Least I can do after getting you involved in this.” His hands vaguely gestures in front of himself, brows wilting, “Putting you at risk.”  Scar sighs, arm slung across his breast, “It comes with the territory. My entire career, the H.E.A.R.T. Foundation, every part of the job is a risk, but it’s worth it.” He lulls his head back; chin tipped to the ceiling, backrest bolstering his neck. He can’t look at Grian after that last statement, be that because of reverence or of cowardice, he couldn’t say– though his mind draws near the ladder. “Is it—” Grian starts and that gets Scar’s attention again, “Was it?” He doesn’t face Scar, just pores over him through narrow eyes instead, features— straight upturned nose and cherub curls— framed with the soft light spilling out from the kitchenette. Scar can hardly get a read on the man, the intention behind his actions, the thoughts churning in his mind, fixating on it– on him– is more like trying to decipher the details of a slab of concrete than anything deriving scrutiny. He’s rewarded with a fog; over his hands and what they were doing, enveloping his hindbrain until he’s forgotten what exactly he was dissecting under the microscope of his gaze, billowing from the innermost corner of his consciousness– or God knows where– with a niggling ring settling in his ears in the wake of silence, when his mind is most prone to wander. The feeling is most prominent whenever something’s mulling over in Grian’s mind, expression stoic with indifference. He supposes– which is a dangerous game when it comes Grian– it’s adapted from his job, his title as an heir, the need for diligence when the idea of vulnerability is likened to weakness in the developmental years. Yet, he betrays these analyses and notes Scar has logged from their previous sessions; eyes lidded, the soft line of his lips dropping ever so slightly– its vulnerability, weakness, that peels away at the initial words which give way to a question. Was I worth it?

thank you for tolerating my self-indulgent brainrot,, ,

[balshumetsbaragouin]

Passion and Plasmatic Plague

The first chapter is officially out!

I am excited to join the rest of my fellow creatives for Ecto-Implosion's posting week.

Many thanks to the incredible mods of @ecto-implosion for organizing this event. I had so much fun and have made so many new friends. This is the first time I've participated in a big fandom event. It's addictive, so I'm going to be joining more next year.

I was partnered with the incredible @emotigonecreative! Her piece is beyond inspiring, and you can find it here!

The update schedule for the story is every Saturday and Wednesday. There are 24 chapters, so expect to be fed all winter long! Summary:

Enmity, a supernatural plague, an irresistible connection. It's Sophomore year, and Danny Fenton was still on the bottom of the food chain in Casper High. His friends kept his counsel, and his family kept lecturing. They remained at arms' length, and all others a football field's distance. The one exception was Valerie Gray. Her words drew him closer, yet the Huntress' guns kept them apart. He needed to find a way to bridge the divide, and quickly, because an electronic plague burned through Amity Park, and they'd made a hasty alliance to put it out. Valerie's double life continued to vex her, her work as Huntress made more difficult by Phantom's interference. Then, stability came in the form of a mind-melding upgrade to her suit. It responds to her every whim, its power strengthening with every passing day. Serendipitous, because a ghost curse was spreading through town like ink through water, transforming every piece of technology into a potential adversary. Pulled between her hatred of ghosts and her growing affection for Phantom, she might just destroy her new partner, if her suit doesn't do it first.

You can find the full chapter here, but here's a preview if you're still not convinced:

The air basked in light and bird song, the world made anew in the heavy lidded eyes of the fading night. Rime dusted the ground and hoarfrost clung to the underside of freshly fallen leaves, making the whole world glitter and shine in the rosy dawn light. As the influence of Nox gave way to Aurora, she tucked her arms tighter against her body and slanted away from the touch of the wind’s chill. The sharp scuffle of her footfalls against the glistening concrete, newly citizen salted, cut through the press of silence that cocooned her on her solitary march to school. 

Finally, ahead of her, the light of the school’s warm interior glinted off the frost on the front lawn, its glimmer called forth from the dying strands of grass still fighting the oncoming sleep of winter like a toddler rolling about to avoid a nap. She pulled loosened hair away from her face as a big gust snatched at her curls, clawing away the neat style she’d spent the morning designing. I should have worn a beanie. Sure, she’d have to take it off right after entering school—the No-Hats policy remained even in the cold—but at least her hair would be intact. 

She stood off to the right of the entrance, just inside the double doors, and reached into her backpack to pull out a compact and her emergency brush. The other students brushed past her without comment, briefly sliding in and out of view on the edges of the mirror, as she carefully redid the style. Maybe more hairspray would have saved it? She’d consider it next time. The good stuff was expensive, and with her meager savings—

“Wow, did you fight a bear on the way here?”

“Is that what happened to you?” Valerie continued brushing her hair, eyes never leaving the mirror.

“Excuse me?”

“You know, on account of you wearing half an outfit in forty degree weather, Paulina.” She snapped the compact closed and slid it back into her bag. Even with the brief flash in the compact, she’d been able to see how much frostbite the other girl was risking. A bold, stupid choice, fitting for Casper’s Queen Bee.

[the-stove-is-divorced]

Day 1483943 of being cursed with Batman brainrot so snippet of young ghoul!Bruce wip, that may or may become a oneshot one day.

Bruce wants to vomit.

His heart, a stupid sluggish thing, which beats far too slow to sink into the bounds of normal, truly begins to pound furiously now, desperately, ready to yank free from the cages of bone and fatty tissues, the too dark blood and pale skin. Bitter bile begs to be released as he trembles, helplessly trying to keep the blood from his mother’s side, where it's staining the ground in spite of his efforts, so terribly warm and worse yet—a horribly sweet.

It actually smells sweet.

Bruce wants to vomit.

His heart, a stupid sluggish thing, which beats far too slow to sink into the bounds of normal, truly begins to pound furiously now, desperately, ready to yank free from the cages of bone and fatty tissues, the too dark blood and pale skin. Bitter bile begs to be released as he trembles, helplessly trying to keep the blood from his mother’s side, where it's staining the ground in spite of his efforts, so terribly warm and worse yet—a horribly sweet.

It actually smells sweet.

Sweet like candies do, soft and delicate like cotton candy, like cakes fresh from the oven, caramels carefully salted, but its blood. His stomach, this stupid body, is panicked and horrible and hungry, because the blood is fresh and warm upon his hands, the scent thick and nearly choking upon his nose, and he’s never wanted to throw up more. His vision blurs, swimming, details cast aside as body deforms into dark, bloody shapes, stiff and still, frozen in horror. 

He knows their hearts cannot beat anymore, the familiar pitter patter like rain against a windowsill, the pleasant hum like the fridge in the kitchens, like the distant buzz of a hive at work, is cut. Finished. Struck and left rot, stagnant. 

And still, in spite of him, in some horrible, awful might of the wretched, this wretched body, the smell is sickeningly sweet, fresh and truthfully, insidiously, delicious. His parents, the bodies, are ripe like fruit, sickeningly fresh, coating the back of his throat with the slow trickle of hunger, the stench of buttery baked goods, a touch of saltiness, an overwhelming soft sweetness, just begging for just a single, tiny, bite. Their bodies fell like the too fat fruit hung from the property’s trees, blood splatter like bruises across their skin from the impact. 

If Bruce closes his eyes, stunning backward and hitting the wall, ignoring the rattling breath and horrible hiccups, he’s been shoved into a shop, goodies and treats to be devoured, the very touch of a perfectly soft, heavy cake desperate for his teeth to sink in and finally chew. 

 As the roar of the sirens grow closer, the red ooze coats his trembling hands like syrup, Bruce’s stomach growls, cruelly, and his mouth, betraying, is filled with drool. 

The wretched stain of hunger paints the memory still. 

———

“Master Bruce? Are you hungry?”

No, he thinks, he won’t be ever again. He scarcely even turned his head, rooted to his parent’s bed and wishing it would just swallow him whole, spare him the mercy of existing, the prickling pain of hunger, the choking memory of blood at the back of his throat, oh so sickeningly sweet. 

The funeral was a blur of tears, muddled blurring tones of weary speeches, cousins he didn’t care for, food he didn’t—couldn’t eat, and others he couldn’t make himself swallow. Again, his stomach squirms in the discomfort of hollowness, to be empty, but Bruce doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything. He tries to sleep, but mockingly, it doesn’t come, exhaustion perched right beside him, filling his limbs with concrete, but blissful unconsciousness avoids him like the plague. 

Alfred lingers by the door. Warm, yellow light spills in from around his looming shadow, but it does nothing to curb his vision, darkness and light nothing but a blur, a matter of taste and not a dive into blindness, because his eyes are different, his body is monstrous, and yet he still survived. Untouched the rain of bullets, the spray by blood.

“Not even a snack?” Alfred tries. He can hear the trying smile.

A short sniff, and the speckle of animal blood lingers in Alfred’s fingers, finely chopped chunks of meat arranged in simple shapes, triangles, circles, barely cooked and raw. Savory, juicy, and bursting with flavor to make saliva pool in his mouth. Disgusting, foul, wretched, that makes him squirm. 

But Bruce just buried his head underneath a pillow that still carries his father’s cologne, and trembles. One day it will fade and Bruce will bath it in bottles of cologne to make it stay. He’ll buy the whole company just for a single, fluffed pillow. 

Alfred steps closer. A specific spot along the floorboards creak, announcing the distance, but Bruce can’t make himself care. He just aches.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to inhale cologne over blood. He tries to ignore how his stomach feels like a knife trying to carve him open, despairingly empty. It hurts. As he sinks into the sensation, clawing and desperate, a gloved hand finds itself in his hair, incredibly gentle, so horribly soothing, undeserved, and he begins to crumble. He is held, gently rocked and whispered meaningless promises, lies of getting better, and they loved you, and I’m sorry’s, but the ache inside him is blooming, swelling, overrides his senses and brings him to tears, clinging onto the touch, starving. 

When he wakes in his parents bed hours later, there is a meal, warm, sitting by the nightstand and a small cup of blood, cool, beside it. His body is a weak thing, shaky and oh so cold. The blankets upon him are thick, suffocatingly warm, windows shut and curtains drawn, but he’s chilled to the bone. His stomach wants.

And it’s right there. 

He brings it to his lips, hands shaking ever so lightly, grabbing bare with his own palms and sees the blood coat it, syrupy. He wants to lick it. He wants to throw up. The body wants to eat. He feels so weak, and his body, this body, it demands and screams and aches. He puts it in his mouth. He wants it to taste like ash and rot, he wants it to taste like chewing molding wood and inhaling dirt, he wants to taste like dirty sewer water, putrid and foul. 

It doesn’t. It’s incredible. 

It’s undeserved. 

[deluxewhump]

Erik's Journals pt 8 (2023)

16. Cetus

Cw: self harm mentions, scars, and NSFW - this chapter contains explicit sexual material I would not at face value call dubcon, but the nature of this story makes it something that deserves a word of warning anyway.

April, 2023

It was a blue spring day when Carlo tossed a duffel bag into my car and ducked quickly inside like a fugitive. Always unexpectedly tall and dressed like an Ivy League student, on spring break of his senior year at MVU. He glanced at me like the boy who once accompanied me to Germany, back when he was still my pet. He's something different now, something that is both Max’s and his own. Does he feel his own? I asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I said, and pulled away from the gray curb, still dirty from winter’s salt and gravel trucks. He looked unsettled by my strange question. “You’re fine, Lo,” I added, smiling at him. He smiled back and his shoulder blades relaxed into my leather seat.

I took him to my lake house in Virginia. It was only an hour's drive, and we listened to an NPR broadcast on Japanese cuisine and the concept of umami to fill the silence that always seemed uncomfortable at first until we settled into some old routine, of which we have only momentarily forgotten the first steps.

The highway took us west out of the bleak steel and concrete of Baltimore, a city that always seemed to me precariously perched between north and south, having qualities of both but belonging to neither. It is a precocious weed, struggling from the crack of the sidewalk, trodden and thirsty for light. 

“So…where are we going?” he asked when we pulled off pavement and continued more slowly down a narrow gravel road, the trees that overhang in summer like a jungle canopy still bare and skeletal in the slow spring we were having. I slowed and swerved to straddle a washed out section of road. Sparrows flitted in front of us, one side to another like brown arrows shot from a thrumming bowstring.

I hadn’t told him where I was taking him this weekend. He probably assumed DC, or New York. Was he nervous? Did he think I was taking him to some secluded patch of woods, some gravel pit to do him harm? If I wished him harm I could inflict it from the convenience of my living room.

“I have a new piece of property out here,” I told him. “It’s pretty, and quiet. I think you’ll like it.”

He watched the choked eastern woods crawl by from the passenger window. “Hey. There was a doe. Maybe twenty feet in,” he said with a quiet sense of appreciation, almost a tinge of wonder.

“Max’s property must be crawling with them, up there in the hills?”

He avoided talk of Max with a dismissive “mm” of general agreement. He checked his phone. No bars. He set it facedown in his lap.

“I know,” I said. “No service. You can connect to my Wi-Fi when we get there.”

The road arched its back over rolling wooded hills. I hugged right in case another car crested suddenly in our path, though I’d never yet run into another soul in this blissfully underdeveloped Virginian hinterland. Finally the road forked and I pulled right onto a second, smaller stretch of dirt. We curved a copse of saplings and before us appeared the two story house. It was glass from floor to ceiling, like a lantern box. We could see inside the bones of my living room furniture, the light fixtures hanging in the kitchen right through to the lake beyond, reflecting the trees that flank it like a glass bowl.

“Wow. Is this new?”

“Built last year. I closed on it in August.”

“Why?” he asked innocently, looking at me. I parked, the sleek engine idling silently as a snake in grass.

“It’s what old men do. They buy property in the middle of nowhere and sit and watch the water.”

“It’s your Walden Pond.”

On impulse, I reached over the center console and touched his hair. He let me. I fingered one dark curl, velvet as a rabbit's foot.

“What are we doing here?”

“We can take the boat out. I have good food to cook. Good scotch to drink. I have a TV. I’m sure you’re sick of books by this point in your semester.”

“Little bit.”

I remembered a time when he was young, maybe sixteen. He had come to me complaining about his tutors putting too much work on him in too short a timespan. It was winter, and he was doing a shift every day in the warehouse as well as his schooling and practicing piano. I'd been distracted, irritated, and snapped at him to learn some better time management. Surprised at my tone with him, his eyes had immediately welled with tears and he'd gotten angry. He tried to storm off and I said after him, "Go to my office. Now, please." I wondered if he would, or if he’d ignore my request. 

Sure enough, I found him there a few minutes later and shut the door behind me. He was sitting at the swivel chair in front of my desk like he was an inmate sent to the warden, picking his cuticles with his head hung low. Gently, apologetically, I asked him to explain again. He'd done so, reluctantly, and I took the next six shifts in the warehouse off his schedule for him. Focus on your studies, I’d said. The warehouse has its lessons, but it is not your main concern. 

I'd felt badly for yelling at him, when he'd come to me overwhelmed and looking for help. I couldn’t treat him like a whining manager at O&H, or a warehouse employee who’s no-showed to a shift. He was too sensitive to my moods, my criticism. I knew I oscillated between strict and soft with him, but he never took advantage of my lenience. 

“You’re not afraid to be way out here in the woods with me, are you?," I asked now, only partly teasing. 

His neck colored, and I resisted the urge to touch it to feel its heat. A curious thing, my attraction to him. It is not explicitly sexual, but it is a cousin to it now. Possessive. Hungry.

“No. I’m not.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be.”

He huffed through his nose, perhaps just to dispel the tension between us with any sort of levity. “Thanks for the reassurance.”

“Of course,” I said, and opened the driver's side door. We collected our things and went inside. It smelled of newly laid flooring still, a delicate cedar scent that reminded me of my childhood home, of winter and my father gathering split wood for the stove, how the cold gust of air from the back door would make the fire shiver in the yawning hearth.

I took his coat, told him where he could put his things. He wandered around for a bit, looking at the features and design of the house. He touched the leaf of a Christmas cactus, still flowering in provocative pink buds, between his long fingers, his neck bent so the weak April light played over the knob of his spine from a skylight above him.

“The architect was Swedish,” I said. “His fixation, for all architects have one, is light. I had my reservations about all the glass but out here, it works.”

“It’s like we’re outside but inside. A greenhouse.”

“The stars are incredible out here at night. No light pollution. It’s like being in the Alps.”

He eyed the copper espresso machine on a marbled countertop.

“Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, Sir. Please.”

Sir. It was his way of calling back the old days. Our old dynamic, Master and Pet. Innocent enough to be a common honorific, addressing someone far his senior with a title of respect. Something a waiter might say to a guest. A student to a professor. A salesman on a phone call. But it was not just that. Not for him. Not to me.

I made us each a short black cup of espresso, and put a piece of vanilla biscotti on the saucer of his cup like a fat golden finger.

“Is this East?” he asked, facing the lake.

“Yes. Great sunrises.”

He sipped his coffee.

“Does Max know where you are?” I asked casually.

“Nope,” he answered, making the p sound pop like chewing gum on his lips. A confident, casual sound. He is young still, twenty three and still possessing the quality of a boy underneath the part of him that is a man.

“What did you tell him?”

“That I was with Jude. But Jude’s in Michigan. I’ll message him with the Wi-Fi at some point. He won’t call.”

“No?”

“No. My leash, as you called it, is very long now. I’ve proven to him that I can take care of myself, or whatever.”

“You’ve always been able to take care of yourself.”

He widened his eyes over the rim of his cup briefly. “Sort of. I had a rough start because of… separation anxiety, I guess.

“By choice, I bet. I seem to remember you navigating Berlin all by your lonesome just fine. I never worried you wouldn’t come back.”

“I was always coming back,” he said in a low register that suggested he wasn’t just talking about Berlin. “I’m here, aren’t I? Of my own free will, if there’s such a thing?”

“There is. For our intents and purposes, anyway.”

He sat on my sofa and I leaned on the counter, sipping espresso.

“What is your major again?”

“I don’t know that I ever told you. English. Minor in psych.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Everyone asks me that. Strangers ask me that. I haven’t gotten that far. Max just wanted me to go.”

“So you went.”

“Yep. But I like it. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. I probably should’ve done something more practical. I think Max thinks that too. But he’s just happy I’m going. I graduate this December.”

It was more than he usually spoke of Max. I was always so curious, but it didn’t really matter, my curiosity. Just a morbid interest I’d taken up in the man who’d bought my Carlo and set him free, and yet kept him all the same like a little brother. Or a child.

“Practicality is in the eye of the beholder.”

He snorted.

“It is. The purpose of higher education was never and should not be now to produce a brainless army of workers. A certificated proletariat.”

“What is it then?”

“To produce a well informed, well rounded citizen. It’s not a product to be bought. You are a student, not a customer.”

He regarded me slowly, in his catlike way. “So you think English is a good choice? Chaucer and poetry and the history of rhetoric?” He enunciated harshly, belittling his own field.

“If you have an affinity for it. Which I have no doubt you do, knowing you like I do.”

He seemed pleased with that, but like he was trying to hide it from me. Did he still crave my approval? Of course. I pressed on.

“What else would you do? Weld? Go into sales? Middle management at a credit reporting bureau? No. You’re right where you belong . Leave the key turning and penny pinching to the rest of them.”

He gave me a wry look. Max is middle management at a credit reporting bureau. And does well for himself by the looks of Carlo’s clothes and leather bag and car. But I had told him what he wanted to hear, so he forgave me the backhanded slight to his younger former keeper.

“Can we go out on your boat today?”

“Of course. Sooner rather than later, while we still have the light. It’s chilly. Bring your coat, and I’ll get you a hat and gloves.”

That night I fed him tender steak with mushrooms and onion, crispy skinned, pillowy potatoes with rosemary, and tiramisu from a bakery downtown. After the brisk fresh air of the lake and having drunk half a bottle of red wine, he fell asleep under a blanket on my cream leather sofa with the fireplace crackling in the hearth.

I was glad I’d chosen a real fireplace for this house of glass and wrought iron, though mine at home were all gas and remote controlled now. Outside, our woodsmoke smudged the perfect white stars.

He woke at midnight with bleary eyes and let me take him to his room, a brand new queen bed, never slept in. He let himself be guided under crisp virgin covers, and I sat on the side of the bed. He didn’t question that, or my hand in his hair, petting him back to sleep.

-

Saturday morning, Carlo had gone for a swim in the lake before sunrise. He was at the kitchen table with his breakfast when I came downstairs and discovered what he’d done. He was in fresh clothes, but his hair was only partially toweled off, lips still pale from the freezing water. 

“In April, Carlo? ” I chided him, heating water for the French press. “The coldest April in twenty years?”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“It’s hardly forty-three degrees out. And the sun wasn’t even up. I can’t begin to guess what the water temperature is. That lake is deep. It drops off to thirty feet almost immediately. I told you that yesterday on the boat. What if you got a muscle cramp?”

“I like the cold.”

“Since when?”

His spoon paused halfway to his mouth— almond granola and a handful of sugared raspberries in whole milk. 

He knew he had me. 

“Since you taught me to like it.”

The cold shower rule, from that distant winter, back to haunt me. 

I thought mildly of slapping his perfect face. I’d done it before. It would be out of line now. It almost was then. I imagined his wounded, startled look and an upside down bowl of granola on the floor, raspberries rolling toward the cracks in the black tiles.

”Oh you liked it, now? Is that your story?” I asked calmly. 

“Eventually,” he said quietly, matter-of-fact. “If you just submit to the cold it is more bearable. It hurts at first, and then your brain gives you endorphins to combat the discomfort. If you start associating the source of discomfort with the endorphins…” he shrugged. “Masochism 101.” 

His spoon was still paused patiently in the air, elbow on my table. Talking to me about masochism. 

“Is that your psych minor talking?”

“Was that not what I was supposed to learn from it?” he asked with a mimicry of sincerity. 

I turned from the stovetop and poured hot water into the press. “Willful little brat.”

He frowned. “Are you really mad at me? I didn’t do it to upset you, I swear. It was an impulse.”

I waved in a dismissive gesture. 

He dropped his spoon back into the bowl, unsatisfied. 

“I’m not mad at you, Lo. Don’t be so sensitive. You surprised me. Worried me.”

He lifted his eyes to me and I thought of the doe he’d seen in the woods. What a foolish dance this was. And yet here I was, on my mark. 

He rubbed his chin. “You sound mad.”

I came closer and he straightened, unsure of me. I picked a raspberry out of his bowl and placed it close to his lips. He pulled back an inch to glance down at it, then back up at me. 

Another reminder of his old games. 

“Please,” I said in a tender tone that went almost completely unused now, reserved for Carlo. He opened his mouth and let me place the berry on his tongue, wet magenta on wet pink.

“So am I allowed to swim?” He dropped his voice on the word allowed, almost to a whisper. 

“You can do whatever you want. But it is a deep, cold lake. And we are in the middle of nowhere. Please just tell me when you’re going. Hm?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.”

”Don’t be sorry. You’re young, and apparently fearless. Someone needs to keep you safe.”

I don’t believe the irony of those statements was lost on either of us. 

- 

Saturday night he cleaned the kitchen after a long and unhurried dinner until it gleamed and climbed up next to me when I put a movie on. I had my laptop on my lap at first, but finished an email and set it aside, pulling him closer. He came, soft and pliant, and laid against me as the temperature dropped outside and the wind made the thin, long limbs of barely budding trees scrape the gutters of the house. 

A few minutes later he surprised me by undoing the button of my pants and looking up at me, asking, wondering. 

I tilted my head at him. “Now, what is it you think you want?”

He shrugged. “I could… if you want.”

I admit the boldness and the shape of his mouth around the word want stirred me. It would be pleasant, I had no doubt. I imagined my fingers tightening in his hair and the sweethot slickness of his tongue.

I wouldn’t even fuck his mouth like I did sometimes to Tatiana, when I called on her. Carlo was of course more sensitive than even my favorite whore, more tuned in to my every move. More emotionally delicate, as I’d explained to Martin Olson half a dozen times. I’d let him go at his own pace, let him have his head, figuratively and literally, and see what he’d do. 

“A tempting offer,” I murmured, slipping my thumb over his bottom lip, over the scrape of his bottom teeth. He let his mouth hang partially open. Eyes lifted. I was already half hard. 

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. 

“I don’t know,” he said around my thumb. I placed my other hand on his chest and felt the tumbled thudding of his heart against his ribs. 

“It feels to me like a point of no return, Lo,” I said carefully, running my hand up his gray t-shirt to settle at the base of his throat. I thought of licking the little hollow there, sucking the taste of his skin and sweat and holding it in my mouth like a Biblically ancient pour of wine. 

Possession. That's what was rising in me. Like holding in my hands a delicate paper crane I could crush and something in me wanted to— but something else wanted to keep close to me, away from other influence and all harm. Even my own. 

He squirmed, rocking his hips into nothing. “I want to… I don’t know. Serve you.”

“You do. More than you realize.”

“Like this,” he said, and sucked the length of my thumb delicately. 

”I never would have asked you for this. Do you know that? Never.” 

”Yes,” he answered. “I know.”

“You’re hard to say no to. Are you nervous?”

“Yeah. But it doesn’t matter.”

I took my thumb from his mouth. Nodded at my unbuttoned lap. “Well.”

His chest rose and fell faster, and he turned to better position himself, undoing my fly and awkwardly, gingerly pulling me free from all constraints. There is something more lewd about having your cock out while fully dressed than being naked. I was hopelessly hard now, had been since he rocked his hips against the air at my words. 

He took my swollen length in his hand, his broad palm and long fingers so unlike the jeweled and acrylic-nailed hands of the girls I often chose. I put my arms behind my head, resting my laced palms on the back of my neck. I could see us in the reflection of the east wall of the living room, bathed in buttery lamp glow against the backdrop of the frigid black lake. He put his mouth on the tip of me and I watched him, turning from the reflection on the glass to see him directly. 

Sweethot, yes. Slick and wet and perfect. A debauched and ever wicked ex-pet back at his master’s feet, toying with his own free will and riding up to the gate with it like a banner. With one perfect fist closed at the base he took me in his mouth, slow and unsure at first. With my murmured encouragement he took me a little deeper, a little more surely. 

He’d done this before, I guessed. That was for the best. 

As he bobbed his head he rocked his hand in motion with himself, not shy of the way his saliva ran down my shaft and onto his knuckles, not shy of the wet sucking noises he made as he served me in the only new way he could think of now. I fumbled for the remote and muted the TV. I wanted to hear this. 

“Just like that,” I told him by way of encouragement. “Good boy.”

I lowered a hand to snake it in his hair and he slowed, faltering to see what I wanted. I guided him back down, at the same pace he’d been doing before. He continued, glancing up at me in a moment that almost made me lose my composure. I moaned, handful of dark curls, catching our glimpse in the reflection every so often like watching pornography, committing the scene to memory.  

I warned him I was close, giving him the chance to back off and finish with his hand. He didn’t. I came in his eager mouth, a perfect moment of whiteout pleasure, a bloody steak thrown to a creature I’d kept starved and tame in the back of my mind these last half dozen times I’d seen him. He came up for air only when I let go of his hair, lips pink and swollen, eyes wet. 

I held his face in my palms. “You’re really something.”

He smiled, pleased. 

I tucked myself back into my pants and convinced him to take off his clothes. He lay on his back naked, clutching a soft throw I kept on the back of the sofa over his hips modestly. I noticed a lattice of white, raised scars on his upper thighs. He saw my eyes on them and winced almost imperceptibly, miserably resigned to the likelihood that I’d mention it. 

They were minor cuts, had probably been done with a razor and bled for only a few minutes. They were nowhere near any vital veins, and I had no intention of making it a bigger deal than it was, even though it was an act I considered both girlish and juvenile. I ignored them and looked at his face instead, his eyes watching me closely. 

He let me kiss him everywhere else— the quivering well at the center of his ribcage, his silky thighs, the inner softness of his ankle. When his answering shivers and panting breaths quieted, I looked up to find him crying without a sound. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I feel good. I’m sorry.”

I opened my arms to him, offering. He came into them, tucking his head under my chin. I petted his hair, the base of his neck. He was still hard. I touched him there, silky and beautiful and leaking from the tip. He moved to better let me. I stroked him slowly, until he was done with tears and let his head fall back on my shoulder, whimpering like a pup and grasping the fabric of my pants at my knee. 

“It’s alright,” I whispered low in his ear. “Let me make you feel good. I’ve got you.” 

It was the talking that did it for him, I noticed. It was my words that made him writhe and tense in my hand. I kept talking to him as he gasped and came, slowing my hand until he was done and I was just holding him, sensitive as a beating heart turned inside out. 

I wondered— what cards had I just played? What cards did I let him believe he held? And whyever the tears? He still wanted things from me, things he couldn’t get from Max or that Max, in all his decent simplicity, would not give him.

Perhaps it was decency that stayed Max’s hand where it moved mine. Perhaps he was only interested in women. Could be it was a little of both. In any case. Here Carlo was. 

I leaned down to fish Carlo’s cotton shirt from the floor and cleaned him, then my hand. I always hated the mess, afterward. It throws cold water on the thrumming nectar of any moment, turning what was only moments before the tilting zenith of a symphony into something animal and mundane. I tossed the soiled shirt to the floor and pulled the forgotten blanket over his bare skin, kissed his warm forehead. 

“I don’t feel like that was a point of no return,” he said drowsily, leaning against me. “I don’t know why it’s any different.”

“Hush,” I told him gently, and turned the television back on. I’d hold him if he wished, but I wasn’t going to pillow talk to him about it like a woman, or a virgin, of which he was neither. “Then it isn’t.” 

Next

[themarginalthinker]

Dear Fellow Traveler

There are other vampires in the world, and the world itself is a big, big place. David takes a little trip.

-

Sooo......this is an odd one. Basically so far outside of Lost Boys canon it almost isn't anymore, but it's also a small look into some vampire worldbuilding Berd and I have done. David knows people outside of his pack, and they know him. (They certainly know Max, and that's not a good thing.)

Anyway, here you go. Enjoy?

-

It's not hard to find what you're looking for if you know what to look for.

David meanders down the streets of a late-night San Jose. The place hadn't changed too much since his last visit, a couple years ago. Marko and Paul hadn't been wrong - it was a city of many people, from all over. Most of California seemed like that.

San Jose was not Santa Carla, however. Few places were, David would give it that. Further inland, the air didn't hold salt and brine anymore, wasn't thick with humidity that gripped the scent of whatever organic life passed through it.

The blood here was of a different kind. Smeared on concrete thick with grit and dust. In the ash of smoke from things rolled into cigarettes that even Paul likely hadn't had the time to try all of.

David follows it. It makes no attempts to hide itself.

Humans couldn't smell it, after all.

It takes him past downtown - predictably. Hunting grounds for those with the charm, the grace to stalk the nightclub and bar, and for those without, plenty of pickings in the back alleys and unfortunates sleeping on park benches and bus routes. But one never mixed supper with sleep, and David veered off that path, following the one laid out. He glances up, to the side of a bricked up building. There were less businesses here, tucked away in second-story lofts and between condemned flats. He finds what he expects to see:

A tag, small enough to not draw the eye, in faded brown, sealed below disguising black paint. A calaveras, its grinning teeth showing points at the canines, and the moon in pretty, decorated swirls at its bone forehead.

He'd been following the trail for the last hour. The blood was getting fresher.

The streets are darker out here. Less cars, and those that do pass him are beaters at best. Spaces between buildings are trash heaps, massive junk piles. Sometimes, he thinks he sees something darting out of view when he looks up to the glassless windows of a building. Senses a shift in the air as he passes along a certain way, avoiding the scattered streetlights.

Finally, he comes to a stop.

A warehouse, utterly dilapidated, stretching along before a huge chunk of abandoned manufacturing factory property. Surrounded on all sides by the rusting, decaying waste of metal, the exoskeleton of a once-great beast twisted and scattered to and fro. The back end of it even caving in - but.

If one looked, one could see details in the dark. If one could see in the dark.

Certain places in the roof, patched over with welded bits of sheet metal. Open spaces in the sides, to same. Holes stoppered up. David himself stood before a door to an entryway that used to lead to offices inside, or at least a coatroom of sorts - but the door wasn't just barred with lock and key, no. The hinges had been welded shut to match the patched holes in the roof. To the side, little windows, and behind them nothing but a wall of cinderblocks. One couldn't force their way inside if they tried.

Etched into the glass of one of those windows, another little sugar skull design. Sharp teeth. Moon at its forehead.

"It hasn't been that long, Williams. Can't have forgotten where the front door is."

David smiles, and it's sharp.

"No, it hasn't, and no, I haven't. I was just waiting for a proper welcome, is all."

-

David doesn't know their real name.

Vampires who headed clan hubs rarely needed them, or kept them for long after they took the position.

The vampire who greeted him outside was shorter than David, thinner shoulders, smaller over all, but their face hard set. Copper skin warm even in the darkness, their crow black hair cut short up the back, held in a wolftail with a leather cord.

The leather wasn't animal.

Their clothing was a little more familiar style - not quite the wild fancies of the Boardwalks and the coast with its warm winds and wiles, but something that seemed to fade into the mechanical park above them. Faded denim jacket, bleached into curling, skeletal markings. Lines of fine beadwork amid the torn jeans and hole-riddled long sleeve shirt. Thick boots that had seen more wear and repairs than any sane person would think to use to keep them in working order.

Some of that leather wasn't animal either.

They had brought David down in a new way. A way David, in truth, didn't know. He'd been correct in saying that he'd known the literal doors to the building weren't the way inside, but apparently the real entrance had moved since last he'd come to San Jose. Just before the entrance to the warehouse wasteland, there was a small, unassuming grate laid into the foundations of what would have been a runnoff channel. It came out with only a small application of superhuman strength, and the pair had slipped down - guests first.

The crawl space of a concrete pipe had turned into a constructed tunnel, leading to a basement room where they came up through the floor. Into the clan grounds proper.

David had asked about that, as they climbed the stairs up to the main level, the floor of the half-collapsed warehouse - an aesthetic choice, or a necessity?

"Just young idiots, making noise," the Clan Vamp said.

"Bad enough to warrant a doorman?" David had asked with a raised eyebrow.

The Clan Vamp's smile is thin. "Enough to know you were here when you crossed city limits.

Well, shit.

"This place really has gone to the dogs," David tuts.

"Was it ever anywhere else?"

They exchange smiles - with teeth. Not full teeth, for David's words were not said with malice, and the reply not given in offense. But a flash of fangs to let the other know a boundary had been met. Eye to eye.

They finish climbing the steps from the basement level, and step out into the clan grounds.

In the center of the huge, open space, three fires in low bins flickered. Enough to cast long, dark shadows on the tall walls stretching high above. All around, curtains hung from rafters, some still in their original place, and others torn down and twisted about to form more private quarters. Strings of fairy lights wound through it all, here and there, in mismatched areas of pillows and mattresses, true nests. Further back, in the darker corners, hung bodies, close together or further apart. Those who preferred to roost rather than sleep flat.

Around the fires, similarly were a few groups of couches and chairs and lounges, scattered messes of more places to lay and sit.

And people were sitting. Voices filtered through the air now, shifting like the firelight. Low tones, among groups of twos and threes, occasionally someone taking off to roost in the rafters, or return to the privacy of a nest. Snatches of music came and went, as someone somewhere in the mess tuned a radio.

David takes it all in.

"Is the party over?" He asks the Clan Vamp, nodding at the...somewhat quiet night. He remembers what it was like the last time he came.

They glance at him, a long look full of many emotions, before walking forward, David in tow.

"Sure. Since el caballo de caza decided to come around."

David braces himself.

"How many lost?" He asks quietly.

The Clan Vamp didn't answer right away. They come to a couch, low slung in the age of its use, and they sit themselves down, sinking into a corner of it with familiar ease. They gesture for David to take the opposite end, and he does. Above their heads, in the rafters, the radio is finally tuned, and something slow, melodic and heavy in the bass guitar plays.

The firelight dances across the Clan Vamp's features as they reach into their pockets, pulling out a paper carton. They take two hand-rolled cigarettes, and light one in the flame of the bin fire. They use that to light the other. They hand one to David, who takes it, and draws.

It's not fully tobacco, and David recognizes the taste of familiar drugs, and something unique he's not likely to find anywhere else.

It's a few long minutes of silence, between them. Enjoying the smoke, the amiable air.

Finally, with a flick of a finger to rid the tip of the fag of ash where it puddles on the concrete floor, the Clan Vamp speaks.

"Three packs gone, all come here from Reno. One because they both wanted the same hunting ground, wouldn't listen to negotiation. Other two because the fighting drew line of fire from Hunters."

Loud, young idiots indeed.

The Clan Vamp's unoccupied fingers drum a steady beat on their own thigh. They lick their teeth.

"Lost a childe."

David blinks.

He looks to them. Their dark eyes weren't on him, or the rest of the clan grounds. Rather, they'd focused on the fire, almost transfixed. Their mind elsewhere. Distant.

"Shit," he says flatly.

"No one you knew," they say with a shrug.

David takes another draw of smoke, holding it, letting it curl through him. Watching his own long exhale billow upwards into the dark ceiling. A pair of bodies flitted through the space, unnaturally fast, unnaturally quiet. The pair of vampires above giggling to themselves as they moved about. David's eyes came back down.

As if the knowing mattered.

David thinks about Paul, staying back with Marko, despite the two of them knowing he was going tonight. Wanting to come. Knowing they couldn't.

He thinks about them being here, if...something happened.

"You gonna stay long?" They ask him at length.

David's mouth twists into a grimace he can't quite pass off as a smile.

"Daddy would get worried," he answers.

The Clan Vamp barks a laugh, low and humorless. "Damn. Thought you might'a come out here to tell me some good news, Williams."

"Nope," David drawls, popping the 'p'. "Same as it always was. He's opened a fucking business."

"No kidding."

"Mm. Actual, legitimate thing. Videos and TVs and all that junk. Makes a killing, apparently."

Another laugh between them, only a little bit lighter.

"How long you think he's got?" The Clan Vamp asks, sucking down the last of their cigarette.

David huffs, leaning further back into the couch.

"For as long as the Devil's got patience."

"La bendición."

David grins. It's only a little dulled.

[kaurwreck]

maybe it's navigable for you. i'm already homeless and disabled. i'm fuckin cooked and not even other queer ppl give a shit

It's not my place to tell you otherwise, so I won't. I give a shit, but you can't eat, shelter within, or make use of the shits I'm capable of offering as a response to an anonymous Tumblr ask.

If you have the means to accept cash remotely, I can try and at least spot you for a meal or truck stop shower or whatever other comfort, however slight, you can eke out of your callous circumstances. This is not something I can always offer, and it's not within my means to offer it to everyone who needs it. This does not mean I do not give a shit, it means that I am a person among lots of people.

Otherwise, I'm not sure what you'd have me do. I do not want for you to be cooked. I am very conscious of my own proximity to being queer, homeless, and disabled. But, I'm not sure what any of that has to do with the post that prompted this ask, which says only that I'm not sure if it'll be okay, but that I am certain we will continue to have choices and circumstances to navigate when the election is called.

I'm sorry you're suffering. I understand that you're not asking me to fix it, and that this ask wasn't about me, specifically, but rather patterns of violence that you've seen and experienced enough to inflame your unmet needs into hair triggers. You're expressing frustration and helplessness and my post wasn't anything other than a grain of salt in the ocean being poured on your wounds right now.

But, for the avoidance of doubt: I understand the enormity of this moment, and the immense harm it can and will cause. That's why I rejected that it may be okay. I know it won't be okay for many, many people, and the clarity with which I know this comes from both subject matter expertise and an overeventful life. I understand the consequences more granularly and concretely than can be communicated in a one-sentence Tumblr post.

But, yeah. It is navigable for me. I've had to navigate harmful and difficult situations outside of my control my entire life. It hasn't always been okay, but I've always navigated them. That is the only distinction I was trying to make.

[bioethicists]

hi! just saw your post asking for advice, and while hopefully there's someone who can give more concrete advice than mine, i have experience with what you're talking about.

i have either gastroparesis or cyclical vomiting and it's tied into my dysautonomia, which skews my advice. but other than zofran my best practical tips are 1) avoiding heat and humidity at all costs (when i'm feeling sick my first lines of defense are ice packs to the back and scalp, cool water to sip, fans and excessive ac.) 2) humming and singing as loud as possible. it doesn't prevent much for me but it does seem to stabilize, i think it calms the vagus nerve? 3) other things that make my gi system relax are using a tens unit on my lower back and doing extremely gentle core exercises. i have a back injury so this is me anecdotally saying my pt for that helped my gastric emptying lol. 4) the most effective thing is definitely a long shot, but if you have access to supplementary oxygen, going on my oxygen machine for 15-30 min after eating keeps my stomach from spasming. it's "experimental" but it works. i know some places sell cans of oxygen for runners now and it may not work the same at those doses but it could be worth a shot if you're experimenting. some people recommend diaphragmatic breathing which could be worth something, i just hate it personally.

btw, it may be too late to get it anyway, but i've heard that some gi's that are stingy with zofran will prescribe the scopolamine patch. other than that benedryl tends to take the edge off for me- at the very least it lowers my throat inflammation a bit which helps, and it lets me sleep. i also chew on rock salt, which is likely not an option, but salt tablets might be, or something like pedialyte. ginger and mint are obvious but they help me a lot. ime they're most effective for preventing esophageal spasming from heavy burns, and i've definitely survived off the sugar in candied ginger before, yikes. id be careful of ginger fibers but mint tea is ideal.

i did throw up post wisdom teeth surgery several times. i got dry socket but it was most likely unrelated. either way i would majorly advise irrigating the areas as much as or more than recommended and doing a full rinse of the whole mouth and all the healing areas post vomit, as well as a sinus rinse if that's allowed and something you can manage, as i've found that minimizing burns in the area reduces sinus infection risk. i also always keep at least 1000mg of mint tums on me and take them right before i throw up, and id recommend that too, to neutralize as much of the acid as possible before it hits the mouth.

anyway best of luck to you. i don't have a magic bullet but if i figure if i throw enough stuff at you, even if you already know most of it, maybe something will be helpful. also happy to come off anon.

thank u so much this is so thorough!!! the worst of the wisdom tooth nausea has passed but i am perpetually nauseated for some reason or another so this will definitely be helpful. i don't see a GI doctor partly bcuz i have no insurance + partly bcuz my stomach problems are caused by my eating disorder so i feel too embarrassed/afraid to talk to anyone about it, especially since i feel like most of them would be like "wtf do you want me to do about this???"