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[autopten]

2008 Toyota Sienna LE in Raleigh, North Carolina ($4,990) — Midsize minivan known for its reliability, comfort, and practicality https://www.autopten.com/toyota/sienna/forsale/nc/35916/

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year. 

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles. 

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches. 

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early. 

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle. 

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons. 

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake. 

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day. 

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby. 

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it. 

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into. 

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching. 

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention. 

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years. 

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful. 

That’s what they call you now. 

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible. 

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match. 

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins. 

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street. 

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck. 

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival. 

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off. 

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest. 

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth. 

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence. 

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame. 

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation. 

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame. 

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did. 

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better. 

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice. 

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air? 

At last you have your answer. 

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

“Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths. 

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses. 

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to. 

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment. 

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence. 

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault… 

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t– 

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

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[corroded-hellfire]

Scout's Honor - Eddie Munson x Reader

Collaboration with my dearest @munson-blurbs

An As You Wish story

Summary: The annual Father-Daughter Girl Scout Square Dance comes around but Eddie and Steve are saddled with some car trouble.

Note: Everyone needs to go thank Bug for this incredibly adorable idea!

Words: 2.1k

[As You Wish masterlist]

Men. 

Can’t live with them, can’t…convince them not to go fishing on the day of their daughters’ Girl Scouts events. 

Eddie and Steve had promised you and Nancy that they would be home in time to take Eliza and Mia to the annual square dance. 

“We’ll get an early start,” they’d said, ignoring Eliza’s insistence that she won’t go with her father if he reeks of fish. He’d just laughed, kissed her cheek, and reiterated that he would shower before the dance. 

Maybe you’re naive for believing him. And yet, when the phone rang and Eddie’s sheepish voice explains that Steve’s car broke down—codeword for ‘we ran out of gas’—you’re wholly unsurprised. 

“I always made fun of Wayne for fishing.” Eddie muses, the payphone crackling as he exhales. “Called it an old man activity. This is what I get.”

You grit your teeth, hand clenched in a fist. “Just…get home,” you hiss, hanging up the receiver and massaging your temples. 

Who could have ever foreseen such an outcome?

While you’re stewing over the men’s incompetence, Mia remains levelheaded—just like her mother—and proposes a solution. “What if Luke and Ryan take us?”

Her suggestion is almost certainly rooted in her crush on your younger son, but it proves to be a worthwhile idea, nonetheless. Eliza’s face lights up, and before you know it, your five-year-old is dragging her brothers from their room. 

“Please?” She pouts sweetly, batting her doe eyes up at them. “Daddy and Uncle Steve can’t make it, and we can’t go all alone.” She lays it on thick, knowing full well she doesn’t have to—the boys would do just about anything for her. 

Ryan and Luke raid Eddie’s dresser drawers for flannels, finding the ones that he had nabbed from Wayne’s trailer. The girls don cowgirl hats, excitedly giggling as they climb into the back of the minivan. It’s still strange for you to see Ryan behind the wheel, but your heart swells with pride as you watch him double-check Eliza’s booster seat before pulling out of the driveway. 

At seventeen years old, Eddie Munson spent his Saturday nights selling cheap weed at high school parties—many of them, ironically, thrown by “King” Steve Harrington. 

At seventeen years old, Ryan Munson is spending his Saturday night taking his little sister and her best friend to the Girl Scouts square dance. 

“Everyone buckled?” He calls back, already knowing that they are. Still, he waits until he receives a chorus of yeses before he drives off. 

Luke turns around from the passenger seat. “Now, do we have to make a perfect square?” He keeps a serious expression, much to Ryan’s amusement. “Like, what if it’s a bit oval-y? Do we get kicked out? Do you two get banished from the Girl Scouts?”

Eliza and Mia are both used to his nonsense, and they burst into a fit of giggles. Ryan cracks a smile of his own, eyes trained on the road. 

Precious cargo and all that. 

When they arrive at the old VFW hall, the girls immediately pull them over to their group of friends. It’s a sea of young girls and their dads—and some moms—but nary a big brother in sight except for the two Munson boys. 

Ryan barely has time to feel out of place. The emcee, a middle-aged woman with bright pink lipstick and a too-wide smile, grabs the mic. 

“Welcome to our Father-Daughter Square Dance!” The room erupts into applause, quieting down only to hear about how this fundraiser supports the Girl Scouts of Indiana. The scouts repeat their pledge, which is met with more cheers, and then a western tune bleats over the old sound system. 

Eliza grabs Ryan’s hand as the emcee calls out instructions. Mia is a bit shyer with Luke, but they still manage all of the steps without stomping on the other’s toes. 

“Liza, I’m sorry Dad couldn’t make it,” Ryan says between songs. 

Eliza gives him a small smile. “That’s okay. It’s kinda cooler to bring my big brother.”

He grins. Just wait until his dad hears that. 

As everyone is getting into position for the next dance, a new song comes on that has more banjo than Luke has ever heard in his life. 

“Oh, yeah. We’re definitely in Indiana,” he says.

Mia chuckles as she peeks up at Luke from beneath the brim of her straw cowgirl hat. A blue ribbon on one of her red pigtail braids is loose so Luke reaches down to fix it for the little girl. Mia’s freckled face blooms as red as her hair. Luke pretends not to notice, not wanting to embarrass her. The big crush on Luke became obvious when she was three, and now at ten, it’s still hanging around. The fifteen-year-old Munson boy thinks it’s flattering and only ever teases her if she starts it first. 

“Ready?” Luke asks, offering Mia his hand.

“Ready!”

“But I didn't realize any of this until I was standing alone. In a barn... wife-less. Now, you can imagine my disappointment when it suddenly dawned on me that the woman I love is about to be kicked out of the country. So, Margaret. Marry me. Because I'd like to date you.”

Both you and Nancy hold your wine glasses, neither moving a muscle as you watch Ryan Reynolds catch up to Sandra Bullock in a New York City office building. An empty pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream sits between you on the couch, two green-smudged silver spoons resting inside. 

With the men out fishing, Ryan and Luke out with the two girls, and Natalie watching the rest of the kids over at the Harrington house, your place became the ultimate Mom’s Night In for you and Nancy. A chance to drink a little, gossip a little, have some snacks and watch some romcoms. 

Your peace has finally come to an end, however, when the front door bursts open and two men who reek of murky water, bug spray, and gasoline come barging in. 

“Jesus, Steve,” Nancy says, face pinching up at the foul odor wafting from your husbands. 

You wave a hand in front of your face as if that will make the smell dissipate any faster. 

“How were the fish?” you ask, turning your head away to give your nostrils a fighting chance.

“We caught a grand total of zero,” Steve says with a sigh, his black fishing boots looking comically misplaced on him. Neither of the men look natural in fishing gear. But when a guy from work offered Eddie the use of his boat for the day, he found he couldn’t turn it down. 

“Did you bring the fishing poles?” Nancy asks, sarcasm lining the amusement on her face.

Both men give her an annoyed side eye before Eddie looks around and takes a step towards you.

“Where are the girls?” he asks. 

“Ryan and Luke took them to the dance,” you tell him. “They should be back soon.”

Steve grimaces and claps a heavy hand down on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Eliza’s gonna kill you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and spins to meet his friend’s eye.

“And Mia won’t kill you?”

Steve grins. “Not if she got to dance with Luke.” This is the only time the man has ever been thankful for Mia’s crush on the Munson teen. 

Front door still open from when the men barged in, Ryan, Luke, Eliza, and Mia walk inside, laughing and talking over one another. Ryan is giving Eliza a piggyback ride and Luke has Mia’s too-small cowgirl hat perched on top of his head. The moment Eliza’s wide brown eyes spot her father, she demands answers. 

“Daddy, where were you?”

Ryan gently lets her down and she stomps over in her beige cowgirl boots, stopping right in front of Eddie. 

“Liza, I’m so sorry,” Eddie pleads. “Our car broke down. We tried everything we could to get back in time—”

Tears build up in Eliza’s eyes and Eddie feels his heart constrict in his chest. It might as well be Eliza’s little fist squeezing it.

“You were s’post to go with me!”

Eddie sighs and runs a ringed, smelly hand over his face. “I know. And I promise I’ll go next time. But I’m glad you got to bring your brothers. 

“Did you have fun at least?” Steve asks from behind him. 

Mia nods emphatically and both you and Nancy have to bite your lips to keep from smiling. 

Eliza nods in agreement, although not as enthusiastically as her friend. “Yeah. And Ryan is a good dancer.”

Luke smirks, and if Eddie were looking at him, he’d see the devious glint in his eye. “Not as good as Dad, I’m sure.”

Loud snickers come from you, Nancy, and Steve. Eddie’s jaw drops open as he looks around the room. 

“I can dance!”

“Yeah, Dad?” Ryan asks.

“Yeah!”

“Lucky for you, we’re all right here to witness it,” Luke says with a shrug. 

Eddie scoffs and shakes his head. “There’s no music. And I don’t really think my Metallica is easy to groove to.”

“We’ve got my Billy Joel—” you start.

“Or my *NSYNC!” Mia adds. 

“No,” Eddie says. “Thank you girls, but no.”

Smirk only growing larger, Luke pats his father on the shoulder. “Lucky for you, we’ve got just what you need.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow as he watches his son take a CD out of a Target bag he was conveniently hiding behind his back. 

“How was fishing, by the way?” Luke asks as he wrestles with the plastic engulfing the case.

“Pointless,” Steve says.

“Your uncle didn’t bring enough bait,” Eddie added. Steve is about to refute but Luke speaks before he gets the chance.

“But you would have, Dad? Does that make you a master baiter?” 

Ryan is the only one who is unable to contain his laughter. The joke goes over the girls’ heads, but you give your son a soft glare anyway. Never mind that you found it hilarious, just as you know the other adults did as well, but sometimes you’ve got to be the parent. 

Luke shrugs it off and pops the finally-freed CD into the stereo and the sound of a bow sawing over fiddle strings fills the room. Your second-oldest nods his head to Eliza.

“Go ahead, Lize. Show the old man how it’s done.”

“There’s not enough room to square dance in here,” Eddie says.

Without even so much as glancing at one another, you and Nancy get off of the couch and push it back, making plenty more space in the living room. The two of you smirk at one another and Nancy crosses her arms over her chest.

“Y’know, I don’t think it’s fair that you guys get to reap the benefits of your daughters being Girl Scouts without putting in the work.”

A grin grows on your face as you see where Nancy is going with this. 

“Yeah,” you agree, “maybe you don’t need more Samoas this year.”

Eddie’s face falls, and he looks at Steve, who shrugs in defeat. Gotta hit the guys where it hurts: food. 

“All right, show us the moves,” Steve says.

Mia grins, a bounce in her step as she takes Eliza’s smaller hand and walks to the middle of the floor. “Okay, me and Liza will be partners. Just watch us.”

Steve furrows his eyebrows and looks between the two girls, one with now-messy twin red braids, and the other with a light brown cowgirl hat atop two curly pigtails. 

“Wait, if you two are dancing together, who are Eddie and I dancing with?” he asks. 

Eliza giggles. “Each other.”

“Nope,” Eddie replies. “No way.”

With an over dramatic sigh, you shrug your shoulders at your husband. “No dancing, no Samoas.”

“Damn those little coconut fuckers,” Eddie mumbles under his breath. “All right, big boy. But I get to be the guy.”

“Sure, we’ll play pretend,” Steve quips back. It’ll be a miracle if they both make it through the first dance alive.

Eliza and Mia begin to go through the motions, showing their fathers what to do. Everyone is laughing as they do-si-do and hook arms to swing each other around. 

“Did I earn my cookies yet?” Eddie asks once the next song ends.

“That’s up to your daughter,” you tell him with a shrug. 

Eddie looks at Eliza expectantly, the big puppy dog eyes that he passed down to her working their magic. 

“Almost, Daddy. You gotta dance with me first.”

“Now that, I can do.”

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Nanami, Ijichi and Nitta foil a bank robbery with a cursed twist ...

Genre: Suspense

Contents: Canon-typical violence, foul language, reader character narrator, reader perspective of sorcerers.

He’d never signed up for this.

When he’d joined, Ueno had gone on about the fun they’d have, the risk, the high of getting away with things like this. It was a release, a way to escape the drudgery of his long shifts at the convenience store and the hollow-eyed, resentful presence of his mother at home. If that place could even be called a home.

In the beginning, they’d just wandered the brightly lit streets of nighttime Shinjuku, vandalizing the shops Ueno’s boss had told them to target, getting into scuffles with rival gangs, keeping an eye on the activities of people of importance. Each time he’d left home, the door would swing shut behind him like the unseen gateway to another realm. The street before him would be familiar, but not, the night air crisp with possibility. He’d never been aware of the perilous web being woven around him, of the fact that none of these jaunts were disjointed activities, each with their isolated goal.

And now he was here, in the back of a dark blue minivan with no windows, the humid damp of the balaclava he wore sticking to his face, making breathing difficult. He couldn’t do this. He’d never known they would ask him to – but there was no time for that. No time to think about the number of times he shouldn’t have walked out that door, the number of times he should have turned Ueno down, the many, many nights he should have decisively put an end to any and all association with the present company.

They were crowded in on all sides, shoulder to shoulder, the cramped space filled with the smell of sour sweat, cheap cologne and the heavy funk of strong tobacco. These men would have no patience for a boy who backed out, even if he said he was young and stupid and regretted everything he’d done. They were wily, experienced, razor-edged and slick with survival instinct. There was no way out for him, not now.

The power of his fear roots him in place, even as his body rebels, his muscles catch and quiver, his breathing hitches sporadically and his bowels cramp and protest. If only … if only he were someone else, someone more equipped to deal with this. If only something, anything, would take over his body and mind, just for tonight. If only something would come along and turn him into the man he should be in this situation; fearless, aggressive, raring for battle, a spitting cobra rearing for a shot between the eyes. But he was not any of those things.

And they were on their way to rob a bank.

You'd made it something of a game over the years. Each person that swam into view in the window of your counter formed a portrait of an unknown life, one you tried your best to embroider.

Head, shoulders, knees and toes, just like the song you used to sing in elementary school. What would the shifting window bring you today?

Ah, here was a grandmother, feeble and infirm. Collecting her pension fund and rambling about her three adult children, including her son who was staying for the month. Most of that pension probably ended up in his pocket.

And here was the man who came every Tuesday since three months ago. Sweating, nervous, smelling faintly of cheap perfume. You'd bet your whole salary that each trip to the bank was followed by a sharp detour out the door to the seedy motel nearby.

Then, the antique shop owner, the family name a well-known one in the area. Pity his father gambled most of their inheritance away. Everyone knew that he lived in the once-fabled traditional home, now dilapidated and infested with mould, a Havisham who rotted beside his antiques in the wedding dress of former renown. His cash withdrawal was minimal, enough to feed him for a week at a time.

Today was spectacularly ordinary. As a financial services representative at this particular branch for an odd five years now, you'd come to recognise your usual patrons, along with the occasional tourist or visitor who'd pay a once-off visit. These were usually recognisable by their clothing, or accents.

Here were two such individuals right now. You'd definitely never seen them before. The man looked to be in his late twenties, wearing the harried, hollow-cheeked look of someone much older. His dark hair was neatly parted, a pair of rectangular spectacles enhancing the earnest, studious nature of his face.

Beside him was a girl with bright blonde hair in an untidy bob. In severe contrast to the man's sober, dark suit, she wore a pair of baggy black jeans, a crop top and oversized jacket, unzipped, over it all. The glitter eyeshadow she wore only served to emphasize her thousand-yard-stare and she looked you up and down appraisingly.

Oh. It was time to adjust to your customer service face. Feeling the stiff muscles of your lower jaw stretch into a wide, practiced smile, you bowed slightly.

"Good day. How may I be of assistance?"

"Ah, I'd like to open an account for my niece here. She's starting college next year and just landed a new job to help pay things off. A flexi-save option would be nice."

"Of course! Mister ...?"

"Ijichi. And my niece here is Miss Nitta."

"Pleasure to meet you."

You turn to the girl in question, eyebrows raising in slight query.

"Would you like to have a look at our options? There are varying interest rates with different benefits to each type of savings account you can open."

She shrugged with the kind of nonchalance that could only come with long practice.

"Uncle's handling all that. I just do the legwork and get my shit together. That's the deal."

Wow. The youth of tod -

You clear your throat and turn to your PC screen, avoiding the errant thought that had come dangerously close to leaping out of your mouth.

"Of course. Give me a minute."

The fairly youthful uncle nods, adjusting his glasses. He looks slightly tense, the poor thing. You would too, if you were planning the financial future of a niece like this. You wondered if he took care of her full-time.

The niece, Nitta, was focused elsewhere, eyes roaming across the high-ceilinged atrium, the neat and ordered rows of seats where clients waited for service, the row of reinforced glass windows that gave way to many small booths like your own.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her glancing in one particular direction more often than not. Following the path of her gaze, your own is arrested by the sight of a tall blonde man in a dark suit, red patterned tie vivid against his white shirt. He stands in the queue of a neighbouring window, eyes inscrutable behind dark lenses.

Well, you could hardly fault her for looking at that. He has a stern, cold face, but his chiseled features and imposing stature make him hard to look away from. Speaking of which, you had a job to do.

Turning back to your screen, you complete the series of prompts, until you're finally within the authorized programme for creating a new account.

"All right, can I see some identifica- "

A scream tears through the still peace of the atrium, carving a sudden flaw in of the passage of time. In that moment, you do not think, you do not feel, and your body seems foreign to you. A group of people, dressed in black, waving weapons that were definitely acquired illegally, charge into the open space. Still frozen, you watch as they move like an oil spill across the room, smooth, practiced, herding the panicking crowd with sharp, barked commands and prods of their weapons.

Ijichi and Nitta duck down immediately, and you vaguely hear the bespectacled man shouting at you to do the same. Finally, dragged against the opposing current of shock, your body responds to your wishes. Dropping boneless to your knees, you reach up, fumbling for the panic button beneath your desk.

You press and hold, releasing after 20 seconds. Your mind still hasn't fully caught up with what is occurring, but your body is guiding you through the motions, stilted and half conscious.

The gang that has infiltrated the banking hall seals the doors. One of the burly men is obviously the leader, standing at the centre of the chaos while his lackeys form a co-ordinated chain of carried instructions, the spokes of a turning wheel. One of the gang comes right up to your counter, screaming instructions across to you.

You are still slow to respond, but panic has now asserted itself and you let out a sob of a breath, scrambling to raise your hands above your head and stand as he tells you to. You, and the rest of the employees behind the safety of the barrier, are forced at gunpoint to open up the inter-leading door, flocking out among whimpers, soft pleas and muffled cries to the atrium floor where you are made to lie down along with the rest of the crowd.

You find yourself near Ijichi and his niece, Nitta. You meet his eyes with a blank, stricken stare, mouth half opening in an apology, before you realise how stupid and pointless such a thing would be. How could you have known? You still can't quite grasp what is happening all around you.

Strangely enough, it is Ijichi who counters your disoriented glance with a square sense of reassurance. There is something ... different about him. He seems surprisingly calm, a far cry from the nervousness he showed earlier while opening a bank account for his niece, of all things. The niece in question is also unusually collected, her body coiled with the readiness of physical conditioning. That isn't a normal response to this situation, you're sure of it. She's too young to -

But there isn't time to speculate on this. The gang is rushing behind the tills, one of the managers held at gunpoint pushed roughly to the interior vault where his superior security clearance will allow him to gain access.

Granted, your security isn't state of the art, but it is fair enough to cause some small delay. There are five different checkpoints, each with a unique pass code, and a thumbprint, voice recognition and retina scanner that need to be applied simultaneously.

Turning your attention back to the interior of the atrium, you notice that one of the gang members is behaving a little erratically. His eyes, visible through the small opening of his balaclava, seem just as terrified as that of the people he is holding hostage. His blue, long sleeve shirt is soaked through with large, darker patches of perspiration, creeping down from his armpits, neckline and across his back. His breathing is harsh, audible from where you lie as still as possible, and the way he is holding his weapon is far from expert.

There is a small movement from beside you as ijichi straightens slightly. He is, for some reason, watching that young assailant like a hawk, eyes steady, something like recognition stirring in their depths. Nitta has moved to a crouching position, one of her hands braced on his back.

What are they doing? Surely -

And then, the boy in the balaclava stiffens, as if stuck with a knife. He is now staring past the man next to him as if dazed, his limbs as limp as a marionette whose strings have been abruptly cut. The gun tilts dangerously floorward, and one of his companions yells to him to -

"Get the fuck back in line!"

Something, the likes of which you've never seen, is occurring right before your disbelieving eyes. A jet of viscosity, black as pitch, shoots from the boy's mouth, tearing past the balaclava. The remnants of the knitted fabric land a few feet away, exposing his pale, terrified face, the damp strands of hair that cling to his forehead, the strange look of relief that briefly crosses his features before his eyes close.

They re-open, and you utter a small, involuntary scream. Behind his lids, two neon rings of purple form a flickering gateway to madness, the slow, unhinged smile that sweeps up the corners of his mouth as unnatural as his posture. The men around him pause, exchanging uncertain glances, some of them even re-directing their weapons to his quivering form.

The boy, if he can still be called as such, takes little to no note of the threat from his own former comrades. The crowd of hostages has now noticed the change, cries of alarm ringing out as they see the boy's body contort, arms and legs snapping and twisting to distorted, elongated proportions. One of the other gang members shouts out a hoarse warning before firing a round into the boy's contorted head and chest.

He is ... unharmed. Instead, the nightmarish head sweeps back, the neck stalk-like, flexible. The features seem even more inhuman, his grotesque smile now jagged-edged, the teeth sliding like nails past the shredded, bloody lips. The heist completely forgotten, the men in dark clothes back away, yelling in fear and consternation, weapons clutched in sweat-slicked palms.

What is this? What is -

You scramble backwards, coming up against a firm, warm palm in the small of your back. The muscles of your abdomen and legs are now plagued by small tremors as you turn your head to see Nitta behind you. She doesn't seem quite so young and nonchalant any longer. There is a certain hard quality to her, a readiness for what is to come that takes you completely off guard. Beyond her, Ijichi shoots you a quick glance of apology before nodding at his 'niece'.

His hand raises towards the glass of the atrium ceiling, the cloudy sky outside clearly visible. Nitta mirrors his pose, palm pressed flat against the smooth tile beneath her. Their voices rise above the cacophony, a steady chant that somehow resonates in the furthest reaches of your being.

"Emerge from the darkness ... "

The vision of horror that used to be a human sweeps out an arm, narrowly missing the men who scream and return fire. It seems that he - it - is still learning the use of that body. It stumbles, clawed feet scraping across the floor, leaving deep grooves in its wake.

" ... blacker than darkness ..."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the group of civilians who has been standing at the counter being ushered to safety further into the lounge at the other end of the room. The man who seals the double doors behind him is one you recognise. The imposing blonde businessman, the one Nitta had been looking at earlier. This was now, in your mind, no mere coincidence.

Who were these people?

" ... purify that which is impure."

It slides from the fingertips of Ijichi and Nitta, a layer of otherness, a barrier between your world and the distortion of reality that has happened in here, in this space that used to be your everyday stronghold of familiarity. Ijichi meets your bewildered gaze and he pauses momentarily, mouth drawing into a regretful line.

"You can see it."

You nod wordlessly and he adjust his glasses, that incongruously stern set of his features directed at something past you.

"Don't worry. It'll be over soon."

One of the criminals spots the movement of Ijichi and Nitta, screaming out to them as they get to their feet on either side of you. 

"Get back down! Don't you fucking move! I'll - "

His words are cut off as one of the monster's flailing, spiked projections lob his left arm right off at the shoulder, the gun falling from the nerveless clasp of the severed hand. The noise that leaves his throat is thick, animal, full of existential fear. He slides forward, the floor now slick with his own blood, eyes bulging as his choked cries echo across the hall.

Two strong hands assert their grip under each of your armpits, dragging you to your feet. You realise that a sound, similar to the one the maimed man had made, was exiting your own throat.

"Easy," comes Ijichi's voice in your ear, "Just breathe. Move with us. It'll be all right."

How? How could any of this ever be all right?

You cannot comprehend how this man could possibly say that, but when you look over at him, there it is, in his eyes behind those rectangular frames. He does believe what he says. He means every word. But how can he -

"Step back, please. You're in the way."

The voice that echoes across the atrium is unlike any of the others, cutting through the chaos with calm, clipped, precise enunciation. It's the blonde businessman, who, you are rapidly realising, is also not what he seems.

He strides across the hall, completely ignoring the threatening gestures and shots fired in his direction by the gang who are now in disarray. He sheds his pinstripe coat, revealing a leather harness fastened across his torso, the dark straps stark against the white of his shirt.

And there is something else, something similar to the strange current you sensed from Ijichi and Nitta earlier, coursing along the powerful lines of his shoulders and arms. It is ... different, but holds a deadly latency that can't be denied. The businessman reaches up and removes his dark glasses, revealing a sharp-cornered, intensely shadowed gaze. He glances across at Ijichi, who straightens and nods in response.

"We'll leave things to you, Nanami."

"Thank you, Ijichi. Get the rest of the hostages to safety."

The rapid gunfight that had been punctuating by yells in the background had now taken a worrying turn. The force of the automatic rifles, puncturing skin and shattering bone, had been driving the monster back, but no longer. It was healing itself, shards of bone annealing, flesh knitting itself back together, blood decanting back into torn vessels as it slowly gained momentum, moving forward and driving them back.

The man called Nanami turned back to the battle, surveying it with the calm of a seasoned veteran. As Ijichi and Nitta help you along, you slowly regain your ability to move, but something kept your gaze fixed on Nanami's broad back as he reached behind him, fingers grasping the handle of what seemed to be a blunt blade wrapped in an oddly patterned cloth. It appeared to be a similar pattern to the one on his tie.

Is he mad? Bullets don't work on that thing! He was going to -

Your thoughts still and die away as an electric rush of that strange energy jets up around Nanami's body, coating him in what looks like armour. One polished leather brogue slides back along the tiles, giving him enough momentum to propel himself forward at inhuman speed. Your eyes can barely follow his movements as he streaks across the atrium, right towards the spinning, shrieking monster.

Now that it had become accustomed to the body it inhabited, the creature was darting forward with swift, jagged motions, dealing terrible slashes and blows to any flesh it encountered. Nanami reaches it, dancing around its flailing arms with ease and grace. It takes note of him, the slide of its bulbous eyes sickening as they gather on either side of its skull, as if to pin down his location better. The remaining gang members take this opportunity to scramble to safety, kicking and clawing each other to the floor in their urgency to escape.

You shout a wordless warning to Nanami, but Nitta's grip on your shoulder gives you a measure of reassurance. They seem to have full faith that this deceptively understated salaryman can handle the reality-bending situation unfolding before your eyes.

And he does.

From the little snippets of the battle that you can follow with comprehension, Nanami's movements match the creature's every step of the way. When its limbs elongate with a sudden snap, he adjusts his distance. When it sends tendrils of smoky substance across the floor, he seems to coat his shoes in that luminous energy, skidding effortlessly across the top of it. When it tries to close in on him, limbs splitting and weaving in tendrils that catch and ensnare, he slices clean through them, that blunt blade doing far more damage than you would have ever thought possible.

The confidence and surety of his block and parry sends a sudden flare of hope through your chest.

Maybe he can beat it! Maybe he can -

The creature let's out a howl of fury, the force of it battering the walls and shattering the windows. You scream as shards of glass blow outwards from the booths where you and your fellow employees had been crouched just a short while before. Covering your face, you brace for the tearing pain, but nothing happens. Peering between your fingers, you see that Ijichi is muttering under his breath, creating another kind of barrier, this one of a smaller radius, around the three of you. The faint patter of glass reaches your ears as the flying shrapnel falls harmlessly off the surface.

But what about Nanami?

A sharp breath escapes your lips as you see him, still standing, facing the wrath of the creature. He remains unphased, but his sleeves have now been rolled up, the smooth shift of sinew and muscle visible beneath skin. You watch as he reaches up, loosening his tie and flicking his wrist out, the spotted red material wrapping around his fist. He begins a measured pace towards the creature, and for the first time, you see it take a step back.

Nanami's smooth, mellow voice sounds through the hall again.

"It's now three in the afternoon. I started work today at nine and I'm going to clock out at five. That leaves me exactly fifteen minutes to finish off with you, forty five minutes of travel time and one hour to complete my paperwork for today."

... what? 

He continues, striding forward as the creature staggers back even further, defensive spikes slowly sliding into place on its arms and knees. He doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by this.

"I would prefer not to incur overtime, so if you would please co-operate with me, I would highly appreciate it."

For all your years in retail and finance, you had never seen customer service handled quite like this.

Nanami flicked his blade straight out, those keen eyes sighting right along the upper edge. He seemed to have assessed something of the creature, because his subsequent lunge was precision itself. The dappled sword swung down, then up and away, severing along some vital line. The ghoulish scream that exited the monster spoke of the damage dealt. It collapsed, clawing at its body as Nanami approached with that predator's prowl; decisive, tranquil.

He crouched right before the recoiling mass of darkness, one arm bending back before his fist slammed with impossible strength right into where the midriff should be. The blast stripped away the last vestiges of whatever had possess the original 'host' in the first place. The slick darkness shivered in its death throes, snaking along the ground before Nanami's heel came down on it with crushing finality.

You let out a breath you'd been holding as the boy, whose body you'd felt would be beyond any kind of repair, slumped to the floor, unconscious. Nanami knelt beside him, fingers enclosing his wrist before glancing up at Ijichi and nodding.

He was alive!

Nitta rushed forward immediately, a cellphone appearing from within her coat, balanced between shoulder and ear as she patted the boy down, searching for further weapons or injuries. She appeared to be calling for some kind of assistance from the outside.

Beside you, Ijichi raised two fingers, and suddenly, a rush of noise reached you from outside; the blare of sirens, the snap and flash of cameras, the commotion of many voices. The barrier they had cast earlier had been lifted. You clamber slowly to your feet, with his assistance.

You have so many burning questions, but you feel that the answers will hold information that might take you some time to process. For now, you'll simply ask about -

"You can see the cursed energy."

Ijichi is watching you, following your movements with attention.

"Cursed ... energy?"

"That's what we call it. Some civilians, like you, can see it, although that's quite rare. It's the duty of those like us to protect humanity from the curses that roam this world. Curses that appear, much like this one."

"So ... you knew it was going to come here? That's why you ... "

"Suspected," he corrects you. "We traced it to this area, but could not pinpoint its location. Then we received a tip-off from law enforcement about a heist that was about to occur at this bank. We made an educated guess as to where the curse would manifest next."

"With ... law enforcement? So all of you are ..."

"Sorcerers, affiliated with Jujutsu Tech. Well, I'm no qualified sorcerer. Simply an assistant director. Nanami is the sorcerer. You'll ... have to come with us, of course. To sign a waiver. There's a lot of paperwork involved with civilian witnesses and victims."

You nod, turning to where the boy who had been ... possessed, for want of a better term, was now being loaded onto a stretcher.

"Was he a victim too, then?"

"Yes. He will have little to no memory of what occurred when he wakes up. Just the events leading up to his arrival here. Everything before that ... will have to be processed through regular law enforcement."

"I see."

You really didn't, but the matter-of-fact manner with which Ijichi was rattling off this information made this fever dream seem halfway believable, if the protocol was anything to go by. Ijichi gestured to you, and you saw that the other hostages were being led out of the safety of the lounge where Nanami had sequestered them earlier.

Speaking of Nanami, you saw his tall figure stride ahead of you. He'd looked over you and the rest of the captives and seemed satisfied that his work here was done. You called out to him as he approached the doors.

"Thank you!"

He paused and turned slightly, that cool, appraising glance taking you in.

"No need. I'm simply doing my job."

"Well then, allow me to thank you ... for letting me clock out on time."

You see the barely perceptible change in his expression, the slight lift of his eyebrows, the tilt at the corner of his mouth.

"Noted."

He turns away and Ijichi ushers you after him, out into the sunlight that strikes your skin like your new-found awareness of the unseen world.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

[ambrossart]

Welp, this experiment was a total failure

I'm extremely disappointed with myself right now. I didn't accomplish anything I was hoping to. Nothing at all.

To be perfectly honest, I almost didn't post anything tonight. But I will because I said I would, and because I want you all to see how much of a hack I am. I want you to see why it takes me months to finish a single damn chapter.

I spent over a week working on this. I even took the day off from work today, and I spent half the day staring at my screen, utterly paralyzed. And the saddest part is, most of this is recycled from something I wrote months ago. Months. I couldn’t come up with a better opening, so I just pulled this out of my scrap bin. I was hoping to add to it. To build upon it. But all I ended up doing was rewriting it a bunch of times.

I’m a hack. I’m a horrible writer.

And I know you’re probably thinking I’m being overdramatic, that this is just fanfiction, who cares, but it isn’t just fanfiction to me. This is what I want to do with my life. Ever since I was a kid, all I wanted to do was be a published author.

I’m starting to think that’s never gonna happen. Maybe my college professors were right, after all.

So here it is: the product of all my efforts. It’s not long. It’s not good. It’s not interesting. And it’s probably gonna get deleted again at some point.

Sorry you all waited for nothing.

_____________________________

Evelyn stared down at her folded hands, willing them to move.

You have to do it, Evie…

Even if you don’t want to, you have to do it. 

A tear landed on the back of her hand and gleamed there. She closed her eyes, counted to three, took a deep breath, and opened the door…

but the girl who came out the other side wasn't Evelyn at all. She was just this pale, lifeless husk—a cheaply made, mass-produced doll that someone had painted to resemble her. It wasn’t right. None of it was right. Where was her smile, the one that lit up her whole face and made you feel like the only person in the world? Where was the little twinkle in her eyes? That friendly glimmer? It was always there, always, even when she was really mad, even when she swore that this was the last time, Henry; I’ve had enough of your bullshit! Where was it now? Where? Where?!

What happened to the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes, the ones you could only see when the sun was angled just right? Her eyes were precious, perfect, but now they were gone, just… gone!

What happened to all her color? All her light? Her life? Her spirit? Someone had snuffed it out—killed it. Now she was nothing more than a corpse.

That's not Evelyn, Henry thought, angry and disgusted. This was a joke, a cheap trick, but he wouldn’t be so easily fooled. That wasn’t Evelyn. Wasn’t. Couldn’t have been. The real Evelyn was fine, safe, and drawing smiley faces on Mrs. Lafferty’s quizzes.

She was waiting for Henry to come back. He had walked out, said fuck you and stormed off, but she knew he would come back eventually.

… didn’t she?

Henry always came back. He pinky promised.

I have to go, Henry thought anxiously, his left hand reaching and finding his right, fingertips circling his right pinky. Evelyn’s warmth was still there—little more than a memory now, but still there.

Meanwhile, the false Evelyn was standing beside the minivan, her hair collapsed and disheveled (wrong), makeup running muddily down her cheeks (wrong!), staring out with glassy, hollow eyes (doll’s eyes, false eyes, not Evelyn’s). She nudged the car door with her hand and it swung back on its hinges, closing with an unaccepting click. (Not right. Not right. Try again.) She ripped open the door, heaved it closed with all her strength, and then staggered backward, panting, her backpack slipping off her shoulder, sliding down her arm, off her hand, and slumping to the ground. Her shoulders trembled as she sobbed, an ugly, horrible sound.

I have to go, Henry thought harder, trying to drown out the sound of her cries. Evelyn's waiting for me at… at the park. She went to get me some bandaids and she's gonna be really mad if I'm not there when she gets back. I made a promise. I pinky promised. I…

(the closed door squeaking open)

(Evelyn's eyes rolling up, reaching for him)

I left her.

[kindaorangey]

i really think the ark should do a cheap tour across america. none of this "breaking america" nonsense, put those bitches in a minivan or a bus and make them play bars and basements in Fuck-off, Nowhere

[roanofarcc]

PROJECT SUNSHINE CHAPTER FIFTY ONE → A FEVER DREAM HIGH

summary: steve harrington x oc | on ao3

when another product of Hawkins National Laboratory escaped a long-survived nightmare alongside her sister, she crashed into one unsuspecting teenage boy and dragged him deeper into the dark mysteries that made up their hometown.

word count. 4.1k || masterlist || ocs moodboard

warnings: cannon typical violence, child abuse, horror, gore, and depictions of mental illness. parts of this story were written pre-season 4 release. cannon divergence.

previous chapter ← → next chapter

Time was almost out of Calum Miller to get the answers he needed. He needed to understand why his father abandoned him, why his mom resented his father, and what kind of business had gone down in Hawkins National Laboratory. Calum needed to understand what connection Danielle Torres had to that place, the reason behind her strange tattoo and disappearance, and to know once and for all if she had any connection at all to his father as he had believed from the start. 

It was the Fourth of July and the next day his mom was deadset on skipping town to stay with one of her friends in Indianapolis until they found a place of their own. It was too drastic of a change, and it was happening too fast. Calum didn’t understand any of it. He didn’t understand why his mom wanted to leave so badly all of a sudden, plucking Calum from his childhood home right before his senior year of high school. His last hope was to get the truth out of Danielle and hope she led back to his dad. If he could talk to him, maybe everything would end up being one big misunderstanding. His dad could home, and everything would be set right. Calum would finish high school in Hawkins with his best friend and everything would be as if nothing had happened in the first place. 

It took Calum and Tamera a couple of days to re-write all of the information they could remember from the file and all of the other information that had been collected alongside it. They stored it all in two notebooks that had left Calum’s body in fear that his mom would find them and take them away. 

Their next course of action had to happen that night; they were going to find Danielle. The entire town was going to be at the county fair’s firework show that night, so that was their game plan. They’d track her down there and hopefully pry the truth from her. 

First, he had to pick up Tamera from her shift at the mall. He cruised down the streets of Hawkins in his busted minivan, with his windows down and head full of thoughts. Unfortunately, his van was on the verge of collapse and just as he rounded a curve along the road that cut through the thick of the woods, he heard a loud ‘pop’ before his car nearly veered off of the road. He muttered a series of curse words under his breath before he threw his van, affectionately nicknamed Beige Betty, into park. 

Beige Betty had been a cheap steal from his neighbor's yard, who sold it to him for a severely discounted price. It had a long list of problems, but Calum had gotten most of them fixed. He learned more about cars than he ever intended to, including the fasted way to fix a flat. They were on a time crunch. They needed to find Danielle and pray she knew more than she led on. That, and Calum hated being near the woods at night; they freaked him out. So, he fixed his tire as quickly as his hands would allow him, ignoring the unease that spooled in his gut as his back faced the woods.

Finishing up, he tossed his tools back into his trunk and was about to head back to the driver’s seat when a branch snapped, startling him. He felt a little stupid about it; it was the woods, teeming with all kinds of different animals, of course they were going to make noises. But then another branch snapped somewhere inside. It was an odd breaking sound. The ‘snap’ didn’t exactly sound like a twig being stepped on by an animal or a break of a thin tree branch. His first thought was maybe the fireworks had started already, creating little ‘pops’ that echoed throughout town. But as he gazed above the tree line, he listened for the noise again, and when it happened there was no sign of fireworks exploding in the sky. 

But he brushed it off and continued to collect his things. He tossed his flat tire into the trunk as well before closing it. As the trunk latched, another noise ripped through the air. It wasn’t the boom of firecrackers or fireworks. It no longer sounded like twigs snapping either. The noise was startling, and it grew louder and louder until Calum felt the vibrations through his feet as the ground shook. He turned his gaze upwards as he stood at the edge of the road. Across the way, straining his eyes in the darkness, he noticed the tops of the trees in one area of the woods move. 

Calum had listened to the news that morning on the radio as he showered. A rainstorm was supposed to blow in later that night, but the local weatherman said nothing about severe weather. 

The cracking noise turned into ear-drumming crashes. It was nearly a windless night, so there was no reason for the trees to be moving like that. He strained his ears to hear an accompanying sound along with the crashes. It was something animalistic, like a growl amplified through a speaker. 

His brain screamed at him to get into his van and drive away, ignoring whatever was happening in the woods, but something stronger inside of him compelled him to stay, stupidly so. He stepped around his van and further onto the lonely road, staring at the waving trees. It was like a path was being cut through them, picking away trees closer and closer to him until, just down the road, an entire tree crashed down, snapped in half as if it was a simple twig. He stumbled backward, having no idea to question how that was even possible before something emerged from the spot the tree had been torn out of. 

It was as if his brain short-circuited. He stared, only for a moment, at an enormous figure as tall as the treetops stalked across the road. Calum’s legs gave way under him. The sight of the animal, beast, thing was enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. It walked on too many legs which were wider than tree trunks as it stepped over the fallen tree with ease. The thing looked also like a spider, but it was far from spindly and far from quiet. Whatever it was, was more horrifying than he could put into words. It looked like something pulled from the pages of a horror novel or a nightmare. 

The thing plunged into the woods on the other side of the road, ripping down trees as if they were nothing more than annoying sticks. As just as it had come, it was gone. 

Calum blinked, seated in the center of the road unsure if what he had just seen was even real. It couldn’t have been. He was in Hawkins, the place he had resided in since he was born, and sure weird shit had happened there, but there weren’t creatures that lurked in the woods. Monsters didn’t exist; his mind must’ve been playing tricks on him. He hadn’t slept well in a while, and maybe the weed he had gotten from one of his D&D friends still lingered in his system. 

Slowly, Calum willed himself to stand up, but he was wrapped in a wet blanket of fear that locked up his limbs. He was stiff and flushed hot with panic. For a moment, he stared at the large, broken tree in the middle of the road that he had just driven down. Its spilled leaves and broken branches looked back at him sadly. He forced himself toward it until he stood in the middle of the pathway the thing had carved through the woods. It was just like the aftermath of a tornado, a line cut in almost a perfect path. 

Somewhere down the path, where the thing continued to cut down trees and toss them aside, a roar ripped through the air and that was enough to jumpstart the fear inside Calum’s body. He ran as fast as he could back to his car, threw Beige Betty into drive with uneven breaths, and hit the gas hard, peeling down the road toward Starcourt Mall. 

☀☀☀

“You look like you’re surfing!” Robin laughed loudly, holding onto the handles of a cart Steve stood on as the elevator shot up toward the surface. Sunshine and the two kids watched Robin and Steve, confused and at a loss. 

Sunshine’s hands still shook, and panic still had a tight hold of her, but she had managed to collect herself just enough. The second she heard Steve and Robin’s joint screams ring out through the base, enough of her fear melted into rage. In some half-baked plan, using the same tactics from her and El’s escape from the Lab and the strength she had built in her abilities, Sunshine broke free from her binds, drew in the two guards posted outside her room, and took them out, and fled into the pure commotion that filled the base, thanks to Erica and Dustin. 

After she ran into the two kids, much to her horror, they all located Steve and Robin. She managed to blind the doctor and the soldier who had interrogated her and collected her friends. Dustin had stolen a little transport vehicle, which made their escape to the elevator a lot easier. They used the keycard from the soldier Steve had knocked out and ascended the elevator with hopes of their nightmare being over. 

However, they weren’t completely out of the woods, yet. 

Between the lack of sleep, food, water, and reliving a familiar scene too much like Lab, Sunshine felt run down and awful. She leaned up against the wall, head hurting and hands shaking, and tried to figure out what was wrong with Steve and Robin. 

Aside from Robin’s bloodshot eyes and a small red blotch on her cheek, she looked fine, even if she was half out of her mind. 

Steve, on the other hand, looked troublingly bad. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut and the skin all around it was a deep shade of red. Blood was dried around his nose and mouth, his skin split open in deep, harsh wounds. His eyes were also bloodshot, and he too was in a strange daze. 

“They seem drunk,” Erica said. 

“Why would they be drunk?” asked Dustin. 

“I’m a natural! Check it out!” As soon as the words left Steve’s busted lips, he tumbled off the cart and crashed against the ground with a pained groan. Sunshine winced before she peeled herself off the wall and kneeled beside him. Up close, his face was even worse. She carefully swept back the bloodied and sweaty pieces of hair that clung to his forehead, feeling the heat coming off of his skin. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead and frowned. 

“He’s burning up,” said Sunshine. 

Steve lazy shot her another lopsided smile. “No, you’re burning up.” His eyes drooped, closing briefly before Dustin kneeled on his other side and tried to pry his eyes open. Steve groaned in protest and tried to swat Dustin’s hands away. 

“His pupils are super dilated,” Dustin noted.

“Maybe they’re drugged,” Erica said. 

Sunshine ran a hand through her tangled hair with a sigh. She didn’t know what they were supposed to do. They still had to make it out of the mall’s parking lot without being seen. They needed the hospital, but how was she supposed to explain what happened to them? She needed Hopper or Joyce, real adults who would know what to do. But they couldn’t reach them until they were away from the mall, which meant it was up to Sunshine until that point. 

“Steve.” Dustin got in his face, talking slowly yet frantically. “Are you drugged?” 

Steve scrunched up his face in an undiscerning look. “How many times, dad? I don’t do drugs. It’s only marijuana.” 

“Steve.” Sunshine drew his attention, carefully avoiding his wounds as she held onto his face. “We need to know what they did to you?” All he did was giggle in response. 

“Are you going to die on us?” Dustin asked. 

“We all die, my strange child friend,” Robin said, twirling her hair around her fingers. “It’s just a matter of how and when.” They must’ve been drugged, that was the only explanation for why they were acting that way. There was no telling what other kind of side effects they would experience before the night was over, which was why she needed to get them away from Starcourt and to someone who would help. For everyone’s sake, she hoped the only effects of the drugs were them acting and feeling spacey and nothing more severe. 

“Steve, listen to me. They’re going to be looking for us up there, okay? I need you to tell me where you parked your car.” Sunshine had little clue of how to drive, but she was sure she could figure it out. If Max could drive them without crashing, she was sure she could too. 

Steve gasped, his eyes widening as he grabbed both of her hands. “Oh! Can we make a pit stop at the food court?” 

Robin nodded enthusiastically. “I would kill for a hotdog on a stick right now.” 

“Fine!” Dustin said, growing visibly more agitated by the second. “You guys can have all the food you want, but you have to tell us where you parked your car.”

“The car's of the board,” said Steve. “They took the keys. The Russians took the keys, like, forever ago. That’s a bummer, right?” 

The elevator stopped and Erica opened the door with the keycard. They’d have to think of another plan. Maybe if they went to the far end of the parking lot, just out of sight from anyone who was lurking around the mall’s perimeter, they could use Dustin’s walkie to contact someone from the party and get a ride.  

With that plan in mind, she helped Steve to his feet and led the way out. A warm summer breeze blew across her face, welcomingly so. She had only ever been so grateful to be outside one other time in her life. 

Ahead of them was a gate that, when crossed, would take them straight to the main parking lot. It felt so close and for a moment, Sunshine believed they were going to be home free, but nothing could ever be that easy. They didn’t even make it halfway to the gate before two men, armed, spotted them. 

“Stop!” they yelled at the group before they began running in their direction. Sunshine turned around quickly and pointed back towards the mall. They raced inside a door that led into the mall’s service halls. She had no sense of direction or destination in mind, all she knew was that they needed to find somewhere to hide before they were caught, again. Dustin took the lead, promising that he had the perfect place to lie low. He skidded to a stop at one of the doors and peeked his head out, scanning the surroundings before he waved them on. 

They slipped into the mall movie theater, which was loud and dark, a perfect place to go unnoticed. Nearly every seat was filled, but Erica had spotted two in the front row. They dragged Steve and Robin toward the empty seats and forced them to sit down. 

“These seats are too close,” Robin wined. 

“Then don’t watch the movie,” Dustin replied in a hushed but sharp tone. 

Steve frowned. “But we wanna watch it.” 

“Then watch it!” A few people around glared at them, forcing Sunshine to extend them an apologetic smile. She didn’t feel sorry, though. Bigger things were happening inside the mall than some stupid movie. Not a single soul inside the theater knew about the military base right under their feet or the wide-open Gate. They went about their lives normally; it made Sunshine jealous. 

“Hey,” Sunshine whispered looking between Steve and Robin. “Stay here and do not go anywhere, okay?” They muttered a response before fixing their eyes on the screen. She, Erica, and Dustin moved down to the seats on the opposite side of the theater. 

Sunshine fell against the seat with a quiet groan, aching muscles, and a pounding head. She pressed her fingers against her temple and tried to rub away the pain to clear her head. 

“It’s official,” Dustin said, sitting beside her. “I’m never having kids.” 

“You’re telling me,” Sunshine replied. 

Erica, who sat on the other side of Sunshine, asked, “What are we doing here?” 

“We’re waiting for Sunshine to recharge so that we have at least a fighting chance against the Red Army,” Dustin replied, causing her to squeeze her eyes closed. She was going to need more than five minutes to recoup. Taking out a couple of soldiers didn’t leave her completely drained, but she wasn’t in the best shape after everything. The toll on her body and mind felt her tired and pulled tight with anxiety that she couldn’t shake. She didn’t know if another fight was in her. 

Dustin continued, “We’re just going to lie low and cool off, like Oswald.” 

“Oswald was found in a theater and shot to death,” Erica retorted. 

“Yeah, a week later.”

“The point is his plan didn’t work.” 

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because it was a setup. He was just a patsy.” 

“Tell me you’re joking?”

“Guys.” Sunshine looked between the kids, silently pleading for them to stop bickering. 

“Sorry,” Dustin apologized. “Um, so, how long do you think you’ll need before you can, you know, take out the you-know-whos?” 

Sunshine appreciated the faith Dustin had in her, but there were a lot more Russian soldiers than she could reasonably take on, and they all were looking for them. She feared their escape would not be easy, and she didn’t know how much aid her abilities would be aside from keeping them out of immediate danger. Their best bet was to sneak out, but they needed a surefire ride to do that. They’d be spotted too quickly trying to walk across the wide-open parking lot. The Russians probably had eyes everywhere, especially since they had broken into their base and then escaped it. 

“I don’t know.” 

Dustin was quiet for a moment, before he stood up, grabbing Sunshine by the hand and tugging her out of her seat. “Come on,” he whispered before looking to Erica. “Stay here and watch Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Make sure they don’t go anywhere.” 

“And where are you two going?” 

“To find us a ride,” Dustin replied. They exited the theater and found a safe spot inside the projection room, empty and free from any slider surprise attacks. Dustin pulled out his walkie-talkie as he sat on the floor. Sunshine copied his actions, leaning up against the wall with a deep breath. There was no time for her to be in pain or lag behind, not until they all were safely out. 

“Here,” Dustin tapped her leg with a half-drunk water bottle that he had, smartly, kept in his backpack for emergencies. She thanked him and took a long sip, letting the room-temperature water wash away some of her nausea. “Are you okay?” Dustin asked, eyebrows furrowed, and lips turned in a slight frown. 

“Yeah.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, rubbing off some of the stained blood from under her nose too. She then smeared the crimson off on her wrinkled dress, uncaring of the stains it would leave behind. The dress was one she’d probably never wear again. It had gotten ripped at the bottom and a hole in the upper back, which was a shame because the dark blue dress was beautiful but ruined in more ways than physical. It would hold all of the memories of the past day, and she did not want to remember any of what had happened over the last twenty-four hours.

“I’ll be a lot better once we figure a way out of here.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” There was a far-off look in Dustin’s eyes. 

“Are you okay?” She hated how tough all of the kids tried to act. She wished they didn’t feel like they needed to put on a brave face for her or anyone. They were allowed to be sad and scared, but they all had a habit of rolling their shoulders back and pretending like it was no big deal; they could handle it. They shouldn’t have had to ‘handle’ it, though. 

He shrugged. “It’s dumb.” 

“What is?” 

“We were, uh, kind of close to almost dying back there, and you know what I couldn’t stop thinking about? I couldn’t stop wishing that the rest of the party was there too and that they were with us right now. Not because I want them in danger or anything, it’s just…we usually figure this kind of stuff out together. We’re a team. We work better as a team, I think. But things are different now and I get it. It’s just weird.” Sunshine frowned and reached out, squeezing his hand and prompting him to continue. “This summer, between camp and this whole operation, is the longest I’ve spent apart from Mike, Will, and Lucas since elementary school.” 

That was the real tragedy of it all. The party had to grow up too fast, and they wouldn’t get back the time they lost. They were still just kids, but it was easy to see that they didn’t really see themselves as that anymore. All kids had to grow up eventually, but growing up wasn’t supposed to entail the knowledge of monsters in the form of people and creatures from another world. It was unfair, but most things were. 

“I bet they’re missing you as much as you’re missing them.” 

His shoulders slumped as he stared at his walkie-talkie, a little device full of memories. “And what if they aren't?”

She gave his hand another squeeze, a hopeful one. No matter how grown up the party got, she was sure that they’d continue to love each other. “Call your friends, Dustin. Let’s get out of here and solve this thing with them, together.” 

Dustin sucked in a deep breath before bringing the walkie to his lips. “This is a code red. I repeat, this is a code red. Does anyone copy?” They waited a beat but were only met with static silence. He tried again. “This is a code red. I repeat, this is a code red.” 

Another beat. Then, through the hiss of white noise, a voice cut in. “Dustin?” 

A bright, explosive smile spread across Dustin’s face that Sunshine had no choice but to mirror. “Mike!” 

“Dustin!” Mike sounded just as excited on the other end. Sunshine was sure she had never been more relieved to hear Mike’s voice. 

“Oh my God,” Dustin cried out in happiness. “You have to listen. I know I’ve been MIA, and I’m sorry. It’s not because I’m mad. I mean, I actually was mad, but not anymore. It’s also because I was trapped underground in a secret Russian base. I know that sounds insane, but the Russians have infiltrated Hawkins! The goddamn Russians! They’ve opened the Gate and now they’re after us and we don’t have a way out of here. So, I need you to come and get us. Can Nancy drive?” 

In response, Mike’s voice became gargled by static and it made no sense. He cut out too much and their connection sounded unstable. 

“Mike?” Mike! Do you copy?” Dustin’s walkie made a noise, beeping before it died in his hands. “Shit! No! Not right now! Please, not now. Mike! Shit!” 

Sunshine hung her head as the hopeless feeling crawled back up her throat. She wanted to cry, again, but refused to in front of Dustin. They had no way out, and no communication to anyone outside the mall. They could use a pay phone, but they’d have to find someone who was home and hope the calls were tapped by the Russians. 

“Do you have any batteries?” Dustin asked. She shook her head. There was nothing on her. Anything that had been in her pockets was taken by the Russians and Erica had dropped her walkie when they were in the elevator the first time. It wasn't in there when they returned, meaning the Russians had found it.

They retreated into the theater, where Dustin then asked Erica if she had any batteries on her, which she did not. They needed a different game plan. Sunshine let the kids mull over another safe place to hide in the mall while she moved to grab Steve and Robin, but when she gazed down the row of moviegoers to where they had left them, she was met with two empty seats. There was not a Steve nor Robin in sight. 

Tagged. @sattlersquarry , @leptitlu , @drunkengodsofslaughter

[mariacallous]

More than two-thirds of the Russian tanks that Ukraine’s military has destroyed in recent months have been taken out using first-person-view (FPV) drones, a NATO official told Foreign Policy, an increasing sign of Kyiv’s reliance on the unpiloted aircraft as it awaits more artillery ammunition from the United States and other Western countries. 

With much-needed funding and artillery rounds held up in Washington, the Ukrainian military has largely turned to FPV drones to carry out anti-tank attacks. Ukrainian troops operate the drones via a controller and are able to watch the machines’ “suicide” attacks on Russian vehicles through video feeds, which now play on a loop on Ukrainian social media channels on Telegram and other platforms.

In the third year of Russia’s full-scale invasion, FPV drones have become nearly ubiquitous on the Ukrainian battlefield. Many of them can carry 10 pounds of explosives or more, and after nearly 780 days of nonstop war, drone pilots on both sides have gotten plenty of practice. 

“I used to shoot such ‘cinematic’ videos with the help of FPV-drones before the war,” Ukrainian documentary filmmaker Anton Ptushkin posted on X (formerly Twitter) last November. “Now we use FPV to defend our land.” 

But for every success, there are nearly as many blooper reel-worthy incidents. These aren’t the $20 million-a-piece Predator drones that the United States uses to hunt terrorist targets in the Middle East. These are inexpensive off-the-shelf drones that go for $400. They have cheap cameras, making them more difficult to aim at night or in cloudy weather, and they often carry improvised munitions such as grenades or homebuilt bombs, which sometimes detonate midflight. Some are duds. In one video shared on Telegram, a Ukrainian FPV drone gets stuck in the front window of a Russian minivan and doesn’t explode. Others hit Russian quadcopters and tanks that have already been abandoned. “What we’re seeing probably is a fraction of what’s actually happening,” said Samuel Bendett, an advisor at CNA and a member of the think tank’s Russia studies program. “FPV drones have a short range. So even if the Ukrainians lack enough long-range artillery, they can only use a few drones up to 10 kilometers [about 6 miles] because that’s the normal range.”

Analysts tracking the Ukrainian military believe the attacks are having mixed results. Rob Lee, a senior fellow in the Foreign Policy Research Institute’s Eurasia program who last traveled to Ukraine to embed last November, said the overall accuracy of FPV drones is less than 50 percent. It’s an experienced pilot who is going to score a “kill” of a tank—and the soldiers inside—with an FPV drone, not a newbie.

Even those drones that get through Russia’s increasingly sophisticated, if unchic, countermeasures—boxes of signals equipment strapped to tanks—might not deal a fatal blow. “You usually don’t kill a tank the first few times,” Lee said. “It can take 10 or more [FPV drones] to kill a tank.” 

Still, Russia has a good reason to cover up its tanks with camouflage and jamming equipment, Lee said. It is running low on armored vehicles and tanks. If Ukraine keeps attriting at this rate and Russia keeps sending in more tanks to replace the destroyed ones at the rate it has been, the Kremlin could lose its numerical edge in tanks, which could make it more difficult for the Russians to carry out offensive operations in the future. 

But Russia still has more troops. “The issue is that Russia’s getting a lot of manpower,” Lee added.

The all-out use of cheap drones indicates that the Ukrainians are turning to increasingly desperate measures to improvise weapons to fight back the Russian assault, which has moved farther west into the contested areas of Donetsk. Ukraine is using a network of microphones—similar to the one you might find on your iPhone—to sense incoming targets. The microphones are good enough to classify what type of munition is coming in, what direction it’s going, and what trajectory it’s on just by using acoustics. 

And with limited air defense munitions, Ukrainian troops have rigged heavy machines with sensors to shoot down most of the Iranian-made Shahed suicide drones that are overflying their positions. The NATO official, speaking anonymously based on conditions set by the alliance, said Ukraine’s hit rate against Shahed drones with simple machine guns and small caliber weapons is about 80 percent. It’s not a complete fix, though: Ukrainian officials have spent recent days urging the United States to send more Patriot air defense systems. 

And the FPV drones are not a match for artillery ammunition when it comes to keeping up a high rate of fire or for creating explosive effects. They can also be more expensive. “You cannot replace a 155 [mm] shell,” one Ukrainian official said. “It’s like replacing a Kalashnikov with a small gun.” And artillery is immune to electronic warfare. It’s just a bombshell that’s flying through the air. 

The rapid pace of innovation for drones has made U.S. military leaders second-guess big, expensive drone programs. The future, officials think, will be cheap and attritable. 

“I don’t think we could buy a drone and say it’s going to be in our formation for the next 20 years,” U.S. Army Chief of Staff Gen. Randy George said. “We can’t do that.”

It’s not clear how effective they will be in the long term. But like improvised explosive devices in the Iraq War, cheap drones have revolutionized the battlefield—for now.

“It’s possible that any vehicle, any system, any soldier that moves on the Ukrainian battlefield right now can be seen, observed, and ultimately hit with a [unmanned aerial vehicle],” said Bendett, the CNA advisor. “There’s no such thing as just moving around uncontested anymore.”

[spookymultimedia]

Homesickness

After dropping out of college Cartman visits home after years of being away from it

I remember the morning I left for California. I was fresh out of highschool and had packed up all my things. I didn't tell anybody I was leaving, not even my Mom. The night before I left I had argued with her over something stupid. I called her a bitch and slammed my bedroom door. When I knew she was asleep I took my bags, stuffed them into my cheap minivan and hit the road. By 3 am I was out of Colorado. People called me, but it's dangerous to drive while on the phone, so naturally I ignored them all day long. I didn't call back either. They didn't matter. To my surprise Kyle had called me the most, but I didn't notice that for years. The last time I had seen him he had smacked me in the face and called me a fag after I tried to kiss him at a graduation party. I blocked his number. I left everything behind and didn't look back. Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I had just stayed a little longer. I've lost so many years to LA. I wonder what Kyle had to say to me.

Los Angeles was massive. I was a small fish in a huge pond that had come to learn that the world didn't revolve around me. I came into the city with high ambitions. The plan was to get my business degree, get into the marketing industry and get rich and famous with my genius ideas. LA was nothing like home. It was nothing but hot pavement and smoke filled skies. The place smelled like piss. The classes were intense and full of rich students who came from parents who were agents or producers. Friendships didn't exist, only networking. No one spoke to you unless they wanted something from you. The weather was hot, it was like hell on earth.

The first year was lonely and frustrating. It felt like no one respected me. It turns out people didn't owe me anything. I had this rude awakening that I wasn't special, I was just like any other asshole trying to make it big. My confidence ran thin and nothing seemed to matter anymore. Business in LA was no place for a boy from a little mountain town in Colorado. I tried to persevere for one more year but my second Christmas there broke me.

There I was in my tiny little dorm room with the air conditioner on, eating a cold ham sandwich. Everyone else had family to visit while I had no one. I was watching TV when a Christmas commercial came on. There were four little boys building a snowman together and running inside to drink hot chocolate. The commercial was about Duracell batteries, somehow. The commercial reminded me of home. I lost all composure and started crying. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to see the big white mountains in the sky again. I wanted to feel the cold again. I wanted to see the stars over the trees again. I wished I hadn't left at all. I needed to go home. So I called Kenny's house phone. I was lucky he picked up. I explained everything to him and headed home.

Kenny picked me up from the Airport and drove me back into town. A sense of nostalgia washed over me, the town looked just the same as I had left it. There was a new building or house here and there but it was just as I remembered it.

“Do you think my Mom will be happy to see me?”

Kenny blinked at me and cocked his head.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Did- don't you remember?”

“Remember what? What happened?? Take me to my house!”

“But- Eric. It's-.”

“What?”

Suddenly I spotted the street my house was on.

“ Pull over!” I pulled out my old house key and rushed out towards home.

Kenny pulled over and tried to run after me without slipping on the ice. Oh gosh the cold air felt heavenly. The mountains were right where I left them. It was so good to be back home. I unlocked the door and-

“Mom!!” I cried out

The house was empty.

“Mom?” I called out with less enthusiasm. I hadn't seen this place empty since I was a baby. It looked like how we found it when I was only 3 years old and my Mom had just moved in. The walls were empty, there was an imprint of where the couch should be, and where that big fat TV was, and-

“Oh Cartman! It's so nice you could visit! How was California?” Rang out a familiar voice. I turned to see Kyle's Mom.

“Did. . .did she move away?”

Her smile dropped, “Oh Eric hunny, didn't you get the- oh you don't know! We tried to call you.”

“About what?” I walked outside to talk to her. Kenny stood behind me with a sad look on his face.

She stepped forward and grabbed my hands.

“Eric, sweetie, your Mom died two weeks ago.”

I stared blankly at her as my stomach dropped. At first I didn't react. I repeated the words in my head to try and understand them but they still left me confused.

“She was missing for a couple of days, and when we tried to call her or knock on the door she wouldn't answer. The police picked the lock to her house and let me check on her.” Tears flooded her eyes.

“What happened?” I mumbled, bewildered.

“I don't know, I found her in bed and she was dead. I didn't see any drugs or anything that could have killed her. It's like she just died in her sleep.”

“Oh.” Was all that could come out of me. I felt completely numb at that moment. All the sunshine in me was gone. I came back here to be happy but everything I was coming back to wasn't there.

“Are you alri-”

“Oh well look who came back in town!” A voice squawked out from behind me. I turned around and regretted it. It was none other than Mr.Garrison. I couldn't believe he was still breathing. I wish he wasn't.

“Hello Mr.Garrison.” I mumbled

“How was California? Huh?”

“I dropped out.”

“Oh so you quit!?” He chuckled harshly. He leaned against his cane and cackled like a fucking hyena. I glared at him.

“Yes I quit ok!! I'm a fucking good for nothing quitter! Are you happy!!!”

“ I told you, you weren't cut out for California!! You really thought you were somethin’ huh? You just thought you could just pack up your things, go to Cali-fucking-fornia like all the other dumbass liberals and make your dreams come true!? Well guess what! The world doesn't revolve around you bigshot!!”

He stabbed his finger at my chest. I winced and growled.

“You ain't shit Eric Cartman. And you'll never amount to anythin. I was like you once you know, a hot shot. Serves me right for thinkin mountain town hicks like us can get famous. You're best bet at gettin on television is becoming a fat-ass r*tard*d

hoarder for everyone to point and laugh at.”

I shoved him to the ground and punched him.

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!” I screamed and hit at him hoping I'd knock his brains out.

I attempted to choke him out but Kenny ripped me away from him. He grinned at me as blood fell down his nose while Ms.Broflovski helped him up.

“Hit a nerve there didn't I?” He taunted and chuckled. I ran inside and ran back into the empty house. I took a moment to breathe before I sat down and stared around at the room quietly, trying to remember how the place had looked. I thought about the buzz of the TV and the cheap ass cakes I ate every day. I glanced at the kitchen. In my mind I remembered the smell of freshly baked cookies and bacon. It was weird, all my good memories about my Mom were about food. I would watch her cook so I could remember to do it on my own when she was too drunk to cook food for me. Well, when I put it that way it sounded sad, but the food was good. Was that it? Just food and treats. Was there anything else to our relationship? Everything else I felt about her was resentful.

I looked upstairs and walked up. I went into her room and looked around. Nothing out of the ordinary. No suicide note. No drugs. No alcohol. Not a single thing that could have caused her to die. I hated the answer. It was just unsatisfying. She just died for no fucking reason. How lame is that!?? I glanced at the closet where I knew the sex toys were. I left the room before my brain could linger on the upsetting memories I had buried away. It was better not to think about it.

I walked to my room, it was empty. Those assholes gave away my childhood toys!! My Clyde frog! My mega men. My sock puppet. It was gone and all that was left was this empty shell of a room. I looked at my door, playing back the night I left. I remembered the last thing I said to her.

“Eric, are you sure you want to leave for college?? You could wait a little while, you're still young.”

“Stop trying to guilt me into staying at home with you!!”

“Don't raise your voice at me!”

“Then stop treating me like a fuckin baby!! You're so afraid of being by yourself it's fucking pathetic!!”

“Eric- please-”

“JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU LITTLE BITCH!! I'LL DO WHATEVER I WANT!!” I slammed the door in her face and ignored her crying.

I'll never get to talk to her again.

She's dead and the last thing I did was call her a bitch and slammed a door at her face. God I'm an asshole.

I walked back to the living room in a tired daze,Kenny looked at me with those big hazel eyes of his. I fell to my knees and couldn't handle it all anymore. I curled up on the floor and choked out into tears. I sounded pathetic. I felt like I was a 10 year old kid crying and kicking on the floor because he didn't get what he wanted. I was 10 years old again, throwing a fit. I wanted to go back. I didn't do my childhood right. I want it back!! I want my Clyde frog!! I want my Terrance and Philip!! I want Chef!!! I want my Cheezy Poofs and my Snacky Cakes!!! I want my Swiss Colony Beef log and Christmases with presents and snow and food. I WANT MY MOM!! I fucking hated her but at the same time I wanted more than anything was crawl into her lap and cry until she hugged me and fixed everything.

But she didn't come back. She would never come back. I took it all for granted and now I was stuck here to face being an adult. I felt Kenny pull me into his arms and squeeze me tight. I hid my face in his shoulder and cried for an hour. I couldn't tell if I was grieving or tired. I felt like a tired little baby in need of a nap. So that's what I did. I fell asleep in Kenny's arms and dreamed about her. In my dreams she was making chocolate buttered waffles and everything was okay. I didn't want to wake up. But I would have to eventually.

[vajazzly]

ok while summer came early chapter five is (still, im sorry, i KNOW) in the works ive been messing around with some b-sides, so, have some 18-year-old wolfstar being..... them.

(for the full experience please queue up chicago by sufjan stevens and press play at the line "the opening notes start to play")

Remus nods off twice at the diner in Toledo despite the cocktail of adderall and caffeine he’s been mainlining for the past few days, so Sirius is at the wheel when they finally pass the sign welcoming them to Chicago, which is really kind of anticlimactic - Remus is sound asleep with his head pressed awkwardly against the window and the sign is nothing special, plain green with nothing to distinguish it from all the other nondescript signs that came before it. Sirius lets himself bask in the moment anyway. Traffic is backed up for god knows how many miles, their AC is halfway to broken and he sweat through his t-shirt two hours ago, the highway is, honestly, particularly ugly - but they’re here. Chicago.

He manages to prod Remus awake after a respectable ten minutes of grumbling, but once he’s awake he sits up, too fast and banging his head on the roof of the car, rubbing at it while he stares out the window, blinking, turning back to Sirius with an eyebrow raised and a shit-eating grin.

“Oh no, it’s hideous.”

“Shut up! It’s - grab the CD, fucker!”

“The CD?”

“Yes, the fucking CD!”

“What CD?

“The - the fucking CD! The CD!”

“Oh, the CD?”

It occurs to Sirius then that Remus is fucking with him, which he thinks is a sign he needs to get them to the new apartment as soon as possible so they can both get some sleep. Remus laughs and rifles through the glove compartment as he groans and complains and rolls down the window to flip off a minivan that tries to cut him off, shouting garbled nonsense as they speed off - traffic is inexplicably going faster as they approach downtown, and really that doesn’t make any sense and it means Sirius is shouting at Remus to hurry the fuck up, no, not that song, keep skipping, for God’s sake -

The opening notes start to play just as the skyscrapers of downtown come into view, and then Remus is cranking the stereo up as loud as it’ll go and craning his neck to stare out the window with his jaw hanging wide and Sirius is trying to do the same while also making sure they don’t crash and die on I-90, and it’s not really the best view and it’s still too fucking hot and Sirius hasn’t slept in two days, but all the same he opens his mouth as the opening lyrics start to play and something intangible clicks into place.

I fell in love again

All things go, all things go

Remus rolls down his window and the wind whips at their hair, blowing all the strays that have fallen out of Sirius’s ponytail directly into his eyes and he almost tells Remus to roll it back up, you fucking fuck - but then Remus is sticking his head out with that brilliant toothy smile of his, belting the lyrics -

Drove to Chicago,

All things know, all things know

Everything they own is stuffed into every nook and cranny of the Forester Remus bought five days ago off of some elderly woman in Jersey, and they made a thing of it, just the other day on their last night in Alphard’s apartment, deleting all the phone numbers of all their friends and teachers and social workers in New York until only three remained - each other, Marlene, and Dorcas, whoever they turn out to be, faceless names they’ll be sharing a kitchen, a TV, a brand new life with. It’s exhilarating. Untethered, unmoored except for each other, Sirius has never felt safer, more alive, more free - like New York was dead weight he’s been dragging around that’s suddenly been lifted off, and he imagines for a moment that the sweat on his back is the imprint it’s left, soon to fade into nothing. 

There’s a lot to worry about once they reach the new apartment. Bills, and jobs, and shaping themselves into something more - something that’ll last. There’s a ring on Remus’s finger, a cheap, tarnished thing he nicked from a thrift store when the clerk wasn’t looking. It’s not the real thing, not quite yet, but it is a promise, a future, a clear path forward into the unknown, together. All they need, really.

[selinascatnip]

Ask Game: Pearls for DK 🤭🤭🤭

Enjoy, bestie!!

@graysonfamfan2021 asked that one too!

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

She knew she should have gone with Donna, that now she knew who she was, and after being so close of hurting Rachel, she should keep her distance. Being around them, around him, was just indulging in temptation and that could only result in heartbreak. 

And yet... 

And yet, just five minutes of saying goodbye and getting into Donna’s car, she turned the vehicle around – ignoring Donna’s shouts that she would kill them – and followed the path Dick had taken towards San Francisco until she saw the minivan honking madly until he pulled over. 

“I changed my mind.” 

The way he had smiled at her them, the sunlight making his sweet brown eyes glimmer. Kory knew she was a goner. 

There was a silly fight over rooms, Jason didn’t want to share his with Gar, and Dick didn’t trust him to be alone, so he had to share with Jason and Rachel joined Gar without explaining herself. It hurt Kory, but she couldn’t blame the girl. 

Of course she had fantasied about him coming to her door, but it didn’t take the impact when he did. 

He looked so... Vulnerable there, standing in his pyjama, hair still wet from the shower, open and closing his mouth like a fish. 

She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him inside without a world. Last time, she knew, he might have been the one to suggest they should stop, but only because he read on her face that she wasn’t comfortable with getting into a relationship while she didn’t know who she was, and when she put that in words it kind of sealed the deal. Gave the elephant in the room flesh and made it corporeal and too huge to keep ignoring. 

But know she knew who she was, she just needed to admit that for the first time in her live what she wanted to do and what was expected of her couldn’t be more different. 

“I...” he finally blurted as the door closed behind him. 

Kory licked her lips, and smiled as his eyes followed, and for a moment she contemplated trying to say something, to discuss first, even to tease him about not even doing the curtsy of bringing her a bottle of cheap booze. 

But to the hell with that, to the hell of getting to know each other now they knew who they were, to the hell... They would have time for that later. 

She pushed him to he bed and then crawled over, not quite sitting on him yet, but hoovering her hips over his, grabbing his face and putting her mouth over his. 

Even if she ever returned to Tamaran, right there, wrapped around his tongue, and safe behind his teeth, she found home. 

His fingers entered her hair, massaging her scalp lovingly while his free hand held her waist, digging his fingers in her flesh with the urgency he was trying to disguise in the slow, meticulous way he was letting her kiss him. 

The kiss was a difficult one to break, even thought he was the one who needed oxygen to live, every time she even attempted of making a pause, his lips followed back to hers, and they would lose themselves in another kiss. On a given moment, when she kissed his jaw, trying to spread her kisses down, and let the Earth boy breath a little, he pulled her mouth back to his with both hands, and she laughed. 

She only won a little bit of freedom, when tired of hoovering, she let her thighs relax, sat down, her hot core uncomfortably clenching meeting the rock hard bulge in his pants. 

“Oh god,” he gasped, eyes closed shut, brow furrowed as they rode together that wave of undeniable desire. 

Kory decided that she missed the taste of him even though it was only a couple of seconds since they were kissing, and sucked the skin of his chest, marvelling at how it changed colours so easily, he was so fragile and so strong at the same time. She wanted to wreak him so thoroughly that he would find difficult to walk tomorrow, she wanted to protect him so he’ll never feel pain again. She wanted so many things. 

But what about him? 

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered, looking up at him through her eyelashes, he tried to bring her back to his face, but Kory had secured his wrists against the bed, licking and sucking a path of fire down his chest, freeing one of his hands to pluck one button after another of his pyjama shirt. 

“I want you, god, I want you...” 

“Where?” she said letting go of his remaining locked wrist and teasingly kissing just over the boarder of his pants. “Here?” She kissed his bulge over the stripped fabric. 

Dick sucked the air in, his chest heaving. Kory had seen wonders, stars being born, galaxies dying, yet that was a more of a beautiful sight. 

“Come on, baby, or I’ll stop.” 

“No, please, no, Kory...” 

“No what?” 

“Don’t stop, don’t-” He sucked in another breath, and swallowed down, licking his lips and reaching a hand to her. “Don’t ever go away.” 

She smiled, honestly touched, but didn’t promise anything, she grabbed the hand he had offered, and intertwined their fingers, then, still making eye contact with him, she unwrapped his cock from his pants and sucked the tip. 

There were no way the thin motel walls blocked the sound he made. 

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

put a ship and one of the prompts in the list in my ask box to get a Smuffy treat

[sportsbianism]

update on my car search: i don't think it's within my budget currently to purchase a vintage toyota hiace with manual transmission. but i am still committed to finding a good minivan at a good price with manual transmission, good sound system, fun to drive, easy to repair, good gas mileage, and enough tow capacity for single occupancy fifth wheel. while the sienna is almost perfect, it doesn't come with manual transmission. neither does honda odyssey. the old school toyota previa does, but they are practically collectors items, 10k+ and i only saw one in all my searching. all the way across the country in seattle. there must be something out there i say to myself. and then it hit me. my beloved Ford Ranger is technically a Mazda. Can Mazda Save Me??

MAZDA 5!

they still make mazda 5 with a stick shift!!!

and in fact, my mom drives a mazda 5 and loves it. purchased after our sienna broke down. i have driven it. so fun to drive. excellent mileage. slightly smaller tow capacity but not too small. cheap! there's one for 4k only two hours from me!

not only that but my neighbor was asking how much i might sell my truck for!!!

i may be driving something else soon...

[stars-and-darkness]

WIP WEDNESDAY!!!

week #9

okay, we're back into the 'things i wrote, but unless it's here, it's very likely they won't see the light of day' file. i'd fiddled some with a possible sequel to nyctophilia., but ultimately decided against it. there are some gems in that doc, though, so:

Stefan had been so focused on dreading a werewolf hunt with the Original Family he’d completely forgotten to dread going on a road-trip with (a truly astounding number of) siblings. Considering the brother he has, he should really have known better.

And it becomes pretty apparent that though his (captors, slave-drivers) companions are almost all over a thousand years old, they have yet to grow into bearable road-trip buddies. The minivan they’ve procured for this occasion is top-of-the-line, brand new, but it still isn’t enough to comfortably host six vampires (and their egos), a coffin (because they apparently wanted their eldest brother with them, but not enough to actually wake him from the magical coma-death-thing the dagger put him in), and three different mini-fridges (one for blood bags no-one but Stefan drinks from because they all hate the plastic aftertaste, one for snacks they religiously re-stock and label with marks of ownership, and one for booze that ranges from cheap root beer to several-thousand-dollars-a-bottle liquor).

Honestly, though. The snacks are sacred. When Rebekah asked him (batting her eyelashes in a way that made him vaguely uncomfortable, both because he loved Elena and because he’d just gotten back his memories of loving Rebekah) what he’d like, he’d said something non-committal about not giving a damn. In retrospect, he regrets it, because the first time he tries to grab some of her Red Vines, she nearly rips his head off, newly re-awoken love or not.

Klaus just laughs from behind the wheel and pops a fistful of Reese’s Pieces into his mouth. They change drivers every three hours because it’s six of them, and even though they could all go on for days, why should they? He has so far learned to dread Kol’s (a damn maniac if there ever was one, he seems determined to find out if vampires really can’t get heart attacks and Stefan is his lab rat) and Elijah’s (the other end of the scale, unfailingly keeping to every single traffic law to the letter, though he thinks it’s just to annoy Kol) driving skills. The others, surprisingly enough, seem fairly reasonable drivers. No-one lets Stefan behind the wheel, though. Something, something, they fear he’ll drive them off a cliff and then they’d have to get a new minivan.

Well, Stefan wouldn’t. Maybe he’d take a wrong turn when no-one is looking, but he wouldn’t crash. It’s a waste of a perfectly good minivan, and even more perfect extremely pricy liquor in the mini-fridge number three.

“Okay,” Rebekah says, face hidden by a massive map, on which she tracks their progress and the path they’re still to take with a black permanent marker. “There should be a motel a few miles down the road.”

Stefan frowns. “A roadside motel? Seriously? Aren’t you people, like, loaded?” It’s not a real question; he knows they are. It is fairly obvious.

In a moment, Rebekah’s in his face, veins climbing up her cheeks. “This is the first road-trip my family has undertaken since the seventeen hundreds, so you’d do well not to comment. This will be a perfect trip. And nothing will ruin it.”

He raises his hands in defence. Next to him, Kol roars with laughter. He’d been chewing on Lays Chips obnoxiously loudly the whole time; Stefan suspects it is also to annoy the hell out of him. Elijah sighs; it’s the long-suffering sigh of someone wiser and more reasonable, which Stefan thinks is rich considering he tried (and failed) to snap Klaus’s neck when he tried to steal one of the property of E. Mikaelson-labelled bottles from the mini-fridge number three. But Elijah is also the one who rolled up in an Armani suit to a road-trip. (“Werewolf hunt,” Klaus literally growled, eyes bleeding gold and double fangs dropping. “Family trip!” Rebekah returned, smiling in a way that let them all know she knew exactly what she was doing. “A way to drive a man to suicide is what it is,” Kol sighed. No-one paid any attention to him, except Caroline, who smacked him on the back of the head.) Worse yet, they’ve been driving for hours and the bastard doesn’t even look the least bit rumpled. How is that fair? Traitors who hand girlfriends over to be sacrificed on an altar of fire don’t deserve to look good after hours in a mini-van.

Stefan, meanwhile, actually looks the part of being on the road the whole day, and so does everyone else. That, at least, is consolation, pitiful though it is.

“Pull over, Nik, we’re here,” Rebekah orders.

“Here?” Klaus sounds extremely dubious. “You’re sure?”

“Mmhmm.”

Stefan understands his apprehension. The house rising above them looks like it walked straight out of a Scooby Doo episode, down to the eerie quasi-Victorian architecture, windows that creak in the wind, and the roof that looks like it’s a strong breeze from caving in.

“It’s very … vampire?” he offers lamely.

“Oh, no,” Caroline informs him primly. “Do you know what is very vampire? Wealth accumulated over several generations that goes into houses that don’t look like a Disney villain’s lair.”

“I can go on,” Klaus offers, looking at the motel—oh, look, there’s even a sign, MOTEL, in big glowing red letters, except the T and the L keep flickering so it looks like MO E more often than not.

“We will not!” Rebekah growls, stomping her foot on the ground. “I want a legitimate road-trip experience, Nik, you owe it to me for daggering me for twenty years!”

Klaus rolls his eyes, but he obediently parks into an empty spot. Not that it’s hard. They’re all empty.

Kol’s eye twitches. “I swear to God, Bekah, if the manager ends up being a serial killer—”

“You’re a vampire, you’ll just eat them!” she protests.

“I am a bit pickier than that when it comes to my meals!”

“Fine, then I’ll eat them!”

“Don’t steal my food; Rebekah!”

“You literally just said you didn’t want some crusty old serial killer!”

“How do you even know the manager’s gonna be a serial killer?”

“I don’t—you—arghhh!”

With Rebekah looking at the verge of ripping her own hair or maybe Kol’s liver out, Elijah intervenes. “Kol. Rebekah.” There is something about his voice that invites obedience. Probably the fact that he always looks like he is better than you and knows it. “That’s enough.”

“Kol started it.” Rebekah crosses her arms over her chest.

“Oh, for God’s—” Klaus hisses. “That’s it—everyone, to the bloody motel. Stefan’s gonna be nice and carry our bags.”

“Am I being demoted to butler?” he asks, just to be contrary.

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s a job for a footman, Stef,” Caroline says, tossing golden curls over her shoulder. She’d gotten into the habit of using that name for him, the name only Damon ever used, and he isn’t sure what to feel about it.

He’d always been Stefan to Father, said with flinty eyes and a cruel cut of his lips. Stefan to Mother, with her lost doe-like look and pale, white hands gentle on his shoulders. Stefan to Elena and Katherine, spoken in an identical voice yet infinitely different.

But Damon—to Damon, he has been Stef for as long as he can remember. He used to think Damon must’ve chosen it the moment Stefan was born, when he held his tiny squealing infant of a brother and decided to love him.

He spent seventeen years sure of his brother’s love, then a hundred and forty-five thinking he hated him. Now, he doesn’t even know which it is anymore. All that he knows that when the choice came between letting Damon die and handing himself over to Klaus, it was never really a choice to begin with.

He takes the luggage.

Thankfully, he’s not required to balance that with opening the creaking doors of the motel for them. Klaus handles that—or better said, he opens the door for Caroline, and she gives him an indulgent little smile. Then he enters too and slams it in Kol’s face, evoking a string of words in a language he doesn’t know, though they all sound distinctly filthy.

“Language, Kol,” Elijah says coolly, while Rebekah is too busy laughing at Kol’s predicament to make a comment.

He is suddenly very thankful to Giuseppe and Lilian for only giving him the one sibling, no matter how endlessly frustrating he’s proven to be.

By the time they are finally inside the dark and mouldy lobby, Caroline is unleashing the full force of her temper on the receptionist—a sleazy-looking man whose face doesn’t appear that old, but what little is left of his sparse, shoulder-long hair is more grey than black.

“She’s angry there are only two rooms available,” Klaus informs them with the dreamy sort of smile he gets whenever Caroline does anything.

“What do you mean, only two rooms?” And now Rebekah is by Caroline’s side, arguing just as passionately. The receptionist doesn’t seem deterred, which is really a testament to his nerve.

“They do know arguing won’t change anything, right?” Stefan questions, meeting each of the men’s eyes in turn.

“Oh, yes.” The gleam in Kol’s sends shivers down his spine.

[sleekervae]

Clamshell [0.1]

Masterlist

A/N: Hello, I'm back. Still working on some old drafts and had some requests for some new ideas. I'll get to them for sure! I thought up a cute little backstory for how Remington met Vera -- back before she had any idea of this robbing business. And this chapter includes an actual bank robbery now. Happy reading!

--

Las Vegas, 2017

Remington had smoked the same brand of cigarettes from the time he was thirteen, and he hated the way they had been reformatted and manufactured. The taste and zing had been dulled down in order to meet the standard regulations of whatever federal ball-busting association had these cigarette companies bent over a desk. Perhaps he could still enjoy them the same way if he found the same thrill at thirteen, rifling through his older brother's things one day to knocking some off to seem cool to his friends.

The cigarette flew from his fingertips and was lost in the blustering wind, try as it might it could not tousle through the layers of hairspray he had sprayed on his spikes that morning. Down the freeway he and his brothers drove, feeling as free as the birds that migrated above their heads, unaware and uncaring for the chaos and treachery they may find in the big city. Sebastian had to go to work, because of course someone had to pay their bills legitimately; though Emerson and Remington were off to pull some work of their own.

Their long time confidant and friend, Andrew was driving upfront in their beaten up, unassuming mini van, his shaggy mullet was cloistered under a straw hat. Emerson wasn't much of a fan of said hat.

"You look like a farmer," he pointed out for perhaps the fifth time that morning.

Andrew scoffed, glaring at him through the rearview mirror, "Because you look so much less unassuming in yours," he was referring to Emerson's floppy, wide brimmed slouch hat.

"Well, I'm not gonna' be wearing it for the job," he replied.

"Just leave him alone, he likes it," Remington cut in, trying to sprawl his long legs out in the back seat.

Sebastian was sat shot gun, dressed in his jacket for his line cook's job. He kept glancing back at his younger brothers, seemingly uneasy.

"Are you sure you guys wanna' do this without me?" he asked, perhaps for the third time that morning. His brothers had been planning this job for months, a smaller heist in comparison to others they've pulled, but the diner Sebastian worked for was severely short staffed and he was being scheduled more and more until more bodies could be hired. Of course, neither of them could afford to lose their jobs, so Sebastian had to put his heist planning to a pause while he covered as many shifts as he could.

While they figured they could wait this out, Remington and Emerson were eager for another job soon enough. And so, they had spent some time drawing up plans for a smaller bak heist. After all, living in Vegas was no cheap and easy feat for anyone.

"Of course we are, we've planned this perfectly," Emerson assured, turning to his brother, "Right?"

"Right," Remington sat up and reached over to grab Sebastian's shoulders, "We got it all under control, you just do your thing; flip your burgers, dress your salads, pour in half a bag of sugar into your hollandaise sauce,"

"I wouldn't if I didn't have to," Sebastian grumbled back, looking forward as Andrew pulled over to the cafe he worked at. Sebastian turned in his seat again, "You guys be careful, and don't do anything foolish for the love of God,"

Remington put his hand over his heart, "Swear on mom and dad's graves, we'll be good,"

"Better than that, we'll be slick," Emerson grinned.

Still unconvinced, Sebastian turned to Andrew with grim reprieve, "Make sure they don't get themselves killed,"

"You got it," Andrew gave him a high-five, "I'll come pick you up later,"

Sebastian hopped out and hadn't even shut the door before the minivan pulled out again. They travelled through the smaller outskirt suburb of Vegas, where the main strip was still within clear view. Remington and Emerson were getting their gear together in the meantime, guns, duffels, and of course, their balaclavas.

The Lieseil Funds Bank was a smaller bank chain, handling business ventures from blue-collar start ups to college-fund investment plans. It was a more obscure target that wouldn't be a considered target for crimes such as this, and it sat right across from Bobbie Trap's Pub. It was there one would find a raucous commotion emanating from the back of house, a young waitress being scolded by her manager.

Of course, it wasn't initially the waitress' fault, a customer, still drunk from the night previous, decided to try and take a handful of her behind. But of course, when she turned to defend herself, one thing led to another and she tossed a glass of water over his head. Despite how she tried to explain her case, her boss rattled on about how irresponsible and hysterical she was, so he took her by the arm and practically dragged her out of the establishment and threw her out onto the street, tossing her ratty apron after her.

"Go be somebody else's problem, Vera!" and he slammed the door in her face.

That was how Vera found herself sitting on the sidewalk outside of the bank with said ratty apron and her scuffed up converse kicking at the pavement. This was the third job she had lost in four months and she was cussing herself out for being so reactive and explosive. Just her luck anyhow, the volunteer at the women's shelter had lobbied hard for her to get that stupid waitressing job. Never the less, seeing the inevitable disappointment on the volunteer's face when she came crawling back would be absolutely gruelling.

She ran a hand through her tangled, dry hair, her brain racing for some sort of answer to her predicament, she hadn't paid any mind to the minivan that had pulled up in front of Bobie's.

Remington glared through hooded eyes at the bank, mentally flashing through the blueprints that Emerson had drawn up of the building, running through the response time it would take for police. He looked to Emerson, his face covered in his own lint-littered balaclava, then to Andrew, his head down and his straw hat pulled just over his eyes. Morning rush hour was over and the street was relatively quiet, perfect for their quick getaway.

They were just about to hop out when a man suddenly emerged from the local bar, his head down as he counted the stack of money bills in his hand, clearly out for a deposit. He didn't even give the random girl on the corner a second glance. Remington licked his lips hungrily as he watched the man cross the street and head into the bank. Sebastian was going to be so proud of their score.

With one final bow of confidence, Remington and Emerson jumped out of the minivan and hustled across the street, slipping into the bank. The few people within the bank paid no mind until Remington held up his automatic weapon and fired a few rounds into the ceiling. There were screams of terror, plaguing confusion as bank tellers and bystanders ducked for cover. And of course, the one security guard they had proved to me less than efficient as Emerson knocked him out with one swift blow from his gun.

Remington, ever one for great theatrics, leapt onto one of his desks, brandishing his weapon and tossing the duffel at the bank teller, "Ladies and gentlemen! I beg you all to remain calm, you are not in immediate danger! However, if it wasn't obvious: this is a robbery!"

Vera had her head in her hands, none the wiser to the chaos within the bank until she heard the first gunshots. The windows were dusty but when she turned around she could make out some of the pandemonium from inside, and her heart began to race as she realized she was witnessing a full scale bank robbery. It was so close, all playing out in front of her and yet she felt like she was watching some sort of scene from a movie.

"Holy shit," what should she do, call the police? Maybe somebody already had? All banks had those little panic buttons, right? There was more yelling, some banging, and Vera watched in disbelief as one of the robbers leapt onto the desk, almost performative in his clear threat to the public. She was frozen, out of fear or fascination she wasn't sure, but all Vera could bring herself to do was watch.

Remington and Emerson had gathered what money they could, as well as other valuable personal pieces and spare cash the customers had on them. The man from the street had a cool five hundred dollars he had a hard time letting go off, but Remington shoved him down and cleared up as much of it as he could before he and Emerson took off.

Not even five minutes passed before sirens could be heard in the distance, and the robbers were making out with their loot: two big duffels full of cash. The time had come for Vera, she started crossing the street to get herself away from the chaos. The first one raced clumsily towards the idling minivan and the second was close on his heels, or he would've been if one of the bank bystanders hadn't chased after him.

"You get back here! Vera! Stop him!" Vera was shocked to find her boss coming after the second robber with a clenched fist. He was closing in on him, and Vera wasn't sure what had come over her, glancing between the robber and the minivan his partners were waiting in, and then she glanced at her former boss. Her petty anger riled up within in, and as quickly as she could, she put out her foot and watched with with subtle glee as he face planted into the road.

Remington stopped short when he heard the thud, staring in disbelief as he saw the large man trying to gather his wits. His gaze then shifted to the girl who had clearly tripped him, their eyes locked. She was a young, unassuming type, slender and yet she had a mousy attractiveness.

"Move, man!" Emerson called from the van. Remington only had time to throw one callous wink at the girl before he leapt into the van, the dark ink of an X on his right knuckle fleeting as the van door closed behind him. About a minute later two police cruisers arrived, one of them taking off in the van's general direction.

When he had recovered, Vera's former boss dusted himself off, his mean gaze narrowing on the young girl. He stomped up to her, seething like a bull in Pamplona.

"What is the matter with you!" he shoved her, "You let them get away with my money! Are you just that stupid?!"

Vera, playing up her nonchalance, simply shrugged and smiled politely, "I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you should go be someone else's problem?" and with that, she turned on her heel and walked in the general direction of the women's shelter.

The Bastards crew had made a hasty, but clean getaway from the cops, and Sebastian couldn't deny how impressed he was with his brothers' spoils. They celebrated greatly with some cheap bottles of gin and pizza, though Remington found himself too preoccupied for celebrating. That girl had intercepted and nested in his brain, he had laid eyes upon her just for a moment yet he could see her so clearly. She was reminiscent of a manic pixie dream girl from a Bertolucci film, yet her dim confidence and outlandish pulse reactions were outstanding.

He sat on the porch of the bungalow they shared, a shabby little place in a run down lower-middle class neighbourhood. The air was dry, the heat unbearably humid, though it didn't stop Remington from enjoying his beer as he looked out into the saturated sunset. He had never found himself so curious over someone, especially over a girl. Why had she decided to help him, who was she? And of course, what bone did she have to pick with that bar man?

Out of all the chaos from the day and the questions spinning in his brain, he at least had one answer: Vera. It was a pretty name for a pretty girl, and as he lay in bed that night, tossing the sheets on and off because it was just too damn hot, Remington decided that he wanted to try and find her, to thank her at least. Would she react badly? Maybe. Would Sebastian absolutely end him if he found out? For sure. Never the less, Remington liked risks, and he certainly hadn't met a challenge he wasn't willing to take on.

And as he showered off the night time sweat in lukewarm water, he had successfully made up his mind.

Vera had crawled back to the women's shelter with her tail between her legs, having to sheepishly explain to the volunteers how she'd lost yet another job. Despite their clear frustration with her, they promised they were going to help find her something that would stick.

Empty promises, empty promises.

All night she couldn't sleep, tossing and turning in her brick-hard bed as sleep eluded her. Every time she closed her eyes she kept reliving the chaos from the morning. She hadn't told the volunteers about it, they would panic and worry about Vera being a witness and wonder if she was a liability to the rest of the girls in the shelter. She had seen it before with girls who had witnessed things they shouldn't have, and of course in Las Vegas, there were a plethora of things you would often wish you never had to see.

However, Vera found she wasn't traumatized so much as she was fascinated by it all. It all happened so fast and yet she could remember every detail so clearly, how sharp the gunshots were, how the clear leader of the two was so ostentatious in his crime, how he even took the time to stop and wink her, almost as a thank-you for letting them get away. She couldn't see his face of course, but she could remember those eyes so well; chilling, almond in shape and dark to the point where his eyes almost appeared to be blacked out entirely. Nevertheless, Vera found she wasn't afraid; perhaps she had become so numb to the tumultuous ongoings within the city? Or deep down she was content with the fact that the balaclava-clad stranger wasn't going to hurt her. Not like she would know him if she passed him on the street.

In the sizzling afternoon heat, Vera was wandering an outlet market, a pretty inconspicuous cover as she read her magazine from the news stand. Every time she turned the page she found an ad for some luxury perfume, designer bag or exquisite jewelry piece. She ran her fingers over a bejewelled necklace that Lily Collins was wearing for Cartier, wondering how it must've felt to be and live so rich. All Vera had ever known was cold floors to sleep on and living paycheque-to-menial-paycheque.

This part of Vegas was a bit quieter than the strip, nonetheless bustling with professionals and cars would line up and funnel out to make their way to their destinations. Vera took a deep breath of cigarette smoke, dust, and exhaust, the white noise somewhat calming her. She was none the wiser to the young man standing at the street corner, his hands tucked into the pockets of his denim jeans, seeking refuge in the heat under a shaded tree, his dark eyes locked on her while his cigarette sizzled between his fingers.

"Hey! You gonna' pay for that?" the clerk at the newsstand barked at Vera. She refrained from rolling her eyes as she placed the mag back on the rack with a polite, sickening grin. The clerk came around, grumbling to himself as he had to reorganize his selection of reading material, none the wiser to Vera plucking a candy bar from the opposing display while his back was turned. But Remington found himself impressed as he followed just a few feet behind her.

Vera ate her candy bar without much thought as she skimmed the display tables of shirts and knock off hand bags. Nobody paid her a second thought, she seemed practically invisible as she was bumped and knocked aside by the bustling crowds. She flinched as an associate from the church of scientology tried to shove a pamphlet into her face, ducking swiftly towards the other end of the market. She suddenly found herself in front of a jewelry table, it was nothing too opulent, but the pieces were beautiful and Vera couldn't resist.

She picked up a simple gold necklace, the chain was delicate and in the middle hung a beautiful, pearly clamshell charm. The clerk was too busy bartering with another customer while Vera plucked the clasp apart and slipped the necklace onto herself. It was absolutely gorgeous, the cold complimented her complexion exquisitely and the clamshell glistened in the sun's reflection. Nevertheless, the price swayed Vera much more than the look could; it was forty-five dollars and Lord knew she couldn't afford anything more than a happy meal at this rate.

Remington had broke through the crowd, dodging the scientologist and finding Vera at the stand on the other side. She was twisting from side to side in the mirror, her chucks strained in the soles as she stood on her toes, she seemed almost childlike. Remington couldn't help the curious grin on his face as he debated to himself, how should he approach her? And hell, would she even bother to give him the time of day. He was a relatively good looking boy, though the city was filled with fast-talking leeches and he wouldn't blame her if she told him to buzz off.

However, Remington's opportunity hit sooner than he'd prepared for, whisked out of his head as he heard someone shout.

"Take that off!" the clerk at the jewelry display scolded Vera, making her and the few immediate customers in the vicinity jump. The slender Filipino woman charged over to her, a deep scowl carved into her face as she waved her finger at her, "You can't just take from my table and try the stuff on!"

Vera cocked a brow, "Then what's the mirror for, then?" she asked simply.

"Didn't you read the sign?" the older woman pointed her bony finger to the sign by her register: please ask before trying on jewelry was scrawled out in just legible handwriting, "You want to try? You ask me first! You could be stealing for all I know!"

"I'm not stealing it, I'm trying it on!" she snapped back.

"Are you going to buy it?" the clerk asked.

"No,"

"Then take it off!" she waved her hand at her to hurry along, "Go shop at Value Village or something, you probably can't afford this anyway!"

Vera did her best to bite her tongue as she reached for the clasp, not wanting to give in to the woman's very clear opinions of her, "Okay! Okay! Here!" she barely had a handle on the latch of the clasp before a sudden, sharp odour of cologne filled her nose, and she was surprised to see a young man taking step beside her.

"Hold on a sec, there's no need to be nasty about it," the boy told the clerk, trying to de-escalate the tension between the ladies.

"Who's being nasty! She can't buy anything so she's wasting my time!" the clerk cried, drawing a few side-glances from passer bys.

"Who said she can't buy anything?" he popped a brow, then turning to Vera, "You like the necklace?" he asked.

Vera wasn't sure as to whether she was embarrassed, scared, or relieved, seemingly having this stranger on her side. He seemed harmless enough, smiling gently and persuasive in her mannerisms. She never broke eye contact with his dark eyes, nodding slowly.

"Yeah,"

Remington's smile got wider as she nodded and he pulled out his wallet, flipping through the bills. The clerk had certainly stopped talking once she saw the wad of cash he had on him. Remington pulled out forty-five dollars and handed it to the clerk, plus a five dollar tip.

"There you go, forty-five bucks. Plus a little something for the misunderstanding," he assured her. The clerk glanced at the money, dumbfounded at first. When her train of thought finally caught up with her tongue, she placed the money into her pouch and reached for her register.

"I -- I... thank you. Uh -- here. Let me print you a receipt --"

"Don't worry about it," Remington nodded politely, subtly knocking his elbow with Vera's, "You have a good day,"

For the second day in a row, Vera felt as though she had been stuck in a hallucinatory dream. She nearly tripped over her feet as Remington nudged her to start walking, following in quick step with saucer eyes as she watched him in utter disbelief.

"You good?" was all he said, not bothering to make eye contact.

"Yeah, I guess," Vera huffed, her voice bordering on a gasp and a chuckle, "You didn't have to -- I mean -- I would've put it back no problem --"

"Don't worry, she had it coming," Remington assured her, "Besides, the pendant looks good on you,"

Vera denied the urge to reach up to clutch the clamshell, becoming frustrated at this stranger's nonchalance. Annoyed because he had been so vague and so smug, rebelliously handsome, "Okay then,"

Remington sensed her agitation and capitalized on it, "You could say 'thank you'," he said.

Vera stopped walking then, staying put on the burning cement as she glowered, "Well, who exactly am I supposed to be thanking?"

Remington turned back and extended his hand to her, smiling warmly, "I'm Remington,"

She was tentative at first, her fight, flight, or flee modes were snapping through her brain like the slides on a slot machine. Despite everything though, he did buy her an expensive necklace and so far was asking for nothing in returned. 'So far' being the optimal phrase.

So she shook his hand, "Vera. Thank you for the necklace, Remington,"

The flush in his face he blamed on the heat, but hearing his name roll off her tongue had bells going off in his ears, "You're welcome, Vera,"

They kept walking together, his hands deep in his back pockets while she fiddled with the strap on her bag.

"... So, what's the catch?"

"What catch?"

"The part where I dubiously repay you for buying me a fifty-dollar necklace,"

"You don't have to give me anything," he assured her.

Vera scoffed, "Right, you just did it out of the kindness of your heart, right?"

"You don't believe so?" he asked.

"Nobody ever does anything for free. Especially not in this city," she kicked a loose pebble across the cement.

Remington nodded, "Fair enough. How about a coffee, then?"

"That's it?"

"That's it,"

Vera shook her head, "So you're offering to buy me a coffee to in debt myself to you even more?"

"No, you can repay your debt by spending forty five minutes having coffee with me. One minute for every dollar,"

She exhaled softly, looking briefly around the market as nobody was paying them any mind. If she needed to she could slip into the crowd and disappear so easily. However, he seemed harmless for the most part, he held the aura of a curious, twenty-something young boy who was probably just out to show off and nab himself a piece of tail. Forty five minutes was nothing, after all.

"Forty five minutes, that's it?"

"That's it,"

"Swear on the bible?"

Remington simpered as he raised his left hand and placed his right hand over his chest, "Hand of God, Mary, and Joseph," he promised.

Vera's gaze flickered to the X tattoo on his knuckle, a sharp chill running up her spine. Nevertheless, the chill wasn't fear; it was a gnawing curiosity in her gut as she realized who this man actually was. Her poker face never slipped, however.

She smiled politely, "Okay. Let's go,"

[sinfulspeakeasy]

🔥

Finally getting around to this but.... highly specific hot takes for niche things that no one cares about: Vans shouldn't be FWD (front wheel drive) just.... in general. Family minivans (or MPV type vehicles in countries that aren't the USA despite them still being multi purpose vehicles) are supposed to do a number of things.... like carry heavy loads in the trunk, or towing. For family minivans I guess it makes sense...? It saves gas. However, people hauling vans (Ford Transit etc) aren't FWD. The only trades van I know of that is FWD is the Ram Promaster, but it's the cheapest on the market, so that makes sense. It was designed to be cheap and drive somewhat like a car so it could make up massive van fleets at low prices without a need for lots of driver training. It also causes your load and drive axle to rise off the ground and lose traction when loaded heavily, both things that vans are designed to do. It is pointless and stupid to make vans less effective so that they are easier to drive. A van that doesn't handle like a van means you can't really do van things with it, and you can make up MPG losses with higher engine efficiency.

[hogmilked]

would you ever buy a [insert car that other people think is cringe but you think is neat]

(yes this is an open invitation to ramble about cars)

KISSING YOU ON THE MOUTH BESTIE

ok ok so yes i am going to go ramble but i’ll keep it relatively short

HERE ARE MY TOP FIVE DOGSHIT CARS I LOVE SO SO MUCH

5. Pontiac Aztek

any time you look up the ugliest cars ever made this will come up on the list and that’s fair because it is ugly as hell BUT i LOVE IT so much it came with a goddamn built in TENT. it was built on a minivan platform so this bitch could haul so much while not being overwhelmingly big. she may be ugly but she has the RANGE honey. and one person’s ugly is another’s quirky. pontiac aztek my beloved one of the only cars made after 1990 i genuinely want

4. Ford Pinto

OK OK HEAR ME OUT LISTEN. YES THIS CAR KILLED PEOPLE. YES EVERY FOR EXEC SHOULD GO TO HELL FOR KNOWING THAT AND NOT RECALLING IT FOR YEARS. BUT. they did eventually fix that pesky little exploding issue and what was left was a capable, fun, gorgeous little economy car, and models with the gas tank issue addressed have proven to be relatively reliable for 40 year old american economy cars

3. 2000s MOPAR

yeah this was a dogshit era for dodge/chrysler/jeep but i’m so deeply enamored by all these dramatically failed experiments. the dodge caliber, dodge magnum, chrysler pt cruiser, plymouth prowler, SO many bad cars that kinda bang. to me. they all have the energy of those fossil pokemon from sword and shield that clearly want nothing more than death but you can’t help but love their cheap, plastic, dogshit charm

2. Nissan Murano CrossCabriolet

Ok so technically i don’t want one per se although that’s more because i hate almost all cars made after 2000, but this thing got so much hate and like i get it but i fucking love convertible suvs and i think there should be more. yes i know the bronco and wrangler exist rn but i need more with barbie energy like this. chop the top off a rav4 and maybe i’ll consider a car payment. i won’t but like maybe

1. MALAISE ERA BABYYYYYY

Here’s some more specifics about the malaise era but this is the era of cars i’m probably the most autistic about lmao, american cars from the mid 70s to the early 80s. tldr during this time the government was cracking down on efficiency and fuel consumption so american car manufacturers had to start figuring out how to make their giant gas guzzling giants of the road more economical. on top of that imports from japan were getting popular, which were smaller, cheaper, and easier to drive. america however was stupid and full of cocaine so they kept making giant cars but just made them cheaper and less powerful. this didn’t mean smaller engines mind you, it just meant they choked the existing giant engines and made them weaker. so the cars from this era are still huge and clunky but now with more plastic and less horsepower while still weighing the same, which means they all drive like fucking trucks, even the smaller ones. eventually manufacturers either figured out how to make economy cars (though they still weren’t as efficient as japanese ones) but for a chunk of time in the late 70s american cars were ugly, underpowered, and kinda cheap. and i LOVE them. i love the brown on brown on brown, love the tackiness, love the underpowered v8 engines. malaise era my beloved ❤️❤️