#i know what i like and it is trash man and tin can

[peskellence]

could I please request some reed900... 👉👈

Nines' skin is malfunctioning, but Gavin reassures him (in his own, Gavin way) that he accepts him as he is? Skin or no skin?

thank you. bless. kiss. forever indebted💕

Say less, friend, I've got you 🫡

Fail Safe

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: M/M, Established Relationship, Fluff, Praise and Affirmation, Self Acceptance.

AO3 Link

Summary: Gavin and Nines are on security duty when an unexpected cyber attack results in the android's synthetic skin being compromised. Despite his worries, Gavin reassures him that their bond runs deeper than the pieces they are made of.

Word Count: 4.7K

Gavin and Nines had been assigned to security duty at the opening ceremony for a new Jericho Community Centre. It was due to be a pretty contained event, nothing overly flashy or publicised. Normally, it wouldn't demand any police involvement, but there had been whispers the Anti Android Alliance planned to attend—staging some sort of protest. 

This turned out to be true, although not in the way that could've been anticipated. It seemed a particularly enlightened Dipshit In Charge had decided the usual M.O. of bats and bricks wouldn't cut it. Instead, they were going to make some waves with a street-deployed cyber attack. Send their 'message', whatever deranged bullshit that might be, by taking out some local figureheads with a home-brewed virus. 

Fuck knows how they'd manage to string together the spaghetti code with their three collective brain cells—or how they'd loaded up said clusterfuck onto the batons concealed in their pockets. Nevertheless, about five minutes into the presentation, they started swinging. Weapons bared and flung into the faces of nearby pedestrians as they tried to make their way to the stage. 

Shit hit the fan, but fortunately, not for their targets.

It turned out the engineering at Fuckhead H.Q. was just as shitty as the planning, as the would-be attempt at corporal justice folded like a house of cards. Most of the batons didn't work, and with the ones that did, the virus wasn't able to execute the way they'd wanted. 

The intent had been to infiltrate the android's core systems through mass corruption of their internal networks. Ultimately, overloading the CPU and causing permanent shutdown, but without plugging the device directly into an access port—which they clearly had no idea how to do, and their targets weren't about to help with—its reach was incredibly limited.

Basically, it couldn't do shit. Stalling at the first line of defence: the chassis. Digital garbage hurled at a plastic wall. 

Nines had been hit by one of the bastards—stuck in the side of the neck as he wrangled them away from a Jericho representative. Handling of the situation became a lot less gentle after that, with the man catapulted onto the floor, squealing like a pig as the android pinned his flailing limbs. Gavin had moved to assist, feeding the guy a couple of teeth for his trouble.

Total accident, of course. The man just happened to move his face as he was getting the cuffs on, and it just happened to slam into the detective's fist. 

He didn't get much of the chiding he'd usually expect for this, as the virus had started to do its thing. Working across his partner's body, flickering in patches like a broken LCD. The corruption branched down his throat before retreating beneath his collar in search of available access. 

Much like with the other android's affected, it failed. Nines was fine, mostly: the only exception being that the malware had managed to fuck up one of his less important functions. His synthetic skin. 

At least, that's what the Cyberlife Tech on the phone suggested was happening when they decided to call. The glitches spread, with the majority hidden beneath clothes—but Nines could undoubtedly feel the effects of corruption taking hold. While he wasn't sure if this was something they really needed to worry about, the concept alone left a bad taste in Gavin's mouth.

They were forced to leave reinforcements to book the fucker responsible, as well as the rest of his brain-dead friends. A shame, as the detective would have loved to acquaint him with the book about to be thrown his way. Maybe give him a black eye to go with the dental bill. 

As they made their way home, the vibrancy of glitches had started to decrease, fading into a translucent creep that filmed across the skin. Whatever receptors were present to lend cloaking abilities were beginning to short-circuit, creating an expanding kaleidoscope of freckles and plastic. 

Gavin used full siren privileges to run every red light they encountered, determined to weave through the traffic as quickly as possible. He had never seen the android so panicked—frenzied—like the car would be at risk of imploding if it didn't imminently materialise outside their home. 

With his understanding of Michigan Traffic Laws becoming increasingly lax, Nines continued to rip into the rep held at knifepoint in his temporal channel. He hadn't bothered to lock communication to his internal server and instead was speaking out loud—in a tone that a more diplomatic man might describe as 'a bit confrontational.'

In reality, he had gone all seven shades of middle-aged-mom-with-an-expired-coupon. Demanding the guy listen to every minute detail of his grievance and inform him how quickly it could be resolved. 

Gavin would have found this hilarious had the intensity not been a little terrifying. Instead, it inspired him to punch the gas harder, resulting in a chorus of beeps as he pulled a particularly dangerous manoeuvre around a sharp bend. 

It didn't seem to matter what the squeaky-voiced foetus on the line said; each suggestion was ruled unacceptable. Commencing a perpetual cycle of 'that isn't fast enough' and 'speak with your supervisor' and 'this is an emergency, William; it should be prioritised accordingly.' The rep responded to each chastisement with small, deflated whimpers, like a punctured balloon expelling air.

The virus, now engaged fully, worked in stages to target each section of artificial skin. Limbs faded out in sporadic blotches as glossy pinpricks expanded their way into dense bands of white. They tunnelled through rapidly shrinking pockets of flesh, with Nines looking like a six-foot lava lamp by the time they finally reached the apartment.

Admittedly, it was a strange image—with this something the android seemed astutely aware of. He had charged for the bathroom and locked himself in within seconds of entering their home, informing Gavin with no uncertainty he would not be coming out until help arrived.

This was all well and good at first, but after three hours—and five espressos—nature was calling. Not softly, either, having been forced to wait for a good fucking while. 

The pressure grew, and rather than risk a hole being punched through the wall of his bladder, Gavin concluded he couldn't hold it. Rapping his knuckle on the wood, he pressed his face against it, making a pointed appeal to his partner.

"Nines, I need a piss. Let me in for a sec." 

The request went ignored, bouncing uselessly off the door and crumpling at his feet. Frustrated, he knocked again, using his available grip to jiggle insistently on the handle. 

"Come on, I'm desperate. Open the fucking door."

"The Cyberlife technician will be here soon," an even tone greeted him, undercutting the demand. "I am confident you can wait a few more minutes."

"It's been more than a few, jackass."

"The operative advised that their arrival would fall between 2 and 7. As we are nearing 6:45, we can anticipate—"

Gavin disrupted the explanation with a prolonged groan of protest. His head lulled back as he grappled with a growing temptation to slingshot it through the panel. "Those windows mean jack shit. You'll be lucky if the bastard shows up before June. Hell, you'll be lucky if he shows up at all." 

There was a weighty pause as though Nines was attempting to formulate some form of mind-shattering retort. Words of assurance so profound they would effectively conclude the debate—as well as any and all that followed.

Despite having a world of knowledge quite literally wired to his brain, the android gave him nothing. Treading over the same tired deflection with a small, dejected huff. "Just wait. It won't take long." 

"If you don't let me in, I'm gonna go in the litter box—or the kitchen sink."

The latter threat inspired a visceral reaction. Gavin swore he could see the red casting from his partner's temple, seeping through the cracks under the door. "You wouldn't dare." 

"Try me. It's full of dishes. You want that on your conscience?"

As though taking a moment to grapple with the grim proposal, Gavin was made to wait in anticipation of his partner's reply. A lull that seemed to stretch endlessly, as he tried not to focus on the uncomfortable pressure in his groin. Crossing his legs, he tapped his foot impatiently—a motion that would have likely attracted the attention of a marauding cat were she not out harassing strays. 

There were muffled sounds behind the door, like rustling fabric, followed by the telltale scrape of something heavy being moved. It seemed like Nines had gone to the effort of barricading himself inside, just in case Gavin managed to break through the flimsy hold of the lock.

"Turn around and keep your eyes forward. I will only leave this room on the condition you do not look." 

"Yeah, sure, whatever," the man grunted, eyes rolling at the theatrics. "I swear I won't look. Scouts honour."

Another rustle followed—and a click—as an internal mechanism was turned and released. The door creaked forward, with casts of fluorescents from beyond the passage starting to leak into the hallway. True to his word, Gavin turned around. Gaze fixed on a nearby wall—as though the flecked chips of paint were the most engaging things he had ever seen.

The panel swung open completely, anchored on creaking hinges, and steady steps crossed the threshold. They did not progress much further, as Nines failed to meet the steady foundation of the carpet, instead greeted with a cat toy being compressed beneath his weight. 

The worn squeaker of the felt mouse strained to its absolute limit, wheezing in a prolonged cry, until it slipped out from beneath his toes and careened across the room. 

Shit.

Nines opposed the trajectory, fumbling back and colliding firmly with the weathered plaster behind him. Dangerously close to where they kept their beast of burden's scratching post.

Shit. 

Gavin wasn't sure if the glitching had affected his partner's durability, but he didn't want to find out. Certainly not by being forced to remove him from a surprisingly solid pillar of plywood. 

Nines already had one near miss today. The last thing he needed was for the engineer's visit to end up a real emergency.

Don't turn, don't—

His head whipped around despite all resistance. It had been out of instinct, really, with no malicious intent intended. An innate compulsion to assist, justifying that he would've been more of an asshole if he'd wilfully allowed his boyfriend to skewer himself.

It only occurred just how badly he had fucked up when he saw him. 

The partners froze, eyes locked, and the room around them seemed to vanish. The structural integrity of limbs and furniture was immediately forgotten as Gavin's heart plummeted into his ass. 

Nines looked horrified. His LED flashed like a warning beacon, crimson pulses growing in frequency the more his eyes widened. He stayed that way for a period. Paralysed. Like a startled deer out on a highway, about to be struck by an oncoming vehicle. 

It was nothing like him at all, and Gavin found it deeply unnerving. He then proceeded to make it worse, executing all the same grace of a violent roadside collision. Allowing the first slack-jawed musing that popped into his skull to tumble tactlessly from his lips:

"Oh shit."

The red illuminating Nines' face took on a different meaning in the wake of the outburst. He had broken free of his prey-like stupor and emerged angry—furious. Taking laboured strides toward the bathroom, levelling his partner with an increasingly scornful glare.

"I told you not to look." 

Gavin winced at the accusation dripping from the words, as they were dragged through the snarled curl of the android's mouth. Damage control was needed, but he was unable to engage the appropriate mental factions. 

Instead, he attempted to downplay his previous stunned reaction—gesturing his boyfriend up and down with feigned indifference:

"This is why you've been holding the shitter hostage?" He noted how his arm cast shadows against the sheened wall of plastic, masking his intrigue with a scoff. "Really, that's it?"

Nines jerked back, expression pinched as though he had been struck in the face. "What do you mean, 'that's it'? Gavin, look at me."

"So you're a bit pale. Grey round the gills. You should've seen me this one time at Summer camp." Gavin chuckled preemptively, arms folded across his chest as he attempted to recall the memory. "Man, I'd eaten like seventeen s'mores, and I swear they'd laced the marshmallows with laxatives because, after that, I couldn't…"

He trailed off as the pronounced scowl etched deeper into his partner's face. Informing it wasn't the time for jokes—and that the legendary saga of Preteen Gavin and the Exploding Bowels would have to wait for another day. 

"... Seriously, what did you think I was gonna do?" he challenged, abandoning the playful lilt in favour of something serious. "Freak out and run for the hills because you look like a robot? Because newsflash, genius, I kind of got that. Your skin turns into a goddamn Rorschach every time we do it. Not to mention the static orgasms—" 

Nines raised a hand to stop him, clearly not appreciating the growing vividness of the account. "There was a time when this would have been an issue. Please don't insult me by denying that."

His voice was stern—gravelly with a mixture of frustration and hurt—as his expression hardened further. A feat the detective had thought impossible. 

He bore into him with sharply trained eyes, still the same vibrant grey they'd always been—despite everything else that had changed.  

Remorse struck hard, twisting his gut and nearly knocking him back. Nines was right: not long ago, this would have been a big deal. 

The consequence of a roadblock which spanned the numerous tangled alleys of his mind. Something established by years of resentment, growing uncontrollably over time. Soon, it had become impossible to bypass, not that he'd made much effort to try. Facing the beast, he just knew it was insurmountable.

That was until Nines arrived, rolling up to the rickety wagon he'd parked against the barrier and all but ripping him out. Tugged from his seat by the goddamn ears as he kicked and howled in protest.

"Plastic fucker—"

Of course, it wasn't all that dramatic. It didn't happen immediately, and definitely not in a single pull.

The occurrence had been slow and gradual, with Gavin only starting to scream when he realised what was happening. Because the closer they got—moved from aggrieved associates to unexpected friends—the more he had to challenge everything he understood about being alive. A painful, arduous process that forced him to confront wrongs he didn't even know he'd committed.

The conclusion should have brought relief, but instead, it was hollow. Something was still missing—and it sure as hell shouldn't have been. His entire worldview had been uprooted, enriched, and expanded by Nines' perspective.

What more could he possibly want?

Then came that one night spent together on surveillance. They'd been scoping out some low-life dealer: a notorious scumbag who had been running operations out of the back room of an underground nightclub. It was a particularly seedy establishment, turning out to be more 'brothel' than 'party spot.'

They had been forced to adjust their approach, cosying up to one another in an effort to assimilate with the handsy patrons. Not that Gavin was complaining—which, in itself, brought to light something extremely damning. The emergence of a serious problem, one that threatened to blow up his fragile state of composure with a fucking grenade. 

A particularly enlightening moment occurred—where Nines had him pinned to a wall, held firm by his wrists—when he realised it was too late. The problem was there. Had been for a while. Shaped into the contours of a chiselled jawline and a cool, bright stare he wanted to drown in.

"Keep still, detective. Eyes on me. I believe I have a visual." 

The request had been low, practically purred against his ear. It had sent his heart rate skyrocketing, blood rushing in frantic pumps through the lingering echoes of words still dancing in the canal. 

Oh fuck. 

After that, he couldn't keep convincing himself that he was content with friendship. He wanted more, wanted this, without having to pretend. Desperation drove him to the insane stunt he pulled seconds later. If it failed, he could always claim it was part of their 'performance.'

An excuse that wasn't needed.

Their lips had met, and after a fleeting blip of hesitation, Nines reciprocated. Practically melting into him, abandoning his wrists in order to capture the sides of his face. Like he was holding something valuable— worthy of care and reverence.

They'd lost their visual on the target, as well as any hope of catching up to their boss, but the impromptu trip to a motel had been worth the berating they received from Captain Fowler. 

It couldn't be overstated just how grateful Gavin was that Nines had chosen to give him a chance. To show acceptance despite everything he had put him through. 

Because even if he was better, nothing could change the foundational truths of the man he was. The innumerable faults that would continue to persist despite all best efforts. Recklessness, arrogance, and spite. Baggage that came wheeled on a dolly cart, stacked to the ceiling.

None of it mattered. 

The android took it all—willingly—and without any ultimatum. From the start, the only expectation had been that Gavin would do right by both of them by not fighting the way Nines made him feel.

And nothing had ever made him feel this way. The kind of unconditional devotion and adoration that seemed unique to them, as well as the simple comfort of being together. 

He owed Nines everything. The least he could do was offer some modicum of the same security. Especially now, when he seemed so vulnerable. 

"You know your skin deactivates every time you go into sleep mode, right?" 

The effort backfired horribly. 

If Nines hadn't already seemed willing to take up permanent residence in the bathroom, this declaration came close to cinching it. His eyes widened to near-comedic proportions, looking like they might careen from their sockets. "Excuse me?" 

Gavin, realising that this had decidedly not been the approach to take, acted quickly to rectify the mistake. "I'm kidding; I just thought it might make you feel better."

The android was seldom listening, making clear that the damage was done as he sidled closer to the bathroom. The exposed soles of his feet pressed against the linoleum, and Gavin's body howled, desperate for its overdue reunion with his porcelain throne.

"This is—just—I mean, you look—" 

"I am well aware of what I look like," Nines interjected. His already tense posture had grown increasingly stiff, as though his back was being supported by a cast iron rod, "and just how far this version of me must detract from your preferences."

The words struck hard—much more so than the previous blow. Any ensuing attempts at fumbled retorts were abandoned as he blinked, stunned into silence.

"The issue will be resolved, and once it has, you needn't concern yourself with my default appearance."

Wait. Hold up.

"Now, if you excuse me, I will wait in the bedroom."

Awareness unfolded, leaving him floored—thoroughly astonished at how Nines, the paragon of informed deduction, could have been so cataclysmically wrong when it sought to matter most. To be able to speak so matter-of-factly, with such a candid degree of confidence, about something that couldn't be further from the truth. 

His legs moved before his brain could catch up, placing him decisively into the path between his partner and their bedroom. 

"Don't you dare go storming off like you're some goddamn teenager," he hissed, in full awareness that his standing there wasn't actually stopping anyone. Nines could quite easily pick him up and fling him across the room like a frisbee, although he trusted him not to. 

"What else would you propose I do? Allow you to defecate in our kitchen because I refused to accommodate?" 

"You aren't even giving me time to think." The injustice of the situation was becoming more pronounced, flaring hot in Gavin's ribs. "You're just assuming the worst of me, acting like I'm gonna be a total dick about this." 

This proved enough to pierce through his partner's haze of contention. The sharpness in his eyes faded, giving way to a flicker of regret. His softened gaze then fell to the side, heavy with shame. "...That was not my intent. I'm sorry." 

"It's fine." 

Clearly, it wasn't. The tension between them persisted despite the conclusion to their argument. It was suffocating, and Gavin couldn't help but notice how, despite making no further attempts to physically flee, his partner was still trying to hide. Sinking into himself, hands wrapped in a tense bind across his chest. 

"...Nines." The name was gentle, settled on a pensive purse at the end of his lips. "Let me see you. Please."

The android didn't respond immediately, hesitation evident in every microscopic shift of his frame. Eventually, his arms slackened and fell back, revealing the expanse of exposed white torso. While still unsure of the idea, demonstrated in his continued refusal to look up, it was clear Nines was extending some form of invitation—one that Gavin accepted.

He traced his fingers carefully up the stretch of the android's chest. It was not made of a singular uniform piece as he had previously assumed, but rather, a complex network of small, interwoven panels. Segmented into varied shades of white and grey, connected by subtle welds.

As he delicately tested the marks with the heel of his palm, he noted how remarkably smooth they felt, blending seamlessly with the rest of the body.

Not everything beneath the chassis was covered, with pockets of plastic so thin they were practically translucent. It revealed a dense network of wires—vibrant blues shifting through the synthetic circulatory system, pumped in steady flows of biofluid. 

The liquid originated from the centre of his ribs, beneath a protrusion in the sternum. Something that pressed to the surface—formed in a subtle ring. It pulsed gently, and the longer he looked, the more he was able to detect rhythmic glows of light.  

Gavin whistled low, noting how the pace of the component increased when he placed a hand across it. Blue bled through his fingers, illuminating the veins and tendons beneath his skin. It seemed so calm and balanced compared to the uneven tempo of his own raging pulse. 

"I didn't think you'd be able to see so much…" he mused, voice low with admiration. "It's fucking incredible. You know that, right?" 

"I am a machine," Nines said bitterly—the word of contention spat with disdain, like a curse. "A collection of polymers and circuitry, designed and constructed together to perform a practical function. There is nothing remarkable about it."

"What you just described is a dishwasher. This is not a dishwasher; this is—" He scoffed in self-deprecation, realising just how unequipped he was to describe the gravity of what he was seeing. In the absence of any poise or delicacy, the man opted for honesty. "You're like some crazy modern artwork, a goddamn masterpiece." 

"Stop lying to me."

"I'm not. You'd be able to tell if I was, right?"

Nines had nothing to say to that. His mouth jutted open, a tumultuous train of thought evident in the shifting glow of his LED before it wordlessly snapped shut. 

"Look, even if you weren't objectively the coolest thing I've ever seen in my life, it still wouldn't matter."

The android still refused to look at him, posture locked painfully tight, but as Gavin traced a delicate finger around his regulator access panel, there was a hint of a shudder. Bristling through his shoulders, as the tension held there started to wane.

"I know you don't wanna hear this—because it doesn't fit into your tortured soul narrative—and honestly, there's no way to say without it sounding like something out of a shitty romcom—"

He was stalling for time and not effectively. This sort of sentiment wasn't his strong suit. It didn't come naturally, which Nines was aware of. Still, if there was ever a time to be nauseatingly, cavity-inducingly sweet, this was it:

"Truth is, I love you, and that's got absolutely jack shit to do with what you look like. It's because of what's on the inside, or whatever."

"You love me for my thirium pump regulator?" 

The finger stalled in motion. 

Gavin looked up to discover Nines was facing him, a mischievous grin tugging his lips. He glowered despondently and made a hasty attempt to retract his arm. "Shut up, you know what I meant."

The limb didn't get far, as Nines captured it by the wrist, keeping it anchored to his chest. "I did," he assured, caressing the skin, marking trails of bone and ligament with the end of his thumb. 

Until the languid motions slowed as synthetic muscles seized. An aftershock of the previous state of anxiety. It was such a minor slip in control that anyone else would have unlikely noticed. Gavin knew better—keenly able to detect the change. 

"This really doesn't bother you?", the android asked, accentuating the question with increased pressure against his carpus. 

"Does it bother you that I have a mole on my chest the size of a quarter? Or that you can do a dot-to-dot with my stab wounds?"

"Of course not. Why would that matter?" 

"Exactly." The man huffed, punctuating the point with an affectionate prod to the android's temple. "Come on, you're the one with the supercomputer brain; just think about it for a second."

Whatever equanimity his partner was still clinging to unravelled in an instant. He looked genuinely overwhelmed, struck by a tidal wave of emotion which he could barely seek to contain. The breaks showed fast, leaking through in small hitches of crackling breath. 

"Gavin, I—" He stopped as though desperately seeking to regain some degree of composure. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Don't be a moron." He ushered him forward, capturing the hand still wrapped around his wrist. "Come here." 

The android did not resist the embrace, sinking into it, as he enclosed the man with powerful limbs. Cradling the back of his head, digits toying with tousled brown strands.

"Sap," Gavin teased, although he revelled in their proximity just as much. Indulging greedily as he peppered kisses across a tempting expanse of shoulder. "You don't need to hide yourself from me. Ever. I'm here for you—and nothing else."

The charged sounds grew louder, like the rumble of a car engine, sending vibrations through Nines' throat. This was before he cupped his partner's chin and allowed the sound to escape through tightly pressed lips. 

He moved with the sort of fervent passion that might suggest he was scared Gavin would disappear—but really, spoke more to the gratitude of knowing he wouldn't. It was only as he had fully breached the cavern of his mouth, and their hips were beginning to rock in sequence that the android finally pulled away. 

Gavin was left mesmerised—and a little dazed—by the unexpected boldness. It didn't matter how often Nines did this or what other shows of licentious spontaneity happened to follow; he couldn't foresee a time when it wouldn't knock him off his feet. 

How was he supposed to ground himself when he was perpetually flung into Cloud Nine, reminded of just how lucky he was? 

"...Besides." He chuckled richly, the sound rolling into the part of tenuously divided lips. "Bald really isn't a bad look on you. It's kind of hot." 

The man could practically hear the tight flourish of his partner's eyes before he graciously conceded to the attempt at flirting. "Oh, really? Is that so?"  

With a hum of affirmation, Gavin leaned down, forming a seal on the junction between the android's shoulder and neck. "You ever wanna…you know…with the dome out. I'm game."

"Perhaps another time." Nines then returned a hand to the back of his scalp. Burrowing into the hair before resting a cheek softly against his temple. "Right now, I would like it if we could stay like this."

Gavin dutifully complied, removing his lips in favour of nestling against the collarbone. He savoured the gentle rush of warmth that radiated beneath the chassis. It felt like home, and his eyes slid closed, entirely at peace.

"Yeah, that sounds good to me." 

[lovedrruunk]

'Girl next door જ⁀➴♡ Chapter 1

In which Joel plays Cupid in order to help a hopeless Ellie win over the cute girl next door.

Series Masterlist!

prologue! - chapter 2!

"It's just Sugar"

w.c; 2.2k

[silly awkward Ellie Williams x fem reader!]

"'Morning" Ellie said slowly as she walked into the kitchen eyeing Joel suspiciously.

"What's with the face?"

There Joel stood behind the kitchen island wearing a pink and white polka dotted apron with ruffles that he had “borrowed” from Maria and never given back. In front of him was a bowl of yellow cupcake batter.

“You never bake. You’re like, terrible at it actually.” Ellie said as she lazily made her way behind the island. Standing to his side she reached out her hand in order to dip her finger into the batter. Putting it up to her lips she licked it off while grimacing.

“Ellie, that's disgusting." Joel said furrowing his brows at her.

"That's disgusting." She pointed back to bowl looking up at him. "How do you mess up cupcakes?" She says before walking away.

"Hope you get salmonella." He said teasingly rolling his eyes as she heads to the counter picking up an apple "Salmo- What? Never mind actually I don't care." She says biting into it chewing obnoxiously while she's at it. "Who are we trying to poison with your awful baking skills anyway?"

"Y/N."

Ellie chokes on her apple coughing aggressively before spitting it out. She looks up at him bewildered.

"Why are you baking cupcakes for Y/N?" She spews out quickly furrowing her brows at him, confusion written all over her freckled face.

"Technically it's for her old man, he got a promotion last week. Thought it'd be nice to bring something to celebrate." He smiles smugly to himself as he continues to stir the batter.

Ellie blinked. "You couldn't have just bought a cake like a normal person?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Joel shrugged. "Besides, it's the thought that counts."

"Yeah, well, your thoughts are gonna give everyone food poisoning," Ellie muttered, taking another bite of her apple.

Joel ignored her, focusing on pouring the batter into the cupcake tin. "By the way I'm outta sugar. Think you can head next door and ask Y/N for some?"

Ellie froze. "Are you serious? It's just sugar, you'll live. What do you need sugar for anyway? You're already done." The pitch of her voice rising the more she continues to complain, trying and failing to be nonchalant.

Joel looked at her, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "I need to make frosting. Unless you wanna use salt instead."

Ellie sighed throwing the apple core into the trash.

"Besides, I thought you two were friends? Like 'ya said It's just sugar." He continued.

Ellie rolling her eyes looking up at him. "We are! Or- were. But that's not the point... it's just-" She looks around the kitchen trying to think of the right word "stupid." She huffs as she crosses her arms.

"Oh wow you think she's stupid? Well that's not nice of you."

"You know what I meant!"

"Ellie," He said softly reassuring her "It's no big deal."

"Yea but-" She started, then stopped. She knew she was overreacting but how could she not. Ever since the day Joel had brought up the idea of you being a potential love interest for her it seemed like you had taken over her every thought. She stayed up some nights thinking back to her interactions with you, overanalyzing your every word probably just convincing herself of something that wasn't there. If he had asked her to fetch something from your house a week ago she would have done it without a second thought, but now it seemed impossible.

"You're just borrowing sugar Ellie. You'll live." He says with a happy look on his face handing her a measuring cup.

"I won't but okay." She rolled her eyes begrudgingly reaching her hand out to accept it, walking over to put on her shoes and jacket. "And don't say 'borrow' as if we're gonna give it back, that makes no sense. What you should be giving back is that god awful apron..."

"Heard that!"

As she stepped outside the morning air was chilly and the sun was just starting to warm up the street. Ellie’s mind raced with a jumble of thoughts. It wasn’t just about the sugar or Joel’s baking, it was about you. As she made her way down the stairs she thought back to when you were both kids. Her skipping over to your house for dinner with her own dish to share, some Frankenstein contraption of anything good she could find in the fridge. You had always said you loved her cooking but now being older and wiser she knew you were just saying that to be nice, but still, the memory of you appreciating whatever she brought over made her smile. She'd bet money that you would play the same part when Joel comes over to give your family his gross cupcakes. She almost felt bad about the whole thing... almost.

The walk to your house felt longer this time around. Was it just because she was walking extra slow out of fear of knocking on your door? Maybe, maybe not. I mean c'mon, knocking on a girls door to ask for sugar that should be lightwork for her. Afterall, Ellie had been through hell and back over the years, what's talking to you gonna do? Like Joel had said, she'd live.

Now standing in front of your front door she took a deep breath. A part of her wanted to just turn around and go back to Joel measuring cup empty or hell just go to the store and buy some cupcakes herself, but she knew if she went back to him sugarless she wouldn't be able to look him in the eye. With retreating being off the table she decided it was best to just get it over with, sucking it up, growing a pair, and locking the fuck in.

Reaching her hand out to knock on your door she chose to ignore the way it slightly trembled. Once, then twice, then thrice, then- 'fuck is knocking 3 times too much? i'm being annoying arn't i' Seconds felt like hours as she waited for anyone to open the door, when suddenly

"Ellie! Hey, what's up?"

Ellie stood there for a second blankly staring at you as you greeted her. You were in your pajamas, hair still messy from your nights rest and eyes a little puffy. The morning sun shined on you making you glow and she couldn't help but think looked really cute. 'which isn't weird at all because it's totally normal to be able to admit that someone is attractive without there being any meaning behind it!' After you two had fallen out she never really took the time to observe how you changed, but now face to face really looking at you she could see just how much you've grown. You no longer had the babyface you had in all her memories of you two together, you had grown into it, you looked perfect actually now that she had thought about it. Pretty. But not like pretty pretty like pretty, like she could stare at your face for hours without needing to blink pretty. It felt weird to suddenly recognize all these differences at once but she quickly snapped out of it. She forced a smile, hoping it didn't look as strained as it felt.

"Hey, uh, Joel's trying to bake, and he ran out of sugar. Can we borrow some?" She cringed heavily at herself the moment the words slipped out her mouth. 'Borrow? Really?'

"Borrow? Really? I'll be expecting you to give it back then." You chuckled lightly teasing her. Little did you know that one little sentence just ruined her entire year. Ellie face whitened as she Internally freaked out, she felt her face heat up and her palms sweat.

Ellie chuckled nervously, tightening her grip around the measuring cup in her hand. "Oh, sorry, no, uh, I'm not sure why I said 'borrow.' You're right, that makes no sense. I mean, how does one even 'borrow' sugar? Like, do we measure it out and give it back later? Or do we just...?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Ellie, relax. I was just messing with you. You don't have to return the sugar."

God how did she manage to make it even worse? "Oh, right. Yeah, of course. That makes way more sense. Sorry, I'm just... yeah." As she was forcing another smile she thought about Joel and how he was probably in the kitchen right now without a care in the world. She wished him the absolute worse in this moment, after all this was all his fault, him and his stupid cupcakes. In fact, she hates cupcakes now! He has officially ruined cupcakes for her and she made a promise to herself that she'd let him have it later... if she gets out of this alive.

You held the door open a bit wider. "You're welcome to come in. Here I'll take this from you." You smiled sweetly reaching out to take the measuring cup from her hands. You looked down at it once you felt how wet the handle was but you paid it no mind.

"Sure. Yeah, thanks." She muttered smiling softly as she followed you inside.

Once through the door she was hit with a wave of nostalgia. The familiar scent of your home, a mix of fresh flowers and something distinctly you, brought back a flood of memories. She looked around, noting that not much had changed. The same cozy furniture, old family photos on the walls, and the soft, inviting ambiance.

Ellie's eyes landed on a series of framed photos on a nearby shelf. She walked over, noticing one that showed you at around thirteen, smiling awkwardly holding up a peace sign. 'there's the face i remember', she thought with a smile.

You noticed her looking at the photos and came over, glancing at the one Ellie was staring at. "Ah, the awkward years," you said with a laugh, a painful expression on your face. "My mom insists on keeping those up for some reason, it's so embarrassing.."

Ellie chuckled, feeling a little more at ease. "It's not so bad. If it makes you feel any better I thought you were the coolest."

You grinned, nudging her playfully. "Get real." You said before walking over to the kitchen opening one of the top cabinets. "You were like the coolest of the cool. God I thought you were so badass Ellie." You laughed some more as you reminisced on your own memories with Ellie while on your tippy toes reaching for the sugar. To this day you'd never admit it but a part of you sensed a bit of pride for being Ellies first friend in Jackson. When her and Joel had first moved here she was like a breath of fresh air. Always knew what to say, always had some snarky comeback, she never took shit from anybody and she'd never know just how much she inspired you. Jackson seemed so quiet before she arrived, in the months you had been friends with her you seemed to have laughed more than you had in your entire life. She was like a firecracker but you had noticed that over the years she seemed to die out, just little enough for you to notice. It wasn't anything bad really, just what growing up does to people you guessed.

"That's because I was badass. But so were you." Ellie smiles, your confession of finding her 'badass' had made her a lot happier than she'd care to admit. She thought visiting you for the first time again would be awkward and insufferable just because of how you two had slowly fallen out, but talking to you again began to feel so casual. Ellie started to forget why she was worried in the first place.

"Ok well you weren't just badass, you were hilarious, smart, pretty, fun. Seriously El's, you were like everything."

There it was. Exactly what she was afraid of. Words from you that probably means nothing that will keep her up at night overthinking. You said it so casually, pouring sugar into the cup smiling. Ellie looked at you feeling her smile strain again. You were just being as sweet as always, no biggie.

"Thanks." In all honesty didn't know what else to say. She was flattered, of course she was, but she didn't know how exactly to take it so for now she chose to ignore it.

"Here you go," you said turning around walking towards her. You handed it to her with a smile. "Tell Joel I said good luck with the baking."

Accepting it she thanked you again as she let you walk her to the door. Stepping out she turned towards you again, "Oh, and congratulations on your dads promotion."

"Dads... promotion?"

The two of you stood there staring at each other blankly, progressively becoming more confused by the second.

"Uhh yea! Thank you Ellie! I'll see you around."

. . .

Walking through the front door Ellie let out a loud groan, wiggling out of her jacket before making her way to the kitchen setting the measuring cup on the kitchen island.

"Joel! I got your stupid sugar!" She yelled out for him.

Looking back to the island she noticed a note left for her.

took too long

went to the store to buy more sugar

be back in 20

-Joel : )

"Ugh."

. . .

Thanks 4 reading u all! Notes r appreciated! :3

authors note!!!! <33; SRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!! i got rlly insecure abt my writing tbh but then i realized like i dont have to be this serious writer using big words and crazy detailed descriptors with 12k word chapters ykwim? im a gay teenage girl so im gonna write like one! Dialogue is definitely my strong suit like ahh its so fun. be honest guys does the way i write bug u? is it too fast paced? cuz i feel like it is TELL ME!!!!!! ALSO ITLL START TO GET MORE ROMANTIC AND SILLY SOON I PROMISEE

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[slowlyoats]

The Lost Boys: What are their indulgences? 

Marko 

strawberry lip balm 

He absolutely despises having chapped lips 

If he’s not careful, during the winter he will end up with raw, chapped lips like an elementary schooler, from licking them to keep them moist

So how did the strawberry lip balm come into play?

He has Paul to thank 

One cold winter evening Marko’s lips were bright red and raw, and Paul of course couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself and pointed out that Marko looked like a clown.

He went on all night coming up with what Marko’s “clown name” should be! 

While Paul was bouncing around the cave shouting out clown names like a maniac, he came across a tin of strawberry chapstick that must have fallen out of the pocket of one of their victims 

He promptly CHUCKED the Tin at Marlo’s face and shouted “here! Problem solved bingo the clown!” 

After Marko chased Paul around the cave for a good hour, and David screamed at them to cut it out, Marko tried the lip balm, and the rest is history 

He will only use strawberry, and he doesn’t give a crap what the boys have to say about it because his lips don’t feel like they are going to peel off anymore

unfortunately that brand of lip balm was discontinued for containing lead about 10 years ago, so Marko has had to expand his lip balm horizons 

Paul 

Bracelets 

The boy looks like he belongs in a Christian rock band 

He would wear bracelets up to his elbows if he could!

One of his favorite past times on the boardwalk (besides looking for dinner) is looking through all the vender stalls for new bracelets

This is actually how they met Star! 

She was selling jewelry she made in a stall, and Paul swiped a bracelet from her 

She of course chased after him for it!

She somehow managed to tackle him to the ground 

Paul of course made some cheeky comment about being pinned to the ground 

While Star was distracted by the comment, Paul managed to swipe another bracelet from her wrist 

Paul fanned a fake apology and gave her the original stolen bracelet back 

Star didn’t realize she was missing a bracelet from her person till way later that night 

Dwayne 

cherry coke 

And not the crap that’s in a bottle that you get from a convenience store 

No. He’s talking the stuff you get at a soda shop where they make them to order and mix the syrups and tonics together by hand

Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of places like this around anymore in the US

Fortunately for him though there is one place on the Boardwalk that sells them 

The candy store on the Boardwalk opened sometime in the 30s, and still has its original soda counter with its resident soda jerk.

The soda jerk is an old timer that’s been working there since he was 14. 

He knows Dwayne’s order without even asking and prepares it for him once he walks in the typically, very, crowded door

Dwayne usually takes his cherry coke to go, since he’s well aware of how people perceive him and the boys and doesn’t want to drive the owner's customers away

David 

petting dogs 

(I know I know this one is weird but hear me out!)

David is viewed as the tough, scary leader of the lost boys, and he’s not complaining about that. In fact, he LOVES seeing the fear in people's eyes when him and his boy's role in every night on their bikes. 

But, when he sees a chonky, Basest Hound wobble its way down the Boardwalk with its human, the man cannot resist giving that good boy or girl a nice pet on the head 

Doing this is tricky though, since most people (especially the locals) take one look at him and cross to the other side of the street 

And, not to mention dogs can sense vampires and identify them as predators pretty quickly 

So, he has to be tactful 

He waits till the owner is distracted, and the boys are definitely NOT AROUND (he has a reputation to uphold!) and sneaks over and gives that dog some nice pets 

Or if the dog is off lease, he will lure the dog over to him with a hot dog he found on the ground or trash 

This of course is if the dog will even go near him. Like I said before dogs can sense that there is something UP with the boys and tend to keep their distance, and, or will bare their teeth to protect themselves and their owner 

I think David’s love for dogs comes from when he was a child

He grew up in a family that bread dogs for extra cash, and he misses being able to sleep in a dog pile every night like he did when he was a child 

*Cough cough* which is why the boy's sleeping arrangements is the way it is. 

[maiiuelle]

wait so in the mermaid!reader thing rafe's gotta be a dredger or something who's looking for stuff to sell which happens to be around her cove !! but she keeps bringing him little trinkets she thinks are valuable but he's just like— why's there a tin can on my ship deck? and she's all smiley underwater knowing that she in fact did that !!

-🪻

omg i’m so so invested in rafe and mermaid!reader’s relationship 🥺 i love the idea of him being going out in search of valuables, maybe ward sent him on the yacht to go check out different areas of the island in hopes of finding some kind of treasure, or at least some clues. of course mer is intrigued. jj was very nice, so maybe this guy will be too!

rafe is out on his yacht, grumbling in frustration about the seemingly meaningless errand his father sent him on. little does he know the treasure he’s stumbled upon, a whole civilization of mermaids living just beneath where he’s stopped. the cliffs at the side of the island hide a cove with an air pocket, the perfect place for mermaids to live in secret from the island dwellers. theres a crack in the stone at the sea floor, just big enough for merfolk to slip in and out of to access the city.

that’s where you just came from, leaving civilization to explore the depths on your own like you do every day. the shadow of his boat catches you off guard, having never seen humans venturing this close to your home. your instinct is to be afraid — who knows who this person could be, or what they could be looking for. you physically shake the thought from your head, deciding that your fear is only a byproduct of the stories you’ve been told. you’re on your own mission to prove humans and mermaids can coexist, and confronting your fear is only the first step.

and with that, you’re picking through the soft sand to find shells, old tin cans, jewelry, and other knickknacks. it’s what you do best, searching around the ocean almosy daily for collectibles you can find in shipwrecks and reefs. you’re all about good first impressions, and who doesn’t like a gift? once the net bag at your side is filled with goodies, you look up at the bottom of the yacht again, giddy with excitement to make a new friend.

on deck, rafe is getting ready to pull up the anchor, sick of looking around for who-knows-what. as he’s reeling it up from the ocean floor, he hears a thump on the opposite side of the deck. he’s quick, his head snapping in the direction of the sound. logically, he knows nobody could be there. but, he still barks out an intimidating, “hello?”

he leaves the anchor and stomps around the deck toward the source of the noise, and he catches only a glimpse of small hands holding onto the side of the boat before they descend back under the water, leaving only a pile of trash and metal sitting on the wooden deck.

rafe runs to the edge of the boat, searching the water for any sign of an explanation for what he just saw. he can only watch the water slowly churn, like a big fish had just passed by beneath the surface. for once, rafe is stunned. the self-proclaimed man of action is frozen, and so shaken he calls it a day.

[sp0-t]

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋

PoliceForce!141 x VictimsPartner!Reader

warnings - murder(er), descriptions of a crime scene, blood, not really gore, loss of a loved one.

summary - the investigation of an arising serial killer has every civilian on their toes, however it has a whole police precinct in even more of an erratic frenzy. The police force assigned to the job get the call that yet another body has been found, most likely another victim of the recent killer. The body count is high, but the tensions are even higher…

💿 (a/n) - it’s finally here!! Long awaited first post of this most likely very long ongoing series. The reader doesn’t really come out in this part but bear with me they will be out in the next! I hope you will stick around for future parts and other works in general. If you’re new to my page or this story in general, Hi! Welcome! If you’ve been following along with my updates and my page, thank you for sticking around! And I look forward to seeing you! Most importantly I hope you all enjoy and stick around some more!

prologue/ ➤ part one / part ???

2… 3… 5… 8…? How many would you leave this time, you didn’t know. You were on 10 now, how many did it take till you got bored of this one too? This one wasn’t as fun, this one didn’t put up a fight, this one took all the fun out of it. It was too easy honestly, it made you bored, easily. You stopped yourself at 23, sighing as you stood up.

You walked over to the trash can lazily taking off your gloves, making sure to engulf the knife in both gloves before begrudgingly tossing it into the tiny metal tin trash can. The metal bang rang through the small office space as you walked to the door. You pull out a cloth from your pocket before turning the doorknob and heading out the door.

“What was his name again?”

The sound of stretching as he pulls the blue latex gloves over his hands quickly dissipates while approaching the house's front door.

“Darren Boyle, he’s some rich big-time director of a construction company.”

“…Is there a reason you’re telling me this man’s finances?”

“Yeah, actually…”

The EMT halts her walking and hands the report to him

��Nothing was taken from the home, no money, no belongings, nothing.”

He takes the report and looks it over.

“Yet he still has 23 knife wounds all over his body”

The walk to the office space was short and brief, with multiple people at the crime scene, and multiple things happening all at once. The flash of the camera, the sound of plastic evidence bags, and the smell… that smell, that concoction of iron and decay that permanently scars the nose with its presence alone.

The rest of the force was already present at the scene littered around, each doing different tasks.

Officer Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, is probably the smartest in the entire county. From someone who started as a mere medical student, that ended up not being able to bear the weight of being the cause of a lost human life, went to become someone who brought “life” and justice to the lost and their families. He is the forensics specialist of the team, offering his smarts and intuition to the force. Gaz can pronounce the cause of death by a simple examination of the body, as well as match DNA evidence to a perpetrator, blood, fingerprints, spit, etc.

Officer Johnny “Soap” McTavish, investigator as well as one of the best interrogators, right behind Officer Riley. Soap used to be a big-time private investigator sometimes, often, closing cases faster than the police department itself. This eventually led to the police department trying to recruit, and find, Soap to their forces for his high investigator talent, which landed him with the force, after a very eventful high-speed chase…

Officer Simon “Ghost” Riley, aka. death reincarnated. Was discovered from his time as a mercenary, and would finish any job no matter the morals or ethics involved. The blood from his past haunted him, when he retired from his brutal position, he discovered his now-current sheriff. Who heard his story and convinced Ghost to come out of his early retirement and become a detective. Ghost took this offensively at first, seeing the offered position as some type of “downgrade”. He ended up convinced into the position and is now one of the most well-known detectives in the nation.

That leaves the sheriff…

“Sheriff Price. It’s been a while, although I’d prefer if we didn’t have to meet under these circumstances.”

“Laswell, always good to see a familiar face. Although I'd have to agree, these circumstances aren't exactly.. ideal.”

“A killer in your part of the city. A serial.. killer.”

She says the last part while narrowing her eyes behind her shoulder at the now dead body

“So”

She says with her head still facing the body

“Whats your plan.”

It wasn’t a question.. it was a demand

She turns her head, her frustrated look now landing on the sheriff.

“To catch this prick.”

They both made heavy eye contact with each other. Trying to square up the other with their looks alone, the tension rising. that is until they are interrupted

“Sheriff! You have to see this.”

A shout from Gaz, across the home office. Price’s attention immediately being stripped away from Laswell and reattaching to his officer

Gaz stands from his crouched position near the victim’s desk, the Sheriff joining his side to glance at what he had found. In Gaz’s hands was a piece of paper, one that had been splattered in blood, It wasn’t just paper, it was a note.

… a note for the Sheriff

written by: @sp0-t ©️

[tayraedoll]

Drag Me to Hell

You purchase an old radio at an antique store that turns out to be haunted as fuck. Will you successfully banish the demon back to hell before he can take you with him? Just to be safe MDNI 18+ Only!

So I meant to write this as a one-shot but it quickly got away from me so now it is a full, multi-chapter fic. What can I say? I have lost all control of my life...

TW: Horror, Alastor is his own warning, blood, gore, swearing, crude and dark humor, hallucinations, reader is not an exorcist expert- don't try this at home, more tags to be added as the story progresses.

Part 2

"Do we really have to go in?", you whine to your best friend Kate, scrunching your nose in disgust at the literal shack with a rusty, old "Antiques" sign.

Kate giggles at your antics,"Oh come on; it'll be fun! Who knows what treasures we might find?" She grabs your arm and pulls you through the door behind her; the little bell atop the door chimes merrily to signal your entrance. You look around, as far as you were concerned there was junk piled high in every direction. Taking stock of the room you were in you notice old Coke bottles, cigar boxes, a china cabinet filled with those creepy ass 'Precious Moments' figurines, and a shit ton of clothes that were even too outdated for your grandmother to wear.

"You're counting literal trash as treasure now? That explains your dating history", you deadpan at your friend.

"Bitch I said we MIGHT find treasure! But you gotta dig through the dirt to reach it first", Kate rolls her eyes at you but smiles at your jab. Gentle bullying was just how you showed each other your love. She walks further into the store, perusing through all the trinkets on the shelves. You follow after her, trying your best to not make eye contact with those Precious Moments dolls whose eyes seemed to follow you as you pass by.

You enter an adjacent room, this one filled with tin cooking instruments in varying degrees of disrepair. A portly, older gentleman with greying hair sat behind a register with a large tabby cat on the table. The cat lets out a loud yowl at the pair of you but the man says nothing as he watches you carefully in case you try to steal anything. 'What in here is even worth stealing?' you think to yourself. You smile at him politely and quickly move onto the next room, this one filled with old toys...yikes.

"So how do you know when you find "treasure?", you ask, using your fingers to put air quotations around the word treasure. Kate picks up a particularly disturbing looking baby doll and wiggles it in front of your face.

"When you find something you just can't leave without!", she laughs as you flinch back, glaring at her- you had told her your hatred of dolls in good faith and here she was using that information against you. She places the demonic toy back on the shelf and you give it another glare for good measure- not today Annabelle.

The next area was only slightly less disturbing; it looked like a middle-aged housewife was allowed to decorate it with all the "Live, Laugh, Love" and "Wine a Little, Laugh A Lot" signs all around. "Jesus Fucking Christ does this place never end?! It didn't look this big from outside!", you exclaim in exasperation. Kate carded through a stack of pictures and paintings.

"Perhaps if you actually looked for something that strikes your fancy you'd have a better time", she absentmindedly replied. You sigh but raise your hands in surrender, she had a point there. You make your way to the back, knowing nothing in this basic Karen of a room was going to please you.

When you reach the next room your eyes light up,"A ha! Now this room is interesting!", you call back to Kate. It was a music-themed room full of old records, CD's, posters, and stereos. As a music major in college you felt your heart soar at the sight of all the little pieces of music history surrounding you. You immediately dig into the records, wondering if you could find something new for your collection that was in decent shape. Maybe it was old school of you, but nothing beat the crisp sound of a record; records made you feel like the music was surrounding you, like you could see and taste the notes making it a full-body sensory experience.

Kate joins you, letting out a curt laugh,"I should have guessed it would be a music room." Your frown slightly as you reach the end of the records without finding anything of note for your collection. You sigh heavily at the disappointment that fills your chest.

"Too bad this room turned out to be a du-", you trail off as you catch sight of it. On the top shelf at the far end of the room sat an ornate, antique radio. It was cathedral-shaped, made of a dark- almost black- wood, the face painted a bright crimson. The speakers resembled a throne and below the control panel were large, yellow slices that resembled flames...or a very creepy smile. You gently plucked the fragile-looking radio from the shelf; it was a lot sturdier than it looked, feeling pretty hefty in your hands. You turn it around in your hands, it appeared to be battery-powered like most radios were prior to the 1930's. You wondered if it would work today.

"Find something interesting?", Kate asked beside you. She made a face at the old radio, "No offense but that thing is creepy AF!"

"It is no creepier than that doll earlier!", you defend your unique find. "I think I'll purchase it", you state with finality and make your way back to the front. The old man speaks little more than just to tell you your total cost, the cat joining him as they stare at you distrustfully. 'Jeez, cranky old coot', you think.

Back at your home you tinker around with the radio, polishing it up a bit and adding some new batteries. Your home was small, just a 1-bedroom and bathroom place that you were renting on the outskirts of New Orleans. You decorated modestly, a bookshelf with your favorite novels and records took up an entire wall of your small living room. The TV was small and pushed into a corner, you really only used it for background noise most days. You had one small but comfortable couch that you mostly used to work on. You were a writer for OffBeat, New Orleans' local music magazine. It was a great gig that let you work from home, even if you weren't compensated the best being a new writer on the team. You spent most of your days writing about Jazz and The Blues, local concerts and events coming up, and interviewing rising artists.

You placed the radio up on top of your bookshelf, you'd try to get it to work tomorrow. As you were pushing it back onto the shelf you felt a sharp sting in your finger, "Ah! Fuck!", you exclaim as you quickly pull your finger back. You inspect it, finding a drop of blood leaking out of your skin; you must have accidentally cut yourself on one of the yellow ornamental parts. You raise your bleeding finger to your lips and gently suck the small wound to soothe it. Sparing one last glance up to the radio, you turn off the light and head to bed.

Completely missing how the smile of the radio that just bit into you started to eerily glow in the dark after you.

[munson-blurbs]

Hurt People

This is just me giving an accurate depiction of what would most likely happen if Eddie Munson was real and went to high school with me. I’m sad tonight.

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, angst, insults, bullying

WC: 718

—

You don’t know how you didn’t see it coming. Maybe it’s because he’s Eddie, the boy—young man, really—thrust into the fringes of society because of his affinity for metal music and fantasy games. Maybe it’s because you’d assumed outcasts, loners, losers, looked out for one another. Or maybe you were just delusional, rose-colored glasses shielding you from what you couldn’t, wouldn’t see.

You and Eddie don’t have any classes together, with you electing to take honors classes and him struggling with introductory courses. You’d never judged him for it, never thought less of him because of it; some people’s talents lay outside of academia. Rumor has it that he’s a decent guitar player, though your parents’ strict rules forbid you from checking out a gig. Truly, you don’t know much about him except that he’s on his third round of senior year and, in your opinion, is the cutest guy at Hawkins High.

The opportunity to befriend him presents itself in the unassuming form of Honor Society volunteer hours. Mrs. O’Donnell needs someone to tutor Eddie in chemistry so she can get him the hell out of her class, and you eagerly offer to be his teacher. Quiet afternoons together in the library might lead to secrets whispered, kisses shared…

The first tutoring session is…fine. Eddie’s completely disinterested in the material, which is to be expected. You keep drawing his attention back to the lab report he’s supposed to be writing, trying to maintain your composure as your patience wears thin.

When he’s barely accomplished anything at the end of the hour, you tell him to meet you back in the study room tomorrow after school.

“You need to hand this in on time,” you say softly but firmly. “Don’t wanna lose points for late work.”

He grumbles as he grabs his tin lunchbox and carelessly shoves the lab report into his backpack, not even saying goodbye.

The next day, you muster up the courage to approach his lunch table. You’ve got your old chemistry study guides clenched in your fists; the idea is to offer them to him so he doesn’t have to reference his own scribbled notes for his upcoming quiz. Just a casual, “hey, I figured you could use these.” Yeah, that could work.

You’re ten feet away when you hear his boisterous laugh. “Oh, and get this,” he’s saying to his friends, “she wants me to study again with her today! Like yesterday wasn’t bad enough.”

“Dude,” one of his buddies chuckles, sympathetically shaking his head and clapping his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, “it’s just your luck that the one girl crushing on you happens to be the ugliest girl in the school.”

Your blood runs cold, nerves buzzing in anticipation of Eddie’s response. Surely he’ll tell the guy that he’s gone too far, that poking fun at your appearance is uncalled for.

But Eddie just gives him the finger and replies, “tell me about it. And now I gotta sit there while she makes heart-eyes at me, unless I wanna face O’Donnell’s wrath. Again.”

Tell me about it. Tell me about it. Tell me about it.

There’s no defending you, no sense of irritation with his friend’s statement. It’s pure, unfiltered agreement.

You’re the ugliest girl in school, and even Eddie Munson thinks so.

Tears blur your vision as you make a beeline out of the cafeteria, dumping your papers in the nearest trash can. You’re sorry you wasted your precious time digging them up. Humiliation seeps into your skin. It doesn’t matter if no one else heard him, because you did. And the information isn’t novel to you—you’re not Chrissy Cunningham or Nancy Wheeler, not by a longshot. No, you’re embarrassed because you’d deluded yourself into thinking that Eddie could see you in a way that others didn’t, in a way that you simply couldn’t.

A large part of you hoped that Eddie would see your status as a fellow freak and applaud you for it, welcome you into his group, take you under his wing. That seems like a pipe dream now.

It’s like that old cliche: hurt people hurt people. Maybe if you were bravier—bitchier, even—you’d hurt him back. But for now, you’re too tired from dragging around the burden of your existence.

Hurt will have to wait another day.

—

[bolithesenate]

Blorbo timetravel and/or Dooku takes over the agricorps 👀

hehehehe

yeah, blorbo timetravel is exactly what it says on the can

all the blorbos randomly wake up in their padawan bodies (theres some attempted murder on Jo's side and some snarkyness on Sy's -- as well as genral mopyness from dooku)

“On a scale of one to ten,” Jocasta was visibly struggling to hold the – much too big and heavy for her current form – saber aloft, “How murderous towards Jedi are you feeling right now?” Yan blinked. “Uh,” he squeaked out, “Three?” “Wrong answer!” She lifted the saber even higher, ready to strike him down. “What even is the right answer?!,” the Jedi-turned-Sith-turned-Initiate wailed as he stumbled back out of range of her rather uncoordinated slashes. “Not karking three!” Her young voice was full of age-inappropriate vitriol as she immediately took chase, slashing up several mattresses and a goodly portion of the wooden tiles on the floor in the process. Yan was busy evading her, though not busy enough to shut the kark up. “What do you want from me, woman?! Should I have said more? Is that what you want?!?”

Jocasta let out an incoherent scream of outrage. “Actually,” Sifo from his bean bag in the farthest corner from their little two-man guerilla war said, “I think the correct amount she was looking for would be zero. If you truly were wondering.” “That’s not even on the scale!,” the immediate protest came – because of course it did. Far be it from Yan to just accept something. Sifo sighed.

they then decide that the only valid way to deal with all those feelings is to take over serenno (for plot reasons, you know how it is) and because they need more people they also kidnap Arath and Lorian with them

it then becomes a wonderful story about how the ideal count of serenno is five jedi padawans in a coat.

and also about how Arath's innate head-exploding powers (that are legends canon) (at least to me) can and will save the galaxy

and dooku takes over the agricorps is...

well, also what it says on the tin. i really like to give straight-forward wip titles. most of the time.

the thing that gets dooku to leave the order is not a message about how bad serenno is doing, but a message on how bad the agricorps is doing

and that simply cannot be permitted to continue

cue him using his resting bitch face powers and also all the embezzled tax money he's stealing from Ramil for good :3

featuring, how else could it be, a dear OC of mine: Sisviker Ninedi, the most harrowed spokesperoson of the agricorps

Dooku observed Corpsmember Ninedi with rapt attention.

So far he had realized three major things about the young theelin.

One, they were absolutely overworked and were lucky to be able to rely on the Force to supplement where sleep and nerves lacked - otherwise they would probably be nothing more than a wandling stress-ulcer. Her for her species unusually dull skin and pale hair hinted on a chronic lack of sleep and essential nutrients. That wouldn't do. Definitely something he'd have to monitor. Two, they were, even with all the stones life tossed onto her path, an incredibly efficient worker. From what he'd seen from her previous track record, Ninedi had always managed, through a very balanced combination between licking the right boots and firmly defending her point when needed, to ensure that the AgriCorps at least didn't suffer any losses with the deals she cut. With the right guidance and a proper sleep schedule Dooku was sure they'd make a formidable spokesperson for the Corps. And three, that she and Rael were never, under any circumstances, to be allowed to meet, lest they wanted to seal the destruction of the Republic in a giant glittery trash fire.

[happypotato48]

Century of Love EP 5-6 Unhinged Tangent Thoughts

Get your tin foil hats and clown makeups ready besties, cause this circus is about to get messy. hold on to your butts and let's gooooo!

Least surprising "reveal" in history of TV. everybody saw this coming and thank god the show didn't make a big deal out of it.

Oh hi ironfist you better serve some cunty action tonight.

Ok now this is what i wanted thank you mr. stunt man. sorry daou you're good but not this good.

*No dirty thoughts, dirty thoughts*

this bitch been reward with a caring man after a misdemeanor attempted. Nu Wu really says be gay do crime huh.

I'm not going gaga over this man cause i'm a new blood bl watcher so this is my first time with this actor but dang, this man in doctor coat is doing it for me.

San you nerd you need to move on from this one moment in your live already, not adding shits to it.

We stan this unbothered king. i'm a sucker for jealousy because i'm trash like that. but seriously i loved that the show made Wee reacted to all of it with 'meh'.

Hey, stalking is one from of family bonding.

The title of the book is ฟ้าลิขิต Fahlikit (Fah = heaven, likit = script) so yeah it's means fate/destiny but written by heaven is thematically more fitting.

Yeah someone with no memory of and lives different than whose ever soul they inherited is by every mean a different person.

I'm trash so this is doing so much to me idc how nonvalid or toxic this stance is. i'm all for it.

A bit on the nose but fuck it this is a BL, who careeee!

And now to EP 6.

เล่นหูเล่นตาไม่ดูอายุตัวเองเลยนะอากง.

Homophobic grandpapa has evolved into พระเอก BL grandpapa. good for him.

Don't worry gramp. kids these days are kinda into that.

As a person whose rode his first rollercoaster two months ago and felt almost nothing. i can say that i'm a certified badass or idk maybe i'm dead inside :P

Look i know a lot of people don't like love triangle but as resident garbage gobbler. having two men fighting over me is my ultimate fantasy.

This man really go from ew no homo to give me that booty in 5 seconds huh. i liked it, he's too old to be muddling for too long.

Big applause to the costume department. cause whose ever put daou in that deserve a raise.

งานเต้นรำในคืนพระจันทร์เต็มดวง! this show really coming for my gay heart.

Someone call the ambulance this scene gonna give me a หัวใจ Y. OMG this short and the side and full boobies are everything! i can't.

It's the noses thing, i love the noses thing!

Go make some new memories and stop try to relive your old life old man.

Welcome to this century mr. late boomer bisexual.

One thoery down, i don't think grandma here is Wad reincarnated.

Her smile is kinda creepy anyone noticed that or it is just me :P anyways DRAMA!!!

This BL lakorn contuning to be excellence and i'm all in team Wee is not Wad gang. cause thematically feels more satisfied to me but in the end idc who is who. i just want to see the drama and angst unfold in the most spectacular and i have faith that this show will delivered.

[shoshiwrites]

I shall join you in the trash can my dear. For Jo & Bucky from the NSFW prompts (because I am unhinged about this):

[ UNZIP ] sender unzips/unbuttons receiver’s dress/shirt - s l o w l y 🫠

Emaaaaa! Thank you so much for this prompt, and for entertaining my Jo/Bucky ramblings at any time of day. It means so much that you're in the trash can with me on board. This was......... supposed to be a smut prompt and we ended up with............3200 words of Scenes I Really Needed To Write For Them Actually, comma mildly spicy 🙈 Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC. Also on Ao3!

leading with my heart again

She’s read the same page three times.

The coffee’s drained, and the cup of tea, and maybe she ought to stop now, now that her hand is shaking a bit holding the pencil, from the caffeine or everything she hardly knows. 

A hotel bar with a hole in it. When she blinks she can still see the smoke. A few stragglers at the end of the night. Even though the nights don’t end here, they haven’t for years. Local drinkers. Society usuals. A handful of correspondents. Al Stern, a friend of Marian’s. She’d broken out a fresh bottle of gin in his honor. Blanche Aurand, narrowly escaped from Marseilles, her photographer friend. Salim? Jo’s met them all. 

You’re scared, she wants to say. Like it’s not her own self sitting here, the ticking of the clock and the tap of her foot, her toes in her shoes. She reaches up to fidget with the tiny gold hoop in her ear.

The bar is gone now, and so are they.

She hasn’t heard much by way of Thorpe Abbotts lately. She’s trying not to let that bother her. 

If Kay were here, she'd tell her to sit up straight and quit looking like a gargoyle. If-

“Thought I’d find you here.”

His voice is a momentary shock, and still familiar, like a sun-drenched room. He leans against the bar, nods at the man polishing glasses to let him know about an order — the bartender who looks too similar to the last. If she closes her eyes, she sees a white jacket covered in brick-dust, or blood. 

She smells the major’s aftershave, through the smoke of the bar and the bitter coffee. 

He dips his head, an explanation to what she imagines is her still-bewildered face. “Rang your office.”

She really does try to sit up straight, now. Suddenly ashamed, or something like it, of herself next to his freshly-cleaned uniform. Her slacks with a broken crease, a blouse with a wrinkle or two. Her hair’s a mess, or feels like it. “Oh.”

She blinks again, sees that he’s holding a metal tin in his hand — barley sweets, nestled in waxed paper — and a small bunch of torn green stems attached to white-petaled flowers. 

“No cherry,” he says. He looks fondly annoyed, almost. “I told them a few packs of smokes oughta change their tune, but I think they were really out.” 

He surveys the space in front of her, the rings of coffee and the scattered pages and the folded newspaper, the front splash of the dead. Her people, his people, their people. Everyone belonging to someone. She hears him clear his throat. Like he already knows the answer to the question, the one he doesn’t ask. Did you know them? Yes. 

The barkeep’s looking at the two of them expectantly. “What can I get for you?”

She replaces the cup on its saucer, places the little spoon next to it and slides the whole operation towards him. “I’m alright, thanks, Louie.”

The major orders a whiskey, doesn’t let her put it on her tab. He’s not too insulted about it though, he knows her. The question’s silent again, when he’s got his glass, the nod of his chin. Who’re we drinking to tonight?

But she knows now, she knows you don’t ask. His eyes are dark here, in the fading light. The mask-marks, the circles under his eyes. The stray curl always out of place.

“So,” he says, gathering himself, setting the glass back on the bar with a dull thud. “How much time do you need?”

“Time?”

“To get all…” he gestures with his hand. “Unless you’d rather we sit around here all night.”

She taps her fingers on the bar, watches her watch and chain catch the light. Looks up at Major Egan standing there, wondering just how much Kay will kill her if she walks back out of this hotel in a plain black dress. “Depends if you like a girl’s hair with only a few knots or none.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “I hope Kay won’t be too sore about me whisking you away.”

A remark about Captain Demarco takes shape on her tongue, but she swallows it. “Make it twenty, but I’ll be quick.” 

Upstairs, she does what she can with her curls, washes her face and tries to shape her brows, reapplies her lipstick. The deep cherry color is hardly forgiving, and she has to concentrate to be careful enough with the lines of her cupid’s bow. For a brief moment she thinks of it smudged, on her teeth, on his mouth.

The dress she’d brought over is indeed black, cocktail-length, collared, with a little piped pocket, a bit of detailing. Maybe it’s a little dated, she’ll acknowledge that, but she’s tried to keep it tailored to the current style, fitted, hemmed shorter. Kay would try to send her out in something bright, rose-colored or teal, never mind that it’s October in London. She admires Kay’s boldness. Loves it, in fact, but it’s not for her. 

The bracelet stays, the watch, her earrings, her mother’s medallion beneath the collar of the dress. Heels with thin ties wrapped ‘round her ankles, and her coat. 

Hastily, she’d put the flowers in an empty bottle of Fernet-Branca, figuring Kay wouldn’t mind. He’d had less of an explanation for them than the tin of sweets, something about passing them on his way, something like a boyish smile.  Just as quickly she plucks one, laces it into the back of her updo. It’s already been cut, anyway. She wonders where he’d got them, wonders if she’ll ask. She remembers the florist down the street from her apartment in Philadelphia, the spring flowers outside Pittsburgh. She can’t see it, but he will, standing above her. 

Back down in the lobby, the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder at the low armchair, the last of his drink still in front of him. 

“Now, aren’t you a sight.” It’s not the same voice as usual — quieter. Like he’s drinking her in, like the whiskey at the bottom of the glass. “Too pretty to be out with me, that’s for damn sure.”  

She smiles, and she doesn’t even have to try, sure that her cheeks are a little pink. “Kay won’t be sore about me leaving, but she might have my head about this dress.”

He looks truly confused. “Why?”

Her hand gestures without thinking at the simple sweep of the skirt; she’s suddenly very aware of her legs. “Too boring.”

He makes a face. “Hell with that.” A small sniff, as he reconsiders. “Sorry.”

For the first time, she laughs. “I won’t tell her you said that.”

“Tell her whatever you want, you still look too good to be true.”

Now she’s really blushing. “A sight for sore eyes, huh?” The pendant rests in the dip of her collarbone, beneath the neckline of her dress. She feels it, feels the clasp at the back of her neck and the chain. 

“You don’t know the half of it.” He stands, taking the glass, polishes the last sip of his drink.

She lets herself put a hand on his jacket. “Let me buy your next one?”

He reaches for her hand, for her wrist under the sleeve of her coat. “Now, I’ll have no more of that talk, Josephine.” 

The streets are dark outside, an excuse to stay close to him. A door materializes, a small place with small tables, glowing candles and bottles of liquor and wine. It’s all very respectable, the twirl they take around the floor, and then the next, his hands at her waist, hers up around his neck. A bead of sweat works its way down the back of her neck, between her shoulderblades. He dips his head to ask if she’d like to sit, his temple damp and tacky before her mouth, in the warm room. They do, after another dance, sit and watch the couples sway from a table on the side, listen to the jukebox. I need no soft lights to enchant me- 

She lets him buy her one drink, and then two, the dark rum color catching the candlelight at the bottom of the glass. She doesn’t feel under watch here like she does at the base. Though, there’d been plenty of moments there that maybe they shouldn’t have been allowed. They. She doesn’t know what that means, here in this war. You dance one night and find an empty space the next. Or someone else. His ankle nestles against hers under the table. She wants to kiss him.

What’s stopping her?

His eyes are so blue, and she knows she’s staring. “Got something for you. If- if you want it.” It snaps her out of it a moment, her brow furrowing as he reaches into his pocket. A small gold pin in his palm, the Air Corps insignia. The kind he wears on his collar. “Since I made off with that scarf of yours.”  

The white one, he means, with flowers and Swiss dots. She’d worn it up. He’d taken it as a joke afterwards, smiling, a crack about it being prettier than the one he’d got, but not as pretty as Major Cleven’s. Buck’s. A joke, or so she’d thought. Her mistake to think a pilot’s lucky charms weren’t the most deadly serious things of all. She knows, now. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to think he meant it. 

She could wear it, here in London. His pin. A person would know she had someone. Someone. She doesn’t know how to explain him, for all her words. Brave, like all of them. Brave and funny and flirting, the fiery death or the pretty girl. A heart she wants to curl up inside of. And he’s here in front of her, fidgeting, waiting for her to say something. Here, hands and shoulders and knees. It hurts to think of anything else. She would know who she had.

“See,” she says softly, meeting his eyes. She feels like a schoolgirl, watching him. “Knew what I was doing, wearing black and gold.” She reaches to touch his palm, about to take it and pin it on. He moves to do it himself, leaning forward. She shivers, the touch of his fingers at her throat, under the collar of her dress.

If you would only grant me the right-To hold you ever so tight-

Maybe it’s the light, or the drinks, or the music, or the fact that staying ten minutes past last call could have put her on the front page of that newspaper too. Every mission, the odds go down.

Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, like he’s hoping she’ll ask him for something he can give. 

He’s so close to her now. Maybe-

“Mmph-” He tastes like spice and alcohol, the sweat of his upper lip pressed to hers. He releases the pinch of fabric in his hands, the pin now fastened to her lapel. It hardly takes a second for his hands to find her jaw. His touch loosens the tension of her shoulders, sparks warm and firelit in her belly. She stays, lets the kiss grow sloppier until her tongue is pressing against his teeth.

They only stop because she needs a second to catch her breath, to watch him smile at her like she’s somehow surprised him.

“Why are you smiling?”

He doesn’t stop. “I’ll give you one guess, Josephine.”

She thinks better of a retort, lets her cheeks go red and leans forward again, a noisy kiss against his mouth. 

A voice in the back of her head sounds a warning, something distorted, through the sound of the music and the smoky haze. The singer’s own shines through, the brassy big band music that always makes her think of him. There I go, leading with my heart again- She ought to head back to the hotel now, before the night calls for another bar, another drink or three, a bed. And there I go, acting not-so-smart again-

She stands, smooths her skirt, adjusts the soles of her feet inside her shoes. “One more spin?” 

Something falls out of his eyes; he looks like he wants to argue with her, but he doesn’t. A few seconds before he answers. “Early morning?”

She nods, and it feels like the worst lie. Even though it isn’t, she’s got a briefing with the Ministry of Information tomorrow, and plans to meet another source for coffee. Probably more drinks, she thinks. It would hardly be the first time someone showed up for a meeting hungover.

But though it’s unwise, I can’t disguise my love-

Afterwards, they walk back out into the cold night, the smell of his aftershave still in her nose. He touches the flower at the back of her hair. “You got your last dance, can I get a last kiss?”

It surprises her, the forlorn note in her voice. “Where did I use the word last, Major?”

He sighs, or something like it. “Don’t have to, it’s written all over your face.”

Her fingertips find his lapels, the top of her head nuzzled under his chin. “I would hope I’m less readable than that.”

A laugh escapes him, though it’s hardly full of humor. “You’re really not.”

Like you, right? “A shitty pokerface, remember?” 

“‘Cept this time it’s not about the coffee.”

“What’s it about, then?”

He doesn’t answer, leans down and kisses her and steadies her with his hands, what she imagines is her own lipstick tacky against the sides of her mouth. He doesn’t stop, and neither does she. His hand burrows between her coat and her dress, hugging her waist. She presses against it.

They should be walking, or ducked under an eave, not out here like this after dark. This corner. 

Her back automatically straightens when they hear a bicyclist go past, a little huff from his lips and hers as she breaks away. 

“I can still bring you back-” he says belatedly, “if-”

He’s offering her this. Maybe she can admit it to herself now, wanting it too much to refuse.

She shakes her head. “It’s alright, John.”

There’s something in his eyes at that, no Major, just John. “I’m glad.” His voice is heavy when he answers her. Low. His fingertips press against her waist. “I’ve been thinking about this damn dress all night.”

“The dress?”

He smiles, the scratch of his mustache against her cheek. “Alright, the zipper.” He laughs softly, what he imagines her face must look like in the dark, under the cloud-filled sky. “Just bein’ honest.”

Her mouth hovers at the corner of his jaw. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“What else do you expect?” Her chest feels like it’s full of butterflies, when he asks.

“That…you won’t stop talking.” She kisses the spot under his ear. “Please.”

He snorts. Maybe she’s imagining it, the slightest breathiness to his voice. “Now tell me what you really think of me, Josephine.”

Can I? she thinks. “Well, what do you expect?”

He pauses, considering. “That you’ll keep kissing me. Makin’ me blush.”

“I make you blush?”

“Like a tomato, Josephine. ‘Least it feels like it. One flash of those knees and-” She smacks him lightly across the lapel. “Hey.”

“I guess I told you not to stop talking.”

“Yes, you did. Now where was I-”

“My knees.”

“Right.”

A few more couples make their way outside, swirls of perfume and rum and sweat, almost bumping into them. She knows what she’s asking, now. “Maybe we should, uh-”

“Maybe you’re right.”

His hotel is closer, they’d walked by it on the way. She tries not to duck her head in the lobby. He kisses her on the landing of the stairs and again outside the door, forehead lingering against hers.

It’s a large room, larger than she expected, certainly not the little thing she and Kay share at the Highgate, the wallpaper peeling by the radiator. There’s not much of him here besides a bed that’s half-made, a garment bag by the front leg of the desk.

“It’s a nice room,” she says, trying to banish the wobble in her stomach. 

He makes a noise that sounds almost like a laugh. “They know how to charge officers around here.”

“Still.” She reaches back to fidget with the clasp of her necklace. “I uh-”

“Something wrong?”

No. “It’s been-” She’s suddenly embarrassed, left ignorant as to how this is supposed to go. Not ignorant, just-

“Can I get you a drink? We could get something sent up.”

“No, thank you.” It’s probably too late, anyway. He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the back of the small chair at the desk. She takes a deep breath. “I suppose you should kiss me again.”

He smiles, deep and wolfish. “You suppose, huh?”

“Yes.” He does, lets her thread her fingers in his hair. “Suppose I should let you sit, too,” she says. 

“However you want, sweetheart.”

She wants to slap herself for what comes out next. “Really?” 

He looks at her like she’s a little bit crazy. His eyes are gleaming in the low light, dulled against the closed curtains. “You say jump, I say how high.”

She shakes her head before she can stop herself. Her voice is small, and wanting, and she feels suddenly like she’ll fall apart if he doesn’t keep holding her. “Please, just kiss me.” 

Don’t make me think. Let me forget everything except you. 

“Just say the word,” he says, but he’s already got his mouth on hers. 

She’d stopped caring about her lipstick hours ago, and to hell with everything else now. She’s in his lap, here in a locked room, his hand high up her thigh and her own pressed on top of it.

Soon, her dress is around her hips, and he’s got his hands on the top of the zipper, stopping when it catches. He presses a sloppy kiss to her neck, the dip of her collarbone, exposed. She helps him open the rest of the dress, awkwardly, twisting an elbow. He stops, and looks at her with a hazy stare; two kisses, one above each breast, and one to St. Christopher between them. She undoes his tie, not quite an easy task when he’s lavishing kisses on her shoulders. Keeping his promise. She ought to, too. She presses her mouth to the freckles dotting his chest, and one for his crucifix, another for the medallion. Maybe, she thinks, they should use the rest of the bed.

“I’m glad I stopped by,” he says, quiet and rasping and a little bit breathless, his cheeks a shade of coral in the light. 

“You found me,” she says, and it sounds like thank you.

He seems to consider this, his hands stilled under her dress. She can feel him, underneath her. It sends a rush of sparks through her chest, her stomach, her hips. “I did.”

“You did.”

I trust you, she wants to say. But she doesn’t, doesn’t know what to say next. Only brings a hand to his cheek, and his curls, only kisses him again.

[sillystarters]

it's always sunny in philadelphia season sixteen starter sentences.

starter sentences taken from episodes one - three from season sixteen of it's always sunny in philadelphia. part one of ??

have you ever seen teenage mutant ninja turtles ?

you spent close to $20,000 on a couch you never owned.

that's pretty bad business fellas.

now listen i have glued my hand to a door so they can't physically remove me.

you know, i know stuff.

that's money talk right there.

how much nut do you go through a month?

are you storing up your nut or are you blowing through it?

i'll give you fifty cents for a buck.

come, have a seat.

it was super cheap dude.

well listen, i don't really have any interest in your bulk tin of low end economy nuts.

yeah don't make a mess.

what's behind that door?

holy shit! what the fuck is this?

i wasn't tryin' to be crypto about it.

this is tits!

can i sleep in here?

we're gonna blow our shoes out with all this walking.

how is this not a big deal?

move past it dude, move past it man.

i really ultimately don't give a shit.

did you glue your hand to my door?

i can tell you're mad.

i can't deal with this.

and just leave me here all alone?

i don't wanna be a bad host.

you know what, this was a mistake.

i can't sleep.

what is going on with you dude?

what you workin' on there bud?

is that thing loaded, by the way?

get off my back.

you know what? screw this.

i am in the prime of my life.

okay so it was loaded, my mistake. don't be so dramatic.

it's not like anybody's in any real danger.

getting shot in the face is pretty cool.

i do care about the money though.

i got some bad news for ya, bud.

i figured you probably forgot too or something.

did you try to pull out your own teeth?

i'm so sorry.

i didn't have the heart to tell you.

those ungrateful bitches.

i can't believe you did this!

i'm not mad at you okay? it's fine.

you did make a mistake.

i didn't mean to upset you.

this is not working.

should we just attack him and take it?

shut up!

this is my worst nightmare in my entire life.

she burnt the shit outta me.

i got a little surprise for ya.

you wanna take it easy? goddamn. just one bite at a time.

ha! i almost ate my gun.

i hope everyone brought their appetite because i made quiche!

this is like, everything you've ever wanted.

that is ... sad.

this is so annoying.

alright, where to now?

a perfect day can't last forever.

what the hell are you doing?

you're outta control with that thing.

just barge right in okay don't be shy.

oh my god what are you doing here?

this is so distasteful.

asmr, dickweed!

how long has it been?

that's a definite pass for me.

this is a million to one shot and i've got a really good feeling about this.

our luck just turned around.

i don't wanna have my ass handed to me.

we have a problem.

whatever you do, don't laugh.

this is bad, dude.

what? why are you trying to break my door down at three in the morning?

i just wanted to ask if you could kindly keep the noise down.

this was very sweet of you to bake these for me.

it's a trophy, see? it says cunt of the year. that's you!

bad things are going to happen to you one day. i guarantee it.

you earned it!

we're not having bad luck, we're having good luck.

come here you rat! die!

it's time to make good on your end of the bargain.

what is your deal, man?

i'm going to beat you with my shoe!

we gotta take this seriously.

go make your apologies!

i'm done listening to this.

'just in case' is as good of a reason to believe in anything as any.

i don't believe in that bullshit.

well, that's not good.

that's a bad omen!

boy, that's a shame.

thank you for this.

i'm just trash right? that's what you said.

i got you a sixer!

i gotta show you something but you gotta keep it a secret.

you're not following.

it makes literally no sense.

a moment of your time?

i'm sorry your dad doesn't like you.

[mandareeboo]

Ramshackle drabble prompt: Scrap cuddle pile?

The embers of the trash fire were slowly starting to fizzle out as they settled in for the night, Stone and Vinnie idly passing a smoke between each other while Skipp serenaded them with his mandolin.

"We should totally try for two cans of beans tomorrow," Vinnie urged, holding her hands out as if to picture it. "That's double the beans!"

"Gettin' greedy, are we?" Stone huffed out with a dry laugh.

"Hey, it could happen. We have good luck sometimes."

"Hear me out," Skipp says. "What if we got. Three cans of beans? That'd be one for each of us!"

Vinnie waved it off. "Nah. Good luck only comes in even numbers. Everyone knows that."

"Aw."

"Do you even know what even numbers are? It's not like you read."

"Shuddup." The last bit of light left the alley as the flames died out. Vinnie hopped to her feet and stretched. "Whelp, time for bed."

"Sleepover!" Skipp cried, as he was wont to do every night, grabbing and holding open the curtain that blocked their sleeping spot from the rest of the world. Built of tin, barbed wire, and some spit, it mostly kept out the rain and even the wind on occasion.

Stone groaned deep in his throat as Vinnie pulled out their one blanket. It was thin, full of patchwork and holes, an obnoxious brown color that no one could tell if it was dyed or dirt. "Can't we just-"

"Nope," she said, popping the p, as she began to bundle Stone up like a worm. "You need your blankie or you get hypothermia," Vinnie cooed with a shit-eating grin.

"I fuggin' hate you," Stone said blankly.

"Mattresses don't talk," Vinnie reminded him, laying against his bundled side. Skipp eagerly crowded in beside her so they were face to face. "Night, Skipp. Night, mattress."

"G'night," Skipp chirped.

Stone grunted.

They laid quietly in their makeshift pile for a bit, adjusting to the darkness. Ramshackle was never truly pitch black; streetlamps and the glow of all-night shops kept the world lit even as its homeless inhabitants tried to sleep.

"Guys," Skipp whispered. "I just had an idea."

"Go to sleep, Skipp," Stone grumbled.

"Mattresses don't talk," Vinnie repeated, elbowing him for good measure. "What's your idea, Skipp?"

"What if we found.... four cans of beans?"

Vinnie's eyes grew wide. "Oh shit! That'd be an even number!" She rubbed her chin. "What would we even do with four cans of beans?"

"Eat them," Skipp supplied.

"Well, yeah, but that's more beans than we've ever had before! Can we even eat that many?"

"We'd save it," Stone decided. "Have the rest fer breakfast."

"Oh, man, breakfast," Vinnie drew the word out with delight, too enamored to remind him not to speak. "When's the last time we had two meals in a row?"

They went back and forth like that for some time before finally they all began to nod off.

[vanillabourbon]

the first of many. | intro | ongoing tlou series

story summary. joel arrives at Jackson twenty years after the outbreak with a young girl that cares for him just as much as he cares for her. little did he know, he would soon meet someone else that would urge his returning sense of humanity one step further.

introductory chapter warnings. weaponry. alludes to suicidal thoughts and behavior. mentions of blood and violence. wounds. kinda sad ngl but let’s call it canon. pls let me know if i missed anything.

story pairings. joel miller x reader, tommy miller x platonic!reader

words. 11k (i went a bit overboard, hehe, but editing is going slow so pls ignore any obvious mistakes. this is the first work i’ve taken seriously so please enjoy :))

-

Chicago, Illinois. September 2003.

The mind and the body’s initial response is always denial – denial of things, of circumstances, and of situations that are too radical, too unconventional, to believe.

How could anyone believe the events of things as they were? Social and societal constructs had been dismantled in a matter of hours, as if the very fabric of everyone’s being had been tied together by a mere string. The justice and sovereignty in belief, in trust in the nature of things themselves, was apparently so fickle, so haphazardly constructed in the first place, that it took a rapidly spreading infection to displace and make known just how unsafe anything is from harm.

No one should be shocked, really. Least of all you.

In hindsight, which is the only perspective anyone can rely on at a moment’s notice, everything gave way to regret and humiliation. How had no one seen this coming? Everything up until that point in time suddenly seemed so obvious – so commonsensical. It was as if someone had balled up every bad thing and every imperfect thing until it could no longer withstand its own constraints and, instead, chose to flow directly toward the seemingly permanent. 

There’s always an element of impermanence in the seemingly permanent.

For whatever reason, now, only a day had passed since the events that led to an abrupt collapse in society as you knew it. You wanted to believe the best – that society and the nature of man would prevent anything from happening. You trusted that the condition of humanity would never outweigh the moral weight of integrity and righteousness. You told yourself that the militant responses of the government were out of necessity and that order and control would fall soon after – or, at least, eventually.

Whether you truly believed that or not no longer mattered.

You were being ushered through the city of Chicago by your older brother, trailing after your uncle, aunt, and two cousins in the wake of another riot. It was dark, darker than any time you had ever stepped foot through the streets of Chicago. And it was bare. Every skitter and harsh knock of a tin trash can sent your brother’s nerves into overdrive; his fingers dug into the flesh of your forearm, dragging you beside him with every step he took. His vice-like grip pained you, but you didn’t bother to tell him that.

You did exactly what he had instructed you before: keep quiet and avoid eye contact.

Military brigades sat empty in the torn and destroyed city streets. Fires engulfed and illuminated countless buildings – convenience stores, pharmacies, mini marts, miscellaneous retail stores. For a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw a young boy, no older than your small cousins, ducking behind a fire hydrant. Tiny fingers braced against the stained red paint, gripping the rusted bolts as if a life depended on it. Maybe it did. But the boy was gone when you chanced a look back.

“Eyes forward,” your brother mumbled.

You didn’t bother to argue. You were far too consumed with wandering, catching stray remnants of the world around you in your peripheral. Anything and everything surrounding you seemed too fantastical, like a stupor you were unable to shake yourself from. The tall, familiar skyscrapers were in stark contrast to the now empty storefronts and abandoned vehicles.

Even though it felt like the end of something, it seemed like the start of something else. Of what, you didn’t know.

Regardless, you wanted to make no effort to distract or distress your brother any further. You’d never seen him so laser-focused, so adamant about one thing, in your life. It was clear that safety was his top priority, and the thought sent your mind and your heart reeling. 

Even if your brother hadn’t been dragging you toward Lawrence Avenue, you felt that your feet would have been bumbling about of their own accord. You were sure they weren’t moving because of anything you were doing. Your mind was elsewhere, eyes flitting to and from every glimpse of dark corners and shattered glass you dared to witness. Surprisingly, it wasn’t fear bubbling up and threatening to overtake your every sense; it was surprise, perhaps confusion. 

Your gaze would’ve gotten lost down a dark side road as you were marched by it, but you were torn from your daze. A slight stumble, the slip of a toddler’s foot, caught everyone by surprise. One of your cousins rested in an awkward heap a few feet in front of you, ground having scraped her knee and stray debris nearly slicing her palm as she braced herself. Among stray tires and pieces of burnt wood, she looked so small, so petite. Her face twisted in pain and sadness as she turned about, first to you and your brother as you approached then to her parents only a few steps away.

Without missing a beat, your uncle ushered your aunt forward, pushing her lower back and guiding her to keep going. He did the same with his young son before going back and reaching down, scooping up his daughter from where she lay on the pavement with one hand and reassuring her with the other.

Momentarily, his eyes flitted toward you and your brother. It was the first time he had turned to look at either of you since you started your trek. For a moment, you wondered if he was about to say something. 

But he didn’t. He only locked eyes for a second, maybe longer, before he was turning on his heels and picking up his pace to a light jog.

Only minutes had gone by before your family’s pounding footsteps were quieted by shouts and gunfire. A frighteningly sudden halt came when you all jolted to a stop. If things were still, you would’ve been gracious for the moment to rest your feet, for the chance to catch your breath and rock back on your heels to ease the pain from your soles. The act of running was starting to take its toll – stripping and coercing your composure and relief from their rightful place.

Calm felt so far removed. Even more so when the gunfire ceased and a loud, nearly automated voice came over a distant speaker: “ALL REMAINING CIVILIANS MUST REPORT TO ONE OF TWO EMERGENCY MEDICAL CAMPS.”

A tan army vehicle passed by your group just then. It rolled passed, and you all did a poor attempt at ducking into the shadows. Your brother’s grip tightened, if that were even possible, and dragged you to his side. Your breath caught in your throat until the back tire of the vehicle disappeared from sight, rolling down the road and toward the loud din still protruding from two streets over.

Whoever was among the shouting didn’t matter. It was clear that there were a lot of them, and that scared you. The streets had seemed so empty, so shallow. For a moment, you could pretend like your family was all that was left, that you all would make it to your aunt and uncle’s vehicle you’d left at airport parking. Maybe drive until you found a place safe enough to sleep. Wake to a world not burnt and bruised on every side.

It was a good dream. A pipe dream, perhaps, but a good one.

Your uncle was the first to move. He wrapped his arms around your aunt and cousins, driving them down a side street a few feet away. Your brother, a slight wild look in his eye, chanced a look around. For a split moment, he looked as if he was going to grab your wrist and keep running, chance a run-in with the military or with a group of people just as scared as the two of you. But he didn’t. He let out a low huff and dragged you toward the same side street.

Your aunt was huddled a few feet away, partially occluded by shadow and rocking one of your cousins in her arms. She was crouched, whispering, or pleading, something in a low voice. It was almost unnerving to watch her come undone.

Your gaze was torn from the sight when your uncle grunted. He was crouched right beside you, tying your other cousin’s shoes. Your cousin’s small hands were splayed across his back as she tried to balance herself.

“Danny boy, you’re with me,” he finally said. He looked over his shoulder and up at your brother. “We’ll run the rest of the way. It’s just a few blocks.”

You furrowed your brow, stepping forward quickly. Danny’s hand was still locked around your arm, but he made no move to stop you nor speak for himself. “Wait, what?”

Your uncle turned his attention back to the small white strings in his hands, his fingers fumbling awkwardly with the small shoelaces. “I know we said we’d get the car checked, but it should run just fine. We’ll come back for them in five minutes, tops.” His head was nodding before he even finished his sentence. “Yeah, yeah. Five minutes. Tops.”

“You can’t be serious.” Since he made no effort to acknowledge you, or to look at either of you again, you turned to your brother. “Is he serious?”

Danny was chewing on his bottom lip then, staring down at your uncle with eyes that did not seem in the least bit alarmed. “You sure about the car?”

“Positive.”

“It’ll run?”

“Should.”

At that point, your chest started to heave. Slightly, but heave all the same. A thickness suddenly but slowly started to coat your throat, like someone had lodged a softball right between your esophagus and windpipe.

Danny might’ve been calling your name, but, if he was, you couldn’t hear him. In seconds, he was dragging you backwards until you were pressed into the wall of the closest building. It was some worn-down bar. Your shoulders dug into the brick. “You have to stay here. Okay? With Aunt Lorraine and the twins.”

And that did it – that truly jolted you. “No,” you protested, hands coming up to grip your brother’s forearms. Now it was your turn to dig your fingers into his flesh. Anything to keep him there and grounded, right beside you, where he belonged. “You can’t just leave me.”

“I have to. We can get the car. Skirt downtown and be on our way to Indiana.”

“What about the military?”

“We can get away from them.”

“How?”

“We can.”

“It’s the military,” you deadpanned.

For a moment, you could almost make out a brief glint of humor in his eyes. The side of his mouth perked up, threatening a smirk that always drove you crazy whenever he found hilarity in situations not in the least bit hilarious. But right now, in this moment, it lifted whatever burden was trying to settle like a rock in your chest. Your brother was still your brother. And, to you, he’d never leave you.

“We just can, alright?” He reasoned. “We have to.”

“Well, what happens when we get to Indiana? What if we can’t find a place to stay?”

“You let me worry about that.”

“But, that’s the problem, Danny. You don’t worry about these things.”

You finally broke eye contact then. Pools of tears were beginning to form, blurring your vision and making everything around you swim.

“Well, that’s why I need you, isn’t it? Gives me an incentive to actually come back for you.”

You scoffed, a slight sniffle leaving you as you did. “As if you’d ever leave me behind.”

“Hey, we need to go, kid,” Your uncle said.

Afar off, he had long since stood and was waiting for your brother at the mouth of the street. When you turned toward him, he looked away, chancing a quick look both ways before exiting the shadows entirely. He loitered there, clearly waiting for Danny to join him.

Your brother had completely ignored him, not taking his eyes off of you for even a second. “Exactly. That’s why you have to trust me when I say I will come back.”

When you returned his gaze, his eyes were as earnest as you had ever seen them. He was telling you the truth and trying his hardest to make sure you believed him before he took off. You did, of course, but something was making every nerve in your body hot and every hair on your head stand. Something wasn’t right.

“I trust your word, Danny, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” 

And something told you he didn’t mean himself and your uncle. 

He urged himself forward, pressing a hard kiss to your forehead. He stayed there for a few seconds, crushing you to his chest, before abruptly letting go. He determinedly strode down the street, meeting your uncle on the sidewalk with a firm nod. 

Before he disappeared, he turned once more to you and added, “I’ll see you again.”

–

Austin, Texas. September 2003.

If Joel could give voice to the crushing weight of a broken heart or the sudden unwillingness to yield to the innate response to keep going, he still wouldn't be able to properly identify it as true sorrow.

He still couldn’t quite pin it – anger, disbelief, pity … guilt. Everything had happened so fast, as they always do. But never to him. Calculations and planning, pure thought – the things he was used to and relied heavily on simply because they worked – were nothing compared to the devastation of unpredictability – of spontaneity, the unexpected. As cruel as fate could be, as cruel as life itself could be, there was very little possibility that it could bring about something like this – to take something so pure, so innocent, as a life. A child’s life.

A life for a life, he determined.

“Swear?” Sara had asked. Long ago now, it felt like. Something about a birthday cake, but the softness in her voice had sent Joel’s heart pumping with love and affection.

“On my life.”

A woman screamed somewhere to his left. His brow twitched, and, for the first time, he became semi-cognizant of his surroundings. A makeshift medical camp was teeming with victims, families, military and doctors alike, swarming and descending around him. White lab coats and camouflage armor were a hazy swirl as frenzied bodies wheeled grocery carts, gurneys, wheelchairs, beds – anything they could find – all through one Austin plaza. 

For one second, one split second, Joel could vividly picture himself and Tommy driving by here on the way to pick up supplies not even two months earlier. He had been laughing, then. Shaking his head at something his brother had said to diffuse his anger for having been late the morning of.

Joel had been clutching a juice box then, too. A ‘good source of vitamin D.’ It felt small and strange in his hand at the time. Foreign. An odd replacement to the coffee usually growing cold in his tired grip. But he had promised her. Even when she threw a smile over her shoulder and clamored out of the truck to bound across her school’s parking lot, he didn’t let the box go until he’d drunk it all. Even when the memory was fading now, lost to a couple of weeks and now permanently overwritten by the last time he’d dropped her off, Joel could still feel the box. 

Small. Strange. Like the last image of her now boring into the backs of his eyelids – curling and uncurling her failing grip in his t-shirt with every gasping breath.

Out of nowhere, a woman screamed again. Not loud enough to startle him from whatever depth he was losing his footing in, but still loud. Loud enough to draw the attention of nearby soldiers, who rapidly trained their weapons toward her. They didn’t shoot. They didn’t stand down either.

The woman was on her knees in the middle of all the chaos. A nurse unknowingly side-stepped a soldier and nearly tripped over the wailing woman. She didn’t notice of course. She just knelt there, rocking and shrieking. It took a moment for Joel to notice the small body she was clutching in her hands. A girl. Straight, dark hair thick and spiraling, down her mother’s lap and nearly sweeping the concrete. Her legs were dangling, bedazzled skechers limp and uncanny. There was a trail of blood leading from a misshapen wound – like indents left from teeth – on the girl’s left calf. 

He looked away.

“Joel.” A voice came. Hardly recognizable. Seconds later, Tommy appeared in front of him, hands gripping his forearms and eyes pleadingly searching Joel’s countenance with growing anxiety.  “Joel, c’mon now. Talk to me, brother. Say something.”

He did say something, though it didn’t quite reach Tommy’s ears. He was muttering, balancing himself on the perch of the old gurney beneath him and rocking himself slightly. 

“On my life,” Joel muttered, continuously, trapped in an earlier memory. An earlier conversation. With the only one who mattered.

“Alright, well,” Tommy started, dropping one hand as he scanned the surrounding area. “We need to get you something to cover that hand.” He turned his attention back to Joel, leaning down and pushing forward to take up Joel’s entire field of vision. “I’ll be back, you hear me? Don’t move.”

He was gone almost as fast as he came. At his words, Joel’s eyes dropped to his hand, the one he’d been unconsciously cradling in his lap. Blood dripped, unceremoniously, down the valley of his palm and onto the cracked pavement under his boots. He vaguely remembered lashing out at some guy before being ushered into the camp. In front of some convenience store. He had landed roughly, shards of glass impaling his skin before Tommy got the chance to haul him up and press him to keep running.

There wasn't a single part of him that felt it, though. The gaping wound – the whole ordeal – seemed like a hallucination, like something plucked from the deepest, most submerged part of his consciousness. Something hardly thinkable. Something vicious and unnerving. Something that simply couldn’t be true.

“Dad … Daddy!”

Joel jolted awake. A stray frosting tip fell from his fingers and rolled across the floor until it hit the edge of Sarah’s heel. His vision swam with exhaustion, drowsy eyes sweeping over the kitchen table. A half frosted cake, a bit lopsided and slightly whiter than the yellow version advertised on the box. A frosting bag filled with purple frosting resting precariously on the edge of the table, inches from his hand now numb from laying on it.

In sudden alarm, he turned back to a curious Sarah. “Baby, I –.” When she met his gaze, he just sighed, dropping his shoulders. “What’re you doing up? It’s late.”

“I saw the light,” she said simply.

She bent down, retrieving the frosting tip before ambling over to his side. He watched her every move, weighing every option that popped into his head about what her expression meant. Child-like innocence. Brief reminders of every year he’d spent enjoying her life right before his eyes.

The small gears were shifting in her head; he could see them from here. She was eyeing the cake, if he could even call the mound of crumbled blocks a cake. Her gaze momentarily slid toward him as she neared him. She stopped at his side, a small hand on his thigh indicating her intent. He pushed his chair back, hands easily guiding her up and onto his lap.

“What’re you doing?” She finally asked.

“Figured I’d try my hand at baking. Construction’s getting slow these days. What’d you think?”

His voice was casual, but he was anything but. He had worried his lip in the aisle of the supermarket just at the thought of buying the wrong cake decorations. The moment of truth had come too soon for him. If he hadn’t been so damn tired, if Tommy had gotten the supplies earlier and hadn’t caused the job to go until ten – 

“It’s pretty.”

Her voice startled him, laced with joy and, what seemed like, pleasant surprise. Her back was leaned against him, and he could just make out her face, angled slightly away from him. She was smiling softly at the poor imitation of whatever he’d bought. The only store left open had been out of cake mix, of course. A woman in the aisle with him explained how easily he could make something close to it with this. Easy for her was hell for Joel, but he couldn’t put a price on Sarah’s smile at that moment.

“Thank you. Tried real hard on it.” He was trying for humor, but he meant every word. His attempts were born from a real place – a place that desperately wanted to see her light up the way she did when he forced himself to sit through her favorite movie, when they decorated the Christmas tree early last year, and when he finally let her drive the truck on Tommy’s lap.

The two looked at the excuse for a cake. It was leaning now. A small portion protruding from where Joel attempted to make a flower out of a mold.

“Is it –,” she paused, cautiously, but hopefully, picking her next words. “Is it for me?”

“‘Course, babygirl. This masterpiece of a cake ain’t for just any eight-year-old.”

“I’m not eight yet,” she reminded him. “Except,” she paused again, frowning. “My birthday’s tomorrow.”

“You always wake up so early. Thought I’d try to surprise you by fixin’ it tonight.”

She stared a bit longer before nodding decisively and throwing an arm around his shoulders. She twisted in his lap, eyes and smile beaming up at him. “I would’ve slept in for you.”

Luck. It had to be luck. Joy, devotion, trust, unquestionable love. A child’s eyes swim with all of the above, and one child in particular, his child, was looking at him with all that and more. Her tightly-wound curls framed her small face and swept her tired eyes, but her expression remained the same. Joel’s heart twisted at the sight.

He cleared his throat, hesitant to speak with the growing lump in his throat. “You would’ve pretendin’ to, anyway.” He rose, maneuvering her until he was carrying her comfortably against his hip. “C’mon, now. It’s late. Gotta get to bed if you want your gifts.”

Abruptly, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, daddy.”

He smiled, part of him worried his eyes were growing wet. “Anything for you, babygirl. Happy birthday.”

Joel was torn from his stupor at the sight in front of him – the sight he’d been staring at while reliving a memory he felt fading almost as fast as he began to remember it. It was a boy, barely old enough to be a teenager. His tear-stained cheeks were nothing compared to the way his eyes rapidly and wildly scanned the area. His gaze hit Joel’s for only a second before he was moving on.

“Dad!” he was shouting. “Dad!”

The boy was turning in circles, looking every which way and shouting into the sea of unknown faces. Every so often he was jostled by complete strangers – unnamed faces covered in weaponry, medication, or grief. One man bumped into him so hard he nearly lost his footing. It didn’t matter. It didn’t stop his shouts or his turns or his wild eyes cutting through the masses of people.

“Dad!” 

“Dad … Dad!”

Joel turned suddenly, new reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose and hands gripping a cup of coffee – fresh seconds. His elbow was propped against the kitchen table he had been occupying for the last hour, mountains of papers and file folders splayed across the tabletop along with a black pen resting atop an unfinished tax document. With Sarah now in sight, his eyes briefly scanned the backyard through the patio-door window, where he’d last seen her playing soccer with Tommy. 

His brother, of course, now leaned against their fence with a shit-eating grin on his face as the woman he was talking to from his neighbor’s yard threw her head back in laughter. 

Of course.

Joel���s eyes turned back to Sarah, breathing in feigned annoyance. “What? Jesus, you keep calling my name like that you’re gonna dad me to death.”

She snorted. “If I wanted that, I’d do it more like this – Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Da–.”

“No, now that’s more like it.”

With a shake of her head, and a small smile, she wandered closer to him with a simple, “What’re you doin’?”

“Takin’ a break from you.”

She ignored him, stepping close enough to peer over the table. Normally, Joel would shoo her away with an obvious hint that she shouldn’t concern herself with whatever was his job. He didn’t like her looking or hearing about their situation in any way, good or bad. She was supposed to be thinking about soccer and school and zoos and the fair he and Tommy were taking her to later that week. Not any of this.

After a moment, he finally did; he abruptly moved forward, reaching and shuffling the papers into a messy stack.

“Nothing you have to worry about, honey, it’s –”

“Line eight E is repeated three times.”

He froze. “What?”

“Line eight, letter ‘E.’ It’s repeated three times.” For emphasis, she pointed down at the document closest to her.

Joel picked up the paper, letting the black pen slide off of it and land with a soft thud on the paper beneath it. She was right. There was no denying she was right. “Huh.”

“‘Sometimes it’s good to have a second pair of eyes,’” she quoted him, turning and strolling to the cabinet to retrieve a bag of chips. He’d told her that when he let her replace the axle nuts on her bike tire. She’d sworn the nuts wouldn’t rotate until he came over to help. The sentiment worked then, and it was working now. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself, Dad.”

He gave her a look, brows furrowing, but her back was turned. She busied herself pouring chips into a bowl. He tried for humor again, responding, “I’m never by myself. I got Tommy breathin’ down my neck every day. He’s all the help I need.”

The only indication of her response was a slight shake of her head, curly hair brushing, back and forth, between her shoulder blades. A quiet huff, something close to a laugh, escaped her.

“We’re also out of milk.” She threw a reply over her shoulder casually, very obviously avoiding turning around.

For a long moment, his eyes were still trained on her. It took a mental connection, a moment of realization, for his brows to lift slightly. His gaze slid over to a purple sticky note hanging diagonally on the refrigerator. Her frilly handwriting, turned cursive upon entering middle school, etched out ‘Get milk from the store!’ in large letters.

“That’s what the note on the fridge is for?”

She remained silent but finished making her snack, ambling back to his side and taking a seat in the chair beside him. There was no need for her to respond, but Joel’s nerves went into overdrive at any and all underlying insinuations. Was she worried about something? Worse yet, was she worried about him?

“Where’s all this coming from?” he continued.

She shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “You just work so much. More than usual. I just thought – Least I can do is help you some.”

“You really wanna help out around here, maybe you can finally get a job,” he tried, verbally poking fun. “Pick up a few hours.” 

“Oh, ha ha.”

She briefly smiled at him, but the act ended as soon as it began. It was clear something was bothering her. Worry was etched between her brows, and it was then Joel realized that’s how she’d been looking at him all month. Eyes wide and deep with concern; brows furrowed with a tight smile that didn’t seem quite as natural anymore. His heart nearly broke, and he cleared his throat to hide his upset.

“Look, I’m sorry. I know I work a lot, and I’m not … around as much as I used to be. I’ll do better. I will. But there’s nothing you need to be worryin’ about.”

She only nodded before adding a soft, “I know.”

“Good. So you also know I love you, babygirl. Not much I wouldn’t do for ya.”

“I know.”

“That all?”

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I love you too, dad.”

“That all?”

“Well, I wouldn’t wanna ‘dad you to death.’”

“Oh yeah,” he teased, leaning forward to swipe a few chips from her bowl. He flung one towards her, grinning when a laugh erupted that she couldn’t quite contain. Popping the rest of the chips in his mouth, he warned, “Stop playing with your food.”

The sound of laughter, even from a memory, felt jarring, too rich and too pure for the dark scene unfolding around him. He was long-since aware of his eyes growing wet, and, for once, he didn’t care. Couldn’t bring himself to fear or worry about it. He just stared – from the shrieking woman to the shouting boy to the wide, suddenly imposing, city landscape in the distance. It all felt void, lacking meaning in a meaningless world. 

What was to be gained from this? What did any of them gain from anything?

Someone ran by, bumping into Joel’s gurney and swearing a harsh apology in the process. Or maybe just swearing. He couldn’t quite place it, and he didn’t try to. But the action was enough to remind him of his being; his body felt weightless as he drifted from distant memories to distant memories, deliberately failing to grasp one long enough to replace the bitter nightmare threatening to replay itself, over and over again. Maybe if he’d twisted the other way. Or took a chance on running. Or held her a little tighter. Or –

The gurney suddenly felt rough where his hands were gripping the edge, knuckles white and blistering. Now he could sense pain from his open wound. And maybe that was the point. To sense, to feel, something other than what was threatening to send him spiraling. The recent events were still forming pictures in his mind. Consolidation taking its time as depictions kept reordering and restructuring themselves. Building and tearing down again. It was like his brain refused to settle on any one experience.

Because they were all wrong. It was all wrong. It shouldn’t have happened. Not like this.

Emotions had yet to hit him like a brick wall, and, quite frankly, he didn’t want them to. Not now. Not ever. Sensations were returning, sporadically. There was only one he settled on. He vaguely remembered Tommy slipping a handgun into the waistband of his jeans earlier, telling him he might need it before hoisting him to his feet and pushing him to run. To run like his life had depended on it. Even if he was forced to leave his entire life – a child – lying on the cold ground behind him.

That was the sensation he focused on: the hard lick of metal curling its cool touch against his lower back.

-

Chicago, Illinois. September 2003.

Waiting is just as agonizing as not. You still couldn’t quite decide if you wanted time to go faster or to go slower. You were, however, determined to maintain as much control over the situation as possible. If Danny could manage a calm head, so could you, for his sake and in his absence. You made sure your aunt was comfortable, reassuring her with a few pats on the shoulder after she’d sunken to the ground. Your cousins kept near her, staring up at you with pure curiosity.

You wondered if they understood, or just how much they understood. For their sake, you hoped they hadn’t a clue. If their silence was any indication, you were sure they were fine, probably more so worried about their mother’s – your aunt’s – tear-stained cheeks than anything else.

You tried your best not to glance at the street entrance every minute, but your head was on a swivel. Time itself seemed to stand still. How could you not wish you could do the same? Stand still, as if holding your breath might make it easier to hear your brother’s footsteps come back to you. His footsteps – loud, heavy, familiar.

That’s what you were thinking about when your uncle stumbled through the mouth of the side street he’d left you in. A purple bruise was forming on the lower left side of his jaw. A streak of blood ran across the chest of his gray shirt. Most disturbing of all, he was completely and utterly alone.

“We’ve got to go,” he said.

He hurried right by you, taking long strides towards his family. After checking his wife and daughter, he crouched and busied himself zipping his son’s jacket.

“Where’s Danny?” You asked.

The question hung in the air – thick and unanswered. He ignored you. Easily. His eyes remained pinned to his son’s body as his fingers fumbled, first with the jacket and then with the cuff of his son’s jeans. 

“Where is he?” You were still calm, then. With no answer, you pulled back and stepped cautiously toward the end of the street, looking down where he’d come from. When no one else came by, you returned to your place a few feet away from your family. “Where’s Danny?”

All action and thought cease to exist when laughter brings forth pure, adulterated delight. Especially for a six-year-old child. Laughter and millions of innocent giggles bubble over and make it easy for small feet to run freely. Untamed footsteps can easily fall in line with grass and get lost to rows and rows of trees.

Lost. So, so lost.

You stood in the middle of a clearing. At some point, your laugh had burned down to a chuckle, then to silence, when you realized how far you’d made it alone. Your brother had teased you, playfully giving chase about a mile back, and you had wonderfully ran and leapt over branches and small creeks. Even climbed over a small boulder. You only came to a stop when your echoes seemed too quiet for two.

“Danny?” You called to no one in particular. “Where are you?”

It only took a moment for the beautiful chirps and snaps of branches to seem daunting, not tranquil. Terrifying, not serene. The stillness of it all threatened to suffocate you and evoke fear where you didn’t think it previously possible. You wanted to back away, but your foot had already nearly slipped on a slick mud spot.

Your eyes bounced, wildly, from one tree trunk to another. An unfamiliar feeling coiled up your back and settled at the base of your neck. The sun was starting to slink toward the horizon then. Which way had you come from? What would happen if you didn’t make it back home? What if Danny had gotten hurt, and you hadn’t both to hear him or stop for him? Had you left him somewhere?

“Danny!”

There was no answer. Only the distant sound of water trickling over rocks and another quick snap of a tree branch waving in the wind. Hot tears trickled down your face as you dropped down, sitting and pulling your knees under your chin. You were lost, but, above all, you had lost your brother.

“Hey, little sis, look what I found!” You nearly jumped out of your skin, twisting around to see Danny stepping around a bush and joining you in the clearing. He looked up to proudly present you with a small frog, cupped carefully in the palms of his hands. “Wanna name him?”

For a moment, you stayed right where you were. A soft cry escaped your lips, but there was an early sense of relief flooding every part of your small frame. You still hadn’t relaxed your furrowed brows or the frown that wound tightly on your face. Fear had gripped you, and you were beginning to realize it was the hardest thing to shake.

It only took Danny a second to realize you were crying, and only a second longer to bound over to your side and drop to his knees. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He set the frog down on a dry patch of grass before fixing an intense stare on you. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, sucking in a breath and releasing a broken sob. “I – I thought you were gone.”

Danny’s shoulders dropped a bit. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” He reached out and set a hand on your shoulder. “I would never leave you, okay?”

You nodded, and he dropped his hand. He let you take a few breaths and calm down a bit before he stood to his feet. 

“I think we should go back now. It’s getting dark.” He stuck out his hand, pulling you to your feet when you slipped your hand into his. “Do you remember our secret handshake?”

“Yes.”

An easy grin graced his features once more. “Good, you can show me when we make it back home.”

He moved to leave, but you pulled him back. Your hand fell from his and pointed down at the frog. “What about the frog?”

“What about him?”

“He doesn’t have a name.” He stood back and looked at you expectantly. “I think we should call him Rex.”

Danny nodded, pretending to be lost in thought for a moment. He tapped his chin with the tip of his finger before smiling down at you. “I like Rex. It’s cool.”

Your smile returned, and you skipped out of the clearing, grabbing Danny’s hand as you went. That’s how it was, and that’s how it should be, when an older brother is so near – when another’s presence soothes the quiet that only loneliness can bring about. Your tears had dried and a glimmer of tranquility returned to the noises in the air and the stillness of the environment. A feeling of safety returned soon after, too, and the discomfort of fear had fallen without your notice.

His word was enough: I would never leave you.

You half expected him to scare you like he had when you were children. To step around the wall and stumble towards you, completely oblivious to your worries and concerns about his whereabouts. You would berate him, maybe smack his arm or chest for sending your nerves into overdrive, but you would most likely pull him into a hug and look him over for any bruises. You kept glancing in the direction of the street, waiting for an arrival that would never come.

“Where’s Danny?”

“Honey,” your aunt tried, giving your uncle a sincere look that read: Please answer your niece.

He ignored her too, setting his hands firmly on his son’s shoulders and giving him a nod. He looked at his son intently, probably trying to reassure him with just one look. With the state the world was currently in, words were starting to fail. All anyone could do was offer some sense of familiarity in gestures and in looks.

But that wasn’t enough for you. It never would be.

In desperation, you moved to grab at your uncle’s shirt. “Where is he? Where’s D–.”

Your uncle stood abruptly, whipping around to face you. You were nearly chest to chest as he leered down at you. “He’s not coming back.”

Your response was immediate, taking a step back as if someone had punched you squarely in the chest. “Wha– What?”

A long, silent moment went by. You could just make out the screaming crowd now nothing but a soft, inaudible sound to your ears. Your uncle dropped his gaze. He looked almost guilty for not being able to offer you the reprieve you were obviously searching for – the answer he just couldn’t give you.

“He’s not coming back, kid,” he said, softer this time. “I– I’m sorry.”

He turned, picking up his son and grabbing his wife’s arm to hoist her up with him. Your aunt held her daughter close to her chest, unable to meet your eyes. There was another moment of silence between you all. They stood there, uncertain. Your uncle refused to meet your eyes for longer than a second, flitting his gaze from you to the street behind you. It was the sound of another military vehicle that finally made him straighten his posture and look you in the eye.

“You need to get out of here. It’s not safe out in the open.”

He turned to jog further down the street, in the opposite direction of where you’d all entered originally. That’s when your aunt offered you a sincere look. “Come with us.”

You made no effort to move. Your feet were cemented to the soiled street; Your eyes still glued to your uncle’s distressed countenance. His words were the only thing you heard: He’s not coming back.

“C’mon, Lorraine. We need to go.”

“We can’t just leave her here, David.”

The military truck came louder now just as the backdoor to the bar slammed open. A man stumbled through the door and landed in a heap of tangled limbs on the ground. A low growl escaped him as his hands fisted the concrete, and he doubled over, twice, in obvious pain. His brown hair was awry, fingers caked in something you couldn’t quite place. The back of his shirt was ripped in various places, and his veiny flesh was exposed; skin long since too inhumane to not deserve the look you gave him. Your eyes blown wide and jaw slack.

The man’s head snapped up, wild eyes looking directly at your aunt.

“C’mon, Lorraine!” Your uncle shouted louder, backing away and pulling his son tighter to his chest. “We gotta go now!”

Your aunt stayed there, frozen in fear. You took a step back, foot catching in a small puddle and sending the man’s horrid attention barreling toward you. The break in harsh scrutiny was all your aunt needed. She took that moment to hug her daughter close and sprint after your uncle. Their retreating footsteps hit like lead to your chest, every step sending you reeling backward as your chest heaved with something closer to alarm than fear.

The man shrieked, scrambling to his feet and running toward you. For a moment, your eyes slid to your aunt and uncle’s distant figures just over his shoulder. A part of you half-expected them to chance a look back, to answer their curiosity about you and your wellbeing. But they didn’t. They didn’t spare a single look, even when they turned sharply and disappeared around a corner.

A deep pain began to throb, harsher now, from the spot Danny had been gripping your arm. The man was within arms length now, hand reaching out to grab that same arm – the arm Danny had held protectively in place.

Your body reacted quicker than you did. You weren’t sure you would’ve reacted at all, if not for the slightest inkling, the slightest hope, that Danny was still out there, somewhere close. Who would come for him if you didn’t?

With a surprised yelp, you turned on your heels and sprinted toward the street entrance – toward the street Danny disappeared down not even thirty minutes before. Gnashing teeth and a horrible stench followed you closely, squirming and throwing itself at you like an animal. You had made it only a few feet in the street before the man tackled you to the ground. Pain erupted from your knees and elbows as you fell with a sharp cry.

A hand pulled your hair, clothes, arms, just about everything fingers could find purchase. You twisted sharply, coming face to face with the man. His teeth came dangerously close to your face and, on instinct, you brought your forearm up to his neck, pushing him away with as much strength as you could muster. You gritted your teeth, but a scream soon ripped from your throat as his upper body pushed further and further down on you. Closer and closer until – 

A shot rang out, and the man’s body went limp.

–

Austin, Texas. September 2003.

The finality of acceptance had still escaped Joel. Maybe that’s why it was so easy for him to take anything in that moment as truth, no matter how outlandish it might have been.

Two white coats rushed by, stopping mere feet away. Even among the chaos, their conversation was easy enough to overhear.

“I have a dad asking after his kid.”

“Everyone’s asking after someone.”

“Yeah, but she was here when they arrived. Apparently lost her in all the confusion.”

“Take him to triage. A lot of missing kids there. We just revived one.”

Joel looked up at the new truth being presented to him – a truth that was far easier to accept than the one bombarding his current experience. His feet were carrying him away from his spot of refuge before he could even think. In fact, he wasn’t thinking. He was scanning for her. Curly hair. Eyes looking for him as much as his eyes were looking for her. 

We just revived one.

If there was a possibility she was here, he was willing to take it. He had already accepted that possibility as fact without his own notice. His heart was elated and his chest was rising just at the thought. It was easier, fairer. And in no way was he preparing, or thinking to prepare, for the inevitable crash that always took place when attempting to deny reality.

“By nine, Dad.” Sarah hopped out of the truck, slamming the door behind her. She went to Tommy’s side, hand clamping down on the opened window and eyes boring into her Dad from where he sat in the passenger seat. “You said nine.”

“I know, I know.”

She opened her mouth to add something, but the bell cut her off. She huffed in resignation before pointing at the two of them, each in turn. With a growing smile, she waved and ran towards her school, throwing a quick “Don’t forget the cake!” over her shoulder.

Just as Tommy pulled out of the lot, his eyes slid over to his brother, and his face twisted into a wide grin he couldn’t hide even if he tried. “Jesus, that kid loves you to death.”

At that, Joel couldn’t hide his own smile, even if the weight of Tommy’s words felt heavy on his shoulders. “Yeah, I know.”

A content quiet fell between the two as Tommy maneuvered out of the school lot. Once he was back on the road, his eyes drifted toward his brother a few times before he shook his head. He always did that when something was on his mind but didn’t know quite how to approach it. Especially when it was Joel he was trying to approach.

“I tell you what, Joel. You gotta cut back.”

Joel was no stranger to the topic Tommy was attempting to bring up. He knew he was working like a madman again, picking up projects and stumbling into the house late at night often long after Sarah had put herself to bed.

Still. He acted oblivious. “What do you mean?”

“Sarah, man. You gotta cut back. Spend more time with her. I know you mean well. You want to provide for her, protect her. I respect that, Joel. Hell, everybody sees and respects that. But she’s still young. Still needs you. It won’t be like that always. She’s got a bright future ahead of her. Nothing’s going to take that from her. From you. Nothing’s going to change that. You don’t have to work so damn hard just to keep it that way.”

Joel didn’t say anything, but he offered his brother a brief nod when he glanced in his direction. They both knew he was right.

“Besides,” Tommy continued with a teasing grin, “you need to get a hold on her before she gets too much older. If she’s anything like we were, they’ll be hell to pay.”

Joel grunted. “Nu uh, my Sarah’s too smart. I ain’t worried ‘bout nothing.”

“You say that now.”

“And I’ll say it then.” Joel nodded decisively. “It’s like you said, she’s got a bright future ahead of her.”

“I know, brother, I know. All I’m saying is that you should make the most of it now. These years will be gone before you know it.” Tommy turned to look at him, more intensely this time. “She’ll be gone before you know it.”

The children were many, but the number that resembled her were few. The child they had revived was a boy no older than four and had been revived for reasons unbeknownst to Joel. The inevitable crash of secret humiliation and embarrassment at his own deception led him to a corner, away from the frenzy and uproar in the camp. Two soldiers stood, with their backs toward him and weapons drawn, with their heads on a swivel. But they paid no attention to Joel. Even with the cool metal resting in his hands, safety off and finger poised at the ready. They still paid him no mind. He might as well have been a dead man.

Should’ve been, anyway.

On my life. Not yours, babygirl.

With that thought, he was ready for anything that might come after. Truth be told, he was more than ready. He wanted to pull the trigger, so he did.

But he flinched. Even before the bullet had left its chamber, a part of him was wholly certain that any shot or amount of lead was not meant for him. It was a destiny he was never meant to share, no matter how much he wanted to.

–

Chicago, Illinois. September 2003.

Four pairs of hands were on you and hauling you to your feet before you could reassess your situation any further. The body slid off of you as you were pulled to your feet; its weight made a sickening noise as it thumped to the pavement at your feet. You were being dragged to an armored truck filled with people – men, women, children. Greedily, you scanned the faces for the only one that mattered. Maybe they’d got him. Maybe they’d saved him, too.

There were a lot of people, but none resembled Danny.

Finally, something broke – anger, bitterness, nauseous … mostly anger. You dug your heels into the pavement, nearly sending one soldier tripping over his feet at your sudden protest. You took the moment of surprise as an opportunity to rip your arm free from his grasp, shoving him away and clawing at the hand still clamped firmly around your other arm. You tried desperately to free yourself, scratching and pulling like your life depended on it. Like Danny’s life depended on it.

“No!” You shouted. “No! Get off me!”

Your doorknob rattled before your brother let himself in, closing the door softly behind him as if he hadn’t already made a world of noise just by entering.

“Jesus,” you started, sitting up in bed, “don’t you know the first thing about knocking?”

“I’ll knock when you stop stealing my sweatshirts from my room.”

Childishly, you stuck out your tongue and crossed your arms. “Fair.”

Without missing a beat, he took three long strides toward your window and looked out, smiling down at something. Undoubtedly his friend’s car, waiting for him in the driveway. “I’m heading out.”

“When are you not?”

“Just open the window for me when I get back, alright?” You got up to join him by the window as he opened it. “I won’t be too late this time.”

“I’m starting to think you like asking for trouble.”

He turned to smile at you – soft, mischievous, winning. Your brother could just as easily ask to leave the house, but he preferred sneaking out. He was defiant just to be defiant, doing so in a way that still made him agreeable and likable. Roping you into his mischief was like a sibling rite of passage, as he put it.

Despite yourself, you smiled back before watching him clamor out of your window. He crouched on the roof, turning to flash you one last smile. “Don’t forget my knock.”

“Three knocks.”

“Always three so you know it's me.” He winked.

“You say that like anyone else would be knocking on my window at one in the morning.”

“You’re right. Because you’re lame.”

“Go before I push you off the roof.”

He grinned widely before turning and inching his way toward the edge. He immediately stopped when you called his name.

“Danny,” you said softly. He looked over his shoulder. “If anything ever happens, don’t be afraid to call the house. I’ll come get you myself if I have to.”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

“I’m serious, Danny.”

“Relax. I know my fearsome sister will always come to my rescue.” He gave a mock salute before jumping down to the lawn. He ran toward the idle car before turning back toward you, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting, “Three knocks!”

When the soldier had recomposed himself, he walked back toward you and yanked your arm, much harder this time. Your outburst drew the attention of the others on the vehicle. A mom pulled her child closer to her, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was still out there, missing, and not a single person seemed to give a damn.

“Get off me!” You screamed again, voice breaking as a tear slipped down your cheek. In frustration, you sent a swift kick that the soldier sidestepped easily. “Get off me!”

One soldier finally let you go as the other wrapped his arms around you, pulling you off your feet and carrying you the rest of the way to the awaiting vehicle. Your struggle was rendered useless as he carried you with ease, tossing you onto the truck like you meant nothing. You probably didn’t, not to him and not to anyone. But you knew you meant something to Danny, and you weren’t going to go down without him. Not without a fight.

You pushed off the bed of the truck, attempting to scramble off of it and back onto the street. “Danny!” You shouted, pushing a stranger out of your way and making a quick jump for it. “Danny!”

You were sure you were still calling his name, even when the butt of a gun connected with the side of your forehead.

–

Austin, Texas. September 2003.

The sound of a weapon firing draws a lot of attention. Namely from uniformed soldiers who were to make sure all civilians had been thoroughly searched and weapons properly confiscated before entering the medical camp.  The mistake was sure to cause one of them trouble, which is probably why they tackled Joel with such ferocity. He was on the ground and surrounded by military and medical personnel before he could blink.

Tommy was shouting his name again, parting the crowd roughly as he clawed his way to his brother. White bandages gripped in his hand. He was searching for him, relentlessly, before catching sight of the commotion. All the while, Joel was calm. The realization hadn’t dawned on him yet; the adrenaline of the deed he was trying to commit had not yet worn off. He was delusional with the loss of will – his volition having been stripped from him through no effort of his or anyone else’s. 

For a second, he let himself believe he was dead. Like some instinctual force hadn’t just caused him to flinch.

Someone hoisted him to his feet; all while someone, most likely Tommy, was shouting, “Don’t shoot him! Don’t shoot him!”

A doctor stepped forward. She flashed a light in his eyes. “Sir. Sir? Can you hear me?”

A trickle of blood slid past his peripheral. It dawned on him that the commotion around him was real – it was happening – and his unfocused eyes finally snapped toward the soldier gripping his arm. His unfeeling expression hidden under his helmet felt familiar. Too familiar.

“Joel,” Tommy warned. He knew his brother well enough to predict his intent. He stepped forward, cautiously, trying but failing to shoo the soldiers and doctors back. He momentarily looked between the wound on Joel’s head and the discarded gun on the ground. He hesitated, partially, but hesitated all the same. “He ain’t sick or nothing.” Tommy turned from the doctors back to Joel. “Joel, listen to me, brother. Let’s get you patched up, alright? Let’s ge–.”

Joel was swinging before he knew what he was doing. He lunged, kicked, and swung wildly, nearly ripping himself from the awkward grip now three soldiers had him in. They were strong; non compliant. They wrestled with him for a moment before another doctor ushered him away.

“Here,” the doctor was saying, “bring him over here.”

 “Careful, I said he ain’t sick,” Tommy butt in, grimacing at the hold they had on his brother. “Joel, calm down. Everything’ll be okay, Joel. Just — Just calm down.”

The soldiers were dragging him to a nearby gurney. A few medical personnel were preparing a syringe somewhere off to his right. He sure as hell wasn’t going down without a fight, and every single thing he was doing was an indication of that. Somewhere, deep down, he could hear his brother. Calling for him to stop. Calling for him to settle down before they did something to him. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Maybe they should do something to him. Put him out of his misery. Or subject him to the same fate they subjected her to. It was a cruel thought that they’d spare him – that they’d do everything in their power not to hurt him in the way they hurt her.

They were wrestling him onto his back when his mouth finally caught up to his actions.

“My daughter!” He shouted. “My daughter. You took her.” He leered in the face of the nearest soldier, tears glistening in his eyes. “You took her.”

A needle was being pressed into his skin when a third voice spoke to him, calmly. Another doctor. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find her. I’m sure, wherever she is, she’ll be alright, if she’s not already.”

His next protests were weak as his body suddenly relaxed. His eyes fluttered just as Tommy came into view at his side. Tommy just stared at him. Horrified. Guilty. Sad. They both looked at each other, eyes mirroring one another and telling stories neither one of them were ready to say aloud.

–

2023.

The consequence of grief and sudden loss might be unique to the individual, but it is imminent for all individuals. No one can measure the actions or reactions of another. Neither can blame be given or taken away. The repercussions of any event are often cyclical, far outweighing descriptions or explanations. In any one situation, one might fall and another might rise. Or perhaps one and another might both fall. 

With loss, it’s typically the latter.

Joel’s gruff appearance was unmistakable to the people in the Boston QZ. Unsurprising. Like the rumor that swirled around about him after the day’s shifts ended and the people could return to their nightly rituals of whatever placated their poor souls — beer, pills, sex. The former two either stolen or traded for rations.

The rumor didn’t spread far — not past a block, maybe a sector at most. It was a cautious one. A woman told of her inability to toss a child’s body to the flames during her shift. An unforgiving job. A thankless act of service to the QZ that meant discarding the ones killed at the hands of those in authority — by Fedra. Infected. Suspected. Guilty (or not). Didn’t matter. Her story was one that stoked plenty of bitter, angry people who already hated the QZ for their wrongs and misdoings.

But it was Joel who stoked their feelings too — feelings of fear and avoidance. Wordlessly, he had tossed the lifeless child into the awaiting flames with as much absence of emotion as he always displayed. Unfeeling. Unapproachable. Never spoke a word but was somehow enough all on his own – enough to cause others to steer clear, to look away whenever he came around. 

The only one that could tolerate him, that could placate him, was Tess. Something she could use to her advantage and soak in the pleasure of.

Nearly a thousand miles away, you were pacing wordlessly outside a freezer in the back of a restaurant in downtown Chicago. A bitter cry had long-since been muted by the sounds of grunts and a flurry of punches before a familiar face stepped out. He didn’t say anything, even when he walked right by you and wiped his hands on a dirty rag.

You did as you always did — followed at his heels. “I don’t trust this guy, Dallas. He’s lying.”

“You never trust anyone.” His face was serious, but his voice carried humor. You rolled your eyes.

“And for good reason. He’s been lying since I found him by the old medical camp near Lincoln Park.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

He turned to look at you, eyes boring into yours for a few seconds. You were dropping your gaze before the intensity of it all could get too thick. For a moment, your attention bounced around the small kitchen. Your ears caught the quiet voices of your group outside — a good mix of men and women. 

Dallas turned fully, tossing the rag on the floor and standing in front of you with arms crossed over his chest. “What were you doing near the old med bay?”

“I told you.” Your voice had a dangerous edge to it. You shifted your weight to your other foot and finally met his gaze again. “I ran an errand.”

Unconvinced, Dallas nodded. “You were looking for him again, weren’t you?”

He commanded and barked orders well. You usually followed them — usually. But even he wasn’t stupid enough to mention his name aloud to you. Your sibling’s name was never spoken again after you revealed to Dallas that dark night twenty years earlier. But Dallas knew this was about him. He could tell in the way a muscle in your jaw jumped, and you looked away briefly. 

He chuckled. Dark. Low. “Look, I get it. You haven’t been back here in years, and I figured the thought of finding him’s been tempting you since Arizona. But you keep putting the group at risk, and I’ll have to abandon you.”

You snorted. “As if you’d leave me behind.”

“Watch me.” 

He was grinning, a certain humor in his tone that wasn’t in the least bit light or airy. There was nothing indicating that he wasn’t as serious as his darkened eyes meant to be. Something twisted in your stomach, heart plummeting, as your smile dropped at the thought. Only a moment went by before you forced the feeling away, choking the thick emotions down until the only thing you could feel was cold metal being pushed into your hand.

“If you don’t trust him,” Dallas muttered, stepping closer to you as he pressed the gun into your limp palm a bit firmer, “then end it.”

You swallowed quietly, taking the weapon and testing its weight without once looking up at him. You could feel him hovering over you. His heat dripped off of him and pooled at your feet. Deep. Menacing. Unforgiving. His request wasn’t the first time, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last. But this time, this one time, some part of you felt off. Something tugged at your lips until you unknowingly frowned down at the tigger your finger hovered over. 

Maybe it was the mention of him. Maybe your emotions were too high and your willingness finally waning. Maybe it was the sister waiting back at the old medical camp, looking for the brother you helped kidnapped and now held hostage in some worn-down freezer. 

“Is this really necessary?” You asked. “If he’s really lying, we can still use him.”

“And have them get to him? He’s a damn liar, sure, but he’s a traitor first. He knows what we did.”

“Yeah, but he did the same to them.” You finally looked back up at him, gun held loosely at your side. “For us. Remember? What else did we expect? For him not to turn on us, too?”

Dallas was quiet for a moment, a long moment. But the way he was peering down at you, with hooded eyes and clenched teeth, didn’t change for a second. “I’ve never stopped to question you. We are the only two here. I never left you.”

You knew what he was referencing. Suddenly the group just beyond the thin white door separating the kitchen from the dining area seemed too close, too imposing. Every person in your group was a new face. Their voices were still unfamiliar and discomforting to hear. Your old companions were either dead or dying, snitching to Fedra for brownie points or taking their chances on their own, and Dallas was all you had left...

 He measured the look on your face before leaning in further, adding, “Now’s your chance to prove your loyalty to me.”

Your eyes snapped up at him, mouth now partially agape. Everything you had done leading up to this point had been erased by that measly sentence. Your actions, however gruff and unforgiving, were whittled to nothing before your eyes, and you were made out to be a fraud. Weak. Someone incapable of returning the favor of protection or dishing it out in the first place. The thought made you sick.

With a low huff, you spun on your heels and walked determinedly back to the freezer. You threw open the door to find your old partner, Brett, tied haphazardly to a chair surrounded by two of your guys. At the sight of you, his eyes were blown wide and head shook furiously from side to side. He was shouting something: No. No. No— please, no. But you were already gone, doomed to proving what you had already proved time and time again.

It only took one steady aim before you pulled the trigger.

Your men stood, jaw slack, as Brett’s body fell with a sickening thump. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly as adrenaline seeped from your body in waves, nearly doubling over as a pain hit your chest. You sniffed, waving the barrel of the gun between the two men before pointing it in Brett’s direction.

“Clean this up.”

Perhaps — for you and for Joel and for anyone else — the mind and body’s first instinct is denial. Perhaps sorrow cannot be given a true voice. Perhaps acceptance is far more brutal than the precious time one can spare living a half truth. Whatever the reason, manifestations of pain and suffering matter little when grief goes unnoticed and the heart unattended.

[acatalystrising]

As fellow member of the Church of Boba Fett ♥ May I please have anything for the song 'Sunflower' - Post Malone.

Can be of Boba, can be anyone. No context (even tho I break this rule a lot lmao), any style, any pair, can be a wip, or just write it as you feel it, hear it, vibe to it. Anything. Go! ♥

*casually vibes* ♥

GAAHH my Boba bestie this took far too long to answer, and I am SO sorry you had to wait! Just had a death in the family so I had to take some time away to process. But I’m back with a lovely one shot that I had a blast writing!

The Church of Boba Fett needs as much content of our beloved green tin can man as possible, and I hope this was worth the wait 💚🖤

Boba Fett knew you wanted him.

It wasn’t a matter of an overly inflated ego on his part or a lack of obvious flirtation on yours. To put it simply, you were pure sunlight, something brilliant and blazing in his often bloodstained world of crime and order. Something untarnished by the very violence he’d been born into.

The violence he’d committed.

It wasn’t even so simple to say he didn’t deserve you. Yes, that would be true, however dramatic a statement in his opinion, but there was something else. Something that itched in the back of his brain even as he watched you from atop his throne, seated near the back of the room, engaged in conversation with several people who, from his perspective, would easily kill you for the right price.

He cared for you, truly, truly cared. And Boba knew that logically, the best way to protect you was either to send you away, or claim you as his own. None would dare lay a finger on you if you were his. He’d ensure it.

But still, he hesitated.

At the end of the day, it was a simple truth. A manacle over the proverbial ankle, truths clamping down to tight they might as well have choked him.

You were fiery, passionate. Full of vigor and sparks, so capable. But you were also innocent. Untouched by the bloodshed he knew like breathing. And he could not, in good conscience, pull you into a world you were never meant to be a part of.

He sighed, his breath hot and weighty on his lips. His armor suddenly felt too heavy on his chest. Even heavier as the hours bled to the evening, visitors finally slipping out of the throne room for the evening. But not you - as stubborn as Fennec in so many ways, who made her point quite painfully made via a raised eyebrow, followed by a smirk, then her final wink as she left the room.

Boba was very grateful for his helmet when you stood, shyly ambling toward his throne under the guise of cleaning, nimble fingers picking up pieces of trash that littered the ground. For some reason it made him angry. You were too pretty to lower yourself so.

Damn it. He was too attached.

“Don’t worry about that, mesh’la.” His voice cut through the room, tone a tad harsher than he’d intended. “Leave it for the droids.”

You blinked, finally looking up at him, then glancing away in an unsuccessful attempt to hide your blush. Stars, you were like a sunflower. Radiant, ethereal, and too perfect for his broken hands to sully.

“Okay,” you dipped your head in acknowledgment, still hovering on no move feet, as if waiting for something. Disguising with with a nervous dusting of the throne’s steps.

Words hovered unspoken, thick as the tension in the air. Worry wove into your brows like a sudden change of weather, tension of an oncoming storm. Did you think he wasn’t interested? How could he let you down easy? Tell you that he was interested, but…

But, what?

Kriffing damn it. Boba Fett was afraid. Afraid of hurting you, of marring your sunshine. Of not being good enough for you.

“Well, it’s getting late. If you need anything, just let me know.” You dipped your head in a goodbye that came across too hasty, clothing rustling as you went to flee.

The sight made everything in Boba revolt.

“Wait.” The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself. You spun on your heels, expression undeniably hopeful. Oh gods, this was too much. “We need to talk, little one.”

You blushed at the moniker, but swallowed hard as you approached.

“I…”

“You don’t have to do this.” You cut him off with surprising bravado, hands clenched at your sides until they were shaking. “You don’t have to let me down easy. I’m not stupid, neither are you. Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done: letting me work here, protecting me, giving me a chance to get back on my feet. Nothing has to change. I’m…used to it.”

Boba blinked behind his helmet, shock rippling through him like a tidal wave. Stars, she was more perceptive than he thought. There was a strength to her he hadn’t previously seen, and also…an old wound. Maker, he’d been a kriffing jerk.

“What,” he kept his tone soft, lacking the harsh edge it normally carried. “Are you used to?”

It was your turn to blink. Clearly, you weren’t expecting the question.

“I…” you nervously crossed your arms, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I’m…used to…being ignored. People don’t look at me and see someone worth pursuing. Just,” you looked up, meeting his unseen gaze, “well, just someone who is useful. And that’s okay, you know. I’m happy here, truly, and I don’t need anything else other than-“

“Easy there,” he gently interrupted your rambling, the words softer than even he thought possible. You blinked again, but pointedly refused to meet his gaze. “Look at me, sweet girl.”

After a moment’s hesitation, you obeyed, and something in him constricted in pain when he saw the tears forming in your eyes. Boba chose his next words carefully.

“I‘ve never ignored you. Always noticed your smile.” He removed his helmet with a sigh, meeting your gaze with his own. “You deserve someone as bright and lovely as you - someone who can usher you into new depths of love and happiness. I’m broken, scarred, a killer…”

“You think that would stop me?” Your voice was surprisingly strong despite the tear that slipped down your cheek. “You think I haven’t already thought of that? Boba…I know who you are. What you are. And that’s why…I find you so endearing. Why I want to be with you.”

You thought him endearing? Boba could barely believe it, if not for the sincerity in your tone. He fell silent, pondering your words, and you stood there, braving his silence, wiping the tear away with a trembling finger.

Finally, at long last, Boba caved. He couldn’t hold back any longer, or deny you what he felt you both knew to be true. And he’d left you waiting long enough.

“Come here, little one,” he held out an arm like a white flag, and you didn’t hesitate to approach. He guided you onto his lap, holding you close against his chest, and felt you relax against him. “This okay?”

You nodded eagerly, curling closer, fingers clutching the fabric at his shoulder.

“I want you, mesh’la.” His voice was a low rumble as he caressed your cheek, making you shiver. “If you’ll have me.”

“I want you too,” your affirmation was like a song in his ears. “I want to be yours. Only yours.”

“Then you will be mine, little sunflower.” He ran a hand though your hair, then your jaw, fingertips lingering on your chin and lifting your lips to his. “Always.”

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

4. Use Mañana's key to unlock the door.

DOOR, BASEMENT APARTMENT - You try to be as silent as you can. It takes a bit of rattling of the handle to loosen the bolt.

Finally, the door unlocks with a small clack. Thoughts race through your head...

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - The sound of the key turning still echoes in the yard. Hopefully no one heard.

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] - Well buddy, you opened it. No need to go inside. It would be *rude*.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] - Only *curiosity* could account for stepping over that threshold. Maybe there's treasure in there? A white alligator? A fountain of quicksilver?

LOGIC [Medium: Success] - There *might* be important information in the apartment... I mean... there *might*...

We've gone to all this trouble, we can't *not* go in.

🎵 We Are Not Checkmated

The smell of disinfectant in the room. Smells like chemicals.

Whoever lives here admires fair-haired fantasy heroes with big muscles.

You can almost feel the warmth of the red sun on the flag.

ENCYCLOPEDIA - This is the flag of Revachol the Suzerainty.

What's with the sun?

That's good to know. [Discard thought.]

ENCYCLOPEDIA - This isn't just one sun, but there are little suns dancing around the big one. This is the Sevenfold Sun Miracle.

What's the Sevenfold Sun Miracle?

That's good to know. [Discard thought.]

ENCYCLOPEDIA - It's an optical atmospheric anomaly the first settlers saw. Happens in cold weather: six small suns around the big one. This complex halo-phenomena is how old Revachol got its flag.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] - It is but one of the many strange *optic-atmospheric* phenomenon on this wondrous archipelago. You're sure you once saw sundogs -- in your youth. And blue flares....

"Lieutenant -- the old flag of the Suzerain." (Point)

Bow down before the flag. [Finish thought.]

Don't bow to the flag. [Finish thought.]

KIM KITSURAGI - "Mhm." He looks around the apartment. "The tenant is an *old fashioned* guy."

2. Don't bow to the flag. [Finish thought.]

ENCYCLOPEDIA - The flag doesn't seem to mind, it's just a colourful fabric with a sun sewn onto it. Like all feudal flags, it looks like a children's drawing.

A book tilted "The Hidden World of Walking Sticks" lies open.

COLONIAL MUG COLLECTION - A row of mugs sits on the shelf. Each one depicts a human figure: a dark-skinned woman grinning amidst mysterious symbols, a broad-shouldered man shovelling potatoes, and others.

Tap on the mugs.

Move on from the mugs. [Leave.]

COLONIAL MUG COLLECTION - A little ring. Though cheerful, the images on the ceramic make you vaguely uncomfortable.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - There's something disdainful in the way the curves and lines of the bodies were drawn.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - The images betray a lack of interest in human beings. They are merely unflattering caricatures.

What do I mean *uncomfortable*?

EMPATHY - The owner of these mugs doesn't like people of other ethnicities very much.

Typical asshole.

So what? They can think what they want. This is a free world.

Thanks, good to know. I have no opinion on this.

EMPATHY - This person is unhappy.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant picks up one of the mugs, then puts it back down with a look of disdain.

"I'm beginning to feel better about breaking into this man's apartment."

2. Whip out your Yellow Man mug and compare.

COLONIAL MUG COLLECTION - Yes, your broken mug friend would feel very much at home here. The same humour, the same mocking lines...

KIM KITSURAGI - "There's the missing tin soldier," the lieutenant looks at the mugs next to each other. "Whoever lives here might have used the Whirling's container to dump his trash..."

"And now they've drawn the ire of the Union. The plot thickens, as they say."

LOGIC [Easy: Success] - An interesting little clue. Let's see where this goes. Clues have a way of magically connecting to other clues -- down the road.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Perhaps you should break into apartments more often?

3. "Do you really think it's the same person who put the dead man's clothes in the trash?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "Who knows?" The lieutenant opens his notebook. "I'm not expecting too much from this *clothes in the trash* lead either way. It might turn out to be some random local matter. But still -- a nice coincidence."

+5 XP

LOGIC [Medium: Success] You could ask Evrart who this person is? Once you're done here...

4. Move on from the mugs. [Leave.]

INTERISOLARY DRESS SHIRT

+1 Logic: Good with numbers

Pressed and spotless gleaming white shirt. The kind that serious men wear -- at serious interisolary offices. (Not yet piss-soaked or cum-stained.)

With this, we can theoretically pass Challenging Logic passives now.

Some more Magnesium here. I really would prefer to find some Nosaphed.

A small suitcase full of clothes. Guests are staying over?

*There* we go.

That's everything in the apartment. Now we've just got to report this to Evrart. Maybe he's found our gun in the meantime?

It might also be worth telling Joyce about this. In the interest of *open communication*.

[zarathelonewolf]

GACHIAKUTA 116 AKA I HATE THE RESULT. OF THE USA ELECTIONS BUT I LOVE GACHIAKUTA SO I WILL FOCUS ON THAT

This is literally what it says on the tin.

I will not bore you with a discussion on the elections. They were shit. Period. I hate that Harris lost.

Someone liked the previous version of this post which I just eliminated because I have now posted THIS post, after erroneously thinking that Tumblr hadn't registered it (it was not showing on my blog). Sorry for the person that liked the previous post, @orngbanana, this is the actual post.

Having said that I need to distract myself from the mess, so I shall talk about Gachiakuta's 116 Issue, my oh my, such good things it gave me! Since, you know, THREE OF MY MAIN POOKIES ARE IN IT! AT THE SAME TIME! AND THEY'RE ALL GORGEOUS!

Let's talk about it!

As we suspected, there is a huge chunk of history between the moment that the Sphere and Ground split from each other, and the moment Rudo fell. There are records of those lost times, however they haven't been kept well, or maybe they've been censored.

Corvus wants to investigate them. He wants to obtain the lost info. Like Kuro as well. Which makes me think that Corvus and Kuro really are the same person: Corvus's goal of Finding Out What Happened After Whatever The Heck It Was That Split The World In Two™ and Kuro's goal of Gaining Back The Memories Missing From My Brain Who Has Shapeshifted Too Much™ can align and coincide. Also, if the first Cleaner Corvus references is the same as the "friend" he mentions, and it ends up being Canis, there's little room for theories that don't have "they're the same person" as an outcome.

Corvus is being too hard on himself in my opinion. Of course he's a leader and carries responsibility for the Cleaners, however the Cleaners themselves are "using" the organization for their own wants and needs, like protection, a sense of belonging, a search for power. Rudo himself has his own goal. He also finds Arkha to be a honest man, and is surprised upon hearing the opinion Arkha has of his actions. To Rudo, being honest has a greater importance than being "righteous". "Righteousness" has led to Rudo's fall.

Rudo himself makes Arkha notice the bigger picture, I think. He "accepts" Corvus's need to "use him", especially because Corvus has proclaimed that he wants to help Rudo. Rudo makes Corvus realize that what him and the Cleaners have is a "collaboration" and not "exploitation", since both sides get something they are looking for.

I really like the detail of Corvus's eye tattoo closing and crying. Rudo's growth warms my heart just as much as yours, big guy.

Now, unto Zodyl!

...

Yeesh.

...

YEESH!

This boi has a lot of trauma!

So, we finally get a glimpse into the man's past, and it is not pleasant.

I have two theories about this, and they all derive from the obvious implication that the people carrying Zodyl away from his mother and sister are trash worshipers.

There are two theories in my mind: the Initiation Ritual one, and the Kidnapping one.

INITIATION RITUAL: The tribe of trash worshipers has a ceremony that decides whether or not they have worshiped trash correctly, and if there are bad things coming for them in the future. It is also a ritual of initiation for their children, who will be "blessed" by the trash that falls upon them. Their children are brought in the spot where the trash storm happens and left there. I assume that both the children that die and those that survive the trash storm are considered blessed due to the simple fact that they could stand underneath the godly trash as it fell, and yet at the same time, if a lot of children die it means that the tribe didn't worship trash correctly or that the following years are going to be harsh... Or maybe they think the opposite, that it is good because the children didn't die of old age or disease but because the trash touched them? Idk. Zodyl doesn't want to undergo the ritual, and I shall assume that he does not want his sister to do so, either: his mother is an ambiguous figure to me, is she protesting it too, reaching for her son like he is reaching for her? Or does she stand to the side, allowing the ceremony to take place? Does she approve or was she forced into silence?

KIDNAPPING THEORY: Maybe the trash worshipers are so devout to the trash that they think everyone, even those that don't want to worship it, should have contact with it. That could be why Zodyl is resisting the "baptism" so much (though it could also be true if he was raised among the worshipers but I digress).

Welp! No matter which of these theories is true, the first one seems very plausible to me. Zodyl seems to hate the Sphere's methods of waste disposal for sure, and he seems to consider trash worshipers as very naive on the surface, and if full for hatred for them deep inside. They "took" something from him: maybe his family died under the trash storm. He emerged victorious though... And vowed to take instead of having stuff be taken from him. He isn't going to be deprived again: he shall be the one to make the first move.

Lastly, I am thinking that the peak of sadness for Zodyl would be the origin of his coat's power.

Watchman Jinki seem to have a penchant for choosing owners that have a lot of trauma, deeply rooted issues, and empty void to fill. The coat, I assume, is no exception. He adapted to Zodyl due to his upbringing, and as a consequence, gave itself the power... to shapeshift according to what he eats.

I had a "wait a minute" vine moment, but thanks to Reddit and my good little brain, I managed to figure out why, and it hinges heavily on the first theory, according to which Zodyl and family were raised among trash worshipers.

Trash worshipers also accept the moldy, ruined food that ends up falling from the sky as organic waste. I can only assume that trash worshipers also eat said organic waste, in order to be "one with the trash" or some shit.

This can easily be classified as traumatic. I doubt Zodyl liked eating moldy food, or scavenging moldy food. So maybe that's what the coat latched onto when it bonded with Zodyl.

I am reminded of Kuro's words about Zodyl, about the fact that Zodyl seems to be hiding the weaknesses of his powers from his Raiders. But I think the secret he keeps is deeper, I believe he is hiding his own weakness, his own longing that the coat manages to fill.

Urana's tweet about the sandwich Zodyl ate being made by Cthoni gives me even more happiness, comfort and relief than it did before. Even though Zodyl appears emotionless and is probably suppressing a lot of stuff, mainly with the help of the coat, someone has his back. Someone cares, even though he cannot bring himself to do so ever again and prefers being detached and practical.

Some questions this chapter raised:

Why weren't Enjin and Tamzy shown when Corvus explained that everyone in the Cleaners has their own goal? Is it because Corvus hasn't figured out what Enjin's deal is, and because he isn't sure of what Tamzy wants anymore because Tamzy is now suspicious in Corvus's eyes?

To what extent are the Raiders aware of Zodyl's past? Is Cthoni the closest to him?

The obvious one of "Are Corvus and Kuro the same person?"

Are these trash worshipers going to be more relevant than simple plot devices to explain Zodyl's worldview? Are they tied to the reason why the Sphere keeps throwing trash on the ground?

Is Canis the First Cleaner and/or Corvus's friend?

Having said that, happy life to everyone! Be like the populace of the Ground: keep living, stay safe, keep forging bonds with others and finding joy into the little things and that which society discards!