#i might fix this up later or make another post i have an insane headache rn bye

[boatemboys]

sorry for a bit of a ramble im feeling silly but like joel this season is so so different in terms of like . he didnt become red early on AND he had gem by his side, whos got a sort of chill presence shes like if "im a chill guy" was personified if that makes sense which made joels usual kind of erratic nervousness kind of balanced out (?) Which yeah ppl have mentioned that but ALSO hes just not making enemies out of everyone ?? like ppl are going after him instead of the other way around + he even goes out of his way and just gives diamonds to like lizzie and jimmy, creeper eggs to tango, helping grian from the vexes too, going along with etho etc etc

and like i think his attachment to his allies is so so important like in every series he cares so much and it comes off as aggressive and he takes a lot of risks but this season hes just kinda chillin tbh . chillin and carin. and winnin . (cue outro music)

honestly not much to add like. idk his allies are usually unstable or just straight up nonexistent and i think having gem as an ally might be The Best Thing To Ever Happen To Him......... his last true allies imo were limlife (i love the mounders but he quite literally lived over a hill away + the entire alliance was based on a very "trust nobody" attitude. think them all running from each other the moment secrets were given while other teams would stick together) and look i LOVE the bad boys but. theyre so chaotic. and like u said gems very chill in her own way. having kind loyal trusting allies made him more kind loyal and trusting as a result

[tenthgrove]

500 Followers Celebration!!!: Part 2 (Yandere Sorbet and Gelato Oneshot)

Apologies for almost forgetting to post this. It's a little something I wrote back in May but never shared with more than a few people. Anyway, I'm shameless, and to celebrate 500 followers I'm releasing it into the wild.

Content warnings: non-consensual drug use, needles (both only mentioned) and typical yandere stuff.

You aren’t certain what the dream was about. It wasn’t a nightmare, you’re certain, but the concrete themes evade you. What you can remember in retrospect, however, is the distinct feeling that something was wrong in the waking world around you. It was as though your rational mind knew, that when the dream ended, the life you would wake up to would be changed irreparably.

The first thing to be said about the room you awake to is that it’s dark. Not the usual dark of your bedroom at night but truly, pitch black. There’s something different about the… aura, as well. Maybe it’s the scent, maybe it’s the feel of your sheets, maybe its the position you’re lying in. This is not your bed.

Your panic rises by the second. Any hope you might still be dreaming is quickly put down to idle hope. Everything about this feels so real. You are struck by the need to get up, to figure out where you are, and kick off the sheets. That’s when you hear rattling. Your arm is heavy. You reach down and feel the cold presence of limp chain at your side. There’s a shackle too, locked around your wrist with no room to wriggle free. If there’s any more proof you needed of what’s happened to you, this is it.

The panic overtakes you. You thrash desperately, pulling at your chain and whimpering in terror. There’s a clicking noise and something pulls free. You become aware of a second item tied around your wrist. It’s a thin string, with nothing attached. You realise with terror that it was some sort of trip-wire.

All possible courses of action spring to your mind too late as footsteps make their way down towards you. There’s multiple people, it sounds like, which doesn’t speak well for your chances. Bundling up your sheets, you huddle against the wall as the door swings open. A light switch flicks on.

As your dark-strained eyes adjust to the light, you are met with the figures of two men. The first, hand still lingering on the switch as he eyes you back, is a slender, dark-dressed man with black hair to match his clothes. The man beside him is smaller and slightly pudgier. His wild green eyes peak out from under his messy yellow hair. His gaze fixes on you, before dissolving into an expression that could be fear, excitement or both. He suddenly lurches forwards. His hands grip your shoulders firmly.

“Oh, look at you!” he coos. You force yourself to meet his gaze and see the wildness with which he looks at you. “Oh Sorbet, aren’t they pretty! Look at them Sorbet, they’re just wonderful!” The hyperactive man stumbles back as though wanting to get a better look at you. His hand is clasped over his mouth like you’re some puppy he just found at the shelter. The taller man takes hold of him from behind and rubs his arms affectionately. His mouth turns up into a small smile.

“Yes my darling, they’re beautiful,” he agrees. “But you shouldn’t touch them just yet. They might still be delirious from the drugs. All said,” he eyes you critically. “They shouldn’t be awake this soon.”

“Does it hurt sweetie?” his partner asks. There’s an uncanny, authentic concern to question that somehow turns your stomach more.

“N-no,” you stammer, keeping your eyes trained on the concrete floor. Truth be told, you’ve got a bit of a headache and the back of your throat pangs with nausea, but it isn’t bad enough to tell them. You decide to keep it to yourself.

“Did you give them that second dose in the end, Gelato?” the calmer man, you believe his name was Sorbet, asks. He approaches you casually and kneels down, pressing a hand to your forehead. “No fever anyway, so it doesn’t look like there’s been a reaction.”

“No. You said not to do it if they seemed fast asleep enough, so I didn’t,” Gelato answers.

“Well, there you have it then,” Sorbet says, apparently satisfied of your good health as he stands back up.

“I could always go find some more of the stuff. If you need more time to get everything ready for them,” Gelato proposes. Sorbet’s eyes flick up and down you as though contemplating what to do with you. He shrugs.

“Probably best to save it. I’d say we’ve already done everything we need to do, so they might as well stay awake for a bit,” he surmises. “Well.” He reaches forward and presses something, a key, you realise when you lean back far enough to look, into a slot on the grate attaching your chain to the wall. It falls free of the wall and chinks onto the ground.

Sorbet leans down again. You realise with a cold sweat that he’s trying to pick you up. Your attempts to scurry into the corner are quickly halted by a sharp yank to your chain, and a moment later you’re lifted against Sorbet’s chest, your faced pressed into the crook of his neck. “Could you please do the door for me, Gel? I’m taking them to the bathroom.” he asks. Gelato mutters something eager and hurries off to open the door from him. You struggle lightly in Sorbet’s hold and he silently presses two fingers against your neck. You take the warning and go still in fear.

Sorbet carries you up a flight of stairs and into the hall of, by all appearances, an ordinary residential house. It’s night, but a warm yellow ceiling lamp sheds light on your surroundings. The walls are a pale, turquoise green, accented by a white wood skirting that runs along the bottom metre. To your left you can see an archway into a clean but cluttered kitchen, lights off, and another staircase is ahead of you bending around to your right. To your right, along the hallway you’ve been carried into, are two more doors, one at the end and one perpendicular to it, the latter of which Sorbet leads you into. Peering over his shoulder, Gelato follows behind you. He catches your gaze and smiles sweetly. You quickly look down at the floor.

Sorbet flicks another switch and another light turns on, along with the gentle humming of ventilation. You adjust your eyes to see that you’re in a small, downstairs bathroom. Furnished with a toilet, sink and shower. Sorbet sits you down on the lid of the toilet and kneels down in front of you.

“You look disorientated. Are you sure you aren’t in any pain?” he asks.

“Just a little,” you admit. Your words a little slurred. “My head hurts. ‘Feel sick too.”

Sorbet sighs.

“You should have told us, (y/n),” he asserts, a hint of frustration, in his voice. That was your name. They know your name somehow. You mumble an apology.

“Oh darling. I’ll have to get you some paracetamol. You really should have said! Oh, and also a bucket for if you get sick in the night. Maybe some ice?”

As Gelato rambles from the doorway, Sorbet pulls a pack of wipes from the sink cabinet and starts to pat down your arms, wiping away the layer of crusted blood. Your heart stills. You didn’t notice that before.

“Why is there blood?” you ask weakly, eyes fixed on the sight. Sorbet dabs away at what appears to be the centre of the wound. His free hand rubs your knuckles slightly.

“You fought back, don’t you remember? Some defensive damage was inevitable,” he answers you.

“No!” you refute, louder than you intended. “I don’t remember anything like that. I don’t know howI got here.”

“Ah,” Sorbet responds. “I imagine that’s from what we gave you,” he explains. A few images flash across the back of your mind. Broken glass. Screaming, fighting. The feeling of being pinned to the floor. Your stomach twitches and you swallow back tears.

“What’s the matter sweetie? You look sad,” Gelato notices. No shit you’re sad. You’ve just been snatched from your home and yet to receive any guarantee you’ll live until morning. There’s a part of you that wants to scream these thoughts to them, but you’re too paralysed by fear and tiredness to do so. The tears start to run.

“Oh darling, darling!” Gelato hushes you, rushing over to wipe your eyes. “Don’t cry, it’s okay! We’re going to look after you!”

“Caro, you’re very good to them but I doubt any of that will work right now. They’re too worked up,” Sorbet notes. You sob into your lap as Gelato caresses your shoulder.

“We can’t just leave them like this, Sorbet. Not alone,” he shivers.

“Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it’s best we put them out again after all. We’ll be better ready to deal with this in the morning,” Sorbet suggests.

“Yes, that’s probably for the best, come on Sweetie, let’s get you back to bed shall we?” Gelato takes your chain and starts to haul you back towards the stairs to the basement, with Sorbet following close behind. When the dark of the basement hits you again, you’re just about ready to fall asleep, but you’re still aware enough to note the peculiar furnishings you missed before.

The mattress you woke up on is tucked away in the corner, swarmed with cushions, pillows and blankets. There’s a small cabinet next to it, along with a table a few feet away with a TV on it. On the other end of the room is a mini-fridge, next to a large empty case of shelves. Are those all… for you?

Gelato guides you to sit down on the mattress, wrapping a blanket around you and fluffing up a pillow as though trying to get you to lie down. As he does so, you’re vaguely aware of Sorbet slotting your chain back into the wall and locking it in place. He looks you up and down again, for a moment seeming to fixate on the stream of tears that run down your cheeks.

“I’m going to go for a minute now. I’ll come back with something to help you sleep. Is that okay, hmm?”

You nod weakly. Honestly, you’re so insanely terrified right now, that falling asleep truly sounds like the better option even if it renders you at their mercy. Sorbet adjusts the blanket around you.

“Alright, sit tight sweetheart. I’ll be back in just a moment,” he promises. He leaves you alone with Gelato. For a moment, the second man is quiet, a hint of something in his eyes that looks like sadness. He sits down next to you and rubs your fingers.

“I’ll stay with you until he comes back, okay?” he offers. You give a quiet hum of acknowledgement, staring straight ahead as your mind starts to dissociate. “It’s really nothing to worry about,” Gelato says. “Just a tiny prick in your arm and then you fall asleep in a few minutes. You’ve done it before, anyway, and we won’t give you so much this time.”

You don’t answer him. He goes still for a little, perhaps unsure of what to say, then pulls you in close against his shoulder. “You’re wonderful,” he tells you.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him faintly.

“Because we love you.”

“Why?” you implore him. Before he can answer that you fall into renewed tears. Gelato’s voice seems to fade away from you as he frantically tries to calm you. You shut your eyes and hope for this to end. Whatever this is. You’re scared, and you just want to go home. You just want to stop this feeling of fear.

[chelleztjs18]

I'm great actually! These past few weeks have felt like a dream and I really can't get enough of it :)

Oh no D: I'm sorry to hear that! That all sounds draining and shitty in general tbh

Ah same, I hate summer with a passion simply because of the heat. I can't stand it so I'm stoked that summer is ending as well! I've always loved thunderstorms, so that actually sounds super dope. I'm still in Michigan (I think I told you? I'm not sure either lol) but it rains a lot here and I always enjoy it :)

I'm a little sad to see Lost In Assistance go if I'm being honest, I think I grew so attached to them that it's hard to see them go.. They better get their happy ending because they deserve it after all they've been through 😭

I read your Nat fic and it was lovely! R being drunk added a bit of lightheartedness to it which was fun. The angst? Chef's kiss, you nailed it. Think my favorite part of it was when R wanted Wanda to "fix her" up, it made me laugh and the banter was soo good, it felt v real :) I see you have another one coming soon n I'm looking forward to it!

Okay, now for your dark Wanda fic. This one was a TRIP to say the least. Obviously when you go into dark fics, you know to expect wild stuff, but this was something. The build-up was enjoyable, then Chad's dumbass being brought along for the ride (his last😭) was just crazy, then to tie it all off with Wanda messing with your memories was good. I liked it a lot.. which probably sounds a bit insane but oh well

I write for all three actually, though I technically haven't posted anything for Nat yet, I'm hoping to change that soon (er or later with the way this writer's block is going 🙃)

I know this response is kinda sorta late (time moves very fast) and I do apologize! I plan on talking to you more often from now on! I hope life has been treating you decently as of late despite everything that's happened :>

- 🗿 <3

Hiiii you!

How are you and how is everything with you?

I'm so glad to hear back from you! Sorry for the delayed but I'm excited to answer your ask!

I'm so glad to hear that you are great. Oh what happened these past few weeks? Can I guess? You sound like you are in love and just got into a relationship. :D just a wild guess. But pls do tell me what happened the past few weeks to you? I would love to hear your happy story too, if you are comfortable with it.

Yes, at that time was pretty bad for me. I was emotionally drained but when I felt better, I got covid. It was one after another but I'm okay now even though I still feel something funny with my throat and cough a bit.

I know, right? Summer is draining. especially if it has high humidity. I heard that winter here even if it's snowy, we still have chances of tornadoes. It's crazy. It says that it can get really cold here. So i'm looking forward to it, even though it might be too cold for me but it's still better than summer. lol

I start to like Oklahoma more though. I once went back to California, it was good for food wise and met families / friends again but if I compared to this small country-ish city where I live now, I like it better than California. It's because after I live here for few months, the hectic vibe, crowd and traffic felt worse. haha. So I see the silver line from moving to Oklahoma. I think I'm sensitive with situation that has too many people or too much noise. It gives me anxiety. Especially if it's too many people/crowd, it makes me feel trapped and claustrophobic. n it gets worse when there is too much noise.

Does sound or noise can gives you headache/anxiety too? I will explain more in the next ask, after you. :)

Also, I think I forgot to share you the news that 3 months ago, I got my U.S citizenship! Yaay!

About Lost In Assistance, yes it is sad for me too that it's almost over and on the last chapter. I'm working on it but too be honest it is so hard to jump back in writing ch.65 . I don't know why, maybe subconsciously I don't want it to end? Not sure. But I gotta get it done. About the ending, hmmm I'm not gonna give you spoiler. lol. Do they get happy ending? We'll see.. hahaha. :D also thank you for being attached to that story. I appreciate it.

Yaaaay, I'm glad you read my first Nat fic and you enjoyed it. It was fun writing it. I was actually nervous if people would love it or not but so far it gets pretty good responds and I appreciate every single of it. It was my first Nat fic and it felt a little weird in a good way also interesting to write Wanda as R's best friend because I have always write her as R's love interest.

And yes, I actually have 2 more Nat fics coming. I hope you will like them as well.

Oh, my first dark Wanda fic, It is actually one of fics that I'm really proud writing it. I love that fic because it was my original idea and the "darkness" of it came out as how I wanted / pictured it. Haha don't worry, I don't think it's insane if you like it a lot. I'm thinking it is more insane that I enjoyed writing it. lol. I have 2 dark Wanda dark fics and also another one that's my original idea as well.

Oh, that's good that you write for 3 of them. I'm sorry you have a writer block. I really wish I could help. Brainstorming is fun.

Don't worry about replying me late, I understand. I sometimes reply late too. I'm looking forward to talk with you more often and will reply faster. I'm doing okay, still have ups and downs in my days. Today I had a situation with one weird cringey follower in Wattpad that I have to talk a little harder for her to stop messaging me and I had to block her. Other than that, everything is okay. Same shit different days. lol

Talk soon! Cheerio!

[cablesscutie]

34. “I just want to be there for you.” Zutara, For the fluff prompt list please ☺️

Hello!! You sent me this a very long time ago and then my brain was bad and ground to a screeching halt, but I have been thinking about it this whole time! And now my brain has finally allowed me to make words again these past few weeks, so here it is:

PART 1 \\ PART 2

Even after seeing pictures of Zuko convinces Katara to tentatively agree to Ty Lee’s hairbrained scheme, she still tells herself that she has time to bail. If she really decides that she doesn’t need a date after all, she can just cancel on him and tell Aang her date had food poisoning or something. If worst comes to worst, she can claim that she has food poisoning too and escape the entire mortifying ordeal altogether. Zuko is just an option.

This is the constant refrain in her mind week after week as the date of the wedding approaches, and Katara gets somehow less enthusiastic about it with each passing day. She thinks it as she lets Suki shove her into a fitting room, laden with figure-hugging dresses. She thinks it as she scrolls quickly past Instagram posts counting down the days, politely liking them faster than she can process the sight of fairy lights and mason jars. She thinks it as she impulsively adds a leg waxing to her bi-monthly spa day with Toph. Zuko is just an option.

Just an option with arms that look like they would feel strong and secure around her, and a shy smile, and who’s sweet and playful with kids. Katara lets out a long, frustrated groan and presses her forehead to her desk, rolling it back and forth in a futile attempt to rub out the impending headache of a Friday afternoon. A moment later, she hears the telltale rattle of Suki’s office chair, and then her friend is rolling to a stop beside her.

“You good?” she asks, brushing aside Katara’s hair so she can see her face.

“No,” she sighs, annoyed.

“Is it the rehearsal dinner? Because if you don’t want to go, I can just say you got held late at work.”

“No, no. That’ll be...fine, probably. It’s this whole wedding date thing.”

“Oh do not tell me you’re still being all wishy-washy about it.”

“It just feels like a weird thing to do! I’m just going to show up at my ex’s wedding with this random dude? How will that look?”

“Um, probably like you’ve moved on? Which you have. Objectively. You even had a whole other relationship.”

“Really? Because I think it’ll look like I’m jealous and trying not to be.”

Suki fixes her with disbelieving eyebrows and a laugh. “Trust me, babe. Nobody is going to think that you’re the one that left that relationship pining. You were basically his mom. If this was Jet’s wedding...eh, maybe? But you tend to settle.”

Katara isn’t quite sure if Suki is trying to insult her or compliment her with that statement, and she isn’t sure if her kneejerk, “Hey!” is out of a desire to defend her judgement, or her past partners’ character. Regardless, she doesn’t have much after that to refute the point. Aang seems like a functional enough adult now, a few years out of college, but when they had dated, the “teen” in his nineteen years definitely showed. As for Jet, her much more recent cut, he was...vibing.

“Hon, you’re gonna be fine. I’ve heard Ty Lee and Mai talk about Zuko before, and he sounds like a decent guy. At worst, you have a meh date and escape some social awkwardness, but-” the upward tilt of Suki’s voice had Katara on edge, knowing what was coming next.

“Please, no -”

“- it could be good.”

“No, it can’t be.”

“Ty Lee seems really confident about you two, and you know she’s got a creepy good love radar. After all, she’s the one who convinced me not to block your brother when he slid into my DM’s. Even you told me to block him.”

“She does not have love radar. I love her, but the girl is an unstoppable meddler; she was bound to have a hit once,” Katara dismisses. It’s true that Sokka and Suki are adorable now, and perhaps evidence of the existence of soulmates, but Katara maintains that Ty Lee is a hopeless romantic who believes anything could be the start of an epic love story.

“Fine, be a cynic then. But you’ve already acknowledged that he’s hot, so just go to the wedding with him, and maybe finally rebound from Jet.”

“Hmm,” Katara hums noncommittally.

She’s something of a serial monogamist. She’d left her first real relationship with Aang intending on a summer fling to cleanse her palate before going back for her senior year. After a whirlwind month with the mature and worldly Jiang, she’d been looking into online classes, all but ready to move onto her houseboat and sail away into the sunset. Until Suki pointed out that it was an insane plan, and the ultimately parted ways as planned when Jiang set out to sea again. From there, she had fallen in with Jet as a friend with benefits to blow off steam through her last year without leaving herself open to distraction.

He wasn’t the kind of stable presence she could see herself settling down with, but wasn’t looking to be babied either. No, Jet was more of a feral creature. He knew he was dysfunctional and was fine with it, because function was the system and the system was bogus. Then, she got to know him, and realized that he kept people at a distance for much the same reason she was always pulling them too close. Suddenly, she had grand dreams of showing him the healing power of love, and both of them breaking free of their pain, never needing to fear being alone ever again. He cheated on her, and even as she was shouting at him, she’d known deep down that they had both just repeated their same bad habits all over again.

Now, there is Zuko. Zuko, with tragedy in his scarred eye, and sadness in his smile, but gentle hands on little legs resting on his shoulders. Katara thinks she could make many bad habits out of Zuko, and she is not too proud to admit that it terrifies her. Her stomach turns, and she thinks it might not even be a lie by the time she tells Zuko she’s suddenly too sick to attend the wedding.

The nausea gets worse at the rehearsal dinner, when she walks in to find Jet there, grinning at a bridesmaid. Suki hauls her over to Aang to give him a dressing-down for inviting him, and Katara is somehow reminded in the span of five minutes why she is extremely glad to be rid of both of them.

“I didn’t think it would be a problem!” Aang says, his usual defense. “And he is my friend - we go rock climbing together.”

“Small world,” Suki snarls, and Aang goes wide-eyed, leaning around her to look beseechingly at Katara.

“I swear, I didn’t think you were avoiding each other! After all, we’re exes, and it’s my wedding, but that’s not weird. So I figured you wouldn’t have a problem being in the same room as your other ex.”

Katara grits her teeth behind glossy lips that she forces into a smile, and despite Suki’s murder eyes and the voice in her head telling her not to - to swallow her embarrassment and tell the truth - she finds herself falling back on those old bad habits. “It’s okay, Aang. You had good intentions. We can be adults for one day.”

“Thank you so much Katara,” Aang gushes, lunging forward to wrap her in a hug that pins her arms briefly to her sides. “You’re the best!”

Suki shakes her head in disappointment as he bounds away. “You made your bed,” she reminds Katara. “Guess now you have to decide who to lie in it with.” She glides away to join Sokka at the bar, leaving Katara standing dazed and confused.

“Katara, hey,” an all too familiar voice greets her almost immediately after, and Katara closes her eyes. Suki totally hung her out to dry, and she can’t even be that mad because she’s right.

“Jet,” she says evenly, turning to face him. This shouldn’t be hard for her. While she doesn’t forgive him, she’s also very over him and understands that she’s an idiot for not making Aang ask him to leave. “How are you?”

“Not bad, not bad,” he says, bobbing his head. His clothes are formal but rumpled by disdain for their formality, an effect which once had a liquifying effect on Katara’s insides, but now just feels rude. “I was actually coming over to ask you the same thing,” he says, as though it is a profound inquiry and not the root of all small talk. She opens her mouth to offer a brusque reply and make an excuse to join Sokka and Suki at their table, but he knocks the wind out of her sails with his next words. “Ex’s wedding and all. Brutal.” He gives her a look that she is all to familiar with: his I-see-your-pain look. It was another thing about him that used to push all the right buttons on her, but now she just feels insulted at the presumption that she needs or wants his pity.

“Aang is actually a very dear friend,” she says, trying to sound as impenetrably chipper as possible. “Like a little brother.”

Jet is not deterred, leaning closer to her, his hand just brushing her elbow. “I feel bad about how things ended between us,” he says softly. “I should’ve done better by you.” Katara is momentarily stunned. Is she actually getting a sincere apology? “Which is why I think we should go to the wedding together. I just want to be there for you.”

It’s like a bucket of cold water down her spine, dousing both the fire of her anger and the tiny kindling warmth in her stomach. Katara pulls her shoulders back, straightening her spine, and snaps, “I already have someone to be there for me.”

Jet blinks and rears back a little. “Alright. I’ll, uh. Be looking forward to meeting them then.”

As he slinks away, she feels a moment of deep satisfaction. Only to nearly aspirate her sip of wine as she realizes she has officially painted herself into a corner. Zuko is coming to this wedding.

Thank you! If anyone wants to send me a line or prompt (from this list or your brain) I'll keep it going!

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xiii

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xiii: that unwanted animal

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.7k 

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop. It’s CLOSE y’all, CLOSE, but not yet.

Warnings: some steaminess--nothing VERY explicit, but it begins, a little--and might be considered "dubious" if you squint your eyes (but it isn't). Gore, character death, just general Pain and Suffering occurs pretty much nonstop. Par for the course at this point.

Notes: Okay so truth time, I actually wrote this entire chapter like a fucking maniac in a single day--the day after I put out chapter 12, in fact--and so I had like, a bit of a crisis where I thought it might actually be garbage because that's insane. So I sat on it for a few days and had three pairs of eyeballs on it and HERE IT IS. I hope you all enjoy.

Thank you to @baeogorath​ & @lilwritingraven​ for putting your eyeballs on this and making sure I wasn't writing, like, a crack fic come chapter 13 (it WAS debatable for a moment)!!! And of course thank you to @starcrier​, my lover my life my shawty my wife; thank you for enabling me always to write the most self-indulgent things and then polish them up to be actually GOOD.

And thank YOU, of course; every kudos/comment is like the highlight of my day every single time so tysm!

“She was going to try and kill me.”

It was a problem, John thought—Elliot’s pure and unabridged fury in that moment almost got her killed. She would have gone down swinging, to be sure, but she would have gone down, eventually. A problem, sure, but one that had been mitigated. He’d handled it. Just like he’d handled everything else.

He said, “But she didn’t. Besides, are you really afraid of what she would have done? She’s barely half your size.”

“It’s not about what she’s capable of, little brother,” Jacob bit out, “it’s about the fact that she’s your responsibility to control and you seem wholly incapable—”

“—a process , Jacob, you can’t just slap a saddle on a pony and expect it to ride—”

“—wouldn’t have happened if I was in charge of her—”

“What’s important now,” Joseph interrupted, pausing a moment to wait and make sure neither John nor Jacob was going to talk over him, “is that Deputy Hudson is missing.”

Yes, that was the biggest problem now—sans the mere existence of the Family. As they sat in the chapel, Joseph pacing to the front absently as he mulled over the day’s events and Jacob refusing to sit but rather looming in the corner of John’s vision, he thought there was a chance that they’d say it was a waste of time to find her.

“I think,” Joseph continued, “we could allocate a small number of men—”

“Stop.” Jacob’s voice was hard. “We’re not wasting resources to find Hudson. We should be using resources to find Burke, because if he made it out he’ll have the government coming down on us any minute. Hudson is nothing.”

For a second, his two older brothers stared at each other; Jacob, steely and sharp, and Joseph, eerie in his stillness. They stayed silent for the entire duration, which was probably only a few seconds but in fact felt like an eternity , before Joseph spoke.

“We will allocate a small number of men,” he said, carefully and purposefully articulating each consonant in every word of the sentence which had shifted from a could to a will, “to scout the area. We need information on where the cult is moving. If we happen to find Hudson in the meantime, then we’ll have done the deputy a favor.”

There was another long pause. Then: “ Fine.”

John came to a stand. It was decided, which meant that he wasn’t about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, despite how uncomfortable it made him to have Jacob and Joseph in their weird little stand-off right in front of him. It was impossible, always, to tell which one was going to come out the winner, even though the end result always seemed to swing in Joseph’s favor—and that was just the way it tended to be, with them. Jacob was always the most resilient of them, but he had never been able to outlast Joseph.

“Jacob, you’ll pick the men to go,” Joseph continued amicably, and then as though to give his brother a tiny slip of victory he added, “as I trust your judgment.”

Jacob didn’t seem very pleased. “Fine,” he said again, turning and heading for the door. “But I’m not taking John’s wild animal.”

“Of course.”

That won’t bode well, John thought absently, but there wasn’t a lot of time to dwell on it. He hadn’t promised Elliot Eden’s Gate would look for Joey, so already he figured this would be considered above-and-beyond. And when they inevitably found Joey—because there was no way they wouldn’t—Elliot would remember that Eden’s Gate did this for her. That he did this for her.

“John,” Joseph began quietly, when Jacob had closed the door behind him and gone outside, “I’m trusting you.”

John turned his gaze to his brother. The words felt... Different. Off. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, “What do you mean?”

Joseph was pensive as he watched the murky dusk light filter through the cross at the head of the church. “It can be easy to lose your way,” he replied, no hint of hostility or frustration in the timbre of his voice. “To get distracted. Lured off the path. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

John’s throat felt tight. “It won’t.”

“Are you positive?” Joseph finally tilted his head, casting a glance at John over his shoulder, a look that didn’t quite lock their gazes but that John felt seen all the same. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I’m—of course I’m sure. You’re my family. I’d—”

You don’t owe him your blood and guts all the time.

“I’d do anything for you,” he finished, Elliot’s voice ringing in his head despite his better attempts to stuff down somewhere else. “You, and Jacob, and Faith.”

The older man nodded after a moment, apparently satisfied with this answer. “Then I don’t have anything to worry about.” He took in a small breath, as though to compose himself, and then turned around to face John completely, one hand gripping his shoulder with a firm squeeze. “You’ll tell me if you run into trouble?”

He regarded his brother with a beat of silence. Then I don’t have anything to worry about, Joseph had said. What had he been worried about? John? Or Elliot? And if it was the latter—what for? What for? His that voice demanded again. He was going to let her die. He was going to let Jacob shoot straight through her. What for?

John said, “Of course.”

Joseph nodded again, releasing John from his grip. He departed back to the head of the chapel, flipping open the worn, white leather book, reading quietly.

A lingering uncertainty kept his feet rooted to their spot. He wanted to ask what it was he and Elliot had been talking about the day before, when she’d come sprinting around the corner with Joseph lingering behind, eyes fixed on them. But each time he opened his mouth, jealousy wound its way thick and wretched up his throat and clamped his jaw shut.

Do you want to know? it said. Do you want to know what he was doing?

Joseph glanced up, his gaze inquisitive. “That’ll be all, John.”

“Right,” John said, and finally his body complied, carrying him down the aisle and to the doors that led out of the church.

No, he thought. I don’t.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The cruelest thing, she thought, was that the world seemed to carry on just fine—as though nothing had happened, as though her body was not plagued with panic in that very moment and had been every moment since realizing that Joey was missing. The sun still made its descent behind the distance mountains a leisurely one, giving the Autumn evening a brisk, energized feeling, but though it was her favorite season and the exact kind of weather she liked, there was nothing that felt good.

Boomer had come back from when she’d let him out and searched the bunkhouse up and down for Joey. When he couldn’t find her, he paced and whined; his gaze turned to Elliot, inquisitive, and then he’d begin his search all over again, until she couldn’t take it anymore and she took him out of the bunkhouse.

She didn’t know what was worse—staring at the empty bunkhouse or watching Boomer search for Joey over and over again.

Elliot had been sitting outside of the bunkhouse—well, sitting and then standing and then pacing and then smoking and then sitting again —by the time John had come out of the chapel and told her they’d be sending out a search party to check on the whereabouts of the Family—and to see if they had Joey or not.

“Just the one?” Elliot asked.

“The one,” John confirmed. She sucked in a sharp breath. A headache was resting just behind her eyes, stuffed-up from the ever-present verge of tears she sat on, a feverish heat humming around idly in her skeleton.

“Fucking unbelievable,” she said at last. “I’m going to go find her myself.”

She took a few steps around John, but before she got very far she felt his hand catch at her elbow. He said, “Now, just wait a second, deputy, and listen—”

“No, you listen here John Seed,” Elliot bit out, her head snapping around to look at him, meeting his gaze. “I’ll fucking die before I leave finding Joey in the hands of your little cockroaches. Especially a tiny handful of them that probably won’t try very hard—”

“If we tell them to, they will—”

“—and I especially ,” she ground out over his interjection, “wouldn’t trust a search party issued by Joseph Seed farther than I can throw them. So I’m going to go out and look for Joey on my own, and if you want to try and stop me, then—”

She stopped herself. Then? A voice inside of her prompted, inquisitively. John stared at her, waiting for whatever blow was going to come next, tension radiating through his very posture.

“Then you’re exactly who I thought you were,” she managed out at last, pulling her arm out of his grip, “and fuck you.”

“And you’re just going to go traipsing through the woods, in the dark, unarmed, looking for her?” John snipped. “I’m sure that’ll be super helpful to Hudson.”

“I’m not going unarmed,” Elliot replied briskly, “because you’re going to give me a gun.”

“Pardon?” John’s eyebrows arched up, and she didn’t want to lose her nerve but the sheer indignation in his voice almost had her second-guessing her less-than-concrete assertion. “You just about tried to sink your teeth into Jacob for something that was completely unfounded, and you want me to arm you?”

“If you have to worry about me killing Jacob without a gun, then whether I have one or not doesn’t make a difference.”

“That is absolutely not how that works.”

“John,” Elliot said, steeling her voice in a last-ditch effort, “you promised.”

He took in a sharp breath, glancing around the main yard of the compound for a moment, like maybe he didn’t want to look at her right then and there—the man who couldn’t stop looking at her, trying to make her squirm. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her, but she tried to push that down for another time, another place.

“Fine,” John said at last, “but I’m coming with you, and we’re only firing on the Family, not on Jacob.”

A little flood of relief rushed through her system. She swallowed and nodded. “Deal,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment—her body had leaned, as though after their little moment in the bar her body now tilted to kiss him on instinct—before clearing her throat and averting her eyes. “I’ll meet you at the gate, then.”

He eyed her warily. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John was right. It was unhelpful.

The turning of the season meant that the sun drifted low behind the mountains much earlier. Though Elliot knew it couldn’t have been much later than six, it was nearly dark by the time they got out into the thick of the woods; the birds had stopped their singing, and the woods had fallen asleep, leaving them painfully, dreadfully alone .

John had reluctantly put a shotgun in her hands on their way out and said, “Keep that trigger finger under control,” before heading out with her. She didn’t want to say it out loud, but it felt good—the weight of the gun in her hands felt good , familiar and hefty and she knew the second she fired it she’d feel that slick, red-hot rush of adrenaline.

And she didn’t say that to John, because she didn’t need him trying to confiscate it.

Boomer paved the way ahead of them, darting and ducking through the underbrush with his nose to the ground. He was a smart boy; the second she’d held Joey’s water bottle up for him and said, “Find”, he’d set off with a newfound purpose, always looking for a job to do or a task to accomplish.

Her breath puffed out in a milky-white cloud. While silence reigned, the cogs of her mind churned, leaping frantically from one thing to the next. Jacob, goading her into trying to kill him; Joey, telling her she didn’t have to go it alone all the time; John, hands on her face as he kissed her like he was desperate for her. The last twenty-four hours were beginning to blur together until it became some kind of fucked-up Picasso painting, one where she couldn’t tell one moment from the next—the only thing keeping her headache and the last dredges of her pneumonia under control being the tylenol she popped the second the suggested time period had passed.

“—you doing?”

Elliot’s eyes flickered and she turned her gaze to John. “What?”

“Yesterday,” he reiterated, “when you asked me to take you to Fall’s End. What were you doing?”

She turned her gaze forward again, spotting Boomer worming his way through the brush. “What do you mean?”

“You were panicking,” John elaborated, his tone implying that there wasn’t any humor left in him. “And it looked like Joseph was—”

“I wasn’t doing anything ,” Elliot interrupted. “Your brother tried his psycho bullshit on me and I exited the conversation. That’s it.”

John was quiet again, just for a moment, before he started, “Elliot—”

“I’m going to need you to shut up,” she bit out.

“Don’t you get tired of doing this?” he demanded. “What are you running from all the time, anyway?”

“You,” she snapped, “and your stupid family, always trying to dig into me—”

“Me,” John repeated flatly, “or all of your problems?”

Indignation, and anger , red-hot and unruly, spiked straight to her brain. Yes yes yes, her mind chanted, fight us, push us, give us something to sink our teeth into.

But then Boomer was barking, and then he was growling, the thick, hearty kind of snarl that came from deep in the cavity of his chest. Elliot shut her mouth with a determined click of her teeth and set off to follow the sound of his barking.

“Elliot—” John started, but she lifted her hand to signal for silence, and he blissfully shut up. As she dug through the woods lining the compound to follow Boomer’s alerting, dread started to coil in her stomach; there were no voices to match his signaling. Nobody yelling, nobody talking to him. The idea that he’d found something, but that the something was incapable of speaking, made her stomach lurch and twist.

She found him just at the edge of the woods, hackles raised fully along his spine. At first, she couldn’t see what he was barking at—in the dark, she only saw the looming shape of a boulder and the ground scattered with pine-needles around it—and then she saw it.

Blood.

The ground was damp with it, a large dark circle, and on top of it crushed lily blossoms littered the ground. The sickening smell of hot copper mixing with the sickly-sweetness of the blossoms shot nausea straight up into her throat. Funeral flowers, she thought through the haze of sickness washing over her. Restored innocence, after death.

And then, in the center of the blossoms, a head.

Not Joey’s head, she realized after a second of brutal panic shot through her. Someone else. Blonde hair, matted with blood, the skull slumping to the side like it was uneven in the back, white lily blossoms stuffed into her mouth, two perfectly preserved blooms flowering out of her eye sockets. It was Ase.

Do you see?

“Boomer,” she managed out unsteadily, reaching for him as she stifled the urge to gag. He darted over to her, nosing her hand with a cold, wet nose and whining softly just as John had caught up.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, lifting his arm to cover his nose, flashlight landing first on the crimson-stained ground and blossoms and then straight up to the boulder nearby. On it, scrawled in what she thought could only be blood, were the words WRATH, DO YOU STILL WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

“What the fuck,” Elliot said, feeling her body hunch and try to puke up the bile rolling around in her stomach. “ Who —”

John’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “I have an idea. But that’s—”

Elliot turned away from the gruesome sight, and at last she couldn’t hold it back anymore; the image of the decapitated head, stuffed with flowers, was burned into her memory so that even when she closed her eyes, she saw it. Her hand hit the trunk of a tree for support in keeping herself up as she vomited, the wretched sound of it only inspiring further sickness in her.

Ase’s fingers laced with hers, eyes glassy, blood and gore spilled across her face. “Do you see?”

“Fuck,” John said, disgust welling in his voice. “We have to get back, El.”

“He’s going to kill her,” she managed out between heaving breaths, the sour taste of bile still in her mouth. “Fuck, he’s going to kill her, John, I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have ever—”

“Let’s go.” John reached out, hand planted between her shoulder blades. “We’ll get back and tell the others. Now we know who has her.”

She nodded weakly, pulling herself up straight and swallowing back the urge to be sick again. Worse than the blood, worse than the flowers, worse than the writing—Kian, or whichever one of them had done this, had just left her. Her head, left here, alone. It wrenched her heart, somewhere deep inside of her, because in her last moments of life, Ase had reached for her.

And now she was here. Left behind. Forgotten. Serving one last purpose, even after death.

Elliot couldn’t have recalled even half of the walk back to the compound if someone asked her. Not that anything happened—John didn’t push for conversation, but seemed more preoccupied with whatever was going on in his own mind, his brows furrowed and his eyes fixed ahead of them.

By the time they got back, darkness had completely fallen; a blanket of stars stretched out above them, only a little drowned out by the lights of the compound, and a more bitter chill had settled around them. Sometime on the trip back, Elliot had gripped John’s hand, afraid that if she didn’t he’d carry on without her when she would inevitably be unable to continue.

I’m so sorry, Joey. I’m so sorry.

She stood numbly while John said something to Joseph. Though her eyes drifted aimlessly around the compound, she felt Joseph’s eyes—lingering on her, and then John, and then their hands, loosely clasped. Elliot was sure that he was delighted by this; but though his eyes kept drifting back, he said nothing about it. 

The two men spoke in low, urgent tones, and though she could have listened if she wanted, there was so little will left in her to exert the effort; it would just be a replay of the gruesome scene they’d found, anyway.

“They’re at least an hour out,” Joseph said, his voice cutting through the thrumming wobble of bass ricocheting around in her head. “They weren’t able to find them, but if they left that and it was fresh, they have to be somewhere close by. We’ll have to regroup when Jacob gets back.”

“We have to go now.” A strange kind of sensory experience washed over her as she spoke—she had become an audience member to her own body, the shotgun sitting limp and useless in her hand, the other slipping out of John’s grip. “They’re going to kill her if we don’t get her back now.”

“I’m afraid that just isn’t an option,” Joseph replied. The cloying patience in his voice made her stomach churn. “I’ve sent other members out to gather supplies, and I just can’t spare the manpower. You’d be going on your own.”

“Fine,” Elliot replied, pulling her hand out of John’s and heading toward the bunkhouse, Boomer trailing at her heels. “What’s fucking new.”

“Elliot—”

She might have tried to hear what it was Joseph and John said to each other, but she was too busy walking herself into the bunkhouse that had become her temporary base of operations. The shotgun deposited onto the bed and Boomer sitting patiently by the door, whining softly on occasion, she shuffled around in her bag before she found the carton of cigarettes. As she pulled one out, hands trembling, she tried again, and again, and again to flick the lighter on, each time a more colossal failure than the last.

I never doubted you’d be able to get me out.

Her lip wobbled against her better judgment. Discarding the cigarettes onto the bed as well after a number of failed attempts, she walked into the bathroom and rinsed her mouth, and then her face, sitting like that for a minute—bent over the sink, wet hands pressed to her face, anxiety and adrenaline battling for control over her mind.

When Elliot lifted her head, the face that stared back at her in the mirror felt like a stranger. It was her , undeniably; the logical part of her brain recognized each dip and curve of her face, the blue eyes and the panic-flushed cheeks. But the part of her brain that ruled more dominant—the one driven by emotion—thought, who is that? That’s not us. Not us, no. Too cold, too mean. Not us.

The door outside the bathroom clicked open and then shut. Boomer growled, low, but then John said something to him that she couldn’t make out and he seemed to be appeased. Funny, that he could do that now. She dried her face and hands off and stepped out of the bathroom.

“I’m going,” she said, “and I really don’t want to argue with you—”

“Then don’t,” John replied. “Don’t argue with me. You’re in no state to go and get her, El.”

“I—” Her voice faltered, and she tried to summon up the agony and the anger in her, but it was nowhere to be found. Squashed, dulled, emptied out of her. That was all she felt, now. Empty. “I can’t leave her. She’s—she’ll be waiting for me, I can’t.” She stepped around him when Boomer whined at the door again, opening it for the Heeler and letting him dart out.

“You won’t be any use,” he said from behind her. “Kian will crush you with one hand and her with the other.”

Elliot didn’t answer. Instead, she tossed the hand-towel off to the side and passed a hand over her face, closing her eyes.

John was right, and she didn’t want to say, so she wouldn’t say anything at all.

“Elliot.” His voice was soft, and closer now, and she saw his hand come up in her peripheral; he guided her to turn around and face him. “You know I’m right.”

Before his fingers could reach for her jaw, she caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” she said, steeling her voice, “okay? Don’t. I’ll wait until your stupid search party gets back, but—”

“Then you can be in charge,” John finished. His wrist twisted in her grip until he had her hand in his, bringing it up to the junction between his neck and shoulder where she could feel the steady rhythm of his pulse, and this close she could smell that fucking cologne, and the woods, and he was so close—when had he gotten so close?—and she knew what he was doing. “An hour, hour and a half tops. Kian probably wants to hold onto her and make a big show of it.” He paused, and then added, “I told you I’d help you find her, didn’t I?”

Her throat felt tight. “So help me,” she managed out.

“I’m trying,” he murmured, and their noses brushed, and she thought don’t fucking do it, don’t do it. “You have to let me.”

Elliot felt her brows pull together, knitting in frustration and anxiety, and she said, “I can’t,” her voice breaking just a little on those two words. “I can’t, I don’t—know how—”

He gripped her, like an animal he was getting ready to spear, just before his mouth met hers; it was not a gentle kiss, this time, no tentative breaths lingering between them in uncertainty. It was a punishing kind of kiss, the sort that stung when his teeth dragged against her lower lip and her nails dug into the warm skin of his shoulder.

Oh, something in her said, when John crowded up against her, warm and firm, one hand finding her hip and the other boxing her in against the door. Oh, is this what we needed? Is this what we wanted?

The bite of it grounded her, dragged her back to the sting of reality, back from wherever she had been sitting and watching her life unfold like a horrific play.

“John,” she said, his name coming out of her breathless and a little wrecked, but nothing followed. She didn’t know what she was trying to say. Please, her mouth wanted to say, but her mind said we can’t, we shouldn’t, we won’t. Scarier still was the knowledge that where she had been splitting, the part of her that had been driven through and cracked open, John had pulled her back together, even for just a little bit. Even for just a moment.

“You just have to tell me.” John’s voice was a dark, rich rumble, the sound of it shooting straight through her and pooling an unfamiliar but not unwelcome heat just at the base of her spine. Anticipation prickled along the back of her neck; his fingers at her hip slid just under the hem of her sweater, tracing the scars she knew were there. “Just tell me what you need, El, I’ll give it to you.”

“I—” She felt her gaze flicker, her breath hitching at the feeling of his fingers. He was grounding her back to reality, but he was picking her apart, too—just a different part of her, the part of her that he wanted. An even exchange. She exhaled sharply, and the noise caught somewhere in her throat and came out a whimper , fluid and filled with a strange, broken kind of want that flooded her with embarrassment.

But if John noticed her humiliation, it didn’t matter—he made a low, hungry noise against her mouth, his hand skimming along to her back to pull her closer to him. “Anything,” he said. “I’ll give you anything, you just have to tell me what you need and I will.”

The dark, lurid promise of it flickered through her brain. John—handsome, wicked John—dragging his mouth along her neck; John, hands deftly undoing her jeans and moaning against her skin; John, anything you want, Elliot, just ask, sliding down to his knees between her legs to give her the real grounding she wanted—

As though he knew exactly what she was thinking, John’s mouth drifted from hers; she felt the prickle of his beard against her neck, the tiny, tiny sting of his teeth against her pulsepoint, and she moaned, the sound as involuntary as it was jarring.

John’s own noise mimicked her own. She felt his hand drop from the door to her hip, gripping—like he wanted more, wanted her , but it felt like he was pacing himself. His voice, dark and low and oh so good rumbled against the skin of her neck when he said, “So pretty—you sound so pretty, El—”

Too much, her alarm system was screaming, it’s too much, too much, what do we do? Turn it off, pull the sprinklers, out out out.

But she couldn’t. Her hand slid from his shoulder down to his chest, curling into the fabric there, her body twisting traitorously to get closer to his as something wretched inside of her said, We could just forget, for a little, wouldn’t that be nice? And it would—it would be nice, she knew, to forget about all the gore, to forget about the panic, to let slip a few threads of control and indulge in something wicked and terrifying, like the way John said, “ Fuck, I want you,” so covetously it made her chest ache.

“Can’t think,” she managed out, squirming in his grip as panic wound its way through her, mixing in a toxic cocktail with what she knew was arousal sitting in her stomach. “I can’t think, n-need air, John—”

Her hand left his shoulder and fumbled at the doorknob. John pulled back, just a little, and then stilled her shaking hand over the doorknob. His gaze was dark, the black blown wide with want, but he turned the knob on the door anyway and dropped his hand from her back as it swung open.

The cold, chilly air of the evening brutalized her senses. She took two steps away from the brunette behind her, swallowing thickly until she could actually feel her heartbeat again—fast, but tangible. Her eyes fluttered shut, but treacherously her brain went sprinting—sprinting to John pressed up against her, the gentle, dull ache where his teeth had dug into her lip, the tingle where his fingers had brushed her skin.

It was a few seconds before John said, “You should try and get some rest before they get back,” as he stepped around her. She opened her eyes to look at him; he seemed perfectly composed, as though nothing had just happened, if not for the way his eyes settled heavy on her, if not for the way that she knew he sounded when he wanted her.

She didn’t know what to say. Desperate for something, anything to keep her mind busy and away from the task at hand, she wanted to say, kiss me again, please, but now it felt more traitorous than ever. Once in the heat of the moment was one thing, but to ask for it?

So she said, “Okay.” 

John’s eyes swept over her, slow and leisurely. “If you need me,” he continued, “come find me.”

Blood rushed to her face. Fuck fuck fuck, so fucking bad, this is so fucking bad. She opened her mouth to say, I won’t, but before she could muster the words out of her mouth John turned and walked away, heading to the church and leaving her alone.

Alone with that strange, hungry animal inside of her.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John could not stop thinking about her.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she tasted when she said his name against his mouth, or the way she squirmed and whimpered the second his fingers brushed bare skin. Fuck, he wanted to know what her scars were from—wanted to run his mouth along each one until he could dip lower, drag his teeth against the soft skin and make her say his name in a different way.

So close, he thought idly, the sounds she made replaying themselves in his head. I was so close, I almost had her, she was almost mine.

It would be bad to push—he needed to exercise patience. Her friend was missing, after all. The next time he got so close, he wanted her to ask for it; he wanted her to say please, John, the way that had become so easy for her to say as of late, but more. He wanted her to twist her fingers in his hair and beg him to put his mouth on her. And he would, if she did. He’d do anything she asked, if she just made that noise again.

I want I want I want, something in him chanted, hungry, demanding. I want her, she’s mine, all mine, nobody else’s.

An hour passed. He stepped out of the church and made his way across the yard, feeling more composed than before; he would be fine to wait, he thought. It would make it all the sweeter when she came around.

John knocked on the door to the bunkhouse and waited a few seconds before stepping inside. Elliot stirred on one of the beds, sitting up a little; her face was warm from sleep and whatever panic had been rushing through her before seemed mostly abated.

“Are they back?” she asked, kicking her legs out from under the blanket.

“Not yet,” John replied, pausing. “How are you feeling?”

Elliot eyed him with a sort of wanting wariness; as though she wasn’t going to allow herself to fall victim again, even though she wanted to. It was more than she’d given him, anyway. “Fine,” she answered briskly.

“Just fine?” John prompted.

“Just fine.”

Another silence stretched between them. John said, “Elliot, I meant it when I said—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Elliot interrupted. “There’s—it’s—”

“It’s?” John waited, again, while she worked the words around in her head.

“I don’t—know,” she managed out at last. “It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said idly, taking a few steps over to her. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“You said it yourself,” Elliot pointed out, “you would do anything for them. Right?”

He paused, watching her. “Yes.”

“Even,” Elliot continued, “try and—with me—”

John blinked. “Pardon?”

“Try and fuck me,” the blonde bit out, “so that I’ll—so that I won’t try and put them away. So I won’t try and kill Joseph. So I’ll—”

She cut herself off, then, stopping. John thought, She really doesn’t stop, does she? That brain of hers just won’t stop turning. Because, perhaps, those moments that she had seen John straining for Joseph’s effort like she said—those moments that had been spent with Joseph saying things like, I think you’re doing great with the deputy, or I don’t have anything to worry about, then, made his fingers itch. Something in him was hurtling, careening to make Elliot his in every way. Before anyone else. 

“Elliot,” he said curtly, boxing those thoughts away to keep his composure, “please do not condescend to me about the draconian machinations you think are behind the fact that I want to fuck you.”

She sucked in a sharp little breath, like she was doing her best to control her temper about what he’d just said. He saw her fingers curling absently into the sheet, and then loosening and curling again. Her lashes fluttered, and she parted her lips to say something, but nothing came out; when she turned her face away from him, he could see the beginnings of a bruise blooming where his teeth had met her skin.

John narrowed his eyes. “If you can tell me that—”

But he was interrupted by the sound of shouting outside, the rattle of a truck’s engine coming to a slow and then shutting off. Elliot’s gaze flickered from his to the door and she reached for her boots. “Is that them?”

Fuck, John thought. Deal with the matter at hand, and then finish this. Patience was a virtue, as Joseph would say. “I’ll check.”

He turned, opening the door to see Jacob pulling the truck around. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he had walked into the bunkhouse. Elliot would want to get out and find Joey as soon as possible, and then —

Joseph was already outside, and when John stepped out into the yard, his brother said, “John—” and his voice plunged over the proverbial cliff; when their eyes met, Joseph’s feet carried him forward, an eerie and unsettling urgency to his tone. 

John hesitated in his movements as anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach. The last thing that he wanted was to see the thing that made Joseph say his name that way , whatever it was—whatever monster had crawled out from under the bed.

But it was too late. Against his better judgment, and against his personal wishes, his eyes strayed innately, searching searching searching for the source of duress so that he could eliminate it, until finally he found it, planted right in the middle of the compound: Joey Hudson.

Joey Hudson sat up cross-legged, her jaw broken in her skin and hung slack like a horror monster, her dark eyes glazed over and empty. From her mouth spilled the most brilliant bouquet of wildflowers John thought he had ever seen—but it was nothing, nothing compared to the voluminous collection of flowers that filled up the cavernous hole of her chest. 

It was bursting with blossoms and verdant ferns. Fresh. Not a single bloom wilted. Recent. She was so packed-full of them that he thought, surely, they’d had to have broken her ribs out of her and tossed them to make room. The harsh lights lining the compound bathed her in a most unforgiving, cruel fluorescent glow, so that there was no mistaking any detail; each flower picked and placed with insane, meticulous care. He felt his stomach churn.

Jacob’s truck had pulled in just behind it. It was his voice shouting at the men to stay, his commanding presence that tried to root John back to the earth as his brain mindlessly fizzed static around the corpse laid out in front of him, his feet carrying him forward despite his better judgement, despite the alarm bells screaming for him to go back. All thoughts of his conversation with Elliot were wiped clean from his brain, bashed in and crumbled to dust under the sight before him.

“What’s wrong?”

Elliot’s voice jarred him out of the strangely-dulcet reverie the gruesome, discordant corpse had put him into, like a spell suddenly broken. He thought, very quickly, Elliot is going to be devastated, and then, I have to stop her, she can’t see this.

When John turned to look at her, his hands instinctively went up, in a foolish act of trying to block it from her view. It was no use; her eyes fixed on it immediately, having come out before he could notice, in plain view of Hudson’s decorated body.

“No no no no—”

Her voice wobbled and filled with dread. John reached for her. He thought, if I can hold her; he thought, if she would just let me hold her; but Elliot had never before, and he didn’t know why he had thought she would now. She shoved his arms away from her, the anguished noise that came out of her ripping right through his sternum.

The blonde took one, two, three steps before she stumbled, and John’s arms went for her, circling around her waist to keep her from the ground and keep her from Joey, and she howled, grief and rage welling out of her in a sound that John wished he had never, ever had to hear.

“Stop looking, El,” he said helplessly, the feeling of her body crumpling over the circle of his arms nearly pulling him down with her; her feet found purchase on the ground, and she pulled at his grip, sobbing an incoherent train of no’s over and over until she was wrenching her whole body like a wild animal to get loose. Doing the only thing that she knew how to do, anymore: hit, and hurt, and try to get free.

She moaned, viciously, “Don’t fucking touch me ,” and he grabbed her wrists to still her, to stop her from hitting him. Over and over, she said, “This is your fucking fault—this is your fault, I’ll fucking kill you, I’ll kill you, John Seed—”

“Elliot,” John said over her howling, “I have you.”

Elliot cried, and cried and cried, until all she had the energy left to do was cry, rattling deep in the cavity of her chest where the rest of the sickness still lingered; she cried and John gripped her wrists and pulled her forward until her face was against his chest and he said, “I have you, I have you,” again, because that was all he could say to her; there was nothing else that he could give her.

Her fingers curled and uncurled weakly into fists. He was only vaguely aware, over the sounds of her grief and misery, of Joseph telling Jacob to get help to move the body; he registered the voices somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he could really think about was the way Elliot slumped against him, digging her nails into her palms over and over again as she cried until he slid his hands to hers to keep her fingers laid flat.

John pushed the hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed red from her grief, her bottom lashes—normally so blonde and fine—a dark, mousy color from the tears. His hands took her face and he said, “Look at me,” and he pressed their foreheads together. “Just you and me. Don’t—look over there, stay here, with me.”

“I can’t.” Her voice broke. She sobbed; the sound of it rattled somewhere deep inside John’s skull, locked itself in his jaw, to haunt him, forever. “I can’t, I can’t —I hate you—”

He said, helplessly again, “I know, El.”

Her breaths rattled, laborious and exhausted, from somewhere deep inside of her where Grief had made its permanent home. She lifted her head and sucked in another breath, a sharper one, but as soon as she saw Jacob moving towards Hudson’s body, she lurched forward.

“Don’t.” The words came out of her like something wretched, something vicious. Jacob, blissfully, stopped; the lines of his expression were hard, and unforgiving, but he seemed to be waiting rather than doing it out of spite. For once. “Don’t you fucking touch her, don’t—”

“We have to move her body,” John said; just like that, the words crushed her, brutalized her under agony’s weight. The words her body seemed to have cut her right to the quick, and if he hadn’t been holding her, he thought she might have collapsed on the ground.

“My Joey,” she moaned. Agonized, an animal trapped and wailing to be let go . “What did they do to her? What did they do to you? John—”

A near-midnight breeze carried the voices of the Eden’s Gate members just ahead, and Joey Hudson’s corpse stirred, petals fluttering and dark hair drifting in the breeze. For a second in time, she had been resurrected—just one second—where the horror of her murder melded into something more monstrous than before.

And Elliot, saying his name in a way that said help me. All of her vitriol, and all of her poison, and all of the times she’d said I’ll rip your fucking eyes out or I’ll kill you, and now she was here—gripping him, holding him tight, like he was the last thing in the entire world that was going to keep her anchored to the earth. Each dreadful noise of heartache that came out of her tolled like a bell inside of him, vibrating its discordant song over and over again.

I need you, help me.

John wrapped her up in his arms more securely. “Let Jacob move her somewhere quiet, Elliot.”

The sorrow hiccuped in her chest. She tried to say something, but the words came out broken, merely fragments of the sentence she’d been wanting, and she stopped her squirming; when John was able to turn her away from the gruesome sight, Jacob began moving again, speaking in a low, urgent tone to another member of Eden’s Gate.

It felt like he was in a dream as he walked her into the church. The time between Hudson’s corpse and the doors seemed both to stretch on forever and pass in a blink; once inside the dark, quiet chapel, the door closed behind them, John found himself releasing a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He guided Elliot to a nearby pew, sitting her down; as he settled between her knees, palms flat on the tops of her thighs, Elliot sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.

“John,” she said, and he waited for her to finish her sentence but she didn’t; each time she opened her mouth, all that came out of it was a wet, agonized sob, the kind that dragged the grit right out of her chest, shuddering and hoarse. She tried again: “ John ,” and he took her hands and held them in his.

“I know,” he said. And then that nasty, wicked little monster inside of him; finally, finally, finally, it chanted, Elliot crumpling at the waist to bury her face, wet with tears, against their clasped hands. Finally finally finally. Mine, all mine, mine and nobody else’s.

It should have made him feel guilty. He should have felt bad about it. John knew it; he knew what kinds of emotions were expected out of people in times like this, what people looked for, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel guilty at all.

“El,” he murmured against her hair, “you have to breathe.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed, “I can’t.”

Poor, desolate little hellcat, he thought, knelt between her legs as she cried. Poor, agonized hellcat.

“You can,” John said. “For me.”

She did. One long, arduous breath in, and then another, and another, until her breathing was normal and she was emptied out. Only the hollow grief remained; her gaze lackluster, empty, searching idly for somewhere safe and soft to land.

“I have to find him,” she whispered, her voice rasping raw in her throat.

“We will.” He watched her, and though her eyes never landed on him, her hand still clutched his, nails digging into his skin like she thought she was going to float away. Like she was afraid he’d leave. She finally looked at him.

“Swear,” Elliot said. “Swear we’ll find him, and kill him—rip him apart—”

Just like that, the grief was reformed; he saw it happen, the way she gripped it, mangled it in her hands, even when it bloodied her with its edges. Twisted it into something useful. Anything to fit it, slot it right into her like one more missing piece in her puzzle. There was no room for sadness in there: only anger. Only wrath.

What do we do with grief?

“I swear,” John insisted. She was so full of it; vengeance, burning straight through her, so easily flipped on. And all his. 

“I mean it, John.”

“I told you,” he said. “Anything you want.”

[alternativewinxcontinuity]

Final Fantasy VII

Characters: Multiple OCs (Outsider POV series), Zack Fair (the CloTi shipper), Cloud Strife, Cloud Strife's stunt-plushy Genre: Time Travel Crack

Plot: In which EVERYONE at Shinra is convinced 'Cloud Strife' is Zack's imaginary friend.

Even the people who work with him(Cloud).

Lucy stared at the application form being held up for her to see, Zack Fair smiling from the other side of the desk.

“You... want me to put this through?” she asked, making sure she understood what he wanted.

Zack nodded, “yeah, that'd be great, Cloudy's a few days out from Midgard still, he ran into a few... problems on the way over, and if the paper work doesn't go in today, he'll have to wait for months before he can apply again. Please?” The SOLDIER second class gave her an adorable pleading look.

Lucy folded like wet tissue paper.

“Alright, fine, but you owe me one,” snapping her fingers a few times, she held her hand out for the application form.

Application Form for ShinRa Military and SOLDIER Programs

Name: Cloud Strife

Age: Badass

Bloodtype: I have no blood, my body runs on liquid awesome

Reasons For Joining ShinRa: Zack Fair is my hero, he and I must be Soldier Bros, it's imperative for the continued existence of the planet

Medical History:

Three broken ribs, lower left side; Concussion, mild; left femur fractured; Various minor injuries (bruises, scrapes etc.)

{numerous illegal experimentation, for four years; extreme mako poisoning; year long coma; Retrograde Amnesia; Identity Disorder (sort of, Zack was Haunting me); Brain-jacked by insane demi-Alien; slightly less extreme mako poisoning; temporary death; Geo-Stigma} Negated by time travel, except for the Retrograde Amnesia, I still have that

Past Military Training:

Yes. I did complete ShinRa Military Training in the Past, but after being experimented on, most of my Pre-experiment memories were wiped, so I do not remember the training. I do however have Zack's Military training, but that just sort of happens, and I don't consciously remember that either.

Next of Kin:

Claudia Strauss Relationship: Mother of Applicant

Tifa Lockhart Relationship: Future Wife

Zack Fair Relationship: Brother From Another Mother

She stared at the form in open mouthed shock as she reread the contents, filled out in Zack's handwriting. He wasn't serious, surely?

Lucy looked up to double check, but the young man was no where in sight.

Ten minutes of incredulousness later, Lucy put the application through, she had agreed to after all.

Brenten had worked for the Shinra army as a quarter master for four and a half years, he'd seen some weird shit in his time, and had long since learned to go with with the flow.

(as long as all the paper work was above board.)

So when SOLDIER second class Fair showed up to pick up uniforms for a cadet entering basic training, Brenten shrugged and got the uniforms, not even frowning over how small the uniforms requested were.

He doubted the notoriously hyper SOLDIER was really pick up uniforms for an incoming cadet – why would he, he surely had more important SOLDIER things to do – but the paper work was in order, so the uniforms were handed over with no fuss.

ID photos were important, they went in official files, on two of five different ID cards, so no one in the office would ever let someone walk out with a bad photo.

Or a gag photo.

But when Zack Fair walked in with a handful of paper work, and toy chocobo under his arm, Margy knew things were going to change.

“Hey, how are you? You look well, listen... Margy right? Listen Mergy, my buddy Cloud is coming in tomorrow to join the new influx of recruits, and I know all the IDs are supposed to be finalised today, so I was hoping you could help me out,” he smiled, looking so hopeful, Margy didn't have the heart to say no.

“Of course, how can I help?”

“Well I brought this little guy,” Zack held out the chocobo toy, wearing a decent rendition of the cadet uniform, “I figured we could take a picture of him, and make up the IDs, then when Cloud arrives, we can just update the photo.”

Margy nodded, she could do that.

Zack trailed her around the small office as she set up the stuffed toy in front of the camera, watching over her shoulder as she fixed the picture and took the photo.

“Well, at least I don't have to worry about this little guy blinking,” she joked, Zack laughed and nodded in agreement. Margy asked for the paperwork, so she could finish making up the ID.

Her smile turned a little forced as she read through the details.

“Is everything alright? I didn't forget any of the paperwork did I?” Zack leaned forward, concern clearly written across his face.

“No, sweetie, it's fine,” she began entering the details into the system, a few moments later she handed Zack the cards, and bid him goodbye.

Watching him talk to the chocobo toy as he left, Margy wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

They'd all heard the rumours that SOLDIERs got a little... eccentric, but going to all this trouble for what was surely an imaginary friend?

Unbelievable.

Tseng watched Psyche take notes mechanically as people spoke around her. The woman had been tasked with running the psych evals for the newest bunch of recruits, and had long since stopped paying any real attention to what was going on around her.

A good night sleep and she'd be perfectly fine, but for now, the only thing that would snap her out of her burn out, was certain words or phrases that tended to indicate ill will against Shinra.

Flipping through the notes she'd taken, Tseng paused on one in particular.

Why do you want to work for Shinra:

Zack Fair. He asked me to, and it's been a while since I've been in the military, I was a delivery boy in the post apocalyptic future, but then I got caught up in a kind of time loop, so now I'm here.

Tseng raised an eyebrow and looked at the name on the interview, 'Cloud Strife.' Shaking his head slightly, the Turk looked up the applicant's file. The profile picture was a chocobo toy in a cadet uniform. The initial application form had been filled out in what was very obviously – to those familiar with it – Zack Fair's hand writing, and was... uniquely answered.

Calling up the video feeds from the interviews, Tseng felt a headache forming as the video cut out only five interviews in.

Trying not to let his irritation show, Tseng resolved to ask Psyche about the recruit tomorrow, and put the application interview notes aside to be dealt with then.

Psyche apologised profusely when she couldn't recall the boy from the previous day, though she did seem to recall a chocobo at one point, and thought she might have seen Zack Fair at some stage.

Cain Danvers had worked as a drill sergeant for Shinra for two years. This was his eighth batch of recruits, they'd honestly started blending together after the third batch. They'd done well over the past few months, they were perhaps his most promising recruits yet.

He just wished his cadets hadn't been the ones to be picked by Zack Fair to be his 'friend's' training group. The SOLDIER second class had dropped by unannounced several times over the few months to shout words of encouragement at the group, or more specifically, at 'Cloud.'

What the hell kind of name was 'Cloud Strife' anyway? Sounded like a made up stripper name to Cain.

Not to mention, one of his cadets had taken to carrying around a stuffed Chocobo toy wearing a cadet uniform, and claiming it was 'Cloud.'

At last though, the insanity was behind him, the cadets were graduating today, and it would no longer be Cain's problem.

“CAIN!” the man froze, hands hovering above his keyboard where he'd been entering the last report on the cadet's final exams.

“SOLDIER Fair,” Cain forced a smile onto his face, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just came by to see how Cloudy did, I bet he was the best in the whole class,” Zack hopped from foot to foot as he peered over Cain's shoulder to read the report.

The truth was, there were marks for Cloud, one of the Cadets, he wasn't sure which one under the helmet, had taken the exams with the chocobo tucked into his belt, claiming to be 'Cloud Strife.'

The marks had been pretty good too.

“Oh, awesome, passed with flying colours, ha ha, he'll be joining SOLDIER in no time at all,” Zack clapped Cain on the shoulder and skipped out the door.

Shari was in charge of Trooper assignment, she was very good at her job, assigning the best Trooper to the job every time.

She had very little to do with SOLDIERs, almost nothing in fact, if one didn't count her memberships to the fan clubs, so having the newly promoted First Class Fair march up to her desk and lean on it by his forearms was nerve wracking, and exhilarating, and she would do anything to touch his arms.

“Hey there, I'm Zack, you're Shari right?” She nodded dumbly, he knew her name! “So listen, I was just wondering if you could help me out a little?” Shari nodded more enthusiastically, sitting straighter in her chair. “Great,” his smile was the most amazing smile she'd ever seen in he life.

“My buddy, Cloud Strife, finished basic training a week ago, but he hasn't been put on any missions yet, Hel, he hasn't even been given guard duty, I was wondering if you could look into it for me?”

“You've got it,” she managed to say, turning to her computer. Shari pulled up the details on 'Cloud Strife' and paused. She'd heard about Cloud from some of the other members of staff, apparently it was an ongoing thing. The note in the file said to humour Zack, as the recent – and thankfully over and done with – behaviour of the three Elite First Class SOLDIERs, had everyone wondering if Fair would go (temporarily) crazy at some point.

“Oh, yeah, I see the problem, just some typical inter office lost mail stuff, I can put him on guard duty for a week while we get that sorted out, how does that sound?”

“Great, he'll be pleased, he was getting kind of worried, sitting around with nothing to do but train, hey, while we're here, could you find out what happened to his Cadet Allowance, he said he didn't get it during training. I just want to make sure all his stuff is right, cause if it turned out his pay was going to the wrong account this whole time, well, Trooper pay is a little better, but he'd go broke pretty fast, you know?”

Shari's smile was tight as she confirmed 'Strife's' details with Zack, “well, everything looks like it's in order, it must be something else. I will personally look into that for you sir, and I'll let you know what I find out.”

“Thanks, that's awesome, I'll leave you to your investigation.”

She waved at him nervously as he left, then called her supervisor, she'd bought time by assigning 'Cloud' to watch a low priority section of Shinra, but now she had to get a SOLDIER's imaginary friend back-pay.

Maybe she could ask Jason from IT to write a program-thingy that would send low priority assignments to 'Cloud's' allocated PHS, with time limits for completion, which would then allow the assignments to be reassigned afterwards, so they still got done.

Sephiroth paused as he neared the doorway.

It was a low risk area of he building, so it was very rare to see guards posted at it.

Tonight, there was only one (rather short) guard beside he door.

On the other side of the door frame was a stuffed chocobo in a tiny Trooper uniform with a toy gun propped against it, as it too seemed to stand guard duty.

“General?” The silver haired man jerked as the Trooper called out to him, “are you alright sir?”

“I'm fine,” Sephiroth shook his head and continued on. He'd heard rumours about this, he just hadn't expected the to be true.

Angeal really needed to have a chat with his puppy.

Angeal stared at his PHS as the latest updates from the 'Golden Chocobo' fanclub came up on his screen.

“Angeal?” Genesis waved his hand in front of his friend's face and, when that garnered no response, he took the device from Angeal's hand, turning it so he could see what had so entranced his friend.

On the screen was a picture of a downed Behemoth, a tiny chocobo toy in a trooper uniform perched atop it.

Snorting, Genesis flicked through the rest of the pictures from the 'Golden Chocobo' account.

There were dozens of pictures of the trooper chocobo in various locations, some were even accompanied by notes.

Like the picture of the toy surrounded by actual chocobos of ever colour known to man, which read: After three long and gruelling minutes of negotiation, the chocobos have accepted me as one of their own.

Genesis looked up at Angeal, who'd buried his head in his hands, and went back to the photos.

It was good for the troopers to have hobbies.

Genesis wondered who'd killed all the monsters for him though.

[milquetoast-on-acid]

Red Queen, a reactionary post

Red Queen, 5x2, comments with pictures and meta with kabby. But mostly Kabby okay. 

Miller is totally Octavia's head of the guard

So like...how do they stick that cog on her head? They got bunker glue? I never cared much for the whole idea of Octavia and Niylah but this episode  is really selling it.

Love that its Dad!Kane who heard his daughter outside and now Abby is convinced that it's Clarke.

So much tension between these two it's like season 1 Kabby tension except that they've already had sex. This would be a really great time for them to have some angry hate sex. But like after they discover the door is shut.

Marcus we don’t have chains...but we do have tape. ;)

Everyone of Octavia's original council is not a part of her counsel anymore. With the exception of Indra who is on her way out. It will only be a matter of time before Indra is forced to make a choice.

She should have kept Marcus, Abby and Indra as her council.

"I didn't us all so we could just kill ourselves." Irony at it's finest.

How did I miss Oslaya? Octavia’s got like 50 names. Skairipa, Osylaya, Blodriena I can’t freaking keep them straight. 

That looks so appetizing.

I mean look how happy Marcus looks at getting fed. Almost as happy as he looked on the ark. 

"Mind if I join you?" and make it reaaaallyy obvious that you’d rather be somewhere else....

No I really wasn’t looking at her...

Honestly I’d rather sit with Abby then Jaha and his creepy adopted son any day.

"Whatever your fighting about, she'll come around." Well I guess everyone knows their a couple...but I guess neither of them  have been subtle about it. I mean Abby jabbed Jaha with a seditive and Marcus refushed to let her die outside.

"Uncle Theo, can I have some more?"  "Here Ethan have mine." Marcus never wanted that slop so any chance he can get to give it away he's going to take it.

"I'm still glad you stopped me from fighting Octavia for this place." They are really pushing redemption really hard for him. First he adopts a kid and now he's all happy Marcus gassed everyone.  Also...he wouldn't be saying that six years later....but it's Jaha maybe he would.

Jackson + Miller is so cute and I love it about a hundred times more than Brian & Miller. Plus it's about time that Jackson had some romance. Or a  plotline that doesn't just consist of "Hey Abby"

Also Abby is a Jackson/Miller shipper and I love it. Even though she's  pretty broken.

"Marcus said you had another headache..." MARCUS - the fact that Marcus and Jackson are on first name basis I love it so much. I can't wait to see more of their friendship and bond over loving Abby. I feel torn on one hand yeah Jackson really shouldn't be talking to Marcus about Abby but on the other hand it's great that he is because someone needs to take care of her because she's breaking and needs help. And she's in that ugly self loathing place.

Why'd you have to hit my bae?

"Abby opened the door. I wonder would you have done that if he was already safe inside?" maaaaybbe. Love that this show asks the hard questions. She was really uber conflicted about keeping the door shut. And it did extend beyond Marcus. But Marcus really was her main goal. and seeing Abby stab Jaha was everything.

"It will stop the next culling of our people." hahahaha Okay Kara Cooper. 

So Abby is in chains with Marcus...she had to have protested. I’d expect nothing less from my Abby. 

Abby says the C word. This is actually something I speculated on before the episode aired and before Abby mentions it. and...that's definitely what happened during the dark year. The blight or The dark year....whatever you want to call it.

And now I can REALLY see why Abby took that downward spiral and now much guilt she must feel for putting them into that situation. Poor girl can't win. Doing what she thinks is right. Telling Jaha about Jake and then having to live with it and him being floated. And having to live with that decision. Then pushing to open that door to save Marcus and the others and now....cannibalism.

Jaha is the boy in the book sitting by the tree and resting.

Wasn't Niyah kind of a doctor? Why is she now a street vendor for wonkru?

How to solve a problem like Octavia and Gaia? My speculation on season 5 was some serious sibling rivialy between Octavia and Gaia. Now it totally has flipped with Gaia completely encouraging this blood thirsty side of Octavia. With Indra 100% regretting pushing the two of them together. Octavia and Gaia are going to be a HUGE bloody force to be reckoned with. I am totally here for Indra being on the outside instead of the inside of her daughters.

Wonkru Population Reduction: Gladiator In this situation that Wonkru have found themselves, population reduction is something that is needed. Gladiatorial matches however feel like their going backwards instead of forward. And now Jaha's method of floating seems way less harsh. My question or speculation is that in 6 years it seems like the Gladiator matches have evolved from 'this is how we solve our problems with criminals' to 'this is entertainment'. 

No longer is the one to survive the match automatically granted freedom. Octavia votes on wheater you live or die. SO even if  you win the match you could still die.

Headcannon made clear by canon: Kabby are totally into BDSM. 

That is an insane amount of food. I dare TWO people to eat that much. 

Also this episode has been brought to you by Marcus Kane’s love affair with a dammned good meal. Look at that face. Look at how much we wants that damned food. 

I also really thought that Abby wasn’t eating because she’s not eating when they are at lunch. Only takes her pills with water and then here she passes on the food. 

"Really? Then why did you try to float me on the ark?” When he told her he’d save her life even if he didn’t love her. She called him on his bullshit. I would have loved for him to respond to that but what could he have said? I’m a different man now. Which is true and she knows that. I feel like the reason why he didn’t respond is that he knows that he has no excuse for what he did. And again he doesn’t see things the way he did before. That whole exchange reminded me of last season when Marcus was trying to talk Bellamy out of going into the acid rain. And Bellamy yells at him that he floated his mom.  Another thing I wanted to point out is I love how much the two of them have gotten to know the other. They both see right through the other.

"I know you've never felt you were apart of the ark." In which case Octavia and Marcus switch places.

Who is this guy? I know I've seen him somewhere...and is Kara picking her nails? Wow so damned casual while she’s just waiting for people to die outside. 

I love that they have this gorgeous piece playing during the heartfelt Kabby scene. Abby going through withdrawal. Marcus watching Abby with concern and  so much love. My god he loves her so much. I love how he just puts his hand  on her back to calm her down.

"How did you think I could carry you outside and shut the door? Abby I'm sorry but I'm not that strong." Marcus LOVES YOU SO much. It's so devastating but so beautiful.

Even as broken as Abby is she doesn't regret saving him. And in all honesty I don't know if the other would have surved in that bunker if they hadn't saved the other one.

WHHHY!? did you have to interrupt their beautiful kiss!? The fact that Abby was  the one intiate it. Damn you!

knock knock knock! Surprise Bitch it's Blodreina!

"Abby you can't fix me this time." Season 1 parallel, to when Abby saved his life.

Marcus saying the travelers blessing for Jaha! aaaaahhh!

Thelonius Jaha...May we not meet again. Really felt like this whole episode is them trying their best to redeem Jaha. Giving him this kid, saving wonkru and giving Octavia leadership advice. but.... I really have felt like Jaha's story had run out years ago. And that he might have meant to die at the end of season one but he just kept popping back up. And then he influenced Clarke just the way he did to Marcus and that shit was going down bad.

Gaia reallly loves herself some bloodshed.

"Your a healer not a fighter thats why I love you." awwwwwwweee! Their like mini kabby.

Kara is the first winner of the pit and Marcus is the last. BE THE LAST. and Marcus was the last.

[creativitytoexplore]

Larry's Terrible Day By James Rumpel https://ift.tt/2A1vr8G James Rumpel tells of a near future in which a malfunctioning phone is more than just an inconvenience.

Larry Boland glanced at his phone. He had his first phone implanted into his arm was when he was fourteen, a little later than most of his peers. Now, three upgrades and nine years later, his wrist was home to the most advanced communication device bit-coins could buy. Unfortunately, even with all that technology, he could not make the line to the med-distribution kiosk move any faster. His phone told him that it was 7:41. If he didn't get to the front of the line and get his daily dosage of medications soon, he was in grave danger of missing his train. For a moment, Larry considered leaving the line and going directly to the boarding area but he knew that was not an option. He needed treatments to deal with his attention deficit disorder, his dry mouth, his occasional bouts of gas, and the subtle throbbing he sometimes felt at his temples. He couldn't imagine trying to survive a day having to deal with all of those maladies. While waiting in line, Larry tried to examine the day's posts on his phone. For some unknown reason, the downloads were extremely slow. He waited nearly thirty seconds to find out if his friend, Greg, had gone through with the plan to send a private chat invitation to a girl he had met on a dating app. Unable to put up with the eternal delay, Larry decided to check his currency balance. Again, his phone moved at a snail's pace. The display bar which indicated how far along the data feed had progressed, much like the medication line, was barely moving. When he finally reached the front of the line, Larry placed his left arm in the machine and scanned his phone over the reader. To his great dismay, the monitor flashed red and a message appeared saying "UNABLE TO READ INPUT". He moved his wrist in front of the reader one more time with the same result. "Come on, Buddy. Get moving," yelled someone in the waiting crowd. Larry's third failed attempt earned him a different message: "PLEASE MOVE FROM THE LINE AND AWAIT THE ARRIVAL OF TECHNICAL PERSONNEL." Waiting for help would mean missing the train. He was going to be late for work. The next person in line was already starting to force her way to the kiosk. Frustrated, Larry moved to the side and watched as the young lady received her drugs with no difficulty. Larry rechecked the time on his phone. He noticed the display was not as bright as normal. The time was 7:53. It was with great anxiety that Larry decided to forego his daily treatments. He took off at a brisk pace toward the train platform. At the entry gate, he swung his wrist and phone in front of the scanner. He nearly tripped over the turnstile when it refused to budge. The scanner had declined his pre-paid boarding pass. A second attempt also failed. "Not again," shouted someone from behind. "Get out of our way if you don't know how to work a scanner." Larry was forcibly pushed aside by the agitated crowd. When he looked down at his phone, he noticed that the display screen was now totally black. He had only recently purchased the best available phone implant. This should not have been happening. It took all of his internal strength not to scream in frustration. "What seems to be the problem?" asked a voice from behind. Larry turned to see an elderly man of at least 50. "My phone isn't working. I can't get onto the train platform. I know my pass should be good. I paid for the year in advance." "Well, you're not getting through that gate without it reading your phone. I believe there is an office somewhere that will let you buy a physical ticket." Succumbing to the fact that he was going to be late for work, Larry decided that the man's suggestion was probably his best course of action. He looked at this blank phone before asking the old man, "Can you direct me to that office? I don't think my direction app is going to work." "It's somewhere behind the convenience stand. I think there are signs to direct you." Larry thanked the gentleman and began looking for the ticket-sales office. Usually, his wrist-phone would have directed him to the correct area. Without that option, he tried to decipher the multitude of signs posted throughout the station. He was amazed that he had never noticed them before. After fifteen exasperating minutes, he finally located the office. It was tucked into a remote corner of the building. He entered to find a small, unkempt room. Tiny pieces of paper and discarded tickets littered the floor. A man was behind the counter. He was leaning on his elbows; his eyes shut. Larry cleared his throat as he approached, causing the man to straighten with a sudden jerk. Larry couldn't help but notice the man's eyes. The ticket seller's eyes were very large and there was much more white in them than there should have been. Larry couldn't decide if the man's pupils were too small or if his eyeballs were too large. Those eyes would give anyone the initial impression that this fellow was insane. "Can I help you," asked the strange-eyed man with a remarkably normal voice. Larry started to lift his phone. He had to take a picture of this guy's eyes and post it on Pic-Share. He was reaching for the screen to open the camera app when he remembered that his phone was dead. "I need to buy a ticket to Foghill Station," he told the man. "When is the next train?" "The next train leaves in twenty minutes." The man clicked a few buttons on his computer screen and a printer could be heard humming behind him. The man extended a portable scanner towards Larry and said: "That will be forty-two dollars or twenty-five bit-coins." Larry waved his wrist in front of the scanner, hoping it would somehow read his phone and subtract the necessary amount from his account. It did not. "Oh, that's okay," said the clerk. He stared intently at Larry; his eyes blinked far less than they should have. "You can pay with cash." "I don't carry cash. Nobody does. My phone is broken. Can't you just let me have a ticket? I will repay when I get my phone repaired." Larry realized he was talking louder than he needed to. He felt a subtle throbbing around his eyes. The ticket clerk shook his head. "I'm not allowed to do that. Don't you have a friend who could let you get the money from their account?" "No," replied Larry before quickly adding, "I mean, I have friends, two hundred-thirty-seven of them on Social-Page and a bunch more followers on Insta-Quote, but I don't actually know them." "Well, I don't think I can help you," announced the man. After a brief pause, during which he glanced around the room suspiciously, he gestured for Larry to come closer. Thinking that the odd-looking man might be offering some sort of clandestine solution to his problem, he obliged. When Larry moved closer, the clerk whispered, "I think I know what happened to you and your phone. The government randomly deletes people. It doesn't kill them. It just takes away all of their accounts. I think the government has removed you from the database. If you ask me, it's the same thing as being killed." Larry pulled back. "That's stupid. My phone is broken. There is nothing more or less going on here." As he stormed out of the office, escaping the lunatic, he decided that his best course of action would be to find a phone repair shop. He was in the main station when he realized he had no idea where to find a such a shop. He wandered around the building searching for a directory of local businesses. There was none to be found. Again, the urge to scream was nearly irresistible. "Excuse me," said someone near. "What?" Larry snapped as he turned to face the same older man who had tried to help him earlier. When he realized how angry he must have sounded, Larry took a deep breath before continuing. "I'm sorry. I am having a terrible day and I have a headache. I'm trying to find a place to get my phone fixed." The gentleman shook his head slightly. "No problem at all. I understand your frustration. I believe there is a phone repair store about nine or ten blocks north of here. It's on this side of the street." "Thank you very much." Larry wasn't looking forward to a long hike. He had already reached three-quarters of his daily step goal on his treadmill earlier. With all of his searching about the station, he was certain he was beyond the required number of steps. Of course, he had no way to check his total since his phone was not cooperating. Larry took a couple of steps towards the station exit but suddenly stopped and turned back to the old man. "Oh, one more thing. Which way is north?" The first block or two of Larry's walk seemed very awkward to him. Eventually, he realized why. This was the first time in years that he had walked down a street with his head raised. He always walked with his eyes on the phone. Today, he was seeing the faces of passersby and not just their feet. None of the other people on the street made eye contact with him, however. They were all looking at their phones. Larry was struck by how dull and colorless the street was. For block after block, he passed one gray box-shaped building after another. The only variations from store-front to store-front were the bright video boards by the entrance of each business. The boards would call people by name as they passed by, telling them about the wonders in store for them if they entered. None of the video signs called out to Larry. They were unable to grab his personal information from his phone. He nearly missed the building he was looking for. His phone failed to announce that the destination had been reached. Had the store not called out to some other person about the great deals available on the newest model phone, Larry would not have realized he was at the correct place. Inside, he was quickly approached by a smiling saleswoman. "Good morning, what may I do to help you?" she asked. "My phone is broken. I think it's still under warranty. I need it fixed as soon as possible." "Let's have a look. Follow me." The woman led Larry to a booth in the back of the store. "Go ahead and scan your info." Larry, knowing that it would not work, waved his arm over the scanning device. "Well, that thing seems to be totally dead." A look of surprise replaced the salesperson's pleasant grin. "I've never seen that before. Let me go see if anybody else here knows about this sort of thing." Without another word, she disappeared into a back room. Larry waited impatiently for about fifteen minutes. When she returned, the smile was, once again, plastered to her face. "So, we have three options. None of them are going to be overly convenient for you, however. First, we could schedule surgery to remove your phone and then have it sent in to be repaired. You would probably have to wait a couple of weeks to get the phone back. The other choice is to install a second phone on your left arm. We could probably have that done later today." She paused before continuing. Larry mulled over those two alternatives. "I guess I don't want to have to go without a phone for multiple weeks, but I sure don't want the hassle of another phone. Plus, I would look like some sort of techno-maniac having a phone on each arm. What is the other possibility?" "We could scrounge up a non-implanted phone for you to use until a technician can be called in to repair your current device. I know having an unattached phone is a real pain, but it is the easiest alternative. It allows you to have a phone. Do you need a phone?" Larry's felt his face flush as he snarled, "Of course I need a phone." It seemed to Larry that every conversation he had this day involved him having to inhale slowly to control his temper. "I guess I will take the old-style phone." The saleswoman was still smiling, seemingly unaffected by Larry's angry tone. "I am going to need some information from you so that I can access your account." She handed Larry a pen and a questionnaire. The form was not overly lengthy. It asked for Larry's name, address, social identification number, and some banking details. Larry hoped he had remembered the banking information correctly. He found himself shaking his hand to ease the cramping, He couldn't recall the last time he had used a pen. Eventually, Larry returned the questionnaire to the woman. "Great," she said as she started to enter Larry's data into her computer. "Not great," she said after a short time. "Are you sure you filled out your name and SI number correctly? The computer system is not recognizing you at all." Larry grabbed the paper and verified that he had written the correct name and number. "Yes, that is me." "Excuse me one more time," said the woman as she returned to the back room. Ten minutes later, a large man emerged from the rear of the store. He walked up to Larry and said, "If you're being honest, we have to wait until someone at headquarters can verify your information. There is nothing about you in the computer system. Come back in three days and we should have your info. That is, if you're not trying to pull off some sort of hustle. If you are, you need to leave right now and not come back. Do I make myself clear?" Larry just wanted this day to be over. "OK," he said. "I'll be back. I'm telling the truth and I need to get my phone fixed. But I don't like the way I've been treated. I'll be posting some pretty low ratings on Biz-Star when I get my phone back." He stormed out of the store, realizing that his little tirade probably would not increase his chances of getting his phone fixed by this company. He didn't care. The seventeen-block walk to his apartment did little to improve Larry's mood. He had no way to hail or pay a Share-Car. He was tired and hungry. Without a working phone, he had been unable to purchase any food or drink during his long trek. He had derived a plan to use his old laptop to get hold of his parents even though he had not spoken with them in months. Maybe he could figure out how to send an old-fashioned e-mail. They were old, they might have some real currency. He reached to open the door to his building and nearly broke into tears when the door refused to budge. The scanner adjacent to the door seemed to mock Larry; beeping softly whenever he pulled on the door handle. He sat down on the curb and buried his head in his hands. "Excuse me, I think I can help you," said a somewhat familiar voice. Larry looked up to see the same gentleman he had encounter twice earlier in the day. "May I sit? We need to talk," said the man as he joined Larry on the curb. "You... you're part of all this," accused Larry. "Yes and no," replied the man. "I did not start the events that have transpired, but I can offer a solution. Have you ever heard the rumors that the government randomly deletes the files of people?" "I've heard about it once, from a crazy man." "Apparently, he wasn't all that crazy, because it's true. Well, mostly. The truth is the people are not selected randomly. They choose people who have small families, few close friends, and non-essential jobs. The goal is to create as little chaos as possible when they remove these people." Larry still found the story unbelievable. "Why would they do that?" he asked. "It's a secret. Some think it's to absorb the deleted person's funds, sort of the ultimate tax. Others think it's a punishment for failure to be productive. Maybe the government just does it to make things interesting. Whatever the reason, you are no longer recognized by the world's computers. You, for all practical purposes, do not exist." Larry did not feel any better about his circumstances. He also was still incredibly confused about what was going on. "So, what do you have to do with this?" The man smiled. "When someone is erased, the government tells me. I, or one of my associates, find that individual and offer them an alternative." "What kind of alternative?" "I can take you to a place where it doesn't matter that you have been removed from the grid. Everyone who is removed is offered the same chance. Most end up accepting. Let me take you to the place I am talking about. You can see it for yourself." Larry was far from convinced. "How do I know this isn't part of some con or scheme? How can I trust you?" Again, the man smiled. "You can stay and try to figure out how to survive on your own. You've seen how this day has gone. Maybe you can figure it out. I promise you will have a better life coming with me and being part of our world as opposed to being locked out of this one." Larry continued to search for an alternative. "I could go to the press. I bet if my story was posted on a newsfeed, I could get help." "Possibly. You would not be the first to try. But you still have the option of trying to do that after you check out my sanctuary." "OK, I'll come and take a look. I don't have to stay if I don't like it, right?" The man stood up and offered a hand to help Larry to his feet. "Exactly. Now come with me. My automobile is parked a short distance away." It was nearly a three-hour drive from the city. The man's outdated ethanol-powered car did not have any of the features that new vehicles offered. There was no automatic navigation or GPS instructions. There wasn't a media center to constantly read texts and social posts. Larry and the man spoke very little. The ride was quiet and peaceful. Larry stared out the window and noticed that the landscape had slowly transformed from a dark, gray city to lush green vegetation. He contemplated the events of the day. Why had he been erased? Why did have to be the one selected as the loser of this bizarre lottery? The driver exited the highway and taken a small paved path for the final half-hour of the trip. Larry turned down the window and took a deep breath. He noticed the scent of lilacs in the fresh air. It was then that he realized that, even without his meds, he didn't have a headache. He had not had one since much earlier in the day. When the car stopped in front of a large steel gate, the two men exited the vehicle and approached the compound. The gate swung open as they neared. "Here we are," said the man. He stepped back and watched as Larry looked at the scene beyond the gate. A group of children played on a field of thick green grass. Next to a large wooden home, five young men and women were busy working in a large, bountiful garden. A couple sat, hand in hand, on a swing suspended from the bough of a large tree. Everywhere he looked, Larry saw the beauty of nature and people basking in it. Larry realized he was smiling. Maybe, just maybe, he had won.

[chicago-images]

Reply to Who would like to be a moderator for this group?

The Brutal Regime / Joseph Dunphy posted a reply:

            Over two years later, that last post looks amusing. I had hoped that this group would become a community, but I guess I was the only one who did. I'm going to try to polish away the over 7000 high mountain of submissions some of you dropped on me during that period when Flickr allowed for unlimited crossposting, but I'm not sure why. As I said before, your photos weren't complimenting each other by chance. I consciously chose the order in which they were approved in order to make them do so. Given that Flickr is going to be discarding the vast bulk of the photos on its site, destroying that carefully crafted composition, in just a few months, I'm done doing that. I'm more than a little sorry that I ever bothered. Long hours of work, not just spend putting all of this in order, but vetting photos, both those submitted to this group and those I saw outside of the group, as I looked for photos and people to invite - by now, I've literally gone through millions of photos over the last ten years, and now all of that is going to get thrown into the dumpster so that the aptly named Smugmug can complete what would appear to have been what I was fearing it would be at the time I first heard of the purchase - an aquihire in all but name. All so that a third rate businessman can try something that I've absolutely never seen work - boost his own business by buying out and shutting down his main competitor. People aren't going to flee Flickr for Smugmug, or buy pro memberships if (as will often be the case) their content gets discarded before they get the news. They'll free to Tumblr, Typepad or Livejournal (without controversial content in the case of the last of the three, one hopes) if they get the news in time to save their photos, or very likely leave the Internet altogether if they lose so much of their creative work to yet another suit's inflated ego. Narcissism truly is the gift that keeps on giving. So, that's how it goes, ten years of work, wiped out, as a major cultural resource (the photography that has accumulated on Flickr over the years) is casually destroyed. But the problem always was that it was a resource that Flickr, itself, never valued, because neither its owners nor its employees did the work to create it, nor did they pay for it. Other people took those photos. Other people spent all of that time sifting through the bad work of others to find the good. So, when all of that work is thrown away, management gets its narcissistic fix, while those unpaid others bear the expense. Sure, the company bears an opportunity cost, but people who've just been handed things seldom appreciate what they have until it's gone, and often, not even then. There are lessons to be learned in this. One of them is "don't ever trust the social networking sites." If some of you were thinking of jumping over to DeviantArt in light of recent developments, don't. If you think that the troll problem has been bad here, you haven't seen anything, yet. But a more important lesson is - don't be so darned generous. Yes, as provoked as I am, I'm going to keep this group clean to the end. Don't give people so much of yourself that they end up getting spoiled, because, past a certain point, the more they are given, the less they'll think they've gotten. They won't appreciate it, at all, and in this, I'm not just talking about the suits. I've been moderating groups for a little over ten years. I've seen a lot of "excrement" over this time, including that magical moment when a pair of users starting planning my murder, brilliantly choosing to do so in the comments section of one of their photos. Endless backbiting, which I got to deal with, attempts to get me thrown off the site, racial abuse ... it's been special. As I went through that, for over a decade, how many times do you think I heard the words "thank you"? ONCE Just once. It was such a remarkable event, that I remember exactly where and when it was. I was at the last "Around the Coyote." I'd name the member, but if I did, I'm afraid he's get harassed. So it goes. Flickr refuses to appreciate the photographers who provide it with content, and the photographers refused to appreciate the admins who find them, pull them together into communities and promote their work for free. No, we end up as scapegoats. I've lost track of how many times I've explained Flickr's insane position that nude statues are the same thing as nude people to members, who then refused to understand that I didn't work for Flickr and had played no role in the creation of that company policy. Even providing a link to Heather's infamous comment in the Help Forum, in which she laid out that police and wrote those immortal words "What is common sense?" did no good. People would go on abusing me over the bizarre decisions Flickr chose to make, as if there was anything I could do about them. The group will stick around as long as Flickr allows it to, albeit probably in mangled form, given how much of its content will be deleted. But, after I process those last 7000 photos, which should take a few weeks, I'm going to lock the photo and discussion section and wait until the great content purge of 2018 happens, before deciding what to do next. Which, to be honest, probably will be nothing. I've given myself vacations and put this group on hiatus, before, but this is different. On previous occasions, I'd have a headache because, say, somebody who turned out to have a criminal record and have talked about gouging people's eyes out found support as he created drama over the fact that I wouldn't invite him along on a photowalk. Yes, that really happened. I'd go away, and give you guys some time to think about what you had done. But when I got back, for the most part, what I had assembled was still there and I could resume. This time, that isn't likely to be true, so continuing might not make a lot of sense. What's the point of laboriously putting together that which others will smash to pieces, just for giggles? There is a much better than 50% chance that when I come back and take a look, that the losses will be so great that I'll never open the group back up, because I'll never be willing to put in the time, again. Which raises the question - if this group is done, here, where will it be moving to, next? Just look at all of the dead links to companion groups and sites that used to be, think about it, and I think you'll get your answer - nowhere. If I'm going to get put back to square one, I'm not going through this, again. I have no plans to establish any new groups, anywhere. Moderation has been a largely unrewarding experience that has taken time away from other, more valuable pursuits and in the end, done nothing for me. Most of those more valuable pursuits have nothing to do with the Internet, but there is one that does - my own blogging. The time I've spent promoting the creative efforts of others, only one of whom ever thanked me for that, is time I haven't been able to spend on my own. No more of that. In the unlikely case that I open this group up, again, I'll expect some of you to finally step forward and take some of the weight from my shoulders. If, as I suspect will be the case, nobody will be willing to do so at that time, then we'll be closing up for good, and this group will be an archive. Period. Even the blogging will be limited. I'll put out some samples of my work as a sort of personal introduction for people who do searches under my name, but as for putting out vast amounts of creative work on the Internet and sharing it for free? We just saw where that leads. No, the bulk of the writing I do is probably going to be submitted to small literary journals and other magazines. The photography I do will be shown to friends, or maybe displayed on the walls of a certain coffeehouse, if my own work is ever good enough to be seen there. But as for spending a lot more time on the Internet? Why would I want to do that?                

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