#pedestrian struck

[feedbaylenny]

Video: 3 drivers wanted for hitting pedestrian, killing him, and then leaving the scene

(As originally published, Fri, January 12th 2024) LOS ANGELES (TND) — Not one, or two, but three hit-and-run drivers are responsible for killing a man Los Angeles police described as being in his late 20s or early 30s. Wednesday, they released video in an effort to catch the drivers. They say it happened late Friday night in the Pacoima neighborhood, on San Fernando Road south of Montague…

[idleoblivion]

"Shopping Spree" Crewel x GN Reader

Synopsis: Your professor finally takes you on that shopping trip he promised, and you get more than just new clothes.

Part 1 Part 3

Word Count: ~2k

A/N: I can't explain why I am so down bad for this man but here I am with more smut of him. Let me know if I should make a part three, cause I'm definitely considering.

Warnings: Teacher/student relationship, gn reader, shy/nervous reader, semi-public sex, dirty talk, overuse of the word 'puppy', oral sex (m!receiving), masturbation, praise kink

You sat completely rigid in the leather seat of his red sports car. You shifted a bit, not uncomfortable from the seat but from this trip already being such a large departure from what you’re used to. A part of you felt like you were sullying the whole car by even being inside it, looking very pedestrian compared to the driver next to you.

Crewel clearly preferred to dress formal and polished even on his days off. Over his outfit he still wore his signature coat, fluffy and luxurious as ever. When he picked you up, he had laid out the plans he had for you today. He was taking you to a luxury shopping mall, where you could buy almost anything you wanted. The only condition was that every outfit you tried on you had to show him for approval. His justification was that he couldn’t let you walk out of the store with something that didn’t flatter you..

“If you’re going to be my puppy, you’re going to have to dress the part.” He had said to you earlier.

He pulls into the parking lot and you’re immediately struck by the grandeur of the building. It looked even larger than the malls you were used to, and even from outside it radiated an air of expensiveness.

He opens the door for you once the car is parked, and puts his hand on your lower back as you walk beside him. He guides you towards the entrance of the mall and you step in together.

The inside of the mall was incredibly intimidating. Every store in sight has windows filled with products you couldn’t dream of affording. You repeat a question you had earlier to him, with newfound concern at your surroundings.

“You’re really sure I can get clothes here? I would’ve been happy with a regular mall too.” He tsks at you, “Yes, I am sure. In fact I insist, because I won’t have a puppy of mine running around in clothes unbefitting of them. And there will be no talk of the price either, that isn’t for you to worry about. No more yipping, follow me. We’ll try on some things in here first.” He pulls you into what would be the first of many stores, and you start browsing their selection with him.

---

You had been shopping for more than three hours now, and you were a bit overwhelmed with everything you had gotten. You left every store he brought you to with at least one bag of new clothes, which he carried for you. 

True to his word, he made you show him every outfit you wanted to buy. Almost all of them he approved, sometimes adding something or taking just one thing away, but he hadn’t outright refused anything you picked out. What caught you a bit off guard were all the outfits he picked. You knew he’d probably be giving you suggestions, but weren’t expecting him to pick whole ensembles that he demanded you try on. They were all very much his aesthetic, elegant black and white pieces with an occasional hint of red. He looked extra pleased after you would try those on, and ended up buying every single item he had picked out for you. It wasn’t a big deal, if letting him choose some things for you was the price for a whole new wardrobe, you didn’t mind at all.

You were finally at what he promised would be the last store. You actually didn’t see much that you liked, but he had found a few things he wanted to see you in again. The salesperson brought you both to a fitting room in the back and left you there. The room was decently large, with a few different places to hang your clothes and a stool. You resumed the pattern you had both established; He would hand you an outfit, you’d show him and he'd give his judgment, he'd hand you another, rinse and repeat until he was satisfied. 

You stepped out of the room to show him the latest choice. He pondered for a second before giving his thoughts.

“Hmm…It fits your body very nicely, and the colors look great on you. Yes, we’ll get this one too.”

You smile at his compliments. You go to reach for the next outfit he has in his hand, but he doesn’t give it to you. He steps past you and makes his way towards the fitting room.

“Um…what are you doing?” “I’m coming in with you. This one has clasps in the back you’ll probably need help with.” He pushes through the door and waits for you to follow. You hesitate, but after a pause you enter anyway.

He stands to the side and starts preparing the outfit for you. You wait for him to turn or face away from you, but instead he looks right at you expectantly.

“Well?”

Realizing what he means, you slowly start undressing yourself. You feel his eyes staring holes into you the entire time, watching every movement you made and looking your body up and down. Once you’re down to just your underwear, you nervously turn to face him again. You expect him to hand you the clothes to put on, only to find they’ve been unceremoniously tossed onto the stool. He steps toward you empty-handed, and you have to fight the urge to back up a little.

He places his hands on your sides and holds you in front of him. He leans down to kiss you, gently at first, but increasing in intensity very quickly. He bites your lip which makes you gasp, and uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. His hands start sliding lower down your body, and you push at his shoulder to get him to break the kiss. He pulls back, looking somewhat confused.

“W-we, we can’t…there’s people here, and the worker might-” “The worker won’t bother us in here, and the only other customers were all up front. If anyone came back here, we’d hear them. Nothing bad’s going to happen, puppy, not when you’re with me.” He presses his lips to your neck and starts sucking lightly, then moving to kiss along your collarbone. His hand trails upwards to fondle your chest, and the heat in your body becomes unignorable. You stifle a moan as he leans to flick his tongue over your nipple.

“Professor…” you whine meekly. The sheepish tone in your voice makes him groan.

“Do you have any idea,” He starts between hot kisses to your skin, “What you’ve been doing to me all day? Looking so cute in everything I put you in, being so good for me…”

He stands straight again and eyes you hungrily. “You like being good for me, don’t you puppy?”

You nod rapidly, but he shakes his head back. “Words, puppy.” “Yes professor, I like being good for you.” Your face is burning, but you make yourself say it anyway.

He reaches for his belt and starts undoing it. “Then get on your knees.” You obey and sink to your knees in front of him. He grabs your chin and tilts it up towards him, smirking at your doe-eyed expression.

“Keep your hands on the floor, no touching. Do you understand?”

“Yes, professor.”

“Good. Stick out your tongue.” He holds your chin still while you put your tongue out. He frees his cock from his pants with his other hand and taps it on your tongue a few times. You don’t break eye contact, knowing you’d probably be scolded if you did.

“Now open that sweet little mouth for me, puppy.”

Again, you obey, and he slowly puts his cock in your mouth. You suppress the urge to gag as it reaches into your throat slightly and he holds you there. He curses at the sight of you taking him in all the way.

“Fuck puppy, you’re good, so good for me. You’re gonna let me fuck that pretty face, right?”

You manage a small, choked “yes, professor” around his cock, which is all it takes for him to start fucking into your throat with fervor. Tears start welling up from his pace almost immediately. The fat tears rolling down your cheeks only make him rougher with you. You want to press your hands against his thighs, but you keep them on the ground like he instructed. He keeps praising you all through it, telling you how good you’re doing and how perfect you look like this. It makes you press your legs together and squirm a little on the floor, which doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Are you feeling needy, puppy?” He pants as he keeps thrusting into your mouth. “You can touch yourself if you need to, I give you permission.”

You take him up on that immediately, and reach down to play with yourself. The stimulation plus the almost feral look on his face has you moaning around his cock now, bringing him closer to the edge.

“Be good for me and swallow it puppy, and show me when you’re done. Fuck, that’s it puppy-” He continues to ramble as he approaches his high.

With a loud groan he finally cums in your mouth. He holds your head still while he does, and you do your best not to choke while you swallow everything he gives you. When he finally lets you go, you sputter for a second trying to catch your breath. Remembering his commands, you look back up at him and stick your tongue out again, showing you had left nothing.

“Good fucking puppy…” he pulls you up from the floor to kiss you again. He holds you close to him and you shakily grab him back. “Did so good for me, so good.” His praise again has you writhing in his grasp.

“Professor…” You start whining again with a slightly hoarse voice, “I-I, I need you…touch me, please?” “Hmm…no, I don’t think I will.” You look up at him wide-eyed. Was he seriously going to leave you so worked up like this? “B-but, you said I was good! I was good for you, right?”

He chuckles at your obvious desperation. “Yes, you were puppy. But I think we’ve spent too much time in this fitting room already. So we’ll pick up where we left off back at my house, alright?” That stops your thoughts in their tracks. “Your house?” “Did you think I was taking you back to that destitute dormitory of yours? Of course not, you’re spending the weekend with me and I’ll bring you back Monday. Plus there are a few…extra gifts I’d like to give you there.” His eyes turn a bit dangerous once again, and he smacks you lightly on the ass, making you yelp. He laughs and lets go of you, turning to exit the fitting room.

“Get changed, we’ll get something to eat and head there after.” Once he leaves, you stand still a bit in shock at your situation. The whole weekend, with him? If this is what he would do in a dressing room, what would he do when he had you alone at his place? The thought made heat start pooling in your stomach again.

Snapping out of it, you hurriedly get dressed again and make yourself presentable. You try to calm your nerves, reminding yourself that you still need to act natural while you’re at the register with him. After a few deep breaths and a final attempt to fix your hair, you meet him outside the room.

“Ready to go, puppy?”

“Yes, professor.”

[batboyblog]

Things Biden and the Democrats did, this week #10

March 15-22 2024

The EPA announced new emission standards with the goal of having more than half of new cars and light trucks sold in the US be low/zero emission by 2032. One of the most significant climate regulations in the nation’s history, it'll eliminate 7 billion tons of CO2 emissions over the next 30 years. It's part of President Biden's goal to cut greenhouse gas emissions in half by 2030 on the road to eliminating them totally by 2050.

President Biden canceled nearly 6 Billion dollars in student loan debt. 78,000 borrowers who work in public sector jobs, teachers, nurses, social workers, firefighters etc will have their debt totally forgiven. An additional 380,000 public service workers will be informed that they qualify to have their loans forgiven over the next 2 years. The Biden Administration has now forgiven $143.6 Billion in student loan debt for 4 million Americans since the Supreme Court struck down the original student loan forgiveness plan last year.

Under Pressure from the administration and Democrats in Congress Drugmaker AstraZeneca caps the price of its inhalers at $35. AstraZeneca joins rival Boehringer Ingelheim in capping the price of inhalers at $35, the price the Biden Admin capped the price of insulin for seniors. The move comes as the Federal Trade Commission challenges AstraZeneca’s patents, and Senator Bernie Sanders in his role as Democratic chair of the Senate Health Committee investigates drug pricing.

The Department of Justice sued Apple for being an illegal monopoly in smartphones. The DoJ is joined by 16 state attorneys general. The DoJ accuses Apple of illegally stifling competition with how its apps work and seeking to undermining technologies that compete with its own apps.

The EPA passed a rule banning the final type of asbestos still used in the United States. The banning of chrysotile asbestos (known as white asbestos) marks the first time since 1989 the EPA taken action on asbestos, when it passed a partial ban. 40,000 deaths a year in the US are linked to asbestos

President Biden announced $8.5 billion to help build advanced computer chips in America. Currently America only manufactures 10% of the world's chips and none of the most advanced next generation of chips. The deal with Intel will open 4 factories across 4 states (Arizona, Ohio, New Mexico, and Oregon) and create 30,000 new jobs. The Administration hopes that by 2030 America will make 20% of the world's leading-edge chips.

President Biden signed an Executive Order prioritizing research into women's health. The order will direct $200 million into women's health across the government including comprehensive studies of menopause health by the Department of Defense and new outreach by the Indian Health Service to better meet the needs of American Indian and Alaska Native Women. This comes on top of $100 million secured by First Lady Jill Biden from ARPA-H.

Democratic Senators Bob Casey, Tammy Baldwin, Sherrod Brown, and Jacky Rosen (all up for re-election) along with Elizabeth Warren, Cory Booker, and Sheldon Whitehouse, introduced the "Shrinkflation Prevention Act" The Bill seeks to stop the practice of companies charging the same amount for products that have been subtly shrunk so consumers pay more for less.

The Department of Transportation will invest $45 million in projects that improve Bicyclist and Pedestrian Connectivity and Safety

The EPA will spend $77 Million to put 180 electric school buses onto the streets of New York City This is part of New York's goal to transition its whole school bus fleet to electric by 2035.

The Senate confirmed President Biden's nomination of Nicole Berner to the Court of Appeals for the Fourth Circuit. Berner has served as the general counsel for America's largest union, SEIU, since 2017 and worked in their legal department since 2006. On behalf of SEIU she's worked on cases supporting the Affordable Care Act, DACA, and against the Defense of Marriage act and was part of the Fight for 15. Before working at SEIU she was a staff attorney at Planned Parenthood. Berner's name was listed by the liberal group Demand Justice as someone they'd like to see on the Supreme Court. Berner becomes one of just 5 LGBT federal appeals court judges, 3 appointed by Biden. The Senate also confirmed Edward Kiel and Eumi Lee to be district judges in New Jersey and Northern California respectively, bring the number of federal judges appointed by Biden to 188.

[cece693]

Protect (Hannibal Lecter x Gender Neutral Reader)

Summary: You didn't care if people were against your relationship with Hannibal, calling you all names under the sun for managing to 'bewitch' one of Baltimore's highest socialites, but Hannibal was a different story.

tags: teaching a lesson, Hannibal really just wants to protect you, murder (duh)

"Hannibal, please tell me you didn't kill him." You whined, looking at your lover, who couldn't even bother to feign confusion, simply letting one of those small, knowing smiles grace his face.

You turned back to TattleCrime, reading all about the mysterious disappearance of Alan Wright, one of Baltimore's more notable socialites. Theories of who could've done it, along with useless testimonies from people who 'loved' him and wanted him back, filled the page. With a frustrated sigh, you closed the laptop and stood up from the couch.

"We talked about hunting too close to home. What if they trace it back to you?"

"They won't." Hannibal reassured, his voice laced with a smugness that you couldn’t help but resent. If you were a normal person, the knowledge that you were sleeping with a cannibalistic serial killer would have sent you running for the hills, but you weren’t sane.

Hannibal's ideology, while disturbing, was understandable, honorable even. Rudeness was intolerable (something you wholeheartedly agreed with), but you could overlook it under special circumstances—this moment constitutes as one.

"Hannibal, you can't kill every person who speaks unfavorably of me. That would draw even more unwanted attention from the police and FBI."

Hannibal’s jaw clenched, a clear signal that your words had struck a nerve. He knew you were right—lately, Will and Jack had begun to suspect him, their eyes narrowing in on the smallest inconsistencies. There was no need to get sloppy and provide them with the evidence they so desperately sought.

"Alan Wright wasn’t just unfavorable." he began, his tone measured and calm. "He was a vile creature, filled with envy and spite. He demeaned you, reduced you to nothing more than a trophy, a shallow figure climbing the social ladder." His words were sharp, each one cutting deeper as he continued. "He dared to belittle what we share, to trivialize it. How could I stand idly by while he poisoned others with his malicious lies?"

"Lies." you interjected, your voice firm but calm. "You said it yourself—baseless assumptions that hold no power."

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening again as he processed your words. "Perhaps they were lies." he conceded, though his tone suggested he was far from convinced. "But lies, when spoken by someone with influence, can become a dangerous truth in the minds of others. Alan had a way of manipulating those around him, of planting seeds of doubt and suspicion."

You could see the frustration building in him, the way his control was slipping with each passing moment. "But those seeds would have withered without attention." you pressed, trying to make him see your reasoning.

"They didn’t deserve your time, your energy, or your wrath. It shouldn't matter what others think of us. That would be pedestrian, don't you agree?" You knew it was petty, but Hannibal had to understand the irrationality behind his actions.

"Pedestrian." He echoed, the word seeming to weigh heavily on his tongue. "Perhaps so. But it is not merely about the opinions of others. It’s about the principle of the matter, and the respect I feel you deserve."

Hannibal’s gaze softened, but the intensity in his eyes remained. "You underestimate how far I’m willing to go to protect you, to protect us." he murmured, his voice low and almost tender, though a dangerous edge lingered beneath. "Alan Wright wasn’t just a man spreading lies—he was a threat, one that I could not allow to fester."

You sighed, your frustration growing as you saw no change in Hannibal's mind. "But at what cost? You can’t kill every person who sees us differently, who doesn’t understand what we have. It’s not sustainable, and it’s not worth the risk."

Hannibal’s expression hardened, the control he’d been holding onto slipping further. "I won’t let anyone take you from me." he said, his voice rising, the calm facade beginning to crumble. "Not Alan Wright, not anyone. They will not diminish what we share, what we could become. I will protect you from all threats, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem to you."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his conviction. You could feel the storm building inside him, the way his emotions were beginning to spiral out of control. But even as he unraveled, you couldn’t help but feel a deep, conflicted pull toward him—a mix of fear, admiration, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

"Hannibal." you said softly, stepping closer to him, trying to bring him back. "I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But we need to be smart about this. We can’t let emotions drive us to do something we’ll regret."

For a moment, Hannibal didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if lost in his own thoughts. But then, slowly, he seemed to regain control, his breathing steadying, the wildness in his eyes dimming. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the tension in his body eased.

"You’re right." he finally said, though the words seemed to come with difficulty. "We must be careful. But never doubt my commitment to us, to you. I will protect what we have with everything I am."

[flowerfreya]

Warrant

Part 13 in The Office AU

Chapter Index

Pairing poly!141 x reader

Content: kissing, injury ( mild detail)

Heading back to work , you feel antsy and nervous and keep glancing over at Simon. You kind of want to kiss him. One reason is that you're jealous of your wacky girlfriend and the other because you think that SImon is hot and you think kissing him would be enjoyable.

You’re just not sure how to get him to kiss you, which may be an issue.

Pulling into the parking lot , you turn towards him, “Thanks for treating me to lunch”, smiling. You hope that you're portraying that you want to kiss him but not coming on too strong.

“Was hungry, anyway”, he grumbles.

“Of course, right”.

Your looking into his eyes and he glances away. Like he can’t look at you for a long period of time. Maybe you shouldn’t kiss him. Maybe he doesn’t want to kiss you.

“Alright?”, Simon ask.

Looking at your lap, you're questioning yourself.

“Hey, you can talk to me”, Simon says, trying to catch your eye.

“I know, I’m just nervous and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable”, you start waving your arms and talking with your hands, trying to explain that you don’t want to be a homewrecker but you're really nice to me and you think he’s cute. He cuts you off, “ `M not apart of that”, he says as he waves his hands towards the building.

Your not really surprised, wacky girlfriend doesn’t really include Simon in anything, “how come?”

Simon gives you an exasperated look, “she doesn’t like me like that”.

“That’s a shame”, you reply.

Breathing in deep, you decide to full send it, “can I ask you a question?”.

“Course, anything”, he says.

“Can I kiss you?”, you’re fully ready to be rejected by him, and then he answers in a low groan, “yes”.

Leaning across the center console and capturing his lips with yours. He lets a low moan, letting out a soft, oh. Which spurs you on to keep going. You move your hand to his shoulder, running your hand through his hair at the nape of his neck. He grabs the back of you head and deepens the kiss.

You’re the first to pull away, needing to breathe. Letting out a small laugh, “wow”.

“Yeah”, you look up to Simon wiping both hands down his face, letting out a big breath.

“Yeah”, you respond.

“Well I guess we should head back in”, you open the door , grabbing your stuff. Simon is still in the car sitting staring straight ahead.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just need a.. moment”, then look over at you and gives you a light smile.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s hard.

~

You see her above you and you see her mouth moving , are you okay , but no sounds. She seems frantic, red faced with tears, looking back and forth between you and the car, it was an accident , I swear her mouth says .It’s like everything has slowed down. Then you feel the pain. You're having trouble taking a full breath and breathing in feels like inhaling fire.

The next face you see is John. He doesn’t look too happy to see you, in fact you think he’s yelling at you. You’re in too much pain to care.

“Can’t breathe”, you painfully choke out.

His face changes then, from angry to sad, “I know luv”, he grabs your hand, “helps coming”.

You see Simon on the other side of you, wanting to get a better look you try turning your head. Bad idea. You let a wail that has Gaz and Soap snapping their head at you and John barking, “don’t move”.

But it’s too late, you see your foot in a direction you don’t think that your foot should be, “goin to be sick”, right as you puke all over Simon's shoes.

He doesn’t seem to care that much because he stays there and strokes your hair, muttering, it’s okay and let it out sweetheart.

You hear Soap ask why you haven’t passed out yet. And honestly you would like to know too because this sucks.

You hear the sirens before you see them. Gaz meets them at the trucks and it explains the situation, pedestrian struck by motor vehicle, speed 45,possible broken rib , ankle displaced.

The EMT’s take your vitals on the scene asking to follow light and how many fingers are they holding up, but you're having trouble focusing.

Losing consciousness , you hear someone say. Get her to the hospital now , you think Soap says before the void takes over.

~

Waking up to the beeps of the hospital machines and your legs and foot wrapped in a cast is a bit jarring. But it all comes back to you pretty quick.

Wacky girlfriend ran you over with her car.

[tragedy-of-commons]

call to action

boothill x gn!reader | wc: ~1.4k

Always get your hopes up.

tags/warnings: alcohol mentions and references (reader actually doesn't drink explicitly), romantic tension, ipc cog reader, mental gymnastics, pining in a weird constipated way

notes: this is a request from a lovely ao3 commenter, aqua! "...i'd like to request a Boothill x IPC reader if that's fine?" + i also combined this with a dialogue prompt from @/promptlyprompting!

“You’d be a fool to say no.”

Boothill’s voice remains a coarse drawl that almost sounds scolding. Even if your way of running the show has always been at odds with his, he’s never outright called you a fool of all things. His offer hangs in the air, making the sticky atmosphere of the bar even more unbearable. The bulbous red light fixtures sway overhead as the ringleader of a nearby group slams an animated fist on the counter, licks of crimson fleetingly painting the tops of your heads.

You laugh, drink going untouched as it always does; at the end of the night, when you both fight over the tab, you always surrender yours over to him as a peace offering. Maybe tonight you’ll need to give more than that to appease him. “I’d be a bigger fool to listen to you. You aren’t exactly known for being the most reasonable of the bunch.”

“I don’t extend this opportunity to just anyone,” he reminds you, lips curling into a toothy grin. “To me, it seems like you’re looking for excuses to miss out like you always do. That mind of yours ain’t too rigid for Galaxy Ranger business, y’know. I bet you’d make it work.”

Boothill is weird, that much is apparent, yes, but only he would ask you to join him on his journey, call you a fool, and then compliment your mindset all in the same artificial breath. His audacity is so offensive that it’s a wonder that Lan themself hasn’t struck him down. He gets away with so much - including making you hope for a different future. Including making you hope for a different future with him.

The exterior of the bar is just as cramped and loud as the interior. Visitors modding their vehicles on the outcrop of the main strip—Mechanic’s Haven—shout and drill away at the innards of spaceships, drones, satellites, and whatever else - wayward sparks landing at the feet of shoppers and pedestrians. There’s something to be said about an IPC lackey and a Galaxy Ranger walking into a bar, but he wisely refrains. 

You sigh. “You know I can’t. As fun as chasing pipe dreams with you would be, I’m locked into a contract with the largest corporation in the whole known universe,” you make a point of gesturing to your uniform. “That kind of obligation doesn’t just go away, even if you run from it.”

He snorts, an empathetic little thing. Boothill then pops his hat off and situates it on your head, much to your chagrin. The noise you let out is affronted, the brim of the relic obscuring the better part of your vision. How disgustingly fond of him. “I see where you’re comin’ from, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you to reconsider. You’d be a much better fit here than there.”

(The unspoken words stick to the roof your mouth. You’d be a much better fit with me than with them.)

Part of you agrees. There’s always been a scale in your head that weighs the fairness of each step you take - measuring the footfalls of others in tandem with yours; you know what it is like to have a strong sense of justice that itches to be upheld. Boothill witnessed this side of you firsthand, when the first words you ever spoke to him were something along the lines of: “Leave the freelancers here alone. Those are the prices, and they’re that steep for a reason. Pay him in full or I’ll make sure you’re in need of a few more repairs.”

You’re also aware of the strange role you play in this. Being on the IPC’s payroll, the contractual thing to do was to report the outlaw to your superiors immediately and enjoy the generous bounty on his head, but you didn’t. You didn’t because when you came face to face with the Boothill, you were ambushed with a childlike wonder you hadn’t felt in years, even if your righteous admonishment didn’t reflect it.

Nowadays, this dingy old bar with no name isn’t the same without his wild tales. Mechanic’s Haven isn’t the same without him at your side as you weave through the clusters of people, him poking fun at your job and your unwillingness to turn him in. When he calls you one of the good ones, you begrudgingly call him a pretty stand-up guy. He gets a kick out of that.

This planetary pitstop is growing more suffocating by the minute. You tip the hat upward to let it sit on your head at a higher angle so you can actually see, narrowed eyes trained on your companion. “You think so? And what makes you so sure, huh?”

He makes a show of flexing his fingers before balling the scrapwork appendages into a fist, taking great care in placing it over where his heart would be, if he was not the thing he is now. The look he fixes you with is complicated, layers of something hidden behind that thick accent and the centers of those crosshairs. “Call it a gut feeling. Y’know, as arbitrary,” he enunciates the word painstakingly, “as the universe is, there’s a reason we met. You got what it takes… and I ain’t afraid to shy away from that truth like you are.”

There it is again. “I’m not afraid. I just happen to think before I act.”

Boothill sighs and swipes your drink that’s been collecting dust with a deft hand, knocking it back. He recovers, gaze raking over your form. It isn’t salacious in the slightest, you think, the way he starts at the tip of his hat’s feather to the silver insignia resting over your heart. Maybe his eyes lingered on your lips too, but that could be you injecting something pointless like hope into this relationship that doesn’t need to be there. That seems more likely. 

“A little too much if I do say so myself,” he guffaws, much to the displeasure of the other patrons. He plucks his hat back off your head with something like amusement, returning it to its rightful place. “You’re as stubborn as a mule, but I know when I’ve been bested. Come on, it’s gettin’ late.”

You two don’t fight over the tab this time around, him sliding a generous amount of credit to the barkeep who just looks slightly bewildered at two of his regulars not verbally fistfighting each other like they normally do. The question in his stare makes your cheeks feel hotter than lava, and you walk with Boothill out of the bar without much fuss, greeting the mild night cold. The silence that you share isn’t uncomfortable, but there’s more to be said. You know he wants nothing more than to hear a yes from you, which sends your mental equilibrium into dizzying contention.

Something is not right, and it is your fault.

With an audible swallow, you fight the butterflies in your stomach and nudge his side. The raucous song of Mechanic’s Haven harmonizes with the thrumming in your ears. “Hey.”

He turns to look at you, whistling a tune you can’t place.

“I’ll give it some more thought. Don’t get your hopes up, because becoming a fugitive by association seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth,” you cough.

Boothill beams and it just serves to confuse your internal scale even more. One would think you’re suddenly inorganic with how it feels like you’re short-circuiting. Is this an acute onset of cardiac arrest? Or is it something else you’ve been pushing away for months on end?

He nudges you back. “I knew you’d come around! And the first lesson of being a Galaxy Ranger,” he starts, “is to always get your hopes up.”

Yeah… it’s definitely something else entirely. Something that, in all likelihood, is going to get you into massive trouble. You understand the risks that come with fraternizing with an outlaw, have weighed them heavily against your heart, and have reached only one verdict:

You’ll sleep on it.

(You’ll end up following this cowboy no matter what. Even you, deep down, know that he’s been sticking around the area for way too long, like he’s waiting for something or someone. It just so happened to be you. Dang it all to heck and back.)

taglist: @flower-yi, @moineauz, @aphrodict, @nomazee, @singularity-sam, @harque, @thestarswhisper

[dailymanners]

Always use your turn signal

Cars are several tons of metal moving at very high speeds, even though they're such a normal part of every day life they can be very dangerous or deadly when not used consciously. When you have several tons of metal moving at high speeds it makes it safer for everyone if we know which direction it's about to go, as being aware where the car is about to go reduces accidents and pedestrian/cyclist getting struck by cars.

[idkwhatimdoinghere1655]

What Was I Made For? - Charles Leclerc

<word count - 1251>

Another day: done. Another day that had felt like it had been wasted doing your ever so boring job while you watched pedestrians walk in and out, smiling as their carefree hours whizzed by. 

You served coffee after coffee, frappe after frappe, and each one took you an inch closer to insanity. As soon as the clock struck five, you threw your apron into your locker and traded it for your jacket. 

Just as you were about to slip out of the employees only back exit, you heard your boss collaring your name. You were just going to pretend you couldn't hear and leave anyway, but there was no ignoring her when she tapped you on the shoulder.

"Y/N, I'm going to need you to put in a few extra hours next week since we're pretty short on staff and we've been really busy lately," she smiled, and the urge to punch her in the face had never been stronger. The last thing you wanted was to put in more hours of your life doing the least rewarding job you had ever had. 

"Do I get paid any extra or anything?" you asked. You only did the job for the money, since you liked to have some independence from Charles. As expected, he had offered to support your life since he made more than enough, but you wanted to do something with your life. But this wasn't it.

"Sorry honey, the best I can do is more coffee coupons," she chirped, and you wondered how she was always so cheerful and happy. It was almost envious. Well, it would be if it wasn't so damn infuriating and irritating. 

"Just send me through the hours," you tutted, not wasting anymore time in that god forsaken coffee shop than you had to. Walking back home, you couldn't help but frown at all of the people around you, enjoying what they did for a living. 

They were all making names for themselves, leading fulfilling lives and living their dreams. And then there was you, serving coffees just finding a way to spend time. 

What were you doing with your life? Who were you supposed to be? Why did you have to live through groundhog day every day?

As per usual, you walked past the art gallery, boasting creativity and colour, and the jewellery stores with glittering pieces that you wished you had made. Just so someone would recognize something you had done. 

Finally, you arrived at the safe haven that was the apartment you shared with Charles. He wasn't back yet, since he had gone for dinner with some friends for the evening.

You got yourself comfortable, taking a shower and snuggling up on the couch. As you watched a movie, you couldn't help but feel saddened by the actor's success.

They were household names, doing what they loved for a living. And there you were. Sat on your couch counting the hours away.

You just wished you could have been like them - even if just a little bit. Hell, you just wanted to be someone. You just wanted be something.

These thoughts rushed through your head for a while, so much to the point where you failed to notice the movie had ended and you were staring at a blank screen with watery eyes.

You also failed to notice the front door opening and closing as a tear of disdain and jealousy rolled down your cheek. "Hey, amor. How are you?" Charles asked, but you couldn't snap out of your darkened haze.

"Y/N? Are you alright?" He asked again, placing a hand on your shoulder and shaking you slightly.

"What am I doing with my life?" You asked, your eyes still glued to the black screen. You didn't hesitate to ask, there was no point. "What?" he asked, clearly not understanding the question.

"Who am I?" you asked, and Charles just looked at you, trying to figure out what you were asking. This was so out of the blue since you were normally a happy, cheerful kind of person.  "Exactly, I'm no one," you said, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your knees after he didn't respond.

"I just serve shitty coffee to shitty people and that is my life," you continued, the frustration building as you spoke. "Nobody knows who I am and nobody cares," you rambled, shrugging his hand away.

"Baby, you know that's not true," he said, struggling to come up with something to help you snap out of the stupor. He wondered how long you had felt like this for it to all come out so suddenly and strongly. "There's no point in trying that, Charles. I know it is,"

"I used to be untouchable," you sighed, thinking back to when you met Charles and what had lead up to it. You had worked your ass off like you had through your whole life. You tried hard in school and did everything you could to contribute to your community and others around you. 

"I used to be amazing, and now look at me," you babbled. You were living your dream, but you left your job to move to Monaco with Charles. "I threw it all away," you whispered, not wanting Charles to think it was his fault in the slightest. 

"But you are amazing," he tried to console, his heart breaking to hear you talk about yourself like this. "Not anymore," you said, thinking about what you could have been. Long distance could have worked and maybe you'd be happy right now.

"You can be whatever you want to be, you know that right?" he asked, not realising what he had set himself up for. "I'm not talented enough to be a singer, I'm not pretty enough to be a model, I'm not charismatic enough to be a talk show host, I'm not driven enough to have my dream be my job like you,"

"Everyone already has their lives planned out and are making leaps and bounds towards their end goal, and then there's me. Wasting my time and wallowing in my own self pity," you sighed, and Charles was wracking his brains for something that might help.

"You're still young, baby, you have loads of time to figure it out. And once you do, you have more than enough to get yourself there because you can do anything you put your mind to," he tried to reassure, mentally cursing at himself for how cheesy that sounded.

He hated that you had this opinion of yourself. To him, it didn't matter if you were the most talented, the prettiest, the most charismatic. It just mattered that you were you and he loved you for that. 

"But everyone else has it figured out. Everyone is already someone. You're Charles Leclerc, the face of Ferrari, the man from Monaco, hero to children across the globe. You have a purpose.  And what about me? Well that's exactly it, I'm just me," 

"There's no such thing as 'just me'. You are hard-working beyond belief, you take pride in your job, you care about other people, you're the love of my life. Surely that's enough?" he desperately tried to claw you back out of the slump, but his sweet words couldn't shield the darkness this time.

"Maybe it isn't, not anymore," you mumbled, standing from the couch and shutting yourself in the bedroom, leaving Charles sat on the couch by himself, gobsmacked. He didn't know how to help you realise how brilliant you really were, but you didn't really know either.  

A/N - I went to see Barbie the other night, and this song just destroyed me. I guess it just made me think about things, y'know? If anyone has any requests, feel free to submit them, I adore writing them!

|masterlist|

[brown-forking-weed]

At 3 P.M. today, Tidus, the beloved main character of Final Fantasy X, best known for his swordsmanship and happy-go-lucky attitude, will be struck by an impossibly unfortunate streak of bad luck that will render him unable to hit enemies with a single attack. According to experts, this unprecedented series of misses will not be the result of some latent bias in the random number generator, but rather can only be attributed to sheer coincidence. The astronomically small possibility of such an occurence has left fans and mathemticians equally baffled, but according the latest models this pattern is expected to continue until many billions of years from now, when the increasing entropy of the universe renders the Playstation 2 inoperable.

According to Final Fantasy X walkthrough youtuber slammedunk95, Tidus's inefficacy will make completing the story impossible: "Although other party members such as the Ronso, Kimahri, can make up for Tidus's shortcomings with their attacks and special abilities, there are a number of encounters where Tidus is expected to kill enemies on his own, something that he will no longer be statistically capable of." Additionally, he added that he was "concerned" about how Tidus's condition might "affect his sense of self wirth [sic]", adding that "Auron is... certainly not going to be pleased with him."

A number of theories have been proposed in order to explain Tidus's condition, though none have so far proven completely satisfactory. One explanation that had made the rounds on social media is the so-called "Reading Glasses Hypothesis". Proponents of the hypothesis suggest that Tidus is far-sighted, requiring a pair of reading glasses in order to read without strain, and that by some accident he has left them on his face, rendering his regular sight so blurry as to reduce his accuracy to nothing. Critics, however, have pointed out that a pair of reading glasses would clearly be visible on Tidus's model, and numerous analyses have failed to find any visual indication of their existence. Supporters counter that Square Enix programmed the game not to render the glasses onscreen, likely as a convenience to the player. Confusing the matter further, a number of conflicting screenshots have emerged, some showing Tidus with glasses, some appearing to show the barest outlines of a nearly invisible pair, others depicting him utterly bare-faced except for his signature smile. Square Enix themselves have been strangely silent on the matter, and nearly all attempts to contact them have been met with silence.

Yesterday morning, longtime series composer Nobuo Uematsu was spotted leaving a downtown ice cream parlor with two two-scoop waffle cones, one in each hand, alternating his licking between them as he strutted down the crowded sidewalk, deftly weaving through oncoming pedestrians, cones perfectly balanced, his blushing tongue darting out from between his lips to catch every stray drop melted by the sun, never losing even an ounce of that precious ambrosia, smoothing the surface of the strawberry scoops to a glossy sheen with his warm papillae, wearing away at the mountain of mint chip with nothing but the determined rubbing of that pinkish organ - stained pinker by artifical strawberry colorings - whose articulate flapping might, with any luck, reveal the secret of Tidus's bizarre condition to our news crew, who were approaching him at that very moment. Unfortunately, the revered composer politely declined to answer our inquiries, but our quick-thinking cameraman managed to capture a seventeen second clip of him biting into his wafflecones as he walked away. It is unknown at this time if the foootage will prove relevant to the investigation.

Fans of Final Fantasy X are advised to make the most of their remaining time with the profoundly moving story of Tidus and Yuna before the 3 P.M. deadline. Social media is already awash with fan-art and tributes to the critically-acclaimed title, with many lamenting soon-to-be defunct features such as Blitzball and Kimahri. Use the hashtag #TidusFailure2023 to share your favorite moments and memories of the game.

"guys i think it might have started early my tidus just missed five times in a row #tidusfailure2023"

"never mind he hit again. >_< just bad luck i guess"

Additionally, at 2:30 P.M E.S.T, a live contest will be aired on Twitch, with over 150 gamers competing to be the last person ever to hit an enemy with Tidus. The winner will recieve a cash prize of $100, and, unusually, the intellectual property rights to the character himself. Explaining this decision, the CEO of Square Enix remarked that; "He is of no more use to us now than a dried-up piece of lettuce."

Update: As of 4:05 P.M., Square Enix has announced a revised version of the game, entitled "Final Fantasy X: Niimen's Story". Though Tidus still retains his status as the story's protagonist, he no longer participates in combat, instead flying above the party in a hot air balloon and shouting words of encouragement as the rest of the party defeats fiends. Tidus recieves experience points alongside the rest of the party, reflecting the contribution of his motivational shouts. By utilizing the sphere grid, Tidus can unlock new words to use in his cheers, such as "great" or "wonderful", while others, such as "wacko" and "dingbat" may be used to express Tidus's disapproval with the party's performance. In order to maintain the balance of encounters, Tidus's slot in the roster has been filled by a new character named Niimen. Niimen can use all the same attacks and abilities as Tidus, but he is older, and his pant legs are of equal length. As of this time, it is unknown if Niimen will miss with every attack, but all evidence seems to indicate that the probability of such an occurance is so low as to be essentially impossible.

[vaspider]

Hey!

If you are planning on watching Yu Yu Hashuko, please be warned that the first episode has a VERY brutal and unflinching depiction of someone getting run over by a delivery truck.

If you want to skip it, skip from about 10m in to about 11:30.

There's also a bug that goes up someone's nose, but the pedestrian being struck is what made me full-body wince. It's very brutal and far too realistic.

[yvfu]

Drunk walking describes people intoxicated by alcohol walking in public spaces. While there are long-standing social stigmas and laws against drunk driving, only more recently have the personal and social dangers of drunk walking become apparent. One study on pedestrians struck by vehicles found that alcohol users were twice as likely to cross against the signal or outside of a crosswalk than sober pedestrians.[2] Alcohol use was also associated with more severe injuries and longer hospital stays (3.89 days vs. 1.82 days).[2]

this is like jaywalking all over again

[caesariawritesstuff]

Hostage

Summary: As Bruce Wayne's sister, that makes you the perfect hostage in Edward's plans...but you just might be smarter than he anticipated.

Content Warning: Hostage Situations, Obsession, Flirting

Word Count: 1.6k

● Ao3 ● X ● Retrospring ● Read on Ao3 ●

You were the perfect target: as the sister of Bruce Wayne, Edward had been watching you for some time. The stupid, billionaire playboy would do anything to get you back. Besides, Bruce could stand to lose a couple billion, couldn’t he? It surely wouldn’t put a dent in his massive fortune, but it’d be enough for Edward to fund his next scheme against the Batman. He sent his goons to watch you closely and study your schedule over the last few weeks, but Edward wasn’t surprised to have his suspicions confirmed: you were a spoiled brat.

His goons reported back all about your fancy lunches with stuffy-suited business men, your extravagant shopping sprees. This wouldn’t be hard. You’d be just like the rest: a screaming, crying mess, begging for your life. He wasn’t interested in killing you so much as getting his money and using you as bait for Batman, to pull the Dark Knight into his next series of conundrums. He spent several weeks planning his scheme, gathering his men, procuring weapons from Penguin. And when the time finally came, Edward’s stomach filled with excited knots. How wonderful it would look when he pulled this off and everyone looked at him like he was the most superior, greatest mind in Gotham. Which he was, of course.

Tonight, you were hosting a fundraiser at one of Gotham’s art galleries; something about the underprivileged children of Gotham, Edward didn’t care much, they weren’t his kids anyways (not like he had any, but still). The gallery was bustling with people dressed to the nines, looking every so high and mighty and pompous.

“They’re just getting settled, boss,” one of his goons said through the walkie.

“Good. Wait until I give the signal,” Edward replied. He turned his attention back to the security camera of the van they were in, which he’d hacked into the gallery’s security camera feed only minutes ago. He gripped his cane tightly, watching the guests take their seats.

Moments later, you walked up the stage and took your place at the podium. Edward couldn’t hear what you were saying, but he watched you with a close intensity, rolling his eyes. What an incredibly waste of time, these charity balls. How…pedestrian. But he waited, checking his watch, and when the hand struck eight, he grabbed his walkie.

“Now,” he said.

His goons immediately moved in. He followed them out of the van, cane in one hand, pistol in the other hand. His men stormed the gallery, guns blazing. They fired shots into the air as people screamed, ready to bolt from their seats. But his men were outnumbered and out armed. Edward strolled into the room, flashing his best, charming smile.

 “Now, now,” he said. “No one has to get hurt. But if any of you cretins move a muscle, my men won’t hesitate to shoot. So please take this as you’re only warning.” He peered around the room at the frightened faces of the fundraiser patrons, before his gaze flickered back to you.

There you were, standing in the spotlight. A glimmering, navy dressed hugged your curves nicely, something he couldn’t help but take notice of. Your hands were glued into fists at your sides, face white, lips trembling.

“Ms. Wayne,” he said, pointing his gun at you. “Come with me and no one gets hurt.”

You hesitated and looked around the room. He could just see the wheels turning in your stupid head. But…he found himself a bit taken aback. He’d expected you to run screaming by now. Instead, here you were. Holding your own.

“Very well,” you said, a bravery to your voice. He nodded to his men, who approached and grabbed your arms, yanking you down the stage steps.

“No – you can’t, Ms. Wayne—” an older man said. He was cut off as one of the goons punched him in the stomach, and he keeled over.

“Hey!” you cried. “You said if I come with you, no one gets hurt. I’m coming, aren’t I?”

Edward paused as a sly grin passed his face. “So you were listening. At least you know how to do that.”

Your nostrils flared, looking less than impressed with him. But he didn’t particualry mind or care.

“Now, take her away,” he said. People gasped around him as you were hauled out of the art gallery.

Edward nodded to the two other goons, who walked up to the center of the room and put down one of his contraptions. A little puzzle boxed addressed to Bruce Wayne. If the billionaire was smart, he’d answer the riddle correctly.

Edward smiled, resting his weight on his cane. “Oh, and if Bruce Wayne doesn’t solve my conundrums in thirty minutes, well…” He raised his brows.

The Gothamites seemed to get the hint.

Satisfied, Edward left the art gallery. As he returned to the back of the van, he found you sitting in the corner, hands and feet bound. But to his surprise, you weren’t screaming or crying. You were still, quiet, eyes searching for an escape. As soon as you spotted him, you glared.

Edward grinned. “So, my dear, can you guess why I’ve taken you hostage?”

You sighed. “The same reasons all criminals do. For money.”

“Precisely! You see, my dear, you are—”

“Bait. I know,” you replied. “Bait for Batman, because you’re going to put me in one of your traps, aren’t you?”

Edward paused. “Don’t interrupt me! I’m not finished!” he cried, scowling.

You sighed, shaking your head, and rolling your eyes. Edward found himself surprised, something he did not easily find himself. But…why weren’t you confused? Scared? Right about now, his other hostages would’ve been screaming for help. So, why weren’t you?

“Edward Nigma, right?” you asked.

“Ah, so you do know my name,” he said, flattered. Of course everyone knew his name.

“I was right in the middle of hosting a fundraiser for Gotham’s under privileged youths, and you come ruin it? I’ve been planning this for months. Do you know how many children are counting on me?”

Edward blinked, feeling the vehicle begin to rumble as it pulled away from the curb. Here you were, in the back if his getaway van…and you were more worried about the children?

“You’re seriously more worried about the children than your life?” he asked, raising his brows.

“Yes,” you answered. “And if this is about money, I can get you what you want. Just let me go and we have a deal.”

“But I…but you…” he tripped over his words. He’d never had a hostage act so calm before.

“You like games, right? How about we play one? If I get it right, I’ll give you the money and you let me go. Deal?”

Edward laughed. “Very well. Three riddles. Answer them correctly, and I’ll let you go. Ready?”

You nodded. Your lips were pursed together, your brows furrowed. The look of someone Edward knew didn’t have much going on in that empty head of yours.

“Without fingers I point, without arms I strike, without feet I run. What am I?” he asked, smirking.

“A clock,” you answered.

He frowned. “Oh. So you knew that one. Very well. Second riddle: My greatest of my strengths is that I know my worth. I hug myself so tightly at every birth. What am I?”

“A knot.”

His frown deepened, anger churning in his stomach, cheeks burning. “What falls but does not break, and what breaks but does not fall?”

“Night falls and day breaks,” you answered.

He scowled, jumping to his feet. “You’re cheating, aren’t you? Who’s helping you? Who’s giving you hints? There’s no way a spoiled, empty-headed little rich girl like you could get those correctly!”

“What? Did you think that because I’m a Wayne, that makes me stupid? Well, sorry to break it you to, Mr. Nigma, but I’m not,” you said.

You stared at him with such a level of defiance that Edward wasn’t sure what to do. His first impressions had clearly be incorrect. A simple miscalculation, that was all. It seemed you did have some shred of intelligence after all.

“Well,” he laughed. “How about that? So you can think for yourself. I suppose we do have a deal, don’t we? I expect cash.”

“That’s what we agreed to,” you said.

“But my dear, you forget: you didn’t say when or where I had to let you go,” he said, grinning.

“That’s not fair!” you cried. “Now who’s the one cheating?”

“I don’t cheat!” he cried. “I artfully obfuscate.”

You laughed, a sound out of your mouth he found himself liking. But just before he could respond, the van lurched to the left,  and he stumbled forward. The screeching of metal filled with his ears and just as he collected himself, the back door swung open, and Batman stepped into sight. Edward reached for his pistol, but before he could pull the trigger, a Batarang knocked the gun out of his hand. He gasped in pain, and looked up just in time to see Batman’s fist flying through the air – knocking him out cold.

Later, when Edward awoke, he found himself in Arkham. Once more beaten, but not broken. But as he sat in the rec room, he knew you couldn’t have gotten those riddles right…Batman had to have cheated and given you the answers. But his eyes flicked to the TV, noticing you were currently holding a press conference to announce a generous donation and funding to a children’s program all throughout Gotham. But as you spoke, he suddenly found himself completely enamored.

Perhaps you were smarter than Edward anticipated. He’d never expected you to get his riddles right, to be more concerned with the people of Gotham rather than your own predicament…but a small smile touched Edward’s lips. Oh, yes. He certainly wanted to discover more about you.

And he couldn’t wait to see you again.

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Streets [in the 1920s-'30s] weren't well organized, and didn't have features like crosswalks, turn lanes, and traffic signals. You had streetcars, horses, pedestrians, and the new kids on the block: the automobile, all mixing on increasingly crowded streets. The biggest conflicts were between pedestrians and drivers. And the results were often deadly. Pedestrians, including children, were being struck and killed by cars. In those early days, motorists were held responsible, and the public was horrified by all of the deaths. You have to remember that, in cities, kids played in the street. People couldn't comprehend the idea that you'd have to keep kids off of the streets all day long to keep them safe. Everyone realized that speed was the real problem. cars could go [much] faster than the flow of traffic in 1920s cities. Some cities wanted to do something about it -- something more than just speed limits. They wanted to mandate speed governors on all cars to ensure they couldn't go more than, say, 20 or 30 miles per hour within city limits. It was at this point that the auto industry realized they needed to fight for the right to own the street.

Should jaywalking be legal? YouTube. 20 November, 2020 (human-edited from a transcript of auto-generated captions)

I really think this may be a way to create walkable cities without banning cars altogether, for the people for whom cars are an accessibility need -- without discriminating against those who simply cannot use cars.

I mean, if folks were thinking up this solution 100 years ago, surely we have the tech to make it work today. Right?

[sovietpostcards]

Dunno if you've gotten this question before; are Russian cities generally walkable and safe for pedestrians? Most places in the US and Canada, even small towns, are extremely car-centered, with urban centers being mostly covered in asphalt and dangerous roads dividing parts of the community. Meanwhile, I noticed that even after cars became more widely available, Russian cities have lots of pedestrian-only areas and little parks scattered about, and people seem more keen to walk where they need to go in the city rather than drive. Is this still the general public attitude, that cities where you can safely walk places are preferable to car-centered plans?

This is an excellent question (I'm interested in urban planning). I haven't been to America so I can't compare from experience, but I've been to Europe. On the scale of walkability, Russia is between Europe (highly walkable) and US (badly walkable).

All urban areas are possible to reach by foot, there will be pavements all along the way. Walking along the pavement is safe. On unregulated crossings (no traffic light), cars will make way for pedestrians, but of course general caution is advised. Cars will not stop for pedestrians outside of marked crossings. (I've seen that in France and it struck me as unusual, people crossing anywhere.) (I also remember visiting Georgia where cars won't even let you pass on a crossing! You have to wait until there are no cars.)

Still, the way I see it, Russian cities are firstly designed for cars and then for pedestrians. Things like pedestrian underpasses and overpasses are awful and must die. Comunities divided by wide roads is a thing. When driving between cities, you can see countless tiny villages divided in half by a highway - and sometimes only a flyover for crossing it.

There's been significant change in Moscow regarding pedestrian planning in the recent 10 or so years--pavements become wider, some streets become entirely pedestrian, there are now regular crossings where there used to be only an underground crossing, unnecessary stairs and curbs disappear. (Once I walked 10 kilometers in central Moscow with a suitcase and there wasn't a single stair step or curb. It was awesome.) They're also constantly working on their public transport. I can't wait when this paradigm reaches smaller cities like my own.

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

hi, the way this blog is formatted and the menu is written is so creative and fitting! i had a great time looking through it

may i request some fem reader w rocky? maybe him playing the violin or reciting poems in a public space to himself and reader is the only one to react (positively) so he immediately is struck in awe. please and thank you :)

Good evening, Anon!! First off, thank you very much for the compliment. Two things you should know, however...

This ended up over three thousand words long somehow. (For the record, it was gonna be a scenario.)

It's the cheesiest meet-cute I've ever written, so I advise you all to brace yourselves, folks-

That being said, enjoy!! <3

When you heard it, everything else quieted.

The thunder of cars bolting down a busy road, metal armor bobbing upon four wheels as they broke past and left smaugful clamor clashing against the monstrum business blocks, softened to but a distant skitter of shiny black bugs ambling self-importantly about. The cacophony of pedestrians, indiscernible faces in square suits and tasteful pastels spewing bits of language into one converging mess, each voice independent yet competing for dominance until they clawed at your eardrums and suffocated your thoughts now felt no graver than the meek rustle of forest foliage when coddled by the summer breeze; a humming chorus to a beautiful solist’s serenade, and when a bycicle trilled inches past normally skittish, city-dweller you it didn’t even occur to step aside as you were far too absorbed in the one delightful sound that made the greys of asphalt’s reign seem greyer and dulled even the most striking women’s daywear to sun-worn cleaning rags in comparison.

It was a melody the color of blue, matching his eyes.

You hadn’t a chance to admire them for long when you spotted him in the crowd. They drifted closed for long stretches of time as their owner’s features suggested a deep, gentle focus on the music, his whole being smoothing into the instrument. There was something bewitching about the violin, you found; seemed even its players could seldom resist its particular pull, fingers dancing across the strings as if possessed by magic. The rosined bow dipped to and fro in a hypnotic sequence that pulsed like the rise and ebb of the tides; sometimes the pace changed, slowed to but a meandering, peaceful ponderance before it flew from the threads of catgut like nimble sparks of lightning, with the ease and comfort of at least a thousand hours of practice.

Must’ve been a classical piece, if not improv; but for that far too complex. Vivaldi? Mozart? You hadn’t heard it before, so you couldn’t confirm, however it proved the enchanting stranger to be both talented and educated. He looked up from his divine craft to initiate eye contact with passersby and, yes, he had the bluest eyes indeed, seated under emphatic brows, and he gave a hopeful smile of such integrity to those undeserving strangers who walked past in indifference as if he’d been an smaug-borne ghost, a trick of the light invisible to all but yourself and when he turned in resignation and his gaze caught upon you, playing still, your breath hitched in your throat.

How long had you been gawking there, frozen on the sidewalk like a dimwit? Oh, no. He must have thought you such a creeper; a notion which you had to rectify, and rectify it quick. Puff your chest out, march up, tell him you liked his playing and leave a dime; you took off at once with this very plan in mind.

In doing so, you forgot you had stood on opposing sides of the road.

Heels clicked across hot concrete in a headlong hurry. You realized that the cars were still coming midway through when his eyes widened in horror and a spontaneous screech of tires replaced that joyous melody. You stumbled back, blinded by car polish and a pair of glaring headlights you profusely apologized to before skittering away from a second car in the right lane when it came to an angry halt likewise. Loud honks scolded you along your path whilst you yelled back sheepish sorries.

Well, talk about making an entrance.

As you reached the paved edge, a hand manifested to help you up on it.

“Are you alright, miss?”

And blue eyes. You felt yourself sink further into the road with the transient wish those cars had hit you after all, nonetheless took the offer and tottered along with the stranger’s help. He held bow and violin in his other hand, by the neck, and you narrowly avoided stepping on their rickety case with a meager amount of coins and a crumpled up bill inside.

Ah, right. He’d been busking, after all.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he reiterated, scanning you, and you realized you’d missed the previous question. “It’s hardly safe to cross this thoroughfare without looking both ways first, you know. You ought to try that next time.”

“I know, I know– I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

You weren’t. Not when this handsome vagabond with the most radiant blue oculars you’d ever seen and enough of a musical gift to put you in a trance kept observing you from such proximity whilst implicitly chiding you for being a tunnel-visioned idiot.

“Well, great news, then!” he grinned. Oh. That’s a lot of teeth, you noted with slightly raising eyebrows. “I doubt I’d have been able to sleep tonight had you met an undue fate under the stampede of these motorized beasts all for just trying to reach me.”

An odd penchant for metaphors, too. When you didn’t respond right away, he withdrew his gesturing hand in contemplation.

“You… were careening specifically my way, yes?”

“Yes!”

You snapped out of your appreciation for his endearingly boyish timbre and thereby commenced a frantic battle with your purse as you attempted to pry something from it.

“Right, I was heading this way– just give me a moment–”

He watched in intrigue as you counted something he couldn’t see under your breath, then produced the intended amount of what he identified to be cash and reached to hand it over to him, near breathless.

“I really loved your playing.”

You couldn’t bear to look him in the eye yet hardly missed his astonishment when he conceived the sum.

“Miss, that’s ten dollars.”

“Yes,” you affirmed curtly. “What of it?”

“I can’t accept that.”

Hearing which, you did finally face him with a frown.

“You’re a very kind soul,” he asserted in a hurry, smile never faltering, “and I’m thoroughly humbled by your contribution, but I cannot rob a lady of her hard earned pay in good conscience for that frivolous noise–”

“It was beautiful noise,” you interjected with knitted brows, “I really did enjoy it, and you deserve much better audience than the pedestrians of some drab street corner who’ll never bother to pay your music the attention it deserves.”

You pointed curtly toward the flow of people. Some in turn spared you a glance, but then you blended into their scenery again like another pair of shop mannequins.

“So take it from a lady,” you enunciated, all but shoving the money in his chest, “and I sincerely hope you end up in a concert hall someday.”

You exhaled and waited. He stared at your extended hand, then you, then at your hand and back again and gorgeous as you found those gleaming sapphires you couldn’t for the life of you tell what he was thinking. Your arm muscles trembled, and you contemplated whether sparing yourself from the awkwardness of further playing statue might be worth giving up anyway.

Finally, he seized your wrist with both hands. He didn’t seem to notice your startlement as he was busy beaming at you bright enough to put celestial bodies to shame.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh…”

God forsake it, that smile alone was turning your heart into a fluffy, overripe dandelion inside your chest. If he kept up, you feared he might just blow it apart.

But you managed to tell.

“Well, miss…” he began, implementing your surname, and you would’ve bolted on pure instinct had you not taken root at your spot, “your generous praise is, by far and large, the most invaluable gift I could’ve received on this brilliant morning.”

You took a deep inhale, acutely aware of his touch tingling across your skin even though he meant nothing by it… you supposed.

“You have certainly made a lowly troubadour’s day with your gracious approbation,” he patted your knuckles, at the same time gently shoving your offer away. “You see, I could tell from the moment our gazes locked across the street that I would enjoy the pleasure of meeting someone positively extraordinary… right after she ambled through the active traffic. Call it a concise connection of kindred souls, if you will. You, miss, have proved yourself a true appreciator of the arts.”

When those blue eyes were holding yours hostage so intently, you almost did believe he could see into your very soul. You tried to brave it, however.

“Thank y–”

“Which is why this won’t be needed.”

You held the rejected money against your chest, where he had guided it.

“You’ll be better off forfeiting it to charity,” he suggested, “if aiding the honest predicaments of your fellow citizens in need is a cause dear to your heart. Like orphans! Those poor, unmothered things, always caught in the throes of some quintessential lack or other; surely they could put your benevolent funds to good use… that is, in case you are looking to make a charity. If you’re not interested in, erm, providing for the orphans, that’s still quite fine. You just seem to me the sort to care for children. But that doesn’t make it your obligation, of course, to feed the orphans… no one is about to force that duty upon you… in equally sound conscience I suppose you could just as well keep the money…”

He proceeded along his mildly morally concerned tangent, but any of it beyond the lip movements you ceased to process. Some convoluted cliché about personal indulgence over supporting the waifs of the world, you reckoned. In terms of lifting your spirits it achieved a ludicrous heap of nothing, and amidst your silent marinating in this strange and unexpected failure of your strange and unexpected encounter, you continued to clutch the bills to yourself.

You didn’t figure that may have looked like dismay on his end until he trailed off, fidgeting vaguely as he probed your expression. The warmth of his hands on yours still lingered.

“My attempt at a point is,” he resumed at a slower pace, “you’re awful generous, but to tell you the truth, I’m quite comfortably off without the help. I am employed, after all.”

“You are?”

Rude as it sounded to gape the question so, you hadn’t considered that possibility. He was… well, not badly dressed, but his clothes appeared worn and a tad oversized on his comically skinny limbs, granting him a ragamuffin sort of appearance.

Though you still found it quite charming.

“Sure am!” he grinned in earnest, and you’d soon come to accept that his face simply looked that way when he did. “This is only some nifty supplemental income for a craft I spend day and night honing anyway. Really, I play out here to preserve my associates’ peace of mind more than anything. The other day they got so peeved with all the melodic caterwauling my boss had to fetch a broomstick and chase me out into the great wide open after failing to quiet me down.”

A chuckle escaped you at the joke, and it’s like his eyes gleamed brighter.

“What can I say,” he admitted with a theatrical shrug, “a musician’s ichor pulses to the ever-flowing rhythm of higher realms beckoning. That can hardly be helped. When my eager heart doesn’t sing Apollo’s odes from the strings, it reaches for the lyre, however… but they don’t deal in stanzas and limericks on the job market in contemporary times.” He glanced off into the distance wistfully, as if envisioning an ideal future where they did. “Miss M, our aforementioned lady-in-charge, says it’s only since our customers can’t exactly do the Lindy Hop to recitativo verse form.”

“So that means you’re a poet?”

“Indeed!”

You hummed in acknowledgement. He gave his vest a proud little adjustment as part of the performance, not that it served to make him look any more presentable.

“Vivacious vicinal versificator,” he expatiated with a playful half-bow, “humble herald of numinous inspiration, eulogizing the beauties of this peculiar earthly life to the cobblestone and the stars for a passtime. Old Muddy Miss herself has proven to be my most faithful audience… and for lack of substantial competition, in her listening skills she remains unexcelled.”

“Not for long, I should hope.”

That made him pause. Your nerves struck you alert as you rushed to explain.

“That is, well, I would be curious to join said, um, audience… mayhaps… sometime. I mean– you have a fascinating vocabulary, sir, so I can only imagine…”

He listened on with perplexed blue eyes; you mentally smacked yourself for the honorific. No one so refreshingly unrefined as this overeager stray puppy of a man could even remotely qualify for a ‘sir’, and you were happy about that, because had you made so many social blunders with any other stranger in succession you would’ve craved death.

He took his sweet time providing a readable reaction, but when he did he laughed. Not with a mocking edge, as you had feared; the sound tinkled as melodically as his trusty violin.

“Oh, miss, you’re just a bundle of pleasant surprises.”

You came to chuckle along, too, a nervous smile stretching your lips. He took your hand again.

“I’d be delighted to deliver a private recital,” he dipped forward then paused, perhaps contemplating whether a kiss on the back of it would be appropriate, peering up at you in a bluest display of rapt attention that made your heart leap, “if that’s truly the case.”

You averted your eyes. The vague unease as if you’d given your name to a fae in a stroke of recklessness minutes prior melted into the bustle of sluggish, smoke-ridden traffic.

“So where is it that you work?” you switched the topic.

Attuned, he let go of your hand as if it had burned him, adjusting his hat like an excuse.

“Little Daisy Café,” he responded quickly, perpetual cheer intact. “It’s just an ambitious spit from here, actually, a few blocks down that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction from where you’d been headed. “Awful cute little gem of an establishment. Perhaps you’ve been to?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“Well, I can only recommend that you drop by. The pancakes are to die for.”

“And there’s live music?”

You both glanced at the violin, then back at each other. He gave you another grin that you couldn’t help but detect as somewhat complicit.

“Makes your early beverage taste all the sweeter.”

You let your eyes linger on one of the boutique windows in the background; a closed one under construction. The ample light struck it at an angle which obscured the debris-filled darkness and activity inside, flawless glass surface glimmering at front in gorgeous deceit. Its reflective sheen conjured an alluring vision; deep azure sky dotted with fringed, fluffy lamb-clouds.

Suppose you offered it.

“Well, if you won’t let yourself be tipped,” you sighed, putting your money away, “may I treat you to breakfast, at least? A plate of those fabled pancakes, even?”

Childlike delight flashed across his face before the metaphorical reins were pulled back with a frantic grip.

“Why, miss, you’re spoiling me,” he lamented, “but I really shouldn’t–”

“I was heading for the bakery myself,” you continued with a pacifying gesture, “but now with your recommendation in mind, I might as well try a treat from that ‘little gem’ of a café, no? You could show me the way there, and… I suppose I could listen to those stanzas of yours, if you’d be willing to share…”

The words intended to compose the rest of your reasoning kept tumbling from your grasp before you could string them together, and someone in the crowd of pedestrians laughed. A snooty, feminine laugh. He kept watching you and you only, however, engulfing you in that mysterious blue once again.

“…granted that is okay with you, of course.”

He began to smile like the sun itself and dove with startling momentum for the violin case.

“Why, it’d be most uncouth to refuse the benevolent offer of such lovely ladyship,” he concluded while packing away his instrument then slapped the lid over the case once finished, money withstanding, “and I don’t reckon I’ll make two more pennies to rub together this morning, so I’d be more than happy to escort you along.”

He grabbed the handle and sprung up, beaming at you with the energy of a couple additional suns before he got an idea and moved to offer his free arm toward you like the smoothest of gallants. Clearing his throat, to boot.

“Mademoiselle?”

You put a hand to your chest, accentuating the action with a playful once-over.

“Chivalrous,” you chuckled before locking his arm with your own. The two of you would set off this way not unlike lovers, which he stiffened at the realization of.

“Too much?” he questioned.

“No, it’s quite alright.”

The cracks in the sidewalk became very interesting all of a sudden, however. You could feel his skinniness and lack of musculature thus far only guessed through the rolled-sleeved shirt; not that you minded.

Must have not gotten treated to meals often.

“About that poetry,” he piped up a bit quieter than before, “granted you won’t tire of my voice ahead of time…”

“Don’t be silly.”

You gave him a look, then caught yourself.

“Well, alright,” he resigned with an evaluating pout when you turned away, “but, uh… unfortunately, most of my limbs are occupied. And the fervent gesticulation makes up half the performence.”

By that point, you found yourself believing him. You all but burst into laughter at the mental image.

“Maybe you can gesticulate it to me after the fact,” you quipped.

“…Fair enough.”

You reached a street corner together and turned it. From the corner of your eye, a young couple were teasing each other by a flower shop on the opposite side of the road with a posy gift of piquant red tulips, blushing and giggling. You matched the bouncing steps of the stranger you were intertwined with in newfound giddiness.

“Let’s see,” he pondered, scanning the rows of buildings in an absent-minded manner before his eyes lit up. “Right! As fortune would have it, there does happen to be one I’ve been itching to inflict on a willing pair of ears for the past week…”

He made a big show of clearing his throat before he began; you were eager to let the mesmerized flow that had brought you to him in the first place take you along, absorbing the dramatic inflection and animated spirit oozing from his entire complexion as he made the widest gestures he was capable of in his inhibited position nonetheless.

A stranger indeed…

“Wait!”

Before he could proceed with any experimental odes to clay and calicos, you cut him off. He turned to you right away, magic put on hold.

“I never caught your name.”

He glanced around in recollection before those notorious brows sprung up.

“I never passed it,” he exclaimed, bewildered, and wriggled from your hold haphazardly as he scrambled for his hat. “Oh, foolish I! Forgive me this horrendous discourtesy, milady, if you might find it in your heart.”

You simply observed him in amusement.

A zephyr swept along the length of the street, bringing where you stood a nectarine fragrance which, though delicate, transcended the heavy smoke and for a delightful moment let you smell nothing but itself. With his hat now off and held politely to his chest, the breeze ruffled his tousled hair as it did yours. His blue eyes shone in the urban grey like diamonds.

“The name is Rocky Rickaby.”

And when he said it, you already knew you wouldn’t tire of that voice anytime soon.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

Hiiyaa any updates on Hand her over II part 4?

Well, well, well. A year later and I resurface from the dead to revive this series. Maybe I just needed this break to remind me that I love writing more than I love being a recluse. Let's see if I've still got the magic in me!

Hand Her Over II (Part 4): Kanji Mochizuki/ Kokonoi Hajime x Fem!Reader

wc: 1.6k

tw: drugs, alcohol, angst

masterlist

Hand Her Over Megapost Link

Kanji Mochizuki

Crack!

The air in Mochi's lungs hisses out of him as he swings the axe down on the stump. "I don't want this baby anymore!" He lifts the axe once more, focusing on the whistling of the air and not the memories that keep him awake at night.

Crack!

The stump is almost split in two. Almost ready for the fire he'll build inside the fireplace. Almost... ready...

Crack! Mochi's breath escapes in puffs, clouding the air around him briefly before clearing up. He's cold. His nose burns while his fingers - exposed through the enlarged crochet holes - sing with energy. There was a time that he would use this energy to fight... but these days, all he can manage is to keep you alive for one more hour, one more minute, one more second.

"The child is mine, too." Mochi gingerly lifts the pile of split wood and mindlessly traces his way back to the house. It looms in the distance like a sullen, sulking pedestrian hunched over in the snow, covered in the white drifts of the night before. Mochi stops. His breath comes evenly, but his heart sags. Inside, nothing awaited him but your tear-stained face and shrinking figure. It was hard, observing as you became a shadow of yourself, and even if the baby was his... he couldn't bear to watch you waste away any further.

"I have firewood," Mochi calls out and - not for the first time - silence greets him. But he proceeds into the living room anyways, dropping the wood into the metal holder before placing some into the fireplace. Paper crumples between his massive hands before he tosses it in with the wood. A match is struck. And Mochi tosses it into the pile of soon-to-be ash, staring at the infant flames.

You're nowhere to be found, Mochi discovers after searching for you on the first floor. But that's not bothering him now. He knows where you are and what you're doing. So instead of worrying himself to death, he sits on the couch and cracks open a well-worn novel.

You come shuffling down the stairs of the cabin as he's reaching the climax of his story, one he knows well. It's the middle of the day, and you've just woken up from a very long slumber. "You might as well be a bear," he said once, smiling at you. But you gave him an empty-eyed stare before retreating to somewhere Mochi couldn't be. Somewhere where he couldn't fuck up anymore because that's what made you happy. That's what satisfied you.

"A fire," you murmur, gazing at the growing flames with a blank stare.

"Went outside to get us some more wood." Mochi doesn't even bother to look up from his paperback, but fear courses down his back. What if he made the fire too big? Would you be upset and cry? Would you hate him even more than you already do? He knows you stayed with him in this marriage because there was no other option but--

"Thanks." Out of the corner of his eye, Mochi watches as you sit in front of the fire carefully, putting your hands out to warm them. For a second, he swears he hallucinated the appreciation, but then you turn your head towards him. "We should talk."

Mochi puts his book down in his lap and give you the courtesy to speak freely by saying nothing. Your stomach partially protrudes out of your robe, and for a moment, Mochi can see your flesh stretch to accommodate the heel of a foot. His heart leaps (though this isn't the first time he's seen this), but he hides his joy behind a mask of stoicism.

"I've been thinking..." Another flutter of energy. Mochi feels his fingers - the ones that held so much energy just an hour ago - ache to reach out and smooth against your stomach like he secretly does at night. "I want to keep the baby." An elbow presses against your navel. Mochi's eyes follow the child's every move; every atom whimpers to reach out, to connect with the child he's loved for so long...

"Mochi?" He finally looks away and into your eyes. They're waiting for an answer, for something more than just a blank stare.

"I'm sorry." The whispered apology lands without a response, and Mochi tenses, preparing for the inevitable flood of emotions. For the inevitable sign that he's fucked up. Again. You notice where he was staring, looking from him, to your stomach, and back again. After a moment's hesitation, you stand and walk over to where he is on the couch. "Give me your hand." You reach down for his arm with care, then tug it away from his book easily. With your guidance, his hand smooths over your belly, feeling every inch of your flesh tenderly.

"It's a little late to decide," you muse. "But I should... We should... keep the baby." A sob hitches in your throat, and Mochi tosses the book aside as he stands to envelop you in a hug. "I'm just so afraid." It's awkward, hugging a pregnant woman, Mochi thinks as he tries to pull you as close as possible. This is his first hug in months, but he'd be damned if he didn't try his best to love you.

"I'm afraid, too," Mochi murmurs. You lean into him, tears soaking his shirt. Crocodile tears. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't try, though."

You nod, sniffing loudly. "I'm sorry... I-- I've been so afraid and it's made things--"

"Shhh." He smooths your hair and kisses the top of your head. "It's all in the past. We don't have to go back there anymore."

Kokonoi Hajime

Koko looks at his reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that before deciding he looks good enough to go out. He places his phone in his pocket, then his keys, and finally his--

Bzzt, bzzt.

Koko pulls out his phone. Another text message from Inupi. Another apology. Another excuse. He places it back in his pocket, then reaches for the shot glass on the corner of his dresser. It's half full of something clear and sharp and tangy, but he doesn't care. He's gotten used to the taste of sharp, bitter things.

Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt.

Koko's jaw clenches, and he pulls out his phone one more time. It's you this time. You'd barely sent him any messages or dared to call him, but each time you texted, you would send the message, then delete it.

Koko, I don't know what to say other than

This message has been deleted.

Almost instantly. Before he could even read the damned thing. Koko slings the phone over to the bed, scowling at the empty screen, save four repetitions of "this message has been deleted". He storms out of the house, leaving both Inui and you behind, just like you left him behind.

This is his third week outside, out at the clubs, out doing things he knows are wrong and bad for his health and only driven by anger and loneliness. Koko leans over a bathroom toilet seat - the lowest he's ever gotten in the past year - and sniffs hard and long at the powder lined up on the paper seat liner.

"You should have a fingernail for that."

The voice behind him is well-known. Koko swipes the seat cover into the toilet and flushes before plastering a fake smile on his face and turning to Manjiro Sano. "They told me I could find you here." Koko looks at his boss while trying so hard to avoid looking displeased.

"How can I help?" Koko wonders, placing his hands in his pockets and touching the remainder of the bag of powder.

Manjiro sighs, picking his teeth while his eyes wander aimlessly around the room. "I don't need help," he finally answers. And that's when Koko realizes he's alone. There's no one else in the bathroom but him and Mikey. The silence is deafening. "Where's y/n?"

"So, you do need my help."

"Where is Inui?" Koko shrugs. Manjiro stares back.

"You got them away from me." You could give them up right now for betraying you. "How?"

"I don't know what you mean. They disappeared on me and everyone else."

"So you're in a bathroom, snorting...? Hoping that their location will just come to you out of the ether?" Kokonoi feels the singular most terrifying emotion course through his system, but he's too slow to react. Within an instant, he's against the toilet seat, and his ribs are on fire. "I don't believe a word you say, Hajime."

Mikey coldly stoops over him, knowing the single kick delivered to his body is enough to make Kokonoi squeal. Or at least... it was.

"If you lie again, you're going to wish you had more than just cocaine to ease your little love-triangle problem." Kokonoi looks up at Mikey defiantly, feeling his life trickle through his fingers. He could go out tight-lipped, or he could survive, but die a thousand deaths. "You owe me the truth. I made you who you are."

"You won't find them," Kokonoi spits, blood spraying across Mikey's face as he laughs. "You're a fucking bully, Mikey. I don't owe you shit. So, what? So you can prove you're more than a gang lead--" Kokonoi feels his fingers bending back so far that they touch his arm.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain!

Pain!

Pain...

...pain.

He's not sure of anything other than pain anymore. I can't wait until this is over, Kokonoi thinks to himself, feeling a tooth pass between his lips as he slumps onto the dirty tile floor.

Ever since they left, I've been in so much pain.