#silence is so much louder than I think organics realize. i can no longer endure screaming into the void.

[helmoverpede]

I think that I will take my leave from artwork and online spaces. I came online to try to make friends, but it seems clear that the people online are not interested in forming connections with me. It is lonely, and I do not like to be reminded of my isolation. I wish to thank those who have been kind to me and apologize to everyone for my misunderstandings. I know, this is not an airport and there is no need to announce my departure, but i have become attached to my little space here, and wished to leave at least an explanation to anyone who may stumble upon this blog. Silence is painful, and I can no longer endure invisibility. It was fun while it lasted.

[goldenlaquer]

heyyyy I'm back from the dead😂 can you write joui4 reacting to their crush being injured during the war?

Welcome back!

Gintama Headcanons: 

Katsura Kotarou: 

His plan failed. 

It was supposed to be a simple one: a small, isolated platoon of fifty Amanto foot soldiers versus his company of two hundred strong. An easy win. In the grand scheme of things, the battle was not worth much anyway. But Katsura wanted to give his weary soldiers a victory, no matter how small, something to raise their depleted morale. He was confident that if anyone could conduct such an elementary operation, it would be him-- The Rampaging Noble, one of the Four Heavenly Kings, master tactician and expert swordsman. 

This is the classic tale of hubris, told over and over. 

The minute victory was assumed, they were instantly surrounded by enemy ships. There was only a single second of startling silence-- his eyes widened and he was running, futilely roaring out a retreat-- before the ships open-fired a blaze of bombs and bullets. 

They ran towards the nearby forest, hoping the thicket would cover them. Around him, the men he had laughed and ate with dropped like flies. Two hundred. One Hundred. Fifty. 

You were beside him, close to his heel all this time. You had also trusted his plan whole-heartedly. And it’s until he takes cover behind an oak tree, that he stops and realizes that you aren’t next to him any longer. 

I don’t have enough words to describe the pure panic that crashes down Katsura’s spine, settling horribly at his feet as he stumbles back in the direction he was fleeing from. His hair is loose from its tie, whipping his face as he runs, jelly legs leaping over branches and bodies. His plan. His men. His failure. And now you. 

After agonizing moments of nothing but death, he spots you lying on the ground, injured but alive, a shout of relief in the form of your name erupting from his mouth. He’s looping his arms firmly underneath your arms, whispering apologies into your sweaty hair as you groan and whimper from the sharp pangs of pain in your legs, dragging you along the dirt, away from the line of fire. 

Just a few more feet, he pleads. I’m sorry. Please endure the pain a little while longer. He drags you past the fallen. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

Sakamoto Tatsuma: 

Even if you do not see him through the smoke and blood, you can hear him. 

He is loud. So absolutely fucking loud that it takes no effort to sort through the sounds of steel against steel, the countless grunts of pain mixed in with shouts of adrenaline and fear, and the other noises of battle, to hear the deafening shrills coming from him. 

And sometimes, right in the middle of it all, Sakamoto has the audacity to boom out to you with his carrying voice stupid, stupid jokes that has no place on the battlefield. You find yourself responding though, shouting (practically screaming) back on top of your lungs to tell him to shut the fuck up and focus on the fight, and he’s responding with a sorry, sorry! but do you want to hear another one? and you’re telling him no, but he tells you it anyway because he’s a moron. 

It’s a back and forth, a full-on conversation of dumbness, as you both fight for your lives. It’s very odd. And very inappropriate. And you should probably stop before one of you gets really distracted, but

you can’t. 

Because if you can’t see him, how do you know if he’s still fighting? How do you know that, if he isn’t spouting out something stupid or managing to breathe out that distinctive chortle, he’s alive and breathing? 

And on the opposite side, Sakamoto feels the same. He likes the sound of your voice, even if it’s barely drowned out by the wind and straining to reach his ears. He likes it so much that he doesn’t want it to ever stop. So he keeps on yapping as he blocks and attacks the enemy, keeps on yapping as there are stinging gashes on his face and body, keeps on yapping as his muscles scream and beg him to shut the fuck up. He won’t stop. He definitely won’t stop. 

Then there is a lull. A quiet within the chaos. He can’t see you, so he shouts out a joke, hoping, dreading. No response. Another joke. No response. Your name. Your name again. There is no response. 

Of course you hear him. He’s loud as hell. As impossible as it is, he’s growing louder and louder too. But there’s something warm and sticky running down your temple and the cold ground against your cheek feels too comfortable and you’re suddenly too tired to open your mouth. Your eyes flutter, glowing bleary, and you wonder if it’s okay to take a little nap...

Something shakes your eardrums so hard that you can’t help to startle, staring up at Sakamoto who looks so fucking terrified, his very blue eyes wide and desperate. He’s got you safely tucked in his arms, your head gingerly supported as he pushes his long legs away from the front lines to the medics.

Even in your severe state, he babbles on and on like he always does, keeping you alive with trembling jokes and stuttered gasps of laughter. 

Sakata Gintoki: 

During battle, he is no longer the dude with unsanitary booger disposal habits, but the white demon with something to protect. The Shiroyasha, you think in awe, gripping the hilt of your sword hard before bringing it up to fend off an Amanto. You can’t afford to keep your gaze on him. 

There really are too many enemies. As soon as you strike one down, three more take their fallen comrade’s place. Your muscles ache and your breath is starting to come in as wheezes as you’re driven back by the flurry of attacks. 

Your back hits his. A brief moment of support. Getting tired? He sounds so infuriatingly goading. You reposition your legs, forcing your breaths to match with his, before charging forward. As if! 

Despite your words, you’re getting dizzier, the smell and heat of battle clouding your sense as your disobedient arms start to shake, no matter how much you urge them to keep on going. The adrenaline is wearing off fast and Gintoki somehow notices it all the way from where he is, barking out your name with a Oi! What are you doing? There’s no time-out! Focus! You’re trying. You’re really trying. You take a step forward but your foot unluckily slips on the soaked ground, and that’s when the pain hits, crimson blooming along the laceration that bisects your chest, the enemy taking advantage of your moment of weakness. Your cracked lips part to cry out, and Gintoki glances back at the sound just in time to see your sword fall and your knees crumple underneath you. 

It’s not like the movies or the books. Time doesn’t stop. It keeps on going. It doesn’t care that you’re on the ground, passed out and bleeding heavily, and that there’s an Amanto in front of you, eyes gleeful as it raises its axe high to deliver the final blow. 

Time is moving. He’s too far. He won’t make it. He won’t make it. What the hell is he doing? Wasn’t he here to protect what he held dear? Move. Move. Time is moving and it won’t wait for him. If he can’t make it, then his sword will. His hand hurls his weapon, pitching it forth with all his might. It soars and hits the mark, the Amanto falls down, but his job of keeping you alive, protecting you, isn’t over. You’re still unconscious and vulnerable, and there are still other Amanto eager to finish the job.

Gintoki punches and kicks his way through to get to you, his heart palpitating so harshly in his chest that it hurts far more than his cuts and his bruises and anything before in his goddamn life. 

Takasugi Shinsuke:

“Get up,” Takasugi hisses, his face pulled into a pinched snarl and his hand bunching the front of your collar. He tugs hard. A red droplet drips down from his cut cheek onto yours. “Get up.” He says again. 

Your body can’t comply with his authority. Your shoulder is badly throbbing, fractured maybe. Your hip is definitely dislocated. All your organs and limbs feel wringed out, like an old wet towel. Your legs-- just thinking about them sends every nerve in your body screaming. Everything hurts. When you try to tell Takasugi this, all that comes out is a dry sob. 

His eyes widen a fraction before narrowing. He’s never heard you like this. So broken, miserable, and hurting. Your injuries were far worse than he thought. Fuck. He lets go of your collar in favor of pulling your limp arm over his shoulder, ignoring your heart-wrenching groans of pain. His men are holding back the enemy, but just barely. His left arm is injured. He needs you to get up. It doesn’t matter if it’s painful. It doesn’t matter if you’re sobbing for him to let go, please let go, leave me behind. He’s not going to leave you behind. 

He’s never said he was a kind man. He’s going to bully you, mock you, use every dirty trick up his sleeve to get you up, to get you to keep on living. Pain is temporary, but you dying is 

Takasugi shifts you closer, carrying most of your weight as he slowly moves the both of you. Every strained gasp you make digs deep into him, but he keeps on going. 

If you died, it might just rip this unkind man’s heart into pieces. 

Takasugi’s part is the shortest because he is the shortest. But damn, Reader really be going through it huh. 

[del-eatme]

“Pet, come here,” I obey my master without question. He holds out his palm and I position myself in the center before he lifts his palm up to his face. I’m so close that I can feel the puffs of breath coming from his nose.

“Close your eyes, Pet. Stay still for me,” Master coaxes. I close my eyes and let the tension fade from my shoulders. I’m not sure what Master wants but I’ll always be good for him.

I flinch slightly as a warm, wet mass gently rubs over my bare body. Alarmed and confused, I attempt to turn my head out if the last of what I now realize is a tongue. Master doesn’t like that very much and brings his other hand to hold my head still as he pulls away slightly.

“Stay. Still.” The words are firm and absolute and I have no choice but to submit. Master has never been this firm with me before, always so gentle and caring. His fingers remain to hold me into place as his tongue once again seeks me out.

I endure several more minutes of being tasted before master pulls back again. His eyes are nothing like I’m used to. His pupils are huge, drowning out any of the gentle master I had come to know.

“Master-“,

“Shhhhhh...” Master interrupted my inquiries. “Everything’s okay, just relax,” All of this feels foreign and strange. I have no idea what he has in mind.

“I need you to obey, sweet thing,” I nod without question. Anything master wants.

“Crawl inside,” I wasn’t sure what Master was talking about until he abruptly decided to move things along.

My master’s lips part and his maw yawns open, giving me a clear view of the tongue that I had been aquainted with earlier as well as the surrounding slick flesh. His throat shifts as he breathes. His fingers nudge my back, shoving me over until my forearms land on his tongue and I’m staring headfirst at the back of his mouth. The tongue curls around me slightly, like he’s unable to keep it still while he can taste me. Responding to his commands, I push down my uneasiness and slowly pull the rest of my tiny body into Master’s mouth. All of my body can fit on his tongue and I am reminded by our differences in a striking way.

Suddenly the light illuminating the mouth around me is blacked out when Master closes his lips. The tongue under me takes that as a cue to buck and push me to the roof of the mouth, running over me and suckling my form. Almost deafening sounds of pleasure echo up from Master’s throat indicating how much he’s enjoying this. Enjoying me. I don’t know why he’s doing this but I am happy that I’m making my master happy. I continue to be smothered by my master’s tongue, feeling every bump of every taste bud against my skin. Within minutes I am soaked with saliva.

“Why, Master?” My words echo around in his mouth and he responds by prying his lips and tugging me out of his mouth my my arms, strings of saliva bridge between my body and his lips.

“Mmmm because you’re so yummy, my pet,” Master looks so pleased as he says it. I can see it in his eyes. “Now hush, let me have my fun.”

With that, Master’s mouth gapes open once more and his tongue guides me inside before slurping me in like a noodle. I am once again surrounded my complete darkness and humid air. Though this time, Master seems to want to go further. The mouth holding me tilts on an angle and I have no choice but to slide down his tongue until my legs hit his throat. The muscle immediately latches onto me and catches my fall.

My lower body is compressed and held tight by the muscle of Master’s throat while my arms grip the back of his tongue the best I can. His tongue lifts and pushes into my face, scrubbing tastebuds over me as if to give me one last good taste. I run my fingers over the bumps trying to find a handhold to steady myself. He hums and his tongue pulls away only to return to shove me down into the slick tightness below me, swallowing me whole.

I slide down before the pressure halts me and another gulp forces me along. Master has to swallow a few more times to get me down.

I feel encompassed by Master. His flesh squeezes and tugs me along while his heartbeat and breaths are persistent noises booming through my ears.

As my decent ends I land in a cramped and wet space, much hotter than the mouth I had been aquainted with. I know where I am. I’m where food goes, but I’m not food. Master has some silly ideas sometimes.

I feel around the walls and find myself completely enclosed. As I touch I can hear my master let out a purr of contentment and the walls flex and shift in response. Quiet gurgling begins emitting from the flesh around me. I continue caressing for a while because it seems like Master enjoys it.

The walls surrounding me begin to close in more, restricting the already tight space and cradling my form in pulsing movements. Loud groans and gurgles vibrate my surroundings and fill my ears. The walls close in and the sounds get more frequent with each passing moment.

“M-Master? When will you let me out?”

“You’re not going anywhere, pet. Just relax, I’ll take care of you.”

Master and I both cease our words and sit in silence. The longer I sit in this dark place the harder it becomes for me to breathe and my head feels fuzzy. I slump against the elastic walls around me and my container tightens in response, more than happy to squeeze me into a tighter ball. Louder groans sound while I start to feel something on my skin. It... tingles?

“M-Master... I feel... dizzy... n’ tingly...” I can barely make my words audible enough to reach his ears. After I speak, a kind of pressure pushes into me. I imagine Master is rubbing his full belly.

“Shhhhhhhh... it’s alright, Pet. Just let it happen,” Master’s words are smooth and gentle, the only thing around me that is familiar and I cling to it. I’ve always obeyed. I must keep obeying.

The organic noises around me start to sound more distant and soft as it gets harder to think. I feel sleepy and slump into a more comfortable position. It’s hot and tight and hard to breathe but it is my master’s will, I should trust him and obey.

Right...?

[somanyfuckingdrinks]

OC-Tober: Day 9; Mentor

hey! i’m late and starting on day 9- i’m still working on previous days and i’ll be posting links to them (on archive) here in the next week as i finish them <3

all my prompts for this year are from @oc-growth-and-development !

i’ll put the link here for anyone who’d rather read on AO3 

for this prompt, i decided to give y’all an introduction to my favorite friendship in the universe: camila and grant

camila has been going to grant’s coffeeshop for years, she becomes his “apprentice” after high school (with the help of certain connections ;) ), and four years later here we are after months of a pandemic

yes this takes place in the pandemic; no i did not think two years ago it would

here it is <3 =)

my mentor in americanos and strawberry scones

october 1, 2020

The long winded whir of the coffee machine downstairs stirred Grant awake. His eyes cracked open to the still darkness of the odd quiet atmosphere surrounding him. He looked over to Summer noticing that she was still asleep. He looked over to the clock. He was confused at his wife’s slumber, knowing she’d be up knitting by now. The red animosity of 4:27 A.M made him groan inwardly, realizing exactly why that was. He brought his hands up to rub his eyes tiredly. 

Grant sat up slowly, as to not disturb his peaceful wife. He slipped his feet into his worn slippers and rose up slowly, all the creaks and pops making his age known to the room. He grabbed his cardigan from the bedpost, slipping it on and making his way into the living room. He grabbed his phone from the kitchen island, the bright light suddenly blinding him.

He moved his face away from the light, bringing his hand to his eyes once again to rub at them. He sighed, whispering a curse to whoever made him wake up this early. He moved to sit in one of the barstools, making sure he was comfortable before dealing with the new day’s nonsense.

Blinking his eyes open to readjust, he turned the screen back on. A slew of messages popped into focus. Several from his insufferable granddaughter, one about a pesky neighbor from his own daughter, and multiple from the cafe’s order website. No cheerful greetings and “hi, how are you”s; not even from his own family. He exhaled exasperatedly. He decided to ignore the messages, and scroll quickly to his game. 

The soft padding of footsteps outside the door disrupted his peaceful round of Sudoku. However, as quick as the footsteps on the landing appeared, they vanished. He frowned towards the door, but made his way off the bar stool, closing his abandoned game.

The door creaked open, the lock on it blocking most of his vision. Through the crack he could see two medium sized cups and a plate of steaming pastries on the accent table outside the door. He peered to the right and saw a flash of a ponytail waiting at the bottom steps. He unlatched the lock and opened the door, glimpsing at his employee. Upon seeing him step out onto the front step, she pulled herself from the doorjamb, making her way towards the back of the kitchen. 

He moved back over to the table to investigate the goodies. A note was attached to the to-go cups and the plate was stacked with several scones. Strawberry. Grant read the note carefully.

“morning grant! sorry to wake you up if i did. It’s the loyals delivery day, so i thought i’d come in early to start up packaging and stuff. monty and peyton will be here around 5 to start sending them out. i brought up your americano and summer’s ginger tea. p.s the scones are fresh :)”

He smiled at the note before putting it on the plate. Grabbing the cup holder and plate of scones, he pushed his way back into the compact living space. He placed the plate down near the fridge, along with the tea. He pocketed the note, grabbed the coffee and a scone, and made his way back out of the door. He closed the door behind him, taking a sip of the hot drink in his hand. He made a little grimace at the taste and chuckled. He started his way down the steps.

When he reached the bottom step, he glanced at the scene in front of him. The kitchen was a bustle. Boxes were lined up along the front counter, their contents clearly placed in a specifically organized way. Little bags of candy, mason jars of an amber liquid, and sheets of tissue paper were piled next to even more cardboard boxes. The espresso machine sat dormant, but looked freshly wiped down and tidy. The beans and fridges looked restocked. The chairs were still stacked high on the tables, but there was no change there over the past few months. The space was calm, even with the natural flurry in the middle of it.

Camila took a sip from the metal straw, the ice clinking against glass and metal. She set the drink down, grabbing another box. She crumpled a cluster of tissue together and placed it at the bottom. She wrapped a jar of apple cider in a couple spins of tissue, setting it gently in the corner of the box at a diagonal. She placed two bags of assorted candy against the glass, then made her way over to the pastry counter. She picked out three packaged pastries at random and set them haphazardly in front of the candy. She stuck the special note card in the other corner of the box before grabbing the industrial tape. She sealed the box twice, swiftly pinning the address and cafe logo onto the box, running the tape over that as well. She let out a sigh as she gingerly shoved the box to the side. 

Grant took tiny sips from his coffee as he watched her repeat the process a handful of times before setting the cup down. He took a bite of his scone finally deciding to announce his presence.

“For someone who’s worked here for four years, you still can’t make an Americano.”

Camila jumped, dropping the newly picked up mason jar onto the counter with a loud thunk. She turned around, suddenly startled. Her shock turned into a quick scowl before grabbing her coffee glass again, forgetting about her packaging task.

“How long have you been standing there?!” She hissed, the scowl easing back into a smaller frown.

“Long enough. How many boxes you got there?” Grant walked over to the full counter, starting to count before she could respond. He didn’t pay attention to the number in his head.

“About fourteen. I was just finishing up Ms. Crabtree’s box before you so rudely interrupted.” She aimed the glare at her boss, setting her cup down on the cold marble. Grant peeked over at the extra item in the box. A small bundle of pet treats that he knew she probably made when she first got here this morning.

“Ah. The old woman asking for pet treats for her Snookums again?” He let out a light chuckle.

Camila only nodded. She moved toward the pastries again, this time grabbing two snickerdoodles and one chocolate croissant for the picky old lady. She laid them neatly in the box, pulling back to grab the tape again. 

Grant looked on to his former mentee with an appreciative smile. She had come a long way from tripping over air and focusing on only one task at a time. Now she was packaging specific likes for customers who had been coming here for longer than she was alive. He remembered a small eighteen year old, still unsure of who she was but knowing where she wanted to go. Now a grown woman with her head placed firmly on her shoulders stood in front of him, still trying to hide the easy smile behind a fake frown. Still the ever dramatic child she was at heart.

“Once you’re done there I want to go over how to make an Americano again, since you still don’t have the proportions right. Preferably before Dumb and Dumber get here.” Grant pulled his cardigan around him, hearing the tape pass over the box. Camila just kept closing the box.

“Please. You can come back to being a gold star employee later. I need to make fun of you a little bit while I still can. Lillian will clobber me if she knows how much I’ve made fun of you.” He said hurriedly. It was a known truth. His granddaughter would kick his ass for the years of teasing he made the ‘love of her life’ endure. The tape made one final whoosh over the box.

Camila made a show of rolling her eyes, setting the tape down to the side. She made her way over to the espresso machine and crossed her arms. When Grant didn’t move, she waved her arm out towards the machine, annoyed but now letting a smile show.

Grant moved towards the espresso machine, making quick work of removing the portafilter* and flushing the grouphead*. He wiped the filter down before stepping slightly over to the coffee grinder. Making sure to go at a teasingly slow pace, he filled the bowl, leveled it, and grabbed the tamper*. He tamped the grounds to make a puck*, looking over to see Camila still watching attentively, and promptly wiping the excess off the sides.

Camila made a grab for the filter, but Grant pulled his arm away out of her reach. He locked it back into the grouphead and hit start. The machine came to life quickly, the deep whir louder than it was earlier.

“Grant. I know how to make an espresso shot,” Camila huffed out.

“I know you do. Just like you know how to make everything else in here. I’m just showing you the whole process, like old times,” right then the machine stopped and the smell of fresh caffeine hit his nostrils. He grabbed the small cup and made his way over to the serving station. Luckily, Camila was right behind him with the boiling water.

He noticed the small smirk she held had disappeared into a bittersweet smile.

“It hasn’t been that long. Besides it’s not like I’m going anywhere,” she turned towards him, sure of her words. He only nodded, causing her to turn away. “I’ll still be here tomorrow to make fun of too,” she partially muttered. He slapped her arm lightly, letting out a croaky laugh.

“I know Mila. I know.” 

A peaceful silence fell over them as Grant poured the hot espresso over the perfectly proportioned water. He put the cup on a saucer and pushed it over towards Camila. She carefully grabbed the edge of the cup, bringing it to her lips. She blew on it and took a small sip, then gently placed the cup back down. She let out a small sound of approval, nodding her head vigorously. She stared at the cup’s contents.

“Yeah no, that tastes exactly like when I make it.” Grant gave her a look. “Okay maybe a tad bit less bitter, but overall it’s the same thing.” She gave him a look right back.

Incidentally, a soft knock at the front brought both of their attentions to the windowed door. Monty and Peyton stood out front, hugging themselves from the chilly wind out front. Monty simply waved through the door, his eyes hinting at his normally goofy grin on his face behind the mask. Peyton sported her signature uncaring look, the mask hiding her scowl, even more uncaring due to the cold temperatures. Grant nodded in the door’s direction, Camila immediately pacing to the door, pulling her mask over her face, to open it for their helpful volunteers.

Grant pulled his mask from his cardigan’s pocket, pulling it on as the door swung open. He grabbed two cups and two bags of black tea that were to the left of him. He shifted back over to the serving station with the hot water in hand. He prepped the tea bags and poured the water over them, the color seeping immediately into the clear water. He secured the lids on top and pushed them towards the boxes.

Camila had already started going down the list of customers and their respective addresses on their walk over to the counter. The mask made her slow down her average lecturing speed.

“- there’s Mr. Richfair on Newberry. If you see his newspaper on the driveway, can you put it on top of the box. I don’t want him hurting his back more. Then make sure to ring the Leminwells doorbell. They’ll be up at this time-”

Grant sat down in the stool under the station counter. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, clicking on the first notification he saw. Of course it was his granddaughter’s. The ghost of an amused smile passed on his face.

“camila is coming in an hour early, sorry in advance :)”

“i tried to tell her that she didn’t have to, but she kept going on about time management and keeping the loyals happy, especially that old Crabtree”

An hour went by between the last and next message.

“she’s starting to sound more and more like you, might as well just hand down the crown now”

“i was kidding in the last message”

A brief pause before another one was sent in.

“kinda ;)”

“love u, tell grandma morning for me <3”</i>

Grant sent off a quick message, now looking back up to his prized worker. She was still rattling off instructions. He made eye contact with the two teens, signaling them to the counter, where their drinks had cooled considerably. Camila noticed the silent exchange and sighed begrudgingly.

“Fine. Each of you have seven deliveries today, but who wants to take the extra special one?” Camila crossed her arms at the two of them. Grant could tell she was smirking.

“Is the delivery to our precious Liliian,” Grant questioned, already knowing the answer.

“Yup!” Camila’s eyes crinkled more in a hidden beam of a smile while the two groaned loudly.

“We don’t get paid enough for this,” Monty wheezed out from behind his mask.

“Aye! You get paid in experience, free treats, and any tips you get while delivering,” Camila scolded. She glanced at their blank stares before promptly deflating, “And I’ll give you gas money for a week.”

Monty quickly raised his hand, beating Peyton to it. Grant made his way back to the fridge grabbing the pre-bagged treats and the small bottle of pink lemonade from the back of it for Lillian��s impromptu order. He pushed them toward the smaller teen without a word.

“Be safe. Keep your ringer on and if there’s anyone that bothers you, you better call me.”

“Yes sir!” Monty chanted out, quickly snorting at Camila’s dejected look. Peyton only gave a small, uninterested nod her way.

Peyton started walking to the door, followed by a still giddy Monty.

“See you later Mr. Park!” They threw a wave over their shoulders, letting the door shut behind them softly. Camila exhaled loudly, making her way back behind the counter.

“Teenagers.” She pulled one of the mask’s ear loops off, letting the mask hang, and making her exhaustion clear to him again. Grant lightly pushed Camila with his shoulder.

“You were like that- no excuse me, you still are that. Especially around my granddaughter!”

“Leave Lillian out of this!” Camila turned red, still beaming anyway.

Grant huffed a laugh, standing up from his stool. He put his hands to his back, another litany of cracks and pops sounding out loud. Camila grimaced and huffed at the sound.

“Go on and take your break. She probably wants to scold you still from coming in early. I’ll start the opening shift and you just come on back after you’ve eaten something.” Camila silently nodded at him in a questioning motion. “Yes, I’m sure. I gotta practice making the specialty drinks again anyway.” Camila let out a boisterous laugh at his remark. Grant laughed, annoyed. “Now get on outta here!”

“Ah so the apprentice becomes the master-” Grant kicked his leg out smoothly, aiming for Camila’s right one. Camila jumped away from it and sat down in the stool he had risen from. A grin reappeared on her face.

“Yes it appears so.” He smiled right back at her as the whir of the machine came back to life.

——–

- translations for those who do not understand coffee jargon + portafilter = attaches to the grouphead; holds the actual espresso grounds + grouphead = metal, permanent attachment that brings water out of the machine and into the filter + tamper =  tool used to pack the espresso grounds into the filter; makes the grounds compressed + puck = the compressed coffee grounds look like a hockey puck

[danni-whatshername]

cut your teeth // chapter 1

It’s said that everyone in Starklake knows a missing person. For the last decade, the small town has been plagued by disappearances and sparked its own satanic panic. Through the combined efforts of the police and tourism departments the general public is none the wiser. In fact, the nearby beach is perfect for bonfires and camp outs...

Chapter 1 Almost two years after that fateful homecoming night, the survivors of the Westchester attack come together for their first annual camping trip.

Word Count: 2.1k

Note: The leaves emoji links to accompanying Choices music. I decided to use 2nd person POV to simulate the experience of playing the app in a sense. I’d love constructive feedback and any comments! Strap yourselves in for a wild ride of a mystery.

Tags (For this first chapter I’m basically considering this a thank you/dedication for good pals! 💝): @brightpinkpeppercorn @strangerofbraidwood @jesusofnazario @itlivesinthegays @lady-kato

[  🍃🍃🍃]

It starts the same way every time. Somewhere deep down you know it’s not real, but you don’t have a chance to stop it. You feel as though you’ve been walking for miles. Every step sends a dull ache up your legs, but there’s nowhere to stop and rest. Besides that, you’ve felt it coming closer and closer the whole time. You heard from one of your professors that the reason cavemen survived was their sheer ability to endure the hunt. Where wild beasts tired after a sprint, humans could track for hours. Which is how you know what follows must be human—a beast would have taken you out long ago.

Tall pines surround you and every step feels agonizingly slow and heavy. You finally consider just collapsing onto the ground when you hear it. Telltale whispers that feel as though they’re coming from all directions at once. They are growing louder and louder despite your efforts to escape them. The edges of your vision grow dark as a shadow begins to envelop you. You feel a sharp blow to the side of your head—

[ 🍃🍃🍃]

“Whoa!”

Your eyes jolt open as a hard smack against the car window shakes you from your nightmare.

“Sorry. The potholes here are crazy,” Andy says and casts a worried glance at you. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Ouch,” you say as you rub the already growing bump on the side of your head.

Andy’s focus is back on the road as he attempts to avoid any more potholes. The road stretches on for miles ahead and is flanked by tall pines. Unlike the ones in your dream, the morning sun makes these look almost friendly.

“I know what’ll make you feel better,” he says.

“A kiss?” you tease as the fog of your nap wears off.

“I was gonna say picking up some snacks at the gas station, but if you insist on a kiss…”

“Oh I definitely do,” you say as you lean over.

“I could go for some snacks,” Tom pipes up from the backseat.

“Ah!” you jump in your seat, “I totally forgot you were riding with us,” you turn to look back at Tom who has the whole backseat to himself.

“Oof. Straight shot to the ego,” Tom winces and cutches his chest.

“Hey! You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Don’t worry about it, Katya.,” he laughs, “I’m just stoked you guys decided to invite me to your camping trip.”

“What? C’mon, man. Of course we’d invite you,” Andy grins at Tom through the rearview mirror.

“And it’s not just a camping trip. It’s the first annual Westchester Badass Club camping trip.” You turn back to Tom and make jazz hands.

“Please tell me you don’t actually call yourselves that.”

“I named our group chat that, so it’s basically the same thing,” you nod resolutely.

“I’m just excited to see everyone again. Everyone’s out doing their own thing now, so other than you two I barely see anyone.” Andy frowns and you notice him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to coordinate eight people’s schedules after you graduate high school.” You groan and feel the bump on your head throb just from remembering the constant rescheduling, following up, and organizing it took to even make one trip happen. Now with Andy finally graduated from his senior year, a summer camping trip sounded like the perfect activity to bring everyone together. Luckily group chats and Pictstagram made keeping in touch with everyone a lot easier.

“The last time we were all really together was at the memorial,” Andy says.

“Gosh, that’s coming up again soon too,” you frown and think back to the nightmare you had earlier.

“It’s in a few months. Do you think you’ll give another speech?” Tom asks.

“I hope not. There’s not much left to say. At least as far as the rest of Westchester is concerned.” You shift uncomfortably at the memory of your nightmare and the similarities it shared with the events that had taken place. “Anyways… this campground seemed nice online. Bonus points for being close enough to town that we won’t be totally screwed once we realize we forgot to bring something important.” You change the subject and hope it’ll stick.

“So… how much longer ’til we get there?”

You pick your phone up out of the cupholder and pull up the GPS app.

“Five hours.”

Tom whistles and leans back into his seat.

“Geez. Guess I’ll make myself comfy back here then."

“Are you gonna be okay driving so long?” you ask Andy. Your gaze naturally drifts over to his left leg. Despite Andy’s assurances to everyone (including the college recruiters) that his leg was doing better, you know enough to see that he still has his bad days.

“Hey, my eyes are up here,” Andy teases, “I’m doing fine. Really. Besides, what’s the point of getting a car if I’m not gonna take it out for a road trip or two?” he pats the dashboard.

“Alright. But if you need a break let us know.” You point between Tom and yourself.

“Seriously, dude. And we promise we won’t crash it or anything.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m going Dukes of Hazard on it the moment I get on the wheel.”

The next stretch of road is punctuated by singing along to old school hip hop (‘Can they even say that on the radio?!’), games of I Spy (‘Ok… I spy something green.’), and debates on the finer points of who really controls the music on a road trip (‘I have girlfriend and front seat privileges.’ ‘Oh yeah? Well I have seniority in how long I’ve been friends with the driver.’ ‘Neither of you has good taste in music.’).

———

Some time after crossing the Oregon-California border you decide to make your final stop.

Apart from the gas station and a tire shop, there isn’t much to see. The woods are far sparser and you swear you can smell the sea, but it’s definitely just in your head.

The three of you pile out of the car and stretch your legs. You swipe your card at the pump to pay and Tom heads into the gas station to pick up some final snacks.

As the number on the pump’s display slowly creep up you realize Andy hasn’t said anything yet. You turn to see him leaning against the hood and experimentally kicking his leg in and out. He stops when he notices you watching.

“Hey.” He grins innocently.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” you cross your arms, “You should have said something earlier if you weren’t feeling good.”

You’ve gone through the same conversation at least a dozen times before.

“I know, but if I can’t make it through one road trip…”

“Andy, you need to stop making up these arbitrary rules for yourself.” The two of you pause for a moment in awkward silence before you speak. You clear your throat and drop your voice to a comically low baritone. “Alright, Kang. I’m benching you for the rest of this car trip. You’re riding in the passenger seat ’til we get to the beach.”

The two of you break out into laughter.

“You’re so cheesy.”

“You mean you aren’t impressed with my vast knowledge of sports lingo?”

“If I close my eyes it’s like I’m really on the court.”

You finish filling up the car and settle into the driver’s seat. Not long after, Tom finally emerges from the gas station. His pace is hurried and when he finally gets in you notice his worried expression.

“Hey. You alright, man?” Andy leans his seat back and looks over to Tom.

“Yeah. The attendant just said some weird stuff after I mentioned where we were going,” he says.

“Gas station employees are either really cool or total weirdos. I wouldn’t worry about it,” you reassure him as you pull out and back onto the road.

“Spoken like a true horror movie victim, Katya,” Andy says.

“Shut up!” You laugh and playfully punch him on the arm. “I refuse to be a cheesy teen movie. I read Google reviews for this place. If a bunch of old white people say it’s fine, it’s fine.”

Your banter seems to ease the mood and the conversation slips back into something more lighthearted as you finish up the last leg of your trip.

———

[ 🍃🍃🍃]

The scenery begins to change the closer you get to the beach. The tall, dark pine forest is pushed further back and what trees do line the road are short and sparse You drive by the fork in the road that leads to the nearby town of Starklake. Even outside of the town proper you drive by a few homes and small businesses. A small brown sign points you in the direction of the campgrounds.

“We’re here!”

You pull into a small gravel parking lot and hop out to stretch your legs. Surprisingly, only a couple other cars are present. You figured that a beach campground would be absolutely swarmed during the summer which was why you had been so insistent about leaving early in the morning. The almost stranded lot proved that to be a wasted effort.

“Look who finally decided to show up.”

You recognize her voice before you even turn around.

“Ava!” you shout and have to hold yourself back from running over and hugging her. “How long have you guys been here?”

“Almost an hour. We were lucky to find a spot with how busy it was,” she waves a hand at the almost deserted parking lot.

“Ok, so I may have overestimated how packed it’d be. Can you blame me?” you say, grabbing your bags from the trunk.

“Oh don’t worry. We’ve already decided you’re in charge of setting up camp,” she says and grins.

“Suddenly I’m regretting my decision to ride with you,” Tom jokes before giving Ava a short wave. She nods in return.

“Don’t worry. I know the secret to setting a camp up real quick,” Andy says and slams the trunk closed.

“Pitching the idea that camping under the stars is the hottest summer trend?” you offer.

“No, but that can always be Plan B.”

“If you’re done trying to worm your way out of the work I’ll show you where everyone else is,” Ava says and begins to walk ahead without waiting for a response.

“You know it’s been too long when I actually miss Ava’s attitude,” Andy says.

The three of you scramble to keep up with her on the way to everyone else.

Your campsite ends up being about a fifteen minute walk from the parking lot, but the landscape of the beach makes it feel far more secluded. A rocky peninsula juts out to the right and encloses the campsite in its own little space. While the water isn’t crystal clear (or even particularly inviting) just being by the ocean invigorates you. Up ahead you see familiar figures standing by a small mountain of bags and camping gear.

“Hey guys!”

“Lily!” You break out into a run, but the sand slows you down and instead you amble on over to the group with all the grace of a giraffe. You almost knock her over with the force of your hug when you finally reach her.

“Whoa!” she yelps, trying to steady herself.

“Sorry. I just missed you.”

“You’re so lucky we missed you too or you’d need to do a lot more than set up our tents for making us wait so long,” Stacy says and pulls you into a hug.

“Don’t worry. Ava already chewed us out about it,” Andy says after he and Tom drop your cooler and bags off with everyone else’s.

“It hasn’t been that bad,” Dan says and bumps a volleyball over to Andy.

“Dan’s right. There’s actually some really interesting examples of the growing erosion problem on the beach here,” Lucas says and points out certain spots of the shore.

“Oh my god. Somehow your nerdy Picstagram posts pale in comparison to the live action Lucas,” you say.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says and pulls you into a side hug. “It’s great to see you all again.”

“Same here. I’m psyched we all get to hang out again before I start school,” Andy says while bouncing the volleyball between Tom, Dan, and himself.

“Let the first annual Westchester Badass Club camping trip begin!” you exclaim to a chorus of groans.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2: With the camping trip in full swing will everything go on without a hitch?

[nadasdirthalens]

Remembrance

Heavy/Medic, 

Notes: I use she/her pronouns for Scout, also I am Jewish and a large chunk of this is based off my own experience with the religion/culture. Also a song I imagined while writing this is this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88pCBld3TVk&list=RDQM0Su66k1fLHA&index=7

Warning for: Antisemitism & The Shoah (it is not graphic and I do not go in depth) 

AO3

There are very little things that Heavy remembers from his traditional childhood. He struggles to grasp onto celebration he knows he had, and prayers he must have sung in a language he does not understand no longer. He knows his father would begin the Sabbath, always with warm words that Heavy continues to try to find. His mother’s mouth works far better around Russian than Hebrew. He does not dislike her for it, he does not resent the missing moments he digs for late at night, when everyone else has settled down.

Tonight, he feels as if he is breathing through hot dense air, the desert suffocating from the home he holds to close to forget. It is static, as if he can reach into his own memory and pull out any of the pieces he wants.

It was an off-comment. Perhaps insensitive, but rather true nonetheless. It had been almost twenty years since Heavy tucked his rations under his arms and fed his family under the guise of sleep. Twenty years since his father had left him, and with his death, he took a God that Heavy was so ready to give a life for.

He felt sick.

“Don’t know,” Sniper began, lazily stretching his legs over the kitchen table, much to everyone’s dismay. “Never did understand the war by all of you. I was young, stupid, and far away.”

The kitchen was silent, most of those in the team had endured the harsh reality that Sniper wasn’t able to conceptualize. Solider had walked out of the room as soon as the conversation had begun, Pyro following after her. Medic sat bored by Heavy, not paying attention to anyone but Archimedes on his hand.

“Been a long time since I was reminded of it.” Sniper began to pick something out of his teeth, “You fought in it, didn’t you?” he began to nudge Heavy’s arm. It didn’t move.

Heavy stood up from the table, “No.”

This still felt like something that could not be said out loud, it hung uncomfortably around his shoulders. He left the room unceremoniously, not paying attention to whatever noise had begun to buzz behind him. He lingered in the corner before his room. His fist clenched beside him. Heavy rubbed his other hand over his wrist. Letting the rough pads of his fingertips graze over healed over scars and burns.

He was only somewhat aware of how the war had affected everyone else. He was aware of some things, of course: The Magen David around Medic’s neck, the photos he ungraciously took as often as he could. Snapping memories of Scout laughing, tears running down her face, her eyes. Medic collected the photos in a small book, a short sentence about the photo underneath. He keeps it under his desk, a nondescript leather bound.

Perhaps, Heavy was not the only one struggling to remember.

Heavy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing his fingers to uncurl from its stiff position, he began to walk forward. His feet shuffled across the tile floor slowly, unsure of his own movements. When the lab was in view, he shifted his weight between his feet. He lingered in the doorway.

Without pause, or glancing up from the counter, Medic waved him in.

“It was Sniper’s comment, was it not?”

Heavy tilted his head up slightly, a lie already forming under his tongue. He kept it there, let it run down his throat. His silence a better answer than anything.

Medic shifted his body, his necklace softly clang against the metal of the surgery table.

Unsure of what to say, Heavy sat across from the doctor instead, watching him deftly dissect an organ he wasn’t able to identify. Medic held the scalpel skillfully, yet relaxed. The tool loosely balancing on his gloved fingers. Letting the instrument write notes within the flesh of the body part. A novel on its own, Heavy reminded himself.

“What is eating you?” Medic asked, he still had not looked up.

“Am no meal.”

Laughing, Medic placed his scalpel beside him.

“This is an old pair of hearts I had lying around, unrecognizable, Ja?”

Heavy nodded.

“Can’t remembered who it belonged too, no matter however.” Medic flippendently flicked his wrist, “Used to collect my own, when I was a young boy, nothing else to do.”

“What did school friends think?”

Medic shrugged, “Did not go to a school, my mother taught me anything she could. My father kept me inside until I went to college to study medicine.”

Humming, Heavy looked over the organ in front of him, “Hmm. Lonely.”

“Perhaps. I understood his reasoning.”

“Reasoning?”

Medic sadly smiled, “We escaped when we could, erased everything. You know me, have I ever been known to share my secrets?”

“Da, I like that about you.”

“My father did not.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you miss it?”

Heavy furrowed his eyebrows. “It?”

Medic fingered his necklace, “the believing.”

Heavy shook his head, “I believe in many things.”

“You and I both know they took more than bodies, It is hard for me to ask him to feel safe. The believing, a blanket of sorts, Ja?”

Heavy nodded and swallowed thickly, his throat dry and hoarse.

“I’ll tell you what,” Medic picked up a pair of tweezers, and pointed them at Heavy. “If I will tell you what I miss, will you do the same?”

“Da.”

Medic went back to the organ, attempting to pick something out of the flesh.

“My name.”

Heavy pulled back slightly, “Doctor, you are not allowed to -”

Medic smiled and shook his head, “Do not worry Mein Freund, I will not slip any information should you not want it.”

Heavy paused. He categorized the sounds in Medic’s lab. The doves were sleeping in the rafters above, he could hear the soft noise of a sentry not far from the lab’s walls, his own breathing, louder than he would have preferred.

Heavy sunk down in his seat, “You can give me anything.”

Medic processed the request momentarily before smiling wide. “Now, if only I heard that in this office more often!”

He wiped his hand on his chest, leaving red streaks carelessly drawn all over his white coat. Heavy watched the blood dry almost instantly as it hit his fabric. Medic ignored the drop of blood that clung to his jawline.  

“We had changed our family name for two reasons,” Medic began, once again giving his attention to the hearts on the table, “One of them, to hide.” Medic punctuated the last word with a unexpected jab, violently plunging the tweezers into the middle of the two organs. He left the tool half stuck in the muscles.

“The other reason,” He leaned against the table, facing Heavy. “Was because my last name became tainted.”

Heavy crossed his arms, “Tainted?”

Nodding, Medic put his chin in his hands, “Ja, I can no longer walk around with my previous name, both my parents realized this. That name, I miss.

“That name?”

“I had changed my first name as well, that one I chose.”

Heavy was quiet for a moment.

“What is name?”

Without hesitation, Medic obliged, his voice unusually quiet, “My full name is Ludwig Reichstein.”

“Ah,” Heavy shook his head, “Can see why ignorant people would have issue with name. However,” He uncrossed his arms, “Ludwig suits you.”

Medic smiled, “Thank you Mein Freund, I’m sure whatever name you possess fits your body like a sock.”

“Glove.”

“What was that?”

“English expression, da? Fit like glove.”

“Never did have good fitting socks,” He momentarily paused to think for a moment, the doctor’s eyes wide and unfocusing, when he snapped back into the present, he smiled.

Medic reached down to fiddle with the star around his neck, pausing for Heavy. He watched the doves above him breath softly, their feathers expanded across their chest.

“Mikhail.” Heavy said softly, his eyes down.

“Meek-Hail?”

Heavy gave a amused huff, “Mikhail.”

“Mikhail.” Medic repeated, smiling at getting it right, “As I knew it would be, it is a fitting name.”

Heavy put one of his pointer fingers on the tip of the tweezers, still jammed in between the two hearts on the table.

“My father prayed.”

Medic hummed, acknowledging and edging Heavy to continue.

Heavy hummed back, “Hmm, I can not remember what he said. But,” Heavy put his arms on his lap, “I had something.”

Medic stood still, “You felt safe.”

“Da.”

“Before the -?”

“Da.”

“When did he -?”

“When he died.”

“Ah.” Medic nodded, “Do you think you would try to continue after all of this?”

Heavy rubbed the back of his neck, “Maybe. If after happens.”

The silence between them buzzed. Heavy was used to silence, Medic was not. The doctor seemed to be contemplating something, his face scrunched up in thought. The two hearts between them continued to lay out in the open.

“I have something, you may like it, do you wish hear it?”

Heavy nervously played with the scalpel on the counter, “Hear?”  

“Ja, hold on, stay there.”

Medic stretched up from his crouched position and lifted his arms in the air. He flitted to the corner of the room where a record player rested. Underneath, a stack of albums lifted the machine in the air, it looked one breath away from toppling over. Heavy sat, amused by Medic’s ability to retrieve the album from the tall stack with little trouble.

“This, I think you will like this one.” Medic briefly flashed the album cover towards Heavy. The cover itself was read in a mix of German and Yiddish, neither Heavy could understand well. The doctor spun the record, and lifted the needle.

The sound began warm, full of strings that Heavy can almost smell, his father’s study still dusty from the long since removed musician. It was not a tune he could recognize but it was a tune that felt familiar. It reminded him of his father’s prayers, the timber of his voice, the woman’s voice flew over the room and awoke the doves, who began to preen their feathers as they woke up.

Medic reached a hand out.

“I don’t know the moves either, come!”

Heavy slowly stood up from his seat. Medic reached further and grasped his hand.

“Doctor, I can not dance!” Heavy shouted over the music, a smile already forming on his face.

“Neither can I!”

Heavy let Medic pull him closer, they began to move from side to side, their feet tripping over themselves, their swaying not matching the rhythm to the song. Heavy felt warm and safe, he did not think to look behind him, didn’t check the door again, didn’t listen in to make sure Engineer’s sentry continued to search the high fortress, scanning for enemies.

They hadn’t realized the song had ended, and another slower one had begun, they had only slowed their dancing by a miniscule amount.

Erupting in a fit of giggles, Medic began to trip more often, having Heavy catch him more often than not. Their arms around the others for support more than anything. On the battlefield, they were together and solid, but in dancing on the surgery floor they both felt like fools, all limbs.

“I’m sorry! Haven’t done this in awhile!” Medic shouted above the music.

“Have never done this!” Heavy responded, smiling in kind.

The record stopped it’s spinning, the needle lifting from its grooves, and with a click, all sound in the lab had ceased. Heavy and Medic continued to smile at each other, both still clinging onto the other, neither of them made a move to dislodge themselves from their tangled arms and legs.

“I have not dusted off that old player in a while, I am thrilled for it to be used again.” Medic locked his hands behind Heavy’s neck.

“The music it was -”

“Traditional?”

Heavy shook his head, he tried to reach for words he did not have. His own education filled with beautiful languages that could describe anything. For this he was blank. “That is this it is.”

“What is it?”

Heavy leaned his forehead on Medic’s. Medic grinned, and closed his eyes. Heavy’s voice sounded revenant. His voice lower than a whisper. Medic wished to tuck it away, to fold it together and burn it over the candles he kept late at night, when prayer seemed the hardest way out of anything.

“The believing, this is it.”