#wonder gunki

[thesaucemanstrikesback]

RARARARARARARA I NEED HIM

GIVE HIM TO ME

[vincentbriggs]

@once-a-polecat replied to your post “My uncle's friend asked if I wanted this machine...”:

So do Whites have the same parts availability as Singers? I see them around for a fraction of the price, I’ve just been holding out for a Singer because the parts are relatively easy to source. I’ve seen some really lovely White machines tho! I bet yours is going to look stunning when it’s cleaned up. That cabinet is {chefs kiss}

​I don't know, I haven't looked into it because mine's not missing any pieces and still has all 6 bobbins.

I think that as long as you can verify that it has all the parts, and at least one or two bobbins, it probably won't need any new ones.. ever? The little rubber ring on the bobbin winder and the treadle drive belt degrade after a few decades and need replacing, but you can easily buy those, and everything else is highly unlikely to break from regular use.

The one thing I was worried about was accidentally stripping the screws while taking it apart for cleaning, and there was one screw that I didn't quite have the right size of screwdriver for and it started to look a bit ehhhh so I just didn't take that part off. It wasn't one of the really gunky ones anyways, and I did my best to clean around it, and may try again someday if I get more sizes of screwdriver. So I'd advise making sure you have all the right tools before starting and slathering all the stuck bits well in kroil (what the guy in a video I watched yesterday used) or wd-40 (what I used) or some such loosening thing.

It seems like it's very hard to find new bobbins, especially since there are different styles of shuttle and the bobbins are not interchangeable. Mine's a boat style and my bobbins wouldn't work in a bullet style from a couple years later.

While cleaning this thing it hasn't even crossed my mind to wonder where I'd find replacement parts because, well, what could possibly break? Nearly every single piece is cast iron or steel, and it's already been used SO much that the decals on the bottom are almost completely gone just from the amount of fabric that's run over it.

As mentioned in the previous post it's about 140 years old, was owned by a woman who made her living sewing on it for many decades, and it still works just fine! I haven't got the bobbin winder cleaned up yet and it's still off the cabinet, but I couldn't resist trying it out with just the hand wheel (using one of the bobbins that was wound long before I was born) once I got all the bits back on and yeah! Perfect stitches right away!

As long as it's kept well oiled it's just gonna keep on chugging along indefinitely.

Are you seeing these White machines in person at secondhand stores and such? If you can check to make sure they have bobbins and that no pieces are missing, I'd say grab one! Maybe keep some reference pics of working ones so you can look and see, or even better see if you can make a stitch with it before buying it, and presumably if it can do that even slowly and gunkily then it'll just need cleaning like this one did.

By all accounts they're REALLY good machines! I'm super excited to try mine out properly, and to post more about all the features. It has a lip around the bottom of the needle bar so that if some oil drips down it won't get on your needle! Genius!! Why doesn't every machine ever have that?! It's also fairly quiet AND you can adjust the bobbin tension right in the middle of a seam without disturbing the sewing or taking the shuttle out. Incredible.

The manual for mine says "The Best in the World" on it, and while that's just a normal Victorian thing to say about a product, I'm not about to argue with them. There are a few little things that I like better on Singers, such as the quality of the hinges that hold the machine to the cabinet, and the way the presser foot attaches, but all in all this White VSII is extremely goddamn good so far and I have no doubt that once I get the bobbin winder cleaned up it'll also work perfectly!

So yeah, GET ONE!

[sadhours]

the diner - part one

billy hargrove x fem!reader

cw: 18+ minors dni, stalking, murder, toxic relationship, trauma, hallucinations, flayed!billy, peeping Tom, masturbation briefly mentioned, horror

He survived. Somehow— someway. Billy survived. Took care of what he should have so long ago. But that monster lingers, still alive within him.

You’re an innocent girl who works next door to him and he can’t help himself. Could you help him or is he too sick?

read on ao3

part two

Rain slips down, leaving clean streaks across the scum splattered front window of the shop. It’s deep into the evening, town’s asleep except for the truck stop directly next door. Bright lights illuminating the gas pumps, convenience store and the 50’s style diner. The one you work at.

And in the darkness of Route One Garage, Billy stands at the window. Watching. Eyes following as your hair bobs up and down with your steps as you run around the diner. Taking orders, filling coffee cups, carrying hot plates of greasy food made on grills cleaned less often than the health department wants. He’s eaten there, knows you can taste the filth in the food. But it’s the only place to get food this late for miles. The place is full of truckers, different faces but they might as well be the same copy of a person. In and out all day long. Billy’s seen the way they talk to you, been witness to it and just sat there with his blood boiling. Didn’t do anything about it because he’s a pussy and also, because you don’t know him. Sure, he comes in semi-regularly but he doesn’t really talk to you. He can’t for some reason. But before he moved to this teeny, shithole of a place, Billy wasn’t like this. He could talk to any woman. You didn’t look at him like most women did, though.

He watches you like this almost every night. Every night you’re there. Fantasizes about the things he wants to do to you. Sometimes those things are questionable, violent even but sometimes they’re just fantasies of talking to you— making you fall in love.

But he did something that woke up these dark demons deep in him. Well, two things.

Billy still has visions of the shape shifting monster. Haunts his dreams. Recalls each time he led an innocent person to the monster. Regretted not leading his father to the monster. So when he crawled out of the slimy, pulsing portal. He found his dad. Did what he’d always been too weak to do. Billy wonders if that monster still possesses him. If there’s still some of those black, gunky slugs in his stomach. Puked them up for weeks, it felt like.

But he’s thousands of miles from Hawkins. Though it feels like part of him is still contaminated. Made him reclusive, awkward, scarred up. Maybe that’s why he’s scared to talk to you. He knows he doesn’t look like he used to. His hair’s longer, his eyes are darker, his body has starfish shaped scars patterned all over. That charm has been evacuated. He’s not as suave.

Obsessive. That’s how he is now and he knows it but he can’t stop himself.

Billy knows where you work, he knows what you drive and he knows where you live. He has the name of your boss, your parents and your ex boyfriend. He’s followed you to the dive bar in town, walked around the general store and kept his eye on you and the things you buy. He’s full blown stalking you. It’s not his fault, though. That monster gave him this sickness and this town gave him loneliness. A recipe for disaster.

And you’re just so fucking pretty. The way your face lights up when you smile stains his eyes when he closes them. If he focuses hard enough he can hear your voice. Same script over and over.

���Hey, how’s it going?”

“Shop busy, today?”

“Usual tonight?”

“Coffee, eggs over easy, hash browns , extra bacon and sausage, right?”

“Want some more coffee?”

“Anything else tonight? Maybe some apple pie?”

“Ya sure? It’s really good apple pie, I promise.”

“I’ll just get your check, then.”

Sometimes Billy can finish when he’s thinking about those words. Which is sick and he knows that but he feels like he can’t help himself. Wonders what you think of him. You’re not a bitch or anything but you don’t ever look at him like girls used to look at him. Nothing like the moms laid out by the pool. Not like you think he’s good looking but like he’s any other face you see. Which infuriates him but makes him sad about himself more than anything. Occasionally he looks at himself in the mirror until he feels sick. Until he sees his dad. Tells himself he needs a haircut, needs to shave the mustache. Sleep more so he can lose the bags under his eyes. Maybe you’d look at him differently.

The lights flicker, buzz loud enough he can hear it in the shop. He leaves. Locks up the place and his boots take him to the diner. To the same booth he always sits in. Lights up a smoke and meets your eyes from across the place. You don’t flush the way girls used to. In fact, Billy can’t register any kind of reaction on your face. So he flicks his ash on the floor because you’ll have to sweep it up and it feels like he won. Won what? He doesn’t really know, but he wants you to clean up his mess. Gives him some kind of satisfaction.

The script starts when you walk up. A variation of it.

“Late tonight,” you say, filling up his coffee cup without asking. “Must be busy.”

“Sure,” he says. Always keeps it short because you don’t meet his eyes and he can’t meet yours. Instead he stares at your hands, pretty fingers wrapped around the carafe’s handle.

You walk away. To put the coffee away he guesses. Stares at the mug, wraps his own fingers around it and takes a careful sip. His eyes find you behind the counter, giving a look of disdain to your coworker who said something and then you grin. Laugh at whatever she said to you. Then you’re back at his booth and his eyes fall to the table as the script resumes.

“Usual?”

“Yeah.”

“Eggs over easy, hash browns, extra bacon and sausage,” you recite from memory and Billy gets a bit of satisfaction from it. Proud of you for some reason.

“You remember,” he says, low and steady.

You scoff and chuckle, the sound makes his thighs tighten and you say, “Kind of hard to forget it. You’ve never changed it.”

Bold for some reason, he replies, “Maybe I should.”

“We do have a whole six pages on that menu. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you open it, though,” you offer and this is new. It’s off script. Both you and him.

Billy smirks, flips open the menu and peers down at the first page. It’s greasy, a stain of sticky jam at the top left corner and he immediately catches a typo. He purses his lips and continues to flick through it. You pull the notepad from your apron but he’s too nervous to look up at your face. He flips another page and then, finally, looks up at your face.

“What do you like?”

You look shocked. He likes that.

“Uh,” you laugh, a soft little sound and Billy’s skin is hot. “Our patty melt is pretty damn good.”

He closes the menu, slides to the end of the table as he replies, “I’ll have that then.”

“Wow, you’re full of surprises tonight,” you quip, “Fries or potato salad.”

“Why don’t you give me a surprise,” Billy says and then looks away because you’re too fucking gorgeous and he’s on a roll. Kind of feels like his old self right now and looking at you would fuck that up.

You pick up the menu and laugh again, “Sure thing.”

You walk away and he takes a hit of his neglected cigarette, ash falling to the table as he does so. Another mess of his for you to clean. Makes his whole body tingle at the thought. You don’t check on him before his food is done. But Billy keeps checking on you, eyes bouncing up to follow you as you work. Finishes his cigarette and coffee. Takes in the uniform you’re in. The big, bold name on the pin clasped into your blouse.

When you bring his food, you ask, “Got anymore surprises for me tonight?” and his mind runs wild. Sick fantasies. Ideas that make him feel guilty and the charm he’d felt after years slips far, far away.

“No.”

But you say, “Good. Don’t wanna overwhelm me too much.”

You fill his coffee again and walk away. Then he eats and the script resumes as normal. He pays. Sits in his car until all the lights in the diner shut off. Watches you walk to your car, waits a beat after you drive off before he starts his car and follows you. To your house. Keeps waiting until you go inside to park behind your car on the street and watch the numerous lights flick on and off. Aiding in him as he imagines exactly how your night plays out. He thinks you go into the kitchen first. Maybe you get a drink, perhaps a beer. When he’s followed you to the bar, he’s seen you drink beer. Then that lights flicks off and the TV turns on. Can see the variety of brightness and colors through the window. He thinks of what you might watch. Imagines sitting on the couch with you, cuddled up. His thoughts get perverted quickly and before he knows it, he’s staring at your window with his dick in his hand with the fantasy of your mouth on him.

After he finishes, he’s still watching. Until the changing lights of the TV go black and a different light turns on. Bathroom. That window is small. You brush your teeth, maybe wash your face. He takes this time to get out of his car, walk to the window on the side of the house, crouch down and peer through the broken blinds. Your bedroom. You turn the light on, back to the bathroom to turn that light off and return. Close your door and undress. You sleep nude but you keep a robe next to your bed. You flick off the light. Sink into bed and Billy stays for a while. Until he knows you’re asleep. He thinks about sneaking inside but he hasn’t gathered the gusto to do so yet. The whole watching you through the window is new enough. But he’ll escalate soon. Won’t be able to help himself.

Then Billy goes home. Back to his shady little apartment. Falls asleep on the couch with infomercials playing on the TV. He’ll wake up and do the same thing again tomorrow.

—

Dark tendrils wrap around his wrists and ankles. Pull him in opposite directions. His eyes are wide open but his body feels paralyzed. He tries to scream but it’s gargled and there’s a monster limb attaching to his mouth, pulsing down his throat. Fills his belly with baby slugs. The sticky limb retreats him and the constraints on his ankles and wrists unravel and he’s shaking. Thrashing. Screaming. Crying. Pleading.

Then Billy’s awake, sits up straight and pants. Looks around his room and there’s nothing there. Just him and the mess of his belongings. He cries. Then he showers. Makes himself vomit and he sees no slugs. No sludge. Just the dinner and foamy beers he had. Billy showers, water so hot it burns— turns his skin patchy red and tingly. He vomits again. Watches the sick circle the drain. Cries some more. Feels the loneliest he’s ever been. Wonders why he can’t kill himself. Why he doesn’t have the strength to do that.

He’s up too early. Doesn’t work for another three hours. Billy paces his apartment. Chain smokes and pounds coffee. He briefly thinks of Maxine. Stalks over to his freezer and reaches in it for the bottle of vodka he keeps in there and guzzles some of it down. Drowns out Max. Maybe he should make sure you get to work safe. He has to do something. Anything.

The drive to your house is routine, but he doesn’t often do it in daylight. Can’t risk you seeing him, so Billy parks a couple houses down. Chain smokes while he waits and soon enough, you’re walking to your car.

[chunkfunkgunk-offishal]

Today on CHUNK! FUNK! GUNK! We rate

my cat TWIX:

8/10 Chunk

7/10 Funk

3.8/10 Gunk

Though her bones hold her back from pure chunkiness, she is a round little creature that feels a lot like a waterbed— squishy but with a firmness to her. Like a bowling ball made of jelly. High chunk. My little stinky’s appearance is very odd. She has sunken in eyes and little patches of cream about them that make her look perpetually upset, unamused, or perturbed. Her paws are teeny tiny and I have many bruises in the shape of her stabby little feet all over my legs. She has oddly defined cheekbones for a cat, which add to the perpetual frown on her tiny face. Also her head is TINY. It’s like literally 4 inches wide. TINY. She looks like a pigeon. Also, she has a “W” on her chest, isn’t that neat? High funk. You’re probably wondering how a cat can be gunky. I mean, they don’t produce anything more than the normal mucuses of mammals? Well… Twix has IBS, so you can imagine… Some gunk.

Overall Rating: I would die for her/10

I’ve had Twix for about 7 years and I love her with all of my being. We (my family) found her dying of starvation in a shed at around 4 weeks old and now she is the dappled little bowling ball that you see here. She is my mimi-moomoo, my buubleewuublee, my little angel, my chunk, my chunky-monkey, my chunkadamunkadamunkadachunkada, and mi pequeñita rechonchita. I adore her.

Happy April Fools Day!

[billpottsismygf]

Space Babies! Weird episode, but it had a charm. I had already prepared myself for the fact that RTD's era was notoriously camp and weird, and that I would for the first time be experiencing new episodes by him as an adult rather than as a 9-13 year-old, so it's not news to me that there would be some campy nonsense with a deeper message, and that this might be more jarring than I'm used to. The deeper themes were really thrown out (refugees, anti-abortion hypocrisy, genocide, capitalism) without being dwelt on, but that's not necessarily a problem.

The babies themselves were... a little unnerving? The mouth movements were quite uncanny, along with their voices and the general "I love you, Ruby!" of it all. I've just now made the connection that the latter puts me in mind of adverts for baby dolls.

The gunky snot monster felt very early 2000s British children's TV. If you weren't there for that, just know there was so much slime; think Slitheen exploding. I am very glad it got rescued. Nice message with the Doctor not usually running from things just because they look scary and, even though this is a creature specifically manufactured to be scary, it still deserves a shot at life.

It feels like a strange story to start with because I suspect it'll have mixed reviews. I would think you'd want a slightly more solid episode to draw people in with. Anyway, there was still a lot of thought put into making this a proper jumping off point with all its Doctor Who 101 stuff. Funny for a long-time viewer hearing it all rattled off in record time, but important to establish for new people, and I do think it's important for the show to remain accessible to people who haven't been obsessing over it for twenty years or more.

As a jumping off point, it very specifically reminded me of The End of the World. There's the big observation deck on a space station where the new companion, in her second episode and first off-world adventure, gets her phone updated so she can call her mum, in particular. The parallels to Rose are interesting, especially with the lecture the Doctor gives Ruby about how they can't travel back to meet her missing parent(s).

Speaking of that, there's some intrigue there with the snow appearing and the memory changing. I didn't like the Doctor doing a DNA scan of Ruby without her knowledge. It feels very 11th Doctor, especially when he literally scanned Amy and withheld medical information, but also the way he treated all his female companions as mystery boxes to solve without telling them. I guess we'll see what that's all about at a later point.

I'm still not completely sold on Millie Gibson, but Ncuti Gatwa is wonderful, and I do really appreciate their chemistry.

Small things:

Jocelyn was a good character, and the Nan-E filter made me laugh several times.

That place name before the Doctor turned the translation circuits off was absolutely not in English. Slightly weird way to phrase that line if it's going to be called Pacifico del Rio.

This is a very early point in the series for Ruby to get a TARDIS key! We're really speedrunning the usual steps here.

[jinnie-ret]

HIII so I'm the one who asked Abt the sister reader and I wanted to rq a older brother skz x adoptive little sister reader where shes 15 and cusses a lot and is always getting into trouble like piercing her ears without anyone knowing, loud introvert, things like that and how they react to it? Love ur writing btw!🫶🏻🫶🏻

rebel

stray kids x adopted sister!reader

genre: fluff

content warnings: none

word count: 0.6k

summary: the boys are too used to their little sister's rebellious ways by now, but that doesn't stop them from worrying every now and then.

Hi thank you so much!! I hope you enjoy this one! :)

As always, like, reblog if you enjoyed, and my asks are open for any requests you may have. And let me know if you'd like to be tagged when I post :)

MAIN MASTERLIST

You had just arrived back to the dorms in the morning after coming back from your friend's house and spending the day with them all yesterday. It was silly of you to think that that boys wouldn't be awake at 10am in the morning.

"Ah, Y/N, nice of you to come home," Changbin says sarcastically, arms folded as he leans against the kitchen counter.

"It's not that late...?" you tried to get around the awkward situation, as you saw all of the boys eating breakfast with their phones out, and if you looked closer you would have noticed they had it open on the groupchat they had with you, waiting for a message to know when you'd be back.

"You could have told us you'd be ok," Han sighed in relief, coming up to you and affectionately stroking your hair back, but his fingers caught your ear, where you had gotten your second set of piercings done.

"Ow," you winced, causing him to raise a brow at you.

"You good?" Felix stood next to him, the September twins wondering what was the matter.

"Yeah, yeah, it's nothing," you shrugged them off and hopped onto the kitchen counter, nicking a piece of toast from Hyunjin's plate.

"I'll let that slide only because we were worried about you," Hyunjin sighed, still giving you the side eye despite his comment.

"Why were you worried?" you bit into the toast.

"Maybe because we haven't heard from you since 2am? What were you doing up at that time anyways?" Chan sighed, walking up to you and getting up from his seat at the table.

"Just watching films and that," you shrugged, mistakenly brushing your hair back.

"Oh, and what else did you get up to?" he frowned, huffing out a breath though his nose as his finger brushed against your new piercing.

"Ow... fine I got my seconds done," you admitted, looking away.

"With what money?" Jeongin laughed, "you only went to that local gig with your friends recently, and you can afford to have another piercing?"

"There was a discount! I got it done for ₩15,000!" you said happily, feeling like you had gotten a bargain.

"Oh dear, well hopefully you've got enough money left to pay for antibiotics when you get an infection," Minho wrinkled his nose.

"What do you mean?" you frowned.

"₩15,000?! That's too cheap, who knows if the metal is good quality, or if it was sterilised," Seungmin spoke up.

"Ah, well, I'm sure it'll be fine, only live once don't you?" you waved off their concerns.

"Yep, with infected gunky ears," Hyunjin patted your head.

"Stopppp," you whined at their teasing. But you didn't expect anything less from your brothers.

"Look, next time just tell us where you are and if you're ok, yeah?" Chan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, Felix thought you died," Changbin giggled.

"I did not! I just thought she got kidnapped..." Felix trailed off after his attempt at defending himself.

"You do worry about me a lot," you laugh poking Felix's cheek.

"You're still a child, of course we worry," he hugs you to him.

"Ah, I'm not that young, I'm mature enough," you smile at them all.

"Yeah right, we still hear you cursing like a sailor when you're on the phone," Seungmin exposed you with a smirk.

"Who corrupted our baby y/n?" Han shook your shoulders, making you almost dizzy.

"Ok, ok, calm down," you giggled at him.

"I remember when you were 11 years old, so innocent, and now look at you," Changbin cried out, putting on a fake emotional voice as he covered his face.

"Such a rebel now," Hyunjin laughed, shaking his head at the scene in front of him, as Felix clung onto you and Han, Jeongin and Minho where now inspecting your piercings.

tagged: @skz-streamer @backintomykpopphaseagain @hannahhbahng @kiraisastay

[wide-nose-and-wonderful]

SNOWFALL SEASON 3 Franklin.

Pairing: Franklin Saint x Black Fem Reader!

Warnings/Type: Major Snowfall TV Show Spoilers. Established Relationship. Drama, Hurt, Angst, Use of the n-word. ONE SHOT!

Summary: Being Leon's baby sister, you were almost like a forbidden fruit, but Franklin kissed you that night at the amusement park. Since then you couldn't get him outta your mind. The day of Andres funeral you decide to approach him and let him know these growing feelings, unaware the world is about to come crashing down in the worst way.

Word count: 8,220k / Please consider leaving a comment to show some love and support. Like this story? To read other works please check out the Masterlist.

It had gotten humid inside the ragged old church. The whole morning felt entirely too hot. But the situation had been a form of hell. The irony was an abysmal reality you could do without. You wondered how bad it might feel come afternoon when everything moved over to Cissy’s house for the repass. 

Older women from the neighborhood sat off to the side, lukewarm bottles of water in hand. One program folded, causing a line to stretch across the deadeased face, flapping at a steady pace to offer these warm necks a brush of air and a small release from the heat. 

Once the casket closed, things had become real. No going back, no second chances. You had watched eagerly, with both terror and awe at the sight of death with little understanding of its significance. She’d found her father, head on the kitchen table with a bullet through his brain. The top being lowered in the manner it appeared. A firm but gentle slam, screaming, the end. 

You glimpsed at the program in your hand then up ahead. Melody held tight to a blank stare as the pastor spoke. It worried you whenever your eyes managed to find her among the large crowd of people sitting in pews. She looked, lost. Checked out. Maybe from the situation. Maybe from something else? If the rumors going around the neighborhood were true she had been recovering from an addiction to rock. Or had recently taken a hit to numb her mind. Given the situation, you could forgive her for the latter. Still, you couldn't deny this ominous gut instinct that something bad might happen today. 

You pulled at the side of your dress. The color design, a black and white triangle pattern. Hair up in a high bun, you wore a pearl necklace with matching earrings, black stockings and flats. A light application of makeup had been applied. Another thing that bothered you about funerals. Mascara rolling down in black gunky lines. All the sad songs would have caused the welling up of tears so by the time everything ended the look would be giving something out of one of the horror films you’d watched with your girlfriends every other friday. 

The singer's voice lifted. 

‘Amazing grace! how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch; like me! I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see.’ 

You swore, every black person that died had this very song playing at their funeral in some capacity. Didn’t matter if it was first walking in, or walking out, it never failed.

Andre Wright was no different. His sister Bernice even commented on how as a child the song had been his favorite to sing at Sunday service when they attended with their grandparents. Then she trailed off, expressing disappointment in Andre’s low attendance since joining the police force, and that God might be punishing him for the lack of acknowledgement. Luckily Cissy came to counter the conversation, presenting you and Leon a swift escape. You took it, Leon too. What came next would make it awkward for everyone involved. 

But suicide was always an awkward topic.

You bumped Leon’s shoulder. He averted his eyes away from the program in his hand to look at you. 

“This is sad huh?” You said as your gaze moved over the crowd. 

“Yeah. Real sad,” He mumbled. “Fuckin’ hate funerals.”

You kept your eyes on him for a moment. “It’s not reminding you of dad is it? From what you can remember, I mean.” 

Leon shook his head. “Naw. Not dad.” He paused. “Kev.”

You noticed he stared straight ahead when Kevin’s name slipped out. Jaw tight with unspoken tension. What was he looking at? You tilted your head. The casket in his line of vision. When Leon saw you’d caught on, a sad smile found him. 

“Kev’s wasn’t that exact color, but the flower arrangements kinda remind me of how they put his shit together.”  

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, And grace my fears relieved; How precious did that grace appear. The hour I first believed!’

You discovered Franklin sitting beside his mother and father in a blue button up and tie. His hands in his lap.Thumbs running over each other. His head hung while the music played, all the way up until the point the song finished. You remembered that day. Kevin’s funeral. One of the hardest for Leon. For everyone. Franklin hadn’t been in attendance. You asked Leon why. All he said was that he wasn’t gonna be able to make it. Kevin’s older brother Kane also missed the funeral, but everyone knew where Kane was. He’d been locked up for as long as you could remember. You didn't expect Jerome or Louie to be there. Not after what happened.  

Forgetting you’d been staring, Franklin turned his head to lock eyes with you for a second before he lowered his head once more. Your glare hardened on him. He’d barely been able to look at you. You were tired of his blatant avoidance. The way it started to make you feel took a toll on your control. Keeping those tears in during the ceremony. You hardly heard the preacher for the majority. Something in you somehow began to die. Such a permanent end hadn’t just been reserved for Andre. You lowered your hand and took hold of Leon’s, applying pressure. He offered a gentle smile as the tears rolled down your cheeks. “I know sis,” he whispered against the pastor's words, providing a light squeeze to counter. 

You felt out of place sitting so close to the Wright family, but Leon couldn't oppose Bernice on the seating request. He'd called her Mom once, and ate at her table many times before she’d packed up and relocated to Odessa Texas. 

The funeral continued. You fidgeted with a program while the Pastor called for the congregation to bow heads.

Our father who art in heaven…

Outside Leon was busy giving hugs and conversing with those who chose to stop him on the way to the car. You cared little for conversation. Instead your concentration was fixed. The very last step to the afterlife, or the process that the body would go through. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust…..The casket dissolved into the black hearse. The door closed, securing it inside for the lengthy trip to the ultimate resting place for the dearly departed. The grave location. A marker arranged later with Andre’s full name on it and a quote from the bible underneath, probably.

You shuffled out the church doors. A familiar voice touched your ears the second your foot felt the sidewalk, and you spun your head to the way behind. Alton. Franklin’s father stood, looking at you. 

“You and Leon gonna head over to the house? Cissy could use more help. Seems like we're gonna have a little more company then expected.”

You offered a smile. “Yeah, of course. Whatever we can do to help. We’ll probably leave in a second once he's finished.”

Alton offered an identical smile, but his brown face only reflected dismay. “Thank you both. See you then.”  

You revolted his departure with a look of disbelief and Leon caught sight of the hearse finally taking its leave as you uttered something about being hungry. Leon’s eyes left the dark ghost that took away the soulless thing in the brown box. As it disappeared in the traffic, all Leon could say was "Damn," before licking the dryness from his lips while he pulled out a joint and lit the end up with a low spark of fire. 

…

The atmosphere in the little house on 56th remained a somber affair. Cissy and Alton had done their best with the little space they had, but it felt cramped by the time You and Leon arrived. One of the hottest days in the city's history according to the radio reports. As predicted, the heat had gotten worse, so intense that it made it hard to breathe. Every hour the power would cut out. Anything Cissy had baking in the oven took extra time. Everyone felt it, this imminent trepidation that attached to the burning. Especially Franklin.You played the part of greeter as per Cissy’s request and directed some of the guests inside, keeping an eye on him. He still had on his suit jacket. Just the sight made you feel extremely suffocated. You watched him pass Melody and Bernice. Melody’s eyes strangely tore him to pieces. 

The rest of the mourners sat around, some sharing memories of Andre. Others offered their presence and support where needed. These people. Some you recognized and other’s you didn’t. They’d come one after the other with a comforting arm and words of sympathy for Melody. 

The dead stare hadn’t left her since coming from the funeral service at the church.“I'm so sorry for your loss. Your dad was a great man. He protected this community, put his life on the line everyday and he will be missed,” one officer from Andres' unit told her as he took off his hat as a sign of showing his respect. Something like, Nixon, Nix? Melody mellowed out a quiet thank you and Bernice rubbed her back as a tear would fall. 

You’d taken the opportunity and handed her a box of tissues when some of the people cleared a pathway. Sat down next to her, to offer your own personal condolences for her loss. “We're here for you, Mel. Whatever you need, just ask,” you said, giving her a reassuring smile. And the sorry’s continued on for a while right after yours. “I know this is a difficult time,” and "You are in our prayers,” were some of the many that followed. 

Eventually you found yourself in the bathroom staring in the mirror. You’d used some toilet paper to dab your forehead and relieve yourself of the perspiration that gathered. After you applied a fresh line of deodorant you hit the light switch and stepped out into the hallway. Franklin turned the corner just in time. The both of you stood, not saying anything until a shaky grin danced on him. 

“Hey Beanz.” 

It came, short and sweet. You watched his eyes move past you and toward his room. Another manner of escape. You blocked the path. Franklin walked forward, attempting to get past. 

“Excuse me,” he mumbled. 

You took hold of his arm. “Wait. Can I talk to you real quick?” 

He hadn’t provided you with much opportunity. You couldn’t call Cissy’s without raising suspicion. That, and it would get back to Leon. You only paged him a few times after the night at the amusement park. That same day you’d ended things with the guy Leon warned you about. The same guy you’d swore up and down wouldn’t do you dirty, but ended up proving Leon right. Like always. That same day Franklin showed up. 

What were the odds that he’d be out driving that night to find you walking down the street in tears. What were the odds that cotton candy and laughter would leave you full and satisfied? More than the two year relationship had ever done in its duration. Small moments, a subtle glance, the holding of his hand. The playful pushing. You were like children. Experiencing his whimsical desire to make you laugh at his failed attempt at game play, but then Franklin always was more brain than brawn. Still, you appreciated all of it in more ways you could express.

You believed he was different. Leon trusted him. Leon knew him. You grew up with him. Had a first hand account of his personality, and while growing up you never saw him being anything more than family, that night introduced a different side to him that might be possible.

It did its best to consume you. These thoughts of Franklin and what if. In the days that followed you’d created in your mind different scenarios.You thought you might be crazy at first, imagining yourself holding hands with him. Then it went to the subtle jokes held between you two, all the way to him parking in a secluded area, you climbing on top of him, and the two of you making love until the sun kissed the earth and brought about a new morning. 

The only way you would ever know is if you took a chance and put all your cards on the table. Franklin opened his mouth. For a second he seemed to search for the right words.You let him go when they never came.

“It won't take that long,” you offered as a level of reassurance. You understood that today of all days wasn’t the best time to confess your feelings, but you might not get another opportunity, being Franklin was so hard a man to track down these days. 

He nodded his head and turned to face you. “Okay,” felt from his lips as an utterance. 

You stared up at him. “In private. If that's alright.” 

He held his gaze then turned and started toward his room. You followed and shut the door once you were both inside. With a sigh Franklin turned. You greeted him with a push against the wall as you raised your hand around his neck to link your lips. Deep down somewhere in your heart of hearts you prepared for the worst. That made you bold in taking for yourself what you wanted. Just one more kiss. If that was the only thing you'd walk away with. It was something. Fuck that bastard Darnell for calling you a prude. This was Franklin Saint, no other girl you knew could be so bold. 

You wallowed in the memory of that night momentarily. It would never be like the first time, so unexpected and new, but the sensation of his full lips, soft, safe, and perfect made you glad you hadn't hesitated. He complied at first only to break contact seconds later. 

“Beanz. The hell you doin’?” 

You'd asked yourself this question only briefly. You took a breath. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean. This. We can't do this.” He moved your hand. He moved away from the wall and under your arm. 

Your eyes followed him.“But we're alone. So It's fine. I just. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

Franklin stood by his drawer. “If I was okay,” he asked without making eye contact. 

“Yes,” you said to clarify. “You're walking around like everything is fine. But it’s not. I mean it’s hot as hell today but you seem to be feeling it more than the rest of us in some weird way. You’ve been sweating like a blues singer,” you emphasized accounting for the moisture on his brow. He probably would have laughed at the comparison under different circumstances. “Everyone is being taken care of. I just. I wondered if the same could be said about you. Who’s checked on you lately? Made sure Franklin was good.” 

It was your way of paying it forward. You owed him. He made you feel good. You only wanted to do the same. You reached out to touch his hand. Franklin seemed to consider how the pad of your thumb ran over the top of his skin. You were desperate for any sort of contact, and by the way he responded, he was too.

“I know in a way Andre was like a father to you. To be honest I'm still shocked that he would do that. Kill himself. So, I know. I know you're hurting right now. And I just wanted you to understand. You don't have to be alone. I'm here. I'm here Franklin.” 

Franklin turned his head away and pulled in his bottom lip. There had been a glaze hanging over his hues. Perhaps your sentiment held too much weight. Franklin appeared to be battling with it. He moved his hand from under your touch. Just like a bee sting, you felt the pain. The aftershock at the loss of warmth to a frigid breeze.

“But the other thing is,” you struggled to say. “You've been avoiding me. I just wanted to ask. What. What did I do Franklin? Why are you being like this? So distant.” 

“Listen Beanz.” Franklin's hand found the upper part of his tie. He pulled at the knot to loosen it some, lowered his head and directed his attention at the ceiling before he gave you a brief glare. “Bottom line. I fucked up.”

You hadn't averted your gaze on him, and as diligently as you tried to deconstruct his sentence, to understand, you couldn't. “What do you mean?” 

“What happened that night.” He'd begun to pace the floor. “Shouldn’t have done what I did.” Franklin nodded. “That's my fault. And I take full responsibility. All the blame.” He stopped his pace to look at you. “Okay?” 

Your heart had moved, from its proper location in your chest to your stomach. “You're talking about the kiss, right? On the ferris wheel. What do you mean your fault? You had my full consent Franklin. I mean in the moment it caught me off guard, sure, but I kissed you back, so in that case I'd be wrong too.”

“No. I put you in that position, that was me. I made the move first. So see, you comin' in here like this. I should expect it. Cause of what you think it is now, or what it could be. But you're wrong.”

How was he able to read your mind so easily? It scared you. 

“We're doin’ this shit behind Lee's back. You know that's not right. He ma’ best friend, your brother. It's all fucked up.” 

“It was only a kiss. We didn’t do anything,” you whispered. You hadn't realized how elevated your breathing had become as you tried to process what was happening. Once Franklin dropped his arm at his side you were battling back tears. You thought you were doing the right thing. That being honest with yourself and him would make telling Leon, your mom, Cissy, Alton, Jerome, Louie, and anyone else who needed telling, much easier.

The hardest part had been telling Franklin.

“That's why I wanted to talk to you. I don't wanna hide my feelings anymore. Let's just tell him.” You'd grown a little confidence. Not only that. You spoke as if a love affair existed between you long before that night. “I felt something Franklin. I know you did too. Maybe it will all work out.” 

The naivety of your hope was showing. There was Franklin, this strategic young business man that created for himself his own product operation. Generated an endless stream of funds while successfully keeping peace between rival hoods. Then there was you, eighteen, inexperienced and vulnerable. It all read like a predator and prey situation so you could understand Leon's warning to Franklin, about boundaries and the lines he wasn't allowed to cross when it came to you. But you could reason with Leon. He couldn't always be right, especially about a man he put his trust into. 

“Tell him what?” Franklin turned to face you. His features mingled with anger and frustration. “You're not hearing me B. There's nothin’ ta tell. There is no us.” 

The intensity of his gaze was enough to make your heart stop. Your expression became void of promise that a fantasy could be something more. Still you preferred to fight it, determined that what you wanted meant more than all the logic the world could muster. 

“You feel the same way, I know you do.You just won’t admit it to yourself Franklin.That would make it all too real. Then you’d have to face it. You wouldn't be able to run away. The way you are now.”

Franklin didn't appear to be moved by the break and rise of your voice, but the added bounce in his jaw encouraged you to say more. If he hadn't responded that meant he must be thinking. You took a few steps until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You slowly sat on the surface and found a poster on the wall to stare at. A grimace of expression and you offered his rejection a casual laugh. “Who are you tryna convince Franklin? Me or yourself?” You acquired your own level of frustration.You stood at the edge of a knife. All Franklin had to do was plunge it in. He had the upper hand, but you weren't ready to die. If he could only hear you out, at least consider your argument. Faintly you could hear the song from earlier knocking at your senses and calling you to your final resting place. That place where Andre would be buried deep in the earth with his name engraved on cold stone. Only yours would be one word. Foolish. 

“Lee was right. He never looked your way when he uttered those words. You could see him from the corner of your eye. Instead his attention remained on the window. “We gotta leave it alone. Go back to the way things were.” 

Why had that sounded like he meant more than the night at the amusement park?

“Leon’s just tryna protect you B. So am I. Trust me. The further away you stay from all this. The better off you'll be.”

Franklin's hues swirled with burden. You couldn't turn away from all their trouble, even though his words were blunt and direct. It all went on like a paradox. The passivity shifted, as did his expression, to reveal this troubled man. A man that might be trying to make things right. You wanted to see it that way only, in the moment it felt more like he'd destroyed you purposely, doing so without care or worry, as the aftermath of his personal choices, and your vulnerabilities existed in rubble and ruin together as a constant beat. Yet, not even that could reason you to bring yourself to regret. You blinked. That released the drips of emotion from your eyes. They rolled down the same way they had at the church. Only Leon wasn't there to hold your hand. You shifted your weight on the bed until you broke the air with a whisper. Battle strong, you proceeded. 

“But what if I can’t. Go back to the way things were.” 

Franklin shut his eyes. “It didn't mean anything Beanz. What more do I gotta say to get that through to you. It was a mistake.”

When he didn't provide you with an answer you wanted you swallowed down the rising lump in your throat that would have had you burst into tears, if you didn't fight it back down. You had mulled it over in your head and once you recognized the heat in the room your hands began to shake. “Franklin, if this wasn’t something more then why was it you of all the people it could have been, there at that exact time and place. Are you telling me that was just some coincidence?” You weren't sure you should say the next part. You had no way of knowing his reaction. He'd  stone walled every bit of attempted connection you sent his way. You sucked in a breath as, “I’m in love with you,” slipped out.

“We can’t move beyond anything else but friendship. Sorry.” 

You pulled your bottom lip in to stop it from quivering. A similar action Franklin had taken at the mention of Andre. A short whimper-like sound left you in a “Hmm.” Cold. His tone of voice was so cold. Like a businessman delivering his final offer.

“Listen. Messin wit’ you. It'll only cause problems between me and Lee. And I can't have that.” When he turned and finally faced you, it was your tears that made his eyes go hard. He lifted his chin, “None of this is good for bidness. So It's done.” 

A smack of your teeth, and you remembered the shutting of Andres casket. That final slam. The end. You could go a whole lifetime without ever hearing that word. Franklin threw it around like it meant life or death. You rushed out, shutting the door behind you to lean on its frame as that familiar rise of sentiment tickled your eyes leaving you to finally break your reserve and cry. 

Cissy noticed you. She'd been talking in the hall to one of the men you recognized at the funeral. Another associate of Andres but not quite an Officer. She bid him away with a warm grin and approached you. 

“Honey what's wrong?” 

You tried to laugh the truth away. The truth that Franklin Saint had successfully broken your heart. “Nothing really.” You nulled the real reasons and smiled at her as best you could with the facility. Forgetting that Cissy was by no means a stupid woman and that you'd broken out in tears right after coming from inside her son's room.“It's all just so. Heavy in here with all this. You know. Kinda overwhelmed. And to add insult to injury. I'm still hungry.” You cried out in what turned into a sob. You hoped you swayed her from asking any questions about Franklin. Acting in itself was an overrated profession. It took too much of your energy to perform. 

“Aw. Come here sweetheart.” Cissy pulled you into a hug, which only made the crying worse. “I know it's hard,” she whispered while she gently rocked and patted your back to offer some form of comfort. The same you might be more inclined to receive from Franklin.“Death. Any manner of it. Even though it's a natural part of life. Don't make it any less hard.” Cissy spoke like she knew, but delivered in a way that understood both sides. She broke the hug to look at you. “While I have no control over that. I think I can do something about the other thing you mentioned. We just put out the food. Despite all these God forsaken power outages, it's ready.” Cissy smiled. A smile so infectious that it made you do the same. You laughed, she laughed and you both made your way to the kitchen. 

…

Soft music played in the background. The smell of comfort food filled the air. Macaroni and cheese, baked beans, fried chicken, pasta salad. A line had begun to form when the power cut off for the third time that afternoon. Berniece huffed in frustration as she grabbed a plate and began to fill it with food. They really should be doing something about this. They know how God awful hot it is today. Her voice trailed off in the surrounding chatter. You’d almost forgotten about the heat. The aroma of the food had you desperately wanting to sit, but you’d decided to make a plate for Leon. 

With the influx of hungry people, he’d be in line forever. 

When the line moved, you moved with it, grabbing two bread rolls along the way. You eye’d the dessert table hoping that by the time you finished there would still be a variety of sweets to choose from. 

What was it about death that made a person so hungry? 

When you managed to spot Leon, the two of you found seats at the large table. He’d grinned with his first bite of chicken that still offered a faint swivel of steam into the air overhead, hot. You’d been busy with finishing off your portion of macaroni and cheese by the time he took notice of your plate. 

“Mm. Was you gonna leave some for er’body else?” 

You frowned, choosing not to engage him with eye contact as you ate a spoonful of beans. “What?”

“Damn near got the whole pot don't ya?” He chuckled. “Guess you livin’ up to yo’ nickname, huh?” 

The significant difference from your plates had undoubtedly been the beans. You loved baked beans. It was your first words. Not mama, or dada, just, baked beans. Ever since then the nickname seemed to stick. You would always be on the hunt for them at family gatherings or barbeques. Funerals too.  

“Shut up,” you blurted out, almost annoyed that he noticed. 

Leon wasn’t easily rattled. Instead of finding the rebuttal of his observation offensive, he’d countered with another bite of chicken. “I’m just statin’ the obvious.”

Your eye’s were sore and there was some tension, warning you that a migraine was on the horizon. You stopped moving the spoon and shook your head. “You always bring it up. Every single time we eatin’. Like get outta my plate. Worry bout’ what you got goin’ on over there. I mean I'm actually concerned. You starin’ at that chicken hard, like you wanna commercial for it. ” 

“Man. Shut yo’ ass up.” Leon laughed and ate some of his pasta salad.

You rolled your eyes to resume the swirling of your beans before you took in a big mouth full with Franklin passing your view. He saw you too, your plate, and a faint bereaved grin crept his lips before he switched his direction to make his way over. 

“Oh hell,” you mumbled, mouth full trying to chew the rest down. 

Leon greeted him. 

“Sup Saint.” 

“Sup Lee.” 

“You get you somethin’ ta’ eat? It’s pretty good.”

“Naw. Not yet. I will tho. Soon. I’mma let them go first.” 

Suddenly you had lost your appetite. You threw down your spoon, cleared your throat and got up from the table. A couple people sitting down further looked at you as Leon’s eyes met your stance. 

“Where you goin B?” 

You tossed a glance over your shoulder. “See what they got on the desert table. I want something sweet.” 

Leon reached out an eager index finger and shook it at you as you pushed your chair in and began to make your way through a crowd of people. 

“Aye, see if they got some pecan pie!” 

…

Your stomach tangled in undoable knots. There was still plenty left on your plate but you wouldn’t try to finish it, so you made it back to the kitchen and grabbed some foil to save it for later. Later. Maybe you could eat later with much less tension. You grabbed the soap bottle and poured a few drops of the liquid on your hands rubbing both together. 

Going back to the desert table proved to be a grave mistake. You’d gotten caught up in an argument between Miss Patty and Miss Sandra Lane and forgot all about Leon’s pecan pie before you’d made a daring departure. They’d been casually debating on the best way to make peach cobbler. When you came they’d made you try both. When you couldn't decide, they’d begin throwing out different ingredients. Oh well honey, I put cinnamon and a little bit of honey. The counter argument, Well my mama used to say it’s not what ingredients go in, but how much. 

Your elbow knocked a cup that fell to the floor when you went to dry your hands. “Damnit,” you mumbled, bending down to reach it. Another hand came to retrieve it before yours could. You raised your head to see South Central’s high ranking business man. He held the cup out, you took it, then turned, finding it difficult to face him with the feeling of his eyes bearing down on you. 

Franklin sighed. “Don’t stay mad at me forever,” you heard his voice whisper at your back. 

His tone had changed. From direct and blunt to Subtle, gentle. 

You stayed silent. All the words you had for him, you’d left in his room. Your heart might possibly be there too. Sure you were breathing, and perhaps even participating in what was taking place. That didn’t mean you hadn’t died. Attention on the cup. Or the counter, the wall. Anywhere but him. You closed your eyes, and only opened them again when you heard him walk away. You wanted to be relieved, but you still very much grieved the loss of what could have been. 

You promised to be helpful but once alone, you skipped finding Cissy. 

Instead you decided to brave your way outside onto the porch. Some stragglers were making their way in when you wondered out. 

Uninterested in the rest of the arrivals you sat and made an attempt to massage your forehead. The headache had grown worse. Too many thoughts. From inside the house you could hear groaning. The power had gone out. A second later the hot air slapped you when Melody stormed through the front door. You dropped your hand and watched her descend the stairs and cross through the lawn. Almost a minute later Franklin came out. He removed his suit jacket, sitting it down on the rail before he followed her. You took a deep breath as you watched her enter the house and Franklin go in after. Maybe she finally let herself break. He would probably need your help. You sighed, got up from the chair and made your way over to Andre's. 

Closer to the door you thought you heard a shot. Sometimes the kids in the neighborhood got the bright idea to light off some saved fireworks. But you knew the difference between the sounds. The sound that came from a gun rattled you. Although the projects seemed to have more drive by’s then the average neighborhood, you could never get used to the pop, pop, pop. In all fairness you hated guns. So there had been panic, thinking she’d found one of her father’s and pulled the trigger on herself. You froze. But then, another shot, and another. It was like your soul had left you. 

The air was still and heavy when Melody walked past. You called after her. She didn’t stop. Just kept on going. Despite the cumbersome feeling of dread you couldn't resist the urge to see inside Andre Wright's old residence. And where was Franklin? Why hadn’t he come out yet? The unknown parallels drew you in, as you took hesitant steps forward. The front door creaked open when you turned the knob. Light outside barely illuminated the space, casting eerie shadows on the walls in places the sun could not reach beyond the whileding blinds. You hesitated. A chill ran down your spine. 

There was Franklin, laying there on the floor.

“S-She shoot you?” You had become so scatterbrained at the sight, the situation, that the words were dispensable and unwarranted. The power came back on. You ran over, touching him out of instinct only to earn a pain ridden whimper in return. A glance at your hand. Franklin's blood covered the whole of your palm. You looked down at the floor. The puddle beneath him had begun to grow, extending itself on the surface of the wood. It traveled and spread. 

More and more.

“Hold on.” 

Pressure on the wound. You'd heard that somewhere. But how would you decide which wound received the attention? The fabric of his shirt painted a clear picture of the locations in which all three gunshot wounds were located. Three, not one. You couldn't choose. Your mind screamed after a pillow. You scrambled over to the couch and grabbed the biggest one returning to Franklin as you took a deep breath to prepare yourself. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. This might hurt.” You situated the pillow at his side where he couldn't see you. You got up, ran around him and as gently as you could, pushed him up, so that his body would turn and lean on his side with the pillow's support. Franklin let out a groan that drug on. The sound would haunt you long after the gurgle in his throat choked him to silence. 

That's how you saw all the blood. 

“Oh my God…” Your eyes were blinded with horrified tears and without realizing, your dress had been tainted to a pretty scarlet. You changed position again. “I'm sorry Franklin. I'm sorry but we gotta put pressure on them.” You picked your memory as to where they'd been located when he laid on his stomach. You had forgotten that fast, but adrenaline had you alert. Every second counted. You found one small hole and reached for Franklin's closest hand. “Come on. Help me. Press down as hard as you can.” You drug his hand to the gunshot wound at his side. He'd barely made any effort to apply the pressure you demanded. You looked down to find that his eyes were heavily lidded, but directed toward the spinning fan. “Hey Franklin. Can you hear me? Franklin!” His mouth moved, but the words were difficult to understand. You leaned down struggling to make sense of them. He said sorry, and one word you would distinctly never forget. Mama. 

You were sure that you had never screamed help as loud as you had on the hottest day in L.A’s history. The earthquaking of feet hadn't stopped you, no matter how close they’d come, arriving just as Franklin's eyes closed.

The only screams that could rival yours were Cissy’s and you couldn't remember just how you managed to switch places. She cradled Franklin forgetting about the pillow, rocking back and forth as she wiped the blood from the sides of his mouth, telling him to wake up. Your hands shook as you tried to differentiate Cissy's movements to the rise and fall of Franklin's chest. 

“Franklin. Franklin please…” 

His name traveled over her lips holding to desperation, in only the way a mother could utter such pleas to a dying child.

“Get up Saint.” You heard Leon say almost through gritted teeth, “Come on.”

“Alton, hurry up!” 

You turned your back, unable to look anymore as you clung to Leon and cried into his shoulder whispering amidst Cissy's screaming over and over, he's not dead. Perhaps wishing that the last encounter between you wasn't set to bitterness. 

Watching the ambulance drive off was much the same experience as watching the hearse. They'd managed to get Franklin on a stretcher. You watched one of his arms hang over the side as they lifted him and used his first name to communicate, although he never answered back. Cissy, glued to his side, was the first to enter after Franklin and the medical team, followed closely by Alton. 

You hadn't let go of Leon. Both of you held the other up. 

For the second time that day, you stood in haunting awe. 

…

“Well. That's it. You have my card. Give us a call if you hear anything else that can help the investigation.”

Between the countless questions and the weather, you'd checked out. It was only after you felt the dryness of your tongue, and the wave of lightheadedness, that you realized you hadn't drank any water in those hours after Franklin had been hauled off. When you were offered a glass, you finished the whole thing almost in one gulp.

“Will do officer. Will do.” 

Leon stood to his feet and watched until the car had faded completely. He crumbled the card in one hand carelessly tossing it aside as a now scrunched down ball that hid within the tall grass. 

“Fuckin’ pigs.” 

You smiled, greeting Leon’s afro with the pride that rested within its tight coils. No one ever called the police in South Central. 

Existing between the community and the boys in blue remained a silent war. It had been ever since the migration black folk made in the 19th century. Of Course it had spanned beyond that, and south Central wasn't an isolated thing. Leon said black people were everywhere. A great migration. You would laugh, Leon could be so serious, but the way he said certain things was funny. Ha, we should have migrated our ass back to Africa. It had always been his dream to visit the motherland. Oh, he read plenty. He never told many people. Sometimes in her complacency your mother could make him feel less than a dog. Leon always ran with the wrong crowd. So by America’s statistics, he was never gon’ be shit. Probably not live to see thirty even though twenty six would be pushing it. When your father died Leon needed a role model to take his place. Like your mother said, he was to be the man of the house. That meant niggas from the neighborhood. Specifically, those belonging to the PJ Watts Crips. Franklin had always been the brains but Leon’s curiosity took him to different places far outside of society. 

“Them motherfuckas is still slave patrol. You can read that shit. Just gotta know where ta' look. Any nigga don’t know that dumb as fuck.They really think I'm bout to rat out ma people.'' 

Leon took a deep breath. With the promise of sundown, the heat and its intensity had faded enough that you both sat on the first step without complaint of being too hot. Another thing you hated about funerals. Why all black? 

“At the same time. I know a few niggas that would snitch tho’, sellout, so I guess I can't speak for er’body.” 

Typical Leon, having another private conversation with himself. Although his dislike for the police hadn't stopped him from showing up, he always spoke his mind one way or another. He'd stayed clear of Andre growing up. Franklin came to the projects more than Leon came to 56th. You smiled, and this time laughed only slightly. But when you looked at him again you began to blink back tears as Franklin's words crossed over the paths of your mind. Go back to the way things were. That would mean Andre would still be alive. Kevin too. 

Leon faced you. “What? Wassup?” 

“You got blood on your shirt.” 

Leon peered down at his chest. The muscle shirt peeking through his black button up had speckled red in different places. You'd transferred it to him during the panic. 

When the phone rang you both had forgotten about Leon’s shirt as he hurried inside the house with urgency. You didn't follow. You felt dizzy and confined to your place on the porch. But the waiting for Leon to return stirred up unbridled anxiety. When he did come back you shot up beyond your better judgment with hope dancing on your darkened hues. 

“What happened?” The familiar rise and fall of your chest returned and your heartbeat pounded within your rib cage. “Don't tell me. Please. Don't tell me, he?” You wouldn't let yourself say it, you could hardly even produce such a thought. Yet Leon held all the power. Just enough to make you flatline completely. 

“They said uh.” Leon hesitated, he shook his head as he lowered his gaze to the pavement. Only when he seemed to gain the composure needed to tell you did he meet your eyes with the news. “They had to put him in an induced coma. They don't know if he gon’ make it. It's all just a waiting game now.” 

There it was again. The youthful nativity. It crept up in how you chose to respond. “But can we see him? I mean, is he in the ICU?” 

Gravity steadily pulled you down, as Leon proceeded to tell you the rest. 

“Alton said Cissy don't want nobody up there.” 

You averted your eyes to the sky, then ran your tongue over your bottom lip. A car drove down the street, then another a few seconds later. Consumed in your own private emotions you’d forgotten that Franklin was Leon's best friend. When your eyes found him, he’d taken his seat on the step again rubbing his hands together quietly. You wanted to comfort him, tell him it would be okay, but the new information made it difficult. He didn't fall into a coma, they’d put him into one. That sounded worse. Any other time would have been simple. You could do it with ease when you were removed from the situation. When it didn’t touch you so closely. You watched Leon before trying to force yourself to sit down and throw your arms over him. The gesture kicked off the shakiness that lingered in every word. 

“I'm sorry. Maybe I could've done more to help him. Or I did too much. Probably wasn't supposed to move him. But I couldn’t leave him like that. He called out for her and said how scared he was. He couldn't really speak but I heard it. It was all scrambled and mixed up. But he didn't want to die. Said he was sorry. Sorry for what?” 

Leon’s hand reached up to casually run over your arm.

You hugged tighter. “I remembered when you got shot. How I couldn't sleep anymore after that. Now I'm always looking over my shoulder. Looking over yours. Seeing you in that hospital scared me so much.” 

Leon sighed. 

“Yeah. Shits fucked up. But it's the life we chose, so. Comes wit’ it. I tried to keep you protected. So you never had to see any of this shit.” 

He said it so casually like he'd gotten numb to loss. The last part held your attention. You sat up struggling to see his eyes. They were clouded, but not with tears. Just this hard stare. Vastly different to the one Melody held.

“He's gonna be okay Lee. You made it. He'll make it. I just. Why? Why did she do that? I don't understand. I wanna understand. Why would she shoot hi-?” Your words caught in your throat. As you talked you could see everything all over again even though you'd changed out of your dress and stockings. Irrily, they'd been some of Melody’s clothes that were still hanging in her closet. Simple track pants and a T-shirt, just until you got home to your own things. “She shot him so many times,” you continued. “All that blood. Never seen so much blood.”

Leon raised his head, verbalized something along the lines of. “Fuck. Damn Saint,” so low in revelation, you almost missed it. The hard stare left, replaced by one that conveyed cognizance. He breathed, rubbed at his temple and turned his head to look at you. “You sure it was Mel.”

You let him go and sulked at his question. “Yes I'm fuckin' sure,” you half-way shouted. “I watched her walk down the steps and toss the fuckin’ gun. She had this strange look in her eyes all day. Like she was somewhere else. I mean, maybe she just snapped. It was too much pressure being around everyone given what she was already going through. I mean what, do people on rock do stuff like that?” 

“How tha fuck I'm spose ta’ know? I ain't never done that shit,” Leon said with a scowl. 

You smacked your teeth. “Chill out. Don't come at me like that.” You rolled your eyes and shifted your sitting position. “Damn. It was just a question. You sell it so thought maybe you'd have an idea,” you answered back sarcastically with a roll of your neck. 

You went silent. You were trying to justify everything. Melody’s actions, Franklins. Why out of all days it had to be the hottest? How death became the defining theme in all different aspects of the word. When Leon closed his eyes, you suddenly lost your anger to curiosity. 

“What is it? What aren't you telling me?”

Leon licked his lips and got up. “Nothin’. Nothin’.” He changed positions and faced the house. “Imma go get our stuff and lock up so I can get you home so you can get cleaned up. Jerome should be down in a minute. There's nothin' we can do right now.” 

You placed a hand on your forehead and reached up to fumble with your bun until it all came loose and you pulled the scrunchie releasing some of the pressure as you freed your hair. Discovering that had added to your prevailing headache. 

“Okay.” 

“Give me a minute.” 

Leon left you standing with more questions than answers. You ruffled your hair although most of it remained held up by the gel you’d applied. Why? That word knocked at your brain. Why would Melody shoot Franklin? What had Leon figured out that you were still trying to piece together? The blood on your hands had dried. The red tint held tight to your brown hue. Wondering if you would be able to wash it off completely, you gasped suddenly and swallowed down the taste of bile. That large plate of beans you'd selfishly eaten might come back up because of the horrible truth that hit your mind, connecting the dots in an intricate pattern of reality, that quick! The urge came again and this time it forced itself out of you. What you'd consumed from that morning to afternoon was now a mustard yellow, and brown over the pavement, making itself a brand new color. More came up. Everything you saw and heard the whole day made sense. You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. Random people looked while they walked by. Your throat burned with a bad aftertaste. Andre hadn't committed suicide, you realized as your broken words kissed the heat.

“Franklin killed him….” 

A/N: A little bit of a dark one, I know. But I’ve always wondered how they found Franklin after Melody shot him at the end of season 3. So muse was like write that out why don’t you! 😌🙌🏾 So I did, and that is what we have with our precious reader insert added in ofcourse. This is actually a sequel piece to Brother Ain't havin’ it. During the read you heard Reader and Franklin mention an amusement park. Yeah, that fic explains exactly what happened at the amusement park. Now will I write it? Haha I don’t know 😅. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the reading. If you have time, drop a comment. Let me know what you thought. I dig the feedback, big or small. 🙃 As always, happy reading. 💙

PLEASE DO NOT COPY OR CLAIM ANY OF MY WRITING. -Wide Nose And Wonderful.

[ome-magical-ramblings]

Water, Undines, and Nymphs.

O Vastness wherein all the Rivers of Being seek to lose themselves, which renew themselves ever in thee. O Ocean of infinite perfections!

I love the water, the sea, and all the spirits of water are amazingly beautiful but somewhat dangerous!

Working with water element and undine is an interesting work, on multiple front it is both a tricky topic to deal with because the water is the channel of communication with spirits and reflective of our own nature. If we come knocking on water's door and say this, that without respect to anything then we are asking that demanding nature to be reflected on us and the spirit themselves would be more demanding of us. Water and water spirits really reflect what put into it, it is the channel, the mirror, the fluid, and all the forces and qualities we give it, it gives it back. That's WHY the traditions have moral codes and ethical teachings to allow us to come to the spirits truthfully, honestly, and confident in them would lead them to be confident in us. If we come from a religious or a pious approach then the spirits of water will come pious and religious!

Emotions

That's the first thing people think about when they think of water, water elementals, undines, and nymphs. Of course there's more to it than just the emotional aspect but also hearing, talking, and listening about this first is better than bringing it later on. Watery emotions as most of them are the fluids that animate us, that truly are e-motions, give us that motion stirring out of spiritual fluids. The Water is that animated movement of our divine spark and without we would be dull and jaded, we can easily restrict and cause stagnation if we are not careful. Then what? the water become this toxic, stagnant, stale water full of bugs, mold, and gunky growing inside of it :( similar to the real world stagnant water, when our emotions and spiritual water become stagnant then it become a breeding ground for astral larave and toxic parasitic spirits to feed off our jaded and barely flowing water. It doesn't matter if you get worked up, loosen up because in the end where does it matter? when it reach the fruition of it. If you imagine the stuff at the "start" and the "end" of it, that's where your emotions is most important but in the middle you can let it transform and transform you alongside it. If you try to micromanage the flow of your emotion at every step of the way then you would strangle it but that doesn't mean you shouldn't start positively and choose in the end if the emotion is worth expressing outwardly or not.

River of Enlightenment and Stream.

Sotāpanna or stream entry, a term of someone who have entered the stream of enlightenment in buddhism. It is very similar to the way traditions operate in the worlds. We can often get lost in the "it's all the same" or the over syncretism without the important thing, which mean that you have to follow through the stream, go down the stream into the ocean. You can't just say "oh they're all the same streams leading to same ocean". Walk it out, go through it, that's a motivating thing to say that despite how shallow or how thin and weak your connection to the supreme reality, to God, to guru, to Jesus, or to the divine providence you can foster it. That's the wonderful thing you have the chance no matter how far you're from Divinity to draw yourself and walk toward it and gain the blessings of it, you just have to follow that refreshing stream of water. Next week...Sylphs and Air.

Holy, oblique, who swiftly soar thro' air, Fountains and dews, and mazy streams your care: Seen and unseen, who joy with wand'rings wide And gentle course, thro' flow'ry vales to glide; With Pan exulting on the mountains height, Loud-founding, mad, whom rocks and woods delight: Nymphs od'rous, rob'd in white, whose streams exhale The breeze refreshing, and the balmy gale;

[dollsonmain]

Now that I have personally torn down and cleaned both the cappuccino machine and the soda fountain, I don't think I'll be buying coffee or soda from a place with either ever.

The cappuccino machine is just powder that gets mixed with hot water right before it hits your cup.

It gets slimy. I don't know how often it actually gets cleaned, it's supposed to be once a week. When I did it last week it was really gunky, and today less so, so I have a feeling it hadn't been cleaned in a while.

That's one of those things that should be broken down and fully WASHED every night after closing.

The soda fountain, also, supposed to be cleaned once a week. I cleaned it today, though just the spouts and their aerators, and the drip pan.

I do wipe out the drip pan now and then when I get a chance, but it had black gunk in the corners.

The aerators also have black gunk in them which was difficult to scrub out so how long since they've been cleaned.....

And then there are drain pipes for whatever water from the ice compartment happens to melt.

...

I had to scrub where they empty out into the drain pan, which is piped to another drain that leads to sewer.

The outlets were moldy, and when I touched them, thick white and black slime glopped out. It was like pudding. There was more and more, and eventually I stuck my finger up in there to dig out as much as I could and they were FULL. FULL of slime. FULL.

It's possible that gunk has grown all the way up the drain pipes and into the ice reservoir.

Manager said she'll call... someone... to clean the gunk out. I guess the store doesn't actually own the machines so she was going to call for service for that and for how the coffee machine's water lines are full of algae.

I would not eat nor drink anything there that isn't pre-packed. Still fighting over using expired sandwich salads.

Either way, just like the cappuccino machines, the soda fountain should be broken down, cleaned, and disinfected nightly by closing/overnight and reassembled in the morning by pre-opening/opening crew but... It's not.

I would never be able to run a profitable store because I would spend every penny on making sure I had at least 2 more employees than I needed overall, and never fewer than 2 plus management at any time.

I was only able to do the soda fountain because she took over the register for most of the time I was working on it. I got about half done before she had me take over the register again. Doing both at once was a pain.

At the same time, I keep running out of things to do and being bored. Spent the last two days going through expiration dates [and pulled a bunch of stuff], and we've been out of bread for DAYS so no sandwiches to make. Sandwiches usually take up most of my time in the mornings. Usually she goes and gets bread but she didn't this week. I wonder if it was supposed to be delivered this afternoon while I'm not there.

[slashhinginghasher]

Dog Day Afternoon - Ghoap x reader

I've been binge-reading @ohbo-ohno's blog all day and just had to write a companion piece to their amazing story Don't Leave Me Locked In Your Heart.

No warnings, just fluff, but like, really really stupid fluff.

***

In a normal housing situation, you'd be baffled by how quickly your shampoo tended to disappear. You'd carefully measure how much you used each time, eye every roommate with suspicion when they emerged from the bathroom with wet hair. Maybe you'd even hide the bottle in your room between baths for safe-keeping, or fill an empty bottle with something gross to see who came out covered in a gunky mess.

But you didn't live in a normal housing situation, and you didn't have to wonder where all your shampoo was going because the thieving Scot who took it also made you wash his fucking hair with it. Every. Damn. Time. Sometimes even more than once.

"Can't have me gettin' split ends, bonnie," he said knowledgeably. "No' like Simon over there."

You didn't inform him that washing one's hair multiple times in the shower did not make the shampoo work better. You did not point out that he and Simon, being military, both cut their hair too short and too often for split ends. You didn't even accuse him of only knowing what split ends were because it was written on the shampoo bottle.

No, you kept your thoughts to yourself. Because while Johnny was apparently in possession of mad military skills - including manhandling, referring to Simon by his rank, and probably guns or something - they paled in comparison to his true talent: spouting an endless amount of bullshit at you until you accidentally said something sexual in return, and then taking that as an opening to be actually sexual.

Once, when you were fussing over a blemish forming on your nose, Johnny had sworn that you could contract flesh-eating bacteria and he'd still love you, holes and all. You had been physically incapable of stopping yourself from muttering that his love of your holes was what had gotten you into this situation in the first place. Johnny immediately got an evil gleam in his eye, and Simon had laughed. Out loud. Then they took you to bed for an entire day. Literally a full twenty-four hours. You hadn't been able to walk right for almost a week.

So yeah, you'd learned your lesson and you didn't goad Johnny, even when you had something spectacularly clever to say.

"Think you're a bloody show dog now, Johnny?" Simon rumbled. "Yappin' on about your hair like a damn poodle."

"A poodle!" Johnny shouted, affronted. "Am no fuckin' poodle, LT. Naw." He rubbed his hands together, warming up to the subject. "A german shepherd, maybe. Or a doberman. One a' those fuck-off big boys that makes you piss yerself a little when you get too close. What d'you think, hen?"

Oh, there were so many answers you could give to break this man's ego. Breeds they'd have to look up on google to feel the full impact of your devastating wit. But no, you had to stay strong. You pressed your lips into a tight line and maintained a dignified silence.

"Oi, I'm askin' ye a question."

"You ask me a lot of questions, and almost all of them are stupid."

Johnny looked positively offended.

"They are not stupid!"

"'If a guy was on the moon and he jumped hard enough in the right direction do you think he could launch himself back to earth?'" you quoted. "'Do we say things suit people because suits look good on you or is it called a suit because it suits you?' 'If unicorns were real do you think they'd let people ride them and if they did would you attach the reins to their mouth like a normal horse or would you tie 'em around the horn?'"

"All of which are important questions and not at all stupid!"

"Everything is stupid when you're asking it at 3 am, Johnny!"

Simon's eyes were bouncing between the two of you like a tennis match. He looked like he was having the time of his life (in Simon terms, which meant that one corner of his mouth was turned up in a microscopic smirk).

"I cannae help it that my deepest thoughts come late at night," Johnny said solemnly. "An' you're avoiding the most important question: what dog am I?"

"You're a mutt, Johnny," Simon said. "A scraggly little mutt that's gonna get muzzled if it doesn't learn to stop asking stupid questions when people are tryin' to sleep."

Johnny grinned. You weren't sure if he was the sort of person who could shrug off vitriol from anybody, or if he was so over the moon about Simon that he would preen under any kind of attention he got from him. And the last thing you wanted was to feel bad for either of your captors. But damn, the bigger man could be downright mean sometimes.

"Belgian malinois," you said.

"Come again?"

"Mouthy police dog that starts trembling if you order it to stay still for too long," you clarified.

"Sounds about right," Simon muttered.

Johnny cocked his head, mulling over this with extreme deliberation, before pointing at Simon.

"What about him?"

You considered Simon. Big, scary, unflappable Simon. "Shit your pants if you see him in a dark alley" Simon who could definitely rip your head off your body but also somehow gave the best hugs and turned into a pile of goo if you scratched his head right.

"Caucasian shepherd," you announced. "Also known as the Russian bear dog."

Simon nodded. You were pretty sure he had no idea what kind of dog that was and would have agreed with anything that sounded appropriately large or menacing enough.

"Aw fuck off!" Johnny cried. "How come I've gotta be the vibrating cop dog while he gets to be the fucking bear dog?"

"And that's what you get for askin' stupid questions, mutt."

Johnny huffed and pouted for a moment before turning back to you.

"And you, love? What kinda dog are you?"

"I'm a cat," you replied. "Obviously."

Your stomach dropped as that devious spark kindled in Johnny's eyes.

"Too true, kitty, too true," he purred. "Fancy a bit of a chase?"

How the fuck did he always manage to do that???

[hurlingsupport]

(Casey Jones x Villain! Gender Neutral Reader One-shot)

A spark of pink electricity escapes from under your mechanical claw, the crushed skull of the alien's fake body crumbling under the pressure. It makes a wonderful crackling noise. And just like a surprise egg, once you break the shell, a toy comes out.

The alien screeches as soon as its mechanical body sparks for the last time. Its bulging eyes focus on you only for a second before it's squealing to get away. But before it can wiggle its way out of your sight, another claw of yours grabs it with crushing force. The poor thing can only let out a pathetic whine as you close in, a wicked grin spreading across your face at its misery.

"You guys keep bugging me." You begin, crouching down to be at eye level with the pink creature. "You're like roaches. How many of you are there again?"

You pretend to wait for a response, knowing full well it has no ability to do so once its human disguise is destroyed. Despite this, you revel in its helpless squirming. At least, until it becomes annoying. Once the screeching starts to hurt your ears, you release the small alien. It spares one last glance at you before it's scurrying off. Well, that's what would've happened if you were just a bit kinder.

Instead, as soon as it's turned away from you, one of your titanium arms squishes the alien without a second thought. Gunky bio-matter splatters across the concrete ground of the alleyway you're in, and you grimace at the idea of cleaning your arms later from the substance.

Shaking the mechanical arm in an attempt to get some of the gunk off, you pause once footsteps fill the air. Glancing behind you, you find that the footsteps belong to none other than the Jones kid that's always bothering you.

A smirk makes its way on your face, almost involuntarily. Jones was fun to mess with, so you couldn't help but feel some joy anytime you see the boy. However, it seems he didn't feel the same, considering the way his lips stretch into a snarl once he spots you. His expression only serves to make you happier.

"Jones!" You smile, gunk long forgotten as you make your way towards the punk.

He tries to dodge your outstretched arms, but with the help of your mechanical ones, he has no escape from you. He grunts in distaste as you squeeze him, eyes wandering across the alley.

"What did you do this time?" He asks, gaze locked on the pink viscera stained concrete.

"I helped! Those pink aliens are your guys' enemies, aren't they?" You squish your cheek against his own, and surprisingly, he doesn't push you away. You're not sure if it's because he doesn't mind or because your titanium claws are hovering in a threatening manner, but you'd like to believe the first option.

"Uh, thanks." He mumbles, still staring at the ground below.

"Y'know, maybe I can start working with you guys." You ponder, tapping your fingers against his back as your grip goes slack. "That'd be more fun than this whole solo act."

"Really?" His head almost hits yours at his surprise, dark eyes surveying your face. "I mean, there's gotta be a better reason than that. Are you trying to spy? Are you working for those other ninja dudes?"

As his questions go on, your face continues to brighten. Your arms move to wrap around his shoulders as you lean against him.

"Maybe I just want to work with you?" You grin. Your noses are just barely touching, and Casey seems momentarily distracted before snapping out of his stupor.

"You're messing with me." He frowns, pushing you off of him forcefully. "I told you to stop saying stuff like that. It's weird. Can't you do normal hero-villain banter?"

"But I like you!" You laugh, grabbing at his hoodie.

He slaps your hand away, pulling out a hockey stick from his bag.

"I said to stop doing that." He commands, sliding his mask on. "Now shut up and fight me."

Your smile falters slightly at his words before reverting back to its previous state. Your robotic arms splay out behind you, fully prepared to take advantage of the boy's novice fighting skills. Of course, you'd never tell him how much he sucked at fighting, but you'd like to push him in the right direction. Plus, you couldn't decline a fight from Jones of all people. So, you ignore the slight burn the feeling of rejection ignites in your chest.

Jones is fun to mess with, but sometimes it feels as if he's the one messing with you.

[alienalee]

intro :]

Hi! I’m alienalee, but you can call me Ali!

I can promise I will yap

I AM A MINOR!!!

I use they/he/she pronouns!

interests:

Just Roll With It (or just DND in general)

QSMP (MINECRAFTT)

Generation Loss (I love this arg sm)

Slimecicle (gunky guy)

Slimecicle Cinematic Universe (SCU)

Music (I play piano, and listen to music every chance I get if I’m not watching/listening to jrwi)

Over the Garden Wall

Extra stuff:

i draw a lot and rant so, I hope to post a lot here!! I also write a bunch if inspiration does hit me randomly, but it’s not very often.

I am a bilingual person, spanish being my first language, so apologies in advance for any writing mistakes in english!!

Have a wonderful day, afternoon or night!

tags:

#ali talks ✨

#ali’s sketches

mutuals:

@batc4t

@ballad-of-jane-doe-mega

@t4tlintrollerjrwi

@shroommush

@perrytheplatypuzzz

[larkscribbles]

Hungry?

Word count: 1,514 [Ao3]

Following their meeting in Dimhollow Crypt, the Dragonborn and Serana stop in Morthal for the night. The vampire is given a moment to reflect on the past, what she must do in the present and an inkling of what the future might hold. (Set at the start of the dawnguard dlc.)

Serana did not think highly of Morthal, a smattering of thatched roof buildings mired in a gunky half-slush marsh. The few people they met outside were just as icy as the weather. Serana’s inner bookworm would have imagined a future of flourishing cities, mind-bending magical and technological advancements. Instead, Skyrim remained barren, cold and perpetually layered in a thick swathe of snow. She was sure the fading daylight did not help this sentiment. In fact, it caused her companion to lose his footing and stagger up the three remaining wooden steps to the inn. He acknowledged this flailing and windmilling by clearing his throat and a curt “Tired.”

In all fairness, she was too, despite having slept for hundreds of years. It had been a long trek to get anywhere near this level of civilization. Her limbs were stiff from exertion and the cold.

The Moorside Inn, despite being one of the largest structures in the city, was particularly devoid of life. A combination of a distrust of outsiders and the late hour, one would assume. While her associate made a beeline for the innkeep, Serana perched on a stool and allowed herself a moment to take it all in. The air was warm, tinged with the thick scents of smoke and wood. The room was wreathed in orange, illuminated by the licks of flame persisting in the firepit. It was lived in and homely, a far cry from the cold stone of Castle Volkihar. She found her mind wondering how her home had changed in her absence. The brief warmth of nostalgia was promptly snuffed by the bitter thoughts of her father. She hoped he had not become too embroiled in his obsession, she hoped he had come to his senses. And her mother… Serana blinked hard enough to focus her mind back on the present. The man she had encountered, Quentin, seemed capable enough to take her to the castle and smart enough to let her do the talking when they arrived. He was presently stumbling over his own words, gaze flicking between the innkeep and her. Hm. Perhaps not.

“Two beds, please. Uh- not a double bed- like two seperate - do you want to be in different rooms? I’ll pay.” He had splayed his palms in an indeterminate gesture, presumably some sort of asking for her input.

Serana thought on it a moment, then shrugged. “No difference to me.”

He seemed relatively happy by this, but the quirk of his brow and the way his mouth pressed into a thin smile suggested some awkward undercurrent. His voice quietened and he leaned over the desk conspiratorially. “So, uhm, what’s cheaper?”

This earned him a hearty chuckle from the innkeep.

The vampire rolled her eyes and busied herself with unbuckling her cloak. The wet bundle of cloth it had been reduced to reminded her why she disliked the snow. She laid it out on the seat next to her, the thing certainly needed to dry. Her companion strolled into view, two mugs in hand.

“Hot cider. I don’t know if you like cider. Or- or if you can have it with your… uhm. If you’re allergic to apples or something. If you don’t like it I can definitely drink two-“

“It’s great, thank you.” Serana wrapped her hands around the sides of the mug, enjoying the warmth emanating from it. She then made a very obvious show of sipping it to clarify her point.

“Oh. Good. Great. Uhh. Jonna said she’d be around to ask about food. Are you… hungry?” He pulled a stupid face when he said this. It was the agonising kind of face that exemplified how extremely unsure the Dragonborn was of what he just said: raised eyebrows and a lopsided mouth, one side angled down to a comical degree.

“Why yes, Quentin, I could certainly eat some food right now.” She stressed the words from between gritted teeth. He narrowed his eyes as if this would help him discern whether this was a euphemism or not. “Apples and anything else are fine with me.”

The shadow on his face seemed to immediately lift, his teeth flashed in the firelight. “Oh! That’s good. That’s nice. I just didn’t- haven’t met anyone- anyone like you- with your- I’m trying not to be rude.” He finished disjointedly. “I-have-been-attacked-by-people-with-your-dietary-condition-but-I-appreciate-that’s-different-”

Serana barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Seeing the rapidly approaching innkeeper, she bowed her head slightly to avoid direct eye contact.

“You two are lucky that you got here so late. Narrowly missed out on our bard’s caterwauling. Don’t got too much left at this hour, or in general but I can heat you up some beef stew if that’ll do the trick. Can throw in some bread too.” The redguard woman’s expression was welcoming but tired.

“Yes. Good for me!” The Dragonborn flashed a thumbs up. Serana took a moment to absorb this - it wasn’t just any thumbs up, it was a double thumbs up, with his lopsided grin. By the divines, this man’s social skills… had the times changed this much? She mirrored the action on knee-jerk impulse, internally cringing at herself for it.

“Yes. Thank you,” she offered curtly.

“So where are you two headed? Figure you’re not staying in Morthal.”

Serana tried to not let the flicker of concern show on her face. It had been so long since she’d been around Skyrim. She didn’t know if any excuse she could conjure up would hold anymore. What if place names had changed drastically? She didn’t want to have to use any of her vampiric abilities if she could help it.

“Solitude. I just moved and Serana here’s going to show me the capital.” The lie rolled off his tongue surprisingly well given his prior social ineptitude, it made the vampire wonder if it was intentional.

“Ah. That’s nice.”

Serana didn’t know how intensely she was being scrutinised, nor did she want to know. She concealed herself behind her mug, made an indiscriminate grunt and stalled for time until she sensed the woman had left. Then she spoke, voice still low. “There was a civil war last time I… in the second era. One side’s capital city was Windhelm and the other was Solitude. Guess that explains who won.”

“Oh. Right. I haven’t read too much of the history.”

Serana found herself taken aback. “But you-?”

“My job is more in the realm of ancient history. And uh the prophecies.” He registered the incredulous look on Serana’s face. Quentin broke out into something just short of a laugh. “Nothing to do with my current title, well, not initially. My job! I am- was- uh- a dungeon delver.”

“So crawling through crypts wasn’t too unfamiliar.”

“No, not really. The corpses reanimating themselves in front of you is, kinda. But I’m not a graverobber, obviously.” He waved his hands enthusiastically before the gesture abruptly ended. “It wasn’t just me. I had a team and uh- I’m waiting for them here. They said they’d meet me here in Winterhold. Do- do you have any friends? I meant- as in friends around Skyrim?”

“Ah. No. I had quite a lonely upbringing at the castle. Was pretty isolated.”

“Oh. Right. I see. And- and-”

“And I’m going back there.” She finished his thought with a bow of her head.

“Yeah.”

Words unspoken hung thick in the air. The tension was cut by the scrape of wood against wood - two steaming bowls. By oblivion that woman had snuck up on them!

“Stew’s up. Enjoy.” Jonna smiled warmly, then made herself scarce. Perhaps she was just closing up for the night, or perhaps she had sensed the shift in the atmosphere.

“I have a house in Whiterun, if you’re ever around. Breezehome.” Quentin panted between mouthfuls of steam, not waiting for his food to sufficiently cool.

Despite the flicker of warmth that ignited in her chest at the gesture, Serana found herself dodging the question. “Is that a dragon thing? You trying to practice breathing fire?”

“Doesn’t help. Tried before. ‘M just hungry.” He whined to himself, unable to cool his tongue on his warmed cider. “Gonna try eating fire salts next - uh - that was a joke, obviously.”

She laughed genuinely but briefly. The feeling was fleeting, marred by the keenness of her obligations to her family, as sharp as the frosts outside. The least she needed to do was to find her mother. Companionship was a welcome but momentary reprieve from the weight of it all.

No. Serana willed herself to live in the moment. She was allowed to think of the present and future, it was healthy to do so. She just needed to close the previous chapter of her life. Get a proper conclusion to it all. The vampire was snapped out of her thoughts, stomach growling at her lack of anything after centuries of sleep. She’d have to get something proper later tonight. “Guess I’m hungry too.” She drawled in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

“Oh. Yeah. When was the last time you ate?”

“A while back.”

[chunkfunkgunk-offishal]

Welcome to Chunk, Funk, Gunk! The o-FISH-al rater of water dwelling creatures by a simple scale. (Water dwelling meaning any creatures that live in water of any kind! Submissions are not limited to fish)

Now you may be asking yourself: How can EVERY water animal be rated accurately by only 3 categories? Well, you may be surprised to find out that every water animal fits comfortably within the 3 categories of Chunk, Funk, and Gunk!

Now you might be wondering what factors make up each of the different categories, so here is a brief explanation:

Chunk:

Body fat, Bone amount, How pleasant it looks like it would be to hold in my hands

Funk:

Coolness, Strangeness, Uniqueness, Funkiness

Gunk:

Slime, Mucous, just general Gunkiness

Submissions are always open and appreciated! As are Asks.

[ahedderick]

Fancy

   My late father liked ‘decorating’ his house, and I put that word in quotes because his decorative sense was unbelievably adhd weird. However, he took a bunch of lovely, mismatched crystal decanters and lined them up on the windowsill of his bathroom. Each one had a colored liquid in it.

 I had enough other stuff to worry about in his last years just taking care of his day-to-day needs and de-junking areas of the house he wasn’t using; I left his bathroom alone. It wasn’t until he passed away that my daughter and I rolled up our sleeves and started in on it. At that point it occurred to me to wonder . . what th’ heck is IN those decanters? It has been there for years without getting gross or gunky?

   When I poured the first one out, I figured it out. Mouthwash. He bought five different colors of Listerine (and/or added a little food coloring to it). That was - genius, actually? I mean, it wasn’t going to go bad or get moldy. It made the decanters look ‘fancy’. So many strange things to find, down there.

[airplaneshootingtosky]

soft smooth corn starchy boy here! can u do a prototype regretevator mood board with flowers. JUST KIDDING CLASSIC GUNKY GOOPY PRANK. XD. REQUESTING A MOOD BOARD OF . PROTOTYPE STILL was going to change my mind but i got the Bots On The Brain CURRENTLY. CURRENT STATUS IS METALIC. anywayYeah Think WIRES and GEARS and SCREENS and FACTORYS. you got This my air craft Associate.

gunker, OUT!

POSTED!! WONDERFUL TO SEE YOU GUNK UP MY BLOG AGAIN!!! Enjoy :]]