sunstaiined

[sunstaiined]

i nearly had a breakdown a few weeks later somebody wore your perfume it almost killed me i had to leave the room

it's just another day and it's not over 'til it's over oh, it's never over it's just another day and it's not over 'til it's over it's never over

'til i don't look for you on the staircase or wish you still thought we were soulmates i'm still counting down all of the days 'til you're just another girl on the subway

@sunstaiined

[sunstaiined]

THE LONGER SHE WORKED AT THE MAD SCIENTIST, THE MORE SHE GOT TO KNOW ITS CLIENTELE. The regulars, the ones that are just stopping through, fresh faces and old faces alike. The Mad Scientist was neutral territory -- Jo saw just about every type of person occupy their stools and keep the place warm. Some days, she cherished it. Others, it gave her the worst migraine known to man -- especially when certain patrons were hellbent on causing issues.

She'd gotten to the point in the night where her charm had turned into sharp remarks disguised as jokes -- passive aggression always did become a woman from a family of WASPs. When she saw Monty, Jo clocked the flicker of his eyes before the words even fumbled out, already falling with relief that it was someone who wouldn't give her a hard time.

She gave him the space to settle, to collect the pieces of whatever had brought him back through her door tonight. He came in already wound tight, like he’d been clenching his jaw for twelve hours straight and only just remembered how to exhale. His presence wasn’t loud or demanding -- didn’t need to be. She liked it that way, the symbiotic rhythm they had: one beer (even though she knew he didn’t like the stuff), same seat, same nod, same ritual.

Jo smiled a bit at his fumbling, her gaze not letting up on the drink she'd been making as she replied, but her brow raised in a half-amused arch. Multitasking was yet another trait you learn working here. "That new shorthand for ‘Jo, you look stunning this evening, thanks so much for my drink’?" she teased lightly, setting the drink she'd made in front of the man who had ordered it. She leaned her hip against the bar, hand resting easily on the counter between them. Nothing sharp in her tone, just teasing, warm, familiar. "Don’t worry, I’ll add it to the phrasebook," she added, as if this kind of stammered human code-switching was just another dialect she’d learned over the years. "How are you tonight, Monty?"

located : the mad scientist ・ @sunstaiined ( jo )

He doesn't make it a habit, however much it helps sometimes. Whatever anyone would say about Monty, he doesn't lack discipline to say the least. Stepping into the Mad Scientist feels like walking into a wall, the scent of alcohol drilling into his brain. The sound of people having conversation all throughout the establishment turns into a physical wave, noise without distinction—there's a reason why Monty can only come here after a long day of taking clients, to go from silence to this particular environment would surely crack the ice that protects him and the meltdown wouldn't be pretty.

Without a word, Monty makes eye contact with Jo—briefly, long enough to find acknowledgement, but not long enough to trigger a need for social interaction—and sits down on a stool as a pint of beer is put down in front of him. There's another flick of his eyes in the direction of the older woman, as close to a thank you as he would get in that moment; without another second wasted, he picks the pint up and downs half the beer, a grimace starting to twist his face the longer he spent with the liquid sliding down his throat.

Monty doesn't like beer. He prefers hard liquor, but hard liquor is also much more expensive. One would argue that as a psychologist, he should have the money to pay for something like that, but then they probably wouldn't know Monty as a psychologist.

Setting the half-drank pint down again, he resists the urge to shudder. His eyes flicker to Jo again, scratching his jaw slowly as he considers if he should say anything. That's the polite thing to do, right?

"Hey you?" he fumbles, then mentally winces as he forces his face to remain blank, hoping she doesn't notice the weird greeting, his mouth mixing the indecision of a simple 'hey' with 'how are you'.

Fuck. How to proceed now?

[sunstaiined]

SHE WILLED HER SHAKING FINGERS TO STILL AS SHE DOUSED THE CLOTH. Antiseptic burned at the papercuts on her fingers but she paid it no mind, not when Rosaleen was standing across the room, beaten to a pulp. Split lip, knuckles raw, a familiar weariness in her bones. But she was upright, steady as ever. Ros never flinched from pain; she wore it like armor. Jo wasn’t sure if that made her strong or just numb. All part of the job, love. Jo knows better, she always has. But she indulges Rosaleen with a cracked, sideways little half-smile anyway.

In a way, the dance was familiar. How many times had she done this before? Dabbed at a cut on her brow, ran her fingers over bruised knuckles. Not nearly enough. She brought the cloth, the bandages, the alcohol over to the old armchair where Rosaleen sat and suddenly felt as though she'd never done this before in her life -- didn't know where to place her hands, where to stand. She looked at Rosaleen for a moment, floundering, before finding herself. Remembering who she was -- she stepped closer, stood above her. Her hands were gentle as she reached for the bruises blooming on Ros’s jaw like ink dropped in water. She didn’t touch, not yet, just hovered close. Like reverence, like apology. Then, she used one hand to tilt her chin up to face her, dabbed at her skin with the other.

The silence felt long then, the kind that sits between them like a third person in the room, bitter and warm all at once. A small frown seemed embedded on Jo's lips as she made work of the rough skin beneath her fingers. The hurt and the memory, when Jo had come to her shaking and empty, spine cracking under the weight of a love that had rotted into something dangerous. Of blood on sheets and the aching silence where a heartbeat should’ve been, and Ros who didn’t say anything like I’m sorry or don’t go, just what do you need?

Jo had cried in her arms for the first time that night. And then never again.

"Can’t. He’s probably still embedded in a wall." Her half-attempt at light-heartedness felt wrong in her bones. Inside her was a battle of wills -- to pretend the two of them are as they were years ago, to let her collection of masks take over the situation, or to tell her how fucking terrified she'd been the last few weeks, over everything -- the chaos of the swarm, people she cares for getting hurt. Her gaze finally flicks up to Rosaleen's eyes, unsure which tactic won, if she could see the fear or the mask. Her voice was soft -- the fear wins. "You weren't near the central market when it happened, were you?" She knew the answer -- knew she was fine, could feel the proof beneath her hands. Maybe not unhurt but certainly not near death like some of the others had been -- but Jo still couldn't help herself. Needed to know the gory details -- a glutton for punishment.

DID ROSALEEN GET HER her heart broken? maybe she would, if she had one. but then again, she knew the feeling -- in the crevice where her heart should be. it's a void, buried beneath the confines of her chest that clenches every now and then. when she first saw tadhg after he was hurt in the swarm was perhaps the most prominent instance in her recent memory... but then there was another. when josephine comes to her, tells her that she needs to go. and while the possessive nature clings at you, that no, you'll protect her, the baby -- of course, it's the jerk reaction. she is one of the few places you have in this world where you're not being asked to kill -- destroy. that is more sacred to rosaleen then she'll ever even realize, hell, perhaps more than she even understands. despite it all, she knows what has to be done. she sets a plan in motion. without telling another living soul. of course, as expected -- there is not a trace of her left behind. she is clean, precise, and above all else -- efficient.

and yet, even ghosts can't quite let go of this earthly plane. there are times when they come back to their roots, remember where they came from. while rosaleen knows jo is better off staying away, living the new life she's built for herself -- she'd be a dirty fucking liar if she said she didn't miss her.

the height difference between them is staggering, and yet, rosaleen knows better. of course the initial reaction is delayed, the split in her eyebrow, her lip and the bruising along her collarbone certainly proving she had quite the night -- but it's nothing, isn't it? something she's both seen and felt before. " it's all part of te job, love. " rosaleen murmurs, and yet, still sits. while she wins a staggering majority of the fights she engages in, this is one she knows she won't win. " ye should see te oter fella. "

[sunstaiined]

JOSEPHINE STICKS OUT HER BOTTOM LIP AND NODS IN MOCK SERIOUSNESS. "Far too evolved for basic lust," she says, as though basic lust has not been an incredible vice in her life. "No ma’am, what we have is deeper than skin -- we have… shared trauma and takeout rituals and joint custody of emotionally unstable plants." She laughs again, real and tipsy and maybe just a touch too loud for how close they're sitting. It spills out of her like the wine she’s forgotten to pace, and she falls back against the couch in that soft, pliant way that only happens when she feels safe, and also probably because she’s too wine-drunk to be anything else. She tilts her head, eyes half-lidded but glinting as she leans just enough into Delia's clumsy squeeze to make it count, and points at her. "And for the record, I was very respectful of your tits. Didn’t even point, and you know how hard that is for me."

Jo huffs a breath, shaking her head. Then winces at the mild headache it brings upon her. "If I ever do, trust me, you will be the first to know," she promises, then mumbles into her glass. "I think I need to look into celibacy. Sex has gotten me nowhere but into trouble and -- trouble." That's how she finished her thought -- no point in bringing the mood down now. Wine does that to her.

As Delia confirmed what she already knew, Jo fought the snicker as she ranted. Oh, how she knew better than anyone the plight an ex can have on your soul -- grating and irritation can sometimes go far beyond heartbreak. Leave it to Archie to lose someone like Delia. She wiggles her fingers in the air, mimicking a sparkly title card. "Ah, Archie Newman, Grand Protector of The Ego That Walks." Jo shifts to face her best friend. "Listen, I love the little shit, but he's got the emotional depth of a soup spoon. How else do you think they make it on the council? Trust me, I should know. Daddy dearest and all. But that's a conversation for when we're sober and meaner." Jo reaches over and takes Delia's hand unbidden, lacing their fingers together and speaking so matter-of-factly you'd think she wasn't drunk at all. "Far as I'm concerned, they need to worship the ground you walk on to deserve you."

"i'm, like, 90% sure i've seen more than just you in short skirts, jojo, and you've definitely at least seen my tits once, but that's so beside the point." a hand reaches over, a fumbling, clumsy one hindered by alcohol and a lack of any real attempt at trying until it finally swats down to catch the other woman's arm and give it a clumsy squeeze. "we have a bond far deeper than some silly carnal desires." does that mean that del has never thought about it before? absolutely not. del's only a human being with a hot best friend, she can only keep those thoughts at bay for so long before they start to creep up and demand at least a little bit of attention.

luckily, del has always been great at compartmentalizing.

a small laugh slips out of her, eyes the only part of her moving to watch jo's theatric explanation of this dream woman while she continues to melt directly into the couch and sip at the wine in her hand. "wow, maybe you should go have a chat with bad radiator parts baddie and see if reality matches dream logic." her grin is sharp, cat-like and playful, but there's something else under it. that little push, the sincerity and desire for her friend to be happy.

and then, of course, jo has to go and ruin her good friend moment by asking the question that she's pretty sure she already knows the answer to. "i mean, it's obvious, right? i only have the one ex that could ever be considered a real ex. prodigy of the mayor-governor himself." her voice takes on that mocking tone, suddenly more prim and proper than delia could ever hope to be in real life. she sits up, too, straight back, clearly going for regal in her look, sarcastic as it might be. "apple of the eye of the east atlantic, with the innate ability to spin every story into something grand. can't keep his own brother from eating those fucking hallucinogenic berries out in the woods, but sure. of course it's archie."

[sunstaiined]

DIANNA AGRON Bustle Magazine, May 2023.

[sunstaiined]

SHE GROANED IN SOLIDARITY, a low, theatrical sound muffled by the back of her hand as she slumped deeper into the plush couch cushions. She nearly spilled a little of the deep red wine over her hand, dabbing at it with the sleeve of her cardigan, half-laughing, half-scolding herself for being that far gone but not stopping. God, it had been so long since she felt this warm and loose, this light. Since she’d just talked to someone without weighing every word and every implication. She missed this, the throes of her girlhood and every bad decision feeling like it didn't matter.

Delia was good at that, pulling her back into herself in a way that felt less like pressure and more like gravity. And Jo, admittedly, was tipsy enough to teeter into the pull with open arms. She looked over at her with that sly, sleepy smile, the kind that tugged up one corner of her mouth more than the other. "If you're that hard up," she said, voice teasing and low, "All you have to do is ask, Del." Jo gave a lazy shrug, all playful bravado now. "I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. You have seen me in short skirts."

Jo sat up suddenly, having to set her glass down before she spilled any more, as if this were a grave matter. "She was hot," she whined, eyes widening a touch as she raised her brows, like she was letting Delia in on a secret. "I’m talking, like, messed up eyeliner, leather jacket, call-me-if-you-wanna-ruin-your-life hot. Dream logic made it better, too. No awkward fumbling, just boom -- fireworks. I woke up mad she didn’t stick around for breakfast." She laughed, shaking her head. Then, she looked over at her friend with squinted eyes. "Which ex was this, exactly?"

it's not as if its an uncommon occurrence. some of her most lurid and pornographic dreams involve archie to this day, and that is, perhaps, a testament to how great he'd been in bed, even if everything else around their relationship had seemingly crumbled. that honor would always go to the man. still, she can't help the pathetic little groan that slips from her, head shaking slightly in some kind of mix of frustration and just plain giving up. "i guess. but if i'm that hard up for an orgasm, you'd think giving myself one would suffice. my subconscious doesn't need to torture me like this."

then again, maybe there's more to it.

not that delia has any great plans to run out and find some old world book on dream interpretation to try and figure it out.

she lets out a snort of her own, bright and playful and free, as she lifts the newly filled wine glass and takes a sip from it, enjoying the burn, the way it numbs her mouth and her mind all at once. the best medicine, indeed. "but what she hot, though? because that's completely acceptable if she was. even if the parts were bad doesn't mean that she isn't a damn good kisser, right?"

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @exmcrtis, cole cerulli + josephine katz. at the mad scientist.

THOUGH IT MAY NOT HAVE BEEN WHAT SHE PICTURED FOR HERSELF AS A GIRL, Josephine loved her job. Rather -- she loved the people she worked with. She felt indebted to Frankie, but she also felt instinctively protective of the girls she managed. Call it instinct, call it motherhood long forgotten, call it simply just being a woman in a fucked up world. Sometimes, kinship is stronger than blood.

The muffled thrum of bar chatter filtered through the walls of Jo’s office; the rhythmic clink of glass, low hum of music, occasional burst of laughter. Normal, comforting sounds. She had just sat down with the ledger, a pencil tucked behind her ear, when a different noise pricked at her instincts, something sharper. Voices rising just beyond the door and tension wrapped in syllables. Jo didn’t hesitate.

She was up in a flash, the chair skimming the floor behind her as she strode toward the source. The sound sharpened with each step: a customer's slurred accusation, a familiar raised voice, the crackle of confrontation about to tip. She was used to the gruff and hard-to-please personalities around Burnington, and she'd been de-escalating tense situations for longer than she cared to admit, so she placed herself between Cole and the disgruntled customer immediately.

"Everything alright here?" Jo’s voice cut clean through the noise, calm with the edge of flint. She gestured firmly to the man and the other side of the bar and didn’t blink. "I’m sure you won’t mind taking your drink to the other end of the bar. One of the other alchemists will take care of you." Josephine didn't falter until the man was gone, grumbling to himself and snatching his drink to go to the end of the bar. She turned to Cole, gaze shrewd as she looked over the girl. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You want to sit in my office for a sec?"

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @murdcrofcrows, neve gardner + josephine katz. mad scientist.

SHE HAS ALWAYS HAD A SOFT SPOT FOR BEAUTIFUL THINGS. She didn’t know if it came from guilt or instinct, but she couldn’t stop herself. She wanted to wrap every bruised soul in warmth and teeth, protect them like she hadn’t been. Maybe that’s why she stayed with the Shamrocks for so long, why she let herself become someone else’s cautionary tale. Once, she’d believed she could fix things with enough love, silence, and sacrifice.

She knew better now, but that never stopped her habits, and it never stopped her from caring -- even after she'd left the Shamrocks. She felt the brunt of it in flickering moments -- moments like now. Jo kept mostly to the edges when she wasn’t working. She had a corner of the back bar staked out, far enough to stay out of reach but not enough to disappear entirely. And then she saw her -- the familiar blonde head she took so kindly to so long ago, standing alone.

"Neve?" It was instinct, really, the way Jo moved toward her. She didn’t overthink it, just followed that quiet tug of guilt and needing to know things were okay in her chest that always lit up whenever confronted by ghosts. "Hey," she said softly, suddenly unsure of herself. She hadn't explained, had she? Fuck. "Do you want another drink?"

[sunstaiined]

chuck palahniuk / jonathan safran foer / morrissey / mary oliver / jeff buckley / anne sexton / sylvia plath / lana del rey / freddie mercury / doc luben / claude-michel schönberg

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @insainted, briar hart + josephine katz. jackals clubhouse.

WHEN SHE'D FIRST STUMBLED INTO THE JACKALS, it had been out of desperation, a place to hide, to run. She hadn’t expected to find much more than safety, but she found something else -- a ragtag family of broken, beautiful souls. She'd found herself in a group similar to them before, but she'd been held back by a farce of a connection with a man she should have left far earlier than she did.

In her hesitance to accept the deepened connections within the Jackals, Josephine found herself useless to stop it. Briar was one of the people she'd found herself drawn to -- loud and fiercely loyal. A little reckless, maybe, but in a way that reminded her of herself when she was young. Jo would watch Briar’s easy grin and felt something she hadn’t in a long time: hope.

Jo settled into the cracked leather chair next to them in the makeshift bar within the church. It was filled with the noise of other Jackals -- nothing rambunctious, just content with conversation and the hum of an unrecognizable old-world song drifting from an old radio, and the occasional clink of glass. Here, in the worn warmth of this place, Jo could let her guard drop, just a little.

"Hey, trouble," she greeted warmly, nudging the younger Jackal with a conspiratorial look. "Wanna see what I snagged earlier for three half-drank bottles of Smokey Rye? Promise I'll share if you keep it between us."

[sunstaiined]

THE CREAK OF THE FLOORBOARDS WAS FAINT AS THE REST OF THE JACKALS WENT THEIR SEPARATE WAYS. Faint, but Jo had learned to track footsteps like they meant survival. She didn’t need to look up to know it was them; that careful, slow gait, like they were testing the air between them before stepping into it. She didn’t run, but she wanted to.

Jo had stayed behind under the pretense of paperwork, but her pen hadn’t touched the page in twenty minutes. She just kept her gaze fixed on the worn edge of the table. As Rio approached and greeted, Jo couldn't help but take a crack at the situation. "You lose a bet or something?" She joked, aiming for casual -- was there anything casual about this? When Rio finally spoke, Jo let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest in that quiet, defensive way she did when she didn’t know how to feel, or maybe when she knew exactly how and didn’t want anyone else to. She gave a noncommittal shrug. "Fine. Busy. Lots of drunk post-swarm weirdos trying to start fights over watered-down bourbon, you know the lot."

She hated how easy it was to fall into this rhythm. The push-pull, the circling like vultures over a mess neither of them ever wanted to admit they made. Jo had spent her whole life cleaning up after men -- husbands, bosses, flings that spun her promises like sugar -- and still she couldn’t stop herself from walking right back into familiar wreckage when it came with Rio’s voice attached.

She laughed, quiet, sharp around the edges, almost like she surprised herself with it. It wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t soft either, a reflex more than anything. She looked down and to the side, like that might help her gather the parts of herself that wanted to scatter every time Rio got too close. There was a defiant quirk in her mouth, wry and twisted as it was, betraying the hollowness in her gut. Stupid, she thought. I'm so stupid. "Jesus, Rio." Josephine shook her head. "It's been a month from hell. Cut yourself some slack." Excuses. Nothing serious. It was the truth, but it didn't quite stop the drop in her stomach. She chose not to dignify it. She finally looked up at the vice-president, keeping the defensiveness out of her tone as best she could. "So why are you here now? Just to apologize?" Jo's face twisted slightly., but her gaze was searching for something in Rio, she just wasn't sure what. "We're adults. And we're not married. So what else is it, Rio? Business or something else?"

who: @sunstaiined ( jo ) where: jackal's clubhouse, sunday night

they'd all taken their turns welcoming scarlett back and rio, for one, was glad things were getting back to normal. hopefully not having to lead another meeting for a good long time. but now that they weren't having to play president while scarlett was laid up, it freed up their time to pay attention to other things. like looking up from the table and noticing their treasurer in place, catching their gaze for a split second and immediately looking away. they'd walked this road before, the two of them. looking for a distraction, liking that distraction a little too much and opting for an extended stay. then one of them is gone one morning and they try to avoid each other as much as possible until one of them breaks the ice and they forget about it, occasionally argue, or wait for it to happen again.

you would think they would've learned their lessons by now but they were both on the stubborn side. rio didn't know a jackal who wasn't a little hard-headed. this time it'd be rio who never showed back up, the last few weeks spent at scarlett's side. and while they knew they could make an excuse that they were busy, everyone knew they weren't too busy to pick up a phone. when church was over and people started to leave, rio hung back, calling out to a couple of the members to order her a drink she'd be there soon. they slowly approached where the blonde stood.

"uh, hey," they laced their fingers of their hands in and out while they approached. "how are you?" a lame opening, it wasn't like rio to beat around the bush. "look i'm sorry i didn't hit you up, i got caught up in things and i figured, you know, it's us so it wasn't like it was anything serious, right?" rio let out a nervous chuckle, not sure how this is going to go.

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @strcinedhecrts, rosaleen quinn + josephine katz. rosaleen's home.

THE PATH TO THE QUINN HOME WAS ONE JOSEPHINE TOOK CARE TO REMEMBER. She remembered those nights vividly; she left the Shamrocks with more blood than breath and a secret clutched tight in her hands. She felt as though she was retracing the steps of a past life she'd buried, one that wasn't buried by just her alone. Where would she be had it not been for the help of those around her? She'd been a grifter for so long, lived in a world that required a certain hardness to survive in it. She'd grown up a privileged girl, played house with dangerous men and women, hurt too many people because of it, sought protection from bloodied hands, and knew she'd only made it this far because of it. She had to leave when she did, even if it meant leaving some of the only family she knew -- otherwise, she'd have lived as a ghost, lived as what he made her.

The old wooden floors of the abandoned building creaked beneath her boots as she stood at the other woman's door. Josephine tried to check in when she could, though life had become hectic for all of them -- after the swarm, she decided some things could wait.

"You're bleeding," were the first simple words out of her mouth, voice too calm for the way her gut twisted. If she'd taken a moment to rationalize, she'd remember it was a fighting night -- but nothing felt rational these days, and so instinct and muscle memory took over, too many nights patching up broken men at the forefront of her mind. She stepped into the space, already moving with worry as she grabbed different items to patch Rosaleen up with. "Sit," she pointed toward the old couch, dipping some cloth into antiseptic. And then, softer, but just as firm, "I mean it. Sit."

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @eatabug, angel cardona + josephine katz. hell's gate.

THE FAMILIAR BUZZ OF HELL'S GATE GREETS HER LIKE SOMETHING FORBIDDEN. It smelled the same, like warm skin, sweat, and smoke. Jo had told herself she wasn’t coming back -- not here, not ever, and yet here she was, halfway up the sweeping, gilded staircase to the third floor like a woman retracing the shape of an old bruise.

How long had it been since she stepped foot in this place? It was crawling with temptation, with sin, with the very life she'd tried to leave behind. O'Brien's and other Shamrocks alike, Josephine found herself hesitant to go further than she needed to. Lust glowed red around her as she stepped onto the floor, bass-heavy music thudding beneath the soles of her shoes. Dancers twisted like smoke in spotlight haze, though she only sought one. Jo kept her hands in her pockets, eyes ahead, chin high. There were a few familiar faces she could pick out in the shadows, but she didn’t come here for memory. She came for Angel.

And there she was -- radiant and untouchable in rhinestones and glitter like stardust, working the crowd with that same sly control Jo always admired. Beautiful people who danced like they owned the room were a dime a dozen at Hell’s Gate, but Angel -- Angel always danced like she knew how to destroy it.

A fond smile formed on her lips, genuine and rare as it was, as their set ended and found her way over to them by the bar. Jo leaned in slightly and raised her voice so Angel could hear her, a soft tease to her voice and she felt the pull that made her stay put all those years in the Shamrocks to begin with -- those few that became her rocks in hard times, kept her put together when she felt she was falling apart. "You're stunning. Are you taking private sessions?" She joked, raising a hand to the bartender to buy her a drink. "I'll pay extra."

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @coltthebuck, colt buckley + josephine katz. central market.

THERE ARE MANY THINGS SHE REGRETS. Decisions she never would have made if she had the foresight of the consequences that would come after. She tries to make her peace with the fact of it -- no matter what, there will always be something you wish hadn't happened, a path you wish you hadn't taken. Had she stayed at the compound, maybe her life would have been simpler, more fulfilled. Or maybe she'd have killed herself from the boredom of it all. Jo digressed -- bad decisions were what led her life, it seemed. More specifically, Colt Buckley was a world of bad decisions on two legs.

Colt had been a mistake. A choice, yes, and maybe her only real one during those suffocating years with the Shamrocks, but still a mistake. She hadn’t wanted softness, hadn’t needed comfort. What she’d needed then was to feel like something in her life was hers -- to take something ugly and dangerous and call it her own. And Colt, with his cruel mouth and swagger with her husband in the next room, had been exactly that kind of chaos. He was the match she struck, knowing full well she’d burn.

What was that about decisions?

Jo hadn't come to the Central Market for nostalgia. She came for barter work, inventory checks, rations, and the occasional drink, not ghosts. And definitely not him.

The market was still recouping after the swarm, but she could still sense the moment he arrived. The air shifted, the background noise of haggling and half-hearted threats warped and softened. Her instincts lit up like a tripwire, and the hot-white flame of irritation burst through her.

She'd been intent on keeping her head down -- avoiding eye contact like it was the plague. Jo didn't care whether he was okay or not, didn't care for small talk or catching up, she'd spent the last few years of her life carving out a place for herself within the Jackals and keeping away from the hole she'd burned through the Shamrocks. And yet -- of course, she would be confronted by it on a regular Tuesday morning.

Josephine sighed when she caught his eye, an immediate regret creeping up her spine. There was no stopping it now, and she could feel the thread of something threatening to unravel right there in the market between them -- just what that was, she couldn't be sure yet. "You selling in the market now?" The words slipped out before she even looked at him, said like she was commenting on the weather -- dry, weightless, half-interested at best, but Jo knew exactly who she was speaking to. "Didn't peg you for the kind to hold down honest work."

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @apocafics, chuck charlesley + josephine katz. jackals clubhouse, middle of the night.

THE ABANDONED CHURCH BREATHED LIKE A SLEEPING BEAST AT NIGHT. The echo of the day’s noise was long gone, laughter and threats, boots on concrete, the whine of engines all fallen to hush. Everything felt wound tight since the swarm, herself included. Wind whispered through broken stained glass, the colored shards long since dulled by fallout and time. In the dark, the old cathedral felt dense, like it knew all the secrets spoken inside it.

She hadn't been able to sleep, and was trying to stay away from drinking herself into a coma these days -- she needed to stay sharp, on top of things. Not just for the Jackals, but for herself and the world inhabited around her. Josephine was doing good here, and she wouldn't let herself fuck it up again.

Though that's not to say she wasn't tempted -- by God, was she tempted -- but she remained resolute for now. Jo wasn't looking for company, wasn’t looking for anything, really -- just a quiet corner where she could stop pretending she wasn’t exhausted, because the dorm room she was shacked up in for the night wasn't cutting it. The lounge room off the west corridor was usually empty by this hour, a half-collapsed sitting area with dusty velvet chairs, and a defunct jukebox, but the smell of nicotine filled her senses and so -- she pushed the door open to find Chuck, and a relief she hadn't felt since she left the Shamrocks fell over her.

No need to pretend around the woman, no need for a mask, no edges to sharpen or a need to bite her way through the air. Jo slid onto the chair across from her, silent at first, resting her arms on her knees and exhaling like she’d been holding her breath for days. "Didn't think anyone else would be awake," she greeted softly, inhaling the comforting scent of the church and the nicotine and leather alongside Chuck, two women shaped by fire and fallout, sharing the same breath in the same room. "How you holding up?"

[sunstaiined]

CLOSED STARTER FOR @murdcrofcrows, frankie desta + josephine katz. at the mad scientist, after closing.

THE WEIGHT OF THE NIGHT BURNED HEAVY IN HER EYES. There was nothing more Josephine wanted than to lay her weary head down and sleep for however long she possibly could -- no such luck prevailed for her. It rarely did. She counted out the profit from the night under the soft amber glow of the shelf lights, fingers moving fast and neat with a methodical approach that felt like ritual at this point.

The clink of glass and the low hum of the distant night-slash-early-morning outside were the only sounds left in the building, music long since silenced, barstools flipped, the last rowdy regular finally shoved out the door with a wink and a slap on the back. Now the place felt like it exhaled -- still warm from the crowd but settling into its bones. The scent of scorched sugar, citrus peel, and dark liquor hung in the air like a memory, and the click of familiar steps in her direction nearly faded into the dregs of her mind.

Jo hardly looked up, her concentration pulled taut alongside a rigid posture and a pinch at her brow. "People really ought to find a different way to blow off steam," she mumbled, low and dry. She pinched the bridge of her nose with firm pressure. "Barely covered that asshole drunk’s tab." Jo let out a dry breath, not quite a laugh, and shook her head. She finally looked up at Frankie, clearly searching for some better news. "How was your night?"

[sunstaiined]

A SHARP AND SUDDEN SOUND ECHOES THROUGH THE ROOM as Jo snorted into her wine, shocked by her own laughter. Real laughter, not the careful, polite kind she usually gave out like party favors. She shook her head slowly, the wine warming her from the inside out, and leaned back against the booth like her body had finally decided to relax. With Delia, it was easy. The mask could slip and she didn’t have to be polished, composed, tactical. She could be just a woman, tipsy and conspiratorial, letting herself be a little ridiculous, a little girlish. It felt like passing notes in class again, like being too loud in the back row of a theater, like making bad decisions just to feel something.

"Oh, honey," she sighed dramatically, swirling what little was left in her glass and lolling her head back against the cushion lazily. "If vivid sex dreams about old mistakes make us pathetic, then I’ve been circling the drain for a decade." Her laughter bubbled through her words, voice echoed through an almost-empty glass as she lifted the wine to her lips again.

Suddenly, Jo composed herself, clearing her throat, though her voice remained looser than usual. She waved her hand dismissively and refilled both their glasses with an unsteady grace. "It’s probably not about the guy. Dreams like that are more like… body cravings than soul cravings. Like when you’re dehydrated and suddenly dreaming about biting into an apple. Doesn’t mean you miss the orchard." She explained wisely, as if the analogy made perfect sense. And then, a shrug, "And if it makes you feel any better, I once had a dream I made out with a woman who sold me bad radiator parts."

where: surprisingly? not the crows nest motel with: @sunstaiined (jo, my love)

"if i tell you that i had a very detailed sex dream about my ex boyfriend last night, will you call me pathetic or ask for lurid details?" delia's surprisingly relaxed for the first time in an age. it might be the fact that it's her third glass of wine in an hour, might be because she's with a woman who, in her mind, is the kind of best friend that one can only dream of finding, or perhaps some kooky little mental breakdown in which everything seems fine simply because absolutely nothing is actually fine.

of course, delia is not interested in the psychology of her sudden lack of care, because she knows that it's a short lived respite from the hell that is... well, life. instead, she's allowing herself to simply enjoy it while it lasts. novel concept, perhaps, but delia is allowing it.

"it wasn't, like... anything too crazy, i guess. just very vivid. the kind of dream that like, you wake up a little wet from, you know? and i don't know if that means i'm craving him in particular or sex in general."