#er..don't let me get on the soap box

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter One - The Perfect Gift

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Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Stalking, Drugging, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Threats (open-ended), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real.

~3.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

"I told ye, she's perfect," Soap said, eyes on the window across the street. They could see you puttering around your living room, wearing a pretty flower print dress as you tidied up. "Good with bairns too, met her when I was pickin' up the niece and nephew from school. She was workin' for some rich family, an' they let her go because the wife found a pair of her knickers in her husband's briefcase." He snickered. He'd been the one to put them there, although, in his opinion, he’d been pushing the bounds for a long while anyway. Sure he’d essentially cast you adrift, jobless and with no one looking out for you, but, well, they were looking after you now, weren’t they? So it wasn’t all that bad.

"Good job, pup," Ghost said fondly, ruffling Johnny's hair. "Captain's gonna love 'er."

"How do you lads want to play it?" Gaz asked. "Could go in tonight. Won’t take much to knock her out, pack up her things, take her to the cabin. Get her nice and situated for when Price gets back."

"No point in waitin', is there?" Ghost asked. "Nice she's on the ground floor. Makes takin' 'er things easier. I'll go round 'n' check the windows in a bit. Should wait till after midnight. Don't want to be spotted by the neighbours."

"No' much risk o' tha'," Soap said. "Knocked over a bunch of bins last I was here and the cunts didna even turn on a light. Just the bonnie thing worryin’ while the rest of ‘em sleep sound."

Gaz lit a cigarette, nodding thoughtfully. "Small apartment too. Is there much to move?"

Soap shook his head. "Nah, no' much. Sweet girl lives simply. I told ye, she's perfect for the captain. He'll be able to spoil the fuck out of her, once she's broken in, aye?"

"Know 'e'll like that. Man needs a wife to dote on. ‘e’s been goin’ a bit crazy, all alone. An' 'e can train'er up nice."

"Think he might share?" Gaz asked wistfully, exhaling a stream of thin smoke as he sighed. "Nice soft girl like that-- Plenty to go around."

Ghost laughed. "Thought we'd 'ave trouble gettin' Johnny to keep 'is 'ands to 'imself, and you're the one droolin'."

"Scuse me for having eyes, mate. Just think she looks sweet."

"We'll get to see first 'and soon.” Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lads. Let's get ready."

You wake up on the hard metal floor of a moving vehicle, your pounding head cradled in someone's hands. That's what you notice first, and the thumbs rubbing circles against your neck soothingly.

It has the opposite effect. Your eyes fly open.

“Hi, bonnie,” a somewhat familiar face grins down at you, blue eyes smiling, but too intense, glittering in the low light that filters in from the windows at the front of the truck. “How’s yer head?”

You grimace, trying to make sense of what’s going on around you. The back of the van seems to be filled with boxes. “Aren’t you Finn and Rory’s uncle?”

“Aw, ye remember me? Knew ye were a sweetheart.”

You try to sit up, but Johnny puts a strong hand on your shoulder and keeps you where you are. Your head feels too heavy to try and fight him, your muscles weak. “What’s going on?” you ask. “What— Is this a kidnapping?”

“Tha’s an ugly word, bonnie. We’re doin’ ye a favour, really. Settin’ ye up with someone respectable. Captain’ll take good care of ye.” He pats your cheek. “Whyna get back to sleep? Still a ways to go, aye?”

Maybe it’s just a bad, weird dream. You do feel foggy, like you’re not fully attached to your body, and keeping your eyes open is a struggle. You’ll wake up back in your own bed, and have a funny story to tell if you ever bump into Johnny again. He’s definitely too nice to be a kidnapper, right? Like, people don’t really do that sort of thing. It has to be a dream.

“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes close again.

As you suspected, you wake up again in bed. The headache’s receded some, and there’s warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. You bury your face into the pillows, and then bolt upright. The pillow smells weird, like sweet tobacco and spice, and you don’t get morning sun in your bedroom. The window faces a brick wall across a narrow alley.

The room you’re in now is not your room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a dresser under the window and the bed you’re tucked into, and two doors, one that’s clearly a closet, and one that must lead out into the rest of the… house? Judging by the sound of birdsong outside, you’re out of the city.

You pad to the window and look out. There’s a van in the driveway, and three men carrying things in. One of them looks up and spots you in the window, waving cheerfully.

Not a dream. Fear grips you, ice sliding down your spine, shards settling in your stomach, needling and uncomfortable. Your sinuses prickle like you’re about to cry, but no tears come. You’re too dehydrated to summon them. It’s hard to tell how long you’ve been out— It’s fully daylight outside, but you have no idea what time. A second look around the room finds a digital clock sitting on the nightstand, 3:05 glaring back at you in red.

There’s a knock on the door, and it pushes open. The man who walks in is handsome, smiling at you so beautifully that your automatic response is to try and smile back, although you feel that it’s flimsy, unsure. There’s no chance that this man is here to help you, but you at least hope he’s not here to hurt you either.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. His voice is as pleasant as his face is, smooth and cheerful, although it makes you wary about him on principle. “You hungry?”

You shake your head. It’s not true, but you can’t trust that there wouldn’t be drugs in anything they give you.

“Well, come on downstairs, hm? Get some water at least. Maybe a tea?”

Your stomach churns. “I might be sick,” you manage to squeak out. He quickly ushers you out into the hall and into a bathroom. You don’t make it to the toilet, but you do manage to make it to the sink. If you had a little more fire in you, you might have tried to vomit bile onto the pretty man’s shoes, but it’s hard to shake the instinct to be good, not to make any trouble, to hope that they’ll just let you go. You’re not even sure what they want. You have no family to ransom, you don’t have any money to speak of, you’re just a fat little ex-nanny still paying off an English Literature degree from a second-rate college.

You turn on the sink to wash away the sick, and rinse your mouth out. Your hands start shaking when you realize your toothbrush is sitting in the holder next to the sink, like it belongs there. Your makeup bag is sitting on the counter too, and when you look down, you realize you’re standing on your own bathmat, taken from your home and arranged here, as if effects from your own house are supposed to make you feel comfortable. You look at your reflection in the mirror, and then at the man still standing in the doorway, his brown eyes all concern, as if he wasn’t party to a fucking nightmare.

You straighten up, gripping the counter to steady yourself. “What the hell is this?” you ask, trying to inject some authority into your quaking voice. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I’m Gaz. Nice to meet you. Johnny had lots of nice things to say about you.”

So that hadn’t been a dream either. You look around the room desperately, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, but Gaz seems to know exactly what you’re doing, and he steps into your space quickly to grab your hands.

“None of that. Come on. You’ll feel better after a tea, yeah? Then you can get ready to meet the captain.”

He leads you downstairs. Questions spin around your head, but you’re not sure if it’s worth asking. Gaz only bothered to respond to one of the three you’ve asked so far, and it wasn’t the one that you were most interested in an answer to. So you stay quiet instead, taking in the layout of the big room. A front door and a back door, and windows that look out onto a forest on one side of the property, and more forest on the other side, beyond a large cleared space with a neat garden and a few fruit trees. There’s a second building that you can just see the corner of from the kitchen window, more likely a garage than a neighbour.

Gaz backs you up against the counter and leans down slightly, his hands gripping your thighs. You panic, the touch surprising you, and slap him across the face. The sharp sound makes you freeze, like it wasn’t you that had done it. He takes advantage of your surprise to shove you up onto the counter and grab both your hands with one of his, all the friendliness draining our of his eyes in an instant as he points a scolding finger at you. You feel like you’ve done something naughty that you’re not fully aware of the implications of yet, a badly trained dog or a child. “I’m going to let that one slide, because I understand that this is a big change for you. But you’re not going to like what happens if you try that again, understood?”

You nod quickly, your own eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, the instinct for appeasement rearing it’s skittish little head.

And then the smile returns, as pretty as before, storm clouds blowing away as though they’d never been there to begin with. “It’s alright, doll. Just don’t do it again. And definitely don’t try that attitude on with the captain.” He taps the pointing finger against your nose playfully, and lets your hands drop back into your lap.

The rules seem simple enough. Be good and sweet, and get friendly faces in return, to a degree. No matter how cooperative you are, you doubt they’re going to let you go home. Fighting back means consequences, and you’re not sure how far those consequences will extend. If you’re too much trouble, it’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll just kill you outright and try again with a meeker woman. You don’t yet know if death would be the more preferable outcome.

You pull your sweater down over your thighs. The black zip-up hoodie isn’t yours (the word Riley is stitched onto the front of it), but it’s big, and even though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it affords you at least a little modesty and comfort, more than the tank top and the sleep-shorts you’re wearing underneath do. Riley must be the third man. Was he the captain? Or was there a fourth one somewhere?

Johnny comes through the door carrying your suitcases, and he grins widely when he sees you, the charming, boyish one that you’d thought was handsome before. It’s only unnerving now. “Didja have a good sleep, bonnie?”

“You drugged me,” you accuse.

“Weel, of course. You were no’ goan ta come all peaceable, and LT wouldna be patient if ye were cryin’ the whole way here.” He trots upstairs, and you can hear him drop the bags with a thump, before he’s clattering back down the steps and leaning against the counter next to you. “How’d’ye like yer new home, bonnie? S’a nice place, aye? Better than tha’ little shoebox back in the city.”

“I like my apartment,” you protest.

“Psh, ye’d say tha’. Puttin’ on a brave face since yer such a good girl. But it wasna verra safe, was it? No’ a single neighbour paid us any mind while we were loadin’ up yer things. No’ a good place for a single girl, aye?” He reaches out and puts a big hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. “Now ye’ll be taken care of, like ye should be.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Nonsense. Ye’ll be glad, once ye get used to things. Already looks real homey in here, don’t ye think?” He gestures at the living room.

You twist to look, and your stomach sinks. Your throw pillows are on the couch, one of the afghans you crocheted hanging over the back of it. You recognize the titles of your books on the shelves. These men were nothing if not thorough, surgically removing your entire life and transplanting it to this house in the woods, with it’s wood panel walls and big, overstuffed leather couches.

He continues blithely, like he’s not delivering some of the most horrifying news you’ve ever heard. “Most of your furniture’s in the garage, ye can sort tha’ out with Price, aye? But we brought all yer clothes and decorations and whatnot in. Figure ye should wear tha’ pretty black sundress, an’ those long stockin’s with the clippy belt, ye ken the one? Cap’ll like those.”

They’d been through all your things. If you had anything left to throw up, you might’ve again. Gaz sets a glass of water on the counter next to you. “How d’you take your tea, doll?”

“Milk, two sugars,” Johnny answers for you. “Our sweet lass has a sweet tooth, aye?”

“How do you know that?” You can hear the quiver in your voice, and it doesn’t slip by either of them.

“Come oan, hen, ye ken I didna jus’ pick ye off the street. Did my research. Wouldna pick just anyone for the captain.”

“When he said he’d found the perfect girl, we didn’t believe him at first,” Gaz says, leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen while the tea steeps. “But Ghost and I knew he was right, soon as we saw you.” He nods at the glass. “Drink your water. You haven’t had anything since last night.”

“Is it drugged?” you ask flatly.

“No, want ye awake for when Price gets here. Yer a real cute thing asleep, but we want him ta hear yer pretty voice and see that smile, aye?” Johnny reaches past you and picks up the glass of water, taking a big swig to demonstrate it’s harmlessness.

You take a careful sip when he hands it back to you, and then another, resisting the urge to just gulp the whole thing down. The door opens again, and the biggest man you’ve seen in your life walks in, wearing a black t-shirt and a mask with the jaw of a skull printed on it, pulled up over the lower half of his face. He looks at you dispassionately, and then at Gaz and Johnny. “What the ‘ell have you two muppets been sayin’ to the poor thing?” he asks, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “She looks like she’s gonna faint.”

“Figure she’s just peaky,” Gaz says defensively. “I’m making her tea.”

The big guy swats Johnny’s hand away from your knee impatiently, and cages you in against the counter, one huge arm on either side of you. “How’re you feelin’ bird? Be honest.”

“Terrified,” you admit.

He chuckles. “Sensible, considerin’. But you don’t need to worry, olright? No one’s gonna hurt you, so long as you’re good. And you want to be good, don’t you, bird?”

You nod. You’d thought Gaz and Johnny were big, but this one’s huge, broad and tall and even scarier. It’s clear why they started off introducing themselves to you in the order they did. If this man had been the first thing you’d seen after waking up you probably would have gone into hysterics.

“Use your words, pet.”

“I want to be good,” you say obediently, because you don’t see any other options, at least for the moment.

“Good girl,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile in his dark eyes.

Somehow, this is the most comforting thing that you’ve experienced all day. You won’t be hurt if you’re good, and you are being good.

He pushes back from the counter slightly, giving you more space, takes the mug of tea from Gaz, and hands it off to you. “Small sips,” he instructs. “And maybe a biscuit, if you think you can keep it down.”

“Are you the captain?” you ask nervously, gripping the mug with two hands.

“Hm? No. ‘e’s still about an hour out. I’m Simon. Ghost to these two.” He fishes an open package of biscuits out of the cupboard and sets them next to you. “Once you finish your tea, we’ll get you ready. Want to make a good first impression, right bird?”

“Not really,” you admit. “I’d like to go home.”

He laughs, at least finding your honesty amusing. “That won’t be ‘appenin’. If Price dun’t want you, I’ll keep you myself. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll like Price better. If you’re good for him, he’ll be real good to you, understood?”

You bite your tongue. It won’t do you any good to point out that a man that would accept a person as a gift is probably not capable of being good to anyone. Good is subjective, and the three men in front of you are lunatics. Their captain probably has the slightest bit stronger a grasp on his sanity, or a consistent moral code, if not a particularly righteous one. So you just keep your mouth shut, and drink your tea, and eat two chocolate digestives while Gaz and Johnny start collecting things to make dinner.

As soon as you set your empty mug to the side Ghost pops you down from the counter and ushers you upstairs with a big hand placed a little too low on your back. He tells you what to wear (down to the lingerie), but blessedly doesn’t insist on watching you get dressed. He does sit on the edge of the tub and watch you put on makeup, however, requesting red lipstick and winged eyeliner. Your hands are still a little shaky, but you manage to do as he asks. His eyes smile at you just a little when you’re obedient. You feel pathetic for not making a fuss, but you’re not sure what you can possibly do, except something stupid that will make them angry enough to hurt you.

He helps you into a pair of strappy red heels that had been languishing in the back of your closet before they dug everything out, and straightens the seam of your stockings, running his big hands up your calves. It’s like you’re a doll, dressed just how he wants, something to look pretty and say less than nothing, a gift for some other man you’ve never met to keep on a shelf.

Or worse, to play with.

You hear Johnny and Gaz greet someone downstairs, their voices loud and excited, and your heart skips nervously.

Ghost rises to his feet, smiling so big you can see it even with the mask. “Wait right here, pet,” he says firmly, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed while he goes off to greet his captain. “Want to introduce you proper.”

So you sit, and you wait, shaking and nervous, for what feels like eternity, until you hear Simon’s surprisingly light footfalls on the stairs again. He offers you a hand, and hoists you over his shoulder as soon as you’re on your feet, carrying you down into the living room.

“We all pitched in,” Gaz says, as casually as if he meant throwing in five dollars for a card. ���But she was Soap’s idea.”

“Picked ‘er out special, Cap,” Johnny says. “She’s perfect for ye.”

“She?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Don’t tell me you got me a dog.”

“Better than that, skipper.” Ghost laughs as he circles around the couch, and drops you carefully into the man’s lap, stepping into line with the other two. “We got you a wife.”

I've been low-key thinking about this concept since I read ohbo-ohno's Don't Leave Me Locked in Your Heart a while back (If you haven't read and you like a good dark fic, you should click that link, you may enjoy it). I think getting someone a person as a gift, or being given as a gift, rather, is a fun fucked up fantasy to explore. I'm not entirely sure where I'll take this but I promise to put in content warnings. Let me know if I miss something, I don't want anyone to be surprised by what they find!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[ynbabe]

IVY TRIO X MALE! READER- INCORRECT QUOTES

Newt: Can I be frank with you guys? Minho: Sure, but I don’t see how changing your name is gonna help. Thomas: Can I still be Thomas? Y/n: Shh, let Frank speak.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Newt: Do you love Minho? Thomas: Yeah, I do. Newt: y/n! I told you I knew it! You owe me 100 bucks! y/n: We all love Minho.You should've asked if they were IN love with them. Thomas: I thought that was implied. y/n: ... Newt: ... Thomas, looking straight at y/n: Congrats newt, you just won 100 bucks.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Newt, mother TM: *Screams* Y/n, Father TM: * Screams louder to assert dominance* Thomas, new to the glade: Should we do something?! Minho, observing his weekly soap opera: No, I want to see who wins this.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Newt: Where's Thomas? Y/n: Don't worry, I'll find him. Y/n, shouting: Minho sucks! Thomas, distantly: Minho is the best person ever! Fuck you! Y/n: Found him.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Newt, giving Thomas a tour of the glade: What do you want then? Thomas, looking at Minho sleeping in Y/n's lap: Er… something runner-related. Newt, trying not to laugh: What department is this? Thomas, blushing: Sorry? Newt: Well, if it's work-related you'd obviously know what department this is. What department is this? Thomas: * looks at Minho and Y/n* Some sort of homosexual department?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Newt: Y/n, I'm sad. Y/n: *Holds out arms for a hug* It's going to be okay. Thomas: Minho, I'm sad. Minho, nodding: mood.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Minho: What's it like being tall? Y/n: Is it nice? Thomas: Can you reach comfortably for the cupboards? Newt: We live in constant fear of the short ones who, in my experience, will climb four chairs, two boxes, a small coffee table, and six oddly placed stools to get what they want.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Newt: On the count of three, what's your favourite cake? One, two, three- Newt and Y/n, in unison: Chocolate cake peanut butter frosting with chocolate chunks! Thomas: Our turn, Minho! One, two, three- vanilla! Minho, deadpan: I've never had cake, what is cake.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Newt:, concerned bf You guys worried about Y/n? Thomas, the child TM: Totally! Minho, mean-ass mfer who's secretly crying: Yeah, he called me in the middle of the night and just yelled, "What do I do, what do I do, what do I do, what do I do?" Newt: And what'd you say? Minho: "I dunno, I dunno, I dunno, I dunno." Thomas: Newt: He's lucky to have you as a friend.

[howlingday]

Cardin: Bleurgh... Russel, I don't have much longer... Tell me, was I a good king?

Russel: Eh... You were alright.

Cardin: Will I be remembered as the great warrior king who battled Arc, revolutionized Valean healthcare, and developed great parklands?

Russel: Er... No, probably not.

Cardin: Because of the wife killings?

Russel: Because of the wife killings.

Cardin: Eugh... (Eats half a pig) Russel, how did I get here? I still remember the good ol' days, when I was a boy with a heart full of fire! And mummy would teach me~!

--------------------------------------------------

Mama Winchester: Okay, Cardin. This is a horse. Can you say "horse"?

Cardin: H... H... DIVORCE!

Mama Winchester: What? No! Okay, let's try this one. Can you say "loaf of bread"?

Cardin: L... L-OFF WITH HER HEAD!

Mama Winchester: No, Cardin, that's wrong! You know what? Last one. Can you say "soap"? SOAP!

Cardin: Ssss... SSSS...

Mama Winchester: Yes, that's it...

Cardin: I'm the supreme head of the church! SSSSCREW Oz-Dope!

Mama Winchester: You know what? You're my son and I love you, but you're freakin' weird, man.

--------------------------------------------------

Cardin: Bleurgh... I don't have much longer... Russel, hold me...

Russel: Of course, Sire. Do you have any final wishes?

Cardin: H... How about... How about one last conquest against Arc?

--------------------------------------------------

Why are we all so fascinated with King Cardin Winchester? Why not his father, or his brother? Well, without mentioning all the important things his reign did achieve, one of his biggest goals was to go down in history, and you can put a big green check mark in that box because everything he did and how he asserted his control and authority over those around him has come to be viewed as the epitome of the word KING.

Cardin: And also because of the wife killings?

Russel: Yeah, definitely the wife killings.

[defire]

Ghost of Seattle Chapter 3

Prev

Content: Gun threat, child whumpee, hostage

"Did you hear that? Commander Merc is a psycho."

"He is not. The man gets furious at the slightest thing. Psychos don't have feelings, come on."

After they left the Guard compound, Chase followed Braiden’s group to find the stash.

The structure they wanted him to climb had been mostly blown away, and about 6 stories of apartment bathrooms and bedrooms were the only thing left, ascending in a ragged tower of concrete. It gaped with the holes of what had been windows.

On the far side, a yellow rattlesnake flag had been pinned down with rocks at its base.

One of the Guards stepped on it, and then they all started doing it.

"Don't tread on me!" Someone laughed.

"Come 'ere Chase," Guy called for him. 

Guy been appointed leader of his own squad last year.

The Guards pushed him into the circle of feet, so he stepped on the flag with them.

"This is our territory!" Someone said.

Chase grinned. They boosted him up onto the sink, and he used that to climb the 2-by-4 up and onto the next level.

"What should I throw down?" Chase asked. "I'm seeing toothbrushes, makeup..."

"Hey Chase." Braiden called.

Chase looked over the side to see Braiden holding up a pair of leather gloves. Chase shook his head.

"For the glass." Braiden said.

"I don't need them." Chase said.

"Your dad will be pissed at me if I let you get hurt." Braiden said.

Chase pursed his lips.

"Fine. I'll take the left one." That would leave one hand dextrous and able to feel out if something was stable.

"Take anything packaged or sealed." Guy called.

"And anything first-aid." Someone else added.

People started calling up suggestions.

Chase opened the cupboard and took the whole box of stuff out from under it. He dropped it straight down into the group of Guards.

"Chase!" Someone protested.

Chase grinned down, then started throwing the rest of the soaps and shampoos. The Guards whooped in excitement.

Chase scampered up the building and kept going.

By the time he got up to the 6th level, he could feel how precarious it was. Cracks webbed out from weak points in the wall, and the top bit of the wall peeled outward, about ready to break off, with a big chunk of cement suspended by mangled rebar.

He hadn't even noticed that the sun was going down, but when he looked over the edge of the splintered wood, he realized that dusk had fallen down there.

He climbed down, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Guards were zipping up their backpacks and meandering toward the way back to the compounds.

He dropped to the bottom floor, where Braiden had hung back for him.

"Freeze!" Someone shouted. "Or I shoot the kid!"

Chase flinched and looked.

A guy with a big beard came out from behind a half-destroyed wall. He was only about 15 feet away from Chase and held his rifle in one hand, propped against his shoulder with a longer stock.

"Over here, kid." He beckoned at Chase. "Now hand over our loot, and nobody gets hurt."

Braiden's eyes widened as Chase slowly moved over to the Prepper. You could tell he was a Prepper by the camo and the beard. Chase didn't put his hands up, and the Prepper didn't seem to care. He probably underestimated Chase.

"Your loot?" Someone from the Guards yelled. "This is our territory."

"This is no-man's-land." The Prepper retorted. He put a hand on Chase's shoulder and turned him around to face the Guards. "We marked it with our flag."

More Preppers had come out of the woodwork. It looked like about 5 Preppers and 6 Guards. Chase stood stiffly, watching the Guards' consternation.

"Look, nobody should get shot over a few bars of soap." Braiden said. "Let's all put down our guns."

"You first." The Prepper behind Chase sneered.

"Fine." Braiden said. He stooped and slowly put his pistol on a spot of busted carpet on concrete, down in front of him.

"Alright, disarm." Guy ordered the other Guards. Guards and Preppers usually worked together. Neither side would be happy to hear of a fight between the underlings. Once the Guards disarmed, the Preppers did as well, except for the one with a hand on Chase's shoulder.

"Alright." He said. "Now, hand over what's ours, and we all go home tonight."

Guy stepped in front of the squad.

"We're within our rights." He said. "If you want to dispute that, you'll take me to a higher authority in the Prepper compounds."

"We don't need interference from them to have what's ours." The man's hand shifted closer to Chase's neck, fingers slipping on Chase's sweat.

Chase glanced at the rifle, waiting for that slight swing away from Braiden, that had started to happen as he spoke. His throat was dry and distractingly itchy.

"Now we've worked together for so long." Guy said. "You guys were always the first to back the blue."

"That's old-world shit." The Prepper barked. "We're in charge now. We were prepared for this."

"Bullshit." A Guard scoffed.

"You can go back together, or you can go back minus the kid." The Prepper said, getting agitated as his fingers poked into Chase's collarbone. "So--"

The muzzle had moved enough. Chase gave it a hard smack out to the right, and the Prepper lost his grip on the trigger guard.

Chase ducked out of the squeezing hand on his shoulder and fled to the left. He ducked around the building and hid, while the Guards scrambled noisily. So did the Preppers. Chase dared a look over a windowsill.

The Preppers were cursing and scrambling back, lifting weapons.

"Chase, come on!" Braiden called to him.

The Guards were also retreating. 

Chase skipped over the rubble, quickly, adjusting his steps to the rising and falling terrain as he made it out in the darkness.

He caught up to them on the road. Finally, under cover of the Guard's sentry towers, they slowed to a walk to catch their breath. 

"Damn, I thought we were going to be shooting Preppers!" Braiden released a tense chuckle.

"You would've gotten shot!" Someone else answered.

"Braiden, if you get killed, I'll never forgive you." Guy said.

The others laughed. 

Chase followed them back, almost completely ignored as he listened to them chat on the way back. 

He liked them. 

When they got back, nobody told his dad the story. He'd just have to be more heroic next time.

Please let me know if you want to be tagged for upcoming parts :)

Kindle book:

Masterpost: Next:

[lazyscience]

DCC Challenge, Day 23

Time To Floor Collapse: 7 days, 4.5 hours

Time for the recap episode!

Crawler @quartzandsundry

New Achievement! Heads I Win, Tails You Lose!

The only thing better than maxing an old skill? Learning a new skill that makes it even more valuable. Leveling up isn't easy to do this far in, but you make it look that way!

Reward: A gold Dance Break box! Includes an Enchanted Headset of the Main Event, adding +50% range to your Performance checks and Summon, Charm and Influence-related skills! Also includes a tome of It's Britney, Bitch! which when cast adds an effective 30 points to your Charisma and +20% to any opposed mind control checks, and 20 percent off in the Syndicate Market, SIlk Road and Gray Market! Duration: 10 minutes, cooldown: 29 hours (basically, you get one cast a day)

Crawler @kathrynalexao3:

New Achievement! We're Gonna Need Another Timmy Jimmy!

Ahhh, the smell of smoke and psychodrama in the morning. Like a true agent provocateur, you and your party manipulated expectations, identity, and authority, and left laughing, laughing at the carnage left in your wake. mwahahahahah. MWAHAAHAHHAHAHA. AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH. ahem.

Reward: A gold Unsuitable For All Ages box! Inside, a tome of Lawn Darts, summoning a rain of 4 to 8 meter-long steel spikes in a 5-meter radius, an enchanted Baseball Bat of The Dwarven Girls' Softball League that does +50% damage deployed against species with external genitalia, and a handful of Scented Markers (no stat effects but you probably could get dizzy huffing them. ah, the innocent pleasures of childhood!)

Crawler @king-ofconfusion:

New Achievement! Is It Really a Labyrinth Without David Bowie?

Maze puzzles are so boring to watch, don't you think? I feel like dropping those Murderdozers into it really spiced up the experience - I mean, you got out, right? And solved it much faster for having incentive, bringing you that much closer to your planned rendezvous with other parties! Everyone wins!

Except the murderdozers. Sheesh, that's a lot of goblin goo. JANITOR MOBS! Excuse me, janitor mobs! Get on that, someone might slip and fall! (hmm. Someone might slip and fall! on second thought...)

Reward: A gold I Move the Stars for No One box! Includes 2 coupons for Personal Space upgrades, Hireling Quarters and Stable facilities! Now your Hellspawn Lizard familiar can get out and spread its wings when you're not burning shit down!

Crawler @oreniaa:

New Achievement! Oh, Deer!

People really underestimate the lethal power of ungulates, don't they? They have sharp antlers, and sharp hooves, they're ridiculously agile. And when you're reanimating their horrible flensed corpses, what you lose in raw Dex you make up for in debuffs because holy shit, that's creepy. Even to me. Well done!

Reward: a silver Stag Party box! Includes an enchanted Crown of Cerunnos, giving +5 levels to your Second Chance and Charm Critter spell, and +7 to your Tracking skill. Warning: this item activates aggro on followers of Diwata, but gives +20% to your damage against them. Good hunting!

Crawler @cairfrey :

New Achievement! Pitter Patter, Let's Get At 'Er!

There comes a time at which grinding to get ready for a boss hits the point of diminishing returns. You've leveled as much as you're going to, you've assembled your traps and tricks, waited out your cooldowns, and it's Go Time.

Slash! Stab! Only one queen in a hive! And it's sure as hell not gonna be that bitch-ass Faery, wings or no!

Reward: A gold Headology box! Included, a tome of Read Thoughts (+10% chance of failure with each level higher target than caster, duration: 1 minute, cooldown: 2 hours), and a copy of Mordecai's Make-Shit Manual, a list of tried and tested potion tweaks for the discerning alchemist!

Crawler @deathdovesong:

New Achievement! The Price of Salt Soap!

Mercenaries! Hirelings! Sellswords! Rentacops! Whatever you call 'em, they can be the difference between a successful campaign, or a "Cleanup, Desperado Club Dance Floor, Cleanup, Dance Floor." You've spent a small fortune on soldiers of fortune, and that's a solid investment - just keep pulling in that coin, because as your fortune goes, so go your forces.

Reward: a silver Bounty box! Includes 50,000 gp to shore up your payroll, A Gnomish Droppacopter, and two Ghillie Suits, one for you and one for your favored lieutenant (or captain?)

Crawler @clearbrightlight:

New Achievement! Shut Up, It's Fucking Red!

Whether it's spotting a bargain-basement illusion before a hunter could rip your face off, a somewhat suspect potion that revealed the NPC you thought was on your side was clearly not BEFORE they could poison you, or identifying that a "gently used" magic apparel item had lost its power and been dumped because its owner hadn't followed the care instructions - not only knowing what was wrong but how to fix it? your attention to detail has saved you more than once. And your bluntness about it? is HILARIOUS. Keep feeding the meme-makers of the viewing public, and your crawl will continue to prosper.

Reward: A gold Miranda Priestly box! Includes an enchanted Cerulean Military Jacket of +10 to the Stealth skill, and 7-League Chanel Boots, allowing the wearer to cover up to 38.9 kilometers in three steps (cooldown: 1 hour)

Crawler @lazyscience:

New Achievement: I Found A Way

Herded PIs without incident, no matter how much I wanted to eat all their goddamn faces off. Ate a bunch of fruit instead of solely subsisting on carbs.

Now get out there, crawlers, and kill, kill, kill!

ATTENTION, all partied crawlers! Don't forget to update me on mobs, quests, or parties (defined at link) so I can award you achievements! Please let me know either in the replies to this post, reblogging with additions, or hit my askbox/DMs!

(please, do this, even with small and silly mobs/quests, it makes giving achievements so much easier!)

[minaa-munch]

Question for mun! What do you think of Minato imitating Hashirama and how he rescued Kushina only because she was Uzumaki?

Oh boy, why’d you have to ask? [I’m kidding, I love development questions. They give my neurons a reason to not implode]. Before I address your question though, please note that I have a different interpretation of Minato. Naturally, said interpretation pertains to how I write the character and is not up for wide-scale public acceptance. To each their own, ne?

Disclaimer: Canon = manga. I rarely consider the anime on its own, though I may refer to sourced articles from reddit/quora/narutopedia/databooks. I’m very picky about my sources, since unfounded bouts of OP makes my tea taste bitter and I like my chamomile nice and refreshing, despite the claims of a certain copy nin likening it to steeped weeds. >> You know who you are.

Lets start with the times: Konoha was an established hidden village with a fair number of geniuses to its leaf adorned headband; Hiruzen’s generation, the White Fang, Konoha’s Ghost, Legendary Sanin - and the list goes on. These shinobi were role models; icons for the younger generation to follow - and to become Hokage; the best of the best, was on everyone’s bucket list. As a refugee, Uzumaki Kushina said she wanted to be Hokage to prove a point and Minato chose that time to say it too because it was akin to acknowledging her as one of Konoha.

Just because no one else said it, doesn’t mean they didn’t aim for it either. Who hadn’t learned about the legendary Shodai and the formation of the village? Who didn’t know about the honoured Uzumaki Mito who was somehow still alive whereas everyone else from her time had died? These figures, legends were heroes and idols for a lifestyle where the main trade was murder and espionage. Undoubtedly, their names and lores were used to instil a certain patriotism within the budding leaves of the village; to ensure that the new generations learned to set aside their differences and work together in the service of the Daimyo.

I digress. It wasn’t just Minato who wanted to be like the Shodai or the Nindaime, or the Legendary Professor [Sandaime], everyone did. He simply happened to have the means to make it happen: Beat the Sandaime’s record at the academy [undisputed so far], stumbled across the Nindaime’s technique and adapted it to be faster [thus hijacking the title of the fastest shinobi] and fostered a reputation on the battlefield which, true to Konoha’s brand of genius, made enemy nin soil themselves.

To say he didn’t plan on said reputation would be somewhat incorrect. Minato was a reputed [ha] genius, ne? Not on the same level as Itachi but pretty…lethal, to put it lightly. The system fostered his persona, and he outstripped it by becoming the youngest Hokage in history. That’s a worthy legend in itself, but is it legend enough to overshadow all previous Hokage?

Which brings me back to your question: Did he rescue Kushina just because she was an Uzumaki? Also interpreted as: Did he plan on marrying Uzumaki Kushina from the get-go?

Maybe. There isn’t enough evidence in canon to completely refute it; but there isn’t nearly enough to support it either. I tend to lean towards the latter since such planning would involve him honing in on Kushina as a ‘target’ since learning her clan affiliation. He was what, nine years old? Maybe ten when they met? I don’t know about you, dear anon, but I prefer a dash of realism when it comes to character studies. At that time, Minato, being the clan-less thingus that he was, was probably more invested in proving himself to his beloved Jiraiya sensei [role model x] and the Sandaime and everyone else who saw him as a genius born once every decade.

Random fun fact: Minato “stalking” Kushina is a filler in the anime. It never happened in the manga. See why sources are so important?

But then how is it possible for the parallel to be so apparent? I’ll give you two reasons; the first is a boring one called literary trope. The second one is kinda…conspiratorial. You see, when a system is as prone to birthing geniuses as Konoha’s most certainly is, the fact that there is a potential genius candidate and a Jinchuriki in the same age group becomes an opportunity. The Jinchuriki is always close to the Hokage, and the Hokage is always one who is recognised by the people.

Additional side-note: Jinchuriki goes missing; everyone panics and no one bothers to notice the cherry red strands of hair left behind by one intelligent kunoichi. No Jonin/Chunin thinks to look underneath the freaking underneath and pick up on it? Come on; this is a generation that grew up around wars. They’re not idiots. [insert nudge no jutsu here]

Case and point. Minato was well aware of his reputation [he bloodied his hands and soul for it after all], and had probably realised the nuances of the system at some point, and had grown to be sceptical of it. Consequently, he had an ego massive enough to think that he could change it for the better. [Remember when he and Naruto talk about the cycle of hatred? He indicated that he was aware of the problem, but didn’t know how to fix it because his generation had failed on that note]

Hokage? Hokage. He was well aware of how his persona might appear to the general populace. His sunny disposition and charm was probably more likened with the Shodai than anyone else. If you don’t think he took advantage of it, then you don’t know just how sneaky Konoha’s Kiiroi Senkō can be. He didn’t hail from a special clan, neither did he possess any kekkei genkai so his reputation was honestly all he had.

But to strive especially hard to mirror Hashirama and Mito? Nah. Minato was a strategist; he would use his public image to ensure Konoha’s loyalty and his popularity - and also his fearsome reputation which crossed borders thanks to all those useful rumours. Kushina had an image of her own to maintain [she was a fearsome kunoichi in her own right] - the manga doesn’t expand on their time enough to disprove or approve, so I suppose it boils down to one’s interpretation, ne? I like to think that Kushina isn’t blind enough to be manipulated by the flake she has to teach the basics of fuuin to. You can’t expect a relationship between such bull headed characters to blossom without experiences and nuances tinged with enough blood, sweat and tears - they rely on each other, anon. Kushina is one of the few people that keeps Minato sane, and Minato is probably one of the very few people who gave Kushina a sense of purpose other than that of a mere vessel.

Hashirama and Mito weren’t a fairy tale romance - theirs was initially political which turned lofty, depending on who you ask. Minato’s and Kushina’s wasn’t a sparkly re-edit either, unless said re-edits are tinged with war and the knowledge that you might not return from your next high ranking mission.

Note on Minato as the Yondaime:

If there was any Hokage he would take administrative cues from, it would be the Nindaime’s lore/records because of all the decrees Tobirama introduced to streamline the system. Minato is a strategist, and had the luxury of one Nara Shikaku, a genius of a Jonin commander, who had been at the game longer than himself. He would introduce similar reforms. Any political nuance would be treated like an occurrence on the battlefield because that’s how Minato had programmed himself to work. 

He has his goofy moments too - but only with people he knows and can trust. Their generation was kinda...mucked up, as were the generations before theirs. If you think about it, Naruto’s generation is the..second gen that grew up soft and squishable in comparison. 

[sunlit-squid]

I don't care about everyone else! i care about you, SQUIDWARD! (simping softness asks)

For those who don’t know, my ask box is open. Send me a simping softness prompt, and I’ll write a short sbsp ficlet for you. ✰

so, uh -- i might have gotten a bit carried away with this prompt. it’s definitely longer than a ficlet, but oh well. either way, it was a lot of fun to write! selfish spongebob is so rarely explored.

fic under the cut. also, just in case, cw: drinking, drunkenness, etc.

Spongebob rose bright and early, long before his foghorn alarm went off at 7:00 a.m. With a cheerful shout, the poriferan jumped out of bed, earning a disgruntled “mrow” from Gary, who was still asleep nearby. Stretching vigorously, the sponge leaned down, planting a soft kiss atop the snail’s shell.

“Gary,” he whispered, practically vibrating with excitement. “Today’s the day!”

Turning away, Gary simply replied “mrow”, in a disdainful way that most certainly meant “whatever.”

Undeterred, Spongebob ran to his calendar. Sure enough, the day’s date -- July 14th -- was circled in bright-red, permanent marker, with the words “My birthday!” written neatly across it. And just below those words, was a tiny drawing of Squidward’s face, with dozens of little red hearts surrounding it.

Making his way over to the window, Spongebob gazed out at Squidward’s moai in the distance. He sighed, dreamily. What was Squidward doing right now? Probably sleeping, in that adorable dress of his.

The sponge lingered there, staring dazedly out at the moai, for perhaps a moment too long. Then, remembering himself, he sprinted to the bathroom. Once inside, Spongebob pointed a finger at his own reflection in the mirror.

“Enough beating around the bush, Mr. Squarepants!” he yelled -- much to Gary’s annoyance. The sponge lowered his voice down to a soft whisper. “Today, you tell him how you feel.”

His reflection simply shrugged. “I mean, okay,” it said. “But this is like, the 57th time you’ve said this.”

“Oh, shush.”

-0-

The party was supposed to start at 6:30, but Spongebob, in a manic cleaning fit, had the entire house ready by noon. This year, the party was themed around As The Tide Turns, a very polarizing-but-popular soap opera, especially in Bikini Bottom. If you were a Bikini Bottomite, you either watched the show genuinely, or ironically -- there was absolutely no in-between.

Spongebob and Squidward both genuinely enjoyed the show. It was one of the first things they bonded over, back when Spongebob started working at the Krusty Krab. Through the window to the galley, the two coworkers would talk for hours about the show, and whatever drama was center-stage for that season.

It got to a point where Mr. Krabs -- who only watched ATTT ironically -- got on them both, for shirking their duties.

“If yer gonna flirt,” he’d said, “do it on yer own time.”

So, Spongebob started coming over to Squidward’s house on Friday nights, when the new episodes would air. In fact, even when the show was between seasons, Spongebob still came over, just to watch reruns. It was one of the few times Squidward would (begrudgingly) let Spongebob inside, with no complaints.

Spongebob hummed softly to himself, his eyes scanning the small clipboard in front of him. Food, decorations, party games … Check, check, and check. Everything was present and accounted for -- and he had to admit, the house looked spectacular.

Every room was themed around a different, iconic arc in the ATTT series. His living room, filled with chalk drawings, crime scene tape, and red-string boards, was inspired by the murder mystery arc. His kitchen, decorated with leftover Halloween gear, was inspired by the vampire arc … and so on and so forth. Each and every room had its own particular, careful design -- and in all, it was probably Spongebob’s most intricate and detailed party to date.

That was because it had to be. Spongebob had a plan, a carefully detailed plan -- one that was sure to sweep Squidward Tentacles right off his … er, tentacles. And it went like this:

Squidward and Spongebob’s favorite arc, in all 42 seasons of As The Tide Turns, was the murder mystery. In the arc, the dashing Detective Heartthrob, accompanied by his sidekick-slash-lover Joey, must bring a heinous mass murderer to justice. At the climax, it is revealed that Detective Heartthrob is the true killer -- having been hypnotized by a witch, who was also his evil twin sister, for some reason. In the end, Joey must kill Detective Heartthrob, in a tragic display of love and sacrifice.

The season was thrilling, silly, and emotionally traumatizing, to boot. For months after the finale, Squidward and Spongebob would not shut up about it -- much to the annoyance of Mr. Krabs.

Either way, Spongebob had set up an elaborate, original mystery game, inspired by the events of the show. Each attendee would get a “random” card, assigning them a different role in the story. Squidward would be Detective Heartthrob, and Spongebob would be Joey.

Together, they would embark on an original mystery, one that Spongebob had devised all by himself. After he and Squidward solved the mystery together, and the party was over … Spongebob would finally, finally confess his feelings.

Of course, Spongebob had, more or less, rigged the game to ensure this would happen. Which was cheating, sure, but this was for love! So it couldn't possibly go wrong.

-0-

It went wrong. Almost immediately, in fact.

For one, the party started at 6:30 -- and, nearly two hours later, Squidward had yet to show up. Spongebob spent those first two hours lingering by the door, staring out the window towards the moai, and forgetting to refill the punch bowl. Sandy, ever the observant one, noticed immediately.

Pulling Spongebob aside, she asked, in a hushed voice, “Hey, partner. You good?”

“Oh, I’m -- I’m great!” chirped Spongebob, putting on his worst, most unconvincing smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Uh-huh,” said Sandy, flatly. “This about Squidward?”

Spongebob blushed, immediately. The squirrel sighed.

“I thought so,” she mumbled, folding her arms across her chest. “Did he say he was gonna come?”

The sponge nodded. “He said, ‘I’ll see if I can make it work’, which in Squidward-speak, is practically a yes!” groaned Spongebob, staring up at Sandy with his huge baby blue eyes. “He’ll come, right, Sandy?”

Sandy hesitated. She didn’t really know Squidward that well … but he did seem to have a soft spot for Spongebob. Awkwardly, she replied, “I mean … I can’t say for sure, but he did say he would try. Let’s be patient, okay, Spongebob? Maybe he just got caught up with something.”

Spongebob sighed, then repositioned his face into its usual chipper smile. “Alrighty. You do usually know what’s best, Sandy.”

“I sure do,” she giggled. “Oh, and Spongebob?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t cut his cable this time,” she said, before walking off to get more punch.

-0-

By 9:30, the party started to go a bit haywire. At this point, practically all of Bikini Bottom was at Spongebob’s house, except for Squidward -- and Larry thought it would be a great idea to play Truth Or Dare: Extreme Edition. The rules were pretty much the same as Truth Or Dare: Standard Edition, but with one exception: each subsequent truth or dare had to be more extreme than the last.

It started off alright. A few people were dared to take off their pants, or do a somersault down Conch Street while blindfolded. However, as the game progressed, the stakes grew astronomically. At one point, Patrick was dared to eat half of Spongebob’s pineapple. Later, Sandy was dared to juggle three of Plankton’s bombs, while riding a unicycle. Even later, Larry and Mr. Krabs were dared to switch shells and wrestle -- which wasn’t really destructive. Just disturbing.

The dares were stupid, but if there was one thing Bikini Bottomites had, it was a complete lack of common sense. Or any sense, really.

It certainly didn’t help that as the night progressed, the partygoers grew more and more … inebriated. The punch itself was non-alcoholic, but apparently, Karen and Plankton had taken it upon themselves to bring their own alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

By 10:30, Squidward still hadn’t shown up yet. Several people had either passed out or thrown up. And the pineapple was a complete disaster.

Spongebob sighed. He was seated on his living room sofa now, watching as the partygoers reveled inside (and outside) his home. Of course, the sponge was happy they were enjoying themselves -- but this day was supposed to be about him, and … well, nothing had gone as planned. His entire house was destroyed, it would take days to clean up the mess -- and Squidward hadn’t even bothered to show up! The nerve.

“Hey Patrick,” muttered Spongebob, waving a tired yellow hand at his drunken best friend.

Immediately, the starfish stumbled over to him, drink in hand. “Wha… haha … whasss’ up, Spunchblarb?” he slurred.

Spongebob pointed to the drink in Patrick’s hand. “Could I have that?”

Patrick grinned widely. “Yeeeeeahh! Now -- now, yer talkin’, buddy!” And with that, the starfish handed Spongebob his first drink of the night.

-0-

About three drinks in, Spongebob Squarepants was well and truly intoxicated. Which was nice, in a way. Now, the world was a weird, misty haze, and he didn’t have to worry about his pineapple being destroyed, or his party being ruined, or Squidward, or whatever. Now, he could just be peacefully drunk and stupid, just like everybody else in his house. Blissfully unaware of the world around them.

As the night went on, Spongebob began losing track of time. What time was it? Midnight? 3:00 a.m.? Did it even matter?

Over the course of one very stupid evening, Spongebob made more than a few bad decisions. For one, he bought like, ten mops online. Which was both counterproductive (he was a sponge) and financially irresponsible (he was also a frycook). Later, the sponge swam to the surface of the ocean to see how long he could breathe without water. He fainted within the first ten seconds, and had to be retrieved by Larry. After that, the night became a dizzying blur. Spongebob was certain he had been driving, at one point, and also dancing, and maybe singing?

Either way, several hours later, Spongebob was still dancing in his living room, a lampshade stuck on his head, when he felt something on his shoulder. Turning woozily, the sponge tried to get into “kara-tay” position, and ultimately failed.

“Who -- what -- stay back! I’m warning you!” shouted the sponge. “I know … er, kar .. karat … carrots?”

There was a familiar sigh, then a soft chuckle. “Oh, you moron,” came a voice, a voice that Spongebob loved so dearly, even in this drunken state. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“Squ … squib … ?”

“Yeah,” said Squidward, wrenching the lampshade off of Spongebob’s head. “It’s me. Sorry I’m late.”

Spongebob looked up at Squidward -- and in his inebriated, hazy stupor, he couldn’t take it. He loved him so much, and for so long. It hurt. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “Squi -- Squidward, you -- you came,” the sponge stammered, his bottom lip quivering. “I -- I didn’t think …”

“Hush,” said Squidward, looking around the room. “This is, uh … wow, you really had a rager, huh? I didn’t think you had it in you, Spongebob.”

Stepping away, Squidward began picking up random items off the floor -- the punch bowl, some photographs, and a spilled carton of milk. The octopus had to step over and around several bodies, which were lying passed out on Spongebob’s floor.

“Listen, I’m gonna try and find a way to get everyone home,” said Squidward, sifting his way through the pile of garbage and bodies. “Everyone else is knocked out -- ”

Spongebob had had it. He’d had enough. He’d planned out this whole day perfectly, just for Squidward to not show up, for his whole house to be demolished in the chaos. Sure, he was glad everyone had a good time, but deep down, Spongebob was a little selfish, and deep down --

“I don’t care about everyone else!” shouted Spongebob, clenching his fists at his sides. “I care about you, Squidward!”

Squidward, startled, nearly dropped everything he was holding -- and before he could properly respond, Spongebob fell over, unconscious.

-0-

For once, Spongebob didn’t wake up to the sound of his foghorn. Instead, he woke up to the sound of the television nearby. Very soft dialogue wafted its way over to the sponge, bathing him in its pleasant familiarity.

“Why, Joey, I think you’re right -- the killer is closer than we seem to think!”

“Then we best get cracking, Detective Heartthrob!”

Groaning, Spongebob sat up -- a dull, throbbing pain coursing through his skull. Dear Neptune. What happened last night? There was the party, the drinking, and … Squidward, maybe? Spongebob felt his heart drop at the thought of his neighbor, and sighed. He hadn’t gotten to tell Squidward how he felt. Attempt 57 had failed. Miserably.

Blinking slowly, the sponge looked around, and with surprise noted that his bedroom was not a mess, like it had been during the party. In fact, it was squeaky clean. The only thing out of place was the living room television, which had been moved to the end of Spongebob’s bed. The TV was playing an old rerun of As The Tide Turns, from the murder mystery arc. A smile tugged at Spongebob’s lips. How ironic.

Wait a minute. Who moved the TV?

Just then, there were footsteps on the stairs -- the tell-tale pat-pat-pat-pat of someone with four legs. Squidward. He was still here! Steeling himself, Spongebob sat at attention, gripping the blankets tightly.

When Squidward entered, he was holding a tray of food and wearing a long pink apron. When he saw that Spongebob was now conscious, the octopus jumped, nearly dropped the food, then steadied himself just in time.

“Squidward!” said Spongebob, cheerily. “You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here, you nitwit,” muttered Squidward. “Who else was gonna clean up that messy party of yours?”

Squidward crossed the room to place the food tray on Spongebob’s nightstand. Once there, the octopus shoved a glass of water and two pills into the poriferan’s hands, with one simple command: “Drink.”

Spongebob did so, gratefully. Then, he asked, “The party … what all happened?”

“I don’t know, but it was a mess,” sighed Squidward. “I’m pretty sure half the town was completely passed out by the time I got here. I’m surprised the cops didn’t get involved.”

“Oh,” said Spongebob, feeling very guilty all of a sudden. “Did -- did everyone get home okay?”

“Yeah,” said Squidward. “Listen, don’t -- don’t worry about it, okay? I took care of everything. Your house is clean, Gary is fed, everyone got home. That’s all.” Squidward’s cheeks were stained red.

Spongebob smiled, his heart jumping happily in his chest. “Thank you, Squidward.”

After a moment of silence, Squidward brought the food tray up to Spongebob’s lap. “You should … you should eat that,” he muttered, then took a deep breath. “Look, I … I’m sorry I was so late, alright? The truth is, I … I got caught up.”

With a mouthful of food, Spongebob asked, “Wif whaf?”

Squidward grimaced. “You’re disgusting,” he snapped, then looked away, blushing brightly. “Anyway, I … was trying to get ahold of your birthday present. It was supposed to be delivered here, to Conch Street, yesterday -- but I guess there was a mix-up, and it was instead delivered to Conch Road, which is … in an entirely different town. Several hours away.”

Spongebob blinked. “You drove all the way to get it?”

Squidward scowled. “Whatever,” he snapped, pulling a small red present box from beneath Spongebob’s bed. “Either way, it’s here. So, I guess … open it, maybe.”

Shoveling down the rest of his food (much to Squidward’s disgust), the sponge quickly shredded the pristine red wrapping paper to reveal -- a boxed set of the entire As The Tide Turns series. The extended edition, with all the bonus scenes and commentary tracks. And to top it all off -- the box was signed by the stars of the show.

Spongebob looked up at Squidward, eyes shimmering with shock and awe. “Squidward, this is -- this is amazing, I thought they didn’t sell these anymore!”

“Oh, trust me,” said Squidward, shuddering. “You have no idea what I had to do to get my hands on that.”

“Let me guess,” said Spongebob, holding up two yellow hands to form finger-guns. In his best Joey impression, the sponge said, “You had to kill a lotta folks, didn’t ya, Detective Heartthrob?”

Squidward chuckled immediately. In one suave motion, he leaned against Spongebob’s bed, and pointed a finger-gun of his own. In his best Detective Heartthrob impression, the octopus replied, “I did, and I don’t regret it at all, Joey!”

The two laughed for a good long while. Then, suddenly embarrassed once more, Squidward looked away. Taking a deep breath, the octopus said, “Look, Sponge, I -- last night, you said something kinda weird, and I wanted to know if -- if maybe --”

“Huh?”

“You said -- you only cared about me, not anyone else, and I -- I wanted to ask,” stammered Squidward, “... what exactly … you meant by that.”

Spongebob’s eyes widened. Oh, barnacles. Did he really say that? Well … there was no hiding it now. Gripping his sheets tight, Spongebob steeled himself for what was to come. “It means I … I wanna keep hanging out with you, Squidward,” said the sponge, staring down at his yellow knuckles. “I wanna hang out with you more than anyone else.”

Squidward swallowed, hard. “Sponge, what are you saying?”

Spongebob looked up. Their eyes met. “I like you,” said the sponge, smiling nervously. “A … a lot.”

A long moment of silence passed. Spongebob’s heart hammered furiously at his chest. Then, Squidward sighed, and picked up the ATTT boxed set. Walking over to Spongebob’s TV, the octopus inserted the first disc, grabbed the remote, and returned to Spongebob’s side.

Lifting the blankets, the octopus said, “Scooch over.”

Spongebob blinked, then did as instructed. “Why?” he asked.

“You really are an idiot,” muttered Squidward, climbing into bed with him. “It’s a Sunday, the Krusty Krab is closed, and we have a whole boxed set to watch together. Might as well start now.”

Spongebob smiled, happily. “So -- so you -- ”

Squidward rolled his eyes. “If you must know, yes, I … I like you,” he snapped. “I’m not gonna drive halfway across the ocean floor for just anybody, you know.”

Spongebob grinned stupidly. “I guess not.”

With that, the show began, its melodramatic theme tune echoing pleasantly across Spongebob’s pineapple home. And just below the bed, Gary let out a soft, contended meow -- which almost certainly meant “finally.”

-0-

References:

The line about cutting Squidward’s cable is a reference to the episode “Party Pooper Pants”, in which Spongebob cuts Squidward’s cable to get him to come over for a party.

[lancetuckershairgel]

Summary: Chris and Lucy are reunited.

Words: 1,977

Warnings: Stealing, language, emotions, slight mention of former drug use

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Tag List: @book-dragon-13 @jobean12-blog @marvelgirl7 @southernbell91 @buckysforeverprincess @anxiousamandapanda @buckysteveloki-me @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety

AN: Cant do a read more. Also it was brought to my attention that several people didnt get notifications for Chaoter Four that was posted early last week so if you get the notification on this one let me know.

Chris climbed into his truck with a groan, his back stiff and head mildly aching. He rested his head back against the headrest of his seat and closed his eyes, no longer having to rush anywhere. The day had been long and he thanked God that it was Friday. Chris had taught three safety courses to the different fifth grade classes and had two meetings with disgruntled parents about a bullying situation and then he went straight to the college after work. School greeted him with an essay presentation, which he hated, and two exams that he really should have prepared better for. 

Chris rubbed his weary eyes and ran his hand over his beard before finally sitting straight and turning on the ignition. The red Ford came to life with a grumble and he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Normally he would have gone straight home after class, especially with how tired he was, but not only was it a Friday night it was also a three day weekend and he was looking forward to an extended weekend and day off.  

"You can't take care of others if you others take care of yourself." Chris' psychology professor would say at the end of every lecture.

"You need a break Chris, you always put too much on yourself." Erin often told him during one of their phone conversations or occasional meet ups at the bar. 

"Yolo." 

Chris never quite understood that one but the teens at the middle school seemed to use it as a personal mantra. After driving for a few miles he took a right and pulled into a gas station lot and parked. Reed's Gas Mart had been around for a long time. One of the oldest businesses in town, owned by a simple old man, had been around since 1958. The place had quite the reputation built around it. From the late fifties to the early eighties it was a place all the kids came to for an after school milkshake and a handful of candy and to listen to Jerry tale his stories. Unfortunately times changed and things became less simple. Teenagers still frequented the store but not for the shakes.  Early in Chris' career as a police officer he'd made a few drug busts in the parking lot but well before that he himself had done a few things he wasn't proud of out back behind the dumpsters. Old man Jerry had caught Chris and a few buddies of his with a crack pipe once and chased them off with a broom, giving Chris a few good whacks across the back of the head all the while hollering about telling his mother. All had been forgiven though and Jerry was a good man, hard worker, and he wasn't going to let a few punk kids ruin his business. Chris gave a slight smile at the memories and entered the store, the ding of the bell overhead indicating that he had arrived. 

"Hey Jerry." Chris greeted the hunched over, white haired man 

"Hey Chris." 

Jerry's reply was short and he didn't look up at the off duty officer. His eyes were focused across the room, narrowed toward the candy aisle. 

"I got one. Just stuffed a chocolate bar in the back of 'er pants."

Chris rolled his eyes. Jerry used to love having kids come into his store, he'd even given Chris and his siblings free ice cream cones on the really hot summer cones when they were younger, but over time as Jerry aged and more and more people used his store as their personal sinning grounds the less excited the man became to see a youngster enter his store. He was always suspicious of anyone under the age of twenty five, convinced they were all up to no good. 

"I'll keep an eye out." Chris chuckled lightly as he walked over to a rack of snacks. 

Chris grabbed a bag of beef jerky and peered across the shelves at the suspected thief. To his dismay he indeed witnessed a crime. What was even more disheart was the fact that he recognized the beg being used to stuff merchandise inside. Blue, faded, torn. Rainbow pin and sharpie "artwork". Even with her hood pulled tight over her head, a classic move to avoid facial recognition on the security tapes, Chris knew that it was Lucy. He watched for a few seconds as she grabbed another item and quickly shoved it into her bag. 

"Come on kid, what are you doing?" Chris thought to himself

Lucy made her way to the back of the store, near the personal care items and Chris ducked down and watched through the large circular mirror on the wall as she stuffed another box into her backpack. He sighed and made his way to the counter. 

"You're right." Chris ssigh to Jerry with a sigh

"Goddamn kids." Jerry muttered under his breath

"Let me handle it, alright?" 

"Fine but I want her out of here and if I catch her anywhere near my store I'll give her the whooping she deserves, you hear me Christopher?" Jerry wagged his crooked finger in Chris' face

"You'll do no such thing old man." Chris rolled his eyes "Put that thing away and go back to  watching the game. I'll take care of this."

Lucy's head was down low as she quickly grabbed the items she had came for. Headphones were plugged into her ears and heavy metal played loudly to calm her nerves. her heart pounded in her chest as she rounded the corner to make her exit and she froze in her tracks. 

"Shit." She muttered when she saw Chris standing at the counter staring at her with disappointment, his arms crossed over his chest. 

"Hey Luce." Chris finally said after a prolonged stare down 

Chris could easily read body language thanks to his training in the academy. He knew how to spot suspicious behavior or signs of an abuse victim and he learned to read people by how their left eye twitched or how they shifted from foot to foot. Lucy may have looked defiant, shoulders back and head high, eyes glaring death rays in a dare to interfere with her mission but Chris could see behind that. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bookbag until her knuckles were white. Her bottom lip quivered slightly. Her pupils were wide and pleading. Lucy was scared. 

"Whatcha got there?" Chris took a step forward and relaxed his arms as he gestured toward her bag

"None of your business." Lucy snarled as she stared down Chris

"Come on, hand it over." Chris sighed. He Judy wanted to go home, get a nice buzz off a few beers, watch Game of Thrones, and go to bed. 

Lucy mentally walked herself through her options. Would she be able to get out the back door before Chris caught her? What if he called backup and her name ended up on a wanted list and cops showed up at the school? 

"I'm fucked." Lucy said to herself and decided to comply. Maybe Chris would go easy on her. 

Slowly she handed over the incriminating bag and Chris took it. He eyed Lucy disapprovingly  as he looked inside and her face blushed furiously with humiliation and anger as piece after piece of the stolen merchandise was pulled out and placed on the counter. A box of tampons, a box of bandaids, a few cans of soup, a roll of half used toilet paper, and a bottle of equally used hand soap lined the counter. Chris furrowed his brow as studied the items. 

"And the candy bar Missy." Jerry gruffed out with a glare

Chris glanced at Lucy and she hesitated. The chocolate was the one thing she was really hoping to get out with. Chris held out his hand impatiently and Lucy reached behind her back and pulled the Hershey bar out of her pocket. She slammed it into Chris' palm with such force that the pieces broke apart. With a sigh Chris put it on the counter with the other items. 

"What do you have to say for yourself girl? Stealing from a hardworking old man, none of you have any respect for your elders anymore! Need a good ass whoopin is what you need. Even stole from the bathroom." Jerry ranted and Lucy visibly cringed

"That's enough, Mr Reed." Chris interrupted 

"I want her dealt with Christopher. Arrest her."

Lucy tensed and Chris held up his hand 

"Just wait a minute Jerry. Look at what she's got here. This looks like necessary stuff, doesn't it? Luce? Is everything okay at home?"

"That's not your business." Lucy held back the tears, letting anger overcome the sadness 

"Is your dad not buying things you need?" 

"Stay out of it!" Lucy hissed through her teeth, shaking

"I can't help if you don't talk to me, kiddo." Chris tried "Lucy I ca-"

"You're not in charge anymore. You don't work for my school because you left." Lucy spit the word out like it left a bad taste in her mouth and she stepped closer to Chris "You're not even on duty, you can't do shit. What are you even wearing?" 

Chris looked down at his red plaid button up shirt and frowned. 

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing" Chris asked, slightly offended 

 The realization that Lucy had never seen him without of his uniform came too late. Lucy had snatched the Hershey bar and bolted, the door slamming shut behind her. 

"Lucy!" Chris shouted but there was no use. The girl was gone. Chris groaned and buried his face in his hands as he leaned against the counter. 

"She left the property. I'm calling the police." Jerry stated as he picked up the landline phone

"For christ sake old man it's a candy bar. Puts you back what? A buck twenty five?" Chris took the phone and put it back on the receiver and slammed a couple dollars on the counter "In fact…"

He walked back to the cooler to grab his sought after beer then grabbed a proper back of bathroom tissue and a bottle of soap. 

"How much for all of it?"

Jerry shook his head but began to ring up the groceries. 

"You keep coddling these kids, Christopher, and none of them will learn their lesson. It'll be $48.62. "

"No wonder people steal from you." Chris jokes as he ran his credit card through the machine. He knew Jerry couldn't control the inflation and prices of goods these days. The old man swatted at him but did crack a toothless grin. 

Chris bid farewell to Jerry and took the bags out to his truck. He placed them in the front seat and drove off, keeping an eye out for Lucy the whole way home. He had no idea where she lived and with it being a holiday weekend it'd be Tuesday before he could get Erin to get her address out of the file. 

"Hang in there kid." Chris muttered as he parked the truck in his driveway. 

Lucy ran until her lungs burned. Tears streamed down her face and she collapsed to her knees, sobbing. She shouldn't have to steal to provide for her family. She cursed herself for not telling Chris what was going on but she couldn't. He wouldn't help her, he'd just call the social services and they'd ruin everything. She caught her breath and wiped her eyes angrily before standing up and brushing the dirt off her jeans, cursing herself again for getting them dirty knowing it'd be a few days before she could wash them. She clutched the broken candy bar and made her way back home not ready to face the fact that she was going to turn up empty handed. 

[moonlitfirefly]

Copy and pasted:

Essay from Josh Lerner, MD after the CDC loosens guidelines for all of us on the front lines.

In one of the most vivid scenes in the HBO miniseries "Chernobyl" (among many vivid scenes), soldiers dressed in leather smocks ran out into radioactive areas to literally shovel radioactive material out of harm's way. Horrifically under-protected, they suited up anyway. In another scene, soldiers fashioned genital protection from scrap metal out of desperation while being sent to other hazardous areas.

Please don't tell me that in the richest country in the world in the 21st century, I'm supposed to work in a fictionalized Soviet-era disaster zone and fashion my own face mask out of cloth because other Americans hoard supplies for personal use and so-called leaders sit around in meetings hearing themselves talk. I ran to a bedside the other day to intubate a crashing, likely COVID, patient. Two respiratory therapists and two nurses were already at the bedside. That's 5 N95s masks, 5 gowns, 5 face shields and 10 gloves for one patient at one time. I saw probably 15-20 patients that shift, if we are going to start rationing supplies, what percentage should I wear precautions for?

Make no mistake, the CDC is loosening these guidelines because our country is not prepared. Loosening guidelines increases healthcare workers' risk but the decision is done to allow us to keep working, not to keep us safe. It is done for the public benefit - so I can continue to work no matter the personal cost to me or my family (and my healthcare family). Sending healthcare workers to the front line asking them to cover their face with a bandana is akin to sending a soldier to the front line in a t-shirt and flip flops.

I don't want talk. I don't want assurances. I want action. I want boxes of N95s piling up, donated from the people who hoarded them. I want non-clinical administrators in the hospital lining up in the ER asking if they can stock shelves to make sure that when I need to rush into a room, the drawer of PPE equipment I open isn't empty. I want them showing up in the ER asking "how can I help" instead of offering shallow "plans" conceived by someone who has spent far too long in an ivory tower and not long enough in the trenches. Maybe they should actually step foot in the trenches.

I want billion-dollar companies like 3M halting all production of any product that isn't PPE to focus on PPE manufacturing. I want a company like Amazon, with its logistics mastery (it can drop a package to your door less than 24 hours after ordering it), halting its 2-day delivery of 12 reams of toilet paper to whoever is willing to pay the most in order to help get the available PPE supply distributed fast and efficiently in a manner that gets the necessary materials to my brothers and sisters in arms who need them.

I want Proctor and Gamble, and the makers of other soaps and detergents, stepping up too. We need detergent to clean scrubs, hospital linens and gowns. We need disinfecting wipes to clean desk and computer surfaces. What about plastics manufacturers? Plastic gowns aren't some high-tech device, they are long shirts/smocks...made out of plastic. Get on it. Face shields are just clear plastic. Nitrile gloves? Yeah, they are pretty much just gloves...made from something that isn't apparently Latex. Let's go. Money talks in this country. Executive millionaires, why don't you spend a few bucks to buy back some of these masks from the hoarders, and drop them off at the nearest hospital.

I love biotechnology and research but we need to divert viral culture media for COVID testing and research. We need biotechnology manufacturing ready and able to ramp up if and when treatments or vaccines are developed. Our Botox supply isn't critical, but our antibiotic supply is. We need to be able to make more plastic ET tubes, not more silicon breast implants.

Let's see all that. Then we can all talk about how we played our part in this fight. Netflix and chill is not enough while my family, friends and colleagues are out there fighting. Our country won two world wars because the entire country mobilized. We out-produced and we out-manufactured while our soldiers out-fought the enemy. We need to do that again because make no mistake, we are at war, healthcare workers are your soldiers, and the war has just begun.” -Josh Lerner, MD.