#which is to sift through piles of garbage to find stuff that i actually like

[writtenonreceipts]

four thousand words later and another random fic is done.

A companion to this fic.  Can be read separately but some stuff might make more sense if you read the other first. Based on characters from the “Throne of Glass” World.

The Boys are Back in Town

Modern AU In which Rowan and Lorcan are up to their hijinks and where Lorcan ponders murder, his feelings, and food allergies. Warnings: None, just slight language.

“I made a mistake.”  Elide leaned against the kitchen counter--nose scrunched and fingers knit together beneath her chin.

Lorcan narrowed his eyes confused. Elide Lochan rarely, if ever, made mistakes.  Lowering his cup of coffee from his lips he shook his head.

“I find that hard to believe,” he said.  He sat across the counter from her on one of the absurdly uncomfortable stools.  Lorcan suspected the only reason Elide and Aelin had bought it was because it was on sale.

Elide’s lips puckered into a pout. “It’s true and you are going to hate me.”

That was impossible, but Lorcan didn’t say that.  He’d only just barely managed to tell Elide that he really, really liked her.  In reality, he was head over heels in love with her, but telling her that meant actually saying the words and admitting the feelings.  Not to mention the storm Aelin Galathynius would rain down on him after Elide was sure to tell her.

“Lorcan,” Elide said again.  She slipped around the counter until she came to his side.  She leaned into him until her chin rested on his shoulder and her lips nearly grazed his cheek.

It would be so easy to take her mouth with his.  So easy to let his hands trail over her body, through her hair.  Aelin wasn’t home so they had the apartment to themselves for a long while.

“Elide,” he said, his voice low.  He turned his face and their noses grazed.  He found her dark eyes bright with humor boring into his.  

“Aelin and I are having girls night,” Elide said.  Her mouth quirked to one side. “She went to pick up Lysandra and Manon.”

And just like that, Lorcan’s mood went to hell.  Sighing, he looked away from his girlfriend and stood.

It had been a while since the two of them had had time alone together.  Between her going to school and his job--he felt like they were ships in the night that kept passing by with little more than dim lights acknowledging the other’s existence.

“Hey,” Elide said, she snatched a hand out and cupped his cheek bringing his attention back to her.  Her expression softened. “I know.  I know what you’re thinking.  But if you want someone to blame, blame Rowan.”

“Rowan?” Lorcan scowled. “Why?”

“He said you all needed a boys night.”  Now Elide was full out grinning.  She chuckled as Lorcan’s confusion and small bit of anger.  Slipping onto her toes she brushed her lips against his and sighed.  “He sounded desperate.  Aelin’s been giving Fleetfoot more attention than him.  I think he’s jealous.”

As if summoned, the demon puppy flopped into the kitchen whining softly.  Elide laughed and stepped away from Lorcan to dote on the dog.  He frowned at the creature.  While Aelin was the one who ended up getting the dog and not Elide, Lorcan knew it was only a matter of time before Elide made goot on her promise and got an animal of some sort.

Just then the front door burst open.

“Y’all better be fully clothed,” Aelin announced as she marched into the apartment.  Behind her came Lysandra and Manon.  None of the women looked ready for a girls night.  In fact, everyone was in their pajamas.

“That was one time,” Elide said.  She glared at her roommate, hands on her hips. “And we weren’t even doing anything.”

Aelin shook a single finger in Lorcan’s direction.  “Mm-hmm.”

Lorcan held his hands up in a silent surrender, not wanting to say anything that would make him the topic of discussion for girls night.

Rowan waited outside the apartment, leaning against the door jam. “Let’s go Salvaterre.  Dorian and Aedion are meeting us at the bar.”

“Have fun!” Elide said.  She reached up to give Lorcan another sift kiss before she exclaimed the need to find her pajamas.

Lorcan shook his head and grabbed his jacket hanging over the side of the couch.  He, for once, offered a small wave to Manon and Lysandra.  The latter was the only one to acknowledge him.

One outside and away from the door, Lorcan punched Rowan. “This was my first Friday off in weeks and I was planning on spending it with my girlfriend.”

Rowan ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I made a mistake.”

#

Unlike Elide, Lorcan was fully convinced Rowan was quite capable of making mistakes.

It had only been a month ago when he and Rowan were running for their lives through an impound lot.  Giant dobermans had been very close to eating them and Lorcan had decided then and there that he would never get into another one of Rowan’s antics.  Granted, that night he’d also been helping Elide by reducing a pair of Manon’s shoes from an impounded car...but still.  It was Rowan’s fault because it had been Aelin who first insisted on needed help.

It was a convoluted mess.

Now, Lorcan had been hoping that night was long gone and would only be a distant memory that Rowan and Lorcan would never, ever, bring up to anyone.

Oh what a fool he had been.

“No,” Lorcan said.

“Lorcan,” Rowan began.

“No.”

“But.”

“Hell Rowan, after last time?”

“This will be nothing like last time.”

“I don’t believe you.  Nor do I trust you.”  Loran ran a hand through his hair, loosely contained in a low bun.  He’d been meaning to cut his hair for a while now, but Elide had insisted he keep it long.  So he had.  

“It won’t be that bad,” Rowan insisted.

They stood in the alleyway behind Rowan’s apartment staring at the sickly green dumpster where tenants put anything, and everything.  It stank like ten different somethings had died back here and had ten different somethings growing on them.  Not to mention it was the prime of summer and the nights stayed unbearably hot more often than not.

“I’m not dumpster diving,” Lorcan said.

“The bag shouldn’t be down that far,” Rowan said.  “I had to hide something from Aelin, so I put it in the trash.  How was I supposed to know she’d take the bag out while I was in the shower?”

“What kind of boyfriend hides stuff from his girlfriend?” Lorcan shot back.

“A stupid one.”

“Obviously.”

Lorcan ran a hand down his face. “Where are Aedion and Dorian?  We can just chuck them in the dumpster for us.”

“Ah, well, they are maintaining our cover at the bar,” Rowan said.

Yes.  It was official.  Lorcan hated Rowan.  And Aelin.  Of course she was behind this.

Cursing, Lorcan sighed.  “You could have at least warned me.” He gestured down to his clothes, nice jeans and an expensive button up Elide had gifted him for their two-month anniversary.

Rowan brightened.  “Oh, I actually came prepared.”

Not five minutes later Rowan was throwing a thick blue jumpsuit at him, complete with rubber gloves.

“Fenrys might have committed a felony to help me out,” Rowan explained.

Lorcan zipped up his jumpsuit over his clothes and sighed.  He really didn’t want to do this.  He glanced to the dumpster then at Rowan.

“You know I’m allergic to peanuts, right?  What happens if someone just left a giant tub of peanut butter in there?  My throat closes up and everything.”

Rowan rolled his eyes and muttered a few curses under his breath, completely ignoring Lorcan.

“Do you want to give me mouth to mouth in that sort of situation?” Lorcan added. “Hell no.”

“Lorcan,” Rowan said.

“Hell no,” Lorcan repeated.

“Get in the dumpster or I tell Elide how you really feel about her.”

Several vicious curses flew out of Lorcan’s mouth.  “Mother-loving blackmail.  Dammit Whitethorn.”

“Get in the dumpster lover boy.”

“It had better be one impressive ring,” Lorcan muttered and he approached the dumpster.  Sending prayers up to whatever gods were listening, he launched himself into the trash pile.

#

It was worse than he’d imagined.

At least Rowan had also had the foresight to bring back up shoes. But Lorcan could have lived without feeling his socks getting soaked by some mystery liquid.  

“Oh I hate you,” Lorcan muttered.  He tossed another garbage sack out of the way.  They all looked the same and Rowan had no idea what brand of garbage sacks he used.

The cheap ones, he’d said.

Sure, because having a 401k and benefits meant you had to skimp on things like decent garbage bags.

“It’s not like you can get the plastic embroidered with your name,” Rowan added as they still had no luck finding the right bag.

“What kind of stuff are we looking for?” Lorcan asked.

“Mail,” Rowan shrugged.  He tore open a black bag and gagged.  “This was not my smartest idea.”

“No?  Really?” Lorcan snorted in derision.

Of all the things he’d done, Lorcan was sure this was the most disgusting.  Even worse than trudging through a pig farm with his foster brother while trying to run away from home when they were ten.

“What were you even hiding from Aelin anyways?” Lorcan finally asked.

Rowan tucked his nose in the collar of his shirt a moment and looked way.  If Lorcan wasn’t mistaken he was sure he saw a flush rise on his friends cheeks.

“Rowan?”

“It..I...you wouldn’t understand,” Rowan finally said.

Lorcan’s brows shot up.  “I wouldn’t understand?  Then why am I out here digging through trash with you?  Why not bring Aedion or Dorian and leave me at the bar?”

“That’s not,” Rowan began.  He paused.  It was the first time in a very long time that Lorcan had seen the silver haired man flustered.  “I got a ring.”

A banana peel smooshed in Lorcan’s grasp.  He shook it off with a curse and stared at Rowan.  “You got a what?”

“A ring,” Rowan repeated.  “I got Aelin an engagement ring.”

“You don’t even live together,” Lorcan said.  

“We practically do,” Rowan said. “Seriously.  My closet is full of more of her close than mine.  Not to mention how often I find her underwear lying around.”

“Stop,” Lorcan demanded.  He was tempted to find the moldy cup-noodle he’d just passed over and toss it at Rowan’s face.

The two stilled.  Distant sounds of the city passed around them.  Occasionally a siren shrilled or voices shouted back and forth.  A car backfired.

Lorcan finally found what he wanted to say. “You’re serious? You guys have only been dating a year.”

“I love her.” Rowan’s words were so genuine and sincere that Lorcan found himself sneering.

Love.  What did any of them know about it?

Rowan could tease him about being in love with Elide all he wanted, but was he?  Really?  Lorcan had no idea.  Every time he thought he was he found himself doubting everything.

His only experience with love had been an elusive relationship spanning four hundred miles and eight months with Essar.  They’d met every other weekend spending barely a day together with phone calls few and far between.  And Lorcan had thought...well he had thought that had been pretty damn great until Essar had called it off saying she found someone in her neighborhood.  Two months later she was engaged.

Not that Lorcan was mad or hung up about it.  Not really.  Because, he supposed, he’d only had surface feelings about Essar.  But with Elide...there was nothing surface or superficial about the way he felt about her.

But was it love?  Lorcan had no idea.

“Come on,” Rowan said after Lorcan had remained quiet for too long. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way about Elide.”

Lorcan shrugged.  “We’ve been together five months.”

“And?”

“And what, Whitethorn?”  Lorcan held a bag of trash in either hand. “How am I supposed to feel?  It’s Elide.  You know her.  You know what she’s been through.  And you know me.  I’m the worst possible person for her.  Hell, for anyone.”

Rowan nodded silently along, pursing his lips. “You’re an idiot.”

“A bigger idiot than the man who threw out an engagement ring?”

“I wanted it to be romantic,” Rowan said defensively.  He opened his mouth to speak again when he stilled.  “Oh hell.”

Lorcan glared. “If I hear a single dog start barking, I am going to murder you.”

“It’s Aelin,” Rowan hissed.  He flapped a hand trying to get Lorcan to shut up.

“How could you possibly know that?” Lorcan asked, but then he heard the very definite sound of Aelin’s laughter.

The two men looked at each other for a split second before dropping down into the piles of trash.

“Rowan, I swear,” Lorcan snarled.

“Shut up.”

The two stilled and listened as Aelin’s voice came closer.

“I can’t believe you left your laptop here.”  Lysandra, by the sounds of it, was not pleased.  “Do you really need it?”

“Yes,” Aelin replied.  “And I can’t have Rowan bring it, after what happened with my car at the impound lot.”

“Did you ever get the full story about that?” Lysandra asked.  “It sounds like some weird stuff happened.”

“Apparently Rowan and Lorcan have a secret society,” Aelin said.

Their voices disappeared.  Neither man moved for several moments.

“What do we do?” Lorcan asked.  His face was pressed entirely too close to some old chinese food.  

“I’m not leaving without that ring,” Rowan said.

“I’m telling Aelin you threw her ring in the dumpster, just so you know,” Lorcan said.

Rowan grunted.  He was probably just grateful Lorcan had stopped calling Aeling “fire-breathing bitch queen.”  

They hurriedly began sifting through more trash.

“I think I found it,” Rowan practically yelled.  He hauled up a white trash bag and grinned at it.

“Well find the damned ring and--” Lorcan began, but he cut himself off when Lysandra’s voice rang out.

Cursing, the men dropped back into the trash.

“I’m telling you, you’re reading too much into it,” Lysandra said.

“He’s been acting so weird,” Aelin replied. “It’s the second weekend in a row he’s been busy or made plans or whatever that haven’t been date night.”

“Aelin,” Lysandra groaned.  They came to a stop just beside the dumpster. “You literally sound just like Elide, I’m going to slap you.”

“I’m serious,” Aelin said.  “He only got like this when he gave me a key to his place.  And then when he got that new job.  He’s going to break-up with me.”

“No he’s not,” Lysandra nearly shouted. “Just breath.  Every couple has their off weeks.”

Aelin let out a sigh. 

“Come on,” Lysandra said, “or else Elide and Manon will have drunk all the margaritas without us.”

Silence again.

“You’re an idiot Rowan,” Lorcan said.

“Shut up.”

#

They found the ring.

Which was a good thing because Lorcan had also found an abandoned wrench at the bottom of the dumpster that would make a very good weapon of mass destruction to use against Rowan, if necessary.  

After hauling themself out of the trash, they sat next to the dumpster for a long while.  They’d long become accustomed to the stench that would likely be a perpetual stain on their skin.

“Why would Aelin think I’m going to break-up with her?” Rowan asked suddenly.

“What?” Lorcan glanced over at his friend. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard her and Lys talking, she thinks I’m breaking up with her,” Rowan said.  “Why would she think that unless it’s something already in her head.”

Lorcan groaned.  He did not want to deal with this.  This was Aedion territory.  Dorian territory.  Hell even Chaol had gotten good at this sort of advice giving crap.

“Lorcan I’m serious.”

“Man,” Lorcan said.  He banged his head against the dumpster once. “How the hell should I know?  You both love each other right?  You spend every waking hour around each other.”

“We don’t live together,” Rowan said. “What if this is moving too fast.  She’s been through a lot in the boyfriend arena.”

“Rowan,” Lorcan said, reaching out to punch his friend roughly in the shoulder. “You’ve been happier in the last year with Aelin than I have ever seen you been before.  You said it yourself, she makes you want to do better and be better.  Or whatever Hallmark crap it was you spat out.”

Rowan snorted, shaking his head. “I see why Elide keeps you around.”

The night continued around them. Cars on the street passed by in a flurry despite the late hour. Lorcan barely paid it any attention, grateful they were tucked back in the alley.

“I think Aelin is just scared of losing you,” Lorcan said quietly. Rowan shifted giving Lorcan an incredulous look.  “I'm serious. They way she looks at you, man. The both of you are happier around each other and losing that happiness would terrify anyone.”

“And here I was thinking you were hoping she and I would break up.”

Lorcan rolled his eyes. Maybe a part of him had wanted that, in the early days. Bit that was back when life had been screwing him over time and time again. Back when he'd known Aelin as the competitive piano player, the girl who never took no for an answer, who seemingly had no soul when it came to dealing with problems.

Lorcan was convinced all of those things we're still true and forever would be, but he'd also seen how Aelin used those personality traits to help others. Elide in particular.

“Yeah well,” Lorcan finally said, “Aelin owes me fifty bucks from poker last week so until she pays me back she can stick around.”

Rowan’s phone gave a buzz and he reached over to look at it.  He swore lightly. “Aedion and Dorian are wasted.”

After Rowan lent Lorcan a change of clothes, they went to pick up Dorian and Aedion from the bar.  The two were indeed wasted.

“Just so you know,” Rowan said as they drove back to Elide and Aelin’s, “you should tell Elide how you feel.”

“Why do you guys smell like you spent the night in a dumpster?” Dorian complained.  He rolled down the window of Rowan’s car and stuck his head out.  

Aedion muttered something incomprehensible as he flopped over into Dorians lap.

The two sober men ignored them.

“I’ve decided to never take advice from you,” Lorcan told Rowan. “And this is the last time I help you with anything.”

“I’m going to need help setting up how I’m going to ask Aelin,” Rowan said.  He glanced in the back to see that Dorian and Aedion were completely passed out.

“No dogs and no dumpsters,” Lorcan said.  “You’ll be fine.”

Rowan barked out a laugh and shook his head.  Grinning, Lorcan shot Elide a text telling her they were on their way, two drunk men in tow.

As they passed through the city, Lorcan pondered what would happen if he did admit how deep his feelings for Elide ran.  Maybe he would turn out like Rowan--giddy and happy to the point he was literally walking on water.  Lorcan wouldn’t mind feeling like that all the time.

So as he glanced at the ring box Rowan tucked in the drink holder between the front seats he decided that both he and Elide deserved to be disgustingly in love.  Even if it meant Elide would insist on getting a dog.  

[enigmaincrimson-personal]

Thinking of reformatting the blog.

Or... migrating to a new iteration.

Not sure which.

Just feels like the way things are right now is causing too many hard feelings and maybe a fresh start is what I need.

Or at least a refresh for that matter.

The reason why I haven’t done so already though is mostly because I don’t want to lose anyone that did stay despite my own personal issues and instability.

So part of me is thinking that breaking the verses down again and separating the more convoluted verses back into smaller parts... would bother those people less than trying to start over.

The Sonic and Zelda verses are definite victims of this fragmented messiness... and I’m tempted to split them apart and give them their own verse pages.

The other muses page needs to be streamlined and polished... and I really would like to somehow get side features like the gallery (Which needs to be cleaned) back into the forefront.

I really doubt I’ll be ever good enough no matter how hard I try, but I should at least try to regain something... or at least make things better for anyone that’s still left.

I should also eliminate the failed sideblogs and fix the NSFW blog while I’m at it. Not really sure how though...

I’m having enough trouble figuring out a better way to sift through all the badly written and overly convoluted junk on the main blog.

There’s something good down there and I know it, but I never can consistently find the right way to put it in a way that actually makes sense.

I know that there’s an amazing muse in there that I would love to share with everyone, but it feels like I’m just bugging everyone because of all the other stuff that’s piled on top of it that pretty much distracts and even ruins the intended experience.

It really hurts when I know what I should be able to offer, but with things the way they are now... with me pretty much having to try to organized my ever confused and muddled thoughts alone... I feel like I’ve failed everyone.

And honestly... I know there’s people out there telling people that I’m some sort of evil nasty creep out there... and how we’re “mortal enemies” and making all sorts of racket about how I should just die and save the world the trouble.

You never actually won. I’m still here. I still care about you. What’s upsetting me that you are obsessed over such small and idiotic things... I mean, is it really a crime to decide to go for a simple and organized theme or not wanting to take someone’s advice?

I’ve been around here for over ten years... and longer in real life. I’ve seen many people try to get rid of me and drive themselves mad in that time many times over. They’ve even tried to outright murder me in some cases... if the dangerous situation they tried to put me in didn’t do me in first.

Your wasting your time and your life trying to get rid of someone over issues that really shouldn’t have been issues. I’m not even angry... I’m just disappointed and frustrated that I have to keep seeing these same stupid lines being repeated over and over while being spread around on this garbage site like it’s some big moral issue.

Discussion isn’t godmodding. Plotting isn’t gaslighting. Fixing one’s mistakes isn’t toxicity. Asking for personal information is a rights and privacy issue. Your personal fetishes aren’t important than everyone else... and I really could keep going on and on here.

And seriously... just because someone sunk thousands of dollars in custom blogs doesn’t mean that they have the right to try to bully someone who just happens to have mutual followers into oblivion. Just because Tumblr’s badly made app crashes on your phone doesn’t mean that it’s someone on Tumblr’s fault.

They never tried to communicate, not like sane people... They only charged in and accused, frothing at the mouth like rabid dogs... and screaming like an angry mob while acting like the smallest thing is an affront to their moral standing.

Not even once has these people even tried to understand anything from the other person’s view... They never tried to resolve the situation. They just immediately dubbed the other person as the most evil of things, plugged their ears, and acted like their rights were more important than everyone else.

The funny thing... is that I’m not angry. I feel sorry for them. I pity them. After all, what sort of life do they live that an unpaid hobby is so important that they are willing to tear themselves and other people down over something as stupid and petty as follower count?

I’m getting tired of getting kicked out of groups because of these people though... Apparently feeling passionate about creating is some terrible crime... and not being able to draw my muses myself without some sort of technical aid is an offence.

It’s supposed to be a hobby... We’re supposed to create together, have fun, and see what new and beautiful things might come from it.

Instead, these people stomp all over it over dumb shit like “I wanna harem and you don’t want that kind of relationship” or “I want all the canon muses to myself and you’re in the way.”... as well as others like it.

Of course I’m going to be upset. People have literally wanted to beat me to death and hunted me daily because one of them pushed me through a church window and wanted to punish me for it.

But who is going to believe me when I say such things? I can’t prove it... The only witnesses are the people accusing me of the equivalent of “She’s keeping the crops from growing” and even saying about it is supposedly some major sin.

Yes, I know I’m rambling and drifting from one subject to another.

In the end, I still care and I don't like to see anyone get hurt because of me or anyone else... especially over the dumb and should have been easily and peacefully resolved petty shit that I keep mentioning over and over.

I love seeing your creations every day, even if I’m not sure if I’m welcome or allowed to be there with how things have been. Usually I end up just watching from a distance as a result.

I know I’m clumsy and at times irritating, but communication has, is, and will always be a precious commodity.

[holdin-out-for-a-hero]

Rookie- Leon Kennedy X Reader Ch.13 part 1

Warnings: none

A/N: this chapter was so long that tumblr couldn’t handle it. Anyways, thank you all for reading, I’m gonna make a long gushy post about this series ending.

Hanging up the phone, you wiped the tears from your eyes. You just had to make the hardest phone call ever. Telling your brother that your parents were dead was not something you ever expected to do. And to be speechless when he asked "how, why?"

You told him it was a virus that brought down the city, but didn't mention the zombies. He couldn't handle knowing that, if he even believed it in the first place.

You turned back around at the three others sharing your hotel room, and they all looked away as if they hadn't heard a thing you just said on the call. They really sucked at acting.

You went to the bathroom to calm down. Splashing cold water on your face, you hoped it would alleviate the redness on your nose and around your eyes. You held onto the sink, closing your eyes and taking a few breaths. Even though you were out of raccoon city, out of danger, you weren't out of the words just yet. You had a feeling that no matter how much time had passed, you would never be done with raccoon city. But you didn't want to think about that. Once your face had returned to a normal color, you stepped out of the bathroom.

Just as you entered the room, there was a knock at the door. Claire opened the door to see the woman from the front desk.

"I thought you all might want to look through this," the woman began, entering your room without permission and laying a box onto one of the beds, "This is the lost and found bin. Feel free to keep whatever you want, it's been collecting dust for years. You all need it more than anybody."

You looked down at your clothes and knew what she meant.

"Alright, I'll leave you to it," she said, making her way to the door, "if you need anything, let me know."

"Oh!" Claire got the woman's attention, "We could use some more of those little soaps and towels!"

The woman nodded, and turned around, before turning back and saying, "And be careful, there might be some freaky stuff in there. None of us employees have the nerve to go through it." How reassuring, you thought. The woman then left.

And with that, you, Leon, and Claire began looking through the box. While there were a few nasty things, there was some good stuff too. There were a lot of large shirts, perfect for sleeping in and just long enough that you'd be ok if you couldn't find any pants. There was one pair that could possibly fit you, but you let Claire have them because you already picked out a shirt that went down to your knees. Leon was having a much easier time with this, as most of the clothing actually fit him. The issue for all of you, though, was undergarments. This wasn't a wardrobe, this was just a collection of items left behind, so there weren't many options. There were no bras, but you figured a tank top under the T-Shirt might make it a little less obvious that you didn't have one on. At least you hoped that would work.

You held up a pair of lacy underwear with your index finger, eyebrows raising. Claire laughed.

"It's an option," you said.

"You seriously considering it?" She asked.

"Yes I am, I've been stuck in the same pair all week. I have no other option. Unless of course you want them."

"I'd rather go commando."

Claire sifted through the box a little more, then lifted her hands, giving up.

"Screw it, that's what I'm gonna do!"

Leon lifted up a large pair of dirty boxer briefs, dropping them back down with a scowl on his face.

"Me too."

You laughed quietly; you never thought you would have this conversation, especially with two people who were basically strangers. But the three of you have been through too much for anything to be awkward anymore.

The woman once again bust into your room, towels in her hand this time. You panicked and dropped the lacy underwear in your hands, earning another laugh from Claire and Leon.

She gave you a weird look before dropping the towels and soaps on the bed, too, before making her leave.

"Who gets the shower first?" Leon asked, unknowingly creating tension between the three of you. Claire looked to you, then to Leon, and then to Sherry.

"Sherry," she said, and you all could agree on that.

"When was the last time each of you showered? Cause I haven't showered since the 22nd" you said, raising a brow. As it was now the 30th, you figured you had won second place.

"You go next," Claire sighed. She then looked to Leon.

"Ladies first," he smiled at her. So it was settled, Sherry would go first, then you, then Claire, and then Leon.

Sherry went to take her shower, while Leon and Claire dug into some of the food you had just bought. You didn't realize how hungry you were until Leon opened a bag of chips, and as if on cue, your stomach growled.

"Hand me the bag," you said to Leon. He lifted up his chip bag to you. "No, I mean the grocery bag."

He leaned over the table to grab it and handed it to you, and you thanked him. So, your first meal in a long time was a stick of beef jerky and a little Debbie snack cake. How nutritious. Still, it was satisfying to your starving stomach. So you, Leon, and Claire made a full meal out of gas station garbage food, quickly depleting the bag of its contents. You all had to stop yourselves, though, so that Sherry would have some too.

Claire moved from her place at the table and moved to a spot on the bed next to you, turning on the TV.

"I hope something good is on," she said to herself. You watched silently as she flipped though the channels, eyes widening once she passed the news channel.

"Go back," you said, getting closer to the tv. She did as you told her, though confused.

"Congress has decided to send a missile to end the deadly viral outbreak in Raccoon city," A news reporter said. Then, it cut to a press conference, where an important politician made a statement.

"This decision was not an easy one, but in order to ensure the safety of the rest of the nation, we are doing what has to be done."

You stood frozen, as did Claire and Leon, who had just tuned in. The air in the room was thick, so thick that you couldn't take a big enough breath. Your hands started to shake in front of you, so you balled them into fists to hide it. Luckily for you, though, Sherry opened the bathroom door and walked out; it was your turn now, and you wasted no time to get behind the safety of the bathroom door so that they wouldn't see you break down. You closed the door a little too loud behind you, cursing to yourself because you didn't mean to draw so much attention to yourself.

You turned on the water and stripped yourself of the dirty clothes that clung to your skin. You looked down at the pile below you: you would definitely be throwing those away. After that thought, you mind went back to what was plaguing it.

You couldn't believe it. While you understood it and knew it had to be done, you just couldn't accept that Raccoon City would be no more. Your hometown was gonna get blown off the map.

You stepped into the shower, barely feeling the scalding hot water on your skin.

Your friends, family, colleagues: dust in the wind.

You sat down on the floor of the tub, watching the water around you turn muddy.

The playgrounds you used to love as a kid, the stores you shopped at, places you visited: all gone.

You wanted to scream, to let out those emotions constantly bubbling up in your chest, but you couldn't. Not with Claire and Leon and Sherry so near. You had to be strong, you were the oldest, the most experienced. You couldn't break down. Not yet. But it was so hard to keep it in once you knew that every aspect of your past, your life, would be wiped clean.

Just like your body in this shower, your entire life was washing away in front of you. There was no way to stop it, though. And pretty soon, your emotions shut down. You've never been more thankful for numbness in your life. It helped you focus on the task at hand, washing your hair, then your wounds, and then the rest of your body.

You knew you couldn't stay in the shower forever; Leon and Claire still had to go, and you didn't want to steal them of hot water. You turned the shower off, and stepped out onto the floor mat. Drying your body off, you wondered how long it had been since your skin was clean. It had been at least a week, you thought, and you wondered how Leon could have ever been attracted to you with you smelling like sweat and blood. Maybe because he started smelling like sweat and blood, too.

You looked down at the clothes below you. You had grabbed a tank top, a very large t-shirt, and the lacy underwear. Someone else's lacy underwear. You debated what was worse: wearing someone else's clean lingerie or your own underwear that you had worn all week. Neither choice was a winning option, but you opted for the stranger's underwear, as it was actually clean. If you had found a pair of pants, you would've gone commando, but that wasn't really an option. You slid them on along with the tank top.

Studying your bite in the mirror, you were so thankful to be immune. You remembered a document from umbrella's lab, it said that approximately 10% of the population was naturally immune to the virus. And you were lucky enough to be one of those people. But so many other people were not as lucky.

The bite didn't look too bad anymore and didn't need to be covered with a bandage, so you slid on the long T-Shirt. You were right, it did go below your knees. You looked down at your legs, and then to the bite on your calf; it had healed up so much that it barely looked like a bite anymore, it looked more like a scrape, which meant you wouldn't scare anybody with it.

You dried your hair and face with the towel, working up the courage to leave the bathroom. You did have an accidentally dramatic exit, so you knew it would be awkward. Still, you had to bite the bullet. Hanging up the towel and picking up your clothes, you headed out the door.

"So, should we make a dirty clothes pile?" You asked, trying to sound as casual as you could. They were still glued to the TV, but Claire snapped out of it and showed you the hamper that was in the closet.

"You're up," you said to her.

"You saved me some hot water, right?" She asked, her smile, though, seemed fake.

"I'm not evil."

She laughed, and headed towards the bathroom.

You sat down next to Sherry on the bed that she and Claire would share. She was watching the TV as well, eyes glued to it just like Leon. It was still the news, and the story was still Raccoon City.

"When's it gonna happen?" You asked Leon.

"Tomorrow at noon," he said, his voice muffled because his jaw rested on his hand.

"Do you mind if we turn this off," you asked. You didn't want to hear anymore and you had a feeling Sherry didn't either. She was like you in that she had her whole life in Raccoon city.

Leon looked over to you and sherry, noticing the same expression on both of your faces. Was it grief? Fear? Disbelief? He couldn't tell. He flipped through the channels until he found something more Sherry-friendly, finally settling on cartoons.

The feeling of dread came back; you knew you were not out of the woods yet. Something was about to happen, and you felt it. You just had no idea what that event would be. But you felt it in your bones. You remembered the flash drive, still tucked into your wallet. An instinct told you to hide it, to make sure it doesn't get into the wrong hands. Again, you didn't know why, you didn't even know who would count as the wrong hands. You just knew that it wasn't safe in your hands. At least not now.

Then you had an idea, but it was a risk, and it wouldn't be the permanent hiding place for the flashdrive. Still, you figured no one would find it for a while. You spotted the lost and found box, it's mildly disturbing contents displayed in their fully glory. The woman who brought it in said she never looked in it, you figured no one else would, either.

You stood up, grabbing the box and putting it on the table. Then, you took the flash drive from your wallet and put it in the pocket of a shirt and wrapped it into a ball. You stuck it at the bottom of the box. You then situated the clothes on top, making sure the nastiest, most questionable things were on full display so that no one would have the nerve to go through it.

"Do you think we're done with this?" You asked Leon. He looked up from the TV again.

"Think so," he began, "I certainly don't want to touch anything in that box again."

"I don't want to keep looking at it either, I'll take it back to the front desk," you replied. Holding the box against your hip, you opened the front door and walked out into the open air. The sun was now setting, casting a beautiful glow along the plains around you. The late-September chill was finally catching up to the area, making your bare-legged self speed walk to the lobby. You opened the door, smiling at the woman at the front desk, before putting the box on the counter, saying a brief thanks, and leaving.

As you re-entered the room, you noticed Claire had finished her shower and put her clothes in the hamper on top of yours. Leon had entered the bathroom now, and you could hear the shower running again through the wall.

Leon must have known that since he was the last one to shower, he could take his time. And that's exactly what he did. He took so long, in fact, that you forgot he was still in the bathroom, and you, needing to pee, walked in.

You opened the door and took a step inside before you froze at the sight of Leon. From the other room, Claire tried to warn you but it was too late. He had his pants on, thank God, but you still caught him shirtless.

"Im so sorry!" You said, hand over your mouth. You were sure your face was bright red. You turned back to walk out.

"Wait," he said. You looked back at him, confused. "Can you help me with my shoulder? I'm having trouble wrapping it one-handed."

So you stayed in the cramped, steamy bathroom with him. He leaned against the sink while you blotted his bullet wound with disinfectant. You remembered when he got shot, all the emotions that went through your head as you watched him writhe in pain. The panic must have kept you from thinking straight, because you never checked to see if the bullet went through or if it was still imbedded in his shoulder. You turned his back slightly to look, and luckily there was an exit wound. When you got to cleaning the back, though, he winced under your touch.

"You ok?" You asked, pulling the pad of alcohol away from his skin.

"I'm fine," he said, "But you could kiss it better." The man turned to watch your expression, that stupid smirk on his face again.

And you, being completely burnt out, thought that was the funniest thing you had ever heard.

"Your bullet wound?" You said between giggles, "You want me to kiss your bullet wound? Will that make it all better?"

"Actually, I think I know of a better place for that kiss to go," he said, leaning forward.

"Really? And where's that?" You asked. He tapped his lips. You pulled away.

"Let me finish your shoulder, first. Then I'll see what I can do."

The man pouted as you turned him once again and grabbed the role of gauze. You began wrapping the bandages around his shoulder. This time was much different than the first time, though, because this time you weren't sobbing your eyes out and Ada wasn't judging you the whole time. Once his shoulder was wrapped, you placed a kiss on top of the bandage.

Leon cleared his throat, tapping his lips once again. Your rolled your eyes, but relented.

Your lips met his again, gentle and slow as ever. He grabbed you by your waist, pulling you closer, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. You knew that man had you whipped. As you separated, Leon took your arm.

"And how's your shoulder?" He asked.

"It's not that deep of a wound, actually. It barely broke the skin," you showed him the bite wound, which was mostly a bruise now, there were a few scabbed places, though.

"How about your stomach?"

"Same thing, wasn't that deep," you said, almost lifting your shirt up to show him until your remembered that you only had a lacy thong underneath. Thank God you caught yourself, he’d didn’t need to see all that just yet...

"Hey, uh, I don't want to interrupt anything but Sherry needs to get in there," Claire said from behind the door.

The two of you walked out of the bathroom, trying, and failing, to act as if nothing had happened.

Although it was only around eight when everyone was done showering, the hectic night before combined with the lack of sleep and adrenal fatigue meant you all were too exhausted to stay up any longer. It was probably the earliest you'd ever gone to sleep, you thought, yet you were so relieved for it. And even though all four of you would later fight nightmares, insomnia, and varying degrees of PTSD, this night was perfectly peaceful. For the last time in your life, sleep came easily.

[meetthetank]

Maled[I]ctum Part 1

Rating: Mature  Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Category: F/M Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationship: 4S/A2 (NieR: Automata) Characters: A2 (NieR: Automata), 4S (NieR: Automata), Anemone (NieR: Automata), Original Machine Additional Tags: bloodborne refrences, Blood and Gore, Robogore, little bit of eldritch nonsense, rating will be bumped up to E when I post chapter 2, Hallucinations, Nightmares, A2 has big guilt, Post-Ending E (NieR: Automata)

Summary: “A bottomless curse. A bottomless sea. Source of all greatness, all things that be.” A strange wreckage washes up on the shores near the City Ruins and A2 is sent to investigate.

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18281306/chapters/43265159

The day the hulking machine carcass washed ashore was bedlam. No one expected something of that size to simply appear on the shore without anyone picking it up on their patrols. The Resistance androids scrambled around, trying to delegate who would shoulder the other’s daily tasks so that an investigation team could be assembled. 9S pleaded with 2B to abandon their work to go look for themselves, but 2B remained steadfast against it, no matter how much he pouted.

Just when Anemone reaches the end of her rope, A2 appears with a bag of the latest materials scavenged from the deeper parts of the forest.

“Uh...did I miss something?” she asks, setting the sack down on Anemone’s table.

“You’re timing is as perfect as ever, Number 2. I need you to investigate something...strange.”

“Isn’t that his job?” she jabs her thumb in the direction of 9S, still pleading with 2B.

“If they didn’t already have something to do, yes. But I need you to take a look at something that washed up on the beach this morning.”

“Uh...What?”

“We’re not sure where it’s from, but it looks like part of a huge machine lifeform.”

“Like the dead one that’s out on the ocean?”

“That’s just it,” Anemone says with a sigh, “We need to know if it’s part of something else we don’t know about, or just the dead goliath falling to pieces.”

“Got it. I’ll contact you when I reach it.”

They exchange a brief goodbye before A2 leaves the camp, with 9S immediately rushing up to complain to Anemone about her poor choice of investigator.

In the past months, bordering on a whole year now, since the fall of the tower. Life had been easing into a semblance of peace as the machines had all either died or turned non hostile, mindlessly wandering or coming together in groups. A2 found herself in the difficult position of...well, being alive. After her fight to the death, she felt rather silly. It made her few confrontations with 9S...awkward when they weren’t outright hostile. She kept away from the Resistance camp when she could, preferring instead to stay in the Forest Zone.

And consequently, near 4S.

A2 had encounters with him before, but only brief ones. He gradually took over the old castle, converting it into a base of sorts. He was the only inhabitant, save for a few aimless machines, the blacksmith machine, and more recently A2 herself. It only started as infrequent visits, a few odd job, but soon she found herself spending more time in the castle than anywhere else.

4S was more than welcoming, he even set up a room of her own with a bed and everything. He helped repair her, going as far as to replace the large patches of skin that had fallen off over the years. The seams are still dissipating, hidden under a thin shirt and shorts. Part of the deal of her getting new skin was having to wear something. Especially after nearly giving 4S an overload one day.

What bothers A2 the most, is she can’t seem to place why he’s done these things for her, beyond genuine kindness.

He even listened, quietly and comfortingly, to her stories of the Pearl Harbor decent….and Number 4.

It makes her feel….weird.

Not in a bad way, it’s strangely pleasant.

The hulking shape on the beach makes her feel….weird.

A bad way.

Anemone was right in her vague description, A2 can’t tell what this mass of metal and the remnants of sea life was supposed to be. The sheets of rusted metal and electronic parts look familiar to her, but what would be defining features are covered in...organic matter. Some of it looks like seaweed or kelp but there are unnerving patches of what appears to be flesh. Bulbous and pale, blood long since drained from its source. It sticks to the metal as if it were meant to be there.

The whole wreckage itself steams like a fresh animal carcass, filling the already heavy sea air with the stench of...something A2 can’t place. She’s been around dead androids, machines, and animals. This doesn’t smell like any of those, it’s far too...salty. It stings her eyes and for the first time in a long while, she finds herself missing her old combat visor. It at least kept shit out of her eyes.

She shakes her head and refocuses on her task, pulling up a screen and contacting Anemone.

“A2, what’s the situation.” she says with a surprising amount of authority.

“Well,” A2 begins, “It’s...something.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“Not a damn clue. It looks like a pile of machine garbage and...organic...stuff. I’m gonna get a closer look at it, see if there’s anything inside it.”

“Okay, be careful.”

“Will do.”

The call ends with a swipe of A2’s hand. Taking a deep breath, she carefully navigates the rocky slope down to the beach proper. She stumbles over the tide-worn stones and rubble that make up the shore, like most shores near ruined metropolises. Some androids said that beaches were supposed to have sand, but she has yet to actually see that. Besides, sand is obnoxious. There’s enough of it in the desert, it doesn’t need to be near the ocean.

The closer A2 gets to the wreckage, the more intimidated she becomes. It’s one thing to see it from far away. It’s another to stand in its rotting shadow. There have been very few times where A2 has felt dwarfed by anything. Once, when she was adrift at sea for nearly a year after the Pearl Harbor Decent, and once while ascending the tower nearly a year ago. This is closer to the sinking dread she felt while stranded in the ocean. She shakes her head, it’s absurd to be feeling like this while standing on semi dry land.

Her foot kicks against something, startling her out of her thoughts. A pile of rocks comes apart and scatters in all directions. Again, she chastizes herself for being startled by something stupid. However as she tracks the stones, she notices something...odd.

It’s not just random piles of stone, they’re built, stacked in little towers about a foot high in a line from the shore to the wreckage. A2 immediately reaches for her Type-4O Blade hovering behind her as she realizes she’s not alone. Another sound reaches her over the sound of the surf, something dragging through the stones of the beach. She follows the line of little rock towers towards the sound.

A shambling shape near a hole in the wreckage catches her eye. A machine, a medium biped, drags its heavy leg in a limp. It wears something over its head, some kind of dirty white cloth that flutters in the ocean breeze. A2 stalks up behind it to gauge if it’s a threat or not. Since the fall of the tower there have been very few hostile machines, but years of combat have taught her the hard way to never let her guard down.

It doesn’t take notice of her, even though she’s not being particularly stealthy. The shroud it wears covers its eyes, which upon further inspection are covered entirely with gnarled barnacles, rendering it totally blind. In fact most of its body is covered with shelled sea life, its joints grinding against the rust and shells clinging to it. She tapps its arm to see if she can provoke a reaction. A mechanical growl she expects.

She does not expect it to start speaking.

“....Androids…” Its harsh voice grates her ears, “...YoRHa….Blasphemous murderers….Blood crazed f-fiends…”

A2 recoils from the strange machine, that sinking feeling returning in the pit of her gut.

It makes a corrupted sound, almost like its coughing. A wet sound, despite it not having any biological components within it, “Atonement for the wretches...by the wrath of M-...”

It stops in its tracks and sinks to the ground, its rust crusted fingers sifting through the stones, “Mercy….Mercy for the poor wizened children…”

Again it coughs, the sound so...real that A2 believes it’s about to vomit seawater, “Lay the curse upon them...Each wretched automaton will be plunged into a lifetime of misery…”

The temptation to end this strange machine’s life makes A2’s hand twitch. It’s as if the thing is accusing her, specifically, for the deaths of its brethren. Which...might not be entirely false. She’s killed a lot of machines in her six years of life. It’s that realization that stays A2’s hand. For now. The little machine is none the wiser, she thinks. Its attention is locked onto its growing pile of rocks, nearly identical to the twenty or so A2 had passed.

It’s a surprise to herself that she leaves the machine to its piles. She didn’t come here to kill machines, even ones that curse her for her sins.

A dread chill runs down her spine as she pushes her way past a curtain of drying kelp. Cool air carries the foul stench of rotting flesh and steaming entrails of a fresh kill, enough to make her double back outside to gag. A deep gulp of sea air later and she’s back inside.

A2’s been inside wreckages of massive carriers before while scavenging for supplies. Most of her life, in fact, has been shaped by one set of ruins or another. Aside from the abundance of plant life, dubious organic material, and oppressive smell of rot, it might as well be some old world garbage dredged up by the ocean. It creaks and groans just like an old ship, it looks like an old ship, it might as well be an old ship filled with dead organics.

So why can’t she shake this dread that claws at her gut and ices her black box. Gazing up at the ceiling nearly a mile high, with only the sunlight filtering through the countless holes in the hull to light the interior, she feels...small. If this was some part of a marine machine...just how big was the whole thing?

Staring down the gaping maw of a cavern leading further in, A2 finds herself missing Pod 042. Since its original owner was resurrected, it returned to her, and as much as A2 did not miss the thing’s constant proposals and queries, she did miss the utilities such as a flashlight and a map. 4S still had a pod, though, and she curses herself for not making the extra trip to borrow it. She would just have to make do with her built in low light vision and old fashioned memory.

Beyond the first cavity, more like the cavern due to its immense size, a series of twisting tunnels and branching paths weave through the groaning rusted structure. Large tunnels split into smaller and smaller paths, some so small that A2 can barely fit through. For her own sake, she sticks to the largest structures, leaving large slashes in the wall to mark her progress. Outside of the branches, it’s a simple tunnel like one of the sewer pipes beneath the city ruins with very few turns and bends.

She guesses that she’s about a half a mile in the wreckage, with nothing much out of the ordinary besides the odd creaking and oppressive atmosphere. A fog begins to form the further in she does, obscuring her vision slightly. Nothing she hasn’t dealt with before. The forest gets so humid sometimes it feels like walking through oil. This is close with the smells of rot bearing weight along with the humidity.

Her stomach drops when she scores a pillar of rusted metal, only to have a strange...slime coat the end of her blade. A thick mucus like substance, the color of which she can’t discern in the low light, drips down her sword. Touching the pillar herself reveals just how sticky the substance is. The whole membrane pulls away from the metal slightly before snapping back and rippling like a liquid. It isn’t often that A2 is put up against something that she’s never seen before but this is just...weird.

Rather than lingering on strange goo, she presses on. All she wants to do is get at least a basic layout of the largest internal structures for Anemone and whoever draws the short straw to break this thing down for scrap. Though how much is actually usable is hard to say. All of the metal is either rusted and a stiff breeze away from falling apart, or covered in flesh and slime.

A strange, putrid gust of wind rushes from deep within the wreckage. It surprises A2 enough for her to jump back and swing her sword at nothing in particular. She immediately chastises herself for getting spooked by the fucking wind. Maybe this place is starting to mess with her head. The sea winds blowing through the countless openings and holes and corridors in the wreck makes it sound like someone...or something is whispering just a few feet away from her. Turning back and telling Anemone that there’s nothing worth looking for in here begins to sound like a better and better idea, but at this point turning back would take longer than just going through to the other end.

She begins to feel...tired, suddenly. As if she’s been carrying a heavy weight for a long time. Again and again, she shakes the fatigue away, but it comes roaring back only moments later. She takes deep, heaving breaths, trying to get any fresh air she can in her lungs. Her pace slows to a crawl and the humidity has caused a thin layer of moisture to form over her skin and make her clothes cling to her body.

A2 sinks to her knees, needing just a moment to regain some strength to press forward. She reaches a hand out to steady herself on what she thinks to be an iron beam, but instead of gritty rusted metal, she grasps something taught, slimy, and strangely elastic. As she rises to her feet, she plucks at it like the string of a musical instrument. It sticks to the metal floor, and extends far up where she assumes it connects to the ceiling, but the thick fog makes it difficult to see….when did it become that thick? It wasn’t like that a moment ago.

This place is definitely starting to play tricks on her…

Rust is replaced with mucus, metal with flesh, and soon A2 wonders when she left the wrecked machine creature and entered the belly of a great sea beast. Her feet dig into the soft, sticky substance that began replacing the ground a few yards back. It catches against her foot and holds fast, like stepping in a patch of deep mud. She feels if she stays in one place for too long, the ground itself will begin to swallow her whole.

Faint rays of sunlight filter through a curtain of mucus and unidentifiable viscera, and A2’s determination is renewed. Finally, she’d be out of this strange nightmare...thing. She’s had enough of bizarre flesh for years. Forever. She’d go back to the Resistance camp, tell Anemone to keep everyone away, willingly take a bath, and let this damn corpse rot in the sun. She pushes her way through the curtain of organic sludge, holding her breath in anticipation of a fresh sea breeze…

...that never comes.

The sunlight she didn’t imagine at least, a large hole in the side of the wreckage overlooks the ocean and lets both light and the surf into the hull. But the sunlight is wrong, filtered through a great, translucent orb suspended in the air by countless tendons and ligaments. It bathes the cavity in a sickly pale yellow, and illuminates a shape writhing subtly within its gelatinous casing. It looks almost like an egg without its shell, and stinks just as bad as one too.

A2 can’t decide if she’s more repulsed or awed by this enormous pulsating, fleshy, repulsive...thing. There’s undoubtedly a sort of horrific beauty to it, but it is in essence, a colossal womb suspended in the air. She’s...transfixed by it, the way it pulses and ripples like liquid and still retains its shape.

For a reason she can’t quite place, she touches it with the very tip of her sword to the bottom-

It isn’t unusual for A2 to be gone for days at a time, but 4S worries regardless. Her maintenance habits are something to be desired, though they’re certainly better than when she first starting hanging around his camp. She at least wears clothes, and doesn’t pick at the skin graft seams as much. That being said, most of the time he has to remind her to perform any kind of self care routines such as bathing.

Usually A2 hangs around certain spots in the forest zone or commercial facility. She rarely if ever goes to the Resistance’s Main camp within the city ruins barring some specific errand. That’s the stomping ground of two androids she doesn’t get along with very well, but 4S considers good friends. So having exhausted her usual hangouts, he approaches the camp hoping to find some lead what A2’s been up to for the past three days.

The first few androids he greets haven’t heard anything about A2, but 9S grumbles on about how she got to go and investigate something interesting that washed up on the beach a while ago. Concern flashes across his face briefly before he snorts and takes a jab at A2’s tendency to “play in the dirt for days”. 2B relays similar information, though offers to help look for A2, which 4S respectfully declines.

All this leads him to Anemone, the last android A2 spoke to according to the others.

“Ah, 4S. Good to see you.” the resistance leader says with a nod, “What brings you here? Everything all right in the Forest Zone?”

“Nothing to report.” he begins, “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh? What can I help you with.”

“A2’s been gone for a while. Not that it’s unusual for her to run off for a bit, I just get worried is all. Any idea where she might have gone?”

“Yes. You might have heard about the unknown wreckage that washed up on the northern beach?”

“Nothing beyond that it happened?”

“I asked her to give it a look, but it’s been three days. I plan on deploying a small rescue team in a few hours, just have to pull some folks together.”

4S shakes his head, “She gets freaked out when too many people come after her at once. I’ll go.”

“Are you sure? We have no idea what kind of threats A2’s found in there.”

“I’ll call if I get into trouble, but if I’m not back by the end of the day, send a squad. Okay?”

“Deal.” Anemone says with a quick nod, “Be careful, 4S.”

“Always am.”

Plip….

                 Plop….

Splish….

                                        Splash….

   Drip….

A2 awakes to the gentle sound of running water and something constricting her body, like a second skin. She sits bolt upright the moment she regains control of herself, the familiar sound of creaking leather and ruffling of thick fabrics alerting her to the odd clothes she now wears.

“What the hell…”

Leather boots come up to her knees, disappearing under an ornate black skirt. Her hands are covered with white gloves, and a visor covers her eyes and displays a rudimentary HUD.

“This is…”

She tugs at the seams of her old YoRHa uniform. As pristine as the day she was deployed.

“Impossible…”

Panic begins to set in. She has no memory of what she was doing before she...passed out? Fell asleep? Why was she on a beach? Why wasn’t the ocean not making any noise? Wasn’t the surf supposed to feel colder than that?

“A2!!”

Her body seizes up at the voice of a long dead ghost. Something locks her joints in place. Fear? No, she’s not afraid...A2 wants nothing more than to turn around and see her face again but…

Something’s wrong…She can’t place it but this doesn’t feel-...

“Come on A2 what are you doing?”

She shoves A2 lightly, playfully, forcing her to turn and stare Number 4 right in the face.

Soft, round features, jet black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a visor that reveals one deep green eye. Number 4 crouches over A2 and places a hand on her shoulder, a feeling so familiar it twists her insides into knots.

“You okay, Number 2? You look really shaken up.”

No doubt about it now...it’s her voice…

“Y-...” a response rises in her throat like bile, “Yeah I’m...I’m fine.”

Number 4 pulls her to her feet with that patient smile A2 was so fond of, “You should be more careful! That fall must have hurt.”

“F-...fall?” A rush of memories further clouds her mind. That’s right…

Being a mediocre soldier, she was prone to stumbling over the uneven rubble of buildings. There was once where she took a spill off the top of a sloped roof and into the ocean. Number 4 made fun of her for days before-...

“Come on, Number 2. The others are waiting for us.”

Sure enough, once A2 tears her eyes off Number 4, she sees the rest of the squad waving to them from the rooftops. Number 21...Number 16...everyone’s...okay?

This isn’t...this can’t…

“Number 2?” Number 4 looks at her with her head tilted to the side.

“Yeah I’m-...”

Again, her body refuses to move. Her legs feel weighted, or bolted to the ground. She tries to call after Number 4 as she begins to walk away, but her throat closes up as she tries to force her name out. It’s hot...it’s so hot in this goddamn uniform. If she could make her body move she’d claw at the ornate fabrics.

                                     Drip…

    Drop….

Her head throbs in time with the pulsing of her black box and a high pitched whine rings in her ears. This is wrong...why does it feel wrong? Why can’t she move? Why doesn’t the ocean sound like the ocean? It’s not supposed to sound like a leaking faucet.

The other squad members hop down from the rooftops onto the beach. A terrible feeling tears at her paralyzed body. It’s familiar, far too familiar. The feeling of being surrounded. Trapped. Cornered…

This shouldn’t be. These are her friends, her old squad. There’s no reason for her to feel like they’d attack any moment.

Their vacant stares and stiff movements tell her otherwise.

“Hey...Number 2? Come on what are you doing?”

A2’s eyes lock on Number 4...or what is pretending to be Number 4. Her breaths are rapid and heavy, her vision clouding with static and dead pixels.

“Y-...” The words stick in her throat, like a hand gripping her neck and squeezing the life out of her.

Number 21’s mouth moves, and though no words escape, A2 can clearly read what she’s saying.

     Splish…

                                   Splash… Plip….

                      Plop….

The others circle around A2. Every system in her body screams at her to move, to fight or to run, but she remains locked in place. The surf laps at her ankles and its cursed unnatural sound threatens to drive her mad. The same sound that’s carried on the voices of her comrades.

Drip….

                                        Drop….

“You...died. I watched you die!” A2 chokes. The words feel like cement in her throat.

                                                                  Splish….

                  splash...

“I watched all of you die!”

                                                                                     Slip…

                              Slop...

At first, Number 4 looks startled, but then a sinister grin warps her features.

                   Plip….

“You’re right.”

                                                                                                              Plop...

“And it’s all your fault.”

A powerful wave crashes into A2’s legs, knocking them out from under her and sending her crashing down into the surf. Water rushes up to cover her face, roaring in her ears and filling her mouth and nose. She gasps and sputters for air, but each time she clears saltwater from her airways, it only opens up the way for more. Panic surges through her systems, forcing the paralyzed motor functions to work. Her fingers scramble for purchase on the beach while her legs kick and dig into the ground. Countless warnings and alerts flash in her vision and blare in her ears, mixing with the roar of the sea to create a deafening sound that dominates her senses.

The loose silt beneath the water makes it difficult to find leverage, but it’s only an extra second before A2 plants her hands beside her and forces herself above the surf. Just as she fills her lungs with air, something sharp digs into her shoulders and drags her back down. She fights against it, but two more attach themselves to her. The more she struggles, the more hooks pierce her skin and pull.

There’s pressure on her hips, covering either side of her. The surf recedes for a moment just long enough for her to see Number 4, straddling her hips.

“Wh-”

A2 tries to speak, to scream, but the surf rushes back into her mouth before she can get more than a syllable out.

Another set of hooks pulls at her stomach, two on either side. They tear through her old uniform and pierce the hidden seams of her skin. A frantic glance down reveals that they’re not simple hooks. They’re hands. Disembodied hands tipped with pointed claws sprout out of the ground and through the bloodied saltwater to hold her down as Number 4 smirks above her.

“No running away now.” Number 4 says directly into A2’s mind.

Number 4 leans down, close to A2’s face. Every single sensory function that still works screams at her to run, to get far away from the danger disguised as her dead friend, but she cannot move. She cannot shout. She can’t scream or cry or curse or fight.

A2 can only watch in horror, as Number 4 plunges her hands through the center of her chest.

Carving through layers of fabric, synthetic skin, and two layers of carbon armor, Number 4’s hands worm through A2’s body till they reach the cavity of crucial components. Claws ease through the protective cage of hardened carbon as if it were merely flesh and sinew, and just when the paralyzing agony reaches a peak, she pulls to the side. A2’s chest cavity is forced open so easily it’s as if Number 4 is opening a shellfish, exposing the delicate components to the surf and sand.

One by one Number 4, and eventually each one of her fallen squadmates, remove component after component and all A2 can do is silently scream as she’s torn apart by hands she’s lost track of. Yet despite missing these crucial pieces of herself she still continues to function. She still continues to live when all she craves is the release of death. When they’ve cleaned out her chest, they tear open her stomach, removing lengths and lengths of tubing and wiring and casting it aside like garbage.

The strength to struggle, to scream or protest leaves A2 a limp, placid heap of cybernetics and parts quietly downing in the surf. Number 4’s lips move, all of their lips move, trying to say something to her, but no words reach her ears over the sounds of roaring water and static.

Number 4 presses a finger to the corner of A2’s eye and pushes in-

“A curse here….A curse there…”

4S watches the strange shrouded machine sit on its knees, its round head turned up towards the sky as if in prayer.

“A curse for he...for she...Why care?”

The machine sits surrounded by piles of stone arranged in little towers. 4S has seen machines construct useless things before, but there’s something...unnerving about these towers. It’s silly, they’re just piles of rocks. Hell, he’s built similar things while sitting on the riverbanks with A2, but not in the amount that this machine has.

“A bottomless curse...a bottomless sea. Source of all greatness, all things that be...”

4S has heard machines recite mantras or prayers before, typically repeating phrases from ancient human texts and holy books.

The machine’s shrouded head turns towards 4S, its barnacle encrusted eyes staring in two different directions, “Listen...Listen for the baneful chants. Listen...as one in trance. And….Weep with us...oh...weep with us…”

Its voice wavers uncannily, like it’s on the verge of tears. A pang of sympathy shoots through 4S’ heart. Has he heard a machine cry? ...Can they cry? He commands the silent Pod 035 to begin recording this phenomenon for later study.

While the machine gurgles as if it has a mouth full of seawater, 4S glances around the outside of the massive wreck for any sign of A2. It’d take him hours, maybe days depending on how complex it is on the inside, to search the thing from top to bottom. He needs to find a starting point, or narrow his view down to a smaller area and go from there.

Perhaps this cloaked machine knows something…

“Hey,” 4S says, tapping it on the head, “Hey can you hear me.”

It doesn’t respond beyond the quiet sloshing of water.

“Okay...Sorry about this.”

He reaches his hand out just a few inches away from the machine’s head. Pale yellow light sprouts from his palm as a hacking interface manifests and 4S is launched into the familiar digital landscape of a machine’s mind.

Or it would be familiar, if it wasn’t inundated with water.

4S never thought he would describe a hacking space as wet, but this machine’s cyberspace was under a constant heavy rain to the point where water pools around various nodes and defense systems. A half hearted troop of enemy cursors attempts to stop him as his cursor approaches the machine’s recent memory storage. He counts himself lucky that this seems to be as tough as it gets, since he’s not the prolific hacker 9S is. The cube like fragments of fallen defense programs fall to the floor instead of evaporating, sending little ripples through the water collected in puddles beneath him.

He accesses the recent memory data, both audio and visual, just as easily. Ruined sections of framework sit against the pure white of hacking space like the city ruins. Was there a more complex defense network that simply rotted away? He had never heard of a machine’s network decaying like this but the evidence is too obvious to ignore.

The machine’s memories play out in front of him, and as 4S expected, it’s mostly it stacking stones one on top of the other only for the tide to knock them over. The only thing he’d consider odd about it would be the sound of the ocean. It seems...too quiet. Perhaps there’s a malfunction with it’s aural systems that has gone undiagnosed.

Suddenly, a figure comes into view.

“A2!”

The memory is dated just three days ago and tinged with an intense loathing towards her. Not just her, but androids as a whole. But if this anger is so strong, why didn’t the machine attack either of them? It must know it doesn’t stand a chance against even 4S, with its rusted joints and rotting hacking space. A machine that understands futility…

He watches as A2 enters a hole in the wreckage facing the beach. For a few hours, the memories return to the stones, until a horrific scream rips through the beachfront. It looks up to see a brilliant flash of light from the far side of the wreckage, and a deep sadness colors the memories.

4S bails from the hacking space with tears running down his face. Barely pausing to wipe the salt water from his eyes he bolts in the direction of the light from the memory with his Pod floating behind him. Waves crash into his legs, threatening to topple him, but he trudges through the surf and loose gravel of the beach.

Pod 035 whirrs alarmingly and places a marker on his map display, only a few yards away from him. Just around the eastern end of the wreckage a gaping hole opens out into the water. According to his Pod’s marker, A2’s signal was just through there. 4S dashes into the hull-

-and immediately dives behind a sizable pile of scrap metal.

The smell of rotting flesh and stagnant seawater, the obscene wet sounds of soaked organic matter hitting itself, the unknown cold that grips his stomach in icy fingers, it all falls by the wayside as he stares at the creature gazing out to the sun and sea.

It’s android shaped, lacking the rigid geometric design of machines, yet distinctly un-android. No synthetic skin covers its body, instead a heap of what appears to be organic materials hangs from half formed ligaments on various places of its body and collects down its malformed left arm. A mass the size of 4S attached to its left arm sits on the ground and is covered in what appears to be sores or pustules. The organic growth glistens like wet flesh and writhes eerily, as if it’s alive. It has no torso, only a series of components that form a crude imitation of a spine connecting its chest to its skinless pelvis.

A trail of thick mucus leads from the machine to a larger pool in the center of the cavity. Above that, an empty sack-like organ hangs from the ceiling, dripping with even more of the sickly yellow slime.

Just beyond the strange organ an android sits on their knees, gazing up at the creature and the sun behind it. Their heavy breathing echoes through the chamber and occasionally they sputter and gasp as if they’re drowning. The tall machine creature turns its head at their sound, its yellow eyes flickering as it studies the android. Its joints grind together as it saunters towards the hypnotized android, dragging the mass on its arm behind it.

Fear for the android nearly makes 4S leap to their rescue, but common sense keeps him rooted in place. Rushing headlong into danger is something Attacker and Battle types, not something Scanner types are made to do (yet something they do anyway). If the creature wanted to hurt the android, it would have done so already. It stands above them, cocking its head to one side and then the other.

Pod 035 makes the objective marker flash on his map once more, accompanied by a quiet chirp. The position is updated slightly, now saying that A2’s signal comes from that entranced android being studied by the skinless machine.

“Shit...A2…”

The machine grasps A2 in its unburdened hand, its clawed fingers wrapping around her neck and shoulders and lifting her up to its eye level. 4S has always considered himself logical, slow to act, and never one to rush into battle. Yet the moment he sees that...thing make motions towards A2, his body acts on pure instinct. Something tells every function in his chassis that A2 was in grave danger.

With as strong a roar as he can muster, he charges out from his hiding place.

“Get away from her!!”

The machine jerks its head towards 4S just in time to see the steel blade fly at its face. It screeches, drops A2 into the muck, and leaps backward into the surf. He grabs at her shoulders, or whatever he can hold on to, and drags her back as far as he can before his grip falters.

“A2? ...A2?!”

She doesn’t give any kind of response, just that dead eyed stare. He glances back at the machine humanoid, which hisses and screeches at him but makes no move to attack. Yet. He shakes her shoulders lightly at first, but grows rougher and rougher has he becomes more panicked.

“A2! Come on, wake up!!”

In a moment of blind hysteria, he balls his fist and slams it into the side of her jaw. Something shifts painfully in his hand accompanied by a dull throb. He grits his teeth through the pain, but it’s all momentary. As soon as A2’s eyes focus on him, confused and furious, all he can feel is relief.

“4S?! What the hell?!” she shouts, shoving him off only to be forced back down by his own hand.

“We can talk later! Right now you need to stay down! It might not register you as a threat…”

“What?! 4S don’t you-”

As she tries to stand up, his hand shoves her back down before he scrambles to his feet. 4S calls his sword back to his hand and smashes it against the ground as he runs towards the furious creature.

“Over here!” he shouts, throwing a rock at the machine’s head.

It lets out an uncanny scream and launches itself at 4S, slamming the crescent shaped growth on its arm down just inches from him. He scrambles backwards, the impact alone rattling his carbon bones. The machine doesn’t give him a split second to recover. It rushes forward, pulling the club-like growth upward with devastating speed.

4S turns tail and sprints away from the machine in an attempt to put some distance between them. Pod 035 fires a volley of bullets that ricochet off its body and only serves to make the creature even more furious. So long as its attention is off of A2 enough for her to get back on her feet, then he can keep up this chase.

He knows he’s not a fighter, that the most he can do is lob Pod fire and occasionally throw his sword. It’s not going to stop him from protecting A2 in any way he can. The creature leaps into the air and swings its growth downwards and 4S side-steps, but the growth comes loose and slams directly into his chest. He’s launched backwards, something shifting inside him painfully before he crashes into the surf. Water rushes into his mouth as he gasps for air.

The disturbing machine gives 4S no time to recover, forcing him to barely avoid a furious barrage of crushing attacks. Each time it attacks it lets out a horrific metallic shriek, and each time it shrieks the grating sound overloads his aural processors. His hearing degrades faster than it can be repaired, leaving him with crackling static, dissonant white noise, and the roar of the ocean.

Pod 035 activates the Hammer program at 4S’ command, producing a large glowing bludgeon that hovers just above the pair. The machine halts its attack and stares at them with searing red eyes, as if it’s sizing them up or waiting for their next move. Mustering his courage and what little strength that hasn’t been knocked out of him, 4S grabs hold of Pod’s chassis and rushes headlong at the machine creature. It charges as well, raising its growth high above its head with an ear splitting scream. The moment it’s within range, 4S plants his feet in the gravel and flesh, and swings Pod 035 and the hard light projection with all his might. His eyes shut reflexively at the moment of impact, his whole body rattling with the force of the blow. He shifts his balance in anticipation for the follow through, but it never comes.

4S cracks one eye open. The monster met his blow with one of its own, locking the golden hammer in place with its oblong, semi-organic weapon. It leans close to him, close enough for 4S to feel its acrid breath on his face, count each of its jagged teeth. Its tongue dangles limply where its lower jaw would be, splashing flecks of oil onto 4S’ face.

A deafening crack sounds from the hammer, then a second, followed closely by a third and a fourth. Pod 035 flashes a warning just before the hard light weapon shatters before him. The machine rears back and slams its own bludgeon down on 4S once, twice, then picks him up by the back of his shirt and throws him across the cave as if he weighs nothing. He tumbles and bounces a few feet before landing next to A2.

His whole body throbs in time with the beating of his synthetic heart, amplifying the pain of the torn muscles and displaced bones. A sharp ache stabs from inside his chest cavity as his black box strains itself to keep his body conscious and operational. Merely gritting his teeth to bite back a scream causes him agonizing pain, and even the soft weight of A2’s worried hands does nothing to alleviate any of it.

He’s never seen her so...afraid before.

Yet despite the pain, 4S forces himself to his feet. If he gives up, both he and A2 will be killed by this abomination, or meet a worse fate. However it isn’t the thought of his own death that frightens him, but A2’s.

It’s completely irrational, but there’s a warmth that calms the shuddering in his body when he humors the idea of throwing himself at this machine so she’ll be able to escape. What surprises him further is his lack of hesitation.

He’d gladly die, if it means she’ll live.

For the first time, 4S feels no doubt in his decisions.

A2’s hand falls away as he stands up. The world spins around her and her lungs greedily fill with air as if those visions were real. She tries to force herself up as well, to not just let 4S attempt to fight this thing off by himself, but her legs give out halfway. Curses die in her throat, coming out as strained grunts and coughs.

Why doesn’t he run?! He’s clearly outmatched by whatever this half made machine is!

She fights to pull herself to one knee and hisses at him to not be an idiot, but time seems to stop as he looks back at her with sad green eyes and says…

“A2...thank you...for giving meaning to my life…”

Her chest seizes up and suddenly it becomes nearly impossible for her to breathe. The last time she heard those words, she lost her closest and dearest friend. A void opens on her stomach as the memories replay in her mind over and over and over until it all melts into reality. Number 4’s face and 4S’ bleed together into one amalgam as the exact same event play out in front of her.

But she will not allow this to happen again. Not while she can still fight.

A2 grits her teeth and rises to her full height. In a movement too fast for even herself to perceive, she reaches one hand out and grabs 4S by the back of his jacket and throws him behind her in the same motion. He crashes to the ground with a yelp and skids another yard before collapsing in a heap.

Power surges through her body enough for bolts of red energy to spark from her body. Her long dormant berserker function roars to life as easily as the day she was deployed, turning every limiter in her system off and letting anger and hate drive her once more. A great flat sword materializes in her hand at her will.

4S can all but watch in horror as A2 strides up to the machine creature.

“A-...Two…” he chokes, “Don’t…”

Her image shimmers in the red light of B-mode, leaving an afterimage of her form with each step she takes. The very air around her seems to crackle with the power she’s been restraining since the fall of the tower. Heat emanates from her in steady pulses, her black box’s attempt to shed the excess energy before it overloads her systems. The recent seams in her skin unravel, melting little by little and reveal the faintly glowing carbon frame beneath.

The machine, not to be outdone by this display of power, roars and erratically smashes its growth on the ground. Untethered flaps of skin flare out behind it creating the illusion of rotting wings. With a long, anguished bellow, the growth becomes charged with its own lightning. Brilliant blue arcs leap from its body and jump across whatever conductive surface they can reach. The entire cavity becomes bathed in flickering red and blue lights as machine and android prepare to fight.

A2 slams the greatsword on the ground beside her, coating the blade red sparks, before rushing the machine head on. A trail of staggered phantoms is 4S’ only clue to her movements. Her blinding speed catches the machine by surprise, its malformed joints shifting into place just in time to block the unseen strike with its organic club. The electrified steel clashes off of a bone like structure, but A2 uses the momentum to follow through with a second and third attack.

The machine strikes A2 with its unburdened fist, landing a clean blow to her shoulder and following with a slam across the chest with the club. Again, A2 closes the space between them, this time maneuvering to its right side and slashing its legs just below the knee. It contorts its body to attack her, but she ducks out of its reach a split second before impact.

The two match each other blow for blow. A2 takes what would be crippling hit after crippling hit without so much of a pause, matching the machine’s unrelenting pattern off attack with her own. As far as 4S can tell, the battle won’t end until both combatants are dead on the beach. He needs to give A2 an advantage somehow, but there’s only so much he can do without becoming a burden on her.

“Pod…” he groans, rolling onto his stomach and holding his arm outstretched, “Prepare...hacking…”

The support unit displays a confirmation dialogue box, its way of making 4S pause and reevaluate his plan of action.

“No time...just...do it.”

A golden halo encircles his outstretched arm. He takes aim at the machine and focuses every ounce of his consciousness into breaching its mind.

“Hold on...A2…”

It takes less than a second to breach the machine’s defense systems. They’re unformed, barely functioning pieces of code that try feebly to resist him. An infant’s cry echoes through the white expanse of hacking space, mixing with the sounds of rain and waves. The further he dives the louder the cries and water become, the more crushing the air around him becomes. A sudden scream shakes him to the core, crashing several of his and its own systems before ejecting 4S from hacking space. Both 4S and the creature are forced back to blinding reality. 4S collapses to the ground, forcing his eyes to remain open to see if all of that was worth it.

The machine doesn’t seem to be fazed at all beyond staggering for a split second. It regains its balance quickly, but that moment is all A2 needs to deliver a crippling blow between its shoulders. It stumbles forward, allowing her to attack a second time. She rakes her sword down its thin spine with frightening accuracy. A spray of sick yellow spinal fluid covers A2 as the creature crumples to the ground in a heap. It screams and whimpers, as if it’s begging for mercy, but it falls on deaf ears. A2 drives her sword into the back of its neck, wrenching it back and forth to dig deeper and deeper. With a sickening crack, she tears the head from its body in one savage movement. Blood, oil, and other yellowish fluids spurt and bubble up from the severed tubes in its neck. It slumps to the ground unceremoniously, the fluids pooling beneath it before being carried away by the surf.

A2 stands above her kill, her sword still tightly gripped in her hand. Almost every seam in her skin has split open and soaks her simple clothing in blood, several places in her frame dented or fractured, and hair doused in machine fluids. 4S, immediately consumed with worry, forces himself to his feet and stumbles over to her, leaning on his pod for support.

“Here, let me-”

She looks at him with horror, and backs away.

“What? A2, what’s wrong?”

Her damaged chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Hey...hey it’s just me...A2 its me. It’s 4-”

In the blink of an eye, A2 runs. By the time 4S calls out to her, she’s already outside the wreckage and half a mile down the beach.

“....No…”

4S sits back on the ground with a long sigh. With shaking fingers, he pulls up a communication channel directly to Anemone.

“...This is 4S. I need...assistance.”

                                        Unit data obtained: Cain

[indeego]

Vent #1

I go to a school where our suites have 2 rooms, 2 people each (usually 3 in one room, but then covid happened). So my roommate, the one I actually share a space with, is sometimes hard to deal with.

We had to take a little personality quiz to be matched with someone, like how messy are you, are you a night owl, etc etc. I think I’m kind of half and half with neatness. I’m not perfect, but I usually leave my messes out of sight/under the bed if I have them. Well, when I met my roommate I thought they would be similar, but no. They flat out told me they lied on the form because they were embarrassed to admit how messy they were or something. Like, bruh. No one is using that to judge you, they’re using it to match you with a good roommate to live with, i.e. someone else who’s messy and won’t mind living in it. It’s all on their side which is good, but there’s so much old food wrappers and cans, and one time a whole ass pizza sat in our room for 3 days. They never do their chores (but to be fair, I’m not so great at keeping up with mine either), never takes out the trash in our bathroom, never replaces the toilet roll, uses a shit ton of said toilet paper as well as q-tips, and I pay to replace all of them. They even told me to my face that they are never gonna take out the garbage from our bathroom, and that if he tried to help with the main room garbage they’d throw up. Me too bitch, I nearly throw up doing it cause we’re all nasty but it has to be done!! Smaller detail but they also use a shit ton of ketchup and most of it gets wasted and thrown away and like fdjklfdsjfskld just make a smaller pile and get more if you need it it’s not that hard. They also planned bringing their dog here at some point this year without consulting me at all, and expects us all to help out with her. They even said “so picking up dog poop makes me wanna puke” and then looked at me all expectantly like I was gonna let out and clean up after THEIR DOG. I straight up had to say I wasn’t gonna pick up their dog’s shit. I can’t take her for walks, I can’t play with her, I’m too busy trying to hold myself together and keep up with school work. I got so stressed out last semester with finals, we all did, and you want to add a dog on top of that??? Another small detail, they are constantly using nasal spray. I get it, you gotta use it to breathe sometimes, but I have never once seen them blow their nose. Not once in the many months of living with them. Just the constant sniffle sniffle sniff sniff sniffle sniffle I’m gonna SCREAM! JUST BLOW YOUR NOSE!!!! Honestly I’m kinda pissed that I could have gotten a different roommate.

Now, part of the lack of motivation with chores and stuff is because they have a lot of mental health issues. Severe depression, anxiety, ptsd, suicidal tendencies, etc. They mentioned to me that they had been in psych wards before for this it got so bad. Now I myself have definitely had a history with poor mental health. It was bad for a really long time, I even got close to a suicide attempt once. I hated myself in every possible aspect, but now I’m finally starting to love myself. I’ve made definite progress, even if it’s not perfect, and I’m really proud of myself for that. But part of that is I stopped making depressing and self deprecating jokes, and turned to more positive ones. I stopped saying I was stupid or garbage or whatever, now I’m like “I’m cool and sexy and powerful actually” and it’s been great. My roommate however, is still in that headspace of self deprecation and self hate and I think it’s starting to rub off on me. I’ve caught myself saying I was stupid more than a few times, and generally my mood has gotten worse over this school year. And just the other week, my roommates depression meds ran out, and Walgreens wouldn’t give them a refill (Walgreens in general has been so shitty to this whole household lately like fuck you Walgreens). This meant they had to go cold turkey for 5 days, and slowly they got more moody and upset and depressed (also tangent, I know they have phone anxiety but that can’t be a catch all excuse all the time. They never call before their prescription runs out, and that’s why they have to go days without it. Then they go through a whole spiral for like a week and I’m just thinking “what did you expect to happen, that more drugs would just instantly appear?” I have anxiety about phone calls too, that’s why I have to write a script out before I do certain phone calls, maybe try that). They were constantly saying that they wanted to die, and all I could offer was a “please don’t do that” and suggest taking a shower, drinking some water, or eating a proper meal. It got so bad that they woke me up in the afternoon saying I needed to drive with them to the hospital because their therapist said it was that, or he’d call the cops to escort them. I spent my entire afternoon at a hospital with them, feeling very uncomfortable with the situation. I now have the job of locking their pills and sharp objects in my nightstand drawer so they don’t kill themselves. I feel like I’m the only thing keeping them from committing suicide, and I already got a lot of trauma from that with my mom, I don’t want history repeating itself with my roommate. I don’t want to fear that I’ll wake up and find their corpse, or that I’ll hear them overdosing from the room over and have to call an ambulance. I thought things would get better after the hospital gave them a month refill of their meds, but things still aren’t improving. They keep saying “what if I just killed myself,” “what if I just die,” “what if I just jump out the window,” “I wanna kill myself” and it makes me so feel so uncomfortable and bad, like if I say the wrong thing I’ll set them off or be responsible for making their mood worsen. I know they can’t control that their brain doesn’t produce what it needs to, but I don’t want to be responsible for them and their life. But I have to pretend to be ok with all of this because they don’t have any other option.

Related to that, they also mentioned how they’ve never really had any real friends before (in person at least), and that it’s been really nice to have the rest of us with them and not hate them. But I sometimes don’t enjoy living with them at all. They’ve told me how they had a poor childhood with no friends, and they feel like all their friends eventually stop talking to them and leave them, and it makes me feel guilty for wanting to do the same thing. They think it means they’re too annoying to deal with (which I mean they’re annoying sometimes but I can deal for now), but I feel like it’s more because they’re kind of a huge ball of negativity and sudden mood swings. I’d feel bad just totally ditching them, but I honestly don’t think it’s good for my mental health to be dealing with them and living with them.

Something else is that they are really into Critical Role. Like, mega obsessed with it. I understand it’s probably a hyperfixation and a comfort show, but they’re so invested that when something bad happens in the show it really impacts their mood. Like, they got genuinely really angry and slammed the door of our room when a character almost died. They lay on the floor for nearly 20 minutes after an episode when something bad happens. They also scream so goddamn loud. They’re in our room with the door closed but that does nothing to muffle the sound. So many loud yells and screams and shouting it makes me want to punch a wall. And the fact that the show goes until midnight or later so our room is just occupied until then. Sometimes I want to go to sleep at a decent hour, or I’m just tired, but I don’t want to make them go into the main room because then ALL of us will hear them and no one wins. They also have put so much of their mental wellbeing on if Liam O’Brien likes their fanart or not. They have said “if Liam doesn’t like this fanart I’m gonna kill myself” like, he’s a busy real life adult man who doesn’t have time to sift through every piece of fanart that comes his way. Sure it might happen, but if it doesn’t then tough luck, you gotta move on. You can’t hinge your entire mental wellbeing on a stranger giving you a like on twitter.

I know that a good option for me would probably be to request a new roommate or something, but I don’t know how that would work. I really like the other two, even if I also have small things I dislike, it’s nothing like this level. I don’t know, if anyone out there sees this and has some advice I’d appreciate it.

[retroreaderr]

It’s Called a Riff. [Sherlock/Reader]

This is my first non-disney post on this blog woo boy but oh well. I felt like my homeboy Sherlock needed some love tbh. Also I listened to too much Nirvana while writing this. my kink is reader being musically talented so don’t be surprised when it comes up a lot in my fics ~🕷️💋

You tuned your guitar once more, then strummed the strings. Satisfied, you looked raised the volume of your headphones then attempted to play.

Let’s see…Open D, open D, first fret D, second fret D, open G, back to second D, open G, two second Ds - you paused to listen to the song - first fret D, open D, second G, and finish it off with two open Ds. That sounded about right. You paused the song and scribbled the notes down onto your notepad, which sat nearby. You then played the riff a few times more in a weak attempt to get your hands to memorize the muscle movements.

“Are you going to play anything else other than that insufferable amalgamation of notes you call a song?”

“It’s not a song, it’s a riff. If you’re going to insult my choice of music, at least get the terms right.”

“I don’t care that much to, honestly.”

“Well then don’t be an asshole.”

“Well then don’t assault my ears in my own flat and I won’t have to. Where’s John?”

You shot a glare at Sherlock before answering, “Don’t know.”

“If you’re going to be annoying as well as unpleasant, you may as well just leave now.”

You huffed, “You started it.”

There was a small moment of silence before Sherlock glanced towards you. Seeing your upset expression caused a twinge of regret somewhere deep in him, and his anger faltered.

“What riff is that, anyways?” he attempted to sound annoyed but you caught the slight remorse. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to attempt to make up for his actions in such a way, though he never actually said ‘sorry.’ It was alright, however - you’d accepted his over-egotistical ways years ago when you’d become his friend in the first place.

“It’s from one of the best songs in existence, of course,” you eagerly jumped off of the couch and, guitar still in hand, you entered the kitchen where he stood.

“Doesn’t ring a bell with me, so it can’t be all that great.”

You scoffed then turned and walked back into the den. You approached the table, which was littered already with piles of miscellaneous junk - mostly yours. You sifted through a box of vinyl records before pulling out a particular album and, in one swift motion, placed it on the nearby record player and turned it on, letting the needle slowly make its way down to a particular spot.

Though you lived downstairs in 221c, you often visited your neighbors after much begging from the landlady - “The boys need some company, you’d be perfect for that!” Her insistent ways payed off too, and over time you found yourself spending more time in 221b than you did at your own flat. As a result, some of your more mobile possessions had also moved their way upstairs.

The song started as the needle touched down, and the song you had been playing earlier rang out. You closed your eyes and bobbed to the music as you moved back to the couch and sat, mouthing the words as they were sang. It took only a few seconds before the music stopped, and you opened your eyes to see Sherlock holding the needle in the air in disgust, preventing the music from playing any longer.

“What is this garbage? Is this really the stuff you listen to?”

“Hey, the crap you play is no better,” your eyes flickered to the violin resting in the corner of the room.

“I play classical music, which I suppose is just too complex for your tiny mind,” he flicked the switch on the gramophone and turned away, practically sticking his nose into the air.

His overconfident expression was wiped off as the pillow connected with his face. He looked at you, surprised, and you raised your arm, another pillow already in hand as a warning.

“Well maybe my music is too emotionally​ charged for you. I forgot you don’t really get the whole concept of feelings,” you say condescendingly.

He seemed taken aback at how defensive you had gotten over something as small as a song. Your last sentence in particular made him think. Perhaps he was being insensitive. But it had never bothered him before, so why now?

He looked towards you again.

You had set the pillow down and had picked up your guitar. You played the riff once again, but Sherlock did not protest this time. Instead, he walked into the kitchen and picked up his unfinished mug of coffee. It was cold by now, but he didn’t care. He stared at the cluttered table, various types of microscopes and flasks were strewn about with the occasional paper with his own sloppy handwriting scrawled across it.

He thought of the many times he had come home from a case to find you organizing his things, and usually his response was rather harsh, now that he thought about it. He would snap at you, telling you he had his things organized in a particular way, and you had just ruined hours of work. In reality, he was just stubborn and hated that he relied on you to keep his own flat neat. Not to say he didn’t often enjoy when you were around, in fact many a time as he worked on his newest case you would chime in with a rather clever remark or two. He could always count on you to bring a new perspective to a case - he had book smarts, but you had the street smarts.

He focused back on your playing, which had become more confident.

“Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be -”

He stood closer to the doorway to hear your soft singing over the blaring music of your instrument.

“- As a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy, take your time, hurry up, choice is yours…”

He quietly looked into the den, you sat looking down at your hands on the guitar as you played, slightly moving with the beat of the song.

You stopped and put your headphones in again and waited a few seconds before mimicking the next part of the music on your guitar, this time strumming chords for what he assumed the chorus would be. You struggled slightly, and a confused look made its way onto your face. He found it rather adorable, in all honesty, and a smile crept its way onto his face.

You wrote something down then played the chords again.

“Memoria. Mem - Augh,” your hands fumbled as you hit the wrong fret.

“Memoria, memoria, mem - shit.”

He let out a soft chuckle, but you didn’t seem to notice. You let out a frustrated sigh as you gave up, tearing out your headphones and tossing them to the side.

You sprawled out onto the couch, half laying, half sitting, one leg draped over the edge hanging, the other pulled up close to your chest, and your guitar comfortably in your lap. You absentmindedly strummed a few notes as you laid your head back and closed your eyes.

Sherlock took the opportunity to approach you, and sat next you you on the couch.

You opened your eyes at the feeling of his weight on the couch, but you didn’t look at him.

“Play something for me.”

“I thought my music was too empty-minded for you.”

“Well I changed my mind. Play something for me. Please?”

You raised your head to look at him suspiciously, did he just say please?

You strummed, and then tuned your guitar appropriately. You then started again, still extremely unsure of his motives. Soon enough, however you found yourself lost in the music.

“I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel…”

Sherlock found himself focused on how easily you moved from fret to fret, how simple you made playing look. It was mesmerizing in a way.

“And you could have it all, my empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt,” you paused, “I wear this crown of thorns -”

At this point Sherlock had found himself leaning in towards you subconsciously.

“…my sweetest friend -”

He suddenly realized how close he was to you. He didn’t pull away.

“- I would keep myself, I would find a way.”

You finished and looked up. Sherlock’s face couldn’t be more than a few inches from yours. His arm was rested against the back cushion of the couch simply to stop himself from falling onto you.

“I…” you were at a loss for words. He seemed to be in some sort of trance, he seemed so fascinated with you.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, he closed the gap between the two of you, pressing a sweet and soft kiss to your lips. You were surprised, but not disappointed. He quickly pulled away from you and got up, however, making his way back to the kitchen. You could hear him fumble around with various glass objects.

As calm and collected as he may have seemed, the kiss had shaken him as much as it did you. You smiled at the thought.

You started another song, certainly he had heard it before - everyone had, right?

“I said one, two, three, take my hand and come with me ‘cause ya look so fine and I really wanna make you mine.”

[nebris]

How Cleaning Out My Hoarder Mother-in-Law’s Junk Caused My Own Marriage to Crumble

As we plowed through decades of her extreme clutter, I began to notice similar tendencies in my husband. And once I saw the hoarder in him, there was no turning back.

There’s a snapshot Aiden took of me a few days after our wedding on Christmas Eve, 2009. I’m standing outside his mother’s house wearing disposable coveralls, gloves, and a particulate mask. In the background is a dumpster. The ground is thick with dead, brown palm fronds. I am beaming at the camera.    

           I wished so much that I could have met Ruth, my mother in law. I knew she was a bright, adventurous woman who never found work to suit her lively intelligence. She was a 1960’s housewife fascinated by history and art and ideas. She loved dogs. She suffered from untreated depression and agoraphobia.    

           The day Ruth died, her family just locked up the house and walked away. Now, five years later, it’s still standing empty. Aiden worries about it. I worry about him. No one, I think, should have to clear out a parent’s house alone. His brothers are no help at all.    

           “You and I can do it together,” I say. “It’ll be our honeymoon. We’ll take a month and just get it done.”    

           And now we’re here.    

           The front door opens into the living room — an ironic name for such an uninhabitable place. I’ve never seen anything like this. There are LPs, stained mattresses, mountains of canned food, ripped cushions, dog crates, and hundreds upon hundreds of boxes. All fading back into the darkness. The smell is beyond staleness or rot. It’s the stench of sickness, of time lost.    

           I’d fantasized about meeting my mother in law. Now I’m getting my wish, but in the most macabre way. As I dig through her belongings, I feel I’m excavating Ruth herself. Every room in that house — every pile of garbage, every broken sofa, every packed closet — seems saturated with her spirit. Each stratum we uncover reveals more of the woman who raised my husband — a woman whom I will otherwise never know.    

           I haven’t yet heard of obsessive-compulsive hoarding. I have no idea that there’s a clinical name for what I’m looking at. I only know that Ruth’s house feels like a map of a disturbed mind.    

           Why, I wonder, is the floor of the den covered in newspapers three feet deep?    

           “That’s for the dogs,” Aiden explains, as if it makes perfect sense. We start hacking the newspaper out, a job that requires pickaxes and shovels. Clouds of powdered filth fill the air. The whole thing is a petrified matt of paper, urine and excrement. Decades ago, Ruth crammed her ever-growing collection of dogs — eighteen? twenty? — into this single modest-sized room and left them to do their thing. When the floor got bad, she simply added another layer of paper.    

           In another room, I find notebooks. Boxes of them, all densely crammed with faint, microscopic handwriting. They’re lists of words.    

           “Oh, Mom was always learning languages,” Aiden tells me. Some of the word-lists are in English. Others are in Spanish, German, Polish, Norwegian. Clearly the work of an intelligent and gifted person. The thing is, I can’t see anyone actually using them for anything. They’re barely legible. It’s as if Ruth was collecting words just for the sake of having them.    

           Further in, there’s a stack of maybe thirty cardboard boxes, wrapped in paper and swathed in packing tape. What was Ruth storing with such special care? Even with my mat knife, it takes a long time to get the first one open. I tear off the paper. Underneath there’s more tape. Then tissue paper. Gently, I turn back the layers.    

           Palm fronds. The box is full of dead palm fronds from the yard outside, carefully folded and packed.    

           I spend the next hour cutting open more boxes. They all contain more of the same. As I work, I keep twisting to glance behind me.    

           Back in the den I find Aiden crouched down, frowning at the heaps of crud that we’ve hacked out of the floor.    

           “We need to go through all this by hand,” he says earnestly.    

           I stare. “You mean the whole room? All of it?”    

           “There could be something important buried here,” he says. “Get a bag.”    

           I get a bag. As I start sifting, I try to think of something to say. We can’t do this. We’ll never get through it all. This is crazy.

           I pry up a wad of rat-chewed newsprint. Underneath, gazing up at me, are Aiden’s eyes.    

           It’s a photograph, half buried in the muck. It can’t be Aiden, though.    

           The picture is old, taken maybe around 1920. But the resemblance is eerie. Same curly brown hair, same beautiful eyes. The guy is obviously a relative. Aiden has no idea who he is.    

           Later on, we show the picture to Aiden’s dad. “That’s your Great Uncle Norman,” he says. “He had some problems.” Problems? Apparently, Ruth’s uncle committed suicide sometime before the Second World War.    

           I’m sorry to hear it. But what really disturbs me is the vision of my sweetie buried under a pile of garbage in that house. Those eyes, hidden down there for decades. Sad eyes. A genetic heritage.    

           At the end of January, after about a month of excavation, we run out of time. The whole process has been traumatic for Aiden, and to what end? We’ve filled one corner of the dumpster, which means we’ve thrown away the equivalent of about one closet’s worth of stuff. The rest of the house we leave as it was, relocking the door behind us. I feel defeated. Aiden is silent.    

           Back in London, our cluttered apartment is starting to worry me.    

           “I’m remodeling, so everything’s kind of up in the air,” Aiden had told me months before, the first time I saw where he lived: before it became where we lived. I’d been impressed to learn that he was doing all the work himself. Naturally the place was messy now, I thought. I could see it was going to be beautiful when it was done.    

           But time passed, and the remodel began to seem like the labor of Sisyphus: a project that could absorb any amount of time and work without ever reaching completion.    

           Now we’ve returned from California and moved into a construction site. It’s uncomfortable. There’s no room for my stuff. Aiden urges patience as he keeps accumulating tools and crates and building materials salvaged from neighborhood trash cans. One night, I come home and am bewildered to see what looks like a pile of car parts in the living room.    

           I’m starting to understand that, for my husband, the chaos of the remodel is not a temporary stage on the way to a cozy shared living space. It’s the way he lives.    

           When I shake out a blanket, clouds of dust and mold fly up. We have fleabites. Without consulting me, Aiden adopts two dogs, which are never housebroken. Now I have to wear clogs all day, stepping over puddles on my way to the kitchen.    

           I offer to do all the cleaning myself. “This is not your project,” Aiden responds. I try to negotiate for one clutter-free room. For the first time, I see my husband truly furious. Once, I rearrange a couple of pictures on the wall. After that, Aiden doesn’t speak to me for a week. He feels that I’m a feckless control freak. I feel unwelcome and unvalued. Much as I love him, I’m sliding into chronic depression. Angry depression.    

           Through it all I can’t get Ruth, or her house, out of my mind.    

           Finally, two years later, our marriage ends. I’ve been fighting hard to clear away the obstacles — physical and emotional — that stand between us. To Aiden, I’ve realized at last, my efforts feel like an attack on the core of his being.    

           The hoarder crowds his life with rubbish in an effort to keep other things out of his life. Things like spontaneity, and the spiritual intimacy reflected in a shared living space. Love and friendship don’t stand a chance. The need to barricade oneself — literally and psychologically — overrides everything else.    

           I grieved our loss for a long time. But today I’m sitting in a tranquil room full of clean surfaces. There’s open space. There’s sunlight. I luxuriate in having exactly what I need and no more — my books, my teakwood desk, my glass pen jar. Best of all, my thoughts have room to spread and blossom.    

Freya Shipley is a writer, editor, and speech coach in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she works with a wide range of freelance clients in all three fields. Freya loves helping individuals and organizations develop communication skills that do justice to their ideas.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/how-cleaning-out-my-hoarder-mother-in-law-s-junk-caused-my-own-marriage-to-crumble?utm_source=pocket-newtab

[sseamudd]

My Best Friend’s Hot P2

@maddzroks

_____/—–\_____

Janna sat straight up in her bed in a cold sweat. No she didn’t have a nightmare, she just had another dream…about Star…for the fifth time…in the same night.

‘This sucks.’ Janna thought.

It had been no secret that Janna liked Star. Well it was, just not a well hidden one. You can blame Star for the amount Janna was suffering. It’s bad enough that Janna liked her but Star was the biggest tease in the world.

Janna attempted to go to sleep one last time before deciding to make a horrible decision. The teen jumped out of her bed, narrowly avoiding stepping on her snake. She slipped a jean jacket over her black tank top and slipped on some cargo pants. She grabbed her signature beanie before slipping out the window of her bedroom.

The thief’s breath was very visible in the October air. Walking below the street lights, Janna formulated a plan. She was going to break into the junkyard with Star, just because. The problem was that she was probably going to have to kidnap the blonde.

It was Saturday so Star and Marco were probably watching a movie marathon of some sorts.  Luckily,  Janna’s plan was simple. She make some inhuman noises outside, causing the Latino and the princess to go check it out. Next she stabs Marco and drugs Star. Unfortunately chloroform is hard to come by these days and stabbing Marco isn’t the best thing Janna could do, to get Star to like her.

So she’ll just have to separate the two and convince Star to go with her without telling Marco.

Will this probably leave Marco extremely worried? Yes. Will this ruin Star and Marco’s movie night? Also yes.

‘This is fine and not completely morally wrong.’ Janna thought, ‘Things will only go south if Star finds out that I ruined her time with Marco because I’m jealous of how much time he gets to spend with her and how I kind of, sort of, kidnapped her for my own selfish needs.’

_____/—–\_____

Janna arrived at the Diaz household minutes later. She looked at her phone. ‘Yup, still past my bedtime.’

The teen snuck up to the household and did exactly as she planned.

Janna screamed like all the ghouls from Hell had suddenly risen up from the depths of the abyss. Which is basically the same as a fan girl screaming after seeing Jake Paul.

Everything executed perfectly. Marco and Star came out and they ended up separating. Janna followed Star to the back of the Diaz house.

“Hey, Star.” Janna whispered from behind the girl.

Star made a small ‘meep’ noise and jumped, but when she saw Janna her face lit up.

Before Star could squeal something like 'Janna Banana’ the bluenette slipped her hand over the blonde’s mouth.

“How about we go trespassing?” Janna whispered.

“That sounds great!” Star whispered back, “But tonight’s movie night with Marco…and he made, uh, nachos and…stuff.”

“Pssh, Star you live in a Mexican household, the Diazs’ probably have nachos stored in the freezer.” Janna said, hoping her slight racism would prove true.

Star considered this for a second before speakong, “Yeah, you’re right! Who needs nachos anyways! Certainly not me, Star Butterfly!” Star spoke with great enthusiasm but Janna couldn’t help but feel that it was to convince herself of something.

“Alrighty then, let’s go.” Janna smiled devilishly. A smile that was devilish enough to come out of an ink machine.

Janna was about to hop the fence when Star tugged on her sleeve.

“Shouldn’t I tell Marco though?”

“Ha, nope.”

_____/—–\_____

“So what is the place?”

“The dump. It’s where humans take thier garbage, but sometimes you can find cool things.”

“What kind of cool things?”

“Stuff. One time I found a Pennsylvania license plate, and last week I found a goat skull.”

“Oooooh, skulls.”

Janna peared through the holes in the fence, watching a flashlight wave past the two.

Janna never knew why there were security guards at dumps. It’s trash people, nothing to guard here. Unless being a hipster and thinking trash is cool is a crime, Janna saw no point in barbed wire at the top of the fence.

To be honest though, even if it was a crime she would still probably break that law.

The two girls walked around (more like crouched, walked slowly, then fell to the ground everytime a guard got close) the perimeter until Janna found spot where the fence had been curved.

She lifted a heavy rock away from the bottom of the chain link fence, revealing an area where the metal was weakened and could be bent easily.

“Go ahead and move the fence up.” Janna whispered. This should be an educational trip. Really teach the kids lessons they need to know.

Star pulled the fence towards them, but Janna interupted and “accidentally” touched Star’s hand.

“My bad, I should have been more specific. You want to push it away from you so the bottom comes out the other side.” Janna told her and did as she said.

“Uh, why?”

“Because then you’ll be going with the grain, not against it. If you pull it towards you, your clothes could get caught and you make a lot more noise in general. This way you just slip through in the direction the fence is going.”

“Ohhhh.” Star nodded her head and tried to look like she was sincerely understanding the concept, Janna knew this wasn’t true.

Star has a lot to learn about being a criminal.

_____/—–\______

The two girls successfully made it into the junkyard. They both were sifting  through a pile of metal in the back of a rusty pickup truck.

Janna felt Star shiver next to her and she realized that the entire time they were out, Star only had a dress on.

“Are you okay?” Janna asked, still looking through the junk.

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, I’m a little cold-”

“Do you want my jacket?” Janna answered a little too quick.

“What? No. I can’t take your jacket, you’ll be cold then.”

“I don’t know about you but I’d rather have me, a person who has had the security of a jacket all night, be cold than you, a nice princess who has been wearing a dress all night, be cold.”

Star stopped moving the metal around for a moment and stared at the a random piece of aluminum for a second.

“Yeah, okay.”

Janna rolled the jacket off her shoulders, realizing that she only had a tank top under it, and transferred it to Star’s shoulders.

Star slipped it on and Janna buttoned up the front for her.

Janna got to the top button, the one that she always struggled with, and attempted to click the two sides together with ease.

But of course the gods were not in the Philipina’s favor and made it extra difficult this time.

Star giggled until Janna finally won over the jean jacket. The bluenette and the blonde’s eyes connected for a moment and they just stood there.

After awkwardly staring into each other’s faces for a while, Star cleared her throat.

“Uh, thanks, Janna.”

“Yeah, sure, no…no prob Bob.”

_____/—–\_____

After the two’s awkward encounter a question was presented. How would they carry all their hidden treasure? The two went in search for some sort of wagon, or backpack.

Janna decided to go a little closer to the security tower lights in order to see what they’re touching.

The girls searched for a while, and a while more, and so many whiles later that now we’re here.

“Hey, Janna can I talk to you about something?” Star asked suddenly.

“Go for it.”

“Okay, well it’s more like admitting  something more than telling something.”

Janna swallowed hard, “I’m listening.”

“Okay, earlier today I was a little upset with you because I… I really wanted those nachos and movie night.”

“Oh? Okay, that’s fine I guess?”

“Yeah it is but…ugh…that’s not why I was upset.”

Janna was deeply confused. What the heck is Star going on about. It doesn’t really matter to her if Star is a little upset with her (that was a lie). And for what? Nachos?

Actually that’s understandable.

“It’s weird to say.” Star said.

“Um, okay? What ever it is you can tell me, Star.”

“Fine. I’m upset because I wanted to spend time with, Marco I guess.”

Janna paused for a second. Again, what the heck is Star babbling about.

“Uh, Star you live with the dude. You spend quite enough time with him.” Janna told her, adding a little venom to the 'quite.’

“Yeah, I know, but movie night is like, the only time he’s not with Jackie.”

Janna could be interpreting this completely wrong. This could all be a misunderstanding. But for some reason Jackie’s name made something click in Janna’s brain.

Like a puzzle piece that you lost and the entire puzzle is done except of that one spot in the middle. Then a month later you find that piece and boom.

The puzzle is complete.

Janna turned her head, more upset than she realized.

“You still like Marco!”

“What! No! I don’t like Marco!”

“Yes you do, Star! I’m suprised you haven’t been talking about him all night!” Janna yelled.

“You wouldn’t get it!” Star yelled back, looking angrier than Janna’s ever seen her.

“I wouldn’t get what, Star? I wouldn’t get what?”

“I don’t need to tell you!” Star’s face turned red and she turned around with her arms crossed, leaving Janna to stare at her own clothing. Janna, being as mad as she was, walked up to Star and turned the girl around. “Um, I think you do!” Janna pushed a finger into Star’s chest.

“Do you know what it feels like Janna? Do you know what it feels like to love some one and no matter what you do, they love you not?” Star asked angrily, looking on the verge of tears. Janna was too upset though. The question left her a little mad to say the least.

“Yes I have, actually!” Janna said without realizing, her tendency want to have the last word kicking in. Star, expecting to hear a no, went from upset to angry again. “Oh yeah? Who then?” Star shouted getting into Janna’s face this time. “With you!” There wasn’t time for Janna to blush at what she said and be sorry. There wasn’t time for the color to drain from Star’s face when she realized that Janna had a crush on her the whole time. There wasn’t time for the two girls to kiss and make up. Janna already shoved Star onto a pile of junk and created a avalanche of garbage around them. Every guard that didn’t already hear the pairs shouting most definitely heard the trash collapse like it was 'The Shot Heard Around the World.’ Yelling from came from the distance and Janna and Star glanced at each other, mouths open. Janna grabbed Star’s arm and ran for it. She ran and led the princess through the yard. Not caring if she ran into flashlights. Not caring if every time she fell she earned a new scar, or that the cold air felt like it tore her skin when she ran against it. When she ran against the grain. Janna eventually found it though. She eventually found the part of the fence that had been bended. The only entrance and exit they could find. Janna practically shoved Star out the other end. Star was going to stay, going to help but Janna yelled at her to run. She told Star that she would be right behind her. And maybe it is less scary than it seems. Maybe these words and this format and the context make this seem like a horror film. I assure you it’s not. But that did not make this any less terrifying for Janna. The very thing that Janna told Star when they made it to the entrance. “If you pull it towards you, your clothes could get caught…” Janna’s words echoed in her mind when it happend. When she crawled through the fence she went against the grain. Her clothes got caught on the fence. /----\ Oof I dont know why the last paragraphs are messed up but I finally did it sjsjhajrhhrsnej

[rodrigohyde]

5 ways to become a master bargain hunter

In 1989, a man at a Pennsylvania flea market bought a painting—ugly art, pretty frame—for $4. Once home, he removed the picture...and discovered under it one of the 24 original copies of the Declaration of Independence.

It later sold at a Sotheby’s auction for $2.4 million—proving yet again that one man’s trash really is another’s treasure.

[RELATED1]

Happily, we now have myriad ways—both online and off—to sort through all the world’s best “junk” and find jewels. In short, there are plenty of smart, simple money moves that can score you major bucks. Determined to score goodies on the cheap, I went exploring the world of extreme bargain hunting.

This is my map to hidden treasure.

[RELATED2]

1. Score on one-cent auction sites

“I won a TV for $5!” the ads say. Must be a scam, right? Not so fast.

Here’s how it works: Each bid starts at a penny and bids go up only a cent at a time, so if that TV sells for $5 (it does happen), it means the bid has been raised 500 times. Win, and you pay the $5 plus the 500 bids, for a total of $10—still a hell of a deal. And the site gets all the pennies from the losing bidders.

It feels like gambling, and it’s fun—I know, because I tried it on the site dealdash.com, which has auctions happening 24/7 (heads up: It’s less competition very late and very early), and it gets addictive fast. I bid on an oil painting (retail: $2,645; I bid $1.50), a flashlight ($60; I bid 21 cents), and towels ($150, I bid 52 cents), as well as toolboxes, a watch—I even bid on king-size sheets despite the fact that I don’t own a king-size bed. For only $2.01, why the hell not?

Finally, I bid a penny on a Dunkin’ Donuts $10 gift card—and won! Next round of jelly doughnuts is on me.

[RELATED3]

2. Mine for gold at your local thrift

First move: Pick the right place.

The Salvation Army and Goodwill are best because the donations are mountainous, and often the workers sorting and pricing them have a not-so-great grasp of what they’re worth. At a fancier thrift or antique-type store, deals can be rare.

Next: Reconnaissance. Chat up a worker and ask when donations usually come in. At my local thrift, I was told most people donate on weekends, so by week’s end, inventory has dwindled. Find the sweet spot.

Have patience. “Many thrifts are disorganized, so it takes great care to find things,” says Justin Cupler of thepennyhoarder.com, which is chock-full of money-saving ideas. “Move items, look in corners, dig through boxes.”

[PQ]

And watch for new merch. One Saturday, I hit a thrift and combed through menswear, finding only Cosby sweaters, ugly shorts, white jeans (I can’t pull off white jeans)—just a whole lot of nothing. Then I spotted them: employees stocking shelves out of bins—the unspoiled goodies! I nabbed a perfect-fitting J.Lindeberg windbreaker ($10), a new sports coat ($15), and a 7 for All Mankind sweater ($12) that sells for $150.

Two more tricks: See a shopper with an item you want? Play it cool. Just tag along behind as he shops, then if he puts the item down—grab it! And never set something down thinking you’ll “come back for it.” Trust us, it won’t be there.

[RELATED4]

3. Find gems at yard, garage, and estate sales

Eternal vigilance isn’t just the price of freedom. It’s also the key to successful garage-and yard-saling.

I began by looking on yardsales.net for not-too-far-away sales (the better the neighborhood, the better the stuff) and watched for signs for nearby yard sales—even tiny sidewalk sales—I’d normally overlook.

Saturday morning, I hit my first spot and began sifting through junk. I even rummaged through kiddie stuff—and, voilà, a Macbook external keyboard.

Once you score, don’t be afraid to negotiate: “Yard sales are all about making deals,” Cupler says. “Scoop up some items you want and ask for a package deal. Don’t offend the seller by shooting too low, but asking for 25-50% off isn’t crazy.” (The keyboard was only $10, so I didn’t have the heart to try.)

Like the buzz? Try an estate sale—a sort of “garage sale on steroids” (especially if Gramps just died and the family is clearing out the house), says Pam Carlson of Ready Set Sale!

Find one on estatesales.net, she says, then pick your strategy. “For the best loot, be there early the first day to see the full inventory.” Want the deepest discounts? “Go the last hour of the last day—sellers don’t want to be stuck with the stff, so prices drop drastically.”

[RELATED5]

4. Dumpster dive for prizes

You don’t need to actually pick through swill or wallow in a dumpster to win the garbage game. Instead, hunt on “bulk-trash days” (most cities have them), when people toss out big stuff—furniture, TVs—and roam with an open eye.

The Jedi master of bulk-trash day (OK, any trash day), Men Fitness’ own Nina Combs, has found the following loot: a new Keurig coffee maker still in the box, a wood coffee table whose top rises to turn it into a desk, two antique lamps with silk shades, and a brass-and-iron bed she then sold on Craigslist for $1,000.

More amazing, a guy she knows found on the curb a Regency table that, refinished, sold at Christie’s for $20,000. That really happened. With these images dancing in my head, I went looking myself—and within an hour had found a pristine black dresser that fits my bedroom perfectly. Cost: $0. I was hooked.

Final pro tips from Combs: Yes, you do need to be wary of bedbugs, so research online to become an expert at spotting them. (Wood furniture with no cloth is safest.) And never hunt in a pile with mattresses or furniture wrapped tightly in plastic—a dead bedbug giveaway.

But the bedbug plague has an upside, too: If you spot a find you can’t cart right home, take paper and write “BEDBUGS” on it in big letters, then stick it on. Unlike with that item you’ll “come back for” at the thrift store, no one will touch it.

[RELATED6]

5. Flip your stuff into cash

What about your own junk? I realized I had a whole collection gathering dust: DVDs and Blu-rays. I’m too lazy to sell piecemeal on eBay, so I found decluttr.com. You scan barcodes (DVDs, books, tablets, etc.) with your phone, then get an instant price quote. I shipped a box to them for free—and got a check for $117!

My final haul

A $10 gift card, windbreaker, sports coat, sweater, keyboard, dresser, $117—and zero copies of the Declaration of Independence. But don’t think I’ve given up on that...

[RELATED7]

Career

from Men's Fitness http://www.mensfitness.com/life/5-ways-become-master-bargain-hunter

[egooksconnolly]

5 ways to become a master bargain hunter

In 1989, a man at a Pennsylvania flea market bought a painting—ugly art, pretty frame—for $4. Once home, he removed the picture...and discovered under it one of the 24 original copies of the Declaration of Independence.

It later sold at a Sotheby’s auction for $2.4 million—proving yet again that one man’s trash really is another’s treasure.

[RELATED1]

Happily, we now have myriad ways—both online and off—to sort through all the world’s best “junk” and find jewels. In short, there are plenty of smart, simple money moves that can score you major bucks. Determined to score goodies on the cheap, I went exploring the world of extreme bargain hunting.

This is my map to hidden treasure.

[RELATED2]

1. Score on one-cent auction sites

“I won a TV for $5!” the ads say. Must be a scam, right? Not so fast.

Here’s how it works: Each bid starts at a penny and bids go up only a cent at a time, so if that TV sells for $5 (it does happen), it means the bid has been raised 500 times. Win, and you pay the $5 plus the 500 bids, for a total of $10—still a hell of a deal. And the site gets all the pennies from the losing bidders.

It feels like gambling, and it’s fun—I know, because I tried it on the site dealdash.com, which has auctions happening 24/7 (heads up: It’s less competition very late and very early), and it gets addictive fast. I bid on an oil painting (retail: $2,645; I bid $1.50), a flashlight ($60; I bid 21 cents), and towels ($150, I bid 52 cents), as well as toolboxes, a watch—I even bid on king-size sheets despite the fact that I don’t own a king-size bed. For only $2.01, why the hell not?

Finally, I bid a penny on a Dunkin’ Donuts $10 gift card—and won! Next round of jelly doughnuts is on me.

[RELATED3]

2. Mine for gold at your local thrift

First move: Pick the right place.

The Salvation Army and Goodwill are best because the donations are mountainous, and often the workers sorting and pricing them have a not-so-great grasp of what they’re worth. At a fancier thrift or antique-type store, deals can be rare.

Next: Reconnaissance. Chat up a worker and ask when donations usually come in. At my local thrift, I was told most people donate on weekends, so by week’s end, inventory has dwindled. Find the sweet spot.

Have patience. “Many thrifts are disorganized, so it takes great care to find things,” says Justin Cupler of thepennyhoarder.com, which is chock-full of money-saving ideas. “Move items, look in corners, dig through boxes.”

[PQ]

And watch for new merch. One Saturday, I hit a thrift and combed through menswear, finding only Cosby sweaters, ugly shorts, white jeans (I can’t pull off white jeans)—just a whole lot of nothing. Then I spotted them: employees stocking shelves out of bins—the unspoiled goodies! I nabbed a perfect-fitting J.Lindeberg windbreaker ($10), a new sports coat ($15), and a 7 for All Mankind sweater ($12) that sells for $150.

Two more tricks: See a shopper with an item you want? Play it cool. Just tag along behind as he shops, then if he puts the item down—grab it! And never set something down thinking you’ll “come back for it.” Trust us, it won’t be there.

[RELATED4]

3. Find gems at yard, garage, and estate sales

Eternal vigilance isn’t just the price of freedom. It’s also the key to successful garage-and yard-saling.

I began by looking on yardsales.net for not-too-far-away sales (the better the neighborhood, the better the stuff) and watched for signs for nearby yard sales—even tiny sidewalk sales—I’d normally overlook.

Saturday morning, I hit my first spot and began sifting through junk. I even rummaged through kiddie stuff—and, voilà, a Macbook external keyboard.

Once you score, don’t be afraid to negotiate: “Yard sales are all about making deals,” Cupler says. “Scoop up some items you want and ask for a package deal. Don’t offend the seller by shooting too low, but asking for 25-50% off isn’t crazy.” (The keyboard was only $10, so I didn’t have the heart to try.)

Like the buzz? Try an estate sale—a sort of “garage sale on steroids” (especially if Gramps just died and the family is clearing out the house), says Pam Carlson of Ready Set Sale!

Find one on estatesales.net, she says, then pick your strategy. “For the best loot, be there early the first day to see the full inventory.” Want the deepest discounts? “Go the last hour of the last day—sellers don’t want to be stuck with the stff, so prices drop drastically.”

[RELATED5]

4. Dumpster dive for prizes

You don’t need to actually pick through swill or wallow in a dumpster to win the garbage game. Instead, hunt on “bulk-trash days” (most cities have them), when people toss out big stuff—furniture, TVs—and roam with an open eye.

The Jedi master of bulk-trash day (OK, any trash day), Men Fitness’ own Nina Combs, has found the following loot: a new Keurig coffee maker still in the box, a wood coffee table whose top rises to turn it into a desk, two antique lamps with silk shades, and a brass-and-iron bed she then sold on Craigslist for $1,000.

More amazing, a guy she knows found on the curb a Regency table that, refinished, sold at Christie’s for $20,000. That really happened. With these images dancing in my head, I went looking myself—and within an hour had found a pristine black dresser that fits my bedroom perfectly. Cost: $0. I was hooked.

Final pro tips from Combs: Yes, you do need to be wary of bedbugs, so research online to become an expert at spotting them. (Wood furniture with no cloth is safest.) And never hunt in a pile with mattresses or furniture wrapped tightly in plastic—a dead bedbug giveaway.

But the bedbug plague has an upside, too: If you spot a find you can’t cart right home, take paper and write “BEDBUGS” on it in big letters, then stick it on. Unlike with that item you’ll “come back for” at the thrift store, no one will touch it.

[RELATED6]

5. Flip your stuff into cash

What about your own junk? I realized I had a whole collection gathering dust: DVDs and Blu-rays. I’m too lazy to sell piecemeal on eBay, so I found decluttr.com. You scan barcodes (DVDs, books, tablets, etc.) with your phone, then get an instant price quote. I shipped a box to them for free—and got a check for $117!

My final haul

A $10 gift card, windbreaker, sports coat, sweater, keyboard, dresser, $117—and zero copies of the Declaration of Independence. But don’t think I’ve given up on that...

[RELATED7]

Career

Article source here:Men’s Fitness