CHAPTER VI: DISTRICT EIGHT
Dottie Dressel, 15;
District Eight Female, SHE/HER
- A WEEK BEFORE -
If Dottie craned her neck straight up, face parallel to the sky, she'd be able to stare at the sun head-on. Or, at least, a part of it. It was just a faint orb in the dusty sky, sunlight absorbed by the smoke cover that blocked it almost completely, a product of the urban squalor that was District Eight. The sun seemed to pulsate before Dottie's eyes, her curls tangling in the scraggly turf she lied on.
It was mesmerizing; it kind of hit the spot. But it didn't take much at all to keep Dottie entertained. Where reality failed her, she had her imagination to fill in the blanks. If she tilted her head a little, she could sort of envision that the smoky tendrils were attached to a sulfurous Kraken that lived in the sky. The throbbing light from the heavens- that a beam coming from outer space, sent to defeat the monstrous foe. She felt like she could just watch the miserable sky pulse in and out for hours on end. And she might've, if she wasn't reminded of the reason she was lying outside in the school courtyard in the first place.
"Dottie? Yoo-hoo?" Quentin's face popped suddenly into her field of vision, obscuring the sight she had just been admiring a second ago and rudely stirring her from her daydream. "Earth to Dottie?"
She sighed. "Quentin," she said simply, sitting up to come face to face with his knees. She glanced up at her elder cousin, squinting her eyes slightly. "Do you want something?"
He snorted. "Yeah, if we could go home within the next twenty-four hours, that would be preferable," he responded with mock sincerity, which earned him a jab to the shins from Dottie. Wordlessly, she raised both her hands above her head, and without a beat of hesitation he hoisted her onto her feet. A little bit of backwards momentum and they were both standing upright, perpendicular to the sky and the ground.
Quentin quirked up an eyebrow, staring at Dottie's arms which were still clutched in his. Upon closer inspection, he said, "Nice tattoos," pointing to the drawings she had etched onto her skin during class. "Is that permanent ink?"
Dottie looked down at her forearms, as if she needed to double-check that they hadn't up and left since she had drawn them. "Uh-huh. I got bored," she replied plainly. Quentin seemed to scrutinize them for another moment, and a long pause stretched between them as if he was taking the time to find the right words to say.
"Cool," he said at last. He pointed at the strikingly vivid knife that extended from her elbow to her wrist bone. "I like this one. Looks pretty sick."
Dottie smiled at him. Quentin was a good kid, a good cousin. She felt overcome by the sudden urge to pat the top of his fluffy blond head, so that was exactly what she did. "Much appreciated," Dottie told him.
It must've been a funny sight to onlookers. Here was this tiny, kooky girl standing on her tippy toes to pat the head of this high school senior, who loomed almost an entire foot over her. Not just any high school senior, but Quentin Gaberdine, the golden boy of the school. His dashing good looks, his princelike demeanor and his mysterious allure were a recipe for popularity. Dottie was sure that upon first glance, not a single soul would be able to tell they were cousins, much less even remotely related. Dottie was, well, a little dotty, and Quentin actually had an existing reputation to uphold, which only made the entire visual even goofier and more puzzling. But Quentin didn't stop Dottie; if he was being made a fool, he didn't even seem to care. He had so much patience when it came to her antics and treated her like a sister. Quentin once had one of his own before, but she had disappeared long ago and Dottie had since then took up her stead. Caressing his silky blond locks, Dottie could only hope that her appreciation translated.
She lowered herself back onto the flats of her feet. "Shall we be on our way, then?" Quentin asked. Dottie nodded in response, and with that, they merged into the steady stream of students exiting the courtyard and into the fractured streets.
Walking from home from school took the better part of an hour, and Dottie and Quentin had to make the trip twice daily. Still, despite how long it took, it was never unpleasant. She enjoyed the solace with Quentin, walking side by side in relative quiet; his presence made even the dull, demolished sights of Eight infrastructure look and feel peaceful.
Speaking of infrastructure, their household situation was a little unconventional, but not uncommon for a family with their income status. They were six people under one leaky roof: both of Quentin's parents, both of Dottie's parents, and of course, Dottie and Quentin themselves. They all were like peas in a pod, snug and comfortable with their innovative and extended take on family. And with four working adults under one house, there was always food on the table each night, which was better than most low-income kids in District Eight had it.
"Look," Quentin said, tapping his hand on Dottie's shoulder and pointing at the rusty, chain link fence that lay ahead their path. He stared straight through it, eyes scanning throughout the corralled backyard for something, and he grinned upon seeing it. "Here he comes."
Sure enough, he came. "He" was a silky wiener dog with short, stubby legs that never failed to walk as close to Dottie and Quentin as possible to and from their walk home. He was morbidly obese, and also morbidly cute. As Dottie and Quentin got closer, he stuck his snout through the flimsy holes of the fence and stuck his tongue out, tail wagging in anticipation.
Dottie bent down on her haunches and beamed at the little wiener dog. She cupped her hand underneath his snout, and he nuzzled furiously into the palm of her hand. "I have something for you!" she exclaimed, digging into the pocket of her skirt for the fruit gummies she had saved from lunch. Dottie pulled out several other things (a pen, a pen cap, a rice cracker wrapper, buttons, a needle) before victoriously pulling out the item she had been looking for. Without a moment's waste, she broke open the plastic packaging and pinched a lemon gummy between her fingernails, holding it out to the dog. Quentin looked at the spectacle fondly, before widening his eyes and going, "Did you just feed him a gummy?"
"Yeah," Dottie said. She then proceeded to feed him another one, this time strawberry-flavored. Only her favorite flavor for the dog; it was what he deserved.
"You probably shouldn't give him something like that…" Quentin trailed off, realizing that she didn't really care.
"'s okay," Dottie said. "Look, he likes it." She set yet another gummy onto the concrete, and he noshed on it with gusto.
"That can be the last one."
"Okay, that's the last one."
Dottie stood up from her squatting position and after bidding their farewells to the obese dog, they continued on their merry way. His whimpers dissipated the further they walked until he could no longer be heard.
Slowly, the streets became more sparse. The sea of students quickly grew smaller as they finished their commutes and reached their destinations. Eventually, Dottie and Quentin were just two lone travelers in the street. As they continued their journey home, Dottie started to rattle off about random theories the way she always did. Her stories bounced up and down the street, making the placid sky and the desolate houses seem a bit more lively with her colorful imagination.
Eventually her solo chatter turned into conversation and then turned into a game, in which she and Quentin would alternate pointing at different things they saw. Today the challenge was to find the most purple objects. Dottie was sure she'd win because she had an eye for purple, seeing as it was her favorite color, but Quentin didn't let her get off easy. He brought in the heat, giving Dottie a run for her money. He pointed out a purple ribbon sticking out of a mailbox; to counter, Dottie pointed out an entire eggplant left discarded on the side of the road.
'That doesn't count," Quentin laughed. "It's practically red!"
"No, it's purple if you look at the shadows," Dottie rebutted.
"Shadows? Isn't that cheating?"
"No, it was a loophole that wasn't established. Fair game."
At long last, she and Quentin turned the corner onto their street. So far, they'd found the same number of purple objects, but Dottie was in a rush to find some sort of tiebreaker. Desperately she scanned the street, when out the corner of her eye at the far end of the street, she saw a purple balloon dart aside into an alleyway, the one beside her old house. Dottie let out an incomprehensible gurgle, her eyes alight with triumph. Without a second thought she barrelled past her house and made a beeline for the alleyway. Faintly, she could hear Quentin protesting from behind her, a tinny sound in the back of her skull, but she tuned him out. She had a purple balloon to secure, and victory to claim with it.
Dottie's sneakers screeched against the pavement in resistance as she ran, but soon she was face to face with the alleyway, its oppressive, dilapidated structure emanating a menacing aura. She paid no mind to it, instead scouring the alleyway for a trace of the purple balloon she had seen just moments prior. Her eyes skimmed over the ground, until they fell upon a dark, sinister splatter against the asphalt. The memories suddenly began flooding back.
Dottie was eight, frolicking around with the other kids on the block. They were all huddled in a circle in the middle of the street, heads bowed together as they argued over what game to play next. Quentin was on Dottie's left, and Paisley was on her right.
Paisley… Dottie thought to herself. The girl was a fuzzy memory; faint, but there were traces of her still left in the recesses of Dottie's head. Paisley, her cousin. Paisley, her partner in crime.
Paisley cleared her throat, a mischievous smile stretching from cheek to cheek. "I have an idea. We should play Lie Low," she announced. In response to her suggestion, the boy across from her groaned loudly. "You always wanna play Lie Low. Last time it took two hours to find you at the end because you never came out!"
"Kev, don't be jealous just 'cause I can actually fit in places to hide," she taunted, sticking her tongue out at him. Kev scoffed as if he didn't care, but when he thought nobody was watching he tucked his arms over his stomach self-consciously.
Another girl, her hair tied in a messy ponytail, spoke up. "I'm okay with Lie Low. If no one has any qualms about it, then we'll play that." When nobody uttered another word, she nodded. "So it's settled. Dottie, you're the watchman. Everyone, scatter!"
Without haste, each of the kids dispersed from the circle and scurried off to find a hiding spot. As soon as the sun dipped under the horizon, shrouding the street in dusk, Dottie took up her flashlight and commenced her search.
It was easy to find the other kids. Dottie had always been good at searching for things; her attention to detail never failed her. Quentin was the first one she found, hiding in a bush outside his parents' house. Consequently, he was promoted to co-watchman alongside Dottie, and not even a minute later he stumbled upon the fat boy clinging onto a tree for dear life. Dottie found the ponytail girl on the roof of the rotten pavilion a field away, leaving just Paisley that she and the others needed to stake out. Just how it always was whenever they played Lie Low; Paisley's hiding talent was truly unparalleled.
Determined to find the girl before Dottie's parents called for her to go inside, Dottie weaved in and out of the alleyways between and behind her neighbors' homes. She had never found Paisley in one of these corridors before, but it was high time that Dottie would find her hiding in these parts. Dottie was sure of it.
As Dottie neared the end of the alleyway next to her house, she began to feel silly. Surely, Paisley wouldn't hide in a place that was so conspicuous, but Dottie wouldn't have put it past her cousin to obscure herself in such an obvious yet overlooked spot. She ventured into the alleyway boldly, twirling around her flashlight spastically like a baton. "Paisley, come out! I've got you cornered!" she yelled. Her flashlight dipped towards the ground, illuminating the pavement with dim chartreuse, but there was a dark puddle where the light didn't catch. Weird, Dottie thought. Why's the pavement wet…?
Dottie shined her flashlight closer to the source of the liquid, gasping as it emblazoned a full head of hair.
Paisley. Her cousin's once-blonde hair damp with blood, her skull cracked open and still spilling out onto the pavement like a leaky faucet. Her eyes were wide open, glassy and blue and undeniably dead, like a fish's.
Dottie screamed. She had screamed, and screamed, and scre—
"Hey hey hey," Quentin whispered, shaking Dottie back into reality as he enveloped her into his sturdy chest. The worn fabric of his uniform shirt stifled Dottie's cries. "'s okay," he said softly, "I got you."
He cradled her in his chest and they stood there for a long while. Eventually, Dottie couldn't even remember why she had been screaming. Quentin waited for his cousin's breathing to even out before he attempted speaking again.
"You know," he said. "I think about her, too. All the time." Towards the end of his sentence his voice started to crack, and he chuckled as if to clear up his throat. Dottie realized with a dull pang that he was holding onto her as much as she was clutching onto him, but why were both of them so distraught? Dottie couldn't… no, she wouldn't linger on these thoughts any longer.
Where reality failed her, she had her imagination to fill in the blanks. If she tilted her head a little, she could pretend like her cousin had never died… no, like she had never lived..
"'Her?'" Dottie echoed back, her voice hollow. "Who?"
There was confusion intertwined with sorrow when Quentin spoke next. "Paisley," he said.
Paisley. Paisley, her cousin. Paisley, her partner in crime.
"I don't know who that is."
Delano "Del" Astarte, 16;
District Eight Male, HE/HIM
- A WEEK BEFORE -
Delano stood alone in the abandoned factory mill, looking up from the crumbled note he held clutched in his hand. It read, Meet me at the spot at 8. "Quentin?" he called out, his words echoing loudly through the empty steel cavern. Delano's voice bounced back at him with vigor, but apart from that, he received no response to his call.
He raised his right arm (the only arm he could raise, really) to check his watch; sure enough, the time read eight o'clock. Well, technically it was a little past eight- Delano could admit that he wasn't the most punctual guy- but he was here now, and that was what counted. He shook his head, his loose brown curls falling out of the yellow barrette that had snapped his bangs back.
"Quentin, where you at?" Delano growled, aggressively pinning his hair back behind the clip. "Don't play with me!" He twisted around a pole and caught sight a familiar grey hoodie. Found him.
"Daaaamn, son!" a familiar voice yelped out from behind the pole. The grey hoodie jumped out and sure enough, it was Quentin himself. He had his head whipped towards the side, his square hands held out in front of him animatedly as if to shield himself from something. "Dude! Your fit… it's just… too powerful!" Quentin cried out, as emotive as his deep voice could muster.
Delano could practically feel his eyes roll into the back of his skull. "Chill the fuck out," he said, trying his best to keep the smile out of his voice. "It's literally what I always wear."
And it was- but his everyday outfits did tend to be on the excessive side, he could admit. Delano could practically dissect the outfit in his head. First was a white collared shirt, hidden under a pressed, black sweatshirt. Underneath those pieces he sported a yellow and black plaid skirt, pleated and crisp; he had chosen that skirt specifically to match his barrette. He also donned socks that stretched right up to his knees, and dirty kicks that had most definitely seen better days. And lastly, to accessorize, he threw in a couple chains around his neck and around his waist to cinch the whole look together. It was definitely a lot more elaborate than a late night excursion warranted, but Delano would never pass up the opportunity to show himself off.
Quentin finally set his arms down, revealing a smile that seemed to make the entire place brighter with his gleaming teeth. "Yeah, it's what you always wear, and you always look fresh as hell wearing it."
"Hey," Delano said pointedly, "If you think I'm so quote-unquote 'fresh as hell', then maybe up your fashion game." He gestured without theatrics towards Quentin's clothes, which were much less flashy than his own in comparison. "That's the fifth time this week you've just worn the same grey hoodie and joggers."
"What, this?" Quentin exclaimed, pinching at the fabric of his hoodie as if he needed the clarification. "No, this is my first time wearing it!"
"I could've sworn you had that same one on yesterday. It's even got the same logo."
"Nah, yesterday I was wearin' a different grey hoodie with the same logo."
"You have multiple?"
"Well, yeah!" Quentin snorted. "C'mon now, Del, I'm broke and I'm straight. My condition has no cure, please be understanding."
Delano could no longer keep up the unamused facade. His face broke out into a wide, toothy grin, eyes alight with mirth. "Goddamnit," Del chuckled, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "Fuckin' hell."
In a lot of ways, Delano and Quentin were polar opposites. Delano had dark brown hair and Quentin, blond. He was muscular and traditionally masculine, whereas Delano was on the scrawnier side and arguably not as masculine in the conventional sense. Quentin was charming and never failed to turn heads wherever he went, but Delano had a much more difficult time catching the attention of girls (and boys, for that matter). And the cherry on top, Quentin was a criminal dude-bro, and Delano… decidedly not so much.
"So," Delano started, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "You called me out here for what reason?"
"Let's hit the skatepark." Quentin's head jerked sharply out towards the back exit of the factory. "It's about a twenty minute walk from here."
Delano's blind went blank. "The skatepark?" he echoed.
"Mhm. It's a new place I found, really cool," Quentin quickly assured him.
Delano didn't trust that tone of his. Still, he sighed and conceded. "All my hand and lead me the way." He raised his left arm, er, stub, out to Quentin, which made the boy yelp, caught off guard. "Don't even joke about that," he whined, "that's nasty. I'm not tryna hold your sweaty ghost fingers."
In the dark space the boys snickered, their laughs pealing across the metal walls. With a light punch from Quentin to Delano, they began making their way out of the abandoned factory and in the direction of the skatepark.
Perhaps in a different world, an alternate dimension, a parallel universe, their characters would've been a recipe for mortal enemies. But instead Delano and Quentin ended up being best friends and partners-in-crime for their occasional late-night traipses, wreaking havoc around the suburbs of District Eight. He and Quentin had been friends since early childhood, and used to wake up early in the morning to play soccer with each other in Delano's front yard. Their relationship had been easy, simple, boyish and surface-level.
However, it wasn't until Delano got his fuckin' arm ran over by a goddamn car that Quentin and he developed the bond they had today. It had been a tragically stupid accident, unfortunately; Delano couldn't even have the pleasure of having a cool story when he got his arm fucked up at age fourteen. He and Quentin had been playing ball in the front of his house when it rolled into the street. Delano abandoned the game and chased after it, tripping on a rock and gracefully landing flat on his face. But before he could pick himself back up off the ground, a car backed straight out the driveway across from his house and ran over Delano's elbow, subsequently destroying all of the bones in his hand and forearm.
Crunchy. That's how his arm felt on the asphalt and that's how his arm looked on the scan when his elder sister Jenaveve rushed him to the hospital. The bones were bestrewn every which way, sharp fragments piercing themselves within the flesh inside his arm. Everytime he tried to move it, he would nearly pass out from the pain. It went unsaid that he had been fucking miserable. He was put under a multitude of heavy-grade drugs, and underwent two surgeries, as the first one was botched to high hell. He remembered spinning in and out of consciousness, wondering in his waking moments if it was stupid to think he'd still be normal after all this, if he'd still be able to function if worst came to worst. For the days leading up to the second surgery, he was forced to be supervised and confined in the hospital that reeked of antiseptics.
His experience in the hospital had been almost unbearable, the only thing keeping him from losing his mind back then being Quentin. So many stale, stagnant nights were made better just by the guy's presence. Whether he was telling Delano stories about the happenings at school or his family antics (those of his cousin-slash-sister Dottie in particular) or just silently vibing in solidarity, Delano appreciated his friend's company much more than Quentin would ever know, could ever know. Like, he was kind of the reason Delano was still sane. As strange as it was to think, that incident was what made them grow closer. Delano could call him his brother with the utmost assurance, and he was sure Quentin felt the same way.
Unfortunately, worst did come to worst and Delano's left arm got "The Grand Chop" (as Quentin put it) leaving a five-inch, scarred nub protruding from Delano's shoulder. Good god, it had been ugly as hell, and the most immediate source of Delano's insecurities for months on end. He became known as the "kid with one arm", less of a kid and more of an absolute freakshow in the eyes of his peers. As if he didn't have enough personality to compensate for his arm, or rather, lack thereof. His new reputation had made him feel like shit and, understandably, Delano's confidence took a major toll.
Surprisingly enough, he found his solace within the abandoned contents of his adult sister's closet. One day, Delano had been snooping around to find the graphic tee his sister had stolen from him a couple weeks back when he stumbled upon one of her old skirts. It was nothing special; red and black, plaid, dusty as hell with a bunch of moth-eaten holes, but he was weirdly possessed by the urge to try it on. And when he did, he liked what he saw in the mirror much more than he had been expecting to. Not bad, he had remembered thinking.
The more he observed his reflection, the more he realized: he looked cute as hell. Not exactly in a girly way- his face was much too boyish and his shoulders much too broad for Delano to be able to pass off as a girl- but the skirt was flattering and made him feel… complete. It was a juxtaposition he decided he liked. Nothing was more flashy and attention-grabbing than a boy in a skirt; it got him reactions, and he relished in the thrill. It took all the attention off the void where his left arm used to be and thrust it onto the eccentric way he presented himself. He'd much rather be seen as a crossdressing rebel than a pitiable amputee by a long shot.
"Here we are," Quentin said, snapping Delano back to reality. "The brand-new, infamous skatepark.
Well, Delano didn't know what he had been expecting and was still disappointed. Before him was a large hollow in the ground; in it laid an absolute wreck, a landfill with disjointed metal limbs scattered across the mass. It was less of an actual skatepark than it was a junkyard full of slanted ramps, some broken and uneven and all discarded without care. If someone tried skating here, they would probably get their face ripped open and their ribcage shattered on the unforgiving asphalt. Delano wouldn't dare try it, even if he had both arms to lose. There was another group of teenage boys trekking beneath them through the scrapyard and kicking shit around, but thankfully they had no skateboards in hand. The only sounds from the night besides the chirping crickets emanated from those boys: reverberating voices and pieces of scrap metal skidding across the cement.
"The fuck's this?" Delano guffawed.
"The skatepark!"
"This," he said, "is a literal junkyard. It is definitely not a skatepark."
"C'mon, man, use your imagination."
"Oh, I'm using it, all right. I'm imagining your head busted open and your guts sprawled all across the pavement."
In shock, Quentin slapped Delano on the back so hard that he almost tipped over the edge of the shallow steel ravine. Watching Delano lose his balance only made Quentin laugh even harder. It was infectious; soon enough, Del had also caught a case of the giggles. They erupted into a cacophony of boyish snorts, weakly punching each other as they fell to the ground in two hysterical heaps.
"Holy hell," Delano wheezed, emerging breathlessly after what felt like years of laughing. "I... can't, fuckin', breathe!"
Quentin wiped a tear from the outer corner of his eye. "Ahh," he sighed, at long last. "Oh, Panem. That wasn't even funny. This isn't funny at all."
Delano shoved his hands into his face, rubbing at the skin around his eyes. The after-laughter high was just starting to dissipate when he heard Quentin burst into another fit of chuckles
"If it's not funny, why're you laughing!" Delano exclaimed, slipping back into another smile all too quickly. He looked up only to see Quentin's pale face, blanched in the moonlight, which made Del drop the grin as quickly as it had come.
"Quentin?"
"I wasn't laughing," Quentin murmured. "I heard it too." He scoured the scenery before landing on something close by. "It's them."
Del looked over to where Quentin was staring, his eyes landing on the boys he had seen earlier. "Oh, fuck," he groaned. "What are they laughing at?"
Well, it didn't take a genius to figure it out. They were pointing at Delano and roaring, one boy jutting out his hip, raising his arms above his head and twirling around. His friends laughed at his antics as if he were being even remotely clever. Del could hear their snickers from yards above the edge of the skatepark. Another boy bent his elbow straight up and made a splaying motion with his arm, his hand hanging limply from the wrist. Another roar of laughter erupted.
Del was used to people staring. In fact, he more than welcomed it. He loved to shock people, loved to render them speechless, but he knew the boys were less confused than they were straight up ridiculing him- and it was exactly that sort of thing that made Del's blood boil.
"Del," Quentin whispered. "Ignore them. Let's just go."
Del had no objection. He got up hastily, not even taking the time to brush the dust off his legs or his skirt, and made a beeline back towards the direction from which they came. Quentin was forced to rush to keep up with Delano's sudden pace.
They walked back to the factory in silence. The only noise that filled the air was the humming of bugs in the grass, the sounds of the boys' footsteps, and their breathing. Neither of them dared to break the nighttime quiet.
Still, one of them had to say something eventually. "You all right, dude?" Quentin whispered, glancing at Delano.
"I'm fine! Why wouldn't I be fine!" Delano barked, a little too quickly. He plastered a smile onto his face, too forceful to be natural. It must've looked more like a grimace, the way that Quentin just stared back at him, unblinking.
Del tried for a better smile, and he got somewhat close. "Nah man, deadass. It's all good, I'm used to it." He turned his head forward again, away from Quentin. "Those guys can suck my nuts. I'm too hot to let that shit bother me."
Another moment passed before Quentin replied with an unreadable, "Okay," and they resumed their silence.
A couple minutes later, Quentin opened his mouth to say something else. However, before he could, Delano cut him off. "Hey, I think I'm gonna take off for the night, actually."
Quentin frowned. "Don't want me to walk you back?"
"Nah, it's fine. I can take care of myself."
The blond boy stared at him, his gaze faraway. "Okay," he said again, a beat later. "G'night then, Del."
Surely, Quentin knew that Delano was bothered. Quentin might've been goofy, but he sure as hell wasn't dense. Still, he didn't try to pry or ask anything else, and Delano was grateful for it. Seemed like he would never stop being grateful for Quentin.
"Night," Delano echoed back. He walked backwards for a couple steps before pivoting on his heels. His steps crunched through the shriveled crabgrass, towards the general direction of his own neighborhood.
It wasn't until Delano was out of earshot that he let himself fall apart. Hot tears began streaming down his cheeks. He couldn't tell whether he was furious, frustrated, foolish, or an aggravating mess of all three. Delano didn't stop walking though, letting the cool night air rush to his face to stifle his sniffling. As refreshing as it felt it did little to quell his anger, at both the boys and himself.
God, he felt so pathetic. No matter what he did, no matter what sort of front he put on, Del couldn't seem to stop caring what other people thought of him.
DISTRICT EIGHT REAPINGS
July 4th, 12:49 PM
Female Slot: Dottie Dressel - 8 slips
Male Slot: Delano Astarte - 5 slips
a/n: hey guys! entp sundays w/ phobie are upon us , so expect weekly chapters until the introductions are all posted! poggies~! a smooch for the submitters of d&d aka dottie and delano. love u abby and xavi MWAH. the quentin in both of their povs are the same dude if that was confusing, no they weren't collab tributes but i decided to establish that connection between them anyway bc fuck it. anyway i hope you enjoyed these kids it was an absolute pleasure to write them, and yet again thank you so much to goldie and lindsay for beta-reading [starts peeing everywhere]
q: what's your favorite type of feline. mine are cheetahs
$wag im out this bitch,
bronccoli
