#ACH Payment Processing Time

[offshoregateways]

eCheck merchant account for adult business

Indeed, "electronic processing" has become increasingly prevalent in institutions to address the delays associated with traditional cheque processing. By utilizing "electronic check processing and ACH solutions", the wait times for payment clearance can be significantly reduced. With electronic processing, payments made through cheques can become effective within two to three days, and in some cases, almost instantly. This expedited clearing process is facilitated by leveraging "electronic check processing" and the ACH system, which allows for quicker verification and transfer of funds.

By implementing "electronic check processing and ACH solutions", there is a lower likelihood of cheques being returned due to insufficient funds. The electronic system enables real-time or near-real-time verification of account balances, minimizing the risk of accepting cheques that cannot be successfully processed. Overall, the adoption of electronic processing and the utilization of "electronic check processing" and ACH solutions have proven to be effective in reducing wait times, enhancing payment efficiency, and mitigating the chances of returned cheques due to insufficient funds.

How Check and ACH Payment Processing Solutions Work?

Absolutely, "ACH systems and cheque processing solutions" play a crucial role in streamlining the payment process for both customers and businesses. Regardless of the transaction type, such as making online donations to a preferred charity or purchasing items from a nearby boutique, these solutions offer convenient methods for customers to complete payments. With the aid of "ACH systems and cheque processing solutions", customers have the option to write checks or provide their banking information for each transaction. This flexibility allows them to choose their preferred payment method, whether it be traditional cheque writing or utilizing electronic means to provide their banking details for direct debit.

Moreover, these solutions are adaptable to the modern lifestyle where mobility is essential. They offer the convenience of processing checks using mobile devices such as cell phones and tablets. This mobility feature allows users to work on the move and perform payment transactions conveniently, without being tied to a physical location. In summary, ACH systems and "E-cheque processing solutions offer" customers the flexibility to choose between traditional cheque writing and electronic banking information provision for payments. Additionally, the availability of mobile processing options further enhances convenience and enables transactions to be conducted while on the go.

[haeryna]

in my dreams you love me back (i still love you) ↪ gojo satoru x reader x geto suguru ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

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summary: soft moments with shoko keep your heart soft as well, but suguru finds something that he wasn't supposed to.

tw: sfw but vague mentions of losing your virginity. your mother MEDDLES but let's be real, we'd do the same. allusions to the bible for the aesthetic but also because i like the imagery of the themes. not proofread.

notes: title taken from red velvet's "in my dreams." the second half of "i would give up heaven if i had to." another short chapter because i split it in two originally! banner from @/cafekitsune

"You look like shit."

You can't stop the huff that escapes your mouth as Shoko peers at you from your phone, propped up against your rice cooker. She's somewhere in the United States right now, attending a medical conference. She isn't wrong; your ten minute break in the bathroom had turned into a full-blown half hour breakdown. Thankfully, none of your coworkers pointed out the redness of your eyes and the sallow tint to your skin. Your manager had practically forced you to go home early. They all assumed that you had broken down about how the Gojo Satoru had demanded you be the one to make his drink. At this point, you were too tired to correct them.

"I just got back from the cafe, leave me alone." Yawning, you reach for a bowl. "I'm starving and exhausted, and now you're going to yell at me, Sho?"

You can hear the heavy exhale, and the camera blurs as she lets out a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I never said that. Did you see them today?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Nobody else can make you cry that hard, and I know it wasn't me."

You hesitate for a moment. "Mom thinks I should hear them out."

"Personally, I would tell them I'll speak to them after a down payment of 5k."

"Shoko!"

But your laughter fills the air, and you can catch Shoko's self-satisfied smirk from the other end. "There she is." A soft haze fills your screen as her voice softens. "Do I need to fly back and tell the two of them to fuck off?"

"I can tell them to leave myself," you protest, but Shoko gives you a deadpan stare. "Okay, well, maybe it'll be hard."

As the silence falls, warm and comfortable, you bustle around the kitchen, spooning rice into your bowl of leftovers. The air is warm, and despite your exhaustion, you can't help but appreciate the dreaminess of the evening. Shoko watches you, dark eyes unreadable. "What?" you finally ask, curiosity lacing your voice.

"Just be careful," she sighs. "Satoru and Suguru will probably do some crazy shit to get you to notice them. I just don't want those idiots to scare you."

"They don't care enough to do that," is your sardonic reply, and this time, it's her turn to laugh.

"If you really think that, then you're blinder than I thought."

He is breaking me down on every side, and now it's too late for me; he has uprooted my hopes like a tree.

When the number of your old landline rings on Suguru's cellphone, he almost blocks it out of habit before he registers the last four digits. Panicking, he immediately accepts the call.

"Hey, is everything okay? I-"

Your mother's voice chirps back at him, a bit staticky from the old phone that he knows she'd insisted on keeping installed in the kitchen. "Suguru, dear, could you do me a favor?"

Ingrained instinct forces a "yes ma'am," from his mouth before he can even process the request. He can practically hear the smile in your mother's voice. "It won't take too long, don't worry. My back has been aching an awful amount after my last surgery, but I've been meaning to wear some of my old church clothes to Bingo Night. Would you mind grabbing it for me?"

The attic is cluttered and old, and the dust stings his eyes, but Suguru can't bring himself to complain as he begins to rummage through boxes. It feels like seeing you again, like being your Suguru again, as he unearths old photo albums, and stuffed toys. There was the rabbit you used to carry around all the time. A picture frame, of you, Shoko, Satoru, and Suguru one summer afternoon. Carefully, he wipes away the dust, smiling at the memory. You'd lost your front tooth that summer; now, it was forever memorialized.

Finally, he reaches a small collection of boxes in the back. The dress lays draped over a small stack of boxes, but as he grabs it, one topples over, spilling its contents all over the floor.

Suddenly, selfishly, Suguru is grateful that Satoru stayed behind back in their hotel room, because inside the cardboard box is envelopes. At least thousands of them, crammed into each possible corner, dates written on the front in the same handwriting you've had since high school. He tears open another box, only to find the same. Three whole boxes of letters. Selfish hope and heavier dread sinks into his skin like the dust that is slowly falling to the floor; Suguru has unearthed something that he knows he's not supposed to see.

Was this how Adam felt, holding the forbidden fruit in his hand? Which was stronger; the will of God, or the love of man?

"You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.

He's almost frantic as he searches for the first letter, scattering them around himself until he finds it; labelled a week after Suguru had taken Satoru with him to pursue what they had believed to be an impossible dream. Suguru hesitates only for a moment, until with one decisive swipe, he rips the flap from the waxy paper beneath. This one is addressed to him.

Suguru,

My parents put me in therapy. Remember how we always used to joke that if anyone needed it, it would be you? Why did you leave me? What did I do wrong? It hurts, Sugu, why, why, why My therapist thinks that keeping letters will help, and my parents want me to at least give it a try. Mom won't say anything, but I know she's concerned. Dad's already torn into Toru's parents, so the whole town is fully aware of what they've done. Shoko says that they're practically livid with shame, skulking around the town as that'll fix their reputation. You missed it; there was one night when the fireflies came back, and I swear they filled the entire sky. It was beautiful. It reminded me of the first time we met, do you remember that?

I wish you'd been here to see it. I'm sorry, Suguru. I'm sorry that I wasn't good enough to take along. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you I love you. I hope you're safe. I hope you're taking care of Toru for me.

I love you so much that it's hard to be mad.

Water drips down onto the ink of where you'd signed your name, and with a start, Suguru realizes he's crying. Gently folding the letter, he sets it aside, and reaches for the next one.

Mom and Dad have what Grandma had. I'm scared, Toru. I wish you were here. You'd always say something silly that would make me forget for even a moment.

Another.

I saw you on the television today, Toru. You're so beautiful it hurts.

Another.

I've given up on properly going to college. They're so sick that I'm terrified to leave them alone.

More. More. More.

I try my best not to listen, but the radio in the coffee shop plays the songs you make, Sugu. I hate it, but it's selfish of me. The girl you sing about, does Toru get along with her? Does she make you happy?

He can't stop himself from reading any more than he can stop the tears pouring down his face. They'd missed so much of your life, and yet you'd dutifully written letter after letter, as if you'd planned on them seeing it. Like you hoped they would come back some day. The next letter was only written two years ago, but it turns Suguru's blood to ice.

I saw the scandal on one of the gossip magazines while I was out shopping for groceries, Toru. The Chanel model? Really? I was kind of hoping for the Gucci one, she seems so nice to her assistant.

I say this like you're a celebrity. A celebrity that I can just laugh at, and say "must be nice, having supermodels fall into your lap!" You were mine, once, long before you were hers. I love loved you.

I did something stupid, last night. Remember Kenji, from high school? The one you always hated? I can't even explain it, how furious I was, when I saw you with that model. You looked so happy, like it didn't matter that all your joy and abundance didn't come at my expense.

I ended up sleeping with him for the first time, with anyone for the first time really. I'm not going to write more; it's embarrassing, and it wasn't even good, but I think I'm more upset with myself. It doesn't matter.

It's not like you'll ever find out. Even if you do, it's not like you'll care.

It's not like my love mattered to you to begin with.

Suguru's chest feels as though someone has washed his heart in acid. On paper, the person you were after they left was more jaded. Less optimistic. You no longer spoke of things you wished they were able to experience with you, but rather all the things they'd left behind. You thought they didn't care, and as he forces his useless lungs to take another breath, he knows that he can't leave this town until he convinces you to come with him. As he stumbles down from the attic, dress in hand, your mother gives him a knowing stare.

"Did you find the dress I asked you to grab?"

"Yes ma'am," Suguru says numbly. It's all he says. It's all he can say. Your mother sighs, patting the chair next to her. "Why don't you call Satoru over, hm? Try some of the tea I bought. I remember your mother saying you only drink black. You really should call her more."

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?

"I'm home!" you call out, slipping your shoes off with one hand as you balance the full bag of groceries in the other. "Did you take your medi-"

The carrots drop to the floor as you take in the sight of Gojo and Geto sitting at your kitchen table with your mother of all people. "What the fuck?"

Geto's eyes are rimmed red, like he'd been crying, while Satoru stares at you with a hint of anguish. "What the fuck," you repeat again, dumbfounded. "Why are you in my house right now?"

Geto opens his mouth to speak, but your mother waves it away. "You know how bad my back's been lately, I really wanted to wear that old emerald dress your father got me, do you remember?"

Stunned, you can only nod.

"And, I didn't want to have you come all the way back from the city just to grab a dress for me, so I called over Suguru and Satoru to help me out," your mother finishes. You can't stop the panic from leaking into your voice.

"Where was the dress?"

From the look on their faces, you know that Geto and Gojo have found it. All the letters you were too weak to send, too weak to throw away. How much did they read?

"The attic, dear," is your mother's quiet response, and when you turn her attention to her, you can see the quiet love and encouragement in her eyes.

What's more important? The love for all the things they did do, or all the things they didn't?

White noises rushes into your head, and you can barely process your mother's departure. Something about Bingo Night? The door clicks shut and you're left with silence so profound that your body almost instinctively crumples in on itself. Suguru can't look you in the eyes, absentmindedly tracing the rim of the delicate porcelain teacup that looks comically small next to his calloused hands. Satoru merely watches, but you can see the tension in his neck, in the way his fingers flex around empty air.

So, you do the only thing you can do. You run.

Turning, you all but sprint up the stairs. You lied. You couldn't do this, couldn't face them, see them, hear them-

Toned arms reach around from behind, pulling you decisively to a well-defined chest. The air is forced out of your lungs as you yelp, squirming out of the hold, only to freeze as Satoru places his cheek on your head, nuzzling into your hair.

"I missed you."

Tears spring to your eyes but Satoru keeps going. "You were the only thing that kept us going. Our apartment was so shitty, we had to put cardboard on the floor just to keep warm. I thought of you all the time. I thought of which stage outfit you'd like better, how you would get along so well with the other members of the group. We didn't forget you. We love you too much for that."

"Stop," you choke out, as your legs crumple under you. Satoru catches you, tugging you further into him, as tears trickle down your face. A blurred shape; Suguru, kneeling in front of you, gently taking your hands in his.

"One chance, princess," he breathes. "Give us one chance to explain ourselves. After that, we'll do whatever you want, give you whatever you want. We've only ever been yours."

[slimybeth69]

Girl Dinner: Part 4 of 4- Goodbye

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Summary: After the civilized world you once knew came to an end-- the men that survived... well they just take, take, take. Growing tired of having things taken from you-- you have a hankerin' to take somethin' for yourself... and make him perfect.

W/C-10.3K

Chapter Warnings: kidnapped/mean/dark!Joelx hunginged/crazy/mentally ill/dark!reader. dub-con, period sex, crying, altered mental state, graphic depictions of violence and death, animal death (not graphic but mentioned), alternating POV's, creampies, cock warming, unprotected P in V. No happy ending? This is DDDNE-- don't forget!!

Reader warning/ potential trigger warnings: mentions of readers past-- with gory and sad details. Mentions of sex as payment, impregnation, child loss.

PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS.

There was never a question about why you forgot your name, or how that could happen to a person. Mister-man never asks you again. He never peppers it into conversations, or late night talks when you’re wrapped in his arms. 

It doesn’t matter– you’re his crazy girl. His sweetheart. His baby. 

Mister has his hands on your knees, holding them open. His fingers dig into the soft skin as he plants soft kisses on the soft nest of curls on either side of your sopping pussy. He’s moving slow and deliberate as he licks and sucks your lips into his mouth one at a time, then nipping at the junction where your legs meet your hips.

“Love makin’ you feel good sweetheart,” he murmurs against your skin, sucking dark marks into the supple skin of your thighs. “You like when Mister makes you feel good, dontcha?”

You do. 

The answer is caught in the back of your throat, so you nod, whimpering feebly at his endless teasing. He’s been kissing, and biting, and pinching you for what feels like an entire lifetime. He teases you, gets so close to your aching, throbbing clit, and then suckles and licks everything BUT that.

You haven’t taken your eyes off of him, how could you? He propped up pillows and leaned you back so gently and said ‘enjoy the show’ before kissing down your chest, sucking your nipples into his mouth greedily. His hands explored every single inch of your body as he licked and sucked those dark marks into your skin.

Claimin’ you, Sugar.

He could, he can. He can do whatever he wants to you. Every time he touches you it’s like an entirely different experience.

Perfect every time.

It’s like he knows when you need him to be gentle— and he knows when you need him to take control. It’s like he’s tuning into your wavelengths through your cunt.

The tears come sometimes regardless of how he handles you. His touch doesn’t always stop the bad feelings, the bad memories, but tonight they aren’t sad tears, they aren’t fearful or filled with shame.

Tonight they’re just confusing tears, too many emotions inside of you to process all while he’s been torturing you relentlessly.

“I know, babygirl,” he rumbles against the top of your slit, his hand moving from your knee, up your quivering thigh. “Relax for Mister.” Hot, thick fingers push into your folds, tracing the outside of your cunt before the thickest, and longest one pushes inside. “I’m here… I gotchya,” he whispers before he seals his lips around your clit, sucking slowly, lapping with his tongue as he thrusts a second finger alongside the first.

You let out a choked sob as his digits plunge into your wet heat. “Oh fuck,” you whine, the stretch is sublime, bordering on painful in the most amazing way.

He chuckles darkly, the vibrations traveling across your skin. "That's it, crazy girl. Let Mister-J take care of you." His voice drips like molasses– thick, sweet and slow. It’s tantalizing how just his words, his tone can make you feel crazy. 

Your fingers thread through his graying curls, tears streaming down your face as he works you expertly. “I- Ohh fuck, I-” He’s stoking the fire building low in your belly already- you’ve been wound so tight and are ready to snap.

Mister’s grip tightens on your thigh, holding you open as he drinks you down like a man starved. “You what, baby girl?” He sucks your clit into his mouth, teeth scraping the delicate bundle of nerves, tongue lapping at it.

Say it, Sugar.

Don’t.

Your hips move on their own accord, grinding against his mouth. Your cunt clenching his fingers because you can feel it building, the pressure, the need, the want. Your nails dig into his scalp, pulling him closer. “I- I love you,” you whimper as he adds a third finger, stretching you to capacity.

Your whole body tenses, the last of your resistance shattering as you come violently around his fingers and on his lips. He groans against your pulsing clit, swallowing your cries as he milks every last drop of pleasure from you.

“I know,” he hums, resting his head on your hip. His large hand rubs the outside of your thigh. 

There is a moment of silence, and you’re expecting him to either do it again, or lay down and ask you to get on top, but he doesn't. 

His fingers trace the scar on your lower stomach.

“What’s this?” Joel asks as his fingertips trail across the slightly raised, white line of skin just above the swell of your cunt. 

“They wouldn’t let me keep it,” you sigh down to him casually as the aftershocks of your pleasure run their course, carding your fingers through your hair to push it out of your face. “I tried to hide it,” you push yourself up onto your elbows to look down at him. “They found out though.”

Joel blinks up at you as you get ready to speak again, he wants to tell you to stop, to shut up– to be quiet and he’ll make you come again, but he can’t form the words. 

“They said it was too dangerous– too stupid.” You roll your eyes and pick at the sink on the side of your thumb. “Said I couldn’t take care of it– Which is bullshit because I’ve taken care of Puddin’ for so long and nothin’ bad happened to him.” You grumble. 

Joel’s mouth is so dry it’s painful. It’s like swallowing shards of metal, or fiberglass insulation. 

“And there was Lou and Bud! I took such good care of them–”

“Who are Bud and Lou?” Joel croaks softly at what the heart breaking answer could be.

“Bud was a squirrel with a broken leg, and Lou was a baby raccoon that I nursed back to health after a real bad wind storm– they both got knocked out of their nests.” You explain with a smile on your face. “They didn’t stick around like Pud, though.” 

“How’d you find Puddin’?” Joel asks, four flat fingers covering the scar so he doesn’t have to look at it. 

“Puddin’ found me,” you grin, combing your fingers through Joel’s hair now. “Sweet lil thing came up to me while I was comin’ home one night– basically beggin’ me to bring him back here. All cold ‘n ‘bout to die. His momma must’a lost him– or couldn’t take care of him… and now I’m–”

“You're his momma,” Joel chuckles, finishing your sentence with the thought running through his head. 

“Yeah, exactly!” You exclaim happily. 

Joel doesn’t want to ask, but he can’t keep the words in, he can’t hold it back anymore. “Who did this to you?” He runs his fingers along the scar one more time. 

It’s quiet for a long time, and Joel wonders if he shouldn’t have asked. You don’t answer right away, but he can hear your breathing change, quicken– go shallow. 

“The guys at the QZ in Wichita,” you whisper. 

Joel has to strain to hear the words. He knows that you know he can’t hear all that well, but he isn’t going to tell you to speak up. “Doctors?” 

Wishful thinking. 

You shrug your shoulders, “I dunno– some of ‘em could’a been doctors– but that’s not what they were in the QZ’s.” 

He just looks up at you, still laying between your legs. “No one was takin’ care of ya’?”

“My mom and dad were bowling the night of the outbreak—” you explain, eyes darting everywhere but Joel. “It was jus’ me ’n my brother that night– and then for a long time after that.”

“He didn’t know what was goin’ on?” 

You chuckle, but Joel can tell you don’t think it’s actually funny in the way you pick at the side of your thumb like there’s the cure to the infection inside of you. 

“He knew,” you huff. “He got hooked on those pills in the QZ, the big white ones– I don’t know what they were called–”

“Hydro.” 

“Hydro,” Joel explains, looking into the eyes of the Lee, the FEDRA guard he’s been supplying to for as long as he can remember at this point.  “How old?” Lee questions curiously.   “Three months,” Joel nods his head. He doesn’t have time for this, he’d rather be back at the apartment.  Lee inspects the pills, like he doesn’t trust Joel. “From Atlanta?”  “I dunno know where he gets ‘em from. I just know they’re real,” Joel huffs, narrowing his eyes on the FEDRA badge on his chest. 

“Yeah! He really liked those,” you roll your eyes. “Didn’t wanna work though, so he didn’t always have a way t’pay them… so when I couldn’t get ration cards to help him, he’d offer me up–”

“Well, the more you shoot people, the harder it is to sleep, I guess.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel groans quietly. He closes his eyes, crawling until he’s lying beside you. He doesn’t want to look at that scar again, or honestly hear anything else you have to say. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, sinking as far into the mattress as your body will allow. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to–” you whine quietly, but he presses his lips to yours, silencing you in the process of trying to comfort you. 

Joel wraps you up in his arms and pulls you close to him, something inside his chest vibrates and like the deepest note of the guitar he has back in Jackson.

“They all dead?” Joel growls in your ear. 

“I dunno,” you shrug, wiggling your hips as you attempt to scooch closer to him. 

Joel’s mind is racing, but his body betrays him. He’s raging hard behind his jeans, restricted behind the tight denim. It doesn’t matter to you; that he still has his pants on or the topic of conversation that had just been had– you’re reaching into his jeans, wrapping your warm, perfect hand around his length and pulling him free. 

“Wanna fall asleep with it inside me,” you murmur, shifting your body all around, jutting your hips out. The tip of Joel’s head stretches around your tight cunt, and he groans into the back of your hair. 

He wants to fuck you, wants to thrust deep inside of you, but he can’t– he’s too focused on Puddin' who is laying on your side of the bed– his tail hugged close to his body as you rub your index finger between his ears, and down between his eyes. He's asleep, and snoring softly.

Joel holds you, his fingers trace your belly button once, move up to the space between your breasts and back down again. His voice is shaky when he speaks again. “Why don’t you take me back to Jackson… you can stay there with me– you and Puddin’.” He offers, brushing the hair away from your face carefully with his free hand.

“Why?” you murmur sleepily. 

“I got family–”

“Tommy?” Every single piece that makes up the parts of your body freeze, and it’s almost like you’re playing dead like Puddin’ would in a stressful situation. 

“Tommy and his wife Maria– ” Joel tries to paint the picture for you, tries to show you what could be waiting for you if you would just let him go. “I got a nice house and a porch we could sit on, a bed we could sleep in every night– a big giant wall t’keep the infected out…”

Everything feels thick, and it’s hard to breathe like during a humid summer day– but it’s getting cold now and the air is crisp and Joel can see his breath most of the time, especially at night. “S’a lot of people behind that wall?” You whisper after a painfully long silence.

Joel lies. “A few, yeah. But Maria and Tommy run things– they’re good people–”

“Maria is good?”

“Yeah, she’s real good– real fair.” He nuzzles the back of your neck with his nose softly.

It ain’t her fuckin’ fault– and you know it. 

“Maria’s good– Tommy is good– they’re kind.” Joel whispers, holding you, squeezing your middle to keep the two of you connected for as long as possible. 

“Ellie?” 

He hates you for saying her name, but he hates himself more for letting it slip one drunken night. Joel knows that if Ellie ever found out about what you did to him out here, she’d kill you. Painfully. Slowly. 

Tommy would never let Joel live this down– getting snared in the mall because he wanted to sit in a recliner? Then he might help Ellie kill you.

“I could take you on dates– bring you down to the bar, we could drink whiskey with a real roof over our head,” Joel hums lowly, giving your stomach a pinch but you don’t laugh, or giggle or shy away. 

“How many people?”

“I dunno, a couple…we wouldn’t have t’see them often. Keep to ourselves, mind our business– just like we do here, just safer,” Joel feels like he could be getting somewhere. He’s never offered this before, he’s never even asked for you to let him go. He’s always just gone along in hopes of one day getting home.

Oh is that what you’re tellin’ yourself? Alright, alright. Gotta cope with this all somehow…

“Safer this way, less things t’worry about. Been doin’ it long enough to know that this way is better.”

Joel shakes his head, the tip of his thumb brushing across your eyebrow. “Long enou– how long have ya' even been out here? A year or two?” He watches as you subtly turn your head to give him more access to touch your face, caress you. 

With your eyes closed, you shake your head no at him, pinch your brows together like your thinking or– counting. Joel can see your lips moving as you silently recall whatever it is you're trying to remember. 

“Twelve,” you say confidently.

He hugs you closer to him. “Twelve what?” 

“Twelve winters–”

“No fuckin’ way,” Joel snorts in disbelief, but his eyes never leave your face. They’re searching for the joke, the punchline, something that will tell him that you’re joking. “What happened to the other people ya’ came here with?” 

You blink at him. “There was no one else…” 

"How many other guys have you done this to?" Joel asks quietly.

"Three," you murmur, as he gently drags the backs of his fingers down your face.

"What happened to 'em?" He probes, feeling like he already knows the answer. The fear coils in his gut like a snake ready to strike.

"I killed 'em…” you whisper into the dimly lit room. 

"Why?"

"They wouldn't stop tryin' to 'kill me…" you murmur.

“You built this?” 

Joel is in awe. He’s seen a lot, a whole lot in the thirty years since the outbreak, but you continue to surprise him. Impress him too, more than he thought was possible for a lady who had captured him and was holding him hostage in the woods. 

It’s a greenhouse– but that’s not what he’s impressed about. You built your own heating system for it out of a distillation set up– he doesn't do much to hide the look of bewilderment on his face.

Smart girl.

The smile that spreads across your lips as you take in his dumbfounded expression warms Joel’s heart even though the weather outside has cooled off drastically. 

“A couple years ago, yeah.” You explain, opening the door for him to step inside. 

The vinyl wrapped cord gets caught on the doorway, and the prongs on the choke chain dig into Joel’s neck painfully. He sucks air in through clenched teeth, his calloused fingers desperately try to put space between the metal and his tender and angry red skin. 

“Careful,” you murmur, untangling the rope for him so he can walk further inside. You hold the slack of his tie-out rope in your hand and carry it in for him.

Sweet girl.

Joel takes in everything. How well constructed this place is, how neat you have your rows of vegetables and fruits. Rows of raspberry bushes line the perimeter of the greenhouse. “How’d you get all this shit up here?” He turns to look at you, shoving his leather-glove clad hands into the winter jacket you brought him a couple weeks ago. 

Loves you.

Joel tries not to think about it.

You blink at him for several moments and then a flicker of uncertainty washes over your face. “Ya’ really wanna know?” You ask like you don’t believe that he could be interested in what you’ve been doing out here for the twelve long years you’ve been out here.

“Yeah I wanna know,” he nods his head to the entire structure built up around him. He knows that distillation set up outside is at least a couple hundred pounds, if not more.

He can see it on your face, the worry. The fear- as if telling him the truth, or telling him anything at all would send you spiraling.

Spiraling somewhere Joel isn’t sure he wants you to go.

He hums, turning his gaze to the rows of onions and potatoes. “Did your other fellas help ya’?” Joel teases.

You shake your head from side to side. “I had help–sometimes,” you finally admit, drawing the word out, eyeing his face and body as you whisper it to him. “I had some help, but mostly did it on my own,” you look like you're waiting for him to hit you, yell at you— pounce on you.

He doesn’t do any of those things. It just feels like someone knocked the wind out of him— stole all his air.

“Brought me up here to help you?” He offers, kneeling next to the garden bed to start digging up carrots, or celery or anything that he can throw into a stew for tonight’s dinner.

He loves to cook. It gives him something to do. Something to think about and look forward to. Joel likes that you eat what he makes for you. You eat a lot of it, and have actually put on a couple pounds since he got here.

You place one gentle hand on his shoulder and tug him away from the garden. “No, no— stop it,” you kneel down beside him, wrapping your hands around his and removing them from the dirt. “I didn’t bring you up here t’help me,” you smile at him happily. “You jus’ kept asking where I was gettin’ it all from… I’m showin’ you.”

Your eyes glimmer with something he hasn’t seen in a long time—trust. The look that makes him feel like maybe you’re not crazy- not a murderer- just scared. Fearful, but not anymore.

You trust him.

“Where you been hidin’?” Mister’s voice echoes off the tiled bathroom walls and floors.

You flinch under the stream of warm water and pinch your brows together at the sound of him coming closer. “I haven’t been hidin’. Been here all day,” you roll your eyes even though he can’t see you from behind the door. The water suddenly shuts off.

He’s kinked the hose, preventing the warm water from flowing freely.

“What’re you doing!?” You open the stall door, and poke your head out.

Joel has both of his eyebrows raised, looking at you incredulously. “Ya’ been here in the bathroom takin’ a shower all day?” He huffs at you. “Liar. Where ya’ been?”

“Let go,” you nod your head at the hose he has bent between one hand.

“Tell me where you were,” Mister narrows his eyes at you, unwilling to back down.

It’s cold in the mall, and you worked so hard to make sure that your shower would be warm in your irritable state. Everything has been miserable the last couple of days, you’ve been cramping. Teary and sad for no reason. Now you’re shivering, and a sense of rage floods you.

“Leave me alone,” you grumble.

Joel snorts, letting the hose fall to the floor and the warm water sputters out of the shower head attached to the side of the stall.

“Thank—” you start but hear his belt jingle and hit the tile.

Is he coming in here? He can’t! You’re unclean, undesirable!

“What’re you—” you put your hands on the stall door as he tries to push his way into where you’re naked, and bleeding.

“Need t’shower— I stink, been a couple days-” He starts, eyes narrowed on yours but you don’t let him finish and shove the door closed. “Hey! Let me in,” Mister wraps four thick fingers around the edge of the door to stop you from shutting it completely and locking him out.

“Get…out!” you huff as you push your shoulder into the door, using all of your body as a counterweight.

Mister pushes the door open easily, as if you weren’t even trying. “Th’fuck is wrong with you? Don’t like me anymore?” He frowns dramatically, the crease between his eyes deep.

“I- wha- no- yes, of course I still like you!” You exclaim, crossing your arms over your chest and pressing your legs together tightly. “Just- I don’t… I— please just go. I don’t want you to see me—”

“I see you. I been fuckin’ seein’ you, so th’fuck is your problem now?”

The frustrated tears burn at your eyes. “Get. Out.” You growl.

“You ‘bout t’cry?” He raises an eyebrow at you again, but with less anger etched into his face, and more worry. “What’s the matter, crazy girl?” He purrs, stepping into the small, crowded stall with you, letting the water wash over his broad shoulders and down his chest.

“M’just gross right now,” you groan, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “Don’t want you thinkin’ I’m dirty or nothin’…”

“Dirty? What you been gettin’ up to?”

“I’m bleedin’…” you whisper up to him shamefully.

Why would this handsome, perfect man want to touch you during your monthlies? No one else ever did, and none of them were nearly as incredible as Mister… none of them seemed to have any standards— but this was one thing none of them wanted to go near. Like you were cursed because of what was happening between your legs.

It’s all right Sugar, he’s a real man.

“Where- what happened?” Mister looks more worried than he was a moment ago, eyes scanning the length of your body looking for something. “Ya’ hurt?”

He’s real. Real simple.

“Please just go away,” you whine as he inches himself closer to you, caging you into the corner of the stall with his strong body. The heat creeps up your neck and chest, your eyes fill with more tears uncontrollably.

“Y’really want me to leave?” He whispers, his warm, soft lips ghost across your forehead, his stubble scratching gently in their wake.

“S’just… gross,” you offer weakly, your resolve shattering with every careful touch he gives you.

“What the hell are you talkin-” Joel starts, but cuts himself off quickly. He tilts his head down to look at you. “Bleedin’, huh?”

All you can do is nod silently, avoiding his gaze.

“Thinkin’ Mister ain’t gon’ wanna touch you, that right?” He coos as he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Why would… you?” You wince, clenching your teeth together as cramps overtake your lower stomach and back.

Joel nuzzles the side of your face, pulling you back under the steady stream of warm water, letting it wash over the front and back of you as his free hand slips between your bodies. “Let me help you,” he nips at your earlobe, sucking it into his mouth.

Pulling your head back to look up at him, the water washing through your hair and down your back. “Wh-what? How…” you trail off as he slips his hands between your legs, fingers pushing through your swollen, aching lips. It’s uncomfortable and makes you whine and hide your face in the crook of his neck as he pushes two fingers deep into your cunt, curling them against that spot that has you seeing stars.

“Mister knows things too, crazy girl,” his deep voice vibrates in your ear and makes your knees weak. "Know this'll make ya’ feel better." He nudges your legs further apart with his knees and you don't fight him.

The heel of his palm rubs against your clit as he strokes that spot inside you over and over, again and again. "Oh god— don't…please, you'll get dirty-" you groan, your walls clenching around his fingers anyway despite your weak and meaningless protest because you love when he touches you. It’s impossible to fight.

You hate having to hide from him when this happens— it's easier when there isn't snow on the ground and you can leave the mall for a couple days. Hide in the woods and keep watch from a distance… in the shadows. Like before he was yours.

"I don't give a fuck about blood," he growls into the crook of your neck, moving the hand on your waist to the back of your head. His fingers leave you suddenly, and he pulls back, holding your head down so you can watch his already throbbing cock fuck into his partially open fist. 

Mister always takes your breath away, no matter how many times you see it, or put your mouth on it, or take it deep inside of you. It curves slightly up towards his stomach from a thatch of thick dark curls. Swollen tip already drooling with precum.

He gives himself a few slow strokes, coating himself in your slick and blood. "I'ma grown man. Don't matter to me," he groans. His fingers grip your hair and tilt your head up to look at him now. "Turn around, sweetheart," He purrs, licking at your bottom lip teasingly.

"Okay," you sigh, head bobbing up and down as you try to regain some sort of composure. Your eyes drop back down to his hand, still stroking his length slowly as you turn around and rest your palms on what used to be a toilet-paper dispenser, knocking over your small collection of soaps that smell nice and make your skin feel soft.

Joel pulls your hips out, and grinds every inch of him through the folds of your pussy slowly. One of his giant hands moves to the globe of your ass and pulls you open, the other guides the tip of him into your aching core.

The two of you groan together as he sinks himself into you, not letting you adjust or open up to him at all. He splits you open each and every time like it's the first, and it's heavenly.

You rest your forehead against the wall while Joel wraps one hand around your throat and leans over you, his chest pressed against your back. His thumb caresses your jaw as his fingers press into the artery on the side of your neck.

When you're with Mister like this, it all goes away. All the sad, and the bad, and the angry and fear— he replaces it with something else. It's good, and warm and it makes you feel small and weightless.

"S'my crazy girl," he grunts as he starts to thrust slowly but deeply, the tip of his cock kissing the deepest part of you as his hips grind into yours. You clench around him, and he moans, resting his forehead on your shoulder. "God damn, you feel so fuckin' good," he rumbles.

"Don't stop," you mew, the lightheadedness taking you exactly where you want it to. Weightless and free of all thoughts, fears and inhibitions. The blood isn’t real, the pain is numbed and Joel and you are the only ones to exist right now. 

Everything else doesn’t matter.

Mister chuckles against your ear, his breath warm and inviting and pluming down the side of your face. Joel’s like the pyroclastic flow from a volcano; hot and all-consuming, taking over every one of your senses. “Don’t stop fuckin’ you?”He purrs deeply as his free hand slides down your stomach to your slick cunt. “Or don’t stop callin’ you mine?” He teases, rubbing your clit in tight circles as he fucks up into you from behind. 

You don’t even remember what he’s asked you, it’s all too good, the way every inch of cock seems to know the inside of your cunt so intimately, it’s like he’s fixing something inside of you. It’s only temporary, but it feels good while it lasts. "Yes," you gasp, pussy pulsing around him with every beat of your heart, tilting your hips to take him even deeper. 

He just laughs, low and from deep in his chest, pressing his lips to the top of your head as his fingers work your clit faster, urging you higher and so quickly. Then his hand from around your throat is squeezing tighter– your vision tunnels just as he brings you to the precipice. 

Mister lets go of your throat just as you orgasm, it tears through you and he never lets up, fucking you hard and fast through the whole thing. “Oh I know, babygirl.” He growls. “Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?” The tips of his fingers trail down the column of your throat and through the valley of your breasts until he palms one, groping gently at the tender flesh, pinching your nipple and tugging. 

It does feel good– it’s relief from the aching and jackhammering going on inside of you somewhere– and you’re thankful for Mister. You could get down on your knees and worship him. You might. It’s incredible. White hot bliss in every inch of you.

Joel snaps his hips into yours over and over again as you ride out the aftershocks, keening and crying through the pleasure. You’re on the brink of another orgasm, both of his hands now palming and pulling at the soft, over-sensitive flesh of your tits as he spills himself inside of you. 

“S’right, fuckin’ milk me dry. So fuckin’ tight, baby girl.” His teeth sink into the sink on your shoulder–hard. 

It’s pain that brings you back to the women’s restroom in an abandoned mall, a couple of hours trek outside of whatever is left of Jackson, Wyoming. 

It’s the breaking of skin, and the feeling of molten lava pooling in your core, and then flooding down your legs as he pulls out of you. 

His tongue laves at the torn flesh on your shoulder as he coos soft apologies and promises, but you don’t even listen because that was the first time Joel ever came inside of you. There had been plenty of ‘times’, but they all ended with him finishing on some part of you that wasn’t the walls of your cunt. 

When you turn back to look at him, he’s leaning up against the opposite side of the stall, eyes closed, chest heaving with water droplets dripping down his stomach to his still half-hard cock covered in the mixture of your red-slick and his milky white release. 

It makes your stomach flutter, and more liquid heat pools in your core. 

“Lookin’ like you wanna get fucked again,” his eyes are barely open, but he’s staring at you with a goofy half-smile on his face. 

When you try to speak your voice wavers and cracks– and you make Mister-man laugh. A real laugh. He shakes his head from side to side, pushing himself off the wall to crowd your space once again.

He smacks your ass twice, and pulls you under the water with him, “Ain’t gotta say nothin’ sweetheart.” 

Tonight he has his head in your lap, and he rumbles happily when you run your fingers through his loose curls, and scratch at his scalp with your nails.

He's reading one of your comic books to you and Puddin' who is curled up in the big bed almost under your lap.

He's almost got the voices down— just needs a little more time. He'll get it.

It doesn't matter, just having him here is more than you could ever ask for. He doesn't fight, or argue with you anymore. Not like he used to. There are days when he doesn't want to talk, or sometimes even look at you— but he's never mean. Sometimes he's just quiet.

Today was a good day though because you brought back fresh meat again, and you cried about it in the woods before you brought it back so he wouldn't see how badly it bothered you. The first time you brought it back, you cried the whole day and refused to eat it. It bothered you so much that you'd do something like that just to make him happy.

You didn't talk to him for a couple days after, thinking about letting him go or killing him because why does he have that much control over what you do?

You like makin' him happy, Sug.

He's reading from the comic, but you're not really listening.

You've killed people for a lot less than sustainability.

There isn't much you wouldn't do to keep Mister happy, and safe here with you. He doesn't seem miserable, or unhappy. Sometimes he talks about how he wishes he could see his family.

You're his family now. You 'n Puddin'.

He has a real family though out there waiting for him… Missing him. 

The comic ends, and the silence creeps in. The strands of his hair feel like home between your fingers, so you start to rake the fingers of your other hand through it now too. 

"She must really love him," you whisper down to him. "S'why she does all those terrible things for 'Mistah-Jay'," you lighty mock Harley's high pitched crooning and smirk down at him as he closes his eyes.

Your Mister-J shakes his head from side to side, snorting from his nose softly like what you said is funny to him. "Don't know if I'd consider that love, sweetheart." He keeps his eyes closed and speaks slowly with his southern drawl.

Condescending– he doesn’t know love– not real true love. Don’t listen to him.

Hear him out, sweet girl. 

Something like vines coil around your heart when he says it, but you're not sure why, but it doesn't feel good, or nice. The vines have thorns that poke at the soft parts inside you. "Whadd'ya mean?"

"Well y'know Harley was normal once, right? She was a doctor or whatever—"

"A psychologist…" You correct him. She had been a psychologist, fallen in love with Joker, gave up everything for him… Well, maybe—You only had five comic books!! You're not really sure what happened or, why or how… just a couple parts to a much longer story, apparently.

"Oh yeah, well whatever she was— Joker goes to Arkham Asylum, meets Dr. Harleen Francis Quinzel… PhD," he nods his head, opening his eyes to look up at you. "Pretty girl, smart and witty..."

"Yeah?" It feels like every word he says could either make you laugh or start crying.

"And Joker brainwashes her— makes her crazy," he starts but there is only screaming inside your head that drowns out whatever else he says. "She loses everything 'cause of him."

Joker wouldn't do that! Not to his Harley, at least. Everyone else, maybe? But not his girl…right?

Don't listen to him, Sugar. He don't know what he's talking about.

There's a squeeze, and the sharp points of the thorns pierce your lungs and it feels like you deflate, like the world could be slipping away from you, or you could be floating somewhere else.

Your fingers have stopped moving, but still grip his hair in the space between them. "He loves her, he wouldn't do that…"

"He doesn't love her- he uses her." He whispers.

He’s wrong. He’s wrong. He’s wrong. He’s wrong. 

Now it feels like you can't breathe because that can't be true. Harley and Joker might not have always been nice to each other in your comic books, or cartoons— but he loved her. He had to love her, she loved him so much.

There was no way that he doesn’t love Harley, right?

That’s not love. That’s not love.

Mister-man doesn’t stop talking even though you wish he would. "She loves him— but she figures out that Jokers is a bad guy… a real bad guy," his hands are around your wrists now, sliding his fingers between yours to loosen the hold you have on his hair.

"What does she do then?"

Joel's eyes are so dark, chocolatey brown– wide with…fear?

You're hurtin' him, sweet girl.

Who fuckin’ cares— remeber when he hit you?

Listen to Mister, listen to him…

"She kills him," Miser-man laces his fingers with yours and pulls your hands out of his hair. 

Being shot would feel better than this. It's like your chest is caving in on itself. You can't breathe, you can barely think. 

"She wouldn't do that," you hiss at him, struggling to pull your hand free from his grasp, his fingers pinching around yours, refusing to let him go. 

"She loves Joker, and she wouldn't hurt him- wouldn't kill him…" your eyes flash between your fingers laced in his, and his big brown, perfect eyes.

Perfect baby cow eyes. 

"She smartens up— she realizes he's been abusin' her." Joel's on his knees now, cupping your face with his free hand "She's smarter than him, crazier too." He leans in and kisses away the tears that had sprung from your eyes, and are now rolling down your cheeks.

Joel lies.

"You're bullshittin' me," you put both hands on his chest and push him weakly. "He loves her, she loves him— she doesn't kill him. Why would you say that?"

"It's just how their story goes, crazy girl. It ain't real," he wraps one hand around the back of your neck and tries to pull you in for comfort but you don't let him.

You spend the night in the greenhouse that night. 

People were capable of a lot of things, you had seen it first hand. Watching it happen to yourself, and people just like you thrown into situations they didn’t ask to be in, or maybe got themselves into on accident– but nobody wants to be abused. Nobody asks to be taken advantage of. 

Look at what you’ve done. 

Look at what you were able to take for yourself. 

Ruined a man's life.

He loves you. 

This isn’t love. 

It’s hard to look at Joel after that. 

You just keep to yourself until your next supply run. 

–He’s going to die if you don’t do it.

Don’t fucking do it!! What are you thinking!? He’ll leave!

“That’s fine!!” You sob as you climb up the service ladder that takes you to the roof where you can enter the mall on the rafters. 

Joel can’t die. Not like this. Not because of you.  

All the other entrances have been boarded up so tight that it’s nearly impossible for one or two people to get in on their own, but it doesn’t matter now with how many of them are coming. 

They’ll tear this whole place apart looking for you. They saw you– got the dogs on your scent and it’s incredible that you lost them for as long as you did running in the river but they’re still coming. 

They’re going to kill you this time and there really isn’t anything you can do about it. There are too many this time, and they never stopped following you. The dogs kept barking, kept howling, and kept alerting when they’d pick up your trail again. 

Puddin’s only chance to get out of here alive is to leave with Joel right now. You’ll give him all his stuff, his guns, his gas-mask and you’ll just keep the raiders preoccupied while Joel and Puddin’ get away. 

Joel is in the bookstore when you come running in, already fumbling with the keys that will unlock his choke chain and his shock collar. 

He’s so handsome, and big. If by some miracle you get out of this alive– you can go to Jackson and find Joel. 

“Whoa, what’s goin’--” he looks concerned, and he has a good reason. He doesn’t have a lot of time to get out of here. 

“I don’t have time– you just need to get Puddin’ o-out of here, go out through the r-roof, like we do to get to the greenhouse. There are two ladders, the one in the back will take you into the woods and you can go back to Tommy and Maria, Ellie– but you have to take Puddin’!”

The words don’t feel like they’re coming out fast enough, but Mister-man is looking at you like you have seven heads and are possibly growing another one as you try to explain that bad guys are coming. 

Joel clamps his hands around yours while you fumble with the keys. “Slow down– jus’ take a deep breath–” Joel turns his hands to the side, and opens them with yours cupped in either one, the keys pinched between your index finger and thumb on your right hand. “Keys?”

Don’t tell him, don’t tell him. Don’t let them go, don’t let them go. You’ll lose him forever. He’ll kill you. He’s going to kill you. Let him die here with you.

“The gold one is for the chain, silver is for the collar–” doing the right thing. 

“You got guns? I need a couple–” Joel nods his head at you as he takes the keys from your trembling hands very carefully, like you might spontaneously combust if he makes any sudden movements.

Take them keys back, it’s not too late. Take them back. Take them back. Take them back.

There are guns hidden in the ceiling of the mattress store. Lots of guns that you’ve collected over the years. 

“I’ll give ya’ whatever you need. Ya’ just gotta–” You’re already backing out of the bookstore, stumbling over fallen shelves and debris from the ceiling caving in a couple weeks ago. 

“I’ll take Puddin’, don’t worry. M’right behind ya’,” Mister’s already got one key in one of the locks as you turn to sprint to the mattress store. 

You climb onto the counter and push one of the ceiling tiles aside, and start pulling guns and boxes of ammo out, handing them to Mister-man to get ready. 

Faintly, the sounds of dogs barking are growing closer and closer. Every warm thing about you goes cold because it might be too late for Mister-man if they get this place surrounded. 

Shouldn’t have come back here. You keep making mistakes. 

It’s okay, sweet girl. Doing the right thing by letting him go– sacrificing yourself to save him and Pud. 

The tears come and are hot, and fat and sting your eyes. 

“Please take care of Puddin’, please don’t jus’ let him go- go the second you get out in the –the woods, okay?” You try and speak over the lump in your throat but it’s hard, and it hurts, and you want to just lay down and die right here. “He’s not real good at takin’ care of himself– he needs someone.”

Joel isn’t listening, he’s loading up rifles and handguns faster than you’re getting your pleas out. He looks determined, he’s not paying attention to the things that you’re saying. 

“Hey! M’talkin–” you start, taking a step towards him. 

“Here,” he shoves a rifle in your hand and a pistol in the other. Then he slings another rifle over your shoulder. He starts loading more guns. In your backpack, you have your preferred weapon of a metal slingshot and free, unlimited ammo. Hard things

It’s deadly when used properly, silent and easy to practice with because you can never run out of rocks. Metal nuts and bolts work well too, and those are all over, fallen out of the iron skeleton that keeps the mall together over the years. 

“Puddin’?” You question, backing out of the storefront slowly. Joel waves you away as he continues to load up the rest of the weapons. 

There isn’t much you can think about besides how Joel is going to get out of here with Puddin’ safely. You don’t even know where the little guy is, and he’s probably hiding now hearing the dogs closing the distance outside. 

Make it easier for them to get in hopes they don’t go looking for another way in– Before you climb into the rafters, you push the tables, chairs and racks out of the way and make the entrance accessible from outside. 

You’re so stupid for letting him go, he could have died here with you– lived as ghosts here together for eternity. 

You take your place above the entrance, where you would come and wait for Mister-man before he was yours– where you would hide from him when you were bleeding before you knew he was a ‘real man’, or what a real man even was. You did the right thing. 

It happens fast– the doors explode open with an ear-splitting, head ringing bang, and debris flies everywhere. You can hear it showering down on the tiles of the food court, into the small puddles of still water that have accumulated with the quick-melting snow. 

The smoke and dust make it impossible to see, but you stay hidden regardless and get your slingshot loaded and ready for when it all finally settles. 

The dog's nails click on the ceramic flooring as they run inside and start looking for you. Start sniffing you out– which is easy. Your scent is all over this mall and they take off running in the direction of the mattress store. 

In the direction Joel and possibly Puddin’ if they didn’t get out in time. 

Muffled voices echo through the quickly dissipating cover of dusty smog. 

Three dark figures move quickly, following in the direction of the dogs. You pull your loaded slingshot back, aim for the pulse point on their throat, or at the base of their neck– in the spine. 

It’s usually quick and they’re down before they know what hit them, or even realize that they’re on the ground. 

The other two raiders see their friend go down, holding his neck, choking on his own blood and begin looking around the food court through the scopes of their machine guns. You load up the pouch quickly with a heavy metal nut and aim. 

Let go. 

There is a millisecond when you think you weren’t quick enough. He saw you, his finger pulled the trigger, but before the gun goes off his hand falls to his side, his rifle tumbles to the ground and he stands there like he’s been stunned. 

You aimed for his forehead, but it entered through the eye socket of his closed eye with a soft pop you could hear over the dogs barking in the distance. Then he goes down. 

There are gunshots, but not from the food court– they’re coming from a different part of the mall. Two different types of gunshots. Then it’s quiet. 

Both of ‘em dead and it’s all your fault. All your fault. All your fault. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands up, at the thought of Joel and Puddin’ being shot at, torn apart by the dogs. 

The one remaining raider looks around the food court, and then down the long, wide corridor where the dogs are still barking, and now more guns are going off. 

They’re both dead. Dead ‘cause of you. 

You toss your slingshot to the side and grab the hunting rifle, aiming at the back of the last raider's head as he turns to walk away. You take one shot and watch as he goes down, and hope that the dogs and whoever else is in the mall come your way instead of following after Joel.

You count as more people come into the mall through the entrance, stepping over the bodies of their dead friends. One, two, three, four, five, six…

Ain’t even worth it anymore. Should just shoot yourself now– end it all quickly–

Just keep moving, sweet girl. It’ll be okay. Give him time to get out of here. Keep him safe, he doesn’t deserve this, never did. 

No more people come inside– and that’s when you open fire from the rafters, moving as gracefully as you can while trying to aim. 

This rifle only holds five rounds, and you drop three of the intruders before you run out of ammo. You drop that gun, and grab the one around hanging off your shoulder. 

Their guns start going off, bullets flying past your face. One grazes your shoulder, just the skin– it burns and stings, but your feet stay deft in their movements. Remembering where to step and what spots to avoid because of the structural faults. 

More gunfire from the other wing of the mall. Near the department store with two floors. Near the bookstore. Near where you and Joel sleep together most nights– except for the past couple. 

Now you regret it, now you regret not feeling his cock inside of you these last three nights. Not falling asleep sticky with his release between your thighs, or taking advantage of the nights when he let you fall asleep inside of you.  

Three nights you can never get back. If you make it out of this you’ll crawl across hot coals for him– beg him to stay here with you forever– you can go back to Jackson to visit– to see everyone– but then you can come back. 

He won’t let you come back, you fucking cow. 

He won’t come back here, baby. He won’t– but that’s okay. This place isn’t good for you. 

This place is your home– it has been and it will be, it’s kept you safe. It’s made you smart and independent. 

Look at what it did to you, who it made you.  

You were crazy before you got here. 

“I’m not crazy…” you whisper. 

Then it happens, your foot falters, and the rafter creaks loudly as the bullets continue to whizz past you. Missing you by centimeters– but you never stop moving. Not even as the beam underneath your foot starts to sway from side to side. 

A low, echoing groan fills the mall as you move faster to get to the other side where things are still a bit more secure– you think about jumping, but falling–

It doesn’t matter, you’re weightless, everything about you feels like it stays up in the air while you tumble down to the ground. The world flips and spins– a kaleidoscope of fresh new greenery growing, and the old dingy colors of the mall's ceramic tiles, the dimming evening sky. 

Everything about you feels detached, like your body no longer exists, nothing is real; like you're suspended in a dream.

This is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a broken body. 

The impact is jarring, a violent explosion of pain that sends white-hot tendrils searing through your shoulder and down your left arm. The air is punched out of your lungs and you’re clinging to consciousness with everything that you can- but the darkness is so inviting, the warm ground is so cool against the broiling pain that has you sweating. 

Puddin’ could need you, Sug. Joel might need you. 

The handgun is still somehow tucked into your waistband, and you push yourself to your knees despite all the tendons and muscles in your shoulder and back telling you to lay down– to give up. 

Shoot yourself before anyone else can– they might not be so generous. 

You can’t give up. Not now, not yet. 

It’s nearly impossible to aim, your vision is blurring in and out of focus. It’s hard to keep steady when you feel like you could be sick, and take a nap all at the same time. 

Point and shoot, point and shoot point and shoot at whatever is moving, whatever looks like a target. Your left hand hangs at your side limp, unwilling to cooperate when you think of things to do– like grab a new magazine when the clip gets low. 

Everything on your lower-half is fine, seems fine– you think. It’s not completely clear if anything hurts because everything above the waist feels like it’s on fire. Gunshots echo throughout the mall in what sounds like all directions. Everything is echoing. Everything feels so fuzzy and thick– so warm.

When you come to, Joel is kneeling over you, blood dripping down the side of his face, chin and neck. His shirt is stained dark red down the front of his chest. 

Did he eat them?

He might’a. 

“What happened–” 

A soft but deafening metallic click echoes in your ears. You’ve heard it before– it’s distinct and only one thing makes that sound. A padlock locking into place. 

The part of your brain that tells your body to move still works, your right hand starts to move to your neck– but your left arm stays limp by your side and fireworks go off in the space behind your eyes. 

You are a ragdoll being held together at the seams. Then thin, red strings that connect your shoulder to the rest of your body are hanging there limply, all the tension and tightness that allows you to move is gone. 

It’s excruciating. It’s like the grooves of your brain are being peeled apart– you can’t think, you can’t do anything but shriek. 

Joel tuts softly over the sounds of your pain, “Yeah, a dislocated shoulder’ll do that to ya’.” There is a twinge of twisted pleasure in his empathetic tone. “Planned on fixin’ it up while ya’ were still out,” he explains through your wailing. 

“Pl-Please don’t tou-t–touch it,” you’re stammering through the red-hot pain.

Mister-man shakes his head at you, his lips together in a tight lipped smile– like what he’s about to tell you is unfortunate news. “I gotta, and I can do it now… or I can go get that brick–”

The choke-chain suddenly feels like it’s ten thousand pounds, too tight and also hot; white hot like it just came out of the fire. 

Kill him. 

The brick might actually not be too bad in this situation–

“I gotta couple things t’go take care of, so…why don’t you jus’ sit tight ‘n I’ll be right back.” Joel doesn’t touch you, or fix your fucking shoulder before he stands up to leave. “Don’t go anywhe– oh wait,” he chuckles, shaking his head from side to side. 

There are parts of your brain telling you to sit still, to relax and the pain will eventually subside, to just let things happen. Bigger, louder parts of your brain are telling you that this is worse than dying. This is the least desirable outcome. You’re not sure what parts they are, or who is even speaking because all the words and sounds are blending together. 

Joel walks over the bodies of the dead dogs, the nameless raiders– he uses cautious feet as he steps over new collapsed parts of the roof. Twisted and mangled metal– sharp and dangerous as he climbs and crawls through the narrow openings. 

Joel has to look for the shock collar remote. He doesn’t know what you’ve done with it since he hasn’t made you use it since shortly after you put it on him. He hasn’t seen it in— 

Months. It’s been months. 

He’s not thinking of the countless nights of sharing his warmth with you– or how you made sure he always had something to eat– how you tore yourself apart to make sure that he was taken care of. 

He’s trying not to think about it. 

His backpack is almost full by the time he leaves the second floor of the department store. He’s careful and makes sure to not let this get jostled around in there. He was gentle with how he packed things and wanted to make sure nothing got ruined.

Puddin’ is right where Joel expected him to be. On the highest shelf of the bookstore, which is where he was before you came running in with tears in your eyes almost an hour ago. When Joel was still your prisoner. Still your captive. 

Joel grabs Pud by the scruff– unfazed by the hissing and clicking sounds of protest coming from the completely domesticated animal. Joel hasn’t seen Puddin’ hunt or scavenge for his own food once since he’s been here, and knows for a fact that he wouldn’t be able to make it on his own. 

He doesn’t want to bring him–

Yes ya’ do. 

No…he doesn’t.

He doesn’t even really know why he’s back inside the mattress store tearing the place apart looking for the remote to the shock collar. He doesn’t know why he’s inside the pet store looking for a new shock collar when he can’t find the old one.

When Joel returns to the spot where he left you– you’re gone. 

She couldn’t have gotten far. 

He picks the cord up off the floor, gives it a soft tug and feels the resistance– you’re still on the other end. He sets his backpack down gently and holds the cord in his hand as he lets the sounds of your pained whimper lead him right to you. 

Joel follows you into the service hallways he’s explored a million times. He wonders why you came back here, what you’re looking for that he doesn’t know about. A secret way out? Bolt cutters? 

Joel looked constantly for something that he could have used to cut through his restraints, but never found anything.

Never really looked that hard– don’t kid yourself.

He did look– he always wanted to go home. 

Could have killed her a long time ago. 

“Come on, lil puppy– Puddin’s missin’ ya’,” Joel croons, the sounds of your shuffled footsteps on the concrete floor growing louder and louder. “Hear ‘em cryin’ for his momma?” He holds Puddin’ up, and he hisses loudly in annoyance or discomfort– he’s not completely sure. 

Joel’s about to round the corner, expecting you to be there with a horrified look on your face at what he might do to the over-sized rodent in his hand. 

He’s not expecting you to be waiting for him with a knee hurdling towards his unprotected dick and balls. It knocks the air out of his lungs, and bile rises in his throat. 

“You’re hurtin’ him!” Your worried voice rings in his ears.

She’s going to kill you. 

The rest of his stomach drops down into his ass. 

Joel grabs the cord attached to the choke chain, gasping for air, and pulls on it as hard as he can and is still met with tension. You shriek and choke as he drags you to the ground—still holding Puddin' safely in your arms. 

He realizes you hadn’t even been going for the keys or his gun, or his knife. You were just trying to protect–

Her baby. 

Joel gives your restraint another good tug– he knows how it feels to have the prongs dig into the soft, sensitive skin above the collarbone. It’s horrible, but not as bad as the shock-collar. 

Joel moves as fast as he can, pouncing on you and pressing his knee into your chest.  

You look up at him with eyes so wide they're more white then iris, pupils blown wide with terror. Then you scream, it vibrates his eardrums, and splits his skull open. 

He didn’t think any human was capable of making a sound so absolutely bone-chilling.

He presses his palm over your mouth, squeezing your cheeks together as tight as he can to avoid getting bitten. With the hunting knife he points it at Puddin’-- who is currently playing dead beside your flailing body.

Joel turns your head to the side while your fingernails claw into his wrists. You go limp when you see the threat.

“Ain’t gotta say it— but you know,” Joel warns. quietly. “Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut– got it?” He growls in your ear. 

You whimper and nod silently in defeat.

“Good. Now you’re gon’ get up real slow– Mister’ll help ya’, okay?” He whispers in your ear. 

You nod again, body shaking underneath his with each silent sob. 

Be careful-- her shoulder.

Joel helps you to your feet. He picks Puddin’ up more appropriately– holding him like a newborn– still pointing the sharp edge of the knife towards his belly as the three of you make your way back out of the service hallway. 

Once Joel has you back where had intended on you staying– he gives you Puddin’ to hold and then gives you a stern look with narrow eyes and a strongly pinched brow. 

“You try anythin’– make one single move…and I’ll kill him; make you watch,” Joel nods down to the still stiff opossum in your arms.

"I'm real sorry--"

"Sorry don't mean nothin' out here, remember that?" He barks at you as he pulls the new collar out of the packaging.

He has no sympathy for your tears, or the way that you're almost silently apologizing over and over again-- almost like you're not even talking to him anymore.

She ain't... you know it.

He places the new shock collar around your neck and locks into place with the padlock from the choke chain. He then puts the batteries in the remote and holds his thumb over the button.

“Say goodbye t’all of this,” he motions around with the blade of his knife. The crumbling ceiling, the broken and warped rafters littering the ground now. “We’re goin’ to Jackson.” 

To be continued…?

authors note-- this was honestly one of the most fun stories to write-- and I really hope you all want me to continue this fucked up story back in Jackson.

Thank you to everyone for the love and support!! I didn't expect a little tiny drabble to turn into this big whole thing.

I hope I didn't disappoint everyone-- I didn't want either one of them to die and I genuinely don't think Joel would have just let her walk away from all of this with a nod of his head and a wave.

thank you for @pedrospookie for your amazing mood boards and knowledge of DC and Harley Quinn, and @almostempty for your help with this last chapter. I really needed your words of encouragement and support because I felt like I was fucking it up all the time.

@probablyreadinsmut your love for Puddin' kept me going and I love you for that.

tag list:@pedrospookie @gothcsz @joelmillerisapunk @paleidiot @goodvampykitten @rosebuds-and-moonlight @diabaroxa @zhazy-blog2 @almostempty @xdaddysprincessxx @tobethlehem @lilac-boo @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @rav3n-pascal22 @baronessvonglitter @joelmillerisapunk @syd-djarin @probablyreadinsmut @itwasntimethatdidit40 @letsgobarbs @lovehappyloki @joelalorian @pedrostories @evolnoomym @valkyreally @youdontknowe @corazondebeskar-reads @pastelpinkflowerlife @tobethlehem @lumpatto @shivispunk

again, i'm sorry if I forgot anyone. I have a little hamster brain and I forget things.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Fintech bullies stole your kid’s lunch money

I'm coming to DEFCON! On Aug 9, I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On Aug 10, I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Three companies control the market for school lunch payments. They take as much as 60 cents out of every dollar poor kids' parents put into the system to the tune of $100m/year. They're literally stealing poor kids' lunch money.

In its latest report, the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau describes this scam in eye-watering, blood-boiling detail:

https://files.consumerfinance.gov/f/documents/cfpb_costs-of-electronic-payment-in-k-12-schools-issue-spotlight_2024-07.pdf

The report samples 16.7m K-12 students in 25k schools. It finds that schools are racing to go cashless, with 87% contracting with payment processors to handle cafeteria transactions. Three processors dominate the sector: Myschoolbucks, Schoolcafé, and Linq Connect.

These aren't credit card processors (most students don't have credit cards). Instead, they let kids set up an account, like a prison commissary account, that their families load up with cash. And, as with prison commissary accounts, every time a loved one adds cash to the account, the processor takes a giant whack out of them with junk fees:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

If you're the parent of a kid who is eligible for a reduced-price lunch (that is, if you are poor), then about 60% of the money you put into your kid's account is gobbled up by these payment processors in service charges.

It's expensive to be poor, and this is no exception. If your kid doesn't qualify for the lunch subsidy, you're only paying about 8% in service charges (which is still triple the rate charged by credit card companies for payment processing).

The disparity is down to how these charges are calculated. The payment processors charge a flat fee for every top-up, and poor families can't afford to minimize these fees by making a single payment at the start of the year or semester. Instead, they pay small sums every payday, meaning they pay the fee twice per month (or even more frequently).

Not only is the sector concentrated into three companies, neither school districts nor parents have any meaningful way to shop around. For school districts, payment processing is usually bundled in with other school services, like student data management and HR data handling. For parents, there's no way to choose a different payment processor – you have to go with the one the school district has chosen.

This is all illegal. The USDA – which provides and regulates – the reduced cost lunch program, bans schools from charging fees to receive its meals. Under USDA regs, schools must allow kids to pay cash, or to top up their accounts with cash at the school, without any fees. The USDA has repeatedly (2014, 2017) published these rules.

Despite this, many schools refuse to handle cash, citing safety and security, and even when schools do accept cash or checks, they often fail to advertise this fact.

The USDA also requires schools to publish the fees charged by processors, but most of the districts in the study violate this requirement. Where schools do publish fees, we see a per-transaction charge of up to $3.25 for an ACH transfer that costs $0.26-0.50, or 4.58% for a debit/credit-card transaction that costs 1.5%. On top of this, many payment processors charge a one-time fee to enroll a student in the program and "convenience fees" to transfer funds between siblings' accounts. They also set maximum fees that make it hard to avoid paying multiple charges through the year.

These are classic junk fees. As Matt Stoller puts it: "'Convenience fees' that aren't convenient and 'service fees' without any service." Another way in which these fit the definition of junk fees: they are calculated at the end of the transaction, and not advertised up front.

Like all junk fee companies, school payment processors make it extremely hard to cancel an automatic recurring payment, and have innumerable hurdles to getting a refund, which takes an age to arrive.

Now, there are many agencies that could have compiled this report (the USDA, for one), and it could just as easily have come from an academic or a journalist. But it didn't – it came from the CFPB, and that matters, because the CFPB has the means, motive and opportunity to do something about this.

The CFPB has emerged as a powerhouse of a regulator, doing things that materially and profoundly benefit average Americans. During the lockdowns, they were the ones who took on scumbag landlords who violated the ban on evictions:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cfpb

They went after "Earned Wage Access" programs where your boss colludes with payday lenders to trap you in debt at 300% APR:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/01/usury/#tech-exceptionalism

They are forcing the banks to let you move your account (along with all your payment history, stored payees, automatic payments, etc) with one click – and they're standing up a site that will analyze your account data and tell you which bank will give you the best deal:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

They're going after "buy now, pay later" companies that flout borrower protection rules, making a rogues' gallery of repeat corporate criminals, banning fine-print gotcha clauses, and they're doing it all in the wake of a 7-2 Supreme Court decision that affirmed their power to do so:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

The CFPB can – and will – do something to protect America's poorest parents from having $100m of their kids' lunch money stolen by three giant fintech companies. But whether they'll continue to do so under a Kamala Harris administration is an open question. While Harris has repeatedly talked up the ways that Biden's CFPB, the DOJ Antitrust Division, and FTC have gone after corporate abuses, some of her largest donors are demanding that her administration fire the heads of these agencies and crush their agenda:

https://prospect.org/power/2024-07-26-corporate-wishcasting-attack-lina-khan/

Tens of millions of dollars have been donated to Harris' campaign and PACs that support her by billionaires like Reid Hoffman, who says that FTC Chair Lina Khan is "waging war on American business":

https://prospect.org/power/2024-07-26-corporate-wishcasting-attack-lina-khan/

Some of the richest Democrat donors told the Financial Times that their donations were contingent on Harris firing Khan and that they'd been assured this would happen:

https://archive.is/k7tUY

This would be a disaster – for America, and for Harris's election prospects – and one hopes that Harris and her advisors know it. Writing in his "How Things Work" newsletter today, Hamilton Nolan makes the case that labor unions should publicly declare that they support the FTC, the CFPB and the DOJ's antitrust efforts:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/unions-and-antitrust-are-peanut-butter

Don’t want huge companies and their idiot billionaire bosses to run the world? Break them up, and unionize them. It’s the best program we have.

Perhaps you've heard that antitrust is anti-worker. It's true that antitrust law has been used to attack labor organizing, but that has always been in spite of the letter of the law. Indeed, the legislative history of US antitrust law is Congress repeatedly passing law after law explaining that antitrust "aims at dollars, not men":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

The Democrats need to be more than The Party of Not Trump. To succeed – as a party and as a force for a future for Americans – they have to be the party that defends us – workers, parents, kids and retirees alike – from corporate predation.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/26/taanstafl/#stay-hungry

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[storm-angel989]

I thought of another cute request! Val’s wife and the other vees reactions to Val having a migraine and still trying to go to work

Hi Friend,

Love this request! Think OTO Val’s wife and storyline. We’ll call this OTO fluff. 

<3 Mandy

I wonder if my wife knows that the lights make noise?

A sharp hum, a buzz most can tune out- myself included, most days. Unfortunately, as I laid in bed the sharp pangs pulsing through my brain made it more than clear today wasn’t one of those days. 

I shut my eyes tighter and tried to review the days schedule in between pangs of pain. Two new models, six contracts, four shoots and Angel Dust…Angel Dust was owed his dues. Even if my saint of a wife tried to take my place in the studio for the day, as she had done successfully in the past, she couldn’t. This was my contract, and I needed to fulfill the terms personally. 

I heard the shower turn off and tried to hide the pain as I forced myself to sit up. Five minutes. I had five minutes at most to pull myself together before she walked out of that bathroom, took one look at my face and the back to beg argument would begin. I had to divert the best I could. 

Painstakingly, I pulled myself out of bed and slid on my glasses. I quickly grabbed my clothes from where she had laid my outfit out the night before and dressed as quickly as I could. I made my way over to the bathroom door. Three sharp, painful knocks before I spoke.  

“Baby? There is an emergency in the studio.  I have to go right to work. I’m sorry, mi amore. Breakfast will have to wait.”

Without waiting for a response, I hustled out the door and made my way down to my studio. As with every other due date, Angel Dust was sprawled out on the stage, eager to receive payment. 

“Aw, Daddy,” he purred as I stepped onto the platform. His arms wrapped around my neck. “What do you say we have a little fun this time, eah?”

I tensed up. Ignoring the aching in my head, I pushed him onto the bed in one fell swoop.

“Oh yes, Daddy,” he moaned greedily. “I’ve been a naughty, naughty boy, I…”

“Shut. Up.” I growled as I pressed my lips to the base of his throat. “Your contract doesn’t say a fucking thing about you enjoying the process.” 

Three minutes later I stood up and strode across the stage,  leaving Angel behind in a haze of high and pain. I didn’t like what our contract demanded, but we were bound by it either way. At least I could abate my anger by making sure the drugs came with a miz of pain and pleasure. My hope was that someday, somehow the pain would overtake the pleasure and he would beg for an out. 

As if I would be so lucky.

I slammed the door of my office shut, hit the light switch and in the dark, barely made it to the garbage can beside my desk before emptying my stomach of its contents. The act of payment started making me nauseous the day I met my reader, but combined with the pulsing pain in my head, it was unbearable. Gone was the thought of making it through the day- hell, I wasn’t sure I’d make it back upstairs. I picked up my phone and squinting, I hit the speed dial for my Vox. 

“Vox, I’m..fuck, can you grab my migraine medication from the nurse and bring it to my office?” 

The buzz of a dial tone was his only response. I put my head down on my desk and in minutes, the door creaked open, letting in a silver of light. I let out a groan and covered my closed eyes with my free hand. 

“I find it incredibly ironic that a moth demons gets migraines, arn’t you supposed to be attracted to light?” Vox’s voice floated through the darkness.

“Quit teasing him,” another voice snapped. “Val, love, cover your eyes.” 

I held back a groan. “Vox, I called you. Honey, you need to be…”

“Checking up on my husband, who clearly can’t take care of himself,” Reader said softly,  

I felt her hand against his forehead, and her cool hand  slipped under mine and over eyes. Inadvertently, I leaned into the comfort her palm offered and let out a soft moan of relief. 

“Vox is gonna turn the light on. You’re going to slowly open your eyes, stand up and we’ll get you upstairs,” Reader continued. 

“I need my…” I began. 

“The studio is empty and Vox has your medication. Now shut up and do what I say,” she interrupted sharply. 

I heard Vox chuckle and I closed my eyes as tightly as I could.  Even under the protection of my wife’s hand, the light that slipped through stung my head like a thousand yellowjackets. 

“She’s pretty feisty when she wants to be, eah, Val? Lights on.” Vox said lightly. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” 

I barely remembered making it back to my bedroom. The sharp pinch of an IV needle, an ice pack and several hours later, the pounding slowly began to fade. Softly, I mentioned to my wife the relief I finally felt. 

“You’re a fool for going into work today, you hear me? A fool. Even my father, the toughest of the commanding angels….” 

I leaned up and cut her off with a kiss. She stopped scolding instantly and leaned into me. 

“Bebita. I love you,” I said softly.

She rolled her eyes but kissed my forehead. “I love your stubborn ass too. Next time, make a better decision.”

[softerseasons]

Juno, out of curiosity, what does an accountant DO? What does it mean to be one? Because I know there's math involved. I've heard it's very boring. But I don't know anything else and I'm curious because you're very good at putting things to words.

Okay first of all, I cannot express just how excited I got when I first saw this message. There is nothing I love more than talking about things I know about, and usually when my career is mentioned I don't get questions so much as immediate "Oh, bless you" and "I could never"s. Which- totally fair! For some people, accounting would be boring as all hell! But for a multitude of reasons, I adore it.

There are multiple types of accounting. The type most people tend to be more familiar with is that done by CPAs- CPAs, or Certified Public Accountants, are those that have done the lengthy and expensive process to be certified to handle other peoples' tax documents and submit taxes in their name, amongst other things. Yawn, taxes, right? Well, the thing with that is that there's a lot of little loopholes that tax accountants have to remain familiar with, because saving their clients a little more here or getting a little more back there can really add up, and can do a lot for people who, say, have enough money to afford to hire someone to do their taxes but not necessarily enough to be going hog wild with. Public accountants can work for large firms or by themselves, and also do things like preparing financial statements for businesses, auditing businesses to ensure all of their financial transactions are true and accurately reported to shareholders and clients, and consulting on how finances can be managed to maximize revenue (money in - money out = revenue, in very simple terms).

The type of accounting I do is private accounting! That basically just means that I work for a company in their in-house accounting/finance department. Private accounting tends to get split up into several different areas. My company has Payroll, Accounts Receivable, and Accounts Payable.

Payroll handles everyone's paychecks, PTO, ensuring the correct amount of taxes are withheld from individuals per their desires, and so on. Accounts Receivable handles money flow into the company- so when our company sells the product/service, our Accounts Receivable people are the ones who review the work, create the invoices, send the invoices to the clients, remind clients about overdue invoices, receive incoming payments via ACH (Automatic Clearing House- direct bank-to-bank deposits), Wire (Usually used for international transactions), or Check, and prepare statements that show how much revenue we are expected to gain in a period of time, or have gained in a period of time. This requires a lot of interfacing with clients and project managers.

My department is Accounts Payable. Accounts Payable does basically the other side of the coin from what Accounts Receivable does. We work mostly with vendors and our purchasing/receiving departments. We receive invoices from people and companies that have sold us products/services we need in order to make our own products/perform our services, enter them into our ERP (Enterprise Resource Planning, a system that integrates the departments in a company together- there are many different ERPs, and most people simply refer to their ERP as "the system" when talking internally to other employees of the same company that they work at, because saying the name of the system is redundant) using a set of codes that automatically places the costs into appropriate groups to be referenced for later financial reports, and run the payment processing to ensure that the vendors are being paid.

To break that down because I know that was a lot of words, here's some things I do in my day-to-day at work:

- Reconciliations, making sure two different statements match up: the most common one is Credit Card reconciliations, ensuring that there are appropriately coded entries in the system that match the payments made on our credit line in our bank.

- Invoice entry: this is basic data entry, for the most part. This can have two different forms, though

- Purchase Order Invoice entry: Invoices that are matched both to the service/product provided from the vendor and the purchase order created by our Purchasing/Receiving department. We ensure that the item, the quantity, and the price all match between our records, the purchase order, and the invoice, before we enter this.

- Hard Coded Invoice entry: Invoices that we enter manually due to there being no Purchase Order for them. This is often recurring services, like cleaning or repairs, that may happen too often or have prices vary too much for Purchase Orders to be practical.

- Cleaning up old purchase orders: sometimes Purchase Orders are put in the system and then never fulfilled. Because this shows on financial statements as being a long-standing open commitment, it looks bad, so we have to periodically research these and find out if the vendor simply didn't send us the invoice, if the order was cancelled, or if something else is going on.

- Forensics! This is my personal favorite part of the job, where someone has massively borked something that is affecting my work, and so I go dig into it, sometimes going back as four or five years in records to find the origin point of the first mistake, and untangling the threads of what happened following that mistake to get us to where we are today. There's an entire field called Forensic Accounting that is basically just doing This but for other companies (it's a subset of auditing, and often is done via the IRS) and that's my dream position to be totally honest. I loooove the dopamine hit i get with solving the mystery and getting praised for doing so faster than anyone else has even begun to realize the problem to start with.

- Balancing Credits/Debits: This is more of a Main Accountant role thing, but the long and short of it is that every business has Assets, Liabilities, and Equity. Liabilities and Equity are what we put into the company/what we owe, and assets are what we have received/what we are owed. Anything that increases Assets or lowers Liabilities or Equity is a Debit. Anything that decreases Assets or raises Liabilities or Equity is a Credit. Every monetary change we process has to include an equal Debit and Credit. This is its own whole lecture, so if you wanna know more about double-entry accounting, let me know, but it's yawnsville for most people.

- Actually cutting checks or initiating bank payments to vendors for amounts we owe them.

- Vendor communication: I'm on the phones and email a lot with vendors who are wondering where their payment is, or why something was short-paid, or if I can change some of their info in our system, and so on and so on. Every job is customer service, unfortunately. I don't love it, but I do a lot less of it in private accounting than I would have to do in public accounting.

- Spreadsheets: I make so many spreadsheets I am a goddamn Excel wizard. I love spreadsheets. This isn't necessarily accounting-specific though, most people in Finance jobs love spreadsheets, or at least use them to make their lives easier. I make them just for fun, because I'm a giant fucking nerd who finds that kind of thing enjoyable lol. So if you ever need a spreadsheet made for anything, hit me up.

As for math, that's a pretty common misconception. While there is math, it is very rarely more complicated than "I paid $3 of the $8 I owe, now I owe $5" for me. There are some formulas you learn in school (Business Administration with a focus in Accounting is what I studied), but they're also pretty standard and rarely include more than like... basic algebra. Which. Thanks @ god because I flunked so hard out of pre-calc in college. I could not have done accounting if it really were all that math heavy.

Aaaand yeah! That's all I've got off the top of my head- if you have any more questions about it, do let me know, I'm happy to ramble on for hours, but I'm cutting it here so I don't start meandering on without direction lol.

[haruharuz]

Success & Failure

Let's talk Stripping. Goals. Failure. Success. My year wrapped and bundled up into one post. This is long and rambly and will explain just why I haven't been on my account.

When I started 2024, I opened a HYSA. Day one. I marked it off in a brand new planner. Smiled, turned the page in the small journal I'd bought. My car still smelled and looked as new as it was. Dental and vision appointments were made. I'd searched groupon for the perfect opportunity to get microneedling, a hair cut, waxing. My wardrobe was in the process of being meticulously planned. I was going to apply to school for sonography.

I was saving ten thousand dollars for a future pregnancy. Ten thousand toward a house down payment.

I had a great day. The love of my life and I had a rather emotionally charged conversation. I was sure the year was going to be beautiful. Perhaps I felt as if we were blossoming, soon my dreams were going to be coming to fruition. So close I could taste it-- but i had a weird feeling that night. He said goodnight and I deleted my rambling message telling him to be really careful and safe, that I loved him... I told myself I'd talk to him about it tomorrow.

January second and third, I was anxious and couldn't find the cause. He didn't reply but I thought maybe he was stressed and busy working.

January fourth I opened a message from a mutual friend. The love of my life was dead.

Every single plan I had was out the window immediately. That was the day my world stopped turning. What no one told me was-- for me? It would never start spinning again. I canceled all of my appointments because I was sick out of my mind. I couldn't eat because my stomach wouldn't allow me to hold anything down. My eyes were swollen and puffy. I didn't want to be seen like that. I slept every out of the day that I could.

Two weeks later I was back in the strip club bawling my eyes out while I twerked in nothing but a small piece of fabric. I chugged down pineapple vodkas like it was water to get through. I managed $1600.

After that life blurred and smeared together like a smudged dry erase marker. I remember little but somehow everything.

Months later I landed myself in the hospital. Stroke alert. Possible seizure. My heart rate sustaining the 150s resting like it's nothing. MRI after MRI. CTs like nobodies business. Ativan, and lots of it. Two EEGS. Pysch consults. I couldn't walk properly.

I started a nerve pain medication that helps with seizure. It helped a little. Not enough. My ability to strip started slowing. It was so much harder to be sexy and sober when in pain. I lost all of my pole tricks I'd worked so hard for. My savings were done for.

Back to the hospital I went. They called a rapid. Transient AMS. Tachycardia. More CTS. Endoscopy. Seizure. Labs. Another echo. Great, you've got gastritis now too.

I haven't been to the club in over a month. I ache for the young woman who was bright and walked into this year with her head high. I want to dance. I miss my heart pounding in my ears. I miss the money being thrown on me. I miss the three hundred dollar days. I miss the thousand dollar days. I miss my feet being in pleasers. I miss it.

I danced for three years and don't know what I have to show for it.

Let this be a lesson.

You can become disabled at any time. You can lose anything at any time. Don't buy a LV purse, get a health savings plan. Don't focus on being perfect. Just get things DONE. Don't wait for the perfect time. The perfect time is NOW.

[builtaworldwithyourlove]

Free Falling

Chapter One

1.6k / (eventual) husband!joel x f!reader /minors dni

‘I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel’

Summary: you take the leap to leave your stagnant relationship, and end up falling into the arms of a man who will give you the life you always dreamed of. 

Content: loveless relationship, TW: domestic violence, emotional abuse, age gap (reader is mid-late 20s, Joel is late 30s-mid 40s), angst, allusions of cheating, sad sad sad but Joel will save the day, slow burn, smut, fluff, oc(reader’s boyfriend and friends/family), mention of reader grieving loss of her dad, swearing, smoking, alcohol consumption, no outbreak!au

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The front door slammed. The alarm clock showed 4:47am. James was meant to leave for work at 5:30 am, but he had clearly made a point of leaving early and waking you up in the process.

You swallowed, forcing the lump in your throat back down as you regained awareness and the ringing in your ears reminded you of the reason for the spite behind  your boyfriend’s exit. The hole in the wall and the dull aching in your wrist served as an ugly reminder, just as much as the echoes of James’ yells.

Your mum hated James, and if your dad was still here, James would have been given the boot, whether it was down to you or not. However, you had settled. You were soft spoken, kind, caring, beautiful. Any guy would be lucky to have you and deep down you knew this, but again, you were too kind to ever say no. 

James had moved in with you after you bought your home with the inheritance from your dad. His name was on no legal document, and he had no financial input to the running of your home, yet you let him encroach, and you felt more of a guest than he did. Things were really good at the start, he treated you okay and you got on well most of the time, then came the messages from girls on Instagram and the late nights smelling of alcohol and perfume. You slowly detatched yourself from him, mentally learned to not feel any sort of way. You weren’t interested in anyone else, but you just didn’t love him anymore. He sure as hell didn’t love you anymore. 

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Last night was the final straw:

You had got home from work, beaming with pride for the new promotion and set of responsibilities that came with it. The inheritance money from your dad help set you up in your home, but you worked damn hard to keep up with the cost of running the place. Mortgage payments and bill payments came out of your own pocket. 

‘James?’ You shouted, half defeated. You hung your bag up on the back of the barstools in the kitchen, and preheated the oven for dinner.

Your phone rang. 

‘Hi, I’m not about for dinner. Don’t worry about me’ James slurred down the phone.

‘Okay, be safe. See you when you’re home. Love you.’ You may as well have spoken to a brick wall, as James hung up and the line went down.

Your eyes stung, but you shook it off and continued with your dinner and ran a bath and got into bed. You had a huge day of meetings tomorrow and were determined to make a good impression on your new team.

James eventually stumbled in, waking you up as usual and treating the house as a rage room.

You held your eyes tight, and your palms sweated as your body froze. Remember the feeling when you were seven and thought you heard a ghost, or a monster under the bed?

He bounded up the stairs and shouted your name. He grabbed your wrists and woke you up. 

‘Where’s my dinner?’ He slurred.

‘You told me you weren’t about.’ You meekly defended yourself.

‘Fucking useless’ he hissed. 

You sobbed. ‘We’re done.’ You had finally snapped. You couldn’t even give an argument or any other words. Just that.

James punched the wall, inches away from the television opposite the bed, then proceeded to stumble backwards and pass out on the bed.

You set his alarm an hour earlier, out of spite, knowing he’d hate being woken up and would probably not be able to go back to sleep. As you unlocked his phone:

1 new message from Lottie:

See you in the office tomorrow, thanks for the drink!💋

You chuckled dryly, and got back to sleep. You felt a weight had lifted and you could finally live life on your own terms and be your own person.

🧸🪷🧸🪷🧸🪷🧸🪷🧸🪷🧸🪷🧸🪷

You had finished getting ready for work, and decided to call your mum on the way to the office.

‘Hey Mumma,’ you whispered softly.

‘Baby, are you okay? James texted me asking if I could get his stuff ready for his mum to collect,’ your mum sounded concerned but also slightly hopeful.

‘I ended it. It was too much, he broke my wall, he hurt me. I owed it to you, Daddy and myself to do better,’ your voice cracked, but you reminded yourself of how much you deserved this life you worked so hard to finally be able to live. 

‘I’ll kill him. Motherfucker.’ Your mum scoffed.

‘I’m fine Mum. I got my promotion, I wanted to throw a celebration at mine this weekend to tell you. Why don’t you and the girlies come round for drinks and we’ll debrief.’

‘I’m so proud of you, plum’ your mum sniffled, and you wanted to reach out and cuddle her, ‘ I hope you’re dressed to the nines for the meeting today.’

‘I dug out the Speedy and she is back in business’ you laughed. 

‘That’s my girl.’

James hated your designer hand bags. He thought it was pretentious and he hated the way people looked at him after the conversation stuck at the fact you had bought everything for yourself. His money went on boys nights.

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You made it through the day. Everyone in the office loved you, and you were so hardworking and intelligent. Admittedly though, you cried over a glass of rosé with your ultimate hypeman and bestfriend Lottie at lunchtime. If anyone was going to give your praise, it was her and your mum. Your little sisters were too young to give you adult  praise, but they had their own ways of expressing their pride, as well as 12 year old girls can. 

You stopped off at your Uncle and Auntie’s florist as you did every Friday, for your fresh bouquet of weekend flowers. Rufus was your dad’s best friend, and his wife Clara was like a second Mum to you, hence the Auntie and Uncle title, as they earned it.

They had your sunflowers wrapped in brown paper, with a polaroid of your dad tucked in the fold. Every week they would surprise you with a new picture of your dad, which you hung as a trophy on the inside of your wine glass cabinet. Your dad loved his wine, and you knew he’d be best remembered when people were getting their tipple.

You choked up, like you always do when you see your dad, and Clara held you tight. Rufus came up behind you and swept your soft curls off your shoulder and cuddled you both in his arms. 

‘I love you both so much’ you sniffled, wiping your tears, ‘I wanted to tell you both i broke up with James. I wish Daddy was here so we could pop a bottle.’

Clara cackled, and Rufus waited to see if you were going to cry anymore or if it was safe territory to joke along.

‘I’m gonna need a number of someone to fix my wall and change my locks though,’ you shuffled a stone across the florist floor, looking down out of fear of being interrogated.

Rufus rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette, you took a drag and Clara gave you a number of an old friend.

‘Your mum would kill both of us,’ Rufus pointed at you, as you held onto the cigarette and blew the smoke in his face with a wink.

‘Mum’d let me off, I’ve been through a whirlwind.’ No one could tell you no. As much as people could take advantage of your softness, you knew how to wrap people around you little finger. ‘I’m having drinks at mine tomorrow, come. Mum and the twins will be there, so will a couple of the girls. I’d love you there.’

‘Don’t need to ask us twice, plum’ Rufus kissed your head, and Clara kissed your cheek as she held your head tightly.

Your heart was full, and for once there was no dread or fear.

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You got to your front door, and crossing the threshold, inhaled a deep breath. The smell of your perfume lingered, and there was no sign of James. All his stuff was gone, and his car wasn’t there. His set of keys was on the side, with a note that said ‘thank you for everything, I’m sorry I couldn’t be the man for you.’

It was bittersweet, as you used to love him, but this was a chapter that needed to end. He didn’t want kids, or marriage or the picket fence. This was convenient and you had too much love in your heart, which needed reciprocating.

You twiddled the card in your fingers, with a number and the name Mr Joel Miller written on it.

You sat in your lounge, legs tucked up on the sofa beneath you, and you boldy texted.

‘Hey Joel. My auntie Clara gave me your number. Are you okay to do some work on my place tomorrow, I know it’s Saturday but I have evening plans and need it fixed or my mum will flip her shit. I’ll pay double and provide coffee🤸🏻’

Joel smirked upon reading the text, and somehow, his heart skipped a beat.

‘Hey darling, how could I forget about Clara’s girl. I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. I’ll be there tomorrow. Thanks for asking😘.’

Your bit your lip, you vaguely remembered Joel from family parties, and he was a good friend of your family’s, but you had never really said a word to him, always too occupied with not winding James up.

You left the message as read, and decided to have an evening of housework to get the house somewhat presentable for Joel.

You snuggled up in bed after showering and doing your fake tan Friday routine. Leo, your British Blue kitten, pounced upon your satin sheets and eventually settled for the night with you.

You dozed off, with nothing but hope and positivity in your mind.

Next Chapter

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

[kanerallels]

Behold, the very quick follow up to this fic!! As with before, no season 4 spoilers!

This was the last place William should be. He had half a dozen things that needed attending to after the recent arrests— paperwork to be filed, men to debrief, to say nothing of the superintendent— and a dozen more open cases he should be working on.

And yet. Here he sat, in a rickety chair in a small hospital room. Flipping through one of the files Fitzroy had dropped off at his request and pretending to read the contents. Pretending he wasn’t watching the woman laying motionless in the hospital bed.

He’d brought Eliza to the hospital a few hours earlier. After she was taken hostage and shot. Shot. How could I let this happen? The doctors had been able to remove the bullet and stitch her up easily enough, but due to a combination of blood loss (too much blood. He still remembered her blood staining his hands.) and sedatives, she still hadn’t woken up. And William couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Staring at the file in his hands, he tried to read the report inside. Instead, his gaze drifted up to Eliza again. Her eyes were closed, and the white sheets made her look even paler. She was almost never still like this. Even when she was sitting, one could practically see her thinking, her mind moving faster than he would have thought possible.

I let this happen. Henry, I’m so sorry. I should have protected her better.

Swearing under his breath, William tossed the file to the side, where it joined the others on the bedside table. Running a hand over his face and through his hair, he dropped his face into his hands.

“You look rather terrible.”

Eliza’s voice, albeit weaker than usual, snapped him out of his thoughts. Sitting up sharply, William saw her watching him from her bed. A thousand different retorts tumbled through his head, all swept away seconds later by the thought, She’s awake. She’s awake and alright.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

One of her eyebrows went up. “I must say, I wasn’t expecting that answer. Usually, you’d have some snide response.”

“Usually, you haven’t been shot,” William pointed out, the ache in his chest easing a little. She’s fine. “And I am not snide.”

“Of course, William,” she said, not a speck of sincerity in her voice, and he had to roll his eyes. “Um. I admit my memories are a little fuzzy, but… we apprehended our culprit?”

Of course, she’s focusing on the case. Although she’s in the right for once— I should be, too. “We did,” he assured her. “Fitzroy and Phelps are processing the prisoners. Your client dropped by earlier, he said that he would deliver your payment tomorrow.”

“Hmm. Well, as humbling as having one’s client see one in a hospital bed is, I suppose the payment will make up for that,” Eliza reflected with a sigh as she stared up at the ceiling. Flicking a glance at William, she asked, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working?”

Leaning back in his seat, William gestured to the files stacked on the bedside table. “I am working.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Eliza said, rolling her eyes. “Why are you here, William?”

Well. He couldn’t exactly tell her the real reason. Glancing to the side to buy a little time, William thought, Oh, that would go well. Just say “I’m here because I nearly got you killed and your father is probably turning in his grave, and I’ve never come so close to losing you in my life. And it terrified me.”

I definitely can’t say that.

A slight gasp caught his attention, and he looked up to see Eliza grimacing as she tried to sit up. “What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, moving out of his seat and to her side in a swift movement. 

“I hate laying here like this,” Eliza huffed as he set a hand at the small of her back, supporting her. “It makes me feel far too useless, like some kind of invalid.”

“You’ve been shot,” William pointed out, moving and stacking the pillows behind her. “You are an invalid. Here, lay back on that. Slowly.”

He didn’t let go until she’d eased back onto the pillows, which supported her so she was half reclining, half sitting upright. Then he moved back to his chair. “This, by the way, is why I’m here,” he informed her. “To make sure you don’t kill yourself trying to sit up.”

“Hardly likely, with you hovering like a mother hen,” Eliza grumbled.

“Well, that is the intention. And I’m not a mother hen.”

Letting out a snort that William did not think was remotely ladylike, Eliza said, “Now that is a blatant lie. If there’s one thing this entire debacle has proved, it’s the fact that I’m right.”

“Debacle is right,” William muttered, a twinge of guilt skewering him again. Ruthlessly shoving it down, he told her, “When you’re better, we’re going to have a conversation about charging into situations that you don’t have a grasp on yet.”

She rolled her eyes. “If I never went charging into situations, there would be a great many unsolved cases out there, William. I rather think that’s worth the price.”

“Well, I don’t.” It slipped out before he could think better of it.

She didn’t even bat an eyelash. “You don’t get a vote.”

“Of course I don’t.” He’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so relieved to see her awake and alright, snipping at him like she always did. She’s alright. I didn’t completely fail, and she’s safe, most importantly.

That eased enough of the fear and unrest stampeding through his chest. Reaching forward, he plucked a file off the bedside table, flipping it open. As he began to read it, he could feel Eliza watching him. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Working,” he said, not looking up. “Remember?”

“You don’t need to stay with me, you know,” she said. “I’m fine on my own.”

“I know.”

She didn’t say anything else— not then— and together, they settled into a comfortable silence.

[tyxaar-fics]

Hello it is I, I am writing vaguely uncanny Convex fanfic again! :P

Fandom: Hermitcraft SMP Rating: Teen No Archive Warnings Apply Other Warnings: Body horror, Disassociation, Identity issues Something I wrote about what it feels like to join the Vex and the Convex's transformation.

To Sacrifice One's Humanity It’s always the things that aren’t said that are the most dangerous. For instance, Scar was never told just what the process of joining a sinister order of otherworldly trickster Fae involved. He supposed it was the Vex’s own little revenge for Cub and him scammi- getting a good deal out of them.

Okay maybe Scar was starting to reconsider the Pact, but he always tried to look on the bright side! After all, regrets and sulking were useless in a situation like this, the change was irreversible and they both went into it knowing that. But, regardless of how certain they were beforehand, nothing could quite prepare him for the uncanny experience itself.

The deathlike pull of having one’s soul ripped out as payment, the rest of him ready to be hollowed out and made into an inhuman vessel for foreign magic. It was…? He sifted through words in his head a few times before settling on one. It was intense . To call the process painful would be misleading. ‘Pain’ was too physical of a sensation, too mortal. This was something deeper and far more spiritual, it was the cold burning of the mind and body transforming into something else, rending itself apart from the inside to prepare the shell for its new purpose. It was the creation of a postmortal and the presence of something new, something eager that now tugged at his mind and wasn’t stopping. It filled in the gaps left by his absent heart and it wove itself into him, shifting, changing.

The part that bugged Scar the most about this whole ordeal though, was he still felt like himself . Despite everything, lying collapsed on the planning room bed as his body twisted itself into a new form and every part of him was taken and destroyed, he was still Scar… At least, he certainly thought and felt and considered himself that. He logically knew he didn’t have a soul anymore, it was taken as sacrifice, so he should feel different somehow, right?… But no, no it was still good old Scar thinking these thoughts. The same person he was before… 

Maybe.

Putting aside existential questions of identity, as were topics to consider after this was over, Scar forced his aching body to turn over briefly to check on Cub. Collapsed on the couch on the other side of their makeshift headquarters, he looked just as dishevelled. However there was a… strangely comforting feeling about Cub, cool and safe and familiar. It made a faint smile spread across his tired face. A weird blue mist surrounded Scar’s vision now, and he could feel something tug while hazily staring in half-consciousness at his friend… a dancing, captivating energy. Was it magic? Probably to be honest. It felt good. How long had they both been like this? Days? Weeks? Would the other Hermits try to look soon?

It whispered at him, that incessant force. It had been for a while now, but as Scar rolled back over in delirious exhaustion, it took hold. It wanted him to rest and this time, and so he gave in and fell back. A nap would do him good…

Dreams of laughter in the darkness, echoing through his skull. Wandering aimlessly. Hungry, hunting, patrolling the open air in search of a victim.

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

Cub considered himself lucky to have slept through the first stages of the transformation. A waking mind would probably make the process more complicated, and he did not want to deal with the physical world whilst the most torturous part was underway. The dreams were bad enough already.

However, that phase was coming to an end, and upon stirring back into consciousness, the first thing he noticed before even opening his eyes was that something was gone from the room. It took him a moment to connect that missing presence to Scar, and he absentmindedly hoped his friend hadn’t gotten into too much trouble…

Cub slowly cracked open his eyes to check the bed, and yep, Scar was gone. The twisting haze over his vision had also started growing more vibrant. It wasn’t necessarily obstructive , just unfamiliar. It’d take some getting used to he supposed… In the meantime, Cub started taking stock of his other senses. A sweet taste in his mouth, as well as something weird and hard, a similarly sugary smell, a gentle storm of whispers in the mind, and itchy skin, like something trying to get out.

His head spun as Cub forced himself to stand up and stagger to the bathroom just off the main room, trying to avoid the loose paper and miscellaneous objects from their studies scattered around. He needed to deal with whatever was in his mouth, as well as maybe take a shower. Cub wasn’t meaning to look in the mirror, avoid it until the process was complete… but, once he caught a glimpse of what was on the other side, it was inevitable.

The creature was staring blankly at him in awestruck silence. It leaned forward on diamond-hard claws that cracked the sink’s ceramic in their trembling grip.

It had no eyes. In their place there were just soulless glowing pits of white light spilling out into the dark bathroom, illuminating it in a sinister glow. Its skin was peeling off in sheets to reveal an eerie grey-blue underneath, framed by hair that bled out colour to reveal an icy white. The teeth were…. Cub now knew what that sweet taste and weird feeling in his mouth was when he spat a handful of human teeth out into the sink, coated in glistening blue blood let out by the new deadly fangs growing in. They were sharp and strong, designed for ripping through flesh. He raised a hand to his face, gently running claws through his hair as the creature in the mirror moved in sync with him. 

No, no, it didn’t. He needed to stop dissociating, he knew what the Faerie in the mirror was, who it was, what he was. 

This was what Cub had become. Here he stood as one of the Vex, a freshly prepared vessel to host their magic. 

His face twisted into a sharp smile, and let a resonant chuckle echo through the dark room, newfound energy sparking on his voice. The onset of power was giddy, a sugar rush of laughter and voices and whisperings of chaos. They told him what he could become now, they promised to teach him their secrets for service and loyalty.

This is what Scar and him wanted, what they sacrificed themselves for, this form and its magic was their reward. 

Cub felt unstoppable.

(Or at least he would after having that shower and maybe another nap.)

[celibatevegan]

WHATEVER

So like I need to wait for the jackasses at the leasing office to process and input my money order that they told me I needed to submit and I can't pay my water bill because the new payment portal won't accept a partial payment I need to pay the full amount and now even ach has a nearly three dollar fee whereas the old one did not so now my rent including fees isn't $1130 its $1133 Plus whatever the fuck the water bill is it's not even that big a deal it's only $3 whatever but this is after the raised the rent for my damn unemployed dogs to $35 per pet per month I just need you mfs to take your heads out of your asses NOW I'm definitely I need to save money because I need to get out of here this is the last straw. And ik they're going to enter my home 6 times again this year fuck all of you I'm gonna start acting up. I've been here 3 years I pick up after myself I stay quiet I don't cause trouble and I get my pet rent raised and I get my home entered randomly and I'm pissed the fuck off. And I pay too damn much for rent the apartment isn't even that nice the fridge is an inch taller than me and the floors have huge gaps and I ignored it all because at least it was close to my work but this is too damn much

[artsycervidae]

Moksha: Chapter 22

Summary: After a night of terrorizing the district, both sides withdraw to tend to their injured.

Word Count: 5.7 k

Double check with the chapter and trigger list!

     Gyutaro felt something creeping between his brain and his skull. His body dropped into the house like a rock into a pond, and the impact struck him immobile. This had never happened before. He raised himself up, realizing falteringly that the stabs of pain were debris being pushed out of him, flesh mending itself, which was good at least. He was out of his own body, but it was still working with no more harm done than a near-decapitation. The intruding sensation was far more unnerving. All his thought processes-- a possible ambush, a poisonous injection, a new hypothesis-- were wiped clean, leaving behind a fresh, stark amnesia. Affixing his head took all the willpower he could muster, his hands and thoughts struggled to comprehend the task. 'What the hell. What the hell?!' Gyutaro floundered for understanding, but all that came was the onslaught of stimulation: the dark was too rich, the floorboards too old, the stench of mildew and disease too prevalent. The sharp and burning agony of his physical form ached deeper than his core. It was so familiar but foreign. He had known pain like this once.

     He wanted to reach into his cranium and scratch right through, to reach for something that kept evading him. But he just sat there, shocked still and too sore to do anything about it.

     Hinata's landing was equally rough-- their left knee crunched softly under their weight, and they gasped, grimacing with relief. Concentration broken, the starving pains made their presence known amd made Hinata retch, seizing them by the stomach. Nothing regurgitated, which was good news. How embarrassing would it be to throw up right in front of a Kizuki? But the bad news... they flexed their left leg, then observed the blood seeping through their left side. 'Huh.' The obi flashed in their mind. They were letting too much slide. They were still too eager--

     They were lucky Recovery Breathing could stop the bleeding. Their situation was already unfavorable. How much damage could this body take before it gave out altogether? Would they last another two days, or would Gyutaro discard their pact? They didn't mind knowing he would gouge them for all they had. Surely he knew they had the same intentions for him. Either way, they both would benefit if Nobu died first. Once Nobu was dead, Hinata would devote their mind and body toward the final step. And if they lost anyway, Gyutaro could have whatever was left of Hinata as payment-- a gesture of their selfish gratitude.

     "Hey, did you survive?" They called out, playfully sheepish, adjusting the kimono on their shoulders. They scanned the demolished hallway and its rooms, seeking their fellow murderer. "It'll seem insincere if I apologize, so I won't. But I'll admit that was a dirty trick, taking advantage of the fog. You ate during our fight though, so maybe we can call it even."

     There he was! Oh, the way Hinata's ethereal kubijakiri swept his head back onto his shoulders, tilting his neck this way and that-- testing his connections, surely. A little worse for wear, but he was as lovely and whole as ever. And though they adored the way he shrugged and tested his regenerated tendons, he seemed... different...

     Gyutaro's fingers flexed. He breathed consciously. The involuntary fear was subsiding but the brain-crawler left him dazed. Time was moving slow enough that he could see everything: the soft puffs of dirt as the house resettled, the feather-like drop of splinters... and through the heat and haze, the waning swordsman parted their lips in open admiration, tongue tapping at the tip of a canine, running along their front teeth in consideration.

     "Don't trick me," Hinata teased. "Demons don't get concussions. I know it wasn't the fairest test, but you passed beautifully. I suspected you would." Gyutaro's glassy eyes turned up to them, irradiated lanterns burning holes into them. They paused and asked "... Who are you?" with their voice small but intrigued.

     Because the person looking at Hinata through Gyutaro's eyes was not the Upper Six Kizuki that they knew. They couldn't help the chills that ran up and down their spine, looking into a familiar face and seeing a stranger looking back.

     Then it was gone. Gyutaro felt the world fall into place, time caught up, and colors desaturated. The pain disappeared with a snap. He would have gasped if it weren't for Hinata standing there, looking as if they'd seen someone get their head cut off and stand back up. "What?!" He shouted, for lack of anything else to say.

     Hinata's skin jumped at the outburst. "Are you okay?"

     The question grated Gyutaro. "Do you have time to worry about that now?" he asked, his fury palpable, his fascination steady. "You seem to have bigger problems. And I'm not just talking about me."

     "Oh," they looked to the red stains in their clothing. "This?" An interesting point... there were too many coincidences lined up. "I'll live for now. Besides," they tilted their head to him in consideration, "You know you're my biggest priority at the moment." Gyutaro's jab had arrogance and energy, but the toothy smile was absent. He wasn't even scowling with that much vigor, more distracted than angry, ruining the whole tormenting situation. Hinata would rather Gyutaro tear them into pieces than lose interest in them. "But if you insist--"

     They rushed him, the net writhing and puffing with impatience. The demon recovered and met the nichirin katana head-on with his kama-- a trading of blows, net barbs slashing easy-access routes for his counterattack blood sickles, some of which carved shallow divots into Hinata's skin now and again, whipping through their flowing clothes with steadier accuracy. The human was getting slower; they were tired. Without the benefit of eating flesh for power, they focused instead on the rhythm of their heart, applauding and cheering for blood to be shed. Pain, their constant companion, kept their mind sharp with mouthwatering anticipation.

     Meanwhile, Daki was running for her life. Her muscles had begun to slough off, and her feet left bloodprints as a smoking trail. The tracks sizzled into ash, but not before leading the Mist Breather right to her. She could sense him somewhere behind her-- stalking.

     'It'll be okay! Gyutaro is right over there! He's okay! Get to him!' But no matter what turn she took, she felt the fibers of her muscles atrophying quicker than she could regrow them. Her eyes wept down her cheeks literally, so her obi grazed over the world around her to keep her path clear. She heard the hissing through teeth as the boy suddenly swung in, swift and savage. Reflexively, her obi limbs took to the air and she pumped her legs, running on air in the direction she came-- or, was it that way? The fabric tentacles clambered over roofs and balconies and her sandals went clack! as she found footing. Was she going the right way? She got turned around somehow.

     The young Slayer was upon her immediately: she heard his flowing uniform behind her and her Blood Demon Art reared itself like a shield, too late. He was already in formation. "Foliage Breathing, Fourth Form: Lotus Rot."

     Tetsuya could feel everything, and no longer was his brain stuck or floating surreally above the clouds. This sensation could be directed anywhere in his domain, and he guided his attention to the creature before him. He molded the petals of a lotus flower around her, the strokes of his sword slicing the obi strands away from its vulnerable core. Even from so far away, he could feel the squelching and tremoring of her organs caught in an endless torment of death. His sword pinned the most vital ones as easily as seeing through her skin: Heart. Lungs. Liver. Kidneys. Each puncture left a massive hole in her body, though these were merely to weaken the demon. Before he could deliver the killing strike-- a piercing plunge into her throat, a swift twist of the blade, a vicious swipe into the brain-- she emitted a high pitched squeal.

     In a series of slices, in a matter of seconds, Daki had been utterly destroyed... she knew it too, and couldn't help but burst into tears. She was furious, devastated, hideous. She had been so close to arriving at the nick of time, to saving her brother and sweeping into the spotlight, gorgeous and incredible, awing the sibling whom she had hurt. A future of praise, respect, and forgiveness, stolen! After all this struggle, this was how she was going to be treated by this-- this-- this gremlin! This horrible little brat! He was the worst, the absolute worst! She despised him!

     The obi burst from her back in a torrent, ten fabric limbs whipping at the boy; at the last minute he abandoned his assault and guarded against them, but one of them made it past his sword and slit through his uniform. It constricted around him-- and though she could have snapped him into pieces or plucked his body apart like pulling petals off a flower-- she hurled him away as hard as she could in a tantrum.

     "Go away! I hate you! Just die! Die die die die diediediediedie!" She poured all her hate into her words, all her energy into her attacks. But the boy had vanished into the mist. She turned on her heel and ran blindly, stumbling into walls and hoping she would find some sanctuary to heal, or better yet, her brother.

     Tetsuya knew the value of discipline. He took advantage of the demoness's decision to disengage, backtracking to assist the final remaining hostage-- he had finally cut the fabric free of her during the Fourth Form. She must not have noticed. As the pink cloth fluttered to the ground, a solid object had fallen from it like fruit from a tree. The unconscious young man lay in the open, tangled in the disintegrating silk, seemingly unharmed. Tetsuya dragged that body to the side of the road and propped him against a building. It brought a faint sense of pride, but it was short-lived when he took for the demon's trail. The bloodied footprints had already dissipated, all biological evidence of her existence fading. This did not discourage him, though-- the tendrils of his mind traced the wind and vibrations of the buildings around him, walking slowly and steadily through the dark. She would turn up eventually... he only needed to catch up.

     Daki blindly broke through a door, preparing for a shout or holler to announce her arrival. But no shout came, and so there was nobody to kill and feed on. The injured girl moved through the room and found a corner to sink into. She couldn't stop wheezing, no matter how she breathed and groaned. A blubbery sob stifled itself in her chest as she sniffled.

     She wanted to go home. She wanted to be cured, cleaned, and tucked into her bed safely. She wanted Kazuko there, combing her hair and showering her in compliments until Daki learned how to sleep.

     She wanted her brother.

     Weeping, the demon girl gasped the air like a fish and allowed herself this one respite. Only one of her lungs was operable, but she drew breath into it regardless before plunging her mind back into Gyutaro's mind.

     His fully-attached head was stooped mere centimeters over his prey, holding the ghost back, but the Slayer had him restrained likewise. The twin kama sandwiched the katana blade, the nightmarish net tangled the scythes clinging to her brother's hands viciously. The human jerked with their arms and kicked with their legs, but her brother was vicious at every opening as he stomped and yanked with bone-breaking force. With a particularly brutal heave, he had swung the human up into the air before slamming them into the ground, but the human pulled him along-- bouncing off the floor, bringing the demon down with them into a grapple. Gyutaro snarled--or laughed-- as their combined weight snapped his femur in two, throwing off their weight and neutralizing the Slayer's advantage.

     Like a grotesque bug with three heads, they fought to get back up. Even when he blasted them with the half-circles that liquefied from his shredded flesh, they rudely swung him into his own attacks, and the broken-sword gauntlet would jerk out from the fray (luxuriating in the freedom, limited as it was) to crush stray projectiles. He moved, they moved-- the tug-of-war remained taut.

     The mere suggestion of her brother being in a stalemate made her feel sick. She forcibly reminded herself that this was no specter from hell-- demons were the only things to be feared here. 'Kill them!' she thought, cheering him on like he had for her once. 'Get them, big brother!'

"Da--?!" Gyutaro felt it again-- that invader creeping through his brainstem. Only this time, he recognized its accompanying 'voice.' Gyutaro never experienced telepathy in his own body, within his own skull. Was this how it felt for him to peer out from Daki's eyes? He hated it-- hated the possibility that she could push her way into his personal life at such an awkward, inconvenient time.

What made the situation all the more harrowing was how Hinata perked with curiosity, their quartz eyes alight. "What is it?" They wondered, and their tone wasn't what he expected. They pulled on the knot between them, and lowered their voice conspiratorially. "... Does he know? Are you safe, or are you cornered like me?" Gyutaro ground his teeth hard enough they cracked, nearly crumbling like his battle tactics-- and though he had grit his jaw countless times before, this time was different.

     It hurt. He had never hurt so exquisitely, to the point his bones encumbered him and lights blinded him-- it was all Daki! With a growl, Gyutaro shook Hinata like a wild dog would shake its victim, so brutally that it broke both his arms. It wasn't hard to do: the Slayer refused to release him, so all it took was twisting his elbows the wrong way, the bone puncturing through skin and allowing him to bleed freely. He jolted back and out of the grapple with a harsh gasp, fresh limbs bursting forth in a hurry, his blood rushing and solidifying in his hands. "Get lost!" With Hinata's anchor freed, he cast them off with a wave of flying blood sickles. Slayer and all, it crashed through the house and out of sight. Hinata reeled from the power that Gyutaro displayed-- in that brief moment of panic, lacerations etched into their arms as the speeding slices careened and collided. There was enough power in them that they rebounded off the last few structures of the house. The roof collapsed. Gyutaro was pummeled with debris. Hinata scrambled and took cover between support pillars-- avoiding death for the second time in a matter of seconds.

     What are you doing here?! In Daki's mind, these unspoken words were a familiar tone of voice if in a different quality of derision. She hadn't expected him to be grateful, but Gyutaro's apparent annoyance was like salt! She wanted to insist her aid, to find him and turn the tides like she had always planned... but the dam broke, and all she could do was plead. Big brother, help, she cried. Help me. My healing stopped, I don't know what to do! That boy is here somewhere, and he won't leave me alone!

     Even now she knew, that horrible kid was lurking and looking. Hunting her down, like the deplorable brat he was!

     Gyutaro didn't bother asking where she was-- she had obviously followed him, which they would discuss later. He needed to find her, first and foremost. And now that he knew they could interact from remote places...

     He planted his nails at his temple, then tore half his own cheek off. It smarted, but got the job done: it calmed him enough that he could discern the boundary between her suffering and his. He felt back down the invisible tether that tied him to his sister, the ruins around him blurring. Daki tried to focus at the same time but when he pushed back, it was was like having a heavy burden taken from her hands. She dropped into her own body, limbs going soft as the dark room closed in on her with sudden detail: not with vision, but with smell, taste, touch, and sound. Gyutaro could smell rice, alcohol, and dust. She sniffed and snorted out blood, hardly gathering the energy to wipe at her skinless face with the back of her hand.

     Stay where you are, I'm coming. Gyutaro knew exactly where she was-- he had passed that particular storeroom in the earlier chase. She wasn't far. With no time to waste, he left Hinata to whatever fate had in store for them, plunging out of the devastated business and into the road.

     Hinata's head ached-- like a pressure was building up behind their nose and between their eyes, or a pin being forced through their cranium. The scene replayed in their mind: Gyutaro's eyes had shifted, and Hinata recognized the new dance partner again. The same steps, the same performance, but a new inspiration. And when he called out to this influence...

     Jealousy seared their mind, recalling how immediate the change was. Hinata had been seeking Gyutaro's weaknesses, the bruises to press on and make him work harder than he already was. They had rather hoped they could get under his skin, but it seemed something-- or someone-- beat them to it. Someone who, once introduced, made Gyutaro significantly more of a threat.

     This was someone he wouldn't hesitate to burn the world down for.

     It was ironic, and utterly unfair, that a demon like Gyutaro had someone who loved him dearly, while Hinata had nothing and nobody. But if Gyutaro had someone like that... it meant he was vulnerable. There was a chance to put him in danger. Which meant they had to find this 'Da' before Nobutoshi could, and determine if Muzan knew about this weakness. Their teeth clacked together with silent envy and intrigue. Then they burst from the rubble, shrugging off the infrastructure and pain before sprinting after their target. They wouldn't stop him-- they knew better than to corner something deadly, but they also couldn't allow the demon to keep all his secrets to himself.

     Gyutaro felt something hot on his trail. He could hear them cut through the air like a thrown knife and halted in place to turn on them-- but it wasn't Hinata. He had taken advantage of the fog to predict the tiny Slayer's arrival.

     Hinata watched in horror when a certain disobedient soldier flew into the demon's path and struck a perfect Heat Refraction Form, his sheath in his other hand to serve as his second weapon. Gyutaro's kama snapped out at the oncoming Tetsuya-- but the boy shimmered like an optical illusion. The reach of his sword carved a perfect arc, the brutality of its touch burning anything in reach. The thought 'How in the hell--?' was cut off by 'He's going to rupture something!' Hinata knew Tetsuya had eaten too much today. His body wasn't trained for Flame Breathing. He had only a rudimentary understanding of Foliage Breathing. Couldn't he recognize the danger inside him, if not before him?

     Gyutaro felt the sword slash into his shoulder at an angle before it caught. Naturally. The kid wasn't strong enough to behead the likes of him. His kama rose. A single directive took hold of Hinata, and they recognized the feeling. Like sand shifting out from under their weight. Their control slipped; their hypnotic directive frizzled their perspective like burning hair.

     They drew in an unconscious breath, like one about to be plunged underwater. Then, their mind cut to a discordant flood of sheer feelings: The bite of icicle teeth. Watching the sun rise with Kosuke. Being pulled along by Kenzou. Kai and Shiori glancing to them uncertainly. Kabuto laughing roarously. Nobutoshi holding them as they returned to him from death. Junko's everpresent company at their left side. At least the darkness was preceded by anyone Hinata'd ever had the audacity to love: and then there was only the beat of their heart in time with Tetsuya's. 

     If it was a matter of going toe-to-toe against the child alone, the fight would have been settled long ago with Gyutaro having pierced the Slayer's underchin. But before the demon landed his strike, the boy's shadow separated itself from him-- it was Hinata, materializing from nowhere as an unspoken danger, though this deterred Gyutaro no less.

     Hinata grabbed him midmotion, seizing his elbow with that grotesquely barbed hand and digging its nichirin claws into his joint. Gyutaro snarled in their strangely placid face; their eyes were nearly entirely white, as if rolled back in their sockets, but he could still see the pinprick of a pupil staring back out at him. This bought Tetsuya the time to dislodge his sword and strike again. Gyutaro ripped himself from the grip, degloving himself down his wrist to catch the knife-sword with his bony, bleeding forearm. Before Tetsuya's blade could get stuck this time, Hinata threw their form against his, body-checking him out of harm's way. Their net pulverized Gyutaro's blood whorls before the attack could gain traction. The kid didn't even fall over. He wobbled, turning with his makeshift shield into the path of oncoming blood sickles, and struck at the demon again. Like a choreographed plan, the Slayers came at Gyutaro with rotary blades: they parried and he hit and they blocked. Gyutaro defended again and again and again. His scythes obliterated the kid's forms and threw off his weight, but every misstep was covered by Hinata, the traitorous asshole. Each blow sent throttles up Gyutaro's shoulders until he was the one advancing, chest heaving with anger.

     He fought back hard, ignoring everything else that stood between him and his sister. The tingle of pain, the noise, the fear-- all of it was secondary. His arms were a flurry as he swung and pushed his blood scythes out, forcing them to shred through layers of muscle and pre-flayed dermis; he regenerated over the self-mutilation, then tore through it all over again. Demon Blood Art: Rampant Arc Rampage protected him, spewing woven semi-circles as he charged the oncoming attacks. But in that push for ground, Hinata's sword dropped from their hand.

     Before Tetsuya could be obliterated by an unstoppable hell bullet, Hinata twisted and snatched the younger Slayer by his uniform, seizing him to their chest in possessive protection. They fled from Gyutaro's bloodsoaked path.

     Tetsuya couldn't tell what had happened: one moment, he was connected to everything and everyone, all five senses submerged in the wild kinetic overlap of motion and blood. But it was all lost to him now: Hinata's katana had been struck airborne in the fray, where it spun out of control. Only now did it land, piercing the ground with a high note. This reached his ears-- Tetsuya was ripped from his fugue state, coming back to his body to find it in someone's hold. "Let me go!" He hollered, struggling against the person pinning him to their side.

     Gyutaro only stole one look back: the boy thrashing his limbs from under an arm, Hinata staring onward. Or at least... it was Hinata's body. The lights were on, but whether Hinata was home or not was debatable, and he didn't have time for debates. He left them in his dust. He felt around in his head for that intangible connection again and found his sister there.

     Daki's head swam, focus cutting in and out between the aching of her stomach, teeth, brain, and skin. She was still weeping cloudy liquid from her deformed eye holes, but she felt him coming and crawled out from her hidey hole. Gyutaro found the broken door. The sight within was enough to make his blood boil-- he regretted not killing the boy the first chance he had... he even regretted that Hinata survived to protect the punk. His poison-skinned sibling was on all fours, the bloodied handprints ashing off the floor. When her protector appeared in the doorway, she couldn't help the pathetic whine that slipped out of her, "Big brother," as she raised her hands to him, pleading him to make it all go away.

     "Hey," he was quick to squat next to her, slouching to such a severe degree that his scapula jutted out. Daki threw her arms over his shoulders and clung. He held her in return and his palm moved in small, careful circles on her tender back, the rotten layers of his heart peeling away at the soft sound of her crying. He hadn't seen her this upset in a while. "Oh, sweet Daki. It'll be okay. Look at you-- you've gotten yourself into some mess, huh? Dummy, you went running around in the mist," he cooed, babying her. She could only swallow, hiccup, and nod her head. "Don't worry. I'm with you. You don't have to work so hard anymore. Here, let me."

     He pulled away and cupped both sides of her face. Daki sniffled as her nasal canals were remade. Her makeup was a mess-- half-melted across her skin, though the newly grown patches were clean. Gyutaro used his thumbs and her tears to smudge away the worst of the mess, tilting her face and examining, confirming he did a proper healing job. It was then he realized how minimal the damage had really been-- she only looked worse than she was left off. The righteous fury softened to exasperated relief. Daki had simply played with her food too hard. Still, that boy made his sister cry... that wasn't something he could let slide. "There you go. That wasn't so hard, was it? You scaredy-cat. We'll get you back home, I've got it all taken care of. But you have to be strong, okay? You'll need to run the rest of the way, or the Slayers will notice me." He couldn't take risks with Hinata's ability to track him-- and if they still found Daki, he could ambush them if they got close.

     "I'm scared," she whimpered as her fresh green eyes misted, testing the new tear ducts.

     "Don't be. They're only alive because I want them to be, for now. I'll tell you later." He had said it with such confidence that his sister swallowed and nodded fervently, her hands dropping back into her still-regenerating lap. She didn't question or argue.

     "Are you ready?"

     "I'm ready."

     He scooped her up, ferrying her to the door before he swung her legs-- fresh and whole-- to the ground. Run! Let's go. He pushed her, hands on her shoulders as he briefly piggybacked the momentum and merged into her trapezius muscles.

     Daki did as she was told-- she bundled her destroyed costume to her body and fled. Gyutaro took his rightful place behind her eyes, a passive passenger guiding her speed and regeneration. She took to the rooftops before he could dissuade her otherwise, but she surprised him by moving faster. She catapulted herself over the more populated streets silently. Her multiple obi limbs swam through air, propelling her far from the devastation they had caused. The Slayers still did not follow them.

     On the other side of the district, life carried on as usual, perfectly undisrupted by the chaos elsewhere. The dissonance wasn't new to Gyutaro, but Daki kept glancing around as if they were children sneaking back home, and she couldn't believe they were getting away with it. She slipped into her quiet, dark room. It had been tidied, and what a relief it was to return home to a clean living space. She incredulously closed the window, and the confidence came easier to her from the safety of their lair. She caught her breath, then laughed and tossed her hair. "Those Slayers sure are pathetic," she declared. "They relied so much on all that perfume to try and trap us. We showed them."

     As if she hadn't been the one beaten down. Rather than indulge her good mood, Gyutaro burst her bubble.

     I told you to stay home.

     She could not believe what she was hearing! Gyutaro went on, What is this get-up? Aren't these work clothes? I don't recognize them.

     It's a disguise, Daki argued stupidly, trying to wrap her head around the criticism. I came because--

     A disguise? Why? Were you seen?!

     Not really, she lied. She waited for him to call her on it. He didn't. Gyutaro's silence scared her; being an older sibling seemed to give him the uncanny ability to sense her bullshit in particular.

     What about the Slayer? he interrogated. The one whose mist hurt you so bad.

     She repressed the memory of the cloth-swaddled boy and his attention to detail, who made off with her other eye witnesses. No! she seethed, Neither of them saw me! And if they did, how would they recognize me? These aren't my clothes, and if you hadn't noticed, my skin was falling off. Gyutaro, who had regrown that skin for her, seemed more irate with her being right than having caused him trouble, which only added fuel to her fire. Besides, I saved you.

     I wasn't beheaded, Gyutaro muttered. As if my neck could be cut.

     I stopped them, she preened, Did you see? My obi reached further than before, and that's not all I can do--

      Right, Gyutaro cut her off, suddenly reminded of another grievance, you interrupted my fight.

     Not on purpose! I was testing my new power.

     Our power.

     No, she asserted, my power. I was seeing and feeling through your eyes, brother.

     I've been doing that for years now. How do you think I found you before the Slayers could? he asked patronizingly, but then laughed when she couldn't say anything in return. I guess now we don't have to be in the same body to talk, or even transmit information. This is useful to know.

     That's not fair! Her fist punched the floor, her belated petulance shining through. You're already so much stronger than me! Why do you get to see what I see too?

     Well, Gyutaro added begrudgingly, I just didn't know it was an option when we were apart.

     She appreciated the crumbful of humility. That's not all, she announced, reaching for the obi and smoothing out its pattern to seek out the splash of cooler, earthy tones. But there were only the geometric patterns, the floral decals... "No... no!"

     Stop shouting, her brother scolded. Calm down. Tell me what you're so upset about now.

     "I'm sorry, big brother," she wailed, lamenting her own awful luck. Her arms fell back to her sides limply. "I wanted to show you-- that stupid kid ruined everything! I worked so hard to impress you, after finding out I can preserve humans in my obi!"

     Preserve?

     Daki nodded, her lower lip warbling. I caught so many humans for us. I was going to surprise you with a feast... as an apology.

      It surprised him. Not that his little sister was kind or considerate-- he knew that she was too good to help it. Just that... she felt the need to apologize and make amends. She must have known he would forgive her anyway. He would always be angry, but he loved her too much to count it as a debt.

      Well, he conceded, warming up as he spoke on, that's a neat trick. In fact... this tips things in our favor. Good job, Daki! He may as well have sprouted from her back and pat her on the head.

     She hiccuped. Really? And when he hummed his affirmation, she positively glowed. Should we go back out? I can still catch us all the humans we need.

     No, and before she could take offense, it occurred to her that she didn't feel up to it either. They were both exhausted, stamina drained from an unexpected night out. Lie low. They'll keep looking for us all night and wear themselves out. And we caused enough havoc that the other humans will be looking for suspicious people. They'll either get themselves caught or wear themselves out... don't do anything outrageous until I'm back. I have a lot to think over.

     Hinata had described the plan as a siege-- but Daki had swiftly presented Gyutaro with an easy, effective solution. As stupid as she was, Daki had her ways of surprising him still. He couldn't wait for the Slayer to find out all their hard work had been for nothing: that he and his sister held all the cards in the game they played, and that it took no effort at all. I told you that your powers would get better, Daki... you keep this up, and you'll be as strong as me, I bet. She grinned. The sweetness of a well-earned victory couldn't compare to his sincere praise. He repeated himself, Good job... but next time I tell you to hang back--

     I will, she greedily accepted.

     And go back to work, he said, utterly ruining her moment. You need an alibi, if you're going to insist on playing with your food.

     Fine. She folded her arms.

     And with a murmur, Gyutaro slunk into the darkness. Daki, thoroughly satisfied, turned to her mirror and cleaned her face. Tsubakihime was believed to be ill and resting, therefore it made sense that she be well within her right to lock the world out and sleep in, as their most prized jewel ought. She was content-- not full, not powerful, but feeling hardier. Satisfied. With the sun coming up soon, she determined to do better-- to make Gyutaro's approval a regular occurrence.

     This brought forth the issue of clothes, ruined by body fluids and wisteria moisture. Typically, Daki left this work to the old woman, but surely she would recognize Kazuko's things and make a fuss over it. Perhaps she ought to ask her brother about his process; she wasn't sure if he made a fire, dug a hole, or simply found a river to throw leftover belongings into... and the work sounded stupid and exhausting. She would rather make the old biddy take care of it, like she had with Sayako's belongings. Daki had handled the woman's stubbornness soundly, hadn't she? Until then, she needed to make sure Kazuko never found out--

     As she was shedding the destroyed articles, she found a stray sheet of paper hidden in the kimono. Already, Daki had forgotten its importance-- it was Kazuko's letter, but it had been nasty and not very interesting. Now, it was barely legible, drenched then dried in demon blood, holes punched into it where the Slayer's sword cut through Daki. Oh well. She stashed her victims' belongings in a lacquered chest. The box was meant to hold vast amounts of jewelry among its many drawers, but removing the casings made some extra room. With unmarred skin and clean linens, Daki prepared for a bath. As she gathered up her sundries, she hummed a little with no concern for the things that had slipped her mind.

[hostpyters]

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Accounts Receivable:

Payment Requests: Businesses can send payment requests to customers via email, including a link for customers to pay directly through the platform.

Customer Management: Track customer payments, manage outstanding invoices, and automate reminders to improve collection rates.

Integration and Syncing:

Accounting Software Integration: Melio integrates with popular accounting software like QuickBooks, Xero, and FreshBooks, ensuring seamless data synchronization and reducing manual data entry.

Bank Integration: Direct integration with banks facilitates easy payment processing and reconciliation. User-Friendly Interface:

Dashboard: A clean and intuitive dashboard provides an overview of pending and completed payments, cash flow status, and upcoming bills.

Mobile Access: The platform is accessible via mobile devices, allowing users to manage payments and view financial data on the go.

Security and Compliance:

Secure Transactions: Melio employs robust security measures, including encryption and secure data storage, to protect user information and financial transactions.

Compliance: The platform adheres to financial regulations and industry standards, ensuring compliance with relevant laws.

Cash Flow Management:

Flexible Payment Options: By allowing credit card payments for bills, Melio helps businesses manage cash flow more effectively, providing the flexibility to defer payments while still meeting obligations.

Payment Scheduling: Advanced scheduling options enable better planning and control over outgoing cash flow.

Collaboration Tools:

Team Access: Multiple users can be granted access to the platform, allowing for collaborative financial management. Permission settings ensure that sensitive information is accessible only to authorized personnel.

Audit Trail: Detailed records of all transactions and activities help maintain transparency and accountability.

Pros Flexibility in Payments: The ability to pay bills via credit card, even when vendors don’t accept them, provides a unique advantage in managing cash flow and earning rewards. Ease of Use: The platform’s user-friendly interface and straightforward setup make it accessible for businesses of all sizes.

Integration with Accounting Software: Seamless integration with major accounting tools ensures accurate financial tracking and reduces manual workload.

Security: Strong security measures and compliance with industry standards provide peace of mind for users.

Batch Payments: Support for batch payments simplifies the process of paying multiple bills, saving time and reducing errors.

Cons Cost: While Melio offers a free version, certain advanced features and payment methods (like credit card payments) incur fees, which might be a consideration for cost-sensitive businesses. Limited Global Reach: Melio primarily serves businesses in the United States, which may limit its usefulness for companies with significant international operations or those based outside the U.S. Learning Curve for Advanced Features: Some users might find the advanced features complex initially, requiring time to fully utilize all functionalities.

Melio is a powerful and flexible tool for small and medium-sized businesses looking to streamline their accounts payable and receivable processes. Its ability to manage payments through various methods, integration with popular accounting software, and user-friendly design make it an attractive option for businesses aiming to enhance their financial operations. While there are costs associated with some features and a learning curve for advanced functionalities, the overall benefits, including improved cash flow management and operational efficiency, make Melio a valuable tool for modern businesses.

[martianbugsbunny]

Who Makes You See Color (A CaptainCroc Soulmates AU Fic): Chapter 13

Hello, darlings, you all are about to read one of my favorite chapters! This is the one where Killian finally gets his turn at being yeeten, so you Killian stans (folk of good taste, if I may say so) better gird yourselves. Bad news for any Rumple stans, though, because he’s also getting clobbered in this chapter. I’m just throwing bad life twists at my dudes left and right here. Tags: @wastingstarsss Have fun!

Gold woke up feeling…fine. His neck was sore from sleeping on the couch, but the low mood and general ache were both gone. He felt a bit foolish for calling off work, and wondered if he’s just been overreacting.

He decided not to call Roger in. After all, it wouldn’t really be fair to him to go back on a day off. Gold would rather work, though, and it might be nice to have the shop to himself again.

As he was walking to the shop, bundled into a thick overcoat and a dark blue scarf, he passed by Doctor Whale. “Mr. Gold, if I might have a moment?” he asked, his voice shot through with the fear Gold associated with those trying to get an extension on their rent. He did own Whale’s apartment complex, yes, but as a doctor, Whale had never been one to fall behind on payments.

Gold didn’t really like Whale, and was loath to give him a second thought, and yet he stopped walking and gestured for him to get on with it.

“Roger Davies was recently brought into your employ, was he not?”

“He was.”

“Late last night he went into cardiac arrest. We were able to resuscitate him, but his condition is…not good. You should start looking for a new employee.”

Whale moved on, not having a clue what he’d just done. Gold stood there, numb, for a moment, processing what the doctor had said. Roger was too young to be having heart trouble. It didn’t make sense.

Gold shook himself out of his daze and wasted no more time getting to the hospital. Fortunately for him, he was well-feared enough that nobody dared to keep him from going to Roger’s side.

His condition was poor enough that he was in a room all by himself, not recovering in a group like the patients who had a chance. It was quiet, except for the sounds of the various machines that were hitched into his veins and shoved down his throat. After living in Storybrooke for twenty-eight years, most of which he had spent unaware that these machines were anything new to him, the medical devices used in the land without magic still frightened Gold. They seemed so invasive and unnatural—but if they could keep Roger alive, then they must be good.

“Roger, you don’t get to die,” Gold said. “Do you hear me? You’re going to see the curse broken, and I’m going to tell you how much I love you when you can understand what it truly means.”

Roger seemed alright, other than the machines. Gold hated when internal things went wrong; injuries where he could see blood or bruising made sense, they looked real. Internal wounds were mysterious and always seemed so out of the blue.

Maybe...it wasn’t really. Gold hesitated, then put his fingers to his own wrist. It was difficult for him to judge it accurately, so he took a deep breath and placed his hand over his chest. There. Buried beneath his own heartbeat was a second. The curse must be weakening; he hadn’t felt a second pulse since being brought to Storybrooke. (He probably would’ve thought he was insane, if he had.)

Roger’s heart—Killian’s heart—did know him, after all. His pain had found its way through their link and been subsumed. Gold shook his head. Killian Jones would’ve been able to withstand it; he, too, was immortal, and he, too, had been through a lot in his life. But Roger Davies had no clue about any of that. He believed that he was a simple, mortal man, and a mortal could never bear the pain of an eternal being. His heart knew well enough to take the pain, but his head knew little enough to be brought low by it.

“Damnit, Killian,” he sighed, squeezing Roger’s shoulder.

“Gold.”

Emma Swan stood in the doorway. She had been more confident, lately, and Gold had to admit she was a good sheriff. That might be a problem for him. “Yes, Miss Swan?”

“One of the nurses called. She said you forced your way into this patient’s room?”

Gold laughed quietly, shaking his head. “That may be a bit of an over exaggeration,” he said. “This patient is my—my employee, Roger Davies. I merely wanted to check on him. We’ve…become friends, in the past few weeks.”

Swan seemed to be testing her superpower on him. Her eyes narrowed. “Then why did you call him ‘Killian’ a minute ago?” she asked.

He couldn’t admit to believing Henry’s theory, even if it was the truth and he knew it. He was suspicious enough in general. “I believe you’re mistaken, Miss Swan,” he said. He put every ounce of Rumplestiltskin’s lying ability into that one sentence, hoping it would be enough to fool her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a shop to open.”

After that day, the shop was a less interesting place to Gold. He couldn’t look at a lamp without thinking of how carefully Roger cleaned it, or even at the windows without remembering how handsome Roger looked with his sleeves rolled up to scrub them. He developed a raw spot on his finger from twisting the ring Roger had given back to him, which he found himself doing whenever he missed Roger.

It was often.

His trips to the hospital were regular, but not too frequent, to avoid drawing attention from Sheriff Swan. He could hardly believe the way time seemed to just move on without Roger. It didn’t seem right. Gold’s world stopped for him, so why shouldn’t everyone else’s?

There was never a single day, in all that continuing time, when Gold visited Roger and didn’t repeat those three words. Roger might die without knowing it, Gold could never be sure, but he could at least try to make him understand.

[narkysam]

Greetings, innovative proposal.

I loved it! I wait for new publications.

Thank you.

[classicquid]

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