#AND THE DIALOGUE. AND THE DESCRIPTION. ARE. ALL. SO. FUCKING. ***COOL***

[dawnbreak81]

it would appear I cannot contain my mania to the tags alone, for I have hit the 30 tag limit, so concisely continuing:

1- I LOVE HER SO MUCH

2- YOU DID FUCKING AMAZING SHE'S SO SO SO SO COOL

3- PERFECTION.

4- the genshin artstyle really does bbgify people, huh

5- the way I had to stifle a scream when I saw "Eula" and the unhinged violent screeching it turned to when I read "Vetur" tHAAT ASSHOLE- anyway

6- the two of them when they were young always make me so emotional AHhh 😭

7- but. You know what makes more onions?? THAT. LAST. DIALOGUE.

8- Please never stop this heart trampling. It's incredible.

9- I am sO SLEEP-DEPRIVED ok byeeeeee :)

[Seiren • Starsilver Sparrow]

“Eula, how would you feel if I suddenly get amnesia, hm? You know like Vetur finally having enough of me and shoving me off the balcony—" “Sister, Sir Meier would have a stroke if he were listening to our conversation,” Eula briskly piped in, lowering her chipped teacup with a delicate clink before shooting an eagle-like glare at her older sister. “However, more importantly why would you suggest such wretched events? Is Vetur being bothersome, once again? I thought he had become responsible and stopped after I had made him slip on his own clothes—MMF.” The older sister groaned, plucking another biscuit from the tray and warningly held it up to the younger’s girl’s indignant glower as she menacingly munched.

“It’s only hypothetical, you funny little lemon. I’ll get a mirror - you’re all blown up like an angry pufferfish.” She tapped the biscuit against Eula’s scrunched up nose and slowly pushed it into her mouth. “Keep this up and you’ll only get porridge for the next week, you hear me?” - - -

Pain rattled through her gritted teeth as a gloved fist yanked her up by her knotted hair. Smouldering eyes of glowing coal glowered down resentfully at her behind a cracked mask, with the distant groaning curses of fallen Fatui heard in the background as they attempted to crawl out from pieces of rubble and jutting stalagmites of golden creedite.

“What the hell is this?”

She smirked, blood smudged across her battered lips. Past the shattered frame of the tavern’s window, the hilt of the scythe glinted in the flickering broken light and Adrik’s hand curled over its blade in a last futile attempt.

How bloody damn hilarious.

“Hey! What are you gawking at?” The agent jerked onto her hair, his fire-water tinged breath spewing against her face, “Damn it, are you deaf?! Listen to me, you knight fool!!”

Blunt spikes dug into her cheek as a gauntlet slammed against her face. She spat out a hoarse curse, blood spattering from her lips and she venomously fixed a glare at the bloodless grin. Knees immediately slammed to the rocky ground, as the agent dropped her to the ground. Gloved fingers reached to peel away the draped bloodied locks of hair from her face, crooked teeth stretched.

“Now, I can see my punching bag a bit more clearly.” He leered, flicking a strand of copper with deep chuckle rumbling from his throat, “Oh! Look at this blood - So young and vibrant!”

Acrid burning crawled up her throat, eyes dilated in trembling rage. She smacked away the lingering touches, letting wisps of hair tear out from her bloodied hairline.

“Get ya damn mitts out of my hair.” she hissed out, defiance sharply flashing across her glower, “And just get this over and done with, you bastard.” The agent coughed out a surprised laugh, flexing the stained brass reinforcers with eager clicks. He stepped back as he pulled the flask from his jacket and popped its lid off, swinging its contents down his mouth. He wound in his fingers into an anticipating fist while he drew it back. Bracing for the impact, she closed her eyes as she tightly held her vision in her bleeding hand.

“I’d rather die remembering the lifetime we spent together, than not recognise your face when I see you again.” - - - YIPPEEE finally was able to finish this phew. Anyways say hello to Seiren, my chaotic little limb-hogging treasure hoarder! She's one of my older guys, she's been in my brain since 2022! She's one of Rai's old friends and I can't wait to yap about her, about her wife and about her daughter, and also yap about the whole Aster's Oath. She's one of the characters who are highly important to the main storyline! (Yes I did look at the genshin treasure hoarders and went what if murderous lesbean. and yes that is how she was birthed) Ok lols I'll stop rambling, but please keep an eye out for her in future stuff! :D

-> Got the drip marketing background from @/chie_zuu on twitter!

[inkonparchment]

there's a man in the woods | Leon Kennedy

Leon Kennedy x f!Reader

summary: everything changes when you find a man beaten, bruised and bleeding half to death in the woods.

word count: 3k

warnings: horror imagery. unsettling themes. mentions/description of blood, organs, guns. canon-typical violence. injuries. slow burn. eventual romance. hurt/comfort. plot armour goes crazy. language.

a/n: once again, i apologize for barely any dialogue.

series masterlist

¤

Chapter 2

The sound of blood roaring in your ears is all that occupies you, the harsh thump thump of your heart beating against your chest. Your palms grow slick, grip tightening on the rifle to stop the shaking. The first low rumbles of thunder began to roll across the landscape, like the distant roar of a sleeping giant stirring from its slumber.

A sudden, blinding flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the darkened world for a brief, startling moment. A deep, resonant boom followed that seemed to shake the very ground.

You nearly jump out of your skin. You need to make a decision and fast for if not the rain then the nearby coyotes will come bounding in any second, the scent of copper and iron luring them in.

You could leave him here. It would be so easy to turn around and walk away, to pretend you never saw him, to pretend you didn’t find him clinging on to an inch of his life. He would be dead in a few minutes anyways; better to let the bears and the coyotes have their way with him.

 You don’t know him, you don’t owe him anything and for all that matters, he could be here for you. What if he was the angel of death, out on the collection for a soul, for you. Would it be easier to bind yourself to him and wait for death to come find you? At least then you wouldn’t be greeting death alone.

Leave him. You need to lookout for yourself.

But you can’t seem to move away from him, unable to command your legs to walk away, eyes stuck to his heaving chest, the low rasps of his labored breaths luring you towards him. The barrel of your gun still pointed at his head, you take a shaky step forward, Luna barking in warning. His features look soft, almost as though in a deep, relaxed slumber.

“Fuck.” You curse out loud, putting your gun away and tightening it around your shoulder. You fall to your knees next to him, his blood bleeding into your jeans, one hand going to his neck and halting for a pulse. Weak and slow but present. “Fuck!”

You don’t even know how you’ll drag him back to your cabin, if you can even drag him back. You fix both of your hands on his shoulders and heave him up, his figure moving to your will like a ragdoll, head bouncing around as he falls forward. You steady him with a hand against his chest, the other gripping him fiercely by his shoulder. His skin is cool under your hands, warmth seeping out from him with his blood, leaving him empty and hollow.

He stirs, a low groan escaping his lips.

You grit your teeth, firmly plant your feet against the damp soil, feeling them dig in as you lift him. Your muscles groan, protest and nearly give up. Is this how Atlas felt when he was condemned to hold up the skies for eternity? Crushed under a burden so heavy he didn’t know if he could carry? With Zeus’ fury splitting the skies and his rage falling viciously from the heavens?

The air in your lungs burn, clothes seeping in red as you steady his body against yours, his arm all but engulfing against your shoulders, your fingers getting sticky with blood against his waist.

What a fucking predicament to find yourself in.

You try to take a step forward, every inch of your being in protest as you drag his heavy body with you. Your breathing gets laborious, feet beginning to get sturdy as you start the journey back, his lifeless legs dragging behind, leaving a trail of maroon, unravelling like a welcome carpet for anyone who wishes to follow. Fuck. You didn’t even know if he was being followed. You shake that thought out of your head, you’ll find time to worry about the details later.

Another brilliant flash lights the sky, reflecting the trees foliage on the forest’s floor. The low rumble of thunder follows before it gets deathly quiet. And then with a thunderous applause, rain drops begin to fall, pelting harshly against the material of your jacket.

Your feet stumble against the roots, halting in your steps as your ears pick up a noise in the far distance. Luna growls, snout turned sharply in the direction from where you had come. The rain pelts around you as you stand there frozen, fear snaring your limbs as you’re slowly consumed by it, drenched in it like the rainwater.

Howling.

 “Luna! Heel!” You yell, voice booming over the storm.

Your grip on the lifeless man’s arms turns to steel, adrenaline filling you up with the resolve to finally break into a half-hearted run, the echoes of the howls harmonizing with the thunder. Your pants are long and deep, perspiration blooming on your forehead and then washed away by the rain. You can’t see that far ahead of you, relying on your instincts and the sound of Luna’s paws squelching against the wet mud.

A light in the distance, beckons you towards it, like a lighthouse guiding the ships to safety. You zero in on it, ignoring the searing pain in your thighs as you finally tumble up the stairs, kicking the door open and shutting it firmly behind you when you’re sure Luna is inside, the sound of the rain and the howls ceasing.

Your brain is buzzing. The drip, drip of rainwater from your body seeping into the wooden floor, mixed with the stranger’s blood gives it a light pink hue. His head hangs, hair covering his face completely, chest barely moving and it’s his low guttural moan that snaps you out of your reverie.

It’s like you’re on autopilot.

Clambering against the floor, swiping off the lonesome basket from the dining table and laying him on the wooden surface. The muscles in your arms protest once more, adjusting him properly on the table, tugging his arms to his side.

Towels. Pots. Water. The medical kit you keep in the cabinet on top of the fridge. And then instincts take over, greeting you like an old friend.

You assess the extent of his injuries, quickly finding the major source of the blood that’s pooled under him once again. It’s the gash on his thigh. You peel back the material of his pants, a gasp involuntarily escaping your lips. The gash is deep, angry and gushing like a fountain, painting your hands. The skin around it is torn hastily, not clean like how it would be from a knife but how it would be if some…creature had dug its claws in him. You glance at him in fear. Who the fuck was this guy?

You usher the invading thoughts out of your mind, locking them firmly behind a steeled door. Later, not now. Water. Soap. Clean the wound. Ointment. Stitches. Dressing. Move to the next and repeat. You don’t know how long it takes you, hands moving deftly as everything just moves into the background; Luna’s watchful presence and the storm outside just a distant memory. It’s just you and him.

Every so often you would glance at his face, still pale and deathly, and it would contort with every tug and stitch of the needle, little noises of groans escaping his lips.  

The bleeding stops overtime as the exposed wounds are closed up, beads of crimson littering the floor underneath together with the strips of his black shirt accompanying them from where you had cut up his shirt to better see his wounds.

You finally step back, last stitch in place, noticing your sleeves drenched in red, the edges of your shirt having dried out. Outside the rain is still pouring, not with the same ferocity it had when you had entered but now with a steady rhythm, drumming on the roof of your wooden cabin.

You collapse back into a chair, tingling sensation shooting up and down your arms, tickling your fingers in the process. And its Luna’s nudge against your thigh that has you reconciling with the matter at hand, brain finally acknowledging your circumstances.

It starts at the bottom of your stomach, churning slowly and steadily, aggressive waves crashing up and down like they do against the sand during high tide, building up ominously, towering over the coast before engulfing everything in its path and then the wretched all-consuming pull back. You bite back a sob, chest squeezing dangerously under your ruined gloved hand. Why couldn’t you have just left him outside?

He looks hauntingly beautiful like this. Lying limp on your table that you had spilled juice on just yesterday, unable to even fathom that you would be nursing a dead man on it, jogging up memories of who you used to be, what you used to be. Only illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead light, his chest was now moving evenly, the white of his skin glimmering under the warm rays.

Steadying yourself by gripping the edge of the table, you walk up to his side, shaking hands discarding the gloves. Hesitantly, you reach out, fingertips grazing against his forehead, flicking away his matted hair, tracing down to cup his cheek. So cold. His skin laps up the warmth you have to offer, your palm nearly matching the temperature of his skin.

And his eyes flicker open just for a second, staring hazily at you. You suck in a sharp breath. Icy blue eyes looked back at you, reflecting a storm so intense inside them that it nearly put the one brewing outside in shame. Defenseless, helpless and so pitiful. His lips move incoherently, no noise coming out before his eyes rolling back into his head, drifting off to another spell of unconsciousness.

He can’t stay lying here.

You steel yourself, snapping out of the haze he had managed to capture you under.

You rid him off his gear, carefully peeling off every layer of weaponry he had on him. Every gun, ammo, knife and grenade until you were sure there was nothing else strapped to him. You saw the black of his earpiece, prying it off of him and inspecting it in the palm of your hand. Broken.

You set aside his weapons, grabbing them and kicking aside the small rug in your kitchen hiding the cellar door. You pull it open, ignoring Luna’s whines and descended down in the darkness. Tugging on the light switch you located the crate at the end of the small cellar, shelves littered with canned food. You dump the things inside, slamming the crate shut and running back up, hastily rearranging the rug back to how it had been.

You bite your lip, trudging into your living room, wincing as another lightning bolt shot up in the sky outside. You throw open the door in the far corner, leading into a spare bedroom that you’ve never had use for.

The two big windows and the queen sized bed had always unnerved you, hating how exposed that had made you feel, the lack of a proper view over the woods making you feel claustrophobic. You shove off the covers, pushing them to the side to make room for your guest.

You hope this is the last time you have to carry him.

Grunting, groaning and huffing as you try not to jostle him too much, taking care so his stitches don’t rip, not wanting to do a redo of the same activity you had practically broken your back over. You settle him on the mattress, happy to have the mass off from your shoulders.

You shuck the covers back on him, tucking him under the multiple layers to preserve his body heat. With the finality of a pat, you step back and you don’t stop until you’re out of the threshold, the door still wide open.

The cold begins to seep into your bones, standing there trembling as the adrenaline begins to ebb away, the sensation of your wet clothes blooming across your nerves. You fold your arms over your shoulders, rubbing them in hopes of returning some warmth in your body. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Luna seat herself between you and the strangers, her brown eyes fixed on his sleeping form.

Your hands seek purchase against her collar, the softness of her coat calming a portion of your anxiety. You know she won’t move, won’t stray from her post and keep a watchful eye on the man, in silent promise that she’ll let no harm befall you.

You bound upstairs, fingers quivering as you try and slide the lock in place, pulling at the door to ensure the door won’t budge. You shrug off your layers, every garment you had on falling on the floor with a distinct splosh-sound.

The shower runs again for the second time today, the droplets streaming down your head as you watch the water change colour before slipping down the drain. A storm rivalling the one outside, pummels against your skin but this one is under your control; the temperature, the intensity and at your command, ceasing.

You close your eyes, letting the water wash you away, take you somewhere far where nothing has happened and nothing has gone wrong. Maybe this is all happening in your head, a manifestation of your guilt plopped unceremoniously at your doorstep, finally having lost your sanity to the voices in the woods.

Memories of past mistakes haunt you, the faces of those you couldn't save flashing before your eyes. This…needed to be different. You wouldn't let another life slip through your fingers, even if it meant risking your own. Fuck. Is that what this is?Is that why you saved him? A pathetic attempt to right your wrongs?

Your fingers massage your shoulders, knots having tightened. But they don’t loosen, not under the scalding water and neither under the guise of your fingertips. Frustration builds up again, the sensation of the water no longer enough to quiet the ringing in your head, tiles too cold under your palm where you steady yourself, the steam nearly asphyxiating. You hastily shut off the water, clambering out of the bathroom, pointedly ignoring your reflection in the mirror.

After pulling on a warm set of hoodie and sweats, you step over your ruined clothes, the lock sliding away with a click. Hands tight on the railing, you walk back down, breath shallow and eyes peeled. Maybe none of it happened, a nightmare conjured by your mind, karma making you dance like a skilled puppeteer.

Another crack of lightning and Luna’s shadow falls long on the floor, taking up space on the wall. You gulp, finally on the ground, floorboards creaking. And none of it was a nightmare, the door to the spare room still open, the sun having set long ago, the howls of the wind and the angry splatter of rain against the windows, the man still in your bed, face illuminated by the sudden shots of light seeping in through the glass.

The loud boom of thunder jolts you, spurring you forward as you drew all the curtains, hastily checking the locks on the door and almost tripping on your discarded rifle lying on the floor. You pick it up, heart easing at its familiar weight and a sudden ferocity occupies your chest. If he wanted you dead, you didn’t owe it to him to make the process easier. It would be a shame to put a bullet in him after wasting various medical supplies on him.

You grab a chair from your dining table, its legs scraping against the floor as you bring it to the living room, firmly placing it near the unlit fireplace, allowing you an unrestricted view into the bedroom. You sit, gripping the gun firmly, beginning your vigil, watching over him like a hawk, unsure of his intentions.

Despite the exhaustion tugging at your eyelids, you remain resolute. You can’t afford to let your guard down, not now. Every creak of the cabin and howl of the wind keeps you on edge, the noises amplified in the dark.

The shrill ringing noise breaks through the air like a bullet fired in the solitude of the night. It’s a miracle you don’t fall from your seat, panic seizing your limbs as you madly turn your head around, eyes nearly popping out of your skull, heart spurring in your chest. Luna doesn’t flinch, obedient as ever with her eyes fixated on the target.

You calm your heart, eyes landing on the lonesome landline hanging from the wall of your kitchen, usually silent but now wailing in twilight, the red light glowing in anger. Slowly you walk over, every ring feeling like a knife embedding itself in your chest.

And it gets deathly silent when you pick up the receiver, the plastic cool under your touch and fitting snug against the shell of your ear. Nothing, except the harsh sound of breathing graces your ear.

“Status?” A gruff voice finally speaks. The fear relents, recognizing the heavy baritone of the voice at the other end, greeting you like how it always does; no pleasantries but without fail always at the same time, designated at the same day of the week.

You hesitate, eyes flickering towards the opened door, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth. You could say it, say what happened, what you found or rather who you found. It would be so easy to pass on the problem. He would be gone in an instant, whisked away without your knowledge to a fate that would be unknown to you, freeing you off the burden that you can barely uphold.

But the flash of his deep blue irises grips the words in your throat, refusing to let them through, halting you from your confession. And all you can hear yourself whisper, voice so meek and cracked is, “All good on my end.”

thank you for reading! i hope the lack of dialogue wasnt irritating lmao. this should be up on ao3 soon.

[howisjoostfanfictionforfree]

Stop Sending Me Fruit Pics

Joost Klein x reader fanfic 18+ MDNI | RPF!!!

Joost hears something you don’t exactly want him to...

Reader: established relationship, f!reader, tried not to be too descriptive with physical characteristics but I’m sure I slipped up somewhere

CW: 18+ NSFW, RPF, smut, consensual but consent is not explicitly stated so be warned if you care about that, kind of rough, unprotected piv, cream pie, filthy onomatopoeia, cringe dialogue?

Words: ~1,900. Just a lil blurb. 

A/N: Ayy you know when sometimes you’re so wet you realize you can hear your pussy makin’ little *schlick-smack* noises when you walk? No? Just me? Dang. Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.

No I did NOT listen to WAP when I was writing this…

🍌🥝 🍌🥝 🍌🥝 🍌 🥝 🍌🥝 🍌🥝 🍌 🥝 🍌 🥝 🍌 🥝 🍌 🥝 🍌

You just got home. 

You had been at Tantu’s all day with Joost and you had been so worked up the whole time. You tried to play it cool, keeping to yourself on the beanbag in the corner while they worked, pretending you weren’t thinking about choking on that dick. 

Sometimes you think the fact that you don’t have a dick makes you a little too bold. Since you don’t have to worry about boners there is literally nothing to stop you from having wild fantasies in public and you rarely fail to take advantage of this. There have never been consequences so far, you’ve never been rendered unable to act normal when people engage with you. Still, you wonder if one day you’ll slip up and say something like ‘oh hey, how’s it boning?’. The possibility hasn’t stopped you yet. 

You sit there all afternoon thinking fairly depraved thoughts with no one the wiser and try to look busy on your laptop while discreetly watching Joost work.

When evening rolls around they decide they are done for the day and you are happy to see there is no wet spot on the upholstery when you get up. You gather your things and say your goodbyes. Then, as you’re heading out the door, you realize you can hear something strange. There is a little *schlick* with each step. Schlick...schlick… Oh. That is definitely your pussy. Guess you got a little carried away. It seems quiet enough that no one will put two and two together though. You just hope if Joost does notice something he will chalk it up to the bouncing click of a zipper or the back and forth of the synthetic material of your coat. You resolve to change your underwear as soon as you’re home. 

You’ve arrived and you’re taking off your shoes by the door when you look over and see Joost’s brow furrowed, looking at you curiously. Fuck. You’re not sure when it caught his attention but it has now and you try to walk into the living room slowly to dampen the sound. Maybe you can keep him from zeroing in on it. He puts down his bag and slowly pads after you. 

You’re halfway through the main space now. Act casual, act casual. The bedroom door is right there. Be cool, be cool. You look behind you to see if he’s still following and happen to catch the moment it clicks for him because his eyes go wide.

FUCK

His strides are swift as he bridges the gap between you and grabs your wrists when you turn and try to backpedal, palms raised in defense. He’s got a disbelieving look on his face and it’s turning into a shit-eating grin.

“Are you….wet?” 

“No, definitely not.”  You don’t even know why you’re lying. It’s not like you’re not super down to get it on. You’ve been lusting after him since this morning. Just, something about arousal to the point of being audible is embarrassing. What did that one guy in the vine say to his mom when she was making mac ’n cheese?

“I think you’re lying schatje.”

He spins you around and bends you over the arm of the couch before you can think of an excuse.

“Joost! Come on!”

You try to stand up but he has a hand on your back and his other one immediately works to shimmy your pants down. 

“Dude!”

He’s ignoring you. As soon as he’s got them down far enough he presses his fingers to your panties and swears violently at how obviously little they are doing to contain the situation. You suck in a breath. The gig is up. He rips them down to join your jeans and you can feel the string that connects them to your pussy break and stick to your thigh. God. He brings his hand back up quickly and dips his fingers in. He runs them through your folds and huffs out a laugh in awe.

“Joooost” you whine. You can’t believe he’s laughing at you.

“Schatje, what has you so fucking wrecked?”

“Shut upppppp” You groan.

“Is this all for me? You’re so wet I can’t believe it.” 

It is in fact all for him but your tongue is now stuck to the roof of your mouth with the way he starts tracing around your clit. He teases little circles around it. Not right where you need him but close enough to keep you arching into his hold. His huge hand on your back feels like a brand. 

“Aww that’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”

You do your best to make an indignant noise into the cushions.

Continuing his investigation he drags the tips down to your entrance and teases around it lightly. You squirm a bit, it almost tickles, but his pin is firm. Suddenly he drives two fingers in to the knuckle and you choke. It makes the most filthy squelch. He pumps them in and out a few times slowly, repeating the noise. 

“My god schatje”

Your face is on fucking fire.

You want to make some quip, tell him if he doesn’t like it he can stick his damn fingers somewhere else, but you know that it isn’t an actual criticism. No, not with the way he is deliberately plunging his fingers to get the loudest possible *smack-slurp*. Not with the way he’s withdrawing every few pumps to run his drenched fingers through your folds, making equally obscene noises. It feels good but you can tell his entire focus is on reveling in the sheer quantity of your arousal rather than actually driving you higher. You start chasing his fingers, rocking back into his touch.

Then, just as suddenly, he whips his fingers back out, undoes his belt, rips down his pants, lines up, and sinks in in one go.

You scream.

Not in pain, but at the intensity of sensation. Things never usually move this fast. You were already so turned on that it felt perfect though. You have no idea if he’s saying anything to you because you white out for a moment. He holds there as deep as possible for a few beats, letting you adjust, but he can't help himself and soon he pulls back and starts building a rhythm. 

“Mmmmmmnn, baby, you feel so good. Were you waiting for me today?”

“Oh my god oh my godohmygodohmygod” You don’t know why he thinks you can talk right now.

Having done the bare minimum to not absolutely murder your cervix he begins picking up the pace. Soon he is jackhammering you into the couch as you scrabble for purchase on frustratingly smooth cushions. You can feel yourself dripping down his balls as they slap against you. The noises are worse than ever. The endless *slap-slap-schlap-shlup* is doing something to your brain.

Your hurtle towards orgasm alarmingly quickly. As soon as he reaches around to massage at your neglected clit you can’t even choke out a warning before your eyes roll back and you’re spasming around him in wild pulses. You whimper his name over and over in a way you will probably find embarrassing later.

At the feeling he grips your hips that much tighter, thrusting savagely as his gasps gain a breathy quality. Just as you start to go boneless he hooks an arm around you, pulling you back up into his chest before you can face plant, making your back arch sharply as he slams home and stays deep, spilling inside of you.

“Ohh fuuuckk....Schatje!”

You’re not sure you can actually feel his cum but there is some sort of twinge of warmth and it has you twitching around him once more. He groans at the feeling and bucks into you again lightly, teeth coming to gently press into your neck. You whimper and let yourself soak in the feeling of him in and around you. The weight of him still inside you and his bruising grip holding you so sweetly. 

After a minute he removes his teeth and brushes his lips over the spot. He kisses over your shoulders, gradually letting you both come down. Eventually he loosens his hold, releasing you from the somewhat contortionist pose. Once you’ve got your hands on solid couch again he pulls out slowly. Immediately his cum runs down your legs and you can’t help but let out another little noise. You try to close your legs to stop it but he grabs your thighs and holds them open, leaning back to watch. One of his thumbs moves to spread you open just a little, admiring his work. He gives a happy little sigh.

“Jooooost” You complain, but you really don’t have it in you to stop him.

He groans and pulls away finally, taking off his own shirt. He wipes up your thighs gently. When he’s done he wraps his arms around you and drags you up into a hug, your back pressed against his chest. He kisses at your temple a few times and then turns you around so he can finally kiss your mouth. You sigh heavily in his arms. As nice as it is to get dicked down you had missed his mouth. You always crave his kiss. You feel your strength returning and you bring your arms up around his neck so you can deepen it. You make out languidly for a few minutes but you are tired. All of that kind of made your back hurt. When you part from his mouth he is looking at you appreciatively.

“Was that okay?” he asks. “I know it was kinda fast. I could’t help it, I had to feel your pussy.”

“Yeah, that was really hot, even if it was kind of embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing that you were so wet I could hear it?” He leers at you.

You look away, shy all over again. He chuckles and kisses over your face.

“What made you so wet schatje, hmm? I still want to know. What is there to think about in the studio?”

You bury your face in his shoulder now, groaning.

“Come on babyyyy what has you so hot that I could hear it?”

“Hhhhhh…..the fruit.” You finally mumble into his skin. You still can’t look at him.

“Hah? The fruit? Oh!! Really?” 

You remember the moment you received the selfie with the kiwi. He had left for the studio earlier than you. Later, when you were on your way to join him, he sent you a picture of his snack with the words ‘babe my cum is gonna taste so good’. A few minutes after that you received another one with a banana. You sent a simple tongue emoji in return. Your relationship was no stranger to sexting but something about this made you blush. You spent the whole train ride to the studio flipping through your mental catalogue of the many times you had blown him. The weight of him on your tongue and the feeling of him in your throat. When was the last time he actually finished in your mouth? Oral always turned into fucking. God you want him to come down your throat. By the time you made it to the studio you were feeling more than a little warm.

“Yesss fuck you it was hot okay”

“Ohh? Do you wish we did something else? I can give you a taste next time kay?” 

You can feel his grin pressed to your ear. You sigh as dramatically as you can manage. 

“Okay, I guess I can wait.” 

You pull back to look at him.

“In the mean time, we do have blueberries in the fridge.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Cues door de Kirk* ~chap die poenie als bosbessen!!! 🫐✨

But like, the other way around,

eh you get it

[ichorai]

sorry ; daryl dixon.

track three of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; daryl dixon x doctor!reader (gender neutral pronouns)

synopsis ; you were on your knees, and daryl was too. he wouldn’t look at you—he couldn’t—terrified that negan would bring that bat down on your head if he noticed.

words ; 7.9k

themes ; heavy angst, mild action, doctor au

warnings / includes ; death and violence, negan at his worst, vulgar language, guns/weapons, descriptions of injury/blood, mentions of maggie's pregnancy, negan goes on long ass monologues, poor rick is going Through it, the walking dead s6-7 spoilers (fic starts right at the season six finale), mild sexual dialogue from negan

main masterlist.

Maggie hummed with discontent when you pressed a cold, damp cloth to her forehead. There was a pallid color to her skin, and her temperature was beginning to rise, despite her violent shivers beneath the blanket. The inconsistent, rocking motions of the RV weren’t doing her any favors, either. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you to Hilltop real soon,” you said, feeling mildly guilty that you couldn’t help her more, despite being a doctor yourself. Alexandria was completely out of medical supplies and this was urgent—if Maggie didn’t get help soon… you’d never be able to forgive yourself if something bad were to happen to her or the baby. “Hang on for me, okay?”

The brunette slanted her lips in a tired smile, eyelids heavy. 

Rick knelt down beside you, speaking in a low, comforting tone. “We’re gonna get there. Once we get the medicine from Hilltop, Y/N will fix you right up.”

A small sigh fell from her pale, trembling lips. A thin film of tears warbled over her eyes. She was terrified. 

“Oh, Maggie,” you murmured, gently pulling away the short strands of hair sticking to her face. 

“How do you know?” muttered your friend, gaze trained on the ex-cop. 

“Everything we’ve done… we've done it together. We got here together and we’re still here. Things have happened, but it’s always worked out for us, ‘cause it’s always been all of us. That’s how I know. As long as it’s all of us helpin’ you, we can do it.”

A hot tear meandered down Maggie’s cheek. You nodded gratefully at Rick—he’d always had a way with words that you’d never really gotten a grasp of. 

The next hour passed by slowly. You switched between cooling her head, and helping her drink some water, sometimes just holding her hand and telling her that everything was going to be fine. To take her mind off the pain, she’d asked you to tell her about how you and Daryl met, all those years ago long before the dead began to walk. 

“I’m glad Daryl’s not here right now, because he always tells the story differently than I do. Well, how I remember it, he and his dick brother used to come to a small convenience store near their trailer park. That’s where I worked. I was around… nineteen at the time? Almost twenty. I was just working a couple jobs on the side to pay off my growing student debt. Daryl was twenty-three, almost twenty-four. Merle tried to cozy up to me—and I didn’t have any of that. I told him to fuck right off. And later that night, just as I was to close up, Daryl came by and apologized on his brother’s behalf. He was real sweet, so I—”

“What the bitch?” barked Abraham from the driver’s seat, effectively cutting your story short and rolling the RV to a grueling halt. 

“What?” asked Rick, standing up to look out the window. You followed suit, eyes widening upon the sight. 

More than half a dozen Saviors blocking the road with three of their cars—and all of them holding large guns. A lump formed in your throat, and you cast your worried gaze to Rick.

“We goin’ through?” asked Abraham, jaw set. 

Rick gnashed his jaw together in thought. “No,” he said. “We’ll talk to them. C’mon. Y/N, you stay here, watch over Maggie.”

Teeth worrying into your bottom lip, you nodded, stepping to the side to let the rest of them file out of the RV, their own loaded guns at the ready. 

From inside, you couldn’t hear what the Saviors were saying, but from the smug expression of the one in the center with a hideous pornstache, you knew it couldn’t be anything pleasant for your group. 

Three minutes later, they came back in, all looking a bit disgruntled. Rick, most of all.

“What’s going on?” you asked Carl, placing a hand on his forearm. 

The young man that you were so fond of grimaced, shaking his head and lowering his voice to a whisper so that Maggie couldn’t overhear. “They won’t let us through. Want half our stuff.”

Your breath hitched. At this rate, you didn’t know how long Maggie could last without the proper care and medicine. And Alexandria was running low on supplies as it is—taking away half of everything would put the community in a pretty dire situation.

“Alright, thanks kid,” you told him, trying your absolute best not to cry from frustration, your nose burning with the effort. 

The truck began to pull further away from the Saviors, until they were only but little dots against the horizon. 

“Logrun Road’s a straight shot,” said Eugene, repeatedly tapping his finger against the map spread out across the RV’s pull-out table. 

Next to you, Sasha shook her head. “We want visibility.”

You pursed your lips, craning your neck to scan the small, faded texts of the map. “Can we go down Shelton?”

Eugene hummed in agreement, drawling out in his thick Southern accent, “Golf course, country clubs, sloping terrain—no bum rush from the bogeymen. We’d see ‘em from a good piece. It is a longer trip by a third but we’d get the scenic safety of clear-cut dingles and glens.”

Both you and Sasha stared at him blankly. 

“You’re being serious, right?” asked Sasha.

“As coronary thrombosis,” replied the man across from you, stony-faced. Besides, Eugene was never one to joke around.

Sasha rounded her gaze to you expectantly, waiting for you to explain in normal terms. “He’s serious,” you said. “It’s a longer route, but it’ll be well-sheltered and hopefully keep us hidden from the Saviors. I’ll try to keep Maggie steady until then.”

The two nodded at you, and you pushed away from the table, heading further back into the RV where Maggie and Rick were. She was pale and clammy, but still had enough energy to talk to you, so you took that as a good sign. 

Not even ten minutes later, while you were taking measurements of her blood pressure and body temperature, the vehicle came to another rumbling halt. 

“Bitch nuts,” cursed Abraham, loudly for both you and Rick to hear. 

The Saviors were blocking the road. Again.

You could feel panic seize about your chest, constricting your lungs. The situation wasn’t looking good for Maggie, not one bit—but you couldn’t give up hope. Not now, when she needed you the most. You blew out a shaky breath, absentmindedly wishing Daryl was here with you to give you some comfort of mind.

“We making our stand?” asked Sasha, staring out of the window, where more than a dozen saviors were lined up. 

Carl, ever the fiery one, spat out, “Yeah. We end this.”

The blue of his father’s eyes flashed dangerously. “No. Not now. It’s too dangerous for Maggie. They’ve been waiting—they’re ready. We ain’t. With one of us behind the wheel, and Y/N with Maggie, that’d be five on sixteen. We’re gonna play it our way. How we want it.”

Reluctant, Carl nodded. 

Slowly, the RV started backing away. Three successive, warning gunshots were fired into the air. You could feel a sick, twisted rage curl up within your stomach. 

If Maggie died on your watch—her blood would be on the hands of the Saviors.

You fumbled for another map pinned up on the cork board, eyes roaming over the roads, desperate for another available route. Could they possibly have you surrounded? No—the woods were vast, and the roads were winding—there were so many paths left to take to Hilltop. The Saviors simply wouldn’t have the numbers to stop you.

Wouldn’t they?

The RV came to another stop. This time, there were no Saviors blocking the road, but instead, a line of chained-up walkers. Not wanting to risk damaging the RV by driving through them, the rest of the group filed out to check if the coast was clear. You told Maggie you’d be right back, before hopping out of the RV, lingering by the doorway to narrow your gaze at the restrained walkers.

“That’s Michonne’s,” breathed out Carl, his single eye widening. A lock of her hair was stapled against the center walker’s forehead. 

Horror, as black as tar itself, seeped into your chest when you glanced over to the next snarling form, just to see two of Daryl’s arrows embedded into its decaying stomach. Daryl always retrieved his arrows. Which meant… something had happened to him.

“That’s Daryl’s,” you said, loud enough for Rick to hear. “Oh, no, Rick… they did this on purpose. They knew we were coming this way—!”

Just as Rick was about to cleave his axe into the walker’s skull, ricocheting gunfire crackled into the ground, making the dried leaves flutter up with the sudden force, plumes of dust and smoke flying with each bullet. 

“Get back to the RV! Go!” yelled Rick. You scrambled up the steps and ran to a concerned Maggie, trembling as you carefully hovered over her, in case any bullets pierced through the walls and accidentally hit her. Carl and Sasha began shooting blindly into the woods, having not a clue where all the shots were coming from. Rick surged forward and thrust his axe down onto one of the walker’s rotting arms, effectively leaving a gap open for the RV to drive through. 

The rest of the group rushed inside, and Abraham practically threw himself into the driver’s seat to get the RV moving.

The shots died away after a few minutes. With shallow, inconsistent breaths, you slid off of Maggie, slumping down beside her. She croaked out a question, but it fell upon deaf ears, ringing with static and white noise. A warm tear fell from your burning eyes, and you quickly brushed it away with the back of your palm.

Something happened to Daryl. And it was killing you that you couldn’t help him. That you didn’t even know where he was. 

You looked out the window through a watery film of tears, watching the yellow-green fields pass by in a blur. A quick glance at the lowering sun told you that the group was going to lose daylight soon enough, as well. 

A strange, creaking noise was coming from below the RV. 

“What’s that sound?” said Sasha, worried. 

“Undercarriage could’ve caught a bullet,” replied Eugene. “Could be transmission. Could be nothing.”

Agitated, Rick growled out, “They were firing at our feet. They blocked the road, but they weren’t trying to stop us.”

“They want us in this direction,” you murmured, making his wild gaze swivel to you. You gestured to the map. “Rick, they know we’re coming. They know we wanna go North.”

“Meadows would take us East a piece,” said Eugene, “but we can get back on track on Mayhew.”

It would take too long, you thought. Maggie doesn’t have the strength to carry on anymore.

Shaking her head, Sasha said, “We’re down to a third of a tank—we could top off at the next stop, but it’s risky. We can’t have any refills after that.”

A low moan fell from Maggie’s pale lips as a wave of pain washed over her, moving in and out of a hazy unconsciousness. You were quick to check her temperature, blanching at the fact that she was nearly scalding to the touch. You quickly placed the damp cloth to her skin again, trying your best to keep her temperature down.

“Rick, she’s burning up,” you told him, voice thick with worry. 

It was then that the RV came to another stop. 

This time, there were more saviors—around three dozen, maybe even four.

“Go back,” said Rick, eyes wide and stress evidently painted across his strained features. 

Abraham squared his jaw. “We have nowhere to go back to.”

With a shaky breath, you stroked Maggie’s head, your heart shattering into millions of pieces. “I’m sorry, Maggie,” you said, a sob bubbling in your throat. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—I wish I could do something, I’m sorry.”

Disoriented and not having heard a word of your apologetic babbling, Maggie croaked out, “Are we there yet?”

More tears slipped down your cheeks. Rick was by your side, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on Maggie’s arm. You stifled your sobs with your palm, and Rick replied in your stead.

“Yeah, Maggie. We’re—we’re getting there.”

The woman’s eyelids fluttered lethargically. “Were there… I heard shots.”

Rick’s expression softened. “Yeah, the Saviors—they’re gone now. We’re gonna get you there.”

A ghost of a smile tilted the corner of Maggie’s lips up. “I know.”

“You’ll be okay,” you told her, sniffling. “The baby’s going to be okay. This isn’t the end.”

“There’s more,” agreed Rick. “There’s gonna be more, I promise.”

A beat of silence. 

“I believe in you, Rick,” she hoarsely said. Maggie’s gaze slowly moved from Rick to you. “In both of you.”

Maggie was asleep again. You made sure to give her plenty of water and what was left of the antibiotics you had saved—but that was the very last bit of supply you had. There was little else you could do for her other than getting her to Hilltop for the proper medicine and treatment she needed.

“So what’s the play?” asked Abraham. “They’ve cut us off every turn we made.”

“She needs medicine,” said Rick, desperation lacing each word. “She’ll die without it.”

“We only have two plausible routes North from here. They’ve cornered us,” Sasha whispered, gaze trained on the map.

Hopelessness laid uneasy on all of your shoulders. 

“They’re probably waiting for us right now,” said Aaron.

Eugene gritted his teeth. “So, they’re ahead of us. Heck, probably even behind us. But they’re not waiting on us, per se—they’re waitin’ on this rust bucket. They don’t know the moment-to-moment occupancy of said rust bucket. And the sun sets soon.”

“We need to leave now if we want Maggie to make it to Hilltop,” you said, voice trembling with a myriad of guilt, anger, and frustration. “We carry Maggie, and we go on foot. Through the woods. They can’t block us there.”

Eugene took the RV in hopes of tricking the Saviors. Everybody else in the group set off into the woods, taking turns carrying Maggie on the makeshift stretcher, bundled under two layers of blankets. The sun had long set, and the whispering winds were cold this time of year. 

“Just let me walk it,” she rasped, voice scratchy and throat dry. 

“No,” you were quick to reply. “You’re in no condition to walk right now, Maggie. It’s only a few more miles. Just rest up a bit more, okay?”

Though she didn’t look happy, Maggie didn’t protest any further, letting her tired eyes slip shut once more. 

After a couple more minutes, Aaron stepped in to carry one end of the stretcher for you, telling you that you also needed to rest your arms for a second. With a grateful nod, you reluctantly let go, falling into stride with Carl.

“Are you okay?” the young man asked, his hand brushing yours, his nonverbal way of saying that he was here for you if you needed him. “I’m sure Daryl and Michonne are fine. They’re fighters. Maggie’s going to be fine, too.”

You sent him a fond, but tired smile. “Yeah, I hope so, kiddo,” you told him, cuffing his shoulder affectionately. The thought of Daryl out there, probably worried sick for you as well, made your stomach twist into knots. “I really hope so.”

It was at that moment, a shrill whistle sounded out from the darkness of the forest. The group halted in their tracks. One by one, more whistles were added to the ear-splitting melody. It sounded like there were dozens, if not a hundred voices surrounding you. 

“Go!” yelled Rick. “Go!” 

The rest of you broke out in a sprint, and you grabbed Carl’s hand, winding around tree trunks and hopping over overgrown roots, ignoring the stinging scrapes of twisting branches against your face. 

The whistling only continued, growing louder, louder, louder—

Until you came face to face with the source itself. 

Car lights suddenly flashed open, momentarily blinding you. You drew Carl closer to you, instinctively protecting him, but it was no use. They had your group surrounded. Saviors, hundreds of them, gathered around you with leering expressions. All of them were clutching guns.

Raw fear curled around your lungs when you saw Eugene on his knees not too far from you, tears dripping down his face. 

Rick looked destroyed. Devastated. 

You were shaking so hard that your knees began to buckle beneath you. 

Finally, the whistling began to dwindle away. 

From the crowd, stepped out a familiar face—the man with a hideous pornstache that stopped the RV on the initial route. 

“Good,” he called out. He swept his arms out in a faux inviting gesture. “You made it. Welcome to where you’re going—because you ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til we’re done with you. We’ll take your weapons.”

When he pointed a gun straight at Maggie, you immediately did as he said, pulling out the pistol wedged in your belt. There was a knife inside your boot, but you weren’t too keen on giving that up yet. You tossed your pistol on the ground just as Abraham threw down his rifle. The rest of the group followed suit.

Trembling, Rick spat out, “We can talk about this—”

“We’re done talking,” interrupted Pornstache. “Okay. Get her down, and let’s get you all on your knees. Lots to cover.”

“She can’t,” you snarled, stepping in front of Maggie protectively. “She’s sick, she can’t—”

“Oh, she’ll be far worse than just sick if you don’t get her on her knees,” the man easily rebutted, eyes roaming over your protective form. 

Lips trembling, you turned around, and with Abraham on her other side, you helped Maggie limp off the stretcher and gently set her down on her knees. Your eyes glistened and warbled with unshed tears. Maggie could only shake her head, as if telling you that it wasn’t your fault.

Terrified, Rick glanced around at the rest of the group. He’d failed you. All of you. 

“Gonna need you on your knees, sweetheart,” said Pornstache, slowly dragging the end of his gun up your cheek with a salacious grin.

With a withering glare, you sank down beside Maggie, Rick on your left side, breathing haggard and lips quaking. Sasha and Abraham followed suit. Carl was the last, fists clenched by his sides. 

“Dwight!” whistled Pornstache. “Chop chop! Bring out the others!”

A blonde man with half of his face horribly marred by what looked to be a severe burn injury, stepped forward, yanking open the back of a truck. 

And, to your horror, he dragged out your boyfriend, covered in blood—blood that you could only pray wasn’t his, even though you knew deep down that that was only wishful thinking. Following Daryl was Michonne, Rosita, and Glenn, equally distraught. 

Daryl caught your eye for a brief second, pure terror within his irises. He looked over you to make sure that you were alright, and you did the same with him, a tear slipping down your cheek.

I love you, you mouthed to him. He dipped his head once in understanding, before forcing his gaze away, not wanting to give the Saviors anymore reason to torture either of you. 

“Maggie…?” Glenn painfully rasped once he caught sight of his wife in such a state. He tried to make his way to her, but the Saviors grabbed his arms and forced him down, guns digging harshly into his back. 

“Alright!” exclaimed Pornstache. “We got a full boat! Let’s meet the man, eh?”

He knocked twice on the door to the RV you were in not even an hour ago. 

The door slowly swung open, squeaking on its hinges. 

And out strode a tall man clad in a leather jacket, a bat covered in barbed wire hanging off his shoulder. He took his sweet time making his way towards the group, feet languidly dragging along the gravelly dirt, and a smirk accentuating his smug expression. 

“Pissing our pants yet?” he drawled, voice tapering into a light chuckle as he stepped out into the light, smiling down at your group on your knees. “Boy, do I have a feeling we’re gettin’ close. Mm, yeah—it’s gonna be pee-pee pants city here real soon. Now which one of you pricks is the leader?”

Pornstache pointed at Rick. “It’s this one here.”

The man with the bat grinned wider, before stepping right in front of Rick, who craned his neck to glare up at him. “Hi there. You’re Rick, right? I’m Negan. And I do not appreciate you killin’ my men. Also, when I sent my people to kill your people for killing my people… you killed more of my people. Not cool, man. Not cool. You have… no fuckin’ idea how not cool that shit is. But I think you’re gonna be up to speed shortly. Mmh, yeah. You are so gonna regret crossin’ me in a few minutes. Yes, you are.” A dangerous, wolfish grin flashed across Negan’s face. “You see, Rick, whatever you do, no matter what—you don’t mess with the new world order. And the new world order is really very simple. So, even if you’re stupid, which you may very well be, you can understand it. You ready? Here goes—pay attention.”

He lowered his bat off his shoulder and slotted the barbed end right below Rick’s chin. You held in your breath, your entire body wracking with tremors. Though you knew you needed to stop, you couldn’t help but chance glances at Daryl every so often, your concern for him rapidly growing. Some of that was his blood, it had to be—his eyes were sunken with exhaust and his chest, the very chest you would fall asleep on every night, was rising and falling unevenly, making you believe he was hurt, but you just couldn’t see what was hurting him. 

“Give me your shit… or I will kill you. See? Simple as that.” Negan pulled the bat away from Rick, and began walking around the group as he spoke. “Today was career day. We invested a lot so you would know who I am and what I can do. You work for me now. You have shit, you give it to me. That’s your job. Now, I know that is a mighty big, nasty pill to swallow. But swallow it, you most certainly will! You ruled the roost. You built something, Rick. You thought you were safe, I get it. But the word is out. You are not safe. Not even close. In fact, you are pegged—more pegged if you don’t do what I want. And what I want is half your shit. If that’s too much, you can make, find, or steal more, and it’ll even out sooner or later. This is your way of life now. The more you fight back, the harder it will be. So, if someone knocks on your door… you let us in. We own that door. You try to stop us? And we will knock it down. You understand?”

Rick swallowed heavily. Narrowing his keen eyes, Negan cupped his ear and leaned down closer to the kneeling man. 

“What? No answer? You don’t really think that you were going to get through this without being punished, now, did you? I don’t want to kill you people. I just wanna make that clear from the get go. I want you to work for me—and you can’t do that if you’re dead, now, can you? I’m not growin’ a garden. But you killed my people—a whole damn lot of ‘em! More than I’m comfortable with, honestly. And for that… for that you’re gonna pay.”

Your hands curled into fists on your knees. You knew what was coming. And you’d be damned if you were going to let it happen.

“So, now… I’m gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you.” Negan inhaled sharply, as if he enjoyed prolonging the torture. He bent down once more, showing off the barbed bat. “This right here—this is Lucille. And she is awesome. All this… all this is just so we can pick out which one of you gets the honor!”

Negan stopped in front of Abraham, who straightened and glared defiantly at the smirking man. In thought, Negan subconsciously rubbed his bearded jaw with one hand at the sight of Abraham’s own mustache. “Huh. I gotta shave this shit.”

On he strolled, before halting in front of Carl. “You had one of our guns. Hm. You got a lot of our guns.” Carl only scowled at the man. “Shit, kid. Lighten up. At least cry a little.”

Chuckling, Negan moved on. 

You could feel one of your eyes twitch when you saw his shoes stop right in front of you. His bat was beneath your chin in an instant, forcing you to look up. The sharp metal on the bat painfully scratched against your jaw, and fresh tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

“My, my, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? What’s your name, darlin’?”

Hatred simmered within your chest, but you forced your expression to remain indifferent.

You quietly told him your name, wincing when his bat dug deeper into your neck and he ordered you to say it louder. You repeated yourself, voice cracking. A single tear meandered down your cheek and slid down your chin, dripping onto Lucille.

Negan hummed, nodding in satisfaction. “Now that’s what I want to see, folks! A little emotion around here—Y/N’s got the gist of it!”

“Kill me,” you gritted out, making the rest of the group’s eyes widen. You could feel Rick’s stare burning holes straight through you, but you refused to meet his gaze, staring straight up at Negan. “You can kill me. Just don’t hurt them. Let them go. Maggie, on my right, she’s real sick and she needs medicine—if she doesn’t get the proper treatment soon, she’ll… she’ll…”

The man in front of you barked out an amused laugh. “She’ll what?”

“She’ll die,” you snarled. “So kill me. Get it over with—and let them go.”

And for a split second, you let your eyes return to Daryl, one last time. He wouldn’t look at you—he couldn’t—terrified that Negan would bring that bat down on your head if he noticed.

But it was all futile. He noticed anyway. 

He followed your gaze over to Daryl, lowering his bat to gesture between the two of you. 

“Ah… you two are a thing, ain’t ya? Damn. And here I thought you were available for takin’, sugar.” Negan tossed his head back and chuckled with mild disappointment. “God, look at you bein’ all heroic, offering yourself up for the chopping block! No, no, darlin’, this ain’t a game of who gets to be a martyr and save their friends. You don’t decide what’s happening here. I do. You think I don’t know you’re the doctor of the group? My people have been reporting to me—they know you’ve been the one taking care of Little Miss Sickly over there. No… you’re far too valuable for me to kill. We need more people like you, darlin’. Plus, I wouldn’t want to bash in your pretty little face, now, would I?”

With a hum, Negan stepped away from you, fixing his gaze upon Maggie.

“Jesus. You look shitty. I should just put you out of your misery right now—!”

“NO!” screamed Glenn, scrambling onto his feet and lunging at Negan. Before he could even begin to make contact, Dwight grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, threateningly shoving Daryl’s crossbow into his face. 

Maggie cried out—both from a fresh wave of pain seeping through her bones, and from the sight of her husband being dragged back to his spot like a ragdoll. 

Huffing out a sigh, Negan grunted out, “Nope. Nope, nope, get him back in line.”

Glenn screamed, choking back a sob. “No… don’t. Don’t!”

Negan could only smile. “Alright, alright, listen. Don’t any of you do that again—I will shut that shit down, no exceptions! First one’s free—it’s an emotional moment. I get it. Mmh. Sucks, don’t it? The moment you realize you don’t know shit.”

Rick trembled violently beside you. Tilting his head, Negan glanced between him and Carl, realization dawning upon him when he noticed the physical similarities between the two.

“This is your kid, right? Ohoho, that is definitely your kid!” 

“JUST STOP THIS!” yelled Rick, so sudden that it made you flinch.

Equivalent in volume, Negan bellowed back, “HEY! Do not make me kill your little future serial killer! Don’t make it easy on me! I gotta pick somebody—everybody’s at the table waitin’ for me to order, hm?” 

The man whistled out a shrill tune, one that sent a shiver dance down your spine. 

“I simply cannot decide. But I got an idea.” With that, he pointed the bat at Rick. “Eenie.”

He moved to you, before narrowing his eyes, and skipped over to Maggie. “Meenie.”

Abraham. “Minie.”

Michonne. “Mo.”

Glenn. “Catch.”

Daryl. “A tiger.”

Rosita. “By.”

Eugene. “His toe.”

Sasha. “If.”

Aaron. “He hollers.”

Carl. “Let him go.”

And so on he went. 

My mother told me to pick the very best one. And you… are… it.

Your heart dropped when the end of his bat stopped in front of Abraham. 

No. No… no… no…

“Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy’s other eye out and feed it to his father, and then we’ll start! You can breathe, you can blink, you can cry. Hell, you’re all gonna be doin’ that!” 

And with that, he swung the bat back and brought it clean down on Abraham’s head.

Screams erupted from around you. You could feel your vision blur over with your tears, and you closed your eyes shut, not wanting to see such a gruesome sight, curling in on yourself as you listened to the repeated, sickening squelch of Negan’s bat repeatedly hitting your dear friend. Negan gloated and laughed and jeered. You cried and sobbed and flinched with every strike.

His blood—Abraham’s blood—splattered on your face. You could feel it. 

Warm, moist, and thick. Dripping down your cheek. 

“You guys… look at my dirty girl!” proclaimed Negan, jutting out the bloody bat for all to witness. The monster of a man tilted his head at Rosita, whose eyes were horrified and bloodshot, dripping with fat tears. “Sweetheart… lay your eyes on this!”

When Rosita began to cry harder, Negan hummed. “Oh, damn. Were you… were you guys together? That sucks. If you were, you should know—there was a reason for all this. Red—and damn if that isn’t a good name for him—he just took one, or six, or seven for the team! So take… a damn… look.”

Rosita refused to move her gaze from Abraham’s mutilated corpse.

And, much to your horror, Daryl growled out as he surged forward on his feet, landing a clean punch against Negan’s jaw. You screamed out his name when three Saviors grabbed him and beat him back onto the ground, pinning him tightly against the gravel. A sob wracked through your frame and you could feel your stomach twist into itself. Daryl was still struggling against them, clutching his side as he panted out.

“No!” yelled Negan, clearly furious. “Oh, no. That—is a big no-no. The whole thing—not one fucking bit of that shit flies here!”

Terror clutched at your palpitating heart when Negan shoved Lucille right up into Daryl’s face, smearing Abraham’s blood all over him. 

Dwight strode up and pointed Daryl’s own crossbow against the back of your boyfriend’s head. A sob fell from your lips. You couldn’t watch this—you just couldn’t.

“Daryl,” you cried out, hiccupping through your words. “Negan… no. No, please, don’t! I’ll do anything, please! Not him. Please, not him!”

Amused at your pleading, Negan casted a sidelong glance to you, before grabbing at Daryl’s hair and pulling him upright. “See what you did there, Buckaroo? You got your little partner all upset! Look, they’re crying their eyes out, worried for you.” Negan got back up on his feet. “Get him back in line,” he barked, though his eyes were trained on you.

And in two quick strides, he was back in front of you, gripping your face tightly between his gloved hand. “Look at you, darlin’, all covered in blood. Would it be weird if I say it makes my dick hard as fuck?” You scowled, trying your best to pull your face away from his uncomfortably rough grip. “Ah, ah, ah, sweetheart—your boyfriend here didn’t listen to me earlier. I said the first one was free, didn’t I? And what does that mean? Second one’s got a price, hm? I said I’d shut that shit down—no exceptions. I don’t know what kind of lyin’ assholes y’all have been dealing with… but I’m a man of my word. First impressions are important! I need you all to know me. Know that I’m not joking around with this shit. Now, if you weren’t a doctor and you weren’t so fuckin’ hot—I would’ve bashed your head to pieces without battin’ an eye! But, lookie here, I’m faced with another dilemma. I need to kill another one of you to get my point across.” 

A wail bubbled up in your throat and you began to claw at Negan’s fingers now painfully squeezing your jaw. “No… please, please… don’t, please—!”

“And I want you, darlin’, to pick which one of your little friends I kill.” 

“No!” you spat, breathing shallow and panicked. “Me—just kill me, Negan—you don’t have to hurt anyone else, please, please, let them go, you—”

Getting irritated with you, Negan shook your face until you stopped blubbering. “You’re not listenin’ to me. Pick. Someone. Not you, and not your little boyfriend. I want him to live with the fact that one of his friends died because of him. Pick someone. Anyone, sweetheart. You’ll be doin’ em a favor, honestly. They get to save the rest of you from a miserable death! Now, doesn’t that sound appealing?”

A beat of silence. Negan stared you down, and you glared right back.

“Eat my shit,” you snarled out.

Narrowing his eyes, Negan finally relinquished his hold on you. You gasped for breath, chest heaving, stabilizing yourself with your hands on your thighs. “Goddamn, you’re feisty! Might have to keep you around after this—holy fuckin’ shit. Mmh, alright… fine, then. Since you won’t pick—I’ll just have to kill your precious patient’s boyfriend, hm?”

Before any of you could react, Negan spun on his heel and arced his bat through the air, right onto Glenn’s head. Again, and again, and again.

A piercing scream echoed across the forest. Maggie’s scream. 

Your mouth dropped open as a silent cry scratched down the sides of your throat. 

Glenn was still alive, somehow, after all those bashes. Blood caked his entire skull and part of his head was caved in—to your nauseating horror, one of his eyes had come out of its socket.

“Buddy, you still there?” exclaimed Negan in astonishment, bending down to inspect his handiwork. “I just don’t know… seems to me like you’re tryin’ to say something! But you just took a hell of a hit! I just cracked your skull so hard, your eyeball popped right out! And it is gross as shit!”

After all that, Glenn managed to slur out, “Maggie… I’ll find you.”

Sobs rang throughout the clearing. The rest of the group cried tears for Glenn—without him, all of you would’ve been dead three times over. 

“Awh, hell. I can see this is hard on you guys,” said Negan. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But I did say… no exceptions!” 

With that, he brought down his bat again. Over, and over, and over.

Maggie cried so hard her voice started to give out. 

Daryl, your beloved Daryl, flinched with every stroke of the bat, his eyes red and puffy with tears. You could see it already—the guilt behind his gaze. He thought it was his fault Glenn was killed.

You shut your eyes again. 

“Lucille is thirsty! She’s a vampire bat!” proudly declared Negan, as he swung one final hit on Glenn’s long-dead body. “What? Was the joke that bad? Tough crowd, huh?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” whispered Rick once Negan was done. Rick had blood splattered all over his face, as well. Abraham’s blood. Glenn’s blood. 

Negan squatted down beside him, tilting his head. His bat was dangerously close to you. “What? I didn’t quite catch that, Rick. You’re gonna have to speak up.”

Squaring his jaw, Rick drew in a sharp inhale. “Not today… not tomorrow… but I’m gonna kill you.”

Negan sucked at his teeth. “Jesus,” he softly said. “Simon. What did he have? A knife?”

Pornstache raised his brows. “He had a hatchet. An axe.”

Snorting, Negan shook his head. “Simon’s my right-hand man. Having one of those is important. I mean, what do you have left without ‘em? A whole lot of work. You have one? Maybe one of these fine people still breathing? Oh… or did I…”

The man waved the bloodied bat in front of Rick’s face, taunting him. 

“Sure, yeah. Give me his axe.” Pornstache handed Negan the small weapon and Negan smugly slid it into his belt. Suddenly, Negan grabbed the back of Rick’s jacket and yanked him up, practically dragging him by the scruff towards the RV. Your breath hitched, wanting to stop him, but all the guns trained on the backs of your friends made you freeze. All you could do was lower your head and stave away your raucous sobs. 

“I’ll be right back, folks! Maybe Rick will be with me! And if not… well, we can just turn these people inside out, won’t we? I mean… the ones that are left!”

They were gone for hours.

During those hours, part of you wanted to go to Maggie, comfort her, check if both she and the baby were alright. No doubt she was in a tremendous amount of both emotional and physical pain. The other part of you wanted to go to Daryl, curl up in the safety of his arms and cry into his chest. 

But you couldn’t do either. Not with the Saviors pointing the barrels of their rifles to the back of your skulls. 

The sun was already beginning to rise, tinting the sky a sweet, soft shade of blue. A stark juxtaposition to the dark red blood steadily drying on the rocky ground.

When Rick got back, Negan ruthlessly threw him down in front of the group. He looked exhausted. More than that—he looked dead inside. The light behind his eyes was gone.

“Do you know what that little trip was about?” asked Negan. 

Rick looked around wildly, as if making sure that everyone else was alright. 

“Speak when you’re spoken to,” Negan hissed.

Begrudgingly, Rick bowed his head. “Okay… okay.”

Negan wolfishly grinned, though there was a dark glimmer to his irises that you misliked. “That trip was about the way that you looked at me. I wanted to change that. I wanted you to understand. But you’re still lookin’ at me the same damn way. Like I shit in your scrambled eggs, and that’s not gonna work!” Once again, Negan squatted down beside Rick, that smug expression still plastered across the man’s coarse features. “So… do I give you another chance?”

After a moment’s pause, Rick hacked out, “Yeah. Yes.”

Satisfied, Negan clapped Rick on the back, before getting back up onto his feet. “Alright! Here it is, the grand-prize game. What you do next will decide whether your crap day becomes everyone’s last crap day… or just another crap day. Get some more guns to the back of their heads. Level with their noses, so if you have to fire… it’ll be a real fuckin’ mess.” 

You could feel cold metal graze the very top of your temple. 

“Kid, come here,” said Negan, making your heart plummet to your stomach. Rick’s expression shifted to one of pure dread.

Carl didn’t move. 

“Kid… now.” 

With cautious movements, Carl stood up in front of the taller man. 

“You a southpaw?” asked Negan while he unbuckled his belt, pulling it out of its loops.

“Am I a what?”

“A lefty,” clarified Negan. 

Carl scowled. “No.”

“Good,” retorted Negan, before grabbing Carl’s left arm and tying the belt around his bicep. “That hurt?”

Gritting his teeth, Carl bit out a negative. 

“It should. It’s supposed to.” Negan smirked, knocking Carl’s cowboy hat off his head. “Alright, get down on the ground next to daddy, kid. Spread them wings!”

Slowly, Carl lowered himself down beside Rick, his cheek pressed flat against the dusty gravel.

“Simon, you got a pen?” 

Pornstache nodded, brandishing a marker from his pocket and tossing it over to Negan. The man uncapped the black pen with his teeth, flashing you a wink and spitting out the cap somewhere to the side. He kneeled down by Carl to draw a straight line just below the junction of his elbow.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “This is gonna be as cold as a warlock’s dick, as if he were hanging his ballsack above you and dragging it right across your forearm! Gives you a little leverage, don’t it?” 

Stammering, Rick muttered out, “Please… please don’t. Please don’t.”

Negan tilted his head, lightly chuckling. “Me? Oh, I ain’t doin’ shit. Rick… I want you to take your axe and cut your son’s left arm off—right on that line! Now, I know you gotta process that for a second. That makes sense. Still, though—I’m gonna need you to do it, or all these people are gonna die. Then your kid dies. Then the people back home die. Then you… eventually. I’d keep you breathing for a few years just so you could stew on it!”

“You… you don’t have to do this,” pleaded Michonne. It was the first time she’d spoken since she got out of the truck. Seeing Carl splayed out in front of her, practically her son, made something inside her snap. “We understand. We get it, we—”

“You might understand! I’m not so sure Rick here does. I’m gonna need a clean cut right there on that line. Now, I know this is a screwed-up thing to ask, but it’s gonna have to be like a salami slice. You remember those, right? Nothin’ messy. I want a clean, forty-five degree cut. Give us somethin’ to fold over. You got Y/N right there to fix him up nice and good. The kid’ll be just fine. Probably.”

Rick was just about losing his mind, rocking back and forth, murmuring incoherently beneath his breath. Sweat dripped down his bloodied face, his hair, mixing with the salty tears leaking from his crazed eyes. 

“Rick. This needs to happen now. Chop, chop. Before I crush the little fella’s skull myself.” 

Swallowing down his sobs, Rick choked, “It can—it can… it can be me. It can be me. Wh… you… you could do it to me. I c-can go with—with you.”

Negan smiled at his desperation. “No. This is the only way. Pick up the axe, Rick. Not making a decision is a big decision, let me tell you that. You really wanna see all these people die? Because you will—if you don’t PICK UP THE FUCKING AXE!”

Rick began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oh, my God,” said Negan, pulling at his face wearily. “You gonna make me count? Okay, Rick—you win. I’ll start counting. Three!”

“PLEASE!” screamed Rick. “IT CAN BE ME. PLEASE!”

“Two!” Negan kneeled down and slapped a sobbing Rick across the face, before grabbing his cheeks, not unlike he did with you hours before. “This is it, Rick. Make a decision. One!”

With a gut wrenching scream, Rick’s trembling fingers curled around the handle of his axe.

“Dad…” whispered Carl. A tear slipped down your cheek as the events unfolded in front of you. “Just do it.”

Rick cocked his arm back, seconds away from bringing it down to cleave Carl’s hand off. 

But Negan grabbed Rick’s wrist at the very last second, stopping him.

The man smirked, pleased with himself. “You answer to me. You provide for me. You belong to me. Right?”

Frantically, Rick nodded his head. 

“SPEAK WHEN YOU’RE SPOKEN TO! You answer to me. You provide for me!”

“I’ll provide for you!” cried Rick.

“You belong to me! Right?” hollered Negan.

Hiccuping a sob, Rick bobbed his head. “Right.”

“Now that… that is the look I wanted to see.” Negan grabbed Rick’s axe from him and stepped away. “We did it. All of us, together. Even the dead guys on the ground! Hell, they get the spirit award, for sure! Today was a productive damn day! Now, I hope for all your sake… that you get it now. That you understand how things work. Things have changed. Whatever you had going for you before… that is over now.”

Negan clapped his hands together, sighing out in relief. 

And strangely, you were slightly relieved, as well. Maybe he was done. He wasn’t going to kill any more of you. This was all over for now. 

Right?

“Dwight,” said Negan. “Load him up.”

To your shock, Negan pointed Lucille straight at Daryl.

“See, he’s got guts. Not a little bitch like someone I know,” Negan told Rick. “I like him. He’s mine now. You still wanna try something? Not today, not tomorrow? I will cut pieces off of… what’s his name?” 

“Daryl,” said Pornstache.

“Wow. That actually sounds just about right. I will cut pieces off of Daryl and put them on your doorstep! Or, better yet, I will bring him to you and have you do it for me.”

“No…” you croaked out, when Dwight grabbed your boyfriend and dragged him back to the truck as if he were a wild animal, crossbow pointed at his chest. Maggie sobbed from beside you. “No, Daryl… please, no, don’t—please don’t take him from me!” you cried. “Please, I need him… Daryl!”

Negan smiled down at you. “Mmh. Alrighty, then. I’ll take you, too. Come on.” 

A gasp lodged in your throat when he suddenly grabbed your arm and yanked you upwards. 

“No, wait, I’m the only doctor they have, they need—Maggie needs m—!”

“I don’t give a rat’s flying blue ass,” growled Negan, shoving you in the direction of the truck, where Daryl watched you with wide, scared eyes. You craned your neck around to look at Rick and Maggie and the rest of the group—your family—one last time, unsure of when, if ever, you’d see them again. “You’re mine now. Got a whole lot of shit you can do for me, that’s for sure, darlin’. Load ‘em up!” 

One of the Saviors pushed you into the truck just as Negan yelled out, “Welcome to a brand new beginning, you sorry shits! I’ll leave you a truck. Keep it—use it to cart all the crap you’re gonna find me. We’ll be back for our first offering in one week. Until then… ta-fuckin’-ta.”

You collapsed straight into Daryl once you were inside, thundering sobs spilling from your lungs. He wrapped his burly arms around you, smelling of dirt and blood and motor oil. No words needed to be said. No words could be said.

The both of you had lost so much today. 

And now… you’d lost your freedom, as well.

Daryl began crying into your shoulder, and you could only hold him all the tighter. 

[krisseratops]

I'm so. So normal. About. This. *Chewing on furniture*

Ughhh, today I spent the entire day thinking about spidervenom…!

I unfortunately have too many wips to work on anything with them now (plus, this week was full of Bad Days™ for me…), but I thought I might share a wip that has been gathering dust in my folder for a loooooong time now! The title is “5 times when Peter and Eddie didn’t kiss (and one time they held hands)” and it’s based on this idea that with the reality being rewritten so that Peter technically never married MJ (“One more day” was the name of that storyline in the comics…??) he instead has space to develop feelings toward Venom and this is a bunch of moments, mostly following the canon events, depicting their shifting relationship with each other.

Their first kiss wasn't, technically, a kiss. A tease, maybe. Definitely a joke. But a kiss...? Peter wasn't sure if he counted it (Eddie did, though). Simply speaking, he went too far with his comedy routine this time, got too caught up in his banter and mock-flirting. Laughing at the Symbiote's infatuation with him, not treating it as something serious, using it as the butt of the jokes. "You need to get over me, this is getting seriously embarrassing" and such and so on.

And obviously, the never dying "Alright, let's kiss and make up!", Once he webbed them up, after sending them crashing through a wall. It wasn’t a kiss, really. He had a mask on, after all. Venom's maw was sealed shut with the webbing as well. It wasn't a kiss.

Until it almost was, because when he leaned away, blank white eyes were wide with bewilderment, and the monster in front of him grew still and silent. He laughed awkwardly, breath tripping over his throat. "Aw, look at you getting flustered over a little smooch!", he quipped, eager to get away. Snap of a wrist and he was gone, not a single glance back left. He remembered feeling angry at Venom for making it weird and at himself, for feeling angry at all. It was stupid, almost as stupid, as feeling guilty over it.

There was no reason for telling this to MJ, right? She wouldn't want to hear about his heroic escapades anyway. Especially not if they involved Venom, even if they would be presented as a punchline, a pathetic loser, wincing in ridiculously parodied expression of disgust. Because it could have been disgust. Venom’s face was covered and their eyes weren’t exactly the most easy to read. Common sense prompted they were repulsed by the very idea of their “arch-nemesis” kissing them, even presented as a harmless joke. That’s why, there was no need to mention this to MJ. Telling her would mean agreeing with the insane thought that there was anything important to tell. And there was not. There was no reason to feel guilty.

Because this wasn’t a kiss.

There was another time, though, that could have been a kiss. Should have been, maybe. Anyway, that was what Peter thought now, looking back. It was a kiss he never got, but, at the moment, needed. Only at the moment, he would have regretted it so much afterwards. 

That’s why Eddie was glad of the absence in its place. It would have added so much more wrongness to a memory already filled with a sense of misplacement and dissonance. Because, well, they really were out of place at Peter’s flat. He knew it, and Peter knew it, and the Symbiote knew it, maybe the most painfully of either of them. But there was nowhere else they could go, they needed a shelter and an ally. And Peter wasn’t really the type of person who would close doors in the face of the wounded and vulnerable. Even if the wounded in question tried to eat him a few times in the past and was now ruining his carpet with green drool. Which didn’t mean he was going to take it without complaining a little. Or a lot.

“Great, just great, whenever I think my bad luck finally achieved its peak, it’s ‘Surprise! Think again!’,” he wailed to himself, as he helped them to the couch. “To go from sharing an apartment with the most beautiful woman a guy could ever imagine dating, to hosting a slimy monstrosity - that has to be a new record of misery reached in a week!”

“A girl has left you? That’s what you’re worrying about?” Eddie snarled at him, his anger equally fueled by the necessity of relying on their foe and the needles of jealousy bleeding through the bond. “Carnage is out there, changing this god forsaken city in his own butchershop and you cry after a girl?!”

“First of all, I wouldn't say ‘left’ is exactly the right word to describe it,” he huffed. “We needed a break, that’s all. Happens sometimes in relationships, not that you would know anything about that.”

They rolled their eyes. The very idea that Peter could have anything worth competing with a shadow of their symbiosis was vastly ridiculous.

“We don’t care about your private life, Parker”, Eddie said, as they tried to settle on the couch in a position that would do the least damage to their bruised ribs. “Only whether or not you’ll join us once we recover our strength. Why, afterward, you can return to crying your eyes out, be our guest.”

Seeing Peter from this close felt weird, especially, since he appeared to indeed cry his eyes out barely seconds ago. Something squeezed Eddie’s heart at the notion, his Other, he assumed, must have curled around it, disturbed by proximity. He wanted Peter to just leave them alone, shut up, and let them sleep. This small room will surely be uncomfortable enough even without his presence around.

“And what if I won’t?” Peter’s voice was bitter, though there was no sense of intention in it, that is, one beyond getting on Venom’s nerves. “Maybe MJ is right, maybe I should sit this one out. Have some ‘me time’. Catch up with tv series. Bake cupcakes. Maybe I don’t want to, I don’t know, have my life ruined over and over again, because some freaks decided to go on a rampage!”

Before he could react, they grabbed him by his collar, tugging close, to shoot with a look of utter resentment.

“Listen chucklehead,” a low growl vibrated through their whole torso, settling on Peter’s face like icy dew, “Joke like this once more, and we’ll eat your spleen, got it?”

Words were followed by a curse, as they grabbed on their wound, bothered by the sudden movement.

“Well, if aren’t you mister persuasive, where did you learn such diplomatic demeanor-?” Peter tried barking back, supporting himself over the couch’s back. But the last part of the sentence stumbled over his throat and ended in a whine. From the few inches that separated them, they could see the threat of tears glistening in his eyes. Before they could fall out, he ran a hand over his face, covering the glimpse of emotions with irritation. “What did you even do to yourself? Should you bandage those or something?”

That felt terribly inadequate.

All of this felt unnatural to them, all of them. Not the banter, spite and anger, of course not. But everything accompanying them was off by a mile. No masks to hide faces, no punches and jaws clenching to tear limbs. This… this was too normal, too everyday-ish, too vulnerable for both of them.

“My Other should be able to close it up overnight,” Eddie mumbled. “It looks worse than it feels. Nonetheless, we still request your assistance.”

“I know, I know…” Peter sighed, bending closer, to get a better look at his chest. “What a wonderful profession heroism is, at first it was the papers, then the common people, but now even my villains are giving me lectures…”

The moment was laced with alarm, and surprise, and wrongness, so much wrongness. They weren’t used to being this close to each other, not without a clawed hand safely locked on the neck, or webbing fastening said claws to a wall. Peter looked up and the longer they were caught in the misplacement of it all, the worse it got. Because Eddie could feel his Other flowing close to the skin, almost pushing at it, conflicted between its hatred for Peter and yearning to be closer. Because Peter could feel the warmth of Eddie’s body and he felt so painfully human at the moment, beaten up and a bit upset, with just a splinter of fear dug in the pupils.

Eddie licked his lips.

Peter swallowed down.

And he was so lonely right now, so helpless and freshly torn open, so well aware that once tomorrow he would leave to fight, because of course he would, he would return bruised and bleeding, maybe won’t return at all, and…

Peter leaned in.

Just when Eddie leaned away.

Peter went to the kitchen right after, jumping up from the couch with energetic babble about having to change his bandages and how Eddie is not allowed to touch anything and how if he catches him messing up his books then, well, Peter might not be able to eat his spleen, but he’s creative enough to come up with something else.

The moment passed and it was for the best.

After that, they didn’t really work together for a while. Well, there was that one time in the court. But aside from that, Peter and Venom mostly were on their own ways, only occasionally clashing. And then, Eddie and his Other were both on their own ways too. He didn’t really monitor what was happening to him afterward. Partly because his own life was, as usual, in shambles. Partly because seeing Eddie like that, sick and broken, stripped of the anger to hide behind…

He tried to do better and that was all that mattered, really. 

But then Anti-Venom appared. And surely enough, he was still trying. That was one thing Peter had to give to him. He also brought to mind a vision of a healing injury, with bones fused all wrong, festering. It was as if Eddie finally took a step back from one kind of madness, after which he jumped head first into one just as deep and unhealthy, just neatly tweaked here and there. 

This kiss would have been the most feverish one. As well as the one Peter was the most grateful that it never came to happen.

The whole experience screamed “fever”, honestly. Oozed illness.What made it worse, was that it did make sense for Eddie to act this way. To swing back, so hard, from one direction to another. Who else, if not Eddie, would have come up with an idea that the best course of action to convince Peter that he’s all better now, “on the side of angels” and not crazy at all, would be to kidnap him? What he didn’t expect was the talk about friendship, along with the overfamiliarity. Then again, there was always this tension between them, wasn’t it? Flirting in the background of a deadly battle.

And that was what he was doing then too. Old habits die a slow and painful death, only to be zombified back to life, don't they?

“What would you think of me, if I’d let you take my mask off on a first date?”, he quipped, to Eddie’s dismay, as he struggled to peel the cloth anywhere above his mouth.

“You act like I’m Electro or Sandman. I’m on your side now!”, he huffed.

One of his claws strayed from its place, lingering for a moment over Peter’s lips, leaving his body frozen dead.

Oh no, he wouldn’t, blinked in his head before the monster in front of him hesitantly crouched down. Orange eyes were unreadable, and yet, there was an air of uncertainty, something just a step away from… what exactly? Peter refused to pinpoint.

Before, though, he even began to figure out what in the hell he would tell Carlie, Eddie backed down.

“...I get it.” His voice, although still changed by the slime covering him, got a softer quality now, with a tingle that paired with anybody else could pass for embarrassment. “I need to earn your trust. And I will.”

Later, he thought that perhaps this time it was Eddie who really needed that particular kiss. But he couldn’t have given it to him. He just couldn’t. 

Right?

[joannasteez]

the aftermath

pairing: tattooist!cm punk x reader warning: mentions of needles, and biting, and explicit descriptions and dialogue pertaining to sex. tattooist!punk (this warning is more for me cuz he makes me delusional sometimes) authors note: nothing really. just enjoy! if so, don't be afraid to let me know! inspired by @kill-the-artiste master class in ✨tension✨… please go read. RUN NOT WALK! word count: 3500 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @2-muchsauce

in for a penny of pain, in for a beauty by the pound

@ WARNING: all work is of quality but more importantly is done with respect to the bodies health and limits

the way your apartment window faces, you never get the sun till a ways after high noon. so no. this isn't your apartment. exhaustion playing in your legs. a good, sated, tired ache. like if you bend or extend too much too quick they'll cave in and collapse without warning. they'll remind you of how horrible it is, to make assumptions about a perceived strength. especially when it's so obvious that you aren't ready to leave the cool touch of his sheets. his. oh shit. because the bedroom in your apartment doesn't get much sun with the way it faces and it for damn sure isn't cream colored and littered with wood framed portraits. memory like a teasing trickle in of rain. little droplets collecting—his teeth grazing, the patient mischief of a wolf, sinking in to pull skin—till they ripple and pool together. a throb of something journeying to live between your thighs, swirling till it breaches skin again in an effect to make you shiver, to make you shift against the sheets because he,—"you can't stay still for shit can you?"—that's what he'd said. making rough impressions in your thick soft skin. holding and groaning and amused. buried amidst the pillow of your inner thighs, eager tongue dipping to lick against the desperate pulse of your clit. whimpers and moans and near shrill begging, and—oh God—your stomach swirls. embarrassment this deep exhale as your head falls in your hands. 

and for a second, the world plummets into something disgusting. a disturbing shade of gray. laughter breaking beyond the crack open of the bedroom door. because he could be laughing at you right? mulling over and recounting the events of the night with a buddy and having a go at making you miserable enough to delight in some fucked sort of amusement at the helpless way you moaned and teared for him. but thats not what it is. it's quiet chatter and early morning comedy. little hums of his early day coarse voice and a bold, earthy warmth. coffee. your mouth watering and the emptiness in your belly going about a great terrible violence as it growls and shudders. a hickory note of something twisting the air, the back of your throat dry, and seemingly—well...not seemingly, because that sort of implies some lack in surety. you'd made good, disgusting, honest, work of voicing just how much fun you were having. that much you remember, and fortunately, you remember everything. alcohol forgone for the sake of lucidity. because you know what he is. a buddy of yours just as clean and straightedged. 

in a fuller state of honesty, it'd be accurate to say it was all like form of reverence. an eagerness to please. anything if it meant him peeling your jeans off quickly. and yes, he'd done it. but it was more patient than you'd wanted. like he was reciprocating that reverence. studying and planning. 

his dresser draws are wooden, much like the rest of his decor. a polished mahogany that brings more warmth to the room. 

rolled up t-shirts sorted in no particular fashion, the fit of it snug as it falls over. 

at the corner foot of the dresser lays last nights underwear. a predetermined pick. simple, and black and lacy. nearly tattered to bits because his patience had eventually reached a max capacity before he dove headfirst into being a damn brute. 

underwear is a hot commodity when you ball on a budget. he owes you. 

you sift for something reasonable. a checkered pair of boxer briefs that fit more like boy-shorts, but it works. slipping your jeans over them. and his bathroom isn't so much huge but it is lived in. comfortable. the tiles, a sage green with minor cracks made more from age than from some man made disruption.

and thank God almighty. he's not the three-in-one type. a wash cloth and a toothbrush laying lonely along the bathroom counter, separate from the other things. you hum. going about a quick wash up. 

and whats that saying? it's only awkward if you make it awkward. because hell, there was nothing tricky or particularly delicate about fucking your tattooist right? you could do a small stint away. go cold turkey from your favorite past time. a silent walk of semi-shame and a few months till your next appointment would do the trick. enough time to forget such a destructive allure living with his words and the way he said—"you been waitin for this for a while huh? so pretty, lettin me touch you"—things. his every expression an accusation. exposing the unspoken things living behind just barely placid eyes. desires, fantasies and half baked plots for his attention.

the pain of a needle is no worser than this. cant be. cant be worser than the creak of the floors, announcing your entrance to the kitchen. his little chuckling smile forming less loose and more attentive as he drinks you in. an unabashed performance of observation that makes the skin crawl. a shiver really. green eyes cool, heavy, and exacting, like metal. like the prick of his needles. wandering with ease—your jean dressed legs, a clinging t-shirt that rides up some as you walk and the slow but sure appearance of indentations about your neck that indicate his penchant for tasting, biting —while stuck between a casual, early morning call and your performance of feigning indifference. 

he hums. a response to whoever is holding him over the phone. tongue slipping over his bottom lip before he's turning back to the stove.

coffee sits in a mug littered with dog breeds. the steam of it curling up thick. a plate half dressed next to it. just finished buttered toast and still hot eggs. his arm reaching over to drop bacon on it. teeth baring as he laughs into his call. flits of his eyes that motion for you to eat. stationing to lean against the long stretch of marble that makes up the kitchen island. a focused attention. assessing your quiet take to indulging in whatever this is. because he didn't need to make you breakfast, didn't need to brew you coffee and leave you comfortably tucked in the sheets. but then again, he'd more than generously put you to sleep. wore your nerves and bones down. rendered you to a bout of tears even. yeah. he owes you breakfast. your fork digging into the eggs. and a new pair of damn underwear. 

"yeah, i need you opening up shop for me today...", he gives. a sweet, feminine voice sighing deeply over the other end. loud and long enough to reach you. something in your stomach swirling odd and quite disgusting. sharp and twisted up. "...i'll be a little late, got caught up in something this morning...", the folding over of the words along his tongue giving your skin a chill. a ride of a shiver up your back. his eyes slipping over your face. a pale green leaving their edged, assessing, impressions. "...i owe you one...alright...", his thumb tapping the screen to end the call. 

the bacon is salty on the tongue. satisfies the nothingness on your palette. your fork poking dumbly. like you'll find brilliant words amidst the plate. a sick little smirk on his mouth. loving your inability to look at him without wavering. 

why in the absolute hell did you fuck this man? the fit of his boxer briefs odd under your jeans. poorly shaped to hips and thighs, the material not made to take that kind of stretch. 

"you owe me new underwear...", that declaration of it too feathered. not strong enough. not sure. his lips spreading more. joy taking his face up wholly. feeling it as he casts his eyes over you. "...i'll send a receipt or something...".

"noted. how do you like to take it?"

excuse me? your throat drying up. fingers clutching the fork tight. your belly flipping stupidly quick. too damn excitable. 

"what?"

the mug of coffee he'd poured for you in his hand. the sugar jar close by. spoon ready to be used for it's stirring purpose. an elation pouring from his cheeks that makes you want to curl in. "coffee". a slow, near patronizing reiteration. "how do you like to take your coffee". 

"oh...", breath a little caught in your throat. the unsettled frenzy under skin an oddity. because this very regular, slightly older, very good looking, self assured man, shouldn't have such an affect. "..um...a little sugar, a lot of cream". 

and he does it to perfection. listens and performs. giving short flits of his eyes to yours. stirring and assessing. an appraisal. your neck heating from the sensation of being examined. satisfaction brightening him up at such rough handy work made the night before. smug fucking asshole. that curling scrape of the spoon against coffee filled porcelain winding up your curiosities to a nagging degree. sensitivities under the skin too plain and forthright to ignore. too well suited actually. like they've taken up a comfortable residence after just one night of being made pliant. had others felt this way once upon a time? sat where you sit now? being made by themselves to snuff out the disgusting giddiness of some post-night spectacle. a green, rotten, world of a feeling in the pit of your stomach now. 

"do you—...", finding the phrasing, forming properly on the tongue, "...you usually get caught up in... things...like this?" 

a scoff but it's fully amused. his lips spreading, a chuckle slipping into words. "is that a 'do i regularly fuck my clients question', cause if so then no". the mug sliding along the marble island. coffee prepped pluming thick still. "you're the first. congrats". 

this fucking guy. "oh?"  that bite of irony in him, troubling the skin playfully, as if to lure you out from behind that disconcerting wall you've so diligently built, in an attempt to evade him. his eyes and that little smirk he feels the need to keep along his mouth. "i didn't realize you were some sort of prize". 

his head tilts, gaze slipping up and over and about. appraisal again. the look you give at the arrival of an object of affection, desire after some time. a satisfaction born from the restoration of a familiar, comfortable thing. your jaw shifting soft as you chew. lips pursing over the mug to sip tenderly. a drip of coffee falling off and away from your mouth. his pace quick as he plucks a napkin to hand you.

"i mean...", his body leaning in against the island. elbows pressing to the marble to bring him closer. his hair a little messy and untamed. "...i don't think so, but you were lettin a lot loose last night. little noises and such. i figured you were just so happy and satisfied...", grabbing his own mug to sip from. delighting in the silence, in the astonishment his teasing is leaving you to settle in. "...felt like you'd won something". 

your cheeks are warm. hot even. stomach suddenly full off of his domestic efforts of a hot breakfast. your fingers gingerly pushing the plate away towards him, but the pull and roll of your eyes speak of something a little more heated than some gingered, cautioned disposition. his cockiness doing awful work. irking your nerves and reeling you in just the same. and maybe it's your turn to appraise. to examine and assess. his early morning, kitchen attire very obviously calculated enough to bring about some dead-brained, teenaged, short circuiting. chest shirtless and his legs covered in mesh shorts. arms tatted and muscled. grays and dark brown hair like a fine patch work on his face. admirable things of course, but you've already, obviously, given yourself away in revealing how much of it you find appealing. he doesn't need more. 

an attempt to bruise should work. if not successful, at least give it a go right?

"you were alright", you shrug. chest hammering, near implosion. his eyes casting down, daring for an evasion. "i give it an A minus. there's always room for improvement". 

"ouch", he laughs. a wide, bright, light expression. dumping your finished plate into the sink. "if i knew i was getting tested on performance, i'd have strove for higher marks...". sipping from his mug again. a head shake to express disagreement. "...but some of the judgement here is a bit range-less...doesn't really grasp the full effect of my—"

"dick?"

you stiffen just after the leave of it. a thought never meant to be expelled but here you are, fighting the urge to curl in and hold your head. heart beating terribly hard. embarrassment rife. 

"...capabilities...but now i see where your heads at. i think this is grounds for some rescoring. you're impaired". 

"by what exactly?" 

he hums. that head tilt again. "you were a little eager last night, which, given how long you been wantin and schemin, is very understandable, but those good, true bits of judgement are from how well you can savor it right? you gotta stop and smell those roses". 

you scoff. "scheming is a reach". 

his eyes roll. pushing off the edge of the island. "an observation". shuffling back slightly to make a bodies worth of space. his hand motioning. "come here". 

"for what—"

"please", like he's sweetening the give of a request. an appeal. like he knows just the chord to strum to produce the work of some easier follow through. 

eyes softer but exacting. a clever lure in. like last night. like when he fit and slotted his mouth against yours and breathed deeply. fingers gentler and patient, pushing in to soothe the quake of your thighs. your body undone beneath him. performing a beautiful release with the song of all those little noises he couldn't help but to bring up now for his amusement. palms slipping between your legs then for more. to spread and curl. a dangerously steady feed in, swirling along the tender beginning of your pussy. toying and prodding, suckling your neck, and then a knuckle deep stroke that sorely excites already sensitive nerves. your legs pressing in to trap him to a stillness. his mouth at your ear. hot breaths, your skin shivering. a kiss to the shell of it before his delicate "please". that manner of request unfolding your legs easy. the simplicity of it forcing you to moan for him as he'd sought to take more from you.

your thighs press together hard, memory bursting till its coursing along every bit of skin. but you don't make to indulge him. testing the waters of this defiance. because he's obviously looking to stretch some authoritative muscle. "open, spread, be still", those the tender taste of his commands filling your mouth as he kissed you last night, and in your daze you complied swiftly. as eager as he'd said you did. the whole of him used to control. used to finely straddling lines of danger and succeeding well. what with his needles and their sharp, biting impressions. so no, you don't move, letting the thickness of the air settle deeper. playing at a naive rebellion done only by fragile little prey thought invincible. because this is it, isn't it? the thing that gets him going. sets his bones hot and fingers achy. 

it's a finger over licks of a fire, a push of the limit after already being burnt to a beautiful consumption. your brows pulling. hands palming your knees tight. "you bite". 

he smirks. bares teeth. steps calm to cover the distance. the patience of a wolf. "only upon request". 

his island chair is one that swivels. a short creak breaking as you turn to face him. laughing breathy, wry, shifting in place, searching for comfortability under the weight of his presence. his hard body slotting between your thighs. coffee on his tongue as he nears, mouth ghosting shy. his nose slipping at yours. a hard swallow in your throat as you feel him press in to wedge you against the chair and the island. "i never asked", a little docility to your voice. adverting your eyes, closing them, to refuse his own, another small performance. something refractory. his chest warm as you press forward into him. a hot hand running up along your back till its situating to cradle your nape. 

"you didn't oppose". 

his teeth sinking in to pull at your bottom lip. sharp enough for an abrupt wince. attempting to pry yourself from his grip, that palm at the base of your neck strong. corrective. short breaths huffing into his mouth as he kisses your lip. a light play at a remedy. the affection of it sweet and dotting enough that you rush in for more, much to his sudden displeasure. his throat humming, the confirmation of some long standing observation. the column of your neck warm from the run of his free thumb. that slip of a touch shivering you whole. hands gripping into the waist band of his shorts. knuckles aching. a terrible make at reprieve.

"being skittish is just a natural little condition of yours huh?" 

"no". your voice airy. feathered for him. 

"so just with me then?...", skimming his mouth at your cheek. a simple kiss to the apple of it. "...cause i can't really give you what you need when you're all excitable and eager like this...". another lingering kiss at the corner of your mouth. "...need some patience".

a near unbreathable daze forms about your head. eyes dim. the scent of him filling your nose till its blooming in your lungs. fingers curling and sweeping and releasing along his skin. at old tattoos and taut muscle. a pulse at the heart of your thighs that teeters your nerves on the verge of inconsolable. his fingers squeezing perfect at your neck. a purr of a moan in your mouth. "what else do i need?" 

his mouth slots for a full kiss, done up with breath and purpose. your palms holding firm at his waist for stability as he pulls you in. "a little direction". his tongue peaking to slip. a lazy lick at yours. your breath hitching at the wet curl of it. lips parting to receive. smirking as you whimper against him. "don't need you gettin distracted, then all of your attention gets eaten up by trivial little shit. you start making the real poor decisions then". 

"like pepsi logo tattoos...", you muse. "...and fucking your tattooist raw...", a languid, tongue filled kiss. air harsh through the nose to make up for the overtake of his mouth. the slipping noise of it lewd to the ears. makes your skin hot. hotter. urges erupting sure. a fragile hiss playing off your mouth, his teeth finding refuge over your lip again. a grunted moan hitting the air. his hands tucked under your knees, rushing to pull your thighs in, body at the edge of the island chair. you feed your tongue in again. eagerness unabated. "...you're not the first man with too many gray hairs trying to be my handler...", a snicker thats more like a scoff. a teasing tug at the waist band of his shorts again. making to release him but never getting to it. his mouth at your chin and your jaw, nipping and licking into your neck. "...i make your dick harder just a little more than all the others so now you want to manage me? make sure no one else is gettin in on this huh?..."

he digs into your leg. a harsh pinch that makes you jerk into him. "i'd only be offended if you didn't like me so much, didn't wanna fuck me so badly", his nose knocking into yours again. a bruising kiss by the firm pull of his lips. "something tells me you like a little correction...", a hand keeps your thigh cinched to him and the other releases your other leg to journey near the zipper of your jeans. "...being commended". 

his middle and ring fingers venture between. a faint circling where your jeans cover over the throb of your clit. the pace and patience of his touching and his mouth quaking your bones. irritated with an eagerness he seems to want to handle so insistently. 

his phone rings. 

you whine in protest. the slip away of him abrupt and emptying as he fishes for the phone. 

"relax", he muses. kissing the corner of your mouth. 

but he answers anyways. settles into the call so much till his brows pull. a focus that leads into that faithful disappointment of having to prioritize. green eyes casting over. taking stock of your face. his thumb soothing your lip, just where he'd bitten. 

the emptiness grows, occupying this shitty liminal space. and it only gets worse. the neediness he'd corralled snuffed out quick. something about "forgotten early appointments" and "taking you where you need to go". 

there are many valuable little notes to give to the self. an unwieldy feeling under the skin as you make to get your belongings. going about a terrible attempt of acting like he wasn't just about to give you a three-peat of last nights little fun. so close to feeling all of him just meticulously fed into you. 

the biggest note of all though. toughing your shoes on. annoyance playing unabashed. don't fuck your tattooist. 

[sucuretcannelle]

hi! i briefly remember you saying that you're into if's, so i was wondering what your favorites are

Sighs and shakes a red cup full of ice

Nobody thinks I'm a nerd till they hear the way I talk about interactive fiction...no one knows...

Anyway I started playing IF's in like December. Time flies

This is kind of in order? Of like enjoyment. HOWEVER take this with a grain of salt because I was sitting here trying to rearrange them (except the top 3) for 40 minutes. If it was mentioned, it's good 🙂‍↕️

1. The six that thrive by @the-six-that-thrive-if —

the way I was playing this bro. I wouldn't let myself sleep until I was done with the demo and not because it felt like I had to, but I knew I would be PISSED if I went to bed without absorbing all the content (Dante give me a chance PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏). Anyway the hierarchy system reminds me of the one that I have for the way I wrote hell and I was like 🫵 OMG THATS SO COOL.

Key factor that I appreciate: Dialogue, descriptions, and transitions. Dante is deadass so funny I'm not even playing bro. Buddy how do you write like that, lmk. Also the official art has me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

2. College Tennis: Origin Story by @collegetennisoriginstory — I ACTUALLY HAVE A FUCKING PROBLEM BRO. LOOK. IN MY HEAD, I WAS IGNORING THAT THEY WERE PLAYING TENNIS SO I WAS VISUALIZING VOLLEYBALL. SO AT SOME POINT I READ THE WORD RACKET AND I WAS LIKE WHAT ARE WE PLAYING???

Key factor that I appreciate: Skill checks, attention to side characters, amazing use of character tropes. Idk how to describe it but the writing felt so CLEAN. Like so organized and orderly. Plus I wanna study all of the characters under a microscope

3. Superstition (omg first IF I ever played) by @13leaguestories — I played this while I was sick and that's literally all I did for 2 days besides eating and sleeping. Am I okay? Yeah cuz it happened in December but like I was OBSESSED. And ashamed. My friend told me i would be into Zillah and she was right. I haven't recovered. I promise I'm in therapy.

Key factor that I appreciate: The fact that there was always something going on. Literally at least 3 things were happening at the same time, all the time, and it kept my lil depressed ass stimulated. Who could ask for more

4. Infamous by @infamous-if — this game makes me scared of commitment cuz I can't have Orion and Griffin😐 I might be biased because. I sing! So I was just really connected to this story immediately. Either way, one of my favs cuz the writing is saurrrr good, makes ya feel

Key factor that I appreciate — Infamous is generally well rounded, so I don't feel like it's LACKING in anything. Me gusta.

5. Mind blind by @mindblindbard — I have a problem so I'm a stereotypical Rosie fan. But anyway I personally loved this one because of the world building, even tho I'm a character-focused girlie. Plus the game is so funny for no reason

Key factor that I appreciate— I actually really like the MC in general. Which is funny to say, because they're supposed to be you, but MC's are different from game to game, and I like this one

6. Soulmates Inc by @soulmatesinc-if — idk with some games, it's just the vibe. Like the vibe is right so I'll read it (which like...it's hard for me to find games where the vibe is what drags me along. Tis really good)

Key factor I appreciate — Wyatt. omg who said that...I also love this game's take on soulmates. It's simple, but original, and I fw it

7. Nine Blood Dances by @nineblooddances-if— I'm boutta cry, how did you end up here twice without me noticing bro. Idk this one and TSTT have like, vibes that are connected by a small string, and I did play this one first if that matters.

Key factor that I enjoyed: It felt very structured, and again, clean. I really don't know what this feeling is

8. When Twilight Strikes by @evertidings — I love ALL the characters because damn near all of them pissed me off once. That's actually impressive /pos. Anyway Rylan hit my line

Key factor that I enjoyed: watching my relationship descriptions change. Some left me devastated stop... Like sorry A you're driving me nuts...

Honorable mentions:

Apartment 502 by @apt502-if — I can't wait to see the future parts cuz like I like it but I cant analyze any of the characters yet. But trust me I'm ready 📝

The Kings Hound by @the-kingshound — Same typa situation was Apartment 502... I'm waiting...patiently 📝

[angelic-ambedo]

The Weirdest Fucking Movies I've Ever seen Pt. 1

Okay so I sort of champion myself as a lover of weird movies. And it's funny because regardless of how many I've seen, every time I watch a weird movie I genuinely feel as if it is the weirdest movie I've ever seen in my life.

So, I decided to make a list which compiles all of said weird movies and then a description of why I find each so uniquely weird. If you find any of these descriptions or titles intriguing, I recommend you seek these movies out, because a weird movie = a good life ya know so yeah

If you have more weird movies please please recommend them im hungry for new crazy cinema bebesssss

Eraserhead (1977) - genuinely makes no sense.

Coherence (2013) - trippy scientifically interesting thriller

Some Velvet Morning (2013) - abusive cat n mouse relationship

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) - emotional violence

Greener Grass (2019) - let's shame suburbia!

Trash Humpers (2009) - people fucking the trash...?

Julien Donkey-Boy (1999) - mental illness be so sad and trippy

Gummo (1997) - literal photo album of a dysfunctional town

Slaughtered Vomit Dolls (2006) - bulimia PSA in disguise

Black Bear (2020) - art seeps into the "real" world

Begotten (1990) - god kills himself

Trouble Every Day (2001) - eating people presented as...a turn on?

Baise-Moi (2000) - punk feminist murderous women are sick and society sux

Palindromes (2004) - one character is played by a ton of different actors of different ages, races, and sexes

964 Pinocchio (1991) - so much vomit, even more cyberpunk lobotomy sex machine madness

Meet the Feebles (1989) - the muppets give each other STDs and commit mass murder

In the Realm of the Senses (1976) - a torrid, pornographic affair used to escape the horrors of a war-torn world

Enter the Void (2009) - going to the past, present, and future, POV shots that include blinking, going inside the body, taboo themes with a psychedelic style

Love (2015) - horny pseudo-porno about a misogynistic asshole who somehow pulls hot, sexually adventurous women

Climax (2018) - LSD fueled nightmare

Pink Flamingos (1972) - a competition to be the "filthiest person alive" (spoiler alert: the cool drag queen wins)

Vivarium (2019) - Suburbia is still creepy, guys

Be My Cat: A Film for Anne (2015) - can we please stop having erotomania like celebrities aren't into u babe :(

No No Nooky TV (1987) - Computers being cool and saying "boobs" and "clit"

The Piano Teacher (2001) - unsafe nonconsensual bdsm and sexual repression is...no. please no.

The Night Porter (1974) - stockholm syndrome and wild bdsm stuff with postwar themes

Belle de Jour (1967) - more bdsm themes

Titane (2021) - woman fucks a car and gets pregnant

Daisies (1966) - two girls cut up pickles and destroy the patriarchy

Creep 1 and 2 (2014, 2017) - murder has never been this funny

Garbanzo Gas (2007) - a human cow gets an all-expenses paid trip to a motel before it hits the slaughterhouse

Melancholie der Engel (2009) - ew.

In Our Garden (2002) - old men dicks + weirdest dialogue I've ever heard in my life

The Rehearsal (TV series) (2022) - this is the ultimate weirdest thing ever and I don't know how else to categorize it.

Trigger Warnings (all of these movies are weird/fucked up but some of them contain actual fucked up stuff that like. happened in real life. so below are the triggers for that kind of stuff. All of these films are genuine films, not the gore stuff the internet produces, but some of them because of the country/time period/transgressiveness include content that is inappropriate and/or ethically unacceptable, so I've included those movies below)

Baise-Moi - unsimulated sex scenes which includes SA scenes that actors consented to but characters did not. this proves a feminist point but is still incredibly upsetting and stayed with me for a while as there are close ups and its awful.

In the Realm of the Senses - Please look into this one more before you watch it, I'm not going to describe things in detail because it makes me so uncomfortable but there are some scenes that involve young actors that should not ethically have been in the situations they were put in. The movie is exceptionally well made and from what I know globally respected so I don't know why they had to ruin it for me but whatever.

Pink Flamingos - One infamous scene involves an actual chicken death. It was the early 70s (long time ago and no PETA) and they apparently ate the chicken afterward, so I felt less immoral about this one but still gross.

Melancholie der Engel - okay please genuinely never watch this movie unless you're super into traumatizing yourself and are very desensitized I guess. There's a ton of actual animal abuse in very very graphic/unnecessarily disturbing shock type situations. There's other bad unsimulated stuff but this is the worst of it from what I know.

Love and Meet the Feebles contain scenes that are transphobic and/or racist, which is gross. Slaughtered Vomit Dolls was made by a very bad person. A bunch of the movies also have unsimulated sex stuff, I don't know if that makes anyone uncomfortable but if it does I'm just putting it out there.

[katyspersonal]

who do you think fucked up worse…gehrman or maria?

This is an interesting question, and I kind of didn't think of it before! Time to take a closer look at their crimes I guess. Some of these will be held on the possibilities and 'safe assumptions' though and addressed for the full picture!

1) Both were involved in Fishing Hamlet massacre!

With Maria, we can conclude as much because she discarded her weapons in the well at the place specifically. Her version in the Nightmare realm, a Hunter again, is supposed to be what punishes her, and she is focused on keeping Kos/OoK away from rummaging through. Considering the nature of the Nightmare, as well as the Doll who has spiritual connection with her, it should come from her guilt and regrets rather than.. I dunno, discarding the hunt over natural 'character development' and just picking a cool place to forsaken her past!

Gehrman sleeps better according to the dialogue Doll has after you kill OoK and free it's soul, so if it tortured him so, I think it is safe to say he had to be personally involved too rather than stay back while his students did the job:

They both were involved with Byrgenwerth, following their quest for obtaining the eyes of the dwellers from their skulls, and I suppose cord of OoK?

The thing about this point is that the description is written as though it was Gehrman's curiosity which ruined Maria's "idealisation" of him, or WOULD ruin it had she learned of it! This makes me wonder whether she was really involved in Byrgenwerth all that much, or whether she was aware of the real purpose of Fishing Hamlet massacre beforehand? Her goal, within the Nightmare, is stated to mercy-kill us so we don't allow that curiousity corrupt us to the point of "rummaging through corpse" and similar things, further supported by her visceral attack being an embrace if it is lethal!

I am just saying that here the balance might slightly shift towards making Gehrman 'worse' than her. Maybe she was not aware that it all was not just killing "monsters" but also a pregnant mother with her divine baby, but "well you didn't ask :/". Maybe Gehrman deceived her to use her aid. Maybe he didn't think it would be a big deal for her seeing that Maria was also interested in evolution through talking with Great Ones, and assumed she'd be just as callous about which means to accomplish the goals with?

2) Both were grave-robbing, or at least okay with that!

This one is a little less obvious, but Tomb Prospectors were not the first to go to the Chalice Dungeons! ...It were actually Willem, Dores and Gatekeeper lol:

BUT ALSO it were Old Hunters! We can see the remnants of it by Old Hunter Vitus being one the summons in Chalice Dungeons, hear Gehrman encourage us to go into the Chalice Dungeons to become stronger as via "tradition" of the Old Hunters,

and the fact that one of the things that torture Maria (again, remember that Nightmare Realm is Hell that punishes) is a Chalice:

(A video ( x ) for a better look at the Chalice from a figure)

I'd say that it is not very nice to disturb the undead Pthumerians just struggling in remains of their civilisation! Interesting thing: we can conclude they are even staying there to protect the Great Ones or their remains!

There has been some sort of civil war between ancient great-ones-respecting Pthumerians and who late became Cainhurst nobles! Maria, ironically, fell onto the side of "entitled guys" descendants! But yes, I could see why bullying zombie guys to get more history and archeology relics from them might not seem like much for her at start. Experience in the Fishing Hamlet likely retroactively ruined this period of her life for her: delving into Chalice Dungeons was likewise 'not leaving the corpse alone'. The remaining Pthumerians were right having some honour and dignity. So, that came to haunt her in the form of Pthumeru Chalice. Gehrman is.. well he's here too I guess dfshfdhs

3) Both knew a little too much about Laurence's shady business and did nothing?

Old Hunters used to be friends with Healing Church's Hunters and even had their workshops located close to one another! Gehrman was friends with Laurence and Ludwig, who are both quite strongly involved with Moon Presence (Ludwig's sword and guidance, Laurence's affiliation being known since Byrgenwerth times), as well as the key figure in creation of Hunter's Dream:

This was most likely a bait-and-switch, seeing how the cord itself is still in the real Workshop, and not in the grasp of Moon Presence (unlike, say, Wet Nurse taking Mergo's cord)! I think the purpose of creation of the Hunter's Dream was to "buy time" for the research conceived by the scientists! Remember: Gehrman was known to have "madness of curiosity" that Maria resented, or at least would resent had she known! He might have been fully aware of what Laurence wanted to do and support it! My point here, that with such proximity, he must have known of all Laurence's crimes and agreed with them!

Maria was at least overseer of the Clocktower's Research Hall, which, again, was just beta!Choir.

This last line IS a bit confusing, because it makes it sound as though the nerds looking for the Eyes Inside and the Blood Ministers got split. Laurence and Ludwig make it weird, as Moon Presence is also an Eldrich creature and Ludwig is for sure full of eyes! What also makes it strange is that Choir, and then School of Mensis, are both upper echelons of the Healing Church, but Laurence is supposed to be above both of them.

I think this can be worked with! Let's say what if Choir formed after Laurence's death, which also happened after Maria's death, and Vicars after him were somewhat "powerless" and walked over by Choir and Mensis, only leaders in the name! But that still leaves the bit that the mentioned "division" happened after Choir was formed! Maria and Adeline, however, are locked to the existence of the Research Hall, so, the timeframe when doctors and blood ministers were 100% working together! We find the Eye Pendant that opens the access to the Research Hall in Laurence's hand, and human Skull of Laurence on the platform that hides the secret elevator to that Research Hall. Again, by the Nightmare Logic, they must be connected with Laurence's sins: he started this research, or sponsored it, or was overseeing it, and so on.

This point is not an absolute thing though, because one or both of them might be freed from guilt here. Maybe Gehrman was not as informed and agreeable as we could assume and Laurence did lead him around? Maybe Maria wanted but could not do anything being caught in the web of complicated connections, blackmail and risks for the people she cared about?

4) Both are willingly involved in questionable practices (Maria with research, Gehrman with the cycle of Dream and Hunt)

This point I feel like transcends the morality a little bit, as it touches the matter of 'it is bad if you do it, but it is also bad if you DON'T do it'. I really love Soulsborne universes for having guts to say "you can't win, just pick your poison", but I think it is still worth addressing!

It is up to interpretation in which quantity Maria is involved with the Research Hall! Nothing states whether she founded it, joined in the research later, stepped in and turned the tides (ba dum tss) of the research, or simply was a caretaker/nurse/etc of the broken mess while Research Hall was getting ready for a bit of rebranding. She can be very guilty, or she can be barely guilty but in either case if that was her "redemption arc" that was a pretty bad way to go about it. ...or was it?

Fauxsefka turns people into Celestial Emissaries so they physically can't become beasts instead, and is even stated to be a hero / heroic researcher by Miyazaki:

First, I don't do Death of the Author (in terms of interpreting media I mean, not in terms of a style of writing)! Like, nope. Never. It is just not for me. Creator's word is the final for me; Fauxsefka is the good guy in the story, apparently, and it makes sense considering the fundamentally broken place characters are in! Maria has similarities with Fauxsefka: not only both of them have Cainhurst roots, but also both of them seem to favour 'Stars' line of evolution for humans!

Whereas other patients are afraid of the horrors of the Deep Sea, a concept Miyazaki could not get over well into DS3, Adeline desires them! Other patients seems to have gotten it right, and you can see one of them also clings to Maria mentally to "not drown"; Adeline "didn't understand"! The balcony that Maria wants Adeline to go to so she can forsaken the Deep Sea and seek something "happier" holds unique kind of patients who can shoot cosmic arcane spells:

Herself, Maria is associated with these lumenflowers: their petals are all over her boss arena, and the way to her lays through a much bigger batch of flowers, where Living Failures, other 'Stars' Kin are, whose song lyrics also feature lines 'ave stellar' and 'ave Maria'!

So, how this is different from what Fauxsefka is doing, who is stated to be as much of a good person as possible within this context and with the burden of her knowledge? Fauxsefka was doing more or less rinse-and-repeat practice, with maybe a few patients not surviving the procedure but we don't know what happened: maybe that person was already at the brink of death and she tried to make them live like this.

^ This guy I mean. Maria, on the other hand, is in the time period where the doctors and scientists were only testing the waters (BA DUM TSSS) (ok I will stop) and it was not SO certain what was at the stake, what were the alternatives, what was awaiting the humanity. It is even possible that the beasts problem was not yet bad to the point of "you'll either become a beast, be eaten by a beast or become a Kin, humanity is DONE for!" ! This was an unethical research at the cost of real people! The weight of Maria's sin here really depends on the interpretation, though

As for the cycle of Dream and Hunt, this is complicated and lingers on one's interpretation of what the purpose of the Dream even IS! Its existence provides two things: 1) a hunter who is immortal for the night, thus can sustain the beasts with efficiency like no other, but also effect the continuity of the night ( x ) and 2) supposed sustenance to the Great One Flora of the Moon, who holds the hunt as a concept!

I used to be a bit more set on the idea that if beasts are not sustained and hunted, they will simply overpower those who are yet humans and eat them! It is a self-feeding cycle of people needing to self-defend from beasts, thus having to consume the blood as urgent means of healing and power-up since beasts are too strong, thus risking to become beasts themselves because the blood they consumed during that hunt corrupts them. So, the Hunter's Dream would be a good thing, as it'd help to 'buy time' during nights of the hunt in which not only beasts are more active but Great Ones too! While the Dreaming Hunter holds everything together, the greatest minds of the Healing Church can efficiently study the ways to end beasthood, or ANY problem of humanity, once and for all! It is just better to throw the hunting resources on the Dream, so the scientists don't worry about the beasts and can focus on research. However, I almost forgot that:

This implies that had there not been Mensis Ritual ongoing, people WOULD have the chance to simply 'wait away' the beasthood problem. That, since Rom is not stopping Mensis Ritual but just conceals it, what really makes the inner beast within everyone who consumed the blood inevitably come out is Mergo's cry that draws the Bloodmoon close!

So yeah, the point about Hunter's Dream being helpful for the research of evolution still stands, especially under assumption that the deal with Moon Presence helped to bring more Eldrich Arcane close for "feeding" her. The point about how if the beasts are not hunted they'll simply eat everyone, though, is vague. It is safer to assume that the Hunter's Dream and Research Hall both are both example of hubris of man even if approached differently. Attempts to draw in something dangerous and horrifying, but it is "justified risk" because if you manage to 'tame' arcane/blood, sure, humanity will prosper!

Like... yeah, sure, there IS dangerous and undesireable nature of man that ruins everything and might or might not still linger in humanoids' genes after Loran. But did humanity ASK any of you guys to keep trying to fix it with so many victims and sacrifices? Like, was it WORTH it?

This point is closely tied to 'knowing Laurence's bad antics and doing nothing', yeah. Maria didn't seem to like blood ministration very much, as she disapproved of Adeline becoming a Blood Saint, but she also didn't even approve of blood antics of her own clan! I am not sure what would be her opinion on the Hunter's Dream had she lived to the point when it was created, just that she herself is not willing to ever hunt, so I am leaving this point aside. Is this just blood ministration that she opposes but proximity with a Great One Moon Presence would be something she can see the potential of? Or would she and Gehrman have a pointless cat fight about whose methods are better when they are both hubris of man? In both versions they are 'guilty'! Besides:

In the end none of THIS matters either and everyone was fooled ( x ). The blood offering is a blood offering in any way; whether it is through spilling blood violently during the hunt, or offering the blood's 'red' with how celestial Kin all bleed red. Moon doesn't care what paints it red, in the end.

___________________________________

My conclusion is: both of these characters fucked up almost equally! I think the balance shifts just a little bit and Maria is slightly better than Gehrman since she had some limitations set on how far she was willing to go. Her motivation was not in "curiosity" but strictly in helping humanity, even if in unfair ways, which is apparently not the case for Gehrman?

I'll say this though, NOW I am hooked on the idea of Maria and Gehrman being petty "rivals" ideologically (for as long as they could before Maria's own demons caught up with her). Especially since neither approach is better than the other and they are both cringe loosers! Again, lost comedy gold over Fromsoft making Gehrman's tender and warm feelings for her before and after her death plain. What is not lost, however, is the fact that the two should just kick Laurence and go home :pensive:

[superscourge]

that one post thats like "you can literally just make little standalone scenes instead of making things into giant projects to get to those scenes even if its just one line of dialogue"

i think abt this a lot. i tend to do this thing where i want to share a scene idea i had in mind for a story, but in order for it to land the way i want it to, i feel like i have to add context to it, which ends up being a Giant story. and then i dont get to that scene until wayyyy into the story. and it sucks.

thats actually what happened w new game--i had an idea for a scene, and i felt like it'd hit better if it had context behind it, so i made an entire fucking au and comic to give it context. the scene is around page 74 btw. we are on page 30. help.

but ya like. i still want to share my stories and ideas!! but i wonder if i should just accept that i dont have to have Entire Comics or even fics around said ideas...

i really really enjoy making stories into comics or fics, but those take forever for me to do and a lot of work and im impatient and want to share the ideas sooner rather than later :( i only have so much energy and time yknow..??

if i Really want to make a story into a comic i can probably compromise and do one-page comics for scenes i have specific visions for.. then just give context in the description?? yknow?? thatd honestly be easier and maybe more fun that slogging through entire stories with the unexciting bits included, i can just have The Cool Stuff that im excited to share

i just dont want my stories to end up like my last comics, which are both unfinished. i dont want the stories to remain in my head bc i didnt want to ~spoil them~ if i made them into comics or fics. that makes me so sad. i dont want to lose interest in them bc i took too long.. :(

idk. i'll see what i can do. this is irt all my non-new game aus btw (since ive already committed to making new game into a comic lol), including childhood friends and resurrected. id love to make the fics but man thats So Much Work and time and energy..crying baby emoji

[t0ast-ghost]

I will not shut up about Star Trek TOS yet and you’ve decided to listen in on that. So welcome to my thoughts on the 11th episode (The Corbomite Maneuver):

- starting off strong with these camera angles and movements

- *sees a spinning colourful cube in space* just go a bit to the left (he is not up for shenanigans today)

- can’t wait for Checkov to be introduced, I hear he gets a gun or smt

- WHAT IS THAT PHYSICAL CHECK??? Why does he have to lie on his back?? And why does he have to have his shirt off?

- if I were Spock trying to call the captain and he picks up and all I’d see was his tits… all I’m saying is he keeps a really good straight face

- OMG we got a “what am I a moon shuttle conductor or a doctor?”

- Sulu laughing at Spock’s sense of humour

- the close up on Kirk’s ass as he leaves the room is so intentional

- Bones sitting on the railing…

- how many surfaces can I sit on competition but my opponent is Leonard Bones McCoy

- just to prove my point the next scene starts with him sitting on a table

- god I feel bad for Scotty having to sit between McCoy and Spock in some of those meetings

- Sulu was cool as a cucumber

- “do you ever tire of questioning me on things you’ve already made your mind up about?” “it gives me emotional security” they are each others emotional support guy (Spock & Kirk)

- Kirk saying“navigation, you’re timing was lousy. Same with engineering, Helmsman” then Bones immediately after “you’re timing was lousy”

- how can you sit in a chair like that even (bones)

- Alexa play tik tok by Kesha

- (okay now I’m just imagining Spock dancing like one of those spider-man memes but completely straight faced (also Spock now listens to Kesha canonically but like in my head))

- THE FUCK IS THAT FUCKING THING??? THAT IS A PUPPET!

- Bones is so caring, he has so much fucking compassion I won’t shut up about him

- “you now have seven minutes left” but there’s 23 minutes left in the episode. Guess a lot of it’s just gonna be dead air… er space I mean (yeah I can come up with a better line than this later (edit: no I can’t I’m tired))

- SPOCK IS SO SAD. He truly thinks this is a hopeless situation.

- Bones is about to die in four minutes and he’s threatening Kirk because of the fact that he put Bailey’s health at risk… I love this man

- “Anytime you can bluff me, doctor” I can’t legally say what I thought was said but maybe the ancient archaeologists will know from context clues

- I don’t think Uhura has spoken to most of the bridge crew up to this point, she barely has had plot or even dialogue, I can’t wait till they give her an episode or just even make her more central

- Spock going to Kirk’s side after the bluff for emotional support

- Spock is so proud when talking about his mom :)))

- Your science and medical officers usually shouldn’t stand so close to your chair and clutch at it while leaning over you. It’s not normal behaviour.

- Okay I’d like to mention how calm Sulu has been and how much I love him, can we please get more of him in future episodes?

- wait so Bones is just gonna let Bailey go back to work? Like I get they apologized to each other but that doesn’t change that it’s still a bad idea to have him there

- Spock, Kirk, and McCoy immediately after the death threat is gone: guess it’s time to start flirting again

[Video description: Spock stands on the bridge, he says, “A very interesting game, this poker.” Kirk sitting in his captains chair replies, “It does have advantages over chess.” McCoy smiling at Spock adds, “Love to teach it to you.” Spock smiles back at him. End description]

- he’s got a twinkle in his eye

- The shake on the bridge as the tractor beam tows them is so funny if you watch Spock and McCoy (it continues to be funny for the next couple minutes)

- "Captain request to-" "Denied. If it's a trap.. If I'm wrong, I want you here" awwe he wants him safe (idc that this is not what the writers are trying to say, HE WANTS SPOCK SAFE)

- they all have to bend over on the transporter pad but when they get transported Bones isn't even bent he's just standing at his normal height slightly hunched

- HOLY CRAP I HATE THAT THING... I'm so glad it's a puppet

- nope okay I don't know what's happening, I can't. I'm. What.

- that is apple cider, they are sitting around this guy trying to drink apple cider

- McCoy doesn't know what the fuck to do right now and neither do I

Now imagine, if you will, Spock dancing

Thank you, and have a good day.

Master post of past/future episodes

[sock-to-the-third]

All Systems Red

By Martha Wells

MURDERBOT. IS. SO. FUCKING. ADORABLE.

*inhuman shrieking*

Some fics flex alot of personality through description like it’s a 2nd set of dialogue. Wells kills at this. I just utterly fell in love with how Murderbot’s awkwardness is betrayed mixing with wanting to retain its privacy.

The different systems of SecSystem, Medical and the HubSystem that control different parts of the habitat is so cool. From how the survey team got the bargain pack of cheaper assortment of equiptment to how Murderbot’s backstory weaves in TvT poor guy. It may be half assing it but the kid’s got heart, I’ll tell you that.

*steps up on soap box*

Also, man, I am so glad to have a narrator who isn’t she or he. So tired of hearing the same pronouns over and over. It’s like “dude, vanilla and chocolate are tasty flavors but that ain’t all there is.”

Not the same as an enby it/its since Murderbot didn’t chose basically anything about itself down to its name but you can at least pretend. Hard to genuinely believe an author actually wants a character to be non-binary unless they at least switch up the pronouns SOMEWHERE.

Still. All Systems Red is in 1st person but luckily Murderbot listens in on other people’s conversations so you get more pronouns than usual.

*steps off soap box*

Anyway, descriptive text isn’t what I’m used to but it gets the job done. Dialogue and narration is more of a focus and so bloody rich. *mwah!*

Volescu, Pin-Lee, Bharadwaj and Arada don’t get a ton of text-time but Mensah, Ratthi and Gurathin do.

While I do love me a Mensah being all supportive and trying to help Murderbot work with humans. Gurathin is where its at. Quiet dude but abbrasive af to Murderbot, asking all sort of prying questions and never trusting it.

Even after Murderbot saved their asses, doubt Gurathin (despite being augmented) would’ve helped Murderbot from its contract.

Top that off with how Mensah contrasts at the end of it, TvT so good. She’s so sweet but in that childification way toward Murderbot at the end.

Like “oh yeah, you won’t get shot at but we arranged this whole life for you and we’ll get you educated like your a baby and not a fully-sentient adult.” Its so cool Wells played it all out, then was like NOPE.

*cue Murderbot fucking off on a transport

It just makes it so much more compelling having the constant skepticism of Gurathin contrasted with Mensah’s paternalism.

Ratthi has a little bit with insisting on talking out feelings. But I get from Ratthi that he isn’t doing this out of “you’re a kid, let me help out” and more “i want you to be included! You’re part of the team.”

Still glad that Wells let Ratthi be busy and let Mensah take the forefront for the “future” if Murderbot let humans decide it for it. I also liked how it considered going along with it.

Then the “owner” —> “guardian”

Such a good quote. Def going to save it. It just hits home the whole thing.

Done rambling. But just fuck man. This book is so good! Definitely going to write something robot oriented soon.

Prev: Compulsory

Sequel: Artificial Condition

[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (5) - the trouble was always here

pairings: biker!cody rhodes x black reader, biker!roman reigns x black reader (mentioned) warnings: FLUFF! descriptions that imply stalking. explicit descriptions of blood and violence. dialogue and descriptions pertaining to guns. cody being kinda simpy (he’s so adorable) roman being a jerk still (he’ll come around) authors note: a present day chapter!!! w/ a full cody perspective because we haven't gotten that yet. finally a little cody and roman interaction. thanks for 1700 followers btw!!! word count: 8800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

...m'not tryin to cause trouble for you...

...you don't wanna cause trouble anymore...

cody had felt the premature slight of his own words then. those few weeks ago, amongst the wordless overly cool diner air and lukewarm food. and then felt it again as he said it. your eyes tired and cautious—dim and slipping into sleep just after the end of a twelve hour shift—suddenly veering off into something less meek and weary.  indignation a bright flare as it woke you up to be less inviting. and cody was still suffering the trickle down effects of that somewhat exhaustive empty diner reunion, along with the onslaught of a new torrential down pour of bullshit caused by his president's drunken tantrum. the diner situation was a mild disagreement. a brakeless drive of frustration that he meant, but did not mean to say. and he'd said the thing that you'd always hated. "don't be dense". a stupid fucking move on his part. it made maneuvering the funeral—God rest's richie's soul—a few days after, awkward and God awful. cody hoped it was something worth leaving to cool off. a dissipation that would make way for a fresh slate. and he'd made headway, little as it was but he was getting his footing again with you. but roman. oh his president and fearless fucking leader. he just had to muddy the water.

and all of that humble, earnest desire—despite the hesitancies—to return back into the fold that was the world of the bloodline, to go generally unscathed, had been destroyed. by whiskey-beer inspired words and the wrath of a bruised man. because yes, roman had performed so well in chilling over since their youth, that now he was bruised. marred and undone, that much cody knew. a spoiled over bitterness that sometimes made for thick and difficult to breathe in air. a siphoning of the room to please him self. to revitalize whatever'd been lost. and unfortunately, to your credit, you'd done well at stealing away such heavy grief, turning the funeral into a reunion. but roman couldn't just sit still in his shit. he had to spread and smear about his anger. a tantrum that sent you home quiet. a silence cody was made to suffer through because he'd taken it upon himself to be your ride to and from such an event of a funeral. made to suffer because he cared. 

but that service and burial for richie, in the grand scheme of cody's long anxious waiting, had been just two weeks ago. two long weeks of silence. and yeah maybe it was partially on him. mostly roman's doing but maybe him too. 'you don't wanna cause trouble anymore', the overripe cherry on top of already stale cake. 

in essence, you were doing his bidding. because avoidance of the bloodline meant free from trouble, as scathing as that thought feels to him. but cody isn't above admitting it. the forming of something harsh and sickly in his belly. a hollowness that drains his skin. not hearing from you is odd. something he hates. 

-monday. the first week in june-

text message | incoming: need your help

text message | cody r: ?

text message | incoming: car is fucked

text message | cody r: glad to know i can hear from you if you need something

text message | incoming: 12 hour shifts are a bitch. so sorry for not checkin in every second of the day...was trying to keep away from all this trouble i'm apparently causing. my bad. 

text message | cody r: where are you?

text message | incoming: the house

text message | cody r: be there soon. 

and maybe it's the june heat getting to him, the bare down of the sun muddying his sensibilities till they roll over and form newer with these streaks of entitlement. an entitlement he'd never profess outwardly. never claim to outside of loose thoughts and the nagging linger of other truths kept unsaid. but cody—and God does this sound awful even as he thinks it—much prefers you away from pensacola. away from home. because in those times, his willingness to please you was nothing more than some shapeless desire. something he would do if he could. a possibility. the distance keeping the brunt of his feelings at bay. but having you here—as much as it makes him happy—seems to cause more issues than he'd like. because issues mean a loose fumbling grasp at things. a lack of control. because now he'll actually have to acknowledge the burn in his belly when you look at him. the prick of heat over his skin when you say his name. your anger influencing discomfort till he makes it right. he'd have to—amidst such a cryptic life—be honest about deeply buried thoughts. the hidden things he's always promised to himself to keep hidden. 

and maybe thats why his words slipped out so loose and fast and inconsiderate. 'you don't wanna cause trouble anymore', because bits of that trouble include a deep unearthing of his own shit. 

because roman isn't the only one troubled and undone about you. 

cody's teeth suck. a quick, easy, manifestation of displeasure. because he doesn't stay put and he doesn't drag his feet either. he moves with purpose. present mechanic duties forgotten along with the old and janky BL AUTO sign behind him as he shifts his weight up and into a tow truck. displeasure because maybe his selflessness is more than just a base line compassion. but servile? no. cody isn't that. but as he backs out with a reverse and drives off to meet at your place, your parents old house, he feels his stomach coil up in a way that burdens him wholly. a feeling that has only performed well enough on rare occasions. a tight ball settled at the base of his belly, his chest going on with an irregular beating and cody thinks it's all so damn pitiful. years and years of a slow simmering, never quite getting to the rapid chaos of a boil but hot all the same. but if not for the tease of it than what else was there to have? what other possibility could there be for him besides the grand swarming performance of butterflies. his eyes rolling as he drives. twenty something again. with this particular thing, he still isn't ready to name, cody is in a perpetual state of being that twenty something guy. 

the blare of a horn pulls him up and out of his harboring. the street light apparently green for sometime. 

and he decides—because he's in control, he swears—to leave it be. to allow his body to process the sensations. an attempt at emotional extraction from the physicality of it. because it's not butterflies if you don't call it butterflies. because names give things meaning. a process he's done time and time again. evasion easy and efficient. 

because he's towed plenty of cars. fixed plenty of cars. this would be the same as the others. no emotional weight and ancient histories involved. because cody has the control to will it so. 

and the settling of this process gives him freedom. enough to slip back into the familiar. something that lacks such sentimental complexity. cody observes. the roads, the weather, the cars. taking a fine tooth comb through the details. 

"the underestimations is what gets you son. don't let em get you". 

dusty's voice curling about his left ear. riding just under the flow of a summer breeze. and cody never knew his father to be wrong about anything. 

"always take note of the scene son".

the regularity of the day but a facade. sunny and warm and unsuspecting. but cody knows enough to know that the mere face of a thing is not the representation of the inward parts. that if you look well enough for a thing, it will appear with a clear exposure. and the drive to your fathers house is both familiar and burdening. the pensacola heat and the sentiments of faraway memory attempting with much fight to dull his senses. streetlights he's passed and roads he's turned down before. the only difference now being your presence. and there goes the curl in of his belly. his words refusing to form into truth even inwardly still, to spell out the feelings. feelings he thought quelled. it's something he so obviously needs to work on. his eyes flitting to his rearview mirror, breaking away from those too ardent thoughts. 

a gray chevrolet ss maybe? the model he's unsure. but he's fixed many a chevy to know that its a chevy. 

cody turns a corner, and with him turns the chevy. something he doesn't think much of. giving the wheels of the tow truck an easy ride for a few miles or so. but the chevy remains a comfortable distance behind him. cody takes a test turn. an abrupt right that veers him slightly off course. 

but his truck isn't a pain to follow. the size of it easy to make out. losing the tail from such a spur of the moment turn before it appears again. behind him and steady. the windows tinted. 

his ears burn warm. fingers itching. 

cody rolls into the beginning of your block. double parking several doors down before quickly exiting the tow truck. his fingers slipping out his shades as his feet kick up loose gravel. the tint of them blocking the harsh beat down of daylight. the chevy rolling by at a slower pace, something done to very obviously piss him off, before it continues down the block and out of his sight. his eye looking to catch the plates. 

C47-6BQ. repeating it to himself for good measure. 

and something in cody jostles. a squick sinking in his belly as his nerves go on disturbed. twisting to perform well in his gut. a sickening swim of intuition. the weight of an impending viciousness. a feeling he knows all too intimately well. amidst the quiet breezy heat of the afternoon, the tips of his ears warm and his fists balling. thumbs working to skim his knuckles. always restless and ready. but the quiet is nothing if not the surface of a deepened well, endless in its depth and muddy. filled with slow to die creeping things. problems thought fixed rearing with an ugliness. but these are the worst of his worries. the what if thoughts that take over him. making him restless, but ready. cody is always ready. headaches persistent from an overworking. C47-6BQ. florida plates. a gray chevy ss that drives slow. to what? to taunt him? a warning maybe? 

an acknowledgement. 

he hadn't agreed that night to do what they did. feeling the inner parts of him growing soft and malleable. but messages need clear words. there was, is, never any room to mince words when so little of them were at their disposal in any useful way. actions more concrete than anything that could ever be said. 

KG's house, your house now, closer to him. his feet growing slower. knuckles working still in tandem with the blooming of a familiar knocking in his skull. 

he'd voted for something more diplomatic. a message that read like an advisory. some agreed. seth and jey and sami. 

"this ain't the fucking UN. we ain't working to save face on foreign affairs".

roman had spat that out. riled up and the ball of his fists demanding. and he couldn't be persuaded otherwise. 

and that particular tasting of whiskey was hell to swallow. these slivers of guilt nestling along the bite of it. the bottle passed from man to man and mouth to mouth. a partaking sip that was as vicious as it was fraternal. a dirty burn at the back of cody's throat, before the bottle was poured out over nico jeff's back. dean's fingers working to bring about the quick flick of a match before it'd been tossed hot. the soul crush of a scream and the sizzling singe of skin. and maybe this gray chevy SS is the beginning results of a lack in diplomatic flair. and maybe it isn't. maybe cody's restlessness has finally deadened his intuition, his edge. but cody is his fathers son. and cody has never seen his father be wrong. even beyond death and the grave. 

it'd been reckless. an eager show of power where such theatrics need not exist. but cody's opinions have not had room for proper growth in sometime, especially not now. 

and as cody twists the house key into your front door—a key he acquired sometime after KG's death—he feels that bursting in his belly. that pulling, nagging feeling. skin skittish and his eyes taking to the quiet of the block again. waiting for what? well he's not sure but he waits anyways. painstaking seconds where the dread feels most sure, amidst the stillness, just before the coming in of the storm. 

he wants to be wrong about this. strong, tired fingers twisting the knob to step over the threshold. and he wants to be wrong about his preferences too. wants to feel the guilt of his entitlement, of not wanting you here. but even that wars with other desires. fingers itching to touch you. to hear your voice without the disruptive tone of radio waves.

his head ache taunting him. playing about his skull easy. your movements swift and urgent as you move about the living room. seemingly on a mission. heaps of moving boxes everywhere still. the house cluttered and undone by such abrupt use after years of loneliness. 

cody knocks. stepping in fully. 

your attention shifting just barely. a half of a half of an acknowledgment that plummets the ball in his belly. doing well with this little game of silence. a large box in your arms as you move it to the corner of the living room.

"forgot you have a key", your eyes not meeting. occupied. a finger throwing away a gesture toward your car keys on the coffee table. "the car is right out front. i think the alternator is bad, the battery keeps going-"

"it's fuck me i guess".

and cody can't help the uncomfortableness of this. the skating around and the avoidance. the way you maneuver about and refuse him. a first time of it all that makes him bristle. because when you were in new york, he never had to deal with such bouts of silence. never had to wade through the terrible water of your indignation. there was never anything tumultuous or gut wrenching about this, playing a part in the skull knock of a headache and the overwhelming process of sifting through untouched, un-talked about feelings. it was easy and nice and shapeless. a private little thing to call his own. and God was it good and selfish. and shit what a fuck load of entitlement its caused. so very obviously existing on both ends of whatever this is. because you'd just expected him to perform. and he'd gone about it up til now without a syllable of push back. 

"what?" 

and the way you say it. like a sudden cluelessness of it all has so suddenly taken you. makes his nerves itch. a scratch he can't reach. his arms folding instead. a little more solid and upright. "some courtesy would be nice", a slow stride up to where you move about. his path blocked by boxes. "y'know considering the state of fucked your car is in, a hi or how you doing would be good to hear". his nerves still itching, face warring with itself not to grimace. the shuffle of boxes nearly sending him over a wall. and God after years, you knew still just how to set him off. silence eating him whole. "i'm doing fine by the way if you're wondering". 

you sigh deep. like you're being inconvenienced. "are you good now? got that off your chest?" 

its an abrupt movement. something he's barely processing till he's halfway through it. snatching a stack of boxes from your hands and setting them recklessly over the couch. his eyes hard. irritated. 

"is there something here? what am i missing?" 

because the tension of it unsettles him whole. 

you side step and he's following diligently. patience thinning. he gives you no where to go.

"cody i just want my car-"

"the car stays unfixed until you talk to me. none of this icy, boxin me out shit". 

your eyes cut to him. "i can do without the hostility". 

"be upfront". 

making him live in silence again. amongst the clutter of boxes and bright near blinding daylight. because this part of you has always been a process. something surgical and proving to need a little bit of method. a little bit of time. but cody's patience wears on him. thins his resolve. and such tiredness in of itself can only come from the deep well of care he's got stored in himself for you. and at this present moment 'care' is the word he chooses to commit to. a silent agreement. a word that explains the tensity of headaches and borderline nausea. butterfly's corralling in his belly to sicken him. an uncomfortableness in his body that only wanes with the slipping off of that face of disinterests you've worn so well till this second. 

your eyes softer. struck with bits of pain. 

"i'm not gonna be in places where m'not wanted. i'm not here to be a punching bag". 

"so then why are you here?"

you bristle. "cody what are you-" 

"i'm being serious. why are you here?"

because his curiosity has never taken him so wholly as to ask. only ever to accept the circumstance. but the validity of his question is true, enough for it to unearth an answer that carries just as much sincerity. 

"this is home cody", you give him. 

simple and plain and affirming all of his little ardent unpleasantries. because if this is home, and he's always been here, does that mean he's home too? does the possibility of that answer extend to others? question's maybe not to be answered today. question's maybe never to be considered outside such shapeless thought for the sake of his own poorly crafted peace of mind. because he can live with possibilities. with formless what if's and maybe's. 

"good". a word that falls quick. full in the way it exists against the air. as sure as all the ones after it. "so fuck him then. don't let him and his bullshit run you out of where you wanna be. don't give him that". 

because roman could shift the temperature of a thing quite easily. rooms and situations and people. could siphon the air to a blue-gray-skinned suffocation if it pleased him. hell he'd done it weeks ago. a harsh ability. so very fitting for him, for his heavy leather and even heavier boots. for the little patch that sew itself across the right side of his kutte. cody's president. his oh so fearless fucking leader. 

but it doesn't mean that other things, other people can't live and last amidst the width and hot take of such pride. 

and you concede. "you're right". looking to him with that full acknowledgment he'd wanted for some days. soft brown eyes warm. 

"i don't think i've ever really been wrong about anything". 

"shut up", a small smile against pretty lips. 

his eyes catching the curve of them more than they should. 

"c'mere". 

and the effects of such a slow, gradual, embrace warm him over better than any afternoon cast over of the sun. relief and then the inevitable fluttering swarm of butterflies. that control he so easily subscribed to having earlier done away with as your arms circle about him. a tight enough embrace that brings about the beginning breaths of a resolution. smelling of autumn inspired things that arrest his senses. and maybe this is where those entitled preferences grow sour in their wrongness. maybe his earlier afternoon selfishness was some petulant, tired, anxious reaction. the coming back to life of twenty something thoughts and ideas. maybe seconds old him was right. more right than that slightly older him. because the rightness of the matter was only ever contingent upon where ever  you were and where ever you wanted to be. and that he can agree with, if it meant an embrace this good.

his hands slip. wide and spreading at your back comfortable and innocent. your hands just the same at his arms. your fingers softly testing the strength of them. a slight press in he's all too aware of. 

"you try to silent treatment me again for two weeks and we're gonna have problems", he plays. smiling down on you.

your eyes play at a roll. "m'sorry", you give him. teeth stuck to pull over your lip. your eyes flitting to his mouth before they return. a quick slip of a movement that does nothing to quell the rise of warmth in his fingers. that he felt and saw. a sensation he'll mull over the validity of later. 

his palms come up to hold your cheeks. a tender hold that leaves you unable to look away from him. gentle eyes delicate in their waiting. your fingers holding his forearms. and this to cody feels like an agreement of the moment. the silent reciprocation of a not so newly born intimacy. the shapeless thing now found to have an edge. a streak of definition. new york and pensacola. the everlasting length of text messages and lasting too long phone calls. strung together words that almost say "i miss you", which could've been said if not for the fear of actually meaning it. and the fear of what meaning it means. 

his thumb runs a streak at your skin. sincerity blooming dangerously pure. "m'very happy you're here. okay?" 

if nothing else, the surest affirmation. cody hopes you believe him. 

"okay". 

and when the tension is far too real to believe in, cody falls away graciously. pulls in his touch and the daze of his eyes enough to regain the lasting bits of his composure. hands feeling empty at his sides before he's crossing his arms up over his chest. stepping over boxes again and making a sluggish path towards the door. 

"i should have your car back by wednesday latest". 

you advance with him. "just let me know how much i owe you". 

his eyes roll. "we just had a nice bit of resolution. don't ruin it".

"cody i'm being serious". 

you both linger amidst the threshold of the door. his eyes slipping over your skin to remember the softness. "i'm unfortunately aware. i'll see you soon".

and he doesn't think. finds even that its better not to harp on the why of whatever he does. and its innocent enough. an easy lingering kiss to your forehead. something terribly gentle. an accumulation of all the unspoken things. and with that he leaves. never giving himself the courtesy of seeing whatever you've decided to express in the wake of something as affectionate as his mouth on you.

-tuesday. the first week in june-

kill them with kindness. it's a pride-less phrase. suffers the body to think and act against itself. against the primitivity of instinct. bloodline born instinct. brass knuckle rings and the broken neck of a beer bottle. the drawing up of wet crimson blood and splotchy bruises to deserved skin. killing with kindness isn't cody's forte, but neither is senseless violence. because things need purpose. they need a reasonable decline into bitterness before that shameless stain of iron can dress his tongue. there has to be proper earthen ground to stand on before the strong, old nature of his leather takes him wholly. 

that childish little shoulder check had been accounted for the moment it happened. along with roman's tantrum that led to your teary eyed bout of silence. and you'd never mentioned what he said, but cody felt the possibility of a violation. a deep splitting open of the skin all for the sake of proving that he could do it. that too had been accounted for. and the more he thinks on it, richie's funeral—though no funeral begins or ends well—was only a few steps from a mess. an uneven state of affairs. touch and go as they say. everything too thinly spread, and the histories now existing with too much distance. which has been, was, and is never good. because unbridged gaps promote weakness in the foundation. and naturally, roman—stuck in whatever thoughts of his own—gives no effort in making it easier. 

and cody can feel it, amongst the swelter of the summer sun. the heat talking, taunting through slim breezes. their time approaching soon. a clashing up one against the other, like the stressing violence of metal against metal. he just hopes time for it is sooner than later. before the foundation is too weak to be resolved. 

it's interesting though, funny even, because cody isn't a grudge keeper. doesn't go all out in the meticulous process of such an angry keeping of the score. but that faithful swarming of butterflies, care and the need to please, they use him well as a champion to do their, his inner, bidding. posing and propping him up as this great defender. 

and roman makes no qualms about going unheard. unnoticed. his body tall, blotting out the spread of one of many lights shinning above your car. lips spreading in that amused way that works to cover up the lesser delighted parts of him. "if i knew we did free work i'd put up a sign or two. let the people know how generous of a business we've become". roman's hands pressing into the car to lean inward. a proximity that performs well to make anybody with sense uncomfortable. "i'm a charitable man cody, but i got my limits". 

cody hums. continues the process of switching out your alternator. because you were right, the alternator was fried, causing your battery to drain. an easy enough fix for him, but roman attempting his little show of dominance didn't do much to help. 

"i guess i'm just a little more compassionate".

roman chuckles. turns to lean up against the car where cody works. arms crossed and relaxed. giving him enough space to perform the fix but not enough to do it comfortably. "being a doormat isn't compassion rhodes. it's just being a doormat. humor me though..." he begins. "what's the little deal you two got set up?" roman's faux interest running annoyingly under cody's skin. "you do a little fixin' here and there and then what? she pats you on the back? gives a little scratch behind the ear? tells you how good of a boy you are for her?"

a dog? really? the abuse of it cutting into one ear and refusing to leave out the other. a deep lodging that slots up and slips in against the warmth of his blood. and yes. it's accounted for. like the ticking scratch of a pencil to check through a box. "i don't know roman you tell me". alternator be damned. the heat of the day sticking to cody ungraciously. "you got it all figured out, maybe you know something i don't. six or seven years, cause honestly who knows or gives a shit, of prior experience on the resume and all. thats a long time for skill buildin, to be wrapped around her finger". 

and cody sees roman falter. the slightest bit of a half step. a small little tell so often easily missed. can feel his chest burst wild and so damn delighted. that subtle jaw twitch beneath his president’s beard. 

roman is close. eyes hard, narrowing over cody's face. "it's nothing you got that's better than shit she's already had. that i can promise you". 

"you keep mistaking me for someone you're in competition with".

"competition ain't a word in my vocabulary, but i'll humor you", smiling mirthless. "if it were, we're still levels apart. it's actual comedy how uneven the paying field is here". 

"and you're so right about that", cody fully amused. "considering just how much she avoids even saying your name, i think i like the level i'm at". 

and this was it. the steady decline into bitterness, fixed only by that warlike clashing. an affair close enough, the phantom taste of something iron, wet and pungent on cody's tongue. because it'd happened before, history always finding a way to rhyme. to unearth already thought to be dead things that were not so lifeless after all. 

"hey!", the far reach of deans voice, echoing over loud against the walls of the shop. "kiss and get a room or break it up!". 

cody is right. killing with kindness is treason against the body. against words and instinct. an esteem-less, pride-less thing. and he quite likes his pride. 

-wednesday. the first week in june-

text message | incoming: are you busy later in the evening?

text message | cody r: shouldn't be. whats up?

text message | incoming: making dinner. you should come by. 

text message | cody r: absolutely. your car is all fixed up btw. need me to bring anything else? 

text message | incoming: just you❤️

it means nothing. it means, nothing. it. means. nothing. and the feeling is juvenile. overly sentimental and spilling over. a losing fight as he urges himself not to break with a smile. because cody is old, or at least old enough not to fall into such thrills reminiscent of early twenty something wish and desire. but that doesn't stop the sickly sweet churn in his belly, nor does it keep his eyes from falling over the short exchange of texts. these little flits across the screen, a short comb over, as if with the third and fourth time the letters will reappear to read something different and new and less intimate. less domestic. because he fixed your car and now he's left with the silly assumption that you're making him dinner for it. not just for him but for him all the same. and its all stupid and oddly sitting under his skin. swarming tight in his belly so much so that he walks awkwardly amongst the cloudy chill of the afternoon air. it means something, but for the sake of his peace it will have to mean all of nothing. 

his stomach growling on a dangerously annoying cue. body ready to make the trip back to pensacola. marianna, florida suddenly too far from home—a mere two hour drive—for proper comfort. 

but his leather keeps him bound to club business. his shoes kicking up the loose dirt of the beginnings of a wide patch of land. a ranch spreading out over for some acres. grass reaching his ankles and the air crisp with the teasing smell of rain. seth and dean marching forward just in front of him, seemingly more focused. void of an ardently born frenzy about the nerves.

and in the distance, just at the entrance of a corned off shack, steve waves them over, before disappearing inside. the scuffling walk over to the shoddy wooden build of it giving cody enough time to steel over his expression and the manner of his disposition. because they were on a ranch after all, surrounded by the easy roam of an abundance of cattle being raised commercially. a job like that surely needing an expert level of perception. perception cody is sure steve austin has. what with the stoic manner of his eyes and the mirthless pull of his mouth. always watching and quietly discerning. even with the satisfaction of good business, cody has yet to see the rancher actually smile ever. cody figures he'll save his musings for another time. 

"boys", steve greets. reaching his hand to greet them. firm shakes before he's uplifting duffle bags from off the shack floor and placing them atop a wooden table. unzipping them to reveal the disassembled parts of a variety of fire arms. 

"how's business steve?" dean gives, as the three of them look over the contents of the bags. touching against cool, dangerous metal.

"sometimes good, sometimes not so great, but it goes either way", his voice coarse. "m'hopin we can facilitate business well enough without issue". 

"a simple pick up now and drop off later", seth starts. "it's nothing we haven't done before". 

and steve hums. the noise of it short lived and singing low as it considers seth's assurance. a hum so obviously filling itself with disbelief. steve austin unpersuaded as he makes to lean up against the dusty wooden wall of the shack. blue-grey eyes falling over the three of them. "well usually our business isn't accompanied by so much of a ...spectacle, which is never simple". something like mirth taking his expression, forming wryly. "i didn't know pyro-theatrics were in you all's arena of business". 

something in cody winces. a flinching of his memory as it works with a tireless hand of remembrance. smelling now amidst the earthiness of the ranch that pungent burn of alcohol and nico's skin. his screams as the sizzling melt of his flesh sings hot and dirty. the heavy disappointment felt from that night, filling cody whole once more. his insides malleable and undone by discontent. a decision made he'll always hate. 

but dean chuckles the silence off. a lazy, toothy smile along with it. "we're a uh...multi act group. a variety show if you will". 

"i can admire the severity of it, but also, i gotta say...", steve starts. leading them out of the shack and to their parked truck. duffle bags filling their hands as they all make way across the ranch. "...i don't like it much considering it hasn't done nothing for you all but draw some attention". 

and if nothing else causes a failing in the security of cody's nerve, this does. a fast to plummet drop in his stomach and the quick maneuver of his memory once more. a swift to move flooding of curiosity filled with anxious debris. that grey chevy rolling by slowly and the horribly conspicuous tinted windows. not a warning but an acknowledgment. he breaks his silence. "how'd you hear about it?" 

"got a call from a buddy of mine over in tallahassee askin about the bloodline and that boy yall burnt up. apparently he's connected. well enough for some trouble i'd assume". 

which affirms the existence of the chevy. C47-6BQ, the plate number this echoing mantra about cody's thoughts. eager to remember it for use later. a beat of silence falling over them all as they load in the duffle bags. and what a coincidence it is, for the day to be overtaken by that edging smell of rain. not yet willing to unleash the brunt of it's power but settling to tease them all the same. 

"he was trying to set up a base of sorts near pensacola beach, dealing off the boardwalk and out of some local bars, pushing laced shit", dean goes. his vice president's patch catching cody's eye. black fabric sewn against a gray silver to spell out his rank. his thoughts rolling into words, never straying too far from roman's way of thinking. "our city has been free of the hard stuff for as long as we’ve been around. askin nicely didn’t work for this guy. we're just tryna keep our side of the street clean". 

seth nods, catching deans eye, though he's slow to do so. weary still, cody is sure. steve settling over cody, sharp eyes searching. a silent examination. looking for doubts, cody is sure of that too. but he gives nothing. says nothing. 

"an admirable act for sure", steve nods. his eyes appearing more gray than blue as they live under the cloudiness of the afternoon sky. cody feeling the brunt of them still, sharp cuts into the skin of his face. steve looking for an agreement maybe, or the sign of a grievance. and though the discontentment remains sure, cody's loyalty reigns better than the softer parts of him that work to veer off into less agreeable thoughts and ideas. and it will always remain that way so long as his leather sticks to his body. fraternal codes and all that jazz. never letting the outsiders know of such disagreements and presenting a united front. 

"im guessin we feel good about the merchandise?", steve asks. 

dean reaches out for a handshake as he goes to speak. cody and seth gesturing the same. "absolutely. beautiful stuff as always". 

"drop off is the same?'", steve making his way back slowly. 

"yes sir". 

"word of advice from an animal enthusiast", steve starts. slowly walking backwards to face them still. "no more of the fanfare theatrics. if you plan on puttin down an animal, a bullet between the eyes gets the job done quick and just fine".

a thing easier said than done. the free fall of those words—"gets the job done quick and just fine"—growing a torturous distance from the ability he had once upon a time, when such time was endless. because way back when, cody could feel that crunch of gravel beneath his feet everywhere he walked and thought himself untouchable. an inherited hubris for sure. leather over his shoulders like armor and the roar of his engine this endless war cry of invincibility. he took cuts and bruises and the slices of knives as easy as the road would the simple skid of a rubber wheel. but the days grow shorter here in this older age. the memory in his muscle though quick, not as quick to perform as it used to be. his head wild with the outburst of an aching almost always and his body tired. 

and although the trip from pensacola to marianna and back was a usual one, the ride this time seemed to be quieter. those piled up duffle bags of violent metal heavier and the doom in his belly rolling over harsher than normal.

but that burden in cody never eases, only ever turning itself into something different. the cloudiness of the day rolling over into the evening. the sharp smell of rain resting in the air still. teasing him. your house porch light glowing a warm yellow as he steps up to it. keys in hand and that swarming flutter in his belly. hunger and a not yet spoken into the air passion forming this terrible marriage under his skin. leather draped over it all like a second skin. 

he steps into the house, met with a savory warmth. something fragrant that eases the tension. his boots thudding softly over old hardwood floors. music low and melodic to fill in those pockets of dead silence. your maneuvers about the kitchen a little less than fluid. body still coming into a slow to perform remembrance after a great forgetting. 

but you hear him. throwing words over your shoulder. "leather off at the door please". something your mothers used to say to your fathers. trying their best to grasp at control over a life bigger than them all. 

and cody obliges. feels the domesticity of it running rife in him so much till it starts to smoothen out the ache in his head and the weight in his belly. "hey", speaking gentle. unable to help himself as a hand finds the hard work of your arm, a brief interruption where he squeezes tenderly to let you know he's there. "hey", you give back. similar in how warm and delicate it feels against the air. an arm curling his waist as you reach to kiss at that patch of skin thats too close to his mouth to be his cheek, but too far from his mouth to be anything more than what it is. that 'what it is', he has no damn clue. but it feels good. a little more than amazing maybe. 

he stands off and away enough to let you finish what looks to be a dinner thats a little more abundant in nature than he was expecting. leaning up against the counter as you dip a spoon through the heat of a thick gravy. "smells good".

"i hope it taste good", a thread of nerve weaving through as you scoop the spoon. "i haven't made a roast in a while but here, try this", giving up the silverware. leaving cody to nearly melt in the richness of it. reminding him of old times even. bloodline sunday dinners and the simple inconvenience of wanting to be anywhere but with his parents and their friends. "missing anything?" 

"a plate and a drink". 

you smile. reaching above in the cabinets for a yet to be opened bottle. the cold of cody's blue eyes slipping easy as they lay over the skin that peaks as your top rises up with the reach of your arms. and then the quick awkward look away, warmth in his cheeks as he feels the childish guilt of it. 

"is wine ok?"

"s'perfect".

and no he does not mean to stare so deeply. to emphasize the pronunciation of a word that implies such flawlessness, but it happens. makes that meeting of the eyes last a little longer. a lingering that works well enough with low playing melodies that it forces your tell. lip stuck between the pull of your teeth. turning back to the food that waits impatiently, seeking a reprieve. 

you push at him playfull. in a fashion that begs for the air to be a little more breathable again. "ok go sit at the couch", turning back to your accomplishment of the night. "i'll be there". 

a certain pride swelling in his chest as he makes way to get comfortable on the couch. effectively influencing your nerves enough to cause a little speechlessness was more than cody hoped for tonight. taking in the cleanliness of the living room as he waits. the space bursting with earth tones and splashes of green. the smaller details slightly different, but the feel of the house remains, even with the age of it. the glass of old framed photos clearer, having been cleaned. the boxes working to overtake the floor corners no longer there, the shelves decorated with what must be things collected from your time in new york. a small bowl of rings at the center of the coffee table catching his eye so much that cody reaches for it. carved silver rings he remembers your father wearing all the time. so much so that the impressions remained in his skin.

you bring the wine and glasses first. walking back for the plates. sitting a comfortable distance away from him on the couch. close but not too much. enough for the air not to be so thick and consuming. 

"you never told me how much i owe you for the alternator".

the sincerity of that making cody's eyes roll, albeit a little more playful than serious. his fork working over the plate to dig into it. leaving you to hear him hum with delight at the taste. "dinner makes us even". 

another smile riding through to stretch over your lips. a comfortable wordless air settling over. quiet enough aside from the low ride of the music for cody to notice the wane of his headache. never afforded the grace of a full reprieve from such a pain but here, now, it's the dullest it's been for sometime. and he doesn't necessarily want to do the work of thinking over exactly what that means but he can feel the beginnings of that truth. in the heat of his cheeks and the ride up of a tingling over his spine.

"i feel like fixin the car up for me is the latest thing in a long like of things you've done for me", your plate set aside on the coffee table. glass in hand and trying your best to meet his eyes. "i might be cooking for you for a while to pay you back". 

"if it's anything like this, i'll be over here all the time". setting his plate down next to yours. turning to face you more. "for real though, whatever it is, i'm here. i got you". 

and he isn't sure what of what he said does it, but something flashes through the brown of your eyes. like the quick burning soar of a celestial body. working hot to cover the space of your memory before it disappears. your mouth sipping at your glass again. 

"how's your mom?"

a piece of his curiosity cody has held off on revealing for a while till now. 

"she's good". a neutral expression. a less rigid disposition even. "spoke to her maybe three or four weeks ago". 

"did you tell her about coming back home?"

"we spoke about it briefly", your thumb rubbing over the body of the wine glass. "she didn't have much to say about it". 

"m'glad you both found some footing with each other". 

"yeah", you nod. lost in thought. an arm bending to rest up on the couch. you head falling into your palm. "i think after everything with my dad, the door opened up some for us, but a lot of things for me just changed really quick". the music you have playing, a sweet addition to your voice. your eyes finally meeting him. sincerity blooming full but with a pace that notes the fragility of its unfurling. "we sorta, kinda, reconnected after dusty went, but i think after my pops died i understood you a lot more". eyes nearly nailing into him now. a quick difference from the timidity of them just moments prior. "being in new york, i was used to living alone but not feeling that way y'know? like in the back of my mind when he was alive i could eventually just come back home to him, to everything...", your voice dropping off. 

a heavy sigh he can only imagine the weight of. sipping from your wine and resting the glass down before you finish your thoughts. 

"...what i'm trying to say is...is that you understood me in a way that felt good. i didn't have to explain myself because you just knew what it meant to lose like that". 

his hand reaching to hold over yours. body shuffling against the soft leather of the couch to get closer. a comfort he can't afford to deny either of you. thumb circling the skin delicately. a faint touch that waits for acceptance. and when it comes the embrace of your hands are full and nearly overwhelming. fingers tangling as they curl over one another sweetly. 

"it goes both ways though", he gives. "thats why it's so easy to talk to you". a beat of silence. his words so far from a full admission of feeling but the affects of such a release tear through him all the same. heart stuttering and his belly twisting. his hand in yours still, playing aimlessly against the skin. eyes trailing over all the free space. "how you holdin up here on your own? is the house too big for you?" 

and cody only forgets he's without his leather at the feel of your hand trailing up his arm. over the ways of old tattoos and muscle. a faint squeeze to test the strength of it that he can just barely make out. as if to examine a particular quality he has yet to figure out. your thumb pressing into the inner fold of his elbow. "i think i just need to get used to it again. my apartment in new york was small, so it was fine being by myself". your eyes fall over him. warm from the yellow glow of the living room lamps. feeling them drift to his mouth before they return quickly to his own eyes. "it's just a lot of stuff attached to this place. i just need to readjust, but m'pretty used to living alone".

"that doesn't mean you like it", he says. enjoying the soft touches to his arm still. 

"very true".

"let me know though if that changes. we can always find something else for you". 

you smile. "look at you being all worried about me". squeezing his arm playfully before getting up to take the plates back to the kitchen. giving him a much needed cut in such thick aired tension. 

"ice cream?", you call out. 

dishes and utensils clattering in the background. 

he sighs. needing nothing else. "m'good thanks". waiting for your return to the couch. 

a bowl and a spoon in your hand as you pad softly over back to him. legs pressing into the couch as you go to sit with your legs folded under. "can i ask something?" your eyes curious. slipping over him with some hesitancy. 

"shoot". 

your hand plays with the scoop of the spoon, dipping in before you go to taste it. a silence as you so obviously string together words. gears turning. "at the end of last year, you told me you were seeing someone. what happened to her?" 

"why?" 

"you talked about her quite a bit, was just wondering". 

and never has the admission of anything been so burdensome till now. a weight atop his shoulders threatening to fall into his body till it flattened him. crushing bone and that faithful spirit of possibility. cody could live with what if's, could live in the terrible purgatory of maybe's and daydreams. he'd been doing so for sometime even. settling into a comfortability so stagnant that it left him statuesque. but the room is laden with a melodic tune still, the forever ache about his head nearly done away with and the memory of your easy touch playing over thought. maybe now is the time. as he's so terribly subdued by the moment. maybe now is the chance to tether together the words always left unsaid. 

"you want the truth?"

your eyes flit to him. these little flecks of weariness. "why wouldn't i?"

he sighs. ignoring the twist in his belly. "at the top of this year you asked me to make copies of the keys to here because you were seriously considering coming back to florida for good". 

"i hadn't fully decided yet though". 

"the fact that you considered it was enough for me". 

"i see". 

your eyes on the coffee table. forsaking him. or thats what it feels like at least. an awfulness biting into him slowly. ripping into the skin where his stomach lives. his ears warm, the heat feeding into his face till it rises in his cheeks. 

"listen", cody starts. looking to salvage what he can. "i didn't mean to-"

a sugary vanilla taste slipping over his mouth. your lips quite cold but sweet. the abrupt feel of them softer than imagined. the fulfillment of such imaginings only coming into a full registering once the thick heat of your thighs set over. an easy maneuver to straddle him. your palms at his cheeks and your lips firmer. his tongue licking in slow. savoring the milky taste. a moan breaking up quick, his fingers running beneath your shirt to curl lazily into supple skin. working as an extension of memory. using his touch as a tool to stain himself with everything of you. and God does it feel good. relief washing him whole. a good sort of creep in his spine as your nails run at the nape of his neck. 

his arms embrace you more. the simple hold of your hips slipping into a hug of your body that fastens you to him. another moan filling up his chest before it leaves him, loving the little pick and tug your teeth give his lip. 

a phone rings. stutters the momentum of passion. 

you groan annoyed. hiding your face in the dip of his neck. 

"i think that's you", cody says. palms feeling up on your skin still. working beneath your shirt. getting used to the tenderness. 

you lift up from him. reaching for your phone to tug it out of your back pocket, answering quickly.

"hello", you give. "hello?" your eyes rolling as you end the call. "so damn annoying", you gripe. pulling away from him to sit back against the couch. 

his curiosity piqued. "whats the number?" 

"it's blocked". setting the phone down. mildly irritated. "thats the third time thats happened though". 

it's hard, not to immediately think the worst. "when was the last time?"

"on my lunch break the other day-"

"what day?"

the sudden inquisition of it all gets to you, but it all feels too convenient not to question. 

"i don't know cody", rubbing your hands over your eyes. "monday". 

another ring. clashing terribly against the mellow drive of the music you have going. whatever residuals of intimacy that still lived in the air, now done away with. this time the call blaring from his phone. a shrill noise that brings back the throb of his head ache. he answers quickly, standing from the couch and making way to the living room windows. a peak between the blinds to scope out for anything oddly placed. 

"dean", he gives into his phone. 

"cody quick question". the noise of paper flipping in the background over dean's voice. "i just turned down service on a chevy malibu, the plates looked phony as hell and the girl was being a bit of a weirdo when i asked for the vin. you work on any red chevy's lately?" 

"not that i can remember. you get the plate number by chance?"

"yeah, it was C47-6BQ". 

we gonna stop it there but yeah, the drama is gearing up. some roman next chapter i promise!

[locuas642]

shadow of the erdtree

On a mechanical level, the DLC for Elden Ring is excellent. it delivers beyond what normally would be expected from such a thing. In fact, it's a flat-out Expansion.

there are more items and weapons, many of which enrichen the game and allows for further experimentation and exploration of the mechanics.

New enemies and bosses that, like it or not, are made with the mindset that the people who enter the DLC are late-to-endgame high-level players who have enough love for this type of games that they want to enjoy a new challenge. And in that sense, the game delivers and delivers hard.

A New massive area that challenges the player to explore and find it's secrets, sometimes hard to discover the path to a certain area, but with a world that is never empty. and the new Field Dungeons are each so damn big with new puzzles and new enemies and new bosses in them. Each field dungeon is at least as big as some of the biggest field dungeons in the base-game, and many have their own personality on top.

the controversial part, however, is the plot and the Lore reveals that come with it. With people feeling it is bad, that it didn't really add, that it ruined certain things or made things too complicated. and also that it did not expand enough on the new things added and other things.

Now, I disagree with the most negative takes on this lore. That it is bad, that it reads like fan-fic, that it ruins the characters. I think the overall additions to the lore are great, particularly with the feeling that everything in the Land of Shadow are things that were forgotten or erased from the history of The Lands Between. I think that, in the long-term, people will be more positive on all these lore reveals, particularly when they are put into a greater analysis.

If I have a criticism, it's more on terms of presentation of the story. It's the typical stuff. Messmer's dialogue is limited to when you encounter him. there is a boss that would have been cool to at least have them say a word. There are reveals that exist exclusively in the item descriptions. These are, of course, intentional, because FromSoftware likes to force you to make your own readings of the characters. It will tell you some basic ideas about Messmer, but the details (like wether he was from the Godfrey lineage, that he Malenia and Miquella were tripets or, in fact, if he is from a different parentage entirely) and leave it up to your interpretation.

Not Theorize, because Theorizing implies there is a mystery to be solved. There is none, only the text to be read.

I feel the beginning of things, the DLC could have done more to set the stage of the story and give us motivation to move in that direction. As it stands, it feels we are doing the Story because we, as players, know thats where the content is, than we feeling motivated as characters to see it through.

The Messmer Fight Fucking Slaps however

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 18 – CREATURE FIC

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT: newtypeshadow

The sheer amount of creativity in newtypeshadow's fantasy universes is really impressive. I love all of the different types of magic and creatures that they explore, and the world building is off the charts. Plus, the way they write Bucky, Tony and Steve is just lovely, in any constellation they come in.

Here's some of their work that I think you should check out:

The Werewolf, the Witch and the Vampire

Pairing: Steve/Bucky/Tony Rating: T Words: 2,297 Tags: Urban Fantasy, Getting Together, Protectiveness

Summary: Whoever had broken into Bucky and Steve's backwoods cabin had used a key, Bucky's favorite mug, and was now sleeping in their bed. "This is feeling very Goldilocks, isn't it?" Bucky said.

Reasons why I love it: All of the dialogue in this is super fun and engaging. And the action towards the end even more so. I love the descriptions of Bucky's shifted form, and Tony's magic is super intriguing. I feel like I could read entire books about this 'verse and still not get enough. This fic is wonderful, and you should definitely read it!

Adventures in “Catsitting”

Pairing: Bucky/Tony/Winter Rating: T Words: 2,898 Tags: Symbiote Winter, Pranks, Fluff and Humor

Summary: Tony is stuck in flerken shape at the Tower, in the dubious care of Clint Barton—the Avenger who constantly mocks him for being an adorable little house cat. At least with the pet buttons Bucky programmed for him, Tony can tell Clint to knock it off. The problem is whether Clint will actually listen.

Reasons why I love it: Oh god, Clint truly has a death wish, pissing off the resident flerken. Not to mention the symbiote (and can I just say what a fucking cool concept Winter the Symbiote is? Because it's awesome). This fic is hilarious, and I hope you give it a read!

Little Red Running Witch and the Big White Wolf

Pairing: Bucky/Tony, Steve/Peggy Rating: T Words: 2,569 Tags: Werewolves, Hurt/Comfort, Soulmates

Summary: Tony, an unschooled witch, has fled from Ty, his sorcerer captor, only to attract the attention of a big white wolf. If the wolf catches Tony, he's dead. If Ty catches Tony, he won't be that lucky.

Reasons why I love it: There's so much to like about this one – suspense, action, BAMF Peggy, werewolf mates, Ty getting his comeuppance, it's all great. I love the hopeful ending, and protective Bucky is always a treat, especially when he's all wolfy and growly. Definitely give this one a read, if you haven't already!

Happiness: A Song in Three Parts

Pairing: Steve/Bucky/Tony Rating: T Words: 3,166 Tags: Soulmates, Kidnapping, Sharing a Bed

Summary: Tony's just a kid when he first hears the music. He's human, no one knows werewolves exist yet, and there's no sexy beefcake couple Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes coming out as werewolves and giving interviews to the press to explain the melody Tony heard sporadically during childhood is what werewolves—and the human mates of werewolves—hear when their soulmate is within a few miles of them. By the time he finds out what the music means, he hasn't heard a note in years. And when he finally hears it again, he's busy running for his life.

Reasons why I love it: Aaah, soulmates just warm my heart. I love the concept of a soul song, and the fact that Tony was already fantasizing about Bucky and Steve before ever meeting them is so cute. Plus, who doesn't like Bucky and Steve getting all protective over Tony? This fic is lovely, and you should definitely read it!

He kindly stopped for me

Pairing: Bucky/Tony Rating: M Words: 2,789 Tags: Rescue, Wolf Bucky, Flirting

Summary: When Tony magically summons help to save himself from spider-goblins, he has no idea the "help" that comes will bring him face to pretty face with death.

Reasons why I love it: Oh my god, the world building in this is fantastic. I'd love to know more about the Death beasts and how the whole magic system works, it's so intriguing. And of course, the Winteriron romance is absolutely wonderful. I love this fic, and I bet you will too, so go ahead and give it a shot!

[viridianfurn]

So I've been workin a lil somethin. It started out as a DnD character backstory, but it kinda took on a life of its own. I now have over 20 pages of disjointed plot points, interactions, dialogue, and world building of what is essentially shaping up to be a short(?) story. I maybe wanna make a comic/webtoon type thing out of it?? I think that'd be really cool but its for sure no easy task. But let me know if you find it interesting, my motivation highkey thrives off of praise lol

Read below the cut for info about his background and a snippet of his first encounter with his Patron!

This is Reiss Fairgrey, also known as Grey. He starts off as just a guy trying to survive living in poverty in the slums of Port Tae'ul. Since he was 13 he's lived with his younger sister Launa, and 2 other boys who'd been on the streets; Yu (the absolute love of his life, their relationship is a big part of my story) and his kid brother Nao. Things haven't been good lately and he's desperate to find a way out of their situation, when he encounters a strange fey-like entity offering him a deal...

“You go search for a way to free this one's spirit from being bound to this place, and in return you may claim power to elevate your status and protect you and yours."

TW: descriptions of gore

"Excellent," a wry smile curves upon the entity's lips, "then the deal is made." Suddenly Reiss is spitting up… blood? No, acid? Something. Something that burns as it bubbles up from within. He falls, bracing himself on the ground coughing up a large amount, but it keeps coming. He leans back on his heels and turns his head up towards the darkening sky, as though he could swallow it back like bile, but it remains relentless. It leaks from his mouth, traces down his neck in various streams, pools in the hollows of collarbones. When the liquid makes it to his chest, it begins to move of its own accord, toward the place over his heart. It traces along in a swirling pattern, forming a brand. When the design is complete a glow radiates from it and with this light a new agony tears through his chest. Reiss screams in distress but the substance filling his throat blocks the sound. His eyes roll back and Reiss collapses.  When he wakes, he can see the sun barely cresting the horizon. His stomach, throat, face, it all feels like hell. The ribbons of gore on his upper chest were sticky and steadily oozing blood. Tender, and fleshy, like when you prematurely rip off a scab. He was weak, and struggled to roll over and push himself up on his knees.  “Ohoho, you live?” the spirit mused. Reiss looked up, the entity had been waiting up on a branch in the tree, reclining against the trunk. The sight of them behaving nonchalant fills Reiss with indignation.  “Shit man what the hell?!” upon speaking Reiss gasps in pain, his voice is hoarse. Usable, but his throat is undoubtedly damaged. “You didn’t mention this in your fucking deal!” he chokes out.  “A small price to pay little slum-dweller. With that brand, you’ll be able to cast magic you’d never be able to otherwise.”  “Fuck you dude, you coulda at least warned me! Ugh, hrk!” “Now now, calm yourself, this one does not care for your howling and your injuries probably care for it even less.” “What was the damn point of this?!” The spirit rolled their eyes, “Hmph, this one does not like repeating things, so listen this time. The mark is a crucial part of our agreement, it acts as a medium. Through it, you will be given magic capabilities.” “Like, already?”  “That’s right! And you’ll only grow more powerful as time goes on.” The spirit dissipates into a mist then re-materializes to crouch beside him, and Reiss falls back, startled. The spirit reaches out and grabs him by the arm, hauling him to his feet.  “Come now, give it a try will you?” The entity clasps its hands together in excitement. “Focus on something in the distance and gather energy in your palm. then, imagine it shooting forth towards your taget. This spell is called Eldritch Blast and it will prove to be one of your most useful abilities.”  “Whaddya mean by gather energy? I just gotta put my hand out like this?” He jests, but by focusing even a little, a ball of magic forms and blasts forward into the woods striking a tree in the distance. He can see even from here, it’s not enough to take the tree down but he’d clearly carved a mass out of the trunk. “Woah…”  “Wow, I’m actually quite surprised, little slum-dweller! You have a more natural inclination for this than the previous contractee.”  “Quit calling me slum-dweller.”  “Hmm fine, little Fairgrey.”  “I didn’t tell you…how do you know my name?”  “This one knew, before you even stepped on this hill, who you were little Fairgrey.” That’s… suspicious, Reiss thought. But then, maybe it's magic? I don’t know what kind of powers they have… “Can we drop the “little” part?”  “Afraid not, that would be rather confusing for this one."