#Broken Road Productions

[lqveharrington]

Just One Smile | F.W.

summary: fred weasley was always trying to see you smile. even for just a second.

pairing: fred weasley x malfoy!reader

includes: imprisonment, draco going through hardships, crying, cursing, small bit of angst, mainly fluff, fred being the best boyfriend, kissing

a/n: i’m so busy for the next couple of months 😭

When you graduated Hogwarts, the last thing on your mind was your father’s imprisonment. You knew he was doing horrible things for the Dark Lord and he got the strict punishment for it. However, you were not onboard when they suddenly chose Draco to replace your father. Draco was merely sixteen when your aunt suggested he become a Deatheater.

You were heartbroken at the development — even more so when Draco came to your room and cried in your arms right after he received his Dark Mark. He said it burned.

Unfortunately, the visit to Diagon Alley — the one place you and Draco loved to visit — wasn’t any better.

Many shops you used to enjoy as a kid had closed and the only lively place was Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Everything else seemed ransacked or broken into, and it terrified you. The impending war already began and you knew it would be for the worse. Even Narcissa Malfoy found herself holding her children’s hands tightly when they entered Borgin and Burkes.

The Deatheaters were to give Draco his task regarding the Vanishing Cabinet, but you simply couldn’t bear the thought of your baby brother being broken down into pieces of the boy he once was — it was torture. Before anyone else could regard your presence, you slipped out of Knockturn Alley and hid in the shadows of Diagon Ally.

You tipped your head back on the brick wall and simply existed. You listened to the soft wind blowing through the broken signs and the clacking of hurried feet across the bricked road. Your eyes were shut as you thumbed the engravings of three simply words on your necklace before releasing a tired sigh.

With your father in Azkaban and your mother in shambles about the entire situation, you were in charge of caring for Draco — and Merlin knows that boy could be stubborn. All you wanted to do was run away from the mess the Dark Lord created and completely leave the wizarding world, but you could never do that to your mother and brother. You could never leave him.

Taking another shaky breath, you composed yourself and entered Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. You prayed that the store would ease — distract — your mind for at least a few minutes before your mother would come find you.

And distract it did.

There were fireworks going off at every corner and the displays were so colorful you swore you were in a children’s coloring book. There were little kids running around moving staircases leading up further into the store and students testing out products that would surely get them out of class.

You only just missed a Gryffindor trying out a portable swamp. You would’ve thrown a fit if the muck got on your clothing — your aunt Andromeda gifted you the black dress for your birthday.

Tucking a strand of your platinum blonde hair behind your ear, you snuck past the love potion display and headed up the stairs, gaze glued onto a product you were a victim to many times.

Flashback: Year 3

“Why do you spend all your time trying to impress Malfoy? You know their entire family hates us.” George rested his head against his palm as he watched his twin set up an elaborate prank down the end of the dungeon hall. “More importantly, she hates you.”

“She does not!” Fred protested and settled beside him, string wrapped around one hand on his. “Besides, I just want to see one tiny little smile from her — that’s all.”

George rolled his eyes and patted his brother on the back, “Whatever you say, Freddie.”

He knew that setting dungbombs on you was not going to make you happy, but George wanted to see his twin crash and burn after your wrath. It was truly going to be a sight to see; The Slytherin Princess cursing out the Joker of Gryffindor.

Fred shoved a hand to his brother’s shoulder before peering over the half wall to spy on the students leaving the Slytherin common room. It took him weeks to memorize your schedule, and he knew Fridays were the days you would head out to the Black Lake to read.

Why willing spend your free time reading when you could do anything else? We go to a magic school, for Godric’s sake. Fred thought before shaking it off, eyes locked on your approaching figure.

Unfortunately, Frederick Gideon Weasley was about to catch you after the worst week of your life.

You were walking with your godfather when a fog of green consumed your every being. A horrid stench filled the air as you began to wave your hand in front of you face, eyes watering from how pungent the scent was. The green muck colored your blonde hair and your perfectly pressed clothes were wrinkled from how abrupt the attack was.

Snape waved his wand over the hall and scanned the growing crowd of students, piercing eyes scouring for guilty faces before scoffing. He pulled you with him and headed straight for the horrified twins he found hiding behind the stone wall.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor. Each." He glared at the Weasley boys and confiscated Fred's leftover dungbombs. "I will be owling your mother and Professor McGonagall will determine your punishments. For now, I expect you both to apologize to Miss Malfoy this instant."

You looked away from the red-haired boys, refusing to show how vulnerable you were at the moment. You were supposed to be composed and poised, but they always made your life difficult. Perhaps your father truly was right about them.

George apologized quite quickly — he knew he wasn't at fault here. On the other hand, Fred ran his fingers through his hair and met your eyes, his own widening at how cold they were. You were on the verge of tears, yet you looked like you were going to murder him.

"I'm so sorry, Malfoy. I didn't mean to—"

You shook your head and pointed a manicured nail to his chest, your grey eyes practically red. "Stay away from me, Weasley. I don't know what you and your brother have against me, but I swear to Merlin this is the very last time you prank me or my father gets your muggle obsessed father fired."

Leaving a gaping Fred and George, you whipped around toward the Slytherin common room and stayed there for the rest of the day. Snape rolled his eyes at the two boys before taking his own leave — presumably to McGonagall's office.

"Bloody hell." George rubbed his face and shook his head, eyeing his brother. He didn't know what he was thinking, but the stupid look on his face meant another stupid idea. And their pranks were rarely stupid. "What are you thinking about now?"

"How to apologize correctly."

End of Flashback

Shaking your head at the memory, you placed the colorful box of dungbombs back on the shelf and wandered across toward the stained glass window. The colors reflected their logo — purples, yellows, and oranges sticking out compared to the darkness of the current state of Diagon Alley.

More students ran behind you as they chased one another with fireworks, their shouts occupying the space. One student grabbed a Pygmy Puff and rested it on their shoulder, smiling brightly at the pink creature before running after the rest of the students.

You smiled at how joyful it truly was in this store. No matter who walked into the store, you were sure a smile instantly appeared on their faces. Turning your attention back toward the beautiful window, you noted the different shapes taking place.

Your finger traced the intricate details on the colored window, smiling at the stars decorating the edges of the logo. The stars were so messy compared to the rest of the window and you knew it was his personal touch to the logo. Especially the oh-so familiar constellation your middle name came from.

Flashback: Year 6

The Yule Ball was as entertaining as Professor Kettleburn teaching about Flobberworms. Intriguing at first but boring by the time you got to handle the actual event itself. You didn't even have a proper date because Draco or your father didn't approve of any of the men asking you. Instead, you went with a family friend from Durmstrang. But it couldn't be worse than Draco's date. He ended up taking Pansy Parkinson because he was so invested in all the different men asking you he forgot about his own date.

How pathetic.

By the end of the Yule Ball, you were already long gone. You found yourself climbing the stairs to the astronomy tower and clinging to your shawl at how frigid the air was when you made it to the top. Luckily, the sky was perfectly clear — just how you liked it when you wanted to find constellations.

You always made it your job to find your family's stars and constellations whenever you had the time, and tonight was no different. Instantly, you found aunt Andromeda's constellation, aunt Bellatrix's star, uncle Sirius' and uncle Regulus' bright stars, and your own constellation.

Right as you found your brother's dragon, you picked up on heavy footfalls ascending that staircase. You pulled your wand out only to find yourself releasing a breath of relief. If it were anyone else climbing those stairs, they would have found themselves stuck up here until someone came to counter the binding curse.

"You looked quite happy with your date." You murmured and wrapped your fingers around your necklace, allowing him to join you on your right. "Angelina Johnson?"

He hummed and looked up at the stars, "She thought I was Georgie when I asked her. Granted, I didn't think she would go with me."

"Mhm." You tilt your head to the left and gaze at his face, his features practically glowing underneath the night sky. "Did you want to ask her? To be your date, I mean."

Fred crossed his arms over the railing and met your curious stare, biting back a smile at how gorgeous you were when you didn't have to uphold your family's status. "No."

"No?"

"No." He cleared his throat and conjured a piece of parchment with a wave of his wand, unfolding the crinkled note. "I wanted to ask my dear girlfriend to the ball, but it seemed like her brother was out to get every male she encountered."

You rolled your eyes and rested your head in your palm, tucking a loose piece of blond hair behind your ear. Draco was out to get everyone for the last two months and you were glad he nor your father knew about you and Fred. It would cause an uproar between both families.

"What's that?" You gestured to the parchment in his hand, eyes gleaming with curiosity when he handed it to you. On the inside of the note, there was a messy drawing of the Lyra constellation. Each star did not look like a star, but you appreciated the effort. "When did you make this, Weasley?"

"Meant to give it to you with your Christmas Present." Fred shifted around his spot to lean back on the railing instead, keeping you in his eye line. He narrowed his eyes when you cracked the smallest smile, "What are you laughing for?"

"M'not laughing." You tuck the parchment away and school your expression. "It's just... Your stars aren't stars."

He gasped and clutched his heart in a dramatic fashion, making it seem like he was about to fall off the tower. "You wound me, princess. I worked hard on making that drawing for you."

"Well, I love it either way." You pat his chest and melt in his arms when he pulls you in, his lips kissing your forehead in an affectionate manner you were never used to. "Maybe I should put you up for drawing lessons if your Weasley products are coming out of your designs."

"George designs all our products," He countered and thumbed your green dress, the silk touch rival to the softness of your hands. "I'm merely the genius behind all charms and potions."

You hum and lace your hand with a free one of his, letting him sway the both of you to the nonexistent music. You weren't exactly sure when you stopped loathing Fred after his horrid pranks toward you, but you wouldn't change the outcome. Sure, you had to hide your entire relationship from everyone — everyone except George — but you were sure it was going to be alright eventually.

"I expect to see that brilliant mind of your displayed in a store then."

"Expect it soon." He grinned and leaned down to capture your waiting lips. "Our shop will be displayed for everyone to see, even your dear father and brother."

End of Flashback

You were so enthralled by the added constellation that you didn't notice the looming presence behind you until a voice spoke up, spooking you. Your heart was racing when you heard your name fall from the person's lips only to find the person you hadn't seen in months.

"I've been waiting for you to visit, princess." Fred crossed his arms and leaned on the shelf beside him, waving his hand to redirect a staircase toward the other side of the room, leaving the both of you isolated on a small platform of the store. "How are you feeling?"

"So tired." You whispered before wrapping yourself in his familiar hold, burying your head in his chest. "Nothing good has happened since you left, Freddie."

"I heard about your father." He murmured and ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm sorry."

You scoffed and shook your head, eyes drawn to his crooked lapels. Straightening out his suit, you smoothed your hand over the front and curled your other hand lightly around his mustard colored tie. Despite everything going on, you attention to detail was always on. "Don't be, he deserved what was coming for him. I'm more worried about mother and Draco."

Fred nodded and scanned over your face. It was rare for him to ever worry about you — you were always so independent — but right now, you needed all the love an reassurance. He could see all the stress taking a toll on you. The makeup you wore did little to conceal the dark spots underneath your eyes. Most likely, you were in charge at home. With Lucius in jail and Narcissa worrying about her baby boy and husband, you had to handle all other affairs.

"Do you need a second away from all the chaos?" He gestured to the office a few steps away, lacing his hand with yours. "I can take a short break to hang around."

"I just needed a second away from the impending war outside." You muttered and flattened your hand over his heart, counting the beats per minute. "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes does help distract the mind."

"It does." He smiled down at you, earning a weak grin back. "Oh, come on. Let me see a big smile."

"I don't have one in me." You sigh. No matter what you did, the happy memories you had locked away in your mind wasn't enough to conjure a pure smile. You don't think it would be enough to even create a simple Patronus.

Fred kissed the back of your hand and watched your eyes light up at the simple gesture. "Just one smile, princess."

"Fred—"

"Please? I want to see if the former Slytherin Princess can still smile for the former Gryffindor Joker. Even for a split second." He murmured, pulling you closer to him until there was no room for movement. Tilting his head down to accommodate your height, he met your glossy eyes. "What?"

"I missed you." You admit and peck the corner of his lips. "Nothing at home can ever replace the feeling I get when I'm with you..."

"I think you missed." Fred tapped his lips with a singular finger, a mischievous grin replacing his innocent smile.

No matter your shared history with him, he would always be the prankster you met your first year. The same person your father warned you about since your birth. The memory of him pranking you in his third year haunted Fred like a ghost, but his apology made those ghosts disappear and hopefully — even if he didn't know the extent of your home life — he could make your ghosts disappear.

You narrow your eyes but make no move to correct your miscalculation, teasing him ever so slightly. "I don't make mistakes, Weasley."

"Sure, you don't." He dipped you and captured your soft lips with his, catching you by surprise. Hell, he even swallowed your gasp before you allowed yourself to get lost in his gesture. When he pulled away, he caught your bashful smile and tinted cheeks. "There we are."

"I feel like you broke some company conduct, Weasley." You put a hand over your mouth like you committed a crime, cheeks reddening by the second.

He shrugged, "I own the company."

"Fred." You gently smack his chest, earning a chuckle from him. Glancing at the huge clock behind him — each character that was displayed on the numbers representing a person in the Weasley family — you silently curse and separate from him, leaving one last kiss to his lips. "I have to go before mother realizes I completely left her side."

"Owl me when you can, princess." He squeezed your hand and sent you one last smile before you wandered out of the store.

Fred Weasley may have been an enemy from the beginning, but he was everything you could ever hope for. Especially when he could get a simple smile to grace your lips despite everything you have ever been through.

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[ruesol]

ex-convict!Sukuna drops whatever he’s doing (killing a man) and runs to you after you text him for some much needed comfort.

(part of my ex-convict!Sukuna x academically burnt out reader series.)

cw: fem/afab reader, explicit sexual content, stiff sex talk, slight dom behavior on Sukuna’s part, and of course, attempted murder

——

Sukuna’s knuckles ache because of the force he just put on them.

The man in front of Sukuna looks haggard, blood dripping out his mouth and pooling on the cool, wet tar. Sukuna’s jeep is still parked out back, and in it was the money he had brought for the exchange of a particular package.

“Fucking hell,” the man groaned as he used his elbows to to lift his torso off the ground. “Still didn’t think you had it in you, Ryomen.”

Pathetic. Even with an almost broken nose and bruised eye, his opponent found some repulsive thrill in mocking Sukuna.

“You said you’d give me what I needed if I had the money. Why’d you try to pick a fight instead?” Sukuna walked over to the man, gun in hand as he clicked it. “I thought I told you I didn’t want any funny business. Got locked up once already and I’m not afraid to do it again.”

The man’s elbows trembled as he tried his best to summon up whatever pride he had left after getting beaten up by his former accomplice. “Shoot me. You know shit won’t end well for you even when you’re locked up. I’ve got people everywhere,” he chuckled, spraying blood on Sukuna’s boots that were now face to face with him.

Sukuna kneels down on one knee and cocks the gun in the middle of the man’s forehead. “You have some nerve to be talking up a storm right now.”

“Just get it over with, Ryomen,” the man barked.

Sukuna pushes the barrel onto the man’s forehead, making him hiss when the gunpowder makes contact with his skin. “Fine,”

His finger presses against the trigger and—

Vibrations. His phone vibrates in the loose pocket of his jacket. His victim looks confused. “Chickening out alread—“

Sukuna hits the man’s temple with the gun. That’ll knock him out for a while. He fishes his phone out and his heart lurches when he sees that it’s a couple texts from you.

come over. Right now

Please

His heart and mind conflict again. On one hand, he has to finish his pathetic job and on the other hand, you’re waiting for him at your apartment.

All soft, and probably teary like you usually are.

And forget the word ‘please,’ you never texted more than two words to him. Ever. It was always either “your place” or “not today.”

Sukuna stares at the passed out man on the road and debates on whether he should throw him into the woods or just leave him be.

In the end, he decided that he’d just leave the man be. They were in the middle of nowhere anyway and cops didn’t patrol the area as often. And even if they do find him, it’s not like they’ll get involved anyway—the giant tattoo on his arm was enough to prove that his condition was a product of gang violence.

Well, that, and you were a little impatient (as much as you never admitted to it.)

His friend called him smart—using a young and insecure college girl for ‘pussy’ (as he put it.)

But deep down inside, he knew it was more than that. His vehement heart gushed when he’d see you cling to him with tears in your eyes, body soft and warm for the taking and heart broken beyond compare.

The fact that you needed him to stabilize your mind spoke volumes to him. It reminds him that you wanted him in your life as much as he did you.

Though his desperation wasn’t as veiled as yours. You were quick to push him away after you’d get what you needed.

His truck juxtaposed with the other much smaller cars at the guest lot at your apartment complex; just like in reality, where he starkly stood out wherever he went. Shoulders too broad, height too towering, and face too rugged with scars and tattoos. The universe’s spotlight shines on him every time he makes a move.

Sukuna takes a gulp of water from the crinkly plastic bottle in his cup holder and swishes it around in his mouth so he could clean up the taste of blood. He walks over to a nearby bush and spits it out. Viscous carmine smears the myrtle leaves, weighing them down as each drop of blood drips into sod.

After getting into your apartment building’s elevator and pressing the button for your floor, he wipes his mouth one last time while staring at his blurred reflection on the dirty mirror wall to get rid of the wetness left behind.

He lives life in segments. There was before you—jail, during you—the arrangement you both have now, and maybe, if he fucks up or goes back to jail—after you.

He didn’t want to imagine what that would be like. In his mind, your existence was hauntingly infinite, reaching into his brain’s every crevice and immersing it in your scent.

Maybe it’s because he’s had to rely on his senses to navigate difficult situations for a long time, but he feels like he can smell traces of you as soon as he reaches your door. His cock aches against his jeans when he’s reminded that your shampoo still lingers on his pillow.

And how he touches himself to it at night.

He doesn’t knock and only sends you a text that he’s standing right outside.

You open the door a moment later, with your hair a mess and your T-shirt a size too big for you.

The picture of Sailor Moon on it rids him of vestigial jealousy because now he knows that it doesn’t belong to another man.

Your eyes are glassy and your face is swollen. If you didn’t shut him out as often he would’ve asked you what happened. But all he can reckon is that something or someone must’ve hurt you badly enough to call him to your apartment for the first time.

You wear your heart on your sleeve but you never speak out the words to Sukuna. But that’s enough for him. A temporary salve for the perpetual ache in the core of his chest.

He digs his blunt fingers into his palm to rid himself of the itch to comfort you by holding your waist and stroking your hair.

Your gaze falls onto his mouth, making your shoulders tense up and your lips press into a line. Silent judgement. “Is that blood?”

“Uhh..” He wipes whatever remnants of dried blood he had on his mouth and dusts his hands on his thighs. “Do you care?”

“Not really.”

“Good.” He doesn’t want your thoughts to linger on its cause so he grabs the back of your neck and slots his mouth against yours.

His teeth ache at your sweetness even when he can taste the strong mint left behind by your toothpaste. ‘Cute,’ he thinks. You were preparing for him.

His tongue prods open your lips, running it along your tongue and the hollow of your mouth. Saliva drips down both your chins as he pushes you into your apartment and slams the door shut with a kick from his steel-toed boot.

His sloppy kisses swallow your groan as you fist his faded denim jacket and press your chest against his, only the thin barrier of your T-shirt standing between your bare breasts and his warm body.

He’s quick to slam your back to a wall, and when he finally pulls away to catch his breath, you see the ravenous look in his eyes, black void replacing red irises.

His hand trails down to the hem of your T-shirt, and rucks it up to your collar.

And for a moment, he simply stares at your semi-bare body. Tits flushed and nipples hardening with every passing second, panties dampened and inviting, and your scent—

So saccharine and musky.

“Up,” he orders. You gulp and diligently raise your hands, and he pulls your T-shirt off in one swift movement, discarding it in some random corner of your studio apartment.

He doesn’t even hear the ruffle of the fabric landing because the roaring of blood in his ears renders him selectively deaf—the only sounds he can hear are the slick movements of your tongue nervously stroking your bottom lip and your heavy breathing. His dick is painfully hard, and the sight of you only makes his patience edge closer to splintering.

His heady gaze moves from your breasts to your eyes and you immediately look away. Almost like you’re afraid he’ll see past the lust and know why you called him out of nowhere. Especially since your meetups were usually calculated.

A day after a bad exam.

Right after a study session with your judgemental friends.

Or right before an important quiz.

But this was out of the ordinary. He’d mull over it later. His dick was starting to take over his brain.

His large, calloused hand grasped your neck and lightly applied pressure to the column of your throat as he kissed you once again. This time, dragging his tongue along the outline of your bottom lip before pulling away.

He drags a single hand down your neck, to your sternum and at last, rests it on top of your clothed mons. The hand that was choking you groped your breast, thumb brushing against your nipple as he buries his nose in your neck and takes a deep whiff.

Your underwear isn’t that special—it’s just a random white pair that had been sitting in your unkempt closet, but to him, it felt like an invitation to stain it with his spend. He made a mental note to secretly snag it on his way out. The smell of your shampoo on his pillow was dwindling into nothingness anyway.

Sukuna’s fingers inched down to the damp gusset, pressing on your covered clit, making you gasp and grind slowly against his thick fingers. “Let’s go to my bed,” you huffed out with a frown.

He moved away from your neck, resting his nose against yours. “Not yet. I wanna do something first.” The metallic notes in his breath make you scrunch your nose.

Syzygy. He blocks out the dim cloudy afternoon glow in your room with the vastness of his shoulders. A behemoth in presence and practice.

Sukuna kisses your lips and then begins to trail his mouth down your body, branding plum-colored stains onto your neck and breasts. His tongue finds your nipple and his incisors lightly nip it before he gives it a hard suck, making your hands immediately move from his shoulders into his hair.

He grunts when you tug his hair to get his attention. “What are you doing? Let’s just fuck and get it over with.”

Foreplay wasn’t a common practice between you two. And even if one of you did initiate it, it wasn’t anything more than a light make out session.

Your usual hookups would start with a few tongue kisses, followed by fingering so you could take his girthy cock in your sore pussy, and then a quick “I’ll text you later” from you before both of you went your own ways.

You never gave him head and neither did he you. You weren’t there to enjoy, just get your fill and go. The painful stretch of his cock opening up your pussy was enough to make you temporarily forget about your perpetual worries.

You mewl when he slaps your clothed pussy. “I’ll give you what you want if you let me take what I need.”

It’s a demand. More predatory than imperative.

He hisses when you lightly tug his hair before answering, “fine.”

Without breaking eye contact, he gets down on his knees and tightly grasps your thigh in his large mit, fingers digging into the muscle and fat. He slots his mouth against the soft flesh of your inner thigh and you bite your lip.

The tip of his tongue darts out to lick all the way to the crux of your pelvis and rests it against your clothed cunt before situating your thigh on his shoulder, sodden pussy basically pushed to his mouth because of the force.

His eyes roll to the back of his head when the scent of your arousal engulfs him. He sucks the fabric of your panties, priming his tongue with your juices as his fingers undulate your ass.

“At least take them off first—fuck,” you groaned out. He doesn’t listen, though. Instead, he only sucks harder, tongue directly prodding at where your swollen clit is.

Sukuna was never a vocal man but the sounds escaping him sounded like they came from the depths of his carnal desire for your pussy. His groans reverberate through you as your head leans back against the wall, trying to find some stability as he takes you to the edge and brings you back over and and over again.

After what seems like forever (to you), Sukuna slots two fingers down the front of your panties and yanks the flimsy fabric down. And without much warning, he splits your pussy lips with thick fingers and licks up a stripe from your slick hole to your glistening clit. His tongue circled around your hole, licking away whatever arousal dripped out.

His fingers soon replaced his tongue, prepping you to take his cock soon. You could never get used to the feeling of his hefty middle and ring fingers inside your cunt. They were always too rough and long, reaching into the parts of your body that your smaller and daintier fingers couldn’t.

His tongue laps at your sensitive nub, kissing it at unexpected intervals before harshly sucking it again like he did with your nipple. His fingers curl when he finds the spot that makes you sing, and your teeth let go of your lips as your body tenses when the wave of an onset orgasm washes over you.

The knot in your core, snaps and you cry out your release as you roughly pull at his disheveled pink locks.

Your limbs shiver, making Sukuna only hold you tighter so you wouldn’t collapse. “I’ve come, that’s enough,” you rasp out through deep breaths.

But his obstinate self did not listen to you. At your cries, he pulls out his fingers, but continues licking and making out with your pussy, eating you out more for his pleasure than yours.

“Please, I’m really sensitive. Just—just fuck me already,” you groan.

He knows you want him gone. He knows that he’s made you feel good enough to the point where now you need him to come.

Something grotesque in him grins at the thought of ruining any man that comes after him in your life.

Not that it’ll ever happen, though. He’ll make sure of it no matter what.

You didn’t know it, but you were always going to be his girl. Even before you two had met. Life had been pushing you around for this very moment—where he’d take you and keep you for himself forever.

Everything about the situation is so perfect. You’re bare, limp and needy, and he’s clothed, has all the power and is the only man you’ll ever need.

When he stands up, you realize how much he holds over you with his figure. Strength in one of his hands alone renders you weak against him. With his eyes trained on yours, he drags his hands from your ass to the back of your thighs and hoists you up, resting your spine against the cold cemented wall once again.

He unzips his pants and pulls down his boxers, precome already staining them. He’s painfully hard and hisses when he pushes his stiff cock against your hole, notching his leaking head at your entrance.

Alarmed, you gaze up at him with furrowed brows and swollen lips. “What about the bed?”

“Too impatient. I’ll fuck you there later.”

Later.

Later never happened with you two. It was always strictly whatever you wanted. You dictated how many times you wanted to go. You always had all the control, and now, he was slowly pulling it out of your timid grasp.

Before you can ask him about his implication, he pushes himself into your quim completely, hissing at the tight muscle contracting around his length. You yowl as your hands wrap around his shoulders and the back of your head tips against the wall.

“Shit,” he mumbles into your neck.

“Just move and finish up,” you whisper, still breathing hard.

“No,” he’s quick to interject.

“No?” The stretch of your hole around his cock makes each second feel like agony. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“Look me in the eye when I fuck you,” he dictates against your lips.

“Will you go after that?”

“Do you want my cock or not?”

When he pulls away, he waits for your eyes to meet his.

And when they do, he slowly pushes himself into you, your chest coming close enough for your breasts to press flat against his pecs.

You try not to think about why he suggested so in the first place.

It’s almost as if he feels rejuvenated after looking into your eyes, even when your breasts deliciously bounce as his hips pick up speed as his balls slap against your skin. Your walls clench tighter and tighter as he bullies his cock into you over and over again, precome priming you for his final spend.

Fat droplets of tears roll down your cheeks and he kisses them away before they can reach your jaw and roll down your neck. He licks a lone tear and savors the saltiness. You’re everywhere: on his mouth, skin, cock, and mind.

Infinite; red hot iron branding the imprint of your face in his brain so whenever he closes his eyes, you’re all he can see.

His thrusts get sloppier as he finishes, excess come dripping down your thighs, and his own. He groans into your mouth, kissing your tongue to sooth his semi-soft and sensitive cock as he pulls out of you.

The feeling of cool air against your thighs reminds you of the rivulet of combined juices dripping down your legs.

Before you can wobble your way to your bed to final rest your legs, Sukuna picks you up in one swift motion, uncaring that the fluid between your legs is dripping on his arm, and walks over to your bed and lays you down.

—

Turns out later, meant going three rounds in two hours.

After Sukuna had eaten you out and fucked you against the wall, he was insatiable. Only wanting more, going as far as to making you warm his cock in your pussy till he got hard again.

Spent and sweaty, you now slept soundly in his arms. Uncaring that he had pushed you to break every rule you had set up. That too, in your own home.

He clicked his teeth as he remembered your surprised face when he casually said that he wanted to fuck some more. As usual, you were wary of him at first, but when his fingers stroked your clit the way you liked, you were pliant and malleable for his bidding.

He glances around around, finally getting a good look at your abode.

It’s not what he imagined it to be. It’s a mess: takeout containers stuffed to the brim in tightly tied plastic bags, cans of energy drinks huddled around your computer on the desk in the far corner of the room. Polaroids of your friends lay haphazardly on your coffee table, seemingly untouched with the film of dust gathering on them.

For a college student, the decoration is bleak and the lack of a living room makes him feel like there’s no space for him in your apartment. Much like your heart.

But that’s okay, he will take whatever he can get. Even if he can’t quell the curiosity has about your life away from him.

So he decides to put an end to it (only for this instance.) With only his boxers on, he walks to your computer, which, surprisingly, does not have a password.

He browses around, only finding assignments for classes that seem too complicated for him to understand. Maybe even for you too, with the way you’ve been sleeping with him more often than before.

And then he finds it—the reason why you called him to your sanctuary, the one place he was never allowed to step foot in.

An internship rejection email.

——

If you’re seeing this, thank you for reading!!

[clarionglass]

here we go :) part one of three, updates to be released weekly!

---

sam says 4 (game master cinematic universe, part 3)

Ruby was at her mum's for a family dinner she couldn't miss on pain of death, apparently, and the Doctor was many things, but a family dinner kind of guy wasn't one of them—particularly when Carla had already slapped him once in the short time he'd known her. He thought he'd broken his streak of bad luck with mums, but… well, seemingly not. So he was companionless for a few hours, and while he could wait for her to get back, maybe catch up on his reading—what was the point of waiting when you had a time machine? 

He ran his hands over the TARDIS console, marvelling at her clean lines and metallic flourishes, the way that even now she felt brand new but familiar, and paused. He’d just pop off for a quick adventure, nothing too dangerous, but—where to go?

He could scan for a distress call nearby, and pitch in to help. He could drop in on Donna and Shaun and Rose, beautiful Rose, and see how they were all doing. Or he could just hit the randomiser button, and jump in feet first wherever he ended up.

He remembered a conversation from a long time ago, when he wore a different face, and his gorgeous TARDIS wore a face too, for the first and only time.

“You didn't always take me where I wanted to go.”

“No, but I always took you where you needed to go.”

He grinned. Who could resist an offer like that? He pressed the button and whooped as the time rotor spun into action, ready to see where the universe would take him.

---

Apparently, he was needed pretty close to where he already was. Earth, 2024. Huh. Same planet, same time—within a few months of where he’d left Ruby, even. The main thing that had changed was the location: he was now in the good old US of A. California, to be more specific, and Los Angeles to be more specific still. And to really narrow it down, the Doctor discovered as he poked his head out of the TARDIS doors, he was in… a broom closet. Not bad, as a parking spot—a bit squeezy, but out of the way. And as he poked his head out of that door, he could finally see he was in the backstage corridors of a studio of some kind. Film or TV, if he was to hazard a guess, it was a different vibe from Abbey Road.

With a shrug, he decided to go exploring.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute before a young woman wearing the full-black outfit, headset, and permanently stressed expression of a production assistant came running up to him.

“Are you the fill-in Sam organised?” she asked breathlessly, and honestly, seeing the look on her face, the Doctor didn’t have the heart(s) to tell her no. And really, what was the Doctor, if not a professional fill-in? This, this was why he had a randomiser button on the control panel, because whatever he was about to get himself into was going to be fun.

“Sure!”

“Oh, thank god,” sighed the production assistant, relief dawning across her face. “When Ally tested positive this morning, I thought we were sunk for the record, because we called around and we couldn’t get a hold of anyone. But then Sam said he could get someone in, and, you know, here you are, and just in time, so—ah, yeah, if you could follow me this way?”

Smiling all the way, the Doctor followed his guide through to hair and makeup, looking around as they went. The studio seemed to belong to a company called Dropout, according to the branding scattered around, and things seemed, at least on the surface, to be… well. Fine. He couldn't tell why he'd been brought here yet, which meant that when he found the reason, it was going to be particularly tangled. He couldn't wait! 

And then he looked back at his guide, still engulfed in a miasma of anxiety, and realised he'd been too busy looking for clues to notice the person right in front of him. 

“Hey, it's cool, you've found me,” he started with a gentle smile. “You can relax. Hi, I'm the Doctor. What's your name?”

“Oh!” she said, startled. “The Doctor, yeah, of course. Um, hi, I'm Kaylin. Look, sorry, it's just that I've been so busy this morning, I'm so distracted… Shit, and I would've completely forgotten to get your details too. There's paperwork to fill in, but you can do that later. Um, just for now, though, can I get your pronouns?”

The Doctor thought for a moment. “He/him, for now.”

Kaylin nodded, making a note on her phone. “Okay, cool! And do you have any socials?”

“Not me, babes,” he replied. “I'm hardly sitting down long enough to be able to update, you know?”

“On a day like this, I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “That's okay, Lou didn't have socials either for the longest time. Right, so if you go through there, the team will get you sorted, and once you're done, someone will take you up to the greenroom. All good?”

“All great,” the Doctor replied. Kaylin flashed him a quick, relieved smile, then hurried off.

Hair and makeup was a fairly quick process, the sound mixer fitted him with a microphone, and before too long, Kaylin was back to take him upstairs. 

“This is the greenroom,” she said, pushing the door open. “The rest of the cast for the episode are already here—they’re great guys, and they’ve both been on the show a lot, so they’ll be able to help if you’ve got questions. And if you need anything else, just come find me or any of the other PAs, okay?”

The Doctor nodded, beamed at Kaylin, and walked in.

---

The greenroom was small but comfortable, and its occupants, two men around the same age as the Doctor appeared, looked up as he entered.

“Oh, you’re new,” the taller of the pair said, clearly giving him the once-over.

The other sighed with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, just as clearly used to his friend’s antics.

“Hey, I’m Brennan,” he said, levering himself up to standing from his perch on a chair arm, and holding out a hand. “That’s Grant.”

The Doctor took it warmly. “The Doctor. Just passing through, and happy to help.”

Grant’s eyebrows quirked. “Doctor… something?” he prompted.

“Or is it just ‘the Doctor’?” Brennan asked.

“Just ‘the Doctor’,” the Time Lord confirmed cheerfully. “You’ll get used to it, everyone does.”

Grant didn’t look convinced, but—

“Copy that,” Brennan shrugged, and settled back on the arm of the chair, returning his gaze to the door.

Grant, in turn, looked at the Doctor and rolled his eyes in a clear expression of ‘no, I don’t know why he’s like this, either’.

“Okay,” the Doctor said after a moment of watching the watching. “I wasn’t going to ask, but now I think I have to. What’s up with the door?”

Brennan huffed a laugh. “Well, the last time there was one of those up—” he pointed to the Out of Order sign stuck to the bathroom door, “—we got locked in here for the game.”

“He’s paranoid,” Grant interjected.

“Well, yeah, maybe,” Brennan retorted. “Or just cautious. Because Sam’s been acting weird lately, and we’re coming up to the last few records of the season, so he’s probably planning something way out of the box for the finale. And the original cast was you, me and Beardsley, so…”

He shrugged one shoulder meaningfully, and Grant nodded, conceding both the point and the potential for chaos.

“So if Sam comes in to give us the briefing, rather than waiting til we’re on set,” Brennan continued, “or there’s anything else weird going on, I’m gonna know about it right from the beginning.”

He turned to the Doctor. “The only reason I'm not quizzing you is because I know for a fact Beardsley was genuinely scheduled for this, so you can't be a plant by the production team. No offence.”

“None taken,” the Doctor smiled. “That sort of thing happen often, does it?”

Grant and Brennan exchanged a look. 

“More than you'd think,” Grant answered with a grimace. 

“Alright,” the Doctor said slowly, then brightened. “So what is it we're actually doing?”

Grant gave him a disbelieving glance. “You don't know—?”

“Very last minute fill-in,” the Doctor said breezily. “But don't worry, I'm a quick study.”

“Well, you're not that much worse off than the rest of us,” Brennan said encouragingly. “You know about Game Changer, obviously, if you know Sam, and we only find out the rules of the game once we get on set. Hopefully,” he added, with a dark look back at the Out of Order sign. 

The Doctor nodded. No, he didn't know Sam, and he didn't know Game Changer, but he could work out the situation from context clues. This was a game show. And with the Toymaker banished, and Satellite Five not coming into existence for another 198000 years, give or take, he found himself smiling. Maybe third time would be the charm. 

“Mmm, hopefully they aren't going to throw you in the deep end,” Grant said. “Because Brennan might seem lovely now, but as soon as we get out there, he's a whore for points. He'll stab you in the back and won't even blink.”

Brennan barked with laughter. “Yeah, and you wouldn't?”

“Excuse you, I'm always a goddamn delight,” Grant replied, the very picture of injured dignity. 

“Oh, absolutely!” agreed a new voice. The Doctor turned to the now-open door to see a bearded man in a pinstriped suit smiling broadly. “That's why we keep inviting you back!”

Grant bowed sarcastically. “Why, thank you, Sam. Good to know I'm appreciated by someone here.”

“Always,” Sam replied, gently but firmly ending that particular path of the conversation. He scanned the room, and his eyes lit up when they landed on the Doctor. 

“Ah, you must be the Doctor!” he said with obvious delight, walking over with his hand outstretched. “I'm Sam—thanks for filling in for us, you've made sure we're going to have a good show. Seriously, it's a pleasure to have you here.”

“Aw, cheers!” the Doctor smiled, shaking the offered hand. “Glad I could help out, I'm really looking forward to this!”

“Well, great!” Sam exclaimed, then took a step back, regarding all three players in turn. “Now, folks, I'm just letting you know that we're just about ready to start the record, so if you can start heading down, that'd be great.”

Grant and Brennan nodded—Brennan, the Doctor noticed, with relief. 

“See you down there,” Sam said, smiling. “Have a great show, and—”

His eyes caught on the Doctor's for a second, twinkling. 

“Good luck.”

---

Backstage, the Doctor, Brennan and Grant were marshalled into podium order and given a final briefing from the crew. And then, with a thumbs-up from Kaylin, that was it.

Showtime.

“Get ready for a Game Changer!” came Sam's voice from onstage. “Tonight’s guests: he can shoot off a monologue with laser accuracy; it’s Brennan Lee Mulligan!”

Brennan, his back to the camera as the curtains opened, spun on his heel and, with a stone-cold expression, pointed finger guns straight down the barrel, before letting the facade crack open. “Hi!” he exclaimed, and walked over to the leftmost podium.

“It’s his first appearance, but he’s already on fire; it’s the Doctor!”

The Doctor leant against the archway to the stage and flashed a broad smile towards the camera, then in a few skipping steps, had bounded over to the next free podium. What the hell, why not make an entrance?

“And even in the toughest of mazes, you’ll always be able to find him; it’s Grant O’Brien!”

Grant dipped his lanky frame into an approximation of a curtsey, spreading his arms wide, then sauntered over to the closest podium with a grin.

“And your host, me!” Sam announced, a ring of manic white showing around his irises as he beamed down the barrel of the camera. “I’ve been here the whole time!”

“This,” he continued, pushing his microphone shut and stowing it in his jacket pocket, “is Game Changer, the only game show where the game changes every show. I am your host, Sam Reich!” 

As he said his name, he looked at his hands, front and back, as if he was pleasantly surprised to be himself, then gestured towards the three podiums.

“I am joined today by these three lovely contestants! Now, you understand how the game works.”

“Of course not,” Grant started. “You know we don't.”

“We can't, Sam, that's the whole point of the theatre you've set up here,” Brennan said over him. 

“Not yet,” was all the Doctor said, anticipation starting to drum a tattoo of excitement against the inside of his ribcage. 

“That’s right!” Sam said brightly, shooting finger guns at the camera. “Our players have no idea what game it is they’re about to play. The only way to learn is by playing. The only way to win is by learning, and the only way to begin is by beginning! So without further ado, let’s begin by giving each of our players fifty points.”

The Doctor, biding his time, watched the reactions of his fellow contestants. Grant looked at the front of his podium, checking the point total, and nodding approvingly when he saw that yes, it was sitting at a round fifty. Brennan, on the other hand, was starting to frown.

“Players, Sam says: touch your nose,” Sam began, and Brennan sighed the sigh of someone who wasn’t happy to be proved right.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Oh, you son of a bitch. Wasn’t one this season enough?”

He touched his nose anyway, as did the others, and Sam smiled encouragingly. “Sam says: touch your ear.”

When they all did, Sam nodded. “Touch your other ear.”

Everybody held still, fingers on the ears they had originally touched.

Sam beamed. “Easy, players, right?”

“You say that now,” Brennan said darkly. “Which makes it worse, because all you're doing is setting us up for failure.”

Sam gasped, pretending offence. “Would I do that?”

“Yes,” Brennan and Grant replied in unison, which drew a grin from the Doctor and set Sam off chuckling.

“And I'm not having it,” Brennan continued, leaning his elbows against his podium and pointing at Sam with the hand not touching his ear. “You better watch yourself, because I know how this game works, and you're not going to get one over on me.”

“Strong words, Brennan!” Sam said, clearly delighted by this response. “Okay, then, let's start making things a bit more interesting!”

The game continued as per Sam Says usual, some rounds done as a group and some individual. Points were won, sure, but lost slightly more frequently, and even the Doctor found he was having to concentrate to avoid getting caught in the host's traps. 

It was fun. Genuinely, it was like playing a game with friends, and the Doctor felt himself leaning into it. There wasn't any sign of danger—maybe there wasn't a mystery to solve at all, and the TARDIS just decided he needed a total break. 

Well, probably not. But the way things were going, he was able to let himself hope. 

“Alright, players,” Sam said a good few rounds in, just as pleasantly as he would start any other question, and the screen behind him dinged as a new prompt popped up. “Survive the death beam.”

For a second, everything was frozen perfectly still. 

And then came the crash, the explosive noise of heavy machinery moving relentlessly through a drywall set.

The Doctor was already moving. “Everyone down!”

“Duck!” Brennan yelled at the same time.

The two of them hit the ground within milliseconds of each other, but Grant was still paralysed in the face of the giant, science-fiction type laser cannon that had just ploughed through the wall. 

It whined ominously, screaming its way to fever pitch. And then a sharp pain in Grant’s ankle made him stagger, pitching forwards onto the carpet behind the podiums as the Doctor rolled away to avoid getting pinned.

“Sorry, babes,” the Doctor whispered. “But it was either kick you to get you down, or—”

A hideous metallic screech ripped through the air, and all three of them could feel the crackle of ozone as a beam of energy swept across what had, moments ago, been neck height.

“…Or that,” the Doctor finished with a grimace.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grant breathed, suddenly very conscious of every inch of his 6’9 frame. “Thanks.”

“Well done, players!” Sam exclaimed delightedly from above them. “But… sorry, I didn’t say ‘Sam says’, so that’s a point off for everyone.”

“What the fuck!” Brennan snapped.

“Are you actually insane?” Grant demanded at the same time, his voice overlapping with Brennan’s.

In response, Sam just wheezed with laughter. “You can come back to your podiums,” he said, cheerfully ignoring them.

Nobody moved.

“Very good!” he acknowledged, and even without seeing his face, the grin was obvious in his voice. “Okay, Sam says: come back to your podiums.”

Although the words were innocuous, and his tone was just as light and breezy as usual, there was nevertheless an edge hiding just underneath the surface. And while the death beam loomed large in the minds of all three players, it was impossible to consider disobedience as an option.

Slowly, they stood, returning to their places. Now they had the time to look at it properly, the death beam was even more sinister, and Brennan and Grant both kept flicking nervous glances its way, ready to move if it looked like it was charging up again.

The Doctor, however, was focused purely on the man standing in front of them. Unbothered, Sam met his gaze like a challenge, a mischievous smile playing about his lips.

“Oh, you’ll love this one,” he said, and the screen changed. “Sam says, starting with Grant: say my name.”

Grant frowned in confusion, but answered quickly nonetheless. “Sam Reich?”

The man himself shrugged tolerantly, moving on. “Brennan?”

Brennan just stared at him coolly. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Well caught, Brennan!” Sam said happily. “Sam says: say my name.”

“Sam,” Brennan replied, suspicion clear in his voice. “Samuel Dalton Reich.”

He nodded, still with a hint of indifference. “And lastly, Doctor.” His smile broadened. “Sam says: say my name.”

It was easy. Too easy. And as the Doctor looked into the eyes of the man calling himself Sam Reich, he felt his hearts stutter in recognition, because something had changed. He wasn’t hiding himself anymore, and while the face was different yet again, the Doctor would know the shape of that soul anywhere. It was impossible. It was inevitable.

“You can’t be,” he breathed. 

Sam smirked, leaning in across his podium. “Oh, but Doctor… I’ve been here the whole time,” he stage-whispered with a wink.

“He said you lost,” the Doctor said, shaking his head, looking wrong-footed for the first time that Brennan and Grant could recall. “You lost, and he trapped you.”

The other two watched, uncomprehending, but Sam just smiled, drumming his fingers against the podium with an audible beat, fast but distinct. Four taps, four taps, four taps. “I’m waiting.”

The Doctor took a slow, deep breath. Set his jaw. 

“Master.”

---

missed an installment of the game master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): x part three (sam says 4): you are here!

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part vii)

FREEFALL FUNCTION—Descent governed by forces outside one's control.

summary: After a disappearance shakes his world, Joel finds himself craving home, touches that promise, hands that stay.

a/n: I was in a really bad headspace, and that's why I wasn't replying a lot to your sweet comment (I've read them all, thank you so so much), or responding to messages. I just needed to get this chapter off my chest, because it's been building up to this, and I've been coming back a lot to fix this specific part so a lot of WARNINGS please: vague mentions of rape, lotsa violence, trauma, action, and just a fuckload of angst. also, LOVE. SO MUCH LOVE. hope you've got your hearts ready and some bandaids.

Joel was making a list.

A real mental inventory of all the fucked-up shit that had gone sideways since last night.

He had to. Otherwise, his head would be a mess of rage and regret, spinning in circles, getting him nowhere but down. And he needed to focus.

First, the crap he’d spewed at Leela—words he couldn't take back, words he didn't mean, words that sat like rusted nails in his gut. Sharp, corroded, poisoned with his own damn pride. He should’ve known better. But meaning didn’t matter. It was what she heard that counted. And what she heard had been enough to make her go quiet on him. Worse than yelling. Worse than anything. He’d rather she cussed him out, swung at him, anything but this.

Second—fucking Tommy. The son of a bitch dared to leave him behind on this run. Rode off without so much as a glance back, like Joel was the one being difficult. Like he was the one who needed space. Like he wasn’t the one who’d been fighting tooth and nail to put things right. And now he was playing some game of keep-away like Joel didn’t deserve to be part of it.

He clenched his jaw at that. He didn’t like being shut out, especially not by his own damn brother.

Third—his back. Christ. Riding non-stop for the past hour had him aching fiercely. His lower spine felt like it was grinding itself down to dust, and every bump in the trail shot pain clear up to his skull. He was too old for this endless shitwork, but stopping wasn’t an option.

And then—Leela. Because out of everything in his life that was spinning out of his control, she was the one thing he wasn’t willing to lose.

He hated it. He hated this helplessness. The desperation to know that she was alright. This madness was a product of his own idiocy.

Right. That was the list.

And now, this—this goddamn trail. Because like clockwork, the next thing to add to his tally of frustrations was creeping up on him before he saw anything.

The Colten Bay trail had started to look familiar—small bends in the path, the way the trees arched overhead, creating a canopy of shifting shadows. He'd been riding for two hours, maybe more, the passage of time lost in the churn of his thoughts. He wasn’t as good as Tommy at navigating these woods, not yet, but he wasn’t blind either.

The ruined road into the small town had gone quiet—too quiet. No wind whistling through the broken windows, no birds, no distant scurry of wildlife picking through the remains. Just silence, thick and suffocating,

He took it in as he rode in slowly, scanning the hollowed-out husk of a town that had been left to rot. Storefronts with shattered windows, doors hanging off hinges, sun-bleached signs dangled by rusted chains. Rusted-out trucks half-buried in overgrown grass. A rust-colored stain smeared across a brick wall, years old, but still dark enough to make something curdle in his gut.

Joel pulled up short, dismounting without taking his eyes off the wreckage. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thump, the heat of the sun bleeding into the soles of his feet.

It was even worse up close, but nothing he wasn't used to. He'd seen worse. Nature had started creeping back in—vines curling over stone, weeds splitting through the pavement—but it wasn’t enough to hide the bones of what had been left behind.

He adjusted his grip on his rifle, raised and cocked to take aim, his every sense straining for something—growls, clicks, rifles, shoes, anything.

Then he heard it.

A voice. Then voices. Faint, distant. Threading through the ruins.

Tommy. More specifically—his shitty brother’s loud-ass laugh.

Joel exhaled sharply, stock perched tight into his shoulder, trying to shake the tension curling through him. Tommy was laughing, which meant the dumbass wasn’t dead. Which meant there was no immediate danger.

Still, Joel pushed forward carefully, stepping over debris, keeping to the edges of the street.

And then he spotted them.

Tommy, standing outside a withering old appliance store, leaning against the frame with his rifle slung loose over one shoulder. Ellie was a few steps away, arms crossed, leaning on her rifle like she was already bored.

Ellie—fucking Ellie. What was she doing here? Did nobody think? Did nobody use their goddamn heads? She hadn't even been down this path before. Kid was going to get herself killed.

Joel barely had time to process it before Tommy caught his movement. His brother tensed immediately, his hand twitching toward his gun, already halfway to raising it before recognition hit.

Joel threw up a hand. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, it’s me.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. “Son of a bitch—”

Joel didn’t let him finish. “The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out low and edged, riding the line between frustration and relief, still fueled by the panic that had been burning through his veins for the last two hours.

Tommy gave him a flat look. “Right now? ‘Bout to blow your goddamn head off.”

His pulse thundered, but he forced himself to keep steady. “You were goin’ off alone? Did you want to get your ass kicked?”

Tommy scoffed. “Toldja, not a tough job. In and out.” He tilted his head toward Ellie. “And I’m not alone. I’ve got the kid. And the whizkid.”

Ellie grumbled. “How am I still a...? Ugh.”

And as if Leela even counted as a backup. How the hell was she supposed to protect anything? What was she gonna do—build a goddamn time machine? Throw a wrench at danger? Jump in a fucking toolbox? She could hardly walk without wincing half the time, always too lost in her head, too quiet, too—

Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand down his face before turning to Ellie. She barely acknowledged him, arms still crossed tight, scuffing her boot against the pavement like she was already tired of waiting.

He huffed, stepping over, and giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. Just checking. Just making sure. She was real, breathing, safe, alive.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Ellie rolled her eyes, glancing up at him. “Relax, old man. No one's dead yet.”

Joel's jaw ticked.

She jerked her chin toward the store. “Your girl’s back there. Still scrounging up stuff.”

Joel stalked forward without another word to her. The place within was dim, slats of dying afternoon light slanting through the busted-out windows, casting long, jagged shadows across rows of overturned shelves. The air reeked of stale plastic and mildew, and somewhere, a strip of metal dangled from the ceiling, creaking with the breeze.

He stepped past a shattered washing machine, careful with his footing, ears straining.

His fingers flexed around the stock of his rifle, irritation already flooding his focus. Stupid. This was so fucking stupid.

Leela was nowhere in sight. Just more and more metal shelves stripped bare, and the soft creak of something shifting toward the back.

He found her there—half-hidden behind the last row of shelves, grunting as she wrestled with the handle of a rusted cart already stacked high with shit he didn't know the names of—gears, belts, maybe the guts of an old dryer. Heavy-looking. Useless-looking.

Joel barely stopped himself from cursing out loud. “Jesus, darlin'.”

She glanced up then, catching sight of him, eyes flicking to the rifle still in his hands. He saw the brief tension in her shoulders, and the slight narrowing of her eyes, before he wordlessly slung the weapon back over his shoulder.

“Joel,” she greeted, a little surprised but didn’t care enough to show it.

Just Joel. As if he hadn’t spent the last two hours riding like a maniac through the woods, as if she hadn’t left Maya alone like she hadn’t done the most reckless, mind-numbingly foolish fucking thing she could’ve possibly done.

There were so many things he wanted to say. To lay into her, to yell, to cuss her out, to tell her what a fucking idiot she was.

For leaving Maya alone. For coming out here, unprepared, with Tommy of all people. For not thinking—despite whatever had happened between them—that she could have left the baby with him. Because that was how it worked. That was how relationships worked. Or would have worked. If they had ever thought to address what the fuck they were. Too friendly neighbours? Co-parents? A friend he really wanted to belong to for the rest of his life? Just two people who knew each other too well?

No, but she looked fine. Which would've been great if it didn't piss him off even more. As if she hadn’t made him lose his goddamn mind these past few hours.

His jaw ticked as his gaze flicked down, scanning her, frustration mounting as he catalogued every stupid decision she’d made today.

She’d put on a nice windbreaker—for once—yet she was completely underdressed for the trip. No flashlight strapped to her pack. No holster. No decent boots. And for the love of all that was holy—where the fuck were her pants?

She was in nothing but those annoying tiny shorts, legs all bared for the claws or teeth of a clicker, like she thought she was going out for a fucking morning stroll instead of a dangerous supply trip with Tommy.

Joel exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Stupid, stupid girl.

And she was looking at him like she was waiting. Like she knew exactly what was coming.

Proving her right, he took a slow step forward. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

Leela didn’t flinch. She just looked back at him, even, hands tightening over the handle of the cart. “Didn’t realize I needed permission from you.”

“Ain’t about permission. It’s about sense.” His voice dropped lower, biting. “Somethin’ you seem to be lackin’.”

Leela didn’t rise to it. She never did. It seemed to be this ongoing habit of hers. She just let the words settle between them, let it fester, before she turned her focus back to the cart like she’d already decided he wasn’t worth arguing with.

And that? That made something in Joel snap.

“Y'know, you're always thinkin’, but you don’t think, do you?” His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists before he could reach for her, shake some goddamn sense into her. “You’re out here, in the middle of this—” He gestured vaguely at the abandoned town, at the dust, the dried blood smeared across the floor, the risk that was so apparent to him and not to her, “—and you don’t even have a fuckin’ gun on you.”

“I have a knife in my bag,” she defended, but with not as much fight.

Joel let out a sharp, bitter scoff. “Is that gonna do much good against a clicker? Maybe they’ll take a step back, let you go ‘cause you've got a real nice set of kitchen knives in your pack.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. “But, Tommy has a gun.”

Joel let out a humourless breath. “And I guess everyone else has fuckin’ daisies.”

She shrugged. “Ellie has a gun, too.”

“Oh, ain’t that perfect?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, his chest rising and falling harder now. “So, what, you’re just trustin’ everyone else in the goddamned town to keep you alive? You think that’s how it works?”

Leela didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Just stared at him, quiet, unmoving, in that way that had always fucking unnerved him. She wouldn't fight back for him.

And that silence? That refusal to defend herself, to say anything, to at least try to justify the absolute recklessness of what she was doing—it only pissed him off more.

Because if she didn’t care, if she wasn’t afraid—then what was he even doing? Why did he even bother?

Joel threw his hands up, biting back the string of curses burning the back of his throat. His patience had already been worn thin, sanded down to raw edges.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping away like he was physically forcing himself to let go. “Do whatever the hell you want. I'm done.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch as he turned sharply on his heel, raking a hand through his hair, his pulse still thrashing out the remnants of his irritation.

She could've spared him a little fight. Snapped something cutting, something sharp enough to match the anger buzzing beneath his skin. But instead, she said quietly—

"I think that’s how trust works."

The words landed deep, right in the place where things stuck—where they burrowed and festered before he could shove them down.

It should’ve been just another one of her quiet, cryptic remarks. No, this felt undeniable.

That’s all she’d ever wanted from him, wasn’t it? From the beginning, it was for him to trust her. For her to trust him. To trust that she could handle herself. That she wasn’t this fragile, breakable thing that needed to be caged for safekeeping.

And him—he’d been too fucking blind in his own haze of anger and anxiety to see it.

Leela didn’t wait for him to say anything. She just turned, dragging the cart behind her, grating against the ageing floorboards with a long scrape. Moving forward, focused, methodical, searching.

Ignoring him completely.

Joel exhaled hard, grounding himself, still riding the tail end of his frustration. Because the worst part was that she was right. But he would never admit that.

A sudden, violent crack split the air. The sound of wood splintering. The groaning of something old, something giving way.

Joel’s stomach lurched. His head snapped up just in time to see the floor beneath her buckle, the rotted planks slumping under her weight. Her hands jolted out instinctively, fingers clawing at empty air, a piping scream tearing out her throat.

Then, nothing. She was gone.

“Leela—!” Joel surged forward, reaching before he could think—but it was too late.

The floor swallowed her whole, boards snapping shut like a broken jaw, dust curling up in thick, choking plumes. The sound of her landing—hard, jarring—hit his ears like a gut punch. Then came the whine of shifting debris. The scrape of metal. Her groan strained with effort.

That sound. A sick, inhuman clicking.

Joel’s pulse kicked like a gunshot. His muscles locked, his body firing forward on instinct before his mind could even catch up.

Fucking clicker. It was down there with her.

The thought sent a cold, ruthless and electric prickle ripping through his chest.

Joel barely had time to think. A screech echoed up from the basement, followed by the hysterical sound of struggle, of something heavy slamming into concrete.

He dropped to his stomach over the broken floorboards, rifle braced, eyes straining through the broken planks. His flashlight cut through the dust, the yellow beam sweeping frantically over crumbled furniture, cracked linoleum and rusted-out shelving.

Then the light found her.

Leela was on her back, breathing hard, limbs tangled in broken debris. And above her—

The clicker.

It was on her.

Face sickly split and scarred like some rotting flower from the overgrowth of Cordyceps. Snarling, yellowed teeth dripping, gnashing too close, pinning her down. Hands curled into claws, raking at her shoulders and throat, missing if not for Leela's battling strength. Its body convulsed, straining forward with desperate, single-minded hunger. To feed. To kill. To infect.

And she was holding it off. Barely.

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he whispered aloud, fists tight around his rifle, taking aim.

Joel’s trembling hands steadied, years of muscle memory overriding the blind panic gripping his chest, his heartbeat a rapid-fire hammer against his ribs. His thoughts narrowed into one singular focus: kill the fucker.

But he didn’t have a clean shot.

The clicker was thrashing, too close, too erratic, its face just inches from hers. One wrong move and—his stomach roiled at the thought.

"Hold it there!" he yelled.

Leela didn’t respond—only sucked in a breath and turned her head, her knee jerking up to slam into the thing’s gut, rearing it back an inch—just enough.

Joel fired.

The first shot grazed its shoulder, making it shriek.

The second and third shots went straight through its skull. The fourth one, although completely unnecessary, sparked off from his trigger.

The clicker went rigid, its movements stuttering like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then it slumped. Its deadweight crashed onto Leela, forcing the breath from her lungs in a sharp, strangled sound.

For a long second, Joel didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His mind was still catching up, reeling from how fast it had happened. One second she was standing there, the next—she was nearly gone. Taken from him. He saw a flash of what could've been if he hadn't made that shot.

His hands were shaking.

Boots pounded against the floorboards behind him, but the sound barely registered until Tommy's voice cut through—sharp, urgent.

“The hell happened?”

“Where is she?” Ellie demanded, rifle raised.

Joel was already moving.

“I got her, I got her,” he ground out hoarsely, twice to himself, barely keeping up with the adrenaline roaring through him.

Without hesitation, he leapt straight down into the hole, landing hard on the basement floor, his knees taking the brunt of the impact. He came up, rifle-first, and his flashlight swept the space—shadows stretching long against the damp walls, old shelves lining the perimeter, nothing but silence now.

Leela had already pushed the dead clicker off her, chest rising and falling too fast, breath coming in sharp inhales, hands clenched into her shirt collar, shoulders drawn tight. She hadn't moved beyond that.

Joel was on her in an instant, pushing her hair out of the way. “I'm here. You're okay.”

But the moment his hands found her skin—

She screamed.

It wasn’t just fear or panic. It was an impulse. It was raw, broken, blood-curdling, a sound that clawed its way out of her throat like she was being torn apart.

She thrashed against him, full-bodied, desperate, her hands flying up, kicking him off, shoving at his chest, nails catching against the rough fabric of his jacket. She was fighting with everything she had, body twisting, gasping through sobs, her strength fueled by something deep and unconscious.

"No—no, please, please—stop!"

Joel flinched.

Not at the force of it. Not at the hit.

At the sound. At the way she said it. Like she wasn’t here. Like she wasn’t seeing him. Like she was still down there in the dark, with that fucking thing clawing at her.

It hit somewhere he didn’t have words for, someplace that made his stomach twist and his ribs squeeze tight.

Because she wasn’t just afraid.

She didn’t recognize him. For a second—a heartbreaking second—he was just another set of hands on her, just another force holding her down, just another compulsion, and the thought of that—of her looking at him and not knowing him—it fucking gutted him.

But he didn’t let go.

“Hey,” he coaxed, his grip firm but cautious, hands bracing her shoulders, keeping her still, not trapping her, just holding on. “It’s me.”

She was still fighting him. Still gasping. Still somewhere else.

His hands moved—one sliding up, cupping her face, fingers pressing into her skin, desperate, grounding, his thumb stroking over her cheek like he could physically pull her back.

"Just look at me," he murmured, voice softer now, voice wrecked.

Her body was still trembling beneath his hands, her muscles locked tight, her pulse battering out a frantic rhythm beneath his fingertips.

And it hurt like shit. Hurt to see her like this, to know that she was still drowning in what he couldn't touch, that she was still lost, still bracing for a fight that was already over.

So he did the only thing he could.

He took her hand. Brought it to his shivering lips. Pressed a kiss into her palm, firm, warm, real.

“It’s me,” he urged.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched against his skin. Her vision cleared. Then she saw him. Finally saw him, those brown eyes focusing.

And in that split second, her body wilted against his. The fight drained from her like water slipping through open hands, leaving only exhaustion, only relief, only the sharp, shaking remnants of fear still rattling in her chest.

Her lips parted, and a single, barely-there whisper fell from them—

“Joel?”

Joel exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath this whole time. Like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over her cheek, over the damp trail left behind by her tears. Her pulse was still too fast, still too frenzied beneath his fingertips, and that tightness in his coiled harder.

He wanted to tell her she was safe. That it was over. That she was alright. But his voice was too fucking broken to say any of it.

He swallowed hard, still fighting the residual panic gripping his chest. He had to see. He had to know.

“Let me see,” he rasped, his hands already moving, frantic, fierce. “I have to see if...”

His fingers swiped up her sleeves and lapels, moving too fast, running over her arms, his mind slating every inch of skin, checking, counting. No bites. No scratches. No bleeding.

Down her sides. Down her shoulders and neck. Down her thighs. Down her calves—and his stomach dropped.

“Oh, Christ.” The words left him in a breathless rasp, barely there.

At the back of her calf—a deep, glistening wound. Blood ran in a slow, damning trickle down into her shoe.

Joel's inhale caught in his throat. The edges of his vision blurred. His ears started to ring.

No. No, no, no—not like this. Not now. Not her.

His hands loomed over it, useless, fingers twitching, unable to touch, unable to breathe.

The panic surged like wildfire, like an explosion inside his chest, riving through every thought, every shred of calm, reducing everything to one singular, burning horror.

This couldn’t be happening. What could he do? He couldn't stop this. No, this was beyond him. His mind scrambled, flipping through every second of the fight, anguished, reckless, trying to remember—had the thing bitten her? Had it broken skin? Had it—

His pulse roared in his ears, hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

He was losing her.

His throat closed up. His fingers curled into fists.

He was losing her. He was losing her. He was losing her.

Again, and again, and again.

His vision tunnelled, narrowed down to the blood, to that slow, seeping trickle, red against her skin, a death sentence in real time. He swiped his thumb over the wound, barely thinking, breathing, hoping maybe it'll sicken him too, because he couldn't take another blow, another fight—

And—his finger nudged something hard. Not a claw mark. Not torn flesh. Not infection.

A splinter.

A sharp piece of wood, lodged deep under the broken skin.

Leela flinched, hissing in pain. “Ow.”

His entire world tilted, cracked, and realigned itself in the space of a heartbeat.

And then—he crashed. His whole body sagged, the relief so brutal, so fucking absolute, it nearly knocked him flat. His head dropped forward, breaths rattling back into him, shaking, breaking.

“You're fine. You're okay.”

It hit him so hard, he felt dizzy. Like he’d been standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall—and suddenly, somehow, he was back on solid ground.

His hands found her again, gripping her tight, pulling her into him, pulling her against him because he needed to feel it, needed to know she was here.

He pressed her face into his neck, arms locked around her, one palming her head, the other over the edge of her braid, holding on like his body was still catching up to what his brain knew now—that she was okay. That she was still here. That she was still his.

His heart was still hammering, still pounding out a brutal rhythm against his ribs, his breath coming fast, too hard, too jagged. All he could think about was how much he lived for this girl, that he couldn't take another step forward without her, that he'd lose all purpose in this damned world.

He turned his face into her hair, pressing a kiss there, desperate, lingering. He pushed his lips wherever he could reach; eyes, temple, ears, jaw; it didn't matter. As long he could convince himself she was real.

"You stay with me," he whispered, voice muffled into her hair. "You stay."

She didn’t have to say anything back. She just clung to him, hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, her breath still sharp, still ragged, still too goddamn close to slipping away from him.

After a long moment, she pulled away, a little more than uneasy, her hands shaking as she swiped roughly at her eyes, breath uneven, fingers bruised, arms bruised, skin mottled in dark, ugly shades.

Joel saw it all. The marks. How badly she was still trembling. How she still hadn’t fully caught her breath. And something inside him cracked—deep, marrow-deep, where all the old wounds lived.

He couldn’t lose her. Not ever.

Clenching his jaw, he reached behind her way too roughly, into her pack, shuffling things around until he felt it.

He found the knife. And pressed it into her hands, firm, insistent.

"Knife in your hands," he said, voice gruff, still rigid, still devastated. "Not your pack, you hear me?"

Leela nodded shakily, fingers closing around the handle.

And Joel just sat there for a moment, staring at her, still feeling the phantom panic in his veins, still trying to convince himself that she was okay.

That she was here. That he hadn’t lost her.

X

Tommy wasn’t buying it.

And it pissed Joel off. Piled onto the other—what? Five? Six? A dozen? He’d lost count—things already on his shitlist.

Still, he kept his distance. Kept Ellie back, too, for no reason, discounting the fact that she was immune.

Leela dragged the overflowing cart forward on the dead street, limping slowly. The old thing rattled, wheels stuttering over cracks in the pavement. Every so often, she’d stop—digging through rusted-out trucks, popping the hoods of long-dead cars, arms trembling as she reached in, feeling around for parts.

The afternoon sun beat down on them like a long-suffering punishment. It baked the asphalt and turned the air stuffy and dry. She was struggling. Joel could see it—the slack in her shoulders, the sluggish, tired way she moved, the way the limp in her step was getting worse. She was running on fumes.

He’d managed to pull the splinter from her calf, and cauterized the wound with the searing end of the rifle barrel, just in case. She’d cringed hard, let out a yelp, and gone stiff beneath his hands, but she hadn’t cried. Hadn’t fought him on it. Hadn’t even looked at him afterwards.

He’d bound it up tight with a strip of his flannel, close and snug. And that was that.

But fucking Tommy was still keeping his distance.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, scowling as his brother trailed behind her, still gripping his rifle like he was waiting for the worst. At least ten paces back. Observing for twitches. He wasn't wrong for being cautious, but Leela was seeing it, feeling it, how she was being treated like an inconvenience.

Ellie clucked her tongue from beside him, shifting uncomfortably. “You're such a cruel bitch, man,” she muttered. “She’s probably fine.”

“Probably ain’t good enough,” Tommy answered flatly. “Not takin’ any chances.”

Joel clenched his jaw, tension winding tight in his chest. Since when was his brother, the ex-Firefly, the bleeding heart, suddenly such a cynic?

“Joel?” Ellie shot him a look, voice careful, hesitant. A little afraid to ask. “It wasn’t a bite, right?”

His patience splintered as he bit out through his teeth, addressing his brother instead. “If I say it one more time, Tommy, it’ll be after I break your goddamn rib.”

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t blame the messenger.”

Joel didn’t bother with a response—just slammed his shoulder hard into Tommy’s as he passed, enough to make his brother stumble, grumbling under his breath. Thought it would make him feel better, but surprise, surprise; he should've just tripped the son of a bitch on his ass.

He didn’t care. Not about Tommy’s paranoia, about the way he was still watching Leela like she was a loaded gun with a faulty trigger. It made Joel feel like shit.

Now, he refused to believe in a lot of things, but he believed in his own eyes. And his eyes told him she was not infected.

So he strode ahead, sifting into his pack, and digging out his water bottle. Hadn’t refilled it in two days, but she needed it more than he did.

He reached her side, matching her pace. “Have some,” he said, holding it out.

Leela didn’t look at him. Kept walking.

Joel ground his teeth, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Drink.” His tone brooked no arguments.

She sighed, glancing at him sideways, eyes dull, vacant. “What if I’m infected?”

Joel nearly stopped in his tracks. “You’re not infected,” he muttered, exasperated. “There's no sign.”

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Her voice was thin. She pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead, hard, like she could grind the thought out of her skull. Punish herself with it.

“You were right, Joel. I’m always thinking—but it’s never about the right things. Maya, my research, my home... this is all on me.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy twisting in his gut. "Look, what I said earlier—how I—”

"I don’t care anymore,” she cut in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I deserved that.”

Joel felt that like a gun wound with no clean exit. She said it like a fact like she'd decided this. Could she not stop being so goddamn awful to herself for two seconds? Maybe not lay a bad trip on herself every time something went south?

His grip on the water bottle tightened. He took a breath and fought for patience.

"You didn't deserve shit." His voice was lower now, rough around the edges. "You fought your ass off, and you’re still here. You survived. That’s it. End of story, movin' on."

She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.

Joel hated this. Hated watching her walk like that, shoulders hunched, eyes distant, like she was already halfway gone.

Like she wasn’t even trying to hold herself together anymore.

He shoved the water bottle toward her again. “Drink the goddamn water.”

Joel watched as she took the water bottle, hesitating for just a second.

Then she raised it to her lips and gulped down what was left, fast, like she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until now. Water spilled from the corner of her mouth, slipping down her chin, but she didn’t bother wiping it away. Just drank until the bottle was empty until she had to stop and take a breath.

Joel let her have that moment. Then he took the cart handle from her grasp and took the load off her. Leela didn’t argue. Just fell in beside him, silent, exhausted.

It was just then that Ellie's complaints started up. When Ellie's grousings about 'severe FEDRA-level slavery,' got on his nerves, Tommy finally threw up his hands and called for a break.

They stopped at the next street corner, gathering under the shade of a souvenir shop. Tommy passed out rations—peanut butter sandwiches from Jackson, stale at the edges but still good enough. Ellie tore into hers immediately, swinging her boots where she perched on the ledge of the broken storefront window, crumbs scattering at her feet.

Joel didn’t even have to look at Leela to know what was coming. She hesitated, turned the sandwich over in her hands, once, twice—like she was waiting for some spark of appetite that never came.

"I’m not hungry," Leela muttered, setting the sandwich beside her knee before pushing herself up.

Joel watched as she stepped away, moving toward the shop entrance like she was just stretching her legs like she hadn’t been looking for some rest since they sat down.

He sighed and let her go.

Ellie frowned, still chewing. She glanced at the sandwich Leela left behind, then at Joel. "She eat anything today?"

Joel shook his head once. "I don't think so."

Ellie sighed. Then she dusted off her hands and hopped down from the ledge, following after her.

By the time Ellie caught up, Leela was already inside, wandering between toppled racks and glass cases that had long since been looted. Her fingers trailed over warped magazines and stacks of yellowed postcards, her touch too soft, like she was afraid anything more would make them crumble.

Ellie grabbed a few postcards from a rusted wire display, flipping through them. Bright colours, frozen places—little glimpses of a world that didn’t exist anymore.

"Hey," Ellie said, nudging one toward Leela. "What about this? Looks so cool."

Leela blinked like she was only just realizing Ellie was there. She glanced down. A postcard—a sun-soaked coast, palm trees stretching lazily over white sand. Probably reminded her of her before home, her lip twitching up a little.

Leela flipped it over, scanning the faded text. “Mallorca.”

“You been there?”

A pause. And then, a small nod.

Ellie plucked another—this one softer, the colours faded from time, the name written in neat cursive along the bottom. “An...ti...bees. Anti-bees. Never even heard of that.”

Leela didn’t even glance at it, and nodded again. “Antibes. France. Been there, too.”

Ellie studied her, then stuffed the postcards into her jacket. "Shit. You’ve been everywhere. Awesome."

Leela didn’t say anything or smile back. Didn’t brag, the way Ellie probably wanted her to. She continued to flip through the postcards like they were meaningless. Like they weren’t memories at all.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard, his eyes never leaving her. She looked so small in there. As if she could’ve been just another part of the abandoned store—one more thing left behind.

“Joel.” Tommy’s voice cut through his observation, low and careful.

Joel barely glanced at him. Just kept chewing through the sandwich Leela had given him, eyes still on the store.

Tommy hesitated. “What’s the plan if she turns?”

Joel stopped chewing. The words landed like a slow knife to the ribs. He wanted to put a hole through that window just listening to it.

He swallowed, rolling his jaw. “I said she ain’t gonna turn.”

“I know, but—” Tommy exhaled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Look, I believe you. But I gotta ask, ‘cause if you’re wrong—”

Joel turned to face him fully now, expression hard as stone. Seething. “Tommy.”

“Would you shoot her?” Tommy asked, blunt.

Joel barely chewed his last bite. The bread felt dry in his mouth, sticking to the roof of his mouth like dust, but he swallowed it down anyway, his eyes locked on the store where Leela was standing, a little more life in her eyes as Ellie attempted to cheer her up with her endless supply of puns.

Tommy’s question still stuttered his mind. Would he shoot her? Could he shoot her?

Joel wanted to say yes. He wanted to say he wouldn’t hesitate, that if she turned, he’d do what had to be done. That’s what he was good at, wasn’t it? Putting things down when they needed to be. Bear the brunt of the hard decisions.

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, his mind raced ahead of him, flashing through all the things he didn’t want to see. Leela, breathing hard. Weeping. Pleading with him. He could hear it now, could picture it like it was real like it had already happened. Her voice breaking. That sharp, desperate shake of her head. Those big, dark eyes, utterly empty this time, hollow, her veins crawling black, twitching.

Please, Joel. I don't want to die. Would she fight him? Would she try to run? Would she make him do it?

Or worse—would she accept it? Would she nod, take one last breath, close her eyes and wait for the bullet?

His stomach turned. He knew Leela, even at times like this. She’d make it easy for him. She wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t force him to wrestle her to the ground. She’d just—let it happen. Face his rifle head-on. Make it quick, Joel. I don't want to feel a thing. And that thought was worse than anything.

Joel exhaled slowly, rubbing at the knot forming between his brows.

But it didn’t stop there. Because then came the next part.

Maya. God, Maya.

His throat tightened, his chest constricting at the thought of her alone in that house, waking up hungry, crying, waiting for a mother who was never coming back. Waiting for Leela.

If she was gone—if Joel let that happen—what happened to her daughter?

Would he just hand her off to Maria without a second thought, because her mother's murderer couldn't touch a hair on that sweet head without tainting it? Or would he do it himself anyway, raise her, love her, stay with her in that big white house, tell her about a mother she’d never remember if only through pictures?

Joel inhaled sharply, cutting that thought off at the root. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t let his mind wander any further down that road.

His hand flexed where it rested on his knee, fingers twitching to his pant pocket where the imprint of the little button embossed on his thigh, the one that Maya had picked off the street last night and passed to him with that soul-crushing, gummy grin of hers.

The answer should’ve been easy.

It should’ve been an immediate yes. He should’ve said it by now.

How could he go back to being the man he'd been desperately trying to outrun? He wasn’t one to pull the trigger just because something looked bad anymore.

Because he knew better. Knew what it meant to lose. Knew what it meant to take. And the sheer fucking burden of it didn’t sit right on his soul.

Joel sighed, fiercely shaking his head. “We’re not havin’ this conversation.”

Tommy didn’t push, but Joel could feel him watching. Waiting.

And Joel hated it. The doubt, the uncertainty, the way it stuck to him like blood on his hands. Because the truth was—If it came to that, if she was turning, if there was no saving her—Joel wasn’t sure he could do it.

X

By the time they reached the lake, the more relaxing route toward Jackson, the day had worn them all thin. Relief was sweet, to Leela more than the others.

They deserved this breathing spell, maybe that's why Tommy took this trail. It had been miles of hot sun, dry wind, and half-dead exhaustion that hardened into the bones. Too many things had happened—too many conversations left half-finished, too many wounds, seen and unseen, still bleeding under the surface.

But here the air was clean, touched with crisp pine and cold water. The lake stretched out wide before them, the mountains cradling it like a secret, their peaks softened by the golden evening light. The cabins stood quiet among the trees, their wood dark with time, their windows empty.

Joel slowed his horse, taking a breath, letting his shoulders drop just a little.

He imagined Maya here, toddling in the shallows, barefoot and giggling, a little bucket hat over her feathery curls, stuffing her tiny fists with pebbles and leaving baby footprints in the wet mud. Happy. Safe. With her parents. The kind of afternoon that should’ve been normal for her.

He missed her. Too, too much. He absently rubbed the button at his pocket, bearing a small smile. Had it been really been the whole day? He couldn't wait to get back home, have her breathe out that panting, hitchy breath of laughter as she came wobbling for him.

Still, it was nice here. Peaceful. And for a second, it felt like they weren’t running.

He glanced over at Leela.

She was staring straight ahead at the lake’s smooth, glassy surface, her fingers slack around the reins of her horse. Not moving, not speaking, just looking.

“Actually kinda pretty, ain't it?” he murmured.

She only let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” she said eventually, voice barely above the hush of the wind.

He studied her for a moment—the way she looked at the lake without really seeing it, the way her voice didn’t match the lightness of her words.

She was doing that awful thing again. Reaching for something just out of her grasp. Trying to picture something that wouldn’t come.

Joel sighed and swung off his horse, moving toward hers. He took the reins, steadying the animal before tilting his head up at her.

“Go on, then.” He nodded toward the water. “Let your hair down for a bit. We're close to town anyway.”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I'm good.”

“Now, darlin’—”

“Joel.” He heard it then—the edge to her voice. The exhaustion. “I'm not in the mood. Just go.”

Joel clenched his jaw till something popped. He didn’t let the disappointment show and didn’t press the issue. He knew better.

Just nodded once and turned away, walking toward where Tommy and Ellie stood by the lake, rolling out the tension from the day.

The breeze cooled off the water, lifting the heat that had weighed heavy on them. But Joel still burned not just from the sun, but from something else, a displaced load in his chest. He needed quiet.

He let himself wander, boots moving on their own past the cabins. The dirt was loose beneath him, old pine needles crunching, the scent of damp earth dense in the cooling evening. The distant rustle of birds carried over the water, but Joel barely heard it.

He was still too full of her voice. The way it wavered. The way she looked at him, absolutely devastated, before she had sighed.

He willed himself to focus on something else. Just the ground beneath him. Just the sky above him. Just breathe in, breathe out.

Until he saw it. He had to do a double-take, just to make sure he wasn't seeing stuff.

A cabin, the same size as the others, but this one—

This one was burned to hell. The entire thing had been gutted—charred black, the roof caved in, the porch sagging on its last, miserable legs. Windows blown out, the edges jagged with soot. The wood still smelled like it had burned recently, that sick, acrid stench of an electrical fire curling up in the back of his throat.

Joel stopped.

His muscles coiled tight, readied, breath slowing as he scanned the surrounding area.

The other cabins were untouched, not a mark on them. But this one had been burned down to the skeleton.

Something about it didn't sit right.

Slowly, Joel turned his head, looking over his shoulder. Ellie and Tommy were still by the lake, too far away, Ellie skipping rocks, Tommy saying something, hands moving as he talked. Leela was out of sight, hidden by the cover of trees and cabins.

Joel returned to the cabin in the spirit of inquiry, stepping onto what was left of the porch. The boards creaked, soft under his weight, and when he pushed open what remained of the door, the smell hit him like a gut punch—smoke, damp ash, something rotted.

The fire had torn through the inside just as bad as the outside. Everything was gone.

The walls were scorched, furniture reduced to blackened skeletons, and the mattress was little more than charcoal and wire. The space had been stripped of warmth, of life, reduced to nothing but ruin.

“Jesus.” The word barely left his lips before he saw them.

Two bodies.

Scorched. Twisted. Unrecognizable. Stilled in the exact positions they had died. One was closer to the bed, curled inward like they’d been trying to protect themselves from the heat. The other sprawled nearer to the door, obviously in an attempt to escape.

Joel knew that stance. He’d seen it before. Run and burn.

The uniform was barely there—scorched black, peeled away in places, but the collar remained intact enough to tell the story.

He crouched, eyes tracking across the floor, the details unravelling themselves in layers. Former FEDRA, probably. Runaways. Recently turned raiders. Even through the charring, he recognized the insignia on the camo-green collar.

Joel nudged what remained of the skull with his boot, the brittle bone breaking apart, collapsing inward like a dry leaf.

“Probably fuckin’ deserved it,” he muttered. But it didn’t bring him any comfort.

Something was off.

This wasn’t a FEDRA outpost. Wasn’t a checkpoint, a patrol route, or a resupply station. The room was too small, too personal. The furniture—what was left of it—wasn’t a regulation. The scattered remains weren’t military-grade. Yet, the whole place stank of it. Tyranny. Wealth. Power. Drugs. Rot.

Joel’s eyes roved over the wreckage. The fire hadn’t taken everything, though.

There, right by the bed—melted plastic, warped glass. Empty pill bottles and liquor containers. Loose zip locks, some of them still filled with white powder Joel used to begrudgingly peddle back in Boston. Ration packs from the QZ were torn open, contents spilling out like someone had been too impatient to open them properly.

It wasn’t a checkpoint.

It was a hideout. They must’ve holed up here for a while, waiting something out.

His gaze caught on a backpack, half-buried in the charred remains, its contents spilt out like someone had gone through it in a hurry. Charred clothes, a lighter, a flashlight, and utensils.

And a shoe. Small. A size too slight for a man’s foot. The soft leathery edges curled and blackened, but the tag inside was just barely readable beneath the soot.

Joel bent, brushing his thumb over it, knocking away the ash. The letters beneath made him snort. Some fancy Italian brand. Expensive. His mind flicked back—Leela’s house, her endless closets, neatly lined with shoes that didn’t belong in this world.

No wonder. It finally made sense for rich assholes to like places like this. They came out to the middle of nowhere to fuck around, get high, waste their shit on things that didn't matter.

Joel tossed the shoe aside and straightened, moving deeper into the wreckage. His hands brushed the charred edges of furniture, fingertips finding the brittle remnants of things that had once meant comfort—pillows turned to dust, a mirror warped in the heat, a chair crumpled inward.

Then he saw the rifle.

He smirked, his lucky day. Sure, it was smaller than his, the wood stained dark, almost black beneath the soot. Sturdy, thirty calibre, American-made, definitely not the kind of rifle you wouldn't see a FEDRA soldier have. It had been tossed aside near the backpack like someone had discarded it in a hurry.

He knelt, running his palm over the stock, feeling the grit of ash give way to smooth wood. The engraving beneath was faint, hidden in the dark, but as he brushed away the dust, it came through—delicate but unmistakable.

Cherries.

Joel heaved out a breath. His fingers stilled over the engraving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A tiny mark, burned beneath layers of soot, was almost innocuous.

But he’d seen this before.

A different rifle. A different home.

A cowboy hat. A sunflower. A cherry.

The third missing rifle. One for each member of the family.

His stomach clenched. He could see them in his eyes—lined up in Leela’s living room, the weapons she never used, never even acknowledged. The ones that were hers but weren’t hers. Polished. Preserved. Like artefacts. Like gravestones.

His throat went tight, air pushing through his nose in a sharp, uneven breath. And all at once, his body knew before his mind could catch up.

Someone had been here. Not passing through. Not scavenging.

She had been kept here.

Joel’s body locked up, a sick load clinching in his gut as his gaze swept the room again—now searching, understanding.

The mattress—charred down to its skeleton, coiled metal peeking through, the last stubborn remnants of sheets melted into the frame.

The belt.

His vision sharpened. The straps melted into the mattress frame. The scorched edge of a leather belt, its buckle twisted from heat. The dark stains, layered beneath the soot, soaked deep into the wood. A clean through the knot.

Someone had fought like hell.

Joel exhaled through his teeth, his knuckles whitening where they curled at his sides.

His brain was putting it together faster than he wanted it to.

The burned clothes in the corner—ripped at odd angles, tossed aside like garbage.

The splintered chair—one leg broken, shards of wood scattered like someone had slammed it against the floor, against a body.

The walls—scuffed, handprints smeared past the soot, the echo of someone pushing away, fighting, failing.

That sinking feeling became madness, nausea heaving through him.

On the floor—long, thin, small. A black hair ribbon. Burned at the edges, and melted in places, but the middle of it was untouched. Still soft. Still delicate. Still, something that had once belonged to a girl. He'd seen Leela use it on her braids hundreds of times.

Joel’s breathing went ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears.

It felt like poison in his veins, the slow drip of information into his head.

The way she always kept her back to the wall. The way she flinched—not much, just barely—but enough, whenever someone moved too fast, whenever a shadow crossed her path the wrong way. The way she never talked about before Maya. Maya, god, Maya.

His chest squeezed, he had to press his palm just to make sure he wasn't about to pass out. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

The fire had tried to erase it. But it hadn’t.

The proof was here, in the remains. The belt. The bedframe. The ribbon. The rifle.

Joel turned back, his gaze landing on the scorched, skeletal remains near the door. His stomach twisted, white-hot rage flickering through the nausea.

He looked at them, looked at what was left of them, and felt nothing. No pity. No hesitation. No misery.

Whoever had done this—whoever had burned this place down, made sure it would never stand again—they had done the world a fucking favour.

He could see it then.

He didn’t want to, but his mind pulled it forward anyway, like a dark thing rising from deep water, clawing its way into the light.

The mattress sagging under the force of bodies. The fight. The struggle. The burn of restraints against soft wrists, the sharp crack of something breaking—bone, furniture, someone’s resolve. The walls shaking from the force of it. The air stifling, sultry with sweat, with smoke, with the stench of men who took what they wanted, heady from a trip, and left behind the wreckage.

When the screams began, his gut twisted, nausea kicking up sharp and fast.

Joel jerked back, sucking in a breath like he’d been underwater too long. His stomach lurched.

No.

Joel swallowed hard, his mouth tasting of ash and bile. He got the hell out of there, boots scraping over scorched wood, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His pulse roared against his skull, his stomach rolling, his whole body burning like he’d swallowed the poison of this place whole.

He turned, pushing through the ruined doorway, shoving out into the evening air.

The scent of fire clung to him. Smoke. Rot. The sounds.

He braced his hands against his thighs, head ducking down, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Breathe, he told himself. Forget it. Breathe.

But it wasn’t working.

The memories weren’t his, but they were in him now, crawling under his skin, working their way into the deepest crevices of his mind.

Joel had seen a lot of evil in his life. But this—this was something else. Worse. Something he should’ve never learned. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he had stayed the hell out of it.

So, he kept walking. Didn't look back. Fast at first, then faster.

The burned cabin shrank behind him, but its looming presence didn’t. It clung to his skin, sank into the seams of his clothes, and resigned heavy and dark in his lungs.

His boots pressed deep into the dirt, kicking up dust, dry pine needles snapping underfoot. He didn’t care where he was going, only that he was putting distance between himself and that place—that stain.

But the rifle was still in his hands.

His fingers tightened around it, feeling the soot, the grit, the filth of it digging into his palms, burning like it was branding him. He wanted to throw it. Wanted to drop it, bury it, let it disappear into the weeds, let the earth swallow it whole.

But instead, he kept walking.

Until the sound of laughter struck him. Soft, rolling over the water, tangled in the breeze. It shouldn’t have hit him so hard.

Joel’s head snapped up, breaths still ragged.

Ellie and Tommy stood too close together by the shore, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, swaying, singing—loud, off-key, godawful. The words didn’t even register at first, just noise. Just a sharp, jarring thing that dragged him back into the present too fast.

And then he caught it. The song. Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Jesus.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, and everything felt too abrupt. Disorienting. His mind is still stuck in that cabin, hearing things long gone, breathing smoke that was long gone.

He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting—maybe for the world to still feel like it was on fire. Like he was.

But here they were. Laughing. Singing. Having a great time. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just clawed his way out of hell. His grip tightened on the rifle.

His gaze cut past them—to her.

Leela was still on her horse, watching them, shaking her head. Her shoulders had relaxed, the tension she had carried through the day bleeding away like it had never been there.

And then, suddenly—she smiled. It was small, barely there, but real. The kind of smile that sneaks up on a person, that slips past the cracks before they even realize it’s happened. Her head dipped like she was trying to fight it, but the corners of her mouth curled up anyway. Her lashes fluttered, shoulders trembling from quiet laughter.

Like nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been here before at all. As if she hadn’t been trapped in that place, in that nightmare, in a past she never dared to utter aloud.

Like he hadn’t just seen the wreckage of it with his own two eyes.

Something crawled up his throat, hot and mean. A sick, twisting thing. That part of him wants to put it in Leela’s hands, make her understand what he now knows. To bring it all back despite that being his last intention.

Maybe Leela really had no idea. Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe that goddamn fog—the one she was always lost in—had swallowed it whole. Spared her.

Mercy on her mind. Whatever void above was repaying her compassion. Or maybe she’d chosen to forget. Decided to ignore it. Or maybe the pain of remembering all the horror inflicted made her lose sight of where it happened. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Either way, Joel didn’t have the fucking right to take that from her.

His fingers uncurled from the rifle’s stock. That nausea crept back in, a slow, curling sickness that seeped into his bones.

His knuckles ached. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding it—like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like it had latched onto him, burned into his skin, clung to him like a brand. It wouldn’t let go until he did.

His gaze dropped to the wood. Soot. Grime. Filth. The feel of it in his hands was unbearable. It sat there, heavy and wrong, its history seeping through his fingers like a sickness.

And there, beneath all the muck—the cherry. Easy. Innocent. A goddamn lie.

Joel swallowed thickly. His pulse pounded against his skull, a deep, insistent throb. He didn’t want to think about what it meant.

Simply let the rifle slip from his fingers. It fell soundlessly into the brush, swallowed by the dark, and disappeared into the damp earth. Gone.

His feet moved forth before his brain caught up. The path blurred beneath him, his boots scuffing against the earth as he veered off, crouching low, hands skimming the damp ground.

He needed—something. Anything to pull himself back, to ground him, to wipe the feeling of fire and metal from his hands. Though, the practical part of his head shouted, asking, what the fuck he was doing.

His fingers brushed against something soft.

A flower. Small. Wild. Purple. Delicate. Whole. Untouched.

It didn’t belong here, in the filth, in the destruction, in the wake of something so goddamn ugly. And yet—here it was. Sharing its likeness to someone he knew.

Joel plucked it without thinking.

And then he was walking again, his boots moving steady, purposive, toward her.

Leela turned when she noticed him walking toward her, her head tilting just slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. A question there. A quiet curiosity.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just held out the flower.

She blinked. First at him, then at his hand.

Her lips parted. The warmth in her expression softened, deepened. For a second, she just looked at him, searching his face, like she was trying to understand something he wasn’t saying.

And then—her smile widened.

Not much. Just a small curve of her lips. But real. Honest. Breaking his miserable heart with that smile that was spoken for in his name.

She reached for it, took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it between the pads of her fingertips for a moment. Then, with the same careful precision, she slid it into her hair, tucking it near her neck. That violet bloomed against her like it belonged.

“Thank you, Joel,” she murmured.

Joel swallowed everything that burned in his throat and shoved it down where it would snuff out sooner or later. He simply managed a nod.

Then he turned, clearing his throat, his voice coming gruff, unduly commanding. “Right, let's move. C'mon.”

Ellie and Tommy groaned, dragging their feet, still laughing, still complaining, still alive.

But Joel was already looking ahead, hands loose at his sides.

He didn’t glance back at the rifle. Didn’t check to see if it had sunk into the brush, lost beneath the undergrowth.

Let it be buried.

Let it stay gone.

X

The big white house welcomed them back like an old friend, its porch light casting a soft glow over the worn steps.

Joel barely had a second to register the warmth of it before Maya came stumbling toward them, bounding forward, her small legs rushing too fast for her body. She tripped, fell to her knees, and then—“Ma-ma!”

Leela was already there. She caught her before she could hit the ground, pulling her into her arms, holding her tight, like she never wanted to let go.

Joel sighed, sucking a deep breath in. All the warmth of the lights, the faint hint of grease from the basement, the herbs from the kitchen, the white curtains snapping away in the breeze. This was what coming home was supposed to feel like.

Leela clutched her daughter to her chest, her face buried in the dark curls, inhaling deep like she could breathe her in. A shuddering exhale left her, like she’d been holding it in since the moment she left this house.

She had faced death today. And now, she was holding her life in her arms.

“Did you miss me?” she murmured to Maya, oh-so-tender. She smoothed a hand over Maya’s back and scratched gently at her belly. “Yeah? You did?”

Maya giggled, squirming in her mother’s hold.

Leela kissed her temple, her forehead, her small, chubby hands. “I missed you, too, baby girl. Mama missed you so much.”

He had seen Leela exhausted when she was with their baby girl. Distant. Detached. He had seen her shut down, her voice hollow, her eyes unfocused, like she had learned how to live in a way that kept her just outside of it.

But this—right now. She was here. Completely in Maya's orbit.

Maya pulled back slightly, tilting her head at her mother with that childish wonder, watching her closely like she was searching for something—measuring the movement of her lips, the sound of her words.

With slow, wary fingers, she touched Leela’s mouth. She wasn’t just hearing her mother’s words. She was holding them. Keeping them safe. Then, just as slowly, she brought her hand to her own lips.

Joel’s lips coiled upwards. Another trick that Leela had taught her. A way to say 'I love you'. Little smartass was catching on pretty quick.

Leela let out a soft laugh, her nose stroking against Maya’s. “I love you, too.”

He turned away. This moment—it didn’t belong to him. He felt like a trespasser like he had stepped into something too soft, too sacred for his presence. For the first time in a long time, he felt out of place in this big house.

Maria seemed to notice. She rested a hand on his back, voice quiet. “You okay, Miller?”

Joel exhaled through his nose and lied. “Fine.”

Maria didn’t push it, but her hand lingered for a second longer before she stepped away. “You owe me for that shit you pulled today. Nearly cost me a horse.” And when Joel shot her a no-bullshit glance, she added, “And a stupid fuckin' brother-in-law. Whatever.”

Joel nodded, impressed. “Naturally.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she walked out.

Joel followed her to the door, pack still slung over his shoulder. His hand landed on it, ready to push it closed—but his gaze drifted past the porch, past the quiet street, to the house across from him. His home.

He definitely should go. He should walk out, shut the door behind him, and put some distance between himself and everything that happened today for a while. The words he’d thrown at her in this house. The way he had pushed it further at the store. The grim fucking cabin.

All of it should have been reason enough to leave. But he couldn't move.

He took a slow, thoughtful breath. Let the warmth of the house settle into his skin. Then, before he could think too hard about it, he clicked the door shut.

Because he was too fucking selfish to leave.

So, Joel dropped his pack by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and toed off his boots. The big, white house had whispered around him with its scent of candlewax, firewood and warm linens, but not in him. Not just yet.

His gaze flicked up, landing on Leela just as she gently tucked the flower behind Maya’s ear. “Don't you look cute, trouble?” she teased.

A lump formed in his throat.

Maya blinked up at her mother, chubby fingers reaching to touch the delicate petals like she could hold onto them. Her eyes, wide and round, tracked her mother’s face with something close to awe before breaking off to her signature, gummy grin.

Joel had a smile curve up for her in return when she reached for him knowingly. “Hi, baby girl. C'mere, let me have a kiss, too.”

He leaned down, palming her back, pressing his lips deep into Maya’s curls, having his fill of kisses. God, he fucking loved her. She smelled of soap and soft cotton, of warm bathwater and the sweetness of bedtime. Her tiny fingers found his neck, curling into his skin. For a second, he let himself stay there, let her hold him.

Then he pulled away without another glance, stepping back from the moment before it could swallow him whole, giving them some space.

He stepped into the kitchen instead, grabbed a glass from the overflowing drying rack, and filled it under the tap.

Then—the cabin.

It came back, unbidden, curling around his mind like smoke.

The stench of rot. The filth on the rifle, caked in soot and sin. The bones burned into the floor, the pills pressing into the soles of his shoes.

Joel squeezed his eyes shut. Tilted his head back. Drowned it all with a long gulp of water.

Good. Let the fire take them. Let them burn down to nothing, to dust. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have left a fucking trace of those motherfuckers, not even their bones.

A warmth settled on his back.

Joel's every muscle tensed beneath it. Two palms, pressed gentle between his shoulder blades. Silently calling for him.

When he turned and glanced down, Leela was standing there. Maya was gone—tucked away somewhere safely in the living room, her shadow padding across from surface to surface for trouble to cause.

Now it was just them.

“Hey,” he tried first.

“Hi,” she returned.

She was warily watching him. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, fingers twisting together. Obviously, there was something she was dying to say, ask, or do. Without even knowing it, he knew his answer would be a flat yes.

Joel cleared his throat, setting the glass away. “Y'know, I'm proud of you. You did really well today.”

He barely got to finish that last sentence.

Before he could say anything else, she stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. Utterly winding him.

It wasn't just a hug. This was clinging.

She pressed close and warm, her body tipping forward, her very toes crushing against his own, as though not an inch of skin should go untouched, and he hardly had time to catch her. Her arms wound tight around him, slender fingers sliding up, curling into the back of his longer, greying hair, pulling just gingerly as they dragged against the grain.

She melted into him. Sank into his chest like it was the only place she could land. She was holding on. Staying.

And for a second, Joel just stood there, hands hovering, caught between instinct and hesitation.

Because this wasn’t for him. It was for her. He should pull back. Shouldn’t take something she wasn’t giving him, shouldn’t soak up the heat of her like he fucking needed it.

Then, she shivered. Just faintly. Just enough.

And Joel broke.

His arms locked around her, one gripping her around her waist, the other spanning between her shoulder blades, brushing against her long braid. He held her tight, holding her close.

Her heartbeat thrummed against his ribs, her trim abdomen crushed into his stomach and belt buckle, and each finger of his ruined hand depressed into a portion of her spine. A soft, fragile thing.

She was here. She’d always come back.

Joel turned his face, pressing his lips against the side of her head, breathing her in, his fingers tightening in her shirt like he could keep her there. Like he could hold her together.

The cabin. The filth. The fire—it was all gone. Burned away in the warmth of her, the scent of her hair, the way her fingers curled deeper against his skin.

And Joel, for all his anger, for all his ghosts, for all the things he did and did not deserve—held on.

She exhaled softly against his neck, her breath warm, and uneven. Her hands curled a little tighter against the back of his head like she could anchor herself to him.

“I’m going to get sick and tired of saying thank you, Joel.” Her voice was quiet, a little scratchy, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say it at all.

Joel huffed, barely a sound. His hand flexed against her back. “Then stop sayin’ it,” he murmured.

Leela let out something between a breath and a laugh, her body shifting against his. Finding her fit against him.

Joel felt her fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing against the rough curls there. It sent something tight through his ribs, something that coiled in his chest and refused to let go.

She was quiet for a long moment, just breathing him in.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “If something happens to me—”

Joel stiffened. His grip on her waist tightened like he could hold her in place like just the thought of losing her was enough to make his body rebel against it.

“Don't.” His voice was a warning, a plea, rough with something he didn’t want to name.

Leela didn’t let go.

Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding herself in him. Or maybe—trying to ground him. Trying to hold him there before she said something he wouldn’t want to hear.

“If something happens to me, I need to know that you'll take care of Maya.”

He knew why she was saying this bullshit.

She was only here by chance. By luck. A few inches, a second too slow, and she wouldn’t be in his arms right now—wouldn’t be pressing against him, wouldn’t be warm, wouldn’t be breathing, wouldn’t be looking up at him with those eyes like she was asking him for something bigger than a promise. Something final.

“Ain't gonna happen,” he muttered.

“Joel.” A soft plea, a tilt of her head.

He shook his head, jaw tight, chest locking up like a goddamn vice. “Christ, Leela. This shouldn't even be up for question.”

But she was insistent, her grip on him tightening, like she was afraid he'd pull away. Like she needed him to hear this. Accept this.

“Then promise me now.” The words barely held together. Cracked down the middle. “Not Maria. Not Tommy or even Ellie. You.”

Joel clenched his teeth, something raw scraping inside his ribs. All these promises he's been making. How were any of those fair on him?

“Joel, I don't have anyone else left. You have to understand how important this is to me.” Her voice was steadier now, but her hands trembled against him. “She’s all yours. She’s always been yours. My home, all my research, my daughter—you'll be there. It's all yours.”

His breaths ached, as if it was inside him, splitting.

This was fucking real. Not some passing thought, not some fleeting worry—this was her laying it out, putting her life into his wrecked hands, trusting him with it.

Maya wasn’t just hers. She was his, too.

She had been for a long time, hadn’t she? And if something happened—if Leela was gone—there wasn’t a damn force on this earth that would take that little girl from him. It didn’t scare him anymore.

“You don’t need me to put it in triplicate,” he murmured. “I'd do it without askin’.”

Leela exhaled sharply like she’d been holding her breath. “I know. Needed to hear it from you.”

Joel lifted a hand, threading his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up just slightly. “You’re both mine. Both of you.”

He made it quiet, severe, but unshakable. A vow, not just to her, but to himself. Because that was the truth. The thing he’d known for longer than he’d let himself admit.

They were his.

Leela let out a small breath—like this was the only thing she’d needed.

But then, after a moment—she spoke again.

“If this is about legacy or—” Joel started, but she cut him off before he could even finish the thought.

“I don't give a shit about legacy, Joel. Look at me,” she said, fierce in a way that left no room for doubt.

Her fingers dug into him, pressing at the base of his skull, as if forcing him to stay his eyes on her. To the sharp edges of her features, the slight furrow in her brow.

She meant this. She fucking meant it.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did, but Christ, after all this time, after everything she’d kept close, all the ways she’d pulled away—here she was, giving him this. Not just her daughter, not just trust, but herself.

Not the Leela who brushed things off with an easy laugh. Not the Leela who went silent when it hurt, shutting herself away before anyone could get too close. Not the one who had been worn thin by exhaustion, by grief, by everything this world had taken from her.

No—this was the one who fought. The one who was staring him down now, fire in her eyes, daring him to push back.

It struck him somewhere deep, somewhere below words, below reason.

This was her. All the dimensions. The burden of her intellect, the sharpness of her conviction, the softness that she didn’t let many people see. The mother of his child. The woman he—god, the woman he really goddamn loved.

“I want my daughter with you.” A beat. “With her father.”

Everything inside Joel went quiet, dead still, like his brain had to stop just to catch up to what she’d said.

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

Leela watched him, her hands solid against him, holding him in place. Not backing down.

“Now, I know we haven’t gotten down to talking about it because of everything—” she muttered carefully, “but you accept that, don’t you? That you’re more than just Joel to Maya?”

He should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.

Because wasn’t this the truth? Wasn’t this what had been sitting there, waiting, just waiting for him to stop being so goddamn stubborn and see it?

Maya didn’t just cling to him—she reached for him. She trusted him in that quiet, simple way children did when they knew, down to their bones, who their people were. Or maybe it had happened even earlier, when he’d first stepped into this, when he’d first decided—without words, without promises—that he wasn’t walking away.

And he’d never fought it. Never questioned it, never thought of her as anything but his. But hearing it—hearing it, out loud, no escape, no walking around it—

It was a thunderclap in his black sky.

His eyes flickered over Leela’s face, searching. Waiting for her to say something else, something to ease the way it was fucking ravaging him.

She only waited, knowing the unspoken.

Joel exhaled, slow, long. His fingers flexed in her hair, at her waist, at the places where she fit against him.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare for her to see.

He felt his past pressing against the edges of this moment—Sarah’s wide grin, her hand gripping his as she leaned on his side, in a home full of possibilities before the world had collapsed beneath them. Ellie’s fire, the way she’d fought relentlessly against every part of him that had tried to keep her at arm’s length.

He’d been a father twice over.

And now—now he was being handed the chance again.

But it was different this time. Not just because it was Maya, because she was small and warm and already his—but also that he wasn’t alone in it.

Because this time, he wasn’t clawing through it with only guilt and hard work and grief and stubbornness and separation keeping him going.

This time, there was a warm home. A quiet life. Some room to grow. There was Leela.

Maybe that was the part that really undid him. Not just being a father again, but parenting with someone.

He thought of all those nights when she was too exhausted to function, but still got up anyway, still kept going, because that’s what she did. He thought of the hushed strength of her, the stubborn resolve, the way she had fought to keep Maya safe in a world that didn’t leave room for that kind of thing.

He wasn’t fumbling through it alone this time.

“Yeah,” Leela whispered her answer, as if reading his mind.

She tilted her head up, rising on her toes again—not much, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his jaw.

Joel breathed out sharply.

This was dangerous. This was slipping, past whatever line he’d attempted to keep between them for her sake. He should move. Say something. Break it up and put space where there wasn’t any.

Joel swallowed, hard. A little, idiotic, anxious part of him wondered if it had been that long and the fundamentals of a kiss had changed. There wasn't a textbook to flip here.

He had kissed women before. Had held them, had wanted them, had fucked them, and felt that pleasure only a woman could offer him when he hit the mattress.

Leela was different.

Not just because she was her, not just because she looked up at him like that—like she had never once questioned whether he was worth wanting, like she already knew this was happening, like she had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter to her that he was worn down, exhausted, and probably reeked of sweat and death and whatever the hell else he’d been working through that day.

No—she was different because he was different. Because it had been a long, long time since Joel had let himself want a woman like this.

Want without restraint. Want without thinking about the mess of it, the mistakes of it, the goddamn risk of it.

And she—God, she looked fucking stunning. Just like the first time he’d seen her, only now, it wasn’t from across the street. Wasn’t at a distance. She was here, close enough to feel, close enough to breathe in.

Her fingers curled deeper into his hair, and whatever was left of his restraint snapped like brittle wire.

His head dipped before he could stop it.

The first brush of their lips was hesitating—soft, careful, fucking fantastic, like neither of them were quite sure they had permission. Like they were hovering on the edge of something neither of them could name.

Leela stiffened—just for a second.

Joel felt it. The way she froze—like the reality of it had just hit her. But her hands stayed, one fisted against his shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, not pulling away.

A small, shuddering breath slipped from her lips.

Joel swallowed, trying to ignore the way she did that, the way her fingers tensed against his scalp, her lips parted, uncertain, and she sighed against him.

For fuck's sake, she’d never done this before. Not like this. Not the way it should be done, not to be had. She was waiting on him—watching him, trusting him to show her how.

His palm smoothed up her spine, patient, languid. Soothing. Sweetheart, you ain’t gotta be nervous.

Leela inhaled sharply. And her grip shuddered. Tentatively, like she wasn’t sure she was doing it right, her lips moved against his.

He could feel the way she concentrated, the way she was brooding in that shrewd little head of hers, and figured it out as she went, pressing a little too lightly, pulling back like she went too far, or wasn’t sure how much to give.

His chest clenched. Jesus.

She was trying. Trying so hard, even though she didn’t know how.

Joel let his other hand drift up—languid, knowing—fingertips grazing along the edge of her jaw, curving, pressing, tilting her just slightly. Guiding her.

Leela’s breath hitched.

Then, as if that small adjustment had steadied her, she softened entirely against him.

And Joel—yeah, he was fucking gone.

His fingers threaded into her hair, twisting into those wild, thick strands that weaved down into her braid, angling her deeper, letting her have all of him. Because that seemed to be all he could give her. Nothing but himself.

His lips moved against hers, gentle, sure, patient—like he was showing her how.

God, she was so fucking sweet. So nervous, so careful, but trusted him to lead her through it.

Her lips parted, a quiet, breathless sound slipping through—small, barely anything, but fuck, it hit him hard.

Joel groaned, low, deep in his throat, heat curling through his stomach. What he would give to push her up against that counter behind her, to have him pick apart that pretty pearl-buttoned night dress or bite off those bows and strings in those mind-bending backless tops of hers.

The thought only made his hand splay at her waist, pulling her flush against him, fingers pressing into the small of her back. Leela let out a soft gasp, her other hand sliding up, gripping at his throat, and she wanted more.

Well, he was already fucking ruined anyway.

His lips moved deeper into her, more certain, his fingers pressing into the curve of her jaw, tipping, angling—letting her feel it, letting her lead, letting her find her rhythm, letting her take what she wanted at her own pace.

And she did. She deserved that. Knowing she was in control of this.

He pulled back just an inch—just enough to meet her gaze, to give her a second to breathe, to make sure she knew—

But before he could, her lips chased his, and Jesus—

Joel laughed softly, deep in his throat, warmth curling through his stomach, twisting through his ribs. Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you need.

So he kissed her again. More. Deeper. As long she wanted. Till his lips went blue, till his legs went dead, till his brain was fuzzy, till she was sure she'd mastered the art of kissing.

Her fingers trembled against his neck when she eventually fell back on her heels, realizing—like this was finally sinking in.

Joel exhaled against her lips, gruff. “Good?”

Leela nodded—too fast, too eager. “Mhm.”

It was barely a whisper, barely there at all, but her hands were still on him, still keeping close, still wanting.

His thumb brushed over her jaw, soft, reassuring. “You sure?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching—like she was waiting for something. And then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“I didn’t know it could be like this.”

Oh, that knocked the wind out of him. The next time she said shit like that, he'd put his fist through a wall.

His hand lifted, threading through her hair with a tenderness that nearly undid him, coarse fingers dragging through the strands before resting at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the soft skin there, his other hand smoothing over the small of her back, pulling her a breath closer.

“S’alright, darlin',” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead, lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Ain’t gotta rush.”

And that—that was it.

That was the moment Joel knew. And Christ, maybe that was the thing he never let himself want—never let himself hope for.

This wasn’t about grief. This wasn’t about making promises in the shadow of something terrible.

This was about life. A chance to do this again, but with stability. With reassurance. With her.

Leela was standing in front of him, alive, wanting, present. All his.

And somehow, despite all the shit they’d lived through, despite all the ways he had shut himself off over the years—somehow, he was too.

X

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[babbymochiiii]

🔞MINE: JOHNNY SUH

synopsis: 'you're mine, even if i'm not supposed to make you mine'; where you and your bodyguard have a heated argument while you're at the club with your friends. warnings: afab reader, bodyguard!johnny, "business relationship", reader is a public figure of some sorts, pwp, johnny being a meany, fingering/oral (f), p in v, hair pulling, cumming inside, nipple play, breast play, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms for reader, name calling (brat), sweet names for her (baby, angel), etc. author's note: @jsuh for the gif! @rookthornesartistry for the divider! this fic has come to life bc of a daydream i had due to me reading a bodygaurdxclient story 😖 and let's just say it's lowkey self indulgent just cause of the fact that it was a daydream *sweats* it was hot...so i had to share with yall. also, i'm still working on the lee line fic as we speak just the production of it is rlly slow for me at the point cause i'm hitting a big bump in the road for it. so please hang tight! word count: 4.6k

anon ask related to this post!

NOW PLAYING: 1. if i didn't know better by MACK LOREN 2. PROMISES by EMO

"Hey babes, just want to let you know that your bodyguard is staring mad hard over here." Your friend yelled over the booming music the club was playing as the two of you stood at the bar.   

Looking over your shoulder— just as she said— you can find your bodyguard with his bulging arms crossed over his chest as he sulks in the corner he is in while sending you a hard look from across the club.   

You rolled your eyes at him, before turning around at your friend as you waved a hand between the two of you, dismissing the topic of him entirely. "Forget about him. He's just mad I ended up doing what I wanted without listening to his security measures." You said to her as you rolled your eyes again.  

Your friend gave you an unnerving look before turning her expression back to her drink. "You know—" She stops herself quickly as she felt her face heat up at the words. "—it looks like he wants to eat you alive." She said as she took a quick swing of her fruity drink.   

You arched an eyebrow at her words before a laugh leaves your lips. Causing her face and the tips of her ears to turn red in embarrassment.   

"Are you serious?" You asked her as you chuckled at the silly accusation she made. 

"I mean, his eyes won't leave you no matter what. And on top of it he looked like he wanted to kill the guy that tried to buy you a drink earlier." She said as she played with the rim of her glass.   

You felt your heart thump harder in your chest at her words. But they were just that. Words. Nothing that she says can be true about your bodyguard. Johnny Suh. The bodyguard that was assigned to you due to your agency fussing over your safety because of some unknown person creating threats towards you.   

From the moment you first met, you have been awe struck at his appearance. The way he towered over you, the expressionless look on his face as he looked down at you, the way the black compressed shirt he wore hugged his fit figure, the black jeans he wore how they hugged his large thighs during your first meeting had you clenching your thighs together tightly as you felt yourself become attracted to him.   

No matter how much you tried to drown yourself in some company, or your own, he was always on your mind. Everything about him and the things you wanted to do with him. But you knew there was a border you couldn't cross with him. That was the rule...but who cared about the rules, right? They were meant to be broken.  

Thump, thump, thump.  

Your heart couldn't stop the heavy beating in your chest at the thought of him. You realized you haven't answered your friend and sought out your response as quickly as you could. "There's nothing there, for any of us." You tried not to sound as breathless as you feel as you responded to her. "Besides, it can be the number of fruity cocktails you've been having since we got to the club." You remarked with a smirk.  

"Hey!" She laughed as she gave you a playful shove. "They are good as hell, okay." She said as she downed the rest of her drink in one go. "Anyways, let's go dance!" She giggled as she took hold of your hand and dragged you to the middle of the dance floor.  

Deciding to go with the flow for the night, you followed your friend's lead and started to dance with her. As the two of you danced, having a good time and just laughing at one another over a silly dance move, a sultry song came on.   

You and your friend danced close to one another as you both felt the beat of the music course through your body, completely taking control over the two of you.   

Suddenly, you felt someone come up from behind you and wrap their arm around your waist and bringing you closer to them. The person tried to make you grind against them, but you weren't having it.   

You turned around and pushed at the man's chest. He held onto your waist tightly, refusing to release you from his hold.   

"Let me go fucker!" You yelled as you continued to push at him but all he did was smirk at you as you continued to try and push him away.   

"I believe she told you to let her go." A cold voice speaks out beside you.   

Chills rake through your body, as you look towards Johnny's towering form, as he looked towards the man holding you with narrowed slits for eyes. A warning before a reaction.   

"And what is it to you?" The man laughs as he tightened his grip on your waist, causing you to whimper out in pain.   

Nothing was said on Johnny's end at the man's remark, as he took hold of the man's bicep and held it in a vice grip. This caused the man to let go of you as he tried to pry Johnny's hand with his free hand.  

"Let her go before I fuck you up." Johnny says in a cool, neutral tone, as if this was any other night.   

"Man fuck—" the rest of the man's words were lost as Johnny sent a straight punch to the man's nose. The man wails in pain as he clutches to his now broken nose, where blood started to drip down in a cascade.   

"We're leaving." Johnny said as he took hold of your arm and started to drag you off the dance floor, and away from your friend.   

You looked back at your friend, to which she sends you a wide eye look as she didn't know what to do in the situation.   

"Let me go Johnny! I want to enjoy the night with my friend!" You yelled out as you tried to pry his hold off your arm.   

"It's not safe here and I'd rather not watch you dance with other people and drink yourself away." He said in a harsh tone as he pulled you down the secluded hallway the club has that leads you to the entrance/exist.   

"Fuck off, Johnny! I want to be here. You're always ruining everything! Why can't you let me be!?" You yelled as you felt your anger get the best of you.  

Johnny stops in his steps, before he slowly turns towards you with his own expression of evident anger. "I'm doing my job here. Stop being a fucking brat and listen." He seethed out as he started to walk closer to you, causing you to back up against the wall. He corners you with his towering form.   

"You never fucking listen to what I say to you. And look—" he said as he placed both of his hands on each side of your head. "—it gets you in trouble every. Fucking. Time. And who comes after you?" He questioned you.  

"You—"   

"Exactly. I'm the one saving your bratty ass."   

You were stunned into silence as you looked at the way he breathed heavily after his remark. You felt your chest move up and down to the same rhythm as his. You would be an idiot, if you tried to deny the way you felt a sudden rush of moisture collect in your underwear.   

The look he was giving you made you release a small gasp as you saw what your friend was telling you.   

Pure hunger.   

He looked like he wanted to eat you alive as you looked up at him. You felt your body quiver in chills that causes you to arch your back, causing your hardened nipples to graze lightly against his chest through your thin dress.   

Something seems to snap within him because before you know it, he's gripping the base of your neck and pulling you roughly against his lips.  

Nothing about the kiss was gentle at all. It was all tongue, teeth, and fighting for dominance. This kiss was pure pent-up tension between the two of you, that has been set in place since your first meeting.  

You wrapped your hands around his neck. Your hands tangled themselves in his long black locks as he pulled you closer to him. The sensation of his teeth sinking into your bottom lip causes you to moan loudly at the pleasuring pain that coursed through you.   

He pulled away from the kiss and placed his hand on your lower back. “Come with me.” He said in a low tone as he started to guide you to the club’s bathroom for a more private, and secluded moment.   

Once he held the bathroom door open, he gently pushed you in before he followed suit locking the door in the process.   

You looked up towards Johnny in a breathless state. The whole ordeal was dizzying. You can’t wrap your mind around the events playing in front of you right now. Johnny started to stalk towards you causing you once again to walk backwards until your middle back hit the bathroom’s counter. You looked behind you for a split second, to which Johnny takes the moment you are distracted to lift you up on the counter.   

His placement of his hands on your thighs causes goosebumps to rise and place themselves along the rest of your legs as you felt him gently pull them apart as he placed his body between them.   

“Do you know what you do to me?” Johnny asked as he looked at you with such intense heat that you swear his eyes were intense pools of brown. 

“I —no.” you answered weakly as you looked up at him with doe-like eyes that makes him curse inwardly as he continued his intense stare down.  

Without breaking eye contact, he takes hold of one of your trembling hands and places it on his very evident, aching cock that fights to be released from their tight hold.  

A gasp leaves your lips as you look down at where your hand is. With a trembling breath that escapes your lungs, you look up towards Johnny and see the same hungered look in his eyes.  

“This is what you do to me. From the first moment we met. You have changed everything I stand and believe in.” He purred in a low voice as he squeezed the hand that is on his clothed cock.  

You moaned quietly as you felt the way his cock jumped in your hand. With the way your chest was rising and falling at such a rapid pace, you could swear you weren’t breathing as you basked in the feeling that surrounded the two of you.  

You took your other hand and started to trace it up the arm that held onto your thigh. In the wake of your path, you saw goosebumps following your hand. You continued the path up his bicep and to his shoulder. Once at the top, you followed your hand as it slowly traced down his chest, where his racing heart was trying to escape his chest.   

Johnny started to trace small circles with his thumb in your inner thigh. It was as if a fire had suddenly gone ablaze within your very nervous system as it started to consume your whole being.  

“If we do this —” Johnny cuts himself off as he heard how breathless he sounded. Clearing his throat he continued. “If we do this, there is no going back. You are mine. No other man can touch you. Your body is mine.” He said as he placed his other hand on your thigh while pressing his hands into your skin. “—your pussy is mine. Do you understand?” He says as he leans down and traces your jaw with his nose. 

“Johnny...please.” You whimpered out as you felt yourself getting desperate for his touch.  

“Tell me.” He said as he tangled his hand into your hair.  

When you didn’t answer him back quickly — it was more like you were speechless in what to say to him, you were in awe — he pulled at the roots of your hair tightly, pulling your head back so you were forced to make eye contact with him. “Tell me, angel.”  

“I’m yours...fuck, Johnny I’m yours.” You cried out as you placed your arms around his neck and pulled him closer to you where your lips grazed one another's.  

Without missing a beat, Johnny claims your mouth with the same feverish want. It didn’t feel like you were breathing at all as you let him claim your mouth. You felt the strands of his long hair tickle against your forehead as he presses himself further into you. Johnny’s hands release their hold on your thigh and move them to the bunched-up fabric of your dress. He pushes it up further, showcasing your black lacey thong. Along with the obscene amount of slick coming out from your entrance.  

Johnny’s fingers grazed along your clad folds causing for a moan to leave your mouth and for you to entrap your legs around his slim waist. You felt the sensitivity of your core race up through your body making it become such a high sensing feeling. Seeing the way, you reacted causes for a grunt to leave Johnny’s throat as he starts to cascade down your throat with bites and kisses.  

Distracted by the sensation on your neck, you’ve failed to notice Johnny pushing aside your underwear. The sensation of his callous fingers gliding in-between your folds, makes you pull away from the kiss with a gasp as you look down at him collecting your slick, lubricating his fingers before inserting two fingers into your waiting entrance.  

The stretch of his fingers was both pleasures inducing but brought some pain. Tears brimmed your water line as you tried to accommodate the feel of his fingers.  

“Cryin’ already? What are you gonna do when you take my cock?” Johnny teases as he starts to thrust his fingers in and out of your weeping cunt. “You’re gonna take it like a good girl. Right, angel?” He says as he started to thrust his fingers in faster.  

“Y-yes! Oh—” You moaned out as you felt his fingers start to jerk up inside of you, hitting the spot you deliciously.  

Still fingering you with the fast pace he has going, Johnny uses his free hand to scoot you closer to the counter’s edge where he then went down on his knees and used his mouth to suck on your clit.  

The sensation of his mouth wrapped around your clitoral hood, has you raising your hips off the counter and trying to get closer to his mouth as it made rockets go off in your nerves with a semi-scream moan.  

Not taking his mouth off of where he wanted it most at, he pushes your hips down back onto the counter, and holds them with his free hand. “Never tasted anything so fuckin’ sweet like this.” Johnny moans out as he bit his bottom lip while looking down at your spit-glossed clit and the way his fingers started to have slick cascade down them.  

You were so close to losing it — you were that close to actually losing it completely — he goes down on you again, this time moving his head side to side as his tongue sticks out, collecting all of your sweet juices. The feelings in your legs start to feel like mush as the tightening feeling at the base of your spine continues to build up.  

As if he couldn’t get enough of you, Johnny pulls you closer off the edge to where your hips almost completely hang off of the counter, as a deep husky groan leaves his lips as he felt you gush even more on his tongue. You took one of your hands and glided it against the strands of his dark hair, slightly massaging his scalp before giving it a tug.  

An approved groan leaves his throat as he pushes himself closer to you. His tongue gliding up and down your folds before probing at your entrance where his fingers continue to pump in and out of you. With his tongue joining his fingers, he felt your pussy pulse against his digits causing him to give you a smug smirk. “Such a cute heartbeat baby. Are you gonna cum on my fingers for me?” Johnny said as he looked up at you as he continued his delicious movements.

You gave him a delirious nod of your head as tears started to fall from your eyes at the sensation of being so close to your release.  

“Then come.”  

With just those two words, you felt the tether within you snap with your hips lifting up and your grip on Johnny’s hair tightening while a cry leaves your lips as you come.  

Johnny keeps thrusting his fingers slowly to help you through your orgasm, and with his tongue he laps up your release, leaving you all clean...for now.  

As you gasped for the much-needed air in your lungs, through your half-lidded eyes you see Johnny get up and unzip the zipper of his jeans. With a slight haste in his moves, he unbuttons his jeans and releases his weeping cock out of the tight hold they were in.  

His cock was such a pretty sight to look at. His tip such a flushed pink and leaking pre-cum, and the vein that pulses so meanly along his long, girthy length you felt yourself gush all over again as you tucked your bottom lip between your teeth.  

“Get off of the counter for me angel.” Johnny says in a gentle tone, but the command laid in the undertone.  

Doing as he says, you get off the counter and look up at him, awaiting what he wants you to do next. Both you and Johnny look at one another as each watched the way your chests rise and fall in heavy breaths. You watched the way your arousal and release glistened on his lips and chin. Seeing the way you looked at him made him subconsciously lick his lips.  

Ignoring the way his cock is begging to seethe itself inside of you, Johnny takes hold of your face with both of his hands, kissing you once more. He couldn’t get enough of how your lips tasted. You tasted yourself on his lips and you couldn’t get enough of it. 

Johnny pulls away from the kiss and pulls you around where you are facing the bathroom mirror. In the reflection you saw the way your makeup was running a little bit, and the way you looked so blissed out from your orgasm. The moment you looked up towards Johnny’s reflection, you felt yourself clenching around nothing. Lust, hooded eyes looked back at you through the mirror.  

You felt Johnny press himself against you. His warm and throbbing cock resting against your ass, you pressed yourself further into him. A groan leaves his lips as he looks down at the way your plump ass wants to suck his length in-between them.  

Johnny then leans in towards your ear, another smirk playing on his lips. “Be a good girl and take it, yeah?” He says as he takes the side of your ear into his mouth delivering a small nip causing chills and goosebumps to course through your body.  

You then see Johnny pull himself up, spit onto his hand before he guides it down to his length and pumps himself — getting it ready for your weeping entrance — all through the mirror. The fact that he was about to fuck you in front of mirror had your mind doing all sorts of somersaults as you edge towards that feral feeling growing larger than life in your chest.  

Johnny takes hold of the base of his cock and starts to align it to your entrance. He teases your entrance with his tip, slowly putting it in before he pulls it out. This causes you to whimper at his teasing, but all it does is draw a chuckle from him as he glides his cock in-between your folds.  

The fat of his head hits your clit in continuous glides that almost makes you see stars.  

“Johnny please —” you cry out as you hang your head down as you tried not to cry over the edging feeling he gives you.  

“Please what? Use your big girl voice for me angel.” Johnny teases as he continued his teasing.  

“Johnny please fuck me! P-please fu—” the rest of your sentence falls into a scream as you felt Johnny thrust his hard length into your entrance in one go.  

The burning sensation of the obscene stretch he gave you made your toes curl as he started to fuck you slowly, letting you somewhat get used to his size.  

“What was that?” Johnny laughed as he saw the way the lustful blush takes over your face and chest. You instantly felt yourself getting dumb on his cock as he pounded into you so meanly.  

The way your walls sucked him in drove the two of you crazy. You felt the way his vein pulsed within you that it made you clench down onto him. Johnny swore under his breath at the tight feeling you were creating around his pulsing length. 

“Fuck — keep clenching me like that angel and I'm not gonna last long for you.” Johnny said as he held onto your hips tightly.

Incoherent words fall from your lips as you savored the delicious feeling of Johnny’s cock gliding in and out of your sopping entrance. Johnny traced his hand up from its place on your hips and brought it to the front of your dress. He pulls the fabric down, causing your breast to spill out from their hold. Johnny takes both of your breasts and places them into each hand of his, giving them both a squeeze causing the two of you to moan. Johnny takes one of your hardened nipples between his fingertips and pinches it.  

Moan, after moan leaves your lips as the sensations your bodyguard is giving you. Behind the noise of your moans, you could hear the sound of skin slapping against one another and the squelching sounds coming out from your entrance.  

You felt a hand wrap around your hair and tug it backwards making you look into the mirror to already see Johnny looking at you with such a lustful look you honestly believe you could cum on the spot.  

“Look at me as I fuck this pretty pussy of your angel.” He speaks roughly as he continues to plough into you. “Look at how. You. Take. It.” Johnny emphasizes with each hard thrust into you.  

You bit your lips as you watched the way Johnny started to get lost within your wet walls. You saw the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he tossed his head back, relishing the feeling. It was like seeing a switch flip within his mind as he looked down at the connection between the two of you.  

Johnny's hair fell in his face and started to stick to his sweaty skin as he started to deliver merciless thrusts into your abused whole that it had you on your tippytoes.   

“Fuckin’ take it. Take it like the good girl that you are baby.” Johnny groans out as he heard your cry of how good he’s hitting your walls.  

Johnny snaked his hand around your waist and down to your front. His fingertips started to press down onto your clit and moving them side to side, causing you to moan out loudly.  

“Whose pussy does it belong to?” Johnny questioned as he continued his movements on your swollen clit.  

“Y-you — oh God!” you moaned out as he started to hit that one spot inside of you making you see stars. 

A jolted slap was heard in the room as Johnny’s hand came down on your clit with a sharp slap. A cry-like moan falls from your lips as you push yourself back against Johnny.  

“Whose does it belong to?” Johnny said again as he delivered three more slaps in a row to your stinging clit. 

“You! Fuck — you do Johnny!” you cried out as you started to feel the same tightness feeling at the base of your spine start to coil.  

“That’s fucking right. You're my baby. This pussy is mine. Let me find out you’re letting another man touch what is mine and I’m going to mess you up.” Johnny seethes as he pounded into you even harder than before.  

The repetitive sensation of Johnny hitting your spot within your walls makes you see double the stars than before. “I’m gon—” Without warning you started to come around Johnny’s length. You felt your body shiver at how intense the orgasm was. Your legs started to shake as you started to feel the overstimulation take its course considering Johnny hasn’t relented to his intense pounding.  

Johnny was so close to his release as he continued to pound into you even as you tightened yourself up. He continued to stimulate your overly abused clit, drawing cries from you. “Give me one more angel. Just one more for me.” Johnny said as he sounded restless trying to get that one last orgasm for himself.  

“Nngh! S-so full and—and big! Feel so good!” You cried out as tears started to fall from your eyes as the overstimulation started to take its course officially through your body.  

“That’s right baby, fuck — I make you feel so good.” Johnny said in between his teeth as he felt his balls tighten up, ready to release their load.  

“Where do you want me to come angel?” Johnny asked as he wrapped his hand around your throat, as he looked at your fucked out expression through the mirror.  

“Inside of me! Please, please, please.” You begged as you made eye contact with Johnny through the mirror. The way your eyes glistened with unshed tears, the flush on your face, the way your hair clung onto your sweaty forehead, and just the fucked outlook you were giving him was enough to make him blow his load inside of you.  

Strings of curses left Johnny’s lips as his stomach clenched and thighs shake slightly as he let go inside of you completely. The feeling of his sticky ropes painting your walls, caused you to go into your third orgasm of the night.  

As the two of you rode out your highs together, the weight of the situation between the two of you started to settle within the two of you. As Johnny pulled himself out, cleaning you and him in the process, a deathifying silence fell. You weren’t sure how to approach the topic. Do you say this was a one-time thing or are you guys actually together now?  

“What I said about you being mine —” Johnny says as he helps you straighten your dress out and clean a bit of the running makeup on your face. “—I meant it.” He says in a gentle tone.  

The moment those words left his words, you felt breathless at his slight confession. “Johnny I —”  

“Please spare me if you’re going to reject me after all this.” He said as he played with a lock of your hair. 

“I was going to say, I understood what you meant.” You said as you placed your hands on his chest, closing the slight gap between the two of you. “I don’t want someone else when I have you.”  

Johnny leaned down and you met him halfway where the two of you shared a passionate kiss, sealing the promise you have for one another.

[starseungs]

from the past, beyond the present, and into tomorrow. ksm. ( teaser )

kim seungmin x fem!reader — following the last wishes of her beloved grandmother, y/n finds herself moving back to her family's hometown. deep into the countryside and miles away from the bustling noise of the city, the change was supposed to be a new experience. that was, if only the mayor's son didn't bring along years of unknown familiarity with him.

GENRE/S — drama, slight angst, slight fluff, just sentimental, soulmates au, multiple lifetimes, high school au, a slowburn • teaser: 2.1k words (10k+ overall fic)

WARNING/S — y/n gets referred to with she/her pronouns, setting is heavily influenced by japanese environments (but still made vague enough for other preferences), main characters are aged eighteen, possibly more to be added upon release.

NOW PLAYING — tracing that dream by yoasobi

( ✒️ ) this is the product of seungmin covering one of my favorite songs ... now im gonna make him a shoujo anime love interest !!! and yes the teaser is long asf. i, too, am concerned about the total word count of this fic. (road to 20k wc i guess)

( 📌 ) STATUS: UNRELEASED • TAGLIST IS OPEN !

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

You had dreamt of a specific scene once when you were thirteen.

At least, you were the one who considered it a dream. It was something you had tried to bury in the depths of your mind—locked away in a tiny chest placed in the furthest corner and behind closed doors. If it were someone else, you knew that they would’ve already exhausted all means to figure out what the dream meant.

After all, it certainly wasn’t every day that you got to dream of something that felt so vividly real to the point you could’ve sworn it was a memory.

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

Why?

Because in no reality could an authentic memory be of a time that shouldn’t even exist yet.

“I won’t ask you to congratulate me,” the vessel you were seeing the world through spoke. In the scenario being played out, you could feel yourself smile warmly. You could only guess why the positive action was contrasted by such a somber tone of speaking. “Never once have your eyes lied in front of mine.”

The sound of joyous laughter that surrounded the area almost felt too jarring to compare to the mood present between what was supposed to be you and another male. He sat completely still, unmoving amidst the dim evening despite your earlier comment. Flickers of embers from the sizable-looking campfire reflected in his eyes, telling of the fact that the absence of a response was not because of a lack of focus but rather his inner thoughts getting swallowed up by the burning flames.

His looks would range him older than eleven. Yet, you didn’t seem phased by it—not even in the slightest. Perhaps this was something you should have expected. The voice that came out of you was notably not one of an eleven-year-old either. So you gave up on the matter.

Instead, you waited for an answer to what you had previously uttered. Even if it was just a simple hum that came out of his mouth.

He let the fire crackle a bit more.

“Does it make me a bad man to say that I envy you?”

The breath that you didn’t even know you were holding escaped your lips the second he spoke. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean,” was your reply.

The silence came back for a second. Surprisingly, it didn’t seem as heavy as the one you two had just broken. You watched his movements, almost mesmerized, as he took his eyes off the fire. The concentration only faltered when his sight came up to meet yours. “You’re off to go do greater things over in the big city,” he starts. “And yet, here I am, getting left behind in this quiet town. A place not a single soul even yearns for—where everyone starts off but never stays.”

It was odd. The way you felt your heart race at his words.

To be completely honest, you didn’t think much of what he had just said. You didn’t even know exactly what it meant—both for you and for him. Yet, the sudden spike of adrenaline in your veins told a different story. It was making you feel breathless while also making you tear up.

“You could always come with me.”

He shook his head. Did he just reject your offer? “It’s no use. My life’s responsibilities will still lie here. What would I even gain from leaving this place?”

Another beat. You could care less if it was of silence or your heart. In what seemed like a blink, the environment felt too overwhelming for you to function in. It was almost like you were sinking. Down deep to who knows where.

Though muddled, you tried your best to bring yourself back to the forefront by listening to the variety of other sounds outside the small bubble you two had created. Children running around screaming with laughter, adult men howling with amusement at whatever conversation they were in, and a female voice yelling to prepare the fireworks.

How fun. A celebration right next to a brewing storm. All under the same night sky.

“But,” you forced the words out. “You also have your own dreams.” His eyes softened at the mention. The way your heart shattered echoed a little too strongly throughout your body.

“That’s why I’m letting you go like this.” The young male smiled, making sure to let you know it was only directed at you. “So that at least one of us gets to achieve them.”

Your lips quivered. “Why do you speak as if I’m never going to come back for you?”

Silence again. You were beginning to develop an intense dislike for them.

“That’s just the way the world works,” was the response that came to soothe your growing anxiety. “It doesn’t revolve around a certain person. And it certainly doesn’t revolve around me. Go and live the life you want without any regrets. When the time comes that you’ve done everything you’ve wished for in life, come and find me again.”

A shake of a head.

“I could always just stay.”

A weak chuckle.

“Then, neither of us will be able to grow.”

A clench of a hand.

“What if I take too long?”

A minute passes by. You’ve come to really hate these momentary pauses.

He stands up. “There will be no such thing,” the young male assures you, moving closer only to stop at arm's length. You fought the urge to reach out and hold him. “Even if it takes multiple lifetimes, I’ll always be here. Waiting for you.”

“What if you forget about me?”

The world fell into one last hush. Your well-held tears finally started falling one-by-one, just like the first drops of rain. He sighs at your state, taking another step forward.

“I really don’t think I ever will.” He cups your face gently to look at him. “That’s why to you, who my heart will always choose in every lifetime—”

A loud bang. You watched as the fireworks bloomed into the sky through his glistening eyes.

“—Please live well until you come back to me.”

Hushed whispers filled the room.

You should’ve expected this. No matter the place, all high schoolers were bound to be the same, either one way or another. If you really had to make sense of it, your best guess would be that it was simply human for them to act this way. Universal traits are what makes a species. Perhaps you would’ve found it much more uncomfortable if the students in front of you didn’t find your situation interesting. After all, the genuine interest seeping out of those youthful eyes did make the atmosphere a lot lighter. At the end of the day, you could never actually fault them.

Still, enduring the poor attempts of adolescents trying to keep their curiosity hidden for more than a tick of a clock was harder than you thought. A part of you so badly wanted to believe that it was because this whole ordeal was tiring—bothersome, even. Unluckily for you, your brain knew a little bit too much for its own good.

Next to the classroom’s front door, one of your female classmates drops a pen accidentally. You watched it roll down two seats away, only to stop underneath the chair of a guy who was animatedly discussing something with another that was to his right. The latter enthusiastically reciprocated the conversation; his seemingly dominant hand spinning a blue-colored pen while doing so. You balled your hands, only to release them not even a beat later. They felt slightly damp.

You were nervous.

“Settle down now, class!” The homeroom teacher, Mrs. Cheon, ordered. Like well disciplined soldiers, the students quickly ceased all sound. Their undivided attention made you swallow heavily. “Starting today, we have a new addition to our class. Let’s all listen to her introduction.”

Your eyes almost popped out of their sockets at her order—only barely holding back from painting shock all over your face. This was not the plan you were made aware of. You wanted to protest. Throw a tantrum like a little child at the way she had just thrown you into a den filled with lions with no choice but to fend for yourself. Back in the faculty room, she had clearly stated that she was the one who was going to introduce you to the class. What was the point of asking you all the standard information about yourself if she wasn’t even going to use it?

Mrs. Cheon merely stood there, anticipating for you to start. Her neatly managed fingers were laced together behind her back, presenting the dark purple dress she was wearing in all of its glory. You kind of wished it was brighter; just so you could complain about her blinding you without seeming rude. Now you realized that you shouldn’t have trusted her words in their literal sense. It was foolish of you to believe that all you had to do for your formal introduction was to stand there until you were settled.

You took a discrete, heavy breath.

“Hello to you all. My name is Y/N,” you start off as cool as you could manage. “Eighteen. I just moved here from the city, so I am still in the process of getting familiar with the environment. Please take care of me.”

If you could give yourself a pat on the back at that moment, you would’ve. Unfortunately, you had yet to get a grasp on how things worked around here, so it was probably better not to do anything that would make you stand out more than you already did just by being new. And who even transfers schools two months into their last year of high school? Plus, with their stares so intently directed at you like they were studying a fascinating specimen, you couldn’t lift a single finger anyway. So you settled for pursing your lips instead.

A male student with puffed cheeks from the second row raised a brow at you. You bit your cheek lightly. Great.

“It seems like that’s all for Y/N’s introduction,” Mrs. Cheon says, clearing her throat. You internally glowered at the way she awkwardly moved on. You could only wonder how painful your introduction now seemed. “You’ll be seated next to Seungmin. Raise your hand, please.” She ordered.

To which not one soul followed.

If you had not enforced every single ounce of control you had, you were sure your jaw would’ve dropped to the ground. This was already proving to be one of the worst moments of your life, and yet life seemed way too eager to make it even more unforgettable. Your eyes snapped to the figure sitting on the slot in the back row, right next to the windows.

Granted, you already knew who this ‘Seungmin’ was. It was quite obvious, really. The only other desk free to use in this entire room was the one next to the guy you were currently burning a hole through with your gaze. He was staring out the window without a worry in the world, seemingly lost in his thoughts. His posture screamed relaxation, and anything more than that meant infusing into the wooden chair he was leaning back on.

While normally you would have found this guy relatable, right now you could just wish that he finally acknowledged Mrs. Cheon’s call so that you could now erase your presence for the rest of the day.

Luckily for you, it seemed like your homeroom teacher was also getting impatient.

“Kim Seungmin!”

The male with the same name as the one just yelled out leisurely broke off his staring contest with that one cloud in the sky to give you two at the front a glance. It was then that you finally got a good look at him.

His black hair was cut short, brushed down into bangs, but not enough to cover a notable undercut. Despite his clean appearance doubled by the meticulously ironed uniform that hung on his figure, his face was grim in a way that showed great dislike for the situation. You wanted to scoff at the frown decorating his lips, sending everyone the clear message that he had just been bothered. Fighting off the urge to twitch an eye at the slight scrunch of his nose was proving to be the most difficult challenge of the day.

“Oh?” He reacted monotonously before raising his hand as requested. That obviously meant he did hear Mrs. Cheon. “Yeah, here.”

You grit your teeth, already feeling an overwhelming sense of annoyance radiating out of you. From what it looked like, he felt it too—shifting his gaze from Mrs. Cheon to meet yours. Yet, your eyebrows furrowed as the feeling dissipated the moment your eyes locked.

Huh.

How come he seems awfully familiar?

FIC TAGLIST ━ STATUS: OPEN — ASK OR COMMENT 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @wnbnny @xocandyy @minluvly @moon0fthenight @estellaluna @hanjsquokka @starlostastronaut @soobnny

[kickbackkanzaki]

The Dungeon Master and Chess Queen

You're the new student and chess captain at Hawkins High. When Eddie Munson asks you for tutoring you're certain you have him handled but you may have underestimated his strategy.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Warnings: Smut (18+), drinking, drug use, mention of past assault, physical altercation, unprotected intercourse (p in v), swearing, possessive/toxic traits, rough sex.

Eddie slipped the final joint into line with its brothers then closed the cassette tape cover. Usually when he made the sojourn to the community college he would take an entire bag of product but this trip was social.

A friend of yours was performing in a concert this weekend and had invited you up for the night. You and Eddie had done a few day trips when you'd played a competition or needed a break from Hawkins but this was the first overnighter and Wayne felt compelled to be avuncular.

"Remember what I told you," he'd advised Eddie that morning when he'd returned from shift.

"I wont screw up," Eddie assured him.

Ever since the dinner date Wayne had been reminding Eddie to be smart with you. He didn't want to see a repeat of his brother's mistakes or a nephew with a broken heart.

The unmistakeable sound of the rusty Mustang in low gear came through the window so Eddie tossed the cassette tape into his duffel bag and headed for the door.

He was down the stairs before you had a chance to knock and twirled you in a hug.

"Ready to hit the road baby?" he asked enthusiastically after a kiss. "I brought the tunes."

"Robin's shotgun," you explained and started for the parked car, "so she picks the music. You can hang in the back with her friend."

Eddie peered through the rear window and identified the passenger by his hair.

"Is that Steve Harrington?"

"Yep. Robin says he's a good hang so I let him take the empty seat."

"I thought Red was coming?"

The original plan for the weekend was to include Max to show her the good things that came after high school. To prove the cliques and conformity she endured now would end after senior year.

"She was but her Mum heard 'community college' and said 'Hell No.' She thinks we'll be fornicating and getting high all weekend," you explained with some disappointment.

"Not all weekend surely?" Eddie quipped and smacked your arse playfully.

"I'll give you meal breaks," you said charitably and winked before opening the driver's door.

Eddie tossed his duffel in the boot smirking then jumped in the back seat.

"Hey man," Steve greeted him with a friendly nod and Eddie grunted in response.

From what he remembered of Harrington he was a popular jock working his way through the girls and tormenting the nerds. Not exactly someone he wanted to road trip with.

Still it was your Mustang so you made the rules.

"What's the plan baby?" Eddie asked so he didn't have to make small talk with Steve.

"We'll meet my pal then Robin wants to look over their Art program and it might be worth talking to their Intake Department for Steve," you ran through the loose itinerary as the car rolled past the neighbouring trailers.

"What about you?" Steve asked.

"She's going to Ivy League," Robin told him before putting on a pop tape that made Eddie cringe.

You laughed blithely at that remark before you replied.

"I'm a chess player, we don't go to college. We drink yourselves to death or blow our brains out before thirty."

"Which way are you leaning?" Steve asked a little unnerved by your morbidity.

"Maybe both."

"Seriously, you're not looking at any colleges?"

"The idea doesn't really appeal," you answered with honesty. "All I've ever done is school. It might be refreshing to do something different."

"Well minimum wage isn't fun is all I'm saying," Steve remarked and let the topic drop.

Eddie looked out the window so no one could see his little smile of triumph. Your lack of college plans was good news for him.

Since your wild night at the playground Eddie had been formulating his plan to leave Hawkins with you. He knew you were too logical to just hit the road without a map and the five hundred in his account wouldn't stretch far so he'd been brainstorming a sound strategy.

Corroded Coffin were dedicated to their Tuesdays at the Hideout but the other members were being ushered towards further study and employment by their parents. If the band was going to continue after this year it would be because Eddie used their homemade banner for a new formation in a bigger city.

He'd looked into chess tournaments too. Not all of them offered big prize money but most states held an annual one and if you both squeezed your pennies maybe you could fly on a budget airfare to compete internationally. You were good enough.

Some unskilled employment would be necessary until he cracked the music scene, no band ever got their break overnight, but Eddie was willing to endure it if it gave him a shot.

The alternative was playing it safe by staying in Hawkins and he'd seen what this town did to its lifetime residents. Slowly sucked the soul out of them until Tupperware parties and work picnics became social highlights.

He knew you'd have hesitations about leaving your dad but Eddie bargained if he could catch you in a good enough mind space you'd agree.

Someone with your overcalculating brain needed the excitement of a party, a joint and a decent bottle of wine to throw caution to the wind and jump on the Munson bandwagon.

So he needed this weekend to go without a hitch to prove the two of you could survive together.

You and Robin chatted for most of the ninety minute drive while the backseat boys lapsed into an easy chill. Having no common ground they didn't attempt conversation watching the passing landscape instead.

The Mustang slowed to suburban speeds as your destination neared and you peered at the house numbers until you found what you sought.

You parked outside an honest but unloved house and lead the group onto the veranda where you rang the bell.

A gorgeous Viking opened the door and crushed you against his naked torso so tightly your spine popped. He had an anvil for a jawline, long black hair tied in a ponytail and bulging muscles tattooed with rune symbols.

You both made noises of delight and animated chatter while the other three stared dumbfounded until you remembered they were there.

"Trav these are my friends Robin and Steve," you pointed to each in turn and Travis gave them both bone crunching hugs. "Guys this is my friend Travis."

You then put your hand in Eddie's and pulled him closer to your older friend like a child scared to approach a pony at the fair.

"This is my boyfriend Eddie," you introduced him and Eddie thrust his hand out before he could be hugged.

"Hello mate," Travis said jovially and shook Eddie's hand with an enthusiasm that wasn't returned.

Eddie took in the six and a half feet of sculpted muscles, perfect smile and bright blue eyes and decided he disapproved. Eddie didn't like being dwarfed, outmatched or upstaged and in under a minute Travis had done all three.

Your entire focus was on Travis as he invited his guests in and sat them in the kitchen while he prepared refreshments.

So you didn't notice Eddie's eyes studying your expression for any hint of amor or collusion as you chatted.

"Not to love ya and leave ya but I gotta throw a shirt on and get to class," Travis said after he'd prepped the hot drinks and passed around a pack of biscuits. "I'll leave a set of keys for you guys by the door, mi casa es su casa."

"Thanks Trav," you said and he patted your back before leaving the kitchen. "We'll see you at the concert."

It was decided after tea you'd walk to the campus and check out the art exhibition after nominating Steve to clear the dishes. The clean air and pleasant walk after the long drive supplied some natural endorphins and in your good mood you assumed Eddie's tight grip on your hand was affection.

"I thought you said Travis was a chess friend?" Eddie finally spoke when you were wandering around the student gallery half an hour later.

"No we met at a tournament his friend was playing at," you corrected absently and tilted your head at the canvas you were examining.

"Then what?" Eddie pushed.

His surliness was unusual so you peeled your eyes from the painting to give him a concerned look.

"You ok?"

"Fine. Tell me about Travis," Eddie demanded.

"I had some trouble and Trav helped me out," you said simply.

Had Eddie been thinking clearly he would have noticed your elusiveness but he wasn't.

He was jealous.

"Did he help you with his penis?"

A few feet away Steve and Robin ducked behind a sculpture like infantrymen sheltering from an incoming explosive.

Your eyes bulged in disbelief and rounded on Eddie like a dueller about to fire.

"What the fuck did you just say?" your low hiss was scarier than any shout could have been and Eddie knew he'd irrecoverably fucked up.

"I'm sorry," Eddie thought apologising quickly placate you. "I shouldn't have asked that."

"Too fucking right!" your voice was rising with outrage and a few gallery goers looked your way. "I don't ask where your genitals have been but you assume I whore around with my friends! Get fucked Munson!"

Eddie reached for you but you threw your hands up in warning and he withdrew.

"Do me a favour," you dropped your voice back to the angry hiss to avoid a spectacle. "Keep the fuck away from me."

You stormed off to the ceramics display and Eddie stayed rooted to the floor. Robin and Steve cautiously crept out of their shelter and after a second of surveying Robin followed you.

Steve hung back and looked at Eddie with an expression that articulated his predicament.

He was screwed.

"Give her a minute," Steve advised and Eddie obeyed. Listening to someone else might serve him better than his own judgement right now.

You shunned Eddie for the rest of the afternoon and whenever he got close he could feel an aura of rage radiating from your skin. Robin stuck to your side trying to distract you with campus highlights and light conversation but you'd always lapse back into brooding.

Steve didn't force Eddie to talk but kept a close orbit around the metalhead incase he had to prevent a doomed reconciliation attempt. No matter how repentant Eddie might be feeling, there would be no successful peace negotiations until you were in a gentler temper.

Travis' concert was held that night at the campus bar where the staff didn't ask Steve for an ID when he ordered a round of drinks. Travis found an empty table for your party then went backstage, if he'd seen the Berlin Wall erected between yourself and Eddie he didn't say so.

Much to everyone's surprise when Travis reappeared he was carrying a cello and followed by three other string musicians. Eddie and Steve swapped a look of dismay bracing themselves for a boring night of classical symphony when Eddie recognised the first few bars.

"Is that?" Steve asked in his ear.

"Ride the Lightning," Eddie answered as his interest perked.

He looked over and saw you watching the quartet with undivided attention as you sipped your wine. Your interest in metal music was only passing despite Eddie's attempts to covert you so friend or not, you wouldn't drive two hours to listen to Metallica covers.

Unless it was for someone else.

'Fuck,' Eddie groaned mentally realising the whole weekend had been set up for him.

While he'd been orchestrating his own plans to convince you into leaving Hawkins you'd been planning your own surprise. Remorse turned the beer in Eddie's throat bitter and he made a pinched face like someone had booted him in the guts.

Eddie reached for the hand resting in your lap and braced himself for a possible violent reaction.

You permitted the touch and squeezed his long fingers before letting them drop. You were mellowing but still bearing a grudge.

Still, Eddie thought as a little ember started to glow, there was hope.

Later that night Travis and his housemate Samantha brought half the bar back to the house to continue the music and libations. His cello rested in the living room corner while he chatted to you on the couch where you sipped a glass of red.

Eddie had passed around the joints from his cassette case then retreated to the kitchen where he could watch the party from the counter.

Robin was sitting on some beanbags with Samantha and her friends from the college's feminist group while Steve slipped in and out of groups.

Steve was at total ease, parties were one of the few settings he excelled in. He made his way around the living room pitching in on strangers' conversations here and there and making people laugh.

"You're like Norman Bates man," he said retrieving more beer from the fridge. "Stop spying and go talk to her."

"Do you think it's safe?" Eddie asked glumly. He had decided to stop hating Steve on the principal of being a popular jock.

"I don't think she'll kill you with so many witnesses," Steve answered in his unique brand of wisdom. "Though I can't for the life of me understand why you said what you did."

"I was jealous," Eddie confessed miserably and flicked a pretzel across the counter passive aggressively. "I took one look at Travis with his Calvin Klein good looks and freaked. I couldn't stand the idea she might want someone better than a weed dealing failure."

"Jealously is a powerful thing my man," Steve adopted a sage tone and clasped Eddie's shoulder. "One minute you're climbing in a girl's bedroom window and the next you're defacing a movie theatre with spray paint."

"Dude that sounds oddly specific," Eddie gave his mentor an odd look.

"Never mind," Steve said shaking his head. "My point is jealously makes you do dumb things. Just go and apologise before she realises she can do better."

"Maybe she has done better."

"Travis?" Steve asked with a little surprise. "Nah you're safe man."

"How do you know?"

"She and Robin were talking about it at the bar when they thought I couldn't hear," Steve opened the cutlery draw and dug around until he found a bottle opener. "After some big chess thing a bunch of players were partying and this creep from MIT couldn't take the hint to piss off. Travis caught the arsehole sleazing all over your girl and threw him out a closed window. It was a ground level apartment but still, pretty bad arse."

Eddie wasn't sure if he could loathe himself anymore than he did in that moment. Not only had he colossally screwed up with you but he'd spent the whole day hating a great guy.

He covered his face with his large hands and groaned into them to vent his humiliation. Steve was right, he had to apologise even if you didn't forgive him. It was the right thing to do.

Across the room you'd somehow gone from discussing Travis' pharmacology studies to Russians.

"All their athletes are pumped up on performance drugs, why do you think they boycotted the last Olympics?" Travis asked conspiratorially.

"Numerous political and cultural tensions with the rest of the world?" you suggested trying not smile at his conspiracy theories.

"Because their piss glows. Here I made you a sample for your next big match."

Travis pushed a tiny bottle full of white powder into your palm and you peered at it confused. Your house was full of your father's medications but none of them were unmarked or sold in doses this small.

"What is this?" you asked suspiciously.

"I don't have a name for it yet but I put it together from some old wartime amphetamine recipes," Travis said with pride. "This shit can get you off your back to charge a tank with six bullets in your chest, just rub some on your gums."

"This has what to do with chess exactly?" you asked with increasing concern.

"A bit of this and you'll be thinking faster than any super computer," Travis promised and tapped his nose.

"I can't caught with this shit!" you hissed pushing the untested substance back into his hand. "I'll be playing chess for smokes in prison!"

"Just keep it," Travis' massive hand closed around yours. "Payment for the joints your boyfriend brought. You just might need a boost next tournament."

"What joints?" you asked and suddenly the supplier appeared.

"Hey man," Travis held out his hand and this time Eddie took it amicably.

"Just wanted to say that was some bad arse playing tonight," he said with sincere respect. "I didn't think you would shred a cello like that."

"Mozart taught me to play but it was Metallica who taught me to rock," Travis said and stood up. "Take a seat buddy and I'll bring you a new one."

Eddie let him take the empty bottle from his hand and Travis wove his way through the crowd to the kitchen. You had found something in the opposite direction to look at and Eddie knew he was still in trouble.

"Can I sit?" he asked tentatively.

"Sure," you grumbled.

You were stuck with him until you got back to Hawkins so might as well keep it civil until then.

Eddie sat on the vacated couch cushion and kept a polite ten centimeter gap between you like a couple of church kids. He hated not being able to pull you under his arm like when you watched TV at his place but he couldn't force your forgiveness.

Desperate for a way in he looked over the strange wooden board on the coffee table. It was covered in tiny black and white tiles that made a pattern Eddie couldn't figure.

"This looks pretty cool, what is it?" he asked as he ran this fingers through a pot of small round tiles.

"Igo, ancient Asian game. It's about taking territory."

Your answer was snappy but at least you were talking to him.

"Is it as hard as chess?"

"Harder."

"Trav seems like a cool dude," Eddie took a bold leap into sensitive territory and braced himself.

He was afraid if you looked at him with the withering contempt you had in the gallery he'd melt from the inside out.

"You guys have a lot in common that's why I wanted you to meet," you said bluntly and finally looked at him.

Eddie could see you were tired, which could have been the wine, but he suspected you were drained from the fury you'd been carrying all day.

He hated being the cause of that. You'd been so relieved and upbeat to be free of Hawkins and your incumbrances for a little while and he'd set it all ablaze.

"You could have just told me about the creep trying to get into your pants," Eddie said gently.

"Gee, sorry I didn't want to recall attempted rape," you replied sarcastically as an old hurt burned. "It was kind of horrifying."

Just mentioning the experience made you smell the nauseating aftershave the fucker had lathered himself in and feel his bruising fingers ripping your tights.

When you'd robbed him of his championship title he'd tried to seduce you but when that failed he figured forcing you would prove his superiority.

"You're right, you're right I'm an arsehole, sorry," Eddie could see he was distancing you again and apologised to keep you close.

"You're not an arsehole Eddie you just don't think," you groaned exasperated and rubbed your forehead. "I honestly don't know what's gotten into you today. It's not like you to be so moody and nasty."

"Being in love with you makes me stupid."

Your neck nearly snapped it whipped around so fast.

"I can rephrase that!" Eddie blurted and poised himself to tackle you in case you ran.

"Don't. Don't say anything."

All you could do was stare horrified. Your brain was flying faster than a master's chess game as you tried to comprehend what Eddie had just told you. Maybe you'd misheard or his humour had degraded into poor taste?

No, he'd meant what he'd said. Eddie's eyes could never hide the truth.

"Can I top you up?"

Travis had returned holding a beer in one hand and a wine bottle in the other.

"Leave the bottle," you ordered without taking your eyes off Eddie.

"Ok," Travis said very slowly and retreated to the safety of other friends.

"I fucked up," Eddie just didn't have the good sense to stay quiet. "Tell me how I put this right baby."

The world had just tilted and you needed a crutch until you could untangle the mess in your brain. Something you could control.

"I want to play chess."

"Yep."

Eddie ran out to the car and got your travel board, you never left home without a chess set. His fingers fumbled the pieces multiple times when he tried to set them up so you snatched them away and arranged them like you were on autopilot.

You said nothing the rest of the night, not to Eddie, not to anyone. Your ruthless slaughter of Eddie and other unwitting opponents attracted a crowd but you hardly noticed your head was such a swirl.

At some point the liquor ran out and Travis' friends headed home leaving your travelling party to retire.

"Ok Steve you're on the couch, Robin you're sharing with Samantha and you two lovers can have the mattress in the laundry. Good night all."

Travis gave a yawn with an exhausted wave and your friends exchanged weary goodnights going their separate ways. Eddie took you under his arm guiding you towards the laundry where Travis had thrown some spare pillows and blankets on an old mattress.

You still hadn't spoken but your friends had assumed it was down to the long emotional day and booze. Eddie suspected you were too addled by his confession to construct anything sensible so let you be and started stripping once the door closed.

"How dare you," your sudden voice was low and full of accusation.

Eddie stopped mid undress and fixed on you like an animal cornered by a hunter.

"How dare you say I love you like that."

"Baby what's wrong?" Eddie let his shirt fall to the ground and stood straight to assess you. It wasn't like yourself to get aggressive without provocation.

"Isn't it enough to stay how we are?" you demanded and in a rush pinned him to the wall by his shoulders. "Why are you trying to ruin it all?"

Eddie caught your hands and flattened them against his chest so you couldn't gouge him.

"You selfish fucker!" you spat and tried to pull away but Eddie held you tight.

Your sudden violence scared him and had to stop before you woke the whole house. If the others saw you like this they'd call the paramedics to pump your stomach or sedate you.

Eddie dropped his knees on the mattress and tugged at your captive wrists. You resisted but he engaged a strength he never used making you fall forward.

"Cut this out!" Eddie growled as you tried to knock him sideways with your shoulder.

Using his long legs to his advantage Eddie straddled you using his weight to pin you in place.

"Cut it out now!" he repeated as you bucked against his pelvis and he pulled your wrists apart to pin them along your sides.

You felt like a beached fish with no limbs to help you escape. You grit your teeth and thrashed under his weight ignoring his pleas for calm.

Eddie was growing desperate, he would never hurt you but nothing he said was getting through. It was like you'd gone somewhere beyond reason and could only communicate with force.

He had to snap you out of this mania but he didn't have cold water to throw and refused to slap you. A primal solution came to Eddie and before thinking it through bit your neck with something close to a snarl.

You yelped and kicked your legs in response. Eddie had left hickeys on you before and you'd given him a fair share but the ferocity was new.

The million screaming thoughts firing through your brain like lubricated machine gun rounds suddenly silenced and your skin flushed hot as if his bite had injected a drug.

Your brilliant grandmaster mind devolved under the force of Eddie's teeth and a single undeniable need roared for fulfillment.

"Ravage me," you gasped with ferocity.

Eddie obeyed without hesitation.

He released the raw skin from between his teeth and let go of your wrists so he could pull your pants open. His cock had grown rock hard against your struggling arse and his stoked temper made his hands rough.

Your jeans and underwear came down in one pull and you spread your knees as Eddie hastily undid his belt. He hit the tumble drier with his foot in an attempt to kick his pants off then left them caught around his left foot.

The wine had made you wet and the beer made him sensitive so you both cried out when you connected. Who gave a fuck if everyone heard?

Without a latex shield you could feel every contour along the gentle curve of Eddie's cock. You held yourself tight to imprint his shape against your walls and heard him growl approvingly.

Eddie held you still for a few moments while you revelled in the sensation of fulfillment and he stayed in the bliss of you warm wetness. Without the condom he imagined you both blending together inside you as if your warm, sensitive skin was permeable.

What you were doing was reckless and beyond stupid but between the alcohol and emotional distress neither of you were thinking with your brains.

"Bad girl," Eddie grunted and reached under your shirt, his nails making red lines in your skin.

Your breasts comically fell out of their cups as Eddie unclipped the bra catch and roughly pushed your clothes over your head. His dry guitarist's hands squeezed the mounds possessively and you turned your head to nip a tattoo on his arm.

Eddie's right hand abandoned your breast and pulled your hair hard making you loosen your bite. A slight trepidation passed over you at his unusual roughness and you tried to reclaim control by disconnecting.

But Eddie wasn't having it.

You felt his palms move to your hips and he pulled you back against him hard. Your slickness lubricated the thrust but the sudden slam yanked a startled gasp out of you.

"You're not going anywhere," Eddie commanded in a dark voice.

His hand found your hair again and he wound the strands around his fingers like reins before thrusting into you again. You fell onto your forearms and the new angle allowed both of you to slip a fraction deeper into bliss.

Eddie pounded into you hard and fast holding you prisoner by your hair. Your mouth hung open in silent exclamation as you locked your lungs to stop the screams that would wake the house.

Eddie's face was contorted into a mad mix of anger and delight. Biting a corner of his lip his eyes narrowed on your swinging breasts like hypnotic bells. Sensually he was alive with pleasure but the anguish of your rejection and the long day of extreme emotions had him furious.

You were holding your lower abdomen tight but being so wet you practically had no control over Eddie's cock. Not that you cared, you needed every inch of his length to pound the chaos out your brain and the brutalness of his grip to ground you in the moment.

Eddie knew he wasn't going to last. Your wet pussy and absence of protection were living up to his most erotic dreams but even in his most carnal state he was still a gentleman.

You had to come first.

His hold on your hips vanished and he slipped an arm under you before forcing you flat on the mattress. You made a noise of surprise and tried to look around but Eddie's cheek flattened against yours before you could see an explanation.

You could smell the beer and pretzels on his breath and feel rough stubble along his jawline. Under you his hand was moving into your wet folds while his cock piledrived you from behind.

His weight was crushing and you nearly protested when his finger found your bud and you started to whine.

The double sensation in your vagina was overpowering and the alcohol in you system had every nerve alight to receive the pleasure.

You started making the noise Eddie had come to know and he threw the last of what he had into you as you came.

"I love you so much and I just want you to fucking love me back!" Eddie panted on his final thrusts then pulled out without warning.

You felt something warm spill down your thigh then Eddie collapsed on top of you. An inelegant groan escaped as his weight pushed the air out your lungs and you used your elbow to shift him just enough to breathe.

His long arms enveloped you and you intertwined your fingers with his. Until your facilities recovered touch was the only form of expression you had.

Eddie's long hair was sticking to your sweaty skin and his breath felt hot against your neck but you were comforted by the wild thudding you could feel in his chest.

Sometimes you needed to abandon intellect to communicate clearly.

"I know you don't feel the same way but I had to say it, I was going crazy," Eddie finally mumbled into your shoulder and he kissed the salty skin there.

"It's all right. I love you too."

Eddie stiffened against you when you said that and you were equally surprised. The words had come to you as easily as saying, "Checkmate."

"Don't say it if it's not true," Eddie's voice was kind but there was a warning to it.

"It's true," you affirmed and squeezed his hand a little tighter. "It terrifies me but it's true."

"Don't be scared baby I'm gonna look after you," Eddie promised and kissed your temple before sliding off you.

He dug around in a laundry hamper for a second then pulled out a towel and inelegantly clean his mess off your leg. He'd never done that on anyone before and was glad you hadn't freaked.

The sex had been amazing, no wonder everyone hated wearing condoms but he couldn't shake a nagging in the back of his mind. One that wouldn't fully go away until the next time he made you a hot water bottle and a bowl of chocolate ice cream.

The sweat on your skin was drying and made you shiver. Eddie pulled up the covers and held you against him tightly.

The buzz of orgasm was fading but he felt a new elation as he stroked the plastered hair from your forehead and kissed you goodnight.

The weight of his secret was vanquished and he'd been restored by your words.

You loved him. You, a sexy, intelligent, foul mouthed, fiesty chess queen loved him. Fuck whatever happened next.

You loved him.

[cuubism]

Good Horses | dreamling | rated T | ~30k (Part 1)

teen au, young love, friendship, neurodivergent dream, myth & folklore, human/no powers au (kind of), coming of age. cw: abusive childhood, some violence

(sheltered rich boy dream/feral child hob, except it got a lot weirder)

A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip. But we are not good horses. ("Reverence", Sarah Manguso)

-

In retrospect, it was fitting that the first time Dream met Hob, he was breaking a rule.

It hadn’t been easy. Dream did not like to lie, and wasn’t very good at it besides. And breaking rules made him nervous. Broken rules carried consequences. But he’d needed to get out of the house, just for a moment. To clear his head. And just going for a walk was not a good enough reason to leave the house when he could be doing something more productive. Something better. Make some use of yourself, Dream. You do little enough as it is.

So Dream had crafted a little story of extra studying, extra work, and managed to slip out. Dream did not always tell the truth, could not, but usually he lived in the shadows left by omission. The outward lie was bitter on the back of his tongue.

But he’d been freed. And now he was wandering. He did not often get the chance to wander, untended, unobserved. Making his unsteady way down the winding road leading out of the estate, and then into town, where he’d never really walked before. It was just getting late, almost sunset on a Thursday evening, and the streets were fairly quiet, only a handful of people about. And Dream wandered, not quite knowing what to do with himself but enjoying the quiet in his head.

Possibly meandering about on his own was a bad idea. Possibly he’d be hit by a car or attacked by a madman. He didn’t think he much cared.

And that was when he met Hob. That first dip of his toes into freedom.

He was sitting on a bench in the park, watching the small scattering of pigeons pecking for seeds by the fountain. Dream had always liked birds, but it wasn’t often he had the chance to sit and just watch them. He studied their patterns, mentally tracking the shapes they traversed, their mathematical lines. He should have brought his sketchbook. It would have been nice to work from live subjects, for once.

He was deep in his thoughts, in the calming trickle of the fountain and the repetitive paths of the birds, when another boy about his age plopped down on the bench beside him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so depressed while feeding birds.”

The birds had fluttered up in disarray at the sudden motion, but settled down again quickly. Dream looked at the other boy askance, irritated at his rare peace being interrupted.

“Do you often speak with people who are busy feeding birds?” he asked, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone.

“Only when they’re broody and mysterious,” said the boy. He wasn’t wearing a school uniform, but he must have been in Sixth Form, like Dream. Dream was still wearing his school shirt and trousers, for his own part, though he’d thrown his favorite black jumper on over it, in deference to the chill.

Everything about this boy was looser, really, from his longish brown hair, to his jeans and t-shirt. It made Dream feel very uptight in comparison, which was not a fact about himself he needed reinforced. He already knew it.

“Do you often come and feed birds?” the boy asked.

“I am not feeding them,” Dream said. “They are eating what was there.”

“Just spying on them, then,” said the boy teasingly. Dream did not know what to do about being teased with what seemed like lightheartedness rather than mockery, and so didn’t respond.

“Seriously,” said the boy. “Are you okay?”

Then Dream did look at his face properly. He had very kind, very genuine eyes, was the first thing Dream noticed. It was not something he noticed about a lot of people. Perhaps it was not something a lot of people possessed.

Then the boy smiled at him, a soft, kind smile. It transformed his whole face from something merely pleasant to something lovely.

“Is that why you have come over?”

The boy shrugged. “You looked sad and alone. I’ve been sad and alone before, so I don’t think anyone else should.”

Dream bristled. “I am not sad and alone.”

“Just alone, then?”

Dream’s mouth popped open in affront, and then shut. Then he said, “Are you always so familiar and impertinent with strangers?”

“‘Familiar and impertinent,’” echoed the boy, with a laugh. “Sure. Are you always so snooty and aristocratic?”

“Yes,” said Dream, and he laughed louder.

“Honest though.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Hob.”

Dream nearly said, What kind of name is Hob? but swiftly realized the hypocrisy. Gingerly, he took Hob’s hand. “…Dream.”

“What kind of name is Dream?” said Hob, and Dream sighed. “And you really don’t have to shake my hand like a king deigning to touch the peasants. I’m not diseased.”

“I don’t like to touch people,” Dream said, taking his hand back. “Peasant or otherwise.”

“Peasant or otherwise,” Hob echoed. He didn’t seem offended. He was smiling.

“Are you here because you felt I should be taught a lesson? Is that it?”

“Nah. I just get bored easily.” Hob turned to watch the pigeons again, tapping his fingers restlessly against the bench. “I was out and about. You looked interesting. You wanna go for a walk?”

“…Why?” But Dream knew why. He had learned it as he’d wandered the streets, freed for the first time.

Hob shrugged. “Just to do it.”

Dream had stepped out of his comfort zone once today already. He supposed he could do so again. If Hob turned out to be an adolescent serial killer at least the end of his life would hold intrigue. “Very well.”

Hob grinned, so bright it struck some deep, static bell in Dream’s chest and set it ringing. “Come on.”

So they walked. Hob seemed to know his way down every street in town. Knew all the shops, and the alleyways, and about half the people they passed—restaurant owners just starting to bring chairs inside for the night, and old ladies gossiping in their front gardens, and even a gaggle of little kids, playing football in the street—Hob waved to them as they passed. Perhaps he didn’t truly know them, perhaps he was just friendly like that—either way, Dream watched with awe and some trepidation. He could not imagine such a life.

“Where do you live, anyway?” Hob asked, hands tucked in his pockets now. “Did you just spring up out of nowhere? Never saw you at school.”

“Not very far,” Dream said. He was uncertain exactly how far he’d walked; he frequently lost track of time in that way, though he was fairly certain he could at least find his way back. “I do not get into town much. Or. Ever.”

“Sheltered,” Hob said, with equanimity. Dream wanted to bristle, but it was true. His parents certainly liked to make sure their children grew up in a particular environment. Though Dream had to admit to himself that even if he had grown up in the center of town, gone to different schools, in a different family—he would not be like Hob. He would not have been playing games with other children in the street, or making spontaneous acquaintances of strange young men in parks. He did not know how to be like that, gregarious, welcoming, unselfconscious. Nature, and nurture. No set of different life circumstances could fix Dream’s fundamental nature.

He was well-aware that he had ‘missed out’ on most essential youthful experiences. Even Desire, coiled up in the same gilding as Dream, made no hesitation in reminding him what he hadn’t done.

“And you are what, then?” Dream asked. “Feral and wild?”

“Yeah, I live in the woods and eat bugs and stuff,” Hob said, with faux seriousness and a shrug as if this was totally normal.

“I would have thought squirrels better nutrition,” Dream said, realizing belatedly that this was an odd response, but Hob absolutely lit up with playfulness. Dream wondered, in a flash of surprising camaraderie, if people often shot down his stranger conversation topics too, or refused to engage. It happened to Dream himself frequently, although he usually came at his odd interests with utter seriousness, instead of play.

“No, squirrels are too hard to catch,” Hob said. “And there’s so little meat? Actually, if you do want to survive in the woods, fish are your best bet, and then plants, but you have to be real careful with mushrooms—”

Thus followed a several minute lecture on the specifics of wilderness survival, which Dream listened to with fascination. Hob was an engaging lecturer, an engaging storyteller, and it was rare that Dream got to simply listen to someone speak on what interested them, with no expectation of interjecting, of making small talk. Why was he spending his time at his family’s social events clumsily tripping through inane discussions of who was hosting so-and-so and how polo was this season—conversations truly more about interpersonal politics and tact and other things Dream fared poorly at than they were about content—when he could have been listening to a verbal dissection of edible insects? Something he knew little about, admittedly, but Hob seemed to know enough about it for the both of them.

“—and so that’s why you have to—” Hob was saying, and then broke off, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m totally running over you. You don’t care about this.”

“I was enjoying it,” Dream admitted, and Hob’s face softened in surprise. “However, I’m extremely dubious about your claim that crickets could possibly taste good, in any form.”

“Only when candied,” Hob said, and Dream was unsure if he was joking. He waited for Hob to poke at him for not knowing. It didn’t come. “Take it you’re not a fan of insects, then?”

“Not especially. I like spiders,” he admitted, “though they are not technically insects.”

“You like spiders?” said Hob incredulously.

“I’m also partial to birds, especially corvids, as well as cats,” Dream said.

“Oh, so all the Halloween animals,” said Hob with an understanding nod. “Yeah, that fits the all-black aesthetic.”

Dream surprised himself by laughing. Just a quick, breathy laugh, but more than usually passed his lips. Hob smiled in response.

“What d’you like about spiders, then?” he asked, bumping Dream with his shoulder.

“They are quiet. And precise. I recall being a child—” he was unsure why he was telling this story, but Hob seemed encouraging— “and one summer. When I spent a lot of time in my room. There was a spider that started to spin its web in the eaves outside my bedroom window. An orb weaver. I felt I should be afraid of it but… I wasn’t. It was outside the glass, anyway. Their webs are… quite beautiful. Very delicate and detailed. I find them very artistic. I don’t know if you know, but they spin new webs every night. In the daytime they tuck their silk away again for the next night. It seems exhausting, but, it’s what they must do to eat.”

This was the most Dream had spoken without being compelled to in… weeks, if not longer. Hob just nodded, gesturing him to go on.

“Sometimes,” Dream said, thinking back to those lonely and silent summer days, “I’d watch my spider spin for hours when I had nothing else to occupy myself with. I think perhaps I grew too invested.” There had been moments when he felt he had no friend in this world at all—but he had his spider. Even if it did not know he existed. “I began to shut the shades because I knew that if Mother or Father—or anyone else—saw a bug near the house they would knock the web down or kill it, never mind that it was doing no harm to anybody.”

He trailed off, then, still thinking back. Surely Hob would think he was stupid, for still remembering, still fixating on something so small. But Hob only said, “So what happened to the spider, then? Did someone find out?”

“Only because of me.” A critical mistake, to ever trust Desire—but he had been young then, and thought they were still friends. Dream sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “I showed my sibling a drawing I had done of it. They wanted to see the real spider, so I showed them. I suppose they saw it as an opportunity to gain Mother’s favor, which was hard to come by—” Dream still recalled their simpering young voice, Mummy, Dream’s playing with buuuugggs—“and of course she didn’t want spiders on her house. So she had our gardener knock it down, though I’d begged her not to.” That was the last time Dream had begged for anything from his mother. He had learned his lesson about its futility and would not make himself so pathetic again.

“Jesus.” Hob sounded disturbed. “That’s… horrible.”

Indeed it was no lighthearted story, though most people thought it a silly one. Not Dream, though. “However,” he added, and now a tiny smile tugged at his lips, “our gardener—his name was Gilbert—came to find me the next night. It turned out he hadn’t killed the spider as Mother wanted, but actually moved her to a far corner of the garden. He showed me.” Dream had held back from crying in front of Mother or especially in front of Desire, but he had cried and cried then, that night in the garden.

When Hob was silent for several moments, Dream realized that this was not, perhaps, the answer that he had wanted when asking such as simple question as why do you like spiders, and also that telling him such a strange and ridiculous story when they had just met was, as Desire would say, weird and off-putting, Dream, and that Hob would certainly not care for his company any longer.

But all Hob said, when he finally spoke, was, “I’m glad he saved your spider.” And he sounded sincere about it.

“I never saw it again after that night, it disappeared into the garden. But I didn’t mind, I only wanted to know that it was still out there and hadn’t been—” he broke off before he could say something even more self-centered and melodramatic, something like, hadn’t been killed for the crime of being near me.

“Yeah,” said Hob quietly, as if he knew, almost, what Dream had been going to say. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Does what?”

“Your mum being…. mean like that?”

Dream had never thought it was… mean, exactly. Rather, he had always assumed that it was simply that his feelings on the matter hadn’t factored into the decision at all. Like he didn’t exist.

But Hob, an outside observer, saw it as mean. If he was right, that meant that Mother’s decision-making had been at least partly driven by hurting Dream’s feelings. Intentionally. Dream did not know what to do with that.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I suppose.”

Hob bit his lip. “That’s tough.”

Dream did not know if he should ask about Hob’s own parents. The conversation seemed to have taken too negative a turn already. He did not want this to be how Hob thought of him. Indeed, he realized, with surprise, that he did wish Hob to think of him. He did not want them to go their separate ways and never see each other again, and this was such a rare feeling to have about another person, especially one he had met so haphazardly, that he stopped dead in the street.

Hob rubbed at his ear. He did that a lot, Dream noticed, those restless gestures, especially now that they had stopped walking. “I should get back before my own mum gets worried. Told her I’d be back around dinner,” he said, and Dream’s heart sank, though he had to admit that it was getting quite dark. Then Hob said, “Gimme your phone?”

Heart spiking with hope again that Hob was going to give him his phone number, and that this implied he wished to see Dream again, Dream unlocked his phone and handed it to him. He hoped Hob did not realize what an act of trust that was for him.

Hob put his contact info in and handed it back. “‘Case you want to get out of your enclosure again,” he said with a cheeky grin. It was a joke, but he could not have known how accurate it felt to Dream’s circumstances.

Dream put his phone back into his pocket carefully. “I will text you. Thank you, Hob. For your company.”

“Thanks for letting me ramble at you.” Hob’s smile was almost bashful now. How could he possibly be grateful for Dream’s company?

Their walking had taken them in a big loop, and they were just about back at the park where they’d started. Dream was fairly certain their respective walks home would take them in opposite directions. But he was hopeful that he might speak with Hob again. An outcome he could not possibly have predicted when Hob first plopped down on the park bench beside him.

Dream offered him as much of a smile as he could manage and, before he could do something stupid like follow Hob home like a stray cat, turned and walked away. He didn’t turn back to watch Hob leave, though he knew he must have done so.

When he got home, it was properly dark out. It had taken him longer to walk all the way back to the estate than he’d anticipated, he had not been properly paying attention when he left. He went inside, alight with nerves, but his father was not there and the only reprimand he received from his mother was a critical eye and a light warning, “You’re back late, Dream. Don’t make me worry about what you’re up to,” nothing more. So he crept quietly up to his room.

Once there, he sat down at his desk chair and took out his phone. He stared at Hob’s number, frozen with sudden uncertainty. He reminded himself that if he was utterly wrong about everything he would never see Hob again anyway. So he texted Hob.

Hello, it is Dream.

Dream wondered if he would have to wait, but Hob texted back with the same rapidity with which he seemed to do everything.

Glad u got back safe :] thought i mighta sent you into the woods alone to be eaten alive

To be eaten by which woodland creatures precisely? Squirrels? Trout?

Kelpie’ll get ya. You’d follow one I just know it

Those are only in Scotland.

Oh yeah? You’ve done a census have you?

Dream realized he was grinning at his phone, and forced himself to neutralize such a feral expression. It was never wise to get too invested in anything too quickly. Except that they had only just met, and he already felt more comfortable talking to Hob than he did with people he had known for years.

Perhaps I myself am a kelpie. You have fallen into my snare.

Tough luck on letting your prey get away then :) you must have liked me too much to eat me

I expect to be hungrier tomorrow.

I’ll just have to feed you something else then

Is that a promise?

Did Hob truly wish to see him again? Or was he only playing? Could he have enjoyed their unexpected meeting as much as Dream had? He waited in nervous anticipation until Hob responded.

Come find me in the park this weekend?

Dream bounced in his seat, then remembered himself and caught it again. Settling down, he replied:

Any time? Are you simply always in the park?

Yup :)

Dream doubted that was strictly true, but it was certainly true that Hob was out and about more than he was. Hob’s life was… strange. He did not yet know what to make of it.

I will find you, Dream wrote back. Truthfully it was uncertain whether he would be let out without a ‘good reason’. But he would manage it somehow. He must.

Setting his phone aside, forcing himself not to text Hob unending inane things or be pathetically desperate for his company, he pulled out his sketchbook instead. At last he began sketching the birds he had seen in the park. Their soft, rounded heads and stubby legs. The conglomerated patterns of their movement. How they’d fluttered up at Hob’s arrival.

He sketched Hob’s face, as best he could from memory. The soft fall of his hair. The upturned corner of his mouth when he was thinking. He wondered if Hob would let him sketch him in person. It seemed wrong to depict him still, unmoving. But maybe Dream could capture a bit of his energy if he was physically there.

He was getting ahead of himself again.

He sketched the kelpie Hob had mentioned. Elongated legs dripping with river water, mane tangled with reeds, looking back over its shoulder for the lured prey that surely followed it into the water. Intelligent eye. Mouth just this side of too long.

It was closer to the types of drawings he usually did, as he rarely had anything new to sketch live. Usually he drew fantastical creatures, myths and stories, relying on his imagination and the occasional anatomical reference text. It was comforting, to think of such things beyond mortal ken being out in the woods somewhere. Even if their inclination was towards eating children, at least in the stories, Dream still liked to think of such magic and horrors being real.

By the time he finished the drawing, it was very late indeed. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and was hungry, but he didn’t dare slip downstairs to find something. Instead he closed his sketchbook and slipped it carefully back into its spot in the drawer. Changed, and got into bed with a book, but found himself staring at Hob’s texts on his phone instead of reading.

It was not for Dream to have such friends. Outside of school, outside of his parents’ purview, just for himself. But he wanted it. He had had it for but a moment, but he wanted it.

He locked his phone and tucked it under his pillow. As long as he kept it a secret, he just might be able to keep it.

[seat-safety-switch]

There’s something that we all can learn from stage magicians, and that is the value of having a friend in the crowd. If you’re picking a card out of a deck of cards, that’s hard. If you’re picking a card out of a deck of cards where your drinking buddy has agreed with you ahead of time that it will be the ace of diamonds, that’s substantially easier. You might think that this scam, such as it is, is only limited to the performance of magic tricks. And you’d be wrong.

There is another place in modern society in which ridiculous performances, shocking coincidences and underhanded collusion work together to enrich tricksters. It’s called politics. You can bring your drinking buddy with you to a city council meeting, make him sit far away from you, and suddenly he’s a “concerned citizen” who agrees that it’s “just common sense” what you are proposing. From there, herd mentality takes over, and suddenly a room full of real-estate obsessed seniors are screaming at The Mayor, wondering why in the fuck you won’t let them leave a broken car in the middle of the road for a month or two I thought this was a free country.

Once you’ve learned this trick, you can see it all over the place. Unpopular policy gets washed through a series of studies, think-tanks, and media surrogates into being the product of consensus. The guy playing three-card Monte on the street has already been beaten by a couple folks, surely it’s your turn to win next. And that guy at the bar surely can’t be an undercover federal agent, because he just told us all how much he hates cops and loves Plymouth Darts. Sure, he had to check his phone a few times while he was trying to tell us all this, but he seems legit.

Now that you know how to deceive others in a crowd, it’s up to you on how to use it for evil. Just don’t become a stage magician. I guarantee you that I’ve poisoned that well already, because I waited until Mister Magic here started a show at the community centre and then stole a bunch of the audience’s batteries out in the parking lot.

[otomes-world]

Lucid dreaming

I haven't been the most productive writer this year. I'm also late with the congratulatory gift, but I'll continue anyway. This isn't exactly a New Year's themed work. I wrote it as unexpectedly as I posted it today. Thanks to everyone who's been with me this year! P.S. You can put here any of your favorite characters. Happy holiday my dear 0/

The sky was light purple with clouds running past, always hurrying somewhere. There was silence all around, broken only by the sound of footsteps on the stone-paved road. On the sides there were statues of various villains from different fairy tales. Why your consciousness decided to choose them was a question you would like to know the answer to.

This was not the first time you have found yourself in this place. Sometimes the locations were cut out illustrations from a fantasy book, and sometimes they seemed so real that you were surprised to wake up.

You remembered the very first one from the dream best. It was dark, the source of light was only the lanterns glowing green. Except for the full moon - because, of course, it had to be full - which was burning, a bright noticeable spot, already at this stage not boding anyting well. The road led you through a landscaped park and, it seemed, there was nothing unexpected in this. Until it turned and before your eyes appeared an ornate metal gate, the wicket door standing open. As if inviting you to enter.

In the distance, a castle stood proudly, its sharp towers piercing the sky.

Hearing a horse neighing behind you, you turned around abruptly and woke up. Blinking and trying to catch your breath after the sudden awakening, you replayed such a real scene in your head. As if you had already been there, which was a stupid statement. You were not the type of person running around abandoned buildings and shouting into the void with a flashlight: "Give me a sign!" However, dreams are dreams, and work and getting ready in the mornings were still necessary.

The cold water finally drove away the remnants of sleep, and the amazing dream would have been forgotten in the routine, if it had not been repeated the next night.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Throughout the year.

The bell caught your attention, and you looked up to greet the new customer. It was raining outside, and many people were rushing to hide under the shelter of the roofs of small coffee shops and stores. Yours was no exception.

Well, the cafe wasn't exactly yours. You just worked there as a barista, because, firstly, it wasn't difficult. Secondly, the pay was pretty good. Thirdly… you started working there as a teenager, and now the small establishment had become an integral part of your life. A second home, no matter how saccharine it may sound. You loved this place, and that was only thing that matters.

Usually, the hustle and bustle took up all possible free time and there were no thoughts for unnecessary reflections, but on such a melancholic day with an equally thoughtful accompaniment, it became an exception.

Despite the fact that dreams, against your will, also tightly merged with your everyday life, you could not deny how real they felt from time to time. The texture of objects, the wind on your skin, and even the banal emotions of what was happening. The only thing that kept you afloat was the next awakening after the invisible timer ended. Whatever you saw, whatever place you visited this time, in the end you opened your eyes in your apartment. You walked to your favorite job along familiar streets. You saw the same faces of passersby running through the shop windows to their business.

Everything was as it should have been.

However, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was slowly starting to change. You no longer felt lonely and restless in the world of dreams. As if you were being thrown into moments when someone was nearby. Even though you couldn’t see each other, the suspicion in the subcortex of your consciousness made itself known.

You first noticed this while sitting in the library, whose shelves with books stretched as far as the view could reach. It was quiet and, taking the first manual on flying on broomsticks that came to hand, you opened it to a random page and dozed off, propping your chin up with your hand. Sleeping in a dream was ironical but the sun shining through the window made you sleepy.

The chair next to you creaked, and you instantly opened your eyes. There was no one nearby. Frowning, you left the book, stood up and walked around the seats, peering around the corners. It was definitely a chair. As if someone had moved it to sit at the table. When you returned to your place, you discovered that the book was closed and put on the edge of the table.

Ghosts didn't exist, you repeated to yourself. Although you were actually asleep, so in the world of your consciousness they could be as real as, for example, you. The realization made you shudder unpleasantly, but not from the cold. The desire to return to the previous place disappeared and, casting another wary glance at the book, you turned to hide in the depths of the library. While away the time until you woke up.

From that moment on, you constantly began to notice someone's invisible presence. Moreover, you could swear that this someone noticed you. You simply did not have direct evidence of each other's existence.

Doubts gnawing from within deprived you of peace during the period intended for rest. Until, finding yourself in the library, you walked to the nearest table to grab a piece of paper and a pen. It looked and sounded stupid. Trying to find an explanation for the oddities in a dream was like asking unnecessary questions in a computer game.

"Are you here?"

Leaving a piece of paper and a pen nearby, you stepped away, turned on your heels and left. If the pen suddenly flew in and started scratching something, you couldn't promise that you wouldn't fall over on the spot. The anticipation was driving you crazy, but it was a necessary decision to try to calm yourself down.

After making a few circles, forcing yourself to read the spines of the books, trying to distract yourself, you walked back slowly. The items were where you left them, only next to your inscription there was another one.

"I'm here"

You dropped into a chair and not taking your eyes off the paper, afraid to touch it. You sat there until you woke up again.

A sigh escaped against your will, forcing your eyes shut and open a couple of times, you tried to straighten up. You probably weren't the best employee today, but the work shift flew by unnoticed. It was time to close. Stepping out into the hall and sitting down on one of the soft chairs, you rubbed the bridge of your nose. That incident wouldn't leave your head and although you never repeated such experiments, it was enough to turn your whole understanding of the dream world upside down. It was one thing to travel to an unknown place and quite another to realize that you were not alone.

The bell on the door rang - someone had arrived. Damn it, you forgot to close the door and turn the sign over. Pulling yourself together, you raised your head to meet an unknown man. Although he was outwardly calm, you noticed how interestedly he was looking around.

"Excuse me, sir, we are closed," you addressed him, drawing his attention to you. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but you definitely hadn't met before. You remembered most of the cafe's customers. "You can come in tomorrow, we are open from 8 am."

You looked at each other for a while. This gave you another chance to look him over. He was dressed in some sort of uniform: a black jacket and pants, a colorful vest, a white shirt and a striped tie. Then he closed his eyes and answered more cheerfully than you expected.

"Oh, that's too bad," his expression didn't match the bad - for him - news. "I was hoping to get out of the rain."

You glanced at the door behind him, and sure enough, the rain didn't seem to be letting up. A sentence you would never have uttered to anyone in your right mind was out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

"I need to close and clean up, it'll take me," you glanced quickly at the clock by the counter. "Half an hour or so. You can wait there until I'd finish but after you'll have to leave."

The stranger's eyes narrowed slightly, revealing a happy glint in his eyes. For some reason, the unexpected remark rang in your head like a bell, even though no one was coming in. Without waiting for his answer - your intuition told you that he would not refuse - you went to the door and turned the sign over to "Closed".

You did not believe in fateful meetings, but perhaps this was one of them? It sounded cheesy even to you, so you ignored the man who had settled down on a chair near the display case. Of all the places, he decided to choose this one.

With sheer willpower, you forced yourself to get down to work, already regretting your words. It was too late to take them back and throw him out into the street.

Surprisingly, he did not try to start a conversation with you, limiting himself to rare glances, for which you were grateful. If he suddenly decided to continue the dialogue, you would have caught a nervous overstrain. Enough impressions from this day.

You finished wiping the tables and looked around the hall. As you got to work, you completely forgot about the man's presence. Turning to the counter, you found that he was no longer there. When did he leave and why didn't you hear? It saved you from unnecessary interaction, though.

You walked over to where he had been sitting, seemingly a moment ago, to wipe down the surface. Then you froze. There was a white paper napkin with just three words on it,

"I'm here."

[genericpuff]

Hey y'all, Episode 67 will be out as soon as it's ready. I'm not gonna lie, coming off the back of a crazy holiday season, I was hoping things were gonna get back on track with the update schedule, but the last 2-3 weeks have brought about a whole new whirlwind of issues:

I took our cat to the vet a few weeks ago to get him checked out (esp because he wasn't eating as much as usual and we wanted to make sure he wasn't sick). The usual vet we go to has become a shithole, the doctor we got was extremely unhelpful and every interaction I've had with other members of staff there has been confusing and unpleasant. After an hour of an appointment that was more uncomfortable than it should have been, we were out $700 which was absurd, even for usual vet fees. After I shared the more detailed version of this story with friends IRL, some of them mentioned that apparently this particular clinic (among others throughout Canada) was bought by an American company. So that certainly explains a lot -_-

Car broke down and that cost like $800 to fix. Thankfully wasn't as expensive as the fucks at Canadian Tire quoted us, but it was still another huge expense on top of the vet bill.

Our shop moved locations this weekend, which took a lot of time to both prepare for and finally pull off over the course of the last few weeks. My new booth is at least set up enough to tattoo but there's still a lot left to do to make it comfortable.

Now my cat is potentially developing jaundice (sign of liver failure) which lines up with his blood test results from the vet showing increased liver enzyme levels or something like that (but they were apparently not enough of an emergency for the vet to actually do anything about it). I booked with a different vet clinic but they can't get us in until the 20th. So I booked an appointment for today with the emergency vet up the road. I'm terrified for him, he's an old cat so it was inevitable that his health would start to turn, but other than his increasingly picky eating habits and signs of jaundice, he's still acting like himself and it's breaking my heart that he could be hiding his own symptoms. I really just do not need a pet death on top of everything else that's going wrong right now.

As for the episode itself, it's not even that long, but the set design is pretty detailed and in our attempts to create some 3D models for ourselves, it resulted in bugs that had to be fixed on the fly. Thankfully I think we've finally got it down (and it's a recurring location so it's not like it won't be useful to have again in the future) but overall the episode production just hasn't gone as smoothly as it could have compounded by everything else mentioned above.

None of these are excuses, just reasons that have justifiably required my attention. Depending on how the vet appointment goes, I'll try and stream later tonight so that folks can at least watch some of the drawing progress for this episode. Episode 67 will be out by next Saturday at the latest, assuming I'm not able to get it out in the next day or two.

I know I'm a broken record at this point, but I'm incredibly sorry for the wait and I appreciate your patience with me. I'm begging for things to calm down soon.

[anxiouslyeccentric]

Just finished my latest project, I dub it the Wii Balance Skateboard!

Had one of my 3 Wii balance boards sitting in the trunk of my car next to my skatebaords, and thought, "oh ive got an awful idea"

Sourced some trucks, bearings and jelly wheels from a local skate shop i frequent and drilled some holes, and viola! Looks awesome and rides like the worlds heaviest pennyboard!

When i brought it over to the skate shop to show the finished product, i was surprised to find a Pride parade going on, and got a ton of compliments and picture requests! My very first pride was both an accident and a very fun time! This is definitely the most physical game project ive done, most of the stuff i do involving software and data manip, but im very happy with the finished product!

I should say i certainly dont recommend doing this or attempting to ride it, it's pretty fragile and even tho i spaced the wheel as far apart across the board as i could while keeping structural integrity, even the regulars at the skate shop had a lot of trouble staying on it XD. All that said it is a very fun and flashy way to get around on a nicer road! Bonus points for waving the broken wiimote i had laying around to steer!

[ohbo-ohno]

you said ghost lives to serve and i screamed at the top of my lungs how dare you. he never sits still in your shared home. constantly cleaning and upgrading and fixing so you don’t have to. it’s in his blood and his bones to serve in any way he can and now i’m sad🧸

wait i lied im not leaving i love this

ghost only knows how to serve - it's all he did in the military, and it's all he has left now. he genuinely doesn't know how to not serve someone. you're like a beam of light when he finds you - someone good and sweet and soft who he can help. he can offer to fix your ovens, he can help you by bussing tables when you're too busy.

you mention that a bird pooped on your windshield and when you leave the bakery at the end of the day your car is squeaky clean

you lament that your favorite shade of lipstick is about to stop production and ghost drives to every makeup store nearby and buys them out of their stock, offering them as a tip the next morning

you mention needing to find a plumber because there's a leak in the kitchen sink and he almost looks offended, leaves with his tea and come back five minutes later with a toolbox and gets to work

you complain about being stuck on the side of the road for hours waiting for roadside assistance after getting a flat tire, and he gives you his number, tells you you call me next time something like that happens, i'll take care of it for you. (catches himself just in time to not say i'll take care of you)

he comes to your house for the first time when you mention your broken doorbell. fixes it right up for you

he weeds your garden for you while you plant flowers - he's still only comfortable destroying, not growing. you bring him inside for a warm drink and tell him thank you, ramble on about how important weeding is for a garden, and you don't even realize how much it means to him

(also this ghost worships you in bed)

[knivestothroats]

The Professionals masterlist In The Woods Somewhere masterlist | Professional//Victim masterlist

Here's a long ass update to make up for me posting infrequently. CW: human trafficking, captive whumpee, death threats We're gonna take it back now y'all

Day One

Something was deeply, deeply wrong. 

Tommy hadn’t been taken anywhere without Caius for more than five goddamn years. If he was being whisked off to a client, he hadn’t been prepped, and his handler wasn’t there to keep him subdued. Whatever pills Rory had given him back in the basement had worn off, and the panic was starting to set in. Did Caius even know he was here? 

The car came to an unexpected halt on a dirt road, a few short paces away from an old truck pulled off to the side. There was nothing else around for miles, nothing but endless forest. Even if Tommy could break away, he wouldn’t get far. The thick shock collar around his throat guaranteed that much. 

The windows slowly rolled down. They were letting him out here?

Rory got out, as did the driver of the pickup. The client(?) leaned against their truck, one hand in the pocket of their bulky denim coat, the other holding a small duffel bag by their side. They exchanged a few words that Tommy couldn’t hear, then peered right at Tommy. It sent a chill down his spine, like he was prey being spotted by a predator. They unzipped the bag and showed the contents to Rory, before closing it again and slinging it over their shoulder. The two of them shook hands.

Rory returned to the car, walking up to Tommy’s side. He reached through the window, unlocking the cuffs from around the door handle and reclosing them around Tommy’s wrists. 

“What are we doing?” Tommy asked. 

Rory opened the door and took hold of Tommy’s arm, pulling him out. 

“Where’s Caius?”

Rory didn’t answer, just guided Tommy toward the stranger and their truck.

“You never take me to clients,” Tommy continued, trying to keep his voice from sounding frantic and panicked. “I wasn’t briefed at all!”

Rory brought Tommy to a halt in front of the stranger, grip still firm on his arm.

Except… no, it wasn’t a stranger. 

Tommy recognized those cold, deep eyes; the way they watched him with a viscious hunger. 

Fletcher.

They had met at an event he’d been taken to as a product demonstration. Fletcher had taken an interest in Tommy, talked to him like a person instead of an object to be broken, and then was called upon by Caius to torture him in front of a crowd. And they delivered. 

They must’ve given in to temptation and finally rented Tommy to get to torture him again. But still… why wasn’t anyone telling him what was going on? 

“We good?” Rory asked. 

“We’re good,” Fletcher responded, eyes still focused on Tommy. “You can put him in the passenger seat.”

Rory pulled Tommy around to the other side of the truck and gave him a shove to step up into the cab. He secured his cuffs around the inner door handle again before shutting him in.

Why are we taking their truck?

Fletcher handed Rory the bag. Rory traded it for one much smaller he pulled from his coat pocket, dropping the handcuff keys into it before giving it over. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Rory said. He scurried off, past the back seat, past the truck entirely, and back to his own car, throwing the duffel bag in the trunk.

“Wait, wait, aren’t you coming?!” Tommy called after him.

Rory hadn’t answered any of his questions before, and he wasn’t going to start now. He got into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away.

“Rory!” Tommy yelled as if there was any hope of being heard. “Where the fuck is Caius?!”

Tommy jumped when the door slammed shut opposite him. Fletcher, settling into the driver’s seat, kept staring at him with this look. Their face was expressionless, but their eyes were focused, like a sighthound.

Tommy curled in on himself, pressing against the door. His heart was hammering in his chest but he could barely move, caught somewhere between flight and fawn. 

Fight had died long ago. He worked with what he had left. 

Did Caius know where Tommy was, what was happening? Why would he not be here? Could he possibly trust Fletcher to take Tommy alone?

The truck started, and they pulled back out onto the road, heading in the opposite direction. Tommy stole a glance at Fletcher, searching for some sign of intention. 

What kind of body language says, “I am looking forward to killing you”?

But Fletcher wasn’t looking at him at all anymore; they just kept their eyes on the road. 

Tommy wracked his brains for anything he knew about Fletcher. 

He knew they liked to torture people. He knew they were a professional at it. They reveled in the reactions they elicited by causing pain. And he knew first hand that they were very, very good at it. 

Other than that? Not much. At the event where they had met, they were dressed up in a suit and tie. Now they wore a jean jacket over a flannel shirt, hair tucked under a beanie, cargo pants tucked into boots. Their truck was not new, though it seemed well maintained. There was a thin chain of charms hanging off the rearview mirror. What did any of this mean for him? His vision was going blurry.

“Please… don’t cry the whole time,” Fletcher groaned, putting their hand up. “It’s a long drive.”

Tommy hadn’t even realized he’d been crying. He hunched over and wiped his face on his sleeve the best he could.

“Sorry,” he sniffed quietly. “Where… are we going?”

“Back to my place.”

“And Caius is… okay with this…?”

Fletcher looked at him finally, raising an eyebrow. “They didn’t tell you anything?”

Tommy swallowed and shook his head. 

Fletcher turned their attention back to the road. “You’re not on a job; I bought you. Like, permanently, not for the night or whatever.”

Tommy felt cold suddenly. The truck was moving too much - he was dizzy. 

“No…” he said under his breath.

Fletcher raised their eyebrows at him again. “Yes.”

NO. NO. That fucker doesn’t get to just - what, throw me away, after all this? He took everything from me, made me exactly what he fucking wanted, and now - now he couldn’t even spare a damn goodbye?!

How could he get rid of me?!

He wanted to scream, and shout, and thrash and fight and demand god to strike down that dirty bastard. And yet, he was frozen, paralyzed by the weight of it. His chest ached like his ribs were curling in around his heart, crushing whatever was left of it in a fatal embrace. He wished it would. But the pain didn’t end, it just pulsed endlessly inside him. And he knew god would not strike Caius down, just like he hadn’t any other time Tommy had begged. 

As his situation started to sink in, his teeth started to chatter like he was freezing. He had to bite down to suppress it. He slowly turned in horror to Fletcher, as he realized the stranger beside him decided his fate. 

Fletcher was his master now; that’s what mattered. He had to find out what they wanted from him and deliver it.

“What, um… what do you want from me?”

“Mm…” Fletcher drummed their fingers against the steering wheel. “Household work. Teaching assistance. Punching bag.” Fletcher shrugged. 

Household work made sense - that wasn’t scary. Punching bag made sense, too, although he didn’t feel as good about it. 

“Teaching assistance?” Tommy echoed.

“Yeah, I run a training program for mercs and mobsters,” Fletcher explained. “It’s easier when I have someone to demonstrate on sometimes.”

“Demonstrate… what kind of things?”

Fletcher sighed, shrugged, shook their head. Fuck, he was annoying them already. 

“Like, holds, target spots, maneuvers, whatever,” was Fletcher’s explanation. 

Tommy didn’t ask any further questions, fearing Fletcher’s ire. He turned and watched the scenery out the window. This little trip was the most he’d seen of sunlight since he’d been sentenced to the hole, and he tried to soak up as much of it as he could. He pressed against the window, his face following the arc of the sun like a sunflower. There wasn’t much to look at other than fields and trees, the occasional train track cutting through. Farm houses and industrial buildings became more and more scarce as they drove. Fletcher turned on some music to fill the silence.

After what felt somehow both like a long time and far too soon, Fletcher slowed the truck. Tommy whipped his head around, trying to figure out why they would be stopping again on an empty country road. 

The truck turned seemingly at random and drove into the trees. It grew dark under the canopy of the branches above, and still the truck tunneled deeper.

Tommy’s anxiety bubbled up inside of him again.

They’re taking me out to the middle of nowhere to kill me. Caius always threatened that people would pay good money to snuff me, and he finally accepted an offer. All that stuff about housework and teaching was bullshit - that’s why their explanation was so flimsy. 

God, they were still driving. The truck was moving slowly, winding its way through the undergrowth and trees, but they were deep enough that Tommy couldn’t see the road.

He tugged on the cuffs again. What were his chances if he tried to run when they unlocked him? As long as he ran back the way they came…

They were nowhere near town. Maybe it was better just to hide somewhere until Fletcher… gave up on looking? And then, what? Build a shelter and fire with his bare hands? Hunt and forage for his food until he found his way back to civilization?

He tried to size Fletcher up, but the likelihood of him being able to overpower them seemed slim, considering the fact that they just told him they literally teach a class on how to hurt people, and he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Still, no harm in trying if he was going to die anyway. But… if Rory gave them the keys, Fletcher probably held the remote to his collar as well. Tommy’s breathing quickened and he couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over again. 

The trees were beginning to turn vibrant shades of yellow and red, flittering down lightly when the breeze came through. 

At least it was a pretty place to die.

“Ugh, why are you crying?” Fletcher demanded. “There’s no way you liked those guys!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tommy wiped his eyes against his shoulder. “I’ll stop. I’ll be good. Okay? I can do whatever you want. I’m - I’m really good at - at doing whatever… whatever I have to do.”

Fletcher glanced at him.

 “...Yeah.” It was blunt, like he had stated the obvious.

“You want me to beg, I’ll beg. You want me to shut up and I’ll shut up. I can help around the house, I can help with the training, I can - I can take a beating, I can do whatever you want. I can make you feel good. I can be useful, I just need to be alive to do it.”

A look of realization crossed Fletcher’s face. “You think I’m going to kill you.”

Tommy hesitated to respond. “I think… I can… prove that it’s better if you don’t.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Fletcher scoffed. “Do you know how much I just spent on you?”

Tommy studied their face, trying to determine if they were telling the truth.

“A lot of people would spend a lot of money for that,” he answered quietly.

Fletcher chuckled. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“If… you’re not going to kill me…” Tommy spoke carefully, watching for any signs that he was making Fletcher angry. “What are we doing driving out into the middle of the woods?”

“I live here.”

Tommy looked out the window. “You live… in the woods?”

He flinched when Fletcher suddenly reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a sharp grin.

“We live in the woods.”

Just then, the world became light again. The truck entered a clearing, and pulled up to a house. 

It was so out of place it was disorienting to look at. 

“What…” Tommy was dumbstruck. “What is this place?”

“My house.” Fletcher parked and unbuckled. “I call it the lodge.”

“The Lodge” was well-built, modernized with solar panels on the roof without straying too far from a rustic look. It was huge for just the two of them, with a sizable clearing ringing the building. Swathes of land on the side were occupied with gardens, rows studded with crops of all sizes and shapes. 

It was also distinctly in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Nowhere to run to, even if he got a chance. 

“Well,” Fletcher said lightly, pushing the gear shift into park. 

“Welcome home.”

~

“Alright, here’s the tour,” Fletcher said as they led Tommy inside. They left his wrists cuffed and guided him with a hand cupped around his elbow.

“This is the common area - living room, whatever you want to call it. TV, movies, books.” They pointed at the shelves as they spoke. “You’re allowed in here. This is the kitchen, help yourself to pretty much whatever. Some stuff will have people’s names on them, obviously don’t eat those. The rest is fair game. Just use common sense. If I meal prep I will let you know.”

“Wait, wh-” Tommy didn’t get his question out before Fletcher pulled him along.

“This is gonna be your room.” They opened a wooden door into a small room, sparsely furnished with a twin bed, bedside table, and dresser. An old lamp sat crooked on the table, and an odd extra chair sat beside the dresser. 

What struck Tommy the most was the window. A big, beautiful window looking out on the grounds, filling the room with sunlight. It was a far cry from his basement cell for that alone. Graying blinds were cinched up to the top of the window frame, and he couldn’t imagine wanting them closed. His eyes welled, but he had only a moment to look before Fletcher was dragging him off again.

“We’ll come back around.”

They led him down the hall. “Bathroom is here. There are three trainees living here right now.” 

Oh. The students. Tommy hadn’t realized they would be living here, too. The pit of anxiety in his stomach ached, a stark reminder of the danger he’d almost forgotten for one brief moment. 

Fletcher pointed at a set of closed doors. “Trainee room, trainee room, trainee room. Don’t go in there. That at the end is my room. Do not go in there. Upstairs is another bedroom and my office. No reason to go up there. Definitely don’t fucking go in my office. This door leads to the basement. It’s storage and, uh… miscellaneous.”

Fletcher led him back to the living room and pulled a box off the shelf. They popped the lid and dug around inside, withdrawing their hand victoriously clutching a sturdy-looking strap. A small black device was mounted on it, decorated with a blinking green light the size of a pin.

“Here, take a seat buh- bud.” A look of irritation crossed their face when they stumbled, but it passed just as quickly. 

Tommy sat cautiously on the couch, and Fletcher sat beside him. 

“Give me your leg.”

Tommy was hesitant, but with an impatient look from Fletcher, he twisted to reluctantly lay a leg across their lap. Fletcher pulled up his pant leg, bunching the fabric up around his calf before wrapping the band around his ankle. Tommy got a sinking feeling. Fletcher seemed less strict, but then immediately went for overkill. He already had the implanted tracker and the collar - how much more did they need?

With a jarring pull, Fletcher tightened it, a quick clickclickclickclickclick telling Tommy it was locking into place with the adjustment. They gave it a few hard pulls, satisfied when it didn’t budge. 

“Alright now, that’s going to stay on. If you try to mess with it, it’ll send an alert to my phone, and I’ll make sure you can’t run the old fashioned way.” Fletcher gave him a wolfish grin, and Tommy instinctively shrank away. They pushed his leg off and stood, beckoning him up and replacing their grip on his arm. 

“Shall we?”

Fletcher led him past the kitchen and through a glass door that opened out behind the house. They went through a gate in the chicken-wire perimeter around their farming plot. 

“This is the garden. We’re going to be spending a lot of time here. I try to guild it so it’s more self-sustaining, but it still requires tending and harvesting. Here we got onions, that patch is potatoes, the sisters are over there…”

“The sisters?” Tommy repeated, looking around.

“Corn, beans, and squash. Let’s see, we got lettuce here, sunchoke, tomatoes, carrots, peas. These are stinging nettles, so don’t touch them without gloves, but they have a lot of uses. The greenhouse is mostly herbs - I make tea blends. And squash growing on the ceiling. Also have backup crops of some of these, in case animals get at them too much. The shed has got normal shed stuff. Tools, mulch, firewood, snowblower, shit like that. Uh, don’t go in there either.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because I have axes and shit in there. Let’s go.”

Fletcher led Tommy across the clearing. They made it a few feet past the first trees when a loud beeping began emanating from Fletcher’s pocket. They stopped and pulled out their phone, holding it up to show Tommy before clearing the alarm. 

“You cross the treeline,” they pointed at the monitor around his ankle. “That thing will let me know. It has GPS, so I’ll know exactly where you are. And that’s just a redundancy, because your last owners gave me access to your tracking chip.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted, the familiar feeling of being trapped anchoring him again. 

“Okay. I understand.”

Fletcher led him back towards the house. “You have until the treeline.”

“Wait, wait,” Tommy slowed his steps, causing Fletcher to stop and look at him. “You mean I can walk out of the house and go all the way to the trees?”

“Yes, that was the perimeter,” Fletcher said. “I set it at the edge of the clearing all the way around. Just don’t go into the woods.”

“But I can… leave the house?” Tommy asked in disbelief. Even as he said it, it felt foolish. He must not be understanding. “Like, you’re making it sound like I can just… walk out and wander around outside.”

“Yeah. Until the treeline,” Fletcher repeated.

Tommy was speechless. Fletcher continued to lead him back inside, taking him to his room.

“That was the lodge in brief, any questions so far?”

“Um, yeah, I mean… I have a few, if that’s okay. I just - I just want to be able to… do a good job here…”

“Okay.”

“Um… the kitchen.”

“Yep.”

“You said I can help myself to food.”

“I did.” A pause. “Is there a question?”

“I guess… not?” Tommy said. “I just, um… like, how much… can I eat, I guess?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Eat when you’re hungry, stop when you’re full. I think you can handle that.”

It felt like a trap.

“And I can eat… is there like, going to be certain foods set aside that I’m allowed to have?”

“Mm, not really. If I do a big batch of food I might set some aside for you but for the most part, no.”

“So how do I…”

“If it looks like it belongs to someone - like, has someone’s name or is clearly someone’s leftovers - don’t eat it,” Fletcher said. “If it is regular, unclaimed food, go ahead. Just use common sense.”

Common sense hadn’t been a factor in Tommy’s decision making very much in the last several years. It was more dominated by anticipating and heeding the whims of whichever unreasonable freaks he was with at the moment.

But, there was nothing else to be said on that subject. He moved on to the next.

“You said I couldn’t go in your or the trainee’s rooms.”

“Correct.”

“How am I going to clean them?”

Fletcher furrowed their brows at him. “Clean them?”

“Well, yeah… I figured… I would be cleaning the house, right?”

“I mean, yeah, probably,” Fletcher conceded. “But they’re adults, they can clean up their own space. No one wants you poking around their stuff. And you’re definitely not allowed in my room. Or my office.”

Tommy nodded. “Understood.”

“Anything else?”

“Umm… I guess… not?” He had a thousand questions, but he didn’t want to risk pestering Fletcher too much right off the bat.”

“Okay. Great.” Fletcher paced slightly before stopping in front of Tommy again. “Here’s the thing. I want you to change your name.”

“Oh. Okay.” Made sense. New owner, new identity they would ascribe to him.

“Doesn’t matter what. Probably. Just… something else.”

“Okay.” 

They both waited.

“You don’t have to pick right now, I guess…” Fletcher began.

Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“Oh - I’m picking?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Wh… well, what do you want to call me?”

“I don’t… really care, dude. You want to go by Davy again?”

Tommy felt a strange jolt at hearing his old name. An immediate tension in his body, accelerated heartbeat like it was a sign of danger.

Not to mention, Davy was long since dead. He was killed to make room for Tommy.

“Not… really,” he said sheepishly, drawing in on himself, afraid to give the wrong answer.

“What about James? A lot of people go by their last name here.”

Tommy put his head down, running his hands back and forth through his hair. Of course Fletcher knew his full legal name. It was just strange to hear it said back to him after so many years.

“Um… I don’t know…”

“Well, think about it,” Fletcher said. “It can be a nickname, I don’t care. Just something.”

Being Tommy felt right, felt natural in his role now. He’d gotten used to it. Tommy obeys, Tommy serves, Tommy gets punished. Tommy is owned by - Fletcher, now. It was an odd thought.

“Well, I’ll let you settle in here,” Fletcher said. “You can take it easy and adjust for the first day.”

They headed toward the door.

“W-Wait,” Tommy called after them.

Fletcher stopped and turned back.

“What about… what are my rules?” Tommy asked. Maybe he should’ve asked when Fletcher allowed him questions, but he had just assumed Fletcher would tell him on their own and he didn’t want to push them. But without Fletcher laying out his rules for him, how would he know how to navigate his existence here? How would he know how to avoid getting in trouble?

“Okay, yeah, um,” Fletcher clapped their hands together. “Mostly, just do what I tell you, when I tell you. Stay out of the places I told you to stay out of. Know your place. Obviously don’t touch any weapons - common sense stuff. Mostly just comes down to following orders.”

Tommy nodded. “Yes, Fletcher. Err…do you have a title you want me to call you?”

“Nah, just my name,” Fletcher said. “I mean, I don’t care if you call me ‘boss’ or whatever, like that, just don’t call me ‘master’ ‘cause that shit’s cringe. No sir or ma’am shit either. Got it?”

“Yes, Fletcher.”

Even though Tommy felt like he should be keeping rapt attention on Fletcher, he couldn’t keep his eyes from continuing to drift to the window. They got stuck there, watching the clouds drift across the sky, the grass and branches bow in the breeze.

“What?” Fletcher prodded. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Oh, no, sorry,” Tommy said, looking back at them. “I just, um, haven’t had a window in a while.”

Fletcher stared at him for a beat. “What?”

“I was in the basement…” Tommy didn’t want to get into it any further than that.

“...Jesus. Okay, well, I’ll leave you to acclimate. Did you eat today?”

Tommy shook his head. He hadn’t been focused on his hunger, but once it had been pointed out, he could feel it stabbing at him from the inside.

“You should probably do that.” Fletcher slipped through the door, adding before they pulled it closed behind them, “You know where the kitchen is.”

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr

[fangsandfeels]

Bioware had continuity issues before...

...but with Veiguard, I feel like this time it just didn't care and was in a hurry to bury the DA world as fast as possible, so it could proceed to finishing Mass Effect off the same way.

Spoiler-y nitpicks and thoughts below

Once again, I'm all for the premise of almost none of the higher beings and deities of Thedas being kind or benevolent - and all of them turning out to be not what they seemed or were promised to be.

It fits the undergoing theme of every group in Thedas subtly believing that their true gods will come and fix everything, and every atrocity, every bloodbath, every sacrifice will be worth it. For the plot to take away that hope and expose how deep the wounds go, how absolutely wrecked this world is (and you can never un-wreck it , would have been absolutely logical and very in tune with the general tone of the series.

The Old Gods

If Archdemons contain not the souls of the Old Gods, but the key to the Evanuris mortality, why was Solas mad at the Grey Wardens for killing them? Why did Mythal/Flemeth needed to preserve the soul of an Old God? Wouldn't she, a betrayed and angry goddess, want to sever her traitors' connection to immortality? Instead, she wanted it "a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness". Something, that meant to be saved from corruption and destruction. But now Solas dismisses it by saying that Old Gods were never a thing, it has always been the Evanuris using dragons as their conduits and immortality placeholders?

Then why did you give Grey Wardens so much crap for killing these dragons, Solas?!

Yeah, we can argue that Solas was worrying about the Evanuris not being able to sustain the Veil due to losing their immortality, but he was going to bring it down anyways? So what difference would it have made anyways?

Something doesn't add up.

I think, the most logical thing would have been to leave the Old Gods as the raw magic incarnate - truly a relict from the world back when magic was everywhere. So, it would have make sense for Flemeth, Morrigan and Solas want to preserve it - despite all the destructive potential, it has always belonged to this world. It would have also explained why darkspawn need to infect the slumbering Old Gods - as ancient magical beings, they are attuned to the world, and the taint means to exploit that connection.

2. The taint and the Blight

If the taint is the product of the Titan's anger and desire for vengeance...why can Ghila'nain use it like her own personal Play-Doh? I'd imagine, the pure concentration of wrath and anger should be particularly deadly for the Evanuris - because it's directed against them, first and foremost. I don't mind the Titans being as the general source of the plague - it would explain the Deep Roads and darkspawn behavior. A twisted wish to be whole again, an unfulfilled desire to keep fighting - a constant, never-ending call to arms. It also would have been a nice callback to the state of the Mother from Awakening: she woke up only to realize and remember what has been done to her, which broke her mind and made her desperate to either die or return to that mindless state of rage and destruction. So do the Titans feel, knowing they were mutilated and plundered, broken apart, and are in too much pain to ever forgive or know peace.

If Titans were so connected to the physical world, the taint changing everything it touches would have made sense: life itself twisting and contorting into a weapon, against an attacker it can't see or find. This is truly tragic, horrifying and realistic - taint as a wound that cannot heal, that festers, and rots but never closes. It's a very accurate depiction of trauma caused by a genocidal war.

Therefore, it would have made more sense if the Evanuris were fucking terrified of the taint and the darkspawn because of how devastating it was to them and because they had no clue how to destroy it - they could only contain it and hope it works.

Maybe Ghila'nain tried to master it but barely survived and went mad, modifying her body and "perfecting" herself as a result. It would still have been possible to keep her obsessed with taint - mostly out of pure denial that something can be beyond her control as she believes herself to be the Goddess of Creation.

Also, you can still have your scarier version of more active and virulent taint - just make it change in response to the gods appearing in the physical world. Make it spread more actively, make the darkspawn go into frenzy, make it look like the new Blight is starting - but now it's as if blindly searching for something or someone. Wouldn't that be fucking creepy?

Maybe, for the first time in a long while, the South of Thedas isn't the one to take a hit - instead, the darkspawn are flocking to where the gods are.

(Of course, the question is, why the taint doesn't target the elves specifically? Because of them losing their immortality - the taint isn't exactly sentient, so it perceives them as part of physical world)

It would have posed such an interesting and controversial option for the player: to weaponize the Blight to end the gods.

3. Maker

I remember that the developers mentioned that the Maker never meant to be real. It was meant to represent the humanity's ability to believe in a symbol. But the Veilguard's "the legend about the Maker was actually about magister's breaking into the prison made by Solas and accidentally blighting all around the place" is such an underwhelming conclusion. After all, the Ashes of Andraste meant to imply that there is something. That it's not just a collective gaslighting - but something else.

I feel like they could have made so much with it:

In the context of the taint's connection to the Titans, what if Maker has always been somewhat of an emissary of the taint? It was cut off from the dwarves and locked away - but it needed a way out, right? Even subconsciously, it knew that it has to get out. It was the music that kept playing, the song that called. So, it reached out to other beings of the physical world, whispering to them and beckoning them. Andraste, due to probably being a Dream Walker or extremely sensitive to the Fade, caught a glimpse of that events, but was never able to make sense of it, which led her to fill in the gaps, which led to the creation of andrastianism. Therefore, Maker didn't leave the Golden City - once the taint was released, it fulfilled its purpose.

What if Andraste willed the Maker into existence? Since Fade is attuned to people's dreams, thoughts, and inner worlds, maybe Andraste's connection to it was so strong, it channeled her pain, her wish for justice and salvation into a figure that she believed to be the Maker? What if she was even able to perform miracles with the Maker as her avatar, turning people into believers? So, logically, when she died, the Maker stopped responding: she was no longer there to sustain him. No amount of prayers and sermons, of repressions and murders, of crusades and chats would have made the Maker return - because the only person actually capable of that was burned and killed long ago. This would have also explained why some spirits believe in Maker because they saw him in people's dreams - the Maker never existed in any other shape and it couldn't manifest completely because his image differed based on individual person's imagination and convictions.

After all, the true horror of living is realizing that nobody is control. Nobody is coming to fix things for you. There is no hope - only the consequences you are forced to live in.

[letsplaythermalnuclearwar]

It doesn't hurt much

Fandom: The Owl House Summary: Hunter has chronic pain post-possession. He doesn't tell anyone Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: no archive warnings apply, references to child abuse (also on AO3) Written for the Disabled Whump & Hurt Comfort 2025 Event. Prompt list here.

Hunter was used to pain. 

He was used to broken bones and bruised ribs. He was used to split lips and twisted ankles. He was used to stress headaches and bloodied knuckles. He was used to gritting his teeth and dealing with it, because the only alternative was more pain.  

He was not used to his skin being on fire. 

Scars itched—Hunter knew that very well. Sometimes they itched so bad they hurt. And sometimes they just hurt, full stop. 

The scars he’d gotten from the possession were different. They burnt. Burnt through his selkidomus skin, burnt past his flesh and the muscles, burnt straight through until the fire reached his bones, and burnt them too. 

Hunter had never been burnt before. The boiling rain was just a hot shower, the boiling sea a warm bath. His selkidomus skin protected him. He wished it didn’t. Maybe then, he’d be used to that specific brand of pain.

As it was, he could barely focus enough to work. And there was work to be done. 

The Isles needed to be rebuilt. A refugee town was being constructed to house the former inhabitants of the Left Arm. Governmental and religious systems were being overhauled. Giant, sparkly stars stuck out the sides of buildings. Roads were unusable. Rubble needed clearing. Everyone needed to help. So, Hunter gritted his teeth, and helped however he could.

This worried his friends to a frankly confusing degree, since he hadn’t told anyone that the scars hurt. Apparently they thought he was running from his grief for Flapjack.

Which Hunter wasn’t. He was just doing whatever he could to make up for all the hurt he’d caused as the Golden Guard—all the witches he’d arrested, all the lives he’d ruined, all the palismen he’d killed—in whatever way he could. And would continue to do so until the day he died. Because he could never make up for that much hurt. So what if that meant he threw up in bushes because the pain made him nauseous? So what if he fell asleep crying most nights because another day was almost more than he could take? So what if he wanted to rip out his lungs to stop them from burning with every breath? He wasn’t dead, which was more than he could say for Flapjack. 

He told his friends that being productive helped him relax. They accepted this with minimal ’whenever-you’re-ready-to-talk-about-what’s-really-happening,-we’re-here-to-listen’-ing. Which was sweet but totally unnecessary because he was fine. 

***

Moving his eyelids hurt. Which did not bode well for the rest of the day. 

Hunter gritted his teeth—which also hurt—and sat up. 

His head span. His throat went dry. He was shivering and drenched in sweat, which was just gross.

He focused on the grossness instead of how his skin was pulsing like some sort of terrible heartbeat, as he crawled out of bed, onto the floor, and managed the thirty feet between his bed and the shower. He sat in the water with his pyjamas on and let his thoughts drown. 

He’d been in there for too long before crawling out. He lay on Darius’s ridiculously fluffy bathmat for too long before sitting up. He’d been sitting up too long before he peeled off his wet clothes. He’d been sitting there, naked, for too long before he snatched his towel off the hook. He sat there with his towel for too long before drying himself off, one limb at a time, taking too long for each one. 

He crawled back into his bedroom slowly, until he finally reached the standing mirror Darius had gotten him.

He lay there in front of it for a while, breathing, and ignored the tears sliding down his cheeks. They were just an involuntary pain response, like gasping for breath after getting winded. Nothing more. 

His pentagram was lying next to his right arm. With much effort, Hunter reached over and tapped the screen, causing it to light up.

8:42. A few months ago, he’d have finished yesterday’s paperwork, completed a patrol, dealt with the paperwork that Lilith or Kikimora had let slide through the cracks, reported to Belos, and headed off on whatever his job was for the day by now. 

He’d have been beaten bloody for being this late. 

That thought gave him enough energy to sit up and face the mirror.

He didn’t wipe away the tears running down his cheeks. Instead, he lifted his hands and covered his face, pretending his fingers were a mask.

Hunter was done for the day. Hunter couldn’t function with the pain. So it was the Golden Guard’s turn. 

He stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes, and got dressed. It was too warm for a hoodie, but he grabbed one anyway. He wanted to hide as much of his skin as he could—it had gone pale. 

He brushed his hair into something presentable, washed his face, and headed downstairs.

Darius was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cereal and drinking tea when Hunter walked in. “Good morning, Little Prince.”

“Morning,” Hunter said, grabbing a granola bar. He was pretty sure he’d throw up anything heavier. He headed for the door. 

“Ah, Hunter, wait,” Darius called. Hunter turned around. Darius was half-standing. “Where are you going?”

Well. That was a stupid question. “To work,” Hunter answered. Like he’d been doing every day for the past three weeks. 

“…You don’t have a job anymore.” Darius it slowly, gently. With that worry in his eye that everyone got around Hunter. 

Hunter was getting sick of it. “I know that. I’m working to rebuild the Isles. Like everyone else.” Except for the Clawthornes. They were figuring out the Collector’s portal door instructions. 

Darius pursed his lips. “Why don’t you stay home today, hm? Get some rest.”

Hunter reminded himself that Darius had graciously allowed him into his house, and that Hunter needed to be respectful and grateful. And that yelling at him for daring to imply that Hunter would ever have a home again would not be respectful or grateful. 

“I got up at five AM every day in the Emperor’s Coven,” he said instead. “I’m resting plenty.” This was true and not changed by the fact that everything took more energy than it used to. 

Darius sighed, and stood up. Hunter wondered if he’d used up all the grace that he’d gotten these past few months and was about to be punished. He also wondered if being so numb about that idea was normal. 

“At least let me fly you there,” Darius said instead of whatever Hunter thought was going to happen. He strode past Hunter, summoning his staff as he did. “Where are you headed today?”

“Uh, the third-left rib,” Hunter said, trailing after him. “The message board said they need volunteers to clear the stars.”

“I wish that child had taken the stars with him,” Darius said, “it would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.”

“I wish they’d fixed the Titan’s arm,” Hunter grumbled. At the words, his left arm gave a twinge. Hunter quickly thought about something else, before all the pain could come rushing back.

“Didn’t he say his magic didn’t work on Titans?” Darius opening the front door. 

The Owl Lady was standing there, one arm raised like she was about to knock. “Heya, Darius.” She glanced at Hunter. “Kid.”

Darius froze. “I forgot the meeting.”

“You sure did,” Eda said cheerfully. “Raine’s been calling me all morning.”

“What meeting?” Hunter asked.

“Raine’s talking with some people they trust about how to fix the political system,” Eda explained, “and Darius was meant to be there a half an hour ago.”

How could Darius forget something like that? If Hunter had been invited, it’d be all he could think about. “I can walk,” he said to Darius. 

Darius looked torn. “I—if you’re sure—”

“I can drop him off,” Eda said, lowering her staff for Hunter. “Where you headed?”

“The third left rib,” Hunter said, getting on. 

“Please be careful with my ward,” Darius said, getting on his own staff. “Apparently this is the longest he’s gone without breaking a bone and I would like to extend that streak.”

“You worry too much,” Eda said, before telling Hunter to ’hold on tight’ and taking off.

Eda flew at a leisurely, steady pace, which was somewhat disappointing to Hunter, but made holding on easier. He didn’t have to grip the staff too tightly, which would aggravate the scars around his fingers and make them pulse and burn and—

“How’s Lilith doing?” Hunter asked to distract himself. 

“Eh, okay,” Eda answered, “she’s heading to the meeting too, so she felt very important about that. How’re you doing, living with that old fart?”

“Isn’t he younger than you?”

“Nah, he’s way older. Like, a whole year older,” Eda said. “The curse aged me a bit—I still look hot though.” 

Hunter didn’t comment.

“What are you doing out by the ribs anyway?” Eda asked. 

“I’m helping remove stars.”

“Oh yeah, those things are a real pain in the…” Eda fell silent.

“…you can say ass,” Hunter said after a bit. “I’m sixteen.”

“What? Oh, I know that kid,” Eda continued, “I was just wondering how you remove the stars without any magic?”

Hunter felt himself bristling. “I’m not useless. I just pull them out.” It took longer than it would for someone else, but that didn’t matter. It still helped. It was still something.

“Easy kid, I didn’t say you were,” Eda continued. “Just…Raine’s been dealing with some real bad pain ever since…well, ever since Belos possessed them. I assumed you were too.”

“Nope,” Hunter said too fast, “no, I’m completely fine.”

“…Right,” Eda said after a moment. “So the work isn’t exacerbating any injuries?”

“I’m fine,” Hunter continued, perhaps a little desperately. “Maybe it affected me differently because I’m—I’m young.” 

Eda nodded in front of him, in a slow, thoughtful way. “Maybe.”

They rode in silence for the rest of the trip. 

Eda landed carefully and Hunter scrambled off the staff. “Thanks for ride,” he said, before turning around and heading for the nearest star. He needed to get away from her before she figured him out even more. 

“Wait.” Eda flew in front of him. “Here.” She was holding a tiny vial of glowing blue liquid.

Hunter frowned. “What’s this?”

“My hair’s full,” Eda said with a shrug, “so I figured you could hold onto this for me. As payment for the ride.”

Hunter glanced between her and the vial. “Sure…” he said, taking it slowly, like maybe it would blow him up. “What is it?”

Eda gave him a look that was definitely meant to say something but Hunter wasn’t sure what. He returned it with his natural confused expression. Eda’s look morphed into something horrified. “Have you never seen a healing vial before?”

Hunter shook his head. 

Eda stared at him for a long moment. “Any chance that you’ve never been in pain before?” 

Hunter snorted (which made his nose feel like he’d shoved it in burning embers but whatever).

Eda sucked a breath through her teeth, gaze dropping to the side. “Titan, that is…” she shook her head, looking back at him. “It helps with pain. You drink a little when you have a headache, or burnt your finger, or whatever. Don’t drink it all at once, you gotta take little sips. It can make you kinda sleepy, so watch out for that.”

Hunter stared at the liquid. “This,” he said slowly, hands trembling around the vial, “this makes pain go away?”

“Not go away,” Eda said, “more like reduces it. Dulls it.”

Hunter felt tears well up in his eyes. “You’re—” he swallowed, throat stinging in protest. “You’re giving this to me?”

“Yeah. This vial cost me two snails,” Eda said. “They’re—look, kid, there’s no reason you shouldn’t have been taking these whenever you got injured, alright?”

Hunter couldn’t believe these had always been around. “Okay.” His voice was wobbly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Eda said, smiling awkwardly. “I’m going to head home now—unless you’re in pain and want a ride?”

“No,” Hunter said quickly, wiping his eyes, “no, I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Eda said dubiously. “You know, I’ve been in a bit of pain ever since I got cursed, back when I was about your age. And I pretty much ruined my life trying to hide it from the people who loved me.”

Hunter rolled his eyes, ignoring the ache in his left shoulder. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Eda continued like he hadn’t spoken, “getting help with stuff other people can do alone. It can feel shameful. But the people who love you want to help. They want to take care of you. They’d rather share the burden—the pain—than have you go it alone.” Eda’s lips quirked into a smile. “You’ve got a lot of people who love you, kiddo. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, not meeting her eye.

“I know. Call me if you want a ride,” Eda said, then took off into the air.

Hunter waited until she was out of sight, then opened the vial and sipped it. The effect was much quicker than the painkillers Mrs Noceda had given him. The pounding in his head lessened and pulsing pain in his skin dulled. He sighed in relief, eyes drifting closed for a moment. 

Then he turned around, and headed for the nearest star. He had work to do.