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gullemec · 2 months ago

Text

Bitten

ao3 Bitten Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel left the QZ together a year ago in search of something better. Against all odds, the two of you have formed a bond, something quiet and rare and fragile. Then, on an ordinary day, it all comes crumbling down.

Warnings: description of infected, gore, description of mortal injury, gun use, mild non-sexual bondage, talk of death/dying

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.6k

A/N: My first TLOU/Joel fic I'm ever sharing! And you best believe there's more where this comes from! Also I've included another note at the bottom so please read that!

It’s a cool evening in the rugged wilderness between what remains of Billings and Big Sky, Montana. The air carries a bite of late spring chill, sharp and clean, the faint scent of pine and damp earth lingering after days of relentless rain. The sun has slipped low, casting the forest in shades of deep green and dusky blue, streaks of gold like brushstrokes on the jagged peaks on the faraway mountainscape.

The river that snakes through the dense forest is a merciless torrent, swollen from the rains. Its waters, frothy and wild, churn over boulders and shattered logs, their jagged edges slick with moss and spray. Branches, stripped bare of leaves, whirl chaotically in the current, their twisting shapes momentarily snagging on stones before being pulled back into the fray. The sound is constant and deafening, a relentless cacophony of crashing water and the guttural grumble of rocks grinding against each other beneath the surface.

You crouch at the river’s edge, boots braced against the slippery rocks, arms outstretched to catch the icy water in mason jars to filter back at camp. Overhead, the canopy is dense, needles interwoven with skeletal branches still clinging to the remnants of rain, droplets falling sporadically to pock the surface of the river. Despite the chaos of the water, you feel grounded here, your focus narrowed to the task at hand. The white noise of the rushing river drowns out the rest of the world, and for a brief moment, the wilderness feels almost serene.

Then, a movement—quick, sharp—in the corner of your eye. You freeze mid-pour, breath catching in your throat. Turning slowly toward the treeline, you rise to your feet, knees protesting against the sudden shift. The forest stretches out before you in shadowy stillness, dense with towering evergreens and underbrush thick with rain-drenched ferns. Your eyes dart through the gloom, searching for the source of the movement, but the dimming light and shifting leaves conspire against you. The world feels suddenly larger, the quiet of the forest pressing in at the edges of the river’s roar, your pulse quickening in the cold dusk.

The snap of a branch shatters the stillness of the forest, cutting through the constant roar of the rain-swollen river. You freeze, heart lurching in your chest, as a low, guttural snarl ripples from somewhere just beyond the treeline. It’s faint, almost lost between the river and the rush of your heartbeat in your ears, but unmistakable.

But before you can fully process the danger, it’s already too late. A blur of movement, a rush of air, and then a heavy weight slams into your side. The impact sends you sprawling, crashing hard onto the slick, rocky ground. Pain jolts through your ribs as the world tilts, your vision swimming from the force of the blow. The jar in your hand shatters on impact, slicing your palm as shards of glass scattering across the wet earth.

The creature is on you before you can even catch your breath. Its weight is crushing, its limbs flailing wildly as it pins you to the ground. A feral snarl tears from its throat, a horrifying mix of rage and hunger, as its face, a twisted mask of decay and filth, looms inches from your own. Its skin is gray and bloated, patches of it sloughing off to reveal sinew and bone beneath. The stench of rot and old blood is overwhelming, its acrid breath clawing at your senses.

You thrash beneath it, hands instinctively going to its shoulders to push it away, but it’s strong, so fucking strong, and its gnashing teeth snap just shy of your face. Droplets of its fetid saliva spray your cheek as its jaw clamps shut on empty air.

Panic surges like a shot of adrenaline, cold and sharp. Shit. You twist your body, feet scrambling for leverage on the slippery ground, but the creature’s weight is unrelenting. You try to reach for your knife, only to remember—you didn’t bring it. You thought this area was clear, that the river’s roar would drown out any noise that might attract them.

A mistake. A stupid, deadly mistake.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as the stalker lunges again, its teeth snapping so close you can feel the rush of air against your skin. With a desperate yell, you plant your feet and buck upward, trying to throw it off. But it doesn’t let go, its rotting fingers clawing at your jacket, its growls reverberating through your chest.

You twist violently beneath its crushing weight, legs curling upward as you fight for leverage. With a guttural cry, you shove your boots hard into its torso, muscles straining as you push with everything you’ve got. The creature topples to the side with a sickening grunt, its limbs flailing as it scrambles to regain its grip. Wasting no time, you roll over and claw your way forward, boots slipping on the wet earth as your eyes lock onto one of the mason jars lying just out of reach.

Your fingers are inches from the glass when a cold, rotting hand seizes your waist, nails tearing through fabric and skin as it drags you back. Then the pain hits, a searing, white-hot agony as the creature buries its face into your side, teeth scraping against flesh. You scream, a sound ripped raw from your throat, and your free hand finds the mason jar. Without hesitation, you swing it with all the strength you can muster, smashing it into the creature’s skull.

The jar shatters on impact, shards of glass slicing into the putrid flesh. The stalker reels back, momentarily stunned, its snarls faltering into gurgles as blackened ichor oozes from its shattered head. You’re screaming again, this time desperate, panicked.

“Joel!” The name tears from your throat as you shove yourself backward, kicking at the writhing body, desperate to put distance between you and the thing on the ground.

A single gunshot cracks through the chaos, sharp and deafening. The creature jerks once, then stills, its grotesque form collapsing into a lifeless heap.

Your chest heaves as silence rushes back in, broken only by the relentless roar of the river and the distant patter of rain. You scramble to your feet, legs trembling, hands flying instinctively to your side where pain pulses in hot, angry waves. The world feels unsteady beneath you, every movement sharp and raw as you clutch at your side. Your fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt, and with a hiss of pain, you pull it up to inspect the damage.

Blood. So much blood. It blooms across your skin, bright and vivid, the gash at your hip jagged and cruel, clawing its way across your waist. Your breath catches, panic rising like a flood as the implications hit you.

Before you can speak—before you can even think—you hear it. The unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked.

Your head snaps up, eyes locking onto Joel. He stands a few feet away, his face a mask of hardened resolve, his breathing labored but steady. The barrel of his pistol is trained on you, unwavering. His eyes are dark, unreadable, jaw squared.

“Joel—” your voice trembles, barely a whisper.

“Don’t move,” he warns, his tone low and sharp. His grip on the gun tightens as he steps closer, each movement deliberate, measured.

“Wait!” Your voice cracks as the word bursts out, raw and desperate. You throw your hand out in front of you as if it could shield you from the inevitable, as though the small gesture might protect you from the bullet with your name on it. “Please, just… wait,” you beg, the words coming out as a broken, trembling whine that shames you even as you say them.

Joel doesn’t move. His shoulders are stiff, his hands trembling around the pistol, knuckles white with the pressure of his grip. His eyes dart frantically, torn between your face and the wound at your side, the gash you’ve tried to hide, like covering it could somehow erase it from existence.

Your left hand moves instinctively, tugging at your shirt to pull it over the gaping wound. The thick cotton clings to your skin, soaking up the blood in heavy, sticky patches. You feel the wetness against your fingertips, warm and damning, and your stomach churns at the realization of how bad it is. You don’t need to look at it again to know the truth, you can feel it.

“No…” Joel murmurs, the sound barely audible over the rushing river and your own ragged breathing. His voice is shaky, distant, like he’s talking to himself now instead of you. His gaze hardens, his jaw clenches, and his finger hovers near the trigger. He’s slipping away from you, mentally already miles ahead, as if you’re not even standing in front of him anymore.

You know what he’s thinking. To him, you’re already dead. The infection is a foregone conclusion, the gash on your body as good as a death sentence. You see it in his face—this is no longer you standing here. In his eyes, you’re just a corpse waiting to fall, a hollow body waiting for the bullet that will silence you before the sickness has a chance to take hold.

It’s over.

“Joel.” You force his name out through chattering teeth, your lips trembling uncontrollably. “Listen to me. Please.” The words crack under the weight of your fear, barely holding together as dizziness washes over you. Pain radiates outward from your side, sharp and unrelenting, but the ache in your chest, the utter hopelessness gripping your heart, is far worse.

In any other moment, you’d hate yourself for this. You’d hate the way your lip quivers, the way your voice shakes, the way you’ve laid yourself bare in front of him, vulnerable and pathetic. You’d curse yourself for throwing every card onto the table, for showing him just how desperate you are. You’d tell yourself to stand up straight, to act strong, to meet death with dignity.

But none of that matters now. You’re not ready. You don’t want to die.

This isn’t the first time you’ve begged for your life. There were countless moments over the years when you were forced to plead, to barter, to lie just to stay alive. But this is the first time you’ve begged knowing it’s utterly futile. Knowing that no amount of pleading will change the truth, or his mind.

You’d talked about this moment, back when you left the QZ together, when survival was still something you both believed in. You’d made a pact, as so many travelers do.

If you get bit, I won’t hesitate.

The words had come from Joel himself, blunt and unflinching, delivered in that steady, gravelly tone you’d grown to trust.

And you’d agreed. Of course you had. It was practical, logical. You’d said the same thing to every companion before him. A foregone conclusion this late in the game, but still you'd felt the need to make it entirely clear that your definition of mercy was a swift bullet to the forehead.

And yet, here you stand, begging the man in front of you to wait, listen, hear me out.

“Joel,” you whisper again, softer this time, pleading. “You have to listen to me. I’m not—” Your voice catches, the words faltering as the weight of his gaze presses down on you. His face is unreadable, his expression stone-cold and unyielding, but his eyes…

His eyes tell a different story.

You see the anguish there, buried beneath the hard lines of his face. The war waging inside him. The man you’ve come to trust, who’s fought beside you, bled beside you, isn’t made for this kind of mercy, no matter what he says.

And yet, you see his finger twitch on the trigger.

“Joel.” Your voice is shaking, but louder now, cutting through the space between you. “I’m not ready. Please.”

The world feels smaller, darker, as you wait for his answer. For the sound of the shot and the unknown that follows.

This was the reality you’d known since you were a child, torn from innocence and thrust headlong into the nightmare of the end of the world. The collapse had been swift and merciless, leaving you to navigate the jagged edges of survival before you even understood what it meant to truly live. Death had been a constant companion, circling you like a predator, never far away. You’d faced it down more times than you could count, each encounter stripping away another layer of who you once were.

You knew it now with the intimacy of an old, cruel lover. The way it crept in quietly, the way it demanded submission, the way it took and never gave back. And yet, now that it has finally come for you, fully and undeniably, you recoil. You flee.

Your breath shudders as you stare into Joel’s eyes, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. His gaze is hard, but there’s something beneath it, a crack in the armor. You plead with him, your voice trembling, words spilling out in a desperate torrent, but it’s more than words. It’s the raw urgency building in your chest, clawing its way up your throat, begging him to feel it.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly at first, then harder, his face tightening in anguish. His lip quivers, just the faintest tremble, but it’s enough. It’s a crack in the foundation, a glimmer of doubt in the man who never hesitates. You catch it, latch onto it like a lifeline.

When he says your name, it’s like a prayer, soft and broken. A plea wrapped in the syllables of something he’s never wanted to say. It cuts through you, sharp and cold, leaving you raw and exposed.

His hands are shaking now, the gun unsteady in his grip. You watch it tremble, the barrel wavering slightly, and for a fleeting moment, you think he might miss. That if he pulled the trigger now, the bullet would veer off course, grazing past you instead of ending you. Your mind whispers, Run. Maybe you could bolt, maybe you could make it. But deep down, you know better. Joel doesn’t miss. And if he did, he wouldn’t miss again.

The two of you remain locked in this fragile standstill, unmoving, unblinking, as the moment stretches unbearably long. The adrenaline that had flooded your system begins to ebb, leaving you hollow and weak. Your outstretched hand, once rigid with desperation, falters and starts to fall. It drifts downward, as if surrendering to the weight of inevitability.

Your legs buckle beneath you, the strength draining from them as exhaustion and pain take hold. You collapse slowly, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree behind you, its surface digging into your shoulder blades. Joel’s gun follows your movement, unwavering, the barrel trailing you as you sink to the ground.

“Just wait, okay?” you whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion, but you force yourself to keep your gaze locked on Joel’s. “Wait until I turn. Don’t shoot me… not yet. Just… wait.”

He doesn’t move. His grip on the pistol is steady, but his chest rises and falls unevenly, betraying the storm inside him. For a moment, the silence stretches so thin it feels like the world itself is holding its breath. Then, he exhales, a long, ragged sigh slipping past his lips.

“D-darlin’...” His voice cracks on the word, soft and uneven, a plea in itself. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and you see one break free, tracking a shining path down his cheek. “We agreed. You—” His voice falters, breaking on the words he can’t quite bring himself to say. “You were bit, and I… I have to.”

The way he says it—have to—isn’t just broken; it’s shattered. The weight of the words twists something inside you, but even now, as death looms close, the tenderness of his pet name stirs a small, bittersweet pang in your chest.

“You don’t have to do anything, Joel,” you murmur, shaking your head, your voice unsteady. “Just let me live a little bit longer, okay? I didn’t get to see much or do much… Just give me a few more minutes. Please.”

The words feel foreign, like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth, distant and detached. The adrenaline that once roared through your veins has ebbed, leaving you woozy and untethered. The world around you feels unreal, a blurry haze of pain and fear.

Joel’s jaw tightens as he fights with himself. His finger hovers near the trigger, but his hand trembles now, betraying the conflict raging inside him. You watch his face carefully, every muscle tense as he weighs the impossible decision before him. His eyes flicker, darting around the clearing, searching for something—anything—that would deliver him from the scene laid before him.

He tilts his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His gaze turns skyward, as if beckoning the heavens to intervene. The seconds crawl by, agonizing and infinite.

Then, slowly, Joel lowers his gun.

You shudder as a strangled, heaving sigh escapes your lips. Relief floods through you, too sharp and too cruel, making your chest ache with its weight. It tricks you, just for a moment, into believing you’ve cheated death, that you’ve won. Your lips twitch with the urge to laugh, but you hold it in, choking back the sound before it escapes.

Joel moves quickly, breaking the fragile stillness between you. He drops to one knee, his pack already in his hands, and begins digging through it with a kind of frantic determination. You watch him, your body too heavy and your mind too dazed to question what he’s doing.

When he stands and starts toward you, a small bundle clutched in his hands, your stomach lurches. He unfurls it, and your breath catches, terror and confusion gripping you. Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for the feel of a knife piercing your skull.

“W-what are you doing?” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with fear.

“Fuckin’—stay still,” he growls, his tone clipped and uneven.

Your eyes flutter open as his arms reach around you, and you realize what he’s holding: nylon rope. He pulls it around your torso, cinching it tightly against the tree. His breath comes in sharp, hot gasps, fanning against your cheeks as he works.

“Joel,” you gasp, your voice rising in alarm, but he doesn’t respond. His eyes are locked on his hands, refusing to meet yours as he ties knot after knot, the rope biting into your sides with cruel precision. The pressure sends fresh waves of pain shooting from your wound, and you wince, clenching your teeth to keep from crying out.

The final tug is brutal, the knot digging into your flesh, and he ends up behind you, his hands lingering for a moment as if testing the ropes’ strength. You feel him pause, his breath shuddering as he finally stops moving.

“Joel,” you say again, softer now, your voice cracking under the weight of everything left unsaid.

But he still doesn’t look at you.

When he steps back, his shoulders are slumped, his face shadowed by something you can’t quite name—grief, guilt, maybe both. He wipes at his face roughly, as though trying to erase the evidence of his tears, but they’ve already betrayed him.

You’re bound, defenseless, and hurting, and yet all you can think about is how utterly broken he looks as he stands there, staring at the mess the world has forced you both into.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, your voice small and steeped in guilt. The words hang in the air, fragile and trembling, but Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Instead, he turns on his heel, his shoulders tight and his head bowed, and walks to another tree about ten feet away. He plants himself at its base, his back to you. His silence cuts deeper than any words might have, and you feel the weight of it settling over you like a suffocating shroud.

The two of you share the silence, your shallow breaths filling the void between you. Each exhale feels labored, your body struggling against the pain radiating from your side, but you force yourself to focus on something else. You lean your head back against the rough bark of the tree, the texture biting into your scalp, and lift your gaze to the heavens.

The stars are impossibly bright tonight, scattered like shards of broken glass across a velvet sky. You try to commit them to memory, tracing their constellations with your eyes, knowing these moments might be your last chance before you navigate them on your imminent departure.

As you stare upward, memories begin to filter through your mind, unbidden and fragmented, slipping through the cracks of your composure.

Your parents, once so vivid in your mind, are now nothing more than faint, blurred shapes. You can almost feel the warmth of their presence, the comfort of their arms around you, the safety they once provided. Almost. The memory is fleeting, like a firefly winking out in the dark.

Will their faces greet you on the other side?

Your adolescence in the QZ flashes through next, a sharp contrast to the hazy warmth of childhood. The cold, unforgiving reality of it all. Hunger gnawing at your belly, desperation clawing at your throat, the endless days that taught you how to survive but left little room for hope.

Then the years on the road in between QZs, each one harder than the last. The faces of strangers, some kind, most cruel, blur together. Every day had been a gamble, every night a test of endurance. And yet, through it all, you’d kept going.

Finally, your thoughts settle on Joel. The better part of a year spent in his company, you guessed. It had started as a shaky partnership, the two of you circling each other like wary predators. Two feral creatures lowering their hackles just enough to agree to watch each other’s backs. You’d both been so used to solitude, to the cold comfort of self-reliance, that you’d resisted the vulnerability of companionship.

But somehow, somewhere along the way, that had changed.

The memory surfaces vividly, as if it had only just happened. The two of you had set up camp, the evening falling quiet save for the crackle of the fire. Joel had rolled out his sleeping bag next to yours, closer than he ever had before. It was unmistakable, deliberate. Your breath had caught in your chest when you realized just how close he was. Close enough to reach out, to touch. To feel his warmth radiating.

That night, he’d taken first watch, as always, sitting cross-legged by the fire with his rifle resting across his lap. But you hadn’t slept, not really. You’d stayed awake, your heart pounding in your chest, stealing glances at him through the dim light of the flames. The moonlight dusted his features in silver, softening the hard lines of his face. You’d stared at the rough stubble along his jawline, aching to reach out and trace it with your fingers.

You’d felt like a teenager again, giddy and restless, wanting something so badly it made your chest ache. It was dangerous to feel that way in this world, to allow yourself even a sliver of something as fragile as hope, but you couldn’t help it. That night had changed everything for you, though you couldn’t say if Joel even realized it.

Now, sitting bound to this tree, your side throbbing and your vision dimming, you wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he remembers that night, or any of the moments you’d shared since. You glance toward him, his back still turned to you, his shoulders hunched. You want to call out to him, to say something, but the words catch in your throat.

Instead, you close your eyes, letting the memories wrap around you like a fragile cocoon. You hold onto them tightly, as though they might somehow tether you to this life for just a little longer.

You’d never said anything. How could you? This life wasn’t made for love, for relationships, or for anything that resembled romance. Whatever you felt for Joel, whatever that small, fragile thing blooming inside you was, had always seemed impossible to name, let alone act on.

The world you lived in was harsh, brutal, and unforgiving. There wasn’t room for tender words or soft moments, and certainly no place for anything as foolish as hope. All you knew was that you felt safe under his protection, warm under his rare but lingering gaze. Anything beyond that, any flicker of desire, longing, or affection, could be swallowed whole by the world so long as it meant keeping him close.

But now, things are different. You’re staring down the end, and there’s nothing left to lose. Everything worth losing had already been ripped from you piece by piece over the years. Maybe it’s selfish of you to want this moment, to unburden yourself of something you could have taken silently to the grave. Maybe it’s selfish to pile this weight onto Joel when he was already carrying so much. But then again, you’d already been selfish, hadn’t you? Begging him to forgo his own safety for the sake of putting a bit more time between yourself and his bullet in your brain.

And he had complied, hadn’t he?

Fuck it.

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” you ask into the silence, your voice low and trembling, but steady enough to carry through the night air.

Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even flinch. His broad shoulders remain rigid, his gaze fixed on the darkness in front of him as though it holds some kind of answer he’s desperate to find.

“I thought you were an asshole,” you continue, forcing a small, breathy laugh out of your chest. It sounds pathetic, even to you, but you push on. “A grumpy asshole.”

Still, nothing from him. But you’re certain, almost certain, you catch the faintest twitch of his shoulder.

“And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn’t stop myself. I’d say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up.” You smile faintly at the memory, even as the ache in your side deepens. You stop to take a deep breath, hoping he might take this chance to interject, beg you to shut the fuck up and die quietly already. But he doesn't. “You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up. And I think—no, I know—you liked it.”

That finally earns you something: a sharp exhale from his nose. A sound so faint you might’ve missed it if you weren’t straining to catch every little thing.

“If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself,” you press on, emboldened now. “I think you liked the banter. The arguing. Maybe it made things feel… normal.”

You pause, drawing in a shaky breath. Your chest feels tight, your body heavy, but you force yourself to keep going. “Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?”

His shoulders tense at that, just barely, but he still doesn’t turn to look at you.

“I liked it,” you admit softly. “A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, the confession hanging between you like a fragile thread. You don’t expect a response, but part of you still hopes, desperately, foolishly, that he’ll turn around and say something. Anything.

Instead, his shoulders shudder, and you hear it, a ragged, broken breath that shakes his entire frame.

“Joel?” you whisper, your own voice trembling now.

But he doesn’t answer. He stays where he is, his back to you, his head dipping forward as though the weight of your words, and everything they mean, has finally crushed him.

You lean your head back against the tree, the bark biting into your scalp, and close your eyes. The pain in your side throbs in time with your heartbeat, and your breaths grow more shallow with each passing moment. But you don’t regret saying it.

If this is how it ends, if this is your last night on this broken earth, you’re glad you told him. Even if he never responds. Even if the silence stretches on forever.

“I know what you're gonna say, Joel. You're gonna tell me it didn’t mean anything, and…” You stop, your breath hitching as tears well up and threaten to spill. “Fuck, maybe it didn’t. I don’t know.” You inhale sharply, struggling to keep the flood of emotions from overtaking you. “But you should know that it meant something to me. All this time we spent together, it wasn’t just survival for me. Being with you, it’s the closest thing to happiness I’ve felt since… since before the world ended.”

Your voice cracks again, the weight of your confession pulling it down to a trembling whisper. The tears that had gathered finally spill over, streaming hot down your cheeks. You can’t wipe them away, but even if you could, what would be the point?

“If I could go back,” you continue, voice thick with emotion, “I would have told you then. I wouldn’t have waited. I’d have kissed you just so I could’ve known what it felt like. I’d have asked you to lay with me, to hold me, to—”

“Stop.”

The word cuts through the air like a whip, startling you into silence. Joel’s voice is low and hoarse, laced with something sharp and raw.

Your eyes dart to him, still sitting against the tree, his face hidden in shadow but his posture stiff, brimming with tension. His shoulders rise and fall heavily, and for a moment, you think he might stay there, unmoving, until the sun rises.

“Joel—”

“No,” he snaps, his voice rough and cracking like a fraying rope. “You need to stop.”

Before you can respond, he pushes himself to his feet in one swift, almost frantic motion. His boots crunch against the underbrush as he rounds the tree, his long strides closing the distance between you in seconds.

The gun glints in his hand as the moonlight catches it, but he doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t point it at you. Instead, he stops just in front of you, towering over your slumped, trembling form.

You crane your neck to look up at him, your breath catching as his broad silhouette eclipses the moon. The glow from behind outlines his unruly curls, casting his face into shadow, turning him into something impossibly dark and imposing.

And yet, despite the towering presence above you, the sharpness in his voice, and the speed with which he closed the gap, you feel no fear. You’ve seen Joel like this before, anger weaponized, his mere presence a threat designed to cow and intimidate. He’s used it countless times against others, and now it’s turned on you.

You should feel afraid.

But the only fear you feel now is for yourself, for the minutes, the seconds you have left before the darkness comes to take you. For the inevitability you can’t run from.

You stare up at him, the moonlight weaving through his curls like a halo, his face cast in shadow but no less striking. He looks like some tragic figure out of a dream, the kind that lingers in your chest long after you wake. Your lips part, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“I love you.”

It’s barely a whisper, cracked and fragile, but he hears it. You can see the way his shoulders tense, the faint shudder in his breath. Despite yourself, you smile, a soft, bittersweet curve of your lips. You want nothing more than for him to drop to his knees, to pull you close, to press his lips to yours and grant you one final wish before the inevitable.

But you don’t ask. You know better.

You’ve been selfish enough, asking him to delay the mercy he’d promised you. And Joel—Joel is many things, but generous isn’t one of them. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.

He shakes his head, the motion jerky and stilted, and you feel tiny droplets splash across your cheeks. For a second you fight the urge to chuckle at the insult of sudden rainfall added to the injury of your imminent demise. Of course you would spend your last moments shivering, cold, and wet.

But when you glance up, the sky is clear, the stars sharp and bright against the endless black.

It’s not raining.

The realization dawns slowly, your gaze drifting back to him. His broad shoulders quake, his head bowed, his face hidden from view. A sob tears free from his chest, jagged and raw, the sound of a man breaking under the weight of something far too heavy to bear.

“Oh no, Joel—please don’t cry,” you croak, your voice trembling as guilt twists like a knife in your gut. “I’m sorry, I—”

Your words catch in your throat as a sob wracks your own body, your tears flowing freely now, warm and relentless. The two of you dissolve into shared grief, your cries mingling in the stillness of the night. The air between you feels heavy, saturated with sorrow so thick it’s almost suffocating.

And then he moves.

Joel drops to his knees in front of you, the motion unsteady, like his legs are buckling under a weight he can no longer carry. His hand hovers in the air for a moment, trembling, before it finds your cheek. His palm is rough and calloused, but his touch is impossibly gentle, wiping away the tracks of your tears. His thumb lingers, as though he’s memorizing the curve of your cheek, the warmth of your skin, before it fades forever.

He leans forward, his breath uneven as it fans across your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft and lingering, a silent prayer offered up to whatever gods might still be listening.

When he pulls back, you tilt your head up instinctively, angling your lips toward his. You can feel his hesitation, the way he freezes, his hand faltering on your cheek. His eyes dart between your mouth and your tear-filled gaze, his own eyes wide and uncertain, searching for something he can’t seem to find.

But then he pulls away.

Your heart clenches, fracturing further as he backs up, his boots dragging across the dirt. He doesn’t stop until he’s ten feet away, where he collapses against the base of another tree. His posture mirrors yours, slumped and defeated, but he’s unbound. Untainted.

You can’t blame him. You know how the infection spreads, the risks it poses. A kiss might seal his fate as well as yours, and you couldn’t bear that, not after everything. But there’s a cruel, gnawing thought that whispers something worse: that he didn’t want to kiss you at all. That it wasn’t the infection that held him back, but a lack of affection.

You’d been his companion, his partner in survival. Nothing more. His tears now are a testament to his enduring humanity, to his ability to feel for others despite the walls he’s built around himself.

And you? You’re a dying woman desperately clinging to the scraps of a life already slipping through her fingers. A life at its end, spent confessing your love to a man who might never have loved you back.

You let your head fall back against the tree, your vision swimming as fresh tears blur the stars above. You’ve never felt so small, so painfully insignificant. The weight of the unspoken words between you feels unbearable, pressing down on your chest, suffocating.

The two of you sit there in the thick, silent night, your breaths the only sound between you. For what feels like forever, you both stare at each other, the weight of unsaid things lingering in the space between you. The moonlight plays across his features, painting him in shadows and silver, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if he sees you the same way, if he’ll remember this night after you’re gone.

You start talking.

You tell him about your life before the world ended, the warmth of your parents’ smiles, the taste of summer nights spent in the quiet of a safer world, the way everything seemed so simple back then. You describe the house you grew up in, the creaky wooden floors, the old red bike you used to ride around the neighborhood, the smell of your mother’s cooking wafting through the open windows. It’s all so distant now, like a dream you can’t quite touch.

Then you move to the people you’ve met since the world burned down. Companions, friends, lovers, whatever they were, however brief. You tell him about the ones who had your back, the ones who betrayed you, the ones you couldn’t save. You tell him how, despite everything, none of them ever quite compared to him. There’s a rawness in your voice, a truth you never dared speak before now.

You find yourself laughing a little, shaky at first, when you tell him about the time you tricked a QZ guard into giving you double ration cards. The image of his face when you handed over the counterfeit papers is enough to make you chuckle even now. The momentary relief, the feeling of outsmarting the system, feels almost like a lifetime ago.

But then your voice falters, and you recount the loss of your parents, their faces gone too soon, their absence an ache that never quite goes away. You talk about the lengths you went to survive in the aftermath, how the world didn’t stop for grief and how, somehow, you found a way to keep moving, even when everything inside you screamed to collapse. Your eyes never leave Joel’s face, watching him as he listens. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer pity or comfort, just listens, soaking up every word, every part of you you’re willing to offer.

As the words flow, they start to spill out faster, louder, and more frantic. You’re no longer telling stories, no longer reminiscing. You’re unraveling, thread by thread. You talk about your regrets, your fears. You speak of all the places you never got to see, all the dreams you’ll never chase, the future you’ll never have. You tell him about Yellowstone and Old Faithful, about the sunrise over the Grand Canyon, about the quiet peace of a morning in the mountains. You make him promise, with desperation edging your voice, that he’ll go. That he’ll see it for both of you, and your hope that, in doing so, you’ll somehow live on.

Your heart aches with the weight of it all. You want him to know you, every little piece of you. You want him to hold onto your stories, to carry them with him long after you're gone, so that maybe, just maybe, someone will know you for who you were, not just what the world reduced you to. You want to be remembered.

But as you talk, you begin to feel the distance between you grow. The adrenaline that once fueled your desperation, your need to be heard, starts to wane. You feel it in the weight of your limbs, the fog creeping at the edges of your mind. You know the end is near, even if you don’t want to admit it. You can feel yourself fading, your words becoming less coherent, your thoughts scattered like the leaves in the wind.

And Joel, he sees it too. He sees the way your shoulders slump, the way your eyes flicker as though trying to hold onto the present but failing. He watches you, his face hardening with the realization that no matter how much he listens, no matter how much he tries to understand, he can’t stop what’s coming. He sees you slipping through his fingers, and it makes it hard for him to focus on anything else.

You try to hold onto the last few fragments of yourself, the last words you want him to hear. But your vision blurs, and the words begin to jumble. You hope, in the deepest part of yourself, that somehow he’ll hold onto them, that something will remain after you’re gone. That somehow, in this moment, you’ve found a way to live again.

But as the world narrows, as the last threads of you unravel, you realize that perhaps all that’s left now is for him to remember you in the way you are right now—alive, speaking, a fleeting presence in the shadow of the man who, in this moment, matters more to you than anything else you could have ever dreamed.

“I… I gotta go.” His voice cracks as the words leave his mouth, and for a moment, he struggles to hold his composure. “I’ll just move over there,” he gestures toward a large tree about ten feet away, a hollow, tired motion. “I’m not leavin’ you. I just… I can’t see you like that. I can’t watch it happen. I’m sorry.”

The words hit you like a blow, but not the one you expected. Not the harsh sting of rejection, but something softer, something heartbreaking. You hold his gaze, letting the weight of his apology settle between you. His eyes are soft, regretful, heavy with the pain of his own helplessness.

In the year you’ve spent together, he’s given you more than anyone else ever could. Tonight, though, he’s sacrificed everything, pushed his own limits to keep you alive just a little longer. You can’t ask him to stay by your side and watch as you slip away, but God, you want him to. You want him to hold you, keep you anchored, be the one who’s there when you cross over.

But you know what’s fair. What’s right. You know he’s already given you everything he has. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to breathe through the ache.

“Joe, will you still talk to me though? Please?” The words are barely a whisper, but you hope he hears them. “Just until… until it’s over. Please.”

It’s his turn to nod now, his eyes wet but unwavering. He gives you one last lingering glance, his gaze a soft promise, something too delicate to touch. A mental photo to keep in the locket of his heart. You catch a brief flash of sorrow in his eyes, something deeper than words can express, before he turns away.

He walks a few paces, the sound of his boots crunching against the damp earth almost too loud in the heavy silence. Then, as he settles at the base of the tree, his back to you, you realize something. He’s doing this for you. He’s giving you space to fade without the burden of his gaze, giving you dignity in the last moments when it matters most.

You can’t help but wish for the opposite, wish for him to be by your side, holding you as you fall away. But you don’t voice it. Instead, you whisper, your words soft and fragile, as though they’re the last thread tying you to this world, to him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible through the thick air.

“It’s okay,” he answers, his voice rough, strained, like he’s holding back tears. It’s a simple phrase, but it means everything to you.

You smile weakly, the gesture trembling at the edges, as you whisper back, “Please don’t cry.” It feels like an echo, your voice thin and fragile in the night, but you say it because you know it’ll be the last time you can.

“It’ll be okay,” he replies, and you feel the weight of his words settle over you like a blanket, soothing in the way only he can.

But the darkness is creeping in now, slow and inevitable. You’re so, so tired. The exhaustion is more than physical, it’s in your bones, in your soul, and you can’t fight it anymore. You pull your head up just enough to see him one last time, to glimpse his silhouette framed by moonlight, his broad shoulders, the curve of his dark curls.

A weak, tremulous smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. It’s a smile for him, for everything he’s been for you, everything you never expected to have. For the kindness, the tenderness, the fleeting happiness you got to hold onto before it all slipped away.

You feel the weight of your own eyelids, heavy and reluctant. Your head slumps forward, your gaze unable to keep hold of anything.

And then, just like that, you descend into the dark, the world slipping away from you like sand through your fingers, the last breath you take a whisper in the wind.

Hoo boy, did that hurt as much to read as it did to write?? 😭 Believe it or not there are (at least) two more chapters that follow this so... 🌚 I won't be updating this as regularly as golden cage partially because i don't have it all written just yet, and partially because i am doing my master's degree while working full time lol. also please like/comment/reblog, i'm a new writer and all the encouragement i get genuinely means the world to me!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us hbo #tlou joel #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller angst #fanfiction #tlou #tlou fanfiction

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insomniac-dot-ink · 10 months ago

Text

Deep in the Woods in the Dark of the Road

Everyone talks about the fear of hitchhikers. Parents and urban legends repeat, Never pick up someone on the side of the road. Like food from the floor, you don’t know where they’ve been. Smiling ghosts, prison breakouts, serial killers on the lam. Very few stories talk about the edge of the road, the place where you lose yourself to these strangers in a stranger’s land. The ones that pick you up. I tell the story to anyone who will listen.

First, I have to tell them, “of course I don’t hitchhike anymore,” condemning my youthful folly for them before they will consider me a credible source. As someone worth listening to. My sister likes to remind me I was on the type of adventure only clean-shaven young men can get away with in the first place.

I like to remind her that I’m not sure I got away with anything.

May 12th, everything else shifts around it like the light, but that date might as well have been printed on the back of my hand.

May 12th and the small Canadian town I had been staying in had a high school graduation, the place swelling with relatives and well-wishers. There was only one high school and their hockey team seemed to be the one big rallying point the people shared. Everyone became a grandkid to every aging adult and I knew it was time to move along in the same breath.

I meant to leave early in the day. Meant to leave earlier in the week too. Nonetheless, when you're on a country-long trek you do start to appreciate the little things and the Johnsons’ had a high-pressure shower. The Johnsons were a family of pit-stop angels for hikers and bikers, turning their home into an invitation. Hippies, aging athletes, and former-vagrants were the main types of pitstop angels–literal angels in my mind at that point. I told myself a second shower was indulgent and then I gave myself another shower. Me and time we’re never really on the friendliest terms, especially when I was a thru-hiker that had lost the trail.

I stood under the burning hot spray and melted. During the first shower, the water always runs brown and muddy, sloughing off layers of dirt and dead skin. I think I understood religious resurrection after showers like that.

This one though, a second shower, ran clear and crystalline and perfect.

Hot, steaming water and a steady drumbeat of pressure. Heaven. Heaven though, eventually turned cool and then freezing. A cold river from every faucet. I jumped out and had a mild freakout session. Leaving someone’s worse-off than when you found it was a big taboo.

Plus, I was young and still embarrassed by everything. I wrote a hasty apology note, and then packed up as quickly as I could. It’s the type of age where you’ve started to realize you are responsible, but not old enough to know how to go about doing it correctly. I left a note. I scrubbed their counters and stripped the sheets off the pull-out bed. I scrubbed the counters a second time and then tripped out the door before they could get back. The day had turned into late afternoon. A spring chill seeped across the land and I took a backroad to the highway.

Originally, I had told my parents I’d be back by the end of season. Then I told them I deferred my college start date to the second semester. Then deferred again to next fall. Bumming around ski towns during the winter and making just enough money to get back on the trails in springtime. I had been skipping around different trails since then.

I needed to get on the road. I needed to find another car.

One of the tricks to getting picked up is to be clean, so I had that much going for me. Boiled like a lobster in oil, I felt new and good and I walked confidently backward with my thumb out. The second trick is to smile. I smiled and waved and walked along a long stretch of highway bordered by dense conifer forests.

If worse came to worse, I’d set up my tent somewhere among the tree trunks. A dampness coated my skin. Strong wind rustled the branches. A minivan approached and I smiled wide enough to make my eyes water. The van passed.

I took a break to chew down an energy bar and some Slim Jims. Drivers normally don’t stop if you’re chewing furiously and an internal sigh was building in my core. I wondered if the Johnsons’ were toasting their daughter right now. Giving a cheer. Making plans for dinner. I’d miss their dinner.

When I stood up again, the sun had dipped toward the steep mountains. I shielded my eyes and scowled. How the hell did so much time pass? I hurried to the side of the road, thumb out, smiling, rehearsing some of my best stories in my head. I liked telling stranger’s stories, a “thank you” for the ride. I had learned the best ways to spin terrifying encounters with mountain lions and the chipmunk trapped in my sleeping bag. Most drivers seemed to like it too.

The sun disappeared behind the first peeks and the temperature plummeted. Pockets of darkness spread out before me between the shards of sunlight quilting the land. My teeth chattered.

The dusk had a feeling to, a weight. A car approached from behind me and I whipped around, hands too cold to be out. A beat-up Hyundai, off-green and compact. A tacky Sasquatch air-freshener hung from the mirror and the person behind the wheel wore sunglasses. He looked like a young guy, early 20s, with long brown hair down his shoulders. The hair reminded me of a girl, curly and well-kept, shiny in the dying light. The dusting of a beard offset the look.

Several cars lined up behind the Hyundai. Their lights were all on, shining like a procession of lanterns. This is where they all were apparently. Figures, I thought, and I stuck my thumb out.

My stomach sank when the Hyundai swerved off to the side of the road. I was hoping he would pass and let one of the others pick me up. I usually preferred families, women, couples, and the like. I would like to say it was the romantic in me, wishing for ladies or aging lovers, but the truth was I had never really gotten along with guys my own age. But beggars can’t be choosers.

He honked the horn once and grinned at me. I checked over my shoulder like the trees might turn into a Holiday Inn, and then approached the window.

He cracked the door. “Where you headed?”

“Vancouver,” I said, which was true enough. He gave the horn a second honk. “Alright, alright, alright, my brother. Going to the same jungle. Hop in.”

I gave him a crooked smile and avoided responding by opening the back door. Storing my enormous backpack was always a challenge, but the back seats were down and I slid Jessica, my pack’s nickname, right in.

“How’s it going?” The guy had both a California accent and swagger to him. I ran a hand through my hair, already on guard.

“Cold as a witch’s tit out there.” I might as well get the bro-ing over with. The driver had holes in his faded band shirt and board shorts. Sandals probably too.

“Only if you're walking down the side of the road like a lost kitten, my man. Here.” He cranked the heat in his car and I exhaled, gratitude shining from my center.

“Thanks,” I said, showers and warmth and soft beds having changed me. I swallowed a couple times, not sure if bros even thanked each other. “So, what are you doing out here?” I asked, already formulating my story about the mountain lion. And yes, I do embellish just a bit.

“You know, this and that. What are you doing getting yourself ax-murdered all the way out here?” I shot him a look. “You know, this and that.” I cleared my throat, mimicking his tone, “Ax-murdering. Collecting hooks for my right hand.” He lets out a big laugh and that’s a relief. I grow emboldened. “What are you doing to avoid getting hook-handed this late at night?” He chuckles, chest rumbling like a car engine. Taking off his sunglasses, he places them in the cupholder. “Distract them. Ask them what ACDC they are into.” His gaze flicks to the back as he says it.

I noticed for the first time a guitar case wedged into the back. My eyebrows raise. “Sweet. You playing gigs?” “Just coffee shops and anywhere that will take a burnout with a dream.” I copy his tone. The swagger. “You any good?”

“Hell if I know. Coffee shops aren’t Juilliard.” He winked. “But don’t tell my mom that.”

My arms gooseflesh and at least my teeth stopped chattering. “Good to know. You have an LP? CDs?”

“Not yet. Still working it out.” “Nice. Well, I’m Ben. Not really a music guy, but an appreciator.” I realized I had gotten all jumbled by being freezing and messed up my usual intro. “Hailing from Boston by trying to be anywhere else.” He chuckled again. “Christopher.”

“Not a Chris, I take it. The whole thing?” “All the way through, brother. Think you can handle it?”

I clicked my tongue. “I usually stick to single syllables, but I’ll make an exception for you.” “From my new friend Ben? Can’t complain about that. Damn, can’t complain about a long night on the road. Nice to pick you up.”

“Nice to be picked up.” I realized too late the way that sounded and rubbed the back of my neck. “Beats walking. Or have to hook-hand my own damn self.” “Heh.” His inky eyes flicked my way and then he grins. I looked away at that, gently embarrassed in a way I couldn’t explain. I had gotten pretty good at the chameleon act but still wasn’t finding my footing here. His eyes were deep brown, inky-almost, and deep-set in his face.

The beat-up Hyundai rumbled up a mountain pass and the sky turned the blue-black of a bruise. I tear my eyes back to the window. The conifers appear larger–like everything does at night, and pass in a blur on the back-forth mountain road. I spy a river through the trees and birds taking flight from somewhere in the distance, lights of tucked-away homes even further up.

Christopher turns the music up at that. “You ever listen to house music?” “Can’t say I have.” I turn back, mountain lion stories forgotten. “Ben, my guy, you’re missing out. You don’t do German house music either, I take it.”

I put a hand over my heart. “Purely provincial.” “I’ll play the good stuff.” He grins. “Make an exception.” “You usually play your hitchhiker’s mediocre playlists?” “Exceptionally mediocre. The last one didn’t even make it beat drop.” “I’ll sit and take notes.” “Don’t let me down, Benny.”

“Now who’s not going all through?”

His dark eyes flash. “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“For you?” I gave a sardonic half of a smile and then let it fall.

Noises with bumps and chs played out over the speakers and I had to wonder why Christopher had a guitar instead of a DJ soundboard. Maybe he had both. A hand placed on my knee and I jumped. I went to brush it off, God, I didn’t need this to get unpleasant, but when I looked down nothing was there. Christopher’s hands were lazing on ten and two and he raised an eyebrow.

“You still headed all the way to Vancouver? It is a long drive.” he asked slowly and I nodded, unwilling to say my real plans. To just keep going. I started on the east coast and wouldn’t mind making it to the other ocean. “Good.” He turned the music up a second time. Despite the grating techno and sense of still not having found my feet here, the heat of the blowers washed over me. The rocking of the car and dull humming of the driver next to me. The lights of cars wound through the roads behind us and my eyes fluttered closed.

You don’t sleep in stranger’s cars. It’s rude for one thing and dangerous for another. Yet, the cold leached out of me and a drowsiness sent me over the edge into a deep abyss.

—----------------------

I heard humming now and then, dreamlike and threaded through my personal abyss. I cracked open my eyes, glanced at Christopher, humming to himself and tapping a beat on the wheel. And then drift off again in the very way I shouldn’t.

—-----------------------

A hand shook my knee. I had no idea what time it was and the weight of night startled me awake more than anything else. A pair of headbeams blared into my face and I brought up one hand. “What the hell?”

“Hey, Benny, buddy,” the driver, Christopher, said. It took me a moment to turn toward him. His sunglasses were back on and he was frowning. “Do you think you could mess with my phone? I’m not getting anything up here. Do you have service?” I blinked rapidly and pieced together the back of tail lights in front of us and head beams behind. “Traffic?” I croaked, rubbing my throat. “Here?” Only three cars ahead were visible, disappearing up a mountain bend into who knows where. However, I get the sense of lights lined up like little soldiers through the night, long and duckling-like.

“I know, it’s whack. I was looking for a sideroad or something to get us out of this.” “How is there traffic in the middle of the mountains?” I rubbed my eyes until I saw spots, feeling groggier than ever.

“Probably a rockslide up ahead or a truck fell over, who knows. I think someone’s cleaning it up now but at the pace of, like tomorrow morning.” “What the hell?” “Now you’re getting it.” The line inched forward and Christopher refreshed his phone with one hand. I fumbled for my own phone in my small pack and cursed under my breath. “What?” Christopher prompts me.

“Out of battery.” I shake it like that might do something. “Hold on, I have an Anker in my pack.” I turn to climb into the back and dig through everything for my charger.

“Wait, wait, I think I see a road. Put your seatbelt on.”

“We can’t just,” Christopher grabs the back of my shirt and tugs me back to my seat. I inhale sharply, remembering I am in a car with a stranger–maybe getting too close for comfort. I sputter out my protests, “we don’t know where we are. Where that goes.” Christopher was already turning off the side. “I bet I’ll get some signal if we head down the mountain. That’s headed down. Don’t worry about it. Put your seatbelt on Ben from Boston.” The nose of the car dipped down and I clenched my teeth, clicking my seatbelt in place. We rocked, boat-like, and the wheels fought against the dirt until we were level again.

I wasn’t sure how I was feeling about Christopher at that moment. I wish I could charge my phone or maybe get out and walk. There were plenty of cars to hitch a ride from by then. Too late to make up my mind, the car’s wheels crunched on a new gravel road and our headlights streaked against an empty dark. The car behind us drove forward to take our place.

“Don’t you think other cars would go this way,” a bump in the road sent me jostling, “if it leads to the main road again?” “I’ll just get us some signal,” he mumbled. “Better than sitting in traffic.” I huffed, “Right.” The gravel road had the feel of a worn-down side street, probably leading to a series of fancy mansions or off-the-grid weirdos. Nowhere real. Christopher took off his sunglasses all over again and met my eyes.

“Sorry to get you take you on a side adventure.” He cleared his throat. “And wake you.” I remembered myself all at once and ran a hand through my hair. “Sorry,” I said, giving a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m normally a better house guest. Promise I don’t normally pass out in stranger’s cars.” “What do you normally do?” I shift in place. “Convince them to go off-roading in the middle of the night,” I deadpan. “Keep things interesting.” “That’s my line.” He laughs. Before we can really get back to normal and I can push away the dark flick of his gaze, Christopher slams on the breaks. “Holy hell!”

I grip on to the seatbelt, jostling back and forth, eyes go wide. “What?”

A line of cars appeared up ahead. My whole system tingled. “Were those there before? I didn’t see those before,” I repeated the phrase like a fool, “I didn’t see any of those cars a second ago.” A long line of cars, trailing off ahead and into the hills. “Out of the frying pan and into . . .” he trailed off. Christopher’s gaze lost its humor. He put his sunglasses back on. “Get out.” “Excuse me?” I definitely shouldn’t have taken that nap. “Get out.”

The hairs on my arm stood on end, breath catching in my throat. I glanced into the woods. The trees were tall here, leaving little undergrowth, and a sliver of moon lit barely penetrated the textured black. I could still make out headbeams, bright here, blaring, and moving through the trees. I reeled back, watching the lights bob in place. A few minutes ago, I had been chomping at the bit to get out of the car and find someone else to ride with. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Head Beams swayed. Oddly. Unnaturally. Too far off the ground. Head Beams that couldn’t be headbeams when I squinted and looked. I gulped.

“Sure man, just give me a second.” I clutched at the seatbelt. A hand squeezed my knee and I glanced down, almost grateful if he was going to keep me for this reason or that. Nothing was there.

I buttoned up my jacket, readying myself to walk until I couldn’t walk anymore. Get ready to be eaten by a mountain lion because I sure as hell wasn’t setting up camp any time soon.

“Nevermind.” Christopher grabbed the back of my head. His hand was large and firm around the nape of my neck. “Too late. Get down.” The lights bobbed and weaved around us and I didn’t need to be told twice. Better to be hunkered down than out in the open. A second later, a knock came at the car window. The type you might hear from an officer in a tv show. I hoped. Just a regular official telling us the roads weren’t clear, the rockslide was too big. Go back, go home, all of this was explainable.

“Can I help you?” Christopher’s window rolled down. I tucked myself into a tighter ball in the foot space.

“Do you want to be loved?” The voice was sharp, a splash of cold water cloying through my senses. Branches against glass, more garbled than real. Then the words righted themselves in my head and I wished I was back at the Johnson’s. I could be with their family right now, however out of place, holding up non-alcoholic champagne and telling her life after graduation wasn’t so bad. Didn’t have to be.

“No, I’m all good.” “Do you want to be loved,” the voice said in an insistent tone.

“I don’t want any.” He cleared his throat. “We’re running behind, anyway. Have to go. You could tell th–” “Seven years. To be loved, do you want to be loved,” I peaked up from my fetal position, a thing bent into the car, “Seven years and a day. To be loved.” Christopher rolled up his window, slow and deliberate. “No. No,” he said, “not that.” I caught a glimpse, however briefly, of a head of something impossibly tall and with a singular eye, blinking and glowing and bobbing in place. My heart sang, briefly, called out, wanted. Then, the thing at our window turned and disappeared.

“That’s what I get for thinking it’d be someone important.” Christopher’s gaze lingered on my own, keeping me there and for the first time, I heard him humming, gently, in the back of his throat. Inky eyes, dark as night, and holding me there.

“Stop it!” I clawed at the air back to the door. My chest heaved.

He swallowed, looking away. “I really was just trying to give you a lift,” he muttered, gripping the wheel. “I don’t even think they’d want me back so soon.” “Who?” I lapped the roof of my mouth, realizing I was parched.

Christopher leaned his head back against the headrest, looking above. “Don’t tell my mom,” he adjusted his seat, “I’ve been playing music for mortals.” —---------------------------

There are ghosts and ghouls and monsters and many things that want to eat you. I was a fool, not recognizing what types of things might want to eat me. Traffic was barely moving, whatever this traffic was. I was getting thirstier.

I swallowed, again and again. A steady stream of knocks came at the window, but Christopher waved them all off. “No thank you, no thanks.”

Music spilled in the distance, faint and dreamlike, just like the soft humming Christopher had let out. I could see streaks of light against the seat, Christopher’s face, the trees up above. Once, impossibly, something passed overhead. An enormous head you might see displayed on mantles. Big as a house, mighty and towering up above. A long white nose and antlers thick as redwoods. Great tendrils of moss seemed to hang from the antler’s alongside lanterns. Lights strung up among the foliage and impossible prongs.

An elk, an elk enormous beyond imagination, passed and I exhaled. I really wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

“Do you have any water?” Christopher glanced down, eyebrows arching and eyes wet as dogs noses.

“None for you,” he said but in a tone that somehow did not convey rudeness. “Trust me.” “Trust you,” I muttered, “after being cramped and hiding for over an hour? God, it must be sunrise soon.” “No. I’m afraid not.” He heaved a sigh. “Fairy market and all that.” I gaped at him. “Would you like to run that by me one more time?” He shook his head. “Ben,” he said, tasting the name on his lips, humming, “sturdy name. Useful. You’ve got strong fate lines. You won’t die here tonight, as long as you do as I say. Well, won’t die or be stolen if I can help it.” I set my jaw and Christopher put his sunglasses back on. “Happy?”

I kicked out, deciding if I was going to have a delusion, I might as well have it sitting. I rested my back against the door, head peeking up above the windows now. “I want to go back to the main road.”

Christopher didn’t reply.

It could have been an hour or only a few minutes, before a face appeared in the window. At first, I didn’t recognize it as a face, a smooth moonlike token in the window. Then, it gathered itself into two sparkling eyes, a clever mouth, and delicate cheekbones. The lady's white hair piled high on her head, adorned with blood-red leaves and berries and she smiled. Her eyes were ink-dark.

“Oh no.” Christopher clutched at the wheel. The lady inclined her head, clever mouth remaining closed but eyes beseeching. A pang went through my chest, unbidden, I felt bad for Christopher. Lord have mercy on a fool. “I have to take this,” he said in a monotone. Air whooshed into the car, cool and light against my skin, tasting of mint or something sharper.

“Wasn’t expecting a visit so soon. Is dad here?” The woman didn’t seem to speak, but inclined her head. Christopher leaned forward, blocking my view or maybe blocking her from me. He got out of the car.

The second the door closed, taking Christopher with it, I decided to make a break for it.

—---------------

I racked my head for what I knew about fairies. Cinderella’s godmother, the tooth fairy, Peter Pan. Tinker Bell was probably not going to help me much unless, of course, pirates became relevant in the near future. Which they might, given the night I was having. I opened the door a crack. Sweet brisk air filtered in.

I contemplated the ground below. No longer gravel but rich black earth. My spine prickled and I held very still. The only thing I could come up with half-way relevant was a 11 grade project where we had to choose a poem to analyze. I had picked The Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. As a 16-year-old I had chosen it for the racy content and riskier presentation in class.

Looking at the dark soil, I muttered to myself, “We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil, they fed their hungry thirsty roots?”

I squeezed my eyes closed. I had already spoken to the dark-eyed man and listened to his music, I suppose. I didn’t remember much else of the poem but the heat rising in my cheeks and Lizzie walking into the market.

I kicked the door open, kept my eyes down, and went for my pack. My heart beat at the pace of the hummingbird's wings and my hands slipped on the door handle. Voices, whispering, indistinct. At the third try I wrenched the back open and got my pack out in one swing. The whispering grew louder and my eyes caught on the lights and the forest.

I knew the Canadian Rockies. I tripped over pine cones and hard stone, drank from crystalline lakes, ran my hands over Alpine forget-me-nots, froze and sweated and bled. This was them and so much more. The trees were the whitebark pines and firs, tightly knit together and crowned in ragged peaks. Voices called to me.

The darkness between the trunks bled into hands, red and mangy, like huckleberry shrubbery waving in the wind. Faces appeared in the shards of moonlight, lanterns bobbed and lurching heaving mountains of things moving in the far distance. Elk perhaps. Mountains.

I pivoted in place, keeping my eyes away from stalled cars that made up this place. Voices called and righted themselves into words this time. “Young man. Mortal son. Hello.” A sheet of misty rain appeared to my left, melting from the dark and blinking handsome golden eyes. A sturdy nose. A pretty mouth.

“Would you like–” “Thanks. No.” I copied Christopher, not meeting the thing’s eye, and began to walk. The underbrush was not empty however, the forest moved with creatures big enough to crush. I wondered if any amount of walking would take me home.

Another voice broke through the murmuring. “You’ll never make it that way.”

I turned. And there were cars. Glowing bright as stars and windows cranked open. Figures sat inside alongside various goods. Twinkling soda cans and pearl necklaces hung next to each other on string. Stuffed bears and empty plastic bags filled baskets hanging out of car windows. Paint brushes, old CDs, and pine cones set out on car hoods.

Market stalls. Of course. Some of them appeared as cars, others were old barrels and broken-down train cars off to the side. The beckoning of hands felt like it was coming from all directions.

“I don’t have any money!” I called like that would matter. “I’m, I’m a hiker. A traveler passing through.”

“We don’t take money. Those things,” a clump of white moths, fluttering around and around in a mass, spoke. Ink eyes. Beautiful, tumbling curls. She pointed at the empty soda bottles and stuffed animals, “not for you.”

I backed away. “I don’t have anything you might want.”

The clump of moths smiled. “My darling, sweet boy . . . Would you like to be loved?”

I gulped down air. “I have to, have to go.” Weaving between stalls one moment and stalled cars the next, I hurried to where there must be an end. There must be an end to the market.

Fruit the color of sapphires piled high on discarded card tables. Sardine cans and quilted blankets. Water bottles. Canisters and other hiker’s camel backpacks. God, I was thirsty. And I could hear all of them now.

“Boy, would you like unfading beauty?” “Ten years of glory and a lion’s heart. Heart of lion’s for only ten years.”

Calling. Beseeching. A market you could understand the poem’s sisters getting lost in. My sleeve snagged on something in this endless market. I stumbled into what felt like a rock face.

“Hush now, sweet thing,” thick lichen, flaking and upright, spoke, “I will give you a belonging you have never felt before.” My heart went double time and the thirst ached. I knew it was aching. I knew I was Lizzie about to have her skin pinched and clothes torn. Sullied. Or perhaps, like Laura, changed. I wondered about my sister then. I wondered about being home.

“Belonging for thirteen years and thirteen days,” she smiled. My heart raced and I searched the fairy's face. “You deserve to belong just like anyone else, don’t you? Thirteen years and nothing more.”

“Of my life?” She smiled wider and placed a hand on my chest, fingers spreading like a mold. “Or your heart. Your soul. Memories. Wakeful hours. A song.” I shook my head, slowly and then vigorously. I took a step back.

“A bargain then,” her voice crooned in the groaning of old wood, “Twelve years. Twelve days.” Her hand spread, soaking into the flesh of shirt. “And a kiss.”

“Thank you!” I nearly shrieked. “I’m not, I’m not. No.” I stumbled back, teetering away from the bright lights. I ducked and dodged into the darkened wood where smaller, stranger things dwell.

I stepped out of the light. The fairies called after me and their voices, luckily, faded into the murmuring of brooks and bird calls and rustling once more. I turned and felt the despair leach into my center. The line of stalls appeared endless, a train, a caravan, a curse.

I slumped down and put my head in my hands. No matter where I had looked, there was no sign of sun. I counted back from ten before I pried my eyes open again. “Christopher?” I called once and then shivered in place, perhaps the most lost I’ve ever been.

“Would you like to be good?” I didn’t look over when it spoke. “Good and know that you are good.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I want to go home.” I groaned, still not looking down. “Or at least for my ride to come back.” Christopher, at least, had not tried to make any deals.

“Hmm. Not home. No.”

I saw her hop up from beneath a crop of twisted roots. This fairy was smaller and less beautiful. A dainty clump of mountain ash that was only a hands-length tall. A bushel of delicate white flowers crowned in dew-like hair. She reminded me a bit, only a bit, of Tinker Bell.

“You’ve been running from something,” her voice was more of a squeak. I was tired.

“You could say that.”

She patted my knee and my throat throbbed hard enough to make me groan.“You could be good. And know that you are good.”

I leaned back against the tree trunk. “How much?”

“For good?”

“For home.” “A year or two.” She shrugged. “For being good and knowing you are good. I’m not sure about home.”

I chuckled without humor. “Less than a decade. You’re not much of a bargainer.” “The others know I am small. And crushable.” Dew leaked down her shoulder tops. “So, I’ll take just a year or two of your heart. That’s all.” “My heart?” She shrugged once more, the water making its way down her fluffy skirt and dripping on the ground. “No love. No opening of it.” She put a hand over her chest. “And you’ll be good.” “Good. Huh.” “And know it!” she chirped, “so when you ask yourself, am I doing alright? Am I enough? When I am not earning or making or promising or getting a wife or standing big. You will know. Know that you're good without wondering.” My eyes burned and I rubbed at the corners until I saw spots. I cleared my throat, knowing I needed to steer away. “Where did you come from?” “Silly question.” “Sure.”

“I am like you.” “Not good then?” I raised an eyebrow. “In need of being good, apparently.”

She laughed, shrilly. “No. Not very good at all. Small. Crushable. Small and crushable are not allowed in the queen's caravan.” “That does sound bad,” I said, quietly, staring up. “I’d like to say I know how you feel, but . . .”

“But I do know things. And little boys like, they don’t have to make their own lives so difficult.” “Ha.” My gaze drops to hers. “You’re offering to make my life easy?”

A smile across the face of the little ash fairy, spreading all the way across her face like a jagged wound. “Good.”

My breath wheezed out and I dropped closer. I was tired, eyes heavy, body aching like a kicked dog coming back to sit at your feet. “It wouldn’t hurt, would it?” She held up a cup made of her own petals. A cup of deep water and lapped at my cracked lips. “All you have to do is drink your fill.” The moonlight caught in the shallow dip and I tipped my head back. Three droplets passed down my lips, fresh as spring, cold enough to strike from my chest to my fingertips. I screwed my eyes shut and clutched at my chest.

The cold blossomed and it was what I imagined a heart attack might feel like. Or perhaps the opposite of one.

“Wait, shouldn’t we, shouldn’t there be something to sign–” I choked and sputtered and then pain burst from my middle finger on my left hand. The fairy, small and crushable, dug her teeth into my flesh. Gripping ruthlessly, she attached to an open wound, drinking her fill. Dew perched on her head turned red and she made a supping, singing noise in the back of her throat.

“That’s enough!” I shook her off and another sharp prick went through my wrist. A sting in my neck and then another by elbow. “Stop it!”

A chanting went through my head, a child’s chant like a nursery rhyme. You are good, you are good, you are good. I covered my ears with both hands.

“Stop it!” I bellowed. “This isn’t what we agreed to.” What had we agreed to? The creature tittered and others gathered around it, sharp and hungry. The roots and the rot and the writhing soil.

I stood, world spinning and heart crushing together into a perfect aching cold. Are fairies allowed to be liars? A tingling spread to the ends of my fingertips and a dizziness overwhelmed me. I covered my mouth with one hand and stopped myself from heaving.

I might have blacked out, blacked out and not come back, and then a light parted the darkness of the wood.

“What have you done?” The words echoed in my head. The face of man, inkdrop eyes, and shining curly hair, looked down on me, pitying. “No,” he said simply. “You can’t. He is my guest.”

Blood seeped out of the cut on my hand and I think I might faint, actually faint like in the movies. Strong hands caught me and then two fingers, clean and warm, human even, pressed to my mouth. Light like the moon poured off of him. “Swallow,” he said. The light burned away the sickly chill. A white fire, burning a path down my throat and into my chest and leaving new life in its wake.

“Better?” A crown hovered around the man’s head in a halo, stars, the moon even.

Maybe I could have stayed, made clean and whole, and neither good nor bad. Could have stayed to be made better by the prince of fairies. But I wasn’t that type of person. Voices, again, of birds and wind and roots. I tuned them out. My eyes fixed on lanterns in the distance, meaningless words rushing over me. He spoke of being clean now, healed. The lantern flickered, floating there like something from the stories.

I looked down at my veins, spiderwebbed in light. They glowed from the inside out. A light, poured from the outside in. A hand was on my knee. Like it had been in the car and I saw it was my own, digging into my flesh. My own hand clutching my own knee and taking me back to myself.

“Can we get him a blanket?” Christopher turned his face. I bolted. No packback, no thoughts, only feet on the ground. Light blared into my face, branches gripped at my clothes, tearing at seams. My nose began to bleed, tasting heated and metallic. I didn’t stop to mop it up. I kept the light of that bobbing thing in my vision, running and bleeding like I never had before.

Later, I would learn a will-o-wisp will is a type of fairy as well, meant for travelers. A light that will get you lost or drown you, if it gets the chance. Though, I was already lost. I ran until my shoes lost the ground. One moment I was sailing ahead, the next I burst through the surface of a lake. Cold engulfed me from all sides, plunging me back into my flesh. I kicked for the surface, up into the fresh night. The trees surrounded this lake in beetle-worn packs, brown and small. Mud caked the banks of the water. Stars were distant and small overhead. I laughed.

I tore at my shirt and shoes and pants and rubbed deep dark mud across my skin. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

The water ran muddy. Ran red. Then, at least, ran a bright horrible glow, bleeding out and out and out. I bled out the glow of the fairy prince. I washed myself, heaving enough laughter until it turned into a whimper. I scrubbed myself raw until the water, with the sun rising among the peaks, ran clear.

—----------------

I thought of the prince now and then, how he saved my heart from closing. How he looked at me. How he poured light down my throat, burning me up from the inside out and taking with it a curse. I should be grateful. I went home after all, I hugged my sister and my parents. Hell, I even re-signed up for classes, even as I knew I’d eventually drop out again. Went on a few dates. Gained some roommates I loved and a dog I liked even more. I told stories and stayed. My heart was my own. But I didn’t come back the same after hitchhiking into the depths of the woods in the dark of the road. It was hard to be grateful. Hard for it to feel like a favor to have my heart kept open when it was only replaced by a worse sort of feeling. Longing and longing and longing for inky depths and impossibility, memory that grips you by the throat and murmurs, what if you had stayed?

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

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#urban fantasy #short story #spilled ink #fantasy #fairies #original story #campfire story #long post

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bittersweet-jack-of-no-trades · 2 months ago

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Stanford who recognizes Bill's manipulation and rejects him, who doesn't build the portal, who is now peacefully exploring the mysteries of Gravity Falls with his brilliant lab partner. Stanford who opens the door one cold winter day to see his twin brother; shivering, eye bags dark and deep, bruised, scared. Stanford who takes in Stanley, of course, unconditionally, who gets him clean clothes and a bedroom and a hot meal and a sort-of job as a "research assistant." Stanley who tries to smile but can't quite do it right, who shies away from his brother's touch, who barely eats or sleeps and never cries (not that he did, before). Stanford who spends hours with his brother, trying to get him to eat, drink, remember their childhood, to trust again. Stanley who starts to take a strange interest in the portal, generating into something obsessive, who starts to scare Stanford. Stanford who pushes through anyway, because he loves his brother, because he's trying to bridge a gap of nearly ten years.

Stanford, who walks into Stanley's bedroom by accident one day to see him shirtless--- and stops in his tracks. His brother's flesh is dull and wilted, shadowed in green. His flesh sloughs off of him in places, revealing gray muscle and pale yellow fat; open wounds that are weeks, perhaps months old, fester and stink. Flies buzz, and maggots writhe. In front of him stands his brother--- a corpse.

Stanford who gasps.

Stanley who turns around and smiles wide. Stanley whose eyes turn yellow. Stanley (?) who cackles.

Bill who says, out of Stanley's wilted and cracked and dead lips, "oh, Sixer, didn't you miss me?"

#gravity falls #stanford pines #stanley pines #bill cipher #cw body horror #cw: gore

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mothiir · 8 months ago

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little rabbit - e.g the droit seigneur fic

authors notes: first time I’ve written fanfic in an age and it’s 40k smut. Inspired by @moodymisty’s amazing continuations of that one unhinged ask I sent about the emperor cucking his sons (on anon because I was not expecting people to actually vibe with it)

Cw: dubcon, size kink like woah.

It has been a long, long time since he’s had a human woman -- oh, back in the halcyon days of his youth, back when Terra was the only planet he knew, he was a warlord with the tastes of a warlord, and left many a pretty young thing with trembling thighs and flushed cheeks (or with teary eyes and puffy lips, depending on his mood). But the mission, the hungry endless gaze of the monsters beyond the stars, the crushing weight of his responsibility -- it distracted him. There were far more important things that called his attention, and as hundreds of years became thousands his power grew, and his humanity atrophied. Sexual desire, he assumed, went the way of compassion and affection: sloughed aside, deemed unnecessary and detrimental to his greater purpose.

But even the greatest man to ever step foot on the red earth can be wrong sometimes, and for the first time in millenia he is glad of it. The girl in his lap was not even born --nor, for that matter, were her grandparents’ grandparents -- the last time he bedded anyone, and the thought stirs some deep, primal part of him, a sense of ownership.

“Easy,” he rumbles, as she whimpers and shivers, her tiny body barely able to take even the head of his cock. He strokes her sides, kisses her jawbone, then mouths along her jugular, relishing the rabbit thrum of her heart against his tongue. “We have all the time in the world. Take it slowly.”

He’s getting sentimental in his old age, he swears. Time was, he would have split her clean open in his desire to get inside -- though, of course, that was when he was a good deal smaller than he is now. He has no desire to rip her asunder on his prick.

She hiccups and whines, his hands moving to her hips, spanning not only her waist but the lean length of her thighs.

“Hurts,” she manages, and he chuckles.

“Yes. But you’re a good girl, aren’t you? You can do it.”

He knows she’s stronger than she looks. When he found her, she was in Roboute’s quarters, smelling of the Primach’s sweat. He didn’t think his son indulged in his serfs, but he cannot begrudge him the distraction -- after all, Gulliman is precisely the soldier the Emperor needs him to be. A little too uptight, perhaps, and altogether too fond of spreadsheets, but a useful strategist. And, apparently, someone who shares his father’s excellent taste in human women.

“I -- I don’t know --”

She wriggles herself over him, and he spares one hand to hold his cock still, making it easier for her. The mere fact that she is arguing back has him pulsing with desire; it has been so so long that a human has looked at his shining face without falling to their knees in supplication, let alone since one has argued back when he demands the impossible.

Well: seemingly impossible. He is larger than Roboute, but not insurmountably so, and he has unending faith in the indomitable human spirit. And in the accommodating stretch of the human insides.

There’s an almost audible pop as he finally pushes inside, and she cries out.

“Oh god -- I mean -- shit -- I don’t mean I believe in gods -- I don’t -- ”

Her eyes widen with fear, and he laughs -- a deep bass rumble that she probably feels in her marrow.

“Lord is an appropriate term of address,” he says, teasingly, nuzzling at the top of her head. It’s adorable just how nervy she is; like a small animal clasped in his hands. A rabbit cowering before a bear.

“Yes -- yes my lord --” she pants, and he allows her a moment to adjust, before starting to pull her down onto him. She’s warm and soft inside, overwhelmingly so, and the Emperor moans with appreciation, awkwardly hunching his shoulders so he can continue to lave his tongue and teeth over her neck -- before pulling back so he can admire the way her belly bulges around his girth, his cock pushing aside her insides to make room for him.

She’s whimpering, her fists clenched in his robes, salt tears starting to drip down her cheeks. He licks them away. It’s all so much for her -- too much. And yet the little warrior does not quibble or complain; she takes him, and takes him, and when he’s seated all the way to the hilt, her small body flush with his lap, he rewards her with a moment’s pause, and another deep kiss, exploring the inside of her mouth. She’s small enough that his tongue practically fills her up, sinking almost to her gullet, heedless of her blunt human teeth.

“There,” he says, and she coughs out a proper sob, so clearly stretched to the absolute limits. He rubs at the outline of his cock inside her, her skin stretched taut around him. “Now. Let’s begin.”

#warhammer 40k #emperor/reader #absolute nonsense #my writing

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recklessfiction · 2 years ago

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Keep an Eye Out As You Travel West

You see a church, you just keep on walking. Most are abandoned anyhow, nothing left in 'em but the hollowed out husks of their priests. The rest have been filled by now; old pretenders, zealots, and self proclaimed prophets snatching up any man fool enough to worship. And that's if you're lucky. There are older things, other things that have curled up amidst the altars of the Lord like worms in dirt. If you're wanting to do any worshiping, best do it out under the sky.

There're things that roam the dust, figures of men with eyes deader than any corpse and smiles as bright and pretty as a lady's. They come around sometimes, always trying to pawn off some bizarre thing; elaborate crowns made of rusted nails, gold lockets with strange portraits inside, letters that can't be read without getting a deep pounding in your head, and keys rusted with so much blood it'd be a wonder if they turned anything at all. Now, I've seen what comes for folks who trade with them and I'll tell you this. Wherever they got their goods, it sure as shit wasn't from here.

You'll be hearing now about the "Oil Baptisms," I'm sure. Black sea water dredged up from some abyss, thicker than any water I've ever seen and you can smell it long a mile away. They say it gives people "the sight" but of what I can't say. All I know is that once you start smelling that briny shit on the wind, the screaming don't start long after.

Be careful what deals you make out here. There're plenty of strange folk who would be more than glad to work you down to the bone and long after, too. Work is work, crops need harvesting, graves need digging, meat needs carving, and idols need worshiping. Watch your words and read your contracts, else you might just be stuck washing the feet of the righteous until doomsday.

Best stay indoors once night comes, that's when a lot of the "families" start movin' out. They take to the roads, long lines of them, a parade of the ugliest sons of bitches you've ever seen. In the daylight, their skin never fits quite right and stinks to high heaven but once the sun dips past the trees, they start taking it off. They move from place to place, sloughing off their decayed flesh and stealing new off any traveler they come across. Lock your doors and put out your lights before they coming knocking on your door, asking sweetly, "Do you have anything I could wear?"

I am of the opinion that the woods ought not be traversed by folk who ain't been called there. Keep to the roads and towns, there's enough foul mess there if it's strangeness you're looking for. But what's in the woods has always been in the woods and if you pass the treeline with no business being there, well. The woods will give you business.

While a useful tool, a gun won't save you from drowning in the bathtub of a family of fanatic prognosticators, or from having your skin torn clean off by the night sky. Keep your ears up for any kind of protection you can get and learn to speak well because a lot of smart talk can get you out of a whole mess of trouble.

Keep on moving, friend. If you're looking to survive this trek, don't stop for anything, not even to bury the dead or feed the starving. It ain't worth what'll catch you, cause there's always things waiting for a fella to slow down so's they can get their claws in faster, deeper. You wanna be stuck here, in the fields and the dirt, under the big sky while hymns are burned into your skull? No?

Then keep on moving.

#southern gothic #gothic americana #midwest gothic #american gothic #horror #Christianity #religion #religious horror #can you tell i've been playing a lot of red dead redemption lately #im on a cowboy kick #what to do #my writing

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hey-august · 1 year ago

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A Line from Me to You - Chapter 4

Description: Buggy finds a peculiar book on his ship. Enticed by the words contained on each page, the pirate opens up. Anonymity leads to vulnerability. What else will come from this? (Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, check out the story tag)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: This chapter is SFW, but that changes next chapter!! Buggy x afab!reader.

A/N: Defnitely messed up posting this the first time around. 🤡Posting from my phone, so let me know if it looks weird!

Tag list: @lostfirefly @rorywritesjunk @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

“Maybe you should pick the next book.”

Buggy would have considered writing those words as admitting defeat if it wasn’t for how shaky your last note was. He could see each jump and jolt your hand made while asking for something less intense than the books Buggy picked.

After you both filled the end pages of “Rocks on the River” with enough saltwater to rival the ocean, Buggy offered another story from his backlog. The third novel you read together was a horrifying tale that pushed the readers into a toxic miasma of fear, paranoia, and unease, which oozed into their real lives.

The whole ship rang with a piercing shriek from the captain when an unfortunate freak tapped his shoulder from behind. A usually common occurrence was tainted by an early scene from the book. Buggy knew the touch wasn’t from grotesquely plump spiders descending from the ceiling, even though he screamed something that sounded like, “Get it the fuck off of me.”

After reading a chapter full of creepy-crawlies, every small sensation left his blue hair standing on end, which only created a nerve wracking loop. Every breeze and rustle of fabric teased his prickled skin, mimicking the feel of grubby little arachnid and insectoid legs scurrying across his body. The sensation only went away after a frantic midday wash with near-boiling water and the roughest washcloth Buggy could find. After sloughing off more than one layer of skin, the pirate felt confident that he was clean and not infested.

You, on the other hand, had boasted about not being scared of the terrors held within the book. Unlike the invasive imaginary critters Buggy was battling, you were as snug as a bug in a rug when you curled up in bed to read each night. The chilling entities weren’t real, and if they were, you felt safe on the ship.

“I’m just saying, if soul-sucking bats were attacking, I would trust C. Buggy to protect m us.”

As much as you tried to turn the start of “me” into “us,” the letters didn’t flow right. Rather than drawing attention to the slip-up by completely blacking out the convex letter, you simply crossed it out and hoped the other reader wouldn’t notice.

“I dunno, what if he hid from those horrid fucking things? I wouldn’t blame him, honestly…”

“Maybe…but I trust him.”

“He’s the captain, you’re supposed to trust him.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

You didn’t realize what you wrote until you punctuated the sentence by stabbing the page. Your hand moved quickly and defensively, upset by the assumption that your feelings were obligatory. Your fingers twitched as you restrained the flow of words. Your trust wasn’t unearned, it had grown over time. The seed was planted when you were welcomed to the ship with open arms and watered by his laughter and jokes, the care he held for his eclectic freaks, the little questions he’d ask about their lives at sea, and the flashy stories he pushed them weave. The roots reached deep, following the curve of his smile and tracing the crinkles in the corner of his eyes.

The trust might have been obligatory at the beginning, but it had since blossomed into more. You weren’t ready to acknowledge the blooms and definitely weren’t going to share the unnamed feelings with a stranger.

Thankfully, Buggy’s preference for avoiding uncomfortable discussions kept him from prying further. His nightly alcohol whispered in a heated voice. It said he should ask, that he deserves to know why you trusted him so much. The voice grew quieter the longer he let the amber liquid sit untouched. Sure, a part of him was interested, but you didn’t elaborate for a reason. Thinking back to “Rocks on the River,” you never pressured him to write more about his childhood friend. Curiosity peeked through some of your notes, but it never confronted him. And he couldn’t bring himself to do that to you, so he moved onto the next section of the story.

This time, you completed the book first. Usually, you refrained from reading while on duty, but finishing the horror novel under a full moon in the crow’s nest seemed like a fitting end. Settled under an inky expanse that spilled into the still sea, you read words illuminated by moonlight. It didn’t take long for the whispers of subtle waves to take on an ominous tone. The rattling of the gently swaying ship became inhuman guttural groans.

Creaks from other crew members on duty became less frequent and far less comforting. Their footsteps and shadows were no longer welcoming - they were unsettling and teased your fraying hold on reality. Seated so high above the others, you had no way of knowing if the life on deck were familiar or fiendish freaks. Laughter carried on the wind wasn’t jovial, but sinister. You tried to close the book, to stop the words from pulling you deeper into their dark world, but it didn’t work. You were already lost in fear and needed to claw your way out.

---

Buggy figured you would spend the night reading and woke up early to see if the book would be ready for him. He slipped the third annotated book into an interior coat pocket and headed to breakfast. Only a few pirates filled the hall - a mix of those eating their first meal of the day and those filling their stomachs before sleep. Despite the differences, everyone embraced the quiet morning and only the sounds in the room came from cutlery against plates, mugs on the wooden tables, and open-mouthed chewing. It would be a normal scene, except for you. Unlike the others, who were stuck in the cozy twilight at either end of sleep, you sat wide-eyed and jittery in front of a sparse meal. The captain approached the corner you cowered in like a scared animal.

“You alright? Something happen last night?” His voice was pulled low with concern.

Your eyes darted around the room, afraid of missing some unknown monster during this conversation. “I’m fine. Just tired. It was a long night.” You shivered slightly, fear and anxiety still running their courses through your body.

“Hey,” Buggy whispered softly as he crouched low, his leather boots creaking with the movement. “You sure that’s all?” His hand rested on the bench next to you. He wanted to reach out and keep you from shaking, but a different fear kept him from moving.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, looking everywhere but at the man in front of you.

A moment of silence let you know the answer wasn’t accepted. You glanced at him a few times before getting stuck in the deep pools within his eyes. It always happened to you so easily - his pupils were large and dark enough for you to fall in those ocean-colored eyes without a second thought. Buggy raised his eyebrows, the movement also tugging the tip of his round nose, and tilted his head to the side. He could see through the flimsy facade you were hiding behind, so you let it go and took a deep breath.

“It was a really long night, Captain. I think I’ll feel better after sleeping. I’m okay, really.” You emphasized the last word by nudging his gloved hand with yours. Just the smallest amount of touch to let him know you were being honest.

Buggy nodded and left without another word. Any details you were reluctant to share were housed in the book sitting in his pocket.

---

The rest of the story that was written in the novel and documented your night was devoured in his quarters, while the plate of breakfast sitting a hands-reach away on the desk grew cold. It was a different experience to read a horror book during the day, when the bright sunlight eliminated any errant shadows and kept the unknowns that resided in the dark at bay. Still, the author was skilled enough for goosebumps to cover the pirate’s body. He ran his hands along his arms and legs to iron away the physical response.

As Buggy soothed his own unsettled nerves, he thought about you. How scared you must have been, alone and in the dark. How the fear followed you through the morning and you couldn’t shake the feeling. Literally. For a brief moment, Buggy imagined holding your trembling body, just as he was holding his own. Would you trust your captain enough to let him protect you from a fear response?

Although the pirate couldn’t bring himself to comfort you physically, he had an idea that could work. Filling with bubbling excitement, he sprang out of the desk chair, nearly toppling it in the process, and sprinted out of the room. A moment later, a lone hand whizzed back to toss his reading glasses on the bed and close the door.

---

You woke up as the sun was turning in for the evening, surprised that you managed to fall asleep. Thinking back, you might have actually passed out from exhaustion and worry. The orange glow now painting the walls in your room was comforting. You stretched your limbs to bring them back to life and put your arms behind your head.

Staring at nothing in particular gave your mind permission to pursue its own entertainment, so it drifted back to the paranoia and apprehension you thought had left. Threads of their presence remained and tugging at them brought pieces of the story. Examining those moments was easier in the golden light, but as the warmth receded and night returned, so did the unease. Rather than staying inside and alone, you hoped to find companionship and protection with the late night crewmates.

Waiting just outside your room was the smell of fried food and smoked meat to keep you company. As you wandered the belly of the ship, you passed your mates filling their own bellies with greasy food and alcohol. The ebb and flow of movement seemed to be going to and coming from the deck. Following the alluring scents of popcorn, cotton candy, and sweet dough, you stepped into the open air.

String lights adorned the ship, traipsing from mast to mast, illuminating the sails, and snaking around the deck railing. Hundreds of lights bounced on the rippled sea, creating a bubble of light that was periodically outdone by the handmade fireworks launched into the sky. As sparks rained down in a beautiful rendition of a meteor shower, you caught the silhouette of the captain standing at the helm of the ship. If anyone knew what ignited tonight's floating festival, it would be the man in charge.

You weaved your way across the deck, grabbing two bottles of beer on the way. Having learned from earlier events and rumors among the crew, you stomped your feet a little louder than usual to let Buggy know you were approaching, so he wouldn’t be caught off guard and attempt to swat you away in surprise. When he turned to see who the visitor was, you offered him a drink.

“Are we celebrating something special?”

“There doesn’t have to be a reason to have a party,” Buggy said, as though you should know better. “Besides, my crew always deserves a night like this!” He spread his arms and gestured all around him.

Despite the bright lights, enough of the night hung around to hide the blush on your cheeks. Eager to hide the heat behind alcohol, you held out your bottle. “Then here’s to us!”

Buggy tapped his bottle against yours harder than he expected, causing a fountain of bubbles to overflow from both containers. You both leaned in to stop the spills before taking a proper drink.

Little did you know, this was his first drink of the evening. Buggy, who was known to spend nights with his sloshing spirit in hand, had planned when and how much alcohol would be available. He considered how to drag out the crowds and stagger the inevitable crash as people blacked out and passed out. The pirate captain wasn’t sure how successful he’d be against soul-sucking bats, but every detail that would chase away another dark and lonely night was taken into account.

#eventual smut #buggy x reader #buggy x you #x reader #buggy the clown #buggy the clown x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #hey-august a line from me to you

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possum-quesadilla · 4 months ago

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Chapter 10 of Lonely Remnants, “Wildfires have been eating you inside my head, Trying to smoke you out or burn you alive in it”, is here! Strap in, folks. I can’t tell you how excited I am to share this one with you all.

PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS ATTACHED TO THIS CHAPTER AND PROCEED WITH CAUTION. THIS CHAPTER IS PARTICULARLY ROUGH. I KNOW I SAW THAT A LOT, BUT IT IS VERY TRUE HERE.

Extras! :)

- The lyrics for this chapter’s title are from “Please Just Stay Dead” by Nichole Dollanganger! They are meant to reflect how Lydia’s image of her bold, strong brother is being irreparably altered, maybe even ruined.

- “Like a doomed man trudging towards the gallows, sure but unsteady. Like a dead girl walking.” - Heheh, foreshadowing.

- “The trail led into the road. It ended on the other side, next to the memorial. Not before it was… smeared on the road. Splattered all about, like the cause of it had been… impacted. Her fears were confirmed when she found one of those strange paw / feet among the large, dark smudge of blood and goop in the road.” - Yep, they got hit by a car! Karma, I guess.

- “It was… feasting on some festering roadkill with a terribly feral and manic fervor.” - That was Lawrence’s last ditch effort to try and regain control and heal their body.

- “The side of his face the ear had fallen off of seemed to be following suit. It was starting to turn to the goop and slough off, part of the flesh hanging limply off the cheek and exposing his blackened, cracked jawbone.” - While the whole rejection idea is based on the ending of “Bride of Re-Animator”, this particularly horrific mental image is based on an effect from “Smile 2” that really stuck with me!

- “His dad and twin loved him, but it… it weren’t enough to counter the hatred of his mother.” - Lawrence’s accent fades away as the Shoggoth talks more and gains more control as he gets weaker.

- “Lousy bum’s been drinkin’ since he were ten years old.” - Not by choice! But the Shoggoth is being really judgy regardless.

- “Joined a band, saw the country, got his wrist broken by a boyfriend.” - Band mention! There’s a whole bunch of fun lore surrounding them that lives in my head. Also, the rotten boyfriend who broke his wrist was Cyrus! Can’t escape that fella.

- “It suddenly reached up, placing a hand over the left side of it’s face, covering up the exposed bone and one of it’s eyes.” - This was it trying to stop it’s face from falling apart more. It didn’t work.

- “Mrs. D helped him fix himself. Clean up all the broken pieces ‘n make somethin’ outta them.” - A reference to “Dead Mom”!

- “Of all of the moments in his long drive, of all of the cars he passed, he had to hit the one containing two of the people he loved most.” - This bit was inspired by a similar moment in the movie “Signs”.

- “She remained still as the grave.” - heheh, more foreshadowing.

- “No, Scarecrow. You died too.” - Woof. There’s been hints throughout. Hell, even in the start of the first chapter! - “She was the lucky one. By some miracle, she made it out with only some minor head trauma and the loss of a substantial amount of her hearing.” - I even put “Living Dead Girl” on the Lonely Remnants playlist for this purpose, lol.

- “ “I haven’t been very truthful at all.” It’s fingers brushed over the scales dotting it’s nose.” - Every time it lied, it gained a snake scale, since snakes represent deceit.

- “We are… human suffering, given form. Anguish and agony, writhing deep below the earth. I am of Lawrence’s. Of all the pain and hurt he felt.” - Yeah sorry it was a metaphor for trauma and self repression this whole time. Mostly. Also, this is what Otho meant when he said “… always were the most… potent out of all of us, little brother.”

- “No more watchin’, no more peepin’, and…” - This is a reference to “Bigtop Burger”. I couldn’t help myself. Cesare was my main inspiration for the Shoggoth.

- “… I could always feel him, faintly, in the back of my mind. Breathing in the dark.” - GOTCHA WITH ANOTHER “Asteroid City” REFERENCE!

- “I… I am just a beast of the stony soil.” - This is inspired by a famous line from “Pet Sematary”, which inspired Lonely Remnants! It’s the first horror story I read at eight years old, lol.

Tag list: @raineisinkless @c0zmo-writes @musical-fiend @katslitterbox

(Want to be tagged in future updates for CorpseJuice / LoopJuice? Let me know!)

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice fanfic #corpsejuice #lawrence beetlejuice shoggoth #beetlejuice the musical #lydia deetz #barbara maitland #adam maitland #beetlands #beetlelands #shoggoth 88 #lawrence graham #lonely remnants #corpsejuice chapter #corpsejuice extras

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daydreamgoddess14 · 6 months ago

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For a fluffy River fic maybe have an OC fix him up when he gets back to Slough House a bit worse for the wear. You know he’d hate the fuss of it.

I looooove this!! Just for you lovely, hope you enjoy! 🥰

Stitches

The last horse had bolted at exactly 5.03pm - Standish - she’d at least called out a goodbye on her way past but you were still eyeball deep in the files you’d been working on all day. You assumed that somewhere in the upper echelons of the building Lamb was asleep with his feet up on his desk. You didn’t mind, he didn’t bother you and you didn’t bother him - there was a mutual ignoring which was working well. Head down, get the work done, don’t cause trouble. No one else seemed remotely capable of abiding by that though. Your officemate, River, hadn’t been seen since god knows when (11.06am). You weren’t particularly on speaking terms since the thing you liked to call the incident. Some idiot had suggested drinks after work one night and you’d managed to make a total fool of yourself and were hereby serving a vow of silence. You were one step away from a nunnery. Maybe in the Alps… you could do a great Maria Von Trapp. You absentmindedly hum ‘Climb every Mountain’ while you work. You don’t know when it got dark but the glare of your computer screen is starting to hurt your eyes. You take a break, pressing your palms into your eye sockets. There’s shuffling on the other side of the door and you assume it’s just Lamb. Until the swearing starts.

“Ow shit fuck shit,” River hisses. You stay rooted to your chair. The vow of silence must be maintained. There’s a clatter of what you think is the first aid kit so you cautiously get to your feet and peer around the door to the kitchen. “You’re still here?” He asks, surprise evident in his face.

“Finishing some files.”

“They don’t pay overtime, you know.” There’s an awkward silence when you don’t respond until you can’t ignore the blood he’s dripping onto the floor any longer.

“What have you done?”

“Ahh, s’nothing. I’ll ermm, get that cleaned up. Don’t let me keep you.” You consider leaving but if he really died in this kitchen, it’d make a hell of a mess so you step further into the room and take the half unwrapped bandage from him.

“Show me?” He lifts his shirt and there’s a three inch gash on his side, just below his ribs. He wobbles just a little on his feet so you turn him just slightly and push him to lean on the table in the middle of the room.

“You don’t have to-” he starts. You shush him with a wave of your hand.

“I know I don’t. Take off your shirt.” There’s a pause while you both process the words you’d just spoken. As a gesture, you turn your back on him but it’s mostly to compose yourself rather than give him privacy. You find a fresh out of the packet j-cloth from under the sink and soak it in warm water, glancing into the poor excuse for a first aid kit to work out what - if anything - is usable.

“Honestly, I can manage this, it’s just a scratch.” You turn back to look at him, really look at him. As well as the gash on his side, he’s got a split lip, a cut above one of his eyes and bloody knuckles.

“You’re a mess.” You say, matter of factly. He has the grace to look sheepish. “This might sting.” You careful place the cloth over the cut, stemming the blood flow and cleaning the surrounding area.

“That’s enough now, I’m fine.” He tries again, his large hand covering your smaller one. You stop what you’re doing to look at him and you realise that even though you’ve barely looked at him since the incident, you know every freckle.

Roddy has an arm slung over your shoulders, making you both sway very ungracefully and not at all in time to the music that blares out of the speakers across the room. He’s saying something to you but you’ll be damned if you know what. It’s so unbelievably loud, your ears ring. Louisa and River are deep in conversation and you catch them looking over at you before looking back to their drinks. They probably think you’re desperate if you’re letting Roddy put his arm around you, but you think, you think, he’s trying to tell you about a girl he’s into.

“I’m sure she likes you too Ho, maybe just be a bit less… incelly?” You hope you say it kindly but honestly, you’re about 4 double g&ts in so who knows.

“You think I’m incelly?” He asks, a little hurt.

“Well… a bit. Lay off the Andrew Tate podcasts, yeah?” You suggest, patting his hand while he looks glumly into his sickly Smirnoff Ice. Time for a break from ‘the Ho’, you tell yourself, following the signs for the loos. There’s a couple of steps and you’re not quite sure where you’re going so you nearly lose your footing until someone catches you. River.

“You ok? Is Ho bothering you?”

“Nah, just lamenting his love life. I told him he needs to be a bit less incelly.”

“Huh, that’d be a good start.” River says with a grin. He still has a hand on your waist and yours is still resting on his chest. Emboldened by the confidence only several strong gins can provide, you reach up on tiptoes and kiss him lightly. You’ve fancied him since the second you walked into Slough House but you’re sure he’s never even noticed you. Meek and quiet, you keep to yourself and endure the punishment of being a Slow Horse just like everyone else. It takes half a second, but he responds. He definitely responds, holding your waist a little tighter and kissing you a little more deeply until suddenly there’s fresh air between you both and your waist is cold. “Sorry, shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.” He says, and then he’s gone. Back down the steps and across the room where Louisa is watching with curiosity. Your cheeks flame, you don’t bother with the loos. You have your bag so you head straight for the exit before anyone else sees you.

“You’re not bleeding to death all over this kitchen.” You tell him, sternly, banishing the memory of the incident to the back of your mind. “Hold his tight, please.” You move your hand from under his and put his back down more firmly onto the wound.

“S’not that bad.” He replies gruffly.

“It needs stitches.”

“Does not.”

“Yes River, it does. Back in a sec.” You leave him alone under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen and retrieve your own first aid kit from your bottom desk drawer along with a bottle of vodka. Slightly more generously packed than the one in the kitchen, you have surgical needles and thread and proper dressings. You wash your hands thoroughly, though you’re not sure it matters given the state of the kitchen.

“Where’d you get all that?” He asks.

“The vodka?”

“The first aid kid.”

“Old job. I’m going to stitch that up.” You tell him. He laughs but quickly realises it hurts too much and it makes the wound bleed again.

“Fuck, shit-” he curses as you move his hand and replace it with your own. “Thank you.” He mumbles gratefully. You gesture to the vodka with a nod of your head.

“Have a bit of that, and try to hold this without moving this time.”

“Yes boss.” You blush, looking into the first aid kit to set up what you need.

“Ready?”

“Am I going to have a horrible scar?”

“Not if you sit still.” You warn him. He stops shuffling, suitably admonished. “Might hurt a bit. I’ll try not to.”

“I know you will.” He uncovers the wound again and you quickly apply a few steri-strips to hold it closed while you work. “That looks fine? We could just leave it like that?” He tries, though he can already see the blood pooling in the wound again.

“I’ll be quick.” You assure him. “Drink.” You're not sure if the grimace is from the neat vodka or your first incision with the needle, but he takes the pain well. You hear him breathing heavily through gritted teeth and it’s going well until he holds your left hand, the one you’ve got resting just above the wound while you stitch with your right hand. He grips your fingers tightly. “You’re doing really well, keep breathing through the pain,” you soothe him softly, your breath on his stomach raising goosebumps.

“You’re good at this,” he says, surprised.

“I know I am.” His grip is less tight on your hand as you get closer to the end of the wound. “Nearly done.” You finish up and carefully clear the dried blood from around the wound before covering it with a large self adhesive gauze pad. Your cool hands brush over his skin as you press the edges of the adhesive down. “You could do with keeping it dry for a day or two.” You tell him, clearing your throat. Now you’re not concentrating on the stitches, the proximity is intoxicating. Searching for purpose, you turn your attention to his face. “You’re a mess.” You say.

“I know.” You turn away and wash the blood from your hands and then check the tiny freezer compartment of the fridge. “What you looking for?” You turn, victorious, with an ancient ice lolly. You wrap it in a clean cloth and place it against his swollen split lip. “I’m fine now, really, no more blood. You don’t need to do this.” He protests.

“I know.” You reply and instead begin cleaning the cut above his eye. To get close enough, you have to stand between his knees and you wonder if he can tell your heart is pounding. The cut just needs a couple of steri-strips so you apply them and step out of his orbit, happy to put some space between you both.

“About before?” He starts awkwardly, messing with the wrapper of the ice lolly he’s moved away from his mouth. You feel your stomach drop to your knees.

“Please don’t-” you don’t care if your voice is pleading.

“I wanted to tell you,” he tries to catch your eye but you’re determined to look anywhere except at him until he takes your hand and pulls you back to him. “I wanted to tell you I was sorry.” He explains.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all. I made a horrible mistake. I just want to forget it ever happened.”

“That’s why you’ve been ignoring me?”

“I wouldn’t say ignoring exactly-”

“I would.”

“Fine,” you huff. “Yes, that’s why I’ve been ignoring you. Please, River, can we just forget it?” His eyes drop to your lips.

“Is that really what you want?” He asks. You nod unconvincingly. Very unconvincingly. He raises his good eyebrow in disbelief, a sure sign he’s about to argue with you. “Really?” He asks again, quietly, almost pleading with you to change your mind. This time, your head shakes ever so slightly from side to side.

“No.” You whisper.

“No. So can I kiss you now?”

“I’m not sure,” you begin, your fingertips lightly brushing his swollen lip, “I don’t want to hurt you?”

“I don’t think you could.” He smiled, leaning in to claim a long awaited real kiss.

********

#river cartwright/ofc #river cartwright/reader #river cartwright fanfic #rivercartwright/ofc #river cartwright #fanfiction #slow horses #am writing #slowhorsesfanfiction #jack lowden

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lovetgr76 · 6 months ago

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Catherine & Jackson

They’re not a couple, but they kind of are… here’s how… or why… maybe… Starting from S1e1 - written for a friend to show how this show is NOT about Catherine and Jackson... but also, it's TOTALLY about Catherine and Jackson! lol - feel free to chime in with thoughts, feelings, etc.

S1e1 Failure is Contagious

First time we see Jackson, he’s waking up, it’s a mess, he’s coughing and smoking at the same time, he looks outside, gloomy, raining, but wait… his eyes are caught by something, and he follows …

Catherine is seen crossing the street, in her boots and coat and purse strapped across her chest, with the floral print umbrella.

Standish, make her way up the street, clocks Moody at the bus stop, makes her way up the 4 floors at Aldersgate and is unseen/ignored by all of the other Slow Horses. She gets to her office, turns on the light, puts away her things and 3 seconds later…. “STANDISH!” lol – she’s been noticed!

She is seen making her way to his office with a stack of folders but stands at the doorway to his office and doesn’t speak until she is spoken to –

Are they all in? – Lamb; All except River and Sid – Standish; Last one in can clean my lav - Lamb

*banging happens as someone is opening the door downstairs*

Standish and Lamb look disappointed in the slow horses in general for a moment.

I thought spooks were supposed to be stealthy – Lamb

Catherine grants him a tiny smile as she turns to go back towards her office.

Other Slow Horses comments and interactions w/ Standish

River – makes the “a reason not to blow my brains out!” comment

Struan – that Catherine is a tough nut to crack

Min – She never lightens up. Lamb’s lackey.

Louisa – talks about … what happened before (aka Partner)

Sid arrives with the laptop – aka SOMETHING happens at Slough House and …

“STANDISH! Flash Box!” – Lamb

Standish brings the Flash Box, stands silently, assists in getting it open…

“I’ve got a call to make, so if the pair of you wouldn’t mind, you know, fucking off” – Lamb

To Standish – Get me Lady Di.

Jackson is sleeping (or is he?) with his feet on the desk & Catherine (with coat and scarf on, as if ready to leave for the day) comes in to put a stack of folders on his desk.

She moves another folder to make room for the stack, putting them carefully on the edge of his desk.

Lamb kicks them over, on purpose, without reason… other than his… amusement? Into the trash can next to his desk and onto the floor as he leans back and sighs while watching her

What did your last servant die of? – Standish

Interesting that she calls herself servant, instead of secretary or personal assistant.

She immediately kneels to pick up the folders.

What did your last boss die of? – Lamb

He puts his feet back on the floor and reaches into a drawer to pull out TWO glasses and a bottle.

Because Standish is kneeling, this is at eye level for her and she hears the clinking of glass, trying to keep her head down.

She clearly sees Lamb pulling out TWO glasses, while gathering the folders in her arms, but is seen looking up at him, and then back down to the floor, then at the glasses being filled… as the moody music starts to play – this is dangerous territory, even if we don’t know it yet.

Standish puts the stack back on the corner of his desk and stands up while staring at the two glasses… she glances at Lamb, but goes back to staring at the booze. Dark music continues to suggest the seriousness of the moment.

Standish standing straight is seen as trying to calm her own desires as we see her shoulders go from tense and tight to her seemingly sighing and becoming resolved… as Lamb moves a glass of whiskey directly in front of her, taking a deep breath himself, in direct contrast to her own breathing.

Wanted to add that this particular moment has been brought up to the actors in interviews where Gary Oldman was asked WHY Lamb would offer Standish a drink knowing she’s an alcoholic. Oldman stated that he sincerely believed Lamb was a bit jealous of her, her ability to say no, her resolve. He, Lamb, would not or could not say no to whiskey and he admires / appreciates that she won’t… no matter how he tries to needle her – to anger her – to provoke her – and then to offer her – her preferred poison… his preferred poison!

Standish glares at him for a moment shaking her head “NO”… she will NOT drink today, and walks off as he’s already finishing his own drink.

Lamb finishes his drink in one gulp as Standish walks out and he’s left alone looking down at her offered drink, gulping that one down as well.

Next time we see Standish, she’s at her AA meeting. She is not speaking, just listening, but we see her struggling a bit emotionally. She is remembering finding Charles Partner’s, her ex-boss…

She is seen with flowers, she’s younger (hair color is darker?!) – she’s got makeup on – she wears no makeup now – her skirts are a bit shorter, her neckline a bit lower – she’s smiling and looks beautiful as she calls out for Charles. She finds him, though, we only see clues – he’s got Opera music playing, he’s in the bath, there’s blood dripping outside of the bath, and she sees him, she gasps and covers her mouth in shock. Music is intense and dramatic, this is traumatic.

Catherine is called out in her AA meeting, asked if she wants to speak.

My name is Catherine and I’m an alcoholic. I’ll just listen tonight. – Standish.

Slow Horses are gathered in Roddy’s office watching the latest news about the hostage situation when Lamb is seen walking in from the stairs. Lamb says explaining the situation to them is like explaining Norway to a dog, and demands that they all go back to shuffling papers.

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itscherrylipsforme · 4 months ago

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You can't keep being like this: River Cartwright x fem!reader

Blurb. No use of y/n. River is kind of toxic in the "I am not trying to get better" sense and a warning himself. Slightly angst, hurt/no comfort

Masterlist Characters I write for

There is a word for people who find intelligence in others attractive, sapiosexual. You wonder if there is another one to describe people who find stupidity as alluring. Because if such didn't exist, how could you explain you were dating River Cartwright?

"Daredevil and promising" that's what Lady Di wrote down in his aptitude report before he was dodged to the Slough House during his first years on the service. Sometimes you ask yourself if she was only right on the first part. Tonight, as he sat on the edge of the bathtub of your shared apartment, was one of those times. It pained you to see his back and arms all covered in brushes just because he thought he could safely jump from a rooftop to another following a suspect. The landing wasn't as neat as he had initially believed. Now purple lilies blossomed on the skin of the one you love most. And the ice you were carefully placing on them was not the coldest of the room, but your worried gaze. Yet you kissed one of the wounds, your lips so reverent the usual hiss became a gratitude hum.

"I am sorry, next time I will be..."

"Don't make promises you won't keep, Cartwright"

You used his last name, the one he hoped one day you would carry, now he realized the deep of the situation. He sighs yet again, and everything seems familiar. Too familiar for your liking. An act which has been come a habit, and you are not sure if you keep playing it anymore. A story to lure yourself to sleep, not knowing if the next time it will still have a happy ending. He is aware there will be a day when you won't be able to fix the broken mess he is, when you will tell him he is a lost cause, a failure as he is used to hear.

So he kisses you like his life depends on it. Because it does. Because he can't afford to lose someone else. As a friction of his lips could make you forget that he in fact will not change, no matter how many promises he makes, no matter how many "sorry" 's he mutters. You are still with him. After the fights and cleaning him up way more times he would like to admit, you are still with him. And he doesn't doubt hopes it won't change any soon. And yet you wonder if he knows he is not the only one who gets hurt.

#river cartwright x y/n #river cartwright x reader #slow horses x reader

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cloudyswritings · 1 year ago

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Of Whispers and Wyrms

I’ve just escaped the trenches(Ie cleaning aquariums) so y’all get to listen to my headcanons about Wyrms.

So by the events of Canon Wyrms(specifically those in their first bodies/incarnations) are extinct. In fact the pale king may have been the last to die according to Bardoon.

On that Bardoon quote actually, he says that the world is smaller with the Wyrms like gone. If my theory about the Wyrms effectively creating the wastes with the death of their larger selfs is right the pale king being the last to die could mean the wastes won’t expand anymore.

Most Wyrms are born gods or at very least higher beings, those that aren’t tend to be devoured in the nest by their clutch-mates.

Wyrms tend to have relatively large clutches, numbering in the hundreds to the thousands. However the young will generally consume eachother until only a few dozen remain and leave the nest. This kind of competition is fostered by the Wyrm-Dame who guards the nest until the young emerge fully.

Wyrms in the wild tend to communicate via low frequency growling and grinding noises. These noises travel vast distances through stone until they reach other wyrms. Moreover these noises are created by the grinding of specialized teeth in the throat of Wyrms, these teeth are also used as crushing teeth for processing denser mafic stones and some metals.

Wyrms mark their territory with both their light and extremely long lasting pheromones. They essentially impart their light into the edges of their territory by carving specific paths over and over until they’ve built i up a specific “afterglow”. This afterglow is the same one the godseekers comment on when you see the pale kings throne in godhome.

Wyrms are technically omnivores but in practice tend towards being carnivorous. They carve paths through the wastes that lesser beings(ie common bugs) use to traverse the wastes. However these paths are traps and Wyrms generally swallow entire caravans. Wyrms are also actually capable of deriving nutrition from the various stones, soils, and metal they consume when burrowing.

The outer shell of Wyrms are actually composed of a unique blend of metals accrued throughout its lifetime. In the case of the Pale King this metal was called pale ore and gave off a deep chill when handled. The composition of these metal amalgams varies wyrm to wyrm, but the metal itself is always deeply soaked in Light from the Wyrms.

When undergoing a molt Wyrms must split open this metal shell, this becomes more difficult with age, size, and thickness of the shell. Often times the way Wyrms die is actually becoming trapped within their own shells, unable to molt.

Generally after a successful molt a wyrm will consume its sloughed shell to reclaim its metals.

The reason Wyrms make kingdoms generally isn’t out of any desire to become a fair and just ruler. Most of the time when an wyrm creates a kingdom it has suffered a death recently and been forced to metamorphose into a smaller form(ie pale fork). Instead Wyrms make kingdoms as a means to feed their immense hunger. They grow the kingdom and ensure its prosperity before demanding sacrifices. Moreover once a kingdom has reached its peak size a wyrm will often begin the process of gathering soul and create a cocoon from which they can be reborn into a full sized wyrm once more. Once this is complete they “reap” or consume their kingdom in full and move on to richer hunting grounds.

The pale king was very much averse to this process and thought himself above the bestial hunger of his kin.

He was wrong of course…

Wyrms have a higher rate of Pale beings compared to other “species” of god. For example a Pale Moth higher being might be one in a billion while a Pale Wyrm is only one in a million.

The pale king consumed every single one of his clutch mates and incorporated their lights into his. It’s one of his biggest regrets, though his Dame was very proud indeed.

Each Light has a different quality and range to it. The Pale kings light is terribly cold but it falls far and deep. Spreading across even the wastes to a degree and burrowing deep into anything capable of holding it. In person exposure to his light can cause subtle mutations and the development of foresight to differing degrees, his light feels like being skewered and dissected but without the pain. It’s the feeling that something has changed in yourself, like someone rearranged your mental furniture and moved it all to the left by an inch. In theory I his light is even better equipped for fighting the shadows than the radiances. In theory.

Wyrms usually consume Roots on sight due to some half remembered incident during the beginning of the era of Bright Gods.

Wyrms might have a genetic memory of sorts? With the Wyrm-Dame taking the memories she wants from herself and the Sire and blending them to be passed on to her children.

Wyrms are very territorial and are only willing to share territory during mating. Once the Dame is sitting on her clutch all males, including the Sire are chased off. During this time period she won’t eat, but she may capture or kill weaker gods from the fringes of her territory to feed them to her clutch in hopes of making their lights stronger.

the Pale Kings Dame killed her partner, so in part the Pale King consumed his Sire, he doesn’t really remember this though, as he wasn’t even really sapient at that point.

Wyrms sometimes have a preference for what types of higher beings they feed their clutches, this can influence the resulting young and influence them towards certain qualities, depths, and ranges of Light.

The process of refining and defining the light of a Wyrm clutch is called prisming. Any offspring with muddled or weak lights are culled, generally by their siblings.

#hollow knight #hk pale king #speculative biology #headcanon #wyrms #worldbuilding #what do you think?#entomology #Damn another long one

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buttsandboltguns · 7 months ago

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Deep Trenches, Dented Defenses

The combat droid surged through the mud filling the wreckage-lined trench. Small amounts of muck seeped through the battered armor plating on her quad legs, swiftly deterred from the underlying electrical components from the multiple carefully installed isolation layers. She would try to clean it all out later - or more probably she would need the help of a mechanic to clean it all out. A fresh wave of mud sloughed off of the armor as she stepped in a particularly deep puddle.

No enemies pinged on the sensor arrays. At least none that sported engine signatures - the deep rumble of her own would give away her position before the sensor blip would, so she wasn’t particularly worried about being noticed. And even if she was noticed, the 105mm smoothbore mounted to her left shoulder and fed from an autoloader would deal with any heavy armor. The 14mm caseless chaingun in her right shoulder would handle the remainder.

Most would suspect her and those like her to be well engineered, to be built from purpose-manufactured parts and components that were built in space-age laboratories.

… that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Heavy combat droids like her were made of scrapyard parts and scavenged machinery. Their core would have been salvaged from a smaller, humanoid droid - typically a NAC.23 or a similar commando model like the SERE5. Around that, the field mechanics would slowly put together an armored chassis with field-stripped weapons and some form of motive system. Hers happened to be a quad platform - four legs, excellent for moving through trenches and urban environments. Her entire squad was the same way, though none of their battered armor plating looked quite the same. They needed to ID each other through their communications channels anyways - unlike a lighter chassis, few heavy combat droids needed full visual spectrum optics. Instead most of them mounted a hellacious blend of infrared, UV scanners, and EM analyzers. They knew only vague shapes in the din of battle, and called out to each other gently like whales through the darkness of their combat zones.

The abrupt, almost automatic rotation of her chassis blew her from her reverie. A blistering roar ripped the air apart and in the blink of a scanner ping, 100 rounds had been expended from her chaingun. The shredded remains of a light combat drone collapsed to the ground, its automated programming causing it to twitch and spark before smoking and falling silent.

Stalking closer, she analyzed the chassis for anything useful. Armor panels, of course, but her squadron had an excess of armor at the moment. Small weapons seemed to be what this drone sported. Her right primary manipulator unlocked from her side, reaching out and tearing away the array that mounted the paired machineguns on either side of a small caliber chemrail.

That scout unit had been what her squad was hunting down. She supposed that the rest of the chassis should be brought back as well. The commsquawk back to their transport was brief and quiet - and a horrible screech of binary code to anyone without the encoders necessary to understand the radio communication. And it was all that was necessary to summon the airlift to remove her unit from the area.

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

Their forward operating base was little more than a dugout, barely deep enough to conceal the heavy frames of her squad and wide enough to accommodate a few other squads and their equipment, as well as the mechanics too. Her chassis had been hosed off - mud, oil, and other caked-on schmutz washed away to the trench sump. On her left foreknee stood a mechanic, reached up with a support band slung over the barrel of her 105mm, working to repair an armor panel on the outside of the bore evacuator that had been dented. They swiftly unbolted the panel and tossed it down to another mechanic, then climbed down off of her chassis.

At the other end of the dugout, a squadron of NAC.23s sat on a set of crates, helping each other do basic maintenance. Small panels. Replacing joint graphite packs. Changing cells. They were gossiping too, she could pick it up just barely on her audio sensors. Talking amongst each other, quietly and gently, to not disturb the other units with them.

She withdrew her focus into her hull. It was easier to focus on herself. Heavy units could hardly speak - not when their chassis was set for field mode, and they were encased in ton upon ton of armor and weapons. A quick diagnostic should be a good distraction.

Left autoloader cycling properly. Rack mostly full. HEAT, HE, APFSDS, and her single tube-fired missile that she was able to scrounge up - she didn’t remember where, it was a savored find, and hers alone. She would reminisce on the group’s weapons later, when she finished the diagnostic.

Right autoloader needed lubrication, as usual. The tracks that carried the caseless ammunition from the bin to the chaingun required frequent lubrication, or they would seize and she would be left unable to defend herself against lighter targets without resorting to either melee combat or wasting HE shells in danger close scenarios, or techs forbid, be forced to use a VT fuse and attempt to airburst an HE shell.

She pushed her report to the main mechanic’s hooked up tacslate, allowing her mind to wander to the other two members of her squad.

Both were similar to her, but so different. She supposed that was the nature of custom heavy combat droids. Her battle buddies were armed strangely, one with a 76mm and a 30mm rotary autocannon and the other armed with a heavy chemrail and one of their best scavenge finds; a 12-megawatt diffused laser pulse weapon with mostly untouched lenses. It was only a matter of time until the frontal lens got scratched or cracked, but until then it was an incredibly valuable piece of equipment.

She wondered if they would still be in the same squad if they were still humanoid combat droids. Would they have even been friends? Would they help fix each oth-

The NAC.23 squad were talking about them. About her.

“-that big Hecodra’s armor is so beat up-”

“-is its battle ID symbol a rocket rack-”

“-what’s that big gun on its side-”

She pushed her focus deeper into her hull, until all she could hear or see was her own technical readouts.

What was it like, she wondered, to be able to be friends.

Hecodras like her didn’t get those opportunities. You didn’t become friends with them, simply put - they were battle automata, big enough to take up most of a dugout and still need more space, and that’s the way the brass liked to keep it.

As far as they were concerned, she was only an “it” - a heavy machine, made to kill and hunt and destroy. And very little else.

She didn’t necessarily disagree. She was an it. But it was also a she.

And they might never get the chance to know that.

An impatient commsquawk from one of her squadmates slowly roused her from her introspection. She readily ID’d it as coming from the Hecodra who had a human looking mischievous painted like bomber art across the side of her chassis. The one with the gatling.

Her sensor array fuzzed as it came to life, displaying only the UV sensors. In front of her chassis, on the railroad tie “floor” she was rested on, stood one of the NAC.23s seemingly looking up towards her chassis. They had an outline of a bird painted on their frontal cranial plating in stealth paint. So this unit of NAC.23s used cranial markings to distinguish each other.

She focused her auditory sensors back in, away from isolating to only the ultra-high hertz ranges that their communiqués utilized. It took a moment for her second-hand auditory sensors to properly focus in. When they did, she was able to hear the lightly synthesized voice of the droid in front of her - pleasant, all things considered.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Rotate your sensor array left if you can hear me.”

The Hecodra supposed that the NAC.23 was referring to her primary sensor array - not the one she currently saw with. The multi-lens’d array housed deep in the circular cutout towards the top of her chassis spun left, tapping against the bump-stop.

“Are you okay? You’re so damaged… left for yes, right for no.”

The sensor array tapped left again.

“How much of you is still… you? Are any of your parts originals?”

She didn’t understand the question. Hecodras had no original parts. It was known that every one was custom from battlefield scrap. She rotated her sensor array left - any part was her parts.

“I mean like, from your… first chassis. Where they pulled your core from.”

That question… hurt. What was her first chassis? What was she?

She could only vaguely remember. Her programming… her core programming… that indicated something with precision. Suited towards one, specific task. Likely a combat operation marksman bot Mk.10. A COMBot.10 unit… no, she had no parts remaining from that. She supposed that it didn’t matter if she analyzed it anyway, as all of her parts were from combat striders or drones. No humanoid droid were used in her creation beyond her core. Not that she could remember herself before she became a Hecodra.

She slowly rotated the sensor array to the right, until it hit the bump-stop.

“Oh… I’m sorry. We thought they might have at least saved a little of your original parts. We were hoping to maybe help service you, but we don’t - we don’t know how to help work on Hecodras. Maybe the mechanics can help us learn in a less hairy situation. If you want, that is. What do you think? Would it be okay if we helped learn to service you?”

That seemed okay. But she couldn’t help but worry the smaller droids might hurt themselves working on her.

The sensor array hit the left bump-stop.

#creative writing #writing experiment #Robotic Accounts

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dathomirdumpsterfire · 1 year ago

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Chat writes the plot! Time for more 👑🐲🐟 KotD!

(I realize we might have to retcon a bit if the vote goes certain ways, but I didn't want to limit you guys. Have fun, go nuts, describe to everyone your perfect stewjon head canon, no matter how unique!)

Want to be on the tag list? Have an idea for next chapter? Clicked the wrong option? Reblog or Comment! New? Check the very bottom for the Ao3 link. Latest chapter is down below the cut!🔥

~King of the Dragonfish: Chapter 8~

Not far from the cave system, in the opposite direction of the geothermal vents, is a living grave. Every now and again one of Naboo's massive oceanic beasts meets it's end to natural causes, and sinks into the deep. Here, new life is born.

This particular corpse of a ketho whale has been here longer than Maul has, and with it's slothful rate of decomposition, it may very well be here after he's gone. The deep water chill keeps the body all but frozen, as the mound of it feeds billions of tiny lives. Starfish, squid, shrimp, eels, octopus, crab, manta, and more. No other places in the deep sea have as much variety of life as the grave mounds do.

To Darth Maul, this place is his personal grocery store.

“Hmmm,” the sith hums, floating upside-down and perusing the options.

His favorite are the shrimp. Individual mouthfuls that crunch pleasantly. But can a Kenobi eat a shrimp? He knuckles his forehead, trying hard to remember. So much of Before was lost to him. The jedi was... human? Possibly?

…did humans eat shrimp?

He couldn't recall.

Annoyed, he makes a note to demand answers, later, and gathers a sampling for now. The brown tree fruit… whatever it was called… the inside was not nourishing enough to survive on, he knew that much.

With a sweep of the force the sith lord selects his victims. A few plush crabs, half a colony of little blue shrimp, a few colorful yellow and black fish that he knew tasted buttery and sweet, with a long eel-

He recalls, suddenly, eating barbeque eel on… on… the home place. The red world, with swamps and cliffs.

Maul catches two more eels, wondering if he can make them taste like… before. Perhaps he would cook his food for once? Some of this would need to be heated for the jedi to even stomach it. Probably.

With his catch writhing and confused in an intangible net of force, the dragonfish sith turns back for the warren of caves and tunnels.

He arrives to find the jedi in just his pants and sleeveless vest, busily rinsing his inner tunics with fruit water. His much abused leather boots were clean and shiney nearby, still wet.

Maul sloughs himself up onto land, dragging dinner up with him.

“Will that not simply make your robes sticky?” he questions the other man, skeptical of the tactic.

“They're not ripe, so they're not sweet in the slightest. I'm hoping…” Kenobi shrugs, “it's an experiment. I suppose we shall see.”

“Mnh.”

The jedi stands, turning to him while wringing out the excess fluid. “What have you got there?”

Grinning, Maul tosses the panoply of pissed off sea creatures at him. “Catch.”

The noise Kenobi makes when he takes eel to the face brings such joy to him.

The creatures scrabble for safety as the jedi backflips further away from them. “Wha! Pfss- guh- MAUL!”

Wheezing with mirth, Maul recollects his catch, and presses them all on the surface of the magma rock to boil them dead.

Kenobi looks on in horror, speechless.

After a brief grilling, Maul piles the results together at the base of the slowly deforming orb, and curls up beside it to begin eating. He picks up an eel first, of course, interested to see if the cooking would make it taste like barbeque.

It does not.

It is still good though.

The jedi lays out his clothes to dry and approaches, one hand tucked into an elbow, the other cradling his chin. He mutters, “... at least it was quick,” then clears his throat before speaking up. “Is any of that for me, or was the food throwing just to be for your own entertainment?”

“It is not my fault you cannot follow simple instructions, Kenobi, but yes. Eat what you will," Maul offers, smug.

The man sinks down onto the stone floor, watchful, and starts poking through the options.

Stupid jedi. Doing something now when he is expecting it would be boring and predictable. He will wait until the other man's guard is lowered before tormenting him again. Obviously.

“Tell me, Kenobi, did the tree fruit satisfy your thirst?” he asks, popping a shrimp in his mouth and smashing it with a crunch of his many excellent teeth.

“The coconuts? Yes… thank you. The pile will last me a few days," the man returns.

Coconuts. They are called coconuts. Of course.

Kenobi picks up an eel, handling it's rubbery length with a disgruntled look. “... I don't suppose I could have a small knife? Temporarily? I need to cut this to cook it properly.”

Maul squints at him. “You are lying, jedi.”

The man huffs, holding the limp eel up, “I am not. This is an entire eel, and not a small one either. I need to remove the guts, and filet it, then grill the slices.”

“Why would you remove the guts? The organs are the best part,” he says, even more certain that Kenobi was simply making things up.

The jedi makes a face, “Hardly.”

They glare at each other for a moment before Kenobi looks away, scowling. “Fine, I shall just… eat something else.”

Maul watches him gather up the thin black and yellow fish, and levitate them on top of the rock. He… just leaves them there. For minutes. The cave starts to smell different because of it.

“Your fish is burning, jedi,” he tells the man.

“No it isn't,” Kenobi replies.

Maul rises up on the coil of his tail, looming at something like nine feet tall to peer over top of the rock and look at the crisping bodies. They aren't any more black than before, but they are turning colors.

“They are becoming brown…”

“Good,” the man says, nonsensically.

With the force, Kenobi flips them without getting up to look. The underside is significantly more brown.

The dragonfish sith sloughs back down to the floor, thoughtful. This was cooking… he had cooked, before, many times. This was right, yes… meat turned colors. It… denatured the proteins.

He doesn't know what ‘denatured’ means anymore, but the word itself remains. Maul scowls, trying to poke at the idea.

He looks up at Kenobi, “How… denatured do you need to make… the protein… to make it edible for… humans?”

The other man hums, calling the crispy fish dinner down to himself, but holding it midair for a moment as it dissipates heat. “For humans? Oh, well, I suppose it depends on their immune system. Anakin likes everything mostly raw… but I've known others that wouldn't touch anything uncooked unless it was a plant.”

Ahah. ‘their’. Kenobi was not a human himself then.

“... and your kind?” Maul asks.

“Hmm… I suppose I prefer my own dinner well done, if only for the result of warm, spiced food,” he says, and brings one of the fish closer to himself to begin nibbling. He makes a face at it. “Mng… of which this is not. I'm glad you've brought back scaleless fish, but the flavor does leave something to be desired.”

“You are lucky I feed you at all,” he tells the fool, sneering.

Kenobi sighs, “I suppose anything is better than starving. Though I would really prefer a pan, oil, and some spice to go with it, even just salt…”

Maul gives him a look.

He scoffs. “Yes yes, I know, stop making that face at me. Beggars can't be choosers, I know.”

They eat until both are full, Maul devouring considerably more than Kenobi. He dumps the extras back into the water. The remains might attract future snacks.

“Well, sith,” the jedi says from his spot beside the magma ball, “what now? I'm fed, I'm watered, I'm warm. For the moment, I'm not dying. What are you going to do with me? Torture?”

Maul grins as he returns from throwing the extra away. “Are you excited at the prospect?”

“Certainly not,” Kenobi drawls, crossing his arms.

The dragonfish sith sways closer, passing him by. The other man clearly doesn't want him at his back, so the motion forces him to turn. As Maul circles, Kenobi keeps turning to face him.

Exactly as intended.

With the jedi's attention on his face, all the way turned around from where they began, Maul draws the end of his tail up to whip at the back of Kenobi’s calves.

The jedi makes a little hop, predicting his flanking attack with the force, but he still turns to look behind him. His mistake. Maul takes that opportunity to close the distance, getting a grip on the front of beige vests. Kenobi spins back around, arms shoving outward defensively.

One of his palms slams into Maul’s sensitive gills, painfully, making the sith snarl and take a snap at the offending limb.

Kenobi tries to tumble backwards, to get away from him, but the grip on his clothes is only joined by a tail curling behind his knees, dragging the jedi in.

The prey in his grip fights him, skilled in the force and so much more interesting to subdue than the mindless wildlife outside.

Kenobi works an elbow free, and tries slamming it point first into the tail spiraling about his hips. Maul barely feels it, but he starts trying to capture that free hand all the same. While he's on that, the jedi side steps his tail, and then drops his weight heavily while pushing downward with the force.

Maul loses hold on him entirely.

The jedi folds, rolls, and does half a cartwheel, kicking him in the arm. Then he falls backwards to gain space. The sith gives him none, closing the distance again and snatching at his ankle as the other man spins away. He misses, and has to try two more grabs before he gets a hold of an elbow with a gleeful noise of success.

Kenobi attempts to bite him, with his human-similar jaw and his flat white teeth. How precious. The dragonfish sith giggles, and nips at the air near his fingers. The jedi recoils, desperate to protect the digits of his sword arm, sending a gale of force into Maul so strong it sends him toppling over backwards.

Unfortunately for the other man, he's got a good grip on Kenobi’s arm, so they both go over backwards.

Maul cackles as they fall.

Kenobi bellows.

They tussle on the floor like it's just any old bar brawl for the better part of ten minutes, until -finally- Maul's sheer tonnage and more than a dozen feet of solid muscle wins the fight for him, yet again.

He bears down on his prisoner, grinning with all his many teeth as the man cries out in pain.

“Weak jjjedi,” he croons, so close to Kenobi’s face that the green glow of his eyes illuminates both of their expressions. “I am beginning to think our first battle was a fluke. You cannot seem to best me.”

The jedi struggles under him, trying to get any limb free, fighting for every inch. “It's not my fault you weigh as much as a bantha!”

“Oh? But you like my weight.”

Kenobi shifts left, trying to wriggle his way out of the hold. “What in the blazes makes you think that?”

Maul hisses in amusement. “You roam in your sleep, jedi. You came to me many times last night, seeking my scales and burrowing into me.”

The man underneath him makes a horrified face, his efforts to escape stalling. “I did not!”

Maul lolls to the side, laying beside him instead of on top, pulling those pale hands to his chest and pressing the palms over his hearts. His long black tail curls up and over the man's legs. “Does this position not ring any bells, Kenobi?”

Blue eyes stare down at his hands, at the red and black that peek through his fingers. “...”

Delighted by the other man's emotional upheaval, and the way it made the force around them feel, Maul pushes the gambit a little further.

“How about if I do… this?” he says, sacrificing a hand to bring Kenobi's body closer to his, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, affectionately. “Are you going to nuzzle me again, I wonder? Going to curl up on my chest and drool?”

“No!” the jedi exclaims, shimmying backward.

Maul allows it and watches him with an inviting look, finding that this little facet of Kenobi’s fear was… particularly entertaining.

“Oh? But you slept so well, did you not?” he accuses.

Kenobi covers his eyes with a hand. “It's… it's nothing to do with you. I simply sleep better when…”

“Held?” Maul croons.

The jedi growls, without answering. Delightful.

Maul snickers, playfully snapping his teeth near the other man's neck. Kenobi turtles, glaring at him. “Would you quit that? I know you're not going to actually bite me. I'd be dead in minutes, and that would ruin all your bloody fun wouldn't it?”

The sith draws back humming. The rage in Kenobi’s eyes is… pleasing. Anger is good. He understands.

“Hnnn… I offer you a trade,” he says sweetly.

The jedi's struggles calm, and he stops ducking into such a hilarious and pathetic little ball, but his expression remains pure suspicion. “It's hardly a trade if I'm coerced into it while disarmed and bound,” he complains.

“Do you think I care?” Maul asks him pleasantly.

Kenobi huffs. “Fine. What's your trade, sith?”

“I will promise not to bite your neck, or near it, if you tell me of your species. At length.”

The jedi blinks, slowly, waiting with an expectant air. Maul raises a brow at him.

“You… want to know about… stewjoni?” the man asks, baffled.

“Yessss,” the dragonfish sith assures.

He is missing too many pieces of Before. The jedi will serve him, as prisoner and informant.

🔥🔥 don't forget to reblog tysm! 🔥🔥

-Tag list- (Comment if you want added!)

@obimaulartfire @savageopressbignaturals @icequeen8043 @moonsickvampire @maulish

New? Start from Chapter 1! 👇🏽

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