#Desecration gray

[starlightsconstellations]

a list of everyone's tag

If they're an emoji it's something else

Added to as needed

Corpse green - evil rick (Rick and Morty)

Desecration gray - Rick Prime (Rick and Morty)

Cake yellow - Tori (Toriel Dreemurr Undertale, neutral ending)

Cranberry red - Cranberry (Underfell Papyrus)

Electric yellow - DC (Error Sans)

Electric black - AC (Error Sans)

Moon white - Luna (MLP au)

Sun yellow - Celestia (MLP au, same au as Luna)

Stone yellow - Ruffled Feathers (Crystal pony OC MLP au, same au as Luna and Celestia)

Indifferent black - The Director (Crystal pony OC MLP au, same au as Luna, Celestia and Ruffled Feathers)

Magic purple - Twilight Sparkle (Season 2 variant)

Tar black - Patrick (mlanders0n au)

Lipstick red - Velvette (Hazbin Hotel)

Feather black - Stolas (Helluva Boss)

Royal pink - Stella Goetia (Helluva Boss)

Adoration red - Valentino (Hazbin Hotel)

Electric green - AI Chihiro Fujisaki (Danganronpa)

Gambler gold - Celestia Ludenberg (Danganronpa)

Gear gray - Mangle, Fun Time Bonnie, Withered Bonnie, Fun Time Foxy, Springtrap, Spring Bonnie, Freddy Fazbear and Fun Time Freddy (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Hero yellow - Toshinori Yagi (My Hero Academia au)

Love red - Hizashi Yamada/Present Mic (My Hero Academia same au as Toshinori)

Gear Blblack - Black Lion (Voltron)

Gear yellow - Yellow Lion (Voltron)

Gear red - Red Lion (Voltron)

Greed gold - dragon! (He's just a sleepy European dragon)

[lipstickchainsaw]

Arcane season 2 has touched on religious themes considerably more than season 1 did. This has expressed itself primarily in Viktor's prophet narrative (no, he is not a god, he is being guided by one), but we also see it in a lot of Janna worship showing up in Zaun, especially among the most impoverished.

And her most prominent depiction is in the stage Jinx sets for her fight with Vi. This seems relevant, so let's dig into that for a moment.

The stage Jinx has set is deep underground, in the ruins of what seems to have once been a grand temple (with an altar, but we'll get to that), which Jinx has repurposed as a monument to the tragedies of her own life, but I don't think this is portrayed as a desecration of this temple. Rather, I think it's a set-up for where we're going.

Over the course of their fight, Vi and Jinx destroy the pillar showing their childhood, which could be read as the definitive destruction of their sisterhood, but, given how things end, I think it's more likely the destruction of the specific dynamic: Vi can no longer be the protector, and Jinx does not need to be protected.

The conclusion of that fight has Jinx held down on the altar, which seemed to be very much on purpose, because she wants to die, and her decision to do it like this is important. She wanted to go out in a grand, important way. Like a ritual sacrifice on the altar to a god, with a grand ceremony in the form of the paint bombs to mark the occasion.

But the world won't let Jinx die, forces her to live, in this case in the form of Isha bodily getting in the way of the people trying to kill her, which doesn't strip this religious ritual from its meaning, but it changes it from a sacrifice to... something else.

At the end of season 1, Vi and her sister had to make a choice between Jinx and Powder, but they got neither. This isn't the Jinx that they thought they were choosing, and it isn't the Powder that wants to die, either. So if this is not a death, perhaps it is a rebirth, but as what?

Anyway, all of that sells the significance of the religious imagery, but it doesn't explain why Janna, specifically.

Fittingly, Jinx introduces us to who Janna is as a deity, and equally fittingly, she presents this as a non-believer:

"Don't you remember the old Janna bedtime stories Vander used to tell us? Miners trapped underground. Air running thin! But then some wispy wind woman wafts to their rescue. Wild the kind of crap people get up to when you choke them out."

Janna is fresh air to those about to choke. Life to those about to die. It is a second wind when poison threatens to end you. Jinx, at this point, probably thinks of this as a hallucination by people who were just rescued and interpreted the source of the fresh air as something it wasn't (after all, she's well familiar with what a person's brain can come up with when put under significant strain).

But the Strike Team was threatening to choke the Undercity, with the Gray being an expression of Caitlyn's grief forced upon the citizens of Zaun, and Jinx' ritual sacrifice gets interrupted by Isha (and Sevika) rescuing her, all culminating in them blowing up a seal depicting Janna that was holding back a massive gust of fresh air that turned the poison against those using it.

So with this being a rebirth for Jinx, I think it points out in a certain direction.

For one thing, while she has been associated with smoke (see also: Powder), the way her tattoos show that smoke is very much a depiction of it being stirred by wind. For another, it involves her both rescuing and being rescued, becoming both Vi and Powder. She reflexively protects Isha, and finds in that a reason, perhaps, to live.

But this has only delayed matters, not solved the problem, with Caitlyn's grief now wielding the military might of Noxus (noxious) to choke the Zaun once more, and it once again needs its fresh air to survive.

So perhaps Jinx can find a renewed purpose. Can find meaning in a life where she protects and supports people. Can become Zaun's hero, instead of simply Piltover's villain.

And perhaps Janna finally has a herald to fight for the city under her banner.

[cheolism]

DEVOTION (TEASER)

✰ — choi san x gang leader!reader ✷ — summary: after a year of fighting in a rebellion, san was tired of battle. like an angel, a goddess, you offered him peace. ✰ — teaser wc is approx. 1.8k ✷ — genre: nsfw, mafia/gang society, themes of worship, cultish, power imbalance. simp!san for his "rescuer". ✰ — warnings: violence and murder; mature themes. morally gray reader and san (san is the equivalent of a stray puppy you’re nice to once and then never leaves you alone ever again). ✷ — rating: 18+. ✰ — note: this fic draws inspiration from the roman colosseum and society with a mafia. the reader in this fic is the leader of a gang, or a “sect” that inhabits a city and she is referred to as “the empress”. FULL FIC TO BE RELEASED OCTOBER 25.

p r o l o g u e .

the city held its breath when you fall ill. it's a fleeting illness, your aunt, who was left regent in the wake of your illness, announced. the empress will return to her duties as quickly as possible.

and then nothing happened for six months.

rumors spread. you'd died and your death was kept a secret to prevent rival sects from trying to steal territory; you'd been kidnapped for ransom and the "sickness" is a smokescreen. some spoke of treachery, but that's quickly hushed up. for who would dare betray the empress, the sweet little lamb of a girl who crowns her citizens with flowers?

your aunt was found dead in a pool, and you began to get better.

the city let out a relieved breath.

you began to appear in public once more. the city basked in your attention. all seemed to thrive. you kept the city secure under your watch, each entrance and exit under firm surveillance, guards on the corners of streets with guns at their hips, politicians carrying suitcases of powder, corrupt men and women entering your penthouse and never seen leaving.

"it's wrong," said choi bada to his brother. "she'll run our sect to the ground."

and once again the city held its breath as choi bada blew up your favorite temple.

war had begun.

choi san had no choice but to stand beside his brother. surely choi bada was right; he wouldn't steer san in the wrong direction. he wouldn't do the wrong thing.

temples crumble; public buildings were desecrated with bullets and blood. san got used to the feeling of fighting, of bruised muscles and blood staining his clothes; he got used to the feeling of wrongness, of feeling as if he was walking a dark and dangerous path of sin.

then choi bada was killed.

the empress, it is relayed to san as he was chained to a wall, was giving him a choice: die beside his treacherous brother or fight in the empress's arena for her forgiveness.

in the end the choice was easy. after all, san had been fighting for the past year of his life. what was one last battle?

the final body striked the ground, face having turned a violent mixture of red and purple, blood staining his mouth and teeth, and the crowd roared with approval. 

it was deafening. the screams and shouts of the crowd nearly drowned out the thundering of blood in san’s ear, his adrenaline shooting through his body like waves crashing down against rock. he couldn’t think. he couldn’t do anything other than stand there in arena, looking at the bodies littering the sand. 

“our winner!” declared a voice, loud and booming even without a microphone. the overseer moved into the arena, his clothes a bright, clean stain against the bloodied sand. he effortlessly wove around bodies to get to san. “our champion!”

the overseer grabbed san’s forearm. the other man’s hand was spotless against san’s skin, dirt and sand and sweat molded to flesh. san protested for a moment, instinctively pulling away. 

he had been fighting for as long as he could remember. touch meant hurt, and he had long stop expecting otherwise. 

the overseer laughed at san, lips twisted thin and wide. he grabbed at san again. “keep easy, pup,” he hissed out. “you’ve won the fight. congratulations. but you won’t win the battle if you keep trying to bite.”

san wanted to punch this man. he remembered how the overseer had introduced him, the sanke in wolf’s skin, the brother of the traitorous subordinate to the empress. he remembered the overseer glancing over him, loudly announcing that he’d do. 

san was just another pawn for entertainment to the overseer; to the crowd. he was just another puppy expected to sit and lay and play dumb. 

he’d been fighting for so long. who would fault him if he were to swing around and throw a punch into the overseer’s face? who’d disapprove if he were to slam the man into the ground, if he were to fucking drive his knee into his stomach? 

san made to draw back. he cast a wild look around, searching for something. instead of aid, his eyes caught on the large screen. for a split second he saw himself, feral and filled with hatred. then the screen switched, showing the empress. 

the empress’s lips were split in a smile, showing off the white of her teeth. she had her chin resting on her hand, watching; watching san.

“our champion!” the overseer yelled out once more. “the winner of our empress’s victory! choi san!”

the crowd’s praise grew to a frantic roar, rabid with their adoration. he couldn’t see them, the lights of the arena bright. they loved this, san knew; loved blood, loved fighting. it was a performance to them. it didn’t matter who was in the arena. they were all dispensable. 

what mattered who walked out. 

“to the empress,” said the overseer, moving his hand to clap san’s shoulder. his nails dug into san’s flesh. “she was most impressed by your little performance.”

san let the overseer direct him from the arena. the crowd was alight with awe, despite knowing san. well: despite knowing san’s brother. despite knowing that for the past year san had fought alongside his brother, war replacing the blood in his veins, soft words replaced by venom. 

none of that mattered anymore. none of it mattered now that san had won, had survived a fight against forty-nine others. he was blessed, the crowd saw now; blessed by the gods and to be blessed by the empress. 

he had punched and murdered and shot relentlessly in the name of his brother for the past year. and as the overseer bid the guard to open the gate separating the sands of the arena from the crowd, san realized he wouldn’t be expected to fight anymore. 

because that was why he had been fighting, wasn’t it? 

he was bound by blood to fight alongside his brother. even as he realized it was wrong – fighting for the sake of it, fighting for the sake of power was wrong. he had to stand beside his brother.

and now he was stepping from the arena, stepping from the sands of war and leaving behind bodies he had injured with his own hands. he realized he could leave it all behind. he walked in a prisoner, was walking out a winner. he won the empress’s crown; would wear the flowers of victory. 

his brother was no longer his ruler. 

now it was – 

“the empress,” the overseer began, speaking loudly into san’s ears as to be heard over the crowd. people reached out to press their fingers against san. he didn’t know why. he had been bathed before the arena, but it didn’t matter. he was covered in sweat and grime. he was bruised and scratched. 

someone pressed their fingers against san’s bicep. he flinched back, inadvertently pushing back into the overseer. the other man gripped san tight. “when you see the empress, you won’t look the empress in the eye. kneel at the empress’s feet. both knees, hands on the ground, forehead between. the empress will say your name. you will announce your wrongdoings and beg for forgiveness. if she forgives, you will earn the empress’s victory. don’t look at her. don’t say anything beyond what i have instructed you.”

the overseer directed san up the stands. there were all kinds of people: some wore tattered clothes; some suits, hair greased back; some industry uniforms. they were all youthful and vibrant beneath the arena lights. 

the empress and the empress’s court, as it were, were separated from the rest. the empress’s balcony overlooked the entire arena. only the elite within the gang – sect, san remembered, within the sect – were allowed to sit this far up, this near the empress. 

and it showed. they wore polished suits and glittering jewels. the holsters of guns were bedazzled and glimmering. instead of cans of beer, they held crystal glasses. these were the ones the empress trusted most – no, san corrected again. the empress doesn’t trust anyone. these are the ones that have gained, in one way or another, the empress’s approval. 

murderers and sellers; crooks and robbers. 

san was directed up a short staircase. he stepped foot onto the platform. the metal was covered in soft, lush rugs. incense was lit, overtaking the dusty air of the arena with a fragrant scent. it was purified; they were purifying the space. 

san’s eyes flitted over the rising smoke from the incense, and then he caught sight of the empress. 

caught sight of you. 

“eyes,” the overseer warned. 

san fixed his eyes onto the ground. the overseer guided him with a hand on the shoulder, steering him towards the center of the podium where you sat. once the overseer adjusted san so his shoulders were square with you, presumably, he dug his hand down onto san. san went, obediently, to his knees. 

his knees, bruised and raw from fighting, hit the soft carpet. san placed the palms of his hands down against the rug, his knuckles violently red from all the punching he had done, already swelling – and he placed his forehead down against the carpet. 

something settled the crowd, silence taking over and reigning. 

a voice broke through. “choi san,” you said, “younger brother to our dearest choi bada, of the formerly respected choi clan.”

your court tittered with laughter at the reminder of how far he had fallen. 

“no worry.” your voice neared. you had risen from your chair – your throne. “the man you were when you walked into the arena is no more. now you are before me, clean from your sins if you so wish. 

“tell me: choi bada spoke of treachery and murder, of annihilation of our precious sect; do you concur with your brother’s disastrous agenda?”

san spoke to the ground, but, he found, he was speaking from the heart. “no.”

two letters, one syllable. 

that’s all it took to renounce his brother, to turn his back on his brother’s corpse. 

“no,” you echoed. “yet you had fought alongside him. you had killed and burned alongside him. were you not his most trusted?”

san scraped his nails against the rug. “i was.”

you hummed. san thought he recognized the tune, but then it was gone just as he was able to reach out and catch the thread of it. “you could have chosen loyalty to this true emperor, as he proclaimed himself. my guard would have killed you alongside choi bada. and yet you entered my arena, fought, and won. you entered to leave your old life behind, yes? you entered to renounce your clan.”

“yes.”

“and so you will,” you said. “rise, choi san, and know that no hatred, no ill-will, will be held to you.”

slowly, as if you were a predator, a lion, and he were the prey, a mouse, san moved. he lifted himself from the bow. he did not stand. he remained kneeling, palms placed on the torn fabric stretching over his knees. san kept his face towards the ground. 

“let me see you.”

san thought back to the overseer and his warning: don’t look. he wasn’t to look at you. yet you were asking, were telling him to look. 

so san looked. 

[cheesycatz]

Wow! It only took me 966 days of Spamton brainrot to make an actual reference

(text ver under cut)

- Based on ventriloquist dummies and ball-jointed dolls, both of which require strings in order to move

- Bird nostrils: one of the only remaining "addison" features (also I didn't want to make him a chronic mouth-breather)

- Black hair is permanent from puppetification shenanigans

- Widow's peak to make him more skeletal

- Eyes, teeth, and muscles visible through joints are the only biological bits that haven't been covered by the plastic exoskeleton

- Scratches and yellowing across the plastic epidermis

- Tattered suit jacket and dress shirt; repaired with messy stitches and patches on elbows

- Joints poke out weirdly under suit, especially in the torso area

- Toes, tail, fur, skin, and part of his fingers are missing—destroyed in puppetification process

- Seam lines on body to mimic manufactured dolls

- Four fingers because bird

- Shoe-esque feet

- Where are his pants? Top 10 Questions Science Can't Answer

- Technically had an underbite? Your lower teeth are not supposed to be directly below the upper teeth

- "Ball jointed body"—he still has muscle, organs, etc. under the plastic

- Animatronic puppet eyes

- Lazy eye? He just like me fr

- Had blue eyes, but they're more gray at this point

- Pipis are, uh... he canonically makes nests for his eggs of unknown origin, I guess

- Jacket is longer in the back and ripped at the seam

- Design is meant to work in a 3D environment; AKA no weird v-tuber hair flipping when he's facing forwards so he looks more "real"

- Flesh under his chin where the puppet jaw connects to his actual jaw hinge

- Glasses are screens & clear on his end

- Lenses glow

- He controls what [the lenses] display when he's not having one of his frequent mental breakdowns

- Four hair spikes on top make his mullet look less weird from the front

- Blue tongue (mandatory Spamton design element)

- Addison Spam: 4 ft 11 in without those heels

- Puppet Spam: 3 ft 6 in - height of a ventriloquist dummy

- Puppetification: he slowly transformed into a living puppet due to his exposure to supernatural forces beyond reality. He was mostly unaware until he was on the streets due to his desecrated mental state.

skill issue

- Most shrinkage is from his legs getting shorter from the puppetification

i think i have developed chronic spamton wasting disease

[roseodelle]

Arcane Pt2 - Eris Vanserra x Unnamed OC

Eris’s best kept secret is infiltrated.

No use of y/n

WC: 1326

Warnings: Angst, Violence

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

The forest is charred. Their wards are broken, and the glamours have fallen. The cottage is in shambles. Once a beautiful home for them both, smoke now drifts upward from the rubble. Trampled are the flowers and vegetable garden she’d tended to dearly for so many years. The smell makes him sick to his stomach, and he falls to his knees. There’s nothing left.

His chest heaves, his hands gripping and pulling at his short red hair. Tears begin to fall from his face as reality sets in and the sobs begin. It’d happened so quickly. In his quarters of the Forest House one moment, standing above his beheaded brothers the next. Beron will be after him; he knows. He’ll send the hounds and guards before he himself comes to smite him down. He has minutes, if that. He’d killed his brothers. He’d have killed his father, too, if he didn’t know better. But while Eris was strong, Beron was stronger.

Her body... her body lay ahead of him in the destruction of their home. What will Beron do to her, even in death, he wonders? He won’t find out. He will not let Beron desecrate her further. She deserves dignity in her death, and he will give it to her. His love. His grace. His empathy and compassion. His brilliance. His mate. He failed her. How didn’t he know? Why didn’t he feel the intrusion on the ward? Why didn’t he feel her through the bond? Why didn’t she call for him? Why leave her side of the bond closed to him, even near death? Why shield him from his failure, from her pain and fear?

Rising from the scorched earth, he takes an unsteady step forward. His right foot lands on a shard of stained glass that once belonged to the beautiful front door. She’d been so proud to have found it. A great discovery: a decrepit old wooden door with a stained glass window. His chest tightens again. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. With uneven steps, he walks through the rubble. The sitting room was once such a beautiful space. They’d spent so many hours and so many years together in that room. Once lively shades of green and orange are now a burnt charcoal gray. The kitchen was the same. Only the innermost walls of the home still stand as he makes his way down the hall.

He needs to find her. He dreads finding her. He tries again to tug on that string, that bright orange thread, tying them together. Nothing. He feels nothing. Minutes, he reminds himself. He has minutes until the sentries come. Before Beron comes with vengeance. 

Their bedroom lay just a few steps ahead. The door was broken, leaning sideways on it’s hinges. The smell is stronger here. Putrid death mixes with the remaining scent of his life. Only faint hints of jasmine and sage rise above the remnants of an angry, relentless flame. The scent of his brother was a bitter aftertaste. He marches on.

Their bed was left unmade. The lxurious golden sham is now a horrid black. Down pillows burned to a crisp. Intricate woodwork smolders, and her scent is stronger here, but he still can’t see her. He passes their bed and her vanity. Flower pots and dirt litter the floor, and the burgundy rug he found on a trip to Adriatta is torn into shreds. She’d put up a fight. Good girl. His chest heaves, vomit rises in his throat, and he shakes his head, steadying himself again. He needs to get her out and take her somewhere Beron cannot find her. Where he cannot do her more harm. Where she can rest.

He finds her in the closet. She’s curled inward on herself, her beautiful dress bloody and torn. Her back is still, and the familiar rise and fall of her breath are nonexistent. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. He’s shaking again, tears burning his cheeks. Unsteady hands reach toward her burned body. The skin of her back was blistered and damaged beyond repair. There’s so much blood. From her face to her chest, her arms, and her legs. She’s covered in cuts and burns. His sobs become stronger and louder as he reaches for her. She’s not breathing.

“My love.” He brokenly whispers, begs, and pleads with her as he pulls her destroyed body into his arms. He turns her face toward him. Unmarred by the fire of his brother. Her eyes remain closed, the stillness of her chest breaking his soul into pieces. He rests his cheek on hers, his tears making their home on her skin. 

“My love, please. Please wake up.” He chokes back a sob, running his hand along her arm and along her spine in an effort to wake her, but he knows. He knows she’s gone.

“Please. Come back to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He’ll die here, he decides. How could he take his place as High Lord without her by his side? Let Beron strike him down. Let his father's fire end his life as he holds his mate in his arms. He’d die with her. He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to her cold lips, and he closes his eyes. Let him die here.

Two hundred years. Two hundred years of safety. Serenity. Peace. Over. All over. His heavy sobs shake his shoulders and shake the still body in his arms, and as he holds her tighter, he still runs his hands over her arm and back. His hand finally rests on her wrist, checking for a pulse he knows he won’t find. 

“I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.” He repeats until the words run together in an incomprehensible mumble, his fingers digging too tightly into her wrist, hoping to feel something he knows he will not. He wasn’t here. He didn’t protect her. For two hundred years, he’d kept her safe. It wasn’t enough. He had failed her. 

His breath stalls in his throat, eyes widening in shock. Denial floods through him as he tugs again at the bond that remains silent, but he felt it. It was so faint, so faint, but it was there. Her pulse.

“My love, my love, please.” He straightens, pulling her tighter to his chest and forcing her face toward his once again. Her beautiful eyes remain closed, but he feels it again. It's so faint, but it’s there. She lives.

His demeanor shifts, his mask falling into place as he assesses the situation anew. She’s mortally wounded. She will not live, not unless she receives help he cannot give her. Cannot provide for her. Not with Beron’s sentries so close behind him. Minutes, he reminds himself. He has but a few minutes with her before they come for him. Before Beron comes from her. Seconds, he amends, another faint pulse coming through much later than the last.

He’s on the border of three courts. He has two options. He can beg for sanctuary in the Summer court. Tarquin is known to be just and kind. But Beron will follow. Beron will follow him across Prythian. Tarquin would not be able to provide the safety or care she requires. Nor Kalias in the Winter Court, who would likely attempt to freeze Eris on sight. 

There is only one true option, he realizes. The Night Court sees Eris as the ruthless, conniving killer he made sure he was known as, but his mate was not like him. Not like the mask he wore. The mask he perfected over two hundred years to protect her. Tensions between Eris and the court were harsh on both sides, but it may be the only place Beron will not follow.

It’s the only option, he knows. And as another weak pulse graces his fingertips and the rustle of leaves alerts him to the first sentry sent for him, he knows what he must do.

[maria-crossover]

† The Believer †

After months I was able to finish the concept sheet for my Outlast Trials OC ^_^ I'm still working on her lore and the description of the Trials but in the meantime I'll give you some information about her...

General information | Prime Asset backstory | Trials | Dialogues

「 Prime Assets 」

“Someone is desecrating the body of one of God's children? How disrespectful… You better start repenting and stop, unless you want your pretty hands cut off!” —María Carmichael

Appearance (Physical Description)

Height of 1'55 cm (5'8) is a young adult with the appearance of a teenager due to genetics and probably a slow development in hormones. The age isn't identified due to her bones and teeth, also due to the subject's lack of memory and behavior (Has somewhat sharp front fangs). Her clothing includes a long-sleeved black shirt with gray stripes, a gardening overalls with black jeans stained with white paint, black boots and a gardening glove on her left hand. Short messy black hair with curls. Unlike the Ex-Pops, she doesn't show signs of having undergone surgeries or changes presented by the infirmary. The girl only has a scar on her right cheek, on her neck and bleeding bandages on the hand that carries the deployable sickle, also, night vision glasses that connect to a modified car battery that she carries inside a small black backpack.

There is also Manny, it's part of the subject that possesses and controls. It has a humanoid appearance, almost a "ghost", but it is made of ashes, gunpowder and nanomachines with some blood from the girl and previous people it tried to possess. When the believer climbs the walls and ceilings, you can see that her arms, legs and abdomen are covered by a black smoke that is clearly the Walrider helping her and providing her with unique abilities like those.

Personality

María is the only one of the Ex-Pops who is more sane, but she is very insecure, paranoid and easily manipulated, so much so that she sees the Reagents as sinful enemies. She suffers from a hero complex, telling herself that she is God's chosen one and Manny is an angel who will be helping her at all times so that the world can seek its redemption while getting rid of the sinners. However, she constantly exhibits violent behavior towards any human being, especially adults. She tends to be a bit open-mouthed and rude when it comes to hanging around the Trials when the Reagents or an Ex-Pop are present.

She is mostly rude around the Ex-Pops because they are "adults", but with Franco she is more polite. This is due to a post-trauma that she suffered during her kidnapping in her childhood, her greatest fear and hatred will be adults from then on, however, as Franco shares characteristics of an infant she doesn't say anything because she trusts children more, seeing them as vulnerable and unconscious beings. In fact, María divides between "normal" people and the sick. Her behavior varies to normal adults, seeing them as hostile and potential sinners, she doesn't usually trust anyone. However, with sick adults she sees them as harmless, the sick refers to those who are mentally disabled. One reason is that she sees Franco as vulnerable, his behaviour. But she also doesn't deny that he resembles a child and She sees him a little weaker. Although Manny doesn't think the same and is of the idea that all people, humans in general, are equally hostile and disgusting. Except with Maria, since it have a close bond with her.

Having the Walrider inside her, almost always ruins her brain by sharing a body with an entity. Since her violent tendencies and bad mood are due to the pain of having something in her body, her bones and the mobility that she has not had completely in her body before. Which leads to suicidal tendencies, with clear depressive thoughts of "goodbye" to her life and perhaps abandoning it at the hands of her friend Manny.

Despite being somewhat sane, she displays sadistic tendencies when it comes to torturing a Reagent, whether in a chase, attack, or execution. This is due to the adrenaline and anger she feels, at the traumatic memory, the injustice she witnessed in childhood, and a helpless desire to cause pain to those she considers harmful sinners.

Maria mixes her language with English, being of Argentine blood, mostly when she insults and apologizes when doing so. Also the songs she usually hums while wandering through the darkness looking for Reagents. She uses Spanish as for insults, taking advantage of many who do not understand her language to be sincere with her thoughts and regardless of her feelings. She is very indifferent to speaking openly and honestly about what she has in mind, politically, economically or religiously. But when it comes to her past, the many families she may have been in, she keeps her words to herself so as not to speak.

Despite being very aggressive, she is obedient and makes an effort with Manny to get him to follow her. Besides having a great adoration for Jesus and God, she trusts (in a small part) Dr. Easterman. Although most of the work she does is to seek approval and earn respect or adoration from him, which she desires, a consequence of the loving absence of her parents and generating emotional dependence on Easterman.

Since the first meeting with Clyde Perry to talk, she was always cautious and distrustful. She has never spoken or trusted with any human being, unlike the Walrider. She mostly talks to herself, but she actually talks to Manny who occupies her body and is the only the living being she can trust to talk to and feel safe. Walrider always protected Maria, not only for the body but for the company she offered throughout the journey. Supposedly she can hear it speak, only her, since she shared her body she is the only one who hears his voice, as inside and outside her body. Maybe a connection or a consequence of sharing her brain and hearing the voice through her thoughts.

Weapons and Skills

Like the Reagents, but unlike the Prime Assets, she can see in the dark and climb walls with the help of Manny. The lenses of the glasses change color from green to red when she finds a Reagent. In addition to that, she can climb ceilings or walls with the help of the Walrider. She uses a deployable sickle, modified to be stored while climbing ceilings and only takes it out when she is standing on the ground to attack.

Walrider, or known as "Manny" by María, is part of her abilities. Providing her with greater mobility in the test, strength and support when executing a Reagent. The Walrider also grants her a temporary levitation ability, when she lets go of a wall or ceiling. But when a Reagent uses a stun module, it not only affects the girl, but Manny as well. And after recovering, she shudders along with the cold sound of her bones adjusting, showing that the Walrider is readjusting inside her.

Trials

Ruin the wake

Burn Jesus

Kill the Father

Poison the followers

[no2ticonderoga]

regency prompt to hopefully make you smile: annabeth sees lord elgin at a ball and has to be physically restrained from stabbing him

Until he was married, Percy had never enjoyed balls very much. During his career, they were a necessary part of socialization, but they always held the danger that some young woman might set her eyes on him. 

But now, safely married, he enjoyed them immensely. He did like the music, and he got to visit with people he didn’t see very often. He got to dance every set he wanted with his wife, they could leave whenever they felt like it. All in all, balls were now a highlight of their social life.

Except when they were more political than social. Though Lord Merica’s radical positions left him a bit isolated in the House of Lords, a vote was still a vote, and people who wanted his support invited him to parties. And his son-in-law. Since Bobby spent more time in the countryside these days than in London, people seemed to invite Percy instead. 

Percy had just finished a shore raid upon the buffet table…at least the food was usually good at political functions…and was seeking Annabeth to discuss when they might politely take their leave. He found her, but as he touched her arm, he felt her stiffen, and sharply inhale a breath.

Concerned, Percy swiveled his head around. They hadn’t run into a monster since the last footman they’d hired had turned out to be a cynocephali in disguise. And it was rare to happen at a party…that hadn’t happened since they were children…but it wasn’t unheard of.

But it was no mythological monster that his wife had fixed in her cold gray stare, but one of more prosaic variety. 

“My dear,” Percy warned, but to no avail. She pulled away from him, though he hadn’t really been holding her, and marched up to her quarry. Perforce, Percy trailed in her wake, thinking quickly about a variety of ways to disengage his wife from the forthcoming conversation before it got out of hand. Frederick crossed his line of vision, and Percy managed to catch his eye. He followed Annabeth’s line of advance, and his eyes widened in alarm, and he began to cross the room in their direction.

“Lord Elgin,” Annabeth said flatly, the briefest incline of her head as a greeting.

“Lady Annabeth,” the Lord replied with a short bow. “I hope you are having a nice evening.”

“I was,” she said.

Lord Elgin’s brows furrowed as he tried to decipher this comment. “My Lord,” Percy broke in. “A fine evening, isn’t it?”

“Yes, quite the party,” Lord Elgin replied.

“You had no right,” Annabeth broke in. “How dare you desecrate…”

“Ah, Annabeth, there you are!” Frederick said loudly. “I have been meaning to talk with you,” he said. He glanced at Lord Elgin. “Terribly sorry, my lord, to abscond with my daughter.” 

“Of course,” Lord Elgin said faintly, clearly extremely confused. 

Frederick towed Annabeth off, and Percy gave Elgin a nod “my Lord”, and then followed.

Annabeth was rigid with rage when Percy caught up with her and Frederick on the terrace. 

“...no right!” she was saying to Frederick.

“Yes, my dear, I know. But making a scene about it won’t do anyone any good at this point,” he soothed her. “I’m still hoping the government can be convinced to return them once the purchase is finalized. Be satisfied with the fact that the man has practically ruined himself.” 

“He’s right, my love,” Percy added. “Thought, apparently not enough to entertain private offers,” he said sourly.

“I know you tried, love,” Annabeth said. “I would have thought your offer was high enough to make him consider it.”

“He wants the government to display them,” Frederick said. “Which, I suppose is a principle in and of itself.” He shrugged. “But I’ll do what I can, once the purchase goes through.”

“I know, Papa,” Annabeth said. She rubbed her temples. “My head aches. I wish to go home.”

“I shall call for the carriage at once,” Percy said. “We shall be home within the hour.”

She smiled at him. “My hero.”

[doctorofmagic]

No one asked but here's some thoughts about Stephen's current and future life.

First of all (and to be completely honest), before Blood Hunt, I do think Stephen was starting to find joy in being the Sorcerer Supreme now that things were seemingly going well in his life.

Just to name a few, he befriended his general self, his marriage was rekindled, Mordo was finally locked down, Clea and Umar were starting to find a common ground (at least, they were not enemies anymore) and Donna II happened, blessing their lives. Stephen was finally thriving. He was executing his duties just fine despite the challenges of being Earth's magical defender. Conflict was obviously expected but it was far from the struggles he faced in v4, for instance. There was optimism.

The fact that he seems sad in that Pasqual's post could be about anything but if I was to predict why, I'd say it's because 1) he didn't want to pass the mantle down at this point in his life and 2) he didn't want to pass the mantle down to Victor specifically because well, it's Doom. And let's be real, Jed's interpretation of their relationship is not similar to T&T or Infamous Iron Man or even Secret Wars. Even if Victor is rarely portrayed as a villain these days (more like an antagonist), there's still a certain dread whenever he shows up in stories. So it's only natural for Stephen to be worried about what's coming next.

Personally, I think Victor will not be a bad Sorcerer Supreme. He's competent and incredibly complex. There's altruism in him, especially when it comes to protect Latverians and people in general (Doom 2099 my beloved). And let's not forget about his dramatic ego and petty personality. If anything, I'd go for a gray representation. He will not be the king of altruism (aka Stephen), but he will not be a shallow villain by desecrating the mantle (something I'm pretty sure Mordo would do. Hate that guy). That said... Oh, he's also in for a big surprise, not expecting the burden that comes with such a huge responsibility. But that's just my two cents. Could always be wrong. However, I still remember when he tried to go after Jericho and gave up as soon as the light of the Eye of Agamotto hit him, so... This idea does have canon support.

(panel merely illustrative; from an alt future/reality)

As for Stephen and Clea, what comes next for them? I know the fandom is desperate for domestic vibes and a peaceful era for them. But let's be real, it's Marvel. Also it's Stephen and Clea. For starters, Clea is still the Warlord of Manhattan, which means that area will remain under her protection, tying her to our dimension. As for Stephen... We know him, right? We know he will never stop doing what he does, Sorcerer Supreme or not. We have tons of magic characters doing their jobs. Even when magic was practically dead, he found a way to keep doing good because it's intrinsic of his personality. And let's not forget Wong and W.A.N.D. They still need someone reliable, and I hardly think they'll go for Victor when consulting all things mystical. Oh, and Strange Academy, of course.

Last but not least, every change in status quo hardly lasts more than a year or two in comic books. It happened so many times before: Salomé, Jericho, Loki, even Clea. It was only natural for Victor's turn, given how T&T is such an important book to their mythos.

As for me? I think it's not really fair for me to share my feelings assuming how much I love both Victor and Stephen. I've seen some unhappy fans (and I can't relate, sorry 🥲) and some excited ones.

The reason I'm still kinda blue is merely due to the lack of new announcements, whether it's a new Doctor Strange book or a mini featuring Victor. Also it's almost certain that Jed is done with his work, which hit me like a train. I really don't want to say goodbye to Jed just yet, and seeing his work continue with Moon Knight while going for the X-books makes me a bit bitter. There's still the possibility that he's staying, but it's all conjecture at this point. I mean, I dread that some bad writer comes next, and boi do I have a no-no list. Hopefully, SDCC will shed some light on these dark times of uncertainty.

Well, that's it. Do I ramble a lot? Was not expecting to write such a long post, sorry about that (old testament me comeback?). Just wanted to write down my thoughts since they were making a mess in my head. If anything, I'll still be around for whatever comes next. After all, my love for Stephen knows no shame 🔥

[wet-and-wedgied]

Work Stall Blow Out

so this is a story based on a recent experience of mine.

so it’s lunch time in the office I work at and I had just finished eating. I hadn’t had much, but I bring one of those big water bottles in to the office everyday, and I end up refilling it like three times a day. So At this point my bladder is just absolutely full. I can feel all the pee in me sloshing around and I just know I’m going to be bursting any second now. So I get up and hurry to the Men’s Room. Only the Men’s Room on our floor is being cleaned. I let out a low moan and ball my fists up at my sides, holding back the urge to hold my aching bladder. So I back track and head upstairs to the tenth floor. This is the floor where we tend ti have conference meetings, and thus it is almost always empty.

I hurry inside, fumbling with my black belt as I feel the hot yellow flood pounding on the tip of my cock waiting to be released. The urinal is occupied so I bite my lip and throw open the door to the nearest stall. At this moment my only thought is to make sure I don’t make a complete fool of my self and end up loading my pants right in front of the toilet!

I’m bursting, as I yank down my trousers and my blue briefs and drop down onto the porcelain bowl, a hot jet of piss blasting against its inside. The feeling is euphoric! I lean back against the toilet seat, pressing my hand against deflating bladder. “AAHHhhhh~”

But it turns out I wasn’t the only desperate dude in the office. After pissing like a horse for what feels like forever, my stream starts to trickle off just as I hear the bathroom door swings open. I see the shiny black shoes, black socks and gray dress pants of one of my coworkers as they scurry past my stall and to the furthest one. They muttered a curse as they push open the stall door and quickly slam it close as they begin unbuckling their belt.

Normally I probably wouldn’t have stuck around, but I recognized the shoes of my co-worker Jayson, a good looking blond twenty-something who’d grandfather was one of the company’s bigwigs. Jayson was hot in that preppy suit and tie kind of way. Always put together. Nice but quiet.

But it seemed something had roused him up today. He slammed down ass first against the toilet seat, his slim fit trousers around his ankles and his bunched up dark blue underwear around his knees. I heard his hand or something slam against the side of the stall as he seemed to grace himself. I heard him say with a desperate groan “Oh No!” And then the floodgates burst open.

The sloppiest, brattiest case of diarrhea I have ever heard came exploding out of Jayson. It came burst out all at once like a muddy water. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it as this man painted the inside of the porcelain, the shit pouring out of him nonstop. I could see his feet rise up to the tips of his toes as barrage after barrage of diarrhea blasted into the bowl. He let out several thunderous farts and after maybe a minute or so, he’d finished voiding his bowels.

I went to wash my hands, and a moment later he came out, buckling his trousers and washing his hands, whistling as he dried them and walked out of the bathe room as if he hadn’t just desecrated the toilet.

[myosotisa]

Old Heart - Part 2 - Been

‖ chapter summary: Welcome to Memphis, Tennessee. Home of the only Quarantine Zone directly placed on the Mississippi River. It's home to a full cast of characters and you get a brief introduction to the settlement and other people's lives within. Including Eddie's.

‖ tags: enemies to lovers, age gap (41 and 25), forced proximity, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, HEA, "zombie" apocalypse, reader uses she/her pronouns, no y/n, no physical description given, minors dni

‖ chapter warnings: consumption of alcohol (yes that's it, count your blessings)

‖ songs referenced: And Dream of Sheep by Kate Bush, I Wanna Learn a Love Song (Live 1975) by Harry Chapin

‖ word count: 11.2k

‖ prev ‖ ao3 ‖ masterlist ‖ tag list request ‖ next ‖

Tuesday, August 16th, 2016 – Memphis, Tennessee

After 10 minutes of walking through damp and musky tunnels, Eddie asks you to hold his flashlight for a moment as he slides something heavy out of your path. One flashlight in each hand, wondering if maybe you should try to help, all you see is the flex of his shoulders beneath leather as he shifts the object – far enough for a sliver of light to come through and continuing until there's enough room for a single person to squeeze in.

“Okay,” he says in an exhale, both hands shifting to his hips as he dips his head. “You first.” Clicking both flashlights off, you walk up to the opening and peek through, seeing a stone wall opposite, before hesitantly pushing into the new area.

Two steps in and you hear the sound echo for what feels like a full minute too long. Gray light filters in through stained glass and frosted windows across tall, stone walls with impossibly high ceilings. White dust dances, lifts, falls in the stale air around you as you take a few more steps toward the empty hall. Unlit crystal chandeliers hang in an even pattern across the vaulted ceilings, some whole and intricate, some with broken glass and half their shape, others that are just a chain left to shift whenever a breeze passes through one of the shattered windows. Lines of pillars, studiously carved into subtle curves, reach up toward brushed metal decor before melting into the ceiling above. The soles of your boots click across tiled floors as you approach the main structure in the hall.

A statue of what used to be Jesus Christ on the cross sits high above you, a backdrop of beautiful stained glass painted behind. The entirety of the piece is more than 10 feet tall and 20 feet wide – the remains of Jesus hung above an extensive carving of various figures from Christian theology. John the Baptist, Mary Magdalene, the four apostles, the three kings. They all are looking up at him in awe and devotion as they sit easily beneath his crossed and nailed feet.

The head of the statue is missing. There’s jagged stone just above his collarbone where it looks as though it was broken off. Smashed. Desecrated. Cracks descend from the opening and down, weaving their way into the other figures. A split across a king’s forehead into his eye, an diagonal break on the throat of an apostle, a cleave straight through John the Baptist’s torso. With your first glance, it seems the only figure left untouched by the branching tear is Mary herself, kneeling with her head in a bow beneath Jesus’ feet.

A cacophony of scraping and dragging hits you from all sides as the heavy frame Eddie moved is slid back into place, the sound echoing harshly through the empty cathedral and back into your ears so painfully you nearly move to cover them. When you look over to the source, he has just pushed it the final few inches before falling back a few steps. His shoulders rise and fall with a heaving breath and then he turns to you, hands back in his pockets, looking like he wasn’t affected at all.

“Another church,” the repetition of your voice bouncing back to you moments after it leaves your throat is enough to wince.

He lets out a snort of derision on his approach, settling a few feet away from you to also look over the carvings above. “Very astute observation.”

You barrel through his mocking, allowing it to fuel you but not give it your attention. “Dustin said you always want to meet at churches. Louisville, now this. Why?”

Despite that softness of your final question, it still rings out uncomfortably in the silence. You look over at Eddie as he continues to stare up into the space where the head of Jesus used to sit. There’s a reverence to his gaze, a vulnerability to the way his wide eyes flick across it, as if searching for something.

Searching for what?

The moment is gone as quick as it occurred. His head tilts toward you, his expression once again bored, eyebrows set low. “Trick of the trade. Not a lot of people are gonna question a man walking out of a church.” The thought almost seems to make him smile, a bit of mischief in the way he explains it. He spares one last glance up, in a way that’s almost longing, before he’s turning away from the feature and towards the door. “Come on, I’m hungry and ready for a shower.”

You trail Eddie down the shredded rug of the aisle, past what remains of the broken pews and tattered fabrics, and out the heavy twin doors into the afternoon sun.

You’re welcomed into Memphis by the park across the street. It’s dry and dying, a stark contrast to the rest of the greenery you’ve seen since the day began. Like the rain or the ground water from the Mississippi reaches everywhere but this single block of park in the middle of the QZ. It makes you a bit sad to see it withering, but there’s barely anyone around that seems to pay attention to it.

There are people nearby, the first you’ve seen in ages. None of them pay you or Eddie any mind as they go on their way. He veers off to the right, toward what seems to be a much more populated area, looking over his shoulder only once to make sure you’re still behind him. However, as you get closer and closer to where throngs of people come and go, he walks slower, waiting for you to catch up.

“Stay close to me,” it comes out as something close to an order, “things move pretty fast around the market and I don’t want you to get lost in the crowd.”

A completely reasonable request for a good reason. This you can accept. “Okay, can do.”

What shocks you the most is when a hand touches your back for just a moment, though you can feel it continue to hover there as Eddie pushes forward. It’s a good thing too, because you have never been around this many people in your entire life. The amount of people in this square alone could rival the numbers of the entire base at Quantico – and the crowd here is 50 times more diverse. There are children, something you haven’t seen in years, playing together in the streets, kicking a ball through the legs of the adults that continue on their way as if it’s a common occurrence. Probably because it is for them. You’re the only one around who seems to be overwhelmed with the bustle of the Memphis QZ.

The crowd feels as though it parts as you and Eddie walk through, or maybe he’s just leading you along the current as easily as everyone else follows it. It really does behave like a current as faces and bodies pass by on either side, some talking to the people they walk with, others keeping their head down as they move. It all starts to blur together while you let the arm behind lead you deeper into the fold. Part of your brain tells you to start asking questions about where you’re going or what the plan is but you’re struggling to process anything. The sounds, the smells, the sights – it all muddles together in your head and you can’t find something to ground you in the swarm.

“Eddie!”

A high pitched cry has both you and him turning, just in time for the source to barrel into Eddie’s legs.

“Woah,” he laughs as he rocks back to standing straight, a hand landing on the coils on top of the girl’s head as her arms lock solidly around his hips. “Heya squirt, almost bowled me over.”

Her arms release so she can jump up and down a few times in place, her excitement evident. “I missed you!”

You look on as Eddie drops to a knee in front of her, making them the same height. “Missed you too, Libby.” The smile that tilts his lips is stuffed to the brim with fondness and only seems to grow as her delighted giggle gets muffled by the crowd. It’s obvious the girl, Libby, looks up to Eddie and enjoys his company, and Eddie cares for her. It reminds you a bit of his relationship with Dustin: unrestricted affection given and taken in equal measure. “I gotcha something while I was out.”

Her eyes almost triple in size, wet and pleading as she squeals. “Really? You really did?”

He laughs, really laughs, his head hanging down as his shoulders shake. “Yeah, squirt. Picked it out just for you.” The backpack slips off his shoulders as he sets it on the ground in front of him and starts digging through it. Her impatience is palpable but the moment of waiting makes her aware of you for the first time. 

She dips forward, almost like she’s trying to whisper to him but she’s way too loud to actually do so. “Who’s that?”

The question makes Eddie stiffen. You’re not sure if it’s because he forgot you were there or the survival instinct of realizing someone is behind him. Either way, you step further into his line of vision, and closer to Libby, as you offer your name along with your hand. “I’m traveling with Eddie for a couple of days.”

The girl makes no move to shake your hand as she eyes it warily. “Come on, Lib. Don’t be rude.” At Eddie’s goading, she hesitantly takes your hand in her own, the taupe skin of her palm dry and soft, and lets it move up and down once before she’s letting go. She looks a bit shy now that she’s noticed you, causing her excitement for whatever Eddie continues to dig for in his bag to lessen. The fact that she is so shy around strangers but so comfortable with Eddie speaks volumes. Her eyes nervously glance between you and Eddie until an “Ah-ha!” brings the entirety of her focus toward the man before her. He produces a small antler from the bottom of his backpack – 4 tongs of khaki colored bone converging to a shaft with a rough, brown texture almost like bark.

“Wow,” she gasps, eyes wide in child-like delight as she reaches her hands out towards it. “Is it real?”

“Yeah, squirt,” Eddie chuckles, tucking some loose hair behind his ear, “super real.”

“But, but…” those same wide eyes start to water as she cups the antler in her palms. “What happened to the deer that had it?”

“Oh! It, uh…” Eddie fumbles, his own eyes as wide as hers now as he tries to come up with something to ease her rising sadness.

You step closer and drop down beside Eddie, your knee knocking his own with the movement. “Actually, Libby, deer shed the antlers on their own.” Her eyebrows pinch together in confusion as she turns the bone over in her hands. “In the winter time, male deer’s antlers fall off so that when spring comes, they can grow bigger and better ones. See here,” you dip forward a bit more and point toward the base of it. “That’s called the burr, where it connects to the deer’s head. Once a year, the stuff that connects the burr falls apart, kinda like when a plant on a leaf starts to turn brown. Then, you cut off the brown leaf, and a bigger and healthier leaf can grow back.”

Her sadness converted back to awe during your explanation, although still a bit hesitant. “So it doesn’t hurt them?”

“Nope,” you confirm with a smile, “doesn’t hurt them at all.”

“That’s so cool!” She hops again, gripping the antler in her fists. “I wanna go show Mama.”

“Is she at the shop?” Eddie asks as he rises to his feet with a soft groan of complaint. She nods and takes off running towards the crowded square full of tents in the distance. “Fuckin’ kid,” he sighs, although it’s with nothing but affection in his tone. His head tilts toward you, a self deprecating smile tilting his mouth. “Thanks, uh, for the save.”

You wave him off, taking a moment to dust off the knees of your jeans. “No problem. Looked like you needed it.”

“A little bit, yeah.” He shakes his head, a few more shaggy waves falling loose to frame his face. “Y’know I definitely killed that deer and ate it, right?”

“Oh absolutely,” you agree in a tease, knocking your elbow against his, “but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

The knock seems to jar him back into reality, reminding him of who you are and what you’re doing here. It’s almost like watching him physically retreat back into himself as his smile fades. “I guess. Come on, let’s get some food.”

Eddie’s arm is behind you again as you trail after the path Libby had blazed towards the busy market. The crowd is even thicker here, with more people just standing and talking rather than moving, which presses you closer into Eddie’s side as you try not to get separated. He’s alarmingly warm, even through 2 layers – each time your sides brush against each other the shock of it makes you hyper aware of each moment the two of you touch. It gives you something to focus on, to ground yourself, as he leads you off the road and through one of the crowded paths between makeshift market stalls. 

It seems like sometimes Eddie forgets who you are, and in those moments, he’s not as cold to you. It’s confusing, to say the least. The hot and cold treatment. Like he has some preconceived notion of you that affects how he treats you and it isn’t necessarily aligned with how you act toward him. You’ve heard a lot of stories about Eddie Munson over the years. It makes you wonder how many stories he’s heard about you. It’s hard to imagine he’s heard any but there has to be something to make him act this way.

The two of you approach a shop that’s cut into the building beside the market, like a walk up restaurant. There are several people milling about with their heads dipped over steaming bowls, eating quickly before they have to get on their way again. “Hey Mags?” Eddie calls out as he approaches the open door to the inside. His arm falls from behind you as you stop to wait for an answer, but you don’t have time to think about it before the smell hits you. Something rich, meaty, earthy, and just a little bit spicy wafts through the air and has your empty stomach twisting over itself in desire.

“Is that Eddie Munson, I hear?” A woman emerges from the darkened kitchen, wiping her hands on the towel tucked into her apron. Her russet brown complexion is coated in a thin layer of sweat as she brings the towel up to run across her forehead before she greets Eddie with a warm smile. “Libby just ran by shoutin’ something about you being back, bringin’ her something. You know you don’t need to get her gifts like that, Ed.”

“I know, Mags,” he sighs, shifting to the side to lean his shoulder on the wall beside the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. “Just can’t help it sometimes.”

“Well you should try!” She laughs, a deep and melodic chuckle that settles over you like a warm blanket. Her deep brown eyes meet yours as she adjusts the sapphire-toned turban covering the majority of her scalp. “And who do we have here?”

“Oh, sorry,” Eddie stands upright again, waving you a few steps closer. He introduces you by name, citing that you’re traveling with him for a couple days in a repeat of the same thing you’d told Libby.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, darlin’.” She offers her hand, warm and firm on your own with a much nicer shake than Libby had allowed. “I’m Maggie.”

“Nice to meet you, Maggie. Are you the one cooking? It smells amazing.”

She stands a bit taller, looking proud at the compliment. “Got a nice big pot of gumbo going today. Y’all hungry?”

“Absolutely starved,” Eddie confirms, already looking like he’s salivating just at the idea of eating whatever she’s cooked. She waves you both toward the window, going back inside to serve you through it. She pours you each a steaming bowl of gumbo, the chunks of meat indiscernible but the dark roux soaking into the white rice along the bottom of the bowl is more than enough to have you digging in to eat before you even move an inch away. Eddie tries to give her a few pieces of paper between wolfish bites of soaked meat and rice, calls them ration cards, and Maggie adamantly refuses them over and over.

“So,” Maggie looks to you after waving Eddie off for the 4th time, “been travelin’ long?”

Ignoring the scars that flare along your esophagus at the thought, you shrug. “Just over a week, so not too long. Really excited to take advantage of Eddie’s promise for a shower though.” He seems to pause for a moment when you say his name, hesitating, before he goes back to inhaling his bowl. “Just wish I had a change of clothes, really. Had to leave my old place fast.”

She looks you up and down for a moment, as well as she can through the serving window, then she calls behind her. “Hey, Papa?”

A figure appears from the shadows beyond the reach of the afternoon sun. His tan skin is flushed red from the heat of the kitchen, sweat across his brow that rolls down his temples and into the patchy, black beard across his jaw. He twists to her side, resting one hand on the counter before them and the other reaching across to her outer hip. “¿Sí, Mama?”

She leans into his embrace without taking her eyes off of stirring the boiling pot in front of her. “Why don’t you run and grab Ed’s friend some clothes to change into? Then she’ll have something to wear while he washes them.”

The kind gesture has you reeling back. “Oh no, I couldn’t ask that of you. The hot meal is more than enough.”

Her dark eyes reach you again, this time with a glint of mischievousness. “I mean, I suppose if you would prefer to have nothing to wear while you wait for your clothes to dry…”

The obvious implication has blood rushing to the surface of your skin. “No, it’s not – I mean, I –”

“She’ll take the clothes,” Eddie interrupts as he places his now empty bowl back on the counter. "Thanks, Mags. Always too kind to folks around here.” She scoffs, waving him off with a self satisfied smile. The man asks you for some approximate sizes to fish for and you give him your best guesses, saying you'd prefer too big over too small. He gives you a little salute and disappears back into the shadows behind Maggie. You're pulling the last few bites of your bowl back towards you when Eddie speaks again. "You seen Red around?"

She shakes her head, expression falling a touch. "Not in a few days."

He swears under his breath, looking out into the crowd. Almost like he would just happen to catch the person he was asking about if he looked hard enough. "She mention where she was going or who with?"

"Oh yeah," Maggie's tone drops to a smooth monotone. "She told me all about it. And then we braided each other's hair and talked about boys."

Eddie lets out a soft laugh, rubbing along the side of his scruff a bit sheepishly. "Touché."

Maggie steps out from behind the stove to lean down on the counter beside it. “You know she’s fine. Who knows, maybe she’s up there sleeping right now and you’re down here worryin’ for nothing.”

“Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”

“Always am,” she replies happily, attention shifting to you. “All done?”

“Yes,” you pass your bowl over toward her with a grateful smile. “It was delicious, thank you so much again.”

“Happy to, sugar.” She takes the bowl with one hand and offers a reassuring squeeze with the other. An overwhelming kind gesture that has you choking up against your will. “Ed, why don’t you take her up to get cleaned? I’ll have Gus bring the clothes over when he gets back.”

His eyebrows draw together on his forehead, “You sure, Mags? We don’t mind waiting.” We? He’s thinking of us as a we?

Don’t overthink it.

She waves him off again, using the tips of her fingers to cover that same mischievous smile. “Your smell is scarin’ off the customers anyway. Go on now.”

Suddenly self conscious, you try to subtly take a smell of yourself while Eddie thanks her again and says his goodbye. He turns to leave so you offer a quick wave before stepping into pace with him again. The crowd has thinned out a bit now as the sun begins to sink further toward the horizon. The lack of people seems to make him not feel the need to lead you like he did before, with his hand ghosting over your back. You try hard not to ignore your disappointment and the lingering warmth of his palm along your spine.

“Do we actually smell that bad?” You find yourself asking as you walk with him back the way you came, seeing a bit more of the tan, dusty streets than you could before.

He gives you a side eye, before replying. “I’ve been within 10 feet of you for over 3 days. If you smell, I smell, and neither of us can smell it on each other.”

“Touché,” you echo, a small smile coming to your face as you repeat what he said to Maggie just a few minutes ago. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shake his head. And maybe – just maybe – trying to hide a little smile of his own.

Eddie leads you back to the initial intersection, the road that bisects with the cathedral, but brings you the opposite direction. Peeking between buildings, you can see the Mississippi River running wild only a mile or so ahead. To your right there’s a stately building, with its tall pillars and stone carvings, the words ‘MEMPHIS POLICE STATION’ etched into the stone. Beside it there’s a smaller building, more overgrown, less taken care of. Vines climb up the sidewalls and press into broken windows. Graffiti covers the bright red doors and the smashed out sign of the ‘Firefighters Museum of Memphis’. You press forward, past what looks like an apartment building on either side, through the intersection beyond, and towards the large building on the corner. The awning in front of the door reads ‘The Claridge House’, with the word condominiums written in smaller text underneath.

“Condominiums?” You wonder aloud as you follow him past the marble entry and into the ‘fancy’ lobby. Fancy by 1980’s standards with it's brushed metal detailing, blackish-green marble, and large designs in the tile floor. It’s empty apart from a single man in an armchair, legs kicked up and a hat over his face as he rests.

Your companion doesn’t reply, just heads over to the door to the stairwell and holds it open for you to pass through. After spending the last few days out in the open, you still find yourself on high alert – checking corners and looking ahead as you ascend. The rational part of your brain insists that this is a QZ, people live here, the likelihood of there being a random infected in here is near 0.

The irrational part of your brain supplies that the odds are not completely 0.

If Eddie notices your apprehension, he doesn’t say so. Just directs you to exit the stairwell at the 4th floor and head down the hallway to your left. Every other lightbulb is out as you proceed down the carpeted hall, casting an eerie shadowed effect across the peeling wallpaper on the walls. There is very little noise coming from the rooms you pass, leading you to believe they are either unoccupied or the occupants are elsewhere. Most of what you do hear is very muffled conversation here and there, along with the odd bleed of music through the walls.

As you turn the corner, Eddie brushes past you in the narrow hallway, taking the lead as he approaches the door labelled ‘413’. He digs a key out of his pack, unlocks the door, and pushes inside.

The door opens into a square shaped room with two windows on the far wall. They’re west facing, the first orange tints of the soon to be setting sun filtering in through the makeshift curtains. There are a few random posters stuck to beige walls, mostly bands and movies from when you were kid. There’s a rug across the wooden floor that has definitely seen better days, a sunken brown couch and 2 mismatched armchairs facing across from a homemade shelf of concrete blocks and planks of wood. There’s a layer of dust on the record player on the top shelf and the assortment of stacked vinyls below, some in their paper envelopes and others laying on scraps of fabric or pieces of paper. A few steps inside has the dust rising, dancing in harsh sun rays that press in from outside.

“Oy, Red?” Eddie calls, shutting the door behind you both and pushing past you around a corner. “You here?” Two doors open and close as you slowly approach the shelves, running your fingertip through the dust that sits on the cover of a Metallica vinyl. It’s less dusty than the other records below it, but it still hasn’t been touched in a week or more.

“Damn it,” is Eddie’s mumbled curse as he reappears from the side hallway. Turning his direction, you see him lean a shoulder against the wall separating a small kitchen from the rest of the condo. He wipes a hand across his forehead, causing his greasy and sweat-laden bangs to stick out in odd directions.

“She not here?” You prod, still not even really sure who she is.

He looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise, and crosses his arms over his chest again. “No,” he grumbles, casting a glare back towards the hallway. “No note or anything.”

You nod, shifting awkwardly from where you stand in the middle of his living room. Your feet are killing you and you’d like nothing more than to sit down or maybe take that shower you were promised, but it’s hard to move past the feeling of intruding in a place you don’t belong. “I’m sure she’s fine, Maggie seemed sure of it.”

“I know, I know, I know she is more than fucking capable of taking care of herself, it’s just…” Eddie hesitates, glancing from you to the floor. He sighs, his shoulders falling as his eyes drift closed. “Forget it. You can put your bag in the bedroom on the left, I’ll find a towel or something.”

He disappears into one of the open doors and quickly shuts it behind him, leaving you alone in the dust. That feeling is back; like he wanted to talk to you but then remembered who you were and suddenly decided he couldn’t. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, the idea that he thinks you’re untrustworthy. Or maybe it’s for an entirely different reason. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Either way you have no idea what you could’ve done for such a reaction.

Inching your way around the corner, you get a better view of the hallway. To your right is the door Eddie disappeared into. Before you are two doors. The one to the right is closed, so you walk toward the door on the left. The room is mostly empty – there’s a full size mattress slightly raised off the floor, a blue quilt spread over it, and a bookshelf in the corner being half used for books and half as a dresser. The only other things in the room are an acoustic guitar propped up in the corner and a mug full of pens and lighters sitting on the wood shelf. Walking closer, you see the mug is a cream color and the design is slightly worn off – there’s a cartoon drawing of an apple and mismatched text saying ‘I’d rather be at lunch!’. You manage to set down your backpack at the foot of the bed before Eddie reemerges.

“You can shower first,” he says from a few steps away from the open doorway. “I left a towel on the sink for you. There’s soap and some kind of homemade shampoo Mags gave me. I’ll go find Gus to get those clothes and throw them in when I have them.”

You’re stunned by the show of kindness. “Oh… Thank you, Eddie.” He shrugs and turns back toward the living room. His backpack is missing but you aren’t quite sure where he put it. “Is there anything about the shower I should know?” You call after him. He freezes, turning back toward you with his face pinched in confusion. “Like there’s only so much hot water or something? I don’t want to force you into a cold shower.”

It’s his turn to look stunned, his gaze hard as if he’s testing you. You struggle to remain firm under his scrutiny, just like you had the first time. After a moment, he tucks his hands into his back pockets as he slightly shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Water is lukewarm at best anyway.”

He pushes out the door before you can say anything else, the lock sliding into place a second later.

You set yourself to the task of getting to some semblance of clean. The shower pressure and temperature definitely left something to be desired, but you were hardly in a place to complain. You scrub your skin down until it screams for mercy and then apply the same treatment to your scalp. Halfway through your battle, the door clicks open, there’s a noise of something hitting the floor, and then the door clicks shut again. Trying to carefully piece through your hair, you have a moment to think about how long it’s been since you last took a shower. Not since the day before…

Don’t think about it.

Forcing yourself out of the shower before more cracks appear in your foundation, you towel off yourself as best you can and then sift through the pile of clothes now on the bathroom floor. There’s a soft, dark gray t-shirt, a denim button up, a pair of sturdy black jeans, a new pair of mismatched socks. There’s also a few pairs of underwear to your embarrassment. You’re grateful to have the extras of course, but the idea of both Gus and Eddie handling them has you a bit mortified. The underwear and t-shirt go on, foregoing the new sports bra for tomorrow, and you’re about to put the jeans on when you spy a pair of boxers at the bottom of the pile. They’re large on you and cover enough for you to be comfortable sleeping in them. Better than jeans anyway. You fold your new clothes and collect your dirty ones in a bundle beneath your arm and push back out into the living room.

You almost run straight into Eddie from where he’s walking out of the room he’d told you to put your things in. “Oh, sorry,” you apologize on instinct, ducking out of his way and back toward the kitchen.

“It’s fine,” his tone is flat, emotionless. He looks like he’s aged another 5 years since you last saw him 30 minutes ago. “You can throw your dirty clothes on the floor, we’ll figure it out tomorrow. Take whatever you want from the kitchen. Can put on a record or grab one of my books or something, I don’t care.”

Trying not to take the dismissal personally, you just nod. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.” He shrugs off your thanks and closes himself into the bathroom again. The shower turns on a few minutes later.

Your clothes get dumped on the floor next to the couch and you set the clean things on the end of the bed near your bag. The pattern of the wood digs into your feet uncomfortably so you end up putting the new socks on before you go snooping. There’s a small assortment of canned goods in the cabinets along with 2 sets of mismatched dishware. The only thing in the fridge is a half empty 6 pack of beer and a jug of drinking water. You pour yourself a glass and dig out a can of fruit before settling down on one side of the couch with your snack. The sun has dipped below the buildings beyond now, bathing the faded rug in orange.

The silence becomes too much in less than a minute. You cross the room and flip on the record player, setting the disc already there to play from the beginning.

Little light shining Little light will guide them to me

A high pitched feminine voice drawls out the words over a flowing piano. The melody is almost haunting as she picks through the verse, tone waving between sharp highs and rolling lows. It’s slow paced and bittersweet, but calming. The empty sleeve beside the spinning table says ‘Hounds of Love’ across the top, with a woman laying out across a pink toned bedspread. Not what you normally would have picked, but it fills the silence. 

Let me be weak, let me sleep and dream of sheep

You’re halfway through your can of mixed fruit soaked in a sugary liquid when the bathroom door clicks open. Eddie emerges in the middle of tugging a black shirt over his head. In the moments between, you catch a glimpse of his torso: lithe muscle and narrow waist. There’s a large scar across his left side, but you aren’t able to guess what from before it disappears from view. He runs his hands around the collar of the shirt, releasing his limp, damp waves from the fabric. When it’s wet, it’s near impossible to see the lines of gray you know are scattered through it. He’s wearing a loose pair of sweatpants that skim the floor as he walks over to the record player.

“Kate Bush, huh?” You’re too distracted by his arms to notice. He wore his leather jacket almost the entire time you were traveling with him, and this is the first time you’ve actually seen them. They’re not exceptionally muscular, definitely strong for sure, but what catches your attention is the scars along his skin. There are cuts and slashes that range from barely visible to a bright white against his skin. An indent in the epidermis across his bicep, the skin above it puckered and tinted pink. More evidence of wounds old and new are discovered each moment you keep looking. Realizing he’s asked you a question, but already not remembering what it was, you make a confused hum to see if he’ll repeat it.

“Kate Bush,” he repeats, waving his hand toward the spinning vinyl. “You pick it?”

You shake your head, setting your snack off to the side. “Was already there, I just restarted it.”

“Huh.” His eyes track back to it as it continues to play, moving forward to a song about being stuck under ice. Those brown eyes are settled in a glare, like the vinyl is hiding something from him and he can intimidate it into talking. When it doesn’t budge, he shakes his head, his hair leaving droplets behind as he walks into the kitchen. He returns with a can of his own, falling onto the other side of the couch with a groan. “So you can take the bed and I’ll sleep out here.”

You spin toward him, nearly dropping your glass of water in shock. “What? No, I’m not taking your bed.”

He leans his head back, wet waves draping down across his shoulders. He looks tired. Weary, exhausted. And not the kind you can fix with sleep. Eyes closed as he faces the ceiling, he sighs. “Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.” You repeat, more intently. “I’ll be fine on the couch, if you sleep on this thing you’ll probably throw your back out or something.”

A snort leaves his nose, the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement. “Good one.” You try not to let the acceptance go to your head as he rolls his head to look at you. “You’re gonna sleep in the bed. If my old man knew I made a woman sleep on the couch while I had a bed, he’d roll over in his grave. So please… Just take the bed.”

The bags under his eyes are more pronounced as the light fades from the room. They drag at the bottom lid lined with black lashes, sunken into the skin above his cheekbones. Between the dead stare he pins you with and the heavy weight that presses him down into the flattened cushions of the couch, you find yourself softly agreeing. 

When the record finishes playing, you refill your glass of water and go into Eddie’s room, pulling the chain to turn on the bare bulb above the bed. You push the door mostly closed, leaving it open just an inch or two. You can’t see anything beyond it, but knowing that if something happened, if there was some noise or movement or attack, you’d be a little bit more likely to hear it. It helps.

Eddie’s sheets smell like pine, whiskey, and something human. You take the second pillow along the top between your arms, crush it to your chest, press your face into it. Breathe in deep. And wait to fall asleep.

Wednesday, August 17th, 2016 – Memphis, Tennessee

Waking up the next morning is a struggle. Mostly because you couldn’t sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. It had been awhile since you were given the opportunity to sleep through the entire night and your body did not receive the memo.

The next time your eyes crack open and there is a bit of soft light coming from between the blinds, you decide to admit defeat. The decision is further enforced by hearing a hushed argument from beyond the crack in the door. In your half asleep state, you don’t even think before you’re rolling out of bed and pushing the door open.

Conversation stops the moment the door squeaks open. Standing in the doorway, a pair of deep brown and a pair of bright blue eyes pin you in place.

The bright blues belong to a woman who looks like a cross between a soldier and a viking. She’s armed to the teeth, at least 4 knives visible on her person as well as a pistol in her holster and an assault rifle slung over her shoulder. Her dark green tank top is slightly stained with something that could either be mud or old blood, there is dirt brushed over the entirety of her cargo pants, and her military-grade boots have left definite marks behind her to the door. The pale skin of her defined arms have a myriad of scars, all looking no more than 2 years old. The lower half of her scalp is shaven low and the upper half is pulled together in a long, ginger braid that reaches between her shoulder blades. Her eyes are striking and intense, shocking you still much more than Eddie’s surprised expression.

Breaking the stand off, you take a few steps closer to the edge of the living room. “You must be Red,” you offer your name to her along with your hand.

“Max. Not Red,” is her only response, ignoring the hand you’d held out to her in favor of turning back to Eddie. “Just because you leave a little love letter whenever you’re going out doesn’t mean I have to.”

Eddie nervously glances between where you’re slowly lowering your hand and the badass staring him down. “You don’t have to. It just would be nice to have an idea of where you are, and when you’re going to be back.”

Her arms cross tight over his chest. “So you don’t trust me.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.” Eddie pushes to his feet, his jaw set tight. “It has nothing to do with if I trust you or me thinking you’re not capable or something. You obviously are more than capable of taking care of yourself. It’s just…”

“It’s just what, Eddie?”

Her cold tone settles into the shadows of the room, making the air feel thicker and the temperature drop significantly. It sets you on edge, your muscles tightening and your posture straightening on instinct. It has the opposite effect on Eddie. The weariness from last night reappears; his shoulders slightly rolling forward, his presence getting smaller under her stare. It seems completely out of character for him to shrink this way to anyone at all, to bend to someone else’s will so hastily.

“And if you get him killed, Max will hunt you down.”

Dustin’s warning echoes back to you in the tense silence. Understanding that this human weapon is Max, and that she would kill if anything happened to Eddie, is enough to make you second guess any leniency you had felt toward his warning. This person looks like she could tear you apart and not even break a sweat.

“Forget it. Just think about it, okay?”

The defeat in his tone, how he breaks eye contact from her staredown, seems to be enough to make her soften. “Okay,” she acquiesces, dropping the assault rifle down to lean against the wall beside the couch. She glances back to where you still stand before tipping her head back and rolling her shoulders. “I’m gonna go get some sleep.” She pushes past you, trailing tan dust the entire way, before the right side door shuts behind her.

Eddie drags a hand down his face, taking a deep breath before setting his posture straight again. “Did we wake you?” He asks, his tone dry despite the thoughtful question.

“Oh, no,” you take a few steps closer to the couch, carefully stepping over the trail of dirt Max left along the floor. “I woke up first, heard the talking after.” He nods slowly, dropping back to sit on the edge of the couch. “How did you sleep?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. “Fine.”

You decide to take another chance. “No back pain?”

His exhausted expression shifts to one of disbelief, before he cracks a smile against his will. “Smart ass.” Grateful to have gotten him to smile, no matter how unwillingly, you plop down on the other side of the couch. “I need to meet up with some people today. Around town. Make some trades, get supplies for the rest of the trip.”

“Okay, sounds good.” You can feel his stare into the side of your face, a tingling warmth across your skin. “What? What is it?”

“What’re you going to do?”

I thought I was going with you. 

Turns out you will need to fend for yourself.

You last about 15 minutes alone in the apartment. Well, not alone. But Max definitely wasn’t showing any time soon. So you got dressed and went out.

“Hey! You’re the girl who was with Eddie yesterday right?”

Halfway to where you’d met Maggie yesterday, you’re intercepted by a blonde woman. Her hair is long, pin straight, pulled back in a ponytail. Alabaster skin, high cheekbones, hazel eyes. Looks like every prom queen you would see in every 90s movie. The IT girl. The beauty pageant winner. She’s wearing a yellow floral dress that reaches down below her knees but is slightly hitched up in the front from where it’s draped over her extended stomach. One hand rests on the bump while the other extends toward you. “I’m Sadie.”

“Like, the dance?” You ask through a laugh, giving her a hesitant handshake.

“It would be funny if my last name was Hawkins.”

Sadie explains she heard about you from Maggie and that she was just ‘waddling’ over to sit with her for a few hours. “You should come join us! Unless you had something you needed to get to?”

Her smile is warm, welcoming. You’d read in books and screenplays that people sometimes described pregnant people as ‘glowing’, and looking at Sadie now… You can see why. “That’s so nice of you to offer. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stay, but I will definitely walk over there with you.”

You end up staying half the day. There’s an empty stall opposite Maggie’s kitchen with two chairs, one for you and one for her. Turns out Sadie is a talker. A bit like Dustin in that way. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions, doesn’t care too much for if you participate or not. She’s happy to just keep talking. Endlessly going on about life in Memphis, the push and pull of the local groups, who has been rumored to be cavorting with who. You obviously don't know any of these people, but it’s still fun to listen to her gossip. Quantico was a small community, mostly people who all already lived on base before the pandemic hit. There wasn’t a lot of drama or gossip. They almost never brought in new people and there wasn’t a lot of disagreement within the people who were there.

At least, not at first.

“So, what are you doing with Eddie?” Sadie asks, after spending almost 2 hours waxing on and on about the life and times of Memphis.

You’ve been listening and people watching for so long, you almost miss your cue to speak. “He’s, uh, he’s helping me travel. To meet up with family.”

“Oh!” Her smile is bright and full of awe. “That’s so sweet. How long has it been since you’ve seen them? The person you’re going to meet.”

How do you say 'I’ve never actually seen her before'?

“A long time.”

She ‘aww’s, dainty hand gripping your forearm and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Well, that’s amazing. Family is so important, and it can be so hard to stick together in times like these.”

Times like these? Is she for real?

“Yeah, that’s true. How, uh, how do you know Eddie?”

You’re desperate to get the subject back off of you and she seems more than happy to explain. “Everyone around here knows Eddie. He’s the sweetest guy, always so helpful. He runs errands for people all the time. Even the officers. I swear, so many people owe him favors, he could run this whole place if he really wanted to.” Sweet and helpful? “Him and that woman he lives with, with the red hair? Now she’s a brick. Scares me a bit, honestly. It really is a shame what happened. She was so full of life before.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

She looks at you surprised, like she thought you would have already known. “It’s really not my place to tell. I’ve already said too much, I think.” She laughs nervously, rubbing a hand over her bump. Sure didn’t stop you when you were telling me about how Louise is juggling 3 men and none of them know it.

“Yeah, sure,” you cast your gaze back toward Maggie’s kitchen. There’s a walking path between where you’re sitting and the window that has been busy all day, people going this way and that. This market seems to be a big hub of the QZ, at least from what you’ve seen of it. You’ve listened to people trading all day, others talking about different things over bowls of Maggie’s stew of the day. Most of the eavesdropping you’d done had been much more interesting than Sadie after a while. Whispers of ration deliveries coming through less and less often. Some of the upper level FEDRA officers having meetings more often than they normally do. Nothing that is especially salacious, but apparently it’s enough to put some more paranoid people on edge.

Another hour or two passes of half listening to Sadie and half listening to the conversations around you before Eddie appears. He doesn’t notice you at first, walking up to Maggie’s door just like he did yesterday and calling her over. Her and Gus both step up and the three of them lean their heads toward each other, speaking low as Eddie pulls a set of folded papers out of his pocket and starts pointing things out to them. You sit up straighter, focusing in on them to see if you can catch a word or two on what they’re discussing, but you can’t hear anything over Sadie and the people walking between.

Warm, brown eyes meet yours before you can look away. His eyebrows draw together on his forehead, gaze flicking from you, to Sadie, and then back. There’s an obvious question in his expression, but Gus brings his attention back before you can figure out what it might be. “Oh, Eddie,” Sadie says, tapping her hand against your shoulder like you hadn’t already noticed him standing there. You give her a polite nod and smile then settle back into your plastic lawn chair. The trio only speaks for a few more minutes before Gus takes the papers from Eddie and both him and Maggie disappear back into the kitchen. “Eddie!” Sadie calls when she sees him free, waving happily to try to get his attention.

He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, a dark wash compared to the light blue bootcuts he was wearing when you met him, and makes the few steps toward you both. He is wearing a black and red tie dye t-shirt, a white linen button up layered over it with the sleeves rolled up, showing off the scarred skin of his forearms. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail today, though it has a bit more life in it now that it’s been washed. The waves have a bit more definition, fluff up a bit more. It makes him look a bit boyish, more casual than the wolf you’d been traveling with so far. Like being in Memphis makes him softer, more relaxed.

“Afternoon,” he says once he’s passed the walking path. He eyes you both warily, like it makes him uncomfortable to see the two of you sitting together. Given Sadie’s propensity to run her mouth, you can’t blame him, though you can’t say you really learned too much about him or about Max.

“It’s nice to see you, Eddie. How long are you in town for?” Sadie’s smile is just as warm as it was towards you, her voice just as sweet, but for some reason having that same warmth directed toward Eddie makes the boil in your blood kick on.

He shifts from one foot to the other, glancing toward you again before he returns to her. “Only a day or two. We have to get on the road again, just stopped in town to stock up. And I had a delivery for Ahmed.”

“Yeah, she was just telling me you’re helping her travel to meet up with her family,” she squeezes your forearm gently again. “It’s good to hear nice stories like that, seems like everything is so sad nowadays.” He nods, breaking eye contact to look out over the market. “And it sure is lucky you ended up being back in town for the bonfire tonight.”

“Bonfire?” You ask, crossing your ankles over each other as you lean toward her another few inches.

Her expression is once again absolute delight. “Every month or so, we have a big bonfire down at Fourth Bluff Park. Everyone brings what they can, like a big potluck, and there’s music and dancing and everything. It’s the one time the officers get lenient with curfew – as long as nobody gets too rowdy.” Her bright eyes look between you and Eddie, now pleading. “You’re both coming, aren’t you?”

So when the sun starts to set, you find yourself walking side by side with Eddie toward the already roaring bonfire in the distance.

“Do you go to these things often?”

Eddie keeps several inches between the two of you as you walk, arms crossed over his chest. “Try to. Free food, free booze.”

You can’t help but perk up interest. “Free booze?”

He chuckles, his ponytail bobbing as he shakes his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not good booze.”

“Well… Any booze is good booze. At least in my opinion.” He hums an acknowledgement, side stepping out of the way when two kids run past you both in the opposite direction. “Are you planning on drinking tonight?”

His head tilts toward you, the fire already reflecting in his eyes despite the distance. “No, not tonight. But if you want to, by all means –”

“No, no.” You’re quick to interrupt, waving your hands in front of you in denial. “I don’t think so. Y’know, unfamiliar place and all.”

“Oh. Yeah, makes sense.” He kicks a rock out of his path, arms falling to his sides as you both get closer. “Seemed pretty comfortable with Sadie earlier though.”

It’s your turn to look him over. You can’t place how he feels about it, but the fact that he’s bringing it up now only reinforces the idea that he was uncomfortable when you were talking with her. “She’s sweet. Had a lot of nice things to say about you.”

A hand comes up to rub at the side of his scruff, his next breath long and loud. “Yeah, she has a kind heart for sure. Talkative too.”

“Absolutely,” you can’t help but smile, “I think I know the gossip of half the town now. Doesn’t do me much good when I don’t know anyone but… Suppose knowledge can be power.” You think back to what she said about Eddie, about how much power he wields here just by having so many people owe him favors. But, from what you can tell, he isn’t loud about that fact. He doesn’t run around flaunting it or acting high and mighty. If anything, it almost feels secretive. Something everyone knows but no one talks about. A silent power, a quiet force that works in the shadows. Hidden, but not invisible. Waiting for the right moment to collect.

“You’d think that but then you have Sadie, who knows a lot about a lot of people and…” He trails off, leaving the implication to hang there. Like he’s nervous to say it.

You’re not. “She is not the brightest bulb, that’s for sure.”

Eddie laughs, rocking back away from you with the force of it, a barking laugh that hits him expectedly. It’s louder than you were expecting but also makes it that much sweeter to hear. “No she is not.” He agrees once his laughter dies down. But his smile stays all the way up to the large group of people around the bonfire.

You’ve barely arrived before Libby seems to appear out of nowhere, grabbing at Eddie’s hands and trying to drag him away. He casts you a glance that you read as requesting your approval, and you wave him off. He lets the hyperactive girl lead him towards the tables of food. It isn’t long until Sadie finds you, looping her arm through your own and pulling you over toward a group of people laughing and talking. A drink is placed into your hand, one you smell and quickly assign as watered down piss-whiskey, so you nod a thanks and just hold it to have something to do with your hands. No one seems to pay you any mind beyond offering a polite nod of greeting, they all settle into a flow of familiar back and forth between friends.

It feels strange. To be in a community like this, to be around people like this. Laughing and talking and shooting the shit. It reminds you of how you felt when you saw Dustin and Eddie goofing around – this unfamiliarity with the comradery of it. A nagging feeling in the back of your head that it’s irrational to live like this, silly to let your guard down, irresponsible and unrealistic. How do these people act like everything is fine? Like they’re happy to live like this?

The squeal of a fiddle has you spinning on your heel toward the bonfire behind you. Across the way, a group is forming. People pulling together crates and turning over buckets to gather close together. A brunette drags her bow across the fiddle resting on her shoulder, a man holding a homemade banjo beside her, another setting up a hollowed out wooden box and sitting down right on top of it. An older woman settles onto a bucket with an acoustic guitar as a few other people with various instruments gather. The woman on the fiddle leads them into a tune, one you’re not even sure is an actual song, but they all seem to pick it up just the same.

Before too long a few couples have walked out in the space in front of the band, spinning their partners and getting into dances. A group of 4 kids runs over, linking their hands together, and starts to laugh and spin in a circle between the pairs. More people join the fray, enough to block your view. You whisper to Sadie that you’ll be back and part from the group to try to get a better view of the people playing.

You weave through the crowd and closer to that side of the circle, trying to dodge people swaying to the music or laughing boisterously and walking into your way. Half of the people you pass already seem intoxicated on the same piss that's in your cup, and it makes you shudder to think of how much of it they would’ve had to drink to even get buzzed. You find a good enough spot to watch the dancing and the players, standing off to the side, but almost jump out of your skin when someone clears their throat beside you.

Max is wearing a black hoodie over a pair of jeans, her hair down to cover the undercut. She looks so different here than the warrior you encountered this morning, her hands tucked into the pocket of her hoodie. “Hey,” she offers, barely any inflection applied.

“Hey.” She dips her head at your reply, barely an acknowledgement, before she sets her eyes back on the dancing again. You do the same, standing side by side for a while, just quietly watching the party happen around you.

Without warning, you see a few people presenting Eddie to the group of musicians. They greet him heartily, hands clapping on backs and all smiles as he interacts with them. He looks a bit like he’s trying to make a getaway, but it’s unsuccessful. A set of hands forces him down onto a wooden crate and an acoustic guitar is deposited into his hands. He runs the tips of his fingers along the strings, an easy smile growing on his face as the man on the wooden drum leans in to speak to him. From this distance, you can barely see him roll his eyes before nodding to agree. A murmur passes through the group, heads nodding and confirming before the tune they were still idly keeping up comes to a stop.

Eddie counts them off, giving 8 beats before he starts to strum. It’s a rhythmic back and forth across the strings, 4 or 5 times before the banjo plucks a 3 beat tune. The man on the wooden box bends forward and begins to tap his palm against the side, a heart beat that keeps with the melody of the banjo.

I come fresh from the street, fast on my feet Kinda crass and corny Not much meat on my bones and a whole lot alone And more than a little bit horny

A cheer rings out as Eddie starts to sing, his deep baritone ringing out in the clearing. There’s another whooping when he says the word ‘horny’, which sends him into laughs, almost missing his next cue to sing.

The old six string was all I had To keep my belly still And for each full hour lesson I gave I got a crisp ten dollar bill

You can’t take your eyes off of him. He keeps up the strumming as his eyes close, his neck extending as he sings loud and proud. The people around look on fondly, like they’re used to seeing this, like they look forward to when Eddie joins in with the band. You can’t blame them. It looks so natural to see a guitar in his hands, foot tapping, head shaking as he continues to sing. He interacts with the other people playing, leaning this way and that, even goading on the people dancing.

She said, "I wanna learn a lovе song, Full of happy things" She said, "I wanna learn a love song, Won't you let me hear you sing?" She said, "I wanna learn a love song, I wanna hear you play" She said, "I wanna learn a love song, Before you go away"

“He’s really good,” you admit, mostly to yourself. 

“Yeah, always has been.” When you look over at Max, she has a soft smile on her face. The first you’ve seen from the brief interactions you’ve had with her. “Used to be in a band and everything.”

The idea makes you smile – Eddie up on a stage, giving his all to a crowd of happy fans. Just like he is now, completely at ease and not even realizing he has the attention of almost everyone around. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Eddie plays a few more songs with the band, singing all the while, before he excuses himself. There are some claps and cheers as he stands to leave and he treats them with a dramatic bow, earning himself a few wolf whistles. He makes it a few feet away before he spots you and Max in the crowd, his face brightening in recognition before he starts walking over. There’s an ease to how he moves now. Everything about him seems lighter than you’ve seen him so far.

“You’ve got some talent, Munson, I’ll give you that.”

He laughs again, the 3rd time you’ve gotten him to laugh today, as he comes to a stop before you both. “High praise.” It’s a sarcastic reply, but there’s still a dusting of pink across his cheekbones that might not be entirely from the exertion and the heat of the fire. “Hey Red.”

She jerks her head up in greeting. “I cleaned up the dirt I tracked in. Didn’t want to upset your delicate sensibilities.” You aren’t quick enough to catch the snort, bringing your free hand up to try to hide your smile.

“You’re so generous,” he deadpans back, though it’s hard to deny the smile that splits his lips. “Actually, I’m glad I caught you,” he directs back toward you. “I have to go back to the apartment to get something for a deal. Didn’t want to disappear without saying anything.”

“You mind if I tag along?” You find yourself asking without really thinking. “I could use the air.”

He looks surprised, wide eyes blinking a few times. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He looks expectantly over at Max, who waves him off.

“I’ll hang around here. See if I can get some of Mag’s pineapple upside down cake.” He nods, mumbling something about not blaming her, before he motions for you to push through the crowd first.

The further you get from the bonfire, the chiller the air becomes. Your jacket, which almost felt like too much by the flames, is now a welcome warmth as you walk with Eddie back the way you came. There’s almost no one around here, assuming most people are either at home or over with the party, so you walk together down empty and barely lit streets.

“Max said you were in a band.”

He groans goodnaturedly, as if he's embarrassed. “Yeah, before all this. Played guitar.”

You tuck your hands into the pockets of your jacket, your elbow brushing his on accident. “Your band have a name?”

“Corroded Coffin.”

It takes everything in you to try to hold in the laugh. “Sounds… Edgy.”

He rolls his eyes, knocking his elbow against yours on purpose this time. “It was very metal, thank you very much.”

“I’m sure it was,” you concede. The two of you settle into a companionable silence as you walk the now-recognizable path toward the Claridge House. He stands taller than he did earlier, looks happier. This Eddie is a far cry from the weary one you encountered last night and this morning. Was it being at home, around people he knew that made him feel this light? Or was it the opportunity to play for the crowd that lifted the weight off his shoulders?

After holding the door open for you again, the two of you climb up to the 4th floor and walk the carpet down toward apartment 413. Another bulb or two has gone out, along with another that flickers overhead. It makes the shadows stretch longer, look sharper as they press in toward the light. Still, you don’t find yourself checking corners like you did when you arrived yesterday. While not entirely at ease, it does feel a bit safer than it did before. You wait to the side while Eddie fishes the keys out of his pocket and pushes inside. He crosses the living room to flick on the lamp while you close the door behind you. “Should be just a minute, then we can head back.”

“Take your time,” you assure him, not actually in a hurry to go back. It had been a bit overwhelming at first. But really, the thing that stuck with you was this feeling of foreboding. Something you hadn’t been able to shake for years. This feeling that something bad was going to happen, something bad always happens, though you didn’t know what or when. Something about the bonfire made that feeling more intense. Either because it all seemed too good to be true or because it reminded you how unwilling you were to accept that maybe it was just good. Maybe something could just be good. Maybe it wasn’t all just going to hurt in the end.

Eddie rounds the corner from the kitchen, presenting an unmarked container with a smile, right when the apartment goes dark. The lamp, the nightlight in the hallway, the street light that slightly shone in the living room windows. They all flick off at once and send you both into darkness.

That’s the only warning you get before the blaring horn of alarms sound outside.

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thanks for reading and for giving so much love on part 1 and the masterlist!! if you liked this part, please give it a reblog and leave a comment if you can :)

[chipper-smol]

Please divulge All the Plans and Ideas you had for pale jester AU! Let them out into the wilds

I'll give you A snippet since I can't remember everything off the top of my head xD

The reason why Grimm took an interest in the Pale King in the first place was to ensure the longevity of the Grimm Troupe. The Grimm Troupe is like a scavenger, going around to desecrated kingdoms to harvest the flames for their rituals to rebirth a new Grimm.

So what happens when there are no longer any kingdoms to scavenge from?

In the narrative, the Grimm Troupe is meant to be both supportive and antagonistic to the Pale King. They were meant to be a locus for rekindling his will to found a Kingdom. When the Pale King chose to live again, he would've been set free without a question.

I really wanted the AU to follow a morally gray route where neither parties were the good or bad guys. They just Are What They Are and their actions would drive the plot.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Theatre - A Vampire!John Shelby/Polly Gray One Shot Story.

I wanted to have this finished last night, guys, but I wasn't really up to writing by the time I'd finally sat down. So, here it is now. Enjoy.

Words - 1,647

Warnings - None. Though John is a vampire, there is nothing gory, just sadness from both sides as he and Polly meet again.

Polly knew the building she carefully entered of old, even though the once grand theatre had long been abandoned. It was the place where fastidiously saved shillings would be spent, best clothes donned, holding her father’s tobacco-scented hand as she trotted up the steps excitedly, ready to see whatever play was being held there.  

“Holy shit!” Her startled exclamation cut through the desolate quiet, a pigeon low flying in its bid for freedom through the door she’d just pulled open. There had certainly been none of those flying around when she’d visited there as a child. Scanning around, she was filled with a sense of nostalgia tinged with sadness, the beautiful building now lain to waste, a lack of care and upkeep over time as well as the obvious desecration performed by hoodlums adding to the overall decay of a once splendorous venue. 

It smelled of death, too. However, such an odour had nothing to do with the theatre itself. 

“I know you’re here.”  

Her words echoed through the grand hall, the high ceiling ripped open upon the huge dome, a blueish silver beam of moonlight pouring in through the hole. “You can’t hide from me forever, our John.” 

He’d been missing for months, the family worried sick for him, accusations thrown in every direction over who the perpetrator of his demise truly was. Because John wouldn’t simply vanish without a trace unless something nerfarious had happened to him. It wasn’t, Polly realised – and sooner than her nephews – any of the usual suspects, though. 

“Love, you’ve got to show yourself eventually,” she called, dusting off one of the seats, its velvet still plush beneath the gathering of fine debris. “I’m not leaving until you come out.”  

Resolute as always, she took a seat, crossing her legs. “Ain’t the same without you around, you know. I never thought I’d speak the words, but I miss the noise. Never one for being quiet, were you?” She hummed a chuckle, remembering all the times she’d had to see him into the house on shaky feet, drunk as a lord, singing. Without deviation, his song was always out of tune, but delivered with the kind of infectious mirth that never failed to warm her.  

The space remained veiled in silence, but she knew he was there, knew he heard every word. Hell, she could have been standing at the corner of the street outside the green grocers, whispering every one, and he still would have heard her.  

“I know what you are, John boy. I know why it is, that you went missing and never returned. If you want to stay away from us, that’s up to you. At least show your face to me once now I’m here.” Her sigh was borne upon a tremored breath, looking around the shabby surroundings once more with eyes that glassed. “I don’t want you to become a memory.”  

Whatever left within him that was human couldn’t quite harden to those words, the plea of an aunt broken by it, the love she carried for him so very clear. Polly was rarely soft, her grit and tenacity, her strength and fortitude pouring with the love she felt for her boys. She’d been more like a mother to them and Ada for a long, long time.  

“Maybe I should be.”  

She blinked, and it was in that single shutter of her eyes that he appeared, down by the stage, the moonlight bathing him. He was even paler than he’d always been. “Come here, John. Let me see you properly.” 

He walked to her, moving at the pace of a human, of what he’d once been. Of what he’d never be ever again. “How’d ya find me?” 

She almost hadn’t, had it not been for her intuition. The theatre, it hadn’t solely been her special place as a child; John had loved it too. Alas, his trips there had ended at just six years old when it had finally closed its doors, Polly unable to spend that special time with her little nephew of a Saturday afternoon. 

It was a fond memory, remembering watching him leaning over the brass guard rails in the upper mezzanine, his eyes sparkling with wonder at the scenes below. He’d laugh until his little belly ached at the antics of the actors; the slapstick comedy plays he treasured so much. Tommy and Arthur were always too rambunctious to sit still for more than five minutes, but John had been different.  

Of course, he’d still tear through the streets of Small Heath like a little freckled tornado of chaos, eagerly chasing a football or trundling a hoop, but if something made the child laugh until he cried, his attention could be caught and his little legs slowed down. 

“Because I know you, our John,” she smiled, “and I’ll never not know you either. I should have just bloody come straight here when you vanished, should have known instantly you’d be hiding here.” 

He nodded, but his face still showed he sought more. “And how’d ya know what I am now?” 

It was time. She had to reveal the secret she’d kept for so many years, only half believing it, not wanting to think such could ever befall one of her precious nephews. “You’ve heard me speak of your great aunt before, haven’t you?” she began, taking out her cigarettes and lighting one up, the air perfumed by the scent of cloves. 

“Ar, Lorna Boswell, weren’t she?” 

“Correct,” she confirmed, drawing fiercely on her smoke. “She read my tea leaves for me, used to do it a lot. Everything she saw, it came true. One evening, she told me of a creature that would come and take away a boy who was precious to me, one with hair like fire and a temperament to match. Ain’t gotta do much work putting two and two together there, eh?” 

He laughed softly through his nose, Polly continuing. “She said the creature would be living death, and take the boy away, make him the same, condemn him to the night.” Her breath clouded in the cold, shuddered, her heart fracturing a little further. “Nobody talks of the vampires, but our family, we always knew what they were. Our origins are the same, because we’re Roma people, John, and that’s where they sprung up from all those years ago.” 

His brow furrowed a little, but Polly knew there was no real indignance behind it. “And why didn’t you warn me, try and stop it from happening?” 

She scoffed softly, standing, walking to where he stood. “Because Lorna also told me that the boy with the hair like fire would seek it willingly, so tell me, who am I to stand in the way of fate?” She had him there, and he knew it. “Ain’t no fucking way a mere mortal can stop something that powerful either, fate aside.” 

It was true, but still, standing there in the presence of the one he’d truly ached to leave behind, John hated himself even more for the decision he’d made. “She said I couldn’t come home, Ena, the one who made me like this. Said it’d be too dangerous, with me urges an’ all that.” His eyes saddened, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I can’t come home with you cos’ of that, Pol.” 

The weight of it sank in her chest like a stone, a tear slipping from her kohl-blackened eyes. “The blood cravings, I know.” A loving hand touched his cheek, life meeting death, her warmth spreading over his chill. “Whatever you were, you still are to me. Never forget that.” 

His hand, chilled and deathly pale, covered hers. “What you gonna tell the family?” 

“Whatever you want me to, love.”  

“Say you ain’t seen me, just let me be gone for a bit, until I get it under control. Then I’ll come back. Until then, I’ve got this place, ain’t I? All the memories.” He looked up, pointing, the brass rails shining in the moonlight despite the tarnish. “Right there is where we used to sit, watching people clobbering one another, falling over things. Never laughed like I did when I was here with you in me whole life, Pol.” 

And he never would again.  

“I know, our John. I know.” She clasped his face, pulling him to her level, pressing a kiss of unbreakable love to his forehead. “Want me to come back and see you again, or...” 

He shook his head. “Not for a bit.” His hands grasped her shoulders, her human closeness stirring him, but not in the same way it always did. He still had love in his cold, dead heart for her, but the vampiric urges outweighed anything else. His body tingled, the hunger beginning to grow. He couldn’t, though. He wouldn’t. “Go on, get yourself home. Just know I ain’t gonna forget about any of ya. If there’s trouble in the night, I’ll look out for ya.” 

Of course, he would. She sighed, stroking his face one more time, her tears flowing as she turned and with the weight of reluctance and sadness weighing her down, left him there in their special place.  

If only fate could be fought against. Then again, if it could have been, it would have meant that two weeks from then, she’d have lost a drunken Arthur to being jumped by a gang of Sabini’s men, her wide eyed, wild nephew coming back into the house worse for wear, but alive. 

“I dunno, Pol. They was all there, fuckin’ laying into me with lead pipes and batons, giving me a right kicking. Fuckin’ fought ‘em back, though, I did! But then, gone. One by one, they just... vanished!” he boomed, scratching his chin. “I tell ya, someone was watching over me tonight.” 

Yes. Someone was. Polly smiled as she stared into the fire, thanking John silently. 

[bigbangharringrove]

They're burning all the witches (even if you aren't one)

Author: @theladycarpathia (Ao3: storybelle) Artist: @cronesfeetpics

Summary: The world is full of witches. But Billy Hargrove never cared until he matched with Steve Harrington on a dating app. The Hargroves don’t actively hunt anymore but Neil won’t take too kindly to his only son dating a male witch. They just need another year and then they’re out, away from this town and Neil’s grasp. But then the bodies start dropping one warm night in September. Rot creeps in, the wells are poisoned and Neil is convinced the witches are at fault. Something evil is at work in Hawkins and it’s a hard call whether it’s the ancient monster trying to break free or the witch hunt that threatens Steve’s life. Rating: E Pairings: Harringrove and background Jopper/implied Buckleway Content Tags: Sexual content, blood, corpse desecration, murder/gore, mob mentality, homophobia, dead animals, dead dove do not eat

Excerpt & Art Preview:

Billy Hargrove was born with a witch-hunter’s mark on his wrist. To Steve, this should have meant nothing. In any other world, he was a boy who swiped right on someone cute and the strange birthmark on Billy’s skin would have stayed just that. When the door to the diner opens, Steve automatically jerks his head up. His date is late and he’s just starting to think that he’s been catfished or stood up and that maybe Tinder was the dumbest idea he’s ever had. No guy is that hot or has eyes that blue in real life. But the guy in the door isn’t his date, just some guy in a baseball cap who waves at the waitress and takes a seat in a booth. Steve slumps back in his chair. He’ll wait ten more minutes, then he’ll go. He’ll grab a burger to take with him, because even disappointment isn’t enough to keep him from wanting one of Benny’s, and then he’ll go home and probably jerk off to the catfish guy’s long lashes and crooked grin. “Alright, Steve?” Betty asks curiously, hovering by his table with her coffee pot. He smiles up at her and shrugs. She fills his mug anyway. “You look like you could use it,” she advises. “Get stood up?” “Yeah,” Steve mutters, and rips open a packet of sugar. “Dating apps.” She makes a pained face. “The worst,” Betty agrees, and the fact that Betty has any knowledge of dating apps both amuses and disturbs him. Betty wears her graying ash blonde hair in a knot low at the base of her neck in a style that was probably popular back when she was a teenager. She has three grandkids and a penknife attached to her car keys. “Cheer up,” she continues, as Steve swirls his spoon in his coffee. “Cute thing like you? I hear you have no shortage of dates.” Steve stares at the churning black liquid. He doesn’t know why this one felt different. His mom would say that it’s part of the magic, how it can lead you to things that feel right. That years of feeling magic in their bones and being wary of who to trust has given them great instincts. Steve thinks it’s all crap and that maybe he was just attached to this guy’s biceps.

[ace-donovan]

Eli and Ace were huddled over the desk in the office. This office was empty apart from them, but Eli was speaking on the phone to someone, pointing at various entries to the blueprint that laid before them. Eli had skilled himself in being the face of the West Side Crew, under Ace’s request, but he still made sure that his decisions were the ones that Ace would give on his own. He glanced at Ace as he tried to narrow down the entryways they should take in the siege. “Tripp, you and Dallas need to enter on the north side of the courtyard. Let Sawyer and Tommy go through the west,” Eli said, getting a quick glance at Ace before finishing. “Yeah, let me know when it’s finished. Okay, bye.” 

Ending the call, Eli let out a sigh and sat down in the chair in front of the desk, letting Ace sit behind it where he belonged. “What’s got you worried?” Ace questioned his second in command, seeing the concern shadowing the man’s mouth. 

Eli perched himself on the edge of his chair, his eyes staring at the blueprints yet again. “I’m always worried about missions. Yeah, it's a clean sweep but still.” 

Ace nodded, understanding what he meant. He too was looking at the prints again, wondering if there was a better route instead. But deep in his gut, he knew they had planned the best course for his men to sneak into the building without being detected by any of the Los Lobos. “I wouldn’t have said anything differently than you, Eli.” 

This seemed to help improve Eli’s nerves. “Thanks, boss,” he whispered, exhaling now. “Yeah, you’re right. They’ll be in and out. It’s just recon anyways.” 

Nearly twenty minutes passed before Eli’s phone started ringing. A loud sigh of relief came from his mouth as he pulled the phone to his ear. “Did everything go according to plan?” Eli asked. 

“Oh, fuck, man!” Tripp shouted into the phone, panting erratically, it sounded like he was fleeing on foot. 

“—whoa, what’s wrong?” 

“Deucalion was there!” Tripp said frantically, “Dallas, come on man!” 

“Deucalion?” Eli said loudly. Now Ace was up on his feet, immediately at Eli’s side. His eyes were fixed on his friend’s troubled face. Unable to contain himself, Ace captured the phone and spoke directly to Tripp. 

“Tripp, I need you to take a breath and tell me what happened. Deucalion was there?” Ace could hear Tripp slowing to a walk, still breathless but he was trying to calm himself. The sound of someone else gasping from behind was heard. He assumed it was Dallas. 

“They were there, all his lieutenants. It wasn’t just a ghost crew. They were having some kind of meeting or something, I don’t know! Dallas and I barely got in the place and then we heard gunshots. Sawyer and Tommy… they’re dead, Ace. They killed them.” 

An audible gasp could be heard from Ace as he sat down in the chair, giving Eli the phone now. Ace didn’t bother listening to the remainder of the conversation. He wanted nothing but silence for now. His head was filled with questions and doubts. Two of his men were lost. Not just dead but lost…forever. They would never retrieve their bodies. The Los Lobos would desecrate their remains in unimaginable ways. Ace felt a wave of grief slamming against his chest and he lost his breath for a moment. Eyes burning from tears, he took out his phone to make two phone calls. 

◈◈◈◈◈◈

Members of the gang drifted to the sea house to celebrate and mourn the lives of their fallen friends. Ace and Eli had been at the house for nearly a day and a half now. They prepared the food for the wake, modified the defenses in case of retaliation from the other gang, and made sure there was clean linen in every bedroom in case some of the members wanted to stay for the night.

Ace was staring out the window at the gray clouds that swirled together in the vast sky. It was a good day for a wake, in all poetic senses. The thought made Ace swallow the bile that tried to rise in his mouth. He let out a sigh as he heard the approaching footsteps of Eli. “I’m sorry, Eli,” Ace whispered, turning around to face his friend who looked like he had aged ten years over the last four days. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this as the leader,” Ace explained, shaking his head. “I can take charge.” 

Eli shook his head “You have more at stake than me,” he whispered, trying to be brave. “I will not let you down. Ever.” 

Ace pulled his friend into his arms and hugged him tightly. “I know you won’t.” He let go of Eli and ran his hand across his brow, wiping the sweat beads away. Uncomfortably, he tugged at the suit he wore. “It’s hot as fuck here, let’s get the AC on.” With a nod, Eli turned and headed away from his leader. 

Ace resumed his stare out of the window, but this time he did not look at the clouds, instead he was watching the headlights of the black limousine that climbed up the curved driveway. Ace swallowed hard, taking a deep breath as he prepared himself to meet the widows of Sawyer and Tommy. As he walked out of the house, he called over his shoulder to Eli to join him. Today would be a very hard day for him but he could not imagine that pain and grief that Ana and Lisa felt.

[twistedminutia]

Also, i wonder how different the zombies is in Twst are, especially for horror. Cuz, with their belief in a afterlife, I wonder if they think good or bad, like do they think that they are an unwilling host of a body? Or are just summons for powerful wizards.

While, the zombies are portrayed to be shambling corpses made by virus, or fungi. Whether going slow or fast. Or if they are any variation like the Cordyceps zombies in Last of Us or a smiling Virus. Or any zombie movies, just to see the corpse (representation of the dead eating the living).

Tho, I'm not sure if Gray is a fan of horror. But man do I want to see how different zombies are and the culture shock.

Zombies are a particularly fascinating concept here. I’m going to say that zombie portrayals are actually not super different from our zombie portrayals in a lot of ways, except for a slight bent of ‘and this COULD happen’ in some cases. I have long thoughts, so this is going under a cut!

Zombies in twst (at least in my headcanon) come in three main flavors: zombies created entirely by magic (either intentionally or accidentally), zombies created both by magic and science, and zombies created by ‘pure’ science.

Zombies created by ‘pure’ science are the most like zombie movies in our world. They’re created by some kind of mutant virus, or fungus, or environmental contaminant of some kind. It’s not realistic, but in the world of the movie, there’s no magic involved in their creation. The only way magic factors into the plot is if there are mage characters fighting off the zombies using magic. (If you watch one of these movies with Idia, he’ll give you a running list of science facts they got wrong!)

Zombies created by both magic and science are relatively common in the modern day- think, like, a scientist is trying to cure a disease with magic and accidentally mutates it into a zombie virus. They’re still caused by some kind of mundane phenomena, but the scientific impossibility is being handwaved by magic. It’s also used a lot to make the zombies ‘immune’ to magic, so mages in the cast have to deal with their combat spells being generally ineffective. They’re probably the most popular kind of zombie in modern twst media.

Zombies created purely by magic are considered more ‘classic’ zombies in the twst world. The first zombie stories are of mages raising massive armies of undead to fight, and some of the modern zombie classics involve the hubris of man, with mages trying to raise loved ones and stop death only to find they’ve created an undead apocalypse.

Magic zombies tend to also have morals tied to them about the dangers of necromancy. It exists as a potential branch of magic in Twisted Wonderland, but it’s forbidden to practice magic on corpses outside of specific circumstances (like preparation for a funeral) and raising people from the dead is somewhere between forbidden and impossible.

Necromancy exists in two ‘branches’ in Twisted Wonderland. The first branch is just using corpses as semi-autonomous familiars. This is outlawed in the vast majority of countries in Twisted Wonderland as corpse desecration on top of penalties for using forbidden magic. Using corpses is pretty unpopular anyway- dead bodies have a lot of disease risk, especially those who've started rotting, skeletons need magical supports to hold their bones together, and using dead bodies has pretty much no advantages over just enchanting an object. Except in one circumstance: War! If your enemies (and hey, even your allies) aren't going to be using their dead bodies anymore, might as well pick them up and put them to good use fighting for you!

(This has the significant and severe disadvantage of creating a lot of blot, but if you think you can overpower your enemies fast enough, then it could work.)

The second branch is the somewhat more forbidden branch of trying to bring someone back from the dead. It's primarily forbidden, not because there's any real objection to actually bringing someone back to life, but because it doesn't work and can sometimes create something really awful in the process.

As far as anyone knows, necromancy is, ironically, a dead branch of magic. No one has ever successfully revived anyone from the dead. There are stories where necromancy sort of works- they summon the spirit of their departed, forcing them to linger in the living world as a sort of half-alive shade, they trap their soul in an inanimate object- but no one has ever confirmed if those are real, and there aren't any legends about a person actually managing to bring a soul back to the body it departed from and keeping it there. There are a lot of legends about people trying to bring their loved ones back and it going horribly, horribly wrong, though. In the best stories, they die. In the worst? All kind of things, from mass death and destruction to a major overblot. That's part of the reason necromancy is banned, despite it not really working. People kept trying it, burning themselves out on the magic required, and overblotting.

Funnily enough, Ortho is probably the closest thing anyone has to somebody actually being brought back from the dead. He's not a living person, technically, but he's got the memories and personality of his dead counterpart, and he's autonomous and has his own free will as of the end of Book 6.

(Ghosts possessing dead people zombies are also possible in twst, but those don't happen in real life very often, and are considered ghost movies not zombie movies when the trope shows up in horror media.)

This was a lot of rambling and I think I got significantly off topic. In terms of horror movies, zombies occupy a similar niche. A zombie apocalypse really couldn't happen in Twisted Wonderland due to logistical reasons, but magic gets incorporated into zombie myths and movies in fun ways. Uh. I hope this was helpful. And comprehensible.

[brookesophelias]

"the ballad of songbirds & snakes" is draining me & i'm only at the epigraph? | or, aka, Suzanne, you nearly had me.

“I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, & the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing & scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him.” — Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, 1818 The quote discusses the contrast between someone's initial positive qualities at the start of their character, & how those qualities were later overcast by the negating actions of those around them. (insert some already-popular theory about Snow's love for Lucy Gray becoming the inner world of why he tortured Everlark). THATS NOT WHAT GETS ME, HOWEVER. READ THE QUOTE AGAIN, STOPPING AT BLIGHT.

"...blight" as in desecration. Blight is the name of the District Seven Victor who Johanna Mason says, “Yeah, well, he wasn't much, but he was from home,” She nudges Beetee, who's barely conscious, with her shoe. “He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia. And her—” (CF; chapter 22)

Blight: his name symbolises harsh challenge in D7's lumber industry. in true Suzanne Collins pattern, the name is deep. The direction implies hardened nature; necessitating physical strength & endurance to work in such an environment.

Johanna: her name's meaning exists within her characterisation & arc throughout the series. J. Mason is known for her sharp wit, cunning, & rebellious spirit, which contrasts with the traditional expectations associated with her district's lumber industry—stuck in the roots, steady.

naming Blight & Johanna may carry further meanings that reflect the characters' personalities, roles, or the broader themes in Catching Fire. Like the others, Blight's death, though it kept Katniss & Peeta alive, was unnecessary; considering Snow was to leave winners of Games alone—that was the promise

Allow me to quickly revisit the beginning of my post. In Mary Shelley's quote, "blight" metaphorically describes the destruction of positivity. Something that started with promise or goodness is overshadowed or ruined by influences or actions.

Botanically speaking, blight is a disease that causes causes withering, discoloration, & sometimes death in a large group of plants. Or entire forests. Blight is avoidable with proper gardening, but once affecting crops, it spreads. Yes, spread out the plants, but, care for your garden, check up on your plants, rotate crops, know the signs, set the healthiest foundation. (Snow isolated Victors from their districts, didnt care about their individual physical, emotional and mental health, only to throw 24 of them back into an arena where basic water was hard to find). The knowledge of lumber and trees barely helped Johanna and Blight stay alive. It was Beetee who reminded Jo that the arena's trees may've been fake &technologically engineered. In both contexts—botanical & metaphorical—blight signifies a process of decay . In plants, blight causes physical deterioration; in Shelley's novel, it's the moral as well as emotional deterioration of positive virtue.

The wording of blight in the epitaph evokes imagery in which, events and relationships start off flourishing (like virtues). Negative forces (such as loathing and scorn from others) eventually sabotage the events or relationships. A botanical lens reinforces the metaphor by providing a visual and concrete example of how things are effected by destructive force, whether it's a physical, natural diseases or emotional negativity. If you're not cautious, negativity will swallow you whole. Immediately like poison or slowly like fire.