#Justice Myth [OC]

[starrysnowdrop]

I, the Fury’s Champion, shall test your strength of spirit!

[emilythezeldafan]

Five Songs To Know: Lostice

@graceandtheidiotsquad @megastarwiley @ anyone

005. Bad Romance by Lady Gaga

004. Evermore from Beauty And The Beast

003. Orpheus by Vincent Lima

002. My Heart Will Go On from Titanic

001. Eurydice by Vincent Lima

[momolady]

Commissions Are Open!

I'll be accepting a few a month so send an email to get into the queue.

The Spiel:

Include a genre or theme if you so wish. Such as horror, romance, angst, fluff, etc.

If you want one of my universes, please include it as well. Ruby Empire, Hearthway Hollow, the Carnival, etc.

If you have a story idea, please include a few sentences of plot for me to work with. The more details the better

If you wish to include your OC please provide references so I can do them justice.

All characters must be 18+ for nsfw content.

All payments must be made in USD, & invoices will be sent upfront.

I have the right to refuse commissions

Discussion will take place via email or through discord if requested.

You will receive commissions through email unless requested otherwise.

Changes can be made, but there is a limit of 2 revisions. (I’m soft though so who knows if I’ll keep this up.)

All stories will be posted to my Patreon, Tumblr, and maybe ko-fi. OC can be changed upon request for public stories. You will always have the original story.

My stories can not be posted anywhere else.

Longer stories may receive an increase in price. (Under 10k words is usually fine. I enjoy longer works personally.)

Stories take anywhere from one to three weeks to complete once started depending on length, detail, etc. Feel free to ask for updates, previews, etc.

East Commission Form:

What is your budget (or desired word count):

Genre/Universe/Theme:

Reader Character Gender:

Reader Character Description:

Monster Character:

Monster Character Description:

Is this NSFW or SFW?

Any kinks, tropes, or specifics?

Story Outline:

Other thoughts or comments:

What You can Commission:

All monsters and creatures from media, folklore, myth, crytozoology, etc. (Within the bounds of cultural sensitivity.)

Horror stories. This can be straight horror, romance, smut, etc. Slasher, Lovecraftian, weird, etc.

Magical girl stories. Heroes as well.

Original Characters are always welcome.

Legally distinct characters are okay. I don’t write fanfic, but I’m happy to build your dream character with an existing character as reference.

If you need an idea for character or plot, I will brainstorm with you. I also will do free reign stories for a small discount.

Continuing stories from my masterlist is also accepted! I enjoy revisiting beloved characters.

Plotting help for your own stories such as outlines, character bios, etc. (This is new dunno where it’ll go.)

Moodboard can be requested upon story completion if wanted. Otherwise it will be seen on Patreon first.

Themes:

Smut of course. Other NSFW themes can be done upon approval. (No under 18 or dub-con themes.)

All romance of course. Ranging from slow burn, enemies to lovers, one bed, etc.

LGBTQIA+ themes are always welcome.

Classic tropes:forbidden love, fake dating, friends to enemies, hurt-comfort, stuck together, cafe au, etc.

Horror stories, romantic or not. The weirder the better.

Fantasy: can include anything from DnD themed, urban fantasy, future, past, other worlds, etc.

Fluff: domestic bliss, confessions, dates, proposals, etc.

Platonic stories.

Plot heavy.

PWP

[emilythezeldafan]

@graceandtheidiotsquad

@unclewiley

you know why I sent this

Incorrect Loki Quotes [108/?]

[itsagoodluckkiss]

I Know The End

Pairings: Roronoa Zoro x f!reader, platonic strawhats x f!reader

Summary: This is based on one of my favorite songs, I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers, and I take the meaning of this song as a "when you're at the bottom, the only way is up" kind of song. Reader is a friend of Nami, she has air powers and joins the Strawhats after they help her save her town.

Warnings: Mild East Blue spoilers, kinda OC Zoro, typical OP violence, otherwise pure fluff, no use of Y/N

WC: 3.7κ

A/N: Oi, hello there! This is my first One Piece fanfic, took me a bit more than I expected but I did it! I have another one for my first request on the way, but since this is my first, I had to post one about my fave! Also, I'm sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language. Anyways, hope you enjoy it, and if you do, pretty please leave a comment! Requests are open! ❤️

“I’m not gonna go down with my hometown in a tornado, I’m gonna chase it. I gotta go now, I know. Driving out into the sun, let the ultraviolet cover me up. Went looking for a creation myth, ended up with a pair of cracked lips… A slaughterhouse, an outlet mall, slot machines, fear of God… Big bolt of lightning hanging low. Over the coast everyone’s convinced it’s a government drone or an alien spaceship.”

Feeling out of place is something you get used to when living in this part of the East Blue and seek adventure; it is called the weakest sea for some reason after all. Even if she loved her living place, she disliked the fact that people mostly minded their own business without blinking an eye to the suffering and corruption around them. She couldn’t entirely blame them; it wasn’t an easy thing caring about neighboring regions when your own was constantly hit by natural disasters, causing deaths and lifetime labors destroyed.

She had just learned that the Conomi Islands had been freed by Arlong’s cruel rule after eight whole years. She wondered how Nami was. They had met a couple of years ago when she caught her rummaging her family’s vault and helped her through it without getting her caught. She hid her in her room while the Navy was looking for the thief. She didn’t need the money and it was obvious to her that Nami did. Nami was her first real friend. The week they spent together, drinking and getting to know each other, talking about their backstories, their wants and plans for the future was the best in her life. She had promised that after she’d buy her village back and free it, she’d come to see her again. She hadn’t heard from Nami since.

They said it was because of the Marines the islands were liberated. She could never believe that for one second. Her curious personality always managed to get her into the Navy’s business, making her family’s influence and prestige on the island take a hit every time she got into trouble with them. She couldn’t help that all this talk from the Marines about justice and keeping the peace made her want to throw up on their shiny uniforms. She knew it was all an act for them and their allies to maintain power. How could Marines talk about values when regions and people were enslaved and the Navy turned a blind eye instead of helping, just for power and some berries?

Her dream was to end all that fake order and bring actual freedom to those in need; to become a freedom fighter and help people. She needed the right opportunity but also, she had to take advantage of every situation if she wanted to get away from that place someday and seek what she so wholeheartedly craved. So she learned her family’s secrets and strengths. It’s not every day you see generations of people knowing how to yield the air around them, giving them a bunch of abilities like flying or sucking the air out of their enemies’ lungs or causing hurricanes of every size. She knew when to play nice and be obedient so that her parents would teach her their ways, thinking that she would grow out of her rebellious phase, would learn about and protect her family’s rule. It’s not an easy task for them to cover up the Navy’s dirt on the island after all.  

The more she mastered her power, the more she could see that something was wrong with her family. She had started to notice the patterns. Every time the island was hit by a storm or a natural disaster, they were never home. At first, it would make sense that they’d go and help their people. Then, after the storms, her island’s Navy unit and its captain started collecting “taxes” for rebuilding the infrastructures. Thing was, the taxes would constantly go up, bringing inhabitants to their knees. Meanwhile, her family didn’t seem affected at all. They would just roam the island, giving advices and pacifying the angry voices that protested the Navy. So, she decided, in the next hurricane, she would learn her parents and older siblings’ sketchy business. She had to know what was the cause of all this and what she could do to change it.

~

Meeting new people travelling between islands and seas was a fascinating thing. She loved hearing stories about their adventures, about different places and bigger dangers, fights between pirates and marines or about the golden age of piracy. About the Grand Line, the different weather conditions in each island, the devil fruits and the abilities they gave their users. She would always wander through the port, looking for more myths coming to life by the sailors that docked their ships on her island for supplies.

When she spotted a beautiful pirate caravel, with a sheep figurehead in its bow and its Jolly Roger with a straw hat, docked in their port, she felt a strange wave of excitement and peace. She couldn’t explain it but that beautiful ship radiated so much love and care, like it had a soul of its own and a smile that made everyone feel like home if they stepped into it. She stood there, admiring it from afar, when she felt someone standing next to her.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Her name is Merry! She’s my ship.”

She turned to look at the stranger. A boy around the same age as hers, with a small scar under his right eye and a straw hat on his head, and that made her assume this was the captain. He had a smile so vibrant, it reminded her of the sun. His energy was so welcoming, she felt like she could be friends with him on a whim.

“Hello. She is indeed a sight to behold.”

She gave him a warm smile back, raising her hand to introduce herself.

“That’s a pretty name. I’m Luffy, and I’m gonna be King Of The Pirates!”

She couldn’t help but laugh, but it had no malice. She loved dreamers, being one herself, and even if she met that boy only a couple of minutes ago, she could see he would give everyone in the world a run for their money. A gust of wind blew, taking his hat away, and before he could react, she brought it back to him through the air around her. She placed it on his head and gave him a toothy grin.

“There! You can’t be King Of The Pirates without your trademark, right?”

“THANK YOU! YOU’VE GOT AIR POWERS? THAT’S SO COOL! YOU SHOULD JOIN OUR CREW!”

She was dumbfounded by his enthusiasm and his abrupt proposal. Never had she met anyone like him, so thrilled by her presence and her little air tricks. Before she could reply, she heard footsteps and another male voice behind her.

“Oi Luffy, stop scaring people by asking them to join us like that, will you?”

She turned to look at the deeper voice, and for a moment it felt like lighting coursing through her veins. Taller and more muscular than the boy next to her, he looked a bit older than them both, with short green hair and eyes gray as steel, three golden earrings that gleamed in the sunlight graced his left ear. He had a sharp gaze that radiated a strong and confident energy, one that lacked fear or hesitation. She never believed in love at first sight, but this felt as close as she could imagine it would feel. The man approached them and introduced himself to her.

“Roronoa Zoro? As in ‘Pirate Hunter’ Zoro? In a pirate crew?”

Of course she had heard of his reputation. Who didn’t know the infamous bounty hunter swordsman in the East Blue? He chuckled at her surprise.

“Yeah, well, long story short, this guy here has an effect of convincing people easily.”

“There you are, you idiots! We’ve been looking for you everywhere! We’re not here for me to babysit you not getting lost, we’re here to find my-”

She heard a familiar female shriek before she felt soft arms around her, squeezing her tight, and she immediately knew who it was. She could never forget her best friend’s hugs. She returned the hug as she screamed Nami’s name, before they both started to cry tears of joy. Her hand grabbed her upper arm, and she felt deep scars where her Arlong tattoo should be but was replaced by another, prettier one.

“I was so worried about you! I learned what happened to your village and I didn’t know what to think!”

“You should have known I’d be okay, you know I always pull through. Although, these guys were the greatest help I could get. They are the reason I’m freed and I wanted to keep my promise to you.”

She looked at the boys around them with gratitude, two more joining them, a blond boy wearing a suit, who looked like he would burst into flames from the heart eyes on his face and another one with wavy hair, a long nose and mischief in his eyes.

“I can’t thank you enough for helping my friend. She means the world to me!”

“Whoa, Nami’s your friend? Now you should definitely join our crew! We’ve heard so much about you, the only reason we stopped here before Loguetown was to find you!” Luffy said with enthusiasm.

“Yes, it’s not every day you hear someone born into money giving them away without question, hiding the thief in addition and fighting their way to get them out safely. You must be quite the character.” Zoro smirked at her.

“And to add to that, you’re also a sight to behold, my lady!” the blond boy said as he kissed her hand and introduced himself as Sanji, making her laugh at his advances.

“We’ve heard you have a great mind for plans too. Could use a strategist in this group of idiots that run into danger head on. I always device a plan to beat my enemies. I’m Usopp by the way.”

She was dumbfounded to say the least, taking them all and their kind words in. She met these guys a few moments ago, yet never had she felt such a feeling of being so welcomed by the people around her, she was so used to being ignored that this interaction almost made her sob. She kissed Nami’s cheek before letting her go.

“I… thank you guys… you’re all so sweet… but I don’t think I’m that good-”

“Bullshit, you’ll be the smartest person besides me in this crew. Come on now, I know how much you long to get the hell out of this place, they’ve never appreciated you anyways, and I don’t think anything changed since we met.” Nami proclaimed, smiling at her.

“No… not much anyway. I just learned how to use my powers now… Look, I don’t know what to think of this, I have-”

A loud rumble shook the earth below them. She felt the temperature drop rapidly and she knew what was coming. Now was her chance to find out the truth she looked for, the one that could possibly make her decide to cut ties with her family if her speculations were true. She turned to the Strawhats, as they called themselves, and smiled brightly.

“Thank you guys. But I have to run now. There are rooms for rent down this road, run and cover yourselves and don’t come out before the storm passes. Maybe I’ll see you around after that.”

As they started to protest, she flew off to the source of the hurricane she could see coming from afar.

And sure enough, the feeling of throwing up from disgust and despair overwhelmed her when she arrived at the source. She saw her family controlling the hurricanes and lightings that hit her island, and the Navy captain, who she knew was a devil fruit user, was shaking the ground, causing the earthquake, while his Unit watched from the sidewalks. Bodies were scattered around damaged buildings, scenery of pure horror. Before she could react to stop this, she felt boulders hitting her, splitting her lips and bruising her body, blood running down her jaw as she fell down.

~

Logically, everything fell into place. Emotionally, nothing made sense. She couldn’t comprehend how she could have been raised by such cruel people. Her eyes welled up with tears, but not from the pain she felt on her body, but from the sight in front of her, as her parents approached her, proclaiming she was not mature enough to understand their family’s best interest and how she has always been such a disappointment, never listening, never following orders, an annoying, meddling child.

“Do whatever you want; we can’t do anything about her anymore.” Her parents proclaimed to the navy captain as he too approached.

“You’ve always been a pain in the ass and I can finally get rid of you.” The captain proclaimed as he unsheathed his sword.

She closed her eyes but she never felt the blade on her skin. The captain’s scream echoed as his arm got cut off from the shoulder, his sword hitting the ground.

“Swords are not toys, captain. You don’t get to play with them.”

Her head spin to the male voice behind her and her eyes widen as she saw the five pirates ready to fight. Zoro was the closest to her, having drawn one of his swords that was now covered in blood, leaving a clean cut on the marine’s shoulder. Usopp was standing a few feet behind, a slingshot in his hand as he shoot at the navy soldiers, the collision ended in blasts and the soldiers started to run away. Nami was holding a strange, long, steel pole that seemed by its use to control the weather around them with air bubbles.

“You’re not hurting a lady on my watch.” Sanji proclaimed before his leg collided with the bleeding captain’s face, kicking him to the ground.

“He was already done, curlybrows.”

“Shut your mouth, marimo!”

They were bickering as if they all were not in a life or death situation. The most shocking thing was Luffy, who was stretching his body as he was wielding what seemed to be the bark of a tree around, taking soldiers and her family with it.

“Nami said you had problems with your family. You seemed worried. So we followed you.” He said with a toothy grin.

Zoro grabbed her hand and raised her from the ground.

“You know how to fight I assume?”

“Yes I do.”

“Well then, let’s give them hell, pretty girl.”

~

Either way, we’re not alone. I’ll find a new place to be from. A haunted house with a picket fence, to float around and ghost my friends. I’m not afraid to disappear. The billboard said "The End Is Near". I turned around, there was nothing there. Yeah, I guess the end is here.”

And sure enough, she couldn’t believe the six of them managed to stop the destruction while fighting the whole navy unit and her family combined, who were now running away from the angry crowd that had assembled when the hurricanes stopped and saw the whole thing happening.

“You guys… I can’t thank you enough-”

“Pffff, that was nothing, it was funny being blown away, felt like flying hehe.” Luffy laughed as he grabbed her in a hug. “You’re Nami’s friend, so you are our friend too!”

She had started crying by now as she hugged Luffy back, the feelings she felt in that moment couldn’t be described.

“I think… I think I’ll join you guys!”

~

A week had passed since her family fled off the island that was now filled with marines who listed the damages and arrested their own dirty kind. They had made a futile attempt to take the strawhats in, and before they would even start a fight, the people of the island wreaked havoc, not even letting them close to their saviors. She took the crew in the house that was now hers.

She helped Nami move all the gold from the house onto their ship. She gave Usopp advices for his trinkets and how they would fly through the air easier. She cooked with Sanji and then would catalog the storages that would be taken with them to their journey, with Luffy receiving several kicks from the cook because he tried to eat everything. She had never had so much fun in her life as she had with them. Her favorite moments came at night, usually spent drinking with Zoro. They had talked about their childhoods, he had told her about his family how died when he was a toddler, his promise to his childhood friend who died way before her time, how he acquired that big scar across his chest. The more she got to know him, the more connected she felt to him, like a final puzzle piece falling right in to place.

On their last night, everyone was fast asleep, getting the rest they’d need since they would cross the entrance to the Grand Line the next day. But her anticipation wouldn’t let her sleep. After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, she got off her bed and walked around the house, taking it in one last time. She had decided to gift it to a large family whose home got destroyed. It was a fact that she didn’t want anything to do with that place anymore. Tomorrow morning her life would change forever. Her mind leading her nowhere in particular, she walked to her terrace. The wind, soft and gentle, rustled through the leaves of the trees, creating a soothing melody, and she could see the sea ahead, illuminated by the moon, which casted a silvery glow on the water. It was a peaceful scene, yet she could feel her heart racing when she saw Zoro sitting on the bench of her terrace, polishing his swords. 

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked as he glanced at her.

“I… I guess I’m nervous about tomorrow.”

“It must be a little overwhelming, I guess. Don’t worry though, we’re a good crew, we’ll take care of you.”

A small smile played on his lips. His words were reassuring, but there was something else in his tone, something that made her heart skip a beat. She bit her lip, walking to the edge of the terrace, her hands holding on to the railing as she tried to find the right words to say.

“I know I’ll be safe with you, guys. It’s just… it feels like the end is near for me in this place… and being in a pirate crew is going to be something so new and big… and I don’t feel like I bring a lot on the table…”

He chuckled softly as he placed his swords down, walking towards to stand next to her, taking her hand in his to give a firm squeeze.

“The end is near for this part of your life, indeed. But you’re strong, you’re brave, and you’re a great fighter. You’ve been through a lot and yet you’re one of the kindest people I’ve met, still standing here, ready to face whatever comes next. That takes a lot of courage, and it takes character. I think you bring a lot, and you’re going to fit right in with us. You’re not alone.”

She smiled shyly, feeling warmth spread through her chest, her eyes almost welling up. He smiled back, his expression genuine.

“Thank you, Zoro. You really have no idea how much that means.”

“I think I do. I know what it’s like to be uncertain about the future, to feel like you don’t belong anywhere. But you belong with us now. You’re going to make a great crewmate. It’s good to have you on board. I have a feeling you’re going to surprise all of us with what you can do.” He paused, his expression a bit more serious. “And… if you need to talk… or vent or… anything… I’m here.”

A deep blush crept up across her cheeks. “I… thank you… for everything. Same goes for me.”

She felt her heart flutter as he continued to hold her hand, her stare moving to meet his gaze. She couldn’t help but feel more at ease with him and he couldn’t deny the way he felt either.

“For now, I think we should just enjoy being together and explore this new thing we’ll find ourselves in. Who knows what kind of trouble we’ll stumble upon?”

“I’m looking forward to seeing what awaits us.” She leaned a bit closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And I’m looking forward to get to know you better too.”

It was time for his heart to skip a beat at her words. Her eyes widened but before she could shy away, he leaned in closer, and their lips met in a tender, hesitant kiss, a slow, gentle brushing of lips. The sounds of the forest faded away, leaving only the beating of their hearts and the rush of blood in their ears.

~

“Take care!”

“Come back soon!”

“Sorry I was mean to you, can’t wait to see you again!”

“Be safe and make us proud!”

“Don’t disappear!”

Most of the town’s people were at the port to give their regards to the strawhats and her. The others were already abroad, her being the last to climb the rope ladder on to her new home. She turned around before hoping on to the deck, and took in how weird and eerie her town looked now, like looking at a haunted house from afar.

“So, the end is near, then?”

She lifted her head to see Zoro’s smirk as he gave her his hand to lift her on to the ship. Someone shouted at her to not disappear. She wasn’t afraid of that. She was afraid of staying still. Her head turned around one last time and she saw nothing there.

“Yeah, I guess, the end is here.”

And she took his hand.

[atinylittlepain]

joel miller x f!oc

story playlist

monsters are made of myths. in this story, two myths become one. two myths are in love. they are in wretched love.

warnings | 18+ this is a work of contemporary horror | literally cannibalism, and the trappings of it - love as consumption, non-graphic death, murder, grotesque depictions of food (normal food) and eating (normal eating), non-graphic references to unhealthy parental relationship (abuse and neglect), descriptions of dissociation, smut, strange neurotic processes in general

word count | 17K (yes, really)

a/n | this fic is partially inspired by the movie Bones and All, and it is my attempt to get Bones and All right (read: better) - i cannot stress enough that this is a work of horror, and as such, deals with unsettling imagery, subject matter, and emotions. read with care. special thanks must be given to @pr0ximamidnight and @wannab-urs who loved these two characters enough to keep me writing them, thank you, my darling friends, i hope i've done them justice. and thank you, dear reader, for coming along on something of an odyssey.

Monsters, she thinks, are hewn from guilt and shame. She is trying very hard not to feel either of those things about what she must do. But some slippery part of her still supposes that she has been a monster for a very long time, maybe even from the beginning. When did it change? When are monsters made? Like everyone else, she drank from her mother’s breast. Some time after that then.

What she does remember is not regretting it, any of it, until her mother taught her it was something to regret. Shame in the whites of her eyes, the dark ring of her open mouth, stricken in a scream. She has only ever met one other person like her in all her time skipping from town to town, a few years younger than her, but older in her confidence, her certainty in who she was. And like her, the first time, a babysitter, blood in the bathtub. She took her ear clean off, and the girl’s father found the scene when he got home from work, babysitter having fled, baby still in the tub, gumming on something pink and soft in her mouth. He had been afraid, she told her, that she could have drowned. Never mind the ear. Monsters are loved too, after all, a wretched thing of love. 

For her it had been a finger. At least that’s what her mother told her, easy to wrap her small mouth around. She believed her, vaguely remembering the flicker of red nail polish, bitter amidst the rest of sense and sate. What she does remember, the feeling of fullness. What she does remember, her mother making a myth out of her, conjuring up some way to explain this condition of hers. Condition, what she decided to call it. An affliction of appetites, something to be controlled, to be smothered under the thick swaths of what her mother taught her. How to be normal is really just another way of saying how to hide. And she hid for a very long time, weak and wan and wanting things she knew she shouldn’t be wanting. Until, eighteen, and their tenth packed car and dark house and her mother telling her that she was no longer interested in this myth, this unmaking of a monster. You are what you are and I have tried, I have tried, I have tried, but you are what you are. 

Not just guilt and shame, monsters are made in the breadth of a back turning, in eyes settling somewhere up and away. Monsters are made in a leaving. Everyone has already left. So what else is there to do but eat?

She likes the song that’s playing in the convenience store, the light haze of it, staticking from somewhere overhead. Hazy in the afternoon slump, everyone making minced conversation about setting the clocks back last weekend. Her watch still reads an hour ahead. 

I feel the earth move– she needs toothpaste.

I feel the sky tumbling down– and soap.

I feel my heart start to tremble– but there’s an empty promise left in her wallet.

Whenever you’re around– soon, she will have to stay.

I just got to have you– soon, she will have to pretend.

Baby– make-believing normal.

I just lose control– make a little more money.

I get hot and cold, all over, all over– before another leaving.

Tumbling down, tumbling down– before another fullness. 

“Excuse me.” A man, somewhere in her periphery, and the quick realization that she’s been standing in front of bars of soap, considering what it would feel like to slip one or two into the pocket of her coat, standing there for a bit too long. Shrug and shuffle to the side, a quiet sorry, keeping her eyes down, but in a quick flicker, she sees his face. Fang recognizes fang, always. 

He looks tired, like if not for whatever weight is pulling at his shoulders, he would be much bigger, much badder. Worn thin at the edges, wings darkening beneath his eyes, he spares her a single glance, disinterested, picking up two bars of soap, the kind that smells clean and young and kind. As he leans down, she sees the glint and flirt of gold dangling from his neck, a cross. But she knows, she thinks she knows. When you are rare like this, it isn’t difficult to know another myth when you see one. 

She watches the heels of his boots clip down the aisle toward the checkout, there and gone, and she does not follow. This is not something that should be followed. She knows, she knows. She tried once, with that girl. That girl who had different ideas about what their myth meant, their mouths, who decided that cruelty felt good, who decided to play the part of the monster with a terrible flair. No, this is something best done alone, and worst when it is shared. 

A single bar of soap sits heavy in her pocket while she pays for a tube of toothpaste, the man already gone, mercy. And the evening unfolds like it usually does during these times of motion. Still enough gas in her car that she can crawl a few miles down the interstate and find a quiet place to pull off for the night, somewhere green, somewhere with trees. Summer, the heat turning cool and sticky as it starts to darken, and a routine that is familiar to her by now. Windows cracked just enough to let a thin stream of fresh air in without threatening danger. And she folds the fact of her body in the backseat, tucking all her angles beneath a worn blanket that she keeps folded in the trunk during the day. Always memory before sleep, though her mind has made motheaten, misshapen murmuring out of the most of it. The fullness is always what remains. And that thick curl of shame. 

Here is how her mother made her. She broke skin and pulled out a rib of her own, made flesh of her flesh, tended to the wound until it was something else. There was no father, and there was certainly no god. At least that’s how her mother told it. You came from me, mine, this is mine, me and you and your mouth that must stay closed because I love you even though you are like this, awful, you are like this and I love you. But that love stretched thin, snapped, bleeding gums and broken teeth and never again. A goodbye that she is still saying, that she curls herself around in the backseat of her car in the summer when it’s warm enough for leaving. 

…

Maybe a foolish thing to spend what’s left of her money on. The waitress is very pretty though, a flush of red curls piled on her head, red lipstick too, crackling with her smile and bleeding into the lines around her mouth. Pours her a dark cup of coffee and leaves the steaming pot of it at her table. She pours three plastic thimbles of cream into it, two packets of sugar that she doesn’t stir in, lets it settle, biting down on the grit when she tips the last of her cup back into her mouth, and repeats. And the pretty waitress brings her two plates, so hot that they leave red welts on her forearms when she sets them down on her table, pinkened pain. Scrambled eggs, grease and sweat pooling beneath their lingering heat, bleeding over into two pieces of bacon, blistered crisp. A stack of pancakes, the sheen of butter seeping down, she pours enough syrup over them to pool thin and flooded on the plate. Collects a little of everything on her fork, the soft give of protein and matter, everything sagging in the sweet stick. Hand to mouth, but she stops, stuck, seeing him sitting alone at a booth across the diner. And he sees her too. A meal much like her own, enough to give someone a stomach ache. His eyes fall away from hers just as soon, and she watches him pass a knife through a piece of meat, flesh on his fork that he pockets into his cheek, jawing it down. She works her mouth around her own bite, teeth hurting with the snap down onto metal, the scrape of the fork. The food turns to sweet, soft mush, rolling around on her tongue, swallowed hard. 

He’s watching her again, working his jaw in a slow shift, and this time, his eyes don’t leave hers. She plucks a piece of bacon off her plate, pinched between thumb and forefinger, bites down again and sucks the salt from the dried flesh. He finishes a piece of toast in two bites, mouth screwing to the side, the dip and bob of his throat when he swallows, muscle moving muscle. Sweat is starting to prickle her scalp, the soft stretch of her stomach with her meal, warm and sick and sloshing. She doesn’t chew her eggs, swallows them, slipping down her throat with the rest of the salt and sate. His eyes fall to her hands, the smooth procession of fork and knife making mince out of her pancakes. She sucks the syrup out of each bite, works the sugar down first before swallowing the rest. His meal, almost completely gone, dragging a finger through a smear of ketchup he had been steeping his hashbrowns in, sucks the remnant red into his mouth. She can almost hear the hum that bobs in his throat, even through the murmurings of the diner. And he is very beautiful, beneath it all. The crooked strength of his nose, his brow, the drop of his lashes over the tops of his cheeks when he takes a pull of coffee. Unabashed, she stares, and he stares back, a darkened dare, watching the movements of each other’s mouths.

And just like that, she’s still chewing when he gets up to leave, not sparing another glance her way as he shoulders out the door. Her chin tilts, neck stretched to see him get into a blue pickup truck with a slam of the car door. He’s gone like a thin flame of lightning. She feels like she’s going to throw up. But she doesn’t, pays her check and stumbles out into the starkness of the morning. It’s a Saturday, and families are congregating for breakfast. She watches, slumped in the driver’s seat of her car, a sliver of a little girl and a little boy crossing her rearview mirror, holding onto hands attached to bodies that are cut off from view. She sighs, sits up straight and turns the key in the ignition. 

…

It’s a half-hour worth of driving later when she sees that blue pick-up truck again. Midwest, middle of nowhere, fields of ruin, and that truck, still and silent next to an abandoned barn made of rot. Middle of the day, the sun a flirting threat high in the middle of blue shock, but there are very few people out here, no one around to see her pull off the side of the road, get out of her car, and start swaying through the tall grass toward that truck and the barn. 

He is beautiful like this too. Slinking out from behind the barn, his eyes flickered low like he knew, he knew. His shirt is ruined, dark, damp. White t-shirt bled red, and the strange starkness of that gold cross glinting around his neck. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and makes the mess worse, smears it up to the height of his cheeks, across his forearm. And his eyes, his eyes, swimming, darkness starting to drip down his face, starting to meld and mix with the rest. Beautiful, and so very sad. 

“There’s nothing for you here.” Low, the shivering thrum of it murmuring from somewhere between his ribs. Some kind of twang that sharps in her ears. She can’t find words of her own, still where she stands, beneath his hunkered gaze. When nothing comes, he sighs, shakes his head, walks right past her to his truck, keeping a wide breadth of distance between them as he does. 

“How did you know?” The question tries up her throat once, twice, before it finally jerks out into sound, stopping him before he opens the door to his truck, squinting at her over his shoulder. 

“It’s not hard to tell.” And in the space that follows, something is understood, confirmed. It’s starting to dry on his skin, in the scruff along his jaw, dark. The strangest hunger, the sharpest, an awful ache just looking at him. But he’s already leaving, not another word when he gets into his car, and the silence is a command in and of itself. I am and you are, and it will be a blessing if we never cross paths again. Again, gone, parting the sea of withering  grass with the slow trundling beast of his truck. 

She does not look, does not see for herself what lies behind the barn. She already knows. 

…

Like a child, her cheeks flamed with tears, scrubbing at the salt as soon as it falls. To put it simply, her car stopped, a few last wheezing rolls, and it will not start again. And there is no one to call, not out here, between states, between time itself. Eventually, the panic gives way to a dull surrender. She leans against the side of her car, tips her head back to let her face flush in the last slip of light, the sun fretting at the edge of the horizon. Memory is never far when she lets her eyes close. Something normal, driving down the street outside of house number five, her mother letting her, teaching her. She had laughed, giddy, running her palms along the wheel. Back then, flight had felt more like option, and less like routine. Those last few years, and the quick succession of escapes. 

She was out of control, her mother’s words, and she felt it too. Felt like a fine thread of hunger had been stitched through her spine and was pulling painful, the sharp tug toward destruction. And when the thread snapped, it was all she could do to find something to close her mouth around. Those last few years, they moved more than they ever had, every couple of months when she would inevitably mess up, making a mess of everything. Much easier now to always be leaving, because staying was never really an option. 

It’s heard before it’s seen, the crackling of gravel, of tires and brakes slowing down. She lets one eye slip open in a thin slit, squinting in the final slip of sun. That blue pick-up truck, sidling up behind her car along the shoulder of the road. He makes no move to get out, but he does roll his window down, and that’s enough for her to walk over to the side of his car, smalling beneath his steady eyes. He’s clean now, she thinks she can even smell the soap on him, that same soap that she stole a bar of and has been holding under her nose in the nights, something of comfort before she sleeps.

“You’re like me.” The words come from somewhere unnamed inside her, what might be called courage in someone else, and it seems to surprise him too, his brow jumping before furrowing back down. 

“I am.” 

“Where are you from?” A stupid question to ask someone like her. She doesn’t blame him for remaining silent, lips pressed in a thin line. So, she tries again.

“Where are you going?” 

“West.”

“Where west?”

“Just west.” Silence again, a single car hums by them. He clears his throat.

“Is your car broke down?” 

“I think it’s dead.”

“Is it worth fixing?”

“No, probably not. And I don’t have any money left.” 

“Do you want a ride?” Myths are made in the fine split of choice. She is walking into a new one. 

“Okay.” 

There is very little of herself to collect. A bag in the trunk of her car with a few spare clothes, her blanket, a bar of soap. The rest can be left behind. 

“I’m Joel.” All that he offers her when she slides into the passenger seat, a glance that falls on the curl of her hands in her lap. 

“I’m Maeve.” 

It has been a very long time since she has been a passenger in someone else’s car. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, leaving always looming, but she had been doing well for her mother. Well enough to get a date with a shy boy who sat behind her in seventh period math. He took her out in his car, fall and dark and dim and something light threatening in her chest, stealing glances at each other as he drove them out to that spot that everyone parked at. Lovers, lovers, lovers, young limbs tangling in the backseats of cars, damp windows and fog twirling up skirts in the wash of headlights. And they had parked, and shy boy had stuck his shy tongue in her mouth, and she had liked it, she had liked it. And of course, it went wrong, blood and body and blood and she ran home with salt stinging down her cheeks. She didn’t mean to hurt him. She never meant to hurt anyone. This isn’t a hurting thing, at least she didn’t want it to be. Her mother had slapped her, hard, sending her neck turning to one side before collecting her up in her arms and making it all better, making a leaving for both of them.

Now, with her temple pressed against the window of the passenger side door, silence save for the thin voices on the radio, she thinks of that boy, and how carefully he had cupped her cheek in his palm. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to love him. But she didn’t know how to without biting down.

For as long as she can remember, alone has meant monstrous. Evidence of defect, deformity, the delineation between others, normal, the world, and her, somewhere on the periphery, always. But she wasn’t always alone, and for a while, that was enough to convince her that normal was possible, that, no, not a monster. She had her mother, not alone, not a monster. Clinging to not alone so hard, and in turn clinging to her  mother so hard, that often her fear, or love, or the product of the two, would get her hurt. 

She was hungry for touch as a child, and her mother was unwilling to give it to her in the amounts she wanted for. Her mother, her mother, locking her bedroom door from the inside so she couldn’t turn the handle and slip inside and ask for a palm on her back to calm her nightmares. She would curl up on the pilled carpet of whatever house they were in at the time, back pressed to the door like maybe she could feel her mother’s respiration through the wood, something to soothe down her spine, thumb tucked into her mouth. And in the mornings, bleary, jostled awake by the slow fall backward when her mother would inevitably open the door to her room. Lying on her back in the doorway, blinking up at her mother, grave and grim, who was always frowning, always sighing. Not again, not this again, not you, doing this again. Her mother would step right over her, the hem of her dressing robe brushing against her body as she did, and even that was a relief to her, touch of some kind.

And her mother did love her, in some way. Loved her the way one loves a monster. At arm’s length. That doesn’t mean much to monsters, though. They want, they hunger, just the same. She has wondered, from time to time, if it was the way her mother loved her that made her worse. To go hungry like that for so long, no great working of the imagination to consider how a body might solve that problem in another way. But no, she knows, this is something essential, something curled close inside her. This hunger has been there from the beginning. After all, the finger, the red nail polish, she was just a baby then. She likes to imagine how her mother loved her before that happened. There was a whole year of life before she became a monster. What is love like when people will actually look you in the eye, when every touch does not come tentative as if through the bars of a cage? Sometimes at night, she will wrap her arms around herself and trace her palm along the span of her back that she can reach. Something like that, she imagines, it would feel something like that. 

Something like what she is seeing now, sitting in the pew ahead of her. Husband and wife, and they are very old, the fine threads of age mottled on the back of husband’s hand, spread between his wife’s slight shoulder blades, her pale blue sweater, gold band glinting. His thumb moving back and forth, a smoothing thing, smoothing and steadying thing. The sermon, the prayers, the withering coughs of the staggered crowd all fall away. Small salvation in the steady rhythm of touch, it mesmerizes her. Things like these are always over before she’d like them to be, the husband’s hand falling away as he and his wife both rise from their seats, the sudden shuffle making her blink back into place and space. Plenty of people are getting up, sliding out of the pews to line up down the aisle. Joel, one of them, a gasp of cool air in the empty space he leaves beside her. 

She doesn't know what they are doing in a place like this. She doesn’t think, up until recently, that she had ever been in a place like this, if she’s being honest. Her mother wasn’t religious, and it always seemed to her like churches were somewhere good people went. So no, she had never been in a church before. Not until she started traveling with Joel. 

He tries to find one every Sunday if he can, in between towns and states and strips of road. Usually, he will manage to, he doesn’t seem to care what kind. Last week, Presbyterian, and the week before that, Baptist. This week, Catholic. They all seem the same to her. But then again, she doesn’t listen closely to the sermons, focuses instead on the movement, and making her own like theirs. Here is what she has learned, when you talk to God, look up, and look sad. What else she has learned, at the end, there is always an eating. Bread and wine placed on soft, trying tongues, and some kind of prayer draped over the entire thing. She watches Joel, every week, take communion until she doesn’t even have to watch. Keeps her eyes closed and pictures the drop of his jaw, the slow pull of his throat. She knows it, she knows it. What she doesn’t know is why. Not much room for a God like this one in their particular myth. Though Joel seems intent on it, and she is in no position to challenge this routine. A month traveling together, and still such strange silence between them. But on church days, he is always more likely to speak. 

There’s only a few other people who don’t get in line to receive communion, and all them, herself included, are met with the heavy sweep of eyes, soft shakes of heads that tells them no, should not be here, no, not for you. A childish thought that she keeps to herself, not for Joel either, no matter how he plays pretend at it, gold cross glinting like a rotten tooth rendered good at his neck. A thin flare of jealousy, maybe, that he can believe in good so easily. 

But maybe Joel is good, she thinks, in spite of what they both do. He certainly seems good walking down the aisle, polite words soft in his throat and a nod for her to follow on his heels and out to the parking lot. These people, church people, will never see them again, and that is a mercy. 

“Where are we?” 

“We’ll be in Kansas soon.” He always answers that question with the future rather than where they are in the present, always forward motion. All that he offers her, folding his worn map back up before he pulls the truck onto the road. 

Joel has some money saved from a past staying. And she told him that wherever he decided to stay next, she would stay too, paying him back for what he has already spent on her. He seemed neither moved nor impressed by her affirmation, eyes slipping down somewhere to the side, a sigh. At the very least, it’s a comfort to her, the promise of somewhere for her, for a little while.  

“Should we try to today?” 

“We don’t have to do it together. If you want to, today, that’s fine. I don’t mind.” The words feel stupid in her mouth, and the sharp look Joel gives her before his eyes return to the road tells her as much. 

“It’s safer if we do it together. Less of a mess.” It doesn’t feel that way to her. She knows what he means, but still. Not to her. Shameful to her, that someone else sees her like that. Shameful back when she had been traveling with that girl, that girl who would grin through it, teeth stained and tarred and making her sick up in her throat with shame, with cruel terror turned inside herself. But Joel isn’t like that. No, there is something different to how Joel tends to this. 

Now, alone means go, green light, good for taking. They watch for alone, parked in rest stops, gas station parking lots, all the in between places, places where the loneliest people tend to linger. They’ll spend whole afternoons in some various slump in or against his truck, squinting down in the sun at bodies moving around them, moving through. Today, they pull off at one of those long haul trucker stops, a gravel lot full of slumbering beasts of cars, cargo, men mincing around, stretching length back into their tired bodies. And they watch. And they wait. Teeth aching.

Joel distracts her, sometimes. Her watching him watching the world. It seems like he moves and something pressed beneath the thin crust of the ground moves too. Big man, silent as a fist man. But he is nice and gentle and kind. Small words for a big man. A kind of manners she has never seen before. She watches him now, the soft squint of his eyes under the sun’s cool heat, leaning against the side of his truck with his hands tucked into his pockets, ankles crossed. He looks so casual, but she knows that there’s a wire strung taut in his spine, quick flickers of want, of hunger. She feels it too. 

“Joel?”

“Hmm.”

“Can I ask you something?” He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either, ducking his head down in a way that shows her he’s listening. 

“How many others have you met?” Like us, the implicit understanding of like us. Something strange passes across his face, quick pinch, smoothing itself out. 

“A few.” 

“How many is a few?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Well, how many do you think there are in the country?”

“I think that’s a useless question.” He doesn’t say it mean, more matter of fact than anything, though it still feels like a swift loss of breath in her lungs. She pinches her mouth shut, a flume of embarrassment warming beneath her skin. But Joel pays her no mind, his gaze has settled on someone. 

They’ve only done this together two other times, but it’s been enough to know there’s a particular way Joel goes about this. Always alone, always men, trying for the bad ones. And how they decide who is bad is, at best, a childish logic. Alone, for one thing, both of them understanding how that can translate into bad. The loud ones, the brassy, blundering ones, ones that bodies move like they know violence intimately. It is all a game of chance, though Joel seems so methodical. Regardless, it makes her feel messy, smeared and stupid for the way she used to go about this, which is to say, with little thought for anything save the ache in her gut. Yes, she had rules of her own. Never children. Rarely women. As alone as she could find them. It was in the mechanics of it that she always failed, and this failure curdled into something close to cruelty, something she had a hard time stomaching. 

But not Joel. Joel is painfully careful in how this is done. The first step is always the waiting, seeing if a body will stick around in this in-between place. And in that waiting their hunger grows teeth of its own, hunkering their shoulders, making them as small as the curl of their guts. And when a body stays in that in-between place, a trucker who seems to be resting for the night, wandering idly around the lot with a cigarette held loose like a prayer between his lips, that’s when Joel moves. This part is not difficult for Joel, because he is kind and gentle and nice. Quiet, he smalls himself, makes himself anyone that could be anyone else. 

And when he does it, he does it in the night, pale slants of the moon’s watchful gaze washing down on him. And when he does it, he does it with his hands. Not a word, not a whimper or whine, just a final puff of breath when he is done, something absent floating up in his eyes. In the close brush of trees a few yards away from the rest stop, there will be nothing left to find when they are done. Down to the ankles, and then some. 

She hates doing this with him, to have him see her in it, and in the after of it. The sate feels good, but the shame fans a perfect flame up her neck. And she cries, she always cries, and he refuses to look at her when she does. They stumble into the rest stop bathrooms and wipe away what they can from their skin. This is no clean thing. She will feel the stick of it on her for days afterward, she always does. But she will feel good too, full too, and it will only make the shame worse. 

“Why do you cry like that?” It startles her, stops another sniff from hiccuping up her throat. He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes focused out on the flare of their headlights eating away at the road, driving back into the night. It’s difficult to look at him, the pearling stains of it that he missed down the line of his throat, the darkening of the front of his shirt, pink-tinged skin, hard to scrub off. Not difficult in that she wants to look away, but difficult in knowing that she should want to look away, though she doesn’t. Beautiful, eyes blown into a sad melt from beneath his brow, his jaw working at some phantom feeling. No, she shouldn’t, but she does. 

“It feels like I should.”

“Well, you don’t have to.” A little sharp, still quiet, but enough to make her heart twist. The rest of their drive is silent, eventually, pulling into the vacant yawn of a motel parking lot. 

Joel goes into the motel office after hastily changing into a new shirt, her eyes slipping somewhere else, but not without a glimpse of bare skin. He’s better with people than she is, and she is still inconsolable, shaking in the passenger seat and trying not to look at her hands, the thin curl of red under her fingernails. She lets her gaze unfocus on the blinking neon sign, vacancy becoming less of a word and more of a throb in her skull. 

“Come on.” He opens her door for her, snapping her back into awareness, and he’s not mean about it, but he is exasperated, dragging his palm down his jaw, already rounding the car to pull their bags out of the bed of the truck. She wishes she could be like him about this, so matter of fact, so mundane. Where did he learn that from? Who taught him to be like that? Who loved him like that? He is far more free than she is, she thinks. She wishes he would show her how. 

This is part of the routine too. They stand, hip to hip, at the cracked sink in the bathroom of their room and they brush their teeth. Their work is meticulous, rounding every canine, making gums bleed with too much pressure. She flosses twice, then brushes again, spitting pink into the porcelain. Joel prefers mouthwash, swallows two stinging gulps of it, trying to kill something from the inside out. It makes her stomach hurt to watch the dip and bob of his throat. 

He lets her take a shower first, the faint sound of late night news filtering in through the cracked bathroom door. She scrapes at her skin with her fingernails, scrubbing down until it stings, until she’s certain that a layer has been sloughed off. She uses the soap that he uses. She smells like him. Clean and good when she looks in the bathroom mirror again. 

Cheaper to get one room with two beds, she never sleeps under the covers. If she thinks too hard about what other lives have breathed on this bed, what cellular remains cling to these sheets, she will make herself sick. So she curls close to one edge of the bed, letting the light from the television blur into meaningless shapes. Joel comes out of the bathroom clean as well, the soft ruff of his hair, the stretch of muscle in his back beneath the thinness of his t-shirt. She watches him sit down on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, the glinting dare of his cross hanging from his neck. 

“Can I ask you something else?” She regrets the words instantly with the sigh that slumps down through his shoulders. Not supposed to speak, not after. Though he still turns his face over his shoulder to look at her, eyebrows jumped in something like assent. 

“Why do you wear that?” Nod of her head that she hopes he understands, and he seems to, pinching the teardrop of gold between thumb and forefinger.

“Because I believe in it.”

“Why do you believe in it?” 

“I’d like to think there’s something that will forgive me when I say that I’m sorry.” And she can understand that, though she gave up on sorry a long time ago. Her mother used to be the one to receive her sorry. Her sorry, met with scorn, with a scoff, the whites of her mother’s eyes rolling with her sorry, the flat of her mother’s palm making contact with her sorry. Much easier, she thinks, to offer sorry to something that will never actually answer. You can believe anything you want that way. 

“I wish I wasn’t like this.” She’s never said that out loud, sighed out loud, her chin propped in her palm where she’s laying on her side. But it is the crux of all her wanting, and there is a sorry threaded through it. Wanting for something else, to be anything else other than this. 

“It’s not your fault, being like this.”

“I should be able to control it.”

“You can’t, Maeve, you can’t.” She knows that, nods her knowing to him before sitting up and curling her chest over her knees. There’s comfort, at least, in sharing this understanding, in finding control in other ways. 

“Why did you let me come with you?” 

“That’s another question.” His words curl with the smallest smile, a rare thing as he turns to fully look at her, something softening, something slipping. 

“Did you follow me, Joel?” She ruined it with that, she knows, his face falling into something darker, shadows dipping and bending around his eyes, something dark swimming in his lashes. But some part of her already knew. There are no coincidences in a myth like this, everything must be chosen. 

“I did, I’m sorry.” 

“Why did you follow me?”

“I was confused by you.” He speaks so quietly that she keeps her body perfectly still so she can collect what little sound there is, the low thrum of it, something cracking in his voice. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I knew you were like me, but I didn’t understand how that could be possible.” She knows that he doesn’t mean the possibility of others, he has met others before her. Her confusion must be evident on her face, because he offers her a weak smile, his hands in an anxious clasp in his lap, working a steady rhythm into his knuckles. 

“I didn’t think people like us could be good like you are.” These words, what finally shocks her, a surprised yelp of a laugh frightening up her throat, though he is serious, unwavering, and she finds herself becoming angry. How dare he tell her what she is. How dare he hope like that, amidst all this rot. The most they have spoken in their month together, and this is what he says? How dare he say good with so much certainty, and lay it at her feet like it is hers for the taking. A sick joke, more cruel than anything else. 

“I’m not good, Joel.” 

“You are, I see it.” She feels tears starting to ache behind her eyes again, and she is too tired for another flood. All she offers in response to him, a quiet I don’t think so, leaving no room for argument when she lays back down and turns out the lamp on her nightstand. With her eyes closed, she can hear his quiet sigh, the slow shuffle of his body laying down, the softening of his breath. 

She hates that she liked the way good sounded coming from his mouth. 

“Alright?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Are you getting that?”

“No, no.”

“It’s nice.”

“It’s not practical.”

“You can get it, if you want.” She considers it, letting the fabric fall between her fingers, a brief wanting that she lets dissolve with a shake of her head, the small pang of it settling in her stomach. There’s no point in getting something nice like this dress, light blue with buttons down the front. It’ll just get ruined anyways. No, instead she sticks to the sensible stack of t-shirts and jeans, some sort of dollar deal at the Salvation store on denim today. Joel takes the bundle of clothes from her, his palm cupping her elbow for a moment, and she thinks he might ask her again if she wants the dress. She’s grateful that he doesn’t, that he takes his hand away, because if not, she might have said yes, might have given into that want, and that would be something she simply could not do. 

They move strangely around each other. Days bleeding weeks bleeding months. Very little progress made in the push west, following a coiled snake of a path, zagging from state to state. Pieces of each other, collected slowly, carefully. Joel is from Texas, and, like her, Joel tried at normal for a very long time. He got further in normal than she ever did. Had a daughter, had a family. Held on long enough to see her into adulthood. He writes letters to her now, though Maeve tries not to watch him working. The shake of his hand, his shoulders, not for her to see. Sometimes the letters get sent, if they are in the right place at the right time to make that happen. Sometimes the letters are left behind in their wake, a prayer to something much larger. 

She tells him a clean version of her own myth, leaving out what she can, leaving out the mother when she can. She is learning the power of deciding for herself where she comes from. She is learning the power of looking someone in the eye, and of them looking back. 

Joel pays for their new clothes, and she sulks, lingering amongst the racks like a despondent ghost. In part, his money comes from the wallets of the people they find in the in-between. It had upset her when she discovered this, and while he had been apologetic, always quick to soften when she prickles, he was still firm about it. She couldn’t exactly argue with his logic, doing far worse things, after all, but she still tends toward steel when money leaves or enters his hands. It makes her nervous, and it makes her sad. Because she knows with no uncertainty that Joel is good, she knows that now. A shame, that all his goodness must get confused in what they must do.

“How much longer do you think?”

“Maybe twenty minutes, we’re close now.” Something that she knows he is doing for her, and only for her, which makes it lovely, and dangerous, and a little dizzying. It had been an idle, errant thing on a morning a few weeks ago, looking at the creased map over the dash of the truck and trying to make sense of what should come next. Arizona had seemed like a tenable answer, and a memory had floated up, something she had seen on the television as a child, something she couldn’t quite believe on a hazy afternoon, turned upside down on a couch they’d be leaving behind soon. A chasm in the earth, somewhere split open, somewhere to look inside of and see whether all wounded things bleed the same way. Sheepish, she had mentioned it to Joel between the cracks of her fingers held over her mouth, hiding the want that was curling at the corners of her lips. And he had said okay, as if it were as easy as that, as if want could ever be as easy as that, asking and receiving. A silly thought, she wondered if he wouldn’t say the same thing if she had pointed up to the moon instead. She thinks that he would. 

The truth, she likes Joel, in a way that makes her nervous. Likes the quiet hum in his throat while he drives, likes his palm between her shoulder blades, an absent-minded touch that she tries hard not to lean into, likes the steadiness of his breath in the middle of the night. Above all, she likes him looking at her, and she likes giving that back to him, looking right back at him with only kindness, a foreign mercy.

“Have you been before?”

“No, never even been in Arizona before.”

“Thank you, Joel, for doing this. I know it’s silly.” His hands flex along the wheel, a light jump in the tendons of his fingers, a glance her way in the passenger seat before his eyes settle back on the road.

“It’s not silly. We needed somewhere to go.” Always needing somewhere to go, the in-between of the in-betweens. But here in the cab of his truck, it seems like time might forgive them, might let them slip by. She’s worked up something that kicks like courage over the months, enough that now, she will often reach across to him and take one of his hands in both of hers. And he will let her. Always that first tensing, touch still tentative, though the lines of his palms will smooth out eventually, pressed close and tight with hers. She likes to hold the pads of her fingers over the soft inside of his wrist, let the beat there lull her into line with the murmuring engine. And he lets her. 

It’s a perfectly normal scene when they get there. Tourists, teeming, tired parents and kids tugging at pants, at hands, at each other. And Joel, clearing his throat a few times, a shake in his hand that she knows well as they walk out to the edge. She hooks her arms over the railing, leans over until her stomach starts to lurch, eyes dizzy from the vast swaths of red and orange grit, crags and peaks and dry brush all around, down into the canyon. 

Because she is so good at leaving, she can do it without even having to move muscle. A little leaving, she watches herself from somewhere suspended, and in her leaving eyes, she watches the small mechanics of her body climb over the rail and leap out into the sinking blankness. But a hand on her shoulder draws her back. She finds Joel looking at her with a cloudy focus, a soft frown that she watches pinch and pull into a thin line. He clears his throat again. 

“Is it what you imagined?” 

“It’s in color.”

“What?”

“When I saw it on the TV it was in black and white. This is better.” Relief, she thinks, something that smooths his brow and the wings of his shoulders. Maybe even a smile. She offers him one of her own, slight slippage when her gaze wanders over his shoulder. Hand in hand, a halo of golden hair like corn silk, a daughter at her mother’s hip, both of them walking away from the edge. Probably back to their car, probably back to their home, to dinner, to bedtime, to mother brushing her daughters corn silk hair with hands that could not even imagine violence. Saying I love you with mouths that could not even imagine violence. 

And Joel turns around to see what she is staring at, and she sees in the planes of his back the same tensing she feels, the same tensing that comes with knowing that something has been lost, and that it can never be retrieved, returned to. When he turns back around to her, steel has resettled in his jaw, but something is swimming hazy in his eyes. 

“We should go.” 

“Okay.” She takes one more look at the open wound, one more imagining of slipping into it, letting it swallow her whole. And then, well, they do what they always do. They leave. Somewhere inside of her, she is telling her mother that she finally got to see the Grand Canyon. 

…

She thinks she might be hurting Joel. Not directly, not intentionally. She’s been trying to wait out her hunger, staving it off, and he in turn has been doing the same. Testing and trying the boundaries of how long she can hold onto normal, and it hurts, and she can see that it hurts Joel too. Waiting like this, going without like this, strings him by a livewire of his want, makes him jumpy, slow to soothe, to sleep. She can hear him shifting around in the night in the close quiet of their motel rooms, restless, wanting. Sometimes, he will sigh, get up, moving quiet in the dark, the thin slice of sound when he opens the door and steps outside. He goes and sits in the truck. She knows, she has stepped into the corner of the motel room window and seen him with his temple propped in his palm, made small in the cab of the truck. This waiting is tiring. This waiting has teeth and claws and growls. This waiting, this hunger, is enough to make an animal stupid, shivering like static. 

And he has done this nice thing for her, taken her to see the black and white wound in color, and so, she decides that the waiting is done, for now. So they do the thing that they do. They find a place that is in-between, and they begin a different kind of waiting. 

“I want to see this time.”

“No, Maeve, it’s not something you should be seeing.”

“It’s nothing new to me, Joel.” She needs to see, she thinks, needs an accounting of every part of him. In the past, it has always been an unspoken routine. She would catch glimpses of it, of him, of his hands closing around something fragile,  but he wanted her to have nothing to do with it. It’s not like she hasn’t done it herself. The whites of the eyes, and the collapse of the lungs one final time, wretched things she understands.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” His voice borders on the edge of pain, the tendons in his neck playing a hurt tune, and for a moment, she thinks about backing down, letting this go. But she can’t. To do what she wants to do, she must know every part of him, this too. 

“Please.” And he’s not going to say no, she knows that. He has turned her into a terrible king in some ways with how little he says no to her. She grows greedy with it. A child growing up with so much no will hoard whatever yes they can find. 

He doesn’t say anything else, returns to his waiting in the gas station parking lot, with perhaps an edge less patience, shifting in his boots and squinting into the dry shock of the afternoon. She presses her lips together to keep any more from coming out, turns back to the strange landscape surrounding them, the desert, the resilient death of it. And as always, if you wait long enough, someone else will come staggering into the in between. 

It begins like it always begins. They wait until the bruising pall of night washes the cracked earth purple, all the other nighttime creatures starting to yip and titter, working themselves up into their usual routine. But this time, she is there when Joel approaches the man, there to watch something else slide into the place where he is kind and gentle and nice, there to watch him, with the calm strength of a storm, take the man out into the quiet judgment of the desert. 

She stands and she watches a scared animal whimper and wriggle in a merciless trap. Joel’s hands are around the man’s neck, hunched over the strange slump of his body, a thin frown on his face and the slightest pinch between his brows. She can’t look away, her eyes stinging, unblinking, wide and receiving this part of him. And Joel is looking right back at her with the same intensity, eyes lit up in a slash of moonlight. And the man refuses to die. Still struggling, clutching at air and hoping for a savior. And the errant realization that she is someone people need saving from, a quick flash of lightning in her mind. Her stomach starts to churn. 

“Please, please.” It isn’t the man that’s saying it, she realizes. It’s Joel. Quiet and broken murmurings, pleas, prayers, for this to be over. This time is different. Joel, usually so clean and quick and quiet, is struggling. And it isn’t because the man is big or battering, actually quite slight, actually still slumped, but wheezing lost breaths, heart still beating blood and body. Broken cries like an animal caught in a trap. She covers her ears with her hands, but the sounds echo, and the sounds  will echo for a long time. But she can’t look away, not even when thin beads of silver start to fall down Joel’s face, crying, and still pleading for the man to die. And when nothing else works, Joel does turn violent, a quick shock of it in the way he makes simple work of the man’s neck in his hands. She lets out a shriek that she cannot hold back, hot shame following close on its heels. 

Joel is pale, face flushed wan and weary. He swallows hard a few times as he straightens his spine, letting the body curl limp on the ground. Hot salt starts to skate down her face, both of them crying now, shivering with it. 

“I can’t, not this one.” His face crumples at her words, something close to agony that makes her stomach swoop and curdle. She has seen every part of him now. There will be no returning from this.

“Maeve, please, I–” 

“I’m going to wait in the truck.” Already turning her back to him and stumbling toward the faint, fluorescent pulse of the gas station in the distance. He does not stop her, and she is grateful for it. 

The worst part, she is still very hungry. Her shame growing wings that batter against her ribs, because beneath the horror and the guilt, there is still that hunger, made worse now by how close she came to sating it. Like a petulant child, frustrated, and on the brink of going full-tilt. She sits in the passenger seat of the truck and presses her forehead against the window, cool glass providing the smallest comfort. 

And when Joel eventually returns to the truck, he is not covered in it. She knows he is still hungry like her. She does not want to know what was done with the curled body, and he does not tell her. 

They are silent, small, slow moves. She keeps her temple pressed to the passenger-side window, shoulders shaking with the smallest sobs. And she isn’t sure if it’s the hunger, or the shame that is making her cry, and not knowing only makes her cry harder. 

She doesn’t know how long they drive for, but eventually there is a motel, and eventually she is standing in the bathroom of a motel room, and he is standing next to her, and they are moving like they had not failed. She brushes her teeth twice, until it hurts, and like always, he lets her have the shower first. She wants it to burn, and so it burns, coming out from under the water with skin welted and washed thin. And when they pass each other in the doorway to the bathroom, their eyes still don’t quite meet, nothing is said. 

Something strange is settling inside her. She doesn’t lay down, runs her palm across the static fuzz of the television, over the pixel-pocked face of the person delivering the evening news. And when that isn’t enough, she presses her cheek to the low-humming screen, curls her arms around the back of the television, and holds herself there. And for a moment, it’s as easy and as simple as how good that warmth feels, the mumbling drone of sound in her ear. She pulls herself away from it when she hears the water shut off, and there is a moment of reckoning, recognizing, when he comes to stand in the doorway to the bathroom. Hair dark and dripping darker onto his t-shirt. He looks at her, and she looks back, her hands fisted in the fabric of her sweatshirt. He looks small, he looks sad, he looks like he’s about to ask her for something. She would give him anything he could ask for, she would try, the realization as clear and clean as the blade of a knife. 

“I’m sorry, Maeve.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I couldn’t. Not with you there like that.” 

“It’s okay.”

“I wanted to keep good for you.”

“You are good, Joel.”

“Please, don’t.” A monster, broken, a monster, bending, a monster, brought to the ground. A monster in tears. Something seems to split inside him, the fragile threads of his strength flailing and failing. And she surprises herself when she goes to him before the first shaking crack of a sob can rack his chest, curls arm around shoulders like she knows what to do. He’s saying something that sounds like sorry and she’s saying something that sounds like forgiveness, managing enough movement to get them to the edge of one of the beds, to sit down still holding him. 

That cross hangs from his neck like a wretched joke, the small shiver of it. He cries, big man, big strong man. And she holds him, lets him shake with sorry and promises him that he doesn’t have to, that he is okay, that he is good, and in turn, it feels good to give these things to him. 

Eventually, the shake starts to smooth, and when she takes his face in both her hands, he leans into it, eyes heavy and worn weary, but something bright still when he looks at her. 

The thing is, Maeve knows very little about what care looks like. Most of what she learned came from the same black and white fuzz of a television. Beautiful women and beautiful men and their beautiful lives. In the movies, care is a delicate hand at the cheek. In the movies, care is a complete embrace, arms in arms and faces tucked into necks. In the movies, care is having someone to come home to, someone to love. When her hunger was at its worst as a child, she would sit as close to the television as she could get, unblinking, should she miss the moment that the beautiful woman and the beautiful man would kiss. 

And when she got older, she learned a little more about what care is, and more importantly, what it isn’t. There were boys whose violence shocked her, and in turn were shocked by her own violence. There were men that made her feel foolish for expecting care, and there were others who were just plainly mean. One comes to mind, a man whom she got on her knees for. Strange, how women are made gods on their knees, fleeting, foolish gods. And she felt wanted, looking up at him and him looking down at her. And she was wanting too, the thick curl of it in her stomach that was different from any other want. But that had changed very quickly. She didn’t like the way his hand gripped the back of her skull and she didn’t like the crude words he dribbled over her and she didn’t like that it didn’t feel like care, knew that it wasn’t care, it was a cage, and it was too much, and it was all she could think to do because she was afraid, she was afraid, and wanting, and afraid of her wanting, and she was young. So she let a different kind of wanting, different kind of hunger take over. And instead of a god on her knees she became a monster all over again.  

She has not tried for care since then, not for a very long time. But she thinks that she would like to now, with Joel. And so she does, tentative at first, the soft presence of her mouth at his temple, the round of his cheek, the drop of his lashes brushing against her skin, something shy about it. She lays another at the corner of his mouth, and it is an asking, it is a choice, it is a new myth made possible, one in which they can both be good, one that is constructed out of care. An answer in the tilt of his head, in the aligning of mouths, in his palm spanning her jaw, holding her now, holding her still in a kiss that teaches her a new kind of hunger. 

They move like they have both been wanting for a very long time, and they have, after all. The act of give and take, and she wants to take so much, give so much, perfect, pooling pangs of want when she lets his tongue into her mouth, a sharp sigh in her nose. Both turn pliant for the other, his hands at her hips, coaxing and curling her into his lap, and her hands in his hair, tilting his head back how she would like it so she can taste the sharp of his jaw and the soft hollow of his neck. For a moment she pauses, mouth pressed to the jump of his pulse, and she breathes because he smells like him, like that soap he buys wherever they go, like something else human and pleasant and real. And he lets her, runs his palms up the track of her spine, a soothing, steadying thing, only stilling when she lifts her face from the crook of his neck. Breath and beat stop briefly when she looks at him, the dark awe rounding his eyes, cheeks flushed down devastating and lips parted. She has never been looked at like this before. She likes being looked at like this. 

“I think that you’re beautiful, Joel.” It makes him shy, and awful, it makes her smile. She keeps him from dropping his gaze in denial with her hand at his jaw, holding him there and pressing a small thing of a kiss to his lips. And what unfolds afterward happens slowly, something on the verge of timid in how they move, like at any moment, flight, fleeting and fled and gone. But that does not happen, but they both stay, and they both grow more confident every time touch is answered with more touch until they are both bare, and they are curled around each other on the bed, the closest to holy she thinks she could ever get in the sense and sate of skin pressed to skin, a warmth that is so new it stings salt behind her eyes in overwhelm.  His brow pinches at the sight of her first tears, showing her how gentle he can be for her with the fragile presence of his thumb gathering the salt before it can fall. 

“I’ve never met someone good like you.” Awful, she believes him when he tells her this, hope unfurling in her chest and flushing up under her skin, a terrible heat that flickers and flumes when he begins to shift down her body, moving muscle how he would like it to move until she is splayed for him, her knees falling to the sides to allow the breadth of his shoulders to settle between them. He rests his open mouth over the soft inside of her thigh, his eyes flaring up to hers beneath the dark fan of his lashes. And this is care, she thinks, soft jaw and soft teeth where they could turn so violent. Soft only for her. He holds her in the soft bleed of his mouth, dragging heat to her cunt. He takes from her, eats at her pleasure, pulling muscle and bone into a taut line of want, her whole body strung in a snarl as he takes and takes and takes, his mouth, and his fingers, and yes, she thinks, anything else she could ask him for. He would give it to her. Gives and gives and gives until it’s his name in the back of her throat, something that borders on pain with the way he continues to mouth at her through it. She tugs at his hair, begging mercy that he finally allows, up and up and up until she’s tasting herself on his mouth and the solid weight of him is smoothing the kick of her pulse, her chest. 

The roll film starts to melt and pop at that point. Not like the movies, some myth of their own, making myth out of their want. She opens for him, a high, animal keening in her chest when his hips settle against hers. And it is not grace, it is not beautiful or merciful. It’s want distilled, and it makes them move ugly, animal, accepting and open to each other, a little bit frantic, frenetic and fizzing. Skin slicks with salt, turning everything hazy, everything close and cloistering and she likes it, the feeling of overwhelm, blatant and battering and him, all she can think about is him saying her name, saying his want and calling his want by her name. And in the aftermath, they barely move, remain pressed close like stained glass starting to melt into syrup. 

He holds her in a way she didn’t think she’d ever be able to ask for, tucked close to the steadiness of his heart, a sound that soothes and reassures her that yes, this is real, yes, this is shared. 

“This is a good thing.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Want is whispered on broken exhales, and accepted into willing mouths. Monsters that are no longer monsters in each other’s company. 

Some things make the hunger easier to stomach. This is one of those things. This is care. She is learning how to receive it, and she is learning how to give it. She is learning that she might like giving it more than she could’ve ever imagined. She didn’t know how to for such a long time, after all, that it is something entirely new, something that feels good. 

And in that care there has been a staying. Small, but still, she can’t remember the last time she spent a week, let alone two,  in a single place. They get a motel room with a kitchenette, and she knows that money is starting to become more of a question than an expectation, because neither of them are doing the thing that makes them monsters. Playing chicken with each other’s hunger, but filling in the ache with other things.

Joel buys her that dress, light blue with buttons down the front, watches her put it on for the first time in the peeling mirror next to the bed, sheepish and smiling, rubbing his palms down his thighs. She flushes, and any hunger is smothered beneath a fine flume of want, and of something else. Something like power, being seen like this, and seeing him like this, his eyes heavy and lingering. And how easy want like this becomes, him reaching out and her responding with two steps into his arms. He drops to his knees before her, sweet in his supplication, bunches the fabric up at her hips, and gives a little more to her from the soft hinge of his mouth. A fine fissure splits and snarls in the mirror that day from the way her skull makes contact with it, perfect arc of pleasure and she doesn’t even mind the pain. 

They go to the grocery store that’s ten minutes away and pretend at normal. They buy white bread that’s so soft, she watches the easy give of it with the press of her thumb, how it reforms itself around the indent through the crinkling plastic. Tomatoes, and mayonnaise, and salt, and they sit in the back of his truck, and she watches him slice into the perfect, red skin, juice dribbling from the clean break. The end of summer, sun flirting and flaring on their curled backs in the motel parking lot. He makes them sandwiches, and she sighs at the taste, golden and the grit of salt, and the soft stick of bread to the roof of her mouth. A hum in her throat when the sense of it all slips down. She watches his jaw work. 

How nice, to let days go by in something close to stillness. She learns his body, lays him out on the coarse sheets and puts her mouth wherever she would like to. Because she gets to have him, however she would like to have him. And so she does. Lips to the center of his chest where she can feel the kick of his heart, to the soft catch of his stomach where he holds his breath, watching her beneath the shy fan of his lashes, light and shadow flickering with the trying twirl of the fan. And she’s so soft for him, only for him, soft jaw and teeth and tongue, taking him into her mouth and humming at the salt and sense of it. That gold cross glints above her with the rise and fall of his chest. And she could, and he could. As easy as exhaling, as easy as the hinge of the jaw. Though they don’t, though they don’t. They sate each other in different ways. 

He coaxes her up and up and up, squeezing at the soft of her hips, a preening laugh getting stuck in her chest when he pulls her down onto the open heat of his mouth. Sweat beads and bends in all the soft places in the close swelter of the afternoon and she exults in it, watches her hips move in the sliver of mirror caught in the corner of her eye. His hands splayed against her ass, making flesh give, animal mouthings that make her shiver. She feels beautiful. Looks back at the woman in the mirror and the woman looks back at her and she feels beautiful. 

And when they settle down around each other, when his hips press close to hers and she’s looking at him and he’s looking at her, she can begin to believe that they aren’t monsters at all. Monsters couldn’t love like this, at least she doesn’t think so. 

“Can I have one of those?”

“Mmm.” This is the way most afternoons go. Bare, they don’t leave bed again, making a game out of reaching whatever they could possibly need. She stretches one leg out, toeing at a carton of cigarettes strewn on the floor until it’s within arm’s reach, Joel’s hand held steady on her hip to keep her from slipping. Smoking, she has found, is an excellent way to press the hunger down and away, tendriled tempering. She curls back into his side, plucks the lighter from where it was tucked in the carton and settles a cigarette between his lips. The pull he takes once it’s lit jumps and jags the tendons of his throat. She lays her mouth there, feels the thrum it drags from him, and like divine machinery, it makes a smile start to curl and round her cheeks. 

He offers her a drag, and she takes one that is a little too much, makes her eyes water while he rubs his palm up and down the bare breadth of her back, soothing, all easy, easy, Maeve. Sheepish, she tucks her face down along the line of his clavicle, a small sound of protest in the back of her throat before she can stop it when his palm stills, though he’s quick to pick up the smooth circuit. She flushes, because he has made her greedy with all this touch, all this give and take, ask and receive. A different kind of monstrous, what he has made her with want made real. 

“Maeve?” She already knows that tilt to his words because he has tried this a few times now, that little edge of pain that comes with hunger. She sighs, but she does lift her head so she can look at him, the slight pull of his frown, waiting for the question that’s coming. 

“Will you eat?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Maeve.”

“I don’t, Joel.”

“I know you do.” And the unsaid of it, because I do too, because I am in pain too, because we are the same, and we must not forget that. Yes, she can set the hunger down, but there is always the picking it up, always the remembering. It turns her quiet, turns her stomach too, making her sit up, Joel’s hand falling from her spine. He sits up with her, ducking his head to catch the slant of her gaze, eyes rounding and wet. 

“Baby, all you gotta do is eat. I’ll take care of the rest.” She sighs, letting her cheek fall into the cup of his palm, fighting a question that is threatening in her throat, and that has been for a while now. She wants to know how long, just how. He held onto normal for a very long time, and if he could, maybe she could as well. Maybe this could be enough, her cheek in his palm. But, at least for now, she will not ask that, will not try that, because she can see that she is hurting him again, dark wings beneath his eyes, jolting with unanswered want. She knows that hurt, and was fine with hurting herself for a very long time, so long as it meant a gentle hand from her mother, a promise of staying. But this is different, because even when she isn’t hurting, even when she isn’t hungry, Joel doesn’t look away from her, doesn’t leave, doesn’t punish or preach. Relief, she thinks, is all he feels when she’s full. And that’s a kind of care that is new to her as well. 

She lays her hand over his, turns her face into his palm to the fated lines there. 

“Okay, we’ll eat.” 

Eating means leaving, and they both know that, but just the promise that this hurting will soon be over is enough to ward off any worry with skittering fingers. They slink out of bed, get dressed in the wavering light of the single lamp in their room. By now, night, dark and close when they step outside, that late summer cooling that comes when the sun slips down beyond the horizon. 

They haven’t, not since she refused to, not since Joel wept. And she feels a fine thread of worry tugging in her stomach, trying not to look at him too hard as they drive through the night toward some in-between place. But there is nothing to worry about, because Joel takes care of it. And so they are full again, and so they aren’t hurting any more, stumbling through the desert brush beneath the merciful glow of the moon, dark, dark, dark. 

It is amazing how little time something so monstrous takes when it is done so carefully like this. In the passenger seat, she presses her palm over her mouth, feeling the dried stick there. And in turn she reaches over to him, lays her hand over his mouth in the same place, feels the same tack there. Like her, like her, like her. He kisses the cup of her palm without ever taking his eyes off the road, the jump of muscle in his forearms, in his knuckles curled around the steering wheel. 

They are quiet when they get back to the motel, curling around themselves to conceal the truth of the stain, of the darkening damp smeared down their fronts. And this routine starts the same. At the sink, the toothpaste and the floss and the mouthwash. But there is no separation when the steam of the shower starts to seep. They both strip down and step in together. Before he can, she is already pressing her palms against his chest, holding him in the stream of the shower. She cleans what remains from his skin, water pinkening in the drain. And when she’s satisfied with that, she takes his skull in her hands and tips his head back so she can thread her fingers through his hair. He hums, eyes slipping shut in pleasure made pure. And she is so gentle for him that even now, so dizzyingly full, she has a hard time convincing herself of her own monstrosity. 

He surprises her when he takes over, beginning his ministrations with his hand holding her chin, fingers tucked at the hinge of her jaw to hold her steady, hold her mouth open so he can run the pad of his thumb over her teeth, pressing at the sharp of her canines, something dark laying heavy over his eyes. She tries for a grin, though it is only a crook of the corners of her lips with the way he is holding her face. And when she bites, just a little, holding his thumb in the merciful pressure of her teeth, he laughs, a quiet murmuring sound as he watches her from beneath his lashes. 

“Be good, please.” And she is good for him. Good means not biting down. Love means not biting down, at least not too hard. Instead, taking his thumb into her mouth and curling her tongue around it. She sucks, and he groans, and it sends a new want stuttering up her spine. Close to frightening to want and be wanted so regularly like this. The cool tile is holy against her spine, shivering down a perfect prayer. He holds her there, and she lets him, and they do something about the hunger that remains. 

When the water runs cold and clean, they get out, continue a routine that looks normal, settle down around each other in bed. Joel puts on the evening news and she keeps her ear pressed over his heart, lets the flooding beat of it drown at that slick slither of shame, still there, always there. But then, but then.

There is a woman on the news. A woman who is crying. A woman who is surrounded by the small flicker of candles held in hands, held in vigil. And the woman is crying because her husband never came home. Three weeks ago, and her husband didn’t come home, and her husband isn’t, wasn’t, the type of man who would just leave because they had children. They had children, and their father never came home. And Maeve sits up because when they show a photo of the husband, the father, she recognizes him. That night when she refused and Joel wept. She recognizes him, and her stomach starts to curdle. And Joel recognizes him too, sits up too, a careful, quiet call of her name, low, so as to not scare her into flight. But she is already shaking her head no, no, no, no, shirking and shrinking away from his touch, curling up on the end of the bed, all her angles tucked up close as panic turns into sickening white noise in her mind. 

They had been careful, hadn’t they? Always careful, always the in-between, always people that couldn’t possibly have someone waiting at home for them. After all, it isn’t hard for like to recognize like. And they were careful, and they were kind, and they always tried very hard to be gentle when they had to do what they always have to do. Not enough though, none of it, enough, and it was never going to be. 

Joel turns off the television, his movement fragmented in the melt of her tears, catching stained-glass glimpses of him kneeling in front of her, pleading, or praying, or something in between the two. Please, baby, please will you look at me? It’s not your fault, it’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine. You’re good, you’re so good, please, I’m sorry, please. And it’s please over and over again, and she’s shaking her head no over and over again, trying to wrench away from his hands holding her face steady. 

In the perfect cradle of a pain like this, there is a regression, something childlike in the logic of making it better. Something young in the way he unclasps his cross from around his neck and tries to give it to her, tries to lay it against her sternum. And something young in her too, throwing a perfect fit when he tries to make this right the only way he knows how. She shows him her snarl, thrashes and tears the chain away from her skin, throws it across the room. Terrible, she regrets it immediately, regrets the way his face falls, the way he sinks back into himself. She has hurt him, and this time, on purpose. 

He gets up with a sigh that sounds very tired, doesn’t say another word as he crosses toward the bathroom. She can’t look at his face right now because it will make her cry even harder, so instead she lets her vision blur and unfocus around his form, a silhouette with his forehead resting against the bathroom door frame. 

“I’m sorry, Maeve.” All that he offers, slipping away, slipping out of sight and into the bathroom, and that young part of her panics. No, needs him to be where she can see him, where he can see her, needs to fix this. She gets down on her hands and knees in a blind stutter, runs her fingers along the grimey baseboard trying to find where she threw that wretched chain. And it’s no use because when she does find it she sees that the clasp is broken clean off, golden bones in pieces, glinting in the faded carpet. She picks up what she can find of it, feeling small, shivering small when she pads into the bathroom. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, big man made small just like her, curled over himself with his head in his hands. And now would be a good time for her to leave, she thinks. Leave the cracked pieces of his faith on the counter and start walking in any direction away from here. She is familiar with this kind of leaving. All those years ago, and her mother in a similar posture of prostration, of surrender to this thing that she could not fix for her daughter. Her mother, asking her to leave. And Maeve, finally given an opportunity to succeed in what her mother asked of her. Yes, she is very good at leaving when people get tired of her, or frightened of her, or tired of being frightened of her. She has done it many times now. 

“I’m sorry, Joel.” And the rest is said too, in a sodden slur when she holds out her cupped palms to him and shows him the broken pieces, something about her fixing it, with money that doesn’t exist, and in a place she doesn’t know, and with hands that seem to only be good for greed. But he accepts her sorry, curls his palms around hers to close her fingers over the wreckage, a prayer that she is relieved to partake in. 

They are ruinous. But they are in love. 

A strange, slow slump over the lip of the tub, and he pulls her with him. The porcelain, or whatever it is, is still pearled damp from their shower earlier and the bare skin of her shins sticks and slips as she settles in his lap. She holds his face in her hands, thumbs stroking at the soft skin beneath his eyes. And he’s beautiful, and she’s already forgiven him, and she never wants to hear him say sorry again because she would continue to forgive him for any and all of it. She wants a world for them in which they never have to say sorry.

“Joel?” He is listening, though he doesn’t say anything, and she allows something like hope to lurch hot and hazed in her chest.

“Do you think we could be normal together?”

Silence, for a long time. The sink faucet drips.

“We could try.”

Two years pass. 

It is the longest she has ever managed normal.

The truth is there was money, because her mother did love her in her own strange way. She had never touched it before though, there never seemed a good enough reason for it. But this seemed good, like the best possible reason, really.

They get an apartment in a town in New Mexico with a name that doesn’t mean anything to either of them. Something they could both agree on, the hard bake of the sun and the dry air. 

They both get jobs in the first months. She works at a grocery store, smiles bright at the mothers that bring their daughters along on their weekly errands. He works with his hands, and comes home in the slow slump of the afternoon smelling like cedar and salt. She licks it off his skin and runs her fingers through his damp, darkened hair most nights. 

Those first few months, there is a mattress, and not much else. It is enough. They put it in the middle of the apartment. They eat and they sleep and they talk and they laugh and they fuck and they watch the sun rise and fall in the harsh way it does from that mattress. They are very happy. 

And then they get some more furniture, and then they start saying hello to their neighbors when they pass them in the hall, and their neighbors start saying hello back. Normal slips into the corners of their lives like the most gracious guest. 

At the end of that first year, when it seems like normal is going to stick, Joel sends a letter to his daughter with a phone number scribbled in hope at the bottom of the page. He waits by the phone the whole week after it’s sent like an anxious ghost, makes himself sick with waiting. And when she does call, Maeve catches glimpses of him from the end of the hall, a smile, and quiet wonder in his voice. He’s not interested in going to church any more because now his daughter calls every Sunday. He sits down on the floor with his chin tilted to the side to accommodate the stretch of the coiled phone cord and he talks all morning with her. 

In the second year, Maeve finds that she likes to paint. There’s an art supply store in town, so she quits her job at the grocery store and goes to work there, gets enough of an employee discount that she can buy paints and brushes and canvases and an easel over the span of a few months. She likes the desert, likes its colors and its quiet assertion of life, so that is what she often paints. And Joel likes to watch her in the evenings, she sets up her work in front of the crooked palm of windows in the living room, an errant hum in the back of her throat to whatever song is playing on the radio. Eventually, every night, when she is doing more swaying than painting and her eyes are starting to squint shut, he gets up off the couch and pads over to sway with her, her head falling back to rest against his shoulder as he coaxes her tired body into his arms. And from the faint glow of the windows stacked and ordered alongside a few dozen other glowing windows of the apartment complex, it looks like love, because it is. 

She finds that she likes routine, likes being bored and boring. She likes that the things she worries about now are small things, like what they're going to have for dinner, or whether they’ll go to the weekly tenant meeting on Thursday nights. She likes waking up in the same bed every morning, and she likes that he sleeps on his stomach when he’s actually comfortable in a space, splayed and cheek rumpled on his pillow, an arm always extended toward her, draped over her. She likes the weight, the reassurance of it. And in the mornings he is slow to wake, all soft murmurings and soft eyes, still shut even when she presses her lips to his temple, though a smile will usually start to curl smug when she does. Good morning, good morning. It is good, all of it, so good that it makes the dormant hunger hurt a little bit less.

They eat breakfast together, leaning against the kitchen counter. Eggs and their golden tears splitting and spilling on their plates, strong coffee that he takes black and she takes with cream. Their mouths work hard around normal. She packs lunches for them both, late summer again, tomatoes again, sandwiches again, the way that he made them. And on her break at work she does her best to get it down, pinching the crust off first before eating the rest. But no, that other hunger doesn’t go away. It makes sounds a little sharper, and lights achingly brighter, it makes the steady beat of the sun fierce. But she thinks she can manage it, because she wants all this normal so much more, hunger for hunger, and want for want, a careful game of tipping the scales. 

Joel’s birthday is in a few weeks. She’s been working on a painting for him, difficult to keep it a secret with the way he is always over or under her shoulder, a hum in his throat because that’s beautiful, baby, you work so beautiful. But somehow she’s managed to keep it hidden. And today she picks up two fresh tubes of paint, pigments that she needs to finish her work. She’s painting a sunset for him, a landscape that they both know, a wound in the earth, that canyon that they visited once. She hopes he’ll like it. She thinks he will. 

She always gets home later than he does these days because he got a promotion, baby, big man, good man who got a promotion, baby, who’s a boss now, baby, working with his hands, baby, good, honest work, baby. He's already showered, hair damp and dripping dark down the back of his t-shirt, the small slide of muscle as he stands over the stove and stirs something that smells good. That same hum in his throat when she twines her arms around his stomach and presses her face into the back of his neck, deep inhale because he smells like that good, clean soap he always uses. 

And it’s all the quiet, normal things, greetings, and how was your day, and it was good, baby, how was yours, and mmhmm, good, this looks good, you look good, good, good. He turns in her arms and smacks a kiss to her mouth that makes her laugh, makes her hungry. 

“I got some new paints.”

“Oh yeah?” Somehow, squirreling around each other, he tucks her into his side, arm easy and slung around her shoulders while he continues to stir pasta and sauce in simmering pots, steam and savor washing over their faces and turning skin tacky and flushed. 

“Mmhmm.”

“Gonna paint something beautiful, baby?” Baby, baby, baby, his cheeks round with the word every time. She especially likes it, usually late at night, or early in the morning, when he slurs and stumbles over Maevey baby, Maevey, Maevey, Maevey. Heavy and sweet like thick syrup in his throat and it nearly brings her to tears it’s so nice coming from his mouth. 

“I’m gonna try.” 

“Always beautiful, always make things so beautiful.” It’s almost absent-minded the way he says it, intent on getting food on plates with only one free hand, but it still makes her stomach swoop and buoy something awful. 

They eat dinner, and they sit on the couch, and he watches her work on a different painting until the sun slips under and washes everything down dark. And they get ready for bed, moving around each other in a routine they don’t even have to think about, settle down around each other and turn out the lights, quiet whisperings of love, touch that expects more of itself for a very long time, easy, patient, soft. When she feels and hears his breath slip into that slow resonance of sleep, she moves as quietly as she can in getting out of bed. She’s been hiding his painting in the hall closet where they keep their winter coats tucked. They have winter coats now. 

She works in the quiet clutch of the night, eyes squinting in the dim light she allows for herself, working partly from memory, and partly from  mythology of a place in their shared past. The painting will be finished soon. She thinks she’ll have to give it to him early if that’s the case, giddy with the idea of finally sharing it with him. 

When she’s satisfied with her progress, still night, still close and dark and quiet, she tucks the painting back into the closet, careful not to let anything brush against it while it dries. And when she returns to bed, Joel is still asleep, on his stomach now with his arm outstretched toward her side of the bed. Nothing is easy like it is to slip back under with him. 

She’s going to finish the painting tonight. The thought makes her rush a bit in closing the store. It takes her three tries to finally get the key to click into the lock. If she does finish it, she thinks she might have to wake him up right then and there to show it to him. And she floats home on the prospect of that, smiling, easy greetings to the people she passes on her way up to the apartment. 

“Joel?” A fine whisper of worry when she doesn’t find him in the kitchen making dinner. He must have had a longer day at work, she figures, just now getting home and getting cleaned up because she can see the light slipping down the hall from the bathroom. 

And the rest happens in a strange, slow unraveling. 

Later, much later, he will tell her that she screamed when she opened the bathroom door. She will not remember that. What she will remember, the awful resignation, that understanding like a small death, that she was never going to be able to walk out of her own myth. And the blood on clean, white tile that had never seen blood before. And blood on him, on his hands and on his face and down his shirt and all over and all over and all over. 

Later, much later, he will tell her that he thought he was going to die when she told him not to touch her, when she skittered back so hard she tripped and fell in the hallway when he reached for her. What she will never tell him, she sometimes wishes she died then and there.

From the glimpse she caught, there is very little left of what he has done, only remnant viscera in the bathtub. But she doesn’t see any more than that, because she is on the ground and she is pressing her back up close against the wall as far from him as she can get and she is sobbing and yes, she is screaming. Ruinous, wretched ribbons of sound ripping through her chest. It is a mourning sound. And he drops down to his knees, reaches in the space between them, but thinks better of it with the way she shrinks away from him. Pink streaks of tears down his face, he pulls at his hair in something that looks like agony. He cries with her, and he prays to her. Like a chant, like an invocation, like one last plea for salvation, I’m sorry, I’m so tired, I’m sorry, I was so tired, I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I’m sorry, I love you, please, I’m sorry, please. And she cries harder at the broken sound of his wails, fingernails clawing at her chest like she might be able to plunge through skin and muscle and find the sick, stuttered beat of her heart that is in such perfect pain. The horrible truth is she had already forgiven him the moment she opened the bathroom door. The horrible truth, they are in this myth together. 

Eventually, when there is little left for her to mourn, the cries stop, everything swollen and slumped and sodden. She doesn’t wince or recoil when he reaches for her now, crawling to her on his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing the crown of his head into her stomach, still shivering in his sobs. And because she has already forgiven him, it is hardly difficult for her palms to find the shake in his spine. She doesn’t even have to think about it, holding him a little tighter when his hands grasp at the fabric of her shirt. 

Still, pain. Later, much later, she does not let herself think of that day too often. Of the painting that was never finished. That was left in the hall closet to dry with a sunset that wasn’t yet complete. Because if she does think of it for too long, that pain will tear open inside her all over again, and it will turn her hateful, and she doesn’t want that, not for him, not when he tries to show her how sorry he is every day. Sorry that normal ended like that. Sorry that there was always going to be another leaving. 

They leave, together, the next morning, silent as a grave. And in all the years of wandering that follow, they never return to New Mexico, a space sealed off like a tomb of the past, of a promise that could never have been kept. 

…

“Are you cold?” 

“A little, but it feels nice.” Still, he doesn’t think twice about offering his shirt to her from where it had stayed dry and folded at the edge of the lake, warmed by the sun and clinging to the pearling damp on her skin. It’s summer again, and they are in some in-between like they always are, and he is trying to find what joy he can for her like he always is. And it is a good day, one of their better ones, so she tries for what she can of a smile from behind the tuck of her knees up against her chest, squinting in the bright halo around him. He smiles too, a shy, small thing that looks like relief, and when he curls his arm around her shoulders, she lets him, tucks  into his side, and they sit at the edge of a lake in the in-between, soft grass and mud and the mild kippering of insects all around them, baking in the sun. When he holds her like this, when normal starts to creep in, so do the tears, but she tamps them down with a hum in her throat, some song that he sighs at, tucks his face into the hollow of her neck so he can feel the thrum of it from the source. He holds her like he is waiting for her to shatter, something desperate, but something fragile. And she drags her fingers through his hair, now drying in fine waves beneath the sun, and it is a moment that will have to be enough. She is learning what to hold onto, and what to let go.

“Joel?” He hums his listening, though he keeps his face ducked down to let her continue her ministrations. 

“We should probably leave soon.” 

“Yeah, we should.” And it is this string of words over and over again, the finely stitched pattern of their lives held in the cradle of these few words. She thinks that she has accepted this, settled around this, grown around the rot until it has become something else. Sometimes, she wonders if they are real, if she is real. Watch two myths walk away from the edge of a lake. It is summer, and  two myths are holding each other in their arms. It’s only real if you watch. The rest of the time, they define real for themselves. Real in touch, in sun on skin, in mouths and hands on skin. They make each other real within their own myth. All of the time, they are in love. Some of the time, they are happy. 

But before this, before now, before all the miles they have crawled in the time following that staying that turned into a leaving, she refused to eat for another two years, despite his coaxing and cajoling. And it weakened her, made her mean and sharp, and eventually withdrawn, curled like a corpse in the coarse sheets of motel beds, letting her eyes glaze and glass in the glow of the television. Lover turned patient, any care and keeping was done by his hands, moving her in a pleading pattern of preservation. Please, baby, I need you to eat, I love you I know you love me so eat, all you have to do for me is eat. All she offered in response when he would start to pray to her like that, her palm lifting in the air, and dropping back down as if judgment had been passed.  In the night, he curled his body around hers, and it was the strongest she got to feel, him weeping against her spine.  And in the waking day, death seemed inevitable, seemed like grace, and one day, she told him in what voice she had left that she would like him to, to her, of her, if the time came soon. And she hoped the time would come soon. And he got very angry, it shocked her how angry he got. Voice like thunder and lightning in his hands, shattering whatever would break against the walls of their motel room. The vision of a man who did not know what else to do. The vision of a man losing. And that broken, beating thing inside of her lurched because she loves him. Loves him, loves him, loves him. And so she eats with him. And so she lives with him. And so they walk through this myth together. Her in the passenger seat and she takes one of his hands in both of hers and keeps it for herself in her lap and he lets her. How could they be monsters? How can this be called monstrous? They are in love. They are in wretched love.

And before this, before now, when a new couple moved into that apartment in New Mexico, clean, white tile clean and white again, ready to fill the rooms with their own kind of love, full and good, they found a near-finished painting in the hall closet. A painting of a wound in the earth, and the flame of a sunset. They thought that it was beautiful. 

[geniemillies]

now that i drew king of hybern properly i was reminded to present my bby niamh (again), hybern princess oc and daughter of the king bc i think im obsessed with her and and 😣😣💥💥

natural hair pale blonde btw, the dark hair is just glamour because KoH complains that she don't look like him so now she's obligated to glamour 😐

Will draw her more happy some day this is just her court face. She's actually very silly I promise😔..

So silly in fact that she's going to start a revolution in my fic bc justice for Hybern 🧎🏻‍♀️ She is also kindaa a lil bit inspired by the actual irish myth of Niamh 🫶 (lorewise the medieval ver more like bc they both have psycho papas)

[justicemythagentofshield]

Justice adjusted the leather jacket she was wearing, looking at Loki for a moment before she answered.

"The name's Justice Myth." She spoke in a short sentence, a fairly simple greeting. She tilted her head to one side in a similar manner.

Closed Starter ||

@justicemythagentofshield

Loki was reading, as he always did, when he felt someone enter the room he sat in.

He glanced up and found a new person that he had never met before. Tilting his head in curiosity, "Well, hello, who might you be?"

[vasito-de-leche]

Hi, I just wanted to tell you that your r1999 ocs are pretty and I love their designs too! Especially people in the fandom are pretty creative for making their r1999 ocs and I was wondering if do you have a tips for making an r1999 oc? I'm quite hard time making an oc from r1999.

Do you need them to make an oc based them irl people, history, myth or perhaps a fiction characters from another story? (For example, baby blue is based from Alice in the wonderland in the book, ig?)

Some characters are pretty unknown who their based of, for example like X, Pavia, Click and the other characters.

OH!! OH OKAY OKAY I LOVE TALKING ABOUT THIS OKAY

As far as I've seen, not EVERY character is based on a single actual figure, whether fictional or historical.

Yes, we have John Titor who is. John Titor. But some characters have PLENTY of different people that they reference in relation to their themes, others represent broad groups, movements or genres like horror, the hippie movement. You have Dikke who has many, many different references to figures of justice. Mondlicht, who seems to represent all three characters from Little Red Riding Hood--the girl, the wolf and the hunter. You have Blonney and Horropedia who reference a shitload of different things and actors and works within the horror genre.

With the examples you've given, X does not seem to reference a person but the concept of Rube Goldberg Machines. Pavia seems to reference the Werewolf of Pavia. Click? No clue actually, I haven't looked into him much, so I don't know what else he could reference beyond WWII.

Baby Blue is indeed a reference to Alice in Wonderland, but her 01 Story "Fantasy is in Vogue" clearly state that Baby Blue is NOT the Alice that discovered Wonderland. The rest of her lore and i2 Garment also imply that Baby Blue is more akin to the figure of the Red Queen as opposed to Alice.

My point is: if you'd like to make a character then you shouldn't feel like you have to pick a single historical figure. You can pick ANYTHING that interests you and to have your OC embody and represent--mythology, folklore, fantasy, artistic movements, music, architecture, history... LITERALLY ANYTHING. OR LITERALLY NOTHING!

The whole point of the characters in R1999 is that they're a small piece that represents the era they come from. That's why they're considered art pieces to be preserved by UTTU Magazine. This is why we have Sweetheart, who is based on Marylin Monroe but is also a biting critique on Hollywood.

And you can even take this a step further and toy with this idea, like I did with my own OCs!

Spina Venatores is meant to represent the people that are truly left behind and displaced, people that you once knew but weren't lucky enough to meet Vertin nor the Foundation, to drive home the idea that Vertin cannot save everyone no matter how hard she tries.

The vulnerable that were taken advantage of by Manus Vindictae, a group that represents extreme isolation and supremacy, who lack any meaningful connections other than their own elitist groups. So I wanted my OCs to feel extremely disconnected--that's why all of them don't look like they belong in any single era but straight out of a different game, why they lack details that could connect them to their original times, and why the themes and concepts they reference are vague and timeless. I'm also big on bones and dark topics, so I shoved a SHIT ton of those into them, easy!

I always suggest that people grab their favorite character from the game and connect their OC to them, makes it easier to establish a connection within the universe and find themes to start with. You like Druvis III? Easy, your OC could be a childhood friend she had in her homeland before she and her family moved to America. Or a noble from a family that had business with the Weyerhaeuser company. You like Madame Z? How about an OC who is an assistant for her?

If people are too shy to make direct connections like this with a canon character, then you have plenty of organizations and groups--Zeno, Laplace, the Foundation, the School of Discipline, Manus Vindictae, Apeiron, and who knows what else is out there.

You can even study the lore and find places to fill in with your OCs. That one tidbit from a few days ago that revealed theres a few other terrorist organizations aside from Manus Vindictae? Make your own terrorist organization! Have you seen the white and red enemies from the Mintage stages? The Rock City enemies and Little Finger Peter? Make an OC that belongs there!

It always helps to have a solid starting point if you can't pick an era or anything to use as a base for your OC! And don't be discouraged if you come up with something and R1999 suddenly drops a character with similar or near identical themes--take advantage of that! Your OC has the same arcanum skills as another character? Make them fight about it, make them study buddies, find ways to engrave your OC and make them relevant to the world in their own ways.

It happened to me with Pavia! So I just made my OC and Pavia be insufferable and hate each other! Easy!

If you're looking for resources, I have a post here--it's a little outdated since I know there's a lot more new things to add, but it's a good place to start! It also helps to study the characters you like and pick them apart to understand how to better make an OC!

[catohphm]

Hi everyone! I spent the rest of yesterday typing up a complete backstory for my Hogwarts Legacy OC, Danny, for a Star Wars AU in which he is a Jedi! It took me several hours to pull all this together so I hope you enjoy it!

tagging some moots to start: @adalinda-selwyn, @rypnami, @n0va25, @boxdstars, @superconductivebean, @idiot-adventures, @hazyange1s

Circa 45 BBY, Master Islwyn was born on Dressel, a remote, rural, wooded planet in the Mid-Rim largely detached from galactic politics. For the first three years of his life, the boy was nurtured on his parents’ ranch, who were former successful merchants that had sold off their interests and settled down for a quieter life after their enterprise started to wane due to the rising influence of large commerce houses such as the Inter-Galactic Banking Clan. However, his parents wanted their son to have a chance at life in the galaxy. They were not strong in the Force, but believed in it. They prayed that one day their boy would be granted that opportunity by will of the Force.

It seemed that those prayers were answered when a handful of brown-robed strangers showed up at the front doorstep of the Islwyns. Believing that this was the opportunity they hoped their son would have, the family welcomed the strangers. Little Danny could speak by this point, but being so young, there was no way he could process that this was the last family dinner he would have until he was an adult. Over supper, the visitors revealed their identities as Jedi and explained to the family their intentions to take their son in, raising and training him as a part of their Order. As much as they believed in the Force, little Danny’s parents had a hard time believing that the Jedi was more than myth, the mysterious guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy. They were still somewhat surprised when members of the Order approached their abode. 

The Islwyns agreed, albeit very reluctantly and emotionally, to let the Jedi leave with their son and train them as one of their own. The three-year old Danny was the loudest and it took some time for both the parents and the Jedi to calm him down. His parents gave him hugs and admitted they would still miss him dearly in spite of the fact that they had what they wanted for him. Life on the ranch would not be the same for the couple, but they had to manage for everyone’s sake. Indeed, young Danny remained in tears as he left the ranch on the shoulder of one of the Jedi, waving goodbye.

Emigrated to the grand Jedi Temple of Coruscant, the sight of a planet-wide big city was a lot to take in for the youngling when the starship docked. He was shocked and amazed of course, as it was a vast difference to the forests and prairies of quiet Dressel. Immediately from the beginning it was clear to the masters that Danny struggled with attachment and letting go. He was a happy if somewhat quiet and shy kid. It bothered the little youngling greatly that he would have to adjust to his new surroundings, even face the reality he may not get to see his mama and papa for a very long time, if not ever again. 

Under the Jedi Code, attachments were forbidden within the Order. Forcing it on little Danny however, would be wrong. One of the masters, a Togruta named Shaak Ti, took a particular interest in him. She felt and understood his deep struggles with attachments. Thus she was not hesitant to express her concerns about how he may be treated when it came to addressing his feelings and memories. Rather than trying to forcefully drill it in, which would be wrong, Master Ti advocated for working with Danny to understand his troubles and develop the important skills he would need for his journey in the Force. 

Master Ti would become a motherly figure to young Danny in the Jedi. She was allowed to play a main role in his early education and training as a youngling. He felt at ease when she was around, able to sense her strong devotion to the nature of the Force and the Jedi teachings. She encouraged him to explain what upset and scared him. Ti recognized that his attachment to his mother and father was natural and part of what made him happy. It also showed that he had  a strong heart and was concerned for other people and their wellbeing. Over time, Danny would learn to acknowledge and accept his feelings and attachments as positive and healthy so that he could remain focused on his studies and betterment as a Jedi. Shaak Ti understood why the Code banned attachments. They had the potential to interfere in the training and duties of a Jedi, turning them to the Dark Side if they were left unaddressed and allowed to overrun the individual. At the same time, she believed that with the proper handling, training and meditation, one would be able to manage their attachments in a constructive way.

As a student, Danny also looked up to Shaak Ti as a role model. He took up after her in the spiritual, scholarly and martial components of the Jedi, preferring negotiation first while being prepared for battle at any moment. He even took an interest in whips and dreamed of having a lightsaber that worked like one of them when he got older, developing a specialization for the whip throughout his training. Danny was well-liked by his peers and got along with most of his clan, though some considered him as weird and teased him for his unusual interest in whips. Otherwise he was empathetic and hardworking, sometimes assisting classmates in need.

When they came of age, young Danny and the rest of his initiate clan participated in a rite of passage known as the Gathering to build their lightsabers, as was customary. They were flown to the faraway snowy planet of Ilum in an ancient starship called the Crucible under the guidance of Professor Huyang, an academic droid also dating back from antiquity. On the planet, Danny and the younglings had to journey into caverns to find kyber crystals that they connected to in the Force while overcoming challenges testing their resilience and willpower. He managed to work through all the obstacles and negative temptations within him due to the teachings of Shaak Ti. The crystal he found was green due to his affinity with the Force’s nature. Danny used the powers of the force to build his lightsaber under the careful direction of the droid professor.

He passed his Initiate Trials with flying colors. As a Jedi Master, Shaak Ti was allowed to select her own apprentice to train, who would be none other than young Danny. It was now 32 BBY, which would see the world of Naboo be invaded and occupied by the Trade Federation in response to hefty tariffs by the Galactic Republic. He also witnessed the arrival of a young slave from the Outer Rim desert world of Tatooine, Anakin Skywalker, the news of which also brought along rumors of a Sith resurgence. While the possibility of the evil Force order returning concerned Danny somewhat, he brushed them aside as he was intrigued by the story of Anakin. Skywalker was permitted into the Jedi for training as Obi-Wan’s student after helping defeat the Trade Federation force that held Naboo at gunpoint. While welcoming toward Anakin, Danny couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was troubling him. He sensed that Skywalker also had problems with attachments, which he could understand, but the former slave’s predicament was worse than what he had to deal with. 

Danny continued his studies under Master Ti, them going on many missions together to further their journeys in the Force. Their bond grew to new heights as her student became an older teenager. Master and padawan saw each other as equals and had a shared mutual respect. Even on the hardest missions did young Danny enjoy traveling with and learning from Shaak Ti. In 25 BBY, he completed the Jedi Trials and was knighted in a formal ceremony. While proud of this accomplishment, he was not to rest on his laurels for long as he was assigned his new padawan shortly after, a teenage girl named Sophronia. Danny was reluctant at first, if a bit apprehensive even, but all doubts came crashing down when he got to meet her. The girl was intelligent and bright, as well as eager and friendly. She conveyed an air of maturity while remaining youthful and was devoted to the Jedi teachings.

Over the next 6 years, Master Islwyn dedicated himself to training Sophronia the best he could using what he learned from Master Ti and his own experiences. He constructed his lightwhip with an orange crystal after years of honing the skill. His apprentice was somewhat jealous of this, but she was also proud of him for his accomplishment. She respected and admired him a lot. They shared their passion for learning and knowledge, which further their bond and respective paths. Even then Danny would sometimes be irritated by Sophronia’s deep passion and talkative nature on the details of historical events and legends. While their bond was still a bit rocky at the start, they gradually warmed up to each other. He continued to maintain his close bond with Shaak Ti, who offered his padawan advice and motivation from time to time.

Tensions in the Republic only continued to worsen following the Naboo crisis. Many star systems were breaking off to join a new rising power in response to growing corruption, bureaucracy and alleged mistreatment. Named the Confederacy of Independent Systems, it rapidly gained support and membership under the direction of a former Jedi-turned-Sith, Count Dooku, who was christened Darth Tyranus by his master, Darth Sidious. The massive commerce houses that prompted Danny’s parents to leave business had also joined the CIS, providing military and financial support in return for places in the Separatists' governing council.

It was hard to believe for Danny that such an accomplished and respected Jedi such as Dooku could leave the Order and possibly even defect to the Republic’s rivals or enemies. He picked up his parents’ sentiment for politics, it being sort of alien to him as a committed Jedi. It was believed that Dooku had left as he felt that the organization was becoming too political, short-sighted and narrow in its ways serving the Republic. Danny also struggled to comprehend this as he always remembered the Jedi as essential to his family. They had cared for him, trained him and afforded him a life where he could be happy and perhaps make a difference in the galaxy. As much as he felt strongly about Dooku leaving the Order, nothing could change his stance on the Jedi until the outbreak of the Clone Wars. 

Dooku’s warnings would be validated as the powder keg of tensions in the galaxy exploded, pitting the Republic in open hostilities with the Separatists. The shortcomings of the Jedi were exposed to the public throughout the war, the role of them as soldiers not helping sentiment against them. That’s what Danny saw himself as he continued to serve the Jedi and the Republic in the war. He did not see it as his duty to be caught up in the back-and-forth playing of politics in the Senate Chamber. His convictions lied in the safety and wellbeing of his padawan, Master Ti and his force of clone troopers.

Although Danny always had questions about the Jedi doctrine that stemmed from his very first encounter with them as a little boy on Dressel. They were aided by the Clone Wars’  increase in scrutiny and condemnation of the Jedi as warriors pushing for the Republic’s interests at the costs of other people. Danny did not believe that it was that extreme, but he could not refute that the Jedi doctrine was flawed, if even outdated and in need of amendment. He further suspected that there were plans going on behind closed doors to usurp the Jedi and destroy the democracy laid out by the Republic. However he could not act on it nor communicate it much to others due to a lack of proof.

Nevertheless Danny and Sophronia fought in many battles together, the experience in the combat zone a test of their bond and prowess in its own right. Coming into 19 BBY, Sophronia became a knight herself. Much to the immense applause and gratitude of both Danny and Shaak Ti, she had proven herself a fierce, independent and accomplished Jedi worthy of the honor. Following the battle above Coruscant and the rescue of Chancellor Palpatine, Danny was informed that he had been selected for the ascension rank of Master for his honorable service and dedication to teaching young Sophronia the ways of the Force. He was to receive the promotion once the Clone Wars were over, this would unfortunately be cut short by Order 66.

Having thwarted an attempt by Master of the Order Mace Windu to apprehend him and bring him to justice, Palpatine, the Sith Lord Darth Sidious, framed the Jedi as killers who attempted to take over the Republic and made Anakin his apprentice, Sith Lord Darth Vader. While he sent out Vader to raze the Jedi Temple with 501st Legion backup, Palpatine issued the contingency command Order 66 to turn the clone troopers against their Jedi commanders and comrades out in battle. Danny himself was able to dodge the crossfire using his lightwhip skills and slip away. Sophronia also managed to escape although Shaak Ti was caught in the temple and killed by Anakin along with many of the other Jedi on Coruscant. 

Danny attempted to reach a few of the Jedi as he escaped the battlefield in his fighter. Most of the channels gave no response but he managed to reach Sophronia, who he advised to lay low and sent coordinates for a place where they could rendezvous later on. He also got ahold of Obi-Wan Kenobi, who had just fled Utapau after killing the Separatist warlord General Grievous. They agreed to meet at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant to investigate a distress signal coming from it. Danny had a bad feeling about it as his suspicions of a secret plot to topple the Jedi and Republic were confirmed.

Meeting Obi-Wan inside the ruined temple, he was horrified at the insurmountable decimation that had been wrought, even that Anakin, the “Chosen One” could even fall to the Dark Side. Unfortunately, that was the case as they and Yoda reviewed security footage of their former ally slaughtering their innocent comrade. It was too much for Danny to bear but he had to stick to his Jedi teachings and remain strong for his surviving brethren. Obi-Wan had to even stop him from entering Shaak Ti’s room and seeing her gruesome remains. He was devastated that she had been killed and they’d never get to see each other again, although some consolation came in the form of a holomessage Master Kenobi had recovered from Ti’s room. It had been recorded by her soon before Anakin had arrived with hundreds of 501st Legion troops, sensing that he had turned to the Sith and she’d most likely be dead. The recording was a goodbye from Shaak Ti to her former student. In it, she urged him to continue his studies in the Force, seek out Yoda to get his master promotion, and stay alive so that he can help defeat whatever evil arises from the shift in Force and restore freedom, peace and justice to the galaxy. Anything else, the deaths of Ti and other fallen Jedi would be in vain. The message also encouraged Danny to seek out whatever family he had, if there were any at all.

After receiving and listening to the holomessage, Danny and Obi-Wan reluctantly said farewell and may the force be with you to each other before parting ways. Yoda had already departed to battle Sidious before the other two surviving Jedi investigated Ti's room. Obi-Wan was going to Mustafar to confront his former friend and student Vader. Thrust into a new reality where the Republic and Jedi, the family he knew is now dead at the hands of an evil Sith lord and a traitorous Skywalker who was once an ally, Danny sets himself off on a new journey. Acting on a tip from a contact who recognized his surname, he begins the long flight to Dressel to find the original family he came from. 

Palpatine meanwhile declares the First Galactic Empire. In a move to consolidate power under the guise of security and stability, the Sith Lord ends the era of the Republic, crowning himself Emperor and putting the Separatists to the saber. Democracy is dead with thunderous applause. Danny could not have picked a better time to flee the heart of the new Empire, as any surviving Jedi were marked for death with bounties soon following. No matter what, the Force remains strong in him, who must remain committed on his journey in his role as a guardian of peace and justice in the galaxy.

[that-wizard-oki]

Do you have a main Wizard? Have you talked about them much?

HAH, yea I do, I forgor I don't talk about her (or any of my wiz oc's) a whole lot on here, lol. In recent years I've honestly thought wayyyy more about The Wizard as a character rather than my personal wizard(s) as characters, but they still hold a place in my heart.

But my main wiz is an Ice Wizard named Andrea... no last name. just Andrea :'D here's a really old photo of her from 2016 BUT it's what I still consider to be her most canon outfit so here ya go:

Andrea's starts out a very nervous and cautious individual. She wasn't at all interested in Wizardry until her sister Taylor (non blood related- Andrea was adopted by Taylor's mom, owner of the Dye shop, when they were both infants) enrolls in Ravenwood as a first year, and long story short they both end up being encountered by Malistaire similar to in the tutorial, Andrea discovers she has pretty powerful magic, and is persuaded into attending Ravenwood alongside her sister; shortly after they start getting invovled with Malistaire's doings and stopping the undead around Wizard City, meet two of my other wiz characters (a nb myth wizard named Jamie, and a hoh/mute life wizard named Aaron who are childhood friends who also fall in love later on as adults), and then later they meet my Necromancer named Daniel in Marleybone, who has also been chasing down Mali as well- Daniel is like a year older than my other wizards and was a student when Mali was still teaching at RW. The five of them then continue on their quest together through the events of the game.

Andrea's fears and anxieties deter the more adventures she goes on.... but her stubbornness and rigidity grow, esp in arc 2-3. Taylor's passion for justice & helping those in need also turns a bit more revenge driven/tunnel visioned after Azteca.

I also had two storm wizards that pop up to join the gang in Celestia, but they're a bit less fleshed out than my 'main 5' so to speak.

Balance wizards were a bit more uh, 'rare' of a wizard to meet. I think initially the game also treated them as 'rare' b/c it was much harder magic to master than the other schools due to it's role in combining of other magics to achieve an equilibrium.

Anyway. I don't know what im trying to write here anymore so i'll just stop lol. But ye, Andrea's my main wizard and her and Taylor butt heads a lot and i love them and all my wizards dynamics. thank u lol.

[justicemythagentofshield]

Vincent, please seek therapy.

Love is Dead and We Killed her (Five Nights AU) (TW: mentions of murder, death, language-your basic FNAF stuff, pretty much. )

Walking the streets with a switchblade with the best pressed suit I own Got away with it all, blood boiling to the bone October 13th, 1989. This was it. No turning back. After all the time he had spent in Jail, and in therapy-it was all coming down to this night. No one else was going to die in this damned restaurant, not on his watch. Who says my business is yours when you’re holding the door No way you can escape tonight, it’s the last time I’m calling you a wh*re Vincent Reynolds took a breath, getting into his car and driving to the place he knew he was probably never gonna be rid of-Freddy Fazbear’s pizza. The place that had taken so much from him, and in return, given him a lifetime of misery, hatred, and scorn from the public eye. He turned on the radio, fiddling with the knobs and dials until the familiar sound of Freddie Mercury’s vocals hit him. Of all the things he could count on to get him through the night, at least he still had Queen. No running back, no changing the past No fixing what’s been shattered No words exchanged, no time rearrange No fixing what’s been shattered He didn’t know what had caused this whole mess in the first place, other than his own actions. For all he knew, the robots were just glitching, like Scott had told him. What he did know was that they needed to be stopped. They had already taken the lives of many a night-watchman, including his own older brother, Seth-Vincent himself had already, even if by way of a schizophrenic breakdown-induced-accident, taken six innocent little lives. No one else would have to die because of his mistake. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself as he drove closer to the place of his nightmares. he was going to make sure those damned hunks of metal would NEVER see the light of day again, let alone kill anyone. Did you know I’m a killer? There’s no stopping me tonight Underneath the blackness of the night sky Did you know I’m a killer? There’s no chance for you tonight You won’t escape this b*tch named Karma Catch up with you, she’ll set it right “Alright, Vinnie-boy.” he muttered to himself, getting out of the car and opening the trunk. “Time to end this nightmare. For everyone.” He rifled around in the trunk-it was a wee bit messy, considering Seth wasn’t around anymore to remind him to clean it-but he eventually managed to find what he was looking for-a fire axe, Its steel blade reflecting the face of a weary young man looking for closure in the light of whatever amount of the moon that wasn’t being covered by rather ominous storm clouds. He gripped it tightly, swinging it around a few times to get a good feel for it, then turned to the doors.                                                                               “Yippie-ki-yay, motherf*ckers.” Now I’ve been sick of this for weeks Got bloodlust in my head Normally, Vincent would have been all for rushing in without a plan, but this time was different-one little slip could end with him dead, and that’s the last thing he needed right now. Thankfully, his time working the dayshift had taught him about the safe rooms-where they were, and what could-and more importantly, couldn’t, get into or see them. For weeks, he’d planned it all out-get to the restaurant between nights where they would have to hire a new guard (and believe me when I say, Freddy’s has gone through a lot of security guards.), lure out the animatronics one by one, then hide in the safe room until they passed by-he could hopefully get the jump on them, and end this for good. At my wit’s end, it’s payback time For everything you did He took his position in the safe room, looking around-this sure brought back a lot of memories..He smiled sadly, seeing the worn, faded yellow rabbit suit sitting in the corner-It had once belonged to one of the original owners of the place, William Afton-and when he vanished, Vincent himself had been the one to take up the mantle. “Hey buddy..” Vincent knelt by it, almost as if talking to an old friend. “It’s me, Vinnie..I know, i haven’t been here in a long, long time-…sorry about that..” He sighed, running a hand along the still semi-fuzzy surface of suit. “I’m sorry you had to see…that..” The memories of the incident, despite being several years ago, were still fresh in his mind. Don’t you dare try to run away Now look at those who lost their power With my new attitude, it’s time for revenge, honey It was just supposed to be a birthday party. It was somewhere in the summer of 1986 when Vincent had lead a small group of kids to the back-they were the kids that not a lot of folks had payed much attention to, while the birthday boy had his fun. ..He could relate, somewhat. He knew he wasn’t supposed to take customers back there, but, well-screw the rules, he was making a bunch of outcast kids feel better. At least, that had been the plan. But of course, things seldom ever go as planned in the Fazbear Franchise. Three years prior, Vincent had been on the dayshift to witness what would become the ‘Bite of ‘83’-and then William, the man he had once seen as a second father, had dissapeared for some reason. Not to mention the face Vincent was currently trying to hide the fact he had been diagnosed with Schizophrenia. (and back in the 80’s, people did NOT take that sort of thing well-trust me, i’ve done my research) And today was the day it would alllll come crashing down. He had been seeing the damn golden bear in the corners of his eyes for months on end now-he had caught glimpses of it ever since the bite, and he was convinced it was planning to hurt someone again-so when it had appeared as clear as day, behind one of the kids and ready to pounce, he knew what he had to do. No running back, no changing the past No fixing what’s been shattered He wasn’t about to let another child get hurt because of this thing. Not today. No words exchanged, no time rearrange No fixing what’s been shattered After that fateful decision to fight, he couldn’t exactly remember much-he remembered hearing the kids screaming-he THOUGHT they were screaming because of the bear- He was so, so wrong.. When the screaming stopped, he looked around-… ….it hadn’t been the bear he had slashed. the cold, hard reality was much, much worse.. Back in the present, Vincent was peeking out from the entrance of the safe room-he had managed to take down Freddy, Bonnie, and Chica so far-now all that was left was Foxy. …Admittedly, he felt kind of bad he was about to destroy his best friend’s childhood hero. “Sorry Scotty..I-I’ll find a way to make it up to ya, somehow-” Did you know I’m a killer? There’s no stopping me tonight Underneath the blackness of the night sky Soon enough, the fox came close-he could have sworn, in the corner of his eye, he saw a dark-purple specter of the same bear he had feared for so long-but he merely shook it off as a hallucination induced by stress. “HEY F*CKSY! COME AND GET ME!” he charged out, singing the axe wildly Did you know I’m a killer? There’s no chance for you tonight You won’t escape this bitch named Karma Catch up with you, she’ll set it right..! “I..I did it..” he looked down at the piles of robotic parts on the floor. “It’s over..I-it’s finally over…!” He couldn’t be quite sure if he was laughing or crying-he didn’t care right now. All he cared about was that Scott, and whoever else would come after him, would be safe. No one else would die here… ’..murderer…’ “..huh?” Vincent looked around-he could have sworn he heard something. 'YOU DID THIS!’ In a flash, Vincent saw the one thing he never thought he’d see again-six ghostly silhouettes of faces he knew all too well Fazbear entertainment had lied to him-to all of them. There were no glitches, no problems in the suits or the code.                             The damn things were HAUNTED. I see it all in front of me The demon that lies in between I’ll settle the score You’ll be no more…!!! “Wh-HOW!?” Vincent stumbled back, in a panic-how could he have not known this!? was this some kind of sick joke!? “H-How are you here!?” 'SAVE US’ 'YOU DID THIS-’ “Stop it..g-GET OUT OF MY HEAD-” He shook, memories flooding back at a rate too fast for him to register-he was about to have a mental breakdown if this didn’t stop.. Soon enough, he found himself running into the safe room, thinking that maybe they couldn’t follow him. Boy, was he wrong. Did you know I’m a killer? There’s no stopping me tonight Underneath the blackness of the night sky “N-No…no, stay back..! I-i-” he backed towards the wall-he was trapped. “What do you want from me!? I went to jail, i did my time, I lost everything-What more hell do you want me to go through!?” he snapped at them, trying to get some kind of answer-but for now, they remained silent-unanswering, possibly just to torture him more.  And that was when he looked back at the suit. Spring Bonnie. ..Springlocks were always highly unstable.. “…You want…you want karma…justice…” he murmured to himself, heading to the suit. “You want me to die the same way you did…” he took a breath, beginning the slow process of putting the suit on. “I guess i had better oblige, then-” Did you know I’m a killer? There’s no chance for you tonight “See!?” he turned to face them, now wearing the deathtrap he had once thought was his safe place. “Check it out-! IM PUTTING ON ONE LAST SHOW, AND ITS ALL FOR YOU!” he shouted, maniac laughter beginning to fill the air. “SO COME ON! GIMMIE YOUR BEST SHOT-I’M READY TO FACE HELL ONE MORE TIME!!!” and that’s when it happened. The sickening snap of the springlocks going off-the pain of becoming what would amount to a human pin-cushion was almost unbearable-but as he slowly bled out, in his final moments, he saw the spirits begin to vanish, one by one-at least the children were at peace now… the last thing he saw before he blacked out was the dark-purple bear…shifting to the familiar form of someone in a nightgaurd’s uniform-the very same Seth had used to wear…and he was smiling almost proudly, almost as if to say 'Rest well, little brother..’ You won’t escape this bitch named Karma Catch up with you, she’ll set it right

(And here we have the origins of one Vincent Reynolds-my take on the Purple man.)

[emilythezeldafan]

Open Starter

((Scarlett is captured by the TVA. Any relationship))

((pls interact with this I worked hard on it :( my starters never get any attention :(())

Being the daughter of Loki and Justice Myth, Scarlett Myth-Lokisdottir was bound to become a target of the Time Variance Authority sooner, rather than later. It seemed like they really said 'fuck you, in particular' to her father.

My Family Can Never Have Nice Things.

Is what the blue-eyed brunette had mused to herself as she was grabbed by an arm for each 'guard' (the term she had heard used was minutemen) and roughly manhandled through a glowing gold and orange door with a restricting time collar fastened tightly around her neck, then dragged before a judge who seemed to think far too highly of herself and sentenced to 'be reset as soon as possible'; until some sort of analyst had talked her out of it, saying that she could be useful somehow. The 15 year old had huffed. Of course, why would anyone else want the daughter of Loki around? However, she had been glad not to have to endure whatever resetting was, so she would have to thank the man when she wasn't thinking how she could turn this place on its' self-important head.

Which brings us to now, where she was seated in some kind of time theatre watching a reel of her entire life play out. How it started, how it would end...with a spear through her chest, rushing to try to stop Thanos' from strangling her father.

But hey....time wasn't linear, right?

Huff.

"...Glorious purpose."

[mjmagics]

I did some work- on the batfamily mythology au and I have some ideas but first—

Imagine the Justice League as the big 6 gods of Greek Mythology. It wouldn’t work- it just would not work. There is not enough boys and the only person who fits Hades is Batman and Batman has too many adopted kids in my opinion and Batman is the main character so-

Batman would be Zeus. It’s so obvious.

Poseidon would be Aqua Man, it’s also obvious in my opinion.

Hera and Wonder Woman. I’d actually probably keep Diana how she is, and she just is working with the gods on Hera’s behalf.

Hestia would be Black Canary. I know it doesn’t feel right, especially depending on what version of her you work with. Being the goddess of hearth and home as well as being a ‘virgin’ in myths may seem off putting, but I have seen Black Canary as a loving woman who lost her way. Imagine this pure goddess having lost herself due to trauma and fighting and protecting her stupid fellow gods. I think that is Black Canary.

ANYWAS SHE IS REPLACING THE GREEN ARROW BC I LOVE OLIVER BUT I LOVE HER MORE.

Hades would be someone who isn’t apart of the main Justice League. My knowledge at the moment is that he is apart of Justice league dark, John Constantine. I love this man.

Constantine is replacing the Flash.

You’ve gotten this far and you’re like: Mara, where is Superman? You ran out of men???

Uh yeah, he is Demeter. I don’t care- and no, his daughter ain’t gonna marry John, but I believe Demeter fits Clark. Farm boy, from the farm. Humbler beginning and what not. I think it fits and it’s kinda cute.

Yeah this is fun- I have placements for the bat kids, super kids, and even my OCs from Kittens and Titus.

[theelderhazelnut]

Rise of the Villains: Darker than Black

Warning(s): none. Ombra is a jerk at the end. I’m sorry.

Pairing(s): Ombra x Alex ( @chadillacboseman )

Characters: Ombra, Alex and Alora ( @bihanspookies ). Billie ( @cyberneticsanguinaire ), Argen (my oc), Kano and Erron are mentioned.

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: Alex is making Ombra curious. She wants to learn more about him. And she realizes that he has the power to make her feel funny. Also Alex learns that Ombra knows Turkish just like him.

Author’s Note: This is all about these two developing feelings for each other. I’ll write more stories about their cute little love story. I hope I did Alex and Alora justice!

Writing Taglist (to be added/removed): @vivilovespink @scentedcandleibex @darialovesstuff @confidentandgood @spacestephh @takiisieju-moved @cyberneticsanguinaire @inafieldofdaisies @carlosoliveiraa @shegetsburned @bloody-arty-myths @zoetheneko @hi-thisiszira @admin-pipes @mitsuko-saito @malewifefirestar @krysta-cross @elderglocks @cassietrn @breakfwest @nightbloodbix @middlechildwhoescapedthebasement @ninibear3000 @cyb3r-v4l @aceghosts @voidika @orbitinytheworld @strangefable @cloudofbutterflies92 @sinclxirx @gavincruikshanksexhusband

It was worth it to encounter Kano so uncomfortably often just to see him for a few minutes. Alex Demir was making me more and more curious each day. He was handsome for sure, and also charming in his own way, but those kind eyes looking at me so cheerfully and that toothy smile did not belong to this mess of a fight club.

I put my hands in my pants’ pockets, and watched General Argen dodging Billie’s poweful punches and kicks. Argen happily followed me and insisted on fighting all day in the cage; just like a toddler going to the amusement park with his mother. The savage crowd around the fighting cage were ripping their throats apart by their mad screamings.

I scanned them from where I was standing - away in the shadows -, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alex. I would not miss that messy bun and headband, and of course, that height. But apparently, he wasn’t there cheering for Kano’s daughter.

I turned on my heels to go for a walk around the club; all around it. That was the main reason I came here in the first place, and that very motovation blooming in me made me nervous. From the first second Argen and I entered the portal to Earthrealm I kept reminding myself that this would pass swiftly. I would analyze him, his behavior and who he actually was, and then I would erase him from my mind completely. The only reason that dragged me all the way from Metalrealm to Black Dragon was his Turkish accent, not his cute jokes and the way his pretty eyes gleamed when he looked at me… .

No! No, no, no, no, no!

I stood still. I was obeying my emotions.

“There you are, Ms. Ironhead.” A feminine voice called, a little bit lost in the distant yellings and deafening music. Her auburn hair was neatly braided, and the sleeveless turtleneck highlighted her well trained muscles.

“Alex and I heard that you have paid us another visit. He’s looking for you, I guess. He was thinking that he could use your help with that new bomb he’s crafting. And I have found you now. Guess I just did him a big favor.” The woman explained.

Despite her implied humor, her intense blue eyes were daggers to my own.

I nodded. “Thank you.” And I started walking again.

“Nice jaw, by the way.” She threw a compliment in a totally monotone voice.

I rose my hand in appreciation, then immediately made a turn, and the increasing volume of the noises was reduced dramatically. I dashed in the corridor untill I reached the stairs. I flew upstairs, passed a corridor, and made another turn. My heart was booming in my chest. I took steady yet silent steps towards his room. I stopped breathing in order to listen closely, figuring out the situation. Not a single sound was emitting except the clatters of some objects.

I bit my lips, and knocked the door two times.

“Yes?” Alex called.

“It’s me. Ombra.” I responded, trying to maintain my usual nonchalant tone.

The door was opened, and a familiar, tall figure appeared before me. His white tank top was barely covering his muscular chest and abdomen. As usuaul, his dark hair was tied up in a bun, and a few thin strands were lightly kissing his forehead. His smile grew wider the second my eyes met his.

“Hi!” The word jumped out of his mouth as though it had been waiting for it for days.

I allowed a tiny smile to colorize my pale face. “A lady told me that you were seeking my help.”

“Yeah I thought it’d be cool if you let me use your powers for this little bomb I’m making.” He stepped aside so I could take a look at the mess he proudly created on the floor.

“May I come in?” I asked for permission.

Alex politely gestured for me to enter. His room was dimly lit by a study light which was focused on the piles of wires and screws on the floor. On the wall, I spotted several polaroids of some of the mercenaries and him. At the far end of the room stood a training dummy with a picture of Kano’s face taped to the head of it. The paper was nearly ripped in pieces. Every single one of these mercenaries seemed to be thirsting for Kano’s blood, and they were only tolerating him because they were forced to work for him for some reason. This lack of freedom, and living your life the way someone else desires it was a redundant line written all over the pages of my past. I knew his anger to bits.

We sat down on the floor. I watched the way his brown eyes shone in enthusiasm as his muscular arms began working once again. This made me even more certain that he was pretty invested in this job. But crafting explosives in Kano’s territory would not remain a mere hobby for long.

“What are you making this for?” I asked in a low voice.

“Kano needs it to blow up the basement of this drug dealer.” He explained briefly, his eyebrows lowering slightly in discomfort.

However, this was not a surprising sight. The research I had done about Kano and his mysterious fight club clearly unravels this fact that almost evetyone who work for him were compelled one way or another. And Alex was one of those who was here crafting weapons for Kano because something terribly went wrong in the past.

And I wondered what was that. But I was far away from his walls to dare and ask this too private of a question.

“Are we together in this?” Alex asked, his eyes scanning mine. They were searching for a glint of hope, yet they were concerned.

“No.” I nodded. “This is all Kano’s business.” I watched as that glow in his eyes faded into the gray ocean of realization.

I bit the inside of my cheek. The chances were high that Alex was desperately hoping to do another mission with me.

Suddenly, he stopped working, held his arms close to his torso, and dropped his head slightly to avoid eye contact as far as possible. A few more strands of dark hair hung down from his headband. His large hands stroked the wrench slowly.

“I am happy to see you here again.” He almost whispered. Cautiously, he made the eye contact he was afraid of.

Inevitably, my lips curled down into a small smile. Was it too early to say the same thing to him? I couldn’t just say nothing.

I nodded slightly. “Seninle muhabbetimiz güzeldi.” (Translation: Your company is a delight.) It was finally the right moment to reveal some portions of me.

My smile grew a bit wider as I saw his eyes widen and his lips part in disbelief.

“You…” Alex left his sentence unfinished, his mind still too busy to handle the words.

“Yes, I know Turkish. But I am not Turkish, at least not totally.” I helped him to speak.

“What do you mean not totally? I thought you were a Metalrealmer.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, the truth is that I am only a half-Metalrealmer. I was born in Iran, and I have Turkish ancestry.”

Alex was listening with such enthusiasm and curiosity floating in his brown eyes as though I was revealing arcane truths from the depths of the universe. Then maybe going a little further wouldn’t be harmful.

“It’s complicated though. My parents sometimes used to speak Turkish at home, but that differed from this language. Both have many words in common, but they’re still not the same. I have to give a history lecture to explain what exactly is the reason for that.”

“This is…interesting. To be honest, I did use to wonder why you look so different from your buddies.” He was referring to the other four chiefs in charge of the MRDO.

He opened his mouth to continue - there was a ninety nine percent chance that he was going to introduce himself -, but I closed it with my next words.

“I know you were born in Istanbul.”

“Yeah. Did Erron tell you that?” Alex pronounced his name with such caution as if Erron would have told me something inappropriate.

“No. I did an overall research before I stepped in this fight club.”

Subtly, Alex let out a breath of relief. “Niiiice.” He paused for a moment. “How much do you know?”

“Just that you are a Turkish mercenary. Kano is doing a good job. There are barely any information about him and his organization accessible.” And that was why I had my guards up high in the sky the first day I set foot in here.

Alex hummed uncomfortably. These tiny signs of annoyance appeared whenever I mentioned Kano. Something tragic must have happened between these two.

He began working on the bomb once again. His brows were frowned in concentration, and the muscles in this forearm twisted from time to time. I looked away at my thighs. He was…quiet attractive. That was what almost everyone thought, right? RIGHT?

“So can I use your powers?” He said. “Would you please make two bolts?”

“If I remember its shape correctly.” I twirled my hand in the air, silver dust gathered around my fingers, and just as I visualized, two bolts appeared between my fingers. I handed them to Alex who had been watching me in awe.

“So cool!” He exclaimed.

I fought the urge to not tear down the whole building just to see this sparkle of amazement across his face for a bit longer.

I had to go. Things were getting out of my control, so I stood up without a second thought. Alex got up immediately as well, looking at me with his long brows wrinkling his forehead in worry. “Is everything ok?”

“Yes, I just have to go.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon.” I stopped at the doorway, and saw Alora walking this way before I turned to Alex. “By the way, my name is Atoosa. “Ombra” is just a very famous alias. I thought I’d let you know.” And I walked out of his room. Maybe in another timeline, Atoosa’s heart was not surrounded by enormous iron walls, so she would stay just a little bit longer and smile just a little bit wider.

[spiralstereo]

phighting oc!!

hahaha...hai chat (avoiding banhammer fullbody reference sheet)....

this is one of my phighting ocs!! you might recognize them....but this is glaive!! so lemme tell you more about them (i love them)

Actual name is 'Iron Lotus'- but they go by Glaive because they're blending into society. They currently live in Crossroads

They're nonbinary!! They/them pronouns, & more masculine then feminine. They're okay with masculine terms used with them

A deity, but chose to let themselves be forgotten due to them being overwhelmed by grief from losing their sibling, Mystic Tide (the blue deity in this post)

Their existence is a myth, & most people (even deities) see 'Iron Lotus' as a symbol of justice, a symbol of bravery

Their mother was one of the past wardens, Trident (another oc), she was the only warden to get removed from her position due to circumstances. Trident meant the world to them, & they did not take her passing well (they do not handle grief well at all). Their fighting style has many similarities to Trident's, they hold her dearly in their heart.

They are not on good terms with their biological mother, Dual (Dual is a they/them but prefers feminine terms used when referring to them). Dual is very much evil, & uses people, they were the reason Trident was removed from her position & also the reason Mystic Tide is gone. They do not consider themselves to be Dual's child.

Good friends with Banhammer. They joined Phighting as a special guest, & the two bonded almost immediately. Banhammer learned of their deity status later

Since Trident was a warden, Iron Lotus had a hard time not getting super emotional with Banhammer & stuff. He reminds them of her ALOT & the fact that all the wardens wore that armor....it took them awhile to not look at him & see their mother. Trauma!!

They're very very very traumatized. Also kinda...an awkward mess. They're scared to get close to people because....loosing them & stuff. They care alot about the people they do bond with though, like Banhammer. They're besties fr. But other then that, they're outgoing & skilled.

Please ask me questions about them. I love them. Please chat