#at the end of the day there's only one kind of dedication and loyalty they care about

[designernishiki]

it’s kinda funny to me how that dumb scene in kiwami 1 of majima getting shot and left for dead in the harbor was basically just added as a half-assed way to explain majima not being around for a bit of the plot, but they accidentally(?) just made it seem like start of a chain reaction where majima ended up feeling slighted and heartbroken after being abandoned like that and then lashed out about it via smashing a big truck into the building kiryu was in. and yeah that isn’t inherently a romantic thing as-is but then they go and add the part where majima grabs a hostess and performatively hits on her as in-kiryu’s-face as possible, she says she’s already in love with someone, and majima lets her go immediately, no questions asked, making a big fucking point of it just to say see THAT kiryu? I appreciate when people are HONEST about their FEELINGS. people who won’t just BACKSTAB someone who CARES about them to save themselves. is that so crazy kiryu?? huh??? anyway make it up to me get down here and fight me right fucking now

[sapphorror]

Y'know... A lot of ZaDr fics have them either gradually drifting into a less contentious status quo or establishing a deeply bizarre multilayered dynamic that is nonetheless very consistent and beholden to its own rules—which works, to be clear, because slavish adherence to the rhythm of their endless 'game' is already their canon baseline.

WITH THAT BEING SAID. I think it would be very funny to depict a ZaDr dynamic in which they're like, on-again off-again nemeses. As they get older theyre gradually forced to acknowledge the true depth of their mutual attachment, but instead of actually improving themselves in any lasting way or compromising the conflicting elements into an ill-definable state of contentious codependence, they just start oscillating wildly between periods of obscenely clingy allyship and devotedly murderous enmity. There's never an in between. They'll dedicate all their energy to trying to horrifically torture each other to death, until one of them gets uncomfortably close to actually dying or an external crisis pushes them together or they just get bored—at which point, they become obnoxiously glued at the hip until one of them relapses into anxiety about their ambitions or an argument escalates past the the point of no return or they just get bored. And every time they both Really Mean It, They're Not Gonna Do This Anymore, before naturally going ahead and doing it again

[macfrog]

ghost

when i wrote jet, she was always a two-parter to me. two characters, two horses, two stories. equal and distinct. you guys loved the first part so much that i figured i'd leave it as it was, but recently i hit 2k and thought this could be a cool way to mark it. think of this as jet's sister story. walks right alongside her; same universe, same joel - but still very much a standalone. she can be read with or without her predecessor. thank you a million times over for all the love y'all show me on the daily. writing for you guys is so much fun. love you all the most. 🤎🖤 dedicated to @hellishjoel whose love for this pair inspires me daily

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your loyalty to joel - and your ability in yourself - are tested in st. louis. the reward might just be worth the risk

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, graphic violence, moderate threat, a horse is shot and killed (though i don't think i made this too graphic, more gutwrenching), reader and joel are separated, badass stealthy reader, near-SA (more intended than attempted), very protective & very violent joel, unprotected piv sex, like...bloodplay i guess? lil bit of consensual choking and spitting, creampie, possessive!joel, dom!joel but also softdom!joel, big fluff at the end, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), strong language. this fic is not sponsored by nike. lol.

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too? You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you. “Go now. Now!” And you do.

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

It’s been two long days of wandering around and you’ve found one building safe enough to camp in. One. The rest have either been inaccessible – boarded up, broken down, or otherwise already inhabited by infected – or Joel’s deemed them too close to the middle of town, too open, not safe enough.

Not safe enough in a world overrun by a brain-rotting fungal infection? you’d asked.

He shut you up with a sharp expression which you understood simply as: Enough.

It meant that you were wasting days, though. The night you arrived, Joel quickly combed the area surrounding the barber shop you were holed up in for supplies, and found none. He woke you at the crack of dawn next morning to set off, saying he didn’t like the fact nothing was around here. Meant someone had been through before you guys and taken it all.

Meant company, is what he was saying.

So you’d ridden around for – what, maybe three hours? You and Jet, following Joel and Ghost down cracked roads, under rusted street signs. Listening to the wind circle the buildings overhead, nudging traffic lights gently until they sang in distorted, off-key creaks to you. Always keeping your eye on the Gateway Arch between buildings, using it as some kind of north star – not for any reason other than you’d never seen it before up close, but when you mentioned this to Joel, his brows furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Which meant that no, you wouldn’t be paying it a visit anytime soon.

It was mid-afternoon when Joel pulled on Ghost’s reins, brought her to a halt, and held his hand out to you. Jet huffed to a stop, and you swear you felt her cock her hip angrily at him.

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I said, turn back. Ain’t nothin’ out this way.”

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

He jerked his head back in the direction you’d come, swerved the reins sideways and then clicked to the black-coated horse to set off. She nodded obediently, like she knew what he was thinking and she figured he was right, and began the long walk back to the barbers.

You muttered an expletive and Joel coughed a Ha, hearing you loud and clear. So you turned to silently praying for a rainstorm, for a horde of infected, for anything you could sling an I told you so in and whip it at Joel.

You followed him, though, deliberately a good few paces behind, knowing he’d keep twisting around to check on you, and letting him fucking do it. Asshole.

When you finally arrived back at your spot, the red sun low behind the buildings and bleeding skyward into twilight, you slept with your back to him.

He didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind when you’re distant. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even notice. He knows you’ll come back when you need something from him – want his words in your ear, want his body on yours, want…him.

The splintered sunlight through the boarded-up windows of the shop stirs you from your sleep. It wasn’t much of a sleep, despite Joel’s promise late last night that he’d let you lie for a little longer; knew you had a long day ahead if you were to get out of St. Louis, and he’d already drained your energy with the travelling yesterday.

You’d woven in and out of unconsciousness all night, dreaming of creaky farmhouses with clicking children inside, their skin torn and swollen and sprouting in swirls of pale white, singed with raw red and rotten green. And you dreamt of Joel’s shotgun blowing their moldy maws apart, blood and bone splattering across the floral wallpaper behind them.

You’re lying on your stomach, flat out on the floor with nothing but a worn comforter separating your fatigued body from the dusty tile. Joel’s out front feeding the horses on the street. You push yourself up, stretching your back, and a red-hot pain licks around your wrists.

“Motherf–”

You wince, falling onto your elbows, and your fingers link lightly around the red skin. The marks from Joel’s belt two nights ago still haven’t eased, haven’t cooled down so much as a degree. They’re still glowing, still burning, still painful.

Joel’s rugged face appears through a busted window. “Y’alright?”

“’m fine,” you mumble, turning over and examining the sores in the sunlight. The sting as your fingertips trace over the skin draws sharp tears to your eyes.

He feeds Jet the last handful of the hay you’d stocked up on and steps in from the golden morning to the dim light of the shop, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“You want more water on ‘em? Cold flannel?” he asks, avoiding the sight of your pained hands.

You shake your head. “Don’t think it’s helping.”

Eyebrows close, crease between them deep, he lowers himself with an achy groan and says, “We’ll find somewhere. You ready to go?”

You nod, tight lips blocking any words you think you’d probably regret later.

Joel helps you up, hands you a bag of beef jerky from his back pocket, and tells you to go get settled on Jet. He’ll pack up.

As you walk by him, he runs a hand from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck. Gentle as air. And you almost fucking turn back. Almost catch his hand as it leaves your hair, almost wind your body into his. Almost.

Almost.

You follow at Ghost’s tail for another two hours, this time west instead of north. Joel turns to check on you more than he did yesterday; asks a couple times if you need more water, if you want any food. Even asks once if you need a break.

Each time, you reply with a flat, No. It seems to come from your throat more than your lips, more a grunt than an actual rounded word. Teeth locked tight around it, barely separating to let the sound through.

And each time, Joel turns back wordlessly. A mutual understanding; an unspoken agreement – as most of them are – to not talk any more than absolutely fucking necessary.

You spend most of the ride hunched over, your palms pushing heavily against the horn of Jet’s saddle. The sleeves of your jacket rolled up to stop them from brushing against your wrists.

The horse whinnies softly, and you reply to her as though she’s actually speaking. As though you can understand her thoughts, your forehead pressed lightly to the crest of her neck. You tell her you’re fine; tell her she’s doing a great job. You notice Joel’s jaw turn whenever you speak to her.

And then he whispers, “Hey,” and you lift your head, following the flick of his head to a tiny, lone pharmacy up ahead. You could fall off Jet’s back in equal parts shock and relief.

Joel winds Ghost along the road towards the building, stops by the curb outside it.

Its windows are smashed, broken glass decorating the sidewalk in front. There’s dried blood painting the white stone exterior, and empty shell casings dotted along the paved ground. You draw your eyes from the sight to look at Joel, and he’s already noticed them. He’s staring around the street, eyes darting from building to building, looking them all up and down.

The back wall inside the pharmacy is blocked, rubble and rafters hanging loose from a huge hole in the ceiling. Dusty insulation hangs between beams, and through the tears in the candy floss material, you can see the metal grate of the dispensing area. Joel sees it, too; notes it with a grumble and a click of his teeth.

“You stay here,” he tells you, dismounting Ghost.

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

“Stuck in front of the collapsed ceiling? I ain’t gettin’ anywhere close to bein’ stuck. Stay put.”

You slide to the side, rubber-toed sneaker angling toward the ground to jump off of Jet. Joel swings back around and shoots you a look like fire on your skin.

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

“You just said you won’t get stuck. The hell’s gonna kill me in there?”

“Me, if you don’t listen to my damn instructions. Get back on the horse.”

“I ain’t off it,” you snap, a little louder than you intended. Sure, you want him to comfort you sometimes, but fuck, he pisses you off.

Joel stalks off without another word, head low between his shoulders. You hook your foot back into the stirrup and shake your head, averting your gaze to the other side of the street where the sight of an ill-tempered man-child won’t piss you off more.

The street is lined with stores and cafes, a bar on the corner with torn-up leather seats spilling out of the door like someone’s barricaded it. Your eye travels further down, where faded, moldy bunting ruffles in the wind, hooked around a traffic light.

There’s a red-brick building directly across from you, a truck with green tarpaulin parked out front. The doors to the building creak as they swing back and forth in the wind. The windows are still intact – surprising for this deep in the city. Other than that, the place looks pretty damn abandoned.

Ghost shakes her head, ears flicking. A heavy, shuddered breath jolts from her flared nostrils in the form of two white clouds, lit golden in the sunlight. She moves from foot to foot. You pat Jet gently, distracting yourself with the feel of her long, ginger mane.

You hum quietly, filling an eerie silence. Something to the beat of your heart, quickening with each second. Trying to calm the horses, calm yourself. Joel’s still wandering around inside.

You read an article once before the outbreak that said horses can smell fear on humans. It was for a school project. Said it affected their nervous system, like, made their heartrate pick up, though they never concluded whether it made the horses more afraid themselves or not.

Feeling Jet’s body weight shift from side to side as you swerve around atop her, analyzing every movement, every sound, every change in direction of the wind on this street, you figure you know the answer now.

Yeah. She feels edgy.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves across the broken road, fluttering by burnt-out cars. There’s a scuff from the store and your head shoots back to find Joel emerging from the shadows.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, giving the street a sideways look as he walks back over to Ghost.

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

He lifts his hands to take hold of her. “Nothin’ at all. Place is ransacked. Whole damn city’s –”

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re looking at Joel, watching his lips form the words, his fingertips coming to land on the leather strap of Ghost’s bridle, and barely a heartbeat later, there’s a deafening crack from across the street.

Ghost’s body falls to the earth like she’s nothing but an inanimate sack. Her front legs buckle first, her chest crashes down towards the smooth stone, and then she’s rolling onto her left side. She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Dust and dirt are thrown skyward as she slams down, head falling heavy and still on the sidewalk.

“Ghost!” you shriek, and then you feel Joel’s hands on the sleeve of your jacket – rough. Painfully squeezing, canvas burning against your wrists.

He’s gripping the material, hauling you down to him, only you won’t let go of Jet’s reins. You’re being tossed to-and-fro atop the now-panicking horse. Ghost is bleeding from her head; thick, dark blood spilling out like tar and dripping down the curb.

You scream at Joel, fighting his grip off, eyes never leaving the black horse. But then another shot fires, ricocheting off of the ground by the pharmacy window, missing his head by less than a foot, and you fall limp.

You let him drag you off of Jet’s back and hurl you inside the pharmacy, shoving you out of view and into the dingy shadows. When you turn, you realize she’s still out there, a chestnut-colored blur as she rears and spins, fleeing from the noise. You scream her name but Joel whips around and plants his palm flat against your mouth, smothering your cry into a muffled whimper against the curve of his calloused skin.

“Shut up,” he whispers, free hand reaching into his holster for his own gun.

You drag his hand from your face, dropping it. “Jet’s still out –”

“They ain’t aimin’ for Jet,” he replies, switching the handgun into his right. “They’re aimin’ for us, and they’re gonna be down here soon. I need you to listen to me.”

“But Ghost –”

“Baby,” he says, laced with frustration and desperation and panic. Your sentence falls flat on your tongue. “Listen – to – me. Now.”

You nod, tears forming in your eyes. The horse is still lying out front; you can see her past Joel’s shoulder. You think back to your agreement: Do as you say. He’s shaking you by the shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye, repeating those words to you. Listen to him. Focus on him. Stay alive. You don’t survive this if you don’t wake the fuck up right now.

And then he has his hands either side of your face, shaking you back to reality. “Hear me?”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I didn’t fucking hear!”

He wastes no time chastising you. Just says it again. Calm, clear. Every word its own sharpened shape.

“I need you to move, need you to get out of here. They’re across the street, in that red building. There’s probably a gang of ‘em, right? So we gotta take ‘em out.”

“Take ‘em out? We gotta fuckin’ run, Joel! We don’t even know how many –”

“You,” his voice sounds like he’s about to break, “are gonna head out of there.”

He points past you, behind an upturned shelving unit, where there’s a small hole blown in the side of the pharmacy. Unnoticeable from outside, though if the perps across the street have ransacked this place, they’ll know it exists.

“You’re gonna make your way around the street, head low, quiet, ‘n get in the back of that building. You got it?”

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna distract ‘em. I’ll cover you, alright? Just do it.”

Just do it. Just fucking do it. I tell you what to do, and you just do it, because it’s me. Because you trust me, because we’ve kept each other alive this long.

Just do it. Because right now, what the fuck else are you going to do?

Your head’s still spinning. Pulse throbbing in your ears. Lungs hammering against your chest wall for breath. You can barely think straight.

“What do I do once I’m in?”

He’s kneeling down, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders. “Take – them – out. You’ve done it before, you know what you’re doin’.”

“Real noble of you, Joel,” you hiss, taking the spare gun he offers and slipping it under the back of your jeans, “sendin’ me in alone to kill who the hell knows how many fuckin’ guys.”

You pull the switchblade he picked up from that farm in Nebraska and flick it once, letting it glint fiercely in the light from out front, then close it and place it back in your pocket, ready to hand if – and when – you need it.

Joel’s loading his rifle, unable to meet your eye. He sniffs. “Do it quiet, you hear me? Sneak up on ‘em.”

You shake your head in disbelief, feet starting to carry you over to the side of the room. Powered by adrenaline only, letting go of any emotion that might keep you inside this stupid pharmacy. Forgetting anything in you that might convince you to stay glued to Joel’s side.

Yeah, you can fucking do it. You’re not a kid. You’ve been doing this long enough.

This was life before the QZ. You were in a group then, a collective of survivors whose only interest was staying alive. At all costs. And you got good at it. You’ve told Joel about it before – you were the first wave. Whenever you came across another group – no matter if it was hunters, smugglers, fucking FEDRA – they’d send you in, alongside Mila. The two of you lightest on your feet, best with a knife in your hands.

You started to find it fun, after a while. Thrill of the chase and all that. Creeping up behind them, dragging the blade along their throat, dropping them to their knees as they choked and gargled and bled out. The two of you could clear an entire building in ten minutes, not a single bullet fired.

Mila preferred puncturing them. She’d lift her arm and bring the knife down with the weight of her entire body, sinking it into their necks, under their jaws, sometimes through their fucking temples. You’d seen that girl do some pretty fucked-up stuff.

You’d seen yourself do some pretty fucked-up stuff. Stuff that’d have you avoiding mirrors for weeks.

And none of it scared Joel away. None of it made him think twice about setting off with you.

Certainly never made him think twice about sending you on what can only be described as a suicide mission, just to rid St. Louis of a few bandits.

Doing it isn’t the problem, though, is it? You haven’t had to do it in a while, sure. Joel takes care of you well enough that you barely have to look twice at a threat before there’s a bullet, a blade, or an arrow through it. And you’re not scared, either. Not of those guys across the street.

No. You’re scared of leaving him. Parting with him.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too?

You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you.

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

You emerge into an alleyway, concealed from the street by a rusty blue dumpster. Overgrown weeds at your feet, you stay crouched and still until you’re sure there are no eyes on you from the windows overhead.

I mean, you’d be dead by now if there were. So that’s hopeful.

You slink around the jagged metal, slow, silent. More gunshots sound from across the street, and you know Joel’s tossed them a bone. Maybe he’s shown himself – a flash of his jacket or scuff of his heel as he settles to fire back. Maybe they’ve already killed him. Who fucking knows?

At the end of the alleyway sits a black gate, bent and contorted into an archway which separates you from the street. Still covered by knee-high weeds, you kneel down onto your stomach and peer between the wiry green plant to get your first scope of the street ahead.

There’s a long-abandoned nail bar on the right, a few doors down from that bunting you spotted earlier. And right outside it, cast in shadow from the awning: a chestnut horse, saddle hanging lopsided on her back. Waiting, patiently, watching the shootout before her.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Stay there. Stay right there.

Joel’s on his knees outside the pharmacy, crouched behind a Jersey barrier. He lifts his head every thirty seconds, fires one heavy shot at the windows on the top floor of the red-bricked building, and then ducks for cover when they send a burst of erratic bullets back down to him, pelting against the concrete.

You watch for a minute, studying the pattern, and then slip back between the weeds like a lion hiding in the bushes. When Joel fires at the window, you push yourself up and make a swift run for it.

There’s a truck in the middle of the street. Black paint scraped, shot, and sun-burnt off. You take three good strides, kneeling once you’re at the tailgate. You peer around the rear of the truck, huge tires flat and melted into the broken tarmac. You spot your opening.

A gray fence faded by the sun, a few slats missing from the bottom half, guarding an overgrown yard, and, sitting wide open: the backdoor to the building.

Bingo.

It’s an easy enough route. Looks almost like someone’s laid it out for you this way, a perfect path. You wait for your signal – Joel’s gunfire – and sprint over to the fence, back flush against the rotting wood.

You pull the revolver from your jeans and open the chamber. Five bullets. Not bad. You snap it back and adjust your grip on it, finger ghosting the trigger. And then you hear them.

“The girl’s still inside,” a voice grunts from over the fence. Your blood runs cold.

“He’s gotta run out sometime. What the fuck’s Nico doing wasting bullets?”

“How often do strays come through? Let him have his fun.”

Strays. Like a little pet name. Like it’s sport for them. It pisses you off, your adrenaline channeling into rage, white hot across the nape of your neck, growing into determination to put your knife through every single one of them.

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

You bend down, peering through the gap like a dog searching for scraps.

It’s just the two of them. One, standing by the door; looks about six feet tall by six feet wide, buzzcut atop a puffy face, tattooed arms hanging loose by his side. The other, pacing around the yard; when his worn jeans pass the opening in the fence, you scan up the tall figure and notice dirty blond hair, scraped back from a gaunt face into a greasy ponytail.

“And if anything hears him? Runners? Fuckin’…we ain’t ready for that.”

Neither of them seem to have a gun. Scrawny doesn’t, anyway, and if Buzzcut does, it’s not in his hands. Which gives you a few seconds’ advantage.

Once Scrawny turns away, you slip through and hook your arm around his neck, holding your knife to the spongey skin under the ridge of his jaw. Buzzcut steps forward, hands reach into his waistband. Fuck.

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

It’s not hard for your voice to fall back to that pitch, that same old tone. Muscle memory. Hushed, so no one inside hears; serious, flat, not a hint of fear. Even though this guy can probably feel your heart hammering into his back.

There’s still shooting on the street. Buzzcut steps forward, pistol between his fingers, silver reflecting the sun into your eyes. He’s unsure if he should lift it or not. Unsure if he should do anything or not. There’s panic painted across his face the color of crimson. He’s not built for this stuff, and he knows it. His free hand comes up, palm forward. Half of a surrender.

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

“Fucking bitch,” Scrawny mutters, wrestling around, long legs bent awkwardly as he leans into your smaller frame.

Fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t know that this is the fun part. This is why you chose the knife, and not the gun. Blade over bullets. It’d be too easy to rip his brain apart with the squeeze of a trigger. Too quick. Nah, you want to hear him. Want to feel him writhe against you.

You let the blade sink into his whiskered neck. Ever so slightly. He hisses and settles.

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

“Patrick,” your hostage spits, “just do it.”

Just do it.

Patrick glances down briefly and then nods, eyes flitting back to you. Your eyes stay locked on him, your grip tightens around the knife, but you deafen to the heaving of the chest under your elbow.

Just do it.

Where’s Joel? Is he alive? His voice is ringing in your ears.

Just do it.

There’s a pause between the bullets across the street. Have they hit him?

Just do it.

Patrick’s gun hits the ground with a blunt thud.

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

Searing pain, hot as fire in your upper thigh. A sharp scratch just below your hip, teeth cutting through denim and flesh, then a rutting feeling, twisting and digging and fucking burning as the knife is pushed further and further. You let an angry groan pass your lips and dig your own blade deep into his throat.

His skin bursts open like a bag of water. You pull on him, letting him sink to his knees flush against your chest. Before he’s even on the ground, you’re lurching forward, retrieving the pistol and swiping your knife at Patrick’s outstretched hand. He gasps, clutching his split palm, and then backs away a couple steps.

This time, he lifts both hands. That’s better, fucker.

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cut back, staring him down while his buddy writhes at your feet, taking his last few gulps of air. Fresh, warm blood seeps into the grass. Your thigh is on fire.

You edge closer to Patrick, and Patrick edges further away. Until his back is pressed against the wall, his knuckles scratching against the brick; his own blood streaming down his wrist.

“How many are in there?” you ask, head nodding to the doorway, barrel of the gun pressed into his cheek.

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

“One in the h-hall. Two upstairs. Please,” he says again, and you drop the gun, leaving a white ring in his skin.

Mila would sink it in deep, right into his neck. The trapezius. Her favorite spot. She’d just plunge the knife in, push until he collapsed, and then leave him to bleed out. But this is a big guy. He’s gonna need more than that to floor him.

“Alright,” you concede, stepping forward. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You pull your arm down to your hip, knuckles white around the handle and take a fistful of his shirt with the other. Draw him in real close, and angle the blade to the sky, shoving it up under his chin. Nice ‘n snug.

It glides through his skin like it’s butter, and you catch the butt of the knife in your palm, pushing further up. You watch as his eyes widen, his pupils focus on yours long enough to take the memory of your face with him – and then they relax, roll back to check out the metal intrusion behind them.

Patrick gargles, chokes on blood and blade, then gasps as you haul it back out, bright red gushing down his front.

His body folds, both hands come up to cup his torn jaw, and with one kick which cracks into his knees, he’s flat on his face, breathing in dirt and grass and…the blood of his buddy.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” you breathe, limping over him to enter the building.

Shots are firing again upstairs. It’s dark, your eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but you’re in a derelict store. Place is empty, probably looted by these assholes.

Patrick told you there was one guy in the hall, which you assume is through the door sat ajar on your left. Patrick, however, was most likely a liar. And even if he was telling the truth, you don’t know what this place looks like. You have no idea when or where you’ll come across this one guy.

The only things you have on you are your gun and your knife. So you open the revolver again, your trembling fingers fish one bullet out, and you toss it, aiming for the sliver of light between the door and its frame.

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

“Patrick?” a voice calls, and footsteps begin to approach. “Tucker?”

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

A third guy, long brown hair tangled across his shoulders, thick beard patchy with white and gray, pushes the door open and sidles in.

“Pat–”

You’re on him before he can finish his pal’s name, same way you jumped Scrawny – now Tucker, out there. Your blade glides across his throat and he buckles, much quicker than his predecessor outside did. You settle him face down on the tile floor, nodding to him as some twisted form of a thank-you, and slip out of the room, swinging down to collect your bullet as you go.

Patrick, as it turns out, was not a liar. The bottom floor of the house is empty. You’re in a long, narrow hallway. A bloodstained runner at your feet. There are muffled voices upstairs – roaring, cursing. The sunlight streaming in through the arch-shaped window on the front door draws you nearer.

Your breathing is labored, with stress, exhaustion, and pain. Your thigh throbs under your jeans, pain shooting like lightning from the wound anytime you put weight on it. You drag yourself to the bottom of the stairs.

More shots. You swear they’ve only been coming from this building for the last five minutes. Where the fuck is Joel?

You lift your foot hesitantly, hovering over the first step. Don’t fuck this up now. You line it up, applying your weight bit by bit until you’re pushing up off the floor with a whimper, balancing on one leg, bracing for the inevitable creak of the wood.

Nothing.

You’re about to step onto the second, when the door behind you bursts open. Light screams into the hallway, shining on you like a spotlight, and three huge figures stumble in the doorway.

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

You throw yourself up the stairs desperately, taking them two – three at a time, but a pair of fists are in your hair, dragging you back down to the man they belong to. You cry out, swinging around, and catch him square on the nose with your elbow. He swears, retreating only momentarily, before looking you dead in the eye, blood pouring down his lips.

“Fucking – cunt,” he seethes, arms darting out to reach up for you.

His attempt is short-lived, for a number of reasons.

First: you kick his chest before he can grab you, sending him hurtling back down where he came from.

Second: one of the two Patrick said would be up here is at the top of the stairs now, taking you by the shoulders and hauling you up.

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

The bullets pelt around the hallway, coming from the side you just snuck in through. He must’ve followed you across the street.

The last thing you see as you’re dragged off into another room is the three of them ducking for cover, and then you’re being flung onto a cold, dusty floor, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the revolver from your waistband. You roll over and groan, staring up at two men standing over you.

One of them – the one whose vice grip dragged you in here – is big and bulky. Like a brick wall. You realize you’ve no chance of getting by him. His fists are clenched, face reddened, black beady eyes boring into yours. Then he lurches forward, steals the gun from the floor beside you, and points it at you. The safety’s still fucking on.

The other looks younger, but still built. Toned. His shoulders swell in the green canvas jacket he’s wearing, patches on the sleeves. Short, black hair, face sculpted and smooth, chin hairless. Lips pursed as he surveys you, tosses over what to do.

“Cute little game you were playin’, down there,” he muses. “Took out half my guys.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” you pant in reply, “you’re all fucking idiots.”

You can hear Joel fighting off the rest of them, grunts and growls of pain echoing up the stairs. You don’t know which are him and which are them, and it sends fleets of panic through your chest, tightening your breath.

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

You laugh, masking your fear with a roll of your eyes, head leaning back. “I don’t think so.”

The two men look at each other. The black-haired one nods down to you, then turns on his heel. “Do what you want to her,” he tells Brick Wall, bored, and begins walking away.

A repulsive smile pulls on the man’s lips as he glares down at you. Putrid pink cheeks swell, eyes disappear. Your heels dig against the floorboards, beginning to push yourself in a dizzy haze backwards as his huge, beefy hand reaches down for your waistband.

Something of a scream, warped by the way your body so quickly jumps away from him, escapes your throat, but it only makes him laugh. Your hand slips up inside your sleeve, fingers clutch the cold metal handle of your blade. It flicks open under the fabric, and, just as the noise draws the attention of the man now fumbling with the button of your jeans, you take one good swipe and cut through his forearm. One clean slice, separating skin and soaking the tip of your knife in his blood.

He hisses, stumbles backwards two steps, clutching his arm. You throw yourself to your feet, backing into the corner opposite.

“Nico!” Brick Wall cries out, and the canvas jacket spins to face you.

You clutch your knife, hunched, panting. The room slowly tilts, resetting every time you blink, then begins rotating again.

Nico laughs, pulling a gun of his own and aiming it straight at your face. It’s a nightmare – two on one, both of them armed. But it’s better than what was about to fucking happen.

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

“Y’all keep saying that,” you utter, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun, “I don’t get it. I’m goin’ easy on you here.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Nico spits, apparently not paying enough attention.

The building’s silent. The fighting’s stopped downstairs. And there are no loud footsteps making their way up here, which means one thing.

There’s a quieter, deadlier threat on his way up.

A brutal shot fires from the hallway, taking your breath with it, and Brick Wall’s body flops to the floor. Bullet hole in his temple. Spray of blood across the wall. Only three beating hearts left in the building.

Nico seems to gasp, whether from fright or the way he lunges toward you, wrapping a tight, choking arm around your neck and holding the gun to your temple, both of you waiting for Joel to materialize for two very different reasons.

His figure creeps around the doorway, footsteps slow and soft. His eyes flit over yours, shoulders hunched, rifle aimed ahead. Your breath lets go in one huge, shaky gasp, feeling your muscles relax.

“I’ll do it,” Nico hisses, panic strung through his voice tighter than the bow of a violin. “One wrong move and she’s dead, asshole.”

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

Nico doesn’t move. He shakes your body, pushes the gun harder into your skin.

Joel looks you dead in the eye. “Do – it.”

Your fingers run over the handle of your knife, lowering it until you have a good enough grip to lock your fist and tilt the blade, lifting your right arm and hammering it backwards, stabbing deep into Nico’s side.

Your head leans to the right as he screams out; he falls to the left. And Joel takes his shot.

Nico’s hand bursts open, blood spraying everywhere. The revolver is thrown from his grip, rattling against the floor as your fist takes one good swing across his jaw and then you fall apart from one another – you, rocking into the steady weight of Joel’s body, and Nico, collapsing against a desk.

Joel catches you in his arms and straightens you up, shifting you to aim his gun back at the threat – though there’s not much about him that warrants such a name anymore. He’s slumped against the dark wood, dark stain seeping through his shirt, head rolled back and groaning. One hand cupping what’s left of the other, blood snaking through his fingers and down his hand like vines on a tree trunk. He looks…pathetic.

Joel fires another shot at him without fucking looking; it lands in Nico’s thigh, and he screams. Mouth full of blood and loose teeth, it’s a gargled, drowned howl of pain.

“They try somethin’?” the fierce drawl asks you, brows low, eyes dark. You know what he’s talking about. The button of your jeans is undone.

You want to say, It’s fine, I’m fine. You want to tell Joel to leave Nico to bleed out. He’s the last one, he’ll be dead inside of ten minutes. You want to go, want to climb onto Jet’s back and let her carry your weak, limp body as far from here as her legs will gallop, and then, once she’s rested, further.

But Joel won’t hear any of that, you know it. Won’t leave this little son of a bitch to slip into a half-conscious drowse, the dripping of his own blood ticking down the seconds he has left while the sound of Jet’s hooves fading into the distance lulls him to hell.

He knows you. Joel. He can read lies on your lips like they’re words scrawled into your skin, so that’s a waste of time, too.

You nod. Joel’s jaw locks. And his eyes flood black like ink.

He hands you the rifle, pulls his arms out of his backpack, and paces over to Nico. The bloody, injured figure begins to back up, push himself further away from Joel, who’s reaching down for something.

“Look, man,” Nico heaves, “you gotta see it from our point of v-view. You guys came walkin’ into our territory, you – you…”

There’s the sound of metal dragging across the bare floorboards, vibration strong enough that it rattles your entire body. You turn away, figuring you don’t need to see him pummel a man to death with a broken pipe.

You hear it, though. Every grunt from Joel, every cry from his victim. Every time the pipe bludgeons into him, the wet squelch of warm flesh and blood meeting cold, rusting metal. You wander off to the other side of the room, closing your eyes.

It’s like a pattern – like the shooting from earlier. Joel sucks in breath as he lifts the pipe above his head, groans as he hurtles it down. There’s the blunt sound, a ding almost of the metal whacking against Nico’s skull, the splatter of blood bursting. And repeat. Deep breath as the pipe winds back – groan as it uppercuts through the dusty air, crack of bone breaking when it makes contact.

Finally, he stops. Takes three deep breaths. Drops his weapon. You turn.

The limp body lies at his feet, a dent the size of Texas in the globe of his skull. Olive skin now splattered red, face unrecognizable. Blood pouring out of somewhere – everywhere in his head, circling his body in a thin, fast-moving pool.

Joel’s staring at you when your eyes lift. Sweat glistening on his forehead, lips apart. Shoulders tight. You’re standing face to face, both of your breathing heavy and labored. Exhausted. And yet…you fucking need him.

You take one step forward and suddenly Joel’s advancing, too, hands out to meet you when you collide into him. Your fingers scram for his collar, ripping his jacket from his shoulders while he messily tears apart the waist of your jeans.

His weight bears down on top of you and he pushes you to the floor, following you down. The floorboards are dirty, coated in a thick layer of dust disturbed by the scuffle you just had, and glazed by the blood of those who lost. You sit up only long enough to remove your jacket before Joel’s pinning you down, unbuckling his own jeans and taking a grip of yours.

You flinch when he tugs on the waistband, and he pauses. Looks up, watches your expression twist. Then follows your eyeline, down to your thigh, where the fresh stab wound oozes thick, dark blood.

Joel slowly peels your jeans down your legs and over the gash. When they pool loose around your knees, you bend them, angling your broken skin in the sunlight. It’s swollen, the cut, reddened and raw. Flesh dragged back and forth, torn and ripped around the edges. You can’t even feel the pain of it anymore, only a prickling heat leading up to the ridges of your broken skin.

And so, when Joel’s fingers run through the air directly above it, and he mutters something about cleanin’ you up, you grunt. Straighten your legs. Pull him by the shoulders back down to you. Reply with a rushed whisper, a Hurry the fuck up.

And he listens; he unbuckles his own jeans, sags them low on his hips, and bends your knees at his shoulders. His cock is already stiff, bead of precum at his wide tip, which he dips between your folds to collect your slick, and then fists himself slowly.

Hurryhurryhurry “– the fuck up,” you groan, watching your wet glisten off the smooth skin of his shaft.

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

Your head hits the floor, eyes rolling with it as he fills you up. His face buries between your breasts, voice muffled by the material of the fabric when he lets out an open-mouthed moan. You both adjust to the feeling – the stretch and the tightness – and then, with a couple more shallow thrusts, Joel begins really fucking you.

He drags his forehead up to yours, sweat mixing where your skin touches. Your jaw clenched; you’re hissing every time he hits that sweet spot inside of you. Holding onto him by the shoulders as he rocks his hips forward, pushing you closer and closer to your first release.

Joel lifts his hand, placing it flat on the floor above your head to steady himself. Then, he quickly glances up at it, an unusual look on his face. You crane your neck and follow his eyeline to find his hand gleaming wet with blood. Bright red. Fresh.

It’s the guy he shot. Bullet wound peering out from the other side of the desk you’re lying next to; his blood has travelled across the uneven flooring.

Joel studies his palm intently, thrusts slowing down some. His face looks…puzzled? As if he’s never had to physically encounter the result of him and his bullets. As if he doesn’t know where to put his hand, now that it’s covered in that result.

You do, though. You know exactly where you want him to put it.

You take his wrist in both hands and draw his gaze down to you. The blood drips from his almost trembling palm down your fingers.

His expression changes – softens, when he sees you looking up at him, watching him from under hooded lids. And then it darkens, when you pull his palm flat against your neck, and the red fluid stains your throat.

You can feel the warm wet between Joel’s skin and yours – the same warmth on the back of your head, creeping through your hair as it seeps further across the floorboards. You’re both covered in blood and dirt, anyway. Joel seems to consider the same, and his grip tightens.

His thumb and forefinger pinch, cutting into your windpipe. Your vision falters for a second, Joel blinks out of focus, and a tiny wave of euphoria crashes over your body. A sick grin pulls across your lips, mirrored in Joel’s.

He releases you and you gasp, oxygen surging through your throat like a burst of water in a dried-up pipe. You let go of his wrists to run your blood-soaked fingers across his face, through his hair. He’s still fucking you hard, and you need something to ground you as white-hot heat pools rapidly between your legs, and a knot begins to tighten.

“You like that?” Joel grunts, driving his hips harder.

“Mhm,” you reply, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his tip punches into your cervix. The edges of the world start to whiten.

“You’re mine, you hear?” he says through gritted teeth. “Belong to me.”

You’re nodding, throat tossing out an, Uhuh.

“Ain’t no one gets this but me, h-uh?”

Joel’s hand is back around your neck, this time taking either side of your jaw between his fingers, keeping your eyes trained on his. Whatever the fuck makes you do it – the look in his eye, silently commanding, or maybe your own fucking desperation – you’re not sure. But you open your mouth wider, rest your tongue on your bottom lip, and plead with your eyes for him to do it.

So, he does.

His jaw slackens and a bead of spit falls from his mouth into yours. He watches as it lands on your tongue and you run it along your lips, coating yourself in him, before swallowing it.

Joel groans, lets a staggered, “F-fuck, baby,” pass his lips.

You smile in return, filthy, but needy, and beginning to crash hard as your orgasm bursts through you.

He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, still stringing wet saliva between your lips as he kisses you. You pull away when it becomes too much, burying your head in his shoulder and biting down on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he coaxes you, “that’s it. Fuck. Nice ‘n tight, baby.”

As soon as the room starts to return to your vision, the feeling back in your body, you’re rolling him over. Ignoring the burn of the wound in your thigh, you push him back down and straddle him, his cock still deep inside.

You roll your hips lazily, fingers coming down to toy with your clit as Joel stretches you even more from this angle. He groans, hands finding home tight on your hips, head rolling back. He bucks his hips and your free hand steadies yourself on his chest.

“Faster, baby,” he says, trying to move you with his hands.

“No,” you hum, “we go slow. I want to go slow.”

He grunts, pissed off. Good. Keep him that way.

You begin to slowly bounce, pads of your fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit, almost hurting with overstimulation.

“Tell me what you did downstairs,” you whisper, eyes falling shut.

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

He catches on. “Shot one of ‘em under the jaw.”

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

You want blood. You want Joel’s fists wrapped around someone’s vital organs. You want the sound of your screams in his ears, whether they were really there or not, driving him to commit acts so heinous he won’t look you in the eye when he confesses them.

That’s what you want: him to confess them.

“One of ‘em had a Bowie…” he breathes, knowing what you’re looking for.

You fall forward with a deep moan. “That’s it. Him.”

“…hangin’ from his belt. Shot his leg, right above his knee –”

You moan again, sighing as you sink down on his cock and that feeling creeps over you again.

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

“He got up. He – fuck – he stood up, ‘n I put it between his shoulders.”

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

You cry out in pleasure, bouncing up and down faster and faster the more the image replays in your head. You’re leaning forward, hovering over Joel as your skin slaps against his every time his hard length fills you. Fucking him to the thought of him slaughtering anyone who posed any threat to you. Those guys didn’t make it upstairs, you’re not even sure they got a good look at you before you were hauled away. But Joel tore them limb from limb at just the possibility.

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, hands splayed on either side of Joel’s head, and his fingers knot in your hair. He pulls your forehead against his again, whispering into your mouth.

“Begged me not to do it,” he hums, and you’re thrown over the edge for the second time.

Your hips stop moving to allow space for your high; a second blinding, screaming orgasm ripples through you. You’re gasping now, fingers clutching for Joel, but he’s already moving again.

He slips out from underneath you and lets you down gently on your front, taking your hips and pulling them up to him as he positions himself behind you. And then, without a second’s hesitation, he’s back inside you, chasing his own high. Your back arches as he fucks you, chest flat against the floor.

There’s blood fucking everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair, on the floor beneath you, streaming down your thigh. The entire room smells of it – that suffocating, sickly sweet bite of iron. The bitterness so thick that it coats your lungs with every desperate pant of breath.

And finally, fucking – finally­, all the adrenaline and momentum is brought to a climax when Joel releases deep inside you, and you feel yourself contract around him as a third orgasm pulses through you. Your cunt swollen, aching, you almost don’t feel it, but for the way your legs give as soon as he stills inside you.

He’s groaning, borderline fucking whining, before he draws out of you and slumps down beside you on the floor. You’re both staring at one another, almost afraid to touch each other – as if you’re made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

Yeah. You’re his. And he fucks you like you’re his, like your only purpose is to relieve his stress, tire out his anger, but then…then he looks at you like this, the sunlight twinkling in his warm eyes, dust falling over him like snow. Then he shifts the hair from your face so he can take a proper look at you, study every detail on your face – the cracks in your lips, the curve of your nose. And you know you’re so much more than that to him.

Always have been. Always will be.

You lean over and run your fingers across his cheek, dried blood the color of wine all over your hands. Joel lies still, places a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb when it touches his lips. Your nails sift through his beard. His eyes close over, laying in the comfortable stillness as you trace his face, delicately drawing from his dark brows down to the patches of skin between the graying hair on his jawline.

He doesn’t move when you push yourself up and roll over onto his chest. Doesn’t flinch when you press your mouth to his neck, running from the bottom of his ear up to the tip of his chin.

And when you bring your lips up to meet his, he kisses you back.

His hand sneaks through your hair to the crown of your head and he sits up, rolling you onto your back and caging you underneath him, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, asking it to part. His tongue slips inside, wet and warm and comforting against yours. Your fingers lace at the back of his head, your own cradled in his hands on the hardwood.

It’s like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding off on doing this, for whatever reason. And now that you’ve been the one to open the floodgates – fucking, destroy them – everything comes rushing to the surface. Every time he wanted to, and didn’t. Every time he was buried inside you, and purposefully held his jaw apart from yours. Every minute he’s spent since he met you, without his lips on yours. It all comes rocketing up.

And before it gets too heated, before he begins winding that coil again, he’s pulling away. Lips leaving yours, noses bumping together as they part. You smile, and Joel breathes a laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

You glance down at his flannel: stained with dirt, with sweat, with blood. It brings you down a little from your sun-kissed, golden-rayed eutopia. You suck in a deep breath, and his finger hooks under your chin to lift your face to his.

“Should get that leg covered.”

You nod, and he pulls up off of you, letting you sit up. He wanders around the room, checking the backpacks of Nico and his guys, and pulls some gauze and a bottle of alcohol from a side pocket.

He kneels slowly by your side, offers you the white pad. You shake your head. He has to do it. You don’t know why, don’t know what’s stopping you from wrapping your own wound – something you’ve done hundreds of times by now. But it has to be Joel.

He tips the bottle over the dressing, dousing it in alcohol, and settles it carefully on the floor by your hip. You look at one another, a Ready? and a No, but do it anyway pass across your gaze.

The clear fluid seeps from the pad down his hands, thinning the bloodstains and dragging them in light orange streaks down to his wrist. And when your eyes are distracted, watching the stream of blood and alcohol, he presses the gauze to your thigh.

“Fuck – you,” you stammer, eyes screwing tight enough that you see stars.

“I know,” Joel breathes, and pushes the gauze down harder. Firmer. It shoots heat up your leg, flashes the image of that plank of wood named Tucker who stabbed you across your mind. Your teeth grit, the tendons in your neck leap.

Still holding the pad to your skin, Joel winds a dressing around your thigh. He knots it, gives it a little tug, and then sits back on his heels.

“Okay?”

You tilt your head, lift your eyebrows in form of a Yeah. A half-truth – it feels better to have it covered, but fuck is it stinging. You lift a roll of spare bandage and wrap your wrists.

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

“We should go,” he tells you. Then, softer, kinder, “Gotta go back to the pharmacy. Still supplies in the…”

You push yourself to your feet, unable to listen to the end of his sentence. Ghost was carrying most of your food. The map is still in her saddlebag. Ammo, too. The thought of seeing her again turns your stomach, and Joel seems to figure.

“Why don’t you head out back, go get Jet? I’ll grab everything.”

You stare down at him. Your head shakes before words filter through it. You don’t want to be apart from him again. Not today, at least.

He seems to figure that, too. He nods once, then stands with a low grunt. He fixes his jeans, shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders, and his hand finds the nape of your neck again. He pulls you nearer him, your lips brush against the shoulder of his jacket, and then you split, grabbing your supplies and searching the room for any that these assholes might’ve left to you.

When your pockets are full, you limp at Joel’s heels down the stairs and outside, glancing down the street. The silhouette of a horse slowly meanders back over to you, head bobbing, hooves clicking across the asphalt. Show’s over.

Joel stops and waits for her to approach, lets you bury your face into her strong body when she reaches you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against her muzzle, your forehead between her glossy eyes, and hope the message finds a way through flesh and bone – strong enough and sincere enough to push its way through your skull to hers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Joel’s hand leaves your back and he walks slowly over to the pharmacy.

Your hands run over Jet’s soft mane, combing her gently, reassuring her as if she’s the one covered in blood, bruised and pained. You hook a finger around her bridle and follow Joel.

As you slowly approach, he’s emerging from the shadows of the pharmacy, a backpack in each hand. He reaches the same curb you were stood on less than an hour ago, and looks up to check on you. Your stomach lurches, glancing down to his boots.

There she is. Black coat shining, chest not moving. Legs splayed out on the road. Pool of blood around her velvety soft ears. She seemed so lean, so fit and graceful when she was on all fours. Now, lying in a heap in the shade of some barren street, she looks huge and clumsy. It makes your eyes swell with tears.

You shift with Jet, turning her to avert her gaze. It’s stupid; she’s a horse. How would she know what’s going on? But then, the way she’s breathing – soft, quiet. It’s like – it’s like she fucking knows.

Joel does it gently – kneels beside Ghost, searches in each pocket for your belongings. He knows your eyes are on him. He pulls a box of bullets and the folded-up map from the bag, slips them into his jacket pocket. Collects the tins of soup and canned fruit in one hand, standing to roll them into Jet’s bag.

He turns to you. “You got your switchblade?”

You nod, and he holds his hand out. You drop the heavy knife into his palm, and he bends back down to Ghost’s side.

He uses your blade to cut the bridle by the corner of her mouth, slicing through the leather running from the bit up to the headpiece. Then pulls it apart, a single strap with a tiny buckle still attached, a silver hoop at one end.

He reaches for your backpack, drags it across the rough ground, and knots one of the canvas ties through the silver hoop of Ghost’s bridle. Triple knots it, to make sure it won’t budge. And then he leans back, surveys his handiwork, and turns to gain your approval.

You can’t do much more than nod, tears dappling down your raw cheeks.

When he’s sure he’s got everything, Joel passes you your backpack, slings his on, and then kneels by her side one last time. He places a gentle palm on her head, runs his hand down her muzzle. Sniffs.

A thank-you, you think. A Farewell, brave girl.

He stands again, turns back to you. Waits for you to decide it’s time to move on.

“I can’t do it…” you whisper, and Joel nods, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to leave her.”

And then you’re sobbing, and he’s taking hold of your shoulders and pulling you into his arms, and your cries are muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt. You wrap yourself close around him, bury deeper into his chest, and Joel tightens his grip. The steady beat of his heart pulls you back down, grounds you. You match your breathing with his and pull away.

You approach Ghost shakily, then crouch, fix her mane out of her eyes, scratch her silky ears one last time, and let her go.

Joel’s face is tight when you turn back. Eyebrows low. You bite the inside of your cheek as you pass him, and then hoist yourself up onto the brown horse’s back.

He pulls himself up in front and leans back into you, head cocked to wait for your signal. You snake your arms around his waist and feel a delicate hand rest on top of yours, interlaced on his belt buckle. His thumb traces your knuckles, and when you lean your ear between his shoulder blades, he clicks to Jet.

The horse swerves off, beginning your long journey out of the city.

----------

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[silverskye13]

Are saints allowed to serve their paladins, or is it mostly a one-way street? Are saints allowed to exist and act when unasked for?

Hmm. This turned a little rambling I apologise. Also I end up saying the word "domain" a lot, so in lieu of finding a good place to explain what I mean by domain, I'll just say it before the cut.

A Saint's "domain" is the thing about the universe they've learned to manipulate, using the faith of the people that believe in them. For large gods who maybe always started as concepts [Order of Remembrance for example], the domain is a broad concept like memory. If memory is involved, it will pull apart the universe to affect it. However, if it wanted to do some kind of miracle [calling a paladin to capture someone maybe, or healing a terrible wound], if doing so would have no effect on its domain, it could not affect change. Smaller saints might have more niche concepts attached to them. [Ie, I have a headcanon VintageBeef's hels is a Saint of Slaughter/Butchery, and is best followed by people who do hoglin hunts in hels. His following is small, and he channels his power for only This Specific Thing, and can affect nothing else.]

I think it depends a bit on the deity in question, and how much deification they get, whether their power is a physical two-way link. Something they use with the same proficiency they put into others.

Small Saints who have basically no followers, and have little to no idea what they stand for, or why, are basically Just Guys. They are Guys powered by someone else's faith, who have interesting powers that manifest on occasion, and they have a habit of collecting very dedicated friend groups. But they are still, at the end of the day, Just Guys. They can act when unasked for, they can help their priests and paladins literally, physically, or do the miracle they want to do themselves, because at that point, everything about them is small and personal, and human. If your neighborhood pastor could work a miracle under a set of memorized rules, and sometimes shook your hand and let you do it too, they would be a Small Saint.

[That's not to say a Small Saint isn't still powerful. They are people who can mess with the weave of the world. Anyone not prepared for that is going to get the shock of their life. Anyone who isn't a Saint who is channeling that, is going to suffer consequences. It's just that, a Small Saint could maybe channel through one person at a time, and they might not even know how they did it. *Coughing noises, glances at plot*]

Medium? Saints? Saints that have a following, that have too many people to have an individual relationship with, get a little more unfathomable and constrained. At some point, messing with the universe has repercussions for everyone. If the Hermits had a whole city of followers, they would default to this. The world looks different to them. They can see the edges, where infinity and coding lies. In hels, a Saint who reaches that point stops seeing people as people, and they themselves stop looking and feeling like people. They can affect several people at once. They can justify things like punishment, and creating a moral code for people to follow. Being able to balance between the universe and hels is more important. They could still intervene on someone's behalf, but it's no longer a personal decision, and now something measured in loyalty, faith, prayer. You are one person, and your Saint is changing the world for a dozen of you, but power has limits.

[I imagine Evil X is somewhere around here. He has creative mode. He knows he can break the world to his will. But he also still has a physical body, and can just walk across the room and move something. He's still a person, he's just a person who's taken on the Uncanny, and knows there are no true repercussions to his actions. He's not a kind Saint, if he can rightly be called one. I imagine he was very destructive when he discovered his power, and had to mellow out over time. His domain has to do with chaos, and breaking things for the sake of breaking them. He had to learn it's a power he can use, not a power he has to use.]

Big Saints [and gods], get eldritch. They don't really exist as people anymore. Maybe they went on pilgrimage one day and never returned, but an echo of them has manifested as something people can tap into now. Maybe they stayed a person as long as possible, but at some point so much faith elevated them into something Different, a change a simpler more human them would have feared, but they no longer remember that simpler person anymore. Instead they are the impulses and principles they ruled themselves and others by, and their only memories have narrowed into parables and legends that only show hints of the person they used to be. They can give their power to a select few people willingly, but they no longer go out of their way to intercede in their daily life. They have gifted a piece of themselves to someone, because that person can be trusted to use it well, but they won't mourn that person if they leave. One person is small in the eye of the universal.

To me, Helsknight's Saint of Blood and Steel is a large, old Saint, with a congregation that deals best with the impersonal. They are people looking to be swords in the hands of the divine, so their Saint treats them as such. If the Saint had no congregation, as a deity always looking for a sword, they would act on their own until they found someone willing, but they would always be looking for a sword.

I also feel like some of how personal and two-way the connection is, is dependent on the nature of the domain.

Tanguish, if he ever becomes a true Saint with a following, doesn't know what his domain is. All he knows is, Helsknight promised to protect him, and so when he needed help, he Called, and Helsknight Answered. It was terrifying. He pulled a thread of the universe and used it to change what should have happened. If Helsknight were suffering, as someone who is human, who can't even see the threads they're pulling, Tanguish would do everything he could to help, and if he stumbled into his domain along the way, he would use it for that purpose. The power he has, whatever it is, can be genuinely harmful when used, because helsmets were not made to feel the full force of the universe -- something that already seeks to devour them on principle. He is someone who just found out that sometimes, seemingly randomly, he touches a person and they're struck by lightning. Whether they willingly touched him, and whether he would willingly take the lightning strike in their place, isn't exactly the current issue.

The God of Memory, whatever gives the Blue Lady her paladin powers, probably feels small and personal despite coming from a large idea and probably never being human. Its domain is Remembrance, and that implies something that tries to be personal despite how Eldritch it is. When its power is channeled, it always harms the channeler grandly and dramatically [the Blue Lady saying a small prophesy and being blinded by ink is a very light repercussion. It doesn't know what humanity is. It doesn't know what a body is. Or eating or drinking, or that someone who needs crutches to walk can't just drop them and not hurt muscle and bone. It just knows its will is needed so it acts. It is learning. It doesn't want to lose its followers, because it wants to form long, lasting memories of them. But it will break a lot of people before it learns limits.]

Meanwhile, the Saint of Blood and Steel definitely started as a person. They have an origin point [the plot will get there someday], they even have a Known Ascension. But they are a Saint to things like Vengeance and Justice, distant concepts that are best when they're not personal, a swinging sword that Exacts A Price. Channeling them will damage because the nature of the power is damaging, but they temper that by only calling people for a cause worthy of dying for. If there is a chance jumping off a cliff will break your legs, they will first guarantee there's a reason to get to the bottom. The Saint of Blood and Steel knows who they are, and knows that every knight or paladin or priest to pass through their halls is, almost certainly, doomed. They might have tried to save a few, long ago when they were something closer to human, but now they know a universal truth: whether they succeed or fail in saving anyone, whoever served them will have done it willingly, and there will always be someone along to replace them. When a sword is broken, you do not mourn the sword. You pick up another. Though you may grow melancholy for something cared for, now lost.

No matter how large, or loved, or powerful a Saint is, the Universe will always be more so. It has to be. If every helsmet had to become a Saint to hold a fraction of the potential a Hermit has, and every Hermit has faith in the universe, in the fact that it exists, that it speaks to them when they fight the monsters in the world, that it loves them, the Universe will always be bigger than even the largest hels-born Saint could fathom.

[sonofthesaiyans]

Happy Birthday Hange.....A Scout to the end and a true friend..... ⚔️ 💚 ⚔️

A salute to our birthday girl, the ultimate Scout and a gal who embodies the Wings of Freedom more than any other.....

Our beloved Hange Zoë. ❤️ 🎂 🥂

Sometimes I need a moment to remember just how much I love and appreciate Hange, who has been a unrelenting force in AOT and stands as one of the most noble gals you could ever hope to have by your side. Of all the people to sign on to the Scout Regiment, perhaps nobody believed in the cause as strongly as Hange did. In my book, if Sasha stands as the true heart of Attack on Titan, then Hange has earned her right to share that pedestal with her, for she is truly the heart and soul of the entire Regiment, and even with the entire world stacked against her she has never given up on herself or her people. Even in humanity's darkest hour, Hange was one of the few who refused to break.....For she truly believed there was a future worth fighting for in the unworthy world she was born in to. And there were few more deserving of a brighter future than her.

It's truly a bittersweet occasion. For her birthday should have been entirely hers, untainted by the saga that had come to do such a disservice to her in the final act. Instead, her birthday marks the day that the last good thing in Attack on Titan was stolen from us by Hajime Isayama.

Four years ago today......By this point the story had gone completely astray and nothing seemed to be held sacred anymore by Isayama, and thus we lost the last true guiding light in the story........One that not even the likes of Levi or Armin......And certainly not Mikasa.......could ever hope to compensate for. Indeed, even one chapter or episode without Hange pushing forward with us was a self-inflicted wound from which Attack on Titan never recovered.

And we all know Hange deserves so much more than that. The world and Hajime Isayama himself are completely unworthy of Hange Zoë....But Hange Zoë deserves the world and so much more.

Hange is so many things: Eccentric, unpredictable, extraordinarily energetic.......It seemed like nothing could stop this gal. She may have been a handful to those who knew her best......But she was also insightful, considerate, and uncommonly kind and humble. Hange could care less about fame or glory, her passion was knowledge, of both the Titans and the world beyond the Walls, and if not for her Paradis may have known no other world beyond Wall Maria......And the only thing greater than her pursuit of knowledge was her love and loyalty to those she served with.

We know so little about Hange's past or even her family......The Scout Regiment in effect was her family. And she went through so much to give them some chance to live, often without thanks and so often without the desired outcome. But Hange always valued the lives of her people, and in the end, she DESERVED SO MUCH BETTER....than what she got from those who betrayed her efforts. Who betrayed the meaning of what she thought for. None more so than from Isayama himself.......Hange was a true hero through and through, and the story should have honored that. ISAYAMA SHOULD HAVE HONORED THAT.......

Hange wasn't just the friend Levi Ackerman just could not get away from despite all their headbutting, she wasn't just Erwin's righthand woman and torch-bearer, she wasn't just a soldier.....Hange was a true friend to all of us. I think we all loved her dearly as one of our own.

So give your hearts to Hange, one of AOT's greatest, and the one who still richly deserves the future she fought so hard for. For she dedicated her heart and soul for the future of humanity.

Her courage, her determination, her humor, her love.....those are Hange's gifts. Hange is a gift to us all.....I only hope one day our birthday girl is repaid in full for everything she deserves. ❤️

Happy Birthday, Commander Hange. Your spirit stays with us, and you deserve so much better. Isayama certainly doesn't deserve someone so special as you.

There is no Attack on Titan without Hange Zoë.

[hyunjin-amore]

Iroh II x Y/N: A Wholesome Love Story

Not that many people making stuff about him so here this one of my favorite character😁😁

Once upon a time, in the beautiful Fire Nation, there was a handsome and kind-hearted prince named Iroh II. He was known for his gentle nature and was beloved by all who knew him. The people admired him for his compassion and strong leadership, and he was destined to be the next Fire Lord.

One sunny day, Iroh II was taking a stroll in the royal gardens when he came across a lovely and intelligent young woman. She was the Y/N, a scholar, and an advisor to the royal family. The moment their eyes met, there was an instant connection between them.

As they spent more time together, Iroh II found himself falling for the Y/N’s quick wit and warm heart. He admired her for her dedication to her work and her unwavering loyalty to the Fire Nation. Y/N, in turn, was drawn to Iroh II's humility and genuine interest in her thoughts and ideas.

Their romance blossomed slowly, like the gentle flames of a hearth. They would sneak secret moments together in the palace gardens, sharing their dreams and aspirations. It was clear to everyone around them that they were meant to be together.

As their love grew, Iroh II and the Y/N stood by each other through thick and thin. They faced challenges and obstacles, but their love only grew stronger with each trial. Together, they worked to make the Fire Nation a better place for all its citizens, embracing each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

In the end, Iroh II and the Y/N ruled the Fire Nation with wisdom and compassion, their love serving as a beacon of hope for their people. Their love story became a legendary tale, remembered for generations to come as a symbol of true love and devotion in the Fire Nation.

[tacky-optic]

SINNERS, ALL OF 'EM

the seven deadly sins + the gang = way too much overthinking

Lupin's Gluttony The world's his for the talking, yet he can never be satisfied. That'd be a real bummer if he were anyone else, but that hunger for more challenges, more adventures, seems to only add more fuel to an already roaring fire. He's a Glutton for a lot of things: Punishment, mainly. But also attention and experiences. His curiosity is insatiable. The only issue with Lupin's Gluttony is that he isn't inherently wasteful, which is a pretty glaring caveat. In that case, the big question would be "does the damage he leave in his wake outweigh that which was stolen in the first place?"

Jigen's Sloth/Envy "Man, I'm too old for this shit" incarnate, with a little dash of "I'm still going to silently judge you from my dark little corner, though" on top. It isn't Sloth "I'm gonna take a decade to get to this" so much as it is "I'm gonna do what you want me to do so rapidly and effectively that you're gonna think twice about waking me up again after I get back to my nap." But he really doesn't do jack-all if it isn't Lupin-related. If it were just him all on his lonesome, he'd kind of just rot. He is indifferent to his effectiveness. Bored, even. His loyalty to Lupin is an inherent aversion of his responsibilities as an individual.

His Envy brings him to action. He's a man of a lot of subtle wants and no willpower to take them, but with the right motivator, he'll bring down armies. Fujiko is a pretty good spur-on, as well as anything that remotely puts Lupin in the line of inconvenience or danger. If it's for one of his very, very few friends, he'd go through hell and high water just to get them a decent sandwich or something. Just be thankful his Envy's benign instead of malicious...

Goemon's Pride Mr. "Once again, I have cut a worthless object". There's literally an entire movie about his ego getting so utterly shattered that he gets all cagey/stabby mode about it for the rest of the movie, on top of training so hard he rewrites his entire goddamn nervous system just so he can do said stabby better. It's fantastic. To dedicate oneself so fully to one skill, then to restrict it to your own judgement as to not tarnish it, feels like the antithesis of humility. Pride, in a biblical sense, is to sever oneself from God; to become so wholly individual and confident in said fact that you forsake conventional belief in favor of your own. So congrats on netting the literal Worst sin, Goemon, you've earned it. God ain't shit when you can cut through anything.

Fujiko's Greed Does... does this even need elaborating. She's a woman that knows exactly what she wants and exactly how to get it, plain and simple. Why settle for anything less than the best?

Zenigata's Wrath/Lust What a wombo-combo, damn. This guy's the definition of love/hate. He's a man simultaneously impassioned and overwhelmed by his emotions, yet they lend so heavily to his professional and personal effectiveness that without them, he wouldn't be him anymore. Wrath and Lust go hand in hand, in a roundabout sort of way. It's about loving something so much that you want to crush it. A brutal dimorphous expression of emotion. To long for something to intensely, so vehemently, that it guides every action, fuels every decision... Underneath it all, would it even be possible to know what you are if that drive is all that defines you? Could you even call that living? We're talking about a guy who unironically wears heart boxers and almost exclusively eats cup noodle, people. This symbolism's very disturbing...

That's A Wrap You can always argue other sins for each of the cast members, of course. Lust for Lupin, Wrath for Jigen, Envy for Zenigata-- whatever. At the end of the day, they're all objectively terrible people. It's semi-safe to say that outside of religious contexts, the seven deadly sins have grown subjective in common culture/media. So why not take liberties? I sure as hell did. It's a goddamn miracle these managed to turn out so succinct.

[coffee-430]

congrats on 100 followers!!! can I request no.12 from your event with sub!zhongli and fem reader?

—100 Followers Event!

No. 12: "Yes, that's right! Use me as you please— use me and only me!" With Yandere Zhongli

Character: Zhongli

Warnings: yandere themes, non-consensual touching, obsessive behaviour, drugging, double penetration, Zhongli being whipped in love but not in a good way, mentions of blood, rape

Note: Reader is fem as requested.

You were a kind-hearted and friendly individual, always open to making new acquaintances.

One sunny afternoon, while walking through the park, you crossed paths with a man named Zhongli, as you accidentally bumped into the man.

Apologetic, you offered your hand to help him up, unknowingly setting the wheels of destiny in motion. He seemed charming and charismatic, and your casual conversation quickly turned into a friendly encounter.

Unbeknownst to you, Zhongli had been secretly infatuated with you for quite some time. He had meticulously planned his approach, carefully crafting his words and actions to win your trust. Zhongli knew that patience was key— as he was a patient man himself— and he gradually manipulated your emotions, subtly pushing you to rely on him more and more.

As days turned into weeks, you found yourself spending more time with Zhongli. You would meet for tea, go on long walks together, and have deep conversations about life or anything in general.

You, unknowingly falling into his trap, became increasingly dependent on his presence. Your other relationships began to wither away as the brunet strategically distanced you from friends and family.

However, as time went on, a subtle unease began to creep into your heart.

You couldn't put your finger on it, but something felt off about your friendship with the charming man.

You started noticing how he would manipulate situations to his advantage, subtly controlling your decisions and molding your thoughts. Your instincts told you that this was not how true friendship should be.

One evening, as you sat alone in her dimly lit room, you reflected on your life.

The walls seemed to close in on you, and a sense of suffocation enveloped you. You realized the depth of your mistake and understood the true nature of your relationship with Zhongli. It was a prison of manipulation and dependence, and you felt trapped with no way out.

In a desperate attempt to escape, you confronted and pleaded with Zhongli, begging him to release you from his clutches. But instead of granting your freedom, he simply laughed, a chilling sound that sent shivers down your spine.

He smiled at you, amber coloured eyes glinted and it did not ease you one bit. "My dear, there is no need for the outside world. You have me, I will cater to you."

He placed a hand on your shoulder— an attempt to comfort you, to reassure you that you don't need anyone else. "I pledge you my unwavering loyalty, my everlasting love, and my unyielding service. I will shield and fight for you— your protector and accomplice. Simply use me and I shall dedicate my existence towards fulfilling your every desire."

With those haunting words, you understood that there would be no happy ending for you. You had unknowingly become entangled in a web of deceit, from which there was no escape. You was trapped with Zhongli, isolated from the rest of the world, forever.

You felt so broken that day, your mind so numb that you didn't even notice how he slowly led you to his bed, whispering in your ear softly. "Let me show you just how far I'm willing to do things for you."

And that was when you quickly snapped back from your trance and stared at him in shock. "N-No! I don't want that—!" You tried to yank yourself back from his grip, but naturally, he was stronger than you.

He grabbed both your wrists and pushed you on to the bed, he held your wrists above your head. Pinning you down, preventing you from moving as you helplessly struggled.

"Wait— no, please! Zhongli, don't do this!"

"Shh, my dear. It will be alright, just let me prove it to you."

The next thing you know, your clothes were ripped off from you and you screamed in fright, but was silenced when he crashed his lips upon you. You squirmed, eyes slowly brimming with tears.

"You have no idea what you do to me." A soft whine left his lips— surprising you.

He took your arm and he guided your hand to feel the bulged forming on his pants. He whimpered at the sight of your shocked state, a red hue dusting his cheeks. "This what you do to me, my love." Words that sound so sickeningly sweet came out of this serpent's tongue.

Grinding his hips against the palm of your hand. Purring and whining at the sense of your touch. "You drive me mad." He huffed, "I need you now."

He then pulled away, ripping off his own clothes, his hand never letting go of his hold on you.

Your breath hitched at the sight of his size, and he has not one— but two. A squeal left you as you began to panic. "Please! Don't do this! L-Let me go!"

The man on top of you merely kissed your tears away, he continued to shush you— his free hand began venturing to your lower parts. You gasped and tried to close your legs, but his form prevented you from doing that.

His hand then found themselves on your core, slowly rubbing your clit.

"Mmh—" You let out a surprised sound, eyes widening and your tears formed again. He played your cunt and gradually he smirked.

"You're wet already." He hummed, placing a kiss on top of your head, as if rewarding you for the moistness between your legs. "S-Stop..." You weakly pleaded, but your words fell on deaf ears.

He then slowly began to position himself properly in front of you, spreading your wetness down to your other hole. A squeal came out when you felt his finger enter your hole.

"—!" Crying, you begged. "Z-Zhongli... Please don't..."

"Hush, my dear, you'll soon come to love this." The brunet leaned closer and captured your lips once more. Inserting his tongue whilst feeling every inch of your wet cavern.

Soon, he pulled out his finger and with one hand, he began to align his cocks on each of your holes. "Soon, it'll just be you and I."

"—?!"

You gasped at the sensation. He slowly entered and every moment of it felt like he was trying to tear you apart. Screaming, you whimpered and squirmed.

Zhongli let out a low intermittent sob, feeling your walls clenching around him so tightly. "Ngh, s-so tight." He spoke with gritted teeth, continuing to push inside you even further.

Once he was full in, he paused to take a breather, almost wanting to bottom out.

But your peace didn't last long when he suddenly pounded into you without a warning. "Ah—!" You screamed in pain, closing your eyes tightly— and you were so sure you were bleeding down there.

Your eyes rolled back as he slammed inside like there was no tomorrow. The room was filled with pornographic sounds, both yours and his. Arching your back, it earned you a small smirk from him.

"See? I told you you'll love this." He panted in your ear, amber coloured eyes gazing down at you with a mixture of love and madness.

"Use me just like this." He begged, a small whine coming from him, "Use me for your pleasure— ah~"

His breath fanned against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "I am the only one you need."

It didn't take long for the Geo Archon to move inside you at an animalistic pace, sending you all the way to ecstasy.

"Yes, that's right! Use me as you please— use me and only me!" He cried, panting whilst abusing your insides. You were now left into a mere moaning slut, gasping and whimpering at every slam of his hips.

It felt good, but it made you so sick.

You didn't want this. If you had known everything would come to this, you wouldn't have interacted with such a man— if he was even considered as one.

"Z-Zhongli...!" You whined, feeling yourself getting close.

"Mh, let it out, dear. Just let it out." He breath, his pace going harder and faster than before. "Cum together with me, my love— please..."

He continued his relentless thrusts, amber eyes rolling back from the intensity of being inside you. Each movement hitting deep within you and driving you closer to the edge. His sounds of submissive pleasure match yours as he revels in the tightness and warmth that surrounded him.

"Mmgh—!"

Your body shakes as you experience an orgasm. Seeing you so defenseless and giving up touches off a voracious appetite inside him.

With one final thrust, the brunet succumbed to his own peak of pleasure. He grunted loudly as he spilled himself deep inside you, marking you with the evidence of his possession.

As the waves subside and your bodies gradually turned normal against each other, Zhongli leaned down to press a soft kiss against your trembling lips.

"You're mine." He whispered, "All mine..."

Letting go of his hold on you, he pushed himself inside you, making you squeal at the sensitivity of your body. Your walls clenching made him softly hiss, blushing profusely at the warmth you emitted.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, humming softly. "Never ever leave me, my love."

Days turned into months, months into years, as you lived in your personal prison. Your spirit withered, your hopes faded, and your dreams dissolved into dust. The once vibrant and independent woman had become a mere shadow of your former self.

You resigned to living your life within the twisted confines of his affection, as your attempts to break free have failed.

No happy ending awaited you— the one who had unknowingly befriended a monster, for you were doomed to endure an endless nightmare with no hope of escape.

[sonorousabyss]

Can i maybe get a xiao or tsukasa male reader x hashiras if your doing requests or dont mind T_T

Hashiras x Male! Xiao Reader

AN: Thank you for the request Swivy! I'm not sure what format you wanted the post in or who Tsukasa is so I settled for the Xiao reader concept and some of the Hashira that I'm more familiar with!

Request: Yes Summary: Rengoku, Tengen, Sanemi, and Shinobu's thoughts on a male reader with Xiao's general attitude/Personality. Reader uses some derivative of wind breathing because Xiao and Anemo go hand-in-hand. Warnings: N/A

Kyojuro Rengoku

Does not understand M/N at all, but doesn't let it phase him either.

What do you mean you want to stay away from the other demon slayers? Karmic Dept? Such nonsense! Just come with him and you'll make friends in no time at all! Kyojuro knows just how to help!

He met M/N by pure happenstance, passing through a village shortly after nightfall. The H/C-haired man was dueling with a demon not too far from the outskirts- and doing just fine by the Hashira's standards.

M/N ripped through the sick creature with clear and concise strikes, showcasing great skill in his breathing form as he jumped around the demon he was fighting, dodging attacks and almost seeming to dance in the air as he counterattacked, leaving gashes quicker than the beast could regenerate. Then, with one swipe? It was over. The head was sent toppling to the ground, and the body along with it.

Rengoku could only beam at him and clap as he approached, congratulating M/N on a job well done. He didn't notice the apprehension in his body language at all as he set his hand on the smaller man's shoulder, a giant grin on his face.

He'd already been impressed at the show of strength from such a young-looking member of the force, but to learn that this was the 5th demon he'd had to deal with in the past few days? The sheer dedication was astounding.

M/N did not appreciate this in the slightest and was blunt in stating so. Rengoku might've toned down on the physical contact that made him uncomfortable but didn't do the same for his volume or enthusiasm, much to his subordinate's chagrin.

This kept up well into the future as M/N climbed the ranks, with the Hashira asking about his exploits and how his missions had been going.

More than a few times he ended up comparing his breathing style to Sanemi's thanks to the wind aspect, which M/N could quite frankly do without. Couldn't the kind and energetic blond just leave him alone? He didn't want his karma to rub off on him. For demon slayers, dying was an occupational hazard. He'd hate to see such a skilled swordsman perish because he got too close.

Their relationship appeared to get better once the blond discovered M/N's love for almond tofu, which he proceeded to use to bribe him into coming out to eat with him. Things slowly progressed from there, and M/N became fairly comfortable with hanging out with Rengoku. He even stopped protesting! How shocking!

Missions with him were even more interesting, considering their respective fighting styles. By the time their bond of trust had developed, Kyojuro needed only to say his name and M/N would be at his side, hand on the hilt of his blade and ready to shed some blood.

Loyalty and consistency, as it appears, seem to go a long way. Even if his loud voice does tend to hurt his ears.

Tengen Uzui

Tengen... well let's just say he also had a favorable impression of M/N thanks to his fighting techniques.

Leaping into the air and plunging down, striking his enemy with such determination and impeccable form? Dodging quickly and dashing about like he weighed nothing at all? He had to say that his fighting style wasn't half bad. Even a tad flashy.

Of course, there's no way he could ever hope to rival a god such as himself, though... if he were to become his tsugoku...

Not in a million years. Or at least, that's the attitude M/N is rolling with. If Rengoku seemed pushy before, Tengen was going to be an entirely different story.

Rengoku... well... He means well, even if things don't register immediately. The Sound Hashira though? You could tell him to put you down when he's got you over his shoulder and he wouldn't hesitate to not follow that request. He's a whole different level of deliberate stubbornness.

Of course, it's not like he doesn't have his sweet side. He can be downright delightful if you get to know him in the right circumstances. It's just that M/N was never particularly interested in getting to know said sweet side.

Every moment spent in close contact with that man he either witnessed or experienced something disturbing against his will... not that his sense of disturbing was particularly normal, anyway.

For that reason (among several others) the man, though good at killing demons, tends to get on M/N's nerves.

M/N prefers to keep things more on the business side with Tengen. He has an immense respect for the technique and skill he harnesses with his blades in the war against demons. He's an impeccable Hashira, and a reliable comrade to fight alongside. In fact, it's not just him that's impressive. His wives are as well. And- his...mice?

Don't get M/N started on the mice.

They certainly have personality, but they're just one thing on the list of things he didn't know he didn't want to see until he saw them.

How did he even get them that buff?

What is he feeding them?

Is it edible?

Is it almond tofu?

He was hesitant about the wives (and their more affectionate and kind nature) until he tasted their cooking. M/N didn't know something could rival his favorite dish until he had it. Food is also how Tengen bribes him into staying around.

M/N tries to avoid these occasions as much as physically possible, despite how much the food tempts him. Uzui's wives were good people, and he didn't want to risk tainting them with his karma.

Uzui was debatable. He wouldn't mind seeing the man get knocked around by a demon just a little bit in combat to make up for the times he tried to get M/N to embrace a flashier lifestyle. But his wives? Nah.

Sure, they're perfectly capable of self-defense and would put up a good fight against him... but still. Too precious.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

No.

Absolutely not.

Don't get me wrong, Sanemi is strong as hell and good at killing demons, and they might have similar mindsets on things in a certain respect- *cough cough* demons being horrendous creatures that must be dealt with *cough cough*- but the firey ball of anger is just too unpleasant to be around.

Quite frankly Sanemi returns the sentiment.

As cold, distant, and aloof as M/N is, Sanemi isn't looking to befriend him in the slightest, and the same goes in the other direction.

Just because they're wind users and operate in the same corps doesn't mean they need to be buddy-buddy, and they are cool keeping their distance.

M/N is more or less neutral in Sanemi's respect. He'd take almost any other Hashira over him if they were in it for the long haul in terms of missions. In public it's always going to be strictly professional. Very much a "respect is there, but no feelings are attached" type of scenario.

Until M/N climbs the ranks and get's Hashira status, Sanemi is just a capable superior and a benchmark to surpass.

I wouldn't say the respect is returned, but eh. Does it really matter?

Kocho Shinobu

She's by far one of the only Hashira he's comfortable around.

While the others on this list are generally too physically or emotionally present or looking for connection, it's just so easy to be around Kocho and keep things how he's comfortable with them being.

She's level-headed, quiet, clear, and concise, impeccable in the medical field, is well accomplished in a fairly unique style of combat in comparison to the other Hashira, and so much more.

She doesn't need size or brute force to earn others' respect, fear, or admiration. She's just uniquely her... and disturbingly intimidating, in an uncanny valley sort of way.

M/N is of the opinion that if he had to work under any of the Hashira, or at least work with any of the Hashira, she'd be the one he'd want to work under. He trusts her judgment.

Given his occupation, he's likely gotten injured and had to deal with her and those working under her plenty of times as he perfected his combat style, so he knows better than to disobey the doctor's orders.

He doesn't need to look at her face to understand her intent and genuine feelings. He just knows.

Shinobu, I feel, doesn't exactly dislike him either. She's dealt with enough "interesting" types that I get the feeling she can read him fairly well too.

Streamlined. Respect. Loyalty. And Communication.

That is their bond in a nutshell.

They both also have an amusing habit of just.. popping up out of nowhere and startling people, so I think she's gotten a laugh out of that.

Patients have now become aware of the fact that if you're at her place, you now have to watch out for more than just the doc.

I like to think of this place as M/N's Wangshu Inn equivalent. Just a place he chills out playing distant from other people, waiting for the next orders from the top.

M/N also has impeccable hearing, which makes it much easier for him to appear when called.

He's more than likely been ordered to help with rehabilitation training for patients during the times he stays around too long. He doesn't offer up many objections.

AN: If you made it this far, I hope you enjoyed it! Apologies if I didn't get all the Hashira you might have wanted. I hope I did this somewhat justice?

May your day be as pleasant as the ocean's abyss is deep.

For those who are new here, I take requests. You can find my rules here.

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

a/n: another one????

part one, part two, part three, part four

as time passes, you learn that toji prefer to be addressed as "my lord" and especially "lord toji" by you and only you. he turns down the name of a god, and certainly anything to do with that as you've noticed others within the island refer to him with other formalities that aren't exactly like yours or that of a god's.

lord toji comes every few days from business. the flower girl, ameera, tells you he's off debating with gods, passing souls to the underworld, and doing what a being like himself does. he's been kind to accommodate you here, with free food, a clean home, and the liberty of peace. when you ask the girl what her reason for being here was, she simply shrugs, "he found me wandering the hills of olympus," she says, "I figured my human parents had no need for me, but his excellence has found use in me. at least for harvesting flowers and pottery." she chuckles, a faint smile upon her features. you think if you were to end like her, then surely life here was better than back home. by now, sukuna would have either wed another or burnt the village to the ground. but you try the second not to get the best of you. "what about you, my lady?"

"lord toji found me in the woods, though I think I was the one who called him," you chuckle, helping ameera collect the berries in the basket you hold. "it was not my proudest moment. I was set to marry a man I did not love, and he made room for me here. so I think that makes two of us." ameera's words interrupt your chuckle.

"his excellence does not bring woman as you, especially those fleeing marriages." she speaks softly, "the rest of the women here are either orphans, old widows, or nuns dedicating their lives to maintain the temple." she speaks, "so you're certainly a first."

"perhaps," you say, "but I hope my presence is not a threat to the peace of this home."

"oh, not at all." she smiles brightly, her eyes sparkle as two shooting stars. "in fact, I think his excellence visits the island more often thanks to you. he's been able to create more improvements, and he's also well up to date making sure you have everything you nee-"

"-is everything alright, ladies?" the two of you turn, and you notice ameera has said something she may not have been allowed to say to you with the look she and lady mildred exchange. lady mildred, you learned, was a widow. she lost her husband to famine and landed here, taking care of the meals and food preparation.

"yes!' the both of you reply, flushed. "we were just..."

"...picking berries?"

"yes."

"I would have finished my pie by now if you ladies would have just minimized the chit chat," she sighs, then glancing at you and then at ameera, "but I suppose it is good that ameera is getting you out of that shell, isn't that right dear?"

it had been a long time since another woman treated you as kindly as lady mildred. she had a character, but a warm heart. offering anyone food or beverages at any hour with no complaint. no matter what, she believed all deserved a warm bed and meal at the end of the day. and she has ensured that upon your arrival.

the rest of the day was relaxing. you often help setting up laundry to dry, the cool wind blows against the green grass tickling your ankles and the white sheets flow gracefully. peace seems attainable here. no war, no intruders, and certainly no distress so long as lord toji ensures it. everyone in the island sees him as a god, a savior to whom they owe their loyalty to, and as a result, a warm community is built. one you would have liked to grown in back home. but it was never too late to begin to grow in a new one.

[yatagarasuhonyaku]

Pledge of Loyalty (Novel Translation)

Blog version

Context: Takes place at the ending of Golden Raven, giving some further background for the following story.

This scene concludes the set of isolated scenes I consider necessary for upcoming plot developments. The Prologue to Raven of the Empty Coffin will release after this.

“A True Kin’u exists to protect Yamauchi, is that right?”

All of Yamauchi. In other words, the very same place Yukiya wanted to protect: his homeland. Wakamiya looked at him, blinking slowly before finally opening his mouth.

“The True Kin’u is the progenitor of all Yatagarasu. Which means that—yes, that’s correct.”

For a while, Yukiya simply stood there watching the night scenery until, finally, he turned to Wakamiya. He could see the white bandages depressingly peeking out from under Wakamiya’s light purple kimono.

Yukiya steeled his resolve.

“Your Highness. As I thought, I’m not suited for all the hassle of the Imperial Court. Besides, I’ll always have the option of using the On’i System, yes, but I don’t really believe that many Yatagarasu would choose to follow me if I were to obtain power in such a way.”

Unshaken by the sudden change in topic, Wakamiya urged him to continue. “Then, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll enter the Yamauchi Guard,” Yukiya said with clear resolve, “I’m certain I’ll need the strength to properly wait upon you. And, above anything else, I don’t want to be a liability to you ever again.”

Upon hearing that, Wakamiya let out a chuckle. A puzzled look in his eyes.

“If you plan to become a Yamauchi Guard and get assigned to me through sheer skill alone, you’ll need to graduate from the Unbending Reed Monastery at the top of your class. Even in the worst case scenario, you’ll have to be second.”

The Monastery was the training facility for the Yamauchi Guard. As candidates for high ranking military officers, the skilled young boys gathered there went through very strict training. Only those with a brilliant record were allowed to join the Guard and be tasked with protecting the Imperial Family. Even among those that overcame the training, few got to actually join the ranks.

‘Do you know what you’re getting into?’ An indirect question.

“I’m aware,” Yukiya replied with no hesitation.

“Are you confident you can do it, then?”

“I don’t take on challenges I have no chances of winning,” Yukiya affirmed with certainty. His gaze, now possessed a strength and sharpness it never had before, moved up towards the man standing beside him. “Lord Natsuka was right all along. To protect you is to protect my homeland. What’s important to you and what’s important to me: it was the same from the very start. If it’s to protect Yamauchi, then I shall devote and dedicate everything I have to you.”

Ever so slowly, Yukiya kneeled and lowered his head as far as he could. “Your Majesty, the True Kin’u, I humbly implore you. From here on, I, Yukiya of Taruhi, shall swear my fealty to you until my life ends, my body rots, and the very last fragment of my soul is gone.”

“Right.”

Wakamiya, who had waited patiently until Yukiya had finished talking, sighed and casually raised one arm. All of a sudden, that one arm alone transformed into a wing. It grew in length like a young tree would, fingers elongating as the sound of black feathers covering them filled the air. Wakamiya gently placed this dazzling black wing over the prostrating Yukiya. 

“…… One day, you’ll probably be the man that I’ll call my right hand. However, you’ll surely face all kinds of pain and suffering because of that status. If it is ever necessary, I’ll have no choice but to abandon you to your fate. I can’t promise to always be the best master to you. Despite that, will you still pledge your loyalty to me?”

“Yes,” Yukiya answered, “I implore you, concede me the honor of being one of your men.”

“I was waiting for those words,” the True Kin’u laughed with clear satisfaction. 

——And yet, there was loneliness in it too.

Year Eight of the Gentle Raven, the Sixth Month of the Lunar Calendar.

The invasion of the human-eating Monkeys came to its peaceful conclusion with the imprisonment of the traitors and the blockage of their invasion route. Upon learning of the existence of the ‘Passages’ around the Central Mountain, the Imperial Court organized a massive search, but they were incapable of finding any other such route. Although still oblivious of the Monkeys’ true nature, the Yatagarasu recovered their peace for a time.

In the spring of the following year, Yukiya of Taruhi requested entrance to the Unbending Reed Monastery as planned. Due to the Monkeys’ appearance, there were far more candidates than any other year, yet he managed to pass the entrance exams with outstanding results even among his peers.

It would be three more years until the Yatagarasu would face the Monkeys again.

[justanoasisimagines]

Who falls first and who falls harder! Set A

Hey my lovelies, back with another Preference. If you would like to see set B let me know. Also my requests are open for everything except fics at this time! You can find my request guidlines are pinned to the top of the page! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

Requested by Anon

Robb Stark; He falls first and harder From the moment Robb lays his eyes on you, Robb's smiten. Then he gets to know you through various conversations and time and it solidifies his inital feelings.

Eddison Tollet; You fall first and he falls harder Eddison had closed himself off to the idea of a relationship. he never believed he would have the opportunity to fall in love. So you fall first. However, Eddison falls harder when he realises he can have you.

Jaime Lannister; He falls first and he falls harder Jaime could have his pick of women. He's atractive, comes from a noble family. However, when he meets you for the first time, he feels emotions he's never experienced. From then it's shared glances, longing and a lengthy courting process. Through out this Jaime falls harder for you.

Loras Tyrell; He falls first and you fall harder. Loras is attracted to you once your first introductions are made. However, as you get to know him, the harder you fall. His personality, his loyalty to his family. It's hard not to fall for his natural charm.

Theon Greyjoy; He falls first and he falls harder Theon's been fasinated by you from the moment you walk through the courtyard. He wants to know you; who are you? What ar you doing here? He begins to follow you around trying to talk to you. He asks about you. The more he finds out about you, the harder he falls.

Bronn; You fall first and he falls harder. Bronn's charming in his own rugged way. Naturally you fall for him. He's not like anyone you've met before. However, as you two navigate your relationship. He finds himself falling harder for you. Your smile, your personality, your heart.

Jory Cassel; He falls first and he falls harder. When Jory found out he was to marry you, he didn't know what to think. He didn't expct a lovefilled marriage, however, overtime he falls for you after the inital shock at how beautiful you are.

Eddard "Ned" Stark; He falls first and he falls harder. Ned is frozen in place as he's taken back by you. He's misses when you introduce yourself for the first time. As the courting and the wedding process goes on Ned falls harder and harder for you.

Oberyn Martell; You fall first and he falls harder Oberyn is smooth. He's handsome and kind. Its no surprise you've fallen first. On the otherhand, Oberyn falls harder for you. His feelings develop for you over several moons and so on. Oberyn feelings for you develop over time.

Viserys Targaryen; You fall first and you fall harder Viserys isn't bothered by anything or anyone. His mind is focused on taking back to Iron Throne. So while you've focused on him, falling harder for him as time goes on in hopes one day he'll return your affections.

Thoros of Myr; You fall first and he falls harder. In the beginning, you were taken back by Thoros. Thoros's dedication to keep Beric alive. His loyalty to the Brotherhood without Banners. Howeve, in the end, Thoros falls harder for you because he sees how willing you are to give your life up for him. Travelling on the road, adapting to his way of life. He definitely falls harder.

Dickon Tarly; You fall first and he falls harder. In the beginning, Dickon is dismissive of you. He marriage to you is nothing but a marriage of convience. Dickon's consumed by duty rather than finding love. However, when he notices you, he falls hard and fast.

Khal Drago; He falls first and he falls harder. Khal knows there is something about you, a sparklights in his heart. it only grows as time passes. He learns more about you. He gets the quality timw, Khal spends falls harder in love with you.

Podrick Payne; He falls first and you falls harder Podrick is smitten with you. When he first lays eye on you, he's smitten. However, it's you who falls harder. You fall for Podrick's bravery, courage and heart. It's hard not to love everything about Podrick.

Edmure Tully; He falls first and he falls harder. It takes a glance for Edmure to fall in love with you. It's when your eyes meet. Edmure finds himself falling deeper in love with you. Edmure knows his love grows for you every day.

Renly Baratheon; You fall first and he falls harder. It's easy to fall for Renly. He's find and respectful. and a good King to his subjects. Naturally, you fall for him first. However, as you two draw closer together, Renly draws closer towards you and he falls hard.

Petyr "Little finger" Baelish; He falls first and he falls harder. Petyr becomes obsessed with you from the moment he sees you. He then sends people out to find every piece of information he can. He's slowly falling in love with you as he learns more. By the time he makes his introductions he's head over heels for you.

Jaqen H'ghar; He falls first and you fall harder Jaqen believes your beautiful when you first meet. Jaqen falls for you but it's you who falls harder. Jaqen is myserious and a puzzle you're constantly attempting to work out. The more you find out the harder you fall.

Tywin Lannister; You fall first and you fall harder Tywin doesn't have time to play foolish games. He doesn't have time for love or romance as he deserately tries to maintain his status. Marrying you is one of convience. However, while you fall first and harder for him. Tywin does learn to love in his way. However, it will never compared to how you feel.

Tormund Giantsbane; He falls first and he falls harder Tormund is transfixed the moment he sees you. Tormund is in love with you at first sight. Tormund gets to know you, he's in awe as he finds out how remarkable you are. he's going to fall in love with every fact he finds. The good and the bad.

[winterballads]

Mi Lan 💗💕💖💘💝

Even after regaining her sight, she not only continues carrying her cane with her: it also becomes her weapon of choice, a part of herself she consciously makes into an instrument of protection. The unique abilities gained due to her blindness (such as her keen hearing) continue being her strengths going forward, despite how easily they could've been discarded. She can see again, but her blindness is never portrayed as a tragic defect to be left behind in favour of character development.

From the very start and despite her youth and inexperience, she bravely and brazenly chooses the role of a helper, a rescuer, a saviour. She takes responsibility for Shen Zhiheng's life and, in the process, becomes her own saviour and hero.

She's never―not once―shown as being weak, because her strength comes from within and can't be extinguished even in the most dire adversity.

She learns to care for others and, in doing so, to care for herself. She learns to live, and love, and love living. Her curiosity, wonder at the world and kindness propel her. With every new thing she learns and every mistake she makes, she becomes more mature, empathic, intelligent and beautiful in her imperfections.

She has a heart pure as the white moon and warm as the golden sun. Despite knowing so little about life because of all that she's been deprived of in childhood, she's driven by a loyalty, dedication and passion so poignant they eclipse everything else. She shines bright and casts her light all around her, to illuminate the path of the one she loves.

She and Shen Zhiheng are one. This is something Mi Lan actively chose and continues to choose every day, with absolute clarity, because her trust in Shen Zhiheng's warmth and kindness is unbreakable.

In the end, all that matters is that she lives on ― that she never loses the joy of living, and that her pure brightness never fades. Shen Zhiheng willingly gives up on the twilight of his own life so Mi Lan gets to see the next morning, clearly believing that sacrifice to be worth it.

And she does. She will. She's going to live a full, long life and wake up to many gorgeous mornings to come; and, despite the ache in her heart, she's going to smile listening to the music of fresh rain in spring.

[snuggleboots]

have a word-salad kisame drabble thrown together while i was ugly crying over my fav mitski playlist :' ) *blasts my love is all mine on repeat x 1000*

tags: canon character death, canon character x reader,

kisame is less of an 'i'm going to make you mine' and more of an 'i want you to make me yours' man

always to a cause has he been dedicated, always to the aspirations of those higher on the chain than himself has his life been devoted.

he wants little and has nothing; even his sword, the gluttonous behemoth of gnashing teeth and merciless scales forged to rip and shred, could one day find its fill of his chakra and rebuke him for another.

his body, his power, and his life have never been his to declare dominion.

and belonging is something life has always deprived him of. to a friend, a team - or even something so small as a warm body that wanted him anything other than fighting or dead.

grandiose confessions and flowery words are two of many things that exist beyond the realm of his ability. never could he be a man who whispers heartfelt declarations of love and light, but he is a man who could devote himself to you.

his blade, his blood, his body, to his last breath.

only if you choose him.

the words 'i love you' may never fall like honey from his lips - but in the sanctum of the sun's waning light on a sodden, bloodied battlefield his brow could find its home against your own, the ghost of affection unfamiliar twined in his words when he offers himself in his entirety to you.

'let me be yours' is just as much a promise as it is a claim, spoken uncertainly and in feigned jest, through a sawtooth grin that always follows a battle hard-won.

heart pounding and lungs pitching their protest in the dry burn of every breath drawn, he is a man that lays his life like a token at your feet; if only you promise his fealty is kept true in the iron of your loyalty, and unyielding in your times of need.

never will you be his, not by his own word, because nothing in life that belonged to him has survived safe or untainted by the blood pouring like wine from his leger.

kisame wasn't born a monster, he doesn't know why he bites. death and bloodshed only found him young, and never has he been able to find its exit. too late is it now for him to ever hope for an end found in quiet or peace.

so in this world of manipulation and hypocrisy, please, let him belong to the lone pillar of sincerity that he has come to know as you. let his faith, his trust, his life belong to something more kind than the monster that became his namesake.

just so he might be able to - in what time he has left - drag his war-weary bones back to the first person that ever felt like a home, and wrap that someone so precious in his body, like a fortress impenetrable by all that might hope to harm you.

in this life, short and cruel, let the last memories his dying neurons fire be that born from the gentle warmth of your loving compassion for a man so unworthy and broken.

let him die knowing that, in this life, the love you shared was the one thing that belonged completely and entirely to him.

[writeroutoftime]

hey! can I request sam winchester x demon!reader where their love is forbidden, but he just can stay away from her and realizes he's fallen and hard for her 🥺

pairing: sam winchester x demon/morally gray!reader

warnings: mentions of torture/going to hell, you are a morally gray individual (read: demon)

words: 1.3k

a/n: okay I am in love with this request, and this is what came out. there WILL be a part 2 where it actually gets more into the relationship between you and sam, but I wanted to set up the backstory to start off. please let me know what you think, and I really hope you enjoy! (also, I am SO sorry it's taken me so long to post this story)

oOoOo

Our story starts, as so many do, with once upon a time. Though, as a warning, there is no princess in this story who gets rescued by a knight in shining armor from the evil dragon that locked her away in the highest tower. There is no happily ever after as the two ride off together into the sunset.

No, this story starts with you - just a normal girl who took a wrong turn and fell in love with the wrong man. What felt like love at first sight to you was lust at first sight for him. But despite the warnings and the whispers around town, you ignored the naysayers and dedicated your life to this one man.

So much so that you would have done anything to keep him from harm's way. (Though the same could not be said about his loyalties.) And when danger came knocking on your door in the middle of the night, looking to collect their dues, you knew you had to step in.

It took endless nights of searching, but you finally found an answer that would solve all your problems. When you told him what you found, he didn't plead for you to keep yourself safe, instead he scoffed in your face and went out to lose himself in the drink - again.

More determined than ever, you found your crossroads and nearly screamed when you saw the flash of red eyes standing before you.

"Well, well. What is a pretty thing like you doing out here? It seems you may be out of your element." the demon taunted as he looked you up and down.

"I-I want to make a deal." you stuttered out. "My boyfriend, he needs help. His debts need to be repaid."

The demon merely smirked. "And why isn't he the one here begging for my help?"

"This is what you do for the people you love. Now, can you help me or not?"

"I can." he smirked. "But it's going to cost something pretty big - your soul. And in ten years I'll come to collect." he explained, no trace of humor on his features.

"Deal."

Stepping closer towards you, the demon chuckled. "Well then, let's seal this deal, sweetheart." he said and suddenly pressed his lips against yours. You could feel heat inside your chest, like your soul had been branded. "See you soon." he spoke, disappearing and leaving you alone.

The next day, everything the demon promised came to fruition. Your boyfriend's debts had been paid, and you felt it was going to be a new leaf for the two of you. But instead of eternal love and gratitude, he repaid you with sleeping through half the town and leaving you high and dry only three weeks later.

When ten years passed and you started hallucinating, you wished you could give anything to go back in time and change your fate. However, fate was not that kind, and so, you were dragged down to hell in shreds, kicking, screaming, and cursing his name the whole way down.

The decades you spent on the rack were literal torture. Just when you thought there was no other ways you could be taken apart and put back together, they managed to find a new one. Every day you were told the hell could end if you just gave in. At first, you tried to hold onto the tiny shred of humanity you had left.

But after so many decades, it just was so much easier to give in.

And, so, when you whispered a timid "yes" when asked for the nth time, it all changed for you. Whereas you used to be the one tied up and torn apart, now you got to be on the other end. Each cut and slice into a soul was like a weight off your shoulders.

You thought of the man you had given it all up for. The man who abandoned you after you sold your soul for him. The man who you were going to pay a visit to as soon as you got strong enough to get topside. After a few more decades you finally broke the surface, cracking your neck, smiling devilishly.

It didn't take long for you to find him, drunk and stumbling out of the local bar. Hiding in the shadows, you leant against the cool, rough bricks of the building, biding your time. While he fumbled with the keys to his car, you slowly stalked behind him, hovering over his shoulder until he noticed your reflection in the window.

"What the fuck?" he shouted, dropping his keys and furiously scrubbing at his face. "How much did I drink to start seeing fucking ghosts?"

"Not quite a ghost, but also not quite human." you said, flashing him your deep, black eyes.

He let out another scream and dropped to the ground, pieces of gravel sticking into his skin. As he tried to scramble away, you rolled your eyes and hauled him up by his jacket, scoffing at this pitiful excuse for a man.

"What? Didn't think you'd have to come face to face with the woman you cheated on and left high and dry after I sold my soul for you?"

"No, no. You died, got mauled by an animal or some shit."

A humorless laugh left your lips. "Is that what they called it? That's putting being dragged to hell and tortured for decades mildly." you growled. "But don't worry I pulled myself out just to see you and thank you after all this time."

Your words were punctuated with a fist to his jaw, relishing the resounding crunch that echoed into the night air. Fist after fist was thrown in his direction using every ounce of anger you ever felt towards him boiled over the surface. When you grew weary of throwing punches, you flicked your knife out, cutting into his skin regardless of his please to stop.

It wasn't long before you knelt over his crumpled body, a satisfied smirk curled on your lips. This was the moment you had long since pined over, waiting to end his miserable life, hoping his time in hell would be even worse than yours.

But something in the back of your mind wouldn't let you finish the deed. The knife in your hand clattered to the ground, unable to plunge itself deep into his chest. He laid there, a whimpering mess, as you pushed yourself out of the gravel, and smeared the blood that coated your hands across your clothing.

You thought of this moment for so long. Assumed it would bring you a sense of closure. Of vengeance. Instead, you only felt empty, confused, purposeless. Without looking back, you left him there to pull himself together - a small act of mercy.

As you roamed the empty streets, you kept thinking of what brought you to this moment in the first place. Why didn't it feel right? You knew there was no going back, this is what you were now. But maybe, just maybe you could stop what happened to you from happening to anyone else. A way to use this curse for good.

And from that moment on, you roamed the state, looking for players, cheaters, and guys who liked to manipulate those around them. You'd get wind of their deeds, pretend to fall for their charms, and then go in for the kill, offering them the same pain they caused others. You knew most people probably saw you as a criminal, but you saw yourself as a vigilante.

In fact, your little routine worked quite well for the next few months. It seemed to bring you the senses of purpose and justice you were looking for. That was, at least, until you heard through the pipeline that the Winchesters were on your trail. Shit!

oOoOo

Dun, dun duhh!! To be continued in part two, I hope you enjoyed!

[into-september]

"Maledictator", thoughts

Flipping through the channels at later at night than the target group should be up gave me the tail end of "Frozer" (Luka had a different voice, the ice power-ups are weird) and then "Maledictator".

Did this happen before or after Chloé revealed herself to be a dancing prodigy in LB cosplay that had a wig

Sure sure S5 might go on and on about how she's too lazy for school, but you don't get those dancing skills at one of the toughest ballet schools in the world without dicipline and dedication. If we're supposed to treat anything that happens on this show seriously after all, "Frighteninggale" suggests that Chloé's illiteracy stems from some learning disability left undiagnosed thanks to a system too afraid to be frank about her academic performance to her parents

No helping the complete lack of reality on display as the episode starts, though

Marinette's explanation for choosing Chloé for the fight is something like "doesn't get intimidated by power" (would've been so cool if this was ever followed up on), but it's pretty clear that it's really because she keeps blaming herself for getting Chloé upset. I can't remember if she did that before Adrien refused to join the party because he was upset, but the one most ruthless at tearing Chloé's superhero delusions apart at the start of the episode wasn't Marinette, no matter how much both Marinette and Chloé keeps saying that it was. It was Alya.

Not sure what to make of Chloé's repeated accusations that Marinette made the class "gang up on her" when Chloé demonstratively doesn't care what the class thinks of her

And yet she later grieves that "nobody likes her" and she "has no friends"

And she goes to the party, unaware that it is to celebrate Queen Bee, because Marinette asked her to

The most interesting part of the episode is how she at the end refuses the Butler's help to clean up, insisting to do it herself

"BUt she neVEr wAnted to Be betTER" #surejan

Speaking of things it would've been so cool if they followed up on: Adrien's statement that he "can't" celebrate Chloé's departure. This empathy-to-the-point-of-the-absurd (and it is empathy, not just loyalty) is such a contrast to Gabriel who uses the same skill set to terrorise Paris on the daily - and also to Marinette, whose judgemental ways are usually justified, but who also demonstrates a distinct lack in the empathy department on some very notable occasions (Kagami on purpose, Cat Noir are a side effect of weird writing). Adrien's insistence on sympathising with the other's pain, no matter how misplaced said pain is, would've been such an interesting angle for the show to pursue to cast light on the two others in our central conflict triangle

Chloé's VA aced this one and oh my god whoever wrote these scripts deserves a little medal. Gabriel Agreste is absolutely the kind of man to use the word "hustru"

The most important takeaway is that this episode probably only exists because someone wanted to animate Cat Noir taking the catboy existence to the ultimate level

The simultaneous clever and absolutely careless nature of the writing and directing of this show keeps giving me brainworms and today's is the fact that Queen Bee's weapon is the visually closest to Ladybug's in look and non-special function, and how this episode had one very conspicuous shot of Ladybug and Queen Bee moving in fully synchronised movements. Why would you do that if you're not either going to establish Chloé as a special ally, or as Ladybug's ultimate nemesis?

See also: with S5 explicitly taking on the political system of France, how dare not having a Maledictator repeat there. did we really need an episode about how even an AI can de-akumatise itself these days, or two about Lila getting Kagami akumatised over the same bloody problem that you were too chicken to make for real anyway