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[ckret2]

Chapter 49 of human Bill Cipher being such a miserable prisoner even the Pines are starting to feel bad for him: The Eclipse: Epilogue.

####

"The heck did you do to that poor woman?" Tate asked, staring out the window. Bill was sitting on the pier, legs dangling in the water, staring blankly into the depths. He was still muddy and trembling. "She looks more traumatized than when y'all left."

Ford couldn't meet Tate's gaze under the brim of his hat, but he could feel Tate raising a brow when he spotted Dipper pacing back and forth on the pier behind Bill, muttering furiously.

"We've had a very bad day," Ford said. 

"Uh-huh."

"Could I borrow your phone to call my brother?"

Outside, Dipper was oblivious to everything except the one line he'd managed to remember from the Axolotl, the words he'd picked out as they crossed the lake. "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,'" Dipper murmured. He knew that much. It was a poem. It was a rhyme. He couldn't remember the rest. What did it mean? He murmured it over and over to himself as he walked, trying to remember the next line, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,' 'sixty degrees that come in threes'... breeze, freeze, ease, lease, knees—" He couldn't remember the rhyme.

Bill was considering grabbing Dipper by the ankle and dragging him off the pier just to shut him up when whatsisname, the younger McGucket came out of the shop. "Hello there? Miss Goldie?"

Human. Strange human. Human that Bill could get on his side. Be charming. He tried to remember how to be charming. He offered a feeble smile. "Yello?"

"I wanted to make sure you're all right," Tate said. "You look like you, uh... you've had a hard time."

Bill laughed ruefully. "Well, I've been dragged all over the mountain, I'm hungry, exhausted, and half-drowned, and I can barely walk—but I'm not currently dead. Allegedly. I'll take what I can get."

The corners of Tate's mouth twitched down in a concerned frown. "Is there anything you need? A..." He floundered for a moment, "A water, or...?"

"I've had enough water to last me a lifetime." He wondered idly whether he could claim he was too exhausted to make it all the way home—there was a sofa in the staff room, Tate would probably let the poor bedraggled "woman" take a nap, if Bill got that bit of distance between himself and the Pines maybe he could... maybe he could... do something with it? But he couldn't think of anything more definite than that and now Ford was coming back and the window of opportunity closed. He shrugged wearily. "Just need to get back to the shack. Thanks." He half heartedly used the lake water to wash the drying mud off his lower legs and knees.

"Stan will be here in about twenty minutes," Ford said, and tried to ignore the dirty look Tate gave him. 

"I'll be just inside if you need anything else," Tate said. "Watching." He headed inside—and then, indeed, stood at the shop window and watched.

Ford was never going to get on Tate's good side. He suspected Tate would be a little less sympathetic to the poor woman on the pier if he knew who he really was; but it certainly wouldn't make Tate like Ford any better for keeping him around.

"Nothing to do now but wait." Ford unloaded the rest of their supplies from the borrowed motor boat. He dropped Soos's Monster-Mon backpack beside Bill—it was heavy, Bill must have just shoved his clothes and bedsheet straight in without bothering to wring out the water—and the plastic bag of snacks Dipper had bought. "You ought to eat more while we wait." Ford nudged the snack bag.

Bill sneered at it. "I don't want that trash."

"What?" Ford examined the bag's contents. Jerky, chips, candy, cups of marshmallow cereal... "This is ninety percent of what you eat."

"Ninety percent of what I eat is what I can scavenge from the counters."

Ford looked through the bag again. Ah. Right. So it was. "If you want something else, you know you can ask us to..."

"Mac and cheese."

Maybe Ford had better stop talking. He sighed and glanced at Dipper to see how he was doing.

It didn't look like Dipper had even registered Ford's return, too busy pacing and muttering to himself. Ford frowned. "Dipper?"

"Axolotl," Bill explained. "He's obsessing over him. Didn't I tell you that meeting that thing would drive him insane?" He tilted his head toward Dipper. "Look at that, he's already mumbling to himself. Don't suppose you have his therapist's number, do you? I doubt that would save him, but it might slow the process—"

Ford shushed him.

Dipper had briefly tuned back into the conversation when he heard Bill say Axolotl; and now he grit his teeth and stubbornly tuned it back out. No. He was not going insane. Dipper would figure this out. If he just remembered the rest he'd be fine. He tried to go through all the potential rhymes alphabetically, "—bees, cease, d—deez?" That wasn't a word. "Fees, geese, he's..." and on and on, "seas, tees, uh... vees? Wheeze..."

"I've had enough of you trying to convince that boy he's about to go mad," Ford muttered to Bill. "What do you get out of saying that? Even if you do convince him he's insane, it won't make him start trusting anything else you say."

"I'm not lying," Bill said heatedly. "You ought to know that, you've been in the multiverse, you've seen plenty of maddening sights. You saw them before you even left the Nightmare Realm."

Ford hesitated before responding; was Bill trying to persuade Ford he was insane? But he could still remember those first few moments of terror in the Nightmare Realm: the creatures that had seemed to move and shift in impossible ways as they swam in and out of dimensions Ford couldn't see, the lights and colors that throbbed like an inverted migraine, Bill himself seemingly suspended a million light years away and a foot in front of Ford's face at the same time. Until Ford had latched onto his quest to destroy Bill and let that focus him, his mind had felt like an unraveling sock. "You were chief among those maddening sights."

"I was," Bill acknowledged neutrally.

"But I didn't go insane."

"Because you knew when to look away." He cast a sideways glance at Dipper, an implicit unlike him. "I know you used to read cosmic horror. Do you know why the narrator always goes mad just from looking at some giant beast? It's not because it's too ugly to take. It's because once you meet something, you try to understand it; but if you want to understand the reality something like that comes from," he rolled an eye up toward where the invisible Axolotl had hung in the sky, "you have to lose your understanding of your own reality. They're incompatible. Like the lunatics who escaped Plato's cave and came back ranting about nonsense like sunlight and colors."

It was a twisted interpretation of the cave allegory. Plato had meant it as a metaphor for education: that learning about the true nature of reality was enlightening, but alienated you from your peers.

Perhaps to Bill, enlightenment and insanity were the same thing.

Ford murmured, "Once your eyes have been too dazzled by the sunlight to see the dim shadows, you'll never be awed by a candle again."

"You have been there before."

Ford didn't answer.

"Once you've seen something like that, if you let yourself dwell on the significance of it all, you're doomed. Better to tell yourself it's unimportant and try to forget it ever happened."

Ford thought of Fiddleford.

Bill twisted around to snap tiredly at Dipper, "So stop staring at the sun before you go blind, moron."

"Shut up." Dipper had been trying to mentally drown out Bill's dire predictions by grasping for more rhymes—"disease, unease, Socrates"—but enough filtered through to make his stomach churn with nervousness. What if Bill was right? What if he never remembered what the Axolotl told him—what if he drove himself mad trying? What if this turned into a lifelong obsession—but he'd be fine and could let it go once he remembered—was that the trap? Was whatever it had told him impossible for a human to remember? Was it something so incomprehensible a human couldn't remember it without going crazy?

But he'd seen plenty of stuff last summer that was supposed to make humans go "insane." Bill had to be messing with him. He remembered the first line—surely that meant he could remember the rest—but was that part of the trap? "'Sixty degrees that come in threes'... come on, there's something else, I know it, what is it? 'Sixty degrees that come in threes'—"

Bill sighed irritably. "'Watches through the eyes in trees.'"

Dipper stopped pacing. He hadn't realized he'd raised his voice enough to be audible. "What?"

"What?" Bill said.

"What's the rest of it?"

"What rest of it? It's a couplet. That's all," Bill said. "Is that what he told you? He gets rhymey when he feels self-important, it's no big deal. Maybe you're lucky. Put it out of your head and you'll be fine."

Dipper turned the words over in his head. Sixty degrees that come in threes, watches through the eyes in trees... "That's not exactly right," he said slowly. "It was 'watches from within birch trees.'"

"Is that how he translated it? I've never heard it in English before. I got close, though, I knew it'd rhyme."

Ford echoed, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes.' Like a triangle?"

Dipper gave him a perplexed look. "What?"

"You're taking geometry next year, aren't you? The inner angles of polygons always have the same number of degrees; and a triangle has a hundred and eighty degrees. Three angles of sixty degrees forms... an equilateral triangle."

Dipper and Ford stared at Bill.

Bill gave them a tired, unreadable look. "What?" he said. "Don't look at me. I'm not the only equilateral triangle in the universe."

Well, now Dipper was sure there was more to the poem than just a couplet. "How many other equilateral triangles spy on people through birch trees?"

"Lay off," Bill said crabbily. "I didn't have to tell you that line. Don't make me regret it." He planted his elbows on his knees, laced his hands together, pressed his forehead to them, and massaged his eyelids with his thumbs.

He tilted slightly to the right, keeping the weight of his head off his left arm.

####

"Nice shirt," Stan said, eyeing Ford's anger management t-shirt.

"If you like it, you can have it."

"What happened to your coat?"

"Somewhere at the bottom of the lake," Ford sighed.

"How...?"

"I'll fill you in later."

Bill's trembling was almost unnoticeable by the time Stan arrived. Or, at least, it was slight enough that he could stand and make the short walk from the pier to the car without an obvious struggle. 

He climbed into the back seat, slid across the bench, leaned against the door, wrapped his arms around his Monster-Mon backpack, fell asleep, and didn't wake up for the entire drive home.

Dipper and Ford fell silent when they noticed; and, sensing the heavy atmosphere, Stan followed suit.

####

The event organizers for Higher Dimensional Gate had arranged for the Magister Mentium's audience to surround him in a circle with as large a circumference as possible, so that as many shapes as possible could pack into the first few rows where they could see him. Even so, the crowd was much too large for everyone to be in the first few rows. Speakers had to be planted throughout the crowd so that they'd all be able to hear the Magister speak. Most of his audience couldn't see him.

But he, with his all-seeing eye, could see all of them.

The crowd extended back, row after row after row, in every direction like flecks of multicolor confetti filling the air all the way to the horizon. He'd never spoken to such a large crowd before. He didn't think he'd ever seen such a large crowd before.

Not all of them were his worshipers. He didn't have that many worshipers. The rest were drawn in by his boast—to be the first shape outside of legends to predict an eclipse, over six months ahead of schedule. They were here for a spectacle. He meant to give them one.

If he succeeded, all these spectators would become his worshipers, he was sure of it. If he didn't succeed, he lost everything. The whole nation knew about his bet. He'd be financially ruined. His worshipers would abandon him. There would be no fleeing to a new town and starting over; everyone everywhere knew who he was. His life would be over.

This would be only the third eclipse he could recall. There's no way to neatly map shape ages onto human ages. Different year lengths, different aging speeds, different mental and physical milestones. But approximately, compared to a human, he was scarcely over fifteen years old. 

But he wouldn't fail. He pushed all his fears aside. He didn't even want to think about them. He wouldn't, because he couldn't, because he could see what nobody else saw. He could see the eclipse's approach.

It was traveling across the vast empty gulf outside the world.

The only other third dimensional objects he'd ever seen were the sun—which looked to him like a circle—and the stars—which seemed to be mere points. He assumed all third dimensional objects were fundamentally just second dimensional objects, moving on a strange plane. He had no capacity to model a 3D object in his mind.

But the eclipse was a beast that twirled and gyrated around impossible axes, moving and rotating in ways his eye couldn't even comprehend. To him, it looked as though the living creature—he assumed it was a living creature, sometimes it manifested a couple of limbs or an eye—was constantly shapeshifting, its perimeter moving and altering. Its uncanny undulations had haunted his nightmares for months after he first watched it, so young he'd barely started school. It wasn't any less nightmarish now.

But as incomprehensible and terrifying as it was, he could see it, and nobody else here could, and that was all that mattered. He could watch it on the horizon and publicly announce that it would cross the sun in two weeks—and then in about three days—and then, to his humiliation, not tomorrow but today, guaranteed, as the creature sped up and threw off his estimate. His worshipers and bemused spectators had taken over the square to while away the time. They'd quickly gathered around him to wait after he'd declared it would arrive within the hour

That had been almost an hour and a half ago. The stupid thing had slowed down.

The triangle was terrified.

In every direction, shapes were staring at him. Waiting. His father was watching him—his stare seemed to grow heavier by the minute. He could see reporters in the crowd taking notes.

He had to fight not to pace, not to cringe, not to show any nerves in front of the hundreds of eyes.

Now. It had to be now. It was so close. Please don't let him be wrong. Every cord in his body quivered in terror as he grabbed his microphone and announced: "Lines, bis, tris—quads, quints, and more! My dear students and beloved believers, and my—" he cut off the urge to say something nastier, "—curious visitors, who I hope will join our quest for enlightenment. This is the moment you've been waiting for! The eclipse is upon us! In less than a minute, it will begin!" He had to keep his gaze forward as he spoke, looking at his audience. (His mother had always said the way his eye went white when he was looking at the third dimension unnerved people.) "Soon—you won't have to take all my claims about the third dimension on faith. You'll be able to see for yourself the effect of the third dimension on the plane."

The crowd murmured excitedly. He could see his father relax. He stared up-but-not-north, gnawing nervously on his eyelid until he caught himself. The beast above glowed a warm pink in the light of the nearby sun.

And the stupid thing. Slowed. Again.

He stared in disbelief.

"Sixty seconds," his father whispered, out of range of the microphone.

His stomach flopped. He was dead.

"One minute, fifteen seconds. What's going—?"

He held his microphone away and hissed, "The eclipse decided to zigzag."

"Eclipses can zigzag?"

"Shhh!" He'd already failed. He'd already shown everyone he was wrong. He could hear the murmurs. His eye hurt from staring at the sun and from straining for so long to turn so far upward-not-northward, go faster faster faster—

There! The snout of the eclipse was this close to kissing the perimeter of the sun. He cried triumphantly, "Now!"

The wretched beast did a loop-the-loop around the sun and missed it entirely.

The triangle felt the last strands of his fraying self-composure snap.

He howled in rage.

He could hear laughs from the crowd. They felt like daggers in his sides.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" He was bellowing into outer space as if he thought it might hear him, "Do your think this is a game?! Is this funny?! Are you trying to humiliate me in front of the whole world!" His father put a hand on his arm; the triangle shoved him away. "Get back here right now! You thick, brainless, blobby, pink, feeler-faced two-eyed freak of nature! GET BACK HERE and LOOK ME IN THE EYE!" He was a lunatic, everyone would know it, their leader raving in a direction no one could actually see about some big pink delusion, what did he care, no one would ever take him seriously again anyway—

And the thing in the sky.

Stopped.

And looped back.

And came closer, and closer, and bigger, and bigger—it just kept getting bigger, how far away had it been before, how large was it, how large was the sun?

He hardly noticed the crowd's gasp as the creature twirled between them and the sun—the light shone through its body, pink with blood—and then out of the way, and then in again, and out—until finally it was so close that its perimeter completely engulfed the sun. He'd taken a field trip to the planet's surface once—an enormous solid mass of stone and crystal. Until now, he'd never seen another solid objects so large. To his limited understanding of 3D objects, it looked as though there were no organs inside its perimeter—just a layer of solid, uninterrupted flesh. He didn't know how it could even move.

It stopped straight over him.

He was sure the two black circles embedded inside its body must be its eyes. His whole life he'd heard psychic powers—psychic powers like his own—described as having an "inner eye." But he'd thought the phrase was just a metaphor. An eye on the inside of a body instead of on its perimeter would be useless to most people. He'd never seen a creature with an eye literally on the inside of its body. But the eclipse had two.

And they were looking at him.

A giant ever-shapeshifting cosmic horror from outside of reality, staring through the veil separating the sane world from outerplanar space, and it was looking—at—him.

He was terrified.

He heard an alien voice in his head, vast and deep and slow as distant whale song:

"Hello there!" It was overjoyed. It was tickled pink. "I've never been spoken to by a shape on the wall before. I didn't know you could see off of it!"

Weakly, the triangle repeated, "'A shape on the'...?"

"Yes, this wall of yours." The eclipse gestured with its tail at—everything. A single sweep that took in an entire dimension. "I've probably commuted past this wall billions of times, and nothing's ever called to me before. I didn't know shadows could do that!"

"'Shadows'?" the triangle echoed again. That was all they were? An eclipse's shadows?

"I'm absolutely delighted," the eclipse said. "First contact from a lower-dimensional species! I've watched you for eons and never imagined. Isn't this exciting! How charming of you! Tell me who you are."

Him? "Me?"

"Of course. Who else?" It stared at him. Only him. A shapeshifting force of nature the size of a planet with two inner eyes, an eclipse that saw him as a shadow—and it was looking only at him.

Weakly, he said, "I'm... the Magister Mentium."

The eclipse thought that over. Its tone was a tad dubious and not terribly impressed (why should it be impressed? he was embarrassed at himself for giving his silly puffed-up title)—but it said, "Yes, I suppose that's true. I am the Axolotl. It's been a pleasure meeting you." It began to shapeshift again—its eyes slid sideways through its body, until one reached its perimeter and disappeared.

It dawned on the triangle, in its first immature understanding of third dimensional objects, that its eye had disappeared because the Axolotl was turning away. "Wait!" he cried. "Why..." Why answer him? Why focused on him so completely, if he was just a shadow? Why ask who he was like he mattered? He didn't even know how to put those questions to words in his own mind, much less out loud. "Why are you here so early?"

The Axolotl turned back to the triangle. "Oh! I had to go back for some documents I forgot at the office. Big case in the morning," it said. "You shadows know my schedule?"

"You... pass in front of the sun."

The Axolotl turned away, eyes disappearing and frills fluttering, to look at the sun. "So I do! How funny." It turned toward the triangle and gave him a strange, grotesque look that—by the tone of its psychic voice—he suspected was a smile. "I must get going. I'll be heading into the office a few hours late tomorrow, but perhaps I'll see you again then." And it turned away. It felt like it took forever for the enormous body to sail over-not-north-of the triangle—and pass, at last, out of the sun's path.

The triangle didn't look down-but-not-south until someone shook his side—his father. He lowered his dazed gaze to the crowd—the cheering, applauding crowd. Ma-gi-ster, Ma-gi-ster. A sea of multicolor confetti shapes that filled the air to the horizon.

Shadows.

His father shook him again—"Go on, say something. They're waiting"—and the triangle held up his mic as though he were in a dream. He tried to remember what he was supposed to say. "I was right," he said flatly. "Just like I always told you. I can see the third dimension. The realm of dreams—of colors, of light, and..." The lies left a sick taste in the back of his eye. He couldn't say them. Points of light in darkness and pink nightmares.

"I'm s— You'll all have to excuse me," he said, his voice childish and small. "I can't—I've had a... a... profound... spiritual experience. I must meditate on the revelations I've received." The words felt like woo-woo mumbo-jumbo. "The next eclipse will be a few months after the new year." It seemed important, for some reason, to pass that information on. Wasn't that what he always said he did? Share the wisdom of third dimensional spirits with his followers? "I... have to go now."

His father took his elbow. "This is your moment," he whispered. "Come on, son—you don't want to lose your chance to speak directly to them, do you?"

He shoved the microphone in his father's side. "You speak to them."

"But—"

"I can't," he said. "I can't."

He cut through the crowd as fast as it would part for him—if they were any slower, he'd have started stabbing his way through—haunted the whole way by their applause.

####

And that was it.

From the Axolotl's perspective, he had just had a brief pleasant exchange with a precocious tadpole in a sidewalk puddle.

From the triangle's perspective, he might as well have been standing on the boat deck watching as Cthulhu rose from his millennia of dead slumber at the bottom of the ocean, turned to the fragile vessel bobbing on the waves, and said, "Good morning! Glorious weather we're having, isn't it?"

And from the perspective of the Higher Dimensional Gate, their Magister Mentium had predicted an eclipse, been rightfully insulted when it didn't come the exact second he ordered it, and furiously summoned down an eclipse darker and swifter and longer than any in recorded history.

Up until then, he had been seen as, at best, an oracle. A prophet. A messenger to share the secrets of the third dimension, but that was all he could do. But now, he had commanded forces in an unseen dimension, creating an eclipse months before it was natural. He had made it flicker on and off like he had his finger on the sun's light switch. News reports and the most unimpeachable scientific authorities reported that the eclipse had centered on the location of the Higher Dimensional Gate rally, narrowed down to an inexplicably small radius around that point, and then remained unchanged for several long minutes, long enough for anyone in its shadow to grow fatigued from the missing sunshine. Nothing like that had ever happened before. It defied every known fact about the science of eclipses.

People around the gathering—even people who had known nothing about the Higher Dimensional Gate rally—reported that during the eclipse, they'd become inexplicably disoriented, unable to tell compass directions, and had felt themselves fall toward the darkness—as if gravity's pull had suddenly moved from the south to the epicenter of the eclipse. Public building inspections confirmed that somehow the entire town had shifted, ever so slightly, closer to the epicenter. Closer to the Magister.

Never mind prophecy; as far as the Magister's rapidly-increasing followers were concerned, he might have been a god.

It was the greatest triumph a baby cult leader could ask for.

He barely noticed.

####

For days, he could hardly sleep, speak, or think. He kept losing track of conversations to stare into space. Now, it awed his followers when his eye turned an empty white—he must have been communing with something in a higher dimension.

He didn't argue. It was better than letting them know he was losing his mind.

He spent his time alone locked in his room, pacing back and forth, trying not to look up-but-not-north and failing. Dwelling on the significance of it all. Feeling like he'd never figure it out.

He used to love cosmic horror stories, back when he had time to read. They followed a reliable pattern: the hero travels farther than any rational shape ever should, meets something big, and goes mad from the realization.

And what was it that the hero always realized? That he was a dust fleck in the firmament. That he was insignificant. That he didn't matter. That there were things out there he'd never seen before and would never truly understand, and that they cared not for mere shadows on the wall like him, and that in the grand scheme of the cosmos he was nothing. That he was utterly unimportant.

In moments of what felt like lucidity in between the shivering horror, the triangle  wryly acknowledged that it was no surprise he'd ended up in a cosmic horror story. He could see into another dimension. In the stories he'd read, that made it all but inevitable.

But all the authors had gotten the maddening revelation wrong. He could have handled knowing he was nothing. It almost would have been a relief. 

True horror was knowing he mattered.

He'd spent the majority of his young life selling the idea that he was oh-so-important, as part of a big con to trick gullible idiots into liking him and flinging cash at his rotten undeserving family—and he'd only been able to do it because when the guilt got to him, when his conscience asked what would become of the shapes forking over their life savings on false promises of divine secrets, he could look out into bleak black space and tell himself that nothing really mattered, nothing was important, nothing he'd ever do would really make a difference, and the people he manipulated didn't matter any more than he did. He meant everything to his worshipers, and nothing to the universe. He could do anything and it didn't matter.

For a moment, a vast mind-melting shape-shifting incomprehensible eldritch god had focused its full attention on him—of all the universe, of all the dimensions beyond the known universe, it had looked at him and only him—a mere shadow on the wall, and yet in that moment, it found him interesting. It found him worthy of notice. He had screamed into the cold uncaring void, and the void had cared. For a moment, he'd held cosmic importance. He mattered. His actions mattered.

He'd felt it see him as important, but why? What was so important about him? There had to have been something significant he'd done, something he showed it, something in what he said. He replayed their conversation in his mind over and over and over and over, trying to remember what he'd done that proved he mattered.

He didn't know what it was. He couldn't find it. All he could remember was just... being.

The writers were wrong. Cosmic horror wasn't when an elder god's eyes slid past you without noticing you existed. It was when the elder god gazed down at you at your lowest and bleakest, during your most petty and selfish act of mass swindling, from a dimension where not even slamming the door and shutting your eye could shield you from its gaze—and it decided you were worth caring about. Cosmic horror was when you encountered a colossal alien that planted the incomprehensibly alien idea in your head that you had an inherent worth just because you existed. Cosmic horror was when a force of nature asked the name of a shadow on the wall.

If it was true... if it all mattered... then what was he doing? How could he? What had he done?

####

He was lucky—he was lucky that his parents had raised him to think so clearly about issues like morality and money and easy marks. His only saving grace was that he was too rational to seriously entertain the Axolotl's mad ideas.

And yet, his mind boiled with mad regret. It blazed with insane guilt. The heat of it could burn him out. It was months before he could continue his public sermons without feeling sick—and even once he did, he could still feel the delusion that what he did mattered, festering in his mind.

It would fester for the next trillion years.

####

(And that concludes this plot arc! I hope y'all enjoyed it!! I'd love to hear what y'all thought of the whole thing—especially now that we've looped back to the original eclipse. 😁)

[bamgyw]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ the second night ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

the spiritualization of sensuality is called love: it is a great triumph over christianity. - friedrich nietzsche

warnings: +18 getting hornier. pillow,, humping,, heh. a tiny bit of voyeurism as well? fingering. and a lot of male yearning we love that, we love a desperate man. a/n: team we made it to the smut. the hand kissing bit is kind of victorian. jane austen, even. but. i don't care. i’m not 100% happy with the outcome so it might get a little edited in the (distant) future, but nothing fundamental. this is a part of a longer work ♡ go to the beginning here

"i am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses."

beomgyu stumbled upon that quote within the pages of a stolen copy of a book by nietzsche. he had always found himself more drawn to the destructive lunacies of clinically depressed germans than to the saving grace of the holy scriptures. there was no self-pitying in the bible, no self-indulgent sorrow to hold on to.

he had found that book, thus spoke zarathustra, in soobin's room, tossed in the trash. it looked almost new, so he took it out of curiosity.

"why are you throwing this away?" beomgyu asked.

soobin shrugged. "it's a good read if you're a happy person," he said. "but if you're miserable, it'll rot your brain. more spiritual talk and petty self-help in there than in the bible."

but beomgyu quietly took the book without soobin noticing, and he carried it in his back pocket ever since.

he had no intention of reading it from cover to cover, but sometimes he would flip absentmindedly through the pages, fixating on some passages. and that one specifically had reminded him of you. his new meaning. the rose he found in the darkness.

during the day, beomgyu usually roamed aimlessly around the town, drifting along with the rhythms of his headphones. that was pretty much the sum of his daily human activity since he quit college.

it was all he knew how to do, and often felt like all he was good for.

as he walked through the town, the familiar sounds of honking cars, distant sirens, and murmuring conversations mixed with the music in his headphones. the air was thick with the scent of seawater and the faint, sour smell of industry. it was a crummy town, sordid. each step felt heavy, purposeless, leading him nowhere.

he had a few favorite spots he liked to hang around - the port where the boats came in, or the grimy industrial estate where the addicts gathered. they all knew his dad pretty well. and maybe if they knew beomgyu was the son of the man who supplied them with their shit, they'd treat him better. but that's a secret he kept to himself.

instead, he joined in on their petty fights, easily swayed by whatever side fit his mood that day. he was better at fighting than them, but the victory was hollow. he was younger, his body was not rotten –not completely– and he had full motor control over his limbs. but he got pleasure from winning, anyway. he liked to exert some control over someone else for once. 

still, that day he didn't walk to any of his usual spots. he had been feeling a sorrow less violent, an ominous need for silence. his feet, barely in conversation with his brain, dragged him to the town's small church.

he had never really stopped at the church before, just passed by without giving it much thought. but now, standing there, he realized it was probably the most beautiful building in town.

every other construction felt fake, in plastic and plasterboard, but the wooden church had been crafted by the artisan hands of a carpenter and build up by a community. it seemed to be lovingly nursed, too. though the church meant little to him, it was obviously fundamental to others.

when lost and adrift, beomgyu would wander, getting into fights and ruining himself. but under similarly pitiable conditions, others came to the chapel like it was a second home, sometimes safer than their own. beomgyu wished he had something like that, too.

the building was small, but cute. surrounded by a little forest of old camellia trees, its walls painted a crisp white. it was an old building, but it was thoroughly taken care of. the air was different, cleaner, carrying the earthy scent of the camelliae and the faint fragrance of blooming flowers.

beomgyu liked how the wooden cross crowned the roof, marking the building, never allowing anyone to go astray. it must feel good, he thought, to have some guidance like that when you don't know where to go. a flower in the desert, a light in the darkness.

he knew he was being stupid and overemotional. he had never believed in all this religious stuff, and he never would. his relationship with god, if there even was one, was mostly based in resentment. if god was real, he could've treated him better.

and still, he didn't dare to enter the chapel out of some reverential respect he didn't even know he was capable of. so he just stood there, staring at the chapel, feeling small.

he took a deep breath. his cheek still burned where you had kissed him the night before. he really was going out of his mind.

"i want her so bad. and i think she might want me too." he prayed. to the church, to its wood, to the camellia trees, to the sky –he didn't know, he didn't care. "please let me be with her. please don't hurt her because of it, or shame her, or kick her out or whatever it is you do with sinners. i promise it’s not a bad thing. it’s so much purer than you think." he said.

no one answered, of course. there was just silence. some ruffling of the leaves because of the breeze, maybe the trebling chirp of a bird, but no answer. he felt like an idiot.

praying sucked, he ratified. how could you even make sure you were being listened to? it was emotional manipulation, playing with one's hope. feeling down and disappointed, he left.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

entering soobin’s house again would have felt like torture, were it not for the certainty that you lived there, too.

soobin never really left the house. he only went out to go to class in the mornings, and he still chose to skip as many as he could. not because he wasn't a good student, he was disturbingly accomplished. he just disliked the people.

every day, soobin locked himself in his room and studied relentlessly. he was determined to make something of himself and leave his stepfather’s house behind. he had a plan. beomgyu didn’t know the details of this plan—soobin never shared it, fearing it might be jinxed if spoken aloud—but it was clear that soobin believed hard work could get him out of that miserable house.

beomgyu thought that rhetoric too optimistic, alienated from reality. but still, he had some admiration for him. unlike beomgyu, who wallowed in his own misery instead of changing his situation, soobin searched for solutions.

beomgyu sometimes found him too sickly and rancorous, but he still looked up to him for his willpower. not that he would ever admit that to soobin.

so when beomgyu got to the house, certain that soobin would be there, he gave him a call. it was a code they had. soobin leaned out of his bedroom window, and threw down the keys for beomgyu to catch so that he could make his way in. 

as beomgyu climbed the creaky wooden stairs, he realised that the usual thrill and allure of sneaking around that house he had felt at night was dimmed in the daylight. he hated the smell of that place, too. the air inside was stuffy, filled with the faint scent of old wood and something slightly medicinal.

as he reached the top floor on his way to soobin’s room, he passed by a closed door. pristine surface, painted white. he knew immediately. a pink mother-of-pearl crucifix hung on the wood.

he stood in front of it, his heart quickening. inside that room lived his little bird, trapped in an evil cage. his angel, his obsession. he gladly would’ve shattered the door with his own hands. let his knuckles bleed, let the splintered wood stab into his fingers. he just wanted to take you away and set you free.

at first he maintained a cautionary distance. he feared that if he got any closer, he would actually do it. but then he saw the little plaque under the cross, in sterling silver, shining when the light hit it. he approached to read what it said.

"the lord is faithful. he will establish you and guard you against the evil one." it said.

beomgyu scoffed, a bitter smile curling his lips. like some metal plaque could protect her, he thought. he's the only dangerous thing in her life. that superstitious fool.

he found it bitterly amusing, to the point of feeding his ego. some cultures hang garlic on the doors to keep away the vampires and the witches. your daddy had hanged a nacre cross to keep choi beomgyu away from you.

he let his hand reach for the crucifix. he traced his fingers over it, middle and index. all the doors had a crucifix of their own, but yours was the only one that wasn't a choppy piece of wood, crude and utilitarian. his thoughts wandered as his fingers brushed over the cool, smooth surface. he must be aware of how pretty she is, beomgyu thought.

as he did, a noise startled him. he jolted away from the door, retreating as far as he could. only when he saw it was just soobin coming out of his room did he catch his breath.

“you were taking too long,” soobin said, his expression gloomy. “i didn’t like it.”

“you care for me that much?” beomgyu asked, a bitter grin spreading across his face as he walked up to him, hands in his pockets.

"well, i let you into my house, didn't i?" he asked, accusative.

"you did." beomgyu replied. “it's not versailles, but it’s cute. lots of quirky decorations.” he shrugged, poking at the crucifix that hanged on soobin’s door, tilting it slightly. "it's like a theme park."

"eveything’s a joke to you." soobin replied. he seemed distrusting, his chest filled with something he probably shouldn't say. but he did, anyway. “you need to forget about her."

“what are you talking about?” beomgyu raised his tone, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes, quickly masked by anger.

“i know you. you’re going to let your impulsiveness ruin everything for all of us. it won’t end well.” soobin said. “she's not like one of those girls you used to pick up at private schools. if you want to manipulate your way into someone's pants, choose someone else.”

beomgyu’s anger flared. how dared he imply those were his intentions? how dared he assume he had any other purpose than caring for his angel and godsend grace?

he took a violent step towards soobin, who flinched slightly but held his ground. “you think i’m dorian gray or some shit?” beomgyu retorted. “you're just pressed because i'm not a pussy like you, restraining yourself to please that maniac. but whatever happens, it won’t be because i forced myself on anyone."

“she doesn’t know what she wants." soobin said. "she’s confused and love deprived.”

“and you’re a patronising asshole,” beomgyu snapped back. "who are you to say anything?"

“you’re playing with fire. if you wanna be a psychotic masochist, fine. but don’t drag others into your mess. get yourself hurt if you want, but leave us out of it.”

“us?" beomgyu asked with a wicked grin. "she's an adult. she can make her own choices. and if your stepdad wants to mess with her because of it, it´ll be over my fucking dead body."

“is this how you repay me for letting you stay in my house?” soobin asked, a mix of hurt and frustration in his eyes.

“thing is," beomgyu began with a cynical laugh. "this isn’t about you. you shouldn’t be this bothered,” he said. “and if you are, maybe you should check yourself and see if you’re acting like your stepfather.”

soobin’s knuckles turned white, but he took a deep breath and held it in. “just. don’t do it." he said through gritted teeth. "it’s not worth it.”

but beomgyu grinned wickedly. he had one last bombshell, one last thing to get soobin fuming. “i’ll let you know if it's worth it or not when i have your sister go dumb on my cock.” he said, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction.

he shouldn't have said it.

instead of getting angry, as he had intended to accomplish, soobin smirked, too. it was unsettling. beomgyu got a ghostly feeling about it.  "what is it?" he spat out.

soobin inclined his head slightly towards the room with the mother-of-pearl cross—the room of his little bird. beomgyu turned just in time to catch a sliver of a prying eye, peeking through a barely open door. your eye widened when it met beomgyu’s gaze, then you vanished, the door slamming shut.

shit. beomgyu's heart raced, his breath hitching.

soobin smiled, a hint of triumph in his eyes. "consider her warned."

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

late at night, thoughts of you consumed beomgyu’s mind. he knew he had fucked up. he knew that now you probably thought he was a creep and never wanted to see him again. his mind raced, replaying the words he wished he could take back.

he could’ve played his cards right. go slow, ease you into it. but he wasn't that sure now. the uncertainty gnawed at him, twisting his insides with each passing thought.

soobin's room felt even stuffier than the night before, the air heavy and oppressive. the walls seemed to close in on him, making it hard to breathe. the need to see you pressed down on his chest, but lingering doubt kept him glued to the mattress.

a lone fly buzzed around, its annoying droning echoing through the room and fraying his nerves. each pass it made seemed to grow louder, amplifying his sense of confinement, maddening him.

his mind wouldn't shut up about you. you had struck him as someone who knew how to watch your back. he recalled how cautious you had been around him the previous night, like a dog used to being beaten flinches at the sight of a stick. but your eyes had never left his. not for a second. they seemed innocent, but not naive.

he liked that, he thought. that you were like him, smartened up by your environment. but he liked the innocence too, so much. an untouched you, drowning in chasteness and self-restrain.

uncaressed belly, uncaressed thighs, uncaressed sweet pussy. he could make you feel so good. that was all he could offer, all he could give you. he had nothing else.

he knew he should let the thought go. that he should start wrapping his mind around forgetting about you. but it was late, and he was tired, and the only picture that lingered in his mind was a pearl choker and a rosary over a tender neck.

with soobin's steady breathing beside him, perhaps even asleep, beomgyu lay staring at the ceiling. images of you fluttered behind his closed eyelids, all imaginations of his lovesick mind. illicit, probably, but fated.

he thought of your pretty lips whispering praises meant for him, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, the curve of his neck. he wanted to know the taste of your mouth, the softness of your touch.

had you even been kissed yet? with a father as twisted as yours, it seemed unlikely. beomgyu wanted you to never have been kissed. he wanted to teach you how to do it himself. eat your mouth out, nibble at your lips and press them gently. but not hurt you. that was new. 

he would start slow, so that you’d want more of him. then he'd deepen the kiss, his grip on you tight, giving into whatever you asked for, never letting you go hungry. the tingling started, the blood pumping.

pause. he thought as soon as he became aware that he was getting hard. his rational mind tried to assert control, to rein in his desires. you loser, just by thinking of kissing. be cold-minded. a voice told him. actions have consequences. 

the voice sounded a little like him, but it was surely an imposter. if it wasn't impulsive and hot-blooded, then it wasn't choi beomgyu. 

"i just want to apologise." he lied to himself as he sat up all of the sudden.

he slipped out of bed, his bare feet padding softly against the cool floor. he moved slowly, mindful of the creaking floorboards that threatened to betray his movements.

but a subtle rustle, not caused by him, echoed in the quiet room. the soft shuffle of fabric against skin. soobin was awake, and he had wanted to let him know. but beomgyu couldn't begin to care.

as he closed the door behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible, a sudden thud reverberated through the silence. "shit!" he cursed under his breath. another door in that corridor slammed shut with a resounding roar.

someone left a window open. air currents cause noise, beomgyu mused as he made his way down the dimly lit corridor, his steps quickening with purpose. tomorrow night, he thought, he would make sure all windows were closed before going to bed.

as he travelled the shadowy corridor, he got a chill. he kept hearing the ruffling of fabric, a doorknob twisting, steps against the wooden floor. a shiver went down his spine, but he told himself to forget about. it was all in his head.

he refused to let the silent threat your daddy stop him from seeing you. that liar, that imposter, that self-proclaimed god keeping everyone hostage in his castle of authoritarianism and indoctrination.

when he got to your door, the mother-of-pearl crucifix halted him like a policeman. it seemed more commanding now than it had earlier. it was stupid, he thought, how the night enhanced every feeling. 

the cross regarded him and he regarded the cross. “i just want to apologise,” he told jesus christ. “i said something stupid earlier today, and i wanna make better.” he tried to convince him.

it was just a symbolic plea. a desperate attempt to absolve himself of guilt, to make him feel less lustful, less like a pig. to find redemption in the eyes of a higher power. 

he thought about what soobin had said, about god, about your father, about right and wrong. maybe he wasn't as smart as he thought. maybe he was loosing the game and they were all making him go insane for good.

he debated whether to just turn back after the thought came to him that you didn't even want him there, anyway. how could you want him at all, after just one meeting where all he received was rejection?

sure, he got a quick kiss in the end, but it didn't outweigh the pulling away, the uncertainty, the avoidance. what was he worth, really? nothing. not even worth enduring a scolding from your dad, let alone the weight of guilt. he was making a fool of himself. better leave now before anyone got hurt for nothing.

but as he turned to walk away, his heart heavy and ready to toss aside, he heard a noise from inside the room.

a whimper. it was so faint he was sure his febrile mind had made it up. that he was so schizophrenically in lust he had made you escape that sound in his brain. a whimper. a sweet soft whimper. 

he tried to make sense of it by convincing himself that he heard you crying. he even allowed his sense of self-importance to fuel thoughts of bursting into the room and offering you his shoulder to cry on. to cuddle you, to comfort you.

but when he heard it the second time, his breath caught. this time it was a moan, unless his yearning mind was deceiving him. he pressed his ear to the door. he clearly heard a trail of soft muffled moans. restrained, but just so lewd to his feverish self. his face burned, his cock twitched.

index and middle finger reached slowly for the doorknob. they brushed over it, hesitating. maybe it was locked. and maybe that was for the better. the hand wrapped around it, twisted it slightly. it was open.

holding his breath almost to asphyxiation and in the most silent motion he had ever performed, he peaked in. 

god existed, he found out. his mouth went dry. like a bird in the clouds, surrounded by snowy plush blankets, he saw his little dove making herself feel so good against her pillow.

facing away from him, your legs draped on each side of it. your hips swayed, heavy and slow, as you tried to suppress the soft whimpers your throat escaped.

beomgyu pressed his lips together, teeth sinking into his lower lip until almost drawing blood. the messy nightdress, one delicate strap slipping off your shoulder. how the the silken fabric fell over your ass, not letting him see but inviting him to find out.

he wanted to see your doll face twisting in pleasure so desperately. to have you take in his cock and use him to fuck yourself so sweetly like that. only one door was stopping him. the door with the pink mother-of-pearl crucifix.

as though hypnotised, he quietly entered the room.

but when the door closed behind him with a click, you whirled around, eyes wide and breath catching in your throat. he froze in panic, too, as he saw how frightened you seemed. what the fuck were you expecting, you disgusting perv? came in the voice in his head.

your instinct was to retreat like a scared spider, flitting towards the head of your bed. fluffy white pillows framed your trembling body, with only a glimpse of your leg peeking out. your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, almost to an unhealthy degree, as you tried to cover yourself.

beomgyu took a cautious step forward, his obsession with you feeling safe in his presence outweighing how turned on he was. "please," he whispered, desperation in his voice. "don't be embarrassed." he said. or be. you're so adorable, all flustered like this.

"i… i'm sorry," you stuttered, your words hesitant.

beomgyu raised his eyebrow, an endeared chuckle escaping his lips. "you're sorry?"

"i shouldn't have… i…" you struggled, avoiding his gaze and pressing your hands to your head in frustration. anxiously, you began to hit your head with the heels of your hands. "i'm so pathetic."

without hesitation, beomgyu rushed closer, wrapping his hands around your wrists in the world’s softest handcuffs. "not at all," he murmured softly, his voice soothing as he attempted to coax your frightened gaze to meet his own.

quietly, almost reverently, he knelt at the edge of the bed, perching himself over the mattress like a praying supplicant.

he was so fucking hard, his blood boiling inside his pulsating veins. scorchingly, painfully. his hands trembled a bit on your wrists as he struggled to contain himself, like the scorpion resisting the urge to sting the frog and drown them both.

“i loved seeing you like that.” he managed out, eyes fixated on yours. “i’m the pathetic one, i sneaked in here like some creep. i... i'm so sorry about what i said earlier today. i was mad at soobin, trying to get under his skin. but i'm kinder than that. i can be, for you. you shouldn’t be scared of me. please.” 

"i’m not." you said.

"good," he said. "i want you to trust me."

"i think... i think i do."

beomgyu took one of your hands, already entwined with his, and raised it to his lips, planting a delicate kiss on the back. you didn't pull away, though a slight flinch ran through you. his voice, soft and concerned, cut through the quiet, "is this alright?"

you met his gaze, his eyes looking up at you dilated and pleading like a puppy's. you nodded silently, allowing him to continue.

he pressed his lips against your skin a few more times, the wet sounds his mouth made filling the room. with a heavy breath, you took in every detail of his gentle kisses—the way his plump lips pressed and nibbled at your skin, how slow, almost ritualistically.

"what were you thinking about?" he asked, his voice a muffled purr against your skin.

"w-what?" you stammered, trying to buy time as your mind raced to come up with a lie less embarrassing than the truth.

"you were so pretty like that just now, all spread out like a good girl...” he murmured softly, "tell me what got you like that."

you stalled. with an achingly slow movement, you mirrored his action. you brought his hand to your mouth, and brushed your lips over it. barely touched, almost imperceptibly.

a shiver down his spine. a sting to his heart. he watched you in awed stillness, his watering mouth half-open. then you whispered, "you."

"fuck, i– i want to do so many things to you. if you'll let me." he said. a blush crept across your cheeks as you instinctively tried to shy away, but his fingers beneath your chin guided you back to meet his gaze. "what did i do to get you like that? was it because of what you heard me say?" he asked.

"because of everything." you replied.

he moved up from the floor with deliberate slowness, each motion purposeful as if he were approaching a skittish forest creature, determined not to scare it away. cautious, he inched closer, finally settling beside you on the bed. "tell me." he said. "i wanna hear."

"you're smarter than daddy," you began to say, your voice mumbled, as you gazed at him, his features so close you could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. "daddy thinks he's god's chosen one, but you keep outplaying him. so what does that make you?"

"a hellhound," he replied with a cynical smile, drawing even nearer.

"no," you said softly, shaking your head in disagreement. "you're good. and you're sweet to me." with tender care, you brushed his bangs, your fingertips delicately tracing the contours of his face like a child exploring a new toy. you lingered over his brows, his long lashes, the graceful curve of his cupid's bow, and the strong line of his jaw. "and you're… really pretty."

an impulse like a mighty wave of devotion pushed beomgyu to cup your face, his thumb tracing delicate lines over your skin as he asked, voice barely more than a whisper, "have you ever been kissed?"

"yes." you nodded. though there was a flicker of fear in your eye, like he would've been disappointed at that lack of purity. but if he did, he said nothing.

"show me how you do it." he urged, his words a gentle plea as he drew closer, his breath mingling with yours.

you leaned in painfully still, the weight of his gaze bearing down on you. but just before your lips met, you paused. hesitated. this changed everything. but beomgyu met your gaze unwaveringly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of regret or doubt. then, with a soft smile, he encouraged you forward.

you brushed your lips against his, ever so slightly. it was a trembling little touch. chaste. when you pulled away, beomgyu's eyes remained fixed on you, half closed and drunk in longing.

he gently pivoted the hand that had cupped your face, trailing its back along the curve of your cheekbone to finally rest it at the nape of your neck. "so pretty," he whispered. "why are you so scared?"

"i don't want to disappoint you," you mumbled softly.

beomgyu's response was immediate, a fervent shake of his head. "never," he insisted, his voice a husky plea, "you're doing so well. please, kiss me again."

with trembling fingers, you reached up to his neck, your heartbeat a wild rhythm in your chest. you nestled his upper lip within yours. a little more intensely this time, but still experimental, like you were gingerly trying to color within the lines.

beomgyu was gone. you were so soft and plush and just so scared to do anything wrong. he lingered, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. "they're mine now," he said in a low growl.

he took over, giving you a deep wet kiss. unrestrained, heavy like a lion’s roar. as you moved your lips together, beomgyu demanded more and more, leaving you breathless. one of his hands rested on your thigh, tentatively stroking, fondling over the skin, as if to soothe you, to tell you everything was alright.

he tilted his head, seeking depth in your mouth. one of your hands traced up the length of his chest and reached his neck, which you squeezed tightly as you felt his mouth opening yours to let his tongue in. you tensed. he noticed. “do you like that?” he asked, breath heavy.

“i... yes."

and so he did it again. another painfully lusty kiss that left your lips soaked and swollen. you escaped a moan that he loved so desperately, making him bite on your lower lip, drawing another embarrassingly whiny whimper out of you. after a softer peck, he outlined the bitten skin with his tongue.

he devoured your lips again, eating out your mouth. he slipped his tongue back into your mouth to circle yours, playing with it; then he pulled back, as if urging you to follow him. he wanted you to try yourself.

his hand on your thigh moved to embrace your waist, fingers poking into your skin. you felt firm, secure. in the middle of the unbridled kiss, your tongue ended up in his mouth. so soft. my good little girl. he let out a grunt of satisfaction. happy with his reaction, your instinct got you to hold on to him tighter, trying to find a closeness that was impossible in that position.

he got frustrated at it, too, his groans turning into hummed pleading moans against your lips. for a painful second, he pulled away to say, "let me watch you fuck yourself, just like you were when i came in. please." he said. "would you be comfortable with that?" he asked. 

you nodded slightly, though you weren't even sure you were telling the truth. they were irreconcilable, avoiding embarrassment and giving in to the aching sensation in your pussy the moment he spoke those words.

he stretched his arm out toward the pillow, gently offering it to you, observing as you knelt on the bed and retook the position he had found you in. he helped you through it, caring for you with caresses and soft kisses, but he went back to seat at the edge of the mattress, gnawing lightly on his lip with anticipation. you didn't want that, you realised. you wanted him close.

you reached out your hand for him to grasp, "what is it, baby?" he asked, tending to you with gravity.

you guided him towards you, maneuvering him to recline half-seated against the bedhead. he caught on to your intentions and leaned in to give you a gentle peck before allowing his hands to settle on your hips, helping you in adjusting the pillow beneath you.

now on all fours, with him facing you, he noticed you wanted to say something, the words lingering on your lips. "is everything alright?" he asked, his hand tenderly caressing your arm.

you stammered a bit before shyly asking, “can you keep on kissing me?”

he smiled fondly. he would never in a million years be able say no to you. “of course, my angel.”

he drew nearer, his proximity warming you up. having him there like that, you didn't need to support yourself on your arms- instead, you found yourself instinctively clinging to his neck. with a mellow kiss and his hands firmly securing their hold on your hips, he led the start of the back and forward motion.

the first reactions the rubbing of your clit against the fabric drew out were subdued, mere soft moans and gentle breaths mingling with his the plush of beomgyu’s lips. but with his grasp pressing you down, those initial movements evolved into more intense and profound ones.

he let one of his hands abandon your hips to entwine his fingers in the strands of your hair. the louder your moans got, the tighter his grip on it. he was so hard, with no escape for it. but he liked the pain, the desperation. "you sound so beautiful, fuck–" he breathed out. "but i'm gonna feel so much better than that."

the promise echoed in your mind, getting you to let out a crying plead, "p-please, beomgyu..." you moaned out, as you fumbled with your hand to find his.

"you want me to help you out?" he asked, almost like it was a privilege.

"mhm," you whimpered with a sheepish, frantic nods.

"cute." he breathed out. his face was flushed and burning hot, his cock ached uncomfortably, but he spartanly focused on his little angel’s pleasure above anything else.

he wrapped his arms around your waist and took you to his lap, where he held you tight. "are you comfortable like this?" he asked, placing a a soft peck to your forehead.

"yes." you answered, embarrassingly. you were wet to the point of dampening your inners thighs, and you were mortified to have him see, to even stain him. but he'd notice soon enough.

he grunted as he kept on kissing down your face. your temples, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth, your ridiculously tasty lips. he held on to your waist for dear life with one of his arms, but allowed the other to travel down, slowly and deviantly towards your virgin pussy.

"you're soaked, my baby." he breathed out. you would've felt self-conscious at the exposure, but you saw in his eyes how bad he liked it. how starved and aroused he seemed when he began to caress your wet cunt with his slender fingers.

his cold touch startled you at first, making you hold on to his neck tighter. you were too sore, too sensitive. "don't be scared. i'm gonna take such good care of you," he said. "i promise."

tentatively, he stroked over the surrounding area of your aching centre, index and middle finger touching softly over your wetness. he performed circling motions in your clit, taking his time. getting to hear you. “b-beomgyu, you—god—you feel really good…”

he learned that when you liked something he did, you'd shower him in desperate soft pecks, like a puppy licks your hand after you pat its head. he wanted to see you react further, he wanted to try it all. he spread your pussy with both fingers and pressed forcefully against your throbbing clit with a third one. startled, you clutched his hair so firmly you feared you might have hurt him.

as by instinct, your thighs twitched from the overstimulation and seemed to want to close around his hand, but he didn't let them. he shushed into your lips with a soft "shhh," soothing as the seashore before leaning in for a honeyed kiss. he traced patterns against your cheek with his nose after pulling away. "its alright. you're doing so fucking well."

he let you catch your breath, but not for too long. he quickened his pace, your moans getting too loud, wept out and filthy enough to horrify all the saints in the house of god. it became a duel of you trying to suppress yourself and keep it quiet, and beomgyu trying to get everyone in the house to know how good he was for you.

to restrain the growing sound of your moaning, you buried your face into beomgyu’s neck, trying to muffle your voice against his body. but he huffed into your ear, "don't hold back. only you and me matter, no one else."

"i think i–" you whimpered into his ear, choking on your own puffs. the pleasure crept up on you, becoming too strong to bear and making your whole body shudder against his. "beomgyu, please..." you cried out.

he saw how close you were, and quickly thought if he should or should not stop it. tease you, edge you, have you go on all night. he could do so many things, he ached so much to do them all. but as he saw your pretty face so desperate to cum, how needy and palpitating, you were, he decided he had all the time in the world.

his movements quickened, each motion filled with urgency and strength. his veiny, strained forearm bore the weight of the world as he got you to your peak.

you came with a stifled cry but you muted your voice against his neck again. he wished he could've heard it in its full, piercing clarity, but he understood. you were so sheepish, his perfect little girl.

he didn't pull his hand away immediately, instead letting you feel his warmth for a little longer as you trembled against his chest. "my baby, you did so well," he whispered into your ear, his voice a soothing balm as he gently cradled your body.

now that the tension had drained from your limbs, you found yourself collapsing against him, your body limpy and worn out. it was then that you noticed the bulge in his pants. "beomgyu…" you murmured, your voice heavy. "teach me how to help you out."

"forget about me," he replied with a gentle smile. "i just wanted to get you to trust me tonight. to show you how good i can make you feel." 

you gazed at him, cherishing his handsome features. his cheeks were flushed, too, and his eyes so gentle. you couldn't help but cup his face in your hands, drawn to him. but as you leaned in to kiss him, he stopped you faintly, saying, "wait. don't kiss me. i want you to have something to look forward to, so you'll be excited to see me again tomorrow."

"you'll come back tomorrow?" you asked, your eyes lighting up with hope.

“i couldn’t stay away even if i wanted to,” he replied. but as he said it, he noticed a flicker of guilt crossing your face. gently, he brushed a strand of hair away from your reddened cheek. "how are you feeling?" he asked softly.

your gaze darkened slightly. "like i shouldn't have done it," you admitted. "like daddy saw everything."

"i'm… sorry," beomgyu said, his voice full of consternation.

"no, it's not your fault. those thoughts aren't real. i can make the guilt go away, in time," you reassured him. "but i like it when you hold me. that's real. i… like you. a lot, i think."

beomgyu didn't even know what to say. he struggled to understand how this could be wrong to any human religion or faith since the dawn of time, because to him this felt like heaven. he held you in his arms, all flushed and a little tired, your lips swollen like ripe cherries from the kisses he had given you. this was fucking nirvana for all he cared.

he deeply regretted his no-kissing rule, and he sought to end it immediately. he leaned in, but you stopped him.

"no," you chuckled, "don't kiss me. i want you to have something to look forward to so that you're excited to come back tomorrow."

he smiled back at you, like an absolute fool. maybe he was in love, even if it only had been a day, whatever. but how could he not be when he had the cutest being in existence all to himself? "give me a gift before i go, then," he said. "something i can carry with me.

"what do you want?" you asked.

"this," he said, pointing at your rosary beads. with a gesture that felt almost ceremonial, you took off the pendant and placed it around his neck. as you did, he couldn’t help but stare at your lips. "can’t i kiss you just a little?" he pouted.

you shook your head with a soft giggle. "your rules," you reminded him. "be stronger."

“fine. have it your way.”

he smiled, but it quickly vanished as you remembered him; “you should go. or soobin will know.”

he nodded, eyes filled with disappointment. the moment you lifted yourself off his lap, detached yourself off of him, an intense wave of pain surged through both of you. like a limb had been atrociously ripped off your body.

but just as he was about to leave, you grabbed his wrist, halting him. “beomgyu, wait,” you called out, rising to your knees to meet his gaze.

you pressed a gentle, lingering kiss on his cheek, just as you had done the night before. the softness of your touch sent a shiver down his spine. as you pulled back, beomgyu instinctively leaned forward, craving more. but you placed your index finger against his lips, stopping him. “you’re so weak,” you teased with a playful glint in your eyes.

he smiled ruefully. “i am,” he admitted with a sigh, the weight of reality settling back in. he really had to leave. “good night,” he murmured.

stepping out into the dark, the world felt colder, and his eyes struggled to adjust to the dimness. he lingered for a moment, leaning his back against the door, not wanting to leave just yet, but his head bumped against something.

of course.

he turned around to regard the crucifix, holding the one you had given him in his hands. same color, same material. a bittersweet smile played on his lips. “she was so good,” he told jesus christ. “and i think i made her happier, just a little. i feel a little happier too. i told you, it was much purer than you think.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ next part

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ so. i really struggled through this one. lemme know what you think.

[asurastro]

♫

____

SUNDAY

Kaiju across the tropical Megafauna Island were riled up into a frenzy.

"SHAA!"

Racing over the seas, Rex arrived and entered his asura mode on the shores. Dragged down by snapping shellfish, cannonballed by the landlocked walkers, and divebombed by lords of the sky. Until finally, Rex found and destroyed the mysterious device causing the uproar-- perhaps planted by some mad scientist or a UFO tractor beam earlier. Something to watch out for.

____

MONDAY

*PTANG!*

It was a corner store robbery. A fleece hoodie-clad Rex was fresh from work and trying to stock up on a few odds and ends back at his apartment. A bullet from the gun of a would-be robber ricocheted off of the cosmic contender-- or it would have, had he not caught it in mid-air.

"... Go. Never speak of this again."

The two scrambled out the backdoor with a few stolen things. Disappearing as heavy rain and fog covered their exit. Rex was gone not long after that himself. Not a single badge in sight, until hours after the fact.

____

TUESDAY

The peerless Sordakran battlefleet was approaching a new star system. Volunteer galactic peacekeepers of varying origin and the more uniform psionics that patrolled the greater cosmos were on their way to halt the expansion. Until then, one would have to hold the line.

*KA-THRAAAAM!!*

One moment, Rex was being targeted by long-range sensors. The next, he shot off in a burst of hyper-speed. Smashing into deflector force-fields meant to stave off warheads with megaton yields, and shearing his way through the innermost workings of the cruiser, with the intent to do the same to others. At least, if not for starfighter squadrons and enemy superbeings that could also stand the hard vacuum...

____

WEDNESDAY

Back to Earth. Rex had been clearing out wreckage on a series of islands, following a devastating typhoon. Retrieving survivors, and carrying freight containers full of relief supplies out from boats midway to their destination, speeding up the pace at which they were received and distributed.

He was late in returning home, having remained a while longer to route off any stray kaiju, as well as military forces trying to set-up shop on the pretense of lending manpower to rebuilding efforts.

____

THURSDAY

An unopened beer was lobbed at Rex's head while he was taking a walk. Incoherent howling and laughter followed, sputtering out half-insults and other microaggressions. Such as incorrectly naming his planet of heritage, guessing at 'secret' non-human appendages and the disgust they might cause friends and lovers. Stepping to these irritants earned a jest about death rays, unflattering probes, and telepathic scramblers.

They'd be forgotten in time. But just to help the process of healing, Rex dismantled their motor vehicles before leaving the area. Leaving them to figure out how to return home afterwards.

The remainder of the day was spent at one of the research institutes he helped out at on occasion. Dealing with robots and labsplices gone awry, shoving unspeakable abominations back through stargates.

____

FRIDAY

Rex had a match at the Herculean-Class wrestling ring tonight, before he could relax. He did a couple rounds that were heavier on dramatic feuds, jobbing and coordinating. Then he was up for full-contact stuff, actual competitive combat in the four-corner ring.

He was later seen with a black eye and getting a broken leg set back into place, which left him biting his lip and shedding a couple teardrops, before shuffling home. Having had his fill of explosive strikes, solid projectiles and energy projection, as well as folding chairs and aluminum baseball bats covered in barbed wire.

____

♫

____

SATURDAY

The cosmic contender was laying in bed. Unable to sleep for quite some time, but remaining prone for just as long in the hopes he could get some rest at last. Eyes open, just staring at the other side of his bedroom.

Eventually, his pet kaiju Tugboat returned home. Shrinking down to the size of a common pig, and inching over to his master's side. Sniffing to determine if Rex was really there. All Rex had it in himself to do was move an arm to pat that miserable cryptid's head, gingerly before rising slowly-- a fist held up to the sky as he groaned. Imagining himself when he assumed his asura mode.

But he did not transform. All he managed to do was stand on his own two near-human feet. Stumbling, at that. Using that unsteady motion to propel himself forward without retreat. They could get breakfast during their walk.

Wouldn't that be nice?

[fantasy-relax]

Brainrot about Cassandra Part 2.

Be a gentleman with Cassandra and court her. Show support and help her to sleep more.

Tell alcina that she is an humongous bitch with the maternal abilities of a coconut.

Burn alcina secret artsy room. (Blame someone else if possible if not laugh at her face and square up)

You didn't know about all the drama behind the play.

Well, not Cassandra version of it, you hear about some girls abandoning the show and trying to take the spotlight away from the diva but rumors got twisted and you don't cared enough to find the truth, Cassandra reputation don't help her at all, the playgirl, the drama queen, the sister that left Daniela behind.

But now with this new information, the guilt in your chest grow bigger. She was doing her best to make her dreams come true, she was hard working, she is a perfectionist, she was creative, she was passionate, she had her sense of self so tied to fame and glory that even the tiniest insinuation of failure would throw her through a spiral of despair.

You really wanted to burn alcina art room. You still remember the first time you did it after Daniela told you about her relation to the art professor.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

You just laughed at her face.

'You burn down your daughter love and respect it seems fitting the same to happen to this precious room of yours"

You squared up.

'You are just a humongous bitch with the maternal abilities of a coconut'

Punch and duck

"Pathetic woman"

Punch, back up, duck.

"what are you without you so beloved art?"

Ouch, it seems like this loop will end soon.

"Because you are no mother"

You spit blood at her face.

"But you already know that, don't you Alcina?"

Another thing was, the absolute horny bastards that never seemed to leave her alone. She buys a lot of flowers as a apology, and she nows about the significance of every one.

Did she even have been courted properly? All you heared was about her flings and the broken hearts that she leaves at her trail.

But if you asked what the so pitiful victims loved about her..

"you really need to open your eyes, She is hot as hell! "

"Ritchy and bitchy, baby"

"Her tongue is not only good for monologuing"

And so on.

You make a decision, you would make this loop the best for Cassandra. You would talk with her any moment of the day, bring her favorite coffee and snacks, help her with the planning and everything else.

After talking with Daniela and Angie, you bring her to your movie nights.

"just don't flirt with Angie, okay? It makes her uncomfortable"

It was fun and you could feel Dani vibrating in her place full of happiness.

One day there was rain so she have to stay the night with you three.

"You can sleep in my room! It will be like sleepover!"

Cassandra looked conflicted.

"it's okay Dani I can sleep in the couch"

"but"

"you kick when you sleep"

"it's not True!"

"Sorry bestie but you do it also you snore like a motor boat"

"Angie!"

They were bickering, you got close to Cassandra.

"sleep in my room, I will take the couch"

"I told you I will be fine".

"Either you go to sleep or I throw you in the bed"

She got very quiet at that. She was blushing?

".. Okay"

Later in the night, you wake up to the sound of movement in the kitchen. It seems Cassandra wanted a midnight snack.

"have the munchies?"

"UHm, don't scare me like that!, and no. I can't sleep so I making coffee"

"you can't sleep"

"Yes"

"So you're making coffee"

"exactly"

You look at her for a moment, then move to turn off the stove.

"hey! What do you th-Eh?!"

You pick her like a sack of potatoes, lucky the door of your room was open you throw her in the bed.

"Sleep you caffeine maniac"

"..."

Maybe she wanted cuddles? Your tired brain helpfully supply you.

"do you want me to sleep with you?"

"ah" she look it disappointed "of course that was you wanted"

You were far to tired to analyze that. You got in the bed put your hand in her waist and hug her like a teddy bear close to your chest.

"oh" there was something in her voice that you couldn't identify before falling asleep.

The screaming woke you up, startled you look at Cassandra, you put her above you palming her back softly trying to wake her gently.

She was distressed when she did it. It took her moment to understand what happened.

"I'm sorry, I- I can't control it"

Her face was full of shame. So this was the reason. You sigh and kissed her head, your arms still around her.

"A little of sleep it's better than nothing"

You close your eyes.

"Try to sleep again, I will be right here with you, little star"

Closing your eyes you don't see the tears on hers. You feel her move on top of you before making herself comfortable. You feel the sleep win again, you barely hear her voice say something but you couldn't understand anymore.

"You make my dreams come true, My Romeo"

[iminahole247]

you must be imagining it

Part 4 <- Part 5 -> Part 6

a quick question

The boat swayed gently, anchored just off the coast of a crumbling warehouse district. The once-thriving buildings, now half-submerged and barely standing, had been a valuable stop for Zeta. He had scouted for supplies earlier in the day and had found a small treasure tucked away in the upper rooms of one of the warehouses—a dusty crate full of old cassette tapes and a portable player to match.

His heart skipped when he saw the familiar names scrawled across some of the tapes—French and Italian artists, sure, but then a bundle of brightly colored words on a crate that was tucked away caught his attention. He pulled them out, blinking in surprise when he saw the words “80s classics & back” written across the sides. A familiar, nostalgic warmth spread through him as he sorted through the songs. He hadn’t heard these melodies in so long. There was something comforting about the tapes, something that seemed to connect him to a life before the flood, before everything changed. He randomly pocketed a few songs and made his way back to the boat.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Zeta prepared a simple meal—some rice with canned fish and whatever else he could find on the boat. The familiar, repetitive sounds of the motor and the water lapping against the hull were soothing, but tonight, he had something else. He set up the cassette player and slipped in one of the tapes, there was a crackling sound as the tape started before the soft hum of music filled the space.

He hadn’t intended to sing along, but as the song Dream a Little Dream of Me started, he couldn’t help it. The nostalgic lyrics suffused a sense of calm through him, soft and bittersweet as the melody. The words were like an echo of his memories from those bleak days on the raft—when he believed he would never make it. The time when his voice had been no more than a weak hum just to stay sane.

As he hummed along, his hands preparing his meal slowed. Zeta started humming, soft and unsteady at first, but gradually with private confidence sang. The song was a comfort, the tune held close to his heart. It felt as though the music itself was carrying him through the moment, connecting him to something beyond survival. Beyond the constant struggle of the world around him.

Sentinel listened from his position perched on the edge of the boat, outside Zeta’s line of sight, regarding him with quiet intensity. His dark eyes studied the human and his movements slow, deliberate. Singing unabashedly to the sounds coming from the black box; Unaware of his amused one-met audience. The vulnerability in his voice was unfamiliar to the mer, and though he didn’t admit, he couldn’t help but feel a strange pull toward it.

Sentinel listened from his perch on the edge of the boat, outside Zeta’s line of sight, regarding him with quiet intensity. His dark eyes studied the human, and his movements were slow and deliberate. He sang unabashedly to the sounds coming from the small black box, Unaware of his amused one-met audience. The vulnerability in his voice was unfamiliar to the mer, and though he didn’t admit it, he couldn’t help but feel a strange pull toward it.

Zeta’s voice trembled on the song's edges, and without thinking, Sentinel began to hum along quietly. His deep voice mingled with Zeta’s, an eerie, haunting duet that resonated through the boat, the water, and the air around them.

Zeta froze mid-verse, his heart stuttering. He hadn’t realized the mer had been so close, but a shiver ran down his spine when he heard the low, growling hum of Sentinel’s voice blending with his own. Sentinel’s vocals harmonized with the flow of melody til the song came to a close with Sentinel’s last notes hanging in the air. His mouth went dry as he turned, meeting the merfolk’s dark gaze. “You… were singing?” Zeta asked, surprised. It was the first time he had heard him make a noise close to singing. Sentinel’s voice was deep, full of a power Zeta hadn’t expected from the shark-like creature.

Sentinel didn’t respond immediately; instead, he acknowledged Zeta’s words with a flick of his tail. He took the compliment without comment facing away, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. It wasn’t quite pride, but it was something. Maybe it was just curiosity or a strange desire to know more about the human who was different from the rest.

Zeta smiled, his voice softening. “You’ve got a good voice.” He hadn’t expected it—hadn’t thought he’d compliment a creature like Sentinel—but the words slipped out, and it felt good to say them.

Sentinel didn’t say anything in return. Instead, he slid off the boat's edge and dived into the water, the unfathomable depths swallowing him up, leaving Zeta alone in the quiet of the evening.

Zeta stood still for a moment, listening to the faint ripple of the waves, the distant sound of Sentinel swimming away. He felt an odd mix of hopeful, confused, and uncertain emotions. He didn’t know what they were, what this was between them. But as he set the cassette player aside and cleaned up his meal, his thoughts lingered on the shared duet, if it could be called one. It wasn’t much, but it felt significant, like a crack in the wall between predator and prey, a fleeting moment where the lines blurred.

Zeta lay down on the deck as the night stretched on, gazing up at the stars. His mind raced, turning over what had happened, over the words he hadn’t spoken, over the strange connection that seemed to be forming between him and the shark merfolk.

What are we now? Zeta asked himself. What is this?

But he didn’t have an answer. And so, as the moonlight bathed the boat in its pale glow, he decided it didn’t matter for now. He’d wait for Sentinel to return in the morning. If he could understand anything about mers, they operated independently, with their own rules.

For now, Zeta would sleep and hold on to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, they could be more than their initial roles. Perhaps they could confide in each other, a friend in a hopeless world.

Or, at the very least, maybe that’s what Zeta wanted.

[arcane-vagabond]

We Abide: Chapter One Sneak Peek

The sound of a motor caught your attention, Mars’ ears perking alongside you. Your head snapped towards the water, watching as a small motorboat made its way towards the dock just a little ways ahead of you. You saw two figures on the boat, one steering and the other looking out over the edge towards where you stood.

As the boat drew closer, you began walking once more, albeit faster this time and with Mars hot on your tail.

The boat docked as you trotted up onto the wood of the platform, your steps echoing as you approached.

“Ain’t ever seen you ‘round these parts,” one of the men said as his companion tied the boat to a post. “Wasn’t sure if you was snapper or friend.”

“Friend, I hope,” you offered smoothly, earning a grunt from the same man. The other finished tying his knot, standing straight to look at you. Both men were older, perhaps somewhere in their late forties or early fifties with graying hair and weathered faces. The man who spoke to you had clear, blue eyes that assessed you with curiosity, the man next to him watched you with caution in his dark eyes.

The first man brought a hand up to scratch his bearded chin thoughtfully.

“You the one then?” He asked gruffly, eyes drifting down to watch Mars seated next to you. “The one my buddy up in Cassville radioed me about? What’s it they call you? The Wanderer?”

You held back a scowl at the mention of the moniker you had earned on your travels. No one traveled as far as you did, if they did at all. The only ones that moved outside of the communities these days were those running supplies to and fro.

“I’d rather you didn’t call me that, actually,” you told them, supplying them with your name instead. The man repeated it, mulling it over before nodding slowly.

“Alright then, little miss. I suppose you’ll be wanting a place to stay then, hm?” He asked. His friend stepped past him and onto the dock, grabbing a box that jangled with its contents before walking down the dock and towards a shack that lay past the water’s edge.

“It’d be nice,” you agreed, watching as he grabbed a box of his own to carry towards the shack. “I don’t have much to barter with at the moment, though.”

“Well, we can worry about all that later. How’s about you grab a box or two and help us unload? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can head back to LaRue and get you settled.”

You followed suit, grabbing a box that was much heavier than it looked and catching yourself before you stumbled back into the water. You fell into an easy rhythm between the blue-eyed man—Bill as you would later learn his name was—and Les.

About a half hour later, the boat was fully unloaded, and you sat on the back bench across from Bill as Les prepared the boat for departure. The sun sank lower towards the horizon now, level with the treeline around you. You bounced your leg in a nervous habit that you had never quite been able to shake, only stopping when you caught Bill watching you.

“You nervous?” He asked finally. In the short time you had known the two men, it was clear that Bill was the talker.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Power struggle: will Brazil’s booming datacentre industry leave ordinary people in the dark?

While millions live with regular blackouts and limited energy, plants are being built to satisfy the global demand for digital storage and processing – piling pressure on an already fragile system

Thirty-six hours by boat from Manaus, the capital of Amazonas state, Deodato Alves da Silva longs for enough electricity to keep his tucumã and cupuaçu fruits fresh. These highly nutritious Amazonian superfoods are rich in antioxidants and vitamins, and serve as a main source of income for farmers in Silva’s area. However, the lack of electricity to refrigerate the fruit makes it hard to sell their produce.

Silva’s fruit-growing operation is located in the village of Boa Frente, in Novo Aripuanã municipality, one of Brazil’s most energy-poor regions, where there is only one diesel-powered electricity generator working for a few hours a day.

The 17 families in the community pay for the diesel, but because of the high price, everyone agrees to use the generator only between 6pm and 10pm. This is also the only time they can communicate with the outside world – the region has no mobile phone connection, only satellite internet.

“Power is supplied for just four hours a night. The motor is switched off and only switched back on the following night,” says Silva, 72, a rural health worker and fruit-grower who has lived in the area since he was born.

“I would have a much higher income if we had power to preserve the cupuaçu pulp. Our community is a big producer of tucumã, but the lack of power prevents conservation.”

More than 1.3 million Brazilians still live, like Silva, with little or no electricity. Even though it has one of the world’s cleanest power grids, the country has a vulnerability: its reliance on hydroelectric power, which causes fluctuations in power generation and blackouts in times of severe drought.

Yet Brazil is attracting the attention of big datacentre companies, which consume huge amounts of energy. According to the Brazilian Data Centre Association (ABDC), 46 new datacentres are either under construction or being planned across the country. There are already 60 centres in operation.

Continue reading.

[nerdieforpedro]

Scarlet Stains and their Echoes

Part of “Post Apocalyptic Fluff and Stuff” Collection

Joel Miller and Celeste (plus size OFC)

This fic and my blog is for readers 18+ MDNI

Word Count: about 2k

Warnings: PTSD, mention of death, mention of murder, fire use (a type of weapon), very heavy on the angst, one character has a mental breakdown, very bad jokes

Summary: The memories of how she came to Jackson haunt Celeste. Joel takes her out of the rain and enters her home.

Notes: Not sure why I’m writing so much angst as of late. I came home earlier this week and wrote this. 👀 I really meant for this to be fluff and for a challenge I was working on. My bad. 🫣 Celeste’s memories are in italics and her speech is in pink.

There's a little fluff at the end. 🥹

Main Masterlist/ Joel Miller Masterlist/ Post Apocalyptic Fluff and Stuff Collection

“I don’t see why I would listen to you, that last call was bad, and you know it.”

“It was good. You’re the dumbass who went too far out and drew two here. We killed them but now there’s less ammo and we need to figure out how to get rid of the bodies. All for some…never mind.”

“Say it. I know you want to.”

“You doomed us for tail you bastard. If any of the people with us turn-“

“She part of the group now and will pull her weight. We’ll be fine. You’re paranoid as always.”

“I’ve lived this long by being so. You may want to start.”

Exposed feet make their way slowly along the dirt street if that’s what one would call it. “Shaa…Shaa…lala….shaa…” Rocking side to side, the ground sloshes underneath her feet. She stumbles stepping into a deep puddle but laughs as she sees it. Sees all of them.

“I know deep down you’re happy aren’t you? You get to be fucking right again. You always have to be right dammit…”

“This is the worst thing to be right about. There’s nothing to do but try and get out.”

“We traveled with them. Hunted and ate with them, we can’t just-“

“Put up or shut up. This is your mess we have to try and clean up. Supposing all of us aren’t all infected and just slow to turn. You were man enough to chase that ass, you better buck up find that same backbone when you told me I was paranoid.”

“We’re shit out of luck aren’t we?”

“There’s no motor or paddles on this boat and there’s a gaping hole in it. We’ll figure it out or die. Our only options Ron.”

The street is oddly lit from the moonlight peeking in small breaks of the clouds. Despite the flashes of brightness, the sky is still pouring down. Crying with her as she walks, hands waving in circles, holding a small fuchsia primrose. The memories are usually pushed away, in a place that isn’t touched within her. Any skirmishes occurring on patrol with clickers, raiders or smugglers weren’t enough to have those dangerous ruminations return.

The one raider she’d shot because he’d had a gun trained on Joel’s back – he looked like Ron.

All day, since looting their supplies and reporting back, she been able to distract herself from the nagging thought. It ate at her, inch by inch until after getting ready for bed, it struck. Thankfully she lives in a small house alone, so no one heard the wailing that slowed to sobs. Getting up and pacing, nor finally opening that bottle of whiskey Tommy gave her and drinking half of it made her numb. It needed to be gone, the pain, the evocation of these associations.

“You’ve got to use them.”

“I’m going to blow the place to hell if I do that! You idiot!”

“Celeste, I was bit. It’s only a matter of time. I’m sorry I was a horny asshole. Everyone is-“

“There might be some people left, we can save them and get out of here!”

“Put up or shut up Lace. This can’t spread out of here…”

“You’re leaving me with the shit job again Ron, damn.”

“Kinda my thing? My bad.”

“Well, fine. I think I remember how to do it.”

“It’s lighting and tossing some bottles. They’re Molotov cocktails. Turns out fire’s cleansing too.”

“Cleansing and destructive. I’ve got it Ronald.”

“I know you do Celeste.”

Can they be erased? Washed away by the rain? It’s supposed to be cleansing and healing, right? Like that night, it was pouring outside when she sabotaged the building. Raindrops stained her face as she left with the supplies she’d gathered, making her way to Jackson – their group’s goal.

The only one who did. It rained the first night Celeste had arrived at Jackson too. It had long washed away the blood but never the smell. Charred clothes and skin.

“Damn cocktails and a leaky boat.”

Joel didn’t sleep unless exhausted. Elle was over a friend’s house from the makeshift school they had here in Jackson. At least there were some kids her age. Hopefully she minded her language while over there. He sits at his downstairs window, no lights, just nursing the one drink that he told himself he could have tonight. It had been one to his credit. He was hoping the steady heavy rain would have lulled him to sleep, but he’d already been upstairs awake in bed for a few hours. The ceiling would need some reinforcing by his estimate after looking at the thing so long.

Miller thought his drink was too strong, maybe he can’t handle his liquor anymore. His patrol partner was in the street, barefoot with that same flower he’d given her when she found out he had allergies in a damn apocalypse. She is wearing gray shorts and a t-shirt, nothing crazy for sleepwear. It doesn’t suit being out in a downpour at three in the morning. She appears to be talking to someone, but he doesn’t see anyone outside.

“Can’t be any good.” Leaving his drink, slips on his boots and makes his way outside after grabbing a blanket and an umbrella he was able to find on one scouting outing. Calling her name does nothing and even shaking her shoulder didn’t have any effect. Joel doesn’t like it, but he pulls her by the arm back to her home, he’s never been to it but knows what it looks like. Easy to find because the door is open. He closed it when they both were in and left her at the foyer to check the house. No one had come in thankfully, not that he expected anyone to, but it pays to be safe.

“Celeste, Celeste!” He holds her shoulders and continues to call her name. She is shaking but he’s not sure if it’s from being wet, cold or in whatever trance she was in. Joel knows that he is way out of his depth, but he doesn’t think leaving her alone is a good idea. She might end up outside again or do something else, he shudders at the thought.

Joel takes a step back from Celeste. This isn’t the woman he knows, not from patrol. He’d just recently started talking to her, mostly about the weather of what’s going on in Jackson, but it was something instead of their nearly silent patrols save for different commands given when avoiding danger or neutralizing threats. He appreciates that often she didn’t talk unless it was needed. Even her shock at his horrible puns he’d borrowed from Elle had grown on him. Who was this woman in front of him? So haunted with empty eyes filled with sorrow. The flower he’d given her had lost most of its petals and leaves.

“I broke it. I’m sorry. It was important. It meant something. All of it slips through my fingers.” Joel’s never heard her sound so vulnerable. She drops the flower and finally her eyes look like they have some focus. “Joel? What are you doing in my house? I was trying to…to…I’m soaked.” Her head turns toward the window where droplets cascade against the house’s frame and windows. “Did I go outside? Is that why you’re here?” Nodding, Joel lets her work out the rest and scans her living room for a blanket. There’s a small knitted one so he picks that one up off the couch as she follows him over and sits down. Draping it over her shoulders, it dips along her back and covers the tops of her thighs. “Thank you, Joel.”

“I’m your partner. I’ve got you. Just maybe don’t be out in the rain anymore. Ain’t good for ya.” Joel states, making her chuckle. Even now, he could make her laugh. The glimmers of days past are still lingering near the surface. He plops down next to her, his left knee touching her right one.

“I’m not talking about it. I am going to go change and then we’re splitting the last half of my bottle before you go home. As thanks and in case anyone else saw me, I can tell them I was drunk, and I’ll have the hangover to prove it.” It’s Joel’s turn to laugh now. He understands the drive to burn, bide and bury the nagging demons that tear at your soul. Through meeting Elle and finding his brother again, it dawned on Joel to try and drown those dark impulses with better experiences.

They’ll never go away, never fully be gone.

“Ya took me away from the one glass I was gonna have so I’m owed.” He crossed his arms with a grin as Celeste went upstairs to take off her wet clothes. She put on her black pain of shorts and sleep t-shirt. She’d have to wash the other one later. Returning with the bottle after washing up, she brought her glass down and got a one for Joel. She returned to her seat next to him, but placed a towel down so her other sleep clothes wouldn’t get wet. “Fill ‘er up.” Miller clapped his hand around his glass as she poured his first and then hers. Once full, they clinked glasses and sipped in silence, he was worried that she might float far away again.

“It wasn’t from the drink. I think. Many other things. I’m not going to again, calm yourself Miller.” Joel sucked his teeth as he took another swallow of whiskey. It’s not that he didn’t believe her, he just knew would promise himself that he wouldn’t be so violent except when required. There’s always a small part of him that points in that direction, he avoids it, but all it takes is one time to fall back into old patterns. Today had been different, after defending themselves against the raiders, she’d been solemn, never happened with any other raiders or smugglers he’d taken down with her.

“Know one of them today? I take it they were important.”

“Didn’t know any of them. He just looked like an old friend. I thought I’d put it behind me Joel.”

“Celeste, none of this is behind any of us. It’s just kinda there and we act like it’s not. Just to function. Tonight was a bad night. We’re all entitled to them. Any adult who’s made it this far ain’t clean at all. We’re all just stained, nothing’s getting washed out. Not even with that stuff that guy used to yell on the TV about late at night.” Both partners laugh to relieve the tension in the air.

“I was with you until you mentioned the Oxy-Clean man Joel. You remember that, but nothing about the Spice Girls, BackStreet Boys, Boys II Men or N’Sync?”

“Not any of the songs you hum when you fill the canteens. Not a one” With his glass tipped all the way up, he finishes it and stands, not moving for a minute to keep his balance. Tommy had given her a strong whiskey.

“Here drinking my liquor and lying to me in my own house. Damn shame.” Putting her hands on her hips and standing next to Joel, she started toward the door, and he followed her this time. “Thanks again Joel. Dry off after you get in.”

With an affirmative grunt and the opening of Celeste’s door, Joel stood in the frame, he raised a hand, but chose to place it on the side of the frame before grasping her shoulder. “Take care Celeste.” Instead of returning the gesture, she placed her hand on top of his.

“Of course. Don’t get sick on my account.” They parted and Joel began a slow jog down the street to his house.

A deeper accord had been reached in their partnership.

[no-truth-left]

1.010 - Go with Jethro; ask him about himself

“That sounds great,” Chie says, smiling.

“Anytime.” With a powerful shove, Jethro pushes the boat into the shallows. Keeping a hand on it, he starts towards the docks. The water splashes quietly around his rubber boots.

Chie follows, keeping to the shore. “Do you work on the docks?”

“Yup. Rin and me export our catch and supply the Gilman House.”

“The Gilman House?”

Jethro frowns at her, his smooth stride never breaking. “It's the only…” he pauses, thumbing at his gold nose ring. “I'd say hotel, but that's too fancy. Bed and restaurant?” He shrugs. “It's the only place for tourists in town.”

“O-oh, yeah!” Chie feels her face flushing again. “Ah- have. Have you lived here all your life?” Is she being too awkward? Does Jethro think she's stupid, not knowing where she could stay?

“Mostly,” Jethro answers easily. “I left for a few years for university.”

Whether he is ignoring her lack of knowledge or just hasn't thought about it, Chie is thankful Jethro goes along with her subject change. “What did you study?”

“Business management,” Jethro replies. “I know how to fish well enough, but I was floundering with the finances. Dad…” he trails off, thick throat working around the words. His shoulders tense, and he clears his throat.

Jethro mutters to himself, “I'm not gonna-” before clearing his throat again.

Chie bites the inside of her cheek. “You don't have to share if it's too much.”

Immediately, Jethro relaxes. “I appreciate that.” He takes the out in stride as he approaches the dock.

The smell of fish hits Chie like a truck going eighty. Its thick stench is nauseating. The dock is worn, with barnacles and algae clinging to the posts. Only one other boat is docked; unlike the dinghy, it’s motorized and looks like it was once sleek and shiny. Now, its paint is dull, the metal rims rusty, and a large crack zig-zags down the front window.

A woman at the docks hauls in a net. Her thin hair is tied in a messy bun, and Chie sees similarities between her and Jethro; wide-set eyes, thin mouth, and strange scars on her neck against the gold choker she wore.

A strange thing to wear while fishing.

“Wanna tour?” Jethro asks, expertly tying the dinghy to a free post on the dock. The smell doesn't seem to bother him.

[the-badger-mole]

Uncharted Waters: The Escape

The second time lost at sea was far more draining than the first. The sun had been just as intense, but the cold waters they’d set adrift in kept the temperature relatively comfortable during the day. Now, the sun and warmer waters combined to make their journey nearly untenable. During the worst heat of the day, moisture also rose from the warm waters below adding humidity to the list of discomforts they faced. Sweat began pouring off Katara minutes into her working. She bent the stinging moisture from her brow and tossed it aside into the sea, but it hardly seemed to help. Zuko began drinking less of his water ration, insisting Katara needed it more. She protested vocally that Zuko needed to be in shape as much as she, reminding him that they had agreed back on the island that he shouldn’t sacrifice his health for hers. Then she collapsed from exhaustion on the third day on the water. Zuko had a clear enough head to use seawater to revive her instead of their precious supply. Then, at his urging, Katara had drunk a third of that day’s ration. They were running low, neither of them acknowledged, as Katara rested. Katara scanned the sky anxiously. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen.

While Katara steered the boat, Zuko kept his eyes peeled for any other passing ships. If nothing else, he figured spotting other vessels would tell them that they were on the right path, which after so many days on the water, he was no longer certain of. On a ship with sails, or with a motor, they would have reached land in a few hours at most from where they’d escaped the pirates, but even in their little dinghy, he was sure they should have at least seen land by then. He tried not to notice how much slower Katara’s bending was getting, but he focused even harder. No way he would let this be the end of them. To escape dying lost at sea once only to fall to the same fate now. He wasn’t worried for himself. The chances were high that there was no one waiting for him to return, but Katara and her family didn’t deserve this. Even if their corpses were eventually found and in enough time for them to still be identifiable, Katara’s family would almost certainly never learn of her fate. If he had any power in the situation at all, that wouldn’t happen to her. In the meantime, he could ignore the way his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his headache wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever experienced.

Read the rest of the chapter here

[sllverchariot]

Get to You (Polnareff x Reader) Chapter Eight

You're a bright eyed and ambitious Anthropology student, just setting off for the international vacation of your dreams. Just days into your trip, however, you encounter a devious and charming man who would set into motion a string of events that would change your life forever, for better or for worse. ♡ word count - 1.4k ♡ warnings - some brief mentions of previous trauma/emotional abuse/manipulation/cheating ♡ notes - this is crossposted on ao3 under the same username as here. there are currently eight chapters written and posted over there so i'll be working on posting them here as well. this fic follows the events of stardust crusaders with some changes obviously. enjoy!!!

After the group's run-in with The Sun stand, and a chilly night in the desert, you all had a shockingly uneventful and pleasant night in a hotel. Preparations were made to set off via a small, private plane to your next destination.

All things considered, things were running along quite smoothly, that is until Mr. Joestar was informed he’d be unable to take the plane, seeing as there was a sick baby that needed to go to the hospital.

No worries, surely, you all would just bring the baby along and drop him off on the way. Things were back on track, just a minor hiccup.

And then Mr. Joestar crashed the plane. 

By some miracle, you all survived, but were forced out into the desert once again with almost no supplies, and a baby to take care of on top of it all.

Things were almost comically bad at that point, and then it got worse, when Kakyoin started to lose his mind. He was convinced the baby you’d been traveling with was a stand user, and was seriously starting to lose it. So badly that there were talks of sending him home.

Things calmed down though, nothing but a tense few nights in the desert before finally being rescued, finishing the journey across the Arabian Peninsula and preparing for the final leg of the trip, in Egypt.

You all were now on a little speedboat, barreling across the wide ocean in relative silence while Mr. Joestar drove, much to your dismay given the recent plane crash. 

The sound of the boat’s motor and waves crashing on either side was finally broken by Jotaro.

“Hey, old man. Something’s off, you’re going the wrong direction. If you’re headed to Egypt, shouldn’t you be traveling directly west?” The rest of you looked up in confusion, as Jotaro pointed over the horizon. “We seem to be heading towards that island.”

“That’s right, nice deduction. I’ve had my reasons for keeping this to myself, but before we arrive in Egypt, we need to make a slight detour. Someone is waiting for us on the island. He’s a man who’s extremely important to our journey.” You all shared looks of confusion and surprise as the old man spoke.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Questioned Polnareff, and you wondered the same thing, but no answer was given.

-

Later, you all finally arrived at your destination. A small, but gorgeous and lush island crawling with flora and fauna. All five of you stood a moment, taking in the scenery and waiting eagerly for some explanation from the old man. 

None came, however, before Jotaro pointed out a stranger spying from the bushes. As soon as you all took notice, the mystery man got up and ran, surprising all of you. Even moreso when you got a good view of his physical appearance.

“From the back… He looks-” Kakyoin started, before being interrupted by the Frenchman. 

“You’re right, I know that face!” He shouted, before making chase after the man, forcing you all to follow behind.

The pursuit ended at a small, fenced in cottage, where the mystery man began feeding his chickens while you all looked on in shock. You were nearly at a loss for words, heart pounding in your chest.

You all muttered your surprise, Polnareff about to blurt out the titular name that had been on everyone’s minds before he was stopped by Joseph, instructing everyone to stay back as he went to talk to the man and introduce himself.

“Go away! I won’t hear it! I won’t say it again… Don’t talk to me, got it?!” Shouted the man, back turned as you all looked on. “No one ever comes to see me when they have actual good news to report… I only get visitors when something bad happens!” The man whipped around, finally showing his face and you all gasped, seeing those familiar features.

“Go away!” He shouted finally, storming inside, while everyone murmured the name of the companion whose life was tragically lost just weeks before.

“Hold on… That’s impossible!” You all exclaimed in unison.

“That wasn’t Avdol… It was his father.” Joseph said, solemnly, earning yet another gasp from the others. 

“His father?” Polnareff asked, and you shot him a sympathetic glance.

“He withdrew from society…” Joseph continued. “And lives alone on this island. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to tell you about this earlier. But if it ever became known to Dio that we stopped at this place, Avdol’s father would be put in grave danger. I would never forgive myself if that happened. But for now, my focus has to be on telling him what every parent fears most… That his son is dead.” 

Your heart ached as Joseph spoke, but were quickly distracted by the grunt that came from Polnareff. His eyes were shut tight, his back to the group, as he relived that horrible moment all over again once more.

The old man placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let yourself go there, Avdol’s death wasn’t your fault.” 

The Frenchman sighed and stepped away. “No, it’s entirely my fault. I’ll carry that burden for as long as I live.” 

Although he kept his back turned, you knew he was wearing that heartbreaking expression you’d already seen so many times before. You took a step towards him, extending your hand to grab onto his, but he stepped away before you could reach him, walking off towards the sea.

You furrowed your brows, about to follow him when the old man stopped you, shaking his head. Despite the way it tugged on your heart, you let him go. Lingering in that spot for a moment and watching him until he disappeared from view.

In your trance, you hadn’t really acknowledged the conversations happing behind you, but you tuned in just in time to hear something that truly piqued your curiosity.

“...We ought to tell him as soon as we speak with Avdol.” Mr. Joestars voice rang in your head, and you turned towards everyone again.

“What does that mean?” You questioned, eyes trained on the old man as everyone went silent.

Mr. Joestars eyes met yours, and he hesitated for a moment before speaking up. “Well, (Y/n)... We haven’t been completely honest with you, or Polnareff.” You were getting more questions than answers, and you paused, arms crossed as the man spoke. “That… wasn’t Avdol’s father you saw. And Avdol isn’t dead.” Your face contorted into a mixture of shock, and horror, and disgust as he continued. “Avdol was gravely injured after that fight… And we wanted to give him time to recover without risk of another stand attack. We didn’t tell you because you were still too new, we weren’t sure if we could trust you yet. And we didn’t tell Polnareff because… Well, he’s not exactly the most tight-lipped.”

You were so furious you could feel your blood boiling as those words repeated in your mind. You narrowed your eyes and clenched your teeth as you searched for the right words to convey your rage. Really you wanted to deck all of them, but you chose to stay still and quiet as you formulated a cohesive thought.

“I don’t know what to say to any of you right now.” You clenched your fists and turned away from them, unable to look any one of them in the eye. “I don’t care about me, about the grief I felt losing a friend. I would’ve let it all slide had it just been me. But how could you do that to Polnareff?!” You spun back around to face them, tears of anger pricking at your eyes as you fought to hold them back. “He’s been tearing himself apart these past few weeks, I mean you heard him just a minute ago! This whole time he’s been eaten alive by the guilt of a death that wasn’t even real… And that whole show just now, what was that about?! Just to make him feel worse? To rub salt in a wound that shouldn’t even exist? God… I can’t even imagine how he’s going to feel.” You shook your head, heartache and fury rolled into one bubbling inside of you.

“I can’t even look at any of you right now. I’m going to find Polnareff and try to prepare him for the betrayal he’s about to face.” You spat, before storming off in the direction the Frenchman disappeared into earlier, nerves still buzzing from the bombshell that was just dropped on you.

[novemberthorne]

Something Lost, Something Found Chapter 11 preview! 🪱💕

He lasts a day.

The breaking point is when Robin brings him out on the lake the next day.

They're going fishing. Robin’s fitted him out in a silly pair of boots and a lifejacket. She offered him a fisherman’s hat, but Steve just sneered in distaste. Robin ended up wearing it instead.

Steve’s kinda always wanted to row a boat, so he insisted in getting to do that instead of getting the motor up and running. Robin just shrugged and looked on in amusement.

When they’re finally at the right spot, Robin drops down the tiny anchor and helps him lift the oars back inside the boat.

Then she turns to Steve. “There we go. Now. Are you ready to learn?”

He makes a bit of a grimace.

“I don’t know. I'm not sure you can ever be ready for something like this."

Robin laughs at him, shaking her head.

"Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve. We'll make an honest fisherman out of you yet. You just have to get over that first step. Face your fears. Here." She reaches into the big supply bag she brought with them, most likely containing all the fishing supplies — hooks, bait, tools, extra line, you name it, the bag's got it.

Then she takes up a small plastic jar from it and pops the lid off.

"Take the rod." She instructs him.

He takes it, rests the handle on the floor of the boat and leans it towards himself, holding the end where the hook is secured into the bobber.

“Here. Hold your hand out,” Robin says.

He does, and she dumps a worm right into his palm.

Steve stares at it. Watches it wiggle around in his hand like it’s taunting him with its very existence.

He feels like he’s loosing his goddamn mind.

“Steve?” Robin prompts.

It's her tone of voice that does it, the softest bit of concern about him staring at a goddamn worm.

He can't help it. He starts laughing.

A full-blown, hysterical laughing fit.

Over a worm.

Robin stares at him, her large eyes wide and startled, and she slowly moves forward and kinda… scrapes the worm out of his hand back into the jar.

It only makes him laugh harder.

"Steve, you are freaking me out. Are you okay? Are you scared of worms? What's going on?"

He shakes his head in response, not wanting her to worry, but he's having a really difficult time collecting himself here.

"O-okay," Robin says, sounding very uncertain. "Just… get it out of your system. There there." She pats his knee, comforting him like he's crying. He loves her so much.

"I'm sorry," he says, still laughing. He even has to wipe his goddamn eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just… the fucking worm."

"What about the worm?" Robin asks patiently, though he can tell she's kind of freaking out too. It's very unlike him to lose his composure like this, especially over seemingly nothing.

Steve holds a hand up, gesturing for her to wait while he finishes wiping his face with his gross worm hands. Jesus fucking christ.

He finally lets out a deep sigh, laughter all out of his system like Robin encouraged. She's still patting his knee, like she thinks he's upset. Maybe he is, but it's hard to tell.

He meets her gaze. Almost starts laughing again when he sees the terrified look on her face, but he manages to keep it together.

"I'm sorry. Yesterday was… a very worm-themed day," he says.

"What?" Robin asks, sounding downright exasperated. He doesn't blame her.

Steve takes another deep inhale, snickering a little bit still.

"I kissed Eddie."

Robin just stares at him.

Her jaw goes slack, mouth falling wide open.

[ausetkmt]

On a rainy morning in March, George Dawes Green, a seventy-year-old novelist and the founder of the storytelling nonprofit the Moth, arrived at Millstone Landing, about twenty miles north of Savannah, Georgia, on the South Carolina side of the Savannah River. He and thirteen others were preparing to look for remnants of a secret fortress built in the seventeen-eighties by Maroons—people who’d escaped slavery to live in the wilderness. (The term derives from the Spanish word “cimarrón,” which means “unruly” or “fierce.”) Maroons existed in the South from the beginning of slavery, and, according to historical accounts, the population of this encampment—around a hundred—dwarfed that of any other known group. The fortress was said to have been uniquely defended, with a wall, weapons, and sentries; its residents had lived there and in another nearby camp for years until white militias finally found the sites and burned them to the ground. Green had first read about the fortress decades ago; last year, he published “The Kingdoms of Savannah,” a thriller involving a search for its ruins. Early in writing the book, he began reaching out to scholars to turn the fictional search into a real one. Now archeologists, historians, and others were donning rain gear and wrestling with tall snake-proof boots in a parking lot by the Savannah River.

Rick Kanaski, a gray-goateed archeologist at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, which manages the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge, was part of the expedition. He warned that we were unlikely to find the fortress itself. Instead, he said, “We’ll get a sense of place”—an idea of what the Maroons’ life had been like. Archeology is slow work, Kanaski went on: “Eventually, we’ll be able to tell some life stories about these individuals who were essentially creating their own community, and reclaiming their own individuality, and their own personhood, and their own society, so to speak.” But the first step was to get the lay of the land.

We strapped on life jackets, climbed onto a boat, and headed north. South Carolina was on the east bank and Georgia on the west; the temperature was in the fifties, and gray clouds spat water in our faces. Brown water sprayed up behind the motors. We had a rough idea of where we were going. Running parallel to the river, about a mile to its west, was Bear Creek; historical documents indicated that the fortress had been near the creek, and about two miles north from a lower fork. Green’s research had pointed him toward a region just south of where Bear Creek jutted east and then west, creating a thumb-shaped area of land. His target zone covered maybe twenty acres.

If the ground were dry, the area would be about fifteen minutes’ walk from shore. But we soon encountered a small, winding creek that cut through the lush vegetation. We sloshed across, walked for another few minutes, then hit another creek. This one was waist-deep, and we halted at the impasse. I was shivering, and my fingers had turned blue from the damp and cold. If it were warmer, I knew, we’d be getting eaten alive by mosquitos.

“This actually helps as part of their defense,” Kanaski said, of the forbidding landscape.

I imagined living on this land for years, with scant supplies. What had life been like for the Maroons? How had they survived? How had they understood their own story? Answers to these questions had been lost, like the fortress, in the swamp.

Although Maroons existed wherever slavery did, they are often left out of U.S. history curricula. In her book “Slavery’s Exiles: The Story of the American Maroons,” from 2014, Sylviane A. Diouf, a historian and visiting scholar at Brown University, offers several explanations for this. American Maroon communities weren’t as large as their counterparts in Central and South America, she writes, and they didn’t wage wars against enslavers; their settlements weren’t well documented, and, whereas everyone has heard of the Underground Railroad, marronage “lacked the high drama of the escape to the North.” Diouf also argues that the Maroons’ “narrative of autonomous survival without benevolent white involvement” probably lacked mass appeal.

Nonetheless, Maroons lived at extremes. They faced the constant risk of capture, especially while sneaking supplies from plantations. Some Maroons built underground dens and lived in them for years, occasionally even filling them with furniture and stoves; children were born and raised in darkness. While reading archival documents, “I found examples of caves all over the South,” Diouf told me. “It’s just mind-boggling that that kind of life could exist.” If Maroons returned or were caught, Diouf writes, “severe whippings were the ‘mildest’ punishments.” They could be branded, castrated, dismembered, or executed. After hanging, their bodies might be decapitated, quartered, and displayed.

Diouf dedicates a chapter of her book to the Maroons of Bear Creek. (A 2009 volume called “Maroon Communities in South Carolina,” edited by the historian Timothy James Lockley, also contains many original records from the period.) The Bear Creek Maroons built their first settlement around 1780, at the southern end of the waterway. In 1786, the group swelled in size, and their plantation raids attracted negative attention. That October, the grand jury of Chatham County complained that “large gangs of runaway Negroes are allowed to remain quietly within a short distance of this town.” Militia members located the Maroons and attacked them. Several people on each side were injured, and the militiamen, low on ammunition, retreated. They returned with more men that evening, but were ambushed, and fled.

James Jackson, a Revolutionary War hero and future governor of Georgia, took over the effort to capture or kill the Maroons. A few days later, he brought in fresh soldiers, but by then the Maroons had evacuated. He destroyed what they’d left behind, including houses, about fifteen boats, and four acres of rice. That December, Jackson wrote to the governor of South Carolina, Thomas Pinckney: “Your Excellency may have heard of the daring banditti of slaves, who some weeks since, attacked two of my detachments, & were at last with difficulty dislodged from their camp.” He warned that some Maroons had relocated to South Carolina, across the river, where they were again raiding plantations for supplies.

The following March, Pinckney authorized a plantation owner to hire up to a hundred minutemen—volunteer soldiers who were ready on short notice—for a monthlong search. He sent supplies and offered bonuses of ten pounds per Maroon caught dead or alive. He also asked an associate to hire twenty members of the Catawba tribe—who knew the land and were skilled trackers—to join the search, offering the same reward. The Maroons, meanwhile, had regrouped at a new location, two miles north of the old one, and fortified it.

On April 21, 1787, a group of Maroons went out in boats, planning to collect family members and others who wanted to join them from a nearby plantation. They ran into a group of minutemen, and several Maroons were shot and killed. The militiamen now knew of the encampment’s general location; even so, it took them two more weeks to locate it in the swamp. Finally, on the morning of May 6th, they killed a sentry and rushed through an opening in the fortress’s defensive wall. The Maroons fired a few shots before running away, leaving behind an enclosed area that covered seventeen acres and contained rice and potato fields and twenty-one houses. The attackers chased the Maroons for two miles, killing six of them, then burned down the camp and reported their victory. Later, the Charleston Morning Post would describe how the Maroons “had got seated and strongly fortified in the midst of an almost impenetrable swamp.”

“Running away from a fight was the best strategy,” Diouf said. “People say that’s not what heroes do, but it is. The goal of the Maroons was to stay alive.” Their leader, who went by the names Sharper and Captain Cudjoe, and his wife, Nancy, were among a group that escaped and eventually made its way to Florida. But the second-in-command, a man called Captain Lewis, was captured shortly after the raid and tried, in Savannah, for the murder of a white man whom he had brought back to the settlement before it was discovered. He was sentenced to be hanged, and to have his head displayed on a pole. Some audiences cheered for the Maroons’ defeat, but others celebrated their success. In an editorial, the Massachusetts Centinel admired “those brave and hardy sons of Africa” who “seem wisely to prefer a precarious existence, in freedom, on the barren heath, to the chains of their oppressors, whose avarice, cruelty and barbarism increases with their wealth.” The article concluded, “The spirit of liberty they inherit appears unconquerable. Heaven grant it may be invincible.”

Green is an eighth-generation Savannahian, and “The Kingdoms of Savannah” grew out of stories about the region that he’d heard as a child. The gothic tales often mixed horror with glamour. Once, an elderly relative described a group of escaped enslaved people who’d established a camp on an island in the Savannah River; they’d come upon a pirate ship run aground, its occupants all drowned, and had found gold inside, which they’d taken and buried. Green remembered the story in the early two-thousands, when a friend who was a local professor and historian of Savannah also mentioned a group of escaped enslaved people who had lived in the wilderness. He went to the Georgia Historical Society and pored over the archives. Along with his brother, an archeologist who studied the Taíno people of the Caribbean, he borrowed a canoe and spent a day paddling through the creeks and woods near where the fortress might have been. They didn’t find anything.

“The Kingdoms of Savannah,” which Green wrote about two decades later, centers on the disappearance of Matilda Stone, an archeologist studying the fortress site. The novel is about “a panoply of historical injustices,” Green told me—not just slavery but corrupt police, abusive labor practices, and pollution. At one point in the story, a member of an old Savannah family hoping to solve the kidnapping case is at the library browsing books about Savannah’s history. “I mean that’s what these books are all about,” someone says. “The crimes of Savannah. Every book in here. They’re all just the sickest crime stories you can imagine.” The novel is “sort of a tapestry of stories, which are all based on reality,” Green said. He explained that he’d been inspired in part by Lawrence Durrell’s “The Alexandria Quartet”—a tetralogy of novels set around the time of the Second World War which is “about folks wandering around Alexandria, Egypt, and all of the little ethnic enclaves, and the incredible corruption that rules everything, and how every little enclave is making deals constantly just to survive,” Green said.

Last fall, after the publication of “The Kingdoms of Savannah,” Green organized two events with Diouf and Paul Pressly, a historian writing a book about people who had escaped from slavery. The three soon started assembling a group to search for the fortress. “Historians like me, even public historians—you tell stories, and they just hang in the air, and they don’t go anyplace except for the twenty-five people that you talk to,” Pressly told me. “In talking to George, I realized, This man knows how to bring this into the public arena. A novel is the way you can bring it.” Diouf concurred: “There are more people who read fiction than there are people who read academic books.”

The day before the swamp trek, I spoke with Daniel Sayers, a historical anthropologist at American University who has spent years exploring Maroon history in the Great Dismal Swamp, in Virginia and North Carolina, and had agreed to join the search party. I asked him how he’d proceed once we were out in the wilderness. What would he look for, specifically?

“I’ll probably rely on my Spidey sense—‘Wow, people were here,’ ” Sayers said. His voice was gruff from years of smoking cigarettes and chewing tobacco; he wore jeans, a torn T-shirt, and an Olympia Beer trucker hat. It would be great to find an artifact, he went on, but that was unlikely; he would be satisfied with vibes. The site would probably be on slightly high and dry ground, he thought. “I’m hoping the place speaks to me,” he said.

Savannah, along with other Southern cities, is home to many macabre tours that mix history and spiritualism. In “Tales from the Haunted South: Dark Tourism and Memories of Slavery from the Civil War Era,” Tiya Miles, a historian at Harvard, writes that, “according to popular lore and common knowledge alike, ghosts dwell in places stained by unresolved conflict—places marked by pain, violence, betrayal, suffering, and ugly death.” That night, before dinner, I asked Esther Blessing, Green’s wife, if we might go on one. She described the tours as “this weird Tarantino-meets-‘Gone with the Wind’ clickbaity bullshit about enslaved people that isn’t even real.”

“They’re telling these fake stories about history,” she went on, her voice rising. “Why are they doing that when stories like this are there?”

In the swamp, we noticed a spot where the creek seemed to be shallower, and decided to try our luck crossing there. But we arrived only at another deep creek. “It looks like what we have is a whole series of dendritic creeks that are interlacing with this landscape that’s not well shown on any of the U.S.G.S. topographical sheets,” Kanaski said. In other words, we were in a watery maze.

“Where we’re standing might also have been where a small encampment of Maroons was,” Sayers ventured. “This is a Maroon landscape we’re in already.” It was a view that offered some consolation.

Dionne Hoskins-Brown, a government marine scientist who teaches at Savannah State University and is the chair of the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor Commission, spoke up. “Is it just the terrain that allowed the community to persist?” she asked. “I mean, it’s given us a fit today.”

“Even militia, who are trained to carry their guns and shoot people and track them down—they’re kind of afraid to go in,” Sayers said. “This is a big deal to just even experience this place,” he went on. “We’re in the heart of resistance in marronage.”

Green and a companion returned from a scouting mission. They’d followed the creek in one direction and found no easy way to cross; they wanted to try in the other direction, but Kanaski proposed coming back another day, when the ground was dry. While they debated, Hermina Glass-Hill, a Black activist and historian wearing pink-fringed boots and a red flower in her hair, removed a Congolese vessel—an engraved wooden chalice—from her bag and filled it with distilled water.

“Before we proceed, can we just pour libations right now, since we have identified that this is the terrain of that Maroon community?” she said, building on Sayers’s hopeful notion.

Glass-Hill stood and led us in a round of “Kumbaya”—“Come by here, my Lord”—an African American spiritual, first recorded in that part of Georgia. “Libations is about honoring the ancestors, honoring those who have come before us,” she said. “We want to give thanks to those brave, courageous souls who thought that taking the risk for freedom and the wildness of this place was more safe than staying on dry land.” She started pouring out some water. “To the men, to the women, to the children, who made this place home,” she said. “Ashé.”

[jamilaborges]

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Dirty and Poor

I had little to amuse my inquisitive mind, a few homemade, wooden toys and the hammer I’d confiscated from Dad. Some children like to bang pots and pans; I loved to bang the hammer, mostly on the nails popping up from the old house’s floorboards. The noise let Mother know where I was playing. At first, I bruised my small fingers. With practice, my aim with the hammer became proficient unlike Dad’s.

There weren’t other children to play with. The yard dog, Woolie, black with curly fur, kept me company instead. The dog was so large that I could sit on its back. Together, we observed the comings and goings in our surroundings, in particular the trains passing the house. The rail motor travelled back and forth from Bethania to Beaudesert twice daily. Steam engines hauled regular goods trains. The most exciting, noisy and smelly were the long cattle and horse trains, headed with two steam engines, going to the abattoir. I’d tell my dog everything. He always seemed interested until one day, Woolie became bored and wandered off. The dog was likely bitten by a snake. Time moved slowly with the same daily routine. Except one day, I heard a steam engine’s brakes.

I excitedly watched it stop on the line beside my house. Whilst I wasn’t allowed outside to investigate the unusual event, this was the best day in my life to date! Men offloaded wooden planks from the train’s freight wagons. This second hand timber had come from Camp Cable, the wartime American Army camp, several miles up the line, near Logan Village. Life became interesting. My family were building a house nearby and closer to Bethania Railway Station. My great uncle had transferred to my father a patch of land considered too small for dairy cows or commercial cropping. This triangle of land had been part of the farm established by my forebears before the railway line and the road had separated it. The military had occupied the land and its surrounds with a transit camp. Bethania had been the intersection point for trains transporting troops to the Canungra Jungle Training Camp and Camp Cable.

Pop, an uncle and a neighbour built the cottage where the military’s tents and mess huts had been. Dad wasn’t skilled in carpentry. The simple home had one bedroom, a sitting room, a kitchen, a front veranda and a bathroom with an open wash house and a thunderbox outside. I slept in a cot tucked behind the bedroom cupboard.

As it was in a rural area, the cottage received no rubbish collection, sewerage or water supply services. Rubbish and effluent weren’t an issue. These were buried when Dad showed the inclination. Maintaining sufficient water in the two small tanks for household use and the vegetable garden was an issue. We were dependent on rainfall. Even then, the high tank had to be over half full for enough water pressure to exist for the bathroom and kitchen taps to flow. Mostly, water was dispensed by bucket. I was bathed once a week, and only if I looked sufficiently dirty, in no more than an inch of water in the bath tub. As I didn’t own a toy boat, I didn’t mind.

The cottage did have electricity for lights and three power points for the fridge and sewing machine in the kitchen and the small radio in the sitting room. Dad installed the power pole near the cottage. He purchased a milled log from the sawmiller. Then, he and his mates met, because that was the only labour available, to dig by shovel a large hole in which to stand the pole. At one metre deep, the men hit hard rock. Whilst they didn’t think the hole to be deep enough, they still positioned and raised the pole. For years after, Dad prayed the pole wouldn’t topple on the house in vicious wind. It held until the electricity company replaced it.

A wood stove sat in the kitchen. Finding wood was a chore and a cost most families struggled with. My father fed the stove with used railway sleepers his maintenance gang shared amongst themselves.

Outside, Dad constructed a fowl house from old tanks, sleepers and wire and dug a garden to support the family with eggs, meat and vegetables.

The primitive house met my biggest wish. The rail track ran along the backyard’s fence line! I loved waving at the passengers and guards. Sometimes, I watched Dad banging the spikes along the track.

I was far happier outside, away from Mother’s sight. In addition to the ambience her temperament created, inside the cottage was a horrid place to be. Mother hated housework. We lived in the continual squalor of dirty dishes, clothes, floors and fireplace. The beds weren’t made. The ‘night water’ wasn’t always taken outside early in the morning.

Mother presented a different face outside the cottage however. She was immaculately dressed as a walking advertisement for her dressmaking skills. She was a seamstress and a busy one. Initially, she received her clients in the sitting room but soon a small room was added to the veranda to keep clients away from the squalor. At one point, she started a dressmaking shop with a friend in Beenleigh. Their venture failed quickly as neither understood how to manage a business’ finances.

Money regularly created tension between my parents. There was father’s, mother’s and the housekeeping. Dad handed over the agreed housekeeping from his wage to pay the bills. There never seemed to be enough though. Appliances had been purchased on high interest hire purchase plans. Whatever Mother earnt from sewing appeared to be hers to spend how she wished, usually on more clothes for herself. Dad wasted what remained of his wage on race horses and alcohol. Their financial struggle was a circular form of hell that they couldn’t escape from, precipitated by their inability to work together. Whilst they didn’t physically abuse each other, verbally they did.