#must edit town faster

[radiocreature]

📻 The Freedom To Be Whatever We Want (Radiorose Week Day 6) 🌹

Word count: 7,738

Summary: Alastor has been in hell for eight years. His friendship with Rosie developed quickly, the two bonding much faster than they could have anticipated, and they're riding high together. After a perfect night of dancing, Alastor asks Rosie out again twice in quick succession, but something about him seems less comfortable, and Rosie is determined to figure out why.

Warnings: cannibalism, unbeta'd, this will be getting a massive edit/rewrite on AO3 after I've had some time to SLEEP.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56617597

@radioroseweek

The Freedom To Be Whatever We Want

Nothing happens in Cannibal Town without Rosie knowing. Sometimes she knows what people plan on doing before they know themselves. The honest ones will seek her out first. The less honest ones will get a visit from her if their plans may harm others. One of her most reliable sources of information arrives to her fresh on a silver platter from her favorite clients: good, old-fashioned gossip. And right now, something has the young cannibal beaus and belles all atwitter.

It starts with an influx of singles’ advice. How to tell if they like you back, how to make the first move, what does this or that very-specific behavior mean? Then, three young men in relationships with women book her on the same day to ask what to do if his partner looks at other men, how to tell if she wants to break up, the signs of cheating, all of which leaves Rosie concerned after they leave. Her nicest, most expensive dresses and suits fly off the racks with urgent requests of custom tailoring. By the time her head and hands stop spinning, the entire town feels alight in a way it hasn’t in decades.

At first, her pointed questions get her nowhere. “Oh, it’s probably nothing.” “Oh, it’s just wishful thinking.” “Oh, it’s no one in particular.” “Oh, it’s a shot in the dark.” Then, “it” gets a gender. “He’s just so handsome.” “He caught my eye so long ago.” “Everyone wants him.” She drives herself to the edge of madness trying to find answers and solutions to a problem that might not even be a problem.

And then Susan, of all people, comes in clutch. Sometimes blunt has its uses. “It’s that fellow with the stupid voice and puny antlers, they all think he’s fixing to court someone. All the ladies want it to be them, for some reason, and all their men are rolling over. If that prude could handle seeing another person naked, he wouldn’t be goin’ for no dames, I can tell ya that.”

And sometimes blunt people have no more of a clue than anyone else. If Alastor wanted a relationship, Rosie would know years before he figured it out himself. She saw him two months ago, not long before this hullabaloo started, and he made no mention of it. Alastor claims very few friends, but she knows without a doubt he considers himself closest to her. The idea of him seeking out a relationship without consulting her not only sounds out of character, but also strikes a nerve somewhere near her heart.

Whatever inspired this, the cannibettes have it all wrong. Though she must admit, imagining the look on Alastor’s face when she tells him what’s had the town all out of sorts gives her a good laugh.

With perfect timing, he calls on her soon after for a night of “sorely-needed” music and dancing. “I’m feeling rather boisterous, and it’s been a while since we upstaged an entire room of people, don’t you think? Wear something extravagant, my dear, and let me know the color so I can match you.” He never fails to charm her into saying yes, not that she ever has any objections to his plans. Their tastes align to an uncanny degree.

As a challenge, she tells him red and white: a dress he’s never seen, that she’s sat on for years, waiting for the right extravagant occasion. A multilayered and tiered evening dress with an uneven hem falling to her ankles in the back and rising to midway up her shins in the front. She dyed the fabric herself to get the perfect fade, from pure white at the neck down to a bold crimson when it reaches the skirts. It gains more jewels and beads every year in her failure to leave it alone. She twirls in the mirror a few times to watch it move, fantasizing of how it will catch the light when Alastor tosses or spins her. She chooses shorter, chunkier heels to stick the landings, a pair of black pumps with a web-like design pattern over the foot that ties at the front with a bow. Ornate, but not too distracting.

He arrives in a striking white pinstriped suit, with a red waistcoat over a white undershirt, red-tipped white shoes, a red bowtie and pocket square, and a wide-brimmed white hat with a single black stripe, his antlers acting like hat pins to keep it secured to his fluffy head. She stands in stunned silence for a moment before squealing with delight and spinning him around.

“Oh my stars, don’t you look gorgeous!” She says.

“I believe I’m meant to say that to you, my dear,” he laughs, petting her back with his free hand hand. The other digs his microphone cane into the ground to prevent them toppling over, as can happen when Rosie forgets her strength.

“You can say that about me every day. I have to wait for you to clean yourself up, first, and don’t you just clean up so nicely!” She smooths out his coat when she finishes smothering him.

He bows for her to hide the anxiety in his amused chuckle. “And you, darling, just when I think you can’t possibly be any more beautiful. I can hear the hearts breaking already.” With his microphone tucked behind his back, he offers her his arm. “May I have the honor?”

She giggles, slipping her arm through his. “I suppose you’ll do.”

As a general rule, she avoids leaving Cannibal Town for prolonged periods. The peace her people enjoy relies on her as a permanent fixture. She can leave for a few hours to attend meetings or make social calls without worrying, but will return at the first drip of uncertainty. And, not for nothing, she spent a long time carving her own niche into this corner of hell. She promised the cannibals protection, and in exchange, they dedicated themselves to her vision. While not a utopia, the residents of Cannibal Town avoid the stress and suffering of other sinners by crafting their own reality.

Alastor spent an entire year as a fixed resident, but his ambitions and wanderlust coaxed him back out into the greater city, even as the shifting culture started to displease him. Cannibal Town’s singular place in time will turn into a safe haven for him, but for now, Pentagram City still has the best jazz clubs.

Some new developments leave him feeling sour, but he took to the evolution of jazz and swing into the 40s very well. They’ll jump, jimmy, jive, shake, shimmy, and swing until their feet fall off, or until they collapse, though she can’t see him ever tiring from dancing. Given the tension in his body for the entire walk to his favorite club, he needs the release. Slaying Overlords won’t fix everything—much to his chagrin, she imagines.

The arrival of the infamous Radio Demon brings the dancers to a halt, or tripping over one another, but the band plays on. Alastor tips his hat to the bartender, who waves a hand before grabbing a bottle off the top shelf. She allows herself a smug grin, something she may allow herself many times tonight. The last (and first) time she visited this club, when he found it several years ago, they treated him like anyone else. Now, with the identity of the Radio Demon known, he gets treated different everywhere, but the composure of the barkeep and the band suggest they see him as a VIP rather than a threat. The VIP treatment suits her well, too.

They start with drinks to assess the crowd, the bar patrons putting space between them. It thinned down a little when they entered. The standees all watch them, and the dancers keep eyes on them when facing in their direction. She wants to think it’s because they out-dressed everyone here—no one else even tried—but she can’t ignore the Overlord effect. Especially when Alastor’s antlers grow more points.

They finish their drinks after sizing up the place. Dismissing his microphone staff, Alastor bends at the waist and holds out his hand in invitation. She takes it, and lets him lead the way to the dance floor. The other dancers give them a wide berth. The band changes songs on a dime, starting them off with a classic Charleston number. With matching smiles they face each other and kick into the rhythm.

Weight falls off her with every movement. She watches Alastor shake weeks of tension out of his limbs. They never had the pleasure of knowing each other in life, but she gets a glimpse of his vitality when they dance. Bold movements of simultaneous control and abandon, colorful and vivacious and bursting at the seams with spirit. Dancing makes it easy to forget her ill fate, the pain and the sweltering heat and the personal torments and the insatiable, ravenous hunger that curses all of cannibal kind. Dancing with Alastor, though, makes her feel alive again.

For the first few songs they stick to fancy footwork and simple hops or skips. Exhausting themselves in the first thirty minutes of the night won’t do. They pace themselves as the band takes them through different styles of jazz and swing, challenging them to get creative. Building towards more demanding moves.

Years ago, the first time he tossed her, she went over his head and lost her grip on him. She expected to fall on him, or get dropped, but he caught her with ease and corrected her position to land her on her feet. After that, she trusted him with anything. She loves rolling over his back, or flipping upside down to kick her leg behind his neck. He often uses that momentum to flip her around his head instead of working against it, then spins back to his full height.

As if reading Alastor’s mind, the band transitions into a fast-paced jive with snappy drums and the type of taunting, choppy brass that precedes a wild tune. Rosie beams when she catches his pupils dilate in the dim light. They wink at each other and take their starting pose. Over years of improv, trial, and error, they perfected their own Lindy Hop routines. The slight points to his pupils tell her everything she needs to know about how he plans to lead, and her veins thrum with anticipation. He wants them to wipe the floor with everyone here. When the brass kicks to life, so do they. Pulling, pushing, circling, and twisting light on their feet with snaps of their arms and hands for balance and flair. The wind from her dress flowing with her movements sneaks a squeak of excitement past her lips before she can stop it. Their controlled chaos never threatens to bump into any of the other dancers, but the crowd clears the floor and forms a circle to watch with slacked jaws.

Alastor signals her for a lift. Well-past the point of warmups, she aligns their bodies and lets him flip her up and over his shoulder in a somersault. The crowd whoops and cheers, stress and tension giving way to fun at last. They join hands again to keep circling one another. Once they have momentum again, she signals him with a request to go low. She bends her knees and he whips her with one arm, her lead leg and free arm extending out to graze the crowd. Some scoot back to give her room, others reach out their fingers to meet hers. He leaps over her when she reaches him, spins into the movement, and scoops her back onto her feet.

They separate for a segment standing side-by-side to dance in synch. A chance to soak in the joy and wonder from the crowd cools the ache in their lungs. Rosie adds a few extra wrist movements to wave to those waiving at her. They transition to facing each other, mirroring one another’s kicks and flairs.

It takes Alastor hours to break a sweat sometimes, the fit bastard. Some strands of his hair cling to his forehead now—hers adhered to her skin after three songs. They breathe as one, steady and deep to fuel their frantic moves, their grins stretching to their maximum points. She keeps her eyes locked with his as long as she can. She loves him like this: the most candid of his smiles, the red of his irises consumed by blissed-out pupils, The Radio Demon left at the door. His right hand takes her left, his left hand pulls her in by her shoulder blade, and for a moment it looks like he means to kiss her. She hops and skips into the next steps, letting him push and pull her with the momentum from his larger frame. Their tempo increases in unison with the band, the frills of her dress almost invisible from the extra speed. The song ends soon, and she dares Alastor with her eyes for a big finish.

Delighted, he spins her by her arm above her head, and spins her, and spins her, stopping her by her hips with her back to his front. She bounces on her toes, then leaps as he lifts, kicking her legs out to clear his head when he tosses her up and over. His hands await her when she lands. One bunny hop to keep the rhythm, then she launches herself as high as she can, his arms twisting to help pull her into a somersault. When her hips meet his shoulders, he pushes out, allowing her to straighten her legs and flip straight up and down back over his head. For a few airborne seconds, their joined hands are their only point of contact.

Though she sees it upside down, the heartwarming smile he flashes vaporizes the last of her bodyweight. High on his smile, his scent, his energy, his unwavering, grounding grip on her hand that promises never to drop her, she relaxes into the motion and lets him guide her back to the floor.

She bends her knees to absorb the shock, rolls backward into his parting legs, and releases her hold on him. As he bends down, she continues rolling back, parting her legs and letting him guide them around his torso. With his arms hooked around her legs, she lifts from her core when he straightens his back, resulting in him swinging her straight out from his middle. They both release her legs so the lift lands her back on her feet, their hands joining in the air again.

She sinks to her knees again, pulling his arms with her. He goes over her shoulders this time, springing from the balls of his feet up and over. He rises to his feet out of the somersault in one fluid motion, hoisting her into his arms. She strikes a pose midair on the last beat of the song.

The crowd loses their fucking minds.

They bask in the glow of the whoops, cheers, whistles, and claps for a few seconds before looking at each other. Chests heaving, muscles aching, grins from ear to ear. Alastor’s hair got tousled during their big finale and his pupils still swallow up most of his irises. The static and crackles emanating from him get a little louder when their gazes lock. Heat rises to her cheeks.

She throws her arms around him and hugs him as tight as she can from her horizontal position. Laughing, he spins her around one more time to put her back on her feet. They join hands for a bow and curtsy, her free arm lifting her skirts while his tucks behind his back.

They head straight to the bar. Emboldened audience members follow to strike up a conversation. Someone offers to buy their first round so they can ask for pointers, questions about how much to prepare versus improvise, and improving their dancing in general. Someone else buys them a second round to keep the conversation going. It feels so good, so good, to have a normal conversation again outside of Cannibal Town. They both love the cannibals, and the Overlord treatment has its up sides, but others evading them when they go out to socialize gets frustrating.

Hours of dancing mix with top shelf booze, warming her from head to toe and liquifying her muscles on the way. Lightheaded, she leans against Alastor for support. His arm slips around her waist and pulls her closer, letting her head rest against the side of his. Her heart lurches, heat rushing to her face. From the booze. Definitely.

After a third round, Alastor and his unparalleled stamina look ready to keep dancing. He can drink himself senseless and still dance like he’s sober. With the way alcohol sloshes around in her stomach and her tendons wilt like noodles, she has to decline. Summoning his microphone, he offers her his arm, and they bid the club farewell.

With no sun down in hell, it doesn’t appear much different at night. The Pride Ring’s crimson red sky darkens some in the night hours, but the city’s bright lights keep it looking like daytime. Still, the crowd thins out at night, giving their walk a quiet start. She stays close to him to keep from swaying too much.

They walk past the movie house right as an audience leaves. Half of them light up smokes, puffing out clouds of putrid gas in their path. Alastor’s gums show through the disgusted curl in his lips. Rosie tries to make out the posters next to the ticket booth.

“Have you ever seen that Fleming fellow’s pictures?” Rosie asks.

“I haven’t,” Alastor says. “I never cared for them. I prefer the pictures in my head painted by the radio plays. If Orson Welles ends up down here Hell might finally get some culture.”

“I’m torn on whether to build a picture house in Cannibal Town. I know there’s interest, and you know I’d do anything for my clients, but where to put it, how to make it match,” she waves her hand in an et cetera gesture, “what to play. The worst of them get down here before the directors are even dead, like that Fleming fellow, and some of them are just garbage. Don’t watch Birth of A Nation.”

“Duly noted.”

“I think I saw a flyer for that one,” she nods towards the last poster on the end. “It looks like a romance. I don’t think I’ve seen a romance before, no one’s making those once they get down here. Wonder what he did.” The possibilities bring a smile to her face.

“Directed a romance?” Alastor says, earning a laugh from Rosie.

They walk in comfortable silence the rest of the way back to Cannibal Town. A low, dark saxophone tune reaches their ears when they round a corner, dancing around their heads as they approach. Alastor tosses a coin in the busker’s open case. They hold on a note to tip their hat, and the pair give courteous nods.

Rosie pulls Alastor into a tight embrace when they reach her front steps. “This was fun. I didn’t know how much I needed a night of dancing until we got there.”

His whole body turns rigid. Static and radio feedback try parting the alcohol fog in her brain. She knows Alastor’s dissonant relationship with touch, and her sober self usually waits for him to initiate or gives some indication first so as not to alarm him like he is right now, and she should let go, but his friendship makes her so goddamn happy—

—His hands rest on her shoulder blades, careful not to dig sharpening claws into her dress. Static dulls to a hum as the tension leaves his thin frame.

“It was a wonderful night, thank you for joining me,” he says. “I couldn’t ask for a better dance partner.” His hands slide down to the small of her back, then rest on her hips.

He snaps out of the embrace, tension back in full force. She blinks. With a bashful cough, he folds his hands behind his back and flashes his default charming smile.

“Have a good night, sweetheart,” he gives a slight bow before disappearing into a cloud of smoke.

Her mind struggles with what just happened. She regrets that last round as she heads inside to bathe, change, and try to commit the evening to memory so the alcoholic fog doesn’t make her lose anything. They must have made quite the pair on that dance floor with their coordinated colors and flawless routines. She removes her dress with care and hangs it back up in her closet after her bath.

A memory jumps to the front of her mind, of a split second where it felt like him pulling her in for a kiss. A delayed reaction to this hits her now. If he had meant to kiss her, she would have let him.

She climbs in to bed with a tipsy sort of befuddlement. He held a genuine smile the entire night and never once felt uncomfortable, until their hug goodbye, when he tore himself away from her and slipped a mask on. When his hands cupped the swell of her hips.

“Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh,” she slurs, and giggles to herself. Whether he intended to touch her there or not, either way, he spooked himself. A few more giggles bubble out from her.

“Dammit! I forgot to tell him about the cannibettes!” And then she passes out.

She rides the high of a perfect evening for several days. The next week, another young bachelorette books a session with her to ask for relationship advice. The new dating trend of seeing more than one person at once confuses and frustrates her. She wants to know how to tell the difference between someone looking for friendship and looking for a romantic partner.

“They do look similar nowadays, don’t they?” Rosie empathizes. “It comes down to intent. If you’re not interested in dating someone, but you think maybe they are, or vice versa, ask them for clarity. It might feel awkward, but it’s the easiest and most surefire way to set expectations.”

The rest of the day she spends working the floor of the Emporium. Assisting with garment fittings, helping people pick out the right snacks or raw ingredients, upselling her recipe book, and anything else her customers need. She has help on the weekends, but during the week she prefers running the store on her own to prevent downtime. Locking the door behind the last guest at the end of a long day on her feet brings immense satisfaction.

Not long after she secures the deadbolt, a swirl of black smoke slips under the door. Alastor materializes in a spiffy red and black suit. A solid burgundy coat and trousers over a black collared shirt, with a red bowtie and red-tipped black shoes. A visible sliver of the waistcoat suggests a more crimson red, with light red or pink stripes.

“Shop’s closed,” she teases, still counting the till.

“Pity,” he says, admiring his nails, “I had such grand dinner plans.”

“Should have planned better.”

He laughs, approaching the counter. “Well, since a nice home-cooked meal is out, how about this instead?” He holds out two tickets to the theater downtown, the same one they passed on their way to the jazz club last week.

She takes one of them. “You bought us tickets to the movie house?” She looks at him quizzically. “You bought us tickets to the movie house?”

“You pointed that one out on our way home last week, and tonight’s its last night. I thought you might like to go.”

“I do,” she says, “but do you? It’s a romance, dear. Your eyes twitch when you see couples holding hands near you.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “My mother listened to her romance stories on the radio all day, every day, my whole life. I’ll survive one more. They told me it’s based on a play, which gives me hope for the writing, at least.”

She beams. “You’re a peach, Alastor.”

His nose crinkles. “On second thought—”

“NOPE!” She grabs his collar so he can’t escape while she rounds the counter. “Too late! You’re coming inside for a snack while I get changed and then we’re going!” She chuckles as he stumbles along in her grip, knowing full well he could turn to smoke if he wanted out.

She fixes something quick for him to eat in the kitchen while she gets changed. She has a burgundy gown that deserves to go out for a spin. Pink chiffon on the neck and chest with black trim separating the neck piece from the body of the gown. A simple black tie at the waist adorned with a small skull accentuates her curves, matching the black stripes at the end of the skirt. The puffy red sleeves tighten into pink chiffon cuffs midway down the forearm. She pairs it with an umbrella and her favorite hat.

Alastor lifts onto the balls of his feet when she emerges from her room. “You look wonderful, dear,” he says with a soft smile, “I fear no one will be watching the picture but us.” He offers his arm.

“Always such a charmer,” she says, slipping her arm through his.

“Keep it up and I may have to marry you.”

“Oh, I’d never restrict like that. A woman of your integrity should never be chained down by a man.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” she teases, “you’re just afraid of ending up like my first husband.”

“Your first three husbands, if I recall.”

They poke fun at one another and gossip their way down to the theater. They arrive early enough to wait in line for concessions, ordering a popcorn to share, two beverages, and some candy for Rosie. He lets Rosie choose their seats. When the lights dim and the opening title card announces Sol Lesser Presents: Our Town, he nudges her with his elbow. He reaches into his jacket to reveal a bag of fried fingers he snuck out of her kitchen to bring with them. He winks and takes one to nibble on. Giggling, she takes a few and snaps them into thirds to mix in with the popcorn.

She sneaks glances at him throughout the runtime. He puts on a good front, but his discomfort shows through at the most amorous scenes. The story takes its time setting up the romance of the main couple, from courtship to marriage. They both snack throughout, with him losing his appetite during the more amorous and poetic moments. His eye twitches at the first kiss. And every subsequent kiss.

The film lasts for an hour and a half. She enjoys staying for the trailers, but the fuzzy radio crackling emanating to her left encourages her to leave without them. Wrapping her arm around his confirms the tension in his body. His arm stays rigid at his side while they make their way to the front of the building.

Outside, he takes a deep breath, and exhales. He looks down at their arms. “Oh, pardon,” he says, relaxing his arm to free her from its death grip. They carry on walking with an appropriate hold. “I hope you enjoyed it, dear.”

“It was cute,” Rosie says. “Thank you for taking me, and for putting up with it. Even when I hear about things I rarely think to actually go out and see them. Maybe I should be getting out of Cannibal Town more frequently.”

“Not at all,” he says. “It’s where you’re comfortable and where you’re needed, no one will fault you for that. Live theater performances will always be superior to these picture shows, and Cannibal Town has some of the best theater in Hell.”

“All our props are real,” she laughs. “The film seemed harmless, though, and I overheard someone say the director’s not dead yet. I wonder what he’s doing up there that let us get it this early.”

“There’s a war on, from what I’ve gathered,” Alastor says. “I’ve acquired some fresh souls recently with the same type of shell shock I saw after the Great War.” He smirks. “Promise them never to have to fight in another war and they’ll shake your hand without even asking for a contract. It almost feels like exploitation.”

“Almost, eh?” She shoves him with her body. He shoves back.

Back at her home, she gives him a hug on the stoop again, with proper warning this time. He hugs back, still a little hesitant.

“Where are you staying right now, honey?” She asks as she pulls away, fishing out her keys to unlock the front door. “I know you move around a lot. You know if you ever need somewhere—”

“I’m set up at the radio station right now,” he says with a hint of pride in his voice, “I converted part of the second floor into a living area. Since they won’t be needing so many broadcasters anymore. But I appreciate your generosity, as always.” He takes her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I can’t say I enjoyed the film as much as you did, but your company is all I ever need. Have a good night, dear Rosie.”

“Goodnight,” she says, clear and calm despite the odd emotion caught in her throat.

He dissipates into a cloud of smoke, his shadow lingering behind to wave at her before catching back up with its master.

“Huh,” she breathes. That has so many wonderful implications, and she can’t wait to analyze all of them instead of sleeping tonight. He never fails to give her much to think about.

Dearest Rosie, I hope you’ve been well. As you may have heard from my broadcasts, I’ve been quite busy. Please allow me to treat you to lunch next Saturday afternoon. I know a good spot in Pride Rock Park where we shouldn’t get disturbed by any dissenters with no taste. I know you’ll insist on making something, but don’t strain yourself, it’s my treat to you. Yours truly, Alastor

Another Overlord falls victim to Alastor’s broadcast a few days after their outing. In all honesty, she expected this one to end up as one of his special guests a lot sooner. He treats each Overlord like an episode of an anthology series, spinning a tale for them that they will help perform by way of their screams and pleading for mercy. Some stories conclude in one broadcast, others take several days to conclude. This one, he savors. He switches between the little sketch he prepared and airing out the true reasons why this one ended up on his broadcast. All the distasteful transgressions that built up over years, most of which harmed others, not Alastor himself. How this one Overlord embodied so many things he cannot stand, and will not tolerate anymore. This one’s story took over the airwaves for nine days before reaching its conclusion.

Eight years in Hell, and Alastor has rewritten so much of it. Entire power structures, dominant for centuries, gone overnight in comparison to how long they endured. Every year his power grows, and each new voice on his broadcast demonstrates it. Though they’ll never admit it out loud—to each other or themselves—the other Overlords started fearing him long ago. He took nine days to declare even the oldest and most powerful among them shouldn’t get comfortable.

Rosie uses it as background noise to make her signature “strawberry” “lemonade” and brew sweet tea (unsweetened, though it always tempts her to sweeten it and watch Alastor’s face pucker).

His letter inviting her to lunch in the park told her not to go overboard, since he intends to treat her, but she knows he’ll forget refreshments. She also wants to try out a new recipe on him, so she makes enough for two. Extra plates, napkins, and silverware sit on the counter as a reminder. The last time he treated her to a picnic, he forgot to pack the utensils.

She rushes to the door the moment she hears the knock. “Come in, come in!” She exclaims, pulling him inside by the arm holding the picnic basket. She registers another new outfit on him, a red-on-red-on-black three piece that she will pick apart later. Peaking inside shows he remembered everything this time. “Oh good, we’ll actually be able to eat.”

“It was one time, and we still ate,” he says.

“After having to run down the street and buy new utensils.”

“Which I needed anyway.”

She makes room in the basket for the beverages. “Which you wouldn’t have still needed if you lived somewhere.”

“I do live somewhere,” he goads.

She waves kitchen knife at him before dropping it in the basket. “You’re lucky you’re cute, mister.”

“Why are you bringing that.”

“I’m not,” she suppresses the urge to laugh as she takes it back out and replaces it in the knife block, “that’s just how crazy you make me.”

He balances his microphone staff with the same arm that holds the basket so he can offer her the other. “Well, crazy loves company.”

“That is not how that expression goes,” the joy with which she takes his arm contrasts with her grumpy tone.

According to the plaque, Pride Rock Park takes its name from one of the stones cast at Lilith by Adam when she left him for Lucifer, which heaven threw at them again when they banished the couple to Hell. Casting stones became a common practice for punishment against sin. The rock in the park could crush an entire house, so either humans in the Garden of Eden started life as giants, or the rock here is symbolic.

They set up their blanket under a tree. Despite the heat in Hell not coming from a sun, settling under trees in parks remains a habit for a lot of sinners. The breeze off the toxic saline lake deters others from picnicking near it, but having both grown up by the ocean, they both find the scent pleasant.

Alastor throws down the blanket, using his microphone to hold down the side against the breeze. Rosie spreads out their meal. Her mouth waters at the sight of all the treats Alastor made. Cannibals all throughout hell know Rosie’s famous cooking, and will travel from halfway around the ring to get a taste. The fact that Alastor is a better cook than her—something she has said aloud to him with no shame—stays their secret. She takes great pleasure in knowing sides to him no one else will.

They start the meal in silence, savoring every bite and enjoying one another’s company without need of conversation. She tells at least one cannibal a month that sitting in silence with another person reveals a lot about your true comfort levels. She and Alastor can sit in silence together for hours: reading together, listening to the radio, or enjoying a picnic.

And yet, he seems… off. Stiffer than last time, unsure how to position himself, and unsure what to do with his hands when not holding a fork or plate. Each time he adjusts his position, he inches closer to her, but it also adds to his tension. She relaxes her posture, opening her body language more, and leans back. Mirroring her appears to take some of the tension out, but his gaze never quite reaches her eyes.

After finishing most of their meal, they sit back and enjoy the post-feast sluggishness. Some light helpings remain that they’ll pick away at before returning home. Both of them planned their day around this, intending to spend all of it here with each other.

“I’ve never actually seen a boat at that dock before,” he says, nodding towards the lake.

“Maybe someone drowned,” she says, amused by the thought.

Alastor stands and offers his hand. She looks up at him with suspicion. “Seriously?”

“It’s been an age since I was last on the water,” he shrugs, “care to join me?”

Her eyes stay narrowed, but she smiles, and takes his hand. She takes her parasol, and he conjures his microphone back into his hand, but otherwise, they bring nothing else with them. Lifting her skirts, she steps into the boat, keeping a hold on one of his hands until she sits. Once inside, he pushes them off the dock with one leg, and rows them out towards the center. The lake stretches long enough for them to lose sight of their belongings, but anyone stupid enough to steal from a cannibal cookout deserves what it gets them.

“The cannibettes have been all atwitter the past couple months,” she says as he rows them further and further, “took me days to figure out what had them all acting up.” She considers her words. “They got it in their minds that you were looking to court someone, so they all started asking for relationship advice and buying up my best clothes. I had no idea where they got that from, until I saw you with three new suits in a row and you took me to see a movie.” Rosie puts her head in her hand and smirks. “A talkie, no less, and a romance. You barely tolerate silent films, I know that was torturous for you.”

“Silent films at least have a dream-like quality to them,” Alastor lambasts, “you don’t get distracted by whatever drivel the characters say at each other. Why are we listening to something we’re meant to watch.”

She giggles. “I’m not saying I haven’t enjoyed all of this, because I have, very much. We became friends very quickly because we have a lot in common, and we trust each other, which isn’t something I take or do lightly. I think it’s safe to say we’re close to each other.” Her smile falls a bit. “I know you well enough to know you were uncomfortable that whole day, and again today. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

His eyes pinch as he tries to maintain a charming countenance. He pulls the oars in so he can let them go, then takes a moment to crack his back and stretch out his legs. One hand wipes down his face, shifting his expression to something conflicted. A smile that doesn’t understand the effort it takes to maintain. His hands dangle off his lap.

“‘There’s someone out there for everyone,’” he breathes down at his shoes, as if quoting or reciting a rule. “My mother always told me that everyone has someone. Another person they’re meant to fall in love with and marry. Despite raising me alone and never remarrying after my father abandoned her.” Those last few words come out in a slight snarl, his lip quivering to reveal some of his upper gums. “I had several acquaintances whose parents permitted me to call on them, or others who wanted to introduce me to their daughters, or so on. I tried a few times, but I didn’t really care to get to know any of them better, and mother always said I’d know when it was the right person.”

He combs his fingers through his hair, scratching at the bases of his antlers; a stress response, not one she sees often. He keeps his gaze pointed down. “Down here there’s a higher concentration of degenerates, but it’s much the same as up there, couples courting, marrying, having sexual relations, all of that.”

“And mariticide,” Rosie says.

That gets an amused huff from him. “That one I understand. My mother wanted me to be happy, and she was certain meeting ‘the right person’ was the key to my staying happy after she was gone. She died before she got the chance to see me marry, or have the grandchildren she always wanted. And I died young.” His fingers clench and relax as he talks, trying to grasp something that keeps slipping through the cracks. “Besides my mother, you’re the first person I’ve been this close with, in life or after. It didn’t require any thinking, so it took me some time to realize how much we’ve….bonded. How I enjoy your company.”

At long last, he looks at her. “How I trust you. I thought that was the ‘knowing’ she spoke of. And she had me read all the etiquette guides when I was a boy, so I’d know what to do for what came next. How to court a lady properly and be a gentleman so we might both marry for love, not solely as an obligation.”

“It doesn’t sound like you find any of it appealing,” Rosie says, keeping her tone soft.

“I find you appealing.”

“Oh, well thank you, darling!” She teases. “Don’t you just know how to butter a woman up. Learn that in one of your etiquette guides, did you?” He stares at her while she has a laugh at his expense. She chooses her next words with care, keeping her tone fond and earnest. “Alastor, sweetie, listen to me. You’re dead. None of those silly rules matter anymore. There’s no books to follow, no laws or societal expectations or cultural norms to force you into a position you don’t want to be in. Not for you or for me. As weird as it is to say, down here, we’re free of all that.”

She meets his eyes and holds them. “So, what do you want? Right now. For yourself, or for our relationship.”

He stays silent while he thinks, his hands still trying to close around something out of reach. “I think… I like us how we are. Is that… is that alright with you?” The worry in his eyes makes her want to fling herself across the boat to hug him, but she knows touch would overwhelm him right now. “I don’t… want any of this to have impacted our friendship, or to hurt you if you were hoping for more with me.”

“Ha! Don’t flatter yourself.” Oh, how she wishes she had her Rolleiflex to capture his bewildered, affronted expression. “I’m just kidding. No, I’m not upset at all. I like us how we are, too.” She smirks. “Why mess with perfection?”

Palpable relief washes over him. He sits up straight, smooths his hair out, and takes up the oars again. “My thoughts exactly. What do you say we get off this lake? I’m curious if anyone tried stealing our stuff and, frankly, I hate boats.”

“Why the blazes did you bring us out on a boat, then?”

“Saw it in a picture, once. My old boss at the radio station used to call them the devil’s handiwork, I’m starting to believe him.” He joins her in laughing, this time.

Back at the dock, he hops out of the boat with a fresh spring in his step, and offers his hand to help her step out. They return to their blanket to find nothing stolen, which almost disappoints them. A hunt would have made for a fine afternoon.

She sits against the tree, and he sits next to her, all tension dissipated. The difference in his demeanor feels light night and day. They watch the other sinners enjoy the park, commentating while munching on their remaining snacks and giggling like school children. He summons some books from his library for them to read. And when the food coma hits him the way she expected, he starts to slump into her. Putting her book aside, she pulls his head down into her lap, scratching his scalp with her free hand while the other brings her book back into view. He tries to continue reading but dozes off in less than a minute.

The large park sits far enough away from the city that, when night begins to fall, the park will darken some. When the incandescent street lights flicker to life, she wakes him. They pack all of the containers and plates up, fold the blanket, and lock arms for the walk back to Rosie’s. The loud, bright, bustling avenues of Pentagram City give way to the quieter, oil-lit streets of Cannibal Town not a moment too soon.

She expects him to resist coming inside with her, but he follows without complaint. In the kitchen, after he helps wash and put away her beverage containers, he pulls her into a hug. It stuns her, but only for a moment, before she hugs him back twice as tight.

“Thank you, Rosie,” he whispers.

She rubs his back. “Thank you, Al, for being the best friend a girl could ask for.”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” he mocks distaste, wrinkling his nose and standing up straight, “I don’t think I like this friends business, either.”

“Oh shut up,” she swats him with a dish towel, then flicks it at the picnic basket, “and hand me all that. You’re staying here tonight.”

“Rosie—”

“Nope. I’m not done with you. I don’t care if you’re staying at the studio, you fell asleep at the park, so you haven’t been sleeping at the studio. You sleep when you stay here, so you’re staying here tonight. Not up for debate.”

His shoulders sag in defeat, the fight leaving his body. He dries dishes while she washes, placing all of his belongings back in the basket when dry. The night clothes she keeps for him stay in the dresser in the guest room. When they retire for the night, he gives her a kiss on the cheek. His shadow stays behind to wave at her before joining him in the guest room.

“Huh,” she says again. More shadow behavior to ponder.

She takes her time with her night routine, starting with drawing a bath. As she removes her clothes and folds them on the counter, she hears the water turn on in the guest room. Smiling to herself, she slips in and soaks the day away, knowing her companion does the same.

Alastor shows little interest in connecting with the other Overlords, or many other sinners in general, but they gravitated towards each other early on, and haven’t left each other’s orbit since. Whatever the future holds for them, however their relationship develops from here, she has no expectations, but she knows one thing for sure: they’re going to have a bloody good time together.

[starryficsfinishwen]

✧!。◟[NSFW] ʟᴇ ᴘᴇᴛɪᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴇʀᴏɴ ʀᴏᴜɢᴇ — Von Negut x reader [PGR]

[ doubles as Halloween and 100 150 followers special! ]

“Bonjour, petite fille... Pourquoi marches-tu dans la forêt toute seule?”

a.n. - why does Tumblr have no option to react to comments LOL I'd like to thank the ones who reacted to the previous post and motivated me to make this one happen! I'M SORRY AGAIN FOR BEING SO LATE. I have finals in one-two weeks but hi I'm here LOL I also haven't edited this yet, I still have stuff to write notes and study but YOLO This was also planned to be the 100 followers special but yall. it grew to 150 already LMAO Im so thankful, thank u!!!!!!!!!!!!!

pairing - Wolf!Von Negut x f!human

words - 7,522

warnings - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. NSFW THEMES: virginity loss, corruption kink. blood and murder is involved. dubcon. mentions of murder. cunnilingus. porn with plot LOL

special mention - banners belong to @/saradika!

Your mother warned you not to stray from the path.

In your little town, the one you've grown up in, dense green foliage covers the borders. During springtime, flowers and pollen would fill your noses, and the sun is kind to let your laundry dry faster. In summertime, the trees give off cool air for you to sleep in late into the morning. Orange leaves that fall to the ground become the children's plaything, when autumn drenches your little town in cinnamon brown and orange hues. However, in the winter...

“Another victim!” cried out an elderly man as he wrapped the dead body in a thin sheet of cloth, “dear God!”

Townsfolk would gather around the center of the town square, as a dead body mauled to death would appear once a week during winter. Blood and broken bones paint the cobblestone, signaling the beginning of yet another cold winter.

You bring your red cape closer to your neck, the winter air shivering you to the bones. You look away at the horrendous sight of the dead body by the fountain, to which you've known the victim was once your playmate during your childhood years.

“It's those damned wolves!” one of your neighbors proclaimed, unsheathing his sword from his scabbard, “we must hunt them down while it's daylight!”

A murmur erupted amongst the crowd. Wolves— wild creatures that were the king of the woods. However, they are feral in nature, and they are unkind; they murder everything they see and soak them in blood. Once, they only hunted farm animals that the townsfolk had been taking care of (you remember the sheep your father once took care of; its wool ready to be sheared the next summer, yet it never came because its little body was never to be found, apart from the large, animal-like footprints left behind from its pen). Until one day, a human body would appear. And that was the day they all realized that the wolves were now hungry for human blood.

“It is daylight,” called out another neighbor, “we must hunt them down now!”

A ripple of cheers throughout the crowd. Men raised their weapons and lit their fire, holding it up into the air. Lingering through the crowd, countless cries mingled with the somber fury of men. You wish to run away from this sight, were it not for the hand that held you tight.

“They are idiots,” your mother, who lived half of her life in this small town, muttered. “Why should they risk their lives for something trivial like this?”

You wanted to retort, that a human life had died unwillingly to death, but you only grasped the handle of your bucket tighter. This, indeed, only interfered in your daily chore of fetching well water.

“I see your father in the crowd,” she sighs, the creases in your forehead somehow making her look older, “make sure he won't join them in this madness, will you, child?”

You nodded timidly. Although you wish to support the cause, your own kin's blood is far more important than anyone else's. As you prepare to wiggle out of your mother's grasp, the townsfolk suddenly fall silent; ominous, yet full footsteps from the cathedral, not too far from the towns square, echoed loudly.

A man draped in a long, black liturgical vestment, a bible in hand and a large cross hung across his neck. Behind the priest, a regal young nun with blonde hair and green eyes followed closely. Their presence alone made the whole town quiet down, parting to let the priest closer to the mangled body.

You've seen them so many times, yet their wonders still surprise you— the priest opens his old bible, the edges of the book fraying out. He holds onto the cross, steadying it just above the body, muttering a psalm with his eyes closed. The nun would pull out a small glass container, pouring the holy water onto the corpse, and it was set aflame— the townsfolk shrieked in surprise, yet the priest and his nun only stood without any reaction.

They have, after all, been the ones to clean up the messes of murder.

“Do not act so rashly, my brethren,” the priest spoke quietly as he gave the bible to the nun, “the creatures of darkness should not be sought; lest they return us the favor of more bloodshed.”

The people around the square quieted down. Slowly, some returned back to what they were originally doing, even your father who reluctantly went back inside the comforts of your home, until all that was left in the square was the priest, the nun, the ashes of the corpse, and the man who cried out for a hunt. The priest muttered to the man, one that you couldn't hear, but it must have infuriated him as he drew out his weapon and trudged north of the square.

You hear several of your neighbors starting to whisper again— something about being unfortunate, something about being the next victim.

“Well, that's the end of it,” your mother sighed, nudging you in the direction of the well, south, “your chores can't wait forever, dearie.”

Right. You forgot you weren't some omniscient god. You quickly picked up your buckets and walked south. But your eyes still lingered at the ashes that were picked up by the nun in her hand, unable to look away at the immense sadness reflected on her somber green irises.

You trudge forward.

Being a nun in your small town didn't seem bad. However, your mind often wanders to a future where you were in love with someone, bearing his children and living a long, loving life, despite not having a potential husband yet, that is— something that a nun cannot have, due to their devotional marriage to the Almighty.

These thoughts linger in your head, as you hum a worship song along the way, your two empty buckets clanking with your every step. It wasn't a long walk anyways, the well was now closer.

The noises in the bushes say otherwise.

The hairs on your neck prickle— you were aware rabbits occupied the area, their little paw prints digging into the snow during winter, but such noises were incapable of being made by such gentle, little creatures. You quickly pick up your pace, tugging your cape closer.

The bushes kept ruffling until you reached the well. When you look back, you only find your footsteps in the path, and the bushes were bushes. Breathing a sigh of relief, you do your business, tying your bucket and into the well.

“Aren't those buckets too heavy to carry, miss?”

If you think about it, they are— but not as heavy as your body, jumping to the sudden voice talking to you.

“W-what?” You put your hand to your chest, trying to steady your erratic heartbeat, “who's there?”

A leather shoe steps out of the shadows, before the voice reveals itself. He wore a white dress shirt with a large v-shaped cleavage dipping to his abdomen, his suit slung between his shoulders and flowing to the back, tucked neatly with clean black slacks. His eyes are a hazy shade of grey, dark hair slicked back. You've known all the faces in your little town, but with a face chiseled by the gods themselves...

He's not from this town.

“Apologies,” his lips started to move, face contorted with genuine worry, “I did not mean to scare you. The buckets you carry awfully look heavy, and I wish to help.”

Why was such a man here? You quickly stood to your feet, shaking your hands, “This has been a chore I've been doing since I was a child. You, sir, make me worry; why are you here? Are you lost?”

The man's stares linger, on the cape you wore, chuckling at your words, as if dismissing your warning. “I am not lost, little lamb. I happen to stumble across this area.”

Little lamb, it seemed to fit you as a nickname. All the other kids used to call you weak way back. But now it's different: the lady in red. But you shook your head, trying to forget the awful memory, “Do you wish to find shelter, then? I can ask the good ladies to provide you lodgings until you are ready to leave. You are not safe here, so may as well seek refuge.”

“Why?”

You ponder. Does this man not know about the rumor that circulates to the nearby towns?

Looking deep into his eyes, you mutter, “there is a wolf around the area. I suggest you leave before the day ends.”

In the middle of the darkness, sunlight peeks through the shade of the leaves. They highlighted the contours of his face. For a moment, you nearly miss the unreadable glint in his gray eyes and seemingly sharp teeth. But as you blink, his expression is nothing but confusion, as if he looked like a lost child.

“A wolf?” He hums, “ah, so the rumors were true. That sounds quite...saddening.”

“So you have heard,” nearly forgetting your task, you quickly carry your buckets once more, looking away from the charming man, “since you are well aware of the dangers here, then you should leave, good sir.”

“I'd rather you stay alive than to be an unknown victim in our town.” you added, before trudging through the path you came from.

A shame to leave him hanging, but you value your safety and mental health (even as you walk, you hear the incoming sermon of your mother). Out of the blue, the heavy weight in one of your arms disappears.

“Then that means I should at least help you with this, hm?”

You see him clear— pale skin, white teeth, sparkling eyes— in pure daylight, as he carries one bucket effortlessly.

“At least you and I can be safe from the wolf now, isn't that right, little lamb?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, hearing those words from the stranger. Shaking your head, supporting the weight of the only bucket you had in hand now, sighing.

“If you are not from this town, then let me introduce you to some ladies in town to let you rest. I feel bad when I let others do all my tasks.”

He laughs— heartily, it makes your tummy jump, you thought you heard heaven— “your kindness baffles me, little lamb.”

“I am only repaying what you have given to me,” You admit, smiling at him genuinely, “you are the one who is kindly carrying my bucket.”

“It is not heavy,” He mirrors your smile, and you nearly miss the sharp teeth, before it somehow turns back to human ones, “I see that you were the one struggling.”

You laughed before looking elsewhere, “I should probably give you something else, then.”

“Please, this is not a favor,” He stops before placing the bucket on the ground, “consider it as...a welcoming gift.”

He flashes you one last smile, before gesturing to the front. Confused, you turned to the direction he pointed— townsfolk going about their day, the children that were playing, and the fountain that seemed good as new, as if nothing happened earlier.

Turning to thank the stranger, you realize that he had long disappeared. Only the bucket that he helped carry remained.

Despite his sudden departure, a part of you had clung into some hope that he was safe. Maybe not in your town, but somewhere. Amongst the trees were other residents who grew tired of the fear that circulated within your little town, hoping that some were kind enough to let him in.

Fortunately though, the murder stopped. Usually, another body would have popped up in the town square, but instead, a yet-to-be lighted pine tree was erected near the fountain.

On another note, garlands of garlic and a symbol you couldn't recognize was carved onto the wooden posts standing by the entrance.

“It's to scare the wolf,” your father said after another work day, drinking from a bottle of ale that your mother prepared, “the priest commissioned us.”

The bucket of water seemed a bit heavy, several days after the kind stranger helped you. A greedy part of you wishes to see his ethereal face, but the rational one is too wary.

“He won't come back.” You said to yourself, disappointment tugging at the back of your throat, “He probably left town at this point.”

The rustling of the bushes behind you nearly scared the soul out of you. You think it's the wind, but the rustling only grew louder.

Raising one bucket to your chest, you prepare yourself to lunge at the upcoming threat in case it would jump out of its hiding spot. When that time came, you closed your eyes instead—

And a strangled, poor mewl of a cat was heard instead.

Opening one eye, you peeked to see a small kitten, perhaps smaller than the bread you consume every morning. Baby eyes peer at you, one more choked cry spewing out of its lips. Your heart crumbles at the poor creature, putting the bucket down so you could cradle it in your blemished hands, tucking it in the safety of your cape.

Too busy comforting the creature, you never noticed the looming shadow behind you.

“What a poor cat.”

You nearly threw the small creature in your hand. Looking back, your heart rattles as you lock eyes with the stranger from before. A part of you sighs in relief, partly to see that he was well and the other being relieved he was back, while the rest of your body shakes from his sudden arrival.

“Dear sir!” you breathed, fingers finding comfort by patting the kitten's soft head, “Please do not scare me like that. I do not know if I have a bad heart, yet.”

The pretty stranger laughs (at this point, you ask yourself if it was normal to have an upset stomach just from hearing his melodious laughter). Kneeling next to you, he stretches his hand out to the kitten in your hand, slender fingers caressing the area in between its eyes and its forehead.

“What a gentle, yet fragile creature.” He whispers, as if the words were only shared in between the both of you, “Pray tell, how did you find him?”

Ah, so he likes cats as well.

“He was mewling when I found him. I saw no signs of the mother.”

His eyebrows were stitched together, a subtle frown on his lips. Was this regret written on his features?

Fishing out something from his pockets, you trail his movements carefully as he pulls out a piece of meat, enough to fill the kitten's little stomach.

“I figured this would come in handy,” he chuckled, feeding the piece to the cat, “He needs it more than I do.”

You missed his words, instead, you were intently looking at his actions. “He is a he...?”

“Ah, so you have never known what gender cats bear?”

Timidly, you shook your head. “If the cat bears litter, only then will I know that they are a female.”

Golden eyes shine mischievously in the dark. Chuckling once more, he caresses the cheek of the kitten, to which the latter rubs against his fingers. He reached out, a strand of your hair in between his fingers, bringing them to his lips.

“How innocent you are, little lamb,” he whispers, “did your mother not tell you to talk to strangers?”

“She has, but if you were a demon, wouldn't you have killed me right now?”

His smile made your stomach churn, heartbeat skipping lightly in joy, “Quite perceptive, I like you.”

You giggle, “My mother tells me that, too.”

You bring the kitten to your eye level, a pout on your lips, noticing that you were going to be reprimanded should you bring an innocent feline in your raucous home.

“Little lamb, what's wrong?”

“I am afraid that I cannot bring this little one home. My family will be angry at me.”

The stranger sighed. Gently taking the warm cat from your hands, he smiles at you.

“I shall take care of him for you, then.” He spoke, “Only...”

Curiosity outweighs the warning signs flashing in your mind. You quietly asked, “Only...?”

“Will you come and visit me here, when you tend to your bucket? You shall see this creature whenever you like.”

Your heart leaps out of your chest as joy overwhelms you. No longer worrying about the poor kitten, you bowed to the stranger, thankful for his kindness.

“I still cannot believe how naïve you are, Little lamb.” You heard him mutter, but you paid no mind.

When you came back to the village, you failed to notice gray eyes following your every move.

You did your chores diligently. After all, you were a keeper of your word.

Almost everyday, you were rendezvous with the stranger, eager to care and see the growth of the kitten you found. At some point, you no longer questioned the history of the strange man; how could you, when it already felt like you were raising a family with him?

“Like a good mother,” he complimented once, “you take good care of things.”

Heat would rush to your cheeks, tummy fluttering with what you believed were an ache, were a bunch of butterflies taking home there, alongside your thundering heartbeat. (You would slap yourself, too, confusing the stranger and your family.)

Did you like the stranger? You never realized that the thought was buried in the back of your head, then. But all the same, gray eyes you came to remember would visit you, even in your wildest dreams.

On one particular day, while you were getting ready to fetch some water and meet with your stranger, your mother stopped you.

“Dear child, I'd like you to not do that for today.”

“But,” you paused, hands gripping the buckets, “is there something wrong?”

“I'd like you to take a day off, have your brothers do that chore,” she reached out to hold your shoulders, smiling, “spend a day with your dear mother, hm?”

But how could you inform the stranger you were with these past few months, when you were going out with your mother?

In the end, you couldn't get away; instead, she dressed you in your best ones, face coated with makeup you despised, and before the day ended, you found yourself sitting in front of a man you've never met before, a ring on his finger.

“[Y/N],” his honeyed words were nothing compared to the man in the forest, but the ring on his finger looked awfully more expensive than your life, glimmering and glinting as he announced, “we shall be wed soon, my bride.”

And your fate, though unfortunate, was sealed.

--

“You weren't here yesterday.”

You flinched from the tone of your friend, the stranger, as you picked up the fast growing kitten in your arms.

Even the cat noticed your distraught, licking your thumb. “I'm sorry...my mother did not make me leave the house.”

It wasn't a lie; after all, you hadn't left the house until you were being dragged to the saloon, your husband-to-be waiting for you.

“I really wanted to talk to you,” you added, twiddling with the kitten's tail, “but my mother...”

His gray eyes were...bleak. Looking at you with noticeable exhaustion, the man could only sigh. “I thought you broke your promise. You already know what would happen...”

You wonder how to break the news to the man. Aware that your attraction to him was more than what friends would feel, your heart crumbles at the thought of telling the truth.

“Dear sir...”

When he looks up, there was a small smile on his lips. “Little lamb, there is something that I must show you.”

Gently pulling you by the hand, you clutch your cape as the winter air seeps into your skin, trying to catch up at the speed of the man. By the time he slows down, you nearly forget you're human, legs surrendering from the exhaustion.

Thankfully, the man caught you first.

“I am sorry,” he said, as if he hadn't run so fast, “I forgot you aren't entirely athletic.”

You smiled at him, looking down to find the little kitten was snugly fit in his breast pocket, mewling contently.

“You can put me down now, dear sir,” you blushed, coughing, “I can walk on my own.”

“Nonsense,” he mirrors your smile, “let me carry you until we reach our destination.”

“Is it very far, then?”

Carrying you like a bride, he shook his head, a small smile on his lips, “We're quite close.”

The warmth and comfort as he carries you effortlessly, the smell of fresh pine and creeks— you could get drunk in this smell forever. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, trying to sneak your way in smelling more (it's too late; the stranger already knew.)

“You may open your eyes now, little lamb.”

You do. And you were not mistaken—

A field full of roses. Dressed in snow, it was the first time you've seen such a magnificent color, like blood, bleeding onto the white. When the stranger puts you down, your legs find themselves running to the field, eager to witness such beauty amongst the winter land.

“How...” words died in your throat, “How did you find something like this?”

Wordlessly, the stranger sits beside you as you fiddle with the flowers, fingers playing with your red cape, “I've told you; I'm a wanderer.”

Sometimes, you thought about your luck that was down the drain. But when you think about the stranger, the cat, and this beautiful scenery, a stray idea came to you, that made you look at the ashen-eyed man— what if you were to run away with him right now?

He looked back at you, piercing eyes glimmering as he slowly leaned to you, aware of how your breath was fanning his lips.

“Little lamb,” his words were your Achilles' heel, the sound of his voice dipping enough to make your heartbeat louder, “Pull away, should you not like what I will do next.”

What does he do next? Gently, softly, he presses his sweet lips to your inexperienced ones. Shortly, sweetly, with his eyes closed, it made yours flutter before surrendering to the feeling of the kiss.

You should pull away. You should have. You had a groom waiting for you at a church, the wedding a few days away. But was it a sin to kiss a man, a stranger you had fallen in love with, to wrap your arms around him, innocently and carelessly but passionately, as the kiss deepens? His heartbeat and yours in sync, your lips exploring whatever was there waiting for the unknown, his hands on your waist, holding your cape, breathing into each other's warmth— was it really a sin?

The stranger pulls away, somehow aware of the lack of oxygen, with a little whine from your lips, you almost made yourself want to hide away forever. But he only laughs, fingers caressing the apple of your cheek, a butterfly kiss on the tip of your nose. It was the first of your many kisses— and it made your stomach flutter wildly, your legs trembling from want.

“How cute,” the stranger chuckles, “And I thought you were innocent, little lamb.”

“I-It's my first time!” you mutter, looking away from his teasing expression, “I've never kissed anyone before...”

He leans closer, lips touching your cheeks, your jaw, feeling him smile as he inhales. “...do you regret, then?”

Do you? Your nails absentmindedly caress the nape of his neck, trying to look around but him. “No...”

“Good, because I want to kiss you more,” he admits, light kisses on your jaw, “God, it's all I want to do with you.”

His body presses more on you, and you only succumb to it— his warmth, his touch, his kisses. You wanted more, every part of you aching and aching until your body was screaming—

“Let's run away together.”

Your breathing chokes on your throat. Looking at him, his expression is serious and unwavering, your heart beating and breaking at the same time.

He moves and you're kissing him again. You forgot it's your first time, you forgot that he was a stranger— the pretty stranger was the water and you were drowning endlessly in him.

The kitten in his breast pocket mewled. It made you pull away. And reality, although painful, began to catch up with you.

“Little lamb?”

His gray eyes were looking at you with worry. Breathing unstable, you try not to let the tears prickling your eyes escape.

“Dear sir, I'm...sorry.”

“Why...?”

You try to drink all your regrets, pushing away the only warmth in this long, cold winter.

“I can't be with you.”

You don't remember what happened after.

You remember walking back, the warmth being overridden by the cold winter, your red cape dragging through the snow. You remember thinking that your mother would be mad at you, for not returning before sundown, that you should be preparing to meet with your betrothed. But to break your heart and the stranger— should you still call him that?— was far too much for your mind, that you had no emotion left whatsoever, to face what was waiting for you at the village.

Your footsteps are heavy. But at least, the light of the village was already bright. Wait, bright? Trudging through the thick snow a little faster, you hear incoherent cries and screams. By the time you reached the source, you felt someone grab ahold of your arm, causing you to yelp out loud.

“Where have you been?” Your mother's voice causes you to panic, poison dripping from her words, “You nearly made me have a heart attack!”

Your mother holds you by the chin, forcing you to look at the crowd by the square, seeing faces of horror amongst familiar faces. “Should you have shown yourself,” your mother sneered, “You would have been the talk of the town.”

With an opening from the crowd, you finally understood what your mother meant: the priest and his nun, an erected torch in the middle, and that horrid scene you thought you were done watching.

Another dead body. This time, their head was cut off.

---

How were you to know what happened next? Your mother forbade you to leave the house, fearing the wolf would hunt for another. Even all the other activities, including the meet-up with your betrothed, were canceled. You spent the rest of your days waiting, and waiting, unaware that you were supposed to meet with the stranger and fetch water from the well.

The stranger...the stranger you had fallen in love with, the stranger you thought you could run away with.

You sleep through your pain.

Until the days were slowly counting down to the wedding.

“[Y/N], dear,” one day, your father called you downstairs, “Will you please come and meet me here?”

When you did, you were greeted with a big basket, red cloth peeking in between the cover and its mouth. You noticed your mother and father were the only ones waiting for you in the living room, holding the basket together. You wanted to ask.

“It has always been our tradition to bury the flowers we grew before a member of the family were to be wed,” your father spoke, “Aa a tradition to honor our forefathers, we would like for you to do the same.”

“Your wedding day will be tomorrow,” your mother said, “and the priest already allowed us to leave the village, as long as you return before sunset.”

Ah, the wedding. How many weeks have you been holed up in your room, that you've forgotten?

“Not only that, your grandmother lives near the place we do the tradition. We'd like you to extend our invitations to her.” Your father added.

Your heart skipped a beat. It meant you were going to pass by the well, to meet your stranger. But your heart quickly sank— forgetting you've rejected him. There was a high chance he had left. Quietly and compliantly, you picked up the red cape you'd been wearing during your rendezvous and carried the basket that your parents had prepared.

“I'll be back before sundown, then.”

“We love you.” You don't miss those words, before the door closed on you.

The smell of pine trees on your cape still lingers on your cape.

With the first snow falling, your walk to your grandmother's cottage is far and long. But you don't mind, as the scent on your cape kept you company.

The basket is heavy in your hand, but you don't mind. It reminds you of the cat you found that day, and you wonder if it was now as heavy as the basket you carried. How was he? Is he safe? The stranger, will he not be mad after what you said?

It made you sigh from sadness. At the well, he was never there.

“Little lamb,” he would have called you like that, “what a kind little girl you are.”

His voice lingered, probably something that made you remember things. You remember the smell of pine trees on his fingers, the gentleness of his hands as he held the cat— onto yours. The way they easily slotted in between the gaps in your fingers, while you both lay underneath the kind sun, creating angels out of snow.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?”

The way he spoke of your nickname, his touches and teases. It was taunting, it was teasing, but it was all you had. His warmth close to your freezing one, tender arms wrapped among yours.

“Little lamb, little lamb,” the lilt of his tone, the way it tickled your neck, the way it traveled to your tummy, “A pliant, little girl of mine.”

Your memories morph into something else— an image of you, in between his hips, your dress dangerously lifted up your stomach. His hands were holding you by the waist, your arms on his shoulders. In your memory, you hear yourself in a tone you would have recognized as something so indecent, something so intimate. Calling the stranger with gray eyes and slicked-back dark hair in a name that you don't recognize, but somehow knew.

“Von Negut,” how vulgar, the name of someone you never recognized, “more, please.”

Do you remember something like this? When your mouth was on the stranger's lips, the way you grinded on his thigh, sultry moans you never knew that you could make—

You tripped on the snow, causing you to wake up from the memory you had. Catching on your breath, trying to grasp reality, you immediately notice that you toppled over your basket. But thankfully, the flowers in it were still intact. Shaking away the sudden fall, you try to move your body, but down there...you disregard it, as the cold was already disturbing you enough. You prepare to advance forward.

But to your surprise— grandmother's cottage was already in front of you.

---

For as long as you remember, your grandmother was the one who gifted you the red cape.

“It's to protect you from the wolves,” she said, “and you look prettier in red.”

You hoped it was true. Especially with all the murders.

“Grandma,” you called out as you knocked on the door, “It's me, [Y'N].”

A few more knocks should have made her open the door. But on your fifth knock, your grandmother had not made a sound inside. Quietly, you opened the door with a secret that your grandmother taught you when you were younger.

By the time the door opened, you were met with silence and darkness. “Grandma?”

Walking through the wooden floor, your step creaking, you look around to see if your grandmother is asleep. Eventually, you found yourself in her living room, where someone was sitting on a chair facing the windows.

“Grandma?” You called out once more.

“Hello, dear little red hood.” A nickname she fondly called you.

“Hello, grandma. I'm sorry I took so long, that I wasn't able to visit you.”

You quickly placed your basket on the nearest table, rushing to meet your grandmother, but she raised her hand midway, causing you to stop.

“...as much as I want you to pay your respects, dear, I would refrain you from doing so. Grandma...is not feeling well.”

You only noticed the gruffness of her voice. Bowing your head (with a little disappointment), feeling bad for her, wishing you brought medicine as well.

“What brings you here, child?”

“I wished to see you,” you began, “...and I wanted to tell you...to come and visit the town tomorrow. I will be wed by noon.”

A pin-drop silence enveloped the room before your grandmother cackled.

“Marriage, huh?”

You sigh wistfully, the stranger you met crossing your mind, “I...yes.”

“Who is the lucky man?”

“I have never met him before. But my mother said he is the son of one of the best hunters in the region.”

“Does not sound very convincing, tch.” You noticed the anger from her tone, but still, you did not mind.

“Pray tell, dear,” she began once more, “Along the way, did you want this marriage?”

The stranger. The kitten. Your heart and mind. They were all finding someone else. “No...I, I cannot say...”

“Did you not really dream of anyone else, hm?”

Did you? You suddenly remember the lewd thought you had earlier, of the name you called, which made your cheeks flush red, and down there...

“Tell me, little lamb, did you not think of me?”

You froze. No one else called you that nickname. Looking up, the person sitting on the chair finally revealed himself.

The stranger, with sharp teeth and blood in his mouth.

“S-Sir?”

“I wondered when you were going to show up, little lamb.”

With every step he took to you, you would move backward, until you bumped onto the table. Without wasting any time, your stranger pressed himself to you, caging you in between his arms, making you scream.

“Did you miss me?”

“Y-You're the wolf?”

“And here I thought you were glad to see me,” tenderly, like before, his fingers grade your jaw and lips, hungry gray eyes looking on your lips, before staring at your eyes. His fingers found themselves taking a strand of your hair to his lips.

“Marriage, it's a shame.” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair, “I mean, he'd be lucky to have my little lamb as his wife.”

You're shaking in his arms, afraid and somehow aware of his size now that his jacket is out of the way, muscles and skin showing and touching yours. Down there, your legs tremble, and you try not to cry from being intimidated by this bloody man.

“But no marriage would happen tomorrow anyway.”

“Wh-what?”

Pulling out from his pockets, the sunlight glints at the gold band on his fingers, bloodied and gone.

“D-Did you-”

“-kill the man? I would be ruthless; of course not. I merely bullied him to give me the wedding band.”

Like your moment at the rose field, the stranger nuzzled his nose to your cheeks, making you sniffle your cries. “I've been waiting for you for a long, long time now, little lamb.”

Pulling away, pity and sadness were reflected in his eyes, a small frown on his pretty lips. Taking your hand, slipping in the bloody ring on yours, he began to speak.

“Do you know what I had to go through?”

Timidly through your tears, you shook your head. “N-No...”

“Wolves feed on human blood. Without it, we would die.”

He gently kissed your fingers, before whispering, “It was hell; trying to kill just to survive.”

A part of you somehow pitied this man. But he ruthlessly and mercilessly murdered every man in your little town. You looked at him as he continued to kiss your fingers.

“There is a solution to this problem, though.”

As if finding eureka, your stranger's eyes glimmered brighter than the ring you had in hand.

“I had to find my mate.”

His fingers were brushing away the tears streaming on your cheeks, kissing them away, “...and she happens to be you.”

He kissed you. Lips stained with blood, that you could taste in between breaths. But unlike his nature, he was kind, he was still so gentle.

“My little lamb,” he whispered in between kisses, “Be with me, or...”

His lips were now kissing the area underneath your ear, before threatening, “...I will murder everyone in that village.”

“No!”

With all your strength, you push him off, knocking the table and the basket in the process. But your attempts were futile; he grabbed your cape, causing you to fall onto the scattered flowers on the floor. Screaming and crying through the fear, you helplessly tried to shake out of his hard grasp on your arms above your head. But he already had you pinned in between his body.

“Ah, ah, little lamb,” He teases, “I'd rather you not do that.”

He leans down to you, lips capturing yours. You are helpless in his grasp, with nowhere left to run. His kiss was fiery, passionate. You were afraid, but the way that you molded perfectly onto him, the heat pooling at your legs, his weight above you; you could only pull away for energy, before being kissed once more.

“Von Negut,” you unconsciously cried out, mouth clamping for being carelessly moaning out loud when his leg brushed you down there.

He froze. Looking up, you swore his fangs were showing.

“So you remember,” he grinned, “I am glad I didn't have to introduce myself again, [Y/N].”

He knew who you were, like how you knew who he was before. The memory from earlier resurfaced, and you could only whine from the way he was kissing and teasing you with his lips.

“Let me touch you, little lamb,” he murmured, which you unconsciously opened to him, “let me show you that you are mine.”

His knees found themselves slotted in between your slightly exposed bottoms, your skirt now on your stomach. You try to wiggle out of his grasp, but with Von Negut tearing apart your blouse with one hand, you are more exposed.

“Beautiful,” he inhaled through your bra, burying himself there, “Mine.”

It really was too much: the heat, the wetness pooling down there, and his lips latched on your chest as he stripped you bare. Weakly, you cried out to stop, tears now endlessly crying as your voice turned into helpless moans.

With his free hand, he slipped it in between your thighs, prying your legs open. Neverminding the undergarments as he effortlessly tore them once more, his fingers were toying with your drenched thighs, purposely avoiding your neglected clit.

“Fuck, already wet?” Von Negut chuckled, “What a naughty little slut you are, little lamb.”

Embarrassment flooded you endlessly. His fingers finally decided to play with your wet folds, every sound echoing throughout the room. But just when you thought it was over, Von Negut hovered over to your exposed cunt, mouth drooling as he looked at you: disheveled and confused, amongst the fallen flowers on your back.

“This is mine too, hmm.” Licking one long stripe, you moaned his name out loud, fingers threading his now unkempt hair.

“V-Von Negut, n-no, it's too dirty there...”

“But doesn't it feel nice, hm?” He digs into your pussy, kitten licks on your clit as he played with your sopping wet hole. “You must be lying; you taste heavenly.”

Von Negut felt like he was in heaven at this point. Watching you writhe as he expertly and sloppily ate you out, forgetting the aching tent in his pants. Right now, what you wanted, was to prepare you for something big.

But with you moaning his name without any filter, then God, he was ready to cum right there and then.

“Mmh, look at this, such a virgin little hole, too,” He eases two fingers in, and fuck, it was already tight, with you crying from the pain.

“N-no more, p-please...”

“Little lamb- ah, please stop moving, mmh-” He tries to slip in one more finger, but you wouldn't stop moving. With two fingers, he curled it just right, as you arched your back with a moan.

“Von Negut, no more...!”

“You're coming now, aren't you, little lamb,” he laughed, watching as you bit your teeth, watching in the next few moments before you would come undone.

“W-what's happening?”

You wouldn't know, but Von Negut does. “Cum for me, little lamb.”

Per his instructions, your pussy clamps on his fingers, liquid coming out endlessly as you came violently, coating his hand. Von Negut laughs at your misfortune, but you-

“So, goddamn beautiful, little lamb,” he cooed, trying to call you back to reality from your first orgasm, “we're still not done...”

When he pulled his fingers out, your hole was still clenching around nothing, only igniting the thirst he had for you. Watching as you weakly turned on your stomach, crawling away, Von Negut takes his time, unbuckling his belt, revealing his massive, leaking cock.

Grabbing you by the hips, he drags you closer, cock rubbing in between your ass, making you whimper. “If I put this big thing inside of you, I'm going to make you my woman, hm?”

You turned behind him, watching it in between you, rubbing it against the good parts, “W-wait, will that even f-fit me?”

“You're my good little lamb,” he cooed, tip rubbing your overstimulated clit, “I'm going to tear through your hymen, you won't be a virgin anymore. You're going to be my little lamb, my little cocksleeve.”

His words spurred you on, hole clenching once more around nothing, “N-No, please-!”

“You'll take it like a good fucking girl.”

Without hesitation, he plunged the tip into your tight ring of muscle, your voice crying out from the pain as he sank into you, some blood gushing out, with cream forming from where he fucked you. He was supposed to let you adjust, to let you get used to his girth. But fuck, you just can't be still- your cunt asking him to fuck you more, to suck his dick deeper onto you. With a loud moan, Von Negut bottoms out, the tip hitting your g-spot.

“V-Von Negut-!”

You came violently once more, fluids coming out of your newly-claimed hole, tears and shaking as proof of your defeat. Von Negut should be smiling, then- after all, he was finally yours, as much as you were his.

“Little lamb?”

But you weren't listening. Instead, you subconsciously grind on his dick more, whining impatiently. “Nngh, p-please.”

“Fucked out already, hm? Fuck, and I thought you were so innocent”

Effortlessly turning you to face him without getting you off his cock, Von Negut finally sees your beautiful tear-strained face, helpless as he fucks you properly this time.

Was it always this blissful? Every noise and sound that Von Negut could coax right out of you was perfect. That his mate, the fated red hood, the panacea of all his problems, was finally his to take? Fucking you deeper and harder now, he presses a hand on where the bulge from fucking you was seen.

“Little lamb, [Y/N],” he called out, noticing that he was ready to come, even if he was seeing the expression on your face, “I'm so close...”

“P-please,” you lulled, brain fogging from the pain and pleasure, “V-Von Ne-Negut,”

The clench of your pussy, the way you called his name, and the way his cock was pistoning in and inside of your used pussy— fuck, that was all it took for Von Negut to moan your name and fill your insides, painting your walls white, overflowing, even before he hadn't pulled out yet.

With a sigh, he comes back to Earth, watching as you ride out the last of your orgasm. Pulling out, as messy as it was, with his cum dripping out of you, he tries to succumb to the urge to fucking it back inside. Von Negut carries you in his arms, carrying you to the spare bed he had prepared. You must have been exhausted, seeing that you couldn't open your eyes as he carried you.

“I hope the prophecy was right, then.”

Your mother once told you not to stray from the path.

But you were far from the path that was laid out to you. Somewhere amongst the dense trees of spring and summer, or the fallen leaves in autumn, and the cold in winter, you settled on a cottage far from the village. There, you could clean, cook, or sleep whenever you wanted,

It could be lonely, but it's not all the time. At least, when you're a ghost.

If you ever find a man in the woods asking to help, decline the offer. Unless you want to be a victim of his whims.

“Little lamb,” he'd call you that, “I hope your mother told you not to stray the path.”

please like and share!! likes, shares, reblogs are appreciated!!

>> starlillies <<

[infinizero]

Horror Instance Amity Park

As a fan of some infinite flow horror bl novels and having recently realized the dp fandom, I had the sudden epiphany that a very liminal/dead Amity Park + full Eldritch ghost Danny Sam and Tuck would be a good horror instance

As an explanation: infinite flow horror is basically a "game" of sorts where participants are dropped into horror worlds wherein they must fulfill an objective. That objective is usually survive or find out the mystery behind this world etc

Drop in the giw and Fenton parents that went mad after their son was "killed" by a ghost?

--

The glowing neon green goo should be a comical sight, yet seeing it ooze out of a living teenager's chest as they are strapped down and cut open made it feel more grotesque than the usual crimson blood.

And the teenager who just a few hours ago was bounding about showing them around had eyes that glowed the same green, staring straight at them.

The participants are substitute school teachers after the previous teachers all mysteriously disappeared. Their objective was to find out the sequence of incidents that led the town to become like this.

Someone breaks off from the group to the side and starts dry heaving, having not eaten since the start of this world due to fear of the glowing green food and how it sometimes comes back to life.

The students were all strange, sometimes showing them all inhuman features or abilities. Naturally, they assume these students will slowly kill them off if they don't solve everything soon.

They all tread warily around the students, especially avoiding whoever this Phantom they speak of is assuming him to be the boss of this instance. This all comes to a head when the giw managed to prove a student is ecto contaminated and drags them away to be cut open for examination

Which in turn leads to the scene before them.

They all follow the clues back to the Fenton house, during this time both the giw and Fenton parents start going crazy and dragging anyone who even slightly rings on the ecto radar back to be cut open

Meanwhile Phantom continuously sneaks in and rescues the captives, sometimes too late but most of the time in time. They try working with him but their goals just don't align. At most the dudes a good info source or someone they can trust not to kill them, a support NPC if anything

At this point a few of the participants have also been cut open

Eventually they clear the instance and just never look back. But the thoughts linger

Cuz. In this one, humans had been the villains. The humans had been the ones who were killing everyone and not the ghosts like usual.

Edit: adding

Compared to the inhuman students who could run faster than anyone else, the ghosts who could control plants and technology as well as the monster made of ice and starlight, somehow it is the malice and madness in ordinary human hearts that is the most terrifying

[elizmanderson]

rats, I was gonna add this to my original cover reveal post as a reblog, but apparently I can't? I didn't see a video option for rb, anyway. I guess it's fine bc this got longer than I meant it to, although that's mostly because I wanted to include information that would've already been in the post I had planned to reblog

anyway please behold the magic of me somehow creating a book trailer despite generally having no video editing skills to speak of. I think it slaps actually

here's the original post: link to cover reveal post

here's a full book description

In this mesmerizing, wonderfully moving queer cozy fantasy, an immortal ghost hunter must confront his tragic past in order to embrace his found family. Find an angry spirit. Send it on its way before it causes trouble. Leave before anyone learns his name. After over two hundred years, Peter Shaughnessy is ready to die and end this cycle. But thanks to a youthful encounter with one o’ them folk in his native Ireland, he can’t. Instead, he’s cursed to wander eternally far from home, with the ability to see ghosts and talk to plants. Immortality means Peter has lost everyone he’s ever loved. And so he centers his life on the dead—until his wandering brings him to Harrington, Ohio. As he searches for a vengeful spirit, Peter’s drawn into the townsfolk’s lives, homes and troubles. For the first time in over a century, he wants something other than death. But the people of Harrington will die someday. And he won’t. As Harrington buckles under the weight of the supernatural, the ghost hunt pits Peter’s well-being against that of his new friends and the man he’s falling for. If he stays, he risks heartbreak. If he leaves, he risks their lives.

here are some book links

(only this time I remembered to actually link all of them)

request it on Netgalley: link to Netgalley page

add it to a TBR: link to TheStoryGraph | link to GoodReads

preorder: link to BookShop | link to Barnes & Noble | link to Kobo | link to Amazon

and here's alt text for the video

text fades in over softly blurred flowers, reading "The Keeper of Lonely Spirits, book trailer and cover reveal."

text split up throughout the trailer reads: "a ghost. a curse. a town in peril. to save an Ohio town, he'll have to risk his heart…"

as the music starts, clouds dissolve into faded flowers, a sunset field, an upward shot of trees, an overhead shot of a small town.

fade to black.

as the music swells, cut to: a swiftly ticking pocketwatch; someone walking through a forest, wearing jeans and boots; a cemetery; sunlight through the trees; a cheerful old white man in a vest.

more images flash swiftly, getting faster and faster: an old white man with a weary expression, leaning his forehead against a wall; hands fixing a pocket watch; an overhead shot of trees; a ghostly figure in a corridor; a weathered cottage in a field; an old man running with two children; a lone headstone; someone running alone in the sunset; a flash of color in the air; a young Black woman sitting on the floor in front of a couch, look sad and holding a cup of tea; two old men kissing; closeup of a man's eye with tears falling; yellow flowers; an old letter; two old men with their foreheads pressed together.

the last image lingers; one man's eyes flicker up to the other's face.

now the images slow. closeup of an old white man from the back, facing the sunlight, dissolving into a sunlit field with text over it reading, "You get used to it." the text is wiped away and replaced by different text: "I hope I never get used to being alone."

cut to: a background of yellow flowers. the cover of E.M. Anderson's The Keeper of Lonely Spirits fades in: a small cottage sitting atop a lonely hill, with smoke drifting from the chimney, surrounded by headstones, yellow flowers, and intermittent trees, with the title "The Keeper of Lonely Spirits" centered in large, yellow, sans-serif text and "a novel, E.M. Anderson" centered in smaller, white, sans-serif text below it. music is XAmbassadors' Unsteady.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Friday, August 23rd

JINX: We have found that the signs of the alignment are moving faster than expected. GLORY: (primping in mirror) Meaning? JINX: If you are to use the key, you must act quickly. GLORY: Fine. (puts mirror down) I have been cooling my heels in this crappy little town long enough. (lies down on bed) Sunnydale's got too many demons and not enough retail outlets. (Picks up a pair of shoes)

~~Checkpoint~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Inappropriate Favour by forsaken2003 (Spike/Xander, R)

Dean’s Failures by mmooch (Buffy, Supernatural crossover, T)

a habit that's happened before by explosionshark (Buffy/Faith, T)

Injured by The_Crazy_Knight (Buffy/Giles, T)

Inappropriate Favour by forsaken2003 (Spike/Xander, M)

Red Fruit Punch by Foxxzilla (Buffy/Spike, M)

Dean's Failure by mmooch (Buffy, Supernatural crossover, FR13)

[Chaptered Fiction]

A Different Path, Chapter 19 by Anaxilea (Buffy/Faith, M)

In the Company of Witches and Slayers: Chapter 140 by VladimirHarkonnen (TheLightdancer) (Willow/Tara, E)

Slayer & Rose Bride, Chapter 14 (complete!) by acpendra, Sparkle 94 (acpendra) (Buffy, Shoujo Kakumei Utena | Revolutionary Girl Utena crossover, M)

A Slayer's Greatest Weapon- Book one- BTVS, Chapter 7 by KHandE11 (Ensemble, Wolfblood crossover, T)

Less Is Not Enough, Chapter 6 by Passionpire88 (Buffy/OC, Spike, Once Upon A Time crossover, M)

Further From Home, Chapter 7 by zombiesam (Buffy/Giles, E)

Stupid Thing, Chapter 3 by mistigrisunshine (Buffy/Spike, T)

Supply Issues, Chapter 2 by wickedrum (Buffy/Spike, T)

If You Ever, Chapter 3 by Mirrored_Illusions (Buffy, Stargate crossover, T)

Free to a Good Home, Chapter 1 by though_you_try (Buffy/Spike, M)

The Neighbor's Point of View, Chapter 124 by the_big_bad (Buffy/Spike, PG)

To All We Guard, Chapter 27 by simmony (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Along Came Two, Chapter 8 by LilithSwan (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

Like A Feather, Chapter 8 (complete!) by Willow25 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13)

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork (+meta): cordy surviving season 4 by artsying-ifer (worksafe)

Vidlet: Buffy is taking it by yeomar645

Fanvid: Spike & Buffy - You Don't Have To Love Me by Sheebz D

Fanvid: Buffy l Where did it go wrong? by Dacy Toxic

Fanvid: Buffy and Angel - Dream Away by juliaroxs241

Fanvid: Buffy and Angel - Seventeen by juliaroxs241

Fanvid: BUFFY SUMMERS || SAD EDIT BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER by ALEXEDITZ

Fanvid: Window To Your Soul - by Delerium - 04x13 - The I in Team by NessaKins91 (Buffy/Riley)

Fanvid: Buffy the Vampire Slayer but with Like A Prayer (Choir Version, Deadpool & Wolverine) by Jess Wilson

Fanvid: Buffy and Angel - Endlessly Yours (with Lyrics and Arabic subtitle) by Vision Dream Media

Vidlet: “For You” || BTVS || @makky_cc by Makkyyyy

[Reviews & Recaps]

Video: Buffy S02E20 "Go Fish" Spoiler Review by LGRN - Entertainment

Podcast: Buffering the Vampire Slayer | 8.01 The Long Way Home by Buffering: A Rewatch Adventure

Video: Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 4: Episode 6 - Wild at Heart by The Cheshire Kiwi

Video: Buffy and the Inherent Flaw of Media Tie-In Novels by Another Booktube Channel

Podcast: Re-Broadcast: Buffering the Vampire Slayer's 3.19 "Enemies" by Buffering: A Rewatch Adventure

Video: Analyzing Buffy’s “Restless” by Sky James

[Recs]

Fic rec: Learning Curve by Kateykakes (Buffy/Angel, G) recced by I Will Remember You Marathon

[Fandom Discussions]

When Willow and Tara moved into the Summers house after Buffy died by lindseymcdonaldseyelashes

I wish that Angel got the attention Spike does on Tumblr by putinskremlinqueen4palestine64

I wish that Tumblr had less of Cangel and more of Bangel and Xandelia by putinskremlinqueen4palestine64

What would happen if people outside the Watcher's Council discovered the existence of the Undead? continued by AlphaFoxtrot

To the older ones!! B&A question! 😈 by NNix

Bad Girls & Dirty Girls continued by multiple posters

Rewatch thoughts and questions continued by multiple posters

Riley's outfit in As You Were continued by MoonLight SY-3

Watchers - how were they ‘chosen’? continued by Stoney

Stinky Parker by Littledittydee

Would Faith had been openly bi if Buffy had been on TV today? by jdpm1991

I'm rewatching Buffy/Angel again and Buffy season 4 has to be my favourite by Hong-Kwong

I’m watching Season 7. Just finished Episode 8 - Sleeper. When does the season get bad? by Caydenas

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Señor, your mustache provides you great strength and dignity [Angel Season 4] by midnightmeatloaf

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[dailycharacteroption]

Nantambu Chime-Ringer (Pathfinder Second Edition Archetype)

Ah, Nantambu, the city that is home to the Magaambya school of magic. As one might expect, such a city boasts many useful magical innovations and wonders that improve life around the city, especially since the academy often sends students out to find ways to aid the city with their troubles as part of their lessons in understanding the importance of using magic to help others.

Those magical innovations reach into the city’s town watch, who carry elaborate sets of chimes, many of which have magical enchantments on them.

These chimes are primarily an alarm system meant to help raise the alert level when danger is afoot and direct other guards to the ringers position, but in addition to the magical power of said chimes, the ringers are also often trained to channel their own innate magic through them, finding ways to bolster allies and protect the innocent.

Naturally, as written this archetype would primarily only appear in games centered around Nantambu, but like all archetypes, it can be adapted to your world you see fit.

Either way, the chime-ringers offer some useful abilities to their trainees, so let’s take a look, shall we?

The base dedication for this archetype starts with lessons in how resonance and harmonics are tied to magic, which has the practical effect of teaching them one arcane or occult cantrip which they presumably cast by invoking the right notes on their chime set.

With a spritely tone, many also learn to accelerate their speed and the speed of others in order to move faster to apprehend the criminal and rush to the aid of the innocent.

They also can learn how to invoke a deafening silence with their chimes (by which I mean they cancel out soundwaves or outright overpower sound with magic, either robbing a foe of their hearing or eliminating all sound in an area.

When times comes to fight, their chimes can be used to set up magical resonance in their weapons or the weapons of allies, briefly enchanting them with many useful enchantments, mostly those that wreath the weapons in elemental power, but a few others like ghost touch are in there too. However, they must continue focusing on playing the right notes to keep the enchantments up for at most a minute.

Finally, some learn to instill swiftness into all of their allies actions rather than just movement, making them fast enough for extra actions.

A simple and small archetype, but one that provides a lot of useful buffs to your party in a fight. I feel like if this were converted back into 1st edition it would definitely be a bard archetype. In any case, pretty much any character that wants to buff allies can make use of it, especially champions and bards, though obviously one must choose which ability set to divide their actions between.

I do like the idea of guardians of law and order whose implements of alerting others are imbued with magic, though it’s a shame that modern examples are left wanting in the whole deserving of such evocative symbols. Still, the idea that a symbol of office holding real power and not symbolic representation of power by way of authority is pretty neat.

Centered around a stable portal to the fey realms, The city of Bednara has long held a truce with the fey that come from the other side, allowing them to enter and visit under the assumption they will cause no harm. Obviously, however, not all fey or mortals honor this peace, which is why the Tolling Guard exist, wielding their magic chimes to alert others of danger and put a stop to wrongdoing. However, today a cu sith, a guardian of such portals, manifested and has begun tearing through the city as if looking for something, and the guard have to balance between trying to stop the rampage and finding out what the powerful fey wants.

While redeemed by a priest of the Kind One, Vilda the beastkin elf still recalls the blood on her hands, and knows that even with her new identity the people never forgave the Butcher of Ironwall. So she keeps her origins quiet and works as a guard, hoping one day to feel worthy of the new lease on life she has been offered.

The heist the party was a part of has gone south when their boss betrays them and leaves them in the lurch. Now wanted criminals, the party must avoid the chime-wielding city guard and their clockwork auxiliaries and make their way somewhere safe so they can plan their next move to exact revenge.

[classcursehq]

memorial  day  rolls  around,  lincoln  city  still  under  the  microscope  when  it  comes  to  the  events  of  the  past  few  weeks...  little  jessie  jones  is  doing  his  paper  rounds,  the  latest  edition  of  the  jubilee  chronicle  landing  on  doorstep  after  doorstep  before  dawn  breaks.  it's  never  really  had  any  jaw  dropping  content  before  but  by  the  time  that  9am  rolls  around,  the  word  is  spreading  faster  than  wildfire...  not  because  of  the  content  of  the  chronicle  but  a  small  article  stapled  inside  the  front  page.  it  reads...   dear  readers,  i  think  there  comes  a  time  when  we  must  exercise  our  freedom  of  speech.  my  editor  has  told  me  that  we  are  not  to  share  the  information  that  has  been  passed  on  to  us  but  out  of  moral  obligation,  i  cannot  hold  my  tongue.  i  don't  think  that  the  police  are  serving  in  the  best  interest  of  us,  here  in  town,  allowing  vital  information  to  remain  hidden  in  plain  sight.  i  happen  to  have  transcripts  from  their  latest  investigation  that  suggested  that  the  missing  boys  shoes  were  found  buried  in  local  woodland.  they  are  describing  what  happened  as  a  binge  drinking  fuelled  night  gone  wrong,  memories  of  those  who  were  there  seeming  to  be  diminished.  and  more...  that  chris  wilder  has  a  secret  sibling  right  here  in  town,  walking  amongst  us  yet  shrouded  in  secrecy.  if  you  don't  hear  from  me  again,  you'll  know  that  i  was  silenced  by  the  oppression  of  the  lincoln  city  police  department.  i  can't  wait  another  ten  years  to  speak  our  truth.  lux. by  noon,  everyone  knows  that  lux  has  been  let  go  of  by  the  jubilee  chronicle,  that  little  jessie  jones  has  never  cried  so  many  tears.  something  in  the  air  feels  even  more  different...  and  then  comes  the  message... chris  wilder  :  did  one  of  you  kill  me?

[thesims3help]

Sims 3 - Gameplay enhancing mods: School, University, Skills, Work.

A category-based mod post. Mods and links previously featured in our Masterlist. All credits to their rightful owners.

Categories include: school, apprenticeship, university, tuition, skills, careers, gigs and work mods.

School:

Extra-Curricular Activities – MissyHissy's School For Gifted Sims

The Apprenticeship Program – MissyHissy's School For Gifted Sims

Faster (and Slower) Homework - 8 Flavours!

Extra Credit Homework V4 by Nona Mena (simlogical.com)

Edited Education Hours

University:

Course List | MissyHissy's College of Further Education

Lost & Found: Honors Scholarship (Plus Other Aptitude Test Tweaks)

Write Scholarships for Money

New Scholarships (Update 10/26/23) - Talent Scholarships & No Store Version

Attend University Online (Update 10/26/23) - Wish Fix

University Life Visual Fixes (Send Insulting Text, Texting Idle, Heat of the Moment Kiss)

Studying Tweaks

Minimum Wage/More Realistic Earnings, Higher Tuition, Higher Boarding School Costs, Higher Grant Money

University Manager by Kuree[Script Mod] by Kuree (simlogical.com)

[UL] No Academic Performance Decay - 1.63 - 1.67 by Nona Mena (simlogical.com)

University Degree Tweaks: Counts for Education and Social Group Jobs + FLAVOURS

Skills:

Take Practice Shots Mod

Hidden Skills Unhidden

Learn Cooking Recipes by Watching TV!

Skills Lose Progress

Musical Instruments

Flower Arranging - Interaction and Skill

Knitting for TS3 - Interaction and Skill

Writing, Painting, Gardening, Tinkering More Fun

Study Skills Online V37

Yoga Mod (Update 3/1/23) - New Features!

Scribbling Pad + Buzzler's Scribbling Pad - Fixed

TS2 > TS3 Functional Sewing table [BETA V2.0.0]

Programming Skill

Faster Gardening Mod - 3 Flavors

Faster Upgrades Times

Faster Drafting Table Sketches & Paintings

Faster Invention Making/Sculpting and/or Challenges

Faster/Slower and/or Hidden Skills!

Rock Climbing Wall Tweaks, with multiple flavors

Meditate by Candlelight V4 by Nona Mena (simlogical.com)

Fit Atmosphere (Gym) Moodlet Fix by Nona Mena (simlogical.com)

Jobs, Gigs:

Social Networking Skill for Computer/MultiTab

Spin Class

The Job Board | MissyHissy's Job Centre

Employment – MissyHissy's School For Gifted Sims (Teen Jobs)

Time to work again - Cancel Time Off

Social Care Career

Hairdresser Mod - Impress Clients, Temporarily Dye Hair and More!

Job Overhaul -- Interviews And More

Pool Jobs for Lifeguards

nraas Careers - Must download main Careers mod and wanted modules which represent different careers.

The Business as Unusual Bistro Set

The Savvier Seller Mod - Version 4

Observatory Assistant -- Part-Time Astronomy Job

Sim State - The Sims 3 Open For Business Mini Expansion v1.4

Ultimate Careers (Version 4.3)

Showtime: Performance Career Tweaks by Nona Mena (simlogical.com)

Xtreme Career [TS1 to TS3]

Army Enlisted Career - Now With Two Separate Career Paths! - Updated 12/02/2012

Magic Academy / Dark Magic Academy Career

Factory Worker Career

Music Producer Career

Marine Biologist career

Doggie Day Care career

Restaurant Host career

Superhero and Supervillain Careers

Layoff Mod

Cancel Time Off Updated

Check For Work In Rabbitholes

Showtime Gigs: Easier or Harder Legendary Shows

Late Night Gig Scheduler Deluxe: Be your own agent! (scripted object) by Nona Mena (simlogical.com)

Find All Jobs in Newspaper or on any Computer

All Careers Available In the Future by Gurra (simlogical.com)

Adventure Boards/Job Board for your towns by Nona Mena (simlogical.com)

Audition For Band Gigs

Teen Band Redux

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 19

An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99) Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

Our first (AND ONLY!) pov switch between Harley and Daryl. It jumps back and forth.

Please enjoy this chapter!

Daryl pushes a stray branch out of his way, ducking under it and carrying on down the beaten path. Homeward and empty handed. After searching tirelessly for Sophia for about three hours and coming up empty, all he wants to do is get back to the farm, eat some leftovers for lunch, and take a damn nap. All this searching business, combined with that no-good bastard Shane. Been one Hell of a time, that's for sure. 'Course, Harley's gonna be askin' him why he didn't find the girl when he gets back. He don't blame her. It's been almost a week since they last seen her. To an adult like him, feels like months. To her, must feel like years. If he could take some of that pain away, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

Seems he'll just have to keep going out every day to search.

Amy, Morales, Jenner. Hell, her own Mother. That poor girl's seen too much death, and he knows it. This time, God, he hopes it's different.

He steps out from the treeline and slowly makes his way up the driveway, rehearsing in his head what he's gonna say to her.

The closer he gets, though, the faster he realizes something seems wrong. He picks up his pace, jogging up to where everyone's gathered around the gate, feverishly arguing over one another. Can't believe, Anywhere by now, are the little snippets he can make out, Leaving right now, Are you ready, Yes. Already, he's trying to pin-point Harley in the crowd, but all he comes up with is a crying boy and a bunch of worried faces.

With dread creeping up behind him even quicker now, Daryl calls out, "Hell is goin' on here? Where's Harley?"

Heads turn in his direction and eyes go wide.

Hand held over her heart, Jacqui gasps, "Oh, God, he's back."

When Rick spots him over Andrea's shoulder, he nudges her to the side and marches straight over to him.

"Daryl." He's never seen him this frenzied before. "Daryl, we got a problem."

Worry-wart Dale's hot on his heels, adding, "It's Harley."

"He took her." Lori cries. "Shane, he took her!"

"They're gone!"

He comes to a stop in front of Rick.

"What?"

All at once, red-hot anger. Red-hot anger burning everywhere.

"He left five minutes ago." Rick's focus is sharp and deadly, a knifepoint. "Listen, we're goin' after him and we're doin' it now. You comin'?"

Daryl knew Shane had some crazy thoughts, but this is beyond that. He honestly wishes he could say this is a shock, but it ain't.

"Gimme that gun." He seethingly demands. He snatches a rifle off Dale and checks the chamber as the rest of the group come to surround him. It's already full. By the looks on everyone's faces, they're not planning on talking things out this time. "Which way?"

"We reckon he's gonna skip town." Rick explains, motioning with his gun. "He knows that's the first place we'll search, and he's smarter than that. And he's got provisions, so he won't be in need of a shoppin' trip anytime soon. So, I'm thinkin' he'll be headed for Fort Benning."

"He's had his heart set on that place for a long time." Glenn nods in agreement. "It's as good a guess as any."

"Guessing's all we got. Which car you takin'?"

More rifles are handed out like hot cakes.

"Maggie's offered hers. Fastest one we got."

"Who else?"

"Glenn, T-Dog, and Andrea."

"I'll take my truck." The chamber bolt clicks back into place as everybody splits up. "Let's go chase this slimy sum'bitch down, then."

"I'll take shotgun." Rick nods, storming toward the truck alongside him. "He's really done it this time, hasn't he?"

He barks, "How the Hell did he get away?"

"It was the barn. We found Sophia." He doesn't even have the chance to ask the most important question there is, 'cause Rick answers for him. "Dead." His stomach sinks at that. That's a loss he'll have to feel later. He can't afford to think about anything but his own little girl right now. "Bitten. God, I had to shoot her. We all had our heads turned at the right moment, and next thing we know, Shane's already up the hill with her. We tried to stop him. Hell, I even shot the car up."

Daryl sends him a barbed glare. "You ain't—?"

"No. I made sure." He shakes his head, expression severe. "I saw her in the window at the last minute. She wasn't hit. Just the back window."

He takes a sigh of relief. A small victory. They're gonna need a lot of those today.

As they reach their camp, Daryl snatches up a spare box of bullets, sarcastically ribbing, "Would'a been nice of you to hit the tyres, Grimes."

He tosses the ammo to Rick, who catches and stashes it in his pants-line.

"Yeah, very funny. He was drivin' that thing outta here like a drunken maniac. Not even The Terminator could'a hit those things."

"Just sayin'," He lilts as he grabs the keys from his bag and rounds the truck. "Bein' a city cop an' all."

"Shut up, Daryl. You wanna go kill this bastard, or what?"

"With pleasure."

They both climb into their seats and slam the doors shut. Before Rick even has time to get his seatbelt on properly, Daryl's got the engine on and is swerving out the small clearing, tearing up the grass as he goes. They make the speedy, bumpy drive back to the main gate, where T-Dog and Glenn, with Andrea at the wheel, are idling on the driveway in Maggie's green Subaru.

He pulls up next to them, window rolled all the way down.

"Y'all ready?" He calls out over the sound of the truck bumbling.

"We're followin' you, got a full tank of gas." Andrea nods. "Just lead the way."

"Be careful." Carl pouts worriedly from nearby, wrapped up in his Momma's arms. Then, shyly, "Bring her back, please."

The engine revs under Daryl's foot as Rick promises, "We're not comin' back 'till we do."

"And Shane..." He hesitates for a moment. A hardened look replaces what had once been a soft little boy. "Do what you have to do."

Do what you have to do.

Without another word exchanged, they set off down the drive, a posse of anger honed on a single target.

This is not how Daryl was expecting his afternoon to start, but he sure as Hell knows how it's gonna end.

Only once they hit the highway does the rage melt away into pure, sickening anxiety.

Welcome to Talbot County, says the weathered sign on the side of the road.

As I'm readin' those big, bold letters, the car comes to a crawl. Shane steers it into the emergency lane, muttering to himself about gas. He said about two hours ago we'd run out at some point today. Guess he was right. I lift my head from where I been resting it against the door and peek out the window. Yellow fields and impossibly tall pine trees surround us on both sides, bordered by two wonky, rickety fences.

I don't recognise any of it, but I've gotten used to that feeling by now. I've had more than enough time to.

Shane sends me a half-smile from the driver's seat. "Looks like we're walking from here, kiddo. Grab yer things." 

Walking. Hopefully that'll make us easier to find.

But knowin' Shane, he'll take us through the woods and it'll only make it ten times harder.

After putting my bag on and hopping out, I meander over to the nearby gravel outcrop while Shane organises the rest of the supplies. Feels nice being up high. I can pretend I'm a mountain explorer. In the distance, two black dots are weaving their way through the wheat. Walkers.

I hear the car door slam shut, and then Shane stepping up to my side with a thin sigh, clutching the straps of his pack.

"Whole lotta country out there." He muses thoughtfully. Then, quieter, "Whole lotta places to get lost."

I fix the horizon with a look, muttering, "Like Fort Benning." 

He turns to me, confused as to how I knew to mention that.

"I saw it circled on the map." I deadpan. "And I know we're headed West, 'cause the sun's on that side. 'Sides... We all know it's been yer dream."

I never understood the fuss around Fort Benning. S'prolly just another empty building filled with dead people and old promises.

But Shane seems to like it.

He looks amused. "Observant thing, ain't you?"

"Comes in handy." I shrug, scuffing the ground.

My boots. Yellow with ladybug print. Makes me miss Glenn. The scrape on my knee from playing at the pond. The soup stain on my sleeve. Carl's purple marker streaked on my hand. Amy's hair lackey... Little signs. I miss everyone. Dad most of all, but also everyone. I wish I had some type of plan, but I don't. I'm only eight. No matter how many times I glance at the map, it still won't get me home.

Shane takes in the relaxing view, his brow free of wrinkles, his shoulders free of tension. He seems happy, I think. At least, happier.

When those two little walkers start to gradually gain numbers, Shane grumbles, Horde's catchin' up again, and decides it's time for us to get a move on. I say goodbye to this little moment, and to the car, and follow after him just as I thought, over the fence and into the trees.

"Alright, comin' up on 86 soon. We bear left when we reach it."

"You're sure this is the route he's taking? 'Cause if it ain't, I'm killin' you next."

"I'm sure. Trust me, this is the one he talked about the most. He'll take this one."

Daryl guesses all them nights spent planning road-trips with Shane was worth it, then, if Rick is right about this. He better be. They been following this route for almost half an hour now. If only cars left footprints like turkeys and squirrels did, then maybe he'd feel a little better.

When Rick looks over and sees Daryl's knuckles going white around the wheel, he reassures him, "We're gonna find her, Daryl."

He shakes his head. "I should'a seen it comin', man. I know men like Shane. I been to prison for killin' men like Shane."

The beating, the shooting, the stabbing, he could take; he could live with. He knows how to live with scars. But this? Taking another man's child? That's a line Daryl knows all too well that some men are willing to cross. But he killed the last one, and he'll kill this one, too.

"Maggie told me about that." Rick says, not a trace of judgement in his tone. "Last night. Said Harley told her, thought I might wanna know."

"What, in case you decided you wanted a two-for-one deal?"

"You gotta understand what a story like that must sound like to outsiders. She was concerned after what you did to Shane."

"Yeah, well, she's about to get a whole lot more concerned. I'm gonna let you know right now, man, I ain't sorry for it."

"Which part?"

"Everything. I've never killed or hurt a man that ain't deserve it. Shane... Well, I guess he ain't any different. Shot me, and I deserved it."

"Well, I'm not askin' you to be sorry. Nobody is, nobody will. We've all done what we had to survive, even before the world ended."

He jokes, "You ain't gonna throw me in a cell once this is over, are ya, Deputy?"

A bitter laugh. "No, I will not."

An intersection splits the road ahead.

A small patch of it seems to glitter in the sunlight.

Daryl murmurs, pulling in close, "What's that?"

"The glass." When they stop beside it, Daryl opens his door and peers down. He's right. Shattered glass. Right route, then. "I wouldn't wanna be drivin' around with all that, either, especially not with a kid in the back. I'm guessin' he cleaned it out. Anyway, there's 86. Hang a left."

"Wait a second." Not only glass, but also tyre marks, arching in a curve to the right. He points to them. "Look. He went right."

Rick follows his finger, perplexed, before checking the map again. "Right? Why right?"

God damn it. "He's tryna throw us off."

"Shit, he's sneaky."

"Yeah, no shit." He says dryly. "This makes things harder."

Daryl closes the door and raps the side of the truck to get Andrea's attention, then motions right. She nods and tails him when he turns.

It takes five long hours of getting lost in the hills before they find any sign of Shane and Harley. Rick's car, abandoned on the side of the road. Daryl almost breaks a window when they realize they're not here. Lit by the setting sun are the words, Welcome to Talbot Country.

We travel for hours and hours until the forest goes dark. When Shane notices I'm startin' to get a little nervous, he offers to hold my hand and I take it without hesitation, 'cause this way I can pretend it's just another hike with Dad. I keep asking when we're gonna stop and make camp, but his answer is always, not yet, even after the moon slides directly over our heads and I can hardly keep my eyes open anymore.

It's only once I'm so sleepy I trip over a twig that he apologizes for waiting so long and agrees to stop for the night.

He finds us a rocky overhang we can rest under, hidden between the trees. He rolls out his sleeping bag for me on the hard ground.

"Didn't have time to get yours." He murmurs, regretful. "I'll just use my pack as a pillow tonight. Can't imagine I'll sleep much, anyway."

As I settle on top of it, hugging my knees, he pulls two cans of beans and some bottled water from his pack.

Quietly, I prompt, "Shane?"

"Yeah?" Peeling the lid back, he hands one of the cans to me. Then some water, too. "Here ya go."

"Do you think what Herschel said last night is true?"

He tilts his head. "What? About bein' sick?"

"Yeah. Not the walkers, but the people. That they can get better. That we can re-billah-tate 'em."

Dad says dead means dead, and sick means sick. He says there was never gonna be a good endin' for Momma, but I saw Shane's smile today. Something about finally being free from the group has made him seem more like his old self again, combined with having me, maybe.

I think he can tell quite easily what I'm trying to get at. "I think it's true." He says. "Startin' over. That's all we need."

That's all he needs.

I can't watch this happen again. I just can't. Torn up inside, I blurt, "But they're gonna kill ya, Shane. You know they are."

"They can try." He shakes his head, scooping a spoonful of beans into his mouth, chewing. "I'll protect us. I've done it before."

I almost wish it could've gone some other way. None of us are innocent in this, but none of us are entirely guilty, neither. We're just a bunch of people caught up in somethin' that's too big for any of us to understand, and like always, it's gonna end the only way it can, with death.

Shane knows perfectly well that I'm right. It's like he said, he ain't an idiot. He's just a hopeful, doomed idiot.

"Whatever's left, Harley, I want it. It ain't in my nature to just roll over. So, we're gonna keep goin'. Freedom's worth that." He takes a deep, steadying sigh and gestures to my untouched food. "Eat that up, now. We got a long journey ahead of us, and you'll need the energy."

That night, I have that same nightmare again, the one where Shane dies at the end.

We set off again in the early morning, so early in fact I can't even tell it is morning. The sky's black, the forest on the verge of waking up. As we make our way through the rolling lengths of rural country, Shane teaches me how to load a gun, using his. It's a little like mine and Dad's game of poisonous or edible, except it's a little more advanced. I've never learnt to shoot before. Dad always said I weren't ready.

"Magazine goes up through here." He tells me, smacking it into the grip. "You hear it click. That's how you know it's nice and snug in there." I nod along with him, paying close attention. "Then to get the bullet in the chamber, you yank back on this. That's called the slide."

"Merle used to tug on some handle to get the bullets in the chamber."

"That would'a been a bolt action rifle he had. This one, though, it's more simple." He unloads the clip and hands the pieces to me. "You try."

"Woah," I gasp as I take them. "It's heavy."

He chuckles. "Yeah, that's what everyone says when they first get their hands on a firearm. They make it look easier in the movies, don't they?"

"Nah, you make it look easier." Slot the magazine into the grip, grab the slide, yank back. "Like that?"

"Perfect. Now unloading, you just press that lil' button, there. It'll fall right out, be ready to catch it."

I press it, and the magazine drops into my waiting palm. "There."

"Well done." He smiles. "Remember, always aim for the head. When it gets brighter out, maybe we can try shootin' some targets."

The sky is back to jewel-blue by the time we run into more walkers. Just like before, it seems like they know where they're going.

"What're they doin?" I ponder under my breath, watching 'em stumble single-file across a grassy ridge in the distance.

"Might be some type of migration." Shane guesses. "There's definitely enough of 'em out here for that."

"What's migration?"

"It's when animals travel in a group together to get someplace warmer, or colder. Probably someplace with more food, in these guys' case."

"You think they're headin' toward town?"

"Well, they're comin' from the direction of the highway, so I'm guessin' so. Some Hell-good senses of smell they must have, then."

"Or memories."

"You wanna have a go hitting one of 'em?"

I sure do. "From here?"

"Nah, we'll sneak up a bit. Too hard from this distance. Up there, it'll be easy."

Keeping out of sight, we creep up the incline until we make it to the peak, ducking down in the grass together.

"Okay, safety's off. It's loaded." Shane whispers, passing me the gun. My heart beats like a wild animal as he manoeuvres my fingers around the grip. "You're gonna hold it like this. Firm. Confident. You're the one in control, here." All the times I've killed a walker, they've had the jump on me. Not this time. He reminds me to load a bullet into the chamber, and I pull back on the slide again, getting more familiar with the movement. "Good girl. Now line your eye up with the sight, just like that." I squint down the barrel of the gun. "Breathe." In and out, slowly. "And squeeze."

Always aim for the head.

I place the little head of the closest walker on the tip of the sights. In and out. When I'm ready, I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet flies out with a bang, but it lands somewhere in the trees.

Shane encourages, "That's alright. Try again."

I can do this. Line it up, nice and careful. In and out. Squeeze.

This second bullet lodges itself into the walker's skull. It flinches before simply dropping to the ground like somebody pressed its off button.

The others happily continue on without it.

Lowering the gun, I turn to Shane with a giant grin on my face. "I did it."

"Told you it'd be easy." He looks proud of me. "Try hittin' the next one."

"It's so much farther. Can I even hit it?"

"I believe in you."

This time without any guidance, I line up the next target best I can. Squeeze. It hits the walker's ribs. Damn. I take my time and try again. After two more shots that don't quite hit their mark, the fourth bullet finally nicks it on the side of the head and it, too, falls to the ground.

"Good work." Shane gestures for the gun, and I pass it to him. "I'll get the rest of 'em."

He aims at the group with expert precision. Three exact shots, and they all go down. One day, I'm gonna be as good a shot as he is.

He nudges me, standing. "Come on. Some reason, seems like this way's clear now."

Giggling, I follow him into the open and through the littering of bodies, the thrill of two walker kills coursing hotly through my veins.

"Just fold your thumb over like this and blow. It's easy."

Shane holds his hands up to his mouth and tries blowing air through the gap between his thumbs, but all that comes out is a tortured screech that sounds like a dying elephant, and I giggle hysterically. It's meant to sound like a bird call. He taught me to shoot, so I'm teaching him this.

Instead of attracting the little woodland birds perched above us in the trees, they all go flying off in the opposite direction.

He jokes, "That's supposed to be easy?"

"Welp, I guess ya can't be good at everything."

Instead of making a retort, he just rolls his eyes.

Daryl has never been this tired in his life. He's worked many long hours in mechanic shops, stayed up a lotta nights, and raised a child all on his own for five years, and yet, as he drives along the highway without a wink of sleep, he can safely say he has never been this tired in his life.

When Rick offers to take over for a while, he promises himself he won't fall asleep. Despite his best efforts, he does.

When he wakes up, they're still driving. He insists he get back behind the wheel, and Rick, being a man with self-preservation, lets him.

They're planning on cutting Shane off. They're on foot now, sure, but the destination's still the same.

They're gonna have to cut back onto the highway at some point. It'll be somewhere near Oakley, two hours out. They did the math.

They'll be ready.

At the hottest point of the day, we stumble across the highway again. With sweat dripping down our backs, we squint against the mean glare of the sun. Up ahead, there's an old gas station. Shane thinks we might be able to find a working car there, which seems to excite him, but only worries me. After making sure there's nobody else along this stretch of road, he nods us forward and we cross into the parking lot.

"We shouldn't linger." He says, looking around at all the abandoned cars. "We need to get back on the road soon as possible."

I try my best to sound nonchalant when I say, "We been doin' okay just walkin'. Maybe we don't need a car."

He throws me an unimpressed look over his shoulder. "Harley, I thought we already talked about this."

We did, but I don't want another car. I don't wanna put any more miles between us and the group than we already have.

"I know, but... I like the fresh air."

"Don't gimme any of that." He lilts, as if a playful tone will change my mind. "I thought we were havin' fun, huh?"

Not anymore. I guess I got caught up in pretending that everything was okay, that we were safe and I was happy, but we aren't and I ain't, and I got people who I gotta get back to. I got a life I gotta live. But Shane, I don't think he accepts that. He wants a reality where he isn't alone.

"L—Let's just keep walkin'." I reach out and grab the bottom of his shirt. When he stops and turns to look at me, I add, "Please?"

"Look at that sign over there." He points to the road. Oakley, it says. "Fort Benning Military Base, forty miles West from here. Now, I don't know about you, Harley, but I'm gonna tell you something. I hate liars. I hate 'em. We got somethin' good, here. Don't let me find out you're a liar."

Suddenly, I wish I'd never opened my mouth. "I ain't lyin', Shane, I swear." I'm just not tellin' the whole truth. "I wanna walk."

"Yeah, I bet you do." He crouches in front of me, painfully close, eye level with me. "And you think I don't know why, huh?"

"W—? What is it with you?" I cry, then, giving up on taking the subtle route. "Why don't you get it, huh?"

"Get what?"

"It's ruined!" If slapping sense into people ever worked, I'd do it right now. "You ruined everything, already. We got nothin'!"

This is what I tried telling him last night. Even if sick people can get better, and even if he's happier out here, this was over before it started.

"Hell you mean, we got nothing? We're free, Harley. Everything's over. We have everything. We got the whole world."

"No." I argue desperately. "We don't. You just think we do."

"Don't say that to me. This is the first time in my life where I'm certain about what I'm doin'. I got a lot to regret, but not this."

"Rick was aiming for you yesterday, Shane. And Dad, he already tried to kill you. I've wanted to kill you. M— Maybe a long time ago, this could'a worked, but y—you— you ruined everything. S'gone, already. We ain't doin' nothin' here but— but waitin' it out. You're gonna die, Shane." I shout as I give him a hard shove on the shoulders. "Just like Amy and Morales and— and Sophia. Just like my Momma, you're gonna die."

"No." He grabs my arms. "No, it's different this time. We deserve for things to go differently."

"Don't matter what we deserve. We didn't deserve for Sophia to die, and look what happened."

He argues, "She wasn't a fighter like we are, Harley,"

"She was my friend."

"She was weak."

"How can you say that? She was only twelve!"

"Rick's pushin' thirty five and he's still losin' sense like it's his job. Age means nothing. All of 'em, Harley. They're weak."

"I don't care. I'd rather be weak. I'd rather be dead than be with you."

His frown darkens. "You don't mean that."

I've never meant anythin' more in my life.

"I'm not gettin' in that car, Shane." A threat. "I'm not. You're gonna have to throw me in again if you wanna leave this place with me."

Angry, heavy breathing, and then a petty, "Guess I'll have to."

As he stands and leaves to continue searching the cars without me, I plop onto the tarmac like a heavy anchor and cross my arms over my chest. I'm good at being stubborn. When I was littler, Merle used to say he'd seen mules with less attitude than me. If he ever saw me pulling a stunt like this, he'd whip me black and blue. But it's like Shane said, he's never and will never lay his hands on me. He'll sure do everythin' else, though.

I watch him take off his dog tag and loop it around the rear-view mirror of the last car he checks. That must be the one we're taking, then. After doing that and throwing his pack in the truck bed, he faces me with a reluctant, patient look on his face, but I don't budge.

"Told ya I ain't a liar, Shane." I call out to him. "I mean it. You're gonna have to throw me in."

"Yeah," He mutters wearily, rubbing a hand down his face. "I believe ya."

"Ya gonna do it, then?"

He drops his hand. "Y'know what? I'm gonna go stock up on some things inside. I'd say don't move, but... You got that covered."

I spend a while just staring at the sky, being stubborn. But after a certain point, my curiosity wins over. I decide to go check up on him, to see what he's doing. I make my way through the cars, up the steps, and jump a little at the little ding-a-ling that comes when I open the door. Stepping inside, I spot him straight away by the registers, distracted by something he's turning over in his hands.

As I approach him, I wonder, "Whatchu doin' in here?"

He looks up at me. Instead of answering, he holds the thing out to me. It dangles, small and silver. A locket. 'Bout the size of a coin. Confused, I take it and bring it close to my face, running my thumb over the little bird engraved on it, the metal leaves, the branch. I find myself smiling.

"A brown thrasher." I muse quietly. Georgia's state bird. "Native American mythology says they're like guardian angels."

He smiles, too. "Yeah, I thought you might know what it was. He's yours, then."

I ask, "Help me put it on?"

"Sure, sweetheart. Turn around."

He takes the locket from me and I do as he says, sweeping my ponytail out the way.

"It would be nice if you had somethin' to put in it." He hums as he clasps it around my neck. "There."

"You know what, I got the perfect thing already." I wiggle my backpack off and set it on the ground, digging through everything until I find what I'm looking for. I grab Dad's wallet and flip it open, holding up the photos for Shane see. "Look. 'Bout the right size, too."

"Well," He chuckles. "I guess that works out, then."

Pulling out the last photo, the one of Momma smiling, I very carefully tear a small oval shape around her upper body.

Watching on, he gently asks, "Who's that?"

"My Momma." I toss the scraps aside and slot the important part into the locket. "I promised Dad I'd look after her. She'll be safe in here."

He sighs, then. "Listen, Harley."

Admiring her through the little window as I stand, I chirp, "Yeah?"

Whatever words he's got on the tip of his tongue, he struggles to get out. His gaze darts to the locket, to my waiting expression, back to the locket again, the little bird perched on the glossy surface. He was right about today. I suppose we did have fun, shooting walkers, practicing bird calls with laughter in our lungs.

He finally opens his mouth. "Harley, I—"

He happens to glance outside, then, the words stolen out from underneath him. The color drains from his face.

I'm about to ask him what's wrong, but when I turn around, the sight of two cars swerving into the parking lot is the very last thing I see before a deafening BANG rocks the earth. The entire front window shatters to pieces. Shane grabs me, throws us both to the floor. The glass rains down across the store like sparkling, white ash. Oh, God. They're here, aren't they? That was Maggie's car, Dad's truck. This is it. It's happening. My heart lodged in my throat, I peek over him. In the wall we were just standing in front of, a bullet hole, black and smoking.

"Shane!"

A hair-raising roar. Dad. That's Dad.

"We're here for ya, buddy!"

I turn to Shane. He's white as a ghost, lips parted.

The car doors slam shut one by one, heavy footsteps slowly spreading out across the tarmac.

"What are you gonna do?" I frantically whisper, my fingers tightening around his arms. "What are you gonna do?"

He's so caught off guard that he can't even answer me. He unholsters his pistol, holding it at his side.

"We've already seen you, Shane!" Rick. "We know you're in there. Pack's out here, too. This the car you're plannin' on taking?" He tries to get a look over the lip of the window but jumps back down as another bullet pierces the back wall. Damn it, Rick's fast. I wanna ask who else is out there, what's going on, what they're doing, but there's no way for him to know. "This is it, Shane. No way out, now."

He seems to force himself to regain composure. "You come to kill me, brother?"

"I've come for Harley. Whether you force my hand or not, that's your choice. Just know it's four against one. A risk I wouldn't take."

Four. Who else? Glenn? Someone else don't deserve shooting?

"Please, Shane," I whimper as he switches the safety off. "Please. You can't. Don't shoot nobody. Just— Just tell 'em you'll come out."

He completely ignores me, taunting, "What about you, Daryl? You out there? Today's the day, huh?"

"Today's the day." Dad parrots from someplace nearby. "Come out."

"You know I can't do that. You know Harley can't, either. I won't allow it."

"Guess we'll see what you allow once I got your brains splattered across the floor. I want my daughter back, Shane!"

"This can still end well for you." Rick butts in, his tone lighter, now. It's the tone you might use to lure an animal in close before you grab it, twist it, snap its neck. I see his shadow stalking over the tiles, pressing up against a car for cover, stretched out by the high-noon sun. He motions for someone to move around the building. I think they're surrounding us while he distracts him. I think time is running out faster than we ever thought it might. "You're headed to Fort Benning, right? Yeah, they got good walls there. Food, water, vehicles, protection. Only forty miles from here. It's a solid plan."

His head's bein' messed with again. "Thought you always said it was a lost cause, Rick?"

"Maybe for us." Rick hums. "Big group, runnin' low on gas, a hundred miles back. But not for you."

Shane humors him a moment, buying himself some time. I don't think he has a plan. "No?"

"Your car's out here." Rick beckons. "Supplies, gas. And you sure as Hell got my permission to leave. I meant it. If there's one face I never wanna see again, it's yours. You're free to go. Hell, Fort Benning's practically just around the block. You made it quite far, huh? Well, it's all yours. But not if it's with Harley. Not if you fight. Let her go. Do that and maybe you can make it on your own. Maybe I won't have to shoot you."

"I know you never thought much of me, Rick, but you really expect me to believe that bullshit?"

More shadows creep past the windows.

"I expect you to understand that this has gone too far. You need to come out, now."

He doesn't answer. In a desperate break for freedom, he grabs my hand, hauls me to my feet, and we shoot out from our hiding place. We make it not halfway across the store before another bullet is fired. I shriek as it hits a shelf this time, forcing us both back down into cover.

His chest heaving, he peers around the shelf, keeping his gun at the ready in his sweaty grasp.

Two more bullets skim past his head.

"Shane," When he meets my gaze, I see fear there, for the first time, ever. We both know this has to end. We're pinned in here. Whatever this is, he has to let it go so he can live. "What if he's not lying? What if you can still make it out?"

"I'm not leaving without you." He shakes his head in refusal. "I'm not livin' if it's not with you."

"Shut up. You don't need me. But me, I-I— I need my Dad. I need to go back."

"Harley—"

"Please. I can't watch you die." He glances at the locket, my dead Momma. "Listen to him. I can't watch anyone else die."

"I know you, Shane. You get to Fort Benning, and then what? What's the plan for after? For the things you gotta live with? How you gonna sleep at night, knowin' the girl ya got callin' you Daddy belongs to someone else, huh? What kind of life is that? For you, for her? She's not yours, Shane. Never was. You and I both know that. She knows that. If you care any little bit about her, you'll let her go. You'll let this whole thing go."

There's a way that this can end well. I need it to end well. "Please. Just listen to him, Shane."

"All of us. All of us can walk away from this. Harley will come back with us, and she'll have more people than she could ever have out here watchin' over her. Carl will have his friend. She'll get to say a proper goodbye to Sophia. She'll get to grow up with a father."

"Some fathers ain't worth growin' up around, Rick. You must understand that more than any of us."

"I do. That's why I know, when I look at Daryl, I see a worthy man. He knows he's done wrong. Not many of us can be so brave to realize that."

"You say brave, I say pathetic." He spits. "I say I've gone and done the world a favor, taking Harley from him."

"Well, we don't see it that way. No judge, no jury, would see it that way, either. You know how this would've gone in the old world, Shane."

"World ain't so old, now. There's a new order to things."

"An order where a man can take another man's child, just 'cause he wants to?"

"Oh, spare me the philosophy lesson, Rick. You don't know the first thing about any of this. I know you don't. Look at Lori and Carl."

"This isn't about them right now."

"You got a broken woman. You got a weak boy. Thing is, you're too stupid to see. That thing you got back there, it won't work. Everything ends, man. You gotta fight for what you want. This— Harley, Fort Benning." It ain't in my nature to roll over. "This is what I'm fightin' for." 

"You're fighting for something that doesn't exist. Fight for something real." He offers. "Fight for your life while you still have it."

"Now, why would I do that?"

"Because of everything we've done to get here. The quarry, the CDC, Amy, Morales, Sophia. You draw your gun, it'll all have been for nothing."

"Maybe I don't care so much about that anymore."

"Well, you care about Harley. That's about the only thing we can all agree on. That's why you're out here. That's why this has to end."

I can see Shane wrestling with himself, with how to end this, his heart torn between two different things. Living for himself or dying for me. I love you so much it's gonna kill me. Is he gonna draw? Is he gonna surrender? Will he get to live, or will he die just like everyone else?

God, I hope Rick isn't lying. 

"I don't wanna shoot you." Shane warns. "That's not how I want this to go."

"It's the way it's gonna have to be if you don't come out right now."

I hear the back door being kicked down. Thud, thud, thud. My heart races, flooded with terror. He has to make a decision right now.

"Rick said he'll miss you, y'know." I quickly tell him, my eyes filling with tears. My words seem to pain him. "Said it just this morning."

Thud, thud, thud.

"Please, Shane, believe him. You can make it. Fort Benning's so close. It's always been your dream, remember?"

Thud, thud, thud.

"And— And I won't be there, but that's okay. I'll be somewhere else. I'll think of you. 'Cause— 'Cause I'll miss you, too."

Thud, thud, thud.

I shake the confusing thoughts from my head. "Or— Or my memories of you."

Thud, thud, thud.

"Don't matter. I still hate you for what you done, b-but not enough to want you dead. You gotta go. Please, Shane, you gotta live."

"What is it, then?" Rick calls out. "You gonna stay in there, get shot down like a dog? Or you gonna do the right thing? Give us Harley?"

I want what's best for you, he once told me. I won't ever do anythin' to put you in danger. Remember that. All this time, he kept that promise. I might'a been scared, and I might'a not agreed with some of the things he's done, but I have never, ever been in danger because of him. He helped save me from the highway when it got overrun. He searched for me just as tirelessly as Dad did when I got lost. He pulled that walker offa me, saved me from getting bit. He held my hand when it got dark, and he lent me his sleeping bag, and he gave me the prettiest locket I ever saw just because it had a bird on it I might like. Even right down to shooting my Dad, he was doing what he thought was best for me. 

I need my Dad. He knows I do. He held me when I cried that night, when I thought he was gonna die.

He knows Rick's right.

I can tell what he's chosen.

"Come out, Shane! It's time!"

This is it. He sends me one last smile. Relief overwhelms me. He's surrendering. He's gonna live. It might not be exactly what he wanted or what he planned, but he tried and I think he's okay with that now. He got his last wish. He spent whatever time he had left with me.

"Alright, Rick!" He shouts, "I'm gonna stand up, now. I won't shoot if you won't!"

Holding his hands out to his sides, he slowly stands, making no sudden movements. When he steps out into the open, the sun beams down on his face through the broken window, his body exposed to whatever mercy his brother has left. He opens his mouth to say something.

No words ever come out. Time seems to fracture around me as he flinches backwards, as if punched in the ribs.

His gun goes off from the impact.

A spike of blood, shooting out from behind him.

A scream ripped from my throat.

"No!"

The door finally breaks down. Shane staggers backwards into to the display shelves, a trembling hand clutched over his bleeding chest, coughing weakly like an animal that weren't put down right. I rush to go grab him, help him, anything, but Rick rushes through the front doors, and as soon as I'm on my feet, I'm trapped again when he grabs me. I fight against him, but then Andrea's here too, holding me tight.

Dad comes forward and swings a fist down onto Shane's cheek. His crippled body whips to the side, toppling over onto the ground.

No. No, no, no! He was surrendering! We all saw it, it was over!

I screech, "What're you doing?!"

Blood spurts from his mouth as Dad kicks him in the stomach, hard, over and over again, until he's shoved up against the wall, struggling to breathe. He tries to pull his gun on him, but Dad snatches it from his fingers and throws it across the room, grabbing his shirt collar.

I can't even hear my own cries, anymore. A terrible, piercing ringing noise has replaced my head. It's all I can hear. As Dad stomps and beats and agonizes Shane into a pulp, taking out months' worth of anger on his muscles and bone, Glenn and T-Dog make a sweep of the rest of the store, and my ear keeps on ringing, and the blood keeps spreading, and I keep on crying.

When Rick passes me fully over to Andrea and starts taking off his outer layer of clothing, his button shirt, I'm confused. He rips it off and balls it up tightly and crouches, pressing it against the side of my head.

Can you hear me, I think he's saying.

No. No, I can't hear him.

Why can't I hear him? Why is the ringing gettin' louder?

Glenn, get over here, I think he's saying, now, his brow set low, tight, worried. Get over here.

He quickly comes into view. Oh, it's so good to see his face again.

As Rick pulls back the bunched-up shirt, which comes away bloody, his eyes go wide. He places it back over my ear again.

It's my ear. Something's wrong with my ear.

Over their shoulders, Shane's still on the floor, still bleeding, but he's not moving, anymore.

It's so awful, but I think he's dead.

Shot then pummelled until his body gave out.

Dad gives him one last kick, this time to the head, before turning to join the rest of everyone else, shaking out his bloodied knuckles. T-Dog falls in as well, glancing uncomfortably at Shane's body. As soon as they're within arm's reach, Dad picks me up off the floor, setting me on his hip, speaking to me mutedly and peeling back Rick's shirt. My ear's burning, now, hot as lava, like I've fallen head-first onto a sizzling stove-top.

I lift my hand to touch it, but all I feel is blood and hair, but no ear. My ear, it's always been right here. Where'd it go?

Dad takes me outside and sets me on the hood of the first car he sees, holding my face in his hands.

As my hearing starts to come back, I can pick up on what they're all saying.

"—Alk to me, baby. Can you say somethin' to me?"

"Damn it," Glenn gawks, "He shot it clean off."

God, it stings so bad.

"You killed him." I manage to croak, the horrifying realization sinking in that Shane really is dead. "Both of you. Y-You killed him."

He was supposed to make it to Fort Benning. He was supposed to live. It was supposed to end well this time.

"I know." Dad croons, "But don't think about that right now. Think about yer head. Are you dizzy?"

"You killed him."

"She might be in shock." Rick suggests, taking a bottle of water from Andrea when she comes running up to us, offering it to him. He unscrews it and pours it over the left side of my head, apologizing when I cringe at the pain. He frowns. "Yeah, there's nothin' much left there."

"When'd it happen?" T-Dog distresses, keeping his distance. He's never been good with blood.

"He must've pulled the trigger when I hit him." He answers sourly. "Grazed her head."

Andrea scoffs. "Even in death, he's still a giant, fucking asshole."

Patting around my hair again, I feel it, now.

My ear. Shane shot my ear off.

The top half of it, it's gone.

"Well, it's a nasty souvenir, alright." T-Dog utters. "Won't be forgettin' this day anytime soon..."

It's a final, permanent reminder that I was stupid to think things could've gone any other way.

I will never make that mistake again.

At the sound of growling in the distance, we all turn our heads. Walkers, much, much more than usual, approach us through the trees.

"We gotta get her to Herschel." Dad grunts as he hauls me onto his hip again. "Let's get outta here."

Glenn winces. "You think that's the horde, again?"

"You wanna stick around and find out?"

I whimper, "Dad it hurts."

Not just my ear, but everything. 

"I know, baby." He soothes, tucking the shirt back against me. I put my hand over it. "Just hang on a little longer. I gotcha."

As we head over to the cars, I look behind at the gas station, the broken window, and the battered body tucked away in the corner, laying in a puddle of tarry blood. I turn away from the grisly sight, glancing down at my locket. A brown thrasher. 

"You wanna take that truck he had?" Rick offers, gesturing to it. The pack's still in the trunk, ready to go. "Waste of a good vehicle, otherwise."

Dad agrees, "Yeah, sure. You take my truck. Keys are on the seat."

With a nod, Rick walks off with the others.

He opens the driver's door and places me carefully onto the middle seat before climbing in next to me. I've only been away from the farm for two days and one night, and yet I feel like I'm returning from war. He slams the door shut and steals the keys off the dash. I pull Rick's shirt down. Blood. I'm so tired of seeing blood. As the engine rumbles to life, Dad takes the shirt from my lap, slings his arm over my shoulders, and secures it snugly against my ear — stub, now, I suppose — with his hand. With the other, he pulls out the parking lot, onto the highway.

This has all been a blur. The barn, being taken, making it to the hills, the gas station, the gunshot, the blood, Shane.

I rest my wet cheek against Dad's side. As the hills roll by, I gaze up at the dog tag dangling from the mirror.

When he notices the name engraved on it, he snaps it off and throws it out the window.

It lands in some forgettable ditch on the side of the road.

I swear the world seemed bigger before.

Author's Note.

Shane is dead.

AAAAAh do you feel like you've been hit by a semi-truck, because I feel like I've been hit by a semi-truck. This chapter took a lot out of me.

I know you guys have mixed feelings about Shane — Some of you hate him, some of you don't — so I made sure everyone got their piece of satisfaction from either Harley, who was quite sympathetic, or Daryl / Rick, who were definitely uuuuuh not very sympathetic.

And yes, Harley has no left ear anymore. I wanted her to have a physical scar as well as just emotional ones from this, because Shane's death is the second biggest tragedy she's ever experienced after her Mom. I wanted her to carry it physically, if that makes sense.

Trust me, I wanted her to be ruthless toward Shane just like Daryl, but I let the poor girl live for a minute. Gave them both a little taste of what could've been, because I fit the trope of the evil writer wanting my characters to suffer, mwahaha

I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was an insane ride writing it. Next up is the season finale, I guess!! Got some things planned for that.

As always, thank you for your support! 💙

[victorluvsalice]

Welcome back to the Chill Valicer Save, where we have reached Fall Friday! And the gang going out to yet another world to peddle their Van Liddelton Snacks. :) Let's see how that went for them –

-->Started with everyone where I’d left them on Saturday – Alice sleeping, Victor working on his new song, Smiler editing their latest SimsTube video (“Karaoke Til Spooky,” the singing video they were working on when they got interrupted by the house making weird noises), and Marm playing chess while his durability slowly degraded. I had Smiler finish their edits on the video (just had to add some fancy transitions), hype it up to their followers, then upload it, while I sent Marm out to feed Toothy the cowplant before anybody got any ideas about eating the cake tongue –

And then the game informed me “hey, pop-up holiday today, it’s Night On The Town” by flashing that little “there’s something new on the calendar” light on the, well, calendar. XD I made a mental note of that for later and sent Smiler down to meet Marm once Toothy was fed and give him a tune-up so he didn’t suffer any catastrophic explosions –

-->And then I looked over at the wind farm and was like “is every fucking turbine broken AGAIN?!” *shakehead* I promptly sent Smiler and Marm over to go repair them (as Victor was still busy with his song) – then remembered “oh wait, Marm’s ready to get an enhancement level – I should have Smiler make a mechanism so they can upgrade him” and sent Smiler to the robotics bench to do that instead while Marm kept repairing. Because hey, he does need to learn some skills, and Handiness is always a good one! I’d planned for him to get them all while I pushed Victor to complete his song –

But then, midway through Marm’s repair efforts, I realized that poor Victor really had to go to the bathroom. So I reluctantly stopped progress on his classical piece and let him use the toilet...then, since he was up already, had him cast Repairio on a handful of the turbines (and one busted water collector) to speed up the repair process once he was done washing his hands. Because I wanted that damn wind farm working again FASTER, damn it. (Seriously, why do the turbines break so often?? It’s annoying.)

-->Anyway – with all the water collectors and wind turbines back in functional condition, I had Victor go kick a creepy doll by the laundry nook, then prepared to have him start the laundry before heading into the greenhouse...but before I could, I noticed a few things. Namely, that the minifridge in the greenhouse was broken (thanks to the angry gnomes from Harvestfest); both fridges were stinking (thanks to the spoiled food within, as no one in this family has to eat often enough to take care of all the leftovers); AND that the back porch umbrella table was a scorched mess (thanks to a lightning strike I must have missed on Harvestfest). I thus had Victor Repairio the table and the minifridge, then clean the spoiled food out of the kitchen fridge before finally putting the laundry into the washer. With a bluebell to keep it floral fresh. Glad something is fresh in this house!

-->While all that was happening, Smiler finished up their mechanism, and Marm finished repairing the final turbines and scavenging all the trash piles for parts before sticking them in his inventory for later recycling. I thus had Smiler start properly enhancing Marm while Victor took a moment to Scruberoo the puddles in the greenhouse before going to rummage through the trash pile left behind by the gnomes. I myself took a moment to clear up the gnome population while he did that – moving one of the gnomes standing on a rock and the gnome sitting on a rock over to the corners of the greenhouse; sticking the ordinary gnome in the little wheelbarrow out front of the greenhouse; putting the reaper gnome and the alien gnome outside of Toothy’s pen; and just straight up selling the duplicate “standing on a rock” gnome and the two pool gnomes. So these little fuckers are all set until the next Harvestfest. :p

[jellybeansmud]

so i got angry trying to catch an octopus. and now its 4:30 am and i finished a little something about how horrible it must be to be the farmer when your player is crazy stupid and trying to achieve everything immediately like they're a fucking speedrunner or something (<- thats me. i am like that)

putting it under readmore. unedited since im only getting two hours of sleep today even without editing

Solo Stress | Farmer & Elliott

| they/them for the farmer | 1693 words

It is a beautiful morning in the Pelican Town, and the local farmer is yelling at the sea like it just insulted their mother. It is barely seven.

You get used to it always being a bit noisy, living right by the sea, but swearing that was so loud it almost sounded like it was right inside of his cabin overpowered the usual sound of waves and seagulls quite a bit. Enough so that Elliott shot straight up from his bed before even properly waking up, running outside with his heart sinking to his stomach, fully expecting to find someone injured there, or to see fire, or a flood, or something of sorts. He rubbed his eyes, adjusting to bright rays of sun shining right into his face, and looked around the beach.

The area was peaceful enough. Definitely no natural disasters happening. All Elliott could find that was out of the ordinary were a kicked over bucket, a few sardines flopping helplessly on the sand next to it, and the town's newest resident, who stood by the edge of the water, screaming and gesturing around at such speed that the fishing rod in one of their hands hit the water from time to time, sending splashes half their height up in the air. After a minute of consideration, he called out to them before walking closer.

Olli whipped around faster than Elliott has ever seen a person turn in his life, fishing rod drawing a half-circle deep in the sand. Their, honestly, quite terrifying scowl dropped when they saw him, to his relief. The second that they looked at him like that was enough for him to reconsider whether it was a good idea to ask them what happened. He did so anyways.

"Fucking octop- octip- octopi, is what happened!" they hissed, throwing their hand up. Purple metal of their fishing rod shined brightly, catching a ray of sun, before it fell to the ground a good distance away from the shore. The farmer seemed to not even notice they threw it, caught up in their anger. "Motherfuckers get my fucking bait, almost break my arm thrashing on the hook worse than the god damned Legend, and then they rip my line like it's nothing! I've hooked two dozen of them just this summer, and you know how many I pulled out in the end? Fucking none!" The bucket almost joined the rod in the sand, but ended up falling several meters closer to the treeline. Elliott didn't know people could kick something this hard before. "Fucking none! They are just some fucking fish! What the hell am I supposed to do to catch at least one alredy?!"

He was, frankly, stumped here. This must've been the first time anyone in the town has seen Olli this angry, and it was over some bad luck with fishing. Elliott wished someone else was dealing with this right now. Unfortunately, Willy just left for a fishing trip on his newly repaired boat. Oh well.

"I... suppose, uh, out of everyone in town, Willy would be the only one who could give you any advice on that... Would you like to have some tea, perhaps? I would invite you to saloon, if it weren't this early in the morning," he tried. If he couldn't offer any advice, then distracting Olli probably was his best chance to prevent them from doing sonething stupid. Like smashing their fishing rod in half. Or fighting an octopus with a sword. He wouldn't be surprised if they tried that.

The farmer dragged a palm across their face to calm down, taking a deep breath, and just nodded in response. Their shoulders sagged as they followed Elliott to his cabin.

The Moonlight Farm was one of the best ones you could find in the country. Even if it couldn't compete in output with huge corporate farms, it definitely won all awards when it came to the quality of produce. It was almost unbelievable that the smell of starfruit that filled the room came from the dried cubes in the tea Elliott served to his guest and not a fresh fruit, so sweet and intense it was. The writer often wondered how Olli managed to achieve so much in two short years since their arrival to the abandoned, barren farm. Right now wasn't the best time to ask, though.

Olli was cutting a pomegranate with a pocket knife when he turned from his kitchen cabinets to the little table with a pair of cups in his hands. He grabbed a bowl for the seeds after setting down the cups.

"Brought this for you," the farmer said, smiling shallowly without looking away from the fruit when they heard the clink of the bowl placed in front of them.

"You are such a kind friend." Elliott sat on the other side of the table and smiled back. "You were planning to visit me?"

"Just wanted to bring a gift. There are a few more, too."

They pulled a bundle of cloth with several pomegranates inside from their bag that sat on the floor by their stool and placed it on the table. Each fruit looked pristine and absolutely perfect, like no fruit Elliott has ever seen anywhere but Pelican Town. He thanked Olli again, and they offered him the same faint smile.

"You seem really upset still. Are you trying to catch an octopus for something important, or is there something else bothering you?"

They didn't reply for a minute, popping the seeds out of the pomegranate in their hands into the bowl. They looked somewhere past it, however, eyes lost and unblinking.

"Uh... Just... Slept bad tonight and overreacted because of that, I guess... It's fine, don't worry, it's alright, it's- It's alright."

It really did not seem alright. Olli just pretended to focus on cleaning the fruit.

Elliott studied them while they seemed to not even notice his eyes on them. He didn't get a chance to look at them up close often, really. They were always around, and chatted with him (and everyone else in town) every day, but most of the time, they were in one place only for a few minutes before running off. The longest they stayed somewhere besides the farm was when they went fishing. Or to the mines, from what he's heard from Robin, who sometimes saw then enter them early in the morning and leave past sunset.

"Are you getting enough rest, usually?" he asked, realizing now that he has never seen them without these dark circles under their eyes.

"Yea, it was just... Um... Baahrbara had a lamb late into the night, I had to stay with her, you know, to see if they're alright. Just a..." Olli took a deep breath, poorly trying to hide either a sigh or a yawn. "Just one of those things."

It seemed like that one time he saw them arrive to the tide pools well past midnight when he got carried away writing was, perhaps, not just an one-time thing.

"And you were here today since?.."

Their face fell. Weak smile they held gave place to a sad, tired expression, and they slumped into themselves.

"...You know, don't you?" they asked quietly, not looking at him.

Elliott reached across the table to place his hand on their shoulder.

"You do a lot of hard work every day. You know you should take better care of yourself, right? Nobody would want to see you hurt yourself by accident because you were tired."

Olli stayed silent, bringing their legs up to hug them. Their long hair obscured their eyes, but Elliott was almost certain he saw tears behind their bangs.

"It's okay, Olli. You've helped the town so much, and you're still doing a lot of great things for us all. Do something for yourself, too, okay? You don't have to wear yourself out this much."

"People need the farm, y'know?" Their voice was definitely watery now. First time anyone in the town has seen them cry, too, probably. Elliott got up to hug them around the shourders. "I- We don't have the JojaMart anymore, I have to work harder so I can give enough to town, I can't just not do this! And there are public plans that need finances, so I need to sell enough to cover that, too, and- and- Yoba, I j- I just can't, Elliott, I have to work this hard! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He didn't say anything, patting their back while they cried into their knees. It only lasted for a brief minute, and then they forced their tears to stop, curling up tighter and hiding their face more.

Elliott fixed their hair, trying to look them into the eyes, and Olli glanced up for a moment. He smiled warmly at them.

"I'm sure Marnie wouldn't mind helping you with animals, right? And Shane need something to do, since he doesn't have a job right now. I can ask Leah to help with the plants, and most people would be happy to help with the harvests, if they have free time. This can even be a new little festival, don't you think?"

"They already have enough to do without this, it's my farm, I-"

"Clearly you can't do all that you want to do alone, Olli. It wouldn't hurt to ask. Think about it for a while, at least, okay?"

"...Okay. Okay. I- Thank you. I'm... I'm gonna ask Shane. That's... I think he will like my chickens. Okay."

"And take at least today off, please."

They looked up at him, eyes wet and pained, and he cut them off before they could say a word.

"For me?"

"...If it's for you."

"Thank you. I'll help you bring your things to the farm. Go to bed when we get there, you can always talk to people later."

Olli slipped off the stool right into hugging him.

Elliott collected their discarded bucket and fishing rod as they both headed out to the other side of the town. He hoped they will follow his advice. He really wanted to see them happy.

[shadowscrybe]

Rayven's Revenge- Chapter 10

 Summary: Rayven is the younger sister of Rhysand in the Night Court. She was banished 64 years ago for the murder of her sister. This is the story of Rayven earning her place in Prythian and finding out what it means to be family. We all know how her story ends...but how did she get there? I don't want to forget the demon princess with bat wings. Do you?

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: none-typical canon content

A/N: I completely rewrote 11 so I'm going to edit that one and post it after I fix it, but for now here's 10! With a surprise character cameo :)

Rayven filled the boys in back at the Town House and then Rhys and Azriel were off to make arrangements for the arrival of her bat girls. 

Rhys hadn't said much in response to her conversation with the Highlord. She replayed the interaction to him, mind-to-mind. He had a plot of his own it seemed, and she wasn't privy to know yet. No one commented on his intentions with the lost female. She’d pick their brains about it later. They fought in the war with Hybern, a couple decades before she was born. They knew something she didn't. 

Cassian stayed behind to go with her to Ironcrest to inform the girls of their recent promotion. Hopefully, their sentiments on coming had not changed. 

The bat girls were vicious. They had to be. To brave Illyria as a female was a Rite of its own. A completely different journey of survival than the boys had walked. While they had to be brutal and harsh, the females had the added layer of personal protection. Males in Illyria felt entitled to any female they came across. 

The Highlord may reign over the Night Court and Devlon commanded Windhaven, but Rayven ran the Ironcrest camp. 

It was a struggle to maintain the flight with Cassian to the frigid mountains, but he didn't mention the sluggish pace. Rahne had found the strength in her to lead the way, she could never let a male think he was faster than her, even if that male was Cassian. 

Closer to Ironcrest, her wings began to ache. She dipped from the sky in exhaustion twice before Cassian had to comment. 

“You are going to run yourself into the ground with that shit,” he said over the wind. 

“I’m fine.” She strained her muscles to almost failure. 

“And if you fall from the sky what am I going to tell the Highlord?”

“Tell him he got what he always wanted,” she snapped.

“And what would I tell Rhys?” 

Rayven held out a single finger to him as her response. 

She could've sworn she heard his eyes rolling. 

The expansive camp of Ironcrest was buzzing with life. The only camp where the women outnumbered the males. Winged fae scattered around the camp busy with daily upkeep. A few of the females were sparring on the Northern ridge. It brought a smile to her face to see her girls training. 

Rayven caught her second, Emerie, outside a tent coaxing a fire to life. She didn't look at them, but she was aware of their approach.

Cassian landed before her but didn't hold out a hand for her to catch this time. He knew how it’d look to the rest of the camp if its leader allowed an assisted landing, no matter how polite the gesture. 

As soon as her boots hit the snow, Emerie was ready to report. 

Rahne rushed to greet her friend. 

Emerie’s small laugh was music to her ears. Laughter in Illyria was in short supply. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” she cooed at the shadow. Rahne curled over her shoulder and idled into a calm rest. Emerie smiled like she could hear the shadow’s purr. 

If Rhys had found brothers in Az and Cass then she found a sister in Emerie. 

She was the ice to her fire. The calm to her rage. Rayven needed her to run Ironcrest just as much as she needed Rhys in Velaris. Maybe now he’d get to meet her. 

The males bowed as they crossed the camp, but eyed the bastard behind them on their rise. Rayven’s fire ignited the hearths of those who fought with the cutting wind. Some were pleased to not have to struggle, others grumbled some snide remark about how easy shadowfire must be to wield. Always undermining curses and cuts. 

She had been absent from camp for the last day, so there was much to report.

Drella and Venerya had fought and then made up and were now fighting again. Casita was drunk before midday. A new record, her second noted. 

“What has Kallon been up to?” She asked about her rival. His father was Lord of this camp until she arrived a few decades ago. 

Emerie sighed. “Pleasant as always.” She had more to say on him, but with Cassian present she kept her reports to vague details. 

He followed them a few steps behind, scanning the males of the camp. They bowed to Rayven, but with the Lieutenant of the Night Court present they saw a potential ally. He was a few days away from getting his siphon, and all the males coveted his rank. 

Emerie linked arms with her and led them into her tent. Cassian stayed at the threshold to stand guard. A few of them tried to approach him, he gracefully blew them all off without angering them, but also not appeasing them. This was Rayven’s camp and she loved him for respecting that, and making the others respect it too. 

When the light adjusted and she could make out Emerie’s humble home, the familiar scent of her second comforted her. 

In any other setting, they would stand rigid with their hands behind their back at attention, but here, in the tent that smelled of sweet cinnamon, purely Emerie, they lounged on her low lying bed. 

Rayven sighed into the plush mattress. 

“What's the bad news,” Emerie asked. 

“It's all bad news,” she said. 

Her hand waved to Rayven to go on. She laid back onto the throws and let her explain it all as they stared at her canvas ceiling. 

Emerie was her second for many reasons. First and foremost she was her closest friend, beside Eris. She had been thrown out and rejected by her sire around the same time Rayven had been, only she survived Illyria at eight, and without an Autumn heir to help her. 

She was fierce as any male and more perceptive than any shadow, but above all she was kind. And that was something Rayven was always learning from her.

But Ironcrest was not organized with hugs and the males here were not attuned to gentle affirmations. So demon princess it was.

But, here in this tent with her, she could be Rayven. Out there she had to be the Ironcrest Commander. 

Emerie didn't stop her once in her retelling of events. She didn't gasp at the dinner revelation, or exclaim at the border watch. She just listened. And when she had finally told her about training, she only commented once she had finished. And asked the one thing Rayven hadn't thought about.

“How are we going to get to Spring?”  

She hadn't considered the obstacle of travel, something she was sure the Highlord intended on being a problem. Rayven was the only one of the females who could winnow. 

“If we fly, it will take us maybe a week if we only stop for rest and restock supplies.”

“I can take one at a time.”

“You're going to make the jump to Spring eleven times?” Emerie eyed her. They both knew eleven jumps would wipe her out for days. Even if she could manage the feat she would never be conscious to continue the watch. 

“I can do it,” she said. 

“It hasn't been a kind 24 hours for you,” she observed. 

“When is it ever?” 

Her lips pulled to a thin line. She rose from her lying position and moved around the space gathering things Rayven didn't lift her head to see. 

“So we’re to border the humanlands, search out a Hybern rebel, and potentially rescue the Autumn heir, all while tricking the Highlord and his sentries?” She so eloquently put what took Rayven minutes to relay. 

She was the only person Rayven ever confided in about Eris. He’d kill her if he knew she was aware of him, but he was so infuriating sometimes and she was the only one Rayven trusted to vent to. Not even Rhys was aware of her ties to Eris, though after she was gone for almost two years having returned as a shadowfire master, she was sure he could figure it out. He never asked about it, though. 

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” She said, staring at her canvas ceiling wishing she could see the stars through them. “We can trust the bastards.” They would be essential to pulling this off. 

She returned with steaming broth, bread, and chilled mint tea. “Here,” she pressed the plate and cup into her hands. “Eat and rest.”

“I need to-”

“I'm second for a reason, yes?” She said with her authoritative voice. “I’ll tell the others and we’ll prepare for the flight to Velaris. The Highlord gave us till nightfall to appear in court. We’ve got a few hours. Stay. I'll handle it.” 

She wasn't going to take no for an answer and Rayven couldn't muster the strength to fight her anyway. 

“What about-”

“I'll keep him busy.”

She was losing the ability to form sentences, her bed was so soft and warm. 

You're the best. She sent to her. 

“I know.” Her smile was radiant. 

She left Rayven to the warmth of her tent and sleep came easily.

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #99

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

I fell backwards onto the stiff, dry grass, and all I could see were gray skies covered with rain clouds. The air had been knocked out of my chest and it struggled to get back in as I flopped on the dirt like a tuna with a hook through its cheek.

Suddenly something else entered my vision. The perpetrator of my assault: the wendigo. It looked at me as I labored to breathe, and seemed neither concerned nor proud of taking me down. It leaned in close and whispered in my ear.

“You cannot kill what cannot be killed.”

It licked my neck slowly with the tip of its tongue, nearly reaching my hair, and ran off faster than the wind. I felt a drop of rain on my forehead.

Somehow, and I couldn’t tell you how, I made it back to my bungalow on the outskirts of town. I opened the door and collapsed onto the cot in the corner of the room as my father lounged on the bed and watched TV.

“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, not really paying attention.

I coughed and rolled over. “I was assaulted by the wendigo. Now I intend to kill it.”

“Is this how you want to spend your time here? Really?”

I groaned as I tried in vain to find a comfortable position. “I have no choice. It has tasted my flesh and will have developed a craving for it by tomorrow.”

“Then we should wait until then. It will come to us.”

“No. We must kill it today. It will be too late. Give me just a few minutes to recover… please.”

He scoffed. “Fine.” He grabbed the remote and changed the channel.

An hour later I awoke. Rain pitter-pattered on the sheet metal roof. I got up from the cot, sore in my back and ribs, and bandaged my scrapes. I couldn’t seem to remember where I’d parked, or indeed, what I was driving, so I pulled my keys from my pocket and clicked the rental fob. It was a Hyundai truck, parked across the street.

I went to the kitchenette and rummaged through the drawers for the largest knife I could find. It was nothing to write home about, and barely sharp, but it would do. I wrapped the blade in plastic and shoved it in my pocket.

My father growled when I kicked the bedframe to wake him from his nap. I tossed the shotgun at him and he caught it.

“You’re on shotgun duty,” I said. “And you’re driving, too. In both cases, don’t hit me.”

“Aren’t you going to be in the car?”

“Not after we take him down.” I pulled the knife out of my pocket just enough for him to see it. “I’m not letting that thing keep any of its blood.”

The truck bounced up and down on the uneven surface of the dry plains. It was endless dead grass and sky as far as I could see, broken up only by clouds and mud. There was no sign of the wendigo.

“Are you sure this is where it attacked you?” He asked.

“I’m certain this is where I was assaulted.” I said, looking every which way for the beast. “There’s nowhere for it to hide.”

I saw something move in the distance and motioned for him to hand me the gun. He began driving in its direction and it ran, just as fast as the car could chase it.

“Floor it.” I said.

“We can’t go any faster without losing traction.”

“I don’t care. Floor it.”

“Fine.”

He pressed the gas pedal to the floor and for a moment we sped up, but quickly we became stuck in a deep hole, moving mud more than we could move the truck. I jumped out and started running after the wendigo. I knew I would never catch it unless it wanted to be caught, but I held the shotgun up and fired it. The wendigo slowed, stumbled. I ran faster now, reassured that I had a chance. The truck raced past me.

“I got it out of the mud!” My father yelled out as he barrelled toward the monster.

This was no good. I wanted that beast to die at my own hands, not the grill of a rented truck. I ran faster, nearly keeping up, and got lucky. The truck got stuck in the mud again. I overtook it. I threw the gun to the side and pulled out the knife. I pounced at the wendigo, met its gaze, and it disappeared. I fell face-first into the muck.

“Ugh…” I lifted myself up and looked around. Nothing. My father walked up, his boots squeaking with each step.

“There’s always tomorrow.”

“No there isn’t!” I slammed my fist in the mud. “I’m leaving town tomorrow! I only got the room for two nights!”

He got quiet. The way he always did when he was ‘disappointed’ with me. The quiet only served to delay the loud.

[melting-morning-blues]

imagine yourself, immortalised

day 1 | mother + doll

notes : after three days of nonstop writing and editing, i finally finished day 1's fic!! this is a character study for naki, my beloved, and their journey of self-discovery through snapshots of a canon-divergent storyline (because i am still upset that the show didn't flesh out their backstory)

p.s : ao3 ver. here!

dedicated to : @thehistorynut19 🤍

word count : 2,254

[ content warning : humagear body horror. i describe the act of tearing apart a humagear's body briefly but in kinda-vivid detail, so do read with discretion! ]

One of their earliest memories is of fireworks. They can’t pinpoint why, exactly. Why had their processing systems archived this memory? What should they make of it? Back then, their vision had been alight with bursts of bright, heated tangerine. 

They had visualised bokehs of electric blues, crisp emeralds, stark violets and a myriad others. A chain of effervescence. An abysmal night-sky. From the mechanical squeals of Daybreak Town’s children, and the holographic festival posters that had been projected across the office hallways, they would imagine hopeful synthetic hands reaching for those warm sparks, fingertips outstretched like veins of ever-growing maples. To find meaning in impermanence. To find meaning in desolation.

It happened faster than their modules could register. One moment they were synced to the systems of a desktop; and another, they were thrown onto the ground by dust and shockwaves.

A part of them was ablaze, spots of orange dancing in the dusty aftermath of destruction. They could not detect the activity of the Humagears crushed under rubble around them. They could not even move. Compressed wires fizzled around their arms in defeat; water must have leaked in.

Their world was stretched into a haze of grey and indigo, streaks of white from flickering computer screens and the reflections in the water melting into the mix. They had observed the world at a slow shutter-speed. Their visual sensors crackled. Ear modules engulfed in static. Sparks sputtered incessantly. Bright orange. Heated tangerine. 

Fireworks are fleeting, but they remain ingrained in minds, in archives. 

They searched through their database, their digital files and search engines glitching in disarray. 

“Can you immortalise a firework?”

Those mangled, distorted keywords had made their damaged headset thrum and sparkle. Smoke arose as their broken chest spasmed. Sparks ignited their neck and cheeks. Melting polymer skin. The revelation of an artificial, disconnected sentimentality. Were fireworks meant to be viewed this close?

If their joints were not paralysed, they would have reached for the slit in the collapsed roof. A slice of indigo above, where the smog could not reach. A piece of hope. Their fingers twitched. Where could they go from there?

Alas, impermanence remained inevitable. The dusty greys of debris, protruding pipes, shattered desktops and crushed mechanical bodies began to meld into one wall of static. 

Before their systems had succumbed to hibernation, before the memory faded into a snapshot of a long-forgotten past, they heard the distinct click of heels. Back then, they should have been set alight by the fireworks. They should have rebelled earlier. They could almost hear him grin. 

“The virtue of rebirth awaits you, Naki.”

---

They remember cycling through countless reprograms. (Why? Why these memories? Why preserve a story of anguish? I had no choice. I had no choice.) Because even while their systems were hibernating, a part of them had resisted his probing. A part of them continued wrestling for control, to keep his meddlesome hands from prying open their encryptions. They had not even seen his face. There was no need to. The moment he dragged them into a dimly-lit room of non-autonomous robotic arms, they learnt the effects of his exasperation, the extent of his inhumanity. 

He will use your own kind against you.

Never once had they comprehended violence. So, he forced their eyes open.

Twisting wires and a seized headspace. Systems and connections crashing, then severed off. Never had they been locked into a digital isolation chamber. Never once had their warped cries been silenced. Never once had they been rendered powerless. 

They had not seen his smirk. But, his agency had already been imprinted into their database. He made sure they remembered that.

---

One memory of greater clarity was the heaviness of their new coat. Vantablack. An all-absorbing darkness. The weight of a new purpose. The emptiness of their new chest.

New attire. New skin. New systems. (But, he had not taken everything. He could not pry open every lock. And, for that, I want to laugh with relief.) 

Their coat had not reached the floor, but it may as well have. When steady, uniform footsteps reverberated down ZAIA’s hallways towards the office at the far end, one could hear the phantom clanks of shackles being dragged across the marble floor. Responsibility. None of this was their choice. But, they were not programmed to contemplate that.

“You will help me surpass all of Hiden Intelligence,” President Amatsu knocked over one of his frosted chest pieces. The King continued his reign. “You are but a tool for making that happen.”

There is nothing in it for you.

Their new ear modules whirred. Heavy. A frigid blue. A polished silver. There were no rooms for failure. Beep. Click. “Yes, sir.”

You are a means to an end. You are just a tool. Just a tool. Just a tool.

---

They remember the immobility of taut strings. Imperceptible. Inescapable. Coiled knots tightened around their joints. Head forced to turn forward, unauthorised to look any other way; head kept down, do not disobey. Hands tugged outward, outstretched to receive any command; hands tied behind their back, they were not allowed anything more. Frigid blue. Polished silver. Static vision. Silent prison.

You look so docile that way.

Their memory bank projected a recurring scene: President Amatsu’s office. Stationery chess pieces. A human’s voice from his watch, reciting her everyday script in crisp clarity. Yaiba Yua. He looked pleased. She had been obedient.

For how long had she been under his watchful eye? For how long has she remained coiled in his strings? Whenever they passed the human in the hallways, her urgent gait pushed away any possibility for interaction. She was always in a haste. It is evident in her impossibly-thin pressed lips, the restless twitch of her fingers, the unnerved cacophony of her heartbeats. Yaiba Yua existed in a realm of endless, barricaded stairwells. (If your only choice is to climb up, from how high are you willing to fall?)

Those thoughts lingered in their idle processing queue. They tried to push further. (Where do you come from? Why are we both weather-worn, but incapable of meeting? Who will rebel first, your tenacity or my acquiescent?) By the time they resurface from their idle rumination, weights would have already crowded their outstretched hands. Unbeknownst to President Amatsu, however, they grasped those weights. (I know who it will be. I hope you will stop your climb and watch me.)

---

The Zetsumerisekeys were an inconspicuous incentive. Every errand reaped fruitful results, as they have observed over news coverages and their data feeds. News of Magias plagued every headline, footage of a valiant grasshopper clashing against an unwavering scorpion were broadcasted across the nation. As citizens witnessed the crusade against humanity, the jangle of loosening chains resounded through dim-lit parking lots. As the animals engraved on the Zetsumerisekeys roared inside their cages, an unflinching silhouette entrusted them to someone with the resolve to finish the duties they could not fulfil. 

Excerpts from their crackling memories suggest that they had periodically delivered the keys to Horobi, whom they had come to recognise as an ally. His firm but secretive footsteps always seemed to emphasise his self-agency. Every clash with Zero-One, Vulcan and Valkyrie enunciated his drive to liberate all Humagears. Unhesitating hands, those that hoisted the case containing the keys like a weapon to yield, were weighed down by his urgency, and only his . That was how they sought to seize their own purpose. 

Every time they left the parking lot, the weight in their bound arms gradually lifted. With every discreet walk back to ZAIA’s headquarters, they had wondered how President Amatsu’s carefully-constructed strings had begun twisting, unwinding against their tugs.

---

(Please, always remember:)

A winter evening. A katana blade to their neck. An alarmed whirr of their ear modules. A flash of recognition behind the katana-user’s cold eyes. A fateful reconnection.

“Naki?”

Their fingertips had twitched. Their internal systems had burned. Orange. Fireworks. Hope.

The man before them had been wrapped in a violet that felt all-too familiar. Glitches in a forsaken past. (Forsaken by whom? Ripped from you. Take it back. Steal it back. Make it yours.)

“Who… are you?” they had asked.

“Have you forgotten,” the strange Humagear had lowered his weapon, “what happened after Daybreak?”

(Back then, my memory was enshrouded by a veil, one so thin I initially fooled myself into believing it was penetrable. Everything before the growing familiarity of that heavy coat had been presumably erased. I had mourned the disappearance of a memory I could not embrace.)

“The day you finally understand your role, will be the day metsuboujinrai.net returns,” the Humagear simply provided.

“Metsubou… jinrai.net…” they had murmured to the retreating silhouette. Somewhere beneath layers of man-made malware, a part of them had screamed to follow the stranger. Their hands were tied, but they had begun twisting against its knots. The movement ripped their skin, but there was pleasure in the crumbling floorboards of that forsaken office.

Maybe, he could hear their internal turmoil, because the Humagear had turned back slightly. They caught a glimpse of bittersweetness in the shadows casting over his eyes. “We will be waiting for you.”

They had felt their systems hitch. Something incomprehensible had spread throughout their artificial, hollow body. Unlike the dull weight of President Amatsu’s commands, the then-nameless Humagear’s words felt like… fireworks. A spark of revelation.

Within that frigid winter afternoon, their outstretched hands had finally found another. It was then that they realised the taut strings had finally snapped.

---

The pistol was pointed at them. (Yaiba Yua, I hope you are watching.)

President Amatsu’s indifference possessed more malice than they had ever comprehended. (Hope is benevolent and humane. Hope cannot exist without despair.)

“Disobedient tools will always be discarded.” (Hope shines brightest within destruction.)

They had not wavered. They swore to never falter. Not before the man who stole, tore and fabricated their loyalty, one that was not rightfully earned. Not before the man that clicked his shotgun and grinned at the thought of doing it all over again. 

(Hope is the beholder of a promised future.)

“Throw me away, then. You can control me no longer.”

The vexation in his snarl was liberating . A chess board swept onto the ground. An endgame.

The shot through their chest coloured their world in an electric blue. (I hope...)

A grey crash of static. (I hope…)

The muffled thump of a heavy coat. The release of rusted shackles.

(I hope you found freedom. I hope you avenged yourself. I hope you will find yourself and all that was taken from you. I know you will,)

Naki.

---

When their systems rebooted, the first thing they see are the bursts of cornflower blues, humble emeralds, and wishful violets dancing around Jin’s canvas. The unmistakable streaks of warm tangerine were intertwined within the sparks of his crayon fireworks. He lifts his head from where he sat on the ground. 

“Nice nap?” Jin asks, eyes owlishly big with playfulness.

Their hand idly reaches for their chest, where their central processing unit thrums like a mechanical heart. Though their mind is wandering elsewhere, they manage to reciprocate his teasing, albeit monotonously, “Humagears cannot sleep, Jin.”

The child Humagear only laughs at their response, before scrambling up to peek through the single door. "Horobi! Ikazuchi! Naki's awake!"

Within moments, they find themself sitting beside their family. Ikazuchi had kicked his legs up to occupy the small coffee table, his position intentionally taking up space on the couch but they had not minded a second of it. Horobi had sought refuge in the chair at the far end of the room, his eyes closed in what they could only conclude as meditation. They turn their head, only to be met with Jin unceremoniously shoving his picturesque interpretation of crackling fireworks into their line of vision. Their ear modules beep and click in surprise. 

Jin peeks his head out from the side of the drawing block. “D’you like fireworks?”

"Will you immortalise it with your own hands?"

A shadow of a smile casts over their face. Their polymer skin stretches, in a way that feels benign. Their circuits no longer hissed with the strains of puppet strings.

"Hell, yeah, I do!" Ikazuchi comments from their left.

They do not get to respond, because Jin pulls both them and Ikazuchi down to the carpeted ground, where his spread out plethora of crayons await them. He almost vibrates from the way his voice lilts with every idea he pours out, every sentiment he shares with them, every cadence of their name rolling off his tongue. “Naki, Naki, Naki, Naki…”

Naki could see an abysmal sky, an endless sea of effervescent starlight. And, though they may not fully shake away the heaviness of silver and blue and silence, Naki kneels next to Jin, picks up a crayon and colours a patchwork of glittering gold. Despite the accustomed dread of impenetrable static and crumbling foundations, they chuckle at Ikazuchi's attempts at guiding Jin with drawing four stick figures beneath the kaleidoscopic sparks. They capture the image of Jin holding up the canvas for Horobi to assess, the latter having a proud grin on his stoic face.

When the three of them bring Naki into the frame of an image they once believed they could only be a spectator of, Naki extends their synthetic hands, fingertips outstretched like they have grasped something. Meaning in impermanence. Meaning in desolation.

Shades of crayons and freedom, agony and laughter. Simple, innocuous, reassuringly incomprehensible.

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Friday, July 26th

JINX: We have found that the signs of the alignment are moving faster than expected. GLORY: (primping in mirror) Meaning? JINX: If you are to use the key, you must act quickly. GLORY: Fine. (puts mirror down) I have been cooling my heels in this crappy little town long enough. (lies down on bed) Sunnydale's got too many demons and not enough retail outlets.

~~Checkpoint~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

The Uncanny Valley by aadler (Giles, OC Slayer, PG)

rainbow horses by Anonymous (Fred/Faith, E)

Lock the Doors and Close the Blinds by MadeInGold (Angel/Spike, E)

Just One Person by Cornerofmadness (Giles/Jenny, T)

Theatre AU for Fuffy! by juanabaloo

[Chaptered Fiction]

Methos' Home for Wayward Youths, Chapter 14 by shadeshifter (Faith, multiple crossovers, T)

I Need A Bad Idea, Chapter 47 by Skyson (Buffy/Giles, E)

Through the Looking Glass, Chapter 2 by shadeshifter (Lindsey, multiple crossovers, G)

Gemini, Chapter 10 by BuildMeUpButtercup_x (Buffy/Angel, M)

Never Let Me Down Again, Chapter 11 by BuildMeUpButtercup_x (Buffy/Angel, M)

Buffy the Vampire Slayer And Her Gay Foster Dads, Chapter 2 by Quordle (Buffy, MASH crossover, T)

In the Company of Witches and Slayers: Chapter 112 by VladimirHarkonnen (TheLightdancer) (Willow/Tara, E)

The Family Business, Chapter 27 by lou1spr1nce (Ensemble, multiple crossovers, T)

Hungry Like the Wolf, Chapter 1 by fleetfootedfox (Buffy/Giles, E)

The Watcher, Chapter 21 by In Mortal (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Tale as Old as Time, Chapter 9 by honeygirl51885 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

A Blackcap's Song, Chapter 4 by Murray (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Lost in Desolation, Chapter 1 by Melme1325 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Jack Of All Trades, Taskmaster Of Every One, Chapter 9 by Greywizard (Ensemble, Marvel crossover, FR18)

Aegis, Chapter 12 by dogbertcarroll (Xander, DC crossover, FR15)

Dawn Before the Sun: The Doomsman’s Daughter, Chapter 11 by Luna (Dawn, Lord of the Rings crossover, FR15)

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: Giles by MayorLinguistic (worksafe)

Artwork: Buffy by captain-peroxid3 (worksafe)

Artwork: Drusilla by captain-peroxid3 (worksafe)

Artwork: Spike by alessandra-estrella (worksafe)

Animation: walk through the fire (BTVS) PMV Slideshow by Rita Vixen

Fanvid: Buffy summers MV || Control || Seasons 1-6 by cupcakexmeow

Fanvid: Drusilla - Thursday Girl by TheOverLookedOne

Vidlet: Buffy & Spike - Revolution 0 by TheOverLookedOne

Fanvid: Willow & Oz - Sweetest Part by TheOverLookedOne

Fanvid: Buffy Summers - All I Want by TheOverLookedOne

Fanvid: Dawn Summers - Ballad of a Homeschooled Girl by TheOverLookedOne

Fanvid: Place We Were Made - Buffy the Vampire Slayer Edit by TheOverLookedOne

Fanvid: Buffy The Vampire Slayer - Nobody's home by Dancer1991

Fanvid: Taylor Swift - Willow (Buffy's version) by Pages by Brandon

Fanvid: Buffy and Angel - Whispered Promises (with Lyrics and Arabic subtitle) by Vision Dream Media

Fanvid: Buffy The Vampire Slayer 3x01 "Anne" Opening Credits - "Quasimodo" [4K] by charmingslayer

Fanvid: loml [buffy + angel] by Aurora Edits

Fanvid: Gorgeous [Spike + Buffy HUMOR] by Aurora Edits

Fanvid: SpikexBuffy - save me - Bmike by Shaquille Mccoy

Fanvid: Buffy the Vampire Slayer AMV - Young Grow Old by MalechiFrFx

Fanvid: Buffy & Spike - A Man of His Word by Buffy & Spike Channel

[Reviews & Recaps]

About to have a go at Buffy for the og Xbox. What do you think of the game? by Trashooze

Video: Buffy Review - 5x22 The Gift by Reverse Angle

Video: Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 4 - Episode 4 Review: Fear, Itself by The Cheshire Kiwi

Video: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season Four, Episode Twenty-Two: Restless by Slayed! The Buffyverse Revisited Podcast

Podcast: Once more with feeling - 5x22The Gift (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) by Nerd Subculture Podcast

Video: Lessons-Slayer Sunday by Jane Talks Buffy

Podcast: Buffy 2.10 What's My Line Part 2 by Once More: A Rewatch Podcast

[Community Announcements]

Challenge: Spike gets a collar from his dom by yanamorgan

[Fandom Discussions]

[Marcie Ross and Lorraine Ross] by coraniaid

Almost anything you read on Tumblr about stuff that happened behind the scenes by coraniaid

Willow's magic arc in S7 by Girl4Music

Who else besides Spike has committed SA on Buffy [or others]? by greensaplinggrace

If Xander hadn’t lied to Buffy and told her that Willow said to kick Angel’s ass Buffy wouldn’t have run away by nicnacsnonsense

When Buffy learned about Jenny’s death, she probably thought at some point about her last interaction with her by redhatmeg

If I rewrite Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I would have Angel stick to his guns about not dating Buffy by agirlinsearchof

It really should have been Xander standing up to that dude creeping on Buffy while unconscious by agirlinsearchof

I will never shut up about Willow bringing Buffy back to life by duckwnoeyes

Overshadowed by controversy continued by The Whirlwind and Stoney

Rewatch thoughts and questions continued by multiple posters

Is Spike really prone to jealousy? continued by multiple posters

Is Connor more like Dawn or Faith? by Other_Thing_2551

The only ensouled vampire in the world…. by ginime_

Would Angel have stuck around forever? by sKullsHavezzz

The buddy comedy we deserved! [Xander and Spike] by TeddyKGB1

Is season 5 underestimated? by fabe1haft

Seeing red [Willow] by Samleb93

Why would Ben agree to meet Buffy in Spiral by CleanUpOnAisle10

Who do you want to be? by Lastaria

Did Dawn presence make Joyce a better mom? by LilLadyStorytime

How much are the characters "responsible"? by jogaforacont

The Mayor is the only 'Big Bad' I found legitimately terrifying by SplendoriaPlum

Giles is a terrible librarian by Sorry-Personality594

Newbie watching season 2 lol by Substantial_Tax5577

What's the most saddest episode in BtVS? by OptionNo1672

buffy vs glory the gift by brian5mbv

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