#nothin' but parallels all the way down

[dixonsgirl93]

A Walk in the Woods

Daryl Dixon drabble

~~

It was late in the afternoon as the two of you walked through the woods, returning from getting supplies.

You were absentmindedly talking away about something or other that had happened back at Alexandria. Daryl stayed silent, keeping an eye open for threats. Whether he was listening or not didn't really matter but you were glad he was just letting you yap. It felt like getting a weight off your chest.

You come up to a fallen tree, parallel to your path so you take the opportunity to step up and walk along it, still talking. You were about halfway before you slipped, hands reaching out to stop your fall. You hadn't realised how slippery the wet, mossy trunk was.

Your hand lands on Daryl's shoulder and you grip him out of instinct. When you get a good stable balance again you look up at him.

"You good?" He asked. He glanced down at your ankle and back up at you. Your mouth felt dry.

"Yeah." You manage, heart still going fast. It was at that moment you realised your hand was still on his bare arm so you dropped your hand. The muscles under his tanned skin were solid, like rock and he hardly moved when you almost fell on him.

"C'mon." He said and slowly started to walk but stopped when you didn't follow. He was staying close in case you fell again. Suddenly whatever you were yapping about before seemed so very unimportant now. You almost wanted to slip again, maybe so he could fully catch you in his arms. You couldn't help but entertain the thought of his sturdy body catching yours with ease and how it made your heart flutter.

"What were you sayin' before?" Daryl prompted. "About the broken window in ya house?"

You looked over at him in shock. "I didn't think you were listening. I was just talking."

"Figured I might as well if you were gonna yap the whole way home." He smirked slightly.

"Hey!" You reached to smack him on the arm, he dodged but came back when your balance wobbled. "You could have just told me to shut up."

He shrugged. "Wasn't botherin' me or nothin'."

You reached the end of the trunk and jumped down. "All right then. So my window..."

[macfrog]

ghost

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

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

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

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

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

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

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

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

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

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

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

Meant company, is what he was saying.

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

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

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

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

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

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Motherf–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

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

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

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. She feels edgy.

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

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

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Ghost –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

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

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

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

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

“What do I do once I’m in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bingo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

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

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

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

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

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

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

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

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

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

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

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

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

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

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

Just do it.

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

Just do it.

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

Just do it.

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

Just do it.

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

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

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

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

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

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

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

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

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

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

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

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

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

“Pat–”

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

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

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

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

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

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

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

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

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

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

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

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

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always have been. Always will be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

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

“Should get that leg covered.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?”

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

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----------

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[ihavemanyhusbands]

NIGHTS AT THE WRANGLER — A DRABBLE

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Courier!Fem!Reader

WC: 1.4k words

Summary: A little fluffy ficlet/drabble of Courier!Reader and Cooper after he started working as an escort at the Atomic Wrangler <33

Warnings: fluff!!!, flirty cooper, some lovey dovey smut, escort!cooper, based on my inability to understand and play Caravan lmao, budding romance

————-

Nights in the Mojave desert were sweltering and long, but you were able to find some reprieve in one of the small, sparingly decorated rooms at the Atomic Wrangler.

Good company and some drinks certainly helped alleviate your mood as well, despite the additional heat generated. The room was in disarray in the aftermath, but that had been inevitable all along.

The bed sheets had been kicked away and were now bunched up beneath your bare figure. A window was open, though no breeze blew in. A dingy old radio was playing a country song that you found yourself humming along to. Cooper’s hat was perched sideways on your head, lest the wide brim slide down over your eyes.

You and him lay parallel on the bed, facing each other. He was trying to teach you how to play Caravan, but you were still not entirely getting the hang of it. There were a few caps tossed between you to make things interesting, but he’d been the only one collecting the past few rounds.

“This is impossible,” you muttered, staring at your piles of cards.

He laughed. “Darlin’, I’m really startin’ to think you’re hopeless.”

“There’s just so much to take into consideration! And I have so many fucking cards…”

“Don’t get all worked up now,” he said, adding a card to one of his stacks. “At least, not like that.”

You shared a brief look with him before you rolled your eyes, a little smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

“I thought you said you didn’t do seconds,” you said casually, pretending to look through your own cards.

“I can make an exception here and there,” he said. “After all, you did say I get to choose my clientele. Means I can also choose what I give or don’t give ‘em.”

“I’m sensing some subliminal messaging here.”

He let out an amused grunt. “Oh, you and I both know I don’t need to persuade you into anythin’.”

You hummed noncommittally, not wanting to outright admit he was right. You propped your chin on your hand and observed him for a moment.

“How has it been, by the way?” You asked. “You adapting to this line of work well?”

“It’s been just peachy, the Garretts are real happy with our arrangement,” he said. “Nothin’ to complain about, really, and it ain’t like I’m tied to this place anyway. Nights like this one are always a plus, too.”

“Aw shucks.” You grinned, adjusting his hat on your head. “I am pretty fun, aren’t I?”

“Well, beating you at Caravan sure is fun,” he teased, making you playfully punch his arm.

He grasped your arm and pulled you closer, your torso sliding over the cards and effectively ruining the match. You didn’t mind, especially not as he dipped down to kiss you. His hat slid off your head unceremoniously, falling off the side of the bed.

His tongue dragging against yours brought your earlier activities back to the forefront of your mind and a small, pleasured hum escaped your throat.

He pulled back to look at you, and by the glazed look in his eyes, you could tell he was just as affected. You hummed thoughtfully, reaching up to cup his face gently.

“You’re going sweet on me, aren’t you?” You teased, your fingertips lightly tracing his skin.

“That’s what you think, huh?” He said, one of his calloused hands slowly trailing up your abdomen.

“Far as I can tell,” you countered. “And I’ve been told I’m very perceptive.”

“Hmm…”

His hand passed over your sternum, moving to caress one of your breasts in an intimately casual way. As if he’d been familiar with your body longer than just a handful of nights.

And of course, it responded to his touch, like he knew it would. His grin was lopsided, a slightly smug yet mischievous edge to it.

“Well, as it turns out, I’m pretty perceptive myself,” he rasped, pinching your nipple and rolling it between his fingers.

Your back arched, a small spasm jolting through you as an edge of pain mingled with pleasure. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You’re just trying to empty my pockets, aren’t you?” You said, breath hitching as you watched him lick his fingers before they resumed their teasing. “Getting me all worked up like this.”

“What makes you say that, sweetheart?” He asked, tilting his head slightly to one side. “I think you just can’t seem to resist me, is all… Why else would you be mewlin’ like that?”

“Oh, I think y-you know why,” you breathed as he leaned down once more, his lips enticingly ghosting over yours. “But I’d argue you can’t resist me either.”

He chuckled a little, moving to your jaw and then your neck, nearly giving you away and making you shudder against him.

“I do like this pussy of yours, I’ll give ya that,” he husked, his hot breath in your ear as he nipped the lobe with his teeth.

As if to emphasize his point, his hand trailed down to where you were aching once more. Palm cupping your already sensitive cunt, which was undeniably wet once again. You couldn’t help a little gasp — perhaps a wordless plea for mercy he wouldn’t heed. Any resolve you had crumbled underneath his nearly expert ministrations, the teasing becoming unbearable.

“Fuck. I-I want you, Cooper. I just…please?” You panted wantonly, the slight humiliation that came with your begging only getting you wetter. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Maybe so.” You could hear the smirk in his voice. “C’mere, I wanna see how pretty you look on top of me.”

He shifted to lie on his back, your mind spinning for a moment as his warmth left you nearly shaking with barely contained desire. Damn he was good. He knew your tells quite well, which buttons to push, where to pinch or prod or caress to elicit different noises. And you were like a bonfire that he set aflame.

You crawled atop him, panther-like, your chest sliding over his. His hips bucked as you reached down to grip his erection, lightly stroking the sensitive head as you kept eye contact with him. You bent down and kissed the corner of his mouth, lightly swiping your tongue over his bottom lip.

His mouth slackened as you lined up his cock and slowly sank down on it, the movement made easy by your wetness. His hands grasped your hips tightly as you rested your palms on his chest. You let out a breathy moan as you readjusted the position of your legs. Your hips began gyrating slowly, teasingly, gauging more of his reactions in turn.

“Pretty as a picture,” he rasped as you pulled back, an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher in his eyes as he looked over you.

You grinned. “Not so bad yourself, cowboy. How’s it feel being ridden for once?”

He chuckled. “Don’t get too smug now, or I’ll have to break ya like a wild bronco.”

You hummed, taking those words as a challenge. His hands aided you as you went faster, finding a rhythm that had you both groaning. One of his hands came to rest on your sternum, wanting to feel your rapid heartbeat. For a moment, you held onto his wrist, head tilting back as you lost yourself to the feeling of him deep inside you.

You heard him murmuring your name, as well as praises of you good you felt. You found an angle where your clit dragged against his pubic mound with each thrust, and soon you were nearing the edge. Your eyes fluttered closed, focusing on all other sensations. Sensing your mounting pleasure, he helped you along. He pulled your hips down to grind against him, his hips canting up.

“O-oh…” was all you could breathe, shuddering piteously, brows furrowed.

And suddenly, without warning, your orgasm spiraled upwards and spread through you. Your legs pressed against his sides as your body tensed. He held you aloft through it, a low groan in his throat as he felt you clench down on him repeatedly. You fell against him once more with a dopey little giggle, his arms encircling you.

“Damn… I’ll never get tired of this,” you said, feeling him chuckle against you.

“All it took to get you going was beating you at Caravan,” he said teasingly, one of his hands trailing up and down your back. “I can work with that.”

You pulled back to frown at him. “You’re so mean to me, you know that?”

“It’s ‘cus you like it, sweetheart.”

————

[ariseur]

OMG ONG OMG hi!!!. can i request an arthur morgan x reader whrre its like all domestic fluff snd all sweet like tooth rotting sweet idk 😞 u can do whatever u want like as long as arthur is ok and happy and reader is there to kiss him im ok. BUT IF U DONT WANT OR LIKE IT ITS FINE !!! Soueheheh 😢😢

you squinted at the bright golden light of dawn, the golden beams immediately waking you up once you lifted your head from its position in the crook of arthur’s neck. the birds’ melodic chirps filled the air besides distant chattering of a few camp members nearby, ms. grimshaw even starting to roam around as you could practically see the cogs in her head ticking while she contemplated waking the girls up for their daily chores.

you let out a small whine before lolling your head back down and plopping it on arthur’s broad shoulder. you wouldn’t be bothered to do chores today, maybe you’d ask dutch to send you on a job later today. if he was feeling generous enough to let you get a word in, that is.

a gravelly rumble shook you out of your thoughts though as you looked up to see arthur chuckling. a hand came up to smooth his hair back as his eyes fluttered open. you took in all of his features in that second ( as per usual ) — every blemish, every scar, every pore, even that little spot on his chin that the hair wouldn’t grow just as right whenever he had cleaned up and shaved. he was him, and that’s all you could’ve asked for.

his eyes blinked open while his hand came up to rest upon your lower back, his thumb rubbing small circles on the exposed skin that peeked out from under your undergarments. arthur’s lips split into a small smile as you quirked a brow. “what’re you laughing at?” you asked, even giving a meager huff as his laughter started to get to you, too.

he shook his head amusedly and waved a hand dismissively as he looked up at you, atop his chest as you bobbed with his unsteady breaths. once he had finally done snickering to himself, he looked back down at you with a content smile. “nothin’,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “someone must’ve gotten a good night’s rest ‘s all ‘m sayin’.”

you groaned, your eyes scrunching shut as your hand came up to feel your hair, the tangles in your strands sticking out every which way. you leaned over to arthur’s nightstand ( or more so a barrel ), ignoring the wheeze he let out when your elbow dug into his ribs a little too hard as you reached for the small mirror he used when he shaved.

you blinked once, then twice and adjusted to the light before tilting the glass down and examining yourself. you sighed while you confirmed that your hair was, indeed, messy — and that caused another chuckle to erupt from arthur, his chest shaking. you smacked his shoulder to which he laughed even harder.

“yeah, yeah. laugh it up.” you muttered. you placed the mirror back down as you made sure to intentionally dig your arm into arthur’s chest in the process. “‘m just saying.” he said.

by now, you’re sure charles and bill had to at least have stirred in their sleep as their tent was parallel to yours, only a few feet away from you. someone must’ve heard you, you thought. but it didn’t really matter. moments like these were rare — sweet, domestic moments where you didn’t feel like fearing that the next moment you could be shot or arrested simply from trying to ride into town.

and your previous suspicions were right as you heard soft footsteps on the grass behind you, quick ones at that. arthur gestured his head upwards to signal that someone was behind you, only for you to crane your head to look at ms. grimshaw.

she quirked a brow at your position before her voice broke the peaceful banter of the morning. arthur didn’t pay much mind, scratching at his beard while he looked at you glaring at the woman while you gave sleepy responses, making sure to exaggerate the fact that you ‘just woke up’. his brain only managed to chime in on your guys’ conversation once ms. grimshaw had said, “i suggest you start with your chores for the day. we could certainly use the help ‘round here — that goes for you too, mister morgan.”

he gave a low hum in affirmation as you both watched her walk away. you pouted as he looked back at you, giving you a gaze that you knew all too well. unfortunately, this mundane moment had to come to a halt and needed to be set for another day.

“you heard ‘er,” arthur said. he lightly smacked your thigh, bordering on the soft plump of your ass before you felt him shift under you. “up you go.”

“so handsy,” you huffed, “i never knew you were so crass, mister morgan.”

“watch it.”

𐙚 taglist ; @maskedteaser ( guys ples join the taglist i’m sure these people r annoyed of being the only ones being tagged for these 😞🙏🙏)

𐙚 requests are closed — june twelfth, 2024

[cupidspup]

It’s late and I’m bored so enjoy this agere fic I made teehee

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CG! BEN drowned x Little! Reader

(All art is not mine and credit goes to their original artists!)

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CW: Aged up Ben, pet regressor little, feminine little w/ feminine nicknames (this one is heavily indulgent I’m sorry guys 😔✌️), pet regression gear (pet bed, cage, chew toys, ect), alternative paternal nicknames (ex: baba), petre nicknames (puppy and kitty ones are used interchangeably!), a small amount of abandonment feels and loneliness but it’s okay because there’s lots of comfort!!

Summary: You and Ben are having parallel play time but suddenly your abandonment issues and anxiety start to sink in and it starts to make you feel sad and lonely. Luckily Ben is there to make it all better for you! (Self indulgent alert!!)

A/N: I was too lazy to figure out a way to fit in that the setting is Ben’s room in slendermansion into this fic thing so here’s how I’m letting y’all know and I hope that’s okay ८,,◐⩊◐,,ა

-`♡´-

You and Ben are always together, quality time is a huge thing between the two of you and everyone knows that. Wherever he goes you go and wherever you go he goes and you guys love it that way! It’s your version of perfect and you couldn’t ask for more! It even sends butterflies into your tummy when people ask where “your other half is” when one of you is missing from your usual pair. It’s domestic to you in a way and for people to immediately pair you two together in your eyes is something that you find particularly special. Now, you both following each other around isn’t necessarily a codependency thing but it’s just you both genuinely love being around each other!

If there’s a party you both are huddled in a corner either talking or playing games on your phone. When you’re home you’re always cuddled up to him while he’s busy doing his own thing. Most people would think that he’s too inattentive to be a good caregiver but not were they so far from the truth. Ben had actually never had a little until he met you. Much less a little who was also a pet at that. It took a lot of practice and communication but once he got into his own groove for it it’s been nothing but perfect. And ever since he first started caring for you he’s only gotten better by the day.

One of your favorite things to do with Ben is snuggle by him while he plays his video games. It’s something so small and unconventional but it brings you both a lot of joy. He has his gaming set up on a desk in his room. Everything is decorated just the way he likes. But he’s your baba and he loves to spoil you so of course right under his desk he’s has a perfectly pretty pink puppy bed for you complete with your favorite plushies and your favorite blankie. He even went ahead and put some small fairy lights so you wouldn’t be scared of the dark.

So while Ben plays away at his video games every now and then he’ll reach a loving hand down to ruffle your hair and caress your cheek softly. And of course you nuzzle yourself into his hand each and every time, cuddling up to his legs.

And of course today was no different than any other day.

You’ve been cuddled under his desk for about an hour now and Ben has been playing his games for a little longer than that. Initially, you went to your little crawl space to be closer to him and have some more of his attention but it hasn’t worked out quite yet. Ben still hasn’t realized that you want more attention than the occasional head pat!! Isn’t that clear enough already?? So if course as any pet would, you decide to get his attention in the best way you know how.

Pouting while being cute.

You rest your head onto his leg, smushing your cheek right up against it with a little whine. No response. You whine just a tad louder and nuzzle your head with a little more pressure. Nothin. One more louder whine with a little pout rewards you with a loving hand petting your cheeks and the most loving voice from him while he plays. “What’s up little pup?” He says as he softly caresses your face.

As soon as he says it, you feel it in your chest right in your heart. That twinge of pain and hurt is suddenly unlocked. It’s the normal pain you feel but it’s so much stronger when you’re so little and deep in your headspace.

You feel lonely. You feel abandoned somehow, even though he’s been right there this whole time! You know it’s irrational and it makes you feel crazy honestly. It’s hard to cope with it enough as is but while you’re like this? It’s a recipe for a meltdown on its own.

He’s still playing his game but you can tell he’s catching on.

“What’s going on kitty? You okay?”

You nod your head and try to pull back a little from him.

You’re being too much you don’t want to be a bother. This is too much for him it’s all too much. He’s going to leave and he’s going to leave you because you’re leaning on him too much. You have to do this on your own, you’re able to do this on your own why make him do this? He’s always playing and this is why, he needs an escape. An escape from you, you’re going to end up alone and it’ll be your fault.

The thoughts are coming in and they’re coming in fast. They’re bad and they’re overwhelming it feels like you’re suffocating from them alone. You want to cling onto him but it’s scary. He’s already so busy and you don’t want to be a bother more than you already have been.

The sound of Ben’s game being completed is what breaks you out of your own ruminating. He takes a second to stretch before pushing himself away from his desk and out of his seat. This pulls at your heartstrings, it hurts you to your core in the worst way. You curl up under the desk into your blanket, it’s the only thing that can comfort you right now.

It’s what you think at first at least.

At first, it looks like Ben was going to leave the room but once he was out of his chair, nice and stretched he comes down and sits on the floor with you. Chair and game aside he’s on your level with you.

“Baby, what’s up with you? I’m right here you can tell me anything, you know that.” He says with a comforting tone. When he looks at you it’s not judgmental or annoyed. Nothing of the sort at all. It’s calm and patient. The complete opposite of what you thought he would have been.

“Kitten are you having bad thoughts again?” He says as he inches closer. “It’s okay if you are don’t worry. You know your baba cares about you. I’d never be upset at you for that.” You pause and refuse to look into his eyes, you can’t seem to meet them even though he says it’s okay. You nod at him, confirming his suspicion. Curling into yourself further you hold your blanket closer for comfort. Ben sits for a bit to think before joining you under the desk, right in your crawl space. “Well I know there’s not a whole lot I can do to make your thoughts stop-but I know I can do a lot about how you feel about them. I’m not going anywhere at all, puppy. I promise you that, as a matter of fact I’ll stay here in your puppy space for as long as you want me to.” He wraps his arm around your shoulders and brings you in for a cuddle, which you silently accept. You nuzzle into him and the fabric of his hoodie wipes the tears that were forming in your eyes. He gives you a soft kiss on the top of your head and gently rubs your back. “That’s it pup, just relax for me.” You let out all the air you were holding in and snuggle up to him more. And it’s just like that. The two of you snuggled under his desk in your little crawl space.

It’s a nice comfort but very unfamiliar. Ben doesn’t really come down here since it’s YOUR space. You lift your head to look at him only to find him looking at the things you have under the desk with you.

He dusts off the scattered pacis you have, tidies up your various tethers and chew toys, and even organizes your various stuffed friends.

“You’ve got a nice setup, kitten. I can’t believe you had all this going on right under me.” He looks at you and his pointed ears wiggle just a tad. It makes you smile a little bit, it’s a thing he does sometimes without even realizing it most of the time. It’s something that happens really when he’s spending his time with you. He smiles and picks up one of the plushies you have under there with you. A gift from him of course. “Awe you got that thing I got you here. What’s this guy’s name again?? Rico?? Luka???”

You giggle and scrunch your face at him a little.

“Nu uh! Rilakkuma!!” You say in response as he picks up your other plushie.

“Oh yeah and his friend Corey” he says as he puts them together.

You laugh and shake your head no as you point to the plushie, “Nooo that’s Korilakkuma! You’re being silly!!” Ben pretends to be shocked at both the name and at your accusations.

“Gasp that is not TRUE! I am being sooo serious right now how could you kitten? I thought we were FRIENDS!” He says with a playful tone as he cuddles the bears together. “I’m gonna go cuddle with my REAL FRIENDS Rico and Corey now that I’ve been WOUNDED by my kitty.” His ears droop for dramatic effect. This of course makes you giggle even more. “Babaaaaa! Noooo!” He cuddles them close and starts talking to them, “Cmon guys they obviously don’t know what they’re talking about.” This throws you into a laughing fit and it completely shifts your mood. Ben is always the best at helping with that. He’s not a big fan of being like this in front of others but when it’s just you two? You get a side of him that no one else sees and it’s your perfect dynamic, hust the way you want it. He’s a doting caregiver through and through.

Ben being the self-appointed internet god he is, of course he knows these characters and their real names! You’ve talked about them before and he sees them all the time! He just loves to tease you and make you laugh. ♡

He hands you one of your beloved bears back (Korilakkuma) and keeps the other. Making his gives your a big hug. “See my bear is hugging yours because they love each other and I love you too, kitten. ♡ you’re always going to be mine and I’ll always take care of you. Leaving you would be just as upsetting to me as it would be to you-I’d never do a thing like that to you cutie. I promise”

You give him a big hug and bury yourself into his neck a little. And he hugs you right back because he’s secretly just as much of a cuddle bug as you are. “I love you puppy”

“I love you too baba”

“Wanna sit on my lap and watch while I do my stuff? We can do something else if you’d prefer that” he asks with a little smile. You’d nod and you leave your arms out to him. He gets up and lifts you up into his arms and take a seat with you. You settle into your rightfully taken throne (Ben’s lap) and lean against his chest. He drapes a loving and protective arm around you and uses the other to turn his pc back on. With a kiss on your head, a plushie in your arms and your little gear on stand by it’s the perfect setup.

You point at the can of monster on his desk and make a lil noise.

He moves the can away from you, “Nope. Sorry baby, little puppies like you can’t have any of that.” He leans down and opens his creeper mini fridge (yes he has one) and takes out a juice box for you instead. “I can however, give you this instead. That sound good?”

You nod and take the juice box, sipping happily as you watch Ben play his games. It’s a lovely routine you two have and you couldn’t ask for more.

Just like that, everything is back to perfect and you wind up spending your day with him like you usually do. Curled up in his lap like a good kitty and spending time with him like usual.♡

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A/N: WOof this took FOREVER and I initially planned on posting sneak leaks but I never was able to like write enough for that but I’ve been up since 5 am and I’ve been writing and it’s honestly come together so nicely and so much better than I thought it would?? I dunno if it’s obvious but this is so incredibly self indulgent it’s not even funny lol I hope you guys liked it nonetheless! I have so much more planned (especially with Ben and Toby as caregivers) and I can’t wait to share that with you! Love you guys!

-Puppy 🐶ིྀ🐾♡₊ ⊹

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Leona Kingscholar - Gala Couture Vignette

"Through all of this..."

[Pomefiore Dorm – Ballroom]

Leona: Hips straight, feet forward… With every step, square the knees straight…

Leona: Put one foot in front of the other, as if walking on a thin line… However, take long strides with an open chest.

Leona: …So, how's that, then?

Leona: You can't have no gripes with my runway walk now, can ya?

Vil: …It's perfect.

Vil: It's like you've become a completely different person from how you were a few days prior. When did you suddenly decide to actually take this seriously?

Leona: I couldn't be bothered to care about this lame fashion show, but…

Leona: It's even more of a pain having you dogging me day in and day out.

Leona: Just thought it'd be easier to get it all over with.

Leona: How's that, honest enough for ya?

Vil: So, you'll take things seriously just to make it easier on yourself? …I can't help being astounded at the depths of your laziness.

Leona: Anyway, I'm done with the walking. Looks like I'm done with your "lessons."

Vil: How naïve. Did you truly believe that "walking" in my world is just putting one foot ahead of the other?

Leona: Hah? There's more!?

Vil: Naturally. You're missing the most important thing needed for a show. That is…

Vil: Posing!!!

Leona: Posing…?

Vil: You walk down the runway and strike a glamourous pose, while all eyes are upon you. That is what a fashion show truly is.

Vil: I'm sure even amateurs like yourself have seen examples on television or in magazines.

Vil: For example, you can place your hands on your hips at the end of the runway before turning back around…

Vil: …

Vil: And pose like this.

Leona: That's got nothin' to do with walking.

Vil: "Posing" is just another aspect of "walking."

Vil: If you cannot nail that down, then there's no way you'll pull the gaze of the audience.

Vil: In addition, a model's pose is a reflection of their own personality. It does not mean you can make it look exactly like mine does.

Leona: Ughh, what a pain. You just figure something out for me, then.

Vil: …Ugh. I thought you would say that.

Vil: That is exactly why I have arranged for these people to come help motivate even someone as uncooperative as you.

Leona: Somehow…

Leona: I have a bad feeling about this.

Rook: Why hello, Roi des Lions! Your mane is absolutely stupendous today, très bien!

Cater: So rare to see Leona actually putting some effort in～! I should snap a pic for Magicam to keep a record forever ♪

[snaps picture]

Leona: …

Leona: Rook and Cater, huh… Two more annoying people just showed up, now…

Leona: How're these guys gonna be of any help?

Vil: Rook has a keen eye for beauty. Cater has his finger on the pulse of the current trends.

Vil: They are the most suitable to provide advice on posing.

Rook: We just need to bring forth Leona-kun's beauty, is that right? Leave it to me.

Cater: We'll show you some poses that'll make you look awesome ♪

Leona: …

Leona: …Haah. Fine, whatever. Having all three of you nagging me just wears me out.

Leona: Let's just get this over with.

[Pomefiore Dorm – Ballroom]

Vil: In order for Leona to be the most dazzling thing at the fashion show, we need to develop a pose for him…

Vil: First, let's see what Rook and Cater have as suggestions.

Cater: Hmm, well～

Leona: …

Cater: How about a mysterious, upturned gaze that'll definitely be alluring? …So, pull your chin in like THIS! ☆

Leona: Urk!!!!!

Rook: I feel he still lacks a certain evanescence. Leona-kun, would you extend a hand towards me?

Rook: Gaze fervently into nothingness… Yes… As if you were in want of a prince to come rescue you…!

Leona: Hah? Stop saying weird sh―

Rook: Non! Face forward!! Square your shoulders and keep them parallel with the ground!!!

Leona: Urgh!!!!!

Rook: Oh yes, what if you held a flower? I wonder whether yellow or pink would suit you better?

Rook: This is too difficult to decide… How about we put both types on your shoulders to see!

Cater: Ooh, then what if we completely envelop his face in flowers, to give the effect of a more diminutive face…

Leona: …THAT'S ENOUGH!!!!!!

Rook/Cater: Ouch!!

Leona: Stop touching me. It's grossing me out.

Leona: I don't need you telling me every little detail, like pulling my chin in, or sticking out my hand, or whatever.

Leona: Cut the small talk, and just let me do it myself. It'll be much faster that way.

Vil: …Oh? Sounds like you're quite confident in yourself.

Leona: You want a pose that's "mysterious" and "evanescent," right?

Leona: I can give you that. Just shut up and watch.

Leona: …There you go. That should be good enough.

Rook/Vil/Cater: …

Rook: Roi des Lions…

Rook: …That was an absolutely beautiful pose!

Cater: And it looked totally natural～! You sure you're not used to doin stuff like this, Leona-kun!?

Leona: Back home, I'd have to pose properly for a buncha portraits and other commemorative photos and the like.

Leona: This is elementary.

Cater: P-Portraits, huh… Makes sense for a royal family.

Vil: …

Vil: …True, it's not bad.

Leona: Hahah! See!?

Leona: And with that, these lessons are finally…

Vil: However.

Rook/Leona/Cater: "However"?

Vil: …It's average.

Rook/Leona/Cater: !?

Leona: You make me go… through all of this…

Leona: And you have the gall to call me average…!?

Vil: I thought it was pretty, sure. Also, "mysterious and evanescent" isn't a terrible concept at all.

Vil: …However, that isn't enough.

Vil: For the sake of "Operation Steal the Tiara and the Audience," you need to have something more that's not just average.

Vil: Your posing just lacks that something.

Rook: …I see. Now that you mention it, I would definitely like to see just how far Leona-kun is able to go.

Rook: As always, Vil, your insights on beauty is dead on!

Vil: However, I'm having trouble determining what that "something" he lacks is.

Rook: This is rather perplexing. What do you think, Leona-kun?

Vil: ? Where did Leona go?

Cater: So, Leona-kun, uh…

Cater: He said "I'm done." and went back to Savanaclaw ♪

Rook/Vil: !?

Vil: What an irresponsible man…! We're going after him!

[Savanaclaw Dorm – Leona's Room]

[knock, knock, knock]

Vil: Leona!!! Unlock the door.

Leona: It's that annoying trio again…

Leona: Yaaawn. I think I'll just take a nap…

Ruggie: …Hm? Why're all of you hangin' outside Leona-san's room?

Cater: Ah, Ruggie-kun. We're just in a bit of a pickle, see…

Leona: …

Ruggie: …Oh, okay. So Leona-san's locked himself in his room.

Leona: …

Ruggie: Well, he always leaves his bay window open.

Leona: !?

Rook: Thank you, Monsieur Dandelion!

Rook: Excuse us, Leona-kun.

Vil: Must be so soothing… To be snuggled under your blankets and taking a nap like that.

Leona: Ruggie… You little…!

Ruggie: W-What else could I do!?

Ruggie: If the show goes up in flames 'cause of you, then I can't swap the tiara.

Vil: …I absolutely abhor doing things half-heartedly. Once you've decided to do something, you carry it out perfectly.

Vil: That spirit of tenacity held by the Fairest Queen is exactly what those of us in Pomefiore take pride in!!!

[throws off covers]

Leona: Hey, don't rip off my covers!!

Leona: I've been doin' all this, helping you out, but I get in return is complaint after complaint…

Leona: I even did exactly what you asked of me. But we're gettin' nowhere.

Rook/Cater: Well, that's…

Leona: I got no interest in wastin' any more effort on you all.

Leona: I'm takin' my nap now.

[pulls covers up]

Vil: …!!

Ruggie: Oh, man. He's just completely curled up under his blankets now. Don't think we'll be getting him up for a while now.

Cater: What should we do? With Leona-kun like this, I don't think we'll be able to work on his posing…

Vil: Fufu…

Rook/Ruggie/Cater: Hm?

Vil: Fufu…Fufufu! There it is! My inspiration!

[Classroom]

Cater: It's almost time for Leona-kun's fashion show.

Cater: Leona's posing'll have to wow the Queen of Faeland.

Cater: Sounded like Vil-kun had some stroke of inspiration, but he didn't give me any hints…

Cater: Makes me worry a bit～☆

Idia: Uh…

Idia: A-A-Actually… Cater-shi… W-Well…

Idia: C-C-Can you not… uh, j-j-just look at my, uh… d-d-d-drone feed without… a-asking…?

Cater: Hm, what'd you say～? I couldn't really hear you there.

Idia: Eh, uh, oh. Um, nothing.

Idia: Uggh～ This is why I can't stand extroverts who can't be bothered to listen. Maybe their personal space function is broken?

Fairy Emcee: Please give our next group a round of applause as they take the stage!

Cater: Oh! Looks like their show is starting now.

[Botanical Garden – Runway]

Cater: Kalim-kun and Jamil-kun are dancing so cool～ Wish I coulda streamed it to Magicam directly.

Idia: Good job, Jamil-dono…!

Fairy Emcee: The fairy in the center seems to be just as majestic.

Leona: …

Cater: It's Leona-kun!

Fairy Emcee: He's got eyes as bright as the sun, and a beautiful tanned glow! And look at that pure white robe that envelops his powerful frame!

Fairy Emcee: So gorgeous! He truly embodies this year's Fairy Gala theme of "fabulous."

Fairy A: Each perfect step he takes feels so somber. I wonder what kind of fairy he is.

Fairy B: With how he exudes grace and carries that splendid attire… He must be some kind of celebrity!

Leona: They're all already in an uproar…

Leona: …They should clutch their pearls while they still can.

Fairy Emcee: They're finally at the end of the runway. What kind of poses do they have in store for us?

Leona: As much as it pains me… I'll show them that special pose that Vil lauded.

Leona: I'll be the one to bring success to "Operation Steal the Tiara and the Audience"!

Fairy Emcee: WH-WHAT'S THIS!!!???

Fairy Emcee: …...

Fairy Emcee: …How astounding.

Fairy Emcee: Up until a moment ago, this fairy was exuding a mysterious and evanescent air…

Fairy Emcee: But with a flip of that majestic cape, he's swept his legs around and made a  graceful turn!

Fairy Emcee: He still has the original ennui he started with… with a dynamic twist!!!!!!

Fairy Emcee: I've never seen a fairy demonstrate such a bold and powerful pose!!

Fairy Emcee: The entire audience has been completely captivated by what they're seeing on the runway!

Cater: Th-That movement!

Cater: That…move…

Cater: That's how he cocooned under his blanket!!

Idia: Oho! Makes sense, cocooned…

Idia: …Eh? His blanket? Huh? Why?

Vil: That's right!

Idia: Eek! More people!

Cater: Ah, Vil-kun, and Crewel-sensei.

Vil: When Leona yanked his covers over his head to sulk in bed…

Vil: This pose idea was born.

Vil: Leona may be slovenly, but he has one merit of note. …And that's his level of intensity.

Vil: What all of his previous poses lacked was his own brand of "wildness"!

Leona: …

Fairy A: Look at all his ruggedly beautiful movements… I want to be one of those stray strands of hair that frame his face.

Fairy B: He looks difficult to approach, but I could watch him forever… What an amazing aura…

Leona: Hey, you lot. Stop whispering amongst yourselves…

Leona: And heap on more praise, why don'tcha?

Fairies: Kyaaaa!!!

Fairy A: Please! Sprinkle some of your dust on me!!

Fairy B: Toss some my way!

Leona: Here ya go!

[tosses fairy dust]

Fairies: KYAAAA～～～!!!

Crewel: Good boy, Kingscholar. See how you can actually do it when you apply yourself?

Crewel: His gallant movements puts a radiant luster in his attire, as well. That assures me that it was worth my effort to make them.

Idia: Everyone's eyes are glued on Leona-shi… To the point where just thinking about it is making me sick.

Cater: He was totally against it, but he's somehow managed to captivate all the fairies in the Fairy Gala…

Cater: That's Leona-kun for you ♪

Fairy Emcee: Everyone… Please give them a rousing ovation!!!!

Jamil: Leona-senpai, that was well done.

Leona: All the cheering's gratin' on my ears… I'm gonna grab some air.

Kalim: Eh? But we have to wait for Ruggie and the others at the entrance to the greenhouse!

Leona: …I'll go after I'm done.

Leona: The show's done already. I'm gonna do what I want now.

Requested by Anonymous.

[n1ghtmaren1x]

j.marston

ashes to ashes

hi!!! this is my first post so i hope you guys enjoy <3

the wind blew lightly, entangling through my hair and weaving it’s way through the night. i sat on the stairs outside the saloon, wishing. waiting. for something.

thud, click.

thud, click.

thud click.

goddamn cowboys and their fancy spurs.

i didn’t bother to look. probably just another drunken, good-for-nothing, bastard. they all were. i sighed loudly, starting to get cold from the wind nipping at my skin.

“you cold, miss?” a husky voice says.

another sigh.

“i’m fine, thank you.” i uttered, not bothering to spare the man a glance.

“whatever you say lady.” he mumbled, bringing a match to the cigarette in his mouth, elbows leaning on the creaky wooden porch.

the music from inside the saloon had since gotten louder, and the drunk had become more lively. the strained smell of tobacco filled my nostrils, relaxing my brain but making my body tense. i slowly glanced over my shoulder, trying to get a brief look at the mystery man stood behind me. he was faced away, with two large parallel scars on his right cheek. almost like a scratch. he had long black hair, with a gambler hat wrapped in rope tipped slightly down on his head.

he suddenly looked at me, and i realised he seemed to be sober.

“you alright, lady?” his face scrunched in confusion.

i froze for a moment, face flushed. of course he caught me staring.

“wh- yeah. are you?” i said, accusatory.

he looked offended.

“course i’m alright, what’s your problem?”

“nothin’.” i mumbled, turning to face the moon.

ignore.

ignore.

ignore.

a few moments of peaceful silence passes by, accompanied by piano and loud hollers from inside the saloon walls.

and suddenly, a scorching feeling on my shoulder. i cried out in shock, hand immediately moving to my shoulder to find the source of the burning feeling

“oh- my goodness, i’m so sorry!” i heard the husky gasp. “it was the wind i swear!”

“are you fucking kidding me?” i stood up and shouted in anger.

cigarette ash.

cigarette ash?

asshole!

i made my way towards him, as he slowly backed away with his hands up. i snatched the cigarette from between his fingers, looking up at him.

“seriously?” i question, with a harsh look on my face. “my dress is completely ruined!”

“i- i truly am sorry miss, i didn’t mean to!”

i stared at him with an angry huff, and took a drag of the stupid cancer stick. he watched me with his jaw slightly ajar, my movements painfully slow and cautious.

“what can i do to make it up to you darlin? it was an honest mistake.”

i looked at the cigarette, and back to him. a thought popped into my mind.

“anything?” i uttered seductively.

“anything.” he repeated, breathlessly.

i grinned, taking the cigarette between my thumb, pointer, and middle finger. i pushed it into his shoulder, burning a hole in his sleeveless denim jacket.

he cried out in pain, repeating my earlier sound.

“goddamn it, woman! are you crazy?”

“hurts, doesn’t it?” i smiled politely, flicking the cigarette over the fence and turning on my heel and down the steps, into the night.

i want to see him again.

i need to see her again.

——————————————————————————

short and sweet but i hope you like it :) pleaseeee give me suggestions for what i should change and what i should keep <3

[mysteryhackin]

After some delay, here is my entry for Week 3 of @forduary , Portal Years! Warning: Discussion of a major character death (very unlike me).

After traveling the multiverse for thirty years on a quest to destroy Bill Cipher, Ford ends up in a parallel dimension where he never went through the portal and built the International Institute of Oddology. But as a parallel Fiddleford McGucket shows him around, a nagging question is going through Ford's mind- what went differently to make all this happen? And was it worth it?

The door to the jail cell creaked open, and Ford jumped up from his hard chair behind the steel table, ready to fight his way out.  He unfortunately didn’t have enough time to figure out the handcuffs, even though he had been imprisoned for what must have been a few hours, but a few well placed moves would allow him to take the key from one of the guards-

But instead of a guard, Fiddleford McGucket walked into the room.

Well, a parallel version of Fiddleford McGucket.

The first time Ford had seen this parallel version of his former colleague, it was from a distance, and he hadn’t gotten a good look because the man had instantly run away, quickly calling for security.  Ford still didn’t know what had caused the panicked reaction, but he was determined not to let it happen again.  Sure, he probably could fight his way out of the place, but why bother if he could talk his way out?

He quickly sat back down, putting his hands flat on the table, and tried to look as non-threatening as possible.

“Stanford?” Fiddleford asked tentatively.  His hair had turned grey with age- so much so that it was almost white, and he had the wrinkles to match, but there was no mistaking that nose.  All things considered, the man had aged well.  Ford suddenly was struck with the force of how much time had really passed since he was pushed into the portal.  He had calculated it had been about thirty years, but it was one thing to watch yourself gradually age in a mirror, and quite another to see a friend suddenly appear to be… old.  But he took a deep breath, using the mind clearing techniques that had helped him many times in his adventures, and focused on the here and now.

Ford tried to smile.  “Hello, old friend,” he said, but even to himself he sounded weary.

Fiddleford nodded in a distracted way, as if trying to decide something.  Then he nodded to the security guard standing behind him, and the guard shut the door, leaving the two of them alone.

“I’ll have you know,” he said in that familiar Tennessee drawl.  “That even though I might look like nothin’, I have a bunch of ways to defend myself if you feel like trying somethin’.”

Ford shook his head.  “I just want to get out of here,” he said.

“An’ where will you go?” Fiddleford asked steadily.

“I have business to take care of,” Ford answered in a tone that very solidly implied there would be no details given.  His shock at seeing Fiddleford had worn off, and he remembered to once more be wary and trust no one.  Yes, his time walking around the campus before he was imprisoned was impressive, and this world seemed to be everything he ever wanted… but it was incredibly possible this all came about because his and Fiddleford’s counterparts in this world had embraced Bill and been paid handsomely in return.

Fiddleford once more stared at him, thinking.  “All right, suit yourself.” He said after a moment.  Then he took a deep breath.  “Want a tour before you go?”

Ford’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “Ah… yes!  Yes please!” his mind began racing with all of the things this could mean- was he being taken to be killed? Could he escape once he was out of the cell? Was Fiddleford really working for Bill, and this was a chess move meant to take him off guard?  Was he going to meet his own counterpart in this dimension?

But all of the thoughts were outweighed at the thought of touring this incredible campus- the International Institute of Oddology, as all the signs said- and all of his accomplishments in this… better world. 

There was no way he was going to pass this up.

Fiddleford nodded.  “All right then.  Follow me,” he said, then knocked on the door to the cell.  It swung open, and he walked out, Ford following.

“Sorry about the jail time,” Fiddleford said as they breezed past the guards.  “But your presence here is a threat to the entire dimension.”

“What?” Ford asked, a little more sharply than intended, then took a deep breath and tried to be softer.  “Why?”

Fiddleford punched a code into the keypad in a wall near what looked like elevator, and turned back to Ford.  “If a person meets their counterpart from another dimension, not only will it destroy both of them, but also destroy the dimension where the meetin’ took place.  Seen it myself.” 

“You have?” Ford asked, eyes wide.  He had been drifting through the multiverse for decades and he had never heard of that.

Of course, it wasn’t until recently he ended up in parallel universes, either.

“Yeah,” Fiddleford nodded grimly, and told Ford about a tragic expedition that Fiddleford and a crew he led experienced in a parallel universe as they rode the elevator up.

Ford’s mouth was hanging open when the story ended.

Fiddleford chuckled wryly.  “That’s a great way to catch flies, Stanford,” he said, as the elevator door dinged and the doors opened to the outside.

“Wait,” Ford stayed back as Fiddleford walked out of the elevator.  “Why are you letting me walk around?  I could run into my counterpart!”

“Aw c’mon, give me some credit!” Fiddleford said.  “Stanford- this dimension’s Stanford- is far away in an undisclosed location, so he has no chance of running into you.”

Ford breathed a sigh of relief, and exited the elevator.  “So what are the chances I can get rid of these handcuffs?” he asked hopefully.

“Slim to none,” Fiddleford answered breezily.  “You might know where Stanford is hiding, what with you having similar brains an’ all.  You might escape and cause trouble.”

Ford couldn’t help but look indignant.  “I would never- that would kill me too!”

Fiddleford looked sadly at Ford.  “Wouldn’t stop some people.” He said, then his grin returned.  “We all know Stanford Pines is reckless anyway.  So as long as you’re here, those cuffs are staying on, buddy.”

Ford sighed.  “Fair enough.” He muttered.

But the handcuffs were soon forgotten as Fiddleford took him around the International Institute of Oddology.  It was huge. It was bustling. It was dangerous.

It was beautiful.

There was a section for deciphering codes and ancient scripts.  There was a section studying the creatures of the forest (sometimes run by some of the creatures of the forest- he had already run into two gnomes in lab coats).  He walked past conference rooms with a video screen of someone who was somewhere in Japan showing the room her findings of a tiny, upright lizard that fit perfectly in her hand.  A whole wing was devoted to building electronics (he and Fiddleford nearly got electrocuted when something went wrong with a Tesla coil), and a room where it looked like the scientists were trying to reverse engineer time tape.

“How…” Ford started, then swallowed, regaining his composure, and tried again.  “How is this all possible?”

Fiddleford beamed at him.  “It’s a rare day when I get to impress Stanford Pines, let me tell you!” he said.  “It took a long time- The IIO just celebrated its twenty fifth anniversary.”

“Twenty-fifth?” Ford repeated, his voice far away.  “So… I only traveled in the multiverse for five years here.”

Fiddleford gave him a funny look.  “Uh, nope, you were right here buildin’ all this stuff up before we could get the company offa the ground.” He saw Ford’s haunted face.  “Um… how long have you been out here?”

“Thirty years.” Ford whispered.  “Thirty years wasted.”  He felt anger bubbling inside of him, and wasn’t sure how long he could continue to put up a good front.  “My brother pushed me into the portal and sent me out here,” he said through gritted teeth.

Fiddleford’s eyes bugged.  “Pushed you into the portal!  That’s terrible!”

“Yes.” Ford was glad he now had a channel to let out his anger to Fiddleford’s sympathetic ear.  “It was.” And before he was about to release an epic tirade, Fiddleford asked a question in a horrified voice.

“So he was possessed by Bill that early?”

Ford scoffed.  “No, Stanley was never possessed by Bill, he was just being his usual oafish-” Ford stopped as his parallel friend’s words caught up to him.  “What do you mean ‘that early’?”

Fiddleford pursed his lips, then said, “C’mon.  Let’s go inside.”

They walked towards the A-frame cabin that Ford had the Corduroy family build for him when he first came to Gravity Falls.  The last time Ford had seen the outside of his cabin, it was surrounded by barbed wire, empty nuclear waste drums, and who knows what else- he wasn’t in a good frame of mind when he went through the portal.  But this version of the cabin was welcoming and well taken care of, despite being surrounded by the IIO campus.  Fiddleford opened the door and walked in, and after a few moments fighting a pang of homesickness he hadn’t felt in years, Ford followed.

The lab had been converted into a cozy living room, the walls completely covered with full bookshelves.  A stack of books and papers sat on a little side table with a lamp near a comfortable chair, with a couch across the chair and a coffee table between them, also covered with books and papers. The room was slightly disheveled, but the chaos was warm and welcoming instead of the reflection of a tormented mind.  Ford made his way down the two steps to the table and chair, and noticed a framed picture hidden by the books on the side table so only the person in the chair could see it. It was the same photo he had carried with him throughout wars, travels, heists, injuries, recoveries.  The photo of him and his twin brother as kids on the boat they were fixing up.

He swallowed, trying to fight the implications of that photo being displayed in such an intimate, hidden place.  “Fiddleford,” he said softly.  “What happened to Stanley?”

Fiddleford motioned for Ford to sit down in the chair, and he himself sat down on the couch.  “When your brother came to visit you, you gave him your first journal to hide from Bill.  He left, and somehow you were able to stave Bill off long enough to re-jig your mind reader and encrypt your thoughts, which made it so he couldn’t posses you for a while.  You found me, we reconciled, and we started working on the Dimensional Vortex Neutralizer, which allowed us to use the portal without any risk of it connecting it to the Nightmare Realm.”

“And Stanley?” Ford pressed.  “What happened to him?”

“A coupla years after we set up the DVN, he came to visit, asking if he could bring your journal back.  You were of course glad to have it back, glad to see your brother again, and glad to show how you had fixed the problem that had plagued you since you last saw ‘im.  But…” Fiddleford exhaled, puffing his cheeks out.  “It wasn’t your brother.  Somehow Bill got to ‘im, and he had been using your brother just like he had been usin’ you.  Bill tried to break the DVN and start up the portal, but luckily we were able to cotton on to what was going on and stopped him just in the nick of time.  Bill escaped- of course, he only existed in the mind anyway- but your brother… your brother didn’t make it.  Bill messed him up real bad.”

Ford felt like he had been punched in the stomach.  He wouldn’t wish possession by Bill Cipher on anyone- even, no especially on Stanley.  And to have that experience kill him…

Ford’s eyes were suddenly hot, and he looked up at the ceiling for a while, Fiddleford staying blessedly silent. 

A million thoughts went through his head, making him completely numb.  Finally, one broke through- a thought he had never stopped thinking in thirty years.

“I.  Will. Destroy. Bill Cipher.” He said in an intense, quiet voice.

Fiddleford’s leg started shaking excitedly, and Ford recognized the behavior from the Fiddleford in his home dimension- it meant he was especially excited.  But before he could let out a whoop that Ford was so used to, he stood up.  “Well now, ain’t that nice.  Glad to hear you’re on our side.” He said, a hard, determined look in his eye that Ford had never seen on his easy-going friend.  “We’ve been tryin’ to figure out how to get revenge on that piece of cow turd, pardon my French, for decades, and it seems like you’re just the fella to do it.”  He extended an arm.  “This entire institute is at your service, Stanford- courtesy, or course, of Stanford.  And I’ll do whatever I can to help.” He took some keys out of the pocket of his lab coat, and soon Ford’s hands were free. 

“Thank you,” Ford said solemnly, not being able to shake the profound feeling of loss.  “I’ve been building a quantum destabilizer throughout the years, but I still haven’t found an energy…” he started a little distractedly, and once more felt his eyes watering as Stanley crossed his mind.  He sniffed and tried to straighten up.  “Apologies,” he said.  “Do you have a tissue?”

Fiddleford looked at him sadly.  “Hang on, I’ll grab you one,” he said as he got up.

Ford tried to focus on the task at hand.  This was it, this was how he would kill Bill Cipher… but why did everything seem so hollow all of the sudden?  It wasn’t like it was his Stanley who was gone… but maybe his was gone.  Bill certainly knew how to manipulate people, and even though he always thought of his brother as too crooked to be manipulated, every man has his breaking point… and maybe Stanley was closer to it than Ford thought.  He thought of, really though of the way Stan looked when he showed up on Ford’s doorstep… he clearly wasn’t in a good place…

“Here y’go,” Fiddleford interrupted his thoughts and handed him a tissue.  Ford took it, not making eye contact, and turned away to blow his nose.

“By the way,” Fiddleford continued as Ford still had his back turned.  “Stanford wanted me to give you somethin’ else.  It’s real hard to work with grief, and he didn’t want you to have to go through the same thing he did- he does. I told you what happened to Stanley ‘cause we wanted to make sure you weren’t in cahoots with Bill, but there’s no reason for you to have to deal with that knowledge if you don’t have to.” There was a small clicking sound, and Ford turned around to see Fiddleford holding something that had an oddly shaped lightbulb sticking out of it. “Do ya know what this is?” Fiddleford asked calmly.

Ford’s eyes widened.  “The memory gun- why do you still-”

“This ain’t your burden to bear, Stanford.  You got other things to worry about.”  Fiddleford said, and before Ford could react, Fiddleford pulled the trigger and everything went white.

Ford blinked and watched as Fiddleford put something in a drawer.  He had the nagging feeling something was missing.  Something important.  “What was I saying?”

Fiddleford turned to him with a big smile.  “The quantum destabilizer- something about energy?”

“Oh, of course!” Ford said, pushing away the odd feeling in favor of excitement.  “I need an energy source to power it!”

“I think we got just the thing,” Fiddleford said.  “I’ll show you the particles department- ye’re bound to find something there.”

“Fantastic!” Ford said cheerily, full of anticipation and… hope.

It wasn’t until he left a few days later, the fully functional quantum destabilizer on his back, that he realized he had never asked about where Stanley was in this dimension, but it was a passing thought and not something he had time to be concerned about.

After all, it was fitting that this world, where everything turned out- this better world- would be where he would find the final piece he needed in order to destroy Bill Cipher.

Writing a character death is very out of character for *me*, but after spending a week on a story that just wasn't working, this one hit me like a truck and I wrote it in two days. If it makes you feel better, it's not *our* Stan's who was killed. Or if it makes you feel *really* better, let's just say Fidds was lying to test Ford, and that dimension's Stan is hanging out with that dimension's Ford on a beach somewhere.

I always love Athgalla-arts' take on the Better World Dimension, where Stan is a founding member of the IIO and goes on portal expeditions with Fidds and Ford (and has a cheesy yet awesome ponytail).

[grapefiesta]

Tea merchant

lowkey highkey stupid reader n Hobie being random

A/N: Not proofread yet *thumbs up*

═══════════════════⋆☆⋆═══════════════════

You notice Hobie going quiet after awhile of talking. "What is it, Hobes?" You look up at your friend, who's currently skipping class while you have a free period. "Nothin', nothin', just thinking about this person who's really awesome, ya know?" Hobie says while looking up at the sky. "Oh really?" This intrigued you. You leaned closer. "Who is it? Is it Jessica from your parallel class? Or no! Is it Mandy???" "Woah woah woah, it’s not Mandy, she’s cool and all, but… I like people with a little bit more spice if you know what I’m sayin'?"

You lean back. "Huh.." You also looked up at the sky. "So, who is it?" "You wanna know so bad, don’t you?" He asks teasingly. "Well duh. Or else I wouldn’t be asking." Hobie laughs "The person is you, duh." You shove his shoulder lightly with a laugh. "Hobert Brown! You charmer!!" He laughs "Well it’s true, I like you."

"Nuh-uh," you slap his shoulder with a grin. He chuckles, then gently holds your hand. "Uh-huh" "Sorry man, I don’t like cockneys." You joked and removed your hand from his. He stops for a second before laughing. "Oi, you takin' the piss out of me accent mate?" "Might be a little bit." He laughs again. "Well, you better shut your gob because I’m sure your accent ain’t any better." "Oi! My accent's pretty normal for a Brit! You’re literally a cockney mate." He snorts. "And you ain’t?!" "How you gonna criticize my accent when yours is just awful?" Hobie asks with a smirk. "No way! mine is way more sophisticated! You've been livin' in east England forever." "Sophisticated? My foot! You sound like a bloody tea merchant, ya bloody twat." You were baffled. "A tea merchant?!" Hobie could swear that an imaginary tear fell from your eye when you closed them with a pained smile. "God damn it." You clenched your fist in a meme way. Hobie laughs, "Why the sour face, ya can’t 'andle the truth?" You opened your eyes and wiped an imaginary tear away again. "A tea merchant? That's foul Hobes… real foul." After a few seconds, Hobie burst out laughing, "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but if the shoe fits." "It doesn't! the shoe is way, way, way too big!" You shake his shoulders.

He calms down but is still visibly laughing at the situation so much that it took a few tries to get the words out. "Tea merchant, bloody fantastic." You let out an exaggerated and dramatic cry when he praised his own joke. "Im quitting school. That's my true calling apparently. Got the accent n everything." “Well if you need help with getting your business off the ground I would be happy to help! You’ll get to the top, I’m sure” he says with a grin and a wink. "Nah, even us tea merchants don't like cockneys." "Ah, my heart!" He says, before bursting into laughter again. "That was brutal y/n, real brutal." He says while holding his chest and wheezing. "Now you've got the salad." You respond. "Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell does that mean." He says, his laughter still lingering. You shrug. "Dunno. Some German proverb I saw translated on the internet." "You really are an enigma sometimes y/n." You shrug again. "Enigma shmegigma, who cares?" "That’s true, I guess," Hobie says with a smile as he looks up at the sky. "Well y/n, you’ve managed to confuse me yet again, you wanna go do something or something?"

═══════════════════⋆☆⋆═══════════════════

[barry-j-blupjeans]

Orphanage + magical realism AU

When Merle called and asked for a favor, Taako had expected something like "order some pizza for the kids" or "can you run these errands for me?" Not "can you teach some kids some magic?" And yet, here he was, at fuck-early in the morning, struggling to find a parking spot near enough to the orphanage that he wouldn't have to walk ten extra blocks, just to teach some little brats a few party tricks. The secret parking spot he had found during his teens was taken. There were only parallel parking spaces left because fuck him, but, y'know. Taako could deal with that.

Correction: Magic could deal with that. So what if Taako used a little bit of extra charm so that he wouldn't have to maneuver his way into the space? He was literally here to teach magic. He was leading by example! He was a teacher figure!

The orphanage was a large brick building, which looked like it needed a good pressure wash. There were dozens of plants lined up on the windowsill, vines creeping up the brick walls. Taako took ahold of the door knocker- the bronze face of Pan was engraved into it- and knocked. Loudly.

He waited.

No one came.

Taako knocked again.

Nothing.

He gripped the door knocker again, banging on it now, and raised his voice to say,

"Merle fucking Highchurch if you don't open this goddamn door-"

The door opened, bringing Taako, who was still attached to the door knocker, back with it. He tumbled, barely catching himself before he went all the way down.

In the door stood a young human boy. Maybe. Taako still didn't know how humans aged. He looked like someone had stuffed a businessman into a child's body. There was a wand attached to his brightly colored lanyard and an honest-to-gods feather in his little business boy hat. Taako knew it had been a while since he had been a kid, but had fashion really changed that much? This kid dressed like his grandpa had.

"Are you… Mr. Taako?" fancy boy asked, looking extremely hopeful.

"Sure am," Taako said.

"Oh, boy!" fancy boy said, bouncing up and down on his heels. "P- please! Come in! Mr. Highchurch is, uhm, preoccupied with some of the other children, but- but I can get him for you! Or, or if you wanted to get stuff set up for magic-!"

"Nothin to set up, my man," Taako said, stepping inside. Fancy boy shut the door behind him. "I've already got everything I need right here." He tapped a hand against his chest.

"In your heart?" fancy boy asked sweetly.

"Nah," Taako said, reaching into his shirt pocket for the small card he had put in there before. "This bad boy right here."

"Flashcards?" fancy boy asked, with even more excitement than before.

"A receipt for the money Merle owes me," Taako said. "Can't do magic before that."

"O-oh," fancy boy said. But he perked up again, saying, "I- I can show you where we're doing magic, and then I can go get Mr. Highchurch for you! It's- it's right through here!"

He brought Taako into the drawing room, which had a large table set up in the middle of it. There were many chairs, but none of them were occupied. Fancy boy pulled out a seat for Taako, like a little gentleman. His nose wrinkled when Taako put his feet up on the table, but he didn't say anything. He scurried out of the room with the receipt, presumably to go get Merle, and left Taako alone.

It had been… a long time since Taako was last in here. Felt like it, at least. Merle had obviously redecorated some in the nearly hundred years since Taako had been under his care, but it still felt cozy. The table was still set up as it had always been for activities- a red table skirt, with various little place mats around it. There was a bowl of glitter glue in the middle of the table and various child-sized scissors around. When Taako inhaled, it still smelled strongly of lavender and cleaning chemicals.

Fancy boy hurried back into the room, money clutched in his hand.

"Four dollars and seventy-two cents," he said, pushing the money toward Taako. "He's, uhm, he's getting his fingernails painted right now, so he couldn't come, but he'll be by later!" He pulled up a chair for himself, scooting towards Taako. "May we do magic now? Please?"

"Pretty sure it was eighty-one cents," Taako said, picking up a penny. Fancy boy faltered and frowned, looking ready to get back up. But Taako turned the penny in his fingers. Using just a little Prestidigitation, he turned it into a dime. Fancy boy looked so excited he nearly rocked himself out of his chair. When he got his balance, he scooted forward eagerly and leaned in to look at the dime.

"W- wow!" he said. "Are we- can you teach me how to do that?"

"This?" Taako said, holding up the dime. "This is illegal, no, I will not be teaching you that. Keep your nose clean, kid, goin' through court is a mess these days."

"Oh," Fancy boy said. "Well, uhm. Is there any legal magic you can teach me, sir?" A pause. "Pretty please?"

"I'm sure I can find somethin'," Taako said, setting the dime down. It flickered back into a penny. "What's your name?"

"Angus, sir," fancy boy said.

"And it's just gonna be you today, huh?" Taako asked, peering through the door that he had come through. "No one else wants to take a stab at the ol' magic game?"

"Oh, uhm, no sir," Angus said. "They're all pretty into Fantasy Fortnite right now."

"Ah," Taako said. "That'll do it, yeah. Alright, Anges-"

"It's- it's Angus, actu-"

"Here's the deal," Taako said. "You wanna learn magic, you gotta be cool. Are you cool, Anges?"

"I- I like to think I am!" Angus said. "I can- Mr. Highchurch says I can hang. Is that anything?"

"Sure, sure," Taako said. He checked his watch. Three more hours of this shit. And then six more weeks after that. What had he gotten himself into? "We can work with that."

[raveneira]

Stop Lyin

'KawaSara fans just want everything to just be Naruto 2.0, they dont want anything new or different they only ship it cuz its like SS'

The same mfs sayin that:

Stfu, the only ones your fooling are yourselves, your just fine with Naruto 2.0, but only for the ships YOU want canon.

'B-but their a mix of multiple OG ships not just one so its different!'

Thats even WORSE, it makes them the most unoriginal ship and just a weird amalgamation of OG ships with nothing of their own, their just NaruHina, MinaKushi, ItaIzu, ObiRin, NaruSaku, SasuSaku, SasuNaru etc all over again, but yea you sure showed us about wanting 'originality' lol

And just to burst your bubble even more, your not special, and your point is invalid anyway because I didnt hear nothin about 2.0 in OG Naruto when these were happening but NOW suddenly its an issue.

But now suddenly its a problem, back then yall called it 'parallels' and 'foreshadowing' but for some reason conveniently when its KawaSara and BoruSumi suddenly its Naruto 2.0 and we need something different than past dynamics

BUT YALL HAD NONE OF THAT ENERGY WHEN NS WAS COPY AND PASTE OBIRIN/JIRATSUNA

NONE OF THAT ENERGY WHEN SS WAS JUST KAKARIN/DANTSUNA

NONE OF THAT ENERGY WHEN NH WAS JUST INVERTED MINAKUSHI

But god forbid KawaSara is just a little too much like SS or BoruSumi a little too much like NH, but Bsa being like [in your words not mine] literally every past OG ship is totally fine and the pinnacle of originality you all wanna see from the sequel, give me a danm break lol

What makes this even more pathetic is that Im not even exaggerating, they've gotten so blatantly hypocritical their even trying to use the Minato one-shot as foreshadowing for Bsa, keep in mind these are the same people who claim to want something new and different, are using a one shot set in the past for an OG ship that happened WAY before Bsa even existed all because of the vortex symbolism and the sequel just happened to have the name vortex in it they think its some kind of parallel/foreshadowing for the pair...which is utterly ridiculous but this aint the post for that, but just friendly reminder the Shippuden in the Naruto sequel meant Hurricane chronicles/legends and the Uzumaki clan has always been symbolized with whirlpools/vortex way before Boruto was even thought of, hell their clan symbol is a literal swirl like a vortex...nuff said, this aint the post to delve deeper into that.

Im mentioning this purely to point out the hypocrisy of wanting something 'different' yet using every possible OG thing thats even remotely similar to boost your ship and show how canon it is, yet KawaSara and BoruSumi cant because then its Naruto 2.0.

Their newest thing lately I've been seein the most is that BoruSara is like MinaKushi and NaruHina because Sarada stalks Boruto etc, so I thought I'd bring this reality check back since these same ppl talkin about other shippers just wanting Naruto 2.0 again.

Like I said, the only ones your foolin are yourselves cuz nobody buys your bs cuz everytime yall pull that card you put your foot in your mouth with all these 'parralels' that are suddenly ok now, but NOT ok when its any of your rival ships . Sit down.

PS: This aint the post to go into this either, but like I mentioned earlier that Bsa is actually the most unoriginal new gen ship, I could literally make a separate post showing how that is and how KawaSara and BoruSumi are actually the more unique ships of the options. You may have noticed I havent mentioned Ksu at all in this...thats because its a joke atp that I nor anybody besides their shippers take seriously, but if I must address it its literally just poorly done SS and SH with a dash of SK so why would I even bother with such a joke of a ship that exists solely to play keep away for Bsa but not because theres any legitimate basis in canon and thrives purely off headcanon and Hondas rewriting of events that amounted to nothing because, shocker, the manga wasnt building anything between them, so Honda created a completely made up foundation for nothing that they scrapped immediately and never acknowledged it again. So much for 'the anime is the complete version of the manga' yea funny how they backtracked alot of their mistakes when they saw the manga contradicting it, cuz at the end of the day the manga is the MAIN source material, so what happens there is more canon than anything the anime does afterwards.

[juleskelleybooks]

I shut down my Patreon a while back because updating something on a regular schedule is kind of the antithesis of me as a person

but I'm having so much fun working on the worldbuilding and early parts of Blackthorn that I'm being seduced by the siren song of the idea: what if I put updates of the rough draft of Blackthorn behind a paywall on Patreon and people could read along as I wrote it but then I could still publish the whole novel when it was ready (and Patreon subscribers would get a free download of the ebook)

idk idk - would anyone be interested in this, even? (caveat: I know Patreon has made some changes since the last time I was there so if it's become unusable now, feel free to chime in and tell me what a good alternative is for a paid subscription like this)

Opening behind the cut to give you an idea of what the rough draft currently looks like.

Nate Dubarr hadn’t been around horses much, but even he could tell the team’s demeanor was changing as they approached a narrow stretch of road lined on either side by shrubby, stout trees frothing with white blossoms. Was it just the wind in the branches that had the animals spooked, or did they sense something he couldn’t hear yet? He adjusted his grip on the proton rifle in his lap and looked over his shoulder. It was a damn good place to ambush a vulnerable transport, and Sun Mountain probably wouldn’t have paid for his services as a gunman if they weren’t needed.

“Hear somethin’?” Willa, the driver, shouted over dusty plodding hoofbeats and the rattling creak of the wooden transport pod, and Nate shook his head.

“Not yet,” he yelled back, squinting into the rippling heat.

Aulis was mostly a farming and ranching planet, he knew, some areas thickly wooded and others rich with sprawling grass prairies, but the part he was riding through now, toward the little town of Blackthorn, was arid enough that he could feel his skin cracking and peeling as they went.

“Nothin’ grows here anymore,” the customs officer in Pryor had said as she looked over the crates marked for Blackthorn. “Probably why they’re tryin’ so hard to get that mine back in working shape out past the canyons. They’ll sure be happy to see y’all.”

Willa clucked gently to the horses, pulling up on the reins, and Nate braced himself on the warm wood of the transport pod. He hadn’t understood at first why they weren’t using one of the self-driving metal ones, but the heat and the dust had answered that question for him in the first half-hour. The gears would have gotten locked up in short order, if the metal hadn’t cooked them in their seats first.

The team of horses slowed now, snorting and blowing and tossing their heads, and Nate realized they were picking their way carefully over wooden bars embedded parallel to each other across the road.

“What’s that?” he asked Willa, alert to the possibility of a trap. Would it fall out from under them, taking the pod and the horses all at once?

“Cattle grate,” Willa muttered, her wrinkled, leathery hands steady on the reins as she coaxed the team slower. “Coupla ranches used to keep herds out here and would move ’em to different pastures on this road. The grate was to keep them from stampeding. The blackthorns were to keep them from just going around it.” She inclined her head toward the flowering trees, and Nate squinted, realizing the blooms hid the trees’ real feature: Thick, sharp spines as long as his hand.

“How do you keep cattle where there’s nothing for them to graze?” Nate asked, but before Willa could answer, there was a high-pitched buzz from behind them, and one of the horses tossed its head, eyes rolling so far Nate could see the whites. Fuck. It was a trap.

“Steady,” Willa crooned to the horses. “Don’t want them bolting,” she explained to Nate. “They’ll break their damn legs and then we’ll just be out here ’til the buzzards or the bandits get us.”

Nate lifted the proton rifle as he turned to look back down the road they’d already traveled, siting down the barrel, and fitted his goggles to keep his eyes clear.

He didn’t see anything yet, but the buzzing was getting closer, and he recognized it as the whine of a bike’s engine. Shit. It was a trap.

[catncore]

"Have you ever encountered a Hanekoma that was never an Angel? A human, maybe even one that had to enter the Game?"

that was an odd question from joshua. there is a part of him that wonders where the question comes from or what got him thinking about that sort of thing in the first place, but then he recalls the position his composer is in an how it is a fairly normal question for a human to ask. hanekoma was someone who has seen more things through his placement than joshua has seen in his entire life; even through being composer. for someone who was human and working with such a limited experience, it wasn't a bad question to ask.

❝  sure. a couple, actually. ❞ statstically speaking, it was actually growing to become more common than those who were in his own position. as far as hanekoma's went, the more diluted blood had started making decisions of turning away from grace or falling.

❝  well, i didn' personally met them, but i observed them. ❞ he'd had this itch in him. study what could have been. see what you'd have been if you had made a different decision and follow the trace lines. it wasn't regret in his own decisions. he didn't play the 'what if' game. there were no situations he wondered if he did something sooner or if he'd done something else instead. hanekoma owned all of his actions and choices. they were irrevocably his own. still..... curiosity did kill the cat. it never hurt to look into things and see what he found. in most cases, it made him feel stronger about his own choices.

❝  i call'em casestudies. all their actions still feel right though. i see where they changed paths and it's still an authentic path. there's a couple of 'em still alive and never played the game. seen a few reapers, a couple composers. even peeked in to see what kinda family they would'a grown up in as a human. s' lead to some interesting discoveries, really but nothin' that really traces that far back to my genetics. ❞ those parallel worlds were so far removed from his own that it felt like fiction to him. good fiction, and believable but nothing that he could point to himself with and see entire similarities beyond the general notes.

❝  but i don't really like looking down my own branches. feels too personal an' like a conflict of interest. i tend to move a couple branches down th' tree towards the Principalities and check in on those lines. those shibuya's get wild.... ❞ he glances over in joshua's direction for a moment, over his sunglasses to study the composer for a long moment. while he was always curious about himself, his true curiosity in his findings was seeing where joshua's counterpart would be in those lives. it was research to see how far down and deep the lines of their roots went. while he himself was drawn to joshua in a holy way; he knew that their ties were bound in every iteration. in different relationships and different styles of interacting.

he'd seen lives with them together in the Real Ground living together as partners, and others where they were neighbors who only really talked to each other on the balcony or getting the mail. there were the runs he'd seen joshua as a reaper and the resident hanekoma was playing the game as a player and they antagonized each other. there were timelines where they'd died together and partnered up in the games. ones where they succeeded and on, and others where one of them was erased and left the other and desperate in grief.

it was worth putting things into perspective. still, he'd not gone looking in awhile. he was happy and content with what he had and he didn't feel the need to peek in the windows when what he wanted was at home. at his core, he knew exactly why he was looking into other lines was to see joshua happy.

❝  s' been a couple years since i looked into other timelines though. i figure everything i want for myself is right here. ❞

[strangerthings4theories]

Mirror Images: Billy And El Are Reflections Of Each Other

As you read this post, hold the following concepts in your mind: yin and yang in Chinese philosophy. The Light Side and Dark Side in Star Wars. The real world and the Upside Down in Stranger Things.

That, my friends, is the level of thematic significance the Duffers are giving Billy and El. And it’s my top reason for believing Billy will come back.

Why?

El is arguably the main character of the show. Any character who’s linked to her so profoundly will be a Big Fuckin’ Deal.

You cannot, CANNOT, create such a consistent dynamic by accident, which tells me that...

...the Duffers have huge intentions for Billy. He will become more significant to the show, not less! If you think he’ll return just for flashbacks or memories, you’re not thinking big enough.

Buuuut I’m getting ahead of myself. First let me show you what I mean when I say Billy and El are mirror images. It’s pretty mind-blowing...

1) The broad strokes of Billy and El’s lives echo each other: their family backgrounds, their traumas, and their journeys in the show.

>>They’ve suffered under abusive fathers. In fact, in S2 they have encounters with their fathers in back-to-back episodes - El with Brenner in episode 7, Billy with Neil in episode 8. 

Both fathers are likened to the Mind Flayer in the power they wield over their children. In episode 7, El’s hallucination of Brenner tells her she has a “wound... growing and festering” (my paraphrase), a clear reference to the tunnels of the Upside Down. Kali, as the creator of the hallucination, is trying to tell El that he is the source of the wound, and El won’t heal until she’s confronted him. 

In episode 8, the title card “The Mind Flayer” opens on Neil driving back to the Hargrove house, implying he’s the real Mind Flayer in Billy’s life. As I’ve argued elsewhere, Billy won’t heal either until he’s confronted Neil.

>>Billy and El lost their mothers because of their fathers. Brenner fried Terry's brain with electricity for daring to defy him. Billy's mother left for an unknown reason, but we’re led to believe she couldn’t take Neil’s abuse anymore. The way she's presented in Billy's memories leads me to believe she has since passed away.

Billy and El are both devastated by their losses. When El tells Billy at Starcourt, “[Your mother] was pretty,” she’s trying to tell him she understands.

>>Billy and El have “adopted” sisters, Max and Kali. Max represents Billy's better nature; Kali represents El's darker nature. In the same season where Billy constantly insists Max isn't his sister - thereby rejecting her - El finds Kali and embraces her. This symbolizes Billy and El’s complementary journeys: Billy is learning to accept his light while El is learning to accept her darkness.

>>Billy and El are wounded and angry because of what’s happened to them. In S1 El worries she's a monster, and in S2 she nearly kills a man in her anger, only to stop herself at the last second (against the wishes of Kali, her darker nature). Billy lets his rage define him. He's turned into a bully over his teen years, and in S2 he nearly kills Steve. Max (his better nature) stops him.

>>Billy and El are viscerally connected to the Upside Down.

The Upside Down is pursuing El. We’re not sure why yet, but their predator/prey dynamic is the main source of conflict in the show. Brenner says to her in S1, “It [the Upside Down] is reaching out to you ‘cause it wants you. It’s calling you. So don’t turn away from it this time.” His words form the backbone of the narrative:

In S1, El opens the first Gate, introducing the Upside Down to our world and setting the events of the show in motion. At the climax, she defeats the Demogorgon, the Mind Flayer's first servant.

S2 deals with the evolving consequences of El opening the first Gate. At the climax, El closes the Gate (symbolically “turning away" from the Upside Down) and catches the Mind Flayer's attention in the process.

In S3, the Mind Flayer comes after El to kill her. She runs from him, and her friends intervene to save her.

In future seasons, the Mind Flayer will regroup and try again but to corrupt her this time, not kill her. The climax of the entire show will hinge on the resolution of their conflict. El will be forced to stop running and face the Mind Flayer head-on.

In S3, Billy is caught by the Mind Flayer and turned into his instrument to hunt El down. This creates a yin/yang situation where Billy and El are revolving around each other, with the Mind Flayer in the center pulling on them both. At Starcourt, El saves Billy's soul by bypassing the Mind Flayer completely - building “the rainbow bridge.”

If you remember that Brenner and Neil, their abusive fathers, are likened to the Mind Flayer, their interaction becomes the story of Billy re-enacting his trauma, and El helping him heal it.

2) Runaway Max gives us a special case of Billy and El mirroring each other.

In S1, one of El's biggest moments happens in episode 6. Mike and Dustin have been cornered by the bullies Troy and James. Right when all hope is lost, El shows up and breaks Troy’s arm. After that, she confesses tearfully, “The gate. I opened it. I'm the monster.” This brings forward her inner struggle - am I a monster for the things I do? - which she will no doubt revisit in future seasons.

Keep in mind that Troy is around 12 years old, and El breaks his right arm.

Jump forward to S2. At one point, Billy complains, “Yeah, we're stuck here [in Hawkins]. And whose fault is that?” - implying it's somehow Max's. She disagrees. “Yours,” she mutters under her breath.

In the show, we never get an explanation. Runaway Max tells us everything.

Back in California, Billy is spiraling deeper and deeper into a pit of rage. One fateful afternoon, he takes it out on Max and her best friend Nate, a 12-year-old boy. When Max resists him, he seizes Nate's right arm and twists it behind his back. He holds it there, watching Max.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, a crazed look in his eyes.

When she does nothing, he breaks Nate's arm.

The fallout is catastrophic. Within weeks, Neil decides they should all move away from California for the good of the family.

Now think about this. El breaks a 12-year-old boy's right arm to save her friends from bullies. Billy breaks a 12-year-old boy's right arm... because he is the bully.

It’s part of the wider pattern: El is light, Billy is darkness.

3) The Duffers use physical markers to underscore Billy and El’s similarities.

>>When the MF wrecks Billy's car, Billy's forehead smashes into the windshield, leaving a gash. At Starcourt, he slams El into the wall, giving her a wound in the same spot. Thematically, their wounds tell the story of Billy suffering abuse, then turning around and inflicting it on El. He’s perpetuating a cycle, and it’s up to him to stop it.

>>Both Billy and El are limping by the time they reach Starcourt. El's leg is injured from the Mind Flayer, while Billy injures his in the car crash. These wounds tell the story of El, the “innocent,” suffering pain through no fault of her own while Billy, the “guilty” one, is being punished for his crimes. (I put those words in quotes because I believe the show will challenge our assumptions.) 

A sad footnote: El has Max and Mike to help her walk. Billy has no one.

>>In S2, Billy gets a nosebleed out of the same nostril as El. This says a LOT, marking him as a future “superhero” and putting him in the same class as El, Kali, and El's mom Terry.

Off the top of my head, only two other characters get nosebleeds, Mayor Kline and Steve. But the blood never comes cleanly out of one nostril the way it does with El. I believe that was a purposeful design choice to avoid muddying the symbolic waters.

...

Y’all, I’ve already hit my picture limit for a single post, and I’m not even done yet :p So I’ll stop there for now. Eventually I’ll show you how El is connected to the Demogorgon in the same strange way as Billy.

You see what I mean though? There is no fuckin’ way Billy is dead for good. Why would the Duffers give him this much resonance with El, then drop him? 

It makes no sense.

If you ask me, they’ve got plans for our boy. World-altering plans. He’s not just coming back; by the end of the show, he’s gonna be a Big Goddamn Hero.

»»————-　✼　————-««

Billy Is Alive - A Meta Series

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

pSSSSSTTTTTT

EEEEEEEEEEEK

okay so. i'm obviously going to write a thorough analysis about this but i thought i'd get some initial thoughts out there since this is a really fun game and i NEED to play.

so. first time hearing angels fly all i could hear was a oasis-esque anthem with the firm chorus and the way the melody turns during "is an eye in the sky", giving that typical complaining sound (lol very music good terminology. it's a flat note which gives it that vibe so there okay) that just screams oasis to me, especially the big vocals towards the end. the lyrics, in their treacherous simplicity, push you to keep holding on while acknowledging the sad and admiring the beautiful. very oasis, again. also very louis. i can't help not hearing it in a hugeass stadium with people belting it with their whole chest. i know that is not the vibe most ppl will have with this song but when coldplay played don't look back in anger during one love manchester? yeah that. (as we're walking on by)

aaaanyway then upon further listens the lyrics finally filtered in and what i heard was a reply to as it was.

Nothin' to say When everything gets in the way

I don't wanna talk about the way that it was

We can talk about it It'll only make it worse

Answer the phone "Harry, you're no good alone Why are you sittin' at home on the floor? What kind of pills are you on?"

I’ll knock on your door it’ll save me from calling

There were problems in this empty bottle but we drained all that

and yk even if you don't see these parallels as strong, it's more about what the songs are saying, really. it's harry being desperate in as it was, desperate to get out of a rut, to stop going in circles bc someone's holding on to heartache, bc he knows life is so so much but all he seems to do is focus on what goes wrong, how wrongly he's perceived, how bad he copes, and he needs to fucking get out. because he knows that bottom line, bottom fucking line, he has love. in that world, it's just them.

and then angels fly is that moment of relief, of calm, of i am here for you, i am holding out the palm of your hand. we don't need to talk about who did what, what got in the way. nothing really matters now except remembering that we're just these tiny specks of dust in the scope of the universe. look at the horizon. look up at the sky. those who were once just as broken as we are fly up there. but there are enough dying stars in the sky. we're good down here, looking up at them, honoring their memory by living on. by loving on

it's louis giving comfort like only he can: offering a shoulder to cry on, while respecting your way to cope, not a speck of judgment detected, but with that firm arm around you, grounding you, holding you, making you look forward again. about tomorrow. about the time we still have. it's once again a reminder of the life that's left to live.

[paralianprince]

Kai-tchoos?? This is about to be the best day of Peter's whole week. His entire face lights up like someone had just flung a whole sky-full of clouds out of the sun's way.

"Yeah, sure, maybe you did," Peter rushes excitedly to the opposite side of the desk, snatches up another stack of post-it notes, and begins decisively slapping them down one by one, all in a row. "But it was out of curiosity and kindness I'm sure, so that's really nothin' at all deservin' saying sorry over."

The top sticky part of each bright neon-coloured note is affixed to the bottom of the last note, so that if he were to hold the whole thing up, it'd hopefully be like a long ribbon (and, just as hopefully, not immediately fall apart, which we must admit would be more likely.)

"Snacks in a minute, you can go through half my stock if you like, but more importantly first I've got to tell you what a kaiju is. Right, so you've at least heard of Godzilla, yeah? He's the most famous one, but you've also got ones that are like, a giant pterosaur or a giant moth, or a giant three-headed dragon…"

He pulls up some pictures on his phone to show them off; Rodan, Mothra, and King Ghidorah, as Peter would consider them to be more like 'entry-level' kaiju than some others he knows.

"Basically they're all giant creatures and some of 'em are benevolent and some are evil, and they fight, and it is absolutely sick. That's the gist of it at least. But they're all massive is the main thing, like… here, look." To which he then pulls up this image!

"So when I'm like, 'yeah I'm not all that important to all you time kaijus and honestly I've made my peace with it', basically, what I'm gettin' at is…"

Peter trails off, and begins to draw a line in marker through all of his post-its. A timeline, the farmost right of which is labeled "now". And as the line travels left, he denotes in increments every so often: 'Personal Computers Invented', 'Electricity Invented', 'Gunpowder', 'Paper', '0 BC', 'Stonehenge Built', 'Ice Age', 'Dinosaurs', 'Days Of Yore', 'Dirt Invented', and, finally, 'Arthur Kirkland Hatches From An Egg'.

"Like, time-ways, I'd go from 'now', to… around… here."

He draws another line, this one in blue pen, from the rightmost end of the line, to just a little bit further than 'Personal Computers Invented'. Then, on second thought, he adds just a half-centimeter more. It's already out of the bag that Peter had been alive for a while before he'd ever been founded, so, why bother fibbing?

"And, like, if you wanted to chart my brother on this, you'd go like…!!"

At which point he grabs a sharpie and underlines the ENTIRE thing.

And then sets his phone down on the desk, sideways, so that the kaiju size comparison is parallel to his long timeline. The resemblance between his shoddy graph, and the human proportional to Godzilla, would hopefully be pretty clear.

"Like, I don't know where you'd go to on this thing, 'twould've been rude to outright ask I figure, but, yeah, basically, you're all time kaijus, and it can be a bit intimidating sometimes actually! Which is why it's absolute rubbish by the way, that anybody should say you ought to be hanging out here, with me."

“I suppose it would be fine in an emergency,” he relents. “...B-But I would still yell, possibly even more than I would otherwise since I’d know it’s an emergency.” Fine. Peter can carry him if there’s some life-or-(temporary)-death situation that requires immediate action, but that’d be all the more reason for Raivis to panic! He’s tempted to point out that promising on a bus isn’t all that persuasive when he didn’t sound too bothered by getting hit by one before, but decides to let the issue go. The offer of food is far more promising than anything bus-related. Raivis sits up. His flask is running low... but there’s no way in hell he’s asking this kid for booze. Absolutely not. He has a problem, sure, but it’s a problem that stubbornly holds certain boundaries and morals! Not like Peter would have anything to offer, anyways. Besides, more than drink- “What sort of food do you have? I-If you’re sure I can have some, I mean! I don’t want to be intruding. Just, ah, something small, if that’s okay?” Yes, meetings are generally catered, but he isn’t about to admit how much trouble he has getting to the food sometimes. Usually, one of his brothers grabs a plate for him. They were too busy this time. Being small should make it easier to squeeze through and get something to eat, if anything, and yet here he was. Hungry.  Raivis mulls over Peter’s explanation, undeniably confused at whatever the fuck a time kaiju is, but what’s more important is that Peter has friends. “I’m sure you’re important to the... the things. Kai-tchoos. And if you aren’t, then maybe they are not worth your time. But you should know, trying hard for something is not all that cringe.” Actually, being vocally passionate about things is impressive to Raivis. Maybe that’s only because he, by comparison, tends to be pretty reserved. If Peter doesn’t feel the need to, though, then he’s not about to try to convince him to be upset. Misery may love company, but that doesn’t mean he wants to intentionally tarnish the other’s self-satisfaction. He lets his gaze wander the room again, lingering over the other beanbag chair and the rugs. Why is it that meetings can’t be more comfortable? What about coziness is inherently unprofessional? He knows better than to ask that aloud, but it nags at him. “I might have been, erm, leaping to conclusions. With the concerns, I mean. Sorry.”