#pattern furniture for the hospitality

[patternfurniture]

4 Things to Consider Before Visiting Furniture Stores

One of the excellent activities that keep us informed about the latest and most fashionable styles is shopping. Your home or business becomes complete and more elegant with furniture. Although purchasing something may seem simple, it can be a very challenging undertaking. It's normal to feel overwhelmed whenever you visit a furniture store because it might be difficult to determine which pieces are best for you. Read more: https://livearticlez.com/things-to-consider-before-visiting-furniture-stores/

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 32

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 29, part 30, part 31

Eddie ended up needing more than just a week before he was cleared to come home. He needed at least two, and even then, it was all up to the hospital’s physical therapist to determine if he gained enough strength to go home. Where he wasn’t going to get more hurt by living at home.

But he was still coming home. And soon. Which means that Dustin has to get convincing. Steve was supposed to plant the initial seed. Let it ruminate, so by the time Dustin got there, he could hammer the final nail in. But when Dustin pulled out his list of reasons, ready for the spiel, he can barely get a word out before Wayne’s speaking.

“Oh, I already heard all about it,” is what he said. “I can admit that it’s a good plan. Thanks for thinking of it.”

That was easy. Too easy. Did Steve really convince him all by himself?

Either way, the plan was in motion. A few days later, Wayne moves in with Steve. Taking one of the bedrooms upstairs, a few doors down the hall from Steve. Right next to the guest bathroom that would be just his. He was almost never there, but it was better than the motel.

Dustin could tell that he was sleeping a little better. It could be knowing that Eddie was coming home soon, and that he could slow down the house hunting process a little bit. Give more time to find a place that they will both love and spread out the expenses of finding new furniture. Steve already offering storage space in another one of his spare bedrooms and anywhere they need.

It's not like anyone else uses the house.

Time continues to pass, and each day Eddie gets stronger. On the two-month anniversary of the day he woke up from the coma, he takes his first step without any assistance. Human assistance, at least. He is still using mobility aids. But he still did it.

Some days are better than others. The pain has subsided to some extent, but there are days where Dustin visits and Eddie barely moves. Something about pins and needles traveling up his arms and legs when he does. And there are days where he’s really shaky, and nothing can help it.

But he can still come home this week. So, they needed to actually get their asses in gear.

Steve helped Wayne sneak back into his house in the middle of the night to try and salvage some of Eddie’s clothes. Or really, anything that was in Eddie’s room. They were able to save some of Wayne’s stuff too, so he could walk around in something other than the same two outfits and his work uniforms.

The room on the first floor apparently had never even been used. So, Steve had to take the plastic off of the mattress and get some sheets for it. the room was otherwise bare, except for the patterned wallpaper and basic furniture. It wasn’t Eddie though, so it needed some work.

Dustin employed pretty much everyone he could.

“Dustin,” Gareth yelled down the hall. “I have those posters that you wanted, they’re in my garage. Swing by anytime to pick them up.”

It was more posters than Dustin was expecting. Black Sabbath, Dio, Metallica, mixed in with old posters they made for Corroded Coffin, and one old one from Hellfire. There’re a few movie posters mixed in as well from titles Dustin doesn’t even recognize. But it’s good.

Steve finds an old cassette player in his basement. Looks like it had never even been opened. It’s a really nice one too. They were able to find some of Eddie’s cassettes, but most of them where ruined.

It was still something.

“Don’t you think this is, like, a lot,” Mike questions. The posters and picture Dustin had printed out almost entirely covering the walls.

“No,” Dustin says. Going back to unpacking some of the things that they saved from the trailer.

“His room wasn’t even this covered in the trailer,” Lucas adds for some reason. “You don’t think this might be a little overkill.”

Dustin glares at them. “But he didn’t have this gross wallpaper in his trailer.”

“It is not that bad,” El comments from the bed. Her and Max just sitting there, not helping.

“Someone describe it to me, I want to know. Wait,” Max points at Dustin. Somehow knowing exactly where he is and that he was going to describe it poorly. “Someone other than him.”

“It’s literally just a bunch of small red diamonds,” Lucas explains. “Think Steve’s room but slanted and red. But not plaid.”

Max nods. “Yeah, that isn’t that bad. It could be worse. Have you seen the pink flower room.” She gags.

“It still is not that bad,” El defends.

Will and Mike share a look, continuing to unpack a box of books. Steve brings in what should be the last box of things. Considering they were only able to save so much. He looks around at the walls, taking in everything.

“Dustin, I know you want this place to feel like home, but could you leave a little bit of wall uncovered. We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“He’s not a toddler, Steve,” Dustin groans. “I don’t think he’s going to get overwhelmed.”

Robin comes in to tell Steve something. But gets stopped in her tracks as she looks around the room. “Oh. My. God. That is a lot of posters.”

“Thank you,” Lucas says. Arms crossed while he stands in the corner. “I think we have more than enough on the walls.”

“There’s more?” she questions. “Where were you going to put them?”

“Fine,” Dustin whines. “I won’t put any more posters up.”

Robin leans into Steve. “By the way, your mom’s on the phone.”

Steve lets out a long sigh. “Thank you.”

He walks out of the room, Robin close behind him. The rest of them putting the finishing touches. Lucas and Mike convincing Dustin to take down some of the posters and make the walls look less cluttered. Like Eddie would care about cluttered. Have they seen what his old room looked like.

But he might be able to admit that floor to ceiling posters were a little overkill. He just wanted this place to feel even a little reminiscent of the trailer. Of what Eddie had back home. Is that really so bad?

The next day, they all patiently wait in the living room. Eddie was getting discharged this morning. Meaning that Wayne is bringing him here, right now. Eddie will be in real clothes, out of the hospital. Finally getting back to normal.

Or, as normal as he could possibly be. But still more normal than in a hospital.

Because now, he can eat real food. And get real sleep. That isn’t constantly disturbed by nurses checking on him in the middle of the night. In a bed that is really comfortable. In a house that is constantly quiet.

He might finally start to fully get back to the Eddie that Dustin knew before all of this.

A car pulls up into the drive. Doors slam, and voices can be heard by the door. Steve goes to get the door before the bell rings. They were supposed to wait in the living room, but Dustin can’t help it. He follows.

“Holy shit, Harrington, how tall is this ceiling?”

“I have no clue.”

Eddie’s crutches make soft thumps with every step. Steve shuts the door and lets them know where they can put their shoes. It’s a bustle of voices while Dustin waits for them to turn around and see that he’s there.

That he’s been waiting for this. For so long.

“You know you didn’t have to build that ramp for me,” Eddie says to Steve. Still not turning around.

“I didn’t. I built it for Max. You just get to use it for free.”

Eddie smiles a teasing smile. It’s been a while since Dustin’s seen that. “Aw, taking pity on me, are you, Steve.”

“Just shut up.”

Wayne clears his throat, stopping whatever the two of them were doing. He nods his head toward Dustin still waiting in the hall. Eddie turns his head, finally, and sees him.

Something in the shape of relief fills his face. “Hey, Henderson.”

“You’re here.” Dustin can’t help the wetness in his voice. Or his eyes. He wasn’t expecting to cry, it just happened.

Eddie makes his way over to Dustin. Slightly wincing in pain, but not complaining. He balances his crutches just right so he can pull Dustin into a hug. A proper hug. Dustin’s not sure how long it’s been since he’s hugged Eddie. Too afraid to do in in the hospital.

But he’s not in the hospital anymore.

“Yeah,” Eddie says with more waiver in his voice than he would probably admit. “I’m here.”

tag list (closed): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondespresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ luis serra x reader, 21K

⸺ folk horror, psychological horror

⸺ summary: Luis Serra has one last heist in mind, a job that promises to be the ultimate escape. Together with you, he’s come to Valdelobos—a remote, luxurious village said to hold riches beyond belief. But as plans unfold, you find that paradise often comes with a price.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @dark-star-exe @raiko

The steady beep of a heart monitor cuts through the fog in your mind, dragging you slowly from unconsciousness.

Your limbs feel heavy, weighed down by a soft, unfamiliar pressure. The air is cool, crisp with the faint scent of antiseptic that stirs an uncomfortable knot low in your chest. You blink, and the room around you begins to take shape—white walls, a wooden side table, a bed covered in a quilt dotted with tiny pink roses. Sunlight slips through lace curtains, casting soft patterns on the floor.

You sit up slowly, wincing as a dull ache pulses at the base of your skull. The sheets slip from your shoulders, rough and starched, as if they haven’t been touched in a long time. You rub your eyes, trying to chase away the heaviness in your limbs, but it lingers stubbornly.

Your fingers curl against the blanket as you glance around the room. The furniture is minimal—neatly arranged, but unremarkable. A cabinet rests against the wall, its corners chipped from age. There’s no clutter, no signs of life except for the faint scent of disinfectant that hangs in the room. A perfectly folded set of clothes rests on a chair in the corner, as if waiting for you. The room feels clean, orderly. Familiar. But not yours.

A hand presses gently against your back and you jump, startled. A tall woman stands beside the bed, her long hair drawn loosely into a ponytail. She smiles reassuringly as she hands you a glass of water. She’s tall, her white uniform crisply pressed, and her movements are smooth, unhurried. She smiles, a calm, practiced expression that radiates warmth.

“You’re awake,” she says. “How are we feeling?”

You open your mouth to answer, but your throat feels dry, your thoughts still sluggish. You clear your throat and manage to ask, “Where am I?”

“You’re in Valdelobos, at our clinic,” she says, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. She doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor or nurse, but there's something vaguely comforting about the way she carries herself. Like it's second nature to put others at ease. It gives you a bit of comfort even as the fog lingers persistently in your mind. “You were in an accident, but everything’s fine now. We’ve taken care of you.”

Her words settle into the quiet, and for a moment, they seem reasonable. Accident? The word stirs something in you, but it’s distant, out of reach. You look around the room again, as if the answer might be hidden in the sterile order of it all.

“An accident?” you repeat, your brow furrowing as you grab in the dark for a memory that won’t come.

The woman nods calmly and hands you the glass of water again. You take it obediently and drink deep. The cool liquid eases the tightness in your throat. “Yes, a car crash just outside the village. You and your friend were both brought here after. You’ve been unconscious for a few days.”

It's just then that you notice the urinary catheter, though thankfully your bladder isn't full so it remains somewhat less-than-sexy in terms of emergency hospital stays. That would explain why you feel this weight pressing down on your lower half and why drinking such a small amount of water was already enough to make you realize just how much of the good stuff you could drink right now. Another tube is connected to your arm via IV line. Both look newer than the room itself which adds up given what she said about the crash happening only recently.

"I...don't remember," you say slowly, putting a tentative hand to your forehead. A name rises in your chest before you can stop it. “Luis,” you murmur, straightening in the bed. Your heart quickens slightly, and you look to the nurse for confirmation. “Is he... is he okay?”

Her smile deepens, eyes softening at the mention of him. “He’s resting in the room next door. He woke up a little while ago. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that you're awake.”

You nod, relief settling in your chest, even as a faint thread of discomfort lingers. You press your palms into the mattress, grounding yourself in the sensation of the firm material beneath your hands. The quilt feels too smooth, the pattern too perfect. You blink and turn back to the nurse.

“Can I see him?” you ask, the words leaving your mouth faster than you intended.

“Of course,” she replies. “Take your time. When you’re ready, you can visit him.” Her hands fold together neatly as she moves toward the door. “I’ll let him know you’re awake.”

She glides out, the door clicking softly behind her. The room falls back into silence.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the cold tiles beneath your feet sending a shiver up your spine. You’re dressed in a pair of simple pajamas—not your own. They’re crisp, like they’ve been freshly laundered, but the fabric feels stiff against your skin. For a moment, you just sit there, grounding yourself in the cool air, the stillness of the room. You need to get that catheter off, hopefully it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it looks. As you do so, you look over to the nightstand where someone has left you flowers, probably some sort of 'make your stay better' thing since hospitals charge enough.

There's no sign of your possessions, which strikes you as odd given all things considered. That aside, you have no recollection of getting here in the first place, not to mention a crash. Not surprising really considering the way your head is hurting, though at least whoever bandaged up your injuries seemed to have done it properly despite whatever happened. At that thought, your fingers creep slowly across your face, expecting to find scars or worse...but there's nothing but smooth skin, albeit incredibly sensitive when you prod too hard.

Satisfied that no part of your face seems damaged, you rise carefully from the bed. You feel stiff, sore, but not injured. Just battered, tired and dazed with bits of memory threatening to crawl their way to the forefront of your mind. None do yet, but you know that once you start moving they might come easier. Your body certainly remembers even if your brain hasn't caught up quite yet.

You cross the room toward the window. The curtains brush lightly against your arm as you pull them back, revealing the village beyond. Rows of neat, colorful houses line the cobblestone streets below, a few villagers stroll down the street, their laughter carrying faintly as they pass each other with smiles. . The rooftops are bright, the flowers blooming in vibrant colors, and the trees sway gently in the afternoon breeze. You glance toward the horizon where rolling green hills rise beyond the buildings, stretching toward snowcapped mountains rising in the distance. Everything seems peaceful, serene—a village from a postcard.

You push open the door to Luis’s room, feeling the cool brass handle slide under your palm. The room smells of faint lavender, mingling with the sharp scent of disinfectant. The layout mirrors yours—same white walls, same meticulously folded quilt, same stillness. But here, there’s something different, something that pulls a smirk to your lips the moment you lay eyes on him.

Luis sits at the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched slightly as he leans forward, rubbing his temples with the heels of his palms. His dark hair is a little messier than usual, unruly strands curling at his temples, and a faint shadow of stubble dusts his jawline. He looks up when the door clicks shut behind you, and there it is—that smile. Crooked, lazy, pulling up at the corner of his mouth, familiar as the man himself.

"You look awful," you tease, leaning against the doorframe and crossing your arms over your chest as he scrubs a hand down his face, huffing softly in response. "Who pissed on your parade?"

Luis groans, letting his hand drop to his lap. “And you sound like an angel, mi amor,” he shoots back, sits up straighter, waving his hand in a dramatic flourish. “Here to rescue me from boredom until I die, please say sí, say sí, mi corazón, por favor - save me from myself, from my sins. My jailer does not speak to me much more than required so I hope your conversation will be better."

“Please,” you scoff, rolling your eyes as you push off from the door and stroll over to him. “Rescue? From what? Free room and board? If anything, I should be asking for a cut.”

He laughs, the sound rich and easy, filling the room in a way that makes the sterile walls feel a little less suffocating. His laughter has always been like that—disarming, a weapon he wields with precision when the tension creeps too high.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” you continue, taking a seat on the chair next to his bed, kicking your feet up onto the side of his mattress. “You’ve got that look in your eye. What’s eating at you?”

Luis narrows his eyes, but there’s a flicker of a smirk still tugging at his lips. He knows he can't hide much from you—and hell, he probably likes it that way, showing off like he always does.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" he asks with faux offense as he puts a hand to his chest for extra measure. "Ah...forgive me, it's just the medicine makes me slow, I swear. It was not intentional."

That earns another soft snort as you shake your head at him. "Oh no, it definitely was," you insist. "And it sucked. Come on, we've known each other for too long. Tell me what you're thinking about before I try to guess." You reach over, nudging his knee with your foot. "Leave the mysterious and brooding bullshit to me."

He grabs your ankle gently, thumb brushing against your skin, his touch warm and firm, shooting sparks through your whole body. Always touching, always finding an excuse to brush fingers or bump shoulders or press close in the cramped car during cons. That kind of intimacy comes naturally for him and has you stumbling every damn time because you never know when it starts or when it stops. Probably exactly what he wants since he lives for flustering people in general, but you'll be damned if you give him the satisfaction of being the one person who gets away with making you blush on command.

"You'd rather guess?" he asks with feigned surprise as he squeezes your ankle again teasingly, letting go soon after. "We really are falling into roles these days if that's what you wish." He leans forward slightly, dark hair tumbling across his forehead, muddy gray eyes scanning yours for a second before continuing, "My only mystery is the same one we're both struggling with, I think; what exactly happened?"

Your smile drops, replaced by an almost grimace as you frown and shake your head in frustration. It’s not your style. Instead, you shrug to recover, stretching your arms behind your head. “Well, considering you still have all your limbs attached, I’d say we came out on top.”

Luis chuckles, leaning back against the headboard now, his arms draped casually over his knees. “Is that how we measure success these days? Low bar, cariño.”

“Hey, sometimes it’s just about survival,” you reply, giving him a pointed look. “Besides, what the hell were we even doing out here anyway? You remember more than I do?”

A strange expression crosses Luis’s features as he hesitates. His brows draw together, and his gaze drops to his hands for a moment, watching as his knuckles crack quietly under the weight of his thoughts. It only lasts a second, barely long enough for you to notice unless you knew him well—but you do.

He looks up again, mouth twisting into something like a smile but lacking any real joy, falsehood as bright as the sun itself. It makes your stomach drop because while Luis tries his best not to lie to you, that doesn't mean there aren't parts of him he keeps tucked safely in the shadows, invisible until the light hits them just right. And right now, that blinding sunshine feels a little bit too intense for your liking.

"It's a bit jumbled, but..." He drums his fingers on the blanket beside him. The gesture reminds you of tapping Morse code messages late at night when the two of you couldn't sleep during stakeouts or when you simply wanted a private conversation during noisy events where nobody would be able to catch onto secret signals. Not that anyone ever could with the two of you running circles around everyone else. "We were coming here, to Valdelobos. This place—it’s like a dream, right? Too good to be true. We figured it was perfect. Rich folks, isolated, nobody’s paying too much attention to them. Easy pickings. Last heist. Supposedly. I don't have the details straight. Don't really remember much either."

You tilt your head, watching him closely. Luis’s expressions are always so readable, even when he tries to act indifferent. His forehead creases just a bit more, his jaw tightens just enough to notice—little tells that you’ve learned to pick up over the years. He’s frustrated, more than he’s letting on. Something is bothering him. But he continues before you can ask.

"Maybe my luck ran out this time," he says wryly, tossing you a casual smirk. "Maybe we should have stuck with card games instead. Had the odds in our favor, eh, mija?"

“Well, lucky for you,” you say, breaking the silence, “I’m sure it’ll come back once we’re out of this place and back on our feet. Valdelobos isn’t exactly the kind of place I planned on setting down roots.”

Luis’s eyes flick back to yours, and the smile returns, even if it’s softer this time. “Yeah? Not charmed by the quaint little village yet?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “I’m thinking we settle down, open a bakery, sell muffins to the same five people over and over.”

“Sounds like hell,” Luis mutters, looking vaguely amused at the idea. "Better than living off cards and schemes though."

"Sure, except we suck at baking." You raise an eyebrow. "Really, we'll end up poisoning someone somehow. Are you okay with being arrested over muffins, Luis? Is that how you wanna go down in history? Murderers by blueberry breakfast pastry?"

He grins crookedly, showing off one too many teeth as he responds dryly, "Just wait until I get my hands on a whisk and buttercream frosting before passing judgement."

You nod, kicking off your shoes and tucking your legs up onto the chair, making yourself comfortable. "Worst comes to worst, we’ll just steal a bunch of cakes from somewhere nice and fancy so we have a proper retirement dinner instead. Besides, maybe they won’t arrest us if we bribe them with pie."

Luis smirks, knowing and acknowledging before changing topics with no warning, tone suddenly turning serious despite his expression remaining relaxed. "Tell me you don’t feel something wrong here."

The question surprises you. You shift forward, dropping your feet to the floor again. Luis catches the movement, glancing back at you. There it is again; hints of frustration. Hints of suspicion, even. And it's those two things which concern you most when it comes to Luis. That kind of mood usually spells trouble sooner than later. Even with whatever drugs he's been fed through his IV drip. He's always on his toes, always watching for risks, threats or opportunities. You admire him for it, truthfully, because sometimes you wish you had half the instincts he does. The instinct to turn tail and run whenever shit goes sour has saved both your hides more than a couple times over.

"We can talk about that once we get out of here," you suggest with an uncertain laugh. "Whatever plans you were cooking up can wait." You reach over, taking his hand in yours gently, lacing your fingers together, noticing the slight wince as you do. He has scratches on the knuckles. They weren’t bandaged like yours, and though they didn't seem deep, they are noticeable as all hell, especially paired with how obviously painful it must be to make such a cute face just from having a simple hand held. Either way, he doesn’t pull back, and you give his palm a quick squeeze before letting go, satisfied with the gesture if nothing else.

The sun sits high in a cloudless sky, casting a golden hue over the cobblestone streets as you and Luis step out of the clinic. It's warm, and a light breeze sweeps across the village, carrying the faint scent of flowers and freshly baked bread. It would almost feel serene if it weren’t for the constant tickle of uncertainty gnawing at the back of your mind.

Luis walks beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, shoulders relaxed, but there’s a restless energy in his movements. He glances around, taking in the neat rows of pastel-colored houses, the carefully trimmed hedges that line the walkways. Everything looks too polished, too clean, as if someone had gone over every inch with a careful hand to make sure not a single thing is out of place.

The sound of children laughing draws your attention to a group of them playing in the distance. They chase each other down the street, their faces flushed with joy., and a young man strolls by with a basket of apples slung over his arm, nodding at you with a wide smile as he passes.

Luis pulls his lighter from his pocket, flicking it open and closed with a soft click, click, click. His fingers dance over the metal, the small flame briefly flickering to life before he snaps it shut again. His lips twitch into a half-smile as he catches you glancing at the lighter. “You think they’ve got cigarettes around here? Or are they all too pure for such things?”

“Considering this place looks like it was ripped from a travel brochure, I’m betting they don’t,” you reply, matching his stride as the two of you move farther down the street. "Or maybe the ones they do have are expensive enough you need permission just to buy them."

His gaze turns mischievous as his grin widens, exposing slightly crooked teeth. He spins the lighter between his fingers, his movements fluid and effortless. You've always found it mesmerizing when he does that, but it's rarely comforting. Not with Luis Serra involved. That particular moveset comes out when his brain is working overtime, and nine times out of ten, it means there's something shady going on that requires finesse.

Luis chuckles, his eyes scanning the village with casual interest, but there’s a tension in his jaw, his thumb brushing over the lighter’s surface in slow, deliberate motions. “Might have to raid someone’s stash if this keeps up. I can’t keep pretending fresh air is enough for me.”

"Use the opportunity to go sober or something." You cross your arms loosely, trying not to wince at the soreness in your muscles. Your clothes fit snugly, almost like new despite smelling distinctly musty and like someone else. They probably aren't yours, given what happened, but you also really don't want to consider what happened to whoever owned them before. Better to assume the clinic gave you these spare ones. "You're gonna cough out a lung one day and die before we even finish a score."

Luis shrugs, adjusting the lapels of his jacket neatly against his chest. He runs a hand through his hair and brushes some of the loose strands behind one ear, revealing more of his face in profile than usual. It highlights the sharp curve of his cheekbones, the smooth lines of his jaw. There's a certain appeal in seeing him less than perfectly groomed like this. It feels rare, intimate—almost private in spite of it being in plain sight. It takes you a moment to register that he spoke while you were distracted. "Dying without finishing my business doesn't matter as long as it happens before something else gets me first."

His gaze drifts toward a nearby woman tending to the flowerbeds in front of her house. She smiles brightly at the two of you, her hands dusted with soil as she brushes her apron down.

“Good afternoon!” she calls, warm and sweet, as though she’s known you both for years.

“Afternoon,” Luis replies, lifting his hand in a lazy wave, his fingers still curled around the lighter.

The woman tilts her head, her smile widening as her gaze lingers on you both for a beat too long. You give a small nod in return, but something in her expression makes your shoulders tighten. It’s not overt, nothing obvious, but there’s a depth to her gaze, a brightness that seems almost... too knowing.

You shake the thought from your head, focusing instead on the sound of your boots scuffing against the cobblestones. Luis is already moving ahead, casting glances at the storefronts as you pass. There’s a bakery on the corner, its windows filled with neatly stacked loaves of bread, each one golden and perfectly shaped. Next to it, a butcher’s shop displays an array of meats that gleam behind the glass in shades of red and pink.

He flips the lighter open again, watching the flame flicker before shutting it with a sharp snap. “So, what’s the plan? We just wait around until someone hands us a ‘Welcome to Valdelobos’ brochure with all the secrets printed inside?”

You shrug, keeping pace alongside him as the two of you walk further down the street. People bustle about, their chatter filling the quiet afternoon, carrying over the soft hum of crickets chirping from nearby gardens. Some of them glance in your direction, offering friendly waves and cheerful greetings. It should feel normal, easy. It doesn't. Not even as you start waving back while Luis sticks with smiling thinly at everyone and keeping his tongue safely away from saying anything unnecessary to those poor souls. "Isn't this part your area of expertise?"

"Yes." He gives a short laugh. "But there are limits to what I can do here when all I know is this place is full of people with money. Doesn't exactly narrow the options down very far, especially since our lovely hosts haven't seen fit to share any more details. Still, don't worry." With practiced ease, Luis slips into his best cocky grin, flashing white teeth as he winks playfully. He falls back into his usual routine of banter and mischief so seamlessly you would never guess it bothered him at all. He gestures casually towards himself, speaking slowly as if explaining something simple to a child. "This will only take a few days, tops. Give me enough time and I'll find something worth taking advantage of, believe me. The hard part was getting here to begin with."

The door to the café creaks softly as it swings shut behind you, the faint jingle of a bell accompanying it. Inside, the air is warm, thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee. Wooden tables are scattered across the space, each one gleaming as though polished with care, their surfaces reflecting the soft afternoon light streaming through the tall windows. The place is quiet, save for the faint clink of dishes from the back room, and the muted murmurs of customers conversing amongst themselves. A radio plays somewhere outside—a pleasant tune, cheery, old fashioned. Almost vintage sounding.

Luis steps ahead of you to an empty booth in the corner where sunlight shines down on the polished, warm brown of the tabletop. His coat hangs loose over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up around his elbows, showing off the faint scar along one forearm, earned from some past scrape or another. He moves fluidly, his hand brushing the back of a chair before pulling it out and sinking into the seat, settling comfortably in the seat. He stretches out, one leg kicking lazily out in front of him, his fingers already dancing over the metal lighter in his hand. Flick. Click. Snap. The flame flares briefly before disappearing again. He’s been playing with it since you left the clinic, his gaze traces over the rest of the establishment as if sizing it up, taking everything in, analyzing each detail before storing it away.

You lean against the counter at the front of the room, glancing at the glass display filled with pastries—each one golden and perfectly formed, as if no one had ever made a mistake in this kitchen. The woman behind the counter greets you with a smile that’s almost too wide, her apron spotless, her hair neatly tucked behind a pale green bandana. Her gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary, but you don’t let it show that you’ve noticed.

“What can I get for you?” she asks, bright and airy.

“Just coffee,” you reply, glancing over your shoulder at Luis. “And whatever he wants.”

Luis, still lounging in his chair, doesn’t look up right away. His thumb flicks the lighter open again, the small flame dancing briefly before being snuffed out with a quick snap. He’s quiet for a beat longer than usual, before flashing the woman a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll take whatever the lady is having. And maybe something to eat. Surprise us.”

You order for both of you, paying with the money you found in your pockets earlier—wondering if this was what they were able to salvage from the car crash and returned back to you. It didn’t seem like a lot, but you supposed it might suffice for now. The woman at the counter hands you the change in a small basket, her smile never wavering, and you thank her before making your way back to the booth where Luis is waiting.

As you slide into your seat, Luis nods toward the basket sitting between the two of you. He picks up a sugar cube, popping it into his mouth with a soft crunch, his jaw moving in slow circles as he savors the taste of pure sugar with no flavor while you grimace, watching him.

"I just brought sweets, and you settle for a sugar cube like a horse," you say in disbelief as you pick up your coffee cup, taking a cautious sip of the steaming liquid. It’s rich and dark, with a hint of bitterness that lingers on your tongue. Not bad, actually. Better than you expected. Luis just chuckles quietly, reaching for another cube, his eyes following the movement of the café owner as she moves behind the counter, humming along with the music. "Terrible taste."

"You don't know what you're missing," he replies, popping the cube in his mouth and sucking on it loudly. "It's an underrated treat. A secret delicacy. Not that I'd expect you to understand."

"It's just sugar. Just sugar, Luis. You might as well chug corn syrup while you're at it."

His expression is relaxed, almost bored, but the lighter keeps moving, his fingers spinning it absentmindedly, never staying still. His brows are slightly furrowed, and you notice that there's a small scar above his right eye. One that's new, not one you remember. It looks fresh, recent.

"Your eyes are twitching," you say, leaning back and crossing your arms over your chest, watching him closely. "Spill."

Luis glances up, his gaze flicking from the sugar bowl to your face, and a smirk spreads across his features. "What?"

"You've been on edge all morning," you state plainly, gesturing at the lighter in his hand. "The peace and quiet making you itch or what?"

He stops lighting the it on and off, but his thumb keeps sliding over the edge of the lighter. He brushes his thumb across the scar above his brow, as though he'd forgotten about its presence. "Why would it? It's what we wanted, no?" His gaze flicks back to the window, where a couple walks by, hand in hand, smiling and nodding at everyone they pass. “What do you think? Should we buy a little cottage here? Raise some chickens, maybe a goat?”

This talk feels intentional in the aftermath of the muffin banter you had earlier, and you’re not sure whether to be concerned or annoyed. Or amused. It’s not entirely out of character for him to joke about something like that, especially since he’s never shown an interest in settling down before. Still, something about the mental image of Luis tending to a flock of animals on some idyllic farm in the countryside makes your lips twitch. "I'd pay to see you milk a cow," you reply with a half-smile, raising your eyebrows. "That'd be a hell of a show."

Luis grins, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his chin propped up by one hand. His dark hair falls across his forehead, brushing his cheekbones as his head tilts to the side. He's always been good at this game, this dance between you two that's almost like a game of chess, every move carefully calculated. "Oh, I'd be happy to give you a private performance," he says, his accent rolling off his tongue in a way that's both charming and infuriating. "No charge."

You snort, rolling your eyes at him, but the corners of your mouth turn upward, betraying the amusement that bubbles up within. "Pass," you say, taking another sip of your coffee, feeling the warm liquid slide down your throat and settle in your stomach.

"Your loss," he shrugs, reaching for another sugar cube, popping it into his mouth and crunching down loudly.

"Please stop eating pure sugar," you groan, rubbing your temple with one hand. "You're better than this, Luis, there's literally a plate of actual food right there, use it."

Luis just grins, shrugging casually as he chews the sugar cube noisily, his fingers tap a rhythm against the lighter, his thumb brushing over its surface in a way that seems almost unconscious. He leans back in his seat, his legs stretching out under the table until his foot brushes yours. “I’d make a terrible farmer. Too many things that can catch fire," he says out of nowhere. “And you, you’re too much of a city girl to even touch a pitchfork.”

You shrug, playing along, but you notice the way his fingers tap against the lighter, the rhythm uneven now. His foot is still pressed against yours beneath the table, a gentle pressure that's oddly grounding in its familiarity. "Who knows? Maybe I'd be a natural." You take a bite of your own pastry, savoring the flaky texture and the hint of sweetness that lingers on your tongue, it melts in your mouth, leaving a pleasant aftertaste.

"I think you’d go crazy. No action. No excitement. Just... this.”

He gestures loosely to the café, the street outside, the perfect houses lined up in neat rows. The smirk is still there, but his eyes don’t follow his hand. They stay fixed on the window, watching the people pass by with their wide smiles and easy laughter. His thumb flicks the lighter open again, the flame flickering before disappearing with a snap. It’s a small thing, a nervous tic maybe, but it feels important somehow. Like there’s more beneath the surface.

"What's wrong with 'this'?" you ask, setting your cup on the table, the porcelain clinking gently. "Not exactly complaining about the free medical treatment and a roof over our heads. Beats sleeping in the car or some rundown motel."

The smirk slips from his face as he sighs, turning his gaze back to you, his expression unreadable. “I’m saying you’re just like me. You’d be bored out of your mind.” His tone is light, but his eyes stay sharp, searching yours as though looking for confirmation, a sign that you understand what he’s really getting at.

There’s a beat of silence, and for a moment, the only sound is the soft clink of cups being set on tables and the faint rustle of the napkins the woman keeps folding. Luis’s smile doesn’t fade, but there’s something tight in his jaw, something restless in the way his foot taps against the floor.

You're blinking as if to fix the blurriness in vision as you automatically reply, "Yeah, that's true," but your words are distant, muffled, like you're out of your body. You shake your head slightly, trying to clear your mind, wondering why you replied like that when you're not quite of the same opinion, not even close. You try to speak, to say something, but the words die in your throat. You blink again, and this time, everything snaps into place, the colors suddenly sharper, the sounds clearer. "I... I'd be restless, yeah. This being the last heist is disappointing, actually. I feel like there's so much this dream team still can do together. Who's gonna stop us from making a mint if we keep doing this?"

Luis just nods, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies your face, searching for something. "Of course you would say that."

Luis moves through the warmth of Valdelobos like a man underwater. The sunlight is bright, almost blinding as it bounces off the brightly painted houses, their walls a patchwork of reds, blues and yellows. He squints against the glare, a second heartbeat in his skull pulsing with a dull ache. His surroundings are thick with the smell of blooming flowers, baking bread, and a faint undercurrent of something sharper—burnt, acrid, though it’s nowhere to be seen. His steps are slower now, more measured, though he’s not conscious of it. Every inch of him feels taut, like a string stretched too tight, his mind drifting in and out of focus.

He can still hear you walking beside him, feel your presence there, steady and real, but his thoughts keep dragging him somewhere else. Somewhere darker. The lighter in his pocket feels like a lifeline, his thumb brushing over its worn edges again and again, but even that doesn’t anchor him.

His heart misses a beat as the cobblestones crack beneath his feet, crumbling into rubble and ash, the space around him dimming as if the sun has vanished behind a thick blanket of smoke. He’s not walking through Valdelobos anymore��he’s standing in a narrow alley, the walls are crumbling around him, charred from some unseen fire, and it reeks of smoke and something metallic, sharp against the back of his throat. His hand grips the shoulder of someone beside him, but it’s not steady. He’s not guiding them—he’s dragging them. Their steps falter, stumbling over debris on the ground, and their voice is high, frantic.

“I can’t—” They're struggling, foot catching on something unseen. Their balance is off, and Luis can feel the tremble in their frame as they try to keep up. "Luis, please..."

“Dios mío, you need to pull yourself together!” His grip on them tightens, but it’s not to help—it’s to force theö forward, to make them move. The guilt presses in at the edges of the scene, but there’s something else now—frustration. His heart pounds, not from fear or sorrow, but from the burning irritation knotting tighter and tighter in his chest.

She stumbles again, her shoes scraping against the ground, and Luis snaps. "You want us both to die? After everything, after all our efforts?!" His reprimand echoes off the crumbling walls, harsh, cold. It’s not like him. Not the him he pretends to be, with a charming smile and an easy laugh. This version of him is all jagged edges and sharp angles, raw, stripped down to the bone. 

“I didn’t—” they start, but the words falter, barely audible over the sound of his own frustration thrumming in his ears.

He yanks his arm away, the motion harsh, and they nearly trip, balance thrown. He steps back, the anger simmering just beneath the surface now, hot and raw. He’s had enough of this, of them. There’s no room for hesitation, no room for weakness, and yet here they are, wasting time. Every second they waste is another second lost.

Their form flickers, just for a moment, like an image out of focus. They shift, hands outstretched toward him, but the plea in their movements only makes the anger twist harder in his gut. He doesn’t want to help them, doesn’t want to guide them anymore. He’s already done too much.

“Get up,” he snaps, cold, cutting through the thick air around them.

"I'm sorry," they say, a trembling, thin whisper. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I swear."

Then, just as suddenly, the scene shifts again.

Luis blinks, and the room snaps into focus. It’s small, the humidity thick and suffocating, it's like swallowing solids in his lungs to breathe. There’s no fire now, no smoke, but the walls are too close, the ceiling too low. The bed in front of him is rumpled, the sheets twisted, and the figure lying there—still, too still—doesn’t move. His chest feels tight, the anger from before crumpling into something colder, heavier.

His hand reaches out, hovering just above the figure’s shoulder. The light in the room is dim, the shadows swallowing the details of the face that remains hidden from him, but he can feel the familiar twisting of guilt clenching around his ribcage and letting go in a steady motion.

He doesn’t want to touch them, doesn’t want to feel the confirmation of what he already knows. His hand trembles, his fingers twitching with the instinct to pull back, but he’s rooted there, the moment dragging on, stretching into something unbearable.

“I don't want to do this anymore.” The sniffling is faint, the words trailing off before they reach him fully, but they echo in his head, bouncing around in the quiet, taunting him.

His hand drops, hanging uselessly at his side as he steps back, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The room keeps getting smaller, the walls pressing in closer. The guilt is everywhere—clinging to the sheets, dripping from the ceiling, pooling in the dark spaces behind the furniture. He can feel it seeping into his bones, his muscles, his blood. The weight of it threatens to crush him, and he staggers back, bumping into the dresser behind him, sending bottles and glasses clattering to the floor. The noise shatters the silence, echoing in his ears like a scream, and he turns, his hands clutching at the doorframe as he stumbles out of the room, leaving the still, unmoving figure behind.

And then it fractures again.

Valdelobos reasserts itself in a dizzying rush of color and sound. The sunlight, the colors, the smell of flowers and fresh bread—it all comes crashing in around him like a tidal wave of sensory overload. His breath catches, his eyes watering from the sudden brightness, and for a moment, he’s disoriented, unsure if he’s even standing on solid ground. The world tilts around him, his balance thrown off-kilter, and he sways on his feet, his hands reaching out blindly for something to steady himself against.

A hand brushes against his arm, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, his heart hammering in his chest as he tries to regain his bearings. His lungs burn from the effort of breathing, his vision still swimming with the remnants of the nightmare, and he blinks furiously, trying to clear his head.

Luis blinks hard, his heart still pounding in his chest, his breath coming too fast. He reaches up, dragging a hand over his face, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of anger, of guilt.

His hand moves to his pocket, his fingers curling around the lighter, but he doesn't pull it out. Instead, he just holds it there, feeling its weight, its solidity. A lifeline. A tether. He's not sure how long he's been drifting, but it can't have been long. He looks over at you, your eyes narrowed with concern, your hand still hovering near him. He can't meet your gaze, can't bring himself to look at you, not after what he saw.

You sit across from Luis in the small room of the inn, your back resting against the uneven wooden chair. A dense silence hangs between the two of you, filling the space like a thick fog, The faintest breeze pushes the curtain, offering occasional whispers of relief from the room’s stagnant warmth. You shift in your seat, drumming your fingers on the table in front of you as you try to piece everything together in your mind. It all feels fragmented, like an unfinished puzzle, pieces still scattered across the table, waiting for someone to fit them into place.

Luis, on the other hand, is staring down at a map that’s laid out between the two of you. His hands trace the outlines of the village, the corners of his lips curling slightly, though the smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. There’s something off about him—there’s been something off since the crash, but it’s hard to say what. Maybe it’s just the disorientation from the accident, or maybe it’s the fact that this whole place is like a civilization apart from the world, tucked away and secluded. Either way, you both need to get your heads back in the game. You’ve got a job to do. The crash took away some of the finer details of that, but the goal is still simple enough—rob the rich bastards blind, then get out and get to the next heist. Or so you think, at least.

You pull the notebook from your bag, the one with hastily scribbled notes you barely remember writing before the crash. You thumb through the pages, your eyes scanning over the details you managed to jot down. There’s a name, a target, someone wealthy enough to make this con worth the trip. Your handwriting looks rushed, as though you were trying to get everything down before it slipped away from your mind. The edges of the pages are creased, worn from being handled too much.

“We were targeting Araya Montesa,” you say, flipping the notebook around so Luis can see the notes. “She’s some sort of local elite, deals in old money and new investments. According to this”—you tap the page lightly—“she’s been funding projects all over the place, big ones. Something about property development, maybe?” You pause, narrowing your eyes at the scribbles. “It’s vague, though. I don’t remember why she’s important.”

Luis leans in, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies the notebook. His fingers hover above the page, but he doesn’t touch it. “It’s always the ones with their fingers in everything, isn’t it? The ones who think they own the world because they own a few houses and half a forest. Typical. Montesa sounds about right. Someone like her? Probably doesn’t even blink when she throws money around.” He sits back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, what was the angle?”

You flip the notebook back to yourself, skimming the pages again, looking for clues. There’s a rough sketch of a timeline—dates, events that seem to correspond to something important. You squint at the details, trying to recall what you were thinking when you wrote it all down. “The angle was that she’s got a hand in some shady dealings. Off-the-books investments, money moving into places it shouldn’t. We were going to pose as investors, or maybe contractors. I’m not sure. It’s all... It’s just not clicking.”

“We don’t need the details to click just yet. It’s about getting in first. Blending in. The rest, we can pick up as we go. That’s how these things always work, right? We start with what we know, then make the rest up as we go. That’s the fun part.”

He gives you a look, his smile finally softening into something more genuine, but... You lean back, looking him up and down with a raised eyebrow, your mouth quirking up into a half-smile.

“Okay, what is this? You never make it up as you go along and I’m the one telling you to just get in and get out. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head too hard in that crash? Did the smoke really fuck you up?” You’re only half-joking, a note of concern creeping into your words. This feels different, and not in a good way.

Luis sighs, his hands dropping to his sides as he leans back in the chair, the wood creaking under his shifting position. “I've always been like this, cariño. I'm the one who gets us into the messes, remember? You're the one who plans our way out. That’s the way it’s always been. The way it works best.”

"I, um..." Your middle finger finds the corner of your eye socket, massaging and scratching as you shut your eyes, trying to remember. But it's all a blur, a jumbled mess of half-formed memories and sensations. You need to trust yourself—trust that you can pull this off. You’ve done it before, haven’t you? You're good at this, at reading people, at finding the angle, the way in. You just have to find it again. “So, we show up as contractors,” you say, scribbling a few quick notes in the margins of the notebook. “Maybe we’ve got a project in mind that she’d want to fund. Something flashy, something with a lot of potential. She seems like the kind of person who likes to be seen as important, influential. We feed into that, let her believe she’s in control, and when she’s comfortable enough, we take what we need.”

“That could work. Everyone likes to feel like they’re the ones pulling the strings, especially people like her. We’ll make her think she’s calling the shots, and then we’ll make our move. Easy. In and out, right?”

You glance at him, watching the way he leans back in his chair, that easy confidence oozing from his posture. He’s always had that air about him, like nothing could ever faze him, like he’s untouchable.

You get the feeling he'd want to get into this more, script down everything down to the minute details, but he doesn't look like he'll even attempt to. He's really serious about improvising. Which is very much unlike him. He's a planner, through and through. Always has been. This whole thing feels like it’s on a razor’s edge, ready to tip into disaster at any moment, what changed? Why does everything feel like it's in flux? Why are you suddenly doubting everything you know about each other?

For a few moments, the room falls into a quiet hum, the only sound the faint rustling of papers and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath the weight of your shifting feet. Luis keeps his eyes on the map, but his focus seems distant, distracted. You want to ask him if he’s okay, if he’s feeling the same strange disconnect that you are, but the words stick in your throat, caught between the lines of your own doubts and uncertainties.

“So, what’s the timeline?” Luis asks, finally breaking the silence, pulling you back to the present. “How long do we have before we need to make our move?”

You flip back through the notebook, scanning the dates and trying to make sense of your own handwriting. “There’s a festival," you say, tapping the page again. “It’s happening in three days. That’s our entry point. If we can get in, we’ll have access to Montesa and everyone in her circle. Plenty of opportunities to gather intel, see how things work around here.”

“Three days. Not a lot of time to figure out this place, but I guess it’s more than we had when we started.” Luis rubs his jaw, the stubble on his chin scratching against his palm and making noise. “Alright. Let’s get a feel for the area, find out what we’re dealing with, and then we can start planning our approach.”

"Shopping first," you suggest, gesturing at the clothes you're wearing, the same as Luis's. "We stick out like sore thumbs in these. The locals dress like they've stepped out of a vintage postcard: bright, pastel, flowery. Not exactly the look of investors or contractors, but there's a way to make it look rich."

You reach for your bag, digging around until you find a crumpled note with a list of stores and addresses, hastily scribbled in what must have been a hurry. "I don't remember writing this," you admit, smoothing out the paper on the table. "But I must have thought it was important at the time. Maybe it's worth checking out."

Luis nods, taking the note from you, his eyes scanning the names and locations. "Looks like we've got a full day of retail therapy ahead of us." He grins, handing the note back to you. "Might as well enjoy it while we're here. When was the last time we went on a shopping spree?"

You can't help but smile, some of the anxiety melting away in the face of his optimism. "Probably when you insisted on buying those matching fedoras in Barcelona. Remember that? The shopkeeper looked at us like we were crazy, but you wouldn't take no for an answer."

There's a hesitant, almost confused pause where the silence stretches for a second longer than necessary before Luis nods, his smile not reaching his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," he says, his tone a bit off, but you brush it aside, chalking it up to the stress of the situation. "Good times."

It’s simple, right? Just follow the steps. It’s not like we haven’t done this before—just a few marks, a little deception, and we’re out. I mapped it all out, every move, every contingency. There’s nothing we haven’t accounted for. We’ll get in, we’ll do what we need to do, and we’ll disappear before anyone realizes what happened. We’ve done it a hundred times, haven’t we? So why do you feel different this time? No, no, it’s just nerves. I always get like this. But I can’t let myself get sloppy now, not when we’re so close. We’re a team. I need to trust that. We’ve got this.

The festival preparations have taken over the town square, with brightly colored stalls popping up overnight like mushrooms after rain. There’s a quiet buzz in the early morning, a feeling of excitement and anticipation hanging in the misty, cool mountain village. The cobblestones are slick with dew, the storefronts decorated with garlands of flowers and paper lanterns, their windows reflecting the soft light of the sunrise. You can smell the fresh bread being baked at the local bakery, the earthy scent of the flower arrangements, and the faint hint of woodsmoke from the bonfires that will be lit later tonight.

You and Luis make your way through the bustling streets, the colorful skirts and dresses of the villagers swirling around you, and you feel a little out of place, dressed in your more practical clothes. You stick out like a pair of crows among the vibrant parrots of the festival, but you push the feeling aside, focusing on the task at hand. The festival is the perfect opportunity to get close to your mark and gather the information you need.

“We need to start with the small talk,” Luis mutters, leaning closer to you, low enough to not carry over the hum of conversation. “Get people talking, make ourselves less... foreign.”

You glance at him, taking in the subtle shift in his posture, the way his eyes scan the crowd, always searching for an angle, a weakness to exploit. “I’m good at small talk. You’re good at charming the pants off of everyone around you. We’ll play to our strengths, okay?”

You glance around at the different booths. The villagers are focused, intent on their tasks, but they don’t seem too guarded. Some of them are talking in hushed voices, their hands busy tying up decorations or arranging offerings for the festival’s centerpiece, a towering wooden structure in the center of the square, draped with garlands and flowers.

Luis nudges you with his elbow, his grin sharp and playful. “Fancy helping me with some baskets?” he says, tipping his chin toward a group of villagers struggling to lift a few heavy baskets of flowers onto a cart. “We’ll look like the helpful types, and maybe they’ll be more willing to chat.”

You roll your eyes but nod, following him as he makes his way over to the group. One of the young women is wiping her brow with the back of her hand, her face flushed from the effort, while two younger men struggle to lift the baskets onto the cart.

Luis steps in smoothly, offering a hand. “Mind if we help? Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

The woman’s face brightens, her smile wide and grateful. “Oh, thank you! We’re trying to get everything ready for the festival, but it’s a lot of work, and the boys here, well...” She gestures to the men, who exchange sheepish glances. “They’ve got more muscle than sense.”

Luis laughs, already bending down to grab one of the baskets. He lifts it with ease, his movements fluid and unhurried, and sets it on the cart with a satisfying thump. “Well, no harm in helping out where we can. It’s a big festival, right? Must take a lot to put it all together.”

The other woman nods, her hands busy arranging the flowers in the baskets. “Oh yes, it’s the biggest event of the year. We’ve been preparing for weeks, and even then, it’s a scramble to get everything just right. Everyone pitches in, though. It’s tradition.”

You grab another basket, lifting it with less grace but enough strength to make it look effortless. “It must be a lot of work,” you say, glancing over at Luis, who’s already moving to help with another load. “Do you get a lot of visitors for the festival?”

The woman chuckles, shaking her head. “Visitors? Not really. It’s more of a local thing, you know. The kind of celebration that stays within the community. It’s been that way for generations.” She pauses, her hands still for a moment as she looks at the flowers. “But we always welcome a few extra hands. You two aren’t from around here, are you?”

Luis steps in before you can respond, his voice smooth. “Just passing through. Thought we’d stop and enjoy the festival while we’re here. Seems like a good way to get to know the place.”

Her smile returns, though her eyes linger on the two of you for a beat longer. “Well, you’ve certainly come at the right time. There’s no better way to get a feel for Valdelobos than during the festival. It’s... special.”

Luis gives her a wink, picking up another basket and moving it onto the cart with a casual grace that seems almost effortless. “Can’t wait. So, tell us about this festival. What’s the story behind it all?”

The woman’s face lights up as she begins to explain, her hands moving animatedly as she describes the origins of the festival, the importance of the harvest, and the rituals that have been passed down through generations. As she talks, the two of you keep helping, lifting the baskets and moving them to the cart, all the while keeping your ears open for any information that might be useful. You can feel the energy of the village growing around you, the anticipation building as the preparations continue. By the time you’re done helping, the sun is starting to rise higher in the sky, casting the square in a warm, golden light, and you’re both covered in a thin layer of sweat from the physical labor. The woman thanks you once more, her smile wide and genuine, before she excuses herself to tend to another task, leaving you and Luis standing in the center of the square, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the festival’s final preparations.

“That’s the thing about small towns,” he says eventually, somewhere far away in his head. “They always think their traditions are special.”

You give him a look, arching a brow. “And are they not? They seem pretty excited about this festival.”

He shrugs, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “They’re excited because it’s what they know. But what they don’t know is that there are hundreds, thousands of other villages just like theirs, all with their own ‘special’ traditions. It’s nothing new, just a different flavor of the same old thing.”

You shake your head, a chuckle slipping past your lips. “Ever the cynic, Luis.”

He shrugs, a hand resting on his hip as he watches the villagers continue their work. “Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re not here for the festival. We’re here for Montesa.”

You glance over at the towering wooden structure in the center of the square, draped in flowers and surrounded by offerings. The villagers are treating it with reverence, placing their gifts at the base of the sculpture, murmuring prayers and blessings under their breath. "That doesn't look like tradition to me," you murmur, stepping a little closer, eyeing the intricately carved figures and symbols etched into the wood. "It looks ancient."

“Ancient and superstitious. These people, they probably don't even understand half of what they're doing. They're just following some old ritual, going through the motions without a thought in their heads."

You ignore him, focusing on a bundle of dried herbs and wildflowers tied together with a piece of rough twine, a name scratched on a piece of parchment tucked beneath the knot. "Looks like a shrine, doesn't it?"

Luis scoffs, his eyes narrowing as he scans the crowd, looking for a familiar face, a chance to dig in. "If that's what you want to call it. I prefer to call it a waste of time."

As the day wears on, you and Luis continue to help out where you can, lending a hand with decorations, moving supplies, and striking up small conversations with the villagers. The work is simple enough, but it gives you a chance to observe, to listen. You learn that Montesa is as influential as your notes suggested, a pillar of the community who’s been funding the festival for years. Everyone seems to speak of her with respect, but there’s a certain distance in how they talk about her, as though she’s more of a symbol than a person. You keep these observations to yourself, though, storing them away in the back of your mind, a puzzle to piece together later, when you're not so exposed and vulnerable in the middle of a throng of strangers.

Luis doesn't share the same reticence. He's in his element, chatting easily with the locals, charming them with his easy smile and quick wit. He doesn't need to ask many questions to get them to spill their secrets, their fears, their hopes. He just listens and lets them fill the silence, their words flowing freely as if he's a trusted friend, not a stranger who stumbled upon their village a few days ago. It's a skill that never fails to amaze you, the way he can disarm people, make them feel comfortable, make them forget that there's a reason to be cautious in the first place.

At one point, a young man, his skin sun-kissed and his hair dark, stops you and asks, "Are you two married?" His question is innocent, curious, and his eyes dart between the two of you, a smile on his face. "I haven't seen a couple like you around here before."

You and Luis exchange a quick look, a silent communication that's become second nature to the two of you over the years. You've played a hundred different roles, taken on a dozen identities, and in every scenario, you've known exactly what to say, how to act, how to sell the lie. And yet, Luis hesitates. For the briefest of moments, his smile falters, and his eyes cloud with something you can't quite read. Then, the mask is back, and he's grinning at the villager, his arm slipping comfortably around your shoulders. "No," he says, his gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, it feels like the truth. "Not yet."

But it's fleeting, the feeling gone in an instant, and you chalk it up to the adrenaline, the thrill of the con, the fact that you're in the middle of a job.

Something’s off. I can feel it, even if I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like everyone’s watching us—watching me—and they can see right through me. You don’t seem worried, though. This much faith in me is too generous, especially now, but you... I honestly don’t know how you do it. I wish I could be like that. I wish I didn’t feel like I’m already failing you. I’m trying, I really am. I need to stay sharp, for you. You’re counting on me to pull this off. We’ve come too far for me to screw it up now. Just a little while longer. Just a little while longer, and then we’ll be free.

The festival at dusk is a far cry from the day’s preparation—the whole area is bathed in a warm, golden glow that makes the flowers and the lanterns sparkle. The music is lively and infectious, the sound of guitars and drums filling the town square, accompanied by the laughter and chatter of the villagers. The food, the drinks, and the dancing create an atmosphere that's almost magical, a feeling that everything is possible, that anything can happen. You and Luis find yourselves drawn into the festivities, the rhythm of the music seeping into your bones, and the smiles of the villagers becoming contagious. It's hard to remember that this isn't real, that the joy and the camaraderie are only a façade, a cover for the job that's waiting just around the corner. But, in the midst of the celebration, in the warmth of the bonfires, the allure of the dance, and the laughter, it's easy to forget, to let the worries and the stress melt away, and to simply lose yourself in the magic of the moment.

The stalls are still there, decked out in their bright fabrics and goods, but now, they're crowded with villagers, laughing and drinking, sharing stories and secrets, the night's festivities a time of revelry and merriment.

Luis isn't drinking like you are, though. You're on the third cup of the sickly sweet wine the village keeps pushing in front of anyone who looks like they might accept. His eyes are on the towering structure. Once covered in garlands, it now gleams faintly in the dimming light, the flowers and ribbons fluttering gently in the breeze. It’s the focal point of the square, the centerpiece of everything tonight, and the villagers are beginning to circle around it, their faces glowing in the flickering light of the bonfire. They're holding hands, swaying, the soft murmur of their chant rising above the crackling of the fire.

You watch as one by one, they approach the shrine, each holding a small token—a dried flower, a smooth stone, a carved figure, all of them unique but clearly chosen with care. They place the objects at the base of the shrine, their heads bowed in brief moments of silence before stepping back into the growing crowd. It's a solemn and intimate scene, despite the number of people surrounding the shrine, and the energy in the square is shifting, the cheerful atmosphere of the festival melting into something more somber, more reverent. The villagers are calling out to someone, or to some deity, and the words blur together in a dizzying swirl of syllables that make no sense, leaving only a lingering sensation of unease in their wake. There's a palpability in the evening's events, the darkness settling around the village like a thick cloak, and the shadows in the corners of the square seem to grow deeper, the space between the stars stretching wider and emptier with every passing minute. It's a strange and unsettling sight, and one that sends a chill crawling down the length of your spine, the hairs on the nape of your neck standing on end, and a sudden urge to step away.

"Where's Montesa?" you ask, tearing your gaze away from the shrine, from the flickering flames and the rising chants, and turning to Luis, who's watching the proceedings with narrowed eyes, his mouth set in a thin line. "She should be here for this, right? Everyone seems to think the world of her."

Your words are loud enough to carry over the noise of the chanting, and the villagers turn their attention to you, their eyes widening in surprise, and the chanting stops abruptly, the abrupt change in the atmosphere making the night suddenly feel colder and more menacing than it had a moment before.

You should have been quiet.

You quickly bow in apology, and the villagers return to their ritual, the chanting starting once again. Your heart is racing, and the wine in your hand tastes sour, the sweetness gone, replaced by a bitter, metallic tang. The bonfire's flames seem to leap higher, the shadows in the corners of the square darker, the distance to the edge of the village suddenly farther than it was a moment ago.

You and Luis should have left the festival early. Or maybe, neither of you should have come in the first place.

"I saw her go to her house," says a young woman, dressed in a long, white dress, the fabric flowing and ethereal in the flickering firelight, and she takes a hesitant step forward. Her eyes are large and dark, her hair cascading down her shoulders in waves of deep brown and gold. She glances at the other villagers, her expression uncertain, but then she turns back to you, her lips curling in a shy smile. "She's probably preparing her tribute. She always likes to do that in private, to get the details just right."

The soft sound of bells draws your attention back to the wooden structure, where a group of villagers is now approaching, carrying lit candles in their hands. The flickering flames cast long shadows across the square, and as the villagers arrange themselves in a circle around the structure, the rest of the crowd falls silent, their heads bowing slightly in unison.

"Here it is, please excuse me," she murmurs, brushing past you and moving to join the circle, her dress trailing behind her like a whisper of silk.

One of the villagers steps forward, holding what looks like a small wooden bowl in his hands. His face is young—too young, perhaps, for the gravity of the moment—but his eyes are serious, and his fingers are steady as he lifts the bowl toward the sky. He speaks, his words clear and strong, his Spanish rolling off his tongue in a language that sounds both ancient and familiar, and the wind picks up, rustling the leaves and stirring the flowers that adorn the wooden structure.

"Esto es un regalo para ti," the boy says, and the others in the circle repeat his words, their eyes fixed on the wooden structure, the candles burning brightly in their hands. "Recibe nuestra ofrenda, y bendice nuestro pueblo con tu protección."

You squint, trying to make out the details of the bowl’s contents in the fading light. It’s small, unassuming, and at first glance, it looks like it could be filled with herbs or incense—something harmless. But as the young man tips the bowl slightly, letting the contents spill out onto the base of the shrine, you catch a glimpse of dark liquid, thick and viscous, pooling at the feet of the wooden structure.

Blood.

You feel Luis stiffen next to you, his body rigid with alarm. The villagers don’t react—not in the way you’d expect, anyway. There’s no shock, no murmurs of confusion or discomfort. Instead, they remain perfectly still, their eyes trained on the young man as he continues to pour the blood at the base of the shrine, his face calm, serene. The liquid glistens in the candlelight, and as the pool grows larger, the coppery scent of the offering fills the night, mingling with the smoke from the bonfires and the heady aroma of the perfumed oils.

"They must have slaughtered a goat or a sheep or something earlier in the day," you mutter to Luis, keeping your tone light, almost flippant, trying to hide the anxiety creeping through your veins. You've seen some strange things, sure, but this... This is something else. Blood offerings? In a tiny village in the middle of nowhere? "A pretty gruesome part of the ritual, I guess, but... Well, it's not that weird, is it?"

He doesn't answer, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing, the lines on his forehead deepening. "Let's leave."

"What?"

"We're leaving."

"Luis, what are you talking about?" you hiss, your brows furrowing in frustration, and a spike of anger rushes through you, sharp and unexpected. "What about Montesa?"

"Ay joder," he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Luis doesn’t release your arm until you’ve slipped through the outer edge of the square, the glow from the lanterns fading behind you as you move into the darker, quieter streets. The further you walk, the more distant the music and laughter become, and the serious state Luis won't drop for one second is an iron band around your chest. He's so tense, his grip on you so tight, that you're not entirely certain whether you should be scared or angry. What the hell is wrong with him?

Luis is quiet as you both maneuver through the narrow alleyways, his usual swagger absent. His eyes are sharp, scanning every shadow, every corner, as though the villagers might suddenly appear out of nowhere. His hand brushes yours once or twice, quick and intentional, keeping you grounded as the two of you press forward toward the inn. The festival hums faintly behind you, but its hold seems to fade the farther you go.

"Are you going to explain yourself, or are we supposed to play the guessing game now?" you snap, finally wrenching your arm out of his grasp, and turning to face him, arms folded across your chest. "We had a plan, Luis. We had a goddamn plan, and you just threw it all away!"

He doesn't even blink, his gaze locked on yours, and his lips curl into a humorless smile, a barely perceptible shake of his head. "Plans change. That's the nature of the beast, isn't it?"

"Yeah, when the job changes!" You throw your hands up, pacing a few steps, and his expression remains impassive, infuriatingly cool. "And last I checked, the job was getting close to Montesa, not running away from the fucking festival like a couple of idiots! What was that, Luis? Huh? Are you trying to blow our cover or are you just bored?"

Luis stops you suddenly, his arm shooting out to block your path. His eyes narrow, focused on something lying in the shadows ahead.

“Wait,” he mutters under his breath, his hand coming up to motion for you to stay behind him.

You step back instinctively, following his gaze to a small, crumpled pile near the corner of the alley. The dim light barely catches the edge of a slick, plastic surface, something shiny and out of place in the otherwise dusty alleyway. Luis moves forward cautiously, crouching down beside the pile, his fingers carefully tracing the edges of the material. You follow him, peering over his shoulder, and the realization hits you—a black garbage bag, torn and ripped, its contents strewn haphazardly along the ground.

"What are you doing now?" you whisper, your irritation momentarily forgotten, replaced by an uneasy sense of dread. "Why are we sniffing around in the trash?"

He reaches out slowly to pick up one of the discarded bags. His hand trembles slightly as he turns it over, inspecting the contents.

It’s a blood bag, half-full, its surface smeared with dirt and dust. The sight of it sends a jolt of unease through your spine, the implications of its presence in such a remote area, so far removed from the nearest medical facility, too unsettling to fully process. You take a step closer, the crunch of gravel beneath your foot echoing off the walls of the alley, and Luis's grip on the bag tightens, his knuckles white against the slick, red-stained plastic.

“Shit,” he mutters, standing up quickly, his face tight. He holds up the bag so you can see it more clearly, and your breath catches in your throat.

There, printed neatly on the label in bold, black letters, is your name. Your name. A cold, sick feeling spreads through your stomach, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. This can't be real. This can't be happening. Not here, not in the middle of this godforsaken village, surrounded by strangers and their bizarre rituals.

"That's..." your words trail off, your mind reeling, and your hand reaches out to touch the bag, as if to confirm its existence, to make sure it's not just a figment of your imagination. "They could have thrown it away after we were discharged, right? Someone probably found them and thought they were trash."

"The bag is cold," he murmurs, his eyes scanning the surrounding darkness, the quiet, deserted alley. There's nothing—no sound, no sign of anyone nearby. The silence seems to stretch on endlessly, and the night grows darker, thicker, the shadows clinging to the buildings and the cobblestones. "It was refrigerated. Recently."

"You don't mean that," you say, your words barely above a whisper, and the chill in the night is suddenly colder, sharper. "You can't. That's insane. They wouldn't do that. They couldn't."

Luis’s jaw clenches, and he looks down at the other bags scattered across the ground. He kicks one with his boot, sending it skidding across the alley, and the faint glow of the streetlamp catches on the label.

Another one with your name.

His eyes flick to yours, a dark, furious glint in them. “While we were out. They drew blood from us, and we didn’t even realize it.”

You swallow hard, your mind racing to make sense of what’s happening. Why would they take your blood? Just to use it on a fucking wooden doll in a festival ritual? No, no that can't be the reason. Maybe they’re selling it on the black market, maybe there’s a buyer, a collector, a twisted soul who delights in collecting samples from unsuspecting travelers.

"What do we do?" you ask, your words coming out in a panicked rush. "Do we leave? Do we confront them about it? What the hell are we supposed to do, Luis?"

He stands, his hand gripping the bag of your stolen blood, his eyes narrowing. He looks at the empty alleys, the quiet, deserted streets, and his mouth twists in a grimace, his teeth bared in a silent snarl. "We lay low. Keep our heads down, wait for the morning. See if we can find anything else. Anything that explains... this." His fingers tighten on the bag, and the plastic crinkles in his grip, the sound sharp and brittle in the stillness.

Your heart is pounding, a frantic rhythm in your chest, and you can hear the rushing of your pulse in your ears. This isn't right, isn't normal, and the thought of staying another night in the same place where someone has stolen a piece of you, has violated your trust in such a fundamental way, fills you with a cold, creeping dread. But there's no other choice. Not yet. Not in the middle of the night, in a strange land, with no idea of the dangers that may lie in the darkness beyond the boundaries of the village.

"Fine. Okay. Let's just focus on Montesa in the meantime," you mutter, trying to keep the tremor from your tone, to maintain some semblance of calm and control.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I didn’t mean to do it—how could I have known? I thought... I thought I had more time, that I could salvage it somehow even if everything was going wrong. But everything moved too fast. One second everything was fine, and the next... it all slipped out of my hands. The more I tried, the worse it got. I knocked over the papers, made too much noise, drew attention. And then it all came crashing down. I tried to catch up to her, but she was gone before I could do anything. It was just one mistake. Just one.

Montesa’s room is overwhelming in its beauty, but there’s something restrained about it. Everything feels curated—the dark wooden furniture polished to an almost mirror-like sheen, the velvet drapes that pool on the floor but never seem to gather dust, the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows that dance across the gleaming surface of the grand piano pushed against the far wall. The scent of roses permeates the space, faint but ever-present, weaving through the air with the softest hint of something warmer, like cinnamon.

Montesa stands at the center of the room, her back straight, posture elegant as ever. Her dark hair is swept up, revealing the perfect arch of her neck. She watches you both with a kind of stillness that makes it seem as though she’s the centerpiece of the room, everything else merely an accessory to her presence. Her smile is warm, practiced, but you can’t help noticing the slight tightness around her eyes, as though she’s studying you as much as you’re studying her.

"Please, sit." Her voice is velvet itself, rich and inviting, but there’s a firmness beneath it. She gestures to the set of chairs arranged around a low, intricately carved table. Luis moves first, ever the smooth operator, offering a charming smile as he lowers himself into one of the plush ones. You follow, though something—whether it’s the overwhelming decor or Montesa herself—makes the chair feel stiffer than it should, the plush seat resisting your attempt to settle in comfortably.

Montesa watches you both, her hands clasped loosely in front of her as she moves toward her seat. The soft rustle of her silk dress is the only sound as she glides across the room, a picture of grace. She doesn’t sit immediately, though. Instead, she pauses, looking at the two of you with a gaze that feels a little too perceptive, a little too knowing.

"It’s always a pleasure to meet new faces. Especially when they arrive at such a... crucial time."

"You know how it is," Luis says, light and conversational. "It’s hard to resist a place like Valdelobos. It’s got this... charm." He flashes her a smile that might as well have been carved from stone, the way it doesn’t shift in his eyes.

Montesa’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer than it should, then drifts toward you, those pale eyes glinting in the soft light. "Charm, yes. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Valdelobos is... timeless. It has a way of drawing in the right people at the right moment." Her words roll off her tongue smoothly, and for a split second, you wonder if she’s mocking you. It’s the way she phrases it—the right people. She lets it hang, not quite accusing, not quite casual.

"It’s the festival, right?" Luis cuts through with a practiced ease. "Seems like everyone’s excited. Must be a big event around here."

"You’ve been enjoying it, I hope?" she asks, finally sitting. She crosses her legs, one elegant foot resting just above the other, her posture the very image of poise.

Luis chuckles, leaning back in his chair, his arms draping casually over the armrests. "It’s quite a spectacle. Never seen anything like it," he says, flashing that easy smile of his. He plays it off light, nonchalant, the way he always does when he’s trying to deflect.

Montesa’s smile widens, but it never quite reaches her eyes. "I’m sure it’s... different from what you’re used to," she says, her gaze flickering between the two of you. "But traditions are important here. They’ve been part of Valdelobos for as long as anyone can remember. We honor the past, the present, and the future in equal measure."

You clear your throat, trying to fight back the prickle of nervousness crawling up the back of your neck. "You must be pretty proud to be able to fund something so significant. It really puts your generous spirit on display."

She blinks, a tiny gesture that belies a depth of emotion. "I’m merely a... facilitator. Valdelobos has always had its own way of doing things, long before I was ever here."

There’s a moment of silence, and you feel Luis shift beside you, his body leaning forward just a touch, enough to show that he’s intrigued but not desperate. "A place like this... I imagine it takes someone with a steady hand to guide it."

Montesa’s eyes glitter with amusement. "It takes more than a steady hand, Mr. Serra. It takes patience, understanding... and knowing when to let things run their course."

Your heart skips, but Luis doesn’t flinch. His smile tightens, but it doesn’t fade. "Sounds like you’ve been running the course for a while then."

Montesa’s smile widens, her fingers brushing delicately along the table’s edge as she regards him. "Longer than you might imagine. But events like this take the weight away. This festival brings everyone together, reminds us of what really matters. Life, connection... love. Loyalty." Her gaze lingers on you as she speaks, and your heart skips a beat. Is she testing you, somehow? Or just seeing how you react to her words? You force yourself not to shift under the intensity of her stare. If she suspects something, if she knows why the two of you are really here, then all of this will have been pointless—and you will be in trouble. But surely she doesn't. She has no reason to suspect anything, after all. No doubt many people have approached her for sponsorship, perhaps even investors looking to get involved in the local community. Right?

"Money," Luis adds, so lighthearted that it'd be obvious to anyone it's meant to be a joke, but he's actually deflecting, playing with his cards close to his chest. "Must bring a lot of visitors to town during the festivities, no?"

This time Montesa laughs, a rich, velvety sound that fills the room. "Not nearly as many as you'd think. As I'm sure you've noticed, this isn't exactly a bustling hub of activity. We're a quiet community, tucked away from most of the world, but we make our own fun."

Something catches your attention in her demeanor, a hint of subtle flirtation dancing along the edges of her smile, but you can't help wondering if it's genuine—if she's actually interested in either of you. Luis, of course, picks up on it immediately, his eyebrows raised and his chin tipped to a rakish angle. It's impossible for him to miss, even when he's half paying attention.

The three of you continue to chat idly about the festival, exchanging stories about festivals past and speculating about future traditions to come. Montesa listens with rapt attention, taking sips of wine whenever a pause presents itself in your conversation. Every now and then, Luis leans forward in his seat, resting one elbow on the carved armrest, and lightly stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes flash, bright and curious as he waits for your reactions, for the opportunity to engage further in a discussion of business opportunities or connections outside the village. But you know better. It's a habitual mannerism—nothing more—and any chance for the two of you to slip a thread or two into her web of power lies firmly outside these conversations. There are moments, however brief, where your words hit their marks, and a thin layer of confusion, disappointment, perhaps fear shows through her veneer. Luis is good, damnably good at drawing those responses out of others. He gives you a quick glance or grin, something that tells you the threads are working, whatever he might intend later.

At one point, someone else knocks on her door, peeking inside and giving her an update on how the preparations for the evening ceremony are proceeding. A pall hangs over Montesa's face at the reminder of her duties, but she politely excuses herself to handle whatever needs her attention first, leaving the two of you alone with a candid apology to return to you as soon as possible. The moment she closes the door, shutting out the faint din of chatter from the servants and attendants still flitting about the building in last-minute preparation frenzy, silence descends around the two of you. Your chest loosens, though the tightness behind your ribcage doesn't disappear entirely. If there was ever a perfect opportunity to look around, ask questions, dig deeper, it'd be this moment—when everyone is focused on something else, something much less relevant than who you both truly are.

"So we snoop?" Luis suggests in a hushed tone, not bothering to check whether or not anyone else lingers just outside of earshot. "Make ourselves useful and give Montesa a reason to like us better?"

"We snoop," you agree quietly. You cast a glance at the closed door, unsure how long you'll have until Montesa returns, or when she expects to. The risk is high, of course, but it's nothing the two of you haven't done before, especially in situations far more precarious than this one.

"Think you can convince them you need somewhere private to throw up?"

So, that's exactly what you do.

A bit of sneaking around after convincing some of the staff you pass that you're about to spill your guts all over the pristine floors, and a little maneuvering behind some decorative curtains hiding what looks like a maintenance corridor, you quickly find yourselves standing in a narrow passageway leading deep into the estate's interior.

The door creaks open to reveal a small room, dimly lit by the low glow of the setting sun filtering through a narrow window. It feels different inside, heavier—filled with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic, like aged coins rubbed between fingers too many times. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with artifacts and trinkets from what looks like another time—forgotten by most, preserved by few. It’s the kind of room you wouldn’t stumble upon by accident. Montesa must have kept it hidden, or at least away from prying eyes.

Luis steps in first, his eyes flicking around the space, sharp and alert. You follow closely behind, your gaze catching on the scattered objects that seem almost too carefully arranged. The room feels less like a storage space and more like a gallery—intended to be observed, not disturbed. But that doesn’t stop Luis. His fingers hover over a small glass display case, tapping lightly on its surface before he lifts the lid.

A low whistle escapes his lips as he picks up a delicate piece of jewelry—a brooch, silver and intricately detailed, a snake coiled around what looks like an eye. "Fancy," he mutters, turning it over in his hand before glancing back at you with a crooked grin. "She’s got expensive taste. I can see why we’re after her."

You watch him, but your attention drifts to the far side of the room, where a large wooden cabinet stands against the wall. Its doors are slightly ajar, and through the gap, you can make out the corner of something dark and framed. You walk over, your fingers grazing the cool wood before you pull the cabinet open wider.

Inside are rows of photographs, neatly arranged and meticulously organized—dozens, maybe hundreds of them. Each one carefully mounted in its own frame, spanning the cabinet from top to bottom. You pull out one at random, the old black-and-white image crisp despite its age. It shows a group of villagers standing in front of what looks like the very same festival preparations you’ve been seeing outside. The decorations, the lanterns—they’re all there, almost identical to the present day.

In fact, the villagers in all the photos are the same ones you saw earlier today, gathered around the shrine, preparing for the festival. But these photos are old—decades old, judging by the faded edges and the grainy quality of the images. Yet their faces are unchanged. The dates written in neat cursive beneath each photo become a blur as well, but you catch glimpses. 1924. 1937. 1955. 1972.

Luis steps up behind you, peering over your shoulder. "Concept shoots?" he jokes, lifting another photograph from the shelf and squinting at it. "Nobody said this was a thing."

Then, he moves to a nearby desk, flipping through papers and documents with an almost careless ease. "It’s like she’s built an entire museum for herself. Nothing out of place, nothing too random. She’s definitely a collector," he mutters. He pulls out an old leather-bound journal, skimming the pages with a quick glance before tossing it aside. "Nothing helpful here, just more history. Where’s the dirt?"

Your hands pause as you come across another photo, this one tucked toward the back of the cabinet. It’s newer than the others, the colors still bright, though the scene is eerily familiar. Your heart stops for a moment when you see it—it’s you.

You and Luis, standing in front of the same festival preparations, your arms casually thrown around each other, smiling like you belong there. The date scribbled at the bottom of the frame is from nearly thirty years ago.

You stare at the photo, your fingers gripping the edges a little too tightly as you try to process what you're looking at. "Luis..."

He looks up from the pile of journals and documents spread across the desk, brows furrowing. "What?"

Your mouth opens but only a whistle of a breath comes out, and it's hard to talk around the lump in your throat. Wordlessly, you hold up the photo so he can see it, hoping that will convey enough without needing to explain.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. His expression doesn’t change at first, but you can see it—the brief flicker of confusion that flashes across his face before he schools it back into something more controlled and slowly walks over, not looking away from it.

"That’s..." He trails off, reaching out to take the photo from your hands. His fingers trace the edge of the frame, his lips pressing into a thin line. "There's no way."

"Maybe... maybe it’s some kind of look-alike thing," you suggest, though you don’t believe it. "People that look like us."

Luis doesn’t respond immediately. He flips the photo over, looking at the back as if he’ll find some explanation scribbled there, but there’s nothing. Just the date. Just your faces, unchanged, unaged. "Or they could be messing with us. Photos can be tampered with."

You catch sight of something tucked beneath the corner of the desk—a stack of old ledgers, worn and frayed around the edges. You pull them out, flipping through the pages quickly. The names, dates, and transactions all seem to blur together, but one entry catches your eye: a record of two "donors" arriving on the date marked thirty years ago, their names—yours and Luis’s—scribbled neatly in the margin.

Your breath catches in your throat. "Can this be?"

He stops pacing, his eyes snapping to yours. There’s a moment of silence before he steps over, his gaze dropping to the ledger in your hands. His face goes pale as he reads the names, his fingers reaching out to trace the ink like he’s hoping it’ll smudge, disappear. But it doesn’t. It stays there, glaring at both of you from the page.

He pulls his hand back slowly, response low and strained. "We weren’t here."

You shake your head, the reality of it all starting to close in around you. "No. We weren’t."

Another moment passes before he takes the book from your hands, turning it over as if he could find an answer somewhere else—somewhere in the worn covers, the faded ink, the yellowing pages.

Luis slams the ledger shut with a sharp, sudden motion, the echo of it bouncing off the walls of the room, and you both flinch involuntarily at the noise. He stares at it for a long while before placing it gingerly back on the desk. Then, he rubs his palms along his pant legs, wiping them clean of dust.

"No puedo... esto es una mierda..." he hisses under his breath, pacing the length of the room in quick, restless strides. "I’ve had enough of this place."

"Luis, calm down. We can’t just—"

"Calm down?" He whips around, eyes wide and incredulous, his hands flying up in a gesture of disbelief. "Are you kidding me right now? After everything we’ve seen—everything that’s happened—you want me to calm down?"

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down despite the heat rising between you. "Yeah, I do. We’re not going to get anywhere if you start losing your head. We have to stay focused."

"Focused?" He barks out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Focused on what? Huh? You think this is just some regular con now? You think this is about money?"

"Yes, I do. Because that’s why we’re here. We’re here for the money, for Montesa. We’ve done this a thousand times before, Luis. We know how this works."

"This isn't normal! This isn't even close to normal!" He waves a hand wildly at the stack of ledgers on the desk, gesturing around the room in a broad, sweeping motion. "This is wrong, everything is wrong!"

"There it is again," you say, your tone cold, clipped. "Wrong. Everything’s always wrong with you lately. First the blood offering, then the blood bags, now this—" You gesture to the stack of old photos, the ledger. "You’re jumping at shadows. We’ve seen weirder shit on these jobs. These people are superstitious, so what? They like to play dress-up, big deal."

"They're stealing our fucking faces!" he snaps. "They have already stolen our blood. That's DNA. It's one hell of an identity theft scheme if not something far messed up! And you're making excuses?!"

"Because you're acting like this is our last job when it's nowhere near it!"

He scowls. "Yeah? Well maybe it should be. Maybe we should stop getting involved in crazy jobs and live our goddamn lives instead of chasing some golden goose dream!"

Your shoulders drop a little, and the fight drains out of you. His anger isn't entirely unreasonable. "Isn't that why Montesa is supposed to be the last one? Hm? So we can quit? I intend to follow through with it, Luis. I really do."

"You’re so focused on the damn money, you’re not even paying attention to what’s happening around us. We should be getting the hell out of here, not throwing ourselves deeper into whatever they're planning for us."

"That’s your solution?" you snap back, your voice rising to match his. "Just run away? That’s what you want to do now? What happened to you, Luis? You were never like this before."

"I'm trying to protect you," he mutters bitterly.

His words hit like a slap to the face, and you recoil as if struck. Something flashes across his features—regret, perhaps—but it doesn’t soften the sting.

A thought rises from the depths: when has he ever prioritized protection, let alone protecting you? He chose money, every time. Your relationship was never serious or meaningful for him. Not to mention the number of times he put himself ahead of others—in fact, it's safe to say he hasn't changed one iota since then.

So what the hell gives him the right to accuse you of greed?

"Since when?" you hiss back at him, all pretext of diplomacy evaporating in an instant. "When did you ever care about what happened to me?"

The lost look on his face—the utter confusion—should give you pause, but it doesn't. The words flow out of you like a torrent, cutting him with every syllable.

"Who was it that left me at that police station in Rio de Janeiro, huh? Oh right, that was you. Or how about that time we had to split up in Guanajuato and you took off without so much as a goodbye?" The memories flash through your mind with vivid clarity, and you can feel yourself shaking, your pulse all over the place. "Did I forget to mention Berlin, Luis? God damnit, you vanished without a trace after selling fake art! And, oh, yeah, let's not forget Buenos Aires! Fucking Buenos Aires! How about that clusterfuck? Who was it that bailed without warning?"

Your chest heaves, and you glare at him, your teeth gritted tightly.

"Me. Me. Me. Every fucking time, it was me. When the job turned bad or got too risky or I said no to some bullshit plan you came up with, I was the one who paid the price. So what if this place freaks you out? You've always been ready to bail the second it gets dicey, Luis. It's not new. And for what? Huh? For what? So you can keep all the money for yourself, so you can get away clean and go on to the next big thing? That's always been your priority, not me."

You expect some semblance of shame, remorse, even denial from him, but there's only silence. No apology. No reassurance. Just quiet. Contemplation. Calculation. Then, finally, a sigh that sounds like resignation, exhaustion, and something else you can't quite pinpoint. It's strange. Red hot anger is about to tip over at how he looks like he's some stranger you're venting to, detached from the narrative. The worst part is you sense he's sincere, but his actions won't measure up to his emotions.

But before you can say anything else, the door bursts open. Several villagers storm in, brandishing knives and tools used in the ritual outside earlier in the day. At the head of the charge is Montesa herself, her posture straight and strong, her eyes sharp and searching as she scans the room. You’re grabbed, restrained—Luis too—and the argument you were having is swallowed by the sudden violence of it all.

Montesa narrows her eyes at Luis before turning her attention to you. She steps forward, slowly circling you both, inspecting, calculating. Her hands rest delicately against her stomach as if considering her options. There are footsteps coming down the hallway. Shouting. Panicked whispers echoing behind your skull, growing louder with each passing second.

And then Montesa smiles—a cruel, triumphant smile, like she's playing a game she's sure she'll win. Like you're both merely pieces in her collection, mere toys for her amusement.

I left. I had to. There was no time to explain, no time to make you understand. I tried to find you, I did, I don't know why you weren't where you were supposed to be but I couldn’t risk it further to investigate. I had to go. I know you’re going to hate me for it. I hate myself for it. But if I stayed, we’d both be lost. You’ll find your way around. I know you will.

The village square smells of burning wood and incense, thick and cloying. In front of you, a makeshift stage has been assembled atop wooden pallets; on either side, torches flare to life, illuminating the darkening sky in hazy orange flickers. You’re dragged out into the open, the ropes biting into your wrists as the villagers haul you forward with an unsettling silence. The night has fallen heavy and dark, stars barely visible through the haze of smoke that rises from the large pyre standing in the center of the square.

Your mind is whirling, your body struggling against your bonds, desperate for any kind of relief or comfort, but none is forthcoming. The villagers pull you both toward the shrine, where Montesa stands, calm as ever, her hands folded in front of her. She doesn’t need to say anything. Her presence alone radiates control—control of the situation, control of you, and most disturbingly, control of Luis.

Luis catches your eye as they force him to his knees beside you, his breathing harsh and ragged, the muscles in his arms straining against the ropes, but it’s no use. There’s no breaking free of this. Not now, not yet.

"Don’t do anything stupid," you whisper, the words coming out harsher than you intended. "We can still get out of this."

He doesn’t respond at first, his gaze focused on Montesa as she steps forward, graceful and assured despite the circumstances. Her dress billows softly around her ankles, flowing gently with the breeze that sweeps through the square, stirring up the scent of smoke and roses. You glance sidelong at Luis, searching for some glimmer of understanding, some sign that he still trusts you, believes you.

When he finally looks you in the eye, there's no comfort to be found. The flickering light casts shadows across his features that leave him looking gaunt, haunted—like someone trapped between waking and sleep, caught in a nightmare that refuses to fade. "It’s me," he says, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling of the flames. "This ends with me."

You click your tongue, keeping Montesa at the corner of your vision as you widen your eyes at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Luis swallows hard, his eyes darting around the square, scanning for something—what exactly, you're not sure—before he leans toward you and drops his forehead to rest against yours briefly, murmuring into the tiny pocket of space between you. His skin is clammy, cool against yours, and his breath comes quick and uneven. "Everything that's happened to us, everything that will happen—all of it started with me. My decisions, my choices, my mistakes. The risks I took, the mistakes I made. Every time you got hurt, every single time I didn’t warn you properly or pulled a fast one or led you into a dangerous situation, it was because I let my greed, my hunger, my drive get the best of me." He lets out a choked laugh, shaking his head slightly before lifting it again, pulling away from your touch. "And you forgave me. Over and over. Even when I knew I didn’t deserve it, when I should have gotten left in the dust."

"Where is this coming from?" you ask quietly, glancing at Montesa once more. She watches you both silently, her lips curling into a faint smirk, as though enjoying whatever scene she's imagining in her mind's eye. "Is this really what you want to talk about now?"

"Nowhere else to talk about it, amor," he replies, his jaw clenched tight. "This might be it, after all."

You frown. "Luis—"

He shakes his head sharply, interrupting your protest with another derisive chuckle. "See? Always defending me. I'm not who you think I am. Never was. And you... well, I got greedy. I saw an opportunity and I went for it." He pauses, drawing in a shaky sigh, and closes his eyes for a moment, as if steeling himself against something—what, you're not certain. When he speaks again, his words come out strained, muffled almost—as though he's forcing himself to say something he doesn't want to admit to himself, let alone you.

"It was selfish. Stupid. So fucking stupid," Luis mumbles, staring down at the ground beneath his feet. He chews on the inside of his cheek, hesitating for just a moment before continuing in a low tone, "I didn't... mean to lie. Didn't expect it to go this far."

Cold prickles along your back as you watch him, realization beginning to sink in. "Luis... what the fuck did you do?"

Montesa steps closer, until she becomes a shadow that looms over you both. She looks down at Luis with something almost resembling pity, but it's fleeting. Her attention flicks to you, then back to Luis, and for a brief second, you feel utterly powerless in her gaze. "The festival demands a sacrifice," she says softly, like velvet, wrapping around the square. "You know what must be done."

Something in his face crumples, collapses, folding in on itself like paper tossed into a fire—too quick and messy and fragile to catch hold of or save.

"No!" You twist wildly, struggling desperately to free yourself, to reach out to him somehow, but it's no use. You're bound tight, your wrists chafing from your efforts, little beads of blood dripping down your arms. "No, no, no, no, please, you can't... he didn't do anything! This is insane! We haven't done anything, you can't just—"

"Shhh..." Montesa hushes you gently, her fingertips grazing along your hairline before settling against your temple. She leans close, her mouth nearly brushing against yours. "Accept the truth. Let it set you free, as it always should."

The world tilts, twists, spirals outward, spinning round and round like a top spinning out of control, careening blindly toward its inevitable end. Your throat aches with unshed tears as you blink at her through watery eyes, your vision blurred by grief and rage and loss. "You bitch," you spit. "You goddamn bitch..."

She ignores your words completely and turns to Luis, who has gone stiff beside you. "Take comfort in knowing this isn't personal," she murmurs, reaching out with one hand to stroke the line of his jaw tenderly before sliding it down to grasp tightly onto his chin. "And remember... You made your choice."

With a harsh tug, she wrenches his head sideways, exposing the curve of his neck to her waiting blade. He gasps, but doesn't struggle, doesn't fight back—just stares blankly at the dark expanse above your heads, where stars twinkle brightly in contrast to the thick black smoke pouring from the pyres, the steady, insistent burning of the village around you.

"Stop!" you cry out, straining forward instinctively even as the knife comes up in front of your eyes. "Please! Please don't hurt him! Stop!" But it's no use. There's nothing you can do, no way you can stop it. "Please..." you beg, helplessness seeping in to replace the anger. "Don't do this."

A soft chuckle escapes Montesa's lips as she drags the point along Luis' throat slowly, tracing a nonsensical pattern over his skin until bright crimson beads appear along the trail left by her blade. Then, abruptly, she changes direction, dragging the flat edge of the blade sharply downward in a sudden burst of motion that leaves a shallow gash beneath his ear. Blood spills out immediately, dripping freely onto the ground below, staining his shirt, matting his hair where it falls across his forehead. He hisses, flinching away from the pain reflexively, but remains still otherwise, hardly reacting other than shuddering when the drops of his own blood splatter onto his cheek.

There’s a quiet reverence in the way she touches him, like she’s handling something precious, fragile. And that’s when you feel it—the shift.

You lurch forward, trying to break free of the ropes, but the villagers tighten their grip, holding you in place as Montesa raises her hand, signaling the beginning of the ritual. The flames grow higher, licking the edges of the pyre, the heat from the fire hitting your skin in sharp waves. The chanting begins softly, the villagers’ voices low and rhythmic, building in intensity with every passing second.

Luis doesn’t fight it. He stays still, his head bowed as the chanting grows louder, more insistent. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move—just kneels there, waiting, as if he’s already resigned himself to his fate.

You’re shouting now, raw with desperation, but the words are lost in the roar of the flames and the rise of the chanting. It’s like watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion, your body frozen, helpless.

Luis’s eyes meet yours one last time, and for a brief, heart-wrenching moment, all you see is resignation reflected back at you. Acceptance. Sorrow. Love. Guilt. Regret. Loss. You know those emotions too well, intimately so, because you wear them yourself, every day. And then, the blade comes down.

Your scream rings out over the chaos, drowning out everything else except for his final gasping breaths in your ears. The villagers release you suddenly, and you stagger forward, crashing onto your hands and knees beside him. A warm wetness seeps into the fabric of your trousers where they come in contact with his skin, his blood flowing freely onto the cold stone beneath. You reach for him weakly, unable to formulate words or actions or thoughts beyond pure instinctual panic and horror. Everything spins and swirls around you as if falling apart under its own gravity, falling away until nothing remains but darkness and emptiness.

The world feels distant, muted, like you’re watching it through a pane of glass, you can’t tear your eyes away from Luis’s body, crumpled on the ground in front of the pyre. You don’t move. You don’t scream. You don’t even flinch. You just sit there, frozen, staring at him, the familiar ache inside you swelling like a hole, growing larger, angrier, darker. Consuming. Devouring.

It spits back at you something that it had been chewing for a while.

Not all at once, but slowly—like ink seeping into paper. Memories. Faces. Voices. They start to bleed into the edges of your mind, faint and blurred at first, but growing clearer, sharper, louder. Images flicker past your eyelids, scenes from a life lived long ago, from a time before the festival, before Valdelobos, when you were someone else entirely.

It starts with the streets. The sounds of a bustling city, the buzz of a job already in motion. You’re running, feet pounding the pavement, the weight of the designer purse heavy at your side. Luis is ahead, always ahead. You can see his jacket, the back of his head, the way he moves fluid and quick. He’s already slipping through the crowds with that effortless grace he’s always had. You’re trying to keep up—short legs burning, breath hitching in your chest as you weave between strangers.

You stumble. The crack of your knee hitting the hard pavement jolts you, the shock of pain shooting through your leg. You hear it before you feel it—the people around you murmuring in annoyance, their eyes glancing down at you like you're just another obstacle in their way. You scramble to your feet, heart racing, panic bubbling in your chest. You look up, and Luis is gone. He’s always gone when you need him to be there.

You remember this moment so clearly now—the sick twist of fear in your gut, the way the city around you seemed to blur into one loud, suffocating hum of voices and footsteps. You’d been so desperate not to lose him, so terrified of being left behind. Your hands had shaken as you fumbled with your other bag, checking to make sure nothing had fallen out, your mind racing to figure out how to catch up.

But you didn’t catch up, did you?

He didn’t come back for you that night. You waited, leaning against the cold brick wall of an alley you'd taken refuge in, eyes darting from side to side, trying to keep the rising panic at bay. You’d convinced yourself he’d double back. He always doubled back—always found you eventually. But he hadn’t. Hours passed, and the pit in your stomach grew until it felt like it would swallow you whole.

He was probably fine, you told yourself. He’d made the drop. He’d finish the job. He was always fine.

But you? You were stranded, lost in the city’s endless, twisting streets, waiting for someone who never showed.

That was always the way it went, wasn’t it? You chasing him. Him slipping out of reach. The pattern was so ingrained, you didn’t even realize how much of your life had become defined by it. He was the one who knew what he was doing—the one with the plans, the angles, the charm. You were just... there. Always a step behind. Always a little too late. Always a little bit less than him. Never quite fitting in the spaces he left behind. Childhood friends turned partners in crime. A duo that became a solo act. One day he'd disappear for good, and you'd be alone, again, forever.

It was supposed to be different. You told yourself that over and over again. You weren’t just his shadow, his backup. You could handle yourself. You were smart. You were capable. But that doubt, that niggling fear, was always there, creeping at the edges of your confidence, reminding you that no matter how hard you tried, no matter what risks you took, no matter what choices you made, he was always the one who got away.

You shake your head, the lump in your throat thickening as another memory pushes its way to the surface.

It’s late. You’re both in a rundown apartment, somewhere on the outskirts of town. The job had gone well—at least, Luis’s part of it had. You’d fumbled. Made a mess of the handoff, nearly blew your cover. He’d saved it, smoothed things over with a smile and a well-timed joke, just like he always did. But when you got back to the motel room, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t pat you on the shoulder or offer a reassuring wink. Instead, he sat there, staring at his phone, scrolling through messages you weren't privy to, his fingers drumming absently on his thigh.

“Tomorrow,” he said, flat, devoid of the usual teasing lilt. “We hit the club. You stay close, alright? Don’t try to pull any solo stunts like today.”

You bristled at that, the heat rising in your chest. “I can handle it, Luis.”

He didn’t even look at you. Just kept flicking the lighter, his gaze still fixed out the window. “I’m not arguing about this. Just stay close.”

That was how it always went. Him giving orders, you following them. Him out there, flashing his easy smile, charming the pants off everyone, while you hovered at the edges, trying not to screw things up. You were tired of it—tired of being the second-string, the one who needed to be looked after. But no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you wanted to prove yourself, it always ended the same way.

You messed up. He covered for you. You both walked away.

Except that last time.

The memory shifts, and suddenly you’re back in the thick of it—back in Montesa’s opulent estate, the walls dripping with wealth and history. The plan had been simple. You were supposed to distract her while Luis worked his magic behind the scenes. It was the kind of setup you’d done dozens of times before, nothing special. Nothing new.

But you knew from the moment you walked into that room that something was off. Montesa’s eyes locked onto you with a sharpness that sent a chill down your spine. She wasn’t fooled—not for a second. You could feel it in the way she watched you, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. And you—nervous, fidgety, out of your depth—started to unravel.

You remember how your hands trembled as you tried to keep up the act, how you could barely keep the conversation going. Montesa didn’t need to say anything; her presence alone was enough to make your skin crawl. And then, just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, you saw it—her gaze flickering toward the door, just for a split second.

That’s when you knew she’d figured it out. She knew about Luis. She knew everything.

Panic surged through you, your heart hammering in your chest. You had one job—just one—and you’d blown it. You couldn’t think straight, couldn’t find the words to salvage the situation. You needed to get out. You needed to run. And that’s exactly what you did.

You bailed.

You remember the feeling of your pulse pounding in your ears, the cold sweat that broke out on your skin as you bolted down the hallway, leaving Luis behind. You didn’t stop to think, didn’t consider the consequences. All that mattered was getting away, putting as much distance between yourself and that woman as possible. You were done. Done being the screw-up, done letting him down. Done playing second fiddle. So you ran, and didn’t look back. Not once.

Luis would have to fend for himself. He was the golden boy, the charmer, the one who could talk his way out of anything. He’d be fine. Just like he always was. And maybe, if you were lucky, this would finally teach him a lesson. Teach him not to lean on you so damn much. Maybe he'd learn to stand on his own, the way you'd had to do all those times he'd left you to pick up the pieces. That would serve him right.

You didn't bother to check whether or not anyone followed. As far as they were concerned, you were nobody. A two-bit thief, a runner. Forgettable. They weren't coming after you. They were too busy dealing with the big fish. With Luis.

Of course, it was a lot more complicated than that, but at the time, you had no idea. And the worst part? You hadn’t even stuck around long enough to see how it played out. You’d chosen to run. Hopped in the car alone, and drove, and drove. You didn’t dare to turn on your cell. If he called, if he texted, you didn’t care. He was the reason you were in this mess in the first place. Let him deal with the fallout. For once, let him figure it out. You were done playing his sidekick, his lackey. Done being his scapegoat, the fall guy. Done being the fool, the idiot, the one who didn't have a clue. Done. Fucking. Done. No more.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you what had happened. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach, the weight of your failure dragging you down. Luis was dead. You didn’t know how, didn’t know when, but you knew. And you were dead too.

Because here you were. Reliving it. Over and over. Trying to have a re-do. Trying to chase something that was always out of reach.

Your hands clench into fists, the ropes falling off of your wrists as the truth unravels in front of you. This place—the village, the villagers, Montesa—none of it was real. None of it mattered. It was all a reflection of you. Of your guilt. Of your endless, desperate need to prove yourself and undo what had already been done. Your breath hitches in your throat, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You’re trapped in a nightmare of your own making, a prison constructed from regret and loss and anger and shame.

You feel a tremor run through your body as you stare down at Luis’s still form, the blood pooling beneath him dark and thick, the color of old wine. You don't know if he's real in the sense of this Montesa and the villagers are, but you can't bear to find out. Your fingers brush the cold skin of his cheek, and you shudder at the contact. Even now, even after all the ways you’ve failed him, a part of you still reaches out, hoping against hope that he’ll open his eyes and flash that cocksure grin.

The worst part? You’d never even given him a chance. You were always so focused on yourself, on your own fears, that you never once stopped to ask what he needed. What he wanted. Maybe that was why you ended up here.

Because you couldn’t let him go.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. "So, so sorry." The apology feels hollow, inadequate. There aren't enough words in any language to convey the depths of your sorrow and regret. But it’s all you have, the only offering you can make. "I fucked everything up. I just wanted out and I didn't want to do this anymore and I... I should have stayed. I should have helped. I should've taken my share of the blame. But I hated you. I hated you so much. So I didn't. I wasn't thinking, not of you, not of the job. Only of me. Only of running. Like I've been running away from my problems my whole life. And..."

You pause, swallowing thickly, your throat tight and raw.

"Maybe that's why I'm still here. Still trying to save you. Because that's the one thing I could never do. Not in life, and not in death. God, I wish things had been different." Tears well up in your eyes, blurring the sight of his face, his features fading into shadows. "If we'd talked, really talked, we could've figured something out. Could've gotten out of that mess together. Or maybe we could've gone our separate ways. Clean breaks, no hard feelings. Anything would've been better than this." You wipe at your cheeks, the dampness smearing across the back of your hand. "I'm so tired of chasing ghosts. Tired of living in the past. I just want to move on. I want to be free of this. Of you. Of us."

As the words leave your mouth, a heaviness settles over you, a finality that feels like an anchor dropping to the ocean floor. It's strange, the way it happens, the way the world seems to shift and tilt around you, a slow unraveling that begins with the flicker of the torches and the sudden absence of the chanting, the pyre's fire and the thick smoke, the smell of burning wood, and the taste of ashes on the wind.

You weren’t chasing Luis for him. You were chasing him to prove something to yourself. And in doing so, you never really saw him. Not for what he was. Not for what he needed. You were too focused on what you weren’t.

You stand, your gaze shifting from Luis to the pyre. The flames are frozen mid-crackling, but they no longer feel dangerous. They feel like a doorway—an exit from this place, from this cycle, from everything that’s been holding you here.

The villagers still stand in their rigid lines, their faces as empty and expressionless as they were when the ritual began. But now, you see them for what they are—reflections, shadows of your own mind, your own torment. They think they’ve been offering sacrifices, but it’s you who’s been feeding this place all along. You have the power to stop it. You always did. You were just too blinded by anger and grief and self-pity to realize it. Taking a deep breath, you walk toward the pyre, the heat of the flames washing over you like a warm caress.

"Let go, Luis," you say. The words are for him, but they’re also for you. A promise. An affirmation. "We both deserve peace."

With that, you step forward, the fire licking at your heels, the smoke rising around you. You close your eyes, and the world falls away.

I don’t know if you’ll ever find this. I don’t know if you’ll ever hear these words, but I have to say them anyway. I have to try. Even if it doesn't change anything, even if it doesn't bring you back, even if I'm not able to undo the damage that's been done, at least I'll have said it.

I wanted to be better for you. I know it looks like I never tried to be. That's a lie. I did try, I did, I swear. I've spent years, a lifetime, trying to get to a place where I could look at myself in the mirror and not hate the person staring back. Where I could look at the world and not resent every single soul in it. And that was all for you. Everything. Every day, every decision, every little choice, was made hoping that one day, somehow, the two of us would end up in a different spot, and that we'd both have changed. For the better, and not the worse. That would have been my dream come true, that would have given meaning to everything, that would have redeemed all the pain and suffering, all the loneliness, all the heartbreak, that would have validated me. All of me. My existence, my choices, my failures, and successes. But, at the very least, it would have proven that I was worth the time and energy.

Instead, here I am, on my on now, talking to no one, writing down these words that probably won't ever reach you. Maybe that's fitting, considering.

I hope you're happy. I hope you're at peace. I hope, somewhere, somewhen, you're living the life you always deserved, a life full of joy, love, and laughter. An epilogue of bliss after the horrors of the main story. And, if, by some miracle, you ever read these words, please believe me when I say, from the bottom of my heart: Thank you. Thank you for giving a damn about me, thank you for trying to help me, thank you for caring, and most of all, thank you for staying as long as you did.

You were the best part of my life, and I will cherish the memories of our time together until the end of my days, hoping to meet you again under a kinder sky. Velocidad de Dios.

[ominoose]

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫-𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

Summary: Random drabble's about Steven Grant meeting other Oscar Isaac characters. No Marc or Jake co-concious, only referenced. Characters: Basil Stitt, Leto Atreides, Poe Dameron A/N: This randomly hit me and I wanted to write it because it was funny. Used a spinny wheel for it. Also idk if BB-8 can do that but now he can.

London was it's usual muggy, busy self as Steven ran down the street, hoping to catch the bus to work. It had been hard enough to get a job after the Museum Incident, but maintaining a position was proving to be a much harder endeavor between his abnormal sleeping patterns and head mates.

"Oi! Wait, please!" Steven was within touching distance just as the bus sped off, and at the lack of anything to rest his weight on or break his fall, the man found himself tumbling face first into traffic.

☽ 𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐭 (Lightningface)

+ When Steven first wakes up in the apartment, his first thought is that he's woken up in a bomb site. The apartment is a mess, furniture and clothes strewn everywhere haphazardly. He's momentarily glad Marc isn't replying in his head, knowing the American would have an aneurysm over the state of the place.

+ Basil is the one to find Steven, jumping up from his spot on the couch and staring at him like he's an alien. The first thought in his mind is that Ricky the Monkey did some crazy magic and brought a clone to replace him. Poor Steven barely has a chance to process the situation before he's trying to calm his scarred, other American look alike down and explain his situation. Nothing manages to convince Basil there isn't some magic going on here, but he stops viewing Steven as an evil replacement.

+ After the initial shock and awkward introductions, they manage to sit down and chat for a few minutes. Basil shares the story of the lightning strike, insisting that its imbued him with magical powers. Steven, bless his heart, immediately believes this and boasts about his own moon powers too.

"You know, I've always wanted to try jumping off the roof and flying, have you done that?"

"Oh no, my mate Marc usually handles that, but maybe we can practice together? Have you got a suit as well?"

"Yeah, it's this paper bag and bed sheet I fixed up myself! C'mon, I have a stool on the balcony-"

"Wait, hang about.... Actually, mate, on second thoughts, lets not."

+ Steven ends up convincing Basil to properly fix his apartment, not just brush away the broken shards and dust. So that's what they do for a while, busying themselves as they theorize on how to get Steven back home with only a handful of brain cells between them. Basil listens with surprising intensity when Steven ends up branching off into Egyptology tangents, and likewise Steven nods along when Basil brings up all the documentaries he'd watched recently. In the end, the apartment does end up in much better shape, and the pair become quite chummy.

"Damn. Thanks for the help... Maybe I did overreact a bit."

"Yeah, it's no problem bruvs, it happens. Surprised the doctors didn't give you anymore meds, though I suppose over here its not like the NHS."

"Oh, no I didn't go to the hospital."

"...You wot?!"

𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 (Dune)

+ Coming to on hot, sandy slabs is enough of a trigger point to Steven Grant as they come. Coming to on hot, sandy slabs with weird astronauts in suits pointing space guns at him goes beyond frighting and circles back into 'Shit yourself' territory. Thankfully they seem to speak English. Unfortunately, his high pitched screams and babbling British noises don't make sense to them while they peer down their guns at him with confusion. It isn't until a booming voice draws everyone's attention that Steven gets a chance to breath.

+ Said breath is swiftly knocked back out of Stevens lungs when a wiser, nobler and older version of him walks into the room, commanding the attention of every single space soldier in the room. The man stares down at him as he lays huddled on the ground, curled into himself, and quirks a single well groomed eyebrow at him.

"I am Duke Leto of House Atreides. You have penetrated your way into my home. Who are you?"

"I-I-I'm S-Steven Grant. Of the... Giftshop."

The Duke continues his stony stare at Steven for a few seconds longer before holding out a calloused hand.

"Well Steven of the Giftshop, I think we both have many questions for one another, and hopefully some answers."

+ When Steven finally gets over being starstruck at the dignified, royal version of himself, and when Leto makes the accidental mistake of mentioning that they're billions of years in the future on another planet, Steven freaks out, having a 10 minute long panic attack. When that's over he geeks out instead, asking a million questions about technology, using apologies as commas and full stops.

"Do people still know about Khonshu in this era?!"

"I'm afraid I am not familiar with that name."

"Lucky sod."

+ Leto thinks the strange, weird sounding clone of himself is a schizophrenic long lost cousin, but at lease he isn't trying to kill him over a title. It's not as common in Arrakis, or the general noble courts, to find someone as earnest, honest and willing to learn as Steven seems to be, which earns him a surprising amount of respect from the Duke.

𝐏𝐨𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 (Star Wars)

+ Waking up in a space ship that's doing somersaults mid-battle while dodging and weaving around beams trying to explode it out of the sky was almost as stressful as waking up on a London bus at 8am. Commendably, Steven didn't scream or cry, but simply had a silent panic attack until a rolling white and orange ball started beeping at him, or rather the ridiculously handsome version of him currently flying the plane.

"Who the hell are you and how did you get on my cruiser?!"

"Bloody hell, not another handsome American me!"

"What?! BB-8, check for a concussion!"

+ After being given a water bottle by the polite little droid, Steven finally managed to calm himself down by the time the ship touch down and the pilot in matching droid colours sprang before him, launching question after question. When he clocked Stevens face, he was speechless, brows slowly knitting over his eyes as he tried to make sense of what was in front of him. Mid stare-down BB-8 nicked the Brits skin, running a quick diagnostic test and beeping the results out to the pilot who's eyebrows swiftly un-knitted at the noises.

+ Taking advantage of the silence, Steven tries to explain himself and his situation, insisting he comes in peace and simply wanted to get home before Donna got another excuse to give him the sack. The pilot finally introduced himself as Poe, the best pilot in the resistance at that, and with a sigh he promised to try and figure out how to get Steven back to whatever galaxy London was from.

+ Poe tries to explain the resistance and the empire to Steven, who in turn compares it to Ammits cult and jointly rants about those who take choice and freedom from the innocent. Poe is happy enough that his weird blood ancestor is with the resistance, even if he does constantly regard him with a quirked eyebrow, wondering how in the universe he managed to evolve from this walking concussion. For a second time Poe is rendered silent as Steven mentions being Moonknight.

"Oh yeah, I've done that too, at least those Jedi blokes doesn't send their jackals after you though!"

"You've... fought? In battle?"

"Course, yeah. Fought off giant gods back to the underworld, stopped the day of reckoning as the souls of the living were flooding the underworld. It was just the other day actually."

"...You killed god?!"

+ Steven absolutely adores BB-8 and Leia, a feeling the bot and all of the resistance seem to happily return, much to the dismay of Poe. Steven's quite flustered from all the attention and questions, leaving Poe to drag him away in a huff, claiming they need to get back to figuring out how to send him home. It feels like a babysitting gig more than anything, but deep down it strokes Poe's ego when Steven ooh's and ahh's at all his resistance tales.

[lover-of-mine]

The thing is, we are all cherry picking out points, yk? Sure, Buck did ask for the hangar tour and was all starstruck by it on his own, but if we wanna make that argument as Buck initiating contact, we need to consider the way Buck lingers by the helicopter to talk to Taylor because he's starstruck by her and he approaches Natalia to ask about being a death doula. He didn't have romantic intentions with any of those, he wanted to know more about them. At the end of 206 he goes after Taylor to talk to her about the news piece. Buck didn't know Tommy was an option romantically until Tommy kissed him because he was too focused on the Eddie of it all. Buck asks Taylor out during the whole thing with Albert and Veronica and doesn't realize Taylor might be an option until she tells him she was expecting sex because he was too focused on how he was feeling about the Veronica of it all. Buck reaches out to Tommy to apologize after he walks out on the date, points for him, but he only does it because Eddie told him to. And after Taylor walks out from Veronica's place, Buck keeps calling her to apologize, she just doesn't pick up. And at the hospital after the baby is born, Buck saying he thought Natalia wasn't speaking to him, implies he did try, she just didn't answer. Buck repeats patterns in the way he keeps waiting for the other person to clue him in before he does something and goes to the worst case scenario first. Buck just never assumes someone wants him around. And I can apply this to Eddie too. He tugs on Eddie's ponytail until Eddie lets him know he's not trying to replace him. We talk about grand gestures and the insanity of asking someone for a second date to his sister's wedding when they left the first one, but he got an apartment with Ali, he asked Taylor to move in because he cheated, he asked Natalia to buy furniture after 3 dates and a birth. But by this logic, you can paint Carla is a grand gesture. Buck wants people to stay and he doesn't measure efforts to make it happen. Buck sitting down and cooling off after the basketball trying to figure out what was really bothering him before talking to Eddie is just as much of a sign of growth as actually talking to Tommy about his expectations for the relationship. But both have their set of problems because Buck is hiding from consequences when it comes to Eddie and he's jumping off the deep end with Tommy anyway. Buck is complex in such an interesting way and no one is looking at the full picture anymore. Yes, Tommy parallels Abby and Ali and Taylor and Natalia. But he also parallels Eddie. And the Eddie ones are very explicitly said because the episode plays that twist. The parallels with Taylor are glaring, the ones with Ali and Natalia are there and all, and the Abby ones, if you want to say I'm pushing, I wouldn't fight you on it. Every argument can be hollowed out if you see it on its own. Buck assumes no one really wants him around and that he needs to prove he's worthy of it before getting someone to stay. That's the actual hamster wheel. Buck goes all in. And it's a fine line to walk. Even more when the show is making a point of showing that applied to situations that blew up on his face before. If you wanna say Buck was healed by the power of getting dicked down, that's your prerogative, but is he?

[a-little-revolution]

I'm writing fanfiction for a piece of media where a vast majority of the people in the world are little people. What would be some notable everyday differences for a world primarily built around little people versus a world primarily built around not-little people? The first and only thing that comes to mind are that bicycles would be built for different proportions, but that's it.

Hello! Gosh so much would be different!

Counters would be about 2-2.5 feet off the ground, and chairs would have shorter legs and seats

High shelves would likely need to be on some sort of rotating system so all the shelves could be accessed from low down - think the ones from Wall-E!!

Things would need to be fully accessible for mobility aids, and steps would be shorter and closer together

Farming would be done on raised beds

Far more goods and products would be sized down to Little proportions - including clothes, tools, furniture, houses, etc.

Checkout counters would be lower

Automobiles would run tests on Little dummies, and change airbag patterns to prevent whip-lash

Public spaces would have low sinks, toilets, and changing tables

Hospital beds and furniture would be low enough for little people to use without assistance, and more research would be put towards properly dosing Little patients

And gosh, so much more..

-Elliot (they/them)

[grinmaw]

Bellow the cut is what happens on page 14. If you dont wanna be spolied then dont read below cut.

I was qurious to see what a fan- fic version of the story might look like. There is only so much I can put in a single page so this is a more in- depth view of the story.

Later that night…

She did take upon his ‘suggestion’, and was now trying to get as comfy as possible for a good night sleep. As the king’s very special guest, or friend rather, she was of course, offered an equally special room.

Fancy was one word to describe it. It was decked from floor to ceiling in furniture only befitting someone who belonged in royalty. Like a Princess... A grand bed took a sizable portion of the room, covered with fine cotton sheets and fluffy pillows. The rest of the room was decorated with all manner of furniture, all expertly crafted, some of them full of clothes like dresses and such. Others had jewelry and other trinkets tucked away in their drawers. Even the carpets were made of fine material and had intricate patterns sewed into them.

Rozaria didn’t care much for this finery. She hasn’t even used the bed since day one, quite content to sleep on a pile of pillows on the floor. She was busily kneading some of them with her paws, her claws softly scratching the fabric.

If Bowser wanted to treat her like a princess then so be it, she wasnt about to complain. His antics were still very much amusing to her.  

She was back in her dragon form, instead of her usual humanoid one. There were no prying eyes, or quivering voices hidden in dark corners, so she was quite content to be her true self behind closed doors. The Koopas were brave, but it didn’t elude her eyes how sometimes they would look wearily at her, and grip their weapons a little tighter as she passed them. It was to be expected, she supposed. She was like a predator walking amongst potential snacks, and who knew when she would decide that shes done playing pretend and take over the castle. Of course they wouldn’t trust a dragon that easily…unlike Bowser.

He seems to be the only one that was not unnerved by her presence, and would seek it even. The past few days he would drag her around the castle, as if they were chained together, all day long. She didn’t understand why was he being so hospitable to a creature such as her, but she wasn’t about to question him. She was quite content on waiting out whatever game they were playing. If he was pretending to be nice just to get something in return, then he would eventually slip up. They might’ve made a pact of friendship, but Rozaria wasn’t so naïve to think that that wouldn’t be broken at some point. For now, she would just have to be patient..

The castle was eerie quiet without its King present. Bowser did leave for the Mushroom Kingdom that night, just as he said he would.

“Guess he just cant wait to meet his girlfriend. Or perhaps he is the romantic type that likes to propose under the full moon?”, she could just imagine him getting down on one giant knee and taking the princesses’ dainty hand in his big meaty paw, blinking at her dreamily, with the full moon framing them both. A scene straight out of the sappiest of romance novels. She snickered at the thought, covering her mouth with her paw.

And just a few days ago he was ready to throw down with her when she crashed in his castle the first time. To think that a brute like him could be such a hopeless romantic.. He would sweep that princess right off her feet, probably.

Rozaria opened her mouth in a giant yawn, her sharp teeth glinting in the dark room. She spread out her arms, and laid her head on top of them, settling down on the pile of pillows.

“I’m sure he will gloat all about it tomorrow”, she closed her eyes and drifted off.

-----

The sun had replaced the moon some hours ago, its warm rays shining through the window. Rozaria wasn’t exactly asleep but wasnt quite ready to leave her comfy place on top of the pillows. The sun’s rays were rather pleasant on her scales.

A booming noise resonated through the castle. Her feathers stood on end and her eyes flew open. She lifted her head to listen better. It happened again, at some other location In the castle. It was like a bunch of explosions going on.

“Are we under attack?”...

[zebracakesarecopingmechanisms]

Assigning each ASOUE book a TMA entity (+why)

*Also taking the Netflix show’s portrayal/atmosphere into account.

The Bad Beginning: Web 🕸️

The Baudelaires are beginning to realize that things have been going on behind the scenes that they can’t understand; they are almost completely trapped in Olaf’s scheme til Klaus finds a loophole.

The Reptile Room: Hunt 🦷

The Incredibly Deadly Viper is initially percieved as a threat, if short-lived, and the Baudelaires are surrounded by dangerous creatures. Simultaneously, this is the book in which they truly realize Olaf is determined to keep chasing them.

The Wide Window: Lonely ☁️

Imagery of a large, empty house in a grey, foggy lake setting combined with the theme of grief. They are also without their guardian for a while after she faked suicide and was temporarily presumed dead.

The Miserable Mill: Dark 🌑

The Baudelaires do not know what happened with their parents here; information is being hidden from them. Klaus’ vision is literally impaired at several points in the story due to his glasses being damaged, in addition to the mandatory nightly “lights out” immediately after dinner.

The Austere Academy: Slaughter🔪

Vice Principal Nero’s fixation on the violin provides frenzied music, a common theme of the slaughter. The children are collectively cruel to the Baudelaires via Carmelita’s leadership. They demonstrate moblike behavior at the pep rallies.

The Ersatz Elevator: Spiral 🌀

The penthouse has hundreds of rooms and corridors in which one can easily be lost; there are repeating patterns on walls and furniture as well as the children’s clothing. Proportions seem exaggerated, ie the scale of the house, the limo, Esmé’s hat and fur coat, etc. The elevator is a false door that acts as a deception. Esmé is the first character to convincingly lie to the Baudelaires, and the contradictory rules of the In/Out system are nonsensical and confusing. And, of course, there is literally a Red Herring at the auction.

The Vile Village: Buried ⚰️

The Baudelaires are, in a literal sense, in a dry and dusty desert village full of sand. In addition to this, Duncan and Isadora are trapped together in the cramped, dark space of the fountain for the bulk of the story. In a more figurative sense, the Baudelaires are also buried under extensive suffocating and restrictive laws.

The Hostile Hospital: Eye 👁️

Heimlich Hospital contained files of information on nearly every conceivable subject; a massive gathering of knowledge by a man who ironically has poor vision. Olaf keeps a constant watch through the security cameras, and when Klaus is being forced to operate on his sister, an entire theater is seeing him.

The Carnivorous Carnival: Flesh 🥩

While the “carnival freaks” are of course not actually examples of body horror and are just people with deformities, they are still viewed as such by audiences within the narrative. Additionally, Madame Lulu is literally eaten alive by lions.

The Slippery Slope: Vast 🌊

In this case, the Vast mainly refers to the sky and heights, though the ocean is incorporated at the very end leading into the Grim Grotto. Falling off the mountain is a constant background fear; Sunny’s cage is thrown off the edge, and we see Kit do her little falling-and-flying trick with the dragonfly wings.

The Grim Grotto: Corruption 🪰

I was tempted to put the Vast here, but honestly the ocean itself was more of a unusual setting than a legitimate source of fear. The major conflict of the story was the infection/contamination of the Medusoid Mycelium.

The Penultimate Peril: Stranger 🎭

The Baudelaires do not know whether they anyone are speaking with is trustworthy, especially Ernest vs. Dewey.

The End: Extinction 🏭

The island is partially covered in garbage and debris, and everyone there is poisoned by the Medusoid Mycelium and will presumably be wiped out.

*Honorable mentions to the Desolation (fire, suffering) the Lonely (very few believe or help) and the Hunt (Count Olaf’s constant pursuit) as overtones of the entire series.

[homerforsure]

hii allison, i’m especially intrigued by your eddie time loop wip, even if it’s not actually a time loop 👀

- @doeeyeseddie

HI!

For you and for @steadfastsaturnsrings and @fleurdebeton and also Anon (hi, anon!) I have an early snippet.

And for people who don’t hang on to my every post, I happened to mention a bit ago that ai thought Eddie needed to get stuck in a time loop so he could fully exhaust all the ways he could think of to save his and Shannon’s relationship so he could realize that it was always going to end.

It’s not really a time loop because he’s going to visit different moments in their lives, but he is definitely trapped.

With a heaving gasp, Eddie clawed his way out of the dark. He was blinded at first, by light and then by pain–fierce, encompassing, inescapable pain–that drew a scream to his throat and then… stopped. Like a curtain drawn on a scene he wasn’t meant to witness.

The echoes of it lingered as he tried to sit up, rubbing his eyes against the phosphorescent rainbow that still blinded him. He didn’t feel like he was in his room. Eddie didn’t know where he was and fear made him frantic, even as his limbs remained unwieldy, a hurtless static tingling through them as his nerves tried to wake up.

“No. No, no. No. No. Nope. Hmm-mmm. That is not okay.”

A woman’s voice, familiar and freaked out, broke the silence that Eddie hadn’t realized he’d been sitting in and his head swiveled automatically to try and see her. The light was ebbing and the corners of the room slowly came into focus as he blinked. Eddie tried to speak and the words passed like a breath through his lips.

“No, we are not doing this. Not today, not any day,” the woman said, a loud squeal like heavy furniture sliding across the floor underlining her words. “You can’t stay here. Shoo. Shoo!”

Was she talking to him? Eddie thought it sounded like she was across the room, but he didn’t even know what room he was in. Too quiet for a hospital. Too sterile to be his house. He rolled onto his knees with more effort than it ever should have taken and tipped his head to try and see around the fuzzy circle of light in the center of his vision.

The brightness had no source in the room. All Eddie could make out were smaller lights glowing from high up on the walls and from a table-no, not a table–from an oversized desk and a bank of computer monitors. The woman wasn’t sitting at them.

“What-” was all he managed to say.

“Oh no.”

Blinking again, harder, and rubbing his fists against his eyelids, Eddie asked, “What happened? Where-” His voice gave out again and he pounded a fist against the smooth, cement floor.

“Okay, maybe don’t- You’re gonna- Alright.”

Eddie lifted his head one last time, squinting through the golden haze towards the sound of the voice. There was a chair, dragged as far away from him as it could get and, standing on it like she’d seen a mouse, was a woman in a patterned dress and a lab coat. Squinting hard as her face came into focus, Eddie said, “Karen?”

It didn’t make sense, but there was no mistaking the golden brown twists of her hair or the softness of her eyes as she looked down at him. She didn’t look happy to see him, face crumpling into a frown as she shifted her feet on the chair in a carefully balanced version of stomping them.

“Not exactly,” Karen said. “Fuuuuuuuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.”

[amybizarre]

Royal (Reincarnated As The King's Future Spouse P1)

(Yeahhh... It's one of those manwha style reincarnation concepts-)

_______________________________

Last thing you remembered was driving home from work late at night, when some idiot swerved into your lane right in front of your car.

Flashing lights.  Loud crashes.

Pain.

Darkness.

A brief moment of red and blue lights outside your broken windshield.

More darkness.

Sweet relief.

Floating.

Comfy.

...

<^> <^> <^>

.....

Birds chirping. Behind your closed eyelids, you sensed warm, early morning sunlight. But no outside breeze brushed over your face.

You were in a bed. It didn't feel familiar to you. The mattress and pillow were far more comfortable than anything you ever slept on. And definitely too comfortable for a hospital bed!

You groaned quietly and stretched your sore limbs. Yep, bed was also wayyy too big for a hospital bed. Feeling around you failed to find the edge of the mattress on either side of you.

Your head was still fuzzy and your thoughts all muddled up. Deciding that now wasn't your time to get up, you shifted onto your side, slid your hands underneath your head and pillow and dozed off again.

Why was it so quiet? You lived in a city, you should have heard at least a few cars by now. But no motors could be heard anywhere. Only the peaceful and quiet birdsong from outside a window was audible.

And the muffled footsteps and chatter of people walking by outside the room you were in.

Was this your room then? Maybe.

You would discover more information about your situation after an extra nap though.

...

<^> <^> <^>

...

The second time you awoke in this unfamiliar, but definitely heavenly bed, not a lot seemed to have changed. It was brighter now, indicating that the early morning had turned into full on day. The birdsong was still there. So was the absence of noisy cars outside.

Still a little groggy, you opened your eyes. Only for them to immediately gorw the size of plates.

You scrambled to sit up straight and took in the room in amazement. (And slight alarm)

Everything around you seemed so... Ornate. Luxurious even. Indeed, the bed you had slept in was pretty big. It wasn't a four poster bed, but nonetheless it's dark, wooden frame was carved with intricate vine-like patterns. This artistry in woodwork could be found on all the furniture items within the bedroom. On the desk. The cushioned chair accompanying it. The wadrobe. The shelves and drawers. The two armchairs in front of the small fireplace- Everything.

Everything was also kept in warm and inviting colors, such as a warm créme or red.

Still staring at everything completely awestruck, you reached up to rub your head.

With surprise, you felt bandages underneath your fingertips.

Huh? How did this happen? You barely remembered the crash, but how did you get from the road to.... Here? Wherever here was.

Only really one way to find out. You move the heavy covers to the side and crawl to the edge of the bed. Your feet met fur, when you set them on the ground.

Alarmed you pulled your feet back up, worried you stepped onto an animal. But when you looked it was the hide of a wolf, spread out like a rug.

Uh.... Was this a real hide...? Was this kind of thing still allowed even? Last time you checked this kind of thing was trendy in the medieval ages.

You stepped onto the pelt. It's luscious fur tickled your feet. You smiled and wiggled your toes at the new sensation. Kneeling down beside the pelt, you lifted it up slightly to look underneath.

Yep, that definitely was a real hide, judging by the leathery texture underneath. You couldn't find a tag anywhere, only confirming your suspicions.

As you knelt beside the pelt, bum up in the air, you suddenly heard laughter behind you.

Alarmed you shot up, scrambling to get back onto your feet. Your head immediately swirled with dizziness. But you fought it off to look around for whoever was laughing at you.

At first you couldn't find the culprit. Until they, or rather, she, snorted out: "Oh my! What are you doing?? Have you never seen a pelt before??"

Aaand she went right back to laughing her tiny, glowing butt off. You didn't know whether to be embarrassed or intruiged. Either way, you were blushing and staring.

Only a few inches away from your face floated a tiny person! She was roughly the size of your palm and looked like a fallen star! Literally. Her face had the shape of a star. From her skin to her golden dress, everything about her was glowing.

You wanted to say something, but only ended up opening and closing your mouth repeatedly.

"Wh-Who are you? What are you?" You finally managed to ask, interrupting her endless laughter.

"Have you lost your mind also, (prince/princess)?" The tiny lady asked you teasingly. "I'm Sally Starlet. Your very own faery godmother."

You were confused. "Faery? But I tought they weren't real and only existed in magical stories?"

She gasped loudly in exasperation, clutching her pearls with dramatic guestures.

"You...! I am very much real! And magical! See??" To prove her point, she trwirled around, emmitting glowing particles, that twinkled not unlike glitter.

Huh. Little faery, big personality.

"You should seriously remember me-!"

You shook your head. "I must have lost my mind then..."

Which wasn't too far from the thruth, considering the situation you were in.

"I don't remember anything." Anything from this world, at least.

Sally's eyes widened in surprise and she flickered nervously. "Nothing at all...?"

She flew closer to your head, doing a few laps around it, inspecting the bandage on it.

"Oh dear, seems like that riding accident two days ago was worse than we thought..., " she mumbled under her breath.

You heard her though, and tilted your head. "Accident?"

"Yes, yes. Accident." Sally sighed. "Let me brief you real quick."

You nodded and sat back down on the bed, paying attention to her. She took a deep breath and started.

"Let's start with the basics. You, my dear, are your royal highness (Y/n) (L/n), Crown-(Prince/Princess) of Spades."

Woah! You're a what now? Sick!

"You're currently traveling with your uncle, the royal advisor, and me, your faery godmother to meet your fiancé, his royal highness, the King of Hearts."

Oh. Oh no-

"Fiancé? Are we in love?", you interrupt Sally.

She crossed her arms. "I don't think so. His and your union was arranged by your father, the King of Spades and the late Queen of Hearts. May the gods bless her soul. You will meet your 'beloved' for the first time today."

You gulped nervously. What kind of feverdream did you land in? By now you had decided that this most strange situation of waking up in a magical fantasy world must be some sort of coma-induced dream. A very vivid one, that is. A very real one...

"Can you tell me more about this arrangement, please?"

Sally complied without question. Apparently, the two kingdoms - Spades and Hearts - used to be at war with each other a few decades ago. The kingdom of Hearts won and the previous King of Spades (your grandfather) was replaced by your father. Him and the late Queen of Hearts had worked out a contract to keep the peace between the two nations for future generations as well. This included the arrangement of marrying their future heirs off to each other. However, the two also decided to allow their children to be, well, children and to let them meet for the first time when both of them were adults. And now here you were! On the way to the palace of Hearts, to fulfill this contract.

Your head swirled after taking in so much information at once. By now you were rubbing your aching forehead with your elbows on your knees.

"So! Let me get this straight...," you muttered, "I'm on my way to marry a man, who I've - not only- never met before, but he also rules a kingdom that was at war with mine."

"Yeppers-" Sally concluded matter-of-factly. "So, we better get you back on the road. You've got a war to prevent."

You gasped. "What-?"

She quickly waved you off. "A hypothetical one, don't worry."

Already too late for that. You were worrying. About a lot of things, actually.

With the help of Sally's advice - or rather instructions - you got dressed and readied yourself to be presentable for a king.

The fantasy-esque clothes were definitely something you'd need to get used to. Considering how (pretty/handsome) you felt in them, you didn't think it' d be much of a problem though.

When you brushed your hair, Sally also revealed to you, that you were currently at the residence of Baron and Baroness Merciful, who were kind enough to allow your small party to rest in their home after your accident.

You made a mental note to express your gratitude to them. On your way down the stairs, Sally quietly explained to you, who was who. God bless her thoughtfulness.

You made your way into a country style furnished entrance hall and from there to the right into the kitchen, where you heard voices.

There you were greeted by the sight of a purple haired, bearded man sitting at the table, enjoying a cup of tea. He was Rasmodius (L/n), your uncle in this universe.

Across from him sat a well kept, red haired man with a goatee, who was chatting with him about their travels. This man was the baron.

His wife, the baroness was standing by the window, quietly observing something outside. Her hair was also of a striking red - a trait you will find very common in the Kingdom of Hearts - and braided to a simple hairstyle.

Upon your entrance, the conversation between the baron and your uncle halted, both glancing over at you. Rasmodius' eyes lit up with with joy.

He rose from his seat and pulled you into a tight hug, almost squashing Sally, who had rested on your shoulder. "My sweet (Y/n)! I'm so glad you're up and moving again!"

You awkwardly hugged him back. He was basically a stranger to you, mind you. So this whole situation was a little difficult for you to handle. But you did so gracefully, unwilling to let your "loss of memory" get through to him.

"Thanks, uncle. I feel rested and well enough for the road.", you replied, upcoming journey in the back of your mind.

Despite her tiny size, Sally tried to pry Rasmodius off of you, for some reason.

"We get it, old man! You're glad they're still alive! But let go now, before you break their ribs- And ruin their outfit..."

Oh, that's why.

Admittedly, you still felt a bit dizzy, but weren't sure whether to blame it on your head injury or current situation.

Your uncle complied to Sally's request with a sheepish smile. He beckoned you to sit down at the table with him and the baron.

"Come now. You must be starving."

Indeed, you were. You were ready to eat a whole bear. Instead of a bear, however, the baroness gently set a plate down in front of you.

Scrambled eggs and a roasted slice of garlic bread. It smelled absolutely delicious.

"My husband and I are also overjoyed to see you doing better, (prince/princess). I know the food may not be what you're used to, but I'm sure it will satisfy you all the same.", she spoke in a gentle voice.

You smiled. "Thank you very much. I don't mind, it looks delicious."

You and her both chuckle quietly, before she pat your shoulder and let you eat.

"Here, have some tea as well. It's formidable in this kingdom!" Your uncle enthusiastically slid a cup across the table towards you.

The baron chuckled. "Thank you. Our king loves his tea. So much in fact, that he revolutionized the way it's grown here."

Oh wow. You've never been a big fan of tea, but opted to try it anyway. Just to be polite. When the people here were so proud of their tea, you'd better drink it.

And boy, was it good! It had a rich and aromatic taste, that was comforting and refreshing at the same time. And a little sweet too. Truly, the best tea you ever had. Or maybe you just sucked at making it yourself. But you'd never admit that.

Soon enough, breakfast was over. Your uncle declared it was best to hit the road again as soon as possible. Lest you keep your 'beloved fiancé' waiting.

Servants readied your horses outside, while him and you expressed your gratitude for the baron's and baroness' hospitality. And then it was time for you to face the first challenge of your stay here. Riding.

"The white horse is yours, the brown one your uncle's." Sally filled you in, as you hesitated in front of the animals.

You paused for a different reason however.

You were scared. The animal in front of you was big. And muscular. It could run you over in a heartbeat if it wanted to, and trample you with its hooves. Now that you thought about it, you had never faced a horse before.

And now that one was staring at you, its nostrils flared to an unsettling degree, you found yourself frozen.

Rasmodius, blissfully unaware of your silent panic, gently pushed you further towards the animal.

"I know it's a bit nerve wrecking to ride again after an accident, but you gotta get back into the saddle quickly, before you develop fear.", he happily rumbled on.

Too late for that-

He continued. "Look, Starla is also a bit nervous to have you on her back again, but don't fret. I'll keep a hand on her reigns as well, just in case."

With these words, Rasmodius lifted you up and into the saddle in one fell swoop before you could say anything. You tensed up in the saddle.

The horse, whose name you now assumed was Starla, picked up on that and nervously pawed at the ground.

Why was this so high up? Your head swirled again, when you looked down. So you settled for staring forward instead.

You picked up her reigns, unsure how to hold them or what to do with them. You just clenched your fists around them, hoping for the best. Rasmodius mounted his horse as well and got a hold of Starla's reigns as promised.

A few last goodbyes were exchanged with the Mercifuls and off you, Sally and your uncle went.

Sally got comfortable between Starla's ears. A brave choice, if anyone asked you, considering how much they moved around. Her ears weren't the only thing moving however.

Her entire back rocked from side to side with every step she took. With how tense you were, this made it really hard for you not to fall again.

Sally glanced back at you. Her initial smile of enjoyment, turned to a frown of worry, when she saw your distressed expression. She fluttered over to your shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

You hesitated for a moment, trying not to break into a cold sweat.

"Th-the horse, I-" You didn't know how to explain yourself.

"Relaaax..." Sally whispered as to not to alarm Rasmodius, patting your hair. "The more you tense the harder it is for you and your horse. You gotta loosen up in your waist and let your lower half swing with her steps."

You tried to follow her secret instructions. Surprisingly you found it fairly easy to do. As if your body remembered doing this, even though your mind didn't. It became a whole lot easier to keep your balance.

"There you go. Keep doing that for now. I'll organize lessons for you later, yeah?"

You nodded to Sally, thankful for her help once more.

Your small group rode through the countryside for a few hours. You passed through a few villages and lush forests, which sights you drank in in wonder. Everything was so... Fantastical and medieval. It seemed like you truly time travelled.

Plus, looking around had the benefit of distracting yourself from the fact you were riding a big animal, you had no clue how to control.

All it took, was for the horse to make up its mind and run off and it would take your helpless ass with it to oblivion.

Uh oh. Bad thoughts! Quick! Distract yourself!

You focused on the road ahead as your group reached the peak of a hill. The road led into the first city in the distance. Behind it the vast blue sea, barely visible underneath the horizon. And on the coast line, in an elevated position, stood the palace of Hearts, reaching tall and proud into the sky. Made entirely of white bricks and red ornaments, its elegant spires rose far above the capital below. Truly a majestic piece of architectural genius, you found. All in all, a breathtaking sight to behold.

You were nearing the destination of your journey.

There, inside this beautiful castle waited your new future, which you hoped would be equally as beautiful.

<^> <^> <^>

The sun had begun to set, dipping the world in a warm, golden glow upon your arrival at the castle. A fanfare played, when your group rode through the gates into the castle courtyard. Servants hurried over to take care of your horses and luggage and two guards took you inside.

You entered an entrance hall the size of a cathedral, high arches carrying red banners with the crest of Hearts on them.

The setting sun filtered through the tall windows, sending sleek rays of golden delight to the polished marble floor.

Amidst this stunning scenery was he. Standing proudly in his castle, ready to welcome you with open arms and a kind smile.

A figure of authority, dressed in elegant attire and his signature red cloak with white fur. His red hair combed up into a neat pompadour.

His heels clicked across the floor, as he approached you, Sally and your uncle.

There he was.

His royal highness Wally Darling, the King of Hearts.

Your future husband.

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Third time's a charm Otis B. Driftwood x Reader (How Reader was Rescued)

Fandom: House of 1000 Corpses & The Devil’s Rejects & 3 From Hell. Pairings: Otis B. Driftwood X Reader. Rating: Mature (for topics and themes) Warnings: Violence, Blood, (Decent) mentioning of corpses and corpse abuse, Pregnancy, Semi-Graphic Birth, Breeding Kink, Murder, dubcon and noncon. Summary: How you got rescued from the Firefly Family.

This can be seen as a continuation on [ This Drabble where they take you to the hospital ] and was specially written for iffyline

The third time's a charm

At first, you had hope. It wasn’t a tiny bit, it was huge. Enough to fill your heart and mind. You’d gone from being hopelessly lost to being determined to remain alive. It felt as if your life was balancing each second of the day on a scale that could tip over unannounced. But now you held hope, and that meant that you would do anything to remain alive until the police would come to rescue you. No matter how degrading it would be.

You’d seen your friends die in horrible ways, and had to watch some of them still on display – either as pieces of art or body parts of them that had been re-used for furniture. Yeah, better not think about that. Though you’d never received your answer as to why you were the only one still alive, you could hazard a guess. The Firefly member named Otis was to thank for that. He’d claimed you from the get-go, held you tied up in his room, and fucked you raw until you could no longer walk.

It was thanks to falling ill that Baby and Otis had driven you to the hospital where you could alarm the doctor about your predicament. You were missing. You and your friends. And you had told the doctor all about the dangerous family that held you captive. You’d warned her not to take action too soon, because you knew if the attempt failed, the family would know that it had been you who had been blabbering to the doctor. You feared not only for your own life, but also for theirs.

Thankfully, your capturers were none the wiser. Your cover: the unfortunate fetus inside your womb. Otis had been withdrawn on the way back, uncharacteristically quiet and absentminded. Baby had been over the moon. As for the others of the family, well, Baby had been right. Mama Firefly got a certain gleam in her eyes when the sonograms were shown, she was thrilled. Tiny and Rufus seemed to be okay with it all. They hadn’t said much about it to you, just seemed to accept it as a fact. Captain Spaulding had slapped your shoulder and welcomed you to the family. Then Otis had left the room and had thrown the door shut behind him. You had been left with the Firefly members all on your own for the very first time. Unchained. Nothing had happened. Baby had gotten you something to drink. That was all.

Otis had returned for you not much later and you’d fallen back into the same old pattern that had emerged ever since you had arrived. With you locked up in his chamber and him taking his pleasure from you whenever he liked. But there had been glances you hadn’t seen from him before. Something in his eyes had changed and sometimes you could see him clench his jaw or flex his hand before forming a fist.

You thought he hated the idea of becoming a father.

And so you prayed your rescuers would arrive soon.

They did, sooner than you would find out. The first rescue mission they undertook failed horribly. You were stuck in Otis’s room when it happened, tummy round with child for God knows how many weeks. Too long. You’d not noticed anything had happened until Otis told you, many weeks later. And only because you’d recognized a police badge among one of his new art exhibits.

Gross.

You’d expected a second wave soon after, but no one came.

~

In the end, you ended up giving birth on Otis’s bed, making it one bloody mess that had his eyes light up in delight.

“See, a birth can be fun,” Mama Firefly had said. She stood next to you to help pull the babe from your womb.

“It’s very artistic,” Otis said, his eyes alit with emotions that resembled pride and… was that love? No, it couldn’t be. Lust. That must have been it. But he looked at you at that moment like he looked at his best artworks. And you felt like you were, torn below, legs parted, your blood seeping all over the blankets.

The baby cried and Otis took the child in his arms. Blood covered his strong biceps and stained his white undershirt, but he was unbothered. Perhaps this sight frightened you even more than if he had turned away and neglected your child. It was him, pure as could be, talking to the little fellow in his hands as if he was the most important thing in the world.

Like a father.

Otis loved his child. And dang if that didn’t hurt. You saw it in the way he looked up at the kid, saw it in how he tried his best to care for the child even if he sometimes horribly failed at it. Thing was, you never stood on your own in this. Mama Firefly got your back, and so did Grandpa Hugo. You could always rely on Baby to help you out with anything that needed to be done. And slowly, ever so slowly, you were given back some of your freedom, as if they accepted you as part of their twisted little family.

You could roam the house, do basic things all by yourself. Otis seemed to trust you more now that the two of you shared a baby. But you were scared. A future in this house, for your child? It couldn’t be anything good. You kept praying for someone to come and take you and your child away.

~

The second time the police came to investigate, you were in the living room, your baby son on your lap.

“What took them so long?” you murmured, watching the blue lights as they swirled outside the window.

“Shit,” Baby cursed, her voice unladylike and raw. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Get all your things and go,” Captain Spaulding shouted. He looked pointedly at you, but it was Otis who got into motion, grabbing your hand. Of course, you’d almost forgotten, that whenever the police or anyone of importance showed up, you had to hide. You were still reported missing after all, and your family and friends hadn’t given up the search for you. They’d appeared on numerous television shows and sometimes still made the news when they thought they’d found a new lead.

But the doctor knew where you were. There was a lead! Why hadn’t they come sooner? Why had the second attempt taken them this long? The doctor knew you were here. She promised to alarm the police. They knew! Why had they left you to your fate long enough to give birth in this hellhole?

“’ere, give ‘im to me,” Hugo cradled the baby in his arms, disappearing into a different room.

“No!” you shouted, but Otis already pushed you into his room and shut the windows, barring them.

“You stay here,” he said, eyes flashing with something dangerous that told you he was not to be argued with. You watched as he got a gun out and collected some cleavers he used to make his art. Then he left, locking the door behind him.

You cried in your hands while you listened to the sounds of a confrontation below. If he hadn’t barred the windows, you might have been able to signal to the men outside. But no such luck.

You were let out of the room for dinner and were handed your son. He was safe, except for a few blood spatters on his little romper that luckily didn’t belong to him. Grandpa Hugo had protected him with his life, he said. And while you had been shielded from the horrors below, your infant son had been present to watch the murder in real time.

Baby and Tiny were arguing about the reason the police had come to visit. You didn’t feel like you had such a great appetite when you saw one of the policemen on the table. Instead, you held your son while you breastfed him, aware of Otis’s watchful eyes as he ate his dinner, eyeing you approvingly.

~

The baby bump showed, visibly, and it disgusted you how Otis would rub his hand over it, would talk to the unborn child as if the baby already could understand. Talked about all the projects he had in mind for them to work on and the things he wanted to teach the kid.

It had been different one time. But after your son was born, Otis changed. A little. He’d gone from quiet and pensive to overly enthusiastic and ready to involve his kids in whatever he had in mind. Nothing that risked their lives though, which was a relief. You watched him take your toddler son by the hand and guide him around the premises. Or haul him on his lap to help him carve one of his new exposition displays.

Yes, he actively engaged your son in creating new centerpieces. He held his tiny little hand to steer the carving knife. He made your child actively cut human flesh into artful shapes.

And you hated him for it. Hated him even more now that a second child was growing inside. You knew you could not steer away from his touches, knew you could not avoid whatever nature had in store for you. You just survived each and every day and deliberately had forgotten that there were people out there looking for you. The hope you once held had diminished and dwindled into a small pilot flame. Still there, ready to be lit again, but not bright, barely visible.

They would not come. They had tried and they had lost. What was there to hope for?

You’d imagined escapes, even tried a few, but it had all ended back in Otis’s bed, chained to the headboard, with him eagerly thrusting inside of you while he berated you for your attempts. In fact, that was probably how the new baby had been created. But it had been so tempting to try and drive off with one of the cars. And you’d gotten closer than you ever had before.

Well, it was all in the past now. You’d have to wait for another opportunity to arrive.

~

“They’re sweet, aren’t they?” Mama Firefly said from her rocking chair on the porch.

Your son chased after your daughter. She was still a toddler, stumbling around on chubby legs. He was lean and slender, a mirror image of his dad.

A simple nod was all you gave as a reply. Your eyes focused on your children while you hoped it would remain at two.

Behind you, the wood of the doorway creaked, and when you looked up, you saw Otis leaning against the doorpost, arms crossed in front of his chest. His cold eyes rested upon your kids.

Then a tiny smile curled his lips.

You quickly looked away again.

~

When the police came for you again, things were completely different from before. They didn’t race towards the house with sirens on. Instead, an ordinary-looking car made its way to a safe distance, and the first policeman didn’t run into any of the Fireflies. He ran into you.

You were outside, watching your kids as they were playing when a stranger came into your periphery. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t give it a second thought, and called out for him.

The stranger said your name, didn’t even seem surprised, and you responded affirmatively. It was you. And you needed to get out.

He gestured for you to head his way. You didn’t hesitate, picked up your toddler, and grabbed your son by the hand. You led your kids into the safety of the stranger’s car. The man joined in the passenger’s seat and turned to the woman behind the steering wheel.

“Go, go, go,” he said, and she drove off.

Nothing heroic. No great showdown or bullet shot.

Yet, you were out.

~

Whenever someone with bleached hair passed you by, you did a double take. Just to make sure it wasn’t him. Odd, really, because it could not be Otis.

He was dead.

So the police had said.

When they’d taken you and your kids to safety, a second squad had surrounded the house and that bullet fight you thought hadn’t occurred took place without you knowing. The Firefly family had fought back resiliently, but the police had learned from the last time. In the end, the Fireflies tried to escape by setting the house on fire.

Otis had been mauled down by one of the policemen. They told you he’d been on the floor once the flames engulfed him.

You were free, even if some of the family had managed to get away.

Your kids grew up leading normal lives. Though your son showed traces of morbid interest, remembering how it felt to carve up flesh with his dad.

He blamed you as well. He missed his father. You never apologized for taking him and his sister away from that toxic environment and was determined to wait until your son was old enough to understand what had happened. He was clever, you were certain he would understand.

And so the three of you led a brand new life, surrounded by friends and family. Hope started to rebuild again inside of your chest, and fear left your heart droplet by little droplet as time went by.

You would live the life you had craved for. You weren’t a quitter.

~ * ~

“You should just walk up to them,” Baby said, eyeing the man next to her with annoyance. “Stop lurking. What is the worst that could happen?”

“You’re right,” the man said. He marched out of his hiding place, white hair flowing behind him, beard jutted forward with pride.

“Hello there, kid.”

Baby snickered while she watched him bend forward to talk to the teenage kid. A young and slender boy with hair just as pale. From behind the boy, a girl emerged. She’d been playing a distance away but came closer when she saw the stranger approach. She looked a lot like her mother, Baby thought. But had her father’s eyes.

“Dad?” the boy said. “You came back for us?” Not scared or with a stammer, but with relief visibly painting his features.

“Just wanted to say hi,” Otis said, leaning forward to ruffle the girl’s hair before doing the same to the boy. “Not gonna steal you away from your mother. Missed you too much.”

The children beamed up at him, prompting Baby to step out from the shadows to watch the family reunion openly.

Otis’s eyes glinted when he spoke to his son. “Think your mom will want me back?”

~ FIN  ~

[scoops-aboy86]

Writing Patterns

Thanks for the tag, @steviewashere!

rules: share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

———————

general reminder: basically all of my fics involve some amount of weight gain kink, so mind the tags and don't like don't read please ❤️

1. Wear it like a Collar, like a Ring, like a Lock (and Toss the Key), rated M: "Steve locks the front door behind himself and lets out a breath."

2. Not Dating, rated M: "They’re not dating, but Eddie spends a lot of time at Steve’s big house for someone who still technically lives in the local trailer park."

3. Sssex, rated M: "As a vampire, Eddie is content to drink from the wrists of his friends rather than steal from the hospital."

4. One More, rated G: "“Steve,” Eddie sighs into his boyfriend’s mouth, unable to hold back a grin."

5. Pick-Me-Up, rated E: "“Fuck,” Steve gasps, “I’m so… full… I can…. hardly… breathe.”"

6. Entwined, Growing Into Us, rated M: "Eddie watches blearily from his hospital bed as Steve, hands on his hips, bickers with Dustin over what is and what isn’t appropriate hospital visit etiquette."

7. Secret Admirer, rated T: "In the first few letters, Eddie had tried to disguise his handwriting."

8. A Lot to Look At, rated T: "“Eddie,” Steve whines with a little pout that Eddie doesn’t believe for a second."

9. Two Pieces of Furniture and a Hard Place, rated T: "Regardless of how much time Eddie has spent tracing over new stretch marks or absentmindedly playing with his new rolls like a stress ball, he wasn’t expecting this."

10. Rockstar Decades, rated T: "It's an amicable breakup."

———————

Okay, so aside from that last four word gut-punch, it looks like I don't really open with short sentences. I like setting a scene, or at least the vibe.

Tagging... pardon my perpetual inability to remember who writes and/or who's already been booped for this one already lol: @hotluncheddie @whimsicalwadewinstonwilson @wheneverfeasible @lawrencebshoggoth

[yelena-bellova]

UNLUCKY: A STRANGER THINGS STORY (OC) - CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Chapter Eighteen: Run Around

Series Masterlist l OC Profile

Plot: Christine scours Hawkins for Hopper and El and ends up at the Byers’ house.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: PTSD

—————

September 8th, 1977 // Somewhere in Indiana

Thirteen spent the whole day running. Through forests, through fields, past lakes…She had no idea how far she was from Hawkins Lab, but it wasn’t until nightfall that she felt safe enough to slow down.

The world was brand new to Thirteen. She had never seen a bridge or a car speeding down the road. When she made it to an underpass, loud and echoing the sounds of vehicles, she covered her ears and put as much distance as she could between her and the new fear.

She found her way to the next forest, settling at the base of a fat oak tree. As little as she knew, Thirteen knew she couldn’t ask anybody for help. They might take her back to Papa or send her somewhere worse. It was better to take her chances in the woods.

It was when she caught her breath and felt the chilly fall air on her skin that she realized something: she was alone. For the first time in her life there were no nurses or orderlies outside her door. Papa wasn’t stalking the halls. Her brothers and sisters weren’t there. She was completely on her own.

And it terrified her.

Thirteen’s breath became stuck in her throat, her chest began to tingle. Her eyes filled with tears that overflowed down her cheeks. Was she dying? What was happening? She needed help. She needed somebody. Anybody.

But there was no one to call for.

Curling her knees to her chest, she buried her face in her dirty, stained hospital gown. She was all she had now. Her freedom had come at a price, and that price was loneliness.

——————

November 2nd, 1984 // Hawkins, Indiana

At some point in the night, my body had forced me to sleep. I’d passed out on the floor without so much as a pillow.

When I woke up, my neck was sore and my head throbbed. It was late in the morning, 11:00. Way later than I’d have hoped to be up. I hazily glanced around, surveying the chaos my panic attack had thrown the cabin into. Pictures had fallen from the walls, the furniture was rearranged and the boards Hopper had just put up were splintered. It had been a long time since I’d lost control of my powers when experiencing intense emotion.

I stumbled to her feet on shaky legs, moving to the bedroom door and pushing it open. Against all odds, I was hoping that El had come back in the middle of the night. But the room was still empty.

Opening the front door next, I checked for Hopper’s truck unsuccessfully. What could have kept him out all night, I wasn’t sure. It must have had to do with Will.

I slumped over at the kitchen table. If I was on my own again, I had to come up with a plan. I wasn’t living on the streets anymore. I had resources, a whole town of them, and I could each one. Starting with the people.

Quickly washing a granola bar down with a glass of orange juice, I determinedly set off.

The first logical place to check was the Byers’. When I pulled up to the house, Hopper’s truck wasn’t there, but it was still worth checking. I banged on the door, probably too loud, until Joyce came to the door.

“Christine!”

“Hi,” I tried to smile, “I-I’m sorry to just show up but is Hopper here? Has he been here at all?”

Joyce pulled me into the house, “He-he was here last night, yeah. But he didn’t come back.”

“Well, do you know where he-“

The state of the house stole my speech. Across every wall were scribbled drawings forming some sort of pattern. The whole place was covered.

Something about them scared me. Almost as if I’d seen them before.

“Mrs. Byers…” I paused, “What is this?”

“Kinda wondering the same thing.”

I hadn’t even noticed Bob Newby, Joyce’s boyfriend, Mike and Will standing in the living room.

“Hi,” I distractedly said.

“Joyce,” Bob reached for her, “Can we talk a second?”

Joyce reluctantly let go of me and left the room with Bob, leaving me and the boys.

“Does anyone want to fill me in?” I asked.

Mike and Will exchanged a hesitant look.

“Really?” I sighed, “We’re keeping secrets now?”

“It’s complicated,” Mike said, “This is what Will’s seeing.”

That was what was so familiar. The shades and patterns were similar to what I’d seen and felt in Will’s mind during his episode.

“The field?” I looked to Will.

Looking scared and exhausted, Will nodded. “Yeah.”

“What are they?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Mike said.

Joyce had called Hopper over plenty of times when it came to Will. He went to every appointment at the lab with them. But this was something far more sinister.

“Where was Hopper going last night? Mrs. Byers said he didn’t come back.”

“We don’t know,” Will answered, “But…”

“But what?”

“…I think he’s in trouble.”

“What trouble?” I asked.

“I-I don’t know,” Will looked agitated, “But he’s in danger.”

There were too many factors at play for anything else to go wrong. Hopper had to be safe because I didn’t know what I was going to do if he wasn’t.

Bob and Joyce’s voices carried down the hall.

“Yeah, that’s, uh,” Bob pointed to one of the drawings, “Sattler’s quarry. And if you just follow it naturally…”

Mike, Will and I followed as Bob led Joyce down to another section of drawings.

“It moves to the Eno River,” he pointed, “And there it is. That’s the Eno, do you see it?”

We didn’t.

“Okay, so the lines aren’t roads,” Bob continued, “But they act like roads. And they act like roads ‘cause when you follow ‘em, you’ll see…” we walked through the kitchen, “They don’t go over water. And that’s the giveaway. That’s the giveaway.”

Bob looked very pleased with himself for figuring it out. “Don’t you get it? It’s not a puzzle, it’s a map. It’s a map of Hawkins!”

Examining the drawings under the pretense that they were just that, the scribbles did start to look like a map.

“Right, Will?” Bob asked.

Will looked just as surprised as the rest of us, and equally apprehensive.

Mike tugged on my jacket and dragged me to the fridge, pointing to a specific drawing with a big red X across it.

“That’s where Hopper is.”

“O-okay, so where’s that?” I asked, starting to panic. If he’d been missing since last night and was in danger, how much time did we have?

“We don’t know,” he explained.

“Hey, Joyce,” I could hear Bob call, “Do you have a ruler? I think I can figure this out!”

Amidst all the revelation with Will and Hopper, I’d set aside the task of finding Eleven. As much as I wanted to stay, I couldn’t.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I took a deep breath, “I have to go.”

“Wait, what? Why?” Mike asked.

“It’s complicated. But Hopper needed me to do it,” I answered, not totally lying. “You guys work on this.”

I made my way out to the dining room, where Will, Joyce and Bob were still congregated.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I explained, stopping them as they inhaled to ask questions, “I-It’s complicated but Hopper’ll kill me if I don’t get it done. I’ll be back before dark.”

Joyce followed me out to the front door, “Christine-“

I paused in the doorframe, still hesitant to walk away. If there was anyone I could let my guard down with, it was her. We wore the same fear in our eyes.

“Promise me you’re gonna find him?” I whispered.

Joyce nodded, “Of course.”

Before finding the strength to abandon one search for the other, I wrapped my arms around Joyce, who was already there to hold me.

Outside, I took a moment to breathe before biking away. Hopper was in danger, Will’s episodes somehow tied into it, and those episodes tied into the Upside Down. I had hope that El could survive on her own, but Hopper had nothing at his disposal. If he was in trouble, he needed to fight like hell to stay alive…

——————

Two more hours of biking around town provided fruitless results. I biked from one end of Hawkins to the other. I scoured every alleyway downtown. I checked the hospital, the school, the stores, anywhere that El had heard me mention in the past year. I climbed Weathertop, the highest point in Hawkins and affectionately nicknamed by the boys.

She was nowhere.

Finally, I got the bright idea to check the Wheeler’s house. If there was anywhere El would run to, it would be the first place Mike had brought her.

When I pulled up, Dustin was storming away from the front door. “Dustin?”

“Christine,” he exclaimed, “You were my first choice.”

“What? Where’s-“

“Nancy and Mike aren’t here,” he cut me off and gestured to our bikes, “Follow me back to my house.”

“Wait, Dustin-”

A car pulled up behind us, probably the last one I wanted to see at the moment. Steve’s BMW.

He got out, too wrapped up in conversation with himself to notice Dustin and I off to the side.

“Steve,” Dustin walked straight up to him, “Are those for Mr. or Mrs. Wheeler?”

Steve glanced at the roses in his hand, “No.”

It was then that we caught each other’s eye. We didn’t do more than register the other’s presence.

“Good,” Dustin grabbed the flowers and walked off.

“Hey,” Steve called, “What the hell? Hey!”

“Nancy isn’t home,” Dustin explained.

“Where is she?”

“Doesn’t matter. We have bigger problems than your love life,” Dustin walked up to Steve’s car and opened the passenger door. “Do you still have that bat?”

I couldn’t tell if Steve was playing or genuinely clueless, “Bat? What bat?”

“The one with the nails?”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain it on the way,” Dustin looked to me, “You didn’t lose your powers in the last twenty four hours, did you?”

“No, but I can’t help with whatever this is,” I argued.

“You said to call if there was ever a problem,” Dustin replied, “This is a problem.”

In the year that I’d been in Hawkins, the boys had never needed my help with more than a D&D campaign. If Dustin was finally asking, it had to be serious.

Steve and I glanced at one another, waiting for someone to give up answers they didn’t have.

“Now?” Steve asked as Dustin sat down in his car.

“Now!” He insisted.

The argument I wanted to make was invalid seeing as I couldn’t tell anyone anything about what I was doing. I had to trust I was being pulled away from my search for a really good reason.

Sparing a small glare at Steve, who didn’t look thrilled either, the two of us headed for the car.

————

Unlucky Taglist: @lanadelray1989 @smokefurball

[puddingpong]

🌈CSP Assets MasterList🌈

I use Clip Studio Paint a lot… and i am always checking the assets store

This is a big list of assets i find interesting/useful that are ✨free✨

🖌️Brushes

Belt Buckle

Scattering Papers

Bullet Band

Simple Rope

Wisteria Flowers

Rubble/Debris

Vertical Rocks

Pointy Rocks

Chains

Simple Chains

Floor Pattern

Wizard Bookshelf

Cartoon Leaf Brush

Large Foliage

Bushes

🛋️3d Furniture:

Modern Bookshelf

Antique Books

Chesterfield Antique Chair

Bookcase

Simple Computer Chair

2 seats Sofa

Armrest Chair

Office Chair

Fancy Chair

Celestial Globe Set

Simple Queen Bed

Bird Cage Chair

Toilet Set

Bunk Bed

Hospital Bed

⚙️3d Misc:

Angel Wings

Cogs

Helm

Wires

Cowboy Hat

Camera

Dog Muzzle

Valves

🏠3d Buildings / Structures / etc

Back Alley Wall

Cartoonish Back Alley

Mobile/Ice Cream Stand

Outside Asian Insp. Lantern

Tall Upscale building with 4 entrances

Medieval Market Stand

Fantasy city street

Mansion

Wooden School Hall

Boxing Ring

Multitenant Building

Sci-fi Door

City

Medieval Ruins

Throne Room

Big House

Iron Gate

Torii Gate

Japanese Style Room

Cliff Covered With Concrete Blocks

Medieval Shop Stand

Bus Seats

Boxing Hall

Simple Building Apartments

Sci-fi Medical Pod

Basic Ruins

Tiny Cafe Table Set

Tall Shopping Street Building

Shopping Street Building

Inside Castle Throne Room

Inside Castle Hall

Inside Castle Corridor

Skyscraper

Fantasy Castle/Church

🚲3d Vehicles

Racing Bike

Bicycle

⚔️3d Weapons

Nodachi Sword

Medieval Sword

Dart Gun

Pistol Parts

Automatic rifle

Futuristic Weapon Set

���3d Instruments:

Drum Set

Guitar

Electric Guitar

Electric Guitar (Mustang Type)

🌈Hope it helps? idk... bye bye🌈

[simcardiac-arrested]

nwb needs marketable themed items. nwb should be in smash bros. he should be in a shitty 2000's ps2 game based on a movie. He needs to be in warrior cats. nwb should be in home video footage. nwb needs to have a themed furniture set based on him. nwb should be a part of a viral meme format stock image. he needs to be flushed down like a dead pet fish. he should be a tf2 class. nwb should have a creature named after him. nwb should be a pattern in a patterned shirt. he needs to be found in good will. nwb needs to HELP MEEEE HEELPPPPPPPP SOMEBODY HELPPP

we should call the hospital on you