#the story all that is is telling to itself

[magicalpuppet]

"Are you new here? I’m new too." What if the one she met wasn't Frank at all?

If somebody is interested in the madness “theory”, I'll put it right under here.

Keep in mind before continuing: this is straight up just a theory/headcanon, I'm gonna share it without any other purpose than having fun theorizing. I put some points you can follow, I am sorry this is gonna be long and crazy.

So, I believe the puppet Julie met could be...Wally.

This whole madness was caused by Julie's story in the video "regard forgetfulness silence"...

The memory The way Julie is speaking seems off to me, as well as the way she recounts her first meeting with Frank.

She "think" that's how she met him, isn't it strange she can't recall precisely how she met the dearest puppet to her?

We know Julie have difficulties with her memory, but she seems to remember stuff that happened when hanging out with Frank, why the most important moment is so unclear to her?

This could mean that she can't remember the interaction correctly and that her memories are being heavily corrupted by something or that the whole thing is made up by someone.

The encounter

Even the encounter is iffy, the puppet she met doesn't seems to speak like Frank Does.

"Are you new here? I'm new too. My name is Frank"

This speech pattern sound more similar to Wally to me.

And after that, she says that he made a corny joke and she laughed at it, we know that Frank is not really the one who tells jokes. Heck, he is not even good at telling them.

You could argue about Wally and jokes too, he's not very skilled at telling them after all, but I can imagine two scenarios: -Him speaking normally and not realizing he is saying something funny to her. (this could apply to Frank too)

-His best friend love to tell jokes and we know that Barnaby encourage Wally to chat and tell jokes to the Neighbors, it could be that noticing she was scared he tried to tell a joke to her.

The fruit basket

Okay now I am really looking into stuff, I know, but why would Frank bring a big fruit basket around? Julie says it's because he was going to say hi to her but we know the friendliest neighbor in the whole place is Wally itself. Wouldn't it make more sense for him to be the one going to say hi?

The fruit basket could also just be related to Wally going out into the woods to paint a still life since he is a painter.

“Was he mad?”

She was worried that "Frank" was mad at her when they met.

Strange, because Frank emotions are very easy to read, he's a very expressive puppet. We also know that when he feel a very strong emotion (like being mad) his head spins. Why she would question it? If it was Wally, his emotions are more difficult to read and it could be that she didn't understood his intentions immediately.

Wally itself

The fact she bring up Wally while recalling Frank's meeting is strange too. She says she met Wally the same day, why not meeting the whole neighborhood then? Maybe it was just them at the beginning and it would make sense in that case.

But Wally comes up at the end of the audio asking "Did all that really happen, Julie?" like he is asking her like all of that was made up or straight up incorrect.

Aaand I'm done! I'm not even sure any of this makes sense to anyone else, but it was stuck with me since the update and I wanted to draw it and share it.

Maybe it was Frank, maybe it was really Wally, maybe it never happened in the first place but... Everything sound too strange to be as the story says.

And don't get me wrong with all of this! I love Frank and Julie relationship a lot, I am not going against them in any way. I like to go deep inside the stories I am following and I speculate a lot about stuff! (Also I wanna apologize if my english is not the best, it's not my first language)

[transpondster]

From Vanity Fair:

Characters are mired in the frustrating and dangerous process of praxis, their opponents gaining ever more power and ever more willingness to flamboyantly wield it. Gilroy and his writers carefully, patiently spend season two building their way back to righteous fire. What begins as a murmur of dread gradually crescendos into a poignant and stirring vision of revolution’s cost, its noble sacrifices and bitter losses. It’s high drama that stretches across multiple years, and yet is done with a delicate, intimate touch. We peek into so many inner lives throughout the season, even those of seemingly small and ultimately insignificant characters.

In so doing, Andor draws a line between the faraway fantasy of Star Wars and our own sorry, deteriorating world. Corny as it may be to say, the series feels wholly responsive to the here and now, admirably firm in its messaging, its allusion, its allegory. Gilroy is tracing a hard but perhaps necessary path toward better, all housed within an IP television series playing on a streaming service owned by Disney. Andor is a remarkable anomaly, an aberration in the system that challenges everything around it to be smarter, more principled—and, frankly, better made.

From New York Magazine [full review is behind a paywall]:

This second season doesn’t just cement the show’s standing as the best Star Wars project ever made. .... Andor reorients that fantasy in the service of something greater than itself. Its tale of political awakening, rebellion, and the struggle against fascism is so vibrant that it wills you to gaze back up at the stars — and at your own world — with wonder. Andor is a miracle, and we’d be so lucky if we see something like it ever again.

From Vulture [warning: spoilers in this review of episode 8]:

The canniness of ['Andor'], though, is how many other movements it simultaneously evokes, and how it urges us to make connections between what’s happening to the Ghor in this fiction and what’s happened in our reality. Yes, Tarkin Massacre survivor and hotel bellhop Thela telling Cassian that “Rebellions are built on hope” is a tear-inducing little backstory for when Cassian says the same line in Rogue One: A Star Wars Story. But more compelling than that Easter egg is how episode eight pushes this kind of subjugation beyond the realm of galactic abstraction and grounds it in our own earthly reality. The Ghor’s “The galaxy is watching!” chant is a spin on “The whole world is watching” mantra first used during the civil-rights movement and anti–Vietnam War protests. The Empire’s outsize violence toward the mostly unarmed Ghor isn’t unlike U.S. police response to racial-justice demonstrations. And the shadow of the Israel-Hamas war that began in between the series’ two seasons, resulting in the leveling of Gaza and increased violence toward Palestinians in the West Bank, looms large over all of this.

ANDOR 2.06 | What a Festive Evening

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: How they’ll show their possessiveness

Hello and welcome to this new reading of mine! In here I will tell you how your future spouse will show their possessiveness. I hope you enjoy it and find it interesting!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

The extended version of this reading is found on my Patreon, the link of which is here

Pile 1:

Your future spouse uses their words to show they’re possessive, and honestly? They’re kind of good at it. It’s not all ‘you’re mine’ 24/7, but it does come out in the way they talk about you. Especially when you’re not there. Around friends, they’ll casually say things like ‘’my partner does that too’’ or ‘’they always say this.’’ and it has that subtle ‘mine’ energy to it. Like they’re proud, as if they won the prize, but without making it weird or dramatic. They also have this way of constantly reminding people without being obvious that you’re theirs. They’ll bring up cute things you do, facts about you, little stories that make it clear they know you better than anyone. Anything in order to make people realise that they know you best, that they’re the closest person to you.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 2:

Your future spouse is definitely the physical touch type. That’s how they show they’re yours, and you’re theirs. Expect lots of hand-holding, arms around your shoulders or neck, standing close behind you, a hand on your thigh when you sit next to each other. Basically, they’ll want to be touching you all the time in some way, it’s like second nature to them. Not in a pushy or over-the-top way, though, they won’t do anything that would make you feel awkward, like deep kissing in front of a big group. It’s more about their presence; a warm, subtle kind of ‘mine’. But that possessiveness? It really shows itself when someone else comes into the picture, someone they feel even slightly threatened by. That’s when they start acting a little different.

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 3:

Your future spouse is the silent, intense type when it comes to being possessive. They’re not loud, they’re not touchy, and they don’t say much, but when someone’s pushing boundaries? you’ll feel it. Their whole vibe changes; suddenly they’re just standing a little too close behind you, arms crossed or hands in their pockets, dead silent but watching everything. It’s a full-on energy shift. They don’t have to say a single word though, people just get it. They’re not the ‘make a scene’ kind of jealous, not at all, but more like ‘stand here and make everyone uncomfortable until they walk away’ kind. You’ll notice the tension in their body language. The jaw clenched, the quiet stare. It’s honestly kind of intimidating, but only toward people who are stepping over the line.

extended reading > paid readings

[oltammefru]

I've been thinking recently about Theresa and the end of Ep14 and her creating Civilight Eterna, and the question of like: Was she aware of the consequences of her actions? That doing so would extremely fuck up her loved ones, Kal'tsit most of all? The more I think about it the more I come to think that the answer is "yes, but she did it anyway."

Her behavior at the end of EP14 is kind of insane because like, despite how willing she is personally to sacrifice herself for the good of the future and how she tells Kal'tsit "My dear Kal'tsit, since we're all clear about our respective endings, why should we go through sorrow yet again?", at the same time she's like not really willing to let go either. (Think about how the moment she is out of sight, she goes on a mad scramble throughout time itself because she needs so, so, so desperately to know, if she can't have anything else, that her loved ones are ok. She says one thing, but then does another.)

Despite the path that she had chosen and her determination and willingness to see it through, at the end of it all she still doesn't want to go, she is still the person who listened in wonder to Kal'tsit as she told her stories about Terra, the world outside of Kazdel that she wanted to but never got to see, she is still the one who wanted to be able to hold Amiya and read her bedtime stories and assuage her of her nightmares, she is still the one who wanted to be there for her loved ones, in whatever form she can.

And despite all her willingness to sacrifice, and the selflessness of almost all her deeds, she is still in many ways a selfish person (which she acknowledges herself). This is one of the central contradictions of her character, that despite her selflessness, she is characterized majorly by a few specific, extremely, extremely selfish choices of such enormity that they arguably outweigh all of her selflessness. She passed on the crown to a 10 year old child (and Theresa knew Amiya would accept, since she is like that, even though it's not a question that Amiya could given an actual, non-coerced answer to) because so believed she could carry on her ideals, she erased the Doctor's memories both to free them from the shackles of their past, but also to shape them into the person she wanted them to be to best carry out her ideals.

There is such a delightful hypocrisy to this. She, in some sense, wanted desperately, in that selfish core of hers, more than anything else, was to live a life where she was free from the burdens of the past and the shackles of fate, but she still forced that onto Amiya. At the end of Babel, she is walking toward her literal death, but she is still vaguely aware of how death works for the Sarkaz, that she will return to the Originium but still exist in some form, and so she is still hopeful about this: "it's time to say goodbye… we'll meet again in the future won't we… Kal'tsit… Amiya… Doctor." But this time, it really is the end for her, after this there will be nothing left of her, it is a total and complete annihilation of the self. (Which, the thing about this is that like, she deleted the Doctor's identity and subjected them to this, but is unwilling and scared to go through it herself). Despite her virtues and her selflessness, despite what she tells Kal'tsit about partings and endings, she is scared.

The thing about Theresa is that she is a hypocrite, but she is a hypocrite in a highly specific and interesting way. If you pay attention to depictions of Theresa throughout the story, she is someone who believes that fate can be overcome, that the cycle of violence can be broken, except when it comes to specifically herself, for which she is incredibly, incredibly pessimistic, and believes that she's a failure and was unable to break free from her fate. ("To change a man is to make them believe, to make them believe is to destroy their faith, nothing can save such a lost soul.", "But yet, there is no antidote to loneliness, there is no end to nomadic wandering, there is no cure to a terminal illness..." etc.) This is why she's willing to do what she does in Ep14, intentionally choosing to perpetuate the cycle of violence and inflict suffering on other people for the ends of her (and her people) and this something that she fully acknowledges and is perfectly ok with doing in Ep14 even though she could have just like, not. She chooses to act against her ideals because she is a failure, a victim of fate, the sacrifice on top of which the future will be built, an obstacle that the true idealists must and will overcome. She is a hypocrite because she believes that Amiya/the Doctor/Kal'tsit are better people than her, that they are capable of doing what she isn't, and so she is willing to subject them to standards that she doesn't apply to herself.

She can't bear the idea that this is it, that there will be no more of her left, and is willing to do anything to assuage this, and so she makes CE, so she can linger and be there for her loved ones in whatever form possible. I think in this there is a conscious understanding that doing this will hurt her loved ones, and especially Kal'tsit most of all. It's not something she wants to do, but she thinks of Amiya/the Doctor/Kal'tsit as better people than her. She is deliberately doing something that will hurt them yes, but they are strong, and will get through this, like they always have. But herself? She is scared, she has nothing left and soon she will be nothing at all. And so (like she always has), she chooses to go out with one last moment of selfishness.

[notthegrouch]

The oldest story in human knowledge is hypothesized to be 100 thousand years old: many cultures all around the world have a story to explain why the constellation of Pleiades (6 stars) is called the 7 sisters or something similar, with a lot of stories involving stars in the constellation of Orion (or the constellation itself) as the hunter(s) being the cause of one of those stars being missing.

Astronomically speaking, the reason why there's only six stars in that constellation is because one of those six is actually two stars, one behind the other. And because we can calculate how fast those stars move in the sky, we know when they were visually distinct as two stars in the sky to the naked eye: 100 thousand years ago.

You gotta put into perspective that all that humans had invented at this point in time were clothes, fire and stone tools.

Pottery was invented 75 thousand years after we started telling this story, agriculture 90 thousand years, and the wheel 96 thousand years. It's even very likely that the invention of bow and arrows are younger than this story!

So for thousands and thousands of years, people lived as basic farmers and nothing much changed drastically when it comes to culture and devices used to make life easier. For most of human history, the way your great grandparents lived was the way your great grandchildren will live too.

A thousand years can be a drastic change if your worldbuilding resembles medieval earth, but it can also be a relative blink of an eye, if we're talking about prehistory. And human memory, even without writing, can in fact remember stories from such deep times, IF it's written in the stars or used in daily life.

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[highway-143]

webbed- nishimura riki -TEASER-

genre: fluff, smut, strangers to lovers, spider man au

pairing: black spiderman!riki x fem!reader

taglist: @urlocalmultigroupfan @minkilicious @vrusha01 @planetmarlowe @mrsjjongstby @drnkdz

word count: 5k+

now playing: sunflower- post malone and swae lee (lol kinda a duh) & damn- fujii kaze

tw: blood, guns, sex, bdsm undertones, needles, death

(mostly proofread but idc atp bro. just live with the typos ToT)

all scenarios are fake and are not meant to represent any idol in the story

×××××××

economics homework sucks.

but that's a given, isn't it?

who in the world actually enjoyed comparing the tax rates of 10 different countries and writing a 20,000 word essay about them for the final?

you certianly didn't. and yet here you were, seated at the desk in your room. its surface was littered with borrowed library books, notes, and your computer. the screen was open to a google doc, two pages already filled out.

you check the word count.

1,009 words

shit.

you prop your elbows on the desk, your head in your hands.

who the fuck thought this class would be required for a marketing degree?

you hear rain start to patter on the window of your dorm. the sprinkles collecting on the pane, blurring the lights coming from the city.

you lived for tokyo at night. the way the lights from apartments lit up the darkness like stars when the real stars were covered in the haze of a storm. the way the neon lights from shops lining the street. it felt so beautiful. how the city came alive when the rest of the world was quiet.

that's when you hear it.

skrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeee

tires. on pavement.

you jump up from your chair and onto the miniscule balcony that connected to your dorm. it was hard to make out from the fourth story, but you saw an suv swerving through the road. its tail spun out of control on the slick ground, almost crashing into patrons walking out of akasaka, the hostess bar across the street.

people screamed, the sounds of fear echoing off the tall buildings around the chaos.

you screamed too.

because a black figure swooped right in front of you, and you jumped so hard, you almost fell over.

spiderman

you watch as the shadowlike hero makes his way closer and closer to the suv.

the car skids to a stop as a flying web sticks to it, the other end already attatched to a rung on the side of your building. the tires helplessly turn against the pavement, but to no avail.

"going somewhere?" asks the deep voice, what you assumed was spiderman.

you couldn't see him though.

he dissapeared.

your eyes scour the scene, trying to find the source. all you see are two japanese men, both heavily muscled and in their late thirties.and then another, exiting from the cab of the van.

he was pale, paler than you had ever seen. an albino, white hair styled meticulously with a ocean blue streak through the slicked back strands. his eyes were covered in sunglasses, even at night. his frame was long, thin, and looked somewhat malnourished. he wore a white trench coat over a white tutleneck and ivory pants.

he looked like a ghost.

"spiderman" he says, a thick french accent in his speech. "didn't expect to meet you tonight." his voice is cold, a piercing ice. "why don't you show yourself, hmm?"

"i think i'll stay where i am, thanks" says spiderman, his voice coming from somewhere below and to the right of where you stood on the balcony. "the real question, is why are you here, givré? what business do you have in japan?"

the albino, givré, chuckles. there's no warmth behind the laughter though. "why on earth would i tell you?"

"okay, don't then." you watch as a web shoots out from a balcony below you, attaching itself to givré's mouth, sending him stumbling backward into the side of the car.

the two mercenaries aim guns at the balcony. you hadn't even realized that they had them. the taller of the two fires, and you clap your hand over your mouth.

but nothing.

the balcony is empty.

you know you should go back inside. hide. not get killed.

but you can't stop watching.

because when the men turn around to help givré, spiderman is already standing behind them.

givré is struggling against the web on his mouth, trying to pry it off with his fingers. spiderman stands next to him, arms crossed. "you really thought that would work?" he asks, amused.

the street is almost completely cleared of bystanders now, only a few dumb tourists on the sidewalk with phones recording the scene. idiots.

the shorter man charges, almost like a rhino, and grabs spiderman by the waist, tackling him to the ground. the hero flips around and hooks a leg around the man's shoulder. "god, i didn't think i would be getting freaky today-" he says as his groin is pushed into the struggling face of the gaurd.

you can't help but laugh as spiderman kicks out of confinement.

and then you scream.

because another gunshot rang through the street.

and this time, it hit its mark.

×××××××

a.n- yooo im so excited for this one!! comment for perm/singular taglist :D

[dailyadventureprompts]

artsource

Manifestations: a homebrew mechanic for running spirits, gods, and otherworldly entities

Tell me if this sounds familiar: you’ve had your party on the trail of some dastardly cultists who are looking to summon a demon lord or lovecraftian horror for whatever reason. The summoning happens (because of course it does, you've been looking forward to this bossfight) and over the next 3-5 rounds of combat all the tension and dread you've been building up over the past half dozen sessions evaporates as the party wipes the floor with your supposed big bad.

While you perhaps could have planned that encounter a little better, the problem here isn’t with the fight itself:  it’s the narrative expectations you wanted to set up (a threat beyond what the heroes are equipped to handle) clashing with the combat system the game runs on (which is purposefully geared in the party’s favour).

Speaking from experience, throwing tougher and tougher monsters at your players won’t fix this discrepancy because you're still running these encounters the same way you'd run any other fight. We're well past the era of the TPK, so we need a way to make these encounters feel epic without just pumping the boss's stats and damage output beyond reason.

The solution? Make your party EARN that bossfight. The moment you let them roll initiative your party is going to be intent on whittling them down to 0HP, so make them jump through some narrative and gameplay hoops before beforehand. I've got my system and my reasoning behind the readmore but if you want the TLDR: Higher order monsters (especially those with an extraplaniear nature) don't hit the battlefield immediately. Instead they exist as curses, hazards, or even regional effects for the party to avoid while working on various objectives to bring the monster's "manifestation" score up. Once It's hit a certain point, the monster is forced to take on a physical form the party can fight in the regular way.

Before we get into the nitty gritty, I figure it's important to explain WHY you might want a mechanic rather than handwaving the bossmonster's invulnerability:

Having a codified mechanic gives your party a concrete goal, even if they're initially unsure of the steps to reach it. Just like hitpoints in combat or successes during a skill challenge, working towards points of manifestation makes their progress non-arbitrary.

It also divides the encounter with the big bad into distinct "phases" , one where they can't damage it until they do some problem solving, and another that can be solved through regular combat.

One of the advantages of this system is that it lets you address narrative challenges in a way that aligns with d&d's mechanics: Getting rid of a generational family curse with a simple use of restoration or dispel magic is anticlimactic, whereas performing an exorcism only to have the curse manifest as some manyeyed thing of grasping limbs for a showdown is not only a good way to squeeze a fight in where there wasn't one before, it's also rad as hell.

Non-Manifested monsters should still be a threat in their own way, whether that's because of the danger they pose in the story or some negative effect that threatens the party during their adventure/encounter. You can picture a haunted manor filling with dread and horrific visions before the ghost ever makes an appearance, or the dragon helping a besieging army doing the occasional flyby attack on the party while they're fending off the invaders.

How Manifestation works: To Make a monster manifest the party need to achieve a number of manifestation points equal to the creature's proficiency bonus X2. Exactly how they obtain these points depends largely on the scale of the encounter. A dungeon's endboss might be manifested after the party slay its summoner and destroy the prerequisite number of arcane crystals growing throughout the ruins, while adventure level villains might require the party to undertake entire subquests to move the needle. Here's some examples:

Researching occult information like the creature's true name

Performing a ritual (skill challenge) at a place of power

Defeating the monster's lieutenants

Destroying the things that anchor its power, one ring style

Personally pissing it off in the time honoured tradition of adventurers everywhere.

Making sacrifice at the appropriate shrines

Invoking the aid of supernatural allies who may ask favours in return

Conversely, you might run an encounter where the goal is to STOP the creature from manifesting (such as the ever classic "force the lovecraftian tentacle monster back in the portal"). This gives the fight an alternate win condition, which is really useful when you want to preview an endgame threat without expecting your party to go toe-to-toe with something WAY above their challenge rating.

[intuitive-revelations]

Jumbled thoughts and theories on belief and metaphysical engines, the Nexus, and fate of the Web of Time...

"Do all those gods seriously exist (not just as alien fakes) in the DW universe? How did the Doctor supposedly meet them?"

Keep in mind, belief making something real is hardly a new theme for DW. The most obvious example for this would be belief in the Doctor being able to empower him in The Last of the Time Lords.

We also know that every story has a place in reality, with the Land of Fiction, not to mention the Doctor's own statement in The Gallifrey Chronicles:

"My dear, one of the things you'll learn is that it's all real. Every word of every novel is real, every frame of every movie, every panel of every comic strip."

But I hear you. Suppose, for example, we want a more concrete example of this applied to religion:

Look no further than the series I've long batted for: Class.

In "The Metaphysical Engine, or What Quill Did", Quill, Ballon and Dorothea literally travel into several afterlife realms using something called "the reliquary", or a "metaphysical engine".

DOROTHEA: This, as best we can tell, is a 'metaphysical engine'. QUILL: Metaphysics? Metaphysics aren't real. It's just thought. DOROTHEA: Everything in the universe is conserved. Everything. Even belief. Get millions of creatures believing something strongly enough for long enough and even space responds.

Quill even gets to meet (and fight) the goddess of her own people:

"Ok, so there is a device that can take you into a theoretical space where beliefs are real, you haven't answered how the Doctor is going about meeting these gods."

Is now a good time to mention that the metaphysical engine is bigger on the inside?

"Yeah, but so are a lot of things, even the Barber's ship..."

Except, there really is more here. Because the TARDIS itself is a metaphysical engine. Canonically. Explicitly.

In the First Doctor Short Trip "Every Day", the TARDIS actually ends up seemingly landing in a man's head, as he struggles to come to terms with his wife having an affair, which manifests as a time loop. Once it's broken, they suddenly find themselves far gone from the loop:

"What happened?" asked Ian, looking around in shock. One minute they had been in the house, the next they were on their way. "I don't know for sure," said the Doctor. "But my TARDIS, you see, is a metaphysical engine. It can travel through all the dimensions related to space and time. It's possible that, on this occasion, we entered the dimension of one man's mind. One man's imagination."

Other stories have similarly seen the TARDIS breach into metaphysical space, even at one point physically landing in the Doctor's own mind in the VNAs.

Some of the Doctor's other meetings with legendary, mythical, or fictional characters (even on-screen: the Devil, Robin Hood, Santa Claus etc.) start to also make a bit more sense, don't they?

This all perhaps also shouldn't feel that incongruous, considering we had the Doctor literally end-up in Bethlehem in time for the birth of Christ just this Christmas (even if that one wasn't itself by the TARDIS).

This, perhaps, also sheds light on how the Barber's plan really was going to work.

I mentioned in my live reaction that the "World Wide Web / Nexus" strongly resembled the idea of the Web of Time (with "signals" even being transmitted through it in a way resembling the Matrix). Well the Web of Time, in expanded universe lore, is partially constructed through something called the "Observer Effect", in which temporal probabilities become fixed in history, named after the real-life effect in quantum physics. Through this, history becomes fixed by those that perceive it - designed to enforce Time Lord dominance over history.

For an in-show example, think of the laws of fixed points established by The Angels Take Manhattan: if you read your own future, you fix it into being. This is one reason why the Time Lords ostensibly forbid Time Lords from interacting with one's own past or future, despite the many times we've seen this violated.

I'd make an argument that the Nexus, if it's not literally connected to the Web of Time in some way, effectively serves a similar purpose. Just as observers can shape history, the Nexus allows believers to shape reality, via the effect Dorothea mentioned previously. By controlling it, the gods secure their own existence, just as controlling the Web of Time secures that of the Time Lords. If it is destroyed, those stories are lost, just as history as we know it is transformed by the degradation of the Web of Time.

This may sound like a lot of fanwank, but I have a suspicion that this kind of thinking with regards to the Web of Time is good to keep in mind over the next few episodes.

I theorised after Episode 1 that the TARDIS trying to "pull" itself back to Earth via the Web of Time is what resulted in those various landmarks somehow ending up pulled into the middle of space between MissBelindaChandra-1 and the Earth. That these represented sort-of "node points" in the Earth's history as represented in the Web, and by continuing to pull when it couldn't arrive, the TARDIS had actually pulled them towards it, rather than the other way round.

One episode on, and we get the "vindicators", devices designed to do exactly what I just said!

DOCTOR: We land anywhere, and the vindicator casts out a signal, like a fishing line - whoosh! - to May 24th, 2025, and we use it to pull the TARDIS in like a hook. So we must land.

ANOTHER episode later, and it's revealed that Mrs. Flood (hey remember she said she literally wanted to seize God's kingdom?) actually wants the Doctor to be using the vindicators? We also discover, even more concerningly, that Earth's future history, despite its significance to the universe, has been completely erased.

Next week in Episode 4, we get a relatively grounded episode, that ends with someone "rejecting the Doctor's reality", who is then seemingly recruited by Flood.

Finally, this week, we get this: a story of someone determined to control / tear down a Web stretched over time and space.

Put all this together with the ongoing decline in Rassilon's established laws of rationality, which started after the devastation of Gallifrey in Series 12 and the creation of the Flux, but accelerated after the Doctor fell to the point of using superstition outside the bounds of the Time Lord noosphere in Wild Blue Yonder, and what we know about the final two episodes, including episode titles (which I won't repeat here for spoilers), and it quickly starts to seem like Mrs. Flood might be planning to tear apart the Web of Time.

This may admittedly seem like a bit too much for casual viewers, but the vindicator element at least I'm feeling pretty confident with. If this WILL actually connect to the Web of Time, we'll see, but today's episode didn't exactly dissuade me...

[worldbuilding-tomfoolery]

That's so wild and such a cool story!!! I'm not surprised he came up with that; I think for any mormon who earnestly, endlessly engages with doctrine and doesn't decide it's untrue and leave, it's kind of inevitable for them to end up in deeply weird and horrifying places, belief-wise.

Also, I've independently come to a story that has a lot in common with this O: I don't believe it, per se, but I think it would be really lovely and sensemaking if we were all just fragments of a massive Entity of Everything, occasionally cutting pieces of itself off to go have fun, come back, and tell it about our adventures. I think of the endless separation-reformation cycle as its version of breathing :)

The Mormon Heretic, and the Leviathan

I have decided to make an explanation of how a Mormon heretic gave me the idea for my short story, Leviathan. It is very long explanation, mostly focused on the fascinating theology the heretic created on accident. The explanation of how it led to the story will only be at the end. You have been warned.

So, a short explanation of the heretic: He was a seminary teacher of mine that had deep dived into theology and Jungian analysis and the views that he'd come out with were just... fascinating. He didn't really consider this stuff heresy, because he didn't think it wasn't directly disagreeing with normal doctrine, just adding stuff into the margins. I think that his definition of Godhood and the nature of God was so alien that it was essentially an entirely new religion wearing the same terminology as the old one like a skinsuit. Calling it Christian would be stretching the word to the point of meaninglessness. And without further adieu, his beliefs: He was big on the idea that Jesus/God and GOD/Elohim were separate entities. He based this on the fact that Elohim refers to a plurality, while there are later words for God that are purely singular. He'd envisioned this sort of weird cycle where the God Cluster (Or Big God, or Elohim, or the Monad, he used a lot of terms for it) is this sort of outside-of-time entity that encompasses everything in an unconstrained sense. To exist in this way is to be incomprehensibly lonely, because there is literally nothing in the world but you. So it would, occasionally, go mad and cut out a temporary pocket of reality where it could not go. Sort of the "God creating a rock so heavy that It could not lift it" moment. This God-Cluster would then manifest a sort of physical reflection of itself in these constrained spheres, a self-that-was-not-the-self. That physical unself would go through apotheosis as a rite of passage, to create something different enough from the Monad that it would temporarily alleviate the isolation of being everything. So the God that there was with Eve and Adam was basically just a fetus-demiurge, and the reason that paradise failed was because it was still learning how to not suck at being a God. That was Lesson 1. Lesson 2 was the flood, which was really important because it was, according to Heretic Teacher, the first time that God felt shame. It had not blamed itself for the loss of Eden, it had blamed us, but this time it knew that it had overreacted. After Lesson 2, it spent a couple thousand years mulling over why it kept failing to predict humans and decided to try being one. That was Lesson 3, and the experience went so unbelievably badly that it decided it wasn't going to keep micromanaging us until it got its own shit together. It also gave it quite a bit more sympathy for us in our condition, and basically promised us that it was going to be nice to us, and to please be nicer to each other. This whole little thing relates to the prompt because, in his eyes, the grand cycle of existence seems to be based around the higher powers creating separations within themselves to avoid loneliness, with the goal of each split to be finding a way to reform into the big thing again, thesis-anthesis-synthesis style. We were mini-runs of the demiurge, who was using us to try and understand Itself, and It was in turn a mini-run of the monad, who was using it to try and understand itself and also as a way to pretend that it is two things, because being the only thing is very lonely. In this context, I made the Leviathan as the singular state, and humans as the sort of temporary split within it. That's why it eats people. We were always part of it. We were just a weird embarrassing stage in its life cycle.

As for why the flood is a recurring motif, that teacher talked a lot about the flood. He was fascinated with it, considered it the primary sin of God against man, and in turn, a sin by God against Itself. That one day, as we progressed back to unity with mini-God, all of our pain would become Its pain, and that as it progressed back to unity with the Monad, our pain would because its pain, and that in this way, even the Gods would be held accountable for forcing us to deal with some amateur hour schmuck of a deity for the first several thousand years of our existence. The universe is just a lonely god trapped in a room, arguing with a sock puppet, and occasionally getting so heated that it punches the sock puppet into the wall and hurts itself.

I don't even know how he came up with this number, but he'd estimated that something like a trillion people died in the first flood, which was comparable to how many people had died since. Even as a teenager, I had this weird realization that the synthesized proto-monad of our world was going to be comprised mainly of drowned, which was unsettling. Our world was the world of the drowned God.

I could write more about the weirdness of this guy. He was fucking fascinating, both because of his beliefs, and also because he genuinely viewed himself as a normal Mormon. But this is how that guy accidentally helped me write cosmic horror. By truly and genuinely believing in one.

[timoogi]

Pupa Project 🦋

“Lepidoptera Lunatic Asylum prides itself on reshaping misfortunate minds and progressing humanity’s understanding of the inner psyche. Here in Lepidoptera, we ensure to rehabilitate those thought to be broken beyond repair. And if reintroduction into society will not work, they will be safe and happy in our helping hands.”

𝒩𝑜 𝓃𝑜 𝓃𝑜! 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓈! 𝑅𝓊𝒷𝒷𝒾𝓈𝒽! 𝒜𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝒾𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓅𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒿𝒶𝓂 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒! 𝒰𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝓎 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓈! 𝒲𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝑔𝓇𝑒𝑒, 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇?

Welcome to Pupa Project! 🦋

Pupa Project is a personal oc project that I have been working on for a bit now. Originally starting from the creation of the main character in the series, Blythe Waldrop, I grew increasingly attached to her story, themes, and universe. Because of how much this project means to me, I plan to at least attempt to make Pupa Project into a visual novel. Pupa Project is my means of regaining control on an often ill-portrayed narrative. Growing up schizophrenic, I have acquired many opinions, thoughts, ideas, and experiences I feel many may have not even considered. Pupa Project is my love letter not just to my fellow psychotic people, but I think, most importantly, to the child me that didn’t think they’d ever recover.

Disclaimer: All character developments and scenes are mostly inspired by my lived experience. Please understand that everything is a spectrum and this project is solely based on symptoms I have dealt with personally. Some things may also be historically inaccurate for the time period in favor of telling a story!

𝒩𝑜𝓌! 𝒮𝒽𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓃?

(art/introduction sheets below!)

Blythe Waldrop — Age: 11 — The youngest patient in the asylum!

Blythe Waldrop is a truly remarkable little girl! From a young age, she understood very well that she was different. Often times at social events, she would be picked on or teased until eventually other kids started avoiding her all together! She spoke oddly to them, lacked cheerful smiles or bratty frowns, and was content watching ants march around her feet carrying crumbs of cake instead of playing. She often told her mother and father of things she heard and saw, to which they believed to be just part of an active imagination. However, at one such important social gathering displaying her mother’s newest art collection, Blythe became completely untethered from reality and was tormented by visions and beliefs unfit for a productive member of society. In her wake, she had torn apart the art pieces she believed to be watching her, taunting her, and made quite a scene in front of her family’s high-society friends. As you can imagine, this did not go over well with her dear mother and father.

Now at Lepidoptera Asylum, Blythe remains aloof (when she’s not having outbursts.) Doctor after doctor have tried to treat her, but to no avail. The other patients don’t look her way, some out of fear and some out of disinterest. They wonder if she even feels… How does someone so young end up so mad?

Henrietta Vivian Davis — Age: 18 — The liveliest patient in the asylum!

Henrietta is an energetic force! In young adolescence, Henrietta proved to be very opinionated, very sociable, to the point where it was hard to keep her ‘on track.’ Coming from a very wealthy family, there were expectations for the young girl. She must hold her tongue, she must be polite and demure, however, no matter how hard she tried, these things did not come naturally to her. Worrying for their daughter’s future, Henrietta was arranged to be married to a much older man at the age of 17. Henrietta fought this tooth and nail, but there was nothing she could do. While in her fiancé’s company, he would prove to be very… forceful. As the days got closer to their wedding ceremony, and his touchiness seemed to get worse, Henrietta decided there was only one way out. Having vast knowledge of medieval torture methods and historical assassinations, Henrietta got the idea to poison his drink while at a family dinner. This plan ultimately failed, and when it was discovered that Henrietta had attempted to kill him, the courts ruled that she was criminally insane. She was sent to Lepidoptera Asylum by court order.

In the asylum, she seems to be overjoyed! She speaks to anyone who will listen, wanders around gleefully, and is happy to be far away from her family and ex-fiancé. The only thing that causes her agitation is when male staff or patients approach her. She has a tendency to lash out should they get too close.

Thomas Phillipps — Age: 23 — The gentlest patient in the asylum!

Thomas has always been sure of two things: 1) Who he is, and 2) The world is dangerous and completely unpredictable. As a child, Thomas expressed many worries and had peculiar habits to soothe his overthinking. In social settings, he always had great discomfort in how he was supposed to dress and act and speak. Noticing these patterns, his mother and father asked him one day what would make him happy. Finally being given some control over his own life, Thomas expressed his desire to be seen as male, and his family helped him from then on out. Thomas’ father taught him many things, mostly everything to do with blacksmithing. However, as he grew, his worries grew with him. Intrusive thoughts paralyzed him and made him severely anxious around sharp tools. The what ifs swirled in his head and he grew increasingly troubled by such obsessive thoughts. To make matters worse, rumors of Thomas being born a female started to circulate in their well-off community. Paranoid that his parents might take the brunt of such accusations, and his anxieties keeping him from being able to defend them, Thomas sought out medical treatment for his obsessions and compulsions and was ultimately recommended to Lepidoptera.

Once he got settled into the asylum, Thomas feels a tad more at ease. He figures that if anything were to happen, he is away from the public and he cannot harm them. The only downside is that doctors and nurses insist his identity is also the product of insanity. He strongly disagrees and stands his ground in that regard.

Amaryllis Cook — Age: 35 — The delicatest patient in the asylum!

Amaryllis is a very warm soul! That’s why it is such a shame her mind has become something that torments her. She hadn’t been like this in her past. No, as a child and young woman, Amaryllis was bright and cheerful. She was incredibly skilled with needlework, happily married to her husband, and they lived in the perfect home where they wanted to raise children. There was just one problem, one the happy couple couldn’t possibly have known. Amaryllis couldn’t have children. They had tried to conceive multiple times, only for it to end in devastation. With each failed attempt, Amaryllis felt herself slipping further and further into the dark. The last strike was when they finally did conceive, but the child had died in the birthing process. This was the last straw. Amaryllis became inconsolable, maddened by grief and guilt and disappointment. Her husband tried to be her rock, but even he could not keep her safe from herself. He had taken her to see a doctor, and at the doctor’s suggestion, he admitted her to Lepidoptera Asylum.

In the asylum, Amaryllis is one of the more rowdy patients. She lashes out in hysterical, crying fits, making every attempt to “punish” herself for what she believes is her fault. Her depressive state only worsened when she realized her husband was not coming to visit her. Because of the danger she poses to herself, she is usually kept calm with newfound sedatives.

Doctor Laurence Caldwell — Age: 46 — The newest doctor in the asylum!

Not much is known about Dr. Caldwell, and he prefers to keep it that way. A man of mysterious origin, he has been recently hired at Lepidoptera Asylum and has big plans for progress. Dr. Caldwell is unlike most doctors of his time, mild mannered and pragmatic, he is immensely trustworthy both in the eyes of patients and fellow staff. He has quite odd social habits, often fidgety and preoccupied with his own theories, making for a poor conversationalist. Perhaps this is why his patients take to him so well. He believes that the path to recovery is much more… humane… than many others would think.

Doctor Samuel Montague — Age: 32 — The smartest doctor in the asylum!

Dr. Montague comes from a long line of accomplished doctors! That is why it is imperative that he succeed and continue the line of genius. Creative with his treatment methods, Dr. Montague feels he must push the medical bounds in order to strive for great success. No one ever got what they wanted by being temperate and docile. Many of the general public favor his ideas, the patients themselves… not so much… but what do they know?

Nurse Cassandra Beechworth — Age: 26 — The strictest nurse in the asylum!

Nurse Beechworth worked hard for her position! She had admired Dr. Montague’s work when she saw him in action during her studies, and vowed to do what she must in order to progress humanity’s understanding of the brain. Once hired to be a nurse in Lepidoptera, she swiftly made a name for herself among patients. Her temper is fiery and her patience is thin, and when a patient strays from the correct path, she is there to guide them back.

Mister Eugene-Albert Gryllidae! — Age: 25! — Free as a bird!

𝒪𝒽 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑒 𝓂𝑒! 𝐻𝑜𝓌’𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒?! 𝒲𝒽𝑜𝑜𝓅𝓈~!

the machine is faulty. take it apart.

[divaofmads]

A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (OC)

Chapter I | Chapter II: Wounds and Kisses

Gif by @iamasaddie Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Chapter Summary: As Y/N begins to heal the wounds of her dark past through the trust she places in Joel, he silently burns with the truth that he killed her father. While their closeness deepens into a passionate love, the devastation beneath that bond draws nearer as they approach Jackson.

Word Count: 10k

!Warnings!: +18, Fluff (Romantic softness, emotional moments), Hurt/Comfort dynamic, Oral Sex to Female, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Soft!Joel / Protective!Joel, Angst, Slow-burn romance with emotional conflict, Age gap dynamics, Post-apocalyptic setting (violence implied, survival context), Sex with Stranger, Mature Themes (Emotional intensity, implied intimacy), English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

The day hung heavy, like a lament falling eastward.

The sky was cloaked in rust-colored clouds. On the horizon, it wasn’t the sun that seemed to rise—it was the smoke of a past still burning. The wind wandered down Redhill’s dusty roads, licking the wooden walls of old houses as it passed. It wasn’t just the people saying goodbye; the earth itself seemed ready to let go.

Your horse was ready.

A broad-shouldered, gray mustang. A heavy saddle on its back. Ammunition pouches hung at the sides, a sack of dried meat, an old canteen, a few syringes and bandages—all packed with care. A rifle slung over your shoulder, a knife at your hip, a silenced pistol strapped to your thigh.

Not preparations for survival—but for killing.

You stood in the heart of Redhill, beside your horse. An old but sturdy leather jacket hugged your frame, maps and notes tucked into its lining. Your hair whipped in the wind, your eyes fixed on a single point: the horizon. That was the road that led to Joel Miller.

Nico appeared beside you. He was young. His eyes still held hope. He had fought beside you the night Cutter fell, escaped that hell with you. Now, his shoulders bore the weight of worry.

“Don’t go alone. Let me come. I’ll carry the map, help set camp... Every day someone takes that road, and they never come back, Y/N. Think of us.”

You silently checked the cinch strap. Stroked the horse’s neck. You didn’t answer. Because the answer was a storm inside you: I have to do this alone.

Reuben stayed silent, at first. But in the end, he couldn’t hold back. He stepped toward you, his eyes laced with that familiar wounded fury.

“This isn’t a search anymore. It’s an obsession. Joel Miller... what will you do when you find him? Just kill him? What if he tells you why he dropped the watch? What if that night wasn’t what you think?”

Your eyes locked onto his. Your words cut between you like a rusted blade. “That man killed my father. The reason doesn’t matter. The story doesn’t matter. There’s only one moment that needs to be made right, Reuben. And I’ll carve it in his blood.”

Reuben’s lips parted, but he said nothing. His eyes welled up. Still, he stepped back. Because he knew you. And in your gaze, he didn’t see a decision—he saw a vow.

Rory stood further off. He didn’t come forward from the crowd. He simply bowed his head. He, too, knew that some roads had to be walked alone.

You climbed onto the saddle. The horse snorted gently. The crowd around you fell quiet. Children swallowed their words, women averted their eyes. Everyone knew they were witnessing a moment—the leader of Redhill riding out alone. A story to be retold for years.

You secured your backpack. Checked your weapons. Then you pulled out the most important item from your pocket: a watch with a cracked face.

You had found it beside your father’s corpse, lying in blood and dust. Two initials carved into the back: J. M.

Now, those letters rested between your fingers.

Time had stopped that day.

But for you, it would begin again now.

You stared at the watch’s face. Your vision darkened, your heart clenched. Joel Miller.

You whispered his name, softly, yet with resolve. “I will find you. And I’ll take everything from you.”

Then you pulled the reins. The horse neighed, reared up. Dust rose, the shadows of the past fell behind you.

And you left Redhill.

No song played at that moment.

But if one had, it would’ve been a dirge written in death, rage, and vengeance. Because this was no longer a journey.

This was fate.

And at the end of the road, either Joel Miller would die…

Or you would.

One Year Later...

The sky was split in shades of gray, like a cracked bone.

A cold, dry wind blew from the east, clinging to your horse’s mane and your hair like a banner of vengeance. The ground hadn’t seen rain in days; it had cracked open. You galloped without stepping on those cracks.

Each strike of your horse’s hooves sent a shiver through the earth,

Every step, a bullet to the past.

Every breath, a challenge to the future.

You rode with your chest held high, pushing against the wind.

The rifle slung over your shoulder was not a burden but a reminder: of who you were, and why you were on this road.

A silenced pistol strapped tight to your belt, a slim steel blade at your left hip. They had become part of your body with every step. The way you sat in the saddle was like a warrior clad in armor. You were alone, but never incomplete.

Your eyes were sharp, your jaw locked, your mind sealed with one name:

Joel Miller.

As you rode, you tried to paint his face in your mind.

How old was he now? Was he tired, or still a ghost trailing death?

What were his eyes like? Cold and gray, or dark with regret?

And when he saw you, what would he say?

Would he remember that night? The gun pointed at your father, the blood spilled on Redhill’s soil?

Or would he try to kill you before saying a word?

But in your mind, he said nothing.

Because your fury had already pressed a blade to his lips.

“My name is Y/N. I’ve come to settle a score.”

That sentence echoed in your head with every gallop.

Days passed.

At night, you camped alone. You didn’t light fires—flames attracted both infected and the living.

Instead, you tied your horse quietly to a tree and slept on edge in the dark.

You followed the trail. Abandoned outposts by the roadside, dried bloodstains, places where civilization once existed...

And danger, of course, waited in ambush.

A gang started tracking you.

While searching for water at an old gas station perched on a ridge, you noticed them.

They weren’t just scavengers. They were coordinated, signaling each other.

But you were a hunter who had caught their scent.

Before stepping into the station, you noticed tire marks on the ground.

The twitch of dry branches beneath the trees.

A glint of a blade behind a rusted fridge to your left...

It was a trap.

But you thought faster than they did.

You crouched, left your horse behind the trees.

Your hands went to your ammo box. Silently, you screwed on the suppressor.

The first one—a lookout with only one eye—never saw you. A bullet opened a hole in his forehead.

The second and third shouted. But it was already too late.

As you ran toward the station, you lit the Molotov you’d left on the ground.

Glass, gasoline, and fire came together.

As the gang scattered, you slipped in through the back door.

You stabbed one, shot another in the throat with his own gun.

But that wasn’t all, because inside, you found a map.

Dirty, bloodstained, old paper.

A small settlement marked in red: Jackson.

Below it was scribbled: “Eli’s guy. Ex-smuggler. J. Miller???”

You felt your heart stop for a beat.

Jackson...

Eli’s guy...

Joel Miller.

It wasn’t confirmation, but it was a trail.

If it was real, it was your first step toward the target.

But you hadn’t reached a star yet.

The darkness was still thick. You were still at the beginning. You didn’t know if Joel was even still in Jackson or alive.

But now, you had a place.

A direction.

And a hope that fanned the fire inside you.

“Found you, bastard...”

Your whisper disappeared into the silence of the night.

You called your horse, mounted the saddle again.

You rode toward the horizon, but this was no longer a journey. It had become a hunt.

As you tucked the map into your belt pouch, only one sentence crossed your mind:

“I haven’t forgotten you, Joel Miller. I can’t rewind time, but I’ll be the one to mark your final hour.”

Snow was not a silence—it was a threat.

Each flake drifted from the sky not to soothe, but to sear, its chill sinking not just into your skin, but into your bones.

This was nature’s final warning: this far, you may come. Beyond this, a price must be paid.

The mountain passes leading to Jackson were now only lines on a map. In reality, they were icy trails skirting cliffs, rope bridges replacing collapsed ones, and cemeteries buried under snow.

One night, during a blizzard so thick you had to set up camp, you heard the sound.

First, a rasp. Then, a scream.

When you grabbed your weapon and rushed out, it was already too late.

A stalker, with infected flesh hanging from its eye, was tearing into your horse’s throat.

You burned them both.

But when you looked at Cobalt’s lifeless body, your breath caught for the first time.

Your horse’s corpse had taken both a loyal friend and the silent shadow that carried your burden.

Days passed.

Now, you had only a backpack, two weapons, and a steel knife.

Food? A few cans, a piece of dried meat.

When you reached a town, it was rubble: houses burnt down, signs toppled, windows shattered.

But something caught your eye behind a toppled bus in the middle of the street. Bodies.

Rotting—but recent.

This was the work of a gang.

Man-made horror.

You stayed in hiding. Scanned the area with your eyes, finger on the trigger.

Two men, crouched behind cover, were speaking.

Their voices tangled with the howling wind, but one word stood out:

“Jackson.”

One of them was holding a map in his lap. You waited. Patiently.

Despite the dagger of cold, you stayed motionless for hours…

When night fell, you moved silently.

You took the first man out with a suppressed bullet lodged in his throat.

The second you silenced with your knife.

When you grabbed the map, your hands trembled.

Whether from cold or a rekindled hope you didn’t know.

The map was old. But there were a few notes scrawled on it:

“Jackson, last confirmed.”

“Ex-Firefly? Dangerous. Avoid.”

You dragged your finger over that name.

You were one step closer to the trail of Joel Miller.

But you were at your limit.

Your shoulder was bruised, your feet swollen with infection, your stomach screaming in pain.

As you walked, your head would sometimes spin, your ears ringing.

But still, you stood tall. Because this wasn’t just a walk—it was a vowed journey.

And at the end of this path stood a face whose name you knew: Joel Miller.

When you collapsed beneath a tree, the sky above was thick with snow.

You stared into the void with dulled eyes, and slowly, your eyelids fell shut.

The cold was no longer gnawing just at your body—it was devouring your soul.

As you collapsed beneath the tree, your legs barely carried you anymore. The cracks on your hands were bleeding, your fingernails darkened with rot. Your feet were swollen; the cold mixed with infection, and in places your skin was riddled with open wounds, oozing pus without even the mercy of a scab. The trembling in your knees wasn’t just from fatigue—your body was giving out.

You were giving out.

Since your horse died, sleep had become nothing more than the act of closing your eyes for a while. But this time… this time was different.

When you shut your eyes, it wasn’t just darkness.

There was a voice.

“End this road… my girl… that man is still breathing…”

The voice was familiar. It came from deep inside, from somewhere that crushed your chest. It was your father’s voice. That earthy tone mixed with tobacco—the one you used to hear every morning, long forgotten until now.

“Don’t let him live… not before you die…”

The wind turned to a moan. The whispers grew louder.

Branches thrashed, the earth beat with a pulse. Your eyelids grew heavy. Your breath faded into the dark.

CRRKKK!

A twig snapped.

When your eyes opened again, the cold was no longer in your bone. It was pounding in your ears. You shifted. Your hand accidentally knocked over a snow-covered tin can.

Clink.

You froze. Your breath halted. Something, no, several things, moved. The silence broke into groans.

“HRRRkk, kkkrrhhh…”

They were getting closer. Creatures that found their prey by sound, with no eyes. Clickers.

Three of them. Maybe four.

One of them creeping between the trees had a face split down the middle. Its teeth jutted out from its throat. It wasn’t human. It was death, walking.

You tried to stand. Your knees collapsed .You pulled out your gun. No suppressor. Bullet count: Seven.

The first clicker, shot straight in the head. The sound drew the others. They snarled and turned toward you. One got so close, you could feel its breath. You pulled your knife and drove it into its lower jaw. But the other one… was faster. It lunged. Threw you to the ground.

Your shoulder slammed into stone, stars burst in your vision. You screamed. It tore through your throat. “HELP ME!”

No one came. No one would. You were alone. Alone again.

Your scream was muffled by the snow, mocked by the mountain’s echo. The clicker had you pinned.Its claws reached for your throat…

You fired your last bullet. Right into its mouth. It exploded. Blood and flesh spattered your face.

A moment of silence. But your body couldn’t keep going. Your shoulder bled, your chest heaved with pain. There was nothing left.

You slowly leaned back against the tree. The cold blanketed you like a shroud. Your eyes dropped shut.

One more click, no. A footstep. Heavy. Steady. Leaving prints in the snow. Approaching with an unbroken rhythm.

Your eyes half-opened. You saw through a haze.

A face… Half-covered in beard. Eyes full of history. Eyes that had seen too much and forgotten none of it. A leather jacket, dusted with snow. A rifle over his shoulder. A pistol at his hip, worn but well-maintained. Pain written in the lines of his face.

He stepped closer. He was looking at you. Just as you reached out a hand toward him, your breath turned to mist, and your eyes closed.

Darkness came again.

Cold…

It wasn’t just the cold of the earth or the dry snow brushing your skin—it was stubborn, silent, and unfamiliar.

You felt suspended somewhere between dream and death, perched on the edge between consciousness and oblivion. Your chest rose and fell, but your soul had buried itself deep, waiting motionless in a body too tired to carry its own weight.

And then a shadow fell over you.

A heavy, deliberate step, carrying the weight of a life long lived.

The crunch of half-frozen leaves and mud merged with the low howl of the wind.

When the man knelt beside you, he made no sound.

He scanned the area, holding his rifle at throat level. His eyes—caught somewhere between gray and brown—shifted from your face to the tracks in the snow, like peering through a mist.

Soon, his attention locked onto the shards of glass embedded in your body, the bruises blooming beneath your skin, and your frostbitten fingers stiff with cold.

“Goddamn…”

His voice was taut and weary, like wind groaning through the branches of a dead tree.

As he examined your wounds, his brow furrowed. He hesitated before touching you. He reached out. He pulled back. His face tightened. He closed his eyes.

It was as if long-buried graves inside him had begun to stir from years of silence.

Then, as he was trying to turn you around, something small and metal slipped out of your backpack.

It hit the frozen earth with a faint chime that rooted the man in place.

He sank to his knees. With cautious fingers, he reached for it. It was a watch—small, round, and familiar. He turned it in his palm. On the back… “J.M.” Two small letters.

It stared back at him like a wound in time.

His pulse quickened. His throat dried. His eyes returned to your limp, nearly lifeless body. He inhaled deeply, but the weight in his chest wasn’t the kind you could breathe through.

“How... how is this possible?”

The watch didn’t tick anymore, but the memories inside it were still turning.

He had lost it years ago—maybe during a firefight, or in the ashes of a burned-out camp.

Maybe buried with a body. And now, it was in the hands of this girl.

Who was she? Why did she have this watch?

And why had this silent curse from Joel Miller’s past suddenly crawled this close to him?

His gaze drifted off. He didn’t want to stay. Didn’t want to leave either.

“Just walk away,” he muttered.

“Everyone carries their own damn grave on this road.”

But even gravestones have names carved into them.

And this girl didn’t deserve to be buried with a name that wasn’t hers.

He clenched his jaw. Sank into the snow beside you and slid his arm beneath yours.

Your body was so heavy—not just with your weight, but with the curse of the road you’d walked.

A weak moan escaped your throat.

But you didn’t wake. Your eyes remained cracked open, lips pale, fingers near frozen.

He turned to his horse.

Lifted you onto the saddle, holding you in front of him.

Your head collapsed against his chest. But his eyes weren’t on you—they were gazing into the distance, through the snowfall, into the past, into a life long gone.

And as he tugged his horse forward, boots sinking into the snow, he whispered a sentence—barely a prayer, not quite hope.

Just the echo of a burden too old to shed:

“Jackson’s far… but not as far as you.”

And then he rode into the unknown.

The sky darkened. The snow swallowed every trace.

And you… you no longer heard the ticking of the watch in your ears.

You carried it now—inside the heartbeat beneath your chest.

The shelter used to be a Ranger outpost. Hidden deep in the forest, tucked beneath a winding mountain path, it had become nearly invisible over the years. The logs were moss-covered, the roof partially collapsed, but the door stood firm. The walls were thick enough to block the cold wind outside. Inside, the air reeked of dampness—mold and the rot of forgotten times seeped from every splinter of wood.

When the man took you into his arms, your body was nearly frozen. Your fingers were purple, your skin dry, your lips cracked. The deeper wounds hadn’t even had time to scab over—pus had seeped into them. A long infected gash from a claw ran down your back, a bullet had grazed your right thigh, and your wrists were cramped from exhaustion. You were so weak that even the arms carrying you trembled with guilt.

He laid you down on the broken-down bed inside the camp. Threw a dry blanket over you, then spread an old medical kit on the floor.

Inside were a syringe of antibiotics, clean bandages, a scalpel, needle and thread. He had nothing else—just years of experience and the instinct to survive.

He disinfected his hands. Heated a small metal bowl on the stove. He started with the worst of your wounds—the claw mark on your back.

Each time he tried to clean the wound with gauze, your body flinched involuntarily. You were murmuring in delirium.

The same word, over and over again. “Daddy...”

Your voice, in that moment, was like a child’s. Vulnerable, broken, filled with longing.

Joel’s hands paused. His eyes locked onto you. He brushed back the dirty hair stuck to your forehead. That restless sleep flickering beneath your eyelids reminded him of his own daughter.

Someone who had once laid her head against his chest, mumbling in her sleep in the dark...

But time was cruel. Now it was your head resting against his chest. You were a stranger, but the curve of your body, the rhythm of your breathing, the pain you carried—somewhere in the rusted corner of his heart, it stirred something.

After cleaning your wound, he warmed the needle and injected the antibiotic into your muscle. Every movement was silent. He carefully cut your pants with the knife. Examined the bullet graze, removed the dead skin, then pressed antiseptic on it. Your skin burned like fire.

Joel placed a cold compress on your forehead, kept your lips moist, and occasionally lifted your head to help you drink water.

One day passed. Night fell.

There, the watch he had just slipped into his pocket...

The wood crackled in the small stove, and you were still asleep.

With his thumb, he touched the back of the watch again. “J.M.”

He slowly took it out and held it in his palm.

He paused. Something stirred in his mind.

Like opening the lid of a dusty chest… memory first wandered through the fog, then began to sharpen.

Redhill.

A small settlement. Once full of traders and sentries.

Joel had gone there with the Vultures.

Back then, the job was to “clear” enemy territories—either drive the people out, or silence them. Redhill’s leader... he was a strong man. There had been a confrontation. Blood was spilled. Y/F/N... Joel had shot him himself. At close range.

The man must’ve been Joel’s age. There had been no surrender in his eyes.dı. Gözlerinde teslimiyet yoktu.

And that watch had been on Joel’s wrist.

His breath caught. He clutched at the ache that ran down to his wrists, as if trying to suppress it. He put the watch down. Raised his head. Looked at you.

Your skin still pale, your eyes still closed, your breath shallow. But your pain was etched clearly on your face.

“Was that your father?” he whispered, only to himself.

“Did I kill him?”

And in that moment, he understood.

The woman lying before him was the very sin he had carried on his back for years. The watch was in his hand.

Your words, the voice in his dreams, the cries for help… they all pointed in one direction.

You were looking for Joel Miller.

And he had saved you. Slowly nursed you back to life. That warmth he had felt when he first held you against his chest—it was the herald of a disaster.

But now it was too late. Because in that moment, it was as if fate had already begun to write its story.

You hadn’t opened your eyes yet, but Joel Miller was looking at his enemy with compassion for the first time.

For the first time, someone who didn’t deserve forgiveness... wanted to be forgiven.

Your eyelids felt like lead. Amid the muffled hum echoing inside your mind, there was a voice—one that reminded you to breathe. But that voice was always there, like a patient morning. Like a tone pulled from fire.

When you finally opened your eyes, you stared at the ceiling under a dim light. The beams were veiled with cobwebs. The scent in the air... wood, antiseptic, and a faint sour trace of burned skin.

Then, when you turned your head to the right, you saw the man in the shadows. He was silent. Cleaning a knife in his hand. Slowly, carefully. His face, caught between shadow and light, was etched with lines carved by time and regret. His hair was slightly unkempt, his beard darkened.

But his eyes... In his eyes was the solitude of another era.

When you stirred, he flinched. He set the knife aside. Came closer.

He asked only with his eyes: “How do you feel?”

Your throat was dry. Your voice barely came out. “Water…”

He touched your lips with a piece of cloth. Even a few drops helped you cling to life.

As you laid your head back onto the pillow, you saw he was still watching you.

As if he was trying to memorize every contour of your face, every wound.

“Why did you save me?” Your voice was clearer this time. It was part defiance, part search for meaning.

He said nothing. Then bent his knees and sat in the chair beside the bed.

“It had to be done,” he said. His voice was deep, rough, yet soft.

You frowned.

“What’s your name?”

He paused. His eyes lingered on you.

Then he looked away. Calmly, he cut the word like a blade. “Stranger.” No more, no less.

Silence settled into the room.

The fire in the stove crackled and sparked. Each pop flung the unspoken between you into the air.

“And you?” he asked then. “Do I need to ask who you are, what you’re looking for?”

You turned your head back to the ceiling.

A smile tried to push through your throat, but it felt more like pain.

“I’m someone who’s lost,” you said. “I’m looking for someone. But… I’m not so sure why anymore.”

This time, he said nothing. But his jaw tightened.

The vein beside his chin grew more defined.

Fragments of dreams that reminded you of that night slammed into your mind. Flames, screams, your father’s eyes, and a bullet from within the darkness. A silent vow.

But now, in this man’s eyes, there was something that made you more than a stranger. Not just a saved soul…

He was a spirit tired enough not to judge, yet observant enough to see the darkness you were hiding.

Joel Miller… acted as if he didn’t know you. But in the depth of his heart, he recognized you—from the shame he buried years ago. The watch was still in his pocket.

His hands kept going to that pocket, as if to check it. He couldn’t give it to you. Not yet. He didn’t have the courage.

The stove’s dim orange light timidly illuminated the dark corners of the shelter. The wind brushing across the roof occasionally made the wooden walls tremble. In the snow-covered mountains, this little world existed only through your shared breath.

You, leaning against the pillows in the bed, saw Joel approaching with narrowed eyes. In his hand: a roll of bandages, a small metal box, a bottle of disinfectant—and a muffled silence.

“This is going to hurt a little,” he said in a low voice. “All you need to do… is endure.”

He carefully unwrapped the bandage on your shoulder. He examined the dried blood, the cracked skin, the edges of the wound filled with pus. When he reached your torso, he pushed back the torn edges of your shirt. When the warmth of his hand touched your skin, you felt something different for the first time.

Not pain. A pull. You realized your body was focusing on that contact independently from you.

"Your hands aren’t cold," you whispered.

"You seem used to this."

His eyes -carrying all the shades of brown- met yours.

There was something in his gaze. As if what you said echoed a voice he remembered. But still, he frowned and looked down.

"Getting used to something usually means it’s not good for you," he said.

"I’ve seen too many wounds. Ones that never closed… and some I caused myself."

That last sentence hung in the air.

You held your breath. Joel poured antiseptic on a cotton swab and pressed it to your wound. The pain burned through you, but you didn’t make a sound. You only clenched your teeth. And when Joel looked up, there was a hint of respect in his eyes. A silent admiration for something unbroken.

"I still don’t know your name," you said, your voice soft but cautious.

"Stranger... does that still apply?"

He shrugged. Avoiding your eyes, he replied,

"It does. Anything more... might be dangerous right now."

There was shelter in that sentence. A desire to protect himself... not from you, but from what he might hear from you. And you knew that.

Because you were doing the same thing.

"Do you think," you asked, "a person can choose not to know certain things?"

Joel stayed silent for a while. He carefully wrapped the bandage around your arm. Every movement was slow, measured. As if touching you required not just physical, but emotional distance too.

"Because once you know," he finally said,

"everything changes. Sometimes... there’s no going back."

Your eyes lingered on his. You were about to say something, but his hand settled on your shoulder.

"Now... I need to get you on your feet," he said.

"You need to take a few steps before your muscles atrophy."

You nodded. Slowly, with his help, you stood. Your knees trembled, your scars ached deep inside. But you were standing. Leaning on him.

You took a step together.

The shelter was small but wide enough; despite the snow-covered, leaking roof, it was still breathable in here. Your steps were heavy and unsteady; as your feet touched the ground, it wasn’t the pain of your bruises you felt the most... but the warmth of where he held you. Joel’s hand on your waist wasn’t just support. That hand... was like a memory reaching out from the darkness to keep you alive. And you, in the palm of a stranger… were trying to walk in the warmth of a man you didn’t know, but somehow had no choice but to trust.

You paused every five steps. Your chest tightened. Joel immediately slowed down. He matched his pace to yours. He leaned toward your shoulder.

"If we need to stop, we stop," he said quietly, almost a whisper.

"This isn’t something to rush. You’ve lost blood."

"No…" you said, breathless. "I can walk. At least… I have to try."

Your eyes… every time they met Joel’s, you found a deep emptiness. Not emptiness, maybe... a repressed pain. There was a collapse inside him. And strangely, you saw your own grief in that collapse.

When you reached the broken mirror in the corner of the shelter, Joel stopped.

So did you. Your breath was fast, your skin trembling. Joel turned his head slightly. He glanced at you over his shoulder.

"You’re alone," you said suddenly.

"I feel it… when I look at you."

There was a moment of silence. That typical, stony expression on Joel’s face… but a tiny fracture appeared between his brows. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked off into the distance.

"I needed to be alone," he said.

"This... is a mission. If I weren’t alone, it would draw attention. Being alone is sometimes the safest way to survive."

A mission...

Your hand instinctively reached for the edge of the bandage on your arm.

"What mission?" you asked, curious. But deep inside, this was a test. Not one to force a confession, but a truth you would weigh yourself.

Joel didn’t look away. His jaw clenched slightly. He clearly considered not answering. But then, he made a decision. He didn’t lie.

As if he owed you something...

"I was sent from Jackson," he said.

"One of the border surveillance outposts, Northpoint, lost contact two weeks ago. We thought it was the weather. But when the second week ended... someone had to check it out. I had to go alone. I know the area… and how to track."

Jackson.

Something stirred inside you. But you didn’t show it. You looked away.

Swallowed hard.

So he was there. He really lived in the same place as Joel Miller. But you couldn’t ask that. It had to stay hidden.

"Surveillance outpost," you said, nodding slightly. "Tracking… missing teams… radio cuts. So that’s why you were alone."

Joel had narrowed his eyes. He was observing you closely. You knowing too much made him uneasy.

"I... can help," you said suddenly.

Joel frowned immediately. "No. You can barely walk in this state."

"I’ll be fine," you said, locking eyes with him. "And this kind of stuff… radio systems, signal loss, technical things… I can handle them. Back then… when I worked with my dad, we used to repair these kinds of systems. Antenna connections, power supplies, frequency matches… If the system is broken, I can either fix it or help you collect backup data."

Joel was silent. He narrowed his eyes. He was weighing you inside. That offer was both a gift and a threat.

"Stranger," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "You brought me here. You healed me. Now I owe you. And… if we want to survive in this world, we also have to learn not to stay alone."

Joel tilted his head slightly. His gaze swept over you. For a moment… his lips trembled. As if he was trying hard not to say "no."

But then he nodded. "Then focus on healing," he said. "We leave at dawn."

And you… for the first time, felt that this man truly trusted you.

You didn’t know what you were yet.

But something had begun.

You were the one who cracked Joel Miller’s heart for the first time. And that crack… carried both light and darkness within.

Then Joel guided you back to the bed. He pulled up the blanket.

As you closed your eyes, he was still watching you.

And in his pocket, the watch still remained. The initials J.M. echoed in his mind. The flames of Redhill danced before his eyes.

He knew he had killed your father.

But now, for the first time, he realized, none of the things he’d ever killed had hurt him this deeply.

Early in the morning, while the sky was still leaden gray, the cold that rushed into your eyes as you opened the shelter door seeped into your bones. But you had no other choice. While Joel packed up the supplies, you remained wrapped in the blanket. Your fingers were still numb, and you couldn’t feel your feet. Your body was dealing with wounds that had started to heal but were still fragile, while your mind… was fighting a different battle.

Joel. The man whose name you still didn’t know but whose presence you felt in your very flesh. He had called you “Stranger,” yet he had cleansed the poison from your veins with his hands, held your face during feverish dreams, and let you rest your head on his chest at night.

And now… you were leaving together. To Northpoint.

When Joel brought the horse out from the grove next to the shelter, you were still shivering at the door, wrapped in the blanket. A thin layer of snow had gathered on the animal. Dark steam rose from its breath, and it pawed the ground restlessly. Joel stroked the animal first. He spoke to it in a low voice. “Alright, girl… you’re not alone today.”

Then he turned to you. “Ready?” he asked, holding out his hands from inside his gloves.

“Enough,” you said. When you lifted your face and met his eyes, for a moment… there was no difference between them and the sky. Cold, gray, misty… but those eyes held a glimmer of hope that surrounded you.

When Joel lifted you, your breath caught. The stitches on your arm stretched. You clenched your teeth. But at that exact moment, like a father, he gently placed his arms around your hips, leaned your body lightly against his, and helped you onto the horse’s back.

When his hand touched your back, its warmth reached your very core. You held your breath while he tilted his head slightly and asked without looking away, “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you said quickly. But it did hurt.

And somehow, it wasn’t the pain itself—but the way he asked—that caused a deeper ache inside.

When Joel mounted the horse behind you, you were now in front of him. His arms encircled you from the sides. When he took the reins, his hands brushed against your waist. His fingers were gentle.

But inside… storms were raging.

And you set off.

As you moved through the trees, in the silence echoing among the snow-covered branches, there was no sound except the horse’s hooves. The cold had numbed your hands. Your body still hadn’t recovered. And you couldn’t help yourself.

Your head tilted back… you rested your shoulder against his chest.

Joel paused for a moment. His breath caught in his throat. But he didn’t push you away.

On the contrary, he held the reins tighter.

And you, nestled in his embrace, on that broad chest… found peace in your exhaustion for the first time.

His heartbeat… slow, steady, and oddly reassuring. His warmth spread all the way to the nape of your neck. And Joel began riding the horse carefully, as if he were carrying you inside him, despite the freezing air .But Joel’s heart… wasn’t like yours. As you drifted into sleep or a dream, he kept his eyes fixed on the road, searching for shadows behind every tree.

Tracking… while holding you. And while holding you… he was feeling you.

The weight of your injured body leaning against his ribs… the soft breaths rising from the nape of your neck… your fingers, unconsciously brushing against his thighs… These things stirred another truth within him. His interest in you. The desire he had denied since the moment he found you.

But this desire… was dirty. Because he knew. You may not have known who you were, but he… he now knew that you were the daughter of the Redhill leader, whose name echoed in his mind every night.

He had killed your father. And now you were in his arms. In Joel Miller’s embrace. Silent, innocent, fragile.

And Joel… wanted to protect you, and run from you at the same time.

He narrowed his eyes. His brows furrowed as he looked toward the horizon. Northpoint…

If any remaining team member there recognized him… said his name…

If they said “Joel Miller”...

You… would understand everything in that moment.

And this quiet, sacred yet cursed bond between you… would be drenched in blood.

Joel thought to himself: I need to find something.

Logs, broken radios, or… if no one from the team survived…

Only silence.

Only darkness.

And you… slowly drifted to sleep against his chest. Your cheeks were pink from the cold. Your eyelashes trembled.

And Joel, driven by a sudden instinct, brought his cheek close to yours. He didn’t touch. But you felt his breath. As you slept, he suffered the pain of falling in love with you.

...

As the wind clawed at your face like a predator sinking its sharp teeth into flesh, Joel slowed the horse. The reins slackened, and the animal's breath rose into the gray sky like vapor. Northpoint Station loomed ahead; its rusty roof quivered with the wind, ice crystals scattered against the walls… and silence.

It was indeed far too quiet.

Without releasing the reins, Joel said in a low voice, “We’re getting off.” Each word escaped his lips as a misty breath.

As you swung your leg over the horse, Joel immediately stepped beside you to offer support. A flicker of pain crossed his face, but he placed a hand on your back to steady you. His fingers seemed to carry the last remnants of tenderness after a long war against darkness. In that moment, you felt protected.

The outer door hung ajar on a sagging hinge. Wind crept inside and howled through the empty hall. Joel crouched, eyes scanning the ground. He searched for footprints—none. Only a mess smeared with mud… but old. No signs of recent activity.

“Stay sharp. Even if it looks clear... I’ll follow my instincts.”

You nodded, hand going to your knife.

Joel stepped inside with heavy footsteps. Each step echoed on the wooden floor. You followed close behind him, down the corridor dimly lit by flickering light. The metal hooks on the walls were empty. Most of them still swung slightly, as if someone had left in a rush.

“No blood.” you whispered.

Joel turned his head slowly, catching you in his peripheral vision. “That’s worse.”

As you moved further in, the temperature dropped abnormally. Your chest tightened; the tip of your nose stung like ice. As you struggled to understand why the cold was affecting you so deeply, Joel pushed open a door. The communications room.

It was in chaos. Radios shattered, wires cut, some equipment missing. But what stood out most was the word scrawled across the wall: “TRUST NO ONE.”

Joel entered without hesitation. He aimed his flashlight at the ground—footprints. Small, mixed with snow, some barefoot. Joel knelt, studying the traces on the frost-covered metal.

“Humans did this,” he said, voice low and sharp. “The radio was sabotaged. Entry logs wiped.”

You looked closer at the wall. Fingerprints, scrape marks… there had been a struggle, but the traces were old. And above all, something didn’t add up:

“Why aren’t there any bodies?”

Joel stood. His gaze lingered on you for a moment. Concerned, though he hid it well. “Either they ran... or were dragged out.”

In that moment, a shiver ran through you, cloaked in the intoxicating silence of the cold. But giving in to comfort wouldn’t help. You’d come here to repay a debt to a “stranger”—and because it was the only gate you saw toward Jackson.

“Give me a few minutes,” you said.

You knelt. Opening the radio panel revealed a chaotic mess of circuits. Some cables had been torn out, others burned by a short circuit. But what was interesting was that someone hadn’t just broken the system—they’d reversed the battery connections inside.

“Whoever did this knew electronics,” you murmured to yourself, but Joel heard you.

“So... this wasn’t an accident?”

“No. It was deliberate sabotage.”

Joel found a repair kit from a small supply cabinet inside the room.

With trembling fingers, you pulled out the kit. Inside were a few spare cables, a mini soldering pen, a battery tester, and a voltage meter the size of a lighter. You kept your gloves on to protect from the cold, but your movements were practiced.

Joel stepped back slightly, watching you. At first he looked like a guard… but in that moment, something else was in his eyes.

As you wrapped your fingers around a cable, Joel thought those hands were meant for more than just helping someone. Then, as if ashamed of the thought, he looked down. His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line.

“You… really know what you’re doing,” he said, voice husky.

You turned your head slightly toward him. “I learned from my dad. He liked old systems. I mean… before he was killed.”

You paused. “That’s why I can tell what’s wrong and why it doesn’t work.”

Joel was silent for a while. His fingers tightened around his rifle strap. Then, without taking his eyes off you, he said, “I don’t think we should stay here.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze swept every corner of the room, but you were what held his attention.

“This place… it’s too quiet. Too tidy. But something’s wrong. I need to understand what.”

He looked like he was about to say more but stopped himself. When he looked at you again, his eyes had softened.

“Being this close to you… is a bad idea.” he said suddenly. A cold, honest confession.

You turned your head away, continuing to connect the wires. As the soldering pen touched the battery slot, your hands trembled with the words inside you.

Joel turned, walking to the door, but raised his voice. “I’ll do a quick sweep inside the building. Maybe I’ll find a journal. We need to know what happened.”

“Are you going alone?”

“This time, yeah.”

And he left.

Joel took a cold breath as he stepped into the corridor. His breath rose like mist. He walked through the empty halls, keeping his steps as silent as possible. He slowly placed his hand on the wall. The wall... was soaked with moisture. Snow and ice had seeped into the building, but still, something didn’t add up. It shouldn’t have been this cold inside.

He gently pushed one of the doors open. A small dorm room. Three bunks. Blankets messily tossed on them, but one thing caught his attention: under one of the bottom bunks, a small silhouette. He bent down and saw it—an empty pill bottle. No date on it. Completely emptied. Could it have been a sleeping pill?

He quickened his pace. Moved to the next room. One of the bulletin boards had fallen. Beneath it, a scratch—no, not a scratch, nail marks.

His throat tightened. His instincts screamed: You’re being watched.

He turned around quickly. No one. The corridor was empty. Only the wind slamming against the walls from afar. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.

He brought his hand to his shoulder, gripped his rifle. Took a deep breath. The sweat on his back mixed with the cold, and he shivered. As if... someone had already been here. And was still inside.

...

The panel was still warm. One of the temporary connections sparked slightly, but the circuit was still holding. On the radio’s speaker, a soft static, then a voice crackled through the interference.

“…—ckson… this is Jack…son. Listening... Are you there?”

A shiver ran down your spine. You carefully pressed the button as you picked up the radio.

“There’s someone here. I’m from Redhill. I… Y/N.”

The reply came a few seconds later, still filled with static. As if it were speaking to you from a distant memory, not from the present but a dream from the past.

“Y/N… is it? I’m… Tommy… one of the team… El… Elroy… is he there?”

You tried to raise your voice, but the radio felt like it was suffocating even you.

“There’s no one here. It’s abandoned. Looks like sabotage.”

One of the wires sticking out of the panel crackled again. Your eyes immediately flicked to the power gauge. The signal wasn’t stabilizing.

Tommy’s voice came back, more muffled, more broken.

“Y/N… is someone with you? Is he… the one they sent… J… Mil…”

A burst of static in the middle of the sentence.

Then silence.

Did you really hear what you thought you did? “Joel”…? Or was it just interference from the failing radio?

Your hand slowly lifted from the radio. Your heart beat faster, harder. That name, lodged like a splinter in your mind… now brought a new question:

Had he asked about Joel Miller? Or was this just another reminder that you hadn’t let go of your father’s story?

You couldn’t answer.

Before the radio fell completely silent with a dull crackle, Tommy’s voice returned one last time:

“Miller…? …Y/N…”

The system went dead.

You looked at the panel. Some of the live connections were still lit, but the frequency had shifted. You’d have to work harder for more. But your hand wouldn’t move. Because your mind was already stuck on another name.

Joel.

But this time, not just the name.

It felt like you wanted to know what lay beneath that name.

The signal was completely gone.

A soft “click”… followed by a dull “thud”. As if something had scraped against a metal surface outside.

You turned your head. Focused for a moment on where the sound had come from, but it didn’t repeat. Maybe it had come from the radio’s broken frequency. Maybe…

No. It was real.

Another sound. This time louder. Like a footstep. But it was… dragging. Not human. The floor scraped beneath it. Your heart tightened like a drawn wire.

You reached for the pistol beside your shoulder. Your trigger finger instinctively flipped the safety off after so long. You leaned back, exhaled slowly. Moved silently toward the door.

You wanted to call out to Joel. ‘Stranger,’ but your lips couldn’t speak his name.

When you stepped into the dark hallway, your eyes met a shadow right in front of you.

Half-human… but not. At first glance, you’d think it was a Clicker. But the fungal tumors on its head didn’t click—they hummed with a faint vibration. Its shoulders trembled. Bits of damp skin still clung to its eye sockets. But no, this wasn’t a Clicker. This was something else.

Just then, a gunshot rang out.

Bang! Bang! You flinched as the bullet ricocheted off the wall.

Joel.

You turned toward the direction of the sound and saw him in the corner of a side hall, kneeling with his rifle, aiming at another creature.

It was fast like a Runner, but its movements were wavy.

Part of its face had opened like a flower; but the bloom extended halfway down its neck. As if it had lost its sense of smell and now responded only to sound and vibration.

Before Joel could turn around, a third infected—silent, sneaky—leapt from the wall.

“Watch out!” you shouted. Time bent. Your trigger finger acted on reflex, and with the crack of your gun, the creature’s shoulder shattered. But it didn’t fall.

It staggered, then charged again.

Joel’s knife flashed like a star in the dark. After a short struggle, he brought the creature down, but his face showed something beyond exhaustion:

Disappointment. Not in himself. In you.

Because he hadn’t wanted you in danger.

But you were there. And you helped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Your breath was short.

“I don’t know what they are. This… This is something new.”

Joel turned to you. The anger in his eyes mixed with a need to protect.

“Why did you leave the room? I told you to stay inside.”

“The connection was lost. I heard the voice. And…” Your voice trembled. “I wanted to help you.”

Your words floated away like mist, but in that moment, despite the weight of your weapons, the space between you felt lighter than ever.

All the fighting, all the fear… was now distilled into those two seconds of eye contact.

You no longer felt like you were fighting just to survive—but for each other.

Joel looked away. Reloaded his rifle. “We have to go. If there are more… I can’t keep you here. We already know what this is.”

“I can fight,” you said quietly.

“Not like you, but… this is my fight now too.”

Joel studied you carefully. There was fire in his eyes, but he held it back. The lines on his face deepened. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“But I’m already broken, Joel. And in this broken state, I want to stay with you.”

At that moment, you were both full of words unsaid. Your weapons were empty, but your hearts were full.

As you turned back toward the station door, Joel placed a hand on your back—not just to guide you. That touch… wasn’t just protection. It was sanctuary.

Snow was seeping in. Through the cracks in the doors, the broken window frames… The storm that had started outside was now being inhaled inside, too.

In the darkness, the corpse Joel had laid over a toppled table was different from the others.

Not just in appearance… but inside as well.

You stood a step behind, holding your breath as you watched him. Joel Miller worked with care. His back slightly hunched, brow furrowed; his hands experienced, slow and patient. He used a shaving razor with almost surgical precision to begin slicing under the creature’s jaw.

“Look at this,” he muttered to himself.

“No spore spread. Head area partially opened, but… the fungal spread isn’t directly linked to the nervous system.”

With his fingertips, he grasped a piece of tissue and slowly lifted it. “This... is a new evolution. Probably a regional mutation.”

Your breath tightened. “So... does that mean this infected is something else entirely?”

Joel lowered his head. His eyes locked on the tear in the corpse’s throat. “They don’t hear… but they’re good at sensing. Their walk is unsteady but fast. Reaction time is short. Spontaneous aggression is high.”

Then he turned to you. “Write this down.”

Your eyes widened.

“Uh… what exactly?”

“Our observations.” He reached out. “The notebook in the saddlebag. There’s a pen too. Go!”

You obeyed. With trembling hands, you stepped just outside the door, reached into the spare gear by the horse’s side. You found the black notebook wrapped in soft leather. The cover was a bit wet, but the inside was intact. The pen still worked.

When you returned, Joel was watching you.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “Knowledge is stronger than fear.”

You knelt and began to write.

“New type of infected… Hearing ability reduced.

Head region has underdeveloped fungal structure. Sharp reflexes. High aggression. Extremely quiet. Reacts spontaneously.”

As you wrote, your hands adjusted. Expressing it through scientific language calmed you a little. Joel eventually straightened. His face grew more severe. “We can’t stay here any longer.”

He spoke briefly and firmly. He turned his head toward the door. “I still don’t fully understand what’s going on, but… if this mutation started here, everyone here is either dead or mid-transformation. And part of this station was sabotaged. By human hands.”

You looked up. “So… this new type… might’ve been spread intentionally?”

Joel paused. That familiar darkness flared in his eyes. “We can’t say yet. But we can’t linger.”

He threw his coat over his shoulder, grabbed his backpack, slung his rifle. “Let’s move. We’ll share this data in Jackson. Maybe Ellie too…” He stopped for a moment. Swallowed. Things would be very different there between you two. “... the science side is stronger there.”

You stood up.

Carefully tucked the notebook into your pocket.

As you walked to the door together, Joel placed a hand on your shoulder. “Still, you did good,” he said gently. “Facing that thing… I won’t say you weren’t scared, but… you were brave.”

“With you around,” you whispered,

“… the world doesn’t feel quite so dark.”

Joel looked at you. A moment of pause… then he turned his head. “Let’s go. If night catches us here, we won’t make it to morning.”

Behind you: a deserted, silent station.

Ahead: an unknown reality.

But one thing was clear now. You were not alone.

Not against the infected, not against the past, not against the future…

ONE DAY LATER — WYOMING MOUNTAIN PASSES

The cold cut to the bone.

The wind felt like knives against your face; every step in the snow became more difficult. The horse was tired, and you were even more so. But you kept moving. Northpoint was behind you now; quiet, dark, like a grave. And the road, as always, was not safe. It never was. The day darkened under a dirty white sky.

Joel was in front, you right behind him.

Your posture on the horse was slackening; your body still not fully recovered. The pain in your back sometimes stabbed into your left shoulder; the cold burned your lungs.

Joel had been watching you like a mirror for a while. When he noticed you slowing down, he pulled the reins and stopped his horse.

“Hey.” His voice was stern but concerned. “You’re out of breath. You didn’t say it, but I noticed.”

You tried to deflect. “I’m fine.”

The lie came easy, but it was one Joel knew all too well.

He frowned. “We’re not going any farther.” He scanned the area.

He leaned forward, spotting a half-snow-covered dip among the trees on the side of the road.

“There’s a hollow over there. Like a cave.”

After a short silence, he looked at you.

“We’re spending the night there.”

You didn’t argue. You barely had the strength to stand.

Mağara dışarıdan sıradan bir kaya çıkıntısı gibi görünüyordu. Ama içeri girdiğinizde sizi soğuktan koruyacak kadar derin ve kapalıydı. Joel birkaç dalla küçük bir ateş yakmıştı. Alevlerin titrek ışığı taş duvarlarda dans ediyordu. Joel'in o ışıkla yıkanan yüzü daha yaşlı, daha yıpranmış görünüyordu.

You had your back against the rear wall of the cave. Legs stretched out, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The silence was long, but not tense. Fatigue had settled between you, as had the weight of words.

Joel took a sip from the metal cup in his hand. The faint smell of coffee he'd mixed into the hot water reminded you of home. For a moment, you remembered your childhood kitchen. But the memory quickly faded with Joel’s gaze.

His eyes wandered over you.

Your hands were clasped in your lap.

Your lips were dry.

"You're shivering," he said softly.

He opened the front of his jacket, then hesitated.

Then he offered you one side of it.

"Come on. The fire's not enough. We need to share."

You accepted silently. When your shoulder touched his chest, it felt like your heart stopped for a moment. The warmth wasn’t just from his body—it radiated from his heart. Joel’s body was worn by years of war, but somewhere inside, something had stayed human.

You sat like that for a while. Then you spoke, in a voice no louder than a whisper:

"You don’t have to take me to Jackson. I know that. I… I’ve been a burden."

Joel turned his head. His gaze was deep.

"No." He cut off the thought with a single word. "You’re not a burden. I don’t remember carrying anyone this willingly."

A smile escaped your lips.

Your eyes lit up. "Stranger..." Saying his name echoed inside the cave.

It wasn’t just a word—it was a calling.

Like a secret whispered into the heart of silence.

Joel averted his eyes. A shadow fell over the stubble on his chin. He sighed.

"You don’t know me," he said. "You shouldn’t. Jackson… it’s a good place. Safe. And someone like you… should be there. Not with me."

You tilted your head slightly. Your cheeks glowed in the firelight.

"I… I’ve been alone for a long time. People… out there, in this world… they either kill you or forget you." You paused. "But you… you saved me. You healed me. You fought for me. Knowing someone like you still exists in this world made me feel like I wasn’t alone."

Joel closed his eyes. A muscle twitched at his temple.

A storm was raging inside him. He wasn’t ready to admit he fought for you—but he wasn’t ready to let you go either.

"I…" His voice caught in his throat. "I’m not a good man."

"I didn’t love you because you were good, stranger," you said, your voice warm and hazy. "Just because… you were real. And because you were there."

In that moment, you felt Joel place his hand on your knee. It was rough.

Protective. But at the same time… it trembled.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

You listened to the crackle of the fire. The snow pressing down on the earth outside the cave… and your hearts pressing down on your chests.

The fire was dying.

Charred branches crackled; the glow was now just a flicker of warm red light. Joel was still leaning his back against the cave wall. His knees were pulled close, his head bowed. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. He carried the weight of everything — the past, the sins, and the hope in your eyes.

You were staring at him.

In the fracture of darkness and light, his features looked softer. Joel had entered your life as a stranger. But now... you didn’t care who he was anymore.

"You know," you said, your voice almost a whisper. "I still haven’t asked your name."

Joel lifted his head slightly. His brows were furrowed, his expression tired. "You haven’t." There was unease in his voice, because he felt the inevitable question finally arriving.

But you said something else. "It doesn’t matter." Your words echoed off the stone walls of the cave. "Your name, who you are… I don’t care anymore. When I’m with you... nothing else matters."

Joel’s gaze was hard. But the armor inside him had begun to crack.

"You don’t know me," he said again.

His words were sharp, but trembling. "You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve lived through."

"Who you are, what you did… what you became… I don’t care."

There was a slight movement on Joel’s face. Perhaps a bitter smile, perhaps a warning. But you didn’t stop. "When I saw you, in that bed… when I first opened my eyes… I was in darkness. I was dying. But you… you brought life back into me."

You leaned forward. When your knees touched Joel’s, he slightly pulled his head back — but didn’t move away.

"I’m here. I’m not running. Don’t try to push me away, stranger. Why are you still trying?"

Joel’s eyes welled up. A vague mist clouded his iris. "Because…" His breath faltered. "Because I love you." His voice was low, almost like a confession to himself. "And when I love someone like you… that person dies."

Your eyes shimmered. "It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault." Your hand slowly reached for Joel’s. "You saved me, remember? I was dying in that bed. When I opened my eyes… you were there. I was in the dark, and you were the first light. Joel…"

Your hand reached for Joel’s face. When your fingers touched his cheekbones, he closed his eyes instinctively. His face was hard, but he was melting under your touch.

He was a man who had battled time. But with you… he surrendered to the moment.

Your voice trembled. "In this world, for the first time since my father… I trusted someone. I felt strong beside a man. And that man is you."

Joel lowered his head slightly. His cheeks touched your forehead. For a moment, only your warmth passed between you.

Your breaths mingled.

But then…

"Y/N…" He said your name in a way that was both a warning and a prayer. "This… is wrong."

"No," you said. Your voice was firm but fragile. "This is the only right thing."

Joel’s fingers closed around your hand.

His gaze was dark but open, conflicted but honest.

Silence. Breaths. Inner war.

Then Joel spoke. His words were trembling, uncertain — but surrendered:

"…I can’t resist you."

And you kissed.

The first touch made you forget the chill of the rocks. His lips were rough, but when they touched yours, they softened. Your wet, warm breaths mingled. As he tilted his head slightly while capturing your lips, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was an attempt to memorize you. As he kissed you, it was as if every fracture inside his chest began to speak. When your tongue first touched his, Joel’s body shivered slightly. That brief exploration between your lips suddenly turned deeper, hungrier. When your tongues met, your breath caught. His fingers reached your nape, pulling you closer. The air between you—in that icy cave��was suddenly warm, burning. Your heart raced but felt at peace. His was crumbling slowly, sinking deeper with every kiss.

Your lips were moist, his worn but full of passion. It was a passion that carried confessions he never dared to say aloud. As his tongue danced with yours, time felt like it had stopped. This wasn’t just a physical connection—it was your souls speaking, ending years of silence with a single kiss.

When Joel’s hands gripped your waist, the kiss intensified. Your breath tangled in your throat as his lips moved down to your chin, making your skin shiver. He kissed there first—slow, patient. The warmth of his lips touched that sensitive spot beneath your chin, and you felt a twist deep in your chest. Then his lips, wet and warm, trailed down gently, sealing that place like a secret.

But he didn’t stop at kissing. As his breath caressed your skin, he pressed his lips harder and let the tip of his tongue briefly trace the line of your jaw. It felt like that line was the boundary between you, and Joel was crossing it—with fear, longing, and desire. Then he returned to your lips. Now, there was nothing to stop you—only a thirst for one another, growing with each kiss.

To you, this was a refuge—found at last, with the man you loved.

To him, it was like stumbling into a heaven he didn’t deserve.

When the kiss ended, Joel leaned his forehead against yours. Your breaths mingled. Silence settled in the aftermath—not frightening, but heavy.

As your fingers found the edge of his shirt collar, Joel held his breath with you. “We shouldn’t do this,” he said again, but there was no conviction in his voice. He didn’t pull away. His hands came to rest gently on your shoulders, and when his fingers felt your warmth, he closed his eyes. “You’re too... pure. Something this world didn’t make.”

You smiled. “I’m not pure. Just... not lost. Like you.”

That sentence broke him completely. His fingers slid to your cheek, then under your chin. He kissed you again—hungrier, more honest, more tender. When he wrapped his arms around you, your body fit into his perfectly. His firm chest, war-forged hands, breath heavy with years of sorrow—they all wrapped around you.

Battaniyeyi omuzlarınızdan indirdiğinde, ellerinden önce bakışları titreyen teninize dokundu. "Eğer istediğin buysa... ama söyle bana. Bunu gerçekten istiyor musun?" diye sordu, sesi boğuk ama yine de koruyucuydu.

You nodded. “I just want to be with you. No matter what.”

He embraced you again. His fingers slid to your waist, his lips to your neck. You closed your eyes, and your heartbeat matched his. Joel began to explore you with care and slowness—as if every touch was an apology. As if every kiss was a prayer to forget the wrongs he’d done. And every breath you took was a silent pardon.

Time stood still. Outside, the world was still plagued and dark with the past. But that night, inside the cave, there was only the two of you. Quietly, slowly, and with deep feeling… you were touching each other’s forbidden places.

You pressed your chest against Joel’s, rising to your knees. Now you were much higher than him. As you put his weight on him, Joel couldn’t resist it. Maybe at that moment, all that was left in the world was this dark cave, the wind outside, and two souls clinging to each other.

Joel was lying down on the ground now. His back was leaning on the stones beneath him, but his eyes were only on you.

Placing your knees on the sides of his hips, you sat on his groin and climbed on top of him. The pink on your cheeks shone in the shadow of your face, in the dark. Your palms were pressed against his chest. He was carrying your weight, but also your emotions. Joel’s hands were lost in you. As if he were holding you for the first time, he slid carefully and slowly down to your waist, then your back, then your hips. Every movement of his fingers seemed to memorize you as you were. Your sighs mixed with each caress of your hips. You shouldn’t have done this. You both knew it.

You first unbuttoned his shirt halfway. Then followed the salty sweat trail down his neck with your fingertips. You began to recognize his neck and ribcage with your lips. Your skin felt its warmth first; a slight shiver ran down Joel’s spine at that moment. The rough texture of his areola, the balance of salt and heat as it spread across your tongue, lit a small signal of pleasure in his mind. With each lick, your tongue traced the curves of his chest and then his abs. Joel leaned his head back. He whispered your name with a muffled sigh, but then his tongue hit the roof of his mouth; this genuine closeness frightened him. In that moment of colliding guilt and desire, he thought about all the danger that came with wanting you.

Your trembling breath brushed over Joel’s chest, your hands roaming his body like a hero marching in triumph. Your fingertips recognized the lines of his muscles, the rhythm of his veins.

Your breath mixed with his lips as you carefully moved your hips toward his groin. When your eyes met, you both felt the same thing inside you: passion, lust, and love. Your breaths mixed. You were now standing over Joel’s penis, with only the fabric between you and the warm pressure of your vulva. He could feel you much more now as you undulated your waist rhythmically but in a controlled manner. Your touch made him more sensitive with every movement. Joel’s eyes closed for a moment, his lips falling to your neck again. He found a spot under your jaw that burned your skin. When he stopped there and let out his breath, you felt him shiver.

He whispered breathlessly. “I shouldn’t want this… but hell if I can stop.”

You locked eyes at Joel with such intensity that your voice was barely a whisper, coming out of your lips with a tremor. “Then stay. Here. With me. Just for tonight, be mine.”

He wrapped one arm around your back, the other around your hips, wrapping your body like armor. He wasn’t just holding you, he was hiding you. Your heartbeats mingled as your chest pressed against Joel’s; each breath that passed between your lips was drawn into you like the last oxygen in the air.

“Goddamn…” Joel whispered, his voice almost husky and deep. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

You looked up. There was a gleam in his eyes—a light of both triumph and surrender.

“Then let me end you slowly,” you whispered, pressing his forehead to his.

Joel smiled. Tired, painful, but real. And he kissed you again. As if kissing was as natural as fighting. Every kiss was a memory. Every touch a vow.

“Now it’s my turn,” Joel said. His voice was firm and determined, but underneath it was a pent-up desire ready to explode.

You tried to smile, but the curve of your lips was as threatening as a challenge. “So,” you whispered. “Let’s see if you’re as good at it as you are at fighting the infected.”

Joel’s muscles tightened in response, and he grabbed you by the waist, holding you beneath him. The speed of his turn took your breath away, but you didn’t resist, you couldn’t. Because there was fire in his gaze now, deep, intense, and unbridled.

The bandage on your shoulder had taken a slight pressure from the fall; your face tensed for a brief second, and your breath caught with a flicker of pain.

He immediately leaned in. Placing one hand on the ground, he brought his face close to yours. His eyes were filled with concern—and something else, something he was trying hard to suppress: desire.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his voice hesitant and gentle, but his gaze still lingered on your lips.

You nodded slightly. "It hurt… but not too bad," you said, your voice as thin and trembling as your breath. When your eyes locked with his, unspoken words danced silently between you.

Your back was still touching the cold ground. The bandage on your shoulder still left a shadow of pain on your face, but Joel’s presence was slowly erasing that shadow. His hand gently reached up to hold your back, gently lifting you up and placing the blanket under you. When he laid you down again, his fingers slid into your hair, holding it under your head as if to support it.

“Damn it… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled, his voice almost muffled as a sigh.

You couldn’t respond because Joel’s hand slid across your cheek, his fingers holding your chin with trembling tenderness. When his lips leaned down, he kissed your forehead first. It was light, but it resonated in your heart. Then to the corner of your eyes, then to your cheek… And finally, to your lips.

His kiss was cautious at first. But when your lips returned it, Joel’s kiss deepened again, but he still took his time. Joel Miller never rushed anything. He loved like he was walking across a battlefield—carefully, carefully, but eventually, inevitably.

As your breaths mingled, he carefully moved his fingers to the top button of your shirt. As if he might break the magic of the moment if he hurried. His eyes stayed on yours as he undid each button; he was searching for confirmation, approval, but also affection. When the fabric of his shirt parted, there was only silence between him and your skin. Joel’s fingers parted the slightly exposed fabric on either side, then his eyes fell on the bruises and scratches just below your breast. Time seemed to freeze in that moment. His eyebrows furrowed; not in anger, but in sorrow. Joel leaned down, never taking his eyes off you. He touched one of the scars with his lips. Gently at first, almost a whisper. Then to another… and to another. Each touch felt like an apology. His fingers trailed down your arm, as carefully as if he were stroking a shard of broken glass.

When you were out of breath, Joel moved his hand to your breasts. He began to play with your nipples, crushing them between his fingers. You felt a tingling and arousing sensation at your nipples. The dampness he left on your skin cooled your flesh, and that only excited you even more. Your face was much calmer and more relaxed than before. You moaned softly, closing your eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Joel said, his voice a little harsher this time.

You nodded slightly, your lips parted, your eyes now on Joel’s. “Only hurts when you stop,” you whispered, your lips trying to smile.

That sentence broke something in Joel’s gaze. Then he leaned down… to your neck. Slowly, warmly touching your skin. The first kiss went to your collarbone. Then to the curve of your neck. He lingered there a little longer—as if he wanted to release his breath into your skin. His hand continued to caress your breasts. Each caress was like a silent oath saying, “I’m here.”

When your fingers grabbed hold of Joel’s muscular arm, it wasn’t to stop him, it was to feel him more. Joel knew that too. He leaned his body over you, careful not to hurt the wound on his shoulder, carefully distributing his weight—enveloping you without crushing you, as if his body were your shelter.

Joel reached out slowly. He touched your waist first, firmly but reassuringly. His fingers traced a path from your stomach to your belly button. But as his hand slid down to your groin, he paused when he got close to the wounds. His fingertips hung in the air. He couldn’t touch them.

His hand continued down your body. He made small, meticulous circles to avoid the wounds. His breathing became ragged, because the guilt that was gnawing at him had settled into his chest. When he reached the button of his pants, he took a deep breath; he held his hand there. The mechanical sound filled your ears as he undid the metal button. Then he grabbed the zipper, his fingers lingering briefly on the fabric, pausing. His eyes never left yours. Then he pulled the zipper down: the worn metal teeth opened with a sharp “zzt”. The fabric gave way. He squeezed his fingers between the fabric and your skin, pulling down.

Joel felt how wet you were when he wrapped his fingers around your outer labia over your panties. He began to rub, applying gentle pressure. The wetter the fabric became, the more tactile it became. He conquered the folds from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina.

Then Joel carried himself down. His hands were supported by the stone floor on either side of your waist. He lifted one hand up and brought it to your groin. He placed his index and middle fingers between your vulva and panties. Using his powerful muscles, he pushed the fabric aside hard, squeezing it where it met your inner thigh and groin. Now you were right there in front of him, shining brightly. The surface of your outer labia shone like crimson glass, reflecting light from every angle. It was as if you were holding yourself together to tempt Joel’s lips. Joel placed his calloused hand behind your knee and spread her legs apart. Now he could see your clit between them. He leaned in a little further. His lips touched your skin, first gently, then with a more passionate hunger. He stuck his tongue out and placed it on your clitoris. The capillaries inside it had dilated, the blood flow had increased. This caused your clitoris to swell and you to taste the pleasure more deeply, so you closed your eyes and leaned your head back. Your chin lifted that neck tensed. Your fingers gripped the blanket tightly. The knuckles in your hands were white, the muscles in your outer thighs were trembling. The groan that escaped your lips gave Joel the green light to continue.

“Your color is as shiny and unique as satin, I can’t take my eyes off you,” Joel said, gently pulling his lips away from yours. He wanted to make you feel good and gain your trust. But he wasn’t lying either. When he dipped his tongue into your inner lips, they were so sweet, so juicy… Delicate like the thin skin of a sweet peach, yet deep and tempting like the flavor it held inside.

He began to move his tongue slowly around your clitoris. He began to latch onto you with big, slow strokes at first. The tongue movements moving from the entrance of your vagina to your clitoris... He was using the top of his tongue as he went up from the entrance of your vagina, and rubbing the bottom as he went down. Then he started to stroke faster with smaller circles with the tip of his tongue. This change of rhythm surprised you, made your moans longer, and made you gasp. There was nothing to say, you just wanted to say his name over and over again. But he was just a stranger. "How do you do this... I'm losing myself..." you said, your moans mixing with his words.

Joel said growlingly, "I'll show you how much you can take, Y/N..." Then he gently took your clitoris between his lips and started sucking. Your nub continued to swell and become sensitive inside his mouth. As he gently crushed it between his teeth, the capillaries inside were stimulated and the pleasure he was giving you caused a buzz in your ears. He continued to repeat it rhythmically, slightly increasing the pressure. You opened your eyes, feeling like you couldn't take it anymore. You lifted your chest. Your hands gripped the blanket tightly, straining the fabric as if they were going to tear, and your legs involuntarily closed. Joel suddenly grabbed your legs, which were squeezing around your head, and he forced them open wider than before, applying force to your inner thighs.

You pulled your hands away from the fabric and ran your fingers through your hair. You forgot all your pain as your body writhed in pleasure. You pulled your hair roots hard. "Oh, please! This is too much!"

Joel was vibrating your clitoris with quick and light vibrations. At the same time, he was increasing the tingling sensation by blowing out light breaths. He breathed through his teeth. "Are you giving up so easily? We've only just begun..." he buried his head harder into your vulva. His tongue continued to hungrily lick the pre-cum flowing from your vagina, he was drinking the colorless and thick fluid that had accumulated on his tongue with pleasure.

Your vaginal fluid felt like wine to him. The moment the slippery fluid met his lips, he made a delicate touch on his tongue; the sweetness of the peach fruit, the hidden depths of cinnamon and spice. As the fluid slid down his throat, each drop turned into an explosion of pleasure, the warmth instantly enveloping his body.

Joel suddenly pulled his head away from your vulva and rose to his knees, making eye contact with you. "I will give you everything. My soul, my heart... because you are not just part of my life, you are everything."

The blanket was rumpled unevenly, the smell of scorched bushes wafting around you.

His body was shaped by the maturity of his age; it was neither exaggerated like the insanely muscular bodies of young men nor did it show the signs of aging completely. His shoulders were broad, his stance confident. Life had taught him how to carry his body; he did not try to show his strength, but it was felt in every movement. But what was most striking was the experience that lay beneath his skin and muscles. A natural charm worked by time, experience, and life, something most young men lacked. He had a raw, masculine grace; the years had not aged him, they had only made him more apparent and impressive.

The attraction between you was so intense that neither of you wanted to let the distance widen even for a moment. He slowly placed his hands on your sides and slowly crawled between your legs. There was a look in Joel’s eyes that wanted to possess you, yet at the same time worshiped you. He slowly lifted himself onto you. Joel’s weight, combined with the reassuring warmth of his presence, made you feel as if you were out of breath.

“You know what?” Joel whispered, placing his fingers on your jaw and turning your face to his. “I can’t believe how much I want you.”

Your heart raced. His touch was gentle yet authoritative; there was a hidden possessiveness in every movement. His hands slid down your waist, and you brushed your lips over the edge of his. Your breaths mixed, and you shivered as your skin touched.

Then your fingers reached Joel’s leather belt. You wanted to feel him inside you now, your body no longer had the strength to resist. You could feel the warmth hidden behind that thick fabric. That metallic click of the metal buckle turning was familiar, just like the sound of the knife you had been carrying with you for years. When you loosened his belt, the soft hiss of the leather rubbing and undoing filled your ears. Joel was helping you now. He could see that you were ready for real intercourse. While you were unbuttoning his button and belt, he was busy with his zipper. Your fingers were touching each other hard and urgent. Joel pulled his pants down from the curve of his hips. His cock, hard as iron inside his boxers, was suddenly pressing against your vulva with a swift waist movement. Your pupils were dilated and your chin was lifted when your sensitive womanhood was suddenly aroused. Joel was aroused when he heard the moans coming from your lips.

He hooked his fingers into the elastic of your underwear and pulled it down. Very slowly, slowly, which fueled your impatience. His cock was exposed as the fabric slid down, showing prominent veins. It was big. And when his cock was completely free of the fabric, it swayed slightly. You were excited to think about how you would be ecstatic under Joel when he saw this big cock about to enter your vagina.

Joel placed his hands under your knees and made you stretch your legs. This way, he could easily slide between your legs, allowing your slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely soaked in precum, to be able to place his cock between them. You gasped when Joel’s vein-throbbing cock pressed completely against your inner lips, and you punched the ground with sudden force. You moaned loudly. Joel laughed with pleasure. He rubbed the tip of his iron-hard cock against your vagina to excite you, while he breathed out, “It drives me crazy to hear you make such noises…” he said, his voice fierce and mocking. Your vagina was so wet that the fluid leaking from your legs was starting to spread on the blanket fabric.

Joel was forcing the entrance to your vagina, first grabbing his penis with your hand and flicking it towards your clit, then stroking it from side to side a few times, inserting a few millimeters of his tip into the entrance of your vagina, but never entering. This was starting to drive you crazy. “Oh, please!” you moaned. “I want you inside me now.”

Joel was aroused by these words of yours. “I'll give you my love to night.”

You were aroused by these words. It was interesting that Joel was treating her differently than the other men. “Yes,” you moaned, “I want to be yours.”

When Joel pushed his cock into your vagina, it completely enveloped your vagina. It was too tight for him. You threw your head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of your vagina wrapped around Joel’s smooth manhood. “Oh, Y/N, it feels so much better.”

Each time he pushed his large cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped against your ass, stimulating both your g-spot and your clitoral, making you almost cry.

“You like that, don’t you?” Joel asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, that you love me.”

Your flesh slapped together with each thrust as he thrust into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically.

You were both on the verge of peak pleasure. Your tight vagina could feel Joel’s hardness and veiny surface down to your smallest cell. His cock twitched, wrapped around your gnarled walls.

You were at the peak of your orgasm now. Even though the penis filled your vagina completely, the pleasure juices continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. Joel closed his lips on your lips. He kissed you passionately. "Be patient a little longer. It's almost time." Your body was shaking up and down. The muscles in his hips were now contracted, he was almost about to pour his sperm into your womanhood. But he held himself back and suddenly pulled out of you and ejaculated on your groin, out of breath. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your pleasure juices had spread, wetting the blanket. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry as snow from pleasure.

Joel suddenly grabbed your arms, straightened you up and placed you on his lap so that you were sitting on top of him. There was a mixed expression of surprise and happiness on his face. He looked at your face between his hands and looked at you with eyes half full of affection and half full of love.

The cold had settled over the world like a silence that gnawed through bone. But within the curved walls of the cave, there was still warmth. Shadows cast by breath, skin, and a fire that still held the pale glow of minutes past lingered. The sky felt distant, the earth endless. But as you sat in his lap, the bloody, sharp edge of reality faded into a blur.

Joel’s thick, calloused hands gently cradled your face. His fingertips moved slowly across your cheeks as if memorizing your face, his thumb grazing the corner of your lips with a hesitant kind of affection. His gaze lingered on you—dark and weary, yet somehow still strong enough to carry you toward the light.

“I... I’ve never felt anything like this before,” you said, your voice cracking. “Feeling this safe. Just existing with someone, without having to say anything. Like breathing.”

As you leaned against his shoulder, Joel’s throat tensed like he wanted to say something. But he only swallowed. His hand moved to your hair, then back to your face. It felt like he was trying not just to hold you—but to atone.

You were smiling. Soft, fragile, like a flower slowly opening in the morning light. “No matter what happens. My heart is already with you.”

But Joel knew your heart was balanced on the edge of a blade. The truth sat in his chest like a tumor, pulsing. He remembered pulling that trigger. Watching your father fall. And now, that man’s daughter was resting in his arms, breathing love into him. Giving him her heart.

“I’m here for you,” you whispered again. “And no matter what happens, I don’t want you to let go of me. Not the past, not the pain. I don’t want to be alone anymore, okay?”

In that moment, Joel’s world split in two. On one side, your warmth, your voice, the endless trust in your eyes… On the other, the moment that awaited in Jackson. When the truth would break free. When his name would be spoken. When his face would be recognized.

He knew that after that moment, you wouldn’t be able to stay in his arms. That forgiveness might never come.

But leaving you now would be its own kind of betrayal.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours. Closed his eyes. I can’t do right by you, he thought, but didn’t speak.

The tremble on his lips was the silent cry of a man caught between pain and tenderness. He clasped his hands behind your back. Tight. Like it was the last time.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, there were only two people. One bearing the weight of truth. The other yet untouched by it. But it was clear now: the road to Jackson would crack not only the path ahead, but both of your hearts.

[daughterofheartshaven]

So I just read the Who book Ghost Ship, which is notable for being the only prose story in all of the Whoniverse to be narrated first-person by the Doctor. [edit: I have been reminded that Scratchman exists. Also I don't promise there aren't other things I forgot about. Still rare tho] And having the Fourth Doctor narrate one of his adventures to you is glorious indeed. I pulled some quotes from the narration if you are curious as to what it is like:

The rules are made to be broken, but it is said to be unwise to use a metaphor or a simile that is also a cliché, and that you should never use long words where short ones will do just as well, or ten when three are perfectly adequate. I am aware that I, myself, am guilty of both the latter crimes.

Mistakes are a luxury I have never allowed myself in the past. They are the cause of untold suffering for everyone.

And in those following seconds, when I rationalised that a single random element may have been lust what the metaphorical doctor ordered, fate sealed itself.

I have not the faintest idea why I always seem to provoke such abject curiosity amongst those that I meet on my travels. Perhaps it is just that I am an exceptional fellow? Who, in all honesty, can tell?

If I had been human and interested in such aesthetic concepts as beauty then I would have been obliged to find her strikingly beautiful.

Just as the immediacy of the experience was beginning to fade in me and I was attempting, with some initial success, to rationalise the entire experience as a by-product of an overactive imagination, I turned.

I was reminded, briefly, of an incident in a darkened, shadowy French church in the 14th century. Of fleeing from frighteningly strong visions of devils and demons summoned to plague me by a particularly powerful narcotic present in the dye in the drapery. Deliberately so, it had turned out.

Reluctantly, I went. Actually, no, that is a lie to which I am now fully prepared to admit. I went with total willingness, glad to be away from these hideous, twisted spirits with their hidden agendas and unspoken identities.

With escape no longer a viable option, at least for the time being, I decided that this was clearly fate’s revenge on me for ever doubting its existence.

It was what I should have been doing all along. Facing my fear for real this time. Searching for the heart of truth and messing around in things that did not concern me. Being myself, in other words.

Usually I use moments of buffoonery like this to try to buy myself a little time or to put my adversaries off their guard. I cannot, in all honesty, say for certain that this was my intention on this particular occasion.

He looked like a stereotypical representation of a mad scientist. He looked, if truth be told, a little like me. All right, then. A lot like me.

With my more than elementary knowledge of tachyon physics I realised instantly that this machine would, given the right conditions, function. As a death-trap, at the very least.

Can I note, here and now, that I managed to say all this without breaking into hysterical laughter; which was, I consider after the event, to be a feat well worth boasting about.

[voidcatdoll]

Its also problematic because it assumes that a failure to find the door is a failure of the approach itself rather than its execution. We're ultimately telling a story here, if the hidden door is important and you haven't telegraphed that It Exists then you have failed at writing the story. And if all your players were too enamored with the snack bowl every time you did then you should just remind them of the various things their characters would know.

The same can be said for the perception roll approach, if something is that important either it shouldn't be a roll or you should give it to whoever did best if everyone flunks it. Again the problem is execution.

An approach isn't flawed just because you cannot do it well. Me never having shot a gun and being a lousy shot doesn't mean marksmanship is useless and hosing down everything with a MG3 is objectively the better approach just because I am more likely to hit the target if I spray the general area with 20 rounds a second, and you can figure that out by actually thinking about it for a moment instead of just going "well I cannot think of a way to do it so it must be impossible".

I mean that approach to dungeon crawling is all fun and games until the adventure grinds to a halt because everyone failed to read the DM's mind to find the secret door to the next room.

Leaving aside that I still think "reading the DM's mind" is an incredibly bad faith way to describe it. If there's something that makes your adventure completely dysfunctional if the players fail to find it, why are you making it secret in the first place????

Like by virtue of making something hidden or secret, you're introducing the possibility that the players will fail to find it. So the first thing you should ask yourself before you put a secret in is "am I okay with my players not finding this? does the adventure still work if they don't find it?" and then if the answer is "no" then you. just don't make it secret. Easy as that.

Like personally I think if at any point your dungeon has only one available way for the party to make progress you probably already fucked up a little bit. But if you decide to make their one way to move forward *secret* you're kinda just actively shooting yourself in the foot, regardless of whether you're using perception mechanics or not. Because with perception mechanics the same situation can just as easily turn into "the adventure grinds to a halt because everyone failed their Mother May I Use My Fucking Eyes To See What's In Front Of Me check to find the secret door"

[jupitermarss]

a show for the closest

band leader!chan x drummer!reader 

warnings: everything that a band lifestyle implies aka partying, drinking, depiction of drug use (we don’t approve of it, it’s for the sake of a fictional story ok, don’t do it irl, also idk how they work so if it’s not accurate you gotta forgive me). reckless unhealthy behaviors, unprotected piv while high. also, beware there’s a lot of exhibitionism and public stuff. it’s a pwp

the adrenaline of the stage is something you’re sure is a far worse addiction than that line of coke you’re snorting up with chris after the show. he sharply inhales it in and almost coughs, you assume from the intense burning and itching on the inside of his nose and throat. you follow your own white line and wince. it’s never a pleasant process but the instant kick washes over you in a second, so you’re well distracted. 

you’re in the dressing room with all the band members, chilling out after your gig, unwinding and just having a fun time. jeongin and seungmin prefer alcohol, so they stick to gin or whatever it is on the rocks in their glasses. felix, your bass guitarist, rolls up a thick blunt of weed and lights it up, sitting right next to you — you catch his reflection in the mirror. 

when the buzzing warmth fills up your entire body and settles somewhere deep in the fabric of your organs, your entire being feels at peace. chris smiles at you with the same knowing smirk because he’s feeling the exact same thing, he also knows very well that this particular dosage has the lovey dovey side effect, which is mostly why the two of you prefer it over everything else. it just feels nicer to kiss and touch. everything's softer, warmer, more welcoming and friendly, loving almost.

you reach for chris’s lips on instinct and a mere moment later he’s kissing you back with that chemical-y taste on his tongue. or the taste's in your own mouth, you can’t really tell anymore. 

it’s stuffy and hot in the confined space of a small dressing room packed with five people but you can’t bring yourself to care. to make the heat less suffocating, you take off the first layer of your clothes, now only covered up with a cropped top that truly doesn’t hide much. you’re still hot, and it’s probably because you’re burning from the inside but the freedom of movement is nice, the clothes finally less annoying on your overly sensitive body. 

the kiss lasts a while and time itself feels slower, thicker and less meaningful. the way your lips are moving against each other — it’s filthy and deep, all saliva and wet sounds that only make it more lewd. chris’s mouth is warm, welcoming and familiar. grounding after the deafening performance and the overwhelming vibrations of the drums. 

“ew, guys, you might as well fuck right here or somethin',” seungmin interrupts with a grimace of utter disgust while sipping on his gin next to an already noticeably tipsy jeongin on a tiny sofa in the corner of the room. 

it’s not unusual you’re intimate with chris in front of your members. if anything, they should be used to it by now because shameless kissing and butt slapping (that goes both ways) are just as regular in your routine as having breakfast. multiple times lix and seungmin gave you very telling glances after the two of you indulged in your sex life right on the tour bus, basically next to them since the only thing separating your bunk bed and theirs was a useless, definitely not soundproof curtain. 

seungmin’s comment was meant to shame you and make you stop or at least slow the fuck down a little but, judging by chris’s daring grin, it had a polar opposite effect. you don’t think much of it, assuming boys being boys, winding each other up as they do, but chris’s implying gaze lingers, and you raise your eyebrows.

“what? no,” you shake your head in complete rejection of the idea, even though your body reacts to the thought immediately. 

“why not, baby? they’ve already heard it, why not give them a show? maybe they can learn a thing or two,” chris laughs quietly and glances at seungmin, hinting that someone isn’t getting laid for a reason. 

“oh, please, i’d rather watch flies fuck on my dinner plate than you two.” he huffs and rolls his eyes to hide the slight embarrassment, clearly regretting he’d said anything at all. 

“that’s exactly your problem,” chris notes as he makes his way down to your collarbones and starts kissing and sucking on the exposed skin. you notice you’re barely breathing.

“i wouldn’t mind a show,” felix says quietly as he’s taking another hit, obviously less shy and more loosened up by now which makes you blink a few times with a little huh? to make sure you heard it right. your innocent, pure felix casually disclosing his voyeurism like that? 

there’s too much going on, and you can’t concentrate on shit. especially not when chris is touching you the way he knows you like.

“are you for real? do you wanna-... ?” you address him looking down as he’s already nose deep in your tits, hands grabbing at your waist. 

chris graces you with a confident nonchalant m-hm and looks up for a split second, pupils blown to the size of a coin, cheeks and lips flushed red from the high and the thrill, and it gives you all the reassurance you needed as you’re no longer forced to ignore the tingles in your lower stomach for the sake of decency or courtesy you and chris are clearly lacking. 

“guys, no, i made a joke,” seungmin protests watching things unfold and almost jumps from his seat only to be met with a calm “then laugh, seungmo” out of chris’s mouth. 

dirty. 

he unbuckles his belt with no hesitation and manhandles you easily into the most reasonable position: bent over the table and almost pressed against a mirror, forced to not only watch yourself get railed but also observe everyone else’s reaction to the show. 

you really don’t mind. everything kinda swims, your vision is overly saturated but blurrier than normal, you’re all feelings and needs. will probably be embarrassed about it tomorrow but tomorrow is yet to come, and what matters to you is now, and now only. 

the ability to focus isn’t lost but certainly changed by your high. everything feels different yet the same. same arousal, same familiar hands on you, same wetness in your underwear but everything is heightened, narrowed into tunnel vision leaving every other distraction unnoticed and meaningless. you barely register that the members are looking at you, or rather, you do but it doesn’t make you shy or ashamed. it just makes you smug. 

“hey, i’m not actually a baby, i’m of age, ‘kay?” jeongin objects as seungmin is trying to cover his eyes with his hand like a parent during a spicy scene in a movie the entire family is watching. 

felix seems unbothered and pleased, staring with unmasked curiosity as chris is sliding your shorts down and undoes his own pants. 

“you’re sick,” seungmin utters in defeat, falling back onto the couch and sighing. still watching, though. 

chris caresses you and plays with your folds a little, takes his time with the foreplay, the performance; his other hand is pressing down onto your back to keep you pinned to the table. he looks good doing it. maneuvering you the way he likes, keeping you where he needs you, taking what’s his any time and place he pleases. felix shifts in his chair puffing out the smoke from his blunt, mesmerized by how easily control and leadership comes to his hyung. you feel the air of the room touching your bare skin, even your clit pulsates at the subtle sensation, already swollen and aching to be touched. chris lines himself up with your entrance and teases with his tip, barely moving and sliding in just an inch and back only to make you jerk your hips and ask him for more. through a mirror reflection he catches his members silent and frozen, eyes locked on him, on the two of you.

you lazily try to put yourself up on your elbows and look over your shoulder, hissing at chris:

“fucking move.”

he hums in response and gets a better grip on your ass to then force himself all the way in and kiss your cervix with the head of his leaky cock. it’s heavy and hot inside you, slippery, dripping precum. the sigh of relief leaves your mouth, and you lay back on your chest, relaxing into the table and giving the green light to pound into you as hard as he wants. 

chris groans at your compliance and gives your asscheek a loud slap, thrusting deep and fast like he does when you’re having a quickie. the sound of skin hitting skin fills the room, and the air feels electrified, completely reeking with the smell of sex in a matter of seconds. 

jeongin watches in awe and doesn’t seem to notice that his mouth fell open, while seungmin nervously hides his face in his glass, even though his eyes are boring into the scene of chris’s dick taking ownership over your cunt. felix looks reserved and almost indifferent, the only thing giving him away is the hardening boner that is now beyond visible through the fabric of his jeans. he doesn’t seem to want to do anything about it, just enjoying the moment and relaxing after a long tiring gig. feels almost casual. as if it’s not the most outrageous and perverted thing ever to watch your leader fuck your bandmate close up.

although you're totally content with mindless pounding, besides, apparently, being an exhibitionist, chris is also a forever gentleman, so, seeing how fucked out and barely there you are, he decided to treat you to an orgasm and do all the work himself.

"see, seungmo? it's not enough to just put it in to get a girl cummin'. you gotta make some effort too," chris explains as if he's teaching a class and giving out a lecture, demonstrating and putting his theory to practice as he speaks. seungmin probably does know, he's watched porn and had hookups, he's a grown guy, but chris just can't help his desire to tease him further.

as soon as chris's skillful fingers find your clit and draw a wide circle you almost wake up, getting taken out of the hazy foggy high back into some sense of reality.

"there you go, baby," he whispers and nods, setting a nice pace harmonized with his own thrusts. he's done that numerous times, he knows how to work you just as well as he knows his own guitar. knows what string to pull and what chord to press to make that sweet sweet music.

"ngh-aah, fuck, 'm close," you mewl under your breath as your body is starting to tense up in anticipation. that's the music he enjoys.

the euphoric release hits in a matter of minutes, and chris follows right behind you, too worked up by the view and by the fact that his bandmates are still in the room to hold it off any longer. his hot sticky cum spills all over your ass, and it feels good. soothing almost. familiar.

as chris cleans you both with wet wipes and helps you up, making the two of you look decent again, if that's possible at all after what just happened, lix speaks up and utters a raspy "i need some air" before rushing out of the dressing room.

"you guys are fucking shameless," seungmin concludes and lightly taps on jeongin's jaw, signaling that it's about time to close his mouth now.

chris simply shrugs his shoulders and takes a seat on the other sofa, pulling you onto his lap and soothingly, calmingly rubbing the small of your back which pushes you further into a satisfied nap on his chest.

[joannechocolat]

Naming the rose

I wrote this about the weird and emotional journey that is finding and naming a new rose. I hope you like it...

“It’s funny, how far a glass of champagne can sometimes lead.”

It’s April 2025, and I’m standing in a muddy field in Hereford. The line you just read has been spoken by an attractive blonde woman wearing a lapel microphone. I too am wearing a microphone, and a few feet away, another woman is filming us both and recording our conversation. “Sorry, can we try that again? I loved the line about the glass of champagne, but I don’t think our CEO will like it.”

We start the conversation again, this time without the champagne line. We’re talking about roses. One rose in particular, a new variety to be launched in less than a month at the Chelsea Flower Show. That’s where this story begins, I suppose, at last year’s Chelsea Flower Show, where I’d stopped by for a glass of champagne in a tent where a group of people were helping launch a new rose into the world. Turns out that a rose launch is not unlike a book launch: there are guests, photographers, champagne and of course the rose itself, which, like a novel, represents many, many hours of hard work behind the scenes from people who may not attend this day of celebration.

Except that of course, this story began many years before all that. Stories have a habit of grafting themselves onto old stock, creating new growth, new narratives from something that . And this one goes back to Barnsley in the 1930s, to a man who never once drank champagne, or came to the Chelsea Flower Show. But my grandfather was a gardener. The son of a family of coal miners, he longed for a garden of his own, and his father reluctantly allowed him to cultivate a strip of land alongside their house as long as he grew food for the family. But Granddad was a romantic. He secretly loved flowers. I have a photograph of him in his garden, aged about eighteen, surrounded by giant cabbages. And cunningly placed among them, taking hardly any space, are roses, heads modestly hidden beneath the spreading leaves of the vegetables.

Those roses. I don’t know what colour they were, but I do know they were scented. He used to say that a scentless rose was like chips without salt and vinegar. The back of his house was given over to fruit trees, rhubarb, vegetables. But the front was all roses; all scented; in every possible colour. And all the roses had names, because each one was a story. I often used to wonder how the roses had been named; pored over his catalogues; sometimes made up stories about the most evocative. Jeanne d’Arc. Old Blush. Ispahan. Albertine. Sometimes I tried to make rosewater by cramming petals into a jar: the results were never very satisfactory, but it never stopped me trying. But what I really wanted was to have the chance to name a rose: to tell its story to the world through leaves and shoots and flowers. It was a little girl’s fantasy; but when I came to mention it that year, at the Chelsea flower Show, the lady I was talking to handed me that glass of champagne and said: “We can make that happen.”

The lady in question was Heidi Towse, from Blue Diamond Garden Centres. I’d met her through my cousin, Jill, who had invited me that day. My grandfather would have loved that: he’d never been to Chelsea, but he’d always wanted to go (I suspect that to him, travelling as far as London for a flower show seemed too much of an indulgence.) But picture the excitement of fulfilling that little girl’s fantasy: my grandfather died long before I could show him the novels I’d had published, but I suspect that naming a rose would have impressed him more than all of my books put together.

There followed a lot of e-mails about what kind of rose I wanted to name; what colour, what scent. (A scented one. Of course. My grandfather would have accepted no less.) The colour was more of a difficult choice: I have a kind of synaesthesia that means that I smell colours, and so the colour of a rose often smells very different to its actual scent. But by then I’d decided what my rose’s story would be. It’s a story you probably know, about a woman called Vianne Rocher, and the village in which she opens a shop. I wanted to name my rose after her, to acknowledge all she has meant to me over the past twenty-six years. And so I decided upon a rose of a very particular shade: a kind of dusky, damask red which, to me, smells of chocolate. And after some discussion with the German nursery, I decided on a name.

Of course, I hadn’t seen the rose at that point. I’d only seen it in photographs, but I was assured that in the spring I would get to see it grow. The roses begin their journey in a German nursery, Rosen Tantau. Then they travel to Britain, where they are prepared to meet the public. Which is why I’m in Hereford today, at one of Allensmore Nurseries, one of Blue Diamond’s suppliers, in a muddy field in which thousands of tiny rose bushes, no more than three of four inches long, are lined up in the deep red soil. These are the stock onto which my rose will be grafted: they will be kept over winter and sold to the public the following year. They don’t look much at the moment, but, like stories, they will grow, making roots and buds and leaves. By summer 2026, this whole field will be awash with the with the colour and scent of these roses, named after the heroine of my new novel, Vianne: the origin story of Vianne Rocher on her journey towards Chocolat. And on May 22nd, when my novel launches, my rose will launch alongside it, at the Chelsea Flower Show, and at Blue Diamond garden centres all over the country. I visit a part of the nursery where almost 500 rose bushes in pots stand waiting in neat rows. These will go on sale next month; in June they will be in flower. Jeff, who manages the nursery, insists on giving me one to take home. I bring it back with me on the train, swaddled in a waterproof bag. I mean to plant it by the shed that serves as my garden office. Next year, I may be able to smell its flowers from my window.

The rose has such a powerful role in literature around the world. Legends are built around it. Poets from Shakespeare to Sappho found inspiration in its scent. And over and over we see it as a symbol of the heart – just as the ancient Mayans saw the cacao bean as a human heart. In fact, chocolate and roses are often seen together. Both are symbols of romantic love. Both are laden with stories. And, I hope, my rose will bring all those stories together in one flower, which to me will smell of bitter chocolate and rose, and maybe grow stories of its own in flower gardens all over the world.

It’s funny how far a glass of champagne, or a taste of chocolate, or a seedling, or a story, can lead. All have their own narratives. All in their way are transformative. All are the product of long months of work by many individuals. And all are celebratory, speaking to the part of us that longs for something magical, something that grows beyond what we previously expected.

The name of the rose is Vianne’s Chocolat.

My Granddad would have understood.

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

An Elegy For One Roderick Usher/The Haunted Palace (Chonny Jash)

Insufferable, the sight of such a miserable wretch as he/A friend at once alive and stone-cold dead/A musician of the string, he compelled his guitar to sing and at last/And for the first – I heard such frightful, dreadful, doleful, dismal, intensely conscious dread/He said:

"GODD. Okay, okay. OKAY. So this song is sung by the albums narrator who is also the protagonist for the Edgar Allen Poe story, The fall of the house of Usher! Where he retells said story. It quotes from / recites the poem in the story 'The haunted palace' several times in it's lyrics. The first thing that REALLY fucks me up about this song is that the songs narrator (In the small fandom, called the fanon name 'Matthias' for simplicity) is the creator of the fictional band that performs this album, almost all are characters from classic gothic story; ie Jekyll and Hyde, Frankenstein, Dracula.. And you could gather that in doing this there's a therapeutic element to it, relieving the guilt and trauma they gained from those stories. In the song (and the story) Matthias and Roderick Usher recite each other poems and tell each other stories to try and relieve the pressure of their situation. However, Roderick (and his sister Madeline) still die. So, the implication here is that the band (Named Gothic whore) is in memory of Roderick, in some way. (In the album there's the 'Fallen motif' which, in my own interpretation- mind you, marks the beginning of a part of a narrative or something important to a narrative. In this song it plays right at the end) But that is all fandom backstory that fucks me up, let me get more into the sauce of the song itself. Between original verses, 'The haunted palace' is recited by Roderick usher. The recital of this getting more and more intense and stressed as the song continues. After he dies, Matthias takes over reading it. It's a small difference, since it's all technically sung by the same person with only a difference in audio effects between characters, but once you know it's there... It fucks you up. The only instruments in this song are string instruments because in the story, it's mentioned that Roderick can only stand the sounds of certain stringed instruments!!!!!"

Poet and the Pendulum (Nightwish)

Forgive me, I have but two faces/One for the world/One for God save me/I cannot cry ‘cause the shoulder cries more/I cannot die, I, a whore for the cold world

"This is a mental health crisis in a song. The despair, the anger, the healing- it’s all here. The writer once said that he wrote his own suicide into the song so that he wouldn’t kill himself for real. It starts at “the end” and ends with “the beginning”, taking the listener on a cathartic journey all the way from the depths of anguish to the renewal of hope."

Roderick Usher submitted by @hydemercats