#they were stale and horrendous

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Ghostbuster. || kidnapper!Simon "Ghost" Riley

[ FIC MASTERLIST ] || [ CHAPTER 2 -> ]

Rating: M + Dark Fic + DDNE Words: 4.2k~ Pairing: Serial Killer!Reader x Serial Kidnapper!Ghost CW: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dark fic, serial killing, serial kidnapping, torture, body disposal, death, murder (purposeful), murder (accidental), mentions of rape? (neither Simon nor reader rapes anyone!!!!!), blood, knife/weapons, gross abandoned buildings, police verbage. tags: dark fic, serial killer AU, no smut (for now), OOC Simon, you/your pronouns, afab!reader, reader & simon terrorizing the city of Manchester, Manchester geography/accuracy?. a/n: fully inspired by the post below, by @moongreenlight ; also fully a gift for @superhero-landing

"This marks the 7th body found in the Greater Manchester area in the last 6 months."

It's dark outside. Eerily so. Probably because, although the moon is high in the sky, full and bright, plenty of clouds hide it from view. The weather forecast speaks of heavy rains for the next few weeks, but you got lucky... It's not currently raining. It leaves the night feeling weirdly still and quiet, the roads long empty after people retreated into their homes after work.

But not you. Never you.

You turn your head to peer at the old box TV in the room over your shoulder, your eyes narrowed in on the screen where the news anchor talks about the police investigation at hand.

"The victim, a 24-year-old university student, residing in Wythenshawe, had been reported missing last month, on the 18th, after having not come home after a nightout with friends."

The old shop is dark too, barely illuminated by a camping lantern you've brought inside when you first broke in. The air is stale, almost unbreathable from all the dust; the floor, and counters caked in a layer of dried particles, courtesy of the decades' long abandonment the shop has suffered, as well as the ceiling panels having come loose, knocking down concrete dust all over the shop.

Shaking your head, you carefully click your tongue in displeasure, while you clean the tool in your hand with a rag, keeping your eyes and ears still honed into the broadcast. "Poor thing." You comment to yourself.

Your head slumps forward to reach your arm, and you rub the underside of your nose with the back of your hand and forearm, sniffling a bit to clean some of the snot dribbling down your nostrils due to the overly dusty air.

"The Great Manchester Police HQ has issued a warning on the brutality of the recent string of murders and their commitment to find the people responsible. The Police Chief urges that anyone who might have any information to please come forth."

Sighing, you turn your head away again, as the news anchor drones on about the funeral for the young girl who was just found. You step away toward the array of tools displayed, for your convenience, on one of the old counters, laid neatly across a black tool roll bag and carefully set the knife atop it.

The shop smells. It's not entirely unpleasant, but you've gotten used to it either way. You're pretty sure if you weren't, it'd smell horrendous, like it did in the beginning. Stale, dusty air, old blood caked into the gashes and knife cuts on the wooden countertops, tools that were abandoned and grew colonies of bacteria after enough time went past, old vent systems that haven't been cleaned, meat display cases that didn't get disinfected before the butcher shop went out of business.

Tossing the rag aside, atop the butcher's block countertop, you run a finger over the wristband of your black cooking gloves, the latex feeling sticky and damp due to the fresh blood caked onto it. Turning on your heel, you return to the center of the room and look down at the body slumped on the chair before you.

"That guy is a fucking sicko, isn't he?" You complain and crouch before the man tied to the chair, raising his bruised and bloodied face by gripping him around the chin.

The man before you looks like the rest of them, balding and with a 5-o'clock shadow of a beard. He was greying as well, as most of them tend to be. Old, perverted bastards... He's slowly paling before your eyes, the blood slipping down his abdomen, soaking through his clothes and flowing onto the drain below his rickety chair.

"You know, you've gotta be a particularly... Nasty bastard to kill women that young... To bathe and redress them post-mortem..." You trail off. The man before you doesn't reply. He looks groggy and languid, blinking irregularly, and his chest heaving. Barely aware of anything as his life, much like his blood, drains from him.

It's almost poetic to watch his blood stain the white tile of the backroom of the shop, the walls lined with racks and hooks meant to, in the past, hang carcasses from... Almost like this old cooler room is finally fulfilling its role again, to cool and drain a dead body of its blood, all of it flowing down the incline toward the drain...

"I believe I saw in a few Criminal Minds episodes that those types that... clean them afterward feel 'regret' for what they did." You shake your head and kiss your teeth in annoyance.

"They feel regret after it's done, but not while they do it. 'es it mean they gain a conscience after the fact?" You ask him. "Monsters, the lot of them..." You chide and scoff, letting go of the man's face.

Then, you smirk as you notice his breathing get shallower, his head going a bit more limp, hanging low, his chin pressing over to his chest. Leaning forward, you bring your mouth close to his ear, your lips almost grazing his ear. "Don't worry, I won't clean you up once I'm done."

-

Sitting in your dark bedroom, you lounge back lazily on your desk chair, chewing some bubblegum and tapping away at your mouse before scrolling down a forum page.

The room, much like the rest of your flat is dark, only illuminated by the bright blue-toned light emanating from your computer screen, even in dark mode.

The best part of the internet age is the fact people share, comment and gossip about everything. It makes your research so much easier. Though, you suppose it's human nature... to be curious and gossipy. Social creatures and such.

Clicking on one of the posts on the subreddit r/ManchesterCrime, you skim through the post, where the OP is mentioning how they live nearby to the location where the new body was dumped: the southside of Manley Park.

Grabbing your pink fuzzy-top pen and a couple of highlighter markers, you get up from your desk chair and lean over your desk to the corkboard hanging behind it.

You take your writing materials to the printed map of the Greater Manchester area which you had pinned to the cork slab, tracing the information you have so far:

Resident of Wythenshawe.

Captured somewhere between The Three Pigeons and home.

Dumped in Manley Park.

You set down your pens and grab some pink wool string and a couple more pins, using them to rig up a new line to connect the dots over the map.

Taking a step back, you look up at the map and sighed, shaking your head, feeling anger flowing through your veins.

You have been trying to figure out the killer's area of operation for months... Trying to triangulate it, find a pattern...

But nothing.

No convergence point for the lines; no silly little connect-the-dots shape being formed; no secret message being shared... Or maybe there is and you just suck at reading it.

So far, all you have is 7 pieces of string of different colors... 7 victims. All over Manchester, with no overlay.

Just... 7 young girls taken for weeks at a time, killed and then dumped like rubbish.

Has he been taking them to different secondary locations all over the city before slaughtering them?

Has he been driving about, passing by schools and homes and banks and shops, on his way to the dump sites... with a body in his car?

Allegedly, they were all bathed and redressed, with no signs of sexual trauma or abuse, other than a stark loss of weight and some rope burn around the wrists and ankles...

But who really knows?

You are no PI or constable, just a sleuth. Whatever information you have, you got from the internet and from the news... You have no way to be sure of anything.

It angers you to imagine what he had been doing to those poor girls while keeping them to himself.

The poor, terrified girls... someone's sister, someone's daughter, someone's girlfriend, someone's friend... And he had been plucking them from their mundane, safe lives and murdering them?

Throwing yourself back down onto your chair, you stack your fingers together, elbows on the armrests, and swiveled side to side as you looked at the corkboard map.

You hate men like this.

Predators.

Taking and hurting and killing with no issue or hesitation... Sure, psychologists might allege that he feels regret and expresses it by caring for them after death... But you disagree with that interpretation.

You've never met a man who regrets hurting a woman.

-

It's almost funny how easy it was to play with a man's emotions.

They see a pretty face marred by running mascara and red, swollen tear-filled eyes, holding a thumb out for a ride on the side of the road, and they always stop.

From then on, you can just spin whatever sob story about needing a ride...

Men love to play the hero... and oh, how idiotic they are.

They always let you in, and within an hour you have a new warm body to tie up and toy with.

In a way, you are actually surprised by how long you've been able to get away with this for.

You're secretly thankful your murders have not been given any attention so far.

You suppose that's one thing you could thank that... killer for.

You hate how the internet had given him a name already:

The Ghost

because someone allegedly witnessed him dumping a body in Heaton Park, and then vanished into the shadows of the night like a spectre.

Don't they know what happens when they give these types killers nicknames?

How that embiggens and emboldens them?

Have they never watched a true crime show? Or even a fictional one?

But... regardless... as long as young women are being slaughtered by a maniacal monster of a man, and, therefore, kept in the eyes of the world... No one is going to notice the missing middle-aged men you'd been consistently murdering for the better part of 3 years.

Yet another way where men have the upper hand over women. Lady killers just don't get taken as seriously.

You think of that as you watch the body disappear under the water, the cinder blocks you had tied to his feet dragging him under.

You wait a few minutes after his bald head vanishes from view, making sure it doesn't re-emerge, your hands tucked into the pockets of your parka, dead leaves crushed under your hiking boots.

-

Another body; the 8th one.

This one got dumped much quicker.

A 26-year-old till clerk at a Tesco had been reported missing only 36 hours before her body got found.

The news spoke about the incident and the GMPHQ deemed it a separate occurrence. An accident. The girl had been a Type 1 diabetic and seemed to have had a fatal sugar crash.

But you know it has to have been 'The Ghost'.

You don't know why. But you can just tell.

And, for the first time, as you draw up the line over the map, to signal where she got picked up and where she got dumped... there's an overlay.

The pick-up site, somewhere between her job, and her home... and the dumpsite.. Alexandra Park, near Oldham. Both those locations were mere minutes away from where the second victim had been picked up months ago.

Has he gotten sloppy?

Has her sudden death thrown a wrench in his plans and caused him to panic and pick somewhere nearby?

Your eyebrows twitch and a smirk takes over your lips as you finally find something you can exploit.

"Got you, you fuckin' knob'ead." You say and can't help the proud chuckle that escapes your mouth.

-

Simon's pissed off.

He feels like shit after having gotten that girl killed on his watch.

Not that he hadn't gotten the other ones killed either, but this one had truly been an accident.

Between the stress and the fear, her blood sugar had dropped and Simon hadn't noticed before he left the house to pop to the shops and get them both some food.

And by the time he got back and made her dinner, she was just... gone.

It startled him.

Startled him more than when the other ones died.

While looking in her purse for a justification as to why she passed... like any medication he failed to give her, he found the insulin pen and the sugar monitor.

So now, here he is. Back on the street. Back on the prowl. With 8 accidental kills under his belt and a desperate need to fix his streak.

He drives aimlessly. It's a Saturday night and Simon was sure he was going to find some young, vulnerable girl wandering about and stumbling over her own feet, too drunk or high to even walk in a straight line without stumbling or having to lean on street lamps and walls for support.

He hates seeing girls in that state. Young, vulnerable, alone... Left to be preyed upon by some creep in the shadows... Their support systems having failed them...

What kind of friend leaves a drunk girl to find her way home alone when she can barely stand?

What kind of manager lets an employee walk home after dark?

What kind of parent, or sibling, lets a girl walk home from the bus terminal during a storm?

And then they wonder why girls get raped or murdered senselessly by dirty bastards in back alleys.

That only happens because no one protects these vulnerable girls.

They protect them as children, but not as adults? What kind of world does such a thing?

Probably the same world that misinterprets his actions as senseless killing.

He's not a killer.

He's... just very bad at taking care of the girls he... 'helps'...

He never means to hurt them. He's no monster. He just wants to protect them.

-

For once it's actually raining. Heavily so. The water has soaked through the slinky mini skirt and spaghetti strap top you're wearing, your heels are open-toed and slippery, and each step you take feels like you're about to fall face-first into the mud.

You've had your arm out-stretched and your thumb up for the better part of an hour, trying to flag down any car driving past, only to get no luck.

You're at your wits' end, and so so close to calling it a night and trying to stop baiting a driver into taking you in. It's that bad tonight. You can't seem to reel anything in.

The cold wind nips at the exposed skin on your arms and legs, and you know well you'll spend the next week in bed with the nastiest cold of your life.

A car zooms past you as you walk and show your thumb, only to groan and protest when it doesn't stop...

But it does slow down to a stop not far ahead of you, having turned on its blinkers after spotting your outstretched arm and thumb up.

Rushing over to it, you stumble a few times and trip and slip with your heels on the wet tar of the road, before you come up to the passenger side door.

Look in the window, you find a young-ish looking bloke behind the wheel, looking at you with concerned eyes and knitted brows. He leans over and pops the door open for you.

"Get in, get in!" He tells you urgently when he notices you shivering like a wet dog in the rain.

Climbing inside the car carefully, you close the door behind you, hearing how the rain and wind turn muffled once you do.

It's surprisingly clean inside, the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror smelling of pine. It's also warm, so warm, the heater running at max temp and making the car so much more cosy.

"Oh my God, thank you so much for stopping!" You whine, forcing yourself to sniffle and hiccup as tears pour down your face. They're fake ones, warranted by you watching a handful of soldier-coming-home videos on youtube and using some menthol-infused stick in your undereye.

"You alright, sweet'eart?" The man asks as he looks at you with worried eyes. "Are you all alone out here?" He asks and glances out of the window.

He's younger than most of the men you usually bait out, but he'll do. He's also... more handsome than most of them too. Long, prominent nose, a long jaw and chin, pouty pink lips, and the biggest brown eyes, not to mention a crew cut worth of blonde hair.

"Yeah..." You sniffle. "My boyfriend he... we were coming back from a birthday party and we... he... we were arguing and he tossed me out of the car and... and...!" You explain. The practiced lie slips through your teeth quickly. It's been used on about 7 of the 20 or so men you've wiped off the map, and you say it as if you truly believe it, which helps sell it.

You also stumble over your words, as if you're starting to choke up, to make sure you sound even more distraught. Men love when you're hyperventilating.

"Alright, it's alright-!" He tries to reassure you and sets a hand on your shoulder. "God, you're freezing. How long have you been out there?" He asks you, concerned.

"I- I don't know! An hour?" You answer with a whine, your lip quivering as more sobs rack your body.

Your eyes are sharp, though. You're noting his every movement. How he quickly pulls away from the backrest of his seat and shrugs off his coat and wraps it around your bare shoulders. "Here. It's alright. You're alright."

You continue softly sniffling, tucking your legs to the side toward the door, while hiding your face in your hand.

"Where can I take you?" The blond man asks gently as he glances at you and slowly leans closer, resting an arm on the steering wheel, the other on the centre console.

"I don't... I don't know..." You whine and sniffle. "I can't... I can't go home... I can't face him right now..." You trail off. "I can't believe he'd toss me out of the car like that...!"

"Well, I'm sorry to say, love, but he sounds like a right knob'ead." He says and carefully pats you on the shoulder. "How about I take you to the bus terminal? Or the station?"

"I don't know...!" You whimper. "He took my things with him... I can't even buy a ticket home to my mum..." You hiccup and try to clean the tears off the corner of your eyes.

He's handsome, he speaks calmly, hasn't tried to touch you longer than simply patting you for reassurance, and even gave you his jacket... You almost feel bad about doing this to him. Almost.

"Tell you wha'." The bloke says as he leans a bit closer, tilting his head to look at you in the eye. "I'll take you to the bus terminal and give you a couple more pounds so you can call your family or a friend to come get you, yeah?"

Sniffling, you shake your head. "No... you're already... doing so much! I can't... I can't even pay you back!" You add.

You really should earn an Oscar for this performance. The damsel in distress who's actually such a good girl that she doesn't want to impose on this man's money or take too much of his help.

"Don't worry about any of that." He tells you and waves his hand to dismiss the point, before leaning over and fixing the direction of the air vents on the dash, making sure they point at you to keep you warm. "You don't have to pay me back, alright?"

Nodding a bit, you try to stop crying and rub your eyes with your hands, causing an even bigger mess within your make-up, your fingers now also stained with mascara.

"Here. It's alright. No need to cry anymore." The driver says affectionately as he offers you a tissue from a pack, before he shifts in his seat and starts driving forward.

-

Simon watches you out of the corner of his eye as he drives. Poor little thing, all alone, abandoned by her boyfriend, left on the side of the road...

It's like the universe had handed you to him on a silver platter. He couldn't not take you in! And, this time, he's not going to let anything happen to you.

He's not risking it.

And so of course he's going to soothe you, to calm you down, you, the poor little thing, that got left on a side road by your awful boyfriend, like a stray cat no one wants to feed...

That's the thought in his head as he drives down the wet roads, the windshield wipers working overtime to beat the pouring rain that decided to attack the city of Manchester even more aggressively than usual.

Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye every few minutes, making sure to drive carefully and steadily, and trying to spot the look in your face as he does.

You still seem stressed, frazzled, worried. The tears haven't stopped despite your breathing having settled...

He wonders if you've had anything to drink. You're definitely not drunk, but the amount of tears... maybe tipsy?

Maybe you won't even need to be threatened. You'll just... let him take you into his house, gently guide you into the bathroom and let you wash off the mud and rain...

He'll give you clothes, and food, and let you watch tv with him... And he'll keep you warm and safe, like everyone in your life has failed to, that got you to the moment you were now in...

Alone.

Afraid.

Abandoned.

He wants to tell you not to worry, that he's here now... But he holds his tongue. You'll hear it later.

-

"You should've kept going forward instead of turning right..." You say aloud, forcing your voice to still sound soft and meek, as you look out of the window.

You've been driving for a while. You've kept your head low, enjoying the warmth coming from the A/C, which helps with the genuine cold wetness of the rain that settled on your skin and bones.

You're not stupid. You know the way to the bus terminal and to all the train stations in the area...

He's not taking you to either. In fact, you're pretty sure you've taken 3 rights in the last 5 minutes, and are, in short, going back the way you came.

"Sorry. It's easy to get turned around with this rain, I'll go back to the main road." He replies. His tone apologetic, and his brow scrunched in concern... But his eyes... his eyes are hard.

It sends a tingle down your spine. For once, you actually baited out a man that has nasty intentions with you.

Had he not tried to do that, you would've considered letting him live... But no, of course, he's actually a creep...

What a shame... He's actually kind of cute. In a blue collar sort of way.

It gives you some weird sense of satisfaction, the realization in the back of your mind that you might have succeeded... that you might have bated him out... The Ghost.

Your hand carefully slips into the left side of the waistband of your slinky skirt, the side closest to the door, so he can't see, your fingers already wrapping around the handle of your pistol.

Your eyes remain on the street, the road, keeping an eye out as he returns to the main road and goes back over the area he has just driven past. A closed down shop, the post office...

And you wait.

You wait patiently for the next time he tries to turn right and put you back on course toward the area you had triangulated for The Ghost to live in or work out of...

And he does. He does just that.

Within a minute, he turns right again...

And you don't hesitate.

Your fingers tighten around the pistol handle and you rip it off the confines of your skirt, your arm hurling itself toward him, steadily pressing the barrel to his temple...

Only for you to notice his arm moving sharply at the same time and, you're suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun as well.

His eyes are wide, his brown irises nearly invisible from how wide his pupils are blown and he stops the car suddenly with a hard brake that jostles you both forward.

Looking each other in the eye, over the top of both your pistols, you can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline through your veins.

The look of surprise, confusion and pure dread painted in his features, the way his brows knit together and furrow in displeasure, his lips already twisted into a scowl...

It's a sickly sweet pleasure, to spot the way that, just like the other ones, he's scared of your pistol... It's likely his first time... But an unfamiliar warmth forms in your tummy as you stare down his pistol too... It's also your first time...

"Well, well, well... Would you look at that?" You quip as a smirk takes over your lips. "Looks like I've busted myself a Ghost."

You don't miss the way his brows go from concerned and fearful to dropping low onto his eyelids, and his jaw clenches in disgust.

Got him.

[kquil]

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER TWO

02 : SHOPPING (1/2)

CHPT. SUM. : life isn't easy in the Black Family household, you need to get out, you also need a new wand. Sirius does too as well as a few other things; time to go shopping.

LENGTH : 5.8k

TAGS. : hurt/comfort ; tantrums ; fluff ; sirius needs a hug ; regulus needs a hug ; original walburga can eat shit ; orion can eat shit too ; reader being an amazing mother ; walburga deserves to get bullied ; floo powder travels ; diagon alley shopping time~ ; stupid wands ; arson ; goblin OC ; sirius being a sneaky baby ; regulus follows in his older brother's footsteps ; misbehaving things ; Ollivander cameo~ ; please excuse any grammar or spelling mistakes for now, this wasn't really proofread (╥﹏╥) i'll go back over things later on!

← PREV. | 01 : ARRIVAL | SERIES M.LIST

7th August 1971 

It didn’t take you long to uncover the upsetting affairs of the ever proud Black Family. 

There was nothing to be proud of. It sickened you to witness the blatant disdain Orion had for his own two sons, neglecting them by leaving for work early and returning only to lock himself up in his home office. The bastard even overlooked his sons when he was present at home on the weekends and the few words he spoke when addressing them dripped with cruelty and ignorance. The only positive thing you could take from his absence, however, is the fact that the boys didn’t have to tolerate his silent callousness for long periods of time. 

But that meant seeing the effects of Walburga’s despicable conditioning of the two boys, which was far worse. 

It was clear that Regulus wanted to be favoured and compiled to his mother’s whims, desperately seeking her approval. Whenever his small, pale hands reached out for you, no matter how miniscule, you accepted with open arms and a warm smile. His precious look of surprise, and shy happiness at your unexpected acceptance, never failed to make your heart shatter, even more so that his reaction never seemed to let up. 

Before every apology, before every small request, before every word he breathed in your direction, there was an evident hesitance, a slight fear in his motions that made him freeze up for a moment. It was a consistent action that you hoped, with time, would disappear for good. You love having Regulus for your son but you don’t want him to do things just because you said so. In your previous life and before your dreams were shattered, the one thing you looked forward to about having children was the development of their own personality, the becoming of their own individual person. That’s what you want for Regulus, and Sirius too. But you know that Regulus was the main son who was deprived of that pleasure in the original timeline so you wanted to give him that extra bit of care. It was your responsibility, now, to give him that happiness.   

Sirius was the same. He wanted approval too, you could see it so very clearly in his piercing grey eyes – it’s an innocence he shares with his younger brother. There’s a glimmer of hope in his grey pools, hidden behind the need to protect Regulus and the mix of anger and sadness fostered by the horrendous parents he had the ill-fate of having. You want to bring down those walls but you know it’ll take some time. Nevertheless, you clung onto the hope present in his eyes and used it to cultivate your firm resolution, like a garden to the foundation of a new life and a new future. It was needed, especially when Sirius lashed out, his fury, dangerously ablaze like a forest fire set on destroying everything in its wake. 

It was no secret that the original Walburga expected nothing but excellence from her only two sons, so it didn’t come as a surprise to you that she had hired private tutors for them leading up to their official education in Hogwarts. They were to study French, Etiquette, Literature, Cursive/Calligraphy, Maths and all of the wizarding basics. All taught by private tutors that delivered material like stale bread on a plate and leaving them with the terribly tedious assignments in the most ridiculous amounts. You understood why Sirius worked himself up to such a tantrum. However, he was not setting a good example for his younger brother, who clung onto the long flowing skirt of your black dress and pressed himself against your legs for comfort. 

Tenderly, you combed your fingers through Regulus’ neatly permed hair, lightly scratching at his scalp while the two of you waited for Sirius to lose energy and simmer down enough for you to finally get a word in. It only took a few minutes but Sirius was soon left heavily panting, his expulsion of rage gone but still evident in his harsh glare and aggressive stance.

 Silence took over the room as you continued to hold his gaze, determined to handle the situation calmly but firmly and without any interruptions – you hope to God that your amateur imperturbable charm worked on the door of the room; it was the weekend, meaning that Orion was at home and he wouldn’t take too kindly to his equally hateful wife being screamed at by his disobedient son.

“...it’s not fair…” Sirius grumbles under his breath, pouting defiantly as his small hands ball up into clenched fists by his sides. 

“I know it’s not fair, Sirius,”

“Then—!” Sirius cuts himself off when you raise a brow at him, your mouth pressed into a tight, thin line. 

Some part of you understands why Sirius would lash out so aggressively; he was practically drowning under the workload he was set by his individual tutors, drowning under the expectations the original Walburga had set on him and he didn’t know how to express his frustrations. Along the way, you’re sure he’s bottled up his emotions and tried to get on with things, evident by the littered chaos of papers at his feet, marked by his neat handwriting. Such beautiful handwriting for such a young and troubled boy. With his deadline fast approaching and his assignments piled up to his ears, Sirius lashed out in the violent and wrathful way he’s been exposed to since birth. You want to be soft and comply with his demands but you know that’ll foster bad habits in him. Conceding now will only teach him that it’s okay to become violent when he’s frustrated and that it’ll work to help him get what he wants. But that is a false reality. And you will not perpetuate the illusion for him.  

He’s your son now, he’s your responsibility and you’re going to teach him well. So you stand firm but composed. You’re setting an example. It isn’t until you sense the fear of what may happen slowly seeping into Sirius’ much smaller frame, that you step forward and take action. 

In your slow approach, Sirius flinches and snaps his eyes tightly shut. His clenched fists slowly come up to shield his chest as his shoulders tense despite the visible shiver that runs up his frame.

A small voice calls out behind you, “Mother–”

“Regulus, this is between me and your brother. Please don’t interfere,” Regulus bites his lip into silence but watches on with fearful eyes. He wants to step in and hold his brother close, the same way Sirius has done to help comfort him many times before but, no matter how strong his will, Regulus didn’t move. Why? Was it the fear or… was it something else?  

Once close enough, you kneel down and gently grasp Sirius’ small shoulders. You try not to wince when he falters from your touch and tries to withdraw but your grip keeps him securely in place. Inhaling deeply and slowly, you begin to speak in a stable voice and with strength. It’s best to start from the beginning. 

“Sirius…” you wait until he meets your eyes, hesitant and afraid but stubbornly brave, “what’s wrong?” he sends you a look of exasperation, you can read him easily ‘why are you asking him that when he’s been screaming at you about it?’, “I will not listen or engage in any conversation with you if you ever speak to me that way,” you set the boundary and pause to make sure he processes your words clearly before continuing, “I will only listen if you talk to me like a normal person, if you just scream at me like that then I can’t help you,” 

Sirius wants to scoff at your words; how could he possibly trust you to help him if you’ve never been worthy of his trust? But he glimpses the image of his worried, younger brother over your shoulder and bites down on his sharp tongue. Regulus has grown a small but reluctant trust for you ever since the day you fainted. It was naive of him but Sirius could never fault his younger brother for anything. He’s always been the one with the softer heart between them so it was natural for Regulus to be more trusting. Deep down, Sirius wants to have that same level of give within him too. 

But it was hard. It’s hard to trust…

…that didn’t mean he didn’t want to, however. One prolonged look at his brother was all he needed to have the courage to put that trust forward. 

“It’s unfair,” he repeats, clearly this time.

“What’s not fair?” you prompt, your features softening along with your tone as Sirius wills himself to continue. You haven’t lashed out at him yet, you haven’t even threatened to launch a curse at him, that was a good sign. 

“All this work…” he gestures to the scattered papers he had thrown to the floor in defiance. Now, he looks towards them in shame and quickly diverts his gaze from the mess. 

“I see,” you hum as he looks onto you with eyes of wonderment, unable to comprehend that you were taking in his complaint so graciously – he isn’t used to this type of gentleness but he likes it…  “I’m sorry you’re under so much pressure to do this much work,” Sirius holds his breath as hope builds up within him, its light is radiant but he tries to ignore it, “I’m sorry it’s been so hard for you–”

“––I tried to do well!” Sirius defends, his eyes desperately searching your own for some form of understanding. It was your warm smile that eased his panicked heart… in some sense, he’s beginning to understand his younger brother; his mother looks far prettier when she’s smiling. 

“I know,” you cup his face with one hand and lovingly caress the skin of his cheek with your thumb, “you’ve worked so hard. Thank you for trying, Sirius,” you watch tears pool at his eyes and coo comfortingly as you bring him into your arms and tuck his face into your shoulder, “I’m so sorry, my darling. I promise to talk to your tutors about the workload,” your gentle assurance and unfaltering promise eases his worries and Sirius allows himself to melt into your embrace. You’ve never called him that before. And never in such a loving or warm tone. It makes his heart feel lighter and his breath stutters in disbelief. 

Can he keep you like this? He wants you to be like this forever. 

Sirius doesn’t know how long he stays wrapped up in your kind embrace but he’s brought back to his senses when he hears shuffling and quickly feels his younger brother being brought into the hug too. Lighthearted and optimistic about the world’s goodness, Sirius brings an arm around his brother, who reciprocates his actions, and the three of you stay there, basking in each other’s warmth and comfort. This is nice. 

“Regulus,” Sirius feels his brother stiffen up beside him, but only for a moment, it almost goes unnoticed before Regulus tucks himself further into your arms, “I’m sorry for the burden of work on you too,” 

“I-It’s okay, mother,” alas, his younger brother is too forgiving but Sirius knows it’s a trait that he loves his brother for. 

“Do you like the amount of work you’re doing?” you question, doing your best to keep your tone neutral and only slightly peaking in curiosity. 

Regulus pauses for a moment, contemplating his answer, “I wouldn’t mind less work…”

His answer makes you laugh, the sound feathery and light, it makes the two brothers stare at each other in wide-eyed disbelief. They’ve never heard their mother laugh before. It was obscure and strange but a pleasant sound, something that they want to hear more often from you. 

“Then it’s settled, I’ll be having a word with your tutors,” the two boys release a sigh of relief and you feel Sirius melt a little more into your arms, “so you can leave your work alone for next week entirely,” their shock doesn’t go unnoticed but you continue, “I’m so proud of both of you for working so hard,” you didn’t want to rush things but you couldn’t help yourself. Slowly and gently and with all the love you could muster, you lean forward and press a kiss to Sirius’ forehead and then do the same to Regulus. 

They were stunned into silence as a pink hue rose to their cheeks, their wide, unbelieving eyes staring up at you in the most precious way. They look so adorable; you want to capture this image of them in a photo to keep forever. You can practically hear their racing hearts trying to beat out of their chests as their eyes swim with a child-like astonishment and wonder. They’re just two precious little boys who deserved better than the miserable, tragic fate J.K fucking Rowling wrote for them. And you were going to stop at nothing to make sure their futures were happy. 

Warm with happiness, your soft smile remains as you gently usher the two into the living room to settle down and relax for the evening. However, the little bubble of merriment you had cultivated with the two boys was promptly ruptured by the sour, disgruntled face you happened upon as soon as you opened the door.

Tucking the boys’ suddenly tense frames into the folds of your skirt, you address the intruder, “Orion–” 

“What was all that racket?” he demanded, his voice booming and frightening enough for Regulus to begin shaking faintly against you. It made anger spike in your chest but, thankfully, Sirius was there to reach out and immediately begin comforting his younger brother. You made sure to keep the boys out of Orion’s gaze but it was no use, “Sirius! I know it was you! HOW DARE—!”

“We’ve already settled the issue so there’s no need to talk about it further!” you interrupt through clenched teeth, chest puffed out angrily as you hold the boys’ tense but trembling figures into your legs, hoping to calm them as best as you can. Curse that imperturbable charm! And curse that stupid wand! You haven’t been able to cast a single, functioning spell with it and your excitement for the world of magic had quickly dwindled into abhorrence, stemming solely from the stubbornly disobedient wand, “I’m sure you have a lot of work to do so excuse us!” 

You hurriedly lead the boys away from Orion and to the living room as Orion snarls, outraged at being dismissed so flippantly but confused over your sudden change in demeanour. For now, he settles on observing the changes no matter how subtle and returns back to his office. 

“THAT WAND ISN’T WORKING FOR YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT IT’S TRUE MASTER!” Walburga screams in your head and instantly makes you clutch your temple in distress. Settled in the living room sofas, Sirius and Regulus observe you with worry. Walburga doesn’t seem to know any other way of communicating than screaming and it has led to multiple black outs and fainting spells. It also meant that you kept having to drink the same disgusting healing potion over and over again and you were sick of it!

Seeing the same symptoms again, the two boys fidget in their seats, wondering what to do to help, “Are you okay mother?” Regulus asks as you muster a small smile. 

“I’ll be alright, Regulus, thank you,” your response isn’t enough to convince Sirius and he whispers something in his younger brother’s ear as you set to deal with the annoying bitch stuck in your head. 

‘Shut up you insufferable bitch, is inducing a headache your only talent?’ Your words and foul language make her sputter pathetically and it makes you laugh under your breath. Your moment of joy and satisfaction is short lived, however, as Regulus summons Kreacher just as you fall into darkness once more. 

The fucking bitch… 

8th August 1971

Because of that evil bitch stuck in your head, you had to ingest another phial-full of that horrendous healing potion. Not only that but the stupid wand still isn’t working for you. 

“How can I survive this hell hole if I can’t even use magic?” you grumble into the open air as the evil bitch cackles resembled the sputtering and coughing of a broken-down car, mixed with the discordance of an off-tune violin, erratic, grating and screeching. 

‘Can you shut up?!’ you shout in your head, already fuming, ‘Your laugh sounds like it could kill someone! No wonder you’re so miserable and your only sons hate you!’ that finally got her to shut up and you could think clearly again. Even though the situation was annoying, It made you snicker. Being able to bully Walburga into silence made those awful healing potions worth it. You’d drink a hundred healing potions if it meant delivering justice for you two boys. 

Now that she’s silent, you observe your desk. Thankfully, you also had your ownhome office. The previous Walburga had a planner specific for Sirius and Regulus’ studying plans, diet and calendars full of ‘X’s with small notes beside them on disobedience and the subsequent punishments. It was sickening and you wanted to burn the thing but you resisted. If you want to act convincingly in front of Orion and plan slyly, you need to know as much about the original Walburga as possible so you keep all her planners, journals and  scraps of paper intact. You’ll study their contents thoroughly in due time. You still have some major planning to do and you need to note down important dates to keep track of before you forget them. The start you’ve made has been decent, however, you know you need to rely on magic at some points and you wouldn’t be able to succeed in the current state of your wand. And it isn’t as though you weren’t able to cast magic; the first time you tried to cast a simple spell – the well-renowned ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ – you had set the flowers in the vase on fire.  

You need an excuse to go out. As the Patriach of the Black family, Orion had the key to the Gringotts Black Family vault so you can’t just go out haphazardly. You also weren’t comfortable with leaving the boys home alone so you need them to come with you if you can. 

With a sigh, you slump into the rigid desk chair and set about occupying yourself with mundane tasks. Perhaps if you indulge yourself in other, simple activities, you can come up with something creative. Stacking your messily scrawled notations of future plans, you begin to rummage through the desk drawers for a stapler or paper clip but come up unproductive. Nothing. Did wizards and witches not use basic stationary?... They had magic, yes, but surely… 

Your internal ramblings come to an abrupt stop when you spot a famed crest sitting above a deep red seal. The crest features four familiar beasts, a lion, a badger, a raven and a serpent; at the very centre was an ostentatious ‘H’ — it’s a letter from Hogwarts. And you were just beginning to suspect its potential contents. The seal has already been broken and the letter slips out easily. 

Words on the page read with nostalgia, it was as if you were watching the first Harry Potter film all over again and cheering at Harry’s liberation from his toxic aunt, uncle and cousin.  

‘Dear Sirius Black,’ it reads and your heart stutters in both excitement and anxiety, ‘We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.’

“Term starts on September 1st,” your eyes snapt to the desk calendar, which had automatically crossed off the days. It’s a little early but that just means you’ll beat the academic year rush. With a smile, you take out the separate list of necessary school supplies and pair it with a small list of your own. 

Perfect, you have your reason. 

9th August 1971 

Before travelling by floo, Kreacher came up to you and cast a simple dirt-repellent spell on you and your two sons. You were grateful for his foresight and thanked him graciously for doing so. Much like all the times before, your unexpected kindness makes the grumpy house elf falter clumsily but adorably as Regulus grins at your side and Sirius huffs with an exaggerated pout on his lips. He’s still ever so stubborn about the house elf but you’ve observed how Regulus has put in the effort to push the two together. You join in the gentle prodding through leading by example, treating Kreacher kindly and with respect. Bit by bit, Sirius has been following yours and Regulus’ lead. He’s not fully there but you smile at the little progress he’s made. It’s only been a few days after all and the results are optimistic, it makes your heart flutter and you look forward to the future with brighter eyes. Sirius had been buzzing with silent excitement all morning and Regulus was quick to join his older brother’s enthusiasm when you informed him that he was welcome to come and join you. 

You set off to travel by floo first so you can wait for the boys on the other side and so they’re not on their own not for too long. “Diagon Alley,” you announce clearly and without a shake of nervousness in your voice, only feverish anticipation. In moments, you’re engulfed by green flames. The world whirls around you in a dizzying blur of colours and sounds, the sensation both exhilarating and disorienting.

Unlike Harry and the Weasleys, you appear out of the subsequent fireplace without a spec of dirt on you and smile as you stumble out to await your two sons. The adrenaline rush of it all makes your fingers tingle and your head feel light headed but your smile only brightens. You still can’t believe you’re really here, sometimes.

Sirius came next and then Regulus. However, despite their earlier excitement, it appears as though their spirits were dampened just before travelling. Now, they stand before you with pouting lips and downcast eyes. 

“What’s wrong boys?” you ask softly, kneeling down to their level, it was purely out of instinct now. You meet them at their comfort as an equal rather than the other way around. It usually does the trick of consoling them enough to speak to you but this time is different. Their lips are tightly sealed. 

“We’re okay,” Sirius says in a tone that makes it seem as if he was trying to convince himself that. You want to press further but relent with a nod. It would be better for you to let them talk at their own time. Hopefully, being outside with so many charming shops dotted around, they’ll ease up and smile again. Pressing a brief kiss to their temples, you lead them out to the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. 

The street was bustling with magic and mystery as you observe the scene with bright eyes. The atmosphere of the wizarding alley didn’t compare to the movie adaptations. It was much more charming and wondrous to observe in real life. And wasn’t nearly as claustrophobic as it was depicted to you. However, that may be due to the fact that you hadn’t left the school shopping too late and so the streets weren’t as congested as when Harry went school shopping for the first time. Nevertheless, your heart didn’t stop pounding in elation as you held hands with your two sons and set forth to your first destination.  

“Our first stop is at a very important place, okay?” on either side of you, Sirius and Regulus nod, still silent as you lead them through the streets. The air was thick with the scent of potion ingredients and freshly baked treats from the nearby shops, a symphony of sounds and smells, it was a little overwhelming but you couldn’t complain, the tenor of the climate was still very addictive.

As if summoning your first destination, your eyes were drawn to the towering structure of Gringotts, the goblins' bank. Its grandeur was a stark contrast to the quaint shops lining the street, making it stand out like a uniquely different gem amongst a cluster of little treasures. 

You walk forward with purpose now but still keep your strides short for the boys. Looking down you observe how they take in the environment around them, dressed like little princes with perfectly permed hair and glittering diamond eyes. Sirius had familiarised himself with the routine of the day, the first stop would be Gringotts to withdraw money to buy all of his school supplies, the second stop would be to retrieve his wand and after that, it would just be a matter of going down the list. It was a different plan to the usual fixed outline his parents were strict to follow in usual outings. Sirius would have been more enthusiastic if his father hadn’t forcibly pulled him and Regulus aside after you’d first disappeared by floo. 

‘Don’t even think about dirtying the Black family name while outside. If I even hear a single word of your misbehaviour, it’ll be an entire day spent in the vault!’

His father’s threatening words echoed menacingly in his head, his mind like an empty cave except for the haunting remarks that bounced off its despondent walls. The only way for his father to hear of any misbehaving is if his mother told on them but… Sirius chances a brief glance up at you, only to be met by your kind smile. Quick as lightning, Sirius looks away with a clench of his hand around yours. His mother isn’t like that now, though…right?

As the three of you pass windows displaying cauldrons, brooms, and a myriad of magical trinkets, Sirius’ mind raced with possibilities. What spells would he learn? Who would he meet? And would he make good friends with them? What house would he be sorted into?  He hopes not Slytherin, it was what his entire family had been sorted into but he doesn’t want to be like them – never like them. Would he be able to play Quidditch, his mother always used to say that it was too violent and rambunctious of a sport to be associated with. Will he like his teachers? Will he enjoy his classes? The future was a mysterious, unopened book, and Sirius, although slightly hesitant, still bound to expectations, was ready to turn the first page.

As you step through the towering bronze doors of Gringotts, a shiver of awe runs down your spine. The splendour of the entrance hall was breathtaking, with gleaming marble floors and towering pillars that seemed to reach up into the heavens – as opulent a building should be that holds secure a multitude of treasures and ancient artefacts whilst being guarded by a ferocious dragon. 

Goblins, sharp-eyed and meticulous, worked behind large, ornate desks – tall and domineering. Their long, dexterous fingers moved swiftly as they counted coins and scribbled in large ledgers, busy but happily so when surrounded by so much gold. The air was filled with the clinks of coins and the soft murmur of transactions, bank-speak, typical and not too far from the banks of ‘muggles’. High above, the cavernous ceiling was illuminated by shimmering crystal chandeliers, casting a golden glow over everything, fitting for the amount of gold glittering beneath it. It was a complimentary union, one that oozed lavishness. Even the air smelled rich and you wondered if gold dust was dancing in it too. The atmosphere was one of ancient power and impenetrable security, safe and anchored. As you walked further in, you could feel the weight of centuries of wizarding history envelope you, it was unmistakably a place where secrets and fortunes were both hidden and revealed. 

Approaching a vacant desk, you steady your breath and quickly recite your introduction in your head before elegantly performing it. You first drop into a low but graceful bow and repeat your greeting from memory, “Greetings Master Goblin, may your gold prosper and your enemies fail against your blade, I am Madam Black,” with bated breath, you wait for his reply, hoping that uttering your family name was enough. 

“Madame Black, I am Filgus. What can I do for you today?” the goblin hid his surprise well. It was unusual to receive such a polite and formal greeting from the Matriarch of the infamous Black family. The surprise was pleasant but also carried with it a fair share of warning. Odd behaviour never bode well. Filgus was determined to not let anything pass, his pride as a Goblin demanded it be so.  

“I would like to withdraw from the family vault,” you explain and hand over the key Orion had 

“Very well,” Filgus accepts the key and moves to dismount his desk, “follow me to the carts,” you’re immediately reminded of the movie scene, where the speed and twisting passage of the cart made Hagrid sick, even as a half giant. 

“Is it safe for the children?” you fret instinctively. Maternal instincts, a previously dormant part of your nature now expressed in the most spontaneous but opportune ways. 

Filgus snarls in offence but bites his tongue as best he could, “I assure you Madame Black that Gringotts is one of the safest establishments to exist in the wizarding world,” 

Not wanting to offend the goblin further, you nod with some hesitancy and keep your boys close. The fact that you worried for them made their little hearts flutter as their cheeks heated into a delicate pink hue. It was unusual for them to experience such care and worry but it still made them feel good. Turning to each other, they observe their identical reactions and bite their lips to keep from grinning too widely. 

The journey to the vault was as winding and twisting as you remembered in the films. It was equal parts frightening and thrilling. The experience was exactly like that of a rollercoaster but without as strict of a regard to safety. If only the path was better lit, maybe that would have made the journey a little more pleasant. 

“Here we are,” Filgus announces, stepping off the cart and politely asking for the lamp. You oblige and slowly follow him out of the cart, steadying yourself before you help Sirius and Regulus out too, “your key, Madam Black?” Filgus sets about opening your vault door as you turn to the boys and check their welfare. 

“Are you alright, my darlings?” you ask in a soft whisper, kneeling before them. 

In all honesty, Sirius had enjoyed the ride down, the twists and turns and perilous speed made his head spin in the most delightful sense but he’s grown to like you worrying for him more than that temporary thrill. So, with a pitiful look on his face, he shakes his head ‘no’ and slowly begins to stretch his arms open. 

“It was scary…” Sirius whispers, taking advantage of the cold underground temperature to make his voice shake in ‘fear’.

“Oh darling,” you coo softly and bring him into your arms, “it’s okay, you’re okay,” Sirius smiles into your shoulder and allows himself to cling onto you like he’s always secretly dreamed of doing. This feeling of safety and security was one he didn’t ever want to let go of. Over your shoulder, Regulus gapes at the affectionate scene and, although it goes against his moral code of lying, he musters up the sly courage his older brother so easily displayed. 

“M-me too, mother,” Regulus calls for your attention in a bashful whisper, “I was scared too,” your kind, understanding smile eases his nerves Regulus jumps into your arms as soon as you open up to accommodate his small frame. 

This didn’t count as misbehaving, right? Only they knew whether or not they were truly scared or not…

The bell above the door tinkled softly, happily announcing your arrival as you pushed open the creaky, unassuming entrance into Ollivander’s, the most renowned wand shop in all of Diagon Alley. It made you giddy just thinking about getting to meet the whimsical shop owner and wand artisan. 

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wood and magic, a combination that seemed to tickle the very edges of your senses. Your fingers itched to grasp at wand, your nose scrunched up at the pleasantly ancient scent permeating the air and your eyes surveyed the room with an eager gleam. The shop was narrow and cramped, yet it felt infinitely deep, with towering shelves that stretched up into the shadows. Each floor to ceiling shelving unit was crammed with thousands of slender boxes, their organisation questionable but fitting for such an antiquated establishment. Dim light filtered through the dusty windows, casting a mystical glow over everything. The walls seemed to whisper secrets of ancient trees and magical cores, each wand holding the promise of a unique bond, waiting to be discovered and pledged to its chosen master. The air was thick with anticipation, and you could hear Sirius’ heart pounding with the thrilling but nervous realisation that among the wondrous collection of boxes, one held a wand that was meant solely for him. It would be special and unequalled to anything else – an incomparable affiliation

Mr. Ollivander, with his pale, incisive eyes emerged from the shadows like a wisp of memory, his movements as silent and fluid as a ghost, a jolly ghost supporting a fanciful smile. His gaze takes in your sons, to which he gives a thoughtful hum before fixing his stare onto you.

“Madame Black…” Mr. Ollivander observes you with open curiosity, peaking the interest of your two boys, their diamond grey eyes watching the interaction silently and with overflowing intrigue, “having trouble with your wand?” his quick deduction makes your breath hitch and your shoulders tense. The impish gleam in his eyes almost going unnoticed by you, “it’s very peculiar for a wand that has already chosen its master to change its mind, especially from a wand that’s so loyal,” he ponders aloud as Sirius and Regulus inch closer to your sides, clinging onto the fabric of your dress skirt as they heed Ollivander’s nebulous words with a hint of caution, “curious, very curious indeed... I could only think of one reason, an abstruse but entirely possible reason for such a contingency in a world of magic…” Ollivander leans forward and looks deeply into your eyes, his own dancing about in their search, for what, you don’t have a clue. But it feels as though he can see into your soul, the flicker in his eyes detecting the presence of another. He shakes his head, almost in disbelief but laughs merrily, easing the tension built up in the air, “not one, but two, I see…” 

Your heart shudders in your chest. Did he know? 

NEXT. | 03 : SHOPPING (2/2) → | SERIES M.LIST

A/N : i would like to say that i was planning to delay this chapter update for a day or two since i was an absolute muppet to myself and decided to switch up events in the plot and oc introductions last minute but, thanks to @urmomw4ntsme (amazing username btw (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )) and their message about being excited for the update, i was lovingly and innocently pushed into getting the update out on time ৻(  •̀ ᗜ •́  ৻) so thank you, my darling haha! i appreciate your perfectly timed, kind message. i hope you darlings enjoyed the read and forgive me for splitting this chapter up into 2 parts - i suppose i planned for too much in one chapter hehe~

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[pedrospatch]

to hell and back l one

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l main masterlist l next chapter

summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI. canon violence, canon language, brief mentions of slavers, brutality, torture, assault, guns, reader is an archer, mentions of hunting, animal death, injured/unconscious Joel, very minor mentions of blood, age gap (reader is 30, Joel is 56) very brief mention of scars, reader does not/cannot speak at times, a lot of internal dialogue from reader, at one point reader does try to speak to Joel but she is unable. *please be advised that no specific diagnosis is used or will be mentioned, i’m writing the series with the idea that reader herself cannot fully comprehend her inability to speak at times. basically the gist of it is we have a very traumatized person who does not realize just how traumatized she is.

word count: 8.2k (good lord I am so sorry)

a/n: not a whole lot to say except for that this is...different. at least i think it is, i could be wrong lmao. this is by far one of the most challenging things i have ever decided to write, but hopefully it turned out okay

California l Fall, 2023

You’d been on the run since dawn.

It was several hours later now and nightfall was approaching—and it was approaching a hell of a lot fucking faster than you could have even anticipated. The darkness was quickly closing in, falling around you like a velvet black curtain. However, stumbling around blindly in the dark was currently the very least of your worries. 

Your feet were raw, both completely blistered and bleeding through your socks inside of your worn out, muddied white canvas sneakers. Your sore, aching legs screamed out for mercy and your knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle out from underneath the weight of your body at any given moment. 

In the week and a half leading up to your escape from captivity, you’d been deprived of both food and water—it had been your punishment for closing your eyes and turning your head away after you’d been instructed by the slavers to watch their brutal assault of the young teenaged girl that you had been sharing a cage with. She’d been unable to keep up with her work duties, and they had decided to make an example out of her.

Despite still having been forced to witness the horrendous, unspeakable things they’d done to that poor girl, your initial resistance resulted in you being beaten and then starved for several days. Occasionally, one of the late night guards would try and bribe you, offering a small piece of jerky or a couple of stale crackers in exchange for a blowjob. At first, you told him you’d rather cut your own tongue out with a rusty blade than suck his dick, but when he proposed the disgusting, vile trade again just a couple of nights later, you’d accepted it—because him pulling you out of that fucking cage after hours and removing the tight shackles from your wrists when no one else was around would give you the chance to finally make a run for it.

You swung yourself around the nearest redwood tree, slumping back against its thick, wide trunk. You covered your mouth with your two hands in an attempt to silence the sound of your heavy panting. 

Besides being in pain, malnourished and severely dehydrated, the exhaustion was starting to set in too. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had brought you this far, but exactly how much farther could it take you? How much longer could it possibly keep you going before your tired body decided to give up and give out?

Somewhere behind you, you could hear the men calling out cheerfully.

One sang out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Come out and plaaaaay,” a second taunted.

The third shouted, “We’re gonna get you!”

Their giddiness made you want to vomit. If your stomach hadn’t been empty, you would have.

Those sick, twisted fucks weren’t letting up. 

They’d been on your heels for hours.

The large group of slavers in California were over two hundred strong and had dozens of prisoners chained up in their human cages—they had more than enough people to force into labor. There was no need for them to waste their time and efforts going after you, but after spending the last eight months witnessing firsthand how these sadistic bastards operated, it occurred to you that their desire to recapture you wasn’t out of a need for labor. It was for their entertainment. 

They were hunting you down for sport.

This was their idea of fun.

“Fuck,” you whispered underneath your breath, your hands falling down to your sides.

Something had to give.

Your legs, your body, your will to live.

Perhaps all of the above.

You couldn’t keep on running for much longer.

And even if you could, where the hell were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to get there?

You had no food, no water, and no weapon.

Just the torn, tattered clothes on your back.

You were defenseless against whatever else was out there and you couldn’t see yourself surviving longer than a couple of days at most.

There was a part of you that wanted to give up and surrender. If you could be absolutely certain that they would shoot you dead on the spot, you would actually consider it and step out from behind the tree—hell, you would happily let them put a bullet between your eyes and put you out of your misery once and for all. But they wouldn’t be so generous. You knew they would have their way with you here in the middle of this forest and only after they were done would they take you back to their settlement where they’d put you right back in shackles so the real torture could begin. Just like that teenaged girl, the slavers would make an example out of you so that nobody else in their right mind would even think about running away. 

They would be sure to make your death as slow and as agonizing as possible.  

No. If you were going to die, then you were going to die. But fucking not like that.

Hearing them draw closer towards where you’d been hiding, you pushed yourself away from the redwood and willed yourself to keep on going.

Wyoming l Fall 2024

Your eyes softly flutter open.

Bright, early morning sunlight filters in through the ripped, white lace curtains that hang over the small, square shaped window right above your head. 

Blinking the sleep away, you prop yourself up slightly on your elbows and take a glance around at your surroundings. The old, abandoned cabin that you’d stumbled across just a couple of days ago is tiny, cramped, and crumbling. It also reeks—it smells damp, musty, and earthy, like rotting wood. But beggars can’t be choosers and you are certainly in no position to be a chooser right now. It’s not what you consider to be ideal, but it’s four walls and a roof, which is more than anyone can ask for. It’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, an old wood burning stove you had been too afraid to light because you didn’t want to risk setting the place on fire, and there’s even a small, twin sized bed for you to sleep on. Well, perhaps calling it a bed was a tad bit too generous. It’s really just a mattress sitting on four large concrete blocks. It’s rough, dirty, and torn with rusted springs and bits of fluff sticking out from every corner. Still, it sure as fuck beat the hell out of sleeping outside in the dirt and using a rock as a pillow.

Besides the luxury of having something close to a proper roof to sleep under, there’s also a lake just two and a half miles north of the cabin where you had been able to fill your canteen with fresh water. Not to mention, you’d also been able to bathe and wash your clothes for the first time in a couple of weeks. You had been on your own for about a year now, and this was the luckiest you’ve gotten in terms of finding a decent place to stay.

Whether or not it’s safe, it was still too early to tell. 

Sure, you were out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and hadn’t seen a single soul, living or dead, in a couple of months now. But that still didn’t mean that running into the infected or other people wasn’t a possibility. Letting your guard down was risky. Too risky. 

You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and sit up, slipping on your pair of warm, wool socks before tugging on your boots—you’d found them over the summer and even though they had been about one size too small for you, you’d managed to break them in since then and the supple brown leather now molds almost perfectly to your feet. You stand up and lift your arms up above your head while simultaneously twisting your stiff, sore back in a painful, but much needed stretch. You’re only just a couple of months shy of turning thirty years old, but lately, your bones snap, crackle and pop with each and every movement, making you feel twice your actual age. 

The thought of it makes you snort in amusement. You should be so lucky to stay alive long enough to see the age of sixty. Hell, you’re still unable to fathom how you’d even made it this close to seeing thirty.

Dropping your arms back down to your sides, you make your way over to your khaki colored pack and pull out your aluminum canteen from one of the side pockets. You twist off the cap and gulp back a long, cool drink of water, hoping to get rid of the dryness in your mouth and the cracks in your chapped lips. As soon as the liquid makes it all the way down to the pit of your stomach, the hollow, muscular organ grumbles loudly, demanding food. You’d had some decent luck while out hunting the previous morning, capturing two wild rabbits—you had eagerly skinned, cleaned and cooked them both, devouring one right after the other so fast that it had nearly made you sick. It had been a pretty decent meal, but not nearly enough to completely satisfy your ravenous hunger. Prior to finding the cabin and settling in, you had been living off of a couple handfuls of nuts and berries for three days while on the move. You were still fucking starving and all you could do was pray that you’d find more rabbits today. 

Maybe you’d get even luckier and spot a pheasant. It was their season, after all. 

You drink some more water and set your canteen aside. You’d planned to return to the lake later in the afternoon to refill it as well as to have another bath. You pull on your faded, black denim jacket over your hoodie and pick up the wooden bow and brown leather quiver of arrows sitting beside your pack. You’d found the weapon in some hunting shop back in Utah that had already been picked clean to the bone over the last couple of decades. However, no one had even bothered with taking the bow. It hadn’t really surprised you, though. In the post outbreak world, a bow and arrow would do absolutely nothing to protect against the infected runners and stalkers—and it would do much less to protect against clickers unless your aim was flawless.

Still, a bow was useful in its own right. 

It was perfect for hunting game. It was silent, keeping you and your location concealed from potential passersby at all times. Most importantly, you could reuse your arrows so long as you were careful and didn’t break them while removing them from your kills—and in the event that you did happen to snap an arrow, all you had to do was salvage what you could from the damaged projectile and make a new one. Simple as that. 

Your father had taught you how before he’d died.

“Why bother with a bow? What about a gun?” you had asked him. 

“Might not always be able to get your hands on a gun,” he’d replied as he sharpened an edge of the small, thumb sized rock in his hand. “Or bullets. It doesn’t hurt to have alternatives in the event that you can’t get your hands on either of those things, kiddo.” Despite being in your mid twenties at the time, he’d still always call you kiddo. “Always have a backup weapon, alright?”

He’d been wise to give you that advice.

You did have a firearm, a colt pistol that you hardly have ammunition for. There were ten rounds left in the clip and with no luck in finding any more in the last couple of months, you’d decided to preserve them, saving what little bullets you had left for a real emergency. You kept the gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans at all times, along with the sharp switchblade that you used to gut and skin game. As far as weapons go, you sure as hell could’ve been a lot worse off. But if you happened to stumble upon more ammunition for your gun, you certainly wouldn’t complain about it. 

Slinging your bow and the quiver of arrows over your shoulder, you grab the dark gray foraging bag that you used to collect and carry your kills in and leave the cabin, feeling somewhat confident enough to leave the remainder of your belongings behind instead of hauling them all along with you like you had the morning before. It wasn’t that you feared someone would come along and steal them. There wasn’t really anything for anyone to steal, anyway. Rather, you’d gotten so damn used to the instability and the constant moving around—you never stayed in one place for too long and were always prepared to run. But today, you decide to leave your things in the cabin, feeling certain that you would return in just a couple of hours. 

You step out onto the creaking, three step porch that’s so old it buckles slightly under your weight and a gentle breeze nips at your cheeks and nose. It’s the middle of autumn in Wyoming and the air outside is fresh, cool and crisp. Winter was looming right around the corner like a dark shadow, and although you’d somehow managed to make it through the previous year’s brutal snow season, that didn’t do much to stop you from being nervous about the one that was to come. If all went according to your plan, you’d be holing yourself up in that shoddy little cabin until the worst of winter was over and then you would move along.

To where?

You didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. 

You make a short trek about two miles south, going in the opposite direction of the lake and finding yourself closer to the thick forest trees that surrounded the base of the mountain range out in the distance instead. There’s a dried, grassy clearing just feet from the entrance of the forest—finding a single, decently sized boulder in the middle of the wide, open space, you decide that behind it is the perfect spot for you to set up and hope for the best. Carefully setting your things down on the ground, you pull out a pair of old, cracked binoculars from your bag. You lean your body over the smooth, round top of the rock and lift them up to your face, peeking through the lenses. You hope to spot something right away because it sure would be fucking nice to eat something sooner rather than later. Otherwise you might just start gnawing at your own arm. 

Diligently, you scan your surroundings for any and all signs of wildlife. 

That’s when you see it, standing near the edge of the woods.

You gasp softly as your sights fall upon the deer. 

Pulling your face away from your binoculars, you blink furiously before taking another look just to be sure that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It’s not a hallucination. It’s a white tailed deer, a female, and from the look of her, she has to be at least about a hundred pounds. At least.

You try to not get too far ahead of yourself, but it’s far too late. The thought of finding some herbs and making a hot, venison stew for supper makes your mouth water. The rest of the meat could be dried out and made into a batch of jerky that could feed you for months. Months.

Then, you suddenly remember you’ve never even attempted to bring down an animal of that size before and you’re slapped back into reality.

You think about your father, who would bring home a deer every weekend after going on his hunting trips with some of his old college buddies. “You want to aim for the heart or the lungs,” he’d say as you and your siblings would watch him dress the carcass, much to your mother’s chagrin. “Look between the shoulder blade and the last rib,” he would tell you and your brothers. You’d also had an older sister, but she had always been incredibly squeamish and had a soul that was much too sweet and caring for hunting. She would always want to bring home every animal your father shot and nurse it back to health. “Somewhere between those two lies everything you need to hit in order to do the job and do it well. And for the love of god, don’t you ever aim directly for the shoulder. Behind it, kiddos, always aim behind it. You got it?”

“Yes Papa,” you’d all chime out together.

Setting down the binoculars in your hands, you reach for your bow and pluck an arrow from your quiver before stepping out from behind the boulder. You’re careful to be as silent as possible as you take a few steps closer towards the unsuspecting grazing animal. You position yourself and stand perpendicular to the deer, placing your feet shoulder width apart—you’re a little farther from your target than you would have preferred, but you don’t want to risk going any closer and scaring her off, so it would have to do. Once you feel comfortable enough with your stance, you nock the arrow and set it on the string. You then hold the string and steady your grip on the bow, relaxing your shoulders before drawing it and pulling your arm back until you’ve reached your anchor point, which is always the corner of your mouth. 

Breathe, you remind yourself calmly as you aim at the delicate spot behind her shoulder blade. Nice and slow. Breathe.

Just as you’re about to release the arrow and take your shot, the deer whips her head back towards the trees and her ears prick forward—a split second later, she darts off, zooming across the field in the opposite direction of where you’d been standing. 

Your mouth falls open in disbelief. 

“Are you fucking shitting me?” you mutter under your breath.

Frustrated, you lower your weapon and just as you start to contemplate whether or not it’s even worth it to try and hunt her down on foot, you suddenly hear something—it isn’t until the noise draws closer to where you’re standing that you realize it’s the sound of a galloping horse.

Perplexed, you squint over in the direction of where you think it’s coming from, right near the edge of the trees. Then, just a moment later, a brown stallion emerges from the woods with a dark haired man riding in his saddle. He holds a rifle in one hand and clutches the reins tightly in the other. 

Gasping, you whirl around on the heel of your boot and immediately make a beeline back to the boulder. You swing around the rock and crouch down, ducking out of his sight. You couldn’t be too sure if he’d seen you or not, but it doesn’t matter—a wave of sheer panic washes over you and you can physically feel your own body preparing itself to go into fight or flight mode. Despite having your gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you still haven’t reached for it and continue to clutch your bow and arrow in your hands instead. 

Swallowing dryly, you turn and carefully lift yourself up just enough so that you can glimpse over the top of the boulder. That’s when you see a second man emerge from the woods. This one is blond and he is on foot instead of a horse. He’s also armed, carrying a shotgun. 

“You’re mine you fucking son of a bitch!” he shouts. He lifts his weapon, aims, and then squeezes the trigger, shooting the horse in the side and bringing him down instantly. His rider goes flying off and he hits the ground several feet away from the dead animal, landing so painfully hard that even from a distance you’d manage to hear the loud, cracking sound his body had made upon impact.

You momentarily freeze. 

Your heart anxiously jumps up into your throat as you watch the shooter begin to approach him. The attacker moves slowly and with no haste seeing as his helpless victim is lying there motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and no idea that he’s about to die. The blond man comes to a halt just a few feet away from him, grinning as he lifts his shotgun once again and points the barrel of it at the other man’s head. His index finger hovers over the trigger. 

Before your mind and body can even make the connection, you rise to your feet and aim your bow, swiftly sending an arrow straight through the blond man’s neck. He crumples, falling to the ground writhing and squirming as he bleeds out in less than sixty seconds.

You wait it out for another minute, refusing to move another muscle until his body finally goes limp and you are certain he’s dead. Taking a look around, you make sure the coast is clear and grab your belongings, slinging them over your shoulder before you make your way over to the scene. Unsure of whether or not there could be others heading in this direction, your plan was to pick off their guns and any other useful supplies before making a run for it back to the cabin. You crouch down beside the man you’d shot and killed, carefully pulling your arrow out of his neck. It makes a loud, horrid squelching sound as you remove it and blood from his jugular splatters your blue jeans. You then pick up his shotgun and check the chamber for ammunition. 

Just like the pistol tucked away in your waistband, there’s hardly any rounds left, making it all but useless. Rolling your eyes, you carelessly drop the gun on top of his chest and move on in search of the rifle. You spot it right beside the dark haired man.

Apprehensive, you cautiously make your way over towards him. With how still he had been lying, you could have sworn he was gone—perhaps the fall off of his horse alone had killed him. But just to be sure, you decide to give his side a harsh nudge with the toe of your boot. 

He groans and his head rolls to the side.

He’s still alive.

You effortlessly string the bloodied arrow in your hand and aim it right at his chest.

Move again and you’re dead, motherfucker.

“Ellie,” the man mumbles, his eyes still closed.

Ellie?

You slowly lower your bow.

Without realizing it, a little bit of your guard lowers along with it. 

Carefully, you sink down onto one knee next to the man and get a better look at him. He’s much older than yourself, somewhere in his fifties if you had to guess. He has harsh forehead lines, deep creases in between his eyebrows, a patchy beard that is speckled with many, many grays, and wild waves of thick hair that look soft to the touch. Though some of his features are a little worse for wear due to his age, he’s still quite a handsome man from what you can see. He also appears to be in decent shape, clean and well fed, and you detect the light scent of laundry soap on his clothes. Surely, he had to have been part of some kind of group, and judging by the leather trimmed saddle on his horse, this group was one that was very well off in this post outbreak world. 

You hesitate, but then lift a slightly trembling hand and take the side of his face, cupping it in your palm as you turn his head towards you. 

There’s blood on his right temple and your fingers reach up to touch what you had assumed was the source of the bleeding—but then you realize it was a scar, maybe an inch or two in length at most and completely healed. Your fingers trail up even further and venture into his hair which, as it turned out, is in fact just as soft as one would imagine. You find a small gash on his scalp and your fingers become coated in the man’s blood.

Must’ve hit himself on a rock or something.

Your hand leaves his hair and you place it on his broad chest as you begin checking him over for any other potential injuries or wounds. Slipping your opposite hand inside of his brown jacket, you lift the hem of the dark green thermal henley he’s wearing and you discover the scar on his temple isn’t the only one he possesses—he has several more, way too many for you to count on one hand alone. You’re so preoccupied with inspecting the remainder of his abdomen that you don’t even notice the way one of his hands is slowly reaching for yours, the hand that’s still resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Semiconscious, the man takes your hand in his so damn gently that it startles you and takes you by surprise, but it doesn’t frighten you. Weakly, he laces his fingers together with your own and he speaks again, uttering softly, “Babygirl.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows knit together.

It almost sounds like he’s pleading.

For what—for who? For Ellie?

Is she the babygirl he’s referring to?

Your other hand moves up to his shoulder and you give it a violent shake. 

Hey, you’ve got to get up now.

“H—” You try to speak the words, but can’t. They’re formed in your mind and it feels like they are right there on the very tip of your tongue, but when you open your mouth, they refuse to come out. You frown.

It’s happened before. 

In the spring, you’d stumbled across a small group of people while out hunting in Idaho—it was the first time you had seen other human beings since leaving California in the fall. There had been both men and women and they even had children with them, but that did nothing to stop you from panicking when they’d approached you. One of the women cornered you, trying to tell you that they were traveling across the country to the east coast. “It’s okay,” she’d tried to tell you, holding up her hands. “We’re not bad people, I promise. We’re just trying to get to the quarantine zone in Boston. I think you should come with us, honey.”

You’d been so terrified that when you’d tried to tell her that you didn’t want to join them, you couldn’t push the words out. It felt like your voice had gotten stuck in the back of your throat. That’s how afraid you’d been.

Technically, you can speak.

You’d talk to yourself often when you were feeling lonely. You would read the books you carried in your pack out loud. Hell, you even liked to sing.

But whenever you became stressed, anxious, or scared, it would happen. You’d lose your ability to speak and to communicate—not that you had anyone to communicate with except for yourself, but that’s besides the point. No matter how hard you tried to force your vocal cords, all you could get out were quiet, strangled noises. It was as if your own fears chased your voice away and during periods when you were under extreme distress, it would take several days for you to find it again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, whenever you used your voice back in California, it only led to the harshest of punishments. 

A gunshot sounds off in the distance, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You shake the man again, harder this time.

Come on, get up! They could be coming this way!

It’s useless. He’s losing complete consciousness. 

You hear another gunshot and this one sounds like it’s coming from the base of the mountain range on the other side of the trees, not all too far from where you are. For all you know, it could very well be members of his own group who are firing those weapons out there. But whether it was his group or the other man’s group, it doesn’t really fucking matter. You don’t want to run into either one of them, regardless of who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. In your eyes, everyone’s a fucking bad guy. 

Yanking your hand out of his, you get to your feet and prepare to make a run for it. But just as you’re about to take off, the man mumbles one last time. It’s incoherent and barely audible, but you manage to catch that name again. Ellie. 

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

For some reason you can’t quite explain, that sweet little name bounces around in the inside of your skull. 

You chew the inside of your cheek anxiously. 

If it’s his group out there, they’ll save him.

If it’s the other man’s group, they’ll kill him.

Normally, you’d have no problem with the idea of leaving another person to die.

After everything that happened in California, you had lost your sense of humanity. Your ability to empathize and actually give a shit about other people had been long gone—or so you’d thought. But you had just saved this man’s life and now you find yourself unwilling to run the risk of leaving him for dead. And you don’t have the slightest fucking clue as to why. He’s a stranger. He shouldn’t matter to you. 

You exhale a heavy sigh of defeat.

Okay, how the fuck do I do this?

Without much time left to waste, you gather up your belongings over your shoulder and pick up his rifle, slinging the brown leather strap across your chest so the gun rests comfortably against your backside. You walk around him, lean over, and hook your arms securely underneath his. Using every ounce of physical strength you have inside of you, you start dragging him back to the cabin as fast as you possibly can.

The pretty melody fills his ears as he comes to.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…”

Joel Miller isn’t all too sure if heaven is a real place that actually exists, but the very minute he hears the feminine voice singing, he can’t help but think he’s died and that’s exactly where he’s gone—because only an angel could possibly have a voice like that. So rich, so smooth, and oh so sickeningly sweet.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...”

The ballad being sung is all too familiar to him.

The Wizard of Oz had been Sarah’s favorite movie back when she had been a little girl, when she was seven years old and she still believed in princesses and fairy tales and faraway lands with yellow brick roads. Even when she grew older, his daughter continued to hold a soft spot for the film and Joel would watch it with her every Thanksgiving at his parents’ house right after their dinner—it would air on cable and Sarah would beg him to let her have her slice of pecan pie while sitting cross legged on the floor in front of his old man’s television set.

“So long as you don’t make a mess on Nana and PopPop’s carpet,” he’d warn her. “Deal?”

Sarah would beam at him and nod eagerly. “Deal!”

He’d grab his own slice of pie, park it right on the couch behind her, and together they would get lost in the whimsical world of Oz, although admittedly he’d usually fall deep into his food coma long before Dorothy had the chance to make it back home to Kansas.  

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops

away above the chimney tops 

that’s where you’ll find me...”

The words fade and the rest of the song is now being hummed.

Goddamn, he thinks.Even the humming is too fucking beautiful.

Joel feels a cold, damp cloth dabbing at his sore right temple.

Come to think of it, everything is fucking sore. 

Once, when Joel had been in his mid twenties, he had been doing some under the table roofing job with his younger brother, Tommy. It had been the hottest day of the summer in Texas, and the two of them thought having a couple cold beers with their lunch to cool off would be a good idea. The pair of them went back to work and started fucking around, goofing off like the drunk idiots they were. While horsing around, Joel accidentally stumbled right over the edge of the roof and he had fallen about fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his back on Mrs. Adler’s lawn. Luckily, he’d been okay after the fall and hadn’t sustained any serious injuries or broken any bones, but he had spent the following three to four weeks feeling like he’d been hit by a fucking Greyhound.

That’s how he felt now.

Like he’d been hit by a fucking bus. Twice. There isn’t a single part of him that isn’t pulsating with pain—his back, his shoulders, and his head. Oh god, his head feels the worst. It’s fucking killing him. 

Joel’s eyelids twitch and he cracks them open ever so slightly, just enough that he can see the silhouette of another person hovering over him. He feels a hand at the crown of his head as the other continues to dab at his temple with the cool cloth. It feels incredible against his warm skin and even sort of soothes the pain.

He lets out a small groan and the humming ceases.

Finally, he manages to force his eyes open.

Joel hears a little gasp and the bed he’s lying on squeaks and shifts. He then hears a loud thumping sound as if something, or someone had fallen to the floor. 

Although he’s still disoriented and his entire body aches with even the slightest movement, Joel manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision steadies itself after a minute and he glances around. He’s in a small, single room wooden cabin that has seen better days in its lifetime. Looking down, he sees that he’s lying on a bare, worn out mattress with his own jacket draped over him like a blanket. He racks his mildly concussed brain, trying to recollect what had happened—it takes him a minute, but one by one, the memories start flooding back to him. Joel had been leading mid morning patrol with Tommy when they had been ambushed by a large group of hostile raiders. He remembers shouting at his brother, telling him that he’d try and lead some of them off, away from the direction of their community. He’d succeeded and managed to pick off a few of the bastards that had been tailing him with his rifle, all except for one. The very last thing that he remembered was the sound of a gunshot behind him before his horse went down and he’d been thrown off and knocked out.

Everything after that was nothing but a blur.

Joel takes another look around the cabin and that’s when he sees you.

You’re on the floor, backed up against the wall near the foot of the mattress. Your eyes are wide and round, like a deer caught in the headlights. Your chest heaves, rising and falling rapidly—you remind him of a helpless, frightened animal that had been cornered by a vicious predator. You clutch the handle of a switchblade up against your chest with the blade pointing downwards, holding it so tightly in your hand that Joel can see the skin stretching tightly over your knuckles. 

“Who the hell are you?” He grimaces slightly, his own voice causing his head to throb. 

You don’t reply.

Joel moves onto his next question. “Where am I?”

Again, no response.

He tries again. “Are you alone?”

Silence. 

Joel takes a better look at you.

You’re young. You couldn’t have been older than your late twenties, perhaps even your early thirties although that might have been a bit of a stretch. You had that look about you, one that had become all but too familiar to him in the last two decades—the exhausted appearance of someone trying to survive in the post outbreak world. Your face is tired and worn, but somehow still soft and youthful at the same time. You might have looked a little rough around the edges, but you’re still the prettiest goddamn thing he’s seen in a long, long time. 

Joel speaks again. “Who are you? Where the hell are we?” When he’s met with complete silence for the fourth time, he raises an eyebrow, feeling annoyed. “You gonna fuckin’ say somethin’ or what?”

You can only stare at him, your fingers wrapped around the handle of your knife in a vice-like grip.

Joel frowns.

Are you really that fucking terrified of him?

Or perhaps you can’t hear?

Only one way to find out, he thinks to himself.

He raises his voice, asking once again, “Who are you? Where are we?”

You wince, your features twisting in discomfort.

Oh, you could fucking hear him, alright. 

Joel swings his legs over the side of the mattress, his movement causing you to shrink back further against the wall, almost as if you were trying to become a part of the old, rotted wood. He holds up his two hands, demonstrating that he has no plans to move another muscle towards you. “How long have I been out?”

He tries to show some patience and gives you a minute, gives you a chance to respond, but when you say nothing, he can’t help but sigh out in frustration. Just when he’s about to force himself to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of answers out of you, you lift your free hand and hold up three trembling fingers. 

His stomach sinks. “Three days? I’ve been out for three fuckin’ days?”

You give him a nod so tiny and so subtle that he would’ve missed it had he blinked.

“Fuck,” Joel curses, hanging his head. He begins to spiral.

What happened to Tommy? And the others? 

Did they make it out alive?

And then Ellie’s face flashes in his mind, causing the blood in his veins to run ice cold. 

What could she possibly be thinking right now after he’d been missing for three whole days? Who was taking care of her and looking after her while he wasn’t there?

He needed to get back to Jackson—he needed to get back to Ellie.

He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that if you didn’t start talking soon and answering his goddamn questions.

Lifting his head, Joel looks over at you again. 

“You all by yourself?”

You hesitate, but then nod in reply. Yes.

Joel sighs, his tense shoulders relaxing. That’s a start. “Listen, I’m gonna need a little help here, alright? I don’t remember much ‘bout what happened. I’m part of a community. I was out on patrol with my group when we were attacked by raiders. There were too many of them and I tried to lead some of them away,” he explains. He might not have known what had happened after he’d been thrown off of his horse, but the fact that he’s in your cabin and he’s alive help him piece at least one part of the puzzle together. “Wait a minute. Did you—did you save me out there?”

Sucking in your bottom lip, you nod again.

Stunned, Joel’s eyebrows raise up towards his hairline. “You fuckin’ serious?” he can’t help but question in complete and utter disbelief. Skeptically, he presses, “But how? What happened out there? How did you get me here all by yourself?” His queries spill from his lips one after the other despite knowing most of them, if not all of them, would go unanswered.

You look overwhelmed by them—by him.

Figuring it’s best to take it one slow step at a time, Joel stands up and he cautiously walks over towards you. He holds out his hand. “S’alright,” he assures you in the most gentle voice he can muster. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You refuse to loosen your grip on your knife, but you accept his hand and allow him to help you up to your feet. Given that you didn’t lodge the blade straight through his chest, Joel would say some progress had been made. 

He releases your hand and takes a step backwards to give you your space. He isn’t too sure if you can’t talk or simply don’t want to talk—still thinking you’d been the woman he’d heard singing when he had drifted back into consciousness, he guesses it’s probably the latter. 

Joel tries to think of questions he knows you’ll be able to answer without having to speak. 

“How long have you been by yourself?”

Shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, you hold up one finger. 

“Sorry darlin’ but that don’t really help me much,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Are we talkin’ one week? One month?”

You make a gesture with your hand. Keep going.

“One year?” He doesn’t bother hiding his blatant skepticism. “You’ve been completely alone for one whole year?”

You point at him. That’s right. 

Joel is beside himself. He’s almost in awe over the fact that you’ve survived on your own for so fucking long.

“You got any other weapons besides that knife?”

You nod over towards a bow and sheath of arrows next to your backpack.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s all you’ve got?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Hey, it’s a good weapon and it saved your fucking life, thank you very much.

“Sorry. Just can’t imagine that thing would do much against a clicker. ‘Specially if your aim is shit,” Joel muses. He notices the offended expression on your face and quickly moves on. “You don’t have a gun at all?”

You reach behind yourself and pull out a colt pistol from the waistband of your jeans. You finally set down your knife and then show him that you’re low on ammunition and don’t have any more. Tucking the gun back into your jeans, you step around him and walk over to a corner where his rifle is propped up against the wall. You pick it up, make your way back over to him and hand it over. 

I believe this belongs to you.

“Thank you,” he utters quietly, taking it from you. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the gun, either. I honestly don’t think I’d be standin’ here alive if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did out there.” His eyes try meeting yours. “I’m serious, darlin’. I owe you one. I really fuckin’ do.”

You shrug, too timid to meet his gaze.

“I’m Joel,” he says after a minute, setting his rifle down. “What’s your name?”

You simply stare at him.

“Oh that’s right,” Joel mumbles sheepishly. “You can’t—” He stops himself, but he’s sure you know what he’d meant to say.

You can’t talk.

“You got a pencil or somethin’ to write with?”

You snort and roll your eyes at him. No, sorry. Silly me totally forgot to pick up a pack of pencils while I was out scavenging for supplies the other day.

Joel chuckles and holds up his hands in defense. “Figured it was at least worth askin’,” he says. “It’d be kinda nice to know the name of the person who saved my fuckin’ ass, you know.” He clocks the way the corners of your mouth threaten to turn upwards into a tiny smile at his remark. “How ‘bout a map? You got one of those so you can show me where we are?”

You hold up a finger, as if telling him to give you a minute. Digging into one of the front pockets of your pack, you pull out a large map of the state of Wyoming. It’s severely creased, as if you’ve folded and unfolded it hundreds of times. You hand it over to him and as he holds it out for you, you point to your current location. 

“Jackson’s ‘bout fifteen miles south from here,” Joel murmurs as he scans the map. Suddenly, his dark brown eyes flicker over your wrist—the long sleeve of your thin gray shirt had hiked up, exposing severe discoloration and scarring that went all the way around, marking your skin. 

Noticing where his gaze had wandered off to, you quickly retract your hand away from the map and tug your sleeve down back into place. But it’d been much too late. He had seen the mark, clear as fucking day. 

Joel awkwardly clears his throat and for the sake of not causing you any discomfort, he pretends he hadn’t seen a goddamn thing. He turns his attention back to the map. “Remember how I told you I’m a part of a community? It’s in Jackson and it ain’t all too far from here,” he states, peering up at you from over the top of the map. “The town’s gated and it’s secure. You’ll be safe there. If we head out right now, we can make it there by nightfall—”

You back away from him, shaking your head.

I’m not going with you.

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Look darlin’, I don’t mean to offend, but you ain’t gonna last a whole lot longer out here on your own, especially not in a place like this with winter right around the corner. If you don’t starve to death, then you’ll fuckin’ freeze to death.”

You glare at him and lift your chin.

I’ve been doing just fine on my own, thanks. 

Having read your mind, Joel sighs. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve gotten this far by yourself, but that don’t mean you gotta turn down an offer for some help. Just come with me to Jackson—”

You shake your head even harder.

The last time that you had agreed to go back with a stranger to their camp, you’d been imprisoned. Tortured. 

Joel observes you, and it doesn’t take him very long to connect the dots between the scars around your wrists and your refusal to leave with him. His hard, stony face softens. “Listen sweetheart, I ain’t all too sure ‘bout what’s happened to you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I can assure you that you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing this time around. Just come with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

You toss him a skeptical look.

“Jackson is a safe place,” he swears. “My brother runs it along with his wife and a small council. There’s families, lots of children—hell I’ve got a kid myself. Teenager. Her name is Ellie and she’s fifteen years old.”

Your lips part slightly and your eyes glimmer with something that looks a lot like recognition, though Joel can’t be too sure what had prompted it. Perhaps you’d known someone with that name once in your life. 

“There’s plenty of food, running water, electricity,” he lists off in an attempt to sway you. “It’d be a shot at a normal life. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Crossing your arms, you lift your chin again.

You’d heard that before.

Why the hell should I even trust you? Why should I trust this place is what you say it is?

Joel bites back another frustrated sigh. 

Normally, he wouldn’t bother to put up with such stubbornness. He wasn’t one to plead or beg and part of him almost wanted to give up so he could be on his way, but you had saved him from being killed. He owed you his fucking life. He had to get you to go with him. He wouldn’t give up until you agreed to go to Jackson with him. 

“I’ll let you carry your weapons,” he offers as a compromise. “Hell, you can even walk behind me with your gun pointed at the back of my fuckin’ head if that’s gonna make you feel safest.”

You squint at him. Really?

“Or that bow of yours,” he adds, chuckling softly. “It’s your pick, darlin’. Whatever’s gonna make you feel comfortable. I’ll trust you not to shoot an arrow through the back of my skull—all I ask in return is that you at least make an attempt to trust me too. I think that’s a fair enough deal. Don’t you?”

You bite your bottom lip. 

I don’t know about this.

“I really don’t wanna leave you out here all alone,” Joel says, taking a step closer towards you. He finds himself feeling surprised that it hadn’t startled you and he only hopes that means that, to some degree, you trust him already. “Please. You saved my life—and I know you probably don’t need me savin’ yours, but at least let me take you to Jackson so you can see for yourself what we’ve got goin’ on there. If you don’t like it and you don’t wanna stay, then we’ll load up your pack with food and supplies. We’ll put you on a horse and you can be on your way. You can choose to leave and no one will lift a finger to stop you, I’ll make sure of it. How does that sound?”

He waits, giving you a chance to think it over.

Finally, after a minute, you sigh and reluctantly nodd your head. 

Okay. I’m gonna try and trust you.

“Good,” Joel says, softly. “Now get your stuff and let’s head out before we start losin’ daylight.” 

[hawkinsbnbg]

hit me baby one more time

prompt: one | word count: 1111 | rated: E | tags: daddy kink, spanking, breeding kink, barebacking, creampie, pet names, one-night stand to fwb to lovers, mutual pining | @steddiemicrofic | ao3

This was getting out of hand.

Because Eddie Munson never did repeat.

And somehow, he kept coming back to Steve Harrington’s doorstep, promising himself ‘This will be the last time’, then repeating the same dance and song until he just—

Stayed.

What had started as a one-night stand—simple and uncomplicated—had become something more, an undetermined relationship where Eddie was allowed to stay overnight instead of stumbling back to his place alone, where he woke up to stale breathed kisses and lazy morning sex, where he took turns making breakfast and eventually dinner with his fling (“man of your dream, muse of your soul, light of your life—” “Shut up, Gareth!”).

If anyone was to be blamed, Eddie would point at himself, albeit begrudgingly.

As much as Eddie hated to admit it, he was the one approaching the other man that night when he realized the former King Steve was sitting there in a BDSM club, wearing a crop top and snug jeans, lipgloss and eyeliners, so pretty that the bartender would be swept off by that infamous Harrington Charm soon if no one intervened.

So Eddie did. Walked up to his target of the night and cast his spell, wanting to take the guy down a peg or two, an overdue payback for his horrendous high school experience.

What he didn't expect was to be completely enchanted by Steve who turned out to be a sweetheart, who had gone under so beautifully, looked at him with so much trust and vulnerability, made him want to care, to cherish for the first time in his chaotic life.

Then one morning, when he blinked his eyes open and gazed at the pretty thing still snoring softly in his arms, it suddenly occurred to him that he couldn't walk away anymore.

And thus, the rest was history.

Steve seemed nonchalant most of the time, acting like they were just real close buddies whenever Eddie turned up, as if he hadn't been fucked stupid on every surface of his own apartment.

It thrilled Eddie how easily that indifferent façade would break under his command without resistance.

Eddie brought his hand down in another loud smack, eliciting a muffled sob.

“T– Thank you,” Steve mumbled, sounding soft and sweet in a way that made Eddie's heart clench. “Thank you, Daddy.”

For a moment, he took in the vision draped across his lap. Burgundy sweater bunched around the slim waist, white cotton yanked down to mid thighs, an anklet that matched one of Eddie's bracelets, pale skin and red hand shapes, Venus dimples and lean muscles, moles and freckles that dotted the smooth canvas like constellations.

A masterpiece.

He stroked those cheeks like kneading dough, enjoying the goods before giving it three reverberating smacks.

“How many do you need, baby?” He cooed as Steve started trembling minutely.

“Gimme ten,” Steve whined.

Eddie huffed fondly. What a spoiled brat. It was always ‘I want’ or ‘gimme’ and never ‘can I…?’ or ‘please’ , so needy and demanding all the time. But Eddie was at fault for being a pushover.

At least, Steve never forgot to say sorry and thank you. Would do everything to get praised. Always a good boy even when he tried to be a brat.

“Alright, we can do ten,” he tapped Steve's cheeks lightly. “Count for me, sweetheart.”

Then gave them ten swats in succession that were followed by Steve's strangled counting.

Steve was crying in earnest, face blotchy and lips bit red, when Eddie carefully flipped him over. But his eyes, god, his doe eyes were brimmed with tears, big and wet and drooped pitifully.

“Still good, little prince?” Eddie combed his fingers through the silky lock gently.

“Mhm,” Steve sniffled. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Eddie’s erection twitched and dribbled in the confines of his jeans. Cursing himself for being weak, he leaned down to capture those lush lips, swallowing every breathless noise that tried to escape between the tiny cracks of their mouths.

As wanton legs parted to welcome him and shaky arms wrapped around his neck, Eddie grew greedy, hungry, insatiable. He wanted to devour Steve, to ruin him for anyone else, to keep this beguiling creature away from the prying world.

Because Steve Harrington was a sunshine incarnation, apple pies and vanilla ice cream, honey buns and warm milk, maraschino cherries and chocolate cakes, divine and perfect everything.

Was it so surprising that Eddie wanted to hoard such a treasure even when he would be burnt to a crisp?

“Do you trust Daddy, baby?” He whispered, pecking the pretty face that blossomed in flush pink beneath him.

“Always,” Steve smiled, sweet and precious.

Utterly gone, he dropped soft kisses on Steve's eyelids, making those long lashes flutter like the butterflies in his stomach.

Then, he took care of Steve the way they were both familiar with. Drawing out those pretty moans and taking everything that Steve was willing to give him.

“Daddy,” Steve mewled, neck stretching to give hot lips and sharp teeth more access, quivering and drooling as his prostate was nailed precisely.

“My gorgeous baby,” Eddie groaned, tongue heavy and heart stuttering in his chest. “So good for Daddy, aren't you?”

“Yours,” Steve whimpered, hanging on him like a ragdoll as the pace turned brutal. “Make me yours, Daddy.”

And so Eddie tried his best. Worshiped his beautiful angel until he could taste those nectarine droplets, running down the apple of rosy cheeks and soaking pouty petals.

Eddie pumped him full over and over again, possessive and obsessed, unable to resist the temptation of knocking him up however impossible it was.

Once they were done for the night, he carried Steve into the bathroom for their joint shower, put Steve in a threadbare sweater and cute panties then threw on himself an old tee and boxers after they were dried up.

When they returned to the bed, he gathered Steve in his arms and ran his hand on Steve's back soothingly, whispering sweet nothings until Steve let out a quiet yawn.

“Sleep, baby,” he kissed Steve's forehead. “You have a morning shift tomorrow.”

“G’night, Eds,” Steve said drowsily.

“Sweet dream, my darlin’,” he kissed Steve's forehead again just because he could, just because he wanted to see that sweet smile.

Eddie watched the other man fall asleep against his chest, always unguarded and so trusting around him. It made him feel things he never entertained before. Made him want to listen to ABBA. Made him want to do chores and prepare meals with Steve for the rest of his life.

He let out a helpless sigh.

This was getting out of hand.

Because Eddie Munson had fallen in love.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

from this prompt list (send me some if you'd like!) prompt #s 6, 20, and 122

pairing: steddie | word count: 544 | rated: T

Eddie Munson has been hopelessly pining after Steve Harrington for years now.

So many years that the pain of longing has scarred over.

It’s still there, don’t get him wrong; some days it hits him just as bad as the day it first started, but, in general, it’s devolved from white-hot to chronic.

And now, as he watches the man of his literal fuckin’ dreams turn to walk away from him toward what could be his actual doom and leave Eddie and Dustin to the same, he can’t take it any longer.

 “Hey, Steve?”

This is it, all he has to do is ask for it; shouldn’t be too hard, right? He’s hoping against hope that Steve will take pity on the nerdy virgin freak in front of him, and just do it.

Eddie takes a quick breath, and says “....Kiss me.”

He doesn’t even ask. By semantics, he demands it, actually. Eddie tells Steve to be his first, and possibly last, kiss.  But right now, on the precipice of whatever the fuck is about to happen, he can’t bring himself to care.

Steve doesn’t have to know it’s his first kiss, doesn’t have to know what this would mean to him.

Eddie just looks at the younger man, watches indecipherable emotions flit across his face while Henderson flips his shit beside him (it’d be funny if Eddie wasn’t about to pass out and throw up from nerves simultaneously).

Then, against all odds, against Eddie’s very own Munson Doctrine, against all things that should even be possible—as if whatever being in the sky that had been bullied back to let all the others beat down on Eddie and his luck over the last three days got a second wind enough to toss him a scrap of good—Steve Harrington strides back, cups Eddie’s face in both hands, and kisses him soundly.

Steve’s lips slot between Eddie’s like they were made to be there, soft against Eddie’s chapped ones.

Steve’s face feels gross and grimy under Eddie’s nose, pressed into his cheek like it is.

And he smells.

Hell, Eddie undoubtedly smells like BO and old lake water, his breath for sure is a horrendous combination of morning breath, stale beer, and Spaghetti-o's, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Steve stinks, Eddie stinks, they’re both shaking with nerves and with the cold of this upside-down hellscape…and it’s amazing.

Eddie feels everything in him hum to life; The chill of Lover’s Lake that had clung stubbornly to his bones is just gone. Like it’d never been there. The connection to Steve is pouring everything new, beautiful, and wonderful in the world down into his toes. He could live in this moment for the rest of his life.

He feels like he’s glowing.

Eddie grabs the front of Steve’s new/old bomber jacket and tugs him as close to him as he can, his mouth chasing after Steve’s when they finally part.

Steve doesn’t go far, only pulling back enough to drop his forehead to Eddie’s.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Eddie.” he says, fanning hot, nasty breath of his own over Eddie’s nose. “If you die, I’m gonna kill you.” 

Eddie huffs out a laugh, “I’m not going anywhere, big boy.”

Turns out, Eddie’s a liar.

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

The Jealous One pt 11

Pairing: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Fem!Reader

Words: 1,895

The Great Hall is blissfully empty.

Tags: fem!reader, silly, ambiguous timeline, Snotlout Jorgenson, Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston, Jealous!Hiccup, Post RoB/DoB, Pre-RTTE

<Previous -

You grasped the sides of your tray, staring at the sad, shallow bowl by your pitiful excuse for a bread lump, stale, and an empty mug of nothing. 

The Great Hall around you was much less lively than usual, especially for the time. 

As the agreed-upon date approached, all pretenses had been dropped and everyone had been crashing early, having put their heart and soul into preparations, and the mealtime crowds ended up poorer for it, though you found no qualms with that.

The food, too, was poorer than usual. That was one thing you did find qualms with- the stew was thin and meat in smaller pieces, which, of course, made it a slight bit easier to get to the soup before anything else, to drink from the side of the bowl or scoop out food bits with your spoon, but it left your stomach half-empty.

The large hall doors creaked ominously, the flow of Vikings coming in and out slow and carried Great pause yet the greater dining space remained empty. 

 You stood in front of a long table on top of which there lay food, unattended as it usually would not be, not noticing as someone peculiar wandered into the hall behind the rest, an irrelevant action paired to a relevant person.

You did notice fingers brushing against the inside of the crook of your arm, causing your head to swivel.

You blinked owlishly, stuck between a greeting and warm cheekbones, unsurprised to see who had garnered your attention. 

“Hello,” You said in a tone even you couldn’t decipher, toeing the lines between pleasant, cheerful and ambiguous.

Hiccup stood before you with tired eyes, his hand still half-extended before in a moment choosing to step forwards into your space, bridging the gap between appropriate, friendly and cherished all at once.

As of late, it had seemed Hiccup had been given much more responsibility than usual, though despite the fact that he was busy with festival prep, he still always found the time to say hello to you, which you’d found to be a mild comfort despite yourself.

You had found a few moments to hang out with Snotlout and the Twins separately, though those instances were much less frequent with the bustle and their shackles to their own unwilling responsibilities. You had seen the Twins dragged away by the ear on more than one occasion during the most recent times.

“My Dad is finally back,” He said plainly, in lieu of anything else, though you could tell by his tone and the way his eyes darted to the side that he hadn’t much cared to say that at all. 

“Bummer,” You smiled slightly, though you were sure your cinched brows conveyed some of your nervousness. 

Hiccup smiled something back, soft and wry, lips tight. 

You couldn’t help but imagine a thick layer of flour across his jaw and spotting the underside of his mop of hair, dough along one side of his mouth- you remembered exactly what it tasted like with a slightly rough set of fingers on your cheek, guiding you as he tilted his own head, something fiery rocking in your guts at the simple touch.

You eyed one of the smaller tables, way off to the side where the lighting was poorer and the hall was colder- a place you found smidge more comfortable than any other.

“So…” You started after a long moment of silence, “Are you hungry?”

Hiccup blinked, then grimaced, “Not really? I just, ah…”

“Came to mingle?” You raised a brow.

“Yeah.” Hiccup said, grimacing harder, shifting in a way that brought him closer to you.

You shifted your shoulders and adjusted your stance, staring Hiccup straight in the face, ignoring the fluster that was building in your chest and along the skin of your face, “Okay. You’ve been mingled.”

“...I’ve been mingled,” Hiccup said dryly.

“Yes, now go,” You snuffed, “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Hiccup slouched slightly, looking at you blankly, “When would that be?”

You ignored him, nearly grumbling, “Did I apologize for ditching you yet? I didn’t ditch you on purpose. I did try and get to you later.”

“You should have,” Hiccup protested, leaning slightly to the side. You looked into his eyes from this new angle. “On purpose, I mean. Even after, I…”

“What?” You spoke as his fingers teased your wrist, his forehead dangerously close to yours, “I don’t think- I said it’s fine, so you should just… drop it.”

“I don’t want to drop it,” Hiccup said, furrowing his brows, “Especially since- …”

You felt as if you had been put on center stage, though you weren’t quite sure which script you were supposed to be using.

“Really, it doesn’t matter,” You grumbled. You shifted your tray into one hand, and from then on it became a precarious thing, its balance uneven, but it made it easier for you to wave him off before jabbing him in the side. “I really do forgive you. You don’t- I mean, I’d- Really, after…”

You weren’t sure, truly, what Hiccup had meant by- that. Pressed lips, all the exercising and apologizing and testing the grounds of your… Whatever this was. You weren’t sure- not of anything, not of whether it had cleared the weary air between the two of you or if it had made it much more smoggy. 

You weren’t sure whether to be more mad at him or less, though you didn’t have the heart to figure it out.

You winced slightly, your fingers stubbing against tight leather and buckle, though you didn’t so much as make a peep about it.

“I- Ouch,” Hiccup said, before offering you his hand and eyeing the small table your eyes had left just a moment prior, his thumb running cautious lines up and down the back of one of your hands, “Well, fine, then. If… If you really mean it this time, then ...Do you want to come back to the table with me?” 

Around you, the murmur conversation grew slightly from nothing to a small uptaking mumble as a group of late-arrivals poured in through the hall doors.

“No,” You held up your mug, feeling both disconcerted and shy as you teased his covered collarbone with your eyes, wondering what in the world you two were to each other, “I still need to…”

“That’s fine,” Hiccup relaxed, stepping backwards, “How about we go… Get a refill? Then make our way back later?”

“‘We’?” You asked suspiciously, your shoulder bumping into his.

The rabble was slightly quieter than it was before, boiling at a nice, spoken murmur, dotted occasionally by the sound of shouting.

“Fine,” You shook your head yet when he moved, you moved to walk side-by-side.

You held your mug to your lips, looking sideways from the corner of your eyes at Hiccup as your pinkies nearly touched. 

You had your feet braced against the side of a bench, the two of you sitting on top of one of the tables in the Great Hall. Most of the riders -sans Astrid, though you knew she was bound to follow- were gathered around, you and Hiccup being only a part of the ring of teens closing off the space between two narrow bench isles.

Hiccup laughed nervously, maybe a bit too loud at something the others said, Adam's apple bobbing recklessly. 

It wasn’t so bad, spending time with Hiccup again.

You had to wrinkle your nose as Snotlout said something sour about Agnarr, who was off in the corner trying to start an ill-fated tussle with Phlegma, who most likely had much better things to be doing than fighting with him.

You and Hiccup used to do the same thing together, once- not the tussling, but the snide remark-ing. 

You had to wonder, at one point, if he’d been judging you like you’d poked fun at drunk Vikings in the hall, fighting and rough around the eyes. You didn’t like being the punchline.

You furrowed your brows and looked away as something warm and familiar roiled in your gut, offset by your feelings of mild frustration and flush, mind stuck on dry lips and meaningful, flat presses.

The hall had filled, eventually, with late arrivals and so, now, you’d found it full, and the peaceful, quiet, unsure time you had spent by Hiccup had been gradually interrupted.

The hall cleared slightly as someone shouted from a few tables down, the loud clattering of dishes and the loud smacking sound of fist on flesh signaling the beginning of another fight.

You’d slip away later, when he wasn’t paying you as much attention.

You were perhaps a bit less cautious than you should have been, the stone planks below still wet from an earlier rain as you stepped forwards.

 You came to a slow stop on one of the steps to the hall as you heard someone call your name and the slow groan of the Great Hall doors as they were pulled open and then shut again.

“Where are you going?”

He held your hands imploringly, fingers grasping around the backs of your knuckled, holding them so your palms faced upwards..

“Are you alright?” You asked him, still not looking him in the eye.

As far as you knew, Hiccup had also made an effort to avoid the trouble, keeping to the sides of the hall and out of the way of flying fists.

“I’m tired,” He admitted, “A little- a little bit-”

His voice broke off into a yawn. It was clumsy, and awkward, and the tone of his voice just felt a bit out of place.

It was sort of cute.

Your eyes widened slightly, his forehead touched yours as he settled, blinking drowsily, before lifting his head. 

You felt his chin brush against your forehead and, briefly, his breath, warm compared to the cool night air, against your face. You became familiar with what wasn’t visible in the light of day, a small dusting of slightly rosy skin, where peachy hairs sprouted. 

“But... No, I mean- We, well, for fun, we haven’t- since…” Hiccup suggested slowly.

You were painfully reminded of your hands held in his and you shut your eyes tightly.

Heat burned up your back like a flush on your cheeks, hot and prickling, beseeching you to take notice, to note it down for later turning over. It felt to you like a Nadder flexing its spines, or a Skrill, lightning dancing up its back the way Hiccup recounted to you after the whole defrosting debacle.

“...” You tried to speak, opening your mouth reluctantly, not looking at him. But you softened just a little bit, on the inside. 

“Yeah,” You said, shrugging. “...Yeah.”

The double meaning, to you, was obvious.

“It’s okay. I…” Hiccup started, “I-...”

You bumped him in the shoulder with your own, “Yeah.”

“How about we try this again? Meet here… Tomorrow,” Hiccup suggested, gnarly mumbling, “Or-or somewhere else. Make up for lost time? I know there’s a nice place on the other side of the mountain, where the hills-craigs… It’s nice there. I think you know it. Or… Would you like to go to the festival with me?”

Then you looked at him, eyes peering out from under your eyelashes, head tilted down in a way that made it difficult not to do so, “I guess that would be fine.”

[sgiandubh]

But first, time to say good-bye

It was to be a late departure (bureaucracy will someday kill us all...) from Athens, an endlessly diverted way North through a very early summer and some fitful sleep near the border, where poppies were already in bloom and elusive to the camera:

I promised to share with you my story with Mycenae the day I would leave Greece for good. Yesterday was the day, so here goes.

I first went to Mycenae on a horrendously rainy day, in November 2018. The place struck me as a haphazard settlement of sorts in the wake of some ancient apocalypse, which was absolutely correct. We stayed in my colleague from Culture and Press' car, munched on some horribly stale koulouria as all hell broke loose outside, when she finally told me: ' you know what, I am happy we made it here: in Mycenae, you can only hear and tell the truth, you know'.

I have to say I ogled in suspicion. I was wet, hungry and completely unused to the Greek way of dressing everything up in mythology. She spoke Greek as I speak French and knew perfectly well what she was doing. She was casting a spell - an unbreakable one, for which I will forever be grateful. Oh, and as all myths would have it, the Lion Gate was closed, by the time we arrived.

It took me almost two years to go back there, during the pandemic, scared summer of 2020, when everything was empty and glorious to fully take in, like a big gulp of colors and sounds and life. My digs were to be always the same: unassuming Petite Planète, the last B&B in town, a stone throw away from Agamemnon's treasury, owned by the Dassis clan of archaeologists.

Their story begins in Constantinople, around 1875, when Konstantinos, a young orphan, begged Heinrich Schliemann to take him along to wherever he was traveling. He quickly became indispensable and helped with the first digs in Mycenae. He was the one who found Agamemnon's mask:

When the digging was over, Schliemann bought him a tiny house for two pence and a half and told him to stay there. 'Many people will come to visit and they will need food and a roof. Make sure you do your best and it will make you a rich man.'

And they came. In droves. If you ask nicely, V. will show you their reception rosters, safely tucked away in a bank vault, in Argos. I had the privilege to see Virginia Woolf's signature and I was stunned. Schliemann's two pence house is now doubled by a garish modern addition you can see from the main road as La Belle Hélène B&B ('my cousin Agamemnon is a greedy idiot', says V), but Schliemann's room is piously kept as it was when the strange German gentleman left them to their fate. As is, they did not become rich, but that does not matter. You will always find a place at their wonderful table, where Mamma Dassis cooks the same food they ate back in Constantinople and they would not have it otherwise. The new, bigger and better B&B is called Petite Planète because of V's father undying passion for Saint Exupéry's Little Prince. It permeates everything without being obtrusive, because sometimes 'the essential is invisible to the eye'.

Back in 2020, they were worried. Very worried. The Lion Gate was open again, but the 'cretins at Google' wouldn't have it and kept on listing it as closed, on their maps. People were canceling their bookings. The village stood unusually quiet and forlorn.

I made no promises. But I did phone some people at the Greek Ministry of Culture. The least person I expected to be of any help, H, a transparent, mousey freeloader, who was always the last to leave all of our events in the hope we'd take her to dinner in town, happened to be some sort of underling at the Archaeological Sites Department. She immediately understood what I wanted her to do.

Three days after I left Mycenae, on my road trip to the Mani peninsula, I received this message in my Booking inbox:

This started it all. And from that moment, all my Greek roads will lead there. It's also been a long time since I have trouble forcefully paying them for my monthly stays (booking and paying in advance helps, though), something they adamantly refused last time I went there:

'G., the girl wants to pay.'

'This is ridiculous, of course. This girl is family.'

Someday, I just know I will be back. For good.

After five years and a half, many more fabulous stories (Mycenean potter and poet, anyone? mad postman? Kyria Stamatoula and her goats? Kyrios Pandelis and his jams?) the only thing I know about Greece is that, for all its (many) misgivings, this land is about two things:

Friends and Heroes.

[reality-detective]

"Marines Were Freed from a Secret Jail That Were Brutally Tortured by Feds"

The six U.S. Marines freed from a secret federal jail said their captors—a mix of FBI agents and private security—tortured them relentlessly, deprived them of food and water, and forced them to defecate in 5-gallon buckets that got emptied only once a week.

As reported previously, U.S. Special Forces on March 8 liberated six Marines the federal government held without trial at a clandestine warehouse-turned-prison in suburban Long Island, New York. The feds had arrested the six for protesting peacefully outside the Capitol on January 6, 2021. Once freed, they were taken to Womack Army Medical Center, Fort Bragg, and treated for maladies and injuries sustained in captivity. This included dehydration, lacerations, puncture wounds, and burns. Alas, one Marine’s wounds were so severe that he went into septic shock and had a leg amputated below the knee.

When debriefed at the hospital, he said their jailors kept them on permanent lockdown in separate cells spaced far enough apart so they couldn’t communicate with one another. He recounted the harrowing ordeal of his arrest. Feds, he said, arrested him off-post near Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, then handcuffed and blindfolded him before driving him to a nearby airport or airstrip. He knew this because the feds put him aboard a small turboprop aircraft. During his debrief, he said he could hear propellers spin up minutes before the plane took off. His abductors shackled his ankles and fastened him to a seat. He was punched in the face several times and called a “traitor” during what he guessed was a two-hour flight. When the plane landed, he was struck a few more times, then, still blindfolded, put in a vehicle and driven to an unknown destination. He tasted blood in his mouth from being pummeled so hard and often and eventually lost consciousness.

He awoke in a decrepit cell that smelled like shit, its only furnishings a urine-stained cot and a 5-gallon bucket in the center of the cell. The guards, he said, beat the living daylights out of him every day—sometimes more than once a day—coming at him three at a time so he couldn’t adequately defend himself. One Morning four guards burst into the cell and tied his arms and legs to the cot, spread eagle, and they took turns stabbing him in the right leg with rusty pieces of metal, then cauterizing the wounds with an iron to prevent exsanguination. He guessed he’d been stabbed 20 or 30 times while the guards taunted him, saying other Marines in custody would share his fate. He said one guard urinated on his open wounds prior to them being cauterized.

The other five Marines told comparable stories, though their wounds were far less severe. They said they were fed only twice a week—stale bread, a few ounces of water, or a red liquid that looked like Kool-Aid but with bugs floating in it. One said the guard tried to feed him mashed potatoes with congealed gravy and tiny glass shards.

“These Marines survived the unsurvivable,” our source said. “There are more service members still in federal custody, not to mention the hundreds of civilians who could be dealing with the same torture. This is how the Biden regime treats combat veterans, as criminals, as domestic terrorists. We are working to free more of them.”

I'm sure we will hear about other experiences like this as the turmoil continues to unravel in our country. These sick fμcks think they are untouchable. I got news for you the deplorables will get the last say.🤔 I did not get any information about the perpetrators involved in these horrendous acts. My gut feeling is, they were executed on the spot.

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

Pls do Yandere!Alucard part 3!! I love the others! 😍

Ask: Pls do Yandere! Alucard part 3!! I love the others! 😍

A/N: I’ve gotten two asks for Part 3, so here you go. Note: Here are [Part 1] & [Part 2]. And other Yandere! Alucard’s imagines can be found here.  

TW!: As always, this is a fictional work about a fictional character. Manipulation and abuse in real relationships are never okay, and it’s never your fault. If you need help, please click on any of these: [x] [x].

Oh and for some ambiance while reading, listen to this: [x]

* * *

It had been less than 24 hours since you and your father moved into Alucard’s castle. The journey itself was horrendous, with your father laying down in the back of a rented cart, coughing with every bump in the road. 

‘At least he agreed to come,’ you thought. 

Truth be told, your father was never keen on the help of strangers, and you suspected that much was still true. It must have been the delirium from his fever that encouraged him to consent to such arrangements. 

Alucard was kind enough to help you unload your belongings once you arrived at the castle. He even insisted on carrying your father to his new room. You thanked him profusely. It took all your strengths, your fathers and yours combined, to simply get him into the cart for the journey there; yet there Alucard was, carrying him as if your father weighed no more than a feather. 

Truthfully, you were rather surprised to see Alucard walking around in the daytime- a trait you thought vampires did not possess. It seemed the more time you spent with Alucard, the more you found yourself amazed at his physicality. 

Alucard had set your father up in a room exactly two floors above yours, citing contagion as a risk. Your room, you learned, was closer to Alucard’s own, just down the hall from it, should you ever need something in the later hours of the evening. 

“So, I take it you don’t sleep in a coffin then?” You asked him. 

“Not currently, no.” He answered rather plainly. “Although I have slept in one before.” 

You nodded, intrigued. “What was that like?” 

“Sleeping?” Alucard’s gaze lingered on the dark circles under your eyes. “It’s a wonderful human invention. Perhaps you should try it sometime.” 

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics. “I sleep just fine,” you argued. “Besides, now that Father is here and I’m not the only one watching over him, I think I’ll sleep better. Does this mean you’ll take the first watch?” You teased back. 

“First watch?” Alucard stopped in his tracks. “Just what sort of creatures do you believe reside in this castle?” 

“No, I… What I meant was, for my father, I’d stay up with him at night, in the event he needed anything. Now that you’re here, I just assumed we would be taking turns.” You raised your hands defensively. “Of course, I don’t expect you to. I’m fine staying up with him by myself.” 

Alucard regarded you pitifully for a moment before he continued walking. “I have some tea in the kitchen,” he said. “Allow me to show you where that is.” 

Silently, you followed the tall blonde, wondering if you had said something to offend him. Perhaps your coffin comment? 

“Cozy.” The rich voice of your acquaintance brought you back to the present. 

“I’m sorry?” You asked. 

“The coffin,” Alucard repeated, descending the stairs, “It was rather cozy.” 

* * *

The castle itself seemed rather dreary and uninviting the first few times you had broken in. You supposed it was the nature of your entrance that colored it so because now, it most certainly transformed. Gone was the cold oppressive gray interior. 

Instead, you found yourself catching a glimpse of gloriously detailed bewitching pictorial carpets and paintings decorating the walls, luxuriant red carpet providing padding under your feet, and thick insulating curtains pulled open with pendulum tiebacks between every major room. It was a bit odd, to say the least. 

In addition to that metamorphosis, the dust and stale air seemed to have vanished as well. Perhaps, Alucard tidied up before you and your father’s arrival, but that seemed quite impossible; the castle was enormous, and a fortnight was certainly not enough time for him to have made such preparations. It would have taken days if not weeks to change the castle’s appearance. Surely, you must have been mistaken. 

Following Alucard to the kitchen, your curiosity got the better of you. 

“Are things… different, in here?” You asked. 

Alucard turned his head back to you, seeing your wandering eyes and interested expression. “No,” he waved off your amazement, “The castle has stayed the same way for years, cemented long before you arrived.” 

You nodded, frowning only a little bit. “It’s just I could’ve sworn-” 

“And here we are,” Alucard’s announcement cut you off. “This is the kitchen. One of them at least. It’s the only one I’ve frequented, anyhow.” 

You walked into a rather large-sized kitchen, with a tiled floor and two sets of iron-barred windows- one right over a large metal tub sink and another perpendicular from the first and centered so the light could shine on the main oak dinner table.  Across from that second window, near the entrance door, was a large cast-iron oven, set against a brick chimney. Nestled in the furthest corner of the room was a series of Welsh dressers and cabinets, stocked with plates, utensils, and other miscellaneous dinnerware. 

“It’s lovely,” you spoke, amazed. You were drawn to one of the Welsh dressers, noticing a set of brightly colored objects there. “What are these? Dolls?” You reached out to touch them. 

Alucard scooped them up before you could, and quickly shoved them inside one of the dresser’s drawers. “Those aren’t important, don’t worry about those.” 

“Oh, okay,” you said, biting your lip. 

“What?” 

“Nothing, it’s just,” you gestured to where the dolls were hidden, “I wasn’t going to make fun of you, you know.” 

Alucard walked over to the stove. “Oh?” He placed a kettle on one of the cooktops, before turning a knob and striking a match to ignite a small flame. 

“I have, or, had dolls from my childhood too. They’re probably falling apart at the seams back home somewhere,” you mused, “Or I might have lost them. Either way, it’s nothing to feel shame about.” 

Alucard swallowed harshly. “They were… they remind me of some old friends who are no longer with us.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” You pulled out a chair from the table, opposite the side with the stove. “Did they live here as well?” 

Alucard nodded, retrieving a tea set from a different dresser. “For a short while, yes.” 

“What happened to them?” 

He shrugged, placing a fine pewter saucer and teacup before you. “The same thing that happens to all humans: they were born, they aged, they died. It's certainly not a novel concept.” 

At that moment you felt such sadness for him. You knew the castle was ancient, and you knew the stories of vampires began long before you were born, but you never bothered to ask Alucard his age, or where he fit in with the timing of all the local folklore. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you exactly?” You watched the slightest bit of a smirk grace Alucard’s face. 

“Old.” 

“‘Old’?” You echoed. 

“Older,” he said again for emphasis. 

“Older than me?” 

He nodded. 

“Older than my Father?” 

“Yes,” Alucard answered, drawing out the ‘s’ sound, in a soft hiss. 

Nervous, you picked up the empty teacup to admire it. The metallic pewter cup was rather dainty, with an impressive embossed pattern at both the top and bottom rims with an equally impressive embossed saucer to match. It was very pretty, and nothing like you had at home. 

You watched as Alucard poured the boiled water from the kettle into the large metal teapot on the table. The silence as he poured felt more and more suffocating as time went on. You suppose Alucard felt it too, seeing as how once the kettle was back on the cooktop, he was the one to initiate conversation. 

“You and your Father are close, I presume?” 

You nodded. “More so since my Mother and older Brother passed.” Seeing Alucard’s perplexed expression, you continued. “She died in childbirth, and my Brother, well, he joined her shortly after. That was a few years ago. My Father’s all I have left.” 

“Why haven’t you married?” 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re well of age.” 

“I-” you scoffed, momentarily lost for words. “Are you calling me old? I’m the youngest one here!” 

“You’re avoiding my question.” 

“I’m not obligated to answer.” 

Alucard said nothing, only picked up the pot and poured you a cup of steaming, freshly brewed tea. Again, the two of you sat in silence. 

Feeling less awkward with the silence this time round, you blew lightly over the rim of your cup before taking a tentative sip, careful not to burn your mouth. You then watched half in awe, half in horror as Alucard took a hearty sip, clearly unfazed by the scalding hot temperature. 

Seeing your appalled expression, Alucard chuckled a bit. “Another vampire trait.” 

“Is there anything that harms you?” You asked, incredulous. “You don’t burn up in sunlight, you’re not controlled by feral bloodlust around people, and just now with the tea, scalding water doesn’t phase you one bit.” 

“I do have weaknesses retained by vampires, yes. Just as I have vampiric strengths.” 

“How do you know which is which?” You asked, taking a sip of your tea, the temperature finally being low enough. 

“I’ve had years to experiment. Trial and error.” He answered.

“Yes, but if your trial went wrong, couldn’t you accidentally injure yourself?” 

“Better me than an enemy.” 

You nodded. “I suppose.” 

“What about you?” Alucard asked. “How long did you experiment before realizing you needed further help in curing your Father?” 

You thought back. “I didn’t do any experiments, I just tried everything I thought of to make him better. And I thought it worked, but then the sweats- 

“And the cough?” Alucard interrupted. 

“Yes, the cough returned. So I visited our wise woman and she sold me a tincture of wormwood and radish. It didn’t do anything. Well, it turned his skin red, but that’s about all. That’s why I came here. This place was my last hope.” 

Alucard did not comment on your desperation as he poured you more tea. 

“I’m truly grateful. Thank you,” you said, accepting the refilled cup. “Thank you for this,” you gestured to the tea, “And for this,” you said, gesturing broadly around you. 

Alucard brushed off your appreciation with a nonchalant wave of the hand. “It’s nothing.”  

You shook your head. “We had run out of options, what you’re willing to do, to try, it’s everything.” 

Alucard looked at you with his trademark melancholy expression. “As I said before, I believe I know what’s wrong with your Father, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make him well. But before we begin…” His hands reached out and clasped one of yours. 

You nearly jumped from the temperature difference. Your hands, having been warmed by the tea, felt like fire compared to his slender icy hands against your skin. 

“There are a few things you must know.” 

* * *

On the outside, Alucard played it cool, but on the inside, he was beaming. It had all been so easy! So easy to gain your trust, to gain your thanks. So much progress had been made and yet, he had learned your name just one week prior. You had relocated your belongings to a room in his castle, all transferred willingly, with no intention of removal anytime soon. Everything was working out better than he could have planned!

He was a bit hesitant to show you around the castle, having changed so many things. Then again, he assumed you’d be in too much of a state to notice. Castlevania was alive in and of itself, and he, as the inheritor of the estate, wielded a good amount of control over the living, breathing structure. The last-minute changes in decor were more of an afterthought on his part. Alucard truly didn’t mean to lie to you so blatantly, at least, not so soon after your arrival, but he had no choice. He feared that should he reveal he changed the entire castle’s decorum just to impress you, you would learn his feelings were much more intense than he was letting on. 

There was always a slim chance you’d feel flattered- a single woman such as yourself. Then again, in the past, Alucard recalled, his intentions were rarely well-received. It had been generations since he truly felt the love and affection of another, and it could be argued that those relationships formed solely out of proximity among Trevor’s, Sypha’s, and his destiny. With his Father vanquished, and the remaining group of supernatural beings continually shrinking in size, Alucard was further isolated as time went on. And it wasn’t just companionship he was missing. 

The longer Alucard existed alone in that castle, the less human he became; or rather, the less human he recalled how to be. That was also, partly, the point in changing up the castle, particularly the kitchen. He didn’t frequent it much, he had very little need to. Sure, he prepared food and ate on occasion, but as a dhampir, he needed very little to survive. Eating food was always more of a pleasure than a requirement. But then you were going to be living here, sleeping here, eating here. Things needed to be updated, for your usage. As a matter of fact, in his haste to have Castlevania conjure all the right things for you, he had forgotten to remove his newest addition of Trevor and Sypha dolls from the kitchen. It was a cruel trick on the castle’s part- knowing full well he wouldn’t approve of such items in his design, and yet, the castle left them anyway. It was embarrassing, and a further reminder of how rushed so many aspects of his plan were. Then again, you seemed to find it rather endearing. So perhaps, in the end, the visages of his long-lost friends worked in his favor. 

Besides, he was able to regain the upper hand, thanks to his question about your lack of a spouse. He hadn’t meant for it to come off as teasing, although, in a way, he later found he was glad it did. It brought an air of familiarity to your conversation, one that wasn’t present before. He… liked it. He liked it a lot. 

The two of you were still very much strangers, but things were most certainly moving in the right direction. 

Of course, the one sore spot in all of this was the state of your Father. Alucard wouldn’t call his prognosis hopeless, but it was certainly headed in that direction. It was clear from the moment the two of you had arrived, judging by your Father’s feverish and exhausted body in the back of that run-down cart, that there was little he as a physician could do to treat him. Even his Mother, the great Doctor Tepes would have been forced to face the harsh reality that there was little any doctor could do to secure this patient’s fate- either living or dead. In cases like these, fate seemed to hang on the wind, one swift blow in either direction could have your Father miraculously recovering, or being laid to rest. 

Then again, he had no intention of telling you that. You didn’t need to know. All you needed to know was that as long as your father was still breathing, Alucard was doing everything within his power to save him. The only thing he needed from you was your continued trust. As long as he had that, everything would work out perfectly. 

* * *

A/N: WHY DID THIS TAKE ME SO LONNNNGGGG?????? UUUGGGHHHH. 

Anyway, Part 3 is here! Yea! Maybe three months from now, there’ll be a Part 4, lol. The Ask Box is still currently closed to requests, but comments and critiques (and fellow fangirling) are always welcome! (No fr, tell me how you feel about Alucard cuz I love him & it has become a full-blown problem.) 

Oh, and because I’m not a doctor or an expert of any kind, I used these links for figuring out what tuberculosis looked like in the 14th century: [x], [x] & [x]. And here’s where I read up on old-timey medicine: [x].

Links about TB: 

Britannica Encyclopedia: https://www.britannica.com/science/tuberculosis/Tuberculosis-through-history

TB Online: https://www.tbonline.info/posts/2016/3/31/how-tb-infects-body-tubercle-1/

Latent tb vs tb disease (The CDC): https://www.cdc.gov/tb/topic/basics/tbinfectiondisease.htm 

Old Timey Medicine: https://www.abdn.ac.uk/sll/disciplines/english/lion/medicine.shtml 

[invisiblebadword]

My Top 10 Video Games

I've decided to put together a list of what are my favourite video games of all time. Its completely subjective, so you WILL disagree, but I just want this to be somewhere on the internet.

First up though I'm gonna post two things:

The Games that were disqualified

The Games that came to mind, but didn't make it into the consideration for the top 10

The Disqualified Section:

The reasons I didn't put these up for consideration is simply that I have played them too recently for me to be sure about them, or that I haven't played them enough yet.

Core Keeper

Deltarune

Lethal Company

Just Shapes & Beats

Metal Hellsinger

Slime Rancher 2

Wuppo

The ones that didn't make the cut:

Games in this section either have something slimy about them, like some glaring issues (like We Happy Few), scummy monetization (Like GTA V), or I was simply already sure that they wouldn't perform well when I was getting to eliminating games for the top 10 (Like Cookie Clicker)

Barotrauma

Brotato

Cookie Clicker

Dead By Daylight

Devour

Doom

The Escapists

Grand Theft Auto V

Helltaker

Hitman 3

I’m on Observation Duty

Keep Talking And Nobody Explodes

Move Or Die

Phasmophobia

Payday 2

Sea of Thieves

Subnautica: Below Zero

Supraland: Six Inches Under

Turmoil

We Happy Few

We Were Here

These aren't all the other games I've played. Just the ones I do still like very much, that do still deserve to be named somewhere.

That being out of the way, here's my Top 10 games:

Number 10:

Undertale

I don't think I have to say a lot about Undertale. Everyone and their religious leaders has at least heard of it, played it, or has been told the story in some other way. A good rule of thumb was, that if a game made me cry I would have to put it up for consideration. This game made me cry. Back when I was in boarding school my shitty laptop couldn't run most games, so I ended up playing through Undertale at least 20 times (I really wanted to see Gaster). It is also one of the few games, whos soundtrack still makes it into a lot of my playlists.

Number 9:

Plants vs. Zombies

I don't know if the game is just that good, or if the nostalgia carries it, but PvZ will always have a place in my heart. It was my "mom, can I have your phone while we wait" game. And when coming back to it years later it still holds up for me. I can't say I'm a huge fan of the rest of the franchise, even though pvz2 has been a good amount of fun. But at that point the monetization was already so horrendous that I didn't sacrifice a thought to it. PvZ however is a delight to come back to. I think the pacing is great, the characters are all funny, and the minigames are a lot of fun (except pogo party. I hate pogo party). Don't even get me started on the soundtrack either. I adore Graze The Roof with my entire being.

Number 8:

Cult Of The Lamb

I tried this game out not that long ago, and what followed was me falling behind on all of my assignments. I am a huge fan of roguelikes, and cotls spin on it made it an instant source of addiction to me. The OST is amazing and prime dnd background music material, and I love the asthetic of eldritch entities combined with cute widdle animals. I've had so much fun with the game, and it somehow managed to never feel stale, something that happened with pretty much all other games on the list at one point or another throughout my playthroughs. If you're a fan of roguelikes I can highly recommend.

Number 7:

Portal

This should be another one of those games that just speaks for itself. Portal is one of the greatest games ever made and that is not an opinion, but an objective fact. While not being as great as its successor, it already innovated so much, and immediately gave GLaDOS so much character, so efficiently. The way it conveys the story of Aperture is amazing, and the gameplay enhances the experience by magnitudes.

Number 6:

Subnautica

I love Subnautica. I don't know how a game manages to look this stunning. My partner loves bioluminescence, and big mushrooms. If that is your cup of tea, then this game is for you. The way it builds horror is magnificent too. Not many games find their horror so naturally. You genuinly feel scared of whatever could be in the depths. I think Below Zero kinda forgot what made the first game so great by relying on small, narrow corridors too much, instead of giving the player the anxiety of being vulnerable from all angles, but subnautica combines the awe inspiring flora and fauna with a constant feeling of lurking danger. It even manages to build a memorable cast of characters without you ever seeing another face. I'm gonna stop myself from rambling further.

Number 5:

Inscryption

I never thought a card game would sweep me off my feet this hard. I love myself a good strategy game, and the way Inscryption rewards you for learning the mechanics of the game feels incredible. It's super creative mechanics like being able to stand up, or making your own death cards aid the game so much too. Not only in gameplay experience, but also in building the many supporting characters, as well as the world in general. Every time something new is introduced it breaks the roof the game has built so far, and it is a delight every time, like all the arg aspects, or the gameplay changing completely, or characters returning, revealing that there is more and more to people you didn't even think had anything behind them. I am being very vague, but that's just because I don't wanna spoiler anything.

Inscryption would've easily made number 3, but there are passages that felt a bit tideous, especially in the middle, but for how short these are, and how exciting the story conveyed within them still is, it still makes the game worth every penny. Towards the end it also absolutely made me cry, so that's something.

Number 4:

Portal 2

I think this is a good point to say: Any game from this point onwards is a serious contender for first place. They're all just this good, and I could never say I like Portal 2 less then third place, for example.

I think Portal 2 shattered my expectations for what games can be. The humor is still one of it's greatest strength, and I almost feel bad not gushing about how amazing the mechanics of both Portal 1 and 2 still are to this day, but somehow the rest of the game manages to overshadow what would otherwise be the greatest aspect of it. All the characters are amazing. You either love them, or love to hate them. From Cave Johnson to the little ball that would later go on to inspire Elon Musk, every character is memorable. God damnit, I will never look at a potato the same, because I played this game.

Not only is it amazing on its own, it is also amazing as a sequal, expanding the world in ways any story teller would dream of. Every little detail feels like there's so much love put into it, and the way all of the story beats are conveyed via some of the most engaging gameplay is amazing.

And I have to stress again, the humor is S++ tier. I will never not find The Part Where He Kills You funny.

Number 3:

Papers Please

I almost feel bad, putting this game so high on the list, because of how simple it is. But god, it delivers. It builds such an engaging story on top of such a simple gameplay loop. And i think the monotony of said gameplay loop is exactly what end up making the story feel so special. By all means, this game should be boring, but the job of working as border control has the fact going for it, that you will meet so many different people, all at varying levels of desperation. Every time you meet a character it feels like an actual person, and every time they plead for you to let them through it feels heartbreaking when you have to send them back. I really can't say that much about Papers Please, especially because I don't wanna spoil anything. It is one of those games you just have to experience. And I highly recommend it. Glory to Arstotzka.

Number 2:

Terraria

There are few games holding as special of a place in my heart as Terraria. Unlike most of the games on this list Terraria doesn't have an amazing story with highly fleshed out characters. At least you don't get that through mere gameplay alone. I know that there is more to it, don't worry, but I can't get into all of that.

Terraria is the first steam game I've ever owned. In a way, it might even be the first game I've ever actually owned, aside from minecraft maybe. Even before I had a computer I played the mobile version, with Ocram and everything. I must've been in 5th grade back then. I ended up getting the game as the Premium edition in a store. I didn't have the money at the time, so a friend lent me his store gift cards. I must still have the collectors cards and poster that came with the game somewhere. There are many anecdoted I have about this game. So there's undeniably a lot of nostalgia fuelling it's place on the list. But god damnit, Terraria deserves it. With the game still being actively updated today it is clear that I am not the only one that loves it this much. Terraria is just one of these games I will always come back to. It will always be special, and I hope that generations in the future, when I'm long gone there will still be people enjoying this piece of history. But torch luck should've never been in the game lol

Quick Intermission

Im gonna take some time now to talk about the contenders that didn't make it in the top 10. I won't say as much about every game though. There are kinda ordered by how much I like them, but rather than a ranking its more like its ordered into vague groups.

Antichamber

I loved playing it. Just a great overall gameplay experience. Very trippy!

The Binding of Isaac

As I said, I love roguelikes. I never got any of the dlc, because money, so it's kinda sad to know so much of the game is paywalled, but seeing just how much they add I don't see it as a huge problem. Really fun game, really great story, will play again (And I will buy the dlc, just not now).

Factorio

Can recommend if you haven't played it already. It's just a very fun base building game. When things work it feels soo rewarding. I just love how the main problem is how to fit things into spaces. That's what makes minecraft redstone so appealing to me.

Spore

Love it. Funny little creatures. Spore is just an overall silly game with a fun gameplay loop.

Superliminal

Again, very trippy. This time it also has a nice story. I adore the setting, and the gameplay mechanics are on the same level as Portal's to me. (I'm sure Stanley Parable would also be in here, but I have yet to play it)

Mortuary Assistant

If you like horror games, this one I can recommend. The scares are awesome, and it somehow has replayability. The animations could be better, but thats whatever. Nothing I would hold against it.

Raft

Raft is absolutely top 10 material. The gameplay is super fun, and the story telling is decent, though it could be better. Especially if you have some friends to play with, you should give this one a try. Too bad they added other people to the game. That kinda ruined the whole vibe for me. I still wanna see the rest of the update though, but my friends got bored of the game. :(

Supraland

Got this one free on Epic Games, and I gotta say, I would pay money for it. Super fun game, super fun characters, and super fun gameplay. As a completionist this game is just like a giant bowl of food, though I am having trouble finding the final treasures, and no matter how hard I try, I can't figure out how to get them. I can't figure out how to look them up either, so I guess ill lever have the 100% :( (Also, the credit song is really fun).

Minecraft

I mean, it had to be in here somewhere. I'm sure if anybody is actually reading this, they might even suspect that it would be Number 1. But no. I love Minecraft, don't get me wrong. There is a reason for why it's so popular. I even have some anecdotes similar to Terraria, like how after buying it, it was just laying on my PC untouched for a year, because 6th grade me didn't know how to install java. But I feel like minecraft very much relies on modding and servers and whatnot. I could always replay vanilla terraria, but I'm kinda done with vanilla minecraft. Feel free to disagree, by any means. At the end of the day, its just 3D Terraria to me /j.

Turnip Boy Commits Tax Evasion

Silly little turnip guy committing silly little crimes. The game is just a lot of humor and its cute af. Just a very good time :)

Fran Bow

I love the Alice in Wonderland horror this game has. The mechanics aid so hard in telling this awesome story with all of its whacky characters. Just something I can recommend.

Slime Rancher

You get to live on a farm, on another planet, and get to goof around with little slimes all day every day. This game is living the dream. I wanna live in the Far Far Range! The supporting characters are also amazing. Love them all.

Stardew Valley

This and the game after are absolutely contenders for the top 10. In my eyes Stardew Valley made it on that list. We should switch to duodecimal so that a top 12 list is more intuitive, because Stardew Valley Deserves to be on it. If you haven't played it, you should! I'm gonna stop myself from trying to explain what makes it so great, because I could never do it justice though.

Celeste

Once again, Celeste is on the list. It should be. I cried. I cried a lot. Celeste is such a great game. The story makes me cry, the characters make me cry, the music makes be cry. I am too trans, not to cry. Play Celeste, if you haven't already. It's also hard as shit though.

Ok, it's time.

My number one game of all time is:

Number 1:

Hypnospace Outlaw

There is a very very good chance you've never heard of this game. Maybe you have though, its hard for me to really tell just how popular it is, or not. It's popular enough for me to have bought a plushy of it. I don't usually buy merch, so thats a big deal. There is a reason I put this game on number 1. Whatever I tell you about the game will not do it justice though. The game is just so human. The characters are all just so great and fleshed out, and believable.

I wish I could play this game blind again, so that I may experience it all over again. But there is no way that anything will be as great as playing it blind. You are tasked with moderating this late 90s alternate version of the internet called hypnospace, and find out aboiut all of the people using it, and maneuvering it like an actual PC, kinda like Welcome to the game, or whatnot. Again, I could never do it justice. You just have to try it out on your own.

The soundtrack is also one of the greatest pieces of art I've found in a game. There are so many songs by so many artists. The humor too. The humor is top notch. Not only in regards to the characters, but the technology as a whole. The references to the real world are awesome, like conspiracies, and viruses like bonzai buddy, edgelords on the internet, and web comics. It all feels so real and alive. Thus, experiencing the story doesn't feel like reading a book, but like actually being part of it all. The fact that your choices actually have an effect on the ending of the game enhances this even further.

Im repeating myself, but I cant stress enough how much I would love to be able to experience this game all over again.

Alright, that's it then. I doubt anyone will read through this. If anything youll probably scroll through and see if your favourite game is on the list. That's fine. I'd do the same, honestly. I just wanted to put this somewhere, to express my love for these games somewhere. I'm happy if you've made it this far. This isn't much more than me rambling on for hours, but I'm glad I put it somewhere. If you have any other games you think are great, feel free to tell me about them. Cya!

[coffinscore]

Our Coffin-bound birthday.

"Can you believe it Andrew spending my 20th locked up, Fucking parasite-filled, No cake or anything" Complained the pacing figure behind him. "Do you think there's any way I could convince the warden to bring me anything sweet, Literally anything at this point!" Pacing continued as well as complaining you could almost see Andrew's eyes rolling as he heard his 'dear' sister kicking the door "I get it already! Stop being so loud leave the goddamned door alone already!! Geez congrats and all but can you ever fucking be quiet" Snapped Andrew he was sick of it all! They had been trapped a month so far, Rations were running low and he was sick of Ashley's complaining

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine today!! You haven't even wished me a happy birthday yet to be complaining like that!!" Ashley yelled back she wasn't exactly in the best of moods today either "I know you didn't give a shit about me, but could you not get on my ass for once!!" Tears welled in the birthday girl's eyes as she yelled with a pout stomping away to the two's shared room. "Asshole!!!" She screamed out slamming the door and flopping onto her bed holding her moon pillow tightly to her chest. "At least pretend you give a shit about my day here.." She thought to herself as she closed her eyes not that it stopped her tears. What else was she expected to feel today? Other than shitty another wasted day and her birthday being a wasted day stung badly. Mom and Dad didn't care to call it was expected, But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt. Not as much as it hurt for her own brother to avoid her.

Quite some time passed as Andrew sighed still placed on the seat of the couch. Of course he knew he was the first to wish her happy birthday every year. Who said he didn't have any surprise plans what she didn't know wasn't hurting her right? Right?? Incorrect he had to make this quick before she died of a broken heart. Putting his head in his hands he mentally prepared himself for the berating he would get when he walked into their room. Getting up, he finally went to get the little surprise he had wrapped up like old molding food in the deep freezer. What else could it be besides a stale lemon-flavored muffin frozen solid as a rock. A small smile traced his lips as he reminisced when this became a little tradition of the two's so long ago. He quickly walked over to the cabinets to get a plate out placed it on and threw the blunt weapon of a snack cake in the microwave. Carefully he watched the timer before it made that horrendous loud beep. It looked like shit, "It was perfect for her" Andrew chuckled thinking to himself as he began looking for a candle.

"Dumbass.." Muffled words came out onto her pillow as she began to smell something familiar. Shooting up her heart began skipping a beat almost thinking she was hallucinating the scent due to hunger and rage combined. "Andrew..?" She called out rather calmly compared to how her former mood had been. Moving to seat herself on the edge of her bed she contemplated if she should storm in there but she sat waiting. And her waiting paid off! Before she could finish her thoughts in came her brother holding a mushy-looking muffin with two candles on top, Pink and green lit up just like her face even if she looked more stunned than anything. Weight shifted on her bed as her other half sat next to her handing her the plate with soft smile on his face "Happy birthday Ashley. I could never forget the day you came into and ruined my life~" She laughed hard at his obvious tease to raise her mood light drops still falling from her eyes but out of a warm happy feeling instead. "Way to save face for being kind to me asshole." Teasing back a warm smile on her face as she moved closer blowing them out before she could even be given the okay wishing to herself in the process.

"H-Hey you were supposed to wait for the okay!" Andrew said sighing at her, He knew he couldn't have stopped her even if he tried, She was happy, An more dangerous beast than her rage. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders he sighed. "Sorry your day is just us stuck in this hellhole." He sympathized he knew she didn't mean anything by her outburst earlier he would have lashed out too if he was in her position. Watching as Ashley unwrapped and split the muffin in half surprising him. "What sharing with me~" Teased Andrew as a piece was handed his way. "Who knows how long it will be before get something like this again.. So take it before I change my mind" The younger blushed lightly her kindness was truly something special when you earn it. He happily grabbed the squishy treat leaving a little kiss on the side of her head noticing her little jump. She always seemed confused when he showed her proper affection, He'd be lying if he said he didn't find it cute.. Moving to take a bite the texture was shit but that's okay the two were still enjoying it either way wrapped in each other's company in this never ending coffin.

[virtuousweakling]

Hantengu + Gyokko (humans): ✨shopping✨

(mostly fluff but mentions of condoms, butt stuff etc.) brief mentions of car accidents but no gore. ⚠️

The period is modern day and Hantengu and Gyokko are a homosexual couple of older gentlemen living together. Hantengu struggles with kleptomania and Gyokko is supporting them with his art commissions. Now I literally couldn't stop laughing while writing this and my family must have thought I was going insane but I hope y'all feel the same joy reading this as I had writing it.

Enjoy! 💚💜🖤❤️

Hantengu sighed as his stomach growled and quickly closed the fridge, calling out to Gyokko, "We need to go to the store. We're just about out of everything." "Oooh! I just LOVE a chance to go out and show off my glorious outfits! Let me get ready." Gyokko gleefully replied. "But Gyokko, we aren't going anywhere special, we're just going to S-Mart and coming straight home. I only have $250 in food stamps." "FIVE MINUTES, I SWEAR!" The sound of thick, leather footfalls approached Hantengu at the door. "Readyyy!" Hantengu, wearing a red knit cardigan, simple tan slacks and glasses perched low on his pointy nose looked Gyokko up and down. "...You're dressed for a bachelor party." "Hyo, hyo! You should be MORE than happy to be seen walking beside ME of all PEOPLE, Hantenguuu!" "Yeah, sure, whatever grab your purse and let's go. You practically took an hour and a half, it's already 3 o'clock."

Hantengu shakily put his keys in his run down Cadillac and started the vehicle with a popping sound shooting out of the exhaust pipe. He adjusted the mirror and squinted his eyes, moving his seat up extremely close to the wheel, practically hunching over it. "Oh, did we lock the door?" Gyokko nodded, "Yes, Hantengu, you locked it three times." "Well I just don't want anyone breaking in and stealing anything." Gyokko agreed. "Like my beautiful masterpieces, oh how horrendous that would be!" "Exactly that's why it's important we make sure we lock the door when we leave." Neither men considered how unhinged and delusional that conversation sounded considering they both committed illegal acts on a regular basis, one of them convincing himself of his non-existent innocence and the other defending his violent tendencies.

Hantengu was a terrible driver and Gyokko was...even worse, but Hantengu had better focusing skills than Gyokko who had massive road rage and liked to race strangers. See, Hantengu began doing most of the driving when Gyokko lost his license one summer after ramming a black SUV with no headlights into the back of a woman's sedan in the middle of the night. She had two kids and one baby in the backseat. Now Hantengu occasionally backed into the mailbox and a telephone pole outside of the driveway, but just casually said "Oops." And kept going. One time the air bag was released onto Gyokko who, surprisingly withstood it very well considering his muscular physique, but Hantengu shrieked in fear and pissed himself in the passengers seat. If it were him who'd been hit, all of his frail bones would have been broken. The piss stain is still there and the car reeks of stale, moldy interior and, well, you guessed it... Piss.

Hantengu drove to the grocery store, just nonchalantly cutting people off and failing to use turn signals. One lady began yelling out her window but stopped mid sentence as she noticed the fragile, elderly man with a receding hairline and large protrusion on his head hunched over the wheel looking over his glasses not even noticing her at all (as if he thought he was the only car on the road) and the rather pale, over-dressed man beside him with green lipstick giving her the double barrel finger with his tongue out. "...What the fuck...?" She mumbled to herself. Her husband who looked like he just got off the golf course at a country club bared his teeth in disgust and said "I told you the locals were weird around here, let's just get off on this next exit, honey."

Hantengu and Gyokko pulled into the store, driving in extremely slow circles around the entire parking lot until Hantengu thought he found a close enough parking space. They parked completely sideways over the line beside them and onto the line for the parking space in front of them, partially blocking off a handicapped space. Hantengu moved his seat back and got out, walking around the car to release Gyokko whose door handle was missing from the inside. Gyokko stuck his hand out expecting Hantengu to take it and guide him out of the car like royalty but Hantengu just turned around and stood with his hands on his hips, stretching his back and looking around at the pedestrians walking with their buggies in disgust.

"Did I park okay?" Hantengu asked Gyokko, squinting at the car. "Yeah, looks pretty straight to me. Straighter than last time. Let's get a cart, I'm excited."

The second they entered the store, Hantengu grabbed a flyer and licked his thumb, skimming the pages for coupons. Gyokko began running around grabbing random things and putting them in the cart. "Ah, Gyokko, no. Put that back. We don't have that kind of money and I don't even think my EBT card will cover that." "Why are you so boring, OLD MAN?" As they walked further through the produce section, Gyokko asked to push the cart. "Can I push it... Daddy?" Hantengu choked on his own saliva for a second and nodded, furrowing his brow while walking away and look at something else. Everything Gyokko wanted, even something simple like a bag of grapes, instigated the same question from Hantengu again and again like a broken record: "Is that even on sale?" After a while, Gyokko couldn't help but notice Hantengu was walking with his hands behind his back, leaning slightly forward and judging literally everything in the store. The people, the food, the environment, even the way the buggies wheels screeched. Hantengu's expression was one of brutal, silent judgement and he had no damn reason to do that while looking the way he did but he did it anyway. Hantengu approached a giant cardboard display of watermelons and leaned forward, knocking on all of them. It almost looked like he was listening to them. He walked away shaking his head. He touched everything, yet, put nothing in the cart. "You're so cute." Gyokko said to his partner, biting his lip. Hantengu looked so damn embarrassed.

Hantengu and Gyokko approached a home goods aisle and saw a big, orange tag below a shelf of deluxe, extra-large automatic rice cookers that said "SALE: 39.99 orig. price: 69.99" Gyokko marveled at the boxes as the geriatric Hantengu leaned in, squinting at the price tag. "39.99? Half off? Hm." He pensively touched his chin. "...hm." Gyokko looked at Hantengu, who was just standing there silently, speculating about the price tag. "Hmm." Gyokko just awkwardly glanced at the side, anticipating Hantengu to say something other than "hm." It seemed as if the most excruciating half hour passed by before Hantengu actually said something until finally, Hantengu went "Ah," breaking the silence.

"Yes?" Gyokko asked.

"39.99 is still too expensive. I can get ten bags of rice for that money and cook it for free."

Gyokko's entire mind deflated like Squidward's head in that one episode and just dragged himself along with Hantengu at this point, trying desperately to enjoy this time out with his partner. They approached a medicine aisle and Gyokko noticed migraine antiinflammatories on sale. "You need this," he said to Hantengu who was browsing the adult diapers. "Hm? What is it." Hantengu took the small box out of Gyokko's hand and adjusted his glasses, tilting his head back as if struggling to read the package. "What is this?" "It's antiinflammatories. For your head." "But I don't nee-... Fuck you." Hantengu tossed the box at Gyokko who caught it on his chest, jovially laughing at Hantengu (these two boogers sounded like the old men on the muppets show). Gyokko squeaked as he pointed out contraceptives to Hantengu, "TROJAN XXXL? WHOSE DICK IS THIS BIG?" Hantengu's heart sank as he looked around, hushing the always inappropriate Gyokko. Gyokko continued, "Oh, here we go, 'intense pleasure warming jelly.' Comes with ridged condoms for 'extra satisfaction.'" Hantengu facepalmed so hard his hand almost exited out the back of his skull. "Gyokko, please. Why are you doing this." "We need them! EXCUSE ME, DO YOU WORK HERE?" "NO, GYO-" "Yes sir how can I help you?" "CAN YOU PLEASE GET ME THIS FROM BEHIND THE GLASS?" "Gyokko please, my heart, I can't..." "TOO LATE."

Gyokko grinned like a maniac as he watched the clerk unlock the window. Gyokko put the box in the cart and showed Hantengu a $20 bill from his pocket. "If I'm buying it, it's mine." "Then get your own basket, I'm not pushing this around, everyone can see what it is." "What's the matter Hantengu, you don't want everyone to know what's going to happen to that tight hole of yours tonight?" Hantengu croaked and began to sweat. Finally the men checked out and Hantengu forced Gyokko to go to a different scanner. As Hantengu scanned away at the self checkout, the clerk standing by noticed his behavior was looking a bit off since he was looking over his shoulder a lot and seemed nervous. She approached Hantengu and asked if everything was ok to which Hantengu reassured her it was fine. Gyokko looked over from his own self checkout and noticed sweat forming on Hantengu's forehead. "Yoo-hoo! I need help over here!" He decided to call for the woman to distract her from Hantengu to take the pressure off of him. Hantengu saw hoodies with the stores name on them on a rack nearby and grabbed one to make it look like he was buying it. Loudly, he exclaimed, "ah, you know what, I decided I'm not gonna get this." And draped it over the camera screen in front of him. By the time the lady was done being distracted by Gyokko's eccentricity, Hantengu took his receipt and the men carried on. There was a receipt checker standing at the exit doors and a family of five who had a massive cart full came up on Hantengu and Gyokko's side. They timed their exit exactly beside the family so the checker wouldn't know which receipt to look at. Gyokko and Hantengu walked free.

Once home, they unloaded their frugal purchases and Gyokko noticed some odds and ends at the bottom of the bag. "Seriously?" He asked Hantengu. "I don't know how any of that got there." "Hantengu..." "I'm serious, I don't know how any of that got in there it must have accidentally fallen in. Maybe I grabbed someone else's bag?" The bag was full of chapstick, candy bars, a readers digest, an addiction counseling pamphlet and a package of watch batteries. "Hantengu what are you planning on doing with all of this?" Hantengu slammed the refrigerator shut and put his head in his hands. "I-I DON'T KNOW, STOP ASKING ME! I ALREADY TOLD YOU!" Gyokko noticed Hantengu was beginning to sniffle. "Hantengu... Can I touch you?" Hantengu just whimpered softly, mumbling reassuring words to himself as Gyokko carefully embraced him in a hug. "It's ok. Papa's got you. It's alright." Gyokko normally would never act like this and it certainly always seemed as if he had no idea how to, but he cared for Hantengu in such a way that he automatically shut down the usual shit show if it meant consoling his typically inconsolable partner. "I'll help you to the couch, you just sit down while I finish putting the freezer food away." Hantengu nodded like a nervous little boy and sniffed his fragile little way to the sofa with Gyokko. Once Gyokko finished putting everything up he called to Hantengu, "when you feel better do you want me to make you something to eat?" Hantengu wiped his nose and nodded. "Ok I'll make you something nice and tasty."

That's all for now, folks, another story will come soon! Thank you sm for reading!!

[tarynisbunhead]

I believe that half the time when people continue to say "this movie is trash/shit", they're just repeating the same stale statement that has followed the film for years. Sure there are those trolls who dunk on movies to start fights, and of course people just downright hate said movie (such as me with Titanic), but there are those movies that for some reason have such a negative reputation people continue to spout off how bad it is years later. Let me elaborate.

The film Speed Racer was constantly stated as a trash movie and the reason anime should never be made into live action, aside from the horrendous Dragonball Z film. Then about three years ago Speed Racer received an entirely new set of fans and people are asking "Why was this movie seen as trash? It has it's campy moments but it stayed true to the source material!"

The 1994 Flintstones film, I've never understood why it got such a negative reputation. John Goodman and Rick Moranis were perfect for the roles of Barney and Fred. Rosie O'Donnell did seem off as Betty but she nailed the laugh, plus at the time she was hired for a lot of films so take that into consideration. This film almost ended up not even a faint memory but now people are looking at it and saying "It's not that bad."

Several live actions like Popeye with Robin Williams and Shelley Duvall. It bombed in the theaters but in the last five years it has a new fanbase who even look at the classic cartoons and compare. Dick Tracy is another one that from the set and costume design, even down to make-up it stayed true to the classic comic strip. When it comes to The Lone Ranger, I grew up watching the classic TV show with my grandpa and while the movie was darker than the 1950s show, it pretty much stuck to the source - a masked man and his sidekick chase after bandits and save the town. I have a few of the radio episodes and it's the same thing, not exactly sure what people expected.

I think the funniest is with The Rocketeer, someone tried so hard to bash the film they went after Lothar, Timothy Dalton's goon in the film. They talked about how the make-up job was terrible and didn't even look human - that character is based off an actual person and fans of the movie called that person out. Maybe do research on what you're attacking first.

[rhaenella]

You & Me - Rhys Montrose x Reader - Part 7

Part 6 | Part 8

Summary: What happens when reader assassin is tasked with killing the possible future mayor of London; Rhys Montrose. Politician by day, Eat the Rich Killer by night. But he isn’t the only person wearing different masks. 

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence, murder, immoral sociopathic behaviour, mentions of alcoholism, drug abuse and neglect, (eventual) smut

Word count: 4k

A/N: at the end.

Song: Meet Me In the Woods – Lord Huron

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Y/N, I’m positive.”

You had just ‘finished up’ Roald’s crime scene that no longer looked like a crime scene. Nevertheless, it was still horrendous and gut-wrenching. It hadn’t affected you much though as you and Rhys wordlessly divided the tasks, working in sync like you’d done this a dozen times before. Rhys had taken care of Roald’s shackles, making sure there were no bruises, as well as cleaning himself up. He had taken off his sweater, leaving him in only a black tee, using his sweater to wipe off the blood from his face. Then he’d folded the well-crafted suicide note and put it in Roald’s right hand. Meanwhile, you had made sure the blood spatter pattern was even and consistent before carefully placing the gun in Roald’s other hand. You checked with Rhys to confirm Roald had been a lefty, and thank God he was.

It was nearing 4 AM by the time you left Roald behind, all your knives once more strapped to your body. Besides handing you your knives back, Rhys had also given back your phone and lock-picks. You tried turning on your phone but it wasn’t responding, the battery dead, so you asked Rhys for the time. Bloody hell, you thought, realising you had been unconscious for almost the entire day before you had woken up to Rhys in that prison cell. You promptly blamed it on your 27-hour sleep deprivation. Another one of Lockwood’s crimes against humanity added to the list. 

Speaking of Lockwood — his deadline for killing Rhys had officially passed. You felt like an outlaw, waiting for the forces to come and get you. You’d wish them good luck. You would never surrender that easily, and fortunately for you, you now had another person with you. One who had made it perfectly clear that he was going to look after you when he’d unapologetically shot the man daring to insult you. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that it had caused a warm type of sensation to flow through you, settling somewhere low. 

The moment you stepped outside and breathed in the crisp early summer night, you sighed in relief. It was a stark contrast to the stale atmosphere in the prison cell. Yet, you couldn’t escape the nagging feeling you felt concerning the placement of the gun in Roald’s hand. Rhys had already ensured you back inside that the police and forensics team wouldn’t check for any residue evidence. But you couldn’t let it go, hence why you brought it up again as you walked side by side in the grass, avoiding the crunching gravel. 

“I thought the sweep was standard protocol,” you said, chewing your lip.

“It’s not anymore. Budget cuts,” Rhys explained, trying to settle your unease at the possible prospect of the police not finding a single trace of gun-shot residue on Roald’s hand, meaning he couldn’t have possibly pulled the trigger himself — meaning it was no suicide, it had only been masked as such. 

“They only perform the tests when the situation is questionable. And trust me, no one will be surprised Roald is the killer. Besides, I’d say we made it look pretty damn convincing, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, especially your note. We would make excellent stage directors,” you teased, trying to shake off your doubts in the process.

“Say no more, I do know someone on the West End.”

You stifled a laugh, looking over at Rhys to your right, noting he did the same. This morbid, post-murder clean-up banter between you two strangely feeling as natural as breathing. You still had to be quiet though, not wanting to wake up anyone inside the manor at this ungodly hour, or potentially alert security. 

The thought made you pause, Rhys glancing over his shoulder to see you had stopped walking. He shot you a questioning look as he strode back over to you, his eyes flitting over your face. “What is it?”

“Your security,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“What about them?” 

“They were surprisingly easy to slip past last night. Did you possibly have something to do with that?” You accused lightly.

You didn’t require a verbal response from him, Rhys’ smirk confirming what you had already expected. “Unbelievable,” you murmured. 

“What would you have wanted me to do, then?” Rhys threw up his arms in faux-exasperation, the amusement written clearly on his moonlit face. “I couldn’t exactly risk them catching you now, could I?” 

You shook your head at him, smiling. Why did this feel so natural? So normal? You pondered. 

Looking up at Rhys, you noticed his fond little smile slowly fade, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. Had he just wondered the same thing? 

You both considered the other for a long minute. He’d apparently been following you for the last couple of months, but he was still trying to learn how to accurately read you. You got the distinct feeling he wanted to understand your every thought and feeling, laying you completely bare for only him to see. It was the kind of vulnerability that you had never allowed before — not to anyone. In spite of that, you felt the same towards Rhys. That aching feeling to want to figure him out, which you’d felt so readily during your first conversation, had never left you. You were sure Rhys was just as reluctant about letting anyone in as you. But you were both also painfully aware that this equal partnership could only work when you both let the other person enter the impenetrable fortress that was your soul.  

You were the first to break the silence when you could no longer endure the tension of his scrutiny. “I still need to retrieve my bag with my things.”

“Sure,” Rhys said, shaking off your little moment. “Where have you stashed it?”

“Behind that bush over there,” you said, pointing in the approximate direction. 

You got there quickly and you immediately bent down to pull out your small but very compact duffle bag. You unzipped it and threw your phone in the bag — it was currently of no use to you with the battery dead. Thankfully, you knew London like the back of your hand and you had the route to and from Hampsbridge House memorised. The absence of your phone’s navigation system would thus not be felt. 

You had mutually decided that you needed to get back to London ASAP. Rhys would stay behind, having to play the role of innocent bystander. He would excuse himself as soon as the situation would allow him. You agreed he would then meet you at your apartment the moment he was back in the city. There was much to discuss. 

“What an excellent vantage point of my bedroom you’ve got from here,” Rhys commented wryly from where he stood behind you. 

You looked up at the house from your crouched position before returning your attention to trying to find the bloody car keys to your rental that you had parked a safe distance away in the woods. 

“Well, obviously. Or did you think me an amateur?”

“Never.”

You were about to say something else but the words died in your throat as you felt Rhys’ body suddenly diving on top of yours, his large hand reaching for your mouth to keep you from crying out in surprise. You laid awkwardly over your duffle, your cheek flat into the grass as Rhys kept you pinned down. 

“Don’t move,” he ordered from where his face was pressed into your shoulder. You paled. Like hell you would.

In a flash you pushed back your right shoulder with all the strength you could muster. Rhys winced as you had hit him squarely in the face. Using that momentum, you simultaneously bit down on his hand hard and elbowed him in the ribs, making his grip on you automatically slacken. You turned onto your back underneath him and grabbed his neck forcefully, nails digging in as you kneed him in the groin. 

Rhys groaned, baring his teeth as he moved the hand you had bitten to grab a hold of your wrist. But he wasn’t quick enough when you used the grip you still had on his neck to bring down his head with force. You successfully head-butted him, making him stagger backwards, landing on his knees. He tried to regain his balance as you fished out the knife you had re-strapped to your ankle earlier. You were about to advance when he held up his hands in surrender. 

“Y/N,” he heaved. “Bloody hell — wait.”

He glanced up at you from where he was still kneeling, hair falling in his face. You panted as you watched his chest also rise and fall in a rapid pace. Rhys grimaced from the impacts of your successive blows. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you. Or hurt you,” he rasped, clutching his lower ribs. 

Your heart rate was up, adrenaline coursing through your body. “Rhys, what the hell?” You hissed. 

“Could you stop pointing that knife in my face?”

“No, not until you explain why the fuck you felt the need to jump me like that.”

“Jonathan,” Rhys said, directing his gaze to the manor for a moment. “I noticed him walking back to the house from where I had left him in the woods. I couldn’t let him see us. Or more specifically, you.”

Jonathan — Professor Jonathan Moore? You suddenly remembered Roald mentioning how he had thought Jonathan was the killer. Something about him having seen Jonathan move Gemma’s dead body. You realised Rhys had never actually explained that part of the story to you. 

“What the fuck does he know that you felt the need to do that?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Rhys sighed, running a hand down his face.

“I met Jonathan a couple weeks ago at Sundry House,” he began without opposing you, accurately gathering you wouldn’t let this go.

And that’s when Rhys succinctly explained to you the whole Jonathan Moore situation — or should you call him Joe? From Malcolm’s body in Jonathan’s kitchen all the way to what had transpired earlier. Apparently, Kate and Jonathan had found Gemma’s body and decided the best approach would be to get rid of her. Christ, were the rich all psychopaths? Although Jonathan wasn’t rich. No, he was a plain ol’ university professor — one who lectured your sister. What a bloody mess.

Ultimately, Roald had spotted Jonathan with Gemma’s body outside the manor and he had placed him under citizen’s arrest, so to speak. Roald then decided to play judge, jury and executioner — going after Jonathan with a rifle, steering him into the woods. He’d almost killed Jonathan had it not been for Rhys sneaking up to him and hitting him in the back of the head with a large log. When Rhys walked over to where Jonathan laid on his back, he had gotten a glimpse of Rhys before he’d kicked Jonathan in the face. Rhys had left Jonathan unconscious in the woods, opting to take Roald back with him and pin all the murders on him. 

You remained silent for a moment when Rhys finished. In the meantime, you had put down the knife. You rubbed your temple, feeling a headache form. What impossible situation had you found yourself in…

“So why didn’t we also just kill Jonathan? Kill two birds with one stone, literally. He obviously knows too much. He knows you’re the killer, now.” 

“Because I have other things in mind for him,” Rhys answered, cryptic.

“Would you care to elaborate on that? What the hell does that even mean?”

Rhys moved towards you, slowly this time, balancing on a single knee as he took your hands in his from where you also still kneeled next to your duffle. 

“Listen to me,” he said earnestly. “I will tell you everything, I promise. But we can’t do that here. You need to leave before anyone discovers Roald, before the cavalry arrive.”

His eyes pleaded with you, genuine concern in them. You looked down at your intertwined hands. Rhys’ touch grounding you after that little incident, calming the rage that had flooded you when you thought for a moment that it had all been a ploy. You hadn’t been scared of Rhys before, and you weren’t now. But what had scared you was the possibility of this bond you felt being a deception ­— that it wasn’t real.

“Okay,” you said, choosing to believe him. “But promise me one more thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t ever — and I mean ever — startle me like that again. Because I will shoot you.”

“Understood,” he said, squeezing your hands.

You both looked up at the same time as you noticed a few lights turn on inside Hampsbridge House. Probably Jonathan. 

“We need to get you out of here, come on,” Rhys said, straightening to his full height, letting go of your hands.

You pressed your lips together at the loss of his touch before finally retrieving your car keys and zipping up your bag. You stood and flung the duffle bag over your right shoulder, following Rhys. When you reached the edge of his security’s outside perimeter, he held out his hand in front of you, forcing you to stop and turn to him.

“Us separating is going to be our first step in building trust.”

Trust, the crucial and terrifying five-letter word.

“We’ve clearly got a long way to go,” you huffed.

“Ah, you could say that,” Rhys agreed, inclining his head. He briefly broke eye contact when he looked down, the muscle in his jaw appearing as he clenched it. A sense of determination overtook him. Then he rolled back his head to look you in the eyes again, taking one self-assured step towards you, stepping into your space. 

“I will see you in a couple of hours. And don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you,” Rhys promised, his voice low.

You nodded, softly biting your lip. The action made him glance down at your lips, his pupils dilating perceptibly. And with that, Rhys turned on his heels to walk back towards Hampsbridge House, simultaneously taking the first step in your thus far fragile trust. You readjusted the strap of your duffle bag on your shoulder, silently watching him disappear in the distance for a minute before turning in the opposite direction. It was time to go home.

––

The clock in your living room chimed exactly ten times the moment you stepped foot in your apartment. The trip back had taken you longer than you’d initially hoped. By the time you arrived in London, your first stop was to return the rental car. Since your go-to rental place — they easily accepted cash, no questions asked — was almost on the complete opposite side of the city, it had taken you a while to get home through the start of London rush-hour. Now, you were just in desperate need of a shower. And possibly a nap. But whatever, sleep was for the dead, right?

You knew Rhys was likely on his way to you right now. In the car, you’d turned on the local radio station and had already noted them reporting on an incident that had occurred at Hampsbridge House. News travelled fast. You wondered if it had anything to do with a certain impatient, blue-eyed politician who had made it very clear he wanted to be near you again as soon as possible.

You got your phone out of your duffle and grabbed the charger, plugging it in. Then you turned on the tv absentmindedly before heading straight for your shower. You could faintly hear the mentioning of Hampsbridge House on the news channel when you let the water run.

You moaned as your body with all its aching muscles made contact with the hot water. In the past 48 hours your body had been through a lot. You had been chilled to the bone, drugged, shackled, slept on the thinnest and most uncomfortable mattress known to mankind, and then of course had thrown a couple of punches. You didn’t feel bad for Rhys, though. He had it coming. 

The man had to learn you could fend for yourself and that you wouldn’t simply be man-handled into any situation. Afterwards, you didn’t think that had been his intention. Perhaps it was just a surge of fear and protectiveness he had felt for you. 

You reeled a little at the fact you had actually chosen to work with the man who had been the cause of most of your hardship the past few days. Your conscience was still scolding you for that in the back of your mind. But every other part of you tried to convince yourself it was okay. That this was somehow the right choice. You usually had a finer equilibrium when it came to your head and feelings. Apparently, Rhys was able to cause quite the interference on that mind-body connection within you, that fact in and of itself being slightly alarming. All of this was completely unknown territory you treaded in, for both of you.

One step at a time, you reminded yourself. 

First, back to the basics. Lockwood didn’t know who you were, so that would still buy you both some time to plan and get it right. Fuck, you were really doing this. And if you were doing this, you knew you had to go all the way. Which meant that it wouldn’t stop after Lockwood. No, you weren’t that ignorant. You had seen the look in Rhys’ eyes. Lockwood would only be the beginning. 

When you got out of the shower and changed into some fresh new clothes, the first thing you did was check your phone. It had been well over a day since you had last checked it. You grabbed it from the kitchen cabinet where you had left it to charge and unplugged it. 

After you entered your passcode, the screen lit up with a few messages from your best friend — yes, you actually had a friend, Claire. You’d met during college and had always stayed in touch. She was really the only other person besides your sisters you were able to tolerate for an extended period of time. Though, you hadn’t spoken to her since you got back from Canada. You read through her messages, proposing to meet up for lunch soon. You were about to answer them but scrolling further made your heart stop. 

Six missed calls. From Zoe. 

A feeling of sudden dread overcame you. Zoe never tried to call you this many times when she knew you were away for work. Her and Sadie knew better than to disturb you during work. You always blamed a stern boss for that, but really you just needed to be radio silent when stalking and murdering your target. Because of that, Zoe either texted you or in a case of an emergency send you a text and make one phone call to let you know there was something up. This far exceeded that. On top of that, you hadn’t received a single text.

Without hesitating you pressed call. You paced into your living room, hearing the dial tone continue until, after thirty excruciating seconds, it stopped. She hadn’t picked up. Fuck. You tried Sadie’s number, but that was also a dead end. You were about to throw something out of sheer frustration when you stopped dead in your tracks, the images on your tv demanding your attention.

You stood completely frozen in shock, bulging eyes transfixed on your tv as you watched the news footage of what was evidently your childhood home going up in flames. You recognised the street and the neighbouring houses, but also your sister’s bike that was chained to the fence in front of the house that was currently engulfed in a fire. The hand holding your phone slowly dropped to your side. 

The footage showed how the windows had all been blown out. Raging flames and thick black smoke emerging from inside. The light-yellow colour of your childhood home’s front was now turning a dark grey from all that smoke. At least a dozen firefighters were running around, trying to control the fire. There was no doubt inside of you that this all-consuming blaze would destroy anything and anyone inside. 

No, no, no. This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.

“Firefighters are trying everything they can to save neighbouring houses but the flames are—” You tuned out, the rush in your ears preventing you from hearing the remainder of the news event’s account.

Zoe… Sadie… 

You blinked back sudden tears. Had they made it out? They were both smart and alert — they had to have made it out. You glanced down at your phone that you were gripping so hard it was a miracle the device hadn’t yet shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Your sister had called six times. Which means they’d at least been awake at the time the fire had started, or shortly thereafter. But where were they now? They weren’t answering their phones, which didn’t help your anxiety one bit.

Your instincts finally kicked in and pulled you out of your frozen state. Without another thought, you ran for the door, nearly overturning a lamp when you hastily grabbed your keys and purse with trembling hands. You’d barely heard the front door close behind you as you were already sprinting down the stairs. When you made it down, you quickly rounded the corner, almost running straight into someone. You staggered back, holding out your arm to the wall for support. 

“Christ almighty, Y/N. Where are you off to in such a rush?”

Rhys’ voice brutally snapped you out of your single-minded focus to just go. He was holding two cups of steaming coffee and a brown paper bag filled with, presumably, your ‘make-up’ breakfast in his left hand, keys dangling in his other. He wore a lazy smile that slowly fell off his face when he noticed the downright trepidation in your body language. 

“What happened?” Rhys asked, alarmed. 

You opened your mouth to speak but no words came out. Within a second Rhys was there, practically dropping the coffee and paper bag on the old carpet. His hands landed on your shoulders whilst he dipped his head to your eye level, demanding your focus with a single imploring look.

“I— I need to go,” you stammered. “It’s, I just— please.” 

Diverting your gaze, you glanced over his shoulder at your apartment building’s front door. There was no time. 

“Hey, look at me, Y/N. Look at me. Breathe,” Rhys soothed. You squeezed your eyes shut, taking one deep shuddering breath before opening them to recast your attention to Rhys.

“Good girl. Now, tell me what happened,” he said, Rhys’ calm and steady voice currently your only lifeline to sanity. 

“There has been a fire in my childhood home. My sisters live there,” you said, your voice slightly cracking at the end. “They tried to call me but my phone was dead and I just saw it only now, it’s on the news channel, and—” Rhys cut off your rambling by pressing you to him, wrapping his strong arms around you. 

Your vision blurred a little, tears threatening to spill once more. You didn’t normally get this emotional, but they were your sisters. Yours to protect. And now you might have failed them. Your mother — that fucking piece of shit. If she was the cause behind all of this… 

Let’s just say that to voice those next thoughts would be too brutal, even for you. 

Rhys slowly nodded to himself as he leaned back from your embrace, not fully letting you go. You noticed his jaw set and the vein in his neck pulse. He undoubtedly had the same thoughts about your mother as you had. Rhys moved his hand from your shoulder to your sweaty palm in one smooth motion, squeezing reassuringly as he laced your fingers. 

“Come on,” he beckoned as he pulled you along towards your apartment’s entrance. You felt the tiniest bit of tension lift, knowing Rhys wouldn’t let you face whatever awaited you alone. 

–––– 

A/N: I did warn you about the drama, didn’t I? 

A little update on the total number of parts this fic will be: uhm so I’ve been planning out all of the plotlines that I want to incorporate in this story and the total number of chapters currently comes down to 25… Remember when I said this was supposed to be a one shot way back? Yeah, that one aged well. I just have too many (fun) ideas and things in mind for our fave couple. Let me know if there’s something you’d really like to see happen in this fic and who knows… maybe I can work something out :)

[trivialbob]

Today we got the trailer out of storage. My stress level has been sky high. I (pretty much needlessly) worry every year that systems won’t work after a long, cold winter.

My wife is much more easy going. For example, with a car road trip she will get in her Subaru, put it in drive, and point it somewhat in the general direction of her destination. Only when the low fuel light begs for mercy will she stop at a gas station, make friends with the cashier, and get a snack.

My road trips start a earlier, getting an oil change two months ahead of schedule and tinkering on Google maps for several days before I leave, looking for six alternate routes and making sure gas and food are never more than 1/8th of a tank of fuel away. I add gas often. Driving a horse and wagon through the wild, wild west two centuries ago might have been more my bailiwick.

Sheila happily prepared food and drink for this weekend. She also stopped by the RV store picked up a table-top ice maker and this camper themed night light pictured above. It’s cute!

I have to say, that ice maker is pretty cool (haha, right?). All the while I worried about a milliliter of water left in the line that froze and might have shattered everything down to the axles.

At the storage lot I re-installed the RV battery that had been on a tender for six months. I tried the power jack and -- NOTHING! Shit, my battery is broken. Oh, I have to turn on the master switch to get the battery connected to the system. The jack works now.

The tires looked good. Sure, Bob. But the air is stale. Oh no! I got out a pressure gauge. Each of the four tires needed just one more PSI of air which I easily accomplished despite worrying that I’d be in a news report of a horrendous tire explosion at a local storage lot.

Once the trailer was hooked up to my truck we drove 90 minutes south of the city to our site for this weekend. Because it’s Thursday, we were the only non-seasonal people there. My backing skills with this somewhat newer and larger trailer are not varsity level this early in the season Thank goodness no one was around to watch me make 27 attempts to park.

Once situated and stabilized, I hooked up our utilities. NO HOT WATER! Shit. My water heater broke. Oh, I forgot to turn off the winterizing bypass. Did that and now it works.

I resolved several other issues that seemed catastrophic at first (in my mind only) but were actually no big deal.

Sadly, I have to work Friday. I left Sheila, Sulley, and the trailer at the campground then returned home. Tomorrow after work I’ll go back and join them. Sulley is on trazadone after his neutering. He’s ultra mellow for this camping trip. Ella and Oliver will go to Jack’s house tomorrow so, canine-wise, it will be pretty quiet.

I can’t wait to try these new salt and pepper shakers that you know who also got at the RV store. Adorbs! Notice how the door window on the pepper shaker is a little heart :)

[alias-sam]

Pierced by a Golden Soul

Chapter 42. Sleepover

Platonic Jojo's x Reader

Summary: Fate is a bizarre concept with countless more bizarre implications. In life sometimes such extraordinary events happen that the only reasoning left must be fate. The tragedies that constantly befall the Joestar bloodline for example may be the unluckiest series of cards drawn in human history, or perhaps the work of a greater power. There is no way to tell for sure. Had Dio Brando or Jonathan Joestar moved slightly on a divergent path the world itself would be left very different. The fate or luck of the noble Joestar bloodline has led to destruction of evil likes of the Pillar Men and DIO. This story is of a similar caliber to that of the other Joestars (as I am sure you are familiar with them). This is a story of lost souls, compassion, hope, and above all fate.

Word Count: 1,552

(Crosspost from Wattpad, full fic is already posted there.)

Your explanation of the past few weeks of your life was... complicated to say the least. But Vita held on to your every word.

"...and that leaves us where we are. Hopefully all of that makes at least a little sense."

"Wow." Vita breathed, looking up at you in awe. "You really did all that?"

"Among other things, yeah." You nodded. It was a long story, with a lot to explain, so you skipped a few details that you deemed too complicated or strange. "Anyways..." You groaned uncomfortably at the feeling of mud and sand in your clothes. "I should probably get going."

"You're in no condition to walk all the way home." Vita carefully tore his gaze from your fatigued form to the window. It was still raining heavily outside, so badly the sunset was completely blotted out by the storm clouds. "Can your mom pick you up?"

"Nope."Your mom didn't even own a car. She was also going to be worried sick if you didn't get home soon. "Got a phone I can borrow?" You asked bluntly. Vita nodded before leading you down to his living room. The two of you went as quietly as possible since Vita's parents didn't know you were there. He pointed you over to a phone hanging on the wall. You carefully typed your home phone number, anxiously waiting for your mother to pick up. Your heart nearly stopped when the line clicked. "H-"

"Y/n! Where have you been?!" Senora Jones' angry voice came over the line.

"Hello to you too."

"Y/n..." Your mother warned sternly, obviously in no mood for any teenage sarcasm. "Where are you? Are you okay? Why aren't you home yet?"

"I'm still at Vita's house. We sort of lost track of time." You explained timidly. After glancing out a nearby window at the horrendous storm outside you continued. "At this point I think I should just stay the night." You heard Senora Jones sigh across the line.

"Have you eaten? Do you have something to wear?"

"Yep." You answered after looking down at your mud-stained clothes dusted with sand.

"Fine, but we are having a serious talk about this tomorrow." Senora Jones relented.

"Okay... I love you."

"I love you too darling. Goodnight." The line clicked off. You stood there contemplating for a moment before becoming very aware of Vita's presence hovering over your shoulder.

"You're pretty good at that."

"Lying to my mom? That's not a compliment." You replied sadly. The air between the two of you became very stale as you headed back up to the refuge of Vita's room. It was obvious he thought the whole situation was an amazing adventure, it didn't seem he processed just how dangerous your life had become. Or the danger he could be in.

"So... stands." Vita finally said, breaking the silence as the two of you reached the massive staircase that led to the second floor. "What else can you tell me?"

"I'll admit, your stand is a little different compared to the ones I've seen. I didn't think a stand could possess living things."

"So even for a stand user I'm abnormal..." Vita muttered sadly.

"Not quite." You said quickly. "Compared to the crazy things I've seen the past two weeks your stand isn't too bad." You paused as you through about your experiences in the woods. "Just really really freaky when you aren't expecting it." You explained, sugarcoating just how terrifying his stand could be at times.

"What did you call yours again?" Vita asked.

"Golden Soul. Don't judge me for the name, I'm not the one who came up with it." You replied. "It was kind of a placeholder that stuck."

"Does mine get a name?" Vita looked at you curiously.

"If you want it to." You shrugged. At this point all of the stands you had interacted with had names. "Did you have one in mind?"

"Yep." Vita hopped excitedly before going completely silent. You waited patiently for the boy to elaborate, but you were only met with silence. Even as the two of you arrived back at his room, Vita hadn't said anything.

"...are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Eventually." Vita smiled and gave his signature wide-eyed head tilt. You sighed, remembering who exactly you were talking to. Vita was an enigma, but that's why you liked him. As you were about to follow your friend into his room, you heard a floorboard creak down the hallway. When you turned towards the noise, you only caught a glance at Mannesh's retreating form. You turned back to Vita, curious if he had seen what you did, but the boy was already searching through his room for something. After looking off into the darkened hallway in the direction Mannesh had fled, Vita called for your attention.

"You aren't staying in those clothes." He said sternly, grabbing you by the shoulders and dragging you all the way back into his room. Before you knew what was happening, the boy threw a few clothing items at you and directed you to the bathroom attached to his bedroom. You examined the clothes hesitantly before setting them aside and taking a shower to wash the forest grime from your skin.

Vita was decently shorter and skinnier than you, however he managed to find one of his oversized hoodies and some gym shorts, which still managed to be a little snug on you.

Figuring out your sleeping arrangements for the night became a debate as soon as you finished showering. Vita insisted for you to take his bed, but you didn't want to impose on his space. During the little debacle it came to light that neither of you had experienced a sleepover before, so you weren't sure about the protocol. When you insisted on making your own bed on the floor Vita objected, claiming it was ridiculous for you to sleep on hardwood while being his guest.

That's what brought the both of you to sleeping on Vita's bedroom floor. The boy had wrapped himself in blankets and pillows, while you simply laid on the bare floor with a pillow under your head. Vita asked if you were comfortable and once again insisted you at least have a blanket before throwing one over you.

Even after saying goodnight and dozing for awhile, you could hear Vita fidgeting beside you.

"Whats up V?" You sighed, opening your eyes and turning to face the boy in the dark.

"If its not too much trouble..." Vita slowly also turned to face you. "What were your parents like?"

"What?" You muttered, not entirely sure what to make of the question. Even in the dark, you could see Vita's expression turn to panic.

"Its just- earlier in the driveway you mentioned your dad sucked. I was just... hoping to compare notes." He rambled. "If you don't want to get into it that's fine..." Vita quickly backpedaled. "Sorry, that was stupid and tactless! Forget I said anything." The boy laughed nervously before turning over on his other side to face away from you. Silence ensued. You gently poked the boy's back, getting his attention.

"Its fine." You reassured Vita calmly. "The thing is, I don't actually remember anything about him. His name isn't even on my birth certificate. As for my mom... I try not to think about it." Your expression and voice fell slightly. "My life got a lot better when she left." It was true. At this point, when you tried thinking of your biological mother's face, there was only a dark shadow. Besides, Senora Jones was your mother now.

"I see..." Vita looked at your contemplative expression curiously, but decided to leave the subject alone.

"I have a question." You said, finally breaking out of your diverging train of thought. "Did you interact with someone named Keicho Nijimura? Or maybe get shot with some kind of golden arrow?"

"What?" Vita asked with a raised eyebrow. For a moment he thought the question was some sort of joke, but after realizing your seriousness he shook his head. "No."

"Then, when did you become a stand user? Do you remember?"

"I'm not entirely sure, but..." Vita trailed off, thinking for a moment. "When my bugs were attacking you, I started feeling more energized. And when you stopped them, that energized feeling stopped." His body gave off a familiar orange glow as he unconsciously activated his ability. You watched as Harvey and Rodger crawled over Vita's blankets and into his lap. "I felt that energized feeling for the first time when I became well enough to leave the house. I didn't know how to describe it before, but Im thinking I developed my stand around then." Vita gently ran his thumb over Harvey's exoskeleton while deep in thought. "Its hard to explain, but I just sort of feel it, yaknow?"

"Yeah..." You had experienced a similar feeling firsthand. Even if you didn't per say know how Golden Soul worked, you just knew that it did. It was a similar story for Tim, you knew that. And it was probably a similar story for most stand users. "Maybe you're like me then. You might have been born a stand user."

"Like you?"

"According to some friends of mine that are also stand users, one or both of my parents were stand users, that's just how it works I guess." You turned so you were on your back again. "Maybe it's the same for you."