#to be left alone. rotting carcass on the side of the road you know what im saying

[keroronpa]

its getting bad again but i persist

[boringbxtch]

Lester Sinclair | getting a little relief

1.5k words

[ Gender neutral reader smut ]

not descriptive on gender specific body parts but i identity as female so please let me know just incase I unintentionally messed up somewhere

Warnings: oral(m receiving), degrading/praise, using a human as a toilet (no#1) and spitting (you get called multiple names including bitch, slut, whore )

From all of those warnings you can guess that the below imagine is 18+

At this point I’m not confident with attempting to type how Lester sounds, so I’m mostly keeping it general writing but you can read it in his voice

You didn’t know why you expected any differently, sitting bored and alone in a ghost town should have been what you anticipated and yet with how up your ass Bo was…figuratively of course, you would have at least anticipated some appearance from him but no. Left alone lying on the wooden floor trying to get some semblance of fresh air to your heated body.

It seemed your saving grace was walking through the door at that moment, Lester Sinclair. “Should’a ask why you’re on the floor?” “I’m wasting away that’s what I’m doing down here” your flair for dramatics causing laughter to erupt from the man.

“Well I don’t know about wasting away ya look perfect ta me, If you want you can join me on my run” That seemed to spark some life into you at least a little. Slowly rising from the ground and both making your way over to his truck. The smell hit you much like how the truck would on impact, the rancid smell of rotting carcass couldn’t exactly be described as an aphrodisiac but never the less you both climbed in and set off down the back roads in search of roadkill.

It had been a little while since you spent time with Lester given that the man showed up briefly to drop off people with car troubles and he was away again, So this was a welcome distraction even if Lester seemed a little more skittish that usual, you didn’t bring it up though believing he was just getting used to spending this time together after all he did spend most of his time alone on the back roads.

It had been roughly just about over an hour since you left the house and you could see from the corner of your eye that Lester was shifting in his seat though trying to do it inconspicuously so you wouldn’t notice, not missing the side long glances he takes at you when there’s a lapse in conversation and silence hits. He seems to look at you from head to toe, you can admit that you did find yourself liking the attention due to the feelings you were harbouring for the man.

That’s what gave you the little bout of bravery coupled with slight pity for his uncomfortable shifting to reach over and place your hand on his mid inner thigh before commenting “I can help with that, honey. Give you the relief you want, That’s if you want me to” The silence you were met with was like ice water thrown over you making you stutter out apologises while retracting your hand.

It didn’t get very far away before it was grabbed “I’m not rejecting you darlin, if anything I’d take you right here but this ain’t quite what you think” your face must have betrayed your thought to make him say “ I need to empty the tank if you know what I mean” feeling foolish but still reeling a little from the non rejection you did something you never believed you ever would. “The offer still stands,you can use me to relieve yourself”

A loud screech tore through the air, he had jammed his foot down on the break before snapping his head in your direction. “Y’sure about that darlin? Cause once I start going I might not be able to stop it” having lost your nerve by now you just nod back as an answer. He turns around and bounces his way out of the truck to walk around and open your door for you given that it sticks.

Getting out the truck you both make your way towards the tree line with you lagging slightly behind Lester, your nerves are really hitting you now when you make it far enough in so no one will see you both. Not that many people travel out this far often but it’s a precaution. Meeting him face to face but you can’t seem to meet him eye to eye slight regretting the decision you made.

A hand touched your chin causes your eyes to finally meet. “Cmon now don’t get shy on me, you want it that bad you’d get on your knees and beg for anything from me even my piss” the pure shock of the sentence seem to have given him an advantage to place his hands on your shoulders to take you down to your knees. Unceremoniously landing in the grass now eye level with the slight bulge in his blue jeans. His hands obstructing your view slightly to unzip them and lower both his jeans and underwear enough to bring himself out, Almost like you were viewing it from an outside perspective you shot to the forefront when he had fully exposed his slightly hard cock. Locked in a one sided staring contest with it due to the almost laughable circumstances before feeling a sudden wetness hit your face, he had spit on you “ open you mouth dirty little bitch” you had never seen Lester like this before especially with him above you but it wasn’t unwelcome.

Gripping your jaw to open your mouth he leans over and you catch sight of the saliva leaving his mouth this time right before the liquid hit your tongue. mouth wide open still he grabs hold of himself and reiterates “are you sure about this darlin? We can stop here” the little sweet moment unexpected but you reply back with “I’m sure Les, it’s ok” eye contact is held when the first spurt hits you just below your throat on your sternum before he makes an adjustment in his stance , the shock of the bitter and salty taste hit your tongue causing a slight jump. The liquid dribbling down the side of your mouth from the movement.

The look on his face makes the liquid filling you mouth worth it, that’s why you’re doing this…purely for Lester you think while ignoring the feeling stirring between your thighs. Your mouth filling up fairly quickly but giving you very little option to move with his hand gripping your jaw and the other gripping the bottom of his shaft.

You feel the stream taper and stop but you remain still with your mouth brimming full , doing the first thing that comes to mind closing your mouth but it’s quickly forced back open with his thumb and pointer finger.

“We’ll I’ll be damned” You had swallowed it. A sudden wet feeling slap brought your attention back in focus, he hadn’t moved his hands, One was still gripping the side of your jaw and the other still had a tight grip on the bottom of his dick, he’d hit you on the face with his dick smearing urine across your cheekbone.

“Fuck I think you’ll be coming with me more often, you dirty little slut drinking it down” a breathy chuckle “I’m nowhere near finished so open your mouth”

He placed the tip against your bottom lip, This time you were prepared for the stream to come, the same bitter taste that screwed up your face but you wanted to be good and stay still not that the hand now on the back of your head gave you much choice.

Mouth filling up quickly you swallow again, your mouth closing around the head temporarily causing the stream to hit directly on your lips streaming down the side of your face to your chest soaking into your clothing

You could feel the warmth of the liquid running down pooling onto you thighs reaching between them. The stream was slowly losing its flow tapering off into little spurts at the end. A groan of relief emitted itself from his mouth having been able to finally empty his bladder, looking down at you. You must have been a sight, covered from face to thighs in his urine with your clothing plastered to you. Swallowing around the last mouthful you lean forward and bring his tip to your mouth licking the head clean before bringing your head forward to take more of him into your mouth.

“Fucking little whore wants more they can’t just accept what they’re given and be grateful , you want to suck me clean and work for my cum. You’re a good little slut aren’t you?” The answering hums causing his head to throw back in a gritty whine, his hips now slowly canting forward to meet your mouth bobbing down his shaft. Getting so far into it you don’t expect to be pulled backwards, the resounding pop of your lips leaving his tip loud in the trees. Being pulled up to stand you were told “as much as I’d love to take you like a whore, head buried in the grass with your ass in the air filling you with my cum and watchin it dripping down your thighs. I want to be good to you for our first”

As you fully balanced on your own feet again a thought came to you, How were you going to get back into the house like this without anyone seeing you? You can’t but don’t worry they’ll treat you real good…I promise

It’s a little rushed but I had to finish typing it quickly or I would’ve made a whole book on sucking Lester off, hope you like it

[marvelsswansong]

morning newspapers & fresh coffee

summary: as Hawkins and the Upside Down begins to merge into one, Eddie runs to you and places a ring on your left hand. "The moment we beat this fucking demon, I'm marrying you." And he does - trading weapons for morning newspapers and the scent of blood for fresh coffee for each morning.

tags: Eddie x gn!reader (no pronouns/descriptions), pure domestic fluff, blissful married life, 1% angst 99% fluff, happy ending for everyone sue me, obviously off-canon in many respects, oneshot

☆ word count: 4.2K+ ☆

a/n: i think we all need this. plz enjoy happy husband!Eddie and pure domestic bliss! uwu

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

Sometimes you still get nightmares of that day.

The pavement beneath you rumbling, cracks of cement burning with hot lava bubbling underneath, the trees in the road falling one by one like dominoes. Crushed cars with their headlights still on, shattered glass crunching beneath your boots as you force one foot in front of the other.

The taste of iron blood and the smell of putrid smoke, burning flesh wafting from every direction as you step over a rotting demonic bat carcass, kicking over its limp body with your left foot. The action is futile - you're exhausted, dehydrated and above all, scared.

The only thing keeping you going is the promise Eddie murmured against your lips before splitting to run off with Dustin and his bunch, whilst you are to stay with the other kids under 'Max babysitting' duty.

"As soon as this shit is over. Our hideout spot, Lover's Lake, the-" he'd frantically whispered into the night, hands cradling your face gently. You were suppressing your tears the best you can, fear churning in your stomach.

"The rock overlooking the cove, the first place we ever kissed." you finished for him, voice breaking towards the end. Damn it, you cursed yourself. You had to be brave for the kids as you forced yourself to stand up straight. Eddie just smiled at that, but it didn't reach his eyes - it was cautious, slightly worried and forced.

"Meet me there, okay? As soon as you hear over this walkie talkie-" he squeezed the black object in your left hand. "Code green, we meet there."

You nodded quickly, relishing the warmth of his hand in yours before he planted a short, swift kiss to your chapped lips.

"I'll see you there, okay? Don't flake out on me, because I have a very important question to ask you."

Dustin was pulling on the sleeves of Eddie's jackets before you could question the metalhead further, and you were left standing there alone. Left hand grasping and ungrasping the walkie talkie with unease.

You didn't know why you bothered to drag yourself to the lake. Even as the battle had seemingly already been lost, the alternate universe bleeding into the mortal, the barrier separating the two worlds gone. Max was unresponsive. The line on the walkie talkie had gone dead half an hour ago. Last status update from Dustin?

A code yellow.

Not great, but not bad.

But you'd made a promise to your boyfriend. And if the world was going to end tonight, you might as well have it end with him by your side, his lanky arms tightly wrapped around your shoulder.

You're not sure how long you sit on the wet rocks overlooking the cove, legs anxiously swinging back and forth as the sun turns blood red. Specks of grey ash fall onto your hair and clothes, making you frustratedly wipe away the carnage every few seconds. Seconds bleed into minutes in agony and you find yourself looking back every two seconds, hand clenching around your metal baseball bat.

After all, it's the only weapon you've chosen to bring with you as you dragged your limp body to the lake.

The physical pain feels nothing compared to the excruciating agony of the wait, the constant "what ifs" and worst case scenarios flooding your overactive mind. You're scared for your friends. You're scared for this town. And you're terrified for Eddie.

Just as your hope begins to slip, however, the sound of a car screeching to a halt on the road nearby grabs your attention. It's accompanied by a masculine voice cursing and staggered footsteps, leaves crunching underneath boots, and then a broken voice calling your name.

You nearly slip with how fast you rise from your spot, throwing yourself into Eddie's arms as he drops his guitar on the floor and opens up for an embrace. His face is caked in dirt, hair matted underneath his blood soaked bandana and large gashes decorating his abdomen and legs. He looks worse for wear, to say the least.

But he's alive.

He's fucking alive, heart beating underneath his ripped band t-shirt and leather jacket, scarred hands circling around your waist.

"I-I thought you weren't coming back to me." you confess into his chest, the tears falling involuntarily. It's spilling out all at once, the heightened anxiety, the impending doom befalling you and your friends, the rush of nightmares you've been experiencing ever since the walkie talkie went offline. Silent tears leak from his tired eyes at that confession, calloused fingers rubbing circles into your back as he quickly places a kiss onto your forehead.

"I had to make it back to you, sunshine. I had to ask you that important question, remember?" he breathlessly adds, voice tainted with fear.

"What is it?" you question, as the ground beneath the two of you rumbles. Eddie pulls away for half a second, quickly reaching for one of his metal rings before pulling it off his scarred finger with a pained hiss. You chastise him immediately, warning him not to hurt himself, but all protests die in your mouth when he then suddenly gets on one knee.

"Angel, you are without a doubt the best thing to have ever happened to me. And as soon as we stop this Upside Down bullshit from completely overtaking Hawkins, I want to make you mine forever. Would you... be willing to be mine... forever?"

He presents the ring to you dramatically, hands and voice both shaking. The world's ending and Eddie Munson is proposing to you.

"Yes, yes, a thousand percent yes!" you scream before crashing into him. It's a bundle of limbs, arms and legs wrapping around his chest, causing both of you to fall onto the dirt floor. But neither of you care - it's nothing compared to the grime you two are already covered in, and it's especially nothing compare to the pure, unbridled joy filling your hearts as he slides the accessory onto your ring finger.

"The moment we beat this fucking demon, I'm marrying you." he grins, winking at you. And you laugh, genuinely, for the first time in months.

It's been five years since that day and you still get nightmares.

It's what causes your body to tremble in your sleep now, the slow whines escaping your lips waking Eddie immediately before he's gently shaking you awake.

"Babe. Babe. (Y/n)-"

At the mention of your name your eyes fly open, harsh breaths leaving your lungs in scattered gasps as you frantically sit up and survey the room. You're still in panic mode, sensing danger everywhere as you tense up and stare at Eddie wide-eyed. At this point, he already knows what you've dreamt about without you even having to say it.

"It's fine, you're fine. Everyone's fine." he mutters gently and you choke on a sob, feeling both relieved and embarrassed. "Aw, come here."

He quickly shifts to sit you on his lap, hands coming up to caress your cheeks as you cry silent tears in his embrace, body still shaking from the vivid terrors.

"I-it feels so real each time-" you choke out, scrunching your eyes shut, wishing those memories away. He's nothing but understanding as he holds you, cooing gentle lullabies under his breath as he rocks you lightly back and forth. Your blurry eyes focus in on the contents of your shared bedroom with Eddie, it slowly beginning to set in that you're no longer in that version of Hawkins.

His oversized hellfire shirt draped over a half-done pile of laundry. His guitar hanging by the potted sunflowers you planted last June. The stack of polaroids strung up over your bedside table, candid photos of you and Eddie doing mundane things - cooking, checking the news, carrying a bag of groceries. It'd started as an inside joke the first month after the wedding, your fingers snapping a photo as Eddie lazily read the side of a cereal box one morning. A joke which had now extended into several years of marriage and countless photographs decorating the pastel walls of your master bedroom.

"Can you say your affirmations for me?" Eddie lightly questions, making you swallow nervously.

"We've been married for five years. We're in our apartment on the upper east side of Hawkins. The portal to the Upside Down has been closed. All threats have been eliminated. Everyone is safe and alive."

It's a simple set of statements but ones which quickly ground you back to reality - it's been Eddie's idea to have you recite it when you wake up from a nightmare, sweat coating your forehead and heart beating a million miles per hour at the thought of landing back there in that hellhole.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry, Eds." you croak out. "I-I didn't mean to wake you."

He rolls his eyes playfully, squishing your cheeks and planting a swift kiss to your lips.

"Nah. Can't complain when the sight I wake up to is you, my forever partner."

"Even if that's the sight of me looking incredibly dehydrated and ugly from all the crying?" you tease, wincing when Eddie stands up and pulls the curtains to the side. It's a bright sunny day, clear blue skies and a harsh stream of sunlight glistening off of the windowsill as he looks back at you with a coy expression.

"Objection, your honor! You look hot all the time. Now come on-" he gently pats your butt, urging you to get out of bed. "We need to get a move on if we wanna make it to the market on time."

Pulling one of Eddie's many oversized shirts over your head, your bare legs brace the chilly morning temperatures as you pad out into the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee already filling the air. Eddie's humming a song underneath his breath as he mixes the pancake batter together in a glass bowl, doe brown eyes concentrated on the milky white mixture.

Sitting on the kitchen counter, you take the moment to admire how your husband looks right now. Shoulders relaxed, scarred fingers (still adorned with rings, mind you) grasping the wooden spoon, a gentle smile on his face as he dices bananas into the bowl with ease. When he stretches upwards to retrieve a couple of plates from the cupboard, his shirt rides up and you can still see the scars from the final battle - red, faded, huge wounds scattered across his lower stomach.

"Staring at my hot battle scars, babe?" he quips, using the same lame joke he's used at least a million times since the start of your marriage. You'd asked him once if he'd like to get them covered up with tattoos, but Eddie was insistent on keeping them.

"It's weird but having them on my body reminds me of what I managed to get through. They tell a story, I think, a story with an eventual happy ending." he'd said, brushing aside your worries with an assured grin. "You're real sweet for worrying bout me, angel, but I promise I'm fine. Besides, who doesn't love a scruffed up war hero?"

You'd shoved him lightly in the shoulder, leaning back against the car seat with a playful glare.

"War hero? Someone thinks highly of themselves." you tutted, waving your finger in disapproval. Eddie smirked at you sideways, hands tapping lightly against the dashboard of his van.

"Of course I would. I married you, didn't I?"

"Peanut butter or honey?" Eddie asks you as he scrapes off the pancakes from the pan with a spatula.

"Today I think... honey."

He raises his eyebrows at that, clicking his tongue.

"Honey for my honey, coming right up!"

You groan at that, but it's all for show. The wide puppy dog smile on his face as he shuffles around the kitchen, ducking under odd light fixtures and scrambling through the stack of cutlery for the "perfect" knife and fork to offer you, the sight of your husband preparing breakfast is one you'll never get tired of.

"Is it any good?" he questions as soon as you take a bite, your hair being ruffled from the light winds blowing in from the open window.

"It's amazing as always." you assure him, to which he bows dramatically.

"Thank you for the compliment, your highness."

He grabs his own plate of pancakes before reaching back up to the cupboard and groaning under his breath.

"Shit, did we forget to buy more honey the last time we went grocery shopping?"

"Maybe? I was in a rush back from the office so I thought you'd covered this week's list of groceries already." you note, frowning. Eddie sighs, closing the cabinet back up before sitting back down.

"Damn. Well, I guess it's peanut butter on pancakes for me this morning then."

You're quick to shove your plate towards him.

"Just have some of mine, babe, if you want honey."

His eyes light up at the suggestion, a wicked smirk on his face.

"That actually gives me a great idea."

"Wha-"

Before you can finish your sentence his lips are on yours, tongue teasing your lower lip, the sticky sweet taste of honey lingering afterwards as Eddie smacks his lips. He quickly cuts into his own food before popping the pancake into his mouth, letting out an exaggerated groan of satisfaction.

"Honey on pancakes. My favorite."

The conversation over breakfast is light and calm - perks of it being a Saturday morning in mid-September. He washes up as you hang the laundry by the front lawn. He's folding up the mess of clothes from last night as you water the lillies by the windowsill, admiring the water droplets falling from petal to petal.

"Love, do you prefer to listen to Duran Duran or Quiet Riot in the car today?!" he yells from the living room as you finish gathering the packages by the front porch, tucking the morning newspaper under your arm to see the metalhead holding up two cassette tapes.

"I don't mind either!" you shout back, making Eddie groan. He pouts like a little kid whose candy has been stolen.

"That response doesn't help, babe! How else am I supposed to pick between these two rock legends?" he dramatically whines, making you roll your eyes playfully.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out, you big baby."

Eddie simply sighs dramatically before pocketing the Duran Duran casette, his left hand reaching out to hold yours as his right hand carries the car keys.

"Ready to go?"

"One second." you say, hands flying to your tote bag to make sure you've got everything - keys, water bottle, extra bags, wallet, sunglasses... "All good."

The drive to the farmer's market is filled with Eddie's adorable singing, his dramatic re-enactments of the lyrics drawing odd stares from drivers passing by. Not that he cares, of course. He'd do it all over again just to see you doubled over in laughter, your gorgeous face scrunched up in a permanent grin. It's one of his most favorite sights to see.

His grip on your hand is tight, but still gentle, as you two navigate through the crowds of people, soles of your shoes shuffling against the dirt. You drag him from one booth to another, excitedly holding up different kinds of fruits and vegetables, asking him to hold your things as you run off to a jams and spreads stand.

"What'd you think about this one?" you excitedly ask, holding up a glass jar of raspberry jam to his face. Eddie blinks slowly at your question - he hasn't being paying attention to anything you've been saying at all, too entranced by the way the sunlight's been glistening in your hairline. The soft halo on your angelic features as your tongue delicately wet your lips in between sentences out of habit. It also doesn't help that you're wearing his favorite jeans, the ones that hug your thighs just right and drives him wild. "Eddie. Eddiiieeee-" you sing song, pulling the jar away from his face.

"Sorry, angel, what were you saying?" he blinks, trying to stay focused.

"The jam, Eddie! Raspberry or strawberry, what'd you think?"

He pretends to think about it for a moment.

"Strawberry, I guess."

Handing a crisp $5 to the elderly woman standing in front of you, you place the glass of jam into the bag Eddie's carrying (which at this point is bursting at the seams with all kinds of artisanal fruits, vegetables and breads) before you squeal and begin to tug at his sleeves in excitement.

"There's a waffle stand! Eddie, can we go, please?"

His arms are aching from the heavy load and his legs feel a bit sore from all the walking, but he can't find any space in his heart to refuse you when your sweet voice begs him like that. You have no idea the kind of power you have over him, he thinks. One flutter of your lashes and a slight whine and Eddie's a melted puddle on the floor, willing to bend to your every will.

"Of course we can, angel."

Lunch is thus a mess of sugar and honeyed stickiness - you sitting on Eddie's lap on a nearby bench as he feeds you spoonfuls of waffles drizzled in whipped cream and strawberries. When you later complain that you've got whipped cream all over your mouth, hands flying to your back pocket to pull out a pack of tissues, Eddie just rolls his eyes and kisses away the remnants instead.

"There. Much easier." he declares, proud smirk on his face. "Ready to go home?"

You nod, satisfied, head delirious from the sugar rush and the gaze of uninhibited adoration on his face.

"Yeah."

As the sun begins to set over the horizon, you glance over at Eddie on the drive back, admiring how well he's aged in the past five years. His hair's been cut slightly shorter, but his curls have been maintained. There are a few fine lines carving his cheekbones now when he smiles, a slight discoloration on his left hand from the burns sustained years ago. But it only makes him all the more beautiful, you think.

"What're you thinking so hard about?" he questions you, noticing that you've been rather silent for a while.

"Nothing." you respond, content. "Just... how gorgeous you are."

He lightly blushes at the compliment, and it never fails to amuse you how after everything - five whole years of marriage - he still gets flustered when you call him beautiful.

"Right back at you." he says, throwing you a quick wink in the rearview mirror.

Exhaustion hits in full force as the sun sets and you two are now back home, with Eddie shuffling through the contents of your fridge to make space for the new groceries as you thumb through the morning paper on the sofa. The only sounds in the room is the light rain beginning to drizzle outside, droplets hitting against glass in repetitive rhythm as you quickly abandon reading before hugging your husband from behind.

"I'm bored." you complain into his back, face squished against his body. His entire body reverberates with a laugh, one hand coming to pat your head affectionately.

"We were just out, angel."

"I know, but the rain always makes me sleepy and bored, you know that."

"Indeed I do. Hey-" he pulls away from you briefly. "How about we have a little date night then?"

You frown, confused.

"S-sure, but it's raining and I'm not sure if we can get a reservation so late-"

He chuckles, brushing stray hairs away from your eyes.

"No, silly. I meant like a date night inside."

That piques your interest, making you cock your head sideways.

"What'd you mean?"

Turns out, his idea of a 'inside date night' is both silly and romantic. First, he tells you to dress up as if you two were actually going out. Style your hair, put on your best clothes, spritz your perfume. He doesn't even let you leave your shared closet before he pretends to knock and presents you with a bouquet of hastily pulled out lillies, a boyish smile on his face.

"For you, my perfect date."

He's dressed up slightly too, collared blue shirt tucked into black linen pants, a sight which makes your heart skip a little faster.

"Thank you, dear husband."

He refuses to let you help in the kitchen as he prepares your favorite meal, sitting you down on the counter and asking you random questions to keep you preoccupied.

"We've been married for five years, Eddie. What could you possibly not know about me?" you question, amused. He laughs at that, crouching by the kitchen oven as he speaks.

"Not those kind of questions, silly. There's plenty of other things I could ask about like... I don't know, would you rather... fight a mermaid or a polar bear?" he finishes cautiously.

"What? What kind of question is that?" you splutter through bursts of giggles, making Eddie throw his hands up in mock surrender.

"I don't know! I'm just trying to keep this marriage fresh. Now answer, babe." he sends you a warning glare, but the ghost of a smile on his face gives him away. It makes you lean forward in interest, head resting on your propped up arms.

"A polar bear."

He gasps at that.

"What? No. You'd been mutilated in an instant! I'd choose the mermaid, you can probably just gut them like a fish and be done with it." he retorts, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Or they could drown you by dragging you to the bottom of the ocean." you counter, raising your eyebrows.

"Oh, and a polar bear wouldn't cut you down with its claws and feed on your flesh?"

The two of you stare at each other in silence before bursting into a fit of laughter, you burying your head into your hands as Eddie doubles over, body folded in half.

"God, why did you ever marry me?" he questions, slightly out of breath as he leans against the counter across from you. You stand up ever so slightly, nose brushing against his, response muttered against his lips.

"Probably because you're the most handsome, kind, funny and charismatic person I've ever met. And you give good head."

He kisses you hungrily at that admission, counter top digging into his stomach as he leans in closer, hands grasping at your neck and pulling you practically right up against him. Your mind is still dizzy from the kiss when he leans back down, tongue licking his lips, chasing the after taste of your chapstick.

"I fucking love you, (Y/n) Munson."

The smell of burning food - accompanied by the sudden loud blaring of the smoke alarm - cuts into the tender moment, making you jump off of your seat to grab a fire extinguisher as Eddie hastily opens up the oven to see the oven tray on fire. Once the fire's extinguished and the smoke has cleared, Eddie's standing by you with a sheepish smile on his face, already reaching for the house telephone.

"Maybe we should just order i-"

"Yeah."

Eddie still makes the best of the night though: draping a blanket over the living room floor and setting down a few lit candles around the edges. He's pouring you a bottle of wine as you answer the door to accept the delivery, his gaze aflame with infatuation as you sit back down across from him.

In between inside jokes and conversation about the kids - "Max called yesterday. She and Lucas were wondering if they could swing by tomorrow for lunch?" "Of course they can! At this point, I'm offended they'd even ask us for permission." "Eddie, I think they're trying to avoid a Dustin-esque incident like last Thanksgiving. Remember? We nearly called the cops because someone kept on banging on our door at three in the morning?" - the food is devoured quickly. And once the dishwasher's been filled, the blankets re-folded and the lights turned off for the night, Eddie's waiting for you in bed, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

"All good?" he asks you. You nod.

"All good."

It's automatic and natural the way your body fits against his as the final light in the house - the lamp on the bedside table next to Eddie - goes out. His strong arms wrap around your shoulder, pulling you against his chest, his musky cologne overwhelming your senses as he lays a sloppy kiss onto your bare shoulder.

"I love you so much, angel." he whispers against your skin, hot breath tickling your neck. It makes your heart flutter no matter how many times you hear his love being confessed (which is basically every night).

"I love you too, Eddie." you respond, squeezing his hands comfortingly. You turn around carefully in his grasp, being able to somewhat make out the outlines of his face in the dark. "I'm so glad I get to spend every day with you."

He chuckles at that, fabric rustling underneath him as he shifts closer.

"I'd hope so, babe. Cause you're stuck with me for the rest of your life."

You peer open one of your eyes at that.

"Unless I divorce you for Steve."

He gasps dramatically, body immediately straightening up.

"You wouldn't."

You hum mockingly, pretending to actually give it a think, before bursting into a fit of soft giggles that shakes against Eddie's chest.

"You're right, I wouldn't. You're my forever, Eddie Munson." you whisper, right on the precipice of sleep. The last thing you feel is Eddie's calloused fingers stroking your back tenderly, and Eddie's soft response being whispered against your ears.

"Thank you for being my forever, love."

a/n: pure domestic brainrot I want to live here plz

[charyka]

MURDER BALLADS OF 1816. | ACCEPTING.

@cllgood​. | farson said: O ye sons of men, now a city shines!

He had grown drunk with the screams. They grew like fire grows to envelope the wind: they grew with terrible heat and unforgiving swiftness. In the bowels of the city, and in its streets and gilded carcasses. They had not spared any of them. There had been no mercy to drown any babes in. Death had come: it had swept through the cobblestones and metal. It had devoured.

Devouring was what it knew best, after all.

But with every drunkenness then came the boredom. That wet, yawning beast, that coiled out of his inner chest to stretch, an ugly cat for an uglier heart, that he nursed with genocide and horror wherever, whenever needed.

He grew bored so often. It was always a question of time, of trickling violent time, inconsequential to him when it turned so shallow so easily, and without much thought. He killed a world and then moved on and then got bored with the next and the next and the next. And in those teeth boredom was a dangerous thing.

He stands from the rubble he was sitting on, licking sticky sweetness of blood off his fingers. Someone moans by his feet, disfigured by a cleaving blow that's split the face, tongue to eye. The flesh with a gaze and three quarters tugs on the edge of his boots and again makes a noise that must have been human speech before most of the tongue was lost. Under the blood and the soot, the colour of a city guard uniform crumpled inside an open wound along the spine. Rudin Filaro looks down at the thing that was human before and lifts his foot.

The skull caves and makes a noise: a branch split by the cold. He wipes the blood and brains off the heel of his boots in the dirt, like getting rid of shit stuck to the bottom of them.

He walks slowly with his hands in his pockets and ambles upwards towards the citadel turning red in the fire and sunset. What's left of the city has charred itself to the bones of the hill: he picks at it with delight, leaves the tender morsels for last, licks his fingers clean of the sweet juices of despair, of rot, of the slow sluggish stench of burned human flesh. Sweeter than any pork roast the useless cook Hax could have dreamt of.

The beamquake tore through the orchards and the winding road that leads to the heart of the citadel: the handiwork of chaos reverberating through the skull of the world in jubilant bell tolls. Jubilant. Bludgeoning.

He wants to walk the streets he walked as Marten o' the Broadcloak. Walk them and know them for the filth they are. Walk them with all the rot exposed, and the dead bodies festooning the marrow that's leaking. Walking's what he does best.

He's the Walkin' Dude.

The crows peck at the eyes of a deadchild. He feels the jelly leak down his chin and breathes deep the barrier between him and the birds that grows dim. Perhaps he'll fly just a little: drink it all in to make the head spin.

What use is all the hard work if you can't bask in the fruits of your labor?

He leaves his Shape with the crack, the sound of blood broken and bone: the boots to claws, the face elongated beyond recognition, and the form that grows small and the eyes beady.

The hot wind lifts him up. Above the spires and the spine of the quake and the overturned hierarchies. He sees men take great fistfuls of silks and of gold in their hands and stain them red. Women gorge themselves on sweet cakes and honey, more food than they could ever see alive. He sees them drag the courtiers by the hair in the mud and the little boy catatonic by the body of his decapitated brother. He sees the barracks quartered and the children in them slaughtered. He sees the threaded horses butchered to make meat for the feast tonight. He sees it all, and his cawing is a laugh.

His heels hit the cobblestone of the inner courtyard. Edoacer Grissom, who was cleaning a sledgehammer, winces at the unannounced arrival.

"I hate it when you do that, char-walker. It gives me the heebie-jeebies."

He does not dignify that with an answer. 

“Who’s this?”

“This?”

Grissom bends down to lift the woman lying by his feet up to her knees so Rudin can see her. The right side of her face is puffy, her eye reduced to a slit. Her dark hair sticks to her forehead: not by sweat but by blood. She’s gagged, she’s bound, and the ropes have left deep red indents on her cheeks and wrists. Grissom shakes her by the shoulder, to punctuate the words:

“This, be an old friend of yours. Rosalie James.”

His hands are back in his pockets. He walks with his long legs to the doors of what was once the House of Deschain (one torn off its hinges, one crooked, burned) and picks up an apple that had rolled to the ground dropped by a dead hand. He bites into it: its sweetness forbidden to him.

"Big Man's upstairs in the office, if you're looking for him," Grissom says, hands still in Rose’s hair. 

"And the brat?"

"Gone. By now they'll have lost our trackers, sure as the day is long and Gilead shines.”

Rudin spits on the cracked tile floor. Half-chewed apple. He takes a second bite and swallows this one.

“Gilead ain’t shining no more.”

He says it softly. With not much shape to the words that he speaks. 

“Shall I bring the girl, then?”

“Yes,” Rudin squares her up and down, and remembers the times they played Castles together, “I’m sure we’ve such sights to show her.”

Grissom smiles and shoves the hammer into his belt. On this they can always agree, he and the necromancer: on the carnage.

Rose tries to fight him, but with her broken shoulder and the traces of his hammer having shattered her leg in three different pieces, there’s not much fighting she can do. He grabs her by the hair to follow him up the right staircase that meets the one on the left in the middle and then turns upwards to the second floor. The white-painted walls of the hallway are splattered red: a great wave. The light comes through the thin tall windows all wrong, drowned in crimson. As they pass Rudin taps the eye-shaped stain with two knuckles, three times, meets the old friend halfway down to Hell. 

They walk up the hallway, Rose stumbling behind them with her wounded leg gushing blood. The door to what was the Deschain’s office was torn off its hinges. Edovacar Grissom and one of his men lean on the wall beside it, though they quickly stand when Edoacer and Filaro walk up to them. 

John Farson sits at the desk, with his feet on the desk, with his hands behind his head. At the great ancient mahogany desk of the king he had sworn to destroy he takes stock of this victory. 

The body has not been moved. The eyes have not been closed.

He stands when his right and left hand enter and grins that sick rotten grin of his. Grissom pushes Rose to the floor again. She falls with a thud. She refuses to look at Farson or at the body. Her breathing presses her ribs to her muscle, muscle to her skin: the trapped rabbit of her heart unconcealed.

Rudin walks to the body. He presses his boot to the face and moves the head with it. Peers at the pale blue emptied of fire and the chin splattered with drying blood.

Farson hunkers down beside Rose, pulled back up by Grissom and held in place with the handle of the hammer across her throat. She tries to stop herself from wincing but cannot, with him so close, with Josiah dead, with Roland gone, with the city drowning, in ruins. 

"Ain't that your dinh, girl? Ain't he the father of your flock?"

In the cadence of his speech all of the preacher's son he'd been to learn to become god to the men he commands. Behind her, Grissom snickers.  When she opens her eyes again all fear is gone from that dark iris and instead lies only a cold hate she does not bother hiding with nothing else left in the world. She spits past her gag and most of it drips down her chin. But some of it lands on Farson’s face. 

He blinks too slowly.

"Have it your way, then."

Filaro moves aside. Farson’s intention in the air hanging heavy, unbearable. Rudin takes a dagger from inside his black coat and hands it to him. Rose's eyes widen. If she could move her head she would shake it. Frantic. Frantically. She can only swallow against the wooden handle and have it hurt. Past the rope that gags her a pleading NO NO NO NO NO NO staring straight in the headlights. A begging. Muffled but no less desperate. 

“I’ll leave the heart for you, Filaro.”

“No need. I devoured it long ago.”

The knife is not made to cut through sinew or windpipe let alone bone. It takes longer than anything sane should: but sanity has deserted Gilead and all that’s left of her is dying. Breathing so slowly, bellowing, wheezing, left in the road with the truck that hit it nowhere to be seen.

John Farson turns with his sleeves bloodied and his hands bloodied and the front of his shirt covered in blood. He holds Steven Deschain’s head by the hair. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, leaves red in its wake. The head hits the desk with a low thud. Farson frowns and spits.

“Will you shut that bitch up, Edoacer?”

“With pleasure, Gilead-dinh.”

She screams at the affront of the Tongue in Grissom’s mouth almost louder than she screamed as Farson decapitated the corpse of her king. But then the screaming stops mid-way, and all that heralds her silence is a wet thunk. Farson grins and opens his arms as Rose's blood pools crimson-red and her body falls still with spasming wheezes. The brain feels no pain, nor can it feel the hot air that wafts upwards from the burning city. It can feel its broken skull, however, shattered barrier between a world of here and a world of simple dark, and she is blind, now, and she is frail dancing in the wind like paper cranes. The second hammerfall breaks the brain, too. 

She dies sometime between the third and fourth.

The quiet then returns, on the surface of the bloody chaos below them, in the city. With his stained mouth and red hands, Farson throws his head back to laugh a howl. Filaro watches the blood pool stop inching along the floor and then looks up to John Farson and his grin, his heaving chest, his eyes wild with triumph.  

"O ye sons of men, how a city shines!"

Filaro blinks slowly, at that. “A pity,” he says. “She may have been able to tell us where the brat and his mutts went.”

Farson’s expression crumbles. It moves jaggedly, like an animal lost in the woods it thought it knew, and he furrows his brow and looks down at the dead woman and then back at the wizard his advisor. Something that he always took as covenant now lies twisted upside-down inside his head, a splinter shoved between his pride and his authority. Steven Deschain stares expressionless and glassy-eyed. Edoacer Grissom leans against his hammer. His face is flecked with red: bone, brain matter, blood. He swallows hard and wants to wring the magis’ rotten neck for that calm, lifeless gaze. Filaro stares back, in his eyes all the knowledge that he needs. He will not. He will never dare.

Rudin o’ The Roads has killed men for less.

“Edovacar!” Grissom calls instead over his shoulder, and his son promptly appears in the doorway. Grissom gestures at the bodies on the ground with the mallet, “Take care of this mess.”

Filaro moves to let him and his man pass and reach what’s left of Steven Deschain. Farson seems deep in thought, still looking at Rose’s remains as they carry out Steven's first. The head is momentarily forgotten. Until it is remembered, the rot of a toothache, the throb of a dying molar, and Farson grabs it by the hair again.

“Grissom?”

“Yes?”

“Tell your men to fetch Johns’ head, too. And Allgood’s.”

"Allgood's been buried."

"Then break the fucking crypt if you have to! Get them to me! Now!"

He glares at Filaro after Edoacer scurries off.

Filaro says nothing but watches. Always watches. Always with eyes of the dead. Edovacar returns for Rose's body. Farson clenches his jaw and breaks the gaze. He licks his lips. The severed head trembles lightly in his grip.

"Tomorrow we meet to discuss the hunt for the Deschain brat. Tonight, enjoy the festivities."

He almost mumbles. He can barely bring himself to look Filaro in the eye. Farson does not have the intelligence to fully understand, but he can at least discern that tonight with one sentence Rudin Filaro has begun to claim something that was always his: power. Filaro extends a hand for Farson to return his dagger and Farson does. The feeling is sudden and clammy and unbearable, the thought that comes with it even more so. That he has been used. That all he has done, all the great acts of violence perpetuated by John Farson, all the terror and the fury, was nothing but in service of some greater power he cannot understand nor see nor ever be privy to. It comes now, in great waves. More terrible. Much worse. If he looks too long in Filaro's eyes he can catch glimpses of it: bloodied and sharp and agonising and carved into the flesh of the world like a thin blade, like a needle to the wound that's not been cauterized. It gnaws at him, because it wants, too, it wants and wants so bottomless and red.

He hands the dagger and he walks out. He takes the seat of Steven Deschain's soul with him.

Now in the quiet, with blood new and old seeping into the wood, R. F. of great and many names inhales. Drinks in agony and rust. Exhales. Makes power of black violence and terror.

His laughter is not a sound the human consciousness should hear. One of Farson's men hears it as he passes by the open office door.

Then he takes the knife in his boot and he slashes his own throat, but the sound continues, continues, in him and his mind and the blood as it gushes, a laughter from the teeth and the throat of the dead.

[fanoftheoccult]

When I was young, living on the back roads of southern Indiana, the woods behind my father's house was the perfect escape from the harsh reality of living with the man. My childish imagination would provide endless amounts of entertainment while I pretended to be a knight, gladiator, or even pirate. My weapon of choice was always whatever stick sturdy enough to swing around and smack tree trunks with a satisfactory thud. My father and his girlfriend never cared how long I was out adventuring, which never bothered me in the least. Many a long day was spent running about the trees, fighting an invisible, yet irrevocably vile villian until hunger would force me back home and to retire for the evening, the fight picking back up the next day.

This tradition continued until I felt as f I knew every branch and trail in the expansive woods. I felt invincible in my playing, and never felt fear when I would inevitably kick up a wild animal or two with my thrashing about. With that in mind, the creature I would encounter changed that and instilled a fear of the wild that persists even now and while my hands shake at the rememberence of the events, I will attempt to tell you the story of when I met the entity known as the Queen of Green.

It was the summer of 2006, school had been closed for break and the July heat was mixing with the humid air, making an almost choking thickness to the air. However, this was nothing new and it did not prevent me from carrying on as I did. I was a few hours into playing, a few hours from my house, the closest place of relative safety, when I began to smell an odor all too familiar to one so versed in woodland exploration. The pungent, almost sour odor of decay. Usually, I would shy away at the first sniff of such things, for hunters and rumors of wilder animals were common in this woods and it would have been more unusual to smell such an stench. Today, though, the odor was particularly vibrant.

I followed the smell to an old building deeper into the woods. Strange I had not seen such a building before as scavenging oddities from forgotten places was always an exciting hobby of mine but I was hesitant to enter as the smell grew stronger and stronger still with every step, as if a giant collection of carcasses were piled just beyond the door, broken and half fallen in from the years of disrepair and natural reclamation of the forest.

Past the door, the building shared many similarities to the church down the street from where I lived, complete with pews and podium. The pews were pushed to the sides of the building, as if to make room for a vast being invisible to my eyes. Even though sunlight shined through cracks in the roof, I still could not make out anything further in.

Walking past the pews and toward the podium, I had a sense that something was watching me, like I was not as alone as I had thought. On approach of the center of the room in from of the podium, I could make out strange symbols and glyphs were carved into the wood of the podium and, to my surprise, I realized the podium itself was of one solid piece of wood, a stump from a tree that long ago grew through the floor of the building and once stood mighty and regal over the people who must have took communion here. Finally, I had reach my destination and went to place my hand on the podium when I heard it.

A gutteral and choking sound, like the sound of someone with a cut throat in movies would make, suddenly caught my attention and I turned to see that there was a deer of an unusual size laying on the floor against one of the walls. Blood was pooled around the great beast as it struggled to hold on to whatever life it had left. Startled, I looked around franticly to search for whatever predator could have done this. After seeing nothing else but the deer, I drew closer. Now, as a somewhat experienced woodsman, I understood that a dying animal can be most dangerous in it's desperation, but I felt nothing but a calm as I approached.

The deer, whom at this point I could tell was a large doe, had stopped trying to stand and played on the floor before me, life spilling out from a wound on her belly. It was then when I saw the true horror of the creature. Rot had set in, and it must have done so a long time ago. Most of the muscle and flesh have been eaten away by the millions of writhing maggots and flies that choked the air near her and the doe's eyes had no glimmer of life, and yet here it was, against all odds. Alive. I had turned to run from the building, away from just whatever the fuck was going on, and thinking back, I should have. However, it was then when I heard it's voice.

"Why are you frightened, fawn?", the deer asked me in a voice so surreal and beautiful that I nearly forgotten the gory mess that was it's body.

"Because I don't think you should still be moving", I quickly stammered. In my childish innocence, I wanted to believe that honesty will see me safely through this.

The doe snorted through what was left of its nose, blowing a yellow bile out as it did so and replied with a regal undertone of authority, "What you see is the work of evil men who used to worship me. Their spirits still haunt this place and they keep me their captive. You have answered my call, you have come to help me"

Slowly, I backed away saying, "I'm sorry, but I never heard a call, I was just poking around, but I think I need to leave."

As I turned to rush out, the floorboards before the door, my one exit, gave a groan then exploded as many saplings rose from the ground and quickly grew together into a wall. I knew then that there was no escape outside of the doe just letting me go.

"Well, um, what was it you needed done?", I stated turning back to the doe, each word dripping with defeat as if my fate was already sealed.

The doe tried to sit up, more viscera spilling onto the floor and the monstrosity rolled over to reveal what looked like a hunting knife, carved from an antler and buried to it's hilt into the stomach of the doe.

"Human child, you but merely need to undo what your kind had done to me. Pull this object from me and I can finally return to my kingdom. I know that you hate it here and crave adventure. I can give you what you want if you but do this one task", the beast cooed with as much persuasion as it's current state allowed.

I walked over to the hurt animal, for though the doe was obviously supernatural, the sight of a beast suffering has always struck a heartstring with me. I knelt down beside the doe, it's pleading eyes filled with hope and the occasional maggot wriggling out from the corners.

Gripping the handle of the knife, I pulled as hard as I could, but the knife was stuck fast, as if something was pulling on the other side of it. Blood and pus began to seep out from around the handle as I strained against it, the smell of death worsening to the point where it made my eyes water.

"You've almost done it, fawn, and be quick about it, I can hear them coming!", said the panicked animal.

As if on cue, I began to hear footsteps all around us outside the building along with what sounded like a dull pounding on the sapling wall that had previously prevented my escape. The sound of the thudding was rhythmic, as whoever was making their way through that barrier had found their groove and my heart thumped just as fast as I realized where I had heard the sound before. It was an axe, and I only had moments before whatever was trying to get in was on the inside with me and the wounded wonder.

Doubling my effort, I put my foot against deer and yanked with all my might, my foot squishing into the soft and rotten belly of the beast, though it gave no complaint. Finally it seemed to be enough and the knife slid out, pulling pieces of old entrails with it. Not a moment too soon either as I heard the wall behind us begin to splinter and give way to whatever "spirits of evil men" the doe had warned about.

I don't know what I expected next. I grabbed the knife and turned to face the intruder when I came face to face with my father. He looked different than before and had a look of concern mixed with worry that only a father looking for their child could muster. Then the look changed to one of terror. As long as I live I will never forget that drastic change because his face was the last human face I ever saw. In a blink of an eye, it was like I was pulled from that world, away from the carcass that had held the Queen, as I have come to know her.

I awoke in a forest unlike any I had meandered through before, trees growing so high that the sun didn't make it to the ground, with leaves and bark that was unlike anything on Earth. Spongy to the feel and would bleed if peeled back, as if the trees were made of hardened flesh. I dread to think too much about it. The queen came eventually, free of her former shell. She thanked me for helping her and gave me a stick just like what I used to play with, then bade me farewell and left me here.

Months must have gone by though it seems the seasons and weather never change here. Nights are cold and quiet while the days are hot but just as quiet. It's as if there is nothing else here. When I first arrived, I chose a direction to walk but I am unsure if I am even going the same direction still. While the trees provided all the shelter I could need, food and water was another matter all together. The bark of the trees are edible enough, though tasteless and the "sap" as I called it was nourishing. Once you got past the copper flavor. I think I might be here forever, walking through this endless forest until I simply don't anymore, with but one constant thought spurring action in me.

I want to go home.

[gwoongi]

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌 ✰ taehyung (2)

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌 kim taehyung / reader genre: zombie apocalypse au words: 4814

“She did,” Taehyung assured, reaching an arm around your waist awkwardly, but tight enough for you to feel comfortable, and safe, all at the same time. “They did. We did.”

warnings: graphic content, death references, gore, swearing, dark themes

a/n: sorree if it feels a little bit slow paced!! i just want to make it realistic :D thank you for the positive (and small) feedback, it means a lot :”) mmmm the sweet smell of CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. i love slow burns lol :3c ((i also really recommend checking out the music playlist, especially listening to this + this bc. the last of us’ music is DIVINE))

01. denver ↝ 02. holiday with me ↝ 03. sad forever ↝ 04. surely ↝ 05. scorpion ↝ 06. shakespeare

As anticipated, the room connected to the rusted balcony was empty and upturned; the sheets stained caramel were tossed in bundles to the floor, bird feathers clinging to dried pools of rusted water and the smell of bird feces filled the room, overpowering the usual smell of dried sweat and blood.

Each step was meaningful and calculated as Taehyung stepped through the hotel room - because, it was indeed a hotel, as Taehyung noticed by the brass letters on the outside of each door, pulled off hinges and shedding tears of flaked paint. Leaving you behind slightly, Taehyung stepped out into the hall, staring in both directions to the end of the halls, where bodies lay rotting in sitting positions, blood-written messages praying one final time to God. He scoffed to himself.

“Find anything?” you asked, meeting him outside. He shook his head, turning to head in the West direction towards the stairs, knowing the elevator was most definitely down. An orange flicker of the light inside the pried open elevator showed a carcass, rotting and open, a putrid smell leaving through the cracks. You turned away before it sank in how affected the hotel was. Taehyung tugged at your sleeve when an open hotel door showed a bloody crib with barely moving mobiles.

Sticking to the plan you devised on the roof, Taehyung led the way, as if familiar with the hotel. A downfall of the elevator being out of use was the excessive amount of stairs, a waterfall of concrete steps running down to a square box trashed with shredded newspaper and articles of false hope: MILITARY ON THEIR WAY! VICTORY FOR HUMANITY!

Taehyung once believed in it.

The door was unlocked. Pushing it open, a cool breeze kissed Taehyung’s biceps, bare with his coat tied around his waist in a double knot. The foyer of the hotel was dark, only filters of lofty light pouring in from the windows, despite them being dirty and stained with handprints and splats of crimson. Moving away, Taehyung ducked underneath a fallen beam and stepped towards the main desk, checking for maps or papers or anything worth taking.

He leaned over, elbows on the wood, when he noticed a head of hair, facing the wall, arms outstretched and littered with red bites. Beside her, the cord to the telephone swung as if recently dropped, and the static of a radio could be heard louder when he rounded the desk to crouch before the body; it was a woman, with dark skin and brown curly hair, ripped clothing with exposed, shredded skin. Blood cried from her eyes and nose, and Taehyung sighed dejectedly as he pried away a Denver map from her hands.

The hotel was circled in a green pen - Merryweather Hotel. An arrow pointed to it, labelled City 10, Block 18.

“Shit,” he exhaled.

“What happened?” you asked, stepping over an open bag of luggage to approach him. He rose from his place, meeting you before you saw the body and the swinging mobile, or the cynical piece of paper reading, “May God Be With You”, written in Spanish, if he remembered.

Taehyung passed you the map. “Now we know where Block 18 is.”

You scanned the map, cursing softly when you noticed the markings. “The herd. Where’s the herd, then?”

“I don’t want to find out,” Taehyung replied briskly, nodding towards the doors. “Let’s just get out before we find out the walkers are behind the door to the basement, or something.”

Knowing your luck, it wasn’t entirely unrealistic.

Dampening your throat with hot saliva, you followed Taehyung to the double doors. As his fingers brushed the handle to leave, your heart thumped erratically; Taehyung had barely joined your group, and if he didn’t make it somehow...that would be on you. With little pride, you weaved in front of his arms, opting to take the lead. His gaze felt cold as you pushed in front of him, doing a slow and barely-audible countdown until Taehyung pushed the door for you, grabbing your hand in a swift and tight motion, pulling you into the room seconds before the count of three.

The door slammed closed at on 3, glass pouring to the floor with a loudness that alerted the herd before footsteps did.

The dead’s reactions were delayed, looking up from their meals to see the two of you speeding down the roads, the sound of your shoes slapping against the street echoing in the silence of the evening. Even as they begun to move, it was not fast and you were both able to make it back to the clearing where you had started at. Learning from earlier experience, Taehyung remained utterly silent, except for large gasps for air, and a string of foreign curses when the square was empty, missing Taekwoon’s ride.

They were gone.

“Fuck,” you muttered, mostly to yourself as Taehyung rushed towards a nearby car, shoved in front of the doors to a small convenience store once known as “TODD’S SHOP”. He slid into the driver’s seat, only to rush back out at the sight of a busted radio and torn apart insides, and the lack of steering wheel and pedals.

“It’s busted?” you asked, breathless, as he pulled you by the hand across the boot of the car, and into the desolate and destroyed interior of Todd’s once humble store. He closed the doors hurriedly, already working on fortifying defences.

“Completely useless.”

It’s surreal- you realise, as you scan the store and notice shelves torn off the walls, nails upturned and daunting, lights swinging, that the world can change so dramatically. Even when you try to pretend like most of the world aren’t undead and eating everything else, it’s hard to forget. Everything from the groans to the fallen stuffed animals is a reminder.

Somebody else had set up camp in the same spot. A small den had been made by pushing two display tables together, an L from the desk making a perfect sleeping station, already kitted with a cool gas lighter, and a thin and uncomfortable looking mattress and a hard pillow, stained slightly with a creamish substance that looked familiar to your high-school years. But, at this rate, anything would have to do.

“Over here, Taehyung,” you called, voice exhausted but loud enough to carry to his ears. He looked over his shoulder, briefly scanning the store as he walked robotically towards the makeshift bed. Dropping to a crouch, he craned his head to look at the bed, a frown of disgust evident on his features. But, being alive made him grateful, and he said nothing as he moved around you, occupied by your bag, to sit with his body on the edge of the mattress.

“I don’t have any food to share out,” you said quietly, but he remained unbothered.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, fingering your shirt from the back. “Maybe we can find apples on the way back.”

At that, you smile genuinely, fiddling with the gas lighter. “Apples?”

“Yeah. I saw an orchard on the way to your camp. Big green apples.”

With the flame lit timidly, you faced Taehyung with a small and vacant smile. “I like red apples more.”

“Me too. But, you can’t be picky when the world is ending,” he shrugged, and a chill slid down your spine. Masking your sudden somber mood with a faint smile, Taehyung stuck out an arm for a second pillow as you lay down beside him, facing away from the window. Taehyung leant over you, reaching to pull the blanket acting as a tent to block the auburn sunset and the thumping of biters outside the door.

“I’m sorry.”

Taehyung paused, moving his cheek across his own bicep to look at you, smushed against his arm.

“Me too.”

“I’m supposed to be the leader. I’m- I’m supposed to lead and set an example for the group,” you croaked out, feeling your eyes burn with dry tears. “You shouldn’t have come.”

A low hum left Taehyung’s throat. “Maybe. But then you’d be all alone and that walker would have got you.”

You scoffed, at that: “Jisoo would have been my partner.” A silence. “I hope she made it out.”

“She did,” Taehyung assured, reaching an arm around your waist awkwardly, but tight enough for you to feel comfortable, and safe, all at the same time. “They did. We did.”

You could barely remember the moment you woke up and left Todd’s old shop, just knowing that it was before the sun came up and in total silence. Fragments of thought- Taehyung sitting up with you still in his arms, a shake awake, and a quick jump out of the back window towards the forgotten trail into the thick woods. An avoidance, he had said, or something similar. To skip the walkers. You said nothing.

As expected, you rightly predicted that on foot, it would take nearly three days to return to camp. Sticking to the main road unless absolutely necessary, you found that you felt undeniably safe by Taehyung’s side; he walked several feet ahead, in a system designed by you, out of boredom on the long road home. You both walked along the dusty chalk-line in the middle of the road, looking forwards and to the left, backwards and to the right. Every sound was heightened in the silence, but the only thing to put you at ease was the familiar click of Taehyung’s gun, the occasional groan when his bat hit his knees and the comforting sound of absolutely nothing at all.

Cutting from the road to a trail in the woods, the sound of gravel and discarded beach pebbles underneath your boots became a familiar soundtrack as the pair of you walked along an abandoned train line, passing by a Caboose cabin on the way back home, fog slithering down the mountainous wall surrounding the Denver area.

Taehyung was right, too- on the way along the tracks, a big and blooming apple tree hung over the dip between the tracks and an ebony coloured stream of water, with giant green apples swinging in the breeze. Taehyung had helped hoist you up to pick four apples for the journey back, the first food of the day. The original sourness became a drug in your mouth, a taste so addicting that the four apples intended to last four hours lasted ten minutes. You simply tossed the cores to the side, hoping a tree would grow in the world that stopped working.

Further towards the warehouse, it became familiar enough to talk. Taehyung talked first, keeping the conversation clear and above the surface, mentioning his sister once again and the one time they went to Memphis for Spring Break and got lost. After almost dying alongside him more than once, it was impossible to fight the urge to know more about him. To debunk the mystery behind the new member who arrived with the gash in his leg, three cigarettes in his boot, and a stolen Scorpion-owned pistol covered in a crocodile skin protector.

Following the ancient-looking trail back to the warehouse, where the hills got steep, you could see the tops of the barbed fences enclosing the hideout, and a wave of relief washed over you. The atmosphere had changed drastically, and your feet moved quickly up the hill despite its efforts to deter you. Just a little bit further ahead…

Reaching the top of the hill, it took less than three seconds to recognise that something was wrong. The approaching puffs of air didn’t pull your gaze away from the swinging gates, very much open. Taehyung rested a hand on your forearm, confused. “Why’d you stop?”

His gaze lifted tenderly, noticing the opened gates and he hesitated, devoid of expression and breath. The wind stopped. Birds paused their singing. A cloud covered the sun.

Then, all at once, you broke out into a sprint, running towards the camp to see it in literal ruins. You had been gone less than three days, and everything had fallen apart without you. You should have noticed warning signals from the rising smoke on the way back home, but with a non-threatening camp just miles away from your own, it was always hard to tell the source. Part of the warehouse was alight, smoke stuck in the ceiling but nonetheless smelling out the place, and newspapers and colouring books fluttered like wings in the wind, carrying a smell of burning flesh with the familiar smell of oil and charcoal, burning paper, the smell of burnt toast. 

Majority of the vehicles were gone, except one small Nissan Versa in a decorative black, although now painted in ash. A pile of blood, and a trail of dragged red towards the spot where the cars once were made your stomach churn, and the sight of a hand sticking out from behind the dumpsters, a hand that was human, was enough to make you cry out, in agony, staggering towards the dumpsters to find the mauled and maggot-covered body of little Yena.

She was too young. Way too young.

“Y/N?”

Sniffing, and turning to Taehyung with tear-stained cheekbones, you met his somber gaze as he passed you a sheet of sooty covered paper. Your reaction was delayed, but you nonetheless turned from the sight of Yena mangled up and gingerly took the paper from his hands, feeling the comfort of his fingertips brushing your own, gaze distracted on the corpse by the dumpster.

Y/N.

I hope you’re reading this. I hope it’s you, and not somebody else. It needs to be you.

We arrived back to camp with every intention of coming to find you the following morning. As I’m writing this, we have very little time. I’m in the car while the others deal with the biters. They’re in. They got in. They got Yena by the gate without us knowing. We think she’d gone to get flowers from the meadow, and got caught by one on the way back inside.

Yena didn’t make it.

With what we have left, we’re heading to Georgia. While the group were gone, we got a signal. From a group of survivors who have a boat with extra spaces. We made connection and managed to guarantee us seats on the boat. With Yena gone, at least we’ll have room for us all to safely cross the waters to somewhere new.

We’ll wait for you for as long as we can. We love you, and I hope you’re safe. Taehyung, too. I hope you made it out alive. We left a car. I hope it’s there for when you come home.

Please come. May God be with you.

Or whatever you believe in.

Doyoung.

“They’re gone,” you said finally, your voice scratchy from crying. Without even knowing, Taehyung had lead you away from the sight of Yena and towards the car. He’d put a sheet over her, to keep whatever dignity she had left. He pulled open the door for you. “They’re safe.”

“I know,” Taehyung replied, gently pushing you into the car. “Buckle up.”

The door shut, and instead of doing what he asked, you popped open the footwell, taking out a pen from the small leather pouch, drawing a wonky line from Colorado straight to Georgia. Pointing out the obvious, but enough to occupy the seconds alone inside the car. Taehyung moved into the seat next to you, closing the door and locking it for good measure. Thankfully the car was fully filled with petrol, and Taehyung sighed with relief when the engine started smoothly.

“Do you know how to drive?” you asked suddenly, and Taehyung looked at you with a deadpan expression, one eyebrow quirked.

“No.”

“Are you kidding me? No, get out, we’re switching. I can’t believe-”

“People are coming back from the dead and eating each other, and yet you can’t believe that I can’t drive?” Taehyung asked, almost offended. “Put your seatbelt on, Y/N.”

You scoffed. “I don’t fancy dying because you drove us off the road.”

“Why do you have, like, no trust in me at all?” he asked, a sigh in his voice as he reversed the car. “Just because I don’t have a license doesn’t mean I can’t drive safely. I got an Alton Towers drivers license when I went on holiday to England, so, it technically counts.”

“...Are you fucking with me?.”

“Deadly serious,” he nodded, smiling when he saw you grinning in the seat beside him. “I did laps around that track like my life depended on it, and I took the license to school and told kids I had passed my test.”

Leaning over to switch on the radio, you shook your head. “You’re full of surprises, you know.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it. Which direction is Georgia?”

“That way,” you estimated, pointing an arm in the direction on the map. “You ever been to Georgia?”

“Six months ago, I’d never really been anywhere except for New York,” Taehyung replied. “You?”

“Nope. It’ll be like a holiday for us both,” you said, settling into the seat with the sound of a random jazz CD playing quietly. “Is that okay? Going on holiday with me?”

Taehyung pretended to think about it, and then looked over with a faint smile ghosting his lips, eyebrows quirked with an essence of playfulness. “I couldn’t think of anything worse.”

OCTOBER 27TH, 4 YEARS AGO. [x]

“What do you mean, you’re not going to Uni?”

For October, it was warm. Jiyong walked alongside you, his hands balled into fists in the pockets of his green bomber jacket, knees nude in the rips of his jeans. Just further ahead, Seunghyun led a trail of smoke towards an alley walled by chainmail fences, a lime-green light creating a path towards a low hum of chatter, his boots crunching on broken bottles and Autumn leaves.

You shrugged next to him, brushing against his shoulder. “I dunno, really. Can’t afford to go.”

“Uni’s do bursary now,” Jiyong said. “For people who don’t have a lot of money.”

“I appreciate it, Ji, but, I don’t think I’m fit for Uni,” you replied, exhaling a shaky laugh. The small group of high-schoolers made it to the end of the alley, stepping into the back-street submerged in a midnight silence, Denver lights creating bokeh effects in the after-rain landscape.

Minding the dark puddles, you walked in a short silence to a series of stairs leading to an abandoned subway line that expected construction months ago. Down them, students and late-nighters congregated near the train-lines, the familiar smell of weed and cheap Vodka in small dugouts in the wall, and you inwardly cringed as the three of you walked further down the subway station, towards a second staircase leading up, opening up into an abandoned street, where the hum of chatter became roars of excitement. Further ahead, bright nude lights outlined the buildings lining the street, and an accelerating vibration wriggled down the street, shaking the chains on fences, sending Seunghyun into an episode of excited dancing, cigarette slipping through his fingers and dying in the swimming pool of rainwater that flooded a nearby drain.

“Even Seunghyun is going to Uni,” Jiyong continued, irrelevant to the fact that you simply did not have the money to go. “You can’t leave us.”

“Sorry, Ji,” you said quietly, patting his shoulder gently. “It’s just not gonna happen.”

Jiyong watched as you left, his eyes lingering on the imprint left on his jacket. Stepping towards Seunghyun who was already steps ahead, he excitedly tugged at your sleeve, pulling you at a fast pace towards two large open iron gates, past bleachers and towards a once-alive-but-now-abandoned race-track, the type you saw on TV once, the type racers in the area used to practise for Formula tracks. By large barrels painted neon red, two parked race cars revved their engines, the crowd screaming with the bass-line of a song imported from Korea, courtesy of the star racer, Kwon Hyojong. Apparently Jiyong knew his family.

“What’s this about Uni?” Seunghyun asked suddenly, arm swung around your shoulders.

“Not you, too,” you groaned, removing his arm. “I can’t be arsed right now.”

“I’m just asking!” he responded, surrendering by raising his arms. To the side, Jiyong approached a group of girls you recognised from school. “I’m not here to lecture you like he will. He’s known you longer, so it’s part of his programme to mother you. Me, on the other hand…”

He trailed off suggestively, meeting your eye with a small and friendly smirk. Rolling your eyes, you nudged him to move, walking alongside him towards the barrier near the track. Across the road, the second racer, Johnny, took photos with some guys wearing glasses.

“I can’t afford it, after Mum, and everything,” you said, honestly, concentrating on the circles massaged into your skin by Seunghyun’s thumb. “But, it’s okay. I’ll still be in the area. You’re thinking of going to Denver Uni, yeah?”

He nodded, licking his lips once. “Still close enough to see you.”

“See?” came your voice, strained but nonetheless positive. Seunghyun smiled vacantly, hands on your body, sandwiched between the bar and his torso. “You won’t even realise I’m not there.”

“...Y/N.”

PRESENT DAY.

“Y/N.”

Jolting awake, your elbow slid off the door of the car, attention pulled away from the memory to the man beside you. Taehyung had been driving wordlessly, the radio quiet, the rain loud enough to send you to sleep. As the car passed the “WELCOME TO OKLAHOMA” sign on the left side of the road, his gaze had landed on your body, abnormally curled up on the seat.

Stirring, limbs sore, you rubbed your eyes clear of sleep, yawning. “‘sup?”

“Away out where the West begins, you’ll find Oklahoma!” he sang, a childish smile present as you groaned in annoyance.

“Already?”

He made a voiced confirmation. “Three minutes ago.”

Pulling the car into a slip-road, you straightened in your seat and took back the map that had slid into the footwell at some point during the journey. Taehyung looks after absentmindedly, his gaze heavy and content watching you scan the red lines on the map, oblivious to the empty road ahead.

“You mumble in your sleep,” he said finally, and you catch your tongue between your teeth suddenly, flinching towards him with a perplexed, and almost afraid, expression.

“I do?”

He nodded, humming. “Yeah. Little things like the weather. The Elvis vinyl.” He wriggled his brows, smirking.

Without realising, you sigh in relief. “Wish I could mumble out a way to cure this thing.”

Taehyung smiled a tight-lipped smile, his features giving away that there was something he wasn’t saying. To his relief, you didn’t notice; your attention was poured onto the map meanwhile he drove, silently, nearing a clutter of cars stained brown and ashy-white. He exhaled slowly, letting the car roll.

“We’re stopping?” you asked, looking up.

“I’m just gonna check something,” Taehyung assured, smiling once and pulling the keys out of ignition. The car jerked violently as it stopped, the radio cutting, the rain washing the front window. “Stay here.”

“Taehyung, no, I want to come with you-”

Without being rude, Taehyung opened the door and silenced your protests, locking it for good measure as you angrily pulled at the handle, glaring through the raindrops as he stepped, drenched by the minute, towards the barricade of cars blocking the road. He stood quietly, hands on hips, analysing the situation: if he moved the cars, it would clear the road, with the definite outcome of attracting walkers with the noise. Letting out a sigh, Taehyung looked around the area, noticing small community apartments lit with China lanterns, a banner with running ink reading: STILL ALIVE, but he couldn’t take any risks.

For now, at least, his own responsibility was keeping the both of you alive. No matter what it cost him.

Over the short ride across Denver, there was plenty of time for Taehyung to get to know you, to find out more about the leader of the group who took him in when nobody else would. He barely scraped below the comfort zone, only getting an age- the same as himself, aged 21- and a birthday, the name of a poem you wrote aged seven, the name of a family pet you had who passed away months before the outbreak. In return, you learned Taehyung studied Economics and Music at NYU and that he liked jazz music, which explained the torturous loop of whatever CD had been left behind in the car.

It wasn’t enough to start a friendship. But it would have to do.

Returning to the car, he sank into the suede seat and started the car back up, the lights switching on and the saxophone solo continuing.

“Nothing?”

Taehyung shook his head, reversing. “Nothing that wouldn’t cause attention. There’s a road, over there. I’m hoping it will take us right around the mound. Close your window- anything could pry it down.”

You didn’t argue. He knew what he was doing.

The car rolled silently, moving away from the barricade of cars and instead down a left-hand backstreet, cutting underneath a large junction, the old shed-sales company redundant and rotting with wet mould. The windscreen wipers cut away the stains of rain, clearing a view for Taehyung to manoeuvre around discarded bodies and open drains, the occasional biter trying to move from beneath a fallen lamppost, or groaning behind a fence too thick to bite through.

“Imagine how cool it would be inside an IKEA right now,” you said suddenly, staring at the large blue building just off the road, littered with biters in the car-park. Taehyung snorted. “I’m serious. Maybe we could pretend life was normal.”

“This is normal, now,” he replied, his voice quiet, as if afraid to be loud. “I don’t think I could get used to going back to how things were. Not after what I’ve been through.”

“I get that,” you nodded. “It would be nice to sleep on a real bed, though.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Further down the road, as the car cruised past an open alley looking outwards to a flooded stream littered with blood and guts, the atmosphere shifted. It was the type of moment where the air becomes clammy and it’s hard to breathe, even harder to pretend like nothing has changed. On command, the radio signal wavered, the smooth vocals of a singer you didn’t know crunched into incoherent static, and out the corner of your eye, you took note of the way Taehyung gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Y/N, seriously, put your seatbelt on this time,” he said warningly, his gaze flickering to the shaking seatbelt that hadn’t been worn once during the trip. Sensing danger, you did what he said, putting your seatbelt in the slot.

Cautious of speed, Taehyung drove steadily down the road, ready to turn back onto the street when someone jumped in front of the car. She- it was clear enough to decipher that it was, indeed, a woman- slammed her palms flat on the bonnet of the car, eyes crazed and blood pouring from her lips. Unexpectedly, the car halted, making you thankful of the seatbelt.

“Please…” her voice said, quiet but loud at the same time. You glanced at Taehyung with a frantic gaze, noticing that his hand was ready on the gear-stick. “They’re gonna come for me. They gonna come. Take me with you. Get out, I’m takin’ your car.”

She moved in stutters, her body moving before her legs, like the shake of your body with a cough. Taehyung reversed slightly, bumping the tail of the car into a biter who had picked itself up from the corners of the abandoned shed company lot, its face sneering through the back window.

“They’re gonna kill me,” she repeated, but Taehyung didn’t budge.

“Taehyung- she’s-, we-”

“Get out the car or else I’ll kill the both of ya!” the woman screamed, violently lunging at the driver’s window, hands fisting the glass.

“Go!” you screeched, pinching the skin on Taehyung’s wrist as you gripped the steering wheel. “Please, go, go, go, go-”

Stepping on the gas, the car pushed forward at an alarming speed, a trail of thick black smoke blinding the biter but nonetheless drawing in more from the shadows, staggering and swarming towards the woman painted in crimson blood, her elbow white and exposed, the skin curling up with an infection, a bite on her neck.

Turning in your chair, you felt compelled to watch; the premium viewing experience, watching her get torn to pieces by her neighbours, a childhood best friend, a lover. Their grown fingernails scratching at her skin like needles to paper, the sinister sound of her screams attracting herds of biters from across the town, eager to taste. As Taehyung drove away, fast enough to avoid the mob but slow enough to save gas, it was harder to look away. Harder to look away from the beauty that was death.

NEXT CHAPTER.

[doctor--idiot]

Men of Fortune – Ch. 14

Read the whole thing here.

“You realize we got no idea what we’re walking into?” Sully unhelpfully supplied once they were back in the Jeep, shooting across uneven ground.

Nate had insisted on driving this time. “Yes, we do. We’re walking into an opportunity to get Sam out.”

“Or an ambush.”

Nate shot him a sideways glance. “You don’t have to come. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Sully’s snort was derisive. “Yeah, right. Like that’s ever gonna happen.”

“Promise me you’ll stay on the perimeter, though. I’m not gonna chance it.”

“You don’t really think Rafe would actually do something as comic book villain as shooting the hostage because you didn’t come alone.”

Nate flinched hard at the no-nonsense image Sully painted.

The old man put a hand on his arm. “Sorry, kid.” He added, “I promise we’ll get him out with barely a scratch.”

Nate appreciated the gesture and refrained from mentioning that Sully could in no way guarantee that. In fact, even if Rafe had no intention to kill Sam – which Nate didn’t necessarily think he had – he would be in no way averse to roughing him up a little.

Not only had Sam, together with Nate, found the way to Libertalia before him, but he had also taken all notes and clues and ran after Rafe had paid for him to be released from prison in Panama. There had to be a giant grudge there and Rafe had always been unpredictable.

All in all, it didn’t bode well for Sam – or Nate for that matter, once he would get there.

The coordinates in the text Rafe had sent Nate led them land inward, away from King’s Bay, which was interesting in itself. Regardless, Nate was more occupied with getting there as fast as possible.

“We don’t even know if he’s actually here,” Sully said, “We’re taking a psychopath’s word for it.”

“What other option do we have?” Nate replied. What other option do I have? “I’m gonna see this through either way. This vendetta has gotta stop. Hell, at this point I’m practically ready to drop everything and fly back home as soon as Sam’s safe. This treasure hunt was a stupid idea anyway.”

Next to him, Sully chuckled wryly. “Kid, this is the first time in years I’ve seen you really excited about something. You can’t fool an old man.”

He had a point. Nate shook his head, “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is too dangerous, which,” he gestures to his bandaged arm and then the road before them, “all of this proves.”

“We got unlucky, is all.”

“You don’t get it,” Nate insisted against the nonchalance of the man beside him, “I can’t lose him again.”

And there it was.

“I can’t, okay? Whatever it takes.”

Sully remained silent for a moment. Then he said softly, “I know. And you won’t.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Now Sully shook his head, smiling slightly. “I’m not promising anything. I’m stating. The winds are turning in our favor, I can feel it.”

Nate eyes him with curved brows. “You sure those aren’t different winds? Sure your breakfast was all right?”

Sully let out a bark of a laugh. “Ha. There he is.”

One of the bridges was out and it took them a while to find a way around it. Nate was getting increasingly antsy behind the steering wheel the closer they came.

When the land opened up before them, they came up on something that looked like a train yard. Rusty carcasses strewn on their side across the yellow dry grass with tracks running beside them that had long been broken up by roots and bushes. Insects buzzed around their heads as Nate slowed down and let the Jeep roll to a stop.

“Stay here,” he said, “We might need a quick getaway. See if you can find a sniper rifle.”

“I like the way you’re thinking,” Sully replied and got out the passenger side door.

“Yeah, well, pray we don’t need it.”

Nate unholstered his weapon, keeping it by his side as he made his way through the tall grass, navigating around the rotting train wagons.

The building that had probably once been sturdy enough to house train wagons, tools, and workers, was now lying empty and silent, its roof riddled with holes. The sunlight that had made the effort to make it through into the gloomy space illuminated empty and broken shelves, the remains of a train wagon on crooked rails, and – stark against everything else that was rusted and old – wooden crates, stamped with the Shoreline logo.

Nate flicked the safety off his pistol as he made his way farther inward.

What hadn’t been directly visible from the outside was how deep the building went. It was getting darker, the sunlight more sparse, the farther inward Nate made his way. This might not only have been storage but also a factory for train parts. The remains of machinery stood shadowed against the far end of the hall.

When Nate made his crouched way around a Shoreline crate, he spotted the slumped figure a few yards down.

All of a sudden, he had a sense of deja-vu, recalling the moment he had walked straight into those pirates’ trap all those years ago on the search for Sully. He remembered the silhouette of that figure, a bag over its head like this one.

God, please let it be him.

It was a textbook trap and not even Rafe wasn’t that obvious. The thing Rafe probably hadn’t factored in was that Nate didn’t care whether it was a trap or not. He would have come even if he had known for a fact that it was one.

His gun by his side and with quick, light steps, he approached the figure that was wearing Sam’s boots, Sam’s jeans, Sam’s sweaty T-shirt… He inches closer, distracted by the loudness of his own breathing in the silence.

He pulled the hood off with a quick whip of his hand, jumping back and training his pistol on the man in front of him.

“Jesus,” he breathed when he took in his brother’s face and instantly dropped weapon to his side, flicking the safety on before storing it.

He leaned down to his crumpled brother and tried to make out the rising and falling of his chest.

Sam’s face was bruised, one eye ringed with dark purple, a split in his lower lip, his left cheek, and his left eyebrow. Blood had dried caky above the black eye and below his nose. His hair was hanging tangled and messy, his eyes were closed.

On impulse, he pressed his hand against Sam’s sternum, then against the side of his neck. A lively pulse jumped against the tips of his fingers and Nate’s knees nearly buckled with relief. The hard-coiled tension left him and he curled forward, his forehead pressing against his brother’s.

For a second, he was afraid he was going to cry.

He stood with effort, refusing to stop touching Sam’s neck. A split-second decision was made and he pressed his lips against Sam’s sweat-covered forehead, then, after a fractional hesitation, against Sam’s dry, Cracker mouth in a poor replica of a kiss.

Anchoring himself as much as he was trying to rouse Sam, Nate curled his palm around his brother’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered sharply, looking around him. The quiet was truly disconcerting.

It took nearly an entire anxiety-filled minute until Sam finally showed signs of stirring. A croaky groan escaped his lips and his eyes fluttered open, then shut again, as if it was an immense effort to him to keep them open. He moaned again, his spine straightening up a bit.

Then, reflexes faster than Nate would have given him credit for in this state, his hand shot out and clamped around Nate’s forearm.

“Hey, ’s just me,” he tried softly. His stomach sank when Sam’s eyes blinked open blearily, pupils so wide and black that there was no doubt he had been drugged with something potent.

Suddenly, as the relief had settled, the fury came back. Nate’s insides were boiling.

As if on cue, he heard the whirring of an engine and the spitting of gravel as a car came up outside. Rafe’s voice carried across the distance.

“Nate,” he said, “Long time no see.”

Nate wrenched his arm out of his brother’s surprisingly tight grip and approached the other man with large steps, growing angrier the more the distance diminished between them.

“You fucker,” he growled, hand automatically going to his gun. “I’m going to fucking murder you, you know that. I’m going to–”

Outside, he was greeted by half an armada and he stopped in his tracks.

“Do tell me what you’re going to do to me,” Rafe said wryly. “But I thought we could have a civilized conversation like normal people.”

“Nothing about you is normal or civilized,” Nate spat back, his hand still on his gun. There were about twenty rifles aimed right at him. Strangely, it didn’t really phase him much.

Rafe pursed his lips. “Pot and kettle, Nathan.”

“Rafe,” a women’s voice said from Nate’s other side. “Can we get this kindergarten over with and move on?”

Nadine Ross, head of Shoreline, didn’t exactly look impressed with her partner’s antics. In fact, she looked like she might be the first to start shooting just to get it over with and move on. Her cold eyes didn’t hold any fondness for either Nate or Sam. Or even Rafe, for that matter.

She didn’t have even her weapon out and Nate had more respect for her than for any of the heavily armed men currently surrounding him. He retreated a few steps, back towards Sam.

“Deal,” he suggested, “Let me take my brother and get outta here. Fuck the treasure and Avery’s games, you can have it all.”

Rafe regarded him for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. It was an unsettling sound.

“You don’t really think I’ll believe that, right?” he retorted.

Nate turned his back on Rafe, Nadine, and his men. It didn’t take as much guts as he would have thought. Maybe he was becoming jaded. Maybe he had a death wish.

“I don’t really give a shit what you believe,” he said as he made his way back to Sam, not caring whether Rafe could still hear him over the distance.

[trickshxt]

SHITTY AUs ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR

IT Verse AU

The shop had been there for longer than many could remember. A small, unassuming butcher shop just off main street; a town favorite and held by the Barton family since as long as it was remembered. It was a small jewel of the township. Unfortunately, life for Barney and Clint within that small shop was less so.

Growing up, Barney and Clint worked after school at their father’s shop. Learning the trade they would likely, one day, take over. The work was long and hard; Harold falling more and more into the bottle as times a new trend - chain supermarkets - began to creep in. If others noticed the bruises on the young Barton boy’s arms, they said nothing. When Clint showed up to school deaf one day, the ‘biking accident’ story was taken without a word.

Though home was rough, Barney and Clint had each other. And though school was a respite away from the shop the boys found that they were constantly behind and unprepared. On top of this, they were often teased for the state of their clothes and the way they smelled of lye.  Rather than take another beating, Clint often acted out, gaining a reputation for starting fights. And Barney? Quickly gained a reputation for finishing those altercations.

The brothers rapidly found themselves labeled as ‘bad kids’ and, unsure what to do to change it, the boys embraced it. Often skipping classes in favor of catching frogs in the creek and riding bikes through the back roads.

It was during a bike ride to deliver a forgotten order, late in the evening, that Clint first saw It. Merely two glowing eyes and a white face ghostly in the dusk light, watching from the woods. Barney tried to assure Clint that what he’d seen was just a deer. Though both heard the high pitched giggle and quickly pedaled away.

They wouldn’t run into It again until a few months later.

Drunk and angry, Harold Barton drove the delivery with his wife and sons. A delivery gone late; the shipment needed. They’d driven to the next town over to retrieve what was needed, listening to Harold grow angrier and angrier as the sky darkened. The boy sat in back, bruises fresh and mouths shut, surrounded by the carcasses on hooks swinging, swinging, swinging. Something darted across the road as Harold took a swig from his bottle. The car veered. Overturned. Tumbled...

Barney woke with a gasp. Nearly suffocated by the product that had been so badly needed. Digging out Clint was a panicked affair; the boy’s hearing aides gone in the chaos. Harold and Edith Barton? Seemingly dead on impact.

The truck hinges creaked as gas dripped. The meat seemed to crawl. Blood oozed. Carcasses twitched. Suddenly, as Barney moved to free Clint’s foot, he realized the form on Clint’s shoulder wasn’t a just a stray cut of rib...it was a hand. A hand that was connected to a pair of glowing eyes and a white face. Nightmarish movements began to erupt around them as the dead became rotting, living things. Barney did what years of instinct had trained him to do; he punched. Hard. Landing a hit that cracked the bones of his fingers and sent what seemed like far, far too many sets of teeth back in a hiss.

With Clint freed, the boys ran. Clint protecting his brother with a few well-aimed rocks. The boys scrambling across the Derry county line and far, far into the night. Running until they collapsed by the side of the road miles away from home.

The boys were picked up by Jacques Duquesne; a traveling carnival worker with a penchant for petty crime and cons. Taking pity on the boys, Jacques took them in and trained them in swords play, archery, and knife throwing. And as years went by the boys forgot about the butcher shop, the town, and the strange, strange clown...

Fast forward to years later...

Having left Jacques years ago to pursue a career in the Army, Barney is back after serving several tours in Iraq. Honorably discharge due to a back injury sustained during combat. Originally planning to settle in Michigan, a random phone call came shortly after his military retirement: his mother had died...and left the butcher shop to him and Clint.

Returning to Derry was not his first choice. But with medical bills eating into his savings rapidly, Barney reluctantly accepted. Moving back to live above the butcher shop and work the counter. As times got harder, Barney reluctantly had to let go of hands on deck to make the business stay afloat. Now, he works the old Barton Butchery alone. A grizzled, tired veteran with a growing paranoia he can’t quite explain...

IMPORTANT NOTES

Did your muse know Barney or Clint? That’s entirely up to you! Barney’s pre-set is that he may have had class with you, but he likely doesn’t know you beyond that. As it stands, he and Clint were only around for the beginning of the Losers forming. They went missing shortly after...

That said, pre-established relationships are definitely welcome! Just talk to me!

BONUS

BONUS: Barney and Clint often made deliveries of meat product on their bikes via Styrofoam coolers packed with ice that had Barton Butchery painted on. This was the most welcome chore they had as it got them out from under Harold’s critical and commanding eye. As the family was too poor to afford regularly working hearing aid batteries, the boys often made these trips together, signing to each other as they road.

EXTRA BONUS: Barney and Clint had a reputation when they were young as troublemakers. They were occasionally caught stealing or picking fights or sneaking into movies. This only further served to isolate them with the community and made them long for adventure and a life outside of Derry.

EXTRA EXTRA BONUS: Barney lives a very quiet existence by himself in the old apartment above the butcher shop. The walls are painted sage green and the place is kept bright, clean, and sparse. Very little is known about him among the community, though he’s known for offering fair prices on good product and makes his own jerky that he gives as treats to kids and teens (particularly those that look hungry...). While he rarely shows up for events with fireworks, he does frequent the library to sate his voracious love of reading.

EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA BONUS: Barney is used to back pain; he’s been living with it for years and often needs to sit down during the day. He has noticed, however, that after moving back to Derry his right hand seems to hurt more and more. As if remembering an old, old injury and drudging up a long forgotten ache...

VERSE TAG

v: few things float like memories ; especially ones thought dead — ( IT Verse AU )

[jimlingss]

A Portrait’s Whisper

➜ Words: 4k

➜ Genres: Angst, Psychological Thriller???, Horror!AU (or at least, I tried)

➜ Summary: When you're trapped in a house controlled by a witch's power, Seokjin will go through every means to search for you again.

➜ Warnings: Gore, blood, highly disturbing themes, and themes of imprisonment.

➜ Notes: for the next last few months, I’ve been doing more experiments with my writing, trying different techniques and reaching out to expand my skills. This is one of those stories. First time ever attempt with this genre, so it might not be good but I still hope you find it bearable.

A painting bleeds. It’s of a beautiful woman, stiff smile plastered on her mouth and long lashes laid across her blooming cheeks. She holds a bouquet of red roses within her hands, the thorns seeping into her skin. The painting cries crimson blood. Slick liquid oozes onto the golden frame and drips to the floorboards. Her dead eyes peel open to follow your figure as it dashes past.   “P-please.” You scream until your throat is raw. “GET ME OUT OF HERE!”   The twisting hallways have no end in sight, a maze of darkness that mocks you with every attempt of escape. Shadows trail after your own, hidden in the corners, their murmurs and snickers that interrupt one another, thousands of voices and whispers overlapping the other in an auditory hallucination lullaby. The ticks of the grandfather keeps a steady beat, your heart pounding in your ears. Behind the deafening noise is only a - thump, thump, thump - your running steps in the eerie silence.   It’s all the same.   The echoing corridors, the stone floorings and mustard yellow wallpaper.   A statue turns its head to stare at you. There’s a baby’s wailing cry in the distance. From above, children are stomping around, chanting back and forth, tonelessly singing a nursery rhyme. Your bare feet are bleeding, white dress merely hanging onto your shoulders. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” the porcelain dolls on their shelves part their pink painted lips to recite your name. They ask where you’re going, calling you closer in murmurs. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.”   “LEAVE. ME. ALONE!”   Your desperate pleas have no effect. Not when there’s a sinister figure pursuing you, chasing your heels with a grin on their face. A slick hand wraps around your ankle, forcing you to collide with the ground and you strangle out a scream, fingernails scratching against the floorboards.   Turning your head around, the phantom snaps its neck into two, smiling at you. “You’re…”   “...not..”   “…allowed-”   “.......to leave.”   “No. Please. Let me go.” You sob to the darkness. “Let me go!”   You lift your hand, batting at the air, trying to pry off the cold grip on your ankle. But with a jerk of your fingertips, the figure disappears, disintegrating from the atmosphere. In heaving pants, you begin to dig your nails across the ground, crawling away from the shadows that approach. There’s a light, a dim one underneath grand doors. It’s freedom.   The walls moan, tilting to cage you in but your arms heave your frozen legs, fighting and fighting, yanking yourself to get closer. Your fingers tremble as they lift up to the knob. It turns...turns….turning….but something over your shoulder snickers. And before you can even hitch a breath, its grip returns, latching back onto you and dragging you away despite your efforts.   “H-HELP ME!”   Someone giggles, a high-pitched and menacing sound. Scratch marks are left on the floor where you tried to creep away. A trail of scarlet is left as you’re being lugged. You claw at your face and eyes in psychotic desperation, mangling your own skin, crying blood past your lashes.   The painting of the woman cackles. The red roses in her hand wither away. She chortles at you when you’re brought back to the starting line once more.   You succumb to the madness as the darkness suffocates you.

The man in the cloak nods to the other woman, thanking her for answering his question. He swiftly turns, treading down the dirt road and into the forest, leaving the woman to her deeds. Another villager approaches her, having not recognizing the unusual stranger. “Who was that?”   “He was asking about..the house.”   The rumours spread like wildfire. From one ear to the next.   “Who?” // “It was a man.” // “He’s not from here.” // “He says he’s looking for someone.” // “Don’t you know what they say about that place?” // “He’ll never return.” // “How foolish.”   A child reaches up, tugging on the hem of his mother’s dress. “Mommy, what’s ‘the house’?”   “Don’t ask questions,” she snaps in fear but the boy’s curiosity is unsated. “If you go into the forest and you end up in the house, you’ll never be able to leave. The witch will kill you.”   Yet the warnings and spoken tales, passed down from generation to generation, never once deters the man whose sole mission is to search for the one whom he loves with all his heart.   He travels through the forest until the trees have shed their leaves, no longer verdant in hue and the grass are a deadened brown, dirt ransacking any existent flowers from a bead of water. The branches curve unnaturally, blue sky morphed into gray, the breeze becoming a whistling wind. Predators howl at him to return, their prey, carcasses on the side of the narrow path. The man does not bat a single eyelash.   The manor reaches high up into the darkened night, piercing the moonlight and shielding it from shedding any luminescence. The windows are opaque, a mystical aura that surrounds the place. He approaches, ignoring how the dusty path thins into nothing but dirt.   The man knocks once upon the black doors. Twice. Thrice.   Silence.   With a sharp exhale, he shuts his eyes and cautiously attempts to turn the knob of the door. It turns...turns….turning….and the door creaks open, the darkness welcoming him with open arms. The man swallows hard, ignoring any despair, and he embraces the madness that awaits him.   Seokjin opens his mouth. The door shuts behind him. “Y/N?!” He calls for your name in desperation, venturing into the house. “Y/N, are you here?!”   There’s the sound of someone’s giggle. Seokjin whirls around. The front door has disappeared, replaced with an endless hallway. “Y/N?! Please! Where are you?!”   It is eerily quiet.   Something dashes behind him. When he spins to face the entity, as if to mock him further, the shadow taps on his shoulder, teasing and never letting its face be shown. Seokjin braces himself, not dreading the witch who’s trapped within the walls. There’s no reason to. He’s here to find you.   He takes a left, a right, another left and three more rights. It’s all the same. The echoing corridors, the stone floorings and mustard yellow wallpaper. There’s a sickening odor suffocating the air, a pungent smell of rotting flesh. A grandfather clock ticks in a steady beat, playing a melody with his speeding heart rate that pounds in his skull.  Seokjin continues with an undying persistence, ignoring the statues that swivel their heads over with the whites of their eyes to watch him, the distant sound of whistles and of scattering pins. But as time becomes skewed within the witch’s grasps, he finds his feet splashing in a pool of scarlet.   “Y/N?!” He cries out your name in horror, ripping through the halls and throwing open the doors that lead to more endless walls and darkness. “I’m not leaving this place without seeing you!”   A whimper, the slightest of noises perks his ear, and he turns, pursuing it blindly. The high-pitched sound is followed by scratchings, the grating of fingernails against floorboards and against the wallpaper. The man in the ebony hair hitches his breath and finds a candle on the wall, dripping wax down the mustard yellow walls. He takes the holder down, the dim flame dancing in his palm, and he approaches the sound of violent scrapes to find crimson.   Crimson is the colour of the message that manifests in front of his eyes. Crimson bleeds on the surface. Crimson weeps down in streams like raindrops. Crimson coats the ground.   ‘Let. Me. Go.’   Seokjin winces away, holding in his vomit and hoping with each strength left in his bones that it isn’t your blood. Unable to bear looking at the message, he moves on, deeper and deeper, until there’s a cold breath on his ears. “Y/N?!”   His call is answered with silence. There’s someone here, that much he’s aware of. Perhaps it’s the witch but he is undeterred. He mutters it loudly, “you don’t scare me.” And a chilling gust of wind passes through his ruffled locks. Parchment flutters by his feet, catching his eye, and he catches it, using the murky luminesce of the flame to read the blackened ink.

I’m trapped.   I don’t know how much time has passed. My magic’s become weaker. They won’t listen to me anymore. They won’t listen to me anymore. They won’t listen to me anymore. I’m losing my sanity. There’s no end to this place. I’m scared. I’m scared. When will eh trnuer?   I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m rdpeatp.   E͔͓͉̺̤͞ͅh̡̫̭͎ ͈͉͈ͅa̷̗͓d̢s̶͔̣̦̪̦i̧ ̵͎̞̲e̲̘̞͉̪h҉͍ ̫̺͍͓̰̰̗e͇̙̟͓̤̰s̵̼lò̤̗͈̭͍ͅv̬͇͚͉͉͝ ͇͟e̸̪̹̜̭̩̘m̱̟̻̮͚̥̳.̨͍̰̖ ̼O͓̞̖̥̫s̜̬̪e̠͚ȩ͇̼o̗̗n̵̬m̗͕̟ ͈̦p̢̤̱͈̺̦̪̣ẖ̗͈̦̰̟̀l̛̤̩̘͇͇e̦̠̘̹.̨ ̜͚̼ͅS̻̗̤̙̣̣͜p̮͙̟̭̠e̹l͈̭a̟͢e̶̪̭̱̬̰͈ ̹̬͓̜͇͇ḁe̛̠̜̖̲ͅş̤̩͈̮v̱͎ ͎̜̱̩̘̪͞e̶͙̯̱̬ͅm̴͍͓.͎̦̲̹̦

The rest of the paper is blotched with red drops, ink smudged beyond recognition and crumpled, half of it torn in jagged lines and the rest of it nowhere to be seen. A tinkling music box echoes down the corridor, leading him elsewhere. The ceiling shakes with children’s stomps, laughing and chanting a nursery rhyme. As the music becomes louder, and he creeps closer, it suddenly dies.   A little giggle tickles his ear. “Y/N?!”   The giggles remain, fading away, and he throws open the door and another and another, following it instinctively. “Witch?! Is that you?!” Seokjin screams it in fury and hopelessness, “Y/N?!”   A baby’s cry interrupts, a high-pitched and pained sound that wails for attention. Seokjin whirls around, crashing through doors and halls. Unlike the other rooms he’s been in that leads nowhere, this one is a nursery, a cradle in the corner of the peaceful space. The walls are tinted a deep blue, stars attached from the ceiling, white curtains blowing from the open window.   The infant cries as if it is suffering a horrible death, being strangled gasping for air. As Seokjin slinks closer and closer, looking over the black bars of the crib, a porcelain doll is in place of a human child.   The doll’s closed eyes snap open in an instant, pupils rolling back to show white and popped red blood vessels. Its pretty pink lips open, jaws dropped, and it giggles sickly aloud. Seokjin holds his lungs, stumbling back and his shoulder is brushed with a coarse texture.   Upon flinching, he finds a noose hanging from the ceiling, the rope swinging back and forth.   “L...e...a….v….e.” The doll in braids stands on its feet, peering over the crib, whispering out to him. “L...e...a…...v….e.”   The walls are replaced with an oozing darkness, closing around him. The floor trembles and the doll’s eyes continue to roll back, irises not in sight. Seokjin hangs on, barely managing to escape the room before it’s engulfed into the oblivion. “I-I won’t leave.” He declares to anything that might be listening, huffing his breaths and regaining composure. “I love Y/N too much to leave.”   This shouldn’t have happened. No. Not if you listened to him and stayed put. You wouldn’t be in this house and neither would he. If you had merely listened, he wouldn’t have to wander around in the blackness, searching for you aimlessly, calling out your name in desperation. If you had listened, the two of you could be somewhere better, safer and be happy together.   Unlike the sickening madness that threatens to swallow his sanity, Seokjin can still recall the beautiful days like it was yesterday. He can call forth the memories with the flicker of his fingers, let it play like a vision beneath his eyelids. It’s the only thing that keeps him persisting.

“Y/N?”   He holds a bouquet of lavenders behind his back, tiny smile gracing his lips. The cottage is warm and cozy, placed upon a meadow hill, secluded from any chaos or wandering eyes. It’s the perfect abode for the married couple. You both had built it together out of nothing, having just the clothing on your back and a love for each other.   “Y/N?” Seokjin stalks the bedroom, finding it odd that there’s no response.   It wasn’t like you to leave during mid-afternoon, especially without telling him anything. This morning, he had simply gone to the forest in search of more ingredients to use for cooking, and he stumbled upon a field of flowers. You always loved them.   “Y/N?”   Seokjin’s hand wraps around the doorknob. It turns...turns….turning…and it opens.   “W-what’s going on?”   You’re preoccupied, packing a bag in haste, fingers never once stopping. Even when he stands at the door frame, arm dropped to his side and eyes widening, you don’t spare any amount of mercy to look him in his eyes.   “I’m leaving.” You giggle softly, finishing up with the task. “I know we talked about it and I know you don’t want to leave this place but I still do. I want to see what’s out there, you know? The world is so wide, Seokjin. Don’t you ever wonder what you’re missing out?”   “I’m not missing anything.” He pouts with his puffy cheeks. “Not when I have you here.”   You finally look up, meeting his warm irises and taking on stride to his form, smiling at the messy bouquet in his hands. He probably plucked it out of the ground without a second thought. For a moment, you contemplate on scolding the boy on why he brought in a trail of dirt but you brush it aside.   Instead, you lift up your gentle hands, squishing his cheeks together and standing on the tips of your toes to plant a kiss on his lips. “I promise I’ll return.”   “Ish tangerus opf ere.” He visibly sulks and when you let go of his face to put your arms around his shoulders, he repeats himself. “It’s dangerous out there.”   “I know.”   “You don’t.” He doesn’t relent, shaking his head and holding onto you in desperation. “You don’t know what it’s like. Y/N...I’m worried about you and...and what about me? What am I supposed to do without you? Are you not happy here?”   “That’s not it, silly.”   You boop his nose, giggling again and leaving a longer kiss on his plush lips. Seokjin savours the distant taste of citrus, his heart still racing from the simple gesture even after you’ve kissed him a million times before, and he’s done much more intimate things to you.   He whispers, tears welling up in his eyes, “I don’t want you to go.”   “I know.” You grin at him, too stubborn for your own good. “But I’m going anyway. I’ll be back before you know it and then I’m all yours.”   He leans his forehead against yours, grabbing hold of your waist in a tender touch. “Promise?”   “Promise.”

It’s a hall of paintings. Golden frames decorate the canvas. He finds his eyes staring at each of them. There’s one of a monster devouring children, chopped up limbs and bodies, another with a decapitated head and eyes that stare back at him. It’s odd. They almost seem alive, like they’re watching and their pupils move once he’s turned away. But a particular painting catches his breath, holding his irises hostage and his heart pounding faster.   It’s of a beautiful woman. She stands with her body tilted but head facing fully. A stiff smile is plastered on her mouth and long lashes laid across her blooming cheeks. She holds a bouquet of red roses within her hands, the thorns seeping into her skin and the same scarlet that washes down her arm is reflected off her eyes. She cries blood.   Her dead eyes peel open. “G͙̦̝̳̝̺ͬ͆͋̈̌͊͡O̗̫̩ͥ͑̽͂ͦ̒ͩͅ ͎͇͇̱̽̍͑̆́̕Ä̬̩̗͑̔̾ͤ̀͜W̷̥̰̎̎̍̐̐̑̔̐́Ȃ͖̠̣̳̮͙̬̋͡Y̧͎̰̻̠̯̓̆̔̌!̸̧̲̪̭͔̫͕͎ͩ͊̆ͦͮ̈ͩ͡” The woman screeches in all her horror. Her voice holds deeper tones, a million whispers that stream out of her mouth. She repeats ‘go away’ over and over again. Seokjin, on the other hand, plants his feet to the ground, staring straight into her eyes without wavering.

It’s not until he feels a breath ghost along his shoulder that his trance is broken. A shadow looms over him with a menacing grin, hands that hauntingly snake to grab hold of his neck, marking it as tightly as a rope noose. The man is paralyzed in his bones, unable to move a single step.   The shadow strangles him and Seokjin buckles onto his knees, reaching up to grab hold of absolutely nothing. He chokes, vision becoming blurred and the shadow screams. It screams and screams. “L...E….A...V..E….!”   “Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.” The ominous voices hidden in the corner woefully moan, “Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.��   The shadow tightens its grip until he’s sputtering, gagging and gasping for air. The black figure continues to beat down on him, laughing and chortling. In the meanwhile, the lady in the painting has disappeared. A splash of crimson replaces her position.   “Get..out…” It murmurs. “Gte uot….egt tou, tge otu, teg uto, etg tuo…”   Seokjin claws at his skin. The darkness closes around him. A madness threatens to suffocate and engulf his sanity. But he persists. Never once does Seokjin shut his eyes or blink.   He lifts his hand, batting at the air, trying to pry off the cold grip around his neck. But with a jerk of his fingertips, the figure disappears, disintegrating from the atmosphere.   His legs tremble as he gets back onto his feet, hyperventilating to fill his burning lungs.   “Get out. Leave. Go away. Don’t come back.” They whisper softly, echoing and reverberating down the gloomy corridors. His heart pounds within his ears. The grandfather clock ticks a steady beat. There’s children’s stomps that rumble the ceiling. A baby’s cry and toddler’s giggles ring his ears. The shadows loom over, darkened figures that watch him in interest.   The woman in the painting has hidden.

“ENOUGH.”

Silence.

With a single wave of his hand, one by one, the flames crackle on the wick, candles on the wall illuminating his path. The monsters retreat and withdraw. The clock has frozen in time. There aren’t any more giggles or sung nursery rhymes, his heart has stopped beating. There is nothing but complete eerie silence that is more deafening and frightening than the noise before.

“No more games.” Seokjin marches down the hall in slow steps, past scratched up floorboards and stained yellow wallpaper. He no longer creeps or stalks the corners, back straight and head held up high. “Show me where Y/N is!”

He’s not leaving this place without you.

The light fills the darkness, leading him to the right path. Either whatever lives within the walls is finally obeying him or his own will has overpowered. Seokjin smiles to himself when the candles and whispers have led him to a grand door, a dim light underneath the crack.

The walls moan, tilting to cage him in but his finger flicks. It stops. Seokjin’s hand wraps around the doorknob. It turns...turns….turning…and opens.

“Y/N?” Seokjin steps into the darkness, engulfing himself willingly and treading deeper into the oblivion. If it’s for you, he’ll push any fear aside. “Y/N...is that...you?”   A whimper, unmistakably yours. And he hitches his breath, looking down to find you cowering in the corner. “Y/N?!” You’re balled up, wincing away from the light from the corridor that slicks its way inside the room.   Your eyeballs are by your toes, gorged out by your own fingernails that have fallen off from obsessively scratching the walls. There are cuts and bruises lingining your pale and ill body, skin broken by your neck with rope burns, feet leaving a trail of scarlet. Your tongue has been severed by your own teeth, rotting in your mouth. Your cheeks are dripping in crimson.   You must’ve cried blood.   Seokjin feels sick to his stomach, ready to retch in the pool of your feces and blood.   His hand trembles as it lifts to brush away a piece of your twisted hair but you flinch away, a whimper and muffled yelp leaving your raw throat. Although you can’t see him, you can hear every movement. “Spha...spf...iph…”   “Y/N…” He chokes out your name in a quiet sob. “What d-did I tell you?”   The man downcasts his head, heart aching from the sight of you. It breaks his very being. Anger surges through his veins, a deepening sorrow sewing itself into his skin. “Why would you hurt yourself like this?”   Something over his shoulder snickers. Before Seokjin can even blink twice, its grip returns, latching back onto his shoulder. He merely lifts a brow and it disintegrates into ash.   He smirks.   A chortle leaves his throat and he shakes his head, gentle whispers and scoldings spilling off his tongue, “Y/N, how many times must I tell you? Don’t try to manipulate my own magic against me. I built this place. Did you really think you could gain control?”   Seokjin squants himself down across from you. Then, he reaches in, planting a quick kiss to your bloodied lips despite the wails leaving your broken throat. The boy leans in to whisper in your ear, pant ghosting along your skin, “your magic is weaker than mine, witch.”   He giggles lightly and tips his head to the side, pouting. “Did you try to leave again? Why? You can be happy here, Y/N. No one will hurt you. I’m doing this for your own good. Why can’t you try to understand me for once? I love you.”   The sulking boy opens up his arms, embracing your thin and shaking frame. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you so much but I’m scared. Do you want to know why I’m scared, Y/N? It’s because I’m afraid that you don’t love me as much as I love you. I’m wrong, right? Tell me I’m wrong.”   You cry softly again, and he smiles against your matted hair. Seokjin pats your back in steady beats, humming a quiet tune to soothe you. “I didn’t bring you here because I like trapping you. I just don’t want you to leave me. If you left...what purpose would I have left to be alive? I have nothing. Y/N, I have nothing else in this world but you. Nothing else matters to me. I’m keeping you safe, love.”   “You’re mine.”   His arms around you tighten, the hug dispelling the biting chills away.   “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” He says it cutely and waves his hand. In an instant, the wounds are being stitched up by an invisible thread and needle. The blood fades away, eyeballs dancing in the air until they land back into your sockets, bruises and cuts disappearing like you didn’t scratch up your entire face. In the next wink of a second, you’re back to how you were before.   Your skin is flawless. Your hair is cleaned. Your clothes are no longer tattered up. The burn in your throat is consoled. But your eyes remain dead.   You open your mouth, screaming.   Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. Shrieking at the top of your lungs. As high as your vocal cords can manage. You wail with all the pain that is internal, beneath the sutured flesh and immaculate exterior.   The boy across from you smiles. He gazes at you with fond eyes, and he lifts up his gentle hands, squishing your cheeks together to plant another kiss on your lips. His thumb wipes away your cascading tears, running circles around your blooming cheeks and admiring the long lashes that lay on your skin when your lids have fluttered closed.   “It’s okay. You don’t have to cry anymore.” He coos to you as if you’re a crying baby, cherished eyes and soft hold. His warm arms wrap around your waist and you melt into his embrace. “I’m here now, my dear witch.”   In Seokjin’s grasps, you peel your dead eyes open.   There’s a painting in the hall, hanging on the wall, right in front of the door. It’s of a beautiful woman. She stands with her body tilted but head facing you. There’s a stiff smile plastered on her mouth. She holds a bouquet of red roses within her hands, the thorns seeping into her skin and the same scarlet that washes down her arm is reflected off her eyes.   The red roses in her hand wither away. The painting cries crimson blood. 

You recognize the painting. It’s you.

[mildly-incoherent-ramblings]

Alturas

Derived From, And An Offshoot Of “The Weekend In The Country” Writing Prompt, Given By Adam Gnade. 

A Preface: This story is awful. I have tried to work through this experience for years. This is a work of semi-fiction I suppose, but most of this really did happen, and you can guess which character is based on me pretty easily. I do not condone ANY of the actions depicted here. Please, care for your animal friends, and your elderly family, and if you cannot, find help for them. Good fucking god find some help and fucking save them. Do everything in your power. I did not sleep a full night’s sleep for months after what I saw that weekend.

CW: animal abuse, animal neglect, self neglect, dementia, guns, gunfire, themes of transphobia/homophobia, domestic abuse, toxic family dynamics, misogyny, vivid sensory descriptions of these things.

Part 1: Knuckle Bones

The drive itself was not bad. There was felt a certain nostalgia for many trips down south to San Diego to visit my great aunt with the family when we were children, or to the north to see the snow in the winter. Dad got lost for a little while, but he refused to admit it, he just angrily grumbled to himself and yelled to the backseat if anyone made a noise that broke his concentration. We rode through miles of outstretched quiet roads interrupted by the occasional rest area, and only stopped briefly at points for food and gas, and to rotate who got to sit in the front seat. On freeways and then off of them and up into the endless hills, long winding roads that almost felt like going in circles we drove, all of us anticipating the destination. We were going to visit grandma and grandpa, my Dad’s stepmom and father. They lived on a little farm out in Alturas.

Alturas is a small town nestled up in the rightmost corner of California, bordered both by Nevada to the east and Oregon to the north.  When we finally arrived there, the first thing I noticed were the hot air balloons. I had never seen them in person before. Floating out toward the horizon and above us and all around were hundreds of these drifting along, wicker baskets and all. Being mostly a city kid, I had almost forgotten they even existed. Peacefully scattered near and far in an expanse of clear blue sky I saw them; big beautiful ones with complex designs in an array of bright colors; mostly red and yellow with splotches of cyan and green, bits of neon pink. They reminded me of printer cartridges or SMPTE bars on a TV screen. I fixated on them as we rode up onto the main street of the town.

We stopped at a diner for breakfast, and the realization hit me that I was with my family and in a moderately conservative area. I would have no choice but to act as a woman here, I would not be given another option. I’d have to try my best to blend at least. Dressed in a baggy T-shirt and jeans, and a baseball cap backwards like some 90′s mall bro troupe, one could say that alone was a dead giveaway. But to these people, and to my family at the time, I was a dyke at best. At worst... lets not get into it.

We ate breakfast at this little place, dusty and kind of worn down, white walls yellowed over the years with tacky décor displayed upon them. The Don’t-Tread-On-Me flag hung up in the corner made me very nervous. Dad and my brother didn’t notice, but the old folks at the table next to us, and the truckers on the other side of the room, and the CHP officers grouped together at the bar shot daggers in my general direction, some of them holding their glare on me like snipers aiming for my head from the top of a building. I tried to eat quickly and eat well, especially since I hadn’t had anything that day except for gas station coffee and a pack of hostess mini donuts several hours before. I ate like I eat, which can be stereotyped as like how a man eats. At one point my brother said I wasn’t being polite, even though his table manners were about as bad, and the reason why he felt it different for me need not be spoken. Loud and clear.

My brother had a really hard time accepting my transition. Same with Dad. Neither will admit to it now but they both were cruel to me often, and for a while hoped they could just disregard this aspect of me and force me back into the box of womanhood until I gave up. When I first came out my brother he offered me a pair of jeans he didn’t wear anymore and asked me if I needed any advice on good cologne to wear, needed any razors, etc. This enthusiasm wouldn’t last. The next time he wanted money from me, or my weed, or something of mine he could sell, or someone he could point his anger toward, he would weaponize my former femininity against me and revert back to the same misogynistic behavior I had always known him to engage in. I was a woman again when he wanted me to be one, and I had no choice in this matter. This would go on for years. He still to this day has a deep subconscious hate for women, but thankfully and in despite of how sickening these implications are I have escaped this form of mistreatment after starting testosterone.

My Dad was a bit more open, he just didn’t know how to navigate it. He wanted to allow my brother to “have his own opinion” and opted to avoid discussion of it as much as possible. He would later learn that when it comes to something like this, there are no SIDES, there is either upholding the human need to live authentically or deny that need no matter how negatively this affected me and others like me. These days, he proudly supports me and is kind to the trans people in his neighborhood, and would like very much to take his kids to pride once covid is contained and its safe to attend large events again. He got better. Thank fucking god he got better.

We checked into an Inn down the road, got out and stretched our legs. My brother and I immediately went to go smoke a joint. We hid around the back of the building hoping Dad wouldn’t notice, but apparently we stank up the whole area and came back to him seething with anger. He sparked a cigarette, tried to calm down, and we unloaded our belongings from the car in silence. Then it was time to head to the farm. 

A few miles out from town we drove through the acres of desolate farmland down a dirt and gravel road that seemed to go on forever. I didn’t recognize the area until we started pulling into the driveway to their little house. Dad was swearing and smacking his steering wheel, cursing no one in particular but frustrated at how the gravel would scratch the paint on his car. We were, though we did try to blend in, hilariously obvious city people.

I recognized the shapes first, the house, the big looming tree on the right side, the wire fences surrounding the property, the rusty old truck. I had only been here as a kindergartener so my exact recollection of this place was fuzzy, but I had fond memories of the animals and how happy grandma and grandpa were to see me. I felt some excitement to return to this place that I always felt to be so welcoming, warm and filled with love. Then we got closer.

The first thing I noticed were the dogs. Two gigantic rabid pitbulls, one chained to the tree in the yard and one chained to a fence post just to the side of the house behind him. They were both aggressively barking and pulling on their chains trying to get to our car, foaming at the mouths and vicious as hell. I am cautious to describe this because I am aware of a certain stigma around pitbulls and their commonly misunderstood demeanor, and I will add that I have never known any dog of this breed to be cruel in any way by nature. But these dogs, they were not aggressive out of any sort of inherent violence and hatred, they were scared. They wanted to escape. The felt us to be a threat. Their paws were caked in shit and mud, mucus leaking from their eyes and matts in their fur. There were big festering wounds on the side of the dog nearest the truck as though he was bitten by something. Before him, the remains of a cat who had been caught and torn to shreds lay splayed open and rotting in the summer heat, the carcass filled with maggots. Bits of the poor things insides were scattered around the yard.

I turned my eyes over toward the house. The building itself had deteriorated significantly. The paint was peeling and chipped. Rotting wood was visible underneath all covered in a thick, black mold. The entire yard was littered with trash; rusty old cans and plastic bags, rotting apple cores, some unidentifiable mounds of what I can only assume had once been food waste. Weeds overgrew dusty and dry, and the front porch itself was falling away barely keeping its shape. To the left of it, the garage was wide open and I could see the stacks upon stacks of busted furniture, rusted metal piping, lengths of barbed wire wrapped in bundles and all manner of poorly kept junk haphazardly packed against the inner side wall.

My father’s eyes went wide as we all sat in silence, shocked at the appearance of what was apparently the home his mom and dad had been living in for the last few decades, and just how much the state of this place had declined since our last visit. He held his fist to his mouth, clenched so tight you could see his knuckle bones through his skin. Pushing back tears, he tried his best to shake the face of disgust and horror from himself before cautiously opening the door. Under his breath, my brother uttered the phrase “what the fuck,” which immediately resulted in dad turning toward the back seat angrily and slamming his fist on the middle console, growling at him to shut the fuck up through clenched teeth. The spray of his spit fell on our faces. His expression had shifted to be dramatically similar to the dogs. Anger and defensiveness as a secondary reaction to an underlying feeling of danger, and a desire to escape the inevitable. I have nightmares of this face. 

Just then grandpa came hobbling out from the garage clutching a 12 gauge shotgun, screaming for grandma that they had burglars on the premises and commanding us to leave. He pointed it upward and haphazardly fired a warning shot which went straight through the roof of the garage and aimed the smoking barrel directly at us. All three of us had our hands up instantly. Grandma came hobbling out of the house pulling through the dirt in her walker as quickly as she could, yelling for him to stop.

“Garland, that’s your fucking SON. And the grandchildren! They’ve come to visit, we just discussed this earlier this morning FOR FUCKS SAKE GARLAND PUT IT DOWN!” She grabbed his arm and he froze, the tension in his shoulders dropped. He lowered his weapon, staring at us puzzled as he processed the situation.

“ANDREW?” He yelled. “ANDREW IS THAT YOU SON?”

“Yes, Dad. Its us. Me and the kids.” he returned. He was shaking so much in the front seat I could feel it from the back. He slowly lowered his hands to his lap, my brother and I frozen in shock. 

(part 2 coming soon)

[manyfears-blog1]

Neibolt Blues

Prompt: Could I get a get a fic of reader feeling like an outcast among humanity. Like reader is just too strange and weird that most people find them off putting. (The story of my life.) And even when they make friends eventually there friends leave them because reader is a handful. They go to the creep house to be alone and sorta slump into a depressive state. Penny shows up and finds it weird why someone would actively come to "his" house. Reader is not scared, They are depressed its a whole different ballgame for the clown. Not sure what do with the human he allows them to stay around. Reader is thankful someone is there for them even its a murderous clown. Reader talks to him he listens, sorta. And thats enough for reader to feel listened to. Maybe reader leaves thanking him for listening. Then comes back and a bond starts to develop. Penny finds the reader so strange he likes them (He is quite a freak himself) and they both become friends.

Thank you so much @i-fuck-monsters for the prompt, I really do appreciate you messaging me!

So this one is a little long I’m sorry! I hope it isn’t too bland but I’ve never written something like this and enjoyed giving it a go. My inbox is always open <3

Words: 1684

You shove your hands into your side pockets and slink past pedestrians blocking your path; your breathing is sporadic as you hold back the tears welling up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You make your way through the town without drawing much attention, it almost feels like everyone around you sighs with relief at the thought of you leaving and never coming back, although you believe that to be true more than just a feeling, you stop at the edge of the footpath and stare into the road; replaying countless conversations, your brain cycles through all the people that you once called friends but have all left you like a run-down couch on the side of the road. With a huff, you kick a rock by your foot hard, not looking up to see where it travels but when you hear the ‘tink’ of it hitting a fence you look up, only then realizing you’re standing across from the infamous neibolt house. There are stories of something evil living inside that place, stories of people entering the house but never leaving, without hesitation, you walk straight for the door; the old wooden stairs wobble under your weight but without taking much notice you reach out and open the front door.

Once inside you scan the large room: It’s dusty and reeks of rotting meat, dead animals you assume, cob webs litter the peeling walls and dirt covers the deteriorating floorboards. The appearance doesn’t bother you and you make your way to an old couch stationed in the corner of the room but as you sit down a puff of dust further pollutes the air around you and you cough hoarsely, the coughing quickly turns to sobs and you lean on the arm of the couch and quietly weep. Deep down you hope the stories are true and you do go missing like the others.

The silence is disturbed by the sound of weighty footsteps stalking through the room not far around the corner near the staircase, slowly you lift your head from the arm and look around, heavy tears roll off your face and drop onto the old material below your head. It’s a tall, quite menacing looking, clown? Staring down at you with cold eyes. At least you think it is a clown but its palette is bland; dull, off-white costume with red ropes separating its arm sleeves and frills dangling over white gloved hands. You have no desire to properly analyse its wardrobe choices and gently rest your head back down although you’re still facing the weird clown but stare just past it. Something in the back of your mind is telling you you’re in danger but the mild concern is clouded again by the thick smog developing across your mind and throughout your body; your limbs are heavy, impossibly heavy, the ache in your heart has stopped and now you are numb, you’re not even really thinking anymore but just slowly embracing the nothingness the promises to relieve your invisible pain.

The clown is standing right next to you, still staring, it’s confused. Do you know it’s there? It feels nothing from you; no fear, happiness, not even an inch of curiosity? You might as well be part of the furniture as far as it’s concerned. It does detect a feeling but it wouldn’t know what to do with that: fear is sweet and enjoyable, whereas happiness is bitter. Prey without feeling fear tastes like cobwebs and mothballs but what if they are feeling nothing? The clown crouches next to you and forces its face into your distance field of view.

“Hello, Y/N!” it chirps happily. “You must be a little lost…What are you doing here?

The words rattle through your head a little making it hard to really make sense of the question. Silently you make proper eye-contact with it- the smile looks a little sinister but the fact it’s giving you attention catches you off-guard. Weird looking guy but it’s nice to have anything to talk to, really.

“Uh… Hey.” Your monotone voice creeps out of your throat. “I’m uh- I’m not lost, thanks.” Your dismissive responses show promise of ending any conversation, a tactic you know all too well used against you on the daily.

Before you drift away in thought again it talks to you again.

“Mind if I sit?” it asks, patting its hand on the cushion next to you.

“Sure.” Making sure to turn your head to avoid the dust assaulting your nose and throat again as it sits swiftly next to you, turning to face you.

“Why do you feel like this, Y/N? The emptiness is like nothing else.” The question is blunt and you have to repeat it in your mind to fully grasp the random intrusion by a creepy clown in an old house.

You give it all your attention now, your face red and puffy from crying and coughing.

“…Wait, who are you exactly?” your suspicious tone comes off harsher than expected.

“Oh! Well I’m Pennywise The Dancing Clown!” in his enthusiasm the bells on his costume jingle with his movements. Pennywise doesn’t give you time to respond- “You’re all alone, no friends, Y/N?” His tone becoming a little more derogatory. You used to be afraid of being alone, forgotten, hated, it used to keep you up at night with just the thought of everyone leaving you until it happened. One by one your ‘friends’ have left you. I just don’t think we should hang out spewing hate, twisting rumours to deter others from you You’re so annoying, Y/N, go bother someone else! This used to scare you and you could feel the familiar fear in the back of your mind but it was extinguished before it had a chance to manifest. Again, blank.

“Nope, not really, Penny- err?” The clown’s expression went blank for a brief second, like he was trying to conjure a different response, but his expression lifted slightly again. “Pennywise.”

“Well, Pennywise, I’m here because I want to disappear like the others, I’m already invisible to everyone else so I might as well..”

He seems to ponder over your response, what a weird clown, does he care about what I’m saying? Maybe he isn’t even real, maybe you’ve just-

“Really?” He interrupts- “Peculiar one you are, tell me.”

“Tell you…?” You ask, holding your head up higher to pay more attention to Pennywise.

“Tell me why you are feeling nothing, tell me what happened.”

You’re bewildered by his question, you perk up a little, straightening up your body more to face the clown sitting next to you and you scan his face suspiciously- You can’t read him like the others but you know the look of someone not caring, dismissing you like a fly on the table, but you don’t detect any hidden agenda to his questioning, in fact, he seems genuinely curious.

You take a big breath and tell him about your problems, it seemed so odd at first, you just met this thing and it has occurred to you it can’t be human but you’re not bothered by that in the slightest. It is more like talking to a very quiet, possibly disturbed, cat and you slowly begin to enjoy the time you spend with him on the dusty old couch. After a few minutes, you get up from the couch and walk around the decrepit house with Pennywise following you not too far behind, further supporting the disturbed cat theory, you talk and talk and without knowing, your spirit raises and you’re exploring the house more.

It’s late in the afternoon before you realise how long you have been here chatting and looking around, tripping over the occasional loose floorboard or rat carcass, but Pennywise caught you every time, giggling at your clumsiness.

“I should probably get going actually.” Realising the time, you look up at the clown, a little sad you should leave.

“Good.” He says, a little bluntly. You frown, have you annoyed him? He probably hates you like everybody-

“You didn’t disappear once in this house! Maybe you did something wrong...” He jokes, it takes a minute to process what he is saying but you begin to laugh, something so alien to you.

“You’re right, Penny.” You touch your face with an exaggerated expression of shock. “Maybe I should try again later?” Before he answers you leave the house and wave as you walk into the street.

 The next day you wake up feeling blue again, was yesterday a dream? Did you really meet some weird clown in the neibolt house? You begin to spiral out into your broken state again, so many scenarios buzzing through your skull you feel sick. Lying back in your bed with a thud you sigh loudly and stare out the window; the sky is grey and the sun is hidden by the thick clouds. Out of nowhere you get this feeling, it’s an odd feeling like someone is with you, in your presence but not present, it feels familiar and you start thinking about the day before again. You get a warm feeling inside of you, only just noticeable but you notice it.

Without much thought, you roll out of bed and quickly change clothes so it doesn’t look like you slept in the clothes from yesterday, you did, and race out of the house. Making your way through the twisting streets you finally spot Neibolt and you run towards the dilapidated dwelling. When you open the front door you briskly search the rooms for Pennywise, he isn’t here! You frown and turn to walk out but just as you do, you hear the familiar sound of bells tingling behind you, you turn and face the tall clown who is smiling down at you.

“Hiya, Y/N! You don’t seem so lost this time, want a balloon? He giggles at your surprised expression, you step forward, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Yeah, lets hangout?”

“Yes.” He grins, you smile in return, the warm feeling in your heart spreads ever so slightly.

[llonelethal-blog]

||Headcanon time||

This is going to be a long one, since it discusses a very important event from Lacuna’s life with his adoptive father. Buckle in and grab a tune to listen to if you’d like.

The old blacksmith who took Lacuna in as a child had a brother who was very close to him growing up. His brother had also learned the trade as a blacksmith, and could melt down scrap metal of all kinds into magnificent weapons. Several years before Lacuna crossed paths with the old man, his brother had set off west with his family, eager to avoid the rad storms that had troubled his childrens’ health. The brother promised him that one day, he’d have a radio set up with a signal strong enough to be heard in the Commonwealth, and by then he would be more than welcome to track the signal and meet them out west. When Lacuna was sixteen years old, that signal finally came.

He and the old man used a portion of their savings to rent a pack Brahmin and stock up for the trip ahead, more than a little hopeful that their family would be waiting for them with open arms and in good health. Lacuna had been reluctant to leave behind his friends and his current girlfriend, but he understood the importance of the trip, and imagined how much cleaner the air might be out west, how much safer the roads would be and how much happier they themselves might be with a real family to live with.

Day after day was spent on the move under blazing sunlight. Lacuna made a habit of wearing his shirt like a veil over his head and shoulders to avoid easily burning in the sun, and his guardian did the same, pausing only to catch the shade of an abandoned bus or a blasted tree. They used a great deal of their water stores to keep the Brahmin hydrated, but they had planned ahead by packing just enough to last them the trip. Lacuna took his much-needed naps during their brief but valuable breaks, and kept watch over the Brahmin and the old man when he slept each night. The occasional stingwing and mole rat pack kept him on his toes, his machete ever-present in his hand. But the further west they moved, the fewer enemies they found.

As the signal grew stronger, so did their hopes for a quiet, peaceful future. Surprisingly clean rain had replenished their water supplies, and they came upon a small trading hub about a month into their journey, stocking up after renting a room for a couple of nights. Upon continuing west, Lacuna admitted to his guardian that he no longer missed Diamond City. He was ready to keep going and find his new family.

Then, some weeks later, they began to notice the corpses. Roadside animal carcasses, mostly, blackened from the baking sun and gathering flies. One morning, they passed by a Red Rocket station which reeked of rotting flesh. Too curious despite the stench, Lacuna had peered through a window to find a whole family of Radstags, open eyes long since pecked out by crows.

They had reached a region of pre-war North Dakota, now little more than a flattened wasteland, inhabited with nothing but carrion-eaters. The clouds hung thick over the sky, and there wasn’t a person in sight. Even the hollowed-out pre-war buildings were few and far btween.

When they arrived at the signal’s source, they found an old schoolhouse on the side of an overgrown field. No noise except that from the signal could be heard. It was the middle of the day, but the clouds were darker than ever. A dead mole rat was laid out by the foundation of the house, riddled with old blisters and maggots.

The old blacksmith had told Lacuna to wait in the road. As the pack brahmin lowered itself to rest, he marched into the broken down door, wiping the cold sweat from his gray, furrowed brow. Lacuna knelt in the dirt, black jeans turned gray with dust. He felt certain that they would soon be on their way again, that his dad would figure out where their family had gotten to. There’d be a note in the house, or something, or….

He was startled when he heard the old man shouting. He’d never heard his dad so emotional. Immediately, he realized how foolishly hopeful they had been. Of course it had been too late. Of course, he realized, and the tears fell down his face.

By the time the blacksmith had stormed back outside, the broken house had begun to burn. He’d wanted to erase it all – his family, dead from an all-consuming plague – and he simply couldn’t bear to let them rot. Their ashes would be free to float skyward.

When he reached Lacuna, the boy was already on his feet, apologizing for unstoppable events. The old man pulled him into his arms, too tight to slip away, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He would not let the boy go, this single piece of family in his life, that he had risked so carelessly to get here. But there was nothing to be said. No one was willing to point out how horribly their hopes had been dashed.

The trip home was excruciating. Their supplies barely lasted them from trading post to trading post. Despite his inferior health, the old man insisted that Lacuna get a larger share of their water. He was guilty inside; every step away from that place of death was just a reminder of all the steps he’d made Lacuna take to get there. While physically healthy, Lacuna was nearly worried sick by his dad’s behavior. He was scared that the old man was letting himself die, too defeated to make the trip home. But somehow, they both scraped through. The Commonwealth, with all its mud and rad storms and dangerous – beautiful – life, was a welcome sight for their tired eyes.

Nine hundred bottle caps and the better part of a year had been spent in the time it took to leave and return. When they arrived back at their apartment building in the fens, the blacksmith took a sword to his radio, cleaving it apart in a final, furious outburst. They would never have another.

That night, they slept side by side under their patched blankets, so exhausted that they’d left on their shoes. Alone as they had felt in the west, they had finally found peace back at home.

Feel free to message me if you read the whole thing - I’d love to know what you thought.

[hitomishiga]

uh some unpolished fic thats either from the plane or from sitting in the hotel room but I don’t feel confident selling as Real Fic aka didn’t make the cut 4 the next monster of the week

2) Parasyte

Oh, God.

Maki feels like she’s gonna be sick. She has to hold on to the railing to stop herself from doing something stupid. In forensics she’s used to seeing some pretty gruesome stuff, but this is the worst thing she’s ever seen in her entire life.

The body (can she even call it that anymore? A body?) looks like it’s been flayed right open. No, flayed is the wrong word. Peeled is more like it, peeling like the skin of an apple, revealing bloody flesh underneath in such intact composition it makes her want to rip out her eyeballs. But more importantly, she can see what all the fuss was about before - up close, the gaping hole where the face opened up like some obscene alien mouth is lined with sharp needle-like teeth all the way in. Something that might be called a tongue if you were lenient enough extends limply from the position the spine should have connected with the skull. The jaw, now nonexistent, had split open and now the two halves of the jawbone sit either side of its amorphous, anomalous face. Like pincers. Like hellish, sickening pincers. The neck had apparently mostly exploded open too, but when Maki inspects it further, she can see the seams where the skin-flaps meet, where it could’ve gone further.

And that is another matter entirely. It’s wasn’t just the face that had peeled open, it was the body, as well. The carcass lies flat on its back, so Maki can’t see it too well, but she heard reports that things burst out of the spine, peeling back and back and back until it was a mass of flesh-and-skin-and-organ tentacles. Some of those sit lifelessly on the bed, not bleeding, but still wriggling. They’re tipped with claws that might have been bone, once.

Disgusting.

“A piece o’ work, huh.”

Toujou Nozomi, investigator and longtime colleague of Maki’s, creeps up behind. Maki hisses instead of screaming and turns around. God.

“Y- yeah…” She stutters. Her eyes flick back to the body. “I don’t feel like- I don’t feel like this was a normal homicide.”

No shit.

Nozomi snorts, sort of a laugh, but not really, because a morgue isn’t a place for that kind of thing. “You really think that?” She teases, and Maki’s ears go red. Nozomi takes a closer look at the monstrous cadaverous face with a face and stomach of steel. How does she do that? Nozomi speaks up thoughtfully after a pause to drag on her weird e-cig, “the eyewitness reports are a bit vague, but I think I know what this is.”

Maki scoffs. “Yeah? What do you think it is?”

“Aliens.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious,” Nozomi says, all mirth in her eyes gone completely. She scratches her chin and stretches back, her eyes roving across the body in a way that makes Maki’s teeth grit. She looks - kind of nervous. Her eye twitches. “Obviously we’ll haveta wait for the DNA samplings and all of that. But this thing - it’s not a human, that’s for sure. Look at the arrangment of the organs. They’ve just… Moved. Shifted. It’s not human physiology.”

The tone in her voice is colder than the morgue itself. Maki swallows. It feels a little bit like she’s been scolded. She hates it when Nozomi is like this. She hates it when Nozomi is right for once.

“So…”

Nozomi sets her gaze on Maki. It’s chilly.

“Remember the mystery murder up in Russia?”

“Do I.” Of course Maki remembers. They all remember. Unknown body, mangled beyond repair, shot by a farmer who thought it was a fox. When they got to it, it reeked of rot and looked more like an exploded watermelon than a person. “Don’t see what that has to do with his, though. Wasn’t that - wait, you don’t - you don’t think they’re connected do you?”

Nozomi doesn’t answer, not right away. She’s infuriating like that. Instead, she traces a line down the one intact arm where red raw flesh peeks up beneath. It trembles. Maki feels her teeth grit on edge like Nozomi is tearing a chalkboard with her nails and not a cadaver.

“I know so,” she says in a voice she always uses when she knows Maki won’t believe her. And Maki doesn’t, or she doesn’t want to. But it’s compelling. Nozomi traces the line of Maki’s jaw with closed eyes and bated breath, and looks away from Maki to take another drag. “Ya don’t believe me now, Maki, but you’ll see. You’ll see.”

Maki’s left, for a very long time after that, with a feeling of unease and a shifting under her chest like slugs in her veins.

–

3) Zombie (mundane)

“Woah!” Riko screams, “Chika oh my god watch ou-”

She doesn’t get the chance to finish her warning, of course, because Chika veers the car dangerously and they end up hitting the thing anyway.

“Chika! You almost killed someone!”

Chika, dutifully looking pale and frantic, tries three times to turn the ignition off and swings open the door without closing it. Riko, almost too afraid to follow, waits behind the windshield and the glaring car lights for a moment. They’re alone. They’re on an empty road. They’re far from home. Riko might have signal, Chika definitely doesn’t, they checked. Riko, so far, has managed to avoid a single felony in her life. She doesn’t want manslaughter to be her first.

With a steeled nerve, Riko slowly opens the door to investigate.

“Chika!” She shrieks. “You just killed someone!”

Indeed, it seems that way. Riko can barely take it all in. A body, strewn across the road, barely illuminated by the headlights. An arm definitely twisted the head, wrong way. And - and was that a leg over there?

Riko feels sick.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god-” Chika’s chittering to herself, pale as a ghost and shaking all over. She bends down and feels for a pulse, which is dumb, because this person is obviously dead. Actually, it looks like they’ve been dead for hours. Maybe days. Riko isn’t an expert on dead people, not exactly.

“Call an ambulance-”

“I don’t have signal! You call an ambulance!”

“No no I can’t do that th- this is-” Riko breaks off with an ungodly scream. Not because of the dead body but because of the moving body. Like, the body twitched. And it’s eyes snap open.

“Ohhhh,” groans the zombie, “ow, ow, my- my leg?”

Chika joins Riko in screaming and they clamp together in fear. Riko’s never seen Chika scared before. But she’s also never seen a talking dead person before, so.

“You’re- you’re-” Chika, quick to recover, points with a trembling finger. “You’re-”

“Ah shit,” the zombie says, and sits up and wipes her face off. “Hey, can one of you mortals just - like, pass my leg here or something? Never mind, I’ll just do it myself.”

True to their word, the zombie just starts pulling themselves forward with their hands and clumsily reaches for the half of their leg that got detached in the accident. “Keeps coming off,” they mumble to themselves, “stupid leg.”

Riko watches in grotesque curiosity as the zombie joins their leg together and the wound fuses right before her eyes. The zombie stands up and dusts themselves off. Now Riko can see they’re wearing a weirdly out-of-place gothic dress and combat boots. Also they’re wearing makeup, but like, stage makeup. In the middle of a country road at night. Also they’re alive, apparently.

Which is a good thing, because it means Riko hasn’t committed manslaughter and isn’t going to prison just yet.

“So,” the zombie(?) says, putting their hands on their hips, “you guys probably have questions, I get it I get it. Everyone has a question for the great fallen angel Yohane.”

There’s a pause. A chilly wind sends goosebumps up Riko’s skin. “Yohane”’s pose deflates a little.

“You’re a fallen angel?” Chika asks incredulously. Chika, Riko feels like saying, she just got hit by a car and put her leg back on like she was tying her shoes, and that’s what you’re sceptical about?

Yohane looks like they’ve been stung and pointedly makes an effort to avoid eye contact. “Well, uh, technically…” they grimace. “… No, I’m just a person, I guess.”

“You literally just died and came back again.” Riko points out.

“Oh! That!” Yohane says, as if it were the kind of detail people could just forget about. “Yeah, sometimes this happens.”

Sometimes this happens, Riko repeats, sensibly in her head. Chika, for her part, looks greatly amused and no longer shaken.

“Woah!” She exclaims. “Does it, uh, hurt?”

Yohane winces. “Duh?”

“Oh my god I’m so sorry about hitting you with my car-”

“Shouldn’t you have apologised straight away? Getting hit by cars is not a pleasant experience!”

“I didn’t realise there was anyone on this road!”

“It’s a main thoroughfare - of course, you shouldn’t have been so careless…”

Riko fixates her gaze on the slow dribble of blood down Yohane’s ashen grey leg. She swallows. Yohane stops their jabbering for a moment to follow Riko’s worried glance. They wipe the blood with one finger and grimace.

“I don’t suppose… You have any, like, bandages, or anything?”

Her excitement and stress and situation finally catching up to her, Riko’s body decides now is the perfect time to pass out.

[criohyer]

we can make the devil sick. we are a mirror in which they see all their dark desires, their gnawing regrets and their deepest fears. who is the devil's maker? a man.

sweat courses; bleeds into bed sheets, chest clamours like lamenting moths scattering without gaslight. sinking deeper into the arms of morpheus, slumbering fitfully against warmth of chest watching himself walk into a forest. lack of ceremony, he knows the roots like he knows the own patterns of his veins. he goes silently, without wits and auscultates branches breaking beneath weight until stomach churns and comes a cruel icy wind raising the hairs on the back of his neck. suddenly it feels like he is walking a tightrope over that endless emptiness on one sad, fraying, thin violin string that plays the notes that are froliced to the rot in deaths final stages, the songs by sonnets and lyres the deaf mortals hope to hear, fathom what comes after.

music; when soft voices die vibrates in the memory and odours when sweet violets sicken. it cannot be forgotten.

its a sudden misplacement, the soles of his shoes and soon his trousers soaked in mud. the forest there to deceive him of an abode. warmth of breath respires against the back of his neck, he turns to face the unsettling presence.

alone.

just as he had been.

hearken, he persists even in the uncertainty. tactions the same breath from behind only there is a hovering of feminine palms over his vision. i have to show you something. voice just shy of a whisper, the hush purr signatured to the tone he knows of katerina, her dulect sound is a choir that makes all shiver.

katerina, let me see you.

no answer.

stomach drops and his nerves hook him like the night has with the moon. his twisted dreams descend to the underworld where nothing ever grows except the fear he keeps within which never seems to sleep and this will grow as lower down he goes. his ribs are concaving, inward enough to have him bleed from within and choke.

on the fringe of sinister lurkings in the shadows that fool him, her face is what can bring him clarity.

finding her, touching her, seeing her feels like trying to make his way through a tunnel the size of a coffin. he is suffocating and his lungs are crushing.

open your eyes. three words and his body rises from resting place, dug back up from dirt, abandoning his purest form as ashes. ragged breathing pattern rapid, he is as cold as the night she left and the sensation is burrowing into his bones, atrophying his organs. even in his dreams he can't reach her. he is unable to push vigilant demons back to the darkness where they thrive, instead they're feasting on flesh.

patriarch of hell surmises he may have been encased in childhood upon the maw of the earth, alike a coffin, born backwards with the old hunting rifle in his hand. first he’d brought back rabbits and then waterfowl. at his finest hours, he’d drag home the bodies of deer and feral hogs. it made his father beam teeth for his kin. only mirth quickly drained out the valve of pride, his game manifested itself in more depraved forms. gnashing his son and devouring him in gullet until he was tough, hard-wearing and made to last out in the woods of playground.

there was lacerations, deep seated bruises and blood. so much of it, sullying the walls and the home until it bled up through the pipes and up the drains, pooling the sink to enshroud the carpets until soaked. that pain does not match this.

it's worse.

he keeps two knives pressed against his chest once he is out of that home, one more is at his side. but that one belongs to you, father. stolen by the son from the rotted carcass of the old house, like so much else of him. that pain still creeps from above burbling lungs, shooting up the twisted nerves of his chitinous arms. remembrance comes in nauseous waves, but is no surprise to the son of the beast. the teeth of man are gritting with hurt as god preaches the truth: you were never chosen. years he’d prayed for the greater good, but now the god of beasts stirs to waking in the back of his skull, a reminder of its cruel hunger follows with it, down deep in the pit of his stomach. for as the shotgun is suited for the earthly hunt, the knife is for ritual, incinerated into his flesh: bore the same skin as the same blood as his father.

eyelids are heavy, it's hard to swallow her touch for that was all he had ever dreamed about and at last she was finally giving it to him after all the baying. he walks down to a riverside, sinks like a stone in the river deep. feather like stroke of her tender soft fingers and nails on the back of his neck, the sensation is fleeting like a ghost. the curse ruled from the underground down by the shore she entrances him, stranglehold covers his short temper and sends him blind to not see the danger ahead.

"i want you because when it rains i know you are looking at the same rain. i have to believe it means something different to you than it does to me. you are like my first bicycle accident. before the mouthful of gravel and blood head over handles, i swore it was beautiful. as the devil spoke, we spilled out on the pavement. pieces broke and unlike carrion we carried on. i see the holiness, i see the darkness. you are the beauty i see in worst moments. i'll take your poison, make it mine. i'll turn our heartache into wine and drink it until the glass is half full."

a voice is what orchestrates a person. sudden, hers had changed like rose leaves, when the rose is dead. orbs harden and he watches her move, her lips part through her words as she speaks of herself in third person.

ask the sun how the earth and the aurorals came, it'll tell you about the pain it takes to become.

vision moves to the fingers that trace the skin on her chaste thigh, pushing the hem of her skirt upwards towards her body enticingly and he visibly swallows. the seething of his lewd depraved palette itches at his trachea, his tongue abrasive like sandpaper. the voice in his head asks to reveal more, push it further, let him suspend her over a mattress. travel her generous thighs where he can ridge between them until he writes into her flesh, lost until dawn disrupts him.

he wants her melted inside him, all her tears shed for him. for her to disappear to the world around him. he would bring her to the swamp she loves so well where he gently places her in it. bring her soul to ease with kisses and he says to her; don't cry, don't feel. you won't die because i don't think death's real. it's mine as it should be at your heels, draping around you controlling your very breath.

"i pace a cage for you, starved of what i need and what i can give you. i will empty inside of you until you're gagging, choking on the blood. i want it raw, pushed to the verge." light flitters and fleets, only auroral reflections crawl over the walls, like the jewelled coves of a child’s imaginings and still lingers the pungency of decay.

the demon is creeping underneath his skin, taking him off guard. using his own mind, his own thoughts against him that want katerina.

he wants control, it tastes metallic, biting too hard down on red pulp in mouth and the demon has him handcuffed to a post, body chained to death, the inevitability that he will destroy her, that they will destroy each other. covered up to the neck in soot of the forbidden and the unclean sin. rusted irons pulling his spirit towards torturous purgatory without her for they were never meant to be, god and even the devil did not wish to paint such disgust of two black souls intertwined, one searching for a gaping hole to fill unable to evade one anothers sting and burn, obliterating all in wake. shackled souls who cry in hope. his name in blood on white-washed walls.

control melts like wax, it's a cog in machinery that has forces outside its own will. comes like a jagged gash. "control evaporates within seconds and it dries within moments. a man doesn't like the word no unless it's in his voice and under his control, if it is sacrilege you seek, demon; in a body that is too pure to not submit. if you want to take her down with you, destroy her until she is unclean. open any vein. find out what happens first, control or helplessness."

his hands on steering wheel, one second his attention turned away and it can cost him a life. it cost him two. staring at her thighs as the demon spoke in the tongues that would coerce him, running through his veins like toxic bane. he could only have hoped he had control over that steering wheel like he had with her, but he had little sway over either of them with the spectre jittering in ball of throat of the woman he loves. the next occurrence was as unnoticed as a pin drop.

abrupt, a doll possessed, she simply sat as the fog rose and rose, like a murderous tide she shot at him with canine teeth and teared into his neck, veering them off the road. poached wide eyes, his vision snaps to the windshield

just before the oncoming collision, white headlights flashing and engulfing his features. he feels his heart stop in his chest upon the impact, he grabs her arm biting flesh blue with bruises. instinct would have her arm, an effortless pull, like a

wing off a fly to prepare to shield instead slams the crown of his skull into the steering wheel as tiny glass shatters pierce into his face.

they say you see your life flash before your eyes before you die, what flashed before his was his greatest regrets like a cloaked reaper were there whispering in his ear; this is it. this is how you go, are you satisfied with what interesting stories you will tell the dirt? lived longer than a century, i bet you never saw this coming.

you were a fool. wearing your best suit to the grave? does it eat you alive even now that you're dead you couldn't save her? look at you, kicked puppy. you were never a white knight. you have the courage of a dog with its tail between its legs.

these foundations of the metal vehicle, its chassis with fantasies gone foul, walls scabbed with timelessness. the stones asperse with shades lifted from a child’s night terrors. those scintillating lights the greenish - yellow of gharial eyes, apertures to nowhere. fog swells higher, hazy and tenuous. it pawed at her anomaly, ate away at her dimensions and seeks to kill them both. this is not a regal carcass; not a castle, nor a chapel. this is the paper hands calling them from doom.

they're filled over on the roof. he sees stars, the crash is as loud as the screeching of train wheels shuddering at track, metal corrosion until sparks fly with its whistle shrieking. he is in a coma for days and the only dream he has is the same continuous one in the forest, the unnerving presence he can't find and the girl he loves lost.

until he wakes. his body aches, feels as if it had been digested from underground, spat out from the devil's mouth and ran down the stream of agony. but his body isn't the pain that racks him or even registers him, his chest feels like it is a moment away from convulsing remembering the moments before he blacked out. katerina killing them. the nurse rushes to his side and asks him his name which he does not respond, especially not the name that is on his birth certificate and in the system, the one that belonged to the tsar's son whom died one hundred years ago.

he only says two words.

ekaterina fuller.

[theemeraldcourt]

🕴️ (Morrez dad?)

It was a long way home from where they started, and Morrison knew he was in a great deal of shit. He rode on the back of his donkey, Euril, as his father walked steadily with the reigns in his hand. He looked behind him, at the burning houses and corpses, then back to his father, his knuckles white but his pace even-footed and calm. The boy couldn't help but gulp. What had he gotten himself into, really?

As they passed a corn field, Morrison saw two Defias running around, setting fire to the crops. He looked at the back of his hand at his own Defias tattoo and covered it in shame. Robert didn't even flinch, not looking to the side even though Morrison could tell that he heard the yelling. Or did he? "D-Dad?" Morrison tried to connect with his father, but he was only met with cold, dead silence.

They walked some more before they passed another farmstead. It was empty, torched as well, and Morrison was reminded that this was his doing. He'd brought the Defias here on this cart just to set fire to a family's house. Was he no better than Jirard, the serial killer that had killed most of his extended family? No, no he really wasn't. As they strolled past, he saw the glimpses of the rotting carcasses of their livestock, and he covered his face in his hands.

Just then, Morrison heard his father's voice from in front of him, loud, crisp, and resonant. "Do you understand the severity of what you've done, now, son?" He didn't turn to face him, and hadn't taken his eyes off the road, as far as Morrison could tell. Morrison lifted up his head and sat in silence for a while. Robert cleared his throat, wordlessly demanding a response.

"I... yes, father. I am deeply, deeply sorry for what I've done, and I'm not sure how to repent for my actions," he said, sitting up a little more. Morrison patted Euril a bit, and just over the hill he could see his own house, untouched. He could only imagine it wouldn't be for very long that the house would stand and that the Defias would come for his family once again.

Robert was silent once again as they pulled into the small stables, where Morrison got off and helped take off the tack. His father helped only a bit, taking the cart off the donkey and setting it against the fence, then going inside. He sighed. Was he just going to sit in his chair like he had before? Sit and stare at the hearth and do nothing? Why even bother bringing him home, in that case?

Once Morrison was done, he entered the house. It was exactly as he'd left it, save for the fast everything but his father's chair was covered in a thick layer of dust. Just seeing it made him cough, and he opened a window. From behind, he heard his father's footsteps, and he turned around to see him holding The Book and a curved dagger. His face was a little more stern than he was used to, and seeing him like this put fear into the boy's heart. "Uh, what are you going to do with that?"

Robert motioned for him to come into the main living room, where he knelt on the dusty rug in front of the hearth and set down the old wooden storybook, the dagger still in his off-hand. He motioned with his head for Morrison to kneel in front of him, and he obeyed, not sure where this was headed.

Robert opened the tome to a picture of a tentacled creature with many eyes, that which Morrison did not comprehend. The script next to it was strange as it was, and just looking at all of it gave him a headache. "I believe it is the time that we come to this conclusion, my son. I have told you the stories of millennia past, of the Old Ones and Their ways," he said, putting the athame out in front of him, in his palms. "Take this dagger and grip the blade in your hand. Let the blood touch the pages."

Morrison was shocked. He had never been allowed to see the pages, let alone touch them. He stared at the dagger in his father's hands and took the blade's grip with his right hand. He was eager to see where this would take him, The Gods always having intrigued him in the past, and he didn't think much of anything before grabbing the blade itself with the other hand. Fortunately and unfortunately for Morrison it was very sharp, cutting deep and letting blood flow quite easily onto the book and the floor.

As soon as the blood touched the tome, however, Morrison lost his vision and the rest of his senses. Everything was dark. He didn't know how long time passed, though it felt like an eternity before he heard something in his mind. Dissonant whispers of indistinct words were heard faintly, before eventually growing louder and louder, until it was the only thing that existed over Morrison's own thoughts. Without the capability to think, a voice much like his own father's rang out to him. "Is this the path you've chosen? As it shall be."

And the loud whispers faded to a corner of Morrison's mind as he awoke. He looked around him, and noticed he was tucked into his bed. The whispers grew to dominate his mind again, and they forced him out of bed. "Take the tallow candle. Look. Your father is sitting there. Doing nothing. As he always has." And sure enough, as Morrison took his bedside candle and peered around the corner, he saw his father sitting in his chair, staring at the unlit hearth. "He has done nothing for you. Take your belongings. Tack the donkey. Bring him to his beloved with flame."

So he did. He took what brewing supplies they had left, the book, the dagger, and anything else of value and loaded it onto the cart. After setting up Euril, he used the candle to catch flame to the dusty, bone-dry objects in the old house. Robert did not move, though Morrison saw at the corner of his eye that his father had been watching him, though unmovingly so. The thatched-roof wooden cottage went up in a blaze very quickly, and he escaped to the north with his belongings, never looking back.