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nysrevenge · 11 days ago

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My Little Love

PLOT: After Stack’s betrayal during her pregnancy, Y/N is left navigating single motherhood with their newborn daughter, Akari, while trying to co-parent with the man who once promised her forever. Still wearing the engagement ring he gave her, Y/N struggles to stay strong through sleepless nights, heartbreak, and the lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll change. With support from his twin brother Smoke and a heart full of love for her daughter, she begins the journey of healing—even if Stack never finds his way back. C/W: A BEGINNER WRITER PLEASE EXCUSE ANY WRITING MISTAKESInfidelity, emotional stress, light cursing, postpartum emotions,Angsty, soft, intimate, Single motherhood, betrayal, co-parenting, healing

The apartment was still. Still in that way that made silence feel loud.

Like it had a heartbeat.

Like it was watching you struggle and choosing not to help.

Akari’s tiny snores filled the space, soft and uneven. Her chest rose and fell against yours, curled like a comma in her pink onesie with milk stains on the collar. You didn’t even bother to change your shirt after she spit up. You were too damn tired. Tired in your bones, your heart, your spirit.

You adjusted her little bonnet gently, making sure it still hugged her edges just right. She had his lashes—long, dramatic, wasted on someone who couldn’t even sit up yet. She had his lips too, and you hated that. Because sometimes she cried and it sounded just like him when he used to whisper your name into your neck.

You stared at the engagement ring still wrapped around your finger. Diamond catching the light, reflecting all the dreams you had for a family he swore he wanted.

Twist.

Untwist.

Twist.

Your thumb rubbed it out of habit. You didn’t even think anymore when you did it. It was like your body clung to the memory even when your mind begged to let go.

You were somebody’s fiancée. You had the Pinterest board. The baby on the way. The man with his arms wrapped around you, whispering sweet things that turned sour too damn quick.

Then Mary happened.

You were seven months pregnant, back aching, swollen and hungry for fried pickles at three in the morning. He said he was “stepping out real quick.” Came back two hours later smelling like weed and somebody else’s body.

She didn’t even lie good. That dumb little “we just cool” smirk. You’d seen the messages. The sneaky link texts. The missed calls with her name lighting up his phone at night.

He ain’t deny it either. Just looked at you with those sad eyes, like he didn’t know how he ended up ruining the only soft thing left in his life.

And now here you were. Trying to stay soft. Trying to stay sane.

Trying to be a good mama.

For Akari.

Smoke came over on Thursdays.

It started the second week after you brought Akari home. No announcement. No knock. Just him and a bag of groceries and that stoic, unreadable expression he always wore like armor.

“She sleeping?” he’d ask.

You’d nod. Then sit at the kitchen table while he chopped fruit or folded tiny onesies with that awkward big-brother energy only Elijah Moore could pull off.

Tonight, he peeled oranges, the citrusy smell filling the room while you warmed up a bottle. Akari’s tiny cries were fading in the background. She had a full belly now. No reason to cry but maybe to match her mama.

“She smile yet?” Smoke asked, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

“Once. Yesterday.” You swallowed. “She smiled in her sleep… looked just like Elias.”

Smoke didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stared at the counter like it told him things.

Then: “You still wear that ring?”

You paused, glancing at your hand. It was there. Always. Like it was a part of your skin now.

“Don’t even think about it no more,” you muttered. “It’s just… there.”

“Or maybe you still want it to mean something.”

Your jaw clenched. Not because he was wrong, but because he was too damn right.

“Maybe I just need a reminder,” you whispered, “that I wasn’t crazy. That we were real.”

Smoke sighed. Walked over and pulled out a chair beside you.

“You weren’t crazy. You just loved a version of my brother he couldn’t keep being. At least not while he was still chasing whatever pain got him moving stupid like that.”

You blinked fast. One tear made it down before you could stop it.

“I hate him some days,” you admitted.

“Yeah. But you still love him too.”

Late nights were the worst.

You found yourself recording voice notes into your phone like it was a diary. Sometimes you’d play them back and delete them right away. Sometimes you’d keep them, even if they’d never be sent.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Akari slept on your chest, and you stared at the ceiling, fingers running circles against her back while your voice cracked softly into the mic.

“My little love…

I don’t think I ever imagined being a mama like this. Alone.

I thought your daddy would be here every night, right beside us.

I thought he’d rub my feet. Talk to you through my belly. Be the kind of man that little girls brag about when they grow up.

I thought he’d choose us.

But maybe he ain’t even know how.

I’m sorry if the air around you feels heavy sometimes.

I’m doing my best. I swear I am.”

You stopped. Let the silence speak.

Then whispered, “I love you more than anything, ‘Kari. More than I loved him. And that’s saying a lot.”

Elias knocked exactly three times.

You hated how you could still tell it was him just from that. His knock was always confident, quick, impatient.

You opened the door slowly.

He looked the same. Same fitted black tee. Same haircut. Same gold chain you bought him two Christmases ago.

And those eyes. Still sad.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

The silence dragged.

“She ready?”

“Yeah. Bag’s packed.” You turned to grab it.

He stepped inside just enough to see her on the couch in her car seat, pink pacifier bobbing with every breath.

“Damn,” he breathed. “She get bigger every week.”

“She look like you more every day.”

That hurt landed in his throat. He tried to hide it, but it was there. Swallowed down behind a nod.

You handed over the bag. Avoided his touch.

Then his eyes dropped to your hand. The ring.

“You still wear it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

Finally, you said, “Habit.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. Something bigger. But the space between you was too wide, too full of things unsaid.

“See you Sunday,” you said softly, brushing Akari’s cheek one last time.

He hesitated before stepping out the door.

“Y/N…”

You met his gaze.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just turned and left.

You stood at the window as the car pulled off.

Heart tight. Eyes wet. Ring still on.

But Akari had your strength. And your smile.

And your future.

And for now…

That had to be enough.

@decayingearf @bapelana @zenonsdreams @louvazura @aliszaaaaaaaa @raysogroovy @kenshisluvrgirl

#sinners x reader #sinners #elias stack moore #stack sinners #elijah smoke moore #sinners 2025 #black reader #Spotify

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naamahdarling · 10 months ago

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The Jeebers have the run of the house now except for nighttime. It's going pretty well. They were absolutely terrors today. They have no notion of what is okay and what is not and they don't understand anything, and trying to teach them months' worth of lessons in a relatively short time is a challenge. I'll write more about that tomorrow, although I guess I talk about it rather a lot anyway.

Working to try to help them understand the world we are asking them to live in and help create has really made me think a lot about their inner worlds It has made me remember Dried Pickle Man in the early days, when his emotional and behavioral issues were worse than they were later on. He forced me to extend more thought and more empathy towards a cat than I had ever done before.

I have a lot I want to say about how he was and how that forced me to be better, and it feels indulgent, and would be long, but there is so much that he taught me, and I'm honestly so grateful. He was the most emotionally complex animal I've ever had. Not for beginners.

It isn't making it easy to deal with the babies. It is making it easier. Mostly it means I don't get angry. Momentarily very frustrated, yes, and certainly annoyed, but not angry.

He's helping them from beyond his boggy grave, and I'm trying so hard to do right by him by doing my best for them. I will always feel I could do so much better, but we'll get there eventually regardless.

My nasty little man. I wish I could go back and do it all again. Do it right. He was so good.

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okayigetitifuckedup · 23 days ago

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My Dad and I saw something in the woods, and haven't been the same since.

Growing up in Eastern Kentucky, with an out-of-work coal miner father, a mother on disability, and four younger siblings, food had to stretch. As the oldest, I did my best to ensure the younger ones got full before I filled my plate, but some nights, we all went to bed hungry. One bad flood was enough to ensure that. We kept three gardens up, through my childhood, and while my early summers were spent working over corn, beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, and anything else my dad shoved into the dirt that had the courage to spring back up, with their friends for me and my family to enjoy.

My early autumns were my favorites, spent with my Grandparents in the kitchen, canning the harvest to last through the winter. My grandmother and I spent hours doing everything just right, sanitizing, seasoning, sealing, and waiting for the lids to give us that pop to let us know we did it right.

Once upon a time, I had so many grandiose ideas as a child of starting my own business, selling the same canned and pickled items I grew up on. It is still my favorite memory, despite the heat of the kitchen when it was time to seal the Ball jars, and the scar on my thumb from burns.

We didn’t just garden, we also gathered. Gathered berries from local trees and vines, dandelions for jelly, onion grass, and wild garlic for everyday cooking. We hunted squirrels, turkeys, rabbits, and… Deer, which we filled our freezer with to keep for the off-seasons. I know that hunting is a controversial topic to a lot of people. I do not plan to try to change your mind on those opinions, but I do hope that you’re willing to hear my story anyway.

My father bought me my first gun at nine years old. It was a twenty-two, and a fine beginner gun. He did this out of necessity. He needed a second hunter with him the moment I was able, on my twelfth birthday. If I was scared of the damned things, I would be no use at all. I often remember that birthday. Sitting out behind our trailer with my father, my grandfather laughing on a foldout chair nearby, drinking an iced tea so sweet it would have taken his wife's foot if she drank it. Shooting at a giant foam target, and getting excited as my hits got closer. They were both so damn proud. That memory comes with a sour taste now, since excitement is never the emotion I feel when I hold a firearm now.

I hated my first year hunting. The gore of it all turned my stomach. I had needed to help him skin the kills, gagging and crying as the offal spilled out onto the ground beneath where the animal was hung, or held, depending on its size. I couldn’t stand to look at the poor things, and my father gritted his teeth through it, my mother defending that I was a sensitive boy. I’ve come so far since then, it’s almost funny.

My father had the hide of the first rabbit I shot tanned and gave it to me as a gift. Its fur was so soft, and all I could imagine as I held it was how beautiful the animal had looked before my father and I had turned it into a strip of fur. The shame when I looked at the thing was so intense, I hid it in a shoebox in my closet. However, the pride in my father's eyes and the promise of rabbit and gravy for my birthday was enough to hold my tongue.

The next year, we had to sit out many hunting trips because my grandfather’s cancer had returned with a vengeance. He had been transferred to a hospital out of state, and my father stayed with him through much of the last of his life, taking my siblings and me to see him in his last week in the hospital.

He had always been larger than life, boisterous, and laughing. A joke for every occasion. A true giant among men, not just in size but in presence. But on that day, he was quiet, pale, and deathly thin, leaning against sheets in a hospital bed hundreds of miles from the home he knew, the mountains he loved. He looked so small. And so very tired. Nothing like the hero I had grown up with, that my father had grown up with.

I remember he asked my grandmother when he could go home, a quiet anger in his voice I had never heard him use before. I didn’t think she had either, because I remember the way she flinched at the tone, blinking back tears as she told him that he would go home soon. He died less than twenty-four hours later, and we went home with his body. All he wanted was to die in his own home, and we failed him that.

That was my first experience with human death. I wasn’t expecting the second to happen quite as quickly as it did, or to be so diametrically opposed to the quiet grief of the first.

My dad always wanted to get to his spot early, before the sun rose over the clearing. Maybe that was what all hunters do, but I never really got into it enough to care. For me, it was an obligation. For my father? It was his first love. I never saw my dad happier than I did on the way to his tree stand. It was an old thing, his father's before his, and set on a small hill, surrounded by thick trees that gave cover, and drowned the floor of the thing in acorns we would need to get rid of before hunting. It overlooked a clearing.

That clearing was my favorite part of hunting. I could stare for hours. In fact, the word ‘clearing’ felt too abrasive for what it was- a meadow, that I thought might be covered in wildflowers in the spring, though I had never seen it during that time of year. Kudzu ate away at the far-right tree wall, devouring even a portion of the grass in a ghostly green wave of fluttering leaves. It was beautiful, even as the trees surrounding it died, there was something entirely peaceful about the place, a peace that I would never scrape together after that last unseasonably warm fall day.

I got to see Dad's old friend Beau again the day before it all went wrong. They had known each other since school, and loved each other like brothers. Beau was tall, so much taller than any other man I had met at that time, and handsome, in an overly masculine, unputtogether way. Shaggy, dark hair, and light blue eyes that I always avoided looking at for long, as they made me a bit nervous. He never looked at me much either, not in a mean way, just in a way that said I was his friend's kid, and he wasn’t there for me. I remembered once, when we had been practicing shooting, Beau had ruffled my hair after a particularly good shot, and I didn’t wash it until my mom made me, days later. I don’t know why, really.

I had been to his wedding only two years before, with his blonde-headed wife with the scar on her jaw, and a small hand that fit perfectly into his large ones. He was as quiet as he ever was, but when Dad asked about how his wife's pregnancy was going, his cheeks went dark, and he looked out the window, muttering quietly, “She’s doin’ good, real good.” A damn monologue from Beau. I didn’t know she was pregnant. It made my stomach feel weird to think about. Dad’s slow, thick voice kept the car nice and loud on the way across the state line, to the land owned by some family member who had no qualms about thinning the animal population on occasion.

We all three stayed in the car the night before, something I didn’t have many thoughts on at the time. The sounds of nature through the car door were the same as the ones through my broken bedroom window, black garbage bags pressed over the broken frame, keeping the cold out, though not well. We ate potted meat and crackers while my father told ghost stories about his childhood. Dad always loved ghost stories when I was young. I think he just liked feeling something other than what he usually did.

When it was time to go, determined by my father, based on some invisible set of guidelines beyond my understanding, I set to changing into the set of camo my father had picked out for me, thick denim-like material, that went on over my long underwear, something my father was insistent on, knowing the weather could turn at any moment, not interested in hearing me cryin’ over the cold. Beau and my father were already dressed, outside the car, and I was fiddling with the clasps on my overalls, trying to shorten the straps, when I heard the rumble of an engine outside the car.

I hadn’t been expecting my uncle to appear. He was a seasonal figurehead in my life at best, only staying in town for a couple of months before going away again, with the only explanation being that he was sick, but working on getting better. As an adult, I knew the Sackler Family, and his motorcycle accident at only nineteen years old was to blame for his shakes, his paleness, and his absence.

To my young eyes, my uncle looked like my dad, if my dad was ran through a taffy puller, and starched before he dried. Bald and bearded, just like my father, but where my father was fat, and slow to most anything, movement, speech, etc, my uncle was sharp, thin, and tall. Gangly. Pale and withered to my father's rounded abundance. He was a wildman. I knew that, even then. I thought he was always moving because he was easily bored. It wasn’t until I was older, I learned that sometimes, that manic energy comes from someone who’s not running for something interesting, but away from something terrible.

But my father loved his brother as I love all of mine. When he got out of the car, I saw him give my uncle a smile I knew he saved just for him, crinkled at the corners, and raising his shoulders in excitement to see his baby brother.

I wonder sometimes if that's how my younger brothers look at me now. Happy that I am still alive. That I made it through another night of terror and tremors in my hands. I hope not. I hope they don’t notice. I hope they never did. I hope when they saw my nightly rituals, they thought them silly.

But I know they didn’t.

I stepped out of the car to hear the two of them laughing, Beau as quiet as ever, but with that smile that reminded me of that one guy from the Lord of the Rings movies my dad liked. I never really watched them, myself.

“How’re you doin’, Bobby?” My dad's warm, slow speech was like syrup next to my uncles' whip-crack replies.

“You’re the only one that calls me that, still, Mike. Everyone calls me Rob now.”

“Bobby, I don’t much care what your little friends call you.” Only my father would refer to his younger brother's thirty-odd-year-old friends (recovery group) in such a way. It made me laugh. My uncle turned to me with those sunken in eyes I was so used to, I never even noticed anymore.

“Mikey Junior! Boy, what are you doin’ up here? I swear, son, I ain’t seen you since you was knee high on a grasshopper. Let me look’atcha.” My uncle paused, giving me a thorough up and down. “Well, thank the Lord, I believe you got my genes ‘stead of your ugly-ass bald-headed daddy’s.”

I laughed. “Uncle Rob, you’re bald-”

He held up a finger as if to silence me. “I’m bald cause I choose to be. Hiding any of this face behind hair is a damn shame, don’cha think, Mikey?” He pulled a pose, and I laughed again. I wasn’t very good at people, I was a lot like my mama in that way, but my Dad and my uncle? There was something about the way they said things… even not funny things, that made them so damn funny you couldn’t help but laugh. I’ve always been jealous of that.

My uncle and father laughed some more before we made our way up to the clearing. I walked quietly beside Beau, as silent as ever, but with that same curl to his lip that I kept my eyes away from. My uncle and Beau would be going to a different spot, they said, Beau to a Tree stand down the way, and my uncle across the hill, but they walked with us for now. The two of them quit talking once we were past the treeline. Too late, maybe, some would say.

I question sometimes, if we had all been quiet as church mice before the trees, if we still would have driven it right to us.

If I still woulda had to watch my father's heart break so absolutely again and again. If I still would have had to watch the voices of so many people I love get swallowed by something we weren’t never supposed to see. If my Daddy and my Beau would still go dry-land-fish hunting in the spring, frying them up for Mama and me, while we made Buttercake in the kitchen. If my Uncle would still crash Christmas with a flask and an ugly sweater. How much difference could five minutes of silence bring? But then, if ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts…

Doesn’t matter much now, does it? Been ten years since then, and wondering won’t stop the shakes, or the nightmares, and it sure as shit don’t bring anybody back. Bout as useless as dreaming of fancy kitchens with my grandma’s name over the door.

Dreams of a naive child with no idea of the abject cruelties waiting for him to slip. Like rats in a hoarder's house waiting for the lights above the crib bed to go off, before they ring their dinner bell.

Anyway. None of that matters to the story. I’m sorry. All the storytellers in my family are dead. My Mama once said I coulda been a poet, but that I couldn’t tell a story for shit, always skipping around, makin’ pit stops to talk about the moments she said coulda been rhymed real pretty, of course that was before the stroke. Now she don’t say much of anything. I miss her voice. Sometimes I get scared I’ll hear her voice calling for me, outside the trailer. And I know I’ll follow. I know I will, just to hear her laugh again, like she used to when Daddy was alive.

In that old tree stand, I sat next to my father, looking out over that beautiful meadow, shaped like a bowl, where we were sat up in a tree on one side, looking down and across the bottom, up the other side, where down and to the left, if I looked very closely, I would see Beau, or at least his orange safety vest. I didn’t, though, embarrassed, surely he would see my eyes. My uncle was out behind us, over another hill, sitting in the grass. I wonder if he had fallen off the wagon. I wonder if he would have wished he had, or hadn’t, if he knew what was coming? Pain versus pride was never a decision I could solve for anyone else.

I was watching the wind, the leaves danced like ballerinas in that movie my mom liked. The sky was so beautiful, more blue than anything I’d ever seen. It hurt to look at, really. Made my eyes burn with how bright it was, but I just couldn’t look away from it, cupped in this meadow valley like a precious stone between stunning green chlorophyll-feathered hands. I remember wishing I could live in that moment forever. If only time could have never progressed past that beautiful, still moment. Everything wasn’t okay, but it was beautiful, and the world still made sense.

The sun slowly rose, illuminating the green in golden light that made it look like something from a painting of God's own treasured garden. I thought to myself how lucky I was to get to see such a thing in person. How lucky to see such beautiful moments of God’s plan reflected in the quiet bubble and trickle of a nearby spring.

And then there were gunshots. Two. In rapid succession. Then silence. I looked over at my father, who wore a faux irritated expression, though pride, the same I had seen when he had handed me that damned pelt, shown in his eyes. He leaned over to whisper:

“Dammit, now he’ll be bragging all year that he got the first one. We’ll just have to make sure ours is bigger, ‘eh, Mikey?”

I forced a smile as I imagined my uncles' wicked, sharp knife splitting the belly of some poor doe, spilling steaming entrails onto the dirt, scouring her body for any bit of useless, to-be-discarded offal that had once been so very useful, to the beautiful animal it was stolen from. And then all at once, I began to fantasize about all that beautiful animal would do for our family. Stew, and jerky, and steaks, and chili. My stomach growled at the thought.

It was a while longer before there was movement, just beyond the trees, down in front of us. My father got the kind of still that only old hunters and the dead could hold for very long, and waited. As did I. Waited for the animal to show itself, to make my father's job easier.

Have you ever seen something so horrible, your first thoughts don’t make sense? Thoughts so out of place, they feel disrespectful to think, after the fact? The first thing I thought, when I looked down at the creature, was not fearful, or wrathful, or even shocked. It was a numb, sort of detached thought.

I thought how strange it was to see so much blood under the golden morning sun. The movies said that horror was in the dark. And yet here my father and I sat, frozen in a tree stand, watching a buck drag my uncle's flayed carcass by the throat, out of the treeline, into the grass. Leaving a long, crimson-black stain on that beautiful Kudzu, as his scrawny, motionless, camo-clad body was lugged face down to the center of the clearing.

I didn’t dare even turn my head, only flicking my eyes to my father… who was deathly pale, his farmer's tan abandoning him in this moment, and only then did I realize how much he looked like his father, when he reflected his image, from that hospital bed, so far from his own home. White as a ghost.

I then strained my eyes to see Beau across the clearing. I could make out only his vest- not his eyes, or his muscled form, certainly not his crystalline eyes. I remember a small amount of relief to see him okay, before the sudden horror of feeling such a thing while this monstrous creature devoured my kin.

It was a deer. Or, at least. It had the general shape of one. On a closer look, as it continued its slow dragging, it became clear it was not. Those antlers weren’t antlers, they were horns. Not branching off like trees, no, spiralling, corkscrew-like, up and out, like some sick goat, and its hooves… They looked like hooves for only a moment before I realized they were split, hiding beneath the herbivorous disguise, its clawed pawpads softly treaded, until it settled down, center of the meadow. Its body was not… lean, like it should be, I finally noticed. It was too muscular, each section balling up, tensing and releasing with each new motion, its too long fur, fur not hair, barely concealed the horror of it.

It dropped its head, sharp, jagged teeth ripping into the flesh of his face, aiming for the mouth. I heard the cracks and pops of bones, disconnecting and breaking as the animal ripped him apart… When the animal pulled away, there was little left of the man who looked so much like my father. Below his nose, there was a gaping maw. His tongue, once silver and quick, now between a beast's gnashing teeth.

And then… Its intelligent eyes, scanning everything on its level- I sent up thanks that we were above him. I noticed, then, its eyes. Rather than facing the sides, as most prey animals, giving it nearly three-sixty vision… They sat on the front of its horrible, bloodied face. Binocular vision, I later learned it was called. Better for chasing prey.

My eyes flicked back to my father… still so very pale, still so very frozen… as though he was already dead. His jaw was clenched tight, and there were tears in his eyes. He didn’t look back… as he held a finger to his lips, silently. I kept my eyes on that orange vest, across the way, my father beside me, I watched the only other person I knew of in the area. The only other person I cared about, in this venus fly trap.

We sat in that tree for hours, the sun slowly crawling on its belly across the sky, as though it too was afraid to move too quickly in front of the beast, as the animal ate my uncle. Bit by bit. It started with the head, using his half-hooved paw to crack open the skull, devouring every bit of it, bones and all. It worked down the body, devouring each muscle group, every tendon, every bone. It didn’t even leave his coveralls.

Only the blood on the grass.

I wondered for a while, sitting there, frozen, why my father didn’t shoot the damned thing, so we had something to bury, Even if it was closed casket.

Until I saw the bullet wounds, seeping dark, blue-black blood, on the side of the animal. Near where its heart should be. My uncle hadn’t missed. They hadn’t been panic shots.

It hadn’t mattered. And so my father chose our survival over vengeance. I often wished he hadn’t. He surely wouldn’t have won, but for us to die then, with honor, with courage, was better than how we all will in the end.

Soon it was nightfall… and the animal stood, shaking itself off, and making a low… broken, grunting, snorting, bleating sound. It was as if it were playing a recording of different deer calls, all at once. It moved smoothly, muscles bunching and rolling with every step again, back into the treeline. We still didn’t dare move… didn’t dare breathe too loud. I think we both knew… it was toying with us.

The trees were alive that night. So very alive. With the sounds of animals I didn’t know, alien and frightening, and the voices of people I did, all around me.

My Grandfathers booming laugh, his old idioms.

“And if ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ were candy and nuts, wouldn’t it be a Merry Christmas?”

My Grandmothers quiet, playful scolding to him.

“Edgil, you’re being rude,”

His retaliatory teasing… His quiet, bitter last words.

“When can I go home, Mae?”

“Soon… Soon, I promise.” Came her barely strung together reply.

My uncle's sly comments, mocking my father for being fat or an old man. Speaking so softly, a voice I had never heard from him, about a woman I had never heard of, her long red hair. I later learned she had died in the accident that got him hooked on Oxy.

My mother… weeping.

I had never heard her cry like that before, but I knew it was her voice… I knew it was, but it was different- I just didn’t quite know how, yet.

I looked… slowly to my father, wondering if I was imagining the cacophony of voices surrounding us. I wasn’t, his face was horrified, and so full of grief, of hopelessness, he looked empty instead.

My father and I left the tree in the early morning hours, as the sun rose, I watched the orange vest climb down simultaneously. My body should have creaked from the misuse, but instead it was on fire. Adrenaline running through me like a copperhead venom. But I fought the urge to run, walking beside my father, whose eyes silently scanned the trees the entire way back to the meeting point, where Beau stood, statuesque and strong, gun at the ready, the same as my father's… And down the path we went. Beau walked ahead of us, looking back occasionally with a glint in his eye that said he was unafraid. I hope he was.

The trees parted for the creature like the Red Sea, as if they were too disturbed by its nature to even touch it. It stood only twenty feet ahead of us, eyes curious, mouth still caked with blood. To see it up close was harrowing. To see its shaggy, wolf-like brown fur taunted me for ever thinking for even a moment that it belonged to the same family as the common white-tail. Its face was so horrible, so cruelly shaped, its teeth peeking out beneath its thin lips, though its face did not snarl, yet.

“Stay back.” Beau’s voice was strong, sure, and as beautiful as any music I had ever heard or would hear. The animal's lip curled back, and Beau took the shot.

For one perfect moment, everything was going to be okay. The shot landed cleanly between its eyes, and it crumpled, dead. I had time to breathe a sigh of relief, look up to see Beau turning to face my father and me with a grim, but triumphant expression, before it all went wrong.

I didn’t have time to scream for him to run; he didn’t have time to turn back. Or be afraid. Its body crouching suddenly, that navy colored blood pouring like water from a tap between its eyes, its lip curled back for only a half a moment, before it leapt. A horrible sort of grace in its movements that shouldn’t have been possible with its too-long legs. Its head extends on its too-long neck to ensure its long canines reached him before its extended claws.

Beau was dead before he hit the ground, and he didn’t stay there long, the creature lifting him by the neck, shaking him like a puppy with a toy. His blood splattered my face, as the animal snarled and growled, sounding like an angry cat.

I was frozen. Trembling. Silent. My father wasn’t. A shocked, broken sob came from his throat. The only one I ever heard from him. The creature heard him as well, dropping the corpse. My father forced himself to be silent, and we stood, quiet as the trees around us. The animal's teeth slowly were covered, its face turned curious again… almost playful.

It made me sick. I could barely look at it, eyes focused so fully on Beau’s body. His eyes were closed, as if he was sleeping. If not for his mangled throat and chest, it would be easy to pretend. The blood surrounding his body was crimson and dark, and there was a tug in my chest at it.

The beast stared at us for a long time, approaching with those soft, soft steps, standing in front of us, bowing like a golden retriever. Do you want to play? It’s Navy blue blood still dripping down its ghastly face.

Eventually, it grew bored of us… and pranced back into the treeline. Pranced. Like it wasn’t soaked in blood and viscera. Like it hadn’t just changed everything forever.

My father carried Beau back to the car in his arms like a bride. His tears were dry now. We drove him to the hospital. We knew it was too late, but what else could we do? We told them we found him like that. The doctor said it looked like coyotes. A lot of them. It was strange for them to attack this time of year, but not impossible.

My father held Beau’s wife, her hands on her extended stomach, as she cried like the world was ending. And I suppose for all of us, it was. I looked at Dad's face only once while he held her, before I looked away. I couldn’t stand to look again. He looked so numb now, dead already.

We never really talked about what happened. When people asked, we said my uncle had come with us, but we hadn’t seen him since. The police didn’t look long; my uncle wasn’t exactly high priority, what with his felony record and his shifty, flighty nature. People assumed he had run off again. I got a job at the local butcher the next year, and at the slaughterhouse, where I work now, at eighteen. It had been clear, the moment we left that clearing, we would never go back. We weren’t the only hunters in those woods, and we didn’t like the role reversal.

Dad wasn’t the same after that. Be strange if he was, I guess. Mama tried so hard to help, but she had never been the talker; she had never been the strong one. She didn’t know how. When he started drinking, I couldn’t blame him; I wouldn’t. My mother didn’t either. I think she knew something happened out in that clearing that neither of us had the words to talk about. When he drove into the mountainside with a BAC of .20% when I was seventeen, it shocked no one.

I think we all knew it wasn’t an accident, but no one's ever had the nerve to say it.

My Grandmother went the next year, having outlived her husband and both of her children. The doctor said it was an aneurysm, but you’ll never convince me it wasn’t heartbreak. And how could the strongest of anyone be expected to live through that?

My mother had her stroke when I was twenty-one, just as the last of my brothers was set to go to college. Trapping me in this life, until she leaves it.

If I don’t care for her, who will? My brothers? I couldn’t do that to them. So we live in our grief together. We live in hell, together, in that trailer that never had enough bedrooms, now more than enough.

My brothers visit often, but they have their own lives, one of them is even having a baby soon, isn’t that nice? His wife seems sweet, but she doesn’t like me. I think I scare her, I don’t mean to. But it’s just so hard to stop the tremors in my hands, or in my voice, when I’m speaking now. I hate to talk out loud, I hate to be heard. So I am quiet. Quieter than I ever was.

Sometimes, even now, I feel like it might hear me, and jump up onto the treestand- or across that dirt path, and rip me to pieces the same way it did my family. Sometimes, I think it already did. I don’t think my father and I ever moved from our post, really. Sometimes, I think I’ll open my eyes and still be there, my father's warmth beside me, both of us crouching, muscles screaming, but nevertheless, a long-hidden prey instinct demanding our silence, our stillness, our compliance. Our obedience.

Sometimes, in the night, I hear the trees come alive again, with those same, alien animal sounds, and I know, there is something out there, and it’s Not-Deer.

I hear it, calling. I hear my father, my uncle sometimes, laughing in those trees, repeating words I’d heard them say so long ago. I tell myself it’s their heaven, but I know it is not. No decent and loving god would put them back into the hell-trap where he killed them both, even if one took years afterward to actually flatline.

I also hear my mother's weeping again, the same as that night on the tree-stand, only now I recognize it. From the day my father died. That phone call at four in the morning, the slow realization, the choking sobs, the shaking in her throat. The never-ending grief. Grief didn’t defy expectations; it renegotiated them. New boundaries for how much the universe is allowed to devastate one person without letting them die.

I never heard Beau, though I listened. I wanted to hear him a few times. To try to understand why his death hurt so different. I wondered if I only heard the voices of those in my bloodline. I wondered what voices he had heard in that other treestand, voices he had never gotten a chance to share.

I realize now I was given a glimpse into the future, the past, everything. Into the desolation of my family line. I wonder if that is how those devil creatures live. In the space between moments, between heartbreaks. Between their victims' tragedies. So I sleep in our living room, my gun on the table in front of me. I won’t be like my father. I’ll be like Beau, who I don’t think of often in the years since. It puts the strangest pit in my stomach to remember him. But, like him, I won’t wait. If I see that demonic beast again I will shoot until it kills me, shaking in my hands be damned. I only hope to make it outside first, if I do. So my mother can’t follow.

Though I often wonder if I am so much better than them, now. I kill for a living. Sweet, innocent creatures with eyes that trust me to care for them. Raised by human hands, but for the sole purpose of consumption. I hate it. I haven’t eaten meat in years. Whenever I try, I smell my uncle's blood, and see the things' sharp teeth- I feel them in my mouth, biting down on my tongue, crushing my teeth to get to it. Silencing me even more so than it already has. I wish more than anything I had died in that clearing, that I could have died the boy I was and not the man I am. So much blood stains my hands, I drown in it, in every dream that isn’t that beast ripping my uncle's tongue from his mouth and mashing its teeth into the muscle, and his teeth like they were nothing.

How harshly can I judge the creature? My uncle wouldn’t have been able to get that shot from up close. And Beau… Beau shot first. Unfortunately, neither was as high on the food chain as they had been led to believe. None of us are. We all fall prey to something. Whether it's drink, diabetes, grief, or some beast in the forest is all up to you. For the most part.

I think sometimes, if I met someone to love, I would be better. But I have no desire to be seen as crazy now. How am I meant to go on a date when the only time my hands don’t shake is when I’m holding a weapon? I couldn’t put that on a woman. I couldn’t. No matter how my brothers have tried to convince me.

I never really cared for romance anyway, besides. Once my mother is gone, I don’t intend to stick around. Maybe you can call it running, like my uncle, or you can be honest and admit every day since that awful night has been my slow resignation from living.

My brothers don’t need me anymore; I would only be a burden to them, I know. They don’t know what I saw, and I can’t bear to tell them now, even if they would believe me. They deserve better than to hear monsters in the trees, and rethink every word they say. They don’t deserve that image, seared into their brains for all their lives, forcing them to relive it over and over, the helplessness of watching someone you love die.

This is all I have, for now. I’m sorry if I don’t make too much sense now. I had to drink just to finish this. I suppose I’m more like my father in the end than I thought, and I’m more than buzzed now. I hear my mother calling my name from outside. I’m going to post this and go check on her. I don’t know how she got her wheelchair out the door alone, and she knows I hate it when she goes out at night. She must have climbed out of bed. Anyway. Thank you for seeing us. My father, my uncle, my mother, and I. Thank you for reading our eulogy.

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 9 months ago

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So i know you talk about body safe materials for sex toys on here a lot but im just wondering if theres anything like that i need to be watching when purchasing stuff like whips etc. My thought is no as long as nobody involved in the whipping has like any crazy material allergies you'd be watching out for anyway?

hi anon,

rules about body safety are a little different for toys that aren't going inside of an orifice (at least, I assume your whip isn't, but you know what they say about assuming). it's certainly a lot more lax with whips, although it's still important to make sure you're buying something made of quality material that's suited to your purposes.

if it tickles anyone's pickle, browse this whip guide that includes notes on some different common materials:

#sex edventures 2024

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sweetstarart · 1 year ago

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40 Wallace Wells Headcanons!!!

He loves the band gorillaz! His current favorite songs are Dare, Dirty Harry, Rock The House and 5/4

He used to animate and draw in college but he hasn't really picked it up since then

He and Scott don't have much closet space, so they put some of their clothes in a kitchen cabinet. Scott is very scared Ramona will open it one day

When he eats burger He takes the pickles off and saves them for last. He does the same thing with shrimp pasta and also likes it most when there are 5 shrimp left over to eat. Scott thinks this is weird.

He's quite a powerful psychic, but since he's a beginner he has no idea how to utilize his powers. In the future, Old Wallace becomes one of the most powerful psychics in Toronto

Old Wallace's hair turned grey after what him and Mobile simply refer to as a "Psychic Mishap". This same mishap lead to him also needing very strong prescription glasses

He has 5 favorite colors, Green, Pink, Black, Teal and Red. If you ask which is his favorite, he'll usually cycle through 3 of those options before telling you he doesn't have a favorite

He scratches his knuckles when he gets nervous

He keeps his hands behind his back while doing this so people are less likely to notice

Sometimes he taps his fingers instead

Starting book 2, He's been taking French classes. He likes to say dumb things in French around the house that don't apply to whatever they're talking about, Scott is none the wiser

He likes turtles!

Although Wallace sometimes kicks Scott in his sleep, he can actually be fairly affectionate sometimes if he's feeling happy or lonely. Sometimes he hugs Scott in his sleep

Strangely enough, he doesn't do this to mobile until a few years into their relationship

Wallace used to have braces and acne in high-school. It is one of the very few things he's insecure about

He constantly forgets Young Neil's name and swears its either Francis or Dennis

Him and Other Scott have known eachother since they were kids but only became friends in high-school, when Wallace would stay over at his house from time to time

According to Scott and Other Scott, seeing Wallace win a drinking game is one of the most horrifying things they've ever seen

His record is 19 beers in 5 seconds

Oftentimes He wears a variety of Bracelets on his arm. His sweater usually obscures this, but they can be heard clanking together when he runs. When asked why he does this, he says he's "Matching with a friend"

His birthday is July 4th

He ran away from home during high-school, leading to him crashing at his friend's houses until he finally got an apartment

He frequently stayed with Scott, Other Scott and Roxy (until they stopped being friends towards the end of high-school)

Like the anime said, he let Scott crash at his place and he never left. At first, he figured since Scott let him stay over a week once, it only seemed fair to do the same. Soon a week turned into a month,but he couldn't bring himself to simply tell him to leave

He's somewhat of a pushover, but is too prideful to admit it (or embarrassed... who knows!)

He has tons of pride merch that he saves specifically for the month of May. Not June, because he "likes to stand out" (It's actually because when he started doing this, he got the month wrong)

He won a Ball point pen from a high-school drinking game. He calls it his most "prized possession" and he keeps it in a jewelry box alongside his bracelets

Scott is listed as "The first guy you should call if I ever get drunk and pass out bc he knows good and well he owes me a favor" on a list his frequent bartender asked him to make (Her name is Leni btw)

He and Gideon (the cat) would actually get along pretty well if they ever met

He and Gideon (the man) would not get along very well. But Wallace would find him extremely attractive in secret

He finds most of Ramona's exes attractive with the exceptions being Roxy and Kyle katayanagi

He passed his driving test while completely drunk. He woke up the next day and had no clue how to drive and couldn't even remember doing it until he found the license in the kitchen sink

He's had tons of flings, but never had an actual boyfriend until he met Mobile

He is so gay, that he litterally pukes rainbows

He thinks Stephen is hot. His only reason for not pursuing him is the fact that Scott made him promise to never make out with his friends

His favorite food is shrimp Alfredo

The reason Wallace makes bacon so often is because he bought it in bulk once as a dare from one of his friends. No clue what kind of bacon it was, but it expired a year from that day and the bottom shelf of his fridge was packed full of it for months

He always loses at rock paper scissors

He knows how to play piano

He has Hayfever

And... that's it! Except not really, I actually have way more!

But thats all I'm posting for now...

Thanks for reading!

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coff33andb00ks · 1 year ago

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Hmmm, what about 3+17 😉 and pick whoever you want per favor ❤️

driver + number = drabble/short fic <3

3: cold hands in warm hands + 17: holding hands while skating

One thing you're not is clumsy. You have poise and balance, thanks to the years spent working the family farm, where you had to get into narrow spaces, walk fences, and avoid insane animals without spilling a bucket of food.

Balance and reflexes, one perk of being from the countryside.

When your boyfriend of a few weeks suggests ice skating you agree. You've never done it but it looks simple enough, and you wonder if he remembers you mentioning you always watched figure skating during the Olympics and dreamed of doing something so beautiful and graceful. You wouldn't be surprised if he did.

Because Daniel always remembers the little things. He's very much that type of boyfriend, he even orders extra pickles on his post race burger and gives them to you, all because you mentioned once loving them.

The rink isn't busy, and the date has become a group activity, so Oscar, Alex, Lando, and Max are there with you, already out on the ice and laughing like the kids people don't want to believe they can be. Daniel kneels in front of you to check the laces on your skates and you hate the rush of butterflies you feel.

"So I've been thinking about us," he begins and the butterflies turn into a flock of birds in your chest. He looks at you, face splitting into a grin. "I'm kidding!"

"I hate you so much," you groan, slapping his shoulder while his laugh echoes across the rink.

"You love me," he says, standing and taking your hand. "Are you cold?"

You do but you haven't told him yet. It's too soon. Right? So you roll your eyes and focus on stepping out onto the ice. His hands are warm and strong, steadying you when you wobble. "I'm not cold, just a little nervous."

"You'll do great, twinkle toes." His smile is almost as warm as his hands and you nod, letting him guide you over the ice. He's always so good at calming your nervous butterflies, and half the time you don't realize you've got them until he's taking them away.

Lando whizzes by, backwards the showoff, and asks if you need a beginner frame.

"Fuck off Norris," you shout. The distraction takes your focus away from skating and you feel yourself falling.

"I've got you." And he does, easily steadying you and lifting you back up before your ass hits the ice. One arm around you, hand clasped with yours, he presses his forehead to yours. "Good?"

"Good," you promise, kissing the tip of his nose before he pulls back.

You almost fall a dozen times. But Daniel's there, warm hands steady and strong and gentle. He doesn't let go even though you know he wants to speed skate with the guys, and you love him even more for that. Once you're able to actually skate a little he turns so he's going backwards, holding your hands and you feel those butterflies again when you see his smile.

"I love you." The words come out in a rush and you hear his breath catch.

"You--" He's going down and you've got no option but to go with him, landing in a tangle of limbs on the ice. He breaks your fall and you're both laughing even after Oscar and Alex help you up.

"I do," you say once your hands are in his and he's leading you again.

"I love you too," he says, hands warming yours while the butterflies swarm.

#daniel ricciardo x reader #f1 x reader #inbox #you said my choice so 🥹

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foodandfolklore · 1 year ago

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Tools and Ingredients to keep on hand; Kitchen Witchcraft Elevated Pt. 2

Alright time for Part 2, Ingredients! Again, this is my person preference, and it's like my third time trying to write this out so bear with me. These are things I tend to keep on hand, and this list is not going to just include Salt, Pepper, Garlic; You got that already. I hope. If you're looking for info on Tools, check out Part 1. Onions: I keep a bowl of onions on one of my shelves in my kitchen. I find they keep better outside of the fridge, and I can easily see when I'm running low. Onions have strong protective and good cleansing properties so I tend to add them to my pot or pan before adding any other food. I also like to let them caramelize to get that transformative element.

Lemons: Lemons are great to use in so many dishes, both sweet and savory. You can zest the peel for it's oils and fragrance. You can squeeze the lemon for it's juice and acid. They're associated with beauty, longevity, positivity, mental clarity, cleansing; ect. One of the great things about lemons is thanks to their peel, you can leave them out at room temperature for long periods of time, so long at the peel is unbroken. So if you need to make space in your fridge, pull out your lemons.

Cinnamon Sticks: Okay so every witch has ground cinnamon. It's one of the easiest and cheapest spices to get. It's in every beginner box of witchy herbs. And it that's because it's absolutely fantastic to use. The problem with cooking, however, ground cinnamon isn't always the best option. The power is very fine, but also gritty. So it can be hard to strain out if you are just wanting to infuse some cinnamon. It's why I keep sticks on hand. They're also great for seasonal garlands and bundles.

Italian Seasoning: Rosemary, Thyme, Basil and Oregano. That is what's in Italian seasoning. Do I have these seasonings separate? Yes I do. And there are other seasonings in there like Marjoram, Summer Savory, Sage, Parsley; it varies a little from brand to brand. But if I'm in a rush, I can grab that Italian seasoning to make my food tasty and include one (or all) of the spice correlation properties. Quick note; if you're buying yours, check the ingredients. It should list what spices it's using. I bought a big thing of "Italliano" once without checking and my food was just not emotionally the same. I checked the ingredients and is was mostly dried bell peppers and salt.

Cayenne: It's cheap, spicy, and banishes bad shit. That's all I ask of it.

Vinegar: This may seem odd since vinegar is largely associated with souring spells and Hexes. But it also has strong cleansing an protecting properties too. You can also use it as a preventative property to deture people from asking uncomfortable questions or bringing up touchy topics. But vinegar is also an important tool in the culinary world. A lot of the time, if you taste your food and it tastes flat or bland, even with lots of seasonings, a little acid and brighten it up. Sure you can use lemon juice, but sometime you just need a tsp, and opening a jar of vinegar is easier than juicing a lemon. Vinegar is a key component in many sauces and marinades. Not to mention being used in pickling. Then they are a lot of uses outside cooking, like help with cleaning. My MIL's favorite way to wash windows is still spray with white vinegar and wipe with newspapers.

Canned Milk: So we all keep some kind of milk in the fridge. Dairy milk, Oat milk, Almond Milk, Soy Milk, lots of wonderful kinds of milk. So why keep canned milk? Well, canned milk tends to be thicker and creamery than regular fridge milks. Yes, I can go out and get cream, but it's often cheaper and easier to just use some canned milk I have laying around. Plus, sometimes cream is too rich for what I want. The three main kinds of canned milk I keep on hand are Evaporated Milk, Sweet and Condensed Milk, and Coconut Milk. If you drink only dairy milk, I recommend keeping at lest one can of coconut milk on hand too. In case one day you find yourself cooking for someone who can't have dairy milk.

Soy Sauce: This is a great, inexpensive flavor enhancer that I add to soups, curries, and meats. I buy it in bulk, and I always get more before I run out. Because of it's dark color, and it's made from soy, it has strong protection and banishing properties for me.

Cumin: This is a weird one for me. I go through waves of using cumin and not using cumin. I'll use it for every other meal one month, then not touch it again for another month. So, to preserve it's flavor and aroma, I buy whole cumin seeds, and crush them as I need them. But I like keeping cumin on hand since many recipes online will include cumin in their spices.

And that's all I got for now. If I think of more stuff later, maybe I'll make a part 3

#food and folklore #klickwitch #witch #kitchen witch #kitchen witchcraft #pagan #food magic #magick #witchcraft #witches #kitchen magic #kitchen tips #kitchen witchcraft elevated

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thewitchofbhaal · 8 months ago

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THE DARK URGE - MAAKALIZE

Introductory Post for my Durge - SLIGHT CONTENT WARNING LATER - please see my pinned post for more content warnings.

Alright BG3 community – I’ve gatekept my OC long enough, it’s time to show off her bleeding colors. I present to you, the rogue blood sorceress, raised by witches, and made from Bhaal’s unholy blood:

Maakalize – The Dark Urge

Please note that this outfit is her in-game appearance as well in my head, I just try to match her look the best I can with mods!

Design explanation: She wears sorceress robes that are made from a velvety texture. Her shoulder pads are made of lighter leather – along with her tail glove, atop her shoulder pads are glowing and active eyeballs that give her an advantage to surprise attacks, they often look around and maybe even make eye contact with you.

She also has boots that instead of a normal rubber outsole – it is a translucent rubber with pickled intestines inside. Her free sleeves are split down the middle, allowing free arm movement when crafting blood weaponry and spells. She wears a black-out veil with clean eye holes cut into it. She also wears robes often to conceal herself throughout the story [mainly to explain why some people in your past won’t recognize you off the bat] and a black headband with tear drops engraved and the medallion of Bhaal in the middle.

She has middle parted long wavy hair – though she doesn’t wash often, so her hair is often weighed down. She wears black and red lipstick interchangeably. As well as, not having traditional origins: not having any infernal scales, she is completely smooth-skinned, aside from her aging wrinkles and the colorless veins protruding throughout her body – a trait that curated within her as the urges manifested. And deep, vacant blood eyes with glowing red pearls inside.

Her color scheme was originally inspired by Power’s manga appearance in Chainsaw Man – Pinkish hair and red horns. I planned to change her color to red or gray, however, I thought the red/pink/black/ and gray color scheme directly symbolized what a murder looks like:

Pink - Flesh

Red - The blood

Gray - Cold dead skin

Black - Death

(I love putting symbolism in things if you can’t tell!) So I stuck with it. Please note I am a beginner artist and do not practice art super often, I enjoy drawing emotions through faces and through clothing designs. So be gentle with me. (However I would pay good money for someone to create this outfit in a mod for me lol Im dead serious.) Her IN-GAME FACE IS HER CANON FACE HOWEVER – what she wears, is not.

Her character description: [CONTENT WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF M*RDER, N*CROPHILIA, AND **PE.]

Maakalize (MAA-KILL-EEZE) is a brutal, unforgiving blood sorceress. She is the first pure-blooded spawn of Bhaal — making her a proper half-corpse and half-goddess in her own respects.

Placed on Toril as the avatar of slaughter, her true purpose is to snuff out every last life in existence and leave a baron, empty world for the Gods to grieve for — her Father’s dream everlasting. Maakalize wishes to bring that dream to life, the means to get there are trivial and small, it is all for her dear Father she loves so much and cherishes so dearly.

She is the ultimate manifestation of murder itself - a tiefling with no infernal ties made with long pink wavy hair, red horns, and bloody eyes — the physical color pallet of gore itself, black small veins pulsing from her smooth, gray skin. Her teeth are slightly crooked, with black gums and grey dirty teeth. And a slayer form that is unique only to her. Her face — familiar only to Bhaal, a haunting beauty for some, a freakish nightmare for others. Depends on one’s preferences.

Using her Blood manipulation sorcery for her murders, rapes, and necrophilic tendencies, her masked terror has reached far and wide across Baldur’s Gate and the paths beyond. Her formal title is The Dark Urge — an appropriate term for her cruelty and primal power of murder.

She has the ability to manipulate blood — that ability can heal wounds, steal blood from other wounds, or even put blood into bodies. Blood weapons are her favorite practice, if she is supplied with enough of it she can create larger and more sturdy weapons that last longer. Of course these abilities have their limits as we will explore later. Her favorites are the sickles, the kitchen knife, the garrote, the crowbar, and the hammer. If given enough blood she can even make a blood scythe that is good for one use. A certain mother-mentor and daughter-mentee relationship is to blame for her vast experience with her magics.

Some rough sketches of her blood armory; [There is also symbolism with what weapons she chooses from - curious to see if any true crimes peeps can catch it]

She always wears a black out velvet veil with the eye holes precisely cut for her eyes to pierce through and hunt. Her gore boots boost her height of 6’0” to 6’1”. Her shoulder pads have red eyes that give her an alertness boost in combat, as well as giving the heebie jeebies when you notice all of the glowing red eyes move on their own. Her black and red gothic robes are made from a velvet texture, infused with magics I will delve more into later!

In certain sentences depending on her moods, typically her overzealous ones, Maakalize will use phrases such as, “Eh?”, “No?”, “Hath” and even, “Tis”.

Some other names of Maakalize:

The Dark Urge [Duh]

Daughter of Bhaal

The Witch of Bhaal

Bloody Mary/ Mary (A nickname given by someone)

Red Antler

Kali

Her entire interpretation and story is completed - I am still working on the story's execution. A few personal things are coming up which has delayed me and I am nervous as hell to share her. Not sure how people will react. But I hope the durge multiverse accepts her - I've been working on her for almost a year now!

I understand a lot of ppl customize durge - so some will have physical similarities', idc about that but please do not steal her design, my art, or the plotline I carefully curated over time. You will be blocked.

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airbuzz2007 · 2 years ago

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my first real attempt at drawing a man, it looks like shit but i had to just make do with it and roll with the punches

#metalocalypse #nathan explosion #dethklok #skwisgaar skwigelf #mtl fanart #pickles the drummer #metalocalypse fanart #beginner artist #toki metalocalypse

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arcanistsanctum · 10 months ago

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may i ask about recommendations of the free character from the anniversary that's new f2p friendly? And their psycube if possible. Thanks in advance :3

Oh, shucks. I'm not exactly the go-to for Reverse guides, but I'll try my best to answer! And anyone who is more knowledgeable than me, you can suggest and advice in the comments too!

Semmelweis Potential Teammates

Semmelweis has great synergy with characters who lose HP during your turns (NOT during enemy turn). Tbh Semmelweis doesn't have many teammates she can synergize well besides Eternity (DPS) and Ezra (shield) for now. We may have to wait for more self-HP burn units to be released to slot her in different team comps. Eternity is her only DPS teammate right now. For a new F2P player, Eternity is viable as she is a standard character. That said, both Eternity and Semmelweis will lose HP fast. So you will need good teamwide shield or healing.

Balloon Party (standard character) is one option for teamwide heals, or you can pick up Kakania later for her shield and ATK buffs (her limited banner comes next). Kakania can transfer some of your team's DMG unto herself and she can self-heal. Ezra is a limited character who also loses HP whenever you use his buff and provides decent shielding, but he requires high investment afaik. If you started from last patch and you have Vila, I think she's fine as a healer too.

If you only started playing this patch, I don't recommend pulling on standard banner cause it costs the same pull tickets for limited banners. I say... if you want to get Kakania, wait for her banner and pull there. Or if you wanna pick up Lucy, you try your luck in Lucy banner right now. Lucy is a really great DPS even with Semmelweis as her support. Although Semmelweis is not in Lucy's best teams, Semmelweis can still buff Lucy's (or any DPS for that matter) overall DMG dealt. If you get her, it's gucci. If you lose 50/50, then hope it's Eternity, and maybe Balloon Party. Just keep in mind that your pity from the Lucy banner doesn't transfer/count in the regular limited banners like Kakania's. Their pities are separate. And Lucy is true limited character, so her banner will not come back again... ever.

Kakania's banner releases on October 10 Her banner will run alongside Lucy's until October 31

DO NOT PULL ON PROMISE OF THE WATER BANNER. JUST... DON'T.

And since you're new player and you may not have any of these standard characters yet... if you want to start playing the story already, maybe a Semmelweis, Sonetto/Leilani and any healer can be your starting team.

Summary of team comps in no particular order you can make if you have the characters:

BEST SYERGY: Semmelweis, Kakania/Ezra/Balloon Party, Eternity

LUCY TEAM: Semmelweis, Vila (any other healer/shielder except Necrologist works but Vila can provide crit buffs), Lucy

F2P BEGINNER: Semmelweis, any healer/shielder except Necrologist, Sonetto/Leilani/Bkornblume

Characters she can't work well with:

Charlie, Getian, Pavia, Pickles, An-An Lee, Necrologist

Psychube Recommendations:

I use the Long Night Talks psychube from the Fragments shop for Semmelweis. I'm not sure if that can be picked up by new players. If not, then I think Blasphemer of the Night can be her other psychube general option. To make use of Blasphemer's passive effects, your team has to have debuffing skills.

During 2.0, her best psychube is From the Depths, which you can only get as a reward from A Series of Dusks next patch.

These are my thoughts for Semmelweis team synergies and psychubes with f2p starter options. Here's the Prydwen Semmelweis guide to help you further in your Semmelweis journey. ^ - ^ Sorry for the long reply, anonnie! Hahahaha.

Others can leave suggestions and tips in the comments! Because once again, I'm not a Reverse guide maker. I'm too casual in this game. ROFL XD

#asks #not a guide maker

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fleet-of-fiction · 2 years ago

Text

Jake Kiszka // Female Narrator

Part Three

After a blinding light eradicates mankind, you're left in a desolate and empty world. A year of solitude eliminates all belief that anyone else was left behind. Until a chance encounter on the side of the road. Jake is injured and fighting for his life, but his presence brings a renewed sense of hope. Touch starved and lonely, you need him. And undoubtedly, he needs you too.

"It would be the last man on earth that would end up being mine..."

Explicit sexual content Sex (penetrative & oral) /Foreplay /Blood / Injury / Hunting. / Intense emotions / Death.

Day 410 ~ Jake

Her eyes drifted up from the board. An air of concentration furrowed between her brows and the tip of her tongue which sat delicately at the edge of her teeth.

"Check mate!" She announced, knocking my piece off the board with a look of devilish satisfaction.

"Beginners luck." I replied, sending a hand to my ribcage to rub an ache I suspected would always trouble me from now on.

The snow had fallen in earnest. A blanket of dazzling white covered the ground, powdered flakes falling off the canopy of trees around us made for a spectacle when the sun peeked out from behind clouds. It was the first real beauty I'd taken note of in what felt like a very long time.

"And what if I told you that I was a secret master? That I'd been dumbing down my abilities all this time just so that I didn't demasculate you over a game of chess?" She gloated, raising an eyebrow as she waited for me to make my next move.

She reminded me of a sunset. With a touch of copper in her hair and those damned freckles on her nose. She had all the hope of a beautiful end and that it would bring something as equally beautiful in the morning.

"I didn't have you down as a liar." I replied, scanning the board for something that would knock her off her winning streak.

She folded her hands beneath her chin and leaned her elbows onto the edge of the kitchen table. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Jake."

I didn't doubt that. But I was sincerely grateful for the things which I had learned over the past few days. She'd carefully guided me around the entire place, shown me how everything worked and where the source of all the power came from. How to maintain all the power sources and what to do in the event of any of them breaking down.

There was a bank of solar panels on the cabin roof, flanked by a couple of small turbines. They were hooked up to a battery which powered the entire place. There was a small out house around the back, a few old generators were sat in there gathering dust in case of an emergency but she assured me the solar and wind provided more than enough for the entire place to run off for another decade.

These were things that I felt as if I should've known. Things that felt fundamental to survival. As if somehow it'd been wrong to live in a house that was attached to a network that relied on manpower to keep going. The foolishness of it.

Even the polytunnels where the vegetables grew made me feel as if I'd been missing the point entirely every time I'd walked into a grocery store. There were chickens kept in a coop, and there were two horses in a small stable on the other side of the trees. Because, apparently, someday the fuel was going to turn bad. She talked at great length about how she had no idea how to get the horses to mate, in the event of their untimely deaths she didn't want be left without transportation.

These were things I hadn't considered. Things which made me feel a little stupid when she pointed them out to me. My eyes widening in slight horror at the sheer expanse of pickled foods and canned goods kept in what she liked to call the "store". It was a small shelter, dug into the ground and covered in mossy earth to the untrained eye. But inside there was every non perishable and medical supply you could think of. Put there by her Grandma, in the event of the government falling to into it's own pit of destruction, or so her Grandma explained it.

The stark realisation that my life had been filled with convenient privilege was not lost upon me. I watched her muck out the horses and feed the chickens, tend to her plants and make sure the store was stocked up making mental notes of each little thing she did. Hoping that when the time came, I'd be able to be of some use to her.

"I know you're not a chess master." I hummed, tipping over her Bishop with my Queen. "Check mate?"

She leaned back in defeat. Chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tried not to react. The board looked a little chaotic now, with pieces in places I had no idea what to do with. I had minimal knowledge of the game and I suspected she was trying in vain to keep it going.

"You're a dark horse." She ruminated, trying to step over the impasse we'd arrived at. "I can't imagine we'll complete this before sunrise."

What did it matter? Time was our greatest thief. And yet, it was slowly becoming our greatest asset. We had time to sit and play chess, time to sit and read. Time to take walks in the woodland and drive into the empty streets of Roanoke to go in search for supplies.

The world was gently eroding back to nature. Something I'd barely noticed over the passing of the last year. Maybe I'd been so hell bent on finding another living soul that I'd forgotten to take in what was around me. With Amelia, it was starting to feel like I had woken up from a deep and dreamless sleep.

I was about to consider my next move when she shoved the board aside.

"How about that whiskey?" She asked, a flash of mischief in her eyes that I'd never seen before. "You're done with your antibiotics now."

The wind howled outside. Another flurry of snow in the air. The animals were fed and watered. I felt a churn of something deep within, like the stirrings of Christmas morning as a child. Like everything was precisely as it should be.

Everything was ok.

"You might not like me when I'm drunk." I warned, allowing a hint of playfulness to slip out. "I have this terrible penchant for speaking in a British accent."

She grabbed a bottle of something dark from the cupboard beneath the sink. Hooking two small glasses between her fingers from the cupboard above.

"That's the alcohol influencing the broca's area of your brain." She explained, pouring out two generous shots. "The part which perceives speech is impended. Although the accent thing is weird, I'd quite like to hear it."

There was a little curl in her lip as she clinked her glass against mine.

"You're so smart." I told her, "You make me feel like I was just travelling towards a destination with my eyes closed."

Immediately she brushed a dismissive hand through the air. Curling up her legs to sit with them crossed in the little dining chair, nursing her glass as she watched the brown liquid roll around the crystal edges.

"I think we were both entirely different people before." She said warmly, "If we had known what was to come, would we have lived our lives any differently?"

I sank my drink and leaned my hand out for a refill. "My life wasn't ordinary, even back then."

There'd been so many reasons why we hadn't talked like this before. Her initial reluctance had taken time to thaw. The silence we'd become accustomed to seemed so much safer to dwell in.

I was starting to lose count of the days I'd been with her. I was entirely distracted with surviving and being of service to her. Getting myself well enough to pitch in and not be a burden. The way she had given me purpose again made me want to live in this empty world. It made me not want to be anywhere else, with anyone else.

"I guess we haven't really touched on that, yet." She replied sheepishly, almost as if she didn't want to go there. "It almost seems irrelevant, doesn't it?"

She sank back another shot. Wincing as the burn slid down the back of her throat. Her nose wrinkled, all those freckles converging. For a moment I could forget that once there'd been another woman in my life.

"We both lost people we loved." I countered, taking the bottle for myself and pouring my glass almost full. "It's not relevant now, but I still miss them. I don't know how to stop missing them."

She didn't say anything for what felt like too long a period of silence. Where usually it was solidly comfortable, I could feel her unease at the presence of the ghosts of those we loved. Their names on the tips of our tongues.

"I don't think we're meant to. I think we're meant to miss them for the rest of our lives. Maybe that's our cross to bear. For whatever this life now brings." She replied, our mutual sadness at that thought evident in the way her eyes glossed over.

I didn't want her to cry. I couldn't bear to see her cry. It made me want to throw all my resolve away and take her into my arms whether she would have me or push me away. It made me want to make a fool of myself.

"I don't think we should play chess anymore." I suggested, "It makes us melancholy."

I clocked the bottle and it was already half empty.

"I don't think it's the chess." She slurred a little, gesturing to the snowy expanse outside. "I don't think I've seen this much snow for this long in my life, ever."

I could feel the heat of the whiskey in my blood as I stood. Taking my time to stroll over to the kitchen window. Trying to make myself appear steadier than I felt.

"Maybe the climate is changing."

Her face remained still. It took me a moment to notice that she wasn't responding. When I chanced a glance over at her, she was chewing the inside of her cheek. Lost in a thought I couldn't follow her into.

"What is it?" I dared to ask.

"They won't be here to see it." She replied quietly, a solitary tear betraying her. "They won't be here to see any more sunrises. Or the way that grass is starting to grow in all the pot holes that were left. And they'll never see the snow on the ground again. I hope..."

She swallowed hard, taking the bottle and foregoing the glass entirely. Swigging it back, like she couldn't stand to measure it out anymore.

"What do you hope?" I asked.

There was a longing there in her face that wasn't there before. Subsequent tears spilling down her red cheeks. Her skin all blotchy from the drink and the roaring fire.

"Wherever they are..." She sobbed. "I hope there's snow."

If we didn't speak their names, how could we honour them? If I was doomed to spend the rest of my life missing them, their names would never be forgotten anyway. They deserved to be spoken. They deserved to be memorialised. If they were dead, we couldn't go to their graves and weep. If they were alive, there were no roads we could find that would lead us to them. Speaking of them was all we had.

"Josh loved snow." I offered, returning to the table as slowly as I could. "We used to get a lot of it in winter where we grew up. Our parents used to make us go out back and chop wood and we'd have these huge bonfires and burn all the crap we didn't need for next summer. When we got a little older, our little brother Sam would have to come with us and we'd make him do all the hard labour. And he'd stand there and complain that it wasn't fair and we'd spin him a yarn about how he used to get to sit in the house all nice and warm while we did it and he wasn't a baby any more. Our sister never had to it, though. Her name was Veronica. She would sometimes come outside and hang out with us, though. She was cool like that."

I hadn't said their names in so long it was like resurrecting them. When I looked up from my faraway gaze, she wasn't crying anymore. There was this look of inherent surprise. Like she hadn't expected me to offload a childhood memory so freely. I could see a glimmer of hope where the tears had once been.

"Josh was your brother?" She ventured.

"Twin." I nodded, "He and I were the eldest. Then Veronica. Then little Sammy."

I probably shouldn't have, but I let her slide the bottle over towards me. Enough left for one more sip. I could feel myself on the fringes of being drunk, I knew one more would tip me over the edge.

"I had two brothers." She sniffed, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her t-shirt. "I was the middle child. My older brother, Deacon, he was like eight years older than me. I'm not sure my parents planned on having more than one but I guess nothing really goes to plan in life, does it? My little brother, Charlie, he was only two years younger."

Charlie. The little toy chest in my room still had his name carved in it. For her, they weren't just names to be said in remembrance. They were real, solid echoes still bouncing off these walls. I felt this uncontrollable need to close the distance between us. To hold her like I had when she'd screamed in the night.

"It didn't stop us from fighting, though." Her eyes lit up. "Deacon would always have to be the voice of reason, but every now and then he would come down to our level and bicker with us about something until our Dad had to step in. Our Mom was always a little more laid back, I think it was because she was raised here at the cabin. My Dad grew up in Silicon Valley. He had vacations in Europe and country club memberships. My Mom had yearly road trips to Virginia beach in a beaten up Volkswagen my Grandpa drove into the ground. Deacon was the first person in her family to graduate college."

And just like that, the fire went out again.

"So your Dad was rich?" I poked at the embers, hoping to see the spark in her come back.

She shrugged. "His family were. All surgeons and lawyers and ceo's. I think he probably would've lived that textbook rich white guy life if he hadn't met my Mom. She kept him grounded. We were never allowed to exploit our wealth, we had to do volunteer work and give generously to charities. We had to go to college and get our own jobs and careers, there were no hand outs. But I guess you could say we were privileged. But never spoiled. Not when we used to spend summers here, with our Grandparents."

I could have listened to her all night. "What was that like?"

She uncrossed her legs and inspected the empty bottle. Her eyes were half closed, lids fluttering up and down slowly in a drunken haze.

"It was like fucking Disneyland." She smiled, then. "My friends all went off to ski in Aspen or whatever. We got sent here to hunt squirrels with my Grandpa and bake pies with my Grandma. And toast marshmallows on the fire every night. They'd let us go swimming in the lake until sunset, taught us everything we needed to know about living in the woods. And every time we had to go back to California, it always felt like I was stepping back into something I didn't really feel a part of."

She looked up at me from her inspection of the empty bottle. As if she'd forgotten that I was sat there at all.

"What was your life like?" She asked, scuttering off to the cupboard under the sink, falling almost as she slinked off the edge of her chair.

She waved a bottle of red wine at me, her lips flattening into a straight line as she settled on the floor.

"We don't have any wine glasses." She said flatly, "Can't drink wine without a wine glass."

I would have gone to her and picked her up off the ground. Helped her back to her seat, made her laugh if I could. Let her fall asleep on the couch in a delicious drunken heap, wrapped in the blankets she'd left me in when she'd saved my life. But she stumbled to her feet, giggling softly as she realised how quickly the whiskey had gone to her head.

"You need some help, there?" I asked, reaching out my hand for her to take.

"No, I'm good." She lied, "You just tell me your life story while I pour."

She filled our little crystal glasses to the brim, taking care to leave enough space at the top to allow for spillages. All regard for needing a wine glass dissipated.

"I was just a boy with a guitar from Michigan."

She stared at me with those hooded lids. Keeping her drink propped against her mouth, like I was weaving the most interesting tale she'd ever heard.

"Where's your guitar now?"

I hadn't anticipated how much that question would sting. I knew she noticed the way I backed away from it. She reached over the table and placed her palm on my forearm. Her thumb making soft movements against the scar which ran down the centre of my flesh.

"No...not without Josh..." I stammered, "I can't play..."

There was a real sympathy in the way her brows knitted together, squeezing my arm a little in silent comfort. She stayed like that, touching me innocently, as I tried to compel myself to bring together the story of my life. It felt like I was entirely detached from all of my memories somehow. As if recalling it from something I'd watched rather than experienced first hand. Like a fever dream.

One thing I knew for certain. One thing that struck me as the alcohol coursed through my veins. It didn't matter how many thousands of people I had played to. It did matter how many awards I'd won. None of it mattered a damn thing without my brothers. And I'd sworn never to play without them again.

Day 413 ~ Amelia

The rain began that night. Lashing against my bedroom window, forcing the snow to retreat. A part of me was relieved. That the snow would wash away and all the earth beneath it would be able to breathe again. Bringing a renewed hope for the coming spring. But it kept me awake. The deafening pitter patter against the old glass felt as if it was break at any moment. The rattle of the wind like ghosts through the cracks in the old wood.

Jake had been a formidable drinking partner. My head still aching somewhat from a hangover that had lasted three days. I bore no regret from it, though. The whiskey and wine had afforded me a courage I couldn't have found on my own. And the nightmares had been kept at bay too. Sleeping far too deep for any of those demons to penetrate.

My mouth was dry. Frustrated by the noise and the insomnia and the lingering consequences of my booziness I crawled out of bed and slipped into my robe. On soft tiptoes I crept out into the hallway, certain that the wind and rain would shroud my movements. But staying quiet just in case.

Down the hall Jake's bedroom door was ajar. A shard of low, golden light striking the hall in half. I'd expected him to be asleep, coming to know his sleeping habits in the days he'd been here. He was a night owl, often hearing him slip into bed hours after I'd retired. It was almost dawn, but still pitch enough that it felt like the dead of night.

It was in my mind to go downstairs and fetch a glass of water, to mind my business and leave him be. But the soft whimpers that cried out above the din of the wind called out to me. And I crept on silent feet down the hall, moving against all the intricacies of the floor boards I knew would creak and alert him to my presence.

It sounded like he was in pain. The way he'd recovered so quickly had been unusual, part of me had wondered if he'd tried to save face. If, when in private, he'd allowed himself moments to feel the pain of his healing injuries where I couldn't see him. But it wasn't pain.

It was pleasure.

I stood in the crack of his door. Sinful sounds coming from the bed. A rush of blood to my head made me weak at the knees. His hand was moving vigorously beneath the bed sheet. The sound of his voice, like that of a man who had known truly how to love a woman.

I closed my eyes and began to imagine hearing those melodic moans above me. A reminder that I'd long forgotten what it felt like to simply be a woman. In survival mode, there was no allowances for arousal. It had been gone from me, the desire to even touch myself. Every night I'd laid my head down and tried to rest until the sun came up. Never allowing myself to fall into that trap of desire. I was forever alone. There was nothing but grief each time my hand had travelled across my breasts. So I'd abandoned it. All hope that I'd ever feel want again.

Despite my eagerness to uphold his dignity, I couldn't find it within myself to move. Even when he grew too heated under the covers, kicking off his blanket to reveal the line of his body. I held my breath. Took note of the way his chest moved as he breathed harder, his stomach rising and falling. And the way he wrapped his hand around himself. Making gentle strokes that pulled on his shaft, revealing the flex of the muscles in his forearm.

I had no right to see this. I was the worst sort of voyeur. The sort that never made their presence known. If he had known would he have been angry? Humiliated? I couldn't tear my eyes from him. It was wrong, and it troubled me. The way I stood there and allowed the sight to make my core begin to throb. A heavy beat making me wet and swollen.

I stood there until he came into his palm. An agonizing groan signalling the end of his endurance. I watched the white, sticky mess spurt from his tip and spill down his fist. My hand pressed against my mound, not daring to trespass further. Not even underneath the fabric of my pyjama shorts. I was quietly hyperventilating, almost light headed from it as I watched him drag a hand towel down his softening cock and the back of his hand.

And just like that, he flicked off the lamp at his bed side and plunged the room into darkness. And I felt my own shame begin to rise in my cheeks as I stood there peering into the pitch black. Allowing the thunder which gathered overhead to shroud my footsteps as I retreated back up the hall way.

It was still raining when the sun came up. It drenched the daylight in a darkening grey and it didn't really feel as if the sun had come up at all. I busied myself with throwing down some chicken feed into the coop and gathering up some of the eggs which had been laid. I mucked out the horses and let them roam a little while I put down fresh bedding. Trying to keep my mind from returning to the thing I had done that morning.

He was a man who had been alone as long as I had. Clearly with a thirst which begged to be quenched. I was throwing down the bedding far more aggressively than I ever had before, torturing myself with thoughts that were unwelcome.

I didn't want him to kiss me, but why hadn't he tried? I didn't want him to fuck me, but why hadn't he tried? Why hadn't he even hinted at it? Or was his own hand a more preferable means to an end? Did he find me unattractive? Did I find him unattractive?

I cursed him as I shovelled the last of the bedding in, throwing my spade down as it clanged against the stable door. I hated myself for thinking such despicable things. All we had to do was survive. Nothing more. What did it matter if he satisfied himself behind a door I wasn't meant to be standing behind?

"There you are."

I spun on my heels. His hair was dripping, his shirt so wet that I could see right through it. A curious look on his face, like he'd been searching everywhere for me.

"Oh, hey." I replied, as nonchalantly as I could.

He looked into the clearing at the horses milling about, with no regard for the rain. They seemed to be enjoying being out of their confined space. And by all accounts, so did he.

"I woke up and you weren't there." He said, rain dripping off the tip of his nose.

"Yeah, I had stuff to do." I had already done it all, but I tried to make it appear as if I was still busy.

He watched me for a moment, his hair sticking to his collar bone and that stomach of his concaving as he breathed against the drenched shirt.

"Is it terrible that I didn't like it?" He asked, "I've grown fond of seeing you there drinking coffee at the kitchen table every morning."

How had I let this happen? This thing I swore I'd never let happen? How had he become so necessary to me and I to him? When he couldn't even bring himself to kiss me? Was it nothing more than a platonic fondness borne of this unwanted necessity? Was I a replacement for his mother or his sister?

"I've got shit to do, Jake. I'm sorry." I dismissed him, passing him as coldly as I could to fetch the horses in.

He would wonder why my temperature towards him had dropped. But I couldn't help it. I wanted to rid myself of this gnawing churn in my stomach that was forming each and every time I looked at him. Least of all now, when I knew the curve and shape of his cock and how he liked to stroke it so perfectly gently and firmly.

"Amelia..."

He would have one kind word from me.

"Jake, I don't have time for this nonsense." I spat, leading the other horse into shelter. "We're running low on fire wood and I need to do a supply run for toilet paper. There's two of us here now, you understand?"

I'd been initially standoffish and he could forgive me for that. We didn't know each other or our intentions. But it was clear I'd let my guard down somewhat, and I knew the way I spoke to him was a bolt from the blue. He couldn't understand my switch.

"You know I'll do anything to help." He said so apologetically my heart almost broke in two. "I can do more, now. I'm starting to feel stronger every day. And I promise... soon you won't have to do all this stuff on your own. I'll pull my weight. I'm sorry..."

I couldn't bear it. The way he looked at me. A solemn pleading in his eyes as I latched the stable door shut and we stood in the pouring rain staring each other down like a duel at high noon. The rain hit the canopy above so hard it sounded like static when the tv didn't have any signal.

"Why are you staying here, Jake?" I demanded, raising my voice above the crescendo of rain. "What is it for? Are you afraid to be alone again, is that it?"

He blinked at me. Water rushing so hard it even poured off his eyelashes. Torrential and hard, we stood there like statues letting it shower over us like it wasn't even there.

"Of course I'm afraid to be alone again, aren't you?!" He snapped back, drinking rain as he spoke. "But that doesn't mean I'd rather be with anyone else?! I don't want to go back out there and carry on looking, I've found what I was searching for! Don't you get that?!"

Someone to take the edge off his solitude. Nothing more and nothing less. And why should I be anything more to him? I didn't want him crawling under my skin any more than he already had. We would ride out this error in humanity's timeline. Help each other to survive. That was it.

"I don't know." I confessed, " I was fine before. I was doing just fine! And then you came along, literally crashed into my life! Like I needed the distraction? The pull on my resources?!"

I didn't mean it. I could feel myself filled with regret even as the words came out. He was shaking his head, his hair so wet it barely moved. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed deeper somehow. And I knew that I'd hurt him by the way he couldn't seem to get his words out. He could only look at me and feel the knife in his back that I put there despite standing right in front of him.

"If you want me to leave I will leave."

And now because he wanted to. He would leave because I wanted him to. And now I wanted to scream at him and fall into his arms and throw away all my pretence and beg him to kiss me. Beg to know why he hadn't kissed me before. I hated feeling like this, I had never felt like this before. Not for a man, not for anyone. He stole all my resolve and I hated him for it. Hated myself for allowing him the strength to take it.

I could feel the sting of tears begin to spill over my lashes. The salty warmth of them in stark contrast to the cool rain.

"If you stay, you'll only grow to hate me." I sobbed, "You'll see that I'm not capable of letting you in."

"That's not true, Amelia." He replied, taking a bold step forward, reaching out for me before pulling back in case I rejected him. "I've seen your warmth and compassion. You're not cruel. I don't understand where all of this is coming from?"

I backed away. "I can't do this, Jake...I wont do this."

I retreated into the trees. Running through the mud and rain, letting it lash against the backs of my legs. I could scarcely see in front of my eyes, but I knew the way back blind. I could hear him calling out my name, unable to keep up with me. But he pursued me, regardless. With his healing bones, he ran behind me Begging me to stop.

"Amelia! Please!!!" He called, his voice fading out beneath the falling rain. "Stop! Please, don't do this!"

I reached the clearing at the front of the cabin. My body burning from the exertion and my breath caught in my lungs. Before I had chance to regain my composure, I felt his body against mine. Wet and solid. Heaving breaths as he spun me around, forcing me to look at him.

"Don't you run away from me like that again!"

He was furious. A rage the likes of which I'd never known could exist burning in the delicate tremble of his lip. I was too weak to protest.

"If you ever do that again I will always follow you, do you understand me?!" He shook me, hands wrapped around my shoulders as I gazed at the fire in his eyes. "I swear it, I'll follow you to the ends of the earth woman!!!"

Still, he wouldn't kiss me. Just let the rain fall upon us as he held me close. Breathing into my parted lips. Our shared breath turning to vapour in the freezing cold air.

"Because there's no one else to follow?" I said, my mouth desperately close to his.

"No." He replied harshly, turning his head to get a better look at me. "I had a girlfriend before all of this. We lived together in Nashville. She travelled with me when I had to go on tour. We were together for years. Maybe I would have married her, if I'd been given the chance."

"Why are you telling me this?!" I didn't want to hear it, I didn't want to hear about the way he had loved another.

"Because." He swallowed hard, "Even if she came back, even if she appeared to me right now like none of this had ever happened....I would still follow you."

I couldn't feel my fingers, or the tip of my nose. A flash of lightening streaked above, illuminating the darkness on the ground. For a moment his face lit up and I could see the conviction there.

He meant it.

But still, I wouldn't have it. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Oh, don't I?" He clenched his jaw. "You don't know a damn thing about what I know. You don't get to tell me how I feel. I might be afraid to be alone, but I'll do it if that's what you truly want. I'd leave just make you happy."

Nobody had ever held me like this. So securely. So aggressively soft. Like he could shake the life out of me if he so desired, but wouldn't.

"You wont even kiss me." I replied so pitifully, speaking so quietly a part of me hoped that he wouldn't hear me over the mounting thunder.

"And have you slap me across the face for taking such a thing?" He replied, almost laughing at me. "Would you have kissed me back if I had? I might not have kissed you yet, but I've imagined it. At night, when I know you're on the other side of that wall. And in the morning when you're sat at that table. I wanted to kiss you the other night when we got drunk and I could have used it as an excuse. Every time you wrinkle that nose and those freckles connect I want to kiss you. When you curl up by the fire to read, I want to kiss you. When I see you going out there to make sure the animals are safe, I want to kiss you. Ok?"

"Ok." I breathed, not an ounce of fight left in me.

He kissed me in the rain. In the storm that was brewing. His lips covered in raindrops and mine in tears. A kiss so desperate, so forcefully full of need I let him wrap his broken body around mine. I let him clutch me to him, whether it would hurt him or not. The heat of his tongue against mine was like the lightening had descended from the sky above and struck me where I stood. The gentle murmur of his whimpers in harmony with mine. I could feel his palm against my cheek, his thumb trespassing a slow stroke across it. I'd never been kissed like this before. Like I was in a black and white movie, my knee bent just a little to keep me from falling. He kissed me like he was starved. With gentle intention, but intensifying pressure as his tongue slipped further into my mouth. Until I was sucking on it, grappling at his shirt to tear it from his flesh.

"Fuck, ahhhh..." I stopped myself. "No, no... we can't..."

He was panting as he pulled away, his lips a little swollen from the pressure of being against mine.

"We don't have to, just don't push me away. Please? Don't do that... Sssshhh, come here..."

My eyes flitted over towards the store. Of all the medical supplies I'd sequestered, none of them included birth control. Something I never would have given any credence to before. But now I was dulled with the thought and the fear of him spilling inside me and putting a baby where there didn't need to be one. Not now.

"No, it's not that..." I clung to him. "I stopped taking my birth control. I didn't think I needed it..."

His face washed over with realisation. "Oh."

His smile was going to lead me down a murky path. I knew it. I would've died for the way he smiled at me in that moment. Like I was the sweetest thing alive.

"Not tonight, then." He whispered, his mouth moving against my ear. "Tonight, we can do other things."

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