#(( a rabbit knows it can bite down to bone and even through it if it has to

[royalreef]

@fstbmp​ inquired: I don't have anything in particular to ask but what's your Least favorite thing to see when sb writes Animals :tm: ?

(( Just because it’s been on my mind lately: treating animals as automatons.

I’ve seen this SO MUCH — where an animal is given A Stimulus and thus has to react in a given Response. You see this most with predators. They spot a prey animal, or see a threat, or there’s blood in the water, or WHATEVER, and they will immediately drop everything else that they’re doing to go chase something or kill something or what have you. They’ll also be loud and noisy and roar, even when hunting something, or when they burst out from an ambush, because the element of surprise is clearly not a factor here. I also like to call this “making animals stupid” because... it really does!

Predators, for instance, actually have a lot of factors that they weigh out when considering going after a prey item. The terrain, the weather, the season, the current availability of prey, the predator’s own bodily state, light vs dark, open vs cover, their own hunger and need, the species of prey, the predator’s memory, and so on and so forth. A predator knows when it’s hungry and when it’s not. A predator also knows if prey is rarer at a given time, or how much energy it’ll cost to kill and eat that prey item. There’s also the aspect of the age and health of the prey as well, because the reason that predators target the sick and the young and the old is not just because they’re easier, but because they can’t fight back as well. A lot of predators actually die to their prey, and a predator also knows that if a prey item injures them, then this likely means starvation and a slow death regardless. An injured predator can’t hunt, and there are no antibiotics in the wild.

It also entirely disregards an aspect of animals that is entirely glossed over in virtually all media: communication between different species.

This isn’t referring to specifically “talking” to another animal, but in the fact that animals are pretty good at loosely knowing what body language means. They can tell if another animal is behaving aggressively, or acting frightened, or if they’re hunting, or if they’re being calm. This is why so much advice on wild animals starts with “Don’t panic” — because you freaking out and flailing around also looks, to other animals, aggressive or defensive.

This is why you can see lions at watering holes calmly drinking beside their prey species — because they can tell that the lions aren’t hunting. This is also where you see the Clever Hans effect, because animals can tell when another animal is excited about something, and even moreso if you reward them for it.

And all of this is entirely disregarded in most media. A predator that’s fighting another predator will disregard the other completely to go chase after some humans. An animal will abandon its kill to chase after the smaller humans. An animal that is entirely relaxed and at a distance away from everyone else will quickly approach when it spots a human.

I think the most egregious example of this is actually the line of advice for bear attacks that goes “If it’s black, fight back, if it’s brown, lie down” which fundamentally misunderstands how bears work. Not only is there the issue of, both these species of bear can have black or brown coloration, but there’s the issue of bears don’t attack for no reason. A much more effective method is knowing WHY the bear is attacking and how it’s acting. Does it expect food from you, and is thus begging and acting unusually calm and lenient around humans? Is it aggressive and territorial, perhaps with cubs in the area? Is it one of the rare cases where it’s actually hunting and stalking you? Have you just gotten too close up in it’s business and just need to give it some space? Did you approach it or did it approach you? These are not behaviors nor traits that are limited by species, and CRUCIALLY alter what you should do in any given situation.

Alternatively, I think media is GREAT when it subverts this expectation. I haven’t seen the movie in specific, but there is a scene in one of the newer Kong movies where a character tries to make a heroic sacrifice, by having live explosives on his person and expecting the monster to eat him, that is all for naught when the monster then smacks him away.

And, while I will crucially remind you that I haven’t seen the rest of the movie, that scene alone was a GENIUS moment for me. This animal probably knows what explosives do at this point! It probably knows it’s big and loud and dangerous! It can probably smell them on him! An animal can recognize when another animal, even a prey animal, has something “wrong” with it and can then reject it or even smack it further away from itself!

I just hate it when people think and write animals as being totally unable to reason or weigh their current options, and instead just react to whatever’s put in front of them, and alternatively think it can be really fun when media understands that animals aren’t stupid.

[sunsburns]

imagine asking wade if he still likes you when he’s literally inside you LMAOOO I just know he’d be so flabbergasted

i know a normal people fan when i see one (18+, fluff)

but jokes aside, and dicks inside, wade would likely get whiplash; his head turning so fast he can hear a crack in his neck, staring at you like you're crazy because just seconds ago you'd been running your gentle hands over his skin. your fingers brush against the divots of his scarred skin, your cheek pressed to his chest, humming softly, close enough that your lashes tickle whenever you blink.

wade's a little out of breath, sticky with sweat, and miraculously, rendered speechless. to others, a rarity, but with you, while still rare, is more frequent, especially after sex.

sure, he drops a joke or two, but there is a window where wade likes to sit there, holding you, skin against skin, in silence; listening to the sounds of your shaky breaths as you come down from your high, the sounds of the bedsheets ruffling with slow movements from the both of you, even the sounds of the old crackly fan on his ceiling.

and so, in that small window of silence, the two of you lay there in a warm embrace, listening to each other's heartbeats as wade's dick slowly softens inside you.

but then that small window starts to close, the silence breaking with you. you shift, turning to press your chin against wade's chest while looking up at him, "hey," you whisper, a smile growing against your lips.

"hi," he whispers back to you, but he continues to stare at the window, watching the soft light of the rising sun peeking in through the white lace curtains you picked out, a part of you in the dingy apartment he shared with blind al.

"we've officially gone at it all night. fucking like rabbits. and i can't believe i'm saying this but, i'm fucking spent. i might need a few weeks to recover. i asked for a bone and you threw a whole skeleton at me, peanut."

you snort, rolling your eyes, "yeah, right."

"okay, fine, a week is too long." wade hums, he finds your hair and runs his hand over it, twirling a strand around his finger, "i'll be good as new by tonight or at least by the time you scroll to read another fic of me, of course."

you're still staring at him, and wade, ever the observant, notices. he shifts, sits up, holds onto your waist, and brings you up with him. you have to bite your tongue to hold back a moan, sensitive to the way he's touching you, the way his dick keeps you full.

wade raises his brows (or at least, where his brows would be), "what? is there something on my face? i know i'm ugly but i thought we were past that. your staring is making me a little self conscious, sweetbuns."

"wade?"

"yes, cupcake?"

"do you like me?"

"what-?" he stares at you, eyes wide and nearly popping out of his head. "do i- what? what the fuck kind of stupid ass fuck ass question is that? you think i don't like you? we literally fucked all night. literally did every position in the book. i let you peg me! you might be the only person on earth that matches my freak-"

"yeah, i know but-"

"bitch, i'm literally still inside you."

that's when you can't help but laugh, grinning against his neck when he wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer. you love the way his body emits warmth, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer like you want to live inside his skin.

wade holds you, his cheek pressing against the top of your head. and he groans loudly when you say, "you never answered my question."

"oh my god," he huffs dramatically, "of course i fucking like you. like no shit."

"okay, great. i was just making sure."

[starry-bi-sky]

a half-ghost--? no- no wait, that's a changeling. that's even worse.

so i'd like to preface this by saying this stems from me going entirely off the rails thinking about tales of the passerine-- which is frankly quite on brand for me to think of one au, and then develop it so far left ways that it makes another au entirely.

bUT. Context! Danny's ancestors sometime before they immigrated to America had a fae marry into the family. This had its Side Effects. Naturally. The Fentonnightengale responsible for this charmed a fae thanks to their swagless nature and awkward demeanor, so instead of getting eaten the fae thought it was cute instead. The fae marrying into the family had an affinity for music, but that kinda repressed itself by accident -- blame the salem witch trials.

By the time Danny is born, the fae blood has become so latent that it really doesn't show up anymore other than the Fentons Eccentricity and obsession with the supernatural (a latent desire to return home to the fae realm - aka infinite realms). There's an unnatural charm surrounding the fenton that really only creeps almost every human within a visual radius, and Danny is no exception.

hoWEVEr. the accident that turned danny into a halfa in one timeline did no such thing in this one -- it just reactivated his latent fae blood, and reactivated it with a fervor. Effectively turning Danny from a human into a changeling.

Danny just thinks at first that he's a half-ghost -- only to realize later on from Clockwork that he's not one at all. He's very much fae -- which is a wild discovery for Danny to make. It also means his rogues are quite a bit more intimidated by him. Fae are above ghosts in the Infinite Realm Creature Hierarchy, no matter how powerful they are. A fae can still Steal the name of a ghost, so Danny's rogues are rather skittish/unsure around Danny until they realize he doesn't know he's a changeling -- after that, many of them vow to try and keep it secret amongst themselves.

Danny's 'ghost' form is rather birdlike, and in human form his appearance warps to match his comfortability. When he's alone with his friends he starts taking on unnatural features. -- his blue-green eyes brighten and his pupils elongate, his teeth sharpen, and his ears grow longer and animal-like. His hair softens to be more feathery, his nails sharpen. In general he takes on more 'bird-ish' features. At school, around his parents, and when he's stressed, tense, or scared, he looks completely human -- an instinctual survival mechanism.

As a ghost, he has large, pretty wings that gradient from black to dark purple-blue, with a shimmer across the feathers that resembles the aurora borealis. His limbs elongate, his legs becoming bird-like and his talons grow on both his feet and nails. His ears vaguely resemble a rabbit's, although they don't flop down like one. All his teeth sharpen. Razor sharp chompers, capable of biting through bone. His eyes take on a greenish-hue, but otherwise remain the same color, albeit his sclera becomes blue-ish and his pupils become diamond-shaped and white. Rings of seafoam blue circle around his iris, creating a reflective sheen. He makes chirping, creaking noises, and when he speaks there's a faint overlap that is very enchanting.

Overall he's rather beautiful in a terrifyingly inhuman way, its hard to take your eyes off him. He has a lot of feathers. He's very drawn to singing and music in general, and gets into music sometime after his accident. He likes flutes/ocarinas/woodwinds the most, followed shortly after by strings, and then piano. He also slowly loses the ability to lie -- which is really annoying and also terrifying until he learns how to reword himself and become a better wordsmith.

SInce this stemmed from an older brother dpdc au, its gonna stay an older brother dpdc au alsfh. i'll just get to the dpxdc part in another post since i wanted to get this off my chest first

[0bticeo]

welcome to the show!

summary: vox sends you as a spy to the hazbin hotel. alastor decides to give him a show.

tw: voyeurism, biting, blood play, fingering, valentino mentioned. english isn't my mother tongue.

you're thrown in hell - quite literally. the fall from purgatory and its beasts was long, arduous, and painful.

you've led an ordinary life. woken up. worked. slept. repeatead. same old decaying matter as everything else. you didn't think too much of it, of course not. you were twenty something and rising slowly, steadily in your company as an esteemed lawyer. memento mori didn't ring a bell. maybe it should've.

now you're in hell, and you're burning with sheer, unbridled rage, because how dare they throw you in there? (you're all in hell for a reason. all of you, fangs and bad intentions bare to the world.)

you take up your old job at vox tech. lawyer for a corrupt company. old habits die harder than you do. there, there's the thrill of probing the opposing companies and sinking your fangs into them, corrupt little fox with a too wide smile on your face.

what you gather is this: velvette's sense of fashion involves too much purple, valentino is the embodiment of everything you hate and vox... vox is obsessed with the radio demon. he's disappeared not too long after being asked to join the vees. you'd know, you're the one who wrote the contract he refused to sign. bastard.

could've been fine, really. but they work you to the bone and treat you as little less than a glorified secretary. when valentino throws the cup of coffee you brought him to a board meeting with the other executives of the company, you slam the door on your way out and don't look back.

it goes like this: you've been in hell for a while, and you're done playing the part of the sinner. so you tell charlie morningstar when she greets you at the hazbin hotel.

she accepts you, welcomes you with, out of all things, a song. too much trouble for dear old you.

"nonsense! everyone deserves to be given their rightful importance!"

that one hit close home.

you don't have the time to thank her before she's introducing you to the staff and the rest of the hotel.

vaggie, staring you down with a suspicious eye, fingers itching to reach for her spear. ah. an angel. fascinating.

angel dust. you have to thank him for being here. after you murder him for calling you an enticing little vixen and winking at you.

husker. former overlord. sold his soul to the radio demon in a bad game of poker.

your hair stand at the back of your neck. static crackles in the air. your ear twitches. alastor's entered the game.

"alastor, it's a pleasure to meet you, quite the pleasure my dear!"

he brings your gloved hand to his lips. even through the thin leather, you can feel the warmth of his breath, the press of his teeth like a warning.

his grin deepens when you introduce yourself in turn. a glimmer of recognition flashes in his eye.

shit.

**

you've always liked to cook. there's something about the glimmering edge of a knife cutting thin slices of meat that appeases you. tonight, you crave some rabbit.

somewhere in the kitchen, the clock ticks the minutes away, time bleeding out. doesn't matter when you have eternity to atone for your sins. 

the watch at your wrist flashes. 2:37. of course, insomnia had to follow you down to hell. it served you at voxtech, back when you were pouring over contracts and meaningless paperwork.

you make your way towards the fridge, hoping to god you'll find something to satiate your appetite.

"ah, feeling peckish my dear?"

you startle.

alastor.

you turn, back facing the counter, resisting the urge to bare your fangs. there he is, slithering out of darkness, a spectre in red. you wonder if it's a reminder of the blood he's shed.

"what do you want?" you snarl.

he laughs, static buzzing in your ears. you blink. when your eyes open, he's inches away from your face, craning your neck towards him - he's tall, that fucker.

"why so aggressive, little vixen?"

his fingers dip down your shoulder, down your arm, until they close on your wrist. his teeth press against the bracelet of your watch, scraping the skin beneath, drawing a drop of blood. the screen glows, a faint blue light in the penumbra of the kitchen.

your breath catches in your throat. he's gorgeous, blue light draped over his hair like threads of moonlight.

he hums, the vibration settling low in your gut.

"i just want a little taste..."

you shiver at that. at the way he looks at you like he wants to devour you, consume you whole. at the way his tongue presses on the cut, lapping at the blood. you tense, biting back a soft, needy little sound.

his leg pushes your thighs apart. you don't realise you've been humping against the warmth of him until his hand settles on your hip, claws digging into your skin hard enough to draw blood.

"behave, little spy."

you laugh at that, baring your throat.

"was it really that obvious?"

he hums, clawed finger trailing down the column of your flesh, pressing against the jugular. he can feel your pulse, staccato little thing beating wildly as you look up at him, lips parted with want.

his smile stretches, impossibly wide.

"vox wouldn't have let his precious little lawyer go." his claws tap against your watch. "and i'd be a fool not to get a taste."

he kisses you. he kisses you, teeth nipping at your mouth until you can feel static against your tongue, until you arch your back against him. you whine, claws digging in his shirt, eager for more. of course, he pulls away. bastard.

"patience, my dear. all good things come to those who wait."

you scoff.

"because seven years and s'more weren't enough?"

a pause. his lips trail down your throat.

"i suppose that's fair."

he bites you, teeth sinking at the junction of your throat and shoulder. you keen, a breathless moan of his name as you feel him grind against you. you shouldn't let this happen. shouldn't revel in the warmth of him, body going limp in his grasp. shouldn't drag his hand towards your aching core, let him press his fingers against your slit and chuckle at how wet you are. you can't let him finger you on the kitchen's counter, can't mewl like a wanton whore.

you do.

you do, his name like a prayer on your lips, hips stuttering, desperate for release. you feel him against you, lapping at your flesh like a starved hound. when he lets you go, there's a spider-web thin string of blood connecting him to your shoulder.

the sight of him takes your breath away.

there he is, eyes half lidded, looking at you. there he is, blood, your blood, dripping down his lips, his chin.

he leans closer, watching you, the way your shiver at his every touch, as his free hand digs in the tender skin of your breast and sinks into the flesh.

oh.

something snaps in you - you're on fire, head thrown back in a silent cry of his name.

on your wrist, the watch flashes blue. alastor grasps your wrist in his hand, bringing it up. it's easy for vox to see you. you, disheveled, red fur a mess of sweat and blood, panting, cheek pressed against alastor's chest. you, nightgown hiked up to your hips. you, legs wrapped around alastor's waist, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder to muffle your moans as he drills his cock into you.

vox groans at the sight, pants growing too tight.

the radio demon smiles.

"hope you enjoyed the show, old pal!"

[seven-homosexual-dinosaurs]

If holoen was a high school au myth would be the seniors everyone knows but don’t know how and Gura heads the marine biology club but doesn’t know how to swim and Watson notoriously knows everything about everyone, even things you don’t know about yourself and Calli is cool and mysterious but most people don’t know that she’s so horrifically bad at keeping plants alive that she’s not allowed in the botany club’s room and Kiara works at a fast food place but no one can figure out which one since she keeps somehow appearing in all of them and Ina looks like the most normal one out of all of them until you catch a peek at her sketchbook and it’s just filled with drawings of creatures unknown and incomprehensible scribbling she claims she doesn’t remember writing.

Promise used to head student council until they all stepped down (got kicked off) for a classified incident that involved one alleged charge of eco-terrorism and at least three dead rabbits found in the club room and Bae has gotten in trouble for biting people at least seven times and Kronii can always tell you what time it is without looking at a clock and Fauna runs the botany club but secretly uses the club room to grow weed on the side and Mumei is the weird kid that no one but Promise quite understands beyond the fact that she once entered a classroom through the window because the halls were too crowded and Irys is the kid that keeps buying out the soda machines and then throwing the empty cans at Bae and there are several student groups dedicated to figuring out wtf is Promise’s deal with alleged crime and whatever romantic fuckery is happening in the group.

Advent is a group of “delinquents” that except for Shiori and Biboo are just really bad at following the rules and Shiori is the girl who has somehow read every book ever and can give a full literary analysis on them and Nerissa is in at least five situationships with five different girls and Biboo keeps threatening people and then claiming “Oobib” did it and people believe her cause she’s cute and FuwaMoco once got in trouble for bringing a dead bird they hunted to school to show Advent and the entire group has reserved seats in detention yet they somehow manage to escape every time.

Justice is the new student council and Liz is the kid that patrols the halls to make sure no one gets bullied and Gigi and Cecilia may or may not have robbed a 7/11 one time but it’s ok since they only ever cause mischief outside of school grounds and “for justice” and Raora has four cats at home and constantly talks about them and one time got in a fight with someone over breaking spaghetti that resulted in several broken bones and a lifetime ban from Olive Garden but it’s ok because she never fought over food again (Justice has her on a leash).

Calli and Kiara babysit the neighborhood kid Kobo and are lowkey competing to be her favourite and Kronii and Gura have gotten in at least six fistfights yet are somehow really good friends and Liz and Nerissa have a Romeo and Juliet type “forbidden romance” that they’re really dramatic and secretive about when in actuality literally everyone knows about it.

[poppy-metal]

imagine you being like away for some time like maybe you’re on a weekend trip with your friends and werewolf!patrick just goes insane from being away from you and you know how werewolfs are sensitive to smell.. and him just humping your sheets and clothes and whatever smells like you and you just come back to everything being covered in his cum and then he has the audacity to be mad at you🫵 (hes lucky youre a freak but i mean you still think hes a human and ask yourself why this man is cumming in buckets?)

you'd given patrick the keys to your apartment while you were away to feed your pet rabbit, pippin. it was far enough from the full moon that he didn't fear he'd be overcome with the desire to eat your bunny - so he agreed. and he didn't eat your bunny, so props for that. though he definitely licked his lips looking at the small creature and knowing how easy it'd be to bite into pippin and how rabbit tasted not so bad. pretty good actually. bones crunched like crackers under his teeth and flesh was soft and supple. but he knew you'd be devastated if you came home to no bunny - you were such an animal lover - and he winced to think about what you'd think of all the innocent woodland creatures patrick had crushed under his jaws as of late. 

he fed pippin. growled at the small bundle of fur when it thumped it's feet at him for taking so long. he was just about to head out when he caught sight of a slip of pink on your couch. he touched it, despite himself. drawn to it by your lingering scent. you had such a distinct smell. everyone did, really, it goy fucking annoying with everyone's combined smells attacking his senses. but yours was different. sweeter. softly spun sugar. even your sweat smelled good. like fucking candy. 

you obviously hadn't meant to leave this out - it was a pink long sleeve blouse - cotton and almost sheer. he'd seen it on you the day before you left, could see the way your nipples poked through the fabric. he'd wanted to bite the stiff peaks then. and he wanted to now, imagining them. bite them until you whined in pain. swirl them on his tongue. 

he rubbed the fabric between his fingers in reverence - frowning when he felt something damp. he straightened the fabric out and realized what he felt were pit stains - he could see where the pink fabric darkened where your underarms would be and his mouth watered. you'd hit him across the head if you knew he was salivating over a dirty shirt you definitely forgot to throw in the wash before you left. you'd shriek to realize what he was doing but he couldn't help it. 

he brought the shirt to his nose and inhaled. his eyes nearly fucking rolled back into his skull as the scent of your sweat filled his nostrils, his mouth filling with saliva. the full moon wasn't close and still he felt the phantom throb of his fangs in his gums. blood rushed to his dick immediately, thickening inside his jeans. he huffed and pulled long inhales from your shirt - right where your scent was the ripest - where you sweat the most - and he reached down to desperately undo his belt and zipper, yanking his jeans down to free his hard engorged cock. 

he can feel fucked up about this later - he needs this too badly right now. god thats another thing from this goddamn curse it's the fact that his dick is enormous now. not that it was small before - but he has to admit it's pretty fucking vulgar to look at now. it's absolute hell to deal with when he's turned on, which is almost all the time around you. feels like a fucking baseball bat between his thighs - throbbing incessantly. he groans when it bobs free, slapping against his stomach. fully erect and standing thick with how stiff he is. 

it's almost painful to wrap a hand around himself. a painful kind of bliss - his knees tremor and he nearly goddman whimpers when he gives himself one good squeeze around his fat base - he runs his whole face into your shirt, like he's rubbing your scent all over. his lips are wet, he's so close to drooling he's so fucking worked up. 

he thinks about you wearing this blouse with nothing under it - bare tits visible underneath - taut nipples and bouncy flesh all for his eyes to see. you're so fucking vulnerable and you don't even know it. he could rip you apart with one bite, one bite, he could tear into you and eat you whole. he could do whatever the fuck he wanted to you and you couldn't stop him. the only thing keeping you safe was his own self restraint which was growing thinner and thinner where you were concerned.

he thinks about your love for animals and if you'd love a beast like him if you knew what he really was now. if you knew the truth. would you pet and stroke him? would you run in fear? or would you lay down and spread your legs and let him inside that hole between your thighs that belonged to him? 

he wraps the shirt around his cock - soft and delicate and so fucking you - all pink and clouds and feminine on his fucking monstrous big hard cock. he rubs his fist wrapped in the fabric up and down his tense shaft - feels every pulse in the individual veins in his cock. he pulls his foreskin back from his plump head - wet and dripping pre - smears it into your shirt. rubs it right against his sensitive slit again and again as he grits his teeth and growls down at the image.

he imagines the pink of your blouse as the pink of your insides - the inside of your pussy sucking and wrapping around his thick head as he forced himself inside your little tight body - “goddamn - take it you bitch - “

the last word comes out as more of a animalistic growl than a human word. he pants as he furiously beats his hand over his stiff cock - his heavy fucking sack swinging between hairy tensing thighs. if his dick is obscene - his balls are a freakshow. twin globes that droop low and fat. like ripe fruits. bulging and looking fit to burst at any second. they slap against his thighs as he jerks himself off rapidly. 

“I'm gonna fucking cum -” he tells no one - the you in his mind that he's fucking on his cock - breaking you open like he was meant to. “gonna fucking breed that tight fucking pussy - fuck!” 

he shreds your couch when he cums. nails digging into the soft fabric and tearing as he shoots hot ropes of sticky white across your ruined blouse. 

the shirt is a crude display of what it was before. nearly in scraps and soaked through with his release. he swallows and fists it in his hands. throws it in your trashcan and hopes it wasn't one that you were attached too. 

he feels so fucking guilty. 

but not guilty enough to resist his other animalistic impulse to grip his dick again - and aim a hot stream of his piss into the shower in your bathroom. the toilet felt too impersonal. he wants his scent where you wash your body. where you get naked and wet and vulnerable. he grunts as his slit widens and pulses a heavy thick stream - much longer and thicker than that of any human male. the smell is more pungent too. you'll definitely be able to smell it. the thought sends a shiver through his body as he finishes, shaking his dick out. a darker part of him thinks his urine doesn't belong here - it belongs on your body - in your body - you should be covered it in - in his fluids and his scent - you should be his marked territory - his submissive mate - 

he tucks himself back in his jeans and rubs his jaw. this situation is fucking him up. more than just the painful turns every full moon and eating raw animal meat and sometimes - that one time - human meat - he's scared of himself and what he might do. he should cut you off, probably. 

the wolf in him doesn't like that idea, though. the wolf in him growls - don't run from her. claim her. take her between your teeth and hold her down and force your hard beating cock into that little human cunt - 

he shakes his head. runs a hand through his hair in agitation and gets the fuck out of your house. shoots your rabbit, pippin, one final glare because he's sure he senses judgement from the those beady bunny eyes. 

“shut the fuck up.”

[dadsbongos]

HELLO i am soo normal about your writing (lie) could you perhaps write something for my bbg cahara of him finding scares reader in the dungeons (kinda like your rag one) THANK YOU. feeding the funger community rn

posting cahara comfort to pre-emptively apologize for the next cahara post (whenever it is that that comes out) 551 words ~~~

Most days, he would not flinch -- taking your gold and dashing out of sight. Most days, he would abandon you for the dungeon’s gaspy hallways and dried blood without a thought. Most days, his pity is dry as bones.

You’re like a wet, shaky dog on the side of the road.

Cahara cannot bring himself to do it. He even takes lead in the fleshy hall, snatching your hand to escape a lizardman before rolling through a mystery door. Rabbits so desperate to escape a gnashing dog they hop down the gaping maw of a snake -- at least the snake is warm and snug inside. 

“Are you alright, dollface?” he murmurs, squinting to make out the shadows before cracking stray hairs from your face.

You don’t feel very doll-like at the moment, frowning in Cahara’s hold, “We’re going deeper in.”

“I know.”

You cradle his hands against your cheeks, just to savor the steady warmth passing through his gloves, “We should be escaping.”

“I know.”

“Cahara,” nails bite into the leather against his knuckles, “I want to leave. I just want to go home.”

He feels terrible, really. Dredging you through beasts and flies and corpses on his quest for riches. Partly for an apology, and partly to keep you from wailing any louder, Cahara presses a bottle of ale to your lips and urges you to drink. When you’ve successfully bitten back a shot of the bitter liquid, he soothes you to even your breathing.

“Can I have more?” you shyly request.

“Of course,” Cahara continues to hold the bottle for you, as your hands tremble far too much. He fears you’d end up with more of the ale staining your clothes than in your belly, “We can sit here for awhile, it seems quiet in this room.”

“Thank you,” you’re ashamed to say you don’t recall why you’d made this venture in the first place. Something about a cube and the Gods -- something great like prophecy and men brighter than the sun. Fear has shocked you into forgetting your frivolous motivations, whatever they were they certainly weren’t this.

Now you latch to Cahara.

A new and sole goal: follow Cahara. Simple and in constant achievement. You’re succeeding just by living, and that’s all you think you’re capable of at the moment. Thankfully, Cahara seems to appreciate the efforts.

“We’ll escape soon,” a lie, “I promise you’ll make it out alive with me, dollface.”

He’s not sure where that part falls on the truth - lie spectrum. He knows he wants to live. He knows he wants you to live.

He doesn’t know if the cruel Gods will allow it. He says none of that to you.

“Drink more,” he coos, already noticing a hazy sheen overtake your once hyper eyes. Your shoulders go lax and you merely hum and nod to his commands, “Let it ease your nerves.”

“You’re not gonna leave, right?” you bumble through the consonants with drunk lips, finding it harder to <i>want</i> to speak.

“No,” true, “I won’t leave you behind.”

Cahara, despite his history and career path, has a soft spot for the unfortunate. And you might be the most unfortunate thing he’s found in this dungeon, terrified out of your wits. He’s losing his edge, really, but he won’t make any complaints.

[johnwickb1tsch]

A Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline Part 2 ~

Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle

You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you... Warnings: some rough handling, ptsd nightmares, period correct misogyny, sorta nsfw <----Part 1 chapter map

-Paul has trouble sleeping. Maybe you don’t know what PTSD is yet in 1945, but you understand nightmares all too well. You have them too, mostly about the night your mother died, screaming in pain. You invite him up to the bed one such night when he wakes with a yell, and he’s too fragile to resist. You hold him on your breast and he falls asleep there. You feel like you would fight the whole Axis singlehandedly to keep this man safe, and you know you are falling hopelessly in love.    

-Meanwhile, don Juan has been trying to get you alone. He has the girls in the house spying for him, and they find the bedclothes on the floor sometimes. When at last he corners you in the cool dark of the cellar he asks with a smirk why your new husband is sleeping on the floor? “That’s none of your business.” You try to brush past, but his arm around your waist may as well be made of iron. 

“Everything that goes on in my house is my business.”

He tries to kiss you but you duck away. Once upon a time you might have folded for him, even if you would regret it later. He's so magnificent, especially when he's like this, eyes flashing and that full mouth pulled in a smirk. But...you have Paul here with you, and that gives you strength.

“You know what I think?”

“I’m not sure I care.” 

“I think you’re not really married. What a scheme, you wicked girl. That boy clearly loves you.” 

“Let go of me.”

He goes on, like you’ve said nothing, the way he always has. “But so do I. You broke my heart, when you ran away.”

“I didn’t know you had a heart to break, don Juan.”

Done playing, he hauls you on top of a table, wedging his lithe body between your legs and pinning you down. You hate how being handled this way fills you with equal parts titillation and dread. He's always treated you like a spirited horse in need of breaking.

“This is where you belong. With your people. You insult us, bringing that man to my door. I made you a woman in the soil of my land. Your virgin blood feeds the roots of my vines. You will live and die here, with me.” 

He kisses you, hard, and you only lose yourself for a moment before you bite him. He hauls back to strike you, but there’s a voice at the top of the stairs. “Y/n? Are you down here?”

It’s Paul, your hero in the nick of time, as ever.

“Coming!” you answer, before Juan can clamp his hand over your mouth. He glares at you, but lets you up. You do your best to right your dress, knowing your hair is a bird’s nest. 

“This isn’t over,” he tells you in a whisper. You want to tell him to fuck off–yes, you have learned some unladylike words out in the real world–but you know it would not end well for anyone. Instead, you just go, throwing yourself into Paul’s arms at the top of the stairs. He holds you, but can’t get you to tell him what’s wrong. 

-The frost scene?? It was cute but there’s no way you’d actually be out there in your silk nightgown with your nips out in the 1940s? 🤣

-The day of the harvest, you all work yourselves to the bone. You’re a “married” woman now, so you take part in the smashing of the grapes. The more beautiful the woman, the better tasting the wine, as the saying goes, and Las Nubes has a reputation as the best around. Paul watches, clapping for you, enchanted and mystified like he is for everything that goes on around here. It’s like he’s fallen through the rabbit hole, into a whole different world. Don Juan is watching too. You feel the possessive weight of his gaze from across the crowd. You do your best to ignore him, your eyes all for Paul as you dance, grape juice all over your body, streaming down your thighs. (as a wine drinker and from a sanitation standpoint I thought this scene was kinda gross LOL). 

-There is heady magic in the air the night of the Harvest, something ancient called up by your singing and dancing, your celebration of the bounty from the earth. The wine flows, and you know Paul feels it too, even if he doesn’t entirely understand. The two of you slip away to your room in the hacienda, giggling and running, half tripping in your lustful haste. The way he holds you in those strong arms–the way he kisses you–you think to yourself drunkenly, on wine, and him, that maybe it’s all you need. He lowers you onto the bed, your bodies undulating together in that ancient, timeless rhythm between man and woman, even through your juice-soaked clothes–you look at him stupidly when he pulls back from you. “Y/n…I want you more than anything–but we’re not really married. I don’t want to hurt you.”

You blink up at him, floored, as usual, by his pure goodness. How was he even real? It makes you want him even more, if that’s even possible. 

“It’s ok, Paul,” you tell him, smoothing back his [admittedly sticky] hair. “I want you too.”

“But…”

“I’m not…the blushing virgin you think I am.”

For a moment he seems confused by this, but then he thinks. His brain is working better than yours, you have to hand it to him. “Don Juan?”

“Yes. A long time ago.”

“He still loves you.”

“He thinks he owns me, like I am a part of his estate. It’s different.” 

“You do belong to this land though. I see it in you. This is your home.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t mean I can stay.” 

He looks down at you so earnestly with those lovely dark eyes, and you can hear the words hovering on his lips. I could be your home? 

It scares you, what you might answer, if he manages to say it. You know that he was an orphan, and that a family is the thing he longs for most. The thing he deserves most, and you’re equally afraid you can’t give it to him, and that you want to.  

You hold his cheek, able to think a little better, even with his delicious weight pressing down on you. You both are a mess, and now you feel gross, laying in your bed like this. “Can I show you something?”

He nods, and you take his hand, leading him out.

Part 3 ---->

[artficlly]

a dish served cold (mini series - part six)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x reader

after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes. 

Warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, guns, violence, kidnapping, mentions of murder/death, sexual tension, death of parent, verbal fighting/argument, outlaw bucky, protective bucky, betrayal, animal death, hunting, mention of bounty hunters, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: part six!! we're in the end game now, let me know your thoughts sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas of deep purples and fiery oranges, casting the landscape in a warm, otherworldly glow before darkness took hold. You and Bucky watch the transition silently, feeling the cool evening breeze ruffle your hair and send shivers down your spine. The crackling flames of the campfire provided a comforting warmth, but you couldn't help but notice the biting chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.

Setting up camp near the winding river had advantages; the proximity to water made it easier to replenish your supplies, and you planned to follow said river to an eventual civilisation, but it also meant lower temperatures. In the distance, the silhouettes of deer and rabbits darted across the plains, their movements accompanied by the gentle rustling of bushes. The haunting sound of coyotes filled the air, their distant howls echoing through the stillness of the night, a constant reminder of the untamed wilderness that surrounded you.

You had cooked up the last food, two cans of beans. One for you, one for Barnes. You were both starving after days of travel, so you did not bother to scrunch your nose at the food. A comfortable silence had fallen over both of you, but you couldn’t help but notice how Bucky’s eyes often drifted over to you. You wondered if he was sizing you up. The fire crackled and cast a warm glow on his rugged features, accentuating his intense gaze. You found his silent scrutiny both unnerving and intriguing, wondering what thoughts ran through his mind as he observed you.

Exhaustion weighed heavy in your bones, and you hoped the outlaw would fall asleep soon. It was unsafe to be the first, in case he slipped his binds and ambushed you. You can feel the weight of your eyelids as your head bobs slightly, trying to keep yourself awake. You scan the surroundings, the flickering light of the campfire casting eerie shadows across the clearing. Every rustle of the leaves or crack of a branch made your heart skip a beat. The thought of being murdered in your sleep undoubtedly motivated you to remain vigilant. You didn’t take Bucky for the cruel type. He was violent, yes, but not sadistic. At least you hoped. 

“How’d you get into this business?” The outlaw's voice breaks the silence, and your head jolts upward to meet his steady gaze.

“Why?” You ask, voice tinged with suspicion. Did he still think you were just a bounty hunter after everything he'd seen?

“Just curious, that’s all.” It was as though the quiet unsettled him too, and he was anxious to fill it.

You consider his words, sucking on your teeth thoughtfully. Your mission wasn't driven by money; it was fueled by revenge. Vigilante was a more fitting title for you. Many had asked you the same questions along your journey. You'd stroll into ramshackle saloons and bars, ensuring to unbutton your bodice or blouse and wear a coy smile. Men, often foolish and drunk, rarely thought beyond their desires. It was easy to pick up a breadcrumb trail, piecing together murmurs and rumours circulating through the small trading towns. Each time, you spun elaborate lies; the truth was more mundane than any story you could fabricate. You'd tell them you were a descendant of a long line of bounty hunters, seeking revenge on the man who killed your one true love, or trying to impress a hardy gentleman back east.

Maybe tonight you could tell the truth. The two of you are alone now. His quickly approaching date with death warranted some honesty between the both of you. He didn’t even know half the story; at least, he hadn't picked it up. He had taken one look at your attire and fluttering eyelashes and dismissed you as harmless. Not a threat. He didn’t even know why, out of all the outlaws in the country, you had chosen him.

“‘Cause of my Pa,” you hum. Your voice is a soft melody in the stillness. You pick at some softer grass that protrudes from the earth. “He’s dead now.”

“I remember. You told me back in Crimson Junction.”

A genuine smile emerges on your face at his words. So he had remembered. “He was a hard-workin’ man, a blacksmith. He worked hard to keep me and my Ma fed. We were close, ‘least I was closer with him than I was my Ma. She always took it kind of hard, I think. Called us thick as thieves. One day, he and my Ma went a couple of towns over on the train for their wedding anniversary and left me alone at the house.” 

You pause, taking a deep breath, before continuing. Your smile falters. “The day they were supposed to come back, they were late. I waited up all night, sick to my stomach. I went over all these terrible things that could’ve happened to them. Until my Ma returned home early in the mornin’, covered in blood, cryin’ her eyes out.”

Your face tightens, the muscles around your mouth drawing into a grimace. “There had been some holdup on the train, some robbery gone wrong. He was killed. Shot in the back of the head like some animal. My Ma, she watched the whole thing. She couldn’t do anything. Just screamed.” 

​​You lift your gaze, meeting Bucky’s eyes with a hard stare. “They never caught the guy.”

The blood drains from Bucky’s face as he listens. You continue to fidget with the grass, your brows scrunching in thought, the memories as vivid as the day they occurred.

“Every day I would go down to the sheriff station and look at the bounty posters. I would look at the faces of the men. My Ma pointed out the poster of the man who she claimed was responsible. And I would stand there, and I would stare, wonderin’ if we would get the justice we deserved.”

“Where was this robbery?” Bucky questions, his voice strained. You ignore him. 

“The law lost interest, some rich stagecoach was robbed, and all their eyes turned away.” You continue, a bitter edge creeping into your tone. “It made me sick that those men, the men who swore they would bring justice, abandoned us so quickly, all for a few more dollars.”

Bucky’s face twists with horror and guilt as the weight of your words settles over him. You watch him for a moment, your expression cold. 

“Me and my Ma had some money, but we were gonna starve without my Pa’s work. We couldn’t work the forge or have a bank account… so we sold it. The best I could do was marry and send money back to my Ma but… but all I could do was stare at those posters. So I bought a horse with what little we had left, took my Pa’s rifle, and rode out. I followed hints and leads until I found a trail.”

“Ya don’t understand—” Bucky speaks up again, near-begging. Your eyes snap upward, and you lift your chin high, your mouth set in a firm line.

“That trail led me to Crimson Junction. It led me to you.”

The silence returns, thicker and uncomfortable. Bucky’s eyes are downcast in shame, like a scolded dog. Your stomach twists, a nauseating frustration gnawing at your gut. You rise to your knees, your knuckles white as you aim your rifle over his heart.

“And to think, I spent weeks or months staring at your picture on a poster," you continue, your voice akin to a snarl. "I thought when I found you that you’d be some monster. I knew in my heart that you were evil because you shot my Pa. In the back of the head, no less, like a coward. You couldn’t even shoot a man who was lookin’ you in the eyes."

You pause, a mix of exasperation and disbelief in your tone. “I wondered if you’d have horns like a devil or hooved feet. But when I saw you… you were normal. And instead of this wickedness I had prepared myself for, you showed me kindness. In that saloon. You didn’t know me, yet you protected me.”

You lock eyes with Bucky, demanding an answer. “Why?” 

Bucky remains silent. You lurch forward, still aiming the gun. 

“Why?!” You scream at him, your voice echoing through the quiet of the night. The outlaw doesn’t even flinch. 

“Because it was the right thing to do.” Bucky replies quietly, his eyes casting down again for a moment before meeting yours again.

You sneer at him. 

“The right thing? The right thing to do?” You scoff, your tone laced with utter disbelief. You let out a sharp, almost delirious laugh. “You killed my father. You. You killed him. He turned his back, and you, like a coward, shot him. You pulled that trigger.” 

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. “Ya left your home, marched out into this desert… all because of yer father?”

“Yes.” You say, chest heaving with each breath. “My mother is still in mourning, you know. Dressed in black each day, that’s if she even gets out of bed. It was never about the bounty money, but justice. It was about revenge. I would bring you back to Aramiah and I would watch you swing. You’d take your last breath, and the last thing you’d see would be me and my Ma smilin’ up at you.”

“That’s why you’re draggin’ us all the way to Aramiah? For revenge?” Bucky barks.

“I’m beginnin’ to think I should’ve shot you out here and put you down like the animal you are. ‘Least I’d have the guts to look you in the eye while I did it.” You hiss.

Bucky rises to his knees, his movements slow and deliberate as he shuffles towards you. Your shoulders tense involuntarily, and your hands are steady on the rifle as you watch him pause before you.

“Then do it,” he challenges. 

The pounding of your heart reverberates in your chest, feeling as if it might leap out of your throat. The sound was as deafening as the rushing flood waters that had devastated Crimson Junction. You could do it. You could end the journey that you had foolishly started. You could end this cycle of violence and suffering. 

Your breath caught in your throat, and your arms began to tremble under the strain. Bucky did not move an inch; his eyes were locked with yours. Silent acceptance. It made you sick. 

Would killing him really end the cycle? Or would the wheel spin once more, creating a new path of destruction through your actions? Your head ached with the weight of the decision, and your palms were slick with sweat. Was this the path of righteousness, or was it wickedness in disguise?

You could kill him; you could end it. But it still meant your Ma would starve. It still meant you’d have to return the same as you left. You’d still have to marry and carry the weight of all you had been through and all that was to come. Even if you were not the one to pull the trigger, even if he swung… would you feel better? Would there still be a pit in your chest that seemed to deepen with each passing day?

It would pass. 

It will pass.

You threw the rifle to the ground with a grunt, sitting back on your haunches. Bucky observed you with a grim expression, mirroring your actions as he lowered himself to the ground across from you.

“I will watch them hang you.” You tell him, hands shaking. “I will watch you die, and the world will be better for it.”

—

A fine, ethereal mist lay over the landscape in the early morning, casting a dreamy veil over the terrain. Dew clung to every surface, tiny beads of moisture coating the grass and bushes like delicate jewels. Even your hair and clothes were damp, the moisture seeping into your skin and leaving a slight ache in your bones when you awoke.

Both you and Bucky were quick to rise. There was no need for words; you both understood the urgency of covering as much ground as possible before the midday sun turned the desert into a scorching furnace.

This wordless routine continued for several days. Each morning, you would wake early, drink from the river, and follow its current through the arid landscape. Bucky, his hands bound, trailed behind you on the horse. By midday, you would seek out any available shelter—a rock, a tree—anything to provide respite from the relentless heat. As the sun dipped below the horizon, you would resume your journey, travelling until darkness enveloped the land. Then, you would light a fire, rest, and prepare to repeat the cycle the next day.

The two of you did not speak again until the third day.

The river's water kept you both hydrated, but the cool liquid did little to sate your hunger. The two of you sat under a sparse tree, its leaves rustling in the gentle breeze as shadows and light danced across your skin. The patch of shade was so small that your shoulders were pressed against each other, despite your mutual disdain.

Bucky leant his head back against the trunk, loose strands of hair tickling his forehead, his eyes closed. You, meanwhile, eye him cautiously, your arms hugging the rifle in your lap. Despite his constant nonchalance, you never let your guard down around the outlaw.

Just as you thought he had drifted asleep, Bucky’s eyes crack open as your stomach growls. It has been grumbling for the past two days, the lack of food and constant exertion were wearing you down to exhaustion.

“Ya know, we see animals all the time while we’re walkin’. Why don’t you shoot one and feed yerself so we both don’t have to listen to yer stomach wailin’ all the time?” He asks with a sigh.

You swore he was asleep. You had counted his breaths and listened as they grew slow and deep. Now he was peering across at you. His tone didn’t sound hostile, but it certainly wasn’t concern laced. He was rather frustrated, like he had discovered the solution to the mystery, but you were still struggling to solve the first clue. 

“You really think I haven’t already thought about that?” You snip back, your voice sharp. Bucky’s eyebrow twitches, a flash of irritation crossing his face as he leans back against the rough bark of the tree.

“Ya know how to hunt, right?” He asks, his tone flat and expectant.

You remain silent, tilting your head away so you don’t have to look at him, staring instead at the distant horizon where the distant, blue mountains stood ever vigilant.

“Yer Pa taught you how to shoot, but he didn’t teach ya how to hunt?” He questions again, astounded. 

“He taught me how to protect myself from other people. People like you. His lessons were usually of the ‘wherever you shoot you’re bound to hit something important enough’ variety.” You retort, bitterness creeping into your voice as you clench your fists in your lap.

“That don’t answer my question.” He presses, eyes narrowing.

“People are big, usually runnin’ towards you. So we would line up bottles and cans… I never had movin’ targets.” 

Bucky sighs in disbelief, his bound hands raising to rub his face in exasperation. “So yer gonna let yerself starve? On account of what—pride?” 

“And what do you suggest I do? I’m not wastin’ bullets teachin’ myself out here.” You snap, turning your head to finally glare at him.

“Well, I know how to hunt.” He offers, his voice calmer now, almost coaxing, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

“You don’t seriously think I would give you the gun?” You scoff.

“It was worth a try.” 

“Unbelievable.” You mutter under your breath. 

“I could teach you. Tell you how hunt… how to aim right—” Bucky starts, his voice more earnest now, leaning slightly forward.

“I’m not givin’ you this gun Barnes—” You cut him off.

“I weren’t sayin that—”

“Then what are you sayin’?!”

Maybe it was the relentless heat bearing down on you both, making the air thick and maddening, but you wanted to wring his neck out of sheer frustration. 

“I can tell you what to do. You hold the gun and I can guide you.” 

You pause. The sweltering sun seemed to amplify every irritation, yet you couldn't deny the practicality of his offer. You study his face, searching for any trace of deceit. The hard lines of his jaw and the determined set of his eyes all speak to his desperation—a desperation that mirrors your own. 

“Would that really work?” 

“I don’t know,” he admits, his gaze unwavering, the honesty in his voice catching you off guard. “But it sounds better than starvin’.”

You narrow your eyes at him, weighing the risks, your fingers digging into the coarse fabric of your skirt. The memory of your father, of what Bucky had done, gnaws at you, but so does the gnawing emptiness in your stomach, the fear of dying out here alone.

“Alright,” you finally concede. 

A reluctant truce.

—

When the overhead sun slowly began to dip across the blue skies and the late afternoon heat started to sizzle out, you and Bucky emerged from your shade. The heat of the day gave way to a more bearable warmth, and the sky began to change colours as the sun descended. Bucky had explained to you earlier that rabbits were most active at dusk or dawn, which worked well for you since your skin already felt burned to a crisp. 

The two of you lay parallel to each other, downwind from an active burrow the outlaw had spotted during your short scouting mission away from the riverbed. Tall grass tickled your skin as you settled into position, the skies blooming in beautiful oranges and pinks as the sun sank below the horizon. 

You lay close to one another so that Bucky could whisper instructions to you without alerting your prey. Your forearms and shoulders knocked against each other occasionally as both of you leaned on your elbows, scanning the environment for any signs of movement. The proximity was necessary, but it also brought an unexpected sense of intimacy that neither of you acknowledged.

It was strangely peaceful, as if the tension between you had been cut. You had spent so many days boiling over, caught up in your terrible thoughts that repeated in circles in your head. Having a moment to focus on something other than your misery was weirdly pleasant, even if the company wasn’t. 

“There. By that bush,” Bucky hisses beside you, his voice barely a whisper. His body is tense, every muscle coiled in anticipation. You follow his gaze, your own limbs frozen, acutely aware of the need for stillness. “Ya see it?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice equally low and hushed. Your fingers tightened around the metal of the rifle, the surface warm and slippery from your sweaty touch. 

“Aim up yer shot like you would normally.” The outlaw instructed, his head dipping slightly as he remained locked onto the rabbit through the tall grass.

You follow his instructions, moving slowly and deliberately. Using the sights, you guide the barrel to the left, aligning it with the small, delicate form of the rabbit. Your heart pounds in your chest as you rest your aim over the rabbit's shoulder, sucking in a slow, steady breath. Through the sights, you can see its twitchy little nose sniffing cautiously and its beady eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.

“Good.” Bucky’s voice was low and grumbling. The praise left a heat in your gut. “Aim over the head if ya can. Better to save as much meat as possible.”

You follow his guiding words once more, adjusting your aim and lifting the barrel slightly. The rabbit moves forward a step, its ears twisting, still unaware of the danger.

“Now, deep breath. Squeeze the trigger nice and slow,” he instructs, his voice a low, calming murmur. You can feel his warm breath ghosting across your cheek. 

You follow his words, your fingers hovering over the trigger as you breathe in deeply. The rabbit's whiskers twitch and its nose sniffs the air cautiously. You exhale slowly, centring yourself, your finger now steady on the trigger.

The shot rings out—a sharp, deafening crack that echoes across the empty plains, momentarily drowning out all other sounds. Around you, wildlife scatters in a flurry of motion; birds take flight in panicked flocks, and deer bound deeper into the desert, their white tails flashing in the fading light. You grit your teeth, a frustrated sigh escaping your lips as the rabbit's white tail disappears into its burrow, unharmed.

“I told you this wouldn’t work.” You grumble, pushing the rifle away with a rough shove. 

It was not like you to be quick to give up. You had always been fiercely determined your entire life; that’s how you ended up in this mess in the first place. You did not falter when faced with difficult or even seemingly impossible tasks. But this journey, this desert, had worn you down. Maybe it was the hunger and heatstroke talking, but you felt as though holes had been worn into your very being, draining you of the strength that had always defined you.

With a groan, you roll onto your back, your arm draped over your brow as you stare upward at the sky. The deep blue was darkening, and the warm light of the sunset was casting the world into a purple haze as the twilight hours descended. The stars began to peek through, tiny pinpricks of light in the vast expanse above, indifferent to your struggles.

Bucky was silent beside you, but when you glance over, you realise he was watching you with an uncharacteristically soft and unguarded expression. The usual brooding edge of his expression seem to soften in the fading light, his eyes reflecting a quiet concern.

“We still have time. Sun’s not set yet,” he says, his voice gentle, almost coaxing. 

You consider his words, your empty stomach clenching so hard it was nauseating. “This isn’t working,” you repeat yourself. The outlaw frowned, his brow furrowing in thought.

“It’s not that it’s just—” He sighs, tilting his head slightly as if searching for the right words. “Yer too tense, you need to relax a bit, yer shot jerked up.” 

“Barnes—” You begin with a grumble and he cuts you off. 

“One more try. I think I might go mad if I have to listen to yer stomach wailin’ any longer. If ya untied me, I could guide ya better,” he says, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained serious.

You scowl at him, the idea of untying him again makes you uneasy. There was an unspoken truce between the two of you. You had untied the man before, and he had not moved to attack you. He had kept his word, proving to be more useful than you ever wanted to admit. Maybe his help would get you this rabbit... but you certainly would not be giving him the gun.

As you mull over the decision, you can't ignore the twisting hunger that makes every second feel like an eternity. The analytical side of you recognised the sense in his suggestion. With a reluctant sigh, you reach over and begin to untie the ropes binding his hands. Bucky remains still, his eyes never leaving your face.

Once freed, he flexes his wrists, rubbing at the raw skin before turning his attention back to you. “Alright, let’s do this proper.” He says, his tone more focused now. 

Once again, you find yourself in position, stomach flat against the ground, shoulder-to-shoulder with Bucky. The earthy scent of the soil mixed with the faint fragrance of prairie grass fills your senses, grounding you. It didn’t take long for the rabbits to reemerge, their eager movements a testament to their obliviousness to the two of you tucked between blades of grass downwind.

Your sights rest on a clear shot, a rabbit out in the open, less obscured by foliage. You watch it as it sniffs around.

“You need to breathe, sweetheart,” Bucky hums from beside you, his voice a low, calming murmur. You fought the urge to roll your eyes, your mouth set in a determined line, and your shoulders tense. Bucky shifts beside you, his movements are deliberate and slow. Your head swivels away from your prey to look over at him in disbelief. 

“What’re you doin’—” you protest, only to cut yourself short. The outlaw had pushed himself up on his elbows, his hands coming to rest on your shoulder blades. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, locking you in place. 

“Relax,” he mutters, his voice soft yet firm, as he applies gentle pressure with his palms against your upper back. The word was more of a command than a suggestion, and it resonates deep within you.

Brows drawn together, you face forward again, focusing on the rabbit. You’d have to process the outlaw nearly being on top of you later. His palms smooth across your shirt, the rough texture of his calloused hands against the soft fabric. He gently guides your pose until your shoulders are relaxed, and the tension gradually dissipates under his touch. 

You try to focus on your breathing, each inhale and exhale is measured and slow. Bucky continues to adjust your arms, indicating small movements with the slightest nudge of his hands. His touch is careful, almost tender, as he directs you, his fingers brushing against your skin. Then, his hands sweep down until they rest on your lower back, the warmth of his palms seeping through your shirt. His chin comes to rest over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear. 

Much to your annoyance, you find that his silent suggestions were indeed helpful. Your body feels strangely at ease, even with him practically perched atop you. Your skin burns under his touch, heat flooding your cheeks as you try to focus on the task at hand.

“There you go, darlin’.” He whispers into your ear, his breath warm and his voice a low, soothing rumble. You can feel the vibrations of his tone through your back. Turning your focus to the rabbit once more, you breathe as he instructs, the rise and fall of your ribcage pressing against his chest with each inhale and exhale. 

You pull the trigger.

To your disbelief, the rabbit drops dead instantly.

A profound silence envelops both of you as the final echo of the gunshot fades into the distance. Bucky straightens up and offers a lopsided grin. You finally turn your head to stare at him in astonishment.

"Unbelievable," you mutter, but a smile begins to tug at your lips.

The tension that had coiled tight in your chest unravels all at once, replaced by a surge of elation. Laughter, raw and unfiltered, bubbles up from deep within you. It's a mixture of disbelief and relief.

Bucky shares in your joy. His chuckle is a deep, rumbling sound that mingles with your laughter, a genuine grin spreading across his rugged features. "Hell of a shot." 

Overcome with emotion, you surprise yourself by throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. His body stiffens momentarily, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy. Then, as if suddenly remembering he had control over his own body, he relaxes into your embrace. His hand finds its place gently on your back. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, mirroring your rapid pulse.

Then, as quickly as it surfaced, you jerk away with flushed cheeks.

His gaze flickers, darkening with a primal intensity. 

You remain shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass, the warmth of his body lingering where your shoulders, arms, and hips meet. A gentle breeze sweeps through the prairie, causing his dark hair to flutter. You swallow hard, but you can't bring yourself to look away from him.

The brief moment of triumph from shooting the rabbit—a moment of success after days—begins to fade. Bucky reaches forward, wordlessly and tenderly tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Hunger still bites at you, but alongside the physical ache, there’s another hunger—an unsettling, confusing desire for the man beside you. 

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest. A part of you craves more. You want him to trace his fingers down your cheek, across your collarbone, and down to the swell of your breasts. You want his touch desperately, painfully. You're starving for him, your entire body trembling with need as you imagine his hands roaming lower, his lips searing against your skin. You long to feel his sculpted muscles beneath your fingertips, to draw unimaginable sounds from him with just your hands and mouth.

Maybe it's the madness of being under the sun for days on end, a blend of starvation and lunacy. Food is just meters away, yet you can't tear your gaze from him. Not as you lean into his touch, not even as your lips part.

Not even as you foolishly reach out, running your fingers through his hair.

And maybe he is just as foolish and hungry as you, because the outlaw grasps your face gently between his palms. His calloused hands are warm against your skin. He hesitates for a heartbeat, searching your eyes for any sign of resistance. When he finds none, he leans in and kisses you.

[k-marzolf]

Seeds

Canon typical violence, blood, threats, intimidation, past with sexual abuse (both reader and Billy), kissing, dark themes, fem!reader

Rabbit Heart Masterlist.

1,022 words.

“How’d Russo get a sweet piece of ass like you?” asked a balding, short man, leering at you as he approached you in the hallway.

You stopped in your tracks, you’d been on your way to see Billy in his office.

Men made you nervous, and you flinched when he touched your arm. “I want a taste,” he smirked, as your hand jerked and you slapped him. Hard.

His head snapped to the side, and he looked angry, a red handprint on his face. “Bitch,” he spat hand tightening on your arm making you claw at his face with your other hand, as Billy’s office door opened.

You were shaking, and Billy noticed, as his eyes lazily turned to Morty. Like a cat ready to pounce on his prey. “Morty,” he greeted, casually. “What’re you doin’ here? And take your goddamn hands off her.” He asked, hands in his jeans pockets, moving over to you.

“Rawlins wants—“ Morty said, letting go of you, but was cut off immediately.

Billy bared his teeth, “I don’t give a fuck what Rawlins wants. He’s a dog looking for scraps at his master’s table, and you’re just a rat with the courage of a rabbit.” Billy said roughly.

And something about the casual way he handled Morty, had you pressing your thighs together. You’d never seen him working or in action.

“Fuck you, Russo. Maybe I’ll visit your girl tonight—“ Morty didn’t get to finish his sentence.

Billy unsheathed his hidden blade, and struck him in the shoulder, faster than a snake strike, making Morty scream as Billy pushed through bone, unsympathetic, a warning. “You touch my girl, and I go for your eye next. Match your master, huh?” Billy asked, getting his face, blade dripping with blood as he carved a mark under Morty’s eyes, making him grit his teeth.

He pulled back, pulling out a cloth and wiping his blade, “You can tell Rawlins I ain’t interested in what he has to say.”

Morty looked hatefully at Billy, blood dripping down his face, spitting at him, before pushing past, holding his bleeding shoulder, and leaving the country house.

You felt sick from Morty’s touch, he had reminded you of your uncle, rat like and pushy. How he’d watch you in your bedroom while you slept in the chair in the corner, or go through your undergarment drawer, and steal some of your underwear. He’d blackmailed you with that one. “I’ll say, look at what my niece gave me.” He had taunted, making your heart drop. Or the way he’d touch your arm softly, fingers moving along like a spider crawling along your skin.

Billy followed you down the hall, his combat boots squeaking a little bit, as you made your way into the kitchen. It was huge, but sunny looking. Beige colored walls, with light colored wood cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. There was a sliding glass door that led outside, bringing in the sun making it seem warm inside, even the winter.

You wanted something to eat. You’d always eaten when things got tough, especially carbs. You craved those often. It was why your father always said you were fat, that no man was going to want you if you didn’t cut back a little.

Billy didn’t seem to give a fuck about your extra weight, he often pulled you into his lap while he read over paperwork, or his men gave reports. Anvil was a cover for his criminal operations, and you hated when he had to go to the city and make an appearance.

Billy watched you grab some pomegranate seeds, and asked; “Did he touch you, bunny?” His voice was low, seething at the thought, but he didn’t touch you yet, knowing you might be triggered. He understood, the word pretty still made him uncomfortable after all these years. He still gets a pit in his stomach like a stone.

You’re never the same after someone violates you, and takes away your autonomy.

“Just my arm. I slapped him.” You said, biting into the seeds, sighing at how good they tasted.

Billy grinned, “That’s my girl.” He said, kissing your forehead, and you leaned into his touch.

You replayed Billy stabbing Morty, his casual way he handled him, like a cat toying with a mouse, and pressed your thighs together. “You were kind of sexy, the way you handled Morty.” You said, juice dripping down your chin.

You moved to wipe it away, but Billy caught your hand, and leaned in, his mouth lapping up the juices, making you whine softly.

You and Billy had never consummated anything, despite the teasing, and the fooling around. He didn’t want to push you knowing you’d been sexually abused. And he was surprised he was uninterested in other women, despite never having taken you to bed.

He enjoyed the companionship, the soft press of your body to him at night with your fingers in his hair, the sweet things you’d do for him, or reading together with your feet in his lap, and the conversations late at night.

He pulled back, “Sexy, huh?” He asked, lips turning up. You were so goddamn cute.

You bit into another seed, and god it was taking everything in Billy not to have you against the counter, to hear the sweet sounds he knew you’d make just for him.

“Tryin’ to tempt me?” He asked in a low voice, caging you in against the counter, you let the juice drip down, and he caught it with his tongue again, kissing your mouth this time.

You clutched his green sweater, returning his kiss, leaning on your tippy toes to taste the whiskey in his mouth. He gave you soft kisses that left you breathless, and hard kisses too, that had you aching for him, his fingers tangled in your hair, pressed against you. You could feel every inch of him.

You both spent the rest of the afternoon sharing pomegranate seeds, and kissing, both content to let it go no further.

But you realized with an ache between your thighs you were ready to trust Billy with yourself.

[sirdindjarin]

Shouldn't - Joel Miller x Reader (Part Three)

Featuring: interrogator!Joel <3

Your trip through Lincoln turns into an all-out war. For Joel, it's the internal battle that's the worst.

I've decided this will be five parts in order to get this thing up sooner. Half of part four is already written, so hopefully it'll be up Sunday, March 19th to make up some of the loss of TLOU being over.

Masterlist ->

AO3 Link♥

WC: 8.5k

WARNINGS: Torture (Joel giving), violence, blood, depictions of gore, kidnapping, threat of violence against a child, hurt/comfort, angst.

TAGS: Hurt/comfort, angst, whump, Joel being who he is, mentions of sexual activity.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“We’ll be passin’ by Lincoln tomorrow. I don’t know anything about it, but I’m hopin’ it’s as much of a ghost town as the rest of the Midwest.”

“We haven’t seen a city in a year,” you bite your lip pensively.

“Philadelphia,” Ellie comments with a raise of her eyebrows.

“But,” you optimistically hedge, “that was a major east coast city. We shouldn’t have a serious problem in Lincoln. Shouldn’t,” you emphasize when Joel tsks.

You continue, “We gotta find some food. It’s nearly spring but I don’t even know the last time we saw a rabbit. We have to check out the suburbs, at least.” 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The sky is deeply blue. No clouds insulate the earth, and the wind injects icy air into your bones. Ellie is a walking sweatlodge in the layers you and Joel forced her into, but you can’t stop a shiver every now and again.

More than once do you look to Joel wishfully: the formidable, sultry desert of a man. He saunters slightly ahead of you now, his rifle cradled in his arms. His wavy hair flutters and you fight a crude smile at the remembrance of pulling it this morning as he moved inside you. Your lower back bears a scrape from where he'd pushed into you against the rock. You smile to yourself at the sting of it. Any tangible reminder that the things you two do are real is welcomed.

Soon, however, your eyes refocus on the tendrils of an unfolding city. The trees become more purposefully planted as the suburbs thicken. It’s mile upon mile of dilapidated house after crumbling apartment block. You’re barely inside the outlying district and yet it's depressing. Cities are always depressing. 

Down an alleyway between formerly-beautiful, massive homes, you catch sight of an unbroken window. You motion to your adult companion and he nods. The house sits upon a concrete block, probably concealing a basement, so neither one of you can see through the window. Underneath it, Joel crouches and clasps his hands, palms up.

“What? Seriously?” You chuckle in a whisper. 

“Just do it.” 

“Ellie’s smaller." You turn to her, “Peek in. And be careful.”

Happy to be involved, Ellie eagerly sheds a coat. Planting one foot on Joel’s thigh and another in his hands, Ellie wobbles as she fights for balance, grabbing his shoulder. She steadies and peers through the corner of the glass, cupping her hands around her eyes. 

For a long moment, you admire Joel’s easy physicality, his willingness to be a literal stepping stone for Ellie. He catches you staring, and you smile shyly at him. The corner of his lips quirk and he narrows his eyes in recognition, but then, tapping her ladder’s shoulder, Ellie carefully drops.

“Just a bunch of old-ass furniture. It’s the living room, I think.”

“It look ransacked?” Joel asks, subtly wringing out his hands.

“It looks like a fucked-up museum.”

You smile. “Perfect.” 

Breaking in was the wrong word. The patio door was unlocked and undamaged, sliding somewhat noisily on its track. Two plates of rotten, unidentifiable food sit on the round, blue table cloth. The small, galley kitchen to your right is clean, all things considered. 

Your boots noiselessly cross the linoleum to fling open cabinets and dust flies in your face, but you choke down the cough. 

Ellie stands guard outside on the back porch, and Joel anxiously plants himself halfway along the track of the sliding doorway, unsure if he should leave her or you. His eyes follow you as you cautiously open the fridge, though you already know that anything inside would've perished long ago. 

You're right.

Shrugging, you turn back to the graying, handsome man and stage-whisper, "Nothin'."

Joel motions with his fingers for you to come to him, and your stomach knots. His serious brown eyes have you tripping over your own feet, and when you're within arm’s reach, he slides his hand to the top of your spine, fingers curled partially around the back of your neck. Goosebumps blossom where he touches you and something flickers to life in your core.

"We'll try another place," he murmurs in your ear, then guides you out the door in front of him.

Damn, okay. No reason for that to have affected me so much.

An hour later, after two more failed scoutings, Joel picks the lock on the most promising house you've yet seen. Entering from the side yard, Joel steps into a garage. His heavy boots are less stealthy than yours - soft thuds rebounding in the concrete room. Ellie reclines against the house with her arms folded, silently resuming her role as lookout, so you follow Joel. To your elation, inside the garage is a red, four-door sedan. Joel’s head swivels to you and he casts a pleased, cocky smile. 

He trains his weapon on the garage stairs and begins to advance into the house with you on his heels. He whips open the door with one hand. Total silence greets him. Gun first, he proceeds into and down the narrow hallway. 

At the end of the hallway to the left is a kitchen stuck in the 1990s. A barn red and forest green color scheme covers every inch of the space, accented by roosters in every format: a cookie jar, window valances, salt and pepper shakers, and even a painting. A ceramic dish shaped like - what else - a rooster sits on a shelf next to Joel. He chuckles with satisfaction as he plucks the car keys from the bowl. 

Your attention is caught by something else: you move toward the walk-in pantry. 

“Remember when you told me to stop crying over trash?” You poke at Joel. He doesn’t reply, unsurprisingly, so you continue, “I miss what life used to look like. The little things, you know? Flavors of soda and terribly-decorated rooms like this one. I miss the dumb shit.”

You leave out your exact thoughts. He knows what you mean. He knows you mean that the small, fun decisions have been erased from the world. You’ll never again eat M&Ms until you get sick. He’ll never again nurse a glass of his favorite mid-shelf whiskey and pass out to a rerun of Whose Line is it Anyway?

You reach the full-size pantry door; the knob turns easily. But the hinges stick, so you jerk it open. Joel lunges for your arm and yanks you behind him when he sees the infected sitting on the floor.

Cordyceps snake up the wall and onto the ceiling where a broken bulb dangles. The… thing was long dead; a husk of a human body, it was no longer a threat. But you wouldn’t be eating anything from that pantry, that was for sure. 

Joel still holds you firmly behind him. You try to shirk from his grasp but then you realize his other hand is digging into the flesh over his heart. 

“Joel? Joel, are you okay?” You twist powerfully underneath his arm to get in front of him. He looks ashen. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” The fear in your voice is palpable. 

It only makes Joel feel worse. He shakes his head sharply. Joel turns away and presses his palms onto the counter. You stand there frozen, unsure how to help him.

“A- are you having a heart attack?” You ask, your voice cracking.

“Don’t - know. Don’t think so,” he chokes out and hangs his head. 

You rest your hand on his shoulder, your thumb rubbing soothingly, “You’re scaring me.” 

He’s quiet. He takes several deep breaths, expanding his lungs and pushing out the panic gripping his chest. Joel remains hunched for several too-long moments, and you’re about to speak when he beats you to it.

“‘m fine.” Joel straightens and brushes past you to the smaller cabinets above the countertop. He opens three before he gets lucky. 

Without a word, Joel grabs the aluminum soup cans and tosses them to you. As he stalks past, you take hold of his leather sleeve.

“Don’t shut me out,” you implore him. 

He pauses, his gaze trained anywhere but at you, and then he loosens your grip and gently pushes you in front of him. Down the hallway, out into the garage, and out into the side yard. 

“What are those?” Ellie asks excitedly, starting at the faded red and white labels.

“Chicken noodle soup,” you answer flatly, too preoccupied with Joel’s behavior to enjoy the spoils.

“‘M’m! M’m! Good!’” Ellie quotes from the can. She looks up at you cheekily, “Is that what you guys were in there doing?”

“Ellie,” you gasp. “Oh my god.”

Joel wipes a hand over his face.

“No?” She laughs.

Crouching, you zip the cans into your pack. From your position, you look up at Joel and shade your eyes from the bright sun. 

Several hundred miles lies between where you stand and where you want to be. It’ll be around a month before the three of you will reach the far end of Wyoming unless you’re able to start that car. In that month of walking, there will be no more major cities.

In short, a few cans of chicken noodle soup will not be sufficient. 

“We really need that car inside, honestly. Carrying the amount of food that we’re gonna need would be so difficult. I think we need to risk the city.”

“I don’t wanna start it ‘less we’re ready to leave,” Joel asserts. “If it does work, it’s gonna draw attention.”

“If there’s anyone to give it attention. This place is creepily empty. But I agree with you. So, try the city for food?”

Joel reluctantly nods.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

As it turned out, food wasn’t hard to find. Within the span of a few hours, you spot a food pantry. A square, brick building, Joel hammers at the rusted padlock on the front door with the butt of his rifle. Grunting a final time, it falls.

The building’s entryway is narrow and dark. Joel’s flashlight guides you down the passage; at the end, to the right, is a restaurant-like setup: a dining area and a kitchen.

Inside the old soup kitchen, Joel finds an entire room dedicated to canned goods, corn chips, and jarred fruit. It used to provide meals for those in need and it would do so now. It's a fucking miracle. 

Joel reverently picks up a jar of peaches and unscrews the lid. His eyes linger over your profile before he covertly inhales. The first time he met you, he had smelled peaches. Sweet, home-y, good. He knew it made no sense; you were dirty and so was he, but Joel couldn’t drop the vivid association. 

“Fill your bag, Ellie,” you instruct and look over your shoulder at her. 

Ellie stands wide-eyed at the most amount of food she’s ever seen. She wanders over to the chips. 

“Holy shit. I don’t even know what to pick.” 

You smile joyfully, “Whatever you want.” Your eyes catch on some ancient cookies, “Not those, though.”

Joel’s lips tug into a hidden, resistant smile at your parental nature. It was something he'd always admired in you.

“Make sure you take some of the vegetables, Ellie,” Joel orders as he carefully bags his peaches.

“Okay, Dad,” Ellie taunts without looking at him. 

Joel snaps his head to her as though she called him a slur. He says nothing.

Since you’re not facing Joel, you’re unsure of his reaction and you freeze. You hadn’t told Ellie what he had confided in you. Guilt and responsibility for your sister’s hurtful statement lodge in your stomach. Unsure how to proceed, you follow Joel’s verbal cue (or lack thereof) and ignore it.  

Ellie moves like a woman possessed as she ransacks the shelves, voraciously reading the label on every single can and bag of snacks before shoving them in her backpack, completely unaware of the wreckage her words had caused. 

The sound of the front door’s hinges squeaks into the tense silence. All three of you whirl to face the direction of the sound. A moment later, a teenage boy carrying a gun and a radio waltzes into view. The boy makes eye contact with Ellie before hurriedly bringing his radio to his mouth and aiming his gun barrel at your head.

“Food stor-” the boy’s shrill warning is cut short when Joel fires.

Ellie jumps and clamps her hands over her ears as the deafening noise rings in the metal room.

The teenager collapses as arterial spray paints the cabinet beside him. Choking, he pushes the button on his radio again and garbles unintelligibly.

Joel makes a horrible guttural sound, pissed that he didn’t end it quickly. Joel strides closer and fires again at the boy’s head. The kid goes limp as chunks of his brain matter cling to the stainless-steel appliances.

“Let’s go,” Joel barks, angry about Ellie’s comment, the boy, and now your useless immobility at the horror before you. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” you repeat as a mantra to rise above the shock. 

The kid is older than Ellie, probably seventeen or so, and clearly part of a larger, well-equipped group but it was no less difficult to watch him die so horribly. You push Ellie forward, hating that you both must step over the young man’s scattered body. 

Joel is already at the front door, ensuring that whoever the kid had radioed was not just outside, when the two of you reach him. You place your hand on his arm to let him know you’re there, and he grabs it.

Pulling you with him, he jogs down the car-riddled street and into the nearest alley. Over the next wordless few minutes, the three of you search for a safe place to hide for the growing night.

Occasionally, the sounds of a shout or screams touch your awareness. You’re not sure if they’re real or if your worried mind has decided to play games, and you’re too afraid of the answer to ask Joel if he hears them, too.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The drip of water is steady and lonely. Cold, damp, dark. This backroom is a depressing place to sleep.

Not that anywhere else would’ve been much cheerier, you amend.

The city had been utterly destroyed. Buildings had been blown apart by god-knows-who while bones and rusted guns litter the streets. It had been a hasty decision to hide inside this bank. Joel was sure he’d heard rapid footsteps approaching when he all but shoved you two into this building. 

A steel vault, disused even before the outbreak, sits open in the corner. Though money was of no use now, you’re mildly disappointed to see that it’s empty. 

Would’ve been fun to see money again. It’s been such a long time since I’ve touched a dollar.

Joel concerns you.

He is distant and short in his responses. Berating yourself over your optimism, you remember how vehemently he had maintained his emotional wall while you three trudged from the coast. He’d only cracked when you’d been in danger. A pang of some unidentified emotion zings through your gut. 

You close your eyes but open them instantly when the image of the teenage boy’s head ripping apart replays. Joel had been too agitated to tell you to look away, but really, you should’ve known better. What else was Joel going to do? Patch the kid up after the first shot? Hope he didn’t communicate with his group again?

The boy’s gun was on me, you remember. Joel might’ve saved my life. Again.

Ellie curls up facing away from the rest of the room, while Joel fiddles with random items from his backpack, making more noise than you’ve ever heard him make before. As he hastily wraps a long piece of duct tape around the toe of his boot, you sit beside him.

He stills and sighs. He doesn’t want to talk.

“What’s wrong?” 

His eyes are hard. “Everything's great.”

“I’m sure it’s- I know it’s all… really hard, but I offered to help you,” you softly tell him.

He shakes his head, “I don’t need your goddamn help.” Though his voice is quiet, his tone guts you open. “You think you’re helping me, but you’re makin’ things worse.”

“Wh- what’d I do?” You recoil in shock. “Tell me what you need then, since I’m doing it wrong.” 

Joel doesn’t answer. He heaves himself to his feet, crosses the room with an angry stride and wrenches open the door. He’s gone before you can say another word.

“Damn, what got into him?” Ellie props herself up on her elbow, watching the older man leave. 

“I have no idea,” you whisper a lie.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Joel broods just outside the door. The atrium of the bank was once spectacular. The building was historical; the original crown molding and a sky-blue mural still adorn the ceiling, darkening with age and neglect. Though the sun has set, the pale light of dusk provides enough light for Joel to see the desks where bank representatives would’ve held appointments. 

Joel slumps down in one of the chairs, bracing his arms on the desk in front of him. His odd panicking that morning has been weighing on him. Sure, he knew beginning to care for you and for Ellie would be a difficult road. 

But he hadn’t anticipated that. How could he? How could he have known that seeing you near danger would cause spikes of terror to stab at his chest? That he’d be unable to breathe, unable to think? He’d yanked you away from a harmless fucking corpse, for god’s sake. 

He wasn’t even protecting you when he pulled you away. He was protecting himself. His losses. Joel can’t go through it again. He’s not sure he actually has gone through it in the first place. It sure feels like he’s still drowning in it.

Joel sits, ruminating, for a long while before he returns. When he does, he’s grateful that you and Ellie are asleep. Joel notices Ellie clutch her blanket closer, and he shrugs out of his jacket. He tucks the jacket over the girl, careful not to wake her. Then, Joel Miller stands and sighs from the depths of his soul.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The screaming is what wakes you. Ellie’s heart-rending, terrified screams zing around the small brick room. You bounce up in a single motion - immediately awake and alert. 

Across the room, where Ellie is curled on the floor, a clicker hunches over her. She kicks at it, keeping it away from her until, in a breathtakingly horrible moment, her shoe glances off the clicker’s side and it falls upon her.

Feeling no fear for yourself, you fly across the room, gun in hand. You won’t risk shooting Ellie, so you drop next to her and aim up at its flowery head. Ellie’s forearms brace the thing away from her face, but it’s stronger than she is. 

You fire and the thing goes semi-limp. The gunshot reverberates, deafening you all. Weakly, the clicker swings its limbs in an attempt to subdue its attacker, but you fire again. It jolts violently and you kick it forcefully off of your sister. It finally rolls away. Dead.

In shock, Ellie crab-walks until her back meets the brick. One had never gotten that close to her. She’d seen them, of course, even shot a few. But you had never let one get within ten yards of her. She could smell its earthy, putrid stench. Your arms cling around her shoulders as you verbally assure that she’s safe.

Dimly, you become aware that Joel is standing against the far wall next to his bed roll. His gun is out, but he looks far away and uncertain. 

You push Ellie’s hair out of her eyes, her ponytail askew from the struggle. “You’re okay. You’re okay, El.”

She swallows and nods, burying her face in your arm for a moment before she scoots out of your hold. She moves as far away from the creature as she can in the tiny, dim room. 

Your heart thunders in your chest as the adrenaline leaves you. Shaking, you return your gun to its holster and look over at Joel. 

"You okay?" You're careful to remove all inflection. You step over to him. The look on his face is worrying.

He doesn’t answer, but his chest heaves. 

“Joel,” you try to snap him from his trance. “It’s dead.”

He finally looks at you; and there it is. In his big, emotional, brown eyes, you see the storm. You see the problem. He cares too much. 

Fuck. Now I get why I couldn’t help him, you think ruefully. Though it breaks your heart, you can’t save him. He was right. You’ll only make things worse. 

Unable to see him like this, and knowing he didn’t want that either, you squeeze his arm and turn away.

“Okay. Can’t stay in this room now, but -” you squint up at the slit of a window, “it looks like it’s dawn, anyway. Let’s just go. Get out of here.” 

Joel - finding something he can do - leaves the room to check for friends of the clicker while you pack up the food you’d managed to find the night before. Ellie’s attention follows Joel out the door, and she absent-mindedly rubs her arm. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Back to that house? I think it was down that way - we make a left, then duck through that old pet store, then out the back door and make another left,” your final word sounds more like a question, and Joel automatically answers.

“Yeah, reckon so.” 

Sun glints off of disused high-rises and the light changes rapidly over the ramshackle city. With the weight of your pack, you soon begin to pant with exertion. Ellie’s hand sweats in yours as you march, but after the events of the past day, you weren’t going to be letting go of her until she was in that car. 

A shout echoes down the concrete and glass corridor of the city’s buildings. Ellie, still shaken from earlier, whimpers at the sudden sound.

A rough hand grabs your free one, pulling you forward. 

“C’mon,” Joel hisses. He’s looking behind you. 

Seven dirty-looking men and two women advance on you from the side street. Two of the men and one of the women wear the same green jumpsuit - a uniform? 

“Hey! Fuckin’ stealing from us?” The same man shouts angrily and silences any doubt about who these people were.

Dust and pieces of asphalt fly into the air as the group takes potshots at you three. Ducking, you shove Ellie in front of you.

“Go, go!”

The three of you slip behind a burnt semi-truck, then down another alley. Joel’s hand grips yours as if you’ll disappear.

“Left, Ellie!” You scream as she runs ahead. 

The sound of chasing footsteps and shouted instructions shoots fear through your chest. Joel rounds a corner a split second before you do, and a bullet cuts the brick just above you. You shriek and Joel grabs the back of your head, pulling you into a running crouch. 

Through the maze of alleyways, Ellie manages to navigate back to the road you’d found the house with the car. 

“I can see it!” She yells. 

“Joel, you got the keys?” You’re entirely out of breath.

He rips them from his jacket pocket and calls Ellie’s name. When she turns, he tosses the keys to her, “Start the car, kid.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Shooting at them,” he answers, slipping the rifle from his shoulder. 

Ellie sprints down the street, the blue house only three blocks away. Pumping her arms, she doesn’t even feel the pain in her right.

Joel backtracks to the alley you’d come from and positions himself. You join him. Sweating and pensive, he looks at you with warring emotions.

“Go with Ellie. Both of us don’t need to be here.” 

“Shut up,” you snap.

The woman in the uniform appears first. Her curly hair is kept in a messy bun. That’s the only thing you internalize before you shoot and kill her. A wail goes up from one of her companions, and vulgar promises fly loose from the men’s mouths. The group stops just out of sight - unwilling to walk into the obvious ambush. 

“Stay the fuck back,” you yell. 

“Won’t bite you, girlie,” the other woman jeers. 

Her voice is overlapped by one of the men talking to the group, “We could use the two girls.”

Joel's cheek twitches and he pushes his forearm against your chest, forcing you out of sight. He goes intentionally quiet. 

After a significant beat, a man peeks his head around the corner, curious about the silence and Joel’s bullet enters his left eye.

“You’re dead, motherfucker. You’re fucking dead,” one of the survivors screams. Mumbles, curses, and the sounds of guns being checked and reloaded fill the concrete alleyway.

Joel ignores their threats against him.

“You’re gonna run. Ellie can start the car, but she can’t drive,” he reasons with you. He fires a few shots into the empty alley to remind the group of his presence.

He wasn’t optimistic. You would be faster than him. One of you could make the distance before those fuckers got line-of-sight, but it wouldn’t be Joel. Age and years of hard living took their toll. 

You laugh humorlessly. “I’m not leaving you here, you asshole.”

“Okay, well, what’s your plan, smartass?” He asks viciously. “You think they’re gonna stay there ‘til we get gone?” 

“I don’t know, Joel, but I’m not fucking leaving you here. What are you bein’ so self-sacrificing for?”

“I wasn’t gonna stand here forever,” he levels you with a guilty look.

“You’re- you were going to ditch us?” 

“It’s a win-win. I make sure they don’t follow you, then I… go my own way.”

“That’s a win-win?” You can’t hide the hurt in your voice. 

The jeers have stopped. You peek around the building and see most of the crew stalking down the path. 

Wow, not the brightest. 

Your argument with Joel stalls as the two of you fire upon your pursuers. Several people fall. Whether they’re killed or maimed, you’ll never know. You grab Joel’s collar and drag him backward with you. He has no choice but to run. 

You run through brambles and weeds and dirt-covered front yards, leaping over bushes to avoid the aim of any survivors. But no gunshots ring out. The blue house grows in your vision as you close in on it.

A breath-stealing minute later, you realize something as the yard comes into view.

Ellie isn’t there. You bust into the garage to find the red sedan sitting untouched. Backtracking into the yard, you whirl around, searching. A flash in the grass catches your attention. Squatting, you retrieve the car keys. Nothing is clicking in your mind. Nothing makes sense. 

She should be right here.

“Where the fuck is my sister?” Your voice shakes.

Joel, having been several moments behind you, sees you crouched in the grass with the keys in your hand, and immediately a switch is flipped inside him.

Ellie is gone. Joel will find her. His crime of failing to act during the clicker attack can be atoned for.

He sprints back toward the group. Dazed but full of adrenaline, you stand and run after him. 

It’s quiet now. No one, save for four bodies, is present in the alley. Joel motions a different direction, and you follow. He was right, walking down that way would’ve been stupid. 

The road you'd come from earlier was a main thoroughfare, so most of the side streets and alleys fed into it. Joel picks one and hides behind a large, scrubby hedge at the end of the row. He cranes his neck around the corner.

In the distance, seven people travel away from you. Two of them seemed to have come from the direction of the blue house. One of them, much shorter than the others, is being jerked forward every few steps.

Ellie.

You dash out from behind the bush to rush the group, despite their increasing distance, when you're held in place by a hand gripping your wrist.

"Gotta get closer," Joel rationalizes. 

“Joel, we need to go now. We can't let them get wherever they're going. She’s just a kid, Joel! She’s my sister," your words string together in rushed panic. Desolate tears fall from your eyes.

Joel grabs your face, “I know. Look at me, baby - I know. We’ll get her back; just trust me.” His warm, determined brown eyes provide a stable place for you to land.

You touch his hands on your face and nod. He kisses your forehead quickly.

Risking exposure momentarily, you two sprint past several cratered buildings before finding cover behind a truck. Trailing behind the group like carrion, you make slow progress. They’re still several blocks ahead of you. As you get closer, it’s obvious that Ellie fights hard; she refuses to go quietly. 

Fear twists your stomach, but rage twists Joel’s mind. 

You’re closing in - so close, you can hear your sister cursing her kidnappers’ mothers, when the world goes black for a moment.

You feel small pebbles from the asphalt embed themselves in your palms. A jolt in your shoulder tells you that the ground has welcomed you. The buildings around you tilt and double. The faint sound of yelling and the dull sound of punches being thrown reaches your ears. 

Fighting nausea, you close your eyes and lie still for a moment.

Maybe several moments.

The noises have stopped.

With a herculean effort, you sit up. A sharp, throbbing pain dings your skull. Curious, you raise a hand up to the back of your head and - oh, god - thick, crimson liquid coats your fingertips. 

“C’mon, baby,” a man with a concerned southern lilt breathes. A gritty hand rubs your cheek.

Joel? You wonder. Or maybe you say his name aloud, you’re not sure.

“I got you,” Joel raises you by the upper part of your arm. 

“What happened?” You clutch your aching head.

“You were blindsided,” Joel’s voice ices with hatred, "by a fuckin' coward."

“Where is he?” 

Joel doesn’t answer; instead, he pulls you back in the direction you’d come toward a busted plate glass window. 

And away from Ellie, you realize.

“Joel. My sister,” you protest. 

He doesn’t speak, just continues his warpath. He helps you through the massive opening, glass crunching underneath boots, and your eyes are instantly greeted by a duct-taped man sitting in a barber’s chair. Tape covers his mouth, but you can tell his nose is irreparably broken. He’s conscious and his eyes follow Joel as if he were the man’s greatest fear.

“You were out cold,” Joel frowns. “I couldn’t leave you and I had to deal with this piece’a shit.” He looks away from you to admit his next words, “I lost sight of Ellie.” 

He had made an impossible choice, but you’re upset anyway.

“She’s a child, J-” 

“I fuckin’ know that. I know. I didn’t choose between you, I dealt with the immediate problem. That was this,” he points his knife at the man, “an’ you bleeding in the street.” 

You wince as you touch your head again. It hurts like hell, but you’re certain it’s just a gash and a concussion. Both hopefully minor. 

“Why’d you leave him alive?” You glare at the man. 

“He smashed that bottle over your head so I rushed him; took me too long to get him down and by then, Ellie was gone.” Joel approaches his captive, growing larger and more menacing with each step. “But he’s gonna tell us where they took her.” 

Without asking a single question, Joel plunges his hunting knife into the man’s hand, pinning it to the chair. The tape around his mouth prevents the shrill tone, but his scream is audible anyway. Joel leaves the knife inside the man’s appendage while he pulls half of the tape off his mouth.

“Where'd they go?” Joel asks calmly in his gravelly baritone. 

“I don’t know them, man, I’m not with them,” he cries. “Listen, my name’s Steven, I don-”

“Wrong answer,” Joel replaces the tape before sawing his knife through the man’s hand, effectively tearing it in half.

Nearly passing out, Steven hyperventilates in pain. Grime and sweat roll down the man’s face. Joel wipes the bloody knife on the man’s shirt.

You collapse in a seated position to the debris-covered floor, weakened by everything that has occurred since you decided to come to this fucking city. Your eyes seek wretched solace in Joel. He looks confident. In control. In his element. 

Twice now he has weaponized his brutality towards those who had hurt you; it’s difficult to reject or put name to the feelings it invokes. You watch with an intensity you should be disturbed by as Joel stabs his knife into his victim’s other hand. 

“Lie to me again and I’ll rip your goddamn tongue out,” he promises, his voice somehow both hoarse and strong. 

You know you should be horrified. You know this is theoretically wrong. But, like the others you watched receive Joel’s wrath, you can’t find it in you to care. 

“All this over a-” Steven wheezes, “a girl I didn’t even touch?” He continues babbling for a moment before Joel answers him.

“You did touch her,” Joel wrenches the knife - still inside the guy’s hand - in your direction. The man wails. “Answer my fuckin’ question.”

“I don’t know, man,” Steven pleads. “I’m not in good enough with them.” 

Something glints in Joel’s eyes which makes Steven continue hysterically, “But I do see them by the school a lot.” 

“The school. Where?” Joel pulls steel from flesh and a gasping cry issues forth from Steven.

“D-down the road a half-mile, make a - a left at the gas station, then follow that road for five, maybe six, blocks.” 

“Guards?”

Steven closes his eyes and whimpers. 

“Any fucking guards?” Joel demands, looming ominously over the bloody man.

You clench your legs together in a rush. Too much had happened. Too much damage to your mind and your brain - nothing is processing correctly. Truthfully, you’ve never felt so safe, so cared for. Like a brand or a wax seal - heat, pressure, damage - the lengths to which he was willing to go for you and Ellie intensely bonds you to him. Nothing you feel now can you ever admit to Joel. You want him to heal, to stop his violent catharsis, not indulge it. 

“Not now, too many of them died over the winter!” Steven screams. “There’s maybe sixteen or seventeen of them, but you killed some and I don’t know anymore - I don’t! Don’t fucking kill me, please.” 

From the moment Joel saw your blood on the cold road, this man was dead. And he would be the first in a series to find out just how gray Joel’s morality is.

Joel turns away. He walks over to you and crouches, taking in your battered appearance. His heart lunges against his chest. He was going to get your sister back and he was going to make every single one of them pay for it. The flickering fear of failure lurks in his chest, but it’s stifled by his righteous indignation at the sight of you.

“You okay?” His fingers brush a lock of dirty hair from your face. 

And you’re struck by his softness. The dichotomy of his easy violence and his gentle care is what pierces your soul. He would do anything for you and Ellie. Joel would slip back into the violent man he’d been and he would face his haunted memories. You knew which of those was the hardest for him, too.

You simply nod, cow-eyed and dumbstruck for the moment. Two thoughts cycle in your mind, and you voice the only one you can: “We need to go get Ellie.”

He also nods, then stands. 

“Why?” He steps toward the man and indicates you. 

“T-told you, man, I’m not in good with them. I thought killin’ someone they were after would help my shot.” 

Joel’s knife thunks into Steven’s thigh. He pulls it out just as quickly. 

“Why?” the dead man shrieks. “I told you everything I know.”

“I know you did,” Joel assures, but his near-mocking tone is not meant to comfort. 

With all his strength, ignited by the memory of your bloody face as you fell to the ground, he plunges the knife into Steven’s chest and twists. A sickening sound as though the wind had been knocked from Steven fills the empty room. 

Wiping the blade clean with Steven’s shirt, Joel turns uninterestedly from the expiring man. He holds out his hand for you and you instantly take it. He hauls you to your feet.

“’s go get our girl,” he murmurs into your hair. 

You nod vehemently and follow him out onto the street. His steadying presence aids you through the pain in your head and your heart. 

Trusting Joel entirely with navigation, he takes you through a park adjacent to the gas station his unwilling informant had mentioned. In the stark light of mid-morning, the rusted swing set and playground pierce your heart, reminding you of outbreak day. You'd told her your parents had asked you to pick her up, but that wasn't true. You had snuck Ellie from school because you were lonely. 

It comes as no surprise to either of you: torture could get information, but how reliable the details were was murky. In his haste to get Joel gone, the man had underestimated the distance between the gas station and the school. 

As the two of you jog along the sidewalk, Joel almost hopes to come across someone. Inside his chest is a riot of anguish and a desire to let it possess him. He had never lied to himself. Joel never felt more at peace than when he was exorcizing his grief through violence. 

“I see it,” you pant, “I see the flag pole.” 

The school is a single-story, T-shaped, brick building. Thankfully, you don’t have to cross the street to get to it. One man stands on the steps leading to the glass front doors with the very same gun Joel carries so faithfully. 

You frown deeply - why only one guard? These people must know you would come for your child. A potentially paranoid explanation that you hate instantly jumps into your mind: because whatever they’re doing to her is more interesting. 

As if you could physically stop the thought, you smack your forehead. Then you meet Joel’s eyes and see the exact same thought reflected back. He looks grim. 

“How do you want to do this?” You ask Joel determinedly. 

“We take out the guard, then go in.” He answers as if he’s simply picking up a kid from school. 

“That’s not enough of a plan for me,” you state. “We split up to look for her.”

Joel is immediately shaking his head. “No.” 

“Yes. One of us will find her. It’ll be faster if we split up. Whoever gets her, gets out, and we’ll all meet at that park.”

“Goddammit, I said no.” Joel growls, grabbing your jaw. 

Worry and sorrow color his face. But you both know you’re right, and you continue speaking as if he's not looking at you like he’s losing a piece of himself.

“I’ll meet you at the park at -” you squint at the sun, “at noon, I guess.” You’re pretty sure that gives you both just under an hour. 

His fingers are frozen on your jaw in desperation; the look in his eyes becomes unbearable, so you shoot forward, pecking him on the lips, and then take off around the side of the school.

Joel fights the stampede of his heart by tearing his eyes from your shrinking shape and focusing on the guard. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“We haven’t hurt her,” the short, red-headed man states. His palms face Joel.

“That’s great. Doesn’t help you,” Joel raises his rifle. 

“You shoot him and you die,” another man to Joel’s left shouts. 

The space is set up like a conference room. A long table, likely from the cafeteria, sits in the center of the cluster of offices. The red-headed man stands at the head of the table as if he's expecting The Last Supper, and Joel’s newest problem emerges from an office to his left.

Joel’s attention shifts to the massive wooden monolith to his right. It had been the front desk, which meant it was taller than usual and sturdy. It would be the best cover he could get in this clusterfuck. 

Faster than he thought he could, Joel rolls onto the ground. In frustration, the gunman fires a few .22 rounds at Joel’s moving form. Slouching underneath the desk, Joel feels and hears the satisfying thunk, thunk, of the smaller bullets lodging in the thick wood. 

“Coward,” the man jeers.

A different male voice speaks. The redhead. “We want to negotiate. We want our food back. The girl for the food.”

Joel could roll his eyes. Did they think he was that stupid? He had killed at least six of their people on his way inside this building, and probably more - definitely more depending on how they felt about ol’ Steven - and the very first one had been a kid. 

“Where’s the girl?” Joel calls out.

“Where’s your other girl?” The gunman retorts. “You the one who taught her how to shoot?”

Joel’s eyes narrow. Against all reason, he had been hoping they’d forgotten about you. 

“She shot my fucking wife, you son of a bitch,” the man continues, shaking in rage. “I’ll kill that girl in front of you. She your kid? I hope she is.” 

Joel’s not entirely sure which girl this guy means now, but either one is a sore subject, so he pops around the wooden structure as low to the ground as he can, and fires off several shots. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“I’m kind of offended,” your lighthearted tone sounds almost shrill to your ears. “Only two guards on your cell?” Cell is a little much. They’d placed Ellie in a classroom and stood outside of the door. You’d picked them off before they even saw you.

Granted, your gunfire had alerted the rest of the building and rained hell down on Joel when he started shooting right after you in a wholly separate part of the building. 

Ellie doesn’t acknowledge your joke. That’s how you know your blustery attitude isn’t working. She wasn’t a toddler anymore. Shaking off or pretending the pain wasn’t real was not going to work here. 

She falls into you, her arms locked behind your back. You kiss the top of her head. 

“Th- they were going to take turns with me. They told me how. They told me how you’d find pieces of me. I hit them, I made one bleed but -”

You cut off her flow with a shh. “That’s not happening. We’re going to get the car.” 

Peeking out the door, the sound of gunfire coming from the other section of the building, you see another man run toward the fight. You shove aside your abject terror for Joel. Ellie needs you. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Joel hadn’t been quite as quick as he thought. He winces at his thigh. The denim is torn and bloody from the bullet wound through the right side of his leg. Since it was a goddamn .22, the shell was probably still inside his flesh, too. His only ray of sunshine was that it hadn’t hit his femur nor an artery. 

Joel covers his head as more splinters from the desk fly past. The sound of the gunfire was deafening. Three more men had appeared from behind each of the closed office doors. If Joel’s count was correct, and so was Steven, there should only be five or six men left. He figured one would be guarding Ellie, so what he had to deal with here was likely the rest of the crew.

Breathing ragged, he holds his rifle close to his chest, waiting for his moment. It comes: a pause in the firing and the sound of two - maybe three - men reloading. Joel kneels on his good leg and pops his head and weapon above the desk. He fires upon the man who threatened to kill you in front of him, and watches with satisfaction as the man’s chest blows blood like confetti. 

Hurling curses and non-words, the other men scramble to finish reloading, ducking behind doors and walls for cover. 

The red-headed man is the closest to the one Joel just killed, and he seems off somehow. But Joel’s attention is diverted as a body comes crashing around the far side of Joel’s shelter.

The human kamikaze comes from Joel’s right, that’s his only excuse for failing to hear the large person’s strides. The bald man barrels into Joel, knocking him over, but he fails to knock Joel’s gun from his hands to the man’s mortal mistake. A single gunshot.

Two down. Three left.

Joel rolls over the now-dead bald guy and examines the room from this new direction. One of the men is hiding behind an office door. A very flimsy, particle-board door. Joel grins briefly and fires through a material he had touched every day in a previous life. 

A loud thud comes as the body falls to the floor.

“Stop!” A voice Joel’s already heard several times screams. “Stop. You’ve killed enough of us.”

Joel makes a sour face to himself. To his count, there were three of them left - red-head, his friend here, and whoever was guarding Ellie. That didn’t seem like enough dead.

“No, I haven’t.”

“All we wanted was our food,” the man bellows. “You can have your little bitch.” 

“Where is she?” Joel takes great care to keep the pain out of his voice.

To his vague surprise, no answer comes. Joel peers around the wall of the desk. A shadow moves inside an office, but Joel doesn’t think he can shoot through the table legs and wall that divide him from the unseen man. 

Right before feeling a searing pain in his side, Joel wonders where the red-headed man went. But then he violently rolls, buckling the very same man’s knees. The redhead falls upon Joel and shoves the barrel of Joel’s gun out of range, gripping the barrel tight. Struggling but strangely weak, Joel punches the man in the nose, breaking it spectacularly. 

The man only grunts and spits his blood onto Joel. Joel grunts and swings the gun at the man’s face, but it glances off his chin as the would-be target wildly tries to wrest the gun away.

Footsteps on the thin, industrial carpet alert Joel to the advancing presence of the last man. Allowing the redhead to pull the gun - still in Joel’s hands - upward, Joel uses the confusion to twist the gun to his left and pull the trigger in the direction of the final man.

A piercing scream shreds Joel’s ears as the oncoming person turns out to be the other woman from earlier. She falls to the floor clutching her stomach. 

The redheaded man seems as though his brain has malfunctioned. The man is motionless for a fleeting moment and Joel’s jaw clenches in preparation. He understands who he has just killed. Now both men would be fighting for the same reason. A terrible roar is followed by a punch across Joel’s cheek, then another across his jaw, and nearly a third before Joel manages to overpower him.

Using his weight against him, Joel sacrifices the gun, dropping it to the floor, to violently shove the man to the side. Joel gets to his feet, unwilling to turn his back to pick up his gun. Instead, he draws his knife; a wicked grin curls from the depths of his adrenaline-soaked mind. 

Driven by grief and hate, the redhead lunges for Joel and slices at Joel’s defensive arm. Joel realizes for the first time that his dueling partner has a shiny, sharp object in his hand. 

How’d I miss that?

Joel bulldozes the man in the chest, lifting him off his feet, then pummeling him to the floor. Joel feels a sting to his upper back, but he shoves his knife into the screaming redhead’s chest once, twice, three times. 

He sits back on his haunches, then falls to his ass, panting. In the silence, Joel slowly returns to his pained body. His thigh, his shoulder, his forearm, and … his side? Gingerly raising his shirt reveals a half-inch hole in his flesh. He looks up at the body before him and squints at the fucking letter opener in the man’s hand.

Joel’s head thunks onto the wood frame behind him and he shuts his eyes. 

When he reopens them, mere slits on his face, the sun blazes through the huge window across the room. It must be noon, but Joel’s body refuses to obey his brain. Unbearable pain smothers him - pulls him down. He lets his eyelids close again.

But… it’s too quiet in this building. His eyes shoot open wildly this time, and he bares his teeth, grunting, as he crawls his way up the furniture to his feet. For all he knew, you and Ellie were dead in the corridor. Or worse. 

Using his rifle as a semi-crutch, he hobbles out of the office space and down the linoleum hallway. Two bodies lie at the end, their clothes not the color he remembers you and Ellie wearing, but his heart rate skyrockets, anyway. 

Joel softly calls your name, then Ellie’s. As he gets closer to the bodies, he frees a breath at their appearance. 

Men. Not the girls. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

One of the swings on the playground moves in the wind. The area is deadly quiet, and it terrifies you. The one time you want to see a human being, you don’t. 

“He said he’d be here?” Ellie demands from the backseat. 

You had pulled the sedan behind a tiny building containing the park’s bathrooms. The position gave you the perfect view. Alternating between wincing at the position of the sun and searching the grounds, you tap your fingers on the steering wheel and don’t respond to Ellie. 

The choice before you was starkly unpleasant. Leave your sister and go find Joel, take your sister to go find Joel, or leave without him.

He was going to leave us, the miserable part of your brain dredges up his choice earlier. Maybe he wants us to go. Maybe it’d be… better…

Better for him. You know it wouldn’t be the case for you. Or for Ellie. She has yet to stop craning her neck in every direction looking for Joel. 

“You have to go find him,” Ellie insists eventually. It’s well-past the time you told him to meet you. 

“I’m not leaving you alone again.” You state, though you had been considering just that. 

“I’ll come with you.” She argues, but you hear the underlying fear of returning to that place.

“Absolutely not.” You veto.

“Then I’ll stay here. I’ll be okay. There’s guns in here. Or I can hide in the bathroom and lock the door, if you think that’s better.” Ellie opens the car door, making your decision for you.

“Ellie!” You hiss.

She pulls a handgun Joel had given her from her bag and nods at you. You fling open your car door, but she’s inside the bathroom before you can rush around the vehicle. She deadbolts the heavy door.

“Go find him. Please.” 

Continue ->

[steddie-there]

"Eddie, I need you," Steve says over the phone, a very un-Steve-like tremor in his voice.

That's all Eddie needs to hear before he's shouting to Dave that he has a family emergency, he'll be back later, and booking it out of the record store and across town to the veterinarian. He's never been so grateful to have such a chill boss.

Steve is pacing in the empty lobby when he gets there, one hand shoved in his pocket and the other running incessantly through his hair. He doesn't stop until Eddie touches his shoulder and then Eddie has an armful of Steve, his face buried in Eddie's neck.

He's shaking so Eddie holds him close, buries a hand in his hair, waits for his trembling to stop.

"What happened, Stevie?" he asks and his voice is gentle, as gentle as he can make it, but Steve still curls inward. Eddie rubs soothing circles into his back.

"The hay bag," Steve finally whispers. "I heard it fall, thought it was far enough away from his cage. So I didn't check. But when I walked past, he'd chewed a hole in it and I don't know if he swallowed any and oh god what if he did what if he has a blockage what if -" he breaks off, his breath hitching.

Eddie presses a kiss to his forehead, pulls him over to the chairs. Tucks his hands into Steve's, lets him hold them bone-crushingly tight, lets him fiddle with his rings. Presses their foreheads together and whispers soothingly.

They wait.

It feels like hours but can't be more than 45 minutes before they're called back to a room. Paul is staring up at them from the doc's arms, calmly chewing a piece of hay into his mouth.

The doc smiles, tells them he's fine, no blockage, and Eddie lets out a breath of relief, feels Steve sag against him.

"So he's okay?" Eddie asks.

"Perfectly healthy," she confirms. "Although maybe the tiniest bit heavier than he should be. How many treats is he getting a day?"

Steve furrows his brow. "Just two hay treats. Three every once in a while."

Eddie doesn't say anything, glances down at the floor, scratches at the back of his head. Steve turns his head to look at him. Eddie breaks.

"...he's good at begging, all right? He rattles the cage and then he looks up at me and. He's just. Really cute. And sometimes I give him a couple extras."

Steve bites his lip and his shoulders start shaking again.

"Steve, what... are you okay...?"

Steve bursts out laughing. It's relief and joy and amusement all wrapped into one and it's infectious and soon Eddie is laughing, too, and even the doc is chuckling and Paul is staring at them all with big black bunny eyes.

"Just, maybe lay off the treats a little," she says when they're all just grinning at each other.

"Yes, ma'am" Eddie promises, crossing his heart.

"Will do," Steve grins as he takes Paul from her arms, puts him in his little pink travel kennel.

He turns to Eddie, a gentle smile on his face. "Let's go home."

Later, curled up on the couch, Paul flopped over their laps and the tv low, Steve leans his head on Eddie's shoulder. "Thanks for putting up with my freak out. For being there."

Eddie turns to Steve, kisses the side of his head. "Sunshine, I'd do anything for you. And for this little bastard, too," he says, tapping the white spot on Paul's head. He flicks an ear in Eddie's direction but otherwise doesn't move.

"Even stop giving him extra treats?" Steve asks, a smirk in his voice.

"Yeah, even that," Eddie says as they both dissolve into quiet giggles.

-----

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 7

ao3: And Rabbit Makes Three

My real life inspiration behind Paul the rabbit

Also, credit for this idea goes to my roommate @steddiehawkins, who also inspired Eddie giving Paul extra treats since she definitely doesn't give my rabbit extra treats because of how cute he is and how much she loves him. She would neeeeeeever do that 😉😜

[aimfor-theheart]

My darling cielo 🥺✨ thank you so much for taking the time to write spooky drabbles!!!!

So…I would LOVE to see your take on spooky fae Gojo 👀 🥀

Im sending you all my love and early Halloween candy!!!

hello erika my love!!

and OF COURSE! i will give you some spooky fae gojo!!

sending you sweets and treats and love too! thank you for requesting!!

dark fae!gojo x reader

cw: a smidge of predator/prey

***

You peer into the forest.

It peers back.

Bare birch trees, their leaves freshly fallen, stand stark white against the bleak sky, the ground laden in burnt gold and copper. Berry bushes with fruit overripe with late autumn hang heavily along the path, tempting, perhaps overly sweet smelling. Cloying.

You know this path well and have walked it many times.

You hug your cloak, worn and navy, tighter as the wind kicks up. Brisk, hungry wind. The type that bites.

The sun is fading, watery light streaming through the trees and you never want to be out here past sundown. As if to warn you, the caw of a magpie above you, it's wings twinged a vicious, bright blue.

It takes to flight, shimmers in the dying light.

You begin your journey back; you should make it just in time.

You know the path, you tell yourself, even as you move deeper and the trees grow thicker. As the forest swarms you, surrounds you. A strange fork in the road—you don't remember it being so soon. You take your usual left.

The path veers sharply. The wind howls.

Strange...you could've sworn—

You peer into the forest.

A pair of eyes peers back.

You yelp in surprise, lurching away from the figure now in a grove of trees.

Your hackles rise and something deep and innate and raw clangs inside your furiously heaving chest. Run, it screams, run.

You are frozen, a fawn uncertain, still as you can be.

He's tall and long-limbed, unnaturally so. His hair is the color of the birch trees, of spun starlight, a shock of white, vines curling atop his head, plush flowers and berries halo him. His eyes as brilliant as the magpie's wings.

“Hello, little sparrow.” And when he smiles, his teeth are sharp, a flash of white.

You lurch like you might run, jerk away from him but something catches you. Keeps you.

“You have something of mine.” He hums, waltzing towards you in an easy, lazy gate. He bends down suddenly, shoulders at a slanted angle, as he puts his face in yours.

Your heart rabbits quick and hard. He’s inhumanly beautiful with white lashes and glass skin. This close, you notice—his ears. Delicately pointed. Sharp. His canines, sharper.

His finger, nimble and long, dip into your neckline and now you really do stumble away from him. But he’s snagged the necklace you wear; just a smooth, river stone on a cord that you’d found when you were small and—he’s grabbed it. Keeps you held around the neck with it, like a little leash.

“I’ve had this since I was a child,” you manage to get out, “it’s mine. It can’t be yours.”

It is one of the only things that has lasted your whole life.

He tsks, tugging gently, “not at all. You stole this from me some time ago.” His eyes flash like a crack of lightning, and oh god his teeth are so, so sharp—“I’ve come to take it back.”

You pull hard until the stone is yanked from his hands. It thuds dully against your chest, reverberating against your heart.

This time, you listen to the animal in you that says run.

Your feet hit the earth. Wildly, you peer into the forest. You feel it peer back.

It blurs before you. Night swallows the sky.

But you hear his laugh, near and yet far, behind you and yet in front of you, surrounding you.

You force your legs to move faster, harder, feel the ache deep in your bones. You don’t dare look back. You grab at the wildly swinging stone to still it. It’s freezing cold.

“That’s okay,” and you feel his voice like a lovers caress;

“I love a chase.”

***

i hope you enjoyed a lil dash of him erika!!!!! genuinely would love to write more of fae gojo!!!

send me a monster and a character and i’ll write a drabble!

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: John Darby Species: Zombie Occupation: Artist Age: 738 Years Old (Looks about 56) Played By: Basil Face Claim: Benjamin Bratt

"I'm chewing the bones of my own reprieve."

TW: Memory loss

You were somebody once. Surely you must have been. Someone bright, good, and just. Surely you must have been. But, maybe not. It’s getting harder and harder to tell who, or what you might have been once upon a time. You want to believe you were good because to be otherwise would mean you deserve this. This terrible, awful thing that has become you. You who must have been anything but good and just, you who must have been evil and cruel to have been reduced to this. Could you have been both? Someone so bright and wonderful, someone who erred so gravely to have fallen so harshly from grace?

John Darby was not always his name. He had another name once. A name that, no doubt, graced a long faded stone in a long forgotten cemetery from ages long ago. John. John was easy, John was simple and safe. John Doe was a little too on the nose for what he had become, but it had been a favoured alias of his past travels when he cared about such things as names, faces, and consequences.

John was born once upon a time. John lived a life in which he had a family. In which he served so fervently that if possible, even his bones would dance to his Lord’s tune until at only his word would he then lay his head down to rest. How fortunate then it was, that somewhere along his time in service did he receive a bite.

They write legends of such ventures. Of quests for treasure and battling such beasts, maybe somewhere out there in the vast history of mankind; there rests a tale of a knight whose name he no longer wore. Between the bite and his death was existence. Servitude. He can no longer remember what it was he did, if not for the sword that he still has wrapped in cloth at his side.

Good soldiers serve. They serve until their Lord’s dying breath. Expected to continue their vow towards the next head the crown did grace. John swore an oath to a Lord, a Lord history no longer remembers (and neither does he) and when he refused to bend to the new Lord’s rule, he was doomed to break. To die.

And he did die.

Only, it didn’t take. To be alive but not quite, something he had no name for. His soul considered damned for some sin he must have unknowingly committed. Doomed to forever walk to Earth until….until….

The same death took the lives of his family, it took the lives of his friends, his fellows in arms, it took the Lord who had him killed and it took all those he knew and would soon grow to know. It was ever at his heels, the one constant companion that did not leave him be.

He’s certain the grief must have been overwhelming. The desire for vengeance was even greater. He would enact a violence so great upon whomever had done this to him. He was sure. But he can no longer recall. What does it matter? For he’s still here and they are long since gone.

John remembers enough that he tried to uphold such noble ideals at the start. He fed upon animals at first as was natural, what was a brain but another type of meat? Did he not feed upon venison to sate his hunger in life? It wasn’t enough. From the small brains of squirrels and rabbits to those of livestock and the game he hunted. To the horse that had gone lame. Until he remembered, of all things to still recall; his first man.

Desperation. A fresh corpse. How had he died? This, he does not remember. But, he remembers how revitalised he felt upon consuming the grey matter within his skull. Those oh so noble ideals began to bend. To feed only on those who deserved their deaths. Or those to whom death would be kinder. But was his continued existence any kinder when he needed another’s death to keep him in his undying state?

When time continued inexorably onward. Where his feet carried him through the wilds, through small civilizations that bloomed into something more. The world continued forever forward while he remained stubbornly stuck in the past. Of those ideals of mercy killings only when animals no longer filled the void; to forever aid those in peril. To act on behalf of those who could not. For the little guy.

And time continued.

It became harder and harder to…care.

Was he doomed to forever exist on the hair thin line between hunger and satisfaction? What was it like to have a full stomach? To be truly and absolutely sated? Was this to be his forever epilogue?

Thoughts like these soon became absent as he simply…existed. Wandering, blood soaked hands picking at grey matter under his blunted nails. His sword once drawn in service, to protect; now drawn to cleave and draw low prey until it too became worn. It broke long before he did. The pieces are still wrapped in cloth in the faded rucksack he carries in hand.

What keeps you going? What do you hope to gain? A rumour akin to a fairytale, funny that; the kind of thing that the being you were; a Knight so Noble decorated, called home–promised something you forgot existed.

Humanity and a well deserved happily ever after.

A rebirth.

It’s a warm shower watching the blood and dirt swirl down the drain, your belly full and a dead man’s clothing on your back. It’s a bus ride away. It’s not quite home because you don't remember what that means.

Character Facts:

Personality: Patient, cold, dedicated, indulgent, sympathetic, dishonest, adaptive, aimless

Has no memory of what actual foods taste like. Could not tell you what his favourite is. Does regularly drink black coffee. Various strengths. Various temperatures. Various qualities.

Dresses casual. His clothing is all faded. Old, worn blue jeans. Muddied leather boots. Dusty, heavy jackets be them denim or leather. T-shirts with faded logos and slogans. For some it’s considered thrift chic, for him it’s what he’s been toting around for decades. Or whatever he found in the homes and bags of previous victims. Usually wears long sleeves, keeps most of his body covered. Occasionally spotted with a baseball cap and sunglasses while walking around town.

Enjoys strong smells, especially of nature–those floral or “old lady” perfumes you find overbearing in a closed space like that too-long bus ride you booked? That’s heaven for him. 

Enjoys visiting the local parks and relaxing by the gardens, and the library. A regular, if you would. 

Traditional medium artist, graphites, charcoal, the odd pastel–his sketchbooks are small and easily portable. When one is filled he holds onto it until it takes up space, and he tosses them aside. Sometimes he leaves them laying around in public spaces rather than carrying them around, they’re full; what does it matter?

Enjoys drawing everything and anything around him. Astounding care for detail. Real talent. His lines get shaky when he gets hungry, his images become erratic and err towards chaotic and nightmarish the longer he pushes it off.

Hasn’t pretended to be anything but what he is in a very long time. Has difficulty, slip-ups and fumbles from time to time in pretending to be human.

Is in remarkably good shape for an undead of his age. No missing pieces he can name. 

Tends to cover up his “undead musk” with a variety of smells, mostly smells of old leather, old paper, coffee, and tobacco. 

[dfourc]

'Sometimes we bare our teeth to pain that makes us whole'

==

TW : Hints of stalking, Obsessive compulsions, gay people?? Dead dove do not eat... uh.. mentions of gore, implied relationship trauma, psychotic man, unhealthy behaviors.. and.. dunno more?

Summary : man has obsession, calls, more trauma, implied stalking..

HERES A VIBE WHEN YOUR READING MY WORK??

==

Silence used to fill the still air in the old creaky home. The wind howls and gently rattles the windows foggy with dirt and dust, Covered in a layer of grime. Birds chirp less and less as the sun creeps lower and dips below the horizen line, showering the old home in decrept, crawling darkness. The stars threaten to peak out against the peach colored and blue fuzzy sky. Clouds turning more and more into an orange haze of color.

Yet residing in the inky shadows, a face stares back, with the soft glow of a screen, and the gentle taps upon the worn out spots, My thoughts get the better of my fog fillled and hunger craving mind.

'Sometimes the world isn't as big as we hope it is.'

I've heard that line, over and over. Like a never ending rhythm, or a heart beating forever. Immortalized in people's brains. Like a tune you couldn't ever forget. Like that one ugly memory that still haunts you to this day. Like a snake filled with venom it can't use.

And yet. It persists. Clawing it's way out of my inky depths, eating through my skin. And devouring my bones.

The phone picks up with silence on one end before a meek voice, hazy with sleep and laced with cotton mouthed dehydration, I can't help the itch in my teeth at those said words.

"Hello?”

"I miss you."

My voice spoke back, Bittersweet laced memories tipping at my tongue, Like black licorice, you can't forget it. And my words sink deeper then a wolfs own maw intona deer's fragile veiny neck.

"..I told you not to call me again."

"I know."

I know I hissed back, Anger boiling in my blood, I could feel my heart in my chest, Black, potent hatred in my blood. Tainting my thoughts, poisoning my tongue, stabbing ny words and injecting a vile tone. I couldn't help but grip the armchair the flaking lesther crumbling under my claws, digging into the wooden frame.

You are supposed to be dead.

"So.. You continue to call me anyways.. You know- You can't do anything. Not this time."

White. Fucking. Lies. Seething out of their mouth, taunting my very essence, worming their way into my mind, Eating away the core of my very patience and wiggling inti the depths of my own thoughts.

"..You know you can't forget me. Like I can't forget you."

Not everyone can withstand the high that manipulation gives you. Like second nature it's a soothing coo, like a beckoning. It's almost natural to want what I'm speaking to. An obsession of mine. Like a snare for a rabbit, the bait was set. And I vould taste the iron from their blood like it was water.

It felt like ages before I got any response, With the grip of my jaw, I too waited. Aggitating minutes before an exhale, A stare into the void. I wasn't one to cave first. I never was.

"..I told you to leave me alone. It's been years. So what if I still care? You egotistical bastard. You're selfish for thinking I'm going to be back. You had no reason to even start this again."

Venom. Something definitely changed in the years of my absence.

"And yet you picked up. Hungry to hear more of me. To even see more of me. I doubt you even sleep at night knowing what you did wasn't enough. You know I'll always be around. Not that you can do anything to even remotely stop me."

And with my bite back the world stands at ease, with the winds dying down at a comedic timing. I feel alone. Stuck in an endless loop of wanting to rip out their vocal chords and eat them myself, Or find them myself like I did all those agonizing nights ago. A time I had fun. Real psychotic fun.

Something tells me this isn't over. Like some messed up dream that I'm not waking up from. And it fuels the hatred in my veins and the thickening haze of obsessive compulsions. To reap what was mine from the start, to finally kill the deer. To snare the rabbit and burn the burrow. To dig my claws into the freshly smoldering soil.

And it only just started for the both of us. All. Over. Again. Not that you'll see me before I see you.

====

heyo, publishing my first writing of two oc's of mine :)) not that I have much to do anyways lmfao.

[spaceumbredoggos]

Did some cooking in the shower. Headcanon time!

So I’ve established that Kenz loves to steal food, then gorge on the ill gotten gains. This escalates to stealing Atlas’s crops, raiding Atlas’s chicken coop for raw eggs, and even raiding local pet stores and eating their fish, rodents, birds, and rabbits. This all comes down to long stifled instincts that are suddenly coming out leading to criminal records and a feral Kenz who will bite everyone and everything. And when they bite, they draw a lot of blood, which if the target isn’t human, they drink a lot of through licking the wound and latching on constantly.

But you know what they love more? Settling feuds with species, yes, entire species, that have evoked their wrath. Rats and mice chewed up half their books and plushies when they were ten. Every rat and mouse they see, they eat. They eventually leave the crops and eggs alone and devour the marauding rodent population of not just Atlas’s homestead, but farms across Gravity Falls. They also eat entire hills of ants because they got into their cinnamon rolls and strawberry shortcake biscuits that one time. The shack has zero ant problems after this.

This prey drive escalates to them hunting any rodent or lagamorph pest that gets into the garden. And they can digest bone, so nothing goes to waste. Kenz still goes on plant binges at times, but it’s with feral vegetation that isn’t regulated by farmers. However, they’re quite the glutton when it comes to nectar from flowers. They transform into a rogue bee and goes on flower binges, sometimes getting too heavy to even fly. So they pollinate crops at a much faster rate than traditional bees, but only in short bursts.

Kenz acts a lot like a reactive dog at times. Losing their shit in swearing storms whenever a mail truck arrives or a stag approaches the bird feeder. They’re too smart for any sort of training yet the shifter brainrot just takes over their mind. They’re banned from any view of mail trucks and Atlas gives them all their packages.

One thing that Kenz can’t seem to leave alone is catmint. No one knows why Atlas grows so much of it in his garden, but patches get decimated when Kenz gets in a particular mood. They are often found lying down on the ground too catmint stoned to move. Silvervine also works on them. Catmint and Silvervine aren’t at all dangerous for the user. Kenz also tends to binge on lavender for the antidepressant effects. Atlas’s herb garden is never safe.

Kenz can no longer eat any sort of processed food since their shapeshifter puberty starting. Atlas and Holly can eat normal human things just fine, but Kenz’s system is too sensitive. They ate a lot of processed food and it is just tearing up their mind from accumulated forever chemicals. The only remedy is raw food. They can only eat raw meat when they eat meat. Their system prevents parasites and disease, so they can eat roadkill off the side of the street. But they prefer fresh kill or even butcher cuts (they have a habit of stealing things just before they get grilled at random barbecues.) They can’t even get prion diseases, so contaminated meat often just gets sent to them for disposal by government agencies.

Okay. I’ve rambled about Kenz’s weird eating habits, which is my current hyperfixation. I’m dead serious when I say that this isn’t any grounds for writing some weird vore or mukbang fic. I just want to fulfill my constant dream of eating raw meat like I’m supposed—

Anyways, I’m gonna tag @fishy--friend just to see his reaction and I’m gonna go try to see if I can eat dinner without shitting my pants off. Drink water. Hug your mom. Pet your pets. And don’t eat aquarium gravel.