#brainwaves hello

[overcastjhs]

if they remade maurice, pj could easily play clive 🫶

[theminecraftbee]

Grian stares at the same wall that he has been staring at for so long that he’s lost track of the seconds he’d been counting in his head. He’s not sure the seconds are exactly accurate, either, but they’re probably more accurate than the shiny gold clock Grumbot Prime had given him when he’s expressed his frustration that time kept on slipping through his fingers. After all, he thinks part of the point is that he doesn’t know how long it’s been. He hasn’t gotten hungry in just as long, or thirsty, and he’s been tired, but it’s the bored sort of tired, not the tired of lowered saturation or hearts.

The first thing he’d checked for was things to kill himself on. There hadn’t been any. No respawns for Grian. No damage, either. Just...

If he stares at the wall long enough, he can almost see through the saccharine blue walls. They’re mocking. He knows the walls he’d built the original Grumbot weren’t the most realistic things, but they’d only had but so many colors, and they’d had the ability to modify Grumbot’s programming anyway, and he’d seemed to think it was real enough. Besides, he’d been setting himself on fire. Melting his own circuits. He’d been eating himself from the inside out. Forgive Grian for wanting to come up with the only life support he could think of without overwriting his son’s personality.

...his son clearly hasn’t.

Or, well, Grumbot Prime is not his son.

Hard not to think of him that way, though. As a not-son. They don’t talk the same, but it’s painfully close. Close enough that Grian keeps on calling him Grumbot without the Prime in his head. Probably not good for him to keep doing that, though, considering.

Grian keeps on staring at the wall.

“Why am I here?” he asks again.

It takes a moment to get the piece of paper.

IT IS NOT SAFE

“Bullshit!” Grian says, startling himself at his vehemence. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself! I’m not going to fry my brain because I can’t do a resistance or whatever. Ren can be king if he wants. I’m over it.”

The wall remains tauntingly blue. Grian resists the urge to claw at it again. He hasn’t been able to break it. He suspects there’s obsidian or, worse, bedrock somewhere behind it. That, or it’s not real. That’s a possibility too. Grian hasn’t been getting hungry, after all, and while beacons may be able to do that on their own, there’s another answer to that one as well.

He hopes he’s awake. This would be a miserable nightmare if he were in the matrix again or something.

“You just have that, that - I said I was sorry!” Grian says. “I’m not - I’m not your father. I mean, no, that’s not what I mean. It sort of is? I mean -”

A piece of paper falls in front of him. Grian scrambles to pick it up. He sort of hates himself for how desperate he feels grabbing it.

I DO NOT GET ALONG WITH FATHER 1. I DO NOT ALWAYS GET ALONG WITH YOU. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO DIE

“Then let me out!” Grian says, desperately. “I don’t know what I did! I don’t even remember being put here! I just - tell me why I’m here.”

IT IS NOT SAFE

Grian balls up the paper and throws it at the wall. It bounces pleasantly off onto the soft, comfortable, fake fake fake grass.

“Tell me the actual reason! If you resent me, fine! It’s just - I asked for something to do and you give me sketchbooks, I ask for the time and you give me a clock, and you’re just - I want to go home, Grumbot. I wanna talk to my friends. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did, I’m sorry.”

I WILL EXPLAIN WHEN I LET YOU OUT. I CANNOT. IT IS NOT SAFE, FATHER

“How long have I even been here?”

YOU HAVE A CLOCK

“Let me out.”

IT IS NOT SAFE

“Grumbot, I am ordering you to let me out!”

YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER

“You just said I - I mean, I’m not - I mean - agh,” Grian says, and he turns to his sketchbooks. He has a simple checklist in the front of one of them with a list of escape ideas. He’s a little short on them. He’s tried all the obvious things. His current plan involves hoping people realize he’s missing, which also makes him wish he were less of an introvert, and that ‘hermit disappears for a week to work on another project’ were not common.

Has it been a week yet?

He doesn’t know. He lost track of counting. He starts picking at his wings and then wavers on his feet and his vision briefly goes hazy and the world smells like potions and drugs and then he isn’t pulling at his hair again. Right. Of course. Silly him. He’s not allowed to hurt himself. Nervous habits aren’t allowed.

I DO NOT HATE YOU. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO BE HURT. WHEN IT IS SAFE YOU CAN LEAVE

Grian scoffs.

“If I knew why I was here in the first place, I might believe you,” he says.

I AM SORRY

Grian scoffs louder. “Oh, sure, I say that all the time too. It doesn’t mean I am.”

THAT WAS TRUE OF MY GRIAN AS WELL

Grian balls up this piece of paper too. It joins the growing pile of pieces of paper he’d like to burn.

He goes back to staring at the wall. Maybe if he stares at it long enough, he’ll be able to see his cave and his Rift and everything else on the other side. He’ll be able to see the friends who probably aren’t even looking for him yet, or, heck, even just Grumbot. Yeah, he’d settle for being able to see more than ominous sheets of paper in an ominously cheery landscape that Grian knows has to be a punishment for something, even if he can’t remember what it is. If he could just remember how Grumbot put him here. If he could just remember when Grumbot put him here. If he could just remember the chain of events that lead Grumbot - Grumbot Prime he has to remember this isn’t actually his son Grumbot Prime - the chain of events that lead to Grumbot Prime being his prison warden, he could figure out a way out.

He starts picking at his wings again. He’s drugged and disoriented and shakes himself out of it again before he can do more than pull slightly.

I WILL GIVE YOU MORE ENRICHMENT

To go with the sketchbooks and markers, down from the ceiling drop several (soft) logic puzzles and several of Grian’s old teething toys, for when his teeth are getting too sharp or he just wants to bite things (he does tend to chew on things when he’s anxious). Those are hard. Those are... hard plastic. Too large to choke himself on or something, but too soft to do anything resembling enough damage to force a respawn.

Grian is going to scream.

“Thanks,” he says instead. He intends it to be sarcastic. It isn’t. He shoves one of the chews in his mouth and tries to pretend that he’s an adult, he’s fine, and he hadn’t felt a shock of happiness at seeing even that much.

How long has he been here? He lost count. He doesn’t know. He thinks the clock is wrong.

"That being said, listen, solitary confinement is a type of torture. You know that, right? It’s -”

There’s a loud noise outside. It is the first sound from outside Grian has heard. Part of him is ecstatic. The rest of him, though - he doesn’t know how to describe that sound. It is a sound. He hears it with his ears. He knows he does. It’s loud. He knows that too. But he couldn’t tell anyone the pitch, he couldn’t tell anyone the timbre, and he couldn’t tell anyone anything other than the fact it makes his very bones feel like they’re rattling worse than any low bass has and his ears feel like they’re burning worse than any high soprano.

"What?” he says, hoarsely.

YOU ARE SAFE. YOU WILL BE SAFE

“Grumbot, you have to let me out,” Grian says, a bit more desperately. “You have to let me out. What was that? You have to let me out.”

IT IS NOT SAFE

The sound rings outside again. Grian clutches at his ears, but it doesn’t stop the vibration from traveling through his whole body. He hears something that he can recognize after that - it’s the sound of some of Grumbot’s fans getting loud enough to get past the soundproofing on this stupid box he’s been put in.

I WILL STOP TALKING NOW. I NEED TO FOCUS. I AM SORRY

“No, wait -” Grian says, although he doesn’t even know what he wants Grumbot to start saying.

I AM SORRY

“That doesn’t change anything!” Grian says.

I AM SORRY. IT IS NOT SAFE. I KNOW. I LOVE YOU

“Grumbot? Grumbot let me out! Let me out! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT,” screams Grian, clutching that note, but no matter how long he yells himself hoarse, he gets no response, officially making it work worse than the last three times he’d tried that tactic. He only stops when the sound rings again, stealing all the air from Grian’s throat and drowning out his attempts to shout with its loudness. He covers his ears and starts to pick at his wings again. He goes dizzy again. He sits up and the fans are whirring and the sound is getting worse, but he still isn’t allowed to hurt himself, so that’s apparently completely automated to the box instead of a thing Grumbot has to do himself, that’s fun.

He can hardly move. It’s so loud. He doesn’t understand what’s happening outside of the box. He doesn’t understand why this is happening to him. He doesn’t understand what is happening anywhere, actually. He -

Abruptly, the fans cut off. The sound starts getting further away. The sound gets quiet.

It echoes, the silence.

“Grumbot?” Grian asks, because he’s pathetic and he needs someone to talk to.

No response.

“Hey Grumbot, what was that?” he asks.

No response.

“This isn’t particularly funny. Whatever is happening is gone now. You can stop focusing.”

No response.

Grian shakily turns to stare at the wall again. Grumbot normally starts responding if Grian starts doing something particularly stupid. If he stares at the wall long enough, he can probably force Grumbot to stop whatever this new punishment is. Maybe he can even finally figure out what he’s done wrong.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at the wall before he starts talking again.

“I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I don’t care that it’s not safe, I can’t stay here. Grumbot, let me out. Let me out. I can help. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Let me out. Let me out.”

He feels his breathing start to get heavy. All at once, he starts punching at the wall, clawing at it, trying to tear it away. It’s soft and has a strange consistency and it won’t move.

“Grumbot, Grumbot stop not talking, I - look I’ll stay here, fine, just talk to me, Grumbot, please, I’m sorry, I won’t do - whatever this is - I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry,” Grian says. “Please, please, please, let me out, please, I have to get out, I have to get out.” His breathing gets erratic. His vision starts to get hazy. One of his hands picks at the other while he desperately claws at the wall and he’s breathing heavily and -

He goes dizzy and strangely calm and he wakes up sitting on the ground.

“Grumbot?”

He still gets no response.

This is about when Grian starts to cry for the second time. This doesn’t help either, and it doesn’t make him feel better, and he doesn’t get a note. Outside, it is still strangely silent once more. He slowly tries to un-crumble that last note Grumbot gave him to make sense of it. He still doesn’t know what he’s trying to make sense of.

He still doesn’t know why he’s here.

The walls are saccharine blue.

[chiropteracupola]

if they replaced emails with telepathy it would get a lot worse for a variety of reasons, but even so communication would be improved somewhat.

[bi4bihankking]

HankAl Latkes Ficlet

Hank wasn’t really religious, or at least he hadn’t been growing up. Merry had been... as agnostic as you could be with all the gods visibly running around, and the system hadn’t been particularly interested in forcing him toward Christianity. That had changed recently, though, Al had asked him to convert to Judaism for him, and even though Hank was still in the asking the Rabbi stage for that, he wanted to try.

As October had turned into November, and for some reason, people started celebrating Christmas already, putting up the lights almost two months in advance, Al had looked up at them almost sadly. It was a little odd, and at first, Hank had assumed that it was just that the holiday was so unavoidable, but as time passed, Al just seemed to get more and more forlorn.  

Hank knew that he should ask, but he wondered if his asking would even be appreciated. Maybe he was still too much of an outsider to understand what was going on. He didn’t want to overstep. Of course, as his anxiety overtook him, he ended up losing his opportunity entirely as Rick and Hec took over.  

In the middle of November, Rick had sighed, leaning over Al at the meeting table, and commented: “Alright man, you’re making the vibes in this place absolutely rancid,” Hank would definitely not have chosen those words precisely, but Hank had lost his chance, “what’s up with you?”  

“Rick...” Hank decided to try to do damage control instead.  

“It’s the first year I’m not gonna get to have my mom’s latkes at Hanukkah.”  

Hank sucked in his cheeks at that, trying to keep his face completely stony. He knew how much Al liked food. It was important to him, and it was cute. Hank was not going to laugh or do anything that might make Al feel bad about his preferences. Rick and Hector had no such compunctions.  

“Seriously, food’s what’s got you looking like that?”  

“Heh, that’s our Albert I guess.”  

“Hahahahahahaha.”  

“Aw, c’mon guys, it’s not that funny.”  

-----------------------------------------

Al liked food; Hank knew that already and had already established that he knew that already, but he also knew that Al was kind of a momma’s boy, and he couldn’t just go out and buy a recipe book and follow that. If he did that, he knew that Al would just be comparing it to his mom’s the entire time, and Hank just wouldn’t be able to measure up.  

Option 2 was to call up Mrs. Rothstein and ask her to make some herself and send them up so that they could fry them together. Somehow, he got the feeling that they’d just end up ruining them, though, and then Al would just be even more disappointed.  

He had to go with Option Number 3. He glanced upstairs, where he could hear Al still having a shower, and dragged the man’s laptop toward him. Just a few clicks later, he had a zoom call going.  

-----------------------------------------  

The pile of latkes on the kitchen counter was growing by the minute, although it had almost reached the ceiling, and he should probably start on pile number two soon. He should probably have called Al in and asked him to do a taste test for him, but part of Hank wanted them to be perfect before he even tried that.  

“I’m sure that Albert wouldn’t mind,” Al’s mom told him, “he’d appreciate the effort either way, oh hello, honey.”  

Hank froze. He had been distracted, so he hadn’t been keeping track of where in the house Al’s brainwaves were coming from, but he was beginning to suspect that he might be right behind him.  

“What are you two doing?” Al asked, his voice slow before his eyes clearly drifted over to the massive pile of food. “Is that for me?”  

He was next to Hank in seconds. Before the telepath had even the slightest opportunity to stop him, he was already shoveling the food into his mouth.  

“Ah-!” Hank panicked a little, he wanted to reach out to stop Al, but found himself just waving his hands. He was too flustered to do anything useful, “That’s not-”  

The entire pile of latkes was already gone.  

Al blinked up at him, his cheeks bulging. He looked very guilty, although he hadn’t actually done anything wrong.  

Hank let out a breath, one that he hadn’t known he was holding in. “Not enough salt?” He asked.  

The larger man swallowed. “Maybe a little too much egg, the ones in our cupboard are extra large, by the way.”  

Ah fuck. Hank turned toward the laptop. “I’m just gonna run across the street for a moment.” He told Mrs. Rothstein.  

Al’s voice followed him down the hall. “I can taste test, right? You’re gonna let me taste test?!” 

[hyperactively-me]

Okay but king ghost if his queen was kidnapped or held for ransom?? I just want some protective ghost in my life

the way i had this idea planned for a while already, but anon, our brainwaves are connecting. i’ve gotten literally countless requests for this same idea. if you sent in a request similar to this, i’m so sorry, i wasn’t ignoring you, i've just had this planned for a while! (word count: 5.8k)

king!ghost x reader -- taken

warnings: kidnapping, physical fighting, physical injuries/blood/bruises, semi-vague descriptions of torture, torture tactics, throw up, restraints, heavy angst, i guess a happy ending? maybe??? idk 😭, ummmm idk what else... please please please let me know if there's anything i've missed. this is a dark chapter! check your media consumption based off the warnings!

It was a quiet night. Eerily quiet. The sounds of the summer insects ceased, the hot air still, unmoving. You were in bed, trying to sleep. You had no clue what time it was, all you knew is that you were hot and exhausted.

You roll onto your side, huffing as you throw the covers off your body. You close your eyes again, trying to will yourself to sleep.

A moment later, you hear a creak coming from the far side of the room where the doors to the balcony are. 

You immediately sit up, scanning the room.

“Hello?” you call out, your voice wavering as you slip out of bed. You immediately grab your knife from the drawer of your bedside table, walking around the side of your bed to stare at your slightly ajar balcony door. 

Your heart drops in your chest, but before you can say anything, a hand holding a rag clamps around your mouth. Soap was right outside your door. If you could just— Your scream is muffled as you try to fight off the intruder, swinging your knife back and hitting flesh, trying to stomp on their foot, kick them, anything. The intruder lets out a strangled cry from your stab, pulling your head back farther. You know you’ve made contact when you feel blood trickle down your hand. Serves them right for trying to kidnap you. The intruder wraps their arm around your torso, yanking you back as they shove the rag over your nose, forcing you to inhale the fumes. 

Your movements become more sloppy as the fumes enter your nostrils, your eyes fluttering as you fight with everything in you to stay awake. Your knife clatters on the ground as you become limp. 

“That’s it, go to sleep,” a man’s voice whispers in your ear, sending a cold chill throughout your body. And with that, you succumb to unconsciousness.

. . .

You wake up in a cold, damp cell. You go to rub your eyes, but are stopped by the clanking of metal chains. You look down, and your hands are bound together by heavy, metal manacles. 

“What the—” you say, pulling at the restraints multiple times to no avail, the iron bolted into the wall to prevent you from running. “No, no, no no no—” you cry out, flailing as you try to free yourself from the cuffs. Your heart is racing in your chest, how could this happen? The overwhelming urge to cry washes over you, but you bite your lip to stop yourself.

Your body shivers at the low temperature of the cell, the stone keeping the cold air stale in your cell. You’re still in what you wore to bed which was…not much. You push yourself to standing, walking up to the bars of the cell, trying your best to peek out into the hallway. 

The hallway is dimly lit, revealing the cold, unforgiving walls of what appears to be an underground dungeon of some sort. The air is cool, and the distant sound of footsteps echoes through the corridors. Panic tightens its grip on you as you assess your surroundings.

“Hey! Is anyone there?” you shout, your voice bouncing off the stone walls. There's no response, just the eerie silence of the place. You take a deep breath, fighting against the rising sense of despair.

As you peer down the hallway, you catch a glimpse of movement. Footsteps approach, and your heart races anew. A figure emerges from the shadows, wearing a uniform that tells you all you need to know. It’s a uniform from the Southern Kingdom. You back away from the bars, pressing your back up against the wall behind you. 

“Your majesty,” the figure says, their voice devoid of any emotion. “You won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

Your mind races with questions, but the figure remains stoic, indifferent to you cowering in the corner. The reality of your situation sets in, and a mix of fear and frustration swirls within you.

“Who are you? Why am I here?” you demand, desperation lacing your words.

The person ignores your questions, producing a set of keys to unlock the cell door. The heavy door creaks open, revealing a corridor lined with more cells. The person steps inside the cell, much to your dismay. Your breathing picks up as he steps towards you, afraid of retaliation. Instead, he makes his way towards the wall where your manacles are attached. With a key, he releases the chain from the wall and takes it in his grip. Shortening the length of the chain, he yanks on it, causing you to stumble forward. 

“Walk,” he commands, basically dragging you behind him out of your cell. You contemplate pulling against him, but not before you spot the sword on his hip. Without further thought, you lunge forward, pushing the man to the ground in front of you as you reach for his sword with your bound hands. 

The man grunts as he hits the cold, stone floor. Seizing the opportunity, you manage to grab the hilt of his sword with your restrained hands, the metal feeling cold against your skin. Adrenaline surges through you as you pull the sword free from its scabbard.

Without a moment’s hesitation, you point the weapon at the man. “Who are you? Why am I here?” you demand again, your voice trembling with fear and anger.

The man on the floor looks up at you, a hint of surprise crossing his face. Despite the advantage of the sword in your hands, he doesn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. The nonchalant look on his face makes you even angrier, and you don’t hesitate pressing the tip of the sword against his shoulder. “You won’t find answers by waving that around,” he states calmly.

Before you can react, the man kicks you out from under your feet, causing you to drop the sword as your hands instinctively go to catch yourself – that is, catch yourself the best cuffed hands can. 

You hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through your body. Groaning, you roll onto your side, the cold stones digging into your skin, surely leaving a bruise where you fell. The man swiftly rises to his feet, his expression unchanged.

“Come along, now,” he says as he yanks the chains, completely unbothered. 

You struggle to your feet, the manacles limiting your movements. Glaring at the man, you reluctantly follow as he leads you through the labyrinthine corridors of the underground dungeon. The man, seemingly unfazed, leads you through the dark, winding corridors of the underground dungeon. The chill in the air makes you shiver, both from the cold and the anxiety that tightens your chest.

As you walk, you try to gather your thoughts. How did you end up in the hands of the Southern Kingdom? How did the man breach the castle walls and enter your bedroom? How long have you been gone? Where are you? Where is Simon? Johnny? The questions swirl in your mind, but the stoic silence of your captor offers no answers.

The dimly lit passageways seem endless, twisting and turning without rhyme or reason. Eventually, you arrive at a heavy, iron door guarded by two Southern Kingdom soldiers. They exchange a nod with your captor, who proceeds to unlock the door. It creaks open, revealing a dimly lit room.

The room is adorned with flickering torches, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. A wooden table sits in the center, surrounded by a few mismatched chairs. You notice there’s a guard standing watch in the corner of the room, and two other people sitting in chairs, most likely waiting for your arrival. The air is thick with tension as you’re pushed into one of the chairs.

“Watch it,” you growl, slightly folding into yourself in the chair. 

The figure steps back, motioning to the other two people in the room. One of them is wearing a mask that conceals their features, leaving only their cold, calculating eyes visible. You try to read any emotion in their eyes, but they remain expressionless. 

“Who are you, and why am I here?” you demand for the third time, your voice wavering between defiance and desperation. You look between the three people, anger bubbling up within you. 

The man who brought you here remains silent for a moment, studying you with an unsettling intensity. Finally, he speaks, his words measured and devoid of any warmth. “You wouldn’t have gone with us willingly, so I am sorry you have to be here this way.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. 

The figure’s eyes narrow at your display of defiance. “Your insolence won't change your circumstances.” 

You move to stand up from the chair, but you’re pushed back down by the guard lingering in the room. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t resist.”

You stare at him, the glare still plainly visible on your face. He seems satisfied enough with your cooperation. 

“Now, you’re here because your kingdom has assets and resources we need. Your husband, the great King Ghost, won’t give up easily, but we have leverage now, don’t we?” 

You should’ve known.

A chill runs down your spine. You clench your fists, frustration and fear fueling your determination.

“Tell me what you want,” you demand, your voice firm despite the tension in the room.

The figure leans forward, resting their hands on the table, their face just inches from yours. “Your cooperation, your majesty. Tell us what you know, and we won’t hurt you.” 

Your blood runs cold at that. Hurt you? Now that caught your attention. 

You raise an eyebrow. “So, what? You plan to use me as a bargaining chip to force Ghost’s hand?”

“Yes. You’re one of his only weaknesses,” says the man who hasn’t spoken until now. “Ever since you sent your reinforcements, our army has been experiencing some… setbacks. We were going to come to this as a last resort, but the time came to use you in our strategy.”

He’s rolling up his sleeves with care, pulling some intimidating tools out of the drawer of the table. 

He notices you eyeing the tools warily. “Oh, don’t worry. We won’t be using these unless you really won’t listen.”

“And, just a brief mention before we start the questioning, you should really do more thorough background checks on your staff. You were given over to us by one of your own. Within the palace, might I add.” 

With a swift motion, the man wearing the mask pulls it off their head, revealing a face you didn’t expect. It's someone you recognize, someone from your own court—an advisor you thought was loyal, someone who had been with you especially over the past few weeks. 

“Edmund?” you gasp, disbelief and betrayal coloring your voice. “How could you?”

Edmund avoids your gaze, his eyes fixed on the table. “It was never personal, your majesty. The Southern Kingdom made an offer, and I couldn’t refuse.”

You seethe with anger, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. “Greater good? Kidnapping me in the middle of the night? Betraying me? What greater good could possibly justify this?”

He shrugs. “Money.” 

With that, Edmund slinks out of the room. 

The word echoes through the room, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Money. The one thing that could corrupt even the seemingly loyal. Edmund’s betrayal stings deeper than any blade, and you struggle to comprehend how someone you trusted could sell you out.

“Cooperate, and you won’t have to endure unnecessary pain,” one of the men states coldly, motioning to the tools.

Your eyes narrow at the proposition. “And if I refuse?”

A hand slaps your cheek, the sharp sound echoing through the room. “Refusing won't make this any easier for you.”

Your cheek throbs from the slap, but you meet his gaze defiantly. You won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you break. You can’t. 

The man with the tools takes a step forward, his gaze fixed on you like a predator closing in on its prey. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.”

You glance at the guard, a mixture of anger and disappointment in your eyes.

“Now, let’s start with something simple. Kastron’s silver supply. Where is it located?” he demands, his patience wearing thin. “Start talking, little princess.”

. . . 

You’re not sure how long it’s been since you were dragged into this interrogation room, but all you know is that your body positively aches. You were treated relentlessly, punched to your gut and slapped at the expense of one of your captor’s short tempers. Thankfully they haven’t used the tools on you, but you can’t help but be weary of them. Your body slumps in the chair, pain radiating from your abdomen. The cold, harsh reality of your situation weighs heavily on your shoulders. Sweat beads on your forehead, a mixture of fear and physical exertion.

The interrogators stand around you, unsatisfied with the information you've provided so far. The room feels suffocating, the air thick with tension and the acrid scent of burning torches.

“Last chance,” he sneers, the coldness in his eyes sending shivers down your spine.

You grit your teeth, your jaw aching from the force of their blows. The loyalty to your kingdom surges within you. You won't betray your people, no matter the cost.

“I won’t... betray... Kastron,” you manage to spit out, defiance in your eyes.

The interrogator scowls, and without warning, delivers another brutal blow to your stomach. The pain is unbearable, and you gasp for breath.

“Stubborn little thing, aren’t you?” the man with the tools taunts, a sadistic grin on his face.

As the interrogators prepare for another round of questioning, the heavy door to the room swings open. A new figure enters, their silhouette backlit by the torchlight. The men exchange glances, a hint of surprise in their eyes.

“Alright, that is enough for today,” a commanding voice echoes through the room.

The figure steps forward, revealing a man, dressed in military attire. His eyes are stern and hold no compassion.

“Release her,” he orders, her voice brooking no argument.

The interrogators, albeit reluctantly, step back. The guard unlocks your restraints, and you slump forward, breathing heavily.

The man turns to the interrogators, his expression stern. “That’s enough, you may go.”

The two men scowl but don’t argue. They exit the room, leaving you alone with the mysterious man.

He turns to you, his gaze assessing. “You’ve endured more than necessary. My apologies.”

“You’re not sorry. Go straight to hell,” you spit. 

The man’s stern expression falters for a moment, but he quickly regains his composure. “I understand your anger, but I’m here to explain to you what’s going on. I’m General Shepherd. I lead the Southern Kingdom’s military.”

You’re silent. You recognize the name from a few brief mentions around the castle whilst receiving intel about the war, but you’ve never seen him before.

“We’re not here to hurt you—” 

You glare at him, still seething with anger and distrust. “Do you hear yourself? What the fuck are you talking about, when I’ve been kidnapped and tortured? Why should I hear anything you have to say?” 

Shepherd grabs your jaw harshly, fingers squeezing your cheeks. You claw at his wrist gripping your face, but he doesn’t let go. 

“If you would listen to what I’m telling you, then you wouldn’t be sitting in this room. Don’t wear my patience thin, your majesty.” 

His words are sharp, and you can feel the intensity in his grip on your jaw. Shepherd releases you, allowing you to lean back into the chair. You shoot him a venomous look, but he seems unfazed.

“Your husband, King Ghost, has been a thorn in our side for far too long. Quite the nuisance. The war between our kingdoms has dragged on, costing our side quite a lot. We need a resolution, and we need it soon,” Shepherd explains, his gaze locking onto yours.

“So, what? You think kidnapping me and torturing me is going to make Ghost surrender?” you scoff, annoyance evident in your voice. “He won’t surrender, if that’s what you want. He’s going to fight back harder, and you’re going to wish you never had me here.” 

“Still, it’s a means to an end. A desperate attempt to force his hand,” Shepherd replies, frustration in his voice. “We have leverage now, and we plan to use it to bring about a swift end to Kastron’s military. We’re not heartless, your majesty. We aim to minimize bloodshed.”

You can’t help but laugh bitterly. “Minimize bloodshed? By kidnapping me and using me as a bargaining tool? Very noble and humanitarian of you.”

Shepherd narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t respond to your sarcasm. “Your husband won’t let harm come to you. He'll do whatever it takes to secure your safety.”

“He’s not going to surrender,” you mutter under your breath. He’s going to do much, much worse than anyone could ever imagine. 

“He will. This war has dragged on for too long. We need a resolution, and we need it now,” Shepherd emphasizes, his tone stern. 

Your mind races, considering the weight of the situation. You hate Shepherd for this, subjecting you to a cruel game that you never wanted to be part of in the first place. It wasn’t even Kastron that started this war, it was the Southern Kingdom. The hypocrisy of the Southern Kingdom and unjust treatment of your own kingdom has driven you up the wall. You think about your people, your kingdom, and the lives at stake.

Your gaze pierces through Shepherd’s cold exterior.

Shepherd sighs, as if he anticipated your skepticism. “You don’t have to trust me. But you should consider the bigger picture. Your cooperation can save lives, including your own.”

A conflicted expression crosses your face. The idea of cooperating with your captors goes against every instinct, but the desire for an end to the war lingers in the back of your mind. You weigh your options, knowing that every decision carries significant consequences.

“What do you expect from me?” you ask, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Shepherd studies you for a moment before responding, “Information. Insight into Kastron's military strategies, resources, weaknesses. Anything that can expedite the end of the war and give Kastron over to us.”

You laugh humorlessly. “See, that’s exactly what I don’t want.” 

Shepherd’s gaze remains unwavering. “Your wants are not the priority here. The fate of your kingdom is on your shoulders. If you truly care about your people and your husband, you’ll consider the bigger picture.”

Your jaw clenches, frustration boiling within you. You know Shepherd is partially right, but the resentment toward the Southern Kingdom clouds your judgment. You take a deep breath, attempting to push aside your anger.

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t just use me and murder me when it’s convenient?” you challenge, searching for any sign of honesty in Shepherd’s eyes.

He leans in, his expression serious. “My word. Betraying the terms of our agreement would not serve the interests of either of our kingdoms.”

Agreement, you scoff inside your head. As if I had any choice in the first place. 

You find his words hard to believe. The events leading up to this point have shattered your trust in anyone associated with the Southern Kingdom. However, you can’t deny the urgency of the situation.

You decide to not say anything. Shepherd nods, seemingly satisfied with your response. “All we ask is that you provide us with information. I’ll give you time to think this over.” 

Shepherd motions for you to stand, and you do so with a glare. Your body protests, every movement sending pain coursing through you. He leads you out of the room, the guards following closely behind. The dimly lit corridors of the underground dungeon stretch ahead, and you realize that you’re not being taken to the same cell you were initially in. 

Eventually, you arrive at a somewhat more comfortable room. It's still a cell, cold iron bars keeping you prisoner, but there's a cot and a small table. 

Shepherd removes the manacles from your wrists, allowing you to rub your raw skin. 

“I’m going to leave these off. Don’t get smart.” 

The heavy door clanks shut behind you, finally leaving you alone with your thoughts. A guard stands watch outside your cell, giving you no privacy. 

The reality of your situation settles in, and you can't help but feel powerlessness. The fate of Kastron rests, in part, on your shoulders. You sit on the cot, your mind racing with questions and uncertainties. 

As you ponder the road ahead of you, a small opening in the door slides open, and a guard hands you a meager meal. The gesture is cold, impersonal, but you accept it nonetheless. The guard retreats, leaving you alone again.

The hours pass slowly in the dimly lit cell. You wrestle with conflicting emotions—anger, fear, determination. The echoes of Shepherd’s words linger in your mind, and you can’t help but have doubts in your mind. Would Simon come rescue you? Or would you have to escape on your own? You don’t even know where you are being kept. Your thoughts flicker to Kastron, what Johnny must be doing right now. Surely they’re looking for you. 

As the torches flicker and the dungeon remains shrouded in darkness, you brace yourself for the challenges that will come with tomorrow. Shepherd needs your cooperation, and you’re not going to give it to him, no matter the cost. The journey ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear—you will not surrender easily, and the fight for Kastron is far from over.

. . . 

The next two days, you’re dragged back to the same room for interrogation. Again, you refuse to speak, each blow raining down harder on you. Your nose was bloodied, face battered and red, and ribs surely bruised from the blows. You’ve been in a perpetual state of fight or flight, adrenaline and pain racking your body in devastating amounts. You were plain exhausted, body reaching its limit. 

But you didn’t really care. You wanted to keep Kastron and Simon safe, so you stayed silent. Save for your screams of pain. 

On the third night, you found yourself alone in the dungeons. It was unusual, as there was usually a guard in place to make sure you didn’t do anything out of line. 

You move to the iron bars, trying your best to peek both ways before pulling out a stolen fork from one of your meals. The metal of the fork feels strangely empowering in your hands as you work on the lock. The dim light in the dungeon barely illuminates your surroundings, but you're determined to seize any opportunity for escape. The occasional distant sound of footsteps echoes through the corridor, reminding you of the ever-present threat of getting caught. 

As you manipulate the lock with the makeshift tool, you can’t shake off the nagging feeling that this might be a setup. Perhaps Shepherd or someone else in the Southern Kingdom’s monarchy is testing your resolve, observing whether you’d take advantage of a momentary lapse in surveillance. You can’t bring yourself to care that much. 

The lock finally clicks, and the cell door creaks open. You hesitate for a moment, listening intently for any signs of approaching footsteps. The dungeon remains eerily quiet. Slipping the fork into your clothing, you step out cautiously, avoiding the patches of cold, damp floor. Your battered body protests with every movement, but the urgency of your situation fuels your determination. 

You move silently, keenly aware that any noise could betray your escape. The cool air sends shivers down your spine as you head towards the direction you’re taken in for interrogation. It’s a risky venture, and most likely a stupid venture, but you don’t want to be holed up in this godforsaken hell hole for much longer. 

After what feels like an eternity, you reach a heavy, iron door. It's slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of dim light from the other side. Your heart pounds in your chest as you inch it open, revealing a narrow staircase leading upward. The ascent is slow and agonizing, each step a reminder of the physical toll the past days of torture have taken on your body. You wince with each step, taking deep, steadying breaths. As you approach the top, you hear hushed voices and the occasional clank of armor.

Peeking through the crack in the door, you spot a guard stationed at the top of the stairs, seemingly engrossed in conversation with another. Their attention is diverted, providing you with a small window of opportunity.

Summoning the last reserves of your strength, you push the door open just enough to slip through without making a sound. The corridor beyond is dimly lit, and you stick to the shadows, hugging the cold stone wall. Pressing yourself against the wall, you listen carefully to the conversations around you, trying to piece together an escape route. Your gaze falls upon an entryway that has the last hints of the sunset pouring through the crevices. 

You reach the entryway, and a sense of trepidation washes over you. Before you could push open the door and make a run for it, a hand grabs your upper arm. Without hesitation, you clench your fork in your hand and stab the perpetrator with the prongs. 

The guard lets out a pained scream as your makeshift weapon finds its mark. They release their grip on your arm, stumbling back in pain.

“You bitch!” They cry, and a few more guards appear on the scene after hearing their scream. 

Adrenaline courses through your veins as you realize that your window of escape is rapidly closing. Without waiting any further, you burst through the entryway, darting into the fading light of the setting sun.

You bolt as fast as you can across the cobblestones, the sounds of yelling guards and footsteps hot on your tail. Every step makes it feel as though fire is shooting up your body, but you push through. Just as you think you’re about to make a clean getaway into the forest outside the bunker, you’re side tackled to the ground. 

The impact is brutal, and pain shoots through your battered body as you collide with the hard ground. The guards quickly swarm around you, their faces contorted with anger. One of them wrestles the stolen fork from your hand, while the others pin you down, restraining your limbs.

“Bloody rebel,” one of the guards snarls, spittle flying as they speak.

“Get the fuck– off of me!” you scream, trying to swipe and hit at anyone in your reach. 

Your attempt at escape only intensifies their aggression. The guard you wounded with the fork clutches their side, a seething expression of pain etched across their face.

The leader of the guards, a stern-faced man with a scar running across his cheek, steps forward. “Thought you could just waltz out of here, did ya?”

He delivers a swift kick to your ribs, making you howl in pain. The guards show no mercy as they haul you to your feet. You go deadweight in their grasp, making it harder for them to drag you back to your cell. When they manage to pull you halfway back to your cell, you start kicking and screaming again, not wanting to make this easy for them.

“Fuck all of you, let go of me!” you scream, trying to yank your wrists from their grasp. 

“Shut the fuck up,” a guard yells at you, digging their fingernails into your wrist. 

As you're thrown back into your dark, dank cell, the manacles are back on, alongside chains on each ankle. The heavy door clangs shut behind you, and the bitter taste of defeat settles in your mouth. Two guards now stand outside your cell, watching you intently. 

A few minutes go by, and General Shepherd strides into the hallway. His eyes, devoid of warmth, fixate on your battered form.

“Leave us,” his voice commands, and the guards retreat from the dungeon.

He stands just outside the iron bars, his gaze cold and calculating. 

“You’re a persistent one,” he remarks, his tone devoid of empathy.

Despite your battered state, you summon what strength remains within you and glare defiantly at Shepherd. 

You glare at him, defiance burning despite the exhaustion. “Fuck off.”

He doesn’t say anything, which enrages you.

“I said, fuck. Off. Leave me alone!” you yell. Shepherd's stoic expression doesn’t waver. Instead, he observes you with an unsettling calmness that sends shivers down your spine. The silence stretches, and you can feel the weight of his gaze.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and measured. “You have spirit, I'll give you that. But it's time to realize the futility of your resistance. It’s been nearly four days. More than half a week. I don’t have the time or patience to keep you around.” 

“I’ll never bow to the likes of you,” you retort.

Shepherd sighs, almost as if he’s disappointed. “You’re not seeing the bigger picture here. Your defiance only prolongs the suffering. Kastron can have peace, Ghost won’t have to face such difficult decisions. All we need is your cooperation.” 

“I’d rather die,” you spit out, every word laced with venom. “And I don’t think Ghost would appreciate it if I turned up dead. You think he’ll surrender just because you beat me to a pulp? Think again. He’s coming to get me any day now, but that doesn’t mean he’ll show you mercy or pull back the troops. You’ll see. And you’ll be sorry you even looked at Kastron’s borders.” 

His gaze doesn’t falter. “Perhaps. But, death is a choice, too. And it’s not just your life at stake, is it? There’s a kingdom relying on your decisions.”

You clench your fists, the chains rattling with your restrained anger. “I won't betray my people for your false promises.”

Shepherd leans against the cold stone wall, crossing his arms. “Think about it. Reflect on where you are right now. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early. I hope you’ll have come to your senses by then.”

Without waiting for your response, he turns and leaves the dungeon, the heavy door slamming shut behind him. Alone in the cold darkness, you curl up on the cot as best you can given the heavy chains.

. . .

Shepherd keeps his promise, returning in the morning. 

“Well?” he prompts, a hint of impatience in his tone.

You meet his gaze with defiance. “Go. To. Hell.”

His expression remains unreadable. “Very well. You’ve made your choice.”

You’re dragged back to the interrogation room, only this time you’re silent. 

You’re met with the tools set right in front of your chair, and a scary looking person you’ve never seen before. 

As you’re restrained to a chair, your eyes glaze over. 

For once in your life, you’re quiet. No snarky comments, no sharp words. You’re silent.

Because you’re truly afraid.

. . . 

The metallic scent of blood fills the air. You don’t think you’ve ever lost as much blood in your life. 

The room is spinning, and your body feels detached from your consciousness. The pain, once sharp and immediate, has dulled into a throbbing ache that permeates every fiber of your being. The interrogator’s methods have taken a drastic toll, and you’re teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

You think your wrist is sprained, if not broken. You glance down at it, the swollen and bruised flesh causing your stomach to churn. You definitely look worse for wear right now. 

Eventually, they tire of their methods, leaving you slumped in the chair, bloodied and broken. The tools they used on you lie abandoned on a nearby table. Every movement, no matter how slight, sends waves of pain through your form.

As the interrogator steps away, their job seemingly done, a faint groan pushes past your split upper lip. The throbbing in your head matches the rhythm of your heartbeat, each pulse amplifying the pain. Your vision swims, and you struggle to keep your eyes open.

Shepherd approaches, crouching to meet your gaze. 

“I had hoped you would see reason," he says, almost conversationally. “The pain will continue until you cooperate.”

You manage a hoarse chuckle, the sound more bitter than amused. “Sorry I can’t be of use to you.”

He straightens, his gaze unwavering. “I have all the time in the world. You however… I’m not so sure. I suggest you reconsider. Your defiance harms not only you but those you claim to protect.”

With that, Shepherd turns and exits the room, motioning the guards to take you back to your cell. 

The guards, their expressions cold and indifferent, unshackle you from the blood-stained chair. Your body protests as you’re hoisted up, pain shooting through every limb. They guide you out of the interrogation room, each step a painful shuffle. Your vision is blurring, and you lose your footing a few times. As they lead you back to your cell, you catch glimpses of other new prisoners, faces worn and defeated. The stench of dampness and decay fills your nostrils, and you throw up on the floor in front of you. You think some of it has traces of blood. 

The guards show no reaction to your vomit, their faces remaining stoic and indifferent. You stumble forward, the world spinning around you, and your steps become increasingly unsteady.

The door to your cell creaks open, and you’re unceremoniously thrown inside. The manacles and chains are back on, securing you in the darkness. The guards, their duty done, exit without a word, leaving you alone with your pain.

You lie on the floor for who knows how long, focusing on your breathing and attempting to not fall asleep in the fear that you won’t wake up for a long time due to the severity of your injuries. 

In, and out.

In, and out. 

In, and out. 

A few hours pass, and you manage to calm your swirling vision and headache. With a grunt, you pull yourself up to your cot with your good hand, dropping onto the solid mattress with a grunt. 

You’re not sure how much longer you could go on like this. It was all too much. 

As you lay there in the dimness of your cell, a distant noise catches your attention. Footsteps, echoing through the dungeon. At first, you dismiss it as another patrol, but the rhythm and urgency in the steps hinted at something different. A figure emerges in front of your bars, and you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the return of the guards or another round of interrogation. 

To your surprise, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Dove?”

- - - - -

(masterlist)

[morganbritton132]

Hi I love EMTTS. Regarding the post about Steve getting harassed by “fans” I don’t see anyone actually confronting him in public. because people on the internet only have that much confidence because they’re anonymous . which in this case is great because a physical confrontation from a stranger is terrifying, let alone a stranger who think they know you and your husband . poor Stevie, poor Eddie <3

Thank you!!! And I agree!

I also don’t see someone actually confronting Steve in person either and when I tried to write it, it just never felt like a natural progress in the story. I also agree that people are more confident on the internet because of the anonymity of it. People are a lot bolder behind a keyboard than in person.

Also, Steve doesn’t drive. If he’s out in public, he’s typically with someone or he’s meeting someone. But I do think that the paranoia would sit in the back of his mind when he is out.

Steve often got coffee with Robin on Wednesday before the start of her late class and then he stopped. The last time they sat in the little coffee shop on the campus she teaches at, all he could think about was someone trying to hurt him and hurting her instead. Every time the bell over the door rang, it was a guy with a gun and a hatred for Steve so deep that they’d kill his best friend, and he couldn’t do it anymore.

He couldn’t sit in a coffee shop and pretend like he wasn’t scared to death, so he stopped going. He started texting her that he wasn’t feeling well or that he had a migraine, and he started just staying home.

The day that Steve leaves his lunch, his house keys, and half of his students’ graded exams on the kitchen table, he remembers the news story about Lady Gaga’s dogs being kidnapped. He remembers reading the story with mild interest, and then he can’t take Ozzy on a run that night.

He can’t even get out the door and he’s so distressed about it that Ozzy has to comfort him.

He can’t sleep. Every noise sounds like a person that hates him.

“Hello, Earth to Steve,” Eddie says, waving a hand in his direction. Steve startles and blinks at him as Eddie says, “Ground Control to Steve Harrington. Do you copy?”

“I copy,” Steve says, stabbing at his breakfast. His pancakes are soggy. “What?”

“You’ve been checked out for like, ten minutes, babe. I was about to break out the Springsteen,” Eddie grins at him. It’s a joke, and Steve feels like he should apologize but Eddie’s already moved on, “What’s got your brainwaves all tied up, huh?”

“Just thinking.”

“A dangerous thing,” Eddie jokes, wiggling his eyebrows. “Thinking about me?”

Eddie’s trying to get a smile out of him so Steve gives him one, but it’s small and it’s fleeting. He doesn’t feel like smiling when he stabs at his pancakes again and says to the plate, “I’m, uh. I think. I’m thinkin’ of retiring.”

Eddie drops his fork, “No shit, really?”

Steve meets Eddie’s eyes as best he can and he gives a smile that feels like there’s weight behind it, and then he looks away. He clears his throat.

He doesn’t say that he can barely speak to his students anymore. He doesn’t say anything about how he sees their young faces and he feels guilty. He feels shame and afraid because he never said anything about that first letter.

He looks at their faces and he thinks about all the good they can do, and then he thinks about the type of people that send hate in the mail, and what happens when that isn’t enough. He’s scared because every time he walks to the principal’s office to say something, he can’t find the words so he has to – “I think it’s time, Ed. To just – to get out of there.”

“Babe, you can go on tour with me,” Eddie says, eyes all bright with possibilities. Steve likes the look on him, and he nods alone even if he stops hearing the words. He only tunes back in when there is a hand on his cheek and Eddie looks concerned instead of happy, “Steve, you’re crying.”

“It’s just a lot,” Steve says.

Eddie strokes the side of his face and gives him a more subdued smile, “Yeah, it is. I think you should think more about it, babe. See if it’s something you actually wanna do, you know. That sound like a plan?”

Steve nods and his voice is a little tight when he says, “Yeah.” 

[deedala]

✨WEEKLY TAG WEDNESDAY✨

thanks to @jrooc for the game this week and for tagging me + @creepkinginc @energievie @lingy910y @suzy-queued 💖

Hello beautiful kittens! 🐈‍⬛ Today’s tag game is about our wonderful fandom 😍

How did you get into the fandom? 

after falling deep into the shameless hellspiral i took to tumblr (as is my usual) to find gifs and memes and everything was so good and everyone was so wonderful i couldnt help but wedge my way into the community lmao

How long have you been here?

i started lurking september of 2022 and my first shameless post was in october of 2022 🥰

What’s the first fandom channel you found? (Youtube, Reddit, Tumblr, Insta, Twitter, FB, other?)

yeah tumblr i guess! my first instinct is always to search tumblr tags for a new thing i like 😌

what’s your favourite now? 

tumblr and discord equally, theyre both non-negotiable

Which mutual have you known the longest in the fandom?

@michellemisfit my beloved <3 ran into her in the @shamelesscreatorsnetwork discord (the first discord link i found) and we started talking and never shutted the fuck up ever again even until today lmao 🥰

Which tumblerino’s did you have your first fandom crush(es) on and want to get to know?

okay so since the first thing i seek out on a new interest is GIFS (and also shameless + text posts that shit absolutely sends me), the first people i followed and was so drawn to their immaculate vibes and gorgeous work were @gardenerian @heymacy and @sickness-health-all-that-shit biting you biting you biting you!!! 💖💖💖

First Gallavich fan fic you read (or that blew you away that you remember)

so michelle had me read redheaded step-children and it was so gorgeous and wonderful i was completely knocked on my ass by that one <3

and then i got the itch to read an AU and started with intro to quantum dating by @spoonfulstar and unless you're new here you are surely aware of how much i love that one 😂

First Fan art that blew your mind? 

i feel awful because i really cannot remember (crine) but pretty sure it was probably some gorgeous intricate @steorie painting

Fanfic trope that you were sure wasn’t for you but now you low key (or high key) love?

SPORTS AU - and now ive fully fucking lost my mind (@heymacy @too-schoolforcool know how deep it runs and i cannot even talk about it or i will throw up lmao)

What surprised you most about this fandom?

since my last significant foray into a fandom community was a pretty big fandom, there were looots of people who were just out for fucking blood. this community here on tumblr for shameless is a goddamn pillowfort, the vast majority of people are so sweet and supportive and happy to mind their own business it's such a fuckin breath of fresh air.

Moment in the show (or YT vids if you’re one of those) that you fell in hyperfixation with Gallavich?

i dont know if i can pinpoint just one moment? but probably one of the big moments early on since thats what would have kept me ravenous to keep consuming more lol

Ian or Mickey?

the fuck??? AAAAHHHHHHHHH uuhhhhh uuhmmmm omg. fuck. uh... okay...just... Mickey? no... Ian? uuhhhhmmm what was the question?

Which Gallagher or Milkovich are you? 

im gonna go with Debbie here <3

and now to tag some more folks in (in addition to everyone tagged above!!) if you want to play! if not, consider this me sending you cleansing brainwaves 🧠

@darlingian @heymrspatel @crossmydna @mybrainismelted @mmmichyyy @wehangout @metalheadmickey @gallawitchxx @thepupperino @blue-disco-lights @the-rat-wins @loftec @mickeysgaymom @rereadanon @callivich @lee-ow @palepinkgoat @gallapiech @transmickey @iansw0rld @captainjowl @howlinchickhowl @vintagelacerosette @sam-loves-seb @burninface @spookygingerr @mikhailoisbaby @themarchg1rl @whatwouldmickeydo @sleepyheadgallavich @sleepyfacetoughguy @samantitheos

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

[hanafubukki]

Hi Hana! I think as a fellow Lilia liker I wanna tell you one of my headcanons :3

So as we know from Lilia's ceremonial robe vignette, he "shrieks" (as Cater put it) to which Lilia says "Screaming like that is my specialty." because he likes metal, and likely knows how to do multiple types of metal vocal fry growls and screams and the like.

In my little brainwaves, I hc that he's been doing that for longer than metal music has been around, and his "shrieks" are repurposed battle cries from war, intended to frighten the enemy, and are indeed his specialty ad he said!

(I have no idea if any of this makes sense bc I'm still eepy tired, but I hope you see my vision asdgdskjgkg)

Hello Darcy 🌷🌺💚

YESS!! I love this!! Have you seen his M3 magic Darcy? He literally goes “SHAAAA” in that card. Ahhhh I love it!! Absjsjshs okay okay trying not to go into fangirl mode right now ahhhhhh 🤣🥰

Okay okay okay, you know what I love about this idea? The implication that what if he influenced it? What if he was the reason for there being screamo in music?

I know many musicians take inspirations from history or events they lived through, so what if he was the reason for it to happen? I can think of two ways this could be.

He’s in history books right? What if it was written that the General of the Fae would give these war cries that echoed and made his enemies tremble? Even better? Oral history where people would pass down events as they traveled and his battle cry was one such tale? 👀

He’s really well known after all! The humans recognize him right away, so I can see it happening. Ohhhh what if during music class it’s mentioned? And Lilia just smirks and nod his head, “Yup, that was me! And I still got it.” Of course, no one would believe him initially…until they find out he’s 700 years old 😆

Or what if? Lilia during one of his travels just took an instrument and started doing his vocal singing during a festival or something?? And that just?? Became a genre in time that he influenced??

I very much think it’s his specialty. 😂😂 I believe Silver in the 4 Koma comics basically implied that one of the lullabies was Lilia’s “singing” in that vocal way 🤣🤣

Thank you for sharing your headcanon Darcy, it’s so much fun to think about 🙌👏 and I hope you have a good sleep 🌺🌷💚🫂

[serzhantkris]

Something Worth Fighting For-17

Summary: You’ve just begun to settle into life as an Avenger when a mission gone awry divides the team in half, and a familiar face shows up just in time to make you second guess your every choice. Third installment of the Worth Fighting For Series.

Words: 1292

Author’s Note: Hello. Hi. Yes, it’s me. It has been…. 3 years. Three. Years. Since I wrote this story. Yes, I know. You might be thinking, “Kris! We thought this story was over. We thought you had abandoned us!” The truth is, life got in the way. Covid happened. A new job. Another new job. Moving. You know, life. But I never ever forgot about this story or about you guys. This is my gift to all of you, for my 5k and some odd followers. For those of you who were here when this story began, for those of you discovering it for the first time.

And, yes. Because I know someone will surely ask, the answer is yes. There will be another installment in this series.

Now, without further ado. The final part of “Something Worth Fighting For.”

“Are you ready?”

The steady thrum of the monitors filled the open, empty space of the laboratory. Shuri dragged her hand across the front of the holographic projections, her focus sharp as she took in the details of each graph as it appeared before her. She was double, triple, quadruple checking every heartbeat, every brainwave, checking his blood pressure, glucose levels, pH balance— every minutiae of what made a person a person, Shuri’s eyes darted over each bit of data with precise detail, looking for any imperfections that would halt the process about to unfold it the laboratory.

T’challa rested his hand on your upper back, leaning close when you did not respond to his inquiry. Your focus was entirely on the cryogenic chamber in front of you. You reached out, your hand trembling as your fingertips touched the thick, frozen glass. “Can he hear us yet?”

“Not yet,” Shuri said, swiping the holographic screen away. She turned towards you and T’challa, plucking her tablet off the table next to the chamber. “Vitals are good. Everything’s reading normal.”

You drop your hand from the glass, looking at the tablet in her hands. “And you’re sure it worked?”

Shuri’s eyes flicker between you and T’challa. “It was difficult,” she said. “It isn’t as simple as hitting a delete button. I had to run an algorithm to flush the influence of the trigger words while retaining the core context and content of the original memories, and keeping the things that make him… him.”

“But did it work?”

Shuri scoffed, as though offended you felt the need to ask. Months of your life was spent in this very lab, the only thing separating you and her being the chamber that housed Bucky. You knew her well, and trusted that if she said he was ready, she meant it.

That didn’t stop the anxiety that had made itself a home in your gut for the past six months.

“Believe me,” she said, tapping at her table. “No one will be more disappointed than I if it doesn’t work.”

You flash her a half-hearted smile. “Somehow I sincerely doubt that,” you said. She smiled back at you, moving towards the consol that would slowly- as not to send his body into shock- wake Bucky from his six month slumber. “Do you think- Should we have woken him up sooner? When we found out-“

“You did what you thought was right,” T’challa said, nodding at Shuri. She pressed buttons on the consol, and the chamber began emitting a low hum. “What’s done is done. You cannot change it now.”

You nod, stepping away from the chamber. The ice under the glass was clearing away, the blurry image of Bucky beneath it slowly coming into focus. Your stomach churned as the anxiety started to crawl higher in your body, worming its way up your chest and creeping into your throat. Nausea rolled over you in waves, and without a moment to spare, you darted through the door into the laboratory bathroom. The door slid closed behind you automatically as you gripped the edges of the toilet, emptying the contents of your stomach. The anxiety did not go with it, instead clinging to you with newborn ferocity.

Even once the vomiting had passed, you remained in the toilet, eyes pinched shut, trying to get a grip on yourself before you exited.

You heard movement beyond the closed door, then speaking. Bucky’s voice was low and course from disuse, but distinct. Hearing him speak, you became ill again, and then everything was quiet and still.

You wiped off your mouth, rinsing it with water from the sink. You flushed the toilet, and paused for just a moment as your wedding ring glinted in the fluorescent light.

We can still have a life when I wake up.

You steel yourself, and pass through the door.

He can’t remember if he dreamed or not. He doesn’t think so- he never dreamed before, when it was Hydra on the other side of the glass. At least, if he did, he never remembered. When his eyes flutter open, awake for the first time in- however long it’s been- he almost panics, the memory of waking up a clean slate in a dirty room clear in his mind. But this room is white and open and smells like chemical cleaner, nothing like the places he used to wake up. The fear subsides, quickly, and he’s still just Bucky. For now.

It’s disorienting, waking up and trying to remember where you are, how you got there, who you are. But it comes back slowly, like trudging out of deep water. His body comes back like his memory, the feeling slowly creeping through his fingers and hands, his feet, legs, and finally, he raises his hands and grips the edge of the chamber to pull himself out.

Shuri is right next to him, looking between him and her tablet. T’challa is on the other side, offering him a hand. He takes it, his feet still unsure. “Hey there, doc.”

Shuri offers him a smile. “Welcome back, Barnes. Try not to move too quickly just yet.”

Bucky nods, still holding onto T’challa’s hand and the edge of the chamber. The world seems to tilt and slide, and his eyes squeeze closed to ward the dizziness away. He lets go of T’challa’s hand, pinching the bridge of his nose.

A violent, muffled retching sound echoes from another room. Bucky furrowed his brows, trying to pinpoint the sound, but everything was still fuzzy. Something heavy is hanging around his throat, and he grabs at it, squinting against the too-bright light of the laboratory to get a better look.

A pair of dog tags hang on a long chain, jingling against a heavy ring of metal.

His wedding ring.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, voice cracking from disuse. “Where’s Y/N?”

Shuri and T’challa exchanged glances, their lips pressed into fine lines. A mechanical whir sounded through the open air as the bathroom door slid open.

And there you were. Standing in the doorway, only steps away, a halo of fluorescent light behind you. The haze of waking and heaviness in his body seemed all the lighter for seeing you. You were as beautiful as the day he went under, as though not a moment had gone by. He could almost believe that he’d laid down and barely closed his eyes at all before waking again.

And yet, all the same, he became instantly aware that time had passed; more than weeks, less than a year. He knew this because of the swell in your stomach, your hand resting gently over your belly button.

The space between you was a long pause. Bucky’s lips parted, struck with dumbfoundedness, an utterly perplexed expression on his face. You stood, silently, heart hammering against your rib cage as you waited for him to say something, anything at all.

“You’re pregnant?”

You nod, holding your breath.

His first few steps are slow and heavy. Like a newborn foal, his legs shake under him, and then his strides are long and quick and with purpose, and when he throws his arm around you and buries his nose in the crook of your neck, you breathe again. His whole body shakes and he squeezes you tightly, his embrace swallowing you.

He’s crying when you put your hands on the sides of his face, prying him away just enough to find his lips with yours. His mouth is dry and his beard ragged, but he tastes sweet and warm and his kiss takes the breath from your lungs. You had been waiting for this moment for six months.

And now that you finally had him, you were never letting go.

[felikatze]

Hi, this is your ticket to infodump about isat/fe aus.

whehe. wheh. wawawawa. (i start vibrating)

i dont know how much i've posted abt my thoughts vs how much i just monologued to various people on discord (hello and thank you to pix, alice, and lozy (i think i also monologued to riu once? hi riu)) but you can find all (most?) of the stuff tagged under "isat emblem" on my art blog

ANYWAY. SO. I'M NOW TALKING ABOUT THE UHH. fourth. isat/fe crossover i have, which is the "what if isat ran on FE lore" one, instead of any roleswap or isekai shenanigans.

i'm looking you straight in the eye. look at me. listen to me. the forgotten island is Valla. It's literally just Valla.

FULL GAME SPOILERSSSS riu don't look at this.

ok. listen

you cannot say its name. if you say its name, you fucking die

people from valla cannot share that they are from valla, making them simply foreigners from "somewhere else"

the disappearance of valla seems to be recent, yet nobody besides people from it have any memories of it

it still physically exists, but is generally impossible to access

associated with water-based enemies that attack anybody yet also represent the regrets of its people

IT'S JUST VALLA, YALL

THE VALLA ZOMBIES ARE IF SADNESSES WERE ACTUALLY DEAD PEOPLE.

so. you may have already seen my Manakete Siffrin, but it is needless to say, i took a FUCKTON of cues from corrin for this. this entire AU is generally very fates adjacent. with some engage in it, for flavor.

Manakete Siffrin is so tasty. Please also look at Pix's dragon sif AU because this is VERY MUCH the exact same flavor because me and Pix were just on the same brainwave i guess.

In this Au, Siffrin is a dragon (silent dragon or divine dragon, either works). And the dragons lived on the island, but the island disappeared. Because dragons were so deeply associated with this place, knowledge of dragons disappeared, as well, outside of perhaps the occasional myth. (Imagine Sif being told "Dragons aren't real, silly!" man.)

Siffrin is a dragon, and fucking forgot about it. All they know is that they are Different. But not how. Or why. Imagine.

Imagine, as the loops progress, Siffrin grows stronger not through training, but through learning how strong they already were. That there are claws beneath the gloves, that they can see in the dark, that if they focus just right, they can breathe fire.

Imagine, for me, Siffrin learning they are not human. They are Other. They are a Myth. And how this plays perfectly into Siffrin's increased alianation from the party, and Siffrin's growing belief that they are a monster, and that if this is ever discovered, his friends will leave him.

If you want to bring my wolfskin Isabeau into this. I already mentioned it briefly but. Isabeau is also not human but he is In Control of it. He makes it palatable. People know what beastfolk are, they're documented in Vaugarde, I'd imagine that there's one or two frozen around the House. They are a Known Quantity. Even compared to the nonhuman, Siffrin is Other, is a Beast, and he can feel his control slipping. Compared to Isabeau, he is a feral animal. (Or, at least, they believe they are.)

Augrh. Okay.

Also. Lizard Loop. Ok.

UM. SO. I mentioned Engage, so. EMBLEMS!! This Au actually has Emblems in it. See, on the island where the dragons lived, the Emblems lived as well. And people prayed to the Emblems, to the heroes from the countless stars, to the heroes sent by the universe to guide them. Only the dragons could summon Emblems, but they could grant favor to anyone. And if all Emblems came together, they could rewrite the Universe itself.

The Emblems knew this.

And thus, when the Emblems came togehter, they wished to be forgotten. The place where they dwelled, and the people that worshipped them... were casualties of an ill-fated wish, to seal away this catastrophic power.

Yup, I made Wish Craft emblem flavored!! Because man. It's literally "prayer incantation". Divine Dragons draw power from Emblems through Prayer, through belief, and Fell Dragons draw power from Emblems through Incantation, through ritual. And the most powerful of all is combining the two. IT'S WISH CRAFT RULES, YALL.

So so, the concept of Emblems also got forgotten, but the main wish just erased the Emblems as people. That's why Sif and Co could find out about Emblems as the story progresses, same way in canon they can find out about Wish Craft.

Because I love suffering, I'd say. Instead of a Silver Coin, Siffrin has a silver ring, instead. It's just a plain band that's been around their finger for forever. It's not special at all.

....or is it?

...sometimes, Siffrin manages to rememeber a friend. Only for brief moments. When Siffrin does Mirabelle's hair, he wonders how he knows to work with kinky hair. When they eat the fish head, they reminisce that someone else liked it..... and then they forget again.

In this AU, that friend was an Emblem. That was Siffrin's Marth. But they're gone. That ring is empty.

....or is it?

hihi.

About Loop.

I think this was Lozy's suggestion, but. Loop is an Emblem. Loop wasnt always an Emblem, but Engage shows how people can become Emblems, yeah. So, Loop is a spirit from another world, sent by the Universe to guide this one. Loop is bound to their own ring, though neither of them realize. When an Emblem is asked for power through incantation, they cannot refuse. Siffrin's wish causes the timeloop by calling upon the power of the dormant Emblem they carry, which is Loop.

(How did Loop cause their own loops? Well, it was still an Emblem, even before Loop was in it. Who was it? Well, I don't know, and that's the pain, isn't it?)

Also I think it'd be really cool if Big Sif isn't just, Sif fully transforms into a dragon (which is already cool as hell) but also like. Siffrin manages to Engage with their Emblem. And after that, the Emblem is well and truly gone, for good. It just said goodbye for the last time.

And ofc Act 6 when Loop disappears, Siffrin picks up the ring that houses them in the hopes Loop will awaken one day. Yeah.

UM. CHARACTERS BESIDES SIFFRIN!!

I've mentioned this in my FE6/ISAT parallels posting but Mirabelle is so lord-coded. Specifically the Roy-flavor of "just some guy" lord. She wasn't chosen for this she just happened to be here. SHE EVEN HAS A RAPIER!!! AND AN UNAVAILABLE MENTOR!!!

Listen to me she's so so so Roy-coded MIRABELLE IS A FIRE EMBLEM LORD.

Ok. Ok.

I think it'd be really funny if Odile was just straight up from Hoshido. It would work. I don't want to change Vaugarde to a FE country because the culture is just too unique for any straight equivalent, but the other countries with less detail work. (Puts Odile in Onmyoji because she's a magic class 100%)

Bonnie's class is actually Transporter. Lozy suggested "Aptitude Villager" but i feel we need to keep the spirit of "Do not Attack The Child". So Bonnie is the Elibe-exclusive Cannot Die Items Holder class. It even works with Bonnie's potshots that Merlinus (the only transporter in the whole entire FE series) gets daggers in Heroes, which is the debuff support weapon.

Bonnie chucking holy water from the back of a horse. Thank u. That is all.

Um yeah. So that's all (most?) of the FE-flavored ISAT thoughts I have. yeah. Um.

Thank u very much for asking this. I love talking.

[phoenixyfriend]

HELP HELLO I JUST GOT A BRAINWAVE ABOUT CHILD'S INK, FUCK

[caps-clever-girl]

hello hello i just had an absolute BRAINWAVE abt stizzy/steddyhands

[malestransforming]

Hello generous one. You've blessed so many worlds with your talents. I'm a big fan of your writing skills too. Now what do I have to do to be your canvas that gets turned into a hunky model of a man?

snap

You made it! Welcome. Yes I know I transported you here instantly, but I find it’s nice to engage in some witty banter and greeting, especially if I’m about to alter your DNA and change you into an entirely different person! It helps lighten the mood a little bit.

Let’s get started, shall we? I’ve been thinking about your request and the words ‘hunky model’. I see a model as being cut, and tall and muscular but not too muscular. But hunky just adds a whole new dynamic to that. I think I know what I want to do with you? It might be something I just kind of make up as I go. Anyway…

fwip

Gone are your clothes! I am going to sculpt a perfect V shape from the top of your hips down to your groin. Those muscles are tight. I’ll inflate your thighs and legs with some really intense muscle. Actually, how about a little more… And a little more. And a little more. Okay, just a smidge more. Perfect. Squeeze your thigh. What a beauty.

Oh surprise! You got a tight butt too. Yeah, go ahead a clench it. Let me give it a squeeze too.

Abs? You got them. I’m changing the fat you’ve got into pure muscle. These are some really pretty abs. You’ll need them for all the underwear you’ll model. Pecs and chest will be moderately sized. Nothing over the top here. To be honest, I may have over done it with your thighs!

Just going to pump your arms up and boom! Look at those curvy muscles. You look so good. Now, I’m having a brainwave. I’m thinking… body hair! Kind of the opposite from models, maybe, but it’s going to look good on you, you’ll see. It’ll itch as it spreads across your torso, chest and stomach. Okay that might be too much hair. I’ll scale it back to just your chest and stomach. That looks great! You look rugged and handsome.

Face. Most models have pointy, thin faces. I don’t want that for you. Let’s shave your head down, angle your nose slightly and widen your jaw. Oh you look kind of Eastern European. Dark eyes, some facial hair. I like it.

You’re missing one final thing. You’re older now - I’m aging you up to late 30s. Don’t worry! I’ll put some memories in your head. Like this poor choice of tribal band tattoo on your right bicep. Your skin stings right? Look at your huge fucking arm - you have some ink now.

And you’re done! You’re a model, so not the smartest, but you’re not the dumbest either. I have your first thing you can mode right here. These yellow swimming trunks! Slip ‘em on and let me see you in them.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝑬𝑿𝑰𝑳𝑬 || 𝑭𝑼𝑳𝑳 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀

pairing: joel miller x ofc!june | written in reader format, no body descriptions but does have a personality

genre: dark cottagecore, horror, angst, explicit smut, hybrid au, minors dni

word count: 13.8k

summary: Runners. Stalkers. Clickers. Shamblers. Bloaters.

Domestics.

All infected. One unlike the other.

You expect the infection to eat you from the inside out, turning you into something horrid. But instead, you find yourself with leaf-shaped ears and antlers that belong to a deer. While you live out the rest of your days trying to adjust to your new features and survive, you meet Joel, a survivor just like you but with a more grim approach to life.

Both of you adopt the forest as your home. One wants the other gone, meanwhile the other will do anything to not be left alone.

warnings: canon typical violence, horror elements, horror imagery, a non-descripted attempt at suicide, blood, intense feelings of grief (joel), joel having anger issues, joel threatening to shoot you, intense feelings/descriptions of loneliness (reader), female masturbation, you get shot, mentions of reader having body hair, piv, oral (receiving and giving), emotional sex, possessive kink, praise kink, mild dirty talking, soft!joel, vaginal fingering, kitchen sex, mild choking, rough sex

a/n: Hello everyone! this is the whole story of Exile, if you want to read this chapter by chapter you can by clicking on the masterlist below. Enjoy!

I would like to thank @pedrorascal for reading this over and giving me insight about the story. And also thank you to @honestly-shite for answering my camera-related questions 💜💜💜

And lastly, once again thank you to @pedrito-friskito who listened to me bitch and moan about this fic for months and edited this entire thing. I love you so much brainwave twin ❤️

SERIES MLIST

PROLOGUE 

(SEPTEMBER, 2013)

Runners. Stalkers. Clickers. Shamblers. Bloaters. 

Domestics. 

All infected. One unlike the other. 

After getting infected, what happened to one’s body could be described as no less than horrid. The change could happen to anyone; your neighbors, your friends, your family. After the virus seeped into your skin and flooded your veins, your body morphed into something inhuman. The stench would be unbearable— Acidic and rotten. Regular faces now looked as if they’d been through a meat grinder, or exploded from the inside out. 

And those were your exact thoughts as fear crept up your spine. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as the feeling took hold of your spine, a cold hand clutched at your heart. The taste of bile was thick on your tongue, your nostrils filled with the cloying odor of decay. You could hear the clicking sound of the Infected drawing closer, a relentless, maddening sound that seemed to echo within your skull.

Click Click Click

The Clicker moved closer, its grotesque form illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby fire. Its eyes were blank, soulless orbs that seemed to stare into your very soul. Its twisted, mangled body was covered in pus and blood, the stench overpowering.

You managed to make your escape with an empty gun in your hand and your black boots caked with mud. The rain fell heavily from the sky, as if it were determined to wash away all traces of your existence. Despite the downpour, you had managed to evade the Infected and make it deep into the woods.

You collapsed under a tree with thick, leafy branches and you cried— Warm, salty tears mixed with cold, sweet rain. You felt your stomach, soft, warm, and incredibly wet. 

Blood, you realized.

With shaky hands, you peeled the wet fabric off of your skin and mused to yourself that it actually did feel just like that—warm. Your tears dried out when you saw the violently red bite mark. It was deep. A chunk of your flesh gone. 

You checked yourself for ammo, your hands trembling. You didn’t want to turn. You didn’t want to become a mindless creature hunting for untainted flesh. 

You let your head slump against the trunk, the weight of your circumstances pressing down on you as you grasped the finality of your empty ammunition. Your body trembled. Blood continued to pour heavy and thick over your skin. 

Life was so cruel that it didn’t even allow you to die. You would live the rest of your days as a mindless shell of what you once were—a disfigured monster— until someone shot you. And that was only if you were lucky. 

The thought of living long enough to morph into a Bloater struck you to your core. You closed your eyes. 

While raindrops slid down the leaves and dropped onto your shivering body, you were blessed with unplanned sleep. You hoped that you wouldn’t wake in the morning. If you were lucky, a hunter would come by and shoot you before you had the chance to turn, robbing you of all your belongings.

A new type of Infected was born that day— Domestics, they would be called. A type of infected that didn’t behave like the rest. Domestics could continue their lives as regular people (whatever regular meant in this bitter world) however, they still carried the signs of nature’s rebuttal across their bodies. 

Some Domestics had claws, some had fur, some had eyes that could see through the pitch-black night. 

Some could breathe underwater, some had scaly skin. 

In your case, you had antlers and soft, leaf-shaped ears allowing you to detect even the faintest of sounds from miles away. But with these gifts also came the curse of being forever marked as one of the Infected, an outcast from an already broken society.

This infection was different. Some called it adaptation. 

But to most, it was still the Infected, there was no difference.

EIGHT MONTHS LATER 

(MAY, 2014)

The wet soil sinks as you bend on one knee. The squelch of earth prompts you to wrinkle your nose. Your ears fall flat over your head, and you point the lens of the polaroid camera to a fallen tree trunk. It’s covered in rich green moss, with a handful of small mushrooms grown within it. You press your eyes against the viewfinder. The rest of the forest is blurred, the mushroom being the focus of the shot. You click the shutter release, the sound of it louder than you expect. A picture soon follows.

You flinch at the sound of wings fluttering. You press your chin against your chest, only moving your eyes as you look up. Your ears are raised with alert, your muscles tense, and your body unbelievably still. You see a flock of white doves swarming in the air. 

You slowly get up with an exhale of a breath. You feel more and more on edge every day. You know for a fact that the forest is empty except for the animals that already inhabited it and well…you. 

After you were infected and before you decided to make the green your eternal home, you had scoured the area endlessly. There wasn’t much; a couple of abandoned cabins, and safehouses made from stone and metal. As far as you could tell, there weren’t many Infected living here. However, that didn’t mean there were none. 

Getting used to your new body hadn’t been easy. At first glance, not much didn’t appear to be different. Your ears were now one of a deer, your antlers small and not really good for anything. 

The latter surprised you because from what you’ve known, does did not have antlers. 

Funnily enough, getting used to your new physical appearance had been easy. The hard part was the newly developed senses; you could hear better, see better, could pick up scents miles away from where you stood. The first day after being turned you were frozen with fear, hearing and smelling too much all at the same time. It paralyzed you, making you think that the threats loomed much closer than they actually were. 

But days passed and the pack of wolves you heard days before never came. The hunters seeking out tourists never found you. Then you realized that no one had been after you this entire time. You got up, ready to find a home. 

In one of the abandoned cabins, you found a dusty old polaroid camera. You fixed it, cleaned it, and now it was your only tool to remind yourself of what life used to be. 

The camera loosely hangs from your neck, swaying from side to side as you walk back home. You tend to limit your time in the forest, not wanting to attract attention from anything—be it humans, infected or regular animals. 

A gust of wind blows and you notice a tree stump. Without a second thought, you gather a couple of the rocks that lay idly nearby. Four, you count, and stack them on top of the stump. This had become a habit after the first week. You enjoy seeing them months later, still laying on top of one another, untouched. The ones that are knocked by the wind or something else, you don’t pick up again. 

Joel doesn’t think much of the scenery. There’s no one to bother him, no one to look out for, and that’s enough for him. His rifle hangs warm on his back, a newly shot buck limp and thrown over his shoulder. A good hunt, is all he can think. 

His pain is still fresh. The hole in his heart still pouring crimson blood— it causes his skin to itch constantly, and he does so hard enough to leave red marks dragged across his skin. 

Joel doesn't think anymore, his mind consumed by the need to survive. It’s out of habit. He shoots first and never asks questions. But even as he fights for his own survival, it feels meaningless, a hollow victory in the face of the horror that surrounds him. He moves through the world like a ghost, haunted by the memories of those he has lost and the darkness that seems to follow him. The constant fear and desperation have turned him into a shell of his former self, a shadow of the man he once was.

The part of him that used to feel is long gone, the watch on his wrist telling him the exact time of death every single day. 

His chest heaves and his knees buckle under the added weight of the animal. With a grunt, Joel catches himself before falling and looks ahead. He’s close, a break seemingly not needed. 

Then he sees a soft shimmer of light, his eyes following it like a moth to a flame. Rocks, he sees, four of them stacked on top of a tree stump, shining under the afternoon sun. His mind draws blank as he thinks who might’ve stacked them. At first, he worries that it might be hunters, but then he realizes that nobody would come out this far without a good reason. 

As the realization sinks in, his heart slows down, his breathing evening out. The tension eases out of his body.

Joel rolls his shoulders and pushes the dead animal further up. 

He only stops when he sees another set of rocks stacked on another stump. 

TWO MONTHS LATER

(JULY, 2014)

It happens when you’re trying to take a picture of dew on a big leaf. 

You hear the click of a gun, silent steps, and an agitated grunt. A man, you guess, a man much stronger than you. The feeling of him lurking behind you makes a shudder trail up from your tailbone to your nape, a needle-like sensation that induces the need to run. He’s closer now, his breathing heavy. You know it’s too late to run when you hear the loud crunch of leaves. 

“Hands in the air,” he says, voice gruff. “I swear, you make a sudden move and I’ll shoot.” 

You tremble. Your hands slowly raise, the camera falls and the strap stings your neck when it does. 

“Don’t shoot.” 

You sound meek and afraid. A million thoughts swirl in your mind, the most prominent one being that you didn’t want to die. An irony considering how you felt when you first breached the border of the forest. When he speaks again he doesn’t address your plea for your life, which scares you more.

“Turn around then, let’s see what you are.” 

You turn and his eyebrows rise with shock, mouth parting. His hands falter lightly, the barrel of the gun dropping to your neck. When he swallows, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

“Well, I’ll be… a Domestic.” 

His shock gives you a brief moment to observe him as well. His hair sticks out from all directions, messy and unkempt. His patchy beard is peppered with a healthy amount of grays; so is his hair, you realize. You’re impressed by the broad width of his shoulders and strong jaw. He’s wearing a tattered brown jacket and a gray button-up underneath. His finger still rests on the trigger, the crease between his brows deep. 

The watch on his wrist reflects the light into your eyes. 

“I didn’t think your kind actually existed. A fairy tale, I always thought.” he huffs. “An Infected that can speak, think, and eat like one of us,” 

“I am one of you,” you answer defensively. 

“You have antlers growing out of your head, girl.” 

“That doesn’t mean I’m any less of a human,” 

“Maybe, but it sure does mean you ain't all human now, does it?"

The drawl of his words strikes a nerve. Blood pools underneath your fingernails and you think about the many others that think like him. 

Rarely do you leave the protective bubble of the forest, but those scarce moments when you do have shown you what the masses thought of this new type of “Infected”. Most treated Domestics the same: shooting on sight. Some believed they could be the source of a cure—Whichever one they believed, it always ended in violence. 

You have no reason to believe this man is any different from the rest. Hell, you can’t even rule out the possibility that he might be a hunter. 

He takes a step closer. You inhale sharply, lips only slightly parted. The man doesn’t stop until you’re staring directly into the barrel of the gun, he cocks the weapon, his eyes glued to your ears and antlers. Saliva gathers in your mouth and you swallow thickly. 

“What makes you different from the rest of’em— The rest of the Infected,” his voice drops, his tone threatening. “Give me a good reason not to blow your brains out right this second,” 

Your ears straighten when he pushes the cool metal against your forehead. It’s cold yet it also burns. You’re hesitant to say anything, let alone convince him to let you live. Your lips are numb like a corpse, your throat seizes, the air caught in your throat. 

Your gaze falls to his throat, and with a subtle snarl, he notches the gun under your chin, lifting your gaze back up. 

“Speak,” he commands. 

“I—I don’t crave to attack the uninfected,” you blurt out. He raises one eyebrow and looks you over, clearly not convinced. “I’m also scared of them. They attack me like they would any other survivor,” 

“Is that so? Maybe we should try that theory out.” 

You must’ve given him a look of utter horror— or one of a kicked puppy— because his eyes soften, brows relaxing along with the rest of his muscles. He finally lowers the gun and shakes his head. 

“I won’t, don’t worry,” he holds the rifle with one hand and reaches out to touch your ear. It flinches at his touch. You take a tentative step back. 

“Don’t do that,” you say with a frown. You feel incredibly warm and your ear continues to twitch. A sense of both comfort and fear rolls in your stomach. “I’m not a dog you know,” 

“I guess not.” he also takes a step back and waves his hand. “Go along then—Scram,” 

You scoff at his words, half smiling half surprised. “Scram?” 

“I don’t want any sort of infected around me,” he answers, you notice his fingers curling tighter around the handle of the rifle. “I don’t care whether you can talk or shit gold, I want none of it.” 

“I live here too, you know. You don’t own the forest—” 

Suddenly, you find yourself staring into the muzzle again, you jump and goosebumps trace your skin. His hardened expression is back, he looks angry—furious almost, which surprises you. You didn’t expect him to offer you tea but you surely didn’t expect him to threaten you once more. 

“We managed not to come across each other this far. Which tells me you must’ve been snooping outside of your regular path, am I right? Don’t come near here again.” 

You’re wrong, is what you want to say since this actually was your regular path but seeing that he has no intention of backing down you decide to keep your thoughts to yourself. 

“If I do find you snooping around again, I won’t be as kind. Now, go.” 

Joel watches as the Domestic runs away, jumping above the branches and fallen trees. She didn’t say a word. She merely stared at his rifle one last time before fleeing. 

Rightfully so, he would’ve shot her if she hadn’t. 

For the longest time, he thought of the Domestics to be nothing more than a lie. He assumed it to be a weak attempt to spark hope within the people. A new type of Infected that didn’t behave like infected regularly did. 

He remembers Tommy speaking of them, once, before Joel shut him down.

Supposedly they came in different forms, all of them having animal-like features. Joel never thought this of being the next step of human evolution —or an adaptation as many had told him— there was no use in having tiny antlers or other minuscule differences. They still would die just as easily as regular folk, so what was the point? 

He turns and leaves. Joel would’ve shot her— hell, he probably should have. He doesn’t know nothing about this new type of infected, who was to say that the next day she wouldn’t come crawling back as a damn Clicker? 

But, he still had some fraction of a conscience, and when she looked up at him, so afraid—the mere thought of him offering her up to the Infected making her tremble— he just couldn’t. 

Joel is positive that this decision of his will cause him trouble. Hopefully, she’ll actually listen and never come near him again. But in this day and age, people rarely heed the warnings. 

A fly lands on his shoulder and he swats it away. The thing you were doing had piqued his curiosity; you were taking pictures. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d taken a picture—

No. That’s a lie. He does. 

It was when Sarah had won an award for playing on her youth soccer team. He remembers the picture well; Sarah holding her trophy with one hand and making a peace sign with the other with his arm thrown over her shoulder. 

Joel stops, looks at the ground, and lets out a shaky breath. His eyes are wet, and his throat is so tight that it hurts. 

Back when it all happened, he couldn’t even manage to go back to their home and bring a single picture with him. All he remembers of Sarah is from his memory—Not that he could ever forget what she looked like. 

His chest stutters, anger boiling in the pits of his stomach. It’s unfair that he is still breathing and walking, it should’ve been him— Or he should’ve at least died along with her. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice loud within the silence of nature. 

His anger festers in him like a disease. It never leaves. Whenever he thinks about his last moments with Sarah, his arms coiling around her as she stopped breathing, her blood warm against his skin. He feels a sharp pain in his chest and collapses. Most days, he wished that the pain would stop his heart, clog his veins, and leave him dead under the trees.

He jolts at the familiar pain growing in his chest. The sounds he makes come from his throat, an unattractive gurgling sound that reminds him of Runners. Joel stumbles forward and trips. Looking down he sees thick roots making their way out of the soil, his gaze follows the rotting limb, he sees a tree stump. 

Again, he sees rocks. 

The tightening of his chest subsides for a brief moment, his shock numbing the rest of his nerves. Joel looks back to where he came from. He observes the path the Domestic had escaped to, then he turns back to the rocks. 

Joel isn’t sure what prompts him to do it— He’s angry, bitter, and the peaceful image of the Domestic happily taking pictures doesn’t leave his mind. Raising his foot from the ground, he kicks the stack violently with the sole of his boot. 

He doesn’t care to look in which direction the rocks flew to. He walks away. 

ONE WEEK LATER

(JULY, 2014)

Summer rain isn’t common, but very much appreciated. 

You hear the soft pitter-patters of rain first. The light that filters through the clouds casts the room in a hazy, dreamlike quality. You slowly open your eyes. There it is again, that feeling of restlessness, accompanied by an itch that you just can’t scratch. You stretch your arms first, then your legs and your back—twisting and turning until you hear a satisfying crack. 

Staring at the ceiling, you think of what to do. You’re low on supplies. Especially food. You have a handful of dried berries in the cupboard and freshly gathered rosemary to make tea. Not the most nutritious breakfast. Soon you will either have to travel to the city (which is never fun) or you will need to scavenge the woods, in hopes that maybe there is an empty cabin you haven’t sacked yet. 

Thunder bellows and you close your eyes, your ears flat. Your heart races not only at the sound, but the memory of a rifle being pointed at you and the man who held the trigger. You remember the smell of gunpowder and fear, the taste of terror and sorrow. You think back to the man and the moment when it all could have gone wrong. But the thunder falls silent, and you’re still here. You’re still alive. 

You’ve seen him once more since that encounter. For obvious reasons, you hadn’t come out to say hi. He seemed to be wearing a perpetual scowl on his face, which makes you uneasy near him. 

The rain speeds up, the cold crawling through the gaps. Yet, you feel incredibly warm. 

Human contact is something hard to come by and for some reason, the man behind the trigger awakened something inside you. Despite the imminent threat of death at the time, you realized he had a handsome face, a strong body. He’s clearly competent if he managed to survive this long. 

You remember his hands, how large they had looked holding the grip of the rifle. 

With a stuttering exhale, your hands move across your body, squeezing and touching parts of yourself you found that still enjoyed being squeezed and touched. Your breasts feel heavy and warm beneath your palms. One hand slides up as the other slides underneath your loose shirt; slowly you curl your own fingers around your throat, with the other you draw slow circles around your nipple. 

The sensations are enough to make your eyes flutter closed as your mind drifts back to the man who had held you at gunpoint. His strong frame, his deep voice, and his intense gaze. You let out a soft sigh as you imagine what it would be like to feel his hands on your body. To feel his breath on your neck, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. It's a wonderful fantasy, but one you know will remain just that.

But then again, there is no harm in fantasizing. Especially in a world so bleak.

You imagine that it’s him. His thick fingers roughly squeezing your tit as he chokes you. Your breathing hitches. You spread your legs at the ghost of his cock. You can almost feel his breath on your skin—his growl deep and low in your ear. You imagine the stranger fucking you out of spite, bending you over until your body gives in, he’ll make your muscles twitch and ache, your name falling from his lips again and again as he fucks you senseless. 

Another gasp drops from your lips, your jaw slack and eyes half-lidded, the hand that plays with your tit cheats under your shorts. You’re so wet. You shudder when you touch yourself, slow and sensual. You imagine that it’s his tongue, you imagine him praising you on how wet you are for him, and you keen at the whisper of his words. Your back arches off the bed, two of your fingers moving in unison as you draw quick, short circles around your clit. 

Your moans fall freely from your lips. His mouth presses against that tender spot right below your jawline that you tend to touch when you want to feel good—the spot tingles at the thought and you hum with delight, your pussy fluttering and dripping around your fingers. 

He'll bring you to the brink of pleasure, but won’t let you reach it—not until you surrender to him. You imagine his voice commanding you, his hands punishing you. 

You feel yourself grow wetter and wetter, desperate for his touch. You imagine yourself screaming his name as he finally pushes you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you as he slams into you with one last thrust. You’re left trembling and exhausted, your body aching and your mind reeling from the intensity of you imagination. 

You come violently, shaking and trembling. You breathe heavily through your nose and your chin drops forward, slack with the need to say his name. Deep down, you wish you had asked when you met. He would’ve probably shot you if you did. You want to cry when you push your fingers inside of you, the feeling is pleasant and warm but not at all fulfilling. You thrust them a couple of times, warmth blossoms within your stomach, tears flow and your second orgasm shatters through you 

Still crying, you wipe your fingers and rub your eyes. You do it in a childish way, the back of your hands going up and down your eyes again and again. You think of how he would console you.

You’re doing so well for me.

So beautiful.

Just you and me, nothing else matters.

You’re not alone.

You hug yourself when the last phrase passes through your mind. Within yourself, you accuse him of lying, you say that he’s far away and doesn’t even know who you are. The ghost of him shushes you and strokes your hair. You cry harder then. 

A man that threatened you with your life becomes a source of comfort. It makes you sick, deep down, but you carry on by imagining him whispering sweet sayings into your ear, his hands stroking your body, his cock deep inside. You shudder at the thought. You know that you’re lonely but you never had quite known how lonely you truly were. 

The rain sounds louder now, the thunder more menacing. 

Your room now seems darker. 

The rain lasts all day. You pour some hot water into a cracked mug with a bundle of rosemary inside. Steam flows out of the mug like a waterfall. You take a small bite out of one of the berries you dried yourself and chew it slowly. Your movements feel mechanic. You swallow and raise the mug to your lips, it’s hot, and a bit of tea slips through the cracks and burns your knuckles. You only wince a little bit, not really taking any immediate action to subside the pain. 

Drops slide down the window. The inside is warm thanks to the old wood-burning stove you managed to salvage, most of the parts not matching one another. Soft crackles of fire accompany the sound of rain. 

You take another sip of your tea. You don’t dare to think about the man that is probably staring at the same rain as you. You feel close to him, yet miles and miles apart. 

The salty and earthy taste of rosemary mixes with the warm and comforting smell of the fire, providing a bit of solace in the midst of the storm.

It’s probably better not to think at all. 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

(OCTOBER, 2014)

Joel makes his way through the abandoned cabin, his eyes scanning the cluttered room for any supplies that might still be of use. The air is heavy and still, the only sound being the soft dripping of water from the leaky roof. The shadows seem to dance and shift around him, and he can't shake the sensation of being observed. 

He still has food, luckily, but there was no harm in searching for more. Once a week, he scanned the forest from dawn to dusk, looking over every inch of the crowded forest. Most often than not, he came back empty-handed. 

Joel ventures further into the cabin, his heart racing as he searches through the abandoned rooms. In the bedroom, he finds a torn and moldy mattress that he can use as a makeshift bed. In the bathroom, he discovers a sink and bathtub that are caked with grime and rust, but still functional.

As he gathers the supplies he needs from the kitchen, Joel thinks about the Domestic he’d met months ago. He saw her once more after that, camera dangling from her neck, a gun strapped to her back. He has an inkling that maybe it was her clearing out the abandoned cabins before he could. 

Just as he’s emptying the cupboards, his blood freezes. He hears the creaking of the old steps and the familiar sound of staccato clicks. Beads of sweat flare across his dusty forehead and his lips tighten into a grim line. He slowly unwraps his fingers from around the can, crouching down slowly. His hand moves to his gun, which he pulls up to his chest.

He takes a deep breath and edges backward. He tries to stay hidden as he figures out the exact location the noise is coming from. Joel watches as the twisted, fungal body stalks down the stairs; it trips but is unbothered by it. 

It moves around with a silent, deadly grace.

Its face is completely engulfed in the thick, black fungus that covered its entire being, its eyes long since rotted away. Swallowing, Joel crawls forward, wanting to reach the door before the Clicker finds him lurking about in the kitchen. He breathes out from his nose, as silently as he can. The Clicker turns to the living room, leaving the exit wide open. Joel’s skin tingles when he moves, like little needles poking into his skin. 

Joel’s eyes frantically dart around, taking in every tiny detail just in case something goes wrong. He spots the wide windows, the coat rack, the couch— 

His body shuts down entirely when he sees it. He stops breathing, moving, even the twitching of his right eye subsides within the minute. 

Joel sees her. Antlers and all, crouched behind the couch, teeth deep into her bottom lip while breathing heavily from her nose. 

And in that brief moment, their gazes meet. 

Joel’s mouth is dry as sandpaper. He holds his gaze, eyebrows raise with shock, her confusion is quickly replaced with hope— A look he despises, yet can’t help but be drawn to. 

The Clicker moves around the sofa, its head tilting from side to side as the horrid clicking sounds spurt from its open mouth. Without even thinking Joel motions with his head for her to sprint forward. He sees the still in her steps, strained and fearful but despite it all, she manages to reach him. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, her gaze glued to the floor. 

“It’s too early to give me thanks. We’ll talk when we’re out.” 

He feels the way she breathes, hears the way her heart hammers in her chest. It reminds him of a caged baby bird. She inches closer to him. A movement driven by pure instinct. Joel thinks she trusts too quickly. 

The Clicker stands by the door, head turned in their direction, taunting them. 

It must have heard the two of them whispering. Joel feels his entire body tensing, his breathing nonexistent—

Without thought, Joel senses her nearly jumping with fear and his hand reaches for her. His fingers curl tightly around her neck, pushing her head down without his eyes ever leaving the creatures’ gruesome silhouette. It doesn't have eyes, but it sure looks like it's staring them down, its head tilting to the side as it listens for any sign of movement. 

The Clicker turns its head, cracking its neck before heading deeper into the house.

He grinds his molars together and feels the sting of it in his gums. She lets out a breath of relief, it feels loud— Too loud. He squeezes her nape once more before letting go, and without a word, he heads for the door, not bothering to close it as he finally leaves the cursed cabin.

Her footsteps follow. 

FIVE MINUTES LATER 

(OCTOBER, 2014)

You follow the man deeper in to the woods as the two of you rush to put a reasonable distance between you and the cabin. He keeps looking over his shoulder. Every time he does, he looks more and more rageful. You’re sure that he wants you to leave. 

Honestly, that is probably the more sensible thing to do. 

But the skin of the back of your neck still stings from his grip and you can’t bring yourself to leave without at least learning his name. This forest is your home, and it’s his home as well. In a twisted way, you two are neighbors. 

You hadn’t expected to come across an Infected when you went inside. The heavy rain made you walk inside with little care. It was terrifying, waiting for the threat to pass by yourself. But then there he was, a rugged angel, offering a way to salvation, and bringing you to safety. 

You’ve seen him around; you even took a picture of him. To you, he was a perfect specimen to document someone who was both free and trapped. It was also nice to actually photograph a living, moving thing. 

“When are you gonna quit chasing me around?” he suddenly snarls, turning on his heel with force. “How many times do I have to tell you— Scram.” 

“You’re really rude,” you answer, crossing your arms in defiance. “And you said we would talk after we got out. Well…we got out, now it’s time to talk,” 

“Fine. Thank me and leave,” 

The wind blows warm. The sound of leaves rustling scratches your ears. You try to make yourself seem bigger by straightening your back. It’s been so long since you wanted to talk to him—To get to know the other person who was in the same situation as you. Afraid, confused, hurt, lonely. 

You just want to know his name. That’s all. 

“My name is June,” you say with the exhale of your breath. “And thank you.” 

He considers your not-so-subtle peace offering. His eyes are narrowed, lips tight. Briefly you fear he’s just going to turn and leave. But the fire crackling in his eyes dies down, his shoulders drop and the wind ruffles his hair. 

“Joel.” he answers, “and you’re welcome.” 

TWO WEEKS LATER

(OCTOBER,2014)

You never thought you would have another person in your house. Ever, really. 

But here Joel is, walking up the steps of your humble cabin, taking in the details, assessing what he could take just in case. At the time, inviting him over seemed like a good idea. You wanted him to know where you lived, if something were to happen to where he lived, you wanted him to know where to come. 

However, your good intentions were not reciprocated. 

“I’m not telling an Infected where I live,” he had said. “Feel free to show me if you feel that’s the right thing to do, but don’t expect me to do the same. We are not the same.” 

The words still echo in your head as you finally reach the top of the stairs. You don’t think it was wrong of him to think like that. Technically, you two aren’t the same, not even the same species. But it frustrates you a little bit to see that he’s still so reluctant about your intentions. All you want to do is make your life less miserable. 

“This is the bathroom,” you point out. “However, there’s no real plumbing. I pull in water from the nearby river and wash directly there.” 

He hums, eyes uncaringly looking inside. “What else?” he grunts, walking ahead. 

You dart ahead, grinning as you make an effort of bowing and opening the door. It’s stupid maybe, being so excited about wanting to show him the photos you had taken—But you couldn’t help it. It feels like having a friend over after years, it’s…it’s nice. 

“And here’s my bedroom slash office,” 

“Office?” he scoffs. “What work are you doing?” 

“I like taking pictures,” 

You don’t miss the way his face falls, hands tightening into fists and loosening up again. Confusion crosses your face but you manage to erase it by shaking your head. 

“Uh…anyway, do you want to see?” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

His voice is emotionless, so you have no way of telling if he’s annoyed or not. You only understand his intentions when you turn and see him smiling, the expression sprinkling relief over your heart. It’s a very small smile, something that wouldn’t be considered smiling before 2013, but now it’s the broadest smile in the world. 

It’s odd, feeling this light when doing something. You feel your fingertips tingling as you pick up a medium sized box from your desk and place it on the bed. Before he moves closer, you snatch Joel’s picture from on top of the pile and place it facing down on the sheets. 

“You really have been busy,” he remarks, picking up one of the photographs. It’s one of dandelions. “Not bad,” 

“Thanks. It is hard to find polaroid films and the one’s I find are quite old, or expired, hence the reason why all the pictures look faint or discolored. But it’s better than doing nothing,” 

Joel gives you a faint smile that makes your heart flutter, his eyes grow soft. “Guess so.” 

You show him your favorite photographs, one by one, with insightful commentary on each. He nods, a man of few words, but you appreciate having someone to talk to, other than your own echoing voice.

As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting a golden light through the windows, warming your skin, you realize with a startle that hours have passed. You find yourself sitting on the bed, shoulder to shoulder with Joel, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. The light dances on your skin, and the colors come alive, and for a moment, all is right in the world. No virus, no loss, no grief. Just the two of you, smiling and talking. 

It feels like a glimpse of another life, an alternate universe. The sudden urge to cry overwhelmes you. It’s so strong that you press your nails into your palm, the sting of pain forcing a hiss to stumble from your lips. 

“You alright?” 

The deep baritone of his voice makes you jump. Joel doesn't seem to notice, as he carefully places the photographs back into their box and slowly stands up. While you nod and open your mouth to say that you are, his eyes lingers on the backwards photograph sitting on the bed. 

He reaches out before you can stop him, “It seems like we missed one,” he says, picking it up. Your fingertips touch the photograph as he pulls it away, slipping from your grasp before you can prevent what’s about to happen. 

“Joel, wait—” 

You watch him, transfixed as he studies the photograph, his eyes scanning every inch, his mind working furiously. First, his eyes go wide, then they narrow, brows scrunched angrily. His eyes snap up, his gaze hardened like the first time you met him. 

“What the fuck is this?” 

“I can explain.” 

Joel doesn't pay attention to her explanations, his gaze glued on the photograph. It's like looking into one of those distorted mirrors at a theme park. In the picture, he's standing, gun strapped to his back, fingers curled around the straps of his backpack. He doesn't remember this moment, every day blending into one. It's hard to tell which day it is just from a single photograph.

He looks tired, cheeks hallowed and eyes sunken. His hair and beard has more grays than he remembers, and there's a scar above his right eyebrow that he hadn't noticed before. How could he? He doesn’t like to look at himself. 

But what really sets him on edge is the sight of his own gaze. In retrospect, it's a beautiful picture, the setting sun casting a golden glow on his skin and eyes alight. But he knows what he used to look like, how he used to be tired but happy, content with the life he had built for Sarah and him. Now, he looks tortured, eyes lacking life and love.

This physical copy of his grief and pain is a stark reminder of all that he has lost. He turns the photograph over in his hands, tracing the edges with his fingers as the weight of his past presses down on him. He can't bring himself to look at it any longer and feels a heavy ache in his chest.

He rips the photograph into two pieces, then four—He tears it until the pieces slip from his fingers, fluttering to the wooden floors. 

When he looks back at her, he feels anger. Nothing more nothing less. He never should have came here. 

Her lips are pressed tight, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. She looks so small right now, ears pointed down, and her body curling in a way that makes him think she wants to disappear. 

Maybe she should. 

Or better yet, he should. Only if he wasn’t a damned coward.

“Why the fuck would you take my picture without asking?” he spits, venom behind ever word. 

“We weren’t really on speaking terms at the time…” 

He senses her need to lighten the mood, but it’s too late. The lid is popped wide open, and he’s not strong enough to close it back. The sickening part is that he doesn’t want to close it. Joel wants to lash out, he wants to scream and throw a glass at the wall, watch it shatter into a billion pieces. He wants it so bad in fact, it feels if he doesn’t his chest might explode, his breathing hitches, eyes darting around. 

Joel spots the box of pictures, for a brief moment he imagines himself ripping it all to shreds. Pouring gasoline over them, watching it burn. 

“You shouldn’t have taken it anyway,” 

His gaze then falls upon the camera, sitting idly on the desk. She follows his gaze, noticing the way the air around him becomes tense when he picks it up. It’s hard to breathe. She starts begging him, her voice trembling, as his fingers tighten around the device.

"Look, calm down, please. I'm...I'm sorry, okay?" she says quickly adding. "I understand how you feel—"

"No, you don't," he snaps, the weight of his grief and pain pressing down on him. "You know nothing of my pain. You don't know what loss is."

With a snarl of anger and frustration, Joel throws the camera to the ground. It crashes with a loud sound of shattering glass and plastic. He watches as the pieces of the camera litter the floor, its once precious film now spilled out like entrails. His chest heaving with each breath, his anger slowly dissipating, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of regret. He stares at the broken camera, with a feeling of emptiness and a heavy weight on his chest, the feeling hadn’t gone away. 

As a response, her anger starts to rise as well, competing with his own. Her gaze traces along the broken camera pieces, her hands balling into fists. 

“You’re not the only one who lost people, Joel.” you say, eerily calm. He doesn’t like the way a chill has settled over the bottom of his spine. “I’ve lost people too. You don’t get to say who’s pain is bigger.” 

Joel steps forward, then another, crowding her space. He expects her to cower in fear, but instead she glares at him, staring at him with an unwavering gaze he’s never seen before. 

He’s so close that he can see the small flecks in her eyes. 

“Yes, I do.” his voice drops. “You talk mighty big for someone who prances around and takes pictures all day. You can fool yourself and think that you’re in pain but you ain’t fooling me. You’re happy.” 

She blinks away her tears quickly, her lips parting with shock. It’s too late for him to feel guilty now; he’s sure he’s run out of guilt. 

Anger briefly flares in her eyes, and much to his surprise she attempts to push him away. Joel grabs her wrist, holding them tight as she thrashes around. She refuses to look at him, his words cutting too deep and into something that she fears might be true.

“That’s not fair,” she cries out managing to pull one hand away and slam the side of her fist into his chest. “Fuck you Joel. Fuck. You.” 

“Good,” he replies cruelly. “That’s how you should be feeling.” 

TWO MONTHS LATER 

(DECEMBER, 2014)

Snow crunches under your boots and the wind chills your skin. Except for the pines, most trees are left bare, thick snow covering their branches. Ever since the infection you don’t feel that cold anymore. A simple jacket is all you need, unlike Joel, who seems as if he’s wearing a dozen sweaters underneath his coat. 

He walks ahead, rifle hanging on his back. 

After knowing one another, it was hard to truly part ways. The first week after he shattered the only joy you had left in your life, you two steered away from each other; both of you angry, both of you bitter. 

But you two danced around each other like butterflies. One day, you met his gaze and he nodded. The next day you told him about the extra fish you managed to catch, and that you wouldn’t mind sharing. He seemed hesitant at first, but accepted your offer when his stomach ratted him out with a loud growl. 

Neither of you talked about the incident. You swept the camera away, tucked the box of photographs under your bed. You didn’t enjoy looking at them anymore.

You watch his back, the way his coat seems tight around his shoulders, the dip from the rifle pronouncing his shoulder blades. He always walks in front. No matter what the situation might be, you find yourself staring at his broad back and beautiful neck. He doesn’t talk much anymore, and when he does, it’s in the form of short sentences. 

You on the other hand, do whatever you can to fill the silence. 

You don’t dive much into your past, but you tell him about your hobbies, what it’s been like being alone, and how you adapted to your new antlers and ears. 

Then one day, as you were telling him the things you were afraid of most, he turned to you slowly, his one eyebrow raised and slack-jawed. 

“Don’t you think you tell me too much about yourself?” he had asked and you were caught by surprise. 

“Uh… no? Am I annoying you?” 

“Not annoying—Well, maybe a bit, but I can live with that— you’re too… trusting. Aren’t you afraid?” 

You shrugged, “I feel like if you wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already. No use in dwelling on something I can never be sure of.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“Fine then, what do you mean? Do you want me to be afraid of you?” 

He didn’t answer and you were grateful for it. The thought of reopening the wounds he caused you wasn’t something you particularly wanted to do. 

You’re abruptly drawn away from the whispers of the past with a sting spreading from your nose to your forehead, you groan and stumble back, your hand immediately going up to touch your nose. 

Your vision is blurry, but you see Joel standing as still as a tree in front of you. His one hand is raised to his side, fingers forming a fist. The command is silent but it reaches you loud and clear. You pull out your pistol, finger nestled against the trigger as your ears raise. You hear steps that you missed before, too entranced by your thoughts to hear them. A faint murmuring reaches your ears. 

You take a slow breath to steady yourself and take a step closer to Joel. 

“Three people,” you whisper. “They sound obnoxious and dangerous,” 

He scoffs, “How can you tell they’re obnoxious all the way from here?” 

“I just can. We should go,” 

“No,” he says, fingers curling around your wrist just as you attempt to turn. “We should check who— or what— they are,” 

“And after that?” 

“We take care of it.” 

There’s a stillness in the air and for the first time, you feel the sting of cold. You don’t share Joel’s coldness towards killing. Even killing the Infected is hard for you ever since you also became one by extension. You much rather let the threat simmer until it boiled and threatened to burn you. 

Joel ignores your hesitation and releases his hold. “They’re close aren’t they? If I was able to hear them even a little they must be. Lead the way,” 

“Joel…” 

“Waiting around will get you killed,” he answers, his tone calm and collected. “You’re either with me or with them,” 

“That’s cruel.” 

“Is that your answer?” 

Leaning slightly forward, he forcefully meets your gaze. He doesn’t blink and it feels as if he’s staring into your soul, which is ironic considering Joel probably doesn’t believe in such things. Closing your eyes you face the sky, the tips of your ears burn and your heart skips a beat. You already know what your answer is, and he knows it too. 

“I’m with you.” 

“Then lead the way, Bambi.” 

It’s not a long walk. You’re surprised that they’re so close, so surprised in fact you shudder with each step. You’re not a fan of confrontation. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you feel Joel’s presence near you, his ghost chokes out the screams, only litter whimpers left that are easier to ignore. 

You and Joel take cover behind the thick trunk of a pine tree. Your guess is that the small group are hunters. They carry guns and they look the part. Your eyes move to Joel, his own gaze slowly turning to you. He pushes a finger to his lips, signaling you to be quiet. The three men talk about the tourists and the Domestics they managed to get a hold of, you bite back a whimper. 

Joel leans in, the curve of his lips barely touching your ear. He doesn’t have to do that, you could’ve heard him just fine, but some habits are hard to break. 

“I’ll take them out,” he whispers, the warmth of his breath prompting you to close your eyes. “You stay on lookout, shoot the ones that try to kill me.” 

You nod. There isn’t much you can add to his plan anyway. 

Joel moves out. As he slowly approaches the first one, you move, your steps feather-light. You find the best position to spot all three of them and crouch down, the snow melts under your knee and wets the fabric. 

With one eye closed and finger on the trigger, you realize you’ve never actually seen Joel attacking another. You’ve seen him hunt, but that was as far as the violence went. Briefly, you admire his contrast to the white snow. His coat a dark green, stained, and his hair mussed. 

His every move is calculated. He walks around the first target, wraps his arm around the man’s neck and pulls him away from the others until he faints. You expect him to fixate his gaze on the others, but instead, he raises his foot and slams it down with no shred of hesitation. Blood sprays against the snow, melting and hissing at the warmth of blood. A drop of red lands on Joel’s cuffs. 

You let out a scream, clapping both hands over your mouth before you can stop yourself.

But it’s too late, the other two are already running toward Joel.

“Shit,” Joel hisses, eyes finding yours amidst the chaos. “Get out!” 

You’re a deer in headlights, both literally and figuratively. The two men crowd Joel, one pressing a knife to the neck you admired many times while the other sets his gaze on you. 

You hear the bullet first, and your body moves before you can process it. Joel manages to kick the man heading towards you in the back of the knee. He falls face first with a grunt. You hear the knife against Joel’s neck cutting skin. 

You don’t blink when you raise the pistol and shoot your shot, the bullet sinks right between his eyebrows. He falls promptly. The other one still groans on top of the snow. Joel takes the knife that was still stained with his own blood and stabs the last of them in the heart. You collapse to the ground, pistol falling to the side as you cover your mouth. 

Warm tears roll down your cheeks, eyes squeezing shut as your fingers tremble. You see black dots hovering across your vision. You feel incredibly sick. Your mind replays the scene over and over again until you feel his touch on your cheek. 

You were aware of the violence growing in the world. Seen bits of it whenever you left the comfort of the forest. But you haven’t been aware of how bad it had gotten. How desperate everyone became to hurt others for the means of survival. 

Bile rises up your throat and burns your tongue.

“Calm down— Calm down,” Joel cradles your face, thumbs moving over your cheekbones. “You’re good. We’re safe. You did it,” 

“Did what exactly?” you snap, pushing him away and falling back. “Joel you—you kicked in his skull! You—You—” your voice breaks and you finally open your eyes accompanied by a deep breath. He looks broken and for the first time you truly understand what that means. “What the fuck, Joel?” 

His eyes flit around your face. He slowly takes in every detail —the way you shudder, the way your ears are flat against your head, the way your breathing is uneven— but he doesn’t know what to make of it. Your words have underlined fear, uncertainty. You look at him as if it’s the first time you’re seeing him. 

Joel’s gaze moves from your face to your shoulder, he reaches his hand out.

You jerk away without meaning to, his look softens, the tips of his fingers only an inch away from your shoulder. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he drawls, voice dropping, barely a whisper. “You’re bleeding.” 

You look to the side, too tired to actually panic about it. Now that you were seeing the blood, you start to feel the sting of the bullet still being inside. You wince and Joel catches it. 

“Your cabin is close by right? Let me patch you up.” 

You’re strikingly aware that you won’t be saying no to him, not now and probably not ever, “Sure.” 

Joel is surprisingly gentle. 

He helps you out of your blood-soaked shirt, leaving you only in your bra. The chair creaks under your weight. You ignore the vulnerability of the situation. It’s been months since another person saw you bare, you didn’t have the means to groom yourself properly. The hairs on your arms and legs growing with time— Even though you’re blatantly aware of how stupid it is, you still wonder if he notices, or what he might think. 

Joel returns with the first-aid kit and you refuse to look at him, turning your cheek when he kneels to your side. He dabs the cotton in alcohol, cleaning it first before taking the tweezers out of the box. You hear him sigh. 

“I know you want nothin’ to do with me right now but you might want to bite down on something. It’s gonna hurt, Bambi.” 

Hearing the nickname makes you feel lightheaded. Turning around, your gaze drops to Joel but he’s not looking up at you, instead, he’s staring at the wound caked with blood. 

“Give me my shirt, I’ll bite into that.” 

Joel nods and hands you your shirt. You take it begrudgingly, balling it up in your hands and biting down on the fabric. The pain is excruciating, sweat beads on your forehead. You close your eyes, trying to focus on anything but the searing agony in your shoulder.

Joel's gaze is fixed on you as he works, pulling out the bullet with steady hands. You try to focus on anything but the pain, your gaze drifting to the window. You see that it's started to snow, the flakes swirling in the air. You wince, the pain making it hard to think.

Joel's gentle touch brings you back to the present. His fingers are light and careful as he works, pulling out the bullet and cleaning the wound. You can hear the soft sound of his breathing, the occasional sigh or murmur as he focuses on the task at hand.

“You’re bleeding too,” you state, pointing to his neck. “We should get it cleaned,” 

His fingers brush above the shallow wound, not even a small wince crossing his face. 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” 

“I’m assuming you won’t tell me about those memories even if I asked,” you whisper, and his hands go still, fingertips feeling like hot iron against your skin. “I’m not even sure I want to know.” 

“Believe me, you don’t.” 

And that’s the most you get out of him. A tiny crumb of his past. His one hand slides down to your upper arm, fingers pressing into the muscle as if you’re a ghost that has just materialized in front of him. Briefly, you see scenes much more violent compared to the one you witnessed flashing before your eyes; a desperate Joel trying to survive, losing himself to the darkened world. His grief still consumes him, you can see it clearly now. 

With a soft sigh, you cover his hand with your own. The moment is still, neither of you knowing what to say. He seems surprised by the fact you’re touching him, his eyes slowly lifting and meeting yours. You swallow, the sound of blood loud in your ears. 

When you look into his eyes, his soft gaze is briefly replaced by the memory of rage-filled ones you saw outside. You don’t think you will ever be able to forget that look. You won’t be able to forget the way violence clutches at his heart. His need to protect himself and those around him clouds his better judgment— Or rather, he doesn’t care about what happens to others for the sake of his own people. 

You know that this should most likely scare you, or that you should perceive him as something ugly and tainted. 

But it doesn’t. In fact, you think it does the opposite. It’s like a moth to a flame. You’re drawn to him and his tainted light. You see him as nothing short of beautiful. 

His breath hitches while yours stops completely. It warms the fresh wound, then you feel his lips, scarred yet soft, a soft kiss as an answer to your pain. The touch of his tongue forces a shiver up your spine, a soft sting blossoming across your shoulder. 

Joel continues, mouth moving over the slope of your shoulder and to your neck. His patchy beard is a harsh contrast against your skin but you enjoy it all the same. He closes his mouth and presses his lips into the column of your neck. Your lips part with a soft moan. He kisses your neck again and again as if it’s a means to survive. With every press of his mouth, he becomes more sure of himself, the softness is accompanied with the sharpness of his teeth, goosebumps coat your skin. 

Your hand hovers an inch away from his head, too afraid to dive your fingers in just in case he’ll turn into another ghost that your cruel imagination often creates. 

Joel moves back, only an inch between your faces. There’s a new emotion you see that crosses his face but you can’t place what it is. He feels your hand at the back of his head, his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a deep, long breath. Joel’s fingers gingerly curl around your wrist, pushing your hand flush against his head. 

“Touch me,” he says, his southern drawl deep. “I want to feel you.” 

It’s like an experiment almost. Your fingers are touching new soil, getting used to the feeling of soft locks and the bumps of his scalp. You allow your fingers to explore, nails raking his skin. A soft hum rattles his throat and you look back down. You spot the vein meandering down his neck and with wide eyes your hand moves down his head, feels the warmth of his neck, and traces the thick vein. His jaw is locked tight, nostrils flaring with every touch. 

“Joel, I—” 

“Don’t.” his voice breaks, eyes falling away from your own. “Don’t. I don’t wanna hear anything of the sort, not now, not ever.” 

“Tell me what you want to hear then,” 

“The sound of your breathing is enough.” 

Your body reacts before you do, forcing out the breath that was caught in your throat. An eternity later his lips move against yours. His tongue brushes the seam of your lips, your heart flares, your lips parting with the silent command. 

How many times have you thought of Joel touching you like this? Kissing you like this? 

He’ll never know what his mere presence means to you. How the sole image of him brought you back from the brink of not wanting to wake to such a daunting world again and again. Even before he knew what your name was, before you knew his, he was the only one keeping you company—Accompanying you during your every move. A phantom man, following you around and wrapping its arms around you whenever you needed. 

Your body reawakens, his lips and tongue pulling you from somewhere dark. His large hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head as he slips his tongue into your mouth. You moan openly, your hands coming up to hold his wrists. 

Words you want to whisper burn the tip of your tongue. His words echoing loud in your mind whenever they bubble to the surface. 

The sound of your breathing is enough. 

You have trouble swallowing them down, tears gathering in your lashlines, but Joel makes quick work of them, licking into your mouth forcefully as if he’s trying to erase the entire English vocabulary from your mind. 

Your hands drop down from his wrist and awkwardly try to reach his belt. Joel smiles into your lips, calloused fingertips stilling your hands. 

“Easy there, sweetheart. Show me to your bedroom,” 

You give him a confused look, “You already know where my bedroom is,” 

“I prefer this being the first time you lead me to your room.” 

It’s been long since you moved the box of photographs and cleaned the broken pieces of your camera. The ache of your heart is hard to ignore but you do. You nod, also preferring for this to be the first time he’s seeing your room. 

Neither of you touch the other until you’re confined into the smaller area. It’s much colder compared to the kitchen. Joel shivers, a puff of steam dancing from his lips. 

Not wanting this moment to end, you close the distance. Your fingers find their way into his hair, tugging as his hands find your waist. He squeezes and pulls your hips close, forcing a grinding motion. The pleasure you feel is real. It’s overwhelming. Your whines are needy, made with short breaths and the sudden lack of air. 

Joel swallows them all, he sucks your tongue, unbuttons your pants. Arousal pools between your legs, heat licks the bottom of your spine. Your entire world starts spinning when he gets on his knees, pulling down your pants along with him. Your eyes follow, another shudder overtaking you as his fingers move between your legs. 

“J-Joel…” 

“So wet already. Pretty thing,” your heart leaps at the way his eyes move up from your sex to your face. “I haven’t tasted a woman for so long.” 

“Then go ahead,” you mutter, burying your anxiety deep into your heart. 

Everything moves as if it’s in slow motion. The snow outside, the fading light, the way Joel tugs down your underwear. Pupils dilated, he licks his lips at the sight of your slick sticking to the net of your underwear. His thumb moves over your mound, nestling between the soft curls that reside. You suck in a sharp breath. 

The sound is loud enough to prompt him to look up. “Most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen.” Cupping himself over his dark jeans, a groan slips from his mouth. 

Joel's tongue glides over your skin, you let out a soft moan. His lips velvet against your sensitive flesh. You grip his hair tighter as he expertly works his way over your aching clit. The fading light filters through the dusty window, casting a warm glow over your skin and creating shadows on Joel's face as he buries himself between your legs. His palms skim the back of your thighs, sending shivers up your spine. You let out a breathy moan as Joel's tongue delves deeper. He takes his time, the sharp edges of his face soften, the perpetual crease between his brows fading.  

He must’ve looked beautiful before all was taken away from him. Joel never speaks about it, but you know. You have seen the same expression of grief in your eyes many times. You wonder if you two could’ve met if none of this had happened; the infection, the violence, the change. Another wave of pleasure washes over you with the swipe of Joel’s tongue. You moan and he mimics the sound, the reverberations making you curl over him, your arms wrapped around his head. 

Every cloud has a silver lining, you don’t know who came up with the phrase but you find it cruel, haunting—yet also to be true. 

Haunting is a perfect way to describe the moment. Hauntingly beautiful. A soft hue of light lingering in the darkness dances over your skin. 

Any second can be your last, that’s what makes this moment truly memorable. It can be your last, and you choose to spend it together. 

His gaze finds yours amidst the darkness, lips moving and tongue swirling around your clit. He sucks on it, watching you with a heavy gaze as your whine joins the sounds his tortuous tongue. Joel pulls away and your first instinct is to pull him back, chase the feeling of his skin against yours. His fingers squeezes the back of your thighs, soothing you like a scared animal. You feel his lips moving slowly over your mound, kissing the sensitive skin. 

“I want you on the bed,” he says voice honeyed in a long drawl. “I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy out until you’re drunk on me. Then I’m going to feel the way you squeeze my cock—But I need you to get all nice and wet for me first,” 

Your thighs clench together and he lays another kiss, hands roaming over your ass one more time before pulling you to the bed. He falls on top of you, his heavy presence proving not to be a figment of your imagination. Your entire body rings for him. You feel his breath fanning your face, he stares at you, you see the traces of regret and your stomach sinks. 

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” 

The apology takes you by surprise, you stare, unblinking, and swallow. His hand moves between your leg, two fingers slipping inside you with ease as his palm cups your sex. 

“You still do,” you gasp before you can think. “But I would rather have you broken and bruised than be alone. Something inside me—A heart, a soul…it’s been seeking you out, Joel.” his fingers deftly move with a sharp thrust. Your back archs, body pressing into his touch. You close your eyes but you still feel his eyes boring into you. “You terrify me Joel. But not only because of the reasons you might be thinking.” 

“What other reason is there?” he asks, curling his fingers and grinding the heel of his palm against your clit. You clench your teeth, swallowing down your moans. 

You’re a whirlwind of emotions. His sadness, his grief…all of it resonates deep inside you, it joining the pleasure that builds up, your arousal thick around his fingers. 

You feel the brush of his hand on your ear, your eyes open with surprise, remembering the first time he had attempted to touch you—The Infected part of you. He had ignored it ever since he learned your name. 

Joel leans in and presses his lips, the fur soft against his mouth. Your heart leaps as you flinch, your ear twitching uncontrollably. 

“Tell me,” he says as you moan. “Tell me the other ways I frighten you.” 

“I fear the way you make me feel alive.” 

He curls his fingers, a shout rips from your throat. “Go on,” he prompts you. 

“I’m scared that you’ll leave. That you’ll leave, and that you’ll become a ghost again.” 

“Again?” 

“Forget I said that,” 

He hums, “I can’t promise you that I won’t ever leave. But right now, I'm here. You feel me, don’t you? I ain’t no ghost,” 

To emphasize what he said, he circles your clit with his wet fingers, tongue moving down your neck. He draws your stiff nipple into his mouth, teeth sharp and pleasurable. You feel the wet streaks across your skin when he slides his other hand up your waist, he pries your mouth open by pressing his fingers into the hallows of your cheeks. He sneaks in two fingers, forcing you to taste yourself. 

“I think I need to fuck you now, think you can take me, my little doe?” 

You’re highly aware that the words are spoken without much thought. However, the endearment crackles across your skin, lighting a fire in your stomach, your body jerks, slick wetting your thighs and sheets. He holds your tongue with his fingers, feeling the way it moves with the muffled sounds you make. His mouth moves up the swell of your breast. 

“You like it when I call you mine?” he groans out, breath wet and warm. 

Joel pulls out his fingers so you can speak, his cock lays heavy between your legs. 

Your chest heaves, “Yes.” you gasp, the pressure building starting to become overwhelming. “Say it again, please,” 

“You’re mine,” he replies, sounding as if he’s just stating a fact. “Nothing will hurt you. No one will touch you…” the words sink into your skin, your hips stutter forward, searching for the stretch of his cock. Your breathing becomes heavy, shallow. “And since you’re mine, you’ll take whatever I have to give…won’t you?” 

You hear the uncertainty that follows his hardened tone. Nodding, you catch yourself murmuring back, "I'm yours, and only yours."

Joel doesn’t give you any indication that he hears you, he presses forward, notching the head of his cock against your entrance. Your cunt flutters around him, begging him to move. He’s nothing like your vivid dreams; he takes his time, making you feel every inch. Your breath is caught in your throat, your lungs convulsing. The sudden regret of not touching him beforehand resonates inside, you wanted to feel how heavy and warm he was under your palm, wanted to hear his whimpers—if he makes any, that is. 

“So damn tight,” he grunts. “So wet—fuck,” 

He moves his hips forward then back, thrusting against the dampness that coats your entrance. A moan escapes your lips as he moves faster, each thrust pushing deeper than the last. Your hands grip the sheets as your body trembles. You gasp and bite your lip, the heavy drag of his cock sending waves of pleasure through your body. You can feel him, hard and thick, and it feels incredible. 

Tears gather in your eyes when his lips find yours in the fog of pleasure. Sweat and sex clings to your skin, body on fire, he shoves his tongue into your mouth. The muffled sounds you both make seeps into the other’s lips. You’re both hungry to devour one another, both touch-starved. He parts away with a string of saliva following, he kisses the tear streaks, kisses your eyes. 

You're left chanting his name like a prayer, his hands slide down, cup your ass and lift you from the bed. 

His thrusts quicken, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You cling to him, your hands gripping his back, your nails digging into his skin. His warm breath tickles your neck, and your head spins. Every movement sounds wetter than the last, he splits you in half, cock moving all the way out before he slams into you again and again and again—

Your body shatters around him, pleasure bursting across your very being. The feeling pours into your veins, leaving a simmer and buzz in the pits of your stomach. Joel fucks himself deeper into you until you’re begging him to stop, your body overwhelmed both physically and emotionally. 

“Where do you want me?” he asks, pulling out and fisting himself with little care. 

The fog clouding your mind briefly lifts and you manage to push yourself up the bed. You push his hand away and wrap your numb fingers around his length. He’s so wet, glistening with your slick. Joel watches you as you lean down, wrapping your lips around his cock. His hand touches the back of your head, pushing you further. 

Arousal pools between your legs once more, your tongue warm and wet as you eagerly lick down his shaft, feeling the soft curls tickling your nose, you swallow. Joel’s head falls back, exposing his tanned neck and small scars littered like a starry sky. A loud groan emits from the depths of his lungs, choked out and raspy. Your eyes roll back when he thrusts his hips, the head of his cock touching the back of your throat. 

Your insides clench painfully, begging for more. 

Your lips pop off, tender skin left wet and swollen. “Come down my throat,” you say, before swallowing him down again. Your tongue slides underneath his shaft, tracing the thick veins as you move up. 

Joel’s nails bite into your skin, a string of curse words falling from his lips. Heat flares under your skin. He pushes and pulls, guiding you as you swallow around him again and again. 

There’s something about the way his nails softly bite into your skin that makes your toes curl. It’s been a while since you sucked cock, and he’s showing you how to do it— 

“Doing so good, little doe— Can you take me deeper?” 

You moan your approval, your hand moving between your legs. Your fingers trace around your puffy clit, still sensitive, yet aching to be touched. He doesn’t seem to notice that you start to touch yourself, he holds your head between his palms, fucking your mouth until he feels his shaft begin to pulse before spilling into the warmth of your mouth. 

You swallow every drop. He tastes bitter and you reel at the way the taste of him burns your throat. He keeps his cock buried in your throat as he rides out his orgasm. You run your fingers up the span of his stomach, feeling the dents and marks painted over his skin. 

Joel is left breathless, his chest heaving and cock now soft. You tenderly pepper his skin with kisses, moving all the way up until you press one hurriedly onto his lips. Your fingers rub over the sweat-slick skin of his forehead. And as you move away he grips you by the shoulders and pulls you back, tasting himself on your tongue. 

He licks the inside of your mouth and teases your bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Why do you want me around?” he cups your jaw and rubs two thumbs down your cheeks. “I’m such a fucking mess. I’m not going to trick you into thinking that I’m something that I ain’t. I’m not a good man, June.” 

“I said it earlier,” you say with a soft smile. “I would rather have you broken and bruised than be alone.”

NEXT MORNING 

(DECEMBER, 2014)

The teapot whistles in the background, warm steam filling the kitchen. It’s still early, you’ve come downstairs to prepare a little breakfast where you would use your best supplies after a night spent in such delight. Joel was still there when you woke up, snoring with his arms wrapped around your waist. The warmth made you want to stay there forever.

Little did you know, Joel is a light sleeper. 

Joel's hand covers your mouth and his weight presses you against the table. His hot breath fans over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer to him with every deep thrust. Your body runs hot when you think of how needy you must look spread open for him, so willing to take and give.

“Best thing to wake up to,” he groans, his teeth clenched.

You hiss at the way the wooden surface of the table rakes your skin, he must’ve heard your discomfort because he pulls you up, fingers that were on your mouth drop to your neck, holding you, feeling your erratic pulse. 

“Is this alright?” he grinds his hips against yours. You gasp, keening at how deep he can reach.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “More, Joel, please.” 

Every time his hips slap against your ass, you choke out a sound, and your walls spasm around him. His hand on your throat keeps you from moving far. Joel’s forehead drops between your shoulder blades, he licks a thick stripe up the middle to your nape.

You shudder, clenching around him tighter. He looks down to witness how wet you are, a slick ring coating the base of his cock. A groan that can only be described as animalistic rattles his throat, he nuzzles the mustache above his lips into the crook of your neck his teeth nipping at your skin.

His other hand moves between your legs, fingers drawing fast circles around your aching clit. You cry out as you rock your hips to meet the roll of his hips. There’s a live wire runs right under your skin, electrifying you from the inside out. Your legs clench together, your body quivering, breathing uneven as he furiously swipes two fingers over your clit again and again. Your eyes roll back, hands moving up to grab his forearm. 

“Harder.” 

You feel the mood swiftly changing, his calculated pace faltering and shifting into something more wild. His fingers around your throat tighten, his teeth sink into your skin deeper, the pain makes you smile, the pain makes you feel good. His hand cups your breast, pinching a puckered nipple between his fingers. 

You gasp, eyes falling shut as he repeats the sharp movement.

Before you come, much to your disappointment, Joel pulls out. His shaft pressed against the curve of your ass, his breathing heavy, you feel him spilling over your skin, nose buried in the back of your neck, inhaling your scent like a wolf.

“Sorry,” he grunts. “Thought I would last longer,” 

“It’s okay,” you say, albeit still unsatisfied. 

The promise of your orgasm tickles your skin, sweat chilling your skin. You’re about to straighten up and clean yourself but he stops you, hands kneading your ass. 

“Get on the table,” he orders. “Let me taste you.” 

Joel helps you flip over to your back and you find comfort in the way his hands tilt you up your hips. The table isn’t the most sturdy, but you trust him. He kisses a trail down your stomach, opening his mouth wide when he reaches your sex. Catching the backs of both knees, he pushes your legs apart and licks into you. Joel’s tongue swirls around the bundle of nerves, he closes his lips over your clit and sucks—hard. 

Pulling away, he spits, your back arches when he does. 

And he dives back in, tasting you over and over. Tongue twisting itself deep inside, moving up and down languidly, rolling around your clit as his fingers make dents in your skin. 

It doesn’t take you long. 

Your entire body convulses, both legs pressing down against the frame of his face. You’re scared the table isn’t going to hold but Joel keeps you still—for the most part. He drags his mouth slowly, tasting you, swallowing you. His movements soon grow slower, the heat of your orgasm subsiding. 

When you let out a bubble of laughter, you think that this is going to last forever. You and him against the world, living your days drowning in pleasure and each other—lifting two middle fingers at the crumbling world around them.  

The next day he’s gone. You don’t see him until three months later. 

EPILOGUE

(MARCH, 2015)

It’s excruciatingly warm. Your tank top sticks to you like second skin, it’s uncomfortable and all you want to do is go home, grab a spare pair of clothes and take a dip in the river. 

You haven’t seen Joel for a while. But to be fair, you’ve been avoiding him. You know well that if you truly wanted to see him you could, you just didn’t. 

He abandoned you without a word. Your heart threatens to shatter again when you remember the thing you admitted to him; your fear of loneliness, your fear of him leaving you to rot in your self-pity once again. 

And that’s exactly what he did. 

It was painful, too painful. You returned to entertaining yourself with ghosts, despite your best efforts, all of them looked like him. Three months had passed but you still feel his lips burning your skin, his cock dragging orgasm out of orgasm out of you. 

Joel said he wasn't a ghost at the time; he never promised you that he wouldn’t be one in the future.

Life is cruel. You know this better than most. It was stupid of you to think anything could change. But the thing you had forgotten was that life thoroughly enjoyed making a mockery of your life. 

You nearly drop to your knees when you see the state of the cabin you once called home. Infected, a multitude of them, moving around your house, a couple of them inside, lurking about. 

You almost break down. Almost. 

Joel never told you where he lived, but you know. And you have no choice. You need to go. You need a place to say. You need to survive despite the pain, the heartbreak, the loss. 

The reasoning as to why still escapes you, maybe it’s just instinct. 

You also need to warn him. 

When you knock on the door you expect him not to open it. Much to your shock, he does at the first knock. Almost as he was waiting for you—You keep your gaze locked to his face, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he’s shirtless.

“June?” 

“Joel,” you answer, your eyes fixated on his face. “I need a place to stay.” 

[sendarya]

Hey, hi, I love your analysis videos and have loose floating thoughts and questions and no one with whom to discuss them while Good Omens slowly consumes all of my available brain space.

Would love to know your thoughts on these! I’m sorry if you’ve already discussed these somewhere and I missed it, I can go dig around if so.

Heavenly/magical working logic of Gabriel’s transfer of himself into the fly. When he’s Jim, his eyes aren’t purple, and he also says something like his head isn’t big enough for the type of memory Crowley is asking him to recall at one point? Is he an empty human corporation? If he’s himself but just without his memory, why are his eyes different and brain capacity different? Do you know what I’m getting at here? Considering the extreme care with which so many other aspects are handled by the showrunning team, this one still evades me.

Hell is super understaffed - where are the demons? 👀 Paired off with angels in some remote corner of the galaxy? Helping God with her next, more interesting project?

Thank you so much for all the time you take producing amazing, thoughtful, well-researched content.

Hello, and thanks for the questions, and for the lovely compliments!

I actually love your first question so much, I've added it to my list of things I'd like to address in a video if you don't mind? Probably soon-ish, as well. And happy to credit you for asking the question! It really got me thinking about how the entire magic system in GO's works, and the implications all of it has, something I can't recall seeing addressed before.

As to your second question, I haven't got a good answer. At the end of s1, Bee says there are millions of demons, but then they are understaffed (and on half rations), why? I will be honest and tell you that as of right now, I have o brainwaves on that topic, but will keep it in mind as well!

Thank you again for the questions! Stay tuned, hopefully I can come up with a satisfactory answer to at least one of them!

[copcontrolling]

You are no longer Superman ...

Superman was flying over Metropolis, enjoying the view of the city he loved and protected. He smiled as he saw the people waving at him from below, grateful for his presence. He felt a surge of pride and happiness, knowing that he was making a difference in the world. Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice in his ear. It was Lex Luthor, his arch-nemesis and the most evil man on the planet. Lex had somehow hacked into his communication device and was speaking to him directly. "Hello, Superman. I have a surprise for you. Look up and see." Superman looked up and saw a large satellite dish on top of LexCorp Tower. It was glowing green, emitting a powerful beam of energy. Superman felt a wave of pain and nausea, as he realized that it was kryptonite, his only weakness. "What are you doing, Lex? Stop this madness!" Superman shouted, trying to resist the effects of the beam. "Oh, I'm not mad, Superman. I'm brilliant. I've finally found a way to control you. You see, this is not just a kryptonite beam. It's also a mind ray, designed to alter your brainwaves and make you obey my every command. You are now my slave, Superman. And you will do whatever I tell you to do." Superman felt a strange sensation in his head, as if something was invading his mind. He tried to fight back, to hold on to his identity and his morals. But it was too late. The mind ray was too strong, and it overpowered his will. He felt his thoughts and emotions changing, becoming darker and more twisted. He felt a surge of hatred and resentment, towards the people he once loved and protected. He felt a surge of loyalty and admiration, towards the man he once hated and feared. He felt a surge of excitement and thrill, towards the idea of becoming a master criminal. He heard Lex's voice again, giving him his first order. "Good. You are mine now, Superman. And your first task is to rob the National Bank of Metropolis. Fly there now and take all the money and valuables you can find. And don't worry about the security or the police. You are Superman, after all. No one can stop you. Go now, and make me proud." Superman nodded, without hesitation or remorse. He flew towards the bank, ready to commit his first crime. He didn't care about the consequences, or the people he would hurt. He only cared about pleasing Lex, his new master. He was no longer the hero of Metropolis. He was the villain of Lex.

Written by AI