#everyone’s making it sound apocalyptic at least around here

[psychoticwillgraham]

we’re only getting up to 4 inches of snow now (I think? but some models are saying 6+ again 😒 so who the fuck knows tbh) but that’s not what everyone is sounding the alarm about. it’s about the 50mph+ wind gusts, the -35 and very possibly lower wind chills, resulting prolonged power outages, car accidents as a result of whiteout conditions, and flash freezing on the roads combined with the heavy holiday traveling going on right now. and that’s what’s scaring the fuck out of me to be honest.

i know mom and I will be fine because she’s gotten through stuff similar to this back when she lived in Indiana in college, and I lived through a 2ft+ of snow blizzard when I was a teenager and one previous extended sub zero temperature period of days (that was bad but not with winds this high or snow added or a chance of flash freezing), but I’m still terrified because now we’re on our own and my sister won’t be able to get to us because she lives 15 minutes away in a different town and she can’t see very well at all due to a diabetic complication, so yeah she won’t be able to drive in those conditions.

normally I don’t believe in the hype around storms in general, especially for winter storms because it’s Missouri yknow? I should be used to this since I’ve lived here for like 99.9% of my life so far, but this is definitely unusual and of course I’m gonna take this shit seriously. i think mom thinks im taking way it too seriously and obsessing over every little detail of preparedness, but I’d rather be way overprepared then underprepared or not prepared at all yknow? sometimes the crazy, raving mad paranoid person is actually right for once lol

[papipedroo]

Whiskey Tears (Joel Miller x Reader)

Rated: Angst | Violence | Fluff | Age Gap

Summary: You, Joel, and Ellie have been a trio from the start. You were a family, but you find your relationship with Joel withering when he starts to pull away. Now a new comer makes her way into Jackson and into Joel’s heart…

3 months living in Jackson

You were content to say the least. No run in with raiders or evil things that go bump in the night. No sleeping outside. No clickers. No hunger.

To say the least you were happy for being in an apocalyptic world.

That and your little make shift family Joel and Ellie.

Ellie was to say your everything. Your ray of sunshine and a daughter that you would fight the world to keep safe. You both took to each other when you first met her as a firefly designated to escort her along with Joel and Tess to meet the others. You don’t know what was going to happen apart from Ellie being a cute and you still don’t know what happened at the hospital that day… You were immediately being transferred, sent on the road when suddenly Joel was driving past you with Ellie in the back. You don’t know why he stopped for you that day, but the three of you have been through a lot together and you’d put up your title as a firefly to be with them.

But now he has been gone for a week since he went out for patrol. You hadn’t been sleeping well, taking every chance you could to go out and look for him. Everyone could see the restlessness in your stance and the dark circles under your eyes.

You remember crying your worries to Maria after the fifth day of no sight of him.

“He hasn’t been gone this long and I don’t know what to do. I can’t loose him Maria, he is everything to me. He is everything to Ellie. We can’t loose him. I don’t know how to keep Ellie from crumbling when I can’t even keep myself together” You sobbed into her shirt.

“You keep telling her the truth and do what you always do, love and care for her. Just know that whatever happens, Tommy and I will always be here for you both.” She gently pet your hair until you finally calmed down enough to go home.

It was clear that you and Ellie weren’t taking his disappearance very well. Until today…

“Hey!”

You didn’t even get a chance to turn around before Ellie was tackling you into the snow. You coughed the little bit of snow out of your mouth as you took in a breath of air.

“Guess what?” Ellie asking as she sat up.

“You got taller? Because that tackled just took the life out of me.” You sighed as your head fell back into the snow.

The snow felt nice against your skin after a long day of rebuilding fences.

“A woman was found during patrol. I figured they’d shoot her but they brought her here. She’s at the bar with Tommy, Maria, and Joel.” Ellie explained, “Thought you might want to know.”

“Joel?” You sat up excitedly, “He’s back? Why didn’t you start with that? Is he okay? Is he hurt? What happened to him?”

Ellie nodded, “As far as I could tell he looks completely fine.”

Your brows furrowed, “Why is he there and not with us?”

Ellie shrugged, “I don’t know. Apparently he was the one that found the lady and that’s why he was gone for a week. Saved her from raiders or something.”

“That sounds reasonable enough...” You got up, and helped Ellie stand before you were both dusting off your clothes.

You were still unsure of the whole ordeal. Usually if Joel was gone for too long he would immediately find you both to let you know he was okay… Why wouldn’t he this time? Is it because of the woman he found?

She could be young or an elderly woman… You were hoping for the latter if you were being honest with yourself. Joel doesn’t usually help anyone and that struck an anxious nerve in you.

You and him weren’t together. No he made that very clear that night you drank too much whiskey and accidentally confessed your feelings to him… And then you finally got enough courage to kiss him and he kissed you back. The two of you found comfort in each others arms for months until that fateful day when he was stabbed…

Everything changed after that. Those late nights and brief touches ended horribly of course. As he suddenly became more open and caring towards Ellie, he was cold and closed off towards you.

That continued as the months went by until the three of you finally made it to Jackson where you would stay, but you were nothing more than friends possibly family to him… If you could call yourself that.

“Come on.” Ellie grabbed your hand before you could protest and began dragging you to the bar, “I caught a glimpse of her when they rode in. Dark curly hair, dark skin and green eyes. Oh! And a small scar on her neck, I wonder what that’s from? I got a scar once. It was from a bitch back at the QZ…” She began to go off topic as you neared the bar and that’s when the four of them stepped out and oh…

You stopped walking as your lips parted, “Oh.”

You weren’t sure what to say. She was absolutely gorgeous in your mind. Your eyes drifted down to where her hand was wrapped around Joel’s arm.

“That’s weird.” Ellie whispered as she stared at the two.

“Ah! There you two are. Come meet our newcomer, Heather.” Tommy waved the two of you over.

You walked over cautiously as Ellie bounded over to the group. Tommy introduced you both to Heather who waved with her free hand.

Why was she even holding onto him in the first place? Why was he allowing it?

You weren’t exactly paying attention to anything Tommy was saying, your gaze flickering between her hand around his arm and the way he seemed so relaxed.

“I think you’ll get along.” You heard Tommy say, “How old are you again Heather?”

“I’m 46.” Heather smiled.

46…

She was closer to Joel’s age than you were and while you didn’t care about the age gap between you and Joel before… You suddenly felt insecure.

Was that why he stopped touching me? Because of my age?

“Come on Ellie, let’s go show Heather the rest of the town.” Maria said and you watched as the four of them left.

You heart dropped watching the way Heather leaned up and kissed his cheek before she left.

“She kissed you.” You could feel anger rising in your chest, “Why did she kiss you Joel?”

“She didn’t- It’s not like that. She just feels comfortable, that’s all.” Joel sighed as if what just happened was normal.

“You don’t like kissing. You made that very clear.” You snapped as you crossed your arms.

“I don’t want to get into this right now.” Joel pinched the bride of his nose, “Look. She’s going to be staying with us until she settles in.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, “What?” Your voice raised, “You’re joking. Tell me you’re fucking joking Joel. A stranger is staying with us? Are you serious right now? How do you think Ellie and I are supposed to feel about this suddenly being thrown at us? You didn’t even try to find us and tell us you’re okay. We’ve been worried sick for a week Joel! A goddamn week! And here you are parading a girl you found like you’re about to get married. Like you forgot about Ellie and I.” You said with a slight bitterness in your tone, “Glad to see you’re okay by the way—”

“Would you just shut up!” Joel yelled and it was a tone you’ve only ever heard him use on people he didn’t like, “You’re acting like a child.”

It made you flinch back as you waited for him to continue.

“She’s been through a lot and she’s staying with me. That’s final. So get yourself into check and be nice to her.” He stated gruffly before leaving.

You couldn’t believe how he was acting as if the two of you haven’t been through hell. It didn’t go past you that he said me and not us either… You were here first and here you were getting replaced by a damsel in distress. You released a short angry yell before marching off into a different direction.

You found yourself at your secret spot in the small orchard here at Jackson. The apple tree that you planted in spring was barely a foot tall as you sat beside it. Your mom used to tell you how talking to plants helped them grow and it stuck with you even after her death. So you talked to your little tree.

“I don’t know what happened between the two of us. Why did he suddenly pull away from me? We were so happy and now… Now he’s caring for another girl.” I sighed in defeat, “You don’t think he likes her do you?”

You spent the rest of the day there until the sun was about to set. Only then did you make your way home, knowing what you were going to find.

“You’re back! You wouldn’t believe the audacity of Joel.” Ellie crashed into you and wrapped you in a hug.

“What happened?”You asked as you wrapped her in my arms.

You found quickly that when Ellie was feeling overwhelmed she would wrap her arms are your waist and bury her face into your shoulder.

“For starters, that lady is staying with us. She’s already making herself at home here. Oh and Joel gave her your room.” She said and your brows furrowed.

“He what?” You asked.

Why the hell would he give up your room?

“Said something about making sure she has her own space or whatever. I still don’t see why she can’t just stay somewhere else.” Ellie grumbled before the woman in question made herself known.

“Oh! You’re back.” She spoke cherrily causing you to grimace.

“I made us all dinner. I hope you don’t mind, it’s just been a long time since I cooked a decent meal.” She continued and whether she noticed the sour expression on your face, she didn’t mention it.

“Don’t ask me what she made. I don’t know. I probably won’t like it anyways.” Ellie spoke honestly.

“Well… I suppose let’s try and give her a chance… If Joel’s putting this much effort in making her feel welcomed then…” You gulped, “She must be important.”

The two of you walked into the dining room to find the table set and Joel already seated. Heather carried in a pot, the lid covering what was hiding inside. She set it down in the center of the table and lifted the lid to reveal roasted chicken with potatoes, steamed vegetables and pesto...

“I remember Joel telling me this was his favorite, I hope you all enjoy.” She said, her voice a bit too cheerful.

“Is that pesto?” I asked with uncertainty.

“It is!” She smiled.

“I… It doesn’t happen to have pine nuts in it does it?” You asked.

“It does… Why?” Her head tilted in confusion.

“I can’t eat this. I’m sorry.” You looked at the meal, “I’m deathly allergic to pine nuts…”

“Oh… I didn’t know.” She frowned.

“Joel knew.” You barely said over your breath as you glanced over to him.

“I forgot when I told her.” Was his easy reply.

I forgot he said… He forgot about an allergy that could quite literally kill me?

I didn’t mention it when I continued, “I thought your favorite meal was the hamburgers you used to make for—”

“It’s not.” He glared.

He never glared at you before and it stopped you from continuing your sentance.

“I can make you a sandwich.” Ellie said and it warmed your heart.

“Don’t worry sweetie, I’m fine.” You smiled at her before moving to your usual seat in defeat, the one next to Joel’s right.

Only Heather sat down in your seat instead.

You felt the hairs in your arms stand up as anger slowly bubbled in you. The first day she is here and she’s already taking over everything that’s yours.

“That’s my seat.” You said firmly.

“Excuse me?” She looked up at you with wide eyes, acting as if what you said made no sense.

“I always sit there.” You explained again, hoping she would just get up and move, but you didn’t have luck on your side. She sat firmly in place and made no effort to leave.

As you went to speak again, Joel cut you off with a tired look.

“It’s just a fucking seat. Don’t be a child and choose another one.” Joel sighed motioning to the other empty chairs.

Those words left a sinking feeling in your chest the sheer embarrassment you felt had your cheeks flush. You quickly made your way to the far end of the table and took a seat.

Ellie glared at Joel and muttered, “Asshole.” Before taking her seat next to you instead of on Joel’s left.

Heather served Joel and Ellie with a smile on her face and a content Joel watching her every move. It made you want to claw your eyes out. The room was filled with clinking silverware and Heather and Joel discussing the work she will be doing here in Jackson.

Ellie picked at her food with a frown on her face. Usually she would be talking to Joel and you about her adventures of the day especially with his week long disappearance. You could tell she was beginning to feel jealous.

“How was your day sweet pea?” You asked her and immediately saw the way her eyes lit up.

“Well I found out something crazy about how to change a horseshoe.” She said excitedly and a smile broke onto your face.

“Really now? Tell me more about it.” You said and the rest of dinner was filled with Ellie’s story about horseshoes.

When the three were finished eating, Heather looked over to Ellie.

“How was dinner?” She asked and waited for an answer.

Ellie shrugged, “Eh, not as good as mom’s.” She stated as she got up and left to put her plates into the sink.

Those words lifted your spirits and brought a small smile to your face.

“I thought it was really good Heather.” Joel said and you watched as Heather leaned down to kiss his cheek for the second time today.

You got up and left, not wanting to see anything else. Instead you made your way to the kitchen where Ellie was washing her dish. You decided on swiping an apple from the fruit bowl to suffice as your dinner for the night.

Heather soon popped her head in the kitchen with the rest of the dishes. She set them by the sink before announcing to the both of you that she was heading to bed.

“You should head to bed as well El’s. You have a big day taking care of the horses by yourself tomorrow.” You said as you took nudged her away from the sink, “Dont worry, I’ll finish up here.”

“But what about you? Where will you sleep? You can stay with me if you’d like, I don’t mind.” She said and you gave her a smile.

“I think I’ll take the couch tonight. I’d like to get in some reading and I might be up a while.” You said.

“Are you sure?” Ellie asked you one more time.

“Positive. Now head up to bed sweet pea. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You gave her a warm hug before she left.

You turned your attention back to the dishes and began to wash them in silence as you thought about where any extra blankets might be.

“I’m sorry I gave up your room.” Joel’s deep voice filtered through the cold air.

“You didn’t even ask me if that was okay.” You stated without looking back, “That is my room.”

“I know.” Joel nodded, “She was panicking on where she was going to stay and I wasn’t thinking when she asked.”

At least he acknowledged what he did was stupid.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you since you’ve been back, but we don’t admire it Joel.” You said, referring to you and Ellie.

You finished putting away the dishes and finally faced him. Even after being a complete ass, he was still handsome.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find extra blankets for the couch.” You stated bitterly as you walked by him.

He grabbed your arm before you could leave, “You’re staying in my room tonight. I’ll stay on the couch.”

“I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch Joel. You’ve been missing all week. You need a comfortable bed.” You sighed and tried to pull your arm away from him, but he wouldn’t budge.

“No.” His gruff voice had chills run up your arm.

You squinted at him before an idea popped into your mind.

“Fine.” You stated shortly before tugging him behind you to his room.

“What are you doing?” He asked you, but didn’t pull away.

“We’re sharing the bed.” You stated simply as you tugged him into his room.

When it dawned on him he finally released the grip on your arm and took a step back.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He said.

“Why?” You crossed my arms, “It’s not like we haven’t slept together before, in both senses.” You huffed and motioned to the bed, “We can share a fucking bed or do you think I’m going to kiss your cheek and cuddle up to you? Is that what you and Heather did to keep warm?”

“Shut up.” He snapped, but he couldn’t seem to make eye contact with you, choosing to stare at the wall instead of your sullen face, “I don’t think we should be doing this.” He continued, his voice more gentle this time as if he was trying to calm down a rabid wolf.

“Why?” You stepped towards him, “What is so wrong with me that we can’t even share a bed anymore?” You tried not to let your voice crack.

“It’s not right. What we did. It was because we were lonely. I’m 56 years old and you’re just kid. It was wrong—” He began to say but you cut him off angrily.

“I’m 27 years old. I’m not a fucking kid and you know that.” You glared, finally able to look into his deep brown eyes, “It wasn’t wrong either. Don’t say that. Not to me.”

“I don’t want to argue about this.” He shook his head, “I’m sleeping on the couch.” He stated firmly as he turned to leave.

He was halfway out the door when you spoke up with tears in your eyes, “I love you.”

“I know.” He said before he shut the door behind him.

Leaving you alone once again to take care of your tears and Joel left to tend to his glass of whiskey.

[deepouterspacecandy]

Say My Name

It’s been a minute since I last posted, but I couldn’t go without expressing my gratitude for all the kind messages and asks I’ve received during my hiatus. Your thoughtfulness means the world to me, truly. Thank you for taking the time to reach out. I haven’t decided if I’m coming back full time yet, but I still enjoy writing for Abby and connecting with you beautiful souls.

This is a dialogue heavy, 8k word, friends-to-lovers piece with a post apocalyptic twist. We’ve got some angst, fluff, and even a half-decent helping of smut this time around. All my works are 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes.

“Tell me she ditched breakfast because you wore her out,” you say.

With a loud clatter, your faded plastic tray hits the table, making your juice wobble critically close to spilling and turning your sugared toast into a soggy sponge. The ballistic storm cloud swirling above Abby’s head shifts just enough to make space for you, her icy blue eyes studying the clumsy way you drop into the seat across from her. Her brief, elusive smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

The frigid breeze leaking through Abby’s porous mood is enough to leave daggers of ice dangling throughout the mess hall, but you’re likely the only person to notice. To the outside world, she appears as composed as ever, her true feelings hidden beneath a calm facade.    

“The weather girl didn’t quite make it to morning, then?” you ask, keeping your voice low as the fling in question enters the room, looking rather morose.

The moment she spots Abby from across the room, the brunette spins on her heel, her face contorted into a frown that suggests she’s never experienced pleasure a day in her life, before marching back out the door.

“Something like that,” Abby mumbles, stabbing an undercooked cube of potato with her fork and waving it before her like a disgruntled magician.

“Yikes. You good?” you ask.

“Hookups aren’t my style—I’ll leave the one-offs to Manny,” she says.

Abby is relentless in her self-judgment, almost cruelly so, and it’s apparent that she’s trapped in a cycle of self-loathing that is disproportionate to her actions. The pattern repeats itself each time. Out of nowhere, a beautiful girl approaches her, someone who she would have never suspected harboured any feelings. The pursuit ensues until Abby finally succumbs, but as soon as things get real, she discovers a reason to sabotage it or, more famously, she overlooks the minor red flags until a massive one whips her in the face.

You believe with every fiber of your being that she hasn’t encountered the right person yet, but Abby carries the burden of blame entirely on herself.  

“I hope you satisfied your sweet tooth, at least,” you say. “Or did you skip dessert, too?”

The cloud above Abby’s head is now a looming grey thunderclap and you have the good grace to lean too far over the table to reenact it for her. Unaware that your hoodie is benefiting more from your breakfast than you are, you playfully extend and retract your fingers, pretending to unleash bolts of lightning.

Abby barely lifts her gaze to meet yours, but when she does, she brandishes an eye roll so extravagant it leaves you in a fit of unbridled determination.  

“What even is that—what are you doing?” Abby asks, gesturing at your twirling hands. “Everyone’s staring, you know that, right?”

“I’m the storm above your head,” you exclaim, accentuating the cloud impression by puffing up your cheeks. “See?”

A sincere burst of laughter emanates from your dearest friend, only to evaporate against her kingdom of self-loathing. Your attempt at mimicking the sound of thunder is not as well-received by Abby, evident in her listless expression, which, of course, only urges you to resume your shenanigans.

“Who needs a weather forecast, anyway? I’ve got my very own cyclone right here, all blonde and brooding,” you say. “I know exactly what’s going to happen with this tornado.”

The battered table groans under the weight of your dramatic performance, and you refuse to sit back down until she gives you a sign. Any small indication that she won’t be spending the next three hours punishing herself in the gym.

“Brooding,” Abby snorts. “Pouting, maybe. Would you knock it off already?”

“No can do,” you say, your fingers transforming into a deluge of raindrops, patterning against an imaginary umbrella. “Here comes the torrential downpour, folks. You better saddle up.”

“What does that even mean?” Abby chuckles. “Okay—you look insane. Sit back down before you hurt yourself.”

“Sorry, but you’re not the boss of me, Abigail.”

“Don’t test me,” Abby teases. “I’ve got more pull with Isaac than you think.”

It’s not long before your excitement gets the better of you, the jagged charms of your bracelet snagging Abby’s hair and creating a tangled mess in a flash. She grabs hold of your arm, attempting to get ahead of the inevitable tugging of her hair and the sudden movement jolts through your body, forcing you to grab onto her shoulder with your other hand for balance.

The awkward position you take across the dining table sparks a deep, fast burning flush, and you feel it crawl up your chest to pool in the apples of your cheeks.

It’s a blunder you already know Abby will use against you more than once, just as soon as you untangle yourself from her. She and anyone from her crew who might be watching your antics at the most inopportune moment.

“Satisfied?” Abby asks.

“This is your fault,” you say, struggling to stabilize the tsunami of amusement and horror. “I told you this bracelet was a bad idea. Oh god, I’m really tangled here!”

The way her pouty mouth curls into a smirk, with one side slightly lifted, is devilishly captivating. A flutter builds between your ribs until it flips your stomach upside down. It’s evident to anyone with vision why Abby has become the most sought-after bachelor in Seattle.

Women across all sectors of the WLF either aspire to be built like her or desire to be in Abby’s company, and you get it. When you consider her skill in hand-to-hand combat and survival, it’s downright self-preservation to love her.

She is such a loyal human being that despite stirring jealousy up inside you a time or two, there’s been no reason to fret. Abby will always have your six.

“Are you going to help me out, or what?” you blurt. “My plank game is suffering.”

Abby braces your abdomen, her grip firm, as you struggle to untangle the charms from her hair in a hurry. The sweet fragrance of cinnamon and brown sugar, a lingering reminder of the breakfast that will soon lose appeal, accompanies the warmth of her breath against your wrist. Not only is it confusing all your senses, but the gentle tickle of her fingertips against your sides has you losing concentration.

“Hit the gym with me more often,” she says with a wince of discomfort, strands of her hair clinging stubbornly to the chain. “I’ll have your table Pilates up to scratch in no time.”

“How are you so calm right now? I’m literally sweating,” you huff.

With a knowing smile, Abby gives your waist an affectionate squeeze. PDA makes both of you uncomfortable, but she is especially adept at keeping her emotions under wraps. It’s not like this minor mistake is a profound admission of your feelings for her, but everyone at the stadium loves to gossip, and news about Abby spreads like wildfire.  

“It’s the Christmas light fiasco all over again,” Abby says. “You’re hopeless at untangling shit. Just take it off—it’s fine.”

“Take what off, Abby? Your hair is a freaking rats’ nest right now.”

“The bracelet! Just unclasp it,” she says. “I’ll cut it out if I have to.”

“I’m trying, but your hair has wrapped itself around everything! Maybe if you’d sit still—”

In the eight years of your friendship with Abby, every hug has left her blushing from head to toe. You can tell that she’s more anxious than she’s letting on, and the panic is pulling your spine bowstring tight. Every passing moment, the condition worsens as her hair becomes more enmeshed with your jewelry and you become less confident in your capacity to remedy it. The wispy tendrils of hair at Abby’s temple are curling, and you can feel drops of perspiration trickling down your back.

The moment a soldier wolf whistles at you on his way to the meal queue, your life as a yoga entrepreneur comes to an abrupt and impetuous end.

“Alright, time’s up,” Abby announces.

Hoisting you over the table with a soft grunt, she settles you onto her lap, directing an unfriendly gaze at the new recruit. It happens in the blink of an eye, her strength so effortless that it leaves you fumbling for a place to rest your hands.

“Better?” Abby asks, her stare remaining fixed on the offending soldier as she poses the question to you.

Abby is feeding the rumour mill with both palms today, the young soldier’s face turning pale as he reconsiders his decision to catcall unfamiliar women.

“I feel like we could’ve handled this differently, but okay,” you say, heart pounding against your ribcage. “You owe me breakfast. I’ve seen those lemon bars hidden under your bed.”

“And you have to fix my hair, or I’ll hang you from the motor pool by your thong,” Abby retorts without an ounce of malice in her tone. “Let’s ride, mi reina.”

“I hate when you say stuff like that,” you chortle. “Manny is a terrible influence.”

“Time to skedaddle,” Abby suggests instead, giving you a hard bounce on her lap, relishing in the speed she can burrow under your skin. “Ready to jet? Let’s hit the road. Come on, these are great!”

As you take in the sight of your disheveled table, food strewn about, you reach out and pull at Abby’s earlobes. When she closes her eyes, a goofy grin lights up her face, bringing to mind all the reasons you adore her.

“We gotta sort this out first,” you say.

One moment your juice is drinkable, and the next it’s only fit for slurping from your tray. Your thighs are now a spectacle to behold, covered in a sticky, cinnamon-infused brown sugar butter and Abby’s face is such a deep crimson hue you question her ability to recover.

At this point, it’s hard to tell if Abby’s glaring red flush stems from embarrassment or boiling rage.

You’re well equipped to handle any range of emotion from her, no matter how complex, but she surpasses you in physical strength in every scenario. Should she choose to decapitate a comrade for disrespecting you, all you can do is sit back, grab a bowl of popcorn, and enjoy the show.

“Earth to Abby. We need to clean this up and not murder random dudes in the chow hall, yes?” you say.

Abby shrugs, her breath catching in short, shallow gasps. The sensation of her poking at the mess on your lap makes you acutely aware of it seeping through your pants, leaving you with a sudden desperation to change your clothes.

 When Abby glances at the soldier behind you, her nostrils flare and you tap her forehead to redirect her focus.  

“Anderson,” you warn.

“I’ll handle it,” Abby says with a laugh. “I’ve got a pair of shorts you can borrow if you don’t want to walk back to your place.”

“Why are we even friends, huh?” you ask.

“You tell me,” Abby murmurs, the room growing hot as her squirming comes to a sudden stop, her fingertips skimming your hips like a hungry shadow.

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

While Abby indulges in a shower, you pace her messy apartment, skin buzzing with the weight of her earlier remarks. Prior to vanishing into the bathroom, she, being a woman of integrity, repaid her debts by throwing you her hidden supply of lemon bars.

Your mouth waters, but you just can’t bring yourself to eat.

Her side of the apartment is tidy, save for a few stray books and a stack of toppled dumbbells next to her sleeping quarters. Manny’s side of the room looks like a bomb went off and he tried to set things straight by ordering another blast.

Clad in Abby’s tattered shorts, you venture through a room that you’ve explored countless times before. Abby, the creature of habit that she is, has kept most things the same, but not everything is as it used to be. Your stomach tightens as you contemplate which roommate took off the pink bra hanging from the lampshade in the middle of the room.

It’s delicate and woven with lace, the kind of thing you wouldn’t typically consider wearing. Your days are so consumed with trying not to catch an arrow through the kidney and clearing infected from high-rise buildings that lingerie is the last thing on your mind.

“That’s all Alvarez,” Abby says, propping herself against the hallway wall to clear her throat. “I’m not that bold.”

Absentmindedly, she picks at the softened callouses on her hand, a result of washing off the morning. Stripped of her army fatigues and the need to assert dominance, her true gentle nature shines through. When she’s not overwhelmed with the responsibility of being in charge, she’s a selfless sweetheart, and you can’t help but feel sorry for those who miss out on this side of her.

“Not a fan of bra-tossing, eh? Finally, a sport you’re not immediately good at,” you tease.

“I never said I wasn’t good at it,” Abby smirks.

Water droplets from her wet hair have soaked her sports bra, leaving it damp against her freckled skin, while the towel draped low around her waist forces you to look away. The image of your best friend unhitching a lacy bra and flinging it off leaves the surface of your face licked white-hot with flames. You distract yourself with a novel on her bedside table, careful not to disturb the bookmark she’s tucked inside about midway through.

It’s the bookmark you made for her, back when you were just a couple of nerds tasked with organizing the FOB’s reading material together. You incorporated pressed flowers into the design, gathering them from an untamed garden outside the stadium walls. It’s seen better days, but Abby has salvaged it by carefully taping the areas where the lamination has peeled apart. 

“How come we haven’t gone back?” Abby asks. “We used to love that spot.”

“The rose garden? I don’t think it’s there anymore,” you say, absentmindedly thumbing through the pages of her book, the musty smell transporting you back to the quiet corners of an old library. “Isaac had that entire lodge torn down a couple of years ago. Back when he was all hellbent on expanding the lookouts.”

“Oh, I remember that nightmare. He’s always thinking so big,” Abby says, laying the sarcasm thick.

You hear the shuffle of her slipping into her favourite pair of joggers, followed by the soft thud of her towel landing perfectly on the post of her bed. She goes out of her way to throw it from afar, and as you turn to look, she winks at you.

“Your cockiness isn’t cute, just so you’re aware,” you lie.

“Duly noted,” Abby calls over her shoulder, escaping into the kitchen to quench her thirst.

Abby’s cuteness extends to even the most supremely annoying aspects of her personality, but you’d never tell her that. Your relationship has always thrived on unspoken understanding. Together, you have an undeniable synergy, making you an invincible team in combat.

You trust Abby with your life. With no explicit labels, the bond between you is tangible.

“Thinking about giving dating another go?” you ask, as you delve more closely into the book in your hands.

You notice that she’s dog-eared a page, marking a steamy section, the passage so erotic you’re obliged to slam it shut.

“What about that girl from the kennels? She’s been crushing on you for ages,” you continue.

With a tray of snacks in one hand and two jars of iced tea in the other, Abby rounds the corner. Her stern expression suggests that she has no interest in talking about her courtship woes tonight.

“The one who hijacks my morning runs to vent about her ex—telling me about all the dudes who hit on her when she leaves the FOB? Doesn’t make for great pillow talk in my experience,” she says. “Please take this before I drop it.”

“Hold up. You pillow talk your girls?” you ask.

Abby’s nose crinkles in annoyance, her silent plea for you to take the tray of snacks from her growing more desperate.

“Way to make me sound like a gigolo!”

“I’m just saying,” you jest, taking the tray of snacks from her and freeing her arms from their burden. “Is it like—sweet nothings or some seriously raunchy dirty talk?”

With a calming breath, Abby lets her arms go limp and juts out her hip, bracing for a harrowing interrogation.

“Oh my god, it’s super filthy, isn’t it?” you gasp.

“That’s enough—get out of my apartment. No movie night for you.”

Her words lack the bite she’s suggesting, and she’s already halfway through making the bed for you, piling up pillows for your gratification. The memory of helping her haul a new bed into her room brings back the smell of fresh paint and the feeling of accomplishment as she excitedly prepared her new, comfier space to sprawl out.

While she kneels on the bed to adjust the mountain of cushions to absolute perfection, you’re struck by the hard muscles of her back. She hasn’t skipped a day in the gym in several months and it shows.

It’s not just for herself that she pushes her body to the limit. The thought of serving the people she loves drives her to be the protector. The person everyone turns to for help, the one who ensures a peaceful sleep back home by handling the spooky things that go bump in the night beyond the ramparts.

“You’re not wrong,” you say, rehashing your earlier conversation. “If I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t want to waste time talking about other people. I mean, I’m sure she’s a great girl for the right one. But you’re you. Plenty to unpack there without bringing other shit into the mix.”

With a swift leap off the bed, Abby settles herself on the edge of the mattress nearest to you, a curious grin spreading across her face.

“Come again?” she asks.

“You deserve to feel like the only woman in the room, that’s all,” you clarify. “I think it’s okay for you to want that—to wait for someone who really sees you.”

Abby sits with her hands laced together in her lap, tilting her head at you, her gaze glossy and welcoming against the dim light. Within the tranquil space, her shoulders exude a quiet strength and breadth, no longer needed for aggressive deeds. With her legs spread wide and her stature relaxed, Abby appears as if she is untouched by the perils of your violent world.

“Maybe the next one keeps you feeling secure all the time, you know what I mean? Puzzle pieces and all that mushy stuff,” you say.

She’s just staring at you, her long lashes catching the light, and you can feel the nerves creeping in through the soles of your feet.

“Is that right? Puzzle pieces,” Abby says, biting her bottom lip into a pale pink invitation to ogle at her mouth. “Tell me more about that.”

“Yeah, you know. The peanut butter to my jelly or whatever,” you say.

You linger a little too long, and as she snares you in the act, your attention shifts to the frayed strings of your shirt. You fiddle with the unintended tassels, hoping she isn’t seeing right through you.   

“Hey,” Abby whispers. “Come here.”

A sudden knock at the door causes both of you to jump, scattering in opposite directions like pyretic shrapnel. Abby’s hair, wild and loose, sticks to the small of her back as she pulls a sweatshirt over her head. She wrestles with her thick hair, trying to liberate it from the grip of her sweater’s collar, until she finally fashions it into a tousled bun.

“Where’s your damn key?” Abby barks, tearing open the door. “Oh, Jesus. What happened to you?”

Her previously relaxed posture withdraws as she stands rigidly, ready for whatever lies ahead.

Manny’s voice, tinged with fear, quakes as he speaks from the other side, leaving you with a sense of unease.

“They fucking got him. Isaac’s dead.”

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

For six long months, Abby spearheaded the war against The Rattlers, but eventually, the casualties and loss of resources became too much to bear. Neither side emerged from the battle unscathed, both factions left depleted, with survivors departing with only what paltry baggage they could carry.

You try to banish the memories from your thoughts as an endless canopy of trees whip past your peripheral vision, Abby’s motorcycle vibrating between your legs.

She steadies the handlebars with one powerful hand, the other securing your arms around her waist. Now and then, she taps your hands to prevent you from dozing off, turning her head just enough to better hear you checking in with her.

“I’m okay,” you shout over the roaring wind. “I’m good.”

Your fingertips graze against her smooth leather jacket, feeling the heat emanating from her stomach. You’ve been traveling for half a day, and exhaustion is starting to kick in earlier than usual. She nods at a motel in the distance, its algae-stricken neon sign nothing but a desolate ghost against an overgrown landscape.

The risk is too high, with the potential for a multitude of infected lurking around. Since neither of you have had proper rest or decent meals in weeks, it would be a fool’s errand to clear them alone.

With a head shake from you and a nod of acknowledgement from her, the cruiser lurches forward as she gains speed, determined to reach a safer destination.

The cabin you stumble upon is nestled miles away from the main road, hidden deep within the wilderness. It’s a time capsule, transporting you to a world that no longer exists—ivy and carpets of moss reclaiming the wooden exterior. Decaying chairs, some overturned, sit ominously across the dense lawn, perhaps a testament to the hurried departure of their previous occupants.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pine and when Abby slows the motorcycle to a stop, the forest around you falls silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves. The sound of gravel crunching under her boots sends an echo through the lonely property as Abby hesitates to dismount. She straddles the bike, taking a moment to absorb her surroundings, not yet giving you permission to hop off.

“This looks promising,” you say, leaning back to find support on the bike rack behind you. The metal is cool against your palms as you stretch your sore muscles. “We still have some time before it gets dark. Want to give hunting a shot? Pun intended, obviously.”

Abby puffs a quiet laugh as if your levity pulled her from a worried thought.

“You hate hunting,” she says.

“Yeah, well, we gotta eat. No way I’m sending you off by yourself.”

With a gentle tap on your thigh, Abby gestures with her chin, indicating that you should be the one to swing your leg off the bike first.

“Let’s scope the place out and go from there. We don’t need any surprises today,” she says.

Her statement is heavy with the burden of many unfortunate events that have accumulated over the past few months. An abundance of shocks to the nervous system, with a dire shortage of luck.

“Maybe this one’s got a gym,” you say, knowing full well the chances are paper thin. “I’m getting major health nut vibes.”

Night after night, the sound of Abby’s spirited grunts and the clanging of improvised dumbbells have disrupted your sleep. She lifted cinderblocks once, her sweaty, breathless performance well worth losing a little shuteye. While she may not have the same level of stamina on such restricted sustenance, she is still a formidable force.

You long to offer Abby something more stable, but she has never complained.

Swinging herself over the seat and regaining her sea legs, Abby stretches with such intensity that she momentarily lifts herself onto her tiptoes.

“Teach me Pilates,” she teases, a melancholic beauty imbedded in her tired smile. “You were killing it back in the day.”

The memory of that morning in the chow hall floods back, and a bittersweet ache fills your heart for the tight-knit community you once called home.

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

The cracked and dusty windows are a stepladder for twisting vines, as they make their way across the walls and onto the mantel of an imposing stone fireplace. A few of the stones have shattered, leaving a layer of rock dust on the old, mildewed carpet below. Moth-bitten curtains do little to filter the light, but anticipation fills you, eager to see how the sunset will paint the end of this era with a vibrant palette of hues.

“Check this out,” Abby says, leaning over a wobbly table near the entrance.

She’s browsing through an aged daybook, with its pages yellowed and curling. As you sidle up next to her, she immediately senses your presence, her hand gravitating to the small of your back.

“It’s a log or something. Looks like a couple people have come through over the years,” she mutters, before reading aloud a recent entry.  

We got bit playing truth or dare. It was fun while it lasted, but I wouldn’t suggest lowering your guard. I was so hyped about the wine cellar that I forgot to secure the door. Stupid, right? The booze is total shit, but it’s taking the edge off. Since she’s beating me to it, we’ve made up our minds to walk our butts away from here, so the next suckers have a better go. I never thought my girl would turn so fast. She’s always been so much tougher than me. I guess that’s the way it goes. If you’re reading this, don’t be a pussy. Seize the moment so you’re not stuck living with regret. I never quite got there for some reason. FYI, there’s a decent well pump out back. Dying is thirsty business. Cya.

Abby’s brows furrow as she glares at the note, causing a knot to form in the pit of your stomach. Every day in recent memory, gruesome death has confronted both of you without fail. You hoped that this might be the day you escaped any haunting reminders of the infected, but perhaps it’s just wishful thinking on your part.

“Are you alright?” you ask, resting your hand on Abby’s shoulder. “Let’s put this down for a while.”

Out of nowhere, Abby bursts into uncontrollable laughter, her infectious giggles filling the abandoned space. She is loud and full of sudden energy, causing her entire body to quake. You have never witnessed her so hysterical about anything, and concern niggles into the back of your mind. It’s possible that the never-ending mayhem is wearing her down and having negative consequences on her psyche. It’s surely affecting yours.

For a split second, Abby pauses in disbelief before collapsing with laughter again.

It’s difficult to maintain your composure when you hear these rare, gleeful sounds escaping her, no matter how precarious they may be. For the first time in a long time, Abby’s face is free of sadness.

“Sorry but—who the fuck dies playing truth or dare?” Abby wheezes, wrapping her arms snug around her abdomen, unable to stop the unbridled mirth from spilling out. “I mean, I’ve seen some shit, okay? I really have. But this. Oh, my god.”

The realization that you’re not finding it amusing only makes her laughter grow louder and more overwhelming. When you reach for her hand, the comradery in your approach seems to ground her, allowing her to catch her breath.   

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

The forest, mostly unexplored by humans and seemingly unaffected by any contagion, makes hunting a straightforward task. With Abby’s fastidiousness in preparing the meat and your efficiency in building the fire and ransacking the cupboards, dinner is ready in no time.

You eat until you can barely move, your sides aching from the excess. Positioned between you, a jug of fresh water is too refreshing to resist. The cool liquid drips down your chin and you’re too content to care.

“You look happy,” Abby says, her lips glistening with a hint of grease, evidence of a nourishing feast. “Did I do okay? I got a little sloppy with the cuts, but I was so damn hungry I just wanted to get it on the plate.”

Her gaze meets yours, and in her baby-blues, you see a spark of optimism intertwined with the orange glow of the flickering fire.

“Are you kidding?” you say between gulps of water. “Abby, you are sodamn good to me. If you only knew.”

It dawns on you, after uttering the words, that your voice has taken on a seductive undertone, a subtle shift flashing across Abby’s expression. It’s not a negative one from what you gather, but your heart races. Abby’s cheeks are rosy, leaving you to ponder if your praise had any influence, or if it’s the aftermath of a hearty meal and a toasty shelter.

While you haven’t had a proper chance to explore your feelings for one another, the pressure for you to do so continues to mount. With each lingering gaze, every timid touch, the countless hours spent together on the road, your desire for her deepens.

Abby takes a swig from the water jug and lets out an obnoxious burp. Your boots collide as you send her an impish nudge, prodding her to remember her manners.

“Excuse me,” Abby says, moving to trap your boot between hers. “Not very becoming of me to belch like a cowboy in the presence of a lady.”

“And all this from a surgeon’s daughter too!” you say, smitten by the way her eyes sparkle and her smile broadens when you mention her father. “Lucky it’s only me.”

Abby’s eyes sweep over you, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip. The flames in the fireplace surge and dance, a rich tapestry of light and shadow fighting for prominence on the wall. The mix of irregular pops and hisses, with a steady rhythmic thrum, turns the cozy ambiance into a blanket you can almost reach for.

“Truth or dare?” Abby asks, her arched eyebrows springing up.

“What?” you blurt. “Nuh-uh!”

Despite still having you trapped between her boots, with a confident show of docility, Abby shifts her body, settling onto her side. She patiently waits for you, resting her head on her palm with a wicked grin.

“You seriously want to play this right now—here?” you ask. “What if we die?”

“You really think I’d let anything happen to you?”

No matter how strong your defenses might be, no matter how diligent your efforts, things will unfold in this world with no consideration for your intentions. You’ve learned it a thousand times over. But you’re strangely motivated to live each day with more courage.

If anyone can keep you whole against all odds, it’s the girl whose seafaring eyes are glinting up at you with admiration, as if you were the pioneer of fire.

“Alright, fine. But remember, what goes around comes around,” you say. “I won’t hesitate to fuck your shit up if you make me do something weird.”

“I won’t,” Abby says. “Promise.”

“Okay, I pick dare then,” you say.

Abby smirks at you, gleaming with satisfaction, as if this was exactly how she wanted things to unfold. She scrambles to her feet in search of her backpack, returning with the canvas bag unzipped. This time, she drops next to you, her braid brushing against your arm as she hunkers down.

“I dare you to read me something from your journal,” she says. “But it has to be about me.”

“Jokes on you! I left that shit at the stadium,” you chuckle, struck by a twinge of sorrow for the memoirs you’ve both left behind. “And what makes you think I wrote anything about your cocky ass, anyway?”

“Oh wow, look what I found!” Abby says, retrieving the familiar sight from her backpack, a mix of excitement and devastation washing over you as she dances the diary in front of your nose.

You snatch it from her like you’ve poised the book to detonate in the wrong hands.

“You actually read it?” you ask, horrified. “What the fuck, Anderson? I should leave your sorry ass right now.”

“I didn’t, I swear,” she laughs, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Come on, I’d never do that—and as if you’d ever walk away from me.”

“Then how do you know I’ve written things about you, huh?”

The side-bump you inflict on her is strong enough to send both of you tumbling down, but her smile remains wide and luminous, unaffected by the fall. Together, you both lie down on your backs, finding solace in the temporary disappearance of dread from your surroundings.   

“Prove you didn’t,” Abby says, her voice carrying a smoky timbre.

Reluctant to expose your vulnerability to exceedingly cheesy diary entries, you lift the journal above your head and scan to the most recent confession. You have a clear recollection of the dream you’d written about, so you know that this passage is about her.

Abby inches closer to you, dropping her head on your shoulder. The sound of a hard mint clinks against her teeth as she toys with it in her mouth. It’s comical to think that while rummaging through your room for your best-kept secrets, she couldn’t resist swiping them from your candy stash. If they’re stale as hell, she deserves it.

“Challenge accepted,” you say, throat squeaking as you swallow. “But I will resent you for the rest of my life—deal?”

Abby’s languid nod sends a surge of adrenaline through you, making your heart pound incredibly fast. The frantic tone of your writing is clear in this entry, with its cluttered letters and hastily scrawled words.

While you can remember the dream, you can’t remember the level of detail you recorded it. You find yourself praying for brevity.

I had a dream last night, and I woke up drenched. This time, not by sweat. But that’s not the worst part. I had to come home at lunchtime today to swap out my underwear, because the dream version of Abby turned me on so much. The things she did to me kept playing over and over in my head until I couldn’t focus on anything else. The ache lasted the entire day.

Abby shields her face with her hands, her chest jumping as she giggles in a pitch you know only comes out when she has lost all self control. In an instant, you’re hiding your face behind the lawless chronicle, your cheeks burning hotter than ever before.

“I hate you so much,” you squawk, voice muffled by the very tome that will be your undoing. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

“Honestly, dream Abby sounds like a God,” she says, bringing the tip of her thumb to her mouth and abusing it with her teeth. “Keep going.”

“This is the worst,” you groan. “Why are you torturing me right now?”

“A dare’s a dare.”

When she looks up at you through her lashes, you melt into the floor.

How am I supposed to face her when she comes home tomorrow? I literally rushed home after assignment just to get myself off to thoughts of her and it was the most incredible orgasm of my life, by the way, so I’m pretty much screwed. What if seeing her only makes it harder for me to get a grip? I’m scared she’ll never speak to me again if she finds out and I don’t want to lose her. I’ve never lied to Abby, but this feels like an enormous one. Am I falling in love with my best friend?  

You close your journal and hug it to your chest. Despite its insignificance in the grand scheme of things, the glassy chill of embarrassment engulfs you.  

“It’s my turn,” she says.

“Abby.”

“I’m not done playing,” she murmurs. “Unless you want to stop.”

Her knuckles graze your thigh, and you glance down to see her wiggling her fingers, summoning you to trust her. Relaxing the vice-like grip on your journal, you let your arm fall to your side. The temperature rises the moment Abby reaches for your hand, steering it to her lips.

“Do you want to stop?” Abby asks.

“No, I don’t. You’re still Satan, though.”

You shiver as Abby’s minty breath hovers expectantly, waiting for the green light. 

With a nod from you, she presses a slow kiss to each of your fingers, one knuckle at a time. In a deliberate serenade, the searing wetness of her lower lip drags along your skin. She teases the sensitive expanse of your wrist with the tip of her tongue, skillfully rotating your hand to ensure she accounts for every inch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Abby says. “But I wish I knew sooner.”

“Truth or dare,” you ask.

“Truth,” Abby says, leaving you paralyzed by her sudden husky rasp. “Ask me something that’ll make me sweat.”

“My mind is blank,” you admit as Abby’s lips close around the tip of your finger. “Thanks for making it impossible for me to think!”

Heat pools between your legs as her teeth scrape over the delicate bone.

“Try,” she whispers softly, her simple plea simmering under your skin.

“What’s going through your head right now?” you ask.

“Nah, that’s weak—it’s too obvious,” Abby says as she pauses the torment, opting instead to let your hand rest over her erratic heartbeat. “Bring the pain. Get me back.”

You’re convinced that there is nothing this girl could say that would genuinely surprise you. However, she tends to be reserved, and it’s likely that some of her cards conceal undisclosed secrets.

“Spill the beans on something you’ve been hiding from me, something you never want me to find out,” you challenge. “A secret you’d take to the grave if it weren’t for this ridiculous game.”

You flip to your stomach and Abby laces her fingers behind her head, her biceps on full display as she gets comfortable. Following the seams of her shirt, your fingers glide beneath the fabric, riding the rise and fall of her breath.

“Okay, so this one is pretty humiliating,” Abby says.

“Cough it up! I showed you mine.”

Abby goes quiet for a few beats, her eyes darting around the room, as if she’s contemplating what she’s about to confess.

“So, back home, I kind of went through this rough patch, right? My head was a total mess and when I had some alone time to let off steam, I’d get myself close, but I couldn’t finish for the life of me. It went on like that for weeks.”

“Wait, to be clear, you’re talking about masturbating?”

“Good lord,” Abby says with a timid laugh. “Yes, I am referring to masturbating.”

“I think I’m low-key obsessed with this game,” you say.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Abby winces, her freckles blending into a charming flush of red on her face.

“Remember that oily stuff in the tiny purple jar you used to get from the commissary?” she asks, her body in constant motion as she becomes too restless to sit still. “That perfume or whatever, it had a peachy scent.”

“Oh, hell yeah! I ran out of it so fast every time. That stuff was liquid gold.”

“Well, when Isaac sent you on that crazy mission near the old mall and you were gone for forever, you gave me your key to water your plants, right?”

“Which you totally dropped the ball on, by the way,” you goad.

That assignment was an absolute disaster, and despite always entrusting Abby with your plants while you were away, you also granted her permission to stay at your place whenever she needed, particularly when Manny would use the apartment for his illicit escapades. 

“You wanna know the reason I dropped the ball so hard?” Abby asks, burying her face in her forearm.

You motion with your hand, encouraging her to carry on as you swing your legs behind you.

“One night, I finish my shift and let myself into your apartment and the scent of you punches me in the gut. It was such a shitty day, and something about it just put me on my knees. I see the perfume on your bedside table and pick it up to smell it. No big deal, I’m just missing my friend. Everything’s fine.”

“Uh oh, everything’s not fine?” you interrupt.

“Well, one thing leads to another and I’m thinking about crashing at your place because it’s late and my roommate is a total womanizer. I crawl into your bed, and I end up fingering myself like a total miscreant. When I hit that wall and can’t get myself off, I reach for that stupid jar. It’s insanely slippery—”

“Whoa, back it up! You or the jar?” you giggle.

“Both,” she confesses. “And it almost works, right? Just as I’m about to get there, the bottle slips from my hand and spills all over your sheets and my favourite jacket. Which, great, I will never get to wear this thing again without bursting into flames.”

“Also, oil tends to stain like a motherfucker,” you add, watching her grimace at the recollection.

“Exactly," she says.

You try to imagine this event unfolding, and the thought of not being there to both laugh maniacally and maybe even join in on the carnal scene is too much. After coming back from the mission, you found brand new sheets on your bed and concluded that Abby must have felt remorseful about leaving your plants in a drought.

“I think the only vulgar part of this story is that you wore your bomber to bed,” you say with a shrug.

“Come on, your room was colder than the Arctic Circle,” Abby retorts. “But hold your horses—I haven’t made it to the zinger yet.”

“So fast forward to Manny setting me up with that girl from the weather station. Funny thing is, she wore the same perfume as you, but it just didn’t smell right on her, and it was all I could think about. But then we start making out because I’m pathetic and horny,” Abby says, halting in her tracks to take a much-needed drink from the water jug. “I might’ve accidentally called out your name and got slapped across the face for it.”

“First things first—if anyone tries that again, I’m laying them out. Nobody puts hands on you.”

You cup her cheek in your palm, hoping to soothe the sting of an unpleasant memory. The scars etched on her face are silent reminders of the countless tribulations she has prevailed, but to you, they all look the same, indistinguishable.

“You remember who you’re talking to, right? You’ve seen me scrap it out with full-grown men armed to the teeth with guns. Trust me, it was nothing. She didn’t even leave a mark. But she asked me if I was in love with you,” Abby says.

“What did you tell her?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Abby explains. “She called me an asshole and dipped before I figured it out.”

Even though the house is already sufficiently warm for the night, you’re compelled to add another log to the fire. The absence of any noise in the room heightens Abby’s intensity, her eyes fixed on you with laser-cut focus as you concentrate on your work. You step back to avoid a shower of sparks flying up from the impact as the embers descend into the iron mount. Sinuous white smoke gradually wanes, revealing a hammock of scintillating amber coals.

“Are you in love with me?” you ask.

On the dilapidated carpet, she sits up with her legs crossed, idly picking at the flakes of cracked leather on her weary boot.

“I am, yeah,” Abby murmurs. “I think I always have been. You’re my whole world—I’d lay my life on the line for you.”

You can see the secluded cabin as a potential temporary home, imagining yourself digging a vegetable garden and collecting provisions from the nearby town. Creature comforts and personal touches that make it your own.

The idea of finding a bigger group has been a topic of discussion, but it comes with its own set of risks. Perhaps you don’t have to resign yourselves to a nomadic lifestyle, either.

“It’s my turn,” you exclaim. “I choose dare.”

“I dare you to show me what we did in that dream,” Abby says.

If you didn’t know better, you’d swear your skin caught a thousand stray embers at once.

“Stand up,” you order.

Abby rises, her eyelids heavy from the treacherous journey and the oppressive heat radiating from the hearth. You kneel before her, loosening the muddy, ragged laces of her boots. You lend a hand as she pulls her feet free. Her socks, worn with holes, bear witness to the countless miles she walked to keep you safe.

“We’ll freshen up and then I’m going to eat you out until you scream. You cool with that?” you say.

The rapid thumping of your heart is dizzying, making the surrounding room spin. When Abby runs her hand through your hair and tilts your chin up, the light-headedness subsides.

“Only if I get to watch you,” Abby says. “But we’re not doing it here. I’m taking you to bed.”

The two of you have gone without the luxury of a proper bed for what feels like an eternity. You aspire to be a sexual acrobat, but the reality is, you both need comfort for your bodies to heal. With time, everything else will fall into place.

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Shrouded in darkness, the ethereal glow of moonlight seeps in through a ruined windowpane. The faint beam provides just enough visibility to lead you to the timeworn bedspread. Abby puts in her utmost effort to remove the dust, paying special attention to the pillow you’ve claimed.

With the job completed and the blankets properly pulled back, she nervously fidgets with her hands.

You climb in first, feeling the smooth texture of the sheets against your bare legs, and after she takes a sizable breath, Abby follows. She cuddles up so closely that your foreheads collide, and your eager giggles fill the room with mythical light.

“Sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be.”

In the dark, she explores the contours of your face with her fingertips, causing your skin to tingle every place she touches.

“Can I kiss you?” Abby asks.

Your thumb glides across her bottom lip, and she nibbles at it.

“Where?” you murmur.

“Everywhere.”

You pull Abby into you, and your lips meet in a kiss that is so deep and electrifying, your body rocks against her hard thigh in search of release. She taunts your tongue before drawing it into her mouth, leaving you powerless to cling to anything but pleasure.

Keen to explore, Abby seeks out the precise areas on your collarbone that elicit delightful little whines when she indulges in them. You guide her hand to your chest, inviting her to experience the effect she has on you.

“Holy shit,” Abby breathes. “I want to taste you so fucking bad.”

The painful stiffness of your nipples prompts you to slide your hand to the back of her head.

“Start here,” you say. “Please.”

Abby savours you, flicking and swirling her slick tongue around your hardened peaks, until you’re making a conscious effort to refrain from pulling her hair. She leans over you to get a better angle, her leg offering friction where your dull throb has turned into a wild, delicious craving. You pilot her hand between your legs, and her touch is so intuitive, it’s as if she’s explored every inch of your body before.

“You’re so wet,” she says. “Let me make you come.”

You spread your legs to accommodate her, and she finds your sweet spot quicker than you can steady yourself. A fierce bolt of lightning shoots down to your toes and forces them to curl, spurring Abby to move faster. 

“Tell me how you want this to go down,” she demands in a hot breath against the shell of your ear.

“Your fingers,” you choke, as she toys with your earlobe. “Don’t be gentle.”

“Do you want my mouth, too?” she asks, teasing you until her hand is a sticky mess against your thigh.

“Please, Abby. Oh fuck, I can feel it.”

With no time to spare, Abby slithers down the bed and settles between your thighs, trailing kisses from your kneecap to your clit. Your body begins to shake, and you grapple the headboard, begging for her to slide her fingers inside before you reach the crest.

She fits two long fingers inside you, elevated by your arousal, and when she curls them, a burst of white light sparks behind your eyelids as you squeeze them shut. Her tongue finds the rhythm you need and your entire being trembles, your climax clamping her fingers tight.

“You’ve got me so fucked up,” Abby says. “Look at you.”

You drench her hand until there is nothing else left, each pulse of your core heightening the feeling of bliss until it becomes too potent to stand.

“Stop, stop, stop,” you pant, wracked with delirious spasms.

Abby obeys and huddles up next to you. She delicately brushes away the strands of damp hair that cling to your face, a tender gesture while she waits for you to come down.

“That was incredible,” you say, nestling into her neck to plant a lingering kiss. “Thank you.”

“I could do this all night,” Abby says. “I got a lot out of that.”

“Good. Because it’s your turn.”

Maneuvering yourself into position over her hips, you straddle her, stripping off your shirt to toss it into the abyss.

“How do you want this to happen?” you ask, playfully mirroring her method.

“Surprise me,” Abby smirks.

[moondirti]

12. PUSH COMES TO SHOVE

CHAPTER TWELVE OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter eleven / chapter thirteen ⇀

summary: you cross a line you can't turn back to. miguel takes you up on a joke.

explicit (18+) | 5.6k words warnings: smut, female masturbation, sexual fantasies (including unprotected p-in-v, breeding, biting, paralysis, bondage, aftercare), everyone is bad at feelings, insecurity, fear of heights, mentions of death notes: nothing i wrote sounded right so i just had to publish before i decided to scrap it all and reqrite

It’s a shameful, awful thing to do. 

One with no excuse for it – not really.

You were just bored. Pent up on an endless routine; familiar people, recurring places. Your night and day mirror images of one another. Even in the post-apocalyptic landscape of your old home did you have something to do with your spare time – wandering wrecks and cleaning the devastation left in the wake of your mistake. 

But here, visiting an Earth where the expectations for your stay had never been clearly defined – where you can go, who you can talk to, what freedoms you’re permitted – you’re technically no more enriched than a prisoner, peering listlessly from their window at the bustling lives outside. And with a track record of dragging chaos along no matter your intentions, you’re much too afraid to push the hang fire state in which you live in. 

So, containment or self-sabotage, it doesn’t really matter. Not when both have the same, invariable conclusion. This. Dangerous boredom; the type that always, always feeds into thoughts of him. 

They’ve gotten worse too. Of late, your previously honed scorn and resentment for the futuristic spider-man has ebbed into something more… mellow. Understated. It’s a peculiar condition, hard to name. Fuzzy in the places it once stung and barrelling down an unmarked path. Confusion, maybe. Indecision. And while your chest twinges with the not knowing of it all, you’ve already decided that you hate this more than the antagonism you felt before. At least it had been logical, founded on a bank of valid evidence, with bruises and scars to show for it. This is bolstered by nothing; vague impressions of his smirk and strict approval. A pulse between your legs. Sweaty palms before seeing him, wondering what state you’ll be greeted with. 

(You always hope it’s washed, snugly dressed and wounds tended to. He’s in a significantly better mood when refreshed, you find. Enough of a difference from post-fights to make you wonder whether you’ve ever known him at all.)

And it’s pathetic because Miguel has a life where you don’t. You’ve disproved your theory on his marital status, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is his home. A world where every possibility is open to him – walks in the park, ice cream from a quaint corner shop, a group of highschool friends, maybe, who he sees on occasion. Kids – you’re certain of that, the reality imbued in everything he does. The man has to be the father of at least one darling angel, someone he can dedicate all his work to. He’s too committed not to be. 

So, every hour he spends outside of your meetings, he’s probably off doing something worthwhile. Daycare pickups. Stopping crime. Running a building full of spider-folk. And you–

Well, that’s the mortifying point. 

You’re here, leaning against your shower wall, soaked to the bone while two fingers work your cunt. And you’re thinking of him. 

Broad shoulders, packed with ineffable strength, curving down to tree-trunk arms. They man-handle you in the best of ways – clamped around your thighs, upturning you onto his plump, magical fucking lips. That mouth had been expert, quick or slow when need be, much like his touch. He’s good at working them in tandem to make a mess of you, searching for devastation somewhere in your core. He’s good at finding it, at rendering you pliant enough to spill it onto him. 

Are you crossing a line? 

It’s been pseudo-professional so far; sex in favour for another milestone crossed. Encouragement on the only degree you respond well to. But now you’re fingering yourself to mere notions of him, alone, for no reason other than what his imagined presence does to you. 

Fuck. You’re perverse. Worse than that. There’s no verbiage available to capture how depraved you are – you’ve just never gone through this before. Everyone you’ve ever wanted, you’ve taken and promptly abandoned the next morning. One night stands. Fleeting flings. No one has ever stuck around long enough to make things complicated. 

Of course he would, though. You have to laugh at the irony of it. Miguel’s always made life hard for you, whether intentionally or not. And now he’s taken root in your mind, forcing you to face all its flowering consequences. 

Like how he simultaneously sates you and leaves you wanting more. You’ve had his fingers and tongue – a great deal more than you can attribute to yourself in the past year. And they’re great, brilliant. But it isn’t enough. Not when you’ve seen his cock; thick-set, throbbing, splitting your jaw open with brutal efficiency. He was big and eager and much less restrained that day than he has been since you established your new dynamic. He’d come closer than he dared to before. 

Or again.

(Whatever’s changed, you’d give everything to reserve it. To feel him – not down your throat, but in you. Mushroomed head spearing you open, imprinting itself on your walls. Ramming your cervix, made easy as his large hands fold you into a mating press. The position would give him the added benefit of watching you come undone, every miniscule expression laid out to spur him on. Or maybe he wouldn’t like that – maybe he’s the type to grab your hair and pull your head back so his tongue can lather over your neck. 

You’d take whatever you can get, no hesitation.)

Your index and middle sandwich your clit, scissored open as you rub the swollen bud. Blood rushes downward, fattening under pressurised pleasure. The wet smeared on your thighs is slippery, much too slick to be a product of the hot water beating down on you. It points to what you already know; that, no matter what you do to scour it off, all you’ll ever be is a wanton idiot. 

Vapour latches onto oxygen, the bathroom air growing suffocating, humid, heady with the scent of sex. Nerve ends prickle at the drag of pruned skin, your orgasm on a never-ending approach. No matter what you do, you can’t seem to beckon it. You’ve been here for far too long, cycling through every trick in the book, testing sweet spots that’ve become accustomed to another’s manipulation. You’ve pinched yourself, used the shower head until its pipes hissed, stuffed your slit full and curled forward, looking for that patch of spongy tissue. 

None of it works. Nothing helps you see stars, unable to drag you to the heavens you’ve reached with your mentor. 

(Wanton idiot is a tolerant title, too lenient for you. At least one would be able to satisfy themselves.

But now, in the wake of your frustration, you’re reduced to a roll of drenched cotton, numb to everything but the fire at Miguel’s fingertips.)

Still, you try. You anchor a foot to the faucet, plastering yourself on the glass pane that separates the shower from the rest of your bathroom. It’s frigid, a stark contrast to the water heating your flesh, and the temperature drop strikes your senses awake, flooding you with new vigour. If it’s possible, the proof it offers to your fever – the gooseflesh that erupts at your waist or the blurry line between where sweat begins and soap-buds end – only eggs you further, hardening the truth to startling clarity: 

You’re crossing a line and drawing it out with a frustration that benefits no one. Cum, that’s all you need to do. To finally be done with it and put this whole blip behind you. 

Spread open, your hand returns to your cunt. You’re wet enough to do so without fuss, the fingers that had been at your clit plunging in until they’re sheathed to the knuckle. It’s a tight fit, walls greedily sucking you in, vacuum-sealed and clenching. The stretch burns and you find solace in it, the tender skin of your hole straining to accommodate another digit once the two find their rhythm. 

How much better would his dick be? Would it cleave you apart like his fingers do? You imagine it so well, the reverie blossoming like second nature. 

(Miguel, planking above you, hair flopping onto his forehead after being ruffled out of its usual push-back. It’d be a sight of your own doing, your nails combing through dark waves on their way to his shoulders. He’s marked you several times over now – claw wounds above your wrist and a deep scar on the back of your arm. Would he let you mark him, in turn? Scratch red lines down his muscled back, rolling as he fucks into you. Or suckle his neck, leave it purple and angry to pay back for the punctures at your collar? It’s been weeks and they’re still there.)

Your free hand finds them, smoothing over the pocks left by his fangs. The heel of your other presses on your clit, kneading the sore centre. It buckles with the abuse, pouring into your rising orgasm. The tide promises violence for when you eventually let it loose.

(In this crude fantasy, he isn’t much of a masochist. He gets irritated with your wandering hurt, turned off the pursuit in pumping you full of his seed. Maybe he pins your arms over your head, holds them down with ease to get you to stop. But he needs his palms free, your bouncing tits all-too tempting not to squeeze, so he uses his webs to bind you to the headboard. Or–)

Your core grows sloppier with every passing second. It weeps, slurping whatever you give it – the feral force of your fingers. Your knees tremble. Your pelvis aches. The amalgamation of your effort knots your organs together, weaving an impossible pattern out of desire and desperation.

(– he bites you again, injects you with venom so you stay nice and still for him regardless.)

God, it’s perfect. It’s the tart, slightly-salty pour of caramel over toffee pudding, topped with vanilla and the memory of his paralytic essence ballooning through your veins. It’d been cold and graceful, so bloody efficient you wonder how he didn’t think of it as a means of incapacitation sooner. Perhaps it’s tough to measure – how much is too much before you kill your victim, or something along the lines. But back then, despite hating no one more than he did you, he kept you alive. 

Would he risk it again, if you asked? 

Does he think about you? Like this, when the day drags and there’s no adequate excuse to see you through it. You quiver with the thought. Holed up in his own bath, spacier than yours, pumping his cock slick. He wouldn’t trail it out. Miguel has his own life, and if you somehow manage to worm your way into it, he’d spill himself quick. Not for disgust – it’s clear that he’s at least attracted to you. No. Just because he’s a better man than you can hope to be. 

Rough around the edges but decent. Moral.

(There it is again – the apollonian. If he’s the olympian deity for the Sun, of truth and prophecy and order, then you’re Dionysus while you bring yourself to ecstasy, caught on the tip of his sharpened arrowhead.)

You groan, letting your head fall back as your efforts gain traction. The bottom of your stomach lurches, making way for the combustion taking space in your chest. It sputters, gorging on a kindling flame, and travels downwards to the pocket between your gut and pubic bone. The fulfilment borders on painful, skinned raw by your relentless assault on it. Once-warm water adds to the overstimulation, turned bitter by its prolonged use. Hair clings to your brow, obscuring your eyesight. Your orgasm snowballs, knocking everything in its determined path.

(And afterward, wrapped up somewhere in your pipe dream, he would empty himself inside you, drunk off the pleading whine that clawed its way out from your throat. He’d made you cum several times – the only addition you can guarantee would be fact – but it wouldn’t end there. Not while you remain still, all wandering eyes and diving comedowns, looking at him in your peripheral. 

He’d linger, his cum dribbling out of you in thick globs, waiting by your side as the paralysis wears off. Gaining control of your body would be a slow process, as it was before, and he’d have a wetted towel to clean you off in the meantime. The room would remain quiet – founded on that same limbo state from after he ate you out – and neither of you speaking a word until you nod off, drowsy and properly fucked. If only to exchange hummed goodnights. An appreciative pat on the head, maybe. Detached praise, stunted communication.

Because even in your wildest fantasies, Miguel does not stoop to kiss you.)

You’re a wreck when it finally hits. Seized muscles release, disgorging the built-up tension of the last hour. You cum – not as powerfully as you might’ve done had he been here – though that’s trivial. He’s present in your mind, praising you through it, working you despite encroaching sensitivity. And you break down not at the thought, the sheer salacity of it all, but to the tenderness you can only imagine. Unrestrained. Given freely. Not because you earned it, but because you're worthy even when you haven’t.

A sob captures your lungs. Your skin prickles. 

Phasing right through the glass partition, you fall backward to smack your temple on the edge of your sink. A throbbing pain immediately engulfs the site. Black speckles your vision.

And if it isn’t the perfect illustration of your concurrent dopamine crash, then you’ll be damned. 

Curse him.

“You… You’re kidding, right?” 

You don’t necessarily need an answer, but you ask to give yourself a distraction from the anxiety torrenting through you. With the way he leans on the glass railing, self-satisfied against the backdrop of Nueva York at noon, you can glean every bit of genuineness from his expression alone.

Miguel gives a vague gesture to the rooftop you stand upon. “You said it yourself.”

“First of all, no. I said I would climb up buildings, not jump off one. Second of all, it was a joke. I hope you know what a joke is, O’hara – otherwise I have a list of situations that make much more sense with hindsight.”

“I’m not asking you to jump off.” He ignores your barb, pushing off the edge to usher you closer. Your heels dig into the ground, an obstacle proved to be done in vain when his hand skims the small of your back. The heat of it penetrates your shirt, weaving its way to your dimpled flesh like it knows how much you crave it. One would think he’s burnt you with how rapidly you move to brush it off, and by the end – whether you like it or not – you find yourself peering over the palisades to the four-foot drop below. Bile spikes the back of your gullet. 

“Are we here to sight-see, then? It’s an apartment complex, nothing special about that.” Breathing, you try to suppress the nausea that overrules your systems. The descent isn’t that high – about fifty feet, give or take your own height – but that does nothing to combat the fear gradually creeping up your nerves. 

“Very funny.” He says, rolling his eyes at something you refuse to see. You’ve no energy to decipher it, either, zeroed in on the task expected of you. “Leaving your room got me thinking–” 

“That’s dangerous.” You snap. 

The man must be used to your little tantrums by now, for he continues like you hadn’t interrupted him, delineating the perplexing logic that lured him into thinking this was a good idea.

“– about what you meant by your suggestion. You’d pitched it instinctively.”

(‘If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.’

You remember. Somehow, it infuriates you that he does too – that even raptured in the throes of pleasure, his tongue buried between your folds, he’d been stewing over ways to better you. It pokes a fresh sore spot – like the maturating bruise on your temple, consequence of your scene in the shower – that reminds you you’re not good enough.)

“Okay, smart ass. Since you think you know everything, allow me to explain to you the definition of hyperbole. I was–”

“Exaggerating, yes. But I figured, to make that specific example during such… unsober circumstances, it must’ve originated from a sincere place.” He joins your observation of the street below, flicking over the trimmed bushes, surveying for wandering pedestrians. He’d picked somewhere secluded – a neighbourhood two blocks down from HQ, whose residents are likely employees at the bustling base. If anything, it explains their absence at twelve o’clock on a weekday. “So, here we are.” 

You blink up at him, incredulous. He still hasn’t explicitly stated what he wants you to do. If this conversation had taken place on the ground, then perhaps you would’ve caught on quicker. Find your way to the top, just like he’s implying. As it stands though, you’re teetering on the crown of a stubby building that still seems too tall given your aversion to heights, with nothing but a stubborn spider-man and a locked stairwell for aid. It only dawns on you now why he made the conscious decision to close it after coming up here – to prevent your cheating.

Another strike towards his lack of faith. Charming. 

In the bout of bewildered silence, Miguel sighs and spells it out for you.

“I want you to scale down the side of it.” 

You could choke on your heart with how high it skyrockets. 

“With what?” You squeak. The protest is weak, ungrounded as your bones start to give out. You’re not sure whether it’s mental, your brain tricking you into distrusting your body, or if you’re truly about to collapse. In either case, your distress threatens to unman you. Sickening. You’re green to your stomach.

His eyebrows raise, humoured. It’s a call to land on the solution yourself – like it’s obvious, like you’re not losing yourself just picturing it. 

Quaking, you return to an age-old mantra. Miguel doesn’t know you, no matter how good he is at reading the bits he’s privy to. You’ve never highlighted to him the extent and end of your abilities – and yes, that’s partly for lack of understanding them yourself. But as it so happens, you do know a few, indispensable attributes; ones that should be considered before you’re made to defy gravity and saunter down the face of a wall. 

Like how you can’t control your powers, the reigns ever-elusive, slipping from your grip whenever you actively try to run them. Or that your super-strength and enhanced healing are fickle things, arising only in impractical episodes. How your spider-sense is unpractised, severely underutilised by the mundane life you lead, and, perhaps most relevantly: 

“I have no webs to harness me.” You emphasise. “And my hands can’t stick to surfaces to make that a negligible factor.”

He listens, contemplative, digesting the latter piece of information and what it means for his lesson plan. 

“If they did, then I wouldn’t have been in nearly as much trouble at that quarry as I was, hanging on with just my fingers. But…” You wave your palms at him as if to punctuate your point. “Unfortunately for me, I’m normal below the wrist.” 

“Below the wrist.” He repeats, picking up on the contrivance in your choice of phrase. Cringing, you scramble for an excuse, looking to get off the road he leads you on. It’s frenzied, unbecoming of this arrangement. You’ve learnt to lend your begrudging trust to his methods, their validity proved over weeks of training – but something about his current tone, the interrogative way with which he singles out faults in your diction. It sends you back to an era where all you worried about was his pursuit, about a capture made inevitable by your clumsy side steps. 

You won’t forget, either. At the pinnacle of it, he was ready to step on your hold to a crane and send you plummeting to supposed death. 

(If push comes to shove, would he force you to descend this hurdle – worried about a more forgiving yet just as terrifying end, given you should trip and lose pace on the right-angled wall?

But then you think of food shared over a makeshift dining table – navigating the new peace found between your legs. He’d allowed your skipping class. He took concern for your health in spite of it – and you’re reminded of another thing. One more constant, there since the beginning too. 

Miguel O’Hara does not want you dead. 

That, at the very most, is consolation that he won’t throw you off this ledge.)

“My feet can, from what I’ve tested. I can tread on steep slopes and hang upside down. Just… not very well.” You elaborate, then feel the urge to grant him less room for argument, just in case. “I don’t know what kind of scientists you are, O’Hara. A biologist, maybe, which would explain a whole ton, but take it from me. Physics won’t agree with this. You’re asking me to walk down a wall completely perpendicular to the ground, reliant on a weak abdomen and capabilities I haven’t taught myself to use properly.” 

And when your words run their course, feeding into the husk of an alarmed echo, you can’t stop warmth from pooling behind your cheeks, or when your pulse flutters, feeble as the flap of a baby bird’s wings. You’re dangled over a branch you’ve known your whole life, nest torn out from under you. A condition of your own doing, of course, seeing as he stays quiet, compliant to your rant. 

A moment later, he adds. “Geneticist.” 

“Huh.” 

“I was a geneticist.” The nugget of background he offers flares like a treaty, a temporary campaign for goodwill. And, as if intentionally building upon your theory of armistice, Miguel tips away, popping out your personal space. The afternoon breeze hits you then, chillier without his immediate presence. You don’t voice your wish for him to come back. “Why haven’t you?” He seeks, testing his luck now that you’re placated.

It works. 

“Pushed my potential?” 

He hums in the affirmative.

“I have. It helped nothing but my upchuck reflex.” You evoke. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten my doomed history with hard drops. We don’t work well, particularly not when you’re around.” Beyond the quarry, he’d witnessed your misfortunate swinging around Earth-15 too. You’d phased right through his arms, bound to solidify before splattering onto the pavement below. It’d been peaceful then only because you had so much less to lose. “Besides, I don’t see the point. I won’t be going back home to fight crime, in any case. And scaling apartment complexes won’t magically lend me enough virtue to want to return.” 

When he speaks next, it’s tacitly, an intrusion to jog your memory like you did his, however subtly. “You’re okay now, though.” He says, and implies a truth too heavy to audibly assert. I caught you. Every time. The understanding lingers, oscillating between you two, before he starts again. “But I get it.”

You scoff. In turn, he sounds his question – hm? – rumbled deep from within his chest. If you focus, you can sense the way it vibrates the particles separating you.

“I doubt it, is’all.” 

“That’s condemning.” 

“Please, as if you need the ego boost.” Ducking from his scrutiny, you rest your elbows on the glass lining the rooftop to look out on the cityscape before you. It glitters, contemporary blue architecture slated on fields of green. This world is utopia compared to the many you’ve visited; amongst them, you’re hit with the vivid memory of your own – peppered with red fires under a perpetual cover of smoke. Blown to unrecognisable bits by a product of your ignorance. 

You swallow to shake the tangent off. He’s still staring at you. You can feel his solemn study, dimmed from its previous challenge, severe enough to penetrate the marge of your skull. 

“Are you really going to make me say it?” 

He shrugs, not in the least bit teasing. It’s the straw that finally breaks your back – the integrity he regards you with. Sighing, you smother your pride before it can change your mind. 

“Fucking look at you. You’re like… the peak of spider prowess. All muscle and righteousness. And I don’t even know where to begin, scared to even cash in on the powers I've been handed. What kind of hero is nervous of heights, for God’s sake.” 

The admission escapes as hushed, warbled by string-plucked insecurity. You don’t attempt to assess his reaction to it, following the motions of a cirrus cloud instead, swaying like tufts of hair on a cerulean scalp. It makes his next course of action jarring – frightening for all you don’t expect it. 

Miguel’s hand appears before you, face down so the digital suit-patterns on his palm are exposed. You half-think he’s offering you hold it, or wants to pinion you to something before he pulls you off the roof. But his body turns to overlook your side, and with a sudden schwip, his talons protrude from the pads of his fingers. Before you can fully process it, you stumble back, phantom pain pounding where he once gripped you with them.

He notices it, though doesn’t comment on your misgivings, waiting patiently until you steel yourself and return to your post. He must be used to the hesitation. 

“Do you know what these are for?” 

To claw run-away anomalies – you’re compelled to say, but decide against the low blow. You shake your head no. 

“I didn’t either. Not when I first developed them. They seemed inconvenient and hard to handle. Got in the way of everyday life.” You struggle to picture it. Miguel, younger, troubled with defects he never asked for. Did it hurt, you wonder – the ingrowth of fangs and talons? 

Does it still? 

“Biology isn’t a lesser science though, despite what certain physicists may believe.” He continues, raising a brow at you. You can’t suppress the sheepish expression that threads the corners of your mouth. “I remembered the spiders I worked with, what features of theirs might come to be represented by this. The fangs I realised the purpose of much faster.” 

“To paralyse.” 

“Right.” His gaze flicks to the slip of neck exposed by your loose collared shirt, finding the bite marks bridged over your clavicle. You’d been good at ignoring your masturbatory fantasies thus far, yet at his cue, flashes of them occur to you. Your knees knock together, timid that he can perhaps smell the shame on you. “My claws weren’t so obvious. Not until I met another spider-man who could climb walls. It occurred to me then, the microscopic setules on the end of spiders’ legs. They create an electromagnetic charge with any molecule at their nanometric radius. And while he, like many others, gained a figurative interpretation of it, I got something more literal.” 

“So, they adhere to anything.” 

“No. But they help me hold on.” Miguel corrects. “I’m not guaranteed proper fixture, so climbing buildings – scaling any surface – is a labour entirely dependent on me.” 

You trail over his wide shoulders – the top heavy form you’ve spent so much time revering. You’ve never so much as considered why he’s built so differently from other spider-heroes, burly in contrast to their lithe figures. (For good reason, maybe – you would’ve assumed incorrectly as recently as three minutes ago.) It’s not to set himself apart, or being that he was blessed with it. But because it was necessary. Pure proof of the effort it took to hone his skills. 

Guilt is swift in sweeping you off your feet; you feel foolish for ever suggesting it was talent that got him to this point. And–

“That’s… tough.” Is the only response you can conjure. 

It’s so stupid you want to punch yourself over it. Miguel, on the other hand, just chuckles. A brief huff from upturned lips. 

“Sure.” He takes one last look down the verge of the rooftop before turning his back on it. You keep facing forward. “The crux is – we don’t always see the point of things, or why they are the way they are. Sometimes, we might even refuse to when all seems unfair. But the second mark of a hero, as I’ve come to know it, is having the courage to address them despite your ignorance. Firmness of mind when confronted with danger – or, in your case, a burden of great difficulty.” 

And piece by piece, it starts to come together. The small revelation of his backstory as nothing more than an allegory. His bringing you here, to start from the top and not the bottom, instilling in you the fear of falling. And what it all means – courage being the point of this little exercise, a step up from resilience now that you’ve proved your tenacity. Priming you for the eventuality of returning home – a burden of great difficulty.  

“Of course you’d turn this into a philosophical seminar.” You deride, rubbing the wariness from your expression. “And here I believed we were bonding.” 

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” He says. You don’t have it in you to disagree, searching for the pluck to get this over with. Yet what he adds next takes you completely off-guard. “You don’t have to do this.” 

A compromise – you thought you’d have to fight for one. 

“I’m a few plank-sessions short of having the core strength to walk down a wall.” You circumvent, not ready to admit your failure. 

Miguel nods, yielding now that he’s gotten his opinion on the matter across. Nothing about him betrays disappointment, but you somehow still squirm, distressed at the very notion that you let him down. 

As he breaks away, you catch sight of the platforms protruding from the windows below you, and a haphazard idea forms.

“But… if it’s courage you want, then maybe we can start smaller?” You raise, worrying the inside of your cheek. It’s rushed, not expertly planned through, but he cocks his head, and you’re forced to toss it out now that he’s all ears. “I can hang from the bottom of a balcony – upside down – until I’m better at trusting my powers over gravity. And, y’know, there are still the odds that I fall, just onto the deck below and not four stories. Less fatal that way.”

There’s hardly a spark of deliberation before his eyes narrow, cheekbones projecting with a smile. It has to be your insatiable itch for praise, consequence of anything over what he actually thinks – but a bright glint streaks upon those red pupils and, remarkably, it feels a lot like pride.

(You’ll take what you can get.)

“Yeah. That works.” He approaches, sinking closer once more. It’s warm again and you stand self-assured, regardless of the trepidation still bubbling within you. “I suppose not everyone has a death wish.” 

“Wishful thinking on your part, maybe.” You taunt. “Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but you’re stuck with me for the time being.”

What feels like hours later, your head throbs violently, and under the novelty of it all, you learn of three new things. 

One – an observation most idle yet, embarrassingly, the first to be made – is that Miguel looks just as handsome the other way around as he does proper side up. Elevated, too, given that you’re finally at his level like this. Staring him down, nose-to-nose, able to capture his face outside the forced perspective that comes with being shorter. He occupies the balcony below while you stand, hang, on the belly of the one above. There’s a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mole by the corner of his mouth. He’s still smiling at you. 

Two – a facet you haven’t stopped imprecating since you started, one that technically isn't even new to you – is that, while your external body seems to defy gravity, fastened in place by your feet, your internal systems aren’t granted the same luxury. Gallons worth of blood pools to your brain, distending the soft tissue until it weighs like lead on your crown. You never thought your organs would be this heavy, especially the ones that stack on top of your lungs. Your stomach, liver, kidneys, intestines. They make it hard to breathe. You can barely feel your hands anymore. 

And three – perhaps your proudest realisation yet – is that this isn't so bad once you get the hang of it. Sure, your mentor is a few paces away, ready to grab you should you spontaneously collapse. And if he didn’t, then yes, the worst that could come of it is a broken arm. You certainly need more practice before you test it on taller heights, and you don’t think you trust your abilities yet to walk down building planes, but– 

It’s easy. Bodily effects aside, it’s easy. Supernaturally so. In a way that bends every one of Newton’s laws and you’re left reeling trying to string together mechanical equations that could make sense of it. The tension between you and the ceiling and how great it must be to combat your weight. The equal and opposite force perpetually acting against gravity. 

Because you’re upside down, despite having no cable or chain to keep you situated, no hooks on your heels. You’re stuck to a surface by just the soles of your shoes, and when you walk around, lift one to put in front of the other, you stay fixed. You don’t – can’t – fall.

(Secretly, you thank him for pushing you to this stage. The euphoria of it is just enough to supersede any nausea you worried about before.)

“How’s that?” Miguel asks, tone low and smooth like velvet. Something tugs your heart – your arteries, perhaps, shrivelling around it.

“Weird. Great. If I didn’t feel like throwing up, I’d stay here forever.” 

“Try to refrain from projecting it on me.”

“Copy that.” 

“But,” He says, tipping his head so he can assess you the right way around. “You’re doing it.”  “Yeah.” You giggle. The bloodrush must be making you loopy. You’d have never been so animated on the ground. “I’m doing it.”

chapter thirteen

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[lesbian-empress-nero]

“We’re going to Mementos.”

Mishima looked up from his cup of coffee, frozen like a child up past his bedtime, whose parents forgot he was there and let him stay up later than usual.

“You sure? I mean, we got...” Ryuji trailed off, gaze flitting to where Mishima sat. Of course he couldn’t go unnoticed as he liked. Of fucking course.

“I can stay behind. No worries,” he assured, forcing his usual smile onto his face. Niijima-san stared at him, an odd expression on her face. Like she didn’t believe him.

“No, you can come with us. You might have to stay near the entrance, though...” Akira said, and Futaba-chan was the one to speak up.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

Mishima stared at her for a moment. He knew how guns worked, sure, but he’d never had to fire one himself. How in the hell did Mementos work?

“Kind of? I’ve never fired one before, but I at least know how they work,” he mumbled, and Yusuke-san smiled understandingly.

“No worries. We can teach you,” he said, and Mishima ducked his head to hide his expression. He couldn’t risk anyone seeing how he felt- he knew his mask wouldn’t hide everything.

That was how Yuuki Mishima found himself in a place he could only describe as hell, holding a model gun and shifting his weight between his feet as Akira opened his phone to check the Phan-Site.

“Hm... Alright, we’ve got a few targets to handle. I still need to get some info on others, so we’ll have more later on. Oracle, can you pull up the Mementos Overview?”

Futaba nodded dutifully, tapping something on her wrist. A giant map of the place was pulled up, and Mishima pretended not to be absolutely gobsmacked by the sheer enormity of the place. It was huge, going down almost hundreds of levels.

“...Seems we’ve got targets in Chemdah and Kaitul. Wanna head there now, Joker?”

“What’s with the codenames? Is that, like, standard procedure in the Metaverse?” Mishima interjected, and Futaba stared at him like he had grown five extra heads. He ignored her.

Akira nodded. “Yeah, we all have them. Hey, we should make one for you. Since you’re here.”

Since you’re here. Not because he was one of them, but because happened to be with them.

“...Why not Tsuki? Y’know, since he’s the Moon?” Ann suggested, and Mishima shrugged.

“We can. I was thinking maybe Nyx, though,” he said, desperately hoping his distaste for that name wasn’t showing. Clearly not, as Akira/Joker nodded thoughtfully.

“Nyx... Like the goddess of night,” he said, and Mishima nodded. He’d heard a story from back in 2009 about a cult dedicated to something called ‘Nyx’. Later, he read an article about a near-apocalyptic event that had happened at Tatsumi Port Island- luckily, it had been avoided. There were multiple reports of a boy floating in the air, and later news of a boy who’d fallen into a coma a few months after the events. March 5th, if Mishima was correct.

The story had stuck with him, the story of the boy’s heroics imprinting on him. Especially since they shared a name.

Yuuki.

No further comments were made about Mishima’s codename, and everyone was chatting among themselves as the cat, Morgana, leapt into the air.

After a moment.... There was a bus. The cat was a bus.

“...I’m not even surprised anymore,” he mumbled, loading into the Monabus with Ryuji, Akira, Yusuke, and Makoto. He ended up in the very back, fiddling with his gun- loaded and unloaded it, then loaded it once again. It was fun, fidgeting with a weapon like this. He used to fidget with knives when he was in middle school, but after an incident where he’d been startled by a sound downstairs and ended up sobbing in his room with a towel tied to his finger, he’d stopped.

After what seemed like an eternity of driving around recklessly, they came to a room that was empty of everything except the shadowy form of a man. Doubtless it was one of the targets. Mishima sat up, one hand on his gun. Of course, he wasn’t needed. The Phantom Thieves took care of everything, never mind the stray that was sitting in their trunk.

Why had he been brought along? He wasn’t needed.

He climbed out of the bus, unnoticed by the Thieves (who were currently engaged in battle), and sat beside it, watching. Observing.

Something shifted in the fight as it wore on. The Thieves grew slower, more sluggish. A single hit from the Shadow knocked Ryuji, one of the strongest people Mishima knew, right off his feet.

The Shadow laughed as Akira stumbled, collapsed to his knees.

Mishima froze. For a single, terrible moment, he was reminded of Kamoshida, laughing over anyone he hurt. Laughing over Ryuji as his leg was broken, laughing over Ann and Shiho as they begged for him to stop, laughing over him as he took yet another hit because what else was he good for other than being a punching bag?

It made him sick. He was revolted and furious.

He managed to rise to his feet, rushing in front of his collapsed friends, when he fell to his knees, suddenly afflicted with a pounding headache. As he thrashed around, trying to rid himself of the pain, a voice whispered to him.

Isn’t it infuriating, seeing your friends so helpless? Don’t you want to do something about it?

He did. He wanted to make that Shadow pay for hurting his friends, he wanted to strike it down and make it grovel.

Good, purred the voice. If you are ready, accept my deal. I shall grant you the power to take vengeance.

“I accept your offer,” he murmured, “Silena!”

His head no longer hurt. He was no longer shivering against the cold air of Mementos, and he certainly no longer felt sickly.

No, he felt powerful. He’d never felt something like this before. It was like a rush of adrenaline, but he wasn’t shaky. He was, for once in his life, perfectly steady on his feet.

A figure appeared beside him, graceful and elegant as the moon. She raised a hand, and a burst of light formed from her fingertips, striking the Shadow down. As he’d suspected, it was a one-shot. Nice and clean.

The Shadow reverted back to its human form, and spoke to Akira about its personal life. Akira said something in turn, and the Shadow vanished, leaving behind a glowing treasure. Akira snatched it up, then whirled around to face Mishima- who was once again beginning to feel ill.

“That- Holy shit, that was incredible!” He declared, and Mishima felt himself keen sideways into Ryuji.

“Urggh... Is it normal to feel like you’re about to explode right after summoning one of those things...?” He groaned, and felt Ryuji’s chest rumble with laughter.

“Yeah, it’s normal. C’mon, man, let’s get you back to the entrance. We can take care of the rest of the targets while you rest.”

At least, finally, Yuuki Mishima wasn’t a burden.

YEEEESSSS OH MY GOD YEAASSS this NEEDS to be canon instantly but alas we only have fics... Atlus could never compare to this top tier storyline. god. mishima thinks of himself as a burden all the time and his persona is about protecting his friends... he feels like a burden but he really has the most important job. LET MISHI KILL!!! LET HIM GET VENGEANCE!!!!

also love that nod to persona 3... nyx... yuki... yuuki...

[deathbyseventeen]

As the World Caves In

pairing: Dino/Chan x f!reader 

genre: post-apocalyptic, romance/fluff, angst | zombie!au

word count: 521

series: To be Together

chapter warnings: lots of allusions to death and dying

summary: The world ended on a Tuesday in November, days after Halloween, when the sun was less than an hour away from setting. Chan had just left his dorm’s building, late to his History of Dance 136A lecture, when it happened. You hadn’t been as lucky on the day the world began to crumble.

a/n: it’s uh... it’s been a while since I posted here. I really don’t know what to say except... hi :) take a chance on this fic!  oh boy.. oh boy oh boy oh boy 

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{intro} + {3 days from the end} + {7 days since the end} + {10 days since the end} + {20 days since the end} + {24 days since the end} + {27 days since the end} + {a month since the end} 

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The world ended on a Tuesday in November, days after Halloween, when the sun was less than an hour away from setting. There was no wind that day, no windstorms or gentle breezes. But, those particularly sensitive to the world around them noticed a certain stagnant quality over everything. They didn’t know (those who were sensitive to the world), but if they had tried, really tried, and let themselves get lost in the world around them, they would have been able to hear the music in the air. They would have been able to hear the quiet pianos and guitars, the strings and a band, and a voice singing longingly and sadly, all crescendoing into an existence impossible to ignore, and, underneath them all, a symphony of screams just beginning to materialize.

And when the sun finally began to set, and the sky became a painting composed of deep oranges and reds, sleeping televisions startled awake, and forgotten sirens blared to life. The world had officially begun to crumble.

Chan had just left his dorm’s building, late to his History of Dance 136A lecture, when it happened. One of his RA’s had run outside, pushing past him, screaming, “Everybody inside! Everybody back inside! Everybody get inside now!”

He had grabbed Chan by the shoulder in his panic and shoved him back into the building seconds before the sirens flooded their surroundings. 

He’d never forget his RA yelling, or the sirens, even after the sound ceased to exist. He couldn’t. He’d be forced to hear them again when fear struck him and as he tried to sleep without nightmares taking hold of him.

You hadn’t been as lucky on the day the world began to crumble.

It had been an early day. After six hours of lectures, studios, and labs, your biology professor had let your entire class go an hour early after getting everyone to observe the growing carrots they had planted almost three months ago. 

In an attempt to make do on your New Year’s resolution at least once, you had followed your roommate to the campus gym. You had been running on the treadmill, watching the sun begin to set through the wall-length window (at the same time Chan had been leaving his dorm’s building) when the TVs playing campus news suddenly turned black. A gray popup screen appeared just as the sirens went off-- Mandatory Campus Wide Lockdown. The words went unnoticed by most, however. 

A student worker yelled above the sirens soon after, “Mandatory lockdown! Nobody’s allowed to leave!”

A fight broke out. Cocky, testosterone-filled assholes refused to be made to stay. Among them is your roommate. And, as the glass doors were finally locked behind them, you watched as your roommate left you behind. 

It would only take half an hour before more than half of the others refused to stay put as well.

Soon enough, you’d hear the beginning of the screams that you’d never be able to forget or the panging against the thick windows as people ran into them, even as you delved deeper into darkness, attempting to seclude yourself from the world.

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3 days from the end

[fascinatedscrawls]

Phic Phight Prompt: The people of the apocalyptic future have no idea what to call this Phantom look-a-like menace, so they keep coming up with increasingly ridiculous names to refer to him as, but none seem to stick. At Dan's insistence to choose anything with a modicum of dignity, they all double down just to cheese him off. Terrible merch, puns, and awful slogans of his various names are plastered all over the city next to his face. He cannot stand it

Word Count: 2209

For Shinx

Summary:

Even in the face of a one ghost catastrophe, the world keeps spinning. Everyone copes with the new normal in different ways, some get angry, others ignore it, and Tony? Tony likes to laugh when he can, especially at the one who caused all of this. Sharing his collection of everyone's various stabs at naming the ghost terrorizing them is dangerous, but always worth it. Especially when he knows how much that guy hates every last one of them.

It's a quiet afternoon.

Well, these days it's always quiet. With a ghostly madman exacting some sort of revenge or twisted justice wherever he happened to be, most people only go out when they have to and try to go as unnoticed as they can manage while doing it. Especially this close to the ruined city of Amity Park.

Tony's second-hand store is just over fifty miles from the abandoned town where some argue this all started. That doesn't bother him though, he's got no plans to try and see it like the thrill seekers. Besides, people all over the globe have reported seeing that flying catastrophe all in the same day so Tony's pretty sure that no place can be truly safe.

He barely thinks about these days and as it as he wastes time in the back while waiting for a customer to find their way to the store it doesn't even cross his mind. He's already dusted, put out all the new supplies (the handful he received today at least), and even organized the place if one feels very generous about their definition of 'organized'.

It's only when he's unhappily contemplating the stacks of accounting paperwork piled up on his desk that he hears someone come in and he's not ashamed to admit that he lets out a gusty sigh of relief at the sound of that little bell above the door. Pushing himself out of his chair, he sweeps the papers into a drawer and makes sure everything is secure before stepping into the shop proper to greet whoever entered.

"Welcome, welcome." Tony smiles at the young lady even as she nods at him stoically. Her grim demeanor doesn't worry him - many of those who are young like her are angry or disillusioned now that they find themselves staring down a future where they'll never be truly safe, one that might be cut short even if they want to try and live under that for decades. Firmly in his sixties and with far less to lose, Tony copes in other ways. "Take a look around, I have quite the selection."

"So I've heard." The sharp cut of her short dark hair only makes the green of her eyes more noticeable as she gives his wares a perfunctory glance. Whatever she's looking for, it's not here and Tony knows what she'll be asking for before she says, "Rumor has it you have some rare collectables."

He knows he shouldn't, knows how suspicious it looks and how futile the effort is when the real threat can go invisible, but Tony still glances out the yellowing glass at the front of the store as if he might catch a sting operation in progress. As usual, the street is mostly empty with only the infrequent passerby power walking to their next destination with hunched shoulders and they all pointedly pay no attention to the things around them.

Tony's eyes catch on the condemned building across the way - its windows shattered with clawed off posters lining the walls around them. The image is nearly gone on most, but those that are left with scraps of familiar ghostly hair and only the tattered ends of a name printed at the bottom of whats left of each repeated page.

He's not sure where his old friend is, the one who used to run the place and the one who put up those signs so proudly. Doesn't know if they're in hiding or if their absence is a sign of something more final.

But he knows exactly why it happened.

Yanking his eyes away from the wreckage, he smooths out the strained edges of his smile to make it sit more easily on his face.

"Oh, I find myself collecting all sorts of odds and ends." He dithers, watching her reactions closely. "It's part of the reason I opened up the shop. Is there something specific you're looking for?"

Those green eyes narrow and her lips purse as they stare each other down. Just because he knows what she's likely referring to doesn't mean it isn't dangerous. Tony doesn't know her and with a request like this it's probably better for both of them if he keeps it that way, but if someone trusted her enough to tell her then she should know how to gain access to his most dangerous yet beloved collection.

"You know, I can't quite put my finger on it." She eventually grits out, not quite grinding her teeth, but certainly unhappy to be using a code phrase.

Tony's smile widens as he steps to the side, ushering the woman to the back with a sweep of his arm.

"Well, let's see if we can't put a name to it, shall we?"

Letting out a gusty sigh at Tony's favorite joke, the young lady takes the invitation and walks by him with a roll of her eyes. She stops far enough inside the windowless room to let him follow her, but watches him closely has he shuts the door behind them.

Tony takes in her tense shoulders, the curl of her fingers as if contemplating reaching for a weapon he can't see (though that hardly means anything, it didn't before weapons could fit into people's watches and he certainly doesn't have a better eye for them now), and the couple of inches she has on him even without his perpetual slouch.

He leaves the door unlocked.

Ghosts can go intangible. If the young lady wants an exit, he'll let her have both of them. Tony glances at the fire exit at the back of the store, the one that can't be locked from the inside, then goes to unlock the small room next to his storage area.

Technically, the place is labelled as his office, but the ruse is a lazy one with his desk in clear view as soon as anyone gets into the back. It's worked out for him so far though and Tony will admit, if only to himself, that even if he doesn't want to go to Amity Park, he's still a little bit of a thrill seeker.

Just maybe not enough to paste it all over the outside of his business.

The 'office' door opens with a low creek, as if to show how infrequently people ask to see this collection. Pushing the door open and flicking on the light, Tony looks over his shoulder to see the young lady's reaction. She doesn't flinch which is encouraging - one young man almost ran out screaming at the sight, Tony was lucky the kid's friend was there to stop him from attracting the wrong attention.

Tony can't wait to see which one is her favorite.

Stepping inside, he smiles at the mismatched collection - from t-shirts to posters, figurines to mugs, floor to ceiling the walls are packed with merchandise bearing the face of that ghostly menace that haunts them all.

Who? Well, the collection aims to answer that question.

Though, judging by the angry response each of them has inspired in the subject, likely not the one the ghost wants.

"They weren't lying when they said you had the biggest collection they'd ever seen." Mentioning no names, the woman walks in to survey the items, grudging respect in her voice. "You have a lot more of the 'Inviso's than I've seen all at once."

Tony reaches up and pulls at one of the shirts to show off another one behind it - both sharing the same angry spectral face, but bearing a different name. 'Inviso-Bob' makes way for 'Inviso-Benjamin'.

"The 'Inviso' line is the classic series - based off the old 'Bill' character that used to feature on the local news stations." Beside both shirts, Tony picks up a mug with another angle on that snarl and a faint outline of a basketball behind it. "This one is my personal favorite, I picked it up from a friend who had a set printed before companies started banning these types of things due to the inevitable damage they'd lead back to them."

The young lady takes it from him to read the name printed at the bottom and snorts, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Inviso-Baller?"

Even though it's quiet, Tony still waits half a beat before letting his smile grow. (If the ghost were close enough to hear and investigate, there would be no escape for him, not in the middle of such incriminating and insulting items, but after years of being cautious, he can't help it.)

"Not much of a pun, that one, but amusing none the less." Accepting the mug back, he places it on its little shelf before gesturing around the room. "The other, hmmm, traditional names are also present along with a few unique takes on them if you'd like to take a look?"

Traditional or original, it's hard to classify. Their problems weren't even a decade old, but after nearly a decade and what must be hundreds of iterations in multiple languages, he needs some way to categorize the memorabilia.

He watches, enjoying her quiet amusement at the different names he's collected. Everyone who gains entry loves them.

The 'Phil-tom' that looks more like a mash up of common names instead of a play on phantom, the 'Phan-Thomas' on a news article next to it. 'Spec-Ted' and 'Spec-Theodore' were popular for a while, lasting a whole three weeks and gaining quite the following before the rampaging ghost came back from wherever it had disappeared to dismantle the newsroom that came up with it.

Tony has yet to see someone read the 'El Espoo-Ken' and not snicker a little and she's no different. Shaking her head a little at the postcard that showcased it, she moves on only to stop a few steps later. It's hard to see what she's looking at from here, but after a moment, Tony follows the tilt of her head to the familiar poster half hidden behind another shirt.

"Ah, I see you've found the more dangerous part of my collection." The whole thing is dangerous, but puns are one thing.

Insults are another.

He lets the door swing shut behind him, the latch not quite engaging as usual, as he steps closer to read his friend's poster once more - this time not just the scraps left on the building outside, but a pristine version he kept for himself before it all went down.

"He came to take those down far quicker than the inventor anticipated." A life and business ruined, all over one little insult.

Printed in black and white, the ghost snarls down at them. Beneath it, eight little letters. One name. Uttered first by a child, the owner's grandchild - Tony can still remember how his friend laughed about it.

"'Spec-Turd' she said, can you believe it?"

"He would."

There is something in that clipped response that makes Tony pause. He blinks at the poster before looking at her sharply.

It strikes him then that she's not just that she's tall. If he stood up straight, forced his spine to cooperate in a way he hasn't managed in years, they'd actually be quite close. No, what he's seeing isn't just height.

This young woman is unbowed. She's unbroken.

She is angry.

And judging by the fire in her eyes, by the way she talks about that ghost, it is personal.

Tony swallows and takes half a step back, suddenly feeling that maybe the unlocked doors are less for her sake and more for his.

There are many who get fed up and take a stand against the ghost.

Few survive it.

He doesn't know what he does - doesn't know if it's a rattle of his keys in his pocket, a scuff of his shoe against the concrete flooring, or simply something in the air - but in an instant she's back from whatever terrible memory the poster reminded her of, her green eyes snapping to Tony.

He successfully fights the urge to take another step back. He can't quite stop the flinch, but he can squish it into a tense smile with the ease of long practice.

"I don't sell anything here." His usual wrap-up comes out as creaky as the door's hinge. Tony coughs a little to clear the tightness from his throat. The fierce expression he saw not moments ago makes way for faint concern which makes his next question come a little easier. "Would you like to take a souvenir?"

"I-" What is clearly a negative response cuts off almost before it starts. In the silence that follows, she cuts a glance back at the poster. As she bites her lip in thought, Tony can read her intent from her expression and he tilts his head to try and remember where he put his scanner.

"Can I get a copy of this?"

If anyone else asked for that dangerous insult, Tony would have tried to talk them out of it.

Looking at her standing tall in this tiny back room, Tony finds himself recalling the few reports of someone fighting with the ghost and surviving.

No, what are the odds?

He shakes the thought away and goes to take the poster down so they can get a clean scan.

"Of course."

[strawberry-nugget]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 - 𝚊 𝚌𝚢𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋

Hi everyone! I've had this blog for a little over a year now and I've never done any sort of celebration so I'm very happy to announce this very neon purple collab.

I have two playlists that you could enjoy with this collab, here is playlist 1 and here is playlist 2, further inspiration for this collab can be found here and here

𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜

This collab is NSFW so minors DO NOT interact. Nonetheless content should be tagged correctly both in the warnings and the tags. That being said...

Must be 18 or older to participate. I will be checking to see if there's an age to your blog before I accept an entry

Any trope and fandom are welcome. Even other pieces of fan content.

The pairings in this collab should a character x reader, or character x reader x character, not character x characterNo word limit, as long as you've added to what is be given

Entry deadline is August 25 (late entries are still welcome)

Final deadline is September 30 but if you wish you can ignore it, late entries are very much welcome and you not pressuring yourself for a fic is very much encouraged

Characters can be doubled and of any gender

You can send me an ask with the character you would like to write for and the fandom they belong in

Once your work is posted please tag me and let me know so I can add it to the masterlist for this collab

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎

The theme is everything-my favorite genre- Cyberpunk; neon, AI, high technology, post apocalyptic and dystopian. Your work has to include the following text:

"I remember things from human life" The voice says. Monotonously, like it's irrelevant and bleak. "I remember how water feels against your hands and how it feels to step on endless fields of grass. And the way lips swell after a kiss. And how they shrink after"

He chuckles. The sound is so throaty that even he can't pin it as real. There's nothing real around him nevertheless. Perhaps it's you standing before him that's deceiving; it doesn't stop his heart from burning in his chest, but it's your image that hurts- then again, these days, everything hurts.

There's this echo that surrounds him that's similar to what lingers after a fight. Yet, this time, he has not been the one on the receiving end of a smile and he's not the one who claps back with an angry click of his tongue. There's silence. Lack of emotion.

A cluster sound of disaster in the background doesn't scare you, it doesn't even make you flinch- more so blink.

"Do you remember anything?" He asks but a voice on the break of tears and crying shall never come out the way one wants it. At least there are no bags under your eyes to indicate a rainfall on your cheeks

"I remember you" He thinks he hears

And silence fills the void of a second in space and time, or even how much it takes for him to process what you said

"At least I think she does. The memories of her brain that are installed into my hard drive are too be vague according to-"

By the time rivers spill in tears of love from his eyes the droid before him looks anything but you. It's still your voice, Your eyes, your lips, your hair but he misses the way your eye would gleam and how you'd smile.

Boku no hero academia

Hawks- @stariwrites

Dabi- @ihadlife

Katsuki Bakugo- @kingkatsuki

Whether you choose to join or not, thank you so much, have a nice day and remember that I love you very much<3

[shostakobitchh]

chapter 46 sneak peek!

another rough draft from the opening of the chapter! there’s a time jamp of about two-ish weeks to when term begins for everyone. 

alternatively, Ariel gets bombarded by Weasley children. 

“Ariel!”

Hermione’s head craned out of the carriage, despite the fact that there was apocalyptic rain beating against it, the wind howling in protest. Ariel waved excitedly as Ariel stood at the main entrance, battling to keep her hood on against the storm.

She battled the wind, struggling not to go flying off the steps as the students began barrelling past her to get into the castle and out of the rain. Hermione’s carriage right at the front. Ron nearly fell out after her, ending up with a mouthful of Hermione’s hair as the wind knocked Hermione’s hood off. Ariel grinned as she watched the two of the bicker, the sound music to her ears.

Ariel, unable to help herself, met them halfway down the steps, throwing her arms around Hermione’s neck. They took turns for a minute trying to lift one another off the steps, but when Hermione almost lost her footing, they dissolved into a fit of giggles as the rain left them absolutely drenched.

When they pulled away, Hermione was grinning so hard it looked like her face would split open. “I’ve been so worried!”

“About what?” Ariel teased. “About the owls not being able to send me more than ten books at a time?”

She swatted at her shoulder and laughed. “About you — about Black. I was relieved when you wrote that Professor Dumbledore insisted you come to Hogwarts early, but not being able to see you…”

“I missed you too.”

Hermione hugged her again tightly. When Ariel pulled away, she saw Ron watching them from two steps down, looking very grumpy and very wet.

“We don’t have to do that, right?” Ron asked.

“Shut up,” Ariel said, and then launched herself at him.

Ron sputtered as she pulled away, wiping at his tongue, but he too seemed to look a little relieved. “You two have too much bloody hair.”

Seamus and Dean laughed as they passed, causing Ron to turn beet-red. For a moment, it looked like he was going to break away and follow after them, but he wiped the water out of his eyes instead and shook his head.

“Come on,” Ariel pulled Hermione forward, Ron right behind them. “It’s freezing out here, and the house elves have outdone themselves this time, you should see the spread.”

Hermione grumbled under her breath about slave labor, but Ariel didn’t hear her. Her heart felt it had been surrounded in the Lumos, only ten times brighter. Once they were inside, they took turns drying each other off with some spells, wringing out their cloaks. Ron pointed his wand at their hair, to which Hermione dodged.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned. “My hair will grow three sizes.”

“Really?” a curious expression crossed his face.

“Ronald, I am warning you —”

“Here,” Ariel motioned for her to turn, tying back her hair into a somewhat tidy ponytail. “At least it’ll stay out of your face.’

Ariel did the same to herself and Hermione watched, smoothing down the top of her head to try and de-frizz. “Your hair’s gotten longer, you’re going to need a haircut soon.”

She shrugged. She liked having it long, being able to thread her fingers through it. She’d never been able to do it before — Aunt Petunia had given her haircuts that made her look like a convict. “Maybe.”

They finished drying themselves off, Vanishing the puddles they’d managed to make in the process as they drier students began piling into the Great Hall. Ariel craned her neck over the crowd, still somehow shorter than most of the Second Years, and waved to Lavender and Pavarti, who were excitedly chatting with Padme towards the front of the hoard of people.  

A figure moved to block Ariel’s view, her pale face much healthier, more filled out, her brown eyes wide with hesitation. She almost didn’t recognize her for a second, blinking dumbly until a small, hesitant smile graced her face.

“Ginny —” Ariel started to say, wanting to ask her how she’d been, but she was abruptly cut off when something slammed into her.

Ginny then promptly burst into tears, flinging her arms around Ariel’s neck.

“I’m so sorry —” she blubbered. “I’m sorry —”

“Ginny, Ginny it’s okay,” Ariel soothed, turning red as the other students stared at them.

“I got all your letters, I just couldn’t write back, I couldn’t write it all down after…”  

I have written you down now, you will live forever —

“I know,” Ariel said quietly. “Listen, Ginny, that arsehole ended up turning into Voldemort. It wasn’t your fault, I don’t blame you for what happened. I’m just happy you’re okay.”

She sniffled, wiping at her face. “I should have known, all he talked about was you after a while. I feel so stupid.”

She’s terribly jealous

I was hoping for more than this cliche

“I did too,” Ariel admitted. “Hermione and I knew something was off, we should’ve kept after it more. I’m sorry.”

Ginny just shook her head, almost in disbelief. “Hermione told me everything, all you did for me. How did you manage it all? Killing the basilisk alone —”

Ariel felt her body tense as she remembered the sound of the floor shaking beneath her feet as the basilisk moved, not wanting to relive the memory. She diverted and asked Ginny how she had been doing instead.

Ginny looked away for a moment before saying softly, "I'm okay. It's not easy, but I remember what the Headmaster told me, that there were older and wiser wizards tricked by him." she smiled faintly. "I still have nightmares, I still get scared sometimes when writing... but it's getting better. The Mind Healers helped a lot.”

Ariel squeezed her hand, feeling the same sensation in her chest. “I’m glad.”

“The trip to Egypt definitely helped to take my mind off of it, too. Did Ron tell you in his letters — Fred and George almost locked Percy in one of the tombs.”

As if right on cue, a pair of arms picked Ariel off the ground from behind, squeezing her into a hug.

“Evans, old girl,” said George’s voice as a second pair of arms picked her up. “My, how you’ve grown! We used to be able to lift you over our heads with one arm.”

“Very funny,” Ariel said dryly, but she couldn’t wipe the grin off her face. “Maybe you too are just getting shorter.”

“Or weaker,” Ginny supplied, earning a snort from Ron. “Once I learn that Bat-Bogey Hex, it’s game over for you two.”

George clutched at his heart mockingly, pretending to keel over. “The very thought strikes fear into my heart.”

Ron rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “You’re on your own, mate. I’m not going anywhere near that.”

Ginny shot him an indignant glare before turning back to Ariel with a smirk. “Obviously I can only take them down when they get tired of meddling with each other.”

“Smart,” Ariel agreed. “Divide and conquer.”

“Terrifying,” Fred shuddered theatrically. “It almost worries us as much as that Sirius Black does.”

Hermione shot them both a very cross look, still shaking water out of her hair.

“Any sign of him?” Ron asked Ariel, glancing at the doors at the heavy oak doors as they swung shut. “Dad said he'd be mad as a hatter to try and escape, let alone after twelve years in Azkaban. He was going to write to you, you know, warn you, but Mum thought it’d frighten you…”

Fred gave Ron a little smack on the arm before leaning on his shoulder. “Life of the party, this one.”

Ginny snorted loudly as Ron and Hermione glowered. Ariel sighed and shook her head. “Nothing, I honestly haven’t heard any news about it. Have you?”

“Just a few sightings here and there but nothing concrete.” Hermione interjected, sounding only a little like one of the professors. “Besides, Ariel is perfectly safe here. Black can’t get anywhere near the castle as long as Dumbledore is Headmaster, and that would be without the Dementors keeping guard.”

George shuddered, for real this time. “Awful things, those Dementors. They searched the train on the way here.”

Ariel’s mouth went dry. “What? They did?”

“Yeah,” Ron shivered, rubbing his arms. “I think I would’ve broken out of Azkaban too, if I had to feel like that all the time. I felt like I’d never be happy again.”

“Did anyone faint?”

They all blinked at her. Ariel immediately regretted asking.

“No, but Malfoy came running into our compartment like a bat out of hell.” George grinned. “Slimey little bugger was shaking like a leaf, wasn’t he Fred?”

[touchingmadness]

✦ Writeblr Reintroduction ✦

a sff writer makes a heroic return to her writeblr account after a year of relative inactivity! the audience gasps! a return!? after so long!? is that allowed!? but our heroine has no care for what is allowed! she scoffs in the face of mockery!

Hey everyone! I’m Mae Crowe (@touchingmadness)! Some of you might already know me, but most considering the upheaval in the Writeblr community recently... Well, most of you probably don’t. I’ve been on Writeblr for six years as of August 2022, but I’ve been relatively inactive for the past year due to senior year of college, thesis work, and job applications.

In the time I’ve been away, I have a new contemporary fantasy WIP in the second draft that I am excited to share, as well as three WIPs in planning stages that I’m hoping to share somewhere down the road. I am also looking for some writers and WIPs to follow, because how else do you make friends on here?

[Banner made using “Astrolava’s character creator!” picrew.]

More about me, my writing, and what I'm looking to follow below the cut. Signal boosts allowed and appreciated!

✦ About Me ✦

Again, I’m Mae Crowe (she/her). I’m 22 years old and a recent graduate with a degree in communication. In terms of hobbies, I enjoy reading, writing, cosplay, and being an utter nuisance about Star Trek. I’m biromantic-asexual, and a hopeless romantic who sadly only develops infrequent crushes and basically gets possessed by a clumsy, bumbling gentleman every time they do occur. Yes, that’s just as embarrassing as it sounds.

✦ My Writing ✦

Humanity ✦ Societal failings ✦ Consequences ✦ Hope in the dark

I don’t really limit myself to a particular genre, but I tend to favor science-fiction and fantasy. My themes are generally pretty consistent, and my storylines tend to revolve around a character’s introspection and self-actualization. Most of my work is either adult or NA due to the heavier themes I like to play with, as well as just preferring to write at least marginally older characters.

✦ Main WIP: Touched ✦

My current WIP is an NA contemporary fantasy novel about an adult “Chosen One” dealing with the realization that the organization she dedicated her childhood caused her incredible harm. At its core, it’s about how parents and authority fail us and moving past childhood trauma to build the life we want. It’s her journey of growing up, dual POV with her supposed-dead mortal enemy, and yes, of course they have a romantic arc, even if I consider the story’s focus to be on their individual development. But they’re bi4bi and ace4ace M/F, if that’s what it takes to sell someone. And the female lead is touch averse and it’s not treated as something to be fixed because I am Touch Averse and Bitter. :))))

(This is incredibly oversimplified, so let me know if you would like to be notified when the full introduction is released later this week.)

✦ Other WIPs ✦

I also have three projects that are in the planning stages that I might choose to share down the road. I can’t guarantee any of these will be formally released soon, but there’s a good chance they’ll be mentioned at least in passing.

Adult space opera. A crew of female and fem-presenting aliens go on a space road trip to ruin the wedding of the human playboy who toyed with them, building bonds with each other in the process.

Adult post-apocalyptic sci-fi. Severely wounded in a violent raid, an amnesiac man is taken in by the household of the legendary Eternal One, a mysterious and warped survivor from the Before Times.

NA contemp queer romance. A notorious flirt poses as her best friend’s boyfriend on a family vacation to help her avoid the fallout of a nasty breakup, causing hijinks and a gender crisis.

Again, I can’t guarantee that any of these will be formerly released, but if you’re interested in being alerted if/when any of them are posted, let me know.

✦ Looking For ✦

I’m looking for writers and WIPs to follow! If you’re active in the community, involved in events, or generally just share a lot (writing, tips, or whatever), I’d love to check out your blog! I likely won’t follow everyone, but I’m currently following practically no one... So...

In terms of WIPs, my favorite things are:

Contemp fantasy, soft sci-fi, gothic fantasy, genre-bending spec fic, space operas

NA or adult audience

Complicated characters, complicated relationship dynamics

Ace-spec, aro-spec, bi, and/or sapphic POV characters

Trope subversion and social commentary

Ultimately hopeful and/or cathartic stories

Creepy, quirky, and/or existential vibes

Shenanigans, humor, absurdity, and/or permission to have fun

These aren’t the only things I read, just my favorites. The only thing I probably won’t consider at all is fanfiction, simply due to fic compatibility. Just let me know what you’re excited about sharing, I’d love to hear about it!

Feel free to introduce yourself or your work in the thread, in the tags, in asks, or in DMs. I’m really excited to get to know all of you!!!

[moderncryptid]

Furry Little Bastard Chapter 1

  It really was shitty, Damien had long ago decided, that your world could come to an end and everyone else’s could just keep moving on.

A metaphorical meteor could turn your life into a smoking crater and people will just step over and around you, maybe sparing the occasional glance at whatever’s left with a mixture of pity and vague disgust. The kind of look that makes you wish you still had it in you to tell them to mind their business so you can smolder undisturbed.

That was how it felt in the beginning. No ability, no direction, nowhere to go and nobody to talk to. The last three conditions weren’t unfamiliar. But leaning how to navigate without his ability felt like trying to maneuver around in the dark. Like losing one of his senses.

It was like being in a hotel room when the air conditioning or heat suddenly shut off. That was the only thing he could compare it to at first. That sudden extra layer of quiet. He might have gone all night without noticing the sound and its sudden absence was disorienting.

Now the “sound” of other people’s minds was gone. A hum that was more sensation than noise; like the low buzzing of feedback from a speaker at a concert he could feel at the base of his skull. People’s minds, their wants, the lose threads he used to be able to pull at without even the conscious desire to do so. Gone like turning off a light switch.

For the first few weeks after the AM, he swore there was something wrong with his ears. Noises seemed so much louder, and silences felt so heavy. It took him a while to put together what he was missing. He was so used to the company of other people’s minds inside his own that being without them….

“It feels lonely.” Was what he told Mark. And he hadn’t yet come up with a better way of putting it, as much as he’d like to. 

It was, to put it lightly and with the least amount of profanity possible, incredibly shitty. He used to believe he was cursed, or born with bad luck, or maybe the universe just hated him personally. These days he was beginning to suspect that maybe it didn’t hate him at all. It just found watching him struggle really, really funny and didn’t want to stop laughing any time soon. 

He tried making a life for himself in this new normal. Really, he did. Not that anyone would believe that, or would think too much of what he had to show for it.

He worked sporadically here and there, mostly at restaurants and other places that didn’t check backgrounds too closely or care very much about experience. He got kicked out of one apartment, and then another before one finally stuck. He learned how to take a bus and learned how much he hated taking the bus. And along the way, he developed a deep-seated hatred for thin walls and people who had the energy to start loud arguments with their roommates or partners after midnight. 

It was actually his neighbors fighting that drove him out of the apartment at around 11pm one night. He'd given up on trying to sleep until they quieted down and stepped outside just to get away from the noise that was starting to give him a headache. 

It was still early September. So, theoretically it shouldn't have been too cold. September was all pretty trees and warm afternoons according to books and tv. In reality, he was freezing his ass off the moment he stepped out in his oversized sweatpants and hoodie; his shoes half shoved on in his haste to get out. It was also raining. Not a pretty little misting of water, but the kind of torrential downpour only shown in apocalyptic movies. He briefly hoped it would wash the whole damn city away, then broke off those pleasant thoughts to mutter a string of curses when he stepped in a puddle and soaked through one of his socks. 

I used to like cities.

The thought came with a wave of melancholy nostalgia. The only kind he seemed to be capable of. Back when he had his ability, cities were easy. It was easy to get lost in the crowd, easy to slip by unnoticed, easy to disappear. Now they just felt entirely too big and weirdly empty in spite of all the people. And disappearing in the mix was somehow even more lonely. 

Mark mentioned wanting to live in a big city once. Like New York or L.A. He said he liked the idea of having something to do all the time; new people to talk to, shops popping in and out, a constant rotation of artists and musicians. Damien had no idea if this city had any of those things. Hadn’t had the time or energy to seek them out. Crowds made him nervous long before he lost his ability and that certainly hadn't improved how he felt about them. As far as he’d seen, this place was just a lot of cars and faceless buisnesses.

You’d probably hate it here. He thought. Another entry in an endless, one-sided conversation that was the one constant in his life. An extension of all those embarrassing, shitty letters crammed into his backpack that he could never actually bring himself to throw away. 

Damien sighed and leaned his head back against the cold, wet brick. He’d just closed his eyes and was starting to let his mind drift to all the places he’d be better off not drifting to when he heard a noise that sounded like a long, low wail.

His eyes snapped open and he looked around the alley. He couldn’t see anyone but himself, and there was nothing else out here but the dumpsters along the far wall overflowing with plastic bags. The streetlights to his left and the greenish bulb glowing on the outside of whatever building he was living next to cast a sickly, dim glow over the narrow space. It was eerie on a good day. And as he was just beginning to consider maybe sitting through another argument from his neighbors was better than whatever was out here, he heard it again. Another heartrending wail coming from the bank of dumpsters.

It didn’t sound much like a person. Person-adjacent maybe. It was hard to tell with all the cars rushing by on the street and that damn buzzing light. 

Am I about to be the person who dies in the first five minutes of a horror movie?

Well, at least then he wouldn’t have to go into work tomorrow. Never let anyone say he didn’t know how to look on the bright side.

He wondered if this was one of those situations where he was supposed to pretend not to hear anything. Investigating certainly didn’t sound like a good idea. But the thought of turning his back to go inside right now didn’t really appeal to him either. 

“If anyone’s planning on stabbing me tonight can we please get this over with?” he groaned with what he hoped was enough exhaustion behind his words to convince any curious lurkers to move on. Maybe if he could convey how shitty his life was in a single sentence he could make any potential murderers see that they would be wasting their time on him. 

Still. He waited with his breath catching in the back of his throat until several tense seconds had passed.

You’re a paranoid idiot. He told himself. Then nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt something cold and wet brush against his leg. 

Damien had never gotten his door open so quickly and he’d closed it again before giving himself time to figure out just what had touched him. 

What the hell kind of murderer grabs someone’s ankles?

He decided that weirder things had happened and slid the little metal lock into place. Not that it looked like it would do much against someone who really wanted to get in. Damien was pretty sure a determined rat could break the whole door down with enough momentum.

“Well that was fucking weird,” he said aloud to himself. Wishing, not for the first and probably not the last time, that he didn’t live alone. His heart was still pounding and he was sure the whole situation would have been more funny than creepy if he had someone to commiserate with. Someone to make fun of him for being scared by literally nothing so he could stop thinking about how useless the lock was.

A little comfort would be nice too. Maybe just a brief squeeze of a shoulder or someone asking sincerely if he was okay. He’d brush it off and say he was fine, yeah, but it was about the asking more than the answer. 

Instead, he had himself. And that eternally critical voice in the back of his head that loved to remind him how bad he was at being a person, telling him that it was really embarrassing to start whining about being lonely because he got a little spooked. 

He ran his fingers back through his damp hair and sat down on the floor; the universal sign of giving up that he was very familiar with. Too tired to drag himself to bed, he drew up his knees and dropped his face onto them, letting out a sigh he was sure would be heard through the paper-thin walls. 

Hey Mark. Your city idea blows. In case you were wondering. And I wish you were here so I could tell you that to your stupid face.

He did his best to think about it angrily. And to not dwell on the fact that he could just hear him laughing at the whole situation. Making light of it all. Responding with a teasing, “Aww. Poor baby.” that would make him want to gag. Because if he thought about that for too long it would start to make his ribs ache and the apartment would seem more empty than it already was.

Damien let out another sigh, one that shook far more than the one before it. Which, he told himself, was only a result of the cold. He was just starting to repeat it to himself, (Because he was not going to cry on the floor for the second time in a week.) when something butted against his arm.

Damien jerked back from it so hard that he would have fallen on his ass if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. His heart lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mouth, and though he’d somehow managed to avoid actually letting out any noise, he came pretty close when he saw a pair of eyes staring at him from the hallway. Until he realized they were too small and close to the ground to be human. And probably too big for a rat.

Did I let a fucking possum inside? 

That was something he’d actually done once back in Nebraska. Possums were decently amiable; or were at least willing to act like it in exchange for food. He’d never been good at making friends his own age even before his ability made that pretty much impossible, but he’d found animals to be pretty judgment-free as a rule. There wasn’t anything non-human he didn’t at least try to approach in his younger years even when his parents tried to discourage the habit. Once they were gone and he stopped going to school, there really was nobody there to stop him from making nice with the local vermin around his house. 

The possum was part of the collection of squirrels and birds he’d share his leftovers or failed baking projects with. His mom would be horrified, but he had a pretty decent crowd going that would wait out on the porch for his evening offerings. Damien actually got it to the point where the possum in question would take food right out of his hands. A point of personal pride.

One afternoon he left the side door open. And it just came waddling into the kitchen like it owned the place. Damien remembered walking around the corner, locking eyes with it, then panicking after a moment’s mutual confusion. 

His brilliant solution had been to try and pick it up so he could set it back outside. He was a very lonely, stupid kid who was thinking in terms of pets, not wild animals. And in exchange for his moment of stupidity, he ended up getting bitten.

Luckily it was nothing serious. It hardly broke the skin but the shock and sight of blood made him call for his mom. 

It was just habit. A reflex like pulling your fingers back from a hot stove. He tried to pretend he hadn’t done it the moment the word left his mouth, but the ringing silence that followed the little animal scampering out of the house was still deafening. 

Nobody wants you. Even animals know there’s something wrong with you.

He was probably being dramatic. It still didn’t feel any less real. So he’d done his best to keep his distance from wildlife after that. Until it decided to come to him and take up residence in his hallway. 

Much like the possum, for several moments they just stared at each other. Then as he laid there on the shitty carpet, the thing he’d let into his apartment poked its head out a little further.

It was a cat. Probably. Its fur was so wet and dirty that it could have been just a very, very big rat. It was impossible to guess what color it was under the grime, but it had green eyes. Huge, luminous green eyes.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It chittered at him. Like he was a damn bird. 

“Absolutely not.” Damien stood up and opened his door. Then pointed toward the alley outside to reinforce his point. “Out. This isn’t a hotel.”

The fucking creature that had somehow slipped inside continued to stare at him. It looked at the door. Then back at him. Then made a noise very similar to the one he’d heard wailing out by the dumpster. 

“Hey- don’t give me that shit. Your issues are not my problem.”

Okay. That sounded a little too familiar.

“I’m not your owner,” he amended. “Go bother them.”

The cat got up, wandered a bit closer, and Damien thought it was actually going to go out. Then it veered off course and decided to wind around his legs, feeling very much like whatever had grabbed his ankle.

You little bastard.

He was standing right in the doorway. It would have been easy to use his foot to nudge it out, and he was about to do just that when he glanced back at the alley. It was still pouring; maybe harder than before. His breath was coming out in misty clouds, and the overhead light in his apartment made it seem even darker out there by contrast. From what he could see, there was nothing out there but the garbage, a busy road, and a dozen other doors shut for the night. With their residents probably sleeping, given it was nearly midnight on a Tuesday. 

Damien looked back down at the ugly little thing pressing up against his sweatpants. It blinked at him, and he decided that even if he was heartless, he just didn’t have it in him to be quite that cruel. 

It wasn’t his problem. But it had to be someone’s. 

“Ugh. Fine,” he groaned, letting the door slam shut. “One night. Sleep it off, and in the morning you’re out. Got it?”

It didn’t even wait for him to stop talking. The moment the door shut it detached itself from him and scampered off, managing somehow to disappear in the small, nearly empty apartment. Not that he spent much time looking for it as he finally managed to drag himself to bed. After shucking off his sweatpants that were freshly streaked with dumpster residue, courtesy of his unwelcome guest, that is.

He did wonder if he’d need to worry about it crawling up to chew on his face in the brief moments before he finally passed out. But in the few seconds he listened for the sound of paws on the mattress, it hardly occurred to him that he’d stopped worrying about the lock on the door.  

[ntzsche9]

Writer Q&A Tag Game

thank you for the tag, @digital-chance. I love how this one forces you to look at your own work in such a positive way.

1. What motivates you to write?

Some of my characters are ANCIENT. Even when I went 5+ years without writing, they're still there, and I miss them. Daydreaming about stories and scenarios is my favorite hobby, especially during my work commute.

2. A line/short snippet of your writing that you are most proud/happy of. If not maybe share a line of someone else's work you love (just please credit them)

From Ch 9(ish) of my Unnamed Nuka-World Fic:

From the corner of his eye, Luvell saw the Sunshine Tidings Co-op settlers jump and cheer, pumping their arms into the air. He couldn't hear them from the cataclysmic roar of the blast, but the rapture of revenge was clear on their faces. No one must be watching the settlement, with how many people were suddenly collected on the ridge. Even this far away, they could feel the sound and the heat threatening to bowl them over. He could hardly stare at the blast for more than a few seconds, and the people around him that didn't think to bring sunglasses dipped their hats and shielded their eyes. He had expected to be cheering, too, or at least relishing a deep satisfaction at finally striking back. Finally making someone pay for taking Lafayette from them. Instead, something inside him felt disquieted and out of place. This was too much. Too much like them. It wouldn't end here, it only raised the stakes. Things would get worse after this. Luvell glanced back at his parents, their faces brightly lit from the blast. Dave squinted behind his glasses, brows furrowed, still frowning. Gabe had tugged his goggles down over his eyes, and as the light made his tawny skin glow warm and golden, a toothy grin began to creep across his face. He watched the destruction with a growing smugness, a hand reaching up to squeeze Dave's shoulder. "He's gonna fuckin' haaate thiiis!" he relished happily when the world finally started to go quiet again.

3. Which OC makes you smile every time you think/talk about them and what are they like?

I should say my main boy Lafayette, because whew I love putting him through things, but it's his lunatic little ex-boyfriend Mateo that delights me the most. He's hot in a way that is absolutely unhelpful to everyone, lowkey a nerd about plants, loves making lil spooky crafts, and will undoubtable one day run a death cult. Every time I write him, he does something so ridiculous and over-reactive that I didn't predict and its always fun.

4. What process of writing do you enjoy the most?

When the juices are flowing, and you're almost passively watching the things happen in your head and just recording what is being said and done, and the characters are in control. Especially when they surprise you by reacting differently than you anticipated and now everyone else has to react to them.

5. What part of writing do you think you are the best at? (Yes stroke your own ego it's okay)

Dialog? Maybe? Sometimes I really enjoy it, but that might just be self-indulgent.

6. What is something in the writeblr community is most enjoyable?

The little daily tokens of encouragement to keep writing, and to write for yourself.

7. A writing tool/device you use that helps you with writing? (It could be speech to text, a writing program etc)

Post-it notes. Lmao. I don't really use anything fancy, but as I'm reading, each and every book is gonna have at least one post-it note that is covered with page numbers, words I'm unfamiliar with, phrases I love or concepts I think I can use later. I have hundreds of notes like this and its a great source of inspiration when I need it.

8. A piece of worldbuilding that you like in your own story? (It could be the magic system, a particular place in the story, a law etc)

I write mostly fanfics, so I can't claim the world as my own too often, but when writing Salem's Child, the bit about post-apocalyptic Salem, MA being overrun with black cats came out of nowhere at me and now I'm obsessed.

9. What piece of advice would you say to encourage others to write if they are having a rough patch?

Plotting, or over-plotting, is what most often bogs me up. To shake it off, I try to look back on a major plot point and change it, and write how things would go differently. Did Dave survive getting his leg eaten off by cannibals? Write about what happens if he didn't. (In my case, everyone wigged out and killed each other, and it really made me appreciate how Dave holds the whole family together lol.) When it works, it almost always fixes my slump.

10. Tag some people whose works you love/have been your biggest supporters

I'm still pretty new here, but no pressure to: @elean0rarose, @leebrontide, @touloserlautrec, @words-after-midnight and @ruinmegently

[infinite-orangepeel]

9 & 13 for the writer asks, please :)

bobbie, hi ! lovely to see you here, my friend <3 hope you're having a great start to your weekend :) thanks so much for submitting these ones !

and thanks to @lordoftherazzles for creating this tag game 💌

9. have you ever made yourself laugh with something you've written?

short answer: yes.

long answer: usually when i'm writing some intentionally awkward flirting between steddie, i won't be satisfied UNLESS it makes me personally smile or giggle (that's like my litmus test for if it gets included in the final draft).

also, whenever i get to write ensemble scenes with the whole gang (bonus points: if it's steddie 'parenting; the kids), i find myself laughing. i recently wrote these few lines for it's rotten work and they make me smile:

“Uh, no. That’s okay. Thanks, though,” Steve’s mom-brain is running at the speed of light as he tries to do the math on how to accommodate everyone, explain everything, and deal with the potential fallout–all while getting the kids to go to bed at a reasonable hour, “Why’d you guys come here, anyway?”

“To drink alcohol and kiss our boyfriends–at least that’s what Max said earlier,” she says in a distorted imitation of a regular teen–one who hasn’t lived through years of unethical lab experimentation, multiple apocalyptic events, and attained telekinesis. 

“Do you and your boyfriend kiss with alcohol, Steve?” she wonders aloud and he stammers around trying to generate an acceptable, PG-13 answer. 

“Well, you know. I don’t–I think that it’s best–” 

“Oh, they’ve definitely kissed,” Dustin jogs over and Mike tags along on lanky legs. 

“Definitely,” Mike confirms, like he might be able to apply the scientific method to prove it, “Just look at the hickeys on Steve’s neck! Either a vampire attacked him in the woods or he and Eddie have been having sex in Hopper’s cabin–which ew–” 

“Oh gross!” Lucas exclaims from his perch across the room, “I bet there’s dude jizz all over the cabin. I’m probably sitting in some right now, aren’t I? Actually don’t answer that–”

“Okayyyy. Sounds like mama bear needs some help getting her ducklings back in line. That’s my cue, Red,” Eddie ties off the intricate braid he’s weaved into Max’s strawberry colored hair and leaves her giggling with an unintelligible comment he whispers into her ear. 

13. multichapter fics or one shots?

ahh don't make me choose ! jk, jk.

as a reader, i have a slight preference for multichapter fics.

i'm def one of those people that gravitates towards works with over 100k words (or even 200k tbh) and some seriously fucked up tags (what can i say? i like the dark stuff. the more fucked up/toxic and crazy the better sometimes lol in fiction at least). like the fact that each installment of @azrielgreen's fics tends to be over 20k words is the best to me lol. I live for it ! also I just live for her writing in general, wow.

but tbh if it's steddie, i'll read anything under the sun. and bc i'm constantly writing and working on my own wips, one shots do bode well for me due to time constraints !

and as a writer, i have a HUGE preference for multichapter fics. bc if i'm obsessed with a pairing (and steddie is seriously my otp forever) i want to stay immersed in that universe for as long as possible. and bc I like to torture myself with writing slowburns and/or angst with a happy ending, i find that the multipchapter/giant word count format works best for plot and character development.

to me, it's rotten work and i wore his jacket are both heavily character driven. it's rotten work was born out of the idea that i wanted to explore steve's trauma in the whumpiest/brutal way possible. eventually, that transformed into addressing and exploring eddie's trauma, as well. and in order for a fic like that to work and to see any real healing take place, i think the story needs time to breathe and develop for it to be believable/feel realistic enough for the reader.

anyways !! sorry that was a way too long answer but I had too many thoughts in my brain on the topic. if you read that all, I seriously adore you <3

[sheriffgrimes-archerdixon]

A/N- hey everyone it’s been a while i hope you’re all keeping well! Life has been crazy but I’m hoping to get back into writing more often! Thank you so much for sticking around and as usual; requests are open.

Can I request one where the story is set in Alexandria and the reader gets injured when on a hunt with daryl and Rick has to tend to her wounds? Thank you so much

Living a dystopian life

Life for you was difficult to say the least but you got around it somehow. Having to get used to the apocalyptic days at first was hard and unbearable but now that you had found your friends… your family. You knew you’d be fine. However there were days where life was just awful. Yes you had your friends but you also had rivalry people who seemed to target you at every cost. Finding safety and warmth in Alexandria was something you, Rick, daryl and the entire group would be grateful for. It wasn’t often any of you would get any safety or food or warm water for once but getting to Alexandria was not only a time for great recuperation but also a new enemy. A new cruel enemy. An enemy you’d never forgive. Negan was his name he was the biggest ass in the entire world and you would never ever forgive him for what he did. What pain he put you through. That night when he bashed Abraham’s head in was agony and then how he mercilessly attacked Glenn next. It was simply something out of a dystopian fiction. It was like living a literal nightmare. The images of Maggie collapsed on top of Glenn begging him to come back to life was images of utter despair. It was instant darkness that wrapped around everyone’s hearts- especially yours. Nothing was ever the same after that. Everyone tried to go on with their lives but nothing could ever fix the pain you all felt. Death was the worst part of the apocalypse but murder truly topped that. Both Glenn and Abraham didn’t deserve it and from that day onwards you promised yourself you’d be the one to kill Negan the day he tried to hurt anymore of your family. If he dared do anything you’d smash his head in and make sure he regrets ever hurting you. You wanted him to realise that he messed with the wrong group of survivors.

“Go grab that arrow for me,” daryl murmured gripping onto his crossbow as he picked up a few squirrels and birds he had killed along the way of hunting. You stepped over a couple of twigs resting your foot on to the belly of the deer before yanking the arrow out of it. “Here” you handed it to him resting your hands on your hips as you glanced around “I saw a couple of deers over there. It’s probably our best shot if we head south.” You spoke daryl nodding in agreement however he put a finger to his lips holding his hand out towards you and you froze in place “wait a second” he mumbled quietly the loud groans from a Walker grabbing your attention but it wasn’t anywhere close enough to worry about at the moment. “Daryl something doesn’t feel right…” you spoke and from his silence you knew he was agreeing. Something was off and you didn’t like not knowing what it was. You slowly walked forwards a sudden whistle sound being heard a look of realisation flashing across his face “y/n get down!” He demanded shoving you out of the way trying to get out out of the way in time however a massive pain struck throughout your shoulder. You had been shot by someone. “They’re here… the saviours… shit,” daryl spat out quickly helping you stand up as he began leading you through the thick forest his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. You didn’t want to admit it but you were in pain and you were scared. Absolutely terrified.

As the gates of Alexandria came into view Carl who was on the tower noticed both you and Daryl immediately yelling for Rick and telling the people on shift to open the gate. “What- y/n. What happened?” Ricks voice was concerned and filled with utter concern as he took you from Daryl both men leading you to the safety of the medical room as Daryl explained what had happened- “negan’s here. A bullet hit her. She’s fortunate it didn’t hit anywhere vital. Hit her shoulder, bastards were aiming for her head…” he spoke and Rick nodded his jaw clenching as it visibly affected him knowing they were planning on hurting you… or worse. “I need bandages and tweezers immediately. Sterilisation kit too.” Rick shot out orders as he helped you onto the bed. He was no doctor but when he got worried over you he’d do anything to help. He was silent as he began working on stopping the blood. Your eyes searched his features his blue eyes shining with worry and concern “Rick…” you whispered and he looked at you pausing with what he was doing. “I’m okay.” You smiled softly and he sighed nodding “I know. I just need to stop this blood then I know you’ll be fine.” He spoke softly and you nodded watching as he picked up the pair of tweezers “this may hurt… hold my hand” he offered however Daryl was quick to intervene “here hold mine. Use both hands rick. You need to be precise” he said and you grabbed onto Daryl’s hand gripping onto it tightly as you closed your eyes. The searing feeling ripping throughout your arm was enough to make you grimace but you remained strong however a sudden woozy feeling flooded your mind as the pain got a lot more worse. You couldn’t even begin to explain it- it was that bad. “She’s gonna go.” Rick said his brows furrowing as he looked into your eyes noticing how you had began to blink a lot faster your frame beginning to wobble back and forth ever so slightly “y/n try and stay with me yeah?” He tried to distract you but the more you tried to stay awake the harder it became and so after a while of trying to stay awake you gave in, your eyes fluttering shut as you blacked out.

“Shit” Daryl muttered his hand immediately resting underneath your head stopping the back of your head from hitting the bed just in time. He knew even if you had hit your head it wouldn’t of been so bad as it was a cushioned comfy bed but still- he was protective over you. “Is the bleeding stopping? Is she gonna be alright?” He questioned scared the genuine fear in his eyes being the truth of how much he cared for you, Rick remained silent and to Daryl that felt like he was being silent for years but really it was only a minute or two and after a while the sound of metal hitting metal rung in his ears his eyes locking onto the blood stained bullet in the metal bowl “the bleeding has stopped… I hope she’s going to be okay… I assume she is. But for now we just have to wait until the real doctor is here.” He explained his hand gently caressing over your forehead, brushing some of your hair back before he leaned down pressing a kiss to your temple. “She’s patched up so the bandages should do the job for now but again the real doctor isn’t here yet-“ “real doctor? You need a doctor? I’m the man” a sudden voice filled the room both Rick and Daryl tensing up their eyes flicking towards the entrance of the room as he stood there grinning cruelly. Negan.

“You bastard!” Daryl raised his voice as he immediately rushed towards him but Rick was quicker as he immediately stood in front of Daryl “not now… not now… calm down. C’mon.” Rick pleaded not wanting anyone else to be killed “you can’t be serious? He nearly killed h-“ “not now Daryl.” Rick said sternly but calmly and so Daryl shrugged it off backing off as Rick turned to face Negan again the same bat in his hands as he tossed it back and forth between his left and right hand almost taunting him with the fact that, that bat had killed two of his friends. “Good job you just stopped her from being killed!” Negan exclaimed joyfully as he grinned silence filling the room, Daryl raging wanting to attack Negan whilst Rick struggled to remain calm however after a moment or two your eyes snapped open as you let out an agonised cry all three men immediately growing concerned- Negan actually seemed worried. Surprise surprise the man actually did have a heart.

“I-it hurts so much” you meekly whispered as Rick immediately rushed to you his hand brushing against your forehead “she’s burning up, shit. Can someone get the doctor?” He asked concerned “I said I’m your man.” Negan repeated as Rick looked at him annoyance forming on his face “excuse me?” He questioned “you heard me.” He said however he seemed to be honest “I came to tell you that I’m of course not a doctor but the bullet that was meant for Daryl… was meant to go in his head. Not hers. But it was a poisoned bullet.” He explained and with that ricks anger got the best of him as he practically threw Negan against the wall gripping onto his collar “you poisoned the bullet?! You fucking asshole! That’s some war crime! First you beat the shit out of my friends now you’re trying to kill off the rest of my family? Is that it? Huh! We provide you with food yet here you are trying to kill us in the most inhumane way possible.” Rick spat out, still eerily calm but you were able to see the anger in him the shaking of his hands the tremble of his words the way his knuckles turned white from the grip he had on Negan even the man himself seemed to notice that Rick was extremely angry so simply shook his head at the men with guns pointed at Rick “you know what? Since you’re playing Russian fucking roulette… you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out. Right here.” Rick questioned pressing his gun to Negan’s temple “Listen… listen…. Let’s not make silly choices here.” Negan murmured holding his hands up in surrender all the power Rick had lost seeming to refill his body as he kept the gun pointed at him “so you don’t have a good reason? Fine.” Rick murmured slightly pulling the trigger as Negan squeezed his eyes shut seemingly almost… afraid?

“I have a doctor. He can help her.” He said and with that news Rick immediately came back to the realisation that you were quite literally on your death bed “get the doctor. Now.” Rick said and Negan nodded as the men with guns immediately went outside as Rick kept the gun pointed at Negan. “If she dies then you’ll regret it. Understood?” Daryl spoke up as Rick struggled to contain the anger within him, your breathing more laboured as you barely understood what anyone was saying however as the door opened again you watched as a blurry figure walked closer to you as muffled words began to be tossed across the room as two hands held your wrists down, another two hands holding your ankles down and one hand resting on your cheek and as your head was tilted to face this person you noticed the blue eyes. The kind blue eyes of him. Rick. However he was scared, tears of worry floating in his eyes and you were confused trying to ask what was wrong however a sudden searing pain flooded your body once again as you began wriggling trying to get the hell out of there- now you understood- they were holding you down.

“Keep a hold of her. I’m nearly done… this’ll fight off the poison…” the doctor explained. Rick didn’t trust the “doctor” enough to believe him but he trusted him to work on you so he just hoped he wasn’t wrong in trusting him and after a while your struggling soon stopped your eyes fluttering shut your breathing heavy as Rick gently laid little kisses on your forehead “it’s okay… go back to sleep… sleep it off. I’m right here.” He murmured kindly and gently and so your eyes fluttered shut as you fell into another disorientated sleep.

“She hasn’t eaten in a week. She needs food” “no she needs fluids” “guys c’mon we need to think this through. Just give her time. She’ll wake up soon.” “She’s been asleep for 7 days. 7 days. I’m worried” the voices awoke you the arguing being gentle and quiet and you fluttered your eyes open squinting up at the ceiling. It felt like you were weighted down by a ton of bricks but other than that you felt okay- better than before “Rick…” you coughed out and after a second or two the man stood just beside you a happy relieved smile on his face “you’re okay? Thank god.” He said his arms gently wrapping around you as he held onto you “of course I’m okay.” You murmured softly as you smiled “I’m a grimes after all.” You said with a teasing grin and he let out a soft chuckle however as you began to cough he grabbed the small cup of water as he held the straw still as he helped you drink the water “I’m so glad you’re awake. You gave us a fright.” He said smiling and you hummed “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.” You said and everyone in the room let out a slight laugh along with a murmur of disagreement “oh if you had of remembered what happened then you’d most definitely not think it wasn’t that bad.” He said and you furrowed your brows slightly “it was that bad?” You questioned and Rick nodded his head “we nearly lost you.” He explained looking into your eyes lovingly his hand gently cupping the back of your head as you looked into his eyes seeing the true trauma in his eyes and you immediately sprung forward ignoring the pain as you wrapped your arms around him tightly “careful… careful.” He whispered holding onto you as he gently rubbed up and down your back keeping you close as he let out a shaky sigh just glad you were still alive;

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to stay. I promise.”

[chasingmidnights]

Where Did Everybody Go?

Title: Where Did Everybody Go? 

Summary: It was like waking up in the Twilight Zone, everything felt off from the moment you woke up. Everyone from your life had disappeared. You had tried contacting everyone but kept getting their voicemails. What was going on? Where did everybody go? 

Warnings: apocalyptic theme; people turning into ash; people disappearing; slight anxiety/angst; one-eyed animals; I apologize if I miss anything, but you are responsible for what you read, I just post here. 

Word Count: 1,076

Your alarm blared in your ears and you growled at the horrible sound that it was making. You struggle to reach for the damn device, grunting as you do so. There! It was finally quiet in the room and you rolled back over to lay in bed for a few more minutes. You were quite irritable this morning, having woken up at two in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. You woke up with a giant pit in your stomach and a feeling you couldn’t quite shake. In fact, it still lingered with you, filling you with anxiety. You did your best to push the feeling away as you pushed the covers off of you and climbed out of bed. 

As you tumbled out of bed, you started your morning routine. Going through the motions like every morning, even with that feeling still gnawing at you. Once your coffee was started, you clicked on the news and made sure to take care of your dog Lucky. Lucky, your one-eyed golden retriever who followed you home from work one day. You gave him some quick pets before continuing getting ready. As you were finishing up in the bathroom, you could hear the anchor people discussing the current events. Then suddenly, a strangled scream fills the apartment, causing you to rush out to the living room to see what’s going on. A gasp escapes your lips and your eyes widen in shock. Surely, your eyes were playing tricks on you. Or maybe some kind of prank the news people were playing was playing on their viewers? All you can do is watch as the newswoman contorts her face in horror as she witnesses her coworker turn into dust. You can feel your own face begin to twist into terror as the camera begins to angle down towards the floor. 

Next thing you know, your feet are carrying you out of your apartment. Lucky perked his head up from where he was laying on his dog bed, your actions piquing his interest. But only for a brief moment before he lays his head back down. You rush through your apartment building, your heart racing as you do. You take note of all of the frantic people coming out of their apartments too. As you get out to the sidewalk, your eyes widen in shock at the scene unfolding before you. It was pure chaos. All around you people were in complete panic mode. Multiple blood-curdling screams pierced the air and your ears. Dust, well you suppose it was more likely ash, filled the air and blew into the wind. It swirled all around, sending a shiver up your spine and your hair rose all over your body. You tried not to think about the fact that the ash floating around you used to be people. A loud crash from in front of you pulled you from your thoughts, causing you to practically jump out of your skin. The driver had suddenly disappeared from their seat and rear ended the car in front of them. What in the world was going on? Is this the damn apocalypse? 

 An alarm went off in your head and the world around you became drowned out as one particular thought consumed you. Your heart began to beat faster and your breathing labored, your own panic setting in. Honestly, it never left. What about your family? What about your friends? Or hell, even coworkers for that matter? Were they witnessing the same thing? You refused to believe that this was all happening inside of your head. No way were you going crazy. At least you didn’t think so? Somebody bumping into you as they ran past brought you back to reality. Without wasting another minute, you race back inside of the apartment building. You tried your best to ignore everyone around you, there was no helping them. Not yet anyway. All of the people crying and screaming, you had to block it out, you were doing everything you could to keep yourself from doing the same thing. You needed to find out what happened to your loved ones before you could even consider helping anyone. Maybe not even then. 

When you finally reached your apartment, you frantically searched for your cell phone. Ah-ha, got it! You fumbled with it as you picked it up, it didn’t help that your hands were shaking uncontrollably. Once you got your phone unlocked, you instantly went into your contacts and began dialing. With each person that didn’t answer, you began to grow faint. You placed your hand over your heart and tried to control your breathing but it was too late. A panic attack was setting in and taking over. Lucky came over to you, ready to help you out of your panic attack. He rested his head on your knees… When did you sit down? You look down at your faithful pooch and you could feel the tears begin to brim at your waterline. You were alone, completely and utterly alone. Lucky lets out a soft whine before letting out a huff of air. You give him a few pets on the top of his head before you completely lose it and break down. 

The next couple of days were a complete blur as you and your neighbors tried to figure out what the hell was going on. You helped where you could within those days. You checked in on your elderly neighbor a few doors down the hall, apparently his wife disappeared. You helped post missing fliers up and around the block. It was necessary to keep your mind busy, it kept you from breaking down all of the time. It wasn’t until the fourth day when a nationwide  broadcast was made and the Avengers made an announcement, Tony Stark did most of the speaking. They called it, the Blip. Half-way through he explanation, you felt yourself zoning out and a bone rattling sob escaped your lips. You gasped for air in between each sob. So it was true, you were completely alone. No one was purposely ignoring your phone calls or just simply choosing not to call you back, they physically couldn’t. You couldn’t believe this was happening right now. How was this the new reality with half of the population gone? Honestly, you wish you had been blipped with everyone else because you didn’t want to do this alone. 

You truly felt abandoned.

[mediadiscord]

The Last of Us – Season 1 Episode 8 – Recap and Review

Hey everyone welcome back to my recap and review of another episode of The Last of Us. The show which I'm liking, based on a video game I've never played on a system that that I didn't continue playing after the second generation. As per usual this review will not feature any Easter eggs, because frankly I wouldn't know what one would be if I came across one. This episode ran 50 minutes it was honestly so fast paced, interesting and all around well done that the time flew by. I had to look at a clock at the end of the episode to make sure I wasn’t going to walk away and miss a significant chunk of the episode. I don’t know who sold what to whom, but this show has had consistently great episodes each week. I’m done gushing, let’s get into the review/recap. We start the episode off with a group of people in a big room getting read what sounds like a sermon by a gentleman. The sermon ends with it actually being a low grade funeral for a wife and daughter’s father who was killed. When the daughter asks if her father will be buried the man gives a look to a few others in the room and then lets her know that the ground is too cold and he’ll be buried in the spring. Right here is where the alarms are going off and the red flags go up. There’s something about religion and the apocalypse that brings out nothing but bad. There’s no story out there where there’s a disaster and the religious folks with a following aren’t monsters. It’s a simple trope that gets followed and every post-apocalyptic story has at least one religious faction side story. After the meeting the is identified as David and speaks to James who is played  by no other than voice acting treasure Troy Baker. It was known that Baker would make an appearance in the show, and it’s nice that he got a good chunk of time and then…well…we’ll get there. The discussion is about food and the lack there of. They determine that there’s only about a week or two worth of food left and they make a plan to go out hunting at some spots where animals may have been seen. We then cut to Ellie who is still caring for Joel, and she takes out her ration of food, which looks really like a small cluster of almonds. Surely not enough to live by, so she grabs the rifle and heads out. After a botched sneak attack on a rabbit, she finds a dear and knabs a shot. Like most hunts, if the animal isn’t taken out with a kill shot then it runs until it bleeds out. Fun fact, most deer will run towards water to die. Cut to David and James who have come up on Ellie’s kill and they determine that they’re just going to take it back to the village before the person who shot it comes to claim it. Ellie surprises them and takes charge and David offers her a trade as he tells Ellie the deer is too big for her to carry on her own. It's agreed medication for an infection will be given for half of the deer and David sends James back to the village to get it. David offers to start a fire as it’ll be a while before James comes back with the medication, so they go to a nearby cabin and have a chat over the fire. We learn that David started preaching after his quarantine zone and before the apocalypse he was a teacher. He left the QZ with a group of people and picked up stragglers here and there, also it’s at that time he found religion. This is pretty much textbook cult behavior. A person finds those who are lost and at their wits end, promises then safety and aid in a very convincing way and slowly gathers followers. Ellie calls him out on being a cult leader and eventually James returns with a gun trained on Ellie. No one is shot, but it’s revealed that the father that was killed and spoken about in the beginning of the episode was the person Joel killed in the last episode at the university. David knows she is with him and that Joel killed the man, but lets Ellie go with the medication and he keeps the deer. The village is eating dinner when David and James return with the deer. He addresses the rumor that they have found the man who killed their friend and the daughter says they should kill him and not bring him to justice as David suggests. David promptly backhands her and tells her that that’s not what they’re going to do. We cut to Ellie not knowing how to apply the medication via the syringe that she was given, so she injects it directly into Joel’s would that she had sewn up at the end of the last episode. The next day she wakes up and checks on Joel to see if he has a fever and then gives him another needle full of medication. She goes out to get some ice so their horse can have something to drink and she notices that men are coming. She runs back to Joel and tries to wake him up, but he’s too out of it. She leaves him with a knife and says she’ll lead them away. She goes out and get their attention and fires some shots before riding off. They give chase and James shots and kills the horse and Ellie falls off and eventually passes out from the fall. James and others decide to kill her, but David tells them not to and to take her back to the village. David addresses the others to locate Joel and be careful. This is the beginning of Joel being a complete bad ass as he takes out members of the party and leaves two alive to interrogate them. He finds out where they are and where the village is then takes the last two members out while showing just how much of a persuasive person he is. I don’t believe I have ever seen a situation where a knife is stabbed behind the knee with the promise of popping it off if the person doesn’t do what they want. We cut back to Ellie who has been locked up in a make shift jail cell where David is there waiting to speak to her. They have a brief chat where we learn David is not a nice man at all, he has violent tendencies and admits to eating people to help keep the village alive. Ellie questions if she will be killed and eaten and David says no, and then implies that he will take care of her in all ways, even the very adult ways. Please remember that Ellie is suppose to be underage in this show, so this is all kinds of bad. Ellie used David holding her hand to break his finger, so David runs off and gets James to take Ellie out and kill her. James and David remove Ellie from her cell and throw her on the table, but Ellie manages to grab a meat cleaver and stick it in the side of James’ neck, so long Troy Baker. She runs out up top and David grabs the clever and runs after her. We see Joel entering the area where everyone is and coming across a small building where the deer that Ellie shot is laying along with three hanging bodies where they have been taking meat from. We cut back to Ellie who is in a cat and mouse situation with David. She grabs a hot burning piece of wood and throws it at David, only to miss and start a fire on one of the walls. She hides and pops out and stabs David in the leg with her knife. He gets on top of her and attacks her as well as implies he is about to sexually assault her. Ellie is in reach of the clever and so she grabs it and hits David with it, then gets on top and starts whacking away at his body. She emerges bloody and in shock and as she is walking in the snow a man comes up from behind and grabs her, it’s Joel. She turns around, still in shock, and hugs him. He says, “I got you baby girl” and the episode ends. Oddly enough, my wife was putting down my daughter for bed and she muttered “ok baby girl” and I got a little emotional. While David was talking to Ellie as they were waiting for James to come back with the medicine, he tells her that Joel really cares for her and this goes back to two episode ago where he kept seeing his daughter. This truly shows Joel has becoming a full fledges father figure to Ellie and will do anything to keep her safe and be her guardian. You could look at it as a second chance as his anxiety attacks seem to come with thinking about his daughter. In some cases a person in that position will take blame and think that the situation, even thought they had no control over it, was their fault and carry that burden. Mental health doesn’t take a break during the apocalypse, everyone is having issues. Read the full article