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cherubispunk · 9 months

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CHERUB (PART III) - Dealer!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: the devil has a funny habit of making you want your own suffering.

a note from Lucy: Well, this is it folks. The third and final instalment of the unholy trinity that is cherub. The fic that i had no idea would get this amount of traction. The fic that gave me my username, blog theme, the majority of my mutuals and the freedom to explore more taboo areas of writing that I never felt comfortable with doing before. I just wanted to thank you all for all the kind words you’ve shared with me. Comments, reblogs, messages, they all mean the utter world. But i also want to specifically thank @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin who was such a huge help for motivation when wrting each of these. She's been there since the first day of cherub and always let me obsess over dealer!joel with her. Ange, i love you baby. Out of all my fandom experiences, this has definitely been one of the best. I know this sounds a lot like a goodbye completely, but it's not i swear! I just never really knew where this was going, but I think this is a pretty good way to end the series and I hope you agree too. Part of me isn't ready to let go after such a short run, but I honestly have no idea where to go from here so I think I did it as much justice as I could. Regardless, Cherub and Dealer!Joel will forever have a place in my heart all thanks to you lovely lot! Your love means the world to me and you are all so easy to share this with, you've given me an environment to flourish creatively and I'm eternally grateful for that. I wish you all the love, hugs, kisses, and angel wishes in the world!

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wc: 5548 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! Unedited for now, no outbreak, no use of y/n but joel calls the reader ‘Cherub’, plot? what plot? we all know we're here for the porn anyway, bombastic age gap (reader is in her early 20’s and Joel is in his late 50s), gore imagry, religious imagry, Smut, very dubcon in theory but both want it bad, grafic smut, P in V sex (unprotected — pleaseee don’t do tis irl i beg of you), teasing, sort of edging? (idk what to call it but he doesnt fuck you until you beg for it lol). nipple play, biting biting biting!!!!!, references to domestic violence, use of pet names, manipulative! joel, stupid stupid cherub, stockholm syndrome, oral (f receiving), cum eating, pussy slapping, Joel being foul mouthed, cursing, dirty talk, overstimulation. Again, some of the most animalistic, disgustingly wretched and vile vile vile porn I have written thus far…with so little plot that this earned me my place in hell, i have my own circle now. Big Dick Joel Miller comes as his own warning.

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The danger didn't lie in his hands. It didn't sit in his closed first to be suffocated. Choked out until the life of it was compressed. Until its face was blue, then purple and its eyes were bloodshot and streaked with red. The danger lay in your heart. And it thrived off the beating.

What is ‘it’, you ask? Mania.

The Greeks had it nailed down when they split love seven different ways. To the crucifix through its punctured and bleeding palms. All equal, but different. They understood that one love is different to the other. That love can be either obsession, or lingering in the quiet parts of a person's mind. You cannot hold up a mirror to one and deceive into believing it is another. No matter how sweet the lie seeps into the ear. They don't work that way. You were not Lucifer, you had no forked tongue. And your mania wasn't Eve. There was no apple to devour. Only the strong arm of Joel Miller to cling to like a noose.

Some love passionately. Find it in the scathing friction of flesh upon flesh. The heat two bodies make only in sex. You were no body anymore. Merely a corpse for him to dig up and breathe life into whenever he needed relief. So it was not Eros. Some love playfully. In the back and forth of a conversation that makes the mind and heart float in the clouds among the soul. Entwine them together until you are too sedated to know the difference between the three pillars of personal holy trinity. There was nothing lighthearted about Joel Miller. So there was no Ludus. Affection. The subtle, it-is-there-even-when-it-is-not weight of lovers hand in lovers hand. Joel clutched your throat with his heavy hand. He didn't lace your fingers in his like tapestry threads. And he was anything but friendly. So it could never be Philia. He was not unconditional. Familial. Constant. Committed. Long lasting. Selfless. He crept in through the backdoor and took. Then slipped back out. So the thick blood red line was drawn through Storge. Agape. Pragma. The love you had was not for yourself. Without him you hated yourself. Hated how you didn’t feel needed. Or wanted. So Philautia was buried six feet under hot earth, the final nail in the coffin that was lowered into the rotting, thick-with-decaying-mulch, stenching ground. By none other than Mania.

This was something you came to realise as you stumbled from his truck back to your room. His come dribbling down your leg. Luke asleep on the sofa. Months passed of the same thing. He’d take you home from work, only letting you go once he'd had his fill. Played out the sick fantasy from mind to matter, let it bleed through his fingers into fruition. You let it happen for mania. It was the thing inside you that kept you going. Before you thought mania fed off your heartbeat. But now you realised mania fed your heartbeat. The kick it got every second fired the next muted pulse. That's what kept it alive. Energy for energy. You were never one to bite the hand that feeds. That’s a sinner's duty.

—

The usual sight of Luke slumped in his lazy boy, guzzling beer was what you expected. The liquor once again swigged past his lips and dribbling down his stubbled chin. Wiry greying hair greasy on his head, balding. Thinning. Residue from a line on the coffee table. You were never tempted by it before. And you were determined never be a Angel dust statistic like him.

Instead, you opened the flimsy door of your trailer to see him hunched over a small collapsible table. His hand running over his sunken eyes, dragging purple eye bags down with his fingertips in shame. Cards in his other. It had your breath catching in your throat like a hare in a wire snare trap. This time around the small collapsible round table. Cards in his hand. And two other men shared a knowing glance and a grim smile of satisfaction. Him.

Joel Miller.

The tension was thicker than molasses in the room. You only wished it was as sweet. You swallowed it down thickly. It stretched your throat. You watched in morbid fascination when he lay his hand on the table in a fan for all to horror at, a sly smirk slithering over his lips and curling the one corner of it up like a scorpion's tail.

“Full house.”

“Fuck!” And Luke’s hand slapped the tabletop as he folded.

The door clicked. All three looked up to see you. Luke, Joel, and the man who held a familiar resemblance to your own personal devil. With eyes on you, you felt more like that hare in the snare than ever. Clapping eyes on the hungry wolf as mutton dripped bloody from his sneer. Cruel and hungry. You imagined him as that wolf, hyde thick and bristled under your soft fingers as he led you to some deep, dark, thorny place. A place only lit by the eyes of owls who observed while he had his way with you. Ripped your stockings to get to sweet fruit.

“Great, the cunt is home.” Luke spat to the room but you, looking over the table again as he bit his thumb nervously to the edge of the hangnail. “Get me a beer.” Your nostrils flared in defiance at his demand, knuckles pale as fingers furled into a fist. An army of goosebumps had stood to attention all along your arms and the back of your neck. A shiver shattering down your spine. Your heart had enough of its prison of your ribcage in your anger, ramming into it over and over in a frantic hammering. And when that wasn't enough, you felt it in your throat. Among the tightening of your airways. “You hear me girl?” He asked, looking at you. He stood, chair scraping against the floor and you staggered back to the point your shoulderblades hit the door. While he was a thin, wiry man, he had a vicious backhand that stung. Like a vengeful aftertaste. “Y’need me to beat some sense inta ya girl, huh?!” You dared to spare a glance at Joel who was too busy collecting his winnings. You soon to be among them.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, looking to the floor and cowering off to the kitchen to get him his beer.

“Y’short, Luke.” You heard from the doorway, straining to hear the tail end of the conversation. Something about your uncle having it by monday. And then Joel telling him he shouldn’t raise a bet he doesn't have the dough to cover.

It took a second to catch your breath. Tears strung in your eyes and your chest threatened to split in two. Your sternum felt like it was cracking down the middle into clean halves under the weight of your chest. A hand clasped over your quivering lips to bite back a horrible sob and muffle it. Only your palm could know you were crying miserably. So you took a beer from the fridge, heard the hiss as the lid gave way and popped off. It clattered to the linoleum and you bared your teeth at the grating sound, picking it up and tossing it in the bin.

“Here.” You mumbled, placing it unceremoniously on the table in front of Luke.

“Y’got any spare cash on you, girl?” Luke asked, beady eyes staring you down as he raised the bottle to his lips and took a drink. You grimaced inwardly at the sight of his yellow teeth when he made a satisfied sigh.

“No.”

Joel’s brow raised. You should know by now not to lie to a man who can read you like a book. That's the thing about narcissists. They have a way of being able to understand you like a one word sentence on paper. A quick glance and you’re unravelling with concealed meaning and connotation.

“C’mon, Cherub…gotta have something from workin’ this late in that diner of yours…” You dared to challenge Joel with a look. A look that retreated soon after the advance of the glare of his eye. The same glare of the hungry wolf. Of the cheated man. It was unkind, and unyielding, and did not hold mercy upon the souls of the enthralled, the damned, or the harrowed. You might try to cross through the sentence, or turn the page. Or shut the book entirely. But the truth is still the truth even when you chose not to look. This was the man that knew your mind. Knew your body. And coaxed his will out of you each time. His word was all it took to cave, so you took the folded bills from your apron, flicking through them with a bitten back scowl,

“How much does he owe you?” Joel smiled with amusement, counting through his winnings to see what was short.

“Ninety-eight.”

‘What?” you asked, eyes wide, hurt. Disheartened. Fingers stilling halfway through the small stack. And Joel smirked.

“You heard me, Cherub.”

“Give Joel his money.” Luke warned.

“But it’s not his money! And it’s not yours to give!” You tried, and saw the warning tick of your uncle's narrow jaw. It was always set on edge before he threw a hand. Cast a palm across your cheek in a brandishing. It had you cowering. Relenting. Tossing the money in front of him. If it fell to the floor in its flurry he could pick it up and grovel about it. But Joel never grovelled. Only relished. Then reminded Luke of the money he still owed for the drugs.

And you walked back to the kitchen, biting into your lip again. With the devil and your demon in the next room over, you were sure this could be hell. A buzz filled your ears. Like the constant thrum of flies over roadkill. In festering flesh wounds where broken white of bone poked through gaping, bleeding holes. Blood matted in the hyde of the animal helpless and scattered across the road. A leg here, smashed teeth there. You were the roadkill. Joel was at the wheel of that which mowed you down. Luke was howling in the passenger side.

His boots thumped clumsily over the linoleum and he let out a huff through his nose while he adjusted his low slung jeans in the doorway.

“Cherub?” He asked, clearing his throat huskily — a consequence of the smokes he used religiously. You stood with your back to him, palms flat to the countertop and head hung low to fight the sting of tears simmering from within.

“He threatened to hit me.” You whispered, not turning to face him. If you mattered his ears would strain to meet you halfway. “And you did nothing.”

“Come on, Cherub…don't be like that.” he sighed, and you imagined him pinching the bridge of his hooked nose.

“He took my money. You took my money. How am I gonna get out of here without it?” You croaked, your tired eyes seeing faces of gaping mouths and slate black eyes in the speckled linoleum of the counter.

No reply came from the door. And when you turned it was empty. He had left. The other man had left. The tv was on again with the scream of a woman murdered. And Luke fell asleep in his lazy boy.

—

Another day, another shift. And more horror ensued. At first, what set the nerves thrumming was there was no sign of Luke. His truck was gone from its spot. No drunk slumped on the worn leather settee. No scream or grotesque image on the TV. Merely an empty bottle on the coffee table.

You swallowed, shutting the door cautiously with a muffled click of the latch. You didn't dare call his name. Just pushed it down into your stomach for it to churn the thought up in acid. But the horror jumped back up your throat into a lurid scream at the sight of your mattress tossed to the side. The moth bitten pillowcase on the floor, void of money. Your money. Gone. Someone had rifled through your belongings. Turned your only space into a mess. Strewn clothes, bed sheets, pillows in their haste. All your work. All the nights of living off bitter coffee from the pot at work, scrounging together tips. It made you seethe. The heat was an inferno at your fingertips, nails embedding crescents into your palms. You searched all over for it. But to no avail.

When Uncle Luke came home, he smelled of hard liquor. It was a miracle – or curse – he hadn't wrapped his car around a tree. He gloated, and sneered, and shoved it down your throat in his intoxication that he’d found it under the mattress. Joel had called him, told him you planned on leaving. And he connected the dots. Ransacked your room. Oh, how the man would hate his loose lips when you gave him hellfire.

You expected Luke’s reaction. You knew if he were to ever find out he’d snatch it up in his greedy, grimy hands and take it for himself. He spent all of it. Paid his debt to Joel, gambled some on bad luck bets, drank with the rest. Slugged liquor down his throat and got drunk off your labour. And then left you on your floor with tear stained cheeks and a heart of heavy lead.

You wanted your money. But would you take from the man who gave you your everything? Your sense of being. A religion and faith. You believed in nothing more than the way he held your name between his teeth. You forgot what your real name felt like in the same place. And it occurred to you that he had never said it. Did he know it? You weren't them anymore. You were Cherub.

The sweet and mourning lamb in you wanted to go over just to be his again, and not carry out the plan of taking back what was yours. That which he would see as sin. You felt guilt claw up your throat at the thought alone. It seemed blasphemous to conspire against him. Why do you insist on protecting yourself. You who was the sacrificial lamb?

If you did go – and you let him have you again – you were whole. But at what cost? Could you stand another night of temporary hell under the guise of heaven. Of touch so cold, like ivory or black ice. To have him thumb your skin with blunt endearments and the croon of ‘cherub’ past his chapped lips. Definite like black and white. No escape. What he’d do and how. Whispering them in the stone deaf shells of your ears like they were a sculpture. Pygmalion’s Bride. He’d made you all you were today. Took chisel to marble and carved out his masterpiece. Cherub.

You were soft, and pliable. Wax heated by his flame. You kissed back. You moaned for him. Begged him for his release and not your own. Bruised with his handprint. The warmth of life under flesh. But without him…you returned to marble. Another pretty thing to be gawked at. He tempted you with it because he knew more than anyone, more than god himself who watches these exchanges, that you can't live without him. It was like telling a child not to slip off to the woods in the dead of night. That was a pointless warning. You knew what lay there anyway, what threat it would be. That wolf in his thick bristled hyde. Curled up in his den. You would see it as innocence and vulnerability if you weren't so scared. But you knew when he woke up the teeth would shine again. And they’d tear flesh. Let blood. Gnash bone. Dripping from the glaring white once he finished with your carcass. Your matter between them and your crimson lacing his gums. Who knew being eaten alive could be so pleasurable.

But then again, how could bering alone really be hell if the devil wasn't there?

There is mania in your body. But you can't get it out. It rattles in your head and lungs and glues to the backs of your gnashers. No matter how much you wish to spit it out. It infects your tongue. It welds itself to the matter of your bones. Melts into the cracks between your teeth. Claggy against your tongue. All to show the sweetest of words have the bitterest of tastes. You can feel it swell underneath your skin. In the gap between muscles where it festers and heats you up. Like fever it burns, like the fire that consumes and the pillars that hold the temple up crack, the ground shakes, and the beast rears its ugly head at you. You’re losing your body to him. It's a fight you try to win. You dare to. You give your all, tooth and nail each time in the gaps between. In the silence and hollow that nestles in the middle of the meetings. In the quiet, where no one is around but the cracked plaster of your room. You stopped caring who fired the gun first. You were always the one who got shot down in the end. Right in the stomach. Blood gurgling up your throat in a grotesque plea for help.

All these weeks you had shrunk yourself to the size of a bird in his hands, sang a sweet sweet song of his name, until the squeeze of his first closest off your throat. And the sound stopped altogether. Laid there after the warning. Patient while you had your wings clipped and your freedom taken. And he took more. Took the beating of your heart with his teeth. Took the will to want. The will to love. The will to need anything else, as well as the need to have better. Below you were the foundations. Only now you saw them for what they were, a decaying mess of fragments, the stench of wood rot hot in your nose. A musk like no other. His musk. So in your anger you took an axe to a willow to see how it would weep. You slipped past the sleeping drunk you call Uncle Luke. Out the door, over gravel, past the truck he coaxed you to without the need of a sweet treat. You’d yank the axe from the bark of the weeping willow, its sob echoing in the wind that rustled its drapery of lush green leaves. Leaves that will wilt as sap bleeds from its severed trunk. Take the axe to the wolf. Cut him. Scrotum to throat.

Take back what was yours. And leave those woods skipping.

—

Your knocks descend upon his door in quick raps until he opened it with a grumble. Then a smirk. “Evenin’, Cherub.”

No salvation. No going back. No space among the clouds. Just the fall. You pushed past him into his front room. “Where is it?’ You hissed, tossing the cushions of the couch up. Nothing there. So you left them on the floor and did the same for the airchair. Nothing there either.

“Woah, calm down, girl!’ Joel huffed, reaching for your arm, which you tugged back from him in a new found strength surging you forward, out of his arms. “Where’s what?”

“My damn money, Miller!” You bit back with venom laced spit. A hunger for revenge making you salivate like a bad dog.

“The fuck you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about, dickhead!” And he recoiled at your bared teeth, your verbal assault and battery, but went in for his own.

“Watch your damn foul language, girl!” He warned, reaching the end of his already short tether.

“You know how much he stole from me? Three hundred dollars of my hard earned chash. Forget my fucking ticket out of this shithole, I ain’t even paying rent now! And for what? Your god awful drugs!” His nostrils flared, and you watched the vein in his neck bulge under the sweltering heat of his own anger. Coiling inside him. Wounded bitch about to bite back.

“You didn’t have much of a probelm with my drugs after I fucked that pretty little hole of yours. All dumb and needy f’me, Cherub.” You grimaced at the sneer. But the feeling made your knees buckle. The name again. Cherub. You were Cherub. His cherub. “You want ya money back, huh? You can have it.”

That made you stutter. Thoughts skidding to halt at the sight of a brick wall. Crumpled matter as it smashed into it anyway. “What?”

“I ain't giving it to you for free though.”

“You're sick! It’s my fucking money!”

“Not in the eyes of the law its not.” And he folded his great oaks of arms over his chest in satisfaction. Once again one upping you.

“The eyes of the law? Says the fucking drug dealer. I bet you got way worse than coke in duffel over there. Wonder what the law would say about that?” It was said dismissively over your shoulder as you turned to leave. Alas, once again his large hand encompassed your wrist and squeezed. Pulled you back flush to his broad chest. His breath was hot on your neck as he whispered sweetly into your ear.

“Come on now, Cherub. You wouldn't do me in like that would ya? Not when I love ya…”

The way he said it…it didn't seem real. It was false. Comforting but not real. You knew it was a lie. This wasn't love. He didnt love. If he loved you he'd ask for your number then call you. Take you out. Let you cry on his shoulder and drive you home after. Kiss you in the dark for only the walls to see. Let you stay a night or two, or a whole damn week. Give you your damn money back. Stand up to Luke with a closed fist to the face. Leave swelling and a deep bruise on his cheekbone as a first and final warning.

“You love me?” You asked, voice small and hollow in your chest.

“Yeah, Cherub. I love you too.” He cooed, as if he knew you loved him already. All this and nose running over the curve of the side of your neck, tongue trailing hot in pursuit, it had you keeling over in confession at his feet. “You’re so cute when you're angry. Come on now, lemme make those tears go away…and you can have your money back, and we can forget this ever happened.” That tone…it was patronising. It made the sense in you rattle the cage of your ribs. Claw at the bars of bone and run into them like a caged animal. Because that’s what it was. A caged animal. But your heart was holding its hand over its mouth in a trance as it let his words ebb deeper. Somewhere between desperate and divine. But what was his motive?

God, Jesus, all above that is holy, you didn't care! After all this time, it was still no secret, or hushed uttering that Joel Miller was now everywhere in you. Scraping the backs of your teeth, festering like a virus in your bloodstream. Melding to the marrow of your bones. The walls of your cunt.

He still had a devastating habit of seeping through the cracks of your closed lids. Still ready to pillage and plunder his way through your head in its numbed state of sleep. When you could have finally— finally stopped and not felt. But he ebbs deeper. Always would. Always will.

It's what got you here. It would end you if it could. Snuff out your heartbeat and the fire inside of you. All he need do was lick his fingers and press them to the wick. And leave the smoke to string out and curl. You thought you were hungry for love before. But now you realised you were just hungry for the sight of your blood on his lips. The gnashing of you between his teeth. The curl you made of his brow. If it wasn’t devastating, reaping its agony in your silly little fractured chest— you didn’t dare need, nor crave it. You came for the pleasure but you stayed for the pain. And he took again, and again.

So you let him ‘make it up to you’. Let him claw at your clothes until they were scraps on the floor. Tore your stockings. Showed you those gleaming teeth. The wolf. And you, his sacrificial lamb. His Cherub.

“Feel that?’ He asked, with the slow drag back and forth of him inside you, parting you. This wasn’t fast, or rough. This was slow. And it made you need more. Need it faster. Need him hurtling you towards the edge of harrowing oblivion. He knew that. It’s why he took his time with it this time around. “Yeah. You do.” Joel answered for you. You never had to answer. But often he made you say it from your own quivering lips. Just to have the taste of the words from your tongue bleed into his. The neverending praise. “Why would you wanna leave that Cherub?” You couldn't answer, only let out a soft sob. “Huh? Answer me, Cherub. Why’d you wanna fuckin’ leave that?” And he punctuated it with pulling out to the bulbous head of his clock, then slamming back in with one sharp thrust. And then he was still.

You whined a shallow gasp into his mouth. But he didn’t kiss you. Joel never kissed you. His teeth sinking into your bottom lip shut you right up before his tongue delved deeper into it. The thumb of the hand that slithered between your legs rolled over your clit, making you mewl over the buzz of electricity causing you to clamp down on his thick, full cock. You were so eager for more. Anything more than what he was giving you. He smirked into your mouth when he felt your hips buck forward, trying your damn hardest to push his cock deeper into you. Silly little cherub. You should know better than to defy God. “See? Felt good didn’t it?” You nodded as much as you could in your current piston.

“Mhm.”

“See what you can have if you stay. Why fight it cherub?”

“Yes, Joel.”

“You gonna listen then, Cherub?”

“Yes. Yes! I’ll listen, just-” You shuddered at the thought of it, tears brimming at the the threshold of your eye. ”Please.”

“Say it.” He waited, wanting you to beg for it in the pretty way he knew you could. The choir voice. The songbirds hymn. The whole time his eyes did nothing but stare you down hungry at the sight of you falling apart from nothing but a hand to your throat and a single his throbbing dick buried in your aching cunt. It all pooled down into your centre, creating a rush your head had trouble keeping up with. “Tell me why you wanted to leave.”

“I dunno-” You stuttered, once again rolling your hips up. His hand at your throat pressed into your skin again, harder. It choked you. It had you drawing in a sharp, meagre breath. And he pulled out, running the underside of himself through the hot, drooling seam of your cunt. You shivered when the tip brushed up to your clit momentarily. The bead of precome at his slit smearing into your sex, mixing with your slick. “I dunno, Joel. I- I just wanted my money. I just wanted out. I hate it.” You babbled through closed eyes, chest heaving with sobs, and hot tears ran thick down your flushed cheeks.

“You hate it, huh?” He mocked and crooned, still catching your clit with the tip of his cock, hips waxing and waning in a slow roll. “You hate me too?” He knew the answer. But again, it was the satisfaction of knowing you were wrapped around his finger. Ready to bend over backwards for him. Him seeping into you through the cracks of your ribs, the gaps between your teeth. The opening of yourself to the twisting knot of denial within you. Your back arched like the lofty roof of a chapel, legs parting like its heavy doors. He followed you with hunger. You opened your mouth to speak but he squeezed momentarily on your throat again, oxygen starvation and the smell of him dizzying you. He relished in the whimper that he garnered from you. That and how he left you breathless just from his cruel touch.

“No.” You garbled as his thumb unhinged your jaw. Saliva in your mouth pooling while his thumb pressed your tongue down, bitter with a smokers telltale tobacco staining. It slipped past your lips, dribbled down his digits making a sticky mess at the curve of his thick wrist. He drew up a glob of saliva in his throat, watching as it drooled thickly, gluttonously, past his lips into your waiting mouth. He watched as you gagged on it, and then he let your jaw go so you could close your mouth. You swallowed eagerly, savouring the taste on your tongue. For what did it matter anymore? One day, you’ll be nothing but dust. Bronchioles in lungs will mimic roots. Navels will copy trunks. Organs will feed worms. Ribs will fossilise and lips that are kissed will mould back to Mother Nature. It's all you have ever been. Quick. Convenient. Easy to please, eager to help. Waiting lips, wanting cunt. Warm, never warm enough. But he kept you like a butterfly in a glass jar. He let you see freedom but never experience it. Why need it when you had the stretch of him inside you. The feeling of him, heat to heat with your sex.

“You want this, cherub? Wanna be stuffed full of me again?”

“Always wanted it, Joel.” You mumbled into his mouth, sniffing back the last this spurt of tears, hypnotised. His hand wrapped around his cock, the large splay of his palm did nothing to dwarf its size with he jacked himself once, twice, three times to the sight of you. He squeezed the base with hiss, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth after cursing under his bated breath. He was thick, flushed, the tip swollen and leaking, drooling greedily with a rivulet of precum down the underside of his length. He trod a path with his hands down to your breasts, kneading each one between his palms with a pinch before guiding himself back into the mouth of your heat, your cunt swallowing him down to the base. The needy roll of your hips into his showed just how desperate you were. He groaned at the start of the friction between you, and slowly dragged back out of you, moving just as slowly back inside. He repeated this twice, and then he let loose. The motion turned into a needy clash of his hips to yours. Again. Again. Again. Somewhere along the sting of passion and heat, his hand wrapped around your throat, feeling the flex of it as you swallowed under his palm. He bit down into your neck, reaching out from you as his hips slammed erratically. His heavy balls slapping against your ass with each rut forward of his unrelenting. The way he fucked you, was like holding a knife to your throat. It grounded you in the most harrowing way to each of his breaths. His panting in your ear. It swallowed you whole. Mad your legs wrap around his waist and your hips keen up into him.

Your cunt drooled down his shaft, down to the base, down the sensitive skin of his cock. He growled and hissed in your ear, teeth closing around your earlobe, his hand dragging back up and grip tightening around your neck. Getting off on the feeling of your pulse under his thumb.

You felt the knot tighten. And tighten. Right in the pit of your stomach, deep in your sopping wet cunt where the mouth of your cervix met his fucking. The walls of your cunt sucking him back in as the angle of his hips snapped up into the spot that had you seeing entire constellations. They darted to and fro across your vision. It blurred the edge, spots of dark matter, deep black, the colour of oblivion slinging over the back of your eyes that now burned with tears of pleasure. His fingers dug deeper into malleable flesh, gripped tightly at your hip with his free hand, thumb brushing over your hip bone down your mound to toy with your clit after a slap to it. And it was the action that sent you spiralling, babbling his name nonsensically among a string of curse words. So pretty and fucked out beneath him. Joel couldn’t help but stare smugly as your eyes rolled back into your head when your orgasm hit like a freight train. He came undone soon after, his climax hitting a crescendo with a growl bitten into your shoulder, bruising and brandishing you with his mark again.

He pulled back, leaving you to the mercy of the cold. Watching was his hips moved again to fuck his release back into you. Your hole quivered in protest, and you squirmed under him. “Don’t be fucking ungreatful now, Cherub.” You relented, going still and boneless on the mattress. Limbs unfurling from their tension. “That's it. Take it. Take it all.” He groaned smoothly. Just like the roll of his hips. He fucked it slowly back into you. And you took his release inside you to keep. “Good girl, Cherub.” He whispered, kissing your lips in a tender dichotomy. Not letting you rest until he was satisfied you took every drop of him. Afterall, it was all you’d have left of him until he next chose to pick you up. All the while, he trailed his tongue back down to your breasts, pressing the flat of it to your nipple, drawing it with a sharp suck into his mouth. Pressing the blunt of his teeth into your flesh. Letting the taste melt on his tongue. Salty with your sweat. He did the same to the others. When he went soft inside of you, and his hips stilled. He slipped out of you with hitched breath, the pad of his fingertips tracing your abused, used sex. Your legs twitching when he rolled your clit under two fingers. “I said stop squirming.” He grunted, landing another slap to your pussy. It made an obscene wet sound. His come dribbling out slowly.

“Open your mouth.” Joel commanded, and you did. Waiting for whatever he had planned. He licked a hot strip from your asshole to your cunt, pressing his tongue in to drag out some of his release. And he climbed back up to spit it into your mouth. A hand clamping down on your jaw. “Don’t swallow. Close your mouth.” And you did with the side of his thumb clamping it shut for you. “Taste that?” You nodded in response. It was hot, heavy and thick and salty to taste. Divine. “Show me.” You opened again, his creamy spend diluted amongst your saliva and he smirked. Clamping your jaw shut again. “Swallow.”

Joel watched in open mouthed amusement as the delicate column of your throat rippled under muscle contract. “Good girl, Cherub. Remember that taste next time y’feel like leaving again.” He warned in a growl. And you nodded, swallowing your pride. Your fear. Your mania aiding in shoving it down your throat to dissolve in acid. Once again you were in those deep dark woods. The one where the wolf lay. Remnants of you in his teeth. The willow is still weeping, slashed in half. The axe free of his bloodshed by the entrance of his den. The owls' eyes still lit the scene of sin where overhead the starlight was snuffed out by the tangle of branches thick in their black greenery.

You never got your money back. Maybe one day you'd get out of this town. But the devil has a funny habit of making you want your own suffering. Even angels can’t resist a slice of that heaven. Fallen angel. Wounded bitch. Cherub.

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thewandererh · 4 months

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‼️⚠️TW // medical imagry (IV, slight depiction of veins), noose imagry, a poorly drawn realistic heart organ, intense eye contact, and a set of fellows who are in anguish

@calamarispider💥💥

recently rewatched a playthrough of little nightmares 1 and 2, and drew calamari’s folks with said videos as background noise :]! was trying out different styles of brushes and things on ibispaintX, and had quite a bit of fun doing so. i’ve been easing into doing stress relief art and this was a good example of that?

hope you enjoy yet another bout of fanart calamari haha 🐥 (<- looks up at you like this)

💙 - [gouche brushes, some watercolor] was playing around with the various palettes he was given in arts of him by calamarispider, and sort or blended them all together. I love how blurry mind looks, almost as if you’re passing out while viewing the image. fits with the medical vibe! he looks like he’s skulking away in shame or fear or something. i think i made him look weak because i’m a mind enthusiast. damn. the dark background makes it feel gloomy and mellow, but also scary?

❤️ - {marker primarily, little watercolor} i know he’s like 🧍 but his presence alone can be intimidating, that stare could drive away anyone and he *knows* it. played around a lot with layers and lasso stuff here, and leaned more into a sketchy style almost as if he’s barely there. i love the background in particular because it’s grey and not red, giving him a loss of and a heightening of individuality. doing the hair was fun XD. i specifically remember the fella i was watching play little nightmares 2 at this point getting frustrated with the teacher. silly memory

💜 - (watercolor, pencil pens) this one bounces around styles a lot, and it almost makes him seem more real? i was frustrated with it at first, but i love how some parts of him are more complex and sharp than others. mixed two art references of heart calamarispider had drawn, giving him a sketchy little eye and a more unseen bleeding eye under the blindfold. it looks cool i think :]. this was a big experimentation piece that i look back fondly on :D! I love them all but this especially. I love heart’s almost ‘angel of death’ wing cloak things haha

off i go 🏃💨

OH MAN i forgor minds crown. its ok he left it in the oven(??????)

#chonny jash #cj heart #cj mind #cj soul #chonny’s charming chaos compendium #calamarispiderart jashies #jashlings #chonny jash hms designs #heart mind soul #ibispaintx #lineless art #pokes hearts hair #pats soul on the back #swaddles mind in a blanket

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mldrgrl · 18 days

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What Once Was Broken

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG-13 (violence, imagry) Summary: A sequel/prequel to Broken Things - absolutely imperative to have read to understand this story Notes: Special thank you to @carrie11 for officially being a cheerleader and unofficially ending up as Beta-extraordinaire for this piece! <3

He knows the precise time he first saw her. One, twenty-four in the afternoon. He’d just tucked his pocket watch back into his vest and as he’d looked up, his heart nearly stopped. In that moment, he was positive there was an apparition bumping towards him in a rickety wagon that looked like it had seen better days.

The red hair and fair skin had caught his eye from afar, but as the wagon neared, it was the slumped shoulders, the lowered head, the sullen and exhausted look of her that painfully squeezed his heart and made him short of breath. He was all too familiar with that look.

“Luisa,” he’d murmured, taking a step forward to the edge of the boardwalk and squinting into the sun.

Even before the man driving the wagon pulled the mules to a stop in front of the bank, it was obvious he was trouble.

*%*%*%*%*%

William and Katherine Mulder had recently celebrated their first anniversary and Katherine had never been happier in her life. She had friends, she had a position as an assistant to the town doctor, and a husband who supported her ambitions and wanted to make her dreams come true. It had taken time, but eventually she grew comfortable and confident in the independence her husband freely gave to her; driving her own buggy to and from town, doing her own banking, making her own purchases at the general store, and managing the household at the ranch. Even so, as joyous as she was now, she could never forget what she’d been through to get it.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Doctor Black made house calls and Katherine tended to his office. Mostly, she took inventory of supplies, transcribed patient notes, and occasionally treated minor wounds or infections. At first, some of the townsfolk had protested that a lady had no business in a doctor’s office, not unless she was nursing or tidying up the place, but Doctor Black had made it clear that if anyone was uncomfortable being treated by Katherine, they were free to ride on out to the next available doctor over in Abilene.

Only her third shift alone in the office, there’d been a drunken gunfight at the saloon and Katherine had to extract a bullet from the shoulder of one of the participants. The other had lost a finger. Both were hauled off in shackles by Sheriff Doggett to recover from their wounds, and their hangovers, in jail cells. After that, no one that ended up in the office questioned her skills or abilities, though of those that had before, none had said so to her face. Doctor Black was well-known in the area and highly trusted, so if he was vouching for her, so would they. Perhaps she took it for granted that she’d faced little to no opposition for so long, even though she still looked for it over her shoulder at times.

It was a Thursday when Walter Skinner knocked on the office door. She was in the midst of drafting a requisition for medications to be ordered from Fort Worth at the time. She greeted the bank manager with a smile. He was no longer as imposing of a figure as he’d once been when she’d first met him, having seen and spoken to him regularly for the last year. He’d always been polite and kind to her.

“Mr. Skinner,” she said, holding the door open for him to enter. “What can I do for you today? I heard from Doctor Black that Joey got himself into some poison oak recently.”

“He’s fine now, the rash is almost healed.” Mr. Skinner’s eyes darted around the room as he spoke and he stayed hovering in the threshold. “Is Doctor Black not here?”

“He’s on house calls today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I…I wanted to speak with Doctor Black.”

“Why don’t you come in and you can speak with me. I assure you that any treatment you might have, I can-”

“Not me.”

“Joey?”

“My wife.”

Katherine had never met Arlene Skinner, but had heard of her through Monica Doggett and Susannah Byers. They told her she wasn’t very social and rarely came to town, and when they did see her, she hardly spoke and was very meek. Consequently, they didn’t know much of anything about her aside from the fact that she and her husband came to town with their infant son six years ago so that Walter Skinner could open and manage the town bank.

“I’d be happy to see your wife,” Katherine said.

“No,” Skinner said, quickly, frowning. “No…I was hoping that maybe Doctor Black could provide more of the morphia he prescribed before.”

“The morphia he prescribed? What was that prescribed for?”

“Head pain.”

“Does she often have head pain?”

“No.”

A chill came over Katherine at the abrupt and harsh tone of Mr. Skinner’s voice. Muscle memory set her shoulders back and she flinched as though expecting a blow. She took a glance at his hands, looking for bruises or swollen knuckles. Her throat constricted and rose in pitch. “Has your wife…had an accident?” she asked.

“Accident?”

“Suffered head trauma of some kind.”

“No…nothing like that.”

“Well, I can not prescribe morphia to a patient without having seen them.”

“I’ll be on my way,” Mr. Skinner said, taking a step back from the door. “I’ll just come back when Doctor Black is available.”

Katherine started to follow, even though her knees had begun to shake and she felt somewhat breathless. “You’re out at the west end past the Morgan’s farm, aren’t you? I have my buggy with me. If your wife is ill, I should-”

“She’s not ill!” Mr. Skinner barked, turning sharply and glaring down at her.

She stumbled backwards, catching herself on the doorframe before she completely lost her footing. “I…”

The banker had the decency enough to appear chagrined. He lowered his eyes and then adjusted his spectacles. “She’s not ill,” he repeated, quieter this time. Sweat prickled his brow and an angry vein pulsed like a lightning bolt down his forehead. “Good day, Mrs. Mulder.”

Katherine’s throat had become too pinched to respond, not that Mr. Skinner had waited for her to reply. He marched down the steps and away from the office without a backwards glance and it was only after he’d disappeared that Katherine realized that she was trembling. She had to force her legs to move and she fell into the door as she slammed it closed, gasping for breath. She hadn’t felt that frightened in some time. She put her hands to her burning cheeks and then smoothed the wild hairs she felt curling up from the heat and perspiration accompanying her fear. When at last she felt her composure return, she pushed herself from the door and went to the filing cabinet.

The file on Arlene Skinner was thin. The last prescription, for morphia, was written eight months prior and a notation was made about patient’s adverse reaction to chloryl, but as she flipped through the records, she noticed a pattern: the middle of every February and in the first week of every October for the last four years, Arlene Skinner complained of melancholy and head pain. Each time her husband had made the complaints on her behalf. Each time she had refused physical examination. Low doses of morphia were recommended, as needed, since chloryl was not an option.

Katherine put the file back in place and then pulled the one for Joey Skinner. There was nothing of concern there that she could find. Earlier that week he’d been treated for a mild case of poison oak. Aside from a few runny noses and a case of tonsillitis, the only injury was the broken wrist from his fall during recess at the schoolhouse that she herself had helped set and wrap the year prior. There was no file for Walter Skinner.

Though the biannual regularity of which Mrs. Skinner made complaints and her refusal to be examined was peculiar, nothing in the reports seemed terribly concerning. Still, her exchange with Mr. Skinner had alarmed her and was too reminiscent of experiences she’d had in the past for her not to be suspicious.

*%*%*%*

Walter Skinner was born on the third of June of 1838 in Baltimore, Maryland, the only son of Edward Skinner, a Scottsman and a professor of mathematics, and Annegret Rossel Skinner, a match that her stern, German father did not approve of. Walter had two older sisters and two younger sisters, which meant he was equal parts doted on and depended upon by the women in his family. He’d become man of the house at the tender age of seven when his father, möge er in Frieden ruhen, as his mother would say, was killed in battle in the Mexican territory.

His father had been a staunch pacifist, enlisting under duress from the cajoling of his own father and four older brothers. Ironically, though all brothers succumbed to battle, Edward had lasted the longest. Walter only remembers that his uncles were loud, burly men and that his father had always seemed like the calm center of the storm.

His mother was of strong, Bavarian stock, and although she’d been widowed at the age of 26 with five small children to care for, she’d refused to feel sorry for herself. She’d gone to work as a seamstress, a milliner, a washwoman, taking on just about any job that could keep her home with the children, but also allow her to earn a wage at the same time. The children were allowed to help at times, but his mother was adamant that they receive an education and school was prioritized above all else.

Even for all her strength and determination, his mother had been a woman that had deeply loved her husband. She carried her grief with her at all times, trying hard not to let it get the better of her, but the loss impacted her greatly. For the rest of her life she’d had an intense and irrational fear of something terrible happening to her children and she’d fretted over them constantly, smothering them with her love, and her paranoia.

Though his father’s softness and pacifism had irritated the old man, Walter’s paternal grandfather had noticed how meticulous and fastidious his grandson was from a young age and took a keen interest in him. Authoritarian by nature and difficult to please, nevertheless the two were close. Having come from a long line of soldiers, he devoted himself to Walter’s training, using his connections to enroll his grandson at West Point at the age of fourteen, against his mother’s wishes, to prepare him for a prestigious career.

Walter began as an enthusiastic pupil, thriving on repetition and regimen. He excelled in sums and philosophy and ethics, and although he received high marks in military strategy, those courses made him uncomfortable. The trouble was that he’d grown up in the shadow of the effects of war and he had no desire to contribute to the cause. His grandfather had been furious when he’d ultimately declined to pursue a career in the military and instead moved back home with his mother after graduation, taking a job as a junior teller in the local bank.

Within weeks of his return home, he’d met the woman he would soon marry, Arlene Sullivan, a classmate of his younger sister, and the most charming and beautiful woman he’d ever met. He proposed a month later and they were married a week before Christmas. Life was peaceful, and routine, just the way he liked it. In short time, he moved up the ranks at the bank, promoted to manager by the time he was twenty-two, just as the war between the states broke out.

On his twenty-third birthday, Walter begrudgingly kissed his new wife good-bye, leaving her in the care of his mother and sisters, and boarded a train, along with other conscripted men, only to spend the next four years of his life in a waking nightmare. By the grace of God, he managed to survive through the end of the war and at long last was honorably discharged as Brigadier General under the command of Ulysses S. Grant. By unspoken agreement, no one asked about where he’d been or what he’d seen, even his grandfather, and he wasn’t eager to share the details of the hell he’d been through.

Walter never expected to make it out of the war alive, never expected he’d see his new bride again, or expected he’d return to the job he loved, but he survived, even though he felt like a shell of the man he’d once been. The war had hardened him, made him an angry, short-tempered, and restless man. And just when he thought he’d never find joy again, there was Luisa.

*%*%*%*%*%

The best part of William Mulder’s day was the nightly conversations he had with his wife on their front porch. On the days she worked for Doctor Black, he always enjoyed listening to what she’d done and who she’d treated. He was always baffled by how casually she relayed the stories to him, speaking so matter of factly about how she’d pulled a bullet from a gunslinger’s shoulder in the same manner she might tell him she bought a new bolt of fabric from the general store. He thought that being a doctor was extraordinary. He thought that she was extraordinary.

Those days that she worked in town, upon returning home she usually immediately put her apron on and tried to help Melvin with supper, but he would always try to shoo her away and tell her to go on and put her feet up. The ranch hands were proud of their lady doctor in training and if it were up to them she probably wouldn’t lift a finger, ever, but Katherine never liked to feel like she was pulling less than her weight.

He saw her come home that day from where he was working in the training pen. She gave her horse and buggy over to Trevor just outside the barn and seemed to trudge to the house with her head lowered, which was unusual, but he wasn’t that concerned. She was also quiet at supper, pushing her food around her plate, which did concern him, but he tried not to let on. Melvin seemed to take notice of her behavior as well and told some boisterous tales that night to distract them all.

Mulder hoped that whatever was weighing on Katherine’s mind, she would tell him all about it during their nightly porch talks. He waited for her after seeing that the horses were bedded down for the evening, but she didn’t come. Finally, he grabbed the candle he’d brought with him and went looking for her. She wasn’t in the second bedroom that they’d converted to a parlor during the expansion and she wasn’t in their bedroom either. She wasn’t in the washroom and she wasn’t in the kitchen. He finally found her in the little study he’d had made for her through a door hidden in the pantry, reading a textbook by the dim glow of a single lantern.

“Kate?” he asked, gently pushing the door open. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she murmured, and then sighed. “No. I don’t know, actually.”

“Did something happen at Doctor Black’s today?”

“It did.” She sighed again and pushed the textbook away.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then she got out of her chair and stepped closer to him. He could see tears in her eyes before she wrapped her arms around him so hard it almost knocked him back. He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment to set the candle down and then he returned the embrace.

“What is it, Honey?” he asked.

“Mr. Skinner dropped in this afternoon to see Doctor Black about his wife.”

“Is she unwell?”

“I don’t know. He became evasive, wouldn’t even entertain letting me go out to make a house call and see her.”

“We talked about the fact that some folks might be uncomfortable being treated by a woman. I never thought it would be Mr. Skinner, but-”

“That’s not it,” Katherine interrupted, shaking her head. “At least I don’t think so. It was the way he…he was very…very adamant. Very…gruff….” Her voice had dropped to a whisper and she squeezed him even tighter.

Mulder felt his jaw tighten and his back straightened. His stomach dropped and his chest burned. He took Katherine by the shoulders and pushed her back just slightly to look her over, but the neck on her blouse was too high and her sleeves were too long. Her downturned face was all shadows and he gently tipped her chin up to look at him.

“Kate, did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered, with a shake of her head. “No, he didn’t hurt me, but I thought that he might be hurting his wife.”

“He…are you sure?” he asked.

“No, I’m not sure,” she confessed. “I’m not sure at all, but I do know that something isn’t right.”

A wave of relief washed over Mulder, but then he raised his brows in surprise and Katherine sucked in a breath and came back into his arms, hugging him even tighter than before. He rocked her gently as he held her. It was hard for him to imagine Mr. Skinner being violent. He’d known the banker for six years and hadn’t even heard him raise his voice a single time. Then again, he hadn’t known the banker had a wife or a son until after he was married to Katherine. They weren’t exactly discussing their private lives to each other in their business transactions.

And then he remembered the day that little Joey Skinner broke his wrist at the schoolyard and he’d gone down to inform Mr. Skinner the boy was at Doctor Black’s office. The banker had gone white, rushing out the door so quickly he’d slammed his knee into his desk and hadn’t even flinched. And when Mulder had tried to calm him, to slow him down just a little, Mr. Skinner had flung him away like he was swatting a housefly. Mulder had thought nothing of it at the time, so palpable was the man’s fear, but now he could view it with concern.

“What about…what about the boy?” he asked. “Do you think…?”

“No, it doesn’t seem likely.”

Mulder puffed his cheeks and blew out a tuft of air as he nodded. “Kate, I know you enjoy doing your own banking, but maybe it’s best that you let me handle it for now, just until we’re certain about what’s going on.”

She tipped her head up, her chin on his chest. “You’re not thinking of confronting him about it, are you?”

“I might be.”

“And then what?”

“And then what?” he repeated, actually not sure of the answer. “And then…and then I’m not going to do business with a man that hurts his wife, I’ll tell you that much. I’ll ride out to Fort Worth every month if I have to.”

Katherine raised her brow and then pushed up on her toes and kissed the side of Mulder’s jaw. “You’re a good man,” she said. “But, I think that’s rushing things a bit. I’m going to ask Doctor Black for a more complete history when I see him. And I’m not going to let Mr. Skinner intimidate me.”

“But-”

“This is a medical issue, and I’m going to treat it as such.”

“Yes, but…” Mulder was hesitant, but the tone of Katherine’s voice told him she’d made a decision and that it was final. He was bothered, but he wasn’t going to argue. “If you think that’s for the best.”

“I do.” She nodded and then eased her grip on her husband, but he pulled her back up against him, his hands pressed to the small of her back.

“If I have a medical issue, would you treat it as such?” he asked, swaying her softly.

“What kind of issue do you have?”

“I haven’t been kissed in over twelve hours now. I’ve quite possibly forgotten how.”

“Oh no. That sounds serious.”

“What do you recommend, Doc?”

“Well, let me think…” She reached up and he closed his eyes as she caressed his face with both hands. His lips twitched as her thumbs brushed over his mouth. Her hands went to his chest and she nuzzled her face into his neck. “Bed rest,” she said. “Lots of bed rest.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, leaning into her. “You know I’m notoriously bad at that.”

“I think you’re quite good at it, actually.”

He opened his eyes with a smile. That was another thing he enjoyed about his wife. She wasn’t one to demure from his flirtations, she gave them right back to him. He scooped her up with a soft growl and she laughed, looping her arms around his neck. When he bent his head to kiss her, she leaned away, reaching back to put out the lantern on her desk and he ended up with his nose in the crook of her neck.

She giggled. “Let me just…”

He looked up as she stretched her arm out for the candle, but he leaned past her and blew it out once she’d had her finger looped around the brass holder. He found her lips in the dark and whirled her around through the door. He didn’t need a candle to guide him to bed, the moonlight and her little encouraging whimpers were enough.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter Skinner had only been to the Broke In once before, going on four years ago, to see about a horse. He was friendly with William Mulder, but didn’t consider the man a friend. Walter Skinner had no friends. He had business associates and customers, but he hadn’t had a true friend since he was a boy.

He was nervous to leave his teller in charge of the bank for the afternoon, more nervous than he let on, but even more nervous to ride out to the ranch. He knew it must be done, though. He’d behaved badly in front of Mrs. Mulder yesterday and he owed her an explanation. He owed them both an explanation that was a long time coming.

The changes to the place came as no surprise to him. All the billing for materials and labor went through the bank for payment. He knew down to the penny how much it had cost to put in the expansion and that Mulder could afford ten times as much as he’d spent, but it was nice to see that the ranch was thriving.

As he pulled up towards the house, he saw Sheriff Dogget’s boy out by the first barn, planing wood. He knew Luke Doggett had stayed on past the expansion as a carpenter. After opening an account at the bank, every second Friday the boy deposited his handsome salary into a savings and one day hoped to earn enough to open his own business. Mulder had already spoken to Walter about the possibility of backing him as an investor when the boy was old enough and had a bit more experience under his belt.

Melvin Frohike came out of the barn at the sound of horse hooves and waved his hat at Walter. Walter nodded to him and turned his horse in the smaller man’s direction.

“Hullo, Mr. Banker,” Mr. Frohike said. “Ain’t seen you ‘round these parts in a coon’s age. Charlie Horse givin’ you any grievances?”

Walter dismounted the horse in question and stroked him under the jaw. “No trouble here, Mr. Frohike. Best horse I’ve ever had.”

“Mulder’s got a knack for pickin’ the right temperaments for the man that needs ‘em.”

As though he knew he was being talked about, William Mulder suddenly appeared from Skinner’s left, wiping his hands on a ragged bandana. “Mr. Skinner, what a surprise,” he said, in a tone that didn’t sound all that genuinely surprised. By now, Walter presumed that Katherine had told her husband what had transpired yesterday.

“Mulder.” Walter shook hands with the rancher.

“Well, hey Charlie Horse,” Mulder said, running his hand along the white blaze that ran down the horse’s face. The horse knickered and pushed his nose into Mulder’s shoulder. “Frohike, take Charlie Horse into his old stall and get him some water and oats. He might appreciate a carrot or two while he’s there.”

The horse followed Mr. Frohike into the barn, trusting the familiar man in a way that was unusual. Let anyone but Walter try to lead him, and he wouldn’t budge. This had been the horse’s first home, though, and the ranchers his trainers, so Walter wasn’t surprised by it. When it was just the two of them, Mulder and Walter, and the sound of Luke Dogget scraping wood in the distance, Mulder shoved the bandana in his pocket and then tipped the brim of his hat just slightly to squint at Walter’s face.

“I’m here to apologize to your wife,” Walter said. “I believe we had a misunderstanding that I’d like to clear up. If you’ll allow me, of course.”

“If she’ll allow you.” Mulder adjusted his hat and then bounced his head towards his right shoulder. “Katherine’s inside. You can go on in.”

“Actually…” Walter looked towards the house and then at the rancher, trying to get a read on the situation, but the man’s face was blank, revealing nothing. “I’d like to speak to the both of you. Not just your wife. What I have to say, it…pertains to you as well.”

“Well…come on in, then.”

Walter followed Mulder through to the back entrance of the house. The younger man called out for his wife and she emerged from a hidden door inside of the pantry. She looked startled by Walter’s presence and gave her husband a questioning look.

“Mr. Skinner’s dropped by to have a word with us about something,” Mulder said. “Should we go on in to the parlor?”

“Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Skinner?” Katherine asked. “I made fresh lemonade this morning. We store it in the new ice box now so it should be nice and cool.”

A cool drink sounded like a good idea to Walter. The dust was thick on the ride out and it would probably help him find his voice. “I would appreciate a glass, thank you,” he said.

“I’ll help you pour,” Mulder said. “Mr. Skinner, let me show you to the front room and we’ll be just a minute.”

Mulder took Walter’s hat to hang on a peg in the hallway, beside his own, and then the banker was shown to a tidy parlor at the front of the house and he sat down in a chair upholstered with a soft green fabric to wait. He could hear low voices from the kitchen, no doubt the Mulders discussing why he had come, but they were quick to return, Mulder carrying a tray with three glasses of lemonade and a pitcher. The drink was perfect, not too sweet and not too sour, and blessedly cool. Mulder and Katherine sat beside each other on the love seat, across from Walter.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your day, so I’ll get right to it,” Walter said. “Mrs. Mulder, I want to start by saying how sorry I am for my behavior yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Katherine said, politely, but her gaze was critical. “My concern, however, is for your wife. If she has a chronic illness, she should be examined.”

“She has been examined.”

“That isn’t what her records indicate.”

“Doctor Black is familiar with her history.”

“That’s all well and good, but Doctor Black isn’t always available. If it’s my qualifications you’re concerned with, I can assure you that-”

“I’m sure you’re qualified,” Walter interrupted. He sighed and put his lemonade back on the tray on the table between them before removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments. Finally, he put the glasses back on and picked up the lemonade glass to take a long drink. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s difficult to talk about.”

“Take your time,” Mulder said.

*%*%*%*%*%

Walter wouldn’t learn he was a father until well into his second year in battle, when letters from home finally made their way to him. It came as a shock, as he was not even aware his wife was with child, but she must have been several weeks or months along when he’d been called up. Luisa Anne Skinner, a happy and healthy little girl that, according to the letters from both his wife and his mother, had a shock of red hair and the sweetest disposition on God’s green earth.

After the war ended, Walter strongly considered returning to West Point and never coming home again. He was afraid of who he was and what he’d become and he didn’t know how to be a husband or a father after all he’d been through. He was tired, though. He knew he’d never be able to quiet the nightmares of war if he went on being a soldier. He needed the monotony of home if he ever hoped to find peace.

He’d told no one of his impending arrival back in Baltimore, but the army must have sent word on ahead, for as soon as the train pulled into the station, he saw his wife and his mother waiting on the platform. He’d taken no more than two steps off the train when a tiny slip of a thing ran towards him, a blur of pink petticoats and red curls. Papa, Papa, Papa. His army issue duffle fell to the platform as he knelt down and tiny arms wrapped themselves around his neck. His heart felt like it had burst open that moment and he immediately understood why his mother had smothered her children with so much love and concern.

Walter Skinner was determined to give his daughter everything in life, even though she asked for nothing. He outfitted her with new dresses from the best tailors in town and bought her new dolls and trinkets. He did his very best to spoil her and she did her very best to remain unspoiled. She had the purest heart of anyone he’d ever known and her schoolteachers always commented on how kind and empathetic she was. She was a friend to all she met, believing in the best of the world and in everyone in it, and Walter never tried to dispel her of the misguided notion, preferring that she remain naive to the harsh realities of life. In hindsight, that was probably his biggest mistake.

It was the day before her seventeenth birthday that Luisa met Edward Jerse, a sewing machine salesman from Philadelphia. Walter remembered the day precisely. When he’d returned home from the bank, the young man was in his parlor, demonstrating the machine to his wife and daughter, who had been planning for Luisa’s party at breakfast that morning. Though the young man was well-mannered, Walter did not like him, even though he couldn’t articulate why. He just knew that man was trouble.

Luisa was smitten, begging her father for the first time in her life to purchase one of the machines, even though she’d always had little interest in needlework and he could not recall the last time she’d done sewing of any kind. She’d clasped her hands and gone to her knees beside his chair as he read the evening paper. Please, Papa, please can’t we get one? He couldn’t refuse, and so the sewing machine sat largely untouched, as he knew it would, and it gave the young man an excuse to call on them for maintenance purposes, which is what he suspected his daughter was truly after.

Walter thought that the infatuation would fade quickly, but as the months went by, it only deepened, much to his dismay. By that point, both his wife and daughter were enthralled with Mr. Jerse, and Walter was forced to hold his tongue on the matter. The singular time he’d spoken up that he thought Mr. Jerse was spending too much time at their house and he should be on his way, Luisa had been devastated and fled from the room in tears and his wife had scolded him for being so harsh.

And then Mr. Jerse had proposed marriage, without even speaking with him no less. He was furious, but careful to rein in his anger when he told his daughter it was out of the question. She was too young and besides, Mr. Jerse had not yet established himself. No, marriage was out of the question. Luisa had quietly accepted his refusal to grant her permission and then promptly eloped with Mr. Jerse the very next day.

If only Walter hadn’t spoiled his daughter so obviously, perhaps none of it wouldn’t have happened. If he’d just put his foot down that one time then maybe it wouldn’t have been so much of a shock when he cut his daughter off financially and forbade his wife from contacting her. He’s certain that Mr. Jerse had counted on him to have a change of heart. After all, Luisa was his only child and beloved daughter.

Months passed and Walter’s wife was slowly deteriorating; prone to weeping, spending days in her bed, and suffering greatly from the separation from her daughter. He tried to cheer her with those things he knew she loved the most - tickets to the symphony, a bouquet of flowers, having the cook prepare her favorite dinners - but she would not be cheered.

Before Walter had the chance to relent, one dreary day in September, a breathless errand boy showed up at the bank with an urgent message from his housekeeper, imploring him to come home at once. He ran all the way there, leaving his hat and umbrella behind in his haste, and by the time he arrived he was soaked through.

At first, he did not recognize the strange lady in his parlor, but it only took a few moments to realize this pale, drawn, bedraggled girl clutching a bundle of dirty rags was his daughter. Her cheek was bruised and her lip was split, red with fresh blood, and it was apparent she had recently suffered a blackened eye. He knew, even though she stammered over weak excuses that she’d been clumsy and had taken a fall down some steps, that that no-good, sonofabitch Ed Jerse had done this to her.

Walter felt a rage bubble inside of him that he hadn’t felt since his days in the war and though he once considered himself a pacifist, in his mind he already had one foot out the door to track down that rotten excuse for a man and show him a real fight. It was then that he noticed that what he thought was a bundle of dirty rags in his daughter’s arms was a loosely swaddled infant. The baby raised its arm and let out a pitiful squawk. Walter was too stunned to even move.

This time, when Walter put his foot down, his daughter dutifully bowed her head and agreed. She would not be going back to her husband. She and the baby would stay with her parents. The family physician was called for and Walter made it known he wanted his daughter’s injuries to be meticulously recorded. He’d wanted to summon the police, but Luisa was adamant that she would not speak with any officers.

Though their daughter had returned to them, she was no longer his sweet, innocent little girl. A year apart was enough to harden her, to dull the light that had always been in her eyes, to hollow her cheeks and round her shoulders. She was easily startled and weepy and shrank from the slightest touch. The housekeeper, who had been with them since Luisa was born, was the one who confided in him about faded bruises and fresh scars after she’d drawn the girl’s bath. Walter had gone to the clapboard alley house where Luisa had been living, accompanied by his army pistol, but Edward Jerse was nowhere to be found. Lucky for him.

Three weeks passed and every day was a struggle. Luisa lacked the strength, and it seemed the interest, in caring for her child, but that was understandable. Walter’s wife, his sisters, and the women that so deftly ran his household, all took part in trying to help his daughter recover. Unfortunately, all their efforts were for naught.

Walter was at work when Edward Jerse showed up looking for his estranged wife. When Arlene Skinner tried to turn him away, he kicked in the glass-paned door and cast her aside. Their cook ran to the neighbors to summon the police. His youngest sister, who had been visiting with her young daughter, had the good sense to grab the infant and flee out the back of the house. Their beloved housekeeper took a protective position on the stairs in an effort to stop Mr. Jerse and she suffered a broken collarbone when he shoved her down.

Witnesses said that Luisa put up a hell of a fight, even as Edward Jerse dragged her down the front steps. She bit and she clawed and she screamed until she was tossed to the ground and silenced by a crushing blow to the skull under Edward Jerse’s boot. Neighbors rushed to stop the assault, but they were too late. A brawl ensued when they attempted to prevent him from fleeing, but he managed to escape before the police arrived.

The scene that Walter came home to could only be described as chaos. Policemen were everywhere, blowing whistles, yelling at neighbors to stand back, threatening to use their bully sticks on the crowd that gathered. Nervous cart-horses whinnied shrilly and stamped their feet. His wife was wailing on the porch while their family physician tried desperately to calm her. The county coroner was already rounding up eligible men for an inquest and to make matters worse, hadn’t even bothered to cover his poor daughter’s crumpled body with a blanket or a sheet.

An overzealous journalist picked the wrong moment to appear at Walter’s side and ask if he knew the victim and wanted to give a quote. Walter had him by the throat in an instant, his clawed fingers digging roughly into the man’s neck. He wanted to kill him and probably would have had a constable not intervened and pulled him off.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine felt a sting of tears and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That could have been her story. She knew exactly what Luisa had gone through. She felt her husband’s hand slip into hers and she squeezed his fingers tight. Mr. Skinner had stopped speaking for a few moments, staring down at the lemonade glass that was sweating on his knee.

“You know where the sonofabitch is now?” Mulder asked.

“Rotting in hell, hopefully.” Mr. Skinner finally looked up. “They caught him at the train station that night. Murder’s a hanging offense. Justice was carried out swiftly, though part of me wishes he’d suffered a little longer.”

“And then you moved west?”

“Towns are small and people talk. We didn’t want Joey to grow up in the shadow of it all.”

“Joey is your grandson,” Katherine stated, softly. She remembered Mr. Skinner’s panic when Joey had been injured at school and his fear now made sense to her.

“He is. Though he’s not aware of that fact. Luisa had named him Edward Jr., but we couldn’t call him that, under the circumstances.” Mr. Skinner paused and he seemed to struggle for a moment, his face contorting slightly as a frown tugged his mouth down. “My wife blames herself. She was the one that let Mr. Jerse into the house to sell that blasted sewing machine. She tried to…join Luisa in the hereafter several times. They wanted me to have her institutionalized. I refuse to do that.”

“Has she made recent attempts?”

Mr. Skinner shook his head. “The melancholy comes and goes, particularly around Luisa’s birthday, or the day she was taken from us, but she hasn’t harmed herself in quite some time. There’s an Indian woman that cares for her during the day. She’s been a godsend. You might know her, Mulder, Albert Hosteen is her brother.”

“The Navajo translator?” Mulder gave a brief nod. “We did some trading awhile back, but I don’t know him well.”

“His people have a settlement a few miles outside of town. They keep to themselves, mostly.”

“Mr. Skinner,” Katherine said, trying as gently as she could to bring the conversation back to Arlene. “I am deeply sorry for what you and your wife have been through, but it does not explain why you won’t allow her to be seen. Do you believe Dr. Black would try to force her to be committed?”

Mr. Skinner stood and slipped his hand into his vest pocket. He took out his pocket watch and opened it up, staring at it for some time before passing it to Katherine. She hesitated briefly, glancing at her husband first, and then gasped slightly when she looked at the photo insert under the lid.

“I…I don’t understand,” Katherine said, staring intently at the photo.

“We had this likeness made for Luisa’s sixteenth birthday,” Mr. Skinner explained.

Katherine showed the watch to her husband, who raised his brows in surprise and then looked at Mr. Skinner. “This is your daughter?” he asked. “But, she…”

“Bears a striking resemblance to your wife. I know.”

“And you think that if Mrs. Skinner were to see me, it would cause an upset?”

“I know it would. Arlene begged me to remove all the portraits of Luisa from the walls because she found it unbearable to see them. That likeness is all I have left.”

Katherine passed the pocketwatch back to Mr. Skinner. He sat back down, but kept the watch in his hand, running his thumb over the lid. The room fell quiet and it seemed that none of them knew what to say after that. Finally, Mulder cleared his throat and shifted forward.

“Uh, when we were outside earlier, you said what you had to say concerned both Katherine and I,” he said. “I’m not a medical expert like my wife, so was there something else?”

Mr. Skinner took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Something I need to confess.”

*%*%*%*%*%

Jack Willis made no effort whatsoever to even pretend to be personable. Walter Skinner had all sorts of men in his office looking for land, but very few that didn’t try to charm him, especially when they were begging for a homestead. He watched the detestable man surreptitiously as he made like he was perusing his files. Watched him suck tobacco juice from his yellowed teeth and pick at the dirt under his fingernails with a small knife as he waited.

Walter could have easily refused Mr. Willis and sent him on his way. The man had no collateral to speak of, only a small purse of coins that didn’t amount to half a downpayment on a lease. He didn’t claim to have any prospects in the area, wasn’t a farmer or a rancher or a craftsman. Walter was certain, by the stench of whiskey that seemed to ooze from the man’s pores, that his only profession was drinking. When the man asked about the saloon in town, and if the hands were hot there, he knew he was dealing with a gambler as well.

Rarely was Walter distracted by the window in his office, but that day he couldn’t help but keep his eye on the young woman in the wagon outside. She was still as a statue most of the time, head down, shoulders slumped. Every so often she would start to rub her fingers and thumbs together, but then quickly pull her hands into fists in her lap. He gave her one more glance before he was going to break the news to Mr. Willis that there were no leases available and she suddenly tipped her chin up and the afternoon sun highlighted a fresh bruise on her cheek. She had a blank expression on her face, staring off into the distance, but without truly seeing a thing. He’d seen that look on many men during the war, usually after a hard battle. Some of them never recovered. His chest tightened and his heart hurt.

There was a lease available, he told Mr. Willis, which was not entirely the truth, but nor was it a lie. There were plenty of leases available, but he knew that if he put Mr. Jerse’s name on any of those, the bank would be repossessing in short time. The lease that he would draft up would be on a piece of land that he owned, one he’d purchased a few months before the former owner had passed on. The old man had known he hadn’t much time left and Walter had seen fit to relieve Bob Goodwin of his burden. Installing a surly drunkard and his abused wife on the property might not seem wise, but it would give him the time he needed to make an informed decision.

When Walter’s professors at West Point had praised him for his abilities to strategize, he’d humbly chalked it up to the hours he’d spent playing chess with his grandfather, but he also knew that the reason he took to the game at such a young age was because of the way his mind worked. He planned and he calculated and he did it quickly. He also wasn’t a gambler, by nature, but when he bet on something, he did it with the same certainty as moving a chess piece.

He drafted a standard five-year lease with an option, knowing he’d be lucky if he saw a single penny from Mr. Willis, not that it mattered. The land was bought and paid for and he didn’t need an income. He just needed a chance to do what he should have done for Luisa all those years ago.

Taking into account the little he did know of Mr. Willis, Walter offered to buy the man a drink later that evening at the saloon and just as he suspected, the man was more than happy to take him up on it. He gave him a copy of the lease, a rough map of how to find the place, and watched him turn his mules to the east, out of town. By the end of the night, after several rounds of whiskey and losing a few hands of poker to Mr. Willis, he’d devised a suitable plan.

*%*%*%*%*%

“Did you kill Jack Willis?” Mulder asked.

Mr. Skinner did not seem in the least phased by the question. “Do you play chess?” he asked, in return.

“Not much.”

“Chess is as much about manipulating your opponent’s movements as it is making your own. The same as battle.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

“I had a mind to.” The banker nodded to himself. “But, I didn’t have to.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know what it means,” Katherine murmured, quietly. “The whole time we were here, Jack was either too drunk, too hungover, or not there at all. It means you kept him occupied. Away from me or incapacitated.”

“I simply worked out a deal with the saloon owner that Jack Willis should feel free to spend as much time there as he pleased, whether it was drinking or gambling or in the company of the working women.”

Mr. Skinner paused at that and an awkward silence followed. Mulder was feeling a mixture of emotions; appreciation and regret and heartache and confusion. Katherine, pressed next to him on the couch, was silent, but her grip on his hand was tight and firm.

“Anyhow,” Mr. Skinner continued. “I only told Mr. Smith that he was to see me about any debts that Mr. Willis incurred and I would see they were paid.”

“Then you should…we should compensate you,” Mulder said, stuttering slightly. “I’ll pay for Jack Willis's debts.”

“I don’t want compensation.”

“But, what about the land? I…I assume you were after a profit if you bought it, but then why didn’t-”

“You own the land,” Mr. Skinner interrupted, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “The property was transferred to your wife, you just happened to purchase it from me and not the bank. Fortunately for me I happen to know how terrible you are at scrutinizing paperwork.”

Mulder grimaced, sheepishly. “Still, you should get a fair price for all you’ve-”

“I wasn’t after a profit, Mulder.”

“What then? You’re not a rancher, you’re a banker.”

Mr. Skinner shifted in his chair as though the question had made him uncomfortable or embarrassed. “I had it in mind that, should we become neighbors, that perhaps…perhaps my grandson might find his way here.”

“You want him to work on a ranch? But, he’s far too young to even consider-”

“No, not work. Just…to pass the time. I try to spend as much time with him as I can, but I’m at the bank most of the day, though I do try to shield him from my wife’s…my wife tries to love him in her own way, but I know she fears becoming too attached and Joey is so pure at heart. So much like his mother. He just…he just deserves a place where…” Mr. Skinner trailed off and he shook his head, quickly averting his eyes. “Anyway, he has school now to keep him occupied. It was a foolish notion.”

“Does he know how to ride?” Mulder asked.

“I’ve put him on Charlie Horse a time or two.”

“Well, it’s too far of a walk for the little fella. What if we sent Trevor out on Saturdays to come collect him?”

“I’m not going to put you out like that, Mulder. You asked me why and I wanted to answer plainly. I think that fate intervened and God saw fit that land be used for a higher purpose.”

Katherine sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and almost reared back as though spooked by something. Mulder turned to her, but she stared straight ahead, wide-eyed. He squeezed her hand and she startled and then pulled away, blinking rapidly.

“Kate?”

She gave a slight shake of her head and pulled her lightly-fisted hands into her lap. Mulder pursed his lips, wanting to know what had just happened, but he wasn’t going to press her in front of their guest.

Mr. Skinner rubbed his hands over his knees and then stood. “I should probably be on my way,” he said.”

“I’ll…get your hat,” Mulder answered. Normally, he might implore Mr. Skinner to stay, to have another glass of lemonade, but he hurried down the hall and back and handed the banker his hat, eager to get his wife alone.

“Thank you for the lemonade,” Mr. Skinner said, shaking Mulder’s hand.

“Anytime. And please think about sending Joey out.”

“I’ll think it over.” Mr. Skinner gave a slight tip of his hat to Katherine. “Mrs. Mulder. I hope I’ve resolved things for you.” He was about to walk out, but Katherine suddenly jumped to her feet and called out to him.

“Wait,” she said. “Things are not resolved. What about Mrs. Skinner?”

“I can’t let you see her, I thought I made that clear.”

“What if I’d run into her in town one day?”

“Impossible. Arlene doesn’t go into town. Her nerves are too unsteady for it.”

“Then we must do something about that. I’m…I don’t know the answer right now, but I will. I will write away for the appropriate texts and I’ll find something. I promise.”

“I do need to get going,” Skinner said, putting his hat on. His voice had gone low and husky. “You know, in the back of my mind I thought that perhaps out here on your own, with Mr. Willis occupied, you might find your way to a friendly neighbor’s place that could give you more help than I could. I’m happy things worked out the way they have, just sorry it didn’t happen a little sooner.”

“Mr. Skinner…” Katherine touched the sleeve of his jacket and when he turned towards her, she put her arms around him. He hesitated and then brought one hand up and put his hand very lightly at the back of her head. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They stayed in the embrace for a few seconds more and then Mr. Skinner stepped away. He gave a brief nod and then he was out the door on his way to the barn.

*%*%*%*%*%

Katherine stayed on the porch as her husband walked the banker out to the barn to collect his horse. His visit had brought forth her own recollections of the day she arrived in town with Jack Willis. A memory that she’d locked away not because she’d tried to forget, but only because she hadn’t tried to remember it.

The morning before they arrived, she had lost another baby, one she didn’t even know she was carrying. She’d awoken in pain, her skirts soaked through with blood down to the hard ground she’d been sleeping on beneath the wagon. She’d stumbled to a stream that was nearby to wash herself, retching a few times on the way there, and the bruise on her cheek was punishment for having woken Jack and for not having made up any breakfast.

She was still bleeding when they’d rolled into town, every bump of the wagon seemingly forcing another painful contraction of her womb, ridding itself of the burden that had proven impossible for her to carry. She wondered how much blood she would have to lose to pay for her sins, how much blood she’d already lost. She thought about how peaceful it might be not to even try to stop the flow.

It was those kinds of thoughts that turned her to prayer, but Jack had sold her rosary beads at the last town they were in to some gunslinger who thought his favorite whore might like them. She recalled sitting in the wagon outside the bank, asking God’s forgiveness for needing to end her suffering. One of the mules had shifted and the wagon creaked and she had the idea that when they were on their way again, she should throw herself under the wagon, let it roll over her, let it crush her and let the blood ooze out of her all at once until there was nothing left. Yes, she decided, that would be best. She had nothing left, no reason to keep going.

Just as she’d resolved to end her life, a breeze had ruffled her hair and set the back of her neck to tingling. She looked up, but the dusty road was still. Quite plainly, clear as day, a woman whispered in her ear just then, ‘don’t give up.’ Katherine turned, but there was no one there, only a glimpse of her own sad reflection in the window of the bank.

Jack returned to the wagon and shoved a piece of paper into her hands, which she recognized as a map. She studied it as Jack rambled about pulling the wool over on the idiot banker. He figured the town must be full of idiots if the smartest man there was that friendly. Maybe he’d see if he could start a new life as a bank robber.

Katherine didn’t say anything. Jack was never in favor of her speaking, even if it appeared as though he were trying to engage her in conversation. There was a little ‘X’ drawn onto the map and then a wavy line beside it that she determined to be a creek or small river of some kind. On the other side of the line was the word ‘horses.’

Once, as a little girl, Katherine had a dream about a horse. It was just after she’d read about Hippocrates, The Father of Medicine, and about how the ancient Greeks had once prescribed horseback riding to improve health. She’d thought that was silly, but that night she dreamed about riding a lovely chestnut horse with a red mane, running fast and free through an open field of grass as far as the eye could see, towards a setting sun. She felt sad when she woke up, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she knew it was impossible to ever be that free.

“Hey,” Mulder said, startling Katherine as he came up to the porch. The banker was already past the sign of their ranch, his horse kicking up the dust on the main road and lost in her reverie, she hadn’t even noticed.

“Hey,” Katherine replied.

Her husband reached for her, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “You looked a million miles away just then. What were you thinking?”

“Just about divine intervention.”

“So, nothing too complicated or existential?”

She gave him a small smile and he rubbed his bottom lip against her knuckles. She pulled her hands free and he opened his arms for her. Sighing, she stepped into his embrace.

“I’m sorry too, so you know,” he said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“That your friendly neighbor didn’t find his way to you sooner.”

She hummed lightly and crossed her arms behind his waist. “No, I think Mr. Skinner was right. Things happened exactly as they were supposed to.”

“I think you just said you believe in fate, Honey. I’ve been telling you that since Faithful Jenny threw that shoe.”

“I admit nothing.” She chuckled. “I’m only saying that by keeping Jack otherwise engaged in town, it did give me some months of peace I think that I needed. It made me stronger. I wanted to get away, but until then I thought my only way out would be if Jack had killed me or if I…did it for him.”

Mulder tightened his embrace and Katherine squeezed him gently in return.

“I’d like to think it’s providence,” she murmured softly. “That God put Mr. Skinner in my path that day for a reason.”

“So that he could help you.”

“No, so that I could help him. His wife.” Katherine tilted her head back to look up at her husband. He looked down at her with an expression she hadn’t ever seen, like someone pleasantly stupefied. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Fate, providence, divine intervention, kismet, destiny, serendipity, whatever you want to call it, how lucky I am to have such a wife.”

“Yes, you are.”

He chuckled as he lowered his mouth to hers.

*%*%*%*%*%

If anyone had asked him, the banker would say he did not believe in any such thing as fate. He had too much experience with the hubris and folly of man to believe that any bad or good that happened in the world wasn’t the direct result of free will. Besides, there wasn’t a philosophy on God’s green Earth that would have him believe that his daughter’s death was designed as part of a higher plan. As though God was maneuvering the human race like pawns in a game of chess. That would be illogical, and Walter was not an illogical man.

A few short weeks after his visit to the ranch, Katherine had convinced the banker to get his wife a kitten. She quoted a nurse named Florence Nightingale to him about the benefits of animal companionship. He thought it was silly. Arlene had never had an interest in cats, but Katherine was very convincing, and suddenly this gray ball of fluff that looked like he’d been in the dustbin, so he was called Dusty, had been acquired and he saw his wife laugh for the first time in years. She also managed to obtain a tortoise, a pair of lovebirds, an injured crow that she nursed back to health, and he was fairly certain she was trying to tame a family of prairie dogs in the fields behind their house. While the melancholy still took hold of her at times, it seemed that having Dusty close to her made it more bearable and her demeanor had been much improved.

Walter had finally let Doctor Black speak with his wife and he found her to be in overall fine health, but perhaps a bit of exercise would help with her nerves. Just a nice walk in the garden each day for fresh air and flowers. Monica Doggett helped with that, bringing fresh baked bread down as often as she could and teaching her the names of local herbs and how they’re used. It’s how she found the poor crow with the broken wing and the prairie dog tunnels.

The following April, the banker brought his wife to the Broke In on a Sunday morning, a day that had been arranged in advance. Joey was disappointed that it wasn’t his day to go to the ranch. He’d been spending Saturdays at the Mulder’s all winter and looked forward to brushing the horses every week and learning how to ride.

Arlene had been prepared to accompany her husband to the ranch. It had been weeks since even the mention of her daughter’s name had sent her into a fit of tears. She’d allowed Walter to hang the family portrait in the house and he had finally sat Joey down and given him a sanitized version of the truth. All the boy needed to know, at his young age, was that his mother, their daughter, had gone to heaven, and that she had loved him very much.

Walter slowed the gig down as the sign for the Broke In came into view. It seemed to him that he was more nervous about this meeting than his wife. She sat beside him almost serenely, her arm looped loosely around his elbow, Dusty purring on her lap. He hadn’t intended to bring the cat, but his wife had insisted and he knew the Mulder’s, of all people, wouldn’t mind the unexpected, additional guest.

Katherine was first to emerge from the house, followed by her husband. They waited on the porch while Walter guided the horse to the hitching post. Mulder stepped down and welcomed them warmly, saying how pleased he was to meet Mrs. Skinner and the little friend she cuddled close as he took her hand to help her from the small carriage.

Katherine approached cautiously and Walter held his breath when Arlene passed the cat to him and then reached out to touch the young woman’s face. She told her how pretty she was. She told her how she’d heard so much about her from Walter, and from Monica. She told her that her daughter had red hair as well, gently touching the ends of one of Katherine’s curls that coiled down by her jaw. And then she asked if she might put her arms around her, just for a moment.

Of course, Katherine answered, and Arlene brought her arms around her, placing her hands just behind Katherine’s shoulders and very softly, just for a moment, rested her cheek against the younger woman’s. She pulled away and then took Dusty back into her arms and rubbed one of his ears. She said that she would like to see the horses now.

The End

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #historical au #broken things #first time writing a Skinman POV!

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1loer · 3 months

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the song 'I've Got All This Ringing In My Ears and None On My Fingers' - Fall Out Boy is such a chapter 5 komanami song to me TT

'You're a canary, I'm a coal mine'

Canary's were brought into coal mines to alert miners if there were toxins in the air, bc if the bird died, they'd know they were in danger. To say a 'Canary in a coal mine' is sort of like the 'Canary' is a warning of danger. You're a canary (You're the thing that is sacrificed, that warns of danger.) I'm a coal mine (I am the thing that hold the danger, the thing that ultimataly kills you. The thing you need to warn about.)

Chiaki is a canary, innocent and sacrificed in the name of warning of danger, the danger in Komaeda (the coal mine) trying to kill all the others and leave her alive. She died to protect them, as the canary dies in the coal mine to protect the miners. Though there is further, sadder meaning behind this metaphor for the two of them too, because Komaeda's goal was to save Nanami. He knew she was innocent, and he loved her for it, but because of his own actions, his own ''toxicity'' , she died and really, he killed her. I just absolutely love this metaphor for them so much. In a sense, a coal mine that fell in love with its canary. 'I'm so sorry, but not really/ Tell the boys where to find my body/ New York eyes, Chicago thighs / Pushed up the window to kiss you off '

Komaeda didn't feel remorse for what he did in the end, and wouldnt have felt remorse if they all died. He wanted to be found dead, and it was Nanami that lead them there in the end.

I also love the imagry of 'pushed up the window to kiss you off'. It evokes two rlly strong pictures in my mind, of people leaning out of train windows to kiss their loved ones one last goodbye as they leave, but also, the stronger one in my mind is a sense of 'kissing someone goodbye' before you kill them ('kiss them off' of the open window). A final and tragic goodbye, a single lasting moment of their love for each other before they are seperated because of the narrator's own will or actions, never to meet again through death or simply just forcing each other apart for their own good. Komaeda's one last act of love towards Nanami was to try and save her, but Nanami's one last act of love was to destroy that and die for the others, by encouraging them all to believe in Komaeda, and to believe in her. 'The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you'

Telling the truth, or letting it be known, would kill him (does kill him), and the last thing he wants to do is hurt her. He cannot bring himself to hurt her, so he cannot face or tell the truth. Therefore, he hides the truth, and frames it so in the end, she'll be the one who comes out unscathed. He wants her saved from the harm the truth will bring. Unfortunately for him, Nanami has known the truth from the start.

#oh pee #danganronpa #komanami #komanami is literally so fucking tragic.#there was so much love there. if only there wasn't.

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ahordeofwasps · 7 months

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Find the Word Tag

I was tagged by the amazing @isherwoodj! Thanks for the tag! My words are water, certain, scatter, and past. I'll be sharing excerpts from Crying Wolf.

But first, the no pressure tags! I'll be tagging @the-down-upside-finch, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @sarandipitywrites, @notwritinganyflufftoday, and open tag! Your words are nerve, name, new, and nail!

Now, onto Crying Wolf! Just as a quick note, the water excerpt contains a bit of mild body horror. So cw: body horror. Additionally, the scatter excerpt contains implied suicide. So cw: suicidal imagry. I'll leave both last.

Certain

Ogwut felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time; the feeling quivered inside him, screaming at him to drop Jack and run. The heavy feeling in the bottom of his stomach that he was growing accustomed to disappeared, replaced by an empty uncertainty. He was afraid.

Past

“My name is Jack Strickland, my lord,” he said, kneeling on one knee and putting his right hand to his chest. He could feel something whirring inside. He knew what he was doing was blasphemy, but this dæmon had shown him more kindness and care in the past few hours than that tavern did for most of his life. The tavern left him to die screaming while Smas pulled him out of the grave. “Well, it’s nice to meet you too! And I’m no lord, silly! I’m Smas!” they giggled. If Jack could move his eyebrows, he would have raised them in confusion. He revealed that he knew what Smas was. Shouldn’t they have dropped the façade?

Water (cw: body horror)

Smas directed him to a bathroom. Jack expected it to be a room with a wooden washtub and a mirror but was surprised to find that it was full of empty wash basins and chamber pots made out of porcelain, filled with clean water. Above the wash basins, a large mirror covered the wall. The apertures of Jack’s eyes widened as he stared into the mirror. He was not a handsome monster. He was a grotesque mimicry of humanity. Smas did a perfect job of preserving Jack’s skin but that only made it worse. The skin was pale and lifeless, stiff and unmoving. If it weren’t for the cold eyes that gleamed from lidless sockets and the occasional flash of metal, Jack would have looked like a walking corpse. “I’ll… get rid of it.”

Scatter (cw: suicidal imagry)

The barn was dark, quiet, and barren. Thresh and sheep droppings were scattered on the ground, but the sheep were absent. The loom was in the hayloft, but no one sat at it. A rope dangled off the side of the hayloft. That was new. Jack sprinted up to the hayloft. He knelt down by its edge, bringing the rope up to him. The end of the rope was frayed, yet even. It had been cut in an act that was a waste of rope. He peered down below. A rabbit screamed in the distance. In the dark, lying among the thresh, Jack spotted the other half of the rope. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he saw it, it was all he could look at. For the first time since he died, Jack began to tremble. The other half of the rope was tied in the unmistakable knot of a noose.

#cw: body horror #cw: suicidal imagry #writing #writeblr #scifi #science fiction #tag game #find the word #crying wolf #cryingwolf #queue

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kate-les-bridge-stewart · 1 year

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I've been having many thoughts about missy and spy!master because of the panels Michelle and Sacha have been doing together so here's some of those for you hehe

As per Michelle and Sacha's opinions on their dynamic together, the sexual energy between the 2 would be off the fucking charts, perhaps even stronger than it was with simm and missy 😳

I just think missy would find dhawan more physically attractive than simm (No offense to John simm of course lol, all 3 of them are GORGEOUS)

Like despite dhawan being debatably more unhinged than simm, something about his overall look in most of his appearances just feels more neat and well groomed than simm

Like dhawans facial hair (excluding the Rasputin thing) was always very well groomed and cleanly trimmed. Meanwhile all of simms appearances always made his hair look at least a little disheveled, especially his goatee

Another thing I think missy would like is dhawans eyes. I'm not sure if the casting director had this in mind when they picked sacha but his eyes lend themselves so well to the masters cunning and manipulative abilities. His eyes are so big and expressive, he can manipulate them to look so soft and genuine and kind. Yet in the blink of an eye he can go from an angel you'd trust with your life to shedding his sheep's clothing to reveal a rabid wolf underneath

Him and missy are a perfect match in that regard since missy also has some stunning eyes herself.

Dhawans eyes are round and large with deep brown irises which lull you into a false sense of trust. Missy's eyes however hypnotize not with trustworthiness but with stunning beauty. They're polar opposites to Dhawan's eyes, being slim and almond shaped and a stark icy blue that snatches your attention and holds it in an iron grip. Her irises are so pale they almost blend into the whites of her eyes and in combination with her overall facial structure give her this ethereal, otherworldly feel. Like a mysterious spirit that claims to be an angel.

Speaking of facial structure, (I guess this is just gonna be a body worship post from me LMAO) dhawans face also lends itself well to his deceptively trustworthy appearance. His face shape is round and his cheeks are full making his face look softer and more approachable. In fact there are few sharp edges in any of his facial features to begin with. His nose is very round and his chin has basically no edges. His eyebrows are thick and dark with the edges of their shape blending into his skin, thus with no defined lines his eyebrows look softer.

Another thing I noticed about his facial hair, it's dark color and well defined edges actually create some symbolic imagry. Think about it, the fine contrast between his beard and the rest of his face almost looks like a mask. Just like how he was wearing the character of O like a mask! Idk I just thought that was a cool idea hehe

Missy's face completely opposes this. She's ALL sharp edges. Her eyebrows? Sharp as needles. Hell their angles form this angry V shape which of course makes her look inherently angry or hostile. Her nose? Straight and narrow. Her jaw? Things built like a fucking cleaver. And don't even get me started on her cheekbones, those things could slice through GRANITE. Even her fucking cupids bow is like 2 razor blades. Her skin (mainly her cheeks) is pulled tight to her skull which causes her to look as deadly as she is. Going back to her eyes, her irises look smaller than Sacha's, they could actually be physically smaller or it could be an optical illusion from how pale her eyes are. Either way her irises looking smaller gives her a wild look and draws far more attention to her pupils.

I could go on but I feel like I've obsessed over these people's faces enough lol

#doctor who #missy #gomez!master #dhawan master #gomez master #michelle gomez #sacha dhawan #dhawan!master #spy!master #spy master #i need a life

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thedegu · 1 year

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If I had a nickel for every jo(h)n who killed their home world, had god-like power, had eye imagry, was from a series that had a three word title starting with "the", who had "just some guy" energy and was defeated in some capacity by the power of love.

I'd have three nickels

Which isn't much but it's weird that it's happened three times

#the locked tomb #the magnus archives #the adventure zone #jon sims #john tlt #idk his last name #john hunger #the last one is a bit abstract but i stand by it

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koraesrambles · 7 months

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GREAT READING ADVENTURE PART 1 (CW: pictures from the Sandman comics may be disturbing to some)

I started with the Sandman, by Neil Gaiman. A legend in comic spheres, and one that I'd been wanting to read for a while.

I found 10 volumes at my local library and have made my way through two of them so far. First off, as a horror book DAMN. DAAAAAAAAAAAAMN these books do not pull punches. They come at you like a gut punch and just keep going. I like to describe myself as someone who enjoys "horror lite" I love monsters, I love angst and crazy situations and some messed up stuff, but I'm kind of a baby about it. Things like Supernatural, Gravity Falls (It's kid friendly, but there's blood!), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, that's my jam (wow, that list makes me feel about 5 years old, but whatever! I like what I like!). The Sandman Is Not That.

The Writing

Don't get me wrong, it is beautiful in every way, but it's also a lot for a wussy like myself. I'm enthralled, captivated, unable to look away, but there have been multiple times where I've needed to close my eyes for a second and remind myself that this is a comic book, and the world isn't necessarily this dark all the time. I'm pretty triggered by children in danger/getting hurt/dying and these books don't shy away from that. But they're also just . . . so beautiful.

The writing is annoyingly amazing. I expected nothing less, it is Neil Gaiman, but sometimes as a writer you look at other people's writing and just sit back in awe. I wish I could write something like this. Or, if not exactly like this, something as beautiful and poignant as this. The story flows so beautifully. Every scene perfectly blending in with the next. Every word feels like it has a point, which makes you want to pay attention to everything to make sure you're not missing anything.

Writing is my main background, but comic writing is so different from prose. This is what I struggled with the most while drafting up OUTCAST ODYSSEY, how do I get everything across that I need to when I can't just write it all out? How do I pace it when telling a story with pictures vs words feels so different? But Neil does this so well. It felt lyrical, and I could see his influence on every single page. The art was done by someone else, but the ideas, the imagry, the way the story flows from one idea to the next, is all a result of absolutely phenomenal writing.

It reminded me to trust readers to read between the lines. It's difficult to find the line between "subtlty" and "confusing" and I am often guilty of feeling like I need to spell things out to my readers so that they won't miss anything, but more often then not that just slows down the plot and makes the whole experience clunky. You don't want to go too far in the other direction either, but Neil knew who his audience was and trusted them to at least give things a second glance. I was worried at the beginning that I'd be too dumb to figure out what he was hinting at, but he was able to patiently feed me the information without me getting frustrated or lost.

It's a skill that comes with experience and practice, but I feel like this story really really shines at it. I found myself studying the way he handled exposition and wanting to emulate it in my own work.

The Art

The art is also stunning. It's not "cute" art. It's not something that I would want to hang up in my house or look at for hours. It's amazing from a skill standpoint (which is easy for me to tell just due to my own extremely obvious shortcomings) but it's not concerned with everyone looking like hollywood movie stars.

Which . . . I mean, that's definitely a feature, not a bug. This story is not supposed to be cute, and a cutsy art style would absolutely ruin the atmosphere. It is rough and full of sharp points. it doesn't shy away from nudity or gore. The characters are not attractive, these are not anime stars, but they are compelling, and distinct enough that I was able to easily tell who everyone is, which is more often then not extremely difficult for me (i think I may be a bit face-blind).

The art adds to the horror of everything. Even when things are supposed to be calm, or sexy, or whatever, there's an edge of panic and unease to it. Part of that is the reader knowing that there's more going on behind the scenes then the character knows, but it's also the style. The heavy black shadows, the hard lines, the emphasis on some details while the obscuring of others, it all combines to perfectly compliment the writing. It's not a pleasure to look at, but that's absolutely the point. It's also extremely difficult to look away FROM. How can something simultaneously look jarring, eerie, and unpolished, while also whispering "Yes. This is beautiful art. Look at it. Bask in it."?

I'm a newbie artist. It's way beyond my skillset to even begin to figure out how they were able to accomplish this. But someday I hope I figure out the secret.

The art perfectly compliments the writing, and the two work together to tell the story. I remember feeling a little annoyed on the artists' behalf that the Sandman is always known as "Neil Gaiman's" when the art side of comics is so incredibly important. The art sets the tone and compliments the words. It helps with reading between the lines and helping us know how seriously we should be taking the words.

Characters

All of the characters are great! Except the ones I already knew. I'm not saying they were bad, just bland compared to everyone else. Constantine, the Justice League, every cameo that came up and I was excited for felt . . . not quite out of place, but not quite seamless either. I was most excited for Constantine, and he was fine, but I probably have enjoyed him more in every other comic I've ever seen him in. I know they were all included just to try and sell the first few issues of a new story, and I respect that (the amount of comics that I've read just because my favorite character showed up for a few panels is . . *cough* embarrassing), but I was kind of bummed by how little conflict they added to the story.

Constantine immediately agrees to help Morpheus (which, okay, he can see how powerful Morpheus is and doesn't want to get on his bad side, totally in character. But I like Constantine best when he's being a bit of a dickhead), when I was really expecting a bit of tension or at least antagonism between them. We briefly see Etrigan but he is so quickly outshined by Lucifer that I nearly forgot about him, Scarecrow shows up but I didn't really feel like he added much besides a familiar face, we see Scott Free (who I know very little about) and J'onn (whose reaction to Dream was probably the most interesting) but all they do is immediately tell Morpheus where he needs to go. Why were they so quick to be okay with this obviously terrifying powerful force just grabbing stuff? I guess I understand why J'onn was okay with it, since he knew who Morpheus was, but it still felt weird that there wasn't even a single moment of hesitation or resistance. They basically served as a plot GPS.

Again, there's nothing wrong with any of them, they just didn't feel as vibrant as all of the other characters we were introduced to. Even the woman who gave Dr. Destiny/Dr Dee a ride was more vivid and felt more real and purposeful than the cameos did. At least to me.

The original characters (or at least everyone I didn't recognize. Was Dr. Dee a Gaiman original or had he shown up previously? Cuz he was very much A tier villain for me,) were all amazing and vivid and lively. I cared about them way faster than I normally do, especially at the very beginning of a story. The cameos felt exactly like what they were: Cameos to sell the book.

Final Thoughts

This book is, objectively, better than anything I will ever create. And that's not even a diss on myself, it's just objective fact on the quality of this piece. I learned a lot looking through it, trying to figure out what Gaiman did that worked vs didn't. The lyricism vs crassness of the writing, the way the art complimented the dialogue, how the panels flowed and where it was easy for me to follow vs where I got a little confused. It's a beautiful book and I can absolutely see why it's a graphic novel must read. I'm planning on reading the rest of the series, but I can only read one volume a day, because the horror of it all absolutely follows me after I close the last page.

#reading analysis #reading challenge #the sandman #morpheus #the sandman graphic novel #comics #DC #learning to be a better writer and artist #studying the greats #the great reading challenge of 2024 #neil gaiman #best graphic novels #list of best graphic novels

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bylerspookie · 1 year

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Byler Analysis

This focuses mostly, but not only, on Mike Wheeler, because he's my favorite character who just deals with internalized homophobia (me fr).

I'm doing this episode by episode, starting from Season 1, ofc.

The time stamps on this episode are kind've iffy, just a few seconds off but the events I talk about happen at around the time that I put in, it should get more accurate as you go along, my phone was bugging out.

Also, please, I know some things might be stretches, but I truly believe almost everything has signuficance in this show, I payed attention to small details, like posters and pictures, I probably didn't even catch all of the hints, but anyways, I hope you enjoy this!

Season 1

Chapter One: The Vanishing of Will Byers

(01:50) The boys are playing Dungeons and Dragons, it foreshadows Wills disappearance

(02:10) I noticed stalkerish camera work on Mike, it happens a lot to Will before he disappears, as well as Nancy when she sees the demogorgan, it's like we're looking through the demogorgans eyes, but why do we see this with Mike? I see @lesbianmindflayer talk about this on her YouTube channel, but I didn't know that it started as early as episode one, literally two minutes in. It kinda makes sense for Mike to be a Vecna victim, especially because he's close to the two people that Vecna is after, Will and El. I suggest you watch "Why Mike Wheeler is Vecna's next victim (theory)" and "Who or What is watching Mike Wheeler? Compilation Reference." both by @lesbianmindflayer on YouTube.

(02:30) 13 is usually associated with being unlucky, and it is also associated with evil, but in this scene, it is good if Will rolled a 13 or higher, but no, he rolls a 7, which is associated with godliness and religion, but in this scene, it is bad. This may not be referencing anything in future seasons, and it may not be important, but it is quite interesting to me how they kinda reversed the meanings of the numbers.

(02:50) Random Pizza box, I'm pretty sure it reads "Pizza One", could be referencing Season 4?? I also think the way everyone panics and looks for the dice is a reference to how just like the dice went missing, Will did too. There's also a small poster on the wall on the right hand side of this scene, it shows a rainbow poster with a heart, now, Mike obviously is "the heart", according to Will.

(03:24) This is kinda far fetched but the guy on the TV looks awfully similar to Billy

(03:30) lot's of bird imagry, not sure what this means, but we see a specific owl picture multiple times in this Season, we also hear random Owl noises sometimes in this Season for like no reason whatsoever

(03:51) Another bird picture on the wall, I'm also pretty sure that "stranger things on stage", a canonical stage play, used a bird symbol on stage. They're trying to tell us something, I know it. (I think I'm going crazy help lol)

(04:20) More stalkerish camera work on the entire party, we see Wills bike for the first time in the show, which is very significant, as it is in every stranger things poster with Will, even if it's not quite in place, and we hear his bike sound repeatedly in Season 4, Will's bike is associated with trauma, I'm pretty sure. @willbyersabyss has a post about this, I think!

(04:32) Will tells Mike that he rolled a 7 and that the demogorgan got him, obviously foreshadowing his disappearance.

(04:46) Stalkerish camera now only on Mike, as the light flickers. Bro even looks up like "huh?" (CONFUSED MIKE). Anyways #flickergate PLEASE.

(05:34) X-men 134, I'm pretty sure this comic focused on Jean Grey (homophobic queen/j), which most likely represents El. It also foreshadows both Will and El's story line in this season.

(05:55) We see Will riding his bike home, with his yellow bike light reflecting onto the ground. Might be a reference of him being stuck in the upside down, and also him being the one to communicate with Joyce through the lights. Ah, we finally see the 'demogorgan', which is actually, most likely Vecna, and we hear Will's bike sound for the first time. From here on, we see the same stalkerish camera work used on Mike, now being used on Will. We also see Will's dog barking, and the same thing happens to Max.

(08:15) FINALLY. Eight One Five. No - Eight Fifteen. The exact moment when Will Byers goes missing. This timestamp is brought up in season 2, along with an addition the the sound track, "Eight Fifteen". Ha. Anyways, I actually really don't know if they're gonna do anything with these numbers, but if they do, I really wanna know what. Also, can we talk about the way in which Will goes missing? It zooms in on the light, the light turns extremely bright, and then he's just, gone? That's not what happened to Max when she got Vecna'd, her body was still here. And when the Hawkins gang went into the upside down, they had to go through the gate, they didn't just disappear into thin air. Something weird happened with Will. That's why we don't see it, and instead see the lights. Also, we never see Will talk about it ever again??? He may have forgotten his trauma, like El, as a coping mechanism, but it's just so weird to me, weird how he knew to talk to Joyce with the lights, weird how he knew to sing his favourite song, weird how he was kept alive for what, 2 weeks without food and water? Whilst barb died immediately as she entered the upside down. Weird how the upside down is literally stuck on the day that Will went missing. Weird how El literally knew him and pointed to his picture even though she never met him before. Just, all a little weird.

(11:33) Dragon poster on Will's wall, possible reference to season 4 painting.

(12:10) Mike puts syrup on his eggs, so does Will (well, in season 3, whilst he's talking about how he's not gonna fall in love). Mike is also wearing a shirt with blue and yellow stripes.

(12:55) Mike is the only one who seems worried about Will, it hadn't even been established that Will was missing, but he's still worried because he can't see his best platonic buddy.

(13:15) Mike is called "frogface", a reference to season 4 and also kermit the frog, a reference to basically the whole suzies house scene, a very, very gay scene for Mike, but we'll get to that when the time comes.

(13:48) Makes Dustin feel better about the bullying by comparing him to someone with superpowers, Mr Fantastic (cause he can stretch and stuff get it, well done Mike). I think this can be taken back to El, with superpowers, Mike only begins to show that he likes her when he realizes that she knows where Will is, and that she has cool powers that could help with finding him. As soon as he thinks Will is dead, he gets mad at her (for basically no reason). In fact, before he realized that she could help, he was making plans to send her back to where ever she came from lmfao, he didn't care, he was trying to be nice. El also literally told Mike in season 4, "the way you were looking at me, I felt like a monster." Whilst Will said in the van, "you make her feel like she's good for being different-" a completely contradiction to what El told him, which is why I truly think Mike knows that Will was projecting, just a lil, because most of the stuff Will was saying was contradicting El's statements. Mike literally says in his monologue, "You're my superhero." But she's not, she's not his superhero and she doesn't want to be either, that's why El feels that way, she doesn't want to be something she's not, and Mike doesn't have to be something he's not either. Anyways, we'll come back to this in the Season 4 analysis.

(17:48) Joyce says "He's a sensitive kid." A direct parallel to Vecna as a child, which is why I think Will has something Vecna wants, why Will was kept alive, because he's just like him.

(17:52) We understand that when Joyce said "different", she meant queer. And Hopper even asks, "is he?", and Joyce is like "are you serious rn bro", but I think Hopper is kinda right, he thinks Will might've been hatecrimed for being gay, that's how bad these situations can be.

(18:20) Joyce says "what about the other time, the one, the one!" could be a reference to 001/Vecna.

(18:25) Another reference to a bird, an owl, to be specific, and again, we hear Owl noises a lot this season.

(21:20) We see El for the first time, my pookie.

(22:52) First interaction we see with El and another person, that person calls her a boy, she's literally always called a boy this season it's not even funny anymore, Mike Wheeler I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. What is bro even hiding at this point.

(23:14) We see 'boy' behind Mr Clarke on the board, idk what this means here but we see this A LOT with Mike in season 3 and season 4

(25:40) 'Castle Byers' is painted in yellow whilst behind the structure of the castle is blue

(26:00) We see a tiger in castle byers, reference to season 4 poster that says "freshmen love their tigers" (💀). We then see a lot of Tigers in Will's room at California, and Mike is a freshman...

(34:56) Mike does to El in season 4 when they're eating what he does to his sister in season 1, a familial parallel, hinting that Mike loves El in a platonic way, but because of heteronormativity, he thinks that because El is a girl and he's a boy that he has to like her in a romantic way.

(36:25) Ted makes a homophobic comment and Mike immediately is defensive. He says that he's the only one that cares about Will, which, isn't really true, I mean, Joyce, Jonathan, Lucas, Dustin? Do they not exist? So Ted says, "We care." Which, again, maybe they do,but no one loves Will as much as Joyce and Mike do in this season, yes, other people care, but clearly, love outshines all of them, so, Mike is using "care" as a cover up for "love", obviously he'll get mad that no one gets it, because he cares, but in a different way.

(45:57) Mikes torch, which was once yellow (Wills colour) before, turns purple (Els colour).

(46:00) Mike meets El, she's wearing a yellow shirt, Mike literally could not give a shit, he looks confused, even slightly angry that El is not Will, but again, mostly confused, like, why is there a random person in the woods what is going on. And in the next episode, he's mostly worried about sending her home, but again, yeah, I'll talk about that later lmaoo.

I hope you liked this pookies, I'll do episode 2 tomorrow.

#byler #byler is real #byler is canon #byler is endgame #byler analysis #stranger things #gay #lgbtq #mike wheeler #mike wheeler is gay #mike wheeler is babygirl #mike wheeler is a boy kisser #the babygirlification of mike wheeler #will byers #will byers is gay #anti midleven #anti mileven #byler nation #mike wheeler is queer

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crownofconvergencerp · 3 months

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𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞

“this was not enraged moon struck beasts of the solstice, this was callous and calculated.”

The sounds of the night had raged from sunset to sunrise, the sounds of wolves tearing apart the town echooed throughout the city, complimented by other's tormented by the shortened stay of their moon, sirens wailed from waters, and horror beasts approached the edge of the town seeking to bring dread to those living nearby.

Nothing brought about the same sense of dread however as the morning. Upon the rising of the sun, and the freeing of those influenced, the city was filled with reapers. No feeling could come close to the air of death and dread that filled the air like a thick fog. For while the wolves may have harmed, or even killed, a few citizens who had been stupid enough to venture out, someone else had been using the cover of night to enact their own horrors.

TW Disturbing Imagry, Death, Murder, Gore, Eye Gore (tbh I actually am unsure if it is but for safety).

Summary for those who do not wish to read based on TWs: All of the messengers who delivered the letters throughout the town have been killed.

Strung up from the various lantern posts around the town were the messengers, sent from each of the districts to hand out the letters of action and council from the courts. Their bodies were displayed hung by their ankles, throats slip and blood drained into the streets, running through the grooves in the cobblestones. Life was drained from their very features and horror seemed to appear on their expressions with wide eyes, near white, as though they had seen something before they passed.

A town so used to death, to brutality, seemed to stand still at the scene that had befallen. It was not the morning that was expected. No, the broken signs, the strawberry field torn apart, the animal carcasses brought down and devoured in the street was what was expected. Not near two hundred souls lost overnight strung up for display.

Was it a message to the courts? A message to the town? And who had perpetrated it all?

OOC information…

Reaper's Recourse: Strawberry Moon

Officially the Strawberry Moon event has now concluded! That being said, for this week players are still able to write threads that are based on either the faire of the evening itself! I just wanted everyone to be able to have a potential conclusion to all that politics.

So is this an event? No but it is an environmental change. All characters would have observed what had happened and while you do not have to write them doing so you are welcome to utilise it for the purposes of threads.

Can my character maybe discover anything beyond what is listed here? Yes! While engaging in this element is not mandatory if you would like an idea of what your character, based on their skills, might be able to observe additionally feel free to reach out to me.

Is the election still happening? Yes! Just like mentioned in the discord event there will be six roles, the first of which will be town govenor. The addition five are Town Restoration, Judicial Structures and Enforcement, Housing and Rights Services, Health and Safety Prepartion, Transportation and Communication. If your character would like to run for any of these you can message me directly but they should also try and get an emissaries support.

Can my character have suspicions on who did it? Yes! But please be considerate of other people's feelings. If you would like to blame a specific character for what happened make sure the player themselves is comfortable with this first!

If you have any other questions feel free to reach out to me!

#convergenceevent

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berry-hwa · 7 months

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Part lV!

⚠️WARNING!!!! this part contains some light imagry that may be a tad triggering to some(topics such as animalistic predatory instincts)(nothing too detailed or gorey) so i marked the most graphic part in red!! Do keep that in mind and skip over it if you have to.⚠️otherwise i **would** very much like to hear anyones thoughts about this so far and what you would perhaps like me to dig deeper into :3 other than that, do enjoy!

"What."

"A swim...should we go for a swim?" She repeated the question to the ever so bewildered CEO.

"Right now?"

"...Yes? Have you never gone on late night swims?" She inquired, curious. "Late night swims are very peaceful." Maybe if he went on them more often he wouldn't be such a-

"It's dark and cold. How can it possibly be peaceful?" He crossed his arms after setting his coffee mug down.

"...Right. You're still just a mere human in the end," She sighed. "As transformed as you may be the oceans are probably still hard for your body to handle."

"So I'm the problem."

"Pretty much."

She saw him roll his eyes to the sky and then think to himself. It really wasn't something to waste so much time pondering about...

"I suppose...we could have a dive into the pool here. I think there'd be plenty of room for the both of us." He finally spoke up after a hefty 2 minutes of silence.

Great! She could finally swim again.

But...the pool?

"...Is that even a good idea?" What if someone saw them splashing around in fishtails??? "Don't you have cameras or something?"

"I can always disable them." He stood up and stretched out his arms with a groan, "Plus, it wouldn't be my first time having a dip in the pool."

Huh. So he can be quite careless at times.

"And...did you have a mermaid acquaintance swimming alongside you?" She was a little more concerned than Eisuke seemed to be. Was that a bad thing or a good thing?

"No, I was there with Soryu." Soryu, hm. The two of them seemed very close. She knew they were childhood friends and all but there was still just something...lurking, deeper into their relationship.

Before she could say anything, he'd already began walking to the doors, probably expecting her to follow along. So she did. Only to be met with the door as Eisuke walked out before her and almost closed it into her face. Really, was he actually a child in a man's body?

"Oh. My bad." Asshole.

"Is my presence that insignificant to you?" She opened the door back up and scowled at him, but he didn't even acknowledge her. Wow. Just...wow.

"I thought you wanted a swim session." He continued walking down the hall.

She was still worried about this...pool thing.

"...I'm still not sure swimming in the pool is a good idea." Even still, she followed behind him, feeling nervous probably for the first time that day.

"...Relax. I'm not bringing you to a public pool area. That would be stupid and dangerous for both of us."

Oh. Thank goodness. So he actually is a little smart and has common sense.

"Then where are you going?" She caught up to his long strides and glanced at his face.

"To a private pool area, obviously."

Ah.

"So I can get rid of you once and for all."

"What."

She paused and stopped walking next to him, caught off-guard by his comment. What do you mean get rid of me?! You've accepted your role as a predator way too quickly! And plus, wouldn't she be found sooner or later?! How would Eisuke explain a deceased woman with a fishtail in his own hotel and private pool?! It would be a DISASTER—

"Did you actually believe that just now?" She looked up at Eisuke, who was now way ahead of her and very clearly grinning at her bewilderment and naivety.

Holy shit. This guy is a certified asshole of the land and the seas.

"...I may not have the qualities of a siren, but I will kill you if I have to." She glowered as she approached him again. How could he jest about something like that?!

"That doesn't sound like a joke."

"It isn't one."

"Oh? So you threatened me."

"Did you not also?!" Lords, she was getting sick of him at this point.

"Again, relax. I don't plan to murder anyone with my abilities, even you." He continued walking like normal. Eerily calmly.

"That sure quells my worries, thanks..."

"I don't plan to be a cannibal, if that's what concerns you." What a sentence that is. Truly magnificent.

"...I don't think I needed a clarification of that but thanks, I guess?"

Before she knew it, she had bumped into Eisuke's back as the man came to a stop and unlocked a door, one that had a massive pool behind it as she came to find out.

"I- ...Lords of the seas...why is this so huge???" She gaped at the sight of the still pool and the sparkling city they were overlooking. It was...marvellous, in a way.

"I always want the best for myself." He closed the door, a little 'beep!' sounding in the air as it locked automatically.

"...Do you now." She hoped he actually wouldn't rip her apart up there.

"Go on, you're free to dive in." He slipped his jacket off and tossed it aside, looking to her. Would it kill him to be a little more like Baba in these situations?

"...Alright..." She took a step towards the pool and breathed a sigh into the chilly air of the night. "Here goes nothing."

And she dove into the pool.

Eisuke watched as the water sparkled for a moment before Mira emerged from underneath it, looking up at him.

"Are you scared or something? Come on in already." She beckoned him, noticing a little glint in his eyes as he stepped forwards and prepared himself — diving into the pool with a much bigger splash than her own.

She watched as the water subtly sparkled before Eisuke too emerged from underneath it, locking eyes with her and scaring her just a tad.

"...Goodness, I forgot you sirens had those eyes." She shook her head.

"...What eyes?" He questioned, his fangs lightly glistening in the pool lights.

"You know...those same eyes cats have? For better vision in the darkness? With the yellow glint and all?" How did he not know that feature about himself.

"...Huh."

"'Huh'?"

"Guess that explains why my vision suddenly got better at night after my transformation."

"Gosh...you are absolutely clueless, Ichinomiya." She rubbed her temple with a sigh. For as smart as he seemed, he really didn't know anything about himself, did he? Actually, it was a miracle he even knew about his tail of all things.

"Whatever. Be grateful I brought you here to begin with." He dipped under the water and gently swam to the end of the pool, his dark grey-blue tail glistening all the while.

Well. At least she confirmed he was indeed a siren. He checked for all the characteristics, starting from his webbed hands and ears to his fangs and claws, effective for catching prey. His tail was also very long and seemed to move in the water very effortlessly.

Definitely a siren. Not a legit one, of course, but if he decided to help, he could get the job done.

"Aren't you swimming?" She heard him call out from the other side of the pool. Right. She was in the pool with him. Deciding to ignore his voice, she dipped under the water as well, gliding against the waves as she approached him and emerged once more.

"I can confidently say you're a siren now."

"Did you drag me out here just so you could confirm that?" He raised an eyebrow at her and— goodness, her instincts were practically screaming at her to get away from him each time his fangs showed.

"First of all, you dragged me to this place. Second...yeah, yes that was my goal. And third..." She decided to flick her hand under the water, splashing some of it at Eisuke, "I just wanted to swim again."

"...I'll get you back for that." He wiped his face and she just knew to dip back into the water and swim away as fast as she could to get away from him. Which, she did, only for about five seconds before he quickly caught up to her. Damn him and his longer tail.

He cut in front of her and whipped his tail underwater, the force of the ripples from it pushing her back a few feet.

Literally, what an ass. She'd forgotten that siren tails were also ridiculously strong for as lightweight as they were. Somehow.

She popped out of the water with a scowl, looking at Eisuke's cocky and pleased expression. He really was a child, wasn't he?

"Woow. Showing off?" She attempted to swim towards him again, to no avail as he whipped his tail once more and sent more waves her way.

"What could possibly lead you to believe that?" Feigning innocence, he leaned against the walls of the pool, his arrogant grin never leaving his face.

"I don't know how or why I'm still tolerating you." She swam forward again, not being pushed back this time. "Are you always this big of an asshole?"

"That's none of your concern." He huffed and moved his tail back and forth, the water moving in slow waves against the pool walls and occasionally splashing out.

Actually, his tail was a little mesmerizing to look at. As...scary as it looked. So were his scaled and clawed hands that could effortlessly grab her and finish her off. It was a sort of...terrifying beauty. It was fitting, but she felt he didn't deserve to have it.

Was she subconsciously chasing after him because of his nature right now?

...It wouldn't be a surprise, really. All it took for those sailors was one look at the sirens they encountered to be completely enchanted by them. As well as their voice, of course.

Even if Eisuke wasn't actively trying to lure her in and seduce her, he still held that power. And it was a little...dangerous.

Anyway, it's not like she could drown, and he did assure her that he had no interest in cannibalism, so...she would probably be fine.

"Have you never seen another tail or something?" His voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"No, I...I was thinking about how it looked."

"Much cooler than your own?"

"Hey—" She looked at him with a frown, splashing him again by plucking a bubble out of the pool and sending it towards his face.

"Will you stop that?" He groaned and wiped his face again. Really, what a funny sight. Water shouldn't have been a bother for him, even if it got into his eyes — but he was still a human at his core, so these things still affected him.

"My tail is perfectly fine, thank you very much." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"All I'm saying is that mine is much less...basic and boring to look at, compared to your own." He was so annoying.

"At least mine is much more vibrant and beautifully colored."

"Making you an easier prey in the sea?"

"..."

...Tsk.

"Touché." She saw him grin from the corner of her eye.

"Want me to turn this pool into a hot tub?"

Ah. Right.

His secondary power.

"...No thanks." She shook her head and sighed, leaning her head back onto the pool tiles and closing her eyes. "Is that the only thing you knew about yourself before I showed up?"

"So sorry for not being a walking siren encyclopedia," He exaggerated and she felt the calm waves of the water from his tail again.

"I thought you would have at least done some research...even if you found myths." She opened her eyes and gazed up at the stars.

This atmosphere reminded her of the first time she ever saw the night sky, the stars and moon captivating her young self.

"Well, I didn't. So too bad." He said, and suddenly went quiet. She could feel his gaze inspect her from head to...tail.

"...I didn't notice it yesterday, but your chest is considerably small, isn't it?"

...

"What?" She lifted her head to look at him, completely bewildered. "What are you looking at my chest for???"

"The eye always wanders, you know." ...Unbelievable, this man.

......

Actually...

He was probably looking at her chest for a completely unrelated reason.

He was no doubt hearing her heartbeat and his predatory instincts were probably aching to grab her and dig his claws and fangs into her, even if he wasn't aware. Instincts were instincts, after all.

And sirens found the heart the most irresistable to feast on.

She gulped at that sudden realization, but quickly snapped herself out of it.

"...Yes, you're correct. My chest is considerably small compared to ones you've probably seen, but its for a reason." She cleared her throat and looked at their tails floating underwater.

"Mermaids don't breastfeed their children. That's why all of our chests are much smaller than a human woman's might be."

"...Guess that's reasonable enough." He tore his gaze away from her and cleared his own throat. "Is it also customary to not cover yourselves up?"

"...Mm, many don't. Why should we if mermen also don't cover themselves up? Plus, it's not exactly a shameful thing under the sea for us."

"So it is customary in some way."

She rolled her eyes and laid her head back down, her gaze landing on the moon that was nearly full.

"...Full moon in a few days." She muttered, hoping he would hear.

"I know."

"How have they been for you over the years?" Was it a mistake to ask that?

"Not great. The older I got, the more my cycles worsened." He breathed a sigh into the night air.

"Are they as bad as I've heard with sirens?" Maybe she was digging too deep...

"...Soryu found out about it all during my first time because I, very irresponsibly, revealed myself to him since I was out of my mind."

Yikes.

"How did that end for the both of you?"

"Pretty...normally, I would say. He was surprised but neither of us thought much of it since we were both confused. Anyway, it doesn't compare to the ones I had afterwards..." Her gaze wandered over to his suddenly sullen face as he recalled one of his moon-struck nights. While mermaids had to specifically look at the full moon to be moon-struck, sirens had it much harder even before catching a glimpse at the moon. The two species had pretty similar cycles otherwise, one more concerning than the other of course.

And then he revealed something truly shocking.

"I attacked him once." She grimaced. "I was completely manic. When I finally broke out of that state, I just found myself covered in blood."

...

No wonder he didn't want to dabble in the works of a siren...

He'd hurt his closest friend at such a young age, it probably left a pretty deep impression on him and scarred him.

"I have no idea why he forgave me so easily or why he stuck by me but I think I'll never come to learn that bit of information."

"It must've been difficult for you."

He paused, and then looked at her with a questioning gaze, as if to say "Since when did you speak that way to me?"

"No shit it was difficult. Sometimes if I catch sight of that scar I left on him, it reminds me of how..." He paused again, looking away this time. "Why am I telling you any of this."

"Because I asked you to? It's common knowledge to answer questions." She actually had no idea he could open up like that. Maybe it's because he finally found someone he could share all this to, with no judgement. She wouldn't hold onto that hope though.

"Well, I'm done telling my stories." He huffed and moved his tail again, sinking deeper into the water. "What about you, then? What have your cycles been like?"

"Nowhere near as gruesome or manic as yours, I'll tell you that." She hadn't experienced being moon-struck in quite a long time since she was very adept at keeping away from the full moon.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better somehow?"

"No, not really. Why would it? I'm not a hungry little siren like you are."

She looked away before she could see the scowl on his face again.

"You'll grow wrinkles early if you keep looking at people like that, you know."

"You're very annoying, did you know that?" She almost laughed at the tone of his voice.

"You're just as, if not more annoying, mister siren."

Eisuke splashed some water at her with his hand in response.

"Okay, okay..." She let out a huff, relaxing against the walls of the pool. This was actually pretty nice. Nowhere near as nice as being in the sea, but she felt like she could be at peace here. "I...have a question for you, though."

"What." He answered, very unenthusiastic.

"Can you tell me if Ota has been acting strange today?" As relaxed as she was, she still couldn't stop her thoughts from drifting to the artist.

"Ota? Why are you asking about him of all people?" The CEO asked, seeming almost...protective of the subject.

"Just because. I noticed he's been acting oddly since last night, and he hardly even made conversation with me earlier. You saw how he bolted down those stairs." Eisuke blinked for a moment before thinking to himself

"You're right. He has been acting odd, even around Baba." So it wasn't just her.

"Are they close as well?" She questioned and got one of his subtle glares. She guessed he would've said something along the lines of "Who else is as close as they are?".

"...They're pretty inseparable, I'd say. Which is why Ota's behavior, even around him, is so strange."

Hm. Ota and Baba, and Eisuke and Soryu. Quite the duos the penthouse had.

"Well. That's all I needed to know then."

"Really? That's it? You seemed mildly concerned about him."

"I'll figure it out on my own sooner or later." She looked down at her blue tail, illuminated by the blue lights inside the pool — suddenly reminded of that morning.

"Ah- right. I have to ask you for something else."

"Who is it about this time..." He groaned, running his hand through his hair. Not very effectively since his hands were webbed, but nonetheless.

"It's about me."

"You?"

"I want to make some adjustments to my guestroom, if that would be okay." She confessed.

"...Adjustments such as?"

"Uh...not exactly sure yet, but I'd like to keep the curtains closed at all times, as well as maybe change the lights in the room...add some extra details that would be to my liking."

He stared at her, his expression the least telling it had been this whole time.

"...Okay? Do whatever you want. Why are you asking for permission."

"I was just making sure I was able to do whatever. Just in case you threw a tantrum or something."

She heard him click his tongue as he looked away.

"Whatever." He leaned forward with his entire body, dipping under the water and swimming away, his tail splashing Mira in the process.

Alright then. That must be his way of running away from the conversation. A signal for her to quiet down.

So she complied, closing her eyes once more and settling in the pool, surrounded by the sound of soft splashes of water caused by Eisuke's swimming.

Maybe she needed a part of this tonight.

...Perhaps it wasn't so bad and she could get used to this leisure.

#love 365 #voltage inc #love 365: find your story #kissed by the baddest bidder #kbtbb #eisuke ichinomiya #kbtbb eisuke #kbtbb fanfic

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