#technical indicator build up

[iamthedukeofurl]

I feel like the Hbomberguy plagiarism video has a lot of really good lessons about building an argument. Like, the thesis of the video isn't just "Plagiarism is rife on Youtube", although that point was certainly well made, it was specifically about James Somerton, who isn't mentioned until about halfway through the video. Before then, Hbomb goes through several creators who are already widely discredited as plagiarists, and in each section he introduces concepts that are later incorporated into the final takedown of Somerton, but each section also stands on it's own. Like, he starts with Filip, the game reviewer, which he uses to introduce the format of how he will discuss and expose plagiarists. Specifically, the graphic of displaying the source material while the plagiarist's voice plays, and marking up said source material every time the plagiarist changes some wording slightly. This is the method that Hbomb uses across the entire video. With Illuminaughtii, Hbomb introduces a few major concepts 1) The idea of Insufficient citation. Illuminaughtii "Cites" her sources by putting a plaintext pastebin link in her video descriptions with no indication of how each source was used. Technically, her source is CITED, but not in any relevant or useful way. She has a big list of stuff she read, and a random youtube link in there happens to be the source that she stole 90% of the video from. 2) He introduces the profit motive behind this approach. Putting out a lot of content very quickly is how one builds an audience, and therefore an income, out of making stuff on youtube. Plagiarism of this sort is a way to produce content very quickly and build a following. The Internet Historian section introduces two new concepts:

1) The behavior of an exposed plagiarist, taking down and reuploading videos with minor changes, awkwardly trying to insert credit without admitting guilt. 2) That the plagiarists are stealing not just research, but STYLE. Previous sections go over how the plagiarists are reusing the same words, but this section oozes over how much of the final product's quality was the result of how well the source material was written. TIH didn't just crib the notes from the Mentalfloss article, he created a video heavily dependent on the original author's skill as a writer. When TIH tried his own hand at presenting the same set of facts, it came out much worse. So that when the time comes for the Somerton takedown, Hbomb has already laid the groundwork to bring these concepts back. Somerton takes down and reuploads videos when he's caught, he declares this his video is "based on" work by somebody else without providing proper citation. He's not just stealing research done by somebody else, he's taking their insights and talent as a writer and regurgitating it as his own, and he's doing so to churn out a vast wall of content that he can financially benefit from, and he doesn't need to tell you why this is important, because he's already done so. He already convinced you that Illuminaughtii hiding a line in a pastebin didn't excuse her plagiarism, so you don't need to be told why Somerton saying his video is "Based On" somebody else's book doesn't excuse it.

[cazshmere]

Saturn & Distance: Where Life Feels Delayed or Out of Reach 🪐

materialist🔖

DISCLAIMER: For this post I’m focusing on the hard aspects of Saturn, specifically squares and oppositions, because they tend to show the most visible tension and emotional friction in a person’s life. while conjunctions are technically hard aspects too, they don’t always operate the same way. conjunctions amplify saturn’s energy, but depending on the planet and sign, they can sometimes blend more smoothly or feel more internalized. squares and oppositions, however, often show up as clear blockages, emotional distance, or external struggles, making them easier to spot and more relatable in daily experiences. These are just my personal observations and are meant for entertainment purposes only; it may not resonate with everyone due to the nuances of astrology. Please respect my work and avoid copying or stealing it. Enjoy reading!!

☀️ Sun Square/Opposite Saturn :

from a young age, you may have felt unseen, unappreciated, or constantly judged. maybe you had a parent (often the father or authority figure) who was overly critical, emotionally distant, or just hard to please. even when you did well, it might’ve felt like it was never enough.

you might’ve grown up feeling like your worth was tied to your achievements : good grades, being responsible, doing everything “right.” but inside, there was this quiet ache of not feeling truly seen for who you are, only for what you do. as an adult, you might struggle with self-doubt, imposter syndrome, or a constant need for validation. you might overwork, overachieve, or act like you’ve got it all together all while quietly feeling like a fraud. even compliments can feel hard to accept, like you haven’t “earned” them yet. and rejection? it hits deep. because you’ve spent your life trying to prove your worth, and when someone doesn’t see it, it reopens those same wounds.

but here’s the truth, your worth isn’t in your productivity or how others view you. this aspect teaches you to reclaim your light and validate yourself first. once you do, no one can take your power away again.

🌑 Moon Square/Opposite Saturn :

honestly it always feels like there’s a wall between you and your emotions and that wall probably started forming in your childhood. maybe one (or both) parents were emotionally unavailable, distant, or overly strict. maybe they were physically present but had emotionally checked out, or too wrapped up in their own issues to really see you, hear you and understand you. it could also indicate that your parents didn’t have a healthy relationship with each other, maybe there were constant arguments, cold silences, or even emotional manipulation that made the home environment feel unstable or unsafe :(

you might’ve learned early on that expressing your feelings wasn’t safe or welcome. maybe you were told to ‘toughen up,’ ‘stop crying,’ or ‘don’t make a scene.’ so you shut down. you adapted. you stopped needing. maybe affection felt conditional, only given when you achieved something, looked a certain way, or suppressed your real feelings to avoid conflict.

as a result, you became hyper-independent. the kind of person who doesn’t ask for help, who keeps everything bottled up, who always tries to handle everything alone because leaning on others feels… risky. even in your closest relationships, you might struggle to open up fully. there’s always a fear, what if they leave me? what if they don’t understand me? what if they think i’m too much? so you stay silent, even when you’re screaming inside.

this aspect teaches you that true emotional security can’t come from people who couldn’t or wouldn’t give it to you, it has to be something you build from within. it’s not about hardening yourself forever, but about healing the part of you that thinks love must be earned by suffering. you’re allowed to be soft. you’re allowed to feel. you’re allowed to ask for more. you’re allowed to depend on others without feeling afraid, cause baby you deserve it <3

💕 Venus Square/Opposite Saturn :

love often feels like a challenge for you, whether it’s self-love or receiving love from others. you might have grown up feeling like love was earned and not freely given. maybe one or both parents were emotionally distant, critical about your looks, or just didn’t show you the kind of warmth and affection you needed. so now, as an adult, love can feel… heavy. complicated. exhausting.

you might constantly feel like you’re too much or not enough. maybe you find yourself settling for crumbs because you don’t fully believe you’re worthy of more. it’s like there’s always this invisible wall between you and the love you crave like it’s almost there but never quite within reach.

trigger warning ⚠️: body image / eating disorders

for some, this can also lead to body image issues, eating disorders, or obsessive thoughts around appearance. especially if love or acceptance felt tied to how you looked growing up, whether it was comments about your weight, complexion, or being compared to others. this aspect may manifest in the form of harsh self-criticism. please note, this is just an observation and not a diagnosis.

end of trigger warning ⚠️

you might attract emotionally unavailable people, or be drawn to relationships that involve some kind of separation , long distance, big age gaps, bad timing, or just that lingering emotional coldness. even when you’re with someone, you might still feel alone. it’s the type of aspect that makes you doubt your worth every time someone pulls away, ghosts, or doesn’t show up for you in the way you hoped. and it stings even more when everyone around you seems to be effortlessly loved. sometimes, it plays out in your relationship with yourself too. you become hypercritical, feeling like you always have to look better, be more successful, do more to “deserve” love. maybe you feel guilty when someone is kind to you. or you question it, like “why me? or “is there some sort of ulterior motive behind their niceness?”

but here’s the truth my loves, the real healing begins when you stop settling for love that feels cold, distant, or half-hearted. when you realize you never had to earn love, you just had to believe you were already worthy of it. this aspect isn’t here to punish you. it’s here to help you learn how to love yourself so deeply that you naturally start rejecting anything that doesn’t reflect that same energy back.

🗣 Mercury Square/Opposite Saturn :

growing up, you may have felt like your voice didn’t matter. maybe you were constantly interrupted, talked over, dismissed, or told to “be quiet” instead of being heard. maybe your thoughts were met with judgment or sarcasm, so you started holding back.

as a result, you might struggle with speaking up, second-guessing your words, overexplaining, or staying silent out of fear of sounding “stupid.” social anxiety, awkwardness, or freezing up in conversations can be common. even texting or posting on social media might give you anxiety. this aspect can also show struggles in school, maybe you felt “slow,��� zoned out, or had trouble focusing or expressing what you actually meant. teachers or peers might’ve made you feel small :(

but over time, you learn: your voice is powerful. you don’t need to have the loudest voice to have something meaningful to say. when you start trusting yourself, others start listening too. your words do hold weight, you just have to believe it first.

🔥 Mars Square/Opposite Saturn :

it always feels like something is blocking you. no matter how hard you try, success feels delayed. maybe you grew up with strict parents, high expectations, or environments where you couldn’t just be yourself. you were told to sit still, follow rules, not speak out, so now going after what you want feels… heavy.

you might procrastinate a lot, not because you’re lazy but because you’re scared. scared of failing, of not being good enough, of being judged. so you freeze. you self-sabotage. sometimes you get bursts of motivation, but the pressure is so intense it burns you out before you even start 😕. there might be bottled-up anger too, you want to stand up for yourself, set boundaries, take control, but something always makes you hesitate. maybe you were punished for expressing anger, so now you suppress it until it explodes.

but here’s the truth, once you push past that fear and stop letting old limitations define you, you become unstoppable. this aspect gives you unmatched grit, drive, and discipline. you just have to trust your fire again.

🧿 Jupiter Square/Opposite Saturn:

honestly it can feel like you’re always stuck between wanting to dream big and feeling like you’re not allowed to. maybe growing up, every time you got excited about something, be it a passion, a plan, a wild dream - someone immediately shut it down. maybe you were taught that hope is naive, that ambition is risky, that “playing it safe” is the only real way to survive. maybe there was a parent who believed in rules over risks, or a home environment where caution and practicality crushed your natural optimism before it ever had a chance to breathe.

it can create this painful push-pull inside you: you want more from life, you can feel that hunger for growth and expansion burning in your chest but at the same time, you doubt it. you second-guess your own joy. you wonder if you’re asking for too much, wanting too much, dreaming too loud. there’s this constant internalized fear that if you reach too far, you’ll fall harder. and sometimes you self-sabotage before anyone else even gets the chance to. because it’s safer to shrink first than to risk being crushed later.

you might struggle with feeling guilty for wanting better. for wanting more than the people around you settled for. you might feel weighed down by responsibility, by obligations, by the sense that you have to “earn” your right to happiness through endless work, endless proving, endless waiting for permission.

but the truth is… you’re allowed to expand. you’re allowed to want more. you’re allowed to be proud of the spark inside you that still dares to believe there’s something bigger out there. saturn will test your faith, but jupiter inside you is still alive. battered, cautious, maybe, but still alive. and that’s something no amount of fear can ever fully take away.

🛸 Uranus Square/Opposite Saturn :

freedom and structure always seem at war inside you. maybe you crave routine and rebellion at the same time, like you want stability, but the moment life feels too predictable, you itch to break free.

a consistent schedule? deadlines? authority? it can feel suffocating. but at the same time, not having structure can make you spiral. there’s always this inner tug-of-war between wanting to be free and needing to feel safe. you might’ve grown up in an environment where you had to follow strict rules or hide parts of yourself to avoid judgment for instance your interests, quirks, identity. maybe people made you feel “too much” or “too different,” so you toned yourself down to fit in :( or maybe you were forced to be responsible too early like taking care of things before you were ready, which made adulthood feel both empowering and exhausting. now you rebel against responsibilities because you never got to just be free.

this aspect can cause chaos - suddenly quitting jobs, ghosting routines, getting random bursts of rebellion. but it also teaches you how to mix discipline with authenticity. real freedom isn’t about escape, it’s about building a life that doesn’t require one 🫶🏻

🌀 Neptune Square/Opposite Saturn :

dreams always feel just out of reach like they’re right there, but the moment you try to grab them, they slip through your fingers. maybe you’ve experienced broken promises, let-downs, or people who painted beautiful illusions but never followed through.

you might’ve grown up hearing “be realistic” every time you shared your goals or ideas so now you second-guess your passions. part of you wants to believe in magic, love, purpose… but the other part is scared of being naive. this aspect can make you overly idealistic or extremely cynical, swinging between believing in fairytales and expecting disappointment. you might struggle to trust others, or even your own judgment. you want to believe people mean well, but experience has taught you otherwise. it’s also the classic “procrastinate because you’re overwhelmed by your own dreams” energy. you see this big beautiful vision, but don’t know where to start, so you avoid it.

the lesson? don’t give up on your dreams rather you need to anchor them. ground your visions in small, real steps. keep your faith, but add structure. that’s when the magic actually becomes real.

🩸 Pluto Square/Opposite Saturn :

power struggles, deep-rooted fear, and this constant feeling like life is pressing down on you. this aspect can make you feel like you’re constantly fighting for your right to exist on your own terms.

maybe you grew up in a home where control was everything. strict, harsh, emotionally unavailable or even manipulative authority figures, people who made you feel small, silenced, or unsafe for being yourself. you might’ve learned early that vulnerability = weakness. now you either suppress your emotions to avoid being controlled or you become hyper-controlling yourself - of your space, your routine and your relationships because deep down, chaos terrifies you.

this aspect can also show up as internalised pressure: you push yourself too hard, expect too much, fear failure like it’s the end of the world. or on the flip side you avoid stepping into your power because you’re scared of what it might cost you. sometimes it feels like the universe keeps testing you, over and over. but what it’s really doing is building your strength.

this is a slow-burn transformation, one that teaches you to hold your own power with integrity and not fear. you’re not here to be controlled. you’re here to own your intensity and use it to build something unbreakable.

🌿 North Node Square/Opposite Saturn :

everything important in your life feels like it arrives late. relationships take time to feel right, career paths feel like a maze, even self-worth is something you’ve had to build, brick by brick. it’s like you’re always being asked to wait, while everyone else seems to be rushing ahead.

but that delay? it’s not random. it’s saturn’s way of making sure you don’t just stumble into your purpose but you genuinely earn it. you might constantly feel behind, compare your timeline to others, or feel like nothing ever comes easy. even when opportunities show up, you second-guess if you’re ready or deserving. early life may have involved rejection, rigid expectations, or a lack of support when you needed it most. because of this, your growth feels heavy at times, like you’re always pushing uphill, carrying the weight of your own potential.

but when things finally do click into place - your relationships, your career and your purpose they won’t fall apart. they’ll be strong, solid, and real. your path isn’t delayed, it’s being secured. you’re not behind, you’re being built to last 💪🏼

🕷️ South Node Square/Opposite Saturn :

ever felt like you keep living the same painful cycle on repeat? like no matter how much you change, something keeps pulling you backwards into the same relationships, same fears, same patterns?

this aspect screams karmic loops. it’s like the universe keeps handing you the same test over and over again until you finally face what you’ve been avoiding. maybe you grew up too fast. maybe you carried too much responsibility early on, on an emotional, mental and even a physical level. now you carry guilt for resting, fear around change, and a subconscious attachment to struggle because it’s familiar. you might cling to the past such as past relationships, past identities and even past pains because it feels safer than stepping into the unknown. but deep down, you know you’re meant for more.

this aspect teaches you that comfort isn’t always growth. that safety isn’t the same as fulfillment. and that letting go isn’t weakness, it’s your path to freedom. you weren’t meant to repeat. you were meant to rewrite.

🪞Saturn square/opposite ascendant:

from a young age, it might’ve felt like you had to earn your right to exist freely. maybe people projected their expectations onto you like your parents, teachers, friends and even strangers, making you feel like you constantly had to “perform” or present yourself a certain way. you weren’t just allowed to be. your identity felt monitored, criticized, or shaped by external pressures.

you might’ve been labeled as “mature for your age,” or someone who always had it together even when you didn’t. and now as an adult, you might struggle to show vulnerability because it feels like weakness. or maybe you’re hyper-aware of how people perceive you which can make social situations feel stiff or draining.

⚠️ trigger warning: body image / body dysmorphia

this aspect can deeply affect how you see yourself physically. maybe you grew up feeling “not good enough,” compared yourself to others constantly, or even experienced body shaming. you might be extremely self-critical, obsess over flaws no one else notices, or have a distorted view of your appearance. saturn here brings the harshest internal mirror. it’s exhausting, the constant feeling that you need to fix something to be lovable, visible, or accepted and i’m genuinely so sorry for all of you who had to feel this way. please note, this is just an observation and not a diagnosis.

end of triggering warning ⚠️

you might feel distant from your true self, like you’re always wearing a mask to be “acceptable.” but here’s the gold: this placement builds character. you become someone who doesn’t crumble under pressure, who’s capable of showing up as your real self, even if it scares you. the work is about unlearning the belief that you have to earn love or space in this world. you’re not here to meet everyone’s expectations. you’re here to be real.

gif & divider credits to their rightful owners <3

© cazshmere 2025 [All Rights Reserved]

[grunckle]

On stars, guardians, and Rain World’s cosmology.

One aspect of Rain World lore that’s asked about quite a lot but normally never gets satisfying answers is the topic or Rain World’s space/universe/cosmology. Despite first impressions though, there’s a lot more it than meets the eye, so I thought I would compile most everything we know about it.

For one, to get it out of the way, Rain World isn’t on a planet, and its universe is fundamentally different from our own. This is something Joar has talked about on occasion.

He also said on an earlier dev log how Rain World functions more like a fantasy world where it doesn’t hold much relevance than a real sci-fi like planet.

“Oh, another thing - Rain World isn't a planet lol Cheesy Or I guess it might probably be on a planet, just as Lord of The Rings, Sex And The City, Zelda and Frankenstein's Monster are probably technically on a planet, but just as in those examples the planet aspect isn't really relevant at all. Rain World is more of a fantasy world or a dream world, not somewhere you can go in a space ship ~”

But even if it’s not incredibly relevant, it’s clear a lot of thought was put into Rain Worlds fictional cosmology, this was even mentioned by James.

So, that being said here's what we know about Rain World's cosmology in game.

The biggest indicator of Rain World's unique cosmology is that the Farm Arrays deep pink pearl just mentions celestial spheres, which are aspects of older cosmological models.

"This one is just plain text. I will read it to you. "On regards of the (by spiritual splendor eternally graced) people of the Congregation of Never Dwindling Righteousness, we Wish to congratulate (o so thankfully) this Facility on its Loyal and Relished services, and to Offer our Hopes and Aspirations that the Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory Cooperation may continue, for as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres and/or the Cooperation continues to be Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory." ...May Not as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres Grey Hand, Impure Blood, Inheritable Corruption, Parasites, or malfunction settle in Your establishment."

More subtly, there's also a mention of the ground colliding with the sky.

"If you leave a stone on the ground, and come back some time later, it's covered in dust. This happens everywhere, and over several lifetimes of creatures such as you, the ground slowly builds upwards. So why doesn't the ground collide with the sky? Because far down, under the very very old layers of the earth, the rock is being dissolved or removed. The entity which does this is known as the Void Sea."

You could chalk this line up to flowery language, but considering the presentation of the rest of the dialogue, it sounds more like an actual aspect of this world.

We know from the Chimney Canopy echo that the sun rises.

"From within my vessel of flesh, I would perch upon this spot to observe the rising of the sun."

And from the top of The Wall we can see the moon and stars (confirmed to be stars by Joar in the previous screenshot, instead of satellites or something else) , which are green!

So, what does this all mean? I think we can entail a few things with what they've given us.

For one, the mention of the ground colliding with the sky implies some sort of firmament, which isn't an unusual concept in the general realm of celestial spheres.

But on the topic of celestial spheres, the pearl actually isn't the only place we see the concept. Guardian halos are very similar to depictions of celestial spheres, and also astrological clocks.

You can make of this as you will, perhaps the astrological references being tied to guardians could hint at the nature of karma, but there isn't much to really delve into that idea.

For what it's worth, celestial spheres are also core concepts in Gnosticism, which Rain World is heavily inspired by. I explain it more in this post about Void Worms, but for a quick synopsis in Gnosticism there are seven planetary spheres, and an eighth above them; the planets and stars are fixed to their spheres. These things just further cement the fact that celestial spheres seem to be a key aspect of Rain World's cosmology, and it would also likely imply it's universe follows a geocentric model.

For a bit of a more out-there theory, people have pointed out how the view atop the wall stretches really far, going far beyond what we could see on a spherical planet like Earth, which has led some to theorize that the world is also flat.

But what is probably the most important aspect of Rain World's cosmology is the nature of dust. Dust builds up, and the bedrock of the world is eaten away at by the Void Sea. Civilizations rise and fall into the sea as new ones are built above it. Many, including myself, believe that the world exists in a sort of state of equilibrium. The world is dissolved from the bottom, then that falls back on the world as dust; even in the final moments of the game we see dust suspended in the void sea depths.

And hey, even void worms are described as being star-like.

"Oh, interesting. This is a diary entry of a pre-Iterator era laborer during the construction of the subterranean transit system south of here. In it they describe restless nights filled with disturbing dreams, where millions glowing stars move menacingly in the distance."

Cyclical, recursive, something else entirely? We can never really pin down the true nature of Rain World's cosmology, but the things we do get hint at something strange and unique. It's such an interesting aspect of the lore, and it seems like Videocult will continue to make mysterious cosmologies in their future projects...

[avecra]

Dosed

summary: When you are laced with a deadly pathogen, the team finds themselves working endlessly to find a cure. Only it might not be enough.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 6.7k

warnings: canon level violence, illness symptoms (fever, cough, vomiting), angst on top of angst with a happy ending, bucky goes through many emotions

a/n: hi hello it has been a hot minute since I have been active im so sorry :( i had a lot of personal issues to deal with but now im hoping to be a little bit more active and post more stories :)

You could feel the heavy rumble of the jet as it landed on the muddy grounds. An overcast covered the sky and emitted a soft grey through the thick glass of the display of the jet, the light pitter of rain tapped against the window. 

Bucky’s gentle touch stole your gaze from the window to the super soldier, his fingers wrapped around the Kevlar vest and he began to tighten the straps around your shoulders, pulling them into place. 

“Do I really have to wear this? Steve said that the building is supposed to be empty,” you said, trailing a finger along the front of your vest, over the stitched ‘Barnes’ that sat over the thick fabric. 

“Yes, honey,” Bucky chuckled, tightening the straps over your back. “Just cause Steve says it’s empty doesn’t mean it is. I can’t risk anything happening to you, therefore you get to wear my vest.” He winked at you and tightened the last strap across your abdomen. “Gotta keep my girl safe, now don’t I?”

You smiled sheepishly and nodded, continued to watch him strap a few guns and knives to his body. Exhaling a tense sigh, you ran your sweaty palms down the side of your tactical uniform, Bucky noticed. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” you whispered, grabbing his hand. “I’m not exactly equipped for these types of missions, I’m just a little nervous.” 

Bucky’s eyes softened when he heard the small crack in your voice, his hands encased around yours and he tenderly pressed a kiss to the back of your palm. “I’m gonna be right by your side the entire time.”

You bobbed your head, taking in a deep breath as Bucky gently slid a gun into the holster on your thigh. “But just in case.”

The two of you had been assigned to track down a lone mercenary in the middle of western Canada. The stormy weather had made it difficult for the jet sensors to get a read on the building that sat in a nearly empty forest.

A mercenary hacker under the name Roman Donovan had been on Tony Stark’s radar for quite some time, after noticing the many sudden security pop ups, indicating that Donovan had smothered his way into Tony’s tech. Both Steve and Tony had been working relentlessly to find a position on him, until a sudden location popped up. 

You had your doubts, whether you were the best candidate for this mission, but Steve had reassured you with your technical and computer knowledge that you were the perfect fit.  A squeeze to your hand reminded you that Bucky would be with you every step of the way.

With a nod from you, Bucky placed the small comm device into your ear, tapping it a few times so he could hear the breaths that left your lips. He slipped one into his ear as well, tapping it a few times until he could catch the chatter of the two agents in the cockpit of the jet. 

“Prescott and Logan, stand by. We’ll radio you in case we need backup,” Bucky announced, pressing the button that opened up the ramp of the jet. He turned to you with a soft, comforting smile. “It’s just a simple extraction of files,” he reminded with a gentle hand to your back. “Ready?”

A final nod of your head, you looked at him. Ready.”

---

The building had been vacant this far, Bucky had led the both of you to the control room where you rapidly typed on the main computer. Bucky stood by the door, sending cautious glances over his shoulder every few seconds to survey the dark hallway. 

“I’m almost done,” you called out to him, fingers dancing across the keyboard, desperately pushing into the numbers and letters faster. “It had more firewalls than I expected.”

Bucky glanced over in your direction, a frown taking over his features. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not necessarily. Just means this guy wants to keep people like me out of his stuff,” you mumbled. Bucky chuckled under his breath.

A few more clicks to the keyboard, you powered off the system and the flash drive ejected  out of the main computer. Stepping back, you watched the monitors as the files slowly disappeared from folders and main screen savers, until all the screens went dark. 

“I think I got it,” you muttered, eyes wide as they focused on the screens. The flash drive began to flicker a blue color, indicating that the files had transferred successfully without a trace of Stark technology.

The loud slamming of a door alerted Bucky, as he raised his rifle up, pointing towards the sudden sound. You pocketed the flash drive and raised your head at the sudden sound, eyes filled with confusion as they flickered over to Bucky’s alarmed blue ones.

“Get behind me,” You quickly made your way over to him and his hand immediately darted out to grab your wrist. Though you could feel the tension riding off his body in waves, his hold on your arm was gentle. “Stay low.”

You nodded and grasped the back of Bucky’s tactical vest, fisting the thick fabric. With a cautious foot forwards, Bucky stepped out into the hallway, taking slow, steady steps into the dimly lit corridor. 

Your hands made their way from the fabric of his shirt to his vibranium hand, and you gripped as tightly as you could, in a way to ground you. He couldn’t feel the tight pressure, but he could feel the weight of your hand in his. 

The two of you stealthily made your way through sets of hallways and stairwells, inching closer and closer to the doorway, until the loud slamming of boots against the tile floors halted you in your stance. Fear corrupted every fiber of your body, you couldn’t take your eyes off the panicked look in Bucky’s blue ones. 

You felt Bucky push you away behind him, before a sudden force knocked him to the ground, grunts passed through his lips. 

“Y/n, run!”

Not looking back, you trusted Bucky enough to know that he would make it out unscathed, with only a few scrapes and bruises. You, however, were not a field trained agent, with little  combat knowledge. You bolted the other direction, on the way to warn the two agents standing by in the jet.

“I need backup! Logan, Prescott, to the northeast side of the building, now!”

It wasn’t until you felt the pull of your vest and the weight of someone did you register your head slam against the ground, rather harshly. A strangled cry left your lips when you felt a needle puncture your skin, just at the conjunction between your shoulder and neck. 

His hand pressed down on your neck harshly, cutting off your air supply, but you were frozen in fear - he head injected something into your skin. You did not find the strength to fight back.

Fear paralyzed every fiber of your body.

Grunts and strangled screams were heard, you didn’t know if it came from you, but suddenly the weight was lifted off you, though you registered nothing of it. A few greedy breaths of fresh air. The pulsing of your heartbeat rang out in your ear, chiming and pudding against your skull. You laid frozen.

“Y/n is down, I have Donovan apprehended. I need backup, please!” Bucky spoke into the comms a moment later as he threw the hacker on his stomach and pinned his wrists behind his back. He was tempted to sap his wrist, but he held back. 

“Roman Donovan, you are a hard son of a bitch to find,” Bucky growled in his ear, reaching into his vest to pull out a pair of wrist restraints, tightening them to Donovan’s wrist. The man yelled in pain and discomfort.

Bucky glanced over to you, eyes softening when he took in your fragile form on the concrete. You just laid there, almost lifeless, but once Bucky saw the rise and fall of your chest, only a little relief came to him. It quickly rushed away when blue eyes focused on the empty syringe near your foot. 

“There’s a lot more pain coming your way. What did you inject her with?” Bucky yelled viciously, grabbing Donovan roughly by the hair. But the man simply let out a dark chuckle, eyes narrowing on you. The way weak coughs passed through your lips, the way you burrowed deeper into yourself.

“I know your weak spots, James Barnes.” was all he said. 

The hurried footsteps of Prescott and Logan reached his ears and Bucky abruptly stood up  and watched the two agents haul the mercenary to his feet and slam him against the wall, patting him, finding a gun strapped to his back and a small grenade. 

“Secure him to the panel near the bay doors. Bastard can fly out for all I care.” 

Bucky wasted no time in making his way over to you. A gentle hand soothed comforting circles up and down your arm, gently coaxing you and Bucky gently lifted you up in his arms and leant you against the wall, concerned as your head lolled back. 

“Baby, are you okay?” His panicked gaze flickered from the bleeding gash on your temple, to the light bruising around your neck, the small dot of blood at the conjunction between your neck and shoulder. He sighed, bringing a hand to rest on your cheek. “Y/n, answer me baby, what hurts?”

Your eyes were clenched shut and you brought a shaky hand to rest over Bucky’s, and you lifted your gaze to meet his worried blue ones. “I’m okay… I think.”

“You think?” Bucky asked, running a hand over your hair. 

“I-I don’t know, I feel fuzzy,” you mumbled, leaning your head back against the wall. 

Taking slow, deep breaths, you felt Bucky rub slow, soothing circles up and down your thigh. There was a buzzing sensation circling throughout your temples, down to your cheeks, along our jaw until it spread through the rest of your body. 

“Deep breaths in and out, baby,” Bucky whispered soothingly, leaning down to kiss your knee.

But then, in a moment or two, you felt it suddenly disperse. As if the wave of numbness rid itself out of your body. You allowed Bucky to help you to your feet, brushing his hands over the front of the vest before making sure you had no further injuries. 

“We’ll check you over at the compound,” Bucky said as he wrapped an arm around your waist and led you down the hall, following the two agents in suit. “Let’s get out of here.”

---

Bucky watched helplessly as he and Steve watched as Dr. Cho and her team scanned over your body. He couldn’t imagine how confused and scared you were, hands gripping the sheets. Your first field mission had been a complete disaster. Bruce walked in, the used syringe in an examination tube. 

“What do you think he injected her with?” Bucky asked after a couple of minutes of silence.

“It’s weird,” Bruce began, handing the folder over to Bucky. 

“I pushed it through a scanner, to see if I could find any sort of answer to what this is. All tests come back negative for a virus or disease. Has she had any of her symptoms progress on the way home?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, she’s just been… frozen, paralyzed almost. He has injected her with something; I saw the blood on her neck and it seemed like he had tried to… kill her or something.”

“You think he would?”

“Why else would he press his fucking hand over her throat?”

“That, I am not sure. So unless she starts to show signs of some sort of sickness, I unfortunately have no answers. I’ll check in with Tony, see if he has any answers. I’ll keep you guys updated.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” Bucky sighed, watching as the doctor left. He opened the file, reading over the diagnosis levels. “I still don’t get it.”

Steve hummed, taking the file out of his hand. 

“The only thing he said to me was ‘I know your weak spots’ and then called me out by name. But I have never come into contact with this guy, not even as the Winter Soldier. The dude is early twenties and lived with his grandma in east Maryland up until two years ago, living in some studio in Princeton up in Jersey. How the hell did he end up in Canada?”

“That doesn’t track at all. Unless he has dug up on all of us. He probably just wanted to get you by surprise.” Steve said. “Real name is Benjamin Croot. 24 years old.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Dr. Cho’s voice broke through on the intercom. “She is asking for you.”

Bucky moved faster than he could process. He rushed through the doors and you turned your head at the sound of his boots. 

“Is she okay? She’s not hurt or anything?” Worried questions spewed out, his hands came to grip yours as tight without hurting you. He brushed his hand over your warm, sweaty forehead. “She’s warm.”

Dr. Cho nodded. “My team ran all the tests imaginable for this certain… situation. And everything came back negative, which worries me. If what Y/n described is true, then he must have injected her with something that is lethal or close to being lethal.

“She said to have felt numb, fuzzy almost. Those are usually the signs of a virus or even… a pathogen starts to form. But what I don’t get is that I could not find a single trace of.. well anything really.”

“Dr. Banner doesn’t have an answer either, though he’s checking in with Stark as we speak.” Bucky said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “What should we do? Keep her here?”

The woman sighed, pieces of her hair falling from the neat bun. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Part of me wants to keep her in the medical wing, just in case, but her stats are all normal, though her temperature is abnormally high.”

“How high?”

She flipped open the chart. You hadn’t really been present in the time either of them were talking. You were just so tired. Physically and mentally. 

“The last time I took it, her temperature was sitting at about 100.5, which isn’t that bad, but it’s not great either. So, I would advise to just rest for the night, and when she wakes up we will run a couple more tests, see if anything has changed.”

Bucky nodded, squeezing your hand as the doctor excused herself. 

“Whatcha thinkin’, sweetheart?” Bucky sat on the edge of the cot, brushing hair away from your eyes. 

“Tired.” He could tell your energy was scarce.

“Let’s go to bed then, hm.”

His movements started before you even had the chance to reply. As gently as he could, he slid his arms around your waist and shoulders and helped you up to your feet. The two of you made your way from the medical bay to the residential wing, to yours and Bucky’s shared room.

“Don’t you have the interrogation to do?” you mumbled, watching his features contort when he pressed his thumb against the scanner and led you into the room. In your fuzzy mind, you barely registered Bucky’s touch as he gently peeled your uniform off and slid your pajamas on.

“I’ll do it tomorrow. Besides it’s late, sweetheart and I think I speak for the both of us when I say it’s been a long day,” He gently eased you onto the bed, gently covering your form with a blanket. 

A shiver racked through you and Bucky watched with a concerned look as you tightened the blanket around your shoulders. He flicked off the lights and crawled into bed next to and wrapped an arm around your waist. 

“Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” You faintly nodded and relaxed into his hold, feeling his hands run smoothly up and down your arms. The faint glow of the television set and the low volume did nothing to tear you from your due slumber, though you faintly felt the coolness of Bucky’s appendage running over your hair before you slipped into a dreamless sleep.

---

Sweat coated every part of your body as you woke up with a sharp gasp of air. 

Pounding temples, you peeled your eyes open and sat up; the faint glow of the TV caught your eye. The movie Bucky played had finished and had been playing in an endless loop. 

The clock on your nightstand read 2:07am, you reached for the cup of water and took slow sips, barely and faintly registering the sounds of Bucky’s light snores. 

You felt the nausea before anything else. It ran from your stomach up to your chest and you clamped a hand over your mouth, threw off the covers and made a beeline for the bathroom. 

That was until a wave of dizziness hit you and your knees buckled. Vision tunneling, you would have fallen to the floor if it weren’t for the strong pair of arms that wrapped around your waist before you could touch the carpet. I’ve got you, a tired voice murmured, but your hazy mind didn’t hear the quiet mutter.

The warmth of Bucky’s chest touched your heated back as he sped to the bathroom, flicked on the light and watched helplessly as you crashed to your knees and emptied what was in your stomach into the toilet. 

Bucky kneeled behind you and grasped your hair in one hand and rubbed soothing circles along your back. He felt you slacken in his arms, head resting back against his shoulder and when he pressed his palm flat against your forehead, he almost hissed at the radiating heat.

“You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart,” His wide blue eyes darted to your half-lidded ones, cerulean darting over your sweaty, clammy skin. 

“I don’t feel good.” you croaked. 

It hit him in one, big wave as he took over your tattered form. The confusion, the fatigue, to your spiked fever, Something wasn’t right, considering the fact that you rarely felt under the weather.

Those are usually the signs of a virus or even… a pathogen starts to form. Cho’s voice rang in his voice

Weakly, you flushed the toilet and leaned back into Bucky. Shivers racked through your body and Bucky peeled your shirt off your shoulder to see a dark blooming bruise where Donovan had injected the needle. 

“FRIDAY, wake Steve and Dr. Cho. Tell them to meet me in the medical wing,” Bucky called for the AI and slipped his hand under your back and knees and lifted you up against his chest. 

You jolted slightly, dizziness clouding your mind as Bucky stood up. You were limp in his arms, like jell-o.

The cool air of the hallway felt like a slap in the face, you pressed your cheek into the warmth of Bucky. A low whine passed through your lips and Bucky ran his thumb just below the back of your knee. 

“Buck,” Steve called, eyes widening as they fell on your shivering form. “What happened?”

But Bucky didn’t stop his movements, he spared a glance to Steve and kept heading towards the direction of the medical bay. Steve followed Bucky’s fast pace, quickly matching his speed.

“Her temperature is too high,” Bucky said, glancing over at his friend. “When we checked into the medbay, Cho noticed that her temperature was a little higher than normal, but when she got up a couple minutes ago, she was burning hot.”

A slick sheet of sweat coated your forehead, Steve noticed, and how small tremors racked through your body every so often. His eyes fell to the darkening bruise on your shoulder, Bucky caught his eye. 

“I think she was laced with something.”

Your fingers grazed the fabric of his shirt and Bucky looked down, continuing his trek to the medical wing with Steve hot on his tail. You could feel the rapid thumping of Bucky’s heartbeat as you weakly bunched his shirt in your fist.

“Laced? Laced with what?” Steve questioned as he rounded the corner, eyes locking onto Cho’s at the end of the hall.

Bucky looked down at you, clammy skin, eyes barely open, though you kept a strong grip on his shirt. “I don’t know.”

Everything was hazy the moment Bucky set you down on the hospital bed. Though sweat coated nearly every inch of your body, shivers racked through your body relentlessly. It was sweltering and freezing simultaneously. 

Nurses rushed around you, obstructing Bucky’s view from you, one of them placed a cannula just under your nose, an IV into your arm. The thought of more needles sinking into your skin made you sick. 

The last time someone used a needle on you, he was malicious as he jammed the needle into neck harshly. The memory brought nothing but fear to you. 

You were hot. Uncomfortable. The pain in your head was nearly unbearable.

“Bucky,” you called out, only it came out more of a whimper. “W-where’s Bucky?”

Metal clamped gently on your hand, the other hand coming to smoothly brush your sweaty hair back. “I’m here baby, I’m right here.” 

“It… it hurts,” Bucky watched as another nurse attempted to put another needle through your skin, he noticed the subtle shaking of your head, the whimpers.

“Is that really necessary?” he asked with a sharp glare, it melted away when he looked over at you. “What is it, baby? What hurts?”

“My head.”

Worried eyes wandered over to Cho’s as she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Sergeant Barnes, I understand you want to offer her comfort, but I can assure she is in good hands with my team.” 

Bucky nodded, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. His finger trailed over your forehead gently, and when he saw Steve and Sam in his peripherals, he sighed to himself. “I’ll check up on you later, sweet girl. I have something to take care of.”

You nodded drowsily, the dizziness taking control. 

Bucky reluctantly moved away from your bedside to his two closest friends, solemn looks on their faces. Sam kept his eyes on you, watching as the nurses took your temperature.

“How is she?” he asked. Bucky kept his eye on you the entire time, watching your tired eyes start to close. 

“It’s not looking good,” Bucky sighed. “Her temperature is extremely high, nausea, light-headed and dizziness. Whatever this bastard did to her, he has to deal with me now.”

“He’s downstairs, whenever you’re ready.” Steve said, his eyes laying on your frail body. “It is 2 in the morning and one of my teammates is lying on a hospital bed with a fever of over 100 degrees and a migraine that’s probably killing her. Let’s get this over with.”

---

Roman Donovan sat in a cold, bright room, hands cuffed to the tables with two SHIELD agents armed standing at the entrance. A smug smirk sat on his face as he fidgeted with his fingers. His head perked up at the sound of the door opening. 

“Well, if it isn’t the mighty Winter Soldier, what a traitor you are to your own country, huh? I mean, working for the people who you literally fought against-” Sam walked behind him and gripped his shoulders tightly, fingers digging into his muscles. 

“I am only gonna say this once, so you better fucking listen to me. What did you do to her?”  

Donovan chuckled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”

Bucky shook his head, vibranium fist clenched. 

“You know, Roman, this guy isn’t too fond of repeating himself. Especially to arrogant assholes like you.”

“What did you do to her, Donovan?” Bucky was strangely calm.. “You know the woman you attacked earlier, the one whose throat you almost crushed after you injected her with drugs? She’s got three degrees in chemistry, computer engineering and computer science, so I get why you, a man of your personality, would go after someone who is not strong enough to put up a fight against you.” 

Steve looked on through the window, phone pinging. He pulled it out, the text from Natasha sent dread through himself. 

Temperature over 105, tests coming back positive for some type of influenza. Cho is really worried. Not looking too good for her.

“Shit.”

He went on and walked into the room, leaning over to where Sam stood. 

“So aggressive, James. And for what reason?”

Sam chuckled, crossing his arms. “If you think this is aggressive, you’re in for a ride.”

“I’m gonna ask one more time, and if I don’t get an answer, that means you’re straight up out of luck.” Bucky leaned forward, black and gold vibranium reached for the chain of his restraints and pulled him down, causing Donovan to hit his head. “What did you inject her with?”

The man tilted his head, blood dripping down his cheek. “What makes you think I injected her with anything?” he cockily sneered. “I thought all the Avengers were required to be knowledgeable in the field, cause let me tell you, Sergeant, that little girlfriend of yours is such an easy target.” 

Steve nudged Sam, leaning his phone towards his eyeline, showing the text message. Sam felt a pang of worry settle deep in his stomach, sharing a worried glance with him. 

There wasn’t much time left for you. 

Steve stepped forward, pulling Bucky aside to show him the text message. 

Blue eyes raked over the words he had been dreading the most. "Not looking too good for her.”

“Well Donovan, I want my answer.”

The man smirked. “Yeah? Or what?”

Bucky’s left hand reached out and grabbed a fistful of Donovan’s hair and slammed his head against the metal desk one time only, though it was enough to break the man’s nose. Screams of pain resounded in the small but soundproof room. 

“No one’s gonna hear you, Donovan! Those guys with the big ass guns? They’re not gonna help you either. Not when one of their own is about to die in this building. And so help me, Benjamin,” Bucky sneered into his ear, the man’s eyes wide with fear, “if she dies under your hand, there is nothing on the green earth that is going to stop me from tearing you apart. I’m gonna ask one more time, what did you inject her with?”

“A deadly pathogen! It’s a pathogen that kills its hosts within 24 hours of it being administered.”

Bucky’s eyes glanced at the clock. 2:58 AM. It was a late night mission, the jet had landed in Canada at 7:45 PM. Meaning you had to have been injected with it at 8:00 or so. Meaning six hours had already passed, he had eighteen hours left. You had eighteen hours left.

“Did you know adults that experience fevers that go over 105 degrees can run into complications causing serious implications of brain damage,” Sam blurted out. “means you’re in the dog house if we lose her. And ain’t a single one of us is gonna stop that mean.”

“Is there an antidote for it?” 

Donovan nodded. Bucky slammed a pen and a notepad down on the table, causing the man to jump in fear. “I suggest you better start writing it down. Now you get to deal with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. Better start writing.”

Eighteen hours would go by quickly. 

---

“Sergeant, it’s not looking good for her,” Dr. Cho said, voice breaking slightly. “This virus that she’s fighting, it’s too strong.”

Bucky looked through the window, heart shattering as his blue eyes fell on the breathing mask they covered your mouth with, the tubes that kept you hydrated. You looked so… lifeless. Natasha sat by your side, her hand gripping your wrist, though you were so out of it, eyes barely open.

“He injected her with some sort of influenza. He knows the antidote, but he has less than eighteen hours.”

She noticed the worried look in his eyes. 

“She was constantly asking for you. Even in a state of being delirious, she was still calling for you. Natasha was able to calm her down.”

The soldier gulped. “Is… is she going to die?” 

For a moment, Dr. Cho couldn’t answer. She didn’t know the probability of the antidote being made on time. 

“James, I cannot answer that. But what I can say is that I will do everything in my power to keep her alive. She’s a fighter.” With that, she excused herself. Bucky stood still for a moment before pushing the door open.

The sounds of your heart monitor and the sounds of oxygen traveling through the tubes filled the room. Natasha’s emerald eyes met Bucky’s, a small smile presented on her face. 

“Any updates yet?” she asked, but it fell on deaf ears as Bucky kneeled at your bedside, grasping your limp hand tightly in his. 

The amount of pain that swirled in his mind was almost too unbearable. Your eyes met his, though you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Tears welled in your eyes as they rushed down your cheeks. 

“It’s okay, my love. I am right here.” His voice was above a whisper and pressed a kiss to your palm. “Tony and Bruce are gonna find a cure for you, honey. I promise. It’ll all be okay.” He felt you weakly try to grasp his hand back, but the action alone made you more tired. 

“I love you so much, baby. Words can’t comprehend my love for you. I want you to know that,” Tears welled in his own eyes, his hands reached up to cradle your cheek. You leaned into him. “I love you.”

Your skin was so warm under his touch. His eyes read over the stats on the open chart, seeing your temperature rise every hour. 

“She was injected with some sort of influenza. Tony and Bruce are working right now.” 

“Did you find anything else?”

Bucky kissed your hand, gently guiding your head back on the pillows. “Son of a bitch has the antidote. Had to break his nose just to get him to spill it out.” 

Natasha placed her hand on his shoulder. “I will stay with her and I’ll alert you guys if anything changes. Just try to hurry.”

Bucky nodded and leaned down, hugging your frail, weakened body and pressed a kiss against your chapped lips. “I love you, Y/n. I’m gonna fix this.”

He did not spare Natasha a glance as he stormed out of the medical wing, boots stomping with every step he took. Long strides took him to the end of the hall, where the elevator was.

“FRIDAY, where is Stark and Banner?”

“Both are in Mr. Stark’s lab. Shall I notify them that you are coming?”

“Tell them I have a stop to make first.” Bucky slammed the button to the interrogation level. “ I’m coming with the antidote.”

---

Donovan jumped in his seat when the doors opened, revealing the shadow of Bucky’s figure. A knife sat in his hand. The prisoner visibly shivered. 

“You know what I’m here for, Donovan.” 

“Come on, man! It hasn’t even been-”

The knife that was once held in Bucky’s hand was now lodged into metal table, an inch away from Donovan’s finger. 

“You’re fucking crazy!” 

“What happened to the tough guy act, huh? You wanted to act all big and bad up in Canada. Why the sudden change of heart?” Bucky taunted him, walking closer to the pad of paper that had been scribbled on, step by step, three pages, front and back. “Remember, you’re targeting my weak spot.”

He seemed ashamed, guilty almost. But it wasn’t because your life was in jeopardy. It was because he was caught, with no one left to save him. 

“You know, you’re already facing five counts of criminal charges of unauthorized access into government systems, you wanna add a murder charge to that? Assault with intent to cause bodily harm? That sounds like fifty years to me, that is with just the unauthorized access charges.” Bucky sat down across from him. “And if this,” he held up the paper, “isn’t true or it doesn’t cure her, you’re facing a very serious murder charge of a federal agent.”

“You’re nothing but a coward, Benjamin Croot. Tough guy act falls the minute you’re faced against someone who overpowers you. You’re gonna rot in that prison for the rest of your life.”  

---

It was morning.

The sun had risen fully. 

10:47 AM

Tony and Bruce had been hard at work, trying to figure out the antidote. It was nearing the afternoon, and they had been at it since nearly four in the morning. But neither were giving up. Not when your life was on a timer.

Bucky had dropped off the paper before going back up to the medical bay, spending his time with you. He hadn’t slept since he first woke up, his groggy eyes immediately landing on you staggering to the bathroom.

He laid in the small bed with you, balancing himself on the edge, giving you all the space. He had laid a damp rag over your forehead, in hope to cool you down a little. Tremors racked through your body suddenly, Bucky jolted. 

You laid still for a moment, eyes clenched shut, brows furrowed. An unpleasant gurgling sound came from you, body jerking slightly. Bucky’s eyes widened and he pressed the call button repeatedly before running to your side. You weren’t awake, you were warmer than before, heartbeat rapid as the monitor started to go crazy, alarms blasting. Dr. Cho and a couple nurses suddenly bursted into the room, eyes wide

“What’s wrong? What’s happening to her?” Bucky cried out, helplessly watching as they pushed you on the side. 

“She’s choking. Her lungs are filling up with fluids, and if we don't drain it, she will lose her.” Bucky’s eyes filled with horror. “Sergeant Barnes, I know you’re concerned for her health and safety, but I need my full attention if I’m gonna save her. Please.”

Bucky wordlessly nodded, his eyes fixated on your body, your face. 

Eyes closed.

Pale skin.

Lifeless, almost. 

The monitor flatlined. Bucky was pushed out of the room. Sheets pulled around your bed as voices screamed and yelled, though it was all distorted. 

“Bucky?” He turned to Sam, tears spilled over his cheeks. 

“She’s…” A cry got caught in his throat. “she’s flatlining.”

Chocolate eyes widened. 

“I need to find Tony and Bruce.”

Sam loved you like a sister. The two of you had always been close, ever since you joined the team. And when Sam laid eyes on you, defibrillator pads pressed on the exposed skin of your chest, head laid back, a knife twisted into his heart. 

Neither men didn’t move a muscle until the flatline changed to a faint beeping. 

---

“Please tell me you’re somewhat close to putting an antidote together.” Bucky and Sam pushed through the doors. Tony looked up, “How is she?”

“She’s running out of time, she flatlined for a minute,” Bucky rambled out. “Please, Tony. What do you have so far?”

“It’s almost done, I think. We followed every single one of the steps, used past remedies that have helped even Thor himself from a virus. But if this guys even altered one of these steps-”

“He’ll have to face me then.” Bucky finished. “Is it ready?” Tony nodded, though he had a look of hesitancy. “What is it?”

Tony looked over at Bruce, having just placed the antidote in the freezer. “It needs to maintain a temperature of -50 degrees. Meaning…”

“You need to bring her down here, or else it won’t work. I have all the medical supplies she’ll need down here. I just need you to transport her.” 

“I’ll do it.” Bucky said, not that anyone else would have even offered. “Have every single thing ready by the time I step foot in here.”

“I’ll inform Cho.”

Both scientists nodded, scrambling to ready the emergency medical cot. Sam followed Bucky as they raced through the stairwell, racing up the stairs, though adrenaline gave Bucky all the energy in the world it seemed. 

Once he reached the room, Sam sprinted to ready the elevators, to get you to the lab as quickly as possible. Dr. Cho had removed all the tubes and wires off of you, only an oxygen mask with a tank attached. 

“Come on, baby,” Bucky strapped the oxygen tank to his back and slid his arms underneath your knees and shoulders, and ever so gently he lifted you up, grey hospital gown drenched in sweat. Your head lolled back, arms and legs completely limp. “I got you, baby, I’ve got you.”

With you laid against his chest, he moved swiftly, his pace faster than normal and it wasn’t long until he was in the elevator with you, nearly unconscious in his arms. Bucky looked down at you and rested his forehead against your sweaty hair, though it did not bother him in the slightest. 

Your brows furrowed for a moment, followed by a whimper. “We’re getting there, love. We’re almost there.”

The doors opened and Bucky made a beeline for the lab doors, immediately going to the corner of the room where they had the cot set up. As gently as he could, he cradled the back of your head as he placed you down on the mat, softly placing the tank on the ground. 

“Okay, now Tony.” Bruce unbuttoned the gown at the shoulder, revealing where you were attacked. Bucky held the side of your face, caressing your cheek. 

He had placed a part of his armor on the hand piece as he took it out of the freezer, glancing  at the space from the freezer to you, and in two big strides he held the needle just above the darkening bruise and quickly administered it into your skin. He pressed the button and a fluid was shot into your shoulder.

Your body shuddered for a moment, there was no sudden movement from you.

It was the longest minute of Bucky’s life, his eyes filling up with tears. The sudden rise and fall of your chest kept getting  stronger with every breath you sucked in. The bruise surrounding your shoulder slowly vanished, your natural skin color coming back. 

When your eyes peeled open, Bucky nearly sobbed in relief, crashing on his knees as he gripped your arms. 

“Y/n, baby, can you hear me?” he pleaded desperately. 

“B-Bucky,” your voice was raspy and raw.

“Oh my god, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he muttered over and over like a mantra, cradling the back of your head as he peppered your forehead and cheeks with kisses. You were still a little warm, not as life threatening as it was beforehand.

“W-where am I?” you tiredly asked, eyes roaming around the lab. “What happened?”

 Bucky gently took the oxygen mask off, replacing it with a nasal tube. “You were poisoned, honey.” Flashes of you flatlining not even two hours ago flooded his mind, but he shook them away. You were well and alive, breathing with a steady pulse. “You were really sick for a while, 

but Tony and Bruce here made a cure for you.”

You nodded, still a bit drowsy from the near death experience. “What about… him?” 

Though your voice was barely above a whisper, Bucky heard you clearly. “He’s already taken care of. If I had it my way, the bastard would spend the rest of his life on Raft for all I care.”

Tony chuckled, coming over to pat your hair and a quick kiss to your head. “Leave that to me, kiddo. This kid doesn’t know what’s coming to him. Get some rest, hon.”

Bruce, Tony and Sam all bidded you a goodbye, leaving the two of you alone. 

Bucky cradled your face in his hands, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. “I love you, sweet girl.”

“I love you, too, Bucky.” You sounded downright exhausted. But you could finally rest. “This is why I stay behind the computers.”

Bucky chuckled and laid against the pillows, pulling you to lay on his chest. “Valid.” Your laugh was a tired one, Bucky could tell. “C’mon baby, let’s nap together.” 

You had no obligations on that, closing your eyes as you held onto Bucky’s arm, lulling to sleep. 

Finally, Bucky could rest knowing that you were at ease and finally able to rest without being in pain. His eyes drifted shut and you both finally succumbed to a well deserved rest.

--

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Idk if someone has said this before but i find it weird how the fandom insists upon Malleus dynamic with Yuu being one of his core character traits yet he barely interacted with Yuu throughout all of book 7 and doesn’t even speak to yuu in the end of the book either.

Looking back on it, Malleus barely interacts with Yuu in the main story:

Prologue and Book 1 (September) - No Malleus appearance or notable interaction(s) with Yuu.

Book 2 (October) - First meeting with Malleus. He indicates that he is disappointed that Ramshackle has residents now and that he’ll have to find other ruins for his nightly walk. Malleus refuses to give Yuu his name and vanishes promptly after giving Yuu permission to call him by a name of their choosing.

Book 3 (November) - Yuu bestows the Hornton/Tsunotarou nickname onto Malleus. They share the deal they made with Azul; Malleus imparts wisdom onto Yuu that helps them discover the truth to the golden contracts. He also encourages Yuu to keep fighting for their dorm.

Book 4 (December) - No direct encounter with Malleus. Instead, he sends a holiday card to us via Lilia.

Book 5 (spans January to February) - Malleus teases Yuu about how he did not get a response to his holiday card. Yuu then gives Malleus a VDC/SDC ticket, which he is excited about (since it is an invite). He asks if Yuu will be participating in it, but says “Pity” when he learns they are only a manager. Malleus and Yuu meet again after Vil’s OB. He reveals his name and identity, but Yuu continues to call Malleus by their nickname for him. Malleus restores the destroyed stage as a blessing to the team.

Book 6 (February) - Malleus appears at the beginning and end, but does not have direct interactions with Yuu. He provides some information to other characters, restores Vil, and then curiously observes the other dorms reuniting with their respective OB boys. However, there is a scene in which Malleus stands in a destroyed Ramshackle dorm and remarks: “I was disappointed at first when Yuu started living here […] It's the strangest thing, though... With Yuu and the others gone, this place is back to how it was—devoid of life. Yet when I walk through it, I feel a most unpleasant sensation, like briars scratching against my skin. It's returned to the abandoned building I was so fond of before, and yet I'm feeling this way...” At the end of book 6, Malleus appears again but doesn’t interact with Yuu. He restores Vil’s youth and then curiously observes everyone’s jubilant reunions.

Book 7 (spans March to mid-May) - Ortho asks Yuu if they know of any fae, and Yuu thinks of Malleus. Malleus meets Yuu during a Mickey stakeout night arranged by the first year students. He shares a story from his childhood, to which Yuu remarks that he seems lonely. Malleus is surprised by this label but then asks, “What if… What if...there was some way to guarantee you'd never lose your friends, or family, or anything else? Would you wish for that?” and tries to come up with a solution. He then laments that everyone is leaving him, and no one will be left to invite him to anything. Technically, Malleus meets Yuu again a handful of other times in book 7. These other encounters are in a group settings where is focus is on other characters (the ones actively fighting him). Malleus doesn't have other explicit alone moments with Yuu (unless you want to count the time when falling debris traps Yuu and Grim before they can safely evacuate, but I personally don't because the narrative doesn't call attention to this as being intentional on Malleus's part).

If you count direct interactions between them in the main story alone, Malleus and Yuu have only about 5 total. These interactions are generally very short and/or not very substantive. For example, while Malleus does give Yuu advice, it's only once, and Yuu doesn't even formally learn his name or who he is until ~6 months into the year.

I think the fandom tends to perceive the relationship between Malleus and Yuu as being strong due to a few big factors: presentation and projection.

Look back at the interactions throughout the main story. Yuu doesn't even think much about Malleus until book 7 (and even has to be prompted to thinking about it by Ortho), but Malleus acts very... playful in comparison. For one, he keeps returning to Ramshackle at night despite claiming he'll have to find other ruins to fill in for it now that Yuu lives there. For another, he encourages Yuu to fight for their dorm + offers wisdom, is thoughtful enough to send them a holiday card, and is pleased that Yuu is fearless enough to refer to him by a silly nickname. It's also clear that Malleus has an attachment to Yuu, even though he cannot always articulate this well. For example, he seems to tease Yuu about being onstage for VDC/SDC and is disappointed to learn they are only a manager. He also indicates feeling lonely when Ramshackle is left empty in book 6, finding it odd because he usually likes solitary places. Finally, Malleus's sadness is enhanced in book 7 when he learns that Yuu may have found a way home. Twst presents Malleus a certain way because they wish to endear him to the player. They want to make him the player's "special friend". Players can be the only one who see Malleus for who he is. Players get to befriend an OP mage and dark fae prince. He likes you. This is intended to make the players, too, feel "special". However, Yuu barely seems to reciprocate because of their self-inserty nature; how valuable the friendship is relies on personal interpretation and investment in it, because the game barely gives Yuu instances to interact with Malleus.

I should also mention that many will point to Malleus's voice lines as proof of his closeness with Yuu. (Some call his voice lines outright "flirty" and will joke about how Malleus "missed the meeting about Twst not being a dating sim.") Indeed, he has numerous lines which imply doing activities with them outside the scope of the main story. But this isn't unique to specifically Malleus; every character gets fan service-y voice lines aimed at the player, but Malleus's are just called out more due to the importance placed on his role in the main story + the large volume of his fanbase. Personally, I find voice lines (and events too) to be sort of a grey area since they are not necessarily canon to the main story. That doesn't mean that enjoying the voice lines or factoring them into a character's relationship with Yuu is wrong, I just think it doesn't always accurately reflect the actual bond depicted in the main story campaign. They're moreso there so the players can get attached to the characters and daydream up their own connections with the boys. This is why even the grumpier or less friendly characters will be more okay with spending time with you once you whack them on your home screen while also being annoyed at you if you call out to them in the main story hi, Leona.

The other half of it I think is projection. Because Malleus is such a mysterious character and his book is very late in the main story, we did not have a ton of information about him when Twst first launched. This means there was plenty of room for fans to speculate, headcanon, and theorycraft about him more than the average Twst character. This results in a far more personal bond with Malleus, as you, the player, have dedicated significant time and energy to develop fanon lore and feelings around the guy. Players have a tendency to use what little content there is of Malleus and fill in the gaps themselves. This emotional investment can heighten or exaggerate how one perceives the connection between them and this character, which may result in people perceiving Malleus's friendship with Yuu being very strong or very important.

This actually led to several people believing that Yuu finding a way home in book 7 is what would ultimately lead to Malleus's overblot. Instead, it ended up being Lilia that triggered him to pop off, with Malleus even shouting that he doesn't want to lose him. Yuu sort of contributed to it (being another person that was going to leave Malleus + suggesting that they'd want a want to stop their loved ones from going away), but was not even mentioned in his emotional outburst. They didn't speak to each other at the end either. Ironically, this echoes a common sentiment I hear from newer players who play Twst because they heard about the hot goth dragon boy. They entered Twst thinking he would be a super close with Yuu (a first impression formed by watching the fandom from the outside), but then are surprised to learn that Malleus and Yuu don't really have that dynamic unless you go out of your way to look for it or extrapolate from voice lines.

I think one thing that really gets overlooked when it comes to Malleus is how much he also stands to learn from characters besides Yuu. The fandom so often holds Yuu up as special to Malleus (which is true to some extent), but they may also neglect to acknowledge other students. For example, Malleus is delighted in finding a human (Rollo) that actually makes HIM fearful. He also cites "Yuu and the others" when discussing how empty Ramshackle feels mid-book 6 and finds himself curious about all the dorms happily reuniting at the end of book 6. In his Bloom Broom vignettes, Malleus mentions that Ace and Deuce are also very interesting humans. More explicitly, he states that "I'm glad I can use magic because it allowed me to come to Night Raven College," a place where he can meet different people and have these unique experiences with them. And, of course, we cannot discount Diasomnia, especially seeing as how the fear of losing Lilia forever sparks Malleus's overblot.

There's always a possibility that Malleus and Yuu's friendship is made to be of more importance in book 8, especially seeing as Diasomnia will probably be returning as our helpers for that book. However, I wonder if it will really... work??? Since so much of that relationship's strength is dependent on how much the player likes Malleus (and therefore dependent on how much self-projection they engage in with him to fill in the gaps of the relationship), it could fall flat 💦

I feel like a more realistic direction would be to see Malleus take baby steps in reaching out to and connecting with his peers, especially because his strong magic (which he apparently no longer has??) was previously a deterrent that kept him isolated from others. Maybe it could work if Yuu serves as a bridge or someone that facilitates his socializing?

[dark-and-kawaii]

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Tease ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

⋆˙⟡♡ Summary: You aren’t sure when teasing your sensei over text became such a ritual, but honestly you wouldn’t want it to be with anyone else. You just never expected him to show up at your door.

⋆˙⟡♡ Notes: (Y/N) is aged up to 18 and is a third year!!! Please enjoy!!

⋆˙⟡♡ NSFW | Sexting | Gojo Gives You Head | Masturbation | Jealous Gojo | Gojo Plays With His Beautiful Thick Cock

(Y/n): “I just want you to know how disappointed I am in you, Sensei."

You decided to tease him over text. 

(Y/n): “Ya know what you did is technically illegal, right?”

Ghoejo Sensei: “~Oh?”

(Y/n): “Mhmm.”

Ghoejo Sensei: “~It’s only illegal if you didn’t like it, but you liked it. Didn’t you?”

With a subtle twitch, you giggle at the memory from earlier… 

You and Itadori were training with the others while Gojo Sensei observed everyone from his spot on the school building. Exhausted, you had decided to grace him with your presence, joining him leaned back against the same wall.

“Aren’t you going to get in there and rough us up, Sensei?”

He could feel your beaming warm smile. Just being around you made his day.

Laughing, Gojo’s voice was filled with pure excitement as always when with you, “Nah, i like watching everyone get thrown around…” -his voice was low so only you could hear-, “…(y/n), you really shouldn’t wear such a short skirt during training.”

“Oh?! Why’s tha-“

“Some might try to sneak a peek.”

That damn smirk of his practically had you melting while your face felt like it was about to catch on fire. 

“S-Sensei? W-why would you say that!?”

Just as you were about to adjust your skirt, you heard the unmistakable snap of a camera shutter, indicating that a photo was being taken on a phone. Glancing down where the noise had come, you were shocked -not really- to discover your sensei positioning his phone under your skirt at an angle where he could see right between your legs…

Staring at the screen, you could see your black lace panties staring back at you as he tried to get another good shot.

He’s never been so bold like this in front of other students… Let alone out in the open on school property. If one of the others saw anything you- fuck, or the higher ups… you both would be kicked off the grounds and- and- oh god the reputation!

Gojo’s would be tarnished and you- … Okay you didn’t really have a reputation to worry about, but still! You damn well would after everyone finds out you’ve been sleeping with the famous sorcerer, also known as your Sensei!! This was far too risky of him-

Slipping his phone back into his pocket, Gojo never once looked in your direction, “~Shhh… No one saw, (y/n). Go back to training though, before i puni-”

“Hey! (Y/n)! Are you coming back!” Itadori was waving for you to come back over to them, his foot on Megumi’s back. 

Now here you are, back in your room, lying on your bed with restless legs as you texted your beloved Sensei.

(Y/N): “I didn’t say I enjoyed it, Sensei 🥺.”

You tried to make the text sound innocent, but you knew how he liked to play games. So, why not play along?

(Y/n): “What did I gain by you snapping a photo? Perhaps I should tell the higher ups?”

GhoeJo Sensei: “~Oh ho, are you threatening me little girl?”

Chuckling to yourself, you could just picture the smug expression on Gojo's face. He wasn't intimidated by you at all, and you were well aware of it. Yet, you found the whole situation amusing.

(Y/n): “Noooo, never! …But… what if I confided in Itadori? Sukuna would hear what happened, and I don’t think he’d like that all too well, now would he?”

Although you couldn't see it, Gojo's playful smile vanished immediately as he read your latest text. He spent several minutes just looking at the screen. It was true, Sukuna had grown quite fond of you- to an extent that was hard to ignore. Sukuna had even managed to gain control over Yuji, solely to rescue you from a special grade curse. On another occasion, Sukuna took control of Itadori's arm, just to drape it around your waist according to what Yuji had told him… And there was that time the notorious king of curses forcibly broke down your room’s door...

Not even realizing how hard he was holding his phone, Gojo’s eyes snapped open fully to the sound of his delicate screen cracking… “tsk..”

Several minutes passed before his phone chimed. It took him a moment to register that you had sent him a photo, a close up shot at that, and it left little to the imagination. You were pulling up your thong so that the contours of your pussy lips could be seen through the thin fabric. Gojo took note of the small little damp spot… It was a simple yet effective tease, but before he could fully appreciate the image, another photo arrived.

In this one, the fabric was pulled taut, accentuating the details even more explicitly. This time, you were pulling up your panties high enough so that they were digging into your crotch, exposing those sweet little pussy lips he could lap at all day long.

(Y/n): “That’s what you wanted, right Sensei? You know if you just wanted photo’s all you had to do was ask 😉.”

After pressing the send button, you swiftly undressed shedding each layer of fabric from your body. As you stripped down the anticipation grew, wondering what your sensei might have in store for you. The silence that followed the Sukuna text left you questioning if it had truly affected him though…

Now completely naked, you position yourself on the bed, ready to capture one final enticing image. On your knees, your tongue playfully extended from your mouth, while your lips form a 'O' shape. With the camera angled just right, it captures the perfect view deep down your throat. Using your free hand, you do your best to mimic the imagery of holding a cock next to your plump lips mouth, your drool cascading down the corners of your lips…

(Y/n): *image*

Ghoejo Sensei: “You’re such a naughty girl for me. ~I’m gonna have to spank you the next time I see you.”

Taking a deep breath you press your face into your bed, raising your ass in the air. Your arm stretched back with your phone, positioning it so that your wet folds could be captured along with your ass.

(Y/n): *image*

Ghoejo Sensei: “Are you touching yourself to my texts, baby girl? Is that tight little pussy craving my attention?"

Your hips moved back and forth as the pad of your middle finger slowly rubbed your clothed clit. It was so sensitive that just the slightest touch would cause a small jolt through your body.

(Y/n): “wouldn’t you like to know.”

Ghoejo Sensei: voice message

Pressing play on the voice message, you can hear the rustling of sheets and clothes being thrown around. Your body shivers when his voice begins.

Ghoejo Sensei: “Don’t worry, daddy will come take care of you.”

A soft whimper leaves your lips. Closing your eyes, you imagine your tall, lean sensei standing in the doorway. His head tilted slightly downward, allowing the shadows to conceal his face except for that damn smug smile…

You could feel your face flush, this was so embarrassing… What if someone barged in your room… Especially Itadori, well Sukuna… Burying the thought deep within your head, you lift your phone above your ass again with the camera pointed down and with your other hand you did your best to spread open your delicate asshole. With a snap and a simple click, you send it…

(Y/n): “I’m ready and waiting.”

Gojo was lying on his bed, his pants undone, hand pumping his cock slowly. With each text he would read, his hand would increase its speed.

(Y/n): *image*

When he saw the last photo, his phone was practically crushed by his tight grip. He could feel his balls tighten as precum began to spill from the tip of his thick cock, the veins swollen around it giving it a nice texture. The sight of your tight hole had him biting his lip as the image replayed in his head, and the fact that you were spreading your asshole to reveal it just for him made him cum instantly.

He could barely breathe, his chest rising and falling as his cum spurted across his chest. His head was thrown back as he released a strangled groan, “such a naughty little tease”.

Of course he wasn’t tired quite yet, he had the stamina of a god and he became rock hard once again. He already looked at you differently from his other students and now after this he really wasn’t going to be able to look at you as just his student he’s having a fling with again. You were a sexual object to be desired now, someone he wished to keep forever, but at this very moment he would give anything to be the reason your asshole was gapping in this picture or why you were drooling in your first photo.

Ghoejoe: “You should come sneak in my room, again.”

You didn’t obliged, instead you sent a string of photos detailing you fingering your ass and probing your slick pussy with two fingers after. Playing with your breasts, rolling your nipples between your fingers, you even captured yourself throwing your head back as you tugged on one of your nipples, as if you were a cow ready to be milked.

You had to admit to yourself that you loved doing this, spreading your legs like some whore for her sensei… The thought alone sent shivers of pleasure throughout your entire body.

Gojo: *image*

It was a photo of his beautiful cock, the head still a deep red and swollen. His thick shaft was covered in his own cum and a bit of precum. You could feel the juices leaking from your pussy as you stared at the photo.

Grabbing your pink vibrator from your dresser you pressed it into your welcoming pussy, your eyes glued to the photo the entire time. Turning the dial to its max setting, the buzzing could be heard as you slid the toy in and out. Pulling the toy out, you quickly placed the head to your sensitive clit, rolling it around your nub. The thought of his large hands on you again was turning you into a moaning mess, you could feel your juices slip past your toy and onto the sheets, could feel yourself cream around the base of it. Fuck, why couldn’t he be here with you now, you needed your sensei, needed your Satoru to come take care of you.

Your hand was trembling making it hard to hold onto your phone yet you still managed to capture a photo of you mid orgasm. There was a stream of clear liquid in the frame, your face full of shock at having squirted was apparent. You couldn’t believe how dirty you felt, it was intoxicating.

“~Oh baby girl, you’re so filthy! Look at you, you’ve gone and made quite the mess.”

Your phone flung across the room while you made the cutest little yip noise, your legs shutting together at the surprise voice. Gojo appeared in your room, his heavenly blue eyes peering at your from behind his sunglasses. His large hands come to your knees and parted your legs so he can rub between your pussy lips with his thumb…

“S-Sensei… I- Why are you h-here…?” Your voice was so cute to him, you could barely even speak as he rubs your slick entrance. “You know why i’m here, (y/n). Now, why don’t you tell me what a dirty little girl you are, and maybe I won't have to punish you so hard this time, hm? Tell your sensei how much you were enjoying yourself and maybe I'll let you suck on this cock.”

He leaned down, his head between your legs. Goosebumps forming whenever his snowy hair tickles your soft thighs. With no hesitation he sticks his tongue out to licks up your folds, lapping up your arousal from before.

“Mmm… Sensei~♡! I-i'm a dirty girl- A dirty little whore for you~!” His tongue was licking all over, teasing your clit with each swipe. He had one hand keeping your legs apart and the other was gripping the sheets.

“Tell me what you're a whore for, baby girl~.” His hot breath against your wet pussy, the way his nose nudges against your sensitive nub.

“I-I'm a dirty- A dirty little cockwhore, S-sensei~. I want you- Need your cock in my- ah~! in my mou-mouth, in my pus- pussy, my ass~~~♡!!”

The way your hips bucked with every swipe of his tongue, the way your breathing was uneven and shaky. Oh the sounds you were making, the moans, the whimpers. His eyes almost rolled back at the feeling of your juices against his tongue, his lips, “That’s my girl.”

Before you could scream his name you bit down on your lip to silence yourself. You can’t afford to have someone hear this… Not when these walls were so thin… You were finally getting what you wanted tonight, attention from your sensei, Gojo Satoru, and you wanted nothing more than to scream his name… But with Sukuna around, quite literally on the other side of these walls, the price you’d pay would be far greater if he heard you and Gojo going at it…

As your back arches, he moves his hand to press it firmly down on your lower abdomen, a way of trying to pin you down as his tongue delves deeper. You were so close to coming undone, your body was trembling.

Gojo knows he’ll drag this out since it was his favorite form of punishment. And he also knows you hold back your noises so that Sukuna wouldn’t hear, and he knows its for your own safety… However, you had him to protect you, he wouldn’t allow anything to happen to you.

Pulling back from between your legs, you both make eye contact, your chest rising with every heavy breath you take…

“(y/n), don’t hold it back… Say my name tonight. Let him hear it, let him know who you belong to tonight.”

A blush forms as you realize what he said.

Gojo wants him to hear you tonight, to hear how good you were for him. To know that he had a claim on his favorite little student…

“B-but…”

“Tut tut, no buts my sweet little cinnamon swirl. The only buts i’m allowing is this one.” He squeezes your ass, earning another cute little noise from you.

“Goj-Satoru… You- I.. We ca-can’t get caught by anyone though.” There’s tears in your eyes, he can see you’re genuinely afraid for him, not for you…

“(y/n). Let me handle the higher ups and everyone else.” Looking down, he watches as your pussy glistens with his saliva… His thumb brushing over your skin, “I’ve always wanted a good excuse to piss off the higher ups,” -His features soft- “You’re a good reason to fight them, so let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight, and don’t worry about Sukuna.”

His lips came down onto yours tenderly, as if you had both been lovers for years. Your eyes shut tight as his tongue glides across your bottom lip, requesting permission to enter. Opening your mouth, his tongue delves into the warm cavern and his cock twitches.

“I’m stronger after all.” He sticks his tongue out at you with a wink before thrusting his cock inside of your waiting pussy. You cry out his name, arching your back so far that it hurt, but the pain was forgotten as soon as you felt his hot cock buried deep within your needy pussy.

“Tonight, let me hear you scream my name.”

[allthecanadianpolitics]

The 2024 Cross-Canada Survey of Radon Exposure in the Residential Buildings of Urban and Rural Communities indicates that radioactive radon exposure in Canada is rising and continues to be a critical public health concern. There are an estimated 10.3 million Canadians living in houses with high radon, increasing their risk of developing lung cancer in the future. The report reveals nearly 18% of Canadian homes contain radon levels at or above 200 Bq/m3, the threshold at which Health Canada advises action to reduce indoor radon levels. This is more than double the 7% of households that were estimated to have radon levels at or above this limit in 2012. "In the 12 years since we released the first Cross Canada Radon Report, evidence has continued to emerge showing that the number of high-radon homes has been increasing," says Dr. Pawel Mekarski, Ph.D., head of the Radon Technical Operations Section for Health Canada's National Radon Program. "The 2024 survey represents a more up-to-date snapshot of radon levels across the country, highlighting the importance of protecting Canadians from residential radon exposure."

Continue Reading

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[siddyyyyyyyy]

Past Curfew

Father!Jason Todd x Teenage!Reader

wc: 1 K warnings: fluff (?), mention of alcohol consumption, no y/n used summary: You forget to tell your dad about going out and get home back late. a/n: a little something for the people with daddy issues again, thought this would be a cute idea,, pls ignore the fact i haven't posted that much for a few weeks, i still have some requests in my inbox and a bunch of other stuff i have to take care of😓😓 enjoy!

You accidentally forgot to tell him you were going out, so that wasn‘t a big deal. He would figure it out quickly on his own and come to the conclusion that you simply went out for a bit. As you spent more time with your friends at the birthday party, nursing your second beer and talking about anything and nothing, the time ticks by faster than expected.

It is way past your curfew, and you have no other choice but to sneak back in somehow.

The key turns louder than you want in the front door, the creaking of the door echoing through the apartment only encourages your regret of staying out so late without telling anyone. Which was silly. Your father is a well-known vigilante in Gotham, he will definitely track down every mugger and possible suspect in his list to get to you; even if you get home just ten minutes late.

You stumble in through the door and close it as carefully as you can, unfortunately losing your balance slightly as you try to take your shoes off. You knock lightly against the clothes rack, cursing under your breath.

»Shit—«

»Yeah, shit.« There sits Jason at the dinner table, face illuminated by the small screen in his hands, a red dot on it, possibly indicating your location.

»Sit down.« His face remains unimpressed as he nods towards the chair before him, placing the technical device faced down on the table.

Without another choice, you drag your feet towards the dinner table and take a begrudging seat before him. A heavy sigh falls from your lips, watching as Jason leans his forearms on the table and clenches his jaw, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible. He takes in your appereance, noticing the slightly smudged eyeliner, your bloodshot eyes and overall tired demeanor. After a brief moment of silence, he speaks up, expression unreadable.

»It‘s two A.M.« He starts, shaking his head lightly, »Where the hell were you?«

»Birthday party.«

You answer back without beating around the bush, being clear about it and, most importantly, honest. Jason‘s eye twitches once, not as noticeble in the low light. »A birthday party,« he speaks up after a pause, processing and calculating, »That‘s where you‘ve been this whole time? A Party? With drugs and alcohol, huh?«

»What? No, I—« Jason holds his hand up to make you stop talking, brows set into a low frown as he keeps his eyes glued on you.

You sag back into your chair and sigh out quietly, crossing your arms in defeat. The room is filled with silent tension, the low hum of the refrigerator the only sound echoing through the dark apartment. Finally, he speaks up again, voice less accusatory now.

»So, why didn‘t you tell me? You know I was dead worried, right? We live in Gotham, there‘s people who do things— «

»‘Things I can‘t even imagine‘, I know. But I was safe, with my friends, in a garage.« You interrupt him, starting to get irritated over his protective nature. Jason remains quiet for another moment, as if trying to find the right words. He knows he is being overbearing again, although he promised to tone it down.

»I know you are growing up and need to build your social life or whatever… but you could‘ve texted me. It‘s not like you have no damn phone on you.«

He has a fair point. But then again, you weren‘t sure if he would scold you over the phone for staying out late and ending up embarrassing you in front of your friends.

The silence from your end makes him soften up, shifting in his seat slightly.

»So, anything I should be aware of?« You know what he means by that, if there was anything slightly concerning or off during the party. You shake your head and relax again, glad he no longer seems to be concerned or disappointed.

»Not really. There was just a bit alcohol.«

He nods, expecting to hear more. His expression grows more sceptical once more, head tilting lightly to the side.

»… I had two beers.« A small sigh leaves you as you admit it, meeting his eyes again. Instead of another lecture, the corner of his lips turn up faintly, an amused huff leaving him.

»And you‘re already so wobbly? You‘re a lightweight, kid. I expected more.«

Thank god, he wasn‘t reacting badly at this. Wait—

»Lightweight? Are you serious?« He gives you a simple shrug before standing off his chair, grabbing the small device off the table again.

»I‘m going patrolling. Go to sleep and don‘t do anything stupid. I‘m tracking you now.« He waves the device in his hands before tucking it into his back pocket, approaching the window in the living room.

You also stand up again and keep your eyes on him, handing over his helmet from the coffee table. »So funny.« You retort back, being sarcastic about it. Jason, on the other hand, seems amused over your reaction, but also feels more assured now that he got your location at all times.

»I‘m serious, sweetheart. Be more careful.« He turns around to face you and takes the helmet from you, his eyes soft and genuine. Jason watches you nod and relaxes his shoulders a tiny bit, trying not to get sentimental over this. His kid is all grown up, and he can‘t do anything about it. As much as he wants to go back and spend even more time with you, back then when you were just a small kid, running around the apartment with nothing but pure joy. His chest tightens at the memories, still seeing the small child in you.

»Good night, kid.« He exhales softly, taking your head into his hands to press a gentle peck against your forehead. You huff softly, although you can‘t hide the small smile and give his chest plate a light shove.

»Night.«

←MASTERLIST

taglist₊‧.°.⋆˚₊‧⋆. @143637-hrrm @dollyure @ibreathesmut @dreamzaremyrealityy @aceoffates @luniimunii27

[fishyvamp]

18+ NSFW MDNI mind the tags

You whimpered as the S.C.R.E.A.M unit pinned you down. It's gears whirling and whining as it ground into you. It was strange in how it was like it was seeking gratification in a sexual way. Rubbing where it's dick would be against the curve of your ass. You clenched your fist, teeth gritted heavily, the scent of fresh oil you had just applied to it's joints in the air of the workshop. This must've been some sick joke someone was playing on you. Maybe some kind of hazing ritual to welcome the new technician.

"You got a boyfriend?" The bot seemed to tease. It's icy mechanical hand pressing against your throat pulling you flush against it's cold frame. The coveralls you wore doing very little to protect you. You could feel a scream building in your throat as none of this made sense. It had walked in of it's own free will, or at least the equivalent of free will for a android, requesting maintenance and when you had finished diagnosis everything was clear; No anomalies, not even signs of code tampering, yet when the bot was turned back on it began behaving unnaturally. All you knew for sure is If you made it out of this alive you will be looking through its code piece by piece to find out who tampered with your unit. Surely there would be a digital signature in there. Something to indicate who last touched the code.

"Stop!" You screamed out feeling it's other hand beginning to palm the front of your pants, "initiate command slash S!" The kill phrase coming out desperate the bolder it got practically crushing you against the table; it's hips picking up speed. Before stuttering to a stop, grip loosening just enough for you to slide out; breathing heavily you clutched your chest looking up at the machine that had you caged just moment ago. The fact that it didn't halt right away felt a bit unnerving but the nightmare was over. Clawing at the rough sandpaper like carpet you moved into the light of your dimly lit office. It felt like an eternity as you begged yourself to calm down long enough to plug in the diagnostic computer.

Your eyes shut tightly, you count backwards from ten, listening to the clicks and beeps as it dug whatever info it could, name after name appearing on the screen before you. The unit behaved too purposely to be a true malfunction. Your eyes darting across the screen, the only name catching your eye was that of Danny Johnson. You had to think on why that name sounded familiar despite no one currently working in your shop with that name. Who was Danny? Maybe it was a placeholder name?

It wouldn't be till later that you'd realize Danny was the name of the technician who was killed by a S.C.R.E.A.M unit a year earlier, that in of itself would explain the name, thinking maybe someone in your shop got ahold of his old login information to prank you... It wasn't unusual for the company to not care about removing the permissions of the dead. At least that was until discovering that Danny was the only deceased employee to have their profile completely removed from the system. Even his past work history and general employee file was completely null, as if he never existed. Not even old logs were accessible.

You know he was real the older employees talked about how sweet he was, how he could charm the pants off just about anyone. Well loved and respected, but he didn't exist according to the system. So how the hell did someone use Danny Johnson's information to modify code? Danny doesn't have authorization. Danny shouldn't be able to modify code. Danny technically doesn't exist. So why does it say "Danny wants you"?

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The specific process by which Google enshittified its search

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me SATURDAY (Apr 27) in MARIN COUNTY, then Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

All digital businesses have the technical capacity to enshittify: the ability to change the underlying functions of the business from moment to moment and user to user, allowing for the rapid transfer of value between business customers, end users and shareholders:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

Which raises an important question: why do companies enshittify at a specific moment, after refraining from enshittifying before? After all, a company always has the potential to benefit by treating its business customers and end users worse, by giving them a worse deal. If you charge more for your product and pay your suppliers less, that leaves more money on the table for your investors.

Of course, it's not that simple. While cheating, price-gouging, and degrading your product can produce gains, these tactics also threaten losses. You might lose customers to a rival, or get punished by a regulator, or face mass resignations from your employees who really believe in your product.

Companies choose not to enshittify their products…until they choose to do so. One theory to explain this is that companies are engaged in a process of continuous assessment, gathering data about their competitive risks, their regulators' mettle, their employees' boldness. When these assessments indicate that the conditions are favorable to enshittification, the CEO walks over to the big "enshittification" lever on the wall and yanks it all the way to MAX.

Some companies have certainly done this – and paid the price. Think of Myspace or Yahoo: companies that made themselves worse by reducing quality and gouging on price (be it measured in dollars or attention – that is, ads) before sinking into obscure senescence. These companies made a bet that they could get richer while getting worse, and they were wrong, and they lost out.

But this model doesn't explain the Great Enshittening, in which all the tech companies are enshittifying at the same time. Maybe all these companies are subscribing to the same business newsletter (or, more likely, buying advice from the same management consultancy) (cough McKinsey cough) that is a kind of industry-wide starter pistol for enshittification.

I think it's something else. I think the main job of a CEO is to show up for work every morning and yank on the enshittification lever as hard as you can, in hopes that you can eke out some incremental gains in your company's cost-basis and/or income by shifting value away from your suppliers and customers to yourself.

We get good digital services when the enshittification lever doesn't budge – when it is constrained: by competition, by regulation, by interoperable mods and hacks that undo enshittification (like alternative clients and ad-blockers) and by workers who have bargaining power thanks to a tight labor market or a powerful union:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

When Google ordered its staff to build a secret Chinese search engine that would censor search results and rat out dissidents to the Chinese secret police, googlers revolted and refused, and the project died:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragonfly_(search_engine)

When Google tried to win a US government contract to build AI for drones used to target and murder civilians far from the battlefield, googlers revolted and refused, and the project died:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/01/technology/google-pentagon-project-maven.html

What's happened since – what's behind all the tech companies enshittifying all at once – is that tech worker power has been smashed, especially at Google, where 12,000 workers were fired just months after a $80b stock buyback that would have paid their wages for the next 27 years. Likewise, competition has receded from tech bosses' worries, thanks to lax antitrust enforcement that saw most credible competitors merged into behemoths, or neutralized with predatory pricing schemes. Lax enforcement of other policies – privacy, labor and consumer protection – loosened up the enshittification lever even more. And the expansion of IP rights, which criminalize most kinds of reverse engineering and aftermarket modification, means that interoperability no longer applies friction to the enshittification lever.

Now that every tech boss has an enshittification lever that moves very freely, they can show up for work, yank the enshittification lever, and it goes all the way to MAX. When googlers protested the company's complicity in the genocide in Gaza, Google didn't kill the project – it mass-fired the workers:

https://medium.com/@notechforapartheid/statement-from-google-workers-with-the-no-tech-for-apartheid-campaign-on-googles-indiscriminate-28ba4c9b7ce8

Enshittification is a macroeconomic phenomenon, determined by the regulatory environment for competition, privacy, labor, consumer protection and IP. But enshittification is also a microeconomic phenomenon, the result of innumerable boardroom and product-planning fights within companies in which would-be enshittifiers try to do things that make the company's products and services shittier wrestle with rivals who want to keep things as they are, or make them better, whether out of principle or fear of the consequences.

Those microeconomic wrestling-matches are where we find enshittification's heroes and villains – the people who fight for the user or stand up for a fair deal, versus the people who want to cheat and wreck to make things better for the company and win bonuses and promotions for themselves:

https://locusmag.com/2023/11/commentary-by-cory-doctorow-dont-be-evil/

These microeconomic struggles are usually obscure, because companies are secretive institutions and our glimpses into their deliberations are normally limited to the odd leaked memo, whistleblower tell-all, or spectacular worker revolt. But when a company gets dragged into court, a new window opens into the company's internal operations. That's especially true when the plaintiff is the US government.

Which brings me back to Google, the poster-child for enshittification, a company that revolutionized the internet a quarter of a century ago with a search-engine that was so good that it felt like magic, which has decayed so badly and so rapidly that whole sections of the internet are disappearing from view for the 90% of users who rely on the search engine as their gateway to the internet.

Google is being sued by the DOJ's Antitrust Division, and that means we are getting a very deep look into the company, as its internal emails and memos come to light:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

Google is a tech company, and tech companies have literary cultures – they run on email and other forms of written communication, even for casual speech, which is more likely to take place in a chat program than at a water-cooler. This means that tech companies have giant databases full of confessions to every crime they've ever committed:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/03/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself/

Large pieces of Google's database-of-crimes are now on display – so much, in fact, that it's hard for anyone to parse through it all and understand what it means. But some people are trying, and coming up with gold. One of those successful prospectors is Ed Zitron, who has produced a staggering account of the precise moment at which Google search tipped over into enshittification, which names the executives at the very heart of the rot:

https://www.wheresyoured.at/the-men-who-killed-google/

Zitron tells the story of a boardroom struggle over search quality, in which Ben Gomes – a long-tenured googler who helped define the company during its best years – lost a fight with Prabhakar Raghavan, a computer scientist turned manager whose tactic for increasing the number of search queries (and thus the number of ads the company could show to searchers) was to decrease the quality of search. That way, searchers would have to spend more time on Google before they found what they were looking for.

Zitron contrasts the background of these two figures. Gomes, the hero, worked at Google for 19 years, solving fantastically hard technical scaling problems and eventually becoming the company's "search czar." Raghavan, the villain, "failed upwards" through his career, including a stint as Yahoo's head of search from 2005-12, a presiding over the collapse of Yahoo's search business. Under Raghavan's leadership, Yahoo's search market-share fell from 30.4% to 14%, and in the end, Yahoo jettisoned its search altogether and replaced it with Bing.

For Zitron, the memos show how Raghavan engineered the ouster of Gomes, with help from the company CEO, the ex-McKinseyite Sundar Pichai. It was a triumph for enshittification, a deliberate decision to make the product worse in order to make it more profitable, under the (correct) belief that the company's exclusivity deals to provide search everywhere from Iphones and Samsungs to Mozilla would mean that the business would face no consequences for doing so.

It a picture of a company that isn't just too big to fail – it's (as FTC Chair Lina Khan put it on The Daily Show) too big to care:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oaDTiWaYfcM

Zitron's done excellent sleuthing through the court exhibits here, and his writeup is incandescently brilliant. But there's one point I quibble with him on. Zitron writes that "It’s because the people running the tech industry are no longer those that built it."

I think that gets it backwards. I think that there were always enshittifiers in the C-suites of these companies. When Page and Brin brought in the war criminal Eric Schmidt to run the company, he surely started every day with a ritual, ferocious tug at that enshittification lever. The difference wasn't who was in the C-suite – the difference was how freely the lever moved.

On Saturday, I wrote:

The platforms used to treat us well and now treat us badly. That's not because they were setting a patient trap, luring us in with good treatment in the expectation of locking us in and turning on us. Tech bosses do not have the executive function to lie in wait for years and years.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/22/kargo-kult-kaptialism/#dont-buy-it

Someone on Hacker News called that "silly," adding that "tech bosses do in fact have the executive function to lie in wait for years and years. That's literally the business model of most startups":

https://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=40114339

That's not quite right, though. The business-model of the startup is to yank on the enshittification lever every day. Tech bosses don't lie in wait for the perfect moment to claw away all the value from their employees, users, business customers, and suppliers – they're always trying to get that value. It's only when they become too big to care that they succeed. That's the definition of being too big to care.

In antitrust circles, they sometimes say that "the process is the punishment." No matter what happens to the DOJ's case against Google, its internal workers have been made visible to the public. The secrecy surrounding the Google trial when it was underway meant that a lot of this stuff flew under the radar when it first appeared. But as Zitron's work shows, there is plenty of treasure to be found in that trove of documents that is now permanently in the public domain.

When future scholars study the enshittocene, they will look to accounts like Zitron's to mark the turning points from the old, good internet to the enshitternet. Let's hope those future scholars have a new, good internet on which to publish their findings.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

[dreaming-of-epiphanies]

𝓜𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Description: Reader is about to stop studying for the night when their academic rival Tom Riddle convinces them otherwise. (Reader x Tom Riddle, academic rivals with tension)

A/N: Thought I'd write this to give anyone who needs it some motivation for finals season using our favorite star student Tom Riddle. Ironically, I wrote this instead of studying for my exam, which is in a week.

Warnings: minor language.

--

Using the numbers provided in sectors AA, AB, and CD, what inference can you make in regards to the success of future endeavors? In addition, please state at least four numerical values that could contradict your result and provide sufficient evidence as to why they will not end up being challenging factors.

Your eyes blurred as you tried to comprehend the question for the seventh time in a row. You’d been sitting here, hunched over your Arithmancy practice exam since classes ended earlier that afternoon. Now, the library was dark and almost deserted as it neared midnight. 

You were thankful the library stayed open later during exam season- otherwise, you’d have to resort to studying in the common room, surrounded by students talking and goofing off instead of meticulously preparing for your upcoming O.W.Ls as you were. You preferred solitude when you studied; it helped you focus. 

And yet it didn’t seem to be helping now. Frustrated, you leaned back in your seat and ran a hand through your hair, hoping that would somehow re-energise you to keep studying. It didn’t. 

You cast a look at the clock, ticking away mournfully above a large stack of discarded books. You had forty minutes til midnight, which meant another hour and twenty until curfew. Technically, you were supposed to be on patrol right now, but you had convinced Rosewood to take over your prefect duties for the night, so you had until one to study. 

You looked back at your book and straightened up, determined to make the most of the remaining time you had until you needed to leave for your dorm. You hadn’t studied nearly enough for your Arithmancy exam, and considering it was in one week, you needed to push past your lack of focus and get your studying done. 

Not even five minutes later, you gave up. You simply couldn’t comprehend the questions this late at night, and there was no point pushing yourself if you weren’t going to learn anything. 

Sighing in resignation, you shoved your books into your bag and went to stand up, but a smooth voice interrupted your motions. 

“Leaving so soon?” 

Your eyes closed briefly in frustration. Of course he had to be here tonight. When was he not? 

“I’ve been studying for hours, and I need to save my energy if I intend to study all day tomorrow.” You said dryly, turning to face the owner of the voice. 

Tom Riddle sat a few desks diagonally away from yours, books and parchments spread out across his desk as he looked at you calmly. He was the perfect picture of dedication and pure academia: studying late into the night with no indication of stopping. 

“And here I thought you did not give in to weakness.” He said with a small shake of his head, clearing attempting to provoke you. 

Unfortunately for you, and very luckily for him, it worked. 

“I’m tired, Riddle. There’s something called knowing when to stop, maybe you should look into it sometime.” You snapped, swinging your bag up onto your shoulder. 

“Oh, I have heard quite a lot about it from you. Perhaps that is why I scored three points higher than you on our latest Defence essay.” Riddle said, a smug smirk on his face. 

You glared at him, annoyance and anger building in you. Riddle held that mark above your head, taunting you with it every chance he got. And it hadn’t even been your fault you’d gotten a lower score than him- you’d been sick, for Merlin’s sake, and hadn’t been able to write it on the book you’d wanted since by the time you’d gotten to the library, it had already been checked out (by Riddle, naturally). Besides, your first priority when you had gotten sick was recovering before you missed too many days of classes.

“I should’ve scored higher than you on that essay and we both know it,” you retaliated, fingers tightening around your bag’s shoulder strap as his smirk only widened, satisfied with how riled up he’d gotten you. 

“Perhaps,” he mused, eyes gleaming with a challenge. “But we will never know because you knew when to stop.”

Your eyes narrowed, seething with anger and that familiar spark of competition Riddle always managed to incite in you. 

“You know what,” you declared, stalking over to him and throwing your bag down onto the floor. “I think I will stay and study. Right next to you.” You sat down across from him, roughly pulling out your book, parchment, and quill. 

“Excellent,” he said, straightening up and lightly turning the page in his book. “We shall see which one of us gives up first.” 

“It won’t be me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” you warned him, dipping your quill into your ink pot. He tilted his chin up, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched you start scribbling on your parchment with a hawk-like focus. 

“Like I said; we will see.” 

The night progressed on. Using the competitiveness Riddle had goaded in you, you tore through your practice exam, answering nearly every question right and not even bothering to look up from your parchment until a quiet but pointed ahem broke your reverie. 

You looked up, eyes swimming from how fast you’d been reading the paper. Riddle was standing now, books in hand and looking far too pleased with himself. 

“What?” You said in confusion, reluctantly setting your quill back into the inkpot. Riddle’s smirk only grew, eyebrows raising slightly in mock concern.

“Have you not kept track of the time? It is nearly one.” He said, gesturing towards the clock. Your eyes flicked to it and your stomach dropped. 

“Oh, shit!” You hastily started to shove your books and parchments into your bag as Riddle watched, clearly enjoying your panic. He had prefect duty after this, meaning his curfew wasn’t for a couple more hours. Yours, on the other hand, was fast approaching and there was almost no way you’d be able to make it back to your common room before the clock struck one. 

“You let this happen, didn’t you?” You snapped, hurriedly buttoning shut your bag and lifting it over your shoulder. Riddle put a hand to his chest, feigning offence. 

“I am appalled you think I would do something like that,” he drawled, sounding insulted, though the shit-eating grin on his face said otherwise. 

“Yeah, right,” you muttered, stepping up to him with a scowl. “I’m sure you just happened to let me lose track of time.”

“Precisely,” Riddle said, smirking down at you, his eyes gleaming a cool mahogany brown in the dim light of the library. “After all, I know when to stop. You, it appears, do not.” 

You glowered up at him, fighting the urge to make a snappy comeback of your own, but knowing all too well that if you didn’t leave right now you wouldn’t have a chance of making curfew. 

Tearing your glare away, you pushed past him and started off briskly for the exit of the library. 

“This isn’t over, Riddle,” you called threateningly over your shoulder as you walked. “I’ll make you late for curfew someday.” 

The door swung shut behind you and Riddle continued to stand there, satisfied smirk still in place. 

“I should hope so,” he said under his breath, mind full of just what you could do to make him late.

--

A/N (again): This is the first Tom Riddle fic that I've posted! I hope you enjoyed. :)

Recs: If you're reading this, I assume you love Tom x reader fics just as much as I do, so let me recommend a few of my favorite blogs about him!

@sunder-soul their writing and characterization of Tom is impeccable. Part of my characterization for Tom in my upcoming multichapter fic is inspired by how they portray him. I reread their fics nightly.

@anawritez-posts I ADORE her husband!Tom fics, and literally everything else she writes.

@viperify um hello, vampire!Tom Riddle? I'm so obsessed!

@riddleswhcre their grim reaper!Tom fics were so insanely good!

@cardansriddle oh, her fics make me feel all the things!

I could probably go on and on but I do have an exam to study for and other fics to write, so until next time....

[chronically-ghosted]

and in their falling, rise again (lover, share your road - part ii) series masterlist | AO3 Link | part i | part iii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~25K

chapter summary: You and Ellie have adjusted to the Miller homestead in your own ways. Much to Sarah's delight, these roots you've planted have grown a bit deeper than any of you initially expected. But figuring out how Joel is feeling about all of these changes is a complicated dance you worry you're stumbling through — except when he takes the lead.

chapter warnings/tags: reader is described as skeletal early on but that is due to food scarcity not her natural body type, psychological/mental effects of domestic abuse, allusions to domestic abuse, underground spaces, one dead body, brief moment of gore, guns, aggressive behavior, father/daughter relationship dynamics, slow burn, praise kink in a trojan horse of "making friends"

a/n: this would have taken months longer (or not at all) without the support and guidance of @toomanytookas. everyone please say thank you! please note the update to the series parts on the masterlist - we're doing four (you have @toomanytookas to thank for that as well!)

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine - Wild Geese, Mary Oliver

part ii:

Dawn comes slowly to Dalhart, a place hardly anyone knows about, the last stop on the railway line where the forgetful or the sleepy end up because they’ve missed their stop somewhere else. The wheat boom made this place swell with life, with the blood of eager men, with the sickness of greed, and now the boom has burst, the guts and blood of hopes and dreams splattered up and down the dusty streets. Still, the next year people believe they can conquer the elements, conquer nature, their own hubris leading the way in the dark, following the guidance of a false sun. So they who came have stayed, mostly — mostly because they follow promises like fireflies, winking in the night with just enough light to convince themselves the darkness won’t last.

It’s for this reason, these stragglers with misbegotten illusions of grandeur, that he moves without light, embracing the dark. The lock on the back door was rusted from the wind and dust storms, easily broken against the butt of his gun, but he moves, low and fast, as fast as his knees will allow, relieved to find the windows still boarded up and threads of curtains still covering the dirt-smeared glass. The office in the back is windowless, which will make rifling through it, checking for false bottoms and loose walls, easier. This building is technically abandoned but getting caught will mean he has to answer questions he’d rather not answer – to himself or anyone else. Which means moving quick through the front reception room and maintaining the utmost silence is paramount to –

crunch

Joel whips around, the grip around his Colt tightening briefly, and locks eyes with the fourteen-year-old behind him, crouched as low as he is. 

A red handkerchief around her neck, she scrunches her nose up in a grimace, teeth stacked in her mouth. Oops. Sorry. My bad. 

Dropping the barrel of his gun lower, he points to her other foot, frozen in the air, inches above another cracked plate of glass. He indicates it with the jerk of his gaze and she nods, hands raised, slowly backing up and off another potential alarm. Shaking his head, he eases forward on protesting knees, his own thick boots shuffling flat against the floor. He feels eyes on the back of him, watching how he navigates the shards littering the ground. 

Briefly listening for movement, he knocks back the office door with his shoulder, rising slowly in spite his screaming thighs, scanning the darkness before flicking on the light. The girl behind him shuffles in and shuts the door after her. 

He sees Ellie blink rapidly against the light, scowling behind her raised hand, before she takes a look around. 

“Shit, man, did a fucking bomb go off in here or something?”

People, like most pack animals, tend to react instead of think in moments of fear. Fear, like when their town’s only doctor takes off in the middle of the night with no warning. A bad omen, an egg forgotten until it starts to stink. 

“Dalhart got all pissed off when Eldelstein split. Came here to either ransack the place or take what they thought they were owed.” Joel moves to slides his gun into his waistband, but the muzzle keeps getting stuck on his belt. 

“Guess they thought they were owed a lot,” Ellie muses as she kicks over a broken plank of wood, adding to the debris that litters the dust-covered floors. She watches him struggle tugging his shirt out. “I can carry the gun, if you want. You know, if you need a hand free.” 

He responds with that glare, the glare that he often reserved only for her. Disapproving, unamused, but . . . Ellie smirks, hands up in the air. 

“Sorry I asked, man, just trying to help.” 

Joel nods sternly. “You heard what your aunt said. Help, but don’t touch. D’you need the list again?” 

She waves him off, wandering over to the overturned couch. “Nah, I know what I’m looking for. And you know she’s no fun anyway.”

He watches her, hesitant, as she crouches down by what used to be a consulting couch and peels back the wood planks and torn wallpaper. This isn’t the first time she’s done something like this – scavenging for supplies – and he is reminded again of the bits and pieces of Ellie’s old life he has picked up on over the past few months. Every time, it knots his stomach. 

Jaw tight in his head, grasping at that relentless focus that seems to be eluding him as of late, Joel overturns what used to be a desk to look for the latch you told him might be there. 

Just by the top drawer.

Your shoulder, then the crease of your arm had touched his as you leaned in towards the rough sketch you make of a doctor’s desk. You smelled like lilac and sunlight. There was a curl of hair on the back of your neck, loose as it curled down your throat, by your pulse. 

It’ll be small. Just a latch.

Your fingers had brushed his wrist, eyes downcast, lashes soft against the curve of your cheek. There was a smear of something green on the sleeve of your dress. Fresh grass, maybe? Herbs from the garden? The light behind you illuminated the thin skin of your ear, the supple drop of your earlobe.

You won’t need much pressure. Just a flick. It should open up under your thumb. You can’t miss it, Joel.

Joel.

“Joel!”

“What?” 

Ellie rolls her eyes at his nearly-bared teeth. “I’m gonna have my aunt look at your hearing, ‘cause there’s definitely something wrong with you.”

With a grunt, Joel kneels down and reaches into the far back of the desk where it is still held together in the corner, resolutely smothering the high flutter in his chest. His fingers touch something metal, something other than that green felt and split wood. He gets his thumb around it and it clicks.

“I found gauze and iodine,” Ellie says, holding up half a bottle and some dirty wrapping. “That wasn’t on the list she put together, but we probably need it, right?” 

He feels something give way, but it isn’t clear where. He eases the desk back further to try and lift it to the light. 

“Iodine is meant for keeping infections out. Wounds clean n’ all that.”

Ellie huffs, more exasperated this time. “I know that. That’s why I was asking.”

“Planning on getting wounded any time soon?”

“Fine, you jackass, I’ll just throw them out –,”

“Put ‘em in your pack if you’ve got room. Otherwise, we only take what we came here for.” 

With a light press, a small drawer eases open. Just a crack and barely enough to get his fingers inside, but he can see the bottle. Clear, made of glass, and filled with little white pills. 

Morphine. 

It had been his first idea when Sarah’s condition started to deteriorate, but the papers and medical journals he ordered in at the supply store about addiction kept him from ever really considering it as an option.  But with you here – and you had already done so much for her recovery – with you here –

I can manage it, Joel. They’ve done wonderful things with rehabilitation and comfort. I promise I will monitor her closely.

He knows a line should exist about what he would and wouldn’t allow for Sarah’s treatment, but as of late, that line has become so blurred he sometimes has to scramble to find it. 

Would and wouldn’t.

Should and shouldn’t. 

His feet are starting to sting from balancing on that knife’s edge these past few months.

He hears the pills rattle as he drops the bottle into the bottom of his canvas rucksack. Ellie’s buckling hers as Joel stands and joins her search of a knocked-over cabinet. Not much there either but cough syrup and penicillin. 

“What else you got?” 

“Some bandaids, a handful of calcidin tablets, and a busted hot water bottle that I think we could melt shut.” She adjusts the straps, her face serious. “Maybe he kept the good stuff for himself upstairs.” 

He nods to the fourteen-year-old with a knife in her sock and a hard scowl on her face. “Yeah, maybe.”

He objectively can see the absurdity of supply stealing with a girl barely older than a child, but in this world, in Dalhart, at the end of the line, there is always more innocence to be lost. He knew Sarah’s own childhood was not a normal one, not one that any fussy school marm would deem appropriate for a young girl, and so if he isn’t working himself to the bone in the fields, he is working himself tirelessly to shelter whatever is left of her youth. But, like so many other things, it feels gone already, passed on in a cloud of dust. 

He thinks, had her life been different – that look in her eyes only comes from being exposed to violence – Ellie might have been a bit softer at the edges, no different from any other teenager. He wonders, briefly, what happened to her that made her believe she has to carry a knife with her everywhere.

“We’ll go check but you’re gonna follow the rules, right?” 

Ellie’s shoulder slouch forward, buffeting air between her lips. “Stay behind you, stay low, and stay quiet. Oh, and help but don’t touch. I got it, I got it. ” 

“And here I thought it was physically impossible for you to listen,” he mutters as he flicks off the light and opens the door again. He crouches low again, easing out into the front hallway as bruised morning sunlight peaks in between the boarded windows. 

“Only one of us is deaf, old man,” she mutters gruffly over his shoulder. 

Across from the reception hall is where Eldelstein would receive and treat patients. Most likely the first place that was ransacked, but there might be things missed. He makes a note to circle back after checking the apartment upstairs, but now with it getting light out, he knows their time is limited. 

The Colt at his side, Joel shuffles up the wooden staircase, dirt and dust sitting heavy between the crevices. Without much surprise, he realizes he can barely hear Ellie behind him at all, as if she took to his flat-footed approach. 

In the few months that have passed, he’s come to learn that Ellie is a very quick learner. 

The second story is almost the exact layout as the office arrangement downstairs. A brief hallway with two doors. He glances over his shoulder, rewarding her trust with an opportunity to lead, and Ellie’s eyes widen in understanding. She frowns at the two closed doors, thoughtful, and then she shrugs. 

“I’ve always felt good about being a righty.”

With a shallow huff, he moves forward towards the right door, hand gently twisting the knob, finger hovering over the Colt’s trigger. The door squeaks open as it swings back, Joel against the doorframe until he can give the space one quick sweep of his gaze. Then he’s opening the door wider and pocketing the gun.

Here the damage is less. Less rage and more morbid curiosity. The few narrow beds are shoved haphazardly around the room as if someone went about kicking them aside. Old gray sheets lay in tangled bundles on the floor and the mattresses. Beat-up infusion stands are rusted and broken in the corner, one halfway stuck in a torn-up chunk of wall. A thin door at the far end of the room shielding a dark bathroom is missing its handle. Drawers are torn open, left hanging like loose teeth, violence as enjoyment. A patient recovery room, most likely, for those needing overnight care and –

She gasps sharply behind him before sprinting across the room, the floorboards shrieking.

“Ellie!”

“Joel, look, it’s a radio!” 

It’s about the size of her head, turned away and tilted on the back of a long shelf below the window, but she drags it forward, setting it in front of her and her fingers immediately fly to the knobs.

“I’m gonna shit a brick if this works–”

A faint crackle and her own gasp of delight. It’s not much, it’s hardly music, but there’s something there. She spins the dial, moving across radio waves, the faint yellow light flickering behind the numbered notches. Just as a voice breaks through the dusty speakers, the box hisses and the radio goes silent. 

“Okay, but you saw that, right? It worked for, like, ten whole seconds! If we take it home, I bet–,”

“No.” 

“Aw – what?” She frowns. “Why? C’mon. It’s one radio.”

“It’s too big and we can’t travel light with it.” 

“But I’ve got room in my pack –,”

“No.”

“Fine!” She flicks one of the broken dials off, scowling. “Whatever.” 

Her back turned to him, Ellie yanks open a nearby cabinet door, the lines of her shoulders tight. Joel watches her rummage around, a heavy weight in his gut, before he rights a fallen bedside table to get to the counter behind it. 

He finds scissors, a stitch kit, and saline solution. Behind him, he hears Ellie load her pack. 

The silence stretches, a handful of conversations pressing up to the back of his teeth before fading on his tongue. Sarah is rarely ever this annoyed with him – especially not as often as Ellie seems to be – and it doesn’t sit well with him, knowing Ellie is over there, stewing. 

He doesn’t want her angry with him, for no other purpose than she made Sarah happy. 

No other purpose at all. 

He’s reaching up, checking above a tall wooden wardrobe, when his hand bumps into something, a jar, and he remembers those comics she told Sarah about. Maybe some of them are around here somewhere. 

“Hey, Ellie, uh–,”

“Why hasn’t anyone found out about your homestead yet?” Ellie asks suddenly, her arm digging around behind a chipped bureau. “Or raided it? It’s just you and Sarah out there and people could . . . how do you keep it a secret?” 

His fingers close around the cool jar and he pulls it down. 

Luxor, the label reads. 

Hand cream. 

His dirty thumb smears brown over the lip of the jar. He thinks of delicate skin, raw pink, a painful pink. The thing he has in his hands would soothe that ache. He thinks this might form the words I thought of you when his own mouth fucking can’t. The muscle between his shoulder blades twinges painfully as he takes off his pack and slips the jar inside. 

The radio really would be too much weight, but . . .

“It’s complicated.” He tells Ellie. Across the room, she stills, turns around and looks at him straight on. This is the niece of someone who almost shot two Texas Rangers, who at fourteen carries a knife in her sock and won’t hesitate to use it. There is something wild in her eyes. 

“I don’t think it is.” Her tone edges the line between curiosity and taunt. Her eyebrows ride high on her forehead and her lips slightly purse, mouth centimeters from a smirk. She speaks quietly, honorifically. “I think it has something to do with why those ranger guys were so fucking scared of you they nearly shit themselves. I think it also has to do with Sarah.”

Eyes narrowed, locked across the recovery room. Careful. Be very careful. The jar offsets the distributed weight of his bag. 

“I don’t think anyone actually knows about her condition or how well the homestead is doing. And I think you’d fuck up a whole squad of those assholes to keep it that way.” The silence stretches but it’s sticky now. Ellie grins up at him, the secret she plucked from him sitting in her smile. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

She smirks with the confidence of youth, a spark of naive innocence.

Joel scuffs his shoe on the ground, his hands going to his hips. “You’re right. I’d do anything to protect Sarah. To protect what’s mine.”

That smile drips off her face when he lifts his gaze. He lets it grow hard, weary – a warning. 

“I have done a lot of things – things I never want her to know about – to keep her safe. Those men, this town – they’re right to be afraid of me.” 

Ellie swallows around the weight of the room, her gaze metallic, bright and sharp. Her mouth is a straight line of barely contained victory. I knew it. 

She lifts her chin, hands curled at her side.

“How?”

“How what?”

“How do you make them afraid?” 

He can see a flash of bone between her lips – teeth, eagerness. And then in a blink, it’s gone. Wiped clean from a youthfully smooth face. Ellie drops his gaze, deflates, and stares at the floor. 

“I mean – it just seems like a lot – keeping it all a secret.” 

“It’s not. Not when it’s for her.” 

And it’s like he’s pressed roughly on a fresh bruise; she curls further into herself for protection, almost wincing. He suddenly remembers her half-snarl when he said there’d be twice as many mouths to feed if he took them in. A burden, twice as heavy. 

“Yeah, of course, she’s your kid.” 

Her rough voice is as physical and real as she is as she pushes past him, marching out of the room and twisting the handle of the closed door across the hall.

“It’s not much of a choice then, is it?” She says, loudly, the door squeaking as it opens. 

Behind him, over his shoulder, the door to the bathroom slams shut – a draft. His heart pitches in his chest – he’s seen how you and Ellie have reacted before at loud noises and certainly slammed doors before – he hears her soft gasp, her narrow back tight in the frame of the door, but it’s different from one from the one he expects, one of learned skittishness. It’s a boneless sort of horror, wet, sudden, cold – he fights the urge to tug her out of the room by her collar. But she’s already seen it. There’s no taking it back.

The smell is horrendous. The blockage by the door must have masked the stench because with the door open, there is no denying the scent of rotten flesh. 

Someone who was unlucky enough to get caught up in the crazed fervor of the lynch mob meant for Eldelstein? Someone who deserved it, maybe? Whatever and whoever they were, they make up a mutilated shadow beneath the far window, the soft bits of their flesh a home for flies and maggots. The room is dark, drained of sunlight and the sense that anything living ever existed inside its walls. Boarded up and stale, it stinks of a graveyard, but one without coffins, where the bodies are left to ooze and decay and spill out into the wet soil. It stinks of putrefaction, of tainted earth and poisoned air.

But Ellie doesn’t scream. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t cry. 

Just stares wide-eyed and inhales. 

Joel watches and waits for her. Watches because he recognizes that hard, blank look on her face, one that is familiar to him and far too old for her. Waits because he doesn’t know how to react because this activation is so unlike Sarah. 

There are not many fourteen year olds who would barely flinch when eye-to-eye with death.

He stands behind her, a physical presence larger than herself, something bigger and scarier than all the flies and maggots in the world. 

“Is this your first time seeing somethin’ like this?”

Her answer doesn’t entirely surprise him: she shakes her head. 

He nods and takes the handle from her. He gently shuts the door, inches in front of Ellie’s face. “I think we got all we needed. Ready to go?”

She nods, then heads for the stairs, not taking another second to look back at the room with the radio.

The metal teeth of the cultivator catch and drag over a large dirt clod and with a grunt, you shatter it with a few good thwaps. When you stand, sweat races down the back of your neck and between the cotton straps of your bra, cooling the heat of your skin. Your muscles throb pleasantly beneath sunlight. It’s a sensation you’d never had before coming here, to Joel’s homestead, but one you had quickly gotten used to. 

You are not the same girl who came here all those months ago.

You first noticed it when stepping out of the bath one summer morning and your eyes caught yourself in the mirror. 

There are no divots in your hips any more. The deflated skin around your ribs has filled in. Your body – a thing that had merely housed you and sometimes betrayed you to slow down and eat, and ached when you didn’t – had changed. Without you knowing, seemingly overnight, your clay sculpture had been remade. Rebuilt and reborn. For the first time in what felt like years, you wondered how you appeared to another person. 

Thin and skeletal, you had offered nothing to anyone because there was nothing for you to give. But, at the homestead, around Joel with Sarah and a kitchen and abundant food, that had changed. Things swelled here, near him, made ripe and sweet. A vitality returned, flooded in, and you, with your thin petals and wilted spine, blossomed. There’s now the inkling of a person in the mirror, one that hadn’t existed with your husband and now you wondered who she might be. 

And yet, while you flourished with regular meals and the stability of Ellie’s safety, the vitality of the land itself had seemingly dried up to a trickle. The last rain was days ago, the downpour offering even less than the previous one. 

You squat to your ankles, balancing the cultivator against your weight, and press your fingers into the ground. Dry. Delicate. An absence, and an unusual one at that. The dirt trickles off your fingers like sand. The sun’s heat prickles your entire back, oppressive and stifling. A drop of sweat slips off your nose, a finger wagging at you: you can’t deny this anymore. 

This is the same baked and dry earth that had been found on the southwest edge of the property, beneath the waves of dust that had blown in, covering the crops and grass in a gnarly, heavy film. Joel decided to cut his losses there and replant what he could, closer north, nearer to the river. But the look in his eyes was beyond frustration or annoyance. He moved with quick, long strides covering the fields with his tools and the horse. Agitated, maybe – a shark rechecking and double checking the edges of its territory. 

And then the next morning, in the blue of dawn, with the smell of fresh coffee drawing him out of his room and down the stairs where you stood trying to decide whether or not you liked the taste, he asked if you knew how to rake crop stripes.

No, you told him honestly. That didn’t seem to surprise him, but he postponed the lesson you had for Ellie and Sarah that day to diligently walk you through the tools that hung on the wall of the barn. He wasn’t satisfied until you knew them all by name, what their purpose was, and how to properly maintain them. Then, he broke down the pieces of the plow – what they’re called, how they connect, and what to check for before loading up the plow onto the horse.

Sarah and Ellie gleefully watched from the porch that following morning– their chores mysteriously done faster than a blink of an eye – as he had you strip down the tack, clean the leather, and reassemble it. Then he made you haul the plow onto Everrett, never once offering to help. But by the set of his jaw, you knew it wasn’t out of cruelty or distaste. By the time sweat was pouring down your back, the afternoon sun beating down on your exposed ears and neck, you realized he wanted to make sure you could do it all on your own.

By the end of the week, you knew as much as any farm hand. In practice at least. 

But another week went by and Joel never mentioned the lesson, or any further ones. 

Until the morning you came downstairs to find a man’s work shirt and pants waiting for you on the kitchen table. 

Your thin dresses wouldn’t protect you from the sun, he posited, his broad back to you as he poured himself a cup of coffee. The hat he left you was a little too big, as were the clothes. You’d never seen him wear them, but you kept your questions about the original owner to yourself. He didn’t seem to mind when you altered the pant’s hemline and brought in the waist of the shirt. 

Who’s Annie Oakley now? Sarah giggled when you tried on the hat for the first time. 

You could hardly recognize the woman underneath it. 

From there your lessons became about crop rotation, polyculture, and agrochemicals. He had you walk beside him in the rows of crops as he pushed Everrett along with the plow, identifying out loud any signs of vascular wilting, necrosis, and soft rot or tumors. Bacterial diseases were particularly devastating to crops, he said, eyes forward and sweat rolling down his temples, the muscles of his shoulders straining beneath the tight straps of the suspenders hooked into his belt loops. The heat of the sun spreading to your cheeks, you were grateful for the excuse to keep your eyes trained on the ground. 

Leaf blight, he warned, was also very common in young crops – caused by the fungus Cercospora carotae. You asked him then if Sarah had been taught any Latin. His cheeks were flushed pink, but that was probably due to the heat more than anything else. 

Over time and at Joel’s side, you eventually felt confident in your new knowledge. Memorization had never been a problem for you and witnessing the theoretical application of the knowledge in real time helped significantly. However, it was the physical application where things got difficult. 

The day he let you push the plow, he wore a familiar expression all morning. Jaw clenched, Jaw tight, nostrils flared, it was the same look he wore when you approached Sarah during her first fit. He was helpless when you angled the share into the dirt and tore the ground apart. The sight of his furrowed brow knotted your stomach, but you pressed on. You pushed forward, one step after another, just as you had seen him do more than a dozen times. You could almost retrace his steps in your mind’s eye.

With him a hair’s breadth behind you, quickly barking out commands if you strayed a centimeter out of a straight line, something occurred to you.This was no longer a job for you. This was living proof you could take something in your hands and make it better. All your life you had been subservient to someone; a doctor at the hospital, your manager at the diner, your husband in that goddamned dug out – they all held power over you and your choices. But you knew this was different. You knew if you could eventually prove to Joel that you were worthy of being trusted with his land, then he would treat you as an equal. So you pressed on. You pushed yourself until your skin baked in the sun, until sweat dripped from your neck, until blood spilled from your cracked hands. 

Under Joel’s supervision, you fed the land with your blood. 

And six weeks later, the blisters on your hands had calcified, proof and reward of your dedication. You had muscles, hard and lean, strengthened joints and flexible tendons. The molten steel of your body, your form, had finally solidified. 

Your days started alongside Joel’s now, instead of divided by domestic spaces. Some days, he lingered inside even longer than you, polarized positions of where you stood weeks ago: you unlocking the barn, loading the horse and driving out into the fields while he stood at the window, a mug of coffee in his hands. He never made you wait for long, usually offering you a full canteen of water for the day, a single nod before you worked opposite ends to meet in late afternoon. 

But there were times – instances, occasions – that you think, you wonder, if, from the window, he still was watching you. 

Thoughts of his face, all lines and dark eyes, as he held your palm up to the heavens that night in Sarah’s room trickle in when you rest idly, in the seconds before you sleep. When you let your unconscious awareness drift. Which, fortunately, didn’t often happen out in the fields, especially not when Joel had told you about another threat to the crops; what to look for and where to find it. 

And worrisomely, you had – again: dry, inhospitable earth. 

You frown at it beneath your hat, the sun’s touch hot around your shoulders and spine, a low skirting wind by your ankles. An infection spreading. Joel won’t like this, not at all, but he’ll know of some way to shelter the crops. An alteration with the irrigation system, maybe? 

Flora huffs at you, eyeing you with a twitching tail. How much longer are we gonna be out here?

“It’s hot, girl, I know, I’m sorry.” You pat her speckled rump. “We’ll be done soon.” 

Whenever Joel gets back. 

Dusting your knees off, you stand and take a small stake with a white flag from the cart. 

Beneath the bag of staked flags sits your handgun. It hasn’t been used once in these past months, but Joel never lets you go into the fields without it. More often than not, he makes you keep it physically on your person – in a pocket, in your socks, somewhere within reach – but the sight of it sickens you, the horror of what you almost had to do that night you met Joel. How easily you were willing to do it for Ellie. How easily you’d do it again, to keep her safe. 

But now he expects you to do the same for Sarah and this homestead in his absence: protect at the cost of violence. 

The longer the gun sits out in the open, glinting sharply in the sun, the guiltier you feel. 

The breeze comes not a moment too soon. It breathes across your clavicle, the muscles of your throat. It draws your gaze up, outward, to the line of white flags peeking out of the ground. Soldiers in a row, surrender fluttering in the wind. Grave markers of failed crops. You forget the gun as your stomach turns at the sight of the fields full of little white flags.

The land is ill. You can’t deny this anymore.

The breeze thickens to a harsh blow and you grab your hat to keep it steady. Under the rush by your ears, you hear your name. By the house, under the wired row of drying clothes, Sarah waves to you – too far away to hear anything distinct, but she’s pointing and waving to the road and a cloud of smoke barreling down it. 

No, not smoke. Dust. Two figures atop a white horse racing through the chalk of the earth. 

Ellie.

And Joel.

Flora lets out an audible groan of relief when you take her reins and pull her back towards the house, the cart of flags clicking behind you. You wonder if he’ll see the line of flags from the road.

The barn is quiet in the late afternoon heat. You hear june bugs chitter in the rafters as you unclip Flora from the wagon and lead her to a stable. Fauna’s big ears flap towards her sister, brown eyes sparkling, almost bragging.

Ha, ha, you had to be in the fields today.

“None of that,” you scold, as you loosen the leather cord around your jaw and let your hat fall back against your shoulders. “You’ll be getting it soon enough, missy.” 

“You know, talking to animals is the first sign of going crazy.” 

Sarah slides silently through the side door and offers you a towel. She smells of soap, her bouncy hair pulled back today, her smile soft and warm, and you take it, rubbing it up behind your neck. 

“Well, at least I get a warning,” you grin. Sarah was no longer the same plagued girl you met those months ago. 

The ground had shifted in more ways than one the morning of Sarah’s recovery. Of course, there was still pain and soreness, but for the first time in months, she felt strong enough to walk around without her braces. She couldn’t run, couldn’t move fast, but standing next to Ellie, there was nothing that would suggest them any different. She seemed taller, hair bouncier, a focused glint in her eye that wasn’t there before, as if she alone had decided something rather vital. 

Her treatments of warm compresses and exercises went from daily to weekly to now every other week. Once she’d seen you walk through the steps of her therapy, she started to do it on her own in her room. Preventative and calculating. 

The days she can now spend outside doing laundry and planting fresh herbs have done her good. Her healthy skin glows. 

But there’s something delicate about the way she does, or rather, does not look at you now in the barn. An energy you can’t quite place, one that seems to hum louder as the months pass. She watches you, a placid smile on her face, her shoulders halfway turned to the barn door as if she wants to be the first one to see them open. 

“Has Ellie come by yet?” She asks breezily, her fingers lightly running against the edge of the stack of towels tucked up under arm. “I saw my dad walk off to the house, but she wasn’t with him.”

“No, I haven’t. But if they’re back, she should be around here somewhere. Is there something wrong? Are you alright?”

Sarah inhales, round eyes widening – caught – but she shakes her head. “No, of course not. I just . . . I’m just wondering if they had a successful trip.” 

If you knew her better than only for six weeks, you’d think she might be anxious. She goes quiet as she watches the barn doors. The arch in her neck belies tension. You realize she has one of your dresses folded over her arm. 

“Sarah, are you –,”

Everett’s irritated whinny cuts you short and the barn door is thrown back as a short figure tugs the off-white horse into the cool half-light. 

“Yeah, I know I smell. It’s not like you’re a bucket of roses either, pal.” 

At least crazy runs in the family. 

“How was the run?” Sarah asks immediately as Everett clops by dramatically, the weight of the world seemingly on his hooves. The kerchief around Ellie’s neck is crusted over with dirt. 

“Good. Really good, actually. Got a shit load of supplies.” 

Ellie, another changed casualty in all of this. Except, instead of shedding an old skin, she’s grown a new one. The original. Something that, perhaps, always was there. 

She removes the saddle with practiced ease, despite it being nearly twice her size, and puts it on the stock post, just as Joel had shown her. She returns to Everett with a brush and a blanket, because the sun is going down soon and the night will be cold – just like Joel had told her. She banters a bit with Sarah, the work almost mindless with her confidence.

She has taken to this life like a fish takes to water, as Anna would have said. 

But what would your sister think of this life you had rushed her daughter into? Are calloused hands and thick, ruddy skin – supply runs into ghost towns – all that she wanted for her only child?

This, among threads of Joel, keeps you up at night. 

But these are the least of Sarah’s concerns about Ellie. Her fingers dig into your dress as if to physically stop herself from lunging forward. 

“What’s the town like? Are there people still there? Has anyone new come in?”

Ellie shrugs as she unhooks Everett’s bridle. “Boring, like four, and I probably wouldn’t know.” Ellie’s eyes widen, a small smile unfurling across her lips. “But we found a radio. Joel said we couldn’t keep it but – oh, wait, Joel said he was looking for you. Had something he wanted to show you.” 

You blink as Ellie and Sarah, in twin movements, glance to you.

“Oh? What was it?”

“I dunno. But he’s up in the kitchen unpacking the supplies if you wanna go ask.” 

“Was there–,” The corners of Sarah’s mouth goes red as she is suddenly seized by a violent, hacking cough. Both you and Ellie move towards her, but she waves you off. She steps back, turning her mouth into her elbow, her back shuddering as she gasps in air only to choke on it again. 

“Must’ve – breathed wrong–,” her eyes are watery. “I’m – fine.” 

In recent weeks, despite the rest of her body prospering, Sarah’s cough had turned rather rough. But every time you check her airways, she’s clear. Still, the concern lingers – you see it in Ellie’s eyes too. It’s not the kind of cough that comes from polio, you know this. You self-soothe with this. But you think of the white flags in the fields and something sour rolls down your spine.

You meet Ellie’s gaze while Sarah’s back is turned. Excitement, agitation, they had been bringing on more and more coughing spells – whenever Sarah tried to breathe too deeply. Ellie shakes her head at you, jerking her head back towards the house. I got this. In a low tone, she offers Sarah some water who drinks it gratefully. 

 It’s not the kind of cough that comes from polio.

The last bit of sunlight drips down below the horizon, lazy and pungent. A quick glance out to the fields, you can barely see the flags in the periwinkle distance. The air is warm, buzzing with a lingering heat from the escaping sun. You inhale, closing your eyes just for a moment, as you slope up the creaking wooden steps to the porch, and exhale, a chaff of tension sliding off your shoulders. 

When you first came here, you could barely stand the thought of being alone in the same room as him, just like with any other man. But eventually you learned that Joel Miller is unlike any other man in the world, unlike anyone you’ve ever met before. The foreign alchemy of his quiet nature, his diligence over the land, and his deep, endless well of love for Sarah was all at once confusing and – strangely – exciting. 

Earning Joel’s trust precipitated a steady climb or thundering fall – you just weren’t sure which yet. 

Despite the lateness of the hour, Joel hasn’t turned on the kitchen lights, coating the kitchen in a film of purple, blurring edges, and spreading shadows. His broad back greets you first, arm still deep in his pack at the table, when you shut the back door and move for the sink. 

“Ellie says the supply run went well. I hope that means you didn’t run into any trouble.” The rushing of the faucet saves him from having to answer, but you feel his eyes on your back, your shoulders, the flat seat of your hat between your shoulder blades. Brown muck runs down the drain. 

“It was fine. Did she mention anything?”

“No.” You shake your head, digging at the dirt under your nails with another hand. “Why? What did you find?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, at least.” 

Joel never rushes unless he means to. He holds everything in before he speaks, each word as deliberate as the sway of his shoulders, the crunch of his knuckles. But this – how he talks now as if the words he says are chosen at the very last second – it feels like he’s hiding something.

In the failing light, you face him, eyebrows tugged down. 

“Joel? What is it?” 

At the table, he’s no longer digging around in the pack. With one hand on the table, fingers lightly pressing into the wood surface, he stands as if bracing for impact. He works his jaw back and forth, eating letter after letter, word after word, until –

“C’mere.” 

The deep timber of his voice strokes the back of your neck, releasing a quiver down your spine, heart suddenly up in your throat. It’s not fear you’re feeling, not exactly, but it makes you break out in goosebumps all the same. 

You go to him without question. 

But like a magnet repelled, he steps back the closer you get. With his gaze, he points to the array of supplies. On the table, in almost a sterile, clinical order, is the cache of medical items you requested. Medicine for Sarah, potential treatments for burns or cuts. The bigger items like splints or canes aren’t there, you didn’t expect them anyway, but you could treat the four of you for months with what they’ve found. You open your mouth, praise and appreciation on the tip of your tongue, but he still hasn’t looked up, hasn’t looked at you. He stares at the pack on the table with trepidation.

Wordlessly compelled, you reach into the nearly empty pack until your hand closes around one single item.

You draw it out, the jar cool against your overheated skin.

Luxor. You can’t tear your eyes away from the glass jar. 

His voice is so rough it barely makes it out of his mouth.

“For burns.” His gaze drops to your hands, which have since healed after the night of Sarah’s fit. Weeks ago, in fact. “It wasn’t on the list, but –,”

Oh, Joel. Your throat is sealed shut. You have to nearly wrench your jaw open to push words out of your mouth.

“No, no, that’s fine – that’s –,” you press the glass to the spread of your clavicle to ease your pounding heart. 

This wasn’t on the list. And yet he . . .

Your choice was either to look at him or shatter apart. 

How can a man almost fifty years old look so boyishly uncomfortable? 

“This . . . I . . . this is wonderful. Thank you, Joel. I mean it. Thank you so much. ”

You can already smell the rose water. You wonder if Joel likes the smell of rose water. His jaw unclenches enough, relieved, and his lips almost form – a memory, a dream, an aspiration of – a smile, and he says: 

“You’re welcome.”

In the half-light, you stare at him far longer than you ever have before – and he stares right back. 

In the half-light, you hear it, louder and more cruel than before:

You can’t deny this anymore.

“Okay, who can tell me the difference between genus and family in biological classification?”

One hand in the air.

“Yes?”

“A genus contains one or more species. A family contains one or more genera.”

“Correct. And how does this relate to our lesson last week?”

“We were identifying different species of crops, but how they often overlap in genera.” 

“Correct again.” 

You bend over and pick up the basket at your feet. In the motion, you can feel your dress unstick itself from the warm dampness clinging to your skin beneath your armpit. The summer day is hot, scorchingly so, and only made worse by the lack of a breeze and the immobile stench of cow in the barn air. It’s a different kind of smell than the one that soaked your husband’s dugout – burnt cow chips –  but it is still gut-churningly familiar. You wonder if Ellie remembers that smell as intensely as you do. 

But if she does, she doesn’t show it. Ellie always could hide her emotions better than you. Head down, she draws circles on the wooden table with her finger, side-by-side with Sarah. The girls’ chairs come from the dining room and the table is an old woodworking mount that Joel repurposed for your classroom. It’s uneven and heavy, but the wood is as smooth as butter. After the harvest, he promised a new one, but you don’t think you could bear getting rid of it.

Ellie jumps when you drop the basket in front of her. You return to the back of the barn, gather up another basket, and leave this one with Sarah, whose eyes grow wide when she catches a glimpse of the contents inside. 

With the single square of chalkboard, made from paint and grout, and a rapidly-dwindling nugget of chalk, you write three words:

Genus

Common name

Poisonous

The chalk clicks as you press a small circle beneath the question mark. 

“You have ten minutes to identify the genus of each of the mushrooms within your basket, as well as its common name and whether or not it’s poisonous.” 

Sarah sits up even further in her chair, eyes bright and mouth a sharp line. She loves pop quizzes. 

You had thought of Ellie’s strokes with her knife outside at sunset, her physicality with the animals, and her near abhorrence for traditional learning when designing this particular test. Despite her resistance to any sort of structure, Ellie had been quick to follow directions and provide support as Anna got sicker and sicker. Ellie would make a good nurse – a good anything – but that potential only simmers, never indulged. Anna would have known how to bring it out in her, you often think. The best you can do is try and adjust your lesson to make this at least partially entertaining for her. 

Her forehead shining, her gaze brushes each mushroom in the basket with slow intention.

“Licking them probably won’t help, right?” She smirks at you as she plucks one out and spins it with her fingers. Smartass, as always, but for once – engaged. You try to muffle the spark of excitement in your fingertips.

“That’s one way to determine if they’re poisonous or not,” you reply just as flippantly. “But you’d better be sure.” 

Ellie’s smirk lightens to a grin, her head tucking down as she starts to rifle through her basket. Sarah already has her basket empty and is sorting her mushrooms into the corners of her table. She hasn’t once looked up from her task since you set the timer. Head down, eyes bright, lips tucked tightly between her teeth, you can almost hear her reviewing her notes in her head as she carefully picks up each mushroom, testing the spongy flesh with her thumbnail, watching if any flakes fall off, and glancing at your handmade chart of the animal classifications every few touches. 

Ellie merely sniffs hers. 

You turn, hiding your grin to catch a glimpse of the outside blue sky.

The timer goes off and Flora groans at the loud noise. Sarah correctly identifies all the mushrooms, while Ellie only knows the poisonous kinds. Close enough and perhaps most practical. 

“Just so you know,” Ellie begins to Sarah, head again in the cradle of her palm, her eyes watching you as you swipe the mushrooms back into the basket, “most pop quizzes aren’t fun like that at a real school. Usually it’s just math and the clock makes an annoying little ticking noise the entire time.”

Sarah’s eyes brighten, I love math clearly on the tip of her tongue, before she settles a bit and she scoffs, sophomorically indignant. 

“Yeah, of course, I know that.”

“So you better hope they keep the school shut down for a long, long time.” Ellie leans back in her seat and presses the soles of her sneakers to the edge of the table. “That place is the worst.” 

Sarah shrugs, practicing some of Ellie’s casual indifference. “You’re probably right. It’s definitely lame. Just . . . it would be kinda cool for a change of scenery or whatever.”

“Um, you’re not gonna get a better change of scenery than this.” Ellie bats her eyelashes with her eyes crossed, tongue out, and Sarah giggles. 

“Oh, whatever,” she swats Ellie across her shin, “like you wouldn’t go crawling up the walls if you had to live here every single day, day in and day out.”

You slow in your collection of your supplies, something she said the day of the supply run scuttling up the banks of your memory to prod you in the back of your head. Ellie concedes by crossing her arms, contemplative. “Still better than school.” 

“How long did you go to the school in Dalhart?” You ask as you erase the white chalk on the board. 

“Since it opened,” Sarah replies. “I hadn’t gotten sick yet and it wasn't anything special. It was kinda far from here, but Dad always made sure I got there on time. He always wanted me to get an education, focus on school and studying. He never wanted me to be a farmer like him.”

That sends the front leg’s of Ellie’s chair to the hard, packed dirt. “Really? Why?”

“I dunno. But I guess it all worked out. I’m better at memorization and trig than I am at carrying a saddle.”

“What’s trig?” Ellie asks, head tilted. 

“It’s a kind of math –,”

“Advanced math,” you interject. 

“Yeah, I guess. But my teacher at school really made it fun! She’d stay after class and show me things that weren’t in the textbooks, or even in the syllabus. And Sam, he’d –,” 

All at once, Sarah’s mouth snaps shut, her eyes diving to the floor. She tugs a bouncy curl behind her ear as Ellie’s frown deepens.

“Sam? Who’s Sam?” 

“No one. He was just – this boy – in my grade and he was really good at trig too and he lived right outside Dalhart for years and sometimes he’d help me when I got stuck on certain problems,” Sarah rambles, her voice a tick higher. “His family left the year they shut the school down.”

You stifle a grin. A crush. Sarah Miller has a crush on a boy. Even at the end of the line, at the end of hope. 

Ellie, however, remains completely baffled.

“Yeah and? He’s just some guy.”

Sarah blanches at the suggestion that she might have to defend him past being “just some guy” while trying to keep her secret of him being “the guy” all at once, so you step in and save her.

“Did you ever spend time with Sam outside of school?”

Sarah shakes her head no. 

“Not even with a group of people?”

At that, she bites the corner of her mouth, the heel of her brown boot circling in the dirt. You know her cheeks are fire-hot.

“No. My dad totally would have found out.” 

Ellie stares at both of you as if you had started speaking gibberish. And then she blinks.

“Oh – you mean like a date.”

“Who’s going on a date?” 

The three of you jump at the masculine voice that breaks out from the back of the barn. Those thick brows furrow in as Joel visibly wonders if he walked into something he shouldn’t have. On the days you have class, he spends his time repairing things around the farm, often taking stock of the cellar in preparation for the harvest and then the winter. Whatever he had been working on has a wet flush peeking out from under his collar – not the heated lather that comes from the fields, but a run-off of the hot summer day. He wipes his brow, mouth parted slightly.

You stand upright, as if the headmaster had just strolled in. Well, to a certain point, he had. 

Ellie, with the least amount of skin in the game, rolls her eyes.

“We were talking about boys.”

One of those dark eyebrows twitch up as his gaze roams from Ellie to you to Sarah, who you think you see sink a fraction of an inch in her chair. 

“Oh.”

“We were learning about poisonous fungi as part of the curriculum on important flora,” you say pointedly to Ellie. “That particular topic came up at the end of the lesson. Both girls scored very well on their pop quiz.”

Joel nods, wiping his hands on his shirt. 

This Joel, the By-the-Light-of-Day Joel, is different from the Joel that meets you on the purple, blurry edge of night and day. The shadows that soften the world soften him too, the hidden planes of his face affording you delusions of further softness regarding his own feelings towards you – feelings of, if not companionship, at least respect. There were times you were righteously sure of how and where you stood in Joel Miller’s eyes – he appreciated you enough to watch over his land and his daughter – and then there were times you could have been on entirely different planets. A twisted Space Family Robinson, alone and lost in the cold vacuum. 

The Joel that gave you the cream for your burned palms is not the same Joel that stands before you. He fidgets with the rag in his hand, weight shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Sweat leaks into your hairline, and you are suddenly overcome by the desire for him to look at you. 

“Given how close it is to the harvest, I thought having some extra hands who know what we’re looking for might help. Might be useful to you.”

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, as his gaze falls to Sarah. “But I don’t want you overworking anything.” 

Her eyelashes flutter as she rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m not overworking myself. I’ve been studying, like you asked.” 

“And it shows in your work.” You smile. Sarah pins you with her own vulnerable gaze. “You’re an excellent student, Sarah.” 

The tension in her shoulders eases and she sits up straighter, grinning. 

Something flashes across Ellie’s face out of the corner of your eye and she leans forward, mouth twisted with a thick smirk.

“Bet you were a lot better student with Saaam around!”

“Ellie, shut up!” She springs up in agitation, her eyes wide, her jaw tight as she rounds on the other girl.

“Who’s Sam?”

“The boy Sarah’s going on a date with–,”

“I am not!” Sarah snaps, her voice wavering at the end. 

Those dry lips curl up, a smile hidden somewhere beneath that wiry beard, and Joel puts his hands on his hips. “I know that��s right. No dating ‘til you’re thirty.” 

Sarah’s grip tightens around the back of her chair, her mouth tipped down, eyes blazing. 

“That’s not funny, Dad.”

“I’m not tryin’ to be funny,” he replies, very seriously. “Just want you to know the rules.”

Whether or not Joel actually has any rules around Sarah’s dating life, it doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

The point is that he very clearly, unintentionally or not, brushed up against something that, for Sarah, was very, very tender. 

She stands, awkwardly lurching out of her chair as it catches on the dirt floor. Her delicate fingers clenched into fists, she darts off for the back door.

“It’s not like anything’d ever happen anyway,” and she’s out into the sunlight. 

By the shocked look on Joel’s face, that might be the first teen tantrum he’s ever witnessed. Instinctively, he takes a step forward, an apology in the curve of his lips, but you reach out with a hand, even though he’s several feet from you.

“Joel –,” your fingers flutter close, politely rejecting the implication they know what his skin feels like. “Just give her some time.” You glance at Ellie, whose expression is dark, confused. “Both of you. She needs some time to cool down.”

Joel frowns at you, more at your words, evidently just as confused as Ellie. Of course a man could not fathom why it would feel so ridiculously cruel to a girl to be teased about a boy by her father. You smile at Joel’s instinct, your own father never possessing such a level of concern. A girl could be such a fragile thing after all.

“Would you talk to her? After she, hm, has some space?” 

His thumb anxiously edges the ridges of his forefinger, then his palm. He looks at you, uncomfortable, as if his request is particularly unwieldy, too much for anyone but him to bear. But, to you, this gift is lighter than air.

Joel’s trust makes your heart soar. 

Only to come crashing down. 

You are not capable of this kindness, this nurturing, guiding hand that some women and men ingratiate on instinct alone. You’ve failed Ellie, you know – you feel it in the distance between you and your niece – the best you can offer is a teacher, a thoughtful friend whose insular life is a world away entirely. No more, even when she needs it the most.

Nurture. It’s not what you do. 

“I – I can’t – I don’t know what – would she even listen to me because I don’t think –,”

There’s a conviction in his eyes as he looks at you that wasn’t there when you first set foot on the homestead, an acquired belief that had grown over the past few weeks with you as you learned and serviced the land under his guiding hands. 

That ping of his steel gaze against the porcelain of your skin. It makes something within you sing. 

  “Alright, Joel. I’ll try.” 

Quietly, without much conjecture or fanfare, Sarah has taken over doing the laundry for the whole house.

She rises with the sun. Not the blurry violet light smearing shadows, but the dawn – bold, bright, loud and full of thunderous color. She rises in the gold morning and, arms full of sweaty, dirt-thick clothes, she gathers them all into a white wicker basket and takes them out into the backyard near the spigot and the wide, low-set wooden basin. From the time you see the screen door shutter open until the moment you and Joel guide the heat-lathered animals back into the barn, she scrubs the dirt loose on the metal washboard then pinches the clothes high in the white, dry air.

And then, in the falling darkness, she carries her wicker basket, attached to her hip, around the house, laying out towels in the proper cupboards, and folded shirts smelling of sun-drenched air inside heavy dresser drawers. She tucks her dresses inside the line-thin wardrobe and, occasionally, she lays yours out on the bed. 

So it’s not entirely surprising to find her in the room you share with Ellie – the room that used to hold storage, old suitcases, and paintings, things of Joel’s foremothers and forefathers, where Ellie has now started to store her collection of unearthed arrowheads and snake skins – standing at the foot of your bed, with your yellow dress between her fingers. 

What is surprising, however, is the reverent, almost-delicate way she touches the buttons, strokes the faded lace, pinches the thin fabric between her fingers, like it’s made of threaded gold. Like it’s so much more than just a dress.

You watch her for a moment, from the shadows of the hallway. With Ellie, you never had to pick apart her feelings – either she made them known or would snap and snarl at anyone who dared to coax them out. Anna had eventually stopped coming to you for advice as you both got older, deciding to handle her personal problems all on her own because everything you said turned out wrong. You worked so well with your hands because your mouth couldn’t be trusted to be of any help.

And yet, looking at a girl who is brave and curious, but perhaps as lonely as you are – maybe you could just speak from the heart instead. As you get closer, under the sloshing anxiety, curiosity tugs on you: why did she come here – to your room? 

“My mother gave me that.” Sarah jumps at your voice, the late afternoon sun through the window coaxing the russet out of her curls and her large brown eyes. She drops your dress as if she had been snooping around in your things as opposed to simply doing her self-assigned chores and steps back. 

“I’m sorry – I-I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just . . . it’s pretty.” 

“She made it by hand,” you say. “But you have dresses just as pretty, Sarah.” 

You slide away from the door frame to touch the dress on the bed. It had been your mother’s. You always hated it. You thought, briefly, when she first tossed it to you, that it might be cursed. Might bring down your father’s eye towards you, away from her for once. And you had been right – sort of. He came for you all the same, the dress nothing but a waving flag that to him signaled your own complicity. But Sarah stares at it with a certain fascination, roused into alertfulness by something awakening inside her. 

The conditions of the farm, of being field hand, barely lent itself to the constriction of being beautiful, of being lovely and soft. You, like every other challenge that had been placed in front of you, swallowed that fact whole; an acceptance that Joel didn’t seem to care what you wore because he didn’t care to look at you at all. 

You sit on the bed, watching the young girl in front of you. She’s made improvements, her health not the underlying current in every room for weeks now, but now, sitting so close to her, you can see the weight of that disease. The weight of an unconscious consumption in a conscious body. Sarah’s hand trembles as she touches the dress again. 

“I don’t have anything of my mother’s,” she says simply. “I don’t have anything I didn’t make or my dad bought in Dalhart.” 

The dress means so much to her precisely because it’s your mother’s. Sarah doesn’t know how she fell apart, just that she raised you. Staring at your mother’s dress, you are quite confident that she would hiss and spit at the hard woman you’ve become. For once, and gratefully, this dress no longer feels like hers, or yours because you had avoided the same fate that befell her while entombed in this dress. And you weren’t about to subject Sarah to your family’s curse. 

You stand and pull out a blue pin-striped dress from your drawer, one that you’d had since you were her age, but one that never seemed quite right and over the years had grown too short on your calves and too small around the waist. You take it out and hold it over her shoulders.

“I think this is about your size.” You inspect it thoughtfully. “Have it. Wear it for the next school year. Or, one day, on your first day as a freshman in college.” 

She peels the dress away from her body like it sticks uncomfortably to her skin and laughs – a huff, a sharp release between tight ribs. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t like it?” Your heart seizes – did you say the wrong thing?

“Oh, no, no, no – I do – it’s beautiful, I’m sorry, I mean – but school – college – I don’t think it’s for me.” 

The dress bunches in her fists as she holds it in her lap. She hasn’t drawn it towards her but hasn’t set it on the bed. You frown. She is capable enough to pass the entrance exams and she knows it too. This is something else, something you could see she didn’t want to address directly, or simply couldn’t. 

Your mother’s yellow dress was a signal for you too: a blazing icon, a silent voice screaming –  you don’t belong with these people with whom you share only blood. You do not belong to them.

The silence stretches thin, lean and taught. You don’t know how to pick up the threads of her denials, so you simply march forward, into the crux of things.

“I was wondering if we could talk about today.” You start over. “An outburst like that isn’t all like you at all, Sarah, and your father and I are concerned. You know he was just teasing you.”

Her hands tighten their grip around the folds of your dress. “I know.” She squeezes her eyes shut. The silence lingers, sitting down heavy on the mattress underneath you. What do you say to a fourteen year old whose girlhood was vastly different from yours? Who has a father that loves her and a safe place to sleep at night – how could you possibly compare? As dozens, if not hundreds, of compassionate but meaningless comforting cliches race through your head, you take her hand and squeeze it and you decide to tell her what you at fourteen always dreamed of hearing.

“It’s okay if he doesn’t understand you, Sarah, but he loves you. He’d do anything for you.”

“I know. “ She repeats in a voice that says she doesn’t. The back of her free hand pressed against her lips, she lets out a sound like a hiccup and sob. Sarah closes her eyes with a sigh. “You’re right. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get it. And even though Ellie and I have gotten really close . . . she doesn’t get it either.” 

You scoot closer to her and squeeze her hand again. “Doesn’t get what, darling?” 

Sarah lifts her gaze and you see hope in her shiny gaze. A flame, small, but bright – flickering, building as if swelling under music, a tune that existed without shape or ears to hear it until this moment. 

Until something sang out to it. 

“How?”

“How what?”

“How do you see the world?” 

You sit back and she leans forward, the blue dress tighter in her hands than ever before, that spark in her eyes burning.

“I want to be like you and go to Boston. I . . . I wanna see skyscrapers and ride in taxis and take elevators as high as they can go. I wanna ride across the country on a train and eat in beautiful restaurants. I want to go to college, to learn, and carry textbooks, and go to a giant stadium and watch football – and I –,”

She swallows down a gulp of air, hands shaking from the tension in her knuckles, and in the pause, you touch her shoulder, like you would Flora if she were agitated. That completely derails her train of thought and she lets out the air in her lungs with a sigh so fast, it’s almost a hiss.

“Sarah, darling, why do you think you won’t ever have those things? Your dad wants you to be happy, to follow any dream you have –,”

“But I can’t leave him.” 

Sarah’s thumb rubs the thin fabric almost mournfully. When she speaks, her voice is tight, cramped with grief. 

“He’s given everything he has to keep me healthy and safe, especially because it’s just been the two of us for so long. More than anything, I want to make him proud, and so I study, and I study, and I work hard the only way I can –,” she swallows, her long lashes fluttering against her skin. “I can’t abandon him. I won’t. Not for something this . . . silly.”

Calmly, she puts the dress on the bed and stands, her hand and shoulder slipping out of your grasp, the wicker laundry basket still at her feet. 

“Thank you for the dress. But I think it'd be better if we just . . . forget about this.”

There is so much of you in her, it hurts to accept she is not yours, in any capacity.

“Sarah, do you know what rouge is?” 

The resignation melts from her face, those curls twisting towards you in curiosity. 

“I think so? It’s what women wear on their faces, right? To make their lips . . . um, redder?”

“Have you ever worn it?” 

Eyes go wide; a dawning and the enforcement of protection for a vulnerable thing all at once. “No?”

“Would you like to?”

You stand and go to the tan, leather trunk. It’s old, out of time, bears the marks of the frontier before it was settled and it keeps the last few talismans you’ve dragged to the ends of the earth. Your hand goes to a small cloth bag at the bottom.

Sarah is like you in many ways, but then again, she is nothing like you.

The day you and Anna ran away from home was the best day of your life. So much so, it became your escape strategy for everything. Run and hide for cover until the storm has passed. Staring up at you, her brown eyes blazing with hope as you gesture for her to come back into the room, you know Sarah has never run away from anything in her life. So, in this moment, you decide to bring everything else to her. 

“My sister and I lived next to an old woman when we were kids. Our parents were always out working, so we stayed with her a lot. And she always let us play around in her cosmetics.” You sit, the click of blush compacts and mascara loud as you dig through the bag“A girl in school must always look her best.” You pause and pull out what you were looking for. “This is real rouge from Lancome. Would you like to wear it?”

Eyes wider still, she drops onto your bed as if her knees suddenly gave out, her head nodding vigorously. She watchest the small tail of the brush twist in your fingers, around and around the pot, gathering the paste like dust on a wet cloth. 

“Open your mouth. Just a little bit, soften your lips. Yep, just like that.” 

She jerks back, half her mouth as pink as a sunset and curled up into a giggle. “Sorry, that tickled. It’s cold.”

“Feels weird, right?” You wrinkle your nose at her with a smile. She nods, grinning.

“Sorry, I’ll be still, I promise. Keep going, please.” 

You finish her lips and return to your cosmetics clutch. The metal lining is cold, as if it had been left in the dark. With care, you push the realization that you haven’t touched this bag in weeks out of your head. 

“You know, my sister loved getting all dolled up like this. Tilt your head to the window.” 

“Really?” Sarah murmurs. “From how Ellie talks about her . . .”

“Hard to believe, right?”

She doesn’t want to move again, but the eye contact she makes with you is all the sheepish nod you need. 

“By the time Ellie came around, there really wasn’t much time to spoil ourselves like this.” You smile softly, adding a few more strokes of blush against her high cheekbones. “But, a long time ago, Anna was an artist.” 

Sarah hums noncommittally, her gaze hovering around the edges of the window sill. When the blush kit clicks close, she looks at you. 

“My uncle Tommy was – is – that way too.”

“How so?”

“He liked writing stories, which I guess is a different kind of artist. But he’d come up with these crazy fairytales and I always thought he got them from books, but he said he made them up, off the top of his head.” She quiets when you take out the small palette of eyeshadow and tell her to close her eyes. “I think that’s why he left in the first place. He didn’t want to stay on this farm his whole life.” 

Her skin is soft, forgiving, as you dust the powder over her eyelids with your ring finger, the lightest touch you can offer. 

“Have you seen him since he left?”

“No,” she says, staying as still as possible. “Dad says if he wanted to see us, he’d make the effort . . . or he wouldn’t have moved out there at all.” 

Her words slide a stint up into the crevices of your heart, the reasoning behind her hesitancy to leave all the more apparent, but you close the two-color palette without saying anything else. With a few flicks, you finish her glamor with some light mascara.

“Now,” you say as you close the black tube. “Would you like to see yourself?”

Sarah’s eyes spring open, the russet vein of that thrumming, hopeful fire bright.

“Yes. Yes, please.” 

Despite the erosion of the very core of you brought on by the sheer enormity of what it takes to survive in this world, this little tarnished gold disc is the weight of your own vanity in the palm of your hand. Yet every time you open it, you hoped for a glimpse of Anna’s beautiful blue eyes, the curve of her smile, the bounce of a dark curl the way she kept it as a child. The mirror rarely felt like a mirror, more a clear window into the murky cold fog of your past. 

To every cop and ticket-taker on a train who looked through your purse, you kept a compact mirror for vain, silly reasons because, as a woman, you are a vain and silly thing. 

But at the look in Sarah Miller’s eyes, as you reveal the great and powerful secrets of ancient sisterhood to her, this compact is a mirror, and a window, and a weapon all at once. 

“This . . . is what I look like?” Her voice is barely a whisper. She turns her head slowly back and forth slowly, the powder shimmering on her cheeks, a queen surveying her jewels. “H-h-how?” 

“Practice.” You hand her the compact and she takes it, her own hand trembling. She hasn’t looked away from the mirror for an instant. You sit beside her on the bed, her crossed knee pressing up against your thigh and you wait. You wait until she’s had her look, until she’s absorbed her image from every angle, and you slip the cosmetics bag into her lap. She stares at it, and then her eyes widen. “And the right tools. With that, you can do this anytime you want. Do anything you want.” 

“Really?” Small. Hesitant. Hopeful. 

“Really. It’s yours . . . to do what you want with it.” 

“Then I want to do it to you!” Sarah’s smile erupts across her face immediately, her fingers digging into the soft pink material. “I have to practice somehow and I think Ellie will come after me with that knife of hers if I try it on her.” 

You grin, already picturing Ellie’s hackles going straight up if she sees Sarah anywhere near her with that bag. You nod and Sarah actually squeals. You can’t help but grin as she flips through the jars and compacts in the bag.

“Okay, okay – it’s easier to start with any concealer – this one. I didn’t use any on you because you’re far too young and beautiful to need it.” 

Sarah flushes as she unscrews the pot and takes up the brush you hold out for her. With familiar diligence, Sarah’s hand is steady and her dark eyes are clear and focused. She absorbs every instruction you give her, every tip you offer. 

For a minute, there is no farm. No debt to be paid. No pain or disfigurement. Only a bond, one willingly given and one willingly taken. For once in your life, connection is wonderfully easy. 

“Did you know it’s Ellie’s birthday tomorrow?” You ask after a while, mouth stiff as she applies rouge to your lips.

Sarah stops, her eyes widening. “No! She hasn’t said anything!” But then she makes a face. “Actually, I think I’d be more shocked if she did.” 

“I know there isn’t much I can offer her all the way out here. But . . .” And maybe this is where you take it a step too far. All Joel asked of you was to make sure Sarah was alright. None of this had anything to do with the argument she had with her father. Maybe this is incredibly selfish on your part. But, whether you – or Joel – like it or not, you care for Sarah, in a way that was entirely different and exactly like how you cared for Ellie. You couldn’t help but want more than to make sure that Sarah is just alright. You pull away from the brush in her hand and hold her gaze. “I was wondering if you wanted to help me make her a cake.” 

Sarah’s face nearly shines with joy.

Cool. 

A sensation that draws heat, soothes aggravation, exhilarates that which is dry.

Water, fresh and clear, anoints your forehead and sinks into your hair. It pours off your shoulders, catching the soft skin near your hips, your calves. Droplets pepper your toes like embers from a fire. 

Another splash and the water spills over the crown of your head, through the thickness of your already damp hair, threatening to drip onto the back of your neck and send a flood of chills down your exposed skin – 

But a warm hand cups you near the base of your skull and a new sensation flutters awake, this time from within.

“Good?” His voice. You hear it more in your chest. It’s deep, rumbling. Patient. 

You can’t find enough of your body to tell him, yes, Joel, yes, feels so good.

His wide hand slides down your bare back, a warm stone against the river of your skin, and another spout of water drenches you again. 

A second hand joins the exploration of your body, massaging and squeezing all at once. Slow, steady fingers curl around the wings of your ribs, then where your skin thickens and swells, his nails scraping across the low curve of your breasts.

Oh. Oh, Joel. 

“Tell me you want this.”

That voice prickles your ears, the rough scrape of a beard nebulous on your shoulder, just as you had always hoped it would be. Water splashes you again and every inch of your shudders.

“I won’t stop.”

Don’t. Please. 

“I won’t stop. You just have to pick it up.” 

His hands are gone, his warmth evaporated. 

The water is suddenly slick, lichen-drenched, and stagnant. It lurks by your ankles.

Pick it up. 

The stone walls at the bottom of the well ring with coldness. You shiver, naked and alone. Afraid, as frozen as a block of salt. 

Don’t just stand there. You’ll never do it. Just pick it up. That voice. You hate that voice.

The barrel of the gun brushes against the edge of your foot, the head of a snake gliding in the water –

You grab wakefulness by the throat and use it to yank yourself out of the nightmare. 

The familiar silence of the early gray morning in the kitchen that had become comfortable as of late is decidedly – worryingly – not. Your shoulders are taut, straight as a board from end to end. Over the suds and the dishes your hands move mechanically, ignoring the clatter of knives and forks and the rush of water. But above everything else, it’s the expression on your face that concerns Joel the most.

Even when you’ve worked yourself to exhaustion, there’s normally a light in your eyes that settles something restless inside of him, even after hours of labor. A source of strength that he finds himself eager to chase, to let it flood him – but right now, as you stand at the kitchen sink, you’re gone. Elsewhere, disappeared into blackness where that brightness used to be. 

If he were a different man, a man capable of this sort of concern, he could ask you about it. At the very least get you to look at him. During breakfast, amidst the girls’ playful bickering, you hadn’t even noticed he, or anyone, was there. You had eaten as though your spine had been sealed to an iron rod – stiff, painful. Ellie and Sarah had run out a while ago, Sarah leaving to gather up the laundry and Ellie to let the animals out to pasture. He isn’t even sure if you noticed that he stayed behind, but that stirring behind his chest, one that’s become more insistent when you’re around, froze up to a painful knot at the thought of leaving you alone like this. Like you were caught someplace where you might not come back from. 

So, straddling this widening gap he fears slipping off of, Joel lands on the only thing he knows where there is some common ground:

“Don’t think I said anything before, but Ellie’s a pretty brave kid.” 

At her name, you blink. Slow the scrub of soap across the plate, then stop. You look at him and the darkness is not so deep in your gaze. He busies his hands with picking up a rag and beginning to dry the stack of plates to your right.

“Oh?” Recognition flickers over your face as if you’re suddenly aware of who you were talking to. A tender crease appears between your eyes. He dries off another plate and turns to face the sink, to hide the curve of his mouth from you. 

“You’re surprised.” 

You blink, glance down at his hands, and pick up the sponge again. 

“No – I’m not – I mean, I know she’s a good kid, but . . .” You swallow, brow furrowed again. “What did she say to you?”

“Hm, not so much said anything as just listened. Stayed close, kept quiet. Left no rock unturned.” The edges of his sleeves are damp. You have your dress sleeves pushed all the way up past your elbows; it’s Saturday, a brief respite from the cycle of labor in the fields. The skin over your forearm and wrist looked particularly delicate against the breakfast table, now hidden by the soap and the water. Joel dries the cup in his hand with a bit more force. “She’s smart too. Knew all about iodine and what it’s used for. Had some idea how to seal up a hot water bottle. I’s glad to have her with me.” 

You actually snort – without an ounce of respectability – and he stares at you, transfixed by a noise he’s fairly certain he’s never heard you make before. You duck your head as the small smile falls off your face, scrubbing the fork in your hand a bit rougher.

“Sorry. It’s just . . . Ellie doesn’t get along with most people, or . . . anyone for that matter. Sarah – well, Sarah could make friends with a feral cat so I’m not surprised they get along. But you . . .” You trail off and Joel shifts his weight back and forth, all the possibilities of what you meant reverberating in the spaces between his ribs. “I guess I’m just glad she didn’t piss you off.”

“Oh, it takes a lot to piss me off. ‘Cause I’m a casual and easy-going kinda guy, y’know.” 

You freeze again as if he had just tried to convince you the sky was green and you should be looking for some sort of head trauma. He lets a small grin spread over his mouth, even brighter as your eyes widen. A joke. He is teasing you. 

A soft, barely intimate gesture. 

You smile. He feels something shift in his chest. Whatever else happens today, he’ll keep that smile in his breast pocket. He clears his throat.

“Nah, she’s a good kid. Just needs an outlet, I think.” 

You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the sink. The cream lace curtains drawn horizontally across the window block out the brightening horizon. An early morning breeze smooths across the pasture grass, the light weak with the sun still low in the sky. The silence that follows is easier, something he can stomach. In the sink, the water sloshes, silverware clatters, and the plates squeak when he dries them off. The faint curves of your mouth he sees out of the corner of his eyes embolden him further.

“She, hm, ever mentioned any interest in music?”

You shrug. “Ellie and her mother loved dancing to our neighbor’s radio in our apartment in Boston. Why do you ask?”

“She found a radio while we were in town the other day, and she was curious. But with no radio here, the best I can do is a guitar – I know’ve got one around here somewhere and I figured she might like to learn some chords. But I wanted – hm –,” that goddamn tickle in the back of his throat, “wanted to make sure it’d be alright with you if I showed her a couple of things.” 

Eyes wide, soft lips parted – he doesn’t know where to carry the look you’re giving him now. 

“Y-yeah, Joel, that’ll be fine. If you think that’ll make her happy, then . . . of course.”

He nods, slowly, the hot realization that he’ll now have to approach Ellie with an offer for guitar lessons pricking the back of his neck. Her bewildered expression probably won’t look much different from his own.

“‘Least I could do, after what you did with Sarah.” He means going to talk to her, not the immense relief you’ve provided her physically the last few months. He still hasn’t said thank you for that – or that you indulge in her every academic desire or curiosity. There’s no question too outrageous or problem too difficult that she brings to you – and curiously, you seem delighted every time. “She, uh, she’s getting older and I don’t always . . .” It’s an admission of his own shortcomings and it twists his gut. But then that radiant smile returns to your face and he thinks he feels that restrictive choke of guilt ease . . . just a bit.

“She’s very special, Joel. We had fun.” You finish laying out the last bits of damp silverware and a plate or two on the drying rack, your hands all white with soap bubbles. And then you pause. “She . . .”

He catches the brush of your gaze as you look away, shoulders suddenly rigid. You were about to say something, something you assume that he doesn’t already know about Sarah. You have something precious of Sarah’s and you don’t look willing to share.

“What?” It comes out a bit rougher than he means, but his heart rate is up a tick and the corners of his mouth are dry. “She, what?”

You unplug the drain, your movements slow, hesitant.

“She has dreams, Joel, just like every other teenage girl.” 

“Of course she does. I know that.”

The murky water swirls low with a gurgle. You follow it with your eyes, the timbre of your voice low, but firm. “If you want to go out there and ask her what they are, then by all means, go talk to her. But she trusted me to keep her confidence.” 

He swallows, as much as your words burn him – deeper and hotter than he expected – you’re right, of course. But now, for the first time, there is a visible crack between him and his daughter. A wet slippery feeling snakes around the bottom of his spine, tying a knot in his stomach and grinding his voice down to a growl. 

“That is not your decision to make.” 

Your mouth is set firm, but the brightness of your eyes has faded, more distance between you and reality. More space, on the edge of a protective cavern. You step back, about two arm lengths away. 

“Joel,” you begin. “She is entitled to her privacy.” 

The knot in his stomach expands up into his ribs. His heart beats faster, attempting to stretch away from the hot iron in his gut but he can’t escape it. “What did you two talk about?”

“School. Makeup. Clothes. Her life here. ” 

His hands sweat. “What about her life? Is she unhappy?” 

“Oh, God, no, Joel, she loves you and she loves being here with you. She just wants –,”

“What? What does she want?” You stiffly turn to put away the dishes, to close him off, but he steps closer, over the already blurring lines. “Look, I took you and Ellie in off the streets – I hired you – to come here and look out for her – act as her nurse, her teacher – to keep her safe. Not to keep secrets from me.” 

Your spine goes rigid, just like it was at breakfast, as you gingerly put the plates down on the counter. 

“And we’re enormously grateful for your kindness. You know that.” Hands pressed flat onto your hips, you turn and look at him, blank-eyed and drawn thin. You stare at him like he’s a stranger. Something completely foreign and unfamiliar – he hates that look. “Are you asking me as my employer?”

What else are you to me? 

Someone at least worth the weight of a jar of hand cream. 

He shoves back that thought as the fog of a dozen others crowd in to take its place.

“I am. I appreciate your help earlier, but this is the line. Is Sarah alright or not?”

You glance away from him, as if he might find the truth in your eyes. “What she’s experiencing is perfectly normal for a girl her age. You wouldn’t understand.” 

The ground trembles, unsteady, beneath him. Where had he gone wrong? He didn’t feel the earthquake but now can see the broken faultline, the great maw opening its jaws beneath his feet. Fear, so dark and deep – it threatens to swallow him whole, but he gets his hands around it, by the throat, and snaps it clean in two. Joel narrows his eyes. 

“Somethin’ I do understand is Ellie’s been eyein’ my gun since day one. What kind of fourteen year old girl s’after that? ” 

At that, you blanch. It’s like he can see the bile rise up in the back of your throat, sit on your tongue and stay there. You’ve gone totally still, barely breathing. Joel isn’t sure if he’s satisfied or not that the remark landed its blow so thoroughly. 

“She’s just a c-child who wants to pretend she’s an adult. Just like S-Sarah.”

His fist curls around the damp rag in his hand, desperate for something to hold onto, to squeeze until the ground feels solid, but his anger isn’t fortifying him anymore. The next words out of his mouth are disgustingly desperate. 

“Is that what this is about? Did Ellie say something to her?” 

“Ellie? What? No! No, this has n-nothing to do with Ellie.” You look at him, something tender and wounded flashing there and it chills the heat rising in his chest just for an instant. “I would tell you if it was something serious. Don’t you trust me?” 

But you can’t come between him and Sarah. Nothing should.

The black chasm that he feels compelled to claw back against breeches open again. Edges crumbling beneath his fingers. Sarah, Sarah –  is the only one who matters. 

The muzzle runs its clammy tongue up the back of his spine, releasing a landslide of heavy dread across his body. His anxiety peaks in a wave and as it crests, he slams his hand on the counter, a blown fuse. 

“No, goddamn it, I don’t!” 

Jaw locked, he whips his head up. Whatever sits sour on his tongue, when he looks at you, it turns to a block of ice.

Where it bubbles up like black tar behind his chest, a thing that possesses him, you watch him with horror. Eyes wide, lips drawn so tight they’re practically nonexistent, hand around your throat as if to protect it preventively.

The bracing skeleton of indignant rage melts from his body so fast his brain goes fuzzy. He wasn’t thinking – wasn’t thinking about how you flinched, tears in your silver-dollar eyes, at the loud sound that time he accidentally knocked a pot to the floor. He had never seen you so bewildered and terrified – until now.

“Look, I’m–I’m not . . .” he swallows, “I didn’t mean it.” 

He watches your eyes drop to his hand curled around the edge of the counter and he intentionally relaxes the muscle. He stands up right, but leans back from you, giving you space. The tension in your shoulders eases only a fraction. “She doesn’t . . . doesn’t have to tell me everything, but I just wanna make sure that she’s safe, and happy. Can you at least give me that?”

You’re breathing rapidly, eyes watching his hand at his side as if anticipating it curling into a fist. He turns his palms up in supplication – he really, really didn’t mean to lose control like that –  and he steps back until he’s up against the door leading to the cellar down below. The wood is warm against his back, but his shoulder bumps into the hinge and it pinches his skin.  

Your hands are no longer wrapped up in tight fists. With a deep inhale, you close your eyes, as if steadying yourself against a torrential wind. When you breathe out, it’s unsteady and shaky. 

“Physically and m-mentally, she’s fine. She’s j-just . . . just growing up.”

All this time, bits of you have been growing towards the light as the days and weeks pass. He’s watched you transform, can’t take his eyes off you some days, into this woman where before he had seen you as just a tool, another a rake or a trowel. Now you’ve curled back into yourself like nothing had ever happened between you and him – all it took was too-sharp a snap. Sarah always said his bark was worse than his bite. 

Joel takes a half a step forward and you take three steps back. Your hand is over your heart, fingers curling into the fabric, eyes still as wide as they had been the night in the general store, facing down those rangers entirely by yourself. Shit. 

He wants to ask you why you fear loud noises, wants to know who did this to you and why.

He’s not that kind of man who does this sort of thing, someone who scares women.

But he’s also not that kind of man who knows how to navigate the aftermath. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than a father and a worker. Hasn’t cared to be anything else for a long, long time, and the muscle has atrophied. Can’t be a friend. Not a companion. Not whatever paints his dreams with streaks the color of your eyes. 

“‘M gonna go find Sarah, talk to her, like you said,” he mutters, shuffling towards the back door. “If you – need – if you want –,”

His throat finally closes, shame making his gaze slippery and it slides away from your face. He doesn’t stay long enough to hear if your breathing has settled as he shuffles out the door and towards the barn.

The metal of the iron flares to an ugly, angry red, and you wipe your forehead before the sweat can drop onto the stove top and sizzle. With your teeth mashed together so tightly your jaw aches, you lift up the six-pound metal wedge up off the stove, shake it free of as much ash as possible, and then press it down onto Ellie’s collar shirt on the floor. Immediately you sweep up and down the length of the shirt, careful not to linger too long on any one spot, but sure to flatten the wrinkles.

Sad irons, is what Anna called them one day after taking in the laundry from the washing line outside. She had heard a few of the neighborhood bitties tittering about them and found the term hilariously apt. Sad irons because they’re more work than they’re good for. 

Truth be told, you liked ironing, only in certain instances though. Moments when you wanted physical exhaustion to serve as a numbing agent to the battle of emotions building between your ribs. Sweat drips down your neck, your knees aching from pushing into the hardwood floors, your arms and shoulders burning from lifting the hot iron up and down, as you rock back and forth to clear away every last wrinkle. 

Joel’s hand smacking against the counter echoes in your mind again and again and again, as the kitchen and the homestead and reality bends away from you as you tumble through memory after memory – distracted, the iron brushes up against your flesh and bites in.

You yelp, sucking the flat back of your thumb into your mouth to ease the sizzling burn, and you sit back onto your heels. 

Yes, the pain is bright and it stings, but not enough to draw tears to your eyes, and yet they well up all the same.

A single image breaks through the numbing barrier of pain: the jar of Luxor in your room. You want nothing more than to sink your scalded thumb into its cool gel, but instead the image alone threatens to crack a sob out of your chest. 

He wouldn’t have done anything. Nothing like your husband.

You know that, and you hate yourself a little bit that you reacted like that, even after all this time. Why couldn’t you stand your ground, even for Sarah? God, if you had cried in front of Joel – the mere thought of that embarrassment burns hotter than the sting on your thumb. 

He had gotten so close. Too close to the truth. What had Ellie told him about the gun, even by accident? Joel didn’t seem intent on calling the police, but he’d left so fast. He must have been so angry just to leave like that. 

As you open your eyes, a thought occurs to you and the strength of it nearly disconnects you from your body: what if you left?

Your gaze darts to the blue sky just outside the window, too low to see the gold ground but you know it’s there – just as wide and open as it had been that first night in Dalhart. 

What if you gathered up Ellie right now and ran? It had worked before, and this time you didn’t leave the evidence in the bottom of a well. He couldn’t prove anything, just the ramblings of a fourteen year old girl. 

Shit, what the hell did he know?

“Hiya!” Sarah skips in through the back door, arms full of fresh herbs in her basket.

“Be careful!” You snap at her, your thumb throbbing, tears and hasty decisions receding. “Don’t track in dirt – I just mopped.”

She freezes, catches sight of the iron and Elllie’s shirt. You haven’t looked up at her. Slowly she unlaces her boots at the door and steps gingerly onto the wooden floor. You can feel her eyes track you as she walks to the kitchen counter and drops off her basket. The anxiety pulsing beneath your skin ratchets up your heart rate, hot blood pounding in your ears. 

“So, um, anyway, I was wondering if we could talk about Ellie’s birthday. I know she loves chocolate, but Dalhart hasn’t had that in years. But I think we might have a bit of vanilla in the cellar. Do you want me to go look?” You don’t miss the way her eyes flit over her shoulder to you, the question posed as if she was sticking a tree branch through the bars of a tiger’s cage on a dare.

“Um, yeah, that’ll be fine.”

Ellie never had the language to find the source of your anxiety and over the years learned either to leave you to your physical work or silently help you with it. Joel evidently – obviously – was a better parent than that:

“Are you okay?” Sarah asks.

You stop, in daze, then slide the iron off the clothes and onto its side. It seems ridiculous but you can’t remember the last time anyone asked you that. Ellie, your only connection to family, knew exactly what you had to do to keep you both safe, so the question was always irrelevant. So when did you let another person in enough for them to care that much to ask?

“Just, uhm, busy. Need to get this done.” 

Sarah narrows her eyes at you. “‘Cause you don’t sound like you’re okay. In fact, you actually sound really bad. What’s wrong?”

“I’m . . . I just didn’t sleep well. Had a bad dream. That’s all.” 

The lies knot in your throat; it’s insufficient to call it bad – it’s insufficient to call it a dream, the thing that had scared you so badly, even Joel picked up on it. 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

You glance up, still on your aching hands and pinched knees. She watches you with those same endless brown eyes as her father’s but immeasurably softer, arms wrapped over themselves, eyebrows furrowed with concern. You had snapped at her when she didn’t deserve it and she just . . . moved on.

“No, Sarah, I-I don’t want to burden you . . . it’s nothing, honestly, I’m just being silly.” 

She rolls her eyes, that wise stare cracking in half. “Fine. Don’t talk to me, but you should talk to someone. Talk to my dad. I know he doesn’t look like it but he’s a really good listener.”

Your cheeks go as warm as the iron beside you, making it impossible to keep looking at her. “Sarah, please, I am his employee. That is entirely inappropriate.” 

“Oh, please.” She swats away your concern and turns back to the herbs. She pulls out canning jars from below the sink and begins to organize by food or medicine. “Fine. Don’t tell me. When do you want to start working on Ellie’s cake?” 

The iron is no longer nearly hot enough to be effective but you run it up the shirt again, to smooth the uneven threads of your own feelings.

“Maybe tomorrow morning, when she’s out with the cows.” You pause. “No, wait, we’re spraying pesticides tomorrow. I can’t.”

Again, in that flippant teenager way, she shakes her head. “Dad’ll let you have a morning off if you tell him what is for.”

Joel’s anger, the smack of his palm – they reverberate in your head again as if someone had struck you with a bell. Your chest tight, you say,

“I don’t think your father wants anything to do with me right now.”

The excited buzz that always follows after Sarah like floating dandelion seeds settles eerily. You bite your lip – why did you say anything? – and watch her back stiffen, rosemary in one hand and a jar in the other. 

She is the daughter of your employer; you cannot forget that, but you had – you had forgotten, and so easily too. She was well within her rights to –

“What did he do?”

You blink. “What?”

She lets out a frustrated groan. “God, I swear that man likes the taste of his foot in his mouth!” Sarah turns around, rosemary and jar back on the counter, her hands on her hips and you feel like you’re the one about to be scolded. “What did he say to you to make you upset?”

“Nothing, Sarah, I swear.” She raises an eyebrow. You break instantly. “We just had a disagreement. He wasn’t . . . pleased with my work, and he told me so. Which is perfectly fine, given that I am his employee.” 

She shoves her palms into her brow, groaning. “But that’s not all –,” she shakes her head. “That’s it. I’m gonna go talk to him.” 

“Sarah, don’t –,”

You struggle to your feet, your knees stiff and popping, hand outstretched after her, but she’s too fast. She opens the back door and lets it slam shut behind her, leaving you blinking on the floor. 

He’s been staring at the back wall of the wooden shed for twenty minutes. Hadn’t made a move to grab a single tool, or pick up a bag of feed. Behind him, the wind dives into the fields, scuttles apart the branches of the oak tree by the river in a soft crackle. In the barn, one of the cows lets out a loud groan.

The back of his neck is starting to grow hot from the sun. Sweat peaks at his brow. His hand on the door, the other by his side, his fingers ceaselessly twitching, taking on physical shapes of his anxiety. But he can’t move away. If he moves, he’ll make the wrong choice again.

He’s angry. He’s still angry.

But that anger is fueled by a churning ball of fear that sits right on top of his chest and lashes at his skin like steel wool. It itches like hell and he can scratch at it all he wants, but it never goes away.

This was all a mistake. He sees that now. He could have handled another season on his own. He didn’t need another farm hand – he’d done it before and could do it again. Sarah was smart enough to read the right books all on her own and if she didn’t have the ones she needed, he’d go get them – wherever they might be. 

Sarah didn’t need anyone either. She’d make friends with kids soon enough, in town or whenever the school reopened. She was smart, always had been. They’d figure it out, together. 

He could have lived the rest of his life without another living soul crossing the boundary onto the Miller lands. 

And yet he hadn’t. 

He’d let someone in. 

As a general rule, he tried not to think of you in any capacity outside of work, education, and medical treatments, but he found that he had no defenses against the presence of someone who lives in his house also taking up residence in his mind. Against someone who cooks his meals and makes his daughter laugh. Who has a fraught relationship with her niece and yet would quite literally kill for her. 

That he understood, even if you and him seemed determined to prevent yourself from relating to one another in any capacity - which was fine with him. But he saw it in you, even if he didn’t recognize it at first in that bar in Dalhart. And then he saw it again the morning you and Ellie saved Sarah. The instinct to protect, to secure. It had been years since he’d seen it on someone else, and had never seen it that strong. 

And that’s what had gotten him into trouble today. That instinct he’d had all his life suddenly butting up against a tender feeling that is so foreign to him he doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know how to hold it, carry it, so it goes everywhere, soaks him down to the bone. 

All his life, he’s only ever enjoyed the company of two people, now one. He knew that if he took care of the land, it would take care of him and his family, so he never needed anyone else. But Sarah had a caretaker and a friend and nurturer but still clearly wanted more. Something he couldn’t give her. Something that never would have come to her otherwise if he hadn’t taken in you and Ellie. 

In his hardest of hearts, he both highly praised and deeply, deeply resented you for that. 

For coming here and upsetting everything. 

Fuck. 

His thumb catches on a splinter from the doorframe, tearing his eyes away from the blank wall, the brief pain causing his anger to flare brightly, the slice of wood embedded deep in his skin. His eyes snap to the back wall, looking for pliers to yank the damn splinter out – but his gaze catches something on the back wall first. 

Your work gloves, on the shelf. As broken in and soft as his. Taking up space beside his own as if they had belonged there all along.

In direct conflict with everything he thought he wanted, everything that he understood about himself and his daughter and the land he protects, you and Ellie had become embedded in the homestead such that now he's not quite sure he could picture it without your presence. It's a permanence that, he could tell, you all had sorely needed.

You, unlike him, did need someone else to survive in this world, one that isn't built for or kind to or willing to value women like you – and yet he got the impression that you never had a soft spot for people either. Been on the receiving end of harassment and cruelty too much and too long to find anyone or anything meaningful outside your family. It was narrow-minded and perhaps selfish, but not a perspective he would ever disagree with.

Ellie, unlike Sarah, had a caretaker but lacked a friend, someone to nurture her emotionally, tenderly, despite her vocal protests. He can see in the dark well of her eyes every time she watches him out of the corner of her eye when he cocks his gun or saddles up the horse. Like you, the ability to share a burden had been beaten out of her.

Now, what does he do with –

“Dad!” 

He jumps, the bark of her voice so loud and brash it rattles his heart for a second. Christ, is that what he sounded like?

He looks over his shoulder to see Sarah striding over to him, fists clenched, eyes blazing, dark hair turned light in the harsh glare of the sun. Sometimes – oftentimes –  he was surprised that a tempest like her came from him. 

“Dad!” Sarah barks again, the smack of her boots in the dirt launching puffs of earth by her ankles. She grinds to a halt in front of him, hands on her hips. “She’s my friend! What did you say to her?” 

“I haven’t seen Ellie since breakfast –,”

“No. Not Ellie.” The pitch of anxiety plummets into his stomach. He knows what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth. “Her aunt. You said something to her that made her upset, and I want to know what it is.” 

Where her fists lock onto her hips, one hand curls onto his hip as it juts to the side. With a sigh, Joel wipes his eyes with his fingers.

“Sarah . . .” 

“Oh, don’t Sarah me! And don’t act like I’m too young to understand, either! You raised me better than that.” Her footing shifts slightly and Joel sees an opening, small, flickering. He sees her pouting at five years old, wanting to stay up past her bedtime not for the sake of being disagreeable, but merely to spend more time with him. 

He tilts his head. “I don’t think you’re too young to understand, Sarah. Come to think of it, I’ve probably let you see and hear too much. Put too much on you.”

Her boiling anger simmers and the frown on her face softens. 

“That’s not . . . that’s not it at all, Dad.” 

With half a sigh, he extends his hand towards her, a peace offering as much as he was capable of. “C’mere, let’s get outta the heat. You and I gotta talk.” 

Her eyes fall to his outstretched hand, lip bitten between her teeth, as if under some obligation not to take it. He lets it fall, as much as it stings a very delicate part of him, and turns back towards the cellar doors. Attached to the house near the water pump, they face west, spending most of the day in the shade. Where he would sit to catch his breath after laboring in the fields all day and she brought him water and they would talk – about anything and everything. 

Joel slides down into the dirt, dust clinging to his shirt, his pants. He looks up at her, waiting, holding his will silently against hers without demand, and with a huff, Sarah drops down next to him. They sit in the shade, like they’ve always done. 

This place has always been a place of safety for him. Not just this land, but this spot, this shaded seat next to her. Joel looks at her, his smile wan. “So, if that’s not it, what is it, baby? ‘Cause I clearly haven’t got a fuckin’ clue what I’m doing. I’m sorry I made you so angry. I promise you, I was just teasin’.”

She always liked it when he spoke softly to her, maybe bringing back memories of when she was small and slept for hours on his bare chest. He turns his gaze to the yellow land, the distant dirt roads, and the sprawling emptiness beyond them. This land, that is his responsibility to keep safe. 

“I know, Dad.” He listens to her scrape the heel of her boot back and forth over a pebble. She feels warm against his side. “I’m not mad about that. I mean, I was, but not anymore.”

“But you’re mad about somethin’?” 

She’s not ready to meet his eye, he knows. That’s okay. He can wait. 

He smells lavender as her hair flutters again, her gaze joining his to watch their fields, the fields held by their family for three generations. The memories of her illness –of so many nights spent in fear, in anguish nearly as painful as death itself, as she cried and cried and cried and he could do nothing to stop it – overwhelm him out of nowhere and, like a fist has settled around his throat, he can’t breathe right for a moment. His hands flex and strain where they hang over his knees.

Air returns to him when she rests her head against his shoulder, and he is suddenly more grateful to you for bringing back his little girl than he’s ever felt towards anyone in his life. But the taste of his words he said to you lingers on his tongue. He had been so terrible.

“I like learning.” Sarah says. The wind tugs on her hair, the hemline of his pants. He resists the urge to press his face into her curls and instead settles for breathing in her scent, her warmth. He closes his eyes. She is his whole world. 

The heat of the sun toasts the air around them as the wind settles. He opens his eyes to the solar star far beyond this planet. Another world entirely. It feels particularly close today.

“I know you do. You’re good at it, always make me proud.”

Sarah lifts her head and he feels the traction of her gaze. His stomach knots, but not as heavily as his heart swells. Her eyes are older than he’s ever remembered seeing when he finally looks at her, and he’s felt a lot of his years recently. Her hands curl around his elbow, like she used to do when she begged him for a new book or a new dress. Pleading with him, to make him see her.

“But I think I’ve learned all I can . . . here.”

Joel breathes through the gaping wound and surge of pride in his chest. She watches him, brown eyes wide, mouth set. The same little girl he’s always known, and nothing like her at all. How had he missed it, this fundamental and irrevocable change? Where had the time gone? 

“I know, baby. You have to go.” 

He expects something like a girlish squeal, maybe little dance, a yelp of joy – throwing her arms around his neck, making promises to be on her very best behavior – 

But instead –

“But not right now.” Her eyes fill with tears, voice small, uncertain. Vulnerable in a way only a child’s can be.

He puts his arm around her shoulder, between her and the dirt-crusted house on the land that is now his, was his father’s, and his father’s before that, and hides his own wet eyes from her by burying his face in her hair. Her arms are wrapped so tightly around his chest, his heart nearly stops.

“No, not right now. But some day.” 

They who have been alone together all their lives sit and hold their other half for a long, long time.

The sun hovers in the late afternoon sky, unwilling to let time march forward, but it always does. It always has to. 

With a gruff grunt, Joel pulls away and wipes at his eyes with the palm of his hand. Sarah sits up more, sniffing, her delicate fingers smearing away the dampness on her cheeks. He clears his throat again. 

“C’mon, enough out here. Ellie’s probably out lookin’ for you, and I need to help, um –,”

“Dad.” He drops back down the half inch he pulled himself up. Suddenly, with a grin and a mischievous light in her still-wet eyes, she looks as young as she is supposed to be. “We haven’t talked about everything yet.”

“What do you mean?”

Her dark eyes flit back to the house, a pointed look. A knowing look. He doesn’t know why but it makes his stomach churn and his heart rate speed up, ever so slightly. That grin on her lips evolves into a full fledged smirk. 

“You were a jerk. Now you have to make it up to her. How are you gonna do that?” 

Joel’s mouth twitches. “I’m out of ideas.” 

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not.” Sarah heaves herself onto her feet, then stands, and dusts the back of her skirt with a few good thwaps. “It’s Ellie’s birthday tomorrow. Me and her aunt are gonna make a cake, so you’re gonna get her a present. You’re also in charge of distracting her while we get everything ready.”

Joel chuckles lightly as he stares up at her, one eye squinting against the sunlight. “Yeah? And what am I supposed to get her?”

She extends her hand and he takes it. Together, they get him on his feet. She dusts off his sleeve, then grins up at him, her smile wide and full and loaded with secrets he knows he didn’t tell her. “I can’t give you all the answers, old man.” 

It’s nerves. 

It’s nerves and that’s why you can’t find the vanilla you know is down here. For the fourth time, you get on your toes and look at the far back of the top row of cellar shelves. Joel had organized the cellar by least perishable to most, and vanilla beans stayed intact for years if kept out of the sun or moisture. Sarah was distinctly confident that they had at least a handful, far more than enough to flavor a cake, and this was Ellie’s cake. You owed it to her and Sarah –and shit, since he’ll be eating it, Joel – to not give up the search. 

But by the time your line of sight got to the second shelf, your mind was already wandering. 

He had taken Ellie out onto the front porch for a guitar lesson. 

After the terrible things he had said to you this morning.

After you acted like he was a cruel man whose viciousness knows no bounds.

He wanted to teach Ellie something, after he had asked you first. 

Came out of the hall closet with it in his hand, and while his dark expression was distressingly unreadable, his voice was light when he offered to teach her some cords. Ellie, who was nose deep in another Space Family Robinson, nearly launched herself off the couch: “HELL YEAH!”

Standing at just an angle that allowed you to see the living room from the kitchen, you could have sworn he smiled. A muffled thing, but it drew up the corners of his cupid’s bow in a beautiful twist, the long expanse of his throat looking warm as he turned his head to give Ellie the guitar, his hair curled in reckless waves at the nape of his neck. He smiled at Ellie and offered her a lesson – 

And you haven’t been able to focus since. 

You stop halfway on your fifth search, press your forehead to the wooden post, and sigh. 

The silence in the cellar is different from other silences on the homestead. More compact, more dense. You suppose that has something to do with it being buried several feet underground, but the strength of it is comforting in a way you’ve never experienced. Since you were sixteen years old, you’ve worked a full time job, sometimes two, sometimes three, for just enough money to eat and keep your sister housed. You often have trouble sleeping because you can still hear the noise of all those people, gears in your mind churning, despite the physical exhaustion of your body, always thinking about tomorrow’s to-dos and where your next meal might come from. You’ve been going so hard and so fast – barely surviving – you forgot what true, thick silence sounded like. How much easier it was to breathe and smother that runaway train of thought. 

Despite your initial apprehension, the cellar had become your most favorite place on the entire homestead. The silence was almost friendly, protective; you could whisper your secrets to it and know they’d be safe forever. Surrounded by abundant food, lovingly grown and cared for, you too sometimes feel as if you too had been raised, had been grown to ripeness, on this earthen floor. 

For the first time in hours, your heartbeat slows. With a grin, you lean into the wooden shelf, its corner sticking into your shoulder like a hand would press into your skin. 

“I’m trying to do something nice for Ellie. You know she deserves it,” you grumble into the silence. The wood is soft, gently carved. If you try hard enough, you think you can still smell the wood grain. “Having some vanilla flavoring would really make her happy, and that kid needs a win.” You shuffle, standing up right, and the toe of your boot kicks the post. It shudders slightly. “I –,”

In the momentum, something falls off the shelf and plops into the dirt to your right.

Vanilla beans.

You grin as you pick them up, trying half-heartedly to find that watchful eye. Just before you click off the light, you affectionately rub the corner of the wall.

“Thanks.” 

If talking to animals is the first step in going crazy, talking to holes in the ground must be a pretty bad sign. 

“‘kay, it’s real easy.” He clears his throat again, shifting, and the wood panel squeaks beneath him. Crickets echo in the shadows beyond the light of the porch. “This is gonna be your C – your A – your G, and your D. There’s only twelve you really gotta know. From there you’ll get the basics and can start to –,”

“Where’d you learn to play?” Ellie asks abruptly. She sits with her back against the wooden post outlining the porch, her knees tucked up to her chest. Joel is reminded of the look Sarah once gave him after he silently helped her chop the rest of the wood before a rainstorm came – he had told her she couldn’t do all of it by herself, and she had adamantly refused, but he didn’t rub it in her face when he came to help. They narrowly avoided the downpour but had enough firewood to last them a week. 

Grateful, was the expression he remembers. 

The heat of the day still lingers in the air, the sun just beneath the horizon. Flies and gnats swarm and tangle around the exposed bulb over the porch, thickening the shadows of his hands over the neck of the guitar and beneath the porch steps. 

Joel’s fingers still, the music of fluttering wings and electrical zaps taking over. “My dad taught me. He taught me . . . and my brother.”

Maybe it was the talk with Sarah that had loosened something, at least temporarily. He doesn’t feel like he’s been torn open, spilling his guts, when he tells her about Tommy. He wonders briefly if Sarah had ever mentioned her uncle and if she didn’t, why. He can see the question build behind her eyes, thoughts shuffling, looking for a memory if he had ever mentioned a brother before. 

“We got pretty good for a time. Played at school, church. Had a guy come through town once and tell us we could really be something.”

“Like a Hank Williams kinda something?” 

Joel eyes her, impressed she knows one of the greatest artists who’s ever lived.

“I dunno what he meant,” he says. “But that’s never why I did it anyway. Just wanted something to do with my little brother. He had some good lyrics too. He was always talented that way, with his head, you know? I think sometimes that’s where Sarah gets it. ‘Cause i'snot from me.” 

Joel smiles and Ellie grins back, an inside joke they didn’t know about yet. He strums quietly.

“I think he wanted to be that Hank Williams kinda somethin'. But it’s hard when you’re no one from nowhere. And I think him leavin’ would’ve broken our mama’s heart.”

“Tommy . . . right?” Joel glances up at her, the name so foreign on someone else’s tongue she could have meant someone else entirely. “Sarah – she, um – she mentioned him, once. And that he left for California – a while ago.” 

Joel nods, again in search of that anger to wield as a weapon, but the guitar digs into the place in his chest where it hurts the most. 

“Is that why the guitar was in the trunk? ‘Cause you’re pissed at him?”

It’s almost funny, the way she needles through to the center of things. He could lie, but what’s the point?

He hums. “I stopped playing this thing long before Tommy left. No time. Even with his help, you gotta fight with this land to grow anything. Then Sarah got sick, and now there’s all this fuckin’ dust . . .” 

He puts a hand on the belly of the guitar to stop the vibrations. He looks up at the stars, blinking into existence as night falls like a dropped curtain, and shakes his head. It felt like an excavation of something haunted, when he pulled the guitar from a trunk in his bedroom closet. Truly, he hadn’t thought about this guitar in months and taking it out again was just asking for something dangerous to befall him. Maybe something already had, given how much he had started to care for the girl who carries a pocket knife in her sock. 

Joel’s gaze drops to that girl now, her wiry little fingers wrapped around her ankles as she stares right back. He had forgotten they still made people like her.

“But it’s good. It’s good to remember.” Joel slides the guitar off his lap and onto the wood step between them. This guitar is older than Ellie and he hands it to her. “Now let’s see if you’ve been paying attention.”

She stares a second after he leans in to point out the chords before she tries to match his fingers on the strings. But then Sarah opens the screen door, out of breath and the tip of her nose pink as if she’d been standing over a fire. 

“Dinner’s ready.” 

Joel stifles the urge to roll his eyes; his girl was many things, but subtle was not one of them. As she disappears back inside, Ellie hands him back the guitar and meets his eyes with a confused look on her face – what’s up with her? Joel shrugs, then tries not to groan as he stands up, his knee acting up again. Odd, given that it only used to ache when a storm was coming, like a warning. But the skies had been clear for weeks.

“Good first lesson, kid. I’ll put this up, you go see what they got cooked up.” 

“You sure?” Her gaze drops to his knee, observant as her aunt. 

“ ‘M fine. Go on.” He knows there’s more affection than gruff in his voice, but at least Ellie doesn’t seem to register that. 

He follows her inside, the air warmer in here due to the oven and a lack of a breeze. When she moves towards the kitchen, he goes to the closet beneath the stairs and opens up the trunk at the back. 

He isn’t entirely sure he can forgive Tommy for what he did, but at least he understands it. Beneath where the guitar laid, there’s a scrap of crumpled paper – a telegram he thought about tossing in the fire when it first arrived. Instead, he is glad he just wanted it out of his sight. 

It is blank except for a few letters and numbers: a forwarding address. 

He can’t pick it up and look at it, not right now, but maybe. Maybe someday, when he needs his brother.

“Holy shit!”

Joel smiles as he shuts the trunk lid and stands. Not today.

When he finally makes it to the kitchen, Ellie stands at the head of the table, her shoulders by her ears, arms out, as if preparing to be tackled to the ground. Her eyes are bigger than he’s ever seen them.

“Happy Birthday, Ellie!” Sarah yells from the other side of the table, the words bursting out of her. “Do you like it?”

“Like it? I . . .” Wordlessly, she slides into the chair, her face glowing in the light of the candle sunken deep into the top of the cake. The shadows, thick and heavy around her mouth and under her eyes, blur the emotions on her face. 

“Ellie?” You say, tentative. That crease is back between your eyes and Joel wants to press his thumb to it until it goes away. “Is this okay?”

Slowly, she lifts her eyes. The shadows cannot hide the wet shine there. Joel has to look away, something hot expanding under his ribs. 

“Uh, yea-ahh . . . this is fucking okay.” He hears the slight chuckle in her voice and he looks back. Her smile is stretched from ear to ear. “And this is dinner too, right? We get to eat cake. For dinner?”

You smile, relief and excitement giving your own face a special glow. And then, your eyes fall to him and that hot band in his chest thickens to his throat. He’ll dream of your eyes again tonight, he knows it.

“Mr. Miller has extra storages of flour in the cellar,” you say, gaze slipping away before he can hold onto it. The band in his throat hardens when you refer to him so distantly. “We used just a bit of cream and milk –”

“And sugar!” Sarah blurts out. She is practically vibrating next to you. “We have to really conserve sugar, only for special occasions, and what’s more special than a birthday?”

Ellie tears her gaze up from the candle and, for a second, she looks very small. 

“You used it for my birthday?” 

While Sarah nods vigorously next to you, he watches as your face falls. He knows that look, felt it screw up his face too – you feel like you’ve failed Ellie somehow.

“Of course, Ellie.” You say quietly, your hands knotted in front of you. He watches as the words get caught in your throat, all the right ones and the wrong ones. “You . . .”

“You’re a good kid.” Your eyes jump to him, wide, as he steps closer to the kitchen table. He puts a hand around the knot on the back of Ellie’s chair. “Is what your aunt means to say. Happy birthday, from all of us.”

Ellie’s gaze is so gentle, she looks timid. She glances between Joel, you, then Sarah, and back to you. 

“Um, thanks, guys. I guess.” 

In the soft silence, she takes a brief moment, her eyes closed, and then leans forward over the candle and promptly blows out the flame. The kitchen falls into darkness, a second before you reach for the light. 

Sarah claps her hands, the amber electrical light softening her already smooth skin. “What did you wish for?”

Ellie’s smirk returns, her hard edges returning. “Can’t tell you or it won’t come true.”

Sarah rolls her eyes as you gather the plates you and Joel had cleaned just this morning. “I always thought that rule was so stupid. It’s no fun.”

You grin at her as you hand Ellie a plate and then Sarah herself. 

“It’s the secret that gives the wish its magic. All the good things are best kept secret.”

Your hand extends a plate out towards him, but it’s your gaze that meets him first. Mouth slightly parted, you watch him from beneath your long lashes. The light that softens Sarah emboldens the curves of your cheeks, the slope of your nose, the entanglement of your hair against the nape of your neck. A table between you, he hasn’t been this close to you in what feels like days, when it had only been this morning. This morning, when he had never felt further from you, when his own fear had gotten the better of him. 

For so long, the circle of his love ended at the property lines and he had spent years of his life etching in that demarcation, digging in and digging in until the wet earth swallowed him whole. There was nothing else but Sarah and this land because he could not afford to lose either of them, so he held on tight and burrowed deep.

But this deep down, the earth he loved might as well have been a coffin. A tomb. In order to stabilize his daughter, the land, and himself, there had to be less of him. Less to carry. Less to burden. 

Less of him to share. 

He thought – maybe hoped – that those bits of him that had fallen away would always stay gone, another sacrifice in addition to his blood and his sweat into the soil. It was easier to mourn a loss if you never had it in the first place.

But, as he looked at you from across the table in the low light, as your fingers touched his beneath the plate – even for a fraction of a second – the pieces he’d left behind roared to life once again. 

Heat warms him up his arm, down into his chest – and it keeps going. The smell of you, of sweat and sugar and honey and sunlight, invades his head like a dirty wind and the fire inside scorches him as it flushes down his ribs, through his stomach, and right into his groin.

You all but drop the plate into his hand, pulling your fingers away from his touch, gaze diving away. But he can see your nervous swallow, the way your hand shakes when you pick up the knife to cut the cake. 

“Let’s eat.” You smile at the girls, but it’s as weak as your voice, crackling, trembling, overwhelmed. As if you too had been consumed by years of dormant want out of nowhere and now couldn’t possibly put those feelings back into hiding even if you wanted to.

Even if you begged.

The cake is gone in a matter of minutes. 

Ellie lets out a groan, leaning back in her chair, her hands resting over her full stomach. “That was so goddamn good.” 

“It’s inappropriate to lick the plate, right?” Sarah asked, sponging up crumbs with her finger. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” Ellie grins. She snatches up her plate and with her tongue flat against her chin, licks up every last morsel. Sarah snorts, laughter bursting out of her, before doing the exact same thing. It’s not long until both of them are making grotesque noises. 

“You girls act like you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks.” Joel sits across from you, his arms folded across his chest, a faint glint in his eye as he glances back and forth between them. He sits low in his chair and his shoulders look especially broad across the back of it. “Y’all are gonna eat me out of house and home.” 

Sarah giggles and wipes her spit-covered chin. “Ellie said she found a really good spot out back to look at the Milky Way. Can we go look?” 

You expect him to ask that they clean up the table first, at least put the dishes in the sink, and not to stay too far into the dark. He’s watching Sarah for a beat too long before he opens his mouth again.

“But then when will Ellie get her present?”

His eyes lock onto you.

“THERE’S MORE?!” Ellie screeches.

The heat in his gaze sends a tangible shock down your throat, across every single one of your ribs, right into your nipples. Your faint gasp is overshadowed by Sarah and Ellie’s yelling – oh my god you didn’t tell me about this what’s wrong with you – please please please can I see it I’ll clean the bathrooms if you just lemme have it please –  but the look is gone a second later when he stands up and jerks his chin over his shoulder to the living room. The girls sprint into the room before he can take his first step. He doesn’t look at you as he follows them, slow, confident, teasing them just a bit.

“What is it?!”

“Is it more comics?”

“More marbles?”

“New clothes?”

“Ew, that would suck.” 

As if deaf to their pleas, Joel slowly walks over to the chest in the corner of the room and just as the girls are about to burst from excitement, he bends down and picks something up from behind it.

A radio. 

The radio.

The same one they had found in town. 

Ellie and Sarah’s eyes widen to the size of the dinner plates sitting on the kitchen table, covered in spit and cake crumbs. They drop to their knees, fingers outstretched like they approached a feral kitten.

“Now, it doesn’t work right.” Joel says, his arms crossed again. “But I thought it might be a good project for you girls. Something to work on together. Maybe learn about magnets and electricity n’shit.” 

His eyes fall on you again, as if you knew all about “magnets and electricity n’shit.” Joel grins again, this time just for you, and something inside of you snaps in half, melts, sparks open; some great weight, one you didn’t even know was there, has been lifted off your shoulders, your heart, and you can breathe properly again. You sink into the blue sofa, hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. 

The idea that you would ever willingly leave this place is laughable.

The idea that you would take Ellie away from this, from Sarah, is agonizing. 

They’re both fiddling with the buttons and twisting the jobs, the novelty of it perhaps the most fascinating. They are silent, more reverent than if they are on hallowed ground. 

“I’ve got some pliers and a screwdriver if you wanna –,”

Perhaps it was the witchcraft of the sisterhood. 

Perhaps they had managed to work out some secret code.

Perhaps they were just lucky. 

The radio lights up and the tear of a trumpet whines out of the speakers. Their yelp of delight is muffled beneath the white-hot music of a jazz band. 

Joel watches with what can only be considered bemusement as the girls leap to their feet and start dancing like no one had ever taught them about rhythm. 

The sofa squeaks, the cushion under your butt tilting up, as he sits down next to you. 

“Not likely to win any competitions any time soon,” he mutters quietly, presumably to you, as you both watch Ellie’s jerky knees and Sarah’s dizzying twirls. You sit, hands in your lap, perched on the edge of the cushion, while he leans into the sofa, arms back in place over his chest. With the way you are positioned towards the radio and him facing straight on, your knees almost touch. 

You wonder if he’s as aware of that chance as you are. 

“Listen, I wanted to say I’m sorry.” His voice is deep enough to be heard over the music. He glances at your hands, and then your face. The sincere regret in his eyes makes the blood in your wrists pound. “You didn’t deserve all of those things I said to you this morning. Both you and Ellie have been . . .” he struggles for the word, his bottom lip moving with the swipe of his tongue, “a good change in our lives, and I regret saying the contrary.” His gaze falls back to your hands, your thumb tucked into the hole made by your other fingers. You wouldn’t look away from his face if it was the sun itself. “The fields have been well taken care of . . . and I know Sarah’s grateful for everything you’ve done for her. You’ve changed her life for the better. You’ve changed m–,”

It’s like his voice crumbles and slips off a cliff. His broad shoulders sag forward and then he looks up at you, a desperate sort of hope in eyes. Hope that you understand what he’s trying to say, and hope that you don’t make him say it. 

Oh, but you want him to say it. You want it so badly. 

You nod, this crumb sweeter than anything on the kitchen plates. On some heady sugar high, you smile at him.

“Well, I meant what I said.” He frowns and your grin widens, but then teeters and topples over. Your wrists ache. You have to lose his gaze for what you’re going to say next. “We are very, very grateful you took us in. I know it wasn’t a decision you made lightly, risking so much of you and Sarah for two complete strangers.” You shake your head with disbelief. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that you made the right choice, if I have to.”

You glance up at him – and immediately wish you hadn’t. 

It’s that same look he gave you when you handed him his plate over the kitchen table. Lips pursed, brow slightly furrowed, with a wary uneasiness in his eyes. Like he’s finally figured out what kind of woman you are, and he can’t quite tell what to do with you.

“C’mon you two!” Sarah yells and that hazy bubble that envelopes you bursts. He blinks, as if not remembering where he is. “You gotta dance!”

“Yeah, you old farts!” Ellie pants, red-faced and nearly out of breath. “It’s my birthday so you have to do what I say and I say, let’s boogie!”

You lunge at the chance to be distracted; you turn away from Joel and arch your eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re dancing? Is that what you’re doing? Can hardly tell.” 

Ellie sticks out her tongue while Sarah starts kicking with one foot then bounces to the other, flicking her wrists. “I saw this move on the school’s television!”

Ellie immediately stops the flailing of her limbs and watches her moves. “Teach me!”

Sarah slows it down until Ellie gets the hang of the bounce. Sarah looks much more natural in the rhythm, but at least Ellie is partially on beat. 

“And then I think you do this–,”

Her foot dangling in the air, she loops her ankle around Ellie’s and starts hopping in a circle. Ellie lets out a giggle.

“No way this is a real thing!”

“It is, I swear!”

“You got any moves like that?” Joel asks quietly, but still ensnaring your attention completely. He sunken completely into the sofa, hips low, legs wide. His thumb taps the beat on his thigh. Something about the way he has completely relaxed allows you to unclench your fists and loosen your foot tucked behind your ankle.

“Me?” You chuckle, leaning back on the arm rest. “I never had the time to go to the dancehalls, much less learn complicated moves such as the – Sarah, what is that dance called?”

“Hell if I know!” They’ve switched feet, trying to go counterclockwise this time.

“Complicated moves such as The Hell-if-I-know.” He rewards your terrible joke with a low chuckle. 

“Me neither. I can’t dance for shit.” 

As though he had called her name, Sarah stamps down her foot and rolls her eyes at her father, Ellie trying to follow along with the instructions the singer is giving over the speakers.

“Yes, you can. You taught me The Dip.” 

“That’s not a real move, Sarah–,”

“You can teach her!” Sarah’s brilliant smile extends to her eyes as if she had just announced the best idea in the history of ideas. “Then she’ll know at least one!”

Your fingers return to their fists. Joel stiffens beside you.

“Yeah, you should.” Ellie yells over her shoulder distractedly, one arm raised and the other leg straight out – in complete opposition to what the lyrics said. “Can’t have her embarrassing me in public.”

“C’mon, Dad, just one dance!” Her brown eyes flicker to Ellie and sweat-damp shirt. “It’s Ellie’s birthday!” 

“And for the party, we – must – dance!” Ellie strikes a dramatic pose and Sarah, giggling, swishes her dress with a flourish. With a brief glance at you, she rejoins Ellie, her skirt twirling.

The sofa squeaks as if he’s moving, a soft hand comes to rest high on your back, and panic leaps into your throat.

“Mr. Miller – Joel – you don’t have to – Sarah is just being silly –,”

“Well, it's not like I’m going up there by myself.” 

That rough palm slides over your scapula, then your shoulders, and down your arm. Tugging gently, a soft pinch around the bone of your elbow nearly pulls you to your feet, but sense-memory has you folding your arm back up towards your chest, your knees locked and heels heavy. Immediately he senses your rejection and stops. 

The warm light above threads gold through strands of his silver hair, the ends of his curls long enough to disappear into nothingness, into the halo around him. 

Joel Miller would never, ever hurt you.

Joel Miller is not your husband.

Joel Miller could be your friend.

His light touch releases and just as his fingers drop from your sleeve, your arm unfurls towards him, taking him by the bicep. His eyebrows lift slowly, watching as your fingers curl around his arm. Drawn towards his light like a sunflower, you stand, closer to him than ever before, and smile up at him. Friends go dancing together all the time, right? 

But all the standards and regulations of propriety and social mores were flung out the window the second you, an unmarried woman, stepped foot onto the land of an unmarried man. Nothing about this, about any of this, could be considered conventional.

A step or two away from the sofa, he holds your waist in one hand and yours aloft in the other, fingers interconnected. Respectful. Decent. A good man. No boundary crossing here. 

“Ready for your next lesson?” he asks, a little breathless. Maybe he forgot the steps and he is simply nervous to perform – hm, teach. He does a bit of adjusting, watches his own feet adjust as you stand still in front of him, waiting to be moved.

So, you open your stupid mouth and say,

“See, teaching isn’t so easy, is it?”

You grin and finally his eyes meet yours. Soft as leather, warm as a saddle in sunlight. It’s your turn for necessary air to be drained from your lungs and he decides then to move.

“Gotta lead up to it,” he grumbles, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Can’t just dive right in.” The way he leads is completely out of sync with the music, but you see that it’s intentional, a choice to slow things down. Not quite what you’d expect at the Boston dancehalls, but something far more precious and memorable. He sways with you, as supple as a blade of prairie grass in a warm wind. 

The curve of his shoulder is warm beneath your fingers, your thumb inches from his collar. He is more solid than any other person you’ve ever touched – including Anna. He could stand at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and never be washed away. You cannot imagine what that stability feels like, but you crave it all the same. 

There’s a respectable distance between your hips and his, but you can still smell the sweetness of the cake on his breath, the hot earth he tends to so lovingly, and the tang of sweat. 

“I know you’re a fast learner.” You turn your head towards him, but he gazes straight on. For a moment his face is so stoic you start to wonder if he actually said anything, but then a smile, a small one, flickers across his face. He turns his head towards you, his nose brushing yours, and suddenly you are too close together. Instinctively you pull away – your head, your shoulders, your hands – then find yourself frustrated that this is how you still react. You don’t even mean it. You don’t even want it, this temporary separation. But still Joel stands. He waits for you and sure enough, you sink back into his arms, your palms separating for only a second. “We made a regular farmhand out of you in a handful of weeks. Could get you to a full Dip in days.” 

He’s talking too softly to be easily heard over the banging percussion, the scream of trumpets, the boozy warble of the singer, so you bend closer. Over his shoulder, Ellie and Sarah take turns curtseying and bowing and then locking their elbows together and spinning each other in circles, giggling. 

“They’re alright.” The words hum in your ear, heat warming the air after a flash of lightning, and you fight a full body shudder. You tear your gaze back to him and his smile. His hand hasn’t moved an inch on your back. You worry your palm is getting sweaty. “Just focus on me.” You nod. 

From the radio, the song ends and the band slows to a discordant crash, as exhausted as the ones who danced to their rhythms. Men raucously laugh over the airwaves at their own created chaos and the two girls collapse onto the couch, red-faced and sweaty and laughing. 

“You trust me?” His eyes are brown and dark and smoky, firewood kindling. He really intends to teach you something. You nod slowly. The memory of his hand smacking into the counter breaks apart when his palm slips further down your back, his leg shifting in between yours, and he leans forward to lean you back. Back, back, back, off the edge of the earth. Hair slips off your shoulders as you hang, suspended above the floorboards, cradled by his hand and his thigh, the other hand holding yours to his chest. The world is upside down – in more ways than one. 

When you lift your head, he blocks out the light above for just a moment. Joel, for a moment, is all you can see. He holds you like you weigh nothing, gravity a suggestion to a force of nature like him — and a moment later, he pulls you both upright. 

Your cheeks are burning, your heart roars in your chest, in your ears, and there is no other way this would have ended: you glance at his mouth. He looks at yours. The fingers entwined with yours tighten. 

And then the radio dies. No preamble. No warning. Just ringing silence.

“Welp, it was fun while it lasted.” Ellie huffs, out of breath, smacking her hands against her thighs. 

Sarah wipes away sweat from her forehead with her arm. “Nah, we’ll get it back. I know we can fix it. Right, Dad?”

Joel Miller is still staring at your mouth. 

He’s quiet too long before he drops his gaze and clears his throat. Caught in a daze, you blink and suddenly his warmth is gone. Your hand floats in the air, empty. Joel pulls on the waistline of his pants and turns back to the sofa, nodding.

“Course, we can fix it. But not tonight. Get to bed, both of you.” The gravel of his voice makes his words harsher than they need to be, but Ellie just rolls her eyes and Sarah throws herself onto her feet. 

“C’mon, teenie bopper, I found a mouse skull the other day I forgot to show you.”

Ellie’s eyes widen as she follows Sarah up the stairs. “Like a skull skull? No meat, just bones? Was the rest of the skeleton there?”

Her interrogation continues as they move around the second floor and you can almost hear every word of it. A stark and abrupt reminder that this house echoes – any noises or sounds made can be heard anywhere, in any room, by anyone. 

Your gaze drops to Joel like a stone and with the added weight of whatever he was thinking, it all becomes too much for him. He turns away, denim shoulders nearly up to his ears.

“I’ll clean up.” He waves his hand vaguely to the kitchen. Cake. Plates. Flour on the counter. Oh, that’s right. “You cooked.”

A trade, a sharing of responsibilities between two equal partners. There’s some part of you that knows you should argue, cleaning was what he hired you for, but this is not him telling you as your employer. 

This is . . .

“You did good today,” he says, quickly, his hands on his waist, a step forward, as if he remembered something mid-stride. “It meant a lot, to the both of ‘em. I know you don’t think much of it, but you’re good at this.”

Your face heats, a familiar zing from his words racing down your spine into the bowl of your hips. The next breath you take is a shaky one. “Thanks, Joel. I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

He swallows, then nods. “Night, then.”

“Good night.” 

You might have let yourself believe you had imagined the whole thing, as you walk down the long wood floor to your bedroom, the girls’ chatter now just noise in your head. You might have believed that, after half a decade of being unwanted and undesired, abandoned at the edge of civilization, you extrapolated sentimentality from the first man who looked at you. All your life you doubted yourself; doubted your ability to keep Anna safe, doubted that you’d ever be something more than a pathetic replacement for Ellie’s mother, doubted your own sanity at times when you sat in that dark, dank dug out and listened to the scratchy winds tear apart your husband’s finances. 

But this – this you did not doubt. You did not mistake, or dream up, or lie to yourself. 

Before he let you go, Joel had squeezed your hip, rubbed his thumb against the waistband of your skirt. Let his fingers snag and catch in your blouse.

Whether it was trust or companionship or something ultimately more terrifying, he felt some kind of way about you. 

What kind of way you felt about him, you couldn’t answer honestly. 

And yet for a moment, for a brief moment, you had stepped into his light and, goddamn it, you were right. 

It was warm.

END OF PART II

series masterlist | AO3 Link | part i | part iii

[keepthedelta]

I really enjoyed your brocedes lore drop, do you have any lore about princess cake that you think people should know?

i could hardly talk about princess cake without mentioning the britney of it all. jenson talked multiple times about how into britney spears he was, how attractive he thought she was, he once even said that if he was stranded on a desert island he would take britney and an ugly man with him so she would sleep with him. he then nicknamed nico that because, and i quote "he was so beautiful". one time when nico and jenson went out clubbing with some of the others (mark, lewis, felipe etc.) jenson called out to nico "hit me baby one more time" and nico immediately got upset. since then jenson has gone on to date and marry a woman called brittny, reaching a stage of the psychosexual cycle that most don't ever get to.

jenson used to dock his yacht (park his yacht? idk the technical term) in the harbour overlooked by nico's building. i have no idea whether it was the most convenient harbour for him or not (although i'm pretty sure he didn't live in the same part of monaco as nico) and there's no indication it made any difference to their lives, but it amuses me. like a gatsbyesque kind of cry for attention.

jenson was a huge fan of triathlons, even organising some for charity i think, and nico also got into them. nico did what (according to jenson) many triathlon lovers do and got into finding ways to reduce his time, including getting a really lightweight bike. he and jenson would talk about that sort of thing leading to (what i consider to be) this iconic "hey jb jb jb" moment. they even competed together in several triathlons, including a charity triathlon they did as a team with alex wurz (jenson did the swim, alex the bike and nico the run).

nico originally wanted to do his extreme e team with jenson. he asked jenson, but jenson had already been looking into it and struggling to find sponsors so nico went off and did his team alone. they eventually both ended up entering teams, and nico's team rxr, lewis's team x44 and jenson's team jbxe ended the first season of extreme e as the top three teams (in that order). nico also later stole jenson's female driver mikaela ahlin-kottulinsky for the second season.

jenson's dad's favourite f1 driver was keke rosberg, so when jenson got the chance to meet keke at the 1998 spanish grand prix he was really excited. in his book he wrote about how irritating he found nico (who was 12) because nico was trying to tug keke away and jenson just wanted nico to leave them alone.

this is them both on that day. i like to think that it really is nico pulling at keke's arm in the second photo.

[nothoughtsjustfic]

Super Freak - K.SY

🩸Who: Kwon Soonyoung (Seventeen) x reader 🩸What: Dark themes (check warnings). Crack. Strangers to roommates. Supernatural. Monster/ serial killer reader. Suggestive (18+). 🩸Word count: 5.8k 🩸Warnings: Reader is a literal monster. Reader kills and often eats humans. Soonyoung is a genuine freak and is into reader being a literal monster. Reader is technically gender neutral but does take on a female human form to blend in and it is their default human form. But they’re mostly in monster form in this, which includes tentacles. Murder (off screen). Blood. Off screen masturbation. Many sexual references and remarks. No smut at all, implied or otherwise. Though there is a quick description of a mental image of sex. They’re both very morally fucked up, to be honest. 🩸Summary: “When you first lay your eyes on Soonyoung, you immediately want to eat him. 

Yet somehow, you wind up becoming roommates with the human and have a new ‘sidekick’ to aid your monstrous murder habit. 

All in a night’s work, you guess.”

Minors do NOT interact. I WILL block any account that interacts without an age indicator in their bio.

Masterlist

A/N- Big shout out to @lovetaroandtaemin for all sorts of help and support with this story in a way that prompted me to actually write it, instead of leaving the idea to rot in the back of my brain somewhere. Love you, babydoll 💗

Many might say that your methods are messy, dangerous, and bound to turn around and bite you in the ass. In fact, your people have said as much on many different occasions. But do you listen? Of course not. Why would you listen to those boring, cautious folk when you can keep working how you always have and keep the spark alive? 

Even if that’s all that stays alive. Your kill streak grows bigger by the month, and your hands and mouth dirtier by the number. 

Just how you like it.

You can practically hear the elders droning in your mind as you watch your current choice of victim obliviously wander around his apartment from where you’re sitting on the roof of the building opposite. 

“You’re too reckless!”

“You’re going to get caught!”

“You’re eating well tonight!”

Okay, that last one might actually just be you. But that’s the only one you’re interested in, anyway. 

The man is currently wandering around topless, a light sheen of sweat against his skin. You know he’s just returned home; you saw him enter the building minutes ago, but you have no idea where he’s been, why this human is so sweaty and red cheeked. But it doesn’t matter, not to you. 

You don’t care who your victims are. You don’t have a set list of characteristics your prey must have for you to pick them. Unlike the elders, you don’t care who you kill. If they look like they’ll be fun to play with and taste good, you’ll take anyone as a meal. Or just a plaything if you’re not hungry.

Tonight though, you’re starving. 

Initially, you had another meal in mind; someone else who lives in this building, who you had stalked home an hour ago. You’ve been watching her window in wait for the perfect moment to sneak in, scare her into tasting so fucking sweet before chowing down. 

Yet, you happened to notice this man and he immediately took your interest. It’s not unusual for you to change your mind when someone else catches your eye while on the hunt, but it is unusual for you to be interested in someone so physically fit. 

Of course, you do enjoy it when they try to fight back; the adrenaline really adds a certain little mouthwatering richness to their flesh and blood that you can never resist. But you tend to prefer your meals to be softer, with more fat around the edges to melt in your mouth. This man, however, doesn’t seem to have much, if any, extra fat on him. He clearly takes care of his body, judging by the muscles you can see so plainly. 

Still, he has your full attention now and you intend to sink your teeth into him. Just as soon as he’s showered, because he’s far too sweaty right now for your taste. A little salt is good, but too much just ruins the meal. 

When the man appears in his bathroom, backlit by the light from the hallway until he flicks the bathroom light on, you perk up a little, pushing yourself forward in interest where you’re sitting on the edge of the roof with your feet dangling down.

He wanders around a little, grabbing a towel from the cupboard then turning his shower on. As steam starts to rise from the bathroom floor, he moves just out of your view, making you pout, displeased at having no idea what he’s up to. Though he returns moments later, entirely naked and with his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth before he climbs into the shower. 

Although you usually don’t stop to ponder on the physicality of humans, you find yourself watching this man for longer than you intend to. There’s something about him that draws you in, even with toothpaste foam dripping down his chin as he wriggles around, apparently performing a show for the rubber duck seated on the shelf amongst bottles. 

Toothpaste drips onto his bare chest and he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, simply rubs it into his skin mixed with the suds on his hand, drawing your attention to the circles he haphazardly makes on his torso. There’s no rhythm or finesse to his movements, to the way his hands move over his body to wash the sweat and daily grime from his skin. He’s messy about it.

You like messy.

When his hand slides down his body and his movements change, from cleaning to groping, you realise that he intends to pleasure himself. That’s your cue to move. 

Sure, you may be a literal monster and regularly pluck the very life from any human you feel like relieving of their pulse, but you have morals. Watching someone in the midst of a sexual activity requires consent, and you certainly don’t have that from a man who isn’t even aware of your presence.

Instead of invading his sexual privacy by watching him masturbate in the shower, you get up and jump across the gap between the buildings. You sail through the night sky effortlessly, to land silently on the balcony attached to his living room, ready to invade his general privacy. 

It doesn’t surprise you to find the balcony door unlocked when you try the handle; humans have the terrible habit of not locking their balcony doors. Well, terrible for them, great for you. It makes your life so much easier when you don’t have to break doors to gain access.

The door makes a horrible grinding sound as you slide it open, but you aren’t concerned that the human heard it, as you can still hear the water hitting his body and the tiles without a change of pattern, nor have his breathy moans stopped meeting your ears.

After ducking into the apartment, you pull the door closed behind you, then wander through the surprisingly spacious home. From your experience so far, humans as young as this one don’t have such space in their homes. They tend to live in smaller apartments if alone, or just a little bigger if sharing with another, though sometimes they’re just as small when shared. 

You assume it’s hard to make money as a younger human these days, resulting in smaller homes. Your experience in the human world is limited, but the elders had made it out to be different. Then again, the elders never leave your homeland anymore, so their knowledge is a little dated. 

In fact, you’re the only one of your people to regularly leave the homeland and experience the chaos of humanity. It’s a lot; all the noise and pollution their kind emit and create. But they taste delicious, so you overlook their massive flaws to focus on filling your stomach and entertaining yourself.

The first room you enter is certainly a bedroom, but it feels too stale, the air too undisturbed, so you assume it’s a spare bedroom and leave. 

It’s obvious that the next room you enter is the correct one. You can see the hoodie that the man was wearing earlier, discarded carelessly on the floor beside the overflowing hamper of dirty clothes. You pull a face as you consider that he can’t regularly do laundry to have such a pile and just hope he has an impressive array of clothing to make the habit understandable. You hope he doesn’t wear dirty clothes repeatedly, especially to put dirty clothes on a clean body. 

You don’t even wear clothes in your natural form, but even you think the condition and hygiene of clothing to be very important. Admittedly, it’s a lot to do with the fact that dirty clothes mean your food is dirty and you can’t stand a dirty meal. It’s one feeding rule you can agree with the elders on.

The sudden change in the man’s moaning from the bathroom makes you aware that he’s finished and will likely be out soon. Silently, you slink over to the corner of the room and hide in the shadows, glad that they welcome you so openly and hold you close.

Minutes later, the man strolls into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his body in the same way you have only seen female humans do; pulled right up to the top of his chest and secured there instead of around his hips or waist, as you see other human males do. It’s very curious to you. 

As far as you’ve seen, humans are very rigid in their strange little gender roles. If anything, you’ve seen females wear clothing aimed towards males and perhaps even act more male like. But to see a male do something you’ve only seen female humans do is very strange. Such things don’t exist amongst your people; gender is a very human concept. 

Your people don’t even have a biological sex like they do. It was rather difficult as a youngster to grasp the concept of only being able to impregnate or be impregnated when your people can all do both. Though, even that is very different for your people, the process of reproduction. Your natural body isn’t built for pleasure like your human form is. 

In fact, many of your people like to gather in human form for the sake of sexual pleasure for fun, sometimes even in the human world. One of your closest friends is known for hosting orgies with humans, who are entirely oblivious to the truth of the person, or people, they’re interacting with. You’ve never been to one and have little interest, but you can understand the appeal in it and support your friend and their kinks entirely.

That’s not to say you can’t feel pleasure in your natural form, because you certainly can. But in your natural, monstrous form, the sole purpose of that pleasure is for breeding purposes. Instinctively, you cannot get any release in your natural form unless you have the intention of breeding your partner.

It’s a bit strange that you find yourself interested in this towel wrapped human while in your natural form. You’re not even sure if you can breed a human, but there is a slither of interest in your mind that only grows the longer you watch him wander around the bedroom.

Deciding that you need to make a start on your plan to consume this human, you step out of the shadows. It just so happens that he turns at the same time, sweatpants in one hand and uses his other to loosen his towel. It drops to the floor at the same time as his eyes find your hulking form materialising out of the darkness that shouldn’t even be present in his room, he just hadn’t paid attention to that fact until now.

Anticipating a scream, you take a step closer and let one of your appendages reach out and press into his open mouth, clogging it before a sound can escape.

What you had not expected was for the human to practically moan; a high-pitched keening type of sound, as his eyes roll back and his knees weaken, forcing you to wrap your two strongest tentacles around his bare waist to hold him up.

“What is the matter with you?” you can’t help but ask, voice low and rumbling. His hands scramble at the lengthy appendages wound around him, but he’s not fighting them, not trying to remove them. 

It suddenly hits you that this human isn’t even the slightest bit scared of you, of the giant monster towering over him and staring him down with unblinking, dark grey eyes webbed with a deep purple. Humans always respond in fear to your natural form; this is truly baffling to you.

If anything, this human is enjoying your presence; as made very obvious by his own, much smaller, appendage plumping visibly where it hangs between his legs.

“You’re strange,” you murmur before your empty stomach reminds you that it is empty, and you have a reason for being here other than bewilderment. 

Effortlessly lifting the man up with your tentacles, you walk through the apartment to the kitchen to grab a chair to place in the middle of the tiles and place him onto it. Your tentacles hold him in place as you use your hands to unwind the rope from your own waist ready to tie him down. You make a point of not paying attention to the fact that it feels like this human is ever so slightly working his tongue against the tentacle in his mouth.

Once you’ve finished tying him down, you step back and pull your tentacles back to yourself. 

“What now?” he asks, staring at you with big, sparkling eyes. “Are you going to have your way with me?” He looks genuinely thrilled at the prospect, making you stare at him puzzled. “It’s been a while since I had anything in my ass, but I’m a real champ about it! Do you make your own lube? That’s hot,” he practically purrs the words out. “But don’t worry if not; I have plenty! I like it messy.” 

Your brain genuinely shuts off for a second at the thought of this being liking it messy. Your mind conjures perhaps too much of an indecent image of him spread wide, held open by your tentacles as arousal fluid covers his body and drools from his hole, where it’s spread wide around your breeding organ that’s shoved deep into him. 

“So?” his questioning tone brings you back. “Do you produce your own lube? My ass needs it; it doesn’t self-lubricate.”

“I’m aware of how the human asshole works,” you point out. 

“Oh! Good! You know about the prostate, then?” You just nod dumbly. “Great!” He beams brightly. “I’m very excited about this. I have a good feeling this will be a lot of fun!” 

“I’m not here to fuck you,” you correct flatly and watch as his face falls while his posture slumps.

“You’re not?” His bottom lip drops into a displeased pout around his words before he looks down to where his erection stands proud between his spread legs. “Sorry, buddy, not tonight.” 

“Please stop talking to your penis,” you request and reach over to grab a large plastic bowl from the draining board to place upside down over his crotch. 

“What’re you doing?” he wonders, sounding curious and weirdly into playing hide-the-penis-under-the-plastic-bowl.

“It’s distracting.”

He looks back at you. “Well, we could put it to use. Do you have a hole?” He drags his gaze over your bare form curiously. “You look naked, but I can’t see any genitals. How do you have sex?”

“My people aren’t designed in that way. We don’t fuck; we breed.” 

The way his mouth drops open and his throat bobs as he swallows thickly tells you that this human likes the sound of that. You can’t tell if it means he wants to try to breed you or not. You know that humans who are biologically male cannot get pregnant, so surely, he doesn’t want you to breed him. Right? 

“That is irrelevant anyway. I already told you that I’m not here to ‘have my way’ with you,” you remind, quoting his own words back at him.

“Oh, right, yeah,” he sighs as the arousal in his eyes seeps away and he leans back in the chair. “So, why are you here? If you want to rob me, I don’t have anything with resale value. I don’t buy fancy tech because it confuses me. Why are there so many buttons and apps and options on things these days?” He huffs a frustrated breath. “I want to go back to simpler times, don’t you?”

“It makes no difference to me.” 

“Do you have a phone?”

“Of course, I’m not a savage,” you retort with a scoff then move closer to roughly grab his face in one hand. His eyes light back up as your hand easily dwarfs the lower part of his face while your fingers and thumb press into the hinge of his jaw. “Tell me, do you have any of those nasty diseases your species tend to carry?” 

“No, I’m healthy. I get a sexual health screening between partners,” he promises.

“I already told you that I’m not here to fuck you.”

“Then why do you want to know if I’m diseased?”

“Diseased flesh doesn’t sit well in my stomach.”

The man blinks at you a few times before his eyes widen comically. “Y-you’re going to eat me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Scared?”

“No,” he responds without hesitation as his head shakes a little in your hand; from side to side slightly without his wide gaze breaking from yours. 

The strangest part is that you believe him entirely; there isn’t the slightest sign of fear on this man. It’s truly perplexing that even when staring in the eyes of a monster who wants to devour him, he looks more than willing and happy to be here. 

You have to let him go and take a few steps back as he continues to stare up at you with eyes rounded with anticipation and body lax and waiting. He’s so…weird. It throws you off your game far too much. You need to put a little space between the two of you to try and grab your mental stability back.

“Are you going to eat me while I’m still alive? Are you going to bite right into me or are you going to rip me apart and then start eating? Or maybe you want to use a knife and get clean cuts? I don’t cook, so I don’t really have any good knives, sorry.” He genuinely looks apologetic for not having any sharp knives to aid in his own demise; his lips twist to the side slightly and he slouches almost guiltily. “My friends always tell me off for not having sharp knives; they say I’m more likely to cut myself with blunt knives.”

“You are,” you agree without thought.

“Oh.” It looks as if he’s finally accepted the advice of his friends. Who knew all it’d take is for a serial killer monster to agree with their words for him to finally take them to heart. “Guess it’s too late now though, seeing as you’re going to kill me. You are going to kill me, right? You’re not just going to chew on my leg and leave the rest of me, are you? That’d fucking suck.” 

“I would’ve thought dying would suck too,” you point out.

“Well…yeah,” he concedes, but clearly isn’t done with the topic, “but what’s the point of only getting hurt by a big, beautiful monster when you can just kill me? Just getting hurt is lame.” He huffs then abruptly straightens up with a strange, somewhat panicked expression on his face. “Oh, shit, is it offensive to call you a monster? I didn’t even think! What should I call you? What’s your like, species?”

You blink at him dumbly a few times before opening your mouth to answer. “Monster is fine. My people aren’t tender-hearted; we know what we are and don’t shy away from it.”

“Embrace it!” he enthuses, lighting back up. “Monster isn’t a bad word! I think you’re so fucking cool!”

“Right.” 

“My friends call me a freak, you know?”

“I can see why.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to insult me or not,” he admits, giving you a suspicious look.

“Is a fact an insult?”

“Exactly!” he agrees with a grin. “I am a freak! I don’t shy away from that either! We’re a good pair, you know? We embrace our titles others think of as negative labels!”

“I’m not going to fuck you just because you offer a few meagre compliments,” you deadpan. 

The way his smile drops makes you have to press your lips together to hold back your laugh. He doesn’t seem to notice though, already looking down at the bowl upturned on his crotch and mumbling apologetically to his penis yet again.

Although your stomach is twisting with the need to be filled, you suddenly don’t quite have the urge to bury your teeth into this man. At least, not for that reason. You think he’d probably be into being bitten during sex, even if it draws blood. In fact, he’d probably be even more into it if it drew blood. The man truly is a freak of the highest order, and perhaps it makes you just as much of one that you’re into how into it he is. 

With a forlorn sigh, he lifts his head to look back at you. “I have a request, before you kill me.”

“I’m not fucking you.”

“I know,” he whines. “You don’t keep having to say that! Am I not monstrous enough for you, is that it?” 

“No. I just don’t play with my food like that.” 

“Not even a little?” Once again, his lips protrude into a natural pout as he looks at you sadly. “Just a single tentacle in the ass?” 

“What’s your request?” you ask before you give in and get distracted. You really do need to eat sooner rather than later; it’s been far too long since your last meal.

“Oh.” He straightens up and then tilts his head back a little, motioning behind him shortly. “Can you kill my neighbour?” 

“What?”

“He plays really shit music.”

“You want me to kill your neighbour because he ‘plays shit music’?” you deadpan in shock.

“Yes.” He nods firmly, looking utterly serious and at this point, you shouldn’t even be surprised by this man. “And I want to watch.” Okay, maybe you should be surprised by this man. 

“There’s something very wrong with you, isn’t there?” 

“Probably,” he agrees shamelessly with a nod. “So, can I watch? I’ve always wanted to see the life go from someone’s eyes.” 

Once again, you find yourself silently staring at the man for a few moments as he stares back openly, patiently. “Fuck it. Sure,” you give in with a nod.

“Yay!” he cheers and then wiggles happily in his seat. “This is going to be great!” 

He continues to ramble away excitedly as you untie him, ready to apparently watch you murder his neighbour for playing shit music. Potentially while naked. You eye him as he jumps up, letting the bowl clatter to the tiles and then bounds towards the front door.

“Are you intending to do this naked?” you question.

“Huh?” He turns to look at you, then down at his body and giggles. “Oh, right, clothes. Gimme a sec!” He dashes past you to his bedroom, leaving you standing like a lost child trying to decode a complex cipher in the kitchen. 

You think it’s an apt description of this human though; a particularly mind-boggling puzzle you’re not sure you can ever understand, even given the rest of your life.

While waiting for him to return, you wind the rope back around your waist, tuck the chair under the table and then pick up the bowl to thoroughly hand wash and leave it to drip dry on the top of the rack. 

When he returns, dressed in a black sweatpants and t-shirt set, you’re waiting by the front door in your human form. It makes him stop dead in his tracks when he spots you.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him questioningly.

“You look human,” he mumbles as he walks over and bravely reaches out to touch his fingers to your cheek. He gasps when his skin makes contact with yours. “It’s real!”

“Of course it’s fucking real.” You knock his hand away when he tries to cup your jaw and press his thumb against your bottom lip as you talk. “What’re you doing? Stop it.” 

“I thought it was an illusion,” he admits. “To blend in or something.” 

“It is to blend in but it’s not an illusion. My people developed the ability to shapeshift into human forms to make hunting easier.” 

“That’s a cool evolutionary trait,” he comments, seeming genuinely impressed. “Does this mean you’re technically a girl? If your human form is female?”

“My people do not have male and female; we are all the same.”

“Oh! That’s cool!” He grins. “Real equality!”

“It’s your people who have the gender issues,” you confirm with a disgusted twist of your expression. “I can choose my human form, but I use this one as humans tend to overlook females and not expect them to be a threat. People are far too trusting of a pretty face.”

“Yeah.” He nods emphatically in agreement. “I trusted yours from the moment I saw you in my room.”

“I was in my natural form then,” you remind.

“I know.”

The implication that this human thinks your natural form is attractive makes you fall silent and even more bewildered than his general peculiar existence does. You recall that he called you a ‘big, beautiful monster’ earlier, which you had assumed was him just buttering you up, but now you think he was just speaking his mind. It makes your interest in him grow in a way that is far too distracting right now, so you quickly move on. “Are you ready to see your neighbour die a painful death?”

“Hell yeah!” he enthuses with brightly shining eyes. “Are you going to eat him?” He tilts towards you imploringly. 

“Depends on if he seems edible enough.”

“What makes a person edible?”

“Well, I tend to prefer more fat.” You quickly eye him from head to toe then back again. “I have no idea why I wanted to eat you.”

“I’m delicious looking,” he retorts with a flirtatious wink before stepping aside to reach for the door. As soon as his hand touches the handle though, he looks at you with an offended, despairing frown. “Does that mean you don’t want to eat me anymore?!”

“Why do you look upset about that?” 

“I’m curious what it feels like! Your teeth look sharp!” He eyes your closed mouth. “Well, not those ones.” His face twists in almost revulsion for a second. “Your real teeth.”

“I think you’re the kind of humans that therapy was made for.”

“Probably,” he agrees, then pulls open the door. “Let’s go!”

During your time at the neighbour’s, you had learned that the freak of a human you stumbled upon tonight is called Soonyoung. You also learned that Soonyoung is not afraid to get his hands dirty and had happily sat in the splash zone as you ripped his neighbour apart with your bare hands and teeth.

Now, you’re back in his apartment sitting on the kitchen floor opposite him; you with your bowl of neighbour chunks and Soonyoung with the box of leftover pizza he ‘liberated’ from the neighbour’s apartment. And both splattered with blood.

“The man had shit taste in music, but great taste in pizza,” he declares around a mouthful of the food then holds his half-eaten slice up to you, even if he has to stretch to get it anywhere near to your face due to you being back in your natural form. “Don’t you like pizza?” 

“Never tried it,” you admit. 

Soonyoung gasps then scrambles closer to get on his knees and all but shove the end of the pizza into your mouth. “Try it!” he encourages, physically pushing your jaw closed then staring in awe as the pizza cuts cleanly under your double row of teeth. “They’re so sharp!” he exclaims in awe as he inspects the bite mark in the slice, while you tentatively chew on the contents in your mouth. 

It's not bad; not as good as fear drenched flesh, but not bad. You wouldn’t mind trying more human food if it’s anything like pizza.

“Are you really not going to eat me anymore?” he asks a few moments later once he’s settled back down cross legged on the tiles and is chewing away on his food again. 

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Seriously, why are you so fucking pouty about not being eaten?”

“I told you; I wanna know what it feels like!” he complains, motioning vaguely to your mouth.

“To be eaten or bitten? Those are very different things,” you comment.

Soonyoung opens and closes his mouth a few times as he thinks. “Okay, just bitten is good. I don’t want any chunks of me missing; I like my body as it is.”

“If I bit you, it’d scar.”

“That’s hot,” he responds immediately. “Please bite me.”

You eye him consideringly for a moment as you chew on the last piece from your bowl and only respond once you’ve swallowed the last slither down. “What are you willing to do to earn that?”

“Anything!” he exclaims, discarding the pizza box by tossing it aside carelessly, so that he can get back up on his knees and yank his t-shirt over his head, to also throw aside without thought to where it lands. “Please bite me.” 

“You need to earn that,” you reply with an amused smirk and wrap one tentacle around his throat just tight enough that he can feel the hint of pressure. His pupils immediately blow wide with arousal, and he whimpers, body growing lax and far too trusting of you, really. But it certainly works in your favour.

“I-I’ll do anything. Anything you wa-want. Please,” he pleads, desperately breathless as he watches you with no attempt to move or look away. He has entirely submitted to you; given in completely and is truly willing to do whatever you want, give you whatever you want. You’re definitely going to put that to the test one day, but not today.

“That second bedroom,” you start and watch as his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“What about it?”

“I want it.”

“You want to move in?” he mumbles puzzled, expression turning down further when you unwind from around his throat and let him support his own weight. He slumps onto his knees when you nod, though quickly lights back up. “That’ll be so fun! We can find people for you to kill and eat together and I can help you! I can be your sidekick!”

“My sidekick?”

“Yeah! It’ll be fun! Don’t you think?”

“I don’t hunt with others.”

He immediately deflates, looking down at his blood smeared hands on his thighs sadly. “Oh.” He looks like a sad puppy; like you’ve stolen his favourite stick and are refusing to play fetch with him. You may be a monster, but you’re not heartless.

“But I suppose you didn’t get in my way earlier,” you reason, making him look up at you with eyes wide with hope. “Alright, we can give it a go.”

“Really?!” he exclaims, bouncing excitedly on his knees. 

“Only if I can live rent free in your second bedroom. I don’t exactly have a job.” 

“That’s fine! I make enough money!” he enthuses. 

“Mm, I guessed.” You glance around the kitchen shortly then look back at him. “What do you even do?”

“I’m a personal trainer for celebrities. It’s crazy how much they’re willing to pay to get in shape for roles or comeback season,” he comments. “And they always tip if I say I enjoyed their latest movie or song.”

“Do you enjoy them?” 

“I don’t even know who most of them are; I don’t care about famous people.” He answers with a shrug. “I only know the ones I do know because of some of my friends. Oh, that reminds me, they come over randomly and I know they’d freak out if they see you like this. I personally love it; this really does it for me.” He motions to you up and down vaguely, eyes lingering on your tentacles where they’re spread across the tiles behind and beside you. “Like really.” He lets out a heavy, affected breath. 

“I noticed,” you deadpan and reach out to grab his jaw and make him look up at your face. “But your friends won’t.”

“Don’t fuck them,” he says with a slight pout. “I’ll be heartbroken if you fuck them and not me.”

“I have no intention of fucking them, Soonyoung,” you assure and squeeze his jaw a little, making him whimper before you let go and get up. “I’m going to bed; switching form always takes it out of me.”

“What time do you wake up?” he asks as he scrambles to his feet and scuttles after you to your new bedroom. 

“Whenever I feel like it.” 

“I’ll be gone by 9, so if you get up after then, I won’t be here. You can help yourself to whatever you want…but there’s not a lot here. What do you eat, other than human flesh?”

You shrug as you start to pull the stale sheets from the bed. “I don’t need to eat often.”

“Oh, really? Must be useful. Okay. I’ll still go grocery shopping tomorrow after work. Hey, do you want to come along? We can scout our next victim!” he enthuses. 

“Our next victim?” you repeat as you look over at him amusedly. His head bobs in confirmation. “I don’t really scout ahead. It’s more spontaneous than that.”

“Oh, you don’t plan it out? So that you don’t get caught and stuff?” He tilts his head in wonder.

“No. The elders try to convince me that I should, but if I have a set method and stalk my prey, I’m more likely to create a pattern and get caught. If I just go for whoever happens to catch my eye, there’s nothing to connect them. At least not intentionally.” 

“Huh, makes sense,” he agrees. “I’ll get fresh sheets!”

“You’re covered in blood,” you point out.

“I’ll shower then get you fresh sheets! Hey, want to shower together?” he offers brightly. You just stare at him. “What?”

“You know what? Sure, why the fuck not?” you agree and don’t hold back your soft, amused laugh as he cheers and bounds out of the room to go to the bathroom, prattling away excitedly about soaps and washing each other. 

After taking a moment to school your expression, so that he doesn’t see that you’re actually kind of fond of him already, you join him in the bathroom. 

He’s already completely naked and practically vibrating with excitement in the spray of the shower. “Come on!” he encourages. “I’m so excited for our daily showers to start!”

“Daily showers?” you mutter yet wander over and discard your rope to the floor before joining him, even if you barely fit in the shower in your natural form, but Soonyoung doesn’t care; just giggles happily and immediately starts running his soapy hands over your torso.

“This is so fun! I’m so glad we’re roomies now! Aren’t you glad too?!”

As Soonyoung happily babbles away, eyes glued to his hands working over your purple-grey skin in awe, you can't help but let your lips turn up at the corners in a soft smile. 

Sure, you started tonight with the intention of eating this man, but now, now you think that you might just share his feelings and are glad to be roommates with this super freak of a human.

Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖

Permanent taglist: @okiedokrie, @svtiddiess, @codeinebelle

[fearfulfertility]

CONFIDENTIAL TRANSCRIPT

To: Senator [REDACTED], Congressional Committee on Population Sustainability

From: Director [REDACTED], Department of Reproductive Compliance

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: Operational Justification of Surrogate Conscription

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

Recent census data indicate reproduction rates have risen to [REDACTED]%, a significant improvement in national fertility rates and surpassing the [REDACTED]% emergency threshold used initially to justify surrogate conscription. While positive, abandoning our highly effective operational framework at this stage would pose political risks and threaten the stability we’ve carefully built. This transcript outlines the necessity and strategic value of continuing the surrogate conscription program, emphasizing its critical role in political control, administrative stability, and public perception.

MEETING TRANSCRIPT

Participants:

Director [REDACTED] – Department of Reproductive Compliance

Senator [REDACTED] – Congressional Committee on Population Sustainability

Location: Executive Lounge, DRC Headquarters

Date & Time:  [REDACTED], 17:30 hours

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Director [REDACTED]

Well, Senator, I suppose you’ve seen the latest census numbers—fertility's up across the board. Technically speaking, our crisis justification is fading quicker than expected. Some eager folks up on Capitol Hill might think this means we need to roll back the conscription program.

Senator [REDACTED]

Aw, c'mon now, Director. Ya ain’t thinkin’ about pullin’ the plug just ’cause a few extra babies got born, are ya? Shoot, son, half the fun of bein' up here is keepin' folks convinced there's a crisis. Gives us room to maneuver, ya see.

Director [REDACTED]

Exactly my thought, Senator. We've created something far too useful to just hand it back. The department’s grown into a real political powerhouse. Thousands of jobs depend on it—not to mention a few bits of fun here and there. Honestly, why would we want to walk away from all that?

Senator [REDACTED]

Couldn't agree more, friend. Hell, between you an' me, the DRC's become as American as apple pie—folks’d probably be suspicious if we didn’t keep this thing runnin’. Besides, plenty of my colleagues have gotten mighty comfortable with the perks, if ya catch my drift. Be a shame to disrupt their fun... uh… good fortune.

Director [REDACTED]

Oh, I absolutely catch your drift, Senator. The truth is, this program provides more than just babies. It provides stability, consistency—and the boys certainly are beautiful once their nice and plump? Plus, ending it now would open up a whole can of ethical worms. People might start asking awkward questions. I'd prefer we not give them that opportunity.

Senator [REDACTED]

Ha! Ethical worms, that's rich. The day we start worryin' ’bout ethics in this building is the day we both retire early, am I right? Nah, the public's happier thinkin' we're savin' civilization, one preggo whore at a time. Makes a mighty fine talkin' point at the barbecue, too. Folks eat it right up.

Director [REDACTED]

Couldn’t have said it better myself. Politically, this whole operation has been gold. We’ve built something that keeps the administration looking heroic and decisive—people trust us to handle things, no questions asked. Why let reality spoil a good time?

Senator [REDACTED]

Amen, brother. Look, just write up somethin' fancy ’bout demographic stabilization or some such thing. Keep the tone cautious, say we’re monitorin’ the situation, buy us another [REDACTED], maybe a solid [REDACTED] years easy. You know how the game goes—nobody reads the fine print anyway.

Director [REDACTED]

Perfect. We'll frame it as necessary caution—no rush to celebrate just yet. As long as the public believes there's still work to do, they'll never question our operations. That gives us political cover indefinitely.

Senator [REDACTED]

Exactly! And let’s be honest, the jobs, the contracts—hell, the whole kit and caboodle—it’s got a momentum of its own. It’d be downright unpatriotic to turn that gravy train around now. My friends up in Congress would tar and feather anyone who tried to put a stop to it.

Director [REDACTED]

Then we’re agreed. We stay the course. Keep everyone employed, comfortable, and blissfully unaware. I'll draft the usual vague assurances of ongoing evaluation—make it sound reassuringly scientific and absolutely necessary.

Senator [REDACTED]

Sounds mighty fine. Ya know, Director, it’s always good catchin’ up. Folks out there think we're all business, but they don’t know how much fun we have keepin’ this circus runnin’.

Director [REDACTED]

Couldn’t agree more, Senator. I’ll send you the draft memo tomorrow morning. Let’s keep the good times running.

Senator [REDACTED]

Speakin' of good times, I gotta hand it to ya, Director. That little visit you arranged for me at Site [REDACTED]—that was somethin' else. Beautiful beach, sunshine, nothin' but relaxation. And them two boys you sent to keep me company? Well, son, let’s just say you sure know how to show an old senator a mighty fine time.

Director [REDACTED]

Glad you enjoyed yourself, Senator. I made sure those two were hand-picked… and heavily dosed with the [REDACTED] serum to make them… very compliant. Consider it my personal thanks for all the unwavering support you've thrown our way.

Senator [REDACTED] 

Ha! Well, I appreciate it. Tell ya what, seein' ’em relax and enjoyin' themselves out there on the beach was a real treat. Could hardly believe how big they were gettin', though. Good lord, Director, you're certainly keepin' those boys productive.

Director [REDACTED] (laughs):

You know my motto—maximum output, maximum efficiency. Those two were some of our top performers, too. Healthy, fit, very full. Figured you'd appreciate the quality assurance firsthand.

Senator [REDACTED]

Quality assurance indeed! Now, I've seen my fair share of your compounds and your boys in various stages—but relaxin' with 'em out there on that beach? That was a whole new level. Ya know, it was almost surreal, watchin' those young fellas soak up the sun with bellies so big they couldn’t even stand without help. Lord Almighty, Director, ya sure keep ’em productive, don't ya?

Director [REDACTED]

Hope they met expectations?

Senator [REDACTED]

Exceeded ’em, Director! You know, though, watchin' them big boys struggle to move even a few inches—felt like watchin' turtles flipped on their backs. Cute turtles, mind ya, but stuck all the same. But heck, your boys were always eager to climb into my lap for some attention. Pure entertainment and a little bit o' acrobatics, all rolled into one.

Director [REDACTED]

Well, Senator, we like to think of it as motivational entertainment. Besides, there are worse ways to spend the weekend. And, of course, we didn't want them too active. Can't risk early deliveries outside compound oversight.

Senator [REDACTED] 

Truth be told, I almost felt bad knowin' what awaited ’em afterward. But, hey, least they got one last vacation outta the deal, right? You spoil 'em, Director.

Director [REDACTED]

Only the best, Senator. Besides, these little "field trips" help boost morale among the handlers, too. A few perks here and there go a long way in keeping the whole operation running smooth.

Senator [REDACTED]

Exactly. Keepin’ spirits high, and bellies round, eh? That’s the ticket. You keep arrangin' trips like that one, and you'll never hear me complain, I guarantee it.

Director [REDACTED]

Duly noted, Senator. Consider it standard operational procedure going forward. Anything else I can arrange for you?

Senator [REDACTED]

 I'll let ya know, son. I'll let ya know.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

CONCLUSION

Given its strategic and political value, the recent positive fertility indicators do not justify dismantling the surrogate conscription program. Sustaining current operations provides employment stability, preserves political advantage, and ensures ongoing public confidence. The continuation of the surrogate conscription initiative remains both pragmatically and politically indispensable.

Respectfully submitted,

Director [REDACTED], DRC

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

ADDENDUM

RE: Follow-Up on Surrogates from Senator [REDACTED]’s Recent Visit to Site [REDACTED]

This addendum documents the current status of Surrogates S-142-244-M and S-129-129-O, who accompanied Senator [REDACTED] during his recent recreational visit to Site [REDACTED].

Surrogate S-142-244-M (Tridecuplets) entered labor [REDACTED] days following the Senator’s departure. After successful delivery of all 13 offspring, surrogate health rapidly deteriorated, resulting in expiration approximately [REDACTED] minutes post-delivery. Cause of expiration confirmed as [REDACTED] due to extreme [REDACTED].

Surrogate S-129-129-O (Quindecuplets) commenced active labor approximately [REDACTED] hours following the Senator's departure, successfully delivering 15 offspring. Post-delivery vitals indicated severe [REDACTED] rupture and systemic exhaustion, resulting in expiration [REDACTED] minutes after delivering the final fetus.

All offspring from both surrogates survived birth and have been transferred to standard neonatal processing. No further action is required.

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

Click Here to return to DRC Report Archives

[identifying-wrestling-moves]

Wrestling Move Explainers #2: Chain Wrestling

Still sticking with the basics! This is less of a move than it is a series of moves. Chain wrestling moves normally are simpler holds that a wrestler will do at the start of a match because the opponent isn’t tired or hurt enough to get hit by a more impactful move. The name chain wrestling comes from the ability for a lot of these moves to be transitioned into each other. Additionally, a wrestler that counters a chain wrestling hold will normally counter into their own chain wrestling maneuver. This results in an early match sequence of moves seamlessly gliding into each other as a wrestler tries to snatch the advantage from their opponent. These holds are usually very quick and easy to apply compared to other moves, but they have the downside of not doing a lot of damage. Still, they do some damage, and they force an opponent to use a bit of their energy to counter or escape. These small advantages can be enough for a wrestler to find an opening to go for some bigger moves, which then moves the match along as the tension builds. Before we get to the finishers though, every wrestler has to start with the basics. More specifically, two opposing wrestlers will start with this:

This is a collar and elbow tie up. The bell is the indicator that the match has officially started, but the collar and elbow is normally where the actual wrestling will begin. This position isn’t for one wrestler to hut another, it’s more like the two competitors are jockeying for position by doing this. This collar and elbow tie up will quickly transition into one wrestler having an advantageous position over another. Sometimes this advantageous position simply means one wrestler pushing another into the ropes while in this position or simply shoving them away entirely. Both instances can usually be an example of one wrestler being bigger or stronger than another. Sometimes it can simply mean a wrestler is more eager to engage than an opponent who is perhaps more calm or squirrely. If a wrestler is forced to the ropes while in the collar and elbow, this of course means the tie up has to be broken and positions have to be reset. Some wrestlers will take the opportunity here to strike their opponent, maybe being underhanded, maybe just trying to win. 

More often than not though, a wrestler will get a strategic advantage via transitioning the collar and elbow into another hold, and this is where our chain wrestling begins in earnest. There are so many moves that can kind of encapsulate chain wrestling, and some are more advanced and advantageous than others which can usually indicate someone who has some sort of technical mastery (i.e luchadores that specialize in llaves, or perhaps a wrestler with a shooter or extensive grappling background.) However, I figure I should start simple here with some basic, standard chain wrestling that you are likely to encounter while you watch various matches. 

This is a Wrist Lock. For this move, a wrestler grabs the opponent’s hand and wrist before twisting it, putting pressure on the wrist and the arm. You will frequently see wrestlers grab the opponent’s wrist and twirl their body, putting a lot of pressure on the arm before holding the Wrist Lock. The twirl before the Wrist Lock is known as an Arm Wringer. From the Wrist Lock, wrestlers will usually wrench the hold, but there are options for extra offense in a Wrist Lock as well. Often, a wrestler will elbow their opponents arm while they have the Wrist Lock on. This is sometimes an indicator that a wrestler is going to target that arm during a match.

While Wrist Locks are easier to apply, they leave the opponent open to counters. This is true for most chain wrestling holds, since for these holds the defender often has most of their body free to maneuver. For chain wrestling holds, wrestlers can often try to make their way to the ropes to force the referee to break the hold. For Wrist Locks specifically, you will often see the defending wrestler simply grab the hand of the attacking wrestler and twirl, effectively countering the Wrist Lock with their own Wrist Lock. You may also see a wrestler roll forward while in a Wrist Lock, effectively undoing the twist and leaving them free to do what they want. There’s also the option for the defending wrestler to slap the hands of the attacking wrestler, causing them to let go of the hold. Due to the ease with which this move is countered, a wrestler that has a Wrist Lock applied may want to transition into another chain wrestling hold.

Next is the Hammerlock.  The Hammerlock is commonly transitioned into from a Wrist Lock due to both moves involving the attacker grabbing and wrenching at the hand and wrist. The difference is that with a Hammerlock, the attacking wrestler puts the opponent’s arm behind their back and bends their arm, which puts pressure on the defending wrestler’s shoulder. From here, a wrestler can step forward and let go of the Hammerlock in order to immediately transition into a Headlock. A Hammerlock is also a popular hold for wrestlers looking to hurt the opponent’s arm, and quite a few arm-focused attacks will involve a Hammerlock. A Hammerlock Body Slam, Hammerlock Backdrop Suplex, and the Devil Windmill Suplex are all examples of moves that involve slamming the opponent to the mat while they’re in a Hammerlock in order to damage the arm.

Countering wise, Hammerlocks can be countered by spinning into a Headlock, or by turning, securing the attacker’s arm, and walking behind the opponent before locking in one’s own Hammerlock. Hammerlocks also leave the defending wrestler’s body open to mount a counter attack with strikes. Usually this is done via back elbows to the attacking wrestler’s head.

This is a Headlock. If you know what chain wrestling is, this is probably the first move you thought of. Perhaps the most basic move I’ll speak on here, a Headlock is a simple hold where a wrestler wraps their arm around the head and neck of an opponent and clasps their hands together, tightening the hold. In this position, the attacking wrestler can simply wrench the Headlock, but they can also punch the head while in the Headlock, do a Headlock Bulldog, or do a Headlock Takedown, among a plethora of other things. If a wrestler maintains the hold while moving, they can “walk” the opponent. This is sometimes seen during brawls where a wrestler is trying to bring their opponent through the crowd or to something dangerous.

Countering wise, you will often see a defending wrestler walk to the ropes and push the attacking wrestler off, giving an effect similar to an Irish Whip. Additionally, a defending wrestler can grab one of the attacking wrestler's arms and counter into various chain wrestling arm locks (in the left gif above, Kiyoka Kotastsu counters into a Top Wrist Lock before slamming Azusa Inaba to the mat.) For a more straightforward counter, any wrestler that applies a Headlock is leaving their body open for the defending wrestler to strike at the torso or ribs, usually with an elbow or a punch. There’s also the devastating option of countering a headlock into a Backdrop Suplex like Toshiaki Kawada does in the right gif above. 

Briefly I should also speak on the Headlock Takeover during this section. The Headlock Takeover is a transitional move done from a Headlock that involves a wrestler flipping their opponent onto the ground from the headlock position. From here, a wrestler will maintain a grounded Headlock while on the mat. This grounded Headlock provides more control and less options for counters due to the opponent being forced into the ground and having less freedom of movement. 

The main counter you will see for the grounded Headlock is a Headscissors submission. A standard Headscissors submission involves a wrestler on the ground wrapping their legs around the opponent’s head and squeezing them together, applying pressure to the head and neck. This hold will often be used by a wrestler in a grounded Headlock to get attackers to release the hold. Often, a wrestler will get out of this hold rather quickly, usually using their athleticism to push out or flip out of the hold. Usually, a chain wrestling sequence will end once the defending wrestler pops out of this hold. If a wrestler is especially good at applying the Headscissors, the defending wrestler will have a more difficult time getting to the ropes to break the hold, due to the attacking wrestler’s body weight being attached to their neck.

This is a Rear Waistlock (really it's multiple Rear Waistlocks.) A rear Waistlock involves a wrestler getting behind their opponent, putting their arms around the opponent’s waist, and then locking their hands together. This isn’t a damaging hold, but this is an important move for positioning. During the chain wrestling portion of a match, a wrestler will likely try to do a Rear Waistlock Takedown on their opponent, which will bring the opponent down to the mat on their stomach. A wrestler may also push off their opponent, causing the opponent to run towards the ropes, similar to an Irish Whip. Later on in the match, one of the most common uses of the Rear Waistlock you will see will be for a German Suplex, which starts with a Rear Waistlock.

In the gif above you’ll see a wrestler get out of a Rear Waistlock before quickly moving behind them and locking in their own Rear Waistlock. This is known as a Standing Switch and it is one of the most common counters to the Rear Waistlock. Another simple counter is a back elbow. Since the attacking wrestler’s arms are clasped together around the opponent’s waist, their face is open and vulnerable for the defending wrestler to simply elbow them until they let go of the hold. Another counter involves a defending wrestler grabbing one of the attacker’s wrists as they pry apart the Waistlock, allowing them to go immediately into an Arm Wringer, Wrist Lock, Hammerlock, or Top Wrist Lock.

This is a Top Wrist Lock, also known as a Figure Four Armlock . This involves a wrestler grabbing the wrist of the opponent and bending the arm upward until the wrist is behind the opponent’s head. This bend in the arm makes a small hole that the wrestler will then put their other arm through and grab their own wrist, completing the hold and applying pressure to the shoulder. I would consider this hold to be among the most effective chain wrestling holds due to the defending wrestler’s arm being bent in an awkward position and immobilized by the intertwining of the attacking wrestler’s arms. The defending wrestler can relieve the pressure of this hold by putting their other hand behind their back and locking their hands together. This limits how much the attacking wrestler can manipulate the arm in the hold. This defense will often cause an attacking wrestler to push forward and bring their opponent to the ground in order to follow up their offense.

To counter this hold, a wrestler may try to strike with their free hand, reaching over the chest in that position to hit the opponent’s head would likely be awkward and ineffective. The best way I’ve seen to counter this hold would be stepping to the side and turning, weakening the attacking wrestler’s grip until the defending wrestler can take control of the arm, usually transitioning into a Hammerlock.

So yeah, those are some of the basics! Putting it all together, the moves will chain together like this:

These are just some of the more basic chain wrestling holds you will see in a match. However, there are plenty of matches that may not include any of these holds at all. I mentioned earlier that wrestlers with more advanced or unique technical grappling backgrounds may forego these holds for different ones. In some cases, two wrestlers may run at each other and start attacking each other if they’re in a heated rivalry. Sometimes, a wrestler may sneak attack another wrestler at the start of a match out of malice or desperation. Wrestlers that have more speed or acrobatics based movesets may choose to immediately go for an Irish Whip and start running the ropes against each other instead. There’s also the flash finish where a wrestler quickly ends the match with a move either due to being significantly more skilled or their opponent being unprepared. There are many ways to start a match, and every method indicates something to the audience.

(Sorry this took so long, everyone! I hope I made the wait worth it. Suplexes are next on the list so I hope you look forward to it ♥)