#that moment when you realize you have two internal dialogues

[artemis-moon101]

my head hurts :/

[pedrospatch]

to hell and back l one

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l main masterlist l next chapter

summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI. canon violence, canon language, brief mentions of slavers, brutality, torture, assault, guns, reader is an archer, mentions of hunting, animal death, injured/unconscious Joel, very minor mentions of blood, age gap (reader is 30, Joel is 56) very brief mention of scars, reader does not/cannot speak at times, a lot of internal dialogue from reader, at one point reader does try to speak to Joel but she is unable. *please be advised that no specific diagnosis is used or will be mentioned, i’m writing the series with the idea that reader herself cannot fully comprehend her inability to speak at times. basically the gist of it is we have a very traumatized person who does not realize just how traumatized she is.

word count: 8.2k (good lord I am so sorry)

a/n: not a whole lot to say except for that this is...different. at least i think it is, i could be wrong lmao. this is by far one of the most challenging things i have ever decided to write, but hopefully it turned out okay

California l Fall, 2023

You’d been on the run since dawn.

It was several hours later now and nightfall was approaching—and it was approaching a hell of a lot fucking faster than you could have even anticipated. The darkness was quickly closing in, falling around you like a velvet black curtain. However, stumbling around blindly in the dark was currently the very least of your worries. 

Your feet were raw, both completely blistered and bleeding through your socks inside of your worn out, muddied white canvas sneakers. Your sore, aching legs screamed out for mercy and your knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle out from underneath the weight of your body at any given moment. 

In the week and a half leading up to your escape from captivity, you’d been deprived of both food and water—it had been your punishment for closing your eyes and turning your head away after you’d been instructed by the slavers to watch their brutal assault of the young teenaged girl that you had been sharing a cage with. She’d been unable to keep up with her work duties, and they had decided to make an example out of her.

Despite still having been forced to witness the horrendous, unspeakable things they’d done to that poor girl, your initial resistance resulted in you being beaten and then starved for several days. Occasionally, one of the late night guards would try and bribe you, offering a small piece of jerky or a couple of stale crackers in exchange for a blowjob. At first, you told him you’d rather cut your own tongue out with a rusty blade than suck his dick, but when he proposed the disgusting, vile trade again just a couple of nights later, you’d accepted it—because him pulling you out of that fucking cage after hours and removing the tight shackles from your wrists when no one else was around would give you the chance to finally make a run for it.

You swung yourself around the nearest redwood tree, slumping back against its thick, wide trunk. You covered your mouth with your two hands in an attempt to silence the sound of your heavy panting. 

Besides being in pain, malnourished and severely dehydrated, the exhaustion was starting to set in too. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had brought you this far, but exactly how much farther could it take you? How much longer could it possibly keep you going before your tired body decided to give up and give out?

Somewhere behind you, you could hear the men calling out cheerfully.

One sang out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Come out and plaaaaay,” a second taunted.

The third shouted, “We’re gonna get you!”

Their giddiness made you want to vomit. If your stomach hadn’t been empty, you would have.

Those sick, twisted fucks weren’t letting up. 

They’d been on your heels for hours.

The large group of slavers in California were over two hundred strong and had dozens of prisoners chained up in their human cages—they had more than enough people to force into labor. There was no need for them to waste their time and efforts going after you, but after spending the last eight months witnessing firsthand how these sadistic bastards operated, it occurred to you that their desire to recapture you wasn’t out of a need for labor. It was for their entertainment. 

They were hunting you down for sport.

This was their idea of fun.

“Fuck,” you whispered underneath your breath, your hands falling down to your sides.

Something had to give.

Your legs, your body, your will to live.

Perhaps all of the above.

You couldn’t keep on running for much longer.

And even if you could, where the hell were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to get there?

You had no food, no water, and no weapon.

Just the torn, tattered clothes on your back.

You were defenseless against whatever else was out there and you couldn’t see yourself surviving longer than a couple of days at most.

There was a part of you that wanted to give up and surrender. If you could be absolutely certain that they would shoot you dead on the spot, you would actually consider it and step out from behind the tree—hell, you would happily let them put a bullet between your eyes and put you out of your misery once and for all. But they wouldn’t be so generous. You knew they would have their way with you here in the middle of this forest and only after they were done would they take you back to their settlement where they’d put you right back in shackles so the real torture could begin. Just like that teenaged girl, the slavers would make an example out of you so that nobody else in their right mind would even think about running away. 

They would be sure to make your death as slow and as agonizing as possible.  

No. If you were going to die, then you were going to die. But fucking not like that.

Hearing them draw closer towards where you’d been hiding, you pushed yourself away from the redwood and willed yourself to keep on going.

Wyoming l Fall 2024

Your eyes softly flutter open.

Bright, early morning sunlight filters in through the ripped, white lace curtains that hang over the small, square shaped window right above your head. 

Blinking the sleep away, you prop yourself up slightly on your elbows and take a glance around at your surroundings. The old, abandoned cabin that you’d stumbled across just a couple of days ago is tiny, cramped, and crumbling. It also reeks—it smells damp, musty, and earthy, like rotting wood. But beggars can’t be choosers and you are certainly in no position to be a chooser right now. It’s not what you consider to be ideal, but it’s four walls and a roof, which is more than anyone can ask for. It’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, an old wood burning stove you had been too afraid to light because you didn’t want to risk setting the place on fire, and there’s even a small, twin sized bed for you to sleep on. Well, perhaps calling it a bed was a tad bit too generous. It’s really just a mattress sitting on four large concrete blocks. It’s rough, dirty, and torn with rusted springs and bits of fluff sticking out from every corner. Still, it sure as fuck beat the hell out of sleeping outside in the dirt and using a rock as a pillow.

Besides the luxury of having something close to a proper roof to sleep under, there’s also a lake just two and a half miles north of the cabin where you had been able to fill your canteen with fresh water. Not to mention, you’d also been able to bathe and wash your clothes for the first time in a couple of weeks. You had been on your own for about a year now, and this was the luckiest you’ve gotten in terms of finding a decent place to stay.

Whether or not it’s safe, it was still too early to tell. 

Sure, you were out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and hadn’t seen a single soul, living or dead, in a couple of months now. But that still didn’t mean that running into the infected or other people wasn’t a possibility. Letting your guard down was risky. Too risky. 

You swing your legs over the side of the mattress and sit up, slipping on your pair of warm, wool socks before tugging on your boots—you’d found them over the summer and even though they had been about one size too small for you, you’d managed to break them in since then and the supple brown leather now molds almost perfectly to your feet. You stand up and lift your arms up above your head while simultaneously twisting your stiff, sore back in a painful, but much needed stretch. You’re only just a couple of months shy of turning thirty years old, but lately, your bones snap, crackle and pop with each and every movement, making you feel twice your actual age. 

The thought of it makes you snort in amusement. You should be so lucky to stay alive long enough to see the age of sixty. Hell, you’re still unable to fathom how you’d even made it this close to seeing thirty.

Dropping your arms back down to your sides, you make your way over to your khaki colored pack and pull out your aluminum canteen from one of the side pockets. You twist off the cap and gulp back a long, cool drink of water, hoping to get rid of the dryness in your mouth and the cracks in your chapped lips. As soon as the liquid makes it all the way down to the pit of your stomach, the hollow, muscular organ grumbles loudly, demanding food. You’d had some decent luck while out hunting the previous morning, capturing two wild rabbits—you had eagerly skinned, cleaned and cooked them both, devouring one right after the other so fast that it had nearly made you sick. It had been a pretty decent meal, but not nearly enough to completely satisfy your ravenous hunger. Prior to finding the cabin and settling in, you had been living off of a couple handfuls of nuts and berries for three days while on the move. You were still fucking starving and all you could do was pray that you’d find more rabbits today. 

Maybe you’d get even luckier and spot a pheasant. It was their season, after all. 

You drink some more water and set your canteen aside. You’d planned to return to the lake later in the afternoon to refill it as well as to have another bath. You pull on your faded, black denim jacket over your hoodie and pick up the wooden bow and brown leather quiver of arrows sitting beside your pack. You’d found the weapon in some hunting shop back in Utah that had already been picked clean to the bone over the last couple of decades. However, no one had even bothered with taking the bow. It hadn’t really surprised you, though. In the post outbreak world, a bow and arrow would do absolutely nothing to protect against the infected runners and stalkers—and it would do much less to protect against clickers unless your aim was flawless.

Still, a bow was useful in its own right. 

It was perfect for hunting game. It was silent, keeping you and your location concealed from potential passersby at all times. Most importantly, you could reuse your arrows so long as you were careful and didn’t break them while removing them from your kills—and in the event that you did happen to snap an arrow, all you had to do was salvage what you could from the damaged projectile and make a new one. Simple as that. 

Your father had taught you how before he’d died.

“Why bother with a bow? What about a gun?” you had asked him. 

“Might not always be able to get your hands on a gun,” he’d replied as he sharpened an edge of the small, thumb sized rock in his hand. “Or bullets. It doesn’t hurt to have alternatives in the event that you can’t get your hands on either of those things, kiddo.” Despite being in your mid twenties at the time, he’d still always call you kiddo. “Always have a backup weapon, alright?”

He’d been wise to give you that advice.

You did have a firearm, a colt pistol that you hardly have ammunition for. There were ten rounds left in the clip and with no luck in finding any more in the last couple of months, you’d decided to preserve them, saving what little bullets you had left for a real emergency. You kept the gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans at all times, along with the sharp switchblade that you used to gut and skin game. As far as weapons go, you sure as hell could’ve been a lot worse off. But if you happened to stumble upon more ammunition for your gun, you certainly wouldn’t complain about it. 

Slinging your bow and the quiver of arrows over your shoulder, you grab the dark gray foraging bag that you used to collect and carry your kills in and leave the cabin, feeling somewhat confident enough to leave the remainder of your belongings behind instead of hauling them all along with you like you had the morning before. It wasn’t that you feared someone would come along and steal them. There wasn’t really anything for anyone to steal, anyway. Rather, you’d gotten so damn used to the instability and the constant moving around—you never stayed in one place for too long and were always prepared to run. But today, you decide to leave your things in the cabin, feeling certain that you would return in just a couple of hours. 

You step out onto the creaking, three step porch that’s so old it buckles slightly under your weight and a gentle breeze nips at your cheeks and nose. It’s the middle of autumn in Wyoming and the air outside is fresh, cool and crisp. Winter was looming right around the corner like a dark shadow, and although you’d somehow managed to make it through the previous year’s brutal snow season, that didn’t do much to stop you from being nervous about the one that was to come. If all went according to your plan, you’d be holing yourself up in that shoddy little cabin until the worst of winter was over and then you would move along.

To where?

You didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. 

You make a short trek about two miles south, going in the opposite direction of the lake and finding yourself closer to the thick forest trees that surrounded the base of the mountain range out in the distance instead. There’s a dried, grassy clearing just feet from the entrance of the forest—finding a single, decently sized boulder in the middle of the wide, open space, you decide that behind it is the perfect spot for you to set up and hope for the best. Carefully setting your things down on the ground, you pull out a pair of old, cracked binoculars from your bag. You lean your body over the smooth, round top of the rock and lift them up to your face, peeking through the lenses. You hope to spot something right away because it sure would be fucking nice to eat something sooner rather than later. Otherwise you might just start gnawing at your own arm. 

Diligently, you scan your surroundings for any and all signs of wildlife. 

That’s when you see it, standing near the edge of the woods.

You gasp softly as your sights fall upon the deer. 

Pulling your face away from your binoculars, you blink furiously before taking another look just to be sure that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It’s not a hallucination. It’s a white tailed deer, a female, and from the look of her, she has to be at least about a hundred pounds. At least.

You try to not get too far ahead of yourself, but it’s far too late. The thought of finding some herbs and making a hot, venison stew for supper makes your mouth water. The rest of the meat could be dried out and made into a batch of jerky that could feed you for months. Months.

Then, you suddenly remember you’ve never even attempted to bring down an animal of that size before and you’re slapped back into reality.

You think about your father, who would bring home a deer every weekend after going on his hunting trips with some of his old college buddies. “You want to aim for the heart or the lungs,” he’d say as you and your siblings would watch him dress the carcass, much to your mother’s chagrin. “Look between the shoulder blade and the last rib,” he would tell you and your brothers. You’d also had an older sister, but she had always been incredibly squeamish and had a soul that was much too sweet and caring for hunting. She would always want to bring home every animal your father shot and nurse it back to health. “Somewhere between those two lies everything you need to hit in order to do the job and do it well. And for the love of god, don’t you ever aim directly for the shoulder. Behind it, kiddos, always aim behind it. You got it?”

“Yes Papa,” you’d all chime out together.

Setting down the binoculars in your hands, you reach for your bow and pluck an arrow from your quiver before stepping out from behind the boulder. You’re careful to be as silent as possible as you take a few steps closer towards the unsuspecting grazing animal. You position yourself and stand perpendicular to the deer, placing your feet shoulder width apart—you’re a little farther from your target than you would have preferred, but you don’t want to risk going any closer and scaring her off, so it would have to do. Once you feel comfortable enough with your stance, you nock the arrow and set it on the string. You then hold the string and steady your grip on the bow, relaxing your shoulders before drawing it and pulling your arm back until you’ve reached your anchor point, which is always the corner of your mouth. 

Breathe, you remind yourself calmly as you aim at the delicate spot behind her shoulder blade. Nice and slow. Breathe.

Just as you’re about to release the arrow and take your shot, the deer whips her head back towards the trees and her ears prick forward—a split second later, she darts off, zooming across the field in the opposite direction of where you’d been standing. 

Your mouth falls open in disbelief. 

“Are you fucking shitting me?” you mutter under your breath.

Frustrated, you lower your weapon and just as you start to contemplate whether or not it’s even worth it to try and hunt her down on foot, you suddenly hear something—it isn’t until the noise draws closer to where you’re standing that you realize it’s the sound of a galloping horse.

Perplexed, you squint over in the direction of where you think it’s coming from, right near the edge of the trees. Then, just a moment later, a brown stallion emerges from the woods with a dark haired man riding in his saddle. He holds a rifle in one hand and clutches the reins tightly in the other. 

Gasping, you whirl around on the heel of your boot and immediately make a beeline back to the boulder. You swing around the rock and crouch down, ducking out of his sight. You couldn’t be too sure if he’d seen you or not, but it doesn’t matter—a wave of sheer panic washes over you and you can physically feel your own body preparing itself to go into fight or flight mode. Despite having your gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you still haven’t reached for it and continue to clutch your bow and arrow in your hands instead. 

Swallowing dryly, you turn and carefully lift yourself up just enough so that you can glimpse over the top of the boulder. That’s when you see a second man emerge from the woods. This one is blond and he is on foot instead of a horse. He’s also armed, carrying a shotgun. 

“You’re mine you fucking son of a bitch!” he shouts. He lifts his weapon, aims, and then squeezes the trigger, shooting the horse in the side and bringing him down instantly. His rider goes flying off and he hits the ground several feet away from the dead animal, landing so painfully hard that even from a distance you’d manage to hear the loud, cracking sound his body had made upon impact.

You momentarily freeze. 

Your heart anxiously jumps up into your throat as you watch the shooter begin to approach him. The attacker moves slowly and with no haste seeing as his helpless victim is lying there motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and no idea that he’s about to die. The blond man comes to a halt just a few feet away from him, grinning as he lifts his shotgun once again and points the barrel of it at the other man’s head. His index finger hovers over the trigger. 

Before your mind and body can even make the connection, you rise to your feet and aim your bow, swiftly sending an arrow straight through the blond man’s neck. He crumples, falling to the ground writhing and squirming as he bleeds out in less than sixty seconds.

You wait it out for another minute, refusing to move another muscle until his body finally goes limp and you are certain he’s dead. Taking a look around, you make sure the coast is clear and grab your belongings, slinging them over your shoulder before you make your way over to the scene. Unsure of whether or not there could be others heading in this direction, your plan was to pick off their guns and any other useful supplies before making a run for it back to the cabin. You crouch down beside the man you’d shot and killed, carefully pulling your arrow out of his neck. It makes a loud, horrid squelching sound as you remove it and blood from his jugular splatters your blue jeans. You then pick up his shotgun and check the chamber for ammunition. 

Just like the pistol tucked away in your waistband, there’s hardly any rounds left, making it all but useless. Rolling your eyes, you carelessly drop the gun on top of his chest and move on in search of the rifle. You spot it right beside the dark haired man.

Apprehensive, you cautiously make your way over towards him. With how still he had been lying, you could have sworn he was gone—perhaps the fall off of his horse alone had killed him. But just to be sure, you decide to give his side a harsh nudge with the toe of your boot. 

He groans and his head rolls to the side.

He’s still alive.

You effortlessly string the bloodied arrow in your hand and aim it right at his chest.

Move again and you’re dead, motherfucker.

“Ellie,” the man mumbles, his eyes still closed.

Ellie?

You slowly lower your bow.

Without realizing it, a little bit of your guard lowers along with it. 

Carefully, you sink down onto one knee next to the man and get a better look at him. He’s much older than yourself, somewhere in his fifties if you had to guess. He has harsh forehead lines, deep creases in between his eyebrows, a patchy beard that is speckled with many, many grays, and wild waves of thick hair that look soft to the touch. Though some of his features are a little worse for wear due to his age, he’s still quite a handsome man from what you can see. He also appears to be in decent shape, clean and well fed, and you detect the light scent of laundry soap on his clothes. Surely, he had to have been part of some kind of group, and judging by the leather trimmed saddle on his horse, this group was one that was very well off in this post outbreak world. 

You hesitate, but then lift a slightly trembling hand and take the side of his face, cupping it in your palm as you turn his head towards you. 

There’s blood on his right temple and your fingers reach up to touch what you had assumed was the source of the bleeding—but then you realize it was a scar, maybe an inch or two in length at most and completely healed. Your fingers trail up even further and venture into his hair which, as it turned out, is in fact just as soft as one would imagine. You find a small gash on his scalp and your fingers become coated in the man’s blood.

Must’ve hit himself on a rock or something.

Your hand leaves his hair and you place it on his broad chest as you begin checking him over for any other potential injuries or wounds. Slipping your opposite hand inside of his brown jacket, you lift the hem of the dark green thermal henley he’s wearing and you discover the scar on his temple isn’t the only one he possesses—he has several more, way too many for you to count on one hand alone. You’re so preoccupied with inspecting the remainder of his abdomen that you don’t even notice the way one of his hands is slowly reaching for yours, the hand that’s still resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Semiconscious, the man takes your hand in his so damn gently that it startles you and takes you by surprise, but it doesn’t frighten you. Weakly, he laces his fingers together with your own and he speaks again, uttering softly, “Babygirl.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows knit together.

It almost sounds like he’s pleading.

For what—for who? For Ellie?

Is she the babygirl he’s referring to?

Your other hand moves up to his shoulder and you give it a violent shake. 

Hey, you’ve got to get up now.

“H—” You try to speak the words, but can’t. They’re formed in your mind and it feels like they are right there on the very tip of your tongue, but when you open your mouth, they refuse to come out. You frown.

It’s happened before. 

In the spring, you’d stumbled across a small group of people while out hunting in Idaho—it was the first time you had seen other human beings since leaving California in the fall. There had been both men and women and they even had children with them, but that did nothing to stop you from panicking when they’d approached you. One of the women cornered you, trying to tell you that they were traveling across the country to the east coast. “It’s okay,” she’d tried to tell you, holding up her hands. “We’re not bad people, I promise. We’re just trying to get to the quarantine zone in Boston. I think you should come with us, honey.”

You’d been so terrified that when you’d tried to tell her that you didn’t want to join them, you couldn’t push the words out. It felt like your voice had gotten stuck in the back of your throat. That’s how afraid you’d been.

Technically, you can speak.

You’d talk to yourself often when you were feeling lonely. You would read the books you carried in your pack out loud. Hell, you even liked to sing.

But whenever you became stressed, anxious, or scared, it would happen. You’d lose your ability to speak and to communicate—not that you had anyone to communicate with except for yourself, but that’s besides the point. No matter how hard you tried to force your vocal cords, all you could get out were quiet, strangled noises. It was as if your own fears chased your voice away and during periods when you were under extreme distress, it would take several days for you to find it again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, whenever you used your voice back in California, it only led to the harshest of punishments. 

A gunshot sounds off in the distance, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You shake the man again, harder this time.

Come on, get up! They could be coming this way!

It’s useless. He’s losing complete consciousness. 

You hear another gunshot and this one sounds like it’s coming from the base of the mountain range on the other side of the trees, not all too far from where you are. For all you know, it could very well be members of his own group who are firing those weapons out there. But whether it was his group or the other man’s group, it doesn’t really fucking matter. You don’t want to run into either one of them, regardless of who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. In your eyes, everyone’s a fucking bad guy. 

Yanking your hand out of his, you get to your feet and prepare to make a run for it. But just as you’re about to take off, the man mumbles one last time. It’s incoherent and barely audible, but you manage to catch that name again. Ellie. 

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

For some reason you can’t quite explain, that sweet little name bounces around in the inside of your skull. 

You chew the inside of your cheek anxiously. 

If it’s his group out there, they’ll save him.

If it’s the other man’s group, they’ll kill him.

Normally, you’d have no problem with the idea of leaving another person to die.

After everything that happened in California, you had lost your sense of humanity. Your ability to empathize and actually give a shit about other people had been long gone—or so you’d thought. But you had just saved this man’s life and now you find yourself unwilling to run the risk of leaving him for dead. And you don’t have the slightest fucking clue as to why. He’s a stranger. He shouldn’t matter to you. 

You exhale a heavy sigh of defeat.

Okay, how the fuck do I do this?

Without much time left to waste, you gather up your belongings over your shoulder and pick up his rifle, slinging the brown leather strap across your chest so the gun rests comfortably against your backside. You walk around him, lean over, and hook your arms securely underneath his. Using every ounce of physical strength you have inside of you, you start dragging him back to the cabin as fast as you possibly can.

The pretty melody fills his ears as he comes to.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…”

Joel Miller isn’t all too sure if heaven is a real place that actually exists, but the very minute he hears the feminine voice singing, he can’t help but think he’s died and that’s exactly where he’s gone—because only an angel could possibly have a voice like that. So rich, so smooth, and oh so sickeningly sweet.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...”

The ballad being sung is all too familiar to him.

The Wizard of Oz had been Sarah’s favorite movie back when she had been a little girl, when she was seven years old and she still believed in princesses and fairy tales and faraway lands with yellow brick roads. Even when she grew older, his daughter continued to hold a soft spot for the film and Joel would watch it with her every Thanksgiving at his parents’ house right after their dinner—it would air on cable and Sarah would beg him to let her have her slice of pecan pie while sitting cross legged on the floor in front of his old man’s television set.

“So long as you don’t make a mess on Nana and PopPop’s carpet,” he’d warn her. “Deal?”

Sarah would beam at him and nod eagerly. “Deal!”

He’d grab his own slice of pie, park it right on the couch behind her, and together they would get lost in the whimsical world of Oz, although admittedly he’d usually fall deep into his food coma long before Dorothy had the chance to make it back home to Kansas.  

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops

away above the chimney tops 

that’s where you’ll find me...”

The words fade and the rest of the song is now being hummed.

Goddamn, he thinks.Even the humming is too fucking beautiful.

Joel feels a cold, damp cloth dabbing at his sore right temple.

Come to think of it, everything is fucking sore. 

Once, when Joel had been in his mid twenties, he had been doing some under the table roofing job with his younger brother, Tommy. It had been the hottest day of the summer in Texas, and the two of them thought having a couple cold beers with their lunch to cool off would be a good idea. The pair of them went back to work and started fucking around, goofing off like the drunk idiots they were. While horsing around, Joel accidentally stumbled right over the edge of the roof and he had fallen about fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his back on Mrs. Adler’s lawn. Luckily, he’d been okay after the fall and hadn’t sustained any serious injuries or broken any bones, but he had spent the following three to four weeks feeling like he’d been hit by a fucking Greyhound.

That’s how he felt now.

Like he’d been hit by a fucking bus. Twice. There isn’t a single part of him that isn’t pulsating with pain—his back, his shoulders, and his head. Oh god, his head feels the worst. It’s fucking killing him. 

Joel’s eyelids twitch and he cracks them open ever so slightly, just enough that he can see the silhouette of another person hovering over him. He feels a hand at the crown of his head as the other continues to dab at his temple with the cool cloth. It feels incredible against his warm skin and even sort of soothes the pain.

He lets out a small groan and the humming ceases.

Finally, he manages to force his eyes open.

Joel hears a little gasp and the bed he’s lying on squeaks and shifts. He then hears a loud thumping sound as if something, or someone had fallen to the floor. 

Although he’s still disoriented and his entire body aches with even the slightest movement, Joel manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision steadies itself after a minute and he glances around. He’s in a small, single room wooden cabin that has seen better days in its lifetime. Looking down, he sees that he’s lying on a bare, worn out mattress with his own jacket draped over him like a blanket. He racks his mildly concussed brain, trying to recollect what had happened—it takes him a minute, but one by one, the memories start flooding back to him. Joel had been leading mid morning patrol with Tommy when they had been ambushed by a large group of hostile raiders. He remembers shouting at his brother, telling him that he’d try and lead some of them off, away from the direction of their community. He’d succeeded and managed to pick off a few of the bastards that had been tailing him with his rifle, all except for one. The very last thing that he remembered was the sound of a gunshot behind him before his horse went down and he’d been thrown off and knocked out.

Everything after that was nothing but a blur.

Joel takes another look around the cabin and that’s when he sees you.

You’re on the floor, backed up against the wall near the foot of the mattress. Your eyes are wide and round, like a deer caught in the headlights. Your chest heaves, rising and falling rapidly—you remind him of a helpless, frightened animal that had been cornered by a vicious predator. You clutch the handle of a switchblade up against your chest with the blade pointing downwards, holding it so tightly in your hand that Joel can see the skin stretching tightly over your knuckles. 

“Who the hell are you?” He grimaces slightly, his own voice causing his head to throb. 

You don’t reply.

Joel moves onto his next question. “Where am I?”

Again, no response.

He tries again. “Are you alone?”

Silence. 

Joel takes a better look at you.

You’re young. You couldn’t have been older than your late twenties, perhaps even your early thirties although that might have been a bit of a stretch. You had that look about you, one that had become all but too familiar to him in the last two decades—the exhausted appearance of someone trying to survive in the post outbreak world. Your face is tired and worn, but somehow still soft and youthful at the same time. You might have looked a little rough around the edges, but you’re still the prettiest goddamn thing he’s seen in a long, long time. 

Joel speaks again. “Who are you? Where the hell are we?” When he’s met with complete silence for the fourth time, he raises an eyebrow, feeling annoyed. “You gonna fuckin’ say somethin’ or what?”

You can only stare at him, your fingers wrapped around the handle of your knife in a vice-like grip.

Joel frowns.

Are you really that fucking terrified of him?

Or perhaps you can’t hear?

Only one way to find out, he thinks to himself.

He raises his voice, asking once again, “Who are you? Where are we?”

You wince, your features twisting in discomfort.

Oh, you could fucking hear him, alright. 

Joel swings his legs over the side of the mattress, his movement causing you to shrink back further against the wall, almost as if you were trying to become a part of the old, rotted wood. He holds up his two hands, demonstrating that he has no plans to move another muscle towards you. “How long have I been out?”

He tries to show some patience and gives you a minute, gives you a chance to respond, but when you say nothing, he can’t help but sigh out in frustration. Just when he’s about to force himself to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of answers out of you, you lift your free hand and hold up three trembling fingers. 

His stomach sinks. “Three days? I’ve been out for three fuckin’ days?”

You give him a nod so tiny and so subtle that he would’ve missed it had he blinked.

“Fuck,” Joel curses, hanging his head. He begins to spiral.

What happened to Tommy? And the others? 

Did they make it out alive?

And then Ellie’s face flashes in his mind, causing the blood in his veins to run ice cold. 

What could she possibly be thinking right now after he’d been missing for three whole days? Who was taking care of her and looking after her while he wasn’t there?

He needed to get back to Jackson—he needed to get back to Ellie.

He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that if you didn’t start talking soon and answering his goddamn questions.

Lifting his head, Joel looks over at you again. 

“You all by yourself?”

You hesitate, but then nod in reply. Yes.

Joel sighs, his tense shoulders relaxing. That’s a start. “Listen, I’m gonna need a little help here, alright? I don’t remember much ‘bout what happened. I’m part of a community. I was out on patrol with my group when we were attacked by raiders. There were too many of them and I tried to lead some of them away,” he explains. He might not have known what had happened after he’d been thrown off of his horse, but the fact that he’s in your cabin and he’s alive help him piece at least one part of the puzzle together. “Wait a minute. Did you—did you save me out there?”

Sucking in your bottom lip, you nod again.

Stunned, Joel’s eyebrows raise up towards his hairline. “You fuckin’ serious?” he can’t help but question in complete and utter disbelief. Skeptically, he presses, “But how? What happened out there? How did you get me here all by yourself?” His queries spill from his lips one after the other despite knowing most of them, if not all of them, would go unanswered.

You look overwhelmed by them—by him.

Figuring it’s best to take it one slow step at a time, Joel stands up and he cautiously walks over towards you. He holds out his hand. “S’alright,” he assures you in the most gentle voice he can muster. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You refuse to loosen your grip on your knife, but you accept his hand and allow him to help you up to your feet. Given that you didn’t lodge the blade straight through his chest, Joel would say some progress had been made. 

He releases your hand and takes a step backwards to give you your space. He isn’t too sure if you can’t talk or simply don’t want to talk—still thinking you’d been the woman he’d heard singing when he had drifted back into consciousness, he guesses it’s probably the latter. 

Joel tries to think of questions he knows you’ll be able to answer without having to speak. 

“How long have you been by yourself?”

Shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, you hold up one finger. 

“Sorry darlin’ but that don’t really help me much,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Are we talkin’ one week? One month?”

You make a gesture with your hand. Keep going.

“One year?” He doesn’t bother hiding his blatant skepticism. “You’ve been completely alone for one whole year?”

You point at him. That’s right. 

Joel is beside himself. He’s almost in awe over the fact that you’ve survived on your own for so fucking long.

“You got any other weapons besides that knife?”

You nod over towards a bow and sheath of arrows next to your backpack.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s all you’ve got?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Hey, it’s a good weapon and it saved your fucking life, thank you very much.

“Sorry. Just can’t imagine that thing would do much against a clicker. ‘Specially if your aim is shit,” Joel muses. He notices the offended expression on your face and quickly moves on. “You don’t have a gun at all?”

You reach behind yourself and pull out a colt pistol from the waistband of your jeans. You finally set down your knife and then show him that you’re low on ammunition and don’t have any more. Tucking the gun back into your jeans, you step around him and walk over to a corner where his rifle is propped up against the wall. You pick it up, make your way back over to him and hand it over. 

I believe this belongs to you.

“Thank you,” he utters quietly, taking it from you. “And I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the gun, either. I honestly don’t think I’d be standin’ here alive if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did out there.” His eyes try meeting yours. “I’m serious, darlin’. I owe you one. I really fuckin’ do.”

You shrug, too timid to meet his gaze.

“I’m Joel,” he says after a minute, setting his rifle down. “What’s your name?”

You simply stare at him.

“Oh that’s right,” Joel mumbles sheepishly. “You can’t—” He stops himself, but he’s sure you know what he’d meant to say.

You can’t talk.

“You got a pencil or somethin’ to write with?”

You snort and roll your eyes at him. No, sorry. Silly me totally forgot to pick up a pack of pencils while I was out scavenging for supplies the other day.

Joel chuckles and holds up his hands in defense. “Figured it was at least worth askin’,” he says. “It’d be kinda nice to know the name of the person who saved my fuckin’ ass, you know.” He clocks the way the corners of your mouth threaten to turn upwards into a tiny smile at his remark. “How ‘bout a map? You got one of those so you can show me where we are?”

You hold up a finger, as if telling him to give you a minute. Digging into one of the front pockets of your pack, you pull out a large map of the state of Wyoming. It’s severely creased, as if you’ve folded and unfolded it hundreds of times. You hand it over to him and as he holds it out for you, you point to your current location. 

“Jackson’s ‘bout fifteen miles south from here,” Joel murmurs as he scans the map. Suddenly, his dark brown eyes flicker over your wrist—the long sleeve of your thin gray shirt had hiked up, exposing severe discoloration and scarring that went all the way around, marking your skin. 

Noticing where his gaze had wandered off to, you quickly retract your hand away from the map and tug your sleeve down back into place. But it’d been much too late. He had seen the mark, clear as fucking day. 

Joel awkwardly clears his throat and for the sake of not causing you any discomfort, he pretends he hadn’t seen a goddamn thing. He turns his attention back to the map. “Remember how I told you I’m a part of a community? It’s in Jackson and it ain’t all too far from here,” he states, peering up at you from over the top of the map. “The town’s gated and it’s secure. You’ll be safe there. If we head out right now, we can make it there by nightfall—”

You back away from him, shaking your head.

I’m not going with you.

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Look darlin’, I don’t mean to offend, but you ain’t gonna last a whole lot longer out here on your own, especially not in a place like this with winter right around the corner. If you don’t starve to death, then you’ll fuckin’ freeze to death.”

You glare at him and lift your chin.

I’ve been doing just fine on my own, thanks. 

Having read your mind, Joel sighs. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve gotten this far by yourself, but that don’t mean you gotta turn down an offer for some help. Just come with me to Jackson—”

You shake your head even harder.

The last time that you had agreed to go back with a stranger to their camp, you’d been imprisoned. Tortured. 

Joel observes you, and it doesn’t take him very long to connect the dots between the scars around your wrists and your refusal to leave with him. His hard, stony face softens. “Listen sweetheart, I ain’t all too sure ‘bout what’s happened to you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I can assure you that you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing this time around. Just come with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

You toss him a skeptical look.

“Jackson is a safe place,” he swears. “My brother runs it along with his wife and a small council. There’s families, lots of children—hell I’ve got a kid myself. Teenager. Her name is Ellie and she’s fifteen years old.”

Your lips part slightly and your eyes glimmer with something that looks a lot like recognition, though Joel can’t be too sure what had prompted it. Perhaps you’d known someone with that name once in your life. 

“There’s plenty of food, running water, electricity,” he lists off in an attempt to sway you. “It’d be a shot at a normal life. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Crossing your arms, you lift your chin again.

You’d heard that before.

Why the hell should I even trust you? Why should I trust this place is what you say it is?

Joel bites back another frustrated sigh. 

Normally, he wouldn’t bother to put up with such stubbornness. He wasn’t one to plead or beg and part of him almost wanted to give up so he could be on his way, but you had saved him from being killed. He owed you his fucking life. He had to get you to go with him. He wouldn’t give up until you agreed to go to Jackson with him. 

“I’ll let you carry your weapons,” he offers as a compromise. “Hell, you can even walk behind me with your gun pointed at the back of my fuckin’ head if that’s gonna make you feel safest.”

You squint at him. Really?

“Or that bow of yours,” he adds, chuckling softly. “It’s your pick, darlin’. Whatever’s gonna make you feel comfortable. I’ll trust you not to shoot an arrow through the back of my skull—all I ask in return is that you at least make an attempt to trust me too. I think that’s a fair enough deal. Don’t you?”

You bite your bottom lip. 

I don’t know about this.

“I really don’t wanna leave you out here all alone,” Joel says, taking a step closer towards you. He finds himself feeling surprised that it hadn’t startled you and he only hopes that means that, to some degree, you trust him already. “Please. You saved my life—and I know you probably don’t need me savin’ yours, but at least let me take you to Jackson so you can see for yourself what we’ve got goin’ on there. If you don’t like it and you don’t wanna stay, then we’ll load up your pack with food and supplies. We’ll put you on a horse and you can be on your way. You can choose to leave and no one will lift a finger to stop you, I’ll make sure of it. How does that sound?”

He waits, giving you a chance to think it over.

Finally, after a minute, you sigh and reluctantly nodd your head. 

Okay. I’m gonna try and trust you.

“Good,” Joel says, softly. “Now get your stuff and let’s head out before we start losin’ daylight.” 

[rwrbmovie]

BTS of #RWRBMovie: Storming Kensington

From HELLO:

For Matthew, this scene was an important one, but one that he felt needed a different energy than what is on the page. "It is very similar and it's also simultaneously very different to the book which I think is just one way of describing this entire movie," he says. "Casey said to me after watching it for the second or third time, 'It's like there's my book, and then there's your movie and the two are very, very similar and also very different,' which is good because if the movie was so faithful to the book, it, I don't even think it would please the fans of the book.  "I know that's probably a controversial thing to say but it wouldn't have served the story very well." He continues: "I needed to observe the logic of a film and trust that I had internalized the emotional truths of the book and the Storming of Kensington in the book is a lot more chaotic and Alex is highly charged.  "When we were in rehearsals, and Taylor and Nick and I began to really delve into that scene, we realized quickly that if Alex came on that strong then Henry, given where he is mentally, would simply say, 'well, get out,' and kick Alex out. So we knew implicitly that we needed to do a different version of that scene, one in which Alex isn't at all certain of success.  "In the book, Alex is willing to burn down the castle in order to get what he wants, and although the scene actually uses a lot of dialogue from the book, our Alex in the film knows that if this doesn't work, their relationship is over. So he's a little more careful with Henry, more fearful, and Henry is more heartbroken, and those decisions really determined everything else that followed in the scene." 

From Glamour:

Galitzine, meanwhile, says his most rewarding time on set came during the film's emotional climax, when Alex and Henry must decide if—and how—they're going to move forward in their relationship. “It's the emotional height of the movie in a lot of ways, and sometimes as an actor, you can very much get in your head about that,” he says. “But Taylor really was just so emotionally present that it helped me. We got to a vulnerable, beautiful space. Those kinds of moments are where you drift into a level of truth and sincerity that feels very real. That's what we're always aiming for.”

From I’ve Never Said this Before With Tommy DiDario:

ML: We had to break for lunch, and we haven't finished the scene and I was really, really worried that we were gonna come back from lunch and I would've lost them and never re-captured what was happening on set before lunch. And it was the pivotal part of the scene, the end where Alex makes an ultimatum to Henry. We got back on set and we started filming again and instantly in the first take, after lunch, Taylor started crying and Nick was facing away from him and he heard Taylor, and Nick started crying. The back half of that scene is so beautiful because they're doing such great work and I really had a difficult time cutting it because there was such beautiful, nuanced work from both of them. What's so remarkable about it is they had just had lunch, and they came right back into it and they were more dialled in, more in touch with each other than before. It was pretty remarkable. I have to say that was the moment I knew that whatever happened with this movie, those two actors would be fine in their careers.

[emblemxeno]

If we're being honest, I got a lot of issues with Ingrid because I feel like she has the wrong character development

Her support with Dedue is realizing that she shouldn't apply her negative view of Duscur onto every Duscurian indiscriminately

That kind of thing works for Oboro because Nohrians really did kill her parents

But, Duscurians didn't actually cause the death of Lambert or Glenn, so her development should've been to learn that all those years of hatred were misdirected, and she hated them for no reason

It also didn't help that Dimitri states multiple times that Duscur didn't commit the crime, and Ingrid is still ignorant about it

I have this unhinged hatred of the Faerghus Four as a concept because every time, it's like they're consciously refusing to acknowledge the importance of Dedue in Dimitri's life in the present "Oh, these are Dimitri's childhood friends. Of course, they're close." Yeah, sure.... They're totally closer to Dimitri than Dedue is in the present.... *Internal screaming*

Combining these because my answer to both is similar!

In my opinion, it showcases how 3H's writing philosophy is ultimately shoddy in its foundation. The backstories, supports, and character-to-character dialogue itself is great in theory, but execution it clashed with what both FE usually tries to do and what 3H desperately wants to do.

FE typically has characters join chapter to chapter, with important ones having plot moments, while side characters fall to the background once their designated chapter is up. But this isn't at the cost of character interaction, pre-established relationships, and the micro-to-macro worldbuilding precisely because they're not overly important. You can have canon romances, friendships, familial relationships, etc. because that's all supplemental side material.

3H was written in a way in which the characters were all connected to its grandiose world, to the point where Fodlan itself can be almost considered a character. Multilayered backstories that infer key points in the narrative, each character no matter how trivial having opinions on how the world works, shifting dynamics, etc.

The problem though is that these two philosophies clash already at base, but also run into the problem of FE's gameplay integrated story elements.

None of the Faerghus Four can meaningfully comment on their relationship with Dimitri during a story cutscene because they can die. Ingrid can't meaningfully change her perspective on Dedue or Duscur beyond her supports because she can die. Therefore, all you get are (admittedly pretty good) supports, the monastery dialogue, and other tidbits intentionally disconnected from one another so as not to be important enough to write around potential death. The comments they do get in cutscenes were intentionally written in a way to be surface level and easily replaced. Look at the FEdatamine site for example, where conclusions are reached by Byleth, the lord, the unkillable retainer, and other important story figures, with numerous possible instances of "if X character is alive they comment this, but if X character is dead this line is skipped."

That is proof of how sloppy 3H's writing is in foundation when you think about it long enough. The game that has such an intricate world, thorough details, and fascinating story beats, is actually extremely bad at delivering a story, especially an FE story. Being the judgmental and petty cunt that I am, 3H gets a pass most of the time a) most don't care or bother to care about actual stuff like this and b) the game has the aesthetics of being a down to earth, gritty, serious narrative. The foundational issues don't matter when you have Edelgard yapping about "THE CREST SYSTEM", dark character circumstances, and intriguing mysteries to solve in part 1.

People want the appearance of sophistication, especially after Awakening and Fates bent a lot of rules to fuck around with their respective stories. It's why Engage, despite not having nearly as many basic issues at conveying its plot and is actually extremely good at being a Fire Emblem story (e.g. more character being able to actually die, pre-established relationships, chapter to chapter joining, not nearly as much centering on Alear as the ultimate decider on a character's fate compared to Byleth), is panned because... why? Its bright aesthetic? Its good dragon vs evil dragon plot? Its softer or humorous moments?

Hell, even its call backs to past FE games is called cheap, soulless, or a gateway to gacha (one video I saw even described it as something like "when art becomes obligation" or some such nonsense), despite it LITERALLY being the prime anniversary title. The main character is the Fire Emblem, and the writers-through Lumera-wish a happy birthday to Fire Emblem!!! What about that is lacking heart and soul?

But yeah, again, I preface that I'm a judgmental asshole who proudly proclaims that the audience (at least the western one) has for years been too obsessed with yearning for darker serious aesthetics of FE's past (despite said past being wackier than they remember), that when a new game has them in overflowing spades, the many fundamental video game writing issues do not matter as much anymore.

Aesop for the day: Serious tones and aesthetics are not automatically better than lighter, heartfelt, or funny ones. You still have to write well for a story to be good.

EDIT: Funny enough this is also why Three Hopes is a more comfy environment for the Fodlan cast's in terms of tangible development, because the things the writers want to do with that game's story complements its gameplay. Because KT is better at making Warriors plots than FE plots.

[theblackfemininesociety]

🪞Inner Dialogue Diaries — Part One: Are Your Inner Thoughts Your Biggest Cheerleader or Harshest Critic?

Hey Besties and Future Besties of B.F.S,

As your accountability partner, I think it's important to highlight all the struggles women face during their feminine journey and give solutions and tools to help you conquer those obstacles.

Our fellow Femininity and Level Up content creators are doing a wonderful job with helping women look and even act like their best selves. We realized that we don't often see the real conversations about the daily mental reprogramming that has to happen in order to let your feminine energy flourish✨

🌟 The P.V.N Method:

There are two ladies that most of us know of, heard of and even embody on a daily basis. I would call them arch enemies but one cares for the other and the other can care less about them. Who am I talking about? The infamous "Positive Polly" and "Negative Nancy" we all have had our moments with both of these ladies both externally and internally.

Who is Positive Polly:

Miss Positive Polly is very upbeat, encouraging and optimistic. She is always looking on the brighter sides of things and people. She is solution oriented and maintains a hopeful perspective even in challenging times.

She relies on her friends FAITH and CONFIDENCE, together they create a supportive and encouraging environment.

Who is Negative Nancy:

Unlike Positive Polly, the infamous Negative Nancy isn't so glamorous. She is actually very dull suffers from perceptual blindness which causes her to having to depend on her fake friends “The Debbie Downers” (Scarcity, Fear and The Past)

Together they tend to focus on the on problems, obstacles, and worst-case scenarios. The Debbie Downers are often critical and sees the downsides in situations.

The P.V.N method is the practice of identifying which posse your inner voice is akin to, this is how you will perceive everything you are doing, analyzing and believing about yourself.

Which Posse does your Inner Voice belong to ?

The Daily Reprogramming:

After identifying what side your thoughts are on (positive vs. negative) it's time to download this information into your brain. If you are normally pessimistic, This is a daily ritual, yes daily. Sounds exhausting but all of the greats became great because they had to do this very thing.

What To Reprogram?

Self-Awareness and Reflection: Recognize when your inner dialogue leans toward Negative Nancy or The Debbie Downers. Reflect on how these thoughts are affecting your actions and emotions.

Reframing Thoughts: Challenge negative thoughts and replace them with more constructive, Positive Polly-style affirmations. For example, if you think “I always mess up,” reframe it as “I’m learning and improving with each attempt.”

Building Positive Habits: Practice gratitude, celebrate small victories, and set realistic goals to reinforce a positive inner dialogue. This helps shift your overall mindset from self-criticism to self-encouragement. (Click Here For Our Habit Breaking Guide)

Seeking Support: Support is a big part of your femininity journey, commonly as black women we feel like we need to do everything alone bt thats not true! Sometimes external support, such as talking to friends, mentors, or therapists, can help counteract negative inner dialogue and promote a more positive self-view.

🚨 The Good News: There is an ultimate kryptonite to depleting your negative thoughts 💭

[tulypes]

insecurity.

summary: where you are insecure and jadon comforts you.

materlist. | open orders

warnings: slightly selfish reader & mild anguish. – english is not my official language. | inspired of "insecurity", by pixote.

The sky was already light outside when you decided to get out of bed, exhausted from tossing and turning in unpleasant insomnia. Next to him, Jadon seemed to sleep peacefully, comfortable between the white sheets, oblivious to his internal mess.

Despite feeling the fatigue consume your body, weakening you mercilessly, you simply couldn't fall asleep.

You started walking barefoot through the dark corridors of the house, heading towards the living room, in an attempt to banish the nagging thoughts that insisted on stealing your peace.

There was a petty need subconscious to project insecurities about her relationship of so many years with the English player, that lying down next to him seemed strange. The mattress had suddenly turned into jagged rocks.

The restlessness inside you made you question your relevance in Jadon's life, despite the beautiful story between the two of you, which resulted in little Zion — identical to his father in absolutely everything.

The years-long relationship had felt painfully fragile. You didn’t want to tell him what was tormenting you. No. Jadon already had so many things to worry about at that moment, the champions final was coming up!

Sitting down on the couch, you scanned the room. The house in Dortmund seemed to have tripled in size; you had the impression that the furniture was even further away from each other.

The incessant urge to cry consumed you. You had been holding back your tears for days, just like your words. You ran away from him, dodging all of your husband's advances. Dialogues were scarce, always inventing strange excuses to justify his behavior.

You turned on the television; something very colorful was playing on the screen and the characters were running through the forest, however, their attention was not on the television set. His head fell back, resting against the back of the sofa. You hadn't realized when exactly the tears started streaming down his face, but now they were free, thick and warm on his cheeks. You remained like that — silent and contained — until Jadon's image appeared in front of you, scaring you.

— What are you doing here, love? — He asked in a low tone.

— What a scare, Jadon! — you replied, trying to wipe away tears surreptitiously, avoiding looking at him. — I can't sleep, that's all.

— I noticed, you didn't stay still in bed... did something happen? Want to talk? — Sancho approached you on the sofa.

— No, it's okay, I'm just watching TV.

— Masha and the bear?

You looked away from him and back to the television. Indeed, Marsha and the Bear was passing by, and the little girl from hell continued to torment the poor bear.

Jadon ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired.

— There's something going on, i know you! You're acting strange, we never talk again.

— We're talking, Jadon.

— You were practically ignoring me before. Did i do something that hurt you? If i hurt you, if i did something you didn't like, please tell me.

His voice was choked. The words had a painful weight; the weight of truth. You felt eyes water again. The mind is deceitful, it plays tricks, and you have acted selfishly during the last few days. You had fears, insecurities, but so did Jadon and it wasn't fair to close yourself off.

— [Y/N], I don't want to lose you. Please, let's talk. I am your friend, i am your husband, i am here for everything.

— I don't know, Jad, i'm afraid... i don't know...

— Fear of what? Speak to me. — he grabbed your hands urgently, keeping your brown eyes fixed on his.

— Fear of not being enough for you. I'm afraid you'll leave me, betray me. — you replied, slightly exalted, lowering her head, trying to escape his gaze. — Wow, i see so many women trying to approach you and…

— Hey, hey... look at me, love. — he interrupted you and, gently holding your chin, continued:

— For the love of God, take that fear out of your heart. I love you so much! Please don't think that. I am faithful to our relationship, to our marriage. I'm faithful to you.

— But, Jadon, what if you get tired of me? Sometimes it happens.

— No, it won't happen! It's impossible! — he looked at you seriously with teary and wide eyes. — We have a history together, a son, a years-long relationship. We were together at all times, through the good and the bad... [Y/N], i won't cheat on you with anyone, i won't exchange you for anyone. Never! You have my word.

Jadon pulled you into a hug, stroking your hair as he placed kisses on the top of your head. You reciprocated with need, squeezing his body with all your strength. You were each other's home. Insecurities existed in any heart, but Jadon was there to expel them from his.

— Everything a man needs, [Y/N], i have at home.

[patheticmull3rr]

Teory📔📘; When Blue Meets Yellow In The West

I have been replaying the Third Season for a few days now, and the most iconic phrase within it; "when blue and yellow meet in the west" has made me very curious.

In ST these tones are used to symbolize how couples (both in a friendly and loving context) begin to know or "find" such tones we find in scenes such as

The photos of Eleven and Max;

and on the tiles of the bathrooms where Steve and Robin were;

Just as these tones are found in different scenes used in contexts with couples that were previously presented to us. But what matters here is that this phrase is present in moments prior to which two specific characters are about to share important moments between them.

And ow this symbolizes personal growth for both people.

In the case of Eleven and Max, Max makes Eleven learn that her individual life is much more than what Hopper or Mike tell her, and that there are more better things in the world than "stupid boys."

Teaches her to be herself, and at the same time Max becomes Eleven's first best friend, which is important for both of them even later in the S4. Max provokes in Eleven a feeling of independence and empowerment.

Which she later uses to end her relationship with Mike after he lied to her (I'll talk about that specific scene in another blog).

Also!!: I would like to honor the detail that Max has the green during this specific scene that shows Eleven the Wonder Woman comics, which in simpler words symbolizes the fact that Max already has the blue and yellow in she

Moving on to the Robin and Steve scene, specifically Robin is a character that is used to be related to Steve for the same reason as Eleven and Max.

Of course, each scene is different, but if we realize, in both contexts they have a similar problem, which is love problems.

In the bathroom scene where Robin and Steve talk, Steve begins to give Robin some hints that show that he is romantically attracted to her.

She ends up rejecting him by coming out to him as a lesbian woman, but even so she does not act offended by this, but rather a friendship arises directly between them. something that Steve also needs, realizing that there is more to the world than just wanting to get a girlfriend, and that he still has a lot of internal development ahead of him.

(I will also analyze this scene in another blog)

Taking into account the scenes that we have just rescued where yellow and blue are predominant in both couples, yellow and blue are not as such couple tones, as in the case of Mike and Eleven.

Something that is even somewhat difficult to find using these shades while the two are together, not counting the covers, and also the moments like this one that I have marked.

Taking the fact that explains that in the context of "when yellow meets blue in the west" symbolizing that they are important colors that are taken for important moments and where there is an individual advancement in both people being united.

Why then does the original couple, who are supposed to have yellow and blue predominating in them, not move forward together?

The answer is simple: They do not advance in the way that is expected when being together.

Let's take for example a dialogue that was supposed to be important for both of them, the scene in which they were trying to heal Eleven's injured leg after training against the MindFlayer.

During this scene we are presented with Mike trying to talk to Eleven, as Lucas had repeatedly told him earlier in the episodes after she finished him off.

We can see that during these dialogues, Mike tries to talk to Eleven more directly about how he feels about her, the simple act of apologizing, telling her that he was an idiot for lying to her, or perhaps a simple "I love you, forgive me for not telling you the truth" but while he tries he only manages to stumble over his words and confuse Eleven, not knowing what he was referring to, not understanding Mike's hints in his words and the way in which he himself was trying to tell them.

And can even take into account that before telling him something important he is interrupted by the walkie talkie.

So why didn't Mike just try to tell Eleven directly what he had screamed moments before she got hurt?

It's simple, both had already found their yellow and blue moments before, both realized different things, which later causes their development to begin to fall behind, because they both (specially Eleven) don't need that.

and that's why in this scene, after talking to Eleven about being in contact with her, he acts so confused after she brings up what he had said earlier, and Mike just says he doesn't remember.

That is why when she kisses him and tells him that she loves him, he acts confused, his simple gestures are as if he did not expect that to happen, because he was thinking of saying something very different to Eleven during the failed dialogue they had.

But now, let's see about the yellow one that Mike found when Eleven was not with him.

In which he even had the green with him during that specific scene that I would like to discuss.

Taking into account this specific scene we can realize that it is the complete opposite of how he is expected to behave with Mike, when Eleven tells him that they broke up, Mike does nothing but get upset and go home being angry as hell. same way, but when he has this argument with Will during the pressure of the moment, he simply makes the decision to go after him, knock on his door until he gets tired and tell him that he had been a complete idiot, that he wanted to talk things over with him and without letting him to shout his name and knock on his door.

At the same time, we can take into account that both scenes are totally different, in the scene where Eleven ends up with Mike, there is a big sun, a lot of people, a relaxed atmosphere, but when Mike argues with Will, everything becomes sad, there is no sun, it's raining.

And both end up with emotions twice as strong as they were before.

We can take this as the fact that Eleven had already found her blue, and she felt complete because of it, she didn't need Mike. But in Mike's case everything got even sadder because he still didn't get his yellow, and he felt like he was losing him.

In the case of Robin and Steve, they did not have yellow and blue in their clothes, but there was in their surroundings. I would like to use it in this context to show that although we already gave a more psychological meaning to yellow and blue, the phrase, taken literally can represents a sunset.

and we not only see this in the scene we took, but also in the scene from the season before this one, "crazy together."

and in another scene later, the scene after the fourth season ended

Specifically, I use this because it is an allegory to what I am trying to communicate with this, they are both sitting together, and the sun is touching them both.

At the same time, if I remember correctly, several of the most important scenes in the context of Mike and Will have been after "yellow and blue meet."

I know what you may be wondering, if I'm using the phrase for a more friendly context when putting friendly couples, why specifically Mike and Will don't I put them there too?.

It's simple, because they have already passed that phase, and their relationship has been growing over time, in a more personal and even deeper way even if they were not together, and because the phrase is not only used for friendly couples.

and, no, yellow and blue does not represent Mike and Eleven's relationship, because we can see that after several important moments during Eleven's individual development, she stops using yellow or blue, even during season four she begins to use the blue.

They make it clear to us that Eleven does not need a yellow or a blue to be able to move forward, because if the previous development she had with Max left her.

Is that she can be her own blue and yellow, even another different tone or the one that she wants to use.

For that same reason during the scene where Mike and Will meet after fighting, Mike wears green, hoping that Will could see that he would be both shades for both of them, but, at the end of the day, they would end up completely matching each other.

That's the same reason why, in previous seasons and even episodes within that season, they both continue to use them individually, and have so many important moments together.

Thanks so much for reading. 💛💙

[alphaformation]

I can barely find any mutant mayhem Donnie x male reader fics so I was wondering if you could write one please I'll give you this 🍕 as a sign of my gratitude

I GOTCHU ANON (cracks knuckles) keep that pizza in the microwave for me. decided to write it paralleling them meeting april because I think any of these four being clumsy and flustered is cute. I'm still testing out formatting for requests and such so let me know if you guys have any feedback <3 not sure how i feel about the fic itself buuut... i think it's certainly done.

╭────────────.★..─╮ Blood in the water. ╰─..★.────────────╯

Mutant Mayhem; Donatello / Male!Reader Word Count: 1,560 Content Warnings: swearing, maybe internalized homophobia if you squint? but that wasn't the intention as I was writing it. Summary; After a head-on collision in the hallway, Donnie meets the boy of his dreams. Now all he has to do is keep his brothers from finding out about him.

“Sooo… Leo… how’d that date with April go?”

The banter as the four of them walked home carried on as it always has, the only difference being that they finally had some new material. It’d been months since they’d integrated at Eastman high, and things were still running smooth as ever. It was perfect!

Sure, maybe not everyone was so accepting, but when the four of them were expecting screams of horror and violent brutality from the humans, they could tolerate some sour glances and rude comments.

“Mikey how many times do I have to TELL you guys, it- it wasn’t a date!” 

“Uhh, you don’t have to tell us that,” Raph shot back. “We aaall heard her at Prom-”

Dialogue quickly overlapped as the three of them verbally dogpiled onto Leo, who was struggling to cut through the crosstalk.

“Well- hey, y’know– I can’t be the ONLY one who’s got a… well, a crush. C’mon! You gotta cut me some slack.”

“Even if we did,” interjected Donnie, “we’d do a waaaay better job of hiding it than you!”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Donnie now realized the irony in that sequence of events, looking back to the morning that had followed that conversation. 

See, despite months of attending a crowded high school, Donnie hadn’t really taken the time to unlearn his habit of walking with his headphones on and his eyes closed. Really because it hadn’t resulted in any major tragedies up until then. 

He’d walked to first period so many times he could do it backwards, but as he cracked an eye open to gauge his turn into the classroom, he realized far too late that he’d… miscalculated. 

He tried to move back- to reorient himself, but the flow of movement in the hall behind him pushed him forward, and he collided hard with…

With…

Oh.

Time slowed down to a crawl as you were slammed against the locker, a moment passing as you recovered from the blow before you’d twisted around. Donnie had almost forgotten the circumstances that had led him here when he was forced against your chest instead of your back, looking up and seeing your face. 

Maybe it came as no surprise that Donnie had a bit of a weakness for cute boys. His brothers hadn’t caught on yet, but if you took a scrutinizing glance at his interests, you may notice the consistency. And currently, he was literally being smushed against the cutest guy he’d ever seen in real life, much like you mash two dolls together to indicate that they’re kissing. 

The awe he felt, though, was only a brief respite from the panic as he saw that your nose was bleeding.

“Ohhhh my gosh, I’m so sorry! It– it was the kid behind me, and I, My uh, my shell is making it– hard to get out, and-”

“Ugh- dude.” You grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back a bit, causing Donnie to realize that the hall was mostly empty now. 

You rubbed your head with a small wince, and were clearly about to turn and carry on with your business. 

“WAIT!” You turned back, raising a brow, and Donatello tensed at the realization of how loud he’d just shouted. 

“Can I at least walk you to the nurse’s office? I’m really sorry.” Wiping the blood away with your thumb (which was like, anime boy levels of hot, Donnie thought privately), you shrugged and gestured for him to follow. 

He did. Naturally. 

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Donnie didn’t know why he and his brothers kept meeting their love interests through near major accidents, but that collision was the start of something fantastic. 

He learned that day that your name was (y/n), and from then on just kept learning more and more phenomenal things about you. Another month seemed to fly by, with the two of you becoming fast friends. Not all of your interests overlapped, but as Donnie learned more of what you liked, the more it became what he liked too.

There was just one small hiccup. 

Donatello… really didn’t want his brothers to find out about you. As well as he’d managed to pretend not to be crushing on you big time, his brothers were like sharks when it came to that sort of thing. If they didn’t know he liked guys before, he was convinced they’d be able to tell just by your presence - like you were blood in the water.

It was going smoothly enough so far, though. The only class you shared was Computer Science, and, well... Let's just say Donnie's brothers weren't exactly jumping at the chance to sign up for that elective.

As he left the building that day to meet his brothers in his usual spot, He found himself once again glued to his phone, takking away at your DMs.

"Ack-!" "Aah!!"

Donnie reared back from the minor bump, flushing a little as he glanced up.

"Dude, you ever gonna stop bumping into me?"

"Uhh... nah. Too much work. Not my fault you're always standing right in my way." He responded, smiling when that earned him a chuckle. "What're you doing out here anyways? Don't you usually take the bus?"

"Yeah, but I've gotta stop by the store on my way home, so I'm walking. Don't you and your brothers usually walk home together? I could tag along."

"Uh."

Fuck.

"Well. Yeahh.. We do. But, we kind of.. Live in the sewer?"

"...Yeah? I remember. I'd only walk part-ways."

"Right, well, uh... I mean-"

"DONNIE!" Raph grabbed both his shoulders from behind, startling a yelp out of him as he whipped around.

"Oh, uh-- Hey guys!"

"What gives? We've been waiting at the spot for like.." Mikey glances at his phone, "..Well, only like three minutes, but you're usually there first."

"Guys, chill out, I told you he was probably just leaving class with someone else."

"Yup mystery solved-- bye (y/n), let's go guys!!"

Wrong move. Donnie could feel he'd messed up when all three of his brothers turned their heads to him.

Blood in the water.

"Woooah, chill out bro, we're not in a rush. So you're (y/n)? I don't think we've met." Mikey turned to you.

You nodded, "In the flesh. And you're... Mikey, Raph, and Leo?" You pointed to each of them as you recalled their names. "I was just asking if I could walk with you guys."

"Hah- well- I don't think we--" "Oh, totally!" "Yeah man, feel free!"

"I'm sure Donnie would love that,"

Donnie exchanged glares with each of his brothers, huffing before pulling up a reluctant smile.

"Yeah, uh.. what they said!"

"Awesome!"

And so you tagged along as they began walking. It wasn't all bad, Donnie just had to keep his cool and remain nonchalant. Shouldn't be too hard.

"So, we still on for tonight?" You asked, bumping your shoulder against Donnie's.

"Duh- Especially since it's my turn to pick."

"I am not watching One Piece, just FYI."

"You two got a nerd date or something?" Raph interjected. Donnie frowned at him, feeling his fists ball up, but was surprised to hear you laugh easily.

"Kind of. It's a cultural exchange." With one hand gesturing as you speak, the other sneaks its way around Donnie's arm.

Kind of? It was kind of a date? and you were holding his arm??

Donnie glanced down at where you'd held onto him, before his eyes narrowed in a smug glance in Raph's direction. His brother, on the other hand, had his mouth hanging slightly open; his brows furrowed down.

Donnie ran his lip between his teeth before he adjusted his arm, sliding his hand down into yours. It felt.. right. He brushed along your knuckles, how small each of them were under his three-fingered hands- and his heart threatened to melt when you squeezed in return. The dialogue that continued between you and his brothers faded to white noise at that feeling.

"Alright, this is where I've gotta part ways. It was nice meeting you all!"

You leaned down, pressing a quick peck into Donnie's cheek.

"see you tonight!"

You were gone before Donnie could even process what'd happen, an incoherent exhale of noise escaping him as his brothers began hollering.

"WOAH WOAH WOAH. DONNIE?? IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND??" "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US??"

Donnie's brain kicked into action finally, looking away with a rub to the back of his neck.

"I ahh..... y'know, we're not really sure yet?- kind of uhh.... testing the waters and stuff..?" He lied, shooting a glance over his shoulder to assure you weren't in earshot.

"Dang, you really DO have some rizz after all!"

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

(y/n) today at 5:14 all good to have you over for the night!

TELLO 🧠💪 today at 5:15 cool cool! so uh... can i ask what the smooch was about earlier??

(y/n) today at 5:18 oh, yeah, sorry!! i just noticed your brothers were teasing you about me figured i'd lean into it & get them to back off lol see you in ten?

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Donatello huffed, staring at that message for a long few minutes. Well, that TOTALLY answered his question.

Not.

But.. At least he'd learned that you apparently weren't opposed to holding his hand and kissing his cheek. Even if it was something of a performance.

Maybe tonight, he could get a private show.

There was only one way to find out.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

TELLO 🧠💪 today at 5:22 yup! on my way

[hibischush]

made with love

description; Reina's family teases her about her crush on Mistria's newest resident.

notes; This was a prompt by one of the lovely persons on FoM's discord! I'm on there under the username 'schramollie.' Go on over there and join the early access hype!! Also this may be a little OOC for everyone here now since there are so much more dialogue for everyone, so it may take me a while to get a grasp of the characters🌺💗

word count; 754

warnings; n/a

“Reinaaaa, why won’t you share any of those desserts with us?” Maple pouted, dramatically sliding down past the countertop and out of view, to try (and fail) to sway the young chef’s mind. Luc stood on standby, always there as an advisor to his sister’s ‘diplomatic discussions', which often included begging for sweets. 

Reina rolled her eyes, slowly working the tender fruit into her scone batter, cautious to avoid staining the entire dough a washed-out pink.

“I’ve already told you, Maple, this isn’t for you. Were you the one that grew these strawberries?”

Luc watched as Maple flopped on the ground with a groan, and readjusted his glasses, huffing.

"Reina, how come you never share the food you make with the farmer's crops? I kind of got it the first few times, but now it's just unfair."

Right before Reina opened her mouth to return a quick quip to her little brother's whining, her mother walked by in a rush to the soup pot.

"Dears, let Reina figure out her feelings for that cute farmer. You know what Reina puts in every treat she makes: " Josephine paused to let her two youngest complete her saying with her, which they eventually did: "lots of love!"

Maple jolted upright with the realization, while Luc just grinned devilishly.

Reina could feel warmth rush to her head.

“That’s why you make them so much food! You want to show them that you looooove them. You have a crush on the farmer!” Maple squealed, jumping up and down. 

“Ma!” 

Josephine ladeled some soup into a to-go cup and shushed her eldest as she left the inn. "Oh, hush, darling, don’t act like I don’t see the way you look at them.” She chuckled, slamming the doors behind her. 

The moment of silence after everyone digested what happened was deafening. Reina internally kicked herself. She couldn’t stop her feelings when it came to the farmer. Not only were they kind and hardworking, they were generous. Especially to Reina. 

Reina could have sworn that her heart exploded with excitement when they stopped by the inn to hand her freshly picked produce. She was so delighted, in fact, scanning over all the items in the wicker basket and brainstorming dishes to include them in, that she nearly missed the angelic way the farmer gently laughed at her, setting the crops on the table. 

“Reina, you really are cute when you get excited about food. I think I might just have to keep bringing you ingredients from now on.”

She still hasn’t been able to move on from that memory without her heart skipping a beat (and her cheeks flushing when thinking about the way their toned muscles flexed beautifully in the early morning sun). 

Reina groaned, fighting the urge to hide her face in front of her two siblings, and instead poured the dough onto the flour-dusted counter to cut the scones into their signature triangular shape. She was determined to finish this before dying of embarrassment. 

“Reina, we’ll help you,” Luc said innocently, sidling up to his sister.

She narrowed her eyes and muttered with annoyance, “You are not going to help me bake these scones.”

“No, not with that. We’ll help you make the farmer like you back!”

She didn’t know that she could blush any deeper than she did before, but the gods were testing her limits today. Maple squealed again and ran around to join them. 

“Yeah! We’ll help you! And I’m sure Dell will help us too.”

Reina almost threw the prepared sheet pan into the hot oven while pulling out the first batch. She needed to get out of this kitchen and away from her impish siblings. “Guys, that’s not how relationships work.”

"Sure, they do! That’s how the nobility manages marriages in the capital! We’ll do all the arranging for you!”

She set the pan of fragrant scones down on the counter, defeated. She knew she shouldn’t have read that book about Noble Society & Customs to her little sister before bedtime.

“This is something that I should do myself, not leave to you two,” she sighed.

“Leave what to who?” a familiar voice called out, lugging a large basket of goods into the building. To Reina’s horror, it was the farmer. They smiled sheepishly at her. Her heart fluttered. 

Slowly turning to Maple and Luc, she whispered:

“Four scones. And you two don’t say anything about this conversation to anyone and go to your rooms.”

Maple and Luc shared glances before grinning.

“Deal.” They whispered.

Now that the EA is here, y'all will be gettin' more canon fics for sure. Also go play the game. It is everything anyone has ever wanted and its just in its EA form!

[dr-futbol-blog]

The Storm/The Eye, Pt. 5

Believing that Weir is dead and McKay is in mortal peril, Sheppard proceeds to go on what amounts to a rampage.

The first scene of The Eye (S01E10) seems to continue the show's meta-commentary. McKay, brave toaster that he is and possibly at least partially motivated by the desperation that they can all hear in Sheppard's voice over the intercom, places himself between the gun and Elizabeth. The dialogue tells us what's going on (with the show and where it's heading):

Kolya: Sheppard put you in this position, not me. McKay: You can't do this. This is crazy. You need her! Sora: She's right, Commander. McKay: I'm not kidding. There are codes required to activate the shield – codes that only she knows. You can't do it without her! Well, you can't do this without me either. I mean, we're a package deal. You take us out of the equation and-and-and-and you don't have an end game.

The fact that Weir and McKay are a package deal is emphasized by their placement, McKay coming to stand in front of Weir and obstructing her. That is to say, the show needs to imply attraction between Weir and Sheppard to be able to explore the relationship between Sheppard and McKay in subtext, to blur the lines between the characters and their relationships. The first they could easily have done without the latter, but the latter they could never have pulled off without the former (re: the shows ties to the USAF and DADT still being a thing when it aired). It offers the cover of plausible deniability while allowing people attuned to homoerotic subtext to easily be able to recognize the narrative undercurrent.

Again, note that McKay is lying to save Weir, claiming that he absolutely needs her help to save the city. Also, it's Kolya mentioning Sheppard by name that initially makes McKay dive in front of the gun. He says "Sheppard put you into this position, not me" which has the implication that if McKay allowed Kolya to shoot Weir, Sheppard would have to live with the guilt of it for the rest of his life, and McKay wasn't about to let that happen. He hears Sheppard's name and he immediately reacts, does something really brave and heroic without even having time to think about it. Because, as I've discussed previously, he is a Big Damn Hero and this very characteristic of his is what Sheppard admires and loves in him so much, even though he doesn't even get to see it this time.

Halfway through his rant McKay realizes that he just put himself into jeopardy, and this is when he starts consciously doing the same thing he has been doing with the Genii ever since their first encounter: trying to convince them of his invaluability (and it's striking that it's always in the service of trying to save someone else, not just or even predominately himself). He has self-esteem issues, he doesn't actually believe he's invaluable. But probably since he was a child he's had to project invaluability, has had to prove to people that he is a valuable asset, to gain acceptance. He thinks that he will only be tolerated if he proves himself irreplaceable.

The characters continue lying to one another. Kolya lets Sheppard know that Weir is dead.

I want to point out two things. Where Sheppard was extremely agitated just a moment ago, willing to do anything, he is extremely and exaggeratedly calm when he tells Kolya that he is going to kill him. Of course he is very upset that Weir should have been killed on his watch. Of course he cares about Weir and is upset by this. But again knowing the outcome changed his demeanor. Sure, responding in a cool and collected way is a performance to hide the fact that he is internally shaken. But he still manages to pull it off.

Then Kolya continues with "Stay out of my way or McKay will join her." That is when we get a brief glimpse at how Sheppard is actually feeling, his internal conflict and anguish (and which is something that he has no intention of letting Kolya know, hence putting the radio down):

Now. My friends. When you desperately need something, you need something so badly that you're willing to kill for it, you start killing off things from the least important to the most important. Like when a parent starts counting down from ten when they're warning a child that unless they cease their behaviour, they're going to "get it". You don't start from one, you start from ten and count downwards.

If Kolya had thought that Weir was Sheppard's main motivation, he would not have started by killing her off. Never mind how important McKay may have been, you keep the ace up your sleeve as long as you can. And Kolya had decided that the ace up his sleeve was McKay, which is why he reminds Sheppard that he is, in fact, still very much holding him hostage.

Again, the main stream audience is going to watch the show thinking Sheppard's entire upset has to do with Weir and Weir alone. And yet we always seem to find McKay between references to Weir and changes in Sheppard's demeanor. And once more, given what we saw of their interaction in the previous episode (Sheppard barely saw Weir when the three of them were in the lab together; he was so focused on McKay it's as though she weren't even there for him; we've really had zero indication of him harbouring some hidden secret passion for her that would explain this reaction; she is not the love of his life and a budding interest would not even begin to explain his reaction here), it makes so much more sense to interpret this reaction and the events that follow as motivated by McKay. Especially in the context of him having lost Captain Holland to enemy combatants in Afghanistan, as we later learn.

Also notice that once Kolya mentions McKay, Sheppard doesn't respond. There are probably a hundred things he could have said, maybe even wanted to say. You can read it all on his face. But he doesn't say anything because he doesn't dare do anything that might provoke this sociopath further. He actually has to stop himself from saying something he might regret. He can't risk responding. Like, he physically has to force his hand down to keep from say something that McKay might end up paying for.

Sheppard was afraid that he wasn't going to be able to save the people he cares about from the storm before, but this is a whole new kind of fear. This is a nightmare of the kind he had never even thought to have. But he's going to move heaven and earth to save the man. He's even willing to kill to save him. Kill a lot of people to save him, as it turns out.

And it is also noteworthy that he immediately springs into action, here. We've seen previously how characters are incapacitated when they lose someone important to them (cf. Cowen sitting down with his legs giving way when he mourns Tyrus). Sheppard is the opposite of incapacitated (in fact, we see him incapacitated in this particular fashion in Doppelganger, S04E04, when he thinks McKay is dead, so we see what Sheppard is like when he's lost the most important thing to him; he's slow, sluggish, going through the motions). This is not a man going through the motions, this is a man on a mission.

Again we get a transition from Sheppard's emotion to the raging storm to indicate that there's a storm also raging within him. The storm is a metaphor for what's going on inside him. And the calmness with which he then proceeds to take out the Genii is him being in the eye of the storm. Because the show is subtle with the symbolism like that.

Sheppard is moving fast, he's being strategic. He's not someone that's blinded by rage on a revenge mission because someone just killed the love of his life. He's also not acting reckless, putting himself needlessly in danger and this is not because he has some payback to do and someone to kill but because he has someone to save. You can contrast all of this with Sora's behaviour later on with regards to her vengeance against Teyla.

He even stops to check his watch at one point because he remembers McKay's words about them being under a time element, that there's a deadline looming over them all -- this is reinforced by the fact that the previous time Sheppard checked his watch, it was on the balcony right after McKay had just checked his watch (unwittingly mirroring someone's actions, again a sign of attraction; although synchronizing watches is also a very military thing to do, to be sure) and told them they have just over four and a half hours until the storm hits.

We are literally told that it's McKay he's thinking about when he stops and actually asks himself, "What would McKay do?" Again reminding us of the fact that for Sheppard, McKay is a hero. That McKay is constantly on his mind.

I also need to emphasize that he is killing actual people here. Yes, they're enemies but they are also human. This is the first time we see him kill humans after the mercy killing of Col. Sumner.

McKay starts fixing the grounding station and it's really quite sweet how he attempts to make it look like Elizabeth is vital to the process to keep her alive. It's not that he's trying to be a hero, it just comes naturally to him. He's not very good with people, though, so Elizabeth both has to explain to him that they need to stall and to actually lie on his behalf. When they overhear that Sheppard has killed some of the Genii strike force over the intercom, it's again only McKay's reaction that we get to this, not Weir's. He made a mental note of it albeit he does not seem to know what to think of it. Sheppard is alive, yes. He's being hunted by people with guns. And he's having to do terrible things.

McKay really is quite rattled, never having been in this kind of situation before. And it's interesting that Weir uses Sheppard to kick McKay into gear. She actually mentions Sheppard by name: "Look, from the sound of it, if we can buy Sheppard enough time, it seems like he can take care of the rest of them on his own." Not only had she figured out that this is what would motivate McKay the best, she is actually getting him to focus by appeasing him, pointing it out to him that Sheppard is really doing quite well for himself out there. She's not telling him that they're going to be alright, she's telling him that Sheppard is safe. Because for some reason she thinks that that's what will motivate him.

And Kolya does the opposite. He's trying to demoralize them by mentioning Sheppard by name: "If you're hoping Major Sheppard can diminish our numbers, you are mistaken." And notice that he is saying this to McKay. He glances at Weir a few times but when he is saying this, he is looking directly and only at McKay. An angel and a devil on his shoulders, they're both using Sheppard to get to him. I find that really interesting. Now, Weir knows him and has been able to observe them for a while now. But these people are complete strangers to Kolya, and he's still figured it out.

Now, if earlier Sheppard had to stop himself from saying something that might cause McKay trouble, McKay seems to be doing the same thing. And keeping quiet isn't the easiest thing for him, does not come to him naturally. But he keeps quiet because he's trying very hard not to make things worse for the Major.

If both Kolya and Weir are using Sheppard to motivate McKay, Sheppard himself is using McKay to motivate himself:

He has a dilemma here. He's trying to think of what McKay would do in his situation but he's come across explicit instructions from McKay not to do what he's thinking about doing. That's quite the pickle! (Also hilarious that the sign can be read as implying that touching McKay is dangerous, telling him not to do it). Are you thinking about touching McKay right now? Because this is not the time, my friend.

From the pleased look on Rodney's face, Sheppard was able to correctly intuit what he would have done in the situation when he shuts down the naqada generator. It's like they're working together as a team even when they are apart.

Continued in Pt. 6

[waitmyturtles]

TW: probably unpopular opinions on Step By Step’s filmmaking!

I’ve had an insane work week so far, so I don’t have the largest amount of time to write an analysis of Step By Step, episode 8, and I’m already late in watching it anyway. But I will largely point everyone in the direction of @lurkingshan’s EXCELLENT analysis of Jeng’s reaction to Pat’s reaction that Jeng is gay (and to @neuroticbookworm’s post-Shan analysis of their prediction of the road ahead, which I subscribe to). 

I’m also late in watching this because I allowed myself the spoilers yesterday, and was admittedly frustrated to learn that the payoff of this episode is that Pat learns about Jeng’s preferences... in an episode that’s over an hour. It’s a very unpopular opinion I have! The editing and some of the writing of this show suck. I’m gonna repeat myself -- I would prefer crisper writing and dialogue. But I am still in favor of the deep focus on Pat and his mindset. It’s just that in some moments (like in the second restaurant), he’ll disappear and we won’t get feedback on that disappearance until MUCH later. (And forget about Jaab and Jen, I’m leaving that alone for this analysis. The show definitely had the time to examine that more in an hourlong+ episode, but didn’t.)

ANYWAY. Citing @bengiyo‘s and @ginnymoonbeam‘s conversation about Pat’s radar -- I want to build off of @bengiyo‘s comment for a moment, on something I realized when Jeng was with Tae, when Jeng got the text message from Pat that the restaurant crawl was on. Something I realized when Tae was asking Jeng about Pat’s intentions is that:

For Jeng, WORK IS LIFE. We’re spending a lot of time, and the show spends a lot of time, dealing with the boss-to-subordinate conflict. BUT. I would argue that Jeng’s whole world is work. The man is LITERALLY WORKING TWO JOBS, TWO HIGH-LEVEL, EXECUTIVE LEADERSHIP JOBS. Man’s insane. 

I give Pat the gigantic benefit of the doubt that he “could” or “should” have known Jeng’s preferences intentions. (@lurkingshan, @bengiyo, and @ginnymoonbeam all know that before seeing the episode, I did state incredulity that Pat DIDN’T know this, so I recant before you all!)

BECAUSE: what PAT is seeing in front of himself, vis à vis Jeng, is a man that is WORKING ALL THE TIME. So I think Pat’s radar is off, in my opinion, because he can ONLY see Jeng as a boss and a leader, and would not allow himself to cross the boss-subordinate boundaries, even in settings where they are “working” on Jeng’s “other” job, because Jeng is a boss in that other space as well. 

And while Jeng doesn’t see this as “working,” Pat certainly does. 

I mean, I’ve tried to get glasses of wine with some former bosses of mine, just to create intimacy and get to know them out of office spaces, and like, all we talk about is work. Some people can’t relax and separate. I get that.

I think Pat ASSUMED Jeng was like that, because in doing social activities, it seems, from Pat’s perspective, that Jeng is still working -- and for that restaurant crawl, he totally is! And Tae knew to call that out and maybe tease Jeng for being a little delulu, which, accurate. 

So I write this, now not in criticism of Pat’s radar, but in grudging support of it, and I say grudging because I do not think the editing of the show is supporting the slow burn anymore. Unpopular opinion, I know. I think this show is doing Pat dirty. I believe the payoff will be good. But the show is dragging and not giving us enough by way of internal communication on Pat’s part to demonstrate intriguing development that grabs me. 

But we get a confession next week. Let’s see how long it’ll take to get there. 

[charleslee-valentine]

Headcheese

For the Texas Chainsaw Massacre Disability Pride Month Event: Day Two- Weird Lookin’

Word Count: ~9,700

Warnings: Ableism, especially internalized, and use of ableist slurs. Implied domestic abuse. Delusions- Nubbins Sawyer canonically has schizophrenia and this fic explores that. This includes mild religious delusions, fantasies about violence, slight medical delusions, and applying thoughts and motivations to others. Brief descriptions of harmful stimming. Canonical self harm. Misogyny. Inaccurate diagnoses and language. Period typical everything. Several instances of animal cruelty. Blood and violence.

Disclaimer: The dialogue is not original. All dialogue is pulled from the screenplay script which was still called ‘Leatherface’ or ‘Headcheese.’ This fic serves as an internal reflection/stream of consciousness during a canonical scene; interpretations, headcanons, etc are mine.

__________

His hair is sweaty, dropping little beads down his back in addition to an already soaked shirt. Nubbins scrunches his neck back to squish out the wetness, the inside of this van no better than out in the heat or at home. At least the windows is open at home, unless Bubba got scared of bein’ alone again and shut ‘em all up.

The van he’s in makes all kinds of noises, sputtering and coughing fuel behind it like roadkill entrails. The stink of gasoline always made Nubbins’ head dizzy, when it’d waft off the generators. Makes him wiggle a little every time the van struggles to get to speed on the long stretch ‘ road.

Better than walkin’ still. Nubbins been cooped up inside, couldn’t stand one more second at home waitin’ for Cook to do all the fun work bringin’ home food. Can’t get in trouble anyhow if he feeds the family by takin’ this trip. But he got tired of all the wanderin’ a good while ago without any excitement. Closest he got was the harsh ping of a crushed up Coke can smacking against the back of his head when it was thrown from a Cadillac. ‘Bout knocked him stupid.

The heat always makes him itch. Big brother would always tell folks, when he was just a tiny thing growin’ up, that the marks didn’t mean much, ‘cept it ain’t true. Where it’s red it burns like fire under his skin when he’s out in the sun so much. His arms too, where he’s got sores poppin’ up like prairie dogs been tunneling in his flesh. All the running made him tired of it even more now. Breathless from his run.

Franklin, the wheelchair man from the van group, don’t give him much a chance to recover.

“You getting off on the smell of all that blood, man?”

Nubbins feels a pull on the left of his face that’s got nothing to do with unpleasant feelings. He’d like to think he manages a smile, intrigued by the attitude on that man. There’s sweat in his eyes he got to blink away, turning the attempt at pleasantries into more like a grimace.

“I-It's a good smell.” He comments vaguely.

A girl from the front seat shares a look with meaning with Franklin, though Nubbins is left out of understanding it. His interest turns sour as the slaughterhouse floors when she says, even not directly to him, “Oh.. I don't like it.”

“I think we just picked up Dracula.” Franklin murmurs back.

Nubbins knows that isn’t nice. Don’t know what it means, but the way it’s said isn’t nice. He digs the ends up his fingers into the tender flesh around his scabs, tearing one open. Gotta make it to hurt when snide remarks just become backround noise. Heard ‘em so often the sting’s gone dull.

The other man here in the back talks and it takes Nubbins a moment to soak in his words, “Where you headed, man?”

“South.” Nubbins answers quickly. Ain’t safe to give more detail, just gotta get home.

Though Nubbins does crack a knowing smile when he realizes he’s thinkin’ ‘bout safety warnings, when he’s the one who is danger. Makes him seem pleasant.

Franklin makes a funny expression back with his eyebrows, squishing them all up, “You could have fooled me. I thought we were headed due north.”

Nubbins turns his stare on Franklin, but the words to respond doesn’t come right away. Mostly cause he ain’t sure which is being truthful, him or the wheelchair man. Been a long time out on them roads. Might’ve lost track of his direction.

Wouldn’t he get the whoopin’ of a lifetime if he went and got himself lost up.

But the other guy seems to think Franklin tells lies more, jutting towards him with his thumb, “He had a little accident- still doesn't know where he is..”

Until then, Nubbins hadn’t taken note of all the bruises and bloody lines on the man, sitting up straighter as his eyes trace over every last scrape and bump. Looks like big brother got a hold of Franklin too. If that was possible, maybe then Nubbins would’ve got somethin’ smart to say, but as is, he just stares and wonders.

While he’s lookin’ Franklin starts talkin’, askin’ up, “You work at that place?”

“N-No.” Nubbins answers simply, choking on a stutter while the rest of his brain catches up.

Don’t got a chance before the blonde girl gives him a new question, interrupting him so he’s got to think of a new answer all over and force himself to speak it, “How did you get stuck way out here?”

“I w-was at the slaughter h-house.” Nubbins’ voice feels like cotton in his throat. His little brother was right that he shouldn’t have broken the rules and gone out, the outside world already much too overwhelmin’ to his senses. Might help if all the folks in this van wasn’t starin’ at him so hard. Could tell them the truth, ‘at he was tradin’ with the old slaughterhouse, givin’ some of big brother’s vouchers to the men there who used to boss them around in trade for supplies and things.

Meat hooks, cattle irons, recipes, the like. Couldn’t get ‘em no place else to handle their own special kind of beeves. They’s lucky the old man of the slaughterhouse was Grandpa’s bestest friend in the world. ‘Ccepts them free gas and barbecue tickets like that’s any good enough, then pat Nubbins on his bony back and send ‘im back home on his way.

Stings his pride some, the pretendin’ to be civil after they sended him off with a pink card in his blood-stained hands. Him and little Bubba both. They was gonna let Grandpa and big brother stay, but they walked. And now Nubbins does all his walkin’, all over the roads, ‘cause the Sawyers gotta play niceys or they’ll get sniffed out.

His vagueness, the van folk don’t seem to like it much. Funny thing is those sour faces kill off any more words that might’ve been comin’.

The wheelchair man, Franklin, he ain’t in work either, understands the vengeful sorta shame Nubbins’ got boilin’ under his scratchy flesh.

“I have an uncle that works at a slaughterhouse.”

He’s good at that, at makin’ Nubbins feel like he already knows the inside of his head, so he makes sure to manage an answer, tell him a little on his family too, “M-My brother worked there, my g-grandfather… My family's a-always been in meat.”

It comes out punctuated by the tiniest laugh, satisfied with himself for being smart, knowing more than folks who thinks it’s the other way ‘round. Nubbins leans back some and wiggles his shoulders, working his pride into his physical self too, to burn off the happies before that becomes too much too and suffocated him whole.

Nubbins misses a second interaction between the Hardesty siblings in hushed tones, as much as they seem different from Nubbins hisself, they ain’t quite on the same page with one another either.

“Don't start talking about that place again..”

“A whole family of draculas..”

But Franklin can’t help himself. He liked the way the hitchhiker expressed things, the strange sort of lilt in his voice like he ain’t talked much to other people to know how inflection works. His batty eyes and flailing limbs, he might as well be some part cattle himself, escaped from the slaughterhouse and seekin’ refuge here. Hate to have to tell him the others wouldn’t be so keen on that. Might be best if that particular idea got lined up in the shoot.

“Hey man, did you go into the slaughter room or whatever they call it.. The place where they shoot the cattle with the air gun.” Franklin motions vaguely himself, wrists forming the air gauge and the bolt.

It wounds him some. Always said that automation was the thing put the Sawyers outta the business, but it ain’t true. Nubbins was a real good listener, better at that than talkin’ most times, hearing from around hushed whispers and corners in the house that it was him got them all the boot. His fit.

Had ‘em all his life, but actin’ that way was strictly against the rules at work. Drayton wouldn’t ‘llow it for a second. Always done his best, Bubba too, goin’ on pretend smoke breaks to just spin around in the fresh air and play together if the workin’ grew too much pressure.

‘Til a beeve kicked him in the chest. Made Nubbins get the jitters real bad, worked up over the pain and adrenaline and everyone ‘round him coming to stare. They was scared too, for the state of his ribs, ‘n all that was too much to handle. He’d just bounced a little at first, waving his arms around, sniveling some. Would’ve worked it all out on his own if it weren’t for a big noise. Metal hitting metal and then yelling for clearance and the beeves making their chuffing noises. Goin’ down the chute.

Nubbins only crouched down and covered his ears, but then he was yelled at for stopping work, and there’s blood in his hair cause his hands was still soaked from slittin’ a throat, so he lashed out. Cryin’ his eyes out, he swung for the boss’ face, slashed the big bowie knife they give him, and now there’s more screamin’ and he’s curled up in a ball, knees to his chest, again.

Big brother explained it away by sayin’ it was part of his condition in his brain, the same one Bubba’s got, so that was it. ‘Stead of things changin’ ‘round the slaughterhouse, Nubbins and Bubba had to go away. And the whole fam’ly followed.

“Yeh, it's nice, b-but the..the gun is-” He starts, face fallen serious and dull upon reflecting those memories.

At the same time, Franklin had started speaking. “I was there once with my uncle.”

“-is no good. The old way, w-with the sledge is better, they die b-better.” Nubbins finishes, looking up at Franklin when he realizes, slowly, that he talked over him. He flinches, just so, hopin’ to not gettin’ in trouble for that.

In a way he does, when the puffy haired girl on the floor gives her disgruntled opinion, “You like talking about morbid things.”

Big brother taught him to behave ‘round strangers, so as much as he’d like to, Nubbins don’t stick his tongue out at the girl or spit in her hair. He imagines it though, among worse things. Throwing her face down into the moving tires of this here van for example.

“How come? I thought the gun was better.” Franklin asks, bringing Nubbins back to the front of his head.

Which he shakes, messy hair slicked back with grease it don’t hardly move.

“No.. I li-like the old way better. A lot of p-people don’t got work now w-wit’ the new way.”

“You used to do that?” The dry haired man asks, but Nubbins doesn’t like the way he says it, somethin’ about the judgement from his lady pal seeping into his demeanor too.

Looking between them, Franklin notices and takes over, asking too, “You do that, man?”

“Yeh.. I-I was the killer. I don't d-do it no more.” Nubbins explains carefully.

“How come, man?” Franklin asks, but Nubbins doesn’t really wanna talk about that, so he doesn’t. Makin’ him would just lead to another fit.

When he come in the van, he’d really thought Franklin was gonna be the mean one, with his confusing comments right in Nubbins’ face, but now he thinks he’d be upset about sharin’ the unpleasant details. Doesn’t want a nice man to think of him that way.

Not while knowin’ he’s being talked about behind his back. The puffy haired lady leans to the other man, telling whispers that Nubbins can’t hear but they’s both looking right at him, thinkin’ he must be too dumb to know it.

“I can't believe he did that..”

“Now I'm an artist.. With the- the gun and knocking board they don't n-need me no more.” Nubbins turns away from the whisperers and tells it just to Franklin.

“You're an artist? Pam's an artist too. She’s really good.” The pretty blonde girl hums her words. Her voice is too sharp, all of it’s startin’ to make him fuzzy.

Nubbins slips his head to the side to look between her and that other pinched face lady. Makes him angry. Blondie’s under the mental tire too now, teeth knocked out of her tiny skull and scattered all over the road. Unknowingly to hisself, Nubbins’ eyes’ve gone unfocused, distant and empty while he’s in the torture chamber up in his skull.

“Hey..” Franklin says a bit too softly, understandin’ more than maybe anybody why bein’ compared to Pam could sting. If they all want so badly to group him in with the roadkill scented stranger, then he’ll take a little pride in that over bein’ another one of the non-political hippies. The type who think the world gets to be sunshine and rainbows so long as the whiny cripples like him stay hidden along with the other undesirables. Peace and love and only the good stuff.

The gentle voice sort of breaks Nubbins’ mind in two. Nobody talked to him that way in a long while, since throwin’ fits and scraped knees and tangled hair was still cute as a kid. It’s easiest to repeat himself, “Yeh.. I-I don't like it now. With the gun it’s no..”

They isn’t listening. Maybe Franklin is, since he’s still lookin’ that way, but the front seat blonde isn’t. She flicks her hair away from her shoulders and grills him, “Are you a painter or what? I know this crazy artist. He never knows what he's doing.”

“I work with uh.. l-leather. I'm a sculptor t-too.” The words just kinda tumble past his teeth without much awareness. Lucky he didn’t spit out the truth about workin’ in bones.

Sometimes his lonely just outweighs his angry. Makes him go actin’ foolish.

Franklin brings him back to him, with his fun voice, like a stinger’s buzz in his ears ‘stead of industrial grindin’, “Hey, man. I was in there. They had blood about up to...”

Delighted by somethin’, only ‘cause she’s obvious she’s already among the dead in Nubbins’ mind, the blonde laughs at more slaughterhouse talkin’, “Oh. I need one of those hammers for Jerry. He’s so hardheaded.”

They doesn’t wanna talk about Mr Jerry at the wheel, so they don’t. Jus’ like before. Nubbins starts to sees it that Franklin’s the way he is when he Franklin keeps on instead, “-your ankles covering this giant room. There were these big cow heads they had cut off sticking up out of the blood.”

Brings back Nubbins’ smile, “I-It's that way now.. Y-You liked it?”

“Sure. Lots of blood and guts. They dump all the entrails and heads and…” Franklin shrugs while he talks, bouncing about. The life he talks with keeps him firmly in the non-meat category in Nubbins’ mind. His energy’s as familiar as the subject.

Nobody ever liked those same things before. Franklin’s just special like that. For his troubles, the troubles of kindness towards someone awful through and through the way Nubbins is, he gets the reward of seein’ his pictures.

The critter pouch on his necklace fell inside his shirt while he was runnin’, gotta reach in to free it so he can show off his pictures. Older now and startin’ to wither some, he don’t let just anybody get they’s paws on these. But he hands them right over, proudly even, to Franklin.

Franklin who keeps on talking while Nubbins’ shakin’ the photos in his face. “..and stuff they don't use in one place and sell it to the glue factory or someplace like that.”

“Here.” He gives the permission, and Franklin finally goes and takes the pictures, the three yellowed ones that’s up for grabs.

One’s of the slaughter room, ankles deep in the blood just like he said. It’s from Nubbins lookin’ straight down, at the way it’s all pooled around him. Would be nice if they had a room like that at the house, but they isn’t allowed, gots to scrub the kitchen walls when they gets too splattery from the butcherin’. The picture though shows the heads of cattle cutted clean off their big ol’ bodies ‘n scattered about the room, just floatin’ along. That part Nubbins didn’t like so much, when they’d get left about like that. ‘Course that was the only pieces they was willin’ to send the Sawyers’ way for dirt cheap.

That first one’s his favorite, the other two more recently shot, noticeable right away ‘cause it shows the industrial equipments all around. The bolt and the gun and all that, the slicing up of the beeves. Ain’t his work so it ain’t his pride the same way. Just close documentation of what they says is more important. A gun over a retard.

But he’s smart! Knows more’n this lot, “They don't send the heads away.”

“Damn!” Franklin holds the photos away and down, like when big brother can’t see without his glasses, before bringing them right back up real close.

“Let me see.” The same irritating woman demands, but Franklin is inspecting them down to the gory details. Let fin’ himself be learned.

“Th-They make-” Nubbins tries to keep his attention held right there, casting the moment in gooey amber so it never goes nowhere.

“You took these, huh?” Franklin interrupts.

His enthusiasm and the pointy smile he gives is real enough Nubbins forgives him.

“Yes. Y-You like ‘em?”

.

“Franklin....” Blonde lady whines to see the photos, big bug eyes pleading with nobody who’s lookin’.

If Nubbins were more a little more observant, he’d note the jealousy from the girl, the way she sees him as some kind of strange adventure and not just a stranger. There’s danger in the way he smells and the crimson color hidden deep behind pale brown irises and the way his limbs clamber and pull. To her, a monster she can tempt into chasing her for the sheer thrill of it, in the safety of a group of people who know nothing of the way her morbid mind works.

Except maybe Franklin, and his fascination for those damned photographs he won’t let go.

The hitchhiker, as she knows him, inches forward, heels putting so much pressure on the ground his boots creak and flake off old material, so he can prop slightly up to gesture at the photographs.

Like he never left off, he continues his story, about the processes of the big house, violence radiating easily off of him, “They make head cheese.. E-Except for the tongue they b-boil the head, and scrape the b-bone clean of flesh. All the parts is used, n-nothin’ is wasted. The- The jowls, ‘n the eyes, even the m-muscles-“

“Ugh.” There's a groan from miss pretty, as she must realize, this kind of horror is all too real for her. He really had killed ‘em, over and over he had, and that’s too much for a little sheltered lady. Not for his friend though, nice Franklin.

Nubbins gets so worked up thinkin’ it, he’s talkin’ with his hands and rocking slightly, “and ligaments and the fleshy parts from the n-nose and gums- They put everythin’ into a jelly of f-fats!”

“Look at this.” Franklin urges, waving the blood picture in the face of the girl on the floor while Nubbins is still talking, keepin’ his eyes on the man now even with the photograph is moved away.

“..the f-fleshy parts from the nose and…”

This lady ain’t amused even in the slightest, slapping them away so much a new crease forms in the corner of Nubbins’ picture.

“Ugh.. You’re making me sick. Why do you like killing so much?”

Nubbins knows why.

Killin’ is a business, but they says if you get a job you like you don’t work a day in your life. Bringin’ blades across weak throats and feelin’ familiar warmth all up and down his body, smellin’ familiar smells and findin’ home in that. Home bein’ the little squirrely he found torn to bits by a coyote in the fields. Home bein’ the slaughterhouse once upon a time. Home bein’ with his brothers. Changes, but the reason don’t.

You do it to survive. And life is a gift. Mama and Gramma and Pa prob’ly too by now, they’s all gone. Big brother tells about how every one of them was sick as babies cause Mama didn’t stop her habits for a little bump on her tummy, comin’ out all kinds of messed up. They was never meant to live, skin kissed by the devil’s false affection on his right cheek to show it.

If he can’t be normal, can’t be loved, can’t be a ‘functioning member of society,’ -whatever that means- then he oughta either just be dead, or shake up the devil’s wishes. Nubbins chooses the second. Can’t be killed cause he fights to live and exchanges plenty of souls for his own. Gotta eat the meat and he gets another point from the heavens above to not end up in his early grave.

Likes doin’ it cause it’s a blessing so it makes him feel nice. Franklin, he must be smart enough to see that, gifted in his own way. The denim man said Franklin had an accident, and Nubbins sees those wheelies clear as day. That’s two mess ups. Figures whatever he’s been through, he can see death the same. Makes him truly special, not just on account of his niceness.

“-gums.. Th-They put e-everything into a jelly of fats!”

Nubbins shifts a hopeful gaze into Franklin’s, locking eyes while he scans for a sign that the other is being truthful when he says,

“Wow.. I didn't know that's what's in that stuff.”

“I-It's real good.. You like it?” His heart beats like some kind of a winged creature got swallowed up and lives in his chest. Important to him Franklin doesn’t reject the work, the gift.

First come the blondie girl, handing back the photos she’d taken straight from the hand that extended them into her friend’s face before. Along with it, more attitude, “Ugh..I don't see how anybody could eat that junk.”

Nubbins falters, shoulders slowly sinking down, bloat-air let out of him and stinkin’ up the already acrid van with disappointment.

Immediately Franklin sees that and gives his input a little bit louder, “Oh. I like it. It's good..”

Nodding, Nubbins lets him see more smiles instead of hiding it, a little wispy laugh following along. The creature in his chest turns into a whole colony of ‘em when Franklin hands his snapshots back with a returned nod. Even dumb old Nubbins knows that means he’s talkin’ to him, and not those others. He knows Nubbins knows he’s meant for slaughtering meat too.

Then he realizes the others must see it too. Prob’ly why they keep him from his legs workin’. Nubbins seen it before, what happens when the hacksaw breaks apart the rope down your spine. He’d bet anything they done that to Franklin, and he prolly don’t even know it. Grief joins the overwhelming joy in his body. It’s not just that they’re ignorant, airheaded little things just floatin’ on through their part of Texas and paying the angel’s price.

Their mean words and their dumb hearts, it’s all on purpose, weapons to keep them apart.

And they’s sharpenin’ their blades.

Pinchface girl covers her mouth with the back of her hand, but her eyes tell it all, the coldness there like lookin’ into two empty sockets.

“It sounds horrible.. Talk about something else.”

Sweet, unaware Franklin tries to light a match can burn away the tension, “Aw, you would prob’ly like it if you didn't know what was in it.”

Nubbins just knows if his brothers saw how really really smart Franklin could be, they’d let him keep him.

It’s a shame they’s outnumbered so bad, woulda been easier work if only one of the beeves was so mean and not all of ‘em. The same girl raises her hackles and her voice at the same time, actin’ like hunted prey just on account of bein’ around different folk. Weak.

“No I wouldn't and I wish you would quit.”

“Aw..” It hurts Franklin. Gotta toughen him up some, teach him the way to wrap himself in a shell of calcified rot and pure leather. Even if it had to be literal the way it did for little Leatherface, they could make Franklin masks too.

“Come on, Franklin, you're making everybody sick..” The floor man says scornfully.

Poor Franklin bows his precious curly head some, muttering, “Ok.. Ok…”

But his nature, that Nubbins knows is under there, comes out to play. Franklin, in his disappointment, sits glumly for a while. While the others stay quiet, Franklin brings out a little blade and starts toyin’ with it. Flicking it around like a butterfly blade, only it isn’t one. Nubbins can’t help but stare.

Franklin stops for a moment to dig under his nails with the knife, bringing Nubbins to imagine him popping each one off. Pop. Clatter. Screams. No need to waste that on Franklin when he ain’t the one that oughta be hurting. They’ll rip ‘em off of anyone else that gets in they’s way.

Noticing his affection and lettin’ it egg him on, or really just in his own fit, Franklin starts to work himself into a frenzy. Nubbins starts rockin’ a little harder in his mutual excitement over what they’s gonna be able do together. The thoughts in his head get so splatter sticky and cruel he starts to grind his teeth out loud. Puffy haired lady notices and openly points, no shame in her cruelty. Her beau just kind of shrugs, but he’s got disgust in his features just as clearly.

Nubbins can’t help using his rocking to urge himself forward, straining upwards against their judgemental glares towards Franklin. What he wants is to reach for that beautiful knife and show him just how to use it, but the plan is t’ get ‘em all home, feast on them together with Franklin ‘stead of scaring him off now. More giggles tear at his throat and bubble up without his permission.

The clueless driver interrupts and just ruins everything, “We're going to have to stop for gas fairly soon.”

“Th-There’s a place not far.” Nubbins remembers to answer. A big van-ful right into big brother’s lap, oh he’ll be so proud! Maybe he’d even spare Nubbins the beating for leavin’ the house with little brother all on his own again.

“Good enough.” Hums mister driver, no idea he’s fallin’ right into the trap.

See, Nubbins can be smart!

Only thing, he’s got to make sure Franklin ain’t wheeled right into the cattle pens too. He stares at Franklin intently, hoping naively if he looks long enough, he won’t ever have to go away.

Conversation or not, the stare is what brings Franklin out of the tiny fit he sunk into when he was toying with that blade of his. Now Nubbins gets a real good idea. Family is made from blood. Sharin’ his blood with another man would make him family too, share the mark right along with the name, a virgin’s sacrifice of sorts.

Nubbins finally snatches up the old blade.

The floor couple stares and gasps and shifts around warily, but they don’t mean nothin’ to no one. This is Franklin’s knife. And Franklin, though a little startled from the way his mouth falls a little bit open, watches with intense curiosity. Won’t tear those eyes away for nothin’. Nubbins closes the blade in his hand, gettin’ a good look at the whole thing, bubbly laughter piercing his own ears in a detached kinda way as he presses the silver spring button and the blade springs open again.

Slowly and on purpose-like, he puts the blade against the fleshy part of his hand, below the thumb and over his thick palm. Nubbins looks up to make absolutely sure Franklin is watchin’ what he’s doin’ for him. Blood is a real valuable resource afterall.

The blade sinks nice into his flesh. Kinda dull, the fibers pulling apart one at a time instead of all at once. His blood comes out real slow and dark, his new wound aching in a way that makes touching the cool blade feel nice ‘n soothing. Franklin is awed, eyes wide and alive instead of turned away.

Nubbins thinks sometimes that he ain’t a creature of the flesh, but the dealer. The trader. He’s the killer. Doesn’t wanna hear the various calls of distress, when even the front seat couple take notice. Keeps his smile good and fixed on his face so they don’t know it pinches at his chest some to be screamed at and not act out back.

“What are you doing!?”

“Put that knife away.”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Flexing his palm, Nubbins finds Franklin’s gaze again, to reassure him in one way that a reaction ain’t necessary. Remembers this was all for him, the exchanging of the blood, so he extends the knife back up to him, tilting the blade upwards some so he don’t have to grab it. Not yet.

And Franklin takes it.

The blood, the wound, it’s starting to dry up and panic nips at the edges of relief. Like if he lets it go away then Franklin will change his mind. He puts his hand into his mouth and bites down hard on the cut, making it gush again.

Blonde lady grimaces at him somethin’ fierce, “Ugh. How can you do that!?”

It’s real easy. He could show her. Franklin’s still lookin’ real hard at his knife, so Nubbins brings out his own. That trusty straight razor from inside his boot. Wants to carve a more pleasant expression onto Blondie’s face an’ show her exactly how simple it is.

“This is making me sick. Can't we let him off somewhere?” The puffy haired one asks quietly. Silly her not knowing this blood means that ain’t never gonna happen.

Not caring that it’s gonna scare her, he waves the razor some, “I-I have this k-knife.”

“You can put that one away too.” The beau that matches scared girl chides.

“It’s a good knife.” Nubbins promises, but returns it quietly to his boot when he sees they ain’t willing to reach out and lose a few fingers. Oh well, since it ain’t supper time yet, he can be patient.

His mind drifts off from himself in the wait, his stare fixing straight forward and landing on the girl up there. He can feel eyes on him, and cold blood on his skin, but he can’t quite snap out of it. Best to let it ride over. Fighting it just makes him go into a bigger upset.

Franklin, in turn, is staring right at Nubbins, that same morbid fascination written all over his expression. Can’t understand why he’s not afraid like the others. All his life he’s known little kids to point and ask why he’s using a chair for old folks, had peers gawk at him when he gets one of his spells and panics. Somethin’ about his trouble bein’ both physical and mental that turned him jaded in a lot of way.

Gullible, sure, in that he believed his sister when she said he’d have fun today, but never fully trusting. Like he’s always waiting for betrayal. Maybe that’s just it, that he ain’t all that surprised his hitchhiker friend turned out to be a little off his rocker. Better than secretly resenting Franklin, or spitting in his supper ‘fore handing it to him, or playin’ tricks on him.

It’s only after a little while of that reflection, that he notices the hitchhiker don’t got eyes on him, or care he was accidentally staring. He’s likewise staring at Sally, who herself notices both of them looking and turns. Her face is suddenly marred by discomfort, a smile that doesn’t even look quite like a good pretend one.

That shouldn’t make Franklin more uneasy than a stranger’s blood all over the knife in his pocket. But fake Sally means: “Of course you can come, Franklin, you’re my brother.” which means “Oh is he finished whining yet?” and “Again? Really?” and “It's been a bad day for you, hasn't it? Poor Franklin.” All which leads to him tumbling ass over end off a hill, and of course he’s gonna take more issue with that.

Instead of getting his knife out again to fidget with, figuring that’s just a recipe for disaster all over the place, he taps his hands on the arm rests of his wheelchair. The movement, and the dull plasticky sound of it, seems to reverberate into Nubbins’ head and pull him out of his little daze.

His eyes blink and drag ‘round slowly around, between Jerry and Sally now. Just from the clues he’s gotten so far he’s starting to make connections about the group, trying to piece together what the mess they’s gonna deal with later on will be like.

“This girl is your wife.” He questions eventually, making vague little motions with his hands.

The girl on the floor taps mister driver to get his attention, “Jerry..”

“Oh. Uh..no. My friend...my girlfriend.” Jerry sputters out stupidly. Nubbins would like to poke him with needles and rip out his hairs and see if he sounds goofy like that when he screams and begs.

His eyes light up but drift away again, knowing he has to wait for that fun. A pink freckled face greets him. Miss blondie don’t like bein’ talked about. Startin’ to understand why she’s always whining to get her hands on things, cause she’s spoilt for attention. The favorite like baby brother, without the special reason of her messed up face or lack of speakin’.

Keeps her clueless and plump, like big brother would say, but this one is curious and too skinny. Might be better just to do away with her, not take away one scrap off, ‘cept maybe her face. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for the youngest, showin’ off this new face he can takes and turn into a mask. He’d just love that.

“Th-That's good.. She's a good girl.”

“Thank you?” She says like she doesn’t get it, shiverin’ like there’s worms goin’ down in her shirt and she’s squirming away from ‘em.

Maybe the hair is too long for little brother’s taste. No use in peelin’ the skull jus’ to throw it all out. Could sell her down at the station instead, replace some of that awful meats they won’t eat and the customers don’t enjoy much neither with sweet and tender flesh. Could get rich off it and go back to slaughtering any real piggies that comes their way with a nice side of luxury.

Just the thought makes him ball his fists and shake them, too full of all these ideas it’s starting to seep out and take up all the space in the van.

The piggyest of the bunch, he don’t wanna eat. Franklin needs to be alive to listen, and share knives with, and talk to Nubbins real nice like he does. They can fatten him up on that headcheese he likes all they wants, but ain’t nobody gonna do the killing of his Franklin ‘less he says.

The Cook can sell blondie, but then Bubba needs somethin’ to sweeten the deal too.

He shifts to the other little lady all balled up on the van floor, takes note she’s got brown eyes like his bubba’s, and a tinker-bell bracelet he’d just love on her wrist. Comes free with clippies in her hair and pretty pale skin, and he knows she’s the one he oughta keep in one piece.

“You're a nice girl too..”

“Thanks.. You're a nice guy..” This girl responds robotically to him, without lookin’ in his face. Nubbins might be retarded but he ain’t stupid. ‘Course that means she don’t like him. Scared of catchin’ what he’s got.

What he wants is to stick his tongue out at her, slash his knife across her stupid face and chest ‘til she’s got blood in her eyes and she’s thrashin’ like a dyin’ cattle. His bubba would be so upset if he brought him a lady like that and wasted the face, and then he’d kill Franklin right back, and they’d got nothin’ but skinny girl meat goin’ to waste and everyone would be upset. Let little lady be mad, but he ain’t gonna let this plan go to waste.

Not even if he’s got to bite on the insides of his cheeks to make it happen, the focus.

Franklin leans back into his line of vision, looking so concerned and eager he might get sick everywhere.

“We're all nice..”

“Yeh.. Y-You're all nice.” Nubbins repeats with a smile, scooting on his haunches to get closer to Franklin again, so close his outstretched limbs is able to brush against his. All the while he’s pretty sure now Franklin can tell what he’s thinkin’, what with the way he’s so good at keepin’ Nubbins on track and calm. Throws him a bone so he knows he’s not the one chosen to become meat. “B-B-But you got them w-wheels.”

“What difference does that make?” Franklin barks, absolutely horrified. He looks down at his own paralyzed legs and back up at Nubbins over and over, mouth open and silly lookin’. Only a real expert like Nubbins might’ve heard the high crackle in his voice when emotion almost slipped past, but even he missed it.

Got distracted by the resurgence of the blade Franklin pulls from his pocket again to toy with until his upset passes. His mouth goes all dumb and quiet again instead of promisin’ he won’t kill Franklin. That’s gotta be why he’s got messed up legs too, so’s he can’t run and he can’t go and mess things up. They’s the perfect pair. Half can’t make his mouth form words, the other can’t move. They’ll fill it in and be one whole person together.

All his life Nubbins just knowed he couldn’t be cut out for love like Gramma and Grandpa got. They was lucky they both was hunters already, neither one turned out by the other covered in gore and shooting a person straight in the back of the skull. Could take up the killing business together.

Hasn’t been one like that since. Mama never had no men and her boys never had no daddy in the picture. They was on their own so long, on their stuffy old farm with stuffy old brothers and nothin’ to do all the day away but work, and workin’ is killin’. But not if he got wheels.

Franklin ain’t edible, can’t be with all that metal, and that means maybe he ain’t a killer too, ‘specially not yet no how. So he’s a third thing, just like Grandpa was when he stumbled onto Gramma’s piece of land with every intention to kill her and ended up tied down in her storage barn and married within months instead.

If he gets his Frankie on that path, he’s takin’ what God gived it to him. He just really, really hopes he’s given the permissions to keep Franklin. God ain’t nothin’ compared to an angry brother and his good leather belt.

Franklin is currently taking down one more button on his shirt to reveal more untouchable, ‘probably too tough to eat flesh, and fannin’ himself off, “It's hot in here..”

That’s silly to Nubbins cause it’s hot everywhere in Texas. “Where do you come f-from?” He asks with a small snort of laughter.

“We been to Colorado, New Mexico. Kind of a vacation, looking for land too.” Franklin tells him, waving his hand here and there. Doesn’t seem to like it much.

“Doing a little skiing.” Floor man adds on, explaining the big sword looking things leaning against the back wall in this little van. All the junk ain’t good junk, the nasty, clunky, plastic store bought garbage is all they gots. It’s startin’ to close in on Nubbins and suffocate him with a life he doesn’t live.

Feels harder to make sense.

“I mean w-where do you l-live?”

“Oh.. Houston. We’re all from Houston.” Franklin gives him a smile and it ain't like the girl’s, it’s gentle and bright and silly.

While he talks, Nubbins starts rocking forwards and back, and shaking about his wrists some more, flapping like the excited bird he is and feels on the inside. Franklin is just so so smart tellin’ him what he needs to know and that’s all. So he keeps asking questions. “Your p-parents live there too?”

“What? Oh, yeah..” Franklin gives a dismissive shrug, prob’ly don’t want to talk about it.

Maybe they’re like Nubbins’ parents and disappeared away, and he’s all alone. Or maybe they’re like big brother and get mean easy, beatin’ on the poor guy even though his legs doesn’t work. That’s prob’ly worse than anythin’ he been through. At the end of the night, Franklin ain’t running away to go burn off his frustration by kickin’ some roadkill around.

Just a shame that Nubbins don’t realize the only reason he’s still in the van allowed near Franklin is on account of he’s viewed the same way. The difference is a lot to someone who’s willing to consider it, but to the others, they’re both just crazy and annoying and easy to laugh at. Clowns for just existing.

Nubbins nods his head towards blondie, “A-And this girl.”

“What about Sally?” Franklin asks, miffed that they’re changing the subject again. He’d like to just grab this hitchhiker and scream in his face that the others don’t care about him. They never will, don’t waste your time on it.

Maybe he’d do the same for him and keep him from goin’ on another one of these stupid road-trips where he just sits around and watches. Kirk had been bragging with the skiing, showing off the poles so he could feel tougher than the guy with no qualms on using a knife. But no mention of leaving Franklin on his own while they done it. The “Sorry, Franklin. We planned this a long time ago, we never thought you’d come along at the last minute.” Like that’s even what happened.

Apparently paralyzed is s’posed to mean deaf too, ‘cause he heard very well what Kirk said when they was walking away to climb that stupid hill. “Someone oughta take one of these and shove it somewhere that it’ll put him out of our misery.”

Franklin was so mad he vomited in the snow they were skiing on. Thought about wheeling off somewhere and forcing them to come and find him and then they’d feel real sorry. ‘Til he realized they probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone. Sally, if she wasn’t distracted would, but they’d do just about anything to keep Sally from sticking up for her brother, and eventually it worked and she didn’t even try no more.

She now laughs at the hitchhiker asking them questions, “What? What about me?”

“Where are y-your parents?” Nubbins asks, sounding very polite, in contrast to his wolfish smile.

“Where are my parents?” She repeats, looking like she wants to laugh in his face some more, cruelty leaving its ashen tint on her questioning tone.

“Yeh.” Nubbins confirms, maybe naively. Maybe knowing she’s not interested in talkin’ niceties with a man she thinks is just some pawn in her adventure game.

This time she does bark a harsh laugh at him. Franklin knows his own face gets a little hot and red from the embarrassment of remembering folks laughing at him that way, treating him like an attraction. Part of him hopes the hitchhiker just won’t notice, maybe he’s been so sheltered up all his life he doesn’t realize the bully Sally and her friends can be when they wanna. Unlikely.

“What kind of question is that? Where are my parents. How should I know? My mother's probably about half drunk on martinis and my father’s probably playing golf. Where are yours?” Her hair swishes around and her head bobbles while she speaks, defensive in a way that just screams ‘who is letting this freak talk to me?’

“I-I mean where do they l-live?” The hitchhiker has to clarify again. He’s licking his lips and rolling up his shoulders in a way that it’s obvious he’s bothered, frustrated maybe. Holding down some kind of reaction.

“What does he want to know all that stuff for? We don't even know him.” Franklin hears Pam whisper to the side.

And Kirk’s louder, uninhibited response. “How should I know?”

Couple of gossips, really a whole group of them. The flush of embarrassment turns to anger for the poor hitchhiker. Franklin prays to the Lord above that if his mind ever leads him to wander and hurt himself that way, cutting into his own flesh andcsmiling about it, that a kinder group would happen to stumble upon him than this. Sorta puts into perspective how shitty they can be, makes him feel stupid for coming along at all.

Sally doubles back and answers his question anyhow, despite clearly hearing her friends discussing whether it’s a good idea or not. “Oh, where do they live? In Houston. They live in Houston.. Why?”

“Do- Do they know you’ coming t-to Houston?” Nubbins is busy assessing the situation on his own to notice what they think of him. Five is a lot to handle, never done a group that big all at once before without his brothers right on hand beside him. Important to know if somebody gonna come looking in their freezers in a day or two ‘fore they can hunt and slaughter and break down all that meat.

“Who told you we were going to Houston?” The driver guy asks skeptically. Whether it’s the failing engine or his suspicious driving, the van lurches around some.

When Nubbins motioned to who exactly did told him, that skip in the forward trojectory knocked him forward. He ends up with his hand resting fully on Franklin's pinstriped knee, and he don’t make an action to move it, “This man..”

“Let's tell him we can't take him any further when we stop for gas..” Miss puffy hair rambles quickly, not remembering to control her volume from her fear over Franklin being touched.

So Nubbins hears her loud and clear and counters, “M-My home is- is close to this road. Y-You could take me there.”

After getting a harsh nudge, the floor man speaks up, “Well, man.. I don't know. We're In pretty much of a hurry.. How far is it from the highway?”

“Oh, it’s r-real close.” And it’s true this time! They’s only another ten or so minutes out from the station at this speed if they keep it up, and that’s only another five from the house.

Back in the day, before he knew the routes by heart, Nubbins would walk the paths and count the seconds, the minutes, the footsteps it took until it was all in his bones. Drivin’ it by car is even quicker, though he usually ain’t so lucky to get carried there. Most ‘ the time they don’t pick up hitchhikers no more. Or it’s just him.

Does they all think he’s a Dracula?

“Couldn't you just walk? I mean.. if it’s so close.” Blondie talks like she regrets opening her mouth the second she done it. As she should with them awful manners.

“Y-You.. You could have supper with us!” Nubbins offers, increasingly desperate the more it seems like they ain’t gonna take him up on it, ruining just everything. It’s all gonna domino down and crush him flat like a box truck come at him full speed. His only friend in this, he singles out Franklin, “You like h-head cheese, m-my brother m-makes it good.. he always got some.”

Franklin doesn’t get the chance to speak before he’s being talked over by Blondie and her fake gagging, “Not that stuff you were talking about a while ago.. Ugh..”

“I think we better-push on, man. Sorry.” The shaggy looking guy mutters but it’s directed at Nubbins. They knows well they been mean, ashamed to look him in the face, and Nubbins don’t like it not one bit.

He shrugs it off, but his posture is so sunk in and he’s so silent, ain’t no way you couldn’t tell he’s upset. A bump in the road makes his camera clang against his ribs, givin’ him a real good idea. Nubbins raises it up and teases, laughing as he pretends to zero in on a target though he already got the perfect one in mind, aiming right at Franklin who is still just kinda absent. There’s a flash of light as the old, burnt-up flashbulb pops. Franklin looks up at it startled, but smiles, maybe automatically, a little vague, when he sees the camera.

“You took my picture.” Franklin sounds all outta breath just like Nubbins was when he runned to the van. The picture gonna help to connect them.

Under the sun, under the flash bulb, s’about the same thing. ‘Cause Nubbins don’t normally takes pictures of the living. Likes ‘em better as butchered pieces-parts for a bigger collage. Now Franklin he gotta stay this good way, startled and flushed and smilin’ just a little.

“Yeah.”

Nubbins pulls the photograph from the camera and peels apart the sheet. His film, it’d gone rotten a long time ago, the print comin’ out old and dark and discolored lookin’. Still he extends it to Franklin, only Franklin got the right to see it after all. Wants him to be proud of it. Needs it maybe.

“It didn't turn out so good.” Franklin remarks, squinting to see his own face.

“No. I-It’s nice, see -” Nubbins snatches at the photo but let’s Franklin keep looking, pointing to every detail that is his favorite to prove it’s alright. Namely the bruises and bloody scrapes, “It t-tells about your a-accident.”

A few comments float around the van:

“You look worse for wear.”

“I think you look nice.”

But blonde girl starts complaining again and makin’ it all ‘bout her, when Nubbins don’t care none about that.

“Let me see.”

Franklin extends it back towards her and gives a little warning that quicks up Nubbins’ heart, ‘cause his mind got changed about it turning out bad, “It’s kind of dark, but you can see my face.”

With girl gone, Nubbins leans forward.

What he wants, is Franklin’s word that he gonna behave and ain’t get himself killed durin’ dinner when they come. He’ll settle for a different way of tellin’ it.

“Y-You can p-pay me now.”

Franklin blinks away a mental fog but still can’t make no sense of this, “Huh?”

“Two dollars.. I-It's a good picture.”

Nubbins is nodding and giggling, can’t help himself ’cause he thinks this is it, that Franklin’s gonna understand fine what he’s got to do. His joy is met with blank faced confusion, but that’s better than discontent.

Or anger, like that he gets from the denim man.

“You want him to pay you for that picture?”

Blondie joins in the convincing, trying to ruin everything, selfish selfish girl trying to make Franklin mad at him, “It's not really a very good picture of you.”

“Not for two dollars anyway.” The floor man agrees.

“Two dollars?” Blondie asks, like she’s clueless.

Nubbins knows they’re tryin’ to corner him and narrows his eyes, holds out an expectant hand, trying to call her bluff, “Yehh. Y-You can buy it for him.”

“Hey, man, that’s enough.” The other guy barks, ordering Franklin around instead of letting him have a say, “Give him back the damn picture.”

Immediately Franklin returns the photo, and Nubbins can tell his hands have started shaking. Poor, weak Frankie let them boss him ‘round like that. Now he’s startin’ to fidget nervously again. Comparing that to his smile in the photo, which Nubbins stares at for a long moment, makes him a little sad ‘at his joy had to go.

Ain’t much room for it in this stuffy, closed-windowed world.

They keep talking about him, up in the front seat.

“That guy wanted Franklin to pay him 2 dollars for that picture.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. He was serious.”

Nobody ever asked a peep about what Franklin thought, or what he wanted. Now he’s got this little frown on and Nubbins knows it’s cause he’s scared to show the big feelings that get caught in there.

Havin’ a little brother meaned Nubbins seen all this play out before. Livin’ it was one thing, ‘n hearin’ big brother complain about the old times added to it sure, but nothin’ compared to watchin’ a miserable creature. Pinned down by its little deformed wings and screamin’ and cryin’ over invisible pain. They heads is sick, even Franklin, and the others ain’t kind to that.

Nubbins got a real good way to burn it off.

Some kind of a trash can or somethin’ is flipped over on its top like a pedestal, where he places the photo. His pouch gots a small bundle of ‘luminum foil, and a tube of gun power. He lays it out so the picture’s layin’ on its back in the foil, a little cone of the powder on top with a dip in the middle. Makin’ sure they’re watchin’, Nubbins gives a smile and a small giggly laugh, then strikes a match off his boot.

They know what he’s gonna do ‘fore he does it, but they still start screamin’ anyhow when it bangs and makes a big flash of light, burning up in fire. Smoke wafts off it while he crumbles it up inside the foil, crushing the air out of the fire so it goes out, and shovin’ it back into the pouch.

The driver man brakes hard and veers the van to the side of the road, sending all the riders forward violently except Franklin, who cracked his head off the seat behind him.

All of them start hollering over each other while Nubbins giggles at himself delightedly. Big brother woulda said he oughta be more careful, and maybe he’d ‘a been right in the case of gettin’ Franklin on his side. It’s just he can’t help havin’ fun!

“What? What?”

“What happened?”

“Hey! Damn.”

“HEY, man!”

“Roll down the window!”

Nubbins doesn’t flinch when a ski pole is shoved right in his face like a weapon. His knife is still sharper than some plastic lookin’ stick, and no fella afraid of a little fire gonna do the deed of shovin’ that thing past flesh and muscle into his vulnerable guts. Ain’t man enough.

“I've had enough, man. Time for you to go.” The guy with the ski pole warns, before turnin’ to call over his shoulder, “Jerry, stop this thing..”

It ain’t nice, but he’s losin’ control which means he’s losin’ Franklin too and that ain’t good. Can’t happen. They’s s’posed to be in this together, and more, part ‘a the same family. Betrotheds. Not the ones wanderin’ with no connection, not the mean folks. So long as he can find him again, they’ll fix it to be just right as rain. Even let Franklin carve into the one tryin’ to quiet him up if it come to that.

One half of the blood exchange been done already, with his on Franklin’s knife. Before he stands to haul ass out of the slowing down van, he snatches up his razor and flips it open, grabbing Franklin by his wrist and dragging the blade across. His blood bubbles when it comes out from all the pulling back and forth they’re doin’, and he squeals and sobs as the knife tears into him jaggedly.

Nubbins licks a crack in his lip instead of the blood from Franklin’s wound, though he’d like to see what he tastes like. Figures somethin’ like wood smoke and bitter forest berries. Somethin’ real special like a homemade pie, hold the mincemeat.

They’ll have time for that later; the ski pole guy goes for him, but tumbles back when the van lurches again and slows down to a real stop this time. Nubbins drags the door open and hops out while it’s still coasting, keeping his eyes locked with Franklin through the windows. He’s bleeding from his arm all over the place, his sister kneeling to bandage him and his friends shouting behind the closed door. But he won’t tear his eyes away from Nubbins. Can’t.

They’s covered already, relationship locked in by their tethers between their worlds, but to make sure the van don’t get lost, Nubbins rips open his palm again with his teeth and marks the side of it with his blood, pickin’ a good familiar shape so even big brother might notice it when they stops for gas up the road. Flashes one last grin Franklin’s way.

Kicking the tires, scrawling the family crest right onto the green paint, it’s perfect. Nubbins would be excited if he wasn’t realizing his own hurt by the way they throwed him out.

Speeding away means he can’t see his captive Franklin anymore, ‘n for a minute he tries to keep up. Running after and blowin’ raspberries to not lose his mind with this upset.

Until he’s sure they can’t see him no more. Then Nubbins just falls where he stands, curling his knees into his chest and hiding his face in them. His sad is anger. Teeth grit together and fists balled up, and he’s hitting the back of his head, over and over, ‘til sweat runs past his hair and he has to stop ‘n check to make sure it ain’t blood.

It’s salty tears in some places too. Feels stupid for cryin’ ‘em. Nubbins had somethin’ real special goin’ with Franklin, but them others was just mean. A thousand bodies ain’t make up for the hurt in his heart every ought time another person goes by and they’s mean to him.

But they’s all gonna get their due. Marked ‘em good, so they ain’t ever gon’ make it to Houston. Only one survivor, on Nubbins’ terms, ‘cause he’s certain now he ain’t nothin’ typical. He’s the killer.

[swallowerofdharma]

Yashiro’s Cruel God part four

There are probably brilliant analyses out there about the first part of this manga and what I say might as well be just an uninteresting repetition. But we analyze things for ourselves first, to understand them better, to make sense of a story for ourselves, so I’ll give it a try anyway.

Continuing my thoughts on Doumeki and another digression: You’ll be fine. I’m a man and you’re different from your father, right?

If there hasn’t already been a tension within Yashiro between his nihilistic tendencies and his yearning for change, the story wouldn’t be possible. If Don’t Stay Gold is the original one-shot where Yashiro appeared as a background character, when Saezuru begins that some story is repurposed masterfully as a critical starting point for a Yashiro that is now a main character: This setup would become nothing more than a knife that gets thrown right back at me. You can already see this is going to be brilliant writing. When Doumeki was introduced, Yashiro had to be at a point where he was ready to let go of Kageyama, but - at same time - the fact that he had wished for them to be more than friends, that this was something he had remained open to, despite his past and despite his failures, was essential to show a believable story of him falling in love with someone else. What about Doumeki then? I have been asking myself, what are Doumeki’s motivations for being so persistent?

Yashiro is captivated immediately by Doumeki’s eyes, he makes a comment about it and later, in chapter 4, Yoneda captivates the readers too with a beautiful page with no words that isolates Doumeki’s eyes in the rear view mirror of the car, while his gaze is focused on a melancholic Yashiro. The previous sequence, at Kageyama’s clinic, was in large part framed coherently with Doumeki’s point of view as he witnessed for the first time Yashiro interacting with his doctor friend. In chapter 23 Yashiro realizes something unexpected about Doumeki. The English translations of this dialogue varied, I’ll reference here the official translation: The truth is, we’re not similar, at all. From the beginning you were always different. That’s why you look at me like that. With different eyes than his. Yashiro’s expression here is fearful and lost, because he only had those few points of reference, and those he cared for most were his parents who had abandoned him and Kageyama who had rejected him.

After Yashiro was injured on Doumeki’s watch, Nanahara orders him to cut his finger off. Needing medical attention, he goes to Kageyama and tells him about what happened. The doctor’s reaction here is so cold and heartless that if at this point you care for Yashiro at all you can’t help feeling really hurt hearing his words.

The source of Kageyama’s cruelty is his ignorance. He doesn’t know Yashiro well or rather he has built a static image of him and he can’t shake it; he constantly shows how shortsighted he is when it comes to his supposed best friend. And I remember reading people’s thoughts about the symbolism of the contact lens that Yashiro stole, so I think that was sufficiently discussed. I’ll add my two cents to this topic, because I find it interesting the detail of Kageyama being the son of a doctor and becoming one as well, not a very good one he said himself. When his classmate Yashiro told him - in that awkward and nonchalant way of his, another product of the distorted reality that his parents left him with - about the abuse he had endured from his stepfather, Kageyama stops touching him, doesn’t get closer anymore. I think that in his mind, because he had already internalized attitudes that come from medical practice just from his father, in that moment Yashiro stopped being someone he could touch because he became a “case of child abuse”, someone he needed to emotionally distance himself from. I wonder if there are readers doing the same. When Yashiro goes to his father’s wake, Kageyama is happy to see him there, that his classmate cared, but later Yashiro, so unaccustomed to his new delicate feelings, fumbles badly for the right words and any potential connection falls flat. Yashiro didn’t really need confirmation that Kageyama wasn’t straight, he had understood that much, or that the reason he was rejected had to be a different story. Kageyama’s shortcomings now and later are tied to his inability to perceive Yashiro as a full person, capable of yearning, of changing, of suffering from something else rather than the obvious. Yashiro becomes a “mental case” and the good doctor can’t do anything much about it, since it isn’t his specialty. He’ll stay as a friend, but unkind. And when Doumeki discovers that the only person Yashiro is attached to could be so unsympathetic to him, he is angry. Doumeki doesn’t confront Kageyama, for Yashiro’s sake, mostly, for reasons of hierarchy and responsibility, he needs to treat respectfully someone who is on equal standing with his boss. The ones who confront Kageyama are Kuga and Nanahara and it works: when Yashiro brings Ryuuzaki’s girlfriend to the clinic, Kageyama’s perception of him has changed and readjusted.

Doumeki could see glimpses of Yashiro’s yearning, of Yashiro’s love, and he is still determined to see it through now as he was before. He won’t let go or accept lies from Yashiro and about Yashiro. Doumeki isn’t just foolishly in love and enduring everything that comes with it, he wants to know. His motives are layered with the stubbornness that comes with detective work, after what happened between them in chapter 25, he wants to confirm that Yashiro reciprocated his feelings, because he also needs to prove himself that he isn’t a rapist, he isn’t just like his father. He fully committed to it. Only if we acknowledge our selfish reasons, we can really be honest about our feelings, about how we open ourselves to others, how we want them, and all the things we want from them. Yashiro and Doumeki aren’t letting go of their feelings in part because they need a confirmation that they are good enough. And that’s why this story surpasses the romantic premises about love and makes sense from a very down to earth, realistic perspective of how grown men behave, too.

We established that Doumeki is someone who was looking closely at Yashiro since the beginning and won’t stop looking for the truth until he is satisfied. The root causes of his conviction and commitment are various but ultimately go back to his sense of failure regarding Aoi. He aimed to be and became a policeman and failed to see something that was right under his eyes. To be continued…

[thewayuarent]

The main conflict of Sand and Ray

In my previous post about SandRay dynamic I was talking about Ray’s addiction and how it could influence their relationship. But this conflict is based on external factors - Ray's addiction, as the Sand’s savior syndrome are their important characteristics, but not so much the basis of their personalities as a consequence.

Third episode gave me an understanding of some key traits of their characters, which are the basis of their main, internal conflict. What I mean by that is they’ll have a lot of fights caused by some reason or another (addiction - possibly, Mew thing - definitely yes, financial status - maybe, whatever else I don’t know probably everything, this show is a mess) but all these fights are going to happen because they have completely different view on life.

Ray is living in the moment where tomorrow may never happen. In ep1 Sand make that comment

and personally, I’m not sure of Ray knows himself. He doesn’t think ahead. Moreover, he is prone to avoidance - his drinking in a way helps him not to think about what’s happening in his life. He actively seeks ways to not thinking.

So he finds Sand. I mean, of course he likes Sand, but what’s more important, he can turn all of his time and energy on that guy he knows for a couple of weeks or something. One night together and Ray immediately imprints on him like a baby duck? Sure, why not. They both agreed that will be one time thing? But it was good, they both want more, complexities what,

Sand, on the other hand, is basically opposite. He always thinks ahead. He gives up to the moments in ep 2, but he’s concerned about it immediately. He analyzes everything - Ray’s behavior and his problematic tendencies, his own reaction, their relationship - and I can guess comes to some disappointing conclusions.

He knows Ray is a problem. He knows relationship with Ray will be a problem. I find it very interesting to compare these two lines:

Ray is almost in self-defense mode he’s basically like “Oh no I gave mixed signals so this guy may think I’m into him but I’m so obviously not” (yes you are)

Where Sand is saying “I know you are problematic and I don’t need that in my life” (with those eyes yep I believe you)

So he resists. He reminds them both about their status as friends in (almost)every dialogue they have in this episode.

Except for this one. My boy, you are flirting hard, is there something with the air or what?

So he knows things can go off the rails very easy very fast. But he gives in to Ray - not once, but twice. Because while he can understand what’s bad for him, he’s still prone to it. Letting everything go and living in a moment is very attractive idea and I can get Sand easily here.

The problem is, he just can’t afford it. Sand is in a constant survival mode. He have several jobs, he does illegal stuff for money and he has no option but to think through every aspect of his life. He can’t just control some parts of it and let go on others, he needs clear vision of his future.

So yes, the financial aspect plays a big part in who they are. Ray is rich rich and therefore he has no need to think about tomorrow. He is safe. He doesn’t need to think about job, or count expenses, or worry about future. Sand does.

Offtop but I really love the little details about their financial statuses. Sand never eats in university cause money. Ray can start a hotel business after one phone call. And my favorite is the cigarette thing. As a smoker I know NOTHING in the world makes me put on a whole cigarette. Not even a hot guy. Apocalypse can wait while I finish it. So yeah this shot was my moment of realization that Ray is very rich I’m not joking.

So what do I think gonna happen next? Ray will continue to push through, Sand will continue to give up (resisting in a process and tho giving quite mixed signals). Eventually they’ll come to a moment when Ray’s inability to think ahead will hurt Sand. And Sand will probably hurt Ray back. And the rest is history (I honestly don’t know what’ll happen this show is a mess).

And of course their relationship is not only about conflict, I find them very depressing but still very promising. There are a lot of great interactions going here but that’s probably a theme for another post.

[akoo9]

Who do you think fell in love first: Yashiro or Doumeki?

I love this Simple yet important question…..i think about this each time i re-read the story…..I actually have abit different view about “love”…..i have this idea that love cannot come at first stage…but its a result….. so there is two answers for ur question (u’ve to bear with the strange assignment i will write)

First answer is that….both of them fell into each other at first sight (just their timing was different) doumeki saw yashiro first at the office and fell at first sight or got attracted to him without knowing what it is…….later when d got transferred,and entered Yashiro’s office …..yashiro in that moment once his eyes landed on doumeki,he also fell in love with d…yashiro was having this look towards doumeki….

As we know,yashiro is smart one and he read ppl at first glance,but he’s here gazing doumeki ….he’s definitely interested in what he’s seeing considering doumeki is his type add on that doumeki’s non-readable vibes.

Yashiro couldn’t even resist doumeki and went straight up to sucking his dik….funny part is how later on(yashiro said that doumeki should have said earlier that he’s impo)but boiiii u didn’t even gave a chance…u just straight up went into it, and breaking ur rule for somone u just saw….

So both had same start….just doumeki saught yashiro first…(that’s also soldfiy doumeki’s answer when he said (that he will have similar feelings to yashiro even if they had met earlier too)something like that….doumeki just said the information that yashiro smiles when he’s mad.

next pic is yashiro smiling towards doumeki …..unlike what everyone says that b carful of him he smile when he’s mad…..i bet doumeki from this moment started to develop his attachment aka(love feelings)bcz yashiro treated him differently from the start

And after this smile is where love starts……in my way of thinking…..they both were felling into each other’s…….

U can already scan in ur mind the chapters at beginning and how doumeki has the special treatment from yashiro….even before the bath scene were doumeki admit(he never been this attracted to somone) ….so this make us imagine and interpret that yashiro fell first…..

doumeki was more aware of his feelings anyway

But we have yashiro not realizing his deepest feelings for doumeki even till ch56…..this boii taking forever to realise he fell for d…..yashiro fell the hardest into doumeki to level that it scares him too since beginning…..once it kicked in he freaked out and threw away doumeki

Till ch56 we still don’t know doumeki’s internal dialogue about this all……if they both fell into each other’s at first sight……then fell in love at close timing or same time

We might find out later doumeki’s feelings and how he’s dieing and yearning for yashiro too…so probably not just yashiro , but might both of them fell into each other the hardest

Back to simple answer: doumeki fell first,yashiro the hardest (technically both of them experience same thing at same level let’s just wait and see doumeki’s side of this)

[thevulturesquadron]

Hey remember that post you made a time ago about E9?

I agree with it all, but I wanted to talk especially about the rushed part, i.e Roberto and Rogue immediately going into the "villain guards" roles. It is missing a moment between them joining Magneto and the following fight against X-Men

What would you put as this moment? A dialogue? I've been thinking about this and I even want to write a fic, but my brain can't chose. (I've been leaning on Rogue reassuring Roberto somehow) So?

Many thanks! I love your blog bestie <33

– @unfortunately-obsessed

Hey sweet thing! 🌺 (your tumblr posts always put a smile on my face) Oh! I love this! If you write something I would kill to read it! For E9 I would have loved to see a moment on Asteroid M between the two, either when they set foot inside for the first time or before preparing for the ‘meet and greet’ with the X-Men. I feel like once in space, after the adrenaline wears off Roberto would worry about the choice he made. I like to think Rogue would sense it and maybe look for him. What if she finds him in front of one of the wide panels looking down towards Earth? She would probably start the conversation by saying something like ‘quite a sight from up here, ain’t it sugah?’ Having a moment between the two with a look over the ‘dying’ earth would put things into a certain perspective. I imagine Rogue being reassuring, as much as she could, but there is a fire under her skin as well that she needs to tame - when he shows doubt she’d tell him she’s been following Xavier’s ways for years and that his heart may be in the right place but he’s living in a past version of the fight. Things have changed in his absence and she’s done with putting the idea of peace ahead of mutant lives. She’d tell him that there is no right or wrong way of doing this, that if there’s one thing he can count on is that he’s never going to have to face anything alone. I like to think she’d ask him if he’s scared and when he’d ask her back she would answer honestly - ‘ yes’. She’d admit that after Remy died she was so lost in her anger, thinking she had nothing left to lose, but has since realized that that was not true. She’d look down the hall that leads to Magneto’s ‘throne room’ and she’d tell Roberto that being a mutant is not just about his powers, it’s about something more. And any mutants that are still out there are worth fighting for. Maybe Roberto would confess that the look in Magneto’s eyes scares him even if he stands by his choice. And her face would darken in worry. ‘That’s the other reason why I chose to be here. Erik’s a good man, sugah. But he’s been through a lot. And I refuse to lose him too - not to his pain, not to his anger.’ In Genosha he asked her for help, to be the balancing force that would keep him in check. She was angry with him back then, but seeing him now, seeing how the world treated all of them, she understood how vulnerable he actually allowed himself to be. If she was ready to be by his side at his best - she wasn’t going to abandoned him at his worst. And I would have liked to see one last exchange between them as they are making their way towards the Blackbirld. Maybe Rogue would sense Roberto’s internal conflict and that would strengthen her conviction. ‘They need us. The X-men, Magneto. Things will get nasty, so we need to be strong. Sometimes you gotta punch a fella you love to get them to sit down and listen. A blackened eye heals faster than a broken arm.’ She’d wink and punch in the door key to the hangar. Or something like that! I am terrible with dialogue but I would have loved a tiny moment that shows both the internal conflict they were going through and what stood behind their choices. Even a short reassuring hand on his shoulder and a voiceless exchange before stepping in would have been enough. Taking the mantle of the ‘bad guy’ so that others can fight their good fight with lessened consequences is often times an unsung tale.