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#grieving people who have yet to die

alekkis · 2 years

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It’s not just in the things you’ll never send but the interplay.

it’s in the trance, its in your sway, you’ll find me with every head nod, and I’ll be there in the categorical madness of joy.

I’ll be here for you, we are who we are.

our mind doesn’t stop it continues it begs it enshrines, strictly speaking you’re not ordinary and it hurts when it hurts and feels devilish when it does but boy you’re here why hide that.

you can’t hide that there’s a sparkle to you, you shine bright, you pay attentively to the flow that’s no one’s fault, you got me I know it feels lonely you’re alone and that’s where the fear and instability peeks in I can’t say you’ll be a writer but I will say that you create art beyond a profession you do the things you do to save the story this is your life.

memory it haunts us regret haunts us don’t live like this, it’s in direct contradiction to the the beauty bravery and freedom of those around you. we all persist to the beat of our own love it sways and conforms it bends in odd shapes and yours does the same. look how it grooves look how it falters you can’t run away from who or where you are, you’re all that you’ve ever been idk man it’s hard to say, sometimes all that we are is the realization nothing is forever to love deeper and express ourselves with absurdity nothing is forever.

temporary is the game we can forget or we can choose how we remember even when it hurts we do it for the love.

10/8/22 - wtf yeah I second this

#interlude #writing #actually bipolar #journal entry #I’m gonna commit to healing and loving #I choose to honor those I love by remembering and memorializing before they’ve left this world #I’m gonna show them they matter by remembering their words #grieving people who have yet to die #put this degree to use and in the process find healing #shadow work #still don’t know what that means #have i said fuck mania before #wtf like dude that shit sucks #continues to suck #art is all I got #I hope to love sincerely #and I hope to be a man my mom is proud of #I’m tired of feeling like a disappointment #victoria erikson #actually mentally ill #mania #playlist poetics #creative writing project #why am i like this #neurodivergent #there’s no loss in commiting #you’re already crazy #so you want to remember your mom #do it weirdo #it’s not that big of a deal

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specialagentartemis · 1 year

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in middle school during my Intense Greek Mythology Phase, Artemis was, as you can likely guess, my best girl. Iphigenia was my OTHER best girl. Yes at the same time.

The story of Iphigenia always gets to me when it's not presented as a story of Artemis being capricious and having arbitrary rules about where you can and can't hunt, but instead, making a point about war.

Artemis was, among other things--patron of hunting, wild places, the moon, singlehood--the protector of young girls. That's a really important aspect she was worshipped as: she protected girls and young women. But she was the one who demanded Agamemnon sacrifice his daughter in order for his fleet to be able to sail on for Troy.

There's no contradiction, though, when it's framed as, Artemis making Agamemnon face what he’s doing to the women and children of Troy. His children are not in danger. His son will not be thrown off the ramparts, his daughters will not be taken captive as sex slaves and dragged off to foreign lands, his wife will not have to watch her husband and brothers and children killed. Yet this is what he’s sailing off to Troy to inevitably do. That’s what happens in war. He’s going to go kill other people’s daughters; can he stand to do that to his own? As long as the answer is no—he can kill other people’s children, but not his own—he can’t sail off to war.

Which casts Artemis is a fascinating light, compared to the other gods of the Trojan War. The Trojan War is really a squabble of pride and insults within the Olympian family; Eris decided to cause problems on purpose, leaving Aphrodite smug and Hera and Athena snubbed, and all of this was kinda Zeus’s fault in the first place for not being able to keep it in his pants. And out of this fight mortal men were their game pieces and mortal cities their prizes in restoring their pride. And if hundreds of people die and hundred more lives are ruined, well, that’s what happens when gods fight. Mortals pay the price for gods’ whims and the gods move on in time and the mortals don’t and that’s how it is.

And women especially—Zeus wanted Leda, so he took her. Paris wanted Helen, so he took her. There’s a reason “the Trojan women” even since ancient times were the emblems of victims of a war they never wanted, never asked for, and never had a say in choosing, but was brought down on their heads anyway.

Artemis, in the way of gods, is still acting through human proxies. But it seems notable to me to cast her as the one god to look at the destruction the war is about to wreak on people, and challenge Agamemnon: are you ready to kill innocents? Kill children? Destroy families, leave grieving wives and mothers? Are you? Prove it.

It reminds me of that idea about nuclear codes, the concept of implanting the key in the heart of one of the Oval Office staffers who holds the briefcase, so the president would have to stab a man with a knife to get the key to launch the nukes. “That’s horrible!,” it’s said the response was. “If he had to do that, he might never press the button!” And it’s interesting to see Artemis offering Agamemnon the same choice. You want to burn Troy? Kill your own daughter first. Show me you understand what it means that you’re about to do.

#Electra was my other other best girl #I also stan Clytemnestra #love this murder family of women getting revenge in anguish for their loved ones they will never get back #tagamemnon #Greek Mythology #iphigenia #Trojan War #long post

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missviviii · 3 months

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a/n: zayne my boo <3 im sobbing over the fact that the game killed off mc’s grandma and caleb 😭

ミ★ Love & Deep Space ミ★

pairing: zayne x fem!reader

warning(s): mentions of death, mentions of the explosion that killed mc’s grandma + childhood best friend (caleb) in game, spoilers(?)

Summary: Ever since that day, you’ve fallen in a deep, dark pit. Why did you have to be the one that they decide to destroy? Why did Caleb and Grandma have to die? Is it your fault they did? Zayne, as your primary care physician and a family friend, is concerned for your well-being.

“Sometimes, a small gesture is all it takes.”

The sound of the news on your TV, the thundering rain outside, the sound of the cars driving by your apartment—it all blurs out as you stared at the TV screen, eyes dead and unfocused on the news of the Wanderers attacking and the explosions. Some 22 casualties, two deaths. Grandma and Caleb. His necklace that you bought him as a goodbye gift when he left for the Aerospace Academy sits beside a picture of you, him, and Grandma on the coffee table, the cheerful smiles making you wished that you could revisit time.

Your apartment, once somewhat organized and clean, is now messy with things being knocked down and dirty dishes long discarded. You stare at the one last thing your Grandma left for you, some..tablet(?) with a final letter on it. You haven’t gotten the energy or the ability to open it. It pains you, seeing that you haven’t visited for so long yet when you do, this was the time her house had to explode right in front of you, flames engulfing the house and the only thing that remained was Caleb’s necklace.

“I miss you, Grandma..” You mumbled to nobody, rubbing the tears threatening to spill out your eyes as you glanced down at the item she left you with. Besides that, a small box of her old recipes of those notecards, and other small things that she had entrusted to you years before.

Around you was your laptop, papers and files on the latest Wanderer attacks around you. Yes, Captain Jenna dismissed you and said that you should take some days off to regain your energy, since you haven’t been getting the sleep or the energy you needed, but you just couldn’t.

Your door opened, yet you didn’t bother to look at who entered. “Still sitting in front of the TV?” A familiar voice spoke out, flipping the light switch on and shutting the door behind him. It was Zayne, a long time family friend and your primary care physician. “You haven’t eaten,” he bluntly says as he sets a bag of food on your table and walked into the kitchen. He bites back a sigh, knowing that you were going through a tough time, and people tended to discard everything and grieve and grieve their hearts out.

“Hello to you too, Zayne,” you replied as you shut off the news and got up off your sofa. You pile up all the papers and files you’ve scattered around and set them on the coffee table before you walk into the kitchen as Zayne is cleaning up your dirty dishes. He checks in on you whenever he’s free or when he’s off his shift. He looks back at you, only making a small hum of acknowledgment before cleaning up your dirty kitchen. You looked terrible—eyes red and puffy from crying, obvious eye bags, and the sparkles from your eyes were gone.

You yawn as you take out a bowl and some utensils for whatever food he brought in for you. You unpacked the bag as he cleaned up the dishes you couldn’t bother doing last week. Potatoes, avocado on the side, tuna salad, salmon and rice you said to yourself as you took out the food that he had carefully backed in those plastic containers for you. Then you took out the last thing. Cookie..dough? He remembered your favorite childhood snack. The kind of cookie dough you liked.

“Your grandma gave me a recipe for the cookie dough. She said that if she couldn’t make it, I should since it lightens your mood,” Zayne says as he puts your clean dishes back into the cabinet. He dries his hand off before walking over to you, watching how you stare at it like a piece of gold. Disbelief and shock were etched on your face.

Zayne puts his hand on your back, soothingly rubbing circles as you opened the container and took a bite. Your eyes almost brimmed with tears again. You could remember how your grandma used to bake in the kitchen and you’d always sneak a bite or two of the cookie dough, no care in the world if you could get salmonella.

“Thank..you, Zayne,” you finally said, turning around tightly hugging him. He was a bit hesitant at first, but he put his hand on your head, massaging your scalp as he looked down at you with a gentle look on his face.

“..You’re welcome. I miss her too.”

Zayne’s eyes looked away at the picture on the counter of your grandma. She didn’t have to go out this way.

#love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #vivi’s writing✫彡 #writing #i wanna write #x reader #fanfiction #for funsies #i almost cried #fanfic #my darling <3 #this game is so good #send me asks #love & deepspace #love & deepspace fluff #little bit of angst

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burstfoot · 5 months

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Your name is Kristen Wright. You’re barely 10. You’re at the outdoor funeral for your parents, a pair of genius scientists that Terra will never see again. You’ve spent the last two weeks giving false smiles to women and men who pretend to grieve them while spending every moment they think you’re not looking lauding them for their ‘foolishness’ and ‘hubris’. Sitting amongst a crowd of these intellectuals, your feel nothing looking at their crocodile tears, knowing they’re just happy there’s less competition for next year’s grants. Your new guardian grabs onto your hand in an attempt to grant you a modicum of comfort. You stare blankly at the sky above.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Joyce Moore. You can hardly communicate anymore. Your best friend killed herself trying to replicate the experiment that gave you permanent brain damage. Every scientist at Rhine Lab now treats you like a child at best, and an animal at worst. Your parents have not come to see you. None of your colleagues seem to understand that you are still you, with a sense of humour, good taste in TV shows, and fucking feelings, god damn it.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Ferdinand Clooney. You’ve lost everything you’ve ever worked for in a futile grab for power. The department of defense has you by the dick after saving you from a group of Pioneers who (justifiably) nearly beat you half to death. It’s playing fiddle to their whims or the rest of your life in prison - or, most realistically, a tragic accident report. Your aspirations aren’t within your reach anymore, and you know that it’s your fault. You will never be Kristen Wright, and it’s eating you alive.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Parvis Ahrens. You’re not that old. You’re only 58. But you’re losing your mind. Every day, a little more slips away. You rely more and more on encyclopedic entries for information you took immense pride in knowing from your heart. You’ve spent the last few years focused on the pursuit of progress of all else. As part of this, you manipulated your star pupil in an attempt to permanently get her under your wing, outside of the influence of the Defense Director, a weak-hearted woman everyone else seems to think is cold as ice. She has years of life to change Columbian science. You don’t.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Jara B. Wilson. You feel like you don’t see the girl who lived for you with so long in Kristen anymore. You’re a washed-up movie star, working for her cause above all else. Do you have anything that you’re working for for yourself anymore? She’ll be gone soon. You know that.

She hasn’t even left yet, and you’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away once she leaves.

Your name is Nasti Londrey. Your people have never had a home. They might never have a home.

You’ve always felt alone. You will always be alone. That’s fine.

Your name is Justin Fitzroy Jr. Your dad died a week ago, and the cure has just been found for the hereditary illness that threatens to cut your lifespan in half. It was found by accident.

The sword of Damacles no longer hangs above your neck. Why then, do you still feel so alone?

Your name is Loken Williams. You reach out to a girl you tortured, who you know can’t remember what you did to her, because you’re going to die soon, and you need someone to remember what you did with your life.

Even if she kills you, at least you won’t die alone.

Your name is Trevor Friston. It’s been thousands of years down here. You just want to see your daughter again, and it will be another thousand until you do.

You’re very familiar with the loneliness that wraps around every single nanometer of your circuit board.

Your name is Dorothy Franks. Your whole family was killed in a Catastrophe. Your name is Elena Urbica. Your whole family, besides your twin sister, has disowned you. Your drive yourself head-first into the sciences to distract yourself from the loneliness.

Your name is Ho’olheyak. Centuries of ancestral memories swarm around your mind. Because of this, your lifespan was cut to a fraction of the life you should be living. You are obsessed with the history of your people, and you resent them from tearing your life away from you. You tear over books and tomes of history to find all means of unspeakable knowledge, hoping that somewhere in there you’ll find something that you can connect to.

You don’t even know you’re lonely.

Your name is Muelsyse.

You saw the writing on the wall. Saria and Kristen just had a massive fight. You’ve been drifting apart since college, but the only two people who you’ve felt a real connection to on all of Terra will hardly speak to each other anymore. Do you try and mend what happened between them? Can you? You don’t know what to do besides take all means to protect yourself in the fallout. You wish you weren’t so paranoid, so self-centered, that all you know how to do is ensure your own safety.

Is there anything on Terra for you besides loneliness?

Your name is Ifrit. It’s cold, and quiet, and you’re pretty sure you’ve killed everyone around you. Your eyes are blurred, you hands are shaky, and shards of black crystal stick out all over your body. Before you pass out, you think one thing:

Hell, you might be alone, but at least those bastard whitecoats got what was coming to them.

Your name is Olivia Silence. You pull yourself out of the rubble in a destroyed laboratory, where you see Saria looming over Ifrit, beaten half-to-death. You beat yourself up for thinking you could trust her - that she was there to protect Ifrit, and you. You can’t trust anyone in Columbia. You run to embrace Ifrit with your entire body, to protect her from the cold eyes of Saria standing above her. You look back at her with nothing but fear in your eyes.

You’ve never felt so alone. You have to get Ifrit out of Rhine.

Your name is Saria. You’re barely 8 years old. You went your father in tears, as a group of bullies came after you and destroyed your toy car. He tells you to stop crying. You’re not accomplishing anything by throwing a fit in front of him. He tells you to fight back - take responsibility for your weakness.

You’ve never felt so alone.

You won’t ever be this weak again.

Staring up at the sky, looking up as Kristen’s ark sends her out through the hole she tore in the false sky, you know that you were foolish to believe you could bypass your own weakness through sheer will.

And you’ll be lonely for the rest of your life without her.

#arknights #fic #(i suppose. this is moreso like. an appreciation post in prose form)#arknights spoilers #lone trail spoilers #lone trail #your name is Mayer Stony. honestly you’re doing completely fine

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earlgraytay · 2 years

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I keep seeing discourse on my dash about whether or not we should be teaching ~challenging~/emotionally rough books in elementary and middle school, and I think there's a very important point that all of this discourse is eliding.

What counts as "too rough/traumatizing" heavily depends on the kid.

Two kids in the same class, from the same background, at the same developmental and reading level, might have wildly different reactions to a book. To take an example that's less likely to generate insufferable discourse than anything dealing with ~marginalization~:

Say you have two kids in the same class. One kid is a sensitive, sweet soul who loves dogs more than anything in the world. The other kid just lost their dog, is still grieving, and needs some catharsis.

Your class is supposed to read Old Yeller, or some other kids' book about The Death Of A Dog.

For the first kid, that book is likely to mess them up a little. It might seem like brutality for the sake of brutality. They might not fully understand the concept of death yet, or they may not be ready to grapple with the idea that dogs can die. It might be something they need to read, even if it'd mess them up- but it might also just hurt without any real benefit.

For the second kid... whether they're ready to read that book would heavily depend on how they're grieving and whether they're ready to think about a dog dying. It might trigger them and make them feel worse. But it might actually be helpful for them and make them feel less alone. Other kids have had to deal with their dogs dying and have lived through it. It might give them emotional tools they need to get through this.

But unless you know these kids really well and have the chance to tailor how you teach the book to them? You're likely to screw both of them up without any real benefit.

If they have to fill out fifty million worksheets about What The Dog Dying Means In Old Yeller, they're going to have to think about something they're not ready to think about over and over again. They're not likely to learn whatever you're trying to teach them about death or empathy or tragedy- they're just going to remember that English class was about depressing books about dogs dying and remember how much it hurt to get through. And they're going to be put off reading anything you might read in English class, because it's just going to hurt, right?

The one-size-fits-all model of education most schools are being forced to adopt means that we can't mold what kids read around what they need and are ready to hear; we have to make every kid read the same thing, at the same pace, with the same worksheets.

You can't decide, 'hey, this kid might not be ready for this particular book, here's a book that hits some of the same thematic notes but is less graphic'.

You can't take the time to make sure that a student who's reading a book that might be rough for them is okay, give them time to decompress and debrief, or let them process what they're having to deal with. You can't let them take a break from the book after they hit a point that is graphic or triggering. You can't let them sit with their feelings about it.

You can't take the time to make sure that the marginalized students in the class are okay after reading a book about oppression that affected people like them, or take the time to make sure that their non-marginalized classmates who said boneheaded things about the book know why what they said wasn't okay without publically yelling at them.

Hell, you can't even choose books based around what your students would be interested in and want to read. You have to make a lesson plan to teach like 50 students; you don't have time to pick things based around their individual likes and dislikes.

Nope. It's just on to the next book, the next worksheet, the next test.

Teachers are forced to take on classes that are way too big for any one person to manage, teach emotionally hefty books without giving kids time to process what they've learnt, and teach to tests instead of giving kids time to empathize and understand.

The problem is not specific books. The problem is not privileged people's fragility. The problem is not even individual teachers. The problem is a systemic problem with how American schools teach literature.

Until we fix the system? Yeah, plenty of kids are gonna get fucked up from reading Lord of the Flies or Where the Red Fern Grows when they're not ready to tackle it. Because their teachers do not have the time or spoons to gauge whether they're ready, and do not have the luxury of letting their students deal with things at their own pace.

#general malarkey #tumblr malarkey #my fucking industry #or well something adjacent to it #kidlit #teaching #education #i keep getting mad at posts like this because EVERYONE IS WRONG #LITCHRALLY EVERYONE

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starwrighter · 10 months

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You know what I love in DpxDc crossovers?

When people explain Jason's pit madness as having to do with ectoplasm. Whether it be the hc that the pits are corrupted ectoplasm, Jason being a revenant before being dunked in the pits or any other idea/theory I love it all!

But you know what I don't see much of? The pit madness being seen as something more clinical. In most of the DpxDc crossovers I've read it's always treated as something that can be easily and quickly fixed. I don't see much content about Jason's pit madness being treated like an serious illness and it's honestly underrated.

Make his pit madness be like cancer for ghost's. Something spread throughout his body like a fucked up spider web slowly killing him as it continues to go untreated. Making his life emotionally and oftentimes physically painful. Have Jason assume his pain is just the consequences of his vigilante life since nobody could ever diagnose him with anything.

Danny feeling heartbroken when he sees Jason not because he can sniff it out or sense it but because he can see it. Oftentimes cancer doesn't show symptoms until it's advanced. For Danny this is like seeing someone who's medical treatment has been so neglected that they're covered in tumors! Danny screaming bloody murder at Bruce for allowing things to get this far; for not getting him help and allowing things to fester like this. Danny's ugly crying because he's a child and he doesn't know how to react to something like this! It's a horrifying sight when medical care is neglected, but seeing someone suffering so much without even knowing what's going on? It's terrifying.

Jason trying to comfort Danny but Danny just starts crying harder because Jason doesn't know what the hell is going on and someone has to be the one to tell him.

Treat Jason's pit madness as a symptom of something bigger, not something that can be fixed with the flick of a wrist. Show me the grief of having a loved one/being the loved one suffering from something that has a good chance of killing them. Where the treatment can make you feel worse than the disease does sometimes. Seeing a loved one get weaker and weaker yet reassuring yourself it's just the process of healing and they're going to be fine.

Have it be something that's treatment is long and strenuous, something that might need surgery to fix. Jason needing a bone marrow transplant or an organ and Danny being the only halfa that's willing to give it to him. Jason having to choose whether he's willing to risk a child's life to save himself or if he's just going to die a second time.

(Bonus! Have Jason deny the operation but Doctors work differently in the realms so it's done anyway without his consent. Does Jason think Danny died from the operation? Maybe it's some important ghost bone marrow/organ and the doctors being dodgey and refusing to let anyone see Danny before he's recovered enough? Jason grieving over a child and lashing out because "why would anyone decide the life of a child was something you could throw away like that!")

#angst #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc prompt #tw illness #tw cancer #tw medical malpractice #ghosts: medical care is free here! :)#Jason: hey uh I don't think I want this surgery #Ghost doctors: >:( it's mandatory #Jason hating ghost hospitals fr fr when this is over

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psychedelic-ink · 8 months

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𝐂𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘.

DAY SIX OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: slasher au (still takes place in the tlou'verse) + sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, soft dark fic, horror, murder mystery

summary: bodies have been dropping left and right in the most brutal ways in jackson. as the relentless wave of deaths continues, your mind becomes increasingly restless. however, you find a sense of comfort and solace in the presence of joel. who might be hiding secrets of his own.

word count: 10k (i don't know what happened)

warnings: dubcon at the end, knife kink, descriptive canon typical violence, blood & mild gore, grief and death, an unpleasant guy hitting on you, murder, face-sitting, throat-fucking, mutual oral sex (69), dirty talk, possessive!joel, exhibitionism (tommy watches very briefly, he also kisses you in a platonic way), sex in the woods, piv, Joel is actually quite nice if you exclude the murders, mild breeding kink, size kink, little bit of blood kink

a/n: the owl mask joel wears in this to hide who he is is inspired by @softlyspector's post about the tawny owl mug joel uses in tlou part 2 which I still get sad if I think about it for too long 😭

Bodies have been dropping dead all around you long before the outbreak.

Maybe not in the everyone-you-know-is-getting-infected-and-killing-people type of way, but more so in a death-never-felt-like-a-stranger-to-you sort of way. Yet, you still don’t know how to deal with death. Your grief is as violent as a butterfly flapping its wings; the strength of it non-existent but you never know where, or when, it’ll cause a storm.

First, it was your grade school teacher. You didn’t have a particularly strong bond with her but you did like her. You still remember how your friend's voice quaked as she gave you the news on a landline. You couldn’t believe it and had to accuse her of making a joke, even though you knew she would never joke about something like this. Then your dad took the phone from you and you just assumed your friend's mom did the same. The next week, when you went back to school and the funeral was now behind all the children in the classroom, the custodian cut the last tablecloth your teacher had used for her desk and gave a piece to each and every one of you. It was a vibrant orange cloth with daisies scattered around – ugly, but you still cherished it.

Then it was your pets, grandparents – there was also the time when your pet-crazed neighbor adopted another smaller dog while she still had two untrained, over-energized dogs, and the two twins ripped the other dog apart. You had seen the carnage. By some miracle, that small, fluffy dog named Sugar was still breathing, alive. You had held a blood bag over the dog's head, hoping that the small animal wouldn't die.

She didn’t die that day, but it sure as hell left a scar on you.

As a kid, you never seemed to quite grasp the ways of grieving. You didn’t get angry. You didn’t cry. You just. . thought about it. However, the emotions came differently when you became an adult. Now when someone close to you died, you felt it more violently, oddly enough you still fought against the tears and only cried when you were alone.

On Outbreak Day, you lost everything.

Your family, your friends—your life, now it was all about survival, but survival towards what, you didn’t know. You killed for it, fought for it. Yet every move you made felt automatic like you were wired to at least try and survive — to wait it out and not be left behind when civilization rebuilt itself once more.

You made some friends along the way and lost some friends too. You locked their faces and their memories in your heart, only unlocking the box when you were truly and utterly alone.

Then you found Jackson.

And you met Joel and Tommy Miller.

Your official title is scavenger but you much prefer to label yourself as an explorer instead.

You’ve adapted to your quite well life at Jackson. You go beyond the borders, sometimes alone and sometimes with other fellow explorers, and gather supplies or try to pinpoint other locations threats might be lurking in. You’re about to go on another trip, this one shorter than your regular one to two-week expeditions, but before heading out you decide to stop by the only bakery in Jackson named The Last Crumb—previously named The Cordyceps Crumb but Maria decided it was in bad taste. You, on the other hand, had found it funny and topical.

As you patiently wait in line, your camping bag waiting for you outside the bakery, someone bumps into you from behind, then never moves back.

You turn with a raised eyebrow, not enjoying the close proximity, “Excuse you,” you snap. The man looks at you with a hint of mischief in his eyes, you roll your eyes when you recognize the face. “Move back a beat Tucker, I’m not in the mood this morning.”

“Someone didn’t get her beauty sleep,” he grins but moves away regardless. “Want me to come with you this time? Sweet thing like you alone out there? It’s ain’t right.”

“You can barely aim. Why would I want someone that’s most likely to get me killed around me?”

“I think you’ll find my company to be plenty entertaining.”

You’re about to gag when the bell of the bakery chimes, the sharp sound echoing through the wooden walls. Your face must've shown immense signs of relief because Tucker turns around to see who you're looking at. His instant frown makes you want to laugh and chuck him between the two men you’d describe as a wolf den.

“Well, if it ain’t the Miller brothers,” Tucker tuts, attempting to give one of them a friendly pat on the shoulder. He stops midway when Joel’s gaze flits between you and him, his glare hard enough to cut diamonds.

So he ends up slapping Tommy’s shoulder instead, which isn’t the best thing since you know the younger Miller hates Tucker. But among the brothers, he’s probably the one with less probability of getting your hand bitten off.

“Mornin’ Tucker,” Tommy answers, forcing a smile.

Joel is less friendly, his words directed at you, “Is this dumbass botherin’ you again?”

“I wouldn't exactly call a greeting among friends “botherin’,” Tucker says. “We’re just catchin’ up, no need to get your panties in a bunch Miller.”

“God, you’re one word away from ruining my morning,” you hiss, glaring at the unpleasant man. “And we’re not friends.”

His brows furrow, eyes going hard with an ugly snarl accompanying them, you feel braver when Tommy and Joel are around so you hold his gaze, not flinching away.

Tommy is the one to ease the tension. He lays a hand on Tucker’s shoulder and squeezes, drawing the man’s attention away from you. “I’ll get you what you want a’right Tucker? It’s on me. Just go wait outside.”

“But—”

“Outside, Tuck,” Tommy repeats and you shudder at his tone.

Tucker’s shoulders drop, defeated, “Fine, get me a raisin bagel.”

He doesn’t wait for Tommy’s response and heads out the bakery. You finally release the breath you’ve been holding, your muscles relaxing along with the exhaled breath. Joel is by your side in the blink of an eye, his broad shoulder brushing yours providing comfort.

“You sure you’re a’right?” he asks, gently curling fingers under your chin. “The prick didn’t do anythin’?”

“Nah, nothing. He’s all bark but no bite. He asked if he wanted to join me today as if that buffoon wouldn’t get me killed.” you shrug, men being assholes was nothing new to you. You’re just glad that in Jackson it seems that there are more good apples than rotten ones. “Too bad even paradise comes with drawbacks.”

Joel snorts as Tommy cuts in, “Maria would be thrilled if she heard you calling it paradise.”

“What are you smiling at? You think you can find anywhere better?” You playfully nudge Joel with your elbow. “You know there’s nothing but hell out there.”

“I do, I just think callin’ here a paradise is a bit of a stretch is all.”

The line moves and the three of you are finally at the counter, “You’re just a grump,” you tease Joel before turning your gaze to Poppy, the barista who knows everything about everyone. “Hey there, Poppy, the usual please.”

“And a damn raisin bagel,” Tommy adds.

“Well, isn’t it my favorite trio,” Poppy grins. “I’ll get all that ready for you in a second,” she locks her blue eyes on you and leans closer, you mimic her by instinct. “By the way have you heard of Ian? He wound up dead right outside the chopping block, an axe right through his chest.”

You frown, “Good morning to you too, Poppy. Jesus Christ.”

“I’ll confess I didn’t love the guy but isn’t it worrying that there’s a killer among us?” she murmurs while stuffing the goodies in paper bags. “Be careful out there.”

“Well, if the culprit is here I think I might be safer out there,” you say and turn to Tommy. “Does Maria know?”

“Of course, she does,” when you part your lips to say more, he lifts a finger and shoots you a crooked smile. “It’s confidential.”

“Aw man, can’t you just tell us who she thinks it is?” Poppy asks, Tommy shakes his head and she lets out a dramatic sigh, “I miss my murder mystery books.”

“I’ll try to find you something while I’m out,” you say, ignoring the way your heart began to race. Jackson is still a small town, it’s jarring to think someone might be out there, looking for their next target. “Though I think we could all do with a little less murder.”

You hadn’t expected your voice to crack but your tone had betrayed you. Poppy extends you the bag of goods and a latte, as you reach out you feel Joel’s hand on your waist. His lips touch your ear. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’m sure whoever it is is only goin’ after those who deserve it.”

You lock your eyes with him, blinking heavily at the weight of his words. His voice had dropped, nothing but gravel as he whispered the words into your ear. A cold sensation slithers down your spine, chilling you to your core and making your throat tighten.

His hand never leaves your waist as the three of you head out, and after a while, that chill slowly dissolves into a pleasurable warmth.

You find solace in the woods. You love Jackson, but being in the woods away from everyone and everything makes you feel comforted. The first time you went scavenging, there was a slight fear in your movements; no matter how good your aim was, any kind of infected was difficult to kill.

But now you walk with ease. There isn’t an ounce of worry in your bones. The trees rustle happily and the smell of flowers and pine fills your nostrils. You can feel your lungs rejuvenating with every breath. Trickles of orange sunlight pour from the gaps of the trees. The sun sets, meaning you need to set up camp soon.

While unpacking, you think of this morning. How Joel and Tommy stepped in when Tucker started bothering you. Honestly, you didn’t need their protection; Tucker is just one of those men who think they might have a shot if they bother you enough times. Still, it was nice to be claimed in a way, to be accepted into a family and cared for.

Your breath hitches slightly. Tommy, you see as a close friend, a brother perhaps, but Joel... Joel is another thing. Just thinking about him is enough to start a wildfire between your legs. You wish you were brave enough to do something about it, though. Whenever you two patrol together or stay awake late at night drinking, you always chicken out in the end. It doesn’t matter how his hands linger on your thighs or his eyes drop to your lips; you're just never convinced that the Joel Miller would be interested in you beyond a friend.

An unease starts to settle in the pit of your stomach. As the air grows colder with the approaching night, your skin prickles and you feel the phantom sensation of claws dragging down your back. You set the tent as quickly as you can, your eyes darting around the depths of the forest. Briefly, you bend over to adjust the ropes.

A breath warm and damp ghosts the back of your neck and you jump, gun in hand as you turn around only to find—

Nothing.

And no one.

Your heart is hammering in your chest, adrenaline pumping in your veins, a drop of sweat trickling down your forehead. You've never had a trigger finger, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't want to just shoot every shadow you see.

“Dammit Poppy,” you mutter, annoyed that she gave you the brutal knowledge of Ian’s death right before you were heading out. Guilt stings at your heart. Ian was an asshole for sure, and you don’t exactly feel bad that he’s gone, but still, it was an eerie thought that someone had murdered him so violently. It had to be personal.

Some part of you wishes Joel was here, or even Tucker, just another human being to tell you you’re just seeing things.

You take a deep inhale and follow it up with a long exhale. You’re fine. There’s no one here.

You give your surroundings one last suspicious look before going back to setting the tent.

No matter how hard you try you can’t shake the feeling of someone watching you amongst the shadows.

Joel hears crickets and owls. The night had always been his friend since the outbreak. He had become a violent man with an equally violent heart. He waits in the shadows, watching. Laughter and playful shouts echo from the bar, and soon the door swings open; the man he's been waiting for crawls out of the establishment, shit-faced. The drunk man shouts his farewells and staggers toward his home.

Joel follows, his mask heating up the skin that lays underneath. His fingers itch with the need to wring that asshole's neck. One by one, he had been cleaning Jackson for the better. His tendencies subdued while also doing some good. Ian was one of those people who deserved it and Joel had enjoyed the chase, the pleas, he especially enjoyed the way he tripped and cried right before he sunk the blade of the axe through Ian’s chest.

Tucker trips, making Joel want to laugh. The idiot might not even realize he’s being hunted. Joel looks around, they are far enough for the chase to begin. Tucker continues to slip and fall as he attempts to get up. Taking the opportunity, Joel walks towards him with quick steps, making sure the first thing the asshole sees is his mask.

Tucker notices him before he gets up, his hands bracing the ground, his eyes go wide, “What the fuck?”

Joel only tilts his head. He sees the trembles rolling down the other man’s body, he relishes in his fear.

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble, whoever the fuck you are so. . . scram.”

Joel’s eyes dart to his hand on the dirt, without a second thought he lifts his foot and curb stomps Tucker’s hand. Then he kicks the side of his face, an audible crunch echoing before his scream could. The man whimpers and falls back in his attempt to crawl away. He holds his jaw, blood streaming down his broken nose.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

He steps closer and watches as Tucker’s eyes bug out. He’s too drunk to properly run away or even scream. Such an easy target. He grips the other’s hair and lifts him to his feet, he can feel the strands starting to rip from his scalp one by one, Tucker’s face twisting in pain. “Your worst fuckin’ nightmare,” Joel answers eerily calm. It doesn’t matter if Tucker recognizes him. He’d be dead soon enough anyway.

“P-Please,” he begs, realizing the same thing. “I’ll do whatever you want promise. I don’t want to die.”

Joel grunts, not dignifying his pleas with an answer. Lifting his other hand, his knuckles connect to Tucker’s face with a loud crunch, body flying to the ground headfirst.

He pulls out his knife and drops down, ignoring the ache in his knees, he grabs Tucker’s arm and aligns the sharp blade against his wrist. Tucker notices, his face going pale as a ghost. “D-Don’t—”

Joel doesn’t bat an eye as blood spurts violently over his clothes and the dirt. Drops of crimson seeping into the fabric. The knife cuts through the flesh like butter, severing hand from bone. His hand clamps over Tucker’s mouth. Joel smiles as his screams bounce off of the palm of his hand.

You come back to Jackson hand empty and earlier than intended. You were too much at unease, and being so jarred wasn’t the best while scavenging for supplies alone. During your trip, you did end up scribbling something for Poppy. It wasn’t finished but you hoped she would enjoy the first draft of the first chapter. It was mostly descriptions of what you felt, a cat-and-mouse game between two people who had bumped into each other accidentally.

While heading into Jackson, you notice a crowd in the distance. You promptly get off your horse and walk with haste. You recognize Joel and Tommy easily, both brothers standing on each end of the crowd like gates keeping a herd of sheep in check. Ellie is standing right next to Joel, lifting herself on her toes to see; Joel is holding her back by gripping the cap of her hood.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

Joel turns to you, his eyebrows raising when notices it’s you and not some random person he has to ignore, “You’re back,” he says. A statement rather than a question.

“Yeah, wasn’t feeling that well,” you shrug him off. “So what happened?”

His eyes turn to steel, his jaw locking in place. Before you can ask again, he gestures for you to move up the crowd with a tilt of his head.

“Lucky,” you hear Ellie murmur as you walk ahead, gently pushing those who were looking at the sight with concern. With every step you take, the murmur of the crowd fades into the background, becoming nothing more than white noise. Maria is addressing the crowd, you think, though you're not entirely sure. The scent of blood is thick in the air, disorienting you as you get closer.

Your eyes go wide, the earth slips from beneath you but your expression remains emotionless.

It’s Tucker.

You feel as if you’re standing alone. As if you’re the only one taking in the sight of absolute horror and gore. Tucker is lying in a pile of his own blood face first, his eyes are open and lifeless, his one hand is outstretched like he’s about to crawl away.

His right hand, however, is chopped off.

It’s not even a clean-cut. The edges of his flesh are jagged and crooked, his blood-caked where his hand should be. Whoever did this cut it so it would hurt, so he would suffer tremendously.

You can’t help but gasp, covering your mouth with your right hand. You begin to shake, confusion churning in your stomach as bile coats your tongue. He’s dead. Just like Ian.

When Maria’s eyes find your own, she narrows her gaze, a small warning for you to keep it together. You can’t though. How could you? Tucker was alive and kicking a couple of days ago, just being his annoying self around Jackson.

“Calm down,” you hear Joel mutter into your ear. You shiver at the brush of his lips. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Safe. You want to laugh. You don’t even know what that word means anymore.

Joel’s mouth moves over the shell of your ear, “He was a nuisance. Don’t feel bad now that he’s dead.”

“I didn’t want him to die,” you hiss back. “And knowing there’s a serial killer out there doesn’t exactly make me feel safe.”

Despite your half-angry tone, you find yourself leaning into Joel’s presence. Your shoulder presses into his broad chest, and without missing a beat he wraps his arms around your shaking frame. Relief comes in the form of warmth spreading along your chest, tingles forming at the tips of your fingers and toes. The voices of the crowd gradually come back but you only hear one of the many questions.

“What do you think the message means?”

Confusion crosses your face, brows furrowing as you try to make sense of it. Joel makes a choked-out sound that could’ve easily been taken as an amused chuckle.

Then your eyes drop to Tucker’s outstretched hand and his dying message written in blood.

O W L

A week had passed since Tucker’s death.

You've been thinking about both murders relentlessly, trying to piece together everything that you know so far. During this time, you're grateful for Poppy, who comes by almost every night to help you try to solve the case. That's been your sole focus for the past few weeks; you haven't been scavenging since you spooked yourself so badly that you returned early, only to find Tucker dead.

Some part of you thinks that the eeriness you felt that day was a sign of what was about to happen. It's also an odd coincidence that he ended up dead the same night he harassed you in the morning. However, there are no forensic investigators in Jackson, so it’s almost impossible to determine the exact time of death. That fact alone makes you anxious. It only means that whoever is killing everyone has nothing to worry about because even if they leave traces, who’s going to know?

In order to keep your nerves in check you end up writing a lot. You haven’t shown any of it to Poppy yet but you’re excited. You never thought writing a thriller would be the perfect way to escape the horrors of your actual life. At least in your stories, you have control.

You also visit Joel and vice versa.

Something had shifted the day he held you as you both gazed upon Tucker’s lifeless body. Maybe it was just you who felt bolder since death was once again right around the corner — or maybe Joel just felt more protective now, wanting to check on you as much as he could.

“You’re really writin’ a whole ass novel?” he asks, pouring you a glass of scotch. You still can’t get over the fact that it nearly tasted identical to the actual stuff. Jackson is truly a miracle; at least when bodies aren’t dropping left and write.

Ellie’s at a sleepover, which means you and Joel have the whole house to yourselves. With everything going on you’d expect your libido to diminish a bit but it’s as strong as ever, ready to go.

You smile as he places the glass in front of you, “Yeah,” you say, picking up the glass and heading toward the living room. “I couldn’t find Poppy anything to read and it helps me relax.”

“Relax, how?” he asks, taking a seat next to you. The couch dips with his weight, and heat crawls up from your chest to your neck when his knee brushes against yours.

“Well, it’s a horror thing. Horror slash mystery? I don’t know—whatever it is, it’s nice to have an outlet to escape what’s been happening lately.”

“So to escape brutal murders you write more brutal murders?”

You chuckle at the way his eyebrows raise, eyes going wide, “I don’t really focus that much on the gore. It’s more psychological, my sweet brute. Things don’t need to have blood to be scary.”

His grin is wide and instant, dark eyes lighting up with amusement, “What did you just call me?”

“I. . .” Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, suddenly realizing what you’d said.

“What cat got your tongue?” he teases. Joel leans closer, fingers dancing along the curve of your shoulder. You can feel the gravel in his voice. “You just called me yours, sweetheart. Does that jog your memory?”

“I also called you brute,” you quip back immediately, cheeks aflame. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Don’t it?” his palm now presses fully into your shoulder, keeping you in place in case you might run. Joel tilts his head slightly, the plush of his lips only an inch away. “I like you callin’ me that,” the pink of his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. “Say it again.”

“S-Say what?”

A small chuckle parts his lips, oddly enough it almost feels like his patience is wearing thin. He comes closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “That I’m yours,” he clarifies. “Been waitin’ to hear those words come from your mouth since I met you.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper against his lips, eyelids fluttering but not quite closing. With the confession, you feel the brush of Joel’s lips on yours. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth. You part for him with a moan, and taking the opportunity, he slides inside, tasting every inch of you.

His lips taste and feel like the forests you wander off to; it soothes you, calms your nerves, and has the taste of home. They’re chapped from the sun, yet soft. You can’t have enough of him, if he’d offered, you’d gladly kiss him forever.

Joel parts with a shaky breath, his chest heaving, “And you’re mine,” he groans, his eyes dark with arousal. It’s an involuntary action but your eyes drop to the front of his pants where you see the thick outline of his cock.

Your mouth goes dry, yet you manage to speak anyway, “Are words all you’ve been waiting for?” It’s bold, you’re highly aware, but you can’t help it when he’s this close. His scent suffocating, pulling you to him like a moth to a flame.

He stares at you silently. His thumb touches your bottom lip, slightly tugging it down. He’s not smiling anymore, only observing.

“No,” Joel answers slowly. He leans towards your ears, the thick hairs above his lips tickling your skin. “I’ve also been waitin’ to feel that velvet tongue on my cock, honey. And to feel how tight your throat gets when you take every inch of me.”

Joel blows a puff of air, it caresses your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He brings your hand to the front of his pants, dragging your palm up and down his length. You shudder. The heat of it seeps into your palm despite the thick fabric of his jeans, you lick your lips absentmindedly. “This is all for you sweetheart.”

“Fuck, Joel. . .” your eyes roll back when he kisses your neck, open-mouthed kisses laid upon your skin like a gift. Your nipples tighten and if you look down right now, you know you’ll see them peeking through your shirt.

He reads your thoughts, eyes moving down before meeting your gaze again. “Didn’t know you walked around without a bra, sunshine.”

“I only go braless when I’m comfortable,” you answer. Joel cups your breasts roughly, kneading the flesh, he simultaneously sucks on your neck, teeth nipping the sensitive skin. “Oh god,” the fabric of your panties grows damp and you clench your thighs together.

“Not god,” he says sharply, sinking his teeth into you. “Joel.”

“Joel,” you moan and arch your back, filling more of yourself into his palm. You squeeze his cock, relishing in the way he makes a strangled sound. “I want to suck you off, Joel.”

“Be my guest.”

You push him until he’s lying on the couch. You’re about to unbutton his jeans but he stops you.

“Turn around,” he says.

“What?”

His wide grin nearly stops your heart, “Want to taste that sweet pussy, sunshine. Strip down and take a seat.”

“On—On your face?”

“Where else?”

You’re too embarrassed to speak, tongue suddenly too big in your mouth. Quickly, and a bit clumsily, you strip down and turn before straddling his chest. You don’t need to touch yourself to know that you’re soaked.

You swallow, “I’ve never done this before.”

His hands come up to cradle your hips, urging you to move back towards his face. You feel the blunt sting of his nails.

“That’s alright,” he mutters. “I won’t let you fall if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m more worried about how I’m gonna move, or accidentally suffocating you.”

“What a noble way it would be to go.”

“Joel!” you laugh, playfully smacking his thigh. He answers by giving your hips another squeeze, you surrender and move back until you’re hovering over his face. Your hand planted firmly over his hip bones, you lower yourself. You shudder as his tongue licks a stripe between your folds. He moans into your cunt, pulling you flush against his face.

Meanwhile, you finally unzip his pants and pull his cock out, the heft of it bumping against your nose and lips. You drip at the smell of him and swear he smiles as he sucks on your aching clit, short-circuiting your brain with arousal. His cock throbs in your palm, a drop of precome glistening at the tip. Your mouth watering, you lean forward and clean him off. Another groan echoes within his chest and he thrusts forward, the tip of his cock kissing your lips.

Eyes fluttering closed, you suck on the bulbous head and force yourself to go down until he hits the back of your throat. You wrap a hand around the base, stroking where you can’t fit, and hallow your cheeks.

“Come on, sunshine. You can take me,” he rasps. “You’re mine, aren’t you? That mouth is meant to take me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Joel pushes his tongue inside, your walls clenching around the wet muscle—you let out a loud gasp and grind down, then you feel the sting of his palm against your ass, pain blossoming from where he smacked.

Your throat rattles with a moan and Joel takes the opportunity to drive forward, your eyes go wide as you feel the length of him sliding down your throat, cutting the air from your lungs.

“Oh, fuck—” he moans unabashedly, the sounds sending a pleasurable tingle down your spine despite the strain on your throat. “That’s it, sweetheart, just like that. Fuck, fuck—”

Your throat tightens around him, your lungs starting to burn. His hand caresses both sides of your ass, the abrupt pain of the smack from before subduing, “Relax,” he says, swirling his tongue around your clit. “Breathe through your nose. Just a bit more. . .”

Your nails bite into his thighs as you attempt to follow instructions. You relax your throat and slowly begin to breathe from your nose. It’s still difficult, but your lungs rejoice in the minimal amount of air that comes through. You make a mess of him. Saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth and down his length.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “Gonna fuck that pretty throat now and make this pussy come, understood?”

Eyes tearing up, you nod. From the way your stomach convulses, you know that you’re close, your skin tight over your trembling muscles. The nod is all that Joel needs from you. Holding you in place, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself completely down your throat while flicking his tongue against your clit. You scream around him, eyes rolling back as he continues to devour you and take you apart at the same time. He licks you with fat strokes of his tongue, a hint of teeth scraping your folds here and there as he fucks your throat with shallow thrusts.

You’re limp against his broad body, allowing him to use you as he pleases while all you can do is hang on for the ride. Pleasure licks the base of your spine, a searing heat caressing your skin while Joel continues to build you up only for you to fall spectacularly. Your lips start to ache, your throat squeezing around him whenever he snaps his hips forward—

And all hell finally breaks loose.

You come undone with a devastating cry only for it to be muffled by his cock going down your throat. You gush around his tongue, soaking his facial hair and mouth, Joel is underrated, licking and sucking until you’re shaking above him, every bit of tension draining from your body.

Joel comes shortly after, his hand slides from your waist and he manages to reach out in order to hold your head down. You don’t have a choice but to swallow as he spills down your throat, thick spurts of come going down while he shudders and pushes even deeper.

There’s so much of it, cock twitching and throbbing in your mouth until your mouth sucks him dry. You’re lightheaded from the lack of air; you find that it adds to the pleasure that’s buzzing in your veins, your cunt still pulsing with the heft of him still buried in your lips.

He pulls out with a satisfied groan and you manage to scoot down so you’re straddling his chest instead of head. Joel caresses your back, the gentle repeated motion sending tingles down your spine.

“That’s was fuckin’ amazin’,” he says, voice hoarse. “Are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” you answer sounding meek. “I think I need some water though.”

You get off, legs still shaking, but he grabs your hand, halting your movement. “Let me get it for you,” he says, sitting up.

“I’m already up,” you smile as his brows furrow with worry, the expression warming your heart. You quickly bend down to kiss him and he’s quick to lick himself into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue. “I’ll be right back.”

You have no idea how you’re standing while feeling like jello but you manage to get yourself all the way to the fridge. You smile at the coolness touching your warmed skin when you open the door. Scanning the interior, you thoughtlessly rub at your throat in an attempt to soothe the ache a little. You grab the pitcher of cold water and notice a bit of apple pie left over.

“Hey, Joel?” you call out. He hums in acknowledgment. “Can I have a slice of pie?”

His humored chuckle follows through, “You can eat the whole damn thing after what you’ve done,” you smile and take the desert out. “Can you bring me a slice too?” he adds.

You smile and place the pie on the counter. The leftover is already two slices give or take so you decide to just take two forks with you instead of dirting a plate. Looking through the drawers, you try to remember which one is the cutlery drawer.

On your second try you find something else.

Something that makes your eyes go wide and heart throb painfully.

Your hands shaking, you pick up the owl mask from the drawer. The surface is smooth, and the color of it a light shade of brown just like a tawny owl. All the pleasant tingles fade away, the buzz of pleasure in your veins replaced by fear and adrenaline.

Heading back to the living room, you show the mask to Joel.

“What’s this?” you ask, your voice betraying your sudden outburst of fear.

Joel looks up, eyes flitting between you and the owl mask. He raises a brow, his confusion evident across his face. “It’s a mask, sweetheart.”

“No no, I know it’s a mask,” you answer, breathless. “But why do you have it?”

“It’s Ellie’s,” he stands up, his pants still unbuttoned but pulled up. You fight the urge to step away, fight the urge to flinch when he touches your cheek. “They were makin’ Halloween masks last year in school. I didn’t even realize we still had it.”

“Really?” you ask and he nods.

“Really,” Joel claims your lips in a chaste kiss, thumb stroking lines up and down your cheek. His hand slithers down your arm to your wrist and when he squeezes, you drop the mask. “Why?” he breathes into you. “Is this about the damn thing Tucker wrote down?”

You remain silent and he pulls away, dark eyes boring into yours.

“You need to relax, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “Why don’t you just allow yourself to enjoy this? You deserve to be happy.”

Your eyes widen with surprise, his words crashing into you, “I. . . Do I do that? Really?”

“It’s normal, darlin’,” he answers. “I’m pretty sure we all have survivor’s guilt.”

You let out a shaky exhale. He’s right. You were just feeling guilty of being alive when so many had died. Joel smiles back and traces the curve of yours with his fingers. “There’s that smile that I adore,” he guides you towards the kitchen. “Now let’s go eat some pie.”

No matter what though, you can’t help but turn back to look at the owl mask one last time as it lays lifelessly on the floor.

“So, tell me about this book you’re writin’?”

You let out a low laugh, “I already told you about it. What more do you wanna know?”

You stare at Joel’s back as he takes the lead, he’d decided to join you in your explorations ever since you told him how nervous you had gotten the last time. You had appreciated the gesture but still felt a tad anxious around him ever since you found that damn owl mask—

A branch snaps into two under your steps and he turns, extending his hand to you. With a smile you allow him to lace his fingers within yours, your stomach jumping a little as he tugs you close so the two of you are walking side by side instead.

“If memory serves me right we got distracted when you told me about it,” he says with that southern drawl of his. “So tell me again what it’s about.”

“Okay okay,” you smile, squeezing his hand twice. “It’s all a big mess now but the premise is that there’s this guy obsessed with this woman and he stalks her and no matter what she does, she always feels like there’s someone watching.”

Joel looks ahead, “Sounds familiar. Isn’t that how you felt last time you were out here?”

“Yeah, and it’s when I started writing it.”

“So do these two people know each other?” his tone drops, his fingers suddenly feeling like barbed wire within your hand. You swallow. “I mean in their regular lives, does the woman know that he’s the one stalkin’ her?”

You roll your shoulders, a weak attempt to shrug off the eeriness that you feel.

“Exactly. I think that just makes the whole thing creepier. He’s just a normal guy, even a friend, but he’s also the one among the shadows.”

“Interestin’,” he murmurs. “You think that’s happenin’ to you?”

“I don’t think there’s someone stalking me, if that’s what you’re asking,” you utter every word hastily, your pulse quickening under your skin.

His lips curl in a half smile, “That’s good,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to be laying awake thinking about what might lingerin’ on the other side of the window.”

“I think I’m more likely to stay awake thinking about infected,” you say with a soft laugh. “But yeah, it’s all fiction. That day I probably just got scared because of what Poppy said about Ian.”

“Probably,” Joel trails off, his steps slowing. “How do you think it’s gonna end?”

“W-What?”

He stops and so does your heart. At least you think it does.

Joel faces you fully, his presence towering, he grips your shoulders and pushes you back until the air is knocked from your lungs by a tree right behind you. Your eyes go wide. He leans in, breath tickling your lips.

“How do you think your book is gonna end, sweetheart?” he asks again, eyes gleaming with something dark. “Is the guy gonna get the girl?”

“I—I don’t know.”

All you can think about is the owl mask and how it would perfectly fit his face. He cocks his head and taking a step closer, he slips a leg between your thighs. Slick gathers at your underwear—he feels the fabric dampening on his leg and grins.

“Fear turns you on doesn’t it?” he purrs. “Wicked thing.”

Relief drowns your senses. So that’s why he got all weird suddenly, he’s just teasing you. With a laugh, your head falls back against the tree trunk, “Jesus Joel, you scared the shit out of me.”

“It ain’t my fault,” he says, nipping at your chin. “You’re easy to scare.”

“Well, two brutal unsolvable murders will do that to a girl.”

Joel lets go and pulls away, smiling as he shakes his head, “What’s it gonna take for you to believe I had nothin’ to do with those? Even in death, Tucker causes nothin’ but fuckin’ trouble for me.”

“You don’t need to do anything, I’m sorry,” you pull him back, relishing in the way his strong arms wrap around your frame. “I’ll stop being such a chicken, promise. I’m still a bit jittery that’s all.”

“I forgive you,” he says against your lips, kissing you quickly before pulling you away from the thick trunk of the tree. “Now let’s find a place to settle down for the night.”

When you two return to Jackson three days later, the first thing you notice is the crowd. Your stomach drops at the familiar sight and instinctively you reach out to Joel, lacing your fingers together. He squeezes your hand two times.

The last thing you should be feeling is relief that now it’s not possible for Joel to be the one killing all those people but alas, that’s all you feel. Relief and love.

The trade fair sprawls before you. Stalls with makeshift awnings, tattered banners, and worn tarps create a patchwork quilt of colors, beneath which a diverse array of goods is proudly displayed. The air is thick with the scent of freshly baked bread, the tang of cured leather, and the earthy aroma of herbs. Laughter, chatter, and the occasional clinking of metal form a lively symphony, a chorus of life that drowns out the ever-present background hum of death and infection.

You’ve always enjoyed the time of the trade fair. People move like busy ants, weaving between the stalls. Children, their cheeks dusted with earth, dart through the crowd, their carefree laughter that should be comforting doing the opposite. Since Tina’s death— she was one of the council members— you had been sleeping at Joel’s. Neither he nor Ellie seemed to mind you staying there.

The purpose of the fair is to exchange goods – to exchange, to connect, to share stories of survival.

Your eyes scan the crowd for Joel's familiar silhouette. He and Ellie had headed out before you since you wanted a change of clothes. Just as your gaze begins to falter, a voice reaches your ears. "Hey!" It's Poppy, she waves you over.

You navigate your way through the bustling stalls until you stand before Poppy. She's leaning against a rough-hewn post, a glint of excitement in her eyes.

“Hey, Poppy,” you greet her with a smile. “I’m looking for Joel, or Ellie, have you seen either of them?”

“Well, Ellie is with Dina, hanging out,” She points to the forest that skirts the settlement. "I saw him heading that way not too long ago."

“Alright, thanks. I’ll see you later then,” Waving her off, you head after Joel.

The trees are a bit more scarce here, there’s more room between them. The forest opens up, revealing a sprawling expanse that stretches as far as the eye can see. It's a stark contrast to the dense woods you often travel to, where the trees stand like guardians, their branches interlocking in a tapestry of shadow and light. Here, the gaps between the trees create pockets of sunlight that dapple the forest floor.

However, the expanses between trees can be deceiving, and without the markers and familiarity of the well-trodden paths closer to home, it's easy to lose your way.

For some reason instead of calling out for Joel, you decide to wander aimlessly. You’re not sure why. You don’t come to this side of Jackson often enough to feel comfortable with your surroundings and shouting his name would definitely be easier than walking without aim.

Soon enough you hear faint murmuring beckoning you deeper into the forest.

Survival instincts kicking in, you slow down your steps, making sure to step onto clear dirt instead of gravel or fallen branches. Hiding behind a rather large tree trunk, you stare ahead. In the distance, you see two men: one with his back against the tree, while the other holds him by the neck, the sharp blade of his knife catching the sunlight and reflecting it directly into your eyes.

You hold your breath and your eyes go wide. You hear the thrum of your heart. It’s the killer. It has to be.

You can’t quite hear them but you can decipher the tone of begging for one's life. The man holding the knife tilts his head slightly, your mouth waters at the prospect of finally seeing the murderer's face—

It’s the mask.

The same mask you found in Joel’s home in the shape of an owl. Your stomach churns violently, bile raising to your throat as you watch on. You rub at your eyes, take deep breaths—anything you can think of that would erase the image before you.

Goosebumps raising across your skin, you shake your head. It can’t be Joel. He was with you the day Tina died and no matter how competent he was not even he could be at two places at once.

A muffled scream echoes within the forest and your eyes snap to the two men, the owl had driven his knife into the flesh and bone. He pulls it out, and the body falls. You recognize who it is; Jacob. You heard his name a couple of days ago from Ellie, he was bothering both her and Dina because they were hanging out.

He’s still alive when the killer stomps his head in, blood splattering across the leys.

You’re frozen in place. Your throat dry and tongue motionless. The killer kicks Jacob one last time for good measure and finally stops. You observe the way his shoulders drop as if a great weight had been lifted off of them, then he looks up into the sky, the golden sun highlighting his mask.

Very slowly, he lifts his hand and takes it off.

Every feeling comes rushing back, too fast and too soon. Your tongue is alive again and so is your body, the world is suddenly vibrant with life and horror. The sun continues to caress the countenance of the unmasked killer’s face, his sunkissed skin the perfect canvas to soak up the light.

Joel.

You take a step back, every thought of precaution dropping from your mind. The forest starts to spin. It spins and spins and spins until the ground slips from beneath your feet. You catch yourself at the very last second.

When you look up you see his gaze staring directly into yours.

“Fuck,” you hiss out, quickly staggering up. The last thing you see before you start running is his extended hand as he tries to reach out for you.

“Wait!”

You don’t. You do the exact opposite of that. You run. You run for your life and those in Jackson at the fair.

You run with memories loud in your mind. How Joel had listened to you, comforted you, fucked you—

Tears sting your eyes. Every part of this feels like a nightmare that you hope to wake up from anytime soon. But as the wind hits your skin, you know that every part of this is very much real. Your chest burns from how fast you’re going, your legs starting to falter underneath you.

Before you can react, an unexpected force slams into you. The impact sends shockwaves through your body as you collide with something—or is it someone?—their presence as jarring as the jolt itself. Your momentum falters, and for a fleeting moment, time seems to slow as you stumble, desperately trying to regain your balance.

Two arms grab at you and without even seeing who it is, you start to push the person away, fighting against it like a wild animal.

“Let go of me! Let go of me!”

“Hey hey hey,” you hear a familiar voice repeat. “It’s me, you’re okay,” you’re shaking all around, only when you feel his hands cradle your cheeks do you open your eyes. He smiles when he sees your eyes flicker in recognition.

“Tommy?” you whisper. He nods and without a thought you jump him, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging him close. His arms coil around you in response, promising to not let go. “Oh, thank fuck it’s you.”

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“I—I am okay but—Joel—It’s Joel, Tommy he’s been the one behind all those murders. We need to warn everyone, we need to tell Maria!”

You grab his arm and tug him along toward what you assume is the right way out of the forest. He remains still. Turning around, you shoot him a confused glance. 'Tommy, we need to tell people.'

“Can’t let you do that sugar, sorry.”

“Why. . . Why not?” you let go and slowly step back, heart pounding. “Is it because he’s your brother?”

You wish that was his excuse. Some moral obligation towards Joel because he’s his brother, that you can relate to. Your heart still pounds for Joel and in your brain, you’re still desperately seeking an explanation.

But Tommy allows the silence to linger, your fear and worry quickly turning into anger.

“Fine, I’ll tell them. It’s wrong.”

It only takes a blink of an eye; you feel Tommy’s iron grip around your wrist, yanking you back into his chest. He holds you. Oddly tender for someone who had made your arm nearly fall out of its socket. You thrash within his arms, pulling and hitting his chest.

“We’re doing good,” he grunts. “You gotta see that.”

You refuse to listen, your ear narrowing on the sound of your own blood rush instead of his words. By some miracle, you manage to slip your arm out and punch him square in the chin. It was a weak punch but strong enough to startle Tommy.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, calm the fuck down—” he tucks your arm back against your body and turns you around so your back is flush against his chest. You’re breathing raggedly, chest rising with every deep gulp of air. His lips touch your ear, his tone menacing, “I really wish you would’ve not done that.”

“Why?” you gasp. “You’re gonna kill me too?”

Silence follows, and with every passing moment sweat beads on your forehead, “It was you wasn’t it?” you continue. “You killed Tina. Joel only came along with me to calm my suspicions.”

Before Tommy can confirm your suspicions, you notice movement within the forest and your eyes are immediately drawn to the shadow coming forth.

“Smart girl,” Joel remarks with a half smile as he emerges from between the trees. There’s a splatter of red over his shirt but the knife seems to be tucked away. For now. “But you’re only half right, darlin’. I came along because I like spendin’ time with you.”

“Is that supposed to make me ignore the fact that Jacob’s body isn’t even cold yet?”

Joel curls two fingers under your chin, lifting your gaze while Tommy continues to hold you back. You shudder against him, a soft sound parts the younger Miller’s lips.

“He was a piece of shit,” Joel grunts. “He was botherin’ Ellie, callin’ her names, he deserved what he was gettin’.”

“So what, you guys are just playing hero? Killing everyone who’s causing trouble in town? There’s a system for that.”

“Honey,” he tuts, an involuntary warmth spreading within your abdomen. “The system didn’t work before the outbreak, it ain’t gonna work now either.”

“We protect our own,” Tommy says from behind you, breath fanning your neck. “We take care of it before it escalates. You have to understand that.”

“And why the hell would I understand?” you hiss, looking directly into Joel’s eyes while addressing Tommy.

Joel smiles, his lips curling slowly, “Because you’re one of us. And you like it when we protect.”

Your lips part with an exhale. He’s right, not that you still agree with them killing people, but you had enjoyed that primal protection coming from the Millers. It made you feel powerful, loved, cared for. All the things you craved deeply.

You ignore Joel and his words entirely, averting your eyes with embarrassment and shame.

“I just don’t understand why you did it, Tommy” you murmur. Tommy tenses behind you, his arms tightening around your frame, drawing the remaining oxygen from your lungs. “I understand the other’s to an extent but Tina didn’t do anything wrong.”

Joel looks towards Tommy, it was his kill after all and the older Miller had nothing to say about it.

“She was wrecking what Maria is tryin’ so hard to build,” he answers. “She’s pregnant, stress ain’t good for her or the baby.”

“Does. . . Does Maria—”

Tommy cuts you off, “No.”

Joel leans closer, mouth an inch away from yours as he parts his lips. “I killed for you,” You hate the way your body reacts to him, wanting to close the distance between you two despite how unsettled you feel. “Ian was a piece of shit, so was Tucker and Jacob. They don’t deserve your empathy, honey. And you can’t deny that you’re glad they’re gone.”

His hair is a delightful mess. Soft locks going in every direction. All you want to do is thread your fingers within and forget about all of this. Joel’s gaze is observant, dark eyes darting all over your face. You don’t know what he sees but whatever it is, he nods to Tommy for him to let you go and he does. Legs lifeless and shaking, he catches you, his warmth welcoming. He’s still tender with you. Hands delicate as they move over your arms, shifting you so you'll be facing Tommy.

Joel’s hand curls around your neck and holds your chin so you can’t look away. You can’t read Tommy’s expression. You’re not sure what he’s feeling. However, you think he looks almost relieved that you’re not fighting anymore.

You shudder as Joel drags his lips down your neck, taking deep breaths of your fear-induced scent. His hands slip under your shirt and cup both breaths, making you squeal. Your objection is short-lived when he brushes his thumbs over both nipples, awakening them with slow strokes.

Tommy’s gaze drops to your chest.

“He’s been watching you, you know,” Joel says. “When I had things to settle in town it was him who looked after you,” his voice drops, eyes observing his brother. “I think he deserves a bit of a show, don’t you think?”

The whimper you let out is enough for Tommy to meet your gaze curiously. Joel smiles into your skin and your eyes widen as he pulls out a knife—a different one from the one he used on Jacob, you realize with relief.

Your breath hitches as he slides the knife under your shirt and cuts your shirt clean from the middle, exposing you completely to his younger brother’s eyes. Sudden arousal pools between your legs and you clamp them together suddenly, the movement not unnoticed by either of them.

“You like it when my brother watches?” he asks loud enough for Tommy to hear. “You got a little crush on him too, sweetheart, hmm? Don’t worry, he’s always goin’ to be lookin’ out for you. That’s what family does after all.”

Your neck strains as Joel tilts your head suddenly, claiming your lips in a violent kiss. He doesn’t wait for you to part your lips for him and pushes his tongue into your mouth, licking the surprised sounds of pleasure right from your mouth. Your heart skips a beat. He presses the flat side of the knife against your warmed skin, the chill of metal settling in your bones.

When he parts away, a string of saliva connects you still. “You’re mine aren’t you?” Joel groans, lips moving over yours.

You nod in a daze and he smiles, “And I’m yours too,” he says.

Your eyes meet Tommy momentarily, the younger Miller’s lips twitch in a half smile. He doesn’t say a word as he closes the distance.

Tommy cradles your face tenderly, urging you to come close as he envelopes your lips with his own, taking you by surprise.

The kiss lacks the intensity compared to Joel’s. Tommy caresses your cheeks with both thumbs. You don’t even feel his tongue, it’s just a gradual movement of lips, a type of affirmation and comfort.

“You’re one of us now,” he says pressing his forehead against yours. You don’t know how to react or what to say and you end up just nodding, your hands fisting his shirt. Him, parting away from you almost feels painful but you’re not sure why. Tommy gives you a smile and Joel a nod before he leaves.

You and Joel stand like that for a while, in complete silence, bodies flushed together, knife still resting over your stomach.

“I only did what was right,” he breaks the silence. His tone isn’t one of asking for forgiveness or understanding. His arms tighten around you. “Are you afraid of me?” he whispers into your ear, the thick hairs above his lips tickling the shell of your ear.

You don’t answer him.

“You don’t need to be,” he continues. He allows you to move within his arms, you want to see his face, you need to see him to not fear for your life. You ignore the knife grazing your skin as you turn around, your bare front snug against his chest. “I’ll never hurt you. And you’re the only person in this whole damn town that can say that. You and Ellie.”

“What about Tommy?”

“Tommy’s priorities lay elsewhere.”

He doesn’t allow you to inquire further about what he means by that. All you can detect is a hint of anger that quickly dissipates when he claims your lips once more.

You’re lost in him. His tongue captures you in a way that makes you forget the blood on his clothes—on his hands. His tongue slides against your own, pressing until you’re moaning into his mouth, your knees faltering at the knife smoothing down your skin.

Before pushing you down to the ground, he takes off the shirt he cut in half completely off of you, your bra following the pile on the grass. Your breath hitches as he takes his place between your legs, his mouth devouring your neck, “Joel. . .” you moan, fisting his shirt and grinding up to feel at least a bit of friction.

A silent laugh seeps into your skin, his breath sending shivers up your spine, “Do you still feel bad for them?” he teases, laying a wet kiss between your breasts.

You don’t think much as you answer, “No.”

And as a reward, Joel closes his lips over a nipple, sucking hard until your breathing goes ragged.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, moving towards the other pebbled flesh. “You’re too good, too kind, but they don’t deserve that sweetheart.”

He hooks his fingers into your belt loops and tugs down your jeans, laving you with soft, ticklish kisses as he moves lower and lower. When you’re completely bare to him, you have the urge to cover yourself, the grass tickles your back and the wind feels colder now. Joel smiles and pulls your arms away. He lays the knife right above your stomach and your breath hitches.

“I want to taste you,” Joel says. “But not in the way you think, darlin’,” he kisses the sensitive skin right adobe your belly button, and brings the sharp edge of the knife to your skin. “I want to taste the life that pumps through your veins.”

Your eyes widen as he nicks you. It’s a small cut and blood beads at the wound instantly. He doesn’t allow it to gather enough so that’ll trickle down, he quickly presses his lips against it, your essence coating his tongue as he gives it a tender suck. You can the blood leaving your veins, a pleasant tingle echoing from the wound and spreading throughout your body. Your eyes flutter, a moan escaping your lips as he flattens his tongue against the cut and licks with board strokes.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he rasps, pushing two fingers into you with ease. You gasp at the sudden stretch, your back arching into his touch. “So darn wet—All this for me, sunshine?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, grinding down. “Joel, please—”

You hear the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, his breath heavy in your ear, “Since you asked so nicely, sweetheart, I’m obliged.”

You feel the head of his cock brush against your entrance, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. Your eyes close in anticipation and you whimper as he slowly slides inside you inch by inch. You can feel it, that intense fullness that can only come from him, taking his time to make sure it feels good. His size is intimidating but you feel yourself melting around him, eager and willing.

“That’s it. . . you’re takin’ me so well, such a tight little hole for me. Fuckin’ amazin’.”

He presses his forehead against yours, nipping at your bottom lip before thrusting, sending a wave of pleasure that makes your toes curl. You cling onto him for support as he pumps deeper and faster, hitting all the right spots. It takes neither of you long to climb the edge, ready to fall. You can feel the warmth of his breath, and his grip tightens on your hips. His pace quickens as the intensity builds, and you clench around him as he groans your name.

“Gonna come inside,” he slurs his words. “Gonna fill you up—shit—”

You can feel him throbbing and pulsing inside of you, his hard length contracting. As he pushes deeper into you, your insides flutter, squeezing around him. Your orgasm is ripped from you, shattering and mind-numbing. Your head spins and you cling to him, afraid that the world underneath you might slip entirely. His hot come warms you from the inside out, spilling from where his cock stretches you.

Joel remains inside until he starts to soften. He pulls out of you, leaving you feeling a longing ache deep within your core. You shudder as his come trickles down your thighs, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“Such a pretty sight,” he murmurs, entranced, as he gathers himself over his fingers and pushes it back inside you. “Try to keep as much as you can inside.” To emphasize his want for it, he slides your underwear up your legs.

You’re tied to him now. And even though you shouldn’t, you enjoy being the one near the beast. Joel helps you dress, at least helps you with what remains, and gives you his leather jacket to wear since your shirt is in ruins. Neither of you says a word as you walk back to where Jacob’s body rests. You help him bury the body, not feeling a single thing; no grief, no remorse, no sadness.

You always did have a complicated relationship with death after all.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #tlou fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #hauntedhoedown

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manykinsmen · 4 months

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the more i think about how we (as both f1blr/f1 fic writers and the more general understanding of f1 fans/the f1 world) mythologise nico rosberg, the more i think i slowly begin to understand why he's such a divisive figure. it's actually not that much to do with taking sides over brocedes and the popularity of lewis hamilton, or even just that some people really really don't like his personality. it's because he's a living symbol of the trauma that motorsports, particularly f1, inflicts upon its participants and embodies it in an almost entirely new and much more viscerally upsetting way.

think about the other people that have had a similar role. many of them are motor racers who died tragically, mostly in some kind of vehicle or after an on track incident. we can mythologise these people in the ancient ways set out by tragic heroes. they have a few subcategories, the dead champions going out in a blaze of glory (senna, rindt, even schumacher in some ways) like achilles. the dead that should have been champions, taken cruelly early and depriving the entire world with their loss, grieved (gilles villeneuve, francois cevert, didier pironi, ronnie peterson, elio d'angelis) like hector. the minor characters who die, who had yet to make any particular impression on the world of motorsport, but whose deaths motivate their loved ones to achieve on their behalf, or inspire rage against a cruel system (roland ratzenberger, jules bianchi, anthonine hubert) like patroclus.

even those that didn't die like that generally bear some sort of physical mark of trauma, like niki lauda's burns and alex zanardi's amputated legs. these figures are held up as triumphs of endurance and willpower when they go on to succeed in motorsport, or elsewhere in sport. if they cannot succeed in some sporting capacity afterwards, then they are allowed to quietly fade into obscurity, like robert kubica and his damaged arm, clay regazzoni, paralysed from the waist down. the trauma of motorsport is understandable when it is rendered physically.

when we render it instead psychologically, emotionally, it becomes incomprehensible to us, uncomfortable for us to entertain. why does someone retire after winning the world championship? because it's dangerous? because you are hurting yourself? in professional sports, people carry around constant pain until their body breaks enough that they can no longer compete, which typically happens sometime in the mid-late thirties, frighteningly early in the average human lifespan. sports is not man vs man or man vs nature so much as it is man vs his own body. this is not the only way competitors hurt themselves, there is constant restriction: food, habits, time. how do you win? see family less, see friends less, practice hobbies less, spend more time training, focusing, studying, converting yourself into the perfect machine.

and then there's the individual traumas: the bridges burnt, the marriages sacrificed, the children neglected, the rival that becomes a nemesis, the best friend that becomes a mortal enemy, the self that becomes lost to become just another part of the car. richard siken says "how much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of murder?". and then there's the losses, the disappointments, the criticisms from the team, from the press, from the fans. the constant battering of yourself against wave after wave of grief. the slow erosion of hope for all but a chosen, golden few. the knowledge that even if you win, there will come a point, inevitably, again, where you lose. you a winner until the next race. you are a champion until the next season.

what do we say to someone who says "i want to go home" and means it? who doesn't have to be dragged out of the race kicking and screaming? if they aren't a winner, we say they were never going to be. they are no one of any worth, they will be quietly forgotten. can you name a single one? if they are a winner, though, then what? what does this mean? we snatch at their winnings, their titles, try to take it away, retract it, somehow. but how do you say to them then that they aren't a winner? it is over. it is done.

they leave because they are hurting somehow, and their leaving leaves us hurting. it's betrayal, abandonment of the highest order. we as spectators are part of the race, the system. for nico to leave voluntarily is to criticise somehow, to point out the suffering and say you have hurt me. and we are included in that you, we know it subconsciously. that is why nico rosberg makes us uncomfortable, because he pulls back the curtain, reveals the trickery of it and all of us are suddenly standing in the light.

#nico rosberg #cw: trauma #cw: death #cw: injury #f1

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krossan · 1 year

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So here is the THING...

People often wonder why Dan is my favorite character and the “built-in-character” I often create for him. Most of these questions came after one of my favorite mini-story-panel of Phantom grieving his sister’s grave. I’m refering to this one:

Comments like “why Phantom SHOULD be grieving his sister if he was the one who killed them in the first place?” Well, for this essay, I hope I can change your perception and mind of what truly happen but SPOILER: HE WASN’T THE ONE WHO KILLED THEM. What a shocker. Why I came up with that conclusion, you ask? Let’s dive in with some information given to us in the show and how MADDENING stories that involve time-traveling are.

For starters, I HATE TIME-TRAVEL. I feel like tiime travel is like a simple excuse to misdirect the reader into thinking “Oh, that happened so I shouldn’t think much from that.” TUE is backed up from that which is infuriating to me and how the episode developed itself doesn’t make too much sense. I’m going to leave a quote mention on the DP wikia of exaclty what im talking about:

THIS right here is one of the MOST MEGA FLAW of the show itself. Yes. We know the events that led to Dark Danny was Danny cheating on the C.A.T. and then the NB explosion happen. But DAN DIDN’T CAUSE THE EXPLOSION! Dan didn’t trap his family just to blew up. Dan was out of the equation!

Erase from your minds the fact that Dan was involved on Danny’s timeline for a second and rewind things a bit. It is impossible for Dan to caused that because DAN DID NOT EXIST YET. The events were just about to unfold. For us to follow Dan’s timeline, Danny had NEVER talked to VLAD abt it. He NEVER had any sort of GUIDANCE to prove that he cheating on the C.A.T. was the thing that caused all of it. As the quoted statement of the DP wikia says: maybe what transpire in the Nasty Burger was a COMPLETELY different event that let to one of the boilers to blow. What if- this particular event- maybe the observants send someone else to put a stop to Danny (this also bringing the fact why Clockwork-in a way-is mad at them and you can feel this hatred towards them. And of course as stated by himself, the observants can only see one outcome while Clockwork can see variables.) Now, imagine the loss Danny may have felt after that unprecedented explosion. He had nowhere to go... and so the rest of Dan’s story begins. The only reason why Dan traveled back in time was because he knew this “Danny” from this alternate timeline had guidance from Clockwork. He new that if he cheated, a catastrophy would occur and he would do ANYTHING to prevent it... that was the GUIDANCE Dan NEVER HAD. HE HAD TO WITNESS HIS LOVED ONES DIE.

DAN NEVER HAD THAT “SECOND CHANCE” CLOCKWORK GAVE TO DANNY. OF COURSE DAN WILL BE BLOODY MAD ABT IT. -“I LOST MY FAMILY SO YOU MUST SUFFER THE SAME WAY”

But the overall ending of the episode feels stupid. Like after Danny speaking to Vlad and Clockwork and HE HIMSELF witnessing what was the cause for his family to die... Even if Dan succeded (which may I remind you Dan DID win but Clockwork had to interviene/cheat)

WHY WOULD DANNY GO BACK TO VLAD, GET RID OF HIS HUMANITY... AND BOOM! Have yourself another Dan.

The reasonable explanation to this is, again the OUTCOME.

What if on this case, if everyhing happened the way it was Danny now wanted his ghost to be removed because of the potential risks Phantom had.

He may have became Dark Danny but maybe a different one. One different from the one we all know.

This is my ranting of putting myself on Dan’s shoes for a moment. I hate time traveling episodes just so that they can just “go with it and make a mess out of the story but hey... it’s a cartoon, kids are not going to question anything”. You probably say that I’m overthinking this whole situation but I was once a writer and it is too frustating to me this type of subjects are just not fully solved.

Now with all this, Can you look at the panels and its meaning the same way now? Can you look at Dan the same way?

#danny phantom #dark danny #dan phantom

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ceofjohnlennon · 4 months

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John Lennon always comforted people who were grieving because he knew the feeling so well:

"There was one thing about John Lennon. In his steel-trap mind, he never forget what was important to people. Fast forward to May 1975. I had become an anchorman in Philadelphia, and combined with a radio station, our TV station sponsored what was called the "Helping Hand Marathon", a weekend-long radio fund-raiser to benefit area charities, including the one most important to me, the battle against multiple sclerosis (n/t: Larry Kane's mom passed away in 1964 because of sclerosis). With the help of our sales manager, Gene Vassall, I was able to put together a real coup — John Lennon to cohost the marathon for the weekend. From the time I picked him up at the railroad station to his departure on Sunday night, John was sensitive, giving and tireless. On the phone days ahead of the event, he said "Larry, I know this is being done in memory of your mother. I will make this happen and it will be great, baby!".

ㅡ Larry Kane in the book "Memories of John Lennon" by Yoko Ono.

"I've always admired him, and was very proud of the friendship we had together, and the first time John really showed his love for me was after Stuart's death, when he helped me such an awful lot to try and understand my loss —and his as well — and we used to talk about Stuart, and he really got me together again. He wasn't like Paul or George, who felt really sorry for me, and said "Oh, everything will be fine". John just said — it to me one day when I was really, really down and didn’t know what to do — he said "Well, you have got to decide what you want: Do you want to live or do you want to die? Decide that, but be honest". And that helped me tremendously to go on. And then he said that there are so many things we haven't even discovered yet, and life has got to go on, and you can't sit down and cry all the time, you have got to get on, and if it's not for me, he said, it's for Stuart. And he said that in a very harsh voice, not like nice and sweet, but very directly, so that was the real John who was talking. And that made me really think twice about it. It helped me tremendously. That is what I'm still thankful for (...)"

ㅡ Astrid Kirchherr in the book "Memories of John Lennon" by Yoko Ono.

"While they were there, Lily's father, William White, succumbed to a heart attack at age sixty-seven. Over the past few years, Mal had shared with her how intimidating John could be, so Lil was surprised when the Beatle brought her a cup of tea, let down his guard, and showered her with consolation. Like Mal, Lily would always remember John's tender gesture. 'It's very hard at times like these to give verbal comfort to anybody,' Mal wrote, 'but John was fantastic, and I knew that he gave Lil a lot of comfort in her hour of need — something I have always blessed him for.'"

ㅡ Mal Evans in his diary, from the book "Living The Beatles Legend" by Kenneth Womack.

#john lennon #the beatles #60s #yoko ono #mal evans #larry kane #astrid kirchherr #memories of john lennon #living the beatles legend #kenneth womack #my:read #john.......#the man that you were #:')

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cobaltperun · 4 months

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Lost (7) - The Reason

Tara Carpenter x female Reader

Summary: To anyone on the outside, and to Tara’s friends, you were Tara’s fierce protector, the MMA fighter who’d take anyone on for Tara. The Guard Dog, as Amber called you. You had no idea you’d have to protect her from people who claimed they loved her. It didn’t matter. As long as you and Tara had one another there was nothing you wouldn’t be able to survive.

Story warnings: Scream violence, family issues, trauma, angst, certain sensitive topics

Word count: 5.3k

Story masterlist / First part / Previous part / Next part

-And all the pain I put you through I wish that I could take it all away-

Sam mentally apologized to you. You’ve kept Tara safe, you gave her sister love she deserved, yet here Sam was, in a car she stole from you, out of gas about a mile away from Amber’s house because she was so blinded by rage. At least she managed to park it so it wasn’t in the middle of the road, but she would still leave it in the middle of the forest. And there was a gas station just ten miles prior, but, again, she was too consumed by anger.

Well, she’d apologize is she made it out of this alive. What she was about to do was reckless, she knew that, but as far as she was concerned, she'd either have a backup or she'd get both killers at once. So, she called Richie.

"Sam!" he sounded relieved, but that didn't matter, Amber was kissing Tara, playing the part of the worried girlfriend. "Where are you? I was worried sick!"

"It doesn't matter. It's Amber, she's the Ghostface, I'm heading to her place now," she revealed.

"W-What? Who is the other one? Wait, that's not important! Why are you willingly going to the killer's house? Please tell me you brought that MMA fighter with you, or that you are at least armed," Richie's voice was filled with panic and worry. Sam still hadn't decided what he was worried about.

"I left Y/N to protect Tara. I'll figure out who the other one is soon enough," she chose to reveal some more information, she wouldn't mention the knife she had with her, or that she was already walking toward Amber’s house.

"Please wait until I get back there. I went back to Modesto thinking you'd be there," Richie told her and it only made her more suspicious.

"Fine," she told him and hung up. She wouldn't wait though, she stopped just for a moment to send a just-in-case kind of message to Tara. 'I love you, I'm sorry for hurting you, please stay safe.' she typed it but then changed her mind and sent it as a voice message.

Sam didn't intend to die, and if she did die, she'd take Amber with her, but if she did die at least Tara would have some closure, at least she could listen to the voice message when she missed Sam.

But Tara would get over it, she was the strongest person Sam knew, her brave little sister, her survivor, she would stay strong, pushing on even if Sam was no longer there. It would be hard for Tara, Sam knew that, but eventually Tara would be fine.

With that in her mind, she saw the house, big, but otherwise entirely normal, not in any way indicating that a heartless killer who’d turn on her girlfriend and try to kill her twice lived there. Sam approached the front door, a knife in her hand. She had her guard up as she entered the house, checking the dark corners, and being as quiet as she could. So far all she saw were remnants of a party. She saw 'For Wes' hanging in the air and her heart broke a bit. Wes didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die because of some stupid legacy. No one did. To make it even more cruel the party was held in the house of the one who killed him, or at the very least worked with his killer.

The few moments she chose to spare to grieve were a blunder she shouldn't have allowed as she felt a knife stabbing her in the back,

"It's so nice of you to join us Sam," the Ghostface taunted her as she managed to stumble away from her attacker and pointed the knife at whoever it was, she guessed it was Amber, but she couldn't rule out the possibility that it was the other one.

"Amber," Sam still growled, clenching her teeth to push down the pain. If Tara could fight with several wounds like this one, then Sam could fight as well.

"Oh, great, you figured it out!" Amber took the mask off, revealing her swollen cheek.

"Y/N's doing?" Sam taunted hoping to rile Amber up and provoke an attack.

Amber opened her mouth wide, revealing two broken teeth. "You mean this? Yeah, Tara's fucking guard dog really doesn't hold back," Sam could see the desire to kill you in Amber's eyes. "Too bad you didn't bring her."

Sam smirked. "Why bother her? You've already proven you can't beat her fairly, even two-on-one," her taunting had the desired effect as Amber rushed her with a furious scream. It was exactly what Sam was waiting for. She stepped to the side, hoping to end the fight as quickly as possible. There was still a chance the other Ghostface was in the house. And then the realization hit her. Amber was already in her costume. The only question was, was Amber expecting her, or was she in the middle of attacking someone? And if she was in the middle of attacking someone else, who was it?

Sam slashed at Amber, just barely grazing the younger girl's shoulder. It wasn't enough though, as Amber cried out and slammed her shoulder into Sam. With the wind knocked out of her Sam dropped her knife and barely managed to avoid another stab. All hopes of getting the knife back vanished when Amber kicked the knife under the kitchen sink, so Sam ran, hoping to get some other weapon. She ran up the stairs, having no idea where she was heading in the unfamiliar house. With Amber hot on her heels, Sam only had the choice to rush into the first room she came across.

When she came in, she saw it all. The blood, the three bodies on the floor, the knife that was used, she saw it all, and she felt sick, she froze, and Amber just stopped behind her. "No... What have you done?! Mindy! Chad!" Sam cried out at the sight of the twins, tied up and bleeding out on the floor with a girl Sam didn't recognize.

"They were supposed to be the bait for you to come back, but you came to us before we could even take photos of them," the voice that spoke was the same voice she heard over the phone, the one from the voice changer. Sam realized too late the second Ghostface came up to her and stabbed her twice.

"I'm so glad I get to kill you," he spoke, and Sam knew who it was before he even took the mask off. It still hurt to see Richie taking the mask off. In the end her and Tara shared the same fate, both being betrayed by their lover. Only, Sam didn’t have anyone to come for her, Tara had you, and Sam, in her struggles, fears and self-doubt, never formed that kind of bond with anyone. Sam didn’t have her protector, or someone to protect that wasn’t her sister. "I know, it sucks that it's me, but it was the best option for the movie," he said, only infuriating her further, but with the knife in her stomach, she really didn't have anything she could do.

"This isn't a fucking movie," she still gasped, the pain and anger mixed together in her voice, yet Richie only snickered at that.

"Oh, but it will be, but we need a few more guests before we get to the grand finale," a blunt hit to her head knocked Sam out.

When she regained consciousness, she had no idea how much time had passed. She did, however, know her head was killing her, she was in pain from the stab wounds, and she had her wrists and ankles tied up.

Sam failed. She went alone and failed miserably. Now she was defenseless, on the kitchen floor with Sidney and Gale in a similar situation.

"Fuck," she groaned and watched as Richie and Amber came back to the kitchen. What followed their arrival was the sickest tale she ever heard. A tale of two crazy fans taking a movie that was over two decades old at this point way too seriously. The pounding in her head made it difficult to focus on their sickening reasons, and then Richie approached her.

"It wasn't that hard for me to find you in Modesto. It wasn't that hard for me to fuck you, either. But I guess being a sexually available woman is supposed to be empowering these days," he could talk all he wanted, her anger was already past its peak when Tara first got attacked. "Speaking of sexually available women, it wasn't hard for Amber to fuck Tara either. I guess a bit of attention is all it takes when you get abandoned like she was," at that, Sam's anger went above boiling point, and she tried as hard as she could to get free. The tape only dug into her wrists, but it didn't hurt at all compared to the pain she felt when he mentioned Tara and what was done to her.

And then the phone rang and everybody, but Sidney froze.

"I'm guessing that's for you," Sidney smirked slightly as Richie picked up the phone.

~X~

You approached the front doors with your phone on speaker. From the corner of your eye, you could see blood on the grass. You just hoped whoever got hurt there was still alive. Someone picked up the phone and you spoke. "The resident guard dog on the phone. I have a bone to pick with you," you said and kicked the front doors open.

You didn't even bother to be quiet. You couldn't be quiet. "Come on out Amber and whoever the other one is. Richie? Chad? My money is on Richie," you announced your presence quite loudly as you entered the living room. Still, no one and then you saw Richie. With a gun. "Oh, it is you."

Richie pointed the gun at someone you couldn't see. "Stay the fuck back Y/N or I'll blow Sam's brains out."

You raised an eyebrow. "Really now? I want you to reconsider that just for a moment," you took a step forward. "Think long and hard how about many bullets you have and how many it'll take to kill me. Four didn't, are you sure you'll have enough this time," even one bullet would be fine, if he aimed well, but you could see his nerves getting to him.

A shadow from your side made you abruptly step back and just as Amber went to stab you, you went behind her and grabbed her. You pushed her to her knees and tossed the knife out of her hands. Amber let out a scream of frustration as you put her in a chokehold. "Looks like we are at an impasse," the implications were rather clear, Richie shoots, you snap Amber's neck.

"Shoot her!" Amber growled, trying to scratch her way out of your grip.

"You sure his aim is that good?" You asked rhetorically and tightened your grip on the girl. She tried to reach your face or neck when digging her nails into your arms didn't do anything. "That's it, keep glaring. you're hardly even a challenge," you had to keep Amber's attention on you.

"Fucking, guard dog," she choked out, that really was her favorite name for you, wasn't it? You watched as Richie aimed his gun at you, but his hand trembled. He wouldn't shoot, he wouldn’t risk killing Amber, besides, as far as he was concerned the three of you really were at an impasse, so he was safe.

"What was it you used to say, Amber? Tara barks and I bite?" you taunted before turning to Richie. "Take a few steps back Richie," you ordered.

"What?" well, your demand was a bit unusual from his point of view.

"Now," to get the point across you tightened your grip enough to actually start choking Amber.

Amber gasped for air, her arms once again reaching for your forearm to try and get free, but it was a losing battle. At least now she knew how it felt to fight for air, how Tara felt. That thought alone made you squeeze even harder.

"Fine, fine!" Richie raised his hands up and stepped back once, then again, then the third time.

"Bark, bark, fucker," you smirked as a crutch slammed into the back of Richie's head. Sam gasped. Someone else gasped. Tara went ballistic on the now-crying Richie, and you tossed Amber over the sofa as she coughed and gasped for air.

The moment Tara saw you approaching the two of you nodded at one another and she stopped her assault on Richie to go and untie Sam. Richie stumbled back to his feet and tried to attack Tara from behind, only to be stopped by you grabbing his wrist.

"None of that," you warned, glaring furiously at him and dislocating his right shoulder. Just as the frosting on the cake you then landed several blows to his head. Someone running up the stairs caught your attention, but you figured you'd handle Amber after you dealt with Richie.

"Chad and Mindy are upstairs, they were injured!" Sam was struggling to get back up as she told you that.

Your eyes widened at the new information, and you glanced at Sam. She wasn't exactly ready to fight, but it would have to do. "He's all yours Sam," just in case you hit Richie again, knocking the air out of his lungs.

You ran after Amber, catching up to her at the top of the stairs. She had a knife, so you guessed she wanted to either take one of the twins hostage or finish them off. "No! No, stay back! I didn't mean to do this! I was radicalized! Please Y/N, I'm just a dumb kid!" she cried out when she realized she couldn't reach the twins in time. When she realized you were still more than capable of catching up to her and beating her, despite all the injuries you suffered.

"So?” you saw the gun before she could catch you by surprise again. "Come on now," you sighed, threw a feint, and grabbed the gun behind her back. You could see fear in Amber's eyes, fear so strong and overwhelming that she ran and jumped over the fence just to get away from you. She cried out in pain and clutched her ankle. Was it broken? It hardly mattered. You walked down the stairs as gunshots echoed, exactly three gunshots.

~X~

It was over. She killed Richie. She shot him. The nightmare would soon be over.

"Sam," Tara's voice, so small and on the verge of crying broke Sam out of her daze and she stumbled over to her younger sister. Tara hugged her as tightly as she could, crying into Sam's shirt. "Don't ever do that again, don't ever leave me like that again," Tara choked on her tears. “Do you have any idea how afraid I was? All I could think about was reaching you in time!” she desperately tried to hug her even tighter, to make sure Sam would never do anything nearly as reckless.

Sam hugged Tara just as tightly. Fearing Tara would slip from her grasp if she held even a bit weaker. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll never leave you again. I swear I'll never hurt you again," she tearfully promised. She had five, no, ten years’ worth of Tara's pain and loneliness to make up for and she'd do it. She'd turn her life around for Tara. She'd be better for Tara. She'd do anything she possibly could to make sure Tara was happy and taken care of. That was what Tara was to Sam, she was the reason Sam would get her life together.

~X~

You wanted to check on Tara, but you'd have to believe in her.

"Wait, wait Y/N! I killed Dewey, don't you think Gale and Sidney deserve a shot?" you didn't know if Amber was trying to distract you or if she actually thought that. It didn't matter.

"I don't care. You hurt Tara," you pointed the gun at Amber's head. Somehow your hand felt really heavy. Come on, just shoot... end this nightmare. Shoot! But you couldn’t…

Amber laughed when she saw the look on your face, your eyes gave you away. "You really are hopeless, Y/N!" she was trying to taunt you, but her voice barely registered in your head.

The image of your father's gun overlapped with the one in your hand. It wasn't about Amber, it was the act of firing the gun itself that was keeping your finger frozen on the trigger.

"What's left to love, hmm?! Tara will never be the same! Scars, doubts, paranoia, she could even turn out to be like her mother, a drunk. You can try all you want, but you'll never erase the mark I left on her," the maniacal grin, the satisfaction Amber felt due to what she did to Tara, it all fueled your anger.

Your finger still couldn't move.

Amber laughed and, perhaps seeing your inability to fire, lunged at you with a knife.

A gunshot echoed before she could reach you and you watched with wide eyes as Amber's body just dropped.

"You didn't leave a mark," Tara declared as she lowered the gun, Sam coming right behind her with Sidney and Gale.

You lowered the gun in your hand to the floor and without saying a word walked over to Tara ž. You reached her and took her hands, slowly separating her fingers from it as she shut her eyes. With the gun out of her hands you made sure it wouldn’t fire and gingerly placed it on the table. You hated that your hesitation, your inability to fire, made Tara do it. You made Tara kill. "It wasn't what she was saying. I just... spent years trying to prevent myself from pulling the trigger, so now that I should have, I just couldn't do it," you whispered barely loud enough for Tara to hear.

Tara seemed to deflate at those words as she stumbled into your arms. She glanced down at Amber's body and quickly looked away, burying her face in your chest and clutching the back of your shirt. You could feel a single tear dropping from her chin onto your shirt and you just held her, just pulled her closer.

"Come on, let's get out of here," you whispered gently and lifted her up, making sure she couldn't see the body. As you took the first step you heard police sirens approaching. That got you to raise an eyebrow and look at Tara who just forced a smile.

"Better safe than sorry," she said and for a moment you wondered why you didn’t just call the police in the first place.

Then you remembered how they left Tara at the hospital... 'Yeah, that's why,' you thought and took Tara outside.

~X~

Mindy and Chad would live, but Liv bled out before help could reach her. Overall, between new wounds and old wounds needing to be treated once again, every single one of you would need medical treatment.

You did have one question, so, as Sam watched over Tara you walked over to Sidney and Gale. "So, how did you get my number?"

Gale looked at you incredulously, as if silently asking 'Really? That's what you want to know?' you just shrugged; you were curious, so you asked.

"You do know you're an MMA fighter and that I am an investigative journalist, right? It really wasn't that difficult," yeah, that made sense, you supposed.

"Right. I don't appreciate the tracker on my car, but I guess I owe you one for that," it didn't take much time to figure out Sam would be dead if that damn tracker wasn't on your car, or if Sidney called you even ten minutes later than she did. It was also lucky they called you when your car stopped in the middle of nowhere and you told them Amber’s address.

"Considering what happened inside, I'd say we're even," Sidney sighed and you raised your hands in surrender, if they thought you were even, you wouldn't argue. The last couple of days drained away your ability to argue.

"Right, take care," you stepped back and motioned toward Tara. "I'm going back to Tara," you said and went back to the ambulance Tara and Sam were in.

“Thanks for coming after me,” Sam gave you and Tara a small smile and judging by how Tara leaned a bit closer to her, you figured she already thanked Tara while you were with Gale and Sidney.

“Thanks for stealing my car,” you did not appreciate it being left on the side of the road.

Sam looked away and Tara turned to look at you as if she couldn’t believe what you just said.

Your eye twitched at her reaction. “Sorry I don’t like my car being stolen,” you grumbled and then sighed, giving in when Tara kept looking at you with those doe eyes of hers. “Fine, but Sam is paying for the gas.”

~X~

Three days later Tara was finally getting released from the hospital, but there was an issue with that. She would be going back to her house. And no one went there since the night Tara was attacked. You could feel how anxious Tara was last night when she was told she would be released today, you could see it in her eyes as she frantically turned to look at you. If your apartment was any bigger you would have taken her there, but given the lack of space and her broken leg it just wouldn’t work, especially when it came to bathroom, and Tara refused to allow you to rent a bigger apartment.

So, here you were, in front of Tara’s house with a bag in your hand. It wasn’t the biggest house in Woodsboro, hell, Amber’s house was bigger, but it wasn’t a small house either. The grass needed to be cut soon, but it could wait a few more days, it was more important to handle what was inside. With a heavy feeling in your heart you approached the front doors. Did Amber come in through the front doors? You didn’t know, you didn’t ask Tara anything about the attack, and she didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t want to remember it.

You opened the front doors and immediately stepped back. The stale air you could take, but the moment you smelt even a hint of blood you nearly threw up, consumed by what happened inside. And Tara was supposed to come back here. You hunched forward, gasping for air and then you saw them, a few red spots on the floor, dried up a long time ago, but clearly there.

Your legs shook. You’ve seen blood plenty of times before, drops just like those back in the octagon, but you still struggled to push forward to get inside the house. There wasn’t any more blood in the hall, so Amber likely didn’t come inside the moment she stabbed Tara there. Knowing Tara, she likely back away so that meant…

You looked down the hall, toward the kitchen and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you began, likely somewhat tracing Tara’s steps, you stopped at the wall, right next to the opening leading into the kitchen and the dining area and you leaned your forehead against it. “I should have been here,” you pressed your right palm on it, your fingers pressing harshly against the rough wall.

You had no idea how long you stayed there, but eventually you stepped back and walked into the kitchen and you felt your heart breaking into countless pieces. There was so much blood in front of you. A smudge on top of the counter, as if Tara was slammed against. A nick on the counter that wasn’t there before, likely from the knife hitting it. Stains on the floor from trying to escape.

You knew what you would see, but you still couldn’t stop shaking. You should have shot her, you should have used every single bullet in that gun and then you should have taken a knife. You clenched your jaw and opened the bag you brought. You had a lot of cleaning to do.

~X~

She was going back to her house. She didn’t want to, but she had to. She needed to get over the trauma, to learn how to feel safe even if she was alone. She grew so used to you being by her side almost all the time, and no matter what happened between the two of you that couldn’t be maintained, you couldn’t always be close to her.

And neither could Sam. There would be days when Tara would have to be without either of you, and the sooner she got over her trauma the better. She could not let three days define the rest of her life.

But first, going back to her house. She was standing on her own, using her crutches while she was waiting for her papers with Sam right next to her.

“I can wait, you should go and sit down,” Sam said, worriedly glancing at Tara’s broken leg.

Tara smiled, nudging her sister slightly. “I’m fine Sam,” and while she didn’t say it, a part of the reason she didn’t want to go and sit alone was how vulnerable she would feel surrounded by vaguely familiar people. And she didn’t want to leave Sam alone either. Sam got hurt as well when she was alone.

She glanced toward the main entrance, and the tension and anxiety that threatened to consume her faded away as she saw you walking in, looking around briefly before your eyes met. Sam must have noticed because she chuckled a bit and patted Tara’s shoulder. Tara blushed at that, Sam wasn’t even back for a week, and she was teasing her.

The moment you were close enough Tara leaned forward, letting you support her weight. Her eyes widened slightly when you wrapped your arms around her, your arms shaking slightly. She felt your shuddering breath against her neck, and she was reminded of that time in front of her house, right after you tried to… she didn’t want to think about that. You were with her now, and you’d stay with her for the rest of her life and as long as you wanted her in your life, she would never let you go.

“Tara,” she heard you whispering and hugged you, not caring that her crutches would drop to the floor. Sam must have caught them, because she didn’t hear them falling, or maybe she was just so focused on being in your arms that nothing else pierced through the bubble you two created.

She kissed your cheek, dug her fingers into your hair and pulled you closer.

“Thank you for surviving,” you told her so quietly she was sure only she could hear you, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to hear you if she was even a few inches further away from you. And she understood what was going through your mind.

You went to her house, you saw it all, didn’t you? “Y/N,” she pulled back a bit, just so she could press her forehead against yours. She felt as if she was about to melt at how softly you were looking at her eyes. “Thank you for staying by my side,” she could overcome this, all of this and even more, as long as she had you, she would be fine.

“That goes without saying,” you said as if you didn’t do what no one else did, you said it as if you didn’t stay by her side and protect her and she had to bite her lower lip just to stop herself from kissing you. “Do you want me to stay with you at your place?”

She wanted that, she wanted to make up for the lost time, to have you by her side, but she knew she also needed to spend some time alone. To once again start feeling safe on her own. “I’ll be fine, I promise,” she replied. “And I’ll call you if I need you,” she reassured you, though she would try her best not to call you.

“I don’t like interrupting, but we can go now,” Tara didn’t need to look at Sam to know she had a grin on her face.

“Right, up you go,” you lifted her up and smiled as she made herself comfortable in your arms, and you took her to your car.

~X~

It was her third night back in her house. She was afraid of her own shadow, alone in her house, since Sam had to go to Modesto to handle the life she was leaving behind. She was vulnerable, she needed time to get up, she couldn’t protect herself, or escape if she needed.

Her house was locked, she was safe, she was alone, no one could hurt her. Yet, as much as she kept repeating that mantra she couldn’t calm down. She couldn’t play any music, or watch a movie, fearing the noise would keep her from hearing if anyone was in her house, or if anyone was trying to break in. And she tried to fall asleep, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t handle being caught off guard.

She couldn’t do this. She made it through the first night alone, she couldn’t sleep the second night and only fell asleep when you came to her house in the morning. And now she once again couldn’t sleep. She took her phone for what felt like the hundredth time in the past few hours, once again looking at your name.

She called you, unable to stand the horror she felt. It was one in the morning, yet you answered mere seconds after she called.

“Tara?” you sounded like you were already getting up and getting dressed.

“Please come. I’m afraid,” she whispered, afraid that if she spoke louder someone other than you would hear her.

“I’m on my way, Love,” you didn’t even hesitate, and she vaguely heard you unlocking your doors and then seconds later locking them again. “Do you want to talk until I get there?”

She wanted that, but you would drive, and she wanted you to drive safely. “No, no just drive safely.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes,” you promised her and she nodded, for a moment forgetting you couldn’t hear her.

“Thank you,” she hung up when she heard you getting in your car. “I love you,” she whispered, counting seconds until you arrived. A bit less than five minutes ago you sent her a message that you were about to come inside, but she still flinched when she heard ‘Systems disarmed’, her fingers twitched and she nearly locked her house down once again.

“It’s me!” you yelled and locked her front door once again.

Tara smiled, listening to you running up her stairs. The door handle turned and you entered her room and that fear vanished from her heart as she moved to the side and patted the spot next to her.

You closed the distance between the two of you and lied down, letting her rest her head on your chest. “I’m sorry, I had to call you,” she whispered, but you just rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head. “Just sleep, I’ll be right here,” you told her, and she did just that, she closed her eyes and fell asleep to the melody your hearts made.

A/N: And so Scream V ends. By the way, when it comes to what Sam and Tara showed in the movie, I think Tara is much more impressive. Sam is shown to be about as capable as one would expect from a woman who likely didn't have much, if any, martial arts training. Tara on the other hand moves with a broken leg, puts up one hell of a struggle in the opening scene, fights back even during the hospital attack, and on top of all that she has asthma.

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x female reader #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter #scream #jenna ortega x reader

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peregrineggsandham · 2 years

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[Now on YouTube!]

The full version of my interpretation of Myla's song ("Bury my mother, pale and slight..."), based on the tune she hums. Sung by me (at 2am) (with a cold). I'm… actually pretty proud of how this turned out!

Context: When the city was condemned, were the miners still in Crystal Peak left outside? Did they wonder what happened to their families left within? Did they sing for them? For the knight and dreamers whose memorial they may once have seen? For the desperate hope for a brighter future? Even just a chance to mourn?

Additional Context: The really fun thing about rounds is how one by one the voices inevitably die off until there is only one remaining. :)

(I really didn't expect so many people to want to hear the whole thing! Many thanks to The Embraced One and Camellia Flingert on Youtube, whose recordings of Crystal Peak ambience provided the perfect background noise/pickaxes/ominous rumbling.)

Full lyrics under the cut.

Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, yo-na-la (Ke-ti-ya) ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ye-le-ki, ye-la-ka, no-na-na ye-le-ko

[Chorus:] None shall enter, none shall leave, the king has sealed our kin. But we yet breathe, unite and grieve and sing for those within. Gates will open; we take hope and mourn ‘till morning comes. Soon the knight will bring the day – it’s this the crystal hums!

Oh, bury my mother, pale and slight, Bury my father with his eyes shut tight, Bury my sisters two by two, And then when you're done, let's bury me too!

Oh, bury the knight with her broken nail, Bury the lady, lovely and pale, Bury the priest in his tattered gown, Then bury the beggar with his shining crown!

[Chorus]

Oh, bury the traitor marred by pride, Bury his daughter at her lover’s side, Bury the sage and his sons all three, But save by their grave a space for me!

Oh, bury the smith and his blood-soaked art, Bury the writer with a broken heart, Bury the fool with their shield stained red, But ask them thrice to be sure that they are dead!

[Chorus]

[As a round] Oh, bury the teacher in her hallowed hall, Bury the watcher in his tower tall, Bury the beast in her silken cave, Then bury the one who dug their graves.

Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, yo-na-la (Ke-ti-ya) ma-na-na, ni-ne-na, ye-mi-ye-ta Ye-le-ki, ye-la-ka, no-na-na ye-le-ko

...

This started as a ditty to sing while chopping wood and ended with three separate ambience loops, boss scream cameos from the Radiance and the Crystal Guardian, and the realization that the official soundtrack has a perfectly good cover of someone going na-na-na to the tune of the main theme already, why not throw that into the chorus somewhere quietly while we're at it…

#hollow knight #sam does stuff sometimes #and is pretty happy with it!#I am honestly amazed anyone wanted to hear this whole thing #but it's as good a time as any to be get less self-conscious about my voice

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tbhimnoteasyonmyself · 2 months

Text

On Tee's Lonely Grief

I've seen people talk about New's and Phee's grief, Pimpa's grief but the gang has never been considered that much on account of their guilt. This episode, however, brings attention to that. Especially in Tee's case. Especially in the scene when he finds Non dead.

And I have to say, I fucking love this scene. So I'm here to tell you why.

PS: For the sake of this post, unlike what's normally my policy, the pictures used will not be edited in any way, shape or form unless stated otherwise. I think it would be taking creative liberties with the photography and it would diminish the validity of my analysis.

So:

Tee finds Non's body upstairs with his uncle's goons (dressed in entirely black outfits which obviously invoke death) very suspiciously looming over it.

So he does what capable and strong Tee, who has to support himself and his father and his uncle's business and now Non (as we saw very clearly this episode) would do: He lashes out. He demands answers. He threatens people. Because that's how he learned to solve his issues.

Yet he gets mostly silence. Arguably, the same exact silence he initially offers the 2 other people grieving Non this episode: New & Phee.

And so he argues with his uncle, makes accusations, mirrors New in the present moment so well it's uncanny.

And then he's alone. Everyone leaves, including Non's body. And now there's no one to perform that idea of a strong ruthless guy to. Now it's just Tee. And the contrast between the act of Tee and Tee is remarkable: one moment he's cold, and the other moment he's completely broken.

So he screams, at the top of his lungs, which is interesting. Because we do see Tee cry but not much. Tee's just not a person who cries. Which, besides being very relatable, is also terrible. Why? Because crying relieves you. It helps you cope, it releases the tension from you, at least a bit. Tee not crying here means this (Non dying), unlike the guilt of what happened before with him and the gang bullying Non

(something he is allowed to shed at least a single poetic tear about) Is a burden he can't be relieved of. At least, not at that moment.

So we watch as Tee screams helplessly. And the environment is so telling. GOD, I FUCKING LOVE THIS SHOW

There's an empty space. Virtually nothing is there with Tee. Because, of course, he's alone in the room, we know this, but he's also alone.

No one else knows this story like Tee does. No one else has been with Non when he was a creative student trying to make a film, when there was life to him in all senses of the word and also saw his dead, lifeless body. No one else has been the cause for both Non's problems and Non's death. No one has liked Non as a friend and cared for him and watched him die without being able to do anything about it. No one in Tee's life knows what he's going through, what it feels like. No one in Tee's life is able to share his grief. And he can't escape it either.

You see that weird ass mirror there? Why is it there? There are curtains around it. But it's not a window. That's odd. But while it makes no sense decoration/architectural-wise, it makes so much sense from the point of view of symbolism.

There's no escape. Even when it really feels like there should be. Because Tee, the guy with all the solutions, should be able to find a solution, shouldn't he? Besides... We come to care so much for him and for Non... So how come there's no solution? Because, we, like these teens do to adults, naively trust the narrative. Of course, there's no solution. We all knew this from the start. We're only here because of this: Non is dead.

So, instead of a way out, a hope for something better than what's going on in that room, we get just more of it. Tee and we alike, have no escape. We're both forced to face that scene, forced to accept it. And Tee, if he dares look for that way out, will only have to face himself.

But interestingly, he never does. Tee never looks at the mirror on the wall. He doesn't even acknowledge it. Which, of course, might be a reflection (pun intended) of how he tries to pass the blame of Non's death to his uncle.

He repeatedly claims he didn't know what would happen, that he wouldn't have brought Non back if he did but... Is that true? As Perth's character (BOMBASTIC SIDE EYE, btw) says:

"You already knew, right?" Because, let's face it, it was obvious. Things could only go poorly for Non if Uncle Joe got his claws on him. Tee had to know that wouldn't end well.

So this scene also tells us that, despite deep down his immense amount of guilt telling him he is guilty of Non's death, Tee doesn't want to acknowledge it. He maintains that position, in fact, nearly all the way until the end of episode Ep.11. where he slightly changes his narrative.

He never planned to.

Right now, he's a new person. One that would not make the same mistakes as in the past but that, despite the changes, is inevitably the one who somewhere in the past did make them.

But back to the scene.

Tee is framed right in front of the blueish-grey curtains and we all know what that means, I do not need to cite the ancient scrolls. But I wanna add that grey is also:

a colour associated with sadness;

seen as a colour of death, as it is literally in greyscale, hence colourless, lifeless AND because it can also be interpreted as a mix of white and black, both of which are mourning clothes colours, depending on the culture;

a reflection of Tee's grey morality because, naturally, while we understand Tee's motivations and background, he did some pretty fucked up things that his good intentions and unhelpful help attempts cannot erase.

And then Tee finds a small paper, written by Non (in vivid blue, properly highlighting not only Non's depression but also Tee's).

And the paper reads: "I'm gonna get out of this place. I'm not a loser." And it hits him even further because Non (at least in Tee's vision, I'll leave Non's death up for debate, I'm sure people will have theories) wanted so bad to be victorious once, to succeed just once. He wanted to get a chance to live normally and it didn't happen.

This, of course, ends up shaping Tee's own path, as he meets White and gets a chance to do things "right" and as he becomes this "new person" and gets away from his uncle. But, in that moment, none of that is relevant because it hasn't happened and Tee cannot know it will, he can only know, with written proof, that he failed. And now Non's dead.

And so, in the last part of this scene, we see a more zoomed-out shot. And Tee's still alone but now we have a more clear vision of just how tiny that space is. And how he's nearly taller than the frame. How his grief is bigger than the space in which it was brought to him. But also how the weight of it, represented by the walls, is nearly crushing him. Another gigantic, and perhaps the biggest of all, responsibility on Tee's shoulders.

Furthermore, as @shannankle has marvellously described and explained in this post about sex scene framing, the framing gives us a level 3 visual gaze which is used to remind us as the audience of just how intimate and profoundly shaping of Tee this moment is: we are not supposed to be here, this moment is Tee's and Tee's alone. Because, of course, he is alone. In all senses. The access we're getting is nearly forbidden. Even to the other characters. Because they don't get to see it, they only hear about it (or we assume they do).

And, to top it all off, the cherry on top of this great scene: all of this happens while Tee is wearing his school uniform. Because, of course, it had to. Because we need to be reminded: this is a teenager. Tee, who's mourning his dead friend whose corpse he just saw and whose death is largely his fault is just a teenager.

#So yes #I might hate that Phee is apparently omniscient #but BY THE UNIVERSE AND ALL OF US IN IT #do I LOVE the care and thought put into the details of this story!!!#it's so good!!#dff #dff the series #dead friend forever the series #dead friend forever #dff meta #dead friend forever meta #dead friend forever ther series meta #dff the series meta #dff tee #tee dff #dead friend forever tee #tee dead friend forever #dff the series tee #tee dff the series

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