TEST DRIVE MEME 003

[rubimods]

⚰︎ ⍢ ⌲ ⍚ TEST DRIVE MEME:

Welcome to RUBILYKSKOYE — a dark, horror-smut game where player choices will drive a mod-run storyline about the world and its NPCs. This test drive meme provides a medley of prompts evoking the game's general tone.

THESE THREADS CAN BE GAME CANON if both players are accepted into the game and agree to it. However, if players who'd prefer to start fresh are welcome to reuse these prompts in their own personal logs upon acceptance into the communities. Note: characters arriving in September's application round will arrive in the midst of a two-part event that will continue through October. Players may date their character's arrival any time from September 8th onward.

CONTENT WARNINGS for this game include: monsters, body horror, dub-con, non-con, religion, blood/violence, and marking/branding, loss of autonomy/self, and mental influences. This log additionally has warnings for: disorientation, loss of direction, hallucinations, time distortion/lost time, aphrodisiacs, group sex, dubious consent, cannibalism and cannibalistic urges, spiders, bondage/restraint, loss of autonomy, body horror, sadism, torture, cult behavior, assault, arson, caging, free use, and public sex.

If you have QUESTIONS about the test drive prompts, please ask HERE. Questions about the game itself or the general setting should be directed to the FAQ.

FAQ ✧ SETTING ✧ CALENDAR ✧ RESERVES ✧ APPLICATIONS

IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE

The chirping of partridges in the treetops rouses you. Light barely filters through the canopy, just enough to suggest daylight. By the time it reaches the forest floor, the light has taken on a sickly green. You lie amongst the frost-covered mosses and ferns, the frozen soil cold and just a little damp on your bare skin.

Wherever you were before this moment, whatever you were doing or wearing, when you awaken in this forest, you find yourself naked and helpless as the day you were born. As you sit up and get your bearings, aside from a brief wave of disoriented nausea, you seem to be no worse for wear than you last remember.

The gnarled oaks and moss suggest no sign of civilization or sentient life. Just flickers of movement from curious squirrels or brave lizards emerging from a temporary retreat from the wintry weather. With your feet under you, and you'll find the wood is filled with berry bushes and nut trees, though much of the fruit has been picked clean. The freshwater stream that runs north-south, populated by both poisonous toads and delicious crawdads, is running actively again as the weather warms back up from the recent snowstorm.

You may start out alone, or among others sharing stories just like yours, or you may run into others who are fully clothed and ready for a strange expedition ...

LOST WOODS:

The expedition party made their way into the woods on September 14th expecting a direct route to the Void. Instead, they've found themselves lost and disoriented.

Their navigational tools seem useless, leading them around in circles as ancient trees, caves, water sources, and other reliable landmarks do not align with the maps. Trees seem to move — didn't you see that exact deer drinking from the brook a quarter mile ago? The ever-changing and impenetrable maze of the woods may separate characters from one another, or get them so lost that they wind up back at the edge of the wood, staring at castle walls or farmlands.

With no easy measure of their progress, and the treetops obscuring the light, time feels dilated. Characters may feel they've been in the woods for hours when it has been days, or for weeks when it has been hours. The amount of time that passes in the woods will be individualized for each character, and will not match the full month that passes for characters back in town.

DON'T SMELL THE FLOWERS:

While some folx are being turned around and sent back to start, those that make it deeper are in perhaps worse shape. The dilated time and the circuitous nature of their efforts may stretch their week's worth of rations too thin, driving them to rely upon foraged mosses and fruits for sustenance. The woods are full of fungi and edible flora with aphrodisiac side effects like increased bloodflow, heightened arousal, and increased tactile sensitivity.

Much like the animals afflicted by the Void, the plant-life here grows strange. The deeper they go, the more troubling the side effects of their foraged sustenance becomes.

Deep in the forest they may find:

• A moss that makes them hallucinate an idealized sexual experience from deep in their repressed subconscious, which they will determinedly act out.


• The pulsing fruits that grow amongst this moss will render them desperate to orgasm as if they have been edged for hours, but they will find themselves physically incapable of doing so — unless they succumb to its secondary effect, the hunger for still-warm human flesh.


• A nut that grows in bushes leaves those who eat it unable to feel satisfied by just a single partner, seeking out threesomes and moresomes with a lost hiker or another pair.

The more of these that an individual consumes, the more pronounced the effects as their secretions build up in the body over time. It may become a common sight to find a friend tucked behind a tree, stark naked and desperately masturbating.

REVENGE OF THE SPIDERS:

Monsters thrive this far out. Huge, blood-red spiders the size of hunting dogs drop from the treetops. In addition to their venomous bite, which contains a fast-acting paralytic, these creatures are clever: they attempt to use their webbing to entangle any trespassers, binding limbs together or to trees. If you're unfortunate to become fully cocooned, you don't have long before this forest will be the last thing you see.

However, some of the clothed expeditioners will be able to tell you that the Duchess of the nearby town has a special relationship to these spiders, and players should expect their treatment of the spiders to influence future events

BORDER CROSSING:

The void can play tricks on your senses. As madness sets in and you lose all sense of direction, you may also lose control of your body — what is that steers your hands to turn against your friends? Why does it sound like your own voice whispering?

In the fog, you may also hear the voices of those familiar to you — people you know from the town, or people whom you know with almost perfect certainty aren't here. these figments may recreate unhappy memories or force trespassers to hallucinate their worst nightmares. Nothing is as it seems in the void, and when you swing at these figments, desperate to silence them, it might not be a figment at all, but a friend in the flesh trying to help you. By the time you see their true face, it could be too late to stop yourself.

There are risks associated with Void proximity: increased aggression, paranoia, emotional instability, accelerated monster transformations, and hallucinations.

As the time dilation worsens, characters' monstrous transformations may happen in uneven stages. For instance, a character may manifest a physical aspect or supernatural ability or urge that suits their fully transformed state even if the other aspects of them remain human. These changes can happen totally unprompted, or as a result of their generalized Void proximity symptoms.

Even untransformed, the closer they get to the Void, the more intensely those on the expedition feel intrusive violent and sadistic urges — not just to lash out at others suddenly, but also a fascination with inflicting pain (emotional or physical) that may or may not be erotic in nature. This sadism seems especially potent in anyone with a Niez mark. Those who notice the pattern may be inclined to urge some of their friends to turn back now, before they reach the Void ...

writer's block?

If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try: naked hiking, fighting or getting webbed up by spiders, acting out a hallucination, or grappling with aphrodisiac flower symptoms!

TOWNIE TROUBLES

Turn your back to the darker, shadowy parts of the forest and eventually the glow of manmade lights and the curve of a dirt road may come into view. At the edge of the wood, you'll find a town surrounded by a fifty-foot wall of beige stone. The only entrance is an iron gate positioned on the southern edge. When you arrive, the gate is already open, welcoming people inside.

This quaint, historic town of five-thousand has cobbled street and signs lit by gas lamp. Wooden shutters protect otherwise open-air windows on the buildings, which are all under three stories with gabled roofs. A number of businesses hug the main street — a clockmaker, a cobbler, a grocer — while residential homes sprawl outwards towards the wall. At the far end of the main street, visible about a mile to the north now that the trees and the enormous wall is out of the way, sits a castle with three towers.

When you enter, the streets are full of people, but despite any efforts on your part to hide or make excuses, they don't seem offended by your nakedness. Even families with children don't gawk or look twice. Those determined to find proper clothing regardless will find that modern clothing stores aren't available — the closest this town has is a tailor's shop and a stand in the central marketplace selling scarves and blankets.


BUNKING UP:

The locals may still direct newcomers to the boarding house for both clothes and a place to stay. Accessible through an embellished iron garden gate and obscured by hanging plants, trees, and vines, beyond an overgrown yard in the residential sprawl of the town is a bright-red door, which opens to a spacious cottage of several stories. Parts of the house still bear the dust of disuse, gathered on various furnishings — bedding, sofas, curtains, wooden tables. However, it's already full of people! Anyone who's already appeared in the village just as you did today lives here.

Don't spend too much time exploring, though. You'll want to claim a bedroom quickly because each one only has two full-size beds, and there aren't enough spaces for everyone. The last people upstairs will need to double up to squeeze in. Roommates will not be mod-assigned; players should coordinate directly with one another to determine their living arrangements.

ON THURSDAY WE HAVE ORGIES:

On Thursdays, religious ceremony spills into the streets as soon as the sun and the children are safely abed. Dancing locals paint their faces painted red and purple and black and yellow. They all wear revealing clothing that, to your sensibilities, may seem sexually suggestive. Some individuals openly expose their breasts and nipples, while some others may incidentally reveal when they turn around to tend to their errands that their dress is backless — entirely! Notably, the locals' choice of clothes reveal a mark on their bodies. An astute person will notice that there are four varieties — and a very astute (thirsty) person might notice that their fellow woodsfolk also have one of these somewhere on their body.

The folks dancing and selling their wares are all offering their energies to give thanks and ask for their god's patronage! The abstractions are all familiar — fertility, harvest, peace. Smalltalk makes them eager to chat and draw you into those festivities — including some ceremonial wax-dripping on the exposed parts of your body! In addition to dancing and the lighting of any number of candles, you may stumble upon fighting rings inspired by Terry Silver's basement club, where the locals brawl until they're bloody and unable to move.

CULT CONSCIOUSNESS:

Usually, the people of the town are very generous, but the atmosphere of the town this month is a little ... darker.

Word has spread around town that some of the void-touched chose to remain behind, and perceptions turn critical rather quickly. Even those who thought they might offer support in alternative ways, or who weren't quite up for making the trek for various valid reasons, will be seen as refusing to help the Duchess. The townspeople increasingly consider those who stayed behind to be a threat to their beloved matriarch.

This unpopularity has consequences, as the townspeople of Rubilykskoye not only see no problem with acting upon their everyday violent urges, but feel that it's their civic duty! Newcomers who are just settling in won't be spared either, as they're found guilty by association for emerging from the wood instead of staying within it to join up with the expedition team.

As a result, the void-touched who stay behind will be targeted for everyday acts of violence and intimidation: they may be attacked on their way to work, or at the tavern. One reckless individual tries to set the boarding house aflame. Players are welcome to invent and resolve their own conflicts here, but please make sure to reach out to a moderator if you feel it might be something that leads to meaningful consequences.

This behavior escalates over the course of the month, and by mid-month, the blacksmith has produced a number of stocks and human-sized cages to sit out in the town square. NPC townspeople will not hesitate to gang up on the void-touched, strip them, and throw them into these devices to 'learn a lesson' about being a part of this community. Similarly, the townspeople see no issue with sating their sexual urges with the folx who are caged, whether they're willing or not.

writer's block?

If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try: acquiring clothing or other inventory items, staking your claim on a bedroom, or wrassling with a local who's trying to throw that character into a cage!

Comments

[verbol]

[He can't remember the last time he fucked anything that wasn't his own fist, locked away in bitter, private resentment. This isn't like any fuck he's had before, though: he'd never fuck Joyce like this, brutal and painful as it is. He shouldn't be fucking Billy like this either (or at all, but that's a thought for later), but he can't stop.

He can't stop chasing the blood, can't stop his hips rutting down, chasing an orgasm that feels closer again, within his grasp. Can't get enough of the sounds Billy makes under him, how he bites back, how he lets Jim just bear down on him. He shouldn't, but he does. He shouldn't falter and groan low when Billy speaks, tells Jim he wants him inside, shouldn't think about sinking into him, shouldn't think about how easy it'd be to do it after he feels Billy come under him.

He swallows, feels iron run down his throat, hot and heady. He leans up on elbow, thumbing over Billy's chin, over his lips. He ruts down, doesn't really care if Billy's dick is oversensitive, not when he's finally come and Jim hasn't. ] Yeah? [He says, rough, wretched. He's not going to last long enough to do it, probably. Hopes, anyway. He pushes up, keeps his hand on Billy's throat, looser now, thumb against his bottom lip; rests on his knees, strips his own dick frantically, and then finally, finally comes sharp, fast, fingers twitching and clenching with the relief of it. His moan is raw, a howl; he spurts over his hand, over Billy's stomach, dick, his chest. The evil thing in him purrs in satisfaction over the sight, relishes in it.]

[otherbitches]

[ His body's been through torture, dragged over the coals of twisted desire. The orgasm is a relief even if it makes his body ache with aftershocks, and he's still desperately clinging to the man fucking against him, absent-minded little ah, ah, ah's as Hopper ruts single-mindedly against his tender dick. Endorphins are a fickle thing, and as they flood his exhausted body he twitches in pleasure, eyes glassy when Hopper rises, big hand still holding Billy down by the throat, thumb on his lip.

Hopper has a big dick. Billy feels heavy as he lays back, fully debauched, pleased like a big cat that got a meal, that's finishing cleaning the bones. His eyes stay on Hopper's dick even as the endorphins settle. He's transfixed, watches the head, angry and red, disappear between his grip, glossy from pre-cum and a bead of Billy's smeared on the head. It's big. It'd feel huge pressing against him, in him. ]

Holy shit, [ he mutters, cum splattering on his thighs, his dick, his chest. Hopper's mouth and chin are red, stomach tensing so pretty, jagged pulls of breath making his abs jump. ] Holy shit.

[ Holy shit. Billy's dick twitches against all odds. Hopper's chest is heaving, in time with Billy's. He wants to lean up and lick his neck, but, but, the blood no longer, it no longer... Billy leans up and hits Hopper across the face, fist closed but throw haphazard. ]

[verbol]

What the fuck, [he says as he's thrown a little off kilter, bowed to the side holding the dull ache of his cheek. It's funny how quickly the feeling of buzzing pleasure can dissipate, sure, but it's less funny to sober up while your cheek is throbbing. And it is sobering, much more than the final relief of release had been.

One second he's something else, the next he's holding his own face with a gnawing rage and being hit, doubled with the dawning horror of what he's done. He's angry at that too, he realises. The anger is slow, patient. It coils around the mortification, allows Jim the moments of self-disgust that has him backing off of Billy onto his own ass, shuffling away on his elbows, staring down at the mess they've - he's - made, like he can't believe his body is his own.

He looks up at Billy, though. Somehow finds the audacity to meet his eyes, to drag his gaze down to the tear on his shoulder, watches the blood try to keep oozing out. His neck throbs in sympathy; he can feel his own trying to crust over, to clot. He swallows, tastes penny-like copper instead as the blood stales. He opens his mouth to speak and finds that he can't. Doesn't want to. What the fuck is he supposed to say to the kid he's just raw-dogged in the middle of a forest? Like a goddamn animal? Like he's no better than any of the evil, sub-human people he put away once upon a time?

He can't even get out a sorry. He tries to say it, starts with a weak soh, but he's still hungry. His head can't quite focus on feeling it, easily distracted by the smell of blood and sex, sickly, horrible, still a little enticing.

He thinks Billy should have hit him harder. Done worse. Should do worse now, while Jim's distracted and weak, while he can't trust himself. ]

[otherbitches]

[ His fist stings, but he doesn't notice it yet. Hopper sinks backward, like his strings are cut. All that power is deflated, leaking out onto the dirt and leaves, mixing in with their blood and cum.

It's good Hopper falls back, or Billy would hit him again. He's never been one to hide his nudity, not in the school or pool showers or at the gym, but he's never had Hopper's cum on him in the pool showers. His hand swipes through it, and it's still warm. His hand flicks it away. It doesn't flick away.

What the fuck? Billy thinks, but he doesn't think, he projects, a new un-noticed ability in all of the sweaty fervor. It's not intentional, but it bubbles up, caustic and harsh as Billy's words and bile and red hot disgust mingle with the dregs of his desire.

It's a lot to project into the mind of the man he just drugged into fucking him, probably made worse when Billy's head throbs from the mental reverb, his hand going up fist in the curls Hopper had fisted too. ] Shit-shit-shit—

[verbol]

[It's the unexpectedness of it that throws Jim off. His feels like it expands to accommodate the impressions, the thoughts. Then rapidly shrinks, buzzes loud. What's worse is that for a brief, unholy second he thinks: this isn't Hargrove, and it blows out of him sharp like a bullet towards Billy. It's not an irrational thought to make: would Billy Hargrove drug Jim Hopper to fuck him, of all people? Would he want Jim? Would he be able to weasel into Jim's head?

But then Billy looks so damn pathetic. The disgust is - well. He gets it, even if some vain, prideful part of him doesn't like it. It makes sense. Jim gets it. He's an old fucking man and he's done the unthinkable, he's gone beyond too far. He looks - feels - genuine, and Jim, despite it all, he has a duty of fucking care here. His own spiral has to wait. Billy's just a fucking kid. ]

Okay, [he says, then tries again, more authoritative:] Okay.

[He shifts onto his knees, tries to make sure the distance isn't so much he can't reach Billy if he needs stop him hurting himself. He follows his own advice, then manages his old voice and tries to mould into the same tone he used to give El. Stern. Comforting. ] We're - I'm gonna need you to stop hauling at your hair, kid. C'mon. I'm gonna keep my distance, but I need you to look at me, okay? Take a deep breath with me.

[otherbitches]

[ The feedback isn't one-to-one, he can't know that Hopper thinks he's looks pathetic. Can guess it though, and that thought skitters over him, along with every other roiling thought. Just a ghost of one comes through: this isn't Hargrove. He can't even be sure that's a thought rattled loose from Hopper, when at his core, he wonders too. Something's been wrong with him since he woke up, since that thing weaseled into his brain, since he was born.

The clanging dies down and his hand kneads at his hair, the little pain pricks against hsi scalp feel electric, like maybe they'll wake him up. They don't. Glassy blue eyes swivel to Hopper, expression tight and frantic, confused too, like Hopper's speaking gibberish.

He breathes. Not because Hopper tells him to, but because he'll pass out if he doesn't take a long shuddering breath. ]

Fuck you, [ he spits out, vitriolic because it comes so easy. ] Well? Come on. Going to hit me back? [ Because Billy was the one who oozed over Hopper, all needy weeping dick and pliant begging. ]

[verbol]

No, I'm gonna goddamn hit you - calm down.

[Real fucking hypocritical of him, really. Calm down? Christ, he thinks he'd knock himself right out if he were in Billy's position. He lifts a hand, palm flat, like he's trying to calm down a scared dog. Just short of whispering it's alright, see? I'm not gonna hurt you lil guy. ]

Listen kid, [he says, as gentle as he can make his voice. ] I know you probably want me six feet away and then some, but I need to know you're not gonna hurt yourself or do anything else stupid. Nod if you're listening to me.

[otherbitches]

I'm not a fucking kid! [ That's a shout, loud and percussive, and Billy looks fucking furious, teeth bared, little lines of pink still staining between his teeth. He doesn't nod, but he does push himself upward onto legs that shake like a newborn foal's. He feels reborn, but it's not good, it doesn't feel any good.

Except for the coiling satiation that slinks deep inside of him, like maybe he won't notice it. Won't pay it any mind. That part liked it, feels full from the pulls of blood, the scraps of flesh. Some sort of monster waiting to scratch its way out of his skin. ]

What do I look like? I don't need your goddamn help. [ Even though he begged for it. Even though he looks how he looks. Weak-kneed, naked save for the jacket he's clutching in one hand. His skin is scratched red where Hopper grabbed him, where sticks and stones scraped him. His cock is soft, mingled cum drying tacky. ]

[verbol]

Watch your goddamn tone, [he says, sharp, cutting. It feels like himself, like how he was before he was back into fatherhood. It comes out of him fast, feels right and then feels wrong. Maybe this is always going to be his problem, never knowing how to curb his temper.

He thinks he's got a handle on it, and then, in the same tone: ] You look like a scared kid. Sit your damn ass down, Hargrove. You're not okay. [Jim's not okay either, but that's neither here nor there. He narrows his eyes, keeps his eyes up, up, up. Refuses to back down from Billy's petulant gaze, refuses to give him an inch (ha). He does look at Billy's shoulder though, and thinks he really should take a look at it. Find something to clean it up before it becomes infected, mottled.

He swallows thick, rubs his knuckles between his eyes.] Look, you either sit and let me make sure you're fine, or I make you sit down.

[otherbitches]

[ Hopper's voice deepens, thunders hard in Billy's ears. Unfortunately, that's fatherhood to Billy. Harsh, unyielding, fierce tempers that never lead anywhere good. Billy has a temper too, until it's beaten out of him. Then he wilts.

He doesn't sit. Hates the way Hopper's voice rattles through him, hates that it both pisses him off and makes his gut twist, a little twinge of heat. He's fucking gross. He must be. Just fucking gross. He can try to blame it on this place, what he swallowed, that now he knows what it feels like to have Hopper on top of him, knows what his cock feels like when it slides against his from nut to tip. Billy's wires are all fucking crossed. It's fucking gross. ]

I told you, I'm not a fucking kid! [ He's not. He's not a child, not some kid, not a fucking victim. ] Just say you think it was my fault. That's what you fucking think, isn't it? Get it over with! [ He's worked up enough to come closer, and he might never play college ball, but he's not short—but Hopper is fucking massive. Billy's head tilts up to snarl in his face. ]

[verbol]

[He's not really got the patience for this, he realises. Even after a year in Russia, of missing El and reasoning with himself that he could do and be better - something about Billy yelling in his face, losing control, sets his teeth on edge. He's not getting anywhere like this, so he goes for plan B.

He grabs Billy by his good shoulder, hauls him in close and wraps an arm around him, tight. Holds him still, even if he flails and bitches about it. ] Jesus Christ Hargorve, shut up for one second and listen. [His voice is low. It's almost kind, even if his voice is all roughed up still. ] Listen to me - you didn't wanna do it. You had to. I get it, okay? You did what you had to.

[He did. They did. He can overthink it later, whether or not it was a violation of himself or of Billy. Both. It's no one's fault. ] But you're hurt, and I have a fucking responsibility to make sure you make it out of this forest without gangrene or strep. Okay?

[otherbitches]

[ Hopper grabs him and it's the shock that allows him to get a grip, to pull Billy in close. He's expecting to be hit, for it to set him off, howling and angry, plate-breaking and furious, or the other option. It might be worse, when his dad gets in his face and he goes still as a deer waiting for the truck to overtake it.

Hopper doesn't hit him, just grips him tight, and once it registers, Billy shoves and pushes, flails and curses. Hopper's arms are steel beams, holding him in tight. ] That's not— [ How the world works. But Jim cuts him off, keeps him held tight, and Billy vibrates in poorly concealed anger.

Jim keeps talking. Billy's shoulders loosen, head tilting down and forehead resting on Hopper's bare shoulder. There's crusty blood on it, from where it dripped from the bite on his throat. Billy leans anyway. He's been wound tight for too long, Hopper's a strong, warm weight. A pillar. It's a reminder of his strength, a new sensation to tuck away to think over later. Hopper on top of him, under him, now pressed alongside him.

Billy's dick kicks against his thigh. He stoically ignores it. ]

I don't have fucking strep. It'll be fine. Unless you've got goddamned rabies. [ All mumbled against Hopper's collar bone. ]

[verbol]

[He's holding on real tight. Rubs a palm over the hard line of his shoulder muscle, down across his back. Soothing, or trying to be. He sighs, laughs despite himself. Ignores the twitch of Billy's dick, pretends like there's six layers of cloth between them. ] I dunno, might have. Not sure what they were feeding me in Russia, or what's in the fruit here.

[He waits a solid minute, maybe more. Waits till he's sure Billy's not going to bolt or kick him in the nads. Then he holds him back a little, takes a good look at the bite on his shoulder and feels his stomach turn. What's wretched is he's not sure if it's with rising bile or rising hunger. He swallows it down anyway, lifts a hand to skirt over the edges of it. ] I think you'll live - might take a couple weeks to heal up. [He pauses, glances at Billy. ] You know if there's somewhere near by? Town, a lake? Anywhere we can get you cleaned up and looked at?

[otherbitches]

[ Hopper's arms are iron-clad. It's like being held down by a bear, or strapped in tight to one of those rides on the boardwalk, that spin you around and around. It feels the same too, even though Billy's bare feet are glued to the forest floor. He still feels like he's spinning; a little less now with his forehead on Hopper's sticky skin.

He doesn't jerk away, doesn't kick or bite or flail when Hopper's grip loosens. It means they aren't pressed together anymore. It means when Billy's eyes flick up they linger on his bite. Where he mauled him, licked him, purred like a cat and nuzzled.

He jerks when Hopper's thumb skates against it. ] I think there's a town. That way. I— was going that way. [ Memory and time has been cruel in the forest. His mind feels jostled, whispers from other voices, ones he doesn't know. Not really. ] You look different.

[ What a stupid thing to say. But Hopper doesn't look like the man who pulled him over for speeding. Who clocked him at the quarry drinking the night before his eighteenth birthday. That man was just as tall, but thicker. Wider. Harsh but not hard. ] The red's got you, chief?

[verbol]

[He feels mostly gutted out when he’s himself. Like the Russians emptied him and meant to fill him up with something else, and then left him to rot. They didn’t, of course. He almost wishes they had; spent long nights wondering if it was worth the effort to fight or stay alive. He must look tired. He can feel the bruises under his eyes, can feel the way his skin clings to his bones in the places muscle hasn’t had a chance to form yet.

He hasn’t been this lithe or toned since he shipped off at eighteen. It doesn’t feel like him, but it is. He feels bare, a little wrong.

He shrugs. Flattens a hand at the base of Billy’s skull. Thumbs across the back of his neck, soothing. Trying to be anyway. ] Yeah. Been almost a year. [He sounds tired when he says it.

He pauses. Looks at Billy with a pained kind of look, like he already half-knows the answer to the question he wants to ask. ] Did - did they get that thing out of you? They get you home?

[otherbitches]

[ Jesus. Leaning in feels indulgent. Wrong. But the firm hand on the back of his skull feels good. Calming. He can't remember the last time someone touched him like this. Maybe when he was a kid and still gritting his teeth through little league. Any other time Neil got a hand on his neck, it squeezed or slid to his hair. Cut this shit, my son looks like a goddamn girl.

The words filter through, confusing and messy. A year. A year. He wants to know about Max, whether she kept her head down, if she avoided Neil's attention. If her mom caught heat. If Neil even gave a shit that Billy... But, a year, Russians, the Reds. What does he know? ] Yeah. They sure did.

[ He lies. He knows Hopper knows, because Billy's already told him. But he can't stand the idea of another go of Hopper's pity. ] Let's just go.

[verbol]

[It's like selective forgetting; a memory folded away as unpleasant, like the feeling of dry come on his skin, of knowing how Billy sounds when he comes apart under him. He's lying. Jim knows this. Maybe it's a test, really, to see if Billy was bullshitting him early. A sad-story honey trap to make Jim feel bad for him.

He almost wishes it was. He knows Billy's lying. He frowns. ] Was really hoping you were lying earlier. Don't lie now.

[He holds on for a moment longer though. Finds him scared that if he does let go then Billy might bolt, or evaporate into dust in front of him. He doesn't, of course. Jim pulls his arms back, bends down to grab the fabric - the jacket, whatever the hell it's supposed to be - and drapes it back over Billy's shoulders. Squares him up, nods. ] Yeah. Yeah okay. Let's try and find civilisation and some goddamn pants.

[otherbitches]

What do you want me to say? [ Billy snaps. He doesn't bolt, but his voice cracks at the edges. The jacket settles over his shoulder, irritating the wound Hopper's mouth worried into his skin, but he doesn't shake it off. It provides something, even if he feels like Pooh Bear in a flasher coat.

He does want pants. Even if it means walking barefoot in the forest next to the man he just came on. At least he has something to be angry about. ] What do you want me to say? 'I died, boo hoo?' They tried killing me, not saving me? There's bigger shit.

[verbol]

I don't know, [he admits, a little cowed. A little defeated. He doesn't know much of fucking anything right now, and he figures they both know that. What's the point of pretending anything, when Billy looks at him like he can see right through him. ] Anything that makes you sound like a person and not some shadow monster wearing some skin, I guess.

[Maybe that's too blunt. He sighs, gestures Billy to follow him. ] I'm convinced. There's bigger shit.

[He has no fucking idea where to walk. No idea where's North, no idea if the winding trees thin at any edge and lead to a town, or a city, or even a single little cabin. At least walking feels like doing something. Like making some kind of progress in a wade of shit; at least they know they can't eat anything in these woods. ]

[otherbitches]

[ It feels good for one long moment to cow Hopper. How can Hopper just fucking roll with this? Doesn't it make him want to peel his own skin off? A slippery, dark voice in Billy's head reminds him how needy he was, how swiftly he was willing to bend. Maybe that's why Hopper doesn't seem to fucking care. He wasn't the girl.

So it feels good to cow him, until Billy stiffens as if struck. ] I'm not. [ He's ready to spit again. ] I'm not that fucking thing, I'm—

[ Billy breathes through his fucking teeth, grinding them. Hopper's convinced, but for how long? They walk, and walk, and Billy doesn't say shit as the trees pass, become more trees. Same trees. Similar trees. He doesn't know this shit. Was never a boy scout. Knows the ocean, beaches, riptides. Cities, bars, fake IDs. This is not his domain. ]

It was this way. [ He says it abruptly. Breaks the chilly silence, preemptively cutting off any bullshit from Hopper. Their feet are going to be banged up to hell. ] It's just further.

[verbol]

[The dirt under his toes reminds him of summers in Hawkins, when his dad was sometimes in a better mood. When he'd be out in the yard, barefoot, helping his old man change a wheel or wash down the car, or holding a ladder steady while he painted. Before he started drinking, before, before -

It crusts between his toes, dry underthrow dragging and cutting into the soles of his feet. They walk and walk, the quiet is overwhelming, it's unnatural. There should be birds, he thinks. Sounds that the woods make, that he expects. It's just a vacuum around him, where the only thing that penetrates is the sound of their breathing, their footsteps.

Then Billy speaks and Jim almost collapses with the relief of it. ] Sure, [is what he says. Dumb. Lost. ] But I get the feeling we're going round in circles.

[He's watching the dirt. Has been watching the dirt. Recounting their tracks, looking for any that look like they might belong to someone else. Something else. The sun is going down, the light is going out - ] You any good at climbing? [It's out of the blue, a throwaway question. Jim might be better at climbing now that he's lost the weight, gained some muscle, and there's all these tall fucking trees that must have a view of something from the top of them. ]

[otherbitches]

We're not, [ Billy says. Not because he believes it, but because if they've really been out here going in circles, he might lose it. He feels too frayed. Too tense.

The question throws him. ] What?

Yeah. I guess. [ Billy's got arms: pumped iron, did push ups, ran for miles and miles, but that was to look good. Not really for tree climbing. ] When was the last time you climbed a tree?

[ When was the last time Billy climbed a fucking tree? It was probably a measly thing, some anemic city or playground tree he pressed his sneakers against and climbed. Billy was a wild boy, but he doesn't know forests. ]

[verbol]

I tried to climb out of a Russian prison, pretty sure I can do at least half a tree.

[Ha. Nice distraction from the nakedness. Don't think of tree bark on your dick, Jim! Don't think at all, in fact. ] I think we might see clearer with some height, is all.

[Logic feels meaningless here, actually, but he's going to use it anyway. He walks over to a tree, looks up, gauges the height. Looks at the bark, the trunk - it's going to hurt like a bitch, he wagers, with all this exposed flesh. He sighs, scrubs his hands over his head. ] I'll go up. Don't run off and get lost, Hargorve. I'm warning you.

[otherbitches]

[ He might be looking at Hopper like he's a fucking nutcase. Like he's going to climb up this fucking tree with this nuts out. Like he's going to be left with any dick at all (to haunt Billy with). ]

Yeah, yeah. The Russian prison. [ Billy should ask more questions. Maybe he will when he's not trying to avoid feeling the dried cum on his stomach. ]

Where you think I'm gonna fucking go? [ He snaps. Language, Billy! But he's not a complete fucking monster. He shrugs the thin coat off his shoulders, misses it immediately, but shoves it at Hopper. ] Put it over your front. Might not scrape your dick off.

[verbol]

Into the goddamn woods, I don't know.

[Run away, find some more Unholy Food to eat and start the process over again? More likely than Jim would like to believe!!] And - thanks. [It fits like a towel, more or less. He's not going to dwell on the thought of dick splinters, or Billy's concern for dick splinters - this is just a Guy Thing. Of course he'd be worried, no one wants Dick Splinters.

The trees are not prime climbing trees, but Jim finds one that has enough grooves that he can at least slot his toes in without having to scale it like a fucking spider-monkey. Predictably, it is not a pleasant climb. The bark hurts and scratches, and each grunt he utters as he goes up is followed by a hiss. By the time he's got hold of a thicker branch to pull himself up, he's sure his soles are bleeding slightly. One of his palms feels wet, too. Still, he climbs with determination. He's endured worse than a mean tree; will endure worse than this in the future. So he climbs, climbs, climbs and even when he almost slips and falls, he keeps going.

At the top, the air is thinner, but he can see -

He can see a clearing, some distance away. A break where the trees part into what looks like a town border. It's harder to see further than that. It's something, though. A direction, a path. Now all he has to do is get back down.]