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deepfrost-citadel · 9 months

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"You know," Xisuma said, peering cautiously over Cub's shoulder at the museum's latest addition, "When you said you wanted to show me a new exhibit, I wasn't expecting…" He trailed off.

Evil Xisuma glowered at him from inside their enclosure.

"…This."

To say Evil X looked a little miffed about the situation would be an understatement. At least Cub had done a nice job decorating, Xisuma thought, between the blackstone and crimson wood, Evil X looked right at home - if they weren't sitting grumpily in their 2-by-1 lava pool, surrounded by the mangled remains of whatever Cub had put in there for enrichment.

"Surprise!" Cub grinned, doing jazz hands at the enclosure, "I know what you might be thinking-"

Xisuma doubted that somehow.

"- 'Cub, Evil Xisuma hasn't done anything this season! They aren't a historic artefact! They shouldn't be in a museum!' But!" Cub wagged a finger triumphantly, "They are important to the history of Hermitcraft as a whole. So really, if you think about it, they definitely belong in a museum."

"… Okay?"

"Glad we're on the same page."

Xisuma wasn't sure if anyone was ever on the same page as Cub. Except maybe Scar.

"Now! As you can see, I've been decorating their enclosure, trying to add some interactive elements for guests and such." Cub pointed towards a line of redstone lamps at the top of Evil Xisuma's enclosure, "These show you how much electricity they're generating when they do their lightning hands thing. I'll be honest with you, it's broken a few times already so it's still a work in progress-"

"… Is that what all the lightning rods are for?" Xisuma frowned, eyeing the entirely lightning rod-ed ceiling.

"It is indeed!" Cub said, ignoring the twinge of concern in Xisuma's voice, "Well, a little. Mostly it's a safety thing, it wouldn't be good to have guests being electrocuted, now would it?"

"I suppose not… And it definitely works?"

"Oh yeah, it's been very thoroughly tested. Hey, Evil Xisuma," Cub walked up to the glass and tapped on it a few times, much to Xisuma's silent horror, "Wanna show X how the lightning rods work?"

In response, Evil Xisuma stuck their middle finger up at him and yelled something muffled to almost inaudibility that sounded a little like: "When I get out of here, I'm going to rip your head off and use it as a coffee mug, you stupid e-boy twink."

The pair on the other side of the glass blinked.

"… That's a no then." Cub turned back to Xisuma, "They do this a lot."

"They certainly do," Xisuma nodded faintly.

"You can probably tell the glass is uh... Mostly noise-cancelling, had to install that because Helsknight is in the next enclosure over and he's still hibernating. You know how Wels gets when you wake him up early, don't wanna find out how that guy is."

"… Of course," Xisuma sighed, pinching the nose bridge of his helmet, "Do I want to know how you got hold of those two?"

Cub laughed in the slightly unhinged way that gave Xisuma visions of Cub spending several weeks toying with the evil hermits as he hunted them for sport, "Nah man, it's not an interesting story."

Somehow, Xisuma doubted that.

"Anyway," Cub said, changing the topic before Xisuma could ask if he knew there was still someone's blood on his left sleeve, "What I really called you for is that I need an Evil Xisuma expert, and you're the man to ask about all things Evil Xisuma."

"Except for Evil Xisuma."

"Except for Evil Xisuma, yes." Cub nodded sagely, "So. Obviously I wanna make sure everything is nice for our new residents, give them plenty of enrichment and all that, but it hasn't been working out so far."

"I can see that."

"Soo… Any suggestions? What kind of thing does Evil X like? Food? Blocks? I dunno, fake derpcoin or something?"

Xisuma hummed, tilting his head in thought as he gazed at Evil Xisuma, who had clambered out of the lava pool to press their hands against the glass and give Xisuma the saddest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes their LED screen could muster (which, admittedly, were very sad and pathetic) in a silent plea to not leave them here with that madman, they'll be good for realsies this time they promise-

"Well," Xisuma said, turning to Cub, "They like to knit, so maybe they'd like some wool… Oh! And if you can find any old Wormman merch, they'll love that too."

Evil Xisuma's head hit the glass with a despairing thunk.

#hermitcraft #xisuma #cubfan135 #evil xisuma #my writing #dont ask me what possessed me to write this the answer is i have no idea #anyway the museum continues to contain both normal things and creatures

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beeloovedd · 1 month

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Here me out, ghoul horns

Phantoms are like a lava lamp that move

Cumulus's are like a sky with clouds that slowly move through out the day

Cirrus's are long, sharp and black but have small swirls like the wind carved into them

Mountain has antlers with tree bark like carvings on them

Dews are dead dried up once colorful coral now white and one of them broken

Rains are dark blue sea glass

Swiss has normal horns the same color as his body due to him being half human and half ghoul

Aroura's have small specks of glitter on them

Sunnys always have a slight sunlight like glow on them

Aether has bigger and curvier horns with stars and star carvings on them

Thank you for coming to today's thoughts

🫶

#dewdrop ghoul #phantom ghoul #mountain ghoul #cirrus ghoulette #cumulus ghoulette #Aroura Ghoulette #swiss ghoul #Rain Ghoul #Aether Ghoul

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angel-with-paper-wings · 2 months

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The Magician’s Prelude

This is a gift for @erik-carierre posted with permission! Many thanks for your feedback and support!!

Summary: Erik’s morning routine while working as a magician in Russia prior to his recruitment by Nadir. Based on Kay!Erik.

Cover art and title by @erik-carierre

Content warnings: PTSD-like trauma flashbacks, bloody/gory imagery, slightly graphic descriptions of violence, body negativity (Erik is an angsty teenager)

Blood. There is always blood.

It oozes around the shards of mirror buried in the skin of my hands…it drips in thick crimson blobs onto the bundle of golden fur…it spatters in hot torrents against my chest and sticks to the open buttons of my shirt…

And it is there again that night. In the rooftop garden, I stand paralyzed staring at the gap in the crumbled balustrade. My chest feels hollow—I cannot breathe, I cannot scream—all I can do is watch as the gap yawns before me, pulling me closer. Against my will, I peer over the edge to view the sight I know is there.

I wish I could blink. I long for even the tiniest respite from what lay before me, but all I can do is look. Her body is small amidst the shattered rubble, her thin delicate limbs laying at odd angles, her soft barley hair matted with flecks of blood and gore. And her eyes…her pale eyes snuffed of all fire that had once bubbled inside of her like smoldering lava. They stare blankly up at my unmasked face, looking but not seeing.

All she ever wanted was to look at me…and now all I can do is look. Look at what I have done.

I awakened with a jolt, my eyes flying open and clenching the thin woolen blanket to my chest. One skeletal hand flew up to my face, and only once I felt the smooth hardness of the mask did I relax. After a moment of composure, I opened my aching jaw and heaved out a sigh of annoyance. The nightmares were as persistent as they had always been.

I sat up in bed and fumbled to light the oil lamp on the nightstand. I had no difficulty getting prepared in complete darkness, but I simply preferred not to after a night of haunting visions. A small clock beside the lamp told me it was early in the morning—earlier than I typically rose, but I was already resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be sleeping any more if I tried.

I flung the woolen blanket to the side and felt the floor creak beneath my bare feet. The inn’s modest wooden room was comfortable enough for my needs: a bed with sheets, a chamber pot, a pitcher and washbasin, and most valuable of all, privacy. There had been a mirror, but I removed it soon after arriving.

I yanked off my nightshirt, letting the room’s warm air graze the scars slashed across my back. Russia had intriguingly hot summers; the books I had read as a boy only bothered to describe the harshness of the winter months, so I confess to being slightly bemused upon my arrival three years ago to a city with a climate only moderately cooler than the one I had left behind in Italy.

Her twisted body flashed before me again, the broken masonry wet and crimson from the split in her skull… I closed my eyes and angrily shoved the image back into the shadows of my mind. No. No more thoughts of that place. I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and dunked in a bar of perfumed soap. Once it had worked up a lather, I soaked a clean cloth and derisively began to wash myself.

The dawn of my body’s maturity had proven to be a dismal affair. It took my bones the full extent of my nineteen years to finally cease their growing, leaving me wretchedly gaunt and pitifully covered in pasty yellow skin. I had the strength of a man twice my age and triple my weight, but my frame still refused to resemble anything but a corpse. In my frustration, I scrubbed harder at my own flesh, attempting to cleanse it of its rotten color. But it remained as it always had, pulled tight over my arms to display veins and tendons, with the only thickness found in the old silvery scars adorning my wrists and hands.

Once I had scoured myself raw, I slung the cloth over the rack of the washstand to dry and stared down into the bottom of the basin. Silence screamed in my ears and my stomach twisted with dread. I turned my head to glance at the door behind me; the lock was securely in place, but the familiar prickle of eyes stung my skin all the same.

With trembling fingers, I removed the mask. Warm air rolled across my bare skin like a caress, or what I imagined a caress to feel like. I set the white sculpted shard aside on the stand, and after a heavy sigh, I bent over the basin and scooped handfuls of water over my head, scrubbing the soap’s lather deep into my thick black waves of hair. Droplets ran down the edges of my face, as if even they were afraid to touch the horror that was there. But I forced them to touch it, rubbing the water into the cracks and distorted furrows of my skin, smearing it around the protruding bones and into my eyes’ sunken pits. I braced myself with a grimace before carefully wiping the dried mucus away from the edge of the hole that was my nose.

The torture ended when I finally buried my repulsiveness in a towel. I held the soft cloth against my face as my other hand reached for the mask, slipping it back into place with a relieved sigh. I squeezed my dark hair free of water, then picked up a comb and worked it through the curls until they attained sufficient softness. I laid the towel and comb to the side and stepped over to the tiny wardrobe, withdrawing one of many black satin shirts and slipping it on. After dressing myself, I left my room and slinked down the stairs as a soundless shadow.

The empty tavern on the first floor simmered with the savory scent of shchi. This early in the morning, the only other soul awake was the ancient innkeeper preparing the first meal of the day. I scattered a handful of kopecks onto the bar, letting the clattering sound echo into the kitchen. A minute later, the shawled woman doddered forward and set a steaming bowl of cabbage soup and a chunk of crusty bread before me. No words or glances were exchanged, no questions were asked, as was our routine.

I suspected she found me strange—indeed, I have yet to encounter a soul who didn’t—but she seemed to tolerate me well enough. After her defective coal stove found itself repaired the day following my arrival, I was able to convince her to let me use her inn’s far room as a flat for several months. Unlike my fellow tenants, I paid precisely on time, never returned drunk or belligerent, and there was no risk of women being snuck into my bed. After all, what woman would be desperate enough to lay with a corpse, regardless of the payment offered to her?

With this bitterness lingering in my head, I ate my meal quickly and slipped out into the morning’s haze. It was a rare day; the air was pleasantly cool and the clouds had chosen to don a color besides their usual dismal grey. I assured myself that no one was watching before I lifted my head to admire the way the branches of trees cast their dark silhouettes against the paling sky.

The western quarter of Nizhny Novgorod was largely deserted, making it easy to dart through the city’s shadows unseen in my black attire. Once the day hit its sweltering peak, the cobbled streets would resemble the Volga river with rushing currents of wealthy merchants and colorful travelers from Europe and India and Persia. By that time, I would be waiting for them in my magician’s tent, where they would be shown more wonders than their feeble minds could possibly comprehend.

I rounded a corner and walked along the silent boulevard, until the trees bordering the street gave way to a wrought-iron fence. Beyond the fence, majestically imposing against the northwest horizon, stood the blinding white structure of the Spassky Cathedral. Pink wisps of sunrise stretched across the sky and barely kissed the golden spire atop its great dark cupola.

As I so often did on clear mornings like this one, I felt compelled to stop and gaze up at the splendid piece of architecture. My eyes danced over its fine pillars and elegant façade, admiring the expert carving and delighting in the exquisite use of symmetry and proportion. I had snuck inside once in the dead of night to glimpse its interior—what beauty! It lacked the scale of greater cathedrals, but in golden grandeur it did not disappoint.

There was a time when I had imagined building such great works myself. Beneath the creaky bed back at the inn lay several journals filled with sketches of the spectacular monuments I saw when I closed my eyes. The pages overflowed with details of magnificent marble façades and great towering pavilions, gilded figures in copper and bronze, ornate mosaics with details that dazzled the imagination. My architectural creations would be shrines of worship, not to any one god but to all forces that stirred the spirit and awakened man’s deepest emotions—art, geometry, magic, and most of all music. Oh, how I missed music.

Often this fantasy crossed my mind, and with every day and every kopeck in my purse, it seemed less and less like a child’s dream. After all, I was still very much in my youth…perhaps that day was still to come.

Once I had admired all I could bear, I tucked my masked face back down between my narrow shoulders and trudged off through the neighborhood of shops and teahouses. A smattering of humans were beginning to converge on the street that I walked: small groups of traders bickering in foreign tongues and leading wooden carts filled with wares to sell. Like me, they trampled up the soggy road to the shadow of the large red and yellow stone building, beyond which lay a great courtyard overlooking the bank of the Oka. It was here in the summer months that the great Markaryev Fair was held, where tradesmen and entertainers alike earned their gold.

I proceeded underneath the building’s archway and entered the city’s courtyard. Vendors were already busy erecting tents and unloading their goods in designated sections around the square. Past cotton bales and crates of tea and spices, I spotted the oval shape of the familiar black yurt tucked in its corner, untouched as always. I never worried about the tent’s safety during my absence, for a rumor of a deadly curse had found its way amongst the traders that effectively warded off potential burglars.

As I walked, a warm breeze wafted through the market’s open air, carrying a strain of musical notes to my ears. My heart jumped and I whipped my head towards the sound. On the other side of the courtyard sauntered a muzhik fiddler, beard scraggly and legs stumbling as if drunk, the bow screeching as it was dragged across the rusty strings. A couple passing by threw a few coins into the hat that lay at his feet.

Under the mask, my lips pulled back in a snarl. How dare these fools reward such a tuneless, insolent mockery of music! That drunken bastard did not deserve the right to place his filthy hands on an instrument and spoil its sacred beauty for the whole city to hear. My bony form seethed beneath its black clothing, but I successfully fought back my fervid rage and stomped off towards the yurt. I clenched my shaking hands at my sides, imagining the feeling of the man’s throat beneath my fingers; a sharp snap from his neck and those dreadful notes would finally fall silent.

A crunch against the stones. The heavy tumble of rubble against the ground dampens the sound of her skull cracking open…

I entered the dark tent and pulled the fabric flaps closed behind me, blessedly muffling the horrid noises. A deep breath steadied my hands, and with practiced precision I navigated the small space and lit candles tucked in little red lanterns, banishing the darkness and revealing the blood-red of the yurt’s interior. Swooping red curtains hung from the concave ceiling; samples of shyrdak hangings formed the walls, weaving in swirls of black and gold into the otherwise scarlet room. I kicked off my shoes and felt the luxurious softness of the thick Persian rugs buried beneath velvet cushions.

I ignited the small charcoal stove to boil water in the samovar for tea. While it brewed, I reclined back against the cushions and turned my attention to the long wooden box tucked near the back of the tent: the trick casket. My fingers deftly pranced over the mechanism to open the box, and I withdrew the materials for my magician’s performance: decks of cards, stacks of silver coins, hand-carved trick dice. I arranged them all in neat rows upon the central rug with a small grin.

I struck another match and lit a few sticks of incense to flood the space with their heady, sweet fragrance. I had learned over time that it was beneficial for the minds of my audience to be stripped of their defenses—that way, they found my tricks more dazzling and dropped more rubles into my bony hand. Sometimes this state of enchantment would make them too bold, and bring out their insatiable nature that they otherwise hid from their gods during prayer in the temples and cathedrals. They became ravenous, foolishly curious; they would grope for my mask and demand to see what lay beneath…

All she wanted was to see me.

My hands curled upon themselves, extinguishing the match’s flame between my fingertips. The wretched visions played through my mind again and numbed the burn on my skin.

A mirror shard clenched between the tips of tweezers…bloody hands furiously digging at the grassy dirt…the heavy clunk of a knife’s hilt as the belt dropped to the floor… It was difficult to understand why I remembered certain details so clearly, while others merely faded into murky shadows.

Over the course of three years, the girl’s living face had become fuzzy in my memory. Indeed, I had only dared to look at her a handful of times while living with the master stonemason. Every time I did, my chest would fill with an uncomfortable constricting sensation, and I would be forced to look away or else stop breathing altogether. Her eyes had a heat that scorched all the way to my soul. She was fire—bold, passionate, all-consuming—and I knew better than to risk being burned. Or perhaps I was afraid.

But it was the moment I finally gave her what she pleaded for, the moment I ripped off the mask—her expression of pure horror, anguish and primal fear, grief for love she had never truly felt. That image would always remain in my memory perfectly in focus.

I slowly opened my hand, and I stared down at the two spots of black soot left upon the pale skin of my thumb and forefinger. Temporary scars, easily washed away. That’s all these dreams were to me…but still the pain they carried hurt more than the deep wounds left on my body.

With a harsh huff, I flicked the remnants of the match away and reached over to the samovar to pour myself a cup of tea. The earthy liquid seared down my throat and revived my senses, kicking the brooding memories away in favor of my present enterprise. Outside my tent, I heard the growing clamour of the fair coming to life—my audience awaited me.

A familiar pang prodded at my heart. Was this all? Would this pitiful life, shrouded away in a performer’s tent, forever be my purpose? In my heart, I longed to use my skills to create the majesty that filled my mind: grand palaces, ingenious machines, symphonies without equal. If I had to be confined to mindless magic tricks for greedy imbeciles, then they would be the best magic tricks ever conceived. In a way, I thought to myself scornfully, I had not left that traveling fair…perhaps I never would. But at least things were different now. I was my own master, and no one would ever cage me again.

As the incense swirled its sickly-sweet aroma through the air, I slipped further back into my tent and drew a sheer red curtain across my masked form. I laid back in my trick coffin and heard several soft clicks as the mechanism closed the lid and cloaked me in darkness—the one place I have ever truly belonged.

Long ago, I had accepted my place as prince of darkness, and I would reign over my realm with proud finesse. So let them in now, the merchants and peasants from all corners of the world. Let them think they are the kings and I am their fool. Let them believe they know what it is like to be afraid.

Let them in, and let them look.

#poto #phantom of the opera #susan kay phantom #my writing #fanfiction #poto fanfiction #erik poto #erik phantom

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ohraicodoll · 1 year

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Moments in Domesticity HC

Joel Miller x Feral Reader x Ellie The Last of Us (Show/Game) Feral Reader Masterlist Anon Requests: --“I'm loving all the domestic joel x red x Ellie content. So can we get an insight into how red and joel deal with ellies mood swings? I feel like after settling into Jackson, she will ease into teenage normalcy. I can see red trying to be helpful but just ends up in sleeping in the stables 💀💀💀“ --“Have you thought of red and joel and ellie in jackson 5 years later? like just domestic stuff. they’re all integrated and jackson has been their home for awhile...” --“I NEED to know how Joel would feel/act if red actually left them to go back to the wild, maybe in a jealous fit or something else. I’m begging u” Here’s a long list of different moments! I’ll be touching on stuff that happens after the first couple of years in a different fic, but these touch on stuff that don’t need full fics!

Despite Joel’s concerns, Ellie does make friends though it takes a while. The older kids are only required to go to a few classes a day and then have various jobs they’re suppose to do and she does bond with some of the other teens who think she’s cool. She’s different and when she tells them she’s killed Clickers and survived a Bloater, it cements her as a bad ass amongst them.

Ellie is quiet those first few weeks. They don’t push it but it’s the start of Red leaving little trinkets for her. A lava lamp she found, posters and books and sketch supplies.

Red knows that Ellie is suspicious of the story Joel told her. Sometimes when the girl pokes, tentatively asks her about the hospital, she glosses over it. Says that she had been knocked out and didn’t come to until the “raiders” were attacking and she helped Joel fight their way out. They just had to get Ellie out. The truth is in there, under the blurry faux details, and it makes it easier to lie.

There will be a day where she knows Ellie will push for the truth and all she can do is prepare for it.

Defending Red helps draw Ellie out of her shell. That protective streak over both of them. More than trinkets and Joel trying to use board games and small tokens of the past, Ellie’s need to feel useful and protective is what does the trick.

Spending time in Jackson with the animals and food and all the new helps as well.

Jesse is older and has taken more of a leadership position over the teens and it helps that when he’s on patrol and Joel is in the group, the older man gives him pointers. Joel notices sometimes how he stares at Ellie and keeps an eye on the boy.

He ribs Ellie about it over the next year or so until it’s broken to him that it’s not boys his kid is into, but girls. Which makes him suspicious of every teenage girl that was ever over in his house.

Joel finds his footing easier than them both. He becomes a valuable member of the patrols and goes back to helping with construction, the skills coming back easily. Though sometimes it’s hard watching Tommy have the life he thought he would have. Married with a baby on the way. His little brother is now the one in charge though he still can’t measure the 2x4′s worth shit and sometimes is dumb as bricks. It hurts but he’s proud of him.

It helps when he comes back home and Ellie is complaining about dumb homework at the table and Red is sitting on the countertop in the kitchen, trying to read the faded instructions on the pasta box. He’s needed in other ways.

There are mornings where Joel and Red get to sleep in. Those are usually the mornings where she is woken up by the slight push of the door opening and then a heavy pouncing on top of her before getting covered in slobber. Joel grunts and curses, covering his face with the comforter and Red tries to duck away from dog breath as Ellie cusses out, “Oh shit, Bowie no! Shit shit, sorry!”

“Ellie, what the hell did we say about bringing the dogs in?” He’s not as angry as he wants it to be, just annoyed as the heavy 80lb dog jumps around on the bed then flops down in between them like a second child. Bowie grins, trying to lick Joel, leash still attached.

“I was just walking him and forgot something in my room and needed to come inside real quick to get it but then he looked like he wanted some water and-”

Red only chuckles and whistles before signaling the dog off the bed, Bowie doing so immediately.

Waking up to dog kisses isn’t the worst. It happens more times than they can count, especially when Ellie is walking the puppies.

Swimming lessons start once the weather warms up. Tommy joins them to show where their usual swimming spot is. Him and Red sit a little higher up on a ridge edge and watch as Joel tries to show Ellie how to move her arms and feet. She clings to him like a toddler even though the water isn’t that deep and sometimes he has to support her stomach to keep her afloat while she gets it.

Tommy makes jokes from above at Joel’s expense, grinning at the comfort of hanging out with his brother and his kid again. That is until Red shoves him off the ridge and he hits the water face first.

If he still wasn’t slightly terrified of her, he’d splash her back.

There are progressive steps forward and some steps back. Joel and Ellie argue, both pushing and testing their boundaries with each other. Red and Joel fight, one not use to people caring about her and the other sometimes too protective. Ellie and Red fight, one desperately clinging to the other in fear of being left and the other worried the closeness will only hurt her. No one knows how to properly handle their emotions.

They always make up. A tentative offer to take Ellie out to practice shooting the rifle. Joel trailing his fingers through Red’s loose hair, kissing the crown of her head softly. A book of pressed flowers given on the porch, the book Red has been keeping in her bag for years. The first pages are her journal from the beginning of the Outbreak before it stops. All peace offerings.

Joel is a helicopter parent. When Ellie begins group patrols, he knows exactly who is leading the group and interrogates them after to make sure nothing went wrong and she is doing what she’s supposed to. He knows when she starts hanging out with new friends, like Jesse and Dina and Cat. Ellie is starting to go full-teenager so he tries not to let her know he’s doing it.

Red catches Ellie making out with her first girlfriend Mia in her room. She doesn’t know what to do, only freezes and backs away slowly then walks back down the stairs. She doesn’t tell Joel.

When Ellie starts going over to friends houses, staying over often or going to hangouts, they relish in having their own space for the first time in a long while. Joel has every intention of fucking Red against every surface and wall, but only manages the couch before someone knocks on the front door. Tommy thinks Joel is going to shoot him for even asking if he can do a night patrol. Red may well murder him if Joel doesn’t.

Joel knows he has to take his time with Red, but patience isn’t a strong suit of his. He missteps a lot, tripping on invisible landmines. Her parents. Her sister. Harry. Those years after the Outbreak but before he met her. She freezes up sometimes and he knows the landmine has gone up in his face.

But she sometimes she drops fragments. Mentions that her father died in the initial chaos though there is nothing sad in her voice. Her mother’s is always mentioned in disdain. That things between her and Harry had been complicated in the year or so before the Outbreak. That things were tense with her family. The way she clams up when asked if she was with a group is it’s own hint. He doesn’t push, can only apologize and soothe the shrapnel damage of his mistake.

There are days when Ellie is just in a mood. She’s snappy, easily irritable, gets sent home early from work duty for behavior (which in turn means Joel gets after her) leading to her being a ball of teenage rage at everyone. Red stays in the kennels those days because it’s easier dealing with a group of dogs than an angry teenager. Jamie, the head vet she sometimes works with, says it’s all part of raising a teenager.

They skip the monthly Jackson gatherings often as their time in town stretches on, though Tommy does bug them to go and actually be a part of the community. Red isn’t keen, especially after her dress experience with Maria, but Joel makes sure to stay at her side every time after. He doesn’t admit that he doesn’t mind going if only because he gets to stand with her, his arms around her waist and swaying slightly to the music, and making sure every man in town knows she’s his.

He doesn’t remember how the conversation leads to Red at the construction site. They’re working and the mention of her name comes up then her last name and instinctively, without thinking, Joel mentions it’s Miller. He can see Tommy’s head whip towards him, but neither of them say anything.

When Joel finally fixes the guitar, he plays for them. His heart is in his throat but he tries to play it off as casually as he can. Ellie’s been in a mood and thank god, he sees her loosen up afterwards. He promises to start teaching her and once a week they have guitar lessons on the porch. Those are Red’s favorite nights.

They’re having family dinner at Tommy’s one evening when Maria asks teasingly if she needs to get Red some birth control. She freezes and it’s like she’s a trapped animal, breath shaky and panic in her eyes, before biting out a simple, “No.” It’s a little awkward and they try to play it off, moving on. That night he can see the nail gouges in her thighs from her own hands. Joel doesn’t know the full story, but knows her inability to have kids isn’t a natural occurrence. He’s seen the ugly scar on her lower abdomen enough times.

Outbreak day is a bad day for everyone. The streets are quiet, everyone’s faces drawn. The town hosts a yearly memorial to honor the day and world they lost, but they don’t go. It’s the first year Joel doesn’t drink himself dumb if only because he doesn’t want to freak Ellie out. The teenager doesn’t have a tie to the day, being born long after. But she knows about Sarah and knows both her parental figures faced something horrific. So she does what any kid does and tries to lighten the mood. They play every board game in the house and Ellie picks the best puns and gently asks what Sarah’s favorite things were. It helps a little.

Some nights they get more bits of the lighter Red. They play the record player constantly but some days, the days when maybe one of them finds a new couple of vinyls, they’ll have a night where they each take turns playing their favorite. Red and Joel will drink a bit (and maybe let Ellie have some) and the teenager will grab Red’s hands and force her to dance with her. Joel soaks in the sound of their laughter and it’s like Red is so many years younger. He takes turns with each other them, spinning Ellie around and teaching her to two-step and dancing with his partner to the slower songs. He loves her through rage and violence, but he is at her mercy when she lets him have the fragile bits of herself underneath it all.

Once upon a time, giving someone that kind of control over him would have terrified him but he hands himself over willingly to her now .

Ellie’s first birthday in Jackson is small but they’re still getting use to things. No one knows the exact day she was born, but she knows the day that was on her papers in FEDRA school so they go with that. Joel gets food from the Food Hall and Red tries very very hard to follow a brownie recipe from one of the ladies in the shop. Joel plays her something on the guitar and, in true to them fashion, her gifts are a new revolver, another pun book (though unfortunately not by Wil Livingston) and the news that Brownie the puppy is hers to keep in the kennels.

Red sings for them for the first time that night.

Joel makes plans for a bigger birthday next year.

Danger still exists. It never goes away and Joel wonders if he doesn’t want it to, really. There’s still a thrill when his brother grabs them both to deal with raiders. Seeing that sharpness in Red come alive and the lack of hesitation as she pulls the trigger or draws her bow. The baring of her teeth when she stabs her knife.

He’s seen her tear through a whole group to save him during a patrol. Seen her rip out a man’s throat with her teeth to get to him when they had him trapped. Joel wonders at the broken part of him that enjoys it, seeing her covered in blood and completely feral and knowing it was all for him.

Every time after, clean or tinged red, he loses himself and fucks her so hard his name is a chorus from her lips and there are gouges down his back from her nails. They were still monsters deep down but it didn’t feel like such an awful thing anymore.

It’s roughly a year and a half later when Ellie comes home with a large bandage on arm. Red is the one to see it first and after being assured she wasn’t injured, the outline of a large tattoo is unveiled, covering the bite there.

She gets it, gets the fear of Ellie having to hide her arm because they’re afraid someone will shoot their kid. But seeing the tattoo churns something in her gut because it means Ellie’s letting go of that part of her identity as “the immune girl”. And while it should mean something good, that she was moving on, she knows hidden rage when she sees it and it’s deep in the teenage girl. It’s less a letting go and more the identity being ripped away from her.

It takes a bit to calm Joel down. He knows it was Ellie’s friend Cat that did the tattoo and the dad part of him rears up, telling her he doesn’t like her hanging out with that girl. It’s fear, they all know it, because the tattoo also means she showed Cat her arm.

It’s a rough week. Ellie moves into the converted garage behind the house.

Red feels unequipped to handle Joel’s fear and Ellie’s rage and all she can do is be there for both. She helps Ellie to decorate the garage, the same as when they first moved into the house, silently there at her side. At night, she prods and pushes Joel until he takes his emotions out on her with bruising fingers and rough kisses. Violence and sex are a comfort she knows well.

Joel and Ellie make up in their own awkward tentative way. Reminders about guitar lessons and dinner plans, requests to help fix the door and some of the walls in the garage. Red wonders if raising a teenager is like this for everyone.

Red goes missing for two days. Both of them panic and raise hell, searching everywhere for her. Ellie’s never seen Joel so out of control. He interrogates every patrolman at the gate roughly and it takes Tommy intervening to keep him from beating the shit out of a few.

She checked out a horse and left, her bag missing from the first floor room. Ellie feels a knot in her throat and her mind plays on repeat “everyone always leaves” but Joel is pushing her bag into her hands and they off to the stables. Tommy and Maria don’t try to stop them. Red’s already been gone a whole day.

They search for her beyond the walls, calling out for her and checking their usual spots. The worst comes to mind of her getting hurt, getting taken by raiders, getting bit by infected. Because in Joel’s mind, Red would never willingly up and leave without a word. He can’t let that possibility sink in. Even if she did, he’d find her and drag her back to him.

They find her that evening.

Her eyes are puffy and red and there are scratches all over her arms and hands. They look self-inflicted. She looks as wild as the first day they met her, huddled at the base of a large tree and hair all over the place. Joel approaches her cautiously, like he knows to when she’s more animal than woman, but it’s Ellie that goes straight up to her and hugs her around her waist without hesitating. Because she knows why.

The book of pressed flowers Red had given her had journal entries that stopped right before the flowers began. The last entry had a date and the words “me, Harry, and Annie are going on a run tomorrow” in it and Ellie knows.

Like a wounded animal, Red tried to hide her pain. The nightmares and the screams and the sounds in her head became too much and she had to get away. Sometimes all she could hear was her sister’s screams. But they dim in Ellie’s embrace and she lets herself come to the surface enough to hug her back and then lean into Joel when he joins them, kissing her head and holding them tightly.

They'd always find her and protect her when she needed to shatter.

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