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scully-xo · 2 years

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Quantum Files part 6 of 7

Fictober, part 6 / My version of fictober: No beta readers. Quick drafts. Incomplete, though outlined. Next chapter to follow in a few days. Tagging @today-in-fic @xffictober2022

AO3 Link

X-Files/Quantum Leap crossover, rated T, words 2920/10854, Canon Divergence, Pining, Slow Burn (kind of), Angst

Chapter: 1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5

https://youtu.be/y9Hqn8x6a8s / ‘Songbird’ by Fleetwood Mac

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Chapter 6

It came after 6 days. The last leap. Not a week! Mulder wanted to yell. You cheated me out of a day! But, of course, no one was listening.

With each unsuccessful leap home, three altogether, Scully drew inside herself. The few smiles he’d wrangled out of her in their time together were long gone. She didn’t ask him questions, nor did she answer his when he attempted to change the subject. It was like she only had energy to exist in his space while she was here. To sit silently and watch the world around them. He caught her looking at him, like she wanted to memorize his face. It was something he recognized, because he was trying to do it himself.

Their connection was tenuous - always had been. It began in person, a few brief moments he cherished, but it had been forged from light, her projected image shining out at him. Now she flickered, crackled - tiny lightning-bolts arcing through her façade. Or was it all in his head? Had his visions of her become more real than her manifestations? Or with each leap, was he surely, inevitably, fraying the threads that let her appear to him? Would the day come that he wouldn’t see her at all? Or would he continue like normal, talking to a figment that truly wasn’t there?

He was in a semi, driving along a deserted highway. Tall green redwoods on either side told him he was on the north-west coast. Gray skies and rain-blackened asphalt beneath told him it was spring.

He’d never driven one of these giant trucks, but like everything else he knew how to do when he leaped into a body, it felt completely natural. His gnarled, wrinkled hands knew which levers to push to activate the windshield wipers. His feet moved on the accelerator with just enough force to drive smoothly. Fog began to move over the road, wispy apparitions that looked like they were materializing from the trees themselves. He slowed, applying precise pressure to the brakes, and scanned the road ahead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed Scully appear. Her hair was escaping from the ponytail she wore, crimson tendrils cascading over her neck. She never looked more tired. Hopefully this would be one of the last times she would appear to him, and things would go back to how they were… before.

“Just… be careful, Mulder.”

He didn’t turn his head, heeding her advice and keeping his eyes peeled on the road ahead. Pushing the brake a little bit more, he slowed to a speed that would surely aggravate anyone traveling behind him. So far, though, it was deserted.

He reached his hand to the console between them. The barrier was nothing compared to the one that separated them by an unknown distance and time. Somehow, he didn’t have to look to sense that she put her hand near his, her pinkie intersecting with his own.

“Don’t do anything heroic. Stick to the plan.”

He turned then, for a brief second, and gave her a tight smile. “Me? Heroic. Think you have the wrong guy, Scully.”

He heard her sigh, then everything was quiet. The rain began to spatter on the car, dotting the windshield with translucent spheres in an unpredictable pattern. Like his leaps. Moving from one person to another. No determining factor except they were all normal folk, people who had bad things happen to them. Moments in time that created a forked path. The raindrops made rivulets against the glass, then were washed away by the wipers, only to start over. Again and again.

Sometimes, he wouldn’t know what decision he would have to make. But today, the moment seemed obvious. Ahead of him, the bright lights of another semi shone against the mist, fuzzy and indistinct. Unmistakable, though, in the long stretch of road.

Mulder braked, and the truck hissed and slowed as he pulled over to the shoulder of the deserted highway. He switched on the hazard lights. Turned to Scully, her outline indistinct like the fog that swarmed outside the cab.

“Remember, Mulder.” Her eyes pleaded with him and then she was gone.

He stared at the passenger seat for a few seconds, repeating her words to him like a mantra. Of course, he’d remember. How could he not? Switching on the CB radio, he turned the dial to the channel that most drivers used to communicate with each other, and spoke into the mike.

“Any trouble over there? Over.”

Only the crackle of static. But underneath it, oh so quiet, he thought he heard a voice.

Hanging up the mike, Mulder checked the side-mirror for any traffic and jumped down to the road, his hand grasping familiar handholds so he wouldn’t stumble. The truck ahead of him was carrying oil or natural gas, its rotund trailer appearing in the mist as he walked forward. The gravel underneath his cowboy boots crunched, and he hunched into his jean jacket and ratty ballcap. Did the previous driver continue on, concerned with his own payload?

As the other semi solidified as he grew closer, his own truck all but disappeared. One last look behind him, one more hesitation. I have to do this right. He knocked, a loud double rap that shattered the foggy silence around him. No response.

“Hey, need any help in there?” he shouted, stepping onto the running board and peering into the cab. The windows were rolled up against the rain. Wiping the moisture from the window and cupping his hands around his eyes, he looked closer, but all he saw was the faint outline of seats in the darkness. No one slumped over the steering wheel, or against the window. Maybe… maybe this wasn’t what he was supposed to fix?

As he stepped down, though, he heard something. The same noise he’d heard on the radio, but louder. A voice, high-pitched and muffled. He couldn’t hear what they said, but he knew the tone. Fear. Desperation.

Maybe this was where he was supposed to be.

There was a switchblade sheathed on his belt. He retrieved it and flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. Testing the handle of the door to the sleeper of the cab, finding it unlocked, he eased it open silently.

“Hey, what the fuck?” a gruff voice from deep inside the cab yelled out.

The driver scrambled for something, but Mulder didn’t wait. He lept into the cab and tackled him against the opposite door. Thank god, the body he inhabited, despite his age, was fit and strong. Wiry muscle and adrenaline fueling his effort to hold him down, to pin his arms behind his back and press his face against the seat.

And then Mulder saw her.

A girl, no more than 14. Julie. Was it her? Or had he forgotten her face?

She was huddled at the far end of the sleeper, holding onto her left arm. Her face was bloodied, her bottom lip swollen. Green eyes, red-rimmed and furious, shone out at him over an oversized sweatshirt. Tattered jeans and tennis shoes curled up against her chest.

He saw red; his own on rage drowning out every other thought. When he slammed the driver against the wall, heedless of whatever metal handles or knobs dug into the other man’s face, he squealed in pain.

“This ain’t what it looks like. She’s my niece.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mulder gripped the knife. He knew what to do with it. This person he inhabited must have been a hunter. Slide the knife right here, that was the kidney. Or maybe a bit lower, the stomach, to make it painful. No less than he deserved.

“Do it.” a hoarse voice commanded.

Mulder looked back. Julie, or not-Julie, watched from the shadows, back straight and a dangerous glint in her eyes. But her hand trembled as she held onto her injured arm. Even if she could take some satisfaction from it, he couldn’t kill this guy in front of her. More violence in an already violent life. He had a choice, and he would make the right one this time. For her. What he needed to do was make sure she would be okay. That she would be safe. That she couldn’t disappear again. Run off into the darkness, only to find someone else to victimize her.

He should radio the police. Get this fucker put away so he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. But who knew how long he’d have to stay, needing to be a witness for a crime the person who’s body he inhabited wouldn’t remember?

There was only one thing to do. Mulder cold-cocked the guy, leaving him unconscious on the narrow floor of the sleeper cab. He turned to Julie.

“I’m gonna help you, okay? Take you somewhere safe.”

“You’re not gonna kill him?”

“I’m gonna radio some guys I know, they’ll take him to the police–”

“No police.”

Mulder sat on the seat, keeping his distance. Nodded. “No police. But you need that arm checked out.”

Fear flashed through her eyes for a second, disappearing under her defiant mask. “No hospital.”

“Where can I take you?”

Her jaw clenched. “Who the fuck are you? How do I know you’re not just like him?”

“Name’s Mulder.” Fuck. That wasn’t the name of this guy. Too late. He sighed, then snapped his blade closed and handed it to her.

“What kind of name’s Mulder?” She took the knife, drawing her hand along the pearl-inlay. Fumbling with the switch, she opened it with an awkward grip..

He shrugged.

“That guy has a gun. I think I want that instead.” She held the knife at him, though it wavered in her hand.

Directing him under the driver’s seat, he found not only a rifle but a semi-automatic pistol, still in its holster. He unlatched it, and made sure the safety was on before handing it to her. She didn’t seem to notice, her shoulders relaxing visibly as she held onto the cold steel.

“Where can I take you?” Mulder asked. “Is there someone who can help you?”

She bit her lip, looked past him at the unconscious truck driver lying on the floor of the sleeper. Then her gaze shifted to Mulder. “I was… I was going to my aunt’s. She’s a vet tech. She…”

“Tell me where. I’ll take you.”

Julie nodded, scrambling off the bed of the sleeper and out of the cab. She stumbled as she jumped down, awkwardly holding onto the weapon with the hand of her injured arm, but Mulder didn’t intervene, just watched to make sure she wouldn’t hurt herself. He followed at a safe distance, pointing towards his truck to the rear of this one. The mist had cleared somewhat, in the few, short minutes that he’d found this girl. Ahead and behind them his truck appeared, a ghostly apparition in the fog. It’s black paint and shining grille a beacon, pulling them forward.

When they were settled inside, Julie sitting behind him awkwardly pointing the gun, he radioed the people that this body knew. Told them what they’d find here on the stretch of deserted road. Mulder had no doubt that the silence and whispered curses on the other end meant bad things for the other driver. If he was killed or badly beaten, at least it wasn’t in front of the girl.

When he revved the engine and left the tanker truck behind them, they both breathed easier. Like another chapter was ahead, and surely it was a better one.

Julie scrounged up food from the mini-fridge he had stashed in the back. The gun laid beside her, only a few inches from her hands at all times, while she got crumbs all over the upholstery. He passed back his thermos, which he tasted and thought only had coffee in it. The radio blared, tuned to a country station and he switched to it one they both preferred: classic rock. Though maybe it wasn’t so classic for her. Mulder hummed along and drummed his fingers over the steering wheel and attempted to make small talk. To find out about her. Her glare caught him in the rear-view mirror, and he stopped pretending he could be more than a temporary blip in her life.

And beside him in the passenger seat, Scully appeared. Her image blinked furiously, then solidified, though the edges of her body reminded him of the fog he was quickly leaving behind.

“Mulder.”

He didn’t look at her. He knew what she was going to say.

“You have to turn around, Mulder.”

He shook his head, enough so she would know that he was answering, but hopefully not enough that Julie would find anything amiss.

“You’re going to miss the window, Mulder. Please. She’s safe now. That’s-that’s what it means.”

He turned his head slightly, pleading with his eyes, and he wished he hadn’t. Hands twisted in her lap, Scully was chewing on her lower lip and watching him with an agonized expression. She knew as well as he did what he was going to do.

It meant he was gone. It meant he’d be in this body forever, that the trucker would be, essentially, dead. It would mean he’d never get his answers. Would never know the touch of Scully’s hand, the feel of her lips on his own. He’d never get to live his life by her side. It’s what he wanted. More than anything. Now that it was torn from his grasp, that he would never have it, that idea solidified in his mind, as real as the trees that grew beside him. As real as the road under his truck’s tires. A fact. But just as true as knowing she was the person he was meant to love, was that he would never get to show her.

But giving all of that up would mean Julie was safe. It was a choice he’d make over and over again.

“Please, Mulder.”

The song changed, and Mulder sang along, glancing at Scully as long as the road allowed, and as long as he could stand to see her face.

“And the songbirds are singing, like they know the score… And I love you, I love you, I love you like never before.”

“Mulder–” Scully reached out and the absence of her hand moved against his. The heat from the sun, blazing through the trees as they drove from the mist, warmed his hand, and he imagined it’s how she would feel.

“And I wish you all the love in the world but most of all, I wish it from myself.”

Julie didn’t interrupt, or tell him to stop. Perhaps she liked the song. Perhaps she heard the tremor of emotion in his voice as he said the words to the woman who she didn’t see.

“Mulder, I know you can’t do anything else. I dreaded the day this would happen. Knew it would, eventually. And maybe that’s why I fell in love with you, too.” Her voice faded, becoming thready and weak. “I’ll– I’ll do what I can, but…”

“I know.”

A four-way came up, and he stopped. Julie was asleep in the back. Facing Scully, he reached his hand up to cup her face. She leaned into it, and he imagined he could feel her light.

“It was enough, you know. Meeting you. If this is all it can be, it’s enough.” Mulder caressed his thumb over her cheeks. It was only electromagnetic radiation. And maybe not even that. Chemicals firing in his brain. Making him pretend to see an illusion.

“I should have–”

“No, Scully. You did what you could. I need– I need you to move on. Don’t blame yourself. Please. I need to know you’re out there living. It’s the only thing that’ll keep me going.”

“If I know you’re out there, Mulder. I can find you. I can.”

“I know you can’t see me. But look at me. I’m at least sixty. How old are you now? Whatever time this is?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. I don’t want that for you.”

“Goddamned self-sacrificing asshole.” She smiled sadly, and pulled away, looking out the window. “I’ll stay as long as I can but… I might disappear without any warning.”

“I’ll take it.”

Her eyes were wet, but her face dry, as she looked at him. “Goodbye, Mulder.”

“Bye, Scully.”

Their hands found each other, and at least they occupied the same space if they couldn’t touch.

She stayed for thirty minutes, and then she was gone. Eyes burning with unshed tears, he looked straight ahead, pretending that there was a ghost in the seat next to him. Julie was quiet, and he was thankful.

He drove for another two hours. Julie got to her aunt’s house. Not Julie - Vicky. Her aunt screamed her real name as she ran up to the girl stumbling out of his truck and wrapped her in a giant hug. Mulder looked away at that, blinking back tears. He should have smiled at his success, but he felt empty.

Mulder got back on the highway. He knew where he was supposed to take his cargo. He would be penalized for being late. His heart ached.

Pulling into a truck stop despite his tardiness, he laid on the bed in the back of his cab. The light of dawn shone on the horizon before his mind was empty enough to fall asleep.

He didn’t dream.

#xf fanfic #msr #mulder and scully #scully x mulder #canon divergence #pre-series #quantum leap #crossover #quantum files #txf #the x-files #xfiles #pining #angst #last chapter to come on tuesday #thanks for reading everyone its been a wild ride!

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duskyashe · 9 months

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CAMP NANO DAY 26

[First] [Previous] [AO3]

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Mischief, better known as Stiles now, had had an overall uneventful past five and a half years since he Wished Peter Hale back into full health. Sure, there'd been some... Challenges with trying to incorporate a werewolf, two humans, and a never-before-seen alpha werepolar bear as a single, cohesive unit, especially when said alpha werepolar bear was the youngest of the entire unit and was an actual child who was trying to lay claim to and manage a territory that had previously been held by a respectably sized werewolf pack with only a single beta of his own. So, overall not the easiest thing to do, but, well. They had managed pretty well thus far, and things had gotten much easier after the first two years had gone by without the Stilinski Pack ("Sleuth!" "We are not calling ourselves a sleuth, Mischief, and that is final." "Uuuughh. Fine.") giving a single inch in terms of territory disputes. It had gotten to the point that Stiles was finally able to just focus on normal teenager things, like worrying about his only friend in the entire school.

Isaac Lahey was one of three kids his age in the entire school that wasn't either a complete douche canoe or a simple minded sycophant, but Erica Reyes couldn't get through a simple conversation with him without nearly passing out from blushing too much, and Vernon Boyd didn't talk to anyone, so that left Isaac. Whom Stiles was about ninety-three percent certain was being abused at home, though he only had circumstantial evidence that could, sadly, be easily written off as the results of simple teenaged clumsiness and a natural result of playing a contact sport. It frustrated the sixteen year old to no end that, even in the off season for lacrosse, he just didn't have enough evidence to prove his friend was in an unsafe environment at home. Even when he's suspiciously absent the day after the results of the first big exam after the school year began were sent home. Stiles had seen the way Isaac had paled when he'd seen his grade the day before, the way his friend seemed to shut down the closer the end of the school day came. By the time school ended, Isaac had practically gone comatose and had to basically be guided onto his bus. When Isaac hadn't shown up to first period that morning, Stiles had been concerned but hadn't really thought too much about it, he'd been late to school before, after all. But now it was lunch time, and Stiles hadn't seen hide nor hair of his friend since just after school the day before, and he was getting genuinely worried for him.

Stiles had almost made up his mind to text his dad about a possible missing person's case when suddenly a lunch tray was set down next to his own. Startled out of his thoughts, Stiles looked up, hoping beyond hope that it was just Isaac, but his senses caught up to him as his new table companion sat down. "Stilinski," Jackson Whittemore said, looking everywhere but at Stiles, and lacking the usual hostility he held towards him.

"Whittemore," he replied, more than a little confused and extremely wary of what the head douche canoe wanted from him.

"I noticed Lahey has been absent today," the blond remarked idly as he started digging into his food, acting as though him sitting amicably with Stiles wasn't the absolute weirdest thing to happen in years.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Jackson and started on his own food. "Yeah, I noticed," Stiles agreed hesitantly, honestly thrown by the blond's shift in attitude. He took a barely noticeable sniff and caught the scent of deep frustration and fury nearly masked by some rather potent determination and Jackson's expensive cologne.

Jackson hummed around a mouthful before swallowing. "Y'know, I heard some awfully suspicious sounds coming from across the street last night," he offered as he glanced at Stiles from the corner of his eye. "Figured you'd like to know."

Taking another discreet sniff, Stiles could smell Jackson's honesty and his helplessness. Jackson was desperate to help Isaac, Stiles suddenly realized. He made a split second decision and pulled out his phone.

Me: is papa working tonight?

Mom: He's planning on it, why?

Me: got a new project im gonna be working on, he might wanna claim plausible deniability

Mom: Stiles...

Me: nothing outright illegal! Or that would get me in trouble!

Me: i think.

Me: would plotting to get a friend out of a dangerous situation with a potentially former enemy count as something that would get me in trouble?

Mom: I'll make sure Peter's home...

Me: thanks mama, youre the best!

"My house, after school, bring Danny and any evidence you have," Stiles said putting his phone away and going back to his lunch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jackson relax as a brief whiff of relief entered the blond's scent. "My dad's at work tonight, so anything not outright illegal is fair game. We're breaking Isaac out of there as soon as we have something substantial we can give my dad."

Jackson pocketed his apple and grabbed his mostly empty lunch tray before standing up. "Deal, Stilinski. See you after school. Later, loser," he called as he walked away, though the insult was almost... Teasing, in a way.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out, Jackass!" Stiles playfully called back. Jackson gave him the bird over his shoulder which almost sent Stiles laughing hysterically. Who knew the thing they needed to get over their childhood animosity of each other was a shared goal and a common enemy that didn't have anything to do with lacrosse?

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It took the three of them just over three weeks to finally gather enough evidence of abuse to compile the legally (and mostly legally) obtained stuff for easier access. Danny had been put in charge of anything and everything technological in origin, up to and including (at his own instance) taping into Isaac's attendance record for the current school year. ("Transcribing more than this year's attendance records would look extremely suspicious. We aren't far enough into the school year for it to be too weird for at least Stiles to have been keeping track of Isaac's attendance since school started." "Okay, that's fair, but why do we need to back track his attendance for this year in the first place, isn't what we have already between us enough?" "We're establishing a pattern, which will hopefully lead the authorities to look deeper into his previous attendance records as well as security footage for further evidence that we have no way of legally obtaining on our own." "Alright, that's fair...") Jackson was keeping track of any beatings that got loud enough for him to hear, recording start times, end times, and any points where it seemed things got particularly violent. He did this both on paper and with a high end microphone set up in his window, which faced the Lahey household, recording as much of the audio as possible. Stiles, on the other hand, was keeping track of any and all injuries, their locations, their severity, as well as when they showed up and how fast they seemed to be healing, if they had the opportunity to heal at all. ("I'm telling you, his hands are constantly banged up, and they're definitely not healing!" "Okay, okay, I believe you, I'm sorry I said anything!")

It was early Saturday morning when Stiles entered the sheriff's department with his two new best friends and a thumb drive metaphorically burning a hole in his pocket. "Hey, Tara! Is Dad in his office?" Stiles called out with a wave.

The deputy looked up from her desk with a grin. "Hey yourself, Stiles. Yeah, he's in there, grumbling about all the veggies you and your mom packed into his lunch box again. Don't worry, he's only had a single donut this week, we've been keeping track for you."

Stiles grinned. "You're the best, Tara. You guys are getting a whole apple pie next month as a thank you. Keep up the good work, deputies!" He called as he guided Jackson and Danny toward the sheriff's office, getting various greetings and cheers in response. Catching the confused looks from the duo, Stiles answered their unasked question in a quieter voice. "Dad's got bad cholesterol, but he doesn't appreciate the efforts Mom and I have been going through to decrease his risk factors and likes to sneak junk food as much as possible. Last year, I asked his deputies to help keep an eye on Dad's diet cheating, and I give them a pie when I feel like they've been doing a particularly good job at it. Since it's fall, and since deputy Danvers is allergic to pumpkin, they're getting apple this month."

Jackson made a noise of understanding while Danny nodded in thought. "My parents might have some recipes that you guys could try that are lower on cholesterol and taste really delicious, I could ask them if you'd like," he offered.

Stiles couldn't help but agree. He'd seen Danny's homemade lunches, but more importantly, he'd smelled them, and he could say without a shadow of a doubt that his papa would have a hard time saying no to anything the Mahealani's gave them to try.

Soon enough, though, they'd made it to the office. Stiles knocked a pattern, specifically chosen to let his dad know this wasn't just a social visit without letting others know anything was amiss. Without waiting for an answer, Stiles swung the door open with gusto and exclaimed, "Hey, there, Daddio! How's work been treating you?" He walked in and gestured the other two in to sit down. Once they were in, he shut the door and immediately got down to business. "We have cause to believe that Isaac Lahey is being abused, almost nightly, by his father," he said, tossing the thumb drive onto his father's desk before walking over to lean against the wall with his arms crossed against his chest.

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Noah blinked at his son and the two mostly familiar faces sitting across from him before looking down at the thumb drive sitting oh so innocently on his desk and sighed. "Please tell me there's nothing on here that will force me to arrest one or all of you?"

Stiles scoffed in mock offense. "Excuse you, sir, do you know who I am?"

"Yeah, my son," Noah deadpanned, already reaching out for the thumb drive. All jokes aside, he knew his son well enough to know that if he was giving him the thumb drive at the office, it was at least mostly clean and wouldn't criminally incriminate any of the three teenagers currently in his office. Now, if he'd handed it to him at home... All bets were off.

As his son played up his spluttering, Noah inserted the drive into his work desktop and waited for it to load, taking the time to really observe the two young men sitting across from him. It took him a moment to place them as Jackson Whittemore and Danny Mahealani, the new captain and the goalie for the school's lacrosse team. They were also, according to his wife, kids who Stiles used to barely tolerate but was now spending a lot of time with, usually at their house where Peter helped her keep an eye on them. Danny's name and face didn't bring anything specific to mind, other than Stiles telling the pack about how cool Danny was for being openly out of the closet, how everyone at school loved Danny, and that Danny's biggest flaw was the fact that he was best friends with Jackson Whittemore. Jackson, on the other hand, did bring a few things to mind, such as who his adoptive parents were, who his biological parents were, as well as what had happened to them. But it was Jackson's face that was drawing Noah up short. Because he recognized some of those features from his own time in high school, the name of the person they reminded him of was right on the tip of his tongue, but before he could figure it out, the thumb drive had loaded and his attention was pulled to the potential new case the three teens had given him, and all thoughts of who Jackson reminded him of were pushed to the back of his mind.

Oh well. If it was important, it'd come back to him eventually, right?

"Okay, now do the three of you want to walk me through what you've got here?" Noah asked, turning his monitor so that they'd all be able to see. The shared looks of grim determination had Noah stealing himself for the worst. If Stiles wasn't smirking in triumph at finally having something to give him concerning Isaac's home situation, then things had to be pretty bad. Either way, if the law can help, then I'll make sure that kid gets as much help as legally possible, Noah vowed to himself.

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TADA! I finally got chapter three of The Polar Bear Necessities written! And yes, there's quite a bit of a time skip between chapter two and chapter three, but for clarity's sake, the events of canon aren't "due" to start until the end of the winter holidays, which are a few months away. It's my understanding that, in canon, Laura was lured back almost exactly six years after the fire, give or take a few weeks, and the fire canonically happened at the beginning of January, so that's what I'm basing my timeline off of (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

I will have you all know, this chapter almost didn't happen because the chapter I was planning on writing today is the one that'll be written next lol it was as I was planning the now fifth chapter that I realized I needed a chapter between chapter two and the chapter I was originally planning on writing today, so I instead wrote this one and all the plotting and brainstorming that I did originally has been set aside for chapter four! (⁠^⁠～⁠^⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ I'm just glad I caught it while I was still brainstorming lol if I had already been writing, then I'd have been screwed (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠)

I hope the interaction between Jackson and Stiles was believable, I have this personal headcanon that, by the time they'd reached high school, 98% of Jackson's problem with Stiles was his over-the-top crush on Lydia as well as his constant defense of Scott McCall (I'm not that big of a Scott McCall fan), so in a world where Stiles had no real reason to befriend Scott while at the hospital, and Claudia was there to help curb the worst of his crush on Lydia, Jackson and Stiles would only be antagonistic towards each other out of habit more than anything else. At least, that's my take on it ╮⁠(⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠╭

Have a good morning/day/night!

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inyoursheets · 2 years

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BEFORE THE BEGINNING

hi yes it's been eons soz

BEFORE THE BEGINNING — three sentences (or more) about something that happened before the plot of my current project

before the beginning of tangerine beth actually took off her wedding for the first time ever to see how it’d feel 💍🍊 and then somehow ended up fucking the grocery store manager idk

make me cry by forcing me to write

#fully cheating here bc im working this into the next chapter sshh #but this one was haunting me #can't believe i only need to fill like. one more gap in this chapter and then it's done #aside from the necessary panicking of course!#and i wanna go through it again at some point #when it's 'done'#to see what else i wanna add bc i feel like im rushing some of this #i say like it hasn't been over a YEAR since the last update omg #what a MESS #anyways!! ive really thought about it but this is the only (currently) pre-canon detail that sparks joy for me #like beth was hanging onto that ring for too long. easier to fend off the pta's questions etc #but then she finally goes through with it and takes it off for one (1) grocery shop #and then here we are #anyways!! sorry this took forever thank you for sending #ask #ask games #sothischickshe #my fic

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loganlermanstanaccount · 11 months

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Show me where it hurts (part 1)

Miguel O'Hara x spiderwoman!reader

(AO3 Mirror), Part 2, Main Masterlist

summary: Miguel's acting weird, and you make it your mission to find out exactly what's going on.

warnings: no warnings for this chap, pg-13, swearing and canon level violence. smut next chapter xoxo

a/n: this is a combination of 2 asks and this post I saw on here a while ago: flirty/ snarky fem reader, Miguel during a ""rut"" (I don't know if it counts as a rut really, but its to do with his animal instincts/DNA) and Lyla playing matchmaker. I had so much fun writing this, enjoy :D

(i wrote this pre seeing spiderverse 2, so i think characterisation is a little off, esp for Lyla, apologies! I'll fix it in my upcoming fics)

edit: I use the term "bichita" which I have been informed can be read not as I intended in Spanish. I'm not a native speaker so I want to apologise in advance. I'm doing more research for my future fics and leaving this up as a testament to my stupidity. Spanish speakers, feel free to correct me / clown my ass in the comments. My bad guys :(

wc: 3.6k

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You think Miguel is avoiding you.

One of your closest friends, giving you the runaround for months, it seems. Calling the two of you close friends is a little extreme, sure. You've only known O'Hara for two years, and been in love with him for slightly less than that, thank you very much. And yes, he refuses to call you by anything but your last name. And the last time you saw him he wouldn't so much as look at you, but that was besides the point.

"..the point," You tell Lyla, in between exasperated bites of cereal, "... is that aren't elite forces of spiderpeople supposed to, you know, have some spiderpeople kick ass once in a while? And where exactly is our fearless leader? I haven't seen O'Hara's scary ass in weeks, and I'm starting to miss it."

She gives you a look, one that says this isn't what I'm programmed for , but you pointedly ignore it.

"His ass, by the way." You clarify. "I very specifically miss his ass. Remind me to get his routine. I know girls that would kill for…"

"How the fuck did you get in here?" A voice croaks. You turn behind you and see Miguel, not in his suit, but wrapped up in a blanket like he's just woken up. And he looks rough, like a train ran him over on the way here: puffy eyes, splotchy skin, tension kneaded into his brow.

"Wow." Your spoon drops into the milk. "You look like shit.."

He furrows his brow even deeper, if that was possible. " Mierda. You shouldn't be here."

"This isn't quite the welcome party I was expecting, man. I'm the only one to actually turn up to one of your meetings, and this is what I get?"

"I thought I told Lyla to cancel," He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Cancel? Since when do you miss a chance to talk about rules and protocol?"

"I don't have time for this-"

"-and I'm not leaving without a proper explanation. Is everything okay?"

"It's actually way worse now you're here." He deadpans.

"Haha ." You turn to Lyla. "You drop everything to travel halfway across the multiverse and this asshole won't even say thanks."

"Thanks, but this asshole needs you to leave. Now."

This is the most he's spoken to you in forever, and you hate that you like it. You just want his attention, however it comes. If that means dragging this out so maybe he acknowledges you, touches you, looks at you - then so be it. Squinting, you get closer to him. You scan his face for anything to latch onto. You put a hand on his shoulder, still searching.

"You sure you're alright? You know you can tell me if-"

"Si, si." He grits his teeth, looking away. "M'just fine. I'll explain…. later."

"...because I'm your right hand man?" You grin, poking at his brow. "Stop frowning so much Miguel, you're gonna ruin that pretty face of yours."

He flushes, nervous, and swats you away. "-what? N-No. You're not my right hand man and I like my face just the way it is. Now, leave. "

Making your way to the door, you tap your nose teasingly. "You know where to find me!"

When the door closes with a click, you make your way down the corridor, and stop in your tracks when you hear it. It's muffled, but with the strain of your supersenses you can make out Miguel's voice just beyond the wall.

"I just…. don't want her to see me like this… Lyla, it's not happening… I can't tell her…." Tell her what, exactly?

Resolutely, you make up your mind. Miguel O'Hara's got a secret. And before you leave for home, you're gonna do everything in your God given power to wear him down and find out.

~~~

Despite his insistence otherwise, you liked to think of yourself as O'Hara's right hand man - and most of the other spiderpeople thought so too. You were one of the very first he recruited, after crash landing onto your earth like a spiderman-shaped meteor; the two of you were inseparable. Miguel was stubborn and headstrong and thought he was right all the time. Infuriatingly, he was, but that didn't stop you from telling him to get his head out of his own ass when his ego grew too big.

He was different around you, you think. Softer, sometimes. Harsher, other times. He told you what you needed to hear whether you wanted to or not; the result of mutual respect and agonising persistence. Slowly, you had chipped away his hard exterior; the one he built because he thought he needed to push people away. In that regard, you were similar, but this need manifested in you like a weed - an awful, awful compulsion to joke and laugh at your own expense, to keep others at an arm's length. You had spent your whole life picking and pruning away at yourself, looking for perfection. Even after all this, multiverse-hopping and fighting alongside people who were the closest things you had to friends , it wasn't enough. There was still something missing.

Ironically, Miguel had told you something similar the one of the last times you had spoken. You had fucked up a mission, well and truly. In the aftermath, all you can remember is coming back to base, limping on Jessica's arm.

"She's hurt!" She cries out. Lyla materialises and leads you both to the med bay, inspecting any visible wounds. There's a deep laceration, sticky with blood, at the base of your stomach. You shift onto the bed and hiss with pain.

Miguel is quick to follow, face twisted with confusion, pain, sadness. Even in your haze, you feel the tension radiating off of him as he drags over a cart of supplies.

"What happened?" He strains.

"I don't even… it happened so fast. We got ambushed, and all of a sudden I'm on the ground. I wasn't thinking straight and… " She sobs. "...she jumped in front of me. God, she saved my life-"

"-wasn't your fault, Jess." You croak, trying to sit up. "And I'm fine. Just need to walk it off…"

"Sit, bichita," His nickname makes you frown, despite yourself, and you settle back down. "Lyla, what's the damage?"

Your vision goes spotty, and Lyla's voice barely registers. All you can feel is searing pain in your side, but Miguel is warm, oh so warm. You clutch his arms, and force him to look you in the eye.

"M'ready, Miguel." He nods weakly, but you don't think he understands. "I mean it . I can lead, j-just need another chance and I won't let you down… Jess, tell him that I can-"

"It's okay. I believe you. You just need to relax for me, hmm?" He clutches at your hand, tight, and it's like you're the only two people in the world. "You did good. I promise."

Faintly, you nod. You feel a pinch at your arm, and Jessica's there, with an empty vial of something in her hands. The pain washes over you, and you fight to keep your eyes open. In those last few moments of light, you swear you feel a shaky kiss pressed to your temple.

"Sleep, mi bichito amoroso. Sleep."

When you come to, you're still in the medbay, moonlight streaming through. Well, artificial moonlight. Time worked a little differently here, something Miguel explained to you a while ago - God knows what about dilation and quantum interference. It makes you smile now, remembering his frustration as he tried to explain to no avail. You were the only spiderman this side of the multiverse without a degree in quantum tech, you had said with a lopsided smile.

You move to sit, and pain shoots up your side. Groaning, you push through it, determined to get out of this bed and find the others. As if on cue, Miguel walks in, almost leaping towards you.

"You should… mierda ! You should be resting in bed."

You pout as you stumble into his chest. He hooks an arm around you and leads you back. You clamber in, sighing. "M'fine, O'Hara."

"Your guts were halfway out of your body less than 24 hours ago. So stay put, or you might give me another heart attack."

You scoff, incredulous. "You were worried?"

He shrugs. " 'Course I was."

"Why? You know I'm practically indestructible." You give him a shit eating grin, and poke the frown appearing at his brow. He doesn't bat you away like he usually does.

"Famous last words, bichita." He sighs. You can't speak a lick of Spanish, but you know he only calls you that word when you've frustrated him to his limit. So you take it as a win, for now.

He drops into the chair next to you. "How are you feeling?"

"Just peachy, dollface." You wink, and he doesn't so much as groan.

"I'm being serious. You went through something pretty traumatic…"

"You want me to tell you it hurts, so, so bad, daddy? " You pout and flutter your eyelashes mockingly. Miguel shifts in his seat, unable to make eye contact.

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, O'Hara? I feel fine. And in a couple of days, I'll feel even better, and I'll be up and about. I can finish what we started and-"

"-no, absolutely not." He frowns. "A couple of days? I'm sending you home-"

"You can't do that! On whose fucking authority?"

"On the authority of you almost fucking died ! Keeping you safe is our priority right now-"

"God, is this my punishment? This is a low blow, O'Hara. You know how hard I've worked for this: months of surveillance and intel a-and I did everything by the book, just like you told me to." You croak. "I fucked up . I know that, and I feel terrible. Give me a chance to make things right; that's all I'm asking. I can do it, I know it. "

He looks at you for a moment, something heavy in his expression. His face contorted, he strips you down to the bone with just his gaze. His voice is so quiet, you almost miss it.

"....you're still trying to prove yourself, aren't you?"

Honestly, it catches you off guard. You don't even know what the fuck that means, let alone why he said it.

"I don't… I d-don't…?"

"They all love you. Respect you. More than me I think, sometimes." He chuckles at that. "You're good at what you do. The best . What else are you trying to prove? What else do you need ?"

Your throat goes dry. You couldn't speak if you wanted to.

"I'm not punishing you. You made a mistake, but you don't need to be crucified for it. I just want to keep you safe. I can't… we can't lose you."

"Miguel-"

"-this isn't a discussion. And I'm not trying to argue, although I know how much you like to argue." He inches closer, cupping your face gently. You try to move away, blinking back tears. But his hands are steady and he strokes your jaw with so much tenderness you think you hear your heart break. He's pretty, so pretty. You don't deserve him, you think. "There'll be time to fight, bichita. Rest. That's your mission right now."

"C-can't sleep." You breathe. "It hurts."

Miguel pauses, head tilted like he's thinking. He taps your shoulder. "Scoot over."

You do as he says, and he slips into the bed with you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, placing you on his chest with an arm gently around your shoulders. You bury your face in his hoodie, sniffling and hoping he doesn't notice you choking back sobs. Absentmindedly, he settles into a rhythm, gentle breathing and playing with your hair, soothing you softly. He pretends he can't hear the tears.

"M'gonna stay here until you're asleep. For as long as you need."

You nod, unable to speak for fear of breaking down.

~~~

The days after felt like a blur. You woke up to Miguel gone, and an ache in your heart. Jess visits as much as she can, and Ben calls you a couple times, to see if you're okay. Peter B brings Mayday, and she clambers all over your bed, bringing some life into the room. Miguel doesn't visit per se - you hear whispers of him, Lyla visiting in his stead for comprehensive status updates. Once, you wake up in the night to see him on the adjacent chair, head lolling in deep sleep. He looks peaceful, calm - one of the first times you haven't seen his brow furrowed with worry. Of course, he's gone by the morning.

The very last time you saw him, he opened the portal home. It was weird, after everything, but if Miguel felt the same you wouldn't know. Talking at a thousand miles a minute, he alternates between assuring you they'll be fine without you and situation reports from spider people all across the multiverse. Things you'd missed whilst bedbound, asking for advice before you left. He trusted your judgement and the thought warmed your heart, almost making you forget that he completely brushed past the previous nights before.

You still remember the last thing he had said to you, which would've been weeks ago, now.

"...and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me directly. Not Jess, not Ben, and certainly not Peter B. Call me, and I'll answer, I promise. You need help, you need advice, you just need someone to talk to, then-"

"-I call you. I get it, O'Hara. Will do." He opens the portal, watching as you walk towards it. He can't take his eyes off of you, even though you can't see him. At the last moment you turn, and run towards him. You almost knock him over with a hug. Burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, he hugs you back, ever careful of your injury. Separating, your smile almost knocks him over again. Weakly, he smiles back as you head through the portal, back home.

You're left with that feeling, of his arms around your body - warm, so warm - as you putter about by the switchboard. After careful deliberation (you were really, really bored ) you'd taken to manage the Multi Modal Multiversal Switchboard - as aptly named by Miguel. Everyone else called it the Big Red Phone of course, but he had insisted on calling it by its proper name . Every. Time.

The thought makes you chuckle as you call up Peter B. His icon flashes on the screen in front of you. With a click, he picks up the call, his face materialising holographically in front you. A little hand reaches up and tugs at his ear.

"Ow… ouch … Dad's on the phone, honey."

"Aww! How's my favourite Parker doing?"

"Not bad, actually! MJ just made us probably the best burger this side of New York-"

"-sorry, Peter? Me and May are trying to have a conversation." You hear her giggle in the background. Her gap toothed grin pops into frame and she babbles excitedly. "...yeah, exactly May. That's literally what I said."

"Okay, okay, that's enough." He puts the toddler down and watches her scurry away. "You're feeling better, I see."

"Yeah, back in action. Thought I'd check in."

"All good here." He squints, trying to take in your surroundings. "You're at HQ?"

You hum.

"Could've sworn Lyla cancelled…"

"Yeah, didn't get the memo. But I think something's wrong with O'Hara."

He gives you a weird look. "Uhhh, what makes you think that?"

"He won't even look at me. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Your eyes narrow. "...what do you know, Peter?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He scoffs, a little too quickly, clutching his chest like you've offended him. He's stared down some of the scariest villains around, but the look you give him is truly chilling. "Just… uhhh. You didn't hear this from me."

"Naturally…"

"We tracked 'em down, the guys that ambushed you and Jessica."

"The Sinister Six? From Earth-215?"

"Yeah, but by the time we got there, it was just Kraven and some of his goons. Miguel got there first, and…." He gulps. "He was pissed. Trashed the whole place looking for the rest of 'em. Beat Kraven half to death and we had to pull him off."

"Shit."

"Yeah, it was pretty rough. Never seen him like that before. And just generally? He'd been weirdly quiet, a little grumpy, more aggressive on missions. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Hmmm. Thanks, Pete."

"No problem, sweetheart. And if the big guy asks… "

"...this didn't come from you, I know." Weakly, you smile. "Say hi to my favourite Parkers, for me."

" 'Course I will. We should celebrate, if you're back officially. Mine and MJ's is always open."

"Good to know. I'll see you around."

He waves goodbye, and the hologram clicks off. Sighing, you try to piece together what you've just heard.

Miguel: acting weird. Well, you knew that already. Aggressive was new. And Lyla? She had canceled, but not for you, for some reason. An honest mistake, perhaps. But Lyla doesn't make mistakes…

You stew for a couple of hours, puttering about the switchboard, twiddling your thumbs. Something's wrong, and for some reason you're afraid to see him. To have him look straight through you, again, when you ask to do the same. Show me where it hurts. Tell me how to make it better.

On the way there, you chew your lip in anticipation. In the corridor, you're outside the door to his place, hand hovering above the door. To knock, to call. In the harsh fluorescent light, you hesitate.

"Lyla?" Nervously, you sink down onto the floor. It's hard to explain, but you don't expect her to actually come; to materialise in front of you.

"How can I assist you?" She says with a ding.

"Uhh… hi. Just wanted to talk." You pause, clicking your tongue. "Can you be honest with me?"

"I can only be honest with you. It is not in my programming to lie, unless specified by my owner."

"Sure. Cool. It's about him, actually. Is Miguel okay?"

She tilts her head, as if processing your request. "Okay is a subjective term. Is Mr O'Hara alive? Yes. Is Mr O'Hara physically well? Yes. By those terms, he is okay ."

Too vague for your own liking. "I guess I meant more… his emotional state. To the best of your knowledge… in your opinion , Lyla: is Miguel okay?"

"...I believe Mr O'Hara is experiencing some emotional turmoil."

You frown. "Oh. Do you know why?"

"Mr O'Hara has instructed me not to disclose that information with you."

"Fair enough. But you don't have to tell me… I could just ask questions?"

She nods. "There is nothing in my programming that prevents me from answering some questions within certain parameters."

"Did I do something? Not just today but… last time I was here. Did I say something to hurt or upset him? Is that why he's acting weird?"

"No." She says blankly. "And yes. I suppose it is… complicated." She gestures around that word.

"I'm a little confused, Lyla."

She sits next to you, on the cool tile. Not that she could feel it, but it feels more intimate - like two friends talking. The extent of Lyla's consciousness, you weren't sure of. Was she alive? To you, she might as well be. Could she think, feel, emote? Maybe, maybe not. You weren't smart enough to understand the nuances of her programming. But you were human enough to see it in her - something glittering beyond the surface.

It could be projection, but you swear her voice is softer. "He has a name for you. When he speaks about you, and to you. I have it logged in my memory database. Do you know what that is?" You shake your head.

Lyla opens up her palm and projects videos and images - little Miguel's popping up in her palm, tinny and gruff voices ringing through the hallway. They say your name, shout your name, whisper it. Some say other things in Spanish. Curse words had always been your assumption, and he had given you no reason to think otherwise. Now, having it played back to you, you hear a tenderness in his voice you would've missed. Words and phrases that come up again and again…

"Bichita." She repeats. "Bichito del amor. Mi bichito amoroso. "

You shake your head, still confounded. "...I don't speak Spanish, Lyla."

"Little bug. Sweetheart. Lovebug. My little lovebug." She clears her throat. "I believe they are terms of endearment."

Steadfast, she directs you towards her palm. Another small Miguel appears, and you think it's him from this morning.

"I thought I told you not to let anyone in, Lyla?"

"I did not let her in. She let herself in using the code you previously gave her, Mr O'Hara."

"Yeah, for emergencies. Fuck. Mi bichita, too smart for her own good."

"...If you are in distress, I believe she would understand, Mr O'Hara."

"I just think it's too much. I don't want her to see me like this."

"According to Alchemax files, previous subjects showing this kind of aggression benefitted from-"

"Lyla, it's not happening, no chance. I can't tell her."

The figure blinks out of her palm. "Mr O'Hara has forbid me from telling you about certain things."

"...but not from showing me." Your eyes meet hers. You give her a watery smile. "Thank you."

With a hint of a smile, she nods and is gone from the corridor. You are left alone, with nothing but your thoughts of little lovebugs rattling around in your brain.

#miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #across the spiderverse #kat_writes😼#this gif is fucking crazy btw

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akanemnon · 10 months

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TWIN RUNES MASTERPOST

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 -15 - 16 - 17 - 18 - 19 - 20 - 21 - 21-1 - 21-2 - 21-3 - 22 - 23 -24 - 25 - 26 - 27 - 28 - 29 - 30 - 31 - 32 - 33 - 34 - 35 - 36 - 36-1 - 37 - 38 - 39 - 40 - 41 - 42 - 43 - 44 - 45 - 46 - 47 - 48 - 49 - 50 - 51 - 52 - 53 - 54

To be continued...

TWIN RUNES MINI COMICS

Glasses - Fallen down - First steps - Press [C] - Frisk Dance - But nobody came - Whatstheirface - An acquired taste - Eye opening

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TWIN RUNES - FAQ

What exactly is this AU about? Twin Runes is essentially a comedic crossover AU between the universes of Deltarune and Undertale. No fancy nicnacs. Just the characters being their chaotic selves. But there might be some darkness lurking up ahead...

When is the next comic? The comic updates most Sundays at 6:30 PM Central European Time.

Why is this AU called Twin Runes? The name is more or less a play on the typical naming format of most AU's by featuring the "Runes" part. There are no literal Twin Runes. The whole name is more of a stand in for Undertale and Deltarune as parallel worlds. Hence the "Twin" part.

When does Twin Runes take place? This AU takes place between a hypothetical Chapter 3 and Chapter 4 of Deltarune. On the Undertale side of things, it takes place post neutral route just as Frisk was about to deliver Undyne's letter to Alphys.

Is the player a thing in this AU? The player lost control over both human children as soon as Frisk entered the world of Deltarune.

When Chapter 3 and 4 are released, will it affect the story? Any chapters after Chapter 3 won't affect the story in the grand scheme of things. If possible, I might make a reference to Chapter 3, but all in all Twin Runes created a new timeline so to speak.

What's up with Kris' and Frisk's hair? The red bits of their hair is more or less a representation of their souls. That in turn is also why Chara doesn't have that feature. They are soulless. It's a stylistic choice.

What's that thing on Kris' chest? It's a scar they got from tearing out their soul.

And why do they have weird lines all over their body? Both Kris and Frisk's anatomy resemble that of ball-jointed dolls. They appear just as markings across their bodies. Think of them as elaborate birthmarks. Kris and Frisk are still made of flesh and blood, but are in fact hypermobile. The reason as to why they do is still a little secret :) People here like to refer to these markings as "puppet limbs". You can get a better look at them and the scar in this artwork

Why does Kris have braces? This is why:

Why is Dark World Frisk green? Frisk changes their main sweater colors with Kris when they enter the Dark World.

Can other ghosts see Chara? (pre Darkner transformation) No, only Frisk and Kris are able to see Chara.

IS KRIS NOW FRISK'S COUNTERPART OR CHARA'S???? :)

So, was Chara in the locket all along? No, Chara possessed the locket to become a Darkner.

Where are Jevil and Spamton? Are they in Castle Town? The Fun Gang have already fought these two in the previous chapters and added them into their inventory. Outside of that little dream sequence, neither will be making an appearance.

Is anyone from Undertale Yellow gonna make an apperance? Outside of a tiny cameo from Clover (that has no greater bearing on the story) no one from Undertale Yellow is going to make an appearance.

Is (insert character here) gonna go to the Dark World/underground? With the way the story is going to play out, only the main group will be heading to this new Dark World. The rest of the story will be taking place there.

Is the Group Project miniseries canon to Twin Runes? It was made before Twin Runes was conceived and before I had any idea I would make a series. It is it's own self-contained story. So it is NOT canon to Twin Runes, but You can read it here: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6

How did you come up with the idea of Twin Runes? Twin Runes is an offshoot of a separate script I wrote. It's a similar concept but turned on its head. The funny moments in that script made me just continue what now is the start of Twin Runes. I pretty much just wanted to see if I am actually capable of drawing a comic to begin with. So... in a way Twin Runes is my first attempt at a comic ever. If I ever finish Twin Runes, then I know I can tackle turning that mammoth project of a script into a comic too. In the grand scheme of things these two projects are sister series. They have A LOT in common and even share similar plot elements. When Twin Runes is over you will automatically also know certain mysteries of The Other Script.

What is The Other Script? As of this moment I call The Other Script: "Lost in the In-Between". At its core it's an inverse of Twin Runes. I.e. Kris falling into the underground and being aided by Frisk on their quest to return home. The story and jokes are a considerably more grounded than in Twin Runes and so are the characters. Though they do have their moments from time to time. The overall mood of that script is a lot darker in nature and it's a 200+ page passion project of mine.

Am I allowed to make fanart? ABSOLUTELY! You are very welcome to make fanart if you feel like it. Please let me know if you do by tagging me, so I can share it with everyone to see so that you get the appreciation you deserve :)

Can I use the funny faces you draw for memes or for private stuff with friends? That's what they're here for :)

Is there x ship in this comic? The focus of the story is not on shipping. If it's in the game it will very likely be mentioned or brought up, but that's about it.

What pronouns do you go with for the human children? I try to stick as close as possible to the games so I use THEY/THEM FOR ALL OF THEM WITHOUT ANY EXCEPTIONS.

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ABOUT ASKS

Asks will open for 24 hours after a new comic has been released. Your questions will then be answered over the course of the week.

Try not to submit multiple asks. If necessary, just keep everything in one post.

Keep in mind that I receive AL LOT of asks, so not every question can be answered...

Questions containing spoilers will not be answered on principle. Wouldn't be as fun if the surprise was ruined, right?

Before leaving an ask (mostly for everyone who's new), please make sure to read the FAQ section above. A lot of times your question might have been answered already :>

I love memes and dumb jokes as much as the next guy, but try not to spam

It probably goes without saying, but please stay civil. I want to give everyone the respect they deserve, and naturally like to be treated the same way.

Please be mindful about drawing requests. It is understandable if you're eager to see a certain character drawn in my style, but I do not like to be bombarded by requests. The more it happens, the less likely I am to do it. Be kind and ask nicely.

Don't use other people's posts that I reblogged to ask me questions! It has happened before and I do not wish to see this!

______________________________________________________________

REFERENCE SHEETS

The following are ref sheets of characters that don't have established Dark World forms yet (as of writing this comic). The list will be updated as soon as a new character enters the Dark World. Here you will also find references of characters that might appear as surprise cameos, or maybe even completely new faces...

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FULL ART

#twin runes #twin runes masterpost #masterpost #deltarune comic #comic #deltarune au #crossover #undertale #my art #FAQ #frequently asked questions #important #please read #deltarune

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kitspindles · 1 year

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I’m in no way bashing on people who have already finished TSatS and say they hate it, are disappointed, etc., because I myself have not gone past chapter seven. My friend let me read some today, but I won’t have my own copy until Thursday, so maybe my opinions will change. I will say, however, that if you read 400+ pages in less than a day, maybe give yourself some time to process the entire plot first?

In any case, I can’t help but wonder how many people went into this book expecting one version of Nico and Will, only to be hit with something else entirely. And I mean like... expecting the fandom’s versions of these two, rather than what canon has previously shown us up until this book.

It’s my personal opinion that the PJO fandom’s worse enemy is their own mischaracterization of the characters at times. And I don’t mean like little head canons and stuff. Everyone has done those at some point. There’s usually no harm in those. I’m talking about people who created their own versions of Nico and Will and have been running with these visions for years through different fan fictions and what-not online.

For years we’ve known basically nothing about Will aside from the fact that he’s sarcastic, likes Star Wars, his mom is a country singer, he can glow in the dark, and he’s better at healing than fighting. (And he has questionable fashion choice at times). Like, that’s all we’ve had since his initial introduction in The Last Olympian over a decade ago. Everything else? Online and fan speculation. And again, there is nothing wrong with that! I just feel like a lot of people went into this book holding onto their own pre-conceived visions of what Will Solace was and ended up disappointed the authors made him... different? But not really different, because he didn’t have a lot of in-depth personality or backstory before this.

Me personally? Yeah, I’m not that far into the book yet but I’m loving how Will is portrayed so far. He’s still sarcastic, but he’s shown his fair share of level-headedness as well as frustrations just within the first couple chapters. He is in no way the overly-optimistic sunshine-y boy who only exists to help Nico that the fandom has portrayed him to be all these years. His character arc is already headed in a way deeper direction (more on that when I finish the book). The whole bit where Will had coffee spilled on him and spent the next couple paragraphs in the scene trying to be unbothered while actually giving off “This is fine” fire dog energies? I loved that.

As for Nico, can I just say I adore how he’s written in this book? Aside from his PoV in Blood of Olympus, this is the first time he’s had his own narration. And it’s actually about him and more in-depth than previous times. I’ve heard people say that he’s “out of character,” and while I can see a little of what they’re all saying, I just want to know... what version of Nico have you all been reading? Did I miss something?

Up until this book, what exactly did we know about Nico? That he’s displaced in time, his sister and mother are both dead (and he feels alone), he harbored repressed gay feelings from his upbringing as a Catholic guy in 1940s Italy, and he’s been through the ringer more than once (so, trauma, basically). Oh, and he’s a bit of a nerd (Mythomagic and knowing all kinds of ancient creatures). That’s... about it. Everything has been speculation and projection from fans.

In previous books he’s always been portrayed from first- or third-person point of view (usually from people who don’t know him well and just think he’s “creepy”), leading to the idea that he’s distant and low-empathy based on some interactions he’s had with demigods who weren’t thrilled to be around him, during a time of great pressure. But he’s not exactly uncaring. He’s been shown to care a lot, actually (Bianca, Hestia, Bob, everything he’s done for Percy, his friendship with Reyna, Hazel, etc.)

But what about when he was ten? He was an excitable, curious kid who liked to have fun. And what did we see briefly in Trials of Apollo (before Jason died, at least)? We saw some of that energy return, particularly in The Hidden Oracle.

So, yeah, I’m personally thrilled to see him making cringe-y jokes and have some self-deprecating humor. It’s very “#OnBrand” for a traumatized teenager who’s just trying to cope and live life without any godly wars forcing him this way and that. Can we really say it’s “out of character” if we’ve never seen more than one side of Nico? (The under pressure side, from other character’s PoVs, in books not about him where he’s basically been a side character?) I’m just glad to see him cracking jokes, laughing, and acting more like a normal kid.

Now, is this book different from Rick’s other ones? Uh, yeah. I won’t say it’s not. But it’s not bad. It’s supposed to be different. It has slightly different intentions than the other books (re: explicitly working through trauma and relationship bumps). Also, it’s co-written. Co-written books always read slightly off from the original author’s work, but dam if it isn’t hard to meld writing styles and copy another author’s particular voice. But I think Mark did a very good job at imitating Rick’s style (again, from what I’ve read so far).

Will I change my mind on all this the farther I get into the book? Maybe. There’s a lot to read and take in. All I’m saying is don’t let the negative reviews warp your opinion of the book if you haven’t read it yet and are on the fence if you should or not. Wait for the PDF to drop, or for a library copy, and read and see for yourself.

#nico di angelo #will solace #the sun and the star #tsats #tsats preview #tsats predictions #pjo fandom #pjo hoo toa #rick riordan #mark oshiro #rrverse #riordanverse #riordan universe #Read Riordan #my stuff

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celardor12 · 6 months

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At long last, it’s finished! The last chapter of Sharing is Caring is up, and it’s a long one. I’m very excited to have reached the end of this story, and even more excited to start work on its sequel! Story is primarily Liushen, with implied future Bingliushen.

Chapters: 8/8 Fandom: 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Liǔ Qīnggē/Shěn Yuán | Shěn Qīngqiū Characters: Liǔ Qīnggē, Shěn Yuán | Shěn Qīngqiū, Luò Bīnghé Additional Tags: Telepathy, Getting Together, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Endless Abyss, Identity Reveal, Transmigration Reveal, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Dual Cultivation, Switching, Hints of future bingliushen Summary:

“Liu Qingge! I told you not to drink the water!” Shen Qingqiu shouts. His thoughts are a panicked whirl- is it going to have the same effect that it did in the original story?

Liu Qingge just stares at him in shock.

Shen Qingqiu’s question is answered when he suddenly hears Liu Qingge’s voice. Liu Qingge isn’t speaking, though- his mouth never moves. No, Shen Qingiu is hearing Liu Qingge’s voice inside his head.

Liu Qingge’s voice says, “Holy shit. I can see his nipples.”

They both stare at each other in horror. At that moment, there’s a happy little ding and a System notification pops up in front of him.

[Congratulations! Bonus mission activated: Sharing is Caring!]

“Fuck,” Shen Qingqiu says, with feeling.

*************

Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge accidentally trigger a wife plot that leads to them forming a telepathic connection.

#svsss #scum villains self saving system #liushen #bingliushen #liu qingge #shen qingqiu #scumbag system #fanfic

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grippingbeskar · 1 year

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unearthed

chapter one - matched

warnings— canon typical violence, mentions of death, loss, injury, maybe a lil trauma

a/n— and we’re back! just over a year of having this account, and the end of season three, and i’m back where i started. thirsting after the mandalorian. i’m super excited about this one, and even though i think there will be a bit of a wait between chapters i promise its because they are going to be higher quality. also, obviously there will be smut further on (come on, it’s me. of course we are going to fuck him.) so no minors please!! hope you enjoy! big thank-you to @kyberblade for beta reading and saving me from my typos i love u.

also a psa. disregard season three for this fic. it fucked up my timeline so i’m changing it. things might be a bit all over the place, but it’s just going to be what i wanna do with it HAHAH no rhyme or reason :)

[series masterlist] [next chapter] [tag list sign up]

You stared out into the never ending darkness, interspersed by twinkling hints of far away planets, all of them seeming more and more out of reach as you were shuffled out into the hall. Flanked by guards, the view from your room disappeared from sight, replaced by the familiar, safe walls of your palace. This was your life now— being shoved towards the known and away from those giant stretches of sky you longed so much for. Your duty, you say to yourself. This was the way you had to live, destined to the confines of your pre-determined universe. It is what you were born to do.

You knew this day would come. You were, as you were constantly, incessantly reminded, the last of the royal bloodline. After your parents early death, it left you as heir and sole survivor to the throne. All of your life, you had been trained for this moment, but it was something that was always so...distant.

You used to look forward to this time in your life, where you’d get to travel the galaxy, finally earning some of that coveted freedom all the other girls in the palace talked about. You dreamed of seeing the galaxy, being unknown on an Outer Rim planet, going wherever your heart takes you. You thought you’d have time to live. But then, within the blink of an eye, you were rushed through your coronation and left to carry the burden of commanding an entire planet. It was like a rug was ripped out from underneath you, all while someone dropped a fifty pound weight over your head, all the while chiding you for stumbling over.

In the wake of the Empire finally falling around the galaxy, planets all around the suns were scrambling— resources were scarce, trade routes were un-secure and stability was out of reach. This was the same for you, because the future of your planet was now in your hands, and you had no idea what to make of it.

Unfortunately for you, stability in a woman’s world came in the form of a contract. Most usually, a marriage contract.

This meant, much to your dismay, an entourage of young, hopeful (and practically brainless) men arriving on your doorstep, all popping the question in hopes of securing the new Queen's hand in marriage. Your hand. You knew your planet was important and appealing, with its natural resources, expanding economy in spite of the Empire’s devastation, and an abundance of funds for all the newest technologies with the death of two of the greatest ruling minds of the time. Any leader of even a remotely nearby planet would strike on this opportunity— you know you would, if it were someone else.

The whole idea wasn’t new, but it still made your gut twist. Your parents were lucky they had something more– real love, and a home filled with the stuff of fairytales. While you knew this was rare, it made you long for that. Knowing it was real, that a connection like that could be somewhere out there for you, but you’d never reach it because you never got the chance to try... you knew you were lucky, but it didn’t stop your heart from longing for more. You wanted someone to show you the stars, to let you be you, and not just try to win you like a prize or a notch in their belt.

Everyone around you said this was the smart thing to do. Choose someone— anyone who would bring you what you wanted. Your planet, as fertile as it is, is not famous for its army. That was clear during the reign of the Empire, and now the New Republic was thinning their guard posts after the war, you needed manpower. You knew it was a necessity, and you wanted to keep your people safe, but to offer yourself up like a prized mare? You were a Queen, and you were planning to be a good one, with or without a husband.

As you sat on the throne, dismissing yet another suitor with a shake of your head, the collective group of your father’s– now your own Advisors groaned, and one walked up the steps, approaching you with a slightly bowed head.

“Your Majesty, if I may…” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, only because you knew the watchful gaze of neighbouring planet leaders were on you.

“I have a feeling you will anyway.” He shook his head, quickly coming up the stairs to your side. He sighs, and you shrug at him. “What? He wasn’t my type, okay? If I’m going to sleep with the man, I should at least–”

“Your Majesty, this is the fourteenth potential match you have rejected. We are a coveted planet, but if you do not choose someone, we run the risk of having no options at all.” He says, looking down his nose at where you are strung lazily across your throne. He was still harbouring some of that anger from earlier, where you had refused to change into the giant mess of a gown the styling team had chosen for you. If the colour wasn’t enough– a pale puke green measurable to the blood of a Trandoshaan– the fabric was so expansive you would have drowned in it. You loved a pretty dress, but at least one that didn’t eat you whole.

“Would that be so bad?” You dropped your head back, and he shook his head, sighing again.

“Yes— it would mean instability. We would be a target for neighbouring planets. We are strong, but not strong enough to be alone. The New Republic has already thinned their guards to a ghost number compared to four years ago. We cannot wait any longer. We are… vulnerable, without a strong army.”

“We can make allies without forcing me to marry one of them.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. We would never force you to do anything.” He says those words, but every syllable is laced with warning. You may be the last living member of your blood line, but no matter how important, and no matter how beloved by your people you are, there were some things that you couldn’t control.

The worst part was he was right. Sure, you could solidify alliances, but a marriage was a lock and key. If you picked the right one, your people would be safe for years to come, long after you were successful. After what you had seen of the Empire, what they had done here, and all over the galaxy, your people deserved safety. Freedom— whatever the cost.

Your love for your people would get you through this. In them, you saw your parents legacy, and the passion to build something greater than yourself. You would never trade this life for anything... but it didn’t mean you couldn’t have preferences. Just as you were going to justify why you rejected the man now sneering at you from the corner of the room, the doors burst open, and your attention is diverted to the messenger rushing in with a strange look on his face.

“Your Majesty, we’ve just received another request.” He calls, breathless. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s… I am not sure how to say this.”

The man is clearly nervous— avoiding your eye and instead staring at his feet. You rise off the throne and move to him, attempting a comforting smile and nodding at him.

“It’s alright. Start at the beginning.”

“This request… It is unusual.” He swallows, and you laugh lightly.

“What is it this time? Don’t tell me the Hutts have thrown themselves into the mix.” You had nothing against them right now, but they were so… slimy. “Whoever it is, as long as they send a message in peace, they will be well received.”

“Well, that is the thing. They do not ask Your Majesty to receive them. They…”

“They don’t want to come here?” Already, you are breathing a sigh of relief. Anything to stop the constant parade of men flapping their money and stupid hair around.

“No, they ask that… they ask that you come to them.” He finishes, and your advisors are next to him in an instant, all attempting to speak over one another. You raise your eyebrows, surprised, but intrigued.

“That is an insult!” The man who challenged you before, known to you as Advisor Corell, spits at the messenger. “Her Majesty only receives guests— she does not travel unless there is cause.”

“Did they say anything else?” You ask, and the room goes quiet again as you step forward. The messenger looks uncomfortable, knowing there are still foreign diplomats in the room. “Everyone else, please go. You’ll be... informed of my decision later.”

The entire room exits quickly at the sound of your voice, all mumbling to themselves, probably still hurt over your rejection and blatant disinterest, but all you could care about was this new message.

“It’s alright. Go ahead.” You encourage. “What else did they say?”

“They asked for your hand, of course. They have a new King, and think the match would be beneficial to both sides.” A new King. Your mind buzzes, trying to think if you’d heard of any close planets going through a succession besides your own. Nothing comes to mind, but if he was new, at least this one would hopefully be closer to your age.

“A new King?” The messenger nods. “And he asked for me personally?”

“Ah... the message was not from him, Your Majesty. It was a hologram from a member of his court. A… Bo-Katan.” You had never heard the name before, but one of your advisors makes a noise of recognition and you spin to her.

“You know this name?” You ask Advisor Kaylen— probably your favourite member and the closest thing you have to a friend. She nods eagerly. “You’ve met them?”

“I have heard it before, but that would be impossible…” She fades off, and you turn back to the messenger.

“This is the most interesting person I’ve heard of since this whole thing started. What’s impossible?” You watch the messenger's face twist, so you reach out and touch his shoulder, the contact surprising him and earning a disapproving hum from Advisor Corell. “You can tell me, just ignore him. I do.”

“Well, that’s just the thing. The planet they claim to come from has been long abandoned.” Advisor Kaylen was still muttering to herself, but you couldn’t focus on her anymore when the messenger finally spoke again. “They say they are calling from Mandalore, and that their new King has asked for you to be his Queen.”

“Stop asking me about that.” Din growled, stopping his swift movement through the makeshift repair station he’d been pulling together. “I’m not interested.”

“This isn’t just about you anymore.” The longer he spent with these Mandalorians, the more the thought of taking off with their precious Dark-Saber and leaving seemed appealing. “An alliance like this is exactly what we need. With all the repairs, we’ve run low in funds. We need resources— we need to outsource, and this is the fastest way to do it. She’s all but waving a flag for us.”

He never thought there would be a time when bounty hunting was the normalcy he craved— but standing surrounded by relics of his people long passed, discussing a potential marriage—he started to miss the reliable frame of the Razor Crest a little too much.

“Mandalore was built on the backs of our people. We can do it again, the same way.” Bo-Katan sighs, giving him a glare after removing her helmet. “Would you do this? Was this a part of your plan to re-take Mandalore?”

“They didn’t have a dwindling empire and economic crisis to deal with. If you do this, we can rebuild the way our ancestors wanted us to live. How we used to live. Welcome our family home. Isn’t that what you want?” He spins, taking two slow steps to face Bo-Katan, who stands with her helmet tucked under her arm. “To answer your question— yes. I would have. I was royalty once, and I know what this is like. And I would still do it. You might even make a friend in her, Din.”

“You aren’t suggesting friends.” To her credit, she doesn’t back down, just raises her eyebrows at him. “You are asking me to get married. You know what that means.”

“It’s not like that. Rulers marry for all kinds of reasons— and if she’s looking, it means she wants to take full advantage of this. It’s the smart thing to do. Her planet is powerful, but vulnerable. Their army numbers are small after the Empire’s attacks, and she needs what we can offer now the Rebellion is squaring off. Good, strong fighters. Besides, I’m sure you aren’t exactly all she hoped for, either. I wouldn’t be surprised if you hardly see her after the first few months.” Rolling her eyes, she turns back to the pile of spare parts they had dragged in from outside. “We’ve already sent a hologram inviting her here. If she accepts, you can discuss a potential alliance like adults. If you are still opposed, we’ll cancel it and try it your way. Until then, we have work to do.”

“Send another message. Say I’m no longer interested.” Din stands impossibly still, waiting for Bo-Katan to agree and leave before he lets out a long breath. Clearly, he’d misjudged how set on this idea she was.

“Just think about it, okay?” She turns and disappears from view, and he feels like he’s going to collapse under the pressure. Things were complicated enough— in the last month, he’d learnt his way of life was not the only way at all, inherited a saber he had little idea how to use, and dropped everything he knew to come back home— to Mandalore. To say he had enough on his plate was an understatement.

Truthfully, he had come back with one thing on his mind. The Way declared one could only truly be forgiven for their misdeeds in the living waters beneath the mines of Mandalore— and Din had a lot to be forgiven for. If there was anywhere he could start fresh, it was here, but before he could do that, he had to find the mines, currently buried under years worth of rubble and debris. The last thing he needed was to disgrace himself in yet another way— which is exactly what Bo-Katan and the other Mandalorian’s were suggesting.

He was not ready for this. Not in any way. He was not a ruler— not a born and bred leader, like Bo-Katan, and he’d never wanted to be. It might have made sense to an outsider, maybe. A new, untested ruler of a planet as economic as yours was bound to attract unwanted attention, and about the only thing Mandalore could offer right now was its ability to fight. It was the only thing it was known for.

He didn’t want to marry, though. Not for a political alliance. He didn’t think about it at all— not right now. He’d heard a few things about you by now— how your parents had passed suddenly, and how you were now being squashed into the same situation as he was, forced to play a role which you had no choice in being cast to. He felt as sorry for you as he did for himself, and he found his thoughts drifting to the Child.

Din looked around, exhausted at just the thought of getting this place into any form of working order. Spare parts to old ships scattered on the floor, and the room was painted in a light purple hue thanks to the reflection of the glass roof overhead. He stood, leaving the mess of a garage and walking back out towards the largest building in this city.

There were streets lined with cracked stone, several Mandalorians dragging and pulling equipment to replace the broken ones. They had been working hard— everyone had, including him, and the place was looking less and less like a war zone by the second. The sight made him feel easier. At least his home wouldn’t be rubble forever. Buildings were gaining foundations, others entirely rebuilt by hand. It had only been a month or two, and already this place was looking like he’d been told in the stories. Like home.

As he walked through them, he didn’t miss the stares of those who’d left their helmets behind, but at least that was familiar. Everyone stared, on every planet he went to, and even with the oddly shaped buildings, some spiralling high, others flat and long enough to park a few speeders in the front, he felt settled here. The cities were huge and spanned far into the horizon, too long to walk everywhere, so the Mandalorians had gone straight to work on the speeder parts, using them to zip around not only around this central city, but between other parts of the planet.

Finally, he began the walk up the steps of the castle. It was giant— bulky and boxed, rooms stacked on top of each other with seemingly no purpose. It was the most well conserved building on the planets surface, and it was what constituted as a home for Din. For now, at least. Either way, it was the safest place to keep Grogu during the day, and he would go wherever it was safest for him.

He could hear him before he saw him, loud chirps and gurgles coming from the throne room. One, giant looking chair was elevated by a few steps at the end of the room, and he saw a flip of green zip over Sasha’s unmasked head.

“Get down here, you gremlin.” She barked, but laughed at Grogu’s slightly worried face when he spun to a stop in mid air. It was then he finally noticed him, dropping to the ground and wandering over. “He’s been a little pain in my—“

“Patu!” Grogu chirps, and Din laughs roughly, bending down to pick him up. He holds him in front of his helmet, watching as his tiny hands reach out to grab his gloved wrists.

“Have you been causing trouble, Grogu?” He makes a little gurgle sound, like he always does when Din says his name, and he smiles under the helmet.

“Bo-Katan was looking for you.” Sasha says, putting her helmet back on. Most Mandalorian’s that lived around the capital did that when they spoke to him, now, even ones as high ranking as Sasha. Din doesn’t look up from Grogu’s giant eyes.

“She found me. And my answer is still no.” He hears her laugh, but when he looks up at her, she stops.

“She didn’t tell you?” Din turns to face her, letting the kid fiddle with something on his armour.

“Tell me what?” Unlike Bo-Katan, Sasha is a little afraid of him. Everyone is, especially since they had seen him fight with the DarkSaber when they first arrived on the planet. Since then, there had been a quiet fear, a commanding presence Din didn’t think he had earnt, but regardless it was there. She swallowed, tilting her helmet down to the floor. “Tell me.”

“The Queen replied. She accepted your invitation, and is expected to arrive within the week. She also implied, if the meeting goes well— she…”

“She what? What did she say?” Din had no idea why, but his heart was racing a mile a minute. Had she been insulted by the offer? Was she going to stage an attack?

“She said she would marry you.”

“You said I would what?” You shout at the group of advisors, all of whom look like they are about to scramble and run. And they should. “Who’s bright idea was it to send correspondence, with my name attached, without my go-ahead?! What the hell kind of advisor does that?!”

None of them so much as moved, except for Advisor Kaylen, who caught your eye, making a pointed look at Advisor Corell. You shook your head, and a bitter smile curled the ends of your mouth.

“I should have known. Corell. Get up.” He spluttered, stumbling to his feet as you dragged him up the dais, and forced him to his knees. “Was it you? Did you tell Mandalore I would accept their invitation?!”

He shakes his head. “I only said you would meet with them! Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“When I was ready!” You want to scream, but your embarrassment and nerves choke your throat. Yes, you were going to accept. Probably. Maybe a month from now... a few months, if you could stretch it. Not this week.

“This is a good thing! Now you get to go! To— to see the cursed land for yourself. To look upon its new ruler! I was only doing what I thought was best! They would have been insulted if we had rejected…and we’re running out of options.”

“The only one insulted here is me, that you truly believe I would buy any of the shit that comes out of your mouth.” He was on thin ice as it was, but your fathers words played in your head, and you saw the faces of your other Advisors in the corner of your eye.

Your father had selected this team of people because he trusted them, and for some reason, you did too. You didn’t know why, or how they were picked, but they were supposed to be the six people you could rely on. The six people who would challenge you, who wouldn’t blindly accept your decision like the rest of the planet. They were a tradition— to ensure the sanity of a ruler and the safety of a planet. You trusted them; or you would, eventually, but they would not overstep. Or at least, they shouldn’t.

“My father trusted you. It is that reason alone that I will let you continue to work underneath me, and forgive this lapse in judgment. But this is the one chance you will receive. I might not be my father, but you work for me now. If you choose to disobey me or do anything without me specifically telling you again, I will send you to Mandalore in my stead, and the King can have you in my place. We will see how far you make it in the ruins before he cuts you down.” They all scurry from the room, Advisor Corell not glancing back as he heads for the door after you drop him.

All that is left is Kaylen, who doesn’t need a title when it’s just you and her. She was a friend— perhaps your only one, so you only used her title around the other Advisors.

“That was exciting.” She says, and you flop down onto the cushioned throne, golden pillows softening the blow as she comes to lean on the armrest. “It’s been too long since we had some real palace gossip.”

“Well, hold on to that, because you might be shipping me off to marry a fish. He’s like a ghost— I couldn’t find anything on the King, and now I’m supposed to just…go?” You sigh, swinging your feet over the edge of the chair and letting your head fall into her lap. “This is insanity. This entire month has been suitor after suitor, none of them with armies strong enough to keep our planet safe. And now it’s like I don’t even have a... it all just happened so fast.”

“I know. You were right to reject them all. But this one is... it’s different.” You sit up, turning to face her.

“You think I should go?”

“Are you asking me as an Advisor, or as a friend?”

“Both.” The throne is huge, made for the large frame of your father, so she can slide right in next to you.

“Well, as your Advisor, Mandalore is famous for one thing— war. Sure, they have lost a tonne, but when they were at their peak, they were unstoppable. Feared throughout the galaxy. With our help, they could be that again. Even having the name attached to us would scare off any potential threats for a while. They are good fighters, they could teach our people ways we would never learn ourselves, and one day we could even be allies. Especially if this goes well.” She sits up when she speaks, and even though she’s only a few years older than you, she seems light years ahead. You understand why your father chose her.

“And as my friend?” She swings an arm over your shoulder.

“As your friend, I think you need this. I think that you haven’t changed a single thing about the palace since you have been crowned because you know once you do, this is real and your parents are gone. I think you know this is the right thing to do, but you’re scared, and you think that when you do this, you’ll finally be alone, and you hate that.” You’re thankful she’s not looking at you because you almost start crying as soon as she mentions your parents. “I think you know that this is different. That this could be a defining moment for you. For your reign. For the planet to come back after the Empire.”

“Why do you have to be right about everything?” You say tightly, and she helps you stand off the throne, leading you towards your bedroom through the maze of winding corridors.

“Just lucky. And, hey, don’t look so sad. Rumor has it he wears a very pretty beskar suit. All shiny and silver. You love shiny stuff.” She gestures at the hallways, all lined with golden and silver detailing. You nudge her on the shoulder and she laughs, peeling off before you open the door to your bedroom.

It was technically your parents room— the room you grew up in now vacated for your future offspring. You didn’t mind, using the room helped you feel a little bit closer to your parents. You remember all the times you’d climbed into bed with them, buried under the covers because you were afraid of the dark.

Kaylen was right. Corell was right, even if he was an asshole. It was selfish to not accept an offer. You hated that you couldn’t do more for your people, that all you had to offer was your arm, but if that was what you needed to do right now, you should just... suck it up. A Mandalorian, though. That was different. You knew they were feared, although scattered throughout the galaxy, and if their words were true, an entire planet of them would make you virtually impenetrable.

You couldn’t help but think about the King. Mandalorians were a confusing bunch, the few you had met, anyways. Very quiet, lethal as anything, and in your experience, solitary. Your mother had hired one years ago to collect a bounty for her, and he completed the four day job in three hours, arriving and leaving on his own, hardly talking if he didn’t have to. Why would someone like that want to be married?

Shrinking out of your outfit, you decided to try and get some sleep. If tomorrow was going to be anything like today, you’d need all the rest you could get, and for some reason, there was a racing in your heart you couldn’t settle. Maybe just nerves from the incoming visit to Mandalore tomorrow.

That had to be it. The myths, legends surrounding the cursed world— it would make anyone nervous. But it was just that. Nerves. It couldn’t be anything else.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #mando #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x y/n #din djarin x y/n #din djaren x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin #star wars #star wars fic #pedro pascal

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punkshort · 8 months

Text

Chapter warnings: language, angst, references to SA, depression, PTSD, some mild sexual talk

A/N: I live nowhere near the places we talk about below, I relied heavily on google maps

Chapter Seventeen

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, pre-outbreak and post outbreak

AU (the only thing I kept was the outbreak, Joel, and Tommy's characters. Joel's backstory is different, and the way he finds Jackson is different. I may include Ellie one day, I just haven't planned that far)

Fic Summary: You worked for Joel and Tommy a few months before the outbreak. The outbreak happens, and you and Joel get stuck traveling the country and keeping each other safe. Neither of you spoke about the feelings you had for one another pre-outbreak, and in a post-apocalyptic world, it seems like survival should be your only focus. But feelings can't be ignored forever.

Fic tags: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Smut, Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader is 10 years younger than Joel), slow burn, mutual pining, angst, trauma, SA referencing later but I will put a big warning on those chapters

July 2004

Denver, CO

It's been a little over a month since you and Joel fled Kansas City. Joel was determined to create as much distance as quickly as possible, focusing every day on walking as far as your legs would take you. At first, he was terrified of Amy's people coming after you when they inevitably found Keith's body. Once it became more and more unlikely that you would cross paths with them, his anxiety shifted to the terrain. There wasn't much cover between Kansas City and Denver, it being mostly open plains, so it encouraged Joel to constantly keep moving. He told you these excuses to keep you traveling west, towards the mountains, but what he didn't say was he wanted the distraction. For both you and for him.

Every spare moment he had he found himself reliving that horrible night, the things you went through while he failed to keep you safe. While fucking Amy was coming onto him in that shitty little office. He had never told you about his interaction with her. He knew right now it could be the very thing that would break you. He didn't see the point in it anyway, nothing had happened, but in the interest of being completely honest, he planned to tell you one day. Just not now. Right now, you were an absolute mess, like a fragile flower that had been ruthlessly stomped on and was desperately clinging to life. It broke his heart to look at your sullen features every day, features that used to be filled with so much joy and warmth. He couldn't even remember the last time he saw you smile or saw a spark in your eye.

Once your shock wore off, he found out very quickly that you didn't want to be touched. That first night when he made camp, after he got you out of the city limits and back into the forest as deep as you could go in the pitch black of night, he tried to hold you, tried to talk about what happened. But you had jumped at his touch, scrambling away with your eyes wild, nearly tripping over your feet. You apologized to him, and you forced yourself to let him hug you, but he could feel how tense you were in his arms, how uncomfortable you were, and his heart shattered. You had been through enough and he wasn't going to force you to do anything, even if it killed him every time he caught himself instinctually reaching out to you at night. He left it in your hands to make the first move. When you were ready, he knew you would. But it's been over a month, and you hadn't tried to touch him, even to hold his hand or to tap his shoulder to get his attention. He knew not to take it personally, that it wasn't his touch, but it was any touch that you despised. Even though he knew this, his heart and body still ached for you.

You would talk to him, although it wasn't ever playful or flirty anymore. Mostly just about survival. He felt like you were distant and detached, like you were on autopilot. You never mentioned the assault, and he didn't bring it up. He knew it was his fault. It ate him alive, and he carried that burden with him every day. Selfishly, he felt like he was grieving a loss. The loss of the person you once were. And he was terrified he was never going to get you back.

Joel did the only thing he could think of, and that was to give you space. He knew you needed to process your trauma and he didn't want to force you through it. So, he gave you space, but he physically never let you out of his sight. He was never going to make that mistake again. He wouldn't ever tell you that even when you said you needed to pee, he would follow you just enough to keep an eye on you. He definitely would never tell you that when he followed you, he watched you sob quietly into your hands for a few minutes almost every day, at least once a day. Most often he had to fight the urge to cry himself. It destroyed him that you kept your emotions hidden, that you didn't feel comfortable expressing your grief to him.

Before you entered the community in Kansas City, you had said to him "us or them, right?" And he told you yes, it was always the both of you against the world. It was beginning to feel like there was no more "us", that his broken promise destroyed everything. Even when you had to kill someone for the first time, it ripped you apart, but you still went to him for comfort. You sobbed in his arms until you ran out of breath, and then he tried to fix it for you. Afterwards, you were distant, but he was able to draw you back out. This was not like that time. Nothing he did worked, and his grief was morphing into fear. Fear of losing you forever.

"Joel?" you quietly called out behind him, and his head snapped around to face you, desperate for anything you offered him.

"Can we rest soon?" you asked, shifting your backpack on your shoulders. "It's so hot, and I -"

"Yeah, 'course, let's stop here. There's a stream I saw nearby, I can still hear it. We can fill our canteens and wash up a bit," he was too overeager, he knew it, as he tried to give you anything you wanted. You flopped down on a broken tree trunk and hung your head between your knees. He rustled around in his pack until he found some unopened trail mix and a can of chicken. He reached both out to you, waving them low to the ground so you would see. You saw the chicken and brought your head back up to meet his gaze, your jaw hanging open.

"When did you get that?" It was never a favorite of yours before the world ended, but you developed a taste for it over time, growing sick of the same old granola bars and soup.

He couldn't help but smile. You weren't the happiest he’d ever seen you, but some color returned to your face, and that was progress in his book.

"Found it in that rest stop yesterday. Wanted to surprise you," he shook the can and the trail mix, urging you to take it from him. You were so eager that your fingers accidentally slid along his, and his heart leapt into his throat. For once, you didn't flinch at the contact, or maybe in your excitement you didn't notice, but either way he had a hard time wiping the smile off his face.

He sat on the forest floor across from you and ate some beef jerky, admiring the trees. According to his map, you were on the west side of Denver now, in the middle of a huge cluster of mountains and forests. He noticed you seemed more at ease in nature. More protected. He had been to Yellowstone with Tommy in his 20s, and he had fond memories of the trip. Tommy always used to talk about it, and even had pictures framed in his office. He didn't mention it to you yet, but his goal was to take you there. Maybe it would give you peace the way it brought him peace in his memories. He remembered there being tons of campgrounds. He liked to imagine finding a safe and secluded area and fixing up a cabin to have a wraparound porch with blue shutters. He knew it was a long shot, but it was the one fantasy he allowed himself to have.

"We've been walking for so long, and it's been so hot," you said, breaking the silence. "Do you think if we find a place, maybe we can stay for a bit? Until the weather breaks?" You looked up at him from your food, eyes hopeful. He could never say no to you. Yellowstone can wait.

"Yes," he said, "I'm sorry. Next time we find a shelter that's in good shape, we can lay low for a while."

"You don't need to be sorry," you said, picking at your trail mix.

"Yeah, I do." Joel replied, his eyebrows bunched together. You regarded him carefully, reading between the lines.

You didn't want to bring it up. You didn't want to think about it. You shifted your weight uncomfortably on the tree and looked at the ground.

"You wanna go wash up in that stream? I'll keep watch, don't know if we'll get another chance for a while," he said, changing the subject immediately. You could see the pain he was hiding behind his eyes, you saw it every day. You wanted to reach out to him, to help relieve his guilt, but you just couldn't bring yourself to do it. Not because you thought it was his fault, although early on you admittedly did blame him. It was too much to process back then. Your own grief and trauma was taking precedence, and you had to let Joel work through his emotions on his own. The weight of what happened was holding you down so intensely that you couldn't bring yourself to take on one more thing.

"Yeah, sure," you said, finishing up your food and digging around your pack for some fresh clothes and a small towel.

Joel did exactly as he said he would. He stood guard while you washed up, your backs to each other as you peeled off each piece of clothing and cleansed the skin underneath it, before putting fresh clothes over and moving on to the next area. You weren't comfortable being fully exposed, and he understood that. You never really were comfortable with it in the woods. But it still made his chest ache. Like something was stolen from you that day, and he missed it.

It wasn't until three days later that you found a small cabin. From the looks of it, Joel guessed it was part of the national parks department, a place for service rangers to rest or call for help when on patrol. It only had a bedroom, a half bathroom, a small seating area and a kitchen that looked more like a breakroom. But it was secluded, and it was safe, so Joel agreed to set up camp for a while.

He was pleased to find a fully stocked first aid kit, no doubt courtesy of the government, as well as a reasonable amount of dried goods and clean linens. There was one rifle locked in a cabinet which was easily broken into with his hunting knife, just in case he needed the spare weapon. He wasn't sure how long you would end up staying there. He didn't want to rush you, there was no point. Nothing was out there for you, anyway. But he always imagined finding you a house bigger than this.

As Joel was taking inventory of the goods, you walked around the small space. There was a huge map above the couch that you examined. It was a close up of the forests you were currently in. You trailed your finger down the map, looking at how far the two of you had walked in the past month. The hilly terrain made your accomplishment all the more impressive. Joel had been watching you out of the corner of his eye when you spoke.

"We're close to the Wyoming border," you said, your eyes lifting towards the top of the map, but the state in question was cut off. Joel cleared his throat.

"Yeah, I know. Hey, I was thinkin'," he began, flattening his hands on the kitchen counter, "What do you think 'bout headin' to Yellowstone? You ever been?" You shook your head.

"No, what's in Yellowstone?" You turned to him now. His chest ached at how tired you looked.

"Well, nothin' really. I was there once. With Tommy, when we were younger. It's lots of land, forests, hills. Figured it might be safe," at the word safe, his eyes turned down to look at the counter and his fingers brushed over the keychain in his pocket, unable to look you in the eye. "Lots of campgrounds, some real nice ones. Maybe we find someplace we can call home."

You don't know why you never considered the destination before now. You always imagined the pair of you would always be on the move, always looking for something that inevitably didn't exist. Joel had always been so adamant about having a goal: finding your parents, finding Tommy, finding a community. He had never suggested just stopping and living your lives together, alone.

"What about Tommy?" you asked him quietly. Ever since he mentioned finding his brother all those months ago, you knew it was a lost cause. He could be anywhere; he could be dead. In all likelihood, he probably was dead. But that wasn't for you to decide. Joel needed to come to that conclusion on his own. And it finally seemed like he did.

"I ain't gonna find Tommy, it was a dumb idea in the first place," he said, a fist clenching as he rapped his knuckles on the counter. "We need to find someplace before winter. I don't wanna be out in the snow like last year. I just-" he kept his eyes cast down and gave a small shrug, "I just wanna be with you."

You turned away as you felt the tears stinging the backs of your eyes. You knew he was trying, and you knew the way you pulled away from him hurt. You tried. You really did. But every time you hyped yourself up to touch him, to let him touch you, you felt the bile rising in the back of your throat. It wasn't fair, it didn't have anything to do with your feelings for him. But it was like your body just couldn't accept it, that you physically recoiled from the slightest touch, and you couldn't control it. Your mind wanted to reach out and comfort him, but your body kept you firmly planted on the worn wooden floors.

"That sounds nice," you told him, looking back at the map. His eyes shot up at your words, his eyebrows raised. Relief flooded through him, hearing that you liked his plan. Maybe one day, many years later, the two of you would find a community or other people to trust, but for now, it could just be the two of you.

"Alright, then," he said, straightening up. "In the meantime, let's stay here awhile. Wait for this heat to break. I figure we can make it to Yellowstone by October if we really push. Before the snow flies," he chewed his lip and glanced at his watch. There was enough daylight left to go gather some wood for a fire and maybe even shoot a rabbit, if he was lucky. But he didn't want to leave you alone.

"You wanna come with me, explore the area a bit?" he asked, trying to sound casual. But you knew what he was doing. He hadn't left you alone for a month. You didn't push back, you let him be protective. It was the least you could do if you couldn't bring yourself to open up to him. You nodded and leaned over to pull your pack back on.

"Sure," you said, slinging your bow over your back and followed him out the door, back into the summer heat.

The next few weeks were pretty much the same. The two of you scavenged for food in the mornings, before the heat became too oppressive and the animals hid. You spent your afternoons reading or napping while Joel skinned whatever animal you managed to kill that day and gathered wood and dead brush on the outskirts of the cabin, never straying far and finding excuses to come inside and check on you every so often. There was a small creek about a 10 minute walk south of the cabin where you would both go to fill up your canteens in the late afternoon and take turns bathing. Then he would start a fire to cook the meat while you prepared some instant potatoes, or rice, or anything else you found. Your dry and canned goods were starting to run low, so you used them sparingly. After you ate, you spent some time outside, soaking up the sun or reading. Joel would always stay close, sometimes walking a circuit around the cabin or reviewing some more detailed maps of the area left behind by the park rangers. At night, you shared the small bed, guiltily clinging to the edge of the mattress to create as much distance as possible, holding back your tears until he fell asleep.

It must have been the end of August by now. The days were hot, but the nights were cool, indicating fall was around the corner. You remembered Joel's plan to reach Yellowstone by October, so you knew your time at the cabin was coming to an end. You were fine with that. The cabin served its purpose. It kept you dry and safe so you could both rest your bodies before the month-long trek ahead of you. And with your food supplies dwindling, you knew it was time to move on. Joel didn't say anything, didn't want to push you into leaving, so you brought it up on your own, asking him when he thought you should head out. He seemed surprised that morning, expecting you to want to stay longer. He searched your eyes to make sure you weren't bringing it up because you felt he wanted to go, that you wanted to leave on your own volition.

"Why don't we plan on leavin' in a couple days?" he offered, and you nodded, finishing up your bowl of blackberries from a bush you had found not too far from the cabin.

"I was thinkin', I saw some deer at that creek few days ago. Maybe I can get us one and we can make some jerky. Should only take half a day to cook it. It'll give us somethin' til we find more food on the way," he glanced up to look at you. "You wanna come with me? Bring that bow of yours, it's quieter." He already knew the answer, but he always asked you, anyway. He wanted to give you the choice. If you ever said no, which was rare, he would just skip hunting and make do until the next day.

"Yep, sounds good," you said, getting up to rinse your bowl in the sink with the rest of the water from your canteen. "I need to refill these, anyway." You placed them both by the door and walked into the bedroom to change, closing the door behind you. Joel's eyes remained glued to the door as he tried to stifle his sadness. Any time he thought you were making progress, something happened to remind him how damaged you were. Something like closing the door to change in private made him rub his chest. You never would have bothered before. He was beginning to think he would never get back what he had with you. That those animals stole something from you, and he fucking let them. He swiped at the corner of his eye before he stood up and gathered his things. He was checking to make sure the rifle was loaded when you came out of the bedroom, slinging your bow over your shoulder, ready to go.

As you approached the creek, he held out a hand to his side to signify that you should be quiet and slow, watching your step to make sure you didn't potentially scare anything away. You got to the creek and didn't see anything, so you stooped down to refill your canteens, then followed Joel to a boulder not far down on the side of the creek, posting up to wait for any deer who might come to get a drink on the warm summer day.

You sat in silence, watching the sun move above the trees and the sunlight dappling the forest floor. Joel kept his head turned towards the creek, but you stared directly ahead into the forest, lost in thought. You nearly jumped when Joel cleared his throat as quietly as he could, not wanting to touch you, to get your attention. You looked and saw a doe about 15 yards away, standing in front of the creek, flicking her ears and glancing around hesitantly before bringing her head down to the cool water. You handed Joel your bow and he took it without looking, eyes fixed on the deer, as he leaned forward on one knee and loaded an arrow, drawing back. You saw a flutter of movement in a bush next to the doe and let out a soft gasp as you watched a baby fawn stumble out from the thicket, legs still shaky.

You reached your hand out and placed it on Joel's shoulder, stopping him from shooting. He didn't realize he was so touched starved until the contact nearly made him fall over. Keeping his fingers on the arrow, he disengaged the string slowly, letting his arms fall to his sides. He sat back next to you, taking the pressure off his knee and tried not to chase after your touch when you let your hand drop. You both sat and watched the deer together, as the new life stumbled forward to hide under its mother while she continued to drink. It started as a single tear, and then before you knew it your cheeks were damp from the steady flow as you silently cried. Joel turned his head to look for your reaction when the fawn tucked its long legs underneath its body to rest against the doe, only then noticing your tears.

"You alright?" He whispered, face etched with concern and his fists clenching at his side to keep from reaching out to you. You just shook your head and buried your face in your open palms as a shaky sob erupted from your throat. You rocked back and forth, your face still hidden in your hands, while Joel struggled with how to help, his arms reaching out, hovering in the air, and bringing them back. Then, to his surprise, you dropped your hands and lunged yourself forward into his chest, your face pressed against his tanned neck and your arms wrapped around his torso as your body shook. He immediately pinned you to him, his arms holding you as tight as he dared, his cheek resting on the top of your head. He slid a hand up from your back to cradle your head, your tears running down his neck and chest. He leaned back against the boulder, pulling you with him. You clutched the front of his flannel in your fist, your face still streaming with tears, wailing against his chest while he rocked you back and forth. His eyes were burning with the tears he refused to release, desperately trying to be strong for you.

"I got you, sweetheart, I got you," he murmured in your hair.

"I'm so sorry, Joel," you cried, burying your face further into his neck as fresh sobs wracked your body. He shook his head fiercely back and forth, even though you couldn't see him, and two tears made their way down his face.

"Don't you dare apologize, you did nothin' wrong, you hear me?" he choked out, more tears flowing now. He swallowed roughly as he dragged in a shaky breath. "I'm the one who's sorry, it's all my fault. I shoulda listened to you, you told me so many fuckin' times and I ignored you. I swear, I'm never gonna forgive myself." He squeezed his eyes shut and held you tighter against him.

"It's not your fault, it's their fault," you said, wiping your nose on the back of your hand. "You were just trying to keep us safe; you didn't know."

He bit the inside of his cheek, overwhelmed with your kindness, to not place the blame on him. He would still blame himself, but it eased his mind to hear you say it anyway. He held you against him until your cries turned to sniffles. Then your fist relaxed, releasing his flannel from your grasp, and ran your hand under the collar of his shirt to rest your palm against his bare shoulder, his skin hot under your touch. He felt a shiver go down his spine, even under the warmth of the sun.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, but the sun had shifted to where it was blinding you through the leaves of the trees, so you removed your hand from inside his shirt and lifted your head up to look at him. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks were dried with tears as you watched the sun dance over his face. You took in his features like you were seeing them for the first time. The small wrinkles next to his closed eyes, his angular nose, his patchy beard that needed to be trimmed, and lastly you let your eyes settle on his parted lips.

You glanced back up to confirm his eyes were still shut. You knew he wasn't sleeping because you felt him mindlessly rubbing a hand across your back. You took a shaky breath and leaned forward, gently pressing your lips against his. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but his eyes remained closed as he reciprocated your kiss, letting you set the pace. You brought a hand up to cup his cheek, pulling back a moment before gingerly pushing your lips back against his once more. You sighed as you broke away, resting your foreheads together.

"What can I do?" he asked you, "I need to do somethin'. I wanna help you."

"There is one thing," you told him, leaning back so you could look at him, your fingers intertwining with his on his lap. He sat up straighter, giving you his full attention.

"Name it, I'll do anythin'," he said earnestly.

"Find me a home, Joel," your fingers gently traced over his as you stared into his deep, brown eyes. "I want a new life. I just want to be with you."

He smiled when he heard you echo his words back to him and reached a hand out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"You got it, sweetheart."

That night, Joel gave you your space as usual in the small bed. He was on the verge of sleep when he felt your hand spreading over his chest and your face nestling in his shoulder. His heart hammered in his chest so hard, you could probably feel it. He wasn't sure if you would ever be the same again, or if your relationship would ever be the same, but he was ok with that. If you found a shred of peace by his side, then he would stay right there until his dying day.

September 2004

You had been traveling for almost three weeks, the crisp fall air biting at your cheeks. You weren't exactly sure what the date was anymore, but you had to guess it was the end of September by now, based on how early it got dark and the leaves piling up on the ground. You were in a very small town called Daniel, Wyoming. You walked down Main Street with Joel, eyeing up the buildings. It was quiet, most likely abandoned, and you hadn't heard any indication of infected nearby, so you held your bow loosely at your side as you read the signs outside the buildings. You both zeroed in on a trading store next to the post office, hoping it wasn't picked over and you could restock some of your supplies. You had gotten lucky over the past few weeks, killing rabbits and squirrels as your primary source of food and finding a few cans or dry goods here and there. The journey hadn't been too bad, but Joel was eager to get to Yellowstone and find you a home. He wanted to have enough time to stock up the cabin or house you picked with supplies before it got too cold.

Joel confirmed the store was clear and ushered you inside. It was warm, and you welcomed the break from the wind. Joel went to the clothing section to look over winter clothes and accessories you would need while you went to see what food was left behind. You were stuffing your backpack full of any food you could fit when your eyes landed on a red can. You flicked your gaze back to Joel, who was engrossed with picking out a flannel that looked exactly like the one he was wearing, but newer. You reached back onto the shelf and pulled out two cans of Beefaroni, shoving them deep down in your pack so he wouldn't see them.

As you were finishing up, Joel walked up behind you holding up a few long sleeve women's thermal tops.

"Whaddya think?" he asked, holding them up. You nodded, taking all three from his hands and then glanced down at your overfilled pack.

"Can you carry them for me? Mine's full." You held them back out to him, and he carefully folded them up and put them in his backpack. He jutted his chin towards your pack.

"Find anything good?" he asked as he shouldered his bag and picked up his rifle.

"Yep," was all you said, but he caught the corner of your mouth turn up right before you bent over to pick up your things. He looked at you curiously with his eyebrows pinched, a small smile playing on his lips. "What?" you asked him innocently.

"Nothin'," he said, turning back around to survey the store. "Do we need anythin' else before we head out? We got a few more hours of daylight, I'd like to make the most of it."

"I think we should be good til we get there," you told him, following him out of the store. "What did you think, another week or so?"

"Yeah, give or take. It's a big park, there's lots of areas to explore. Once we get there, we can take our time pickin' a spot, settle in, and stock up for the winter." He opened his map as you made your way down the street. "I reckon we can follow the 191 the whole way," he pointed down the street where you could see a T in the road. "That should be it right there."

You walked until the sun began to dip below the trees. Joel was building a fire and grumbling about shorter days and less time to cover ground while you were rolling out your sleeping bags. He picked up his rifle and stood to head out into the woods. You noticed ever since your breakthrough with him, he was feeling more confident about leaving you alone, as long as you were comfortable with it. And he always asked. Every time. Today was no exception.

"I'll go out and see if I can find us a rabbit or somethin', they'll probably be out now that it's dusk. You wanna come with or do you wanna hang back?" He had his rifle slung over his shoulder and he looked down at you with warmth in his eyes. It was funny, it's only been a year, but if your coworkers saw him how he was now, they would never believe it. But you knew he reserved this side of himself just for you. You remember seeing his darker side before, most prominently when he confronted Keith after your assault. At the time, it scared you how quickly he was able to flip that switch. But now you understood there was nothing to fear when it came to him. At least, you didn't have anything to fear.

"Why don't you skip hunting today, I have a surprise for you," you said, the corners of your mouth turning up into a smile. You were slowly starting to smile more again, and every single time it made him grin. He immediately slid his rifle off his shoulder and laid it on the ground, sitting down on top of his sleeping bag next to you.

"Well, how could I say 'no' to that," he teased. He dusted his hands on the sides of his jeans and looked at you expectantly. You turned to rummage in your pack, taking you a minute to find the cans you shoved all the way to the bottom. You pulled them out and hid them behind your back.

"Pick a hand," you said, and his eyes bounced back and forth between your shoulders as he decided, the light from the fire making them sparkle. Finally, he reached out and pointed to your right hand. He was still very careful about touching you, only ever doing so after you’d initiated contact. You took your hand out from behind your back and handed him the can of Beefaroni.

"Happy Birthday," you said as his face shone with excitement, his eyebrows raised high, and his jaw hung open. He reached out and cradled it like it was gold before looking back up to you.

"How do you know if it's my birthday?" he asked, and you shrugged.

"I guessed. It's gotta be around now, right? Do you like it?" You looked at him eagerly as he turned the can over in his hands.

"Well, that depends. What's in the other hand?"

You immediately brought your left hand around to hand him the second can, and he jokingly clutched his chest and fell backwards, his hand catching himself at the last minute, then pushed himself back up. You giggled, and his eyes shot up to yours, trying to hide his shock. That was definitely the first time you laughed since your assault. Warmth spread across his chest at the sound, and he looked down at the two cans in his hand.

"I never got you anythin' for your birthday," he said, still looking down with a smile. You waved him off.

"You're getting me a home, that's all I want," you told him, scrounging in your bag to find a can of chicken you tucked away for yourself.

You ate in front of the fire in a comfortable silence, watching the fireflies and listening to the insects chirp around you. He finished his can and set it down by the fire, leaning back a bit to fish the keychain out of his pocket.

"Beefaroni was a great gift, sweetheart, but this one is still hard to top," and he dangled the keychain in front of you. You were about to take a bite of food when your hand froze in midair. You looked from the keychain, to Joel, then back again before putting the fork down.

"Can I see?" you asked, and he placed the keychain in your palm. You could tell the chrome edge was worn from being rubbed in his pocket, but the Texas flag was still just as bright. You handed it back to him with a smile.

"I keep forgetting you have that," you admitted, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. He tucked it back into his pocket.

"I always got it on me," he told you. You looked at each other in the glow of the fire until you bit your lip and looked away. Joel never pressured you to be physical after your assault. He didn't even flirt the way he used to. The best he would do was tease you a little. He left all of that up to you, and he was incredibly patient. You only kissed him twice since that afternoon in the forest, and they were both very brief. Even then, he never attempted to deepen the kiss, giving you complete control. You wanted that part of your relationship back, but you were scared what it would be like, or if you were ready.

You looked back over at him. He was staring into the fire now, his legs stretched out and leaning back on his hands. You swallowed, then inched over to him, tucking your head into his shoulder. He shifted so his weight was all on one hand, and he picked up the other to wrap around your hips, his palm flat against the top of your thigh. You turned your face up to look at his, and when he glanced down back at you, you leaned up to press your lips against his mouth. He kept his hands where they were and gently massaged his lips on yours, still not looking to take anything further. Your heart swelled at his patience and restraint, overwhelmed by his sweetness. Before you had a chance to overthink it, you delicately licked at his lips, wanting to deepen the kiss. You felt his hesitation before gently opening his lips, letting you be the one to explore. You nervously ran your tongue up and down his, moving much slower than either of you ever had in the past. All of your memories came flooding back of better times, and you realized just how much you missed being this close to him. You applied more pressure as his hand came up to cradle your face, stroking his thumb over your cheek as you swirled your tongue around his with more confidence. His hand was getting sore holding himself up, so he cupped your jaw with both hands while he eased himself back. He was lying flat on the ground now with you next to him, your upper body resting on top of his chest, your tongue never leaving his mouth. You felt the heat from the fire on your back as you pulled back to catch your breath, leaving a slow trail of kisses along his jaw. His fingers gently raked up and down your back, his adrenaline catching up with him now. He was trying so hard to hold back, to let you take it as far as you wanted. His eyes fluttered closed as you peppered kisses down his throat. You were finding it difficult to reach his neck from your angle, so without thinking, you swung your leg over his hips, your mouth continuing its trail.

You should have gone slower, you should have thought it through more. The way you were situated on him now left your core directly over his growing erection. You didn't even realize it until you shifted your weight back on your hips, pressing yourself on him and feeling his hardening cock, and he groaned softly. Your mind didn't even catch up with your body before you found yourself scrambling backwards off his lap, back to the safety of your sleeping bag. He sat up with a jolt, his eyes filled with concern.

"What'd I do?" he asked, looking you over as if he could find something physically wrong. You shook your head, trying to rid your mind of the man who forcibly pressed your hand against his erection, rubbing your wrist subconsciously. Your chest felt tight as you gasped for air. You rubbed the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling.

"Nothing, you didn't do anything," you gasped. "It was me. I thought I was ready, I thought... I'm so sorry, Joel." Your face crumpled, tucking your knees into your chest. You tried to hide your face in your shoulder, but he reached out and hooked a finger under your chin, dragging your eyes up to meet his.

"You got nothin' to be sorry for, it's ok," he said softly, and you sniffled. "Don't cry, I promise it's ok," his thumb wiped a tear from your cheek as he gazed down at you. Your breathing was returning to normal, and your chest felt looser. You sighed and leaned into his touch.

"Why don't we get some sleep?" He asked, trying to change the subject. "I wanna take advantage of as much daylight as possible. Sooner we get there, the better, yeah?" You nodded and rubbed your nose on the back of your hand.

You waited until he got settled in his sleeping bag before tentatively reaching an arm over to drape across his chest. His eyes were closed but you saw him smile, and his hand came up to hold yours, bringing it up to his lips to plant a kiss on the inside of your wrist.

"You alright?" he whispered, turning his head to look at you now. You nodded.

"I will be," you said.

Over the next two days, Joel had you up at the crack of dawn to get started on your journey. The days were getting chillier, but the sun provided some warmth as you moved through the mountains. You were taking a small break, sitting on a guardrail eating while Joel examined his worn-out map, his eyes squinting at the paper. You poked him in the shoulder, startling him.

“You need glasses, old man?” you teased, and he couldn’t keep the smirk from his face. He shook his head at you before focusing back down on the map.

“I’m 37, not 77,” he muttered. You smiled as you looked up and down the highway, seeing nothing but a few abandoned cars, but then some rustling in the trees lining the road grabbed your attention. Joel held out his hand for your bow, hoping to snag a rabbit. You pressed it into his hand, and he grabbed an arrow from your backpack, loading it up and taking aim at the dense forest, waiting for the animal to show itself. But the animal that appeared was far bigger than a rabbit.

You blinked rapidly a few times, unable to process seeing a horse standing just 20 feet in front of you. Then, four more horses appeared through the trees, standing and staring at you. You assumed because you hadn’t seen a horse in so long that it took you an extra minute to realize there were riders on their backs. The people had their faces partially covered with bandanas and had their guns aimed directly at you.

“Drop the bow,” a woman’s voice said, taking you by surprise. You weren’t sure you’ve ever seen a female raider before.

Joel lowered the bow carefully, never taking his eyes off the woman in front who was clearly their leader. With the bow no longer obscuring his face, he held his hands up and jutted his chin out, sidestepping so he could block you with his body.

“Whaddya want?” he asked her roughly, his scowl returning. Before she could respond, another voice piped up from beside her.

“Joel?!”

His eyes swung to the man on the horse next to the woman as he yanked his bandana down, revealing his face for the first time. You gasped, then you both spoke in unison.

“Tommy?”

Chapter Eighteen

Tag list: @chiogarza, @sparklejumpropequeen-777, @shotgun-shelby

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel the last of us #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller series #joel x reader #joel x reader smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us game #the way we were joel miller fic

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welldonebeca · 5 months

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the devil in the marble - masterlist

Summary: First love is always a little foolish; you look at the person by your side and plan a life with them with the ease a child has at imagining a fairytale. It’s feverish and impatient, with new experiences and new feelings, and a comfort one has never felt before. After being asked to pose for a statue months before the 74th Hunger Games, Cato falls in love with its beautiful and odd sculptor. Pairing: Female!Reader x Cato (District 2's Male Tribute) Warnings: Fluff, falling in love, canon compliant, pre-74th Hunger Games, District 2. Tension. Hurt/Comfort.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 Chapter 9 on Patreon (3rd of March 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 10 on Patreon (10th of March 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 11 on Patreon (16th of March 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 12 on Patreon (23rd of March 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 13 on Patreon (30th of March 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 14 on Patreon (6th of April 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 15 on Patreon (13th of April 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 16 on Patreon (20th of April 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 17 on Patreon (27th of April 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 18 on Patreon (4th of May 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 19 on Patreon (11th of May 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 20 on Patreon (18th of May 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 21 on Patreon (25th of May 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 22 on Patreon (1st of June 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3) Chapter 23 on Patreon (8th of June 2024 on Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 28 /Chapter 29 / Chapter 30 / Chapter 31 / Chapter 32 / Chapter 33 / Chapter 34 / Chapter 35 (on Patreon)

(more)

"the devil in the marble" was posted on my Patreon on June 2022. To read all 23 available chapters now and have early access to the last arc as it is posted, subscribe to my page! It's just $2 a month and I promise you won't regret it.

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Taglist is open.

#welldonebeca's the devil in the marble #cato hadley #cato hunger games #cato fanfic #cato fanfiction #cato x reader #cato hadley x reader #cato series #74th hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games fanfic

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thesandsofelsweyr · 1 year

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THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 1/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,809 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Yes this is a repost. My blog is still new so Tumblr didn't allow my original post to appear in the tags. (Shout out to the 10 of you who still managed to find & like the original 🥰)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You climb the last flight of steps up to the fourth floor of your apartment building, stomping each stair into submission as you go. You’re still fuming from the blind date you just escaped. That is the absolute last time you ever let Erin set you up with one of her stock broker bro coworkers. You don’t care how hot or rich they are; you are done. Done, done, stick a fork in you. You love your bestie but by God does the woman have terrible taste in men or what.

Both of the pricks she handpicked for you were narcissistic know-it-alls with egos the size of Texas; a pair of swine in designer suits (who, to Erin’s credit, were smoking hot but that’s beside the point.) Once the pig from tonight decided that you weren’t trophy wife material he became far more interested in his phone than he was in you. And the last pig coddled you like you were a delicate, empty-headed damsel in distress who was lucky to be granted the honor of his company and conversation. You should’ve learned your lesson after that first failed date with Dalton Rockefeller-Vanderbilt (or whatever old money asshole last name he had) but you’ve been feeling lonely lately, especially after Ash introduced you to the fab guy she’s dating (an accountant with a perfectly plebeian name of Abe).

You glare down the hallway as you ascend enough to peek over the top of the stairs. Oh great, you think sourly, pursing your lips, your face hardening into a study in once I step inside that door I’m downing a shot of whiskey before turning up an overflowing glass of wine. You stare molten daggers at the tall, brawny guy in your sights. It’s the hot asshole who lives beside you; the last person you want to see tonight. He’s standing, hunched as ever, in front of his door, key poised for the deadbolt, wearing that same teal baseball cap and red hoodie that he never seems to take off. Your jaw tightens. You’ve tried to be nice to the brute—flashing him a smile, saying hello—but all you’ve ever gotten in return was a scowl, if he deigned to acknowledge you at all. Well, you’re fresh out of smiles tonight, jerk.

A flutter of unease tickles your tummy as you step onto the landing, into the narrow hallway with him, your back turned to the only exit, a six foot tall sus man between you and your apartment. You stand up straighter, squaring your shoulders, trying to make yourself look and feel taller. It’s late, and your building is eerily quiet while the city is abuzz with incessant sirens. The usual ensemble of notorious nutjobs are fighting yet another battle in their never-ending war with their rival nutjob who dresses up like a Bat.

Nutjobs like this guy…

You reach into your handbag and grab your keys in your fist, sliding the sharp ends between your fingers, ready to stab at some eyeballs. (You regrettably didn’t have room for your taser or mace in this bag so you have to improvise.) It’s your own fault that you suspect the guy’s a sociopath lying in wait to jump you. You made up a serial killer backstory for him—the result of one too many true crime podcast binges—despite not even knowing the guy’s name. You can’t help it. He gives off serious Ted Bundy vibes. Well, maybe that’s unfair to Ted. Ted would’ve at least smiled at you before bludgeoning you with a crowbar. This guy though…

This guy doesn’t have a scowl for you tonight. Actually, he seems startled by your sudden appearance in the hallway, dropping his keyring to the floor with a clatter that shatters the uneasy silence, causing you to jump. He ducks his red-hooded head between his hunched shoulders as you pass by, warily eying him, ready to stab those icy blue eyeballs of his if he tries anything.

You arrive at your door and take out your keyring, sighing with likely unnecessary relief as you slide the key into the lock. The guy’s probably a harmless weirdo incel who never learned how to talk to a woman. You steal one last peek over your shoulder at him, and watch as he stabs at his deadbolt with his key, hitting everywhere but the keyhole because, you realize with surprise, his hand is shaking too much to hit the target. This dude’s a disaster, you say to yourself as you turn the key in your own deadbolt. Then, as he misses the keyhole yet again, you hear yourself ask, “Do you need help?” in an annoyed tone. You didn’t mean to sound so bitchy but whatever. He shouldn’t be such a bitch to you.

He seems to jump at the sound of your voice, and his keyring clatters to the scuffed wood floor again. You stare back at him incredulously. Is he wasted or something? You wonder as that unsettling feeling creeps back in, prickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your grip tightens around your doorknob as your pulse picks up speed.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles in response without sparing a glance in your direction.

“You don’t look fine,” you grumble back at him, the flames of irritation rekindled by his rudeness. Why should you care if the jerk’s too drunk or stoned to get in his apartment. Let his rude ass sleep on his doorstep. You shove open your door and take a stomped step across the threshold—you really need that glass of wine. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bend down to pick up his keys, then hear him groan like he’s in pain. You poke your head back around the doorframe, curious, and notice he’s doubled over now, clutching at his heaving chest, breathing hard and fast like he just ran a 5k or—your heart leaps inside your own chest—like he’s having a fucking heart attack. You watch, mouth agape, brows furrowed, as he sinks to his knees, a handful of red fabric still clenched in his trembling fist, then falls forward onto his free hand while he struggles to get control of his labored breathing. Crumpled on the floor like this, fighting for a breath, makes him seem so small, vulnerable, and not the least bit threatening; more like a boy who needs your help and less like an NFL quarterback who murders women on the side for fun.

Just go into your apartment, pour that extra large glass of merlot you’ve been fantasizing about since John Preston Anderson III introduced himself with his full name. Curl up on the sofa with In Cold Blood or a horde of shirtless, oiled, bronzed, and heartily-muscled Dothraki in your Game of Thrones rewatch. Who cares if the hot asshole serial killer next door has a heart attack? But you care apparently because you rush over to him instead, ignoring The Stranger Beside Me audiobook narrator inside your head warning you that this is a textbook Ted Bundy ploy, you idiot. You bend to help him, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when your fingertips brush against him his entire body jerks away from you, like you zapped him with your taser. He throws up an arm to warn you off. “Don’t,” he snaps breathlessly before gulping down a lungful of air, then rasps: “Please don’t touch me.”

You bristle at his harsh rebuff but keep your temper in check since the guy’s clearly in crisis mode. “Should I call an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.”

“It’s… it’s not a heart attack… it just… feels like one.” He bites off each word, every breath precious. The fingers of his free hand dig into the hardwood floor.

“At least let me unlock your door for you,” you suggest shortly, biting your tongue before you can add: since you weren’t able to manage that yourself, then feeling guilty for even thinking that. What had the poor guy done to you tonight except happen to be standing in your shared hallway after some other asshole pissed you off?

He gives you a small, grudging nod so you retrieve his fallen keyring, wondering why a man needs so many damn keys. “The bronze one,” he grunts, as if he read your mind.

You unlock his door with the bronze key then push the door open while he drags himself to his feet behind you, huffing and groaning. The dimly lit apartment that greets you is sterile, spartan; that doesn’t help the serial killer vibes at all. One of the furnished units, you presume, since the furniture looks like it was plucked from the lobby of your building. The walls are white and bare; no art or posters or photos of him scowling beside a lover. And the place is spotless—you’d assume it was vacant if you didn’t know otherwise. A vision suddenly fills your mind, a vision of him on his knees, bright yellow dishwashing gloves pulled halfway up his muscular arms, an uncapped bottle of industrial bleach at his side as he scrubs at a puddle of blood while the lifeless corpse of the last girl who wandered in here lies wrapped up in blood-stained plastic behind him. Oh God, you even smell the bleach. But then you notice the stacks of paperback books here and there, the open sketch pad on the sofa with pencil-scribbled notes and drawings, some charging AirPods beside an iPad, another red hoodie—one that zips up the front—hanging from the back of a dining room chair, a gym bag, and atop the kitchen island, a rather happy-looking houseplant which, you have to admit, is kinda cute.

Before you can take in the rest of his place he staggers past you, bumping into your shoulder with a bruising force that knocks you sideways and nearly off your feet. Then with one last little wheeze, he topples over like an uprooted oak tree in a windstorm, smacking face first into the hardwood with a meaty thud that rattles the floor beneath you.

“Oh my God!” You squeal, covering your mouth with both hands.

A shot of adrenaline pumps through your veins, spurring you into action. You snatch your phone from your bag with rubber fingers, nearly flinging it aside in your panic, and frantically dial 9-1-1, forgetting all about the emergency shortcuts created for just such an occasion. Your stomach dips at the sight of the bulky body lying prone at your feet, still and silent as the grave. As the phone rings—the long-familiar trilling sound now seemingly drawn out as if it will stretch into eternity—you kneel beside him to check his pulse and see if he’s still breathing, praying he isn’t a corpse, when you spot something that knocks the breath from your lungs and stops your heart dead in its tracks. With a cold, trembling hand you push up the tail of his hoodie…

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator asks by rote, voice booming through your phone’s speaker, but you barely hear it over the alarm bells clanging inside your head. You’re gaping at the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, unable to form any sort of response around your heart lodged in your throat.

“Hello?” the operator asks irritably.

“Hi, uh,” you start with a squeak, eyes still fixed on the textured grip of that deadly weapon, but then smack your lips shut. What are the cops gonna think when they see that gun? And what if he’s wanted for a crime or something and you get him arrested? He said it wasn’t a heart attack, acted like this had happened to him before. You can always call back if he’s actually dead or dying…

Why the hell does it matter if he gets arrested?? Your brain shouts back at you. Why are you even here in the first place when there’s an unopened bottle of merlot waiting for you in the safety of your apartment only a few footsteps away, where there’s not an unresponsive armed man who’s built like a tank, who doesn’t even need the gun when he could snap your tiny neck with those massive hands of his? Could the universe give you any clearer signals that “you in danger, girl”? Have you learned absolutely nothing from hours upon hours of Karen and Georgia? “Stay sexy and don’t get murdered”—this guy isn’t even nice to you! Don’t you dare hang up that phone…

“Um, I’m so sorry. I thought my neighbor was having a heart attack but-but he’s fine actually. False alarm. Sorry to bother you!” Your words tumble out in a rush then you smash the “End Call” button before you can get questioned further or chewed out for wasting their time. In the back of your mind you hear the recording of this 9-1-1 call replaying on the My Favorite Murder episode starring you, before the hostess pair warns their listeners not to make the same foolish mistake you just made.

You sit back on your heels, clammy hands kneading your knees while that chunk of baleful metal glares back at you from his waistband, like a coiled rattlesnake peeking out from beneath a rock. Your mind is racing as fast as your heart through scenarios that all end with you getting shot. Then your hands are moving with minds of their own, fingers curling around the textured grip, getting your dainty fingerprints all over the murder weapon as you slip it free. It’s heavier than you expected, you note as you grip it tighter, careful not to get your finger anywhere near that trigger. Heavy, but not heavy enough for something that can end a life in an instant. The thought makes you shudder. You place the gun on the floor then give it a shove, eager to be rid of it, praying that the damn thing won’t go off automatically as it slides across the hardwood floor out of reach. You’ve never touched a gun before this moment and have zero interest in shooting yourself in the face.

Now your attention shifts back to the poor guy who's still out cold. You lay your hand on his back and feel its steady rise and fall. Still breathing, thank God. Then with a grunt of effort and a mighty heave you manage to flip him over on his back. Immediately your hand shoots back to cover your mouth and you suck in a horrified breath as his pale face, previously hidden beneath the shadow of his hat and hood, becomes visible in the lamplight.

You were expecting the weals on his chin and forehead, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip swelling from where it busted when he fell flat on his face. What you weren’t expecting to find was dried blood smeared across his cheek up to his ear, or the J-shaped scar beneath his eye that you’d noticed before (it’s unfortunately hard to miss, despite his best efforts to hide it) weeping beads of fresh blood from where someone traced over it with a knife you assume, carving deep into his skin. But it wasn’t the sight of the blood or the crimson J that pulled the gasp from your throat and made your stomach nosedive like you were on a rollercoaster. Nope, that was your reaction to the angry red furrows encircling his throat around his Adam's apple, deep indentations where someone wrapped rope or wire or cable around his neck so tight that it embedded in his skin; ligature marks from where someone fucking strangled him.

You grab your phone then pause, biting at your lip. Maybe you should call 9-1-1 again. What if his windpipe is crushed? What if that’s why he was breathing so hard, why he fainted? Those marks are so deep… he could be seriously injured. But if he was seriously injured, why had he returned to his apartment instead of going to the ER? It seems like he made the choice for you.

You open your phone’s browser and type: how to treat strangulation injuries, then quickly skim over the top result. Ice. That seems simple enough, you tell yourself, noting that you can clean his J cuts with soap and water, at least until he wakes up. And if he doesn’t wake up soon? Well, then you’ll call the cops. After all, he’s probably a law abiding citizen who’s licensed to carry that gun; a guy that you just pinned as another one of the nutjobs because you always get paranoid about every stranger you see after your true crime binges. In your defense, this is Gotham-fucking-City and you’re a young single lady who lives alone. You’d be a fool not to be paranoid.

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