#like i want them to be their canon self but i’m so agonized by the what if its not canon?

[tomuras]

anytime i try to write for one of my favorite characters, any character really, i end quitting half way because I am so anxious that I’m mischaracterizing them. someone release me from this hell I cannot take it any longer

#z.cries #i’m also just exhausted from always trying to make a character very canon #like yes it is important to me but at what cost lmao #ugh this comes off very whiny i’m sorry #just need to get this off my chest for reasons #like i want them to be their canon self but i’m so agonized by the what if its not canon? #that it’s ruining my drive to create and i feel like i’m creating a problem #like fandom should be fun! not whatever this feeling is #ugh the fear that i’m mischaracterizing my favs will cripple me for life i feel

[oonajaeadira]

Leave Off Your Wandering pt. 4: Winter

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV)/ Joel Miller

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. Old enough to have been an adult on Outbreak Day. Wyoming born and bred. Sheep farmer, easy-going but confident and self-sufficient. Likes to sing, not a great cook. Childhood friend of Maria. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: Mature.

Warnings: Mentions of sex but nothing explicit. Canon-typical violence, bodily harm, death,  (blood, broken bones, knife wounds, shooting, blunt force) and PTSD.

Summary: Revenge comes calling and you work though it as a family.

A/N: Series set after season 1 and then diverges. Does not acknowledge the existence of further plot/seasons, although it does use some characters/elements from the second game.

I’m so sorry it’s taken this long to get to winter. This one was difficult for me to face writing for reasons that may be made clear. But it was very rewarding. <3

The air is thin and cold this morning, takes your breath and makes a show of it as you quickstep it down to the stables. The sun is just starting to make the frost sparkle and no doubt Goldie will be using up the rest of the firewood at the Roost today.

Good thing you have a Joel who’s ready to chop more.

Although he’s also a Joel that’s forgotten his tea, the “stuff with the things in it” that Willa gave him for the stiffness in his knees. With this cold he’s going to want it today on patrol and the last thing you think you can stand is the tug in your heart when he comes home complaining of the cold and the ache and you sitting warm and cozy with his thermos on the counter when you had the legs to trot it on out to him.

It’s a relief to round the corner and find the patrol party still at the stable gate, Tommy helping one of the teens with their rifle strap, and Joel waiting on horseback, weaving his gloved fingers together, packing them down at the valleys to get his hands all the way in.

He’d laid one of those hands on your cheek this morning. Gentle. First thing you saw when you opened your eyes. Like most mornings now. His thumb rounding the rim of your cheek so he could lean in and take a good long drink of a kiss.

He likes it that way…soft, slow. Likes to pull you in as close as he can, twist his forehead into your temple when he hits his peak, jaw clenched in agonized pleasure, kisses along your jawline when you find yours, his eyes half-lidded and watching you in a hazy awe. He’s quiet but thorough, completely  present like he can’t believe he’s got this little slice of warmth, sighs a hushed curse in your ear and calls you sweetheart in the same breath, and then sleeps like a baby the whole night through.

He doesn’t like to talk about the past much, but listening’s your specialty and it comes out in bits and pieces, stuck between the little he does say. You come to understand that he very rarely got to be very close with anyone while Sarah was growing up. There were the years when everything was a nightmare. Then there was Tess and she brought him out of that, thank goodness. But it took time. And there was also denial and survival and means to their ends. There might indeed have been strong love there. But you have the feeling he’s not had this–or anything like it–for a long, long time.

So if he wants it soft and slow, then who are you to deny him?

Maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising that it was him who pulled you in a little closer.

“What if you didn’t move in with Tommy and Maria this winter?” He’d lingered the morning after Christmas, leaning one shoulder against the frame of your bedroom door, savoring the show of you getting dressed for the day.

“And waste the fuel? Why? So we can cuddle up now and then without your brother down the hall? You keep me plenty warm, Joel Miller, but I’m not going to heat this whole house just for me and your more-than-casual visits. Everyone’s got a responsibility here to conserve in the winter. This is how I do my part. And besides,” you purred as he stepped in to button up your flannel for you, freeing up your fingers so they could run through his curls, “I know where you live and your bed’s good as mine.”

“You seem to like it there well enough.”

“I do.” His beard was growing in all but a patch on his jaw that was now your right to kiss.

“Well I was thinkin’ we just make it ours for the winter.”

His hands had circled your hips and his words had stopped your heart, but there was little for to say with his lips pressed against yours.

So mornings often started as they did today, waking to find Joel beside you, roused because you can feel him watching you with that little half smile that reveals the crack in his weary heart where the light shines through. Who needs spring to come with sunshine like that to turn to? Now there are family breakfasts with Ellie and cozy days knitting in the company of Maria and Riley and then warm nights with Joel on one of those pillowtopped mattresses that were all the rage before the outbreak…the ones that are great when you have a stiff back, but even better because the springs don’t squeak…

“Aw dammit,” Joel says when he sees you nearing the stables with the thermos, “Knew I forgot something.”

“Two somethings,” you say pointing to his bare head and passing your hat up to him in the saddle. “Your ears are already bright red. Here. Take my hat.”

“This’s Ellie’s.”

“Huh. Guess I just grabbed one on my way out. Oops. Be a man. Wear a pompom.”

He pulls it down over his ears and smiles. “Matches my scarf.”

You’d had a small batch of deep red wool you’d managed to squeak a hat and scarf out of and gifting the hat to Ellie around Christmas, but the scarf went to Joel. He may not want anyone to think of him as sentimental, but it was worth your while to make it easy on him by giving him something that was also practical. Even if he had his jacket zipped up all the way, it was always there, tucked around his neck; he may leave his ears to the elements but he never went anywhere without that scarf.

The line of horses start making their way toward the Jackson gates and you squeeze Joel’s shin before stepping out of the way, letting him and his horse follow the group. He simply lets a gloved finger glance your cheek as he passes by.

All the way out here on this side of the apocalypse and humans still have a million variations on saying “I love having you around and I’d like to keep it that way.”

________

“Ellie’s more than welcome around here if you and Joel don’t want to leave her home alone.”

Maria’s lightly bouncing a wet-faced and blubbering Riley on her lap, trying to tempt him with a frozen carrot for his teething. He has tommy’s curls and they sproing with every boing.

“Nah, she wants to come out. We’ll be dividing the ewes and driving part of the flock into the old town for the rest  of the overwinter and she wants to see how it's done. Should see it, if she thinks she’ll be entering the rotation at any point. Speaking of,” you grunt, leaning down to gather your knitting basket and gather your things, “I promised I’d meet her after school. She’s gotten into collecting cassette tapes and the commissary says she’s hit her quota on goods this week. Gonna give up a couple credits so she can discover the wonders of Joan Jett and the Beastie Boys.”

“That’s throwing gas on the fire. She pick those out herself?”

“Nope. My points, my choice. And I say that girl needs to fight for her right to party and put another dime in the jukebox, baby.”

Maria rolls her eyes, chuckles, goes light on the sarcasm. “You’re the coolest auntie.”

“Don’t I know it,” you laugh, tying up your boots.

“Joel’s gonna just love that.”

Leaning in to bop a quick kiss to Riley’s head, you give Maria a crazed grin. “So much.”

Ten minutes later, Ellie has her doubts, holding up a cassette at the commissary. “But there’s a dinosaur on this one! How can it not be great?”

“Listen, missy. I’m not saying Dinosaur Jr. doesn’t have a place in music history, but I’m telling you that you’re likely to be disappointed. Trust me. Just this once.”

Ellie makes a face but you glance past it, distracted by what you see through the window behind her. Following your focus, she turns to look too. “Who’re they?”

All of the patrol horses coming back in have two people on them–a member of the party, and a stranger. And all the strangers can’t be more than teenagers.

“Dunno, but it looks like you’re about to get some new classmates. I’ll sign these out. You go ahead and make a good first impression.”

“You’re just sending me out there because you know if they’re infected, I can’t catch it.”

“If they were infected, they wouldn’t be on those horses or inside those gates. I’m sending you out there because you have a way of reading people. Go.”

Something in that puts a gasp in her throat and a sparkle in her eye and her ponytail whips behind her as she goes, striving to live up to the compliment.

But really, you just want half a minute to take a good look at the kids without Ellie asking questions. They’re all scrawny and filthy. Backpacks. Been traveling and living rough for a while now. Where’d they come from? What’s their story? Not an adult among them. How have they survived? You’d swear something feels off, but that’s the world now. Can’t be too careful. Everything seems off all the time. 

Question is, off by how much?

You find Joel in the group; he’s the only one riding with a kid in front of him rather than hanging on behind. And once he gets down off the horse and reaches up to help his passenger down, you can see why.

She’s pregnant.

Shit. She’s what, fifteen? Sixteen?

Shit.

“There’s a house up near mine has good plumbing turned on.” Tommy’s speaking over his shoulder to the small group and leading his horse to the stable door as you come out of the commissary. “We’ll get you all washed up and fed. There’s at least two beds there and some other furniture fit to sleep on if it makes you comfortable to stay together. Give me a minute to put Lady away here and we’ll walk on up together. Joel? A word?”

Handing off the pregnant girl’s backpack to her, Joel takes the reins of his horse and follows his brother inside, leaving the newcomers to look around them and take in the town.

All but one. A girl with hair that’s neither light brown or dark blonde, somewhere in between. Your mother would have called it dirty dishwater blonde and you always thought that was rude. But your mother also would have said the girl had a hatchet of a face with a strong jaw like that. And it’s that girl whose head whips around the second she heard Joel’s name, quickly scanning the patrol to ascertain who belonged to it, and stands watching the stable door in thought long after the Miller brothers were gone.

Was Joel her father’s name? Her brother’s? Is it hers or close to hers? Is she a Jo or Joelle?

“Abby. Hey,” a boy calls and she turns. “Mel should get a bed and we can share. Manny and Nora can share too…if you’re okay with taking a couch.”

“Fine,” Abby says. Her eyes and mouth all unmoving lines.

“Hey. Welcome to Jackson. I’m Ellie.” Your starling jams her hands in her pockets as all the new eyes turn her way. “It looks like you’ve been wandering. Where you coming from?”

The boy who spoke before blinks and opens his mouth to say something, hesitates. You’d take him for the leader up until the moment Abby speaks for him.

“West of here. QZ. Seattle.”

“Oh. Cool,” says Ellie with a bounce to her nod. Easy. Instantly welcoming. “I came out of Boston.”

Seattle QZ. The same one your dead husband and his sister came from. Not a good place. Warring factions and nothing but oppression and disease, last you heard. Good that they got out. They’re gonna need to be de-loused. 

But Seattle’s also much harder than most zones to break free of. You’ve been told the Western Liberation Front makes FEDRA look like a bucket of clowns.

“Seattle?” Now it’s your turn to pull focus from the group. “We’ve had refugees from there before. You really get out of there in one group like this? With no grown ups?”

Abby rips her eyes away from Ellie. “It’s a long story,” she says, shutting the questioning down.

There’s a moment that hangs between you and that stinks faintly of threat, but is mostly just the smell of feral kids. Tension breaks as the men emerge from the stable.

“We all ready?” Tommy says, making his way down the road and waving a hand for them to follow. “New home’s this way.”

Ellie starts to fall in with the group and you pull her back in close, speak low. “Go with them if you want, but keep your distance.”

“What? Why?”

“These are your first refugees. You’ll learn that they sometimes bring things with ‘em.”

Her face screws into a question mark. “What things?”

“Fleas. Lice. Viruses. Just give ‘em some space for a while.”

After the quickest flash of disgust, Ellie’s tried and true compassion kicks in and she gives an understanding nod as she turns to go, tape cassettes clattering in her jacket pocket.

You keep watching her even as you speak to the owner of the hand snaking around your waist. “Where’d you find them?”

“Up at the old crossing. They were under attack.”

“Jesus.”

“Nope. Infected.”

“Been a while since we’ve seen any of those stumble through here.”

“Infected? Or the kids.”

Turning to him in exasperation you look him over. “Both. And the same goes for you as for Ellie, Foxy. Let’s take you home and wash that scarf and hat. Run a fine-toothed comb through that hair just to make sure.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, stopping when he catches your zero-temperature glare. If it’s something else you love about Joel, he recognizes when something’s important to you and answers a lady with composure and respect. “Yes, ma’am.”

____

“You couldn’t have found her some Cash or Fleetwood Mac or something?”Joel grumbles into the fireplace as he places another log on the coal bed and moves the poker around like he’s doing something.

Ellie sits on a blanket near the fire, reading a comic book, headphones on, Joan Jett’s grinding guitar bleeding out into the otherwise quiet living room. With his face turned to the fire and Ellie facing away from you, she most likely can’t hear the conversation that’s happening around her if you keep your voices low.

“You’re just jealous that she asked me to pick something out instead of you,” you smile on the couch, picking up your feet and swinging them into his lap as he sits down beside you. “80’s rock is good for her spiky little soul.”

“80’s means trouble,” he counters, considering her as his hands absently squeeze and rub at your feet.

You go back to your book. Seemingly anyway. It’s easy to steal observing glances from where you are. The thoughtful concern he has for Ellie. You can see him looking over the wood in the hopper and calculating how many days of fuel he has before you all head out to the Roost. A twist of a lip tells you he’s realized he might be a day short and needs to chop more. His gaze drops to his lap as he lightly massages your feet–just running his hands along their contours, pressing a thumb in here and there to tenderize a muscle. The firelight loves him, plays at the edges of his curls, slides down his nose, kisses the purse of his lips.

You jump as he slides a tickling fingertip up the sole of one foot. “Hey!”

“What you get for staring.”

“I wasn’t staring at you, I was reading.”

“Must be pretty small print you don’t turn a page for five minutes.”

Taking off your readers and closing the book, you sit up and deposit them on the coffee table. From here it’s easy to scoot up to him and lean an elbow on the couch back. “What’s got you so thinky tonight, hmm? You look like you’ve got your worry pants on.” There’s a curl right behind his ear that’s so easy to twirl in your fingers and you indulge. You’ve found a little touch helps him open up.

“I can’t help thinking about those kids, thinkin’ they could just wander out in the world like that. If it weren’t for us hearing the runners….” He goes quiet a minute and you let him, his gaze haunting Ellie’s direction but living somewhere in the past. “They gotta be somebody’s kids. I can’t believe Seattle’s so bad they just let ‘em run wild…let ‘em run away from the best you got for ‘em.”

A faint guitar blares from Ellie’s headphones as she flips a page, purses her lips, absently nods along.

“Yeah, well teenagers rebel, Foxy. That’s what they do.”

“No,” he says, softly, resolutely, a tick of his jaw. “Not all of ‘em. Not if they’re loved. And fiercely. And I don’t know a love that isn’t fierce.”

It’s the look on his face that makes you believe him.

Love isn’t a word that Joel bandies about. It’s easy to see it work in him. The way he tells Ellie no when she wants to do something reckless but promises her something just as exciting, going to any length to make her smile. The way he holds Riley’s head in the crook of his arm, his other hand reflexively coming out in defense if anyone gets too near the baby’s soft spot. The way he shoves his brother with a laugh when Tommy picks on him or how he helps Maria to her feet when she’s been on the floor too long, even if she says she doesn’t need it.

The way he… with you he…

His hands work at your feet again. He understands the minute levels of his strength, knows how firm to go without bringing pain.

With you, it’s the way he rolls over and shows you his soft places, invites you in to be a part of it.

Not really what you’d call fierce. Does that mean he doesn’t–

“Is a cherry bomb like a little bomb or a big bomb?” Ellie asks, an earpad pulled away from her ear and spilling Cherie Currie’s stuttered chorus.

“It’s a little one. A firework. But it packs a big punch. It’ll take your fingers off. Hello, world, I’m your wild girl, I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch cherry bomb,” you sing, pushing your foot against Joel’s thigh with every beat. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he says, wrapping a big hand around your ankle to secure it. “Ellie, run on up and get my guitar. Lemme teach you a better song.”

In the minute it takes for her to come back, Joel foregoes softness for force, tickling relentlessly, almost ending up with a foot in his face with how much you squirm.

___

Church isn’t really your thing, never was. You have your own way of listening to the beauty of the earth that doesn’t mean sacrificing a morning sleeping in to listen to lessons you’ve already learned and hold true.

But today you’ve come to the after-brunch curious to welcome the new residents and managed to show up a little early. So you’re standing in the back of the mess hall with Maria and Riley, waiting for the final hymn to end, for the preacher to call an end to the service and a beginning to the meal.

Maria leans in and murmurs in your ear as the final chorus comes. “Tommy and the crew are working on one of those bigger houses with the vaulted ceilings in the new district so the church can have its own building.”

“They’re not gonna like having to walk over there.”

She shrugs, adjusts Riley’s teething toy and bounces him up a notch. “Might cause some of them to move over there. Thin out the density. Easier on the power grid. We do have five new residents.” 

You watch as one of the new boys–Owen–helps the pregnant Mel to her feet. “Soon to be six.”

Once the kitchen starts serving, Owen and Mel find their way over to your table, eager to meet Riley and ask Maria all kinds of questions about childbirth and your friend finds herself in a mentoring role she didn’t ask for. She’s not opposed to being helpful, just lets her judgment slide through on the whole babies having babies thing which completely flies over the kids’ heads.

They’re good enough kids, but something tastes a little sour when Owen tries to include you in the conversation.

“What about you? You and…is his name Joel? You gonna have any kids?”

It’s a rude question. He’s earned your side eye and he knows it, but smiles through it, playing innocent.

“Already got one. One’s enough,” you laugh, sly, chewing through some boiled oats and letting him know you’re gonna let that one slide.

“Oh, yeah, right. Ellie, right?” he asks, with a flick of his eyes to a table behind you. Turning, you find Abby at a table with some other residents and when you turn back it’s with a dry expression that tells him he’s worn out his turns at beating the bush and should be out with it.

“We just were wondering if she’d show us around,” Mel explains. “She’s the only one of the children here who will talk to us.”

You snort. “Don’t let Ellie hear you call her a child. She’s short for her age, but she’s not much younger than you. She likes people, but that won’t win you any points.”

“And don’t worry about the other kids,” Maria takes over, shooting you a look. “They’ll come around. A lot of them were born here and they don’t see a ton of new people.”

“Are they not coming to the brunch today?” Owen asks.

“Who?”

“Ellie and Joel.”

Shaking your head, you swallow your latest bite. “Joel and Tommy are off getting some work done in the new sector and Ellie would bite my face off if I woke her up before high noon on a weekend. But she knows where you’re staying. I’ll send her around to you once she’s up and acting like a whole human.”

You’re about to change the subject and ask them a few questions of your own but Riley starts fussing and Mel asks to hold him and the whole baby talk starts up again.

When you look over your shoulder, Abby is gone from the table. Left her dish for someone else to clean up.

There’s a thought creeps in that maybe Ellie can teach them all some manners. And then you remember the mouth on your starling and smile.

____

“And Owen showed me some of his drawings and they’re so amazing. He’s like a fucking Picasso or something. He says he’ll give me lessons if I can get Mr. Scowlface here to take him out hunting. Says he misses hunting deer with his dad. And Abby wants to go too. I told her how you taught me to use a shotgun and she seemed really interested to learn. She might want to join the patrols some day. But I told them not this week since we’re going out to the Meadow and they all had questions about that. Abby especially–” 

Ellie has a remarkable talent for chewing and talking at the same time. She catches a piece of apple that escapes her mouth, slurping it off the back of her hand where it landed, then downs the rest of the milk and wipes her mouth with the cuff of her sweater, leaving you to negate your silent praise of her manners from earlier in the week and giving you a break in the chatter to speak.

“Well, you’re a little young to be recruiting your own Roostlings, but if Abby or any of the others want to come out sometime and see what the fuss is about, they’re welcome. I’d rather them wait until spring though, or at least until we get the whole of the flock back from the deep winter holding grounds. Chickadee’s taking up the caboose on that.”

As you push the carafe of chicory coffee toward Joel and clear the breakfast plates, Ellie snatches the last hunk of bread you left on yours, shaking her head. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

Joel scoffs. “Last car on a train.” He takes a long, loud drag of his coffee, pouring on the annoyance to get a glare out of the girl and succeeds. “Well, if she don’t like heights, she’s not going to enjoy learning patrol duty either, not with the watchtowers and the mountain trails. And don’t go promising services you can’t guarantee. I’m not a scout leader.”

“What’s a scout leader?”

“Someone with a lot more patience than me. Get.”

Taking up her backpack, Ellie makes her way to the front vestibule to pull on her gear.

“Don’t forget your hat and scarf!” You call to her, but smile at Joel as you perch your butt against the table and tuck a little curl behind his ear. He’ll ask you to cut it soon. And you’ll put it off for as long as possible.Tickles, he'll say. I know, you'll say.

“Thanks, Gramma Betty!” she calls back and pulls the door shut behind her as Joel lays a warm hand on your outer thigh.

“What’er you getting up to today?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m in carding mode. Got a whole bag of washed fleece needs combing. I’d ask you what you’re up to, but I assume you and Tommy are gonna be tearing down some poor old house.”

There’s a moment where he squints, thiinking. His thumb tracing the outer seam of your jeans. 

“I want you to come with me. Got something to show you.”

“Really. Well I like the sound of that. I could use a little walk in the bitter cold with a mystery at the end of it. Gonna have to go pull on a heavier sweater though. Might need to take this one off first. You wanna come watch?”

There’s a knock at the front. Tommy. The door opening.

Joel only grins fondly and pats your thigh, sending you off, before pushing the chair back from the table and separating himself from his coffee mug. “I’ll catch the later show. ‘Specially if it calls for audience participation.”

Five minutes later, bundled and booted, the three of you head out toward the new section, Joel with his scarf tucked in tight and hat pulled down low, and Tommy with a set forced upon him because you’re quickly becoming the winter clothing police around here.

It’s not a long walk. Jackson was never more than a few miles wide and this is just the first expansion of the wall. You’ve wandered over during the construction crew’s activities enough to know the way without being led, but what you’re expecting is for Joel to lead you away from the furthest street, away from the beautiful A-frame house so neatly repaired along with its pretty neighbors and up the street with Tommy to the next clutch of houses they’ve been working on. 

But instead, Joel tells his brother he’ll be along in a minute, and Tommy smiles knowingly as he continues on, leaving the two of you in the walkway up to the pretty A-frame that’s so much like the Roost’s bigger sister.

“You know what today is?” Joel asks, hands in pockets, squinting up at the peaked roof.

“Friday?”

“Probably,” he says, shifting focus to his boots. “I was thinking more holiday-wise.”

The air’s particularly crisp today, hitches in your lungs as you take each mental step and catch up with him.

February 14. Valentine’s.

As your mouth drops open, he jerks his chin at the house. “You like this one, right?”

“What…what are you….Joel?”

There’s a cringe that belies his confidence, maybe a tinge of regret. “I just figured we were gettin’ along so well, that maybe you’d… It was just an idea–”

He can’t even look you in the eye until you yank his hand awkwardly out of his pocket and wrap your gloved hand around his. He seems almost shocked to see your tears welling up–true, half from the cold–but he’s also relieved. Big breath in, big breath out. That must have been the hard part.

Words aren’t Joel’s way. This is how he tells you just how deep his feelings go. You know he’s had time to imagine with every window replaced, every floorboard leveled out, every load bearing wall reinforced,  just which family was going to get to live in this house and what kind of life they might make in it.

What kind of life you might make together here.

So you take his lead and say only what’s necessary, as steadily as you’re able. 

“Take me inside.”

His sheepish grin confirms that it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

The interior’s simple, but gorgeous. The dark wood gleams, and the whole back wall of the A frame is windowed. The triangle at the top replaced with a leaded stained glass in a sunrise of orange and rose that reflects the undertones in the timber inside and the pines out the window, the mosaic just high enough to catch the last rays that will come in over the mountains at the end of the day and turn the whole place into a dream. The open floorplan has the kitchen near the door, but over by the windows….

Joel gives the tour. The hand-laid stones in the fireplace. The built-in shelves for your books. This is the corner where your favorite chair can go, nearest the fire and where there’s good light for spinning. This rug was here, still good. He points out to the little shed in the back–a place for wool dying, he can hang pegs in there however you need them.

If he weren’t so occupied in explaining the wood he chose to finish the countertop, the way he followed the original dovetailing in the doorframe, the pattern he made with the reclaimed wood in the floorboards, he may have seen you admiring the most important part of the house…or, rather, the most important person in it.

There’s more. Two bedrooms, one off each side of the main part of the house, each with its own bathroom, the larger one with its own porch overlooking a little creek.

“The basement’s not quite done, but I figure I’ll just use that for my own. Felt you might not like the…vibe…”

Ah yes. The former owners. He took care of that too. 

He took care of everything.

“I love it, Joel.”

“Yeah?”

“If there was a stronger word, it would be yours, believe me.”

He only wraps his arms around you as you dive in to squeeze him.

“Good,” is all he says. Breathes in the scent of your hair. “That’s good.”

________

The ewes hate the leader ropes, but they follow, bleating now and then as you slowly guide them through the woods toward the Meadow’s north entrance. Joel’s got two behind his and Ellie’s horse, and you’ve got four behind yours, a small party, but the only ones that were ready to come on back out after the coldest weeks.

Goldie’s happy to lead them out to the rest of the flock while you and Joel go up and get situated, get warm, get ready for the week ahead. Ellie follows Goldie and Joel hangs his watch by the door. All’s quiet in the Roost.

Until Joel’s tongue clicks. “That beam is bowing,” he points up to one of the main rafter struts on the far side of the room. “Wood stove keeps this side warm and the snow melts off, but there’s no balcony on the other side. No way to rake the snow off the roof. Tommy should have known better.”

“Well it’s not like he’s had a lot of practice with big boy tree forts, I’m guessing,” you say, dumping a sack of potatoes near the cook pile and throwing the stack of fresh sheets onto the bed. “Does it need to come down?”

“Don’t think so. But come spring we’ll add on another balcony and do some reinforcement.”

As he runs his hand up the wall seam, you come up behind him, hugging him from the back with the sole purpose of distracting him, your way of letting him know he’s obsessing like an old man. It gives you the right angle to grab onto his open jacket and start pulling it off him. “Take this off and stay awhile.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Goldie takes her leave on your horse, guiding Joel and Ellie’s behind, glad to be going back to more warm water than she can heat on a stovetop, and Ellie helps to cart a few buckets of the colder variety up from the stream so you can all just stay in for the night.

Then it’s stew and cards, and Ellie kicking Joel’s ass at Scrabble, all of you bundled in wool sweaters and slippers handmade by you and Chickadee, the firelight glinting off the game tiles, highlighting the glee in the girl’s eyes, the resigned agony in Joel’s smile.

Almost a whole year now she’s been coming out here with you, and it’s wondrous how much she’s grown inside and out. You never felt lonely at the Roost, in fact, you had always very much enjoyed the solitude. Now you don’t think you could abide it. It’s only a home for a week at a time, but only when they come out here with you now.

It’s a nice night. Stars are out. Ellie’s still staring out at them as you and Joel fall asleep in the big bed.

_____

It’s the scent of woodsmoke that wakes you in the middle of the night, sitting you up straight in bed. Or so you think, except that the embers in the stove are low, so it can’t be that. 

No. It’s a voice outside.

“Burn in hell, Joel Miller!”

Is that…Ellie? What’s she doing outside? No. Not Ellie. No it’s–

“Abby?” Ellie says blearily from the bunk above you.

There’s someone in the room moving swiftly toward you from the windows, hulking, with a rifle–

Joel.

“Get up. Both of you. Get out. The place is on fire.” 

It doesn’t register.

“What? What fire? Joel? What’s happening–”

He shakes your shoulder, pulling you from the bed. “Get Ellie out. Now!”

There’s no other thought, just fumbling in the dark as Ellie jumps down beside you and dives for her jacket, shoving her feet into her boots without doing up the laces while you reach out one hand to catch hers for when it comes to you. The other gropes the near table for the walkie and thumbs the button.

“Meadowlark to patrol. Meadowlark to Goldfinch. We’re in trouble, there’s a fire and–”

The whole cabin sways. A gunshot from the balcony. Joel growling over his shoulder. “Get out! Now!”

“Joel–!”

“NOW!”

The ladder is still sliding down into place when you jump on it and ride it part of the way down, still waking up as Ellie’s boots come fast, almost kicking you in the face as she follows you down the rungs two at a time, moving through a plume of choking blackness only to come out below it to a roaring bonfire that’s eating through the Roost’s supports.

Oh god. The Roost…

is burning….

“JOELLLLLL!” you scream up as your stocking feet hit the ground hard, as you catch Ellie and pull her off the ladder and stumble backward, as something hits your head hard and causes you to let go, as separate sets of arms grab each of yours and drag you roughly backward, fast enough to keep your feet from catching up until you’re on your knees.

There’s a crackle in the air– “Patrol to Meadowlark. What’s the trouble?” 

The walkie lies somewhere in the pine needles just out of reach and you’re screaming at it for help but all that comes out of your mouth is a string of names and no’s and helps. You’re able to yank your non-dominant arm free, pitching forward, clawing for the radio, until a flash of hard silver–a meteorite, exquisitely dense and smooth, malignant, swift, direct–cracks down on your forearm with a sickening thud, shattering the bone.

The world slides out of focus through a screen of sudden pain.

At first, you assume you’ve been shot in the arm. But then a figure steps around to your line of sight. Abby. With a golf club? What? Why? Where did she get that? The commissary? Why the fuck would they stock golf clubs? What the fuck is going on? 

And you watch as Abby picks up the walkie. Tosses it into the fire.

The hands are back upon you now, forcing you back to your knees, and a third set joins them, wrapping around your forehead and chin, pulling you back against a belly and you struggle.

Where’s Ellie.

You’re able to twist your head to one side despite being held. She’s there on the ground, face down, groaning, with Owen’s knee in her back.

“Ellie? Honey?”

One pair of hands holding you twists you hard, meaning to pull you further away from her without compliance from the other hands or consent from your muscle structure and there’s a sickening pop as your shoulder leaves its socket and then your scream drowns out everything even the roar of the fire.

“She keeps it in her pocket,” Abby says. Rooting into Ellie’s pocket, Owen finds the knife and pulls it out–the one she cherishes, imbued with the legend of her mother, given to her on the same day as her name, her life, and her orphanhood.

The day Ellie told you the story, you’d taken steel wool to the knife and cleaned it. Oiled the hinge. Shined it up good and pretty.

It flips open easily in Owen’s paw. It twirls swiftly around, and points downward, his fingers closing over the hilt, thumb curling over the butt of the handle to give it more leverage when he’s ready to bring it down.

The night is horribly black and lit along the edges in orange fire.

There’s a loud crack. Owen’s thigh explodes in a splatter of blood and he falls backward off Ellie, screaming. The hands around your head let go and Mel runs to him.

Joel stalks out of the plume of black smoke, cocking the rifle, pointing only long enough at Owen to confirm he’s down and then swinging the barrel around to Abby.

A stand off. No sound or movement but the whoosh of flames and a few ground-muffled cries from Owen, a few sniffles and shushes from Mel.

“Who the fuck are you,” Joel growls out over the steel barrel, his cheek quivering in barely hinged anger.

Abby stands, solid, unyielding, straight as the blonde braid hanging down her back, club wound up tight, ready for the pitch, a face full of lines and soot and destruction.

“The last survivors of the Firefly massacre. You didn’t think to check the rest of the compound? Like the whole team was just one-offs? Like none of them had family, you sick fuck? You fucking orphaned us. Left us to fend for ourselves. Go ahead and shoot, old man. Marlene always said you weren’t so good at keeping kids alive, actually surprised you got as far as you did. So go ahead. Not like we’ve got nothing to lose. We just came to return some favors and finish the job.”

It’s only in the moments later, before the dawn, when you’re laying on your back looking up at the stars, one arm laying broken and useless in the snow beside you, the other cradling a weeping Ellie Williams as tight as you can, that you’ll be able to slow the film of your memory and play out the next thirty seconds frame by frame.

The series of snaps and cracks as the support under the Roost gave way and the whole structure tumbled out and away from the scene, pulling several pines down with it, the crashing and burning the only sound you remember now.

Ellie trying to shuffle along the ground toward you and away from the fire.

Owen pulling himself up enough to raise the knife and bring it down into the meat of Ellie’s calf.

Owen’s body flying backward as a bullet ripped through his skull.

A wrench of your neck and the warm splash of blood from above you as another shot rang out, one person holding you falling away and back, gone, but still pulling you down with their dead body.

The roar of an angry Abby and the clank of a club shaft on a rifle barrel.

Another gunshot.

The sound of metal hitting flesh.

Thirty seconds. And now you can see the stars. Orion. The Milky Way.

Somehow you’re lying yards from the little patch of burning trees with Ellie cradled in your good arm. Someone dragged you here.

There are voices and flashlights. The patrol. Bear and Tommy. Goldie and Willa and Chickadee.

And Maria. Laying on the ground beside you, exhausted from the effort of dragging two humans out of the burning thatch of trees.

“Joel. Where’s Joel.” It hurts to speak. Breath comes fast and shallow.

Then he’s there with the others, a bruise blooming purple beneath his eye, saying only what scant words he needs to move past them and get to you. To Ellie. 

His hands are gentle, but his eyes are cold.

Two still, black pools reflecting fire.

_______

Perhaps unsurprisingly, you dream of Troy, his mangled face open and bleeding, laying in the hole next to Ash, mutilated, stopped at the moment of transformation into something more sinister, your ex-husband and his sister lost to you because they were headstrong, foolish, too devoted to each other….

Ash’s eyes open, what’s left of them anyway. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

They didn’t know the Roost was elevated. They followed us out here and didn’t have a good plan. Is that it?

They don’t answer. They get up and climb out of the hole, turn their backs on your and walk into the forest. You call after them, desperate to have them back after all this time, begging them not to leave you.

But you’re calling after them wrong. You can’t seem to say Troy. You can’t say Ash.

You’re only calling out for Joel and Ellie.

_____

The next thing you know, you’re sitting up in the snow, leaning against Goldie, the girl patting at your cheek as you’re coming around. “Come on, come on back, baby.”

The sun’s up, but not high enough to breach the mountains circling the meadow. Everything’s still lit by the slowly dying flames.

The one two punch of Willa setting the bone and popping your shoulder back in must have sent you off. Looking down, you see you must have thrown up as well. 

“Holy shit,” you groan, “I’m sorry. Oh my god, holy shit that hurts.”

“I know, I know,” says Goldie, smoothing your hair and kissing your forehead. 

“Here,” says Willa, handing you some dark root. You forget what it’s called, you just know you gotta chew. “Don’t swallow,” she reminds you. “You ride with Goldie. She’ll keep you upright once that sets in.”

“I gotta get up,” you mumble, struggling to stand and inhaling sharply at the twinge of pain the movement brings to your bandaged and immobilized arm. Goldie’s able to help get you up, but seems hesitant to let you go. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my feet, lemme go. Where’s Ellie?”

But you don’t need to ask, she’s just behind you, laying on her back in the snow, one arm flung over her eyes, breathing heavy to manage the pain, leg bandaged and tourniqueted.

Good. Next priority. “Where’s Joel?”

Goldie points to the fire. It’s starting to die down, enough to make out the bodies of three teenagers consigned to the flames. Past them, the group of the regular patrol. Joel shaking his head at them, speaking. Jacket zipped up to the top, no scarf, no hat; probably got left behind in the Roost. Rifle over one shoulder. A backpack over the other.

But not his backpack. Why would he have someone else’s backpack? Why would he have one at all…

He’s…. No.

Pushing off Goldie, you immediately find out that walking is hard. Even if the pain’s just in one arm, everything’s connected, everything hurts; it’s disorienting. Your knees are bruised and even your soft sleep pants feel like sandpaper on them. Feet cold and wet, no boots…

Joel sees you struggling to get to him and walks away from the group and the fire, meeting you partway, catching your good arm as your fist falls hard on his shoulder and yanks, fingers digging in hard to his coat, doing your best to hold on tight, to keep him here, to convince him not to go.

“Don’t you dare, Joel Miller. What do you think you’re fucking doing???”

He says nothing, only lets you collapse onto his chest, to sob. There’s not even an arm to comfort you, he gives you nothing but the bare necessity, a wall to keep you standing, and you know nothing you say will make a difference. In essence, he’s already gone.

“Please. Joel. Don’t. Please don’t go.”

“Trail’s fresh. Best to get on before it snows and covers the tracks. One of them’s the pregnant girl. One of them’s bleedin’. They can’t get that far.”

“You don’t have to. Just come home.”

“They’ll just come back. Maybe not soon, but someday.”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Stepping back, it hurts to look at him. The Joel you love has been asked to step aside, the care and fondness he’s come to show you locked up somewhere secure, somewhere where it won’t get in the way. 

I warned you, this Joel seems to say, void of emotion, jaw set, brow even and low, hand on the strap of his rifle. You took me in knowing exactly what I am.

He’s right.

“I need you here, Joel. Ellie needs you here. Don’t you dare go…unless you can come back.”

“I need you here too. ‘S why I’m going.”

Nothing. No kiss goodbye, no waiting for approval, he just turns and walks. 

Maybe this is the last of it, just one last loose thread, then he can finally leave off wandering, finally shake off the killer and just come home, just be your Joel.

Convincing yourself of this is the only choice you’ve got.

________

You find yourself out on Maria’s back porch that night. Unable to sleep from the ache of the mending bone and the swell of your assaulted shoulder, it seemed like the best remedy was to find the toughest jerky in the kitchen, to sit on the porch in the cold and chew through the pain, and to lean back in one of the porch chairs with a soothing snowpack between it and your back.

The moonlight plays illusions like the canteen filmstrips–a summer image of Tommy and Joel teaching Ellie the mechanics of tackle football. The twinkle of the fireflies lending veritas to the picture…which in reality is only the twinkle of a dusting of new snow.

Not enough snow to make tracking impossible, but enough to make it difficult.

The back door opens and a blanket lands over your lap.

“Was gonna ask you if you wanted company, but then I decided, it’s my house and you don’t get a choice.”

Maria plops her own blanket in a nearby chair before disappearing and returning with two steaming mugs of tea as offering for the table between you. She takes her time covering you just so before wrapping herself up and joining you on the porch. “Suppose I should have asked if you want that cold pack changed before I get too comfortable,” she says, not really offering, but leaving the suggestion there between you if you need it.

It’s not necessary to talk for a while. She knows exactly what you’re thinking. Sees what you see.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Riley did,” she lies. You’d heard her shift when you got up from the bed–her bed, well, hers and Tommy’s. But hers and yours for now.

“Thanks for taking care of us.”

“You say that like you’re not my family.”

“Well then, thanks for staying behind as if you are.” 

It’s hard to see her out of the corner of your eye, backed by dark shadows. But the moon plays little crescents on her face, the curve of her nose, her cheek, her chin. Her voice comes out velvet from the dark.

“I know you’re pissed at Joel for going, but he’s doing the right thing.”

Now you make the effort to turn, rotating more from the waist than the neck to save the injury from twinging, but it does anyway, mirroring your spike in irritation. “Really? You think so? Is that why you sent Tommy with him? After all that time you spent bemoaning the things Joel made Tommy do all those years ago–”

“This is different. This is about the greater good.”

“You know that’s what the villain always says, right?”

She presses her lips together, hating that you’re right. “Okay, so maybe not the greatest good for the morality of the remainder of the human race, but. For the good of Jackson.”

“Two grown men hunting down two teenage girls is the greater good.”

“They won’t be teens forever. They’ve both got reasons to come back for their revenge. And now they know where Jackson is. They get taken in by the wrong people, and then the wrong people will know where Jackson is too and when they come back they won’t be alone. They’ll know exactly how many and what kind of folk to bring.” She holds your gaze for a few seconds, steady and wise but also warning, her warmth only thinly veiling the matronly protectress behind it, like a Durga on her throne. “You know why we have patrols. You know what happens to people that get too close. Two more drops in the bucket is all.”

“Three. One of those little girls is pregnant.”

She has no answer to this. Rather, your dig brings no new argument to the table. It’s just words, just a fact on the wind. It doesn’t sway the needle one way or the other.

It’s exactly what you’d been thinking about, staring up at her bedroom ceiling. Then out here on the porch. It’s like she knew you needed to hear the justification out loud.

“They would have killed him, lady. And Ellie. And you. I’m surprised you don’t want them hunted down like dogs.”

You turn your attention to the back yard, the smallest hump of leaves under the big tree there not quite scattered to the wind, sparkling with snow cover. You can almost still hear Ellie’s high laughter as it sounded the day she experienced her first leaf pile.

“Oh, I want them run down,” you say. “I’m all for that, let ‘em eat lead. I just didn’t want…” It’s not really necessary to continue. Maria knows exactly what you want. She always does. That’s why she sent Tommy with him. To keep him tethered to humanity.

To the way Joel watched Ellie jump and disappear into a poof of leaves. The sun in his smile. At peace. At home. Free from the old violence. Reborn.

I just didn’t want Joel to be the one to do it.

______

Maria’s dinner table feels empty. Funny, you think, it was always the two of you. For a while there was four, what with Troy and Ash, but most of the time just the two. Then Tommy. Then Joel and Ellie. Now Riley…well, that is, if he’s still up during family dinner.

You’ve slept through most of the light of day and was hoping to talk to Ellie at dinner, but Maria’s been taking all her meals to the guest room for her. Mostly so she doesn’t have to walk down the stairs on her healing leg, but also because Ellie’s not been talking since that night.

And you can guess why. It has less to do with the injury and assault or the fire, and more about the truths she learned during them. 

Not much to do. The arm has to stay stable, strapped to your body. At least they fucked up the non-dominant one so you can still hold a fork, still brush your teeth. But knitting? Spinning? Helping Maria clear the dishes? Fat chance.

Not much to do but chew root, smoke wild weed, and sleep it off.

Maria reappears with a plate needs washing. “There’s a break in the clouds. I got three whole words out of her. This might be your chance.”

“Oh. Joy.” It’s getting to be less of an effort to stand now that you’ve got rest and food in you. The stairs are daunting only because of the conversation that waits at the top.

A knock on her door only grants you silence.

“I’m coming in, Starling girl. Best not be naked.”

No answer. You take that as the opposite of opposition. Tolerance.

She’s sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows behind her back and under her knee, her bandages freshly changed, no more blood pooling or free bleeding. She plays with the cuffs of her sweater, tugging at a loop in the knit, a book abandoned by her side as if she’d put it down when you knocked. A good sign. She doesn’t want to hide.

You crawl in beside her, awkwardly, one-handedly, a big showy sigh of relief when you finally land. “You know, if I was your mom, I’d probably start off with ‘what’cha reading there, kiddo?’ just to get you to say something, but I’m not your mom and I’m not here to make you talk if you don’t wanna–”

“Well I don’t.”

“Good. I didn’t come up here to hear you yap anyway.” You detect the tiniest twitch of her cheek, not quite a smile, perhaps a sneer…to scare away a smile. “Don’t talk, just listen.”

“I don’t wanna do that either.”

“Tough titties. I’m cashing in exchange for all the time I had to listen to you go on about Sally Fucking Ride.”

Now she does smile. Barely. Gives you the teenager face you wanna slap sometimes. “Tough titties? Really?”

“They didn’t have tough titties in the orphanage? Seems off-brand.” The smile fades. “Tell me how you’re healing. I’m not asking, I’m demanding.”

A big breath in. But the air doesn’t come rushing back with a dramatic sigh, just melts out of her with a single tear she doesn’t move to brush away.

So you do. “That bad, huh.”

“It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks so bad.”

“Heh, tell me about it. I miss the good old days of ibuprofen. Shit. I miss morphine. You’re young though, you’ll be up and running in a week or two. Me? I’m gonna be aching for–”

“He fucking lied through his teeth.”

Ah. There it is.

Now the colony of tears follows the first scout, pouring out over the plains of her cheeks until she covers her face with those cuffs she’s been picking at, relieved at being able to let it all out in front of someone who might understand, but probably scared as hell to let herself be this messed up in front of someone who might not. A gamble.

And a win. You’ve still got one good arm and you put it to good use, pulling her into your side. “Yeah, you’re right. He totally did. He’s a fucking asshole. Why the hell would he do that.”

“It wasn't time that did it,” she hiccups from under her woolen cuffs.

“I don’t know what that means, Starling” you say, unable to stop yourself from kissing the crown of her head.

She wipes her nose and comes up for air. “I mean I know why. But he fucking lied about everything. Straight to my face.”

“Well, you’ve got every right to demand an explanation and an apology when he comes back. Straight to his face.”

“If he comes back.”

You let that sit a moment between you. It’s her way of saying that she knows you’re mad at him too, that she heard the conversation you had with him when he left. It’s her way of poking at your own fears and getting you on her side.

“Those girls aren’t armed and the Miller boys have a lot more experience with being hunters than those kids do being prey. He’ll be back.”

“I hate him.”

“I know. But also. You don’t.”

“I had a… a purpose. A fucking purpose.”

“Well….I know you did, but…probably not so much as you think.” She looks up at you but you can’t meet her eye, she’s right to mourn, and you can’t deny her that. “Remember what I told you about my sister and her treatments?”

“The research hospital.”

“Yeah. Cancer’s been killing people on this earth far longer than cordyceps and they’d had millions of patients to test on. Still couldn’t crack it. How many people are immune like you? Because if it ain’t millions, you just become one part sample in a petri dish and another part dead body that maybe give some vague clues and then you’re all parts in the bin, end of story. I mean, I’ll be honest. I don’t blame him. You’re quite a keeper.”

Now her sigh is dramatic. “And then he fucking lied about it.”

“So you would feel good about it. Accomplished in your goal. Also so you wouldn’t hate him for caring about you more than you do.”

“Why didn’t he just say–?”

“Do you know that man to be good with words?”

This quiets her. Both of you. For a few minutes. She goes back to picking at her sleeves.

The sun’s set completely now and her little bedside lamp can’t even drown out the stars so bright on the other side of the window. Clear night. Cold out there.

After a moment you take your arm back, jostle her with your shoulder. “Hey. I’m going out to the Meadow tomorrow, check in with Willa, look over the damage. If I bring you back a piece of the Roost, you wanna do some carving or whittling or something? We’ll build a platform like the old one and it’s probably just gonna be a tent up there for a while like it used to be, but hopefully this spring or summer we’ll get a structure up there and we’ll need a cornerstone or a plaque or something signifying its importance. Since you’re on your ass all day with nothing better to do, and you’re the star recruit, I’d love for you to do it.”

Her lips twist, half smiling at the request, but then in regret. “I lost my knife.”

“The one from your mom?” She nods. “Well if you’ll do some carding for me while I’m out there, I promise to look for it, ask around, maybe one of the patrol picked it up, okay?”

“Okay. Oh. By the way…How are you healing?”

“I’ve been worse. But mostly I’ve been better. Thanks for asking. ‘S kind of you. But don’t you worry about me.”

“Okay. Um…I’m…sorry about telling them about the meadow and all.”

“Why? You’re a Roostling. It’s your story to tell.” Sliding off the bed you head for the door. “Oh hey. I meant to ask–” you nod at the book by her side. “What’cha reading?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh…just porn.”

“Cool. G’night.”

“‘Night. Hey Meadowlark?”

You poke your head back in before the door closes completely. “Hm?”

“Thanks. For all that. But mostly for not calling me kiddo.”

You smile. Nod. Give her a warm wink. “Sure. I gotchu, kiddo.”

It’s worth the eyeroll you catch as you close the door.

________

The most sickening part of coming in through the north passage isn’t seeing the burn scar on the pine grove in the middle of the Meadow, isn’t missing the outline of the Roost through the trees, but rather the feeling that your home has been breached, that for a moment it wasn’t safe and now you’ll always wonder if it will be.

Riding across the north plain, you close your eyes and breathe, let the horse plod on without your guidance, he knows the way. Once spring comes and the valley fills with flowers and the music of the lambs calling for their ewes takes over from this cold silence that comfort will be renewed. 

But for now, there is no comfort on the Meadow in winter, not without a pretty little fireplace and a warm spot to watch the snow build up on the mountains.

You know what’s coming, but it turns your heart inside out all the same when you open your eyes.

Where once there was a cabin in the treetops is now a void leading downward to a pile of blackened rubble and debris. Off to the side under some lower trees is the old canvas tent with the vent hole and a friendly little trail of smoke rising from it. Willa always knew her way around a fire and didn’t mind keeping a low one going on the inside. You never were that confident, even with a fire-treated tarp.

She’s been at work out here, pulling useful things out of the rubble. The woodstove. The pulley jacks. A few timbers that are mostly unburned. 

But there’s a pile of other things too, useless items that shouldn’t be mixed back in with the earth: a burned walkie. Twisted silverware and blackened plates. The iron tools from the rafters. Shattered tile. Your charred and mangled boots.

All that’s left in the major wreckage is wood. And glass. And bones.

Three blackened skulls, three sets of eye sockets and three jaws gaping up at the sky as if they were caught in the moment of realizing their plans were going terribly awry. 

Stupid fucking kids. ….Just kids.

If someone asked you how you knew which one was Owen’s, you wouldn’t be able to say. You just know. The memory of him sinking that knife into Ellie’s leg…of hurting her…intent to kill… His skull breaks like a cracker when you put your weight on it.

Willa doesn’t say anything when she comes up along side to stare down at the bones with you. It's not the first time you've stood with her at the edge of a burned down home.

"I hate that it’s gonna take me a while to sift though all this,” you say.

“We’ve decided to skip your turn for a while. At least until there’s a new platform.”

You nod, resigned. You don’t love it, but it’s best. Trauma lingers longest of all hurt. 

“How’s the flock?”

“They’re over it.”

“Figures. Fluffy shits. Any chance you found a pocket knife out here?” You ask her.

She nods, reaches into a jacket pocket and there it is, like it’s been waiting to come back to its keeper, made itself shiny and easily found. It’s passed between you like a sacred object, holy, a relic saved and cared for, a thing infused with deep love and meaning. There’s an instant relief as your fingers curl around it, your shoulders relaxing and releasing a little of the pain.

“Thank you.”

“There was this too.” From the same pocket Willa pulls a disk of silver and glass, turning it over and placing it in your hand with the knife.

The watchband is burned away. But it’s otherwise unharmed.

Willa may be a stoic, but she knows enough to recognize a release through tears and to hold you while you cry.

Later that afternoon when you knock on Ellie’s door, you’ll hand her the knife and a piece of the old Roost to carve to consecrate the new one. And then you’ll give her the watch and ask her to be your hands, to help you with one more thing.

________

Two days later, you’re standing in Joel’s living room, never having been here when it’s so quiet, dark, and cold. With you and Ellie staying with Maria, there’s been nobody here to light a fire, to make the place live. You wouldn’t be here if Maria hadn’t made a side comment about maybe you and Ellie’d been in the same clothes for a day too many. Not that you thought you’d be with her that long.

She was right. It was nice to change into something clean–a soft fleece and some sleep pants. While the sword of Damocles kept things in check at Maria’s house, it did feel just this side of an extended girl’s night sleepover, might as well dress for it. Ellie had asked for something soft and comfy so you decided to go for it, an assortment of sweats and sweaters in the duffel at your feet.

What you’re eyeing at the moment is an empty hook on the wall by the fireplace.

You put your hand in your jacket pocket and pull out the watch.

Ellie did a beautiful job with it, took directions like a champ. Sitting together on her bed, listening to Joan Jett and Pat Benetar, you’d instructed her how to design the plaid stripes into the strap, how to knot and plait in patterns.

“Macrame. MACrame. Mac. Ra. Mayyyyyy,” Ellie’d chanted. “It’s a fun word to say. What’s it mean?”

“Fringe. Knotting. It’s just the name of the technique. I dunno. Probably something prettier in French.”

The strap clasps had been lost in the fire, so you’d had Ellie work him a new strap out of dyed and tightly-spun wool, something a little longer so he could tie it on. Most likely he’d come back here first, so you want to put it somewhere he’d see it, that way he could have it again without a lot of fuss but knowing at the same time you were thinking of him. So you slip the end loop over the hook, gently let it slip through your fingers and rest against the wall.

If he comes back…

The front door opens. Boots on the wood. The thump of a backpack.

By the time you’ve turned, he’s coming in through the front hall.

When he sees you standing here, he stops.

You never imagined this moment. You should have. It might have prepared you for the yellowing bruise on his face, the majority of his left pant leg browned with dried blood, his knuckles raw and just beginning to heal over.

You struggle with finding the right question. Find ‘em? They dead? Finish the job? No survivors?

I’d ask you what the hell you did, but I know and I don’t wanna hear you say it.

Instead all you can muster is a nod at the blood on his jeans.

His eyes slide to the staircase, already looking to move on, and he only answers with a short and shallow nod of his own before doing just that.

You find yourself sitting on the couch, staring at your hands, the duffel, the watch, back at your hands. Listening as he moves around upstairs, dropping boots, his belt buckle clapping to the floor. The shower running for a long, long time.

Sun’s going down. Getting colder.

The squeaks from the staircase are slow, softer than usual. He’s taking his time coming down. Doesn’t want to force himself back into a space so safe and quiet after pushing through one so big and mean.

He barely shifts the couch as he sits on the far side. Clean shirt. Clean jeans. A pair of socks you knit him.

“Where’s Ellie?” He sounds like he hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. You’d wager he hasn’t.

“With Maria. We’ve been staying there. I was just getting us some clothes. Didn’t think you’d be gone this long.”

“Neither did I. They had a head start. Younger. Faster. But you’re safe now. You’re both safe now.” He’s quiet long enough for the house to give a settling creak as the wind picks up outside. “How’s that arm?”

“Joel, you can’t keep us safe from the world. The world is what it is.”

“The fuck I can’t,” he whispers back, defiant, stubborn, with enough venom that he seems to scare himself and he breathes in deep, keeps it, holding back.

All you want is your Joel back. Even in all this mess. All you want is for him to lay down his fear and love you the right way. 

So instead of arguing, you get up and stand before him, give him the time it takes to understand you’re going to straddle his lap whether he helps you or not. He reaches for you on your way down, guides and supports you, allows you to rake through his wet curls before leaning in to take possession of his lips, to will him–by kissing through to his very soul–to come back to you.

He can’t help but respond, his whole body coming to life, and in the cold, twilit living room, you become a tangle of silhouettes as his hand pushes up under your sweater–somehow still keeping an aura of care around your ruined and wrapped arm–to squeeze almost painfully at your curves, rough and wanting, panting between devouring kisses as he paws beyond the waistband of your sleep pants, sucking at your neck when you throw your head back as he reaches what he was searching for….what you hoped he’d find…

There’s a tousle of repositioning and a clatter of belt and zipper. You’re both raw and rough and needy, and you both take advantage of the emptiness of the house to fill it with the sounds of desperation, of effort, the song of casting off of all inhibition, a duet of total and grateful release. 

But through it all, it’s the way he holds onto you that tells you how much he wanted to get back to you, how close he intends to hold you and never let you go, a desperation that tells you exactly where his faults lay…

…that it was necessary–and always will be–to eliminate any chance of someone taking you from his world by force.

It’s not so much possession as a fierce and burning need to be possessed. A need to belong, concentrated down to its basest form.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he softly kisses your temple, spooning you in the afterglow that burns bright in the darkening room.

“For what? You didn’t hurt me.”

“Rushed it a little. Tend to act before thinkin’ sometimes.”

You’re not completely sure what he means by that. At first you think he’s talking about the rough sex, but you get his meaning. Stalking off after Abby and Mel so impulsively. For being impulsive in general.

For acting out of trauma.

Or love.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to for that, Joel.”

You can tell the moment he understands when his forehead gently meets your shoulder. “Shit.”

It’s probably the best time to break it to him, while he’s still a little softheaded and euphoric. “She’s ready to listen. But I won’t promise it’ll be easy. It might just be you and me here for a while.”

Once his breathing evens out, he shifts, still holding onto you, but just coming back down, settling back in.

“What’s that?” He mutters, just on this side of falling asleep, lazily pointing at the watch on the hook by the fireplace.

“Your Valentine’s Day present. From both of us. Sorry it’s late.”

________

Taking some shifts off from the Meadow rotation affords you time to start slowly moving things over to the new A-frame, Maria helping you to load up a skid now and then and unload it, walking beside you as you lead the horse that tows it.

After a week or two, Ellie’s up and walking–well, limping, but healing–and starting to talk to Joel at dinner again. She’s on the verge of actually gracing his bad jokes with a smile or even a laugh, but she’s making him work hard for it. Good for her.

You haven’t asked either of them how the talk went. Don’t know if you ever will. That’s between them, the less you interfere, the better.

But you know that things are on the mend when you find Ellie playing Joel’s guitar–learning some Johnny Cash song you know he loves.

And you have a feeling that spring is on the way when you drop off another load at the new house and find a new frame on the wall–a handmade, custom carpentry display shadowbox.

With a watch hanging inside.

_______

PREVIOUS: AUTUMN

NEXT: SPRING AGAIN (coming soon)

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

#leave off your wandering #tlou fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x meadowlark #joel miller x mature reader

[sincerely-sofie]

Seeing as you have finished writing the script for your AU thingy, I wanna know, how?

Like, were you motivated the whole time? Or was it a on and off writing type thing?

i'm trying to write but I don't know if I have the motivation...

How did you keep the motivation if so?

Oh man. I have so much to say about writing and creativity that I could make an entire series of posts talking about the subject, but I'll try to keep things orderly and brief.

Disclaimer: I should let you know that I have never finished a writing project before recently finishing my TPiaG AU. Keep that in mind when reading the advice I offer— the tips I give have only been put into work in my own life over the course of the last couple of months, but they’ve proven very effective in my experience!

Sofie Creativity Tips Episode 1, go!!!

Was I motivated the whole time I was writing TPiaG / How did I stay motivated?

Absolutely not. If I hadn’t provided myself a detailed chapter-by-chapter outline for TPiaG before starting the writing process, I would have given up thanks to a mix of writer’s block and absent motivation. Motivation is a fickle muse and prone to ditching me for months on end, so I’ve adapted by trying not to rely on it, but also by creating new motivation rather than clinging to past motivation. I create motivation for myself in two ways: removing friction when writing and being my own fandom.

Removing friction is pretty simple— I create very detailed chapter outlines that remove any fear of writer’s block, set up my devices in a way to make it easy to access my manuscripts and notes, download premade writing playlists that have Pomodoro session break timers built into them, and more. Anything that makes the writing process easier to get into and enjoy doing, I make sure to incorporate into my life.

Being my own fandom is less intuitive, but a thousand times more rewarding in terms of motivation. I make memes of my characters. I write self-indulgent snippets on the side. I make AUs of my own work. I make playlists and save audio clips that suit the characters. I draw comics exploring concepts that might not get into the manuscript itself but that I want to make content for regardless. Basically, I dive in deep into the story, characters, and world, and try to do so with the enthusiasm that I give other people’s projects.

(That part is extra fun, because if I have a headcanon, it automatically becomes canon to whatever AU or original project I’m working on. I have all the power in the world when working like this, and it’s very fun.)

What changed and made it so I finished my first ever written project?

This isn’t exactly what was asked, but because I have eschewed motivation as the main driving force in my writing process, I figured I’d give another insight into how TPiaG went against the pattern of half-started and swiftly abandoned projects that came before it and actually got finished. Late into October, I adopted a new method of producing first drafts. Previously, I would spend weeks polishing the same chapter and would only move on to the next chapter once the current one was perfect. My new method is the complete opposite. I’ve started calling it Writing BFF:

Write bad

Write fast

Write fun

First up, write bad. The point of this is not to waste your time writing prettily during your first draft. Don’t bother agonizing over how to reword that one sentence to be more elegant when it does the job well enough to get its point across. Don’t go off on a 30-minute research tangent in the middle of a writing session because you want to fact-check that one detail and make sure it’s perfectly accurate when you could just put a placeholder detail in brackets and CTRL+F search and plug in something accurate later on. Don’t write pretty, write bad. And be okay with it. You can’t edit an empty page, so fill the page with as much garbage as possible so that you can turn it into gold later on.

Next, write fast. This is only effective when paired with writing bad. Don’t pause, don’t hesitate, don’t deliberate. Write as much as you can and do it as fast as you can. This idea is best illustrated by Chris Fox’s book 5,000 Words Per Hour, where he talks about increasing your WPM (words per minute) and how it makes everything about your writing better. The person who creates a beautiful first draft once every three years is doing okay, but the person who cranks out a complete manuscript every three months learns leagues more about writing than the first person does by the end of three years. The second person has practiced outlining, drafting, editing, publishing, and more with every manuscript completed. The faster you write, the better you get, because practice makes perfect and quantity begets quality.

Finally, write fun. I write what I enjoy, and if I’m not enjoying it, I pivot the project so that I enjoy it again. I like writing deeply personal stories, so pretty much everything I write is heavily based on my life and experiences— TPiaG included. Grovyle’s portrayal is deeply influenced by my experience being an elder sibling who has been a bad example of self-talk, and cleaned up my act because my younger sister started echoing how I spoke to myself. Dusknoir’s portrayal is informed by my experiences with being the therapist / mom friend in different social circles as well as attending actual formal therapy. Twig is the character that my experiences have the greatest influence on in her portrayal, and I joke about her being a self-insert, but ultimately all of the characters are self-inserts to some extent. I also enjoy low-stakes and slow slice-of-life stories that are driven by character growth. If I ever stop having fun with a project, I inject more of myself and my preferences into my work to get it back into my favor.

TL;DR / Writing advice lightning round

Write as badly as possible as quickly as possible, and have fun as you do it. Momentum yields motivation and stagnancy yields doubt. Editing comes only after the first draft is complete. Be your own fandom and your project’s biggest fan. Give yourself direction and ward against writer’s block by making detailed chapter-by-chapter outlines. Make the writing process as easy and enjoyable as possible. Motivation is a lie and if you chase after it instead of making your own, you’ll be writing on hard mode for the rest of your life. Reject perfectionism, embrace flawesomeness.

If I didn’t answer your question right, let me know! I’ll do my best to correct it.

#creativity tips with sofie #sofie answers asks #sofie says stuff #writing #writing advice #writing tips #writing motivation #writer advice #writer tips #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writers of tumblr

[thosewickedlovelies]

Get or Get Got

Jack Daniels x F!Reader x Javier Peña

Summary: Jack Daniels, having benefitted from much therapy, retires early from Statesman and founds Jack’s Ranch and Wellness Center, a therapy ranch open to all but specializing in people like he once was: former military or government agents, struggling with living a normal life again. Javier Peña, working on his father’s ranch after trading in his own harrowing career, has a vision of his future there in Tennessee. Can it be possible that such a place isn’t too good to be true? Javier intends to find out.

Tags: oblique (Narcos canon-typical) references to drug trafficking; otherwise no warnings! I think technically this should count as a rated Teen story, especially since the rating will go up later, but for now anyone can enjoy.

Words: 3390

Note: OMG WOW HII and welcome to the official first installment in the rancher boys fic universe!!! These three and their ranch have taken over my brain (and my blog), and I hope you find as much enjoyment in their story as I have :)

I think I’m gonna try to do a fun thing with chapter names for once, and name them all after cowboy sayings or other relevant idioms. This one is inspired by the saying “Sometimes you get and sometimes you get got.”

Masterlist

Javier Peña is not a nervous man by nature. He doesn’t hem-haw or agonize over which path to take; he reviews all the evidence available to him, and makes a decision. There’s no point in sitting around biting your nails; you either do the thing or you don’t. In his line of work, hesitation got people killed.

In his former line of work, that is. Hunting down drug kingpins who got a little too comfortable on the wrong side of the law, blinded by their bloated sense of self-importance. Dangerous work, his life’s work- until he quit. Too much politics, people in suits manipulating the world to the shape they wanted, regardless of the law or consequences. Irrespective of any set of morals Javier could discern. 

So he got out. He had done his due, made an impact. No one could say otherwise. Javier knew this for himself. He had a few regrets- but he knew that if he stayed, he’d have more.

Which is how he ended up here, fingers drumming against the steering wheel of his rental car and boots tapping dust all over the floor.

Hem-hawing.

The visitor’s outpost of Jack’s Ranch and Wellness Center wasn’t far from the main set of barns. Javier could smell the manure from here.

He ran through the debate in his head again. Why check in to the center as a patient instead of outright inquiring about a job? 

Just in case.

Oh, this place had glowing reviews. Former military or government agents like him who came home different, traumatized, fearing they’d never be able adjust to civilian life again, humbly and frankly thanking Jack and his team for giving them the tools they needed to recover. Farm and psychology professionals alike praising Jack’s methods and everything the ranch does. 

But you never knew what truly happened on the inside. That is why Javier is here, preparing to go undercover one last time- to ensure that this place is really worth it.

A pleasant chime sounds as he opens the door. To one side is a section that looks like a standard tourist shop- some Tennessee-related kitsch, a drinks cooler, a selection of what are probably “local crafts”. To the other is an open space with small clumps of waiting room chairs, likely for discussions with the smiling woman who’s rising from behind the counter.

“Welcome to Jack’s Ranch and Wellness Center, how can I help you?”

--

Javier coughs as a breeze blows the scent of manure to him, stronger now than it was an hour or two ago, before he’d been stuck inside with counselors to appease and forms to fill out. He was pretty sure he’d passed with them, but apparently Jack Daniels approved every admittant personally- Javi’s tour would be the final hurtle. 

He surveys the expanse of land as he waits. Much of the setup is familiar to him- he’d grown up on a ranch, after all. His father would approve of the tall fences, the brightly painted signs and buildings. Their family’d had to put most of their work budget toward functionality, not aesthetics. It looked like that wasn’t the case here.

Javier feels another pang of guilt for leaving his pop in the middle of their trip. But one glimpse of Jack Daniels’s setup at that farm expo had been all it took. Once he’d looked past the head rancher’s ridiculously spangled getup, he’d seen the encouraging gestures, the trust and confidence that he clearly inspired among his team. Javi had googled their logo and the idea had wormed into his brain and built a home and a career plan. 

“Javier Peña?”

Javi snaps to attention.

Jack Daniels. The man himself is striding towards Javier, long, tightly-pantsed legs eating up the ground. The clinging denim is a darker shade than that of his jacket; the white t-shirt beneath the jacket is tucked in. Who wears white to do ranch work? His belt buckle is big and shiny, but Javier doesn’t have time to study it before Jack reaches him, smile glinting twice as bright.

“Well, it’s nice to meetcha.” He extends his hand.

“Likewise,” Javi says.

Christ, there’s enough twang in Jack’s accent to make a banjo jealous. But his handshake is firm, and while his shirt is pristine, his cowboy boots are well-worn, and rings of dirt under his fingernails leave no doubt that he participates in the dirty work.

Jack is already offering effusive words of welcome, but Javi is only half-listening, absently flexing his hand to the ghostly rasp of Jack’s calluses. His attention is torn between Jack’s spiel and his person- there’s an honest-to-god lasso hanging at his hip, which he casually rests a hand over when he shifts his weight. It’s a movement so thoughtless that Javi immediately clocks it as second nature- Jack is as used to wearing that lasso as Javi is to tucking his gun in the back of his jeans.

“It’s not for show,” Jack says, amused.

Javier realizes he was staring, a second too late to have heard the end of Jack’s speech. “Uh-”

“It gets a lot of questions, especially from bolder folk,” Jack continues, sparing Javi the humiliation of a bumbling excuse. “But I only use it on humanfolk if they’re bein’ real naughty.” 

Jack winks, an easy grin turning up one corner of his mustache.

And Javi just keeps staring, because how often is the head of a therapy ranch a stunningly handsome, cowboy hat-wearing personality who winks at his potential wards?

“...Right,” Javi finally mutters. For an utter lack of anything else to say.

Jack straightens up, affecting a businesslike air again. “Well, what are we standin’ around for? There’s work needs doing! Let’s get on with your tour.”

–

Jack greets no fewer than five separate people before they even reach the second barn. All by name, all with genuine, eye-creasing smiles and claps on the shoulder. Javier watches silently, nodding politely when he’s introduced as a “future newbie” with an almost-touch and yet another wink.

“You let me know how that trick works out, y’hear?” Jack calls after the latest ranch hand.

The man (boy, really, wide-eyed and appearing fearful of rebuke simply for not yet being perfect at his new job) is hustling off to follow Jack’s recently imparted advice. The finer details of dairy barn tech went a bit over Javier’s head, but his eyebrows had raised at the expertise apparent in Jack’s answer. For some reason, despite the dust on the brim of his hat, Javi didn’t expect Jack to demonstrate such nitty-gritty knowledge. Javi had gained his own experience through lessons with his father; he wondered where Jack had learned.

“...Right,” Jack is going on, holding open the door to a third building, an “administrative outpost” and employee space. It must have been the original house on this land- Jack leads Javi through wide open rooms whose wood floors soak up the sunlight from windows on every side. Comfy-looking, mismatched furniture abounds, as do what Javi guesses are personal decorations from the employees- inside jokes that he has no hope of understanding. In the fully-equipped kitchen, a coffeepot whirs and spits, filling the room with its invigorating fragrance.

“I don’t like to overwhelm folks too fast, so we’ll take a little break here. There’s snacks in the cabinets, usually some drinks in the fridge, and it appears someone has so kindly put the coffee to brewin’ for us.”

Jack looks about to say more, when a ringtone trills from his chest. Before Javi has finished reflexively patting his pockets, Jack is excusing himself, whisking the phone from a panel inside his jacket.

“Ginger, darlin’, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Jack’s voice trails away as he strides out of earshot, boots clocking decisively on the wooden floorboards.

Javi’s thoughts snag on the appearance of the sleek phone in Jack’s hand. Something about it kept the sight running on a loop in his head…what was strange about it?

He’s too weary too figure it out. Javi slumps down at the kitchen table, immensely relieved to have a moment’s silence. His arms will be a fine pillow until the coffee is done brewing…

He reacts to the footsteps a beat too slow. “Oh! Sorry-” a feminine voice begins.

Javi all but jumps to his feet, nearly launching the chair across the tiles behind him. Clearing his throat, he straightens, attempting to look more alert than he feels.

“I heard Jack’s voice, so I thought you’d be him, but you’re not.” Your laugh is light and apologetic. “I don’t think we’ve met before. Are you new?”

You don’t look like any ranch hand Javi has ever seen. Like a deity sprung from the earth, maybe. Mud speckled on your graceful arms and eyes that remind him of an open field. But your boots are clumped with dirt and there’s an ID badge clipped to your belt, so you must belong here.

“Uh, yeah. Soon to be, anyway.”

“Oh, is Jack giving you the tour? No wonder you were about to pass out.” You laugh again, this time genuinely, and Javier finds his mouth automatically turning up in response. “Jack’s great, but he can be…energetic. You get used to it. But I won’t interrupt your nap.”

Eyes dancing with amusement, you return to your original quest. Mugs clink in one cabinet, bags of chips crinkle in another. Once you’ve retrieved creamer from the fridge, you turn to the now-silent coffeepot.

Javi sinks slowly back down in his seat, keeping a surreptitious eye on you. He wonders how many ranch hands here are women- and how many of them are the psych-certified. You don’t wear the green bandana Jack had indicated on the first person they met earlier. Other practical questions strike him all at once- will he be able to sneak booze into this place? Are admittants allowed to hook up?

Maybe he should have hem-hawed for longer.

Your phone dings, but only once you’ve finished doctoring your coffee do you pull it out. The bottle of creamer sweats on the counter while you scroll. At the sight of your clearly habitual motion, Javier realizes what it was about Jack’s phone that bothered him.

It wasn’t real. There wasn’t a brand or model like it on the market- only hypothetical designs that Javi remembers seeing in slideshows from his time as an agent. Tech that only the richest- or shadiest- people have.

What the hell shady activity could Jack Daniels be covering up with a therapy ranch?

“Sweet-talker!” Jack reenters the room, every inch of him lighting up at the sight of you. His eyes crinkle. He seems to forget about Javi entirely, all of his attention wrapping around you like an intimate hug.

“Jack.” You give him a warm smile in return. Something in the quirk of your lips makes Javi wonder what he’s about to witness.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days, Silver. You been hidin’ from me?” 

“No, just busy with the new alpaca. Her last owners definitely weren’t very nice to her, but I think I’m making progress.”

So you’re the resident…what, animal whisperer? Javi supposes that explains Sweet-talker. And Silver, for silver-tongued?

Jack’s gaze never leaves you. He hangs on your every word with fond eyes and a permanent half-smile. As if he knew he didn’t need to hear your words to enjoy them- the fact that they were from you was enough for him to be content.

Finally you lift your mug to your lips again, using it to hide your amusement. “Aren’t you going to offer your guest a coffee, Jack?”

A jolt of guilt straightens Jack’s spine- although he keeps his gaze on you for a second longer before turning. 

“Well, a’course!” When Jack faces Javi again, he’s beaming that charming, megawatt smile, no trace of annoyance or guile to be found. 

You slip Javi a sympathetic, knowing expression as you leave them the room. Javi nods, but his mind is elsewhere- churning over everything he thought he knew about Jack Daniels.

–

Over the next few hours, Javi’s brain steadily liquefies under the relentless stream of information from Jack. Barns for cows, sheep, horses. Feed and equipment storage for each. From somewhere comes the barking of dogs, but Jack tells him not to worry about them, glancing around with theatrical wariness that Javi is too tired to take the cue to ask about. Two large buildings at the end of the road ahead of them, one housing the admittant dorms and the other, recreational spaces and therapists’ offices. 

“We get folks with lotsa different stories. Some ain’t never set foot on a ranch before, and never do again- they get the peace of mind of physical labor and whatever other help they need, and then they go back to their real life. And if it works for them, it works for me. Some of the folks who are in this line of work want to stay, and sometimes I let ‘em. But all birds gotta leave the nest. I got a bit of a system set up with the neighbors to hire folks, get their friends to hire ‘em after. Help them get their bearings in the real world again, build up their trust in themselves.”

It’s clear what Jack is doing. By sharing such information about other admittants, he’s assuring Javier that’s he’s normal- that whatever his story or his reasons, he’ll be welcome here.

Jack’s increased silence is obvious, his questions gentle but probing, and Javi knows this is when he tells his story.

“I’ve been working on my dad’s ranch since leaving the service. I like being there for him, and I don’t mind the work- it keeps me busy. It was a relief to be home, for awhile. But..."

But then he saw them. The drug traffickers he’d worked so hard to put away, barely bothering to hide their illicit work. They weren’t the same people, of course. But that only worsened the blow. Only dug the wound that much deeper- the thought that whatever good he did, someone would always be out there undoing it, unless he kept going, always searching, fighting, sacrificing…

“But you’re not the same man,” Jack finishes quietly.

Javi clears his throat. “Something like that.”

He didn’t realize how honest his story was until he’d told it. Javier feels uncomfortably raw, visible. His hands betray his emotions, fidgeting, fingers and thumbs twitching and pressing at themselves in a grounding technique a therapist had once taught him.

The two men have stopped halfway down the packed gravel road. There’s nothing but open fields around them, the bald sky overhead. It doesn’t help his feeling of vulnerability, but Javi forces himself to meet Jack’s gaze from the corner of his eye.

There’s no pity in Jack’s face- only firm understanding. “Well, now. Let’s see if we can’t do something about that.”

Jack sticks out his hand. “Consider this your formal welcome to Jack’s Ranch and Wellness Center.”

His hand hovers, unwavering. 

This is it. Slower than earlier, Javi reaches out and takes it.

It’s less a shake than it is a clasp. An accord of wills; a squeeze in recognition of mutual understanding. A gesture as old as humanity.

Javier pushes aside unexpected, unwelcome guilt.

Jack’s smile expands until it’s the same pleased shape it’s been in all day. “Let’s go get you a room!”

The sun follows them like a watchful eye. It’s far from the hottest that summer will get, but sweat has long since trickled through to the spine of Javi’s shirt; he’s praying that his room will be their last stop today.

A figure glimmers into being at the end of the road. It’s you again, coming from the recreational building. Javi recognizes your gait- and the way Jack straightens up, vibrating like a puppy trying with all its might to restrain his excitement.

He waits until you’re in normal hearing range, at least. “Howdy again, Silver,” Jack calls. “Everything all right?”

“Hi again, Jack.” You smile and give Javi a nod as well. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Thursday is my usual appointment now, since switching therapists.” 

Jack smacks his palm exaggeratedly against his forehead, skewing the angle of his hat. “That’s right, I remember you tellin’ me. You’ll have to excuse this head of mine, honey, it’s been nuttier than a squirrel’s nest up here since havin’ to deal with-”

The same ringtone from earlier peals from Jack’s chest pocket.

Jack sighs. “Well, speak of the devil. I’ll just be a jiffy.” He flashes you and Javi an apologetic look before wandering away, and again Javi catches a glimpse of the sleek, hypothetical technology before it reaches Jack’s ear. 

You’re looking after Jack with an exasperated sort of fondness. Javier thinks quickly. This could backfire on him, make you defensive of Jack and unwilling to talk, but it would only be natural for Javi to continue the conversation where it left off…

“So what’s Jack been having to deal with?”

Your attention returns to Javi. “Oh, some new investors. They want to donate some crazy sum, but with the caveat of making some changes? It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.”

You flap a hand dismissively. More of your energy, Javi can see, is going into assessing him- your gaze flickering over him as you speak, a subtle sort of curiosity prodding at his shirt collar, his decidedly-not-cowboy boots, the hair curling over his forehead. 

One corner of Javier’s mouth curves up the slightest bit, holding your gaze when it finds his eyes again. Letting you know he saw you checking him out-

“Does this place have a lot of investors?” Javi allows his own attention to drift down while you answer, drawn again to your hips by the id badge, to your strong arms. 

-but that he didn’t mind in the slightest.

“There’s one consistent investor; any others are pretty sporadic. But we do well enough that that’s all we need.” 

Your chest puffs slightly, a hint of pride entering your eyes, still locked with his. 

Javier nods slowly in respectful acknowledgement, his smile growing a fraction.

“Good to know.”

But Javi’s stupid brain was like a dog with a bone, fixated on the way Jack’s damn phone glittered in the sun. He glances back over at him.

“They buy him that fancy phone as a bribe?” Javi injects some humor into his tone, summoning the half-smile he uses to suggest the idea of flirting.

It doesn’t work as he hoped. You glance at him sharply, any trace of flirtation flattened like the gravel into the packed earth beneath their feet. 

“What do you mean?”

Shit. “Nothing, just that I’ve never seen a phone like that before. It’s not exactly the latest iPhone, is it?” 

It wasn’t even the latest smart-flip-phone, or whatever the fuck they were calling them. Javi could swear it had changed, shifted its shape somehow, but with Jack’s hand engulfing it the way it had, he couldn’t be sure. Jack stood with his back to them- angled so that his right ear was entirely out of their view. Was it deliberate?

Fresh sweat prickles on Javi’s forehead, unrelated to the heat. 

Your friendliness has cooled like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “Jack likes to be up on new tech. For himself and the ranch.”

Before Javi can respond, Jack returns.

“Sorry about that, all. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Silver! Allow me to formally introduce you to Javier Peña, our newest admittant.”

Javi can see the moment Jack’s announcement lands. Your lips part; you blink rapidly several times. Is that..betrayal that you quickly shove down beneath a welcoming smile?

“Oh, that’s great! It’s so great here. You’re going to love it.”

There’s something strange about your expression now. Distance. A wall between you and Javier that you hadn’t put up before.

Ah. When you’d met earlier, in the employee space…you’d thought he was a ranch hand, a staff member like you. But now…

There go any of his ideas about admittants and ranch hands having relations.

Javier remains still as you bid them goodbye, continuing on your way back to the barns. From the corner of his eye, he watches you with something like regret.

Thank you for reading! 💗🧡

#javier peña x reader #narcos fic #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #kingsman fic #kingsman golden circle #javier pena x you #jack daniels x you #agent whiskey x you #ktgc

[workingchemistry]

It’s been a while since I’ve done a character playlist so! Here are five songs that are really giving me the Fox vibes right now.

Up first a Hozier song. All of the clones have complicated feelings regarding personhood and culture but I think Fox is probably one of the more conflicted. He and his brothers have stolen a language word by word and phrase by phrase. On the front his brothers at least get to paint their armor, but Fox and the Corries are forced into a sea of sameness and surrounded by more cultures than anyone else. I have feelings on cultural erasure as I live somewhere where eugenics was practiced until fairly recently and my grandmother’s dialect is dying out because it’s being deliberately stolen from the younger generations by parents who don’t want their children to face discrimination. It’s not as overt or serious as what other people face but I have complicated feelings on culture/assimilation and I’m projecting them onto Fox via a Hozier song.

Listen Fox is one of millions copy pasted on repeat to be slated specifically for death. Literally every line hits me personally but then when I extrapolate it to the idea of Fox and the other Corries trying to put on a good show for all of the front liners when they’re crumbling? Like this song really hits the “surrounded by people who love you and can’t see though the front you’re putting up and you don’t want them to see though it but that means you’re so incredibly isolated and it’s hitting crisis levels while on the outside you’re laughing and dancing” vibes.

I feel like this one is pretty self evident but… the clones were made to die. Like they’re canon fodder in the war yes, but beyond that the war is entirely pointless. They are not only made specifically to die, they’re made to die pointlessly. There is no meaning to their birth, their life, or death. Being on the home front means they’re fighting a slower war. They’re still dying but it’s slow and agonizing. They don’t get the adrenaline fogging their higher thinking, they aren’t forced into just reacting. They have time to plan and mitigate and it doesn’t work because they will all die anyway. Fox pulls away from his batch not to protect them, there’s no protecting them when everyone is going to die within years of discovering they can be people, he pulls away so they can die without ever questioning their purpose.

In the same vein of everything else on this list, it’s definitely got the vibes of Fox holding back hell through the worst coping mechanisms and putting a good face on it. It’s so bouncy but the lyrics are pretty hopeless. I feel like that’s who Fox is until maybe a year or so in. Eventually he just starts crumbling completely and can’t even put up the front anymore.

This one is from the POV of the ones who knew Fox on Kamino who are desperately trying to hold onto him while he pulls away. They know he’s falling apart but they can’t figure out why and they’re desperate and trying to hold onto hope so they can give it to him.

#commander fox #spotify #playlist #clone culture

[seriouslysam8]

2022 Wrapped

Tagged by @takearisk-ao3

Post the top 5 works you're most proud of that you released in 2022 (not necessarily your most popular)

1 Backstabber

It was by far my most angsty story. It was by far my most cherished story. I loved writing every single second of it as my heart broke over and over and over again.

2 Basorexia

It was just a fun one-shot where I got to explore so many POVs that I’ve never written before.

3 Effloresce

It was so borderline AU that it really gave me the courage and confidence to go full blown AU. It was such a fun Hinny story.

4 Scones

Because James Sirius is a little shit and Ginny would love her hectic Mother’s Days.

5 Brumous

I would put this higher but I legit just started it. It’s a pet project I’ve thought about for YEARS and now I’m finally writing it. It’s gone through a lot of drafts in my head of where I’d start the divergence and what would happen, but I’m rather pleased with it so far.

your top 4 current WIPs that you're excited to release in the new year

1 Precipice

This story is really going to tear my action-writing skills but I am so excited for it. It’s really unique and I haven’t read anything like it before. You know I strive for unique. I’m excited to show my new Horcrux traps and how Ginny falls off the deep end.

2 Bête Noire

This is such a self-indulgent story. It’s no secret Sirius is my favorite character and I haven’t been shy about how I hate how he’s portrayed a lot of the time. So I’m excited to really give him a strong trauma background with this story

3 Thrice

I have a few short stories planned in the first war. One of them is a short 4-chapter story about the three times Jily defied Voldemort. The last chapter is pure fluff of Harry being born and then the prophecy coming to light - so the consequences of defying him thrice

4 Lacuna

My year after the war story that went from canon compliant to AU compliant. I’m not sure if I’ll get to it next year, but here’s to hoping!

your top 3 biggest improvements in your writing over the past year

1 Better charts

I have finally found a way to organize my many charts so I can easily find information while writing to keep it all consistent from story-to-story

2 Branching Out on POVs

I started out just exclusively writing Harry and Ginny POVs. Over the last year, I’ve really juggled different POVs and converging those POVs together to tell cohesive stories where you see the action from multiple angles. That’s been hard yet fun

3 Getting better at writing action scenes

I still have panic attacks when I have to write an action scene but I don’t spend nearly as much time or agonize over them as much. I’m really trying not to freak out over them and I’m told I’m decent. But that might just be people being nice to me because they know I’m a weeper.

your top 2 resolutions (ways you wish to improve your writing/blog) for the new year

1 To write what I want to write and not be influenced by outside sources. I just need to tell the stories I want to tell and say fuck it to the haters and the people telling me they dislike my direction that I’m going. I need to stop listening to people who try to force me to write something I don’t want to write. I love prompts and people leaving their ideas in reviews as long as there is no pressure to write it. But I just felt a lot of pressure last year and writing became not so much fun.

2 Just to have my confidence in general. I worry sometimes my ideas aren’t good or I shouldn’t write certain plots because I’m worried people won’t like them. I almost deleted my Fleamont POV in Bête Noire and Bell basically said she’d disown me if I did. So yeah, just more confidence.

and your number 1 favorite line you've written this year

Uh… how about speech? Full quote? Sirius’ latest mental break in Brumous had me sobbing.

Sirius laughed, his head shaking. "Yeah, I could have my life back. That's fucking hilarious, you know that, right? I have a bounty over my head for thirteen murders I didn't commit. One of the victims isn't even ruddy dead! I'm stuck in a house I vowed to never return to. I've buried the only parents I ever knew, buried my only true brother and his wife, and have a godson who is wanted by a fucking psychopath! Nothing about my life right now is normal or easy and I certainly can't go back to the person I was fourteen years ago. That Sirius is dead. He died the summer his girlfriend was supposedly murdered. The nail in the coffin hit as soon as he saw his best mate cold on the fucking floor of his house. I can't have my life back, Andy, because that life doesn't fucking exist anymore." - Brumous, Chapter Eight: Occlumency

Tagging

@bellmel @ginwiz @curse-04

Ignore any and all spelling mistakes. I don’t want to be up this late. 😭😭😭

[riahlynn101]

Dad December - Day One: "I Trusted You."

Summary: Izuku faces the vestige of an uncle he will never get to meet, angry that he kept such an important fact from him. And then, All for One shows up. 

Trigger warnings: Implied/referenced murder, trauma (of all kinds), canonical character death, and All for One being himself.

Warning - this does contain spoilers from the last few manga chapter. (Sadly, none of them are DFO related, but oh, well....)

Wordcount: 1,904

--

“I’m sorry.”

It feels like Izuku’s being punched in the gut. 

“I know we….I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know how.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, collecting his thoughts. A thousand different words sit just outside Izuku’s reach.

“I trusted you,” he says at last, noting the heavy silence. He opens his eyes. The vast expanse of the void he’s come to know and love greets him. A deep breath in and a deep breath out. 

Behind him, The First-Yoichi Shigaraki, All for One’s brother, and Izuku's ... .Uncle-hovers. The others have disappeared further into the void. Probably for the best. He isn’t sure he can face them right now, at least not as a group. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Yoichi murmurs. He sounds sincere - sad but also sincere. 

Izuku whirls around, face scrunched up. He raises an accusatory finger at his uncle. “Well, you did. What did you think would happen?”

His uncle doesn’t have an answer for that. He bows his head. “I…I just didn’t want you to get hurt. I didn’t want you to…” Yoichi trails off, looking at him with something akin to pity. 

“Didn’t want me to do what? Fight in a war? Break my body just to keep up with my peers? No, that isn’t it.” He laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. “It’s because I’m destined to murder my father.”

It’s Izuku’s turn to feel pity (or maybe it’s empathy. That shared feeling of hopelessness, of pain and loss). His uncle’s lips purse into a thin line, grief flashes in his eyes. For a mili-second, he finds himself wanting to reach out.

He doesn’t, of course. The anger coursing through his veins is enough to keep Izuku standing in place. 

“A long time ago, my brother was a good person.” 

Izuku stares at him, wondering how he failed to notice his uncle losing his mind. Or maybe he’d always been like that? It wouldn’t surprise him, given the track-record of One for All users, and he can say that because he himself is a One for All user. 

When Izuku doesn’t interrupt him (and why would he? If he’s good at anything, it’s lending an ear to those in need - just ask Tomura Shigaraki) Yoichi continues. 

“Izuku,” he says, and the use of his first name makes Izuku jolt. “You never should have been put in this predicament.”

Self-loathing ties his stomach into agonizing knots. It’s unreasonable, he knows, to be so hurt over the notion that the original wielder of One for All doesn’t think him worthy enough. Now is not the time nor place for those feelings, but Izuku feels them all anyway. 

Of course, that isn’t what his uncle is saying, but it’s hard to look past his own hurt.

“You’re a child.”

“I’m a child,” he repeats, slowly. The words feel foreign and funny on his tongue. 

“So, you can see why I didn’t tell you about your father?”

It takes him a few seconds to process his uncle’s words. A beat of silence then two, on the third beat Izuku speaks up. 

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Izuku says, brows knitting together in confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“I’m inclined to agree with him,” a voice pipes up. 

Their attention is immediately drawn to the imposing figure sitting poised in one of the abandoned thrones. A detail that Izuku has personally never understood, but who is he to nitpick the interior decorating choices of his predecessors. 

“All for One, what do you want?” Izuku grits out. As angry as he is at The First One for All user. It in no way cancels out how much he wants to pummel the man standing across from them. The anger he feels towards the One for All quirk and his predecessors is a mild burn, temporary and fixable, compared to the absolute inferno that makes his blood pressure rise so high it might make Recovery Girl finally retire. 

The man, or the vestige of the man, hums. He taps a finger to his chin. “Hmmm….what do I want? Glad you asked.”

In spite of his earlier hostility, Yoichi steps closer to him. Worry evident in his eyes. He grabs Izuku by the collar of his shirt, shoving him behind his back and out of All for One’s eyesight.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He sounds just as calm and collected as he had all those months ago, standing across from his brother taking control of Tomura Shigaraki, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice. 

Carefully, Izuku grabs his uncle’s clenched hand. He remains behind Yoichi, but only because his uncle sends him a stern-look that reminds him of his mother when he tries to come closer. 

“As if that’s ever stopped me before,” All for One says, amused. “Oh, it’s been such a long time since I could lay eyes on either of you.”

Izuku squeezes his uncle’s hand, willing him to stay strong. He wonders where the other One for All users have gone. Shouldn’t they have been here by now?

All for One tsks, standing up. Yoichi matches him, stepping back and taking Izuku right along with him. He takes his hand out of the boy’s grasp, using his arm to shield his nephew. 

“Come now, why are you so afraid?”

“You killed me,” his uncle murmurs, voice small. He sounds hurt, betrayed in a way that even Izuku can’t possibly understand. 

From his place behind Yoichi, Izuku can’t see what All for One’s reaction to that is. But judging from the tense silence that follows that admission and the way his uncle tenses up, he can hazard a guess. 

“That was Kudou, little brother. He’s the one that killed you.” 

“What?” Izuku asks before he can stop himself. The knowledge that his uncle’s death was caused by The Second One for All user both stuns and terrifies him. 

His uncle sends him another stern expression, but it’s too late. 

Izuku can practically hear All for One’s smile from here. “I’m glad you asked, Izuku.”

He cringes away, hating how his name sounds coming from that man’s mouth. It feels wrong somehow. 

Another step back. His uncle remains in front of him. Steadfast despite how scared he is. 

All for One must move closer, but Yoichi is quick to call him out. “Stay back!”

“Must we do this song and dance, little brother?” He asks, annoyed. 

“Leave my nephew alone!” 

All for One’s laughter echoes throughout the void. “My, my, little brother, you sound like me.”

“No, I’m simply trying to protect him.” His uncle sounds scared. He sounds uncertain.

“Just like I tried to do-”

The tension that’s been steadily building breaks. “You killed me! And don’t even try to blame Kudou or Blues or any of my successors. It was you and you alone!” His uncle jabs an accusatory finger in All for One’s direction. “Stop blaming everyone around you and start looking inward!”

“Even so,” the villain starts, tone even and sharp, “Izuku still belongs to me. I haven’t killed him, and as his father I demand to speak with him.”

“No,” Yoichi says, tone just as sharp. 

“Stupid boy-”

“We’re the same age-”

All for One sighs, heavily. “Oh, you and your technicalities.” His tone darkens, growing serious. “And I’m not asking. If you won’t step aside and let me speak with my son, I’ll have to use force.”

His uncle looks over his shoulder at Izuku. Their eyes meet. The rest of his previous anger dissolves at his uncle’s uncertain gaze. He nods, mouthing “it’s okay,” before coming out from behind Yoichi’s back to face his- no, their greatest enemy. 

It’s hard to ignore the way All for One’s face lights up upon laying eyes on Izuku.

“What do you want?”

The villain hums, thoughtfully. He’s quick to close the space between them. A mere two feet and his uncle’s extended arm are all that separates them now. 

A fond expression takes over All for One’s face, making him ache. He can’t remember his father very well. The man left when Izuku was still young, but somewhere deep within his subconscious Izuku can recall the love and adoration he was showered with. The warmth of being held firmly and close. Being loved…..

His mother loves him, Izuku reminds himself, fighting back against useless nostalgia.

He thinks All Might loves him as well, or something close to it. 

And both their love is worth way more than a man’s that couldn’t be bothered to stay to see Izuku grow up. 

“I’ve missed you,” All for One says, reaching a hand out. Instinctively, Izuku shies away. Not that he needs to - not when his uncle is there to swat at the villain’s hand. 

“Don’t touch him.”

All for One tilts his head, an unreadable expression on his face. Before any of them can say another word, the villain snaps his fingers. Yoichi disappears in a wisp of smoke.

“What did you do!?” Izuku asks, frantic. “Bring him back!”

“He’s fine,” All for One says, shrugging his shoulders. “All of them are….unfortunately.”

Izuku glares at him, crossing his arms. Here, without his predecessors or quirks to use, he feels vulnerable. He feels ...scared. 

“Well, then get on with it.”

All for One stares at him for a moment. He laughs, but it doesn’t sound as harsh as it usually does. “Oh, you’re as silly as always.”

“I don’t see how you find any of this funny.”

The villain bridges the gap between them, resting a large hand on Izuku’s shoulder. A thumb swipes at the tears sliding down his cheeks. (When did he start crying? Is he really that helpless? Inside, Izuku burns with shame). 

“I’ve missed you,” he says again, quieter. “So, so much. After my brother was killed by those miscreants.”

“Didn’t uncle say you killed him?”

A thumb brushes his lips, shushing him. “Devils in the details, little one. And your uncle has a tendency to remember things wrong.”

Despite how scared he is, Izuku manages to roll his eyes at that. 

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to discuss your uncle’s memory problems.”

Another eye roll. 

“I wanted to make sure you were doing alright. I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

The thumb returns to tracing his freckles. “What? In the middle of a war in front of my best friend-”

“Best friend is a stretch….”

“And my mentor-”

“Again, a stretch. That man is hardly fit to teach a hamster, let alone a child.”

“And anyone around the world that is currently watching the news.”

All for One grimaces at that. “Yeah…yeah, but I had to. You understand that, right? If I hadn’t stepped in, you would be a pile of dust.”

“No,” Izuku says, petulantly.

All for One lays a gentle kiss on his head. A soft smile on his lips. “No matter. Even if you won’t admit it, I would do it again anyway.” 

“Leave me alone,” he snaps, squirming out of the villain’s hold. “I don’t like you.”

Large arms wrap around him, like vices, bringing Izuku closer to the one person he desperately wishes would just go away and never return. 

“I love you, too, my Izuku.”

#daddecember #daddecember2023 #sfw #Day One: “I Trusted You.” #queue #mha #dfo au #Uncle Yoichi #no.1

[casvonriegan]

New fic: Supernova

This is not posted on AO3 yet because that's scary but you know what let's put it here because why not!

Rating: General Fandom: Obey Me! Pairing: Lucifer/MC Characters: Lucifer, Diavolo, Barbatos (mentioned), MC (mentioned)

--

Summary: Castiel Nova is an unassuming human who was suddenly thrust into the Devildom one day. One year as a student in the RAD Trans-Realm Student Exchange Program turns into so much more as they get to learn more about the mysterious demon brothers they're living with in the House of Lamentation. What secrets will they uncover, and what impact will they have on these demons?

--

Notes: This is the first thing I’ve published in a very long time!!! I cannot promise a timeline for the continuation of this, as I am a graduate student and so my time is very seldom my own. But I’ve been working on this in the background for honestly probably over a year at this point, and I want to have something going out that is involved in a fandom I’m actively engaged in (sorry Supernatural).

This is in no way canon compliant; this is my own re-telling of the story of my Cas with the brothers. Some things will remain similar (i.e. the major plot point with Belphie and Lilith’s story line), but other things (most notably how pacts are formed) will probably be very different from the canon story.

Cas is non-binary, AFAB, and uses they/them/themself pronouns! Feel free to use extensions to change the Cas’s name to your own Cas/self-insert (Castiel Nova is their full name (I think it is only used once or twice), people alternate between referring to them as Castiel/Cas).

Basically just a shameless re-telling of the game story featuring my Cas that is a shameless self-insert with Lucifer/Cas endgame.

P.S. I apologize for the kinda lame first chapter title, I’m a microbiologist and this is how they name organisms that they haven’t isolated yet and I thought it was funny. Anyway.

Chapter 1: Candidatus Studentus exchangenes

(pronounced can-di-dot-us stu-den-tus ex-change-uh-knees)

"I notice you’ve been sighing quite a bit, Lucifer.” Diavolo stated matter-of-factly.

Lucifer had a fist balled in his hair as he read through the seemingly endless list of candidates for the student exchange program. They only had a few weeks left to get everything finalized so that Lord Diavolo could begin the preparations with the chosen students from the Human and Celestial realms. While they had no intention of alerting the chosen students until the day of their arrival, negotiations with their superiors, of course, had to commence beforehand. 

They’d already finalized the paperwork for Solomon, who was going to be the other exchange student from the Human Realm. He’d had dealings with the Devildom before, so it was easy to get him through. However, there were not many other humans that were as familiar with the three realms as he was. This meant there was going to be a painful amount of discussions, negotiations, and likely headaches for Lucifer to deal with.

So yes, perhaps he was sighing quite a bit, as Lord Diavolo so eloquently put it.

“You know, buried in stacks of paperwork like you are, it almost looks like the documents themselves are heaving a sigh!” Diavolo mused, chuckling to himself.

Lucifer sighed yet again. “You certainly seem to be enjoying this, don’t you Diavolo?”

Lucifer let the file fall from his hand, leaning back in his chair.

“Is it that much fun watching me agonize over a decision like this?”

Diavolo leaned back in his own seat, arms folding across his chest as he regarded Lucifer with a mirthful expression. “Well, if I have to say one way or the other, then yes. I suppose it is pretty fun.”

After yet another sigh, Diavolo let his playfulness slip away as a more serious expression took over his features. “It seems you’ve been having a hard time finding a second human exchange student to follow Solomon, huh?”

“You talk as though you have nothing to do with that.” Lucifer deadpanned. “Whose fault do you think it is that I’m having such a hard time, hmm?”

Diavolo looked away sheepishly, a slight blush creeping across his face. “Is it mine, perhaps?”

Lucifer groaned. “Who else could it be? Seriously… try putting yourself in my shoes, being saddled with such an unreasonable request.”

Lucifer stood from where he was seated, moving forward so his hands were splayed across what little of the desk's real estate was left, as he regarded Diavolo with the most irritated expression he could muster. “If I end up with permanent lines on my forehead when this is all over, it’s your fault, Diavolo.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want that…” Diavolo smirked. “But still… you’re going to do this for me, right Lucifer?”

Lucifer fell back into his seat, defeated. He never could quite contest Diavolo’s desires. His head fell back against his chair, eyes squeezing shut as he fought to ward off an oncoming headache. “Sure. But not because I want to.”

Diavolo let out his own sigh then. “It may not seem like it at the moment, but I really do appreciate you agreeing to do this, you know. And, naturally, I intend to help in any way I can.”

Diavolo rose from his seat, beginning to pace the room. “For example… ah, okay. How about this?”

Lucifer turned his attention to Diavolo, not yet returning to the file abandoned on his desk. “Enlighten me.”

“We’ll make the next exchange student someone completely different from Solomon,” Diavolo stated simply. “It wouldn’t be much fun if we ended up with two humans who were similar, would it?”

Diavolo turned on his heel, an excited expression lighting up his face again. “Oh, and it would be great to have someone who’s good at cooking, too! Then we’d get to sample real human world fare!”

Lucifer groaned again, fighting the temptation to let his head fall against his desk. “Now you’re only thinking about what’s good for you…”

Diavolo lazily swatted away Lucifer’s accusation. “Well, cultural exchange is important, you know! Especially food culture. After all, they say that the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach, right?” Diavolo continued, words pouring from his mouth like a fountain that’s lost control.

Lucifer shook his head. “I think that’s meant more as relationship advice. When you’re trying to reel someone in.” he countered. “Beel’s the only one who’d be happy if we made this about food.”

“It would be nice if we could get a human who’s well-read too, wouldn't it?” Diavolo carried on, completely ignoring Lucifer. “Oh, and who knows a lot about movies, and is well-versed in the latest human world trends…” he rattled on, seemingly stuck in his own head at this point.

Lucifer leaned against his fist, watching Diavolo with complete disinterest, releasing yet another sigh.

“Oh, come now, that sigh was even louder than the others!” Diavolo griped. His half-charming, half-irritating smirk replaced his frown almost immediately as he thought of probably the worst thingto say in his attempt to brighten Lucifer’s mood. 

“Oh! Perhaps that was a sigh of admiration because you’re so impressed with my wonderful ideas?”

Lucifer bored holes into the man standing across the room from him. “No.” 

He stood up again, this time actually stepping away from the desk. “All right… time for a break. I’m going to open a window.”

Diavolo stepped aside, leaving plenty of room between Lucifer and the aforementioned window. “All right… oh, but do be careful. It’s a bit windy out-”

A great burst of wind surged forward through the window, sending the giant stacks of files and papers flying about the room. The once neat office was littered with all sorts of files, loose papers, and even a few pens and clips that were sent off the desk.

“It’s a bit windy outside today…” Diavolo started sheepishly, nervous gaze watching Lucifer who stood stock still at the window. “I was trying to tell you, but it would seem I was too late.” 

Diavolo rushed to gather a few papers that had blown past him.

“Of all the rotten…” Lucifer muttered, pulling the open window back shut. “That gust of wind sent all of the paperwork flying everywhere,” he continued, turning on his heel to lament at the state of his office. “Now this room is a giant mess!”

Lucifer looked to where Diavolo was frantically gathering loose papers, shaking his head. “Worry not, Diavolo. I’ll…”

Lucifer looked down at his feet, where a lone file had landed. It was still completely intact, the wind only knocking it to the floor and not causing it to fly open and come undone like several others. 

Was that the reason he felt so compelled to pick it up? Lucifer couldn’t say for sure.

“Hey Diavolo, look at this… one file landed right at my feet.”

He reached down and picked it up, removing the clip and letting it letting it fall open in his hands. The file was on a younger human; they were listed as a university student, studying marine biology. Well read on some things, then. According to all recent records, they lived alone. Ideally, know how to cook well enough to keep themself alive. No criminal records to speak of, not even so much as a detention in primary school. Not to mention their spotless financial records. Mammon could use a good influence… 

They were also listed as a musician, having been featured in many performances throughout the Human Realm. Proficient in violin, viola, and piano…

That had Lucifer’s heart beating just a little bit faster than usual, but he would take that admission to the grave.

“All right, done!” Lucifer declared, stopping himself before he could have any other thoughts on the matter. “Decision made. This is the one.”

“Who, let me see!” Diavolo pleaded, rushing over to Lucifer’s side. His eyes scanned across their file in a flash, grinning wider with each line. “Hmm, yes, very good! This seems like a good choice to me.”

Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose. “You barely even glanced at the file.”

“I don’t need to, do I? After all, you chose this human. I trust your judgment.” Diavolo beamed at Lucifer, who only rolled his eyes in response as he flipped the file closed, moving to place it atop his desk. 

“There you go buttering me up again…”

Diavolo stood where Lucifer left him, lost in thought. Though his glance was indeed brief, it was enough to conclude that this was no ordinary human.

“Hmm… Castiel Nova…” he turned back towards Lucifer, clapping his hands together excitedly. “I have a feeling this human is going to bring real progress to the Devildom.”

Lucifer regarded him with a rather concerned expression. “You do realize that I based my choice on that particular file landing at my feet, right?”

“Nothing that happens in this world is a coincidence,” Diavolo responded almost too easily, nodding his head. “It’s all fate, and it was meant to be. That’s what I believe, personally.”

“Well…” Lucifer turned to gaze down at the now closed file, a million thoughts turning over in his head. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

“Well then, Lucifer-”

Before Diavolo could get another syllable out, Lucifer began wildly shaking his head, crossing his arms for even further emphasis. “Oh no, I’m not doing anything else! This is all on you and Barbatos now-”

“That’s not what I was going to say.” Diavolo stopped him, leaving Lucifer looking at him blankly, waiting for him to continue. 

“I was hoping to ask you about Belphegor. Is he going to be okay, Lucifer?”

Lucifer crossed his arms over his chest, not meeting Diavolo’s questioning gaze.

“He’s against the whole idea of the exchange program, right?”

“Uh… yes,” Lucifer confirmed, almost appearing uncomfortable. However, he quickly shook that away, replacing it with his typical, neutral expression. “Well, I’ll find a way to work things out with him. Once I’m finished with my work here, I’ll go have a talk with him.” 

He laughed softly to himself. “He is my brother, after all.”

“I see…” Diavolo regarded his friend with admiration, a soft smile on his face. “Even down here in the gloom of the Devildom, the bonds you share with your siblings are as beautiful as ever. I hope that never changes. I mean that, Lucifer. From the bottom of my heart.”

Lucifer gave his own small smile in return. “Thank you, Lord Diavolo.”

“Well then,” Diavolo began, walking over to take the file from Lucifer’s desk. “I shall take this back with me to the castle so we may start the preparations for Castiel to join us here in the Devildom.” 

Diavolo paused in the doorway, turning around to take one more look at Lucifer.

“Should you need anything, my friend, you know how to reach me.”

Lucifer only bowed in response, and Diavolo took his leave.

~~~

#obey me #fic writing #mc and lucifer #lucifer obey me #diavolo obey me #obey me mc mentioned #barbatos mentioned #barbatos obey me #mc obey me #casey writes #ta da? #thanks for reading if u did!

[birinboom]

Tell me about your crush(es)

👀

Hang with Me ask game

Thank you so much for the ask! 💖 And THANK THE GODS you added the plural or I woulda had to agonize over who to choose!

I have one thing that repeats with all of my fictional crushes - I tend to fall for characters who can (and want to) protect me. I didn’t have the best childhood, so I tend to veer towards characters who give off ‘protective older brother’ or ‘I took in this random kid, guess I’m a dad now’ vibes. ‘Cause if they are all about (found) family, then maybe they can find a spot for me too.

I had to cut the list down to one character from each franchise since I felt like I was saying the same few things over and over again. So…

Axel (Kingdom Hearts): He’s one of my longest running fan crushes (something like 15 years now). He’s known in-game for being someone who tends to ‘pick up stray puppies’ so he fits perfectly in either of the above categories. He’s also a red-head with fire powers, two things I am so weak against. I love his snark and his sassiness, I love how he seems like he’d hug everybody if they’d allow it, I love how tall and lanky he is. I’m pretty tall myself (5’9 / 176 cm), and he’d still tower over me. But I’d probably get sick from all the ice cream he’d share with me.

Kirishima Eijirou (BnHA): Another redhead! We don’t talk about him dying his hair, he’s a true redhead at heart! I adore him so much. I love how over the top friendly and supportive he is, he would be a wonderful partner. He’d be my #1 cheerleader, and I hope that I’d be able to support him through his bouts of self doubt and hype him up about how great and capable a Hero he is. And I am absolutely sure that once he gets older he’ll be the type to take Hero students, Sidekicks, and younger Pros under his wing.

Rengoku Kyoujurou (KnY): And another fire user! Kyou is so friendly and warm (no pun intended), and canonically a protective older brother. I love how he instantly takes to the Kamaboko squad and adopts all of them on the spot. And how easily he accepts Nezuko after seeing her fight to protect the passengers. I loathe how loud he is, though 😫 I feel like I would get instantly overstimulated if I was in the same room as him. 

Cyno (Genshin Impact): My Mahamatra husband. I love how he’s serious and stoic right up until he starts relaxing and begins cracking silly jokes. Some of them are hit-and-miss, but others are genuinely funny to me. I love how he is protective of his friends. There’s a scene at the end of his story quest where he and the Traveler (the MC) are in a ruin that starts crumbling around them. As they are rushing out, Cyno grabs the Traveler by the wrist and pulls them along to make them go faster. And in the dialogue afterwards he casually mentions that he enjoys talking to the Traveler. Up until that point in the game he always felt so closed off that these two instances caught me off guard. It made me feel so soft for him. Also, I love how nerdy and absolutely obsessed he is with the in-universe card game. There’s a new card being released? Cyno is practically vibrating with excitement. It’s cute 🤭

#ask #akumicchi #lovely moots 💖

[thecityonthemoon]

I want to talk a little more about some of my AUs. Let’s start with “4 royals are humbled by life among humans”:

It starts at some point in the boys’ childhood. Agon’s reign is going through troubles and he learns of an upcoming coup that will likely succeed. It’s certain that he and Rynda will be exiled, so they grab the children and run away

The most obvious visible reason for them running away is that if they waited for the coup to actually happen, Black Bolt would still be kept in isolation, becoming basically a prisoner to the new ruler, who would have this dangerous weapon in his hands. Less known to anyone outside the Boltagon family, and so less gossiped about, is that both boys are results of years of experimenting and Agon and Rynda wouldn’t miss the chance of finallt seeing the results. Even less talked about, and the boys sometimes doubt it, they love their children

This happened when BB and Maximus were old enough to have some memories of Attilan, but young enough for these memories to be vague

Also things happened fast enough that Agon and Rynda had no time to prepare anything that could counter BB’s powers and be used during the trip, so they had to rely on his self control alone

That’s the first divergent thing in their family relationship: Agon and Rynda were forced to trust BB, and he had the chance to show them that he could be trusted, even if his control wasn’t perfect yet. While BB is as powerful as in canon, for everyone involved his powers seem a little less like The Worst Thing Ever without a physical barrier between him and the world

The second divergent thing is that there is no crown to be inherited so the boys don’t grow up with that expectation and it isn’t there to cause rivalry

The family ends up in the US (Attilan is still in its island location in the Atlantic when this happened - and probably for the entirety of the AU). At first the plan is that they will live somewhere isolated and hide from people. But Maximus is a very curious kid that when left on his own will wander into more populated areas, ask questions, etc. So Rynda eventually decides he deserves to get proper education, even if she considers the local schools to be lacking

Both her and Agon agree that Black Bolt should not be spending time among strangers in an uncontrolled environment, but Maximus speaks of him at school and eventually a teacher wants to know why his mysterious brother isn’t in school as well. Max knows not to talk of powers and Attilan, the number one rule. The teacher only learns that he is disabled, and it’s only after a lot of insisting and promising that they will provide all needed accommodations - and this point BB wants to go to school too, after hearing Maximus praise it so much - that BB is allowed to attend too

Years pass, and the boys learn things and make friends and form beliefs that are very different from their parents’. They remember Attilan but they don’t think of it as home, it was all so long ago. They know of their royal lineage but it doesn’t really makes a difference in their life so they don’t care about it. Agon and Rynda evaluate their powers periodically but they have to be kept secret from everyone else so they’re not that much of a deal to them, either

(They are basically “okay boomer” @ their parents all the time)

I haven’t thought of much beyond this, as you can see a lot of this AU is about how they are happier and healthier than in canon

Max and BB eventually have to go back to Attilan for some reason. Attilan has also changed in this time with the new government, I’m not sure how, but it’s probably better too. The rest of the former royal family welcome them with open arms. There are cultural clashes

#silence or death #call me maximus the maker

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Draw your swords, pt. 3

Summary: While his bride is exacting her plans from the very first day in Little Palace, the Darkling finds he has a soft spot for the enemy.

Warnings: sexual references, swearing, angst

Part one // Part two

=================================

The last thing Y/N expected upon waking up was to wake up alone. Spreading out in the bed, she huffed a loose strand of her hair off her face. Narrowing her eyes, she stared up at the canopy with her wicked husband on her mind.

After the way he had acted the night before, she found herself wondering what game he’s playing. They were meant to be married in paper only, yet he seems to have a possessive streak that extends to her as well. A part of her wasn’t sure if he truly had a shred of decency within considering he didn’t take advantage of their marital status, but the other part of her wasn’t easily swayed. That part of her remained defiant as it was forged in a fire the Darkling set. Intentionally or not, his actions have damaged her before they ever even met and she wasn’t very forgiving.

Opening the door, unannounced, strolled in the most beautiful woman Y/N had ever seen. Her long, auburn hair was perfectly styled and framed her face without obscuring an inch of her stunning beauty.

Genya, she realized. Even on the other side of the fold, Y/N knew of the empresses’ tailor.

Large, amber eyes fix on Y/N who slowly sat up. She stared at Genya without shame, admiring her appearance.

“Well, from what the general told me, I expected I’d have more work on my hands.” Genya huffs, her hands on her hips as her lips form a thin line.

“I have nothing wrong with me”, Y/N defends, graciously getting out of the bed that was far too comfy considering who she shared it with. “And where is the general?” Raising her eyebrow, Y/N folded her arms. No matter where he disappeared to, she couldn’t let him wander too far in case he tries to break their agreement and attend a meeting alone.

Humming, Genya didn’t try to hide her curiosity as she looked Y/N up and down. “Are you sure you don’t need my services?”

Glancing at the door, Y/N saw the servants waiting in front for a command. “Leave us”, Y/N waves them off, swiftly closing the door behind them. Her eyes settle on a seemingly startled Genya who cocks her head to the side.

“Interesting. So you do need me?”

Inhaling deeply, Y/N nods. Coming closer, her eyes remain on Genya’s whose gaze drifts at first. Once Y/N stopped before her, their eyes met.

“I need you, but not as a tailor.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Genya steps back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Swallowing thickly, Y/N licked her lips. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you hate the emperor and you’d do anything to make sure he never lays a hand on you?”

Genya’s nostrils flare, her lips drawing back between her pearly whites. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m loyal to my emperor.”

“I know”, Y/N reaches for her hand, “I’m saying if your loyalties shifted, I’d make sure that fat fuck died in agonizing pain.”

Yanking her hand out of Y/N’s reach, Genya stepped back with wide eyes.

Gnawing on the inside of her bottom lip, Y/N wished she was more tactful. Hearing of Genya and her fate, she assumed she’d gladly ally with her in this fight. Not only does she need Genya on her side to fight against Kirigan, but the emperor as well. Genya would have been an ideal ally if only she was willing to hear her out. But she should have waited, befriended the Grisha. She should have been more tactful.

“Does the general know of the treasonous plans you speak of?”

Chuckling in disbelief, Y/N shakes her head, “Do you truly believe I’d be breathing if he did?”

Pursing her lips, Genya turned her back on Y/N, contemplating all the possibilities that could stem from her decision.

“It’s a lot, I know, but I am here with a few secrets of my own.” Y/N takes a step closer, her hand clasping Genya’s shoulder as a show of support. “I realize you barely know me, but we can change that now.”

“How?” Genya whispers, more to herself than Y/N who released a shaky sigh.

“By revealing a secret that would be lethal for me if you shared it with anyone.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Genya’s eyes narrowed at Y/N who felt genuine, more than anyone had been since the day she arrived in the Palace. Despite the initial mistrust, Genya nods.

The guards stationed outside of Y/N’s room only heard a loud gasp behind closed doors, unaware that very gasp was a start of a friendship that would define Ravka’s future.

Meanwhile, the Darkling had spent the morning out in the fields. Riding his favorite horse usually served as a way to distract his mind from ongoing worries, but it had no such effect today. No amount of speed or distance could possibly erase the feeling of Y/N’s hand on his body, much less of her body pressing against him.

He behaved as a pious man, an honorable gentleman with self-restrain of a saint. If he could, he’d have taken her without regrets, but he never crossed that line and doing so with a woman meant to be his wife would set him on a path of no return – of true evil.

The Darkling may have done some heinous things, but they were never without reason. If he had done anything against her wishes, he’d be beyond redemption and he couldn’t help but grit his teeth every time he imagined himself losing his mind around her long enough for her to turn him into the villain she sees him as.

Another thing he’s decided to do is break the rule he knew she expected him to uphold – sleeping in separate chambers was the worst thing for them now. He had to be in her bed every night, regardless if she wanted to let him between her legs or not. He wouldn’t force her, that much would be true, but he wouldn’t sleep in his own room anymore. The room they were given last night would be the one he goes to, stumbles to, crawls to, in order to fall asleep beside her. And though it’s a risk as he could easily find himself with his throat cut, he refused to back down.

Dismounting, he headed to the map room where his subordinates waited for further instructions regarding the war.  

“Shall we start?” The Darkling tossed his riding gloves on the desk as he looked at his people. A new face caught his attention, making him do a double take until his dark skies narrowed at her.

“Now that you’ve arrived”, Y/N stands, smiling sweetly. “I believe we can present to you what we’ve discussed while you were off on a joy ride.”

There’s nothing sweet about her, Darkling realizes. Even her smile is coated in honey but laced with poison.

 He licked his lips, “Well, if you want my opinion-“

“I don’t”, she stood her ground, “I have my own.”

Chuckling darkly, he leans forth on the table. His nostrils are flared, his hands gripping the edges until his knuckles turn white. “And what exactly is that?”

“We agreed on having the First army general having a vote in the decision making process as you all do, and since I’m his proxy, I’ve decided you will no longer use humans as canon meat.”

Gliding the tip of his tongue over the inner side of his teeth, he stared at Y/N as if she were made of glass he had every intention on shattering. That would be a mistake – glass is only brittle until it breaks, the shards can cause more damage.

“We will train Grisha to protect humans and humans will use their weapons to protect the Grisha in a more effective manner with the emperor’s gold.”

“Gold?” Kirigan says through gritted teeth as she approaches him, her hands behind her back and he has no doubts she’s stashed a weapon in them and the blue kefta she wore. He’d tell her to take it off and never wear one since she’s but a human, yet as his wife, she was entitled to a kefta. Besides, she looked like a dream in one.

“The emperor agreed to fund the First army’s armory during breakfast”, she smirks, lifting her head up to maintain eye contact.

“Get out”, he grumbles.

Raising her eyebrow, she giggles, “Are you that incapable of admitting I may have opinions and capabilities with potential to do better than the ones you brought before the emperor?” Hardening her gaze, she cups his cheek so tenderly he felt a shiver run down his back. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“GET OUT!” He turns to the others, watching them scramble to leave before he unleashes the darkness everyone feared. Once the last one left, the door slamming behind them, Kirigan locked his eyes on hers.

“Don’t ever try to get inside my head”, he snarled, slamming her against the door. As his heartbeat echoed in his ears, they stayed there with his grip crushing her wrists, keeping them pinned to the wall.

She didn’t breathe, trying to guess his next move. There was a risk she’d push him over the edge and she quite liked herself in one piece, so she waited – waited for him to move first despite the aching pain in her wrists. Releasing a shuddered breath, her chest deflates.

Finally, his eyes soften as he realizes he might have scared her and while he’d usually triumph, he found no satisfaction in being rough with her. He imagined himself releasing her from his grip, cupping her cheeks and asking for forgiveness, but the way she refused to blink made him unsteady. Yet he whispered still, “It’s too dark for you.”

Squinting, Y/N pressed her lips into a thin line. She easily breaks out of his grasp, shoving him against the wall with her forearm on his chest. Trailing her hand lazily towards his neck, she tightens her grip, lightly choking him. Pulling him down, she stands on her tiptoes as well. Leaning in, her lips brush against his ear; whispering, "Darling, you may wield darkness but you don't know the meaning of dark."

Stepping away, she raised her chin defiantly and he wished he could grasp it and pull her lips to his until her jaw relented and her mouth opened for his. And that’s when he realized – why would he hold back?

Her eyes drifted up to his and she knew his resolve was gone. His lips captured hers in a hard kiss, driving them apart with the force of it. There was something gentle about it, regardless of the brute strength he used to push her into the door. She felt the door rattle against her back as he shifted, pressing her into it, taking her face between his hands.

When he kissed her, she felt as if she were losing his mind. She couldn’t comprehend why her hand wasn’t holding her dagger at his neck, or why she allowed herself to moan into the kiss as if he had brought her pleasure.

Every thought she once had evaporated as the darkness of lust drew her in, bending all her rules, stealing the last trembling bit of restraint. She tries to pull away, to stand firm and turn away his affection if she could call it that.

“No”, he whispers, bringing her lips back to his.

And when he kissed her again, she wasn’t sure she wanted her sanity back. She slid her hands under his kefta, wrapping arms around him to press him closer. The low groan at the back of his throat, a small, pleading noise set every inch of her skin on fire.

Opening her eyes, they widen as she notes his are closed as he lost himself in their passionate exchange. A single intelligent thought formed inside her mind, sparking others to appear as well. Playing with fire is her favorite hobby, but this wasn’t a game – not when she was losing.

Pushing against him with all her might, Y/N gasped for breath as he stumbled back. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she narrowed her eyes at him. Lifting her chin, Y/N met his gaze decidedly. After all, she couldn’t avoid her marital duty if she allowed him to kiss her like that. He may not be an old, unattractive, undeveloped man she had imagined in her mind, but Y/N still wasn’t quite keen on giving herself to him. She had kept her maidenhood all those years only to lose it to a man who shall never be more to her than a husband in name only. She’d never love him…she promised herself that. She never broke a promise before and he would not be the one who changes that.

“Don’t touch me”, she spoke through clenched teeth.

He looked at her in surprise. There was hatred in her enchantingly cold eyes, her cheeks flushed red. If possible, her anger made her even more beautiful. Never had he felt such a raging desire.

His hand went around her neck, his thumb digging into the soft flesh. “You are my wife,” he said in a low voice. “You are mine!”

“I believe we have already covered that. I’m not yours and I never will be.” Y/N told him with such spite, such determination that he let her go immediately.

“You’re untouched, aren’t you?” Darkling’s voice softened, his eyes holding more understanding than she liked. Had he acted unreasonably and taken her against her will the night before or now, she’d at least be right about his horrid heart and vile mind…but he didn’t. Instead of being a savage she imaged him to be, he offered her gentle understanding.

“I’m sorry I was rough. I’ll try and be gentler. If you don’t want to go through with this, I won’t force you.” Running a hand across his face, he leaned back on the table. “I want you…really fucking bad, but I won’t take you against your will.” The Darkling sighed as she stared at him with her doe eyes, seeing confusion pass her features.

“Good to know where you draw your line. Murder – good, rape – bad.”

Rolling his eyes, he squinted as he looked at her again, “We can’t sacrifice Grisha for your men.”

Knitting her eyebrows, Y/N could hardly believe he just forgot the kiss they shared. In seconds, he crossed his arms and the lustful look was gone. The man before her was a general once more, and though he tried to hide it, he was still a man who had a hard-on despite the subject change. She wished she could ignore the evidence his blood is still boiling for a touch, more so because he was fucking right – he wasn’t small at all.

“If you keep wasting human lives, we will stop defending yours entirely.”

Raising an eyebrow, his face hardened, “We’ll kill you.”

Scoffing, she raises her eyebrow to mimic him. “It’s you or Volcra or the Druskelle and Fjerdans or Shu. We end up dying either way.” Stepping closer, she folded her hands behind her back. “We can work together and lessen our losses or you can do it your way and have a massacre instead.”

In less than a minute, her eyes turned from ice to flame and he found himself captivated by the change.

“I’ll agree on one condition.”

His gaze roamed over her as if he is unable to fully comprehend her beauty. Only when he looked back at her eyes did he see she was troubled. Was that expression fear? The possibility struck him as so humorous he nearly laughed out loud.

“State your terms”, she snapped, refusing to concede when she’s close enough to do something she’s wanted for years – to protect the soldiers used as a shield for those who are perfectly capable of protecting themselves.

“I plan on getting to know you better”, he leaned in closer. He raised his hand, cupping her cheek just as he imagined – tenderly, enough to show dominance but not quite capable of harming her. “If you let me.”

Heart fluttering inside her chest had made her doubt herself. She stared at him, stubborn and unrelenting. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”

Chuckling, Kirigan drops his hand, noticing her relax as he steps back. With a tightness in his chest, he looked back at his wife, so small, so alone and still so fierce. He would never admit it, but he had already a sliver of love for her and knowing she did not had hurt him.

His smile falls and he nods. Clearing his throat, “How about we go for a ride in a few days?” He took her hand in his and gave her a gentle squeeze, looking up at her weary eyes.

“Does that mean I have the bed all to myself?” Raising her eyebrows expectantly, she squeezed his hands right back, as bold as ever. Genya seemed to trust him, yet Y/N couldn’t understand why. He’s too charming to be trustworthy.

Using his grip on her hand as an advantage, he tugged her closer to him and she found herself between his legs as he remained, leaning against the table behind him. His eyes flicker to her lips, “Better find more pillows, my wife. We wouldn’t want you to be the big spoon again, would we?”

With that, he turned them so swiftly, she had barely blinked as he pulled her up on the table and she gasped in surprise. Heart beating fast, she nearly gripped his kefta and claimed his lips, but he leaned in on his own accord and she had no need for brutish behavior.

The tip of his nose brushes hers and just as she begins to lean in, he takes a step back. Winking, he takes another step back.

“If you want a taste, you’ll have to ask.”

Watching his retreating figure in shock, she remained perched on the table with her mouth open and her eyes wide.

Covering her mouth, Y/N shakes her head. Her mind was right, the heart cannot be trusted.

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9​ @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless  @azure23x​ 

PART 4

#the darkling #the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #general kirigan x reader #general kirigan #shadow and bone #the darkling fanfiction

[my-mt-heart]

Season 11 Emotional Arc Breakdown: Daryl Dixon

From putting on a mask to hey, this isn’t me

Time to kick off the hiatus with some much needed positivity! There’s been so much talk lately about what’s missing from season 11 and after venting my own frustration, I want to now shine a light on what’s actually there. Because even though I completely disagree with the “let’s go ahead and wait” method of storytelling, I do see how it’s going to lead into what I still believe will be a satisfying arc in the final stretch and of course the ultimate payoff that is Caryl canon. 

Bear with me. This is going to be long. So long, I’m splitting it into four parts. I’ll do breakdowns for Daryl and Carol individually before looking at their arc as a pair and then based on all of that, I’ll share my predictions on what we can expect from them emotionally going forward. First up is Daryl, only because I already had something to work off of from earlier in the block. Side note: if anything you read seems familiar, it’s because I’ve copied and pasted from previous posts of mine. Turns out past MT had some damn good things to say…

11A: I’m going to condense Daryl’s arc in the first block on account of I have no desire to examine a certain meaningless relationship step by step. In a nutshell, Daryl is forced to rely on “dark elements of the past.” The tortured soul is pretending to be the torturer in order to not only survive himself but protect the people who have helped shape who he is now. He never loses sight of what’s really important to him while navigating the darkness that the Reapers and especially she who must not be named represent, but he does have to start to let go of a defining piece of himself. A piece that while admirable has always unfairly burdened him and dare I say prevented him from taking the road to happiness with Carol. I’m talking about his hero complex of course.  

11x09: The man who would seize any and every opportunity to try to save someone to the detriment of his own self worth if he fails finally accepts it’s not always in his power to do so. He puts the responsibility on what’s-her-pants for blowing her “second chance” and instead of killing her – because that doesn’t need to be in his power either – Daryl walks away with a second chance of his own. Sitting by the campfire, undoubtedly contemplating what comes next, he asks Gabriel if choices matter and Gabriel advises him to just have faith, marking the next important turning point for Daryl. Not to say choices won’t continue to present themselves, not that he won’t ultimately have to make them, but for now, he is trusting that life has a way of working itself out. Saving I-still-can’t-think-of-her-name wasn’t in the cards, and that’s okay because he has so much better waiting for him back home. Coincidence that the scene transitions to Carol staring off into the distance, literally waiting for his safe return? I think not. 

Just like it’s no coincidence she, Judith, RJ, and Lydia are the first people to greet Daryl, who’s visibly thrilled to be back home with the people who represent the family built from circumstances outside of his control. His hug with Carol may feel like an oversight of the (agonizing) tension between them since 10C, but in actuality, it’s Daryl taking Gabriel’s advice, believing that one way or another they’ll be able to overcome it together. This precedes Daryl’s reunion with Connie, indicating that Connie is not the deciding factor in Daryl’s and Carol’s argument. She is, however, proof to Daryl that people he’s lost have a way of coming back to him without his intervention. Connie, who mirrors Rick in many ways, provides Daryl the sense of relief he couldn���t get 6+ years ago. Meanwhile Carol, who I still maintain mirrors that other gray-haired woman, whose role in protecting Alexandria and finding Connie is sure to reach Daryl’s awareness, reminds him that some are indeed capable of returning from darkness. It just “depends who’s making the choice.”  

11x10: If his time with the Reapers proved anything, it’s that Daryl is not one to easily forget where he belongs. The emotional drive for moving to the Commonwealth to begin with may be somewhat murky, but the drive to settle there permanently is at first non-existent. Even a month after his arrival, he’s feeling like an outsider, an observer. We see him looking around, taking everything in from the maze to the games to the people. But he’s not really a part of any of it. He’s still Daryl from Alexandria and he has the vest to prove it.

In a stiff conversation with Carol, the tension still unresolved, Daryl tells her they “always have to do something to make it work,” not seeming motivated to do so for the Commonwealth. However, it is also a subconscious reminder to himself that this new “if it’s meant to be, it’ll be, baby just let it be” approach to their relationship is doomed to fail. Because letting too many feelings go unspoken only fosters more pain, and it’s only a matter of time before it all boils over for him. Ignoring his own warning, he commits to giving Carol the space he thinks she needs to figure things out for herself. Though as he soon comes to find out, she’s hard at work trying to figure things out for him, urging him to acknowledge Connie’s stardom. Unlike Daryl (and Carol), Connie is fully immersed in this new way of life, hard at work, wearing what a journalist would wear. Hence, she too represents the world he’s trying to observe, the world Carol wants him to be in. Her comment about asking Connie to dance is a call to action. Daryl’s being pressured to conform to someone else’s vision of life, which is heartbreaking because his own vision (Carol) is choosing to put a wall between them, perhaps insinuating that she wants nothing more than a casual friendship. Again, in trying to honor that, he says nothing to refute her claims. At the same time, he has no intention of taking her advice, nor making any effort to fit in at the Commonwealth. But then the pressure continues to build and build. 

At first, he goes about his assigned role as a military trainee with little conviction since, per his conversation with Rosita, it’s only temporary anyway. He doesn’t have to be a team player. He doesn’t have to trust anyone outside his longtime friends. Alexandria’s going to get cleaned up and then he can resume living the way that feels natural to him. Mercer insists otherwise, and maybe Daryl doesn’t know him well enough to take that to heart, but then he returns to his shitty apartment that no doubt reminds him of his troubled childhood, and something changes. The kids want to stay, and because he has a responsibility as an uncle, because he wants to give them the childhood he never got to have, because his brain is wired to put literally everyone else’s happiness before his own, he now has to re-evaluate everything he’s doing. 

That conversation with Judith and RJ is yet another emotional turning point for Daryl, which is why we see him behaving differently afterwards. Standing at the door of the ball, symbolically the entrance to higher society, Daryl takes a beat to study Mercer, take notice of his status, and think for the first time that maybe he should be striving for the same thing. And strive he does, arresting the first (only?) Commonwealth rebel to emerge, then letting the governor’s egotistical son take the credit in order to gain his favor.

We joke that Daryl looks absolutely ridiculous in his armor, and that is not without reason. Putting it on conveys he’s ready to do what everyone is telling him to do, which is to be in the Commonwealth. To lead that life. To hold those values. But he is trying to fit into a role that’s not meant for him. 

11x12: Daryl returns to the communities in Daryl Dixon attire, but despite what he assures Maggie, he’s not the cautious, self-effacing lone wolf we know him to be. His cooperation, telling Pamela how much he admired Deanna (also a politician) and calling the Commonwealth lucky, reflects his changing attitude. He’s willing to focus on all of the good the Commonwealth is doing instead of trying to uncover the dirt, which may be his way of reducing the cognitive dissonance he’s experiencing in order to give Judith and RJ the life they want. Daryl thinks he has a handle on himself, but through the perspectives of Mercer and Maggie, we’re warned that he’s under the Commonwealth’s thumb, literally falling in line, playing the role they want him to.

11x14: Up until this point, Daryl has been trying to negotiate his happiness, but alas the new normal he’s establishing isn’t doing him any favors. Taking care of two kids and serving in the Commonwealth army leaves little time to try to reconstruct his relationship with Carol. They can barely have a single conversation without his supervisor interrupting them. He misses her terribly if his excited “hi” outside the station is anything to go by and he needs her in more ways than he’s getting. 

The donut is our visual clue that he’s trying to satisfy a craving, not a sugar craving, but an emotional craving for Carol. When the donut is highlighted again, it sets up the cop joke and maybe alludes to the scene in season 4 when Zach thought Daryl might have been a cop in the old world. But emotionally, it’s a more heavy-handed clue that Daryl tried to visit Carol at the bakery where she works, which I imagine Rosita would pick up on and maybe that accounts for her big smirk while she watches Daryl eat. Now I'm not saying I think their conversation is intentionally coded, not on both ends anyway. Nevertheless, the subtext behind her comment is "what's going on here?" to which Daryl replies he liked donuts before, meaning his behavior is nothing new and that also applies to his feelings for Carol. He wanted her before, he wants her now. 

No matter what, he can’t just turn off his feelings for her. His determination to spend more time with her is his way of trying to convert the concept of happiness Carol wants to hand him. So he can fulfill his own deep desires instead. Earlier when Carol teases Daryl about asking Connie to dance, she puts it in his head that when you want to be with someone romantically, you ask them out on a date. We see him taking the suggestion seriously, however, it’s Carol he asks. To be clear, I don’t think Daryl saying “it’s a date” is a literal attempt to court Carol. Rather, it’s a manifestation of the feelings he’s harboring within. As well as a “wink, wink” from the writers. 

Daryl’s plans unfortunately fall through thanks to Sebastian, who embodies the elitism that’s controlling the Commonwealth. He’s trapping Daryl inside the corrupt system by literally trapping him inside a mansion, using his devotion to the kids to force him to risk his life for green pieces of paper that hold no value for Daryl. Thankfully, as is typical whenever Daryl finds himself in over his head, Carol comes to pull him back to what really matters. By the time she arrives, Daryl has discarded his uniform which just emphasizes how he can only be himself around her. If the heist serves to reveal the cracks in the life Daryl’s found himself working toward, then Mercer the poster boy – the man he had started to look up to – shooting two of his own soldiers shatters it completely.   

11x15: Daryl is well aware now that the people in power at the Commonwealth aren’t to be trusted. He knows he’s in a power play with Lance, who keeps telling him to suit up and put his helmet on to assure he’s falling in line. Daryl continues to play mediator for his own people’s sake until he can’t anymore. At Hilltop, the ridiculous uniform he’s been wearing comes off for good and he tells Lance in colorful language where his true loyalties lie.  

11x16: Daryl’s defeat of the Commonwealth soldiers and the lady with the twine bracelet is neither physically nor emotionally taxing, suggesting that these supposedly larger than life forces no longer hold any power over him. He’s ready to choose the life he wants. It’s full steam ahead.

 To be continued. 

#caryl #caryl positivity #caryl is endgame #twd #twd season 11

[drabsyo]

I was wondering...I was always confused about Narcissa’s hair. It’s been a while since I read the books. Did she color it blonde to show her now belonging to House Malfoys. Or was it naturally blonde? Movies confused me a bit I guess.

Yes, this had me confused too! I've agonized and toiled over it, more than I probably should, about how I should draw her hair because people have generally different views, which is totally understandable! 💕

And I've always wanted to discuss it, so now that I've been given a reason to... Well.

If you take a look at some of my Narcissa fanart, you'll notice the different ways I'd color her hair. I was so confused. Is she a light blonde? Dark blonde? A mix of raven hair and blonde hair? If she has blonde hair then why does her family have (mostly) dark hair? And WHY does she have blue eyes?! This woman is absolutely confusing! (Which is kind of, you know, fitting because Narcissa always loves to be a mystery to literally anyone lol)

So I did my homework, asked around, and scoured every bit of information, canon or otherwise, that I could find about her. It led me to this:

In canon, this is what the Black sisters look like. You can find the page here. Narcissa is a child here, and already has blonde hair. So we can go ahead and safely assume that she was born with natural blonde hair. But in the films, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. I don't actually know why they gave her that hair color, maybe so that the audiences wouldn't question her blood relations with the Blacks--I don't know. I really don't. But now we have a book version Narcissa, one who has full blonde hair. And a movie version Narcissa, one who has raven and blonde hair. At least, that's how the different hair colors started: a movie version, and a book version.

So... here's where it gets confusing.

To my knowledge, it isn't actually explained why her hair color is the way it is in both the movies and the books. Having blonde hair does raise many questions, how is she the "only" blonde in a family of dark hair and dark eyes? To top it all off, it gets even more confusing, because fanon writes and draws her either as a full blonde or a mix of raven and blonde hair. We just have this large pile to sift through of her having either hair color. No one actually explains anything. She's just... infuriatingly there. She's either blonde or raven haired and blonde. BUT fanfiction writers, as I've observed, give their own reasons why Narcissa's hair color is the way it is in their respective stories. And it's actually pretty creative and interesting! It adds even greater depth to her character, and it fits the narrative of the story even better. Remember, the character we're dealing with is Narcissa Black. One of her main traits is "she won't do anything unless there is a clear purpose behind it." This character is deliberate, meticulous, and she makes sure to plan ahead at all times. And so, some fanfiction writers decide to play on that.

You can skip this part if you want to avoid spoilers but I've compiled a small list of instances in (Cissamione) fanfiction where Narcissa's hair is mentioned.

🔹 In Extinction by rubikanon in Chapter 10: Build and Break, Hermione asks Narcissa about it. Here, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. She explains that she only decided to dye it blonde to "fit in with the Malfoys." We can gather two things from that alone, which resonates with her character perfectly: 1.) Narcissa is loyal and 2.) Narcissa purposefully wants to show the rest of the world how loyal she is by committing to having blonde hair. The woman has some serious commitment, and it shows. But now, the way that it's slowly growing back into her natural black hair color, hints that perhaps Narcissa no longer wishes to fit in with the Malfoys. However, if we take an even closer look, we can safely assume that Narcissa isn't the kind of person to just leave her hair color "unattended" like that. Remember, she's meticulous. And this is a big deal for her, the fact that she's just kind of letting it grow back instead of either fully dyeing it back to black, or dyeing it back to blonde. It suggests that perhaps she's a little unsure this time, perhaps it is her uncertainty that is the reason why it's now a mix of both. Another grey area? Or maybe it's actually something more deliberate? Maybe now, she likes that it's a mix of both. That other half now being solely for Draco, and not to fit in (completely) with the Malfoys any longer. Who knows why Narcissa does things the way she does? We can speculate to the ends of the earth, or be as smart as Hermione Granger (or with the case of Extinction, see Hermione's thoughts), but something tells me we'd still be a good step behind.

"Which one is your natural hair color?" I wondered aloud.

(Narcissa) She glanced up at the unexpected question. I was relieved she hadn't sensed my attention yet. It's not like I meant anything by it, I told myself. She was so beautiful, one couldn't help but notice. And feel physically drawn to her. And want to see her two-toned hair fanned across her back, slipping over the bare skin, silky beneath my fingers...

"Why do you ask?" Her query brought me back to reality, and I hurriedly corrected my imagination to include a pretty dress covering the rest of her.

"I don't know." I chewed the inside of my cheek, suppressing my other thoughts. "I'm just curious."

Her gaze returned to the fire. "You've seen enough of my relatives to guess which color is genetic. The blond is something I added to fit in with the Malfoys, after Draco was born." She was quiet for a moment. "He looks so much like his father. I suppose I wanted to share some resemblance."

🔹 In Killing Me Softly by Looktotheedges in Chapter 4: Nagging, Hermione suggests that perhaps Narcissa is part Veela because of her blonde hair and very attractive features, like Fleur. Which is this whole other theory/plot that's very interesting, but won't be discussed in this post. Narcissa tells Hermione that Sirius has always been blonde, and that it isn't out of the question for her to be blonde either. Sirius Black. A blonde. I know! Maybe it's there because it's funny that Sirius is actually blonde like Narcissa. Prissy, haughty, lady-like Narcissa. Arguably the 'girliest' cousin that he has. No, no, no. He doesn't want to be anything like Narcissa. Anyway, if that's the reason, I think that's hilarious and cute.

Narcissa turns away. 'I am aware my appearance is frightfully drab. Work has been…'

Hermione holds back a disbelieving scoff. 'Narcissa. You always look beautiful. And you’re talking to the witch with grass in her hair who practically lives in her office all week.'

Narcissa just leans further over the crib. 'A blonde little boy. It has been so long since… I can almost imagine…'

Hermione stands next to her. Looks down at the peacefully sleeping Louis. He does look remarkably like Draco. 'Are you sure there’s no Veela blood in you? You weren’t secretly switched at birth?'

'Like a changeling?'

'It would explain your blonde hair.'

'Sirius was also blonde, it is not completely out of the question for us Blacks.'

What?!

(...) 'I know. But it is the truth. He was blond until he was about seven… then it began to darken. Mousy. Dull. He wanted to look cool and brooding instead, so he got his hands on some kind of charm right before he set off for Hogwarts. A new, edgy Sirius. It was around then he forbade us from calling him Siri. Said it sounded too girly.'

🔹 In Fixed in Time by TheWorldsaBeastofBurden in Chapter 9: Sisters and Saviors, it's also tackled a little humorously. Andromeda let's a little comment slip while they're in the middle of trying to heal Hermione. Something funny, something that suggests Andromeda and Bella, when they were children, have always wondered why Narcissa is blonde unlike them.

The first words spoken occurred after they’d risen and attempted their casting. Andromeda’s preparedness to take on their task had been clear in her mind so Narcissa rose with her sister, wrapped an arm around her waist and held her near as the woman raised her wand to draw up the rest of the injury she’d dropped, half a slash across Hermione’s hip bone…

That remained half, as Andromeda growled out, “...it isn’t working.” she looked to Narcissa, “Why aren’t you powering me?”

What nonsense? “I am!” she insisted. She was! Or “I- I am trying to!” Her magic was active and alive, pulsing to rise from her skin and transfer into Andromeda’s but it- it wasn’t working! “Could...could it be that you were disowned?”

“Disowning doesn’t take away the fact that we share blood, our magic is directly related. Ugh, Bella always said you were adopted!”

“Oh ha- oh.”

“...oh?” Andromeda returned.

“...it’s not an issue of power. It is what I intend to aid in casting,” Narcissa slowly worked out. Oh, it was most blessed Mister Goyle could be brought to assist the present Hermione. If her present self had been brought to aid Andromeda? “...I cannot harm Hermione.”

Andromeda sighed with some frustration. “I understand you are so tenderly in love-”

“It isn’t- I’m avowed! I- when we arrived from the future we had to escape Malfoy Manor, I couldn’t bring Hermione through the wards without...I couldn’t add her directly, that would be visible. I had to...attach her permission to mine.”

🔹 In Glass Silence by Zarrene Moss (Menzosarres), which probably gives one of the most interesting backstories for Narcissa's hair, for why it's blonde. I can't put a clip of the scene here without hogging up a huge chunk of space on your dash, so I'll try to explain it as best I can instead.

Understand that these come with serious 🛑spoilers🛑 so please do read it at your own risk.

In Glass Silence, Narcissa's hair and eye color was black at birth. But after an accident with raw magic, something Bellatrix wasn't able to control when they were children, Narcissa almost dies. Bellatrix, using even more raw magic, tries desperately to pull Narcissa's "life force" back, but at the cost of losing the eumelanin that made Narcissa's eyes and hair black. Narcissa survived, but now has very little eumelanin left, which is why she's so pale, blonde, and has blue eyes. Every time Narcissa looks at a mirror, her reflection is a reminder of the day she almost died. Bella, on the other hand, is reminded of that day every single time she looks at Narcissa.

So! These are only a few fanfictions I could think of at the top of my head that tackles the issue of Narcissa's hair. In the books, to my knowledge, she is described as having blonde hair and very pale skin.

But let's take another deep dive, if you're up for it.

These are mostly theories, which are largely unconfirmed, but I think they're interesting to think about.

There's this description in the wiki:

"Narcissa Malfoy is described as tall, slim, "nice looking", and very pale, with blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a clear, cold voice. Her hair colouring thus differs from most of the House of Black, who generally have dark hair, though Narcissa does possess the arrogant good looks characteristic of her family."

There's also this pinterest photo of the Black sisters being compared to each other side by side, descriptively and physically. I'm so sorry, I don't know who drew it, but here's a link to the post on pinterest.

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

Which is interesting because this hints that she's... different. It's a bit literal in this sense--she comes from a pureblood family, arguably the most influential and notorious one, the Blacks, who mostly have dark hair and eyes, and yet her physical appearance directly contrast that. There's also the matter of her namesake. She's the only Black to be named after a flower instead of a galaxy or a star. We aren't really given any explanation why she's the only one who's different. Even Sirius, who fought and died for the side of the Light, is named after the brightest star in the sky. Even Andromeda. It's been said that this is actually meant to be a parallel of some sort to Lily Evans. Narcissa and Lily are both named after flowers, even Petunia (Lily's sister). And I know there's this thing where it's a tie up to how Harry was ultimately saved by a mother's love: Harry lived at the beginning because of his mother's love, and Harry lives once again at the end of the books because Narcissa, a mother who wanted to save her own son, saved him.

If you read that scene in the books where Harry is saved by Narcissa, the whole scene is actually... pretty soft? There's that sort of disarming softness about Narcissa in that moment, where Harry expected to be callously dragged and prodded for a heartbeat. Instead, he gets a surprisingly gentle touch, a curtain of long blonde hair shielding him from the darkness, and the kind of tenderness he wouldn't expect from his enemies, "Is Draco alive?"

It's almost like Narcissa's appearance is something of a "tell". With Andromeda, she's described to have kind eyes, open, unguarded. She inherited her family's dark eyes and dark hair, and she even looks like Bellatrix's twin. I suppose we could say, Andromeda wants to fight that in any way she can by being openly kind. Narcissa is quite literally the opposite--guarded eyes, stoic expressions, cool and calculated emotions. We're veering into this fine line between fanon and canon in terms of their characterization (but only due to lack of canon materials) but personally, I think Narcissa having blonde hair and blue eyes is somewhat more fitting for her character. Again, this line:

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

It's like that one glaringly obvious hint that everyone overlooks simply because... because it's the most obvious one. "Me! I'm different! I'm the last person you'd expect, but it really is me!"

Anyway. I've rambled on long enough. Hope this clears up some of that confusion, anon. Hoping it didn't ADD even more confusion... 😂 At the end of the day, this is just me speculating, gushing, and being One Big Fool™. So.

But either way, blonde hair, dark hair, mix of both, I adore her. Pretty much.

#narcissa black #narcissa malfoy #cissamione #anon #HAIR TALK #drabstuff #stupid ramblings

[genshinwriter111]

The Monstadt and Liyue boys: You are the victim of a killing game+you as the blackened

Diluc, Venti, Albedo, Chongyun, Kazuha, Childe, Aether, Xiao, Xingqiu, Zhongli, Scaramouche

Warnings: Blood, Death, Self-Hate, Self-Blaming, Depression Mentions, Swearing, Injury Detail, Execution Detail, All detail described is vivid, but original, slight mentions of suicidal intentions. Be warned, this fic is not for the faint of heart. I’m on mobile, so please scroll past if any of this triggers you.

Based off of Danganronpa, but not many spoilers for the games.

Gender Neutral (You/Yours, They/Them)

Ultimates will be put next to the GI characters names, and yours will be ‘(Ultimate Talent)’.

They still possess their visions

This may interfere with canon, but this is an AU so that doesn’t matter. Also it breaks some rules of Danganronpa, and again this a fanfiction so take that as you will.

The executions will be on a seperate line, if you’d prefer to skip the detail.

Requests are open! For Genshin Impact only at the moment.

Diluc, The Ultimate Winery Owner

Your body is found

Diluc had remained level headed throughout this ordeal, especially since you were there. He believed he had to protect you, and would do anything for you to both escape. It was just another day, during free time when the body announcement played. He sighed, knowing how upset you’d be, you were usually one of the unlucky few that ran into the body first. Unlike usual, you hadn’t ran off to find him. “Maybe they haven’t found it yet..” He muttered, his mind not dare travelling to the darkest assumption. As he walked, he became more concerned. Hopefully, you were just asleep in your dorm and had missed the announcement. As Diluc approached the area, he noticed the guilty glances of others. He was confused, and upon entering the room, he froze. He didn’t want to believe it. There you were, chest slashed open. It was a gruesome sight, he felt sick. He rushed to your side, not wanting to believe this was real. But when he grabbed your arm, and it was cold. He blamed himself, he was meant to protect you. He didn’t want to lose you too. But he did, and he snapped. Nobody saw him until the trial. And when your killer was found out? Well, he almost killed them himself. It wouldn’t be surprising if he turned into a blackened.

You are the Blackened.

“And that would make the killer, (Full Name).” One of the others had announced. Your boyfriend stared at you, in denial. You let out a laugh. “Oh, well done. You got it right.” You seemed nonchalant about it, and shrugged. The voting was quickly dealt, despite Diluc’s protests. When Monokuma announced that yes, it was you, Diluc still couldn’t believe it. He walked over to you. “Why?” He questioned, but his voice was breaking. “Well, I wasn’t planning on getting caught. I wanted us out of here, no matter the cost.” You said with a sigh. You seemed frustrated your plan hadn’t gone through. He stared at you, with shock. He didn’t believe it, he never would. But he knew what came next, you’d both seen it before. He didn’t give the others a chance to get near you, and embraced you. You gave smiled one final time at the Ultimate Winery Owner, before the chain locked around your neck, ripping you out his arms.

Your Execution.

Everyone was silent, as it started, but Diluc stared blankly, and if it wasn’t clear, he was in silent tears. He didn’t want to watch this, but it was like he was in a trance. You were tied down to a chair, something that looked like it was from an older time. There were mumbles about how this would go, most of the survivors being confused. That was until wine bottles were smashed against the ground near you, and he knew what was coming next. He wanted to rush in, and try stopping it, but it was like you could sense his thoughts, and practically froze him with a glare. The next part, broke the man, fully. A match was thrown into the spilled alcohol, and it engulfed the area in flames. Your screams and pleas destroyed whatever happiness he had left. And when the execution was over, he made a mental promise to be joining you soon.

Venti, The Ultimate Bard

Your body is found

The bard was always desperate for his freedom to be back, but he wouldn’t kill, no. Especially not if there was a chance you could be hurt. He’d developed an attachment to you throughout this, and you’d spend many nights in one another’s dorms. You’d listen as he strums his Lyre, one of the few things keeping you both sane through this hellhole. That all came crumbling down, as he was the first to find your body, and screamed. Others rushed in, and Venti was hyperventilating. He wouldn’t believe this, he couldn’t. He refused to leave your body’s side. As much as the way you were murdered made him disgusted to see, he just wanted his moments to say goodbye. “I’m so sorry, (Name)...I failed to protect someone again.” He sobbed out once the others had left to search for clues elsewhere. When the killer was announced, Venti sure did have a few choice words with them. He was screaming, and wouldn’t calm down. His composure was lost, and he wasn’t the same after losing you too.

You’re the blackened.

Venti couldn’t believe his eyes as your name was voted by everyone. And when it was comfirmed? The bard ran to you and clung to your body. He begged you for an answer, and when you said it was for his freedom? He sobbed. He said things he didn’t mean, and you knew he didn’t, not taking them to heart. His gaze was hidden from the monochrome bear, and you nodded at it. Signalling the end of your time. You knew there was no where to run, and you feared that the male you’d loved would be hurt if you made a break for it. You kissed Venti on the forehead, muttering your gentle apology and that you loved him. He mumbled an ‘I love you too’ and you knew he forgave you. But just as the words had left his mouth, you were ripped from him, now facing your death.

Your Execution.

Venti couldn’t watch, he knew you didn’t want him to. “I’m so sorry, (Name)..” He said under his breath, while crying. You couldn’t guess what would come next, when an instrument was shoved in your hands. If you messed up a note, the asphyxiation from the chain would only be slowed, not stopped. You just wanted this over with, and played to the best of your abilites. Venti covered his ears, he couldn’t listen or watch. When it was over, he dropped to his knees still sobbing, and it took one of the others dragging him to get him to move. He was rarely seen again, unless needed. There never was a spark in his eye, like before. Any melody the others heard when passing by was dark, it made them sad just hearing it.

Albedo, The Ultimate Alchemist

Your body is found

The two of you had developed a relationship, both having being considered ‘outcasts’ from the others. He would teach you of alchemy, and you would teach him (ultimate talent). You shared a gentle bond, even if at times it didn’t seem like you were all that close around the others, both minding your own business. It was a late night and you were in his ultimate lab, he calmly asked you to try this one thing he’d been working on, and you agreed, knowing he would never hurt you on purpose. You took the glass from him, and drank it. You soon felt your eyes grow heavy, and it was as if your pulse was slowing. Albedo gently called your name, concern written in his eyes. You couldn’t reply, seconds later, limply dropping against him. He felt panic rise, checking for any sign of life, and didn’t find it. In the trial, he was mostly silent. And upon his guilty judge? He accepted it, he was furious at himself, the one person that trusted him, died by his hands? Who wouldn’t that anger?

You are the blackened.

You laughed as your name was announced and Albedo stared. He didn’t want to believe it, but he did accept it. There was nothing he could change, nor do about this. He wished you’d just spoken to him, and told him to do it. He would have, especially since you did it so he would be free from all this. Your boyfriend approached you, and hugged you. The others muttered things of ‘Well that wasn’t a surprise’ and the like. You gave him a soft kiss, before accepting your fate. “Now! We’ve got a special punishment for (Full Name) The (Ultimate Talent)!” With that, you were chained and tied to a pole. “This is an especially special punishment, made by one your own!” The monochrome bear called out. There were confused yells, people panicking at one another. Who would it be?

Your Execution.

The lights flickered off, then on again. But it was a spotlight. The light fell on Albedo. “What..?” He questioned, staring at the others. Just as his question fell from his lips, an agonizing scream could be heard on your end. Chemicals upon chemicals were being launched at you. The others yelled at him, wondering how he could do something like this to somebody he’d called a lover. Albedo didn’t know, and called out again. “But..I never wanted this?! Especially not for them..” He recieved a laugh in return. “Now now, dear alchemist. If you hadn’t prepared all of these, your supposed sweetheart would’ve just had a quick little death! This is all *your* fault~” Monokuma said with a sing-song tone. He was lying, this would’ve had the same outcome no matter what Albedo did. But, the alchemist believed him. And cried. It was silent, and he didn’t realise it, but he was crying.He fully blamed himself, there was after all no evidence otherwise. It didn’t take long before he was considered dangerous, and avoided

Chongyun, The Ultimate Exorcist

Your body is found

An argument had been a bit too heated for him, and his condition acted up. You’d went with him, to the small area of his lab that was colder than the rest. He would normally come with you there, to calm down. Usually, you were dressed more appropriately for the temperature. You didn’t worry this time, more concerned over your boyfriend. You stayed cuddled close to him, but the temperature soon became too much. You didn’t want to upset him further, and stayed silent. He didn’t notice. You slowly felt your eyes shut, and rested more against him. He felt the weight, and went to tap your hand to let you know that he was fine now. But then he felt the skin that was far too cold. He screamed, and others rushed in. He didn’t forgive himself. He should have known, noticed, anything...Many nights were spent crying himself to sleep.

You’re the blackened

Disbelief, and thats all. He didn’t forgive you, but he did at the same time. He hated and loved you. It hurt, badly. And upon hearing your reasoning? He became more conflicted. He was lucky he brought popsicles, because otherwise it wouldn’t be good for him. He saw your stressed expression and sighed, before walking over and hugging you. You would be dead soon, anyway. This is the least he could do. The moment came all too fast, and then you were gone.

Your Execution

You had to try fending off spirits, but they weren’t real. You grew tired, fast as they weren’t normal opponents, plus the cold chill wasn’t anything better. Chongyun realised far too late he wasn’t mad, and he still loved you fully. He almost called it out to you, but you slipped up and were killed. It was bloody, and he felt sick. He hated this feeling. He just wanted you back, and in his arms. At the very least, you were out of this game, and resting somewhere. Maybe...maybe he would join you early. This was caused by him, after all.

Kazuha, The Ultimate Poet

Your Body is Found

You and the poet were close from the beginning. It hadn’t been long for a relationship to bloom from that. He would also tell you stories of his time at sea, while you both stayed together in the late evenings. You had said to him you just wanted to go grab a book, and he believed you’d be fine. That proved to be a fatal mistake, as when you entered the library, you were killed by a set trap. Kazuha waited, for an hour, before growing worried and rushing to your last known location. Being the library. He saw your body, and the panic rised. He quickly got everybody together, and was one of the main people during the investigation. At the trial, he was the first suspect, being the last person to be seen with you, and for not showing much emotion, but with his evidence, he was proven guilt free and the killer was found. They certainly didn’t expect the insults that flew from his mouth. He was anything but calm now. He’d lost two people by not being there in time, of course he was pissed off.

You are the blackened

Silence. That’s all you were met with. You couldn’t blame him, and you didn’t want to guilt him so you made an excuse as to why you killed. You had done it so the two of you could be free and sail off. You claimed it was because you were bored, and wanted something interesting to happen. He didn’t approach you. He just stared. It was disheartening. He still loved you, he just...he needed time. Time neither of you had. Not when you yelled out an apology as you were dragged to your final moments and any chance he had to let you know he forgives you, was gone.

Your Execution

You were sat in a chair, a book was slammed in front of you. Metallic hands wrapped around your neck and you guess what to do. Maybe...maybe you could survive this? You read, slowly, the poetry in hand. It was a painstaking process, but when you got to the end of the book, and lowered it, you thought it was over. Maybe this was a lucky chance? That was until you were finally choked fully. Kazuha knew he had time to yell it, that he did forgive you. But that was all gone now. You’d never know that he did love you still, despite everything. He’d lost two people close to him, and was now shut down. And tired.

Tartaglia, The Ultimate Freestyle Martial Artist

Your Body Is Found

You’d both taken a habit of approaching one another with an invitation to spar. It had started with him doing it solely to train you to defend yourself, but then it became a game to the both of you. Childe had decided today he would find you, as you’d snuck up often on him. He entered your dorm, calling out your name. What he didn’t expect was it to be a mess, and have things broken. “(Name)? Are you here? Is this a prank....?” He had asked, while walking around, looking for you, but he never expected the site of your cold, dead body under a table. He approached, almost laughing. “Come on now, (Name), this isn’t funny.” He reached his hand out, to grab your own, but being met with the cold feeling, he jumped back. He stared, and stared. He was in denial. He wouldn’t believe it. He didn’t. Not even at the trial. Not afterwards, not even at his own death, did he ever believe you were dead. He knew it was stupid, but somewhere inside he believed that this was some cruel joke, and you would both return home at some point.

You are the blackened

In case you had any doubt, Childe forgave you instantly as the news was announced. You thanked him, and he held you. He wasn’t upset or mad at you in the slightest. However, he was furious at Monokuma, knowing your execution would happen in mere moments. He held you, not wanting to let you go, ever. Tartaglia kissed your forehead, and muttered an ‘I love you.’ You smiled at him, before being dragged away.

Your Execution

A pole was thrown in your arms as these things started to attack, you tried defending yourself, but it was hard. You thought you’d have a way out, but the stage you were on became slippery and wet, and you struggled. Childe felt a fury burn inside bright than before, and ran to your aid, disarming one of the things and using that to defend you and himself. It seemed to be going well, but they were coming faster than either of you could handle. Tartaglia swore he would get you out of there, but that all fell down as you missed a hit and were killed with one blow. Everyone thought it was over, but they kept attacking, eventually overpowering him too. At the very least, you were able to die together.

Aether, The Ultimate Traveller

Your body was found

Aether didn’t believe his eyes, not when he saw the person he promised to be with forever, dead, stabbed so many times and blood marking most of your skin. It was horrifying, some of it wasn’t even a knife, it looked like an axe or something. At the trial, he snapped. He’d already been seperated from his sister, and now this? You were the one person he told everything to. And now you were dead? Aether was beyond pissed. He normally was sweet and pretty chill, but that was gone. All the frustration he had, was taken out on the killer. If it wasn’t for the fact he knew you’d be upset wherever you were, Aether probably would’ve killed them. He also had to find Lumine, and couldn’t do that while dead.

You are the blackened

He had one question. “Why?” He wasn’t mad, or upset, he just wanted to know. And when you quietly confessed it was so he could see his sister again? He cried. He held you close. He didn’t let you go. Not as the votes were cast, not as it was confirmed you were the blackened. He couldn’t be mad at you, after you’d given up your life so he could leave you guilt free? Maybe..there was a way he could save you. He didn’t have time to debate, as you were ripped straight from him. He made a promise if he could, he would try to save you.

Your Execution.

A fight. That was what you had to. Survive the swarms and swarms of enemies. Aether rushed in quickly, not giving anybody time to protest. You both fought, back to back. But it grew tiring, very tiring. Eventually, you were stabbed, and it pierced deep. You dropped down, sobbing out for him, and he froze up. This caused him to be also hit down. The blade was ripped from your back, and he reached his hand out, just to comfort you. He knew this was it, your and his death would be for nothing. Just as he was about to grab your hand, one of the bots stepped on it, shattering the bone. At the same time he grasped his own hand, you were brutally stabbed multiple times in front of him. He sobbed, before being killed off with blunt force to the head. He knew Lumine wouldn’t find out. They’d been seperated again, and she was in another world entirely.

Xiao, The Ultimate Adeptus

Your body is found

You and him weren’t close, per se. But still found comfort in the other’s presence. You and him had this sort of thing where you would watch out for each other. He, however, kept more of a constant gaze on you. Xiao never took his duty to protect you lightly. He slipped up once. You called his name just a second too late. He found the killer fast, luckily. They were luckily he didn’t kill them right there. He was...angry. At himself. Not at you. He made the mistake, he wasn’t watching you.

You’re the blackened.

Forgiven. Immediately. You apologised and all he did was...hold you? He apologised in return, and confessed the feelings harbouring in his heart. You blinked at him, shocked. But you reciprocated the feelings, and told him so. He felt regret he hadn’t said it sooner. Maybe then...but he didn’t have to reconsider his foolish decision as you were dragged down the hall.

Your Execution..?

Run. Thats all you could do. You ran and ran while the monokuma bots chased you. It also felt like you were running out of air. You wanted to survive...and knew what you had to. You called out Xiao’s name, just soft enough. And he had to. He appeared by you and fought to your defence. The two of you ran, and ran more. Amd fought too. It seemed like the exit was in sight. And it was, but it was closing fast and..only one of you would make it. Xiao knew what he had to do, and sped up, shoving you through the exit...and he followed. You were...free. It was surprising and you gasped for oxygen, clinging to him. It surprised both of you, neither of you thinking you’d make it.

Zhongli, The Ultimate Storyteller

Your body is found

Close. You were close from the day you came here. Many nights were spent in each other’s arms, him telling tales upon tales. You’d listen with interest. But that’s the fond memories he looked back upon. Now, he was alone. Without your constant questions, and curiosity. Without your hopeful reminder that you’ll both make it out. All that was left was this trial room, and your to be found killer.

You’re the blackened

Forgiveness, again. He pulled you into the safety of his arms as your confession to the others spilled out. You admitted it was selfish, and you just wanted him and yourself to be free. They weren’t happy, but understood. That’s all most of them wanted, anyway. Zhongli could feel your pulse begin to race, and slowly whispered one of your favourite stories. It calmed you slowly, and you were ready to accept what faced you.

Your Execution

The drag and then being locked to a pole? Painful, much? He wanted to avert his gaze. But you would expirience that, and it would be just rude of him to ignore you. He felt sick watching the Execution happen. Books flew at you from angles and at rapid paces. You sobbed out for help, but nobody could do anything. It was a cruel reality, but...maybe there was a chance? He thought, as your battered body dropped down from the pole...and you moved. It sounded like...like warmth. Safety...You heard him call for you...You tried moving to the sound, and just as you felt you could reach it, your skull was bashed in the final time. He only stared. He was...he couldn’t take it. The pain was overwhelming..He wished he could just take you into his arms and say everything is fine but...it wasn’t. And it never will be.

Xingqiu, The Ultimate Writer

Your body is found

A prank. That’s all it was meant to be, just a harmless little joke. Nothing to hurt you, let alone kill you. Just a simple water bucket prank. But he had no idea you already were heavily injured. And just as he noticed, it was too late. He dealt the blow. He was the blackened. He killed the love of his life, the one person who consistently tolerated his pranks and teases. Xingqiu accepted his fate, with no struggle.

You are the blackened

Denial. Another one in denial. He considered this just like one his books he read lately. You would tell him that everything was a prank, you weren’t the killer. But when everyone called the vote, and it was confirmed. He yelled at you. He was upset, at...everyone, himself included. Everyone..except you. He wanted to tell you, that he was sorry. That he did forgive you. But he couldn’t, as the chain locked around your neck.

Your Execution

Chained down to a chair, and a paper was slammed down in front of you, with a pen. You were confused, but got the hint. You wrote and wrote, which had you distracted from the area slowly flooding. You slowly started to suffocate in the water, but it didn’t bother you. You felt like it wasn’t even happening. Xingqiu started yelling, begging you to try and survive. You couldn’t hear him, only the sound of your own thoughts. And eventually, your body gave out.

Scaramouche, The Ultimate Debater

Your body is found

From the beginning, you had made an agreement. You would watch out for each other in trials, backing the other up, always an alibi. You considered him a friend, and told him so. You did consider him more, but kept that under wraps. But he never reciprocated..at least you thought he didn’t. Scaramouche did feel the same, but thought he’d have time to tell you. He believed you would be there the next day, the day he would tell you. Tomorrow. He didn’t want there to be a chance you didn’t feel the same, but had considered it, because it would be better than you never knowing. He knocked on your dorm, expecting you to answer at the call of your name, but you didn’t...And he grew annoyed, assuming you were sleeping in. He sighed under his breath, before opening the door, and being met with the sight he never wanted to see. Your bloodied body, clutching a letter to your bleeding chest. You were long gone. He swiftly walked over, trying to ignore the tears rising to his eyes and grabbed the letter, hoping to find some clue as to who your killer was. But as he read through it, his eyes widened. It was a confession. To him. In your writing, that he completely recognised. And he felt regret. He hadn’t even told you that he cared about you. As far as you were aware, you were just a toy to him. Maybe at first, yes, but not as of late. During the trial, he was anything but calm, snapping if anybody dared to speak ill of you. When the blackened was found, they were screamed and swore at. Insults hurled second by second. They likely were terrified of him. And when they were executed, he laughed. If it was possible, people feared him more. And tried to avoid him at all possible costs.

You’re the blackened

Keeps defending you, even when it was a lie. When the votes were cast, and you were still found out, he started yelling. For a moment, others assumed he was an accomplice, but you and Monokuma denied that fact. He was still in denial, hardly able to accept the fate that was in front of his eyes. He asks you why? Why couldn’t you just tell him to do it? It’s rare to see him on the verge of tears, but his pride is in shambles. You gave a laugh, with a sorry before fate dragged you to your doom.

Your Execution

It was some kind of...trap. You were just stuck there. The contraption slowly brought you to your doom, or what you assumed to be. With some careful consideration, you managed to slip from it, avoiding the fate planned. Nobody knew this, and assumed you died when it was stopped. Scaramouche was not the one to find you, it was somebody else. They quickly brought you to him, and he hugged you, tightly. He was shaking, and yelling at the same time. He was just glad you were alive, that’s all that mattered to him. You both managed to escale from there, possibly with others.

Well, hope that wasn’t too OOC. Sorry for the gruesome imagines <3 Another angst fic is coming soon! Prepare :)

#genshin impact x reader #danganronpa #DR #Aether #Albedo #Chongyun #Diluc #scaramouche x reader #Xingqiu #zhongli #murder #blood #gore #TW #Trigger Warning #TW: Suicidal Mentions

[hurricanes-art]

i am interested in your hades au, would you mind giving some details about it? 👁 it looks really interesting

[This AU is from these drawings!]

*cracks knuckles* Ok! I actually got enough sleep last night so I'm finally feeling up to explaining this au lmao

Also I hope that by “some details” you meant “way way too many” because I am nothing if not long winded. Also @hades-hellsite asked for context too, here you go

The central premise is that, after he dies, Achilles manages to make an arrangement with Hades that allows both him and Patroclus to stay in Elysium together. He's not employed to work at the house and he never becomes Zagreus's combat trainer.

Hades makes a few attempts to find Zagreus a different teacher among the shades of great warriors, but being skilled does not make someone able to teach. And being able to teach one way doesn't mean someone will be good for every student. When Zagreus doesn't learn well with the few mentors Hades tries, which he barely gives a chance to breathe anyway, he's quick to decide that he must have no martial ability and declares Zagreus a failure in that as he has about so many things.

This has two major effects on Zagreus before his escape attempts begin. One, without any chance to actually grow into aptitude in combat, he's left without anything substantial to put his energy into and, more importantly, he's left without anything he feels good at and that gives value to his efforts. Two is that, in Achilles' absence, very few people in the house give him any care and support untwisted by the politics of the house and the judgment of his father. There is Orpheus, kind to him before Hades locks him away for refusing to sing, Hypnos, willing to put the house to sleep so he can find the truth though jumbled up in his own problems, and Nyx.

Nyx is the only one to aid Zagreus when he decides to try to escape. She contacts Olympus and weaves careful lies to win their support and blesses his departure. She's also the only one who believes that Zagreus has the slightest chance of escaping. Already in canon, most everyone tells him there no way he'll make it out, but here, it's so much worse. He doesn't know how to fight, his initial attempts are pitiful and his progress negligible, and near everyone lashes out at him to get back in line and stop making things worse.

He doesn't even have the Infernal Arms. Achilles is the one who brings them to him in canon; here Zagreus takes a simple bronze sword from one of the house's many displays of weapons from wars long past. He thanks the Fates that the Styx restores it the same way it does his body when he dies because he nicks and dulls the edges every time.

Despite all the disadvantages, Zagreus throws himself into escaping with unshakable determination, bone deep stubbornness. He picks up his sword and will figure out how to use it himself. Experience will be his teacher. He dies over and over and he watches his enemies and learns how they move and how he must react, mimicking their attacks for his own use and adjusting and adjusting after each failure. And contrary to Hades' adamant belief, Zagreus is very intelligent and learns brilliantly when allowed to and he grows stronger and stronger.

There's no teacher more savage than experience in something like this, though. The pursuit is agonizing and the cost is enormous and adjusting to this ceaseless violence feels impossible.

Much of my interest in this idea is how the added strain on his circumstances and relationships affects Zagreus and his mental state. At his best, Zag looks a lot like he does in canon, with his laurels unfurled and vibrant, and his feet glowing hot, but he rarely feels his best here. His laurel leaves curl in dry and crisp, muted like the leaves of autumn. Flakes of ash and soot build up over his legs and encase more and more as he suffers. So deep is his feeling of failure and being trapped that it affects him physically.

Not always, though. His flames respond to his emotions, burn brighter in his passion. Enthusiasm, love, fervor, bliss, anger set him glowing.

After a brutally drawn out span of time, Zagreus meets Achilles and Patroclus in Elysium and tbh, the rest of my interest is really in how the altered circumstances change the evolution of their relationships with each other. The pair of warriors were never separated for an extended time and Achilles is less downtrodden and resigned and Patroclus is less bitter and abrasive when Zagreus stumbles upon them.

They don't fight him, which Zagreus counts among his greatest blessings, although Achilles still seems to have an interest. It makes him twitchy and he jumps when Achilles finally lifts his spear and swings it around in his third time in their little glade only to bump the flat of the blade against elbow and tell him to keep it in more towards his body. Zagreus blinks rapidly at him before adjusting his arm.

Achilles helps him here and there, tips and tricks and valuable advice, but he never gives anything near the thorough instruction he did in canon. On one hand, he doesn't need to. Zagreus is a self made fighter and it leaves him with weaknesses but it is also a powerful thing. He is unpredictable and incredibly adaptable and he only continues to improve.

On the other hand, there's no room for it. Achilles is gentle with his guidance, but Zagreus is rubbed raw by all the fighting he's done and all that still depends on it. He doesn't want to always focus on the weapon in his hands. Patroclus notices and curbs Achilles' input when it exceeds its bounds. He sits aside and observers carefully when they spar. Zagreus doesn't need another's direction which is fine by him, who's lost all desire for combat. He gives his aid through his assortment of trinkets that carry Zagreus further to the surface.

Zagreus barely knows what to do with himself in the face of their care. He's so unaccustomed to such generous and genuine support, interest devoid of expectation or blame. As familiarity between the three of them grows, their interactions grow warmer, more tender and comfortable. Their care lays on a foundation, not a hinge, and Zagreus grapples with understanding that he really can lean on it. It all leaves him so uncertain yet so desperate because he wants more than anything to have joy and conversation and company with others where he doesn't shoulder heavy guilt from unspoken accusations over his escaping the house and to have a place he feels he belongs without being an intrusion.

He does at first believe he's intruding, though. Intruding on their time together in the peace of Elysium. It takes them time to convince him that they value his presence immeasurably. The opportunity to stay together in the Underworld has been invaluable for Achilles and Patroclus, but the peace of Elysium is a deceptive thing. It wears away and prickles at them, pressing down in odd warping ways. Patroclus is beyond pleased to have the war behind him and that it can never force him to fight again, and despite Achilles retaining an interest in competition and combat, he does feel the same way. Having a cause though, something to believe in and worth devoting their efforts towards... They didn't realize how deeply they missed it until Zagreus. It is revitalizing. They thrive in his genuine, boundless kindness and long to support him.

The drawings of Orpheus arguing with Hades and Zagreus fighting with Nyx is from one of my plot point ideas. Later down the line, together, Hades, Persephone, and Nyx agree to forbid Zagreus from seeing Achilles and Patroclus at Nyx's behest. Similarly to how she talks about Dusa in canon, she sees mortal shades as beneath his station and that it's highly unbecoming for the prince to be consorting with them. Zagreus fights against the idea ferociously and is only smothered by the threat that, if he seeks them out anyway, Hades will void Achilles' agreement and have Patroclus moved to the proper plane of the Underworld.

It crushes Zagreus. He loves them and cares about them so much and being torn apart from them is a wound that cuts so deep. But even more than that, what breaks him open most, is the fact that it came from someone he cared for and trusted most. Nyx was the one person in the House he could depend on most and this betrayal at her hand is devastating. And for such a worthless reason as propriety and godly vanity. It's not her place to force those upon him. It hurts Zagreus to the core.

Orpheus is the only one willing to stick up for him in this, deeply empathetic to the grief of being separated from loved ones and well acquainted with the fact that such punishments will only damage, never correct. After all, his stint of punishment in Erebus didn't revive his desire to sing, it was Zagreus's dedication and vibrancy that did that. One of the many invaluable gifts Zagreus gave him, including reuniting him with Eurydice, making him happier than he'd been since her death. Orpheus can't keep biting his tongue when all these gods refuse to see any of this.

It all comes to a head dramatically and painfully and I've thought of a few variations on how it would play out. I'll leave it for now though, I might draw it or write it later >:3c  Also this got really long lol. Hopefully the idea is at least somewhat interesting!

And here, have the lines from these two drawings because I like the way they look

#hades game #hades supergiant #zagreus #achilles #patroclus #nyx #orpheus #god of ash au #which is a tag i might not use again lol #my art #my writing #i guess #this is so long please forgive me #i had one thought of achilles not working at the house and it drove me to madness #apparently

[dongofthewolf]

Omg I’m sorry for not realizing u had a list 😅 but I wasn’t wondering if u could do 41 with Abby and could u make it like rlly angsty but with some fluff or smut at the end

Everything Good in Life Seems to Lead Back to You

Abby Anderson X Reader

Prompt: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you

Warnings: blood and injury, canon typical violence, swearing, fluff, angst (I tried anon I tried), Owen slander once again (sorry not sorry)

Gender neutral pronoun for the reader (if you’d like your request to use specific pronouns please add to the ask)

Link to the prompt list here

A/N: it’s safe to say that I wrote this with the speed of a thousand blazing horses if that even makes any sense. I hope that you all enjoy this lovely word vomit (esp if you requested) it was a blast to write !!

btw the Virginia Woolf reference is from her letters to Vita Sackville and the Jane Austen one is from Pride and Prejudice. What can I say? I guess I’m just a hoe for old love, baby.

Abby spent a lot of time reading; so much so that she had created this false expectation of what love was supposed to feel like. Abby believed that love was supposed to be strong, and passionate, and bright—an everlasting devotion. Of course she shrugged it off at first, they were just books after all—pieces of fiction to fantasize and dream about. Love wasn’t something you could define in a book nor could it ever live up to the likes of Shakespeare or Virginia Woolf.

Abby had never been in love; she sometimes believes she came close to some iteration of it when she was with Owen, but looking back now she realized that what she felt wasn’t love. It was a desperate attempt to be wanted—to be needed, a manifestation of her desire for approval. And after her falling out with him, Abby had come to accept that she simply wasn’t made for love, and that if by some miracle she ever did fall, it definitely wouldn’t be like the books.

That was Abby’s initial perspective on love, but oh how times have changed. The moment you waltzed into her life, every sad, pathetic notion she had about love was thrown out the window in a matter of seconds. Never in her most outrageous dreams did Abby expect to fall this hard, especially since the two of you were practically best friends.

In fact, it had been very platonic at first; Abby was your superior and you often worked together on missions. She didn’t know what compelled her to talk to you but when she did, the two of you hit it off immediately. You started training together, then working out together, and eventually you were spending almost every minute together. The two of you could literally correctly predict every thought that went through each other's head, all except of course (in Abby’s case) for one. It even got to the point where you both somehow knew when the other couldn’t sleep, so much so that Abby had grown accustomed to opening her door to see you holding a glass of milk and a plate of cookies like a little kid on Christmas. She had spent so many sleepless nights alone only to realize that the one thing she was missing, was you and your adorable midnight snacks.

Abby never entertained the thought of professing her slightly less than platonic feelings for you, because she had become content with the idea that you’d simply never feel the same. However, while she had come to accept her unfortunate situation to be a permanent one, it still hurt her when she saw you flirt with other people. And she’d be lying if she said your absentminded touches didn’t still send her soaring. Sometimes she hated how naturally affectionate you were, it made it so hard for her to not love you.

The box that Abby had continually shoved herself into so she wouldn’t fuck up your friendship was almost starting to feel like home, and as uncomfortable as it was, she knew it was for the best. Almost nothing could compel Abby to leave this torturous, self-inflicted prison she was trapped in. Almost nothing.

—

The mission was supposed to be a simple one: get in, get the weapons, get out. A mission so simple, the both of you could’ve done it in your sleep. In fact, on a few occasions after a long night of drinking, you had practically done just that. You met up with the group of traders who you were well acquainted with, and the deal went down smoothly. Everything was going according to plan, which is why you and Abby were completely caught off guard when a group of rogue hunters suddenly began firing shots like it was a fucking carnival.

Turns out there was a new rival group in town, and someone had tipped them off. You and Abby luckily were able to find cover from their relentless fire, but not before you got a bullet straight through your left thigh. You didn’t even realize it at first, the adrenaline coursing through your veins still working to protect you from the devastating pain that was to come. When you did notice it, you had already lost copious amounts of blood. Then the dizziness began to set in, and soon after the pain. Abby hadn’t even realized you were injured till you slumped over on the ground next to her.

Looking down in horror, Abby lifted you into her arms. “Y/N? What’s wrong? Why are y-” Then Abby noticed the blood, and suddenly she was panicking. “Oh shit. Oh fuck, Y/N we have to get you out of here.”

“T-the package, we need the package. Can’t leave without it.” Your response was weak, desperate. You had to finish the mission, the WLF was in dire need of these supplies and you were not going to be the one to tell Isaac you failed.

“Fuck the package, we need to get you back to base.” Abby removed her belt, turnoqueting your leg with such surprising ease that you nearly didn’t notice the agonizing pain in your leg. Nearly.

You groaned when Abby hoisted you into her arms bridal style, careful not to move your leg too much before she booked it to the truck. When she plopped you down into the passenger's seat and began to speed away from the scene, you suddenly felt your eyes becoming heavier. You were so tired. You had lost so much blood already and your body felt like it was shutting down.

Abby was frantically racing towards the base, eyes fixed to the road until she heard you let out a small whine. “Abby, I‘m so tired. Need to sleep.”

Abby noticed you drifting off and she reached her arm out to shake your shoulder violently. “No. No sleeping, you gotta stay awake Y/N.”

Though Abby didn’t mention it, she was terrified. When she looked over at you, you were pale and cold to the touch, drifting off while your leg continued to bleed profusely despite her tourniquet. This could be it; you could die right now, and Abby would have lost the one person in this world she cared about most. She couldn’t let that happen, she wouldn’t.

You were equally as terrified as Abby; every natural instinct in your body was begging for you to sleep and you were becoming tired of trying to ignore it. The last thing you remembered was the look on the face of the girl you had fallen for, her eyes brimming with tears while she wore a desperate, horrified expression.

—

You laid unconscious for what felt like an eternity and Abby never left your side. She had abandoned her duties (with Isaac’s permission) and spent every second next to you, her head resting on the edge of your bed while she waited for you to wake up. The only thing that prompted Abby to step away was Manny, who had heard what happened and went to check on her.

Manny knew full and well that Abby was in love with you; in fact, almost all of Abby’s friends knew. Abby had confided in him during many torturous nights and he was a surprisingly good listener. He understood her circumstances and never pushed her to confess her feelings for you, even if it did annoy him how oblivious Abby was to the fact that you obviously felt the same way. “Abby, I heard what happened. Is everything okay?”

Abby was exhausted, she hadn’t slept at all since you made it back to the base and she couldn’t get the memory of your cold, pale body out of her head. “I almost lost them, Manny. Y/N could’ve died out there without ever knowing how I feel about them.” Tears threatened to fall but Abby did her best to keep her composure.

“It’s going to be okay, Abby. Y/N’s here and they’re alive, and that’s all that matters.” Manny’s hand was on Abby’s shoulder, trying his best to comfort her. “You should tell them how you feel though.”

“Huh?” Abby hadn’t expected that. Manny knew her situation well enough to know that telling you how she felt was a bad idea… It was a bad idea, right?

“It’s like you said, Y/N could’ve died without ever knowing how you feel about them. Wouldn’t it be better to have no regrets at all?” The words stopped Abby in her tracks. She never thought she’d actually agree with Manny.

“It’s just- I love Y/N so much, and I don’t want to lose them this way.” Abby was on the brink of tears, her voice turning into a desperate plea.

“I’m not going anywhere Abs.”

Abby froze, turning around slowly. You were gripping to the doorway for support, limping on one leg and looking extremely weathered.

“Y/N!” Abby immediately ran to put your arm around her shoulder while she carried you back to your bed, setting you down carefully. “You shouldn't be on your leg, you could make it worse.”

There was genuine concern on Abby’s face and in that moment you weren’t sure you could love her any more than you already did. She was so incredibly sweet and caring and no one had ever shown this much concern for your safety and well-being. You had heard her through the door and you couldn’t stop yourself from interrupting her. There was so much about Abby you absolutely adored and she had no idea. How could she not have known you were hopelessly in love with her? Was she truly that oblivious to your obvious flirting? All the subtle touches, the pathetic excuses to sleep in her bed, the fact you literally went out of your way to find rare coins so you could bring them back to her, it all just flew over her head. You couldn’t believe it.

Abby was still rambling about your leg, clearly trying to pretend like she didn’t just profess her love for you while you were standing right behind her. Instead of speaking, you wrapped your hands around her neck before leaning in, silencing her with a kiss so perfect you could’ve passed out right there. You could tell she was stunned at first, but soon enough she was kissing you back. Her fingers were running through your hair and when you pulled away she leaned her forehead against yours, not wanting to part from you.

“Did you mean it?” You pulled away to look Abby in the eyes, your hands still wrapped around her shoulders.

Abby had a dumbstruck look on her face. “Mean what?”

“When you said you loved me, did you mean it?” Your eyes searched her face for an answer while your heart was beating a million miles a minute.

Abby smiled, her eyebrows furrowed as she spoke. “Y/N, I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I’m so hopelessly in love with you that it’s almost pathetic. You have no idea how essential to me you have become—how many nights I’ve stayed awake because you weren’t there to hog all the blankets. Y/N, you have no idea how ardently I love you.”

You smirked “Abigail Anderson did you just quote Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen?” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, Abby could be such a nerd sometimes.

“I just confessed my ever-lasting love for you and that’s the first thing you say?” Abby was smiling widely now, relief flowing through her now that she no longer had to conceal her feelings for you.

“I love you too Abs, so fucking much. Also I do not hog the blankets, your comforter is simply too small.” Abby chuckled before she leaned in for another kiss, the worry suddenly disappearing the moment her lips touched yours.

Although Abby had never really known what she expected love to be, this is what she imagines it’d feel like, and you bet your ass it was better than the books. To tell the truth, it was better than any other conceivable thing on this entire planet. Nothing could beat the way Abby felt now that she had finally broken free from her excruciating self-inflicted prison.

Abby pulled away from the kiss, gazing at you lovingly. “Are you hungry?”

God damn Abby, it was like she knew exactly what you were thinking. You didn’t know how long you had been unconscious for, but you were ravenous. “Starving.”

And almost as if you were telepathically communicating, the both of you spoke at the exact same time.

“Cookies?”

“Cookies.”

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson imagine #the last of us imagine #abby anderson #abby tlou #tlou2 #the last of us 2 #fluff #angst #requests #perhaps cookies will be our always #yes I did use an AURORA song for my title #that song literally cured me okay #if you made it down this far just wanted to let u know that I’m big gay #okay bye