#but in fighting it replace it with a truth that doesn’t have all the pieces

[itspileofgoodthings]

sometimes when we’re not seeing things clearly it’s not because what we are seeing is totally wrong and needs to be wholly flipped on its head. that’s sometimes the case but actually not that frequently. it’s so much more common that we’re just missing some important pieces of the picture and can’t contextualize the information that we have even though it feels like we can because the information IS true.

[urdreamydoodles]

Bat-Family x Fem!OC

You confess your feelings to them

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne (aged up), Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Duke Thomas, Selina Kyle & Kate Kane

Jason Todd aka. Red Hood

- Jason Todd is not a man of gentle expressions, but there’s something in his eyes when he looks at you that betrays the storm raging within him. He’s rough around the edges, a product of tragedy and survival, but there’s a softness he reserves for you—a quiet longing he cannot suppress. You’ve caught him staring countless times, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close again as he retreats behind his walls. He’s not afraid of danger, but vulnerability terrifies him, and you’ve become his greatest fear.

- When you finally confess your feelings to Jason, he freezes. His confidence, his biting humor, and his unshakable demeanor all crumble for a moment, leaving him stripped bare before you. He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most fragile piece of glass, his calloused hands unsure of how to hold it without shattering it. "You don’t know what you’re asking for," he says, his voice low and trembling, but there’s no mistaking the flicker of hope in his gaze.

- Jason doesn’t let people in easily. He’s been burned too many times, betrayed by those he once trusted, and haunted by the shadow of his own death. But you? You’ve always been different. He doesn’t know how you managed to slip past his defenses, but now that you’re here, he’s terrified of losing you. His love is fierce, protective, and consuming, like a wildfire that doesn’t know how to burn quietly. He promises to protect you, even from himself.

- He doesn’t say “I love you” right away. Jason isn’t the type to rush into declarations, but his actions speak volumes. He becomes more attentive, more present, and more open in ways he never thought he could be. He’ll cook for you, fix things for you, and show up when you least expect it but need him the most. Every small gesture is his way of saying what he’s too scared to put into words.

- When he finally does say it, it’s in the dead of night, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.” The vulnerability in his tone makes your chest ache. Jason Todd loves like he fights—with everything he has, unrelenting and unapologetic. And as you take his hand in yours, you realize that the walls he once hid behind have crumbled, leaving only the raw, unguarded truth of his love for you.

Dick Grayson aka. Nightwing

- Dick Grayson is the kind of man whose charm lights up any room he walks into, but with you, it’s different. His usual ease and effortless charisma falter slightly, replaced by a nervous energy that he can’t quite mask. He teases you playfully, his laughter warm and inviting, but beneath it all, there’s a flicker of uncertainty. You’ve always known him as a beacon of joy and optimism, but when he looks at you, there’s a depth to his gaze that makes your heart skip.

- When you confess your feelings, Dick is stunned into silence. His bright blue eyes widen, and for a moment, you can see every emotion he’s feeling—surprise, hope, and a vulnerability he rarely shows. Then, a slow, radiant smile spreads across his face, one that makes you feel like the most important person in the world. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he says, his voice soft and full of wonder.

- Dick’s love is like sunlight—warm, steady, and impossible to ignore. He’s the type to sweep you off your feet, literally and figuratively, finding ways to make every moment with you feel like an adventure. He doesn’t shy away from showing affection, whether it’s holding your hand in public, leaving notes for you to find, or pulling you into a spontaneous dance in the middle of a quiet street. With Dick, love is vibrant and all-encompassing.

- He listens to you in a way that makes you feel truly seen, his attention unwavering as you speak. Dick is thoughtful, always finding ways to support and uplift you. He remembers the little things—your favorite coffee order, the stories you’ve told him, the songs you hum when you think no one is listening. His love is attentive and intentional, a constant reminder that you’re the center of his world.

- The first time he tells you he loves you, it’s during a quiet moment. The world fades away as he cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as he gazes at you with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “I love you,” he says, his voice steady and certain. And as he presses his forehead against yours, you know that with Dick Grayson, you’ve found a love that is as boundless as the sky.

Tim Drake aka. Red Robin

- Tim Drake is an enigma, a mind that never rests, always analyzing, always planning. But when it comes to you, his careful composure falters. You’ve seen him lose himself in thought, his eyes distant as he works through some puzzle in his head, but the moment you enter the room, his focus shifts entirely to you. He’s quiet, observant, and hesitant, but there’s a softness in the way he looks at you that speaks volumes.

- When you confess your feelings, Tim’s reaction is as complex as the man himself. His first instinct is to overthink, to dissect every word you’ve said, trying to understand how someone as extraordinary as you could feel the same way about him. But then, his logical mind gives way to emotion, and he smiles—a rare, genuine smile that makes your heart ache. “I… I didn’t think this could happen,” he admits, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and quiet joy.

- Tim’s love is quiet and steadfast, like the gentle hum of a machine that never stops working. He shows his affection in subtle ways—a cup of tea waiting for you when you’re tired, a blanket draped over your shoulders when you’ve fallen asleep, a quiet reassurance that he’s always there. He’s not the most expressive, but his actions are deliberate, each one a testament to how much you mean to him.

- He’s not used to putting himself first, and loving you is both a challenge and a revelation. Tim finds himself wanting to be better, not because he thinks he isn’t enough, but because you inspire him to grow. He shares pieces of himself with you that he’s never shared with anyone else—his fears, his dreams, his insecurities. With you, he feels safe, and that safety becomes his sanctuary.

- The first time he tells you he loves you, it’s quiet and unplanned. He’s working late in the Batcave, and you bring him coffee, setting it down beside him. He looks up, his eyes soft and filled with gratitude, and the words slip out before he can stop them. “I love you.” It’s simple, unadorned, and completely genuine, and in that moment, you know that Tim Drake’s love is as profound as it is enduring.

Damian Wayne aka. Robin

- Damian Wayne is not an easy person to love, but you’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. He’s sharp-tongued, prideful, and often difficult, but beneath the layers of arrogance and bravado lies a heart that beats fiercely for those he cares about. You see the way he softens around you, the way his scowl becomes less pronounced, his tone less biting. He’s still Damian, but with you, he allows himself to be vulnerable, even if only a little.

- When you confess your feelings, Damian’s first reaction is disbelief. He straightens his posture, his piercing green eyes narrowing as if trying to detect a lie. But when he sees the sincerity in your gaze, his expression shifts. “You’re serious?” he asks, his voice low and uncertain. The Damian Wayne who always has a retort for everything is, for once, at a loss for words.

- Damian’s love is fierce and protective, like a knight sworn to defend their queen. He’s not one for grand romantic gestures, but his actions speak louder than words. He ensures your safety with an intensity that borders on obsession, his sharp mind always a step ahead of potential threats. To him, loving you means shielding you from the darkness of the world, even if it means sacrificing pieces of himself.

- Despite his tough exterior, Damian’s affection manifests in small, meaningful ways. He’ll remember the books you love, the meals you enjoy, and the stories you’ve shared. He’ll leave a rare flower on your doorstep, a subtle nod to something you mentioned in passing. Damian may not say “I love you” often, but his actions are a constant reminder of how deeply he feels for you.

- When he does tell you, it’s after a battle, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You’re mine,” he says, his voice firm and resolute. “And I… I love you.” It’s not a declaration made lightly, but one that carries the weight of his entire being. And as he takes your hand in his, you know that Damian Wayne’s love is as unyielding as the man himself.

Barbara Gordon aka. Oracle / Batgirl

- Barbara Gordon is a woman of strength and resilience, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in darkness. She’s brilliant, determined, and fiercely independent, but with you, she lets her guard down. There’s a warmth in her smile when she sees you, a light in her eyes that speaks of a deep, unspoken connection. She’s not one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but you can feel her affection in every word, every glance, every touch.

- When you confess your feelings, Barbara is caught off guard. Her usual composure wavers, and for a moment, she looks at you as if you’ve just rewritten the world. “You mean that?” she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief and cautious hope. When you nod, her smile grows, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Well, it’s about time,” she says, her tone teasing but her eyes brimming with emotion.

- Barbara’s love is steadfast and empowering. She believes in you, perhaps even more than you believe in yourself, and she’s always there to lift you up when you falter. Her affection is woven into the fabric of your everyday life—the way she makes time for you despite her busy schedule, the way she listens to you with undivided attention, the way she challenges you to be your best self.

- She’s not afraid to be vulnerable with you, sharing her fears and insecurities in a way she rarely does with anyone else. With you, she feels safe, and that safety allows her to embrace every facet of herself—the good, the bad, and everything in between. Barbara’s love is a partnership, a meeting of equals, and she treasures the bond you share.

- The first time she tells you she loves you, it’s during a quiet moment at her apartment. She’s working on her computer, the glow of the screen casting soft shadows across her face. You’re sitting beside her, and she suddenly turns to you, her expression open and unguarded. “I love you,” she says simply, her voice steady and sincere. And as she takes your hand in hers, you realize that Barbara Gordon’s love is a gift you’ll cherish for the rest of your life.

Stephanie Brown aka. Spoiler

- Stephanie Brown’s love is like a burst of color in a black-and-white world—vibrant, chaotic, and utterly unforgettable. She’s the kind of person who laughs loudly, teases endlessly, and throws herself headfirst into life. But when it comes to you, her usual bravado softens. You notice it in the way she lingers a little too long during conversations, the way her jokes take on a tender edge, the way she looks at you as though you’re the only thing keeping her grounded.

- When you confess your feelings, Stephanie is utterly floored. Her first instinct is to crack a joke, deflecting the overwhelming surge of emotion she feels. But then she sees the sincerity in your eyes, and her laughter fades into a quiet, stunned silence. “Wait—are you serious?” she asks, her voice uncharacteristically small. When you confirm it, her grin spreads wide and bright. “Well, it’s about time, gorgeous,” she says, pulling you into a spontaneous, breathless hug.

- Stephanie’s love is a whirlwind, full of spontaneity and adventure. She’ll drag you into ridiculous escapades, like sneaking onto rooftops just to stargaze or planning midnight trips to the nearest diner. But for all her chaotic energy, there’s a depth to her love that surprises even her. She’s fiercely loyal, ready to fight the world if it means protecting you, and she makes sure you never feel like you’re facing life’s challenges alone.

- She’s not shy about showing her affection, either. Stephanie thrives on physical closeness—hand-holding, hugs, and playfully stealing kisses when you least expect it. She’s the type to leave sticky notes on your fridge with doodles and silly messages or text you memes that remind her of you. Her love is unfiltered and unapologetic, as bright and boundless as the woman herself.

- When she finally says “I love you,” it’s during a quiet moment after a chaotic day. You’re sitting together, catching your breath, when she suddenly blurts it out. “I love you, you know that, right?” Her tone is so casual it takes you a moment to register her words. But when you look at her, she’s grinning, her cheeks tinged with the faintest blush. And in that moment, you know that Stephanie Brown’s love is the kind that will never let you go.

Cassandra Cain aka. Orphan

- Cassandra Cain is a woman of few words, but her actions speak louder than anything she could ever say. She watches you with an intensity that can be both unnerving and comforting, her dark eyes seeming to read your every thought. Cassandra doesn’t love lightly; she’s been through too much, seen too much, to give her heart away without thought. But with you, it’s different. You’ve become her anchor, her safe place, even if she struggles to put those feelings into words.

- When you confess your feelings, Cassandra is silent for a long moment. She studies you, her expression unreadable, as if trying to gauge the truth of your words. Then, slowly, a smile blooms on her face—small, tentative, but undeniably genuine. She doesn’t say much in response, just a quiet, “Me too.” But the way she looks at you, her eyes shining with emotion, says more than words ever could.

- Cassandra’s love is quiet and unwavering. She shows her affection in the way she protects you, always staying one step ahead of any danger. She’ll guide you through crowded streets with a hand on your back, ensure you’re safe without being overbearing, and stand by your side no matter what. Her love is steady and unshakeable, like a lighthouse guiding you through the storm.

- She’s not big on grand romantic gestures, but the small things she does speak volumes. Cassandra will sit with you in silence, her presence comforting and grounding. She’ll learn your favorite songs, your favorite foods, and the little quirks that make you who you are. She may not say “I love you” often, but every action, every glance, every touch is a reminder of how deeply she feels for you.

- The first time she tells you she loves you, it’s simple and unadorned, but it takes your breath away. You’re sitting together, her hand resting lightly over yours, when she looks at you and says, “I love you.” Her voice is soft but certain, her gaze steady and unwavering. And in that moment, you realize that Cassandra Cain’s love is a quiet, enduring flame that will never be extinguished.

Duke Thomas aka. Signal

- Duke Thomas is a beacon of light in the darkness, his optimism and determination shining through even in the toughest of times. He’s the type of person who believes in people, who sees the good in the world even when it’s hard to find. But when it comes to you, his usual confidence wavers. You catch him stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking, his smile softening whenever you’re near. With you, Duke feels like he’s found something worth fighting for.

- When you confess your feelings, Duke’s first reaction is disbelief. “Wait—really?” he asks, his voice filled with a mix of surprise and joy. But when he sees the sincerity in your eyes, his grin spreads wide, lighting up his entire face. “You have no idea how happy this makes me,” he says, pulling you into a warm, heartfelt hug. In that moment, it’s as if the entire world fades away, leaving just the two of you.

- Duke’s love is steady and reassuring, like the warm glow of a streetlight on a dark night. He’s the type to check in on you regularly, making sure you’re okay and offering support whenever you need it. His affection is thoughtful and deliberate, whether it’s surprising you with your favorite snacks or sending you encouraging messages throughout the day. With Duke, love is a constant, unwavering presence.

- He’s also deeply protective of you, not in a controlling way, but in a way that makes you feel safe. Duke is always thinking ahead, always considering how he can make your life better and easier. His love is selfless and genuine, rooted in a deep respect for who you are as a person. He admires your strength, your beauty, and your resilience, and he never lets you forget how much you mean to him.

- The first time he says “I love you,” it’s during a quiet moment, just the two of you sitting together under the stars. He takes your hand in his, his thumb gently tracing circles on your skin. “I love you,” he says, his voice steady and full of emotion. And as you look into his eyes, you know that Duke Thomas’s love is a light that will guide you through anything.

Selina Kyle aka. Catwoman

- Selina Kyle is a mystery, a woman who walks the line between light and shadow with a grace that is all her own. She’s playful and alluring, her every word and movement carefully calculated to keep you guessing. But when she’s with you, there’s a vulnerability she doesn’t show to anyone else. You’ve seen the softness in her gaze, the way her teasing smirks give way to genuine smiles, the way she lets her guard down just enough to let you in.

- When you confess your feelings, Selina’s reaction is a mix of surprise and amusement. She arches an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” she says, her tone light and teasing. But then her expression softens, and she steps closer, her fingers brushing against yours. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” she admits, her voice quieter now, almost shy.

- Selina’s love is like a dance—graceful, unpredictable, and utterly captivating. She keeps you on your toes, always surprising you with her wit and charm. She’ll whisk you away on spontaneous adventures, whether it’s a rooftop picnic under the stars or a midnight walk through the city. With Selina, love is an exhilarating game, one that you never want to end.

- Despite her playful demeanor, Selina’s love runs deep. She’s fiercely protective of you, willing to fight tooth and nail to keep you safe. She’s not one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but her actions speak louder than words. She’ll remember the little things, like how you take your coffee or the stories you’ve told her, and she’ll find ways to show you how much she cares in her own unique way.

- The first time she tells you she loves you, it’s almost accidental. You’re lying together, the city lights casting shadows across her face, when she whispers it, almost as if she didn’t mean to say it out loud. “I love you,” she says, her voice soft and full of emotion. And as she looks at you, her usual confidence giving way to something raw and real, you realize that Selina Kyle’s love is as complex and beautiful as the woman herself.

Kate Kane aka. Batwoman

- Kate Kane is a fortress, her walls built high and strong to keep out the pain of her past. She’s tough, confident, and unyielding, but with you, she allows herself to be vulnerable. You’ve seen the cracks in her armor, the moments when she lets her guard down and shows you the woman behind the Bat. There’s a quiet intensity in the way she looks at you, a depth of emotion she struggles to put into words.

- When you confess your feelings, Kate’s reaction is guarded. She takes a step back, her sharp blue eyes studying you carefully. “You’re serious?” she asks, her voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. But when you nod, her expression softens, and a small, almost hesitant smile breaks through. “I wasn’t expecting that,” she admits, her voice quiet. “But… I’m glad you said it.”

- Kate’s love is a steady, grounding force. She’s not one for grand romantic gestures, but her affection is unwavering and deeply genuine. She’ll show her love through quiet acts of care—making sure you’re safe, supporting you in your goals, and standing by your side no matter what. With Kate, love is a partnership built on trust and mutual respect.

- She’s fiercely protective of you, her training and instincts kicking in whenever she senses danger. But she also knows when to let you stand on your own, respecting your independence and strength. Kate’s love is balanced and empowering, a reminder that she sees you as her equal in every way. She admires your courage, your beauty, and your resilience, and she makes sure you know it.

- The first time she says “I love you,” it’s after a long night of patrols. You’re sitting together, the exhaustion visible on her face, when she turns to you and takes your hand. “I love you,” she says simply, her voice steady and sincere. And as she looks at you, her walls finally lowered, you know that Kate Kane’s love is a fortress you can always call home.

[scarlettoceaneyes]

could we get come paul angst?

where he loses his temper about something small like dropping something and reader comforts him and is all “it’s okay, it was just an accident” and mans is a messss because he grew up around short tempered people and doesn’t want to be like them.

Ouuu but such a sweetheart under it all! Who doesn’t love Paul!

Valuable

You heard it and cringed. The small break of a glass that was not important, but Paul made it that way. He was trying everything to make you happy after getting married, but he often got confused that happiness doesn’t come with perfection alone. You explained often that a glass can be replaced, much like other material things that doesnt master. He often worried he would make you leave if he did the wrong thing. 

Sure, he has temper and anger issues. You knew that going in. It was really the way he was raised where his dad would lose his temper over something small the same way. Egg shells were constantly being crushed under Paul's feet in his childhood home. You tried to make him see life isn’t like that, or it doesn’t have to be. You did understand how he felt, like he would push you too far by accident just like his dad. You promised yourself to try and never prove that you felt like that to Paul- this relationship didn’t center around fear but love. 

The string of strong language came next. You felt the personal disappointment he felt through the bond. It didn’t matter how many times it happened and you comforted him, he couldn’t fight off the demons in his mind for long. Part of the reason you still helped was to teach him he doesn’t have to wait for the honeymoon period to be over for reality to set in, but that if you love each other then it should be a realistic ideal to always have good times. You both fight at times and bicker, but you make it a point to talk with him instead of letting things fester. So you did.

“Paul baby it's okay! It was an accident. It's a cheap glass out of a set I got years ago. All materials things can be replaced ok? Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Paul let you wrap your arms around him while he cleaned the glass out of the sink. 

“I should be more careful. I know to be.” Your frown was felt through his back, only making his self esteem take another blow. 

“These things would break if it was the pack, me, you, our kids one day, or I lost grip and dropped it. We could even have teenagers years to come who can break every piece of wedding china and it wouldn’t matter because it would be an accident. Just like this was. You are not your father Paul and he should’ve never treated your family like that. You are already a better man than he could dream to be because you never are rough with me. I love you and I can feel how you feel. Your brain isn’t telling you the truth. You are my angel on earth who is selling himself too short.” Paul finally shows a flicker of hearing you as you call him your favorite saying. He knew you thought of him as your angel, even if he disagreed it still healed him a little bit at a time. 

About this time the tears came for Paul, followed by yours. You didn’t mind because he was healing. His outburst were getting easier to get through and they no longer kept him up at night. One night he shared his dream was to be able to be a healthy father one day. Your unshed tears pooled behind your smiling eyes. You felt his commitment through the bond. He owed it to you just as much as himself when he was able to heal. 

“You’re right it’s not important.” Paul seemed to snap out of it and pull you around to face him. Hugging you and kissing your tears away, he gave you the ending line that always concluded these moments. You were happy to see it come within five minutes this time. You were so proud of how much he is healing for you both and your future family. “Thank you babe, I love you so much. The best wife a man could have.”

[signanothername]

Since Nightmare goes through so many Dust's and Killer's and Horror is the only one who doesn't get replaced. Do they catch on that Horror knows more about them than he should? Does Horror ever let something slip he shouldn't have?

I'm sure they know that Nightmare does but I think he plays it off as of course, I'm a negativity god I know all about you and always have. A manipulation tactic.

I know Horror isn't quite as hyper intelligent as Killer but I think he knows lots more than he'd ever tell anyone.

I think that maybe he's the reason they fight so well together because he sees blind spots and quirks of the other two that they don't realize yet and makes up for it.

He might know their buttons and press them to get Nightmare's eyes off him sometimes. Where the other two have their own strengths, Horror's is survivability. He might as well be a cockroach. Measuring what will give him an extra inch of longevity always.

He came from a famine, a harsh enviroment where people are constantly starving and desperate. Starvation will make someone do anything and everything just for a crumb. He learned how to count in irrationality to his plans because nothing is off the table when a person is that desperate. He keeps living not because he wants too. He doesn't like living. It's out of spite. Anger. Selfishness.

It's like, I will live because I Hate you that much. He did it with Undyne and he's doing it with Nightmare.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Killer may have the big picture but Horror has thousands upon thousands of words he's gathered. Context only Nightmare knows and pieces of what the others have said. It's a slower process. But it is just as calculated and deliberate as everyone else's moves while playing Nightmare's Game.

Omg you get it so much

This is actually how I try to present Horror, if you notice in my works Horror is very much actively trying to stay in the background, he’s actively trying to stay out of Nightmare’s sight, and he succeeds in doing so

Nightmare isn’t that socially intelligent, what Horror does to survive is seen by Nightmare as Horror “knowing his place” which couldn’t be further from the truth

Hell, I had people mistakenly call Horror “loyal”, which just further proves that Horror isn’t just successful at fooling Nightmare, but even people reading any comic I make for him xhxhhxhxgd, like I had people genuinely believing Horror to be the “loyal” one out of the group, which nah, he was never loyal, and never will be, he’s planning to escape the same as Murder, except while Murder doesn’t stop to think twice about escaping, further increasing Nightmare’s focus on him, Horror just stays back and learns, he learns and learns and learns, planning his escape right under Nightmare’s nonexistent nose

This is literally why Horror is the one that actually survives from beginning to end, both Killer and Murder are intelligent in their own right, and Killer absolutely understands how to deal with Nightmare, but Killer’s downfall is that he’s both spiteful, and curious, Killer would still do things that keeps Nightmare’s eye trained on him, then again, Killer has the misfortune of Nightmare finding him intriguing regardless

Horror, as you said, came from famine, he already understands survival and what to do to obtain it, Horror is a downright bitch, he’s extremely spiteful and selfish, he won’t let anyone have their way, his way is what will prevail in the end

I always thought about that one thing Horror said in the Horrortale comics, “I’ve been spending years trying to get people to respect me down here”, what intrigues me about this specific line of dialogue is that Horror has patience, he spent years to get something he wants, he’s willing to put in the effort to get something he wants

As hungry and tired as he is, he doesn’t shy away from doing what must be done to get what he wants >:)

Which is one of the reasons I love Horror, he wants something? He will get his way

As for whether or not he let something slip, I actually like to think he’s very careful not to, but it’s not always the case, Horror can get irritated very easily, and he doesn’t shy away from making his red lines known when he’s pushed

He absolutely does some small things that come naturally to him without thinking about it, like warning his teammates to steer away from Nightmare cause he’s obviously in a bad mood, or tell them some rules that Nightmare doesn’t usually make clear from the beginning

Of course, ironically, it started with Killer teaching Horror these little things, only for the roles to reverse and Horror becomes the one teaching a new Killer these rules, Horror has definitely went through Nightmare asking him to “show his new teammates around”

At first glance from Killer’s or Murder’s perspective, it just seems that Horror simply spent longer there and so he knows better, and while this is true, Killer wasn’t one to be convinced by such easy answers to everything, Killer doesn’t fully know it yet, but he’s picked up on some of Horror’s subconscious habits

[dollopole]

In most BBC Merlin analyses, and sometimes, mine included, we often talk about how much Merlin forgets himself and who he is, in the later seasons, his personality and character and beliefs, and how he gets replaced by something heavier, by a person who’s literally the other side of Arthur, who can’t think on his own, if he doesn’t consider him first.

But what I personally think we get wrong is when this happens. Because Merlin confesses to Arthur, “I’m happy to be your servant, ‘till the day I die.”

And that happens so early, and what does Arthur do, if not fall irremediably in love? It’s not even a fall, it’s a continuous precipice, a tumultuous one, where he doesn’t know what to hold onto, if not on the one man who unfolded that truth to him, only after a few months of knowing him.

Merlin was ready and did lay down his life for Arthur, mere days later to their first meeting.

No matter their choices, whatever they are bad or good, they can’t do it otherwise, even if they want to, they can’t decide differently, because theirs is not love: it’s destruction, it tears them apart, yet they can’t stop picking up the pieces, one after one, until they’re all again.

Merlin is woven in the fabric of the world, and if Arthur is born of that magic, then he can’t help but feel drawn to him. It doesn’t matter if Merlin is his servant or not, because he would have found a way to serve Arthur no matter the circumstances. He uses his magic only for him because he doesn’t know otherwise. Arthur writes rules and laws based on what Merlin tells him to because he doesn’t know otherwise.

They listen to none but each other, they fight for none but each other, they love none as deeply but each other.

It’s more than devotion, it’s a risk, and Merlin and Arthur took it as soon as they laid eyes on one another.

“Do I know you?”

Perhaps, Arthur did, perhaps, he felt that pull of destiny, that part of him he never understood that had awoken on Merlin’s command.

They are one and the same, and that’s more than love.

[ancientwastedlores]

We'll Give It One More Fight (Homelander x Reader)

Thank you again for all the love! This is the third and final installment of the Homelander series!

[TAGS: @helreyy @discowizard88 @slasherho @carlyi @moopiter @casalucard @hom3landr]

1 - Homelander Breaks His Favorite Toys 2 - Don't Be Kind To It

INSPO: Robbers (The 1975)

Hope you like it!

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We'll Give It One More Fight

Not having learned your lesson, you venture out again.

You've accepted it by now - you need him just as much as he needs you. His dependence on you satisfied a part of you that wanted to feel desperately needed. What is your value in someone's life if you cannot be of use somehow? And was there any better high than serving Homelander's desire to be loved by a good person?

The city feels different at night, stripped of its glittering facade. The streets are barren, the air thick with the kind of quiet that amplifies every sound: the scrape of your shoes against the pavement, the distant wail of a siren, the hum of a streetlight flickering above. You walk without purpose, your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, your gaze fixed on nothing. The cold bites at your cheeks, but you don’t bother pulling your scarf tighter.

Your legs just keep carrying you deeper into the city’s dark underbelly as if you might stumble upon him lurking in the shadows.

The unease begins as a prickle at the back of your neck. You pause under the faint glow of a streetlamp, glancing over your shoulder. Nothing. Just empty sidewalks and yawning alleys.

You shake your head, muttering to yourself, “Get a grip.”

But the feeling lingers.

Unknown to you, though there is something there. Watching.

Perched on the ledge of a nearby building, he watches you with predatory stillness. The golden glow of the streetlamp illuminates the slump of your shoulders, the exhaustion in your every movement.

Pathetic, he thinks, the corner of his mouth curling into a sharp grin. The Homelander you know is no longer there...

You don’t even realize you’re being watched, don’t sense the eyes that follow your every step. You’ve let yourself go—dark circles under your eyes, a hollow look on your face. You’re unraveling, piece by piece, and he revels in it.

This is what he wanted: to see you suffer, to see how far you’ll go without him. He doesn’t intervene—not yet. He wants you to reach the brink, to see how much of yourself you’ll lose before you finally admit the truth.

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Back in your apartment, you shed the many layers of clothes and let them drop to the floor. Every day has been like this, lately. You don't care to pick things up, put them in the right places, or even cook yourself real food. These days, you live on microwave popcorn and cheese, watching some mind-numbing, pointless show to occupy your brain.

And the couch is beckoning to you. But you need to at least have a goddamn bath.

You sit in the tub, your knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around them. The water is lukewarm at best, the kind of temperature that doesn’t comfort but also doesn’t compel you to leave. You stare at the wall, your mind blank, your body heavy with exhaustion.

You haven’t been sleeping well. The dark circles under your eyes are a permanent fixture now, as are the faint tremors in your hands.

The bathroom feels smaller tonight, the walls pressing in.

When the water goes cold, you force yourself to climb out, wrapping yourself in a towel that smells faintly of mildew. You drift into your bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, your laptop balanced on your knees.

Your fingers type his name almost instinctively. You hit "Enter" and brace yourself for disappointment. The same headlines glare back at you:

"HOMELANDER STILL MISSING." "VOUGHT SILENT ON HERO'S WHEREABOUTS." "LEADERSHIP CRISIS: WHO WILL REPLACE HOMELANDER?"

You click on an old clip instead, one you’ve seen a hundred times. Him smiling at the camera after a staged rescue. All-American, blonde-haired, blue-eyed. It makes your heart ache to imagine he is already happy without you.

You slam the laptop shut. How could he not fight for you? Why are you here simpering when he should be the one destroyed over losing you? The only one who saw him? Who loved him?

You've asked yourself the same line of questions a hundred times, and it only entrenches you further into a deep, dark pit.

Anybody watching you... their heart would break for you. But it turns out the person actually watching you doesn't. Not right now, anyway.

Your walls and curtains are as good as glass to him. He floats right outside your apartment, gazing at you as you break down. Your misery is delicious aged red wine to him. He could lap it up, get drunk with it, swim in it, make it a bad habit.

He watches you get up and walk to the living room and floats alongside you, making sure to avoid the windows. You settle into your couch and put on another trashy reality show to fall asleep to.

Soon. Not long now. The moment needs to be perfect.

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The women in your office had been watching you spiral for weeks. You heard their whispers, and to their credit, they were genuinely concerned for you. But only because they still believed in the polished, pretty version of Homelander. You suspected if they knew the truth, they would be rejoicing in the separation.

But you are increasingly growing distant from them. Sometimes they bring you freshly baked cookies or banana bread. They can tell you're not eating any of it.

One afternoon, as you're typing away, barely present in your body, one of them approaches you.

"Hey Y/N," Gina's voice is soft. Comforting. "Hello." "So. A bunch of us are going dancing today. It's a classy club downtown, and we're getting dressed at mine and getting a cab from there."

You don't know why you should care about this. You stare at her, mustering up your politest face.

"You should join us," she says. It's very clearly not a request. "I'll come fetch you at 5, kay?"

She leaves no time for a debate. People pleaser that you are, you don't want to go out of your way to decline, either. But you think back to Homelander's visceral hatred for dance clubs. Sweaty, stupid humans jammed together, acting like disgusting fools with no control over themselves. It was a cosmic amalgamation of every single thing Homelander hated.

He would HATE that you're going to one.

Oh.

You can't help but smile yourself a devious little smile. It's everything you can do not to kick your feet in glee.

-------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t remember the name of the club. It doesn’t matter.

It’s the kind of place Gina and the others love—sleek, trendy, all mirrors and neon lights, the music loud enough to rattle your chest. You’re here because you said you’d come, but the truth is... well, you know what the truth is.

You're throwing a final hail Mary.

The others are laughing, carefree, and beautiful, but you hang back, nursing a drink you haven’t touched. The crowd presses in from every side, a swirling mass of bodies that makes your skin crawl. The flashing lights disorient you, the heat and noise wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.

You glance at your phone, the screen lighting up your face. Nothing. No texts. No updates. You almost laugh at yourself. Did you really think he’d—what? Come storming in here, cape snapping, to drag you out like some jealous lover?

Still, the thought lingers.

3 hours later - no chaos. No Homelander ripping the club to shreds.

It hits you: he's really gone.

Isn't this what you wanted? Or were you really just testing him? Don't you know you can't play games with gods?

You grab your coat from the exit and step out into the cool winter air. You look up at the sky for the millionth time since you broke up and see nothing but pitch black.

You slip your hands into your pocket, put your head down, and head for home. No lurking in alleys tonight tempting fate. You're done.

The silence is almost too much after the pounding bass, your ears ringing as you walk aimlessly down the street.

You don’t notice the man following you at first.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice is low, teasing, with an edge that makes your stomach clench.

You glance over your shoulder and see a man. Lanky, frail, but something in the way he stands... it's creepy. Like the twisted, gnarled branches of an old tree. Unnatural. Clearly a Supe, but you can't tell what his powers are yet.

'Not interested,' you choke out as you quicken your pace.

He laughs a low, predatory sound. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Just wanna talk.”

You walk faster, your heart pounding, but he keeps up effortlessly.

“Don’t you know who I am?” His tone is light, almost playful. “You’re lucky I’m paying attention to you at all.”

You duck into an alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of narrow streets, but he follows, his footsteps echoing off the brick walls. Okay... he cannot fly. He clearly can't run fast, either. You might still be able to get away.

You find an overflowing dumpster to hide behind when...

“Is this your idea of fun, sweetheart?”

The voice cuts through the night like a blade. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. A rush of wind blows past you, scattering trash and loose debris as a blur of red and blue slams into the alley.

The Supe is on the ground before you can even process what’s happening, Mirror!Homelander standing over him like a god of vengeance.

The Supe scrambles backward, panic etched across his face. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

Mirror!Homelander doesn’t give him a chance to finish. He moves faster than you can track, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

There’s a sickening crack as he slams the Supe into the wall, leaving him crumpled on the ground. The metallic smell of blood pricks your nose, and you cover it with the collar of your coat, horrified. It's been so long since you've witnessed Homelander's violence,e and it's all coming back to you. Your body is pumping adrenaline, screaming at you to get out, but your feet are firmly planted. Somewhere, you know you are desperate to look into his blue eyes again.

Mirror!Homelander turns to you then, his expression unreadable.

You should feel relief. But you don’t.

He steps closer, his boots crunching against the gravel. His smile is sharp, cruel, and the gleam in his eyes makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

“You’re really trying to get my attention, aren’t you?” he says, his tone mocking. You take a step back, your voice trembling. “I didn’t—” “Oh, don’t play coy.” He laughs, low and dangerous, as he closes the distance between you. “A dance club? Really? You think I wouldn’t know?” “You don’t get to control what I do anymore.”

His smile falters, just for a moment, before it twists into something darker. “You only went because you were so desperate to see me. I'd call that control."

The cold air feels thinner, harder to breathe. You don’t recognize this version of him—the sharp edges, the calculated malice.

“You’re not him,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “You’re not my Homelander.”

His jaw tightens, and his expression hardens into something terrifying. “Your Homelander?” His voice is low, deadly. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “That simpering bufoon who hung on your fucking praises? He's dead. He was weak."

"He wasn't weak..."

You try to back away, but he grabs your wrist, his grip like iron. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be saved? To be mine?” “No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Not like this.” "How, then? I get on my knees and fucking beg?"

If you're being honest... yes. Was that too much to ask after everything you'd given him?

As if he reads your mind, the next words out of his mouth cut you: "You fed him. You were kind to him. You invited him in. And then you tossed him out. Why the fuck should he beg?"

Tears well up as you search his eyes for the tiniest hint of your John.

"Now. Are you going to go back to him? Or are you going to keep pretending he owes you something?"

And suddenly, all the sadness, pain, grief, confusion, and self-loathing... turns into seething anger. Your awakening to your own neediness has not been a delightful journey, and you've had no outlet for it.

“You don't fool me,” you stare into his eyes. “You don’t want this—you want me to forgive you. You need me. This isn't a fucking Vought movie, the only person you're convincing right now is yourself. So DROP the fucking act."

His grip loosens. Your words hit him like a blow he wasn’t prepared for, and for a moment, he looks stunned at the audacity. The sharp, cruel smirk falters, replaced by something rawer, something almost pitiful. His hand drops from your wrist, and he takes a step back as though your anger burned him.

The night air feels colder now, sharper against your skin. You take a shaky breath, but your chest still feels tight, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

“Forgive me?” His voice cracks, low and trembling, a far cry from the venom that laced it moments ago. He laughs bitterly, the sound broken. “Forgive me for what? For loving you? For being good to you?"

His shoulders slump, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that borders on childlike. It’s the look of someone clinging to a lifeline, someone terrified of being abandoned again.

“You say I need you,” he whispers, his voice trembling, “and maybe I do. But you need me just as much. Don’t you?”

The truth of those words claws at your chest, undeniable and suffocating. You hate him for saying it, and you hate yourself more for agreeing.

You don’t answer, and he steps closer, his movements slower now, more deliberate. His hands hover near your face, hesitant, before finally cupping your cheeks. His touch is surprisingly gentle, as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he presses too hard.

“You want me to drop the act?” he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost reverent. “Fine. No act. No games.” His eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded. “I love you. I hate myself for it because it makes me weak, but I do. You’re the only good thing I’ve ever had. The only person who looked at me like I was more than… this.”

You should push him away, scream at him, tell him he’s lying—but you don’t. Because you don’t actually want him to let go. Him cradling your face, being this close to you, feels safe. You move into him, wrap yourself in him, feel his arms encircle you. Trap you.

“I can’t do this without you,” he says, his voice cracking again. “And I don’t want to. You’re all I have.”

Your throat tightens, the tears finally spilling over. “You don’t know how to love me.”

He flinches as if you've slapped him.

“I can learn.”

The words hang between you, heavy and suffocating. You know they aren’t enough—far from it. They don’t erase the pain he’s caused, the fear, the doubt. But they’re enough to make you stay.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Then don’t. You can hate me. Just don’t leave me.”

And right there, the mask falls.

As a request, it's the most earnest and vulnerable Homelander could ask for. He craves love; he will bear your hate, but he cannot tolerate indifference.

Not from you.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, his arms are around you, pulling you close, and he kisses you. He gets rougher as you return his kiss, pulling you closer, tighter. It’s not sweet or tender, not the kind of kiss you’d find in a fairytale. It’s desperate, raw, and devastating, as though he’s trying to pour every unsaid word, every broken promise, every piece of himself into it.

You’re drowning in him, in the sharp press of his mouth and the way his hands tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him. It feels like falling, like spinning out of control, and you hate how much you need it—how much you need him.

Your thoughts swirl, confusing and chaotic, torn between anger and longing. You should hate him for this, for dragging you back into his orbit, for making you feel like you can’t breathe without him. But right now, you don’t care.

It just feels so good.

Right now, you’re leaning into him, clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling around you.

He groans softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you, making your chest tighten. His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, sliding down to your waist, gripping you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The intensity is overwhelming, suffocating, and it feels like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin, to leave a mark that will never fade.

When you finally pull back, gasping for air, his forehead presses against yours, his breathing ragged. His eyes bore into yours, bright and unrelenting, filled with something that looks like both hunger and fear.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, and you think for a moment that his other self is back. But the other one had dead eyes. This one... his pupils are dilated, and he looks drunk. “You’ve always been mine.”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Your lips are still tingling, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. You let your head fall against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms wrap around you, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And holding you, he floats up slowly.

How you've missed flying with him.

The ascent is slow because he knows you're out of practice. You hate him for being mindful of that. You love him for knowing you so well. You need him, and you wish you didn’t.

And you know, deep down, that you’ll never escape him.

Only because you don’t really want to.

The city stretches out below you, cold and indifferent, as the two of you cling to each other like lifelines. You let your eyes close and feel the gentle, crisp winter air as he slowly picks up speed.

And he smiles down at you, planting another kiss on your forehead as he murmurs, “We’ll give it one more fight. Just one more.”

You close your eyes, letting the lie wrap around you like a warm blanket.

One more fight. Yeah right.

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I hope you liked it! <3

[hellishjoel]

seven days, six nights

5.6k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

← masterlist

summary: You get jumped in the QZ after a deal gone south and hide yourself from Joel to keep him safe. After eventually finding you and learning the truth behind your injuries, he heals you and promises revenge. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), post-outbreak Joel, living in the Boston QZ, somewhat established relationship, mentions of falling ill, mentions of hunger/starvation, mentions of weapons, mentions of sleeplessness, descriptions of a fight/brief assault, descriptions of bodily injury, talking about medical shit (and I ain't no doctor, I used google, don't sue me) thoughts and descriptions of murder (… isn’t he just so dreamy?), angst, light fluff at the end, half-ass edited (apologies in advance)

A/N: So happy to practice some post-outbreak writing! Enjoy this angsty one shot (inspired by this lovely ask!) that I fuckin loved writing. Dedicating this to @macfrog, as I pictured this entire plot with pixel Joel. 

“Joel, I’m so sorry, I lost you the battery-” “Someone stole it from you.” He corrects, shaking his head as a sinking feeling washes over you. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel a droplet of water land on your nose. You glance up at the sky, seeing the clear summer day has turned into dark clouds overhead threatening to flood the city in rain. Joel doesn’t look up, he stays watching you. You can’t seem to meet his eye contact. “But the battery-” “Don’t care about the battery right now, care about you.” 

Joel doesn’t know where you’ve been. You haven’t returned to his apartment in the QZ for days. He keeps track. Every time the sun rises and shines blistering beams of light into the quiet apartment until the moon replaces it and casts light silver streaks between the torn-up pieces of newspaper taped to the windows. Another day gone.

You had a routine. Make the smaller drops or pickups on your own, return to Joel, and report back to him with anything you think he might find useful or interesting. Five days ago, he sent you off to negotiate a truck battery with that West End District piece of shit, Robert. He shouldn’t have let you go alone. Fucking smugglers, you couldn’t trust any of them. Hell, Joel was even surprised you trusted him at first. He regretted not insisting on being by your side, even if it was just as your personal attack dog to keep Robert  on his toes. 

Despite Boston being one of the more “well-managed” QZs to still exist, the black market that emerged from it was just as strong. That’s where Joel came in. He figured if he could smuggle himself into one of the most protected quarantine zones in the country, he could smuggle just about anything else. 

Drugs, weapons, ammunition, illegally forged paperwork, counterfeit ration cards, you name it, and Joel could work it in or out of the city.  Joel’s reputation was usually enough to keep you both out of imminent danger as he became popular with not only the inhabitants of the QZ, but also with fellow smugglers. You all needed each other to stay alive, in one way or another. 

Don’t be mistaken; the Boston QZ wasn’t perfect. It went through its fair share of scares. Food sources dwindled occasionally, leaving people angry, starving, and rebellious. Fireflies were a constant nag on depleting military resources. The fighting never truly stopped. This partially made Joel’s life easier. When times got tough, people searched for Joel to procure particular goods to help keep them afloat or, more importantly, alive. 

That’s the problem Joel ran into after spending a night in FEDRA lock up. He was the one in need of supplies. 

Joel was sick. Not infected sick, not cordyceps sick, some kind of infection he got from poor sanitation in the lock-up that attacked its way through an open wound Joel had gotten. He didn’t know if it was from work duty or from the recent street attacks, hence his stay in the FEDRA lockup. No matter where he got it from, an infection in the bloodstream wasn’t easily curable. 

The doctors, what very few the QZ had, were scarcely treating the sick due to a lack of supplies. And Joel was only getting worse. 

He was fighting a high fever, his breathing was fucked, as was his heart rate. Only a few days into his symptoms, he was crashing. He was damn near on the devil’s doorstep. He wasn’t made for heaven’s gates. 

Joel didn’t have friends in the QZ, but there were certain high-powered people who needed items smuggled, too. And the guards paid him well to keep his mouth shut about what he saw going in and out of those gates after curfew. That’s why when one of his more popular clients heard Joel was an inch from  death, they sent you. 

You burst through his apartment, the door nearly flying off its hinges as you fled to his bedside. He pushed you away with what little strength he had at first, the infection was making him lose his damn mind. His skin was scarlet red, and he was clammy with sweat. He didn’t know you, you didn’t know him. But you weren’t going to let him die. 

“Joel, I’m here to help you, hold still.” 

Then you started your search, tearing Joel’s clothes off one by one until you found the sizeable cut on his upper bicep near his shoulder, a huge scrape from a metal blade that had gotten infected. The man had tons of scars, all in varying sizes, shapes, and places on his body. You didn’t know his past, but his body told his story. He was a fighter. 

Your fear was how far into sepsis Joel was. Any further or even just a few hours later, you might have witnessed his organs begin shutting down. 

Despite his hazy state, Joel was struck by your amount of supplies. You weren’t a Boston QZ doctor, he would remember a face like yours. It took a smuggler to know a smuggler, and you dealt in medical supplies. 

Joel passed out not long after you got there. You caught him up in the morning, you never left his side. You monitored him, kept checking his vitals, pumped him with water, shoved antibiotics down his throat, cleaned his wound before it could fester anymore, and tried to regulate his body temperature. This could have been a lot worse. It should have been a lot worse. 

This was your first time experiencing Joel Miller’s tenacious stubbornness. He wouldn’t fucking die, not last night, and not today. 

A few weeks later, with Joel improving, he picked up on you around town. The way you blended in with just about everyone else. Not much slipped past Joel these days with his eyes like that of an eagle. But you slipped right through his fingers, didn’t even know you existed,  despite running the same territory. 

That’s when he decided he wanted someone like you on his team. Not just for your medical skills, but the type of supplies you ran was in high demand. You never did tell him where you got it, or how it was funded, all he had to know was that you were in. And you have been in ever since. 

Joel introduced you to heavier smuggling, like weapons and bundles of cash. Even people for the right price. He taught you how to make fake documents of verification and how to forge other paperwork. This was a lot bigger compared to your clean syringes and medicine. 

You learned a lot from each other. You taught Joel patience, and to thank you for saving his life, he taught you how to orgasm in less than five minutes. 

The relationship you shared, if you could even call it that, wasn’t strictly a romantic one. Both of you were too guarded for something like that. But also, life was too short and unpredictable right now not to crave pleasure to erase the pain from the past. 

It was hard to admit, considering how independent you’ve grown since being accepted into the Boston QZ, but you were thinking about Joel in ways far beyond a slightly romantic relationship. He had protected you and cared for you in the Joel sort of way that’s hard to read but you know exists. 

Joel worked extra hours to hand you off extra ration cards, shaking his head and not looking at you when he said it was no big deal, just take’em. Or when he didn’t want you to stay in spare housing, he offered to let you live with him in his nicer, non-shared apartment. It was a small slice of heaven in this fucked up world. You liked him, hell, maybe it was more than like. 

That’s why when you got jumped by Robert’s guys on the way back to Joel’s with the truck battery, they damn near killed you. They left you passed out in the alley. Robbed you of your ration cards, stole back the battery, smashed your head so hard into the brick wall you had passed out. All you wanted to do when you came to was crawl to Joel. So you did. You were outside his door, beaten and bruised, about to knock. Then you just stood there and spiraled. 

You listened from the other side of Joel’s door to the floorboards creaking as he paced the old wooden beams. You were late and left him worried. He was waiting for you to come home. 

The thought made your stomach twist. You looked like shit. You knew what Joel was capable of. One look at your bruised and bloodied face would send him flying down the street with a rifle in his hands and a pistol shoved in the back of his jeans.  You couldn’t bear the thought of him getting hurt in a war with Robert. 

Joel was smart, a hell of a lot smarter than Robert, but their smuggling operations varied greatly. Robert was an arms dealer, with henchmen all around the QZ. Joel only worked with a handful of people, he kept his circle small. If Joel went after Robert, you were more likely to find him dead in the street than anything else. And you couldn’t do that to Joel, not after all he’s done for you. 

If Joel saw you hurt, he would kill Robert. He’d kill anyone that laid a finger on you. No one touches what’s Joel’s. Not merchandise, not weapons, not the pills he smuggles in and out of the QZ, and certainly not you. 

So you tiptoe back down the stairs and run to the spare housing blocks just before the curfew alarm sounds. What Joel doesn’t know won’t get him killed. 

---

Joel stands in line during the heat of summer, ration cards stuffed in his back pocket as he waits with others in the queue for a tray and some food. The dining hall was packed, and by the looks of other people’s trays, the food was low again. All he can think about is how he worked extra shifts all last week to get more ration cards for both of you. Without these cards, you were going hungry. You were supposed to be by his side, where were you? 

By day six, Joel was restless. He didn’t realize how accustomed he had grown to having you in bed beside him. All he could picture during his sleepless nights was his body spooned in behind yours, the heavy weight of his arm curled around your waist, being able to sense even the tiniest of movements. You’d push off his arm in the middle of the night, telling him that you just needed to use the bathroom or get some water. 

It wasn’t always like that, though. Sometimes, you have nightmares. Ones that left you shooting up straight in the middle of the night, gasping for breath, crawling backward in bed like something or someone was chasing you. Joel didn’t know everything about your past and vice versa, but he knew wherever you came from before Boston was a different form of hell. He would hold you in his arms, console you, wipe your hot tears, lay your head on the warmth of his chest, and tell you to level out your breathing by listening to the beat of his heart. He held you in his arms until you eventually fell back asleep. Most of the time, you’d wake up and wouldn’t remember a thing. 

What if nothing was wrong with you, and you just realized you didn’t want to be with someone as broken and battered as Joel? He didn’t make being in his company easy. He gave you a lot of shit, pushed you to the limits, told you on more than a handful of occasions he just wanted to be left alone. You’d ask about his daughter, the one he sparsely spoke about, and he’d bark at you until you regretted even thinking about her. He didn’t make things easy on you, but Joel did care about you. Even if he was shit at showing it. 

He pushed you away, maybe you took the hint and left him. 

On day seven, he started asking around about you, something he saved as a last resort. The less you two were seen together, the better. You had him worried sick, and he was damn near ready to raid Robert’s warehouse to see if he had taken you, made you his girl against your will.  

That was until he caught a glimpse of you going past the market. It didn’t take much, he recognized your figure and trailed you with his eyes.  You were walking towards spare housing, with a heavy backpack and a sweatshirt on. Your arms were wrapped securely around you, and your head was down. 

He navigated through the crowds, jaw tight, putting down heavy steps on the broken gravel road as he pushed people out of his way with a guided hand on their shoulder. He followed you out of the crowd and down the street lined with stone barricades and rubble from a recent building that was raided by patrol on the hunt for Fireflies. You turned sharply down an alleyway, and Joel followed you, needing to see if you were okay, looking for answers. 

As soon as Joel took the alley, he was attacked and harshly shoved backward, his shoulder blades smacking the red brick wall behind him. A small switchblade was then shoved against the protruding vein in his neck, heated puffs of breath leaving him. He initially panicked in the moment, his hand tightening around the wrist that held him there.

“Why the hell are you following me?” You bark at him, head still lowered. Joel’s eyes narrow at the sound of your voice. 

He speaks your name.

Your strength relaxes, and you lift your head up to see you had pinned Joel. Shit, you thought one of Robert’s men was following you from town. You let out an exhausted breath of relief. 

“You’re really holdin’ me up with the knife I gave you?” Joel asks. He smacks the back of your hand, reflexes making your fist open up and lose the grip on your switchblade. Joel snags it with his free hand and glares at you. He takes the opportunity to shove your forearm off his chest, the one that was pinning him against the wall, and sending you a few paces back from the force he exerts. He hesitates but folds the blade back into the handle, and offers it back to you.

You let out a sigh of relief to see that it was just Joel. But this was still a problem. 

You retrieve the switchblade you accidentally surrendered to him and stuff it into your sweatshirt pocket. You cross your arms and look away to the entrance of the alley. “What the hell are you doing following me, Joel?”

He lets out a scoff through his nose and shoots daggers out of his eyes that you won’t meet. “What the hell am I doin’? Where the hell have you been?” He tries not to bark so loud. You won’t stop staring at the entrance of the alley, and Joel’s not sure if you’re thinking about running or thinking about being ambushed. 

He grabs your arm and drags you further into the alley, sunset on the horizon. He brings you to the back of an old school that was ready to collapse. He pushes you back against the wall and stands close, too close. 

“Answer me, what the hell happened to you?” His voice shoots goosebumps across your skin, low and growling for answers. 

The grip he has on your arm tightens and washes a flood of heat over your injured arm. Your mouth hisses with hurt, trying to breathe through the pain. You shake him off of you and clutch your arm lightly. “‘M fine, Joel, I can manage.” 

You’re speaking with a break in your voice that Joel can’t quite place. The hood you’re wearing is working overtime to shield your face. 

He pauses before he slowly looks over you. “Why are you wearin’ a sweatshirt in the middle of summer?” 

The silence he’s met with only leaves him more curious. What are you hiding? He swiftly pushes the hood off your head before you can stop him, and he’s not prepared for what he sees. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his large hands delicately coming up and caressing your cheeks.

You sigh and roll your eyes. The skin around your right eye is blueish-purple. You lightly twinged at the contact, no matter how delicate he was being. “It’s not as bad as it seems, it doesn’t hurt-”

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Joel mutters, lightly taking your chin between his thumb and index finger as he angles your face from left to right, allowing him to get a full look at the damage done to you. You glance down at his broken watch for comfort, the band fraying and the glass shattered, but he still wore it. 

You can’t exactly explain why your lower lip starts to wobble. It was so hard to stay away from Joel, to distance yourself, but it was all for keeping him safe. Your small fists lightly clutch the button-up shirt he’s wearing around his abdomen, finally feeling a slight sense of security. 

“Joel, I’m so sorry, I lost you the battery.”

“Someone stole it from you.” He corrects, shaking his head as a sinking feeling washes over you. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel a droplet of water land on your nose. You glance up at the sky, seeing the clear summer day has turned into dark clouds overhead threatening to flood the city in rain. Joel doesn’t look up, he stays watching you. 

You can’t seem to meet his eye contact. “But the battery-”

“Don’t care about the battery right now, care about you.” His thumb gently examines the cut on your lip. You curl it inwards to stray from his touch. “Robert do this to you? His guys?” Joel’s asking accusingly, and you know better than to lie to him. You swallow the growing lump in your throat and gently nod, blinking back tears. 

His face grows taut with anger, his brows furrowing and the creases in his forehead are set in stone. His jaw is clamped shut while he grits his teeth. Joel’s probably thinking of a million scenarios of how to put Robert down. Which way would last the longest, string out the torture, make him apologize to you, and beg for his life. Make him apologize to Joel for ever touching a hand on what was his. 

“Joel, you need to take a breath. Focus.” The last thing you wanted was for Joel to go on a rampage tonight in search of Robert. “I’m fine, this shit happens. We’ll get back on track and-”

“Can’t believe they let you live.” He murmurs, taking a look at the damage that he can visibly see before lightly sighing and releasing your face. You’re quick to pull the hood back up and cross your arms in front of you as some sort of shield. 

His eyes are sunken in, his chest is lightly heaving as he tries to sort through his muddled thoughts. The rain is starting to scatter more, hitting your muddy sneakers and Joel’s dark denim shirt. The setting sun meant curfew was just around the corner. 

��Come on. We’re goin’ home. Need to take a look at you in the light." You hesitate but his eyes are pleading for you to just let him take care of you.  So you let him. 

---

You travel up the same staircase you did just a week ago, limping and injured, broken and feeling guilty. Joel needed that battery for the truck. He was going to leave Boston and go to find his brother, Tommy. Neither of you had discussed if you would come with. For Joel, you think you might do just about anything for him if he asked. 

He stabs his key into the lock of his door. You hear a crying baby in a neighboring apartment, it was probably startled awake by the blaring of the curfew alarm. Lightning and thunder crack outside as Joel pushes open the door. You follow him inside and set down your backpack by the door like you usually do. Another strike of lightning makes his apartment flood itself with white-silver streaks of light, if only for a moment. Joel flips the lock back into place and hits the switch to the one overhead light in between the kitchen and the living room. You’re sweating up a storm in your sweatshirt. 

Though living in Boston’s QZ wasn’t great, you had to admit that not every quarantine zone had clean water and electricity. Joel had an old standing oscillating fan that was stationed at the foot of his bed during the summers since he ran so warm all the time. He said he traded about four or five meals worth of ration cards to get it, said that it was considered a steal. You shed the heavy material of your sweatshirt and sit tiredly down at the end of his bed, closing your eyes as the fan wicks away your sweat and cools your face. 

Living in spare housing the past week was hell. You barely slept. The homeless, sick, and injured all found their way to spare housing. You weren’t safe there. And you didn’t have any ration cards to your name. You had to trade one singular, perfectly clean syringe to afford four rolls of bread. It was all you could get at the time being. Everyone was fighting for work, knowing ration cards and food were low. Since you were still somewhat new to the QZ, you weren’t given privileges. You laid on a nasty, old cot for a week. Joel’s small apartment was heaven. The solitude was peaceful. 

Joel was standing at the sink, water running over a cloth as he stared down at the water circling the drain. He needed to take a breath, set his anger aside, and get you to talk. 

Joel wrings out the rag, loose droplets of water splattering in the sink before he sits down at his small wooden kitchen table. “C’mere.” He whispers, taking your attention away from the fan. You slowly stand up and make your way to the table under the central light in his living room, sighing softly as you slowly sink into the accompanying chair. Now in the light, he observes your injuries closer. 

Without your sweatshirt on, he can see bruises and scrapes along your arms, residual blood on your knuckles and under your nails. His little fighter. He notes that your tanktop is a bit shredded, and he fears the worst. 

You catch him staring and intervene. “Don’t worry. I didn’t let them get close enough to touch me like that.” You glance down at the sweaty tank top and lightly tug on the hole. “Just got this while I was running away, trying to hop a fence.” 

Joel frowns and slowly works his eyes over you. “‘S not like you to get caught. You’re pretty damn fast.”

You held down a bubble of laughter as your fingers played with the fraying material of your top. “Yeah, well, they already got one or two good hits on me, so I was a little hazy.” Your words don’t settle him. They infuriate him. 

He brings his attention to your face. Your eye must have been swollen at one point, but it wasn’t anymore. The puffiness had gone down, and the bruises were in their final stages of healing. You have another more prominent bruise on your cheekbone, black and blue, but it’s not broken. That’s good. The cut on your eyebrow and the matching one on your lip catches his attention. A man with a ring. 

“Red hair? Crooked nose, missing a front tooth?” 

You blink a few times rapidly, curious as to how the hell Joel knew the characteristics of one of your attackers. 

“How did you…” You start to say until your words trail off, shaking your head in confusion. 

Joel sneers lightly and brings the wet rag up to gently dab at the cut on your lip. “Not a lot of men are stupid enough to wear a ring that basically signs their name on whoever’s face they’re knocking in.” How he describes your fight makes you flinch and shift uncomfortably in your chair, evading his eye contact. “Sorry.” He mutters quietly. “His name is Chase, Jase, somethin’ stupid like that. One of Robert’s guys.” Joel’s words lightly flitter off as he shifts his attention to your lip once more. 

It was still swollen and angry. You probably tried to eat with it still agitated and delayed its healing. But you know this already. You ate because you didn’t have a choice. It was that, or starve. He hated knowing you were roaming the streets in a horrible hunger, especially when he had ration cards waiting for you at home. 

Your eyes twitch closed as Joel’s wet rag rinses the blood out of the cut on your lip, the old excess blood lightly trickling into your mouth. Your tastebuds catch the tang of metallic and salt. You did what you could with the medical supplies you had, but you didn’t want to waste on yourself what you could potentially sell. If you were avoiding Joel for a while, you needed to be able to make trades of your own. You did use some supplies to clean the cut on your head. You were lucky the wall you were thrown into didn’t leave you with a concussion. 

Joel is still wrestling with why the hell you didn’t come home, why he had to go out and find you. Why, why, why? Why did he let you go alone? Why did the deal go south? A terrible feeling soured his stomach.  Robert’s men were ruthless, they must have felt kind enough to let you live. Or it was a message to Joel from Robert. You’re next. 

Joel wasn’t scared of Robert, but for them to be scared of a young woman was a mystery for the masses. 

He tosses the rag down on the table and stands up. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em.” He grunts up, his lips snarling and his nostrils flaring in heated fury. 

He storms to the kitchen and impatiently fills up a glass of water. Joel was fantasizing about plunging his thumbs into Robert’s eye sockets and squeezing until his head turned into mush. Or maybe Joel could take him to the Eastern district, throw him in the Massachusetts Bay, and hold him underwater, only bringing him up from the brink of drowning before pushing him down again. And again. And again. 

Your sweet voice breaks Joel’s murderous thoughts. “Joel, I owe you the battery, and I promise I’ll find another one. Just give me a little time and-”

Joel slams the glass of water on the counter, the clatter of it echoing around the room. “Don’t care about the damn battery!” His back is to you, broad and strong shoulders heaving lightly as his head hangs low. His hands are gripping the edge of the counter. “Thought they fuckin’ kidnapped you! Or worse!”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, your lower lip wobbling once more as he slowly starts shaking his head. 

“I almost lost you, and it’s my fault.” 

Your eyes soften at his words. He’s felt this way before, and he’s been haunted by the mistake ever since. His daughter, you think. 

His low, southern drawl makes you focus on him once more. “Tell me why you hid. Why didn’t you come to me? We could have figured things out, for fuck’s sake!” He shouts as he turns to face you, his body falling back into the counter as he crosses his arms. 

Your chest swells with heavy emotion. You stand up so fast from your chair that its sent scraping backward. “I did come here! I did! I heard you inside and I..” you pause and shake your head, still finding your voice. 

“I was scared you’d be upset with me letting someone steal the battery, I was afraid you’d go after Robert and get yourself fucking-- killed, Joel! I don’t want you to die, okay? I need you!” 

“And I need you!” He shouts back, lips parted with heavy breaths, both of you trying to settle with the newly shared revelation. 

You both stare at each other from across the room, watching as Joel’s jaw slowly begins to click loose. He shoves himself up off the counter and closes the distance between you two. You hesitantly take a step back, and he pauses his footsteps. His eyes soften, and he looks as broken as you do. 

“Please,” he pleads, gently shaking his head. “Would never hurt you, baby.” He puts his hand out, a gesture of kindness and warmth that you’d missed all week, yet you still hesitate. You almost wait too long, he’s already reeling his hand back into his side. 

“Joel,” you whisper with soft relief. You eagerly take a few steps forward, ignoring his hand, and gently settle your head on his chest as you tightly squeeze your arms around his lower back. You close your eyes and melt into him, finding solace in Joel’s embrace. 

Joel’s arms stay hovering in the air for a moment, lips parted as he looks down at the top of your head. He shames himself for even hesitating. He puts one hand on the side of your head and holds you to his chest, while the other settles low on your back. He breaths peacefully for the first time in a week. 

You stay like that for who knows how long. He’s warm, and you feel protected. You sink into his arms, he takes on your weight. He walks you backward to the foot of his bed once more, letting you delicately fall back into the mattress. You watch with tired eyes as he unties the laces of your sneakers, one after the other. He shucks down your jeans, making you giggle. 

“Joel, you don’t wanna fuck me right now, I smell like spare housing.” 

The right side of his mouth twitches up as he shakes his head at you. “I know you do. ‘M takin’ you to shower.” 

You sit up on your elbows as you smile a bit bashfully at him. “Good. Because I’m too sore to fool around anyway.” You whisper with a teasing smile as you grab the bottom of your tank top, peeling it up and off of your sticky skin. Joel tries not to stare. You’re not sure if he’s clocking your naked figure or the bruising around your ribs and legs. 

You’d need some time to heal. Joel knows you do. While you shower, he makes you as big of a feast he can muster up with the canned goods he has in his cupboards. You try to eat the first real meal you’ve had in a week slowly, to savor the taste, but you end up shoveling your spoon into the bowl and scraping it clean.  

Joel’s eyes are on you the whole time, watching you, observing you. He won’t let you out of his sight for a while, but maybe that’s what’s good for you. You meet his gaze and he speaks a silent vow. We’ll find Robert, steal the battery back, then kill him and anyone else who laid a finger on you. He nods. You nod too. 

Joel’s not sure how late it is by the time you two fall into bed together. He doesn’t know how to tell you how much you mean to him, but he says it in the way he holds you. Back in his arms, he’s more alert of how sore you are from your fight. He gently cups your face, watching your eyes slowly flutter closed with long blinks. You must be so tired. And he doesn’t want to keep you awake. He’s afraid to look away, like if he lets you out of his sight, you’ll disappear again. 

He speaks your name and gently stirs you awake. “Hm?” You softly murmur, bringing your hand up and gently feeling over the planes of Joel’s chest, fingers lightly grazing his chest hair. 

He looks down at you for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Don’t run away like that again.” His words are stern before he pauses again,  lightly pushing some hair behind your ear and touching you like a delicate flower. You watch him attentively. He cups your jawline and angles you to look up at him.  “We’re takin’ that battery back, and we’re gettin’ the hell out of here. You hear me?” 

Your heart swells at his words. We. You slowly nod in agreement. You feel Joel’s gentle kisses on your forehead and the tip of your nose. You lean up to capture his lips, but he falters by an inch. A confused expression crosses your face. 

“You’re hurt.” He mutters, referring to the cut on your lip. Don’t wanna hurt ya, sweet girl.

You roll your eyes and take his face in your small hands. “Don’t care.” You whisper before you pull him in, and the two of you share a featherlight kiss. You let it last, both of you soaking it in after a week apart. A week too long. 

Joel’s the first to pull away, giving you a playful little glare. The bruising on your face reminds him of the boxing movies he grew up watching. “Easy, Rocky.” 

You look at him confused and cock your head. “Who?”

He rolls his eyes at you and sighs, gently running his hand down your side. “Go to sleep. I’ll teach you about Rocky one through five tomorrow. D’you at least get a few good hits on Robert or his guys?”

You hum quietly and let your eyes dip closed. “Mhm.”

“Like I taught ya?”

“Just like you taught me. Gave ‘em the ole left, right, goodnight." You bring up your fists to demonstrate. "Made Robert’s nose bleed, think I broke it.”  

Your head falls into Joel’s chest, feeling it rumble with laughter and a sense of pride. “That’s my girl.”

His body shields you from the outside world. You sleep like a rock for the rest of the night. You live another day, and so does Joel. But with Joel’s promise, you know Robert’s days are numbered. You’ll be sure of it. 

---

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[howlsofbloodhounds]

I was thinking, what if post-void color had a hard time with the siblings topic? That anytime he saw siblings being happy, it reminded him of his papyrus and led him to a breakdown, maybe wishing it could be them

I always think this would be a topic that comes between Killer and Color a lot, perhaps even with Dream and Nightmare as well—in interpretations where corrupted is still the original Nightmare, still Dream’s twin brother.

Because even if they’re on different sides, or even if they’re miles apart in Killer’s case, they all still remember each other. Killer’s Papyrus may not remember Killer, but he remembers Sans—and he’s looking for him.

Imagine that, your brother knows you exist and that you’re out there somewhere, and he’s looking for you and he’s determined to find you. To save you. Color could only daydream about such as a possibility for over two decades, possibly even less—when he remembered that Papyrus was never coming for him. When he accepted the truth.

Dream and Nightmare still remember eachother, neither has replaced the other, yet they’re still at eachother’s throats. Too busy fighting and hating and talking at each other then to each other, too busy hurting each other—refusing to have even one conversation that Color used to only dream about one day having with Undyne.

Of course it’s not a one for one. It’s simply not that easy for Nightmare and Dream to talk, it’s simply not that easy for Killer to be around his brother again despite how much he wants to have his brother back—because he isn’t the brother Papyrus remembers, because he can’t trust himself anymore—but I feel Color’s experiences could offer perspectives. Or more importantly, encouragement.

Especially if he, for whatever reasons, never managed to even try to rebuild his relationships with the people from his past life.

Either because they are no longer alive, or because they never manage to remember him—and he either has to settle from watching them live from afar, or try to integrate into their lives as just some guy. Some stranger from the streets.

I can definitely see Undyne regaining bits and pieces of her memories with time, and wanting Sans to integrate back into her and Papyrus’ lives.

This Undyne, even as she regains memories of who she was before—possibly even actually gaining Sans’ memories, due to how she and Color seem to be connected through their magical eyes—is ultimately a big sister at heart. Her little brother is clearly very important to her, family is important to her.

I have no doubt she’d want to bring in their lost, estranged sibling—even if Papyrus doesn’t remember him, even if Color is so different from the little Undyne remembers of Sans, and even if Color is like that old, grumpy stray dog with PTSD she takes in off the streets.

The question is if Color wants to, if he can handle the anger and betrayal and pain and abandonment he feels whenever one of them seemingly forget he’s even there at all, or whenever he watches Undyne and Papyrus interact.

How much they know about eachother. Whenever he says something he remembers about Papyrus, only for an awkward moment to happen because Color doesn’t know who this Papyrus is.

Or on the opposite side, Color gets something right about Papyrus and Papyrus is confused or uncomfortable because, why does this stranger know so much about me?

[pillarofsnow]

Hey, Little Songbird (Story idea)

“Suddenly, nothing is as it was. Where are you now, Sylus? Wasn’t it going to be the two of us? Weren’t we birds of a feather?”

A/N: This is not a fanfic (I’m Sorrryyy). This is me doing a layout of this story idea I had as I’m listening to the Hadestown soundtrack for the thousandth time. It’s also three in the morning so it might be a bunch of rambling that only makes sense in my head (sorry x2). Might delete this in the morning if I don’t like it. Poor grammar warning.

- Sylus x Non! MC reader

- Lovers to enemies to lovers again?

- Warnings: jealousy, arguing, break up, angst, hurt, violence, kidnapping, mentions of injuries/ torture comfort?, Make up?

Edited Version 3/18/2025

Rewrite:

-You were proud of the relationship that you and Sylus had built together. It wasn’t perfect, but you believed that it was strong enough to withstand any problems that came your way. So why were you starting to see cracks when Miss Hunter suddenly appeared in the N109 zone? And why was Sylus suddenly acting strange and desperate to help her? You didn’t know how to feel that night when he finally told you the truth of the relationship he has/had with her. Something inside you snapped. You were hurt and angry at him and justifiably so. Didn’t you have the right to know this before you given him every piece of your heart? How is this fair? What did this mean for you? Was his love and your relationship a lie?Are you some second choice? A placeholder until he found her again (if he ever did)? Why should you stay and help her?

- You were too distracted in your own head to feel the eyes that lingered in the shadows everywhere you go. You should have known to always be on guard when you were associated with the Onychinus’s leader as he had a lot of enemies after all. A majority of the people in the N109 zone may have feared him but there are those who felt hatred towards Sylus for foiling their plans and deals. You were vulnerable and now Sylus’s biggest rival knew it too. The rival’s interest peaked when he got word that you were replaced from Sylus’s side with an unknown woman around the N109 zone. You’ve been spotted more frequently alone, trying to lay low and avoiding going to big events that you knew Sylus was going to be attending with her. There’s trouble in paradise. You seemed to be going to your old roots of managing through the harsh zone as an independent. This gave him a perfect opportunity to capture you since you had no one to watch your back anymore. A reassurance you were starting to miss.

- You hated yourself the moment you woke up and realized you weren’t in any place of familiarity. The grogginess, pounding headache, and sore limbs told you that you were danger. Your wrist and arms ached from being cuffed and hung from a steel beam structure of the ceiling for who knows how long. The last few hours have been a complete blur after leaving a private event venue. All you know is that you are alive. You tense up when you see who enters the room you are kept in after what felt like hours. You fight to keep a straight face and hide any pain and discomfort you are having to not give this man any more leverage. However, that doesn’t stop your ears from perking up and listening to when he talked about his findings between you and Sylus. You think he’s just going to keep you and torture you to death or something but he gives you a choice instead. Suffer or make Sylus suffer. You are not in the right mindset. That wound is still fresh and all he does is start to feed the small spark of hatred and jealousy that was buried deep in your heart. You decided right then and there that you want Sylus to suffer the way you have. You can definitely put up one hell of a fight….especially if your evol can counter his….

[daryltwdixon]

Part VII

word count: 3k

no warnings apply

“Again.”

Negan’s hand slams down onto the long table in front of you, the wood shaking under the force of his fists. The sound reverberates through the room, sharp and jarring, as though the walls of your skull jostle with it.

You sigh, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes, fighting the urge to snap. “We’ve been over it a thousand times.”

“Don’t care,” he growls, his voice dripping with venom. “Again.”

His dark eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he leans forward on the table, his knuckles pressing into the wood. Again, you recount the events of Daryl’s escape: George relaying information to you in the corridor, you finding the cell empty with a note, you running into Daryl and trying to stop him from getting away, then seeing him bust out the doors. Yes, he was alone. No, there was no one working with him that you knew of. When you saw him in the hallway, you shot 2 bullets at him, only trying to injure and capture, not fatally wound. There was no one outside waiting for him. You had everyone on perimeter check for the hours that followed until Negan’s return. Over and over and over again, Negan had you retelling the events.

Around you, Dwight and Simon shift uncomfortably in their seats, both visibly exhausted from the relentless interrogation. Dwight’s lips are pressed into a thin line, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor, while Simon’s usual bravado has dulled into quiet resentment.

Then Negan straightens, his expression shifting abruptly into a chilling smile that sends a ripple of unease through the room. When he eyes them after your hundredth recount, he rocks back on his heels, bouncing lightly as though he’s just figured out the punchline to some cosmic joke.

“Oh, I see,” he says, his tone almost playful now, though the malice beneath it is unmistakable. “You all think this is cute, don’t you?”

“Negan—” you interject, your tone sharper than you intended.

“You two think this,” he snaps, his voice rising as his hand gestures wildly to the room, “is some kind of goddamn game? My prisoner—the only prisoner—slips outta here, right under my nose, and you’re all sittin’ here like you didn’t have a damn thing to do with it!”

The room falls deathly silent, the tension so thick it’s suffocating. Negan’s gaze sweeps over each of you, lingering on Dwight for just a beat too long before snapping back to you. His grin fades, replaced by a look of cold calculation.

“Tell me again, darlin’,” he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “What were you doin’ when it happened, Mrs. Smith?”

Your chest tightens at the deliberate emphasis on your name, the weight of his suspicion pressing down on you like a physical force. “I was in the west wing,” you say evenly, keeping your tone as controlled as possible. “On my way to check the inventory like you asked me to.”

“And the cell?” he presses, his dark eyes narrowing as he takes a step closer to the table. “You didn’t think to check on him?”

“I told you already,” you reply, the edge in your voice creeping in despite yourself. “It’s not my job to watch him.” You point across at Dwight, “It’s his. I only found out when George reported to me. I went straight to the cell, and he was already gone.”

Negan leans forward again, planting his hands on the table as he looms over you. “And this ‘note’ you found?” he asks, his tone mocking. “You expect me to believe some rando just happened to sneak in, leave a little love letter, and help him skip town without any of you seeing a damn thing?”

Your pulse quickens, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “I’m telling you the truth,” you say firmly, refusing to let your voice waver.

Negan stares at you for a beat, his jaw working as he leans back slightly, his hands still resting on the table. “Then why is it Sherry’s gone too?” he asks, his voice low and measured, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit.

Your spine straightens, the words hitting you harder than you expected. Sherry? The name rings in your ears, setting your mind racing, but you keep your face neutral. “Sherry’s missing?” you ask, your tone carefully measured.

Negan lets out a sharp laugh, his eyes narrowing as he paces along the length of the table. “Yeah, she is. Ain’t that just a hell of a coincidence?” He spins back to face you, his grin sharp but not quite reaching his eyes. “My prisoner’s gone, I’m off playin’ house with Rick and the sunshine brigade, and one of my wives decides to pull a disappearing act? You don’t think that’s a little funny, sweetheart?”

“I think it’s suspicious,” you reply calmly, keeping your voice steady. “But I don’t have answers for you, Negan. I wasn’t in the cellblock—I was handling things like you told me to when it all went down.”

He exhales heavily, dragging a hand over his jaw. “I know you have, hunny.” he mutters, his tone softening slightly as he scrubs a hand over his face. “That’s the only thing keepin’ me from blowin’ a damn gasket right now.” His gaze flicks toward Dwight, who stiffens under the weight of Negan’s attention.

“Dwighty-boy,” Negan says, his tone shifting into something lighter, almost teasing, though the edge in it remains. “You knew Sherry better than anyone. Any ideas where her fine ass might’ve scampered off to?”

Dwight hesitates, his eyes fixed on the table as his fingers curl into fists. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and deliberate. “She was friends with the doc,” he says, the words dragging out like they cost him something to say. “Maybe… maybe she went to him for somethin’.”

Negan tilts his head, his lips curling into a small, humorless smile. “The doc, huh?” He taps his fingers on the table, his gaze thoughtful as he looks back at you. “What do you think, darlin’? You think Sherry might’ve been in on this? Passin’ notes, makin’ deals?”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t flinch. “I think it’s worth asking him,” you say carefully. “If anyone’s seen her, it’s probably him.”

Negan grins, pointing a finger at you. “See? That’s why I keep you around—you’ve always got the right ideas.” He straightens, rolling his shoulders back as he turns toward Dwight. “Guess we’re payin’ the good doc a little visit, huh? Should be fun.”

Dwight gives a sharp nod, his face carefully blank, though you catch the tension in his jaw.

“You know what?” Negan says, clapping his hands together once. “I think I’ve got myself an even better idea.”

Everyone shifts in their chairs, glancing at Negan, and you straighten slightly, your muscles tensing as you wait for the hammer to drop.

“Dwight and I are gonna have a little heart to heart with Doctor Carson,” Negan continues, gesturing broadly, “and I’m just too damn busy runnin’ this circus, so I think it’s high time someone else handled some heavy liftin’.”

He points at you, then at Simon. “You two. Pack it up. Head to Alexandria. See if our boy Daryl decided to make himself cozy there. Hell, maybe he’s sharin’ war stories with dear old Rick as we speak.”

Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression carefully neutral. “You want us to search Alexandria?” you ask, your voice steady despite the churn of unease beneath it. He never let you leave the Sanctuary unless it was with him, and even then it was always an argument. 

“Ding-ding-ding,” Negan says, leaning in like he’s giving you a secret. “You were here in the middle of this mess, you’re cleanin’ it up. Gettin’ your wish to get outta here for the day, baby! And don’t come back without somethin’ worth my time. You hear me? First and foremost: Daryl. A lead on Sherry. Hell, I’ll even take Rick’s damn recipe for spaghetti. Just don’t waste my time.”

Simon shifts again, muttering under his breath, “Guess that’s settled, then.”

Negan’s grin sharpens. “Damn right, it is. And Simon?” He picks Lucille up from against the table, pointing her at him, tilting his head. “Don’t screw this up. You’re not exactly my first pick for subtlety, but you’ll have Y/N to keep you from bashing down any doors too soon. And you will listen to every god damn order she gives you, you hear me? She tells you to jump, you jump. She tells you to cut someone’s finger off you–”

You nod once, sharp and controlled. “Cut their finger off sir, got it.”

“Damn right.” Negan says, clapping his hands again before gesturing toward the door. “Now, scoot. The sooner you leave, the sooner I get some goddamn answers.”

As the door swings shut behind you and Simon, the weight of Negan’s order settles heavy on your shoulders. The path ahead feels like it’s lined with more questions than answers, and every step closer to Alexandria tightens the knot in your chest. You glance at Simon, his expression unreadable as the two of you move down the corridor. He doesn’t say anything at first, just adjusts the rifle slung over his shoulder and lets out a low grunt.

“Well,” he says finally, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This oughta be fun.”

You don’t respond, your thoughts already racing ahead. Alexandria looms large in your mind,  wondering if Daryl would be stupid enough to run home. And now, with Negan’s expectations hanging over you like a noose, there’s no telling how this will end—or what it’ll cost you to make it through.

Despite the chaos your crew brought to Alexandria, the search turned up to be, in fact, be a total waste of time. Over half of the people you brought stormed through the community, checking every house, every closet, every shadowed corner. They pulled open basement doors, flipped over mattresses, and even dug through the inventory for any sign of him. But there was nothing. No footprints. No stray clothes. No Daryl.

You kept your head high through it all, barking orders where necessary, pretending not to notice the burning glares from Rick and his people. But inside, every moment stretched unbearably thin, each slammed door or muffled curse tightening the knot in your stomach. Every second, you prayed they wouldn’t find him.

By the time the search wrapped up, Simon wore a scowl, muttering something about wasted time and bad intel as your crew began filing out of the gates. You played your part, keeping your expression neutral, your voice steady as you assured him they’d try again elsewhere.

Tonight, the flickering light of the lantern on the nightstand casts shadows across the room, their shapes shifting and stretching like they’re alive. Negan’s hand trails lazily up your side, the warmth of his palm brushing your ribs through the thin fabric of your shirt. His body is heavy against yours, his grin sharp and predatory as he dips his head closer, his breath ghosting over your jawline.

“You’ve been awful quiet tonight,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?”

You force a small smile, shaking your head. “Nothing,” you reply, your voice soft but even.

“Mm,” he hums, leaning down to press his mouth against yours. The kiss is rough, insistent, and you respond out of instinct, your fingers sliding into his hair. But there’s something behind it—something darker, heavier—that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with desire. The kiss deepens quickly, his tongue brushing against yours with an urgency that makes your pulse quicken.

Negan shifts, one hand sliding beneath your shirt, his touch hot against your skin as his other hand cups the side of your face, holding you in place. His kisses trail from your mouth to your jawline, then down the curve of your neck, each one more insistent than the last.

“Missed you while you were gone,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and rough. “Bet you missed me too, huh?”

You let out a soft sound, something between agreement and distraction, your mind spinning even as your body responds instinctively. His teeth graze your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine, and his hand tightens slightly on your hip, pulling you closer.

For a moment, the room feels smaller, the heat between you overwhelming, consuming. His tongue dives out to soothe where he bites, heated and ravenous, and you lose yourself in the push and pull of it, your heart hammering in your veins.

But then without thinking, words tumble out of your mouth, cutting through the haze. “Has anyone found Daryl yet?”

Negan freezes. The shift is instant, jarring, as though someone pulled a plug and drained the air from the room. His head lifts, his dark eyes locking onto yours, and the grin that had been tugging at his lips vanishes entirely.

“What was that?” he asks, his tone low, almost too soft.

You blink up at him, your breath catching as you realize your mistake. “I—”

“Daryl,” he repeats, his lips curling into a slow, humorless grin. “That’s what you’re thinkin’ about right now? While I’m right here? The fucking red neck prisoner?”

“Negan, it’s not—”

His hand moves to your throat, his grip firm but not yet tight as he leans closer, his grin turning sharper, more dangerous. “Nah uh, darlin’, you don’t get to backtrack now,” he says, his voice dropping into a growl. “You’re layin’ under me, moanin’ in my bed, and you’re thinkin’ about another man?”

Your pulse spikes, and you force yourself to stay calm, keeping your gaze steady. “I’m thinking about the fact that no one knows where he is,” you say carefully, your voice low and even. “That’s it.”

Negan tilts his head, studying you with a sharp intensity that makes your skin crawl. “You’re worried about him,” he says, his tone mocking. “Ain’t that sweet.”

You shake your head quickly, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. “I’m worried about what happens if we don’t find him,” you say firmly, leaning into the role you know you have to play. “You think Rick’s just gonna let this go? Now that they know he’s out…if they find him first… He’ll come after us, Negan. After you.”

For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of your breathing. Negan’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb brushing over your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how hard your heart is pounding.

Then he lets out a sharp laugh, his hand releasing your throat as he sits back, shaking his head. “You’re a piece of work, sweetheart,” he says, his grin returning, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Always thinkin’ five steps ahead. I should appreciate that, shouldn’t I?”

He leans down again, pressing a kiss to your neck, but there’s nothing soft about it. His teeth bite your skin, hard enough to make you wince, before he pulls back, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous murmur.

“But you better hope I don’t find out you’ve been thinkin’ about that fucker more than you’ve been thinkin’ about me,” he says, his grin widening. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

You force a small smile, shaking your head. “No,” you say quietly.

Negan chuckles, the sound low and rich, as his hand brushes back down your body, the rough pads of his fingers grazing your skin, leaving shivers in their wake. He lingers at your hip, his thumb pressing firmly against the curve, his grin sharp as his eyes roam over you with slow, deliberate intent.

“Now, where were we? Oh, that’s right…” his hands grip you harder, making you gasp, “Ya know, I still like the idea of you knocked up with one of my own, hunny. Think we should give it another go?” 

You feel your heart beat harder in your chest, your body tensing for a moment before you relax into the game you know he’s playing—and the game you have to play back. A quiet laugh escapes you, light but edged with something you don’t quite mean. “You don’t let up, do you?”

“Not when it’s somethin’ I want,” he replies, his lips grazing your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin. His tongue and lips plant long, wet kisses up your throat, down to your collarbone, not waiting for an answer as his hands move with practiced confidence, peeling away your layers.

One by one, they fall away, the fabric sliding off your skin until you’re laid bare beneath him. His grin widens, a flicker of pride and hunger flashing in his dark eyes. He pauses for a moment, taking you in like he’s savoring the sight, the weight of his gaze leaving you warm despite the chill of the room.

Despite the day—despite everything—you find yourself welcoming his touch, your body arching instinctively into him as his hands trail over your curves, calloused and sure. Knowing Daryl no longer is trapped within these walls, that he’s safe and away from all of this, it allows you to breathe easier. Negan leans down again, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat, his breath warm as he murmurs against your skin.

“You feel that, hunny?” he whispers, his tone low, rough. “That’s all mine.”

You shiver, the possessiveness in his voice sending a thrill through you even as it sets your pulse racing. His lips return to yours, demanding and insistent, and you lose yourself in the heat of him, the press of his body, the weight of his touch.

The lantern’s light continues to flicker, the shadows on the walls shifting and swaying like they’re alive, and the world beyond this room disappears. It’s just you and him, tangled in this dark and dangerous game, both knowing it’s one you can’t afford to lose.

[phoeniciandoodles]

Au idea 2: A Perpetual Gorgon

(secondary au idea since my body decided to 4 hours of sleep is more than enough than my usual 6)

The only minor difference is instead of Vulkan being a perpetual Ferrus is instead, with the arm the iron hands take to build their dad robot at some point dad’s severed arm grew Ferrus back, with Ferrus almost losing his shit finding out one of the first things his sons did was try to build a new him using a piece of his dead corpse.

Ferrus eventually tries to reform the iron hands during this time providing his tactical brilliance but kinda like Corvus needed to make more sons, but doesn’t suffer from what Corvus got slapped with by the alpha legion.

While daemon Fulgrim after his ascension and trying to just yoink perturabo’s soul, having Fabius Bile make copies of Ferrus but not at all good enough to replace the original Gorgon and eventually hears news of Ferrus being alive.

Fulgrim absolutely gets back into the Heresy with a fever trying to hunt down and find Ferrus, in all honesty he’s conflicted about what to do…maybe Ferrus could forgive and perhaps Slaanesh’s favoured champion could try to do forcefully try to get him to play along, perhaps show Ferrus how wrong he was and how clearly right he is.

Well if Ferrus disagrees he can just kill Ferrus and wait til he comes back and try again over and over again never letting Ferrus go far from him once he has him trapped like a cat playing with a mouse he’ll keep the game going, usually using his tail to hold Ferrus in a his tail and Ferrus throwing the most hurtful things to the Phoenician usually results in Fulgrim usually crushing Ferrus with his tail in his hissy fits.

Fulgrim absolutely ignores any previous clones of Ferrus and when he eventually does have ferrus he literally leaves no words no nothing to the eye of terror, he “totally” got them this far as he got Ferrus… what need or interest does he have to watch his other brothers fight like some clucking chickens. With the iron hands unable to find dad no matter how many ships they send into the eye of terror.

A lot of their time together is Fulgrim trying to get Ferrus to join him in the arts, including forging once and ended with Ferrus stabbing Fulgrim in the eye with a partly formed molten hot blade and Fulgrim getting a beat down, with most of Ferrus’s escape attempts almost successful but unfortunately not enough to stop a daemon primarch.

Fulgrim as well has the finest meals made for the both of them and tries to talk and convince him to do drugs with him and drink something live a little with Ferrus shutting it down every time, with Fulgrim shutting down any attempt of Ferrus talk on how he could be better with the Phoenician ignoring it as such discourse shouldn’t be at the table.

Ferrus utterly hates the music Fulgrim plays or has playing as it’s literally so loud and excessive only followers of slaanesh can actually enjoy it.

Ferrus despite all the shit his serpentine brother will put him through refuses to give in sometimes getting through to Fulgrim truly, making him a lot more manageable but trying to convince Fulgrim to go any form of back results in Fulgrim ignoring it by his words and expressions but deep inside…

Fulgrim knows it’s wrong but seems to over the years of however long he has kept and basically tortured Ferrus over and over with death after death, it slowly but surely slows down to Ferrus being able to call him out and speak the hard truth which Fulgrim has ignored or usually just try talking over him and not be killed at all just slightly squeezed like a stress ball.

With the Phoenician eventually not ignoring the truth just begging Ferrus for forgiveness for the countless years of pain and suffering, with Ferrus finally free and he will drag his serpentine brother kicking and screaming if he has to make as many things right and seek redemption and forgiveness from their father.

To both of them the track of time slipped out from under them both in the eye of terror after 10,000 years, the heresy long over and gone, with them both exploring the galaxy and doing right, with Ferrus sometimes having to bonk Fulgrim for his excessive addictions and old habits Ferrus despises to no end..A reminder of how much his brother was trying to be better once was and internally stresses him… as their father imperium is not how either remember it at all.

( I need to seriously write all this shit down in a story format eventually as I got to decide which idea to focus on)

[adoriels-tears-if]

Adoriel's Tear Q&A (End of the first meeting)

The room is silent, except for the slight rustle of leaves outside the window. Elianna remains kneeling beside Ashlyen, her hand still in his, offering silent comfort as he regains his composure.

The door opens softly and Tobias enters, a hesitant expression on his face. His usual vivacity seems muted, replaced by something more measured. He holds two carefully folded parchments in his hand.

“I didn't mean to interrupt,” begins Tobias, "But the readers still have a few questions for you, Ashlyen."

Ashlyen straightens slightly, though he's still holding Elianna's hand. His eyes meet Tobias' briefly, a gleam of curiosity mixed with wariness shining in his pupils.

Tobias approaches and places the parchments on the table in front of Ashlyen. “Before you read them, I'd like to tell you something.”

Elianna looks up at Tobias, her hand still resting on Ashlyen's shoulder twitches slightly and she seems to be holding her breath.

“I know we've had our disagreements,” Tobias continues, his gaze steady but warm. “I don't particularly like you, and you don't particularly like me. But for what it's worth, I don't think you've ever stopped trying to do right by them—by Mc, I mean. And if they knew even half of what you've sacrificed, they'd understand. Probably better than any of us realize.”

Ashlyen's lips press into a thin line, his gaze flickering to the parchment. He blinks, a rare vulnerability softening his usually stoic demeanor. His fingers graze the edge of the first piece of parchment as if grounding himself. “I hope you're right. And I wanted to tell you that I'm aware you've been more of a father to them than I could ever hope to be,” he admits softly, his voice laced with regret.

Tobias shakes his head. “You’ve been their father from the moment they were born. I just filled in where I could.”

Ashlyen leans back slightly, his shoulders relaxing for the first time. His voice drops even lower, thick with sincerity. "You filled a lot. You don't have to, but you've done it, and you'll continue to do it. What I want to say is... thank you."

“Oh, stop it, pointy ear,” grumbles Tobias, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks flush slightly, betraying his discomfort with the moment’s intensity. “As if I could leave Elia to manage everything on her own. She can't even cook; she'd burn the farm down in a week. And like she said, Mc is very easy to love.”

Ashlyen chuckles faintly, glancing at Elianna. “They must take after me. I'm very easy to love.”

Elianna swats at his arm lightly, a smile curving her lips as a warm blush spreads across her cheeks. "You're impossible."

Tobias snickers, the tension in the room lifting.

“Right, well, before this turns into a love fest, let’s get to the last questions.” He gestures to the parchments on the table with a nod.

Ashlyen picks up the first one, unfolding it carefully as though the paper itself might hold some profound truth. His eyes scan the words, and his expression softens almost immediately.

Ashlyen is the best dad in the world. I want to protect him from all the hate from other readers (#🏳️). He doesn’t deserve it. 😢💛

His lips part slightly as he rereads it, his fingers tightening on the edges of the parchment.

“I… didn’t expect that,” he says, his voice low, almost inaudible.

Elianna leans closer, peering at the parchment. “It’s true,” she says gently. “You’ve always carried so much on your shoulders. But they see you for who you really are.”

Ashlyen blinks a few times, then sets the parchment down with a careful precision, as if it’s something fragile. “I never thought anyone would defend me like that,” he admits, his voice trembling just enough to betray the emotions he’s fighting to hold back.

“Welcome to parenthood,” Tobias remarks, his tone teasing but his gaze warm. “They’re going to keep surprising you, pointy ear. They do that a lot!”

Ashlyen’s smile is faint but genuine as he picks up the second parchment. He unfolds it carefully, his eyes moving slowly over the words.

To Ashlyen: How does it feel knowing that my MC loves you and what she wants most is to not have to hide that you are her father? Extra question: When are you and Elianna getting married?

His breath catches, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak. Elianna watches him intently, her hand still resting on his shoulder.

“It feels…” He stops, inspires, and starts again slowly. “It feels like I don’t deserve it... But it also feels like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Elianna’s eyes glisten as she squeezes his shoulder. “They love you, Ash. And they’re stronger than we think. One day, they won’t have to hide anymore.”

Ashlyen nods slowly, swallowing hard before turning to the last part of the question. A faint blush creeps up his neck as he glances at Elianna.

“And the marriage?” Tobias prompts, his smirk returning.

Ashlyen chuckles, his voice lighter now. “If we’re getting married, it’s only because I proposed,” he says, earning a mock-scandalized gasp from Elianna.

“Excuse me? I don’t recall you ever proposing!” she retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“You would have said yes?!”

"No!" she retorts blushing.

Tobias snickers, leaning back against the doorframe. “Well, now you have an audience. Might be a good time to get on one knee, Ash.”

Ashlyen rolls his eyes, though the smile on his face remains. “Not with you watching.”

“Coward,” Tobias quips, but there’s no real malice in his tone.

Elianna laughs softly, her hand slipping from Ashlyen’s shoulder to entwine with his. “We’ve never needed a ceremony to know what we mean to each other,” she says. “But if it’s something our child wants… we’ll think about it.”

Ashlyen nods, his gaze dropping to their intertwined hands. “We’ll think about it,” he echoes, his voice full of quiet determination.

Tobias watches them for a few minutes before clearing his throat, eyes darting left and right. “Alright, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. Don't make a mess on the carpet!”

"Tobias!"

He turns to go smirking, but not before tossing over his shoulder, “Just don’t forget to tell me if you set a date. I’ll need time to prepare my speech.”

Elianna chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Tobias calls back as he disappears through the door.

For a moment, the room is still again, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves outside. Ashlyen lifts Elianna’s hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?” she asks, tilting her head.

“For always believing in me,” he replies. “Even when I don’t believe in myself anymore.”

Elianna smiles, leaning her forehead against his. “Always,” she whispers.

"Always," He whispers back kissing her.

<<The end>>

[rosedproblems]

So I’m watching the first Daredevil series on Disney and I just have a couple of thoughts (I just finished s2 so spoiler warning)

Who the hell is financing all these walking sticks that Matt leaves scattered around the city?? Seriously, at the first sign of danger that man just chucks it down an alley like an engraved? money clip

Maybe I wouldn’t be so concerned about affording all these replacements if they ever showed them actually doing their day job. But clearly that doesn’t exist. I love law shows, I love superhero shows, I love Charlie Cox so this felt like the perfect trifecta, however I have gotten like 1% lawyering and 90% fight scenes (which I’ll admit, sometimes I skip around cause they feel just a bit too long). Like when the Castle case was coming up, I genuinely waited excitedly till the next day, made myself a nice bowl of ice cream to celebrate, only to find out that Matt doesn’t even show most the time?? Dude, it is quite literally your job, what are you doing?? 99 of your problems could be solved if you actually showed up for work.

Also, Karen, love you, but how on earth did she just get a journalist job?? Like, yeah she can research and has no problem breaking and entering to uncover the Truth™️ but did she ever actually write a piece to report on it or did the head of the newspaper just accept it? Like, the first words we read of hers (or that are even mentioned, no half hearted, “read your work kid, I’m impressed”) are at the very end of season 2. She supposedly already had the job for a couple of days/weeks up to that point???

The timing on this show is another point of contention. Like why is it always night time? I swear they have one daylight scene and then we’re plunged into darkness (quite literally, I can’t see anything) and then an hour later it’s revealed that the past four episodes were all one day or something.

Finally, WHY ARE WE SURPRISED THE NECROMANCY, JAPANESE MURDER TRIBE BROUGHT BACK THEIR MURDER JESUS WHEN ITS KINDA THEIR WHOLE SCHTICK??? Like seriously people, you make a “and stay dead” reference to their old boss and then proceed to the burial scene??? I know you’re blind, but you had to have seen that coming? Come on, boys, salt and burn the body like any tumblrer from 2014 can tell you.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the show. I just can’t get over all these little things and none of my friends watch it, so you have to put up with me.

[say-hwaet]

High Sierra: A Red Dead Redemption Story

Chapter 10: Taking a Gamble Author's note: Sorry this took so long! I've been pretty busy with another fic, but I'm back to working on the rewrite of this fanfiction! I will try to post more regularly now and hopefully, it will be finished before too long. It is a shorter fic by nature, so it should be easy peasy. Summary: After Eliza shared her conversation she had with Edith, Arthur tries to dive deeper into all of the clues he has gathered. Next chapter: Eleven

A couple of weeks have passed since Eliza shared her findings with Arthur. Upon learning of her discovery, he decided to do some more digging of his own and has successfully recovered pieces over the last few days. Maybe nothing substantial when standing alone, but when put all together, it might mean something.

What used to be drawings in his sketchbook have since been replaced with hypotheses and clues, all of which have begun to form a coherent picture, hinting at a larger conspiracy than either Eliza or Arthur initially suspected. Each scribbled note and hastily drawn line connects back to one person, in ways both direct and unsettlingly tangential. Lying across his wooden desk in his office, the sketchbook seems to hold more questions than answers.

He feels like he’s been reviewing all of the information for hours, but the pieces of the puzzle are finally starting to connect in his mind. Thomas Downes and Leigh Gray, both victims of the mysterious killings, have something in common--they had both taken a loan from the infamous loan shark, Leopold Strauss. The more he thinks about it, the more this revelation sends shivers down Arthur's spine.

“It can’t just be ideas anymore,” he says out loud to himself. “Gotta put in the leg work now.”

Determined to uncover the truth, Arthur knows what he needs to do. Finding evidence against Strauss won’t be easy, as the man seems to operate under the radar.

Arthur isn’t a fan of technology, but when finishing reports and logging the k9 program’s spending and progress, he has had to, regrettably, use his office computer. For the past few days, once he is off duty, he has scoured the internet for any information, but it seems that he keeps coming up on empty. This is one of those nights.

He thought that this time would be different, maybe something would come up that wasn’t uploaded before. But one doesn’t become a good loan shark by letting information slip on the internet. Maybe he’ll have to resort to the old-fashioned way: by word of mouth or paper.

He leans forward on his desk, resting his elbows on the surface. His eyes look away from the glaring bright screen of his computer to a framed picture of his son, holding his first fish he ever caught. Brook trout are pretty measly on the fisherman’s scale, but the pride in his son’s eyes that day, the way his small hands struggled to hold it steady for the camera, seemed to Arthur like he had caught a great whale. It's moments like these that remind him why he fights so hard, why every dark forest and every hidden truth must be illuminated—not just for himself or the potential victims, but for his son and the future he will inherit. If this world could be a little less murky, a little more just, then all the sleepless nights and haunting uncertainties would be worth it.

“Where else can I try…?” he asks himself. He isn’t a detective, not in the typical LA Noire sense. This isn’t an urban crime. Things aren’t documented in the same fashion.

He looks toward the door and a thought occurs to him.

The file room. Any criminal activity that is not logged in the database, it would be in there.

His gaze returns to the computer with renewed determination. Arthur stands up, pulls on his coat, and decides it's time to take the risk.

He steps out of his office, looking down the dimly lit hallway. He hadn't realized how late it is, and is relieved that no one is around.

Even so, silence is key. Stepping out of his office, he closes the door behind him and walks down the narrow hallway.

He feels like a criminal, his steps light and his eyes vigilant. It would be convenient if Charles were with him now, that way someone could stand and watch.

Arthur discreetly enters the file room, hoping to find something that will connect the dots. As he rummages through the records, the door creaks open, and Captain Monroe steps inside, his stern expression fixed on Arthur.

"What are you doing here after hours, Morgan?" Captain Monroe's voice echoes through the room.

Arthur hurriedly turns around, startled. "Oh, Captain Monroe! I was just...erm...organizing some files," he stammers, trying to feign innocence.

Captain Monroe's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Organizing files, huh? Seems a bit late for that, don't you think?"

Arthur knows he has to tread carefully. "I was just trying to be more efficient, sir. Thought I could get ahead on some paperwork," he offers, praying his excuse would be enough.

Captain Monroe walks a steady pace closer to Arthur, eyeing him suspiciously. "Is that so? Well, it seems more like you were searching for something specific. Care to enlighten me?"

"No, Captain. I swear, just routine paperwork. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Captain Monroe leans in closer, his voice low and sincere. "Arthur, I have known you for a long time. I can sense when something is not right. If you're hiding something, I suggest you come clean."

Arthur feels his body want to move away, but he remains planted. "Captain, I assure you, there's nothing to come clean about. I was just curious about these files. That's all."

Captain Monroe lets out a deep breath, crossing his arms. "Morgan, I've heard some rumors about you poking your nose where it doesn't belong. It seems you've got an unhealthy fixation on these accidents."

Arthur's heart pounds in his chest. He had expected some resistance, but he hadn't anticipated this level of scrutiny. However, he can’t back down now, not when he has finally found some leads. Perhaps, the captain will help him.

"Captain, I believe there's something more to these deaths. Both Downes and Gray are dead within days of each other and both had taken a loan from Leopold Strauss. It can't be a coincidence."

Captain Monroe scoffs, his disbelief evident. "I understand your concern, Morgan, but let the justice system handle it. You're a game warden, not a detective. That is what the Special Operations Unit is for."

Arthur's frustration boils, but he bites his tongue, trying to retain a semblance of professionalism. "With all due respect, Captain, I don't think that Warden Barnes and his team aren't bein’ as thorough as they should be. Don't you think we owe it to these victims to dig deeper? They deserve more than just bein’ dismissed as accidents."

Arthur can see the cognitive dissonance in the captain’s eyes, struggling with keeping it by the book or going on a limb. He bites the skin off of his lower lip, his eyes cast downward for a moment. Arthur holds onto the hope that he’s made a point, maybe Captain Monroe will agree to help him.

Then, after a moment longer, the captain sighs and meets Arthur’s gaze. "Arthur, you've always been an overachiever. Always wanting to be some kind of hero. Do you think you can play detective just because you have a hunch?"

What a blow, but he can’t give up.

Arthur takes a step towards Captain Monroe, lifting his hands in an open gesture. "Captain, I'm not tryin’ to play the hero. I genuinely believe these deaths are linked. I think we owe it to the victims to pursue this further."

Captain Monroe leans in, a stern look on his face. "Loyalties, Arthur. Where do your loyalties lie? With the law, or with anarchy? Are you trying to prove yourself for that promotion you've always wanted?"

Arthur's eyebrows furrow. He's not getting through to the Captain, and it frustrates him. "This ain’t about the promotion! I'm telling you the truth. I want to make a difference and protect the innocent. That is what we all swore to do. But I can't do it alone. I need your help."

Captain Monroe leans back, his tone cold. "I have faith in the justice system, Arthur. That's where this belongs. We investigate poaching and hunting accidents, not supposed conspiracies. Let the system do its job."

"But what if the system fails, Captain? What if there's somethin' bigger at play here? Can't we at least look into it? For the victims' sake?" Arthur makes one desperate plea. He knows that challenging the authority of the captain is risky, but he isn’t one to let things go, not when lives are involved.

Captain Monroe is quiet for a moment before speaking. "No, Morgan. I won't entertain your fantasies. You're straying from your duty. Don't let your ambition blind you. Stick to your duties. Drop this investigation immediately."

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken consequences. Arthur knows in his heart that he can’t stand idly by, waiting for justice to take its course. Lives are at stake, and he can’t let any more innocent blood be shed.

Without another word, Arthur gathers himself and walks out of the file room. He knows what he has to do: he has to take matters into his own hands. The law may be blind, but he isn’t going to let evil roam free, even if he doesn’t have help from Captain Monroe.

***

Fumbling for his keys, Arthur finally unlocks his car and lets himself in the driver’s seat. He lets out a deep exhale as his eyes are cast upon the empty parking lot. Well, except for Captain Monroe’s vehicle.

He needs to keep going. He needs to find different connections.

Who knows people? Who has a way to find out the inner workings? Who knows their way through money?

He turns on the ignition and lets the car idle for a moment.

Then it occurs to him.

Dutch. Dutch and is charismatic air. While he doesn’t want to question Dutch’s business practices, there have been times when his connections have appeared to be…problematic.

Eliza had always doubted Dutch’s motivations whenever Arthur would come over and share the next big idea the music manager was coming up with. “Where does he get all of his money?” she would ask. “It can’t just come out of thin air.”

Maybe there is more to it than Arthur realized.

The car is warmed up, so Arthur puts it in drive and pulls out of the parking lot.

It is pitch black, with not even a single star in the sky. Arthur is no stranger to night driving, and he keeps his eyes alert and watchful, looking for reflecting eyes on the sides of the road. One can never know when a raccoon or lone buck gets the urge to run out into the open road.

And as his eyes scan the view in front of him, he takes a glance at the rearview mirror.

And sees a pair of headlights.

It is hard to get a view of the car, but he knows well enough that they aren’t headlights of any vehicle he recognizes.

It could be someone heading home, like he is.

But this is an unutilized road, especially at this hour.

He can’t just jump to conclusions like this, that would make him too paranoid.

He needs to test his theories. Seeing another road, he makes a quick right without signaling his direction.

If the car behind him mirrors his actions, then there's no doubt — he's being followed. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers pale with the pressure. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. If they are following him, what do they want? Information? To talk to him?

He isn’t so sure he wants to know.

The headlights behind him turn as well, confirming his suspicion. Arthur's jaw sets firm, a blend of fear and determination stiffening his posture. This isn't good. He knows it ain't just paranoia now; someone's got their sights set on him, but for what?

The road ahead is less traveled, canopied by trees and an old fence line that lines the sides of the road. This could be someone’s farm or ranchland, no one is sure to spot him or hear him should something go wrong.

He pushes harder on the gas, picking up speed.

The winding road stretches ahead, shadows playing tricks with Arthur's vision as he navigates sharp turns and uneven surfaces. His heart pounds like a drum in his chest, echoing the thumping of the tires over the gravel. He squints to keep the tailing vehicle in his rearview mirror, watching every move it makes with hawk-like precision. The road narrows, branches scraping against the sides of his truck as he barrels down the path that seems more suited for a horse than a motor vehicle.

That’s when the headlights draw closer and the bumper makes contact with the back of his car.

The jolt sends a shudder through the frame of Arthur's SUV, his pulse racing in tandem with the engine's roar. He grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white as he tries to maintain control. The impact wasn't strong enough to disable his vehicle, but it's clear that whoever is behind him isn't just trying to send a message; they are trying to force him off the road.

Arthur's mind races as he considers his options. He could try to outrun them, but with the road getting rougher and his SUV already taking a hit, that might lead to disaster. Alternatively, he could stop and confront them, but that's a risk he's not sure he can afford with everything that's hanging in the balance. Isaac's face flashes in his mind, a sharp reminder that he’s got more than just his own life to consider.

With a gritted determination, Arthur slows his pace slightly, planning his next move. His eyes catch a glimpse of a small clearing just ahead, to the right of the road—a potential spot to maneuver and confront his pursuer under more controlled circumstances. He steels himself, sucking in a sharp breath as he prepares for whatever comes next.

As he approaches the clearing, Arthur abruptly cuts the wheel, steering his SUV off the road and into the clearing, ramming through some old barbed wire. He hears it scratch the side of his car, but he can’t focus on that now. As he tries to navigate the escape off-road, his eyes go back to his rearview mirror.

The headlights are still there.

He curses under his breath. How can he shake them? He wants to think this is just intimidation, but it almost seems that they are trying to accomplish more than that.

The ground beneath his SUV rattles and bounces, soft dirt kicking up behind as he maneuvers through the clearing. Grass and wild brush clutch at the tires, attempting to slow him down, but Arthur's resolve is forged in steel. He presses harder on the accelerator, the engine growling like a caged beast eager for release. In the chaos of movement, his mind reels back to his rodeo days with Hosea, who always said, "Keep your head when all about are losing theirs." But right now, the distant memory can barely pierce the fog of his adrenaline.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur spots an opportunity—a narrow path veering left, and an old farm truck is coming from the opposite direction. It will be cutting it close, but if he times it right, he will lose his assailant.

The farm truck is laden with hay, and it trundles slowly along the path, unaware of the drama unfolding fast toward it. Arthur’s pulse throbs in his ears as he calculates the timing, steering his SUV so it slips behind the truck just as they pass a thick copse of trees, effectively blocking him from view.

His heart hammers against his ribs, loud in the sudden silence as he waits, hidden by the hay-laden truck and the dense foliage. He quickly turns off his lights for a moment, driving blind but slowing down just enough. He peers through a gap in the tree branches, eyes squinting as he scans for any sign of the headlights that have been dogging him. Seconds tick by, each one stretched thin like a wire pulled taut. Then, relief washes over Arthur as the headlights don’t reappear from behind the cover of trees and truck. He lets out a long, shuddering breath he didn't realize he was holding, his hands trembling on the wheel.

Now, hidden away in this makeshift refuge, Arthur allows himself a moment to think, his mind racing as fast as his heart. He knows that he must figure out who is chasing him and why. His life as a game warden has taught him to be watchful, to notice the out-of-place details that might have been ignored by even the most avid of outdoorsmen.

And there is no doubt in his mind that whoever was behind that wheel, is also connected to the two murders.

After waiting for almost thirty minutes, he relaxes his grip on the steering wheel, and gets back on the road to drive home.

Come morning, he has to pay a social call to Mr. Van Der Linde.

***

The morning sun casts a golden glow upon the small city of Pine Crest, nestled in the heart of High Sierra. Arthur walks with purpose towards the old Victorian house that serves as Dutch Van Der Linde's office. His heart pounding with a mix of apprehension and determination, he is on a mission to uncover the truth behind the mysterious killings that plagued the state he loves. And after last night, he is more convinced than ever that it is more than what the media or even Captain Monroe seems to believe.

He walks up the steps calmly, as though he didn’t just get accosted by an unknown vehicle last night. He turns to look at the beaten-up car over his shoulder. He really wishes he had driven his truck this morning, but he has to take it to the Call Me Uncle’s auto body shop, anyway.

He exhales, running a hand down his face, and reaches for the door. Letting himself inside, he closes the door quietly behind him. The entire house has been remodeled to function as a business establishment while keeping that old Victorian charm. Steadying himself, he looks ahead to his secretary at the front desk and they smile at each other. She knows who he is and is already picking up her phone to let Dutch know.

As he turns to absentmindedly peruse, a familiar figure catches the corner of his eye.

It is Mary. She is standing in the corner of the waiting room with a tablet and stylus in her hand, writing something.

Her shiny, dark hair cascades down her shoulders, contrasting against her fair skin. In a moment of hesitation, Arthur's mind swirls with bittersweet memories of their past. He hasn’t seen her hair like that since they were teenagers. He can still recall the nights they spent stargazing, promising each other forever.

And just as he is about to turn back around and leave, she lifts her head from her tablet and their eyes meet.

"Arthur!" Marcy calls out, her voice laced with a mix of joy and longing. She hurries over to him, as fast as she can in that narrow pencil skirt she wears. The pearls strung about her neck catch the light from the window, making her look like the queen of Sheba.

Startled, Arthur just looks at her. "Mary," he murmurs, caught off guard by her excitement. The unresolved emotions between them strain the air, like a taut wire ready to snap.

Mary locks her tablet and holds it close to her chest, her eyes never leaving him. "I've been waiting for you. It's been a while since we last talked, and I thought we could catch up over dinner tonight."

His heart twists in his chest, torn between the turbulent memories of their past and the tangled web of the present. "Mary, I–" he begins, only to be interrupted by her persistent pleading.

"Please, Arthur." she implores, her voice tinged with a mix of desperation and longing. “I…I really want to talk to you.”

Right. That’s all she wants to do is talk. It seems that is all they ever do is talk, but nothing is really ever said. What is this all for? What is the goal? How can he get his mind made up when all is ever done is talk?

No, he can’t do this. He doesn’t have time for words. Every second that goes by is a second wasted in not solving these two murders. His own problems will just have to wait.

Arthur's gaze flickers with regret as he struggles to find the right words. "Mary, I am knee-deep in somethin’ right now. I can't explain it, but it's very important."

Mary's eyes soften, a hint of confusion glimmering in their depths. "I'm not sure I understand."

He shakes his head. "Like I said, it is too difficult to explain."

Her smile fades, but just as quickly as it left it reappears, her eyelashes fluttering past her sparkling irises. "You can explain it to me over dinner then," she offers.

Arthur hesitates, his mind racing with thoughts of his investigation and the danger lurking in the shadows. He has to let her down gently, lest they make a scene in front of Dutch’s secretary. "Mary, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t think about dinners right now. It just isn't the right time."

Mary's face contorts with determination as she leans in closer, her voice pleading and desperate. "Please, Arthur," she implores, her eyes searching his for any sign of remorse. "You promised you would call me, but you never did." Her words are laced with disappointment and a touch of anger, betraying the hurt she feels from being ignored by someone she thought still cared.

Before Arthur can respond, the door to Dutch's office swings open, revealing the aging manager of the country rock band. Dutch is impeccably styled, his charming smile painting an illusion of success.

He couldn’t have come at a better time. Arthur lets out a sigh of relief and Mary catches it, looking at him with a pinched brow.

"Arthur!" Dutch exclaims jovially, and once within arm’s reach, he grips Arthur in a bone-crushing embrace. "I was just on the phone talking to John about the tour. We're goin’ to take the high country by storm!" He steps aside, motioning for Arthur to come into the office. “Why don’t we talk about it?”

Arthur nods. “Shoah, Dutch.”

Mary steps forward, raising a forefinger. “Mr. Van Der Linde—”

“In a minute, Mary.” Disregarding Mrs. Linton, Dutch leads Arthur towards his office. Arthur doesn’t look back at Mary; he already knows the expression on her face. They step right through the threshold and Dutch closes the door behind them, leaving Mary to her own thoughts.

“Make yourself comfortable, son,” Dutch says warmly as he removes his hand from Arthur’s shoulder and makes his way back to his desk. Arthur pauses in his steps to refamiliarize himself with Dutch’s office.

Inside, the office exudes an old-world charm. Faded photographs adorned the walls, capturing moments of triumph and camaraderie. Dutch smiles at Arthur, the lines etched on his face told tales of a life lived on the edge, of risks taken for the sake of adventure. Arthur respected him, and admired him, but also saw the vulnerability that lay beneath the charming facade.

"How's Annabelle, Dutch?" Arthur asks, lifting up an old figurine off of Dutch's desk.

"Oh, still visiting her sister," he sighs.

"So that make-up artiste must be doing a marvelous job."

"Molly? Sure. Marvelous woman. Can do that cat eye like no one else can."

Arthur forces a smile, the weight of his discovery heavy on his shoulders. He needs answers and Dutch has always seemed to have the uncanny ability to know everyone. Seizing the opportunity, Arthur now searches for a moment to broach the topic that lingered in the air like an unsolved mystery. But he needs to appeal to the man’s ego first.

“So business must be real good then, huh?”

Dutch studies the game warden with a raised brow. “I suppose.”

“Must take a lot of footwork to get a business like yours off the ground, right?”

Dutch slowly sits down in his leather chair. “Sure.”

“And a lot of networking? Even if the people ain’t in the same business as you?”

There is a sudden silence in the room and Dutch’s gaze narrows. “Arthur, what the hell are you getting at?”

Arthur finally sets that ridiculous trinket back on Dutch’s desk and rests both hands on its edge, casting a serious gaze. "Dutch, do you know anything about a man named Leopold Strauss?" he asks, his voice laced with both curiosity and suspicion.

Dutch's eyes flicker with a hint of unease, his jovial facade slipping for a moment. "Strauss? Why do you ask, old friend?"

Arthur takes a deep breath, his heart pounding. "I've been investigating a series of killings linked to him, Dutch. The victims, Mr. Downes and Leigh Gray, both had connections to Strauss."

A fire ignites in Dutch's eyes, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Arthur, you're playing with fire here. Strauss is not someone you want to mess with. Trust. Me."

But Arthur's resolve only strengthens, fueled by the knowledge of Strauss' true nature. "Dutch, I've uncovered something dark about him. Those two people who borrowed from him? They ended up dead," he emphasizes, a tremor of anger and fear running through his body.

Dutch’s eyes widen. "Dead?"

"Yes, Dutch. Haven't you seen the news?”

“Yes, I’ve seen the news! But they’ve all been saying—!”

Arthur cuts him off, laying out the truth bare. “Those deaths weren't accidents." There is a dead pause, only the sound of Dutch’s antique grandfather clock ticking rhythmically in the silence. “Someone doesn’t want folk to know, and I am determined to find out why.”

Dutch shakes his head. “You’re just a game warden. You aren’t the FBI or…or some other highfalutin detective agency.”

“Someone tried to kill me last night.”

Dutch looks back up at Arthur, his mouth agape. “What?”

“You heard me. A dark car chased me. Ran me off the road. Someone wants me either dead or to stop lookin’ into this. Well, I don’t want there to be another victim. And if Strauss is part of it, I need to talk to him and find out who is all on his list.”

Dutch becomes quiet, his fingertips pressed together as his elbows rest on the top of his desk. Arthur slowly rises to a standing position, eyeing him carefully.

Dutch's chair screeches as he abruptly stands up and paces around the room, his movements tense and agitated. Arthur's eyes track him, a sense of unease growing in his gut as he waits for Dutch to speak.

With a frustrated sigh, Dutch runs a hand through his hair, revealing the weight of his own dark secrets etched on his face like deep scars. The tension in the room thickens with each passing moment, until it feels suffocating and unbearable.

"Arthur, I have a confession to make," Dutch begins with a trembling voice, his face pale and tense with regret. "I...I also took a loan from Strauss." As their eyes lock, Arthur's heart drops and his mind races with alarm. "I'm financially ruined, and I've been desperately relying on John's music just to stay afloat." His words hang heavy in the air as they both come to terms with the crushing weight of their dire situation.

Arthur's heart sinks. This revelation strikes him like a blow to the gut. If Dutch has been involved with Strauss, that means that he, too, could become a victim of this dark web of deceit. He wrestles with this knowledge, now also knowing that he’s been taking advantage of John for who knows how long. And Dutch still lives lavishly. All the parties, promos, hiring Mary, all of it has been riding on John and his recent success.

However, even with all of that, Dutch is still in danger and could still share the same fate as the two others, if his theory is correct about the connection to Strauss. Arthur can’t allow that to happen. He has a responsibility to protect his friend. It was what he swore to do when he became a game warden.

His brow pinches as he looks at the bankrupt manager, shaking his head softly. "Why, Dutch?"

Dutch's face twists in a mix of guilt and vulnerability. He looks down at the floor, fumbling for an answer. "Arthur, I...I couldn't see another way out. We needed money, and Leopold offered it to me. I...I took the loan, hoping I could turn things around. John has worked hard to get the band going."

“You’re damned right, he has…” Arthur says sharply but as he looks into Dutch’s eyes, he knows that he already recognizes that. Arthur lets out a deep exhale and goes to Dutch, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You should have trusted us, Dutch. We would have found a way, all of us. Now you could be in danger."

Dutch sighs, nodding his head. "I know, Arthur, and I'm sorry. Please, don't speak of this John. He doesn't need to carry the burden of my mistakes."

Arthur thinks for a moment, weighing his options. It won’t do John any good to know, at least right now. The priority is to get Dutch off of Strauss’ list and see if this theory even holds any weight. There will be a time of confessions and redemption later.

After a minute later, Arthur sighs and nods his head."Alright, Dutch, I'll keep your secret," he answers firmly. "But you're coming with me to confront Strauss. I'll protect your family, no matter the cost."

Dutch nods, a sense of relief coming over him. "Agreed, Arthur. Thank you." Arthur removes his hand from Dutch’s shoulder. “When are you going?”

Arthur doesn’t take but a second to answer. “Right now.”

Dutch nods, his charismatic and confident gaze returning. “Alright. Let’s go.”

As Arthur and Dutch leave the office, Arthur avoids meeting Mary's gaze. He can feel her eyes on him, filled with disappointment and hurt. But he knows her well enough to know that their story is far from over. The tension between them crackles like electricity, every word left unsaid hanging in the air. A part of him wants to turn back, to apologize and make things right. But another part of him knows it's too late for that. The sun continues its path across the sky, casting a warm glow over the street as Dutch and Arthur step outside, his mind lost in thoughts about what could have been.

A loud snort from Dutch interrupts his thoughts. “My god, Arthur, what the hell happened to your car?”

“The detour I had to take last night remember?” He walks around to the driver's side. “Just get in.”

And Dutch, while not being above poverty, reluctantly gets in and they drive off to pay a visit to Leopold Strauss.

Tag Requests:

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[charlieeenby]

wasn't a fighter 'till somebody told me i had better lean into the punch

he's not coming. he's not coming. he's not coming, he's not coming, he's not coming. he's not coming! (he is, he will, he just won't make it in time to save you)

jason's death and revival

warnings and tags: character death, angst, dick, jason, tim and damian are brothers

title from stay down by boygenius

He’s not coming. He’s not coming. He’s not coming, he’s not coming, he’s not coming. He’s not coming!

(He is, he will, he just won’t make it in time to save you)

She says he didn’t come. She says he replaced you. She says your brother couldn’t be bothered to go to your funeral.

(These are all lies)

She says that he won’t kill the joker.

(He won’t, but someone close to you will)

You want to go home but the green won’t let you. You want to go home but she won’t let you. You want to go home but he needs you.

(You can go home)

You go back. Not home, but to the city. You flood the streets with blood. You just want his attention. You just want to go home.

(It’ll all be okay one day)

He’s angry, he fights you, he hurts you more.

(He doesn’t know it’s you)

He knows it’s you and he begs you to stop. You tell him that he failed you when he didn’t kill that monster.

(He already knows this and it eats him alive)

You fight your brother. You tell him who you are and he falls apart. He sobs and screams and wails. He does not beg.

(He’d do anything for you)

You want to be angry at him. You ask why he didn’t go to your funeral and his eyes go cold. Then he tells you why and you hate your father even more.

(That is his fault)

Your brother tells you he’s sorry. Tells you that he loves you, no matter what. When you ask if he’ll love you if you kill people, he says yes without hesitation.

(He’s telling the truth. He will always love you)

You attack your replacement. He is not your replacement. He’s sorry.

(She lied to you. This is just one of many)

You say sorry and you run away from the broken, bloody bird. The green eats you alive for a while and you let it.

(It’s not your fault)

The monster is dead, torn apart. Your father blames you but you didn’t do it. Your brother appears. He tells your father that he killed the monster that took his brother. He tore him to pieces so he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

(Your brother loves you)

Your father is enraged. He is livid and angry. He yells and he is loud in his anger. You are six years old and the first man that was your father is drunk and beating your mother. She is telling you to run.

(You are twenty now and it feels the same)

The little bird you hurt shows up and tells your father that this is all his fault. He should have just killed the joker or let hi stay dead the first time. Tells him that he’s had enough, he’s done.

(When was the first time? Who killed him the first time?)

Your brother invites you along, tells you that he loves you and they’d be happy to work with him.

(You have two brothers now)

You agree on one condition. They have to help you save the little boy that’s still with her. She’s not going to be good to him and he’s just a child.

(Three becomes four just six months later)

Your father won’t ever forgive you. He blames your for your bothers going ‘rouge’, says it’s all your fault. It is not your fault you died, but he says it is.

(It’s more his fault than yours. You were a child)

You were just a child when you were killed and none of this was your fault. You saved your youngest brother. You reconciled with the one you hurt. He forgives you.

(You were only fifteen)

The world is cruel and dark and mean. She takes without warning, without thought. But she gives as much as she takes and now you have your own family.

(The green is gone)

They are all safe and you are healing together.

[bookbutterfly1999]

Zoe Hange IS. One of the best- “passionate about my specific research interest” science nerd character I have seen.

Mind we have had a couple of mad scientist tropes, some pretty much doomed for the narrative, others shelved aside as a plot moving device. But this lady, is, simply awesome.

I love her internal conflict. This lady HATES titans. Like any other person within those walls, who only knew about the dangers these creatures possessed towards her kind.

And yet… she decides to do what most would hate to: to be passionate towards learning more about the titans.

Don’t mistake the passion for compassion (but that too, she is compassionate, too, but that’s a different essay), she absolutely is fuelled by the need to save human lives and take down these giant wreckers.

But, she doesn’t let all those complications ruin her scientific zest for more information.

That’s Hange.

She simply needs more data. And has pledged her life in the hopes to get more data. And she’ll do what most wall dwellers would never do, get down to business, risk their lives, and actually get their hands on the information, even at the peril of their’s or their compatriots’ lives.

Now imagine Hange, realising there’s a whole new world beyond the walls! She would have been more than excited to know and learn more about it. New technological advancements and engineering? Sweet! No wonder she got along with Onyakapon like a house on fire. And she took the effort to know their names, learn more about their cultures and let herself be the inquisitive, vulnerable and courageous scientist she is!

And in between all this she still fought that titans and killed a lot of them. The pursuit of truth, was her life’s motto, and even when the truth was so hurtful, she refused to let genocide be how the story went. Till the bittersweet end, she stuck to her moral guns. She went down fighting.

She lost an eye, her squad, almost everyone she knew, and yet she never lost her zest for the truth, knowledge or her own life.

Even when she decided to go down, she chose to go down in flames. She chose to end her life, but she didn’t do it in “I give up now” kinda way. She went down like her compatriots she lost, knowing full well that this was the end, but pouring her heart and soul into it, one last time, even without knowing how much actual impact it may create considering everything already being set into motion by the Jaegerists and everyone.

She never let her personal ideals blind the objective morality of the situation.

And even when interrogating Eren whom she didn’t trust by that point (she totally had a guess of how it was all going to go on… poor woman)… and still treated him with the kindness and respect she had had for him from the start.

Also, one of Hange’s best scenes is her saying it was “her decision” when Reiner escapes due to Jean’s plea. When Jean blames himself, Hange makes it known that she’s partially if not wholly responsible for that, and ensures that Jean doesn’t continue blaming himself, and improving team morale and reducing guilt… and I could go on. Later on Levi takes a page from this when he chooses who gets to have the colossal Titan and bring them back from the brink of death (though that choice is much much more complicated, of course).

As someone unaware of the behind the scenes 4-D chess at play, Hange was the Eldian wisehold, at the forefront of negotiations, being the person moving the checker pieces that the world that was the actual situation. Someone had to. And Hange stepped up. Not Pixis as a more experienced commander, not Historia as queen or other Eldian authority figures. Hange, as Erwin’s replacement, shoes she knew didn’t fit her, but wore them anyways because someone had to, and she did it to the best of her capabilities.

She knew not to trust Eren or Zeke. She knew to save Levi- where any weak willed person might have given up and attempted to let Levi go, she knew what Levi clung on to, and made sure to help him survive to complete that particular destiny, years in the making (Levi killing Zeke).

She’s… just so smart. Not just in terms of scientific, or engineering acumen though she had that in plenty, it was also her ability to read humans that let her be such a successful survey corp warrior AND a commander.

She’s just so damn underrated man come on