#canon compliant timeline tag

[taichi-x-koushiro]

Digimon Adventure ~ Koushiro{u} Izumi x Taichi Yagami {KOUTAI} / {Taishiro[u]} / {TaiKou}

"In Paris I spent my first night in Montmartre. In all those nightclubs where now everyone is my friend I went from discovery to discovery. Everywhere I encountered the same warm, smiling welcome, the same excellent champagne…everywhere my cap, my light beige suit, and my suede shoes made a sensation." "Panama" Al Brown {x} {Queer History}

Digimon Adventure 25th Anniversary Pop-Up Shop {x} "DIGIGIFT" Official Calender/Wallpaper {x} (Note: Full version of latter contains #TheBeginningSpoilers for Taichi's full design, and a potential aftermath or in-between for the film!)

Fan Edit by @izzyizumi / koushirouizumi {Do Not Copy} {Do Not Remove Caption} {Do Not Re-post} {Do Not Reproduce My Works Under Any Circumstances}

(Anyway, I need an A.U. like this where Taichi runs into +French-speaking Koushiro in France, {in Tri: Saikai, Koushiro is canonically attempting learning some French, and as the cap above shows, takes Koushiro’s parents to a fancy French restaurant - it is also heavily implied it’s Koushiro paying for their meal, as well as helping them order} and Taichi’s “beige suit” and shoes “make a sensation” for someone we all Know…)

[theaceace]

A while ago I decided that my ideal Good Omens/Sandman crossover involved Lucifer giving the key to Hell to Adam instead of Dream during Season of Mists, and what the fallout of that might be. I don't think I'll ever manage to finish it, but here's the theoretical first chapter

The first thing any of Them knew about it was the fact that there were no mugs in the sink. This was not at all a common occurrence; despite Wensleydale’s fastidiousness, Brian's refusal to drink from anything other than directly from the milk bottle, and Pepper’s insistence on ‘supporting local businesses near campus’1, there was usually a precarious mountain of tea-stained mugs stacked up in monument to Adam's unfortunate sleeping habits. To anyone else, under normal circumstances, this might have been considered a good – even miraculous – change.

All of Them had come to develop a very healthy suspicion of both normal circumstances and miraculous changes.

“That's weird, right?” Brian said, balancing on one leg to idly scratch at his calf with his other foot. “I mean, it's not just me that thinks that's weird?” Pepper, who had thrown open the cupboards to check that the mugs were still in the land of the living, and hadn't been smashed or otherwise disappeared in a fit of pique or supernatural intervention, made a little uh-hm noise.

“It's definitely weird,” she agreed, staring at the cupboard, which was precisely as full and disordered as it ought to be. “But that doesn't mean it's, y’know, weird-weird. It could be normally weird.”

“Did anyone hear Adam get in last night?” Wensleydale asked, which was a very sensible question that neither Pepper nor Brian had thought to ask.

“He was still out when I went to bed,” Brian said, glancing at Pepper.

“He said he was going to the library,” she said, frowning. Wensleydale nodded thoughtfully.

“It is open twenty-four seven,” he mused. “Adam might still be there. Maybe he fell asleep in one of the quiet study rooms?”

It wasn't impossible, they all silently agreed, glancing around at one another. Who among them hadn't lost track of time in the unchanging fluorescent glow, only to wake up some absurd number of hours later with a pen stuck to their cheek and an embarrassingly large puddle of drool forming on the table2?

“Okay, well, I'll just call him,” Pepper said decisively after a moment. 

“His phone’ll be on silent,” Brian pointed out.

“Still,” Wensleydale said. “If it's on vibrate he might notice it. And even if it's not, he'll see it when he looks at his phone next. Go ahead, Pepper.”

“Already on it,” she said, and indeed her thumbs were flying over her phone. She tapped the button to put it on speaker, and held the phone in the centre of the circle of Them with an odd reverence. Together, they watched Adam's name and number flashed across the screen as the phone began to ring, before it cut itself abruptly off.

“I’m sorry,” started the robotic message, “the number you have dialled cannot be reached at this time. Please try again later.” The message cut off with a cheerful beep. A moment later, Pepper’s phone, rather less cheerfully, burst into flames. She dropped it onto the tiled kitchen floor, where it went right on blazing.

All three of the remaining Them stared at it in horror.

“Right,” said Pepper faintly.

“I think that might be weird-weird,” Brian agreed, a shade more faintly. Wensleydale, being the only one of Them who was not only concerned that Pepper’s phone was on fire, but also that her phone was on fire, started swatting at it ineffectually with a tea towel. 

“OK,” Pepper said, gathering herself, “Brian, give me your phone.”

“What? Hang on, I only got this last month! You can't go around seeing if that'll set other people's phones on fire just because yours spontaneously combusted, Pep, that's not fair.” Pepper, being somewhat more nimble, and considerably less indignant than Brian, used this opportunity to lean over and pluck his phone from the depths of his hoodie pocket. “Hey!”

“Here's what we're going to do,” Pepper said decisively.  In Adam's absence,  one of Them had to be the one making the decisions, and that one might as well be her. “You two are going to go to the library and check there, just in case. Maybe this is… coincidental weird-weirdness. Call me when you get there, let me know if you find anything.”

“And what about you? What are you going to do?” Wensleydale asked, giving up the tea towel as a bad job, and accepting the fact that the phone seemed to be burning itself out quite nicely on its own.

“I'm going to ask around, and email in sick for all of us,” Pepper said. “Maybe one of Adam's other friends saw something, or heard something, or… y’know,  something. Wens, call Mr. Young – he likes you the best, he'll be happy to speak to you, but don't let on just yet what's happening.”

“What is happening?” Brian asked, a little helplessly. Rather than admitting she had no more idea than any of the rest of Them, Pepper just shook her head darkly.

“Nothing good,” she muttered. “OK. Alright. Meet back here at, say, half eleven? If we haven't found anything before then, I mean.” Brian and Wensleydale both nodded, looking a little peaky, and glanced at each other. Wensleydale swallowed, and piped up with the question that was troubling them both. 

“And what do we do then, if we haven't found anything?” 

“Then,” Pepper said, with all the grim determination of a General sending her troops to their certain deaths, “we call the Witch.”

The first thing Anathema knew about it was that she picked up a stack of old magazines to throw away, only for a sheet of old parchment to flutter lazily out and come to rest on her shoes. She wasn't sure where old Agnes had ended up after her explosive exit from this mortal coil, so she glared first at the ceiling and then at the floor for good measure.

“I burnt that book for a reason,” she sternly told the page. The page, naturally, did not reply.

Anathema stared at it for a few long seconds, dithering. She wasn't a person predisposed to dithering, but had found in the last couple of years that it was nice to indulge oneself in a change of pace, from time to time. Still, having no natural talent for it, and being far more inclined to action anyway, she only allowed this for a brief time, before snatching up the page and casting a curious eye over it.

“Oh,” she said, swiftly followed by, “hm.” 

Then, “right.” 

A few seconds later, “what?” 

And, with hardly a pause for breath, “I see.”

Before finally, “oh. Oh dear.”

In the next room, from its perch on the coffee table, her phone started to ring.

(Halfway across the country, the first thing Constantine knew about it was that the demon she was attempting to banish back to the bowels of Hell laughed in her face. It stopped laughing with gratifying speed at the first splash of holy water, but it was enough to set her thinking.

Thinking, however, could wait until she'd downed roughly half her weight of Robbie's Secret Whisky Stash, and fallen face-first onto her sofa for the next sixty hours or so. 

Which was exactly what she did.)

The first thing Aziraphale knew about it – though he wouldn't realise such for a few days yet – was the abrupt interruption of his quarterly book club3.

He'd been enjoying a rather excellent cup of lapsang souchong in companionable silence, a collection of poems that Oscar had enthused about but never committed to paper propped open in front of him, when the summons arrived.

“Lucienne. I must speak with you. Meet me in the throne room as soon as is convenient.” A momentary pause. “Please.”

On the other side of the room, primly seated on a velvet sofa, Lucienne, librarian of the Dreaming, quite deliberately did not sigh. She hardly had to – her silence spoke volumes. Marking her page with a delicate silver bookmark, she set the book to one side and stood, brushing at her immaculate waistcoat.

“I am so sorry,” she said, unsmiling but warm around the eyes. “I hate to cut this short, but –”

“Not at all, not at all,” Aziraphale replied, waving a hand and offering her as understanding a smile as he could muster4. He did, after all, have some notion of what it was like to work for an entity vastly more powerful than oneself, towards a cause that one broadly believed in but did occasionally cut into one's leisure time. “I gather it must be something frightfully important – you know, I'm not sure I've ever heard Lord Morpheus make such a polite request?”

That did bring a smile to his companion's face, small and conspiratorial, though still unflinchingly professional.

“As a matter of fact, since our Lord's return and his latest… trials, he has been making a considerable effort to show his appreciation to myself and the other residents of the Dreaming. Please don't misunderstand me, Lord Morpheus has always valued our work, but –”

Aziraphale nodded as she trailed off.

“He has, perhaps, come to realise that expressing his appreciation may be beneficial to both the work and morale,” he suggested. He didn't remember such tactics ever being successfully applied in Heaven, but they had worked a treat on dear young Warlock. It had been difficult on the poor boy, of course, to have positive reinforcement applied by two very different entities in completely opposing directions, but he had appeared to cope well enough with the confusion. Children were remarkably resilient that way.

“Exactly,” Lucienne agreed, apparently relieved that he understood. “You'll have to excuse me – of course, you're free to remain in the library as long as you like, and if there's anything else you need, just let the library know and one of the palace staff should be sent along to assist.” 

So what could Aziraphale do but hum and thank her, before finishing his cup of tea and taking his leave of the Dreaming, after which he failed to give the incident a single thought more for several days?

Well. There were, perhaps, many things he could have done – but, crucially, he did none of them, and so such hypotheticals really don't matter very much in the grand scheme of things, do they?

And the first thing Crowley knew about it was the shrill ring of Aziraphale’s landline jolting him out of a very pleasant nap.

“Whozzit?” He muttered from his place face-down on the sofa. “‘m gonna kill’m.”

“Oh, you'll do no such thing,” Aziraphale scolded as he bustled over to the phone. “It's barely midday, it's a perfectly reasonable time to call. Hello? A Z Fell and Co rare books, I'm afraid we're very much closed for the rest of – oh! Well hello dear girl! How lovely to hear from you – you know, I was just saying to Crowley the other day, we –”

“Who is it?” Crowley repeated, this time managing to include enough syllables to make it three clear and distinct words. Not that it seemed to matter to Aziraphale, who made a complicated but ultimately meaningless hand gesture towards him but otherwise didn't answer. 

“Yes of course I'm free to talk; anytime you need Anathema, you know that.” Which did at least answer Crowley's question. He blew out a noisy sigh and closed his eyes again. Might as well try to get a few more hours’ kip. Those two could natter like fishwives when they got into the swing of it.

“Adam? No, not since he popped ‘round last month during his reading week for a visit. Why do you –”

Aziraphale paused, and the silence stretched long enough that Crowley peeled his eyes back open. The angel had gone very, very pale, and the hand that gripped the phone was white-knuckled. Crowley frowned and pushed himself upright.

“You're quite sure?” Aziraphale asked faintly. Crowley's brows leapt up towards his hairline. “No, we haven't heard anything. Do his parents –?”

Slow and sinuous, Crowley unfurled himself from the sofa and inched towards Aziraphale, who appeared on the verge of shaking. It was, he had to admit, a little alarming to see. A chair that hadn't been behind the angel until a few moments ago5 let out a faint wumpf as he pushed Aziraphale down to sit on it. This close, he could hear the tinny echo of Anathema’s voice, but couldn't quite make out the individual words.

“We certainly haven't felt anything,” Aziraphale said. His free hand had curled around the arm of the chair – Crowley unpeeled his fingers and offered up his own hand as a sacrifice in place of the upholstery. “Neither of us get any word from, ah, the head offices anymore, as it were, but I haven't heard anything through any other channels, not that many of them keep in close touch these days. I don't suppose Agnes –?”

He paused to listen to her agitated response, lips pressed together. Crowley rubbed his thumb against the back of his knuckles, in the vain hope he might relax his grip a little. The little bones in his hand were in imminent danger of collision.

“Yes, yes, tell me now – I'll remember,” Aziraphale said with all the solemnity of a true vow. The tinny little echo of Anathema's voice came again, this time in a distinct rhythm that Crowley usually associated with poetry or prayer. Aziraphale nodded along, his brow furrowing the longer she went on, his own mouth shaping the occasional word as she went. 

Crowley, meanwhile, was starting to get a headache.

“No, of course, of course, I'll let you know the moment I think of something,” Aziraphale said, which perhaps wasn't the hastiest promise he'd ever made to the witch, but did still make Crowley's skin itch vaguely. “Yes – he's right here, would you like to speak to him?”

Ignoring Crowley's increasingly frantic head shaking, Aziraphale handed the phone over. Crowley grimaced, weighed up the pros and cons of just hanging up (pros: it would be rude, which as a demon was something he was rather fond of being. Cons: it would be rude, which would upset Aziraphale, who was already looking remarkably distressed. Also, he may not get to find out what was going on), before accepting both the inevitable and the phone.

“Yeah?” He said, trying his best to sound like he didn't give a single damn about whatever Anathema had to say. Anathema, who was very used to this by now, and swiftly climbing the ranks of living people well-equipped to both see through and handle Anthony J Crowley, did not bother mincing her words.

“Adam's missing. Last seen yesterday evening, as best we can tell. His friends are looking for him the human way and running interference with the university and his parents, in case it's something… esoteric. Also, I have a new prophecy from Agnes that I think is about him, but I haven't quite managed to figure it out just yet. I thought you might know something.”

Crowley's blood ran cold. Well. Colder.

Most of Crowley's knowledge about what to do to find a missing human was both theoretical and gleaned from procedural police dramas, and he suspected that the angel's wasn't much better, except that he could likely replace procedural police dramas with Agatha Christie first editions. They hadn't even managed to find the right antichrist until the day of the apocalypse, and he hadn't technically been missing.

“He's definitely disappeared?” He tried, perhaps a little desperately. “He hasn't, er, just wandered off for a bit and forgot to text?” That was a thing, wasn't it? You had to wait for a day or two before you could call someone missing, if they were an adult doing their own thing. He was fairly sure that was a thing.

“Pepper says that he didn't go back to their accommodation last night, and all of his notes and books were still at the library. She thinks he must have his bag and his phone on him, but no-one’s been able to get through to him.” Anathema sounded harried, and the sharpness of her tone set something bristling in Crowley, before he forced himself calm again. Aziraphale was hurriedly scrawling something on a scrap of paper, so fast that the ink flew and dotted his hands and sleeves.

“So do they think he was – what, grabbed?” Crowley tried to imagine the sort of thing that would be capable of grabbing Adam if he didn't want to be grabbed, and succeeded only in feeling vaguely ill.

“No, but they think he must have left in a hurry and none of them know why, or why he wouldn't have contacted somebody.” The somebody like you went unsaid but very clearly implied. 

“He didn't leave the stove on, I'm guessing?” Crowley asked hopelessly. Anathema did him the grace of ignoring that.

The problem, Crowley decided, was that there were simply too many places that Adam could have buggered off to to even begin narrowing the list down. He wouldn't know where to start. He wouldn't know how to start. There were very few places in the universe that Adam couldn't get into, if he put his mind to it. Heaven, he supposed, but that seemed very unlikely given that Adam's opinion of Heaven as a concept was ambivalent at best, and outright scornful at worst (Crowley was oddly proud of that, considering he'd had almost nothing to do with it).

“Fine. Well, did they find anything with his stuff at the library? A lingering smell of sulphur, a stray feather from, oh as a random example, an angel's wing? A helpful note detailing exactly where he was going and how long he might be gone for? A circle of runes burnt into the nearest flat surface large enough to walk through?”

“Oh yes, how silly of me, I completely forgot to mention the ransom note of newspaper clippings,” Anathema replied, so lightly that it managed to loop back around to scathing. “No, of course there wasn't anything there.”

Crowley dragged in a breath, and let it out so gustily that he almost missed the little um that came down the line.

“What?”

“Um. Well, actually.  Now that you mention it. Pepper did say that when she tried to call him, her phone sort of. Caught fire?”

Crowley blinked, which was something he didn't do often, and always felt a little bit weird about.

“It what?”

“Caught fire.”

“S’what I hoped you hadn't said.”

“Mhm. Shit?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, and his laugh was so far from humour that he suspected it wouldn't even be visible as a little dot on the horizon. “Couldn't have put it better myself.”

The first thing Crowley did after hanging up was try to phone Adam himself. It was lucky that angels, and those originally of angel-stock, had a good head for remembering numbers,  though in this case it was made simpler by the fact that Adam had thought it was funny that every mobile number he'd had since he'd been gifted his first phone aged thirteen had ended with 666. He dialled quickly, and held his unnecessary breath as the phone began to ring. He glared down at the ancient landline, silently daring it to try anything so silly as bursting into flames. Whether because it feared a fate worse than fiery death, or just because it had no more reason to than at any other time it had been used, the phone did nothing more than ring. It then rang several more times, before a detachedly cheerful voice implored him to leave a voicemail.

Was that a good sign? Crowley honestly wasn't sure at this point. He made a note of it anyway, just in case.

Aziraphale groaned from his spot at his desk, and dropped his head into his hands.

“What?” Crowley asked. “What did Agnes have to say about all this?”

Aziraphale groaned again.

“Well that's half the problem,” he said. “Without any context it's almost impossible to be sure. Trying to decipher a prophecy before it's come to pass is like trying to derive meaning from –”

“From one particular needle in a stack full of other, identical and maybe just as important needles?”

“Well. Yes, now that you mention it,” Aziraphale turned to face him, wide eyed. “I just don't understand! There's been nothing for years, no movement from either side, no interest in Adam whatsoever. What could have possibly changed, and without either of us noticing?”

“I mean, are we sure it was Heaven or Hell? There's lots of other things out there that might be interested in the antichrist.” Not many that would be capable of hiding themselves from both an angel and a demon, and vanishingly few that would also be capable of persuading Adam to go with them. Unless he wanted to, of course, but Crowley was trying not to think about that too much. Would it be the better outcome for everyone involved? Possibly, but he wasn't willing to bet on it. Certainly not when he would be betting Adam's life, or mind, or general wellbeing6.

“But surely we still would have heard something. I know neither of us keep up with the latest news bulletins, but I hardly think any plans of this sort of scale would be quiet.”

It was a fair point. They each had their contacts among the various communities on this and a few other planes of existence. Not that either of them got out much these days, but it didn't take too much effort to send a letter here, or listen to an ominous whisper there. But, as Aziraphale had quite rightly pointed out, there had been nothing.

“Right, and I'm guessing you haven't accidentally been sent any golden post-its?”

Aziraphale shot him a look so withering that Crowley suspected it may have been used as a weapon of righteous smiting a time or two, back in the day.

“Of course not! I don't hear from Heaven any more than you do from Hell. Less, I should imagine. It's not as though my lot ever thought to take out advertising space in the middle of your new radio plays with the fancy name, or start keeping in touch via electronic mail.”

Resisting the urge to point out that they’re podcasts angel, not radio plays, we've been over this and I know you remember what they're called, I know you're doing this to me on purpose, because Aziraphale had, once again, made a very good point. Even if he wasn't aware of it.

"Huh. Yeah. Hang on – maybe Hell sent something out. Lemme check."

Crowley wove his way around the piles of books in a fashion that probably would have looked hurried on anyone else, but on him looked mostly like the room had rearranged itself to minimise the number of steps required to get to the door of Aziraphale's office.

"Let you check? Check what, Crowley, I didn't think you were, ah – what's the phrase? Connected to Hell's net-works anymore." 

Perhaps one day Aziraphale would manage to drag himself into something resembling the twenty-first century, Crowley mused glumly. If the off-white plastic box humbly masquerading as a computer on his other desk were any indication, it wouldn't be before the world once again tried to off itself. He tapped the enter key impatiently a few times until the screen lit up, something that came as a terrible shock to the computer – which was, until that very moment, both switched off and unplugged. Crowley, who had never plugged in a single appliance in his life and didn't intend to start now, hadn't bothered to check. 

Brilliant things, computers – except for when they weren't.

Despite its age, the computer in question had a healthy appetite for its continued existence, and so at Crowley's impatient prompting, navigated itself to Gmail without any of the ponderous delays it usually employed. Aziraphale was particularly forgiving of ponderous delays, as they provided an ample excuse to refill his mug of tea. Somehow, it suspected the irate demon wiggling the mouse wouldn't be quite as keen on a page that loaded just slowly enough to pop the kettle on.

The thing about Hell was that they wanted to give the impression that they were always aware of your every move, no matter what plane of existence you happened to be residing in at the time. It wasn’t true, of course – Crowley knew that better than almost anyone – but that didn't stop them putting in a reasonable amount of effort to maintain the illusion. Mostly it was just a bit of a hassle, but at times it could come in handy. 

Like now, for instance. Hell wanted its agents on Earth to feel just as surveilled as the poor buggers still Down There, so as well as just butting into whatever you happened to be watching or listening to anytime they wanted your attention, they'd also made sure you could access every one of your emails, memos, and warnings from any service provider anywhere in any world. A bit unnerving, perhaps, but useful for any demon willing to get a bit creative7.

It was also a relatively impressive feat, given that Hell itself had only just managed to install dial-up a couple of years immediately prior to the world not-ending. Crowley'd only stuck his head in once or twice in that time, but the noise had been God… had been Satan…

It had been Someone-awful.

"Mm, I'm not, technically," Crowley replied, stabbing at the keyboard.

There was no technically about it. Crowley had been removed from Hell's mailing list, so to speak. His account had been wiped out, and it was mostly luck, a few miracles here and there, and currying favour with the then-pre-teen antichrist8 that had kept him from being wiped out right alongside it. 

It was, then, fortunate that every demon in Hell had been assigned a username with the same standard formula (rank, hyphen, circle of Hell, hyphen, name) as well as the same password (HailSatan123!, no hyphens). It was also quite fortunate that Crowley was the only one capable of figuring out how to change the password9. He'd been keeping tabs on Hastur's account since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't; partly to stay in the loop, and partly to laugh at the ongoing chain between Hastur and Dagon as they argued over who would get to claim the soul of, as they put it, 'that Nigerian prince feller'.

The computer, having a better sense of self-preservation than most of the human race, accepted both username and password with remarkable speed, and only one single pop-up box that politely enquired if the user might like to save their password for their own convenience and improved experience in the future? At Crowley's pointed handwave, the box promptly vanished, and he was – as the hackers said – in.

It was tempting, as it always was, to take the time to sift through the near-countless unread emails to find something fun. The latest update in the exchange with Dagon (the subject line of which now had too many Re:s to be readable, but no doubt chronicled precisely how close they each were to securing the soul of the next in line to the Nigerian throne for their lord and master) was right there, bracketed by countless – pointless – memos from low-level imps, and a call for any last-minute rota swaps from Andromalius. Not that any swap requests would be entertained, much less honoured. Hard to swap shifts when you were always working, and utterly unable to escape.

"Well?" Aziraphale asked, having abandoned his heavenly patience at the door. Even the computer shuddered a little. Crowley, not to be outdone by a piece of hardware and also rather more certain of his place in Aziraphale's good graces, decidedly did not.

“Hold your bloody horses,” Crolwey muttered. “It's not like the idiot has any sort of organisational system. Or any sort of system at all, come to think of it.” He scrolled a little more, scanning in a way that he would never, under any circumstance, admit to being frantic. Aziraphale rested a hand soothingly on his shoulder, which he thought was a little rich, given the angel's reaction to Anathema's call.

In fact, his not-frantic scrolling was fast enough that at first, he glanced right past the innocuous little email that had been sent out to everyone from an email address that was, even to Crowley, incomprehensible, and whose subject line simply read: get out. He might have written it off as chain mail, of the sort that hadn't been seen anywhere except Hell for approximately ten years, and promised a grisly fate if one didn't send it on to at least twenty of one's dearest friends and family, were it not for the abiding sense of dread that filled him when he hovered the cursor over it10.

By definition, as a demon, Crowley wasn't meant to be put off by abiding senses of dread. In fact, he was meant to be not only drawn to senses of abiding dread, but also frequently responsible for them. 

Despite this, Crowley found himself hesitating long enough that Aziraphale noticed.

“Do you think that's–?” He asked, trailing off as Crowley swallowed hard and opened the email. They both read in silence11, the dawning horror of its contents creeping up on them rather like a spider in the shower – that was to say, a moment of peace before they truly registered just what they'd seen, followed by an immediate rejection of any reality where this could be allowed to happen, particularly while one was already in so vulnerable a state as nudity, or having just received word that the antichrist was, once again, missing.

“That,” Aziraphale started, before taking a shaky breath and trying again. “That does at least explain what Agnes was on about with that bit about the Tempest.” He cleared his throat, which did absolutely nothing to help the situation, and continued, “I should probably phone Anathema back. Be a dear, and pop the kettle on, won't you? I think I could do with a strong cup of tea.”

Crowley nodded distantly, and made no move to get up. In the kitchenette at the back of the shop, the kettle obediently clicked itself on, having assumed (rightly) that Crowley wasn't quite up to the trip just yet. Instead, he just stared at the screen through blurry eyes and tried to pretend this was all just a bad dream. 

Hell is empty, he thought morosely,  reading over the email that was, for all intents and purposes, an eviction notice, and all the devils are here.

Meanwhile, some six miles away as the raven flies12, a young man slouched his way into a pleasant London pub just in time to miss the lunch rush.

1 Here, the reader may wish to substitute ‘supporting local businesses’ with ‘attempting to flirt with a local barista over poorly-roasted coffee and soggy pastries’

2 Adam was the only one among Them that had never succumbed to the tempting lure of the library's sleepy clutches, a point all of Them were working hard to ignore

3 Though to call it a book club was, perhaps, a generous exaggeration. For the most part it was two like-minded individuals enjoying a cup of tea in mutual, silent appreciation. The occasional discussions regarding fine literature and unusual misprints were a pleasant addition rather than a requirement 

4 a more understanding smile had never before, nor since, been mustered

5 the chair in question was a rather hideous paisley, which left an unpleasant taste in Crowley's mouth but would serve to cheer the angel when he was again in a fit state to notice such things

6 And, by extension, lives, minds, and wellbeing of the rest of Creation

7 Crowley, exclusively 

8 A simple enough endeavour for Crowley, as there is very little difference between a pre-teen antichrist and a pre-teen human, and functionally no difference at all between a pre-teen human and a demon

9 As well as the only one that had managed to switch on the spam filter

10 Not to be confused with the generally abiding sense of dread felt while one was generally checking one's emails

11 Aziraphale just a touch faster than Crowley,  though the difference was so slight as to be effectively negligible 

12 Which is not quite as direct as the crow flies, particularly if the raven in question is new to the job and easily distracted (not to mention still unpracticed at flying against the wind) but still a sight more direct than a magpie making the same trip

[nicnevans]

how many hue correction layers before i go insane i wonder

[extrasfromthevoid]

Draxum's Accidental Child Acquisition (part 2/?)

@tmntbestsibscompetiton

Summary: Draxum continues to be figure out how to balance being a father with molding his found child into a weapon of war.

------

Teaching Spawn to speak is a slow, arduous process, but a steady one. Draxum is starting with the standard surface tongue for now as it sees the widest use, even down in the Hidden City, but he intends to teach Spawn his native language at a later date. No sense in confusing the child’s small brain more than he has to.

Spawn still wakes crying most nights and then subsequently wakes him, either with her noise or by somehow clambering into his bed chambers and burrowing under his covers. However, the longer her lessons continue, the more intelligible her descriptions of her night terrors becomes. And they’re suspiciously consistent.

A hypothesis percolates in the back of his mind, but it's so out there that it can't possibly be true. Right?

Then one night, over the course of Draxum’s nightly observation of his young charge, he notices something in the darkness. A glow. So faint that he can only see it in near total darkness, but there is definitely a gentle golden light leaking from under Spawn’s eyelids.

Now, Draxum sits by Spawn’s bedside, bent over with his chin level to the mattress, utterly mesmerized as he watches her eyes twitch under her eyelids and small snatches of golden light leak out.

One possibility comes to Draxum’s mind as he recalls Spawn’s earlier behavior and testimonies, and the prospect excites him greatly. To think his hopeful little hypothesis actually held water!

“Incredible…,” he quietly marvels. “A human with an innate mystic gift…and such a rare one at that…!”

And he just found her wandering through the Hidden City! What luck he had to just stumble across something so rare. If Draxum thought that Spawn being his care was for the better before, he is beyond certain of it now. If Spawn’s innate gift is what Draxum thinks it is, then the humans would have had no idea how to guide her. Worse, they would have no doubt stifled and squandered her gift out of the ignorance that characterizes the human race.

Knowledge of the future is a heavy burden to bear, after all. But under Draxum’s tutelage, Spawn will bear it well.

——— “Keep your focus, Spawn!” Draxum bellows.

“Yes, Baba!"

One of Draxum’s plant constructs swings a coiled fist at the small child darting between its legs, armed only with a short blade. The construct only narrowly misses her as she rolls to the side at the last second. Draxum huffs, pleased.

Draxum purposefully made the construct to be fairly slow and lumbering, and its vines are soft rather than covered in rigid bark. Even if Spawn failed to dodge, she wouldn’t suffer terrible injury. After all, this would all be pointless if Spawn died or was badly injured during a mere training exercise.

Draxum watches on, intrigued as Spawn grabs onto the vines making up the construct’s fist as it pulls back, letting it pull her up with it. Using the momentum, Spawn climbs up the construct’s arm with impressive dexterity, slashing some of its densely coiled vines as she goes, using one to swing herself further up the creature as it quickly unravels and the creature tries to swat at her with its other hand. On its shoulder, Spawn drives her blade deep into the construct’s throat, swinging herself across the construct, dragging her blade along and severing the construct’s head. The construct stills for a moment before losing all structural integrity and collapses into a mess of vines.

Spawn tucks and rolls as the construct falls out from under her, springing back up onto her feet directly in front of Draxum, stumbling a little before standing attention with a proud grin on her face.

“Very good,” Draxum says

Spawn grins wider.

“If that was your first time,” Draxum finishes.

The grin falters and the child grows sheepish, as Draxum runs through the laundry list of mistakes she made during the exercise.

Granted, Draxum is truly impressed by the speed at which Spawn is improving. She’s grown into an excellent warrior despite her young age. If Draxum hadn’t known better, he’d conclude that Spawn had literally been made for combat, impossible though that is. But he can’t let her rest on her laurels and grow complacent. After all, if she is to lead Draxum’s army to take the surface back from the humans, Spawn will need to be more than excellent.

She will need to be perfect.

“Now. Why don’t we start with your landing?”

——— Spawn sits in the chair, her right arm belted down securely to the armrest, watching as Baba putters around his lab. She doesn’t really know or understand the specifics of what he’s doing, but knows the basic idea well enough. Baba is creating something that is supposed to make her stronger. Something that well ensure she can keep up with the army she’s meant to lead, and maybe even outpace them.

Baba had been rambling about this powerful entity that had appeared to protect the humans with strength and power far outstripping theirs. Again, most of it went over Spawn’s head, but Baba had been giddy with glee at finally attaining a usable sample of DNA from this entity, bragging that he would use it to further augment Spawn.

Spawn would be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous, but she trusts Baba. He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t think she would be safe.

Baba turns towards Spawn with a syringe of glowing green liquid, a solemn look on his face.

Spawn’s anxiety churns uncomfortably in her stomach at the sight of the needle.

“Are you ready, Spawn?” Baba asks gently.

Spawn nods, pointedly looking away from the syringe before she can lose her nerve and probably her lunch.

A cold, sterile swab is rubbed over Spawn’s upturned wrist. The spot numbs slightly and then Spawn feels the needle prick her wrist, sliding expertly into her vein.

Spawn doesn’t see when Baba pushes the plunger down, but she feels it as the moment the serum enters Spawn’s body, her nerves are alight with blinding pain. Only the straps buckled around her wrist and the crook of her elbow keeps Spawn from jerking her arm away from the offending needle, but even those creak and strain ominously as Spawn bucks in her seat as the pain quickly spreads. It feels like liquid fire is being injected into her veins, so unlike the concoctions Baba has used on her to ensure her health that feel like nothing at all.

It hurts.

It hurts so much.

A scream tears itself from Spawn’s throat, raw and primal as she feels her body burn from the inside, before she even realizes.

Finally, Baba pulls the needle out just as the straps restraining her arm finally give and snap. Spawn feels the leather cut her skin, but whatever pain it produces is utterly and totally eclipsed by what roars in her veins. She pulls her arm close to her in a futile effort to dim the pain that rapidly spreads through her. Blind with this agony, Spawn tries to scratch at her arm, hoping futilely to claw the offending poison out if she had to. Her nails were surely sharp enough to pierce her own flesh.

Except her clawing fingers are ripped away again and again until it gets through to her—even in her frenzied and pain-blinded state—that something won’t let her claw her own veins out.

All she can do is continue to scream and writhe, tears streaming down her face as the pain rips and stabs and burns and breaks.

Distantly, Spawn thinks she hears Baba frantically speaking above her, but the pain is louder than his words, especially as she feels his calloused hands on her as she nearly thrashes out of the chair. His touch—usually a comfort to her—feels like a hot iron pressing against her skin, and she jerks away with a wounded yelp.

Spawn keeps screaming.

And screaming.

She screams until her voice is all gone and even after that, even though she is still consumed with immeasurable pain. Movement hurts. Stillness hurts. Touch hurts. The lack of touch hurts. Her perception of the world has been abruptly narrowed to this overwhelming pain, her thoughts wholly consumed by her misery.

Her every nerve is alight and all they have to announce is pain, inescapable and unending.

She wants to keep screaming. She needs to. If she stops, she’ll have nothing to distract from the pain she’s in and it’s already bad enough even as she screams her little lungs out. But her voice has been wrung out, reduced to choked gargles and whispers that do little to drown the deafening roar of her agony.

Spawn doesn’t know exactly when it happens, but her vision goes dark and she throws herself willingly into its depths. Anything to escape this pain. — When she wakes, Spawn finds herself cradled in her Baba’s lap, his head bowed and eyes ringed in dark circles, visible in the firelight of the parlor even in his sleep. The roaring pain has dulled to a persistent but much more bearable bone-deep ache. Her throat is dry and hurts the most of all.

Shifting minutely to get more comfortable, Baba jerks awake, looking around the room frantically before looking down at her with wild eyes.

“Spawn!?” He exclaims. “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

“Sore…,” Spawn rasps. She grimaces. “And thirsty…”

In an instant, Baba is up, carrying Spawn in his arms. Spawn winces as she’s jostled, but Baba is beyond gentle as he carries her into the kitchen.

Baba is silent as he prepares a lidded cup for Spawn to drink from, holding her in the crook of one arm the whole time.

Spawn wants to gulp down the contents of the offered cup, but Baba keeps her intake slow and steady. When the whole cup is drained,

Spawn’s throat feels a little less raw.

“What happened…?” She asks hoarsely.

Baba forces a smile and sets the cup aside, clawed fingers lightly brushing her hair back from where sweat stuck it to her forehead.

“I-I’m sorry,” he murmurs brokenly. “I…I didn’t expect it to hurt you this much.”

Spawn leans a little into the touch, quietly thankful that even this feather-light touch doesn’t alight her nerves with agony now.

Exhaustion creeps back in, dragging her eyes closed.

“I forgive you,” she mumbles before sinking back into the depths of sleep, safe and secure in her Baba’s embrace. ——— (Previous) (Next)

[ikemenomegas]

hey io! what does myy stand for? love your work!

hello dear!

myy stands for "my younger years" and loosely refers to the fic chain and sequence of events surrounding the oc I made up to pair with gojo and/or getou.

I started calling it that because I compiled the central, largely canon compliant with regard to events, fics together on ao3 under the same name: my younger years so that they could be read as a body, since I started getting a little self-referential with the pieces, and started fleshing out the oc backstory more. The title refers to the song 'wasting my young years' by london grammar

[koushirouizumi]

@izumikoushiroweek -

(For Reblog day!) [*Though the intended pair was/Is Koushiro x Taichi, it can also be viewed as semi canon-compliant.]

Note: -This video’s embed may randomly not display at times, Showing like it’s “down”, but it’s not at this time! {It usually happens late at night[s] or seemingly when Tumblr is experiencing very high traffic} If that happens, please consider checking back in and watching at a later time!

{A.M.V.} Digimon Adventure x 02 x tri. x 2020 featuring Character{s}/DUO/SHIP/O.T.P: Koushiro{u} Izumi x Taichi Yagami {KOUTAI}/{Taishiro}

Title: Part of {THIS} World

Song: Part of Your World (from The Little Mermaid) © D.I.S.N.E.Y Series: Digimon © Toei Animation

Summary:

“Oh, there is SO MUCH I DON’T KNOW, There is SO MUCH I HOPE {T H E Y} [TEACH] M E, WHY does a fire ‘burn’? TELL Me,”

Keep reading

[konigbabe]

PERISH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x gn!reader Word count: 1.6k Tags/warnings: no y/n; manga spoilers (post Shibuya timeline); canon-compliant; angst; death; emotional breakdown; hurt/no comfort; loss; grief Summary: For the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks. Happy start of JJKS2 writing week.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

November 2018 8 minutes until Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

"Don’t worry, I’ll make it on time. I’m right behind the corner."

"We can wait," Yuji’s voice carries through the car, the static of the Bluetooth speaker occasionally cracking.

It feels like years have passed since you last saw him. Sealed away in the prison realm, Gojo’s state remains a mystery. There’s no telling how being locked in a place where time and space don’t exist can affect even the strongest minds.

That’s what worries you. What if he’ll break? What if he goes crazy on all of you? What if he explodes; wipes you all out with his technique? An endless sea of ‘what if’ swirls inside your mind as you take another turn, the mountains on your left with an ocean view on your right.

"Don’t," you reassure the youngster, "don’t wait any longer."

"You should be here, though," Megumi jumps into the conversation, "You’re closest to that idiot. He’ll want to see you."

His words draw a smile on your lips. It’s finally happening. The sleepless nights are coming to an end with the arrival of your lover.

"Then I’ll just opt for a dramatic entrance while you keep him busy," you respond before tightening your hands on the wheel. A familiar feeling washes over you; sudden knowledge of a new presence. Heart picking up, your eyes search the road for the source while the car’s speed slowly drops.

32 seconds; that’s how long it takes you to locate the source. A curse spirit manifestation stands in the middle of the road, blocking you. Its small hunched build stands a mere meter above the ground; four arms decorated by translucent fins hanging by its body, the prehnite skin glistening in the last rays of today’s sun, giving off a wet, moist appearance.

"Boys," you announce, stopping Yuji’s and Megumi’s bickering while still keeping up the cheerful, light voice in an attempt to not raise suspicions about your current predicament, "don’t wait any longer. Unseal Satoru and stop worrying ‘bout me. It’ll be fine."

Bringing the car to a slow halt, Yuji’s tone shifts into a more attentive one as your name seeps through the speaker before you hang up after one more reassurance.

As you step out of the vehicle, the curse's malevolence engulfs the air, almost tangible in its intensity. It clings to the atmosphere like a poisonous fog, penetrating your senses with a pungent sulfuric odor that threatens to overwhelm you.

Your hand slips inside your jacket to retrieve a carefully preserved seal, reserved for such precarious situations; just like this one.

"I’m sorry," with every footfall, the curse seems to shrink in size, yet its malicious nature grows stronger, the smell of sulfur almost suffocating, "but I’m in a hurry right now and you," pointing the parchment paper towards the spirit, "are in my way."

Swift and precise, your movements carry an aura of practiced precision. With little effort, you firmly press the seal upon the spirit's head, causing it to stumble momentarily before dissipating into thin air, vanquished by the power contained within the sigil.

Yet, the energy lingers.

Stronger than before. Stronger than a second ago. Its absent defense, non-existent attempt to fight or flee…it all makes sense now —

A powerful grip; a strong hand adorned with talons as keen as the finest blades dig into your shoulder as an inhuman force pushes you to the side.

As you're thrust aside, your vision catches a subtle glimmer of chrysolite, a hue that seeps into your perception; its scales are sturdy, each edge honed to a dangerous sharpness. Driven by instinct and the will to protect yourself, you reach out, your hand making contact with the curse spirit’s scaly hide.

The jagged edges of its scales cut into the delicate flesh of your fingers, leaving trails of crimson in their wake.

— it was a decoy.

Your body collides with the unforgiving side of the mountain, back meeting the rough and unyielding surface. A symphony of pain resonates within your bones, their structural integrity compromised as multiple cracks reverberate through your form.

Gasping for breath, your body instinctively seeks solace, but find none amidst the terrain. The curse doesn’t wait either. Swiftly moving forward, it lunges at you. Unforgiving. With a clear intent to strike. To kill.

During Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

There is no pain. The moment the curse’s hand breaches the barrier of your chest, you expect it. Expect some kind of visceral reaction. But there’s none — a gentle pinch, akin to a fleeting touch when the sharp claws first pierce through the protective layers of your breastplate. A slight discomfort upon the feeling of having a foreign object that’s found its place within the confines of your ribs. The barrier of your rib cage offers minimal resistance, yielding to the relentless advance that seeks to reach the very core of your being. The heart.

It all feels confusing.

"Kenjaku sends his regards," it whispers, the words slurred by the razor-sharp fangs that protrude from its mouth.

October 31, 2018 — 8:09 PM

"What’s the worst that can happen?"

Satoru saunters around the corner of the table, his presence punctuated by the audible slurping of juice from a small cartoon container. All while your palms rest on top of the said furniture, fingernails tapping at the surface.

The news has spread fast through the jujutsu community, faster than wildfire. Whispers of an unknown curtain cast around Shibuya an hour ago, trapping all non-sorcerers, innocent civilians, inside its insidious grasp with only one demand: Bring Satoru Gojo.

"Don’t say it like that, Satoru," you turn to face the man whose casual and dismissive demeanor only adds fuel to the worries setting inside your bones.

"They’re a bunch of curses," his hand finds its place on your hip bone while placing the empty container away, "Some special grades, yeah, but they’re weak compared to me. I’ll deal with them, save some people in the meantime, and bam," he snaps his fingers loudly, "We can go home. Get that sunset date you’ve been babbling about. Life is good," he finishes with a kiss on the crown of your head.

Life is good.

You watch the sun dip below the horizon behind the curse spirit’s back, indulging the sinister being in a halo glow.

Yeah. In the end, life was good.

2 hours and 48 minutes after Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

For a moment, he stands still. Unable to look down; frozen in time. The weight of it all seems to bear down upon his shoulders – now that Sukuna’s taken over Megumi’s body, Nanami’s and Yaga’s death, Suguru’s body being used as a vessel, the slow crumbling fall of the Jujutsu world – and now you; being gone.

Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer of the current time. Yet even his immense power proves futile as the people he loves keep dying on him…because of him.

A burden that threatens to crush him beneath its insurmountable gravity.

The air around him hangs heavy with sorrow, as if the very essence of grief has manifested itself in the atmosphere. A storm of emotions swirls within him; a combination of disbelief, anguish and a gnawing ache that gnashes at the core of his being.

He clenches his fists, fingers trembling with a mixture of sorrow and determination. In that agonizing moment, he finds the strength to finally lower his gaze, to confront the devastating truth that lies at his feet.

Everyone holds their breaths, the weight of his misery echoing in the silence as his eyes meet the lifeless visage of the one he holds dearest.

Of you.

Hand reaching out, his fingers graze the once-soft flesh of your hand; now cold and stiff. It serves as a confirmation of reality. There’s no getting you back, no way Shoko can nurture you back to health with her technique.

You’re gone.

And in that harrowing instant, the façade crumbles. The walls he built to contain his pain come crashing down, and Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks.

Crumbling down on his knees, the vulnerability that spills forth from his broken form is raw and unrestrained. Only a handful of those closest to him stand behind to witness the symphony of torment that pierces the silence. Tears stream down his face, each drop carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words, moments you two could’ve spent together.

One hand covering his mouth to silence the guttural sounds, the other reaches out to you, tenderly cradling your lifeless head upon his lap. He clings to the fragile hope that if he could provide just enough warmth and love, you might return to him.

Yuji looks around the room, at the people who silently observe their friend fall apart. Taking a step towards the hunched man, a soft grasp stops him mid step; Kiyotaka shakes his head, pushing his glasses back in place as Shoko looks down. For the first time, she’s unable to figure out her classmate, her childhood friend, the man whose side she’s always stayed by.

"Gojo," Yuji doesn’t allow Kiyotaka to stop him. Believing in what’s right, he stands behind his teacher’s back.

Hand laying on the tense muscle of his shoulder, he doesn’t attempt to comfort Satoru with any words — no words in this universe would bring you back anyway. Instead, his hand just rests there. Unmoving. Gentle.

"Who did it," his words cause Shoko to look back up as Satoru, stone-faced and stoic, speaks in a firm, devoid voice. Imagines of unspeakable horror flashes in his mind as he stands up, towering over the wide-eyed Yuji.

"Tell me now," his eyes search Kiyotaka’s, voice filled with undeniable authority, "I’ll kill them, kill them all."

[ginnsbaker]

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (2/?)

Part summary: Leigh goes on a double date with Jules. You reach a tipping point with Leigh's relentless hostility towards you.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5,072 | Warnings/Tags: None for now... smut eventually, enemies to lovers A/N: So... this turned into more than a two-shot. But it will still be a mini-series. It's also kinda slow burn for a mini series (lol). Also, this isn't canon compliant at all. Meaning, I took a lot of liberties and added stuff to Leigh and Matt's relationship, and it doesn't follow the timeline of the show. With that said, enjoy!

Masterlist | Part I | Next Part

-

The vet bills hit Leigh's bank account way harder than she’s willing to admit. 

She knew taking care of pets could get pricey, but she thought that was just for those on their last leg, like Matt's dog, Rogue. Facing those steep costs made her think twice about turning down Drew's offer a while back to bring back her advice column. So, she calls him up as soon as she pays up a quarter of the charges on her credit card for Visitor's medical expenses.

Drew answers on the second ring. “Hey Leigh, what's up?”

Leigh doesn’t beat around the bush. She never has to with her best friend. “Can we meet at the cafe? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure. Be there in 20,” Drew replies right away.

The coffee shop they frequent is a small local business that specializes in cold brews. Leigh’s favorite thing about it is not the coffee though, but its interior: mismatched chairs, bookshelves lining the wall, and the temperature that’s always just right. Leigh arrives first, securing their favorite table near the window. Drew walks in a few minutes later, coffee already in hand, and greets her with a warm smile.

“Okay, spill. What's going on?” Drew asks as he takes a seat.

“I've been thinking... about the column. I was wrong to turn it down. I want back in.”

The look of utter surprise on his face tells Leigh this was the last thing he expected. She senses his response won't be a straightforward yes.

“I'd be thrilled to have you back, Leigh, I really would—”

“But?” Leigh cuts in. She doesn’t need to hear a bullshit ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ excuse. She wishes Drew would just be as direct with her as she is with him.

Drew lets out a sigh. Under different circumstances, saying no to Leigh would be as easy as declining an upsell from a McDonald's cashier. However, ever since Leigh became a widow, rejecting her feels significantly harder, even though he's well aware that Leigh values honesty over pity.

“But the thing is, the new writer’s really hitting it off with our audience. She's had a string of articles go viral lately.”

Leigh doesn’t look at all impressed by that. “Yeah, I heard.”

Personally, Drew’s not a fan of the new writer's style, and honestly, he still prefers Leigh. It would just be a hard sell if he brought this up to management. As the saying goes: if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

“Look, I still think you have a unique voice. You know I’d still take advice from you over the new girl.”

Leigh scoffs a little at that, shaking her head. Drew rolls his eyes; it’s typical of Leigh to never know how to take a compliment. He continues, “How would you feel about guest writing? Maybe for the first couple of weeks, we could find a way to incorporate your insights into a series or a special feature.”

It’s not what she hoped for, but she recognizes the olive branch for what it is.

And she’ll take it. 

“I... yeah, I think that could work, Drew. I've got a ton of new ideas, and this... this could be great,” Leigh says. “Uhm, thanks.”

Drew grins. “I thought you'd like that. Let's kick off with a couple of guest pieces, see how it goes.”

Leigh half-heartedly returns his enthusiasm just as her order of cheeseburger and affogato are served.

“Anything new with you?” Drew asks, his voice taking on that tone he reserves for the really good gossip. Knowing Drew's helping her out, Leigh figures a little life update wouldn't hurt as a form of thanks.

That update is about you. And the moment Leigh spills the beans, Drew's face lights up like a Christmas tree. But his excitement fizzles out just as fast when he figures out Leigh's got nothing scandalous to say. All she mentions is how you might've missed the mark by not doing your homework on the guy you were seeing.

“What’s your plan then?”

“Seems like everyone’s asking me that,” Leigh says flatly.

“You took your stray to her place, right? So, there must be some sort of plan. I mean, you could've gone to any other vet if you wanted to avoid her.”

“Yeah, but her clinic's location is so convenient, and I didn't want to shrink my world just for her.”

Drew hums in response. Leigh admits she’s been unusually passive with you. Normally, she'd confront issues head-on, but even almost half a year later, she still hasn’t fully processed Matt’s death, let alone his cheating. She's been trying a new tactic, almost as if by ignoring her problems, she hopes they'll fade away on their own. She seems to be betting on the idea that if she pretends long enough, maybe one day she'll wake up and find those issues have lost their grip on her. 

“I don’t know Leigh, the whole thing’s weird,” Drew says, scrunching up his face a bit.

“It’s not like I’m trying to make a friend or enemy out of her,” Leigh replies with a shrug. “I’m just using her services as a doctor, and she’s getting paid for it. That’s all there is to it.”

“Oh, so that’s why you need your old job back. She’s draining your purse,” he says, smirking as he adds, “Bitch.”

“You don’t have to call her that,” Leigh chides, though the corner of her mouth twitches in amusement. Deep down, she understands the twisted satisfaction in disliking someone without having to justify it.

“The funniest thing that can happen is if you two actually end up being friends,” Drew quips, picking up an accidental curly from Leigh’s plate.

Leigh finds that scenario hard to imagine, almost impossible. She doesn’t think she can be friends with someone Matt liked more than her.

-

Leigh is hunched over her laptop, with sheets of paper and colorful markers spread out on the table, meticulously designing missing dog posters for Visitor.

Jules, leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, watches Leigh for a moment before speaking up. “You know, you should've done that the second you decided to take Visitor in.”

Leigh doesn't look up from her screen. “His leg needed to be taken care of first,” she reasons.

Jules rolls her eyes, pushing off from the doorframe to come closer. “And? How did it go at the clinic?”

Leigh pauses, then lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I already told you about the tests Visitor had to go through. They said he’ll be fine.”

“I mean with the doctor, not the patient,” Jules clarifies with a smirk.

There's a beat of silence before Leigh quips, “No cat fights happened, I promise,” her eyes going back to her laptop.

“Any chance she knocked off a bit of the bill?” Jules asks, moving to sit behind Leigh to take a peek of her work. It looks like an 8th grader’s art project, but she bites back any criticisms.

“Nope.”

“Told you she’s a bitch,” Jules murmurs under her breath.

“It's not like anyone's doing charity work these days, especially not in this economy,” Leigh argues weakly.

“Yeah, right. Like she needs your money, Leigh. Veterinarians are loaded, if you didn’t know.”

“If you say so.”

Jules decides to drop the subject, and Leigh can hear her shuffling and thinking behind her.  

“Hey, there's something I've been wanting to ask you. Don't get mad, okay?”

“Prefacing like that? I'm bracing myself to be utterly scandalized,” Leigh says before smiling and sneaking a glance at Jules.

“Great, you’re cracking jokes again. That’s a good sign,” Jules deadpans but a second later, she’s smiling too. 

“Ask away,” Leigh prods.

Jules takes a deep breath, and then:

“Do you think you’re ready to meet someone new?”

Leigh suddenly stops, her fingers just hanging there above the keyboard, unsure of what to do next. What’s the protocol here? If three months is usually the cooling period after a break-up before one can start dating other people, then what's the deal when it's about a husband who's not only passed away but was also cheating? How does that work?

Before Leigh can come up with an answer, she realizes she's already saying no.

Jules groans. “Come on, it's just a double date. It'll be fun. You and me and—”

“I’m really not in the mood to meet other people, Jules.”

Jules cuts in, laying it on thick. “Leigh, seriously, when was the last time you went out and had a little fun? You're practically turning into a recluse. I won't stand by and watch my sister morph into the neighborhood's infamous dog lady.”

“Dog lady? Really?”

“I'm just saying, it's either try something new or start knitting dog sweaters for fun. Your choice.”

Jules can be a real pest sometimes; it’s an endearing quality except when they seem ready to go for each other's throats.

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” Leigh rests her chin on her hand, seriously considering the invitation for a second. “I don’t know how to meet people, Jules. I stopped meeting people when I met Matt. He was my entire world, you know?”

Jules softens, throwing her arms around Leigh’s shoulders. “I know. And I wouldn't push if I didn't think it could be good for you. Plus, I promise, if it's awful, I'll personally escort you out and we can ditch them for ice cream. How's that?”

Leigh senses that Jules won't give up until she gets a yes, so she decides to concede just this time and get it over with.

“Okay, okay, you win. I'll go on your stupid double date. But if this ends in disaster, you're buying me the biggest tub of ice cream you can find,” Leigh says, shrugging her sister off her.

Jules pumps her fist in victory. “Deal! You won't regret this, Leigh. And who knows? It might actually be fun.”

-

The double date goes surprisingly smoothly, except for the occasional touches coming from her date. To be fair, they are typical for a date and are executed with respect. However, for some reason, Leigh finds herself unusually conscious of every physical contact, making her anxious to move things along and call it a night.

As they step out of the restaurant, Leigh mentally scrambles to remember her date's name. She's bracing for the goodbyes, ready to retreat into the comfort of her room, when Tommy, Jules' girlfriend, suggests they cap the night off at a new bar. It turns out Leigh's date has an investment in the place. He jumps at the suggestion, clearly eager to flaunt this detail, perhaps hoping to impress her.

He does earn a sincere, “That’s cool,” from Leigh, just before she slides into the backseat of his car. Tommy quickly calls dibs on the front seat, leaving the siblings sitting next to each other in the back.

The new bar clearly wants to be the town’s next hotspot, but it seems to be trying too hard. It's got this odd vibe where you're not sure if you should be dancing or just looking around, wondering what it really wants you to do. But Leigh agreed to this, and she won’t embarrass Jules by ditching. 

“Can I get you something to drink?”

She stiffens a bit as he draws near, the heat of Patrick's breath—Jules had reminded her of his name during the car ride—making her uncomfortably aware of how close he is. She shifts, trying to put a polite distance between them without seeming too obvious about it. “Um, just a gin and tonic, please,” she says.

She practically sighs in relief as Patrick heads off to order, her eyes darting around the bar. The 90s R&B background gets her head bopping, but all she’s thinking about is her couch and an episode of Parks and Recreation waiting for her at home. Jules and Tommy are in their own little world, giggling and looking all cozy. Leigh never thought she could feel like a third wheel on a double date.

Patrick is taking his time, and when Leigh cranes her neck to peer over the bar, she catches him striking up a conversation with a blonde. Her eyes narrow into slits as she watches, both of them obviously charmed by the other as Patrick laughs at something she said, enjoying himself in a way he hadn’t all night. 

Leigh feels a prick of irritation. Sure, she hasn’t been giving him the time of his life, but they’re still on a date. Isn’t there some unwritten rule about not flirting with other people when you're supposed to be with someone?

She waits a bit longer, hoping Patrick would remember he was supposed to be getting her a drink and come back. However, he hasn't moved an inch from his spot and is even passing Leigh's drink to the woman as they keep chatting. Leigh’s mind races. She knows she isn’t into Patrick, has been giving him nothing but the bare minimum, yet she can't shake off the feeling of being slighted. It's not like she wanted his undivided attention, but this... this just seems rude.

She catches Jules looking at her, a questioning eyebrow raised. Leigh just shrugs, not sure how to explain the jumble of feelings she's experiencing without sounding petty or jealous. 

When Patrick finally comes back with her drink, the mood has already turned sour for Leigh. She musters a polite smile, accepts the gin and tonic with a thank you, but then heads to the bar on her own without saying anything more. At this point, she's indifferent to what Patrick, Tommy, or Jules might think or say of her; she's finished playing nice for the day. 

Leigh slams her gin and tonic like it's water, the sting barely registering. She signals for another without missing a beat and strangers start sliding over drinks with cheeky grins. She toasts to nothing, to no one, letting the conversations slip away before they can get even one word out.

By drink number six—or was it seven?—everything's spinning, laughter too loud, lights too bright. Leigh’s clinging to the bar for dear life when she thinks she sees you. But as quickly as the figure appears, it's lost again, leaving her questioning her ability to handle her alcohol. Back in her college days, Leigh could hold her liquor like a champ, thanks to endless nights of partying. But now, staring down at her drink, she realizes she might've overestimated her current tolerance. The alcohol hits harder than she remembers, making her head swim more than she'd like to admit. It's been a while since she's gone this hard, and her body isn't shy about reminding her.

The worst part of it though is why, of all the faces her mind could conjure up, it's choosing yours.

Just as she tries to shake off the bizarre vision, your face appears again, this time on the dance floor, writhing in a sea of thick, sweating bodies. You're dancing closely with a man, and it’s—

It’s Matt. 

Leigh blinks rapidly, attempting to dispel the hallucination because it's impossible; Matt is dead—this can't be real. 

But the image of you and Matt refuses to go away. She continues to see the way your grind against him, the way you caress his face as you pull it further into your neck. Anger surges through her, hot and uncontrollable, and before she knows it, her last shot of tequila crashes to the floor. Before the bartender or anyone else can even figure out what's happening, Leigh storms through the crowd, pushing her way to what she believes is you and her husband, and shoves the couple hard. The moment she does it, the fog in her brain finally clears.

She saw wrong. They’re just a random couple, looking as shocked as she feels mortified.

Humiliated and more drunk than she's willing to admit, Leigh doesn't stick around to apologize. Tears start to well up as she pushes through the crowd, dodging empty faces while Jules' calls fade into the background. She shoves through the last of the mob, bursts through the doors into the night, and freedom feels just a breath away. But that breath catches, twists into a violent churn in her gut, and she can barely stagger a few desperate steps away from the entrance before her knees are on the cold pavement, and she’s spilling out onto the ground in front of her. A few groans of disgusts from the people around her doesn’t register as she succumbs to the consequences of her indulgence. Shortly after, she remembers why she’s cut back on alcohol, apart from the fact that Matt abhors it, turns him off more than anything.

“Leigh?”

The voice is familiar, even if she’s heard it only a few times. Her head's spinning as she looks up, the chilly air slapping her face after the stuffiness of the club. She blinks, trying to clear the blur of tears and the aftereffects of one too many drinks, squinting at the figure stepping out from under the streetlights.

Your face, more clearly now under the lamp post is kind of sobering her up a bit.

So, were you actually there in the club, or is Leigh so haunted by thoughts of you and Matt—thoughts she's tried so hard to ignore and bury—that she managed to conjure you as a way to finally confront her true feelings about the entire situation? It’s always the battles with herself she never wins.

“Hey, you alright?” you ask, lowering yourself to get a better look at her but keeping back a bit—just enough space for her to catch her breath or in case she needs to throw up again.

Leigh doesn't respond, doesn't even seem to see you're there. You rummage through your crossbody bag, pulling out some wet wipes and offering them to her. She still doesn't look up, but grabs what you’re offering with a little force. 

She proceeds to wipe her mouth and then her entire face as you continue talking, words tumbling out in a nervous stream.

“I saw you back there, in the club. I wasn't sure if I should come up to you, you know, with everything that's happened... with me being... well, the person I am in all of this,” you explain softly. “And then I saw what happened, how upset you got. Sorry I followed you here, I…I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Leigh abruptly gets to her feet, and you instinctively step back, giving her more room than probably needed.

“Why?” Leigh fires at you, her tone so icy it almost makes you regret coming after her. You're taken aback, eyebrows scrunching up in confusion. 

Why what?

“Why do you even care?” she clarifies, eyeing you as if you're the densest person on the planet.

You grasp for something, anything that sounds like you're not just here out of guilt. “Anyone who knows you would be worried,” you say before you can think twice about what it could mean.

Leigh's laugh is sharp, cutting. “You don't know me,” she throws back.

“Yeah, I don’t,” you mumble to yourself. You wish you did, so you could fix this.

Leigh’s anger doesn’t let up. “You know what I think? You're playing the good Samaritan to scrub off your guilt. But not knowing Matt was married? That's on you. I bet you never asked too many questions because you wanted him to be Mr. Perfect—single, ready to mingle, the dream guy.”

Opening your mouth to argue, you find yourself at a loss. Leigh’s not entirely wrong. With Matt, you were in a bubble, caught up in the thrill of meeting someone who seemed so right, so honest. You clung to his every word, wanting to believe in this image of him you'd built up. 

The truth is, you never wanted to meet Leigh Shaw; you wanted to believe Matt's only fault was how he ended things with you, by disappearing.

But before you can admit to all of that, Leigh is already storming off. You think about chasing after her, but she spins around so fast at your footsteps, shooting you a threatening look and a low, “Stop following me,” that nails you to the ground. 

You keep staring at the spot she disappeared from, long after she's gone, wondering why Matt felt the need to find love elsewhere.

-

Leigh goes home, but not to an empty house. The second she opens the door, Visitor bounds into her arms, full of wiggles and wet nose kisses. Her mom's off somewhere, doing who knows what—Leigh's stopped trying to figure out where or why. Meanwhile, her phone buzzes with a string of voicemails from Jules, but Leigh's not in the mood to dive into those just yet. She decides they can wait till morning, along with the other missed calls and unread messages from strangers, asking for more information on Visitor.

For now, she peels off her socks and pants, leaving them scattered carelessly up the stairs before passing out on her bed.

-

Visitor’s follow-up check-up rolls around way too quickly for comfort. The moment Leigh steps through the clinic door with the dog in tow, you can practically cut the tension with a knife. Leigh's trying to keep it together, but her attempts at civility are imbued with a coldness that can’t be ignored.

With only a small ‘good morning’ from you and a nod from Leigh, you start the consultation, knowing you’d be doing her a favor if you just get right to it.

“How's Visitor been eating?” you ask as you work your stethoscope. 

“He eats fine,” Leigh drawls.

You nod, jotting down a note before moving on, “And his activity levels? Any changes there?”

Leigh’s response comes laced with sarcasm. 

“Oh, he's just peachy. Running marathons every morning.”

You clear your throat, trying to rein in your mounting annoyance at her childish behavior. “I'm just trying to get a complete picture,” you say.

But Leigh's not having any of it. Her comments grow sharper, her patience thinning, and it's clear she's more interested in taking jabs at you than discussing her dog's health.

Her last sarcastic remark has you drawing the line. “Leigh, you can be upset with me all you want outside of this clinic, but I won't tolerate disrespect while I'm trying to do my job,” you say evenly. “You're welcome to find another vet if you can't keep this professional. I have every right to refuse service if this continues. It's not what I want, but I'm not about to let you treat me any less professionally.”

Leigh goes quiet, yet she keeps her eyes locked on yours, decidedly not backing down. Then, after a tense moment, she mutters a single word, “Sorry.” It's not much, but it's something, and you decide to take it and move on.

“You mentioned something about a blood sample?” Leigh says, steering the conversation back to the reason she came in, and you're all for following her lead on this.

“Yeah, we need to check if his platelets are up and his infections are down, see if the meds are doing their job,” you explain. Then, veering a bit from standard procedure, you add, “Since this is a follow-up visit, I'm going to cut the lab test price in half for you.”

The discount evidently lifts her mood. It's not a perfect truce, but it's enough to get through the examination without any more barbs.

A while later, you're back with Visitor's CBC results in hand. “The infection's gone down, but it's still borderline,” you report, showing her the numbers. “We'll need to keep him on the medication for another week. And I'm adding some multivitamins and a specific diet to his regimen.” 

You scribble down the details, then note at the bottom of the pad about the discount—not just for the lab test, but for the prescriptions too.

Leigh takes the paper, scanning the details before her eyes finally meet yours. “Thank you,” she says, her voice softer than it's been.

“You’re welcome,” you reply with a smile before going back to your notebook, looking deep in thought. 

Leigh feels like you're back to your usual, friendly self. Yet she thinks she prefers the more raw, unfiltered version of you. The version that called her out earlier. These days, she's starving for that kind of honesty. Because having her as your client can’t be all that pleasurable. She's aware of how challenging she's been, and the straightforwardness somehow makes her feel more understood, more seen.

She wishes people would stop seeing her as Leigh: the one with the dead husband.

Then, out of nowhere, she asks, “When did you start working here?”

It's a seemingly insignificant question, yet coming from Leigh, it prompts you to close your notebook and focus entirely on her.

“I—”

“Because a year ago, I remember meeting a different doctor,” Leigh adds, absentmindedly running her fingers through Visitor’s coarse hair as he sleeps on her lap.

“You’ve been here before?”

It’s a painful memory—one that still sometimes brings tears to her eyes whenever it crosses her mind. Back then, the clinic bore a different name, and she and Matt had come together to say goodbye to Rogue.

“I have when it was still called Palm Coast,” she says.

You nod, understanding the context now. “Yeah, that was before my time. I bought this clinic on a whim after spending a few years practicing in Dubai.”

While most would latch onto the tidbit about your intriguing career history, Leigh zeros in on something else entirely, asking directly, “When did Matt start coming here?”

You shift uncomfortably at her question, and Leigh immediately regrets pushing too hard. She’s about to backtrack when you halt her apologies. “It’s okay. I’m open to talking about it, just not here,” you suggest. “How about over coffee?”

Leigh hesitates, then says, “Okay, let me just text my boss that I won't be able to lead the yoga class this morning.”

“It doesn’t have to be now. Tomorrow works,” you say.

Realizing her assumption, Leigh’s cheeks color slightly. “What time?”

Now it's your turn to feel a bit awkward. “Would 7 work? It's the only time I have before the clinic opens.”

“In the morning?” Leigh says again, making sure she heard you right.

You nod sheepishly in reply. 

“Or we could maybe—”

“No, it's okay,” Leigh interrupts quickly. She's usually up before sunrise anyway; the only change would be trimming her morning run a bit. And for a one-time chat to get the answers she's after, she figures she can make such a small sacrifice.

–

“Are you sure you want to return Visitor to his real family?”

True to form, it's Jules who breaks the two-day-long sibling spat. It's usually her who tries to smooth things over with an apology, even on days when Leigh isn't exactly the easiest person to deal with. Her therapist keeps telling her not to always be the one to buckle, especially when she's the one who's been hurt, that Leigh should be the one to step up and make things right for a change. 

But here she is, reaching out first, just like always—because waiting for Leigh to make the first move feels like waiting for snow in July.

“Oh, so you’re talking to me again?” Leigh says as if she's gearing up for another round of conflict rather than welcoming peace.

Jules ignores her and continues, “Have you actually tried to find Visitor's owners, or have you just kinda... kept him because it feels good to have him around?”

“So what if it feels good to have a dog who loves you and is loyal to you?”

Jules shakes her head in a condescending manner, which only serves to irritate Leigh further. As soon as her popcorn is done, she heads out of the kitchen, flops onto the couch, flips on the TV, and kicks her feet up on the coffee table. Jules follows her, opting to stand next to the TV, poised to yank the plug out if necessary.

“Leigh, you do understand that taking care of a dog isn't something to take lightly, right?” Jules starts, but she breaks off when the dog in question trots over, tail wagging, trying to coax Jules into picking him up.

Leigh acts like she hasn't heard a word, her eyes glued to the TV screen.

“I thought you'd learned something from what happened with Rogue—”

That hits a nerve. Leigh's quick to fire back, “Oh, and jumping into a serious relationship is super responsible, right? Especially when staying sober is part of the deal.”

Right after the words leave her mouth, Leigh regrets them deeply. She's painfully aware of Jules' long battle with alcoholism, a struggle that began in college and required more than a couple of tries before Jules could claim any sort of victory over her addiction. Leigh knows it's still a sore subject for Jules, still fighting her demons, making her comment unfairly harsh.

Though the retaliation didn’t come out of nowhere. Leigh caught Jules at the club, discreetly sipping a drink she swore off, and chose to keep quiet then to avoid causing a scene in front of Tommy. She had plans to bring it up later, but then her own slip-up with drinking, bailing on her date, and the fallout with Jules spiraled into one of their nastiest rows in a long while.

“Jules, I’m sorr—”

“Just save it, Leigh.”

Jules heads for the door, her hand clenched tight, barely hanging onto her emotions. Leigh feels the situation slipping further downhill, and she can't just stand back and watch things crumble even more. She's about to chase after Jules when the doorbell rings, stopping both of them cold.

But Jules doesn’t even bother with the door; instead, she veers off, storming upstairs with that telltale slam of her bedroom door echoing down. Leigh sighs, stuck in the aftermath, while Visitor starts barking at the door. Dragging her feet, Leigh heads over to open it, half-expecting another problem but hoping for a distraction.

Leigh definitely wasn't expecting Danny, and seeing him there, she gets the sinking feeling that this storm swirling around her isn’t going to blow over just yet.

[dancingtotuyo]

Woman | Joel Miller x Reader

Complete, Rating: Mature/Explicit

Watch her take me by surprise

When she lets me call her mine

Do you ever really know?

Can you ever really know?

Summary: Joel Miller returns to Jackson bringing back memories and feelings from 20 years ago, but you refuse fall into the universe’s trap again. Your table is at capacity. Adding another chair will only kill you when they get taken away.

Tags: Joel Miller X Reader. Age Gap. smut. hurt/comfort. Life in Jackson. single parent. post season/part I. Mostly TV show canon compliant. TV show versions of characters. playing with the timeline. Tommy’s been in Jackson for a lot longer.

Warnings: descriptions of blood, gore, trauma. Grief & loss. Loss of a spouse. Violence. Smut/Explicit content. Panic attacks, depression, anxiety. MISC canon topics. Chapter specific warnings before each chapter.

Playlist - Updated with each chapter release

Part I

1. tame the ghosts in my head 2. a clouded mind and a heavy heart 3. pick up your clothes and curl your toes 4. walk with me, i think we’ll find a way 5. sleep the hours that i can't weep 6. play my bloody part 7. when she lets me call her mine

Before - A Woman Story

Five peeks into your life before Joel Miller reentered it, recommended to read in between Part I & II of Woman

Part II

8. a cry of my heart to see 9. the fear of what’s to come 10. hold you from the world and its curse drabble. what's that i see? 11. up from the dust, inconceivable love 12. love with urgency but not with haste

drabble. love will not break your heart but dismiss your fears

Part III

13.with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair 14.in the cold light i live to love and adore you 15.holding my breath for you epilogue. the ghosts that we knew

More Reading:

lover of the light Willa's third birthday

Summer of '03 The bridge: A scene that happen in every universe and also the point of divergence.

Landslide A no outbreak AU: Can you and Joel find each other when society stands tall, dictating what is and is not acceptable? Or will it keep you from one another?

Bonus Content:

Art commission based on chapter 12

[lincolndjarin]

Every Now and Then - ch. one

[ I Dream of Something Wild ]

pairing : joel miller x f!reader, platonicsoulmate!tommy & f!reader

word count : 6.4k

summary : Joel Miller destroyed you. He loved you, then he left, leaving you in the New York City, QZ. But he's a good southern gentleman, so of course he didn't leave you without a reminder of the time you spent together. Four years later you're living in Jackson, in a lovely little ranch house. (With your reminder.) The last person you want to see is Joel Miller, unfortunately you've never been particularly lucky.

tags/warnings : 18+ mdni, angst, canon typical violence, injury, language, manipulation, joel takes advantage of readers situation, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, she is picked up by joel at one point but i'm a firm believer that he's strong enough to lift any one who may find themselves in the pov of our reader, joel is possessive and controlling, dark!joel miller in a sense?? like he's not really dark now but he's going to be, multiple time lines, not canon compliant, mentions of prostitution, i sorta made up my own timeline, i probs missed tags sorry!!

a/n : i really need to fix my writing schedule so i'm hoping that having a new fic to put my energy into is going to help!! also sorry if this chapter doesn't have much going on i need to set up a lot of stuff but i promise more action in future chapters

ao3 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖ main masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖ kofi

He crept up on you like the shadows as the sun sets in the west. An all encompassing darkness that blotted out the sun until all that was left was night. He sunk his claws into you so deep that your eyes adjusted to the dark, and you didn’t even realize how much time had passed until you shrunk away from the inevitable sunrise that made him cower away from the dawn as if he never really was big and scary. 

And in the light of day you saw him for what he really was.

He was just a man, who was once a boy, who was scared of the dark. 

So he made himself big, and terrifying, and he grew so accustomed to the thing he once feared that the very idea of anything else made him recoil.

You feel something akin to pity when you think of him now. That doesn’t mean you forgive him, but when you can stomach it you try to, for the sake of your peace. You’d probably be happier if you could just forgive him. 

But you can’t.

So you don’t. 

It’s hard when his own blood doesn’t think he’s a good man. Tommy was afraid of him. Terrified at the very thought of his big brother. You can recall several nights where you had woken up to him screaming in the sleeping bag beside you, absolutely petrified of a memory that had inevitably snuck in through the darkness. You never feared him quite like that, but seeing the effect he has on Tommy makes your stomach churn, a painful reminder of your own suffering.    

Most of the time it’s easier to just not think of him at all, despite the reminders he’s branded into you forever. You ignore him when he tries to soak back into your very being, but at the end of the day he’s unavoidable. You see him in the dark brown eyes of others, hear him in Tommy’s southern drawl, taste him when you have the occasional sip of whiskey. He tries and tries relentlessly to worm his way back into you, but you never let him. You put up walls and you focus on other things, anything, that isn’t Joel Miller. And even though you can’t forget him entirely you manage to ignore the memory of the man you once loved for several years.  

Until one day it’s impossible to keep the thought of him away. 

Until he himself makes it impossible.

Then - NEW YORK CITY, QUARANTINE ZONE : 2019

“Stay off of it or you’re going to lose it.”

That’s what the QZ doctor had told you. A couple weeks of bed rest was the most he could offer when you came to him with your broken ankle. 

A couple weeks without working is a death sentence. 

If you don’t work you won’t be able to afford food. And you don’t have anybody to fall back on, no family, no friends, not even an acquaintance to borrow funds from. 

Lose your leg or starve. 

As appealing as it sounds, starvation isn’t an option, too painful. 

So you have to work. The only issue with that is you’ve been blacklisted, the stupid doctor had you put on a no-shift list. You beg them to let you work, you’ll do anything, but they never budge. 

You only have enough ration cards stocked up to make it to the end of the week so you have to consider your other options. You could sell yourself. It certainly isn’t uncommon and the money’s good but it’s too dangerous, especially if you can’t run on your leg. You’ve seen too many people get hurt in that profession to risk it. You don’t have a trade. You’re terrible at sewing, you can’t cook, there isn’t a need for much of anything else and you own nothing valuable. 

So there’s only one other option for you. 

You steal. 

You dress inconspicuously, in your only pair of jeans and a plain shirt, both of which are getting rather tattered at this point but you have nothing else. With your jacket on you pull up your hood and you do the exact thing you aren’t supposed to do, and you walk. 

The conditions in the QZ are poor enough that your limp doesn’t stand out. You walk up and down the streets all day, slow and steady, with your head down and you don’t take risks. You don’t take anything big or obvious, just little things. A single ration card peeking out of a pocket, a pocket knife off a vendor's table, stale bread, set away from the good stuff where no one is looking. And you return home each night with your pockets full and your leg aching. 

By the end of your second week you’re still barely scraping by but you’re managing. What little ration cards you manage to snatch you use to buy food, but it’s still nothing compared to what you’re used to making. Your ankle feels worse by the day. 

You need more. 

You need to find a source of income that will let you rest or you’re going to lose your leg, which will leave you in an even worse position. It isn’t until you hear your neighbor slam his door that you come up with an idea. 

Your neighbor probably has more cards than he knows what to do with, and he’s always coming and going so he probably wouldn’t even notice if you skimmed a little off the top. Nothing substantial, just enough to keep you going and give your leg time to heal. 

The only problem is your neighbors reputation. 

You doubt you’d have much of a chance of surviving him if you got caught. Joel Miller was a bit of an urban legend around the QZ. Of course you only knew him as your stoic neighbor, just a guy who didn’t make a lot of noise and came home at strange hours, and sometimes disappeared for days at a time. 

But everyone else acted as if he was some kind of Boogey Man. You didn’t see him much in the streets but when you did children ran and people whispered, and while you had no knowledge of how he earned that reputation you knew it probably wasn’t pretty. 

So you’d have to be careful. 

He’s gone now, you’d heard him stopping down the hall so you decide it couldn’t hurt to take a peek, just scout out the area. 

You climb out onto the fire escape, your leg aching as you do, and you use the dull little knife you’d stolen a few days ago to shimmy open his window lock. It slides open pretty easily, he’s probably rather confident that nobody would ever mess with him so he doesn’t seem to have the usual precautions taken to protect his belongings. 

Lucky you. 

Stepping into the room you wince as you land on your bad leg, stumbling onto the floor, knocking a board loose in the process. 

“Shit.” You groan, sitting up quickly, trying to put everything back in its proper place when you catch a glimmer of something under the floor. 

A revolver. 

You shouldn’t be here. Joel Miller is a dangerous man, you knew that but you did this anyway, you can’t help but feel incredibly stupid as you stare at the weapon. You feel so stupid that you don’t even hear the click of a lock. You don’t even bother with the ration cards you can see peeking out from under the gun, you just want to leave and forget that you ever thought this was a good idea. It’s a struggle, getting back to your feet, your leg is throbbing, begging for a rest you can’t afford to take right now. With a groan you push the window open, eager for this silly idea to be over you try to figure out the best way to go about this. You’re starting to lose feeling in your leg, should you go bad leg first or try to balance on it while shimmying the rest of your body out the window? 

You never get to decide what the best course of action is because your head is slammed against the wall, your knees crumple underneath you as you hit the floor, the room spinning as your leg bends at an angle that makes you shriek. You slap your hand over your mouth but it’s far too late for that. He’s been here the whole time. It’s dark but you can still make out the foreboding shape of his figure. The broad shouldered beast that’s glaring down at you, his boot nudging your chin roughly as you bite back a shriek of fear. 

“I could report you to FEDRA for this.” The gruff voice whispers into the darkness. 

You’re desperate to avoid lockup, you know you’ll die in there, or worse. Although you’re not entirely sure what’s going to happen to you either way. 

“I- I’ll tell them about your contraband.” You point frantically at the loose floor board. “They’ll lock you up too.” His glare is unwavering as he stares down at you. You’re a little worried that he might just kill you himself, there would be no consequences, no one would be looking for you. 

No one would look for you. 

The thought makes you shudder and even though you try to stop yourself you feel your eyes beginning to water. You hear footsteps, watching his outline move across the room before you’re shrinking away from the light of a dim lamp in the corner. 

“You gotta be real dumb to find yourself in this situation.” He mutters, turning back around to stare at you. His gaze makes you want to cover yourself up, it’s like he can see every single part of you within that icy glare. You’ve never taken the time to really, truly look at him before but you do now, after all this might be your last chance to look at anything at all. 

He isn’t a terrible last sight. 

Sure, he’s ominous enough to make you want to try and run despite the ache in your calf right now, but that doesn’t make him any less handsome. In a rugged, weathered sort of way. He’s older than you thought, gray sprinkled throughout the mess of curls framing his face. What a nice face it is. Soft where it needs to be soft, sharp where it needs to be sharp. He marches back over to you, easily taking the pocket knife from your hand and crouching down in front of you.

“Give me one good reason not to finish you off right now.” He points the blade in the direction of your leg. “Seems like it’d be a mercy at this point.” 

Maybe he’s right. 

Maybe it would be a mercy to just let him put you out of your misery. Why have you been fighting so hard? You can’t seem to recall a reason other than the fact that that’s what you’re supposed to do. Your mind tells you that you’re supposed to keep fighting but you can’t think of a single driving force. You’re in pain, constantly, you live in a world that wants you dead, and you have no one relying on you. 

You don’t have a good reason, other than the fact that surviving is all you know how to do. So you look up at him and you nod. Taking in the sight of the pretty, frightening man one last time before closing your eyes. 

It feels good. You feel good, for the first time in a long time, knowing that you won’t hurt anymore. You won’t have to be afraid of someone kicking your door in, you won’t have to worry about where your next meal is going to come from, and you won’t have to worry about turning into a monster. It’s a mercy.

So you close your eyes.

Suddenly grateful for the killer before you, your guardian angel, here to deliver you the peace you didn’t know you needed. 

You wait patiently for the sting of a blade or the embrace of his hands around your throat but all you're met with is a sigh. When you finally find the courage to open your eyes he’s sitting on the edge of the bed across from you, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Just go.” He grumbles, muttering a few other words you don’t catch. 

You’re almost disappointed, having accepted this was the end, and now you’re being shoved back into the cold and unforgiving world. You start to get to your feet but your knees buckle under you. You try again, willing your leg to just work but much to your dismay you can’t even straighten out your leg anymore. When you try to move it all you find yourself only able to bend your knee a few inches.

Shit. 

You think of the fall you took on the way in and wonder if you finally pushed yourself to the limit. If you go back to the doctor will he remove the entire thing? Maybe you should just ask Joel to finish the job before it comes to that. It would be a kindness, between a quick death here or a slow death starving in your apartment you’ll take the quick way every time. Before you even have a chance to ask he’s on his feet. Maybe his patience has run out and you won’t have to ask at all. 

“Let me.” His voice rattles around in your head, so low and commanding that you put up no resistance as he lifts you up under your arms and sets you down on the edge of the bed where he just was. He flips the knife out, going to cut your jeans off of you but you stop him.

“Wait!” He freezes in place, giving you an impatient look. “These are my only jeans, just- just pull them down.” Before you can realize how embarrassing it might be to show your neighbor your faded pink panties, you're already unbuttoning your pants, lifting your hips up so he can pull them down your legs with a roll of his eyes. It’s painful, the feeling of the denim running against your skin but it’s better than not having any pants at all. 

Fuck. 

It’s been a while since you’ve actually looked at your leg. You’re surprised he was able to get your jeans off with how swollen it is, the flesh bulging around your ankle and now up your calf. The skin is shiny and blotchy with shades of purple and red. The sight of it makes you want to hurl but you manage to swallow the urge, looking away as he pokes at the tender flesh. 

“Christ girl, what the hell did you do?” When he grabs your ankle to lift your leg you yelp in pain, making him set your leg back down instinctively. 

“I just- it’s just a broken ankle.” You mumble as he gives you an incredulous look.

“Like hell it is.” Something about the sternness of his voice demands your obedience as you nod. “Wanna tell me what really happened?” 

“Well I- I fell and-” You struggle to find an excuse to justify how bad you let this get but you come up empty. So you tell the truth. “I fell off a ladder while painting over graffiti during my shift and broke my ankle. The doctor told me to stay off of it and- well, I couldn’t afford not to work so I just… didn’t” You rush through your words, staring anywhere else but into his demanding gaze as you explain yourself. 

“So you turned to stealin’.” He says it like the fact it is and you can only bring yourself to nod. “You need antibiotics.” He says just as matter of factly. “You know how much that sort of thing costs?” 

A lot. 

More than you’d have even if you were working overtime. 

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes. 

His eyes were so dark that day they threatened to swallow you whole. Were they always that dark? Or was it just that day, the first day, when he realized that he had you. 

“Look, I don’t do this kinda thing for just anybody. But I can help you.” He had sounded so kind, his hint of a smile had seemed so promising. 

“I can’t afford it-”

“You can use alternative methods to pay me back.” 

You told him you’d think about it. 

And he hadn’t pushed you, he had simply helped you back into your jeans and carried you back to your apartment. He told you he’d check on you tomorrow and see if you had an answer for him.

So when the next day came and you had a fever and your leg was throbbing, demanding your attention you’d been all too eager to accept his help. 

And just like that, it was your idea. 

It wasn’t his, he was blameless, you asked him to help you. And it didn’t matter who had suggested it first, it mattered who brought it up after. 

You had been certain that when he had told you you’d be using alternative methods to pay him back that his intentions were unsavory. And at that point you didn’t really care, you’d made your peace with that. The medicine you needed wasn’t cheap and you could find worse looking men who didn’t take care of themselves the way Joel did. 

But he wanted nothing of the sort. 

Southern Manners.

All he wanted was for you to take care of his apartment when he was out with his business partner, a woman who didn’t seem to dislike you but certainly didn’t care for you. He told you to take a week to just rest, take the medicine he brought you, eat the food that he fed you, and be good. So you did as he asked. And after a week you could move a bit more, you started spending your days at Joel’s tidying up and organizing while he was gone, it was much easier to stay off your leg for most of the day and he always made sure there was food and books for you while he was gone. And when he returned he would help you hobble back to your place and help you into bed without complaint and with a promise that he’d be back in the morning. 

But you still don’t relax around him.

It doesn’t make sense. Even someone who wasn’t known for their cruelty wouldn’t just take a stranger in. You’d like to believe that there’s good in people but you know better than to have that kind of faith. There isn’t enough left of the world to share the remains. Yet Joel does. He doesn’t ask to know you better and he certainly doesn’t tell you about himself yet he shows you more kindness than anyone else in your life has before. 

He must like having someone to take care of. 

That’s how you explain it to yourself. 

You watch him with Tess and it’s clear who’s in charge there, she barely even lets him stitch her up when she returns to the apartment. Joel gets frustrated every time, huffing and pacing around the room before finding some way to tend to you in her place. Icing your leg, or bringing you a new book to read, or feeding you. 

It took a few months for your leg to heal, it had been in such bad shape a part of you worried that it might never be the same as it once was. 

After the first month of your arrangement Joel told you his knees hurt and he wouldn’t be able to carry you home, you offered to just walk yourself over, your leg didn’t hurt that bad anymore and you were more than capable of walking short distances. But he insisted you stay, told you you could sleep in the bed and he’d take the couch.

But his knees hurt, you couldn’t let him do that. 

And you told him you’d take the couch and he told you he wouldn’t feel right making you sleep on the couch with your leg the way it was. 

So you told him you’d both just sleep in the bed. It wasn’t a big deal. You trusted him, of course you did, he had an opportunity to exploit you and he didn’t, if he was going to hurt you he would have done it already. 

He had acted unsure. 

You know now that it was acting. 

So you had insisted. You told him it was okay, you told him you felt safe with him. 

It was your idea. 

Even though it hadn’t been your idea to stay that night.

You had insisted he get in the bed with you. 

A fact that he would bring up often in the months to come. 

He would still help you to your apartment some nights, but just as often he’d complain about his knees and you’d stay. You got used to his warmth, you got used to waking up in his arms and not talking about it in the morning. 

So it made sense when he told you that you should keep your pajamas at his apartment. 

It made sense when he got a toothbrush for you to keep in his bathroom cabinet. 

It made sense when he told you that he couldn’t find new clothes in your size and you could just wear his. 

It made sense when he told you that he and Tess had never been a thing, so you had no reason to feel weird about sleeping in his bed. 

And it made sense when he told you that he’d hold onto the keys to your apartment, afterall you wouldn’t want to lose them. 

Joel Miller was a glue trap. And you had waded across his sticky surface without a care in the world, never realizing that it was getting harder and harder to move until you were standing still. Until the only way you were going to escape was by biting off your own leg. 

You don’t remember when you stopped returning to your own apartment completely, but you know that it happened early on, before you’d even started chewing. 

Now - JACKSON, WYOMING : 2023

“Ruth?” You’re gonna be late if you don’t find her soon. The turntable in the corner of the kitchen plays a 3 Doors Down song as you lift the table cloth, searching for the little girl. “We don’t have time to play, we need to get you to school.” You groan, turning to face the boy currently sitting in a highchair he’s just about grown out of. “Do you know where she is?” You cross your arms in front of your chest, glaring at him as he shrugs. 

Of course he isn’t going to tell. They look out for each other before anyone else, a fact that normally fills you with joy but not when they’re ganging up against you. Thankfully you catch his eye as he shoots a glance at the pantry. Pulling the door open you’re quickly met with the sight of Ruth, giggling on the floor. You pick her up, putting her in her own highchair before setting a plate of fruits down in front of her.

“Eat. We don’t have time to play this morning, young lady.” You poke your fork in her direction as you sit down across from them.

“Eat.” She repeats in a mocking tone, her brother erupting into a fit of giggles at the impression as you sigh. They need to be at the community center in half an hour. You make the job schedules on Friday and you need as much time as possible if you want to finish them in one day. You’re having a hard time focusing on the mess your son is making as he smashes each blueberry down onto the table before popping them into his mouth as you try to schedule your own weekend. 

You need to finish all of your work today while the kids are gone so you don’t have to juggle watching them and working later, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue, scheduling should only take a few hours if you really zero in on it. You have dinner with Tommy and Maria tomorrow and you promised to bring dessert so you’ll have to take the kids to the market tonight, which also means you’re going to have to find supplies to barter with before you go. 

You have nothing planned on Sunday.

You’ll have to change that. 

You hate having nothing to do.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts as a blueberry hits you in the forehead. Both twins laugh now as you frown at them. 

“Behave or I’ll tell your aunt that you’ve been bad.” Both children look at each other nervously before returning to their breakfast. You were never stern enough with them. You loved them too much, you couldn’t ever bring yourself to yell at them, and it wasn’t like they were troublemakers by any means, they were just kids with a lot of energy in the mornings. And when they did misbehave a small threat of telling Maria was enough to make them stop whatever it was they were doing. 

You finish up your own plate and start getting ready to leave as the kids start giggling again to themselves. When their plates are empty you use a wet washcloth to clean their hands and faces before lifting each of them out of their respective seats, letting them run off a bit more energy before you head out. You set all three bags down in front of the door. Yours being the beige over the shoulder bag accompanied by two little backpacks. Ruth’s green canvas bag is covered in mud and other remnants of the yard that she’s brought in with her but Arthur’s purple backpack is kept neat and tidy. You slip into your coat before turning just in time to watch your son dive into the couch, quickly followed by his sister. 

“Come on little ducks. Time for school.” You take their jackets off the hook, holding them out to them as they rush over to you, tugging their own coats on before grabbing their bags, once you pull the door open they both rush out into the cool autumn morning, talking to each other in hushed tones. Always secrets with those two. It would probably make you a little worried if these were normal circumstances, the way they don’t let anyone in except each other, with you being the only exception. But the world is a terrifying place, it brings you peace to know that they have each other. 

A part of you is certain you wouldn’t have been able to handle just one. 

One little person relying on you, all while you’re doing your best to hold it all together? It sounds like a nightmare. It’s better that they have each other. Once you’re standing outside the community center, busy with parents dropping off their children, you kneel down. 

“Be good, if you behave today you can go to the market tonight.” The promise of the market has both of them grinning, showing off the teeth they’ve both recently had grow in. “I love you, I’ll see you in a bit.” You hold open your arms, each of them taking their respective sides as they wrap themselves around you. You take your daughter's face in your hands before pressing a kiss to her forehead, repeating the motion with your son. After a few “love you mama’s” they both run into the building, once you’re sure they’re safe inside you head off in the direction of town hall. 

You have what you would call the best job in town, despite the fact that no one else seems to want to do it. 

Maria understood when you arrived that you needed something that let you work from home if needed, you needed something that kept your mind busy but also gave you time with the kids. So you took care of the parts of Jackson most didn’t think about. 

You document all of the citizens, you make the shift schedules, and you make sure everyone has the necessities. You take care of housing, when big hauls from scavenging come in you divide them up among the people who need them. You make the meal schedules for the dining hall, and you make the crop schedules. 

You keep Jackson moving. 

When you arrived all of this was Maria’s job along with her other duties, when you told her you wanted something engaging and demanding she was more than willing to pass off those duties to you. So now you’ve got to make the schedule. Town hall is nothing more than a house with several desks for people doing work similar to yours but thankfully you’ve been lucky enough to reserve your own office in one of the bedrooms. 

Most Friday's Maria visits you for lunch but you know she’s on patrol currently, another perk of this job is knowing where everyone is, all the time.

No surprises. 

You hate surprises. (With a few exceptions.)

One of the exceptions is waiting for you in your office, Tommy sits with his legs up on your desk, reading over this past week's schedule. 

“You put me on crop harvest way more than anyone else.” He grumbles, tossing your notebook down.

“It’s the end of the season, everyones on crop harvest.” You lean down, kissing his cheek before taking your place across from him, immediately getting to work as he groans. 

“Maria gets to go on patrol.” 

“Council gets first dibs on patrols during harvest season.” The tip of your favorite pen is dry so you quickly bring it to your mouth, wetting it with your tongue before you start writing out jobs for this upcoming week. The second he sees how many farming related jobs you’re listing he leans back in his chair, groaning and running his fingers through his dark curls. 

Today’s his day off. You always gave anyone doing more manual labor three days off instead of two. 

“I can get you on one patrol shift but they’re going to need your help with the corn.” You write his name in with the Monday and Tuesday patrol squad, filling in the rest of his week with harvest as he grins. 

“Thank you, darlin’.” He drawls. You hate that nickname, you hate that he isn’t the first to give it to you but you never complain, you’d let Tommy get away with murder at this point. It’s the least you can do considering everything he’s given you. 

“Yeah yeah, whatever. You’re only getting a two-day weekend next week.” You mumble, searching through the list of citizens, trying to pick out the people you know won’t mind the hard work. 

“Fine by me.” You have a complicated relationship with that smile of his. You can love it all you want but that doesn’t change the fact that it makes you uneasy, it doesn’t help that you’re starting to see that same smile in your son. 

“I was thinking about berry cobbler for tomorrow night.” Molly twisted her ankle last week, make sure she isn’t standing. You put her down for shucking corn, she can sit in the dining hall and work. 

“We have a bunch of extra sweet potatoes if you want to make sweet potato pie.” He takes your crop ledger, flipping through it, clearly not reading a thing. 

“Ruth hates sweet potatoes.” Marcus insists he’s capable of doing manual labor, his pride won’t let him act his age. You put him down for pushing the wheelbarrows, he won’t have to bend down to pick anything up but hopefully he’ll still feel like he’s doing enough. You’ve told him countless times that at his age he shouldn’t be working so hard but he always insists. 

“Shit, forgot about that. Maria might have some apples.” 

“I’ll stop by tonight before I take the kids to the market.” 

You’re thankful for Tommy.

He keeps your mind busy with conversation while you work, and he’s one of the only people you actually trust. By the time you’re almost done you know you need to go get the kids, with a conflicted glance at the clock you start to gather your things but Tommy beats you to it.

“I’ll go get them, Maria should be home from patrol soon, she’ll want to see them.” He’s already putting his coat on so you stay seated. 

“Are you sure?” You already know there’s no reason to argue, he’s stubborn, just like his brother. 

“It’s the least I can do to make up for bothering you all day.” He steps around the desk to give you a peck on the cheek before going to leave. “Just come by the house when you’re done, no rush.” And just like that he’s gone. 

You make quick work of your remaining duties. Finishing everything within a half an hour before heading out in the direction of the Miller’s farm house on the edge of town. It’s only a few houses away from your ranch house, a fact that you couldn’t be more grateful for, if it weren’t for Tommy and Maria you aren’t sure you’d have been able to handle those first few months of parenthood. Most people in town assumed Tommy must be the father purely based on how much effort he put into taking care of not only them, but you as well. As you make your way up their porch steps and into the living room you’re also reminded of the similarities. You can’t blame people for making assumptions, even Maria thought he was the father. The twins have his eyes, (which by association means that they also have his eyes, but you try not to dwell on that.) Ruth has your nose but Arthur has that Miller curve already starting to show on his little nose. Both little ones are sitting in the big recliner with their uncle as he tries to get them to settle down while he reads to them but the second they see you, both are scrambling out of the chair to hug your legs. 

And everything goes exactly how it’s supposed to. 

(Of course it does, you plan every day down to the minute.) 

You give Tommy the list of things you need along with a few things he can trade them for and he takes the kids down the street to the market as you sit at the kitchen counter, talking to Maria about her patrol. You had all planned to go to the market together but she’d insisted she was tired and you didn’t want her to be here alone so you stayed, helping her cook dinner. And you talked about all the things you knew you would, something cute the kids did, how her patrol went, what things you could put on the dining hall menu in the coming weeks. 

It’s all exactly how it should be. 

Until she frowns. 

“Are you busy Sunday?” You had sensed something was wrong with her but you assumed maybe she was just a little rattled coming off of a three day patrol. 

“No, did you need something?” You continue to chop up the sweet potatoes she now planned to use tonight instead of tomorrow. 

“We found a couple of strays, I thought maybe we could get them settled in.” 

Odd. 

Normally finding survivors would be the first thing she mentioned after returning, even stranger is the fact that she’d often waste no time getting them supplies and a home to make their own. But you're not one to question Maria’s judgment.

“Sure, we can do that Sunday morning.” You want to ask questions about it but she’s already changed the subject to doing a clothing drive at the community center so you don’t press. Despite the way the look on her face is bothering you.

It wasn’t fear, or discomfort, or something you could explain away with the excuse of the strays being off putting or violent. 

It’s a look of pity. 

As if she feels bad for even asking. 

It unsettles you enough to leave it be. Making idle chit chat with her until Tommy returns with the twins and you take them home. It unsettles you as you make your own dinner, as you give the twins a bath, and as you help them into their pajamas and read them a story. It never leaves your mind. 

“Goodnight Ruthie.” You lean down to kiss her forehead, watching her eyes flutter shut as she continues to fight sleep. Always the stubborn one. 

“Night Mama.” You take the stuffed bear from the foot of her bed, tucking it in beside her before quietly standing, walking across the room to your son's bed. 

“Goodnight Arthur.” You lean down, kissing both of his rosy cheeks, he doesn’t fight sleep the way his sister does. So similar but so different. 

“Goodnight Mama.” His little voice has the same southern drawl you know he’s been picking up from Tommy. 

“I love you, little ducks.” You smile at him, turning to see that Ruth is already asleep, you tuck in the blankets around Arthur before leaving, keeping the door cracked open a bit so the light from the kitchen can act as a night light. 

God, you're tired. 

You’re quick to shower and slip into your own pajamas, crawling into bed with a yawn. You take the book from your nightstand, flipping through until you find where you left off yesterday. 

You never really know what’s going on in the books you read, they serve a singular purpose and it isn’t entertainment. 

You read until you fall asleep, they’re just a distraction to keep your mind busy with thoughts so he can’t sneak in right before you fall asleep and embed himself in your dreams. 

It works.

Your dreams never feature him. 

They aren’t good dreams by any means, they’re wild. Often of your journey to Jackson, the fear you felt then. But you’ll take that over Joel any day. Tonight isn’t any different, your sleep is restless as you fight the memories of fighting for survival in those woods, but instead of your usual nightmares of infected hunting you through the trees you’re faced with a sight that somehow makes you even more uneasy than the living dead.

The look on Maria’s face when she told you about the two strays. 

support me on kofi!!

a/n : this fic has been bouncing around in my brain for months now and it feels so fucking good to finally start it omfg. sorry if this felt a little slow, i really needed to set a tone and a base for the story, sorry!!

[tronlightcyclerun]

FUN FACT I EVEN KNOW WHO WAS PUTTING ME IN THE TIMELOOP . AND IT WAS AN ACCIDENT HE DIDNT KNOW I WAS EXPERIENCING IT AS A TIMELOOP . JUST LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE HE DID HE DIDNT THINK IT THROUGH FIRST

nonsense timelines update:

[diminuel]

Have you heard that Eiichiro Oda revealed the looks and name of the former empress of the Kuja Tribe before Boa? In SBS of Vol. 109!

Tritoma

Yes I've seen her!

I'm still going to have some fun with the previous Kuja empress Crocodile headcanon (I don't really believe it as an actual theory because the timelines don't seem to match up according to my scribbled and chaotic notes) because none of my things need to be canon compliant.

Is this a spoiler...? I'm just going to tag it (OP spoilers) just in case.

[waterfal-ling]

zenin’s shadow - chapter 2 (gojo satoru x reader)

SYNOPSIS: Y/N, the outcast daughter of the Zenin Clan, a weapon forged from a forbidden union and raised in isolation. Gifted with immense cursed power, she is treated as little more than an instrument in the clan's pursuit of dominance. Her existence is one of obedience and sacrifice, a life defined by brutal training and a relentless drive to serve. Yet beneath the surface of her rigid purpose, a quiet curiosity about the world beyond the Zenin estate begins to grow. Despite the clan’s control, her strength, independence, and the haunting longing for something more are forces she cannot easily suppress. As she grapples with her role as a pawn in the Zenin Clan’s ruthless games, she must confront the delicate balance between her duty as a weapon and the desire for a life outside their cold walls. In a world where power, control, and family define everything, Y/N must explore the internal struggle of a girl caught between the chains of her bloodline and the faint hope for something beyond the shadows of her clan’s ambition.

WARNINGS: graphic depictions of violence, profanity, self-harm, abandonment, mental health struggles, violence, abuse and trauma, gender discrimination (it is the Zenin's afterall), self-discovery -- will probably add more and the warnings for individual chapters if needed, grammar issues here and there - but I will try to catch them if I can.

TAGS: f!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, very slow-burn, angst to comfort to eventual fluff (but angst will be a very on-going thing), gojo being super mean - until he isn't, CANON-ADJACENT (will follow aspects of the original timeline, but I have changed the timings of things and/or characters fate).

a/n: Took me way too long to post this and I had to do it from my phone...I still cannot figure out how people make their posts so pretty (and ngl I am a bit too lazy to figure it out). Enjoy the angst and let me know what you think :)

COMMENTS, LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED

previous < Chapter Two: Breaking the Spirit > next

The Zenin estate felt colder than ever. Its imposing walls, stone cold and towering like silent sentinels, wrapped around her with an almost suffocating grip. The sense of isolation was a constant companion, the echo of her footsteps in the empty halls a painful reminder that she was locked in a cage of her own making. Despite the bruises and scars—both physical and mental—that she had accumulated over the months, the worst punishment had come in the form of silence.

She was not allowed to leave the estate. No missions. No contact with anyone. Only the endless rounds of psychological conditioning designed to break her down further. The Zenin Clan had stripped away her individuality, her autonomy. All she had left was the sharp, unyielding knowledge that she was nothing more than a tool for their use.

Months passed.

She felt like a shadow, moving through the estate with quiet precision, always under the watchful eye of those who had been tasked with ensuring she stayed compliant. There were no longer any training sessions—just endless hours spent in isolation, reflecting on her place in the world. Her cursed energy, once a seething, untamed force, now lay dormant within her, as if it, too, had given up on ever breaking free.

But even in her isolation, the mission call came. It was a brief moment of hope, though it quickly turned to dread when she realized what it meant.

The Zenin daughter was summoned before the Clan’s higher-ups, the familiar stone chamber cold and unwelcoming. The air was thick with incense and a strange tension. She stood rigid, awaiting her orders, the sting of previous failures still fresh in her mind.

"Zenin daughter," the Elder began, his voice as cold and calculating as ever. "You are to accompany Suguru Geto and Gojo Satoru on a mission."

A knot twisted in her stomach. After months of silence, months of training meant to break her, they were sending her out once more. This time, it wasn’t a simple assassination or a task for elimination.

"Your task is clear," the Elder continued, his eyes narrowing. "You will ensure that Riko Amanai is delivered safely to Master Tengen. You will follow Geto and Gojo’s orders. You are not to deviate from the plan. Do you understand?"

The words were laced with authority, but even as they echoed in the cold stone room, something inside her recoiled. She was a tool, a vessel for their power. She was not allowed to make decisions. She was not allowed to think for herself.

"Yes," she responded quietly, bowing her head in deference. She had no choice but to obey. It was always that way. Always.

The Elder dismissed her with a sharp gesture, and without another word, she turned and exited the room, the weight of her obedience heavy on her chest. She was merely an extension of the Zenin Clan’s will, nothing more.

The night before they left, she found herself standing beside Suguru Geto and Gojo Satoru at the designated meeting point. The sun had long since set, and the moon cast its pale light over the desolate landscape. Her heart thudded quietly in her chest, but she made no move to show it.

Geto stood with his arms folded, his usual calm demeanor in place. Beside him, Gojo was leaning lazily against a pillar, his ever-present grin plastered on his face as if nothing in the world could shake him.

"Zenin" Geto acknowledged her with a small nod, but his tone was clinical, almost detached. "You’re early”. He glanced at Gojo, who eyed her with curiosity - was this really the so called “Zenin Shadow”. Her cursed energy wavered slightly, but it was low. All he had heard in clan meetings -not that he paid much attention anyway, was that the Zenin’s had an ace under their sleeve. One that was supposed to tilt the scales on their side.

Gojo remembers a conversation he overheard during one of the clan meetings way before his time at jujitsu tech. One that maybe he was not supposed to overhear - not that he ever cared much for the rules anyways.

“I heard that they are not allowed outside the compound” one whispered to those around them, “that all they do is train and go on missions”

“Already?” A different member of the group asked “do we even know anything about this so called “shadow” or are these all rumors” they asked smartly in a low voice, “either way, that Gojo kid will be the strongest, so as long as we can keep him in check, I am sure that they will be able to deal with that so called asset”

Gojo rolled his eyes, quickly losing interest. They were right. Not only he could beat them quickly, but they would not move against him - he was a Gojo after all. The future clan head. Who cares who they were? They would never compare to him.

Now, she stands in-front of him. Her gaze low and her lands clenched beside her. Gojo quickly lost interest, seeing that those rumors about her being a “cold blooded” individual may be true; but her supposed strength is nowhere close to where either Geto or himself were. He loudly sighed, earning a quick glance from Geto.

Her eyes remained lowered, her posture stiff. "I am ready," she said softly.

Gojo raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming at the corner of his lips. "Oh, I’m sure you are," he teased, clearly unimpressed. "But I still don’t get why you’re here. It’s not like you’re much of an asset, right? All the Zenin Clan sees is some weapon with a bit of power."

Her chest tightened, but she remained silent. Gojo’s words were sharp, but they weren’t wrong. Weapon was all she had ever been to the Zenin Clan. And it seemed that was all she would ever be.

Geto’s gaze shifted from Gojo to the Zenin girl his face unreadable. “That is not up to us, Satoru. Let’s just focus on the mission.”

Gojo chuckled lightly, but there was something dismissive in his voice. “Sure. Whatever. But this mission would be a lot smoother without the baggage.”

Geto didn’t respond, but his jaw tightened slightly, betraying his irritation. He didn’t want this anymore than Gojo did; but rules were meant to be followed.

As they walked away first, starting their normal bantering, the Zenin girl couldn’t help but bring her gaze up slightly. They were pushing each other, Gojo laughing loudly as Geto chuckled. They reminded them of those two sorcerers she had seen in her last mission prior to her punishment. She smiled slightly under her masks. Although she was a weapon meant to follow orders, she had for once done something that she was sure was good: protecting someone who was cared for.

As the trio made their way to the meeting place, a sudden chill filled the air. A low hum of cursed energy rippled through the area, signaling the approach of someone important. A figure appeared from the shadows—Yaga, the headmaster of Jujutsu High.

"Geto. Gojo. Zenin." Yaga’s voice was deep, a low rumble that carried weight.

The three turned to face him, but Yaga’s gaze shifted to the Zenin daughter, scrutinizing her for a moment. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though sizing her up.

"You’re the Zenin Clan’s prized weapon, aren’t you?" he said, his tone neither kind nor harsh. "I’ve heard little about you, other than that you’re strong. No name, no cursed technique, nothing"

The Zenin girl kept her gaze down, her heart racing. She had heard of Yaga’s reputation—a skilled sorcerer, capable of commanding the greatest threats. The fact that he was even acknowledging her strength felt unsettling.

"Yaga," Geto greeted him with a nod, though his expression was neutral. “You know the situation. We’re just here to deliver Riko. What’s the deal with her tagging along?”

Yaga’s eyes lingered on the Zenin girl before meeting Geto’s gaze. "It’s not about you. It’s an order from the higher-ups. They've specifically instructed that she accompany you, no exceptions."

Gojo, leaning against the stone wall beside them, chuckled. "Yeah? But why? What’s the point of bringing along a deadweight like her? She can’t even use her cursed energy properly without them hovering over her every move."

Yaga’s eyes flashed with a warning, but he didn’t let the tension rise. “Don’t underestimate her, Satoru. The higher-ups seem to think she’ll be needed in some capacity. I’ve heard… things.”

“Things?” Gojo raised an eyebrow, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Like what?"

Yaga crossed his arms, his gaze turning more serious. "I don’t know the full details. But I’ve been told that she is stronger than she appears. The higher-ups trust her… and I trust that they have their reasons. Don’t make the mistake of assuming she’s nothing more than a tool."

Geto’s eyes flicked to the Zenin girl for a moment, his face impassive. He clearly wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t say anything more. Instead, he turned to Gojo. "We’re going to have to keep an eye on her, Satoru. Don’t take any unnecessary risks with her."

Gojo rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Baby-sitting a supposed “super strong weapon”, keeping her out of trouble while we do all the heavy lifting.”

Yaga sighed one more time “Gojo, just do as told. Now, it’s late, go back to your dorms and show her an empty room near - the mission is scheduled to start at sunrise”

The Zenin girls chest tightened once again as she overheard their conversation. The same frases going through her head: “Stronger than she appeared.” “A tool.”

That was the only truth she knew. And yet, hearing them discuss her as a “liability”—a “weakness”—did something to her. It solidified the very thing she had been told her entire life: she was a tool, a weapon. Nothing more. Nothing more would ever be allowed. She wasn’t a person. She wasn’t anything other than a means to an end.

And now, even though her body was being forced back into the mission, she knew that her purpose was set in stone. She was to serve, to obey. Nothing would change that.

As the group continued on their walk towards the dorms, Geto and Gojo kept their distance from the girl with the the tension only growing among them. It was clear that they didn’t trust her.

The mission was important, and while the Zenin girl remained silent, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the judgment that followed her. To them, she was a burden—a liability.

“Here you go” Geto said with a tight smile “you can sleep here tonight, we will come collect you in the morning”

“And just be ready. I know how long you girls take to get ready” Gojo said, his voice slightly irritated as he typed away on his phone, clearly disinterested in the conversation already as he started walking away.

Geto quickly raised his hand, waving good bye as he caught up to Gojo, rapidly falling into a conversation. She took the chance to once again stqre at their relationship, he chest tight and heavy as she could almost feel the ache in her hands from how tightly she was closing her fists.

She knew that could not be her. But as she stared, she wondered what her life could have been had she not been cursed cursed energy.

Could she have a purpose?

As she entered the dorm room, she looked around. She felt on edge and uncertain of her new surroundings. But her eyes quickly caught onto the item in the left wall: a bed. She had never properly slept on one since being with the Zenin clan. They always believed that using a tatami that she would move out of the way would always be easier.

Her hands quickly caught onto the sheets, feeling the softness in them. She knew that even if it was for one night, this was probably about to be the best sleep she had in a while - and she would cherish it based on the fact that she did not know when that was to occur again.

As her body started to ask for rest, she moved towards the small bag she had - taking out a pair of pants and a shirt. She walked towards the sink and placed her items down. She took her hair out and removed her mask, forcing herself to not look at her face on the mirror. As she took off her clothing, her mind grew curious. Despite her heart begging her to not look, she glanced up towards the mirror. There, she saw a girl with scars littering across her body, some deeper, some larger, some tinier. As her eyes continued to wander, they landed on her face. The large scar that went horizontally across her face and the vertical one that went down her cheek were a reminder of the one time in her life where she felt alive: at the hands of a too strong of a curse for her inexperienced self - one that brought her to the closets she was felt to dying and to her freedom.

The first time the clan had realized the power of her reversed cursed technique, it was an accident. Her trainer had brought her to a curse as some clan elders stood at a distance; they wanted to see the supposed improvement she had with this new trainer - one known for their harsh but effective techniques. As she activated her cursed technique, she noticed that the fire touching her finger tips was burning her, causing her to instinctively stop her technique. The curse took her hesitation to their advantage, clawing themselves towards her, hashing her face and her body: Blood ran to her head as adrenaline cursed her body along her curser technique. Blood was covering her eyes, but her training forced her to use her senses to find a weakness. Her mind raced, how could she be so careless? Are they going to be mad? What will my punishment be? As her mind spiraled, her mind asked a last one, “wouldn’t death mean freedom?”.

She stuck in that last question - maybe in her next life she would be lucky? As tiredness hit her body, she allowed herself to open her eyes to look at the sky. She decided to give up, smiling. She could hear her trainer yelling at her in the distance, words muffled, the curse being gone, and the calmness of nothingness as she started closing her eyes. She felt herself smiling.

“Maybe in my next life” she thought, “I will learn to be happy”

Her body was taken to a medic in the main estate, hoping to not lose their asset so fast. However, the medic, perplexed, mentioned that her body was already healing. Slowly, but she could do it by herself.

When she finally woke, back in her closed quarters, she was confused. Was the afterlife going to look just like her previous life? Her head snapped when her door opened - her trainer storming up to her angrily as he pushed her off the bed and forced her head to the ground.

“You made me look like a fool” he sneered, pushing her head harder onto the floor, “you made my trainings look useless, when the only one that is useless here is you”

Her gaze stayed static - she had survived? Her eyes quickly watered, realizing she was in the same position in life as she was before - if not worst.

“How am I still here?” Her hoarse voice asked in no more than a whisper.

“That was the same thing I was wondering myself after that unsatisfactory performance you gave” he said, anger lacing his voice, “but your cursed technique saved you. I was hoping that was it for you so I would be freed, but I can never get what I want” he finished, grasping her hair as he pulled her to meet his face, her knees still on the ground.

“I will make you the perfect weapon” he whispered with a sly smile, “we will see if you can actually die - and then I’ll bring you back and do it again…you will never embarrass me again” he said one more time , his smile never leaving her face as she looked as forced on her feet, pushed towards the training grounds even as h was legs trembled from the lack of usage of them, her arms weak, and her head still disoriented.

As she finally laid in that bed at jujutsu tech, her mind continued to run. She felt jealousy towards what Gojo and Geto had - each other. Could she ever find someone that would stand by her side? Maybe she could try to befriend Geto? He did not seem very fond of her, and she did not have good interpersonal skills (if any)…but he seemed cordial. Maybe she could learn with him what a friendship is.

Her hands clenched as her body filled with anxiousness. The Zenin Clan had pushed her so roughly towards a life of isolation that she felt that she couldn’t possibly be unable to have normal relationships with someone. Never speaking out of turn, always keeping her gaze down, always alert.

Her mind reeled back to her encounter with the two young sorcerers, and then to the punishment that followed.

Her heart felt heavy, and for the first time in a long time, she felt her eyes welled with tears. Frustration and pain filling her body. She could never befriend anybody, she thought that with resolute. Nobody would ever know who she was, because she was nobody, all but a shadow who will continue to live behind the greatness of others.

The Zenin Clan had left their mark on her forever: she was nothing more than a weapon to be used. And, for the first time, she understood that more than ever.

[ineffablyruined]

I got a decent level of interest in this, so we're going to do it!! Welcome to week one of the Ineffable Prompt-A-Thon!

Week One:

Eye Contact.

Is it between the Ineffable Duo? Muriel and a duck? Actual eyes touching? If you can think it, you can create it!

The Rules Are Simple:

Every Friday until the Season 3 premiere, I'll post a prompt.

You will have a week to write, draw, paper craft, record, completely scrap and start from the beginning after a crisis of confidence (oh, is that just me?), and post your interpretation of the prompt

Tag your post #IneffablePromptAThon, #IneffablePAT #Ineffable Prompt-A-Thon, and/or #IPAT. Make sure to use them on Tumblr, X, IG, and AO3 so everyone can easily find your works!

Also tag your posts and AO3 with the Week Number and the Prompt, so we can all tell which prompt your creation accompanies.

Tag me @ineffablyruined in all of your posts, too, so I can reblog!

Add your contribution to the Ineffable Prompt-A-Thon collection on AO3 for this week. Link is below!

Look for the next prompt. Rinse. Repeat.

HAVE FUN!

This is meant to be zero stress. If you can't do a week, that's completely fine! Prompt not working for you? Skip it. Going to be late? No worries at all!

It is just meant to be a fun outlet to get your creative juices flowing and keep the fandom well-fed with copious amounts of fic and fun until our Ineffable Duo makes their return to our screens (whenever that may be).

There is no length requirement, no rating requirement, no timeline requirement. It can be canon-compliant, AU, crossover, whatever tickles your fancy, as long as it's Good Omens related and incorporates the prompt. It's all Tickety-Boo!

If you want to be tagged in the posts, let me know and I'll do my best to accommodate.

Link to this week's sub-collection:

[witchyafterdark]

Consolidated HL Character Profile #1:

— Ominis Gaunt —

Note: The following information on this post are a combination of my personal headcanons and canon-compliant resources. I have done research on this but, of course, these are pure speculation since we do not have actual canon information about this character. I hope you all enjoy this! 💕

Tags and shout-outs are at the end of this post!

This is a very, very long post! Take your time.

—---—---—---—---—

I. Possible Birth Place

The last of the Gaunts, as we know it, have lived in poverty. The members of this once noble house trickled down to Marvolo Gaunt and his two children — Merope and Morfin.

According to the book, (Half-Blood Prince; Chapter 10, "The House of Gaunt") the family was living in a rundown shack that Harry Potter wondered whether it was inhabited, or not.

"... its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime."

The description of the Gaunts' living conditions were shown during Bob Ogden's visit in Little Hangleton around the early 1920's. As the wiki suggests, Ominis should already be in his late 40's (and close to his supposed death). It was also said that due to their vein of instability, arrogance, and pride, the family gold has been squandered well before the last generations were born.

Now, based on the canon timeline, there is a high chance that Ominis and Marvolo were siblings — something this fandom seems to agree on.

"Chronologically, Marvolo Gaunt could be one of the elder siblings who tortured Ominis with the Cruciatus Curse."

However, I personally find it hard to picture him having been born and raised in that same shack in Little Hangleton. While it's very possible to have a family living together in a small, decrepit house, it seems like there are more than four members of the second-to-the-last generation of Gaunts.

Ominis had both parents present, his Aunt Noctua, and older siblings (one of which could be Marvolo himself). That would be at least five family members living under one roof. I just find it a little difficult to believe that someone who is as kempt and posh-looking as Ominis would be living in a shack.

Also, he seems to be the least-favorite child based on how his parents and siblings have treated him. So, why would he have neat school robes if they couldn't really afford it, right? And why give the good clothes to the blind, black-sheep of the family?

This led me to think that maybe, they did have some money to spare during those times. Another accepted headcanon of the fandom is that the Gaunts needed to keep up with the façade that they are still rich and prominent by dressing up aristocratically and by speaking in a posh accent (which is called Received Pronunciation, also called the Queen's Accent).

Furthermore, we literally almost got the Gaunt Manor questline, with a courtyard, in the game but the developers cancelled it. This could be the proof that they have also thought of the fact that Ominis did not grow up, nor was he born, in a dilapidated shack.

—

But wait!

How and where did I start pinpointing the Gaunts' possible ancestral origins? Well, I found a theorized Timeline of Salazar Slytherin's Descendants compiled and analyzed by Obversa (whom I am a long-time fan of, and usual source of information). Please take a moment to check this part out:

[This is the Reddit link to the whole post!]

—

So... where do we start with Ominis' theoretical birth place? I have attached a map that is highlighted in different colors to make it easier to understand.

1. Derbyshire or Nottinghamshire (Highlighted in blue)

Situated at the center of the English map, one of the possible birthplaces of Ominis Gaunt is either Derbyshire or Nottinghamshire.

We know that the Gaunts were descendants of Cadmus Peverell, the original owner of the Resurrection Stone (a.k.a. The Heirloom Gaunt Ring). So, I got to trace back the origins of the last name Peverell, where they're from and which period they came to be.

According to House of Names, the Peverell line is one of the thousand new names that the Norman Conquest brought to England in the year 1066 CE.

William Peverell, the "natural son of William the Conqueror," received his share of 162 manors; many of which were in these two counties.

As stated from the pictured timeline above, Cadmus Peverell had been born at around the year 1214 CE.

A hundred and sixty-two manors under the Peverell family name alone seem like it's a possibility that the three Peverell brothers (Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus) inherited at least one of these manors as part of familial land distribution.

And once again, citing the timeline above, the Peverell line (at least in Cadmus' side) possibly ended with a female; who married a male Gaunt. It's likely that they moved to one of these manors as a start of the foundation of the House of Gaunt.

— An example in Derbyshire:

— An example in Nottinghamshire:

These two examples look like Gaunt Manor style, in my opinion. So far, I'm highly convinced that it's either Derbyshire or Nottinghamshire due to the manors being quite sequestered from city propers and large, populated towns.

2. Yorkshire (Encircled in red on the map)

This one is actually the suggestion of the lovely @diligentcranberry (Thank you for entertaining my unhinged obsession about the Gaunts origins).

It is said that Little Hangleton is approximately 200 miles north of Privet Drive. Now, Privet Drive is in Surrey. When I checked on the maps, York is directly north of Surrey; at around 203 miles, if you travel by foot.

There is also the possibility that perhaps the Gaunts simply moved towns instead of counties and cities. Maybe there is a magically hidden part of Yorkshire that is isolated enough to be far away from the muggles (or muggleborns) and nosy neighbors for them to conduct their wicked and inhumane past time activities: torturing muggles for sport.

Not only would this place be an ideal location for illicit activities, the density of trees around this area sounded like something the Gaunt family would like to have so that they are not easily accessible to anyone, including Ministry officials.

—

Runner-up Place: Godric's Hollow (Lined in pink on the map; the whole West Countryside)

There has been speculation that the Gaunts once resided in Godric's Hollow (as did other Wizarding families). Most people would also think that the Gaunts have ties to this place since one Peverell was buried here.

"Every now and then, he [Harry] recognized a surname that, like Abbott, he had met at Hogwarts. Sometimes, there were several generations of the same Wizarding family represented in the graveyard: Harry could tell from the dates that it had either died out, or the current members had moved away from Godric's Hollow."

The wiki even suggested that Godric's Hollow is Cadmus Peverell's final resting place. However, there is no canonical reference to this speculation. According to the book (The Deathly Hallows; Chapter 16, "Godric's Hollow"), Hermione only confirmed seeing Ignotus' tombstone. And while it was the norm to bury family members together in the same graveyard, we have no evidence that Cadmus was, in fact, buried alongside his brothers.

Lastly, official information from Wizarding World states that it was only Ignotus that had been found buried there, but no evidence pointed to where the others may be.

Runner-up Place: Leicestershire (Highlight in orange on the map)

This is actually the last place I researched because I remember that there was a man named John of Gaunt (1340-1399). He was the father of King Henry IV, and used to be one of the richest men of this century. I didn't find anything about him at first... until I saw who his wife was.

John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had been married thrice in his lifetime. But it was his second wife, Constance of Castile (1354-1394) that piqued my interest.

Now, this sounds like a long-shot. But the theorized Timeline above proposed that Salazar Slytherin could be from Burgos, Castile, Spain. It wouldn't be totally impossible that Slytherin himself had children back in Spain; or that some of the children he sired during his stay in Scotland possibly moved back to Spain.

At least in my mind, there is a chance that Constance of Castile might be one of the descendants of Salazar Slytherin who ended up marrying a Gaunt.

Then again, Constance and John only had a surviving daughter, and the canonical information about the Peverell line was completely thrown out of the window with this theory. So, it's highly unlikely that this place was the ancestral origins of the future Gaunts. Still, this was fun to include!

—

End Results:

There is strong evidence that Ominis Gaunt may have been born in either Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, or Yorkshire. I know there's so much information to consider regarding this, so it's your decision which county you would use that fits your headcanons.

As for my personal headcanon, I'd say he's born in an ancestral manor that once belonged to the Peverells, which was located in Derbyshire.

But as the family fortune started to dwindle due to poor management, it ultimately fell unto Marvolo to sell the property and find another place to move to. And since Marvolo doesn't seem to be the type to find employment, the money he had gotten from the sold property almost immediately got used up. In the end, he and his remaining family had to move to that dilapidated shack in Little Hangleton, Yorkshire.

—---—---—---—---—

II. Possible Date of Birth

Note: If you're not interested in astrology, you can just skip this one, and go to Part 3, 4, and 5!

This section of the post is pure speculation, and no solid proof at all. But we do know that Ominis should be born between September 1, 1874 and August 31, 1875 if he was to be eleven years-old during the start of his first year at Hogwarts. Therefore, all of the following information is gathered by astrological observations of his character.

(I have a personal tarot and astrology account, @tarotwitchy, if you guys are interested in knowing more about this type of content).

Based on character analysis, I believe that Ominis is a Capricorn Sun, Pisces Moon, and Scorpio Rising.

Now, what does that mean?

Let's break down his character one astrological placement at a time.

1. Capricorn Sun

— a person with their Sun in Capricorn is someone who is determined to make the most out of their life. Hard working, perseverant, and resilient, they don't allow themselves to succumb in to their losses and admit defeat.

— Ominis surely displayed these characteristics throughout the game. He doesn't let his disability stop him from accomplishing the things he set his mind to. He doesn't want his traumatic beginnings to inhibit his potentiality for success and happiness outside of his family's customs. When he sets his mind on something, he sees through it (no pun intended).

— Also, he is loyal to the good cause. He knows what's right and what's wrong. He isn't afraid of calling out anyone for their wrongdoings, nor does he back off from confrontation. This behavior of his was very apparent when he secretly followed the new fifth-year and Sebastian to the catacombs.

— There's also a bit of a savior-complex in him; wherein he feels he could set someone straight, tell them what to do or what not to do, can have a demanding demeanor at times, and could perhaps want to control his environment to make it easier for him to navigate. (So, yes. All of those Dominis stories can actually be a canonical behavior of his).

2. Pisces Moon

— With all that was said about his Sun Sign, his Pisces Moon is the reason we get a softer, gentler version of his Capricorn. People with Pisces Moons are known to be emotionally wise beyond their years. Their ability to empathize people's experiences are astounding, and their compassion is matched only by their fellow water signs.

— This admirable kindness that Ominis possesses is what we eventually understand and come to associate with him. When faced with the opportunity to torture muggles like his family does, his first instinct is to refuse. In spite of his blindness, he doesn't need sight to see how all of that was very immoral and apathetic. And even as he was forced to cast the Cruciatus Curse, he still laments and regrets that event up to the present time.

— One more thing to note is that Ominis could have simply reported Sebastian as soon as the latter displayed interest in the Dark Arts. But he didn't because of three reasons: He didn't want to lose his best friend, he still believed in Sebastian's chance to redeem and pull himself out of the darkness, and he empathized with Sebastian's desperation to find a cure for Anne. This altruistic attitude is what's best about him.

— It also affirms my previous headcanon about Ominis' sleeping habits, as Pisces rules over the realms of sleep.

3. Capricorn Mercury

— It's very obvious that Ominis is quite mature for his age. The way he talks, thinks, and carries himself is trademark Capricorn Mercury. He is also straightforward and he plans ahead not just for himself but for others. At the end of the game, he literally said, "whatever lies ahead, we must face it together."

— Mercury is the planet of communication, intellect, memory, and learning. Ominis' style of communication is quite formal and authoritative in nature, and he keeps it that way. He is able to express himself in a put-together manner that conveys his thoughts crystal-clear. He doesn't speak in riddles (👀) and he wants to be understood the first time around.

4. Sagittarius Venus

— Alright, this one is a surprising placement for Ominis. But after a while, I found this to be quite fitting for him! While he is someone who we consider as "docile" or "serene" on most days, having his Venus in Sagittarius gives him a streak of curiosity and a yearning for exploration; as Sagittarius is the sign of higher learning and traveling.

— The first time we see him (if you're a Slytherin) is in the common room being cheeky about the first-years who are trying to spot mermaids through the windows. He has a playful side to him that balances out majority of his more serious and somber placements. The fact that he is closest to Sebastian (who is really fiery and passionate) is proof that Ominis can hold his own when it comes to his best friend's fervent personality.

— Of course, Venus is the planet of love and romance. Majority of the stories I've read, Ominis is the kind of man who will study his partner's personality, routine, habits, quirks, likes and dislikes, special interests, and goals and dreams. This is the behavior of a well-developed Sagittarius Venus. They will absolutely love to get to know their partner's personhood beyond the superficial. They will also keep their partnership alive by sharing life experiences together and encouraging their partner to explore more novel and romantic moments with them.

5. Scorpio Mars

— Where to begin with this placement? It's quite hard to believe, at first, that Ominis would have his Mars in Scorpio. That would entail someone who is traditionally brusque, aggressive, and would embody the combination of Martian-Plutonian qualities.

— But in his case, there is a reason why people are compelled to write, draw, and express him as Dominis. It's because even if he haven't actually seen him being a dominant man, we instinctively know that he is capable of it. That's the effect of Scorpio Mars. The evidence of this placement is not always "in your face." It can be subtle, it can be a secret. His dominance and assertiveness is just dancing along the edge of his skin.

— But one of the most important things to remember about them is that once a Scorpio Mars has had enough, they snap. And they will always get the last word after they have put people in their place, snapped some bones, and razed the earth. And this is something Ominis is very much capable of doing. But his self-control is immaculate.

6. Scorpio Rising

— Again, this seems very unlikely at first glance. But upon further observation, Ominis is the type of guy you don't really know much about unless he purposefully let you in on his private circle, explicitly says something about himself. He also has strong eyes that pierce through others in spite of his blindness. His striking face and cheekbones are unforgettable, and he doesn't look like anyone else. Others also can't help but feel compelled to want to know more about him, as his enigmatic aura inevitably pulls them in (whether he likes it, or not. That's why most Scorpio Risings have trouble with unsolicited attention).

— To drive this point further, if you check out this video of other NPC's talking about him, they all seem to come to a polarized conclusion, with the common thread of 'Ominis is hiding something.' Granted that the name Gaunt, in and of itself, strikes fear and wary in people's hearts, others have really strong opinions about him without even getting to know him personally. That, too, is something most Scorpio Risings struggle with.

—

End Results:

Ominis Gaunt was born on January 11, 1875 at around 03:00AM, during the winter season.

Of course, this is only my personal headcanon, and based on my astrological research and experience. The runner-up dates I had in mind would make him fall in the Sun Sign of Pisces, Cancer, Aquarius, and even Scorpio! But the rest of the chart doesn't really align with the rest of his personality. Ultimately, January 11th is the final date I believe suits him most.

—---—---—---—---—

III. Psychometric Analysis

Note: I will be linking the sites for these tests should you want to take them yourself! 😊 Have fun!

1. MBTI

— ISTJ (Introvert, Sensing, Thinking, Judging)

"They rely on their past experience to guide them, and are most comfortable in familiar surroundings. On personality trait measures, they score as Calm, Stable, Steady, Cautious, and Conventional. The ISTJ’s main and most admirable strength is perseverance; people of this type simply do not give up. They also have a natural instinct to protect and defend, as they are loyal, reliable and committed."

These descriptions speak for themselves when it comes to knowing Ominis' personality type. People who have a lack of sight (or those who are legally blind) rely on fixed structures and routines to help ease their everyday needs. While it is possible for them to be spontaneous, they still have to have familiarity and past experience in the spontaneity they'll participate in.

He is very loyal, to a fault sometimes. He's committed in making sure that his beloved friends are not dallying in things they shouldn't be. He knows the difference between right and wrong, and trusts his life experiences to guide him to proper decisions.

2. Enneagram

— Type 6 with wing 5; SP/SX (The Defender)

"The committed, security-oriented type, sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious."

"Their basic fear is being without support and guidance, having nowhere or no one to hold onto. This is why their basic desire is to have security and support from their chosen people."

This one is very obvious. It's quite apparent that he is the type of person who can be anxious if things and people aren't where he wanted them to be. While he yearns for cooperation due to his need for security, other people who aren't used to this kind of behavior will find him controlling; and perhaps, even smothering.

Nevertheless, Ominis' intentions come from a good place. He doesn't want his people to be hurt or harmed. He also has an impeccable intuition to predict outcomes of certain situations, which makes him look paranoid. But his assumptions, more often than not, are proven to be correct!

3. Four Temperaments

— Melancholic–Phlegmatic (The Analyst)

"The Melancholy-Phlegmatic is a pleasant and accommodating person who tends to seek a structured environment requiring attention to detail. They have a self-sacrificing, self-critical nature, and struggle with guilt feelings about things that are not often their fault. The Melancholy-Phlegmatic is more conscientious and private than the other Melancholy blends."

This is quite self-explanatory. Ominis has two distinct behavior: the calm and peaceful, and the anxious and prickly. When things are going the way it's supposed to be (in his definition), he would be placated and docile. We see him as approachable and a little more open. But when things aren't going according to plan, or when things suddenly happen unexpectedly, he's like a rolling wheel going in different directions trying to extinguish the uncontrollable fires of disaster.

He's the first to respond by going to Headmaster Black to fabricate a story to hide what really happened between the Sallows, and make it look like a family argument instead. He's the one to alert MC that Anne went to get Solomon, and that we should do something about it immediately. He is the safety net of all these people in his life.

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IV. Corporeal Patronus

I want to give a shout out to @ponfarrdraws for discussing this with me!

We were wondering what Ominis' corporeal Patronus would be, should he be able to cast one. I've had a lot of speculation, going through one animal at a time. But ultimately settled with a Mongoose. This animal is not on the official list of Patronuses but it still has a lot of weight and meaning.

This article states that mongooses are a symbol of protection and are considered to be wards against evil. To quote:

"As a totem, the mongoose has the magical attributes of defense, protection, and destroying evil. The mongoose symbolizes action, adventure, boldness, fearlessness, impulsiveness, independence, optimism, rebellion, resistance, resourcefulness, speed, and adaptation. As a spirit animal, it encourages us to confront our enemies because we can overcome much stronger rivals than ourselves."

If Ominis were to find himself facing a dementor, he would probably be the first to sense its presence, and probably the most affected. Even though he wouldn't be able to see the frightening features of a dementor, he would be feeling the immediate change in his senses — his environment growing cold, no sounds of animals around, and the overall sensation of hopelessness and misery. He would be completely thrown off by the sudden change in his surroundings; something that would send him into a state of panic.

But with this Patronus, it represents his determination to stand firm in the face of adversity, to not give in easily without putting up a fight, and to prove that he is as deadly as any dementor that would stand in his way.

I personally headcanon this animal for obvious reasons. He truly is a fighter in a den of snakes. No matter how many times his family strikes against him, he just takes his time to recover and stand back up again. He is clearly outnumbered by his family members. No one else can support him in his opposition ever since his Aunt Noctua passed away. Regardless, he doesn't seem the kind to bow his head in defeat just to save his skin. He fights back until he can't anymore; something the mongoose is well-known for.

And let's just say that Ominis did die at 50-years of age. He still got the last laugh out of them all since he got to pass away on his own terms, away from the very people he loathed since childhood. That's still a victory in his book, and that's what this patronus represents.

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V. Wand Information

1. Wand Wood

Based on the physical characteristics of this wand and the meaning of the wood, it's highly possible that Ominis' wand is made from Ebony Wood.

According to the wand wood information:

"This jet-black wand wood has an impressive appearance and reputation, being highly suited to all manner of combative magic, and to Transfiguration. Ebony is happiest in the hand of those with the courage to be themselves. Frequently non-conformist, highly individual or comfortable with the status of outsider, ebony wand owners have been found both among the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix and among the Death Eaters. [...] the ebony wand’s perfect match is one who will hold fast to his or her beliefs, no matter what the external pressure, and will not be swayed lightly from their purpose."

This type of wand wood, in my opinion, is a reflection of Ominis' conviction in his views. I find it fascinating and admirable that even in the face of losing his friendship with Sebastian, he didn't bow down and agree with Sebastian's methods. Sure, he gets convinced by the MC to let them deal with it. But at the end of the day, Ominis is strictly against the use of the Dark Arts. Furthermore, he does everything to maintain his moral compass despite being surrounded by people (friends and family) who practice and preach about the unforgivable curses.

Also! I'd like to add the conversation I had with @tennoujinerin about Ominis' godly self-restraint. We believe that while most of us admire Ominis for his kindness, temperance, compassion, and commitment to the good cause, he is someone who can easily turn it all around. He is born in a family of pureblood supremacists who have no qualms in utilizing the Dark Arts like it's a daily chore. He most definitely is very, very familiar with Dark Spells that maybe even Sebastian isn't aware of. If pushed to the brink of survival, there's a possibility that Ominis could reconsider his relationship with the Dark Arts. And this wand wood is perfect for that kind of change of heart.

2. Wand Core

For this part, I admit I was stumped for a while. I believe all the three cores that Ollivanders usually has could be a good fit for Ominis for a plethora of different reasons. But it still feels... lacking. Like, something was missing for this special wand to work.

That's why in the end, I think Ominis has two wand cores that were needed to suit his special needs. He needs a core that reflects his personality and another to aid him with his magical abilities. And for that, the cores of his wand are a combination of Unicorn Hair and Horned Serpent Horn.

"Unicorn Hair generally produces the most consistent magic. These wands are the hardest to turn to the Dark Arts. The most faithful wands have unicorn hair, making them bond strongly with their owner. They are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may ‘die’ and need replacing."

While this core could technically be enough, it just doesn't feel customized enough. We know that his wand emits a red pulse at the tip to help him navigate his surroundings. Therefore, this wand needs another core to bolster its utility.

"Wands made with Horned Serpent Horn are exceptionally power, creating massive spell effects regards of the user's skill. Sensitive to Parseltongue and would vibrate when Parseltounge is being spoken near it, and can warn their owners of danger by emitting a low musical tone. These wands were said to only bond with one user through it's lifetime, but this is only a rumor for now."

These two cores encased in ebony wood make for such a personalized wand. The fact that Horned Serpent Horn core warns its owner about incoming danger is an important factor for Ominis' safety and security. He needs to be alerted for when hexes and spells are being blasted in his way. And as for all serpentine cores, it's also sensitive to Parseltongue.

(Maybe it's just me but I believe that Horned Serpents are the antithesis of Basilisks. Having this creature's horn as Ominis' wand core would be the ultimate and tangible symbol of his rebellion against Salazar Slytherin's secret weapon, that lies in the Chamber of Secrets, and everything his family taught him to uphold).

3. Wand Flexibility and Length

According to the official source:

"Wand flexibility or rigidity denotes the degree of adaptability and willingness to change possessed by the wand-and-owner pair."

Because of that, his wand is most likely Rigid. This source had explained it perfectly:

"A wand of this flexibility will only give its complete loyalty to an owner who has faced great personal tragedy. It is particularly good for practical magic use, and thus usually doesn't perform well for magic that is frivolous or silly. Rigid wand owners are cautious and have difficulty trusting others, but they are not usually unkind people. Generally, they prefer to be left alone so that they can do what they want to do, regardless of what anyone else says."

(If you're not a Slytherin in the game, your first interaction with Ominis is surely abrasive and tense. And that's because he truly is cautious, and wants his private spaces to be left alone).

Lastly, this wand is on the longer side, measuring at around 14 inches. He needs a wand that can act like an extension of himself; just like blind muggles need a mobility cane.

TL;DR:

Ebony with Unicorn Hair and Horned Serpent Horn Core, Rigid and 14 inches.

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Phew! 😮‍💨 This post took a very, very long time to make. But I am extremely glad for the assistance, conversations, and opinions of other wonderful people here on Tumblr and Discord! I swear, I love you all.

I want to give love and credit to the following:

@damn-it-a-hogwarts-legacy-blog (You're the one who really inspired me to finally get my mind together and put my brain cells to use. I admire your creativity towards your headcanons so much, and I want to share this with you!) 🫡

@tennoujinerin (Our conversations are the highlight of my obsession in this fandom. I love our collaborative thoughts, and I hope you enjoyed this one. See you in the basement! 😈)

@ponfarrdraws (I think my delusions have reached its peak with this long-ass post. But I just have to let out my aggressive emotions about Ominis! I know you get it, and I'm glad I got to know you).

@diligentcranberry (Thank you once again for entertaining my craziness. My OCD is now satiated with these information out in the open. I originally didn't want to post anything about this until you talked to me about the locations. So, thank you!)

Update (October 29, 2024): I recently finished Sebastian's version of this post, as a companion post for this one.

[albino-parakeet]

I can only imagine how it feels to open the Chaos theory/Camp cretaceous tags and be met with Danwu vs Dankash poll, 100% Canon compliant timeline of Daniel Kon's relationships, Clone Kenji???, and now whispers of Edwu.