#i have a post wandering around somewhere from a year ago where i was going off about what would have happened if link hadnt been caught

[lollybliz]

I am going to punch Groose

Why does his theme sound like the fucking goron city in botw???

he might like that, but its worth a shot.

botw is f u l l of musical references to past games, you'll probably notice a lot more like that. i dont think i remember any specific reason for groose's to have been used for goron city, but there's going to be more familiar tracks, its fun to look for them ^^

[captainsophiestark]

Picture Perfect

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary: Benedict's childhood best friend, who he's recently started courting, notices he's been a bit off lately and decides to see if there's anything she can do to help.

Word Count: 3,045

Category: Fluff, a little bit of Angst

A/N: It's been a minute since I rewatched season 2, so I may have the timing wrong a bit. For the purposes of this fic, though, Benedict finds out that Anthony paid to make sure he got into art school at the same time that they're all at the Bridgerton's country estate.

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

Something was wrong with my best friend.

I could tell from the minute I saw him, as his mind was clearly somewhere else. He also gave his brother Anthony a colder shoulder than usual, which I knew Anthony likely deserved, but that Benedict rarely gave him. It must've been something pretty bad.

A few years ago, I wouldn't have hesitated to drag Benedict somewhere and get some answers out of him, followed by doing whatever I could to cheer him up. But unfortunately for the both of us, despite having grown up together, now that we were both adults in society and he had recently started courting me, we were no longer technically allowed to be alone together. Things were usually a bit looser when it was just the Bridgertons and I, but while I'd joined them for a trip to their country estate, another family had joined us as well, tying my hands more than usual.

Still, I managed to corner him slightly away from the rest of the group after dinner that night, when I'd first noticed something off. He'd been on his way upstairs, rather than joining the rest of us in the parlor after dinner, and I managed to get in front of him quickly enough to make him stop in the hallway.

"Benedict," I said, trying to keep my voice low. He let out a long, deep sigh, but didn't move to step past me, instead fixing me with a tired stare. I frowned. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "It's... nothing."

I put my hands on my hips and raised an eyebrow.

"Benedict Bridgerton, I have known you since the age of five. There is no chance of that terrible lie convincing me of anything, besides perhaps that I made the right decision about checking on you."

He sighed again, this time even heavier, and when he met my gaze again it was with an empty smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"You remeber I shared my excitement with you about being accepted into art school?"

"Of course! Don't tell me something went wrong..."

He shook his head. "The opposite. Apparently my dear brother took it upon himself to make sure I got in, offering a bribe to secure my acceptance. Yet again, I fail to step out of my family's shadow and generate an accomplishment of my own, without their name and money securing it for me."

I frowned and reached out to touch his arm, but Eloise's voice from the other room promising to find where I'd wandered off to broke the moment. Benedict mustered that hollow smile again, then finally stepped around me.

"I'll be fine, I promise. Don't worry about me. Just go enjoy the rest of your evening."

I frowned after him, but he didn't look back as he climbed the stairs and disappeared onto the second floor. I briefly debated following him, but Eloise's hand on my elbow broke me from that thought.

"Y/N, what on earth are you doing out here? You're missing Kate and Anthony sparring over something trivial again."

I forced a smile onto my face that was hopefully more convincing than Benedict's and turned to face Eloise.

"Well, that's certainly something I don't want to miss. Let's go."

Eloise still looked like she had questions, but I didn't give her room to ask them as I joined the rest of our group in the parlor. Benedict stayed on my mind for the rest of the night, although I tried to hide my worry. Hopefully he'd been right about himself, and would be feeling better in the morning.

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

Benedict clearly wasn't feeling better in the morning. I was witnessing the man I loved having an existential crisis, and by the afternoon, I decided I couldn't sit by an watch anymore, society and the Ton and the gossips be damned.

I spent the next hour gathering and setting up the things I'd need, then went to find Benedict. He wasn't anywhere to be seen in the house, so I asked Eloise, who directed me to his bedroom.

I'd been in his bedroom before, of course, since we'd practically grown up together. But now that we'd started on the path to being something else to each other, with my heart registsering significantly more romantic feelings for the man Benedict had become, I found myself slightly nerovous as I stood outside his door. Still, I forced myself to ignore the nerves as best I could. Benedict was hurting, so everything else had to be put on hold while I helped him.

I knocked on his door, pretending my faster-than-normal heartbeat didn't exist as I waited for a response. That became much harder to accomplish when Benedict opened the door, his shirt far more open than normal and without anything over it, hair looking a rumpled mess. My heart did backflips, despite me mentally telling it to calm down.

"Y/N! I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you. I must look a mess-"

"No, not at all!" I said much too quickly. "You look, uh... very nice."

The familiar lopsided smile I loved so much appeared on Benedict's face as he leaned on the doorframe before me. He raised an eyebrow, the familiar spark of mischief that I loved so dearly igniting in his eyes, and for the first time in more than a day, he looked to be slightly back to himself.

"Well, I'm very glad to hear you think so. What brings you to my door, then?"

"You haven't seemed to be doing very well since you got the news about Anthony. And don't try to deny it, I know you too well. So, I thought I'd come find you and try to help cheer you up."

Benedict's eyebrow rose again as he crossed his arms.

"And what exactly did you have in mind?"

"I'll show you. But we're going to have to be a bit sneaky about leaving."

Benedict's mood lifted the moment he found out we were going to sneak out of the house together. We'd been regular trouble makers as children, sneaking out for adventures at least once a week, but since we'd both grown up that had basically come to a stop. Now, as I took his hand and dragged him along behind me and we ran through the countryside and left Bridgerton House in our wake, I couldn't stop a wild laugh from bubbling out of my chest. I'd missed this much more than I'd wanted to admit.

"Where are we going?" Benedict called, his own voice breathy and laced with laughter as we ran. I just shot him a grin back over my shoulder.

"You'll see!"

He huffed, but didn't protest as he followed after me. Finally, after winding through the woods and climbing a rather steep hill, we reached the spot I'd spent so long making nice this morning.

This hilltop looked out over the countryside stretching beautifully below us, even better now as the sun had started to get a bit lower in the sky. Waiting for us was a picnic blanket spread out in the grass with all of our favorite foods, wine, and an easel with art supplies set up right next to it. I dropped Benedict's hand as we came to a stop, instead turning to face him with a grin.

"Well? What do you think?"

He stared at everything I'd laid out, mouth open slightly in shock. His brow furrowed when he saw the canvas, and he turned back to me.

"What is all this?"

"It's a picnic, for the two of us," I said. "To watch the scenery and the sunset together without the pressures of society or being a Bridgerton to bring us down. The easel is optional–we can pack it away right now if you want to. But you told me you think Anthony's the reason you got into art school, and I don't agree. I've seen your work, and I know just how good it is. You got in on merit, Benedict. But I know I can't just say that and have you believe it, so I brought some supplies here so you can prove it, if you want to. Paint this moment for the two of us, and I'll swear on our relationship and everything I hold dear to be honest about what I think. Completely, totally, brutally honest."

Benedict's eyebrow quirked again.

"Well, I don't know if brutal is completely necessary..."

"I mean it, Ben. I hate to see you like this, doubting yourself. So if there's something I can do to counter Anthony's idiotic meddling, I'd like to."

"And what if..." He cleared his throat, emotion swirling in his gorgeous brown eyes as he met my gaze. "What if the truth would only serve to enforce what I know? That Anthony's meddling and money is the only reason I've gotten where I am."

I shook my head. "That won't happen-"

"Y/N." I stopped, biting my lip and forcing myself to meet Ben's stare again. He took a few steps forward until we were right in front of each other, then took my hands gently in his own. "What if it does?"

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. "Then I will keep my word and tell you so. One way or another, I will tell you the truth, even if it may not be what I want to tell you. I swear it, Ben."

He nodded slowly, eyes scanning my face. We stayed like that for a few long moments, and briefly, I thought Benedict might make a move to do something I never though he'd do with the Ton hovering over both our shoulders whenever we were together. But then he sighed, a smile returning to his face as he stepped away.

"Alright then. I believe you, and I value your opinion. And since you went to all the trouble to drag these supplies up here in the first place... I may as well get started."

I beamed at him. "I'll pour us some wine."

"Please."

When Benedict first sat down at his canvas, he kept fidgeting nervously, his hands hovering and twitching over various paints and brushes as he second-guessed his decisions. But slowly, as I kept up a stream of conversataion, supplying him with food and drink for fuel as he needed it, I noticed him beginning to relax.

"This is nice," I mused, leaning back on the picnic blanket and looking out at the scenery as Benedict worked. The sun had gotten much lower in the sky than when we'd left, which Benedict had grumbled about as it impacted his painting. Still, the golden light, soft breeze, and warm, fresh air felt like heaven to me.

"I agree," he said, not taking his eyes away from his easel. "I missed running off on adventures with you at the drop of a hat."

"So did I. But, hopefully... we may be able to get back to that again sometime soon."

Benedict looked over at me from his easel, a rougish grin on his face.

"If I didn't know better, Lady Y/L/N, I would think you were boardering on making me a marriage proposal."

I faced forward and closed my eyes under the guise of feeling the sun, trying to ignore my heart pumping frantically in my chest.

"Well. Fortunately for us both, you do know better. And it's not as if you're some strange man I met at court. You're... Ben. My best friend."

"I never said I wouldn't like it, did I? It would be an honor to be proposed to by you."

I cracked one eye open, turning my head to face Benedict with a grin. He wasn't looking at me, his stare focused on his canvas, his face completely serious. My heart stopped threatening to explode out of my chest, and instead settled into the unique, glowing warmth of love I felt whenever Benedict and I were together.

"I love you, Ben," I said, my voice soft and quiet. He stopped his work completely to turn and look at me, a soft smile on his face.

"I love you too. Very, very much." We held each others' stares for a moment, soaking in the comfort and joy of being together, and then Benedict's smile turned into a more edged grin. "It's a good thing we feel so strongly, since we may just be forced into an earlier marriage than planned to avoid a scandal after disappearing for an entire afternoon and evening together."

I huffed and waved him off. "Fortunately, I predict your brother will be accidentally helping us and making up for causing this crisis of confidence in the first place. He and Miss Kate Sharma are so ridiculous and dramatic together, I highly doubt anyone will notice we're gone."

Benedict chuckled, turning back to his work to scan it one last time before finally setting down his paintbrush. He took a deep breath, then stood and offered a hand to me.

"I've finished," he announced as I took his hand. He pulled my to my feet, but instead of looking at the painting, my eyes stayed fixed on him. We were almost chest to chest, and I could tell from his furrowed brows and darting eyes just how nervous he was about my verdict. "Remember, you promised me honesty."

"And honesty you will get."

Finally, I turned from Benedict to the canvas he'd been working on all afternoon. I'd resisted peeking before now at his request, so I wouldn't have any bias from watching his process. Fortunately, just as I'd predicted, his work was magnificent.

"Benedict..." I breathed as I took in the soft lines and vibrant colors before me. It perfectly captured how I felt looking out at the valley before us; it captured the gorgeous scenery, yes, but it also infused everything with a bit of magic that I only felt in this space with him. "This is absolutely incredible."

Benedict came around to stand next to me, arms crossed. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him shaking his head.

"Now please don't forget, you promised me honesty."

"I am being honest! Benedict, this is fantastic. The way you capture the myriad of different shades of the light shining across the valley, the seamless lines giving the world a slightly hazy, dreamlike look, and the way you've left the paint a bit messier with the clouds, to make it look like they're moving? It's all perfect, Ben. And masterful. It's a picture of the valley, yes, but it looks like it's alive. And you somehow managed to capture what it feels like to be here in the moment together, the sun on our faces, with each other even when we're not supposed to be, in a truly special way. You're an incredibly talented artist, and I'd be saying that even if you were a complete stranger that I didn't particularly like."

He snorted, then after a second, wrapped one arm around my waist and pulled me to his chest. I leaned into him immediately, sighing a bit as he leaned his head against mine.

"I have a hard time believing you'd say all that to a stranger you didn't like."

I rolled my eyes and elbowed him in the stomach, and he laughed without letting me go. A smile spread on my own face despite myself.

"Alright, maybe I wouldn't say all that to a stranger I didn't like. But I'd say it about their work when they couldn't hear me, probably to you. My point stands, Ben. You are a very skilled and talented artist. Anthony isn't the reason you got into that school. You are."

His chest rose and fell with a long, deep breath, and then finally, I felt him nod.

"Thank you. I can't promise it will always be easy for me to always believe it, but... I'll try to remember your words, and not my brother's, from now on."

"Good. And if you feel down again, you can always come to me. I'll always be there for you, Benedict, whenever you need me."

"And I you, my love," he said, moving down to whisper the words in my ear as he wrapped his other arm around my waist, too. He kissed my cheek, and I leaned back into his chest for a moment before turning around in his arms to face him.

The beautiful, kind smile I'd fallen in love with stared back at me, along with his warm brown eyes. I smiled too, then finally stopped ignoring my racing heart and decided to continue the theme of ignoring the Ton and what they might say.

I leaned into Benedict, closing the distance between us with a glance at his lips before meeting his eyes again. Both of his eyebrows shot up, but he didn't pull away.

"Y/N... if anyone found out..."

I smiled. "They won't. Besides, they'd just make us follow through on something we're already planning, anyway."

Benedict huffed a laugh, his eyelids fluttering a bit as he looked at me like he couldn't believe I was real. Then, his arms tightened around my waist, and he leaned in even closer. I closed my eyes, feeling Benedict stop just a hair's breadth away from my lips.

"Are you sure-"

I closed the distance myself before he could continue. Benedict smiled into the kiss a moment later, pulling me closer to him, the two of us locked in each others' embrace as the sun set in the hills behind us. Truly, I didn't think anyone would be able to find out about how we'd spent our afternoon, but I also truly didn't care. I loved Benedict, and even though it was technically early in our courtship, I'd known him for most of my life. I knew we were meant to spend our lives together, and I knew he felt the same way as I did. Sooner or later, we'd make it official with an engagement and marriage, and be able to disappear together whenever we wanted without the Ton batting an eyelash. But, in the meantime, I didn't mind sneaking away for private moments like this one bit. No matter what had led to it in the first place.

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

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989

[macfrog]

jet

🎉 thank u guys so much for 1k followers 🎉 i don’t know how we got here but i love you all endlessly and can’t thank you enough for all the love n support. here’s some smutty joel to celebrate 🤩 this might become something, it might not. i dunno. wanted to try it out tho. lmk your thoughts ✨

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel have an agreement: follow his movements, follow his orders, stay alive. what happens when, one night, he asks you to break the deal?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, pining i guess?? when don't i pine for this man, praise kink, light bondage, fingering, unprotected p in v sex (don't u dare), creampie, dom!joel, soft!joel, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), cursing, cute horsies

word count: 6.9k

main masterlist

Somewhere between Missouri and Illinois, last time you checked. Joel has the map, and you don’t bother asking him to see it much. You’ve been following the Mississippi north, on his orders, looking to hit St. Louis sometime tomorrow. Provided you don’t run into any trouble, that is.

It’s been three days with no safe refuge. Camping out in deserted houses with wood for windowpanes, stores infested with rats, office buildings with infected roaming. Joel figures the outskirts of the city are a good spot to stop for a couple nights, regain your strength, find supplies.

You’re a few paces ahead of him, only turning your head slightly when you notice an offramp, and looking back ahead when he doesn’t give any direction. You weave in and out of abandoned cars, hips swaying with the clipping of your horse’s hooves on broken asphalt, Joel’s horse in time at your heels.

You’d untethered the pair of them on a farm back in Nebraska. Joel had told you to stay put while he cleared the house, but you’d wandered over to the field when you spotted them. Timid, skittish, starving.

Five minutes hooked over the fence and they were both eating grass you’d pulled from the earth, right out of your hand. Joel’s heavy footsteps approaching had spooked them back a few steps, but you’d petted their muzzles and when he did the same, they soon warmed to him, too.

He’d jerked his head in a nod and muttered, “Good job,” before finding two saddles, strapping them on, and helping you onto the chestnut brown one – who you’d named Jet.

Joel had found tins of food in the farmhouse, and a switchblade for you to carry. He had a new stain on his shirt.

“Infected?” you asked.

He grunted in reply. Then rolled the tins into his backpack and hoisted himself onto his own horse, giving her reins a tug.

You knew that meant that yeah, there’d been infected inside. And recent, too, going by how well-kept the horses looked. It can’t have been longer than a week.

Joel’s silence as you both wandered down the farm track probably meant that there weren’t just adults in the house, either.

You’d glanced over to him, giving him a small smile. Bent over and reached for his horse’s ears, scratching where her soft black coat met her mane. The reins lay loose around Joel’s knuckles.

Protecting and providing for you was more important than some infected kids in a farmhouse. Joel had made that more than clear over the time you’d been with him. But somewhere, buried deep underneath years of fighting and killing, tucked away under a dusty flannel shirt, you knew his heart was hurting.

That was two weeks ago. Joel hasn’t talked about it, and you’re not interested in bringing it back up. Y’all got to the farm, took everything it had to offer, and you left.

Jet clicks her way along the highway somewhere south of the city. It’s still bright out; Joel reckons probably a few more hours of sunlight, so you know he’ll be scouting for places to camp out soon.

You lean back to stretch your spine, hand steadying yourself on Jet’s rump, her tail swishing as she walks. Her head bobs, looking from left to right, from the trucks with smashed windows sprouting moss, over to the trees losing leaves in the fall breeze.

It’s peaceful. Not much is, these days.

It’s quiet enough that Joel can listen for any sound of oncoming threat, and quiet enough that you can shut your eyes and pretend like you’re on some trail in the Texas country, on a warm summer evening; not exhausted, covered in dirt, weeks since you washed, days since you slept.

You’re humming gently to yourself, imagination taking you down by a creek where Joel pulls you by hand off the horse and you sit down to a picnic or something. He’d bring a basket. Maybe a bottle of wine, or a cheese board. Maybe he lays you back and kisses you on the blanket. Maybe his hand starts to wander up your thigh, skirt ruffling as he goes…

“Not much out here, is there?”

His voice startles you, bursting the seams of your daydream. He isn’t much of a talker, not unless you start it. You sit up straight and give your head a shake, as if dislodging the fantasy from your mind.

You twist around to look at his face; squinting under the bright white sky. Tired, same as you, lined, flecked with years and sun and survival.

“Hm?” he asks when you still don’t reply.

“Not a lot,” you finally say, clearing your throat and turning back to the road.

Finding the horses isn’t the only thing that’d happened two weeks ago.

Joel hadn’t wanted to camp in the farmhouse, hadn’t wanted to have to shift the bodies. Too much effort, or too much for you to see, maybe. You’d protested, heart set on a night’s sleep in an actual bed, but he hadn’t budged.

And you knew not to push him.

The sun was setting, though, so Joel led you down a dirt track toward a barn and burst the padlock. He tied the horses up just inside the door, used bundled up hay as a makeshift mattress upon which he laid out a blanket for you.

He barricaded the door as you lay back, did a walkaround of the place just in case any infected – or worse – were waiting to surprise y’all, and then sat down next to you.

Your head by his thigh, you put a hand on his knee.

“You can lie down, too, y’know.”

He grunted in response, breathing deep and steady.

“Joel.”

You took his shoulder and tried to pull him down to you, but the man is stronger than anyone you’ve ever met, even in his late forties, and you were convinced he’d only pretended to be yanked toward you so as not to hurt your feelings too much.

He remained upright. “Just want to keep watch for a while.”

Joel’s like this when you’re on the road. He’s cautious. On high alert. Always watching ahead, always listening out for whatever he thinks he might hear in the distance. Sometimes you can say something to him and have to give his leg a kick for him to answer you.

You’d sighed and pushed yourself up to lean your bicep against his. He furrowed his brows and scanned you from your jeans to your jaw.

“If you’re up, I’m up,” you told him.

“You need sleep,” he replied flatly.

You shrugged. “So do you.”

“What good is both of us tired?”

You sighed again and shook your head. You weren’t gonna argue with him.

Good thing he didn’t feel much like arguing, either. Ten minutes later he was on top of you, jeans loose on his thighs, head buried in your shoulder, fucking you senseless. Grunting and groaning into your skin.

You’d scored marks into his shoulder blades with your nails that you’re sure, if you peeled back his shirt right now, would still be there.

It’d tired you both out enough that Joel settled with your head on his chest, his hand in your hair, eyes trained on the barn doors. You don’t know if he slept a wink. You never know if he sleeps these days.

Joel hears the hoarseness of your voice and knows that you’re tired, ‘cause he clicks to his horse and she trots up alongside you and Jet. He pulls the map from his backpack. You tilt your head to take a look.

“Keep ridin’ for another hour,” he mumbles. “’m sure we’ll find somewhere soon. Looks like we’re still a little way out of St. Louis.”

You nod, rolling your head back. The cloudy sky burns your corneas as you watch a bird fly overhead. Joel slips the map back into his bag and you feel his hand on your thigh.

“You okay?”

“Mhm. Tired,” you whisper.

“Only a little while longer.” He gives your leg a small squeeze and his hand returns to the reins. He doesn’t fall back, instead, stays ambling along by your side. It feels like company. Feels nice. Feels…normal.

Two weeks is a long fucking time. Especially when your adrenaline peaks on the regular, sometimes multiple times in one day, and you’re alone with Joel all day and all night. Trusting each other, relying on each other. Saving each other time and time again. It was only natural that you began to rely on each other for…more than just survival.

You can’t remember when you found him. It was in the QZ, back when you believed in stability and structure. When you believed in people. Now, the only thing you believed in was Joel. Broken, hurt, shut-off Joel, who’d grumbled an apology when his shoulder brushed yours in the hallway and changed everything.

You like to think you were something new to him, something different. A challenge, maybe. Something worth holding onto, anyway, for reasons he was yet to let you in on.

He had an apartment of his own, with a bed of his own, which was something you weren’t used to. You shared a cramped apartment with Luce, a single mom with a two-year-old. Joel’s was where you went when the tantrums, the screaming in the middle of the night, the ration cards being destroyed either by ripping, by eating, or else by other means, became too suffocating.

Joel didn’t believe in anything or anyone, either. That’s what kept you coming back.

He’d just open his door and step aside to let you in. Barely a word. He’d ask if you’d eaten, and share his plate with you either way. Wordlessly picking away at the same food, making sure you got the last spoonful of soup, the last strip of jerky.

Most nights he’d fuck you until your mind went blank, nothing but the smell of him, feel of him, sound of him. No talking, no kissing, no touching. Just the sound of the bed springs, Joel’s soft groans as he bottomed out inside you. The feel of his hot skin, hips rubbing against the inside of your thighs. The bare, cracked brick walls of his apartment would fade away with each thrust, and then slowly seep back in when your orgasm began to wash away.

You knew it was time-wasting, for both of you. Scratching an itch. But some nights, it felt like more. The nights when he’d be so caught up in what he was doing, so caught up in you, that he’d forget to pull out. The nights his hips would snap messily and suddenly he was spilling inside of you, a deep groan humming against your skin between his teeth.

He wouldn’t care to ask, and you wouldn’t offer the information for free, but you remember every fucking time he did it. Where it’d happened, the position he had you in, how long it took for him to finally peel his body off of yours.

And afterwards, he’d let you sleep with your head on his chest. Let you play with his fingers. Let you talk to him; let you ask questions.

Didn’t mean he answered all of them. Didn’t even mean he answered much. Some, he’d give away more openly than others, but you soon got used to clocking when he was keeping a secret. Make a mental note of it, remember to chip away at it.

He trusted you, though; you knew that. Knew it by the way his fingers knotted safely in your hair, the way he’d lie naked with you until the sun came up. The way his breathing would slow, the way he’d mumble in his sleep.

You never talked to him about the incoherent words he’d breathe – but you could piece them together well enough to understand him better than his waken self would ever reveal.

When you brought up leaving, one rainy night weeks ago, he thought about it maybe twice over. Asked how he was supposed to keep you safe.

You do that already, you told him.

‘s different outside. You don’t understand.

It can’t be any worse than in here.

You’d taken a step forward, and he’d flinched, but allowed you to take his strong jaw in your hands. You tried to form a sentence, and when your throat closed up, eyes flitting between his, he took your wrists and lowered them. The shadow of a rain-spattered window doused in a sickly amber glow across his face.

You’d wanted to kiss him. And had he left your hands where they were just a few seconds longer, you think you might’ve. Joel saw it in your eyes, and stopped it.

Whatever. It had still convinced him. He packed his bag and you snuck down the fire escape the following night. Joel’s fingers were hooked around your belt loop the entire time, keeping your hip in stride with his all the way until you were at least a hundred feet away from the QZ wall.

His other concern was his age. Why someone like you would want to run away with someone like him. Forty-something, graying, past his peak. He has, like, twenty years on you. Once he made some reference about Bruce Springsteen and, when your face blanked, he sighed and took the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

I know who Bruce Springsteen is, asshole, you’d said, just didn’t get that reference.

He’d shaken his head and given you a sly, twisted smirk, then pushed you out the door of the apartment block you guys were searching.

Still, despite the years between you, you have one major thing in common.

You’re both good at getting each other…there.

Joel knows exactly what to do to make you tick. You know exactly how to push him until he does it. It’s in the way you look at him, the way you touch him. Things you say that make his stony eyes flit once down your body, and then you know you’re in.

It’s a little harder to do while on horseback, you gotta admit. The best you can do is look at him, say a sentence or two laced with want and need. Hope that he reads through the lines.

It’s worked a few times, when Joel’s suddenly found a shed or basement you can camp out in and then made it difficult for you to walk for the next couple days.

Right now, you feel too tired to even bat your eyelashes at him, never mind coming up with lines to turn him on. You’ve been on the highway for a few hours by this point, little sign of shelter anywhere nearby. Joel holds his hand out and you bring your horses to a stop in view of a hospital a couple miles ahead.

“That’s gotta be teemin’ with them,” you say, looking over to study his expression.

“Hm,” Joel agrees, and glances to the right.

“What you thinkin’? Sun’s getting lower.”

He takes a deep breath, pulls on the reins. “Know somewhere nearby.”

He heads off the highway with a click of his teeth, and you follow. You shut your eyes, chin burying beneath the collar of your shirt. You’d kinda hoped that he’d offer to clear even a small part of the hospital for you to rest up, maybe more, but you trust him enough to lead you somewhere safer, somewhere quieter.

That trust begins to wear thin, though, when the sun disappears behind the trees, drowning you guys in a low dusk, and the temperature begins to fall. Joel’s using what’s left of the gray light to guide him, slowing down to take a hold of Jet’s reins and line her up with his own horse.

“I thought you said an hour,” you mumble, grip becoming slack on the leather.

“Changed my mind,” he replies. “Almost there.”

Your eyes start to roll with exhaustion, hips aching from the position you’ve been sat in for hours now. It’s not until you notice the silhouette of a tall sign in the clearing, black against the fading purple sky, that you blink yourself awake.

Joel pulls you and Jet off the road to a deserted parking lot, shadowed by a motel. He slows the horses down, listening for any signs of life, leading them to the side of the building.

“Easy,” he whispers, pulling on the reins. Both animals come to a halt.

He slides off the saddle, hitting the ground with a thud. He takes your hands, pulling you down to him, and you glance around.

“Stay here,” he tells you, and you don’t have the energy to argue back.

He makes off, pulling his gun from his holster. You stand with a hand on each horse’s muzzle, gently petting. Joel’s gone for a decent amount of time, his silhouette slowly sneaking in and out of every room, spending a couple minutes in each before he clears it.

He returns with a box of pills, some gauze, and a bottle of water, which he hands to you. You take a long swig and pass it back, and he does the same.

“What will we do with Jet ‘n…?”

“Huh?” he asks, replacing the cap on the half-empty bottle.

“What’s your horse called?”

“She ain’t got a name.”

You tsk. “Bad owner.”

“We ain’t their owners.”

“Mine’s is Jet. Pick a name.”

Joel sighs and shakes his head, but you know he’s gonna spend all night thinking up some name to go with yours. “We’ll tie ‘em up out here.”

“What if something happens to them?”

“Well,” he says, leading them toward the shelter, “if somethin’ happens to them, it only means it’s about thirty seconds away from happenin’ to us.”

He jerks his head toward the first room as he ties them up, and you know the conversation is over.

You wander into the small, dingy room, pulling your jacket from your shoulders. It smells of damp, the wallpaper’s peeling off the wall above the bed. The sheets are in disarray, a little dusty, but they look clean enough. The bathroom walls are covered in grime. Drawers empty, closet doors missing, entire place ransacked.

It’s as good as you get, these days. At least it has a solid roof.

Joel settles the horses and closes the door gently behind himself. You’re already tugging your boots off, sat at the foot of the bed.

He rests his gun on the nightstand and straightens up, stretching his back with a quiet groan.

“’s cozy,” you offer, and he nods.

“Better ‘n risking that hospital.”

The bedsprings creak when you shimmy up the mattress, resting your back against the hardwood headboard. It ain’t the most comfortable, but then it’s not meant to be, is it? It’s only meant to be safe, which Joel’s made sure of.

He stands at the bottom of the bed, watching you as you bounce up and down a couple times, laughing quietly at the sound of the springs beneath you. His expression clouds over under low brows.

“Y’okay?” you ask, tilting your head.

He nods again. Eyes flitting up and down, from your face to your neck, back up, and then lower still. Your chest. Your stomach. Your legs. You feel your heartbeat quicken when he takes a step forward.

“Just had to find somewhere better.”

“Better?” You smile. “Have you seen the world, Miller?”

He leans his knee against the foot of the bed. His brown eyes darken even more, and his jaw tenses.

“Had to find somewhere better,” he mutters, “so I could fuck you in peace.”

Your breath catches. You stare from his lips back up to his eyes. His fists are balled tight. His chest heaves with steady panting. There’s something flickering in the depths of those warm eyes; an ember, drawing you in. Tantalizing you.

You sit forward, pushing onto all fours, and crawl down the groaning bed to him, rising onto your knees when your hands meet his shirt. Your chest against his stomach, you look up into his eyes.

His rough hands knot in your hair and he pulls down, yanking your head back and your chin up to him. He studies your face, outlined in the moonlight seeping through the window. Then he lowers his jaw and lines his lips against yours.

“That what you want?” he hums against your mouth. You swallow his words – they claw at your throat as they go.

“Uhuh,” you breathe back, trying to connect your lips. He doesn’t allow you; steadily dodges your jaw like you’re a pair of negative magnets, repelling off one another. You moan.

“Needy girl,” Joel whispers. “Two weeks too long for you?”

“Mhm.”

You’re not tired anymore. You’re fucking desperate. You feel your cunt dripping, seeping through your underwear, worsened when Joel’s hand reaches down between your legs and cups you through your jeans.

You gasp and grab his arms to steady yourself.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, hand tensing around your core.

Your lip trembles as you watch the way his mouth moves, how he shapes the words. His teeth locked between soft lips, dappled with brown hair, ends singed gray. The way he almost spits the words.

Your chest meets his torso when you breathe in, a deep, shaky breath. Joel notices; the corners of his mouth twitch, holding back a smile.

“Want you to…want you…”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence. He pushes you back and falls on top of you, strong body pinning you against the mattress, hand still clamped to your crotch.

His head dips to your neck where he bites, scratches and sucks, mumbling against your hot skin, “Tell me, baby. Use your words.”

Your head begins to swim, body starts pulsing with electricity. Baby. Joel’s pet names are limited to one thing. One activity.

“Want you to f– fuck, Joel – fuck me.” Fuck me fuck me fuck me.

His hand begins wrestling with the button of your jeans. Thick fingers fumbling with your zipper, taking your waistband with both hands and hauling it down. The force of it pulls you down the mattress too, squealing as Joel rips the denim from your legs. You lower your hands to help him, but once they’re tossed to the floor, he bats you away.

He’s shaking his head, tsking, then takes both your wrists in one of his huge hands. Fingers twisted around your delicate skin, pinning them above your head. The bed sighs around you when he pushes your hands into the mattress. Your back arches, your chest rising to meet his.

Your legs part, knees settling either side of his waist. Of course they do. It’s what you know now. It’s basic fucking instinct at this point.

His free hand returns to cup your sex, feeling how wet you are through your now soaked underwear.

“Baby,” he coos, “this all for me?”

You nod a little too eagerly, not that you’re present enough to care. But it beckons a smug smile from Joel, who begins sliding your panties down your thighs.

Your hips lift to let him drag the fabric down, biting your lip, not willing to wait another fucking second for him. Lace meets denim on the torn-up floor, and you sigh, settling back against the rusty bedsprings and mottled sheets.

Joel’s free hand ghosts from your wrist down to your elbow, teetering along the sleeve of your t-shirt over to the collar, where he pulls it so far down into the valley between your breasts that a small noise passes your lips.

“Hm?” he asks, fingers pausing against your breastbone.

“’s my only shirt. Don’t…”

He kisses his teeth. His gaze never lifts from your heaving chest, skin damp with sweat right underneath his fingers. You can see him tossing it over in his head. What he wants to do, versus what he probably shouldn’t.

He blinks. Decision made.

“Give you one of mine,” he growls, and hooks his fingers, dragging the fabric of your shirt lower and lower until the collar tears open and it’s another scrap lost to the motel room floor.

And then there you are, naked and writhing underneath him. He’s still in his dusty flannel. There’s sweat lining his forehead. He holds himself over you, hovering, taking every inch of you in and storing it behind his eyes.

You jerk your hands, trying to break free just to touch him, feel him, but he pulls away again, tutting.

“No, pretty girl,” Joel coos, “gonna take my time with ya.”

You moan in protest, still wriggling under his body. His grip on your wrists doesn’t loosen, not even when his free hand dips to undo his belt. The cold metal kisses your naked thighs when he pulls it through his jeans; the leather drags up your torso and across your face as he lifts it.

He takes your hands individually, careful and yet rough, urgent, and slots them between the slats of the headboard. Your head turns up to watch what he’s doing. The silver of his belt buckle knocks against the wood as he slips it under your wrists, feeding it between your skin and the mattress, wrapping it around the slat between your hands.

Then he slips the belt through the buckle, and pulls. Tight. Your hands come together, wrists kissing, the leather burning your skin the tighter he pulls. You whine, head rolling back to meet his gaze, fixed on yours.

“Since you don’t wanna listen.”

The drip in his voice, sweet like honey, smooth as whiskey, forces your legs open wider. Joel smirks, pushing himself down the mattress and out of your view.

Staring up at the gray ceiling, you’re left just to feel him. Feel him as his palms splay out on your knees, pushing them into the bed. Feel his stubble graze the inside of your thigh as he drags his tongue up, leaving a trail of wet behind.

Feel when he breathes a whisper across your aching cunt, something you can’t hear over the ruffling of sheets around your head as you toss around. And feel when his fingers part your lips, opening you up wide for him to really fucking see.

“Fuck, baby,” he says, and you find the strength to lift your head to watch. He’s leant over you, one arm hooked around your left thigh, holding it open, the other fucking…playing with you. Like you’re some fancy gadget. Like you’re brand new to him.

“So,” he runs two fingers from your clit through your folds, “fuckin’,” lines them up at your entrance, “pretty – for me.”

He pushes up into you, and your head hits the pillow with a stifled groan. You’re panting through your teeth, back arching the deeper he goes, stretching you out and rocking waves of sparkling heat through you. Waves that hit the other end of your stomach and come rippling back, throbbing around his thick fingers.

His arm bears down on your thigh, forcing your legs wide open for him. His hand cups your clit and you buck your hips, rutting against the base of his palm. Joel laughs softly.

“Patience, darlin’. Don’t want it to be over ‘fore it’s even started.”

Your head rocks back and forth, eyes tight shut. It’s all you can fucking do, tied tight to the bed. Joel pumps his fingers in and out of you, adding a third when you’re wet enough, thumb never leaving your clit.

You can feel your orgasm brewing in your stomach. Feel the tension between your hips. You’re chasing it, eyes shut, focusing only on Joel’s hand fucking in and out, in and out. You’re coming close, body pushing into the mattress, legs widening even more to let him slip a fourth finger inside you.

“Feel good?” he asks, almost with a laugh. There���s a smirk painted across his lips, you know it, even though you can’t find the energy to open your eyes.

You whimper in response, some small, muffled sound roughly shaped like yeah.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, and his wrist flicks harder.

You moan every time his fingertips kiss the edge of your cunt, pushing against the soft walls. You moan when he drags them out, leaving you empty. Again, when he pushes them back in, rough and fast. And then when he lowers his lips to your ear and tells you how good you’re being, how pretty you look, how hard he’s gonna…

It’s like he changes his mind in an instant.

Withdraws his hand, slick-covered and still hooked. Pulls it away as quickly as he pulls your orgasm from your body. It drains from you; reduces back to an ache you can’t reach.

Joel slips his fingers between his lips as he readjusts himself, repositioning on the squealing mattress. Sucks them clean as casually as he would at a cookout or something, then takes your hips in both hands and straightens you up.

His jeans are tugged down barely past his ass. He’s not prepared to waste any time ripping his own clothes off like he did yours. Just leans forward, pulls his solid cock from his boxershorts, and spits into his hand.

You watch through eyes glazed with lust as he strokes himself a couple times, eyes always on your swollen cunt, groaning as his spit coats his shaft. Then he lowers himself to you and does the same, only running his length through your folds.

You whine, feeling that familiar thickness separate you so close to where you need him, and yet so fucking far.

“Joel…” you whisper, but he’s not listening.

Transfixed on the sight of his cock moving against your soaked cunt. Listening to the sweet, wet sounds the pair of you make. His tip catches on your entrance a couple times and you gasp. Just fucking do it already.

“Fuck,” Joel growls under his breath, and then…

It’s been months. Might even be years. But the feeling of him pushing inside you for the first time is still the same. Every. Fucking. Time. He’s bigger, thicker than anyone you’ve ever slept with before. And he knows it, because every single time, he glides into you without hesitation. No time for you to adjust. Just fills you up straight away, lets you deal with it later.

He’s cocky like that. Too careful when you’re on the road, and too careless when you’re between the sheets. Not that you’re fuckin’ complaining.

Your mouth falls open in a choked moan. Your lungs are gasping for air. Joel’s all you can feel.

Your elbows lift into the air, arms desperate to break free just to grab onto him, ground yourself, feel him close against you. Your wrists lock against the hardwood, leather digging into your skin as punishment for trying to break free. You’re stuck; nothing but the overwhelming feeling of him between your legs, filling you up and leaving you empty over and over again.

“Good girl,” he’s panting, still watching where his cock lines up with your cunt, and then disappears inside.

He leans down and his lips find home on your shoulder, sucking sweet marks into the skin like he always does. His tip bumps against your cervix, jolts of sensitivity pushing through you each time he bottoms out causing you to whine into his flannel.

“Fuck, Joel.”

“I know, I know. I got you. I’ll get you there again, baby.”

You had a routine. Follow his movements, follow his orders, stay alive. Deviate slightly from that routine, even for a minute, and you threw the whole agreement into jeopardy. One misstep on a crowded street dotted with cars once had a sniper open firing at you both for nearly two hours until Joel found him and put a bullet between his eyes. That time your curiosity got the better of you and Joel almost lost a hand stopping you from walking down an alleyway and straight into a wire trap.

Repeat it, Joel had said that night. Crouched by his apartment window, rain battering off the glass. Hands on the frame, ready to hoist it up and let you slip out any second. Repeat. It.

Do as you say, you whispered back. And only then did he pull the sash.

This is not the fucking routine. This is not the agreement. You fucked, of course you did. But that’s all it ever was. Hungry, touch-starved, desperate sex. Bored sex. We-almost-died-today sex. Not this.

Not: clear an entire motel just so nothing within a two-mile radius gets to hear you fuck me senseless. Strip me down, tie me up, push me to the edge with your hands, but don’t let me go without you. Curl your lips around my ear while you’re buried inside me and whisper praises. Whisper baby. Whisper…anything you like. Anything you wouldn’t say when the sun’s up.

This feels like it means something. To both of you. Feels like Joel’s looking for something in you, asking something of you. And you want to give it to him, whatever it is.

And maybe that’s the point.

He’s proving that he could make you do fucking anything. Let him tie you to a bedframe, push you close enough to the edge that you can feel the pressure of release beckoning you forward like the wind circling your ankles.

And you’re proving that you’ll do it. You’ll do what he says. Follow him to the edge, refuse to jump. Pull his body into yours, make it feel like home for a night.

He’s proving that he’ll take care of you, and you’re proving that you’ll let him.

Your wrists are burning. Leather digging marks, searing skin, then rubbing over it again and again to cut it deeper. It’s starting to hurt, if you’re honest with yourself. Your face probably gives it away.

Probably, possibly. Definitely.

Joel notices you quieten and lifts his head from the crook of your neck. Studies your face for a fraction of a second and knows.

“Hey,” he says, reaching up. He loosens the belt with one hand whilst still deep inside you, hips thrusting slowly just as a place marker.

When your hands slip free, Joel’s clasp gently around your wrist, fingers delicate over the sensitive, reddened skin. His eyes almost glisten at the sight.

“Baby…” he whispers.

“’s okay,” you reassure him, loosening his grasp on you and settling your shaky hands on his jaw. “I’m okay. Liked it.”

Joel lowers his forehead against yours and picks his pace up again, and you moan into the space between your lips. Your legs lift higher, knees bumping against his shoulders. His hips snap into yours, his jeans rutting against the inside of your thighs, the bed creaking with each messy thrust.

“Close, baby,” his voice vibrates against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whine, chest pushing against his. “Fuck. Right there. Fuck.”

Your arm drapes over his shoulder blades, nails dig into the rough cotton of his shirt. Your left hand is still at his jaw, fingers caressing his cheek. Joined together at your hips and your brows, gaze never really meeting for longer than a second, but still. You’re right there. Joel – he’s right there.

It’s new, it’s intimate. It’s almost…sweet.

“Gonna cum with me?” he asks, sincerely. He’s not trying to coax it out of you. He’s checking that you want to fall over the edge. Not for him, not because of him, but with him.

You nod and he returns it, sweat sticking his dark hair to his forehead.

With his eyes on you, flitting between your parted lips and your batting eyelashes, too scared to settle on either place for too long, he lifts your hips and fucks into you fast. Deep. Fucking – hard. Skin slapping against yours, breath hot and tangling with yours between your lips.

The pressure between your hips begins to build again, rapidly, Joel adding to it with every movement. Every push of his thick cock against your walls only draws them in tighter, closing around him, holding him closer to you with each moan escaping both your lips.

“Darlin’…” he murmurs in a broken voice, and you know. He’s starting to falter. Thrusts weakening.

“’m there too,” you reply, gasping for breath.

“Let me – feel you,” he says, “pretty girl.”

Maybe it’s the fact you don’t normally talk. Maybe the fact he never touches you the way he has tonight. Maybe it’s him wanting you to cum first, before he will.

Or maybe it’s pretty girl, that finally sends you over.

You look so good to him. You’re being so good for him. ‘n he can’t help it, has to let you know. Has to let every thought that passes through his head slip out past his tongue.

Pulling his chest flat against yours, you throw your head back to the pillow with a moan so filthy, so guttural that you’d be surprised if you don’t have company in five minutes.

Joel’s at your heels, face buried between your breasts, groaning into your chest as his cock twitches deep inside you and you feel him fill you up.

Your orgasm’s still knocking you senseless, every nerve in your body electrified. You’re holding Joel tight to your body, his ear flat to your chest, and you know he can hear your heartbeat. Know he’s listening to it throwing punches from behind your ribcage.

He’s still groaning through his breaths, heavy and thick with his release. Cock still deep inside you, still, softening. You lay like that for…well, you’ve no idea how long. But after a bit, Joel pulls himself up off of you and wanders into the bathroom.

You sit up on your elbows, taking deep, steady breaths, and let the stars in your vision dissipate. Joel emerges a couple minutes later and finally tugs his jeans down. He lifts both his shirt and the tee underneath off in one motion, tossing them onto the sideboard, then slips back under the covers, wordlessly hooking a hand around your upper arm and pulling you down onto his chest.

Your legs intertwine with his. There’s cum seeping out of you onto his thigh. Both of you, mixed up as one. His fingers sift through your hair, doing little to untangle it but trying all the same. His breathing in time with yours, his lips pressed safely to the crown of your head.

Before you know it, you’re sleeping.

Dawn breaks early. Too early. You’re still tangled up in Joel, feeling his chest rise and fall. Listening to his heartbeat – slow, calm. The drapes – not that there’s much left of them – are too thin to stop any light from flooding in. It’s only a matter of time before he wakes up.

The rough sheets sting against your wrists – red marks scoring them where Joel’s belt had been. You wince, running light fingers over the grazes, hissing at your fingertips as they go.

It hurts way less than it thrills you. This little reminder of what you did last night. What Joel did. The pain subsides the longer you touch the scars, knitted brows melting into a smile.

You slowly lift your head, propping yourself up on your elbow. Just watching him. The dust in the room frames him in a sea of white glitter, the slow-emerging sun lights across his face and dips where the scar on his nose sits.

His arms are still around your waist, cradling you. Holding you to him. You know he’s stirring when they tighten, and then fall loose. Façade back up. Walls slowly rebuilding.

You dress yourselves in silence. Run out of words to say. There ain’t nothing to say – nothing that wasn’t said last night. Joel sinks into the mattress beside you to tie his laces, and your arms brush against one another a couple times. It’s like fire on ice.

He’s first to leave the room. Just pulls his jeans over his boots and stands, unlocks the door and lets the light flood in. You check once over for anything left behind, and slip out. The air is cool, twilight still slowly washing away. You sling your jacket over Jet’s back and pull yourself up.

Joel’s t-shirt is loose over your shoulders. He gave you a fresh one from his bag. It smells like him, but you don’t let him see when you bury your nose into it to breathe him in. The hem bunches up over the top of your thighs once you’re sat on the horse.

His eyes scan down you once, surveying you in hisshirt. Then he swerves off back toward the road, silhouette cutting between the rays of sun streaming between the pine trees.

“Ghost,” he tosses over his shoulder.

“Huh?” You click to Jet to follow.

“Horse’s name. Ghost.”

“How come?” you ask when you’re side by side with him.

He shrugs, upper lip turning. “When it’s dark, you can’t hardly see her. She’s like a ghost.”

Joel’s hand surfs gently across Ghost’s mane, fingers scratching her shining coat. Your bodies rock in time with the sway of the horses’ walking. The echo of their hooves on the asphalt masks the silence for a few moments.

“Alright,” you eventually accept, turning away to watch the sun lift above the prickly treetops.

And to hide the smile tugging on your lips.

----------

taglist: @earthtogrogu @sexygaypalpatine @serenaxpedro @brittmb115 @jediknightjana @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi

(lmk if i’ve missed you out & check my taglist info for how to be added!)

[artbyblastweave]

A while ago, I heard some piece of Apocrypha that Fallout 3 was originally set only 20 or so years after the Bombs dropped, and was later moved up in the timeline in order to accommodate familiar and marketable setting elements like the BOS, the Super Mutants, and so on. I forget where I heard this, and I don’t necessarily think it’s true. But I think it’s a really interesting lens to view a lot of the stories and characters through. You assume 20 years and suddenly it makes sense that someone like Moira is just now getting around to trying to codify survival advice; your choice to take the project seriously or half-ass it for personal gain then becomes a statement about the future of the world. You assume 20 years and suddenly it makes sense that they’d build Megaton in a crater, even if it had a live bomb in it, and haven’t yet had opportunity to move somewhere without a bomb. You assume 20 years and suddenly the Andale cannibals make a lot more sense; they aren’t LARPing pre-war life with eerie accuracy, they’re desperately play-acting at the lifestyle they thought they were going to have when they were kids or young adults, and the old guy they’ve got with them is the actual adult from that period who has the context to understand what they’re aping and how fucked it is. Tenpenny, Moriarity, and Dukov all make more sense now; their immigration doesn’t post date the war, they immigrated *before,* to escape the resource wars. Tenpenny Tower as a power bloc is an affluent settlement that *held out* rather than something that just happened to spring up centuries afterward. Agatha doesn’t have a tenuous connection to a famous musician who got sealed up in vault 92, she herself was a famous musician who got out before it all went to shit, and reuniting her with the violin is a decision to help something purely good from the old world last a little while longer. The Gary uprising was recent. The Lone Wanderer is as old as the new world. Lucas Simm’s sheriff getup, Three-Dogs anachronistic radio DJ routine, the whole thing with the Vampires, the Mechanist and the Antagonizer- it’s not passed-down half-remembered cultural knowledge, they’re doing bits as a coping mechanism, or because its still actively recognizable to a plurality. Little Lamplight and Big Town I think make a little more sense under this paradigm. Vault 112 is aping a world that recently died. I haven’t even touched how much more sense the main plot makes if people have only been dealing with the bad water for half a generation instead of 200 years. Going full Charlie Kelly this fine evening

[doodling-doodle]

I'm sorry, my sweet baby, I wish I'd been there...

So I got this idea from this post by @wewere-here and got permission to write and post this

I am so excited for this one

"Wanderlust! Are you here?" The Traveler called out as he walked through the halls of the hotel, trying to find his son. The boy was always somewhere- his name truly fit him- and he was always trying to keep track of him and make sure he wasn't hurt. He loved his boy with all his heart, but he was a little naive at times...

"Wander?"

He hummed softly, trying to summon Discoball to see if he could find Wanderlust... but they never appeared. Odd.

He had checked his room, the rehearsal studio, all the most common places that he would normally be... Now he was worried.

He walked down to the lobby, and it was empty. He knew Wander was here not long ago.

"Where did you go...?" He whispered, looking around.

He heard something from outside, and he sighed in slight relief. He might have just gotten back.

He went outside- when did it get so late, it was already dark out?- and he looked around for Wanderlust on the staircase for a second.

"Wanderlust!" He called out, shaking his head as he walked down the staircase, looking to the path to the pond... he heard something out there.

"Please tell me that's you..." He mumbled, sighing as he walked down the path, hearing thunder as he got closer to the pond.

"Wander, it's about to rain! Are you out here?" He called out, "Are you hurt? Come on, we need to get-"

He wasn't at the pond... the water was glowing.

He slowly approached the water, seeing the water slowly turn black and red.

"Wander...? He asked cautiously, kneeling down, "This isn't funny..."

He touched the water, seeing it slowly morph into an image... a moving image.

It was Wanderlust. Was it? No, it couldn't have been... The clothes didn't look like his, the dance wasn't his own, his hair was down...

It was Wanderlust. His skin was blue, his hair still had the blue streaks... he was wearing a crown.

Who did this? What-

As he started thinking that, the image changed to be earlier that day, when Wanderlust was still in the Hotel. He passed Discoball to Sara... or he thought he did.

He passed them to Night Swan, who was disguised as Sara...

"No..."

She corrupted Discoball, took Sara, and corrupted her. While Wanderlust was watching. He got Brezziana and Mihaly for help, but Night Swan stopped him from getting Jack...

They went to where Sara was to try and get her out... only to be corrupted as well.

"No, no, no, no..."

Jack had ran to try and stop the ship from sailing... he was too late.

This was a message from Jack, who was now going through Eternyx to get his own backup.

It went back to Wanderlust, who was still on Night Swan's ship... He had to look at his son as he was ripped from him.

He felt tears in his eyes, and he tried to wipe them away before they fell, but he couldn't. They kept falling no matter what he did.

"Baby... Wander..."

He cried into his hands, shaking his head as he did. He couldn't close his eyes and he couldn't look back into the water. If he closed his eyes, he'd see Wander's precious face, his sparkling eyes, his sweet smile, his darling little laughs. If he looked into the water, he'd see what was ripped away from him... By Night Swan. By Leda.

She took his son from him... This was her fault... This was...

No. This was his fault. He brought Leda here all those years ago. He did this.

This was all his fault.

He screamed into the sky, falling to the ground as he held his medallion- the medallion he shared with Wanderlust.

"I'm so sorry, Wander...!" He screamed as he cried harder, his tears falling to the ground.

He wanted this to be a dream- Oh, Seilos, please be a dream, please just be a nightmare. Please be a dream so he could wake up and run to Wander's room and he could hug him.

"What have I done...?"

He looked back at the pond, seeing his child slipping from him. Was it painful? being turned into that?

"What have I done?!"

Where was he? Where was Jack? Where was Si'ha- he needed to find them, he needed to help them, he needed to get his baby back before it was too late.

"I'm sorry, my son..." He whispered, trying to dry his eyes as he sat back up, kneeling over the water, "I'm sorry I failed you..."

He should have been there. He should have kept him safe. He should have been paying more attention, and now, his baby was in danger.

And it was his fault.

He needed to get to Eternyx.

[lake-cosay]

Jesslake Demigod/PJO AU

hi so. finally making a real post about this.

i apparently made this au like 2 years ago but the pjo brainrot came back and i've been hyperfixating on this au again. while it does also feature my OCs this post is about the jesslake au

for clarity, this au takes place in the world of the Percy Jackson books, and assumes the canon story of the books is finished. it takes place in about 2020 (pjo canon is currently around 2011 ish). You don't need to have read the books to understand the au (I haven't) but. some knowledge of the universe will definitely help

most of my notes about the au are in the images, but here's a rough timeline of the major events: (it's long)

Jesse is born in 2005. he is raised by his mom and his mortal/adoptive father, whom he knows isn't his bio dad but treats him like it anyways. he doesn't know he's a demigod or who his bio dad is

Lake and Tulip are born in 2006. they both struggle as babies, but Lake much more so; they nearly die. Hephaestus, their father, dips Lake in the River Styx, giving them the Curse of Achilles, though theirs works a little different (more details on that later/in another post)

Hephaestus sends Lake to Camp Half-Blood to be raised there. (Chiron serves as a father figure to Lake, and they actually get along pretty well.) Tulip never finds out she has a twin until she arrives at camp.

Lake lives at CHB their whole life growing up. Sometime around the age of 8-10ish, they encounter the flecs for the first time. In this au, they were people but were cursed to become monsters, and still hunt Lake relentlessly. Lake has a pretty gnarly scar from their first encounter.

When she's 13, Tulip finds out she's a halfblood and is brought to camp (have not figured out how/by who yet, open to ideas). One-one is an automaton her dad built for her, not sure about Atticus.

When they're 13, Lake decides they want to see the world. They leave camp mostly on a whim, but take enough time to pack a bag and leave a note for Chiron asking him not to try and find them. Chiron somehow (through the Oracle, and Apollo kid, idk) divines that Lake will bring another half-blood to camp safely, and he trusts Lake, so he doesn't try to find them.

Lake wanders on foot for about a month, heading southwest. Eventually, they end up in Arizona, where they meet and slowly become friends with Jesse. Jesse's parents are glad he's spending time with someone who's not his other friends, and they let Lake hang out at their house a lot. They (of course) know Jesse's a demigod, and start to suspect Lake might be too. (Lake also starts suspecting about Jesse)

The "man test" (or something very similar) happens after Jesse meets Lake, and Lake is there to witness it. However, Jesse's friends turn out to be monsters (were they monsters the whole time or did other monsters impersonate his friends? i don't know. lol) and Jesse and Lake have to go rescue Nate (from the underworld? from a monster's lair? somewhere else? again, i don't know)

After that quest, Jesse properly arrives at camp, and him and Lake become very close.

There's a small arc with Lake that I'm not sure where it fits, but here's works: the harrasment and attacks from the flecs are getting worse, and somehow during an attack Lake manages to kill them (Lake never wanted to kill them before because they used to be people, and somehow they know they won't come back like other monsters, so killing them is genuinely killing them). Lake still has to grapple with the fact that they were people and they killed them, but also that it was in self defense.

There's another more significant arc for Lake involving Hephaestus. Probably happens 2 ish years after they meet Jesse. Hephaestus... doesn't like Lake. It seems like he always wants Lake to prove themself to him, but Lake refuses. So instead, he forces them, by setting a trap. Lake nearly dies in his trap (a web of hot metal wires that tie them up like they're in a spider web, covering them in deep burns; it makes sense given Hephaestus' other myths I promise), thankfully, Lake is rescued by Tulip and Jesse. However, the whole thing is definitely traumatizing, and really solidifies in Lake that their dad is a fucking asshole. (me and @jesse-cosay wrote a fic of this, we're most likely going to post it soon!) (also, that scars from this are in the drawing, but they don't look as Bad as I want them too, I was struggling with making them look Bad enough)

Lake and Jesse have become friends with my OCs (Rain, child of Hypnos, and Kona, daughter of. Apollo. sort of. not quite. it's complicated. also Kona is Jesse's cousin!) over the past 2 years or so, and when one of them (Rain) ends up in the Underworld, they both go with the other (Kona) to help rescue them (I can definitely elaborate on that if people are interested, but it's very self indulgent lol)

okay, here's some random little things about this au:

Annabeth no longer has the most beads, Lake does. They have 13. Chiron made sure he collected the beads for them since they were brought to camp.

The other main characters are at camp too (mostly). Grace is the daughter of Aphrodite, Simon is the son of Ares, both have them have lived at camp since they were kids. Simon takes after Luke, thinking the gods should be taken down entirely.

Min is an Athena kid and Ryan is an Apollo kid

Alan Dracula is still basically the same. Chiron doesn't know how he can get into camp. Or if he's a monster. He just knows the deer helps protect campers, and that Lake loves him, so he leaves Alan be.

Lake used to have their own room (a repurposed guest room) in the Big House but now stays with Jesse in Cabin 3 (during the summer, the rest of the year they live with him in Arizona)

When Tulip arrived at camp people assumed she was a Demeter kid because of her name, quickly realized she definitely is not a Demeter kid

Lake has kicked Simon's ass in combat numerous times. It's very rare that Simon ever wins against them period. Simon hates Lake with a burning passion. He HATES that the tiny hephaestus kid can beat him up.

Jesse really doesn't like when people call Poseidon his dad, even if he knows it's true, because to him, his dad is Stephen Cosay, a mortal, who helped raise him and whom he loves.

with all that out there, please feel free to ask questions!!! i love this au so much and i would love to talk about it more. my ask box is open!!! or you can reply to this post. i'm going to reblog Yellow's art from this au and make sure it's tagged so you can find it. the tag is #it pjo au

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter 11.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 3.2K

Summary: flashback one - day one, eighteen years ago

Warnings: graphic violence and mentions of death involving minors, implied child abuse, depictions of poverty and corruption, alcohol, starvation

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 11 - FLASHBACK: ONE

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. if you have yet to watch those episodes, i highly encourage to check them out. otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory. i will also preface if you are sensitive to violence involving children fighting each other, then you may want to skip this flashback.

“Another!”

Thwack.

EIGHTEEN YEARS EARLIER

There are two of everything right in front of your eyes.

The world splits in half, meshing and morphing into shapes and spaces you can’t quite comprehend. 

Your fingers seek to cling to a nearby lamp post and miss — but a two-step stumble helps you grab onto the cool metal on your second reach. 

Stability. You need some kind of stability.

Especially if you’re going to win against him.

You’re only nine years of age when Mother tosses you into the world of illegal street fighting. Starting kids young means the return investment can provide longevity — for her and her wallet. Surviving and winning are ideal, but betting against a wounded horse can also turn a profit.

No matter what, she cannot lose.

This woman is not your mother, not really — your biological mother is long gone, trapped somewhere lost in the spices or selling the night to strangers.

Perhaps she’s even dead. You almost prefer that narrative. It sounds peaceful.

(Mother says you have that woman’s eyes. You’re not sure if she’s lying.)

Calling her Mother evades wandering questions from Military Police that patrol the streets of the Underground City from time to time, looking to issue fines or arrests. According to her, they leave unassuming parents alone — the police pity the mouths they have to feed yet turn the other cheek without a solution.

Mother is vicious. Mother is cutthroat. Yet Mother is hailed for her ingenious operations by her circle of drunks and degenerates.

Mother spends too much money at her favorite pub, Roxy's, where you’ve spent countless nights falling asleep on benches waiting for table scraps. 

And Mother has made it very clear that she sees one trajectory for your miserable life:

To utilize all of your fury in the name of the almighty coin.

You are not her first child, nor will you be her last. There used to be six of you, but she’s now waning down to four. Unfortunate accidents — kids never last long in the Underground; a sector full of orphans with sullen faces, hungry bellies, and hungrier fists.

Most families down here cannot afford children. Hustlers, however, can. From trafficking to spice mules to fates far worse than your own, you’re considered lucky.

(According to Mother, parentless brats are easy targets and even bigger wins.)

Eventually you’ll die somewhere in a sewage drain like the others before you. 

Just not today.

Fighting is hard — of course it is, you’re just a kid — but now, at twelve years old, you refuse to lay down and die.

You intend to win. You intend to live.

So you endure and you punch your way out of death’s cold fingers day after day after day.

Sort of like him.

Your opponent in question waits for you to find your footing at the dismay of the wails and shouts of onlookers creating the circle around you. He stands on the other side of the rowdy circle with practiced fists held high at his defense.

Like he’s done this as long as you, if not longer.

(He could very well be the reason you’re sent to an early grave if you’re not smart about your next lineup of attacks.)

The child across from you — possibly the same age, give or take a year or two — has the coldest stare you’ve ever witnessed. He’s small in stature; the tattered hand-me-downs hang off of his boney frame, the fabric too baggy for his malnourished body.

This boy, however, is fierce. The way he carries himself through this entire street brawl screams trained — as if he came out of the womb kicking and screaming, ready to fight.

He isn’t one of the barrack brats sent for easy slaughter nor is he a stolen kid like you.

At the edge of the circle, a tall and lanky man with a tan fedora watches intently. He’s the one who asked the boy to throw another punch a few minutes earlier. His eyes never leave the boy’s movements for a second. 

A cigarette dangles between his fingers like he’s not the least bit worried about the boy’s safety, not even when you finally charge him with a punch.

The boy dodges, swiftly swinging his own. You duck before it can connect with your face.

Over and over, you meet like this. Swing and a miss. Kick and a block.

You’re evenly matched.

People are getting bored. They want bloodshed, not skill.

If you win? It could win her a lot of money.

If you lose? It’s one less mouth to feed and a new opportunity to find fresh meat.

A clean punch from your fist finally connects with the boy’s eye, earning a chorus of boo’s. Once more you flop back against the street lamp in exhaustion, holding onto its metal body to ground you. 

The boy grunts, holding his face. The man on the sidelines merely laughs, amused at the surprise shot.

You wonder if this man is the kid’s father.

(You can only hope not all parents, adopted or otherwise, are like this.)

Yet the boy does what is asked of him: another. He stalks towards your shaking body at the street lamp and swings, but you manage to duck to the ground with a sweep of your leg before he can land the blow.

He falls to the floor, offering an opportunity for you to scramble on top of him to get the upper hand. You roll together in the dirt-ladened cobblestone street, ripping at each other's hair and yelping with a ferocity of wild animals.

People shout and toss their coins into the makeshift ring, throwing obscenities and swears in an effort to finish the bitch already!

You’ve learned quickly that the bitch is a crude name for you.

And he does try. The boy bites, kicks, grabs what he can while you defend your face and neck, forcibly rolling yourselves over to get a few cheap shots in. You’re pretty sure you hit him in the eye again. He hits your jaw and draws blood.

In a blink his hands fly to your throat, squeezing but without intent. You gasp under him, kicking and flailing your limbs to find something nearby to stop him.

Then a gun fires overhead.

The fight — once hopeful to the brink of death — is over.

“MPs inbound, seven o’clock!” shouts an older woman from the sidelines.

The carnage scatters into the darkened alleyways of the Underground.

The man coaching the boy on the sidelines now enters the invisible ring to grab him, effectively pulling him from you. The boy lets go of your throat instantly, disinterested in finishing the job. Unlike so many others before him, he doesn't care about the kill. It's unusual.

A surge of air hits your windpipe and you choke on it, still seeing double of the gray-eyed child as he disappears out of view.

“Get up, James.”

You recognize the voice.

"James!"

The name she gave you.

“Hurry, they’re coming.”

You move, but it's not fast enough. Mother drags you by the hair to help you onto your feet, scowling at the interruption of a fight she was so damn sure you had.

(You don’t think you would have won.)

“Mother, who was that?” you ask softly, finding that your voice is hoarse from all the shouting and strangulation. “The boy, who was that?”

She ignores you, grappling with your wrist to drag you into an alleyway.

Your eyes stay transfixed on the billowing trench coat of the cigarette man until he, too, disappears from the watchful eye of the military police.

Once you're out of sight, Mother drops to a crouch, assessing surface-level bruising and scrapes with her eyes.

Nothing about it is loving.

“You have to train to be as good as him,” she finally tells you.

Your eyes meet for just a second.

She was probably beautiful when she was a teenager, but her soul made her ugly. Harsh lines cut into her face from years of smoking. Her voice is bumpy like gravel, but there is a sickeningly sweet tune to her tone even when dealing with her children.

It can be terrifying sometimes; how soft she can sound with such angry, unforgiving words.

“Answer me, James,” Mother demands as she tugs your bruised wrist closer.

You don’t move your face, even if your entire body hurts. 

“I know.”

“He could have killed you.”

“I know.”

“But you would have won.”

(You don’t think you would have won.)

You keep your gaze to your scuffed shoes as she harshly wipes the blood from your face with a handkerchief.

“Say you would have won,” Mother insists. “You can be easily replaced by another sibling if you don’t think you can win next time.”

“Next time?” you accidentally ask, and those lines on her face sink deeper. Your eyes widen. “Yes, Mother, I would have won. You know I’m your best child.”

The lines on her forehead gradually smooth out. Her red lips curl into that sick, sweet smile.

“That’s right. You are my best child.”

If it were any other situation, then perhaps this statement would bring you some comfort. It doesn’t.

Being her best means you’re taking the brunt of the worst fights. Being her best means you have to fight harder with the same consequences if you fail.

You say nothing, do nothing, and wait for her to stop wiping at your sore face. It takes a few more seconds, but once she’s satisfied, Mother stands at full height and resumes her descent into the alleyway.

Her hand fishes an unassuming cloth coin purse from her jacket pocket and you immediately know where you’re heading. 

.

.

.

.

If you love the prospect of pissing money away, then Roxy’s pub in the southern quadrant of the Underground City is the place to be.

It’s Mother’s favorite place — where the downtrodden meet to pretend things aren’t so dire in the Underground City. It’s routine for the same group of people to end up here every other night, if not every night.

Because of the frequent patronage, the staff are willing to give you under-the-table food scraps for free so Mother can use her money for other things.

Like gambling.

According to one of the regulars named Bill, it was you who took the brunt of the street brawl wounds: busted lip, sprained ankle and wrist, potential concussion to the head. Under a makeshift bandage placed by one of the whiskey-soaked corner dwellers of the pub, the congealed blood on your forehead intermittently tickles your brow.

He implies your opponent didn’t end up much better. Bill won’t go into the specifics, but he says it's impressive you’ve held your own against that little devil.

Most people at the event bet against you. A draw was your best chance at survival.

You take Bill’s word for it.

Despite the lack of win, Mother celebrates with her favorite bar-goers. They’ve been drunk for well over three hours now, sloshing ale and whiskey across the bar top with little consideration. They cheer her name — not yours — and fill her glass as a cigarette dangles between her fingertips.

Payment after payment, money pours in front of her ashtray from regular betters.

People who have no excuse to gamble their money away but live for the thrill of it.

You, however, hide in the shadows of the pub — out of sight and out of mind.

God, you're exhausted.

Finishing your roll of bread given to you by the barmaid takes effort. Even the act of eating leaves you spent. 

Halfway down you stop trying, staring at your food with a grimace. You wonder if there’s water to wash it down. Maybe if it’s mushy, it won’t be so bad.

Yet when you raise your attention from your lap, you’re surprised at what your eyes catch. The sight rushes the air rushes from your lungs.

Although the small person's head is bowed, you recognize the mop of wild black hair instantly.

(It's him.)

In the opposite corner of the pub, the boy from today’s street brawl sits quietly on a bench. Splotches of bruises peek out at the apple of his cheek. His reddened hands rest idly in his lap while his feet dangle, too short to reach the floor beneath his hole-ridden shoes.

(He's really here.)

And his guardian — his father? — is the man whooping and hollering over copious amounts of liquor beside Mother. You make the connection with a wandering gaze, noting the very same trench coat from the street now spilling over a bar stool in Mother’s proximity.

How long have the two of them been here? This entire time?

Without thinking, you slowly stand from your bench and take a breath.

You’re not sure what possesses you to hobble towards him.

Maybe it’s because he looks so sad.

Maybe it’s because you’re projecting your own wayward confusions and sadness onto him.

Maybe it’s because there aren’t many kids left that understand what it means to put your fist to someone’s face with the intention of breaking it.

And just like that, he notices you, too.

There is a sharpness in the way his chin tilts to acknowledge your growing presence, quick to detect and assess the danger.

You pause in your next step, on your bad ankle, and wince.

Gradually the boy raises his attention, sockets sullen and as gray as the iris of his eye. His left eye is purple from where you socked him twice at the tail end of the fight.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

Wordlessly, you limp closer towards his bench. He doesn’t move. You lean back and start to fish for the food burrowed in your tattered coat pocket, but he tenses.

Glares.

As if you’re going to bring out something that will finish the job that street brawl only started.

Instead you hold out your free hand — wait, I'm no threat — and produce the half-eaten roll of bread given to you by the barkeep in the other.

“Have you eaten?” Your voice is still hoarse from shouting.

The boy continues to glare, briefly dropping his attention to the bread now outstretched for him to take.

He remains silent, immobile, while the party rages in the other room.

Maybe it’s a lost cause.

Maybe this was a stupid idea.

Maybe—

“No.”

Small but audible; the boy answers in a murmur. For a kid so agile in a fight, he sure looks scrawny up close. 

Breakable.

“Would you like some?” you ask instead, gesturing once more with your outstretched arm for him to take the bread you have left.

He doesn’t react beyond blinking down to the food again.

“I already ate half of it,” you add, like it’ll make taking the free handout easier for him.

Fraction by fraction, the small boy removes a cracked and bruised hand from his lap and raises his slender fingers to take the bread from you.

You let go once there is weight to its end, mindful of your distance.

The boy studies the food as if it’s a rare specimen, looking it over for mold or poison, before heading the already bitten half to his mouth.

He swallows thickly, coating a dry throat.

“Thanks.”

The gratitude sinks your shoulders down, lessening the stress pinched in your back. You sigh softly once he’s taken a bird-sized bite, chewing slowly to savor the taste.

You want to tell him that you ate just as slow so he doesn’t feel self conscious but decide against it.

“Can I… sit?” you ask as he starts on his second bite, causing him to pause. Contemplate.

He nods once, so you nestle into the empty spot beside him.

For what feels like hours you sit beside this strange quiet boy in silence, happy not to be alone.

He eats in a mild-mannered way, careful not to spill crumbs on his worn clothes. 

He finishes his half of the bread eventually but never tries to speak to you. 

You don’t mind.

Here on this bench, two children of the Underground City can rest — if only for a short while.

You both tense at the sound of a loud howl from the bar, but it is only you who looks. Some of the patrons have begun a slurred rendition of a surface hymn. A man shouting louder than the rest, belligerent and shitfaced, catches your attention. 

It’s him: the boy’s keeper. Long, unkempt hair flies out from the bottom of the hat like wires as ale sloshes high over his head.

Others join his singing with grating enthusiasm.

“Is… that your dad?” you gently ask.

The boy continues to pick apart what’s left of the little roll, ignoring your question.

You turn your chin to watch the drunk tirade, assuming he won’t respond.

Until—

“Is that your mom?” he retorts, and you whip your attention back to him.

The boy watches you instead of the rowdy pub patrons.

You suck in a sharp breath, uncomfortable with the sight of how badly his eye has been blackened thanks to your attack.

Are you sorry, for bashing his face the way you did? Is he?

Mother’s told you it’s nothing personal. It’s just business.

(No one stuck in the Underground City can afford to feel remorse — or worse: regret.)

“No,” you answer, and he takes another bite. “I call her Mother, but… she found me.”

He doesn’t react — only chews, like every bite may be his last, and swallows. His tongue darts out to lick the crumbs from his busted lip.

You lean in closer to whisper again.

“Do you have a na—”

“Levi!”

A name.

The shout erupts from a familiar gruff voice. The drunken trench coat man hangs over the bar, squinting to find somebody in an alcoholic haze.

Your question dies on your lips when the man's attention lands on the two of you.

“Oh! Levi! There you are. Ready to head out, boy? You’re supposed to be training in a few hours.”

He turns widely to the crowd of drinkers, belligerent and wasted.

“Not that he needs to. Kid’ll kill just about anyone you ask him to. Gotta keep a runt busy, am I right?”

The bench creaks.

The boy — Levi — stands obediently. His hands are empty, bread devoured and gone, but he continues to regard you from his peripheral vision.

You stay put, lips parted with a sentiment, a feeling, you cannot put into words.

For whatever feels like forever, you both stare at each other.

Then he leaves without another word.

You stay and fall fast asleep on the bench, bruised cheek pressed to the warmth of where a scrawny boy named Levi sat, until Mother is ready to stumble home at sunrise.

.

author's note: i know this update a rough one, but i promise the next is that levi/james banter we know and love. i've planned this structure from the original outline, so i hope the next installments are as exciting to you as they are to me. the original concept of silver underground was to build a memory loss fic starting at the middle of the story as it's technically your perceived beginning. now we're witnessing the real beginning.

if people are interested, i may write levi's pov of the flashbacks as additional content.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan

[detectivesebcas]

Promptober 2024 Day 23- Fall Activities (Post-STEM, AU)

Prompt: fall activities

Warnings: none

“Can’t we just get apples at the grocery store?” Lily asks as their car scrunches to a halt in the gravel parking lot of the orchard.

Sebastian turns to look over his shoulder at her.  “We could, but it’ll be more fun to pick them ourselves.”

Lily’s expression is skeptical.

“They have apple cider donuts,” Sebastian offers.

That seems to get Lily’s attention, and she unbuckles her seatbelt and grabs the door handle.

“Don’t forget your sweatshirt!” Sebastian calls after her.

He gets out of the driver’s seat, and looks across the top of the car at Stefano, who is getting out of the passenger’s seat.

“She has a point,” Stefano says, raising an eyebrow.  “They do have apples at the grocery store.”

“Not you too,” Sebastian says.  “Can’t you appreciate this as an artist?  Wouldn’t you want to find your own materials?”

“I used to do that,” Stefano points out, “and as I recall you did not approve.”

Sebastian laughs.  It’s weird to talk so casually about their time in STEM, but even a few years later it feels like a lifetime ago.  Fortunately these days Stefano’s materials are limited to film, darkroom chemicals, and framing supplies.

“Okay,” he says.  “Maybe you shouldn’t find your own materials, but we’re going to get the materials for this pie.

He locks the car and circles around to Stefano’s side, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him into a kiss.

“Besides,” he adds, nodding at Stefano’s turtleneck and jacket, “you look good in your cold weather clothes.”

Stefano looks good out of his cold weather clothes too, but this isn't the time for those kinds of thoughts.  Lily has already run ahead to investigate the donut situation, so he takes Stefano’s hand and they stroll through the parking lot after her.

Sebastian can tell he’s not going to get anywhere with Lily until she’s had a snack, so he buys hot apple cider and donuts for all of them, and they sit on the patio looking out over the orchard as they eat.

The view is beautiful, and Stefano snaps a few pictures before Sebastian grabs a basket and loops his arm through Stefano’s.  They stroll into the orchard with Lily running ahead of them to scout for apples.  As they crunch through the leaves Sebastian is glad he convinced everyone to wear sensible shoes.

They spend almost an hour there, wandering among the trees and debating the best apples to pick.  Lily and Stefano have a whole set of criteria for the perfect apple, whereas Sebastian sometimes prefers a unique or interesting one.  When they’re finished, Stefano pays for the apples and they get back into the car.

They make a quick stop on the way home because Stefano spots a park where the trees are decked out in vibrant shades of orange and red, and he takes some pictures of the scenery and of Lily.  Sebastian even convinces him to let Lily take one of the two of them, although Stefano loudly protests being the subject of the picture instead of the photographer.

Back at the house, Sebastian begins cutting up the apples for the filling of the pie, while Lily and Stefano roll out the pastry dough they made yesterday for the crust.

“I didn’t know you knew anything about baking,” Sebastian observes as Stefano rolls the dough out on the counter.

Stefano frowns.  “I suppose I must have learned it somewhere…”

His words trail off, and Sebastian moves over to place a hand on his shoulder.  Stefano still has gaps in his memory, especially from his life before STEM.  He doesn’t talk about it much, but Sebastian can tell it bothers him sometimes.

After a short pause Stefano shrugs.  “No matter.  Who knows what else I might know how to do?”

“Yeah,” Lily agrees.  “Maybe you know how to fly a plane…or…or do brain surgery.”

Stefano laughs.  “Well I hope we are never in a situation where I have to do either of those things.”  He lifts the pastry circle to set it in the pie tin.  “Why don’t you roll this one out,” he says to Lily, indicating the other ball of dough.  “We need to cut it into one inch strips for the top layer.”

Lily gets to work, and Stefano steps away from the counter to lean into Sebastian.

“What am I going to do about my memories?” he sighs.

“It’s alright,” Sebastian says, kissing him on the temple.  “You’re making a lot of new ones.”

They’re all making a lot of new memories, because just at that moment, Lily decides to apply some more flour to the counter…and the floor and the stovetop and the air all around them.

Sebastian immediately breathes it in and starts coughing violently, while Stefano turns to Lily, who is laughing hysterically.

“Too much flour,” he observes.

After a little clean up, Stefano returns to where Sebastian is still chopping apples.  He picks one up from the counter, turning it over in his hand.

“This must be one of yours,” he says.  “It’s a bit strange and lumpy.”

“Hey,” Sebastian says, trying his best to sound offended.  “Some of us like ‘strange and lumpy’.”

“Oh, I know,” Stefano says.  “Believe me.”

Stefano helps him get the rest of the filling together and they assemble the pie and get it into the oven.

Lily is watching it like a hawk, crouched in front of the oven with the light on, and while Sebastian suspects this might actually make the pie bake more slowly, she seems to be having fun, so he leaves her alone.

Stefano is washing the mixing bowls and utensils, and Sebastian moves in close to wrap his arms around him from behind.  He brings his lips right next to Stefano’s ear.

“I love you,” he says softly.

Stefano turns his head for a quick kiss.  “I love you too.”

Sebastian pauses for a moment before he adds, “And you’re not weird and lumpy.”

Stefano just laughs.

[sirianasims]

As I stood there, surrounded by moving boxes and the lingering smell of fresh paint, a mixture of excitement and trepidation coursed through me. This space was all mine now, a place to prove that I could succeed on my own terms.

And I simply had to succeed. My sisters had graduated years ago, Hailey and her husband would have a baby any day now, and Ivy was opening a dance studio in Windenburg. Liam and Kieran were doing great in high school and were definitely both planning to go to university as well.

I was always the odd child. The only one who wasn’t interested in any sports, the only one who wasn’t top of my class in anything. And now I was the only one who wasn’t going to university.

My parents were a little surprised when I announced that I wasn’t going to Britechester as planned and that I wanted to try and make it as a content creator, but they were supportive. I guess they always expected me to be different in this too.

I posted an update to my followers, but felt restless. Maybe I was deluding myself. What if I failed? What if I couldn’t grow my channel, or if I couldn’t even make enough money to pay for food and utilities? I wandered around the apartment aimlessly for a while, putting away a few things while I tried to silence the doubts creeping into my mind.

It was quiet, but not really. I could hear the traffic outside, people talking, and somewhere, someone was playing the violin. There was so much life out there compared to the empty apartment. A sudden need to get out overwhelmed me and I grabbed my jacket.

San Myshuno was so different to Copperdale, bright lights and colours everywhere. Even though it was still early spring, it was less chilly than I was used to up north.

A street vendor was yelling and the most delicious smells came from her stall. Street food hadn’t really been a thing in Copperdale and I was pretty excited to live in a city where I could go out and buy food this close to midnight.

My mother had made sure to stock my kitchen but I decided to celebrate my first night in San Myshuno by treating myself. It was a brand new feeling. Freedom!

I ordered some Bhel Puri. The smell brought me back to dinners at Myra’s house, her dad cooking the most amazing things while her mom helped us with homework.

Back when Myra was still my best friend.

I shrugged off the nostalgia. I was making new friends now, and if Myra didn’t want to talk to me, that was her own decision.

I took a quick selfie with my food and posted it, making a mental note to set up my equipment first thing tomorrow so I could get back to streaming. Most of my university fund had been spent on the apartment and while I did have some money left over, it wouldn’t last forever.

I couldn’t afford to lose momentum.

As I posted one last update before bed, the silence struck me again. No brothers yelling and running up and down the stairs, no parents laughing in the kitchen. I suddenly felt very alone.

I stared into the darkness, refusing to cry. All I heard was the faint buzz of the city outside the heavy brick walls. And then, something else. The violinist was back.

I smiled as I felt myself starting to drift away on the soothing tones. You’re never truly alone in San Myshuno.

beginning / previous / next

[overdueforarevival]

Whumptober Day 14 - Addicted To The Not Knowing

Left For Dead | ''cause I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted'

Summary: Ezra Bridger's parents go missing when he is seven years old. There are many things he doesn't know, some things he'll teach himself, others his family will teach him and a few things will have to wait a little while longer.

Also posted to AO3 and based on my tumblr post from a few weeks ago :0

Ezra Bridger doesn’t know a lot of things. He knows that his parents are gone and his home has been cordoned off by the local authority, blocking him from going back. He knows that he’s hungry and cold and he knows that his Mom and Dad always always said to go to Tseebo if anything ever happened to them.

Well, something happened and Tseebo is nowhere to be found. Ezra doesn’t know where to go or what to do, but he does know that it’s almost night and he wants to sleep. So he settles down outside his house, unable to get inside but refusing to leave, and pulls his jacket closer around his body, desperate to conserve some kind of warmth.

He’s kicked awake when it’s still dark out by a beefy man with a bushy mustache telling him to move along and find somewhere else to sleep. Ezra doesn’t know where else to go, so he wanders around the city until dawn comes and then he returns to his street and stands on the corner.

Mr Ishlay goes for his morning walk early in the morning, every morning. He’s an elderly man, one that’s been on the planet probably longer than anyone else, although Ezra’s mother once told him it was rude to say that. He’s not sure why. Mr Ishlay doesn’t walk too well anymore, always leaning on his walking cane but every time Ezra asks why he still walks if it hurts, he says that it’s good for his bones. Ever morning, he’s the first person out the door so Ezra waits for him and when he finally appears, Ezra surges forward.

‘Excuse me, Mister?’ he calls out. The man always smiles when he greets him, a fond look, the kind that old people always give young children. Today, all Ezra gets is wide eyes and a shifty look.

‘What do you want?’ he snaps harshly. Ezra skids to a stop a few paces behind him, staring at his back in disbelief. Confidence thoroughly dashed, Ezra glances around, wondering if someone is going to jump out and announce this all to be an awful joke.

‘I- I was wondering if you knew where my parents are,’ Ezra asks nervously. He gets that same nervous look again, followed by a scowl that has the boy taking another step back.

‘How would I know? Find your own damn parents,’ he sneers and then marches off, cane tapping loudly on the pavement as he fades into the distance.

Maybe he’s just having a bad morning, everyone gets grumpy sometimes. Ezra’s father gets grumpy after work sometimes, but he always apologises afterwards and promises to play Ezra’s favourite games on his day off.

Mrs Onglo is the next one out this morning, watering the flowers outside her house and Ezra skips up to her, twisting his fingers together nervously. This is the lady who always babysits him when his parents are busy, she’s teaching him how to draw and always says that he’s going to be a famous artist one day. She sells artwork in the market and promises that one day she’ll sell his art as well.

‘Hi Mrs Onglo!’ Ezra says cheerfully, waving happily at her. She glances up at him and then quickly looks back down at her garden. ‘Have you seen my parents? They weren’t there when I got home from school yesterday,’

Still, the woman doesn’t answer. Perhaps she’s going deaf, Ezra knows that old people do that sometimes. Dad always jokes that Mom’s going deaf.

‘Mrs Onglo!’ Ezra calls louder, still no answer. Before Ezra can say anything else, she slams down her watering can and runs inside, slamming the door shut behind herself.

Ezra doesn’t understand what’s happening, but decides that maybe his teachers can help him. Teachers have the answers to everything, so he joins the gaggle of children making their way to the school gates. The other parents give him weird looks, probably because they’ve never seen him walk on his own before. Ezra’s older now, though, he knows how to walk to school by himself, he doesn’t need his parents to do that.

He’d quite like them to be here for one last hug before he walks through the gates, though.

However, he doesn’t manage to get through the gates at all. A tall woman, the head teacher, stands in front of him and Ezra nearly bumps right into her legs. She scowls down at him.

‘You no longer attend this school. Do you hear me?’ she snaps angrily, glaring down at him. Ezra stumbles backwards. ‘I don’t ever want to see you near here again. Now scram!’

Ezra doesn’t like the scary look in her eye, the glint of the sun on the lens of her glasses. She doesn’t need to tell him twice; he’s sprinting across the street before he knows it.

Ezra Bridger doesn’t know what’s happening, why nobody will talk to him or where his parents are. But he learns how to survive. He learns how to find the most edible food in the big bins around the back of the shops, he learns the safest alleyways to sleep in and the best lake for a quick bath. Ezra learns to pickpocket and shoplift and Ezra learns that nobody knows his name anymore. They just call him ‘loth-rat’, but even the other street kids won’t speak to him.

Some days Ezra reckons he’s gone invisible and nobody can see him anymore. They all walk past him in the street, even when he’s freezing and hungry, begging for a few credits to help him out. Even when he’s crying and pleading for someone to let him inside to warm up, just for a few minutes. He’d kill to be inside for a few minutes.

But nobody listens, and Ezra doesn’t know why. They’ve left him for dead, to rot on the streets of Lothal, forever wondering why the world stopped and yet everyone else keeps moving.

Eventually, Ezra stops caring about the ‘why’s of the world and focuses more on the ‘how’s. How to survive, how to get more food, how to slip past the bigger kids without being noticed. How to make it through one more winter, one more freezing night on the street.

Ezra gets by just fine with not knowing, in fact he quite likes it. He likes to know that he knows nothing, not how to read or how to speak proper like everyone else, but he gets by just fine. He’s got it all sorted out, a tower to live in and food stored in a cupboard. There’s no need for answers when Ezra is doing just fine on his own.

And then come along the Ghost crew and Ezra thinks he fits in quite nicely, a ghost living on the Ghost. He has three square meals a day, a blanket to sleep under and Hera even buys new clothes. She can be a bit strict sometimes, she makes him shower every day and insists he wash his hair with shampoo twice a week minimum. He uses the same shampoo that Kanan uses and now he always smells like the man too.

Kanan teaches him things, gives him answers to questions that he didn’t know existed. Things start to make sense and Ezra only now realises how little he understood about himself. About the weird feelings he gets, about how he always knows when a fist is about to come flying at his face. Everything is falling into place.

Zeb and Sabine make fun of him sometimes, just for how he does things. He’s not sure why they think it’s so weird that he eats so fast. Don’t they know how easy it is for someone else to steal your food away? They frown at him when he admits that he doesn’t know how to read, Zeb asks why his school never taught him and then Hera calls him away quickly.

Everyone starts reading with him after that, teaching him the letters of the alphabet and what they look like, how to draw them. Ezra tries not to feel too put on the spot. He supposes they’re just trying to be nice, but Ezra’s never needed to read before, he’ll get by just fine without knowing a little longer. They all seem to enjoy it, though, so he lets them teach him and soon enough he’s racing Hera to finish odd books Kanan finds on the holoweb for them.

It takes a while, but Ezra gets used to the casual ‘love you’s that get thrown about the ship every night when he turns in. The first time, he freezes when Hera shouts it down the hall and promptly bolts to his room. The last time he heard that phrase was the morning his parents died. In a year, he’s gone from nobody daring to speak to him to having those words called to him like it’s natural. Of course, Ezra understands now that nobody spoke to him out of fear of the Empire. But still, it doesn’t make sense for Hera to be saying this.

But then Kanan starts saying it too and now Ezra really doesn’t know what to do. But they never stop, in fact it begins to replace any form of ‘goodbye’ and Ezra quite likes it. He doesn’t say it back.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t say it back, he tries a few times, braces himself and spends an hour mustering up the courage but as soon as he sees Hera cooking dinner in the galley, he freezes. In the end, he chops the vegetables for her.

Somewhere along the line, he’s found a family and he’s not quite sure where it came from but he certainly enjoys it. The casual banter and bizarre inside jokes. Knowing that there’s always someone who will have his back, that they’ll never ignore him and never pretend he doesn’t exist makes it easier to go to sleep. He’ll never wake up in the cold again, never wake up alone, wondering why everybody hates him all of a sudden.

And then Kanan makes an awful decision. Ezra should have seen this coming, should have known this was his plan all along but the thought never crossed his mind. In all of these battles they’ve fought, all the missions they’ve been on, hell even after all the nightmares he’s had about it, it never once crossed Ezra’s mind that Kanan might die.

He doesn’t look scared when it happens, in fact he looks perfectly at peace. He smiles at Hera as he pushes her away and lets the flames consume him. It’s almost as though he thought they’d be okay without him. Ezra doesn’t know where he could have gotten such a preposterous notion from. They are not okay without him.

Every night, he can hear Sabine sniffling through the wall that separates their bunks, Zeb is grumpier than ever and even Chopper seems more dull. There’s less spontaneous electrocution which Ezra supposes he should be grateful for, yet part of him misses it.

And then there’s Hera. He knows how hard she’s trying to hard to hide it, but he can feel every emotion lying behind her facade of coping. Ezra doesn’t know why Kanan would do this, why he would hurt Hera like this and why he’d leave him. Ezra doesn’t know enough about the Force yet, about being a Jedi to become half the man that Kanan was. Ezra doesn’t know what to do without his Master.

Now it falls to Ezra to make these decisions and he doesn’t know which is the right one. He guesses and guesses, hopes and prays, begs and pleads for guidance. In the end, he still doesn’t know that to do. But if there’s one thing he learned from being on the streets is that if you act confident enough, nobody will second guess you.

So he makes the damn video and tells Sabine that he’s counting on her. He says his goodbyes and still can’t tell them how much he loves them. He doesn’t know why, when it matters more than ever, he can’t tell them something so simple.

Ezra doesn’t know why he wants to backtrack, to jump off of Thrawn’s ship and hope Hera will see him and catch him. Ezra doesn’t know where he’s going to end up or if this is even going to work. Kanan would have a better idea. Kanan should be here.

But he isn’t and Ezra doesn’t want to hate him for it, but a part of him is really pissed off. No matter how at peace he tries to be, no matter how hard he tries to accept that Kanan is never coming back, he just wants the man to walk up the ramp to their ship one more time.

Now neither of them will.

Ezra doesn’t know where he is, on this strange planet with no intelligent life forms for miles other than the one man who ruined Ezra’s life just when it was starting to look up again. But it’s okay, because Sabine will come for him and Ezra just has to hold out until she finds him. Surely, it can’t take that long.

So he sets up camp and reminds himself of how to keep warm when sleeping out in the elements. He got quite good at it once upon a time, so he knows how to do it now. He doesn’t know what plants are safe to eat or what animals to hunt for dinner, but he learns through trial and error.

Thrawn is doing something, he can feel the Grand Admiral’s presence on the planet, plotting and planning while Ezra waits. It doesn’t matter that Ezra doesn’t know, because he’ll never be able to get off this planet, wherever they are. His venator was destroyed by the Purgill.

Ezra doesn’t know why it’s taking Sabine so long to come find him, doesn’t know why he’s still here in the freezing cold. In all the spare time he now finds himself with, Ezra tries to teach himself more, to learn about the Force and become stronger. He misses having a teacher to guide him, misses having Kanan telling him what to do and how to be.

Every day he wishes he’d learned just a bit more, just asked a few more questions while he was alive. If he’d just trained harder, perhaps he’d have been good enough to save Kanan. Selfishly, he wonders if, had Kanan been alive, Ezra could have stayed home.

Ezra doesn’t know a lot, but he does know that everything he’s learned came from the smartest people alive. And those smart people are going to find him one day. Until then, Ezra will stay here with the Noti, haunted by ghosts of his past, wondering if anyone will ever know how it feels, if he’ll ever be able to tell them. For now, he has no choice but to wait and float in this not knowing, forever waiting for his family to bring him home.

[xxfangirl365xx]

Question: "What is a day you'll never forget?"

Ghoul's answer: The Day we met Show Pony

NOTE: Written in my wattpad a few months ago, i posted Jet's and Kobra's here so here is Ghoulie's (:

Mine predates all of the other guys' stories and it's kinda sappy but why not. Mine was the day I met my fellow prankster Show Pony. Despite popular belief they didn't just roll up and start hanging around with us.

The four of us ( Poison, Kobra ,Jet and I) had been in the zones about a year and had pretty well adjusted to life out in the middle of nowhere. We were on patrol by ourselves, one of the first times Dr.D let us do that alone. Basically we got to drive around all day, nothing usually ever happened. On this day in particular we were on our way home and spotted something off in the distance...Dracs? Possibly. We drew out ray guns and headed over only to be met with a horrifying scene of three people, all fairly young, seemingly dead.

"Dear Destroya" Poison remarked observing the sad scene

They definitely had just escaped the city and made it pretty far into the zones...unfortunately they were unarmed and didn't stand much of a chance.

Jet went to the three and looked to see if by some miracle they were alive. First two were a sad head shake no.

The third person had long dirty tangled black hair and was maybe about 17 years old...about the same age as me. Jet gently grabbed their wrist expecting nothing and were were all shocked when he found a pulse.

" Guys! This one's alive!"

" They're bleeding from somewhere on their head" Kobra noted, hiding behind his brother, scared for who knows what reason.

It's not a secret that I hate blood, I get a paper cut and nearly pass out and the guys make fun of me for it a lot, but this time it didn't bug me, I was much more bothered by the fact this poor kid was now hurt and alone laying next to their dead friends. I wasted no time In gently picking them up and we headed back to the car so we could go back to the diner and hopefully help this kid. I rested their head in my lap to keep them as comfortable as I could on the ride home. I took my vest off and covered them with it because it was getting cold. I felt really bad, you know, I was so lucky to have found a good group to rely on and call my family and I think this made me realize how fortunate I really was. This kid needed a friend and I decided to be that friend.

We got home and I carried their limp body in the diner and laid them on an extra mattress we had.

" YO DR.D" Poison yelled

" What's up boys?" He asked coming into the room a few seconds later ( this was before he hurt his leg)

"We found this wanderer on the route home" Poison explained " Their buddies were dead but they're alive for the time being"

He stood over my shoulder looking at the kid

" Should I call a doctor?" he asked after a second

" Aren't you a doctor?" Kobra asked confused

He laughed, realizing he had never clarified where that title came from

" It's just a name, I ain't got a degree to back it up. I don't know shit about medicine" he continued

" Ohhhhh..." we exclaimed in unison

"I'll call someone" He said leaving the room

I sat next to the kid for a while, just watching the rise and fall of their chest for what seemed like hours until an actual doctor came.

He looked them over before coming to the conclusion they were in perfect health other than a head injury.

" Just keep a close eye on them for the next few days,once they wake up they may be a little out of it but I'm sure they will be okay." He said before him and Dr.D went outside to smoke a cigar and gossip for a while.

" Well, you heard him. I guess they're gonna be alright" Jet said. "Well' I'm gonna go change the tire on the Trans-am, it's got a leak."

" I'll come watch." Poison said , Kobra following right behind his brother

Jet poked his head in the doorway after a second.

"You coming Ghoul?"

" Nah, I'm gonna sit with them." I said

" alright"

I sat for a while enjoying some silence until the kid began to wake up. Of course I had never been in a situation like this before.

I sat next to them and gently moved the hair out of their face.

"Ugghhh-shit" they mumbled groggily

'"Uhhh...Um.." what are you supposed to say in this situation?! " He-y?"

They looked over at me and the first they they said...I kid you not was

" Why do you have a bee on your sleeve?"

I looked at my shirt sleeve..I do have a bee on my shirt. Huh...good observation.

" Who...are you? You look funny." They said again

" I'm Fun ghoul, I'm Killjoy." I explained " what's your name?" I asked, unsure if they could answer that question. To my surprise they answered rather quick

" I've been waiting foreverrr for someone to ask me that. My name's Show Pony." They said slurring their speech.

" Nice to meet you, Show Pony... How ya feeling?"

"I dunno" they giggled

"Looks like you hit your head pretty bad huh?"

" I think so" they said continuing to giggle like a crazy person

" What's so funny?" I asked starting to laugh too

" The room's spinning it's like a carnival ride"

" Oh yeah that is fun- do you like carnivals?"

"Yeah...no clowns though"

" Oh you don't like clowns?"

" nu uh they're creepy and smelly...am I smelly? The dessert is gross." They thought for a second before they started crying

" Am I a clown? I'm weird looking and I smell" they said in between tears

I forgot the kind of wack mood swings that happened when you were going through withdrawals from BLI brainwash drugs.

'"Hey, you're not a clown, don't cry" I said, trying to comfort them.

Without a second though I knelt down further and hugged them.

They stopped for a second and were perfectly still.

" I overstepped and made them uncomfortable!" I said in my head " Oh Ghoul you idiot!"

To my surprise they hugged back and quietly whispered

" Thank you"

I spent the rest of the night doing my best to take care of Show Pony and just chatting and giving them a hard time while they tried to tell lame jokes such as this fun one at 2:07 AM

" Hey Ghoul Knock Knock"

"Who's there?"

" Boo"

" what?"

" Nooo you're supposed to say boo who!"

" Aww don't cry Pony"

" Your a jerk"

Show Pony became very good friends with us all and impressed Dr.D with their intense knowledge of music and when he started his station he made Show Pony his official helper.

So yeah, I love Pony, they're one of my best friends no matter how annoying they can be, one of my favorite people and a part of my large Zone family.

Anyways that's my story, see ya later

-Fun Ghoul

[animeyanderelover]

I believe you're referring to the one Fruits Basket post I did a few months ago where they had a nightmare and woke up only to find their darling not next in bed to them. I know that you like the softer approach so I tried to give it to you.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessive behavior, some paranoia

Prompt 136

Seijūrō wasn't a person prone to weakness and showing his emotions. Perhaps it had something to do with the way his father had forced him to be perfect in every aspect as he had been the only son to succeed his business. The only real escape for him, the only real source of relaxation and joy during his childhood had been his kind mother.

Until she had passed away in his 5th year of elementary school and he had been left alone to endure the excessive high expectations his father put him under. Never lose in anything or to anyone, never let anyone defy him. The seeds for the person he would become later on in his life had been planted by his father, had given birth to a terrifying side of Akashi that only few dared to go against only to suffer the consequences.

You truly weren't sure if he had ever felt very strongly about his own father as he acted arctic and cold around him whenever those two met, almost behaving like strangers. What you knew was that Akashi didn't want you to be around your father-in-law too often and for once did you agree with him. It was terrible obvious that his father hadn't envisioned you as his son's partner and spouse and the few times where you had seen Seijūrō's father, you had noticed the sharp glares thrown in your direction and the condescending comments, questioning your competence and your worth.

If looks could kill you were sure that his father would have died the most gruesome death possible as Akashi's eyes had burned with murder, a gaze so intense that servants had withered away the moment his eyes had brushed past them for less than a second. Family reunions between the Akashi family were rare, you could count it down on less than five fingers how often Seijūrō visited his father and if he did, he never left your side, almost paranoid that his father would just wait for the opportunity to tear you down and convince your of your worthlessness. It was a rare side you normally never saw of him.

---

Upon waking up from the foggy images of his nightmare, the first thing Akashi noticed was the sheath of sweat covering his skin and his quickened heartbeat. A nightmare solely induced because of the celebration of his father's birthday. A celebration Akashi had only attended because you had insisted that you two should at least congratulate his father.

He reached over to your side, fingers gracing the cold material of the mattress which suddenly made him aware that he was alone. He sat up slowly, his eyes staring at the spot where you had been when both of you had headed to bed before wandering over to the digital alarm clock on your nightstand.

02:53

For a few moments he just sat in the darkness, waiting for you and listening to every little sound that stood out within the overall silence of the night.

A few minutes passed by yet he didn’t hear any footsteps indicating that you were heading back to the bedroom. He was sure that you were still somewhere in the house and that the servants having the nightshift tonight would have informed him if something would have happened but with the just recent nightmare, Seijūrō couldn’t help the slight knock of unease on his mind.

He threw the blankets off his body as he stood up, walking over to the bathroom connected to the bedroom. It wasn’t likely that you were inside as he had neither heard any sounds nor was the light on as far as he could see. He wanted to be completely sure though as he knocked gently on the door.

“(y/n)?”

There was no answer, pretty much as he had expected. Concluding that you really weren’t there, Akashi headed out of the bedroom since you had to be somewhere else then.

"(y/n)?"

Still no answer. Where could you have possibly gone to in the middle of the night? There was a wave of tension washing over him as he strolled down the floor, his footsteps quickening as he continued to call out your name.

"Master, why are you awake and walking around? Is something the matter?"

Apparently he had made enough noise for one of his staff to notice. If they had nightshift though, Akashi was hoping that he had seen you.

"I'm looking for (y/n)? Have you seen them?" he asked calmly, the darkness doing nothing to hide the sheer pressure his gaze put on the poor man.

"I believe they went outside into the garden."

"Is anyone with them?"

"No, they insisted on being alone although I didn't let them leave without at least wearing a coat. The night breeze tends to be a bit fresh after all in this season."

He didn't need to hear more as he excused the servant and made his way down into the garden. Apparently he hadn't been the only one who hadn't been able to sleep soundly on this night...

---

You had been fairly absorbed into the sounds of the night and the black sky above you which was to blame for you realizing a little bit too late your husband stepping outside too, eyes glued to you as some of the tension in his shoulders left him when he finally found you. A thin blanket was wrapped around you as you were sitting on one of the decorative stones outside, neck cranked up to stare into the dark sky above you.

Seijūrō should have been slightly angry with you for leaving his side in the middle of the night but you looked far too serene right now, gaze dreamily hung up on the nightsky. It was only when he stepped closer that you noticed his approach from the corner of your eyes and finally turned your gaze to him. Mild surprise on your face before it melted into a softer expression that drove out every bit of anger he could have possibly harbored somewhere in his mind.

"Unable to fall asleep?" you asked softly, making some space for him so he could sit down next to you.

"I was actually just searching for you since you just diappeared. How long have you been sitting here?" he replied, shuffling closer to you and engulfing your own hand within the warmth of his own.

"I'd say that I've been awake for roughly an hour and have been sitting here now for about 20 minutes." you guessed, a half-amused smile on your face as you did so.

"Why didn't you-"

"If you're going to ask me why I didn't wake you up, don't. You've stressed yourself out enough yesterday already, I didn't want to disturb your sleep with such trivial matters." you interrupted him before he could even finish his question, already knowing what he would have asked you otherwise.

"You think having me waking up without knowing where you are isn't going to stress me out then?" he quickly shot back, causing you to let out a short chuckle, amused by his answer.

"Fair point."

You pointed your gaze at him, noticing that he seemed to think about something as he was staring right into your own eyes and even if the light was very limited right now, you thought that you could see a sparkle of worry in his orbs.

"The reason why you couldn't fall asleep doesn't have anything to do with my father and his poor behavior, does it?"

You thought that he would ask you something along those lines, when it came to his father you were fairly good to predict your husband's behavior.

"Not really, I think. What about you?"

"It has nothing to do with him." Akashi replied, a strong hint of dislike put into the last word. You watched his facial expression carefully but you had to give it to Akashi. He knew how to conceal the feelings on his face, you couldn't tell from merely observing him if he was lying or not. There was only the feeling deep inside your heart telling you that it had to do with his father but you decided to not push it any further. You shouldn't worsen his mood.

"If you say so. Seijūrō, I think you should still head back to bed. You have work to do tomorrow. Try to fall asleep again."

"Then you're coming with me."

You tilted your head slightly in confusion.

"If you want me to fall asleep again, then you have to be next to me. I won’t be able to sleep until I have you in my arms."

You let out a huff of amusement, a grin tugging on your lips as you leaned closer, nose bumping into his. "You're acting very strange right now."

"There's nothing wrong with showing my spouse how much I love them."

His love. His love scared you at times, especially when his golden eye threatened to tear your soul apart with his glare alone but right now he appeared relaxed, tame even.

"Was your nightmare that bad?"

There was a very short moment of shock, he hadn't told you about him having a nightmare and you had just assumed that he must have had one, you didn't know why. Intuition perhaps?

You would cave in. Just for tonight, you would be willing to cave in and indulge him and yourself in some tender sweetness now that he wasn't the other side of him. But only if he would admit it. You had been far too often the one who had been forced to show your weakness and break down in front of him only to have him coddling you in a sickening manner. You wanted him to be the one to admit his weakness for once to you too. Just so you could see that he was only a human too.

The silence that followed the next few moments showed you that he was hesitating a bit, perhaps he was worried that you were scheming something, although that would b fruitless for you in all ways. Red eyes were locked into your own orbs as if searching for any sign that you were planning to use this somehow against him. He couldn't find anything though, only genuine concern and the silent wish to see him. A warm feeling spread throughout his chest.

"Yes."

You barely heard him whispering his answer out but that one word was all that you needed to hear to close the few inches of distance between you two, your lips meeting his own warm ones. For the shortest moment he seemed a bit surprised before he leaned forward, both of his hands grabbing your shoulders to pull you closer to him.

"Then let's go back inside, shall we?"

[withacapitalp]

@thefreakandthehair

Dearest Lex! First of all, happy birthday <3 People like you are once in a lifetime, and I'm so so grateful we've become friends. I tried to pull together a little surprise, I'm sure someone else has already posted theirs, but I scheduled mine to be here bright and early!!

For anyone not in the loop who wants to do something for Lex DM me!!

Link to Ao3

Eddie had never exactly had the best track record with birthdays. 

When he had been couch surfing with his mom and dad, there wasn’t exactly time for setting up a birthday party, or money for cake and presents. If he was lucky, his mom would get him a cheap toy car, or a lollipop that she swiped from the gas station — little ways to make the day special. She tried, she really did, but that was mostly at the start.

By ten, she seemed to have forgotten her son even had a birthday, too lost in the drugs to see him waiting for her to notice. Hell, there were even some years where he himself completely missed it. They would pass by somewhere, and Eddie would offhandedly see the date, realizing with a jolt that his birthday had passed days or weeks ago and nothing had changed. 

He hated those years most of all. 

But…but today was his thirteenth birthday. 

He was turning thirteen today, and he was finally in a place he could really call home. He was turning thirteen, and for the first time, Eddie wanted to let himself hope. He let himself day dream about a party with balloons and a cake littered with bright candles. He had thought endlessly about how Thirteen was going to be great, the best year yet. His year. 

Eddie had, foolishly, let himself think that things might be better now. After all, Wayne had been nothing but kind to him so far, always wanting to know what Eddie thought and listening when he told wild long winded stories. Wayne was good, and he seemed like the type to make birthdays something special. 

He woke up that morning, hope starting to stir in his chest, and it instantly vanished when he threw his arm out to wake his uncle, only to find that the other side of the bed was cold. 

Uncle Wayne wasn’t in the room they shared, and when Eddie wandered out, there was a post-it note on the fridge saying that he switched to the day shift, and he wouldn’t be home till 7:00 tonight. 

No cake, no presents, not even a card. He hadn’t even written Happy Birthday on the note. 

He tried not to be disappointed, tried to reason with himself, because Uncle Wayne might not have even known it was his birthday. He hadn’t even known Eddie existed until a few months ago, how could he know when his birthday was?

But there was a wrathful sad creature writhing in his chest, pressing down on that old wound and making it reopen, telling Eddie that if Wayne actually did love him, he would have known. He would have cared enough to ask. 

It wasn’t fair to think that way. His Uncle cared plenty. He had taken Eddie in, given him a home, shared his room and his food and his life when didn’t have to, and Eddie wanted to be grateful for all of that. He was grateful for all of that. 

He just also wanted Thirteen to be different. 

The rest of the day was the same. Eddie went through school in a daze, barely paying attention to his classes or the assholes all around that liked to make fun of him. No one wished him well, or asked how he felt to be thirteen, and he was almost kind of glad for that. 

Because thirteen felt the way that twelve did. It felt the way eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, and four did too. 

Thirteen sucked. 

By the time he got out of class and back to the trailer park, it was getting hard to hold back the tears pressing at his eyes. He lept into the trailer and shut the door with a bang, hitting his back against the door and sliding down. He collapsed onto the floor in a heap, sniffling and pressing his palms against his eyes, trying to make them stop before they started. 

Eddie had always been a crybaby. It was something his father had absolutely detested about him, something he had tried to beat out of his son time and time again. Those attempts had only made Eddie cry more, which made his father angrier, which started a vicious cycle, which led to scars and nightmares and all of the things Eddie just wanted to forget about. 

This wasn’t how Thirteen was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about the bad things, he wasn’t supposed to be upset. 

“Why’re you cryin’ kiddo?” 

Eddie immediately startled at the unexpected voice, jumping with a gasp and accidentally smacking his head against the metal door. Now he was really crying, holding the back of his head with both hands and choking on cut off sobs. 

Wayne shot up from his easy chair and dashed over. He lifted his arm, probably only intending to help Eddie up, or check the back of his head for a lump. 

That wasn’t what Eddie saw. Eddie saw a hand raised his way, and tears on his cheeks, and knew he was about to get punished again for being a stupid crybaby. He flinched back, ducking his head between his legs and waiting. 

But no hand ever came. No screaming, no pain. Nothing. Hesitantly, Eddie lifted his head up, watching his uncle with fearful eyes. 

Wayne was still as a statue, his arms at his sides. There was a funny look on his face, a strangled kind of shock that looked uncomfortable. Eddie uncurled from his ball, lowering his arms and wrapping them around his knees loosely. 

“‘M sorry,” He mumbled, humiliated. This was really turning out to be his worst birthday ever. Wayne chewed on the inside of his cheek for a minute before slowly lowering himself down to the floor, groaning as his knees cracked loudly in the quiet trailer. 

“You don’t got to apologize,” Wayne said once he was on the ground. Eddie knew that was true. This wasn’t the first time they had done this particular song and dance, but it was the worst time. Wayne told him the same thing every time- he didn’t have to apologize. 

Eddie still felt the need to. 

“Sorry,” He repeated, cringing as the word flew out of his mouth. Wayne sucked a deep breath in and let it out in a long sigh, looking around as he contemplated his words. 

“Does it help you if I say I’m not angry with you?”

Eddie paused, considering. Whenever Wayne said he didn’t have to apologize, Eddie always felt like he needed to apologize for apologizing. It was silly, and confusing, and made his heart race. 

But the thought of knowing that Wayne wasn’t upset made his heart beat just a little bit slower, so Eddie nodded hesitantly. Wayne nodded back, clicking his tongue once and looking Eddie right in the eye, forcing him to look back. 

“Then I’m not angry with you. Not even a little bit, Eds,” Wayne said carefully, making sure every word was heard. 

It was the little nickname that really made Eddie’s shoulders start to relax. Wayne had started calling him that the third or fourth day after his arrival, and, every time he did it, Eddie felt just a little bit safer. 

Wayne let Eddie calm down a bit more, watching him brush away any lingering tears and take long shaking breaths. Then, when he was sure Eddie wasn’t going to fall apart again, he repeated his initial question in a soft, unexpectedly gentle, tone. 

“Why were you cryin’?”

Eddie’s cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head. Now that it was over, he felt ridiculous for falling apart like that. It was such a silly thing to get so upset over, and Wayne didn’t need to know. 

“I thought you had a shift?” Eddie said, changing the subject while smoothly avoiding the question.

“Got Gordie to take the last three hours. I wanted to be home to surprise you,” Wayne replied. 

A blinding rush of hope stabbed Eddie directly in the chest. He despised it for still existing, for not being beaten down by the reality of the life he had lived. Through all of it, he still had hope, he still wanted to believe something better was coming. 

Maybe that was stupid. Maybe it was brave. Maybe it was the only thing keeping Eddie alive at this point. He dropped his gaze to the floor between them, trying to gather up his courage. 

“Why?” Eddie whispered, unable to look up in case he was wrong. 

It was quiet. It was quiet for a long time. Eddie didn’t move, didn’t dare to even breathe too much. He couldn't until he heard the answer. 

“...It’s your birthday, kiddo,” Wayne said, each word coming out slow and measured, “You know that, right?”

Wayne knew. 

Wayne knew, and he had taken time off, even though they needed the money badly. He had given up those precious few hours just to be here for him. Just because he wanted to. 

The lump that had begun to ease out of his throat grew three times as big. 

“Then why’re you so surprised that I’d wanna be here?” Wayne wondered, sounding confused, but also sad. Guilt began to bloom in his stomach, but Eddie couldn’t bear the thought of lying right now. 

“Didn’t think you knew,” Eddie mumbled, feeling his lashes starting to stick together. The unspoken ‘didn’t think you cared’ sat heavy in the air between them. 

Eddie dropped his head between his knees again, hating himself for thinking badly about Wayne. His uncle had done nothing but care for him this entire time, making sacrifice after sacrifice, and Eddie had really thought he would do something as terrible as this? What kind of person was he? 

Wayne, unaware of Eddie’s internal battle, spoke slowly, taking his time with each word the way he always did. 

“Got it out of the paperwork your social worker sent me,” Wayne said, hesitating for a second before lowering his voice into a whisper before asking his next question. 

“Is that what got you all upset?”

This is where it would be smart to lie. 

If it was his father, Eddie would have lied. 

If it was mother, Eddie would have lied. 

If it was anyone but Wayne, Eddie would have lied. 

Instead, he gave the tiniest nod he possibly could, taking the risk of falling and hoping his uncle was serious about wanting to catch him. 

Wayne sighed heavily, and Eddie raised his head just enough to watch as his uncle shook his head and got to his feet, only walking a few steps before coming to sit next to Eddie by the door. 

“I’m sorry. I thought about wakin’ you when I left, but I wanted to let you sleep. I should’ve done that, and I apologize,” Wayne said, lowering his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and tugging him in for a sideways hug. 

It always amazed Eddie how quickly Wayne would apologize for things. He had never heard his father say he was sorry, but Wayne did it all the time. If Eddie’s toast was too crunchy, if he was late coming home, every time he thought he misstepped, he said he was sorry. For all the little things, and all the big things too. 

It was strange, but it was probably the thing he liked most about living with Wayne. With Wayne, Eddie wasn’t always the one who had done the wrong thing. 

“But I had a plan, if you wanted?” Wayne offered, and Eddie nodded his head against Wayne’s shoulder, still not ready to talk. 

“Well, I figured we could grab a slice or two, ‘n go to the movies. See that new one you were talkin’ about? Salem’s Somethin’? Thought you might like to see your first official PG 13 movie together,”

“That sounds nice,” Eddie whispered, the smallest trace of a smile gracing his face as Wayne grinned when he spoke. 

“Yeah, then after I uh I got you a cupcake? You said you like red velvet, so I tried to get a cake, but the bakery only did cupcakes. I got a chocolate one for me, but I have a candle you can put in it.” Wayne continued, pointing over to the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. There was a pink box sitting there, tied tightly with white twine that came together in a pretty bow on the top. 

Eddie couldn’t even remember talking about his favorite kind of cake with Wayne. But Wayne remembered, and the thought of that flooded him with warmth from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. 

He let his legs slide out straight, sitting right next to his uncle’s. His feet only reached about three quarters of the way down his uncle’s calves, but Wayne swore that would change soon. He liked to call Eddie a ‘bean pole in the making’ and that always made him laugh. 

“Oh, and I got a present for ya,” 

“A present?” Eddie wondered aloud, amazed. The movie and pizza was already so much, and the cupcake was even more. Weren’t those his presents? 

“Yeah. Go wait on the couch and close your eyes, alright? Didn’t get a chance to wrap it,” Wayne instructed, briefly stopping to ruffle Eddie’s curls before walking down the hallway to their room. 

Eddie stood on slightly shaky legs, walking over to the couch in a daze and sitting in the corner. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness take his vision as he waited, unable to guess what his present might be. 

He heard Wayne walk back over, and something heavy was placed in his lap. It was big, really big, and Eddie’s leg began to bounce in anticipation. 

“Okay, you can open ‘em,” Wayne said, and Eddie’s eyes flashed open. 

There was a guitar case in his lap. 

A real life, genuine, honest to god, guitar case. 

Eddie stared at it with big bug eyes, every single thought rushing out of his head as fast as they could go. He lifted one trembling hand and put it on the hard plastic, feeling the scratches and grooves with his fingers as he stared down at it. 

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

He lifted it out of his lap, and stood up. Wayne stepped back, and Eddie kneeled down, feeling for the latches and lifting them. The guitar was somehow even better than the case. It was a soft amber wood acoustic, with a few stickers adorning the bottom, and strings that were just starting to fray at the top. 

It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

“Dean, my manager at the plant? He said he was lookin’ to get a new one, so I convinced ‘im to sell me this one. ‘S a little old, and he said it’ll be finicky, but it’s a good starter guitar. Thought you might like to make some music, seein’ as you listen to so much of it,” Wayne explained. 

That was a lot more talking than he was used to from his uncle. When Eddie looked up with a wide eyed expression, still unable to speak, Wayne’s strange bout of nerves vanished. 

“I know it ain’t much,” Wayne started, hunching in his shoulders, “But-”

“I love it,” 

That was Eddie’s voice, but he didn’t think he had spoken. The words weren’t good enough. They would never be good enough. No words would ever be able to even start to explain how Eddie was feeling. He stood up and wrapped his arms tight around his uncle’s middle, burying his face in the man’s chest and trying to hide the treacherous tears that had escaped once more. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” Eddie whispered endlessly, wishing that there was something better to say. 

Wayne seemed shocked, but he recovered quickly, patting Eddie on the back. 

“C’mon now,” Wayne muttered, probably embarrassed by the outburst. Eddie didn’t care. He squeezed even tighter, trying to convey everything he could with a hug, because words were pale in comparison. 

Wayne finally resolved to just let Eddie get this out, sighing and wrapping his arms around the boy’s shoulders. 

“Alright. You’re alright now,” Wayne whispered, putting his chin on the top of Eddie’s head, knowing he couldn’t do that for very much longer. 

And Eddie believed him. For the first time he let himself think things were going to get better without being afraid. 

[mdhwrites]

A Tale of Mischief

Mischief is my cat's name. She is a wonderful, healthy, a little heavy, and sweet cat. She is probably the most attention hungry cat I've ever known and will purr just from me getting up from my desk because she'll be that excited at the potential of pets and cuddles. She always gets them, just like when she yells at me for them.

It is also not my cat's name. It's going to get sad after this but I will preface my cat is fine because this is just about why she's named Mischief so this tale is not about her. Still, if you don't like hearing about bad things happening to animals, don't keep reading.

Mischief was the name of a small black kitten someone close to me got in Alaska. They were precious, probably less than a year old, and an energetic, sweet little thing. I got to meet them only maybe twice but they still meant so much to me. Cats in general are just deeply precious to me.

One day, a window was left open.

It was the middle of Winter in Alaska. It wasn't a good part of town and the kitten started to wander. It had never been let out like this before and it could smell something sweet. It followed its nose until it found a nice liquid and began to drink.

Did you know anti-freeze smells sweet?

I cannot tell you why it hurt so much for me. That kitten literally never left me though. How joyously sweet they were and how they could have been such a wonderful cat haunted me. Whenever a cat entered a story of mine, they would be named after her. A way to honor them. Give them a new life somehow.

And then I got my little, black kitten.

There was only one option for her name.

And thirty minutes ago, with a cat I never met but saw a few photos of, I think I have the name for my next cat. Spooks the Spirit.

I just... I felt like posting something because I just needed to get this off my chest. Share it somewhere. I don't know. I might delete this later. I just... I hope you like the pictures and if you're wondering how my own kitten is doing: She is sleeping, curled up on my bed, after having refused to move as I slipped my legs out from around her because that's where she likes sleeping the most.

Safe and sound at home where she has been for over three years now.

Have a good night everyone and take care of yourselves and your pets, even when getting up to Mischief.

[m1sadventur3s]

a rinniki tlou au that nobody asked for

(made in 3 minutes^^)

ok so i thought ab this a while ago.

it's not very fleshed out but iwas itching to share it so uh enjoyy

some keywords:

• infected: people infected by the cordyceps virus (zombies but not really)

• fedra: federal disaster response agency: a military arm of the government that basically replaced it over the years

-> little background on rinne

- when the outbreak first started rinne was out for work while hiiro was home alone

- when rinne got back hiiro was gone and rinne started panicking

- he looked for hiiro everywhere, didn't find him

- deep in despair he decided hiiro got away and was somewhere safe

-> several years after the outbreak

- rinne is on a "mission" looking for hiiro

- he got clues somewhere that hiiro was alive so that was a huge confidence boost

- while on this mission he gets to a point where he ends up alone somewhere far from any fedra hq

- he's injured and starving

- hears something creeping up behind him

- takes his gun out in a flash and turns around

- realizes it's just Some Guy ™

- the guy is niki

- niki apologizes for the sneakiness as he thought rinne could be infected

- niki sees that rinne is injured and offers to help

- although there aren't any infected in the area rinne is wary of niki but accepts his help, finger on the trigger tho.

- after niki tends to his injuries he offers rinne some food

- niki tells rinne he knows the way to a commune nearby

- rinne takes time to think about it before deciding it's probably the best course of action

- niki didn't look very strong so rinne decided if anything happens he'd just shoot him down

- almost there niki starts complaining that he's hungry (low whimpers since he didn't wanna be a bother to rinne who already didn't seem to like him)

- everytime rinne asked what was wrong he insisted he was fine

- until he fell to his knees at one point

- rinne immediately grabbed him and asked his once again what was wrong

- niki said he felt hungry

- rinne was like "? u just ate and hour ago"

- then niki explained his whole food thing

- rinne decided they would stop for the day to rest and make something to eat

- the night passes, rinne stayed on guard the whole time while niki rested

- they continue to make their way to the commune

- getting there they hear the name amagi around and get some clues about hiiro

- niki really wants to go with rinne to find hiiro but he decides against it knowing he's just gonna slow rinne down

- rinne insists on taking niki and assures him he's gonna protect him no matter what

- niki accompanies rinne on his mission to find hiiro

- on the way they come across a highly infected area

- rinne saves niki from nearly getting bitten

- they continue to make their way to a fedra hq

- while fighting some guards at the hq they come accross tatsumi who helps them avoid guards

- rinne asks whether he knows about hiiro

- turns out hiiro did run away those years ago trying to find rinne

- tatsumi found him wandering around and offered to help, they've been traveling together ever since with the rest of alkaloid

- tatsumi takes rinne and niki to where he, hiiro, mayoi and aira are hiding

- rinne and hiiro have their heartfelt reunion

- the question "so what now" comes up and niki tells them about the commune

- it's very safe and overall a nice place to stay given their predicament (frankly everyone else's), and decide to go settle there

the end yippee, also rnnk definitely kissed i just didn't know how to include that BUT THEY GOT TOGETHER AT SOME POINT.

i really really wanted to make a fic about this but im not the best writer and im also very lazy so i just made this post... if anyone wants to learn more ill be glad to expand on it tho :D

[weavefcrged]

In her 'canon', ie my write up for her as a fandomless oc, Reese's abilities included psychometry with pre/postcognition, cryokinesis, seeing the dead / talking with & touching the dead, true sight, dreamwalking & regenerative healing / immortality. I will go through her character sheet and write up a list of what spells & abilities she has in game but the base abilities are ones that she still has even if there isn't a specific spell or in game ability for them as these are all powers that are shown to be in game even if not by player characters. She had most of them from childhood after her first death (in her very, very very first incarnation many years ago when I first started writing her, she died after falling through the ice when she was about seven or eight and an ancient entity resuscitated her and left a tangent of its powers behind that awakened latent abilities - this is likely what is going to be the case in this verse as well - probably left unspecified as there is a plethora of ancient gods, powers, sentient disembodied entities from other verses etc. that exist in the background of this universe.) Additional abilities were unlocked through her sorcerer's training & then of course, brain worm abilities just further amplified what she can do.

While she is generally 'good' aligned, she's also very malleable and influenced by the people around her. Between her late adolescent years and the events of the game, she was pretty closely structured, probably paired off with someone that was her guardian (possibly lover / life partner) kind've like the Warder's in WoT with their magic users, to keep her from straying too far from the light side of her abilities, to make sure she didn't come under undue influence or get snatched up by a cult that wanted to make use of her abilities. I'm running with the general idea that whomever that was died (or she presumes died) in the Illithid crash. In verses where she's the Tav, story plot progresses as canon. In verses where she's a supporting cast member or that we go with an entirely different course of events for plot purposes than what we see 'on screen' in the game, she will have wandered away from the crash (maybe even was flung somewhere else entirely not even in the primary starting location) and ended up wandering around for a while on her own until she runs into your Tav or (in the game npc) or OC or whatever and then the story can progress from there for whatever aspects of the plot we would like to explore.

I am absolutely fine with darker themes of corruption & toxic relationships if that's a plot line you're interested in - there's a few things I won't write but are part of her history (csa & n*nc*n are things that occurred at one point or another in her past, but will not be seen on screen other than mentions of plot points if the relationship with Reese & your character reach that point, or it's seen in a mental connection etc.).

This is a very rough, just getting things out there bio post; I'll work on more specific things this weekend. Let me know if you have any questions at all & if you want to know what choices she's made etc. feel free to drop by my inbox! I am at the beginning stages of act 3 in the game so most of my stuff will take place somewhere in Act 1 & 2 - I'm up for stuff in Act 3 if you want, but I have no idea what happens & have managed to avoid most spoilers so far, so you'd have to be willing to fill me in!