#its been rattling around in my brain for ages

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: That one episode of teen titans where they all dress up as Robin + Tim being a gremlin about his legacy + Danny look alike/twin AU.

So there is that episode of Teen Titans where Starfire, Cyborg, Beast Boy and Raven all dress as Robin (Dick) while he's out and it's admitted that the outfit makes them feel cool. Imagine a young Tim hearing that story mentioned in passing by Dick while trying to manage what becomes Young Just-us. And then when Damain becomes Robin?? Gremlin mode activated.

Tim hosts regular 'Robin' Parties, where the idea is that you come in Robin colors, get a mask at the door and everyone gets to basically hang out in civilian clothes without the identity crises for those just getting started. "age appropriate" drinks, games, and good music are all staples. The parties become more frequent once Damian becomes Robin and he pointedly doesn't attend Tim's parties which... Neither of them are really happy about. Family is complicated, but finally, after a few years of cooling off, it's decided that Robin will actually host this years Robin party.

Meaning Tim shows up in casual clothes (MIT sweatshirt) and a mask, and Damian is actually dressed as Robin when the party is starting to get into the swing of things. The point of it is to make sure all the young heroes get to come and start to befriend each other, so there are a few people who show up and have to actually say that they're *insert alias* and this is met with basically "Dope, nice to meet you Robin" etc.

Insert Danny Twin AU (Or just look-alike fuckery) (for either brother but my brain is on Tim Twin au mode).

Danny decides to show up as his human self, grabs a mask at the door before coming in, and is slowly integrating himself into a conversation when someone grabs his arm- "Hey Red your brother is fighting with a newbie about meat products again-"

And Danny doesn't have a brother but my god has he heard this fight too many times with Sam and Tucker- He's going in and he's defusing this situation because he cannot handle the thought of this argument taking over his new friend group. He deals with it enough, okay?

Robin (like, the real one) looks at him curiously while Danny is talking down the other hero Robin (insert here), and the whole room notices when Robin doesn't take the opportunity to dismiss or belittle his older brother (Lmao because its danny). Damian cannot place his unease about Drake (again, Danny, who is not hiding his identity beyond a mask), and simply decides that this isn't worth the effort.

The party moves on but now instead of everyone calling themselves Robin, Danny is distinctly being called Red. It confuses him a bit, he didn't even know Red Robin was going to be at this party (he hasn't met the guy and doesn't know the lore), but he rolls with it because he's made fast friends with Robin (Bart), Robin (Cassie) and Robin (JON). The kid was full little bro energy and it made Danny laugh, he was so surprised when the real Robin joined them and fell into easy conversation with Robin (Jon).

Danny is playing games with a few others when someone goes to grab a broom to clean up- Turns out Red Robin and his boyfriend Kon had been making out in the closet for most of the party- and the whole room looks at Danny like he's tried to trick them. Tim is at first uneasy that so many people mistook him, but once he's in front of his dupe, puzzle pieces start to move around in his head.

"And who are you again, Robin?" Tim asks carefully, though he suspects he has his answer.

"Uh, Phantom, but you know, a lot of people were calling me Red tonight and I didn't get why until just now." Danny laughs nervously.

"Yeah I bet- Find me monday and we can see about a geneology test."

"That leaves us the whole weekend, to do what exactly? Fuck with people by pulling a parent trap style swap?"

"Nature vs. nuture and all but I don't know how you could be anything but my brother with a question like that." Tim grins and they get to scheming.

[atlabeth]

bittersweet - joel miller

summary: you stumble into joel's life and he has no intentions of keeping you there. too bad you're just as stubborn as he is.

a/n: did someone order a whole novella of plot mixed with occasional banter ending with no relationship in sight but a new bond that will inevitably grow to be more? no? here it is anyways!

set before joel gets to boston but he's already been separated from tommy but who tf cares about canon tbh we're just having fun here. i started this when the show first began and as usual, abandoned it and as usual, came back with a fervor 2 years later. hope you all enjoy! i barely proofread this bc ive already read it so many times while writing and i physically cannot do it one more time rn so please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes

wc: 20k (officially my longest one shot! congrats joel)

warning(s): fem!reader (she is southern); decent age gap (joel is 40 and r is 27), half and half on fluff and angst; canon typical violence, some directed at reader; a lot of cursing; a lot of gun violence throughout most of the fic; numerous gunshot wounds; threats of sexual violence against reader but nothing ever happens! joel kills a lot of people (and is kinda mean for the first half of this); inaccurate medical stuff!! i did my research but am prob wrong on some stuff so pls dont flame me

both gifs bc i imagined both of them while writing and bc theyre both so hot jfc

You wish you weren’t so accustomed to waking up to gunshots. 

You dart up from your bed immediately, the sound rattling around your brain as your weary mind tries to make sense of the situation. You have your pistol in your hand before you even fully realize it, your instincts honed even in your grogginess.

Screams accompany the gunfire and you push against the grimaces trying to fight their way to the surface. This isn’t the first time the compound you’ve stayed in has been taken over by force, but it’s the first time you’ve been this unprepared, and the first time you haven’t been on the ground floor for easy evacuation. No one is in your room trying to kill you—not yet, at least—and you have to take that blessing while you’ve got it. 

You throw on your jacket and shove your feet into your boots, thankful you tucked your laces in months ago. You can handle the minor discomfort in exchange for the advantage. You throw what you can into your backpack, ensure your knife is secured in its sheath, and edge towards the door. 

Normally, you share a room with Devon, but she went on a supply run alongside a few others a couple days ago—you regret not taking her offer to come along on account of your many patients, but you can’t waste what could become a very short life on regrets. 

You open the door and peer out, trying to gauge your chances. The gunshots are getting closer and the screams are louder. If you weren’t on the top floor, you would have considered the window. But you have to get to the infirmary first, and you don’t really feel like breaking your legs. 

Soon as there’s an opening, you run. Your most recent area of refuge is a run down high school, and you know it well after your months here. You practically throw yourself down a hallway to hide from a group of men coming up the stairs, and your heart threatens to beat out your chest. 

Their rifles and shotguns are much bigger than the little handgun that you’ve carried state to state. You have to press your body against the wall to stop it from shaking, and grip your pistol so tight you feel the ridged handle indent into your palm. 

“Go room by room!” one man at the front shouts. “Leave no survivors!” 

Your only hope is to get out before they find you. The infirmary is in the old nurse’s office on the first floor—if they’re already up here gunning down the last of the compound, then you have little doubt that your patients are already dead. There’s no point in joining them out of some false sense of heroism. 

There were no heroes anymore. 

You back up slowly, making sure you stay flush against the wall while you keep an eye on the hallway. You think about slipping into the classroom you’re next to, but you decide against it. You can’t afford to get trapped. 

You continue to stealth your way down the hallways, keeping your head on a swivel as you try and think through all your escape routes. 

There’s another staircase on the other side of the top floor, but that might be too out in the open. A couple of stairwells are tucked behind unassuming doors, but that would leave you even more trapped if things went south. And of course, you can always throw yourself out a window and hope you don’t break your legs. 

More gunshots, more screams—you hear the thumps of bodies falling to the floor and you have to steel yourself. It doesn’t matter that these people were your friends or acquaintances or anything close to it. They’re dead now, and you refuse to join them. 

You turn the corner and immediately retract—a trio of armed men are going classroom by classroom, and you hardly stand a chance against one. Once you retrace your steps, you poke your head around the corner only to be greeted with the sight of more bandits. You press yourself against the wall, heart racing. 

You’re stuck in this hallway, dead if they see you. Might as well make things a little worse and at least get yourself some cover if you’re trapped either way. 

The ceiling is crumbling above you, has been falling apart for a few months. You pick up a piece of tile, take a deep breath, and throw it as hard as you can. Two of the trio go to check it out, and the third is focused on them to watch their backs. You dart out of your hallway and run as quick and quiet as you can, and you make it to the alcove leading into a classroom. 

Twin classrooms actually, connected by a door in the middle, so you’re not completely stuck. You breathe out a sigh of relief, but it’s immediately short-lived when you hear the pump of a shotgun.

You whirl around to see the empty shell fall to the ground, your hands already flying up on instinct. You’re staring down the barrel of the gun, held by a man standing in the doorway between the two classrooms. He doesn’t look particularly nice, but he hasn’t shot you immediately, so you should learn to count your blessings.  

“I’m a doctor!” you proclaim, your heart threatening to pound out of your chest at this point. You’ve learned it’s the best thing to lead with. “Don’t shoot, I—” you suck in air as fast as you can, but all this running with your life on the line is wearing on you— “I’m a doctor.” 

Again, he doesn’t instantly kill you. He keeps his gun trained on you and takes a few steps closer, and you’re making much more eye contact with the barrel than him. 

“A doctor?” he repeats skeptically. “You look a little young for that.” 

“I was a surgical resident before the outbreak,” you lie. “I just have a young face.” 

He lowers the gun just slightly, so it’s not aimed at your head anymore. “You’re a surgeon?”

“Yes,” you nod repeatedly. “They said to leave no survivors, but I— I can help any of your wounded. As much as you need, just— just please don’t kill me.”

The man stares at you and you tense every muscle in your body to not shift under his scrutiny. Eventually, he fully lowers his gun. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. You feel like you could collapse from the relief, but it doesn’t last long as he moves in. Soon as he’s close enough, he slams your hand against the wall and your gun falls out of your limp grasp. 

Your heart rate spikes as you flatten yourself against the wall in an effort to put space between the two of you, but it’s fruitless. 

“If you’re fuckin’ lying,” he mutters, his hot breath hitting your face as his grip on your wrist tightens painfully, “you’ll end up like the rest of your people.” 

“I’m not lying,” you enunciate stiffly, staring him right in the eye. 

The man holds your gaze for another moment before he nods, seemingly satisfied. He lets go of you to pick up your gun from the ground and tuck it in his holster, and you stumble forward when he pushes you with the barrel.

“Get movin’, little lady,” he says. “I’ve got an awfully itchy trigger finger.” 

You fight the urge to talk back. You’ve avoided getting shot for this long, and you don’t really fancy getting a shotgun to the face in such close quarters. You keep your hands up and start walking, hoping by pure will you can stop them from shaking. 

You walk out of the classroom and through the hallways, and you’re able to catch glimpses of dead bodies as you go. You recognize far too many of them—those with their features still intact, at least.

These people welcomed you into their community with open arms, treated you like family even though they’d only known you for a few months. You knew anyone like that didn’t last very long, but you tried to ignore it. 

You couldn’t think about that now, though. That was how the world worked—how it had worked for a long time now. 

You stumble your way down the stairs and finally make it to the lobby. Even more bodies litter the first floor—you see Eleanor, the woman who brought you back here when she could have left you for dead; Delilah, who you worked with in the infirmary; Cade, who flirted with you too much for his own good but always managed to make you laugh—

Your focus is jarred from thoughts of your comrades survival to those of your own as the man pushes you hard with the barrel of his gun. You just barely manage to catch yourself with your hands as you fall to your knees. You look up to see yourself in the middle of a group of bloodstained bandits, and you clench your hands into fists to keep them from shaking. 

“What part of ‘no survivors’ do you not understand, Jake?” one of them says. “We don’t need another mouth to feed because you want a plaything.” 

Your skin crawls at the thought, but he just shakes his head with a grumble. “I’m not like Marshall. Didn’t kill her ‘cause she says she’s a doctor. She can get Becca and Joel back on their feet,” he looks pointedly at a woman, “can make sure Nadine’s still in working order.” 

“How do you know she’s not lying?” the woman counters, and she squats down to look you in the eye. You meet her inquisitive gaze, refusing to look away—she breaks first, at least, and stands back up. “Could be tryin’ to save her own ass.” 

“I’m not lying,” you grind out. “Wouldn’t do me any good to get shot at your camp instead of here, would it?” 

“Watch your mouth,” she says, but she backs off anyways. 

“Check her for weapons and tie her up,” another one says. “We’ll take her back once we’ve picked this place clean.” 

Again, you swallow the words you want to say. You bite your tongue when you’re wrestled from the ground and searched for weapons. You don’t fight back as your hands are tied together behind your back, you don’t fight back when Jake prods you with his gun even as he follows you to the infirmary to get your medical bag, you don’t fight back against anything. 

You’re a captive of the people that slaughtered your friends, only alive because of the overexaggerated skills you’ve used like a shield since the outbreak started. Your continued survival depends on helping people you might not even be able to save, and you doubt this group will want to listen to your medical explanations. 

But you are alive. And that’s all you care about. 

(You’re not breaking the one damn promise that still matters.)

-

It’s not a very fun ride back. 

These people travel by horse and they don’t want you running off, so you have to sit in front of Jake, the man who spared your life who seems to be some kind of leader. He makes idle comments to pass the time, and it’s not as bad as it could be, but you dislike him anyway. He did help murder your whole community. 

Sunrise comes around just as you make it to camp—you have to fight to stay awake on the ride, and when you jump down, you’re reminded that this slaughter happened in the middle of the night. 

It doesn’t matter how tired you are, though, because your work starts almost immediately. You think about asking Jake for coffee as he leads you to your first patient, but you don’t think he would take too kindly to it. 

He mentioned Becca when he was pleading your case, and she ends up being your first stop. She’s got a nasty gash on her leg that she got from hopping a barbed wire fence and it’s kept her off her feet since it happened. 

You clean it out as best you can and stitch it up with what these people have on hand, which happens to be a needle and thread. At this point, you think you’ve done more stitches this way than the normal way. To her credit, she bears it well—better than Jake, who grumbles every time you ask him for the materials you need. It’s like he doesn’t even want you to help, which doesn’t really make sense when he’s standing there with his gun like he’s ready to shoot you at any moment. 

Next is Nadine, and you’re accompanied by the woman who accused you of lying. They must be close, because she doesn’t leave her side during your entire checkup. Nadine has a broken arm that you can tell she hasn’t been resting properly, but at least there’s no swelling. They’ve already done a makeshift sling for her, so you just do a par for the course checkup then refashion her sling to be more effective. None of them appreciate you telling her she needs to rest, but you figured that would be the case. This doesn’t seem to be the happiest bunch of people. 

Finally, you’re hauled off to your last patient, Joel. You’re exhausted from your sleepless night and walking on glass with every passing second, but he’s the last one. He can’t be too difficult to deal with. 

You reach the final room and Jake pounds on the door. 

“Joel!” he calls. “You decent?” 

“Do you know what time it is?” a gruff voice responds, and you hold back a sigh. Is everyone here difficult? 

Jake opens the door anyway and gestures for you to walk in. You do, and you see a man laying down in bed atop the sheets. His eyes are closed but he doesn’t even look peaceful—just annoyed. 

You purse your lips. Everyone here is difficult. 

“We got ourselves a doctor,” Jake says. “So stop complainin’ and let her look at you.” 

“I don’t need a doctor,” he says. 

“You got shot two days ago,” he retorts. “Only reason no one’s looked at it more is because no one thought you would make it through the night.” 

“I’m fine.” He sits up with a groan characteristic of someone who is not fine, and he levels his gaze at you. “You’re wasting your time.” 

“I’ve got nothing but time,” you say. “I don’t think he’s gonna let me leave until I look you over, so…” 

Joel scoffs. “Don’t tell me you went and kidnapped a doctor.” 

“We got lucky at the school,” Jake says. 

He rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m fine.” 

You glance at your captor. “I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.” 

“You better get somewhere,” Jake says. 

“I might make better leeway without you standing over me,” you say. 

He frowns. “You’re a prisoner. Can’t trust you alone.” 

“I’ve gotten through the past two patients just fine.” 

“I don’t need you jumpin’ out the window and running the first chance you get,” Jake says. 

“Look,” you say, a muscle working in your jaw, “do you want your man to get through this or not? Because if you do, I need to work in silence, and it doesn’t seem like the two of you are very good at it together.” 

He doesn’t budge, and you let out a loose breath. “You can wait outside, and if I do anything suspicious, feel free to shoot me. But at least give me the room.” 

The approval of your own murder seems to satisfy him, however temporary, because after staring at you for another moment, he grunts. He goes over to the door, then lifts his gun and looks at you. “Remember, I’ve got an itchy trigger finger.” 

He leaves the room to let the threat sit in the air, and you close your eyes and sigh deeply. You don’t know when, but you know you have to get out of here eventually. 

“And just who the hell are you?” 

You open your eyes to see Joel staring right at you, very unimpressed. He looks to be in his 40s, the greying in his scruffy hair and beard giving it away—if that didn’t do it, the hardened weariness in his eyes would. 

Men like him tend to be the worst patients, at least in your limited experience. Something tells you Joel won’t be any different. 

“A doctor,” you say. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t look like a doctor,” he says. 

You already hate this guy. “Sorry. I lost my white coat and stethoscope when people started eating each other.”

“I mean you look too young.”

“Well, you look too old to still be this annoying,” you retort. “Now tell me what’s wrong with you so we get over this quicker. ” 

Joel grumbles and rolls his eyes, but he eventually answers you. “Got shot a couple days back.”

“There an exit wound?” you ask. 

He nods. 

“How much does it hurt?” 

“Like hell.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “You this short with all your doctors?” 

He grunts, and you sigh as you kneel down next to him. “Alright. Show me.” 

Joel stares at you for a moment before relenting. He shrugs off his jacket then pulls up the bottom of his shirt, revealing a shoddily bandaged wound on his lower chest. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Who patched you up? And when?” 

“Does it matter?” he asks. 

“Yes, actually. Helps me know the likelihood of infection, and if there is one, how fucked you are.” 

“Why do you need to know who did it?” 

“Because it’s pretty shitty handiwork,” you say. 

“Kept me alive,” Joel says. “Far as I’m concerned, that means it’s pretty good.” 

You roll your eyes. “You tell yourself that when you’re dying of sepsis.” 

“Not everyone has your luxuries, doc,” he responds dryly. 

“I’d say you certainly have some luxuries,” you say. “Looks like this missed your major organs, for one. You’re extremely lucky.”  

 He huffs a mirthless laugh. “Wouldn’t really classify myself as lucky.” 

“You should,” you say, glancing back up at him. “Takes an awful lot of it to get by these days.” 

Joel remains silent. You sigh again and take it as your sign to start working. 

You gingerly peel back the bandages, and to Joel’s credit, he only grimaces the smallest bit. 

“No infection,” you murmur. “That’s good.”

“Guess it was patched up pretty well then,” he says. 

You glance up at him. “You dressed it yourself, didn’t you?”

Joel shrugs. “Maybe.” 

“You seem pretty normal for someone who got shot a few days ago,” you say. 

“‘Cause it’s not the first time,” he says. “You tellin’ me you haven’t been shot?” 

You shake your head. “Stabbed, sliced, scratched, bit, but never shot.” 

His eyebrows rise. “You’ve been bit?” 

“By people, not infected.” You chuckle. “The one thing I’ve managed to avoid, at least.” 

He makes some noise of acknowledgement. “Things get crazy in that hospital of yours?” 

You smile wryly. “Nothin’ crazier than I see out here everyday. And nothing worse than Outbreak Day.” 

Joel goes quiet at that. You don’t know why you continue on as you clean out his wound, why you’re talking so much when you went through the last two patients in relative silence. Maybe it’s because Jake isn’t standing over your shoulder. 

“I worked in a hospital in the middle of Boston,” you explain. “The city practically imploded when it all started—felt like we were the epicenter of it all. Patients turned their nurses, folks in the waiting room killed their families, and all the infected that managed to escape went on a rampage in the city.” You shake your head with a sigh. “Sometimes I still don’t know how I made it out alive.” 

You feel Joel’s gaze on you for a long time after. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, so you busy yourself with dressing both sides of his wound now that you’ve cleaned it out. Eventually, though, he speaks. 

“Boston’s a long way from Kansas,” he says. “How’d you end up here?” 

You shake your head again as you finish taping the last piece of gauze across his exit wound. “Can’t reveal all my secrets day one.” 

“Bold to think I care that much,” he says. 

You frown. “You were the one that asked.” 

He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s interrupted when the door opens. Both of you look over to see Jake, looking unapologetic. 

“I got bored,” he says, answering your unspoken question. “Can’t take this long to bandage someone up.” 

You set down your nearly depleted roll of gauze. “I just finished, actually.” 

“He gonna live?” Jake asks. 

“Bullet went straight through and missed any vital organs or arteries, so he really avoided the worst of it,” you explain. “I cleaned it the best I could and covered it with gauze—I think it would do more harm than good to stitch it up. He should be okay, but someone should really monitor him for the next few days to make sure it stays that way. And if you have antibiotics, send ‘em his way. Better to be safe than sorry when it comes to infection.” 

“Good,” he nods. “I think we have a couple—I’ll get ‘em to you.” 

“Good,” you echo. “Then I think we’re done here.” 

You stand up from the bed, thinking you’re finally in the clear, when he pulls out a pair of handcuffs. You’re about to question it when he opens them and clips one side around the radiator next to the door, then looks at you. 

“We got one last order of business,” Jake says, and it clicks in your head. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you say incredulously. 

“You said it yourself,” he says. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on him. Might as well be the one that treated him.” 

“This is ridiculous,” you spit. “I did what you asked, and you treat me like— like a goddamn animal?” 

“You’re a prisoner,” he says, like he has to remind you. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. You’ll run off the second you can.” 

You grind your teeth together. “Can’t even put me in a cell like a dignified prisoner?” 

“If Joel dies, it’s your head,” he says. “You should thank me. This gives you the best chance possible.” 

You want to fight it, but you can’t. Not when he could put a bullet in your head with that shotgun he seems very fond of.

So you clench your jaw, swallow your pride, and let him handcuff you to a radiator that looks like it’s a decade older than you. This motel they’ve hitched up in really has all the luxuries. 

“What if I do start dyin’ in the middle of the night,” Joel says dryly. “She can’t exactly work her magic with one hand.” 

“I’m sure she can do plenty magic with one hand,” Jake chuckles, and your skin crawls as he looks you over. You clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack. 

“Real clever, jackass,” Joel intones.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Just walk your sorry ass across the room if you have to.”

“You really thought this out,” he says. 

 “Don’t make me regret makin’ her save your life,” Jake says, and he turns his attention back to you. “Don’t do—“

“Anything stupid,” you interrupt despite yourself. “Yeah, I know.”

You feel the pain before you even really see him pull the gun out, the glint of metal the only hint to the searing fire in your cheek. You fall to the ground, hissing as your free hand darts up to nurse the wound rather than try to catch yourself. The pain smarts both on your knees and your cheek, blood already spurting from the cut he opened up. Your vision swims in front of you. 

“Watch your mouth, bitch,” he growls. “Remember why you’re here.” 

You just grit your teeth as he holsters his pistol—no, your pistol, the bastard—riding through the wave of dizziness. You want to remind him you won’t be of much use if you’re fucking dead, but you don’t feel like earning yourself another badge of his approval. So you just nod in submissive acknowledgement, and he looks at Joel. 

“Keep her in check, will you? I don’t feel like dealing with more of this bullshit in the morning.” 

“Sure,” Joel says. 

That seems to satisfy him, because Jake only gives you another dirty look before he leaves and kicks the door shut behind him. 

Your eyes begin watering against your will, lesser pain than you’ve experienced in the past somehow managing to bring you down. You bite down hard on the inside of your lip as you shift to sit against the wall, hoping a different source of pain will force the blood trickling down your cheek into the background. 

You can’t cry over something like this. Not in front of a man like Joel. 

“I know you’re looking,” you say bitterly. “If you want to call me an idiot, just do it.” 

“You’re an idiot,” he says. You don’t really know what you expect. 

“It’s one hell of a group you’re running with.” You pull your hand away from your cheek, grimacing at the concerning amount of blood coating your fingers. Between this and the dull pain in your knees, you’re going to bruise something fierce. 

Nothing like getting pistol whipped with your own gun by one of the hunters that slaughtered your community like sheep to make you feel at home. 

“They’re the same as everyone else,” he says. “Don’t know how you’re still surprised after all these years.” 

Your thoughts go back to the first group you had to leave. The first time you were forced to be terribly, horribly, woefully selfish, when you lost the only thing that mattered. You wonder if he thinks about you as much as you think about him. 

Screams echo in your mind. You shut them out. 

“...I’m not,” you say. “Just acknowledging.” 

As silence consumes the air between you, you can’t help but pull your legs closer to yourself in an effort to be as small as possible. You’re intimately aware that you’re at Joel’s mercy, and you can only hope he’s not that sort of man. Jake’s comments don’t bring you much solace. 

He must notice how tense you are, because he sighs and shakes his head. “Relax. Ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

“Sorry if I don’t believe that,” you mutter. 

Joel scoffs. “Don’t matter what you believe or not.” 

“Well, I believe that I’m royally fucked,” you spit. “I’ve been here for five hours and I’m already bleedin’ and stuck in a room with you. Doesn’t fare well for my future.”

“How’d you even end up here?” Joel asks. “We ain’t exactly bringing in new folks.”

You huff. “You weren’t too far off with them kidnapping a doctor.”

He doesn’t seem fazed, and you think that should concern you. “What, they just wander into a hospital and pick you up?”

“They wandered into a high school and murdered my whole community,” you correct. “I’m only here because I pleaded my case before they could shoot me.”

“...Wound does feel better,” he says. “Least you kinda know what you’re doing.” 

You glance away. “Bandaged more GSWs these past few years than I ever did in med school. I’m used to it by now.”

There’s another knock on the door and your whole body tenses. Joel calls out that it’s unlocked, and you’ve never been so grateful to see the woman from before. Nadine’s sister, you remember— Rachel. She breathed over your shoulder the entire time you fixed up her sister’s sling. 

“You better?” she asks. 

He nods. “Back on my feet, at least.” 

“Good,” she says. She seems to notice you, bleeding and deflated and restrained, and looks back at Joel unfazed. “What’s the deal here?” 

“Jake did it,” he says. “Wants to keep her in check.” 

“Long as it means she’s not a problem, I couldn’t care less,” she admits. “But you gotta get your ass in gear, Joel. Community meeting in the lobby.” 

“Y’all woke me up at four in the morning,” Joel complains. “Can’t let an old man sleep day after he gets shot?” 

“You said it yourself; you’re back on your feet,” she says. “Better see you in five.” 

She leaves and closes the door behind her, not even passing a second look at you. You felt less alone when you were moping your way through Missouri. 

Joel heaves a sigh and stands up. He grabs his jacket from the bed and slips it back on, buttoning it up in the middle. You watch him go through the motions because you have nothing else to do, but you notice the roughness of his hands. 

“You gonna do anything about those torn calluses?” you ask. 

He glances at you with a frown. “Why’re you lookin’?” 

“Got nothing else to do,” you say. “You don’t cover those up, they could lead to infection.” 

“Sounds like everything can lead to infection,” he mocks. 

“Kinda does,” you say. “‘Specially in this world.” 

Joel huffs a laugh and he pulls a couple bandaids out of your medical bag, still sitting on his bed. “That good enough for you?” 

“Don’t do it for me,” you say. “Do it for yourself.” 

He grumbles as he tucks them into his pocket, and you continue to watch him as he gets ready. Ties up his boots, shoves knives into sheaths on each leg, fixes the watch on his wrist—

“Quit starin’ at me,” he mumbles. 

“I told you,” you say. “Nothin’ else to do.” 

“Look at the wall,” Joel says as he slings a rifle over his shoulder. “More interesting than me.” 

“The wall doesn’t have your overwhelming charm,” you say. 

He scoffs. “Can’t believe I’m stuck with you.” 

You shrug. “Can always kill me yourself and be done with it.” 

“Who’ll save me when I crash in the middle of the night?” he mocks. 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” you say. “You patched yourself up, after all.”

Joel exhales a little harder than usual out of your nose, and you figure that’s what passes as a laugh around him. You take a strange amount of pride in it. 

You think he’s about to leave, but instead he picks up your medical bag and slides it over to you. 

“Patch yourself up for a change,” he says. “Don’t want you bleedin’ all over this expensive flooring while I’m gone.” 

That gets the slightest laugh out of you as you pick it up. “Thanks.” 

Joel grunts in acknowledgement, and he moves over to the door. You start unzipping the bag but have to pause, the sight of your blood all over your hand making you grimace. You’ve gotten some on your jeans unwittingly, and you can’t help but sigh. Sure, they’re already covered in dust and grime and blood from other people, but you didn’t want to add yours to the mix. Especially on your favorite pair of jeans. 

Maybe you’d be able to scrounge a bottle of hydrogen peroxide up sometime. It’s the least this world could give you. 

You look up to see Joel standing in the door frame, looking at you instead of leaving. 

“You’re gonna be late,” you say. “Then we’ll both be on Jake’s shit list.” 

Joel blinks. He looks like he wants to say something, but he just nods. 

“See you ‘round,” he says. 

“Not like I can go anywhere,” you say wryly. 

You go back to rummaging through your bag, trying to find the gauze you haphazardly shoved back in. Joel’s still looking at you, and his gaze burns your skin. You hope if you ignore him, he’ll leave. 

He does. He shuts the door behind him when he leaves, quieter and gentler than you expect. 

You stare at your hands, one bloodstained and the other cuffed. You’ve taken care of your calluses better than Joel, at least. 

The thought is warmer than it should be. 

Makes you realize how cold the room feels.

-

Joel doesn’t come back for a while. Half the day, you think. 

It’s difficult to keep track of time in here. With the door closed and the window shutters down, what little light streams through doesn’t give you much of an idea of the hour. 

You also don’t really have much to do, which makes the time pass even slower. 

You clean your cheek out the best you can and tape it shut with some small butterfly bandages. You hope that’ll make it heal quicker, or at least keep it protected from the elements. You can’t let it get infected after all you’ve spouted to Joel. 

It still smarts, but you try your best to ignore it. Jake did a number on you, and with your own pistol at that. 

He might have spared your life, but you’re killing him before you escape this place. 

You try to sleep, but it doesn’t really work. You’re exhausted, plain and simple, but you think your body will have to give out for you to get some rest at this point. The position you’re stuck in is too damn uncomfortable for your brain to shut off, and every time you get close, you just see the bodies of your friends, see the same nightmares you’ve relived for a year and a half. 

So instead, you decide to test your boundaries. 

You’re handcuffed to one of the middle pipes, which goes all the way down to the ground and about a third of the way up the wall. You use your finger to measure and figure out you have around five inches of leeway with the chain. Not enough to do much of anything with, but still something. 

Once you’re done with that, you just… look around. There isn’t much else to do, but this is Joel’s room. You were a psych minor before the world ended—maybe it’ll give you some insight into him, give you something to use. You’re not above manipulation if it means you can get someone on your side. 

But frustratingly, there’s almost nothing. It’s not like you expect him to have a whole decorated room in the apocalypse, but he’s really giving you nothing here. 

An open pack of bullets sits on his bedside table. His sheets are still a mess from his rude awakening because he didn’t bother to make his bed before he left. The extra unused pillows lay scattered on the ground, 

So you can’t analyze him using his barebones room—you have nothing but time, so you think back to how he looked before he left and go from there. 

Joel’s beard and facial hair were both relatively under control, so he’s someone who cares a decent amount about cleanliness and hygiene. He carries two knives and a rifle outwardly, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he had a handgun hiding somewhere or more weapons in his bag. He speaks with a Southern accent—stronger than yours, but you lost some of it while you were studying in Boston. 

You used to not mind. People seemed to respect you more without it, seemed to take you more seriously, and that was all you wanted in med school. Now, it just feels like another part of yourself that you’ve lost. Like you can’t even call yourself an Okie anymore. 

He looks to be in his forties, but you don’t remember a wedding ring. Whether he’s been a life-long bachelor or loved and lost and just chooses not to wear it, you don’t know. From what you’ve seen, all hardened survivor-like, it’s hard to imagine him with a wife and kids and a white picket fence life. 

But what do you know? Anyone who’s still alive at this point has to have a hardened heart. There’s no other way to survive. There’s a reason you’re fucking handcuffed to a radiator. 

Maybe before this all started, Joel was kinder. Softer. Maybe he did have a wife and kids, and he loved them more than anything. Maybe he actually smiled. 

You shake your head. No use thinking of the past, and certainly no use judging him. You’ve changed too. Everyone has. And if he has a family that he lost, then you’ve got more in common than you think. 

Maybe you can use that. 

Joel is covered in blood when he eventually comes back into the room. He gives you half a glance before he pulls his pack and rifle off and sets them on the bed. 

“Can’t believe you’re still here,” he says. 

“Can’t exactly leave,” you respond. “How’re you all bloody after a meeting?”

“Went huntin’ after,” he says. “Things move quick here.” 

“Well, how’d that go?”   

“We ain’t gonna starve, so as good as it could be.” Joel passes another glance at you, this time a little longer. “Your cheek looks better.” 

“Feels like shit,” you say. “How’s your chest?” 

“Feels like shit,” he echoes. “But I’ll live.” 

“None of that blood is yours, is it?” 

“No.” He points his finger at you. “And you’re not doin’ another checkup, doc, so don’t even think about it.” 

You smile sweetly and hold up your shackled wrist. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.” 

Joel huffs. “Still can’t believe Jake did this. Like he’s tryin’ to punish me, sticking you with me.” 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I feel like they’re punishing me by sticking you with me too.” 

“You can’t be stuck with me,” Joel says. “This is my room. You’re the intruder.”

“I’m real threatening, huh?” you mock. “So much so that I gotta be restrained.” 

“Threatening, no. Annoying, yes.” 

“You’re too kind,” you drawl. You watch him unpack some more, then you purse your lips. “Y’know, you really shouldn’t have gone hunting when you got shot a couple days ago.” 

“Was only half a mile out.” Joel scoffs. “There you go provin’ my point.” 

You hum. “Guess you really are stuck with me, then.”

“Lucky me,” he mutters. 

-

Joel is in and out for the rest of the day, and even when he’s in you don’t really talk. When he comes back for the night he at least brings some stale bread and a small ration of meat for you—you and your growling stomach are appreciative, but it makes you feel like a prisoner even more than the handcuffs. 

What’s worse is how annoyed he seems about it all. Like this was your choice—like you not only chose to throw in with these people, but you chose to stick yourself with him. You think about telling Joel that, but you decide against it. 

Just because he said he wouldn’t hurt you doesn’t mean he won’t go back on his word. People tend to not really care about their word these days. 

You try to make small talk, but he doesn’t give. Eventually, when he settles in for the night, you decide to try as well. 

It’s even more uncomfortable than when you tried earlier. You lay down on the ground, you lean against the radiator, you settle against the wall— it doesn’t matter what position you try because they all cause some part of your body to start hurting within minutes. 

You thought it would be easier, considering how many nights you’ve spent sleeping on hardwood floors and cold dirt, but it’s not. Blame it on your privilege from the bed in your previous compound or the unsettling nature of being stuck in a stranger’s room or the endless nightmares that follow you wherever you go—it doesn’t really matter. 

A few pathetic hours of tossing and turning pass, and Joel ends up throwing a pillow and a blanket in your direction. When you thank him, he just grunts in response and goes back to sleep. 

It makes it a little easier. Makes you feel a bit better about your forced company, at least. 

Jake comes by in the morning to send Joel on his way for whatever task he has to do that day and pick you up. He unlocks your cuffs and takes you on the world’s shortest version of rounds. You look at Becca’s leg wound (no infection), ensure Nadine is resting her arm (she is), and by the time it’s Joel’s turn, he’s already out and about. 

Turns out him lounging in bed was an oddity caused by being shot the day before, because you and Jake find him in the parking lot with a couple others getting ready to go out on a supply run.

“You know, you really should be resting,” you say as you walk up to him. 

Joel scoffs when he sees you approaching and puts the last bullet into his rifle’s magazine. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, allowing you to see the slight ripple of his forearm muscles as he pushes the bolt back into place. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Certainly don’t need you followin’ me around.” 

He grimaces a little when he stands up, and though he hides it well, you see his arm move for just a millisecond as he fights an instinct to press against his wound. 

“Clearly,” you respond dryly. “Look, I know what I’m talking about.” 

“You look like you learned medicine from watching Sesame Street.” 

You scowl. “I know more than you ever will. Just like how I know that if you ain’t careful, you’re gonna ruin all my hard work.” 

“I’m not gonna run a marathon, so stop bothering me, will ya?” 

“I’m your doctor,” you say. “This isn’t bothering.” 

“You’re not a doctor,” he says. “And you’re certainly not mine.”

“I am one, and certainly the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you huff. “You’re not dead, are you?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Just keep your mouth shut. It’ll do you a lot more good around here than whatever the hell you’re doing.”

“If you just let me do my check up, I would be gone already,” you insist. “Instead, you’ve gotta be a stubborn asshole.” 

Joel looks behind you at Jake. “You put her up to this?” 

He shrugs. “None of us really want you to drop dead out there, I ‘spose.” 

He groans and shakes his head—you’d think you were asking him to shoot his mother the way he’s protesting. But eventually, he sits back down and does a flourish with his hand. 

“Make it quick,” he tells you. 

“I’ll do it well,” you retort. “Pull your shirt up.” 

Joel does, revealing the bottom half of his chest once again, and there’s a whistle behind you. You see Joel shoot an absolutely scathing look out of your peripherals, and you do your best to ignore it all. 

The gauze is bloody, but it isn’t soaked through. You remove the dressings and redo them, glancing up on occasion to make sure you’re not hurting him. He doesn’t grimace or wince, but when he tenses every time your fingers brush against his bare skin. 

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I should’ve asked if I could touch you.” 

“I don’t care,” he says, but you feel him shift anyways. 

The rest of it goes by pretty quickly, since you did all the important work yesterday. Once you’re done, you zip your medical bag up and nod. 

“You’re good to go,” you say. “Just keep it clean to avoid infection. And don’t get shot again.” 

He snorts. “Don’t plan on it.” 

Joel walks off to rejoin the other hunters, and you watch him go until Jake clears his throat behind you. 

“Time for you to start payin’ your keep, little lady,” he says. 

You hum. “So I don’t just get to stay handcuffed to a radiator all day?” 

He pushes you with the barrel of his gun to get you moving, and you stumble into a walk. “I hope you’re better at maintenance than you are at jokes.” 

You just sigh and bite your tongue. He sucks, but he’s not actively threatening you. Might be the least you can ask for, at this point. 

-

Your keep, it turns out, is doing miscellaneous chores. 

You do laundry. You clean rooms. You help reinforce the wall. Bits and ends of a lot of different odd jobs, but you honestly don’t mind. It’s better than sitting in Joel’s room, shackled to a radiator and going stir-crazy. 

The one bad thing about leveraging your skills is that it makes you useful, and therefore, important. These people can’t risk you running out on them when there’s new injuries to deal with every day, so you’re constantly being watched. 

Random survivors that run off are just freeing up space and food. Random doctors that run off are risking lives. 

Jake tries to make conversation, and it’s painful, but you go along with it. You swear your cheek hurts every time you look at him—he doesn’t even apologize for it, even though he’s there in the background the entire day. You want to ask him if he has any other job than to stand around you and threaten you into submission with a shotgun, but you decide to keep your mouth shut. 

Night is falling by the time you finish things up, and you sit on a milk crate in the parking lot with another stale piece of bread and half a can of beans as your dinner. Not the most glamorous, but enough to fill you up. 

You’re beginning to think it’ll be an uneventful night when you hear yelling. 

“Open the fucking gate, now!” It’s Joel’s voice, angry and frantic. “We’ve got wounded!” 

You jump into action before you even really know what you’re doing and run to the wall, following two other men that were eating their own dinner in the parking lot. Jake is on your heels as the three of you push the dumpster working as the world’s worst gate out of the way. 

“The fuck happened?” Jake yells. 

“The fuck you think happened?” another one responds. “Runners and hunters and—”

“And Paul’s fuckin’ bleeding out,” a woman continues, out of breath as she runs in. 

You look up to see Joel bringing him over in a fireman’s carry, and you meet each other’s eyes. You let out a deep breath and nod, then pull your jacket off and lay it on the ground. You snap your fingers at another one of the supply runners. “Gimme your jacket.” 

He frowns and looks at Joel, and he narrows his eyes. “You fuckin’ deaf? Do what she says.” 

He does, thankfully, and you put it down next to yours. “Put him down, Joel.” 

Joel shifts him off his back slowly then squats down to get him on his feet. Paul’s knees buckle and Joel catches him, then lowers him to the ground. 

“Go get my medical bag,” you say. “It’s in your room.” 

He nods and runs off, and you look down at your patient. The top half of his shirt is completely soaked with blood, but you see it’s coming from his arm. You put as much pressure on the wound as you can, ignoring his groan of pain. At least that means he’s still alive. Unconscious, but alive. 

You look at another one of the supply runners. “What the hell happened to him?” 

“One o’ the hunters shot ‘em in the arm,” he says. 

“And where the hell is Daniel?” Jake suddenly says. “And Lee?” 

“What the hell do you think?” the woman spits. “They got bullets in the head before we even knew what was happening— runners had us distracted.” 

“And you thought it was smart to lead ‘em right back here?” Jake asks incredulously. 

“We already lost two,” she grits. “I wasn’t gonna lose a third.” 

“God fucking damn it!” he yells, and he points at the men that helped you open the gate. “Close the damn wall off, get your damn guns, and shoot on fucking sight! You hear me?” 

They nod and get to work, and Jake runs off just as Joel gets back. He has your bag in his hand and you look up at him. 

“Get down here,” you say. “I need your help.”

He nods and kneels down beside you, setting your bag next to you. 

“Put pressure on the wound,” you say. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding, but I think the bullet hit his ulnar artery. That’s why it’s gushin’ like hell.” 

Again, Joel does what you ask without questioning you. You’re thankful that everyone is listening to you when you need it—you only hope he survives this so they give you a little more leeway in the future. 

You rifle through your bag until you get your water and gauze. You push Joel’s hands out of the way and you hastily clean the wound, just enough to ensure any dirt and debris is gone. You start packing the bullet hole with gauze, again ignoring his groans as you push it in deep. You do the same to the exit wound so you don’t have to get your ungloved fingers all the way in his arm—thank god, because dealing with bullet fragments is a headache you don’t think you can handle right now. 

You see Jake run past with a number of people behind him. You recognize some of them from the raid on your commune, and it makes you realize your patient wasn’t one of them. 

They all have their guns drawn out of an abundance of caution, and you think it’s a bit ridiculous, but you keep your focus where it’s supposed to be. You get Joel to apply pressure again while you check Paul’s pulse, two fingers on his neck then his wrist. It’s weak, but it’s there, and right now that’s all you need. 

You’re just about to let yourself take it down a notch when a bullet whizzes right past your ear and buries itself into the pavement. 

Your scream gets stuck in your throat, and your hand flies up to your ear on instinct. You can’t even tell if you’re bleeding because there’s already so much on you. Guess it wasn’t ridiculous. 

Joel instantly shoots up from your side, bloodied hands already pulling his rifle off his back. He’s fired before you know what’s happening, and you lunge back over to put pressure on the wound again.  

A firefight erupts immediately. Jake and another woman are yelling orders, and you can’t see whoever is shooting at you all but your only thought is that of your patient. 

You watch Joel take another shot, and then he looks over his shoulder at you. 

“Get out of here!” he yells, fire burning in his eyes. You don’t need to be told twice. 

You slip your arms underneath Paul’s shoulders and stand up, then you pull him up as much as you can. You start dragging him, a mixture of adrenaline and pure willpower getting you through it. You get to the infirmary, thankful you stopped by there earlier when Jake was putting you through the gauntlet of odd jobs, and you get him onto a bed. 

You check his pulse once more—still there at a similar strength. His wound isn’t actively gushing blood anymore, and he’s regained some color in his face. Since it’s not worse, you collapse into a chair next to the bed. 

Gunshots ring out in rapid succession, and each one makes you wince. You would join to help, but you don’t have your fucking gun. At least if Jake gets shot, you’ll be able to get it back. 

You don’t think you have any friends here. But god, you really hope Joel makes it out unscathed. 

-

You don’t get to relax for very long. Three more wounded get brought in over the course of twenty minutes, each facing death in different ways. When the second is carried in, you force the escort to run out and get your medical bag, then stay with you so you can delegate. You only have two hands and you can't do every goddamn thing at once. 

One man dies almost immediately. He took a couple bullets to the chest and one hit an artery. He bleeds out before you can even start trying to pack one of his wounds. You can’t even take a moment of silence for him because your second patient starts crashing. 

It all blends together, honestly. Reminds you of the times you were with the code team for a shift, when everything was a life or death situation and everything could go wrong at once. But there’s only so much you can do in a motel room without any hospital equipment. 

You tie a tourniquet with pieces of your shirt and a stick from outside. You pack wounds once more. You drag chairs and pillows around to elevate limbs. You put pressure on the wounds until they stop bleeding. You get blood on every damn thing you touch because you haven’t been able to find latex gloves anywhere for the past two years. 

There’s only so much you can do when you have so little. 

Eventually, though, it settles down. The gunshots stop, the bleeding stops, and the pulses get stronger. Everyone that was alive stays alive over the next few hours, coming in and out of consciousness. It’s still quiet, though, because most of them immediately fall back asleep. Getting shot takes a lot out of you. 

Your assistant leaves after the first hour when you assure him you can handle the rest. You wish the sinks worked so you could get all this fucking blood off your hands, but you wipe off what you can and deal with the rest. Your shirt’s already covered in it. 

Maybe you’ll convince Jake to let you go on a supply run so you can stop by a lake or something. You don’t want to waste what little water you have on cleanliness, but you make a point not to touch your face more than you have to. The last thing you need is to get an infection because you got blood in your eye or something—you think that would be the stupidest way for you to die. 

You’re rifling through the barebones medicine cabinet, trying to see what would help in case of an emergency, when you hear approaching footsteps. You turn around to see Joel, and you can’t help but smile. 

“Joel,” you say, relief rampant in your voice, “you made it.” 

“So did you,” he says. He doesn’t sound half as glad as you do, but you’ve learned over the past two days that he doesn’t tend to show emotions other than anger. “How are they?” 

“One’s dead, three are alive,” you say with a gesture. “Dunno their names besides Paul, so I guess you can spread the word.” 

Joel nods as he looks at each of them. Again, he hides his emotions well—if he feels a particular way about any of them, he doesn’t show it. Eventually, he looks back at you.

“How are you?” His eyes trail up and down your body. “Any of that blood yours?” 

“Thankfully, no,” you say. “The worst is over. I found some antibiotics, so hopefully we’ll be able to avoid any infections. Barring those or any freak changes, the rest should make it.” 

“Good,” he says. 

“Any of that blood yours?” you ask, inclining your head. He already has a fair amount of dried blood on his jacket—comes with the territory of being Joel, you think—but there’s some fresh. 

“No,” Joel says. “We got most of the hunters, but some ran off. Couple of us went after ‘em to finish the job.” 

“Did you?”

“Yes,” he says. “Tracked ‘em to their camp and did what we had to do.” 

You nod. Seems these people are pretty good at taking out other communes, Joel especially. 

He probably wasn’t in the group that killed your people because of his gunshot. Had he been healthy, you bet he would have slaughtered them like all the rest. 

But he didn’t. And he’s shown you more kindness in his own way than anyone else here has.  

You realize hypotheticals don’t really matter to you as long as the bullet ends up in someone else’s head. You don’t really know what that says about you. 

So you look back up at Joel and ask, “We safe for the night?” 

“Yes.” 

You nod again. “Okay.” 

And that’s that. 

-

You spend the next few days in the infirmary watching over your patients. Jake is in and out, mostly checking in during the day to ask about the injured and make sure you’re not about to run away. When he stays, he lets his shotgun rest against the wall rather than keeping it pointed at you. Maybe he trusts you more—you think it’s more likely he assumes you won’t run because you have critical patients.

He’s right. You don’t know them, and you only know Paul’s name, but you feel like you have to save them—have to save him. 

Maybe it’s because this guy wasn’t part of the group that killed yours, maybe it’s because you think he’s your age, maybe it’s because he looks shockingly similar to Connor. But you feel a strange amount of obligation to this man to save his life. 

Even if you were in here alone, you don’t think you would run. Guess the Hippocratic Oath stays with you even after the world has ended. 

On the third night, Joel comes in. He has a bottle of water, your rations, and your jacket. 

“You left it in the parking lot,” he says when he hands it to you. “I picked it up when we got back from the hunt.” 

“...Thanks,” you say. You’ve been in these bloodstained clothes for way too long, but you don’t really have any changes. You were ripped out of your community as a prisoner, after all. 

You pull your shirt off and slip into your flannel. Even though some of the blood soaked through to your skin, you already feel better. You’re doing up the buttons when you realize Joel has turned his head, making a point not to look at you. 

“Uh, sorry,” you say. “I didn’t really think you’d care.”

“Figure at least one person here should respect your privacy,” Joel says. 

You chuckle. It’s oddly touching from someone like him. 

“Thanks.” 

You hang your shirt on the back of your chair. It kinda is your only top, so you can’t just go throwing it away. You’ll get it clean eventually. 

“The number’s down,” Joel says, looking at the beds. “Maya’s good?”

“I guess.” You still don’t know their names. “Bleedin’ stopped, and she was talking up a storm. Sutured her wound, gave her some pain meds, and sent her on her way.” 

“Good. How’re the rest doing?”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m mostly just waiting until they’re consistently awake and making sure the wounds don’t get infected.”

“You talk an awful lot ‘bout infections.”

You shrug. “Out here, they’re usually a death sentence.”

“Noted,” he says wryly. 

The two of you stand there for a while. The silence is awkward, but but you prefer that over the heaviness of the first night. 

“Just make sure you get some sleep,” he finally says. “You won’t be much good if you’re fallin’ asleep when we need you.”

You chuckle. “Noted.”

Joel nods again and walks off. You sit back down in your uncomfortable chair, ready for another night of anxiety, when he stops in the doorframe and speaks up.

“I’m sorry ‘bout how you ended up here,” he says carefully, as if he’s unsure of his words. “But it’s probably a good thing someone like you is at this motel.”

You smile. You think this is the first time you’ve heard him be this genuine.

“Thanks, Joel,” you say. “You’re a stubborn jackass, but you don’t make for a bad roommate.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him. “Night, doc.”

“Night, Joel,” you say softly. 

-

Things change after that week. 

Joel looks at you differently. Everyone does, honestly—no one thinks you’re lying anymore, thinks you’re some naive twenty-something. You can hold your own, and you’re not someone to mess with. 

But not everything changes. 

(“Are you fucking kidding me?” you protest when Jake takes you back into Joel’s room. “I save three of your men and you still don’t trust me?”

“I trust you to save my men, not stay put,” he says. Since you don’t offer your hand, he just grabs your arm, pulls you forward, and locks the cuff around your wrist. “And you’re more important than ever now, little lady.”

You lunge at him, but you come up just short when Jake steps out of your range. He tuts and shakes his head at you. 

“No need for that,” he says. “I’d hate to ruin that pretty face all over again.”

“This really necessary?” Joel asks, a hard edge to his voice. 

Jake shrugs. “Way you’ve been spendin’ time with her, figure you’d jump at the chance to have her to yourself. Just don’t break her.” 

Joel clenches his jaw as Jake leaves, letting out a growl when the door shuts.  

“Un-fuckin-believable,” you mutter. Now you’re sure you’re going to put a bullet in his head before you get out of here. 

“Took the words outta my mouth,” he grumbles. 

“You wanna shoot him for me?” you ask. 

Joel shakes his head as he sits back down on his bed. “Not yet.”

You blink. “Not yet?”

He grunts. “Ain’t talking about this with you.”

So you don’t. You don’t say much because he doesn’t say much—after your conversation with Joel in the infirmary, you’re not too keen on annoying him.)

You’re good enough to save lives but still can’t be trusted on your own. Maybe it’s actually a smart move, because you spend every spare moment thinking about ways to escape and ways to put Jake six feet under. 

You also can’t stop thinking about Joel’s words: not yet. 

You might have found an ally in the most unexpected place.

Another week passes with more of the same.

You check on your patients who have all survived their wounds. They’re out of commission for another week at least, but they’re alive. You finally have a conversation with Paul and he’s so much like your brother you want to cry.

You do the chores asked and now expected of you, and though you mainly keep to yourself, you find a friend in a woman named Trish when you spend a few afternoons together sewing up holes in clothes.  

Though you’re still not trusted alone and you don’t have your own room or the freedom to move around at night, you’re no longer expected to spend every moment inside the walls. You end up doing weekly supply runs with Joel and you don’t hate it as much as you thought you would.

They never let you take the horses out, and you still don’t get a fucking gun. Apparently, you’re still a flight risk. 

They’re not wrong, but you wish they would fall for it. It would be so easy to run with a horse.

So instead you’re given a knife, and you and Joel have to set out on foot each time. Always you and Joel, because apparently you can’t get away from each other. Maybe they think he’ll kill you if you do try to run. Maybe they can see you’re starting to warm up to him. 

You don’t know, and you don’t particularly care. Joel has made it clear he won’t hurt you if you don’t try to hurt him, so you feel safe hunting with him. Besides, he’s a killer shot and you’re great with a knife, so you make a good team either way. He even gives you his revolver to use on the road sometimes, though you always have to return it before you’re back at the motel. 

But if Joel is looking at you differently because of a newfound respect, you’re looking at him differently because of newfound feelings. 

He’s handsome, anyone can see that—gruff and grizzled and muscled from the life of a survivor. He has sharp, dark eyes that narrow at everything, so much so that you bet his crows feet are from years of distrust rather than years of laughter.

You never really paid attention to it at the beginning because you were terrified you were going to die. Anything you tried to figure out about him or his life was in the name of survival, was about pinning him down in order to manipulate him. 

Joel is angry and impatient and mean, and he's probably killed a hundred different people in a hundred different ways in the name of survival—but since that night he visited you in the infirmary, you swear he’s softened around you. 

Quite frankly, it’s ridiculous. He’s at least fifteen years your elder, this is the apocalypse, and you’re still in a camp full of enemies. You have no time to be making heart eyes at Joel.

So you don’t make heart eyes. Instead, you just stare at him like you normally do and tell him he’s crazy when he questions you about it. 

But god, it isn’t easy. You spend more time with Joel than anyone else—you guess he’s your Jake-appointed chaperone now—and the second time you go out on a supply run with him, you run across a lake. 

You convince him to stay for a bit so you can wash off, finally cracking when you swear to him you still have lingering blood on your hands from your night running the camp ER. You strip down to your undergarments with little care and dive in, and when you catch Joel looking you up and down in what he thinks is a covert way, you think your heart might burst. 

It’s been a while since you’ve done… well, anything sex-wise. You doubt you will ever get there with Joel, mostly because you’re going to take these feelings to your early grave, but you’re allowing yourself to be delusional when absolutely everything else in your life sucks.

After all the shit you’ve been through, you think you deserve it. 

You end up having to cut your luxury excursion short when you hear the distinct croaking of stalkers. Joel grumbles the whole time you’re getting dressed, saying you’re gonna be the death of him and this was stupid and he regrets ever saying yes to you, but he puts himself in front of you every time he thinks he sees one. 

It’s the little things. 

Two weeks later, on your fourth supply run, things go a little differently. 

Everything close by has been picked clean either by Joel’s group or people traveling through the area, so Jake and Marcos, the group leaders, decide that you’re going to go out farther than usual in order to get more supplies. Even though you go out every week, and other people hunt when they can, but it’s not enough. 

You’re fine with it and Joel grudgingly agrees to it, so after getting some extra rations and water just in case, you set out on your way. 

You find an abandoned convenience store when you’re walking down the side of a road that still has some water, meds, and cigarettes behind a couple toppled over shelves. It’s better than nothing.

When you venture into the woods you find a house. Joel insists on going first in case anyone’s inside—he checks the bedroom and the kitchen and says they’re clear. When he’s going up the stairs with his gun drawn, you a few paces after him on the bottom step, you get grabbed from behind. 

Your scream of surprise gets Joel’s attention immediately, and there’s a knife to your throat before you even know what’s happening. Joel has his gun trained on the head of whoever’s got you just as fast. 

“Let her go,” he says. 

“Not everyday I get a couple bargin’ into my house,” your captor says smoothly. He has one of your arms in an iron grip, and your other hand is an open palm to convince him you’re not a threat. “She’s too pretty for you, don’t you think?” 

“Joel—”

“Let her go,” he growls. 

“Y’all were gonna steal from me,” the man says. “Don’t see how we can walk out of here all friendly-like.” 

He presses the blade into your throat just enough to draw a thin line of blood, and you clench your jaw so hard you think your teeth might crack. Joel meets your eyes, and they actually have something in them you haven’t seen before—fear.

“What d’you want?” Joel asks. 

“I think you know what I want,” he says. His grip on you tightens and something inside of you snaps. 

You stomp on his foot as hard as you can. He grunts, the action shocking him more than it hurts, but his grip loosens and that’s all you need. You move faster than him as you rip your knife from your belt and reel it backwards to stab him in the gut. You grab his wrist and wrench it to the side, giving you the space to turn away from him and kick him in the chest. He falls to the ground, you pull Joel’s revolver out, and you shoot him in the head. 

Your breaths are coming out as pants by now, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest as you stare at his dead body. Pools of blood are already forming behind his head and gut, and you feel nothing but red-hot rage. 

You’re so fucking sick of men thinking they can take whatever they want, thinking they have a right to whatever they want. You’re honestly glad this happened. It meant you got to put a bullet in his head. 

Joel says your name and you realize it’s the third time. You can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“I feel fine,” you say. This isn’t the first person you’ve killed, you want to tell him, far from it. This isn’t the first time you’ve killed to save your life, you want to tell him. 

For some reason, the words don’t form. 

“He tried to slit your throat,” he says. “You’re not fine.”

“Still standing, ain’t I?” 

He says your name again, a bit stronger this time. “You’re bleeding. You need to sit down.” 

“I’m—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and get you out of here myself.” 

You huff. “Now you know how I felt that first night.” 

Joel shakes his head. “Always gotta be right, don’t you?” 

“You know me,” you say faintly. 

You do sit down, eventually, if only because Joel looks like he would absolutely make good on his promise. You sit on the third step and he goes one below you, and you pull your medical bag out of your pack. 

“I can clean it out,” you say as you rifle through it for your gauze. “Your hands are probably dirty.” 

“Y’know, I’m not a complete idiot,” Joel says. “Remember when you said my bandaging was good?” 

“I said it was passable,” you correct. 

“‘Good enough to keep you alive’, I recall.”

“And you think I want good enough?” 

You finally get to your gauze—you swear, it falls to the bottom every time—when Joel puts his hand on your wrist. It’s gentler than you expect, even with the calluses. 

“Let me do it,” he insists. “Need to feel fuckin’ useful somehow.” 

You stare at him, hoping your pupils aren’t dilated or something else just as stupid to reveal that your heart is beating out of your chest. 

“That’s what this is about?” you whisper. 

Joel clenches his jaw and glances away. “He could have killed you and I just stood there.” 

“You didn’t have a clear shot,” you say. 

“I should have made one,” he says. “Out here, we’re a team. Partners. You don’t let your partner get grabbed.” 

“We had no idea he was here.” 

“I should have known,” Joel says roughly. “I shoulda known and I shoulda stopped him and you wouldn’t have had to kill him.” 

You cover his hand with yours before you can doubt yourself, and Joel looks back at you, surprised. He doesn’t pull away. 

“It was a mistake, and we got out of it,” you say. “If we’re partners, then you can’t put all the weight on your shoulders and none on mine. I held my own, didn’t I?” 

Joel doesn’t respond, and you sigh. 

“If they keep sendin’ us out on these things, then you’ll save my ass so many more times,” you continue. “And I’ll save yours, and we’ll joke about it when we get back to that shitty motel and Jake locks me to the radiator for the hundredth time.” 

“So it don’t matter that I pulled more weight this time,” you say. “Because it’s a whole lotta push and pull—you just can’t pull away from me because of this.” 

“Clever,” he says wryly. “You sure you’re not a writer?” 

You manage a smile. “Not even close. Are we good?” 

Joel pauses for a moment, his gaze falling down to your hand on his. He clears his throat and pulls away, then holds his hand out. You huff a laugh and give him the gauze. 

“We’re good,” he nods. 

You sit together in silence as Joel cleans the blood off your neck, only interrupted by your occasional wince. He’s surprisingly gentle with you in a way that you never would have expected, never touching you more than he has to. Your skin burns wherever he does, and it takes everything in you to keep your breathing steady. You don’t want him to know, and you don’t want to mess up his work. 

Joel finishes soon enough, and after a quick investigation in a broken bathroom mirror, you approve. You take what’s left from the house in supplies and then you get out. It takes a little longer because Joel refuses to leave your side—”what if a clicker bursts in through that broken window? You’d be dead like that.”—but you don’t argue. You think it’s sweet, actually, but you don’t tell him that. 

When Joel insists on heading back early, you don’t fight him. When you insist you want to keep his knife back at the motel, even if it has to be a secret, he doesn’t fight you. 

You don’t talk much on the walk back, but things are different. The air is lighter between you two. Joel doesn’t frown at everything. He actually manages to joke around with you. 

Things are different. 

You’re finding out that you don’t really mind. 

-

You go even farther on your next supply run. The area isn’t as scarce as it could be, but Marcos insists on stocking up before summer, when it’s too hot to constantly venture out like this with little water. 

Things are going pretty well, all things considered. You run into a decent amount of clickers over the miles that you’re able to take down with you distracting and Joel stabbing each time. You don’t run into any people, though Joel keeps his head on a swivel.

Eventually, though, it starts to rain. Clear skies shine above you, but you still get drenched within a couple miserable minutes. 

“Where the hell did this come from?” you complain. 

Joel takes a cloth out of his pocket and wipes down his gun. “They not teach the water cycle in schools?” 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” You scowl at the sky. “Was ‘sposed to be clear skies all day.” 

“We’ll just call it short,” he says. “Go back to the motel.” 

“We’re five miles out,” you say. The rain starts coming down harder and you curse. “We’re not making it back without getting soaked.” 

“You can’t handle a little water?” Joel asks. 

“I’m already miserable enough being around you,” you say. “Don’t need to add trench foot to the equation.” 

He shakes his head with a huff. “Fine. I remember a cave a while back— you have another mile in you?” 

“As a matter of fact, I did cross country in high school,” you say. “Also walked a whole lot when I was getting away from the coast.” 

“Always gotta one up me, huh?” 

You smile. “Always.” 

It ends up being a little more than two miles, but you and Joel make quick work of it. Soon enough, after you’ve checked for any infected, you’re sitting in a little grotto waiting out the rain.

You’ve both taken your top layers off to let them dry, alongside your boots and socks. It feels a bit strange, a bit too familiar, to be doing all this with Joel—but like you said, you’re not too fond of trench foot, so you deal with it. 

You sit near the opening of the cave, entranced by the downpour. The tension in your shoulders has slowly dissipated as you’ve watched the storm. There’s something calming about the sight, the sound— the way the world feels once it’s over. 

“You shouldn’t be so close to the outside,” Joel says. Miraculously, the tension comes back. 

“It’s fine,” you say. 

“Ain’t so fine when everyone can see you,” he says. “Ain’t so fine when a passing hunter doesn’t like how you look and puts a bullet between your eyes.” 

You sigh as you adjust your position to look over at him. He’s taken to sharpening a stick with one of his knives. “You always this positive?” 

“I’m realistic,” he says. “How do you think I’ve survived so long?” 

“Well, I’ve survived too,” you say. “And I’m not half the miserable bastard you are.”  

“You’re half my age,” Joel says. “Give it time.” 

You shake your head with a huff. “Got a bright future ahead of me, then.” 

“I’m alive,” he says. “That’s as bright as it can be these days.” 

“That’s so sad,” you murmur, your gaze turning back to the rainfall. 

You hear him stop with his knife. “What’d you say?” 

You know he heard you. Probably just trying to give you a chance to take it back, but you don’t care. “I said it’s sad.” 

“Don’t see how it can be sad,” Joel says. “Survivin’s all anyone wants out here.” 

“Maybe on a base level, but I—” you pause and shake your head again, trying to collect your thoughts. “I got a life I’m trying to build. Things I’m chasin’— things that make this all worth it.” 

“Like I said, you’re half my age.” The joking lilt he’s had fades, and you know you’ve struck a nerve. “Everything you’re trying to get, I’ve already lost.” 

“Joel,” you attempt, but he shakes his head. 

“I built a life and I lost it,” he says. “I’ve trusted people and I’ve paid for it. So don’t act like I’m doin’ all this for no reason.” 

“Then tell me,” you say, bolstered by his tone. “Tell me what you’ve gone through, what justifies this, so we can move past this— this barrier you’ve put between us, and actually get to know each other.” 

“I don’t have to tell you shit,” he grumbles. 

“Fine,” you say. “Then I’ll go.” 

By this point, you’ve shifted your position completely to face him. Joel still won’t look at you, but he’s gone back to sharpening that damn stick. 

“I’m not actually a doctor.” 

Sure enough, that gets his attention. He stops so abruptly that you think he might slice his fingertip off. He doesn’t, but he looks at you incredulously. 

“What?” 

“I’m not a doctor,” you repeat. “Or a surgeon, really.” 

He frowns. “Then how do you know how to do all this shit?” 

“I was studying to be one,” you say. “But I still had a pretty long way to go.” 

Joel glares at you. “How long?”

“I was in my third year of med school when the outbreak started,” you say. “Got to be MS3 for all of two months before everything went to shit.” 

“You didn’t even graduate?” he marvels. 

You shrug. “I passed my boards. Well, Step 1, at least. The world ended before I got to the others—”

“Oh my god,” he mutters. 

“I was still a student doctor,” you assert. “I know plenty—” 

“Not enough,” he interrupts. 

“Enough to keep my patients and myself alive,” you remark. “And more than enough to stitch up your sorry ass.” You gesture at him. “How’s that gunshot feel?” 

Joel just scoffs and shakes his head. He doesn’t look mad, like you thought he would be—just looks shocked, surprised, annoyed. Maybe angry just for the hell of it. 

“Why are you tellin’ me the truth now?” he asks. “No one else is around. I could kill you right now for bein’ a liar—tell the group clickers got to you.” 

“A liar with medical experience is better than nothing,” you say. “From what I’ve seen over the years, folks aren’t too keen on killing people like me. ‘Specially after I saved their people.”

“Besides,” you incline your head, “I don’t think you have the guts. Not after last week.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Joel says. “I’ve killed plenty of people less annoying than you.”

“Well, I don’t go down without a fight,” you say. “And I’m very good at stayin’ awake. So if you decide to go for it, you can’t take the easy way out.” 

He scoffs, but you notice it doesn’t have the malice you’d expect behind it. 

You should be wary. You’re alone together in the middle of nowhere, miles from your group—and they wouldn’t save you if it came down to it. For God’s sake, Joel has a knife in his hand. He could take you down easily enough if he wanted to. Weren’t you terrified of that when you were first stuck in his room a few months ago? 

But you’re not. You can’t deny that you like him anymore, and that could be clouding your judgment, but you’re not scared of him. Not since that night in the infirmary. 

You go back to watching the rain, making a point to have your back to Joel as you do. Maybe as a sign of trust, maybe to show you’re not scared of him—you don’t really know. But nothing happens. He doesn’t stab you in the back, literally or figuratively. 

And eventually, he speaks up.

“I’m from Texas.” 

You laugh wryly. “I tell you I’ve been lyin’ to everyone this whole time and you tell me you’re a Texan.” 

“It’s somethin’,” he says. “Ain’t that what you wanted?” 

You turn around and raise your eyebrows. “Where in Texas?” 

“Grew up in Arlington,” he says. “Was in Austin ‘fore everything went to shit.”

You nod. “That makes sense. The accent and the attitude and everything else.” 

Joel snorts. “‘Everything else’?” 

“The way you carry yourself,” you say. “How stubborn you are. Classic ‘Don’t mess with Texas’. You ever have a bumper sticker like that?” 

That gets an actual laugh out of him. A genuine laugh, a genuine smile. “Hell no. I didn’t need to showboat like that. Sarah woulda never—” 

He stops suddenly, his smile fading just as quickly as it appeared. You feel the moment slipping out of your grasp quicker than you can run after it, and you feel a little desperate. 

“Who’s Sarah?” 

Joel shakes his head. “No one you need to know about.”

Just like that, the moment is gone and the barrier is back up. You try to hide the disappointment you feel. When Joel’s not being a jackass, you really enjoy talking with him. 

“...Okay,” you say. You’ve already pushed him once. You don’t want to push him again on something that brings out that sort of reaction. 

Joel goes back to sharpening the stick. It’s half the size it was before, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He’s got a couple to keep him busy. 

You go back to watching the rain. The downpour continues, and eventually, you hear the crackling of thunder in the distance. 

“Great,” you murmur. 

“You see any flashes?” Joel asks. 

“No lightning,” you say. “Least it ain’t close.” 

“That means we can still get out of here tonight.” 

You shake your head. “No way I’m doin’ seven miles in a thunderstorm.” 

“We went five miles out,” Joel reminds you. 

“And then went two miles off course to get here,” you say. “It’s already getting dark, and these woods have infected. You really wanna go through all that just to get back to that shitty motel?” 

“They got food there,” he says. “We have nothing.” 

“We’ll be fine for a night,” you say. “It’s not like we’re in danger of freezing. We can sleep in shifts so nothing can sneak up on us. We’re tucked away pretty well, anyways.” 

Joel stares at you for a good, long second. You can tell he wants to fight—he always want to fight, you’ve learned—but eventually he lets out a sigh and makes a flippant gesture. 

“Fine,” he concedes. “But we’re leavin’ at first light, rain or not.” 

“Fine,” you echo. 

You’re able to relax a little after that, knowing Joel’s not going to make you hike back to camp in these conditions. 

The rain doesn’t ease up, but as night falls, your anxiety gets the best of you and you end up sitting against the wall, across from Joel. You have a sad little dinner together, the usual of stale bread and meat from whatever animal was hunted that week. 

Soon enough, it’s pitch black outside and you only have the rain and the crickets for company. Better than rain and clickers, you suppose. 

You wish you had a book, or a ball of yarn and some needles, or literally anything to give you something to do other than stare at a cave wall. Joel isn’t much of a talker, even now. 

“I’m from Oklahoma, you know.” You decide to fill in the blanks, unable to take the silence much longer even with the rainstorm. “So we’re two southerners in a pod.” 

“Knew you had some kinda accent,” Joel says. “Just couldn’t place it.” 

“It faded while I was in Boston for med school,” you explain. “I wanted to get out as soon as possible.” 

“How’s it feel, being back in the middle o’ nowhere after spending all your time in the city?” 

You chuckle and look over at him. “You’re not gonna believe it, but I grew up in the middle of nowhere. Born and raised on a cattle ranch in Beaver.”

“No shit,” Joel says incredulously, and he actually smiles. “No shit you’re a farm girl.” 

“Don’t act so surprised!” you exclaim. “I’ve more than held my own out here!” 

“Thought you were some big city hotshot doctor when I first met you,” he says, shaking his head. “Turns out you’re just a farm girl med student.” 

“Well, you’re just a jackass from Texas,” you retort. 

“And you’re a jackass from Oklahoma,” he says. “Guess we ain’t so different after all.” 

You laugh and look away, unable to bite back a smile of your own. “Whatever.” 

That lightness from your walk the past week returns, and you and Joel spend the next few hours just… talking. You do most of it, because getting Joel to talk about his past is like pulling teeth, but you don’t mind. 

You tell him stories from your childhood, what it was like growing up as a rancher’s daughter. How you spent your whole life trying to claw out your roots and how, now that it’s gone, it’s the only thing you want. What undergrad was like, what med school was like, how you spent just as many nights blacked out from alcohol as you did studying until your eyes bled. 

Joel contributes in smaller places, like telling you what he was like as a kid or relaying his own high school stories, because he didn’t go to college. Tells you about his work as a carpenter. You find it hard to imagine a younger Joel when it’s near impossible to look in his eyes and see something other than the world-weary, grizzled survivor he is now, but with his words you’re able to piece it together. It helps that his voice is so nice to listen to when he’s not yelling. 

You want to ask him about Sarah, but you don’t. Things are going so well that you’d be an idiot to ruin it. You hope he trusts you enough one day to tell you. 

In the middle of it all, you realize the way you’re thinking: into the future, long-term future, with Joel a part of it. Your plan from the start has been to bide your time until you can gather enough supplies to run, get your pistol back from Jake and use it to put a bullet in his head, then get the fuck out of here. 

But now you can’t stop thinking about Joel, and you realize you want to keep him in your life. You don’t want to stay here, but you don’t want to leave him. You don’t care if he doesn’t like you the way you do, you don’t care if he doesn’t even want to be your friend—you’re just tired of running from everything and defending yourself with lies. You’re tired of being alone. 

Eventually, you can’t fight your yawns anymore. Joel tells you he’ll take first watch and you can already tell he’ll refute any arguments. You put your jacket and shoes back on and make sure Joel’s revolver is in grabbing distance, then you lay down using your pack as a pillow. 

“Y’know, this is the first time we’re sleepin’ in the same room without a radiator.” 

Joel huffs. “Yeah. You get through the night without runnin’, maybe I can threaten Jake into getting you your own room.” 

“I dunno.” Your eyes are closed at this point, the mixture of Joel’s timbre at a softer volume and the downpour all around you almost lulling you to sleep. “I kinda like being in the same room as you.” You smile. “We can ditch the cuffs, though.” 

Joel is silent for a while. If your brain were sharper, if you weren’t nearly asleep, you might’ve had the sense to worry or be ashamed. You’re sure you’ll regret it in the morning. 

“Get some rest,” he finally says. “You need it.” 

“Night, Joel,” you murmur. “Wake me up in a couple hours or I’ll kill you.” 

He laughs quietly. “Night, doc.”  

-

You dream of your old life. Early mornings on the ranch. Fighting with your brother to get the better chores and swearing you’ll never talk to him again when he gets the ones you want, just to end up racing him to the boundaries of the farm and back to settle disputes as usual. Waking up in the middle of the night to make your favorite dessert for the two of you, homegrown strawberries with whipped cream. 

You dream of the day everything fell apart. Screaming in the hospital and your coworkers being killed and sights so brutal in the streets of Boston that you will never, ever forget them. Connor forces you to keep running through it all, tells you that you can’t stop to save anyone because you’ll die too, and he is not going to let you die. He swears he won’t leave you. 

You dream of the night you saw him for the last time. Having no choice but to break the one promise your mom forced you two to make before she died in your arms, and making another one that you refuse to break for anything. The last time you saw Connor, a night that you’ve relived a million times where you’ve failed to change the story each and every time. 

You wonder what he would think about the kind of person you’ve become. 

-

It’s light outside when you finally wake up. You expect your back to be killing you, but after sleeping against a wall, floor, and radiator for most of the past few months, this was actually kind of comfortable. 

You rub the grogginess out of your eyes and realize there are dried tears on your cheeks. You hope to god you didn’t actually cry in your sleep over some nightmares—you don’t need Joel to see something like that. 

When you sit up, you see Joel cleaning his rifle. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he says wryly. 

“Mornin’,” you say, interrupted by a yawn. You have to shield your eyes from the sun, and you’re about to ask him how he’s doing when it hits you. 

“Oh my god— what time is it?” 

Joel says nothing, just focuses on wiping out the barrel. 

You push his shoulder. “Why didn’t you wake me up, you jackass?” 

“You needed your sleep,” he says simply. 

“Like you don’t?” you retort. “You’re twice my age, old man. You need it more than I do.” 

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll sleep when we get back to the motel.” 

You scoff. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“And don’t you feel so much better?” 

You shake your head as you stand up and begin to gather your things. “First light, my ass.” 

Joel sighs. “Helpin’ you out is a thankless job.” 

Though you want to stay mad, it’s a champagne problem that you get over it pretty quickly. You feel more refreshed than you have since you ended up in this group, and considering you were sleeping on a cave floor with your backpack as a pillow, things aren’t really going to be better for you back in Joel’s room. 

You give him a grudging thank you right before you’re about to leave, and he accepts with a smugness that makes you regret it. 

You make casual small talk for the first mile, but things go in a different direction when Joel pops an unexpected question on you. 

“Who’s Connor?”

You trip over your own feet, and you know it’s wishful thinking to hope he didn’t see it. You regain your footing and keep walking, making a point to not look at him. 

“Where’s this coming from?” Your words might come out a little too aggressive, but you don’t really care right now. 

“You talked in your sleep half the night,” Joel says. “Kept muttering about some guy named Connor, how you didn’t wanna leave him.”

“It’s none of your business,” you say. 

“You don’t get to pull that shit with me after tryin’ to go all Twenty Questions last night,” he insists. “You told me ‘bout half your life anyways.” 

Just because you told him about inconsequential childhood and college things doesn’t mean you owe him actually important stuff. You can do what he did and just shut him down again, and every other time if he happens to ask again. 

But you were preaching all that shit about togetherness and getting to know each other and breaking down the barrier. Joel might be a hypocrite, but you have to be better than Joel. 

“...He’s my brother,” you finally say. The words feel heavier saying them to him for some reason. 

“He dead?” Joel asks. Leave it to him to be blunt. 

“No,” you say roughly, hastily. “No, I—” 

You swallow the lump in your throat and shake your head. “I don’t know. We lost each other a while ago, and I’ve been trying to find him ever since. So I guess I just really, really hope he’s not.” 

“When did you see him last?” 

“Two years ago,” you say. “We were in some commune in Ohio with a buncha hunters that tolerated us because I was a doctor and he was a good supply runner. One day, one of the leaders started accusin’ a bunch of people of stealing meds. Swore the supply was goin’ down—accused every person I’d treated the past few months of bein’ a junkie and stealing. Killed every single one of ‘em over the course of a week.” You shake your head as the memory comes back in full force. “Meds kept disappearing. Soon enough, no one was left to blame but me.” 

“Did you take ‘em?” Joel asks. 

“No,” you say. “I had no reason to. Still don’t know who did it. But Connor realized I was next on the chopping block and no amount of reasoning would bring him down from the edge, even if that meant killing his only doctor.” You bite the inside of your cheek to hold the tears back. “Connor and I fought like crazy that night, but eventually, he won. He gave me all his supplies and got me to leave in the middle of the night. I wanted him to come with me, but he said they would hunt me down. Said he had to stay cover my tracks. Told me to go back to Boston, find the QZ— he would meet me there.”

Joel is silent for a moment. When he speaks up, it’s his usual. 

“You’re pretty far from Boston.” 

“Roads I was tryin’ to take were completely overrun,” you say. “I had a car back then, in pretty decent shape—decided I would try and get back to the farm just to recuperate. Resupply, take a breather, just try to shit out before I had to get all the way to Massachusetts.” You shrug. “And I guess a part of me thought that Connor might have thought the same thing.” 

You huff. “Pretty clear I never fuckin’ made it there, though. I just gotta hope he had better luck than me, and that’s waiting for me there—not dead in a ditch in Ohio.” 

“He probably is,” he says.  

“Fuck you, Joel,” you snap. “That’s all you gotta say?”

“I’m bein’ honest—”

“Well, I don’t need your honesty,” you bite out. “We made a promise to each other. Far as I’m concerned, he ain’t dead ‘til I see his bones. I don’t care how stupid you think it is.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a while, but when he does, it’s about what you expect. 

“It is stupid.” 

“Joel—” 

“But it’s also admirable.” 

You glance at him. “You hit your head back there or something?” 

“No. Just think it’s rare to be able to keep up hope like that.” He shrugs. “One of the things I’ve admired ‘bout you for a while.” 

Again, you feel your cheeks heat—your whole body, honestly. You busy yourself with the path ahead of you while you try to remember the art of subtlety. 

“...Thanks,” you finally say. “But I think you’re lyin’. You thought it was stupid when we first met.” 

Joel snorts. “Things’ve changed since then. You’re way less annoying now—can’t hold that against me.” 

“I am the same level of annoying, thank you very much.” You smile at him. “You like me more now. Face it.” 

He just huffed and shook his head, though you could tell he was fighting a smile of his own. “Just shut up and keep walking.”

You do, for the most part. Your path is pretty straightforward, only having to take a few detours due to infected that you take out pretty easily together. You and Joel have really found a groove working with each other since you started going on these supply runs. 

Maybe that’s what gets you to speak up again. 

“You really think my brother’s dead?” 

Joel doesn’t respond immediately. He lifts a low-hanging branch so you can duck under it, and when you glance over at him, he looks conflicted. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he says. “Only matters what you do.” 

“You say all the time that you’re older and wiser than me,” you say. “So give me some of that elder wisdom.” 

Joel frowns. “I’m only forty.” 

“Can’t be only forty when you’re constantly sayin’ I’m too young to know things,” you retort. “So tell me the truth. Do you really think he’s dead? That I’m wasting my time trekking across the country?” 

“...I don’t know,” he says. “Been eight years since all of this fell apart. Logically, neither of us should still be kicking, but we are.” 

“So you think he’s alive.” 

“I think people beat the odds all the time,” Joel says. “And if your brother’s got the same stubborn genes as you, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s beat ‘em too.” 

You nod a few times. Whatever Joel said wasn’t going to change your mind—you meant what you said, that you won’t believe Connor is dead until you see his lifeless body. But it feels like Joel is on your side, even if it’s just one foot over the line. 

Those words echo in your head again: not yet. 

You decide to test the boundaries. 

“I think so too. It’s why I’m putting up with all this,” you say. “This… group. Jake’s bullshit. So I can get out when it’s time and keep trying to find my brother.” 

This is bigger than the doctor thing, and you’ve just dropped it on a casual walk. You’re still considered a flight risk, hence Joel’s constant companionship and the radiator nights even after you’ve more than proven yourself. You don’t know how much Joel ever believed it, but this pretty much confirms that it’s true.

“Shouldn’t talk like that out in the open,” Joel says after a moment. 

“We’re in the middle of the woods,” you say. “Who—” 

“Anyone,” he interrupts. “Here or there. So whatever shit you’re planning, don’t tell me about it.” 

“Joel—” 

“I mean it,” he continues. “I don’t care if you get yourself killed. Just don’t get me pulled into it.” 

You walk the rest of the way in silence. 

-

Joel is barely around the next day, or the day after that. You earn your keep like normal, but it makes you nervous. You try to talk to him at night, but he doesn’t give. You shouldn’t have tested the boundaries. 

It’s not like you think he’s loyal to this group—you don’t think he’s loyal to anyone but himself—but he’s been with them for longer than he’s known you. Why would he choose you over them? It doesn’t matter if he got scared when you were grabbed, if he let you sleep a little extra. It’s probably just a glitch in his programming or whatever. 

One thing you should always remember about Joel is that he will always put himself above anyone else. You might have thought differently at some point, but it’s the truth. 

You just hope he finds it in himself not to turn you in. 

-

You barely sleep the next night, too paranoid about everything going wrong just because you decided to trust Joel with something other than watching your six. 

That means when gunshots start erupting, it’s less of a rude awakening and more of a reprieve from your pitiful attempt at sleep. 

You dart up so quickly you nearly slam your head against the radiator. You don’t like most of the people in this group, but at least they tolerate you—most of them respect you. You’re not too keen on pulling this stunt again with another group of hunters that could be even worse than this one. 

That is, assuming this is an attack by humans and not infected. People, you can bargain with. Runners and clickers, not so much. 

The thought makes you look over at Joel’s bed, surprised he’s not the one that woke you up. You quickly realize why.

He’s gone. 

His materials, his bag, his weapons—it’s all gone. What’s more surprising is that he’s actually made his bed for once. 

You don’t think he’s dead. But you also don’t think he’s coming back, so you’re officially on your own. 

A part of you hopes against it. But why would he leave without saying goodbye if he wasn’t leaving for good? 

You blink back tears. They shouldn’t even be falling. You’ve only known him for a few months and you spent half of those fighting him. But you liked him, damn it—sharp, jagged edges and all.

But it doesn’t matter. 

You’re so tired of being at the mercy of others, constantly begging for your life with white lies you can only hope are enough. You can’t sit here and cry. You have to get out of here. 

You pull your cuffed hand. It hurts, obviously, and you immediately switch tactics: pulling at the pipe you’re attached to. You grip it as tight as possible and pull, your feet pushing against the body of it for more power. 

This radiator doesn’t even work anymore. It’s old and rickety and it can’t be that sturdy, even if it’s made of metal. You’ve been stuck to this thing for your whole time here, and you are so fucking sick of it. 

You finally pull the pipe apart from the radiator with a yell, and you land on your back a few feet away from the force you used. You try to even out your breathing as you recover, and pull yourself back into a sitting position. The door suddenly slams open and you wield the pipe like a weapon, pushing away from the entrance on instinct. 

Instead of an intruder or a clicker, it’s fucking Joel. 

He stumbles inside, covered in blood with a hand pressed against his side and curses waterfalling from his lips. Your eyes widen as you continue to breathe heavily. He looks towards the radiator, then to you, but he doesn’t even seem surprised. 

“The hell are you doing?” he asks. 

“Trying to escape,” you respond breathlessly. “The hell are you doing?” 

“Comin’ back for you,” Joel says. Your face heats inexplicably. “But it looks like you already handled half the job.” 

He pulls something from his pocket and tosses it over to you. You loosen your iron grip on the pipe to catch it. 

It’s the damn key to your handcuffs. You can’t help but laugh. You wasted all that effort just for Joel to show up ten seconds later, your knight in bloody armor.  

“What’d you do?” you ask. 

“What needed to be done,” Joel responds. His voice is gruff from the pain, though he tries to hide it. You don’t understand why. There’s no point. “Now get yourself out of those things and let’s go.”

You blink and look up at him. You’ve been dreaming of getting out of this place from the moment you got here—of killing everyone that killed your people, of clawing your freedom back from those that stole it from you. You can’t believe Joel got to it first. 

“Why’d you do it?” You can’t help but ask. Far as you knew, he got along with these people. If not that, he at least survived with them. Didn’t care about the people they murdered. 

“Because I had to,” he says. “You just gonna stare at ‘em?” 

You want to ask more, but you have a feeling you won’t get anything out of him. Not now. So you push down on your thoughts of lost revenge to finally free yourself from those cuffs rather than relying on another. 

“You’ve got a minute to grab anything you need,” Joel says. You’re just starting to massage your raw wrist when he starts to walk off, hand pressed even harder against the wound he’s trying to hide.  

“Wait!” You shoot up, nearly tripping over your feet trying to follow him. It’s not hard to catch him when he’s doing more stumbling than walking. 

“There’s no time to wait,” he says. “Gunshots bring people and clickers, and I ain’t dealing with either.”

“You’re hurt,” you say, only proven correct by how easily you get in front of him. The growing patch of blood on his shirt, holding his weight on his uninjured side, his labored breathing—you don’t need to be a med student to see the obvious. “Was your murder spree interrupted?”

Joel scowls. You find it funny how he always seems to take offense to you caring about his health. “Don’t act like it tears you up inside. I did you a favor.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that,” you say wryly. “Now, can you chill out for a second and let me at least look at whatever they did to you?” 

“We don’t have—” 

“We do have time,” you interrupt. “I assume you killed everyone in here, so we don’t have them to worry about. It’ll be a second before any infected get here, but if it makes you feel better, the doors lock. And in my medical opinion—” 

“You’re not a doctor,” Joel bites out. 

“I’m the closest thing you’ve got to one,” you retort. “And I don’t think you’ll make it a mile before your adrenaline fades and you’re out of luck.” You cross your arms. “Without bandaging it, you’re practically begging for an infection. How’s sepsis sound to you, Joel?” 

He stares at you—glare is more appropriate, actually. “You and your fuckin’ infections.”

You stare back, refusing to move. “Not my fault you haven’t taken a shower since the outbreak started.”

Eventually, he groans in annoyance and walks back over to the bed, taking a seat that causes him to wince. 

“Can’t believe you just wanted to walk out of here,” you say as you grab your medical bag. 

“Save the preaching, get to stitching.” 

You laugh and shake your head. “Pull your shirt up.” 

He does, and you get to work, going through the same motions as the first time you met. 

“You get shot or stabbed this time?” 

“Stabbed,” he says. “You ever gonna wine and dine me, or you just gonna keep tellin’ me to strip?”

You smile. “You find some good wine out here and a kitchen that works, I’m more than happy to do it.” 

You feel his gaze on you as you continue to work, feel his muscles tense then relax every time your fingers brush his skin, and you like it. You like knowing that he killed all these people without a second thought and he still reacts this way to your touch. Maybe it’s sick—this sort of lightness does feel wrong after what he did—but the more you think about it, the more you don’t care. It’s not like there’s anyone still around to judge you. 

“Noted,” he says. 

You bite back your smile to keep it from growing. “Who did this to you?” 

“Don’t matter,” Joel says. “They’re dead now.” 

You sigh and shake your head. “How’d you do it, then? These people are capable—tore my community down like it was nothing. You’re just one man.” 

“Why d’you think I did it in the middle of the night?” Joel looks away. “Surprise is one hell of an element. They expected it from you, not from me. ‘Sides, it’s not the first time I’ve done this.” 

“Ah.” 

“Always known I would do it,” he continues. “Ever since I joined this group. They were just a means to an end—they were too reckless for their own good. Woulda gotten me killed sooner or later, and I ain’t lettin’ that happen.”

“Awful lotta time to make a murder plan,” you say. “Mine feels half-baked compared to yours.” 

Joel shrugs. “Guess that’s why I did it before you. Helps not being handcuffed to a radiator. 

You shake your head with a huff. “Worst way I’ve ever slept.” 

You continue on in silence for a good while. You don’t mind because it helps you focus, especially once you start sutures—you’re usually the one that starts the conversations anyways. But then—

“I have a brother too,” Joel suddenly speaks up. 

You smile wistfully. “Now you’re openin’ up.” 

He shakes his head. “Just answerin’ your question. Why I did this.” 

You frown. You continue suturing without faltering, but Joel must see your face because for once, he keeps going. 

“You weren’t gonna get outta here anytime soon,” Joel says. “Not with Jake up your ass, makin’ those kind of comments. You didn’t hear the way he talked about you with everyone else.” 

A chill runs up your spine. You fight to keep your hands steady. 

“There was only so much I could do to protect you the way things were here,” he says. “So I changed things.” 

He talks about it so simply. Slaughtering a whole camp of people is changing things. 

But he did it to save your life. Can you really cherry pick any of that? Especially when you thought about doing the same countless times over the months? 

“My brother and I fell apart,” Joel continues. “He didn’t like the shit I was doing to survive— said there was a line we had to draw, that there was more to life than just survivin’. I didn’t agree. So we went our separate ways.” 

Joel meets your eyes. “I ain’t gonna let that happen to you. Not when you’ve still got a chance.” 

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek when you feel the pinpricks of incoming tears. 

He really did do this for you. To keep you alive—to keep you safe. 

When you fell asleep that night, you thought he was only a couple steps away from betraying you. 

Instead, he was your salvation.

-

After you stitch Joel up, give him some painkillers, and make sure he’s not going to die, you take your time going through the rest of the camp. There’s a surprising amount of materials around, especially that was being kept in individual rooms. It’s a little difficult seeing all the bodies, but not as hard as you thought it would be. 

When you get to Jake’s room, you take your pistol from his body and shoot him in the head with it. He’s already dead, but it still brings you some sort of satisfaction. You think Joel will chastise you for wasting bullets, but he doesn’t say a thing. 

You fit as much as you can into both of your packs and even more in your horses’ saddle packs. You pick the two that look to be the strongest and set the others free—they’ll stand a chance on their own rather than tied up here. 

It’s nearly morning by the time you’re done, and you stand next to Joel as you watch the sunrise. It might be the one thing you never get tired of—one of the few things that remind you of how beautiful the world used to be. 

Dawn is… oddly silent here. You grew up with frogs and cicadas and all sorts of barn animals making themselves heard into the night and early morning, but the apocalypse brings a strange sense of serenity. When it’s not being interrupted by infected or hunters, that is. 

“Feels wrong standing out here,” you murmur. “Knowin’ what you did.”

“I told you, it had to be done.” Joel shakes his head. “You wanted ‘em dead anyways.” 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” you say. “Nothin’ does.”

“Maybe for you,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. This isn’t something you want to fight over—not know. 

“Where’re you goin’ after this?” you ask. 

“No clue,” he murmurs. “I sorta… drift from place to place. Anywhere I can survive.”

“I understand,” you say. “Spent a lotta time like that.” 

You feel Joel’s gaze on you. “What about you? Where’re you off to?” 

“Boston,” you say. “It’s where Connor and I agreed to meet again. We heard about a QZ there, so figured it would be a safe place to meet after however long it takes to get there. Been tryin’ to get there for a while, but I’ve been thrown…” you chuckle, “majorly off course. Seems like a pipe dream now, but I’m still gonna try.” You glance over at him.  “Can you believe we’re stuck in Kansas?” 

“Got no idea how the hell I ended up here,” Joel says with a chuckle of his own. “Figure you would like it, though. Close enough to your panhandle.” 

“Close enough but farther than ever,” you say, and you smile wistfully. “I miss the farm.” 

“I miss Texas,” he admits. 

“Someday, we’ll get back,” you murmur. 

Joel hums in acknowledgement. He looks back at the sky, and a good ten seconds of silence pass between you before he speaks.

“I’ll get you to Boston.” 

Your eyes widen. For a moment, you’re not sure if you’ve heard him correctly. “What?”

Joel shrugs. “Didn’t save your life back there to leave you to die out here.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Joel,” you say. “You— you barely know me.” 

“Actually, you talked my ear off enough that I know plenty,” he says. “‘Sides, I’m gonna need someone to keep an eye on this wound—rather have it be the devil I know.” 

You feel a certain warmth settle in your chest, alongside a growing smile on your lips. “You’re serious.” 

“As a heart attack,” he nods. 

You stare at Joel for a good, long while, and then you hug him. 

You can’t help it. You can feel his staggered heartbeat, his uneven breathing—the way he just… stands there, like it’s the last thing he expected. It makes you wonder how long it’s been since someone last hugged him, showed any kind of affection. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. It takes a second, but he hesitantly wraps an arm around you. He pats your back more than anything, but when you pull away, he’s fighting a smile. 

“I mean it, Joel.” You laugh, almost giddy. “It felt like a death mission on my own. But with you… seeing my brother again feels real.” 

“No sense in lettin’ someone else lose a brother when I can try and stop it,” he says. 

“You’ll find Tommy again,” you say. “I know—” 

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “We made our choices. But you and Connor still got a chance.” 

You swallow the lump building in your throat and nod. No use arguing with him over one of the sorest subjects. “This means more than anything, Joel. I’m serious.” 

“Then let’s not waste it on being sentimental,” he says. “C’mon. We’re burning daylight.” 

You let out a breathy sort of laugh, full of relief, as you follow him over. Joel locks his fingers together to give you a step up onto your horse, and once you’re on, he gives you an amused look. 

“You do know how to ride a horse, farm girl?” 

“Please,” you huff. “I grew up around ‘em. Probably know better than you.” 

“Let’s not get crazy now.” 

Joel gets on his horse and you ride up closer to him so you can look him in the eye. 

“So we’re goin’ to Boston,” you say. “Any idea how the hell we get from here to there?” 

He pulls a rolled-up paper out of his pack and flattens it out. “Just so happens our benevolent leader Jake had a map. It ain’t the best, but it’ll give us a path to follow.” 

You nod a few times, your resolve steadily growing. “We can actually do this.” 

“‘Course we can,” Joel says. “Didn’t do all this just to fail.” 

“Some actual optimism,” you marvel. “I can’t believe it.” 

He shrugs. “Balance is important.” 

“And a joke, too,” you say. “If the world hadn’t already ended, I would think it was right now.” 

“Alright.” Joel huffs and shakes his head. “Let’s get goin’ before I regret bringing you with me.” 

You don’t try to bite back your smile this time. 

You stir your horses into action as you begin to ride, Joel in front of you to lead but little distance between you. 

You knew you would get out of this place somehow, but you thought you’d slip out in the middle of the night alone, running for your life with no idea of where to go next. You’d run into a group of people, barter your skills in return for your survival, and so on and so forth until you somehow made it to Boston. A pipe dream indeed. 

Instead, you’ve got a horse, a pack full of supplies, a plan, and Joel. 

You’ve got Joel, and you feel like you can breathe for the first time in months.  

[wileys-russo]

the christmas eve dash II l.williamson

second of my yearly christmas fics and part of the mila universe! the christmas eve dash II l.williamson

"lee? baby can you come here for a sec please!" you called out to your wife, hearing her footsteps change direction and head toward where you were holed up away in your shared home office.

"whats up babe? i'm just about to go pick up the gremlin." leah jingled her keys as she leaned in the doorway with a curious frown, mila at her weekly karate practice.

"christmas checklist!" you tapped your pen against the wad of paper in front of you as leah swallowed the dry witted comment lingering on the tip of her tongue.

"hit me with it." the blonde nodded encouragingly instead, moving into the room as you rattled off the last few remaining tasks on your list, forever having been the organisational mind between you and leah.

"-then you need to go pick up that spa voucher for your mum, i'll get the gift hampers for my cousins. we need to get some chocolate stockings for my nephews, the jersey your brother wanted is ready to be collected from JD-" you read off, leah humming to acknowledge each thing.

"-then we'll do mila's santa sack on christmas eve once she's asleep, or i'll do it." you paused to shoot your wife a pointed look as she winced, having had one whisky too many last year and falling into the christmas tree at three in the morning while the two of you were busy putting out your daughters presents.

"i said i was sorry! she didn't wake up, did she?" leah defended as you clicked your tongue. "didn't she?" you reminded, leah wincing again as she thought back to the two of you falling over yourselves to hide when little footsteps had come thundering down the hall.

"you are so lucky i can think fast dopey." you warned, having managed to commando crawl your way to your room and intercept your daughter from behind as if you'd been asleep there the whole time.

you'd rambled out an excuse about santa being able to turn invisible so he can hide from the police as the four year old questioned over and over why she couldn't go and say hi or open her presents now.

"-and then you got mila the barbie deluxe dream house. have you wrapped it yet? i couldn't find it in the closet with everything else for her." you spun around on your chair and quirked an eyebrow, leah freezing for a second.

"i got the what?" the blonde asked cluelessly as your eyes narrowed, hands moving to grip the arms of your chair as you exhaled slowly. "you got the barbie deluxe dream house with the swing sets, the slide, the elevator and the pool." you started, pushing to stand up.

"aka the only thing our daughter has been talking about for the last three weeks and the only thing she's asked santa for for christmas, leah." you spoke calmly but your wife could immediately pick up on the sharp scent of malice hidden behind your words.

now she needed to think fast.

"oh! that dreamhouse, the bright pink one with the little slide yeah yeah yeah." leah scoffed, smacking her palm against her forehead. "i got it ages ago babe, forgot all about it! you can tick it off your little list." the blonde grinned confidently with a wave of her hand.

"you did?" "well you asked me to, didn't you?" "well where is it?" "its uhh..." leah trailed off, wracking her brain for an answer, your foot tapping impatiently as you stared her down, arms crossed and hip jutted out to the side.

"it's at lia's! it was too big to hide and you know what mila's like." leah chuckled and you hummed. "mm nosy? wonder where she gets that from." you teased, relaxing a little more and leaning in to peck her lips a few times appreciatively.

"well thats a relief, it's sold out country wide. good luck to anyone who was planning on some last minute shopping, that stupid chunk of plastic would be impossible to find!" you chuckled, returning to your seat and your list as leah hid the panic building rapidly in her body.

"but what our little angel wants, she gets." you made a point to tick it off your list with a deep exhale. "mm and i wonder where she gets that from, princess." your wife teased, ducking down and stealing a kiss before you could argue with her.

"well i'm off! might take her for a kick around if she's got loose energy to burn off. bye babe!" leah sung out, practically already halfway out the front door before you could even look up, jumping in shock hearing it slam close after her.

alone in her car leah slumped into her seat, staring blankly ahead and running her hands down her face with a frustrated groan, moving to grab the steering wheel.

"shit!"

~

"-then we learned this one that went HIYA AYA HIYA!" your daughter chanted, punching and kicking at thin air as leah clicked the buckles of her car seat in, just ducking out of the way as little arms and fists began swinging.

"thats really great bubba when we get home you can show me everything, just give me a second to call aunty beth yeah?" leah flashed the girl a smile who shrugged, busying herself practicing her karate as leah shut the door.

"come on come on come on." leah chanted as she clicked call, tapping her foot impatiently as the dial tone rang and rang, right as she was about to hang up and move to her next option finally it clicked through.

"well well miss leah catherine, to what do i owe the ple-" leah didn't even let the poor girl finish before she was jumping in.

"imayhaveforgottentogettheonlypresentmilawantedandifidontgetitbothmydaughterandmywifearegoingtokillmeonchristmasandiamsoabsoloutelyutterlyfucked!" leah rambled out in one breath, beth going silent for a moment.

"come again? in english this time please if you would be so kind." "i may have forgotten to get the only present mila wanted and if i don't get it both my daughter and my wife are going to kill me on christmas and i am so absolutely utterly fucked." leah exhaled shakily, wiggling her fingers at mila through the window who knocked and pulled a face.

"so you've clearly called me to make funeral arrangements then? well i was thinking instead of a euology i could-" "beth come on man! i'm serious here, i need help."

"well that's quite the understatement. but right, whats the plan then captain?"

~

"-baby are you sure you don't need anything?" you asked softly, knelt down by the bed and pushing a few loose hairs out of your wifes face. "nah just some rest babe, i'm so sorry i can't make it." leah croaked out as your lips curled downward into a frown.

"don't be sorry lee, i'm sorry you're feeling so miserable on christmas eve, of course today of all days your migraines come back. " you pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, nails scratching gently at her scalp as your wife sighed.

"get some sleep, i love you." you pecked her lips sweetly before you pushed to stand, hearing little foosteps come thundering down the hall as you did.

"woah! we have speed limits in this household little miss ferrari." you scooped her up before she could launch herself up and onto the bed like you knew she'd planned. "little miss aston martin!" mila frowned and poked at your chest, your wifes little cheeky smile up at you in response having your eyes rolling.

"say bye to mummy but be gentle please mils she's not feeling well. remember?" you set her back down as your daughter nodded. "one for you, one for me and one for your sore head." mila pressed three kisses to leahs cheek who smiled, stretching a hand out to pinch the five year olds cheek fondly.

"thank you bubba, you'll give nanna an extra big kiss for me yeah?" leah warned as mila nodded dutifully, squealing as leahs fingers dug into her side and she grabbed onto your leg hiding behind it.

"get some sleep baby." you chuckled, ducking down to peck her lips again, hearing some enthusiastic gagging sound behind you. "yuck!" your daughter retched as your eyes rolled again. "hey bubba?" leah called out, mila peeking out from where she'd hidden her face behind her hands.

"leah!" you laughed as your wife pulled you in for a sloppy kiss, mila falling to the floor dramatically and covering her face again, pretending to throw up everywhere as you gently smacked your wifes shoulder and she winked.

"come on trouble, lets go let you loose on that poor nursing home."

leah waited patiently in bed until she'd heard the front door shut, and then heard the car engine start, then till she heard it back out of the driveway, and then another five minutes just to be sure.

the two sharp honks in the driveway was all she needed, leaping out of bed already dressed and ready to go, grabbing a beanie and some sunglasses on the way and wrestling on her shoes as she hopped to the front door.

"stop honking you idiot my neighbours!" leah hissed as she hurried down the front steps, beth honking her hello and rolling her eyes at the way the blonde yanked the beanie down her head as if it would disguise her somewhat when she'd come flying out of her own house.

"good mornin to you 007! where we goin first then?" "tommys toy world, and step on it!"

~

"leah man how many more places are we going to be laughed out of? get the kid a samari sword and call it a day, she's into her karate now ain't she?" beth groaned, leah huffing impatiently and taking her hand, yanking her down the travelator mumbling apologies so everyone she pushed past on the way.

"i can't beth! i said i bought it months ago and-" "-and you'll be in the doghouse until next christmas. yeah yeah yeah, need i remind you got yourself into this mess leah? i told you ya memorys bad!" "yes beth i am well aware whose fault this is, which is why i need to get myself out of this mess! for the sake of my child and my marriage!" leah huffed, only letting go of the younger girls hand the moment they stepped into the toy store.

"sorry." beth apologised quickly to an older gentlemen who leah had nearly bowled over in her haste, the man grumbling about basic manners going missing this time of year as he walked off.

this store the ninth one they'd trekked to already this morning beth was well aware of the drill, rolling her eyes and trudging after leah who wasted no time sprinting off to wherever the barbies and accessories were kept.

she grabbed some toys for myle along the way, stopping for a second too long to admire a lego set before a hand grabbed the back of her jumper and violently yanked her away.

"don't you manhandle me williamson!" beth scoffed smacking her friends hands away but hurrying after her none the less. "oh for fuck sakes come on there's gotta be one fucking dream house left in london!" leah swore, eyes scanning the aisle which was assaulting bright pink and made beth wince at the sight.

"so sorry." beth apologised again but this time to to the horrified looking mother dragging away her toddler whose ears were firmly covered, beth sending a weak wave the girls way before she dissapeared.

"can i help you?" a worker appeared seemingly out of nowhere, concern ingrained into his features as leah grunted and grumbled to herself, riffling through the shelves as beth hurried to put back what she took off.

"god i bloody hope so mate." leah groaned, dragging her hands down her face with a stressed exhale as the worker chuckled. "last minute shopping huh?" the man chuckled as beth snickered. "you have no idea." earning her an elbow and a glare from leah.

"what are you after? we did just get a last minute pallet that hasn't been unloaded yet so i can check if its out back, we're about to restock the shelves since we're open until nine tonight for people like yourself." the man smiled kindly as leah perked up and beth snickered again in amusement, her shopping done weeks ago.

"barbie dreamhouse." leah hurried out, the man nodding and punching something into the little black box in his hand. "we have the malibu playhouse, the 60th anniversary edition, kens mojo dojo casa house-" the man read out as leah shook her head.

"no no, the deluxe dreamhouse. with the swingsets and the slide and the pool and-" leah couldn't even finish before it happened, the same response she'd gotten at every single store so far today and then some.

"that? you're looking on christmas eve for that? do you know how many have been sold country wide in the last week let alone the last month? its the toy of the year! not to mention sales have skyrocketed since-" the man laughed as leahs face fell, then very quickly distorted into a scowl.

"yeah brilliant. do you have it or not?" leah interrupted, crossing her arms as the man gave her an incredulous look. "of course not! its been sold out for weeks UK wide, you don't read the news?" the man laughed in disbelief, though his question fell on deaf ears as leah turned heel and stormed off again.

as much as beth tried the stony faced blonde didn't say another word until they were both back in the car. "fuck!" leah swore, smacking her hands against the dashboard and making her friend jump.

"oi! respect the vehicle. its not her fault you left all of this to the last minute!" beth warned, sticking her key in the ignition as leah ignored her and pulled out her phone, exhaling with a small amount of relief as she checked your location and could see you still weren't home.

"right. where to next?" beth sighed deeply, leah slumping back in her seat. "that was the last one." the blonde responded bluntly, beth wincing and whistling quietly under her breath.

"call it a day and head home then? i'll drive slow so you can practice your grovelling and begging for forgiveness." beth shrugged, grinning as leah shot her a dry unimpressed look.

"no, not home." "leah then where-" "it's time to pull out the big guns." "call your wife, explain what happened and take her anger on the chin?"

at that leah scrunched up her face with disgust. "god no." leah shook her head, leaning forward and punching in the address as beth watched on curiously, a puff of amused air leaving her lips as she recognized it right away.

"i've got no choice beth. i've gotta call in the godmother."

~

"-so you lied." alessia cocked an eyebrow, sipping at her tea as leah exhaled heavily. "not lied but-" she fell quiet at the fiercely withering look sent her way by the younger blonde across from her.

"okay yes. i forgot and i lied and i am so so so unbelievably screwed less." leah whined, her own cup of tea left empty on the coffee table as the defender slumped down into the couch burying her face in her hands.

"yes, yes you are." alessia agreed with a nod, leah peeking out with narrowed eyes. "i came here for advice! not for you to agree with me for once." leah mumbed moodily as the striker smiled, sculling her last mouthful of tea with a hum.

"i have a feeling things are about to look up for you lee." was all the girl said, squeezing her knee as she stood, grabbed their empty mugs and headed back to the kitchen.

"how!" leah called after her with confusion, attention grabbed by the sounds of a key in the door, eyes widening at the familiar little thump of feet which followed.

"aunty lessi!" mila squealed, ignoring your shouts after her to take her shoes, coat and scarf off as the five year old came barreling into the kitchen. "hello little marshmallow." alessia grinned, scooping up the small girl and kissing over her face making her giggle.

"i'm puffy!" mila smacked her coat covered chest as you arrived and rolled your eyes with a smile, alessia sitting your daughter down on the counter and helping her to shrug off her many layers as she babbled on and on and on about their day.

"shit! shit shit shit shit." leah whispered in a panic, crouching down and trying to peek over the top of the couch as her mind scrambled to try and think of an escape plan, groaning quietly as she realised that came to a screaming halt when she didn't have a car, beth dropping her off and leaving.

"hi babe." leah sprang up like she'd sat on an electrical wire, coming thumping back to the ground with a grunt, staring up horrified at your scarily calm smile which looked down at her.

"um i can explain! it is not what it looks like." leah tried, running a hand through her hair and stumbling over herself to think of a valid excuse. "save it leah, i knew you'd be here eventually. granted maybe not just yet, you hit the stores faster than i thought!" you shrugged honestly, rounding the couch as leahs mouth formed an o and she pulled herself to stand.

"sorry. pause, rewind, repeat. come again?" leah asked slowly, sure she'd heard wrong as you chuckled. "please. leah baby we've been together for years, you think i can't tell when you're lying? faking sick? my love you are a terrible actor." you laughed with a shake of your head.

"forgive me, i'm a little lost here." was all your wife managed to get out, the two of you glancing over your shoulder at a thump and the sound of laughter, alessia stood with mila sat on her shoulders, making the girl with a pit of a stomach a sandwich.

"hi mummy, mama and i missed you!" mila noticed, waving furiously at leah from the other room who cautiously raised a hand and waved back, alessia sending her a wink and recapturing mila's attention as you clicked your fingers to gain hers.

"come with me williamson." you patted her chest with a wink, nodding for her to follow you as you took off down the hall, leah following you slowly, feeling a little as though she was walking to her own funeral.

the older girl hung in the doorway, watching as you rummaged through the wardrobe in alessia's spare bedroom, which judging by the arsenal sheets and toys strung about anywhere was basically your daughters room, mila loving her 'big girl' sleepovers with her aunties, alessia most of all being her godmother and your closest friend.

"close the door please." you spoke with your back still to her, leah hesitantly stepping inside and doing so. "sit on the bed." you asked next, leah still highly suspicious but also quite scared to say no wasting no time following your instructions.

"eyes closed."

"if you're going to kill me i'd rather see it coming darling." leah sighed making you snort out in laughter, shooting her a look over your shoulder as your wife sighed but closed her eyes none the less.

she flinched a little feeling something touch her hands, making your eyes roll as you assured it wasn't a weapon. "open." you smiled, half the package in her grip as the other remained in yours.

it was rare the outspoken defender was speechless, however clearly the sight of the toy she'd just spent the last six hours hunting for in perfect mint condition, sat in her hands, had rendered her tongue and words void.

"but-but-but-" she eventually stammered out as you merely smirked and nodded. "yes, yes, yes." you countered, tugging it out of her hands and setting it carefully down on the floor, leah immediately sliding off the bed and dropping to her knees.

"the barbie deluxe dreamhouse. with the fridge, the swing sets, the slide, the pool, the-" "yep, everything, all the bells and whistles." you took her seat on the edge of the bed, leah giving you an incredulous look. "but how did you even..." she trailed off, eyebrows scrunched together in pure utter confusion.

"please. leah did you really think i wouldn't have everything organised?" you scoffed quirking an eyebrow as leahs mouth opened and closed and she shook her head back and forth.

"so you knew-" "that you were lying? yes." "and you already-" "bought it weeks ago? absolutely." "but then you-" "sent you on an impossible wild goose chase around london for something i knew you wouldn't find and i already had? i most certainly did." you confirmed with a confident nod as leah seemed to crumple into a heap.

"i'd encourage you choose your next words very very carefully my love, especially if you'd like to have a merry christmas." your tone sharpened as a scowl set into your wifes features, wiped away as soon as it appeared.

"oh leah, get off me!" you huffed as within seconds she'd pounced, pinning you to the bed and kissing all over your face mumbling her thank you's. "i'm still mad at you! you lied to me, and i gave you the chance to be honest." you warned, leah stopping with lips puckered hovering just over yours, wincing and sitting up.

"oh really leah!" you groaned as again she flopped down on top of you, now mumbling how sorry she was as again her lips rained down kisses on every inch of your skin she could reach.

"get off me you dickhead and put the dreamhouse away before mila see's it!" you warned with a roll of your eyes, pushing her off of you as the blonde hurried to do just that, slotting it back on top of the cupboard where it was well out of sight or reach of your overtly inquisitive five year old.

"i really am sorry. so so so so so sorry my girl!" leah winced as she stood in between your legs where you'd sat up. "oh you will be. you're on clean up duty, today, tomorrow, tonight, boxing day, new years eve, new years day-" you rattled off, words swallowed by your wife leaning down and pressing her mouth against yours.

"done. i love you." leah pulled away and promised, shuffling back a little to allow you to stand up as you hummed. "i love you too, even if you are hopelessly disorganized." you sighed with a small smile.

"well thats why i married you." "don't push it williamson." you warned as she grinned, stealing another kiss as a crash was heard and both of you looked to the closed door.

"we should probably go sort that out." leah sighed, starting to head for the door as you tugged her back, hand slipping up her hoodie and fingers playing with the waistband of her jeans.

"let less tire her out for a bit baby, the earlier she crashes tonight after some movies and the cookies you'll sneak her when you both think i'm not looking, the better." you smiled as leah chuckled, unable to argue the fact.

"more time to play santa." leah agreed with a wink, pecking your lips and tensing a little as your fingers poked into her abs and you leaned up to speak into her ear a little more.

"mm and once the presents are sorted, i'd quite like to sit in santas lap, maybe give her sleigh a ride if she's earned it." you whispered, leah jolting as your hand smacked against her ass and with a cheeky grin you were sauntering off leaving the door open after you and your wifes cheeks flushed red.

"dear god i love christmas."

[pineconepie]

Parental yandere vampire!!

TW: Implied neglect, implied abuse, yandere, parental yandere, forced age regression, death of family (not main characters), light violence, kidnapping

If there's any more trigger warnings I should add, let me know!

...

The cold gnawed at your bones, breath visible in front of you as you made your way through the thick snowfall. The chill bit into your skin, but you pressed on.

"Monster!" "Witch!" "Cursed!"

Their words echoed in your mind. The entire village thought you were some kind of monster, all because you were different from your peers. You were used to the kind of horrible treatment you received at their hands, and had long since learned not to fight it; no matter what you said, they never listened.

It got lonely never having friends, though. Even the people who weren't scared of you were ridiculed for being seen with you, sometimes even being called a witch just because they associated with you.

Your own family became embarrassed and ashamed by your reputation, to the point where they would go days ignoring your existence.

Sure, you had thought of running away before, but given you had nowhere to go, that'd just be a dumb idea.

Only when you overheard the church speaking of burning you at the stake did you realize just how little you actually had to live for there.

Either way, it seemed like your chances of death were high, so either way, fuck it, right?

You could barely feel your feet beneath you, wading through the snow.

How long have you been walking now? Hours? Days?

It feels like years. You felt tears burn at the edges of your eyes as you tripped over a root, collapsing into the soft cushioning of the snow.

A snarling noise behind you causes you to get back up and run, stumbling blindly and weakly through the snow.

You could barely tell what was going on behind you, but all you knew was that a vicious growl from some sort of animal was definitely not something you should just stand around for.

In the distance, you see a structure, probably the first one you've seen in days.

With some sudden rush of adrenaline, you sprint towards it, almost rolling down the hill leading up to the old building.

The steel gate in front of it makes you curse in frustration, looking up to assess how likely it is you can climb it. Your hands curl into fists around the bars, shaking violently as you pull. Not a chance.

"Help!" you scream, hoping whoever is inside can hear you. "Please!"

When there's no response, you turn back, seeing glowing yellow eyes approaching you. Fear courses through your veins, paralyzing you as you look on in horror. The shadowy beast prowls closer, standing tall on its four paws and staring you down hungrily.

Just as it stalks forward, ready to jump, it pauses. You squeeze your eyes shut and prepare for the inevitable. When the sharp fangs never come sinking into your flesh, you hesitantly crack an eye open. The beast whines and scampers off.

Only when the sound of its footsteps disappear completely does a breathy laugh escape your lips. What a weird twist of fate.

"My goodness! Are you okay?!"

You whip around to see a tall figure with piercing green eyes and long dark brown hair. He's wearing some kind of old-fashioned clothing that looks like it hasn't been touched in centuries.

Before you can say anything, you promptly pass out from exhaustion.

...

"You poor thing. I wonder where you came from..." A hand reaches down to caress your face, the gloved fingers ice cold against your flushed skin. "Seems as if you were meant to find me."

When you finally stir awake, your brain feels like it's rattling in your skull. Blinking slowly, you bring your hand up to rub at your temple, sighing and looking around. You're lying in a large canopy bed, soft red velvet sheets encompassing you.

Sitting up, you take note of the grandiose bedroom, decorated in similar deep shades of red, gold, and black.

There's antique furniture lining the room, with a large painting above the mantlepiece directly across from the foot of the bed. An embroidered carpet is spread on the floor, its design weaving into the same complex, golden filigree that is the headboard of the mattress.

Your gaze drops, noting that you aren't wearing the same clothes you were before.

Now you're wearing some kind of tunic, reminiscent of pajamas but far too fancy and extravagant to be called something so simple. The silk hugs your frame, falling delicately across your lap as you cross your legs and take a look around.

Then you meet his gaze.

He looks surprised that you woke up already, pulling his hand back quickly from where it was about to rest on your shoulder.

He had been watching you sleep, it seems.

The man clears his throat and smiles down at you. "Oh good. I thought for sure you'd sleep through dinner." His voice is deeper than you'd expected, but still gentle. He gestures to himself. "I am Octavian. What's your name, precious?"

"Uh–" You hesitate, caught off guard by the nickname. "I'm (Y/n)."

"A sweet name," he says simply, the corner of his mouth quirking up even more. Octavian reaches down to brush a strand of hair out of your face before straightening back up again.

You watch him cautiously, unsure why he's so comfortable touching a complete stranger.

Then again, you suppose most strangers don't magically appear outside of someone's home, either. Besides, he did just save your life; he deserves at least this much courtesy after helping you.

"It's been a very long time since I've seen anyone out here, let alone gotten any visitors. What on earth were you doing out here all alone? You certainly aren't a traveler, you barely were carrying anything with you." He looks almost ready to scold you.

"Well, uh..." You awkwardly tug at the sleeve of your nightgown, thinking how best to answer his question without opening the door for him to judge you or ask more questions. But he did save your life... "My village doesn't like me. Thinks I'm weird. And when they started talking about killing me, I figured it'd be better to get out sooner rather than later."

Octavian sucks in a sharp breath, concern written all over his features. "Killing you?" He puts a hand over his heart. "You poor thing. You must've been so scared," he coos.

"Yeah... I was," you admit. "I'm glad I ran into your place, at least."

The tall man gives you a soft smile, sitting down at the edge of the bed. It dips beneath him under his weight. "I am too. Stay right there, I'll go get you some dinner."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian slips out of the room.

You think back to when he found you. That animal chasing you acted scared when it saw him. Why? Sure, he's pretty tall, but the guy clearly wouldn't stand a chance against the teeth and claws of that thing. So why was it so spooked by him?

He reenters with a golden tray in hand. On top of it sits a bowl of soup and some bread.

"I'm afraid that's the only thing I have available at the moment," Octavian sighs, setting it down next to you and handing you a spoon. "It should warm you up though." He watches you eat with an adoring smile, one you miss, too busy ravaging into the food. "My Gods, you must've been starving. When was the last time you ate, sweetheart?"

You scarf down a piece of bread. "I haven't been keeping track of time. Maybe three days ago?"

Octavian almost appears on the verge of tears. "You poor little angel..." He hesitantly reaches his gloved hand over to wipe away a stray droplet of broth dribbling down your chin. "You won't ever go hungry again, I swear it."

"What do you mean?" you mumble while chewing on another piece of bread.

He gently wipes at your cheek. "You got some on your face. Messy thing," he tuts. His green eyes glow brighter. Unnaturally so. "I'll go refill your bowl. More bread?" He watches you nod, then takes the tray from you.

It was weird how he avoided your question, but you shrug it off. Seems like he's a little weird too.

...

After having four bowls of soup and God-knows-how-much bread, you finally start to feel full for the first time in ages. Octavian watches with pride as you polish off each meal, praising you for cleaning your plate every single time.

In the middle of him gushing over you, you interrupt him.

"So... Do you think I could use your horse tomorrow morning to head back into town?" you ask shyly. "Assuming you have one."

Octavian freezes, brows furrowing as if in confusion. "(Y/n)... surely you don't think I'm just going to send you back to the people that are trying to kill you?"

"Well, not mine... just a town nearby," you shrug. "Anywhere with people, really."

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "There is no other civilization for miles. No. That'd just be a death wish."

You try not to raise your voice, reminding yourself it's thanks to him you're even alive. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

He opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut before taking a deep breath. "You need some rest. Let's discuss this later." You frown in frustration, knowing he's avoiding talking about it. Though he has a point. Sleepiness settles within you, a yawn bubbling past your lips. He bends down to kiss your forehead. "Sweet dreams, little love."

He's so weird.

...

The next day, you venture from the room he put you in, looking around. As to be expected, everything is beautifully furnished, from the wallpaper to the ceilings to the marble columns holding it all up.

In your searching, you stumble upon a portrait.

There's a tall man holding two children, with a woman standing next to him. It takes you a minute before you realize the man is Octavian.

He looks exactly the same in the portrait, except now his hair is slightly longer and he's wearing different clothes. Something in his appearance also seems happier.

You squint at the picture, wondering what's up with it.

"That's my family."

You jump, turning to see Octavian standing beside you, eyes glazed over as he gazes at the painting.

"Oh. They're beautiful," you whisper. You can hear him suck in a shaky breath. "Are they here?"

A melancholy smile pulls at his lips, though it doesn't meet his eyes. "No. My wife and my son and daughter... they're no longer here." His voice is far quieter than before.

Your chest grows heavy when you realize what he means. "I-I'm so sorry..."

The last thing you were expecting was for this to be so sad. Here you thought the picture was taken recently. Guilt pools in your belly for thinking that, especially now that you know the truth. Poor guy.

Octavian places a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Don't apologize. I think my loneliness streak is nearing its end." He guides you away from the painting and to the stairs. "Let's go eat. Breakfast should be ready by now." You're silent, not sure how to respond.

Walking down the ornate staircase, Octavian keeps his hand placed firmly on the small of your back.

Once you both reach the ground level, he removes it, walking ahead into the kitchen area. Following, you sit down across from him, watching as he places food in front of you both.

"It feels nice to cook for someone else again," he hums, beginning to dig into his own plate of food.

It smells really good, which you suppose you shouldn't be surprised by given the fact that everything else in this house seems to be perfect in its presentation.

"Thank you," you mutter, picking up the silverware and eating.

The two of you talk idly throughout the meal, Octavian being mindful of what you like and don't like to eat for future reference.

He asks you about yourself, appearing invested in every little tidbit you drop. Eventually, you're finally satiated, leaning back against your chair with a pleased sigh.

You watch him do the dishes and leave into what you presume is the living room. Curiously, you follow after him.

He's holding an open book, reading glasses perched on his nose.

The fire flickers and crackles, providing heat to the otherwise chilly space.

Sitting down next to him, you catch his eye. Octavian smiles at you and scoots closer, putting one arm around you and shifting his eyes back to his book.

Unsure of how else to react, you lean into the embrace. He's very cold compared to most people, you find.

The gesture is welcome though, regardless of the cool chill of his skin. Even through his gloves, you can tell his body temperature isn't normal.

If he came from your village, the villagers would definitely think he's some paranormal beast too.

Maybe that's why he lives so secluded from society.

...

A few more days pass. He gets a little more odd, but it just makes you more comfortable to show your own quirks too.

One morning, you wake up next to a teddy bear placed between your arms. He must've put it there last night.

It's almost like he senses you're awake, because he strides into the room not even a minute later.

"There's my sweet little angel," Octavian coos. "Did you sleep well?" You yawn and rub at your eye with a closed fist. He gives you a bright smile at that and sits on the edge of the bed. "Do you like your toy? I figured it might keep you company while I'm gone. Does it help?"

"Yeah, but..." You frown. "How'd you get it? There's no nearby shops, right?"

Octavian nods. "It belonged to my son." At that, you stare wide eyed down at the stuffed animal, moving to give it back to him.

"I-I can't take this from you–"

He grabs your hands and holds them in place around the toy, shaking his head. "Nonsense, I want you to have it." His eyes burn with such intense emotion, so much so that you're unable to resist the pull to listen to his request. "Keep it, please. When this winter is over, I'll go get you some of your own stuffies and clothing. Do you have any clothing preferences? Any favorite animals?"

"When winter is over, I'll be leaving," you correct him.

He stiffens. "Right. Of course. Silly me." His emerald irises flash with something unreadable.

The rest of the day, he becomes even more overbearing.

He pulls you into his lap whenever he has the chance, insisting you rest your head against his chest while he reads to you (all of which are children's books). He constantly is giving you random little hugs, or complimenting you for whatever little mundane things you do.

You only allow it because you feel pity for him.

Each time you even try to pull away slightly, he looks so heartbroken and hurt, as if you stabbed him in the chest.

And it's not like you dislike it. You're so starved for attention and touch that it actually feels kind of good, having someone hug you and hold your hand and read to you.

It makes up for all the times you've been neglected.

Each day, he gets even more coddling and babying with you. You wonder why he's like this.

Then it hits you.

His kids are gone. He's never going to have another chance to hold his babies again.

This behavior... is this just him projecting his loss onto you? Trying to relive the feeling of caring for a child?

It breaks your heart for him, making you feel more guilty for wanting to leave.

...

As the snow begins to melt, Octavian gets more antsy. He constantly holds you in his arms now, rambling about anything and everything, bouncing and swaying side to side.

It reminds you of how mothers soothe their babies.

One day, he stops to give you a serious look, gripping your face in his hands and kissing your cheekbone.

"Please," Octavian whispers, desperation seeping into his tone, "please please please stay." Tears drip down his pale skin. "You have no idea what these past few weeks have meant to me." The grip on your jaw tightens and he shakes his head with a dry laugh. "God, I can't imagine living without you anymore! Don't make me go through that agony again! Don't abandon me! You're happy here!"

Your hands hesitantly grab his wrists, not pulling him away but letting him know your boundaries. "These past few weeks meant a lot to me too. But I don't want to live alone out here, forever."

He sniffles and glares down at you. "What do you mean? You wouldn't be alone. I'm here. You'd have me!"

"But I want more people than that!" you cry out. "And in the end, you're still basically a stranger..."

That last sentence was the wrong thing to say.

All color drains from his face, shock freezing him in place.

"A-A stranger...?" Octavian scoffs, betrayal seeping into his broken voice. "After all this time together?! After all the things I've done for you, all the things we've talked about?!" You tremble and try to move away. "Why can't you love me back?! Your parents don't want you, but I do!"

You shake your head. "You're freaking me out..." Never before had you been so scared of this man. Never did you think he'd act this way, even with how affectionate and caring he could be. This is on a whole new level. "I'm not a kid. Just because you lost yours doesn't mean you can make me yours instead!"

Octavian doesn't say anything.

The silence that hangs thick in the air between you is deafening. It makes you want to scream, break it somehow, just so you don't have to endure how tense this is.

Tears pool in his eyes. He hesitates, then yanks off both of his gloves and drops them to the ground.

You notice his fingernails are long and sharp. Like claws. Not human.

"What...?"

"I've never been normal either." Octavian lets out a choked sob. "My wife died trying to protect our children from vampire hunters." He bares his teeth, revealing pointed fangs. "She couldn't. They all died before I could save them."

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

A mix of fear and sympathy swirls in your gut, making you feel nauseous and disoriented all at once. You step backwards, putting distance between you and him.

His eyes grow dull. "I couldn't save them. But I could save you." Octavian reaches out with those strange hands and cups the sides of your neck with a featherlight touch, holding your gaze despite your attempts at averting it. "You may think of yourself as big, but to me? You're just a baby."

A pitiful whine leaves your lips as your eyes begin to water.

"They said the same things about me. Aberration. Monster. I know how you feel; how lonely and awful it is. That's why you need to stay with me," he insists. "We understand each other. We're the same."

"No! You're crazy!" you exclaim, backing up further until your back hits a wall behind you. His form looms over yours ominously, casting a shadow across the floor beneath him. "Stop fucking touching me!"

"Maybe I am crazy," Octavian humorlessly chuckles. "But anyone would become unhinged from losing everything dear to them." Without warning, he moves quicker than lightning, picking you up and holding you close to his chest. He curls himself over you, shielding you from nothing as if to protect you. His body completely engulfs yours, swallowing you in his presence. It's unnerving. "Everything will be okay now. Papa will keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you again," he promises softly. "You won't be like them."

"No, no, stop," you beg pathetically. "Let me go."

"Shhh... this will hurt a tiny bit, but only for a moment. It's necessary for us to always be together," he hushes you. "I was going to save this for when you've settled in more, but I can't have you run away."

Octavian kisses the top of your head before pulling the collar of your shirt down just enough for his mouth to hover above your bare shoulder.

"Nonono, please, don't!" you cry. "I don't wanna be a vampire!"

"I know, sweetheart," he laments. "I hate seeing you in pain, too."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian sinks his teeth deep into the flesh of your exposed shoulder blade.

You shriek in pain as you feel fangs digging into muscle tissue and sinew alike. Tears stream freely down your cheeks now, uncontrollable sobs wracking your frame as blood runs freely down your back and stains your clothes crimson red.

"Shhhh..." he hushes again, caressing your hair even while he drinks away your humanity. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."

By the time he's finished drinking, you feel woozy from blood loss and adrenaline. Octavian lifts you up, grip looser now that you're too tired to struggle, and dampens a cloth under the faucet, using it to clean up the excess blood.

Then he takes you back to the bedroom, tucking you underneath layers upon layers of warm bedding.

You try to speak, but your throat hurts so badly and you can barely move. Everything feels heavy, including your eyelids which threaten to shut due to exhaustion.

"Get some sleep. It's bedtime for little ones," he murmurs giddily. He adjusts the blankets covering you. "Oh, I knew I was missing something." You hear him shuffle around the room before returning. Suddenly the familiar feeling of the teddy bear is pressed against your torso, its fur tickling your nose.

"Papa..." you croak deliriously, thinking of your own father.

"Yes," he says. His face splits into a manic smile. "That's right." Octavian crawls under the covers next to you, dragging you towards his cold figure. He combs through your hair and cuddles you tightly, as though if he lets go, he might lose you. "Say it again. Say 'Papa.'"

You don't reply, far too exhausted to even care anymore. All you do is slump against him and close your eyes.

Octavian squeezes you tighter.

He buries his nose into the top of your head and breathes deeply.

"My baby..." His words sound distant as slumber overtakes your mind and drags you into darkness. "You're back home where you belong."

[larrylimericks]

19Oct24

No matter how mad the word made us, It always held hope — a “hiatus.”

I’m sad for so many reasons — the fundamental sadness of death, and at such a young age; having to process the mortality of someone so extraordinary it seems they should transcend a fate as ordinary as dying; aching for his family and friends; angry that he had to navigate such a cruel world, one that continues to disrespect him in death. Yes, Liam was damaged and in turn damaged others; he had demons to face and amends to make — I like to think he would have, given a chance. His talent was so immense, and there was so much more to come. I believe he would have found a way to redemption, and then had such a beautiful renaissance.

The joy of being a 1D fan has always been policed and mocked. We’ve so frequently been laughed at, dismissed for the intensity of our love for the band. And now, the world wants to do the same with our grief, questioning its legitimacy, trivializing our feelings. But this loss is real. And this grief is valid.

And the grief of losing Liam is compounded by the grief of losing so much else. He wasn’t just a celebrity. They weren’t just a boyband. He was an integral part of an integral part of our formative years — no matter how old we were when we found them. So many of us are the people we are in part because of the people they are. Were. We’ve lost a beloved one, we’ve lost innocence, we’ve lost inspiration, we’ve lost a piece of our foundation.

We’ve lost hope.

It used to frustrate me, in retrospect, that they called it a “hiatus.” It felt dishonest — like a gentle lie to let us down easy. Why couldn’t they just say it was over? That being a boy band has a built-in shelf life, and it was time to explore solo careers. But now I understand the kindness in that word. For hope springs eternal, and it didn’t matter if it never came. All that matters was that it might. And “hiatus” wasn’t just for us; it held their optimism too. Especially Liam’s. It left the door open, even if only a crack, for the possibility of something more.

It’s been a remarkable gift to watch each one find his own path and his own voice. But when they announced a hiatus in 2015, they planted a seed of hope that someday we’d see the unrivaled magic of those boys on stage together again — the greatest team the world has ever seen. Maybe Zayn would join, probably not. Maybe it would’ve been a one-off thing for charity or a special anniversary. Maybe it would be in their 50s when the allure of easy money from a reunion tour was too tempting to resist. But surely, eventually, 1D would reunite in some capacity. I was excited to see how their once frenetic energy and youthful antics would meld with the mature solo artists they’ve become.

That hope sustained us through 18 months and eventually eight years, but now the hiatus is over. I would have happily clowned for every remaining day of my life than know this new certainty brought by the finality of Liam’s death. Maybe, someday, there will be a memorial performance. Maybe we’ll see three or four out of five come together to honor him — and what a poignant testament it will be that Liam was what could bring them together. Or maybe it will never feel right to them to take the stage without him, and that, too, will make all the sense in the world.

I wish I had an uplifting ending for this post. I don’t. I wake up and my first thought is “Liam isn’t here anymore,” and then I go about my day with that relentless realization lurking around the corner of every mundane task I do.

I haven’t been able to listen to their music yet. It’s a cruel trick that the thing that always brought comfort is now a trigger for grief. But I hope that will soon change. That, at some point, I’ll put on WMYB, get choked up at “You’re insecure” and second-guess my readiness. But then jump to History, and find solace in the lyrics that are currently rattling around my brain but aren’t ready to be heard yet: “This is not the end, this is not the end” … “We can live forever.”

❯❯❯❯

[starsoverbrooklyn]

just the headline, doll: rain-soaked and hiding under the same umbrella. (#5/30) starring... TFATWS(but-everyone's-alive)!Bucky Barnes x f!waitress!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: n/a, really. mutual pining but from bucky's pov. light and fluffy. like one/two cursewords(?) inked just for you: 776 a word from yours truly: your HONOR, this is TREASON! I did not submit this late--I hit 'Post' at 11:59p.m., then my internet FROZE for 19-21 minutes! ...true story but don't ask for receipts. Don't know where this one came from b/c I was literally just staring at my empty notes screen for a good hour. hope you enjoy! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

Hot cakes. Warm, gooey egg yolk. You. Bucky is a man of simple pleasures, and his new favorite diner isn’t an exception—it defines them. Even without the first two, it’s your warm, inviting presence that brings him back at every chance. 

He watches you interact with customers, leaning in close, attentive and nodding along, a smile so radiant  it put sun-kissed cheeks to shame. He makes sure to shift his eyes every so often, scan the diner, let his gaze follow the cars outside—but like clockwork, it always lands back on you. 

And when it was time for you to leave, he knew. You’d float by your tables, carrying the delicate breeze of your perfume with you, your tone worn low and sweet, like the weight of the day had settled in your throat, making your voice dripped with milk and honey.

“How we doing, handsome?”

He blinked. Twice. Once to reboot, and the other to find his voice. He clears his throat, the heat rushing to his face like you’d given him a fever only you could cure. The corners of his mouth twitch—shy, uncertain. 

“Don’t think he’s ever had a complaint with you around.” God—damnit, Yori. 

You place a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, an anchor for your soft laughter, but a glimpse of what it’s like to float through air without gravity being a fickle bitch.

“Was actually asking you, Mr. Nakajima.” You wink at Bucky, letting him in on a bit of lighthearted banter like a gauze for his bleeding embarrassment. 

He misses the way your touch lingers, like you’re trying to forge a bond—fill him with just enough warmth to ensure he’ll come back.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else before I go?”

Yori’s surprisingly quick to stand for a man his age. He shakes his head and waves a hand to you. “No, thanks! See you next time.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, amusement flickering in the blue rings around his pupils at his friend’s abrupt departure. His brow lines smooth out, lips twitching in silent apology. “Thanks, sweetheart. It’s always great to see you.”

Physics. It’d been a while and a dozen brain wipes ago since he’d been in school—but Tony’s pet spider had a habit of dropping annoyingly elementary tidbits of information he was convinced were fried out of Bucky’s brain. One he didn’t expect to need reminding of: Newton’s third law. 

You were the sun through Brooklyn’s clouds, but the rain that clattered heavy on his leather jacket—cold and unrelenting—was the universe’s equal and opposite reaction. 

He’d seen Yori home okay, grateful the diner was just up the block—though, it’s not like the older—well, technically younger—man cared to venture much further.

Rain didn’t gently scratch—but dug its claws into the back of his brain. The sensation of absence on his left side hollowed him out—like the heat in his veins turned to slush, its sole purpose to flood him with ice. The rain was the only thing that shudders The Winter Soldier.

“Taxi!”

Your voice is urgent, laced with the tiniest tremble. But he doesn’t miss it, even in the roll of thunder that cracks through the sky like a Wakandan jet. 

“James?” You call out, the familiarity like gloves to his hands, even with the shiver rattling your frame. Jesus, he can hear your teeth chattering from across the street. 

“Hi!” he calls back. It’s lame—too eager—but it doesn’t deter you. Or maybe you couldn’t hear it over the storm. You step off the sidewalk in pursuit of him, but he throws his hands up in front of his chest in protest, eyes widening slightly, heart racing with premature horror

“No! Stay there!” 

In half an instant—after a quick scan of the street, he’s sharing pavement with you. His steps slow a good distance away and you scoff—soft, non-condescending—at his density. Like a needle tightening a stitch, you close the space between the two of you, lifting your arm a little higher to welcome him under your umbrella, speckled with hearts in your favorite color. 

Your free hand settles on his arm, and it fills him—with fire. The reminder he’s warm-blooded. Human. Feeling. 

“Hi there.” 

You say with the softness of someone coaxing a deer from hiding—not to feed it, not to chase it—but just to see it up close. To let it know it’s safe.

Despite your admirable preparedness, your hair clings to the frame of your face. Water still rolls down your lashes. The tip of your nose is already catching roses. 

Still, you’re the very picture of the sun.

“Let’s get back inside,” you murmur. “I’ll get you a slice of warm apple pie.”

[dilatorywriting]

Oh, 4k? Hold up then, looks like you dropped this 👑👑👑

CONGRATS TO YOU, ONE OF THE BEST WRITERS HERE!! If I could partake in the event, I'd love something with Riddle and prompt 17; love my short red angry king and alice in wonderland in its entirety tbh. If the Reader could be a bit of a rule breaker too and have known Riddle since childhood that'd be awesome as well. Again tho CONGRATULATIONS!! HOPE NOTHING BUT THE GOOD STUFF FOR YOU!

Gender Neutral Reader x Riddle Rosehearts Word Count: 2.3k

Prompt 17: "I think I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do."

[EVENT MASTERLIST]

You were annoying.

At least, that was the kindest way his mother described it. And Riddle would have to agree. Always hanging over his shoulder like some overeager parrot and rattling off nonsense into his ear just as loudly. He was hardly allowed out to the park—mother said his studies were far too important, and even as a child Riddle certainly agreed. Mostly, at least. Enough to never argue—but when he did get time to sit out in the sun under the shade of the grand, painted trees, you were always there.

A bother, a nuisance. Sticky fingered with the remnants of swiped tarts and chattering on, and on, and on.

“I tried to follow a rabbit,” you said, rolling around in the dirt like a heathen. Weren’t you worried your parents would scold you for mucking up the smooth, blue fabric of your jacket? “But it ran too fast and I fell. Do you think I could catch it with a net, maybe?”

“Hopped,” Riddle correctly, stiffly. “Rabbits hop.”

“Well this one ran,” you argued back. “Faster than a car. Faster than a cheetah.”

“Cars are faster than cheetahs,” he said, turning to the next page of his book. “So grammatically you should have put that part second.”

You flopped back onto your stomach and pulled yourself to your knees, before scuttling behind his back and peering over his shoulder.

“How can you pay attention to a book with no pictures in it?”

He hunched up his shoulders and you dropped your chin down with a bonk. Refusing to budge.

“Some of us don’t have the attention span of goldfish,” he sneered, turning his nose up at you.

“Well, if I could only think as much as a goldfish, I wouldn’t want to waste it on that,” you snipped back. “Doing homework in a park. What are you, a robot?”

“I’m efficient!” he snapped. “Mother says I shouldn’t waste time on frivolities.” On things like you, he doesn’t say. A part of him wants to. The part that sounds like biting words and a sharp, firm voice demanding he get to bed by 7pm unless he wants to rot his brain. Another part is… is worried that you might not like that. And then you’d just get even more annoying.

You reached around and snagged the textbook out of his hands with an audible ‘yoink!’ and immediately ran off at full speed. Which is never fair! Because you’re used to climbing up trees, and sprinting through mud, and scaling boulders like a wild beast. And Riddle is—Riddle isn’t! He would never! So it takes him an age to catch up to you. By the time he does, he’s huffing, and puffing, and as red as his hair.

“Don’t do that!” he snapped, livid. “Ever again!”

“Alright,” you shrugged, a loose grin on your mouth as you returned your pilfered treasure. You’ve barely even broken a sweat. “I won’t bother you during homework, Riddle.”

Which is… That’s certainly what he wanted Of course it was. But it made something in his stomach drop nonetheless. Probably because you’d just find new ways to be irritating. Yes. That’s certainly why.

The first time he felt it was on his twelfth birthday.

He’d tried so hard. And he’d done so well. His exams had all come back with perfect scores, his projects and papers immaculately graded. He’d been going to bed on time every night, combing his hair exactly how his mother liked, even folding his clothes into perfectly pressed little squares. She’d seen it in one of her cleanliness magazines and had lamented how nice the style looked for something so tedious. But Riddle had learned. And now his closet looked as tidy as a militia.

“Can I go? Trey’s whole family will be there. And it’s just dinner. Fully monitored!” he reassured, fighting the urge to twist his hands behind his back. “Please?”

“Of course not,” his mother droned, not even looking up from her laptop. “You’ve been doing well, but we don’t want you slipping up, now do we?”

“But—” he started, and her eyes cut up to him like daggers. A warning. “…of course, mother.”

“Good boy,” she smiled, with that smile that was never really a smile. “Now go up to your room. You can have an extra half hour of free time today,” she said, like it was something worth celebrating. “For my special birthday boy.”

Riddle had sat in his bed wishing he’d never known what a birthday was at all. And then there was a tapping at his window.

He opened it in shock, to see you hanging off the edge like a particularly determined cockroach. Which was—! No! It wasn’t safe! And you were going to get him in trouble, and—

But instead of opening that stupid, fat mouth of yours and letting of your siren call of a laugh—summoning every sensible adult in a five-mile radius to come checking for delinquents—you simply swung around a bit to reach back into your jacket pocket. Riddle almost lurched forward when he saw your fingers scrabble a bit along the ledge. Ready to fall. But then you righted yourself and gently deposited a little, paper-wrapped parcel atop of the smooth surface.

And then you shot him a wink and disappeared from view, no doubt scuttling back down the siding like the demon you were.

He approached it hesitantly, like one would an active bomb. He carefully peeled back the sticky tape and smoothed out the edges of the sloppily wrapped package. Inside was a small, round strawberry tart. Freshly baked, by the smell of it. And the waft of warm, soft steam curling up from the flaking crust. With a little note tucked beside it in your chicken scratch. A lopsided smiley face doodled at the corner, beaming up at a hastily scrawled ‘Happy Birthday, Riddle!’

He took a small bite of the little, perfect treat and his eyes burned. Something in his chest gave a worrying thump-thump.

‘Oh my god,’ he thought in a panic. ‘The idiot poisoned me.’

But aside from the horribly loud ticking of his heart, nothing else seemed to go awry. He ate the rest of the tart in silence, feeling lightheaded and far too warm. He wondered if maybe his mother was right about sugar and myocardial infarction after all.

Riddle didn’t see much of you the next few years. His mother doubled down on his study times, and he wasn’t even allowed to spend time with someone as responsible as Trey anymore. Let alone the person his parent had deemed ‘a menace upon polite society.’ The next time he saw you—really saw you. Not just your hurried waves from across the street or the trace ends of your bubbling laugh from around a corner—was when the Royal Sword Academy’s students had descended upon Night Raven for the VDC.

You were chattering away with Che’nya, the pair of you looking equally as mused and ridiculous. All splashes of raucous color and uniforms so out of place that one would hardly be able tell what institution you were meant to be a part of at all. For a moment he thought you’d walk right past. It’d been years, after all. And certainly you’d moved on to bothering some new stick in the mud.

But then you saw him and your eyes lit up. His chest gave another of those terrible thump-thumps.

“Riddle!” you all but screamed. And launched yourself at him like a feral cat. “How are you! Your hair is so neat! Did you grow out your bangs? Oh! Look at your cape! So cool! Did you know that we don’t get capes? I think that’s a crime. Especially with how yours looks,” you rambled on. And despite that lingering thread of him that demanded that you must be annoying, because that’s what you were. Loud, and uncouth, and everything he’d been raised to not be. The rest of him was… Warm. And happy, to hear the familiar chatter back in his ear.

He scoffed, hoping it would cover the noise of his pounding heart. “No one in their right mind would trust you with a cape. You’d get caught on every door in existence.”

“Oh, that’s fair,” you agreed on a nod. “But surely a top hat, at least?”

And then you were back in his life like you’d never left to begin with. Or, well, like he’d never left you.

Showing up at Unbirthday Parties with the tackiest serving plates and even worse outfits. Telling him all about the rabbit you finally managed to catch, and how it does run, Riddle. I swear. Bringing him trinkets you’d found in small shops that had no practical purpose to speak of. Breaking every rule in the Queen’s Book and smacking yourself on the forehead each time he shouted a stern reminder. You even bought a little notepad to jot down his instructions. But all it ended up being good for was an ever growing pile of doodles and little, folded, origami animals that he’d find tucked all around his room like secrets.  

And amidst all of this, that thumping, bumping pressure in his chest just kept getting worse.

It was a warm day, not unlike the one all those years ago where you’d plunked yourself on his shoulder and stolen the textbook right out of his hands. Now you had your own book to read, some monstrosity on analyzing ravens and writing desks, with your head precariously close to his lap but not there. He didn’t even know why that bothered him.

“This book is too complicated,” you complained. And Riddle fought the urge to point out you were holding it upside down. “Both have quills. Is that so hard to understand?”

“That makes no sense,” he argued back.

“Of course it does,” you said, perfectly pleasant and sure of yourself. “But you know everything, so you really ought to know that too.”

He snorted. “I do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“What’s fifteen times thirty-four.”

“That’s not knowing. That’s just math,” he argued. “And it’s five-hundred and ten.”

“See,” you poked. “I knew you’d know it.” You rolled over to stretch out on your stomach—reaching forward to twist a long blade of grass between your fingers. “You always know what to do.”

Something in his stomach turned unpleasantly at that. Had he known what to do when he’d cowed to his mother’s commands and cut you from his life? Had he known best when he’d turned away from your warm greetings and friendly overtures to hide away behind the unsurmountable walls of expectation? Worse over, did you think that he thought all those things were… for the best? That he’d wanted to push you aside like all your cheerful banter and sweet attempts to brighten his dull, miserable life had been worth nothing.  

“That’s not true,” he finally said, stilted and near whisper quiet.

You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked at him with a curious tilt of the head.

“Of course it is,” you blinked, guileless and genuine. Smiling up at him from your place in the grass with that familiar, twisty little grin on your mouth and a brightness in your eyes that never seemed to dim.

“It’s not,” he said, a bit firmer. And his gaze flickered off away from yours. “I think I’m in love with you, and I don’t know what to do about it at all.”

Riddle wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Silence, maybe. The horrible, awkward, biting sort that ate away at his soul like a rat gnawing through his bones. Maybe you’d laugh at him, in that bubbling, carefree way of yours, and tell him that you thought one of those rules of his was never to lie on a Thursday afternoon. That would hurt worse than the silence, he thought.

But instead you just rolled back over with a flick of your wrist, like you were gossiping about the weather.

“Then love me,” you said, simple. “I love you. It only seems fair.”

“…oh,” he spluttered, face lighting up crimson and warm.

You hummed, as if in agreement. But to what he wasn’t sure. You looked him over for a minute, like you were searching for something. And then you reached for his sweaty hand with your own and twined your fingers there in the grass.

“If everything always made sense, nothing would be what it is because everything would be what it isn't,” you said, like that was supposed to make any sense at all. “And contrariwise, what it is, it wouldn't be, and what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?"

“What on earth are you on about?” he gaped.

You burst into delighted giggles and tucked your nose against his hip. “Silly, silly. Stop trying to analyze everything, yes? It will only make things more confusing.”

You sighed and stretched, a contented smile on your lips. You reached up to tap a finger against his nose.

“Things don’t always have to make sense. That’s what makes it fun. And, well, if you’re really that determined to be able to figure out how things are supposed to go, we can do that later, yes?”

“…Right,” he managed to eek out after a long moment. Feeling far too light and far too… too something. “Later. There will be a later.”

And as much as that would have felt like a lie all those years ago—had been a lie even—when he said it now you looked up at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky. And he couldn’t help but hope for all the tomorrows in the world.

.

.

[missmarveledsblog]

Bet on it ( Bradley Bradshaw x reader ) PART THREE

Summary : it the night of the gala an awkward start til the two break the silence that leaves them going down memory lane to simplier time with the ice breaking and thawing bradley starts to realise somethings like how good his name sound coming from her lips , how beautiful she truly is and the two get closer and closer

warnings : goofy , fluffy fun , allusions to smut rooster is older than reader by like 8 or something years so aging him up in og top gun timeline

previous part

It was odd , it was awkward as hell and a silent car ride as the both went to talk,opening  their mouths and yet closed a second later . going from enemies and friends wasn’t so clear cut like in the movie where they were instant besties . sure they didn’t squabble or insult each other much as before still few slip ups here and there .  now she kind wish its like in the movies anything would be better than this and when she tried to kill the silence words failed her . she also felt old feeling coming to the surface which she could only hate more for the timing .  she never hated him , never truly  a part of her always loved the man.  a drunken confession to jake  after a particularly bad time between the two that night . she confided in what happened all the years ago maybe it was dramatic reaction from her side but he did truly hurt her and now she was  questioning if he really knew that  , something they could talk about some other time she wasn’t going to make an already awkward moment even worse . it didn’t help how good he looked not that he wasn’t hotter than the fucking sun before but rooster in  three piece suit should of been a crime how good he looked and even more happy she wasn’t driving or they would be heading to a hospital instead of a hospital charity gala . 

Why couldn’t he talk , He of all people  having trouble speaking when all he did was talk . it was like bagman not having an ego and yet the woman currently sitting in the passenger seat of his bronco had him either silent or a blubbering mee  . the same woman who made his blood pressure rising had it rising or a whole different reason .  “ say something jesus anything” he cursed himself internally. 

“ music” he asked quickly to which she just gave a polite nod to . “ least it was something “ he mentally wondering how it was so bad , how it was like this to the point they couldn’t even talk to each other without the rest of their friends around , tapping his finger on the wheel as he listened to the music pretending he wasn’t cringing inside then it came on the radio a song from their childhood , a regular in the hard deck . 

“ you shake my nerves and your rattle my brain” that voice it wasn’t him , 

“ too much love drives a man  insane” she could sing since well , he remember she and his father did but a three year old rendition of twinkle twinkle like star. 

“You broke my will , but what a thrill “ he joined turning to see her smiling . 

“ GOODNESS GRACIOUS GREAT BALLS OF FIRE “ they screamed before bursting into a fit of laughter ,

“ erm excuse me mini mitchell why the hell have i not heard you sing before” he asked. 

“ well you hated me so i wasn’t gonna sing you a lullaby now was i “ she snorted. 

“ i disliked you never hated you but i regret all that really wish i could change it all if i could we could be touring america singing jerry lee lewis” he winked.

“ as much as i love your rendition nothing will ever beat your dad’s  what i’d give to hear him singing it again” she smiled softly .  

“ nah what i would love is his and your version of twinkle twinkle little star , i mean you both made that a ballet” he chuckled. 

“ we did rock that one , but i think our rewrite of bingo was better “ she snorted. 

“ oh yeah the one where you made bingo like a twenty letter word and some numbers in there too “he mused yet playful lilt to his tone. 

“ hey i was exploring art through music and i was also a toddler all words were big back then “ she mock offense .

“ hey now your taking me up wrong i am a fan and so was my dad as he was able to follow along  he was your biggest fan “ . 

“ and my dad is your biggest fan we lucked out on the godfather train huh ? …. Well sort of “ she grimace realizing how it came out. 

“ hey your dad’s  maverick i might be an orphan godchild soon with how he take risks  “ he grinned was her laughter always this way and why did he wanna hear more of it .

“ my dad is maverick that man is gonna outlive us all” 

 the venue was bigger than she though it was bigger event than she thought . in a way it was better it meant more fund for her department , more resources,  more bed. 

“ im not going to get tackle when we walk in her am” he joked . 

“ i mean beth might … nah you should be fine i'll tell them  it was a misunderstanding or something” . 

“ beth the lady i talk to cause if so i  will use you as a shield” . 

“ chivalry isn't dead after all” she smirked . 

just as she went to get out of the car only for him to run like hell to her side opening the door even held her hand as she got out the full gentlemen treatment  seemed to be on the cards as  they walked in the entrance. to say he was  nervous seeing the same security guard eyeing him up til she smile and shook her head signaling is all is good .  the security guard made him nervous but the glare on beth face  well  had him standing behind  y/n when the woman made her way over. 

“ sweet pea blink twice if you need help “ she whispered.  

“ most wonderfully divine miss beth its ok  we sorted it out , bradley this is the wonderfully divine beth most skill nurse beth this is bradley bradshaw master of piano and super hornet jets” y/n stood pulling   him forward and yet it wasn't the nervous  it wasn’t fear of this southern woman who had a sweet  nurturing smile but looks to kill , it was fact it was first time she said his name his actual name , not his callsign or surname but his name . it felt good it felt better then good it made things inside him stir and a dopey grin to form on his face . she got him up in this gala smiling like he was dopey from the snow white and the seven dwarves all because she said his name and this was not good this was not what he thought would happen so early on to the bet ,   he needed to and yet couldn’t squash feeling erupting inside himself that honestly made him feel shit.

Through out the night he stood taller , smiled wider  everytime she introduced him to a coworker or  shit he hope newer people would come in just to do it all again.  Laughing and joking around with her coworkers , the pride that shouldn’t have been there yet burst out of him when they praise her on the good work , how she impacted the patients  or just what an honor it was to know or see her do her thing . 

“ i swear she is only doc i’ve seen that would sing along to the messed up nursery rhymes and not bat a lid and kids love her “ beth cooed as he listened to her coworkers gushing about her. 

“ or trying to get people to come visit the kids she got people dressed as superhero’s last time ” marcus a fellow doctor asked. 

“ hey happy patients happy doctor “ she shrugged taking a sip of her drink . 

“ we should say it to your dad get the dagger squad to come” bradley  clapped excitedly. 

“ the staff and kids would be happy “ beth winked . “ not you i’m still on fence about you pretty boy “ .

“ hey deserved but i hope if her dad says yes i can win you over “ he batted his lashes at the woman as she tried to keep her stance . 

“ what am i missing?” marcus asked. 

“ well we didn’t get along for a while but now we’re cool rooster has redeemed himself tonight “ she swirled the class and yet it he suddenly felt a sting at the fact is wasn’t his name. 

“ so when did you become a couple “ the man  asked excitedly only for both to choke on the liquid in there mouth. 

“ no no no ha no we’re just friend  , buddies “ she laughed grabbing napkins 

“ yeah friends what she said i mean come on girl like her with dude like me “ bradley chuckled til he seen her face drop and the hurt on it . “ i didn’t mean it like that i mean you are wow beautiful .. oh my god am i having a stroke tonight or something”  he groaned. 

“ i think what baby eyes is trying to say is your too good for him and if it not well it what we know”beth god he could kiss that woman if she didn’t scare the hell out of him . 

“ exactly what i meant i didn’t mean i was better or hotter than you “ he stumbled stuttering over his words.

“ boy just shh not making it better.. Now take her to dance that dress is too good to be sitting here all night ” the woman hushed. 

“ yes ma’am … would you wanna dance with me i think my feet work better than mouth “ he turned as she gave a little yes .  now he really did hope his feet worked better than his mouth  or was he going to make more of a fool of himself. 

Hand on hers as she place the other on his shoulder and his other hand to her hip .  gentle swaying he could do as that much it wasn’t too complicated and yet he felt his heart beating hard in his chest he was nearly expecting to see it on his shirt and then she looked up at him and his knees almost buckled  .  he never wanted her to look at him any other way than that , never wanted to hear rooster coming out of her mouth , then he tried to think of the past something to get his head in the game, he couldn’t lose his resolve so quick  a month into the bet he needed to think of how he felt back then the way he felt when it all started . his motivation to keeping strong and yet he couldn’t  the rational part of him was coming to effect and he decided one night to not think of it , one night to think of everything but enjoy the moment at hand. 

As guest filtered out and some memories of her bosses she never wanted to member they stood out of the venue and chill air of night hit . when she saw bradley bradshaw at her door she didn’t think she would have one of the best nights of her life . she never thought feeling she buried so deep would  break and come back in ten fold  . it was crazy , borderline insane to how she felt by end of night and that was it she didn’t want the night to end  , she didn’t want to say goodbye and things to go back to normal . she hated it  knowing it was stupid to think this way fucking hell they just started being some what friends the last month.  The shiver down her body and then she felt the warm weight of his jacket on  her shoulders and his hand out to lead her back to the car .  the whole timeshe willed herself to stop to think clearly to think of how he hurt her all those years ago when she felt like this first.  But she couldn’t all logic and reason quashed by the beat of her heart . . she fell harder than she ever did. Pulling her up outside of her apartment she should of said goodnight leave the good to stay good in that moment . 

“ you wanna come in for a drink” was all it took for another shift to happen a new direction to run it course and what she would find out the worst idea she’s ever had . 

Nervous of being in a small space together , nervous of new but old feeling coming back and nervous  to the  doubt of everything and anything.   Few beers and glasses of wine took the worry , the nerves and the caution away . relax and giddy finding a trip down memory lane filling in the spots of being apart . she told him about med school how hard and crazy it was especially giving she was youngest of her class , old boyfriends and friends . he told her of  collage  still a little sore spot not going to the naval academy but she wasn’t so happy with her dad for that either . then how surreal it was following in the footsteps of his dad and pete mitchell both daunting and exciting . more drink flowing as they laughed and joked around about the good side of memory lane .  

“ i can’t believe we missed out on so much huh ?” she sighed sadly . 

“ we really did , least we friends now right or did my stupid mouth and bad dancing scare you away?”he teased. 

“ you know bad dancing and mouth aside tonight has been so fun , really i mean you haven’t fully won beth over but you have won me over bradshaw”  she beamed up at him . 

“ please call me bradley i like it better when you say it i mean anyone else no eww but when it’s you makes me happy when you say name “ he leaned forward she felt herself pulled like a magnetic force . 

“ bradley “ she whispered and just like that all resolved went out the window  and something snapped as two crashed against one another clash of teeth and tongues , hunger and adorations . stars aligning , fireworks , sunshine and fucking rainbows . a kiss and a fear of what was to come next . 

A blinding light and a thumping headache . a personal jackhammer living in the confine of she sat up  and the sun making it harder to open her eyes  feeling around for her phone til her hand hit something that makes the hangover the least of her problems  as she force her eyes open and see a sleeping rooster naked in her bed . buzzing of her phone on the floor as she dove make sure not to waking the sleeping pilot  crawling out the room not ready to deal with what happened just yet as she hit the  little green icon . 

“ hey darling did ya have fun with chicken ?” 

“ more than i should of “ she gulped .

part 4

taglist : @djs8891 @peachmartini @shanimallina87 @kawaiiskeletondragonbanana @paisleebubbles

[valeriianz]

Here’s another half-formed dreamling fic with them stuck in a snow storm while flurries currently whistle past my windows (and cover my screens in white).

Dream, sitting on the floor of his kitchen, surrounded by candles because the power is out, and sipping a glass of red wine. He’s bundled in a blanket and desperately failing to conserve battery on his phone, by texting Hob, who’s also lost power.

Dream slouches back against his oven, of which the burners are on to give off some blessed heat (thank God his oven is gas), while he reads the latest message from Hob, lamenting how bleeding cold it is in his own apartment, a newly renovated chrome building on the edge of the city, where everything, including the heat, was electric.

Dream mourns for him, even though Hob makes light of the situation with his witty texts and flirtatious hints of how Dream could warm him up.

They’d only been on a handful of dates, not yet fallen into bed together… Dream awkwardly explaining to Hob that it took a while, if at all, for sexual attraction to form within a new relationship. Hob had, surprisingly, taken it in stride. Becoming patient and thoughtful, always communicating, and never pushing Dream’s limits. 

It was refreshing, and– to Dream’s complete surprise– he’d found himself falling hard for the other man. Who knew a simple acknowledgment to boundaries would get him so wound up? His pulse quickened with every smile Hob gave him, his stomach tying itself in knots whenever Hob would take his hand, and his brain completely shutting off when Hob would kiss him. Chaste things that had progressively turned more and more heated with every encounter. Promising something more and more each time they met.

Currently, the sounds of his windows rattling from the flurries outside fill his dark apartment, along with the flutter of the open flames on his stove, and the quiet drip, drip, drip of the kitchen tap (to prevent frozen pipes, Dream had learned that lesson the hard way last winter).

After about an hour of texting Hob, Dream nearly halfway done with the bottle of wine, he receives a text that makes his heart jump.

So, what if i told you im actually outside your building?

Dream stood up so suddenly the candles around him nearly snuffed themselves out.

He yanked on his boots and pulled on his oversized winter coat, stumbling to his front door and marching down the stairs of the apartment complex he resided in, the age of which you could smell in its walls, see in the cracks and warps in the wooden floors. He made it down to the entrance and pulled open the door, the ice cold wind smacking Dream in the face immediately.

But then he saw a smudge of brown in the whiteness approaching. Dream kicked down the snow that had piled up at the door and waded forward in knee deep snow to meet Hob halfway and help him past the threshold.

Once the door slammed shut behind them, Dream took a proper look at Hob.

“You look like the abominable snowman.”

Hob laughed. He was absolutely covered in snow, piled high on his shoulders, his boots, even on his eyelashes.

“I feel like one.” Hob said, his voice cracked and breathless.

Once they’re back inside Dream’s apartment, and Hob’s outer layers have been stripped off and hung in the shower to drip dry, Dream sets off to boil water on the stove top for tea.

They sit on Dream’s couch, sharing a blanket and sipping tea while Dream admonishes Hob for coming out in the middle of a storm. What was he thinking?? To which Hob just shrugs and curls his nearly numb fingers around the hot mug, snuggling even further into Dream’s side and sighing.

“Worth it, to see you.”

“You’re insane,” Dream says, but smiles through it. 

Hob’s skin glows with the orange and yellow flickering of the candles, his features softening and barely noticeable in the limited light. But Dream knows them by now. Knows the curve of Hob’s thick, dark eyebrows, down to the scruff of his jaw, and back up to the prominent shape of his nose. He’s always handsome, but right now, shadowed in soft light and his cheeks still pink from the cold, he’s lovely. And Dream can’t help but set his mug down, taking Hob’s as well, and kissing him.

His lips arm warm from the tea, and he tastes of lavender and honey, and it makes Dream want. Want to climb onto Hob’s lap and crawl inside him. Make a nest for himself– warm and safe and cared for under Hob’s breast bone. There he could listen to the rhythmic beat of his heart, how it thunders now, under Dream’s hand as he caresses down Hob’s sweater and gets teasing fingers under the hem, touching the soft flesh of his hips and stomach.

Hob moans into his mouth, making Dream’s skull vibrate and he nearly gives in, something dark and unknown swirling in his lower belly that drives his fingers to press harder, feel the texture of Hob’s skin, the smattering of hairs at his stomach, but he forces himself to slow down, to take it easy, to enjoy and luxuriate in what they have now. 

Hob, miraculously, follows along. His own hands cupping each side of Dream’s head and only getting his fingers in his hair, matching Dream’s pace, kissing back with no intention of more unless Dream initiated. Moving his mouth at Dream’s pace, breaking apart and nudging his nose and lips under his jaw and nuzzling behind Dream’s ear and making him shudder pleasantly.

“Dream, Dream…” Hob mumbles, seemingly content in just kissing, just holding one another. “I could do this for hours.”

Dream grips the hem of Hob’s sweater, holding tightly as to prevent himself from ripping it off Hob. Another time, very soon, he knows. Dream has every intention to give into the temptation that is Hob Gadling, but the waiting is so much more fun. The anticipation, the slow understanding of his own feelings brimming up to the surface, will be that much more satisfying when he’s certain Hob will reciprocate them.

Hob just might love him back, right now. But Dream waits. Though, he does allow himself a confession:

“I could do this forever.”

[the-pen-pot]

Merthur Fic Ideas & WiPs

So I have a Merlin fic ideas page over on Patreon but obviously I can't link direct to that from AO3. So I'm popping one on here so you all know what's incoming/in the works/rattling around in my brain.

Coming to AO3 September 29th 2024

The Water and the Wilds:

'Magic is as much part of nature as the earth, sea and sky. Other sorcerers who sought out the circle found that their power developed certain affinities. Their abilities became tied to the cycle of the year. There would be one season at which their power was at its peak and another where it lay almost dormant. They became more closely connected to the natural ebb and flow of the world.'

'But?'

'But they were not Emrys. His strength is beyond anything in living memory, and the heights he could reach are, as yet, unknown.' Aglain spread his hands, his shoulders rolling in a graceful shrug. 'I can only tell you that the Tir Na Lei means no harm. Three is the number: the ritual is set. The circle will not call on Emrys again.'

______

In a Camelot where Arthur is king and magic is permitted once more, Merlin's power begins to change. Can he and Arthur overcome the challenges thrown their way, or will their relationship be forever changed by the ordeal?

(Approx 50 k in length, rated E)

If you want to read what else is in-progress, check out below!

Works In Progress

(All drafts are currently available over on Patreon - first chapter free to read. The rest are available to patrons in the $5 tier and up. They WILL become available on AO3 eventually. See bio or pinned post for link if you're interested ♥)

King and Court - 24 chapters currently drafted and available on Patreon - this one will begin updating on AO3 next as it's the one I've written most of.

Summary: Loneliness is an insidious thing. When Merlin looks at Arthur, he sees not just a prince waiting for his time to rule, but a young man struggling to find his place in the world, with little help from anyone else.

The truth is, Arthur needs more than the friendship Merlin can offer. He needs people he can trust: men and women who will become his court and his confidants, and if he is going to survive to take the throne and lead Camelot into its golden age, he needs them sooner rather than later.

Finding loopholes in Uther’s laws is no easy feat. Court life is a dangerous game, but it’s one Merlin has every intention of winning so that Arthur can have knights of his choosing by his side.

And then there is the matter of his magic…

(In my head this is basically entitled *~shenanigans, love and a golden age~*. Canon divergent AU)

Love Is Never Lost - 11 chapters currently drafted and available on Patreon.

Summary: Uther Pendragon has never approved of Arthur’s friendship with Merlin. There had been disappointed sighs and whispered warnings, but Arthur had never thought it would come to this: scars on Merlin’s back and a manservant made hollow and thin by cruelty.

Yet Uther’s efforts to drive a wedge between them instead bring Merlin’s greatest secret to light, and once the wound of secrecy has been purged, their healing brings them closer together than ever before.

Much to Uther Pendragon’s horror.

When Merlin disappears, Arthur is left questioning the true honour of the crown and the value of a kingdom forever stained by his father’s tyranny. Will he answer the call of duty, or will he sacrifice everything to chase the cries of his heart?

Tags will include: magic reveal, corporal punishment, slavery themes (and all that may imply), missing presumed dead, good Morgana, Arthur's POV, slow burn, dreamwalking, happily ever after eventually plus whatever else shows up as I write these!

Sigh No More - 7 chapters drafted on Patreon. This fic is my beloved. My baby. I'm obsessed. Fantasy Age-Of-Sail AU

Summary: Prince Arthur Pendragon, Captain of the Llamrei, would far rather spend his days patrolling Camelot's Waters than assume his place on the throne. Yet when he finds the wreckage of a vast ship and one lone survivor on board, nothing can prepare him for the path his life will lead.

Nor the demands his heart will make.

Hiraeth Ideas

Additions to the Hiraeth universe ideas : Just some little bulletpoints to remind me about things I would love to add to the Hiraeth verse once it's actually done.

Gwaine vs. a lemon

Merlin gets flu (my biologist heart wants to explore Merlin's immune system vs. Camelot germs plus no modern drugs. Excellent hurt/comfort opportunity - not that Hiraeth really needs more of that.)

Merlin "tormenting" Arthur via the bond (Explicit,  definitely)

Merlin shows Arthur (and others?) modern London.

The knights of Camelot at the zoo (sort of)

Maps/globes/celestial bodies knowledge

💀 Agravaine 💀

The one with the eclipse (some king and his sorcerer are trying to show off said sorcerer's power. There just so happens to be an eclipse.They know what it is so Merlin cannot claim credit, but he totally fucks with them anyway.)

Non-Hiraeth ideas

Magic Reveal Via Time-Travel  (Added June 2024)

Merlin and the knights get themselves into some kind of dire situation. Merlin, in a panic and realising he's not strong or knowledgable enough to save them, pretty much demands that the universe in general sends someone who can help.

What actually happens is he gets flung five years into the future, and his future self (who is more capable, among other things) takes his place. He sorts out the dire situation, whatever it may be, and that leaves Arthur and the others with future!Merlin, who is not only very magically capable but 100% their Merlin with lots more confidence, as irreverent as ever, and unmistakably thrumming with magic. They can all feel it, because Merlin makes no effort to hide.

More to the point future!Merlin remembers this from the other side, when he was younger and the same thing happened. He knows this is when the others find out about his magic, and he is able to answer their questions and emotional responses calmly and rationally, because he already knows Arthur isn't going to kill him or hate him or anything.

(Quite the opposite, in fact, since he's having to hide the fact that Arthur's ring is currently gleaming on his finger. He is grateful, at least, that he wasn't a. Pulled naked out of the bath for this magical meeting or b. wearing his crown, which would have been hard to explain without breaking Arthur's tiny brain.)

Meanwhile, young!Merlin is in Camelot, five years in the future, and Arthur and the others are a bit older, a (very little bit) wiser, and are also doing a brilliant job of calming him down and letting him know everything will be all right. And actually showing him the golden age they achieve -- that it's not impossible and out of reach.

Possibly a long four parter from young!Merlin, young!Arthur, older!Merlin and older!Arthur's points of view. Assuming I can write it without being confusing 🤣

Merlin's Voice - possibly a bit dark

My desire to put Merlin inhurt/comfort situations knows no bounds, but this one actually stems from the fact that Merlin doesn't remember the hug after he's been missing in Servant of Two masters and I'm weak for Arthur being a worried angsty little lamb about his missing manservant.

I'd probably go AU and make Morgana good, with Merlin's magic being known, and just have Morgause basically taking Morgana's place, except she and Agravaine are trying to get information about Camelot's weaknesses, and who better to lean on than Arthur's idiot manservant.

Cue Merlin being missing for days, Arthur panicking, Agravaine being dismissive as usual, and Morgause growing increasingly frustrated at the fact that she cannot get anything of note out of Merlin.

In the end, she tries a spell to force him to speak, except that Merlin is so fiercely determined not to betray Camelot and Arthur that his own magic takes the spell and twists it, forging it into a spell of silence instead.

Morgause gets cruel in her frustration, but eventually, Merlin manages to escape and head back for Camelot. It's no easy journey, and more to the point, the spell silencing him will not come off. No matter how hard he tries. He was so determined not to say anything that his magic went overboard in an effort to meet his intent.

I want to write that hug so Merlin remembers it. I want to have Arthur initially teasing about the silence but getting increasinlgy distressed by it. I want the realisation that Merlin is so incredibly expressive that the others rarely need him to write what he wants to say, they can get the gist of it from just a look.

It's one of those ones with ~vibes~  I want to explore, but I have no idea how it ends.

The "Back To The Start" One

So I made this post on Tumblr and it did numbers (I was thinking 4 people would "hell yes" me, not 2000 +)

"Not me sitting here thinking about writing a fic where we start with Arthur dying in Merlin's arms after Camlaan and it's all tragedy and then the magic rises and they both end up back at that first day, in the marketplace, Merlin with "How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?" dying on his lips as they stare at each other, fascinated, horrified, so fucking relieved because they both remember ALL of it and none of it's happened yet and this time they can maybe make it to a different, better ending.

And they can do it together."

BUT TO EXPAND

I want to explore how Arthur and Merlin would interact with each other having lived in one another's pockets for ten years, only to be sent right back to the beginning, while retaining everything they are to each other. Merlin's magic newly revealed from the confession by the lakeside. The two of them standing there with every mistake in their future rather than their past and realising that maybe "two sides of the same coin" means "you need to work together, dumbass".

I want the two of them shocked by how young the other is. How different Camelot seems from what they're used to. How harsh Uther looks now that they know it can be different (though not as different as it should be, Arthur realises.) I want them correcting their mistakes (and each other's mistakes) and taking all that they know of each other and rebuilding their relationship (all their relationships, actually) on that honesty.

And the others don't remember. Morgana is still Morgana, still struggling, but still hoping to be saved. Mordred's just a boy.  Lancelot never sacrificed himself and it's so clear in Arthur's eyes that Gwen loved them both but that she loved Lancelot first and in a different way.

The knights end up at Camelot earlier simply because Arthur and Merlin set out to find them earlier. 

("We need Gwaine." "Do we? Really?" "Yes, you great prat. Come on.")

And so much more.

The "Fake Favourite" One 

This is basically me having a desperate urge to write all the political whatevers of Arthur taking Merlin as a favourite, smashed together with a fake dating AU.

Basic premise is simple: in an effort to avoid the latest princess eyeing up his hand for marriage (and with Uther's blessing, because it suits him for now to put off marrying Arthur to someone) Arthur decides that he will pretend Merlin is his lover and favourite. They spend all their time together anyway, and half the court rumour already appears to think they sleep together, so it will hardly be any change to either of them.

Except all Arthur has to do is say the words to make it happen, but there's a lot more to being a favourite than that. Merlin can't continue to serve him, and then there's the whole situation of a new wardrobe (which Merlin and his magic both fight against) the political wheeling and dealing that comes with a servant being elevated in status, not to mention the subtle ways in which the court first tries to manipulate Merlin, and then is manipulated by him in turn (for the good of Camelot)

What starts out as Arthur aggressively but jokingly courting Merlin (because Merlin said he was bad at it) ends up much closer to *actual* courting.

And no, Merlin cannot sleep in the antechamber, because the chambermaids will notice they're not sharing a bed.

(This basically would end up being a story about Merlin no longer being a servant but becoming a valued member of the court almost by accident (but being very good at it) and the two fools falling helplessly in love with each other while they pretend to be lovers.)

Morgana, Gwen and the knights would be placing ridiculous bets and generally watching it all with disbelieving horror and delight because only these two idiots could make falling in love so complicated.

The "Stuck In Close Quarters" One 

Merlin and Arthur trapped underground in VERY close proximity (like lying on top of each other) and running out of air and Merlin’s magic is too weak (thanks to a battle maybe) to get them out but he can replenish the air but there is no way Arthur won’t notice.

Cue a magic reveal in close quarters and love confessions.

The Horn of Cathbad one

Merlin dies and due to some glitchiness with his magic, he doesn’t immediately come back. Instead, Arthur, in the freshness of his grief, reaches for magic.

He uses the Horn of Cathbhad to see Merlin again, knowing that if he summons Merlin’s ghost and looks back, then Merlin will stay. (Maybe Gaius warns him - but he doesn’t take it as a warning, but a blessing.)

And Merlin answers, and Arthur doesn’t dismiss his ghost. There are ghostly shenanigans and while it’s not the same as having his friend back, it helps. He doesn’t really have to grieve.

Except that Merlin’s spirit starts to become restless and angry, and it reaches the point where Merlin is *begging* Arthur to let him go. He doesn’t know about his immortality but something is pulling at him.

And Arthur finds the strength to let him go and it’s like losing him all over again.

And then, of course, Merlin comes back ❤️

Blind Merlin One

Arthur and co. suspect Merlin has magic but haven't spoken of it to him yet. While out on patrol, Merlin takes a curse meant for Arthur, one that effectively blinds him until "you see the truth". Arthur thinks it's about the magic and it dredges all that out into the open, but the curse doesn't leave. Merlin quickly adapts to using magic to "see" (in a manner of speaking) and keeps his eyes covered to hide their glow.

Of course, Arthur's threatened about Merlin's vulnerability and baffled about the curse etc. It turns out that the truth they need to see is how they feel for each other. Angst/hurt/comfort/fluff because I can.

Omegaverse One (Maybe a series? Sort of tempted to try out some MPreg)

Well off my normal beaten path, but I keep what-iffing it so I'm writing it down here (and will totally draw on some of the mechanics and plot points of Gilded Cage)

Not all magic users are Omegas, but all Omegas have magic, which means Merlin has more than one secret to keep, and he keeps it well. It "helps" that when he presented in Ealdor, one of the Alphas in the village attacked and bit him, forming enough of a bond to stabilise his biochemistry before he managed to escape. It was that incident that pushed him and Hunith into making him go to Camelot.

Merlin successfully hides what he is for years, thinking he's safe, but the Alpha who bit him never stops looking for him. The Alpha eventually tracks him down, threatens Merlin etc., but gets killed in a tavern brawl before he can make good on his threats. That, in turn, breaks the bond that's been keeping Merlin stable and able to pass, in general, as a beta.

Cue it all going a little bit to hell because Arthur thought he knew everything about Merlin and it turns out he really didn't, and now his irritating and attractive beta manservant who always smelled good is an irritating, attractive, sorcerous omega manservant who smells amazing... etc.

(and maybe this one sounded a lot better in my head? There's a whole heap of nuance I'm not putting down - but it's a possible future Merlin fic.)

Different curse fic

A sorcerer curses Arthur with magic in order to make the Pendragon heir everything that the king hates. He wants to see if he is a hypocrite who will spare his sorcerous son, or a tyrant who will damn the ties of blood and execute him.

Cue Arthur frantically trying to hide the fact that he has magic from everyone, including Merlin, except that's fantastically unsuccessful because Merlin has magic, knows magic, *is* magic.

Then you've got Merlin desperately trying to hide the fact that Arthur had magic from the court while concealing that *he* has magic from Arthur. He very small and tired and stressed about it.

But the upshot is that Arthur has a better understanding of magic - how it is not, in itself, bad or corrupt - and because his magic has no chill and absolutely adores Merlin it acts as the pivotal point that brings out all their secrets (and desire)

The Lancelot and a dead body one -probably shortish.

This is more a scene that anything, but I keep thinking of how to expand it a bit better (I did a text chat thing on tumblr about this plot bunny I need to write it one day)

Arthur and all the knights are in an antechamber off the armoury after an evening training session. The door is ajar. They hear Lancelot come in and Gwaine's about to call out to him when Merlin stumbles through the door.

'I need your help burying a body!'

And Lancelot doesn't squawk or demand answers but just says, in a "so done with this shit" voice: 'Again?'

Meanwhile Arthur and the others are like "What the hell?" and follow Merlin and Lancelot out towards the border of the Darkling Woods where there is a huge and very dead monster just.... lying there.

Then we have Merlin making desperate and really bad excuses, which Arthur would be more willing to pretend he believed if Merlin wasn't bloodied and swaying where he stood and also had flowers blooming around his feet, because Merlin used a lot of magic to take this thing down and it's kind of leaking a bit.

And then we go on from there with the knights spending all night trying to dig a big enough hole and asking questions and all that, and Merlin being too tired and beaten up to really put them off - and then I end it somehow. (I did say this was just a scene!)

[morgan-va]

Chapter 2: Unpacking Surprises (Serial Designation N x Reader)

Masterlist

The truck’s engine rumbles to a stop as you pull into your apartment's parking lot, illuminated by the harsh glow of flickering streetlights. You cut the ignition and sit there for a moment, staring at the dashboard. The faint rattle of the crate in the bed had been a constant companion during the drive, a steady reminder of the headache waiting for you.

Dragging yourself out of the truck, you stretch, muscles stiff from a long day of doing more than your job description ever promised. With a sigh, you glance at the massive crate resting snugly in the truck bed.

That’s when it hits you.

It took a forklift—an actual forklift —to get this monstrosity into the truck. You don’t have a forklift. You don’t have anything even remotely forklift-adjacent.

“What the hell were they thinking?” you mutter, raking a hand through your hair. “Did they just assume I’d, what, conjure one out of thin air?”

You circle the truck, assessing the situation as if staring at it long enough will magically make it solve itself. It doesn’t. The crate sits there, smug in its immovable glory, mocking you with its sheer size and weight.

For a moment, you consider just leaving it there. Tell corporate it wasn’t possible. Let them figure it out. But you already know how that conversation would go—more meetings, more paperwork, and probably a passive-aggressive email about “teamwork” and “finding solutions, not problems.”

“Stupid box,” you grumble, kicking the tire of the truck for good measure. It hurts more than you’d like to admit, but the minor pain feels oddly satisfying.

You glance around the lot, half-hoping for a neighbor to miraculously appear with a helpful suggestion—or, better yet, a forklift. But the place is quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic.

With a resigned sigh, you cross your arms and glare at the crate.

“Well, this is just great. ”

.

.

Hours. It takes you hours .

Sweat drips down your brow as you finally, finally , manage to wrestle the crate into your living room, collapsing into your armchair with all the grace of a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Your arms feel like jelly, your back is screaming, and you’re pretty sure you’ve aged a decade since starting this herculean endeavor. The last vestiges of daylight are gone, replaced by the dim glow of your table lamp and the mocking presence of the crate, which now sits squarely in the center of the room.

You don’t even want to think about the mechanics of how you managed this feat. Muscle? Maybe. Brains? Doubtful. Determination? Sure, let’s call it that.

The point is, it’s done. The crate is inside, and you are alive, though barely.

You tilt your head back, letting out a long groan as you stare at the ceiling. The whole apartment smells like sawdust and frustration, the perfect ambiance for a wasted evening.

“All this for what, exactly?” you mutter to no one in particular.

Your stomach growls, reminding you that dinner was sacrificed in your epic battle against the crate. Pizza delivery crossed your mind at some point, but the thought of explaining your predicament to the delivery person—“Oh, ignore the massive box, it’s just ruining my life”—was almost too much to handle.

You glance at the crate, still panting from the ordeal. It looms over you, a silent, immovable monolith, utterly indifferent to the suffering it caused.

“Hope you’re worth it,” you mumble, dragging a hand over your face.

For now, though, the idea of prying it open feels like too much. Your limbs are lead, your mind is fried, and all you want to do is sit there and pretend the past several hours never happened.

The crate can wait. Whatever’s inside isn’t going anywhere.

After a long moment of staring at the ceiling and pretending you don’t exist, you sigh and reach for your phone.

“Fine. Pizza it is,” you mutter, swiping through your go-to delivery app with the efficiency of someone who’s done this far too often. Large pepperoni, extra cheese, and—what the hell—breadsticks too. You deserve this.

The app pings with an estimated delivery time. Thirty-five minutes. You glance at the crate again, towering like a monument to your bad decisions.

“Guess that’s enough time to deal with you,” you grumble, hauling yourself out of the chair with an audible groan.

You shuffle toward the corner of the room and grab your trusty living room crowbar—the one you’ve inexplicably had for years but never thought would actually come in handy. It’s a little dusty, but it’ll do the job.

Approaching the crate, you give it a final glare before wedging the crowbar into the seam and prying it open. The wood groans in protest before finally giving way, a satisfying crack splitting the air.

What you don’t anticipate is the avalanche of packing peanuts that spills out the moment the lid gives way.

“Are you kidding me?” you yell, jumping back as the flood of foam pellets cascades into your entryway. It’s like someone took every bad packing decision ever made and stuffed it into one crate.

The peanuts spread out in a chaotic wave, sticking to your socks, clinging to the walls, and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

“Of course. Of course ,” you mutter, tossing the crowbar onto the couch as you wade into the mess.

Shoving handfuls of peanuts aside, you finally get a glimpse of what’s inside. The faint outline of a humanoid figure, wrapped tightly in industrial-grade padding, lies in the center of the crate.

“Here we go,” you sigh, rolling up your sleeves.

You grab onto the padding and start pulling, your frustration giving you the strength to tug the heavy mass free of its fortress of foam. Packing peanuts scatter even further across the floor, but you’re beyond caring at this point.

Finally, with one last heave, the contents of the crate are freed. You step back, hands on your hips, surveying the now-empty crate and the still-wrapped figure in the middle of your living room.

“Well, at least you’re out,” you mutter, brushing foam off your shirt. “Hope you’re worth it.”

The doorbell rings, startling you.

“Perfect timing,” you say, heading for the door. Pizza first, drone later.

The door swings open, and a gust of cold evening air rushes in, carrying a flurry of packing peanuts out onto the doorstep. You don’t even flinch as they swirl around your feet and scatter into the night like tiny, foam escapees.

Standing there is the pizza delivery driver, a confused-looking kid holding your order in one hand and a receipt in the other. Their uniform is crisp—well, mostly crisp—but that doesn’t stop a stray packing peanut from clinging to their sleeve.

“Uh... your total is—”

You don’t wait for them to finish. You shove a crumpled wad of cash into their free hand and grab the pizza box with the other.

“Thanks,” you mutter, though it’s unclear if you’re addressing them, the pizza, or the universe at large.

“Uh, do you need—?” the driver starts, holding up the cash.

The door shuts with a solid click before they can finish.

The driver blinks, looking down at the money in their hand, then at the now-closed door, and then at the packing peanuts littering the doorstep—and their uniform. One stubborn pellet clings to the brim of their cap like a mocking badge of honor.

“...Okay,” they mutter to no one in particular before trudging back to their car, still holding the cash and brushing at their sleeve.

Inside, you set the pizza box down on your cluttered coffee table, ignoring the fresh layer of packing peanuts now adorning the floor. You glance at the still-wrapped drone sprawled in your living room and sigh.

“Dinner first,” you tell yourself. “Then I deal with... that .”

You sink back into your armchair, flipping open the pizza box and grabbing a slice. The comforting smell of melted cheese and grease does wonders for your mood.

For now, the packing peanuts, the mystery drone, and the fact that your living room looks like a warehouse explosion can wait.

Settling back into your armchair, pizza slice in hand, you grab the remote and navigate to your comfort channel on YouTube. There it is: the same documentary on dog breeds you’ve watched at least ten times. It’s a classic—a calm, soothing narration about Golden Retrievers, Border Collies, and other furry companions you’ll never afford on this salary.

The video starts playing, filling the room with the soft tones of the narrator explaining the origins of Labrador Retrievers. It’s a balm to your tired mind, a rare moment of peace in an otherwise chaotic day.

Chewing on a greasy bite of pizza, you let yourself sink into the familiar rhythm of the documentary. Golden Retrievers take center stage—loyal, intelligent, endlessly friendly. You smile faintly at the thought of how much better your day would’ve been with a dog like that around.

Meanwhile, in the entryway, the faintest whir of power surges through the room.

The figure you had wrestled out of the crate lies motionless for a moment longer, the glow of its internal systems softly flickering to life. Neon-white eyes flicker open, scanning its unfamiliar surroundings. Servos hum quietly as it shifts slightly, its metallic joints groaning under the heavy industrial padding still wrapped around it.

But you don’t notice. The narrator is now talking about Siberian Huskies, and you’re too busy nodding along to random facts you’ve already memorized.

The drone tilts its head slightly, its gaze locking onto the back of the couch where you sit.

“Known for their remarkable endurance and striking eyes, Huskies are popular among—”

Thunk.

The sound is subtle—just the drone trying to sit up and misjudging its balance, causing its arm to hit the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, briefly annoyed, but all you see is the mess of packing peanuts still scattered in the entryway. Shaking your head, you return to the video, muttering, “Need to clean that up... eventually.”

Behind you, the drone freezes, its eyes dimming briefly as it processes your presence. Then, it carefully starts removing the layers of industrial padding wrapped around its frame, each motion slow and deliberate.

The narrator is now discussing Dachshunds, but you don’t hear a word of it.

The sound of crinkling industrial padding finally breaks through the calm hum of the video. It’s too deliberate, too mechanical to be a random shift of packing materials.

You pause mid-bite, glancing toward the entryway again. At first, you don’t see anything unusual—just the mess of peanuts and the crumpled remains of the crate. But then you spot movement.

There, sitting amidst the chaos, is the drone.

Its neon-white eyes glow softly, locked onto you with a strange, unblinking intensity. Its metal frame is sleek yet slightly scuffed, its design somehow giving off an oddly professional yet approachable vibe. It’s dressed... well, oddly —a black blazer and matching pants, a gray blouse beneath, complete with a black tie. An armband sits snugly on its left bicep, and a black construction helmet tops its head, slightly askew from its recent escape.

For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other. The drone tilts its head, curious, the motion almost dog-like.

“Uh...” is all you manage to say.

Before you can figure out whether to yell, run, or demand an explanation, the drone perks up, springing to its feet with surprising energy.

“Oh, hi! You must be my new... um...” it pauses, blinking rapidly as though searching for the right word. “...Supervisor? Handler? New friend?”

You blink at it. Did it just say friend ?

“Whoa! Look at all these peanuts!” it says suddenly, crouching down to grab a handful. It tosses them into the air like confetti, its face lighting up with unrestrained glee. “It’s like a party! Is it a party? Am I late? I hope I’m not late. That’d be super embarrassing for a first impression.”

You set your pizza down, your appetite rapidly evaporating. “What... what are you doing?”

It pauses mid-peanut toss, tilting its head again. “Oh, sorry! I should probably introduce myself first, huh? I’m N!” It places a hand on its chest and gives you a clumsy bow, nearly losing its balance in the process. “Nice to meetcha!”

You blink at it again, still trying to process the whirlwind of words and energy.

“...You’re the drone they sent me,” you finally manage to say, your voice flat.

“Yup! That’s me!” N straightens up, grinning brightly. “They told me I’d be working with someone super capable and awesome, and—oh, wow, is that pizza? It smells amazing! What kind is it?”

“It’s—wait, no, you’re a robot. Why do you care what kind of pizza it is?”

N gasps, looking genuinely offended. “I don’t need to eat it to appreciate it! Pizza is, like, one of the coolest things humans ever made. Right up there with dogs.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling a headache coming on. “Okay, listen. I don’t know what they told you, but I’m not... whatever you think I am. I don’t even know how to—”

“Oh, don’t worry!” N interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m here to help you. That’s what I’m for! You don’t have to know anything . We’ll figure it out together!”

Its enthusiasm is almost contagious—almost. But you’ve worked here long enough to know better than to trust anything JCJenson throws your way.

Still, as you look at N, practically vibrating with excitement in your living room, you can’t help but think: this is not how you expected your weekend to go.

Your gaze shifts back to the chaos in the entryway. Packing peanuts are everywhere , scattered like confetti at the saddest parade ever. You sigh, rubbing your temples as the day’s frustration builds.

Then, you glance back at N, who’s still standing there, beaming at you like you’re the most fascinating person in the world. He’s got energy. He’s clearly not going anywhere.

“Might as well put it to use,” you mutter.

“Hey, uh... N,” you say, gesturing toward the mess.

“Yes, new friend?” he replies, practically bouncing on his heels.

You blink at the title but let it slide. “You see all those packing peanuts? Could you... maybe clean them up? I mean, since you’re here and all.”

N gasps, placing a hand over his chest like you’ve just given him the greatest honor in the world. “Of course ! Cleaning up peanuts! I’m on it !”

Before you can react, he drops to all fours with a metallic clink and starts scooping handfuls of peanuts toward the crate he was lying in minutes ago. His movements are fast and frantic, like an overenthusiastic puppy chasing a ball.

“This is so funny!” he chirps as he works, pausing to hold up a handful of the foam bits. “Humans use peanuts for packing! I didn’t even know peanuts were part of your packing culture. That’s adorable!”

He pauses, inspecting one of the packing peanuts closely, then—without warning—pops it into his mouth.

You freeze mid-step, staring at him in shock. “...Did you just—”

He chews thoughtfully, the faint sound of plastic crunching coming from somewhere in his mechanical frame. His eyes widen, and he makes a pleased noise. “Oh, wow! Salty and crunchy—wait, no, not salty. Just crunchy. Is this a new flavor of peanut?”

“N,” you interrupt, holding up a hand. “Those are not edible.”

He freezes, mid-reach for another one, tilting his head at you in confusion. “They’re... not?”

“No,” you say, half-exasperated, half-amused. “They’re foam. For packing. Not food.”

N’s expression shifts to something resembling disappointment, like a child told they can’t keep the stray puppy they found. “Oh,” he says, setting the remaining peanuts in his hand down carefully. “Well, they look kind of tasty. You know, in a fun, quirky way.”

You cross your arms, watching N tilt his head as if still debating whether or not the packing peanuts might secretly be delicious. His hand hovers near another piece of foam, and you decide to intervene.

“N,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose, “just... don’t eat anything that didn’t come from a kitchen, okay?”

He brightens up immediately, saluting you with an enthusiastic grin. “Got it! Only eat things from kitchens! Thanks for the tip!”

You nod, satisfied for all of two seconds before your brain catches up with what you just said.

“Wait,” you blurt, holding up a hand. “No, scratch that. You’re a robot . You shouldn’t be eating anything at all!”

N freezes, blinking at you in confusion. “Oh, right! I guess that makes sense!” He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “But, uh... what if it’s really interesting? Like, hypothetically?”

“ No eating ,” you reiterate firmly, pointing at him for emphasis.

He nods, looking appropriately chastised, though his gaze does linger wistfully on the pile of packing peanuts.

You sigh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

“Hey,” N says brightly, already back to scooping up the foam into the crate, “at least now I know! Mistakes are just learning opportunities, right?”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself, leaning back against the couch. “Sure, N. Let’s go with that.”

Watching him diligently clean up the rest of the mess, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve just signed up for the strangest babysitting job in history.

And the weekend isn’t even close to over.

Settling back into your chair, you grab the slice of pizza you’d hastily dropped earlier. It’s lukewarm now, but you’re too exhausted to care. You take a bite, letting the familiar narration of the dog breed documentary fill the silence as you try to decompress.

The buttery voice of the host is halfway through a segment on Golden Retrievers, their floppy ears and wagging tails parading across the screen in all their glory, when a shadow shifts in your peripheral vision.

“I’m done!” N announces cheerfully, his glowing eyes wide with pride as he stands in the entryway, the last of the packing peanuts corralled back into the crate. “It was super fun, by the way! Cleaning is kind of like a game if you think about it!”

You glance at him, raising a brow, but before you can respond, you notice his gaze has shifted.

He’s staring at the screen.

The Golden Retrievers frolic in slow motion, their soft fur rippling in the breeze. N’s eyes seem to glow brighter, transfixed by the scene. His smile widens to a point that almost feels too sincere for a robot.

“Wow,” he says softly, his voice filled with awe. He doesn’t look away as he speaks. “Are these... dogs?”

“Yeah,” you say, a bit caught off guard by his tone. “Golden Retrievers.”

“Golden Retrievers...” he repeats, as though savoring the words. “They’re so cute ! And fluffy! I didn’t know they could be so fluffy!”

You take another bite of your pizza, unsure how to respond. It’s not like you’ve ever had to explain dogs to a drone before.

N suddenly turns to you, his enthusiasm practically radiating. “Can I sit and watch with you?”

The question catches you completely off guard, and you nearly choke on your crust. “Uh—what?”

“I mean, if it’s okay!” N quickly adds, holding up his hands. “I don’t want to intrude or anything, but the dogs look so interesting, and I’d really like to see more of them! Oh, do they do tricks? Please tell me they do tricks!”

Your brain stutters, trying to process his rather innocent excitement. You eventually manage a shrug. “Uh... sure, I guess?”

“Really?” His grin somehow gets even wider.

Before you can say anything else, N plops down on the carpet in front of the screen, cross-legged like a kid at story time. He leans forward slightly, his eyes glued to the Golden Retrievers bounding across the screen, wagging their tails and fetching sticks.

You glance at him, then back at the screen, wondering how this became your life.

“Well,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for another slice, “at least someone’s enjoying themselves.”

As the documentary continues, the warm, familiar narration begins to blur in your mind. The host goes on about coat colors and temperament, their voice smooth and rhythmic, like an old lullaby.

You sink further into your chair, letting the tension from the day melt away. The soft glow of the screen flickers against the walls, and the occasional cheerful bark from a Golden Retriever is oddly soothing.

N, still cross-legged on the carpet, doesn’t make a sound. He’s utterly captivated by the dogs on-screen, his glowing eyes wide and unblinking.

Your own eyelids start to feel heavy. The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is the narrator explaining the ideal care routine for a Golden Retriever, their voice fading into the comforting hum of background noise.

The room grows quieter, save for the faint sound of paws splashing in a creek and N's soft murmur.

“Good dogs,” he whispers to himself, his gaze still fixed on the screen.

And with that, the day finally comes to an end.

As you sleep peacefully in the chair, N moves quietly around the room. His eyes glow softly in the dim light as he notices your plate, abandoned with half-eaten crusts. He picks it up with careful hands, carrying it to the kitchen, his movements as smooth and precise as ever. The sound of water running for a brief moment is the only disruption in the silence.

After he’s finished washing the plate, he turns back to you. The TV still glows faintly, the soft sounds of the dog documentary now lost in the stillness of the room. N doesn’t hesitate. He picks up a blanket from the couch and gently drapes it over you, making sure you’re tucked in just right.

He pauses for a moment, watching you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest. A small, almost imperceptible smile crosses his face.

“Good night,” he whispers, barely above a breath.

With that, he powers off, the room growing still and quiet, your only company the gentle hum of the world outside.

[monkmain2]

I figured if I were to post these pictures here I might as well include the whole thing

extremely long page of text below the cut

his idea has been rattling around in my brain like a little gremlin who just snorted five lines of coke and drank an entire can of monster energy

I was extremely reluctant to actually get this idea out there because my little autism creechur brain was 100% convinced that it was the most cringy shit ever created and i would be violently and incessantly beaten down by the very fact that i had posted something so blasphemous on the internet by my very own conscience

But at this point i feel like there’s no point in keeping it in or else it’ll just infect my brain forever and i’ll never be able to think about anything else so if it is disgustingly cringy i suppose i’ll just have to embrace the cringe and deal with it

Ok fine admittedly if it is cringe i’ll probably just disable reboots and comments on this post and adamantly deny its existence if anyone brings it up

Ok so uh it’s a concept for an alternate UTMV

God this is so fucking cringe i hate it already why am i like this

I don’t even want to keep going why is this so cringe to my gremlin brain

AHEM

So uh

It’s sorta an expansion of that “UTMV but Ink is really fucking short” idea i had a while ago

So like it’s like when Ink tried to destroy his soul it did the refusing to shatter thing for no particular reason other than i couldn’t think of a better way to cobble together an explanation for why he still has one

So it still made all his memories go away but it also reverted him back to the age in which such a mentality would be expected aka a baby

As for how he left his AU after this that’s something that i have to talk about Nightmare and Dream’s weird convoluted story in this AU for you to understand

So unlike normal Dreamtale instead of Dream being a perfect angel that everyone loves and Nightmare being jealous of him he’s a belligerent little shit with anger issues that everyone just kind of puts up with because he’s the guardian of positivity so they can’t really hate him

Nightmare isn’t jealous of him and is instead self-conscious because everyone hates him for no reason even though he’s just a shy bean who’s trying his best and he thinks something must be wrong with him

So one day some kids decide that it would be fun to climb the tree and steal an apple. Nightmare sees them doing this and climbs after them, and they get into a slight scuffle which ends with one kid falling out of the tree with a couple apples. When Nightmare goes to make sure he’s ok, the kid shoves an apple in his mouth for bullying reasons.

Nightmare does the whole explodey goop thing, but he doesn't go crazy or anything, and instead it hurts so much he accidentally thrashes his tentacles too much and levels the whole area, killing the kids and obliterating the tree.

Dream comes running and yells at Nightmare for destroying the tree and killing the kids even though it’s clearly not his fault. And then uuuh i don’t really know the other stuff about Dreamtale after the whole Nightmare eating all the apples part so bing bang boom some shit happens and now Dreamtale is uninhabitable and Dream and Nightmare decide to fuck off and go protect the multiverse instead.

Dream solves all his problems with violence and Nightmare solves his problems by either pretending to have an intent to kill or curling up on the floor and crying. (he just like me fr (i’m totally not projecting here (why would you think such a thing))) also Dream isn’t allowed to enter the Omega timeline for anger management reasons

Some bullshit happens that results in a Swap!Sans exiting his universe right as a reset happens so that’s how i shoehorn Blue into being a character

Also Error is still here by the way he’s still destroying universes and stuff nothing much is different about him

Speaking of Error, at one point he notices Ink’s AU and moseys on over to destroy it as usual. Nightmare and Blue jump in to protect the AU, but when they realize Ink is the only one there, they decide to just distract Error instead of actually fighting him while they get Ink out of there. Blue grabs Ink, and Ink uses his magic AU powers or whatever to sense the coordinates of Blue’s AU and teleports there to get away from Error. After they get Ink to the Doodlesphere, (Error can’t go the the Doodlesphere in this AU) they realise they can’t just dump him in the Omega timeline, because if he gets stressed he’ll read the coordinates of someone's AU and teleport there, and there are so many characters from so many AUs there, it’ll be unreasonably difficult to find him if he does. so they decide that the best course of action is to keep him in the Doodlesphere to protect him from Error themselves.

Oh yeah Ink is also mute for some reason

That’s pretty much it i think

Vaguely related rant time!!!!!!!!!!!

Honestly I don't think posting about this will help me stop thinking about it. In order to, like, not get bored in the undertale fandom, you have to constantly make AUs because focusing on one AU doesn't really work unless you want an extremely convoluted story that drags on forever. The only other option is to make an alternate multiverse, so you can just fuck about with no real storyline. But that gets old too after a while, and if I don't have access to drawing tools I just get lost in this one repeating storyline with stupid amounts of angst because it’s not interesting without angst. 

Being in a fandom does kind of stifle your creativity after a while, but the very fact that I'm hyperfixated on undertale makes it hard to tear myself away and try other things even if I know I should. That’s part of the reason I'm trying to get back into writing my wolf story, so I have something else to think about,. the problem with that is, it isn’t an open storyline. I know how it’ll end and what will happen next, so I can't really imagine random circumstances to chuck the characters into since that would never realistically happen in the world I created.

The moral of the story is my school better fix the weird restrictions on every single decent drawing website in existence or I might explode

My god this entire thing spans two and a half pages of a google doc i had to make a new one just to write this without it lagging

[tyramir]

A Spoiler-Filled Rant about Veilguard

This isn't spoiler-intensive, per se, but there is one thought that has been rattling through my brain through the entirety of playing Veilguard. And it has to do with how villains are presented in Dragon Age: Origins and Dragon Age II, versus how they are presented in Inquisition and Veilguard.

(Minor) Spoilers to follow under the cut.

Dragon Age: Origins presents the Darkspawn horde as a traditional fantasy villain trope. It's easy to understand, easy to get the depth of the problem, but it's difficult to counter. Because the entirety of Dragon Age: Origins isn't about fighting the Darkspawn. It's about fighting the problems that get in the way of you fighting the Darkspawn.

You need to gather allies, and it's in the gathering of allies that you encounter your trials and Hero's Journey. And they are all poetic, in a way.

In Redcliffe, to recruit the local Arl, you find him poisoned, further complicated by his son being possessed by a demon. Your attempt to recruit a political ally with ties to the Chantry is confounded both by politics and blood magic.

For the Elves, self-styled guardians of nature, you find them at war with nature itself.

For the Dwarves, stalwart fighters bound by tradition, you are forced to decide for them to either break with tradition, or become enslaved by it.

There's a theme to each ally, and a cleverness to your struggles. And while the Darkspawn are your primary enemy, the end goal of the campaign, the ultimate antagonist of the story is Loghain, a beautifully written enemy (I refuse to call him a 'villain') because he is very complicated in his motivations and goals. He has reasons -- good reasons, albeit short-sighted and misguided -- for doing what he does. He is a patriot. And it is that patriotism that may ultimately doom his nation.

In Dragon Age 2, Meredith and Orsino are presented as the villains of the story. They have complicated motivations and reasons for doing what they do. Meredith wants to protect regular people from Mages and blood magic. Orsino wants to protect Mages from overzealous Templars.

But the antagonist of the story is ultimately Anders, your own party member, who knocks over the board and makes an overcomplicated mess into a veritable clusterfuck. He damns himself and all other Mages by purposely making himself the villain of the story to begin a war. He seeks to make himself and all other Mages in Kirkwall martyrs so that others around the world will unite under one banner, declaring, "No more."

Whether or not what Anders does is Good or Evil is for every individual player to decide. Even if you side with him and try to defend the Mages from the wrath of the Templars, you can still come to the conclusion that his actions were Evil. There's nuance. It's great. Dragon Age 2 has a lot of flaws and some disjointed storytelling because of its format, but where it succeeds is in the questions the antagonist forces you to ask yourself.

And now we get to Inquisition and Veilguard.

They both have Solas. And they use Solas as a crutch. Inquisition does it in a clever way. You aren't aware that Solas is the Great Orchestrator. You think the villain is Corypheus, a D-tier villain with boring motivations and cliched dialogue.

Inquisition would have failed as a narrative if not for Solas. Corypheus was a good villain for a Dragon Age 2 optional DLC. He was a shit antagonist for a full game. He was bland, his goals were bland, his methods of achieving them were bland, and his allies were bland. Everything he did was Generic Fantasy white bread bullshit.

And that's okay. Because he wasn't the Actual Antagonist. Solas was. And I've seen so many interpretations and theories and reads over the years on what really defines Solas, that I can't help to feel that most of them are at least a little bit true.

Is he an Elf-supremacist? Maybe. Does he look down on Humans and Qunari? Debatable. Is he 'just trying to fix things he broke'? Probably. Is he living in the past, unable to move on? You bet.

And then we hit Veilguard.

And we know the main villain of this game is Solas. It was originally titled 'Dreadwolf', after all. But Solas is stuck in a prison of his own making for the majority of the game. So, instead, we get Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain.

And honestly, these two... Elgar'nan is Corypheus 2.0. Ghilan'nain is What if Corypheus Was Also Hojo from FF7.

We just had this formula last game. It *barely* worked. And it only worked in the end because of a surprise reveal. Solas was a complicated antagonist, to be sure, but it worked ultimately because we didn't know he was the antagonist.

So, now we're doing the exact same formula as Inqusition. Present a Very Boring Villain as the surface antagonist, but because the stakes need to be higher, we are given two Very Boring Villains as surface antagonists. And to really hammer in that the stakes are higher, hey, remember how Dragon Age: Origins was about fighting an Archdemon in command of a Blight? Well, now we have two Archdemons. At the same time.

And that's what Veilguard is ultimately trying to do. It's giving you everything you've seen before, but upping the stakes and fewer moral complications and poetic twists. There's no dramatic irony to be had here.

Elgar'nan's entire character arc can be summed up with one phrase:

"WHat DO yOU meAn yOU do NoT All WAnT To bE mY slAVEs?"

Ghilan'nain's:

"WHat Do yOU meAn yOU do NoT All WAnT To bE eXPerIMeNTs?"

We are given two entitled assholes as villains, whining they do not instantly get total and complete dominion over the entire world and all of reality, and are expected to take them seriously. There is no pathos, no sympathetic motivations, no nuance, nothing.

The only depth to any villainous character we get is in Solas. And all that work had already been done in Inquisition. Veilguard coasts on that. Some part of me hoped that maybe Elgar'nan wasn't 100% evil. That maybe some of what he was saying and what he was doing was right. That maybe the war with the Forgotten Ones led him down a dark path of hubris and tragedy. That Elgar'nan was trying to save the world from horrors beyond our comprehension. That Ghilan'nain was preparing us for a war we could not win. The Forgotten Ones, or the Forbidden Ones, or some other grand threat, could have been presented as a Reaper-equivalent Mass Effect style antagonist that they were preparing us against. We could have had that story.

We didn't get it.

We got two selfish nepo-babies instead. And then that final conclusion to the Solas 'problem.'

I've said before. I like Veilguard. I am not here to condemn the game. I don't want to sound like I hate what we got. But damn, we could have had so much more.

[notyourmamasdeerbat]

WIP Wednesday!

Happy Wednesday, my dears! Thank you @hedwigoprah for the tag, I admit to scrounging around a bit for what to share because I too have kind of been in a brain rain dryspell. I have this layout for Chapter 5 of Carry the Dagger? I guess? It's a long one, and an irritated one. Rocks were thrown and yes, Solas-es were harmed in the making of this video. So. CW: Egg?

“You have no idea what you have done.” The voice pierced the darkness, cold and forbidding, echoing all around them. Rook wobbled, head fuzzy as the crumbling landscape swam into focus. The place was cosmic. Massive and uneven, spirals of ancient stone drifting on the horizon as if through currents of a massive ocean. “Solas…?” They jerked at an echoing footstep with a sharp inhale, and there he was, arms folded behind him, maybe ten steps away.  “You– fucking–!” Rook hit the dirt, scrambling to snatch up a hunk of colorless stone, and they hurled it at the mage as hard as they could.  It arced, distance expanding, and plummeted into the chasm that suddenly yawned between them.  Solas’ lip curled, disdain written across his angular features.  “You bald, lying, cheating, irresponsible, tiny di–” Rook took a breath, shoulders heaving as they curled their hands into fists, dizzy from a head rush and the shifting landscape. “I know what I did! And I’d do it again! Wipe that stupid look off your face, I stopped you from destroying the world.”  “I was not destroying the world!” He insisted, shouting, his brows furrowing with agony, voice raw with frustration. His voice carried power here, rattling Rook’s bones. “When you disrupted my ritual,” he snarled, all sharp canines and wrinkled nose. “The magical energies pulled me here, into the Fade.”  “Not my fucking problem, pal,” Rook tossed back, jabbing a trembling finger. “Your physical body is unconscious,” Solas retorted, in a tone that suggested Rook would be wise to listen. “But you shed a few drops of blood at the ritual site. Enough to form a tenuous connection.”  “Blood magic?” Rook reared back, reeling, wishing for nothing more in all the world than to vault the stone hands and blackened ravine and rip his fucking ears off.  “Firstly, I abhor the use of blood magic–” he thundered, scowling. “ –Secondly,” came his voice from behind them, out of reach. “Had I the power to control you, I would have already used it.”  Rook whirled, eyes wide and accusatory as his shadow crested the twisting brambles and stone steps disorientingly in what had been their blindspot. Their heart was pounding in their chest. Fear. Real fear. They slashed a hand through the air. “Don't do that.”  Solas scoffed. “You yet live. Can you not comprehend what this is?”   Rook ground their teeth, tone thick with the disgust that boiled in their belly. “You hurt Varric. I can’t believe you.” Solas’ expression faltered. The barest flicker of hesitation. Of guilt. 

POV: An old trickster god that your ex boss and coworkers were very familiar with and your new boss actually was coworkers with addresses you for the first time and first thing you do is try to bash his skull in with a ghost rock. Just Dragon Age things. also this!

“This is it.” “Oh.” Lucanis frowned, hands on hips as he examined the first gate– the path between the Fade’s mountainous formations overgrown with interlocking briars as thick as grown men, its center locked by a steel bound brass socket, carved with ancient glyphs. “The glyphs are in ancient elvhen. I can read pieces of it, pick out certain words, but the rest is gibberish to me. Bellara says it could be a poem, or the spoken incantation that brought this thing into being– but it’s both Blight and blood magic. And lots of it.” Rook tapped their foot, craning their neck to scowl up at the monstrous barrier. The Crossroads teemed with life around them, chattering wisps drifting along in herds through the air. One whizzed by Rook’s head before jerking to a halt and giving Lucanis a wide berth.

Next stop, Minrathous! Before the Bad Times! :D They are waiting on Neve, who overslept a little. She's working on a case that definitely probably won't be relevant later. Trust me. Don't look over here. [slides in front of my massive threaded theory board that is mostly just badly drawn doodles of all the companions with hearts everywhere] Anyway. WAM BAM GET TAGGED

@emmieloumay @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @andthekitchensinkao3 @draco-illius-noctis @velvet-apricots @fenrelmercar

[ladyofrings]

The Trials of Sauron

Continued from Saurons Fall - TW: war, elven children at war, blood, violence, death, mention of loss, uncomfortable self-reflection and a little bit of smut.

This chapter was written by @/carleywithasea, who's always making me the happiest by bringing my ideas to life

My 🖌️ AO3 -> My Masterlist

“When things are in danger: some one has to give them up, 

lose them, so that others may keep them.” 

– Frodo, Return of the king

Mandos spoke at last, his voice like the echo of the world’s first song. “Your plea is heard. Her path shall be her own, untainted by your shadow. As for you—your atonement lies not in words, but in the deeds yet to come.”

Mairon bowed his head, tears slipping unbidden from his eyes. He did not dare to hope for his own forgiveness. But the thought of Lothien, free and whole in Valinor, was enough to sustain him. If the Valar willed it, he would endure.

And in time, perhaps, in an age yet to come, the light he once lost might be granted to him again.

Mairon did not hesitate. He was willing to throw himself upon hot coals, to plunge again into the ocean with the weight of a city upon his head, he would relive her death for centuries struggling to save her if it meant that his Lothien, soft and innocent corrupted by his touch and presence would be a step closer to her own redemption. 

“Be aware, your success does not ensure the fate you desire. Should you fail, an agony beyond death and eternal waiting will consume you,” Mandos decreed. 

Mairon was no afforded the chance to speak. Instead, the word around him rippled, changed. A weigh settled upon his shoulders, making them feel as frail and weak as they had never been. He had felt more powerful and whole with the weight of the ocean upon his shoulders. 

He blinked, realizing his eyes were closed. Around him is war. He touches his armor, so light and too dense. Every breath ripped through his lungs and across his throat, raw and painful. The stench of death, blood, and fear filled him with every inhale. A horse thundered past him, nearly kicking him as it hurries. It tosses its head, the forehead colliding with Sauron’s and rattling his brain. He stumbled, pressing his hand to his head only to find a sword there. 

His chest ached as if something was incomprehensively, but intrinsically wrong. He felt his rib, but an orc came at him, huge, twice his size, and terrible. It roared an incomprehensible language while swinging at him. Sauron raised his blade that looked more like a knife in response to the huge weapon the beast wielded. 

When their weapons collided, Mairon’s arm shook with unfamiliar weakness. His muscles strained and worse, so much worse, was the fear. It ripped across him, tore through him, threatened to unthread his mind and dissolve him in insanity. No matter how he battled, the best he could do was hold the Orc back until someone ravaged it. Yet, that wasn’t the end. The orc fell on top of him, the blade grazing his ear. He turned to look at his own reflection as his throat closed, cutting off the all too necessary air supply while his lungs wailed for help. 

Every muscle in his body yearned to run, to throw down the helmet that was too large and fling himself into the corners of the world where safety lurked. 

Turning his head, he found not his own face watching and judging his pathetic reaction to a battle he would have won easily even on his last day, he found not the face of a man capable and worthy of war ... he found the face of an elven child. Terror, cold and paralyzing filled the child’s blue eyes. His face was covered in blood and mud except where obvious tears had cleaned it from his face and revealed the pale skin beneath. He was missing half of one ear. He was too young for this. Too young to understand weaponry, to hold a true sword, to understand how to move, how to dodge, how to attack. He was barely older than the foggy dream Lothien had revealed only days before her death. 

While staring at his own face, a low grunt echoed and pain exploded across the frail body, emanating from the side. Sauron’s mouth opened with the child’s as pain filled the spaces where his blood was draining. 

My mother ... my little sister ... please let them be safe. Let my death be enough to spare them this, let ... them ... live ... 

Before Mairon could process that, he was thrown into a nearly destroyed forge. He didn’t need to think to remember this. Eregion again – the ruined forge. He could practically see Lothien teasing him from a table, motioning him forward with the crook of her finger while spreading her legs with a teasing smile. He could see himself walking to her, pulling her against him, kissing her and saying any amount of time between them was far too long. He closed his eyes and remembered her kissing him hungrily, diving into him without care. 

The soft warmth radiating from her, the innocence in every lovely curve, her impossibly gentle nature, the way her thighs wrapped around him as if they were natural before grinding on him and telling him that the forge was empty, to imagine how her moans would echo for him. He’d groaned and undone his pants, told her that he wouldn’t strip her just in case which had only made her more determined to work him up. 

She’d pulled her skirts all the way over her hips until he’d thrust into her. He’d bent her back over the table and held one hand over her mouth to quiet her moans so they were for him alone. He’d guided her hand between her legs, spreading her fingers around where their bodies met and telling her to show him how good it felt to have him there. 

Her wet heat engulfed him, squeezed around him every time he pounded into her. He’d watched her breasts bounced, bent down and bit the skin of her cleavage, telling her that when they got home they’d be twice as intense, that he’d leave no inch of her untouched because she belonged to him and him alone. 

He opened his eyes and instead saw devastation. An older woman, one who had long been working in the forge – now battered, bruised, with open burn wounds and a limp – sobbed as she picked up bent swords, ruined half-finished swords. 

“They’ll never be finished,” she whimpered. “Celebrimbor ... Lothien ... so many gone for what? They didn’t ... they didn’t take anything. They didn’t do anything. All we did was work and play.” 

He shuddered as he looked her over. He stepped out of the forge, unable to stand the ruin here, the dust, the dead crumpled under pieces of ceiling and impaled on weapons. A forge turned uninterred grave. The city was no better. Smoldering remains replaced the buildings he remembered. He could not walk far without corpses. Mothers screamed their children’s names before collapsing at a too small body that never should have known the sharpness of a blade at their young age. 

Trying to escape the suffering, he sprinted to the river where he’d spent so much time with Lothien. Innocent moments, moments of pure lust. It was their own paradise and now ... it was burned, trees stopped the river and it was almost a mercy thanks to the bodies and blood piling against the bark. He shook his head. This was theirs – it was pure, it was happy it was right and now it’s utterly destroyed, marred by ... 

By my own games, my own deceit, he realized. 

He dropped to his knees, but his legs weren’t softened by the grass. Instead, he was in Núrn. One of the captives, staring at the armies, knowing death was riding closer and closer with nothing to do but wait for it. Helpless, hopeless, and alone. Utterly alone. Sauron left no survivors. Sauron knew no mercy. Sauron would murder simply for the sake of it, wipe the world of everyone. 

Again and again, every attempt to escape the suffering that sunk deeper and deeper in him, as if he was drowning in it, only brought him closer and closer. It wrapped around him like hands of the dead, pulling him into an open grave to watch as he was buried. Yet it was him – his old self - Sauron doing the burying. Every weight of dirt a measure of his own ill will flipped upon him. There was no control, there was only violence. There was no peace, only rotting corpses collecting flies, mothers who were never meant to out live their children, lovers forever waiting for their partner to return to them, friends that would never get another moment together, another hug. 

No longer was Sauron heaping dirt on Mairon from above. Instead, his own form was beating him with the shovel, driving the tip into Sauron’s weak, helpless and hopeless body, so suffused with agony that even death seems like a mercy because it stopped the longing, it stopped the hope that they’d come home, it stopped the constant empty ache that sucked the joy out of living entirely. 

Total ruthlessness would have been more of a mercy than leaving survivors to pick up the ruins, to rebuild and still, still always remember the ones they lost and could not bury, the ones they lost too soon, the horror, the terror, the stagging helplessness that paralyzed and weighed down once able bodies. 

There were worse things than death and Sauron had heaped death and the agony of living upon those he swore he was teaching obedience. All he’d taught them was to suffer in silence, to hate, to reject any happiness because it meant having something to lose. 

It ripped him apart, smaller and smaller until he begged for the tether of life to snap, not for the hope of peace, but for the hope of abject and total nothingness. It would be a balm. A darker part of him whispered, this is what you deserve. What you reap, what you deliver, is what returns to you. If they could bear it, so must you. 

Yet, the other part of his soul swore that he could have survived it. That with his pride and drive he could have even survived losing Lothien if only given the time. 

That crushing loss filled his throat like damp soil, choking him on the sucking, gaping nothingness that he welcomed simply to stop clinging to the happy memories he could never have again, the unwavering knowledge that nothing would be as it was. He would have carved out his own heart rather than face the shocking emptiness left in her wake and yet he still had a home. He’d left so many with nothing, obliterated entire family, demolished towns and cities, destroyed history, lives, memories of the lost until their names were little more than fog evaporating. 

That was true suffering – hating the happiness and enduring the terrible simply because the only other option was death. And for the dead, an unremembered life, a death that blended with too many others – no honor, no nobility, only meaningless sacrifice that more often than not was in vain. 

As that thought sunk into him, Mairon felt something shift. It was beyond definition, yet it felt like progression, to something new. He sunk through his own grave and found himself in another world, another time, unable to fully understand what was laid out before him. 

A sorrowful, pitiful corpse of a city set atop a barren earth. He turned and slowly drank in his new reality. The knowledge slowly filled his mind. Arda. The earth was scarred and war-ravaged, leaving it hardly hospitable or willing to yield, yet people meandered about. Some tried to break open scorch earth and force seeds deep, squeezing their sweat soaked clothing over the seeds while then looking up at the blackened skies in search of rain. 

He moved through the city, watching others rush from place to place. Move this stone here, create a fire there, calls for medicine, sobbing at the confirmed loss of others, cooking what they could, saving who could be saved. Despite the hopelessness, these humans without so much as a single magical ability or god to help them persisted. They refused to die, refused to cower, refused to let themselves be broken by the almost senseless chaos Sauron had rained down on them. 

We did so well, there is nearly nothing left. They will learn obedience, some darker voice whispered within him.

“Help!” Someone else yelled, banishing that voice. 

A man, at least sixty, was fighting a large piece of rubble blocking the only entrance to a home. A woman just as frail joined him, trying to pick at the stone, trying to get in to where soft, muffled cries could be heard. Even those being healed or treated for life-threatening injuries sought to leave their reprieve and comfort for the sake of another. 

Had Sauron ever done such a thing? Had Halbrand? Had Annatar? Had Mairon? 

He tried to swallow the needles of his guilt, shame, and pride. He pushed himself to assist. No magic backed his efforts. There were no strength in his exhausted shoulders or his weakened state, yet he fought with the stone, scraping his hands, inviting the pain as a fitting punishment for all he caused. 

With every push he thought of Lothien. How often had she overextended herself? She’d worked as an ambassador, had checked in on the forge, had healed people when medicine seemed to fail them, and would return home to take care of herself. 

Enough help forced the stone to yield revealing three children, the oldest not but ten and a badly injured woman. The children had found a way to collect water, had dressed the woman’s wounds as best as possible, had pulled together scraps of food to do their best though they should have had been forced to learn such things. Marion stared for a moment. 

His hands ached, he was bloody and exhausted, every muscle screaming, his legs shaking, yet only the children were being seen to, screaming for their mother who was only gasping out shallow breaths, resigned to her fate. 

His mind twisted to Lothien who would not let her own exhaustion excuse inaction. How many times had she come home after the sun and still made dinner because he hadn’t? He’d assumed that cleaning occasionally, making dinner every other night, allowing her to take care of him, being sweet with her was enough. When she’d had longer days, he’d done nothing to help because ‘she’s exhausted herself’ or ‘she was fine before I came along and I like her strength’ or ‘if she wanted help she would ask for it.’ All such reasons seem terrible considering she would always find a smile for him, cook even while resting against the counter and shifting on her feet as if trying to hide her pain. 

Gritting his teeth, Marion walked to the woman and picked her up. He was ignored by others, but that was hardly the point. There was no glory in helping an injured woman like this. There was no honor in taking her to a makeshift healing area, then obediently seeking out the drugs he was asked for. There was nothing relating to grace or kindness. This was simple necessity. 

He couldn’t stop once he started. He reigned oxen and set up a proper plow. He helped collect the remains of buildings for fires, spears, tools, and foundations for the new buildings. He insisted on cooking when he could, he would not be done no matter how his feet ached, no matter the constant grinding in his knees, the exhaustion fogging his mind and weighing his eyelids. 

Men twice his age were continuing. Children refused to play, only to work. Women, pregnant, starving, injured, or heartbroken pushed onward as if they knew that the thankless work must be done and shying from it would only elongate the effort needed. 

Day after day, he woke to others working, cursing himself because he had been so lazy when he had the most to prove. Night after night, he found more work to be done and did it no matter the blisters and callouses on his hands. No matter his screaming muscles, no matter the lack of thanks or pleasantries, he worked. 

Whenever the load became too heavy, he thought of Lothien. Lothien who took an arrow because she refused to stop. Lothien who could have run again and again, whenever things were difficult, but fought, always found a way to help despite her limitations. 

It was fitting he had no assistance of his past abilities. Those past abilities had caused this pain and he was left to correct it. The weight fell on his shoulders, not these people, yet none wanted any applause or reward. They do not want control or recognition. They only want things to be as they were. 

And working alongside the broken and weak, he understood the unique pleasure and agony of trying to make something out of almost nothing. Mairon understood in that moment that his dominion had failed. No amount of orders, no amount of his past power would fix this. Only labor would and only labor would allow him any peace. He had left so many to try to rebuild after destroying homes, families, civilizations, and existence as they knew it. 

Sauron would never be able to repay the sins he’d committed, but Mairon could at least shoulder the burden of working harder than those who were suffering losses of their body, minds and hearts. Better, he could do it without expecting anything but the bare minimum to stay alive in return. He was no better than any of these humans. 

He was far worse, deserved far less, and ensured that was what he got. Perhaps it was a form of punishing himself or perhaps, perhaps he finally understood where he stood without his abilities and finally understood what he’d left behind. Not a people welcoming obedience and his rule, but a people so ravaged and broken that it was all they could to rebuild a form of normality from the skeleton of the stability that had been stolen from them. 

The world faded to black and rather than simply slipping into another reality, he heard Mandos’s voice. It filled his very soul, unwelcome but all consuming. You are to create something solely for the sake of another. No pride, no selfishness. Forge a work of healing, of pure intention. No weapon, no cursed artifact ... 

He found himself in a forge, but with more than simple metal at his fingertips. There were so many options that he could hardly imagine the kind of power offered in front of him. He could create everything needed to escape this purgatory and get back to Lothien. 

If your heart is not sincere your hands will fail you. Should they fail you, you will not get another chance. You will not move on. You will linger here unable to make anything. 

The threat was profound, yet he couldn’t stop thinking of Lothien. Lothien who was lost to him. Perhaps she was wandering, desperate to find him or peace. How many of those he killed, himself, by his command, by his will or the fall out were wandering, unable to find their families, unable to find their solid ground. 

He couldn’t help but think of Mirdania. His brow knitted as he saw her across from him at the table. Her sure hands, determined to place weapons in the arms of those who could wield them for protection. He saw her laughing with Lothien as they talked about crafting rings, crafting beautiful fittings for building, lovely filigree and additions. Mirdania who he overhead teasing Lothien about making her wedding band and an elegant tiara since she was sure that Lothien would marry Annatar. 

He hated it. He hated thinking of the innocent woman that he shoved, the woman who never needed to die. She was loyal to him. She backed him. She was compassionate and kind, slowly finding her place in the world as Mairon once had, as Lothien did. And yet he forced her death. What would she have crafted if Eregion stood. 

The pain he feels, Lothien’s pain, Mirdania’s pained face as she fell, as she looked up at him with undying hope, confusion, betrayal before she was murdered while dying. He could still hear the crushing blow. 

His hands shook as he started collecting metal. In every thrust of metal into the flame, he felt his own fury turn inward, curling around his body. Instead of thrusting towards another, it claimed him, bit by bit, burning away all the progress he thought he made in the last session. Still he could feel the blisters across his hands. Still he felt the ache in his body and bones as if he had aged a dozen human years. 

Every blow of his hammer to better shape the metal brought him back to Lothien’s smile as she worked in the forge, as she smiled for others. And other memories stirred beneath the surface. Celebrimbor welcoming him into the forge simply because Lothien asked and Lothien could never vouch for someone terrible. He remembered the Uruk-Hai that stood beside Lothien for far too long without every questioning himself or his allegiance to her. He never overstepped. 

The thought of Lothien taking the ring from him and promising to protect it simply because she loved him. Was it out of love? Or was it out of forced obedience? She’d kissed him like she would never let him go. She held to him as if she would rather die in his arms than ever be separated, yet he’d forced it. Would she love him at all if he had not filled her veins with his power before he revealed who he truly was? 

He continued crafting, curling the metal, shaping it and questioning himself along the way. Better memories filled his mind. Laughing with friends at the tavern before meeting Lothien. He’d had no reason to be there. He was not plotting, simply ... enjoying the moment despite his determination to simply blend in. He thought of those few safe moments with Galadriel before she found him out. Her smiles, their partnership, the bond forged through protecting one another and doing ‘right.’ He’d forgotten his plans so many times over the years. 

He’d cooked for Lothien without her asking because he wanted to ease her burden. He found the tapestry of her life and asked, then comforted her despite not knowing how, despite never having been comforted in that life. He thought of when he’d sing for his master, not merely due to an order, but for the pleasure of singing. 

He hardly thought of his hands as he powered forward. He thought of Lothien, thought of the people who interacted with her. The smiles, the way they opened themselves to her in ways a part of him had always envied as he’d had to hide. He’d told himself it was because she didn’t need to know. He’d told himself that if anyone knew his true form they’d scorn him, expose him, and his plans would not come to fruition. Perhaps that was part of it, but now, while adding filigree he never would have added before, taking the care to make it beautiful not merely functional, he senses a different motive. 

Mairon was terrified. He was terrified that Lothien would be unable to love someone as loathsome as him. He shoved his name so far back in his throat he was unable to choke on it, only live with it because it would divide him and Lothien. 

He removed the opportunity for her to love him anyway. 

Sauron tainted her in his selfishness. He couldn’t find a peaceful existence without her because Lothien, her smile, her laugh, the feel of her body against his while they slept, knowing he’d wake up to her affection and warmth seemed to right the world even if his plans moved at the pace that mountains grow. Lothien deserved more. Mirdania deserved more. So many people he harmed and stripped of power for what? 

Their purity should have saved them. Their kindness, their peace, their willing sacrifice, such as the child who’s last moments Mairon lived, all of that should have meant something. Why didn’t it? Why didn’t their innocence save them? Why didn’t their goodness survive? 

He refused to believe that his evil was so pervasive and so sharp that it could snuff out hope, yet ... yet he had to take ownership of what he’d done. Armies don’t spare the good. A body is a body and innocence and mercy only serves to kill easier. 

Even with her power beyond conception, Lothien had not killed. She had maimed. She had burned rations. She had guided arrows to empty tents. She had spared lives because at her core she was pure, not matter his corruption coursing through her. 

She had forgiven him the sin of bringing her back to life. She had held him after he revealed who he was. She had been constant forgiveness – tainted and more ruthless, yes, but forgiveness all the same – his mercy, his heart beating in another body, holding all the softness that had been ripped from him. 

That was still no excuse. No apology will revive those past. No act of contrition will undo what had been done or free the waters of blood, free the earth of death, free the unconscious of nightmares. All he can do, all he can craft is an option, a guidance. 

He can harness his clumsy attempts at soothing Lothien, the gently strokes through her hair, the gentle brushes of his hands as he bathed her, the soft words purred into her skin as he made love to her, the tenderness of holding her long after she’d fallen asleep simply to calm her, into something tangible. He could fashion the torn and weak shreds of his love, could morph his attempts at comfort, foreign and uncomfortable, into a guiding light for spirits to cling to, so they, like he, could find their way through darkness of their own making or of death to a comfort of their own memory. 

Shuddering, he stepped back from the lantern he’d created. It was large, would require a power he no longer had to lift, yet it was beautiful, gilded and ornate with blooms shaped by gold and silver. Sweeping stories of softness across the planes of glass he made as well – imperfect, with swirls and opaqueness, yet there nonetheless. 

Mairon lifted a shaking hand to trace the one memory of his own he’d woven into the lantern – the best rendition he could make of Lothien’s hair pin. He’d gotten it for her simply because she had to have it. It belonged to her before she saw it. It belonged to her now, woven into her long locks before she turned back at him and smiled gently, pressing a kiss and a ‘thank you’ against his jaw. 

He felt less than the lantern. Not as stoic, not as strong, not as regal, not as mighty. He felt colder than it even as it cooled. He felt flimsy and lost, unsure of his own purpose, yet he lit the wick within and watched it burn blue before disappearing. He reached out for it, wanting to heft it high, to gain the strength to hold it no matter how it frustrated him. 

Without a sense of time, without a sense of place, he found himself trying to grasp at the darkness. He had never felt so exposed, had never shared so much of himself. Swords were the same; a sharp edge, an unfailing hilt, and it would pass. Mairon, Sauron, either way he had exposed too much of himself and wanted to reclaim it, hide it, melt it down so no one would see what he lacked, his haphazard and imperfect attempt to create something he’d only seen glimpses of. 

When he tried to reach for the lantern again, sure it was there, he tumbled forward and into what seemed to be a court. He stood in the middle, surrounded by shuffling, mumbling shadows. Only his area was lit. Where was the Sauron who savored such attention, commanded it, wielded it as naturally as he wielded his control?

Instead, he felt as if every secret he’d hidden, every terrible deed that was indeed terrible in his new perspective were laid out around him for judgement. He found his tongue heavier, drier, dirt in his mouth that he couldn’t cough free. 

Now, now you listen and answer. No lie will pass your lips without consequence and answer you must. The weight of your answer determines the weight of your sentence. Select your words wisely. Choose your truth carefully. 

Mandos’s voice was everywhere and nowhere. 

An elf, a man familiar and unfamiliar, nearly lost to time stepped forward. The questions were disturbingly simple. Why? What did we do to you? Why slaughter us after we surrendered? The same questions came from men who had served Sauron, from Orcs who were broken under his rule and his answers, though devastating were true. 

“The only reason I can provide is that my plan had to be fulfilled. It was not worth the devastation I caused. I wish I could tell you I wished for more than a rule under my fists. I wish I could tell you there was a greater design beyond my rule of all of Middle Earth. Should I be able to absolve you of the pain and give more meaning to my cruelty ... I would, yet I am unable. You stood in the way, you would not yield. You stood in the way and you did yield. In the end I had no use for pawns and destroyed them simply for the pleasure of my power. I cannot and will not ask forgiveness, I only hope you find the peace deserved,” he answered. 

Again and again, listening to the agony he caused others until he missed the ache in his body. He missed the constant thirst and hunger of rebuilding cities. He missed the smell of death and infection, he missed the physical pain that always had a remedy whether it was offered to him or not. That was easier than the echoing hollowness opening inside him. 

Good questions, stories of heartache, stories that demand answers and deserve them, yet all he could offer was answers that fell too short, words that meant less than the breath used to out them. And there was no escape. He could only endure countless renditions of the pain he caused, felt it as he did in his first experiences from Mandos. The ache spread, defied logic, yet threatened to swallow him and skin him at the same time, revealing the beast beneath. No longer shining and golden, no longer someone who could claim anything close to pride, just the crushing weight of shame in actions that he once reveled in. 

Then a throat cleared, drawing his attention. Celebrimbor stood there, perfectly intact, impossibly imposing. Had he always been so big? Had he always worn such a loving and kind face? 

“I won’t ask you why. I know the answer. I will simply ask how,” Celebrimbor started. “How could you betray me after I did all I did for you, welcomed into Eregion, welcomed you to my forge, believed in the best of you? Before I had outed you, you twisted my mind. How could you do that, then impale me, leaving others to find me and subjecting me to such unwarranted ruin?”

Mairon’s throat tightened. He wanted to repeat the same words, but they didn’t come. They weren’t the truth. He took a slow breath as his body seemed to whither under Celebrimbor’s clam. 

“It came naturally to me,” Mairon said slowly, softly, yet his voice carried, echoed. “I saw you as a pawn, yet ... yet a useful pawn. I shielded you, led you astray, and forced your mind to focus on my needs for my own selfish gain.” 

Celebrimbor waited. 

“You welcomed me in which gave me Lothien. That was all that mattered. She was all that mattered. A balm for my soul. If you worked on the rings with your abilities and my blood, I knew it would succeed and I could take over the world while having more of Lothien, while hiding my true self from her.” 

Still, he could not stop the torrent of words. “The war came, but you had not finished. I saw the opportunity to continue to maintain myself. It never crossed my mind to ...” he nearly choked on the words. “To spare you, to think of you as a person. You were a machine the same as the forge. You needed to work and you were an opportunity to delay my exposure. If you were unreliable, I would be reliable. I pit myself against you. You were the only other important figure in Lothien’s life. I needed her to be mine. You were the most important person in Eregion, for it to fall, you had to do the same.” 

“And how you left me? Speared as a stuck pig, with Orcs to suddenly support you? To torture me beforehand, to allow others to find me in such a state?” Celebrimbor pressed. 

Marion glanced around. All eyes on him, what he’d always craved, yet now loathed. It was too intrusive. His own mind had always been his own, even with Lothien within his head. 

“You said I always destroyed, never created. But I created a life. Your words ... that is what drove me to the spear. You had taken my victory, you had ruined what had kept you alive. And then, to insult every moment I’d shared with her ... it broke me. It was a rage I’ve rarely felt. I loved her. I still love her. We created that ... but when I destroyed you, out of my grief for nearly losing her, for tainting her, for bringing her back to life in a way so abhorrent and wrong ... I could bare it no longer. I was weak and gave into my rage, refused to allow myself another view of the situation because it would damn me, make me regret too much. I couldn’t take it. It was easier to kill you and walk away without thinking of it again,” he said slowly. 

Celebrimbor considered that, put his hands behind his back and walked away. For the first time while there, Mairon wanted to plead for forgiveness, for understanding, for something other than silence. 

Instead, Mirdania stepped forward. She wore every wound. Her back crushed, walking abnormally. Mairon wanted to look away. He’d never felt weaker. She stood there and stared at him. Just stared. 

“Why me? I was loyal. I believed you. I would have followed you to the end, protected Lothien. She loved me, so if you loved her ... why?”

Mairon closed his eyes as they watered. Weakness – this was true weakness. Crying while being confronted with his decisions. He hated it. He was ashamed by it. It was fitting. 

“Because you were loyal. No one would believe I did it. If Celebrimbor turned on you, then he was beyond redemption. No one would believe his claims no matter what it came to. You ... you were perfect in so many ways, Mirdania. Killing you was a tragedy, unfair, terrible. If I could take any death back, it would be yours. The look on Lothien’s face when she saw you, how she turned on Celebrimbor, how broken she seemed ... seeing you killed her, it slowed her down, made her sloppy and it was needless, excessive even in war. There is no excuse I can give. There is no ... no good answer. I loved her. I respected you. I appreciated you for more than your loyalty, yet when the time came, I chose myself. I always chose myself rather than taking the risk that someone could hurt me in the future,” he answered. 

He hung his head, expecting a blow, expecting to wear her injuries, to feel her death, but instead he felt a shocking loneliness. He had killed or led those who he could have trusted, could have befriended to an early death. Shame was not a large enough word to encompass what he felt. It was itchy, uncomfortable. The desire to claw at his skin, to flay himself simply to stop the emotion nearly ruined him, yet ... yet he remained. 

When the silence continued without interruption by mumbling or shuffling, he looked up. Mandos stood there, watching Mairon with an inscrutable face. “Suffering, finding humility, creating something selflessly, and being honest are the notes of an average person. They do not represent atonement. They are merely the characteristics of decency. Decency which you have long since forgotten and destroyed.”

Mairon made no attempt to argue. 

“A heart can be shifted, but more than I doubt it can be changed. Once tainted, one can not simply remove the poison. It lingers, it festers, it waits. You have taken so much from others, have killed, tortured, have ruthlessly removed any sense of peace, stability, or normality from lives and plunged them into a merciless life or a cruel death,” Mandos continued. 

Again, Mairon stayed silent. 

“You must surrender something of your own volition. The ring, your finger, your life, all are meaningless to you. You must surrender one trait which you hold valuable. Anything less than a trait you rely upon, one that you use to label yourself will not due. To understand sacrifice, you must offer it, not knowing what it will do to your future or how it will impact you later. Willingly given without any expectation,” Mandos decreed. “You have one hour.” 

Mairon first thought of his power. His ability to regenerate, his ability to command. He thought of his crafting ability. He thought of his love for Lothien, the love he’d managed to carve out of himself and from his blackness. He thought of the languages he used, his ability to fight, his centuries of knowledge. The question warped in his mind. It wasn’t what he could live without, it became what had he relied upon most. What would affect him and only him rather than Lothien should he ever see her again. 

He thought of singing with Lothien, he thought of that single moment they’d sang a duet together. He thought of how he’d read to her. He thought of the dream she’d shared when he was teaching their daughter to fight. 

He’d give up his voice, his crafting, his ability to fight. He’d give it all without question to keep that dream. He’d give up his power, even his immortality and become mortal to see Lothien’s smile, her squinted eyes, her uneven laugh. He’d give up all the languages he’d learn just to salvage one town he’d ravaged. He’d turn over his reliable looks, his aura, the world’s memory of him if only to cook one more meal for her and see her beam at him. 

Taking a slow breath, he answered. “I’m ready.” 

Mandos appeared, looked at the time and stretched his hand out. Mairon took it. Mandos arched an eyebrow expectantly. Mairon’s throat worked, but he didn’t hesitate. “I offer my ability to craft, to create anything without instruction, to forge weapons, metal, a knife, even to turn paper into art. Take it all. Without instruction I will be useless. With, I shall be clumsy and slow. I will be inept and require assistance, rely on others to craft a thing.” 

Though Mandos’ face remained stoic, his eyes were alive with something that Mairon could not name. 

The point of contact between their hands grew blinding and yet Mairon could not look away. His arms slackened. He felt hollow, as if only skin and bone. When their hands released, he fell back, unable to hold himself up. There was nothing but this moment. No sense of time, yet it felt as if he had been drained for centuries. By some beast that fed off his very essence, his life, his soul. 

Mandos continued to stand there, watching Sauron until he managed to rise to his feet. It was a burden, a curse to have such a body, but it was fitting. Not nearly fitting enough, yet proper. 

“You have one last decision to make,” Mandos informed. 

Mairon nodded weakly. 

“Will you let Lothien go, knowing she may never return to you, or cling to her regardless of what is best for her?” 

Mairon opened his mouth, determined to say that he’d cling to her, but the second he thought of that, he was hit with her pain. He saw her horror and felt her fear, felt the canyon opening between them, deeper and more deadly with every passing day as she recovered from her death. He saw the distrust in her eyes, saw her wrestling with her hatred and love of him. 

Had she loved him? Was forgiveness possible when he had gone wrong in so many ways? When every step of their relationship had been led by his own selfishness? Would clinging to her, having her for one lifetime of man, a lifetime of an elf, forever be her hell? 

Without his influence, with their separation could she ever reconcile what he’d put her though? The way he’d corrupted her thoughts and stained her morality, her very soul with his violence and need for control? 

How could she love him when exposed so fully to him? He’d used her, body, soul and mind. She had fought for him to come into Eregion just for him to destroy it and kill the only family she had left. He had slipped into her life and refused to let go, spreading like a virus through her existence until he was her only choice. 

If all that was outlined for her ... she would be sane enough, independent enough, aware enough to recognize he was a poison that she’d managed to rely on because it was a known death, a predictable life. She could do better. 

He shut his mouth and thought about letting her go, but her smiles, her laugh, the way she wrapped herself around him and begged for his affection, wantonly opened herself to him, mind, body, and soul without restraint or hesitation, only love and adoration plagued him. If he released her entirely, would she forget him? Would it matter if she was happy? 

If she never loved him to begin with, would it cause her pain to forget all of their life together? Their first meeting when he’d named her fine only to be corrected. Their first kiss. The first time he cooked for her and she was so delighted, she’d moaned? Every tender moment, her promise to love him always, the way she’d looked at him, for him, while she died? 

She died. 

Twice. 

His heart lurched. 

She’d endured so much alone because of him. Every move he’d made had ruined her in one way or another. He was behind the wars that claimed her parents. Perhaps he even saw her among those running for safety. Perhaps he himself had slaughtered her father. He’d made her an orphan. He’d used her to kill Celebrimbor and the friends she’d made. He’d tainted her soul long before an arrow pierced her and even then he’d clung to her no matter the pain and turmoil it caused her. 

They’d found their sense of peace and he’d ruined it yet again, sending her away and falling with Numenor. She’d been left to wait for him and ... and was that love? Would she dare call it happiness? 

His gaze flicked to Mandos. It wasn’t just about Lothien. He understood that. It was about Arda as well. Could he release his control, his possession over both and accept the weight of a love without control, a love flimsy and raw, a love without the promise of any feelings being returned? 

Could he fully let go of his need to possess, claim, and dominate that which he felt he needed as air? 

Could he simply appreciate and cherish without choking something into submission to ensure that it could never leave him? 

The decision was not clear. The decision was not easy. Releasing control was releasing reins on a wild, unbroken horse and trusting it not to kick him. Trusting himself not to react. 

“My king, my love, my husband, my Halbrand. My Annatar. My Mairon. I love you in every form. You are the shape of my affection,” he heard Lothien’s voice. He felt her reaching across the bed to be sure he was there. 

Because while she was a guarantee he never was and she had the strength to love him anyway. Arda exists with or without his influence. Wars would always exist, he had no reason to add to them and further threaten the people and the land itself. To ruin wasn’t to love. To possess was to remove the free will and the gift of that which could love him. 

When Lothien and Arda saw what he came could they ever behold him without scorn knowing that he was selfish enough to tighten his grasp instead of release it? 

More importantly, could he finally and truly put Lothien before himself? He had flaunted her. He had possessed her and claimed her heart. He had comforted her when it had been awkward. He had made her laugh simply to hear the sound. He had sang with her because she requested it. In every moment that he had tried to corral her, he had found himself able to submit to her. 

Her happiness had factored into his life in so many ways. 

His whole body shook and tears dewed on his lashes. He hated himself for the decision lodged in his mind. He knew it would mean he would never be happy again. He would never be in her life again. He wouldn’t be the man to love her. He wouldn’t be the man to father her children. He wouldn’t be there because after one meeting, she would dismiss him and send him away. She would hate him ...

But she would be happy. 

“I let them go,” he said, his voice a taught whisper, more air than words. “I release them, let them ... let Lothien dictate her own happiness. Let Arda flourish despite and because of those residing there.” 

Mandos nodded, the only sign he’d heard Mairon, then he disappeared. 

Mairon collapsed in on himself. The unyielding stone beneath him was sturdier than his existence. It was realer than anything he could feel. The cold emptiness at least was a reprieve, yet Lothien didn’t leave his mind. She slipped through his fingers like sand. He couldn’t possess her again if he tried to force himself. He could never hold her anymore than he could hold the wind. It would always slip away and deserved to. Wind could only be wind when allowed to wander, wild and untamed. Lothien could only be happy, she could only be her truest self outside of his control.

He could not undo the horrors he bestowed upon the earth, but he could free Lothien from the cage he’d coaxed her into. He could untangle her from the tethers he’d used to bind her to him. She could live again, preferably with no recollection of him so she would never shoulder the weight of her complicit nature, so she would never feel the shame and horror that now twisted within Mairon like a tempest upon the sea, dragging ships down to the sea floor with inescapable currents.

Let her be free, he thought, let her be free of me and every memory of me for happiness is only achieved where my shadow and touch cannot reach.

[fantomevoleur]

((The old brain has been rattling around with ideas of Akira's college years and what he wants to study YET AGAIN!! I haven't come up with anything concrete as of yet, but there are certain things I can say with full confidence he'd study. I'll put this under a Read More because IT'S A LOT!!

One thing is...he wants to double major. GOOD LUCK WITH THAT BOY!! THAT'S GONNA TAKE YOU EXTRA LONG ESPECIALLY WITH THE MAJORS YOU'RE INTERESTED IN!! But he's a smart kid, and he will put in the work and the long hours studying in the library and pulling all nighters to do well with his studies. Makoto taught him well about time management and study habits so he's not too afraid or nervous when it comes to the hefty workload he'll be doing. He's more than prepared.

Secondly, he wants theatre/acting as a minor. That is a must, that is absolutely necessary, you will not be able to sway him with that decision. He loves acting, he misses his time in community theater, and since high school was...what it was he hasn't been involved in a while. On top of the minor, he does want to participate in a community theater near his college, or if the school happens to provide its own theater for the students. Not only is it because he misses acting, but he wants to give back to a community whom helped him during a very rough time in his middle school years. His dad was sick and kept getting worse, his mom...well, she's always been a bitch but it got harder to handle her attitude in middle school, so his escape from all that was community theater. I don't think he'd want to take up a director position, but he wants to be a part of the staff in some way while also getting to audition/act in their plays.

So now for the majors. There are four currently rotating in my mind and his mind.

Business, psychology, law, and criminology.

The first one is...a given for Akira, and I'm definitely leaning towards business being his secondary major. The interest came from Akira's father, how he taught Akira about working a small, independent business and how his father WAS going to leave his little fishing business to Akira once he passed away. Now that didn't come about because THANKS MOTHER, THANKS FOR TRICKING YOUR HUSBAND INTO CHANGING HIS WILL AND TRANSFERING THE BUSINESS OVER TO HER but you know, that can be fixed in time. Hopefully. His father may have taught him the basics, but Akira does want to know more. He wants to know the ins and outs of running a business so he can bring his father's back, and perhaps help Sojiro gain more profit and attract more customers. Helping small businesses and family-owned shops are the real motivation he'd go into studying business, even though he won't have any fun with it. It'll suck for someone as antsy and creative as Akira, but he will put in the work.

Now psychology, I will be entirely honest, was influenced heavily by Maruki's actions. Akira still has a rocky relationship with him, and he doesn't fully trust him anymore nor will he fully trust him ever again, but he understands why Maruki did what he did. It wasn't the best option, Akira literally BEAT THAT SENSE INTO THE GUY, and he's hoping Maruki will find his own way to heal and grow from his mistakes. But it made Akira think about the other counselors and therapists out there who may be suffering in the same way as Maruki. How did it affect their patients? Were they providing any help to them when they needed the help as well? It's very much that classic Akira mindset of 'I need to help others who have been in the same position as me/my friends so they can be better'. He doesn't want to see other kids his age go through the same experience as him, or his friends.

Law and criminology were, surprise surprise, heavily influenced by Sae and Akechi. He's now seen what the government can really do to its own people via Sae's palace, and even to their own family via Akechi's situation. He wouldn't be going in to become a lawyer or a prosecutor or anything like that, it doesn't fit him and honestly he doesn't want to be working under some law firm that could abuse his talents and background. Plus WITH his background already, his chances wouldn't be so good. No, if he goes down this path he wants to come out being an investigator or a private eye. Someone who can work for themselves, someone not tied down or stringed to any police unit, but someone able to help people who can't trust the legal system or police. Akechi gets more of an influence on Akira's decision in this part because...well despite Akechi's cases being setup up BY him to make him look good for the public, Akechi is still a very intelligent person. And I wouldn't be surprised if he asked for Akechi's and probably Sae's assistance with a case he wants to open up. That being, the death of his father by his mother's hands. That's the main reason, the driving factor in choosing law or criminology as his major. The law aspect of it is so Akira knows the inner workings of the country's legal system, so his mother doesn't try to rat her way out or play the victim again. Criminology is to find the conclusive evidence in her being guilty of the crime. That's also why he'd never, ever, ever change her heart. He wants her to admit to her crime by the doing of his own hard earned work.))