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icarusignite · 3 months ago

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An Eye for an Eye Ch.7

MASTERLIST / ao3 / wattpad

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC

"I want to grab my brother's hand and run back through time, losing years like cloaks falling from our shoulders."

Summary: Daenys Velaryon finally manages to escape her usurper husband and return to her family to bend the knee to the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Word Count: 4.6k

Daenys floated in the murky depths of unconsciousness, her senses dulled by the weight of her own weariness. It felt as though she were adrift in a sea of shadows, pulled down by the heavy chains of numb sleep, yet amidst the darkness, a persistent shaking stirred her from her slumber, tugging at her with a desperation she did not imagine anyone might give to one such as her.

At first, she was only vaguely aware of it, a distant echo of sensation that barely registered through the fog of her mind. But as the shaking grew more insistent, more urgent, she felt herself slowly being drawn back to consciousness, like a ship pulled from the depths by a relentless current.

Her head throbbed with a dull ache, each pulse sending waves of pain crashing through her skull. With great effort, she summoned the strength to open her right eye a crack, the other swollen shut so tightly, it hurt just to think about it. Through the haze that clouded her vision, she could make out the blurry outline of familiar brown curls, swaying gently with each movement.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had passed from the realm of the living, but the warmth of the hands that grasped at her, the tender care with which they held her, chased away any fear or doubt that might have plagued her.

Perhaps the Stranger was doing her the kindness of coming to claim her in the guise of someone she knew. Although she would have liked it to be her father, Ser Harwin made a fine replacement. However, as consciousness began to seep back into her weary limbs, Daenys found herself realizing that the grip was too weak, too fragile to belong to the stalwart knight who had raised her with such love and devotion. No, this touch was different, softer, gentler, yet no less determined in its purpose.

Could it be Luke then, she wondered, having absolved her of her crimes in death, and there to hold her as she passed over. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was not him. Luke's touch was sure and steady, his hands strong and capable, nothing like the fragile grasp that held her now.

Then Daenys found herself engulfed in a tidal wave of fear and uncertainty. Despite any brave words she might have uttered in the past about being prepared to face death with courage and false bravado, the reality of the moment was stark and undeniable: no one was truly ready to meet their end.

Tears welled up in her eyes, hot and stinging, as soft, choked sobs wracked her body. In the embrace of the figure holding her, she felt a desperate need to both pull them close and push them away. She clung to them as if they were her lifeline, as if by holding onto them she could somehow anchor herself to the world of the living. Yet, even as she sought solace in their embrace, a part of her recoiled from the thought of facing the unknown, of surrendering herself to the finality of death.

"I don't want to die," she whispered, her voice trembling with raw emotion, the words a fragile plea against the looming spectre of mortality. "I want to see my mother... hug my little brothers... beg for forgiveness..."

Her thoughts tumbled together in a jumble of confusion and longing, each desire a reminder of the life she still yearned to live. She wanted to feel her mother's arms around her, to seek comfort in the embrace of her siblings, to make amends for past wrongs and seek forgiveness for her failings.

Above all else, Daenys Velaryon did not want to die and she was afraid.

That is until she forced her eye open completely, and saw him.

There he was, her brother, her beautiful baby brother, his arms wrapped around her as he shook her with desperation leaking from his eyes in a never-ending river.

"You're going to be alright. Please, please, please, you're going to be alright. You have to be," Joffrey Velaryon muttered over and over, like a prayer gone stale.

He said it so many times that Daenys believed him. If he was her then she was not alone. If he was here then she wasn't as loathed as she believed herself to be, and if he was looking at her like that, then she would be okay.

"You're going to be alright. I promise you're going to be alright."

She did not question why he was there, or how he had even found her. All that mattered was that he was here.

She closed her eyes, ignoring the way his frantic sobs grew louder.

She had been ten when he was born, and her father had handed him to her for the first time ever so carefully, his slender weight so fragile in her arms, and now here she was, dead weight in his fragile arms. It wasn't fair. He should not have to look after her like this. That was her job.

She had been thirteen when he broke his wrist the first time while sparring, and she had cradled him just so, whispering the same words that slipped past his blubbering lips now.

You're going to be alright. You're going to be alright, I promise you, you're going to be alright.

She had said it over and over, even as the maester wrapped his injury and placed him on bed rest. She had said it until it had healed completely, over and over until he believed her.

Now he was returning the favour.

Daenys's eyes remained closed. It was easier to live in her memories, where the sounds of her brother's laughter rang in her ears like bells and her heart wasn't a graveyard of losses.

The urgency in the voice that pleaded with her to wake up finally pierced through the haze of her consciousness once more, and she groaned softly in response, the sound escaping her lips as if torn from the depths of her soul. The hands that shook her grew more insistent, more desperate, and with a jolt, her right eye flew open once more, this time properly taking in the frantic expression of her brother.

"Joff?" she whispered, her voice barely above a hoarse murmur, her mind struggling to make sense of the chaos that surrounded her. But before she could gather her thoughts, Joffrey was moving, trying to rise from his position beside her on the floor of the little wooden cabin.

"We have to go home, Daenys," he urged, his voice trembling with emotion, his eyes wild with fear and determination. "You'll be alright if we can just get you home. Maester Gerardys will fix you. I know he will. He is Grand Maester now, you know. If anyone can fix you, it's him."

The words spilled from him in his panic, and he explicitly avoided looking at her face, now that she was awake. With a grunt of effort, he reached for her, his fingers curling around her arms as he tried to loop them around his neck, to hoist her limp body up from the floor, but his strength faltered, his knees buckling beneath him as he struggled to bear her weight.

"Joff, you don't have to-"

"Be quiet..." he choked out. "Please...please just be quiet. I have to-I have to think."

"Joffrey, I..." Daenys began, her voice catching in her throat as she watched the anguish play across her brother's face. "I'm sorry..."

Joffrey would not be deterred. With a renewed determination, he tried again, this time reaching for her under her arms, his fingers grasping desperately as he sought to pull her towards the door, towards the spill of twilight that beckoned from beyond.

"We have to go home, Daenys," he repeated, his voice strained with effort, his brow furrowed in concentration. "You'll be alright, I promise. Just hold on."

Fueled by his perseverance, Daenys summoned the last reserves of strength within her weary limbs, pushing herself up into a shaky standing position. The world spun around her in dizzying swirls, and for a moment, she feared she might collapse once more, but the urgent grasp of her brother's hand steadied her, anchoring her to the present moment with a fierceness that spoke of his unyielding resolve.

His grip on her hand was tight, almost painfully so, as if he feared that she might disappear if he dared to loosen his hold. His fingers dug into her skin, his nails leaving faint impressions in their wake, but Daenys found herself welcoming the pressure, finding solace in the reassurance of his touch.

Daenys leaned heavily against her brother, her taller frame awkwardly mismatched with his shorter stature, but Joffrey bore the burden without complaint, and Daenys felt a pang of guilt gnawing at her heart. She knew that she was putting her brother through this hardship, that her own weakness was burdening him with a weight that he should not have to bear.

Outside on the beach, Silverwing and Joffrey's dragon awaited their arrival, and Daenys turned to Joffrey, suddenly furious.

"You rode Tyraxes!" she whispered hoarsely. "How many times have I told you not to-"

"You're one to talk!" Joffrey snapped sullenly. "Look at you!"

"Tyraxes is not large enough to ride safely. You could have gotten hurt. You could have died."

"You would have died if I had not come! No one else would come, but I had to, I just had to Daenys."

"Why? Why would you risk yourself..."

"Because it's you!" the brunette boy's lower lip trembled as a fresh wave of tears spilled down his cheeks, and this time Daenys did not stop herself from racing out and thumbing them away. "Because it's you, and I know they were all wrong about you. They said you were a traitor, but I knew you weren't. Not you. Never you!"

Wordlessly, Daenys pulled him into her, finding comfort in the way his bony arms wrapped around her waist and sobbed into her salt-and-blood-encrusted dress.

"It's okay," she mumbled. "It's okay, you're going to be alright."

"I'm supposed to be telling you that. You're the one who needs to be alright."

"I'll be alright if you're alright," Daenys managed a weak chuckle. "And you're riding Silverwing with me this time."

Daemon Targaryen was an impatient man. It had been almost a week since his Lucerys had been murdered in cold blood by the usurper's brother, the son of the whore who killed his King, and unfortunately his daughter's husband. Daemon had been waiting for a chance to avenge the young boy but Rhaenyra had stayed his hand, expressing concern for the daughter who remained in the viper's den at King's Landing. She had worried about harm befalling Daenys but Daemon didn't think their lack of action would stop the Hightowers, not if they truly wished to cause her harm. Their lack of action or retaliation clearly hadn't stopped Lucerys's death, so it would not stop Daenys's if it came to it.

Mysaria's spies assured him that the Velaryon Princess had not bent the knee to the usurper as Otto Hightower had so brazenly declared before his wife, and Daemon had to wonder how much longer they'd keep her alive if she wasn't serving some greater purpose to them. It wasn't as if his Kinslayer nephew had enough heart to do it out of mercy, or gods forbid, some pathetic notion of love.

Whatever it was, he and Rhaenyra had already lost a daughter and a son, and they could not afford to lose another child. Daemon would deal with it of course, as he always did, but he didn't think the Queen could bear another heartbreak like that. She was stronger than most of them, but three children dead would be unnecessarily cruel of the fates. That kind of loss hollowed one from the inside out.

These were the thoughts that consumed Daemon as he took his early morning stroll along the grounds of Dragonstone. He was finally brought out of his reverie by a commotion in the air. He looked up just in time to see a massive silver dragon land a few yards away, and from the dragon's back climbed off the last person he expected to see here.

When Silverwing landed at Dragonstone, Daenys barely even noticed, not until Joffrey shook her awake once more, signalling the end of their journey. He helped her slide off and together they stumbled, on the damp cobblestones below, dawn creeping across the sky behind them.

Joffrey eyed her for a moment, meeting her eyes with great difficulty, and it began to hit her how terrible she probably looked. Her head still spun and she was so cold, as if all the warmth had bled out of her, but the only thing on her mind was to make it to her mother still standing on her own two feet.

She had to bend the knee to her true sovereign.

Her knees shook, and Joffrey reached out to steady her, but then there was another figure, a sturdier presence that caught her elbows before her knees could buckle and brought her up. As she lifted her face to look up at them, even though her vision was more than slightly blurry now, she heard a sharp intake of breath. She could make out the vague outline of a familiar face and she nearly collapsed with relief.

"Daemon," she breathed.

Daemon looked at Daenys in horror, shrewd eyes mapping the bloody torn contours of his daughter's face. Then his attention turned to his son, brows furrowing.

"Does your mother know where you've been?" he inquired sharply. "Haven't you been told to remain in Dragonstone for your own safety?"

Joffrey flinched and instinctively tucked himself behind his trembling sister.

"I-I'm sorry, Father. I just...it was a short flight, I promise!"

Daemon felt the slightest guilt at the look in Joffrey's eyes, but it couldn't be helped. The safety of his family was his first and foremost priority, and Joffrey in particular, he had raised practically from birth.

"Go to your Septas at once. I shall speak to you later on this. And by the gods, do not let your mother know of your misadventures."

Joffrey hesitated, looking up at Daenys.

"Will...will she be alright, Father?"

Daemon almost winced when he looked at her again, and then he was filled with rage. Rage at whoever had done this to her. Turned her face into a mangled mess. His beloved daughter, reduced to this? As if he needed another reason to behead Otto and his entire bloodline.

She seemed delirious from blood loss and could barely stand, so he solidified his grip on her arms and signalled to a nearby groundskeeper to lead her dragon away.

"She'll be fine, Joffrey, so be on your way now and send for Maester Gerardys on your way."

"Where-"

"Mother!" Daenys blurted. "I need to see Mother, please, take me to Mother."

The air was heavy with the weight of sorrow in Daemon and Rhaenyra's shared chambers, where Rhaenyra lay, tangled in the embrace of a fitful sleep. As Daemon shook her gently awake, his voice a gentle murmur in the quiet stillness, Rhaenyra groaned softly, her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind clouded with the weight of grief.

Slowly, she sat up, rubbing sleep from her swollen eyes, her heart heavy with the ache of longing. The pillow beneath her was damp with the evidence of her tears, and she wondered what new catastrophic news her husband would break to her today.

But as she turned her gaze to the figure kneeling at the foot of her bed, her heart skipped a beat, a rush of emotion sweeping through her like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. There, before her, knelt her daughter, her darling girl, her firstborn child, her heart's greatest treasure.

"Daenys..." Rhaenyra whispered, her voice choked with emotion, tears welling up in her eyes once more as she drank in the sight of her daughter, as if seeing her for the first time all over again. "Oh, my dear sweet girl. Is it really you?"

Daenys kept her face bowed low, a veil of hair obscuring her features, a silent gesture of humility and reverence as well as an excuse to hide her injury if only for a moment longer. As her mother's words washed over her like a soothing balm, she nodded her head ever so slightly, a tremor of emotion running through her slender frame.

"Yes, Your Majesty, the true Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms."

It was as if Daenys had been in a drought and Rhaenyra was rain, a cure to her pain.

"Come, my darling," her mother said, her voice soft and tender. "You don't need to kneel before me. I only wish to hold you again, to feel your embrace and know that you are truly here, and not a spectre of my imagination."

As Daenys finally lifted her face and stood before her mother, she braced herself for the inevitable reaction, steeling herself for the pain that she knew would flicker across Rhaenyra's features at the sight of her scarred visage. But nothing could have prepared her for the raw anguish that washed over her mother's face, the way her features contorted with a mixture of shock, horror, and heartbreak.

Rhaenyra blanched, her eyes momentarily averting from her daughter's disfigured face before returning to trace over it, her gaze lingering on the puckered mass of flesh and blood that marred her features, taking up half her face. The silence between them stretched on, heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears, until finally, Daenys found her voice.

"Mama... I..." Her voice trailed off, choked with emotion, and she was a child once more, going to her mother for a skinned knee or hangnail. Something small and insignificant that she would kiss away, and all would be right in the world again.

Daenys felt a surge of self-loathing wash over her, a bitter taste of shame that threatened to swallow her whole. She was hideous, she realized, a grotesque mockery of the daughter that her mother had once known and loved. Even now, Rhaenyra could not bear to look upon her without recoiling in horror.

With a heavy heart, she turned away, ready to take her leave, to spare her mother from the burden of her presence, but before she could retreat, Rhaenyra reached out and pulled her down to sit beside her, her arms wrapping around her daughter in a tender embrace.

That was what opened the floodgates and Daenys buried her face in her mother's neck, her tears flowing freely now, unchecked by the weight of guilt and shame that had burdened her. She felt unworthy of her mother's love, unworthy of the comfort that she so freely offered, and yet, in the warmth of her embrace, she found solace and sanctuary.

"Shh, my darling," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice soft and soothing against Daenys's ear. "It's alright. I'm here, and I will always be here for you."

"I didn't do it!" Daenys hiccuped. "I didn't bend the knee to Aegon. I'm not a traitor, I swear!"

"I know, dearest. I know."

"But Otto said-"

"Never mind what that cunt said," Daemon snapped, still watching their reunion silently. "Your mother never doubted you."

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry Mama. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Rhaenyra soothed, carding her fingers through Daenys's hair with a tenderness that spoke volumes. "My beautiful girl, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. I thought I had lost you too. I could not lose another child, another daughter. I could not bear it."

"Another daughter?" Daenys whispered in confusion, pulling away from her mother for a moment.

"The baby. The baby did not make it. I have lost my Visenya. I have lost my Lucerys. I have lost my father. How much more must I lose till the fates decide they are done with me? I cannot lose you too."

Oh.

So that is what Otto Hightower meant by the loss of two children. Daenys did not know what to say, or how to put into words the grief and the regret and the guilt.

She did the only thing she knew how to do. She apologized some more.

Daemon came over and pressed a kiss to her forehead, "We are glad for your return my little one. It was getting unbearable, all these losses."

Her mother only shuddered at his words, her grief too much to contain, but she held herself together. For the sake of her daughter, she held herself together. She had been doing so for a long time, waiting, hoping for Daenys's return. Putting all of her faith in Alicent and her son to keep her only remaining daughter safe, even as they broke her trust over and over, as they stole her crown and her Lucerys. Now that she had Daenys in front of her, her resolve shattered and all that was left was despair at the loss of everyone she loved and the final betrayal Alicent's family had cost her: the mutilation of her child.

Rhaenyra finally pulled away a little to properly examine Daenys and she cringed under her scrutiny. She did not want her mother to see the extent of her injury or the horribly uneven job she did at trying to mend it.

"Call a maester. Call a maester, my daughter is hurt," she muttered angrily, gesturing to Daemon who caught her hand and tried to soothe her as he called for a maester as she had asked.

"Mother, I am fine," Daenys sniffled. "It's alright. I'm ok so please do not worry."

"NO! Look at you. How can you be fine? Just looking at you hurts me so how can you possibly be fine!"

When maester Gerardys finally made an appearance, even he winced at the sight of Daenys's face. He had been tending to her since she was a child and she had never seen him look so concerned.

"What has happened princess?" he prodded at the left side of her face experimentally, shaking his head when she flinched at the touch.

"Will she be alright? Can the eye be saved?" Rhaenyra still had Daenys's hand clutched tightly in hers.

It was strangely reminiscent of another time, of another mother, frantically asking the very same question. The irony of it all was not lost on Rhaenyra.

Maester Gerardys carefully cut away the violet threads that bound her wound together and Daenys felt herself missing their loss. There was something symbolic about it, about having to hold herself together using the very same threads that wove through her mother's favourite flowers, her brother's favourite masterpiece.

Everything was both a memory and a landmine.

"My queen, there is no eye to save," the Grand Maester responded grimly.

Rhaenyra's hand squeezed Daenys's tighter and across the room, Daemon growled.

"That worthless husband of yours will pay. The least he could do was keep you safe as his family decided to usurp what was rightfully your mother's. He made vows to protect you, to honour you. There is no honour in maiming your wife, in killing a child."

As Maester Gerardys continued to examine her injury, Daenys could feel the pain creeping back in. She had made herself numb to it but it was coming back in waves and she did not know how much longer she could hold it at bay.

"It appears as though whoever stitched you up had hooves for hands. Do they not have trained maesters at the Red Keep anymore?" the elderly man inquired, and Daenys found herself flinching at his words. Then he pulled out a needle that he brandished in her direction, "Hold still princess, this is going to hurt quite a bit."

When he placed the first stitch under her eye, Daenys tensed. Her mother's grip on her was deathly tight, yet somehow it soothed her because she leaned into it. It did not hurt as much as it had when she had tried to stitch herself up. Perhaps it was Rhaenyra's maternal comfort or perhaps all the trauma had finally fried her nerves.

Whatever it was, Daenys thought that she would have liked a bit of wine to help her along. She didn't dare ask though, for alcoholism was not her forte.

Not yet anyway.

Rhaenyra on the other hand seemed to carry the pain in her very bones. She gasped every time the needle went under Deenys's skin, her other hand clasped against her mouth to swallow the sobs that threatened to break past her lips. She had to remain strong for her daughter, and it took everything within her not to snap at the poor old maester to be gentler.

Seeing her like this, Rhaenyra finally realized what Alicent must have felt on that night on Driftmark, the night her son's eye was taken. As she watched the maester tell her that her child's eye could not be saved, as her child cried into her arms and she was helpless to do anything. Daenys wasn't even crying, showing no external indication of pain except for the occasional tremble, but Rhaenyra felt as though she'd break into a thousand pieces. Watching one's child in pain was one of the most painful experiences, and Rhaenyra's pain was built on top of the death of her other children. She knew nothing but pain these days.

Perhaps a little too late she realized that it had been unfair for Alicent to have had to sit and watch Aemond suffer as he had that night.

Too little too late. She had failed her family, and in turn, they had taken from her all she held dear.

There was no room for reconciliation now.

She couldn't help but wonder all the same, if all those years ago, she had just given up Luke's eye, would he still be alive today? Would her children be safe if she had sacrificed such a thing back then? An eye seemed so trivial in the grand scheme of things. She would rather have her son without an eye than not have him at all.

"This will leave a very prominent scar, my Queen," Maester Gerardys turned to Rhaenyra when he finished up suturing and bandaging Daenys's eye. "There will also be scars where the uneven stitches went. Undamaged skin that did not need to be sewn was put under the needle, so this is to be expected."

Rhaenyra gave him a tight-lipped nod and thanked him, as Daemon sent him on his way.

"Mama..."

Rhaenyra turned towards her daughter, thumbing away the stray tears that had spilled from the eye that could still cry, "Yes my darling girl?"

"Can I stay here with you tonight?"

"Yes of course. You can stay as long as you want. I will have you with me forever if you wish it."

And so in the comfort of her mother's arms, Daenys finally found peace after what felt like a brief eternity. Even though she knew it was temporary, she allowed herself to relax and slip into the darkness that had been creeping its fingers toward her since her standoff with Aemond on the balcony. It had been so long since she had been held like this, with affection so unconditional, by someone who cared this much about her. She had once thought Aemond had grown to care for her, but how delusional she had been. No one could love her like her family could, and in return, she'd lay down her life for them. She was finally where she belonged, with the people she'd die for. With the people, she'd kill for.

The last thing she heard was her mother and Daemon's tensed whispers but she was more focused on the feeling of Rhaenyra's fingers running through her hair and for the first time in weeks, she slept without fear.

A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3

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jeankluv · 6 months ago

Text

If only wishes could be fulfilled - Gojo Satoru

Words: 2,6k

Paring: Gojo x oc

Warning/tags: manga spoilers, angst, flashbacks, mentions of characters death, fluff, established relationship, Gojo and oc adopted Tsukimi and Megumi, open ending, no use of y/n, gn!reader

Note: I posted this one on ao3 weeks ago but never posted here, so here you have. Also Gege when I catch you

Jujutsu Kaisen materialist

Everyone knew him as the strongest, as Gojo Satoru the strongest sorcerer of the modern era, the one that brought balance to the world when he was born. He was also known as someone annoying, irritating, arrogant, never caring about others and too full of himself.

But you knew they were all lies. And it broke your heart they only view him as that, because he wasn’t any of that, sure he was annoying sometimes but annoying in the good way. And he cared, he deeply cared for others.

So whenever you heard people describing Satoru it broke your heart a little bit, each time. Everyone knew Gojo but only a few knew Satoru.

You met Satoru back on the day when you entered the Jujutsu world when you were both 15 at the time and you didn’t know anything about the sorcerer's world or clans. The only thing you knew was that you could see things no one else in your town could, so when three years ago a big guy with sunglasses came and fought one of those things, you asked him if he also could see them. It was then when you found out for the first time about what those things were.

Professor Yaga then introduced you to the school and you began studying alongside Satoru, Shoko and Suguru.

It’s been over a decade since that and a lot of things changed on the mean time. Suguru left only to end up dying by the hands of his once best friend.

You still recall the moment you found Satoru sitting next to the dead body of Suguru.

24th of December 2017

It didn’t take you much to arrive at Tokyo thanks to you cursed technique. Arriving at the school you made sure the students were safe, and fortunately they all were.

“Where is Gojo?”

Yuta looked around searching for his teacher. “He was here just a few minutes ago.”

You looked around and nodded, leaving the kids on their own, knowing they would be safe. You walked across the destroyed place, searching for a white hair.

The sound of loud sobbing hit you in the face, like cold water. It was distant but your heart knew too well who those sobs belonged to.

Moving your legs as quickly as you could, you rushed to the direction where those faint sobs were coming from.

The scene you found was one that you would never have liked to witness, and that would continue to torment you some time later. Satoru was kneeling on the ground, while he hugged Suguru's lifeless body. You froze, not because of the cold of Tokyo, but at seeing Satoru hugging and crying the way he was doing at that very moment.

Taking light steps so as not to upset him, you approached him, even though you knew well that thanks to his six eyes he had already known for a long time that the person behind him was you.

Carefully you placed your hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “Satoru…” You whispered, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to come.

Satoru stood still for a moment and then spoke. “It was what he had to do…” The words barely left his lips. “But it hurts too much…”

You knelt behind him and rested your forehead on his back. “I know Satoru… I know.” You wanted to be able to take away all that pain and keep it for yourself, you wanted those tears that kept falling down his cheeks to stop. You wanted to protect him.

Sniffing he moved and stood up with Suguru's body in his arms. A strong pang pierced your heart as you clearly saw the lifeless face of the person who was once your best friend.

“He had a family…” He whispered. You did know that Suguru had had a family during those 12 years that you had been apart, at least that's what the reports said. “Those two babies that were here with him… you would probably want to say goodbye to him… and bury him.” You knew where Satoru was going, he wanted to return the body to those Suguru had called family for those last 12 years and you weren't going to stop him.

You stepped aside and Satoru walked a few steps and then disappeared.

Satoru returned the next day, you were standing next to Megumi preparing a Christmas cake when Satoru walked through the door. Without saying a word he approached Megumi and ruffled her hair and then approached you and simply hugged you without saying anything. You knew that at that moment words were unnecessary and that what Satoru needed most was to be with those he loved most.

“In the afternoon we will go see your sister.” Satoru spoke, turning away from you and looking at Megumi. He just lowered his gaze and nodded. "Everything will be fine." He told him, ruffling his hair again, to which Megumi protested.

23th December 2018 [present day]

A sad smile appeared on your face as you remembered Megumi and Tsumiki. You had been unable to protect them. You looked up and saw Satoru's back, he was stretching. Tomorrow was the day, tomorrow he would fight Sukuna.

05th October 2008

You looked at Satoru first and then the two kids that were right next to him. “Repeat that?” You were confused as hell.

“Congrats babe, we have two kids now!” He said in a playful way.

You and Satoru had been dating for two years now, in fact your second anniversary would be in November. You were barely almost 20.

“Satoru…” You looked at him with your arms crossed. “Can we talk for a moment?” He nodded and walked towards the bedroom. You looked at the kids. “You can turn the tv on if you want.”

The two kids looked at each other and nodded. The little girl, who seemed older, grabbed the boy and guide him to the sofa and turned the tv on.

“Satoru…” You said entering the room. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Babe listen.” He said leaving a kiss on your head. “The kid, the boy, is talented and they have no one.”

They were alone? That broke your heart a little bit.

“How did you find out about them?”

Satoru sighed. “He is the son of that guy… Toji.” An immense cold ran through your body from head to toe. Just remembering what happened in the summer of 2006 made you nauseous.

“He is his son?” Satoru nodded.

“Before dying he told me about him, he was sold by him to the Zenin clan.” He fell silent for moment. “You know the type of clan they are and his father probably knew that too.”

“So he told you to take him in?”

Satoru shook his head. “Not exactly, but I decided to take him.” He smiled. “So I paid what the Zenin clan asked for him and here we are.”

“Satoru… they are both small, rising a kid it’s a lot of responsibility.”

“And we can do it…” He approached you. “I know we can do it. Besides, I think I could be a pretty awesome dad.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever you say, but I hope I don’t have to be taking care of three kids.”

He laughed and grabbed your face. “You won’t. I love you.” And left a soft kiss on your lips.

“Let’s go with the kids and introduce each other properly.”

You walked outside the room to be meet up with the sight of the two kids focus on the tv in front of them.

“Kids.” Satoru spoke and they both turned their attention to him. “This is…” Satoru mentioned your name. “Both of us will be taking care of you two from now on.”

“Hello.” The girl smiled. “I’m Tsumiki and this,” she pointed to the little black haired boy. “It’s my little brother.” She gave him a slight nod.

“Hi… I’m Megumi.” The kid looked up and then down.

“Hello kids.” You smiled wildly trying to calm them down. “I hope we get along well and take care of you as best as possible.” The children nodded.

Present day

Looking to the ceiling you tried to hold back your tears. God, you missed your two babies so much.

“Love…” Satoru’s voice made you look forward. “You okay?”

You nodded, even though it was a lie. “How about you?”

“Perfect.” He smiled but that smile was hiding so much pain.

“You know you don’t need to hide your real feelings from me.” You whispered as he approached the place where you were at.

“The same goes to you.” He said poking your nose. “But love, I’m alright. Tomorrow I will bring Megumi back to us and everything will be fine.”

He sat next to you and surrounded you, you rested your head on his chest and felt his heart beating. "Our poor Megumi... if I hadn't been in the state I was in, he might have been able to save Megumi and also Tsumiki. God, I just hope that Megumi isn't aware of what happened to him, otherwise our poor boy will be extremely devastated. ” Satoru grabbed you tighter and kissed your temple.

“You were injured in Shibuya and mentally you were not well. Shoko made the right deck to keep you away from everything that happened in the last month.” He whispered softly to your ear.

19th November 2018

Shoko had stopped by to check on you that same morning, apparently she couldn't come by in the afternoon and it was better to check on you that same morning.

You had hit your head in a very bad way during the Shibuya incident, it had even left you unconscious in bed for 5 days.

When you woke up, everything, absolutely everything had changed. Nanami was no longer with you, Kugisaki was in critical condition, the higher-ups had ordered Itadori to be executed immediately, and Satoru had been sealed and accused of treason.

At that moment you felt like your world was falling apart, you needed to find Satoru, know where Megumi was and see with your own eyes that Tsumiki had woken up, but Shoko wouldn't let you get out of bed. Apparently the hit had been big, she even was surprised that you could be as well as you seemed to be.

It was November 12th when Shoko walked with her head down into your room and you felt like your heart might jump out of your chest before she even spoke the words that were in her throat.

“Itadori arrived this morning…” She said sitting on the empty seat near a window and taking out a cigarette from her pocket. “Megumi….” Your world was about to stop moving. “He… was possessed by Sukuna.”

Your body felt weak at that moment, you were very cold, so you hugged yourself trying to stop shaking. Was it because it was cold outside? Or something else?

Shoko called you once again. “There is something else…” You could barely see Shoko clearly, your eyes were filled with tears. “A sorcerer from 1,000 years ago has reincarnated on Tsumiki…”

“What… what does that mean Shoko?”

“I’m not sure… but according to one of Itadori’s new friends it was Kenjaku…” Shoko looked at you and whispered your name softly. “She is gone…”

You covered your face with your hands and started sobbing. That was 7 days ago, since then you had barely moved out of bed. Your body was too exhausted to do so, you wanted to go back to a year ago when everything was fine, when you and Gojo were celebrating your tenth anniversary and both Megumi and Tsumiki were fine. Today, November 19, would be your 11th anniversary, but you were there alone and completely broken.

“Satoru…” You said, through your sobbing. “I need you, I need you here.”

That’s when you felt the bed moving and a hand touching your hair. You slowly opened your eyes, meeting up with a figure you didn’t know if it was real or your mind was already playing tricks on you.

“You are real?” You whispered, still crying.

“I am…” He said touching your face and whipping out your tears. “I couldn’t miss our anniversary right?” He smiled.

You sat on the bed and looked at him, still unsure if it was really him. “I missed you…” You said hugging him and feeling the warmth of his body.

“Missed you too, my love.” He whispered to your ear, hugging you tightly.

“Satoru, our…”

“I know, I know…” He said stroking your hair. “I will bring Megumi to us, I promise.”

And you nodded against his neck, believing in all his words.

Present day

“I’m scared…” You finally confessed. “And I know you’re too, that’s why you sent Yuta to talk with Miguel right?” You glanced at him.

He stayed silent. “I’m the strongest, everything will be fine.”

“Satoru… I know you are the strongest but that doesn’t mean you’re not terrified of facing Sukuna.” You moved to face him.

He rolled his eyes. “Love… I will win and bring Megumi back to us. Trust me.”

“I trust you, I trust you with everything I have but… but doesn’t mean I’m not worried and doesn’t mean I don’t know you enough to know that you have the feeling that things might it go as you want.” You took a deep breath. “That’s why you have been doing something behind everyone’s back right?” He looked in another way, you were right. “Satoru…”

“It has to be me…” He whispered. “If I had not been sealed, none of this would have happened. Maybe Nanami wouldn't be dead, nor Yaga either, maybe we could have looked for a solution to save Tsumiki, Megumi wouldn't have been possessed by Sukuna either.” She took a breath into her lungs and continued. “It has to be me… after all I'm the strongest, right?” A broken smile appeared on his face.

You silently approached him and hugged him as tight as you could. People didn't really know what kind of person Satoru was, always putting others before himself and always blaming himself for things that didn't go well, even if they weren't his fault.

“You’re too good.” You whispered against him.

“That’s not true…” He replied. “If I’m good is because I have a reason to be the best version of myself.” He separated from you and looked into your eyes, those blue eyes that you loved so much. “You make me be the best version of myself. Be a better sorcerer, be a better teacher, be a better influence on the kids. “It's because of you and it's been that way since we were 15.” He grabbed your hand and gently caressed it with his thumb. “I don't know what will happen tomorrow, but…” Swallowing and wetting his lips, he looked at your hand and then at you. “Let's get married, we've been together for 11 years and I want to continue being with you for the rest of my days, so…” In one quick movement he knelt before you. “Would you do me the honor of being your husband?”

From his pocket, he took out a small box containing a beautiful ring. “Satoru…” You whispered in surprise, both of you had talked about getting married on more than one occasion. You knelt in front of him and hugged him. “Of course.”

Satoru covered your face with kisses, causing you to laugh. “Thank you…” he whispered close to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Your heart still felt heavy, you didn't know what would happen tomorrow in the battle against Sukuna but you just hoped that Satoru would return to you and bring Megumi back. To be able to all be at peace.

That’s all you wished and hoped for.

If only wishes could be fulfilled.

#gojo satoru fanfic #gojo satoru x oc #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #fanfic jjk #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #satoru gojo x you #gojo x you #gojo x oc #dad gojo

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viktoriaashleyyx · 3 months ago

Text

Cover art by Konstantin Turovec

Here we begin to see more of where Sky has been this time, I am trying my hand at multifandom, but i feel i explained it well. If you're going to start reading this please finish it before getting mad at me. Rhysand is starting shit.

This is a pro Tamlin, anti Rhysand self insert revenge fic. All characters belong to SJM, but she wasn't treating them right. Tam x reader, Tam x Rhysands Sister (OC), First person narrative. This will also reference Elucien and Neris in the future but we aren't there yet.

Tw: violence, blood.

Ch1

Ch 5 >>> Ch 7

Chapter 6:

After dinner in Adriata, I portaled Tamlin and I home to the foyer of the manor, him shouldering the bags of clothes I purchased from the shops in Summer. It wasn't terribly expensive, I have just always loved supporting the local shops in the towns I visit.

There came a knock at the door just as Tamlin was heading upstairs. “Oooh! Visitors!!” I said excitedly as I ran to the door. Tamlin trailed closely behind me, setting the bags on the ground, because, for a while there, visitors didn't necessarily mean good things.

Pure fear consumed my face as I opened the door to see my brother, standing there holding his breath, and Lucien. It took only a second for my brother to drop Lucien and winnow away. “No! Lucien!” I screamed as I caught him, falling forward into me. His face was beaten and bloodied and a dagger stuck out from his back. I sat down on the ground, holding his head to my chest. There was so much blood, and it was pooling around me.

“Lucien, Lucien, stay with me. You survived Baron and your brothers, you will survive this.” Tamlin was panicking. “What about that potion you gave me when you first got back?”

“He would need to be able to swallow it.” I cried, tears streaming down my face. With shaky hands I grabbed his knees and pulled them up to me. Cradling him in my arms. I looked Tamlin dead in the eyes, “Trust. Me.” and Lucien and I fell through a portal.

We landed, just outside of the gates of Darnassus. I was kneeling, still holding him up in a seated position while the rest of his weight laid on the cool cobblestone underneath us. If I could get him to this realm, I could revive him myself. He had eaten the food of Azeroth many times, albeit unknowingly, it should be enough to send his soul to the angel that guards the grave. I hope it's enough. “Are you still with me?” I asked, looking for any sign of life. The only other step was that he die, here. Death in Azeroth is not as permanent as it is in Prythia. It's still terrifying, but if you can find your corpse you can resurrect, and I brought him directly to the graveyard where his soul would go.

He let out a soft groan, blood still pooling on the ground. Good, he's barely there, but he's still alive. “Let go.” I whispered to him, my voice shaky, he was obviously just the catalyst used to send me a message.

As I felt his skin growing colder, I looked to the graveyard in front of me. “Come,” I called, “come back to your body, you will be okay.” I could never see the spirits unless I was one, I had hope that I wasn't too late. Tears streamed down as I buried my face in his cold chest. “Please come back.” I cried

“You dare bring a blood elf onto these lands?” The sentries that guard the gates noticed me and were drawing weapons. In my haste, I failed to register that Lucien, and hell even Tamlin, could be mistaken for a Blood elf, enemies of the Night elves, I just brought us to the place I called home for many years. While Night elf skin is more cool toned, they are associated with greens, blues and purples, Blood elf skin is more warm toned associated with red, yellows and oranges.

“He's not a blood elf.” I snapped as I pulled the dagger out of his back, immediately putting pressure on the open wound. Please leave me alone, this is already traumatic enough. “Lucien,” I looked toward the graveyard, “come back to your body.” Fuck, this has to work. It worked for me the first time I died.

“Get out of here or we will kill you too, traitor.”

Just then a familiar purple raven with dark sigils designed on its feathers nose dived straight for us. As he neared, he shifted back into an elf and positioned himself between me and the guards. “Leave the lady be, I will take it from here.” The guards bowed and returned to their stations.

“Thorin,” I breathed, happy to see him. “Can you resurrect him?” Thorin was a good friend of mine during my time in Azeroth that I, occasionally, had sex with. We had risen to King and Queen together before I left him to move onto the next adventure. He looked like the closest version of Tamlin a Night elf could be, long blonde hair, glowing fully green eyes, impeccable figure. What can I say? I have a type. Also, he was a druid, and druids could heal and resurrect.

“I will give it my best effort.” He began his spell and it stopped. My heart sank until Thorin spoke again “the motherfucker is still holding on.” There is too much blood, there is no way. Thorin shot a healing blast straight into Lucien's chest and Lucien woke up, inhaling heavily. The blast speeds up the healing process to almost instant.

“Where am I? What's going on?” Lucien asked, trying and failing to jump up as my arms were still around him.

“You're fine, this is Darnassus, I lived here for many years and this is my friend, Thorin. He saved your life.” I explained gently. There was still a lot of fear in Lucien's eyes as he took in his surroundings and the elf that stood before him. The vibrant purple sky and soft green moss resembled a healthy mix of the scenery in Night and Spring, while the massive trees surrounding us added a flair of Autumn. I turned to Thorin “thank you, your timing was amazing. I would love to stay and catch up but we really need to get back.”

He bowed his head slightly, “the pleasure is mine, I'm glad I heard you when I did. Don't be a stranger, come back and see us when life settles down for you.” He bent over to give me a kiss on the forehead and he shifted back into his raven form and was off.

I whispered to Lucien “we should get back before Tamlin destroys the manor again.”

“That's a terribly dark joke,” he laughed, still resting in my arms, head back and eyes closed, “I won't tell him you said that and we will be even.”

“Fair,” I giggled as we fell back through a portal home.

Tamlin was pacing just outside the manor as we returned, dashing over to us the second his gaze met mine. I held Lucien still, one arm supporting his neck, the other under his knees. “Walking is going to be painful for a day or two due to where the knife was, but he should make a full recovery.” I said as I passed him off to Tamlin. “Help him out of his bloodied clothes and into bed.”

Tamlin looked down at Lucien, still trailing in and out of consciousness, “He's alive? What happened? Where did you go?”

“Yes, my ex revived him, and Darnassus.” He knew when I kept my answers short like this, to not press further. “I am going to bathe this blood off me, and I just got this dress too, damnit Rhysand, always starting shit, just leave us alone….” I complained out loud as I walked away. I assume Tamlin did as I asked, I did my part, and I am tired.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

I woke up the next morning, threw on one of my new dresses and headed to Lucien's room. I knocked “Lucien? Can I come in?”

“Come in,” I opened the door slowly and peeked in. He tried to get up, and I stopped him, sitting on the edge of his bed by his side.

“How are you feeling?”

“Groggy, weak.” He muttered, annoyed.

“That's to be expected, you died yesterday.” I reassured him softly. “I am truly sorry for what my brother did–”

“Don't pity me.” He snapped harshly, avoiding eye contact.

“Hah, this is far from pity. I am terrified of you. That much blood? For how long you held on? You are a tough one that's for sure, remind me to never get on your bad side.” I laughed and he tried to hide the smile forming on his lips. He was still holding onto that anger.

“Why? Why save me, you barely knew me?” He accused.

“Because you matter.” My tone was flat. My intention was not to flatter him, but to actually convince him. “Your value does not reside in how you can be of use to me, Lucien. You do not need to suffer for me to see you as a person whose right to life I respect.” His glare softened slightly, seeming to almost believe me. “What would you like for breakfast? I'll bring it up to you.”

“Just some fruit and maybe some water would be nice.” He whispered.

“Okay, I'll be right back” I pushed his hair out of his face and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Door, open or shut?”

“You can leave it cracked.”

I returned moments later with a tray of mixed fruit and a couple glasses of water. He sat up as I placed the tray on his lap, sitting down next to him. “What happened when you returned to Night?”

Lucien sighed. “Rhysand initially sent me, ordered me, here to convince you to come back with me. I have been at his mercy since leaving Spring, and he figured the curse you put on him wouldn't apply to me since you didn't know of me. What I didn't expect was to return to a rebuilt manor and a Tamlin that not only welcomed me back with open arms, but also an apology. Spring has always been my home, until it wasn't, but after the day I spent with you and him, I felt like I got it back. I returned to Night to tell him that you had no interest in returning and I wouldn't be the one to force you. And, well, your brother doesn't like to be told he can't have what he wants.”

“If you had truly come to Spring with the intention of harm at my brother's behest, the curse would, most definitely, apply to you.” I clarified. “I don't believe you have it in your heart to ever really betray Tamlin.”

“I didn't, and even now it looks as though I owe Spring another life debt.” Lucien sighed.

“You owe me nothing, Lucien. I am not keeping score. That dagger was buried in your back because you stood up for me. You did the right thing and risked your life for someone you barely knew,” I reassured. “I would like to request that you stay here, or at least stay away from the Night court entirely. They believe you to be dead, and we can use that to our advantage later.” A small lie, but Lucien is too proud for his own good, so I knew I had a better chance of convincing him if he thought it to be strategy instead of worry.

“I understand, I would like to remain here, at least until I regain my strength, but I don't want to be treated like a fragile child.” Lucien pressed.

“That is fair, and while I do not, could not, see you as a child in any capacity, I can understand that my kindness may translate that way at times. Just let me know when it is too much and I will back off. Deal?”

“Deal.” He sighed.

I bid him farewell and left the room to allow him to rest. Tamlin was waiting out in the hall.

“How's he doing?”

“Better, he should be well enough to join us for dinner. But I fear I may have to face my brother sooner than I wanted to. It looks like he is going to keep leaving us these grotesque gifts until I hear him out.” I replied calmly as we made our way to the kitchen.

“I don't like the idea of you going there alone. I will be worried sick the entire time. Everyone I care about that has left for Night, has come back in pieces.” Tamlin admitted sternly.

“I need you to trust that I will be fine. His wards have no effect on my portals, no one in Prythia has any understanding of how they work or how to hinder them. I am no longer affected by ash or bloodbane. I will be okay. I promise. I need you here.”

“That's not going to stop me from worrying. Someone needs to protect you.”

I stopped walking and he turned to me. I relaxed the tension I held in my shoulders and looked up at him with a pout on my lips. I knew damn well I was powerful enough to take every High Lord in Prythia with one hand tied behind my back after taking six shots of pure bloodbane. But, I didn't have to fight anymore. I wouldn't have to. He wanted to protect me. Someone wanted to keep me safe. This is all I've wanted. He pulled me into his chest and I whispered, “Then come with me.”

Tag list: @ladythornofrivia @rcarbo1 @rin-u-pos @knoxic @lilah-asteria

#pro tamlin #tamlin x reader #tamlin x you #tamlin x oc #acotar fanfic #anti rhysand fanfic #anti rhysand #lucien #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #pro lucien #tamlin fanfiction #tamlin fanfic

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ginandtobacco · 2 months ago

Text

Lady Luck

@erisweekofficial

Day One: Bargains

Pairing: Eris x OC

Summary: Eris makes a bargain with an elusive criminal known only as Lady Luck. His father's death in exchange for a position in his court; a bargain with the devil in exchange for a crown soaked in blood.

Warnings: mentions of gambling & alcohol, vague mentions of child abuse

Word Count: 4.2k

Authors Note: i had to cut a bunch of scenes because i need to go to bed and i didn't want to post late. but i'm still so happy to be participating <3

“A place in the Autumn Court. I’d be a lovely advisor, probably prettier than the ones your father—”

“Absolutely not,” Eris snapped back, the temperature in the room flaring with his anger.

The two unlikely companions were sat in a private room of The Molten Ruby; a shady invite only lounge in the Autumn Court’s capital that specialized in drugs, women, and gambling. Any faerie could acquire whatever their heart desired, so long as they had enough gold on hand.

The woman across from Eris was probably around his age, but it was so hard to tell with the strange mask that covered most of her face. Tiny disks of gold overlapped like chainmail, beginning at the crown of her head and slowly becoming more sparse until the bottom of her face was covered by nothing more than thin golden chains. It reminded him of a snake’s scales, shifting and shimmering as they reflected the candle light. The mask had the intended effect though, the woman could see Eris through the gaps in the metal and he wouldn’t be able to describe a single feature of her face other than her luminous dark skin and sinful red lips.

The woman was called Lady Luck. Everyone at The Molten Ruby had an alias, usually an obviously fake name, but Lady Luck’s reputation far outstripped any fake name she’d taken on. The card games she ran were legendary, famous for their large pots and her reputation for killing cheaters at the table. But Eris was here for her less well known skills.

“You’re asking quite a lot of me princeling,” she purred, a soft accent tinging her words. The casualness with which she took a sip of her wine infuriated him, a faint red mark staining the rim where her lipstick was wearing off. “An assassination is one thing, but framing someone complicates it.”

“Poisoning him and putting the bottle in Hadrian’s room is not a complicated matter.” But they both knew that wasn’t what Eris was looking for. If he’d wanted something that simplistic and easily scrutinized, he wouldn’t be here with Lady Luck. No, what he needed was a death so well planned and executed that even the idea of suspecting Eris would be ridiculous.

He wanted her, needed her. Lady Luck with her strange magic that didn’t seem to belong to any one court. Eris could feel her magic, she had never bothered to hide it, like electricity filling the air around her. He didn’t know what abilities she had, or how they work, just that she had a reputation for making things happen. Bad luck. That’s what people claimed her powers were, although he thought it was a ridiculous idea. It didn’t really matter what her powers were, so long as she could do what he needed.

Her blood red lips curved up, mocking him. “If that was all you needed then why couldn’t the Shadowsinger do it for you. I hear you’ve been spending quite a lot of time in the Night Court lately.”

Panic. Such a familiar emotion to Eris, but rarely had it ever been inspired by someone other than his father. Ice worked its way through his veins, snuffing out the fire that filled him and closing around his heart. “How do you know that?” His voice was no more than a whisper.

She laughed, the sound melodic and too pretty for a female that held his life in the palm of her hand. “It’s my business to know these things, isn’t it?”

Luck was too pretty of a thing to call her, too rose colored and optimistic for the lethal female in front of him. No, she was a spider slowly spinning her web and watching happily as Eris wrapped himself in the sticky strands she’d woven just for him.

“It’s a bargain then.”

The mark seared into the skin of his upper arm, constricting around his bicep like a snake. Lady Luck looked down at the matching mark on her own bare arm, a collection of autumn leaves and tangled vines.

“I look forward to joining your court, my lord.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It happened like this: Beron and Hadrian went out for a hunt with a handful of the lords Beron was trying to pressure into supporting his new tax policies. It happened as many hunts tend to when it is late in the season and there is little game to be found; the excitement of the sport replaced with freely flowing wine and leisurely riding through the forest.

It happened like this: Hadrian saw a buck. The first game of the hunt and it was a deer larger than any he had ever seen before, with a pure white coat and antlers so large they looked cumbersome. Hadrian had always been the most egotistical of the brothers and it was no surprise when he loosed an arrow at the buck almost immediately after seeing it.

It happened like this: hours of drinking, a male who had never been a talented shot even when he was sober, and Beron’s horse getting spooked just as Hadrian released the arrow. An arrow aimed for a magnificent buck that only he had seen striking Beron clean through the left eye.

There had been no trial. A dozen witnesses had rendered the need for one obsolete. A dozen witnesses who had seen Hadrian shoot his father clean between the eyes and all swore on their lives that they had seen no deer in the woods. A dozen witnesses who had seen the princeling’s face turn from fear, to elation, then finally to horror when he realized the crown had not in fact passed to him as he’d expected.

Eris had killed him quickly. A small mercy from the new high lord. A snap of his fingers and suddenly his brother was nothing more than a pile of ash on the floor of the throne room. The second oldest of the lot, the one born while Eris was away rebuilding the court after the first war with Hybern. The one closest in age to him and furthest from him in spirit; being swept into a dustpan by a servant with shaking hands.

Three dead brothers. A dead father. A mother he knew would leave for the Day Court come morning. A brother who still would not speak to him, who preferred the company of humans over him. Two brothers left in autumn, neither of whom he could trust but whose talents he needed.

Eris was high lord and he was somehow more alone than he had been before.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The female standing at the foot of his throne was beautiful. Hundreds of tiny braids cascaded down her back, swishing gently with every movement. Her dress was strange, certainly not a style common in Prythian. Intricate embroidery of a bursting heart covered the bodice and the gown synched at her waist, creating a rigid skirt that reminded him of a trumpet flower. The high neck didn’t include sleeves, slivers of her dark brown shoulders visible before her odd coat of voluminous red fabric hid it away.

And her calves… Eris was certain every faerie in the room was staring at the inches of bare skin visible between the end of her dress and her ankles. It was scandalous here in a court that valued modesty so heavily. Perhaps in the Night Court or in Day those six inches of bare calves would be normal but here, they were positively sinful.

“And who, pray tell, are you?” Eris asked, lazily propping his head on his hand. In truth, it was quite concerning that a strange female had managed to access the Forest House; to gain entry into his throne room of all places. But he needed to continue his facade of bored arrogance in front of the handful of advisors with whom he’d been discussing trade negotiations.

The serpentine grin on her face shot cold fear through his veins. Eris felt the world slow as she let her strange coat slide down to her elbows, revealing a tattoo of twisting thorns and autumn leaves that encircled her bicep. “My name is Rosaline, I am the second daughter of the King of Montesere.” Somehow her smile seemed to grow, her brown eyes sparking with mischief as she stared up at him. “I believe we have something to discuss, High Lord.”

It was like being thrown into the icy lake of the Winter Court. This realization of how thoroughly Eris had been tricked by Lady Luck— Rosaline. The slight accent that he had dismissed, the magic that didn’t belong to any of the courts of Prythian, the strange mask that had hidden her identity so thoroughly. Even this dress she wore with the embroidery of the bursting heart— a symbol associated with Montesere.

Eris had made a bargain with the devil and she had come to collect, and it was no one’s fault but his own stupidity and his blind desperation to be free from his father.

“Everyone out.”

Lady Luck— Rosaline— continued smiling up at him as his advisors scurried out of the room. A suffocating silence surrounded them as the door swung shut, leaving him completely alone with her. She seemed quite content to let him drown in the silence, her hands clasped casually in front of her as if nothing was amiss.

“Are you a spy then?” Dispensing with formalities seemed the best path forward. Rosaline could already damn him if she so desired, there was no point in hiding from their bargain.

“I thought you were supposed to be intelligent, my lord.” The arrogance made his blood boil. “My father has spent the past few years keeping the news of my disappearance quiet but make no mistake, I left Montesere of my own free will. I assume his spies will be sending letters to him as we speak of my reappearance.”

A runaway princess. A runaway princess who he had promised a court position to. A runaway princess who had killed the former high lord at his request. Eris was tangled in this web she had woven for him and based upon her self-satisfied smirk she had him exactly where she wanted.

“Are you trying to start a war?” He let the condescension drip from his words, his only armor against this female.

Her eyes left him, scanning the room with a casual indifference; like her presence in his court was not causing an insurmountable political problem for him. “I quite like it here. I’ve seen the other courts in Prythian and they’re not quite up to my standards. It’s not my intention to start a war, but it is of course up to your discretion.”

Stupid sly female. She was out playing him at his own game, dragging him deeper and deeper into her web and it was only his own stupidity to blame.

Exhaustion had burrowed itself deep in his bones. It was mere weeks since he’d become High Lord and every moment since had been spent putting out fires. Eris was so tired of everything. “Just tell me what you want and be done with it.”

“If you want to avoid a war, your best move is to marry me.” She said it so matter of factly, like she was telling him the weather or the time of day. “My father has been trying to marry me off for a century now, I’m sure he wouldn’t oppose a union with the Autumn Court.”

Marriage. The word echoed in his mind, bringing with it all of the awful memories of his parents; of the terrible end of his last engagement, of watching his father kill Lucien’s lover in this very room. Eris had never been foolish enough to think he’d have the opportunity to marry for love, but he had had the idiotic belief that he might have a choice in the matter. Marriage or war.

A soft pop and suddenly there was a letter in his hand. Burgundy wax with the impression of a bursting heart secured the thick beige paper. The seal of the King of Montesere looked rather simplistic and non threatening here. It made the complex embroidery on Rosaline’s dress look gorey by comparison.

“Marriage or war.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The wedding had been quick. A grand affair, to be sure, filled with days of celebration and plying his advisors and the nobility with alcohol and carefully painted smiles. A week after the King of Montesere had threatened him for harboring his daughter, Eris and Rosaline had tied their hands together in front of a priestess and made vows to the mother to be faithful to one another.

A vow, he thought, was so worthless compared to a bargain. An empty promise with no consequences for violating. So meaningless compared to the bargain that wrapped around his arm, branding him a fool.

Then there had been more drinking and more dancing and very few words exchanged between himself and his new wife before finally they were allowed to retire.

“Separate rooms, how thoughtful of you,” Rosaline had laughed when he pushed open the door to their chambers.

He ignored her, striding across the room and removing the cork from a bottle of wine unceremoniously. Eris didn’t offer to pour her a glass, a small childish protest that didn’t actually make him any less annoyed.

As he went to put the bottle back down, he just barely knocked the bottom of it against the table. It slipped from between his fingers and as he reached with his other hand to catch it, the freshly poured glass spilled down the front of his jacket. Shattered glass and blood red wine soaked the rug and his clothes as he turned to glare at his wife.

“Bit of bad luck?” Her lips were pulled down in mock sympathy as she pulled the jeweled pins from her elaborate hairstyle.

Eris wanted to strangle her, but he forced himself to take a slow measured breath. It was just wine, it was fine. He was stuck with her, he couldn’t kill her, he needed to make do. “So it’s true then? It’s just luck?” The implication was clear in his voice. It was just luck. He’d made a stupid bargain with her and all she’d done is turn his father’s luck bad. Something so small, so irrelevant, as to be meaningless. She was no master assassin or brilliant schemer. She’d simply turned Beron’s luck bad and been lucky that he died.

Rosaline raised an eyebrow at him as she pulled the last of her hair down. He had the fleeting thought that he liked the way her hair looked when it was down; the way all of those small braids framed her face. “And you just make fire,” she bit back at him.

This time he felt it when she used her magic. Tiny sparks of electricity seemed to fill the room as she tossed the handful of jewel encrusted pins towards a bowl on the coffee table. They all clattered as they hit the table, dinging as they hit the polished wood and the candles. Two landed directly in the bowl, but he watched with fascination as the other pins bounced off of the table and into the bowl. It wasn’t an impossible feat, but it was very very lucky.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“Why me?”

The two of them were sitting in the living area that connected their bedchambers. It was a rare period of amiable silence as they read their respective books and the fire crackled quietly before them. Most of their time was dedicated to avoiding each other or attending important events with carefully constructed masks of cordial collaboration.

Rosaline looked up, raising an eyebrow at him. “I’m not a mind reader; elaborate.”

Pages rustled as Eris shoved a report between the pages of his book to mark his place “Why marry me? Why not just continue on as Lady Luck?” He ran a hand through his hair, the neatly combed strands falling into disarray. “Clearly you were capable of staying hidden from your father’s spies, so why force me into this marriage? Is it power that you want?”

Rosaline wasn’t exactly sure what she’d expected him to ask, but she hadn’t expected curiosity about her. They’d spent the weeks since their wedding avoiding each other, content to live their separate lives in a shared home. She’d had an unspoken edge over him since he made that stupid bargain with her, but giving him even a glimpse of her true self felt dangerous. Like she was gambling instead of pulling his strings.

“Why is your brother so unhappy that he resorts to living with humans?” Eris bristled at the mention of Lucien, but she pressed on, “Isn’t it better to ensure I have a husband who owes me something, rather than be offered up as a trophy? Marry someone my father approved of or spend my life running. After five years of hiding I was already sick of it.”

She shrugged, opening her book again to signal the end of their brief conversation.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Six months into their strange and strained marriage, and Eris still didn’t think he was used to living with Rosaline.

She was a fickle creature, clearly raised around wealth like him and more than willing to let her flights of fancy carry her throughout the day. Work was something that happened sporadically for her whenever the mood struck. He might sit down for the usual silent dinner only to be informed that she was busy writing budget proposals for a public works project one of the other noble ladies had mentioned to her.

The worst was at night. Often he would wake in the middle of the night, visions of flames and whips and his father’s face dragging him forcefully from his sleep; only to find her toiling away on some pet project of hers in the sitting area. His shame about the nightmares the only thing preventing him from walking past her to the liquor cabinet to chase away his demons.

This night, however, had been worse than usual. Eris swore he could feel the charred skin on his back even as he wiped the sweat from his brow and looked in the mirror. This night, he didn’t bother being ashamed as he strode into the brightness of the sitting area.

“I don’t recommend that.”

Mother above, the last thing he wanted to hear was her voice when he was already about to try and claw his skin off.

“What?” He snapped, turning his ire on her; the whiskey forgotten for now.

Rosaline’s braids were tied back loosely with a silk ribbon. It matched the crimson fabric of her short nightgown, the scalloped edges highlighting just how much of her smooth dark skin was uncovered and glowing beneath the candlelight.

“If your only solution to your nightmares is drinking, you’re going to become dependent on it.” Fire sang in his veins as he watched her make a note in the margin of whatever she was reading. How dare she assume she knew better than him? She was just a strange female from the continent who knew nothing about him.

“How dare you—”

Rosaline managed to cut him off with nothing more than a look, her bloodshot eyes cutting through the panic and anger that had burnt away all of his logic and reason. “Maybe if you didn’t do this same routine a dozen times a month I would be able to finally get a good night’s rest.” Her gaze softened somewhat before she turned back to her work, “Go back to bed, High Lord.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“I still think it’s ridiculous that Lord Rothwaine thinks he has any leverage in the negotiations,” Rosaline rolled her eyes as they walked back towards their rooms. “The border with the Winter Court is the least productive part of the entire court. Perhaps he might have more bargaining power if his region had a larger population, or even any useful exports, but as it stands he’s simply insulting you by assuming he even has a leg to stand on.”

Eris shook his head, a half smile tugging at his lips. “They’re all like that, when will you stop being shocked by their arrogance?” In truth, he had come to enjoy these spirited rants from her. It had taken time, and time, and yet more time, but slowly the two of them had developed something close to a friendship. “I don’t understand why you continue torturing yourself with these meetings when you have no desire in helping with the tariff adjustments.”

“What would you have me do instead? Embroider you more handkerchiefs?” She tossed her hair, letting the braids smack against his arm to illustrate how annoying she found his question. “If you weren’t so uptight you might let me actually help you and then we wouldn’t both have to show up to hear Lord Rothwaine prattle on about how lowering our tariff on Summer Court wheat will drive us to ruin.”

Eris held the door to their rooms open, raising an eyebrow at her. “I told you you were free to do as you wished.”

“My apologies for assuming do as I wish didn’t mean governing your court.” She tossed her crown and Eris didn’t even bother to look, knowing after a year that it would land or bounce somewhere safely. He had married a lucky female, after all. “Besides, what’s the point in me doing anything if you’re just going to do it again? You get upset when I move your paperwork, I can’t imagine what you’d do if I started doing it for you.”

“Tell me what you want to do and I’ll set it aside then. You’re more than competent, I trust you to do it without me needing to check it.” He tossed his jacket, aiming for the back of a chair and rolling his eyes when it slid and folded itself perfectly in the seat.

In recent months he’d noticed Rosaline’s magic had begun affecting him as well. Only when she was nearby, of course, but it was like he’d been infected by it. Lost items were always found quickly, dropped glasses bounced harmlessly off of pillows, rings snagged on dresses never ripped them. It was a strange thing to get used to, this sudden surge of good luck.

Silence stretched and he looked up from his cufflinks to see Rosaline giving him a look he couldn’t quite parse. Her eyes seemed to be searching him for… something, he didn’t know what. Worn lipstick stained her lips an uneven crimson and his eyes snagged on them as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

Eris wondered why he so rarely considered what she looked like. Most days she was just Rosaline. Wife was simply a formal title they used. Friend was closer, but it didn’t truly encompass the way they’d intertwined their lives together in the past year and change. He rarely considered what she looked like because he rarely considered what he himself looked like beyond just presentable.

He let himself look at her. Long braids reached almost to her waist, a dark brown that shone reddish next to the roaring fire. Her dark brown skin that always looked so lovely in the reds and oranges of his court, as if she had been made to live amongst the maple trees that filled the forest outside. And her eyes; a brown so rich and deep that to compare them to any one thing would be doing them a disservice. A brown that managed to hold every color inside itself and reflect such shining light that it was a miracle Eris had spent the past year looking anywhere else.

It felt like a bowstring being pulled taut, stretching between two points before finally settling into place. It felt like the last brick of a shimmering gold bridge finally being laid down. It felt like stumbling through the darkness and feeling a warm hand wrap around his own.

“Am I an idiot?” The words came out so quickly, without him meaning to speak at all.

Rosaline let out a laugh, so quick and loud that she put her hand over her mouth like she could force it back in. She glanced away from him, but it was clear she was just trying to hide the fact that she still wanted to laugh at him.

One moment he was behind the couch taking off his cufflinks and the next he was standing before her, gently taking one of her hands in his own and pressing it to his chest. There would be time later for him to think through all of the fears he harbored, the terror and horror that came with having his soul tied to another. But for now, the rhapsodic joy he felt at this revelation was overpowering even his anxieties.

“How long have you known?”

A manicured eyebrow raised, a perfect imitation of an expression he wore so often, but it couldn’t hide the devilish grin that tugged at her lips. “Let’s just say it was a lucky guess.”

fun fun, another longer authors note down here at the end. i'm a bit annoyed at myself, i got halfway through this and realized that the way i was writing it it was going to need to be about 3x the length it is rn. but c'est la vie, i have work tomorrow and so i cut it down a bunch so i could get it finished before i had to sleep. so it is very unedited, but hey! i'll probably revisit this in a few weeks to add in everything i cut so the ending feels more satisfying and the time-skips feel less jumpy. anyways, not how i wanted to start eris week but i'm so happy nonetheless <33

#👑#erisweek2024 #acotar fic #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #eris vandaddy #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #pro eris vanserra

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whatdoeseverybodywant · 6 months ago

Text

You're the Only Girl for Me- Chapter 20

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤

All OC Characters belong to me

August 1st 2021

Airielle jumped and let out a gasp as someone knocked on her driver's side window.

“Girl, are you okay?” Trinity asked her. “How long have you been down here? Yas is still upstairs waiting for you.”

Airielle just shrugged, she didn’t know how long she actually sat in the garage. Her mind was all over the place, because she had to be imagining Christopher… right? There was no way in hell he was in Pensacola. What were the actual chances?

“Airi?” Trinity called out again, unlocking her phone and sending a quick text to Yas who was down in the garage at record breaking speed.

“Airielle?” Yas called out her name as she got closer to her car. She looked over at Trinity who shrugged.

“I was going to my car and found her out here.” Trinity sent a quick text message to her husband telling him that she was staying with Airielle, there was no way she was leaving her best friend after seeing her in this state.

“Sweetie.. Come-on” Yas said softly as she unbuckled Airielle’s seatbelt and gently pulled her out of the car. “What happened?”

“He-He” Was all Airielle could get out, as Trin and Yas led her back up the elevator to her apartment. Yas sighed, suddenly feeling guilty that she told Airielle to go talk to Josh. Yas and Trin helped Airielle into her apartment and sat her down on the couch. Trinity went into the kitchen to call Josh and give him a piece of her mind while Yasmine sat on the chair and watched her cousin.

Yasmine had only seen Airielle like this one other time and that was on their vacation to California last summer where they almost ran into Christopher. He didn’t see them but Airielle damn sure saw him and shut down for the rest of the vacation, refusing to leave their hotel room. But there was no way… right?

Airielle didn’t know how long she had been sitting on the couch, all she knew was that her body no longer felt numb. “He’s in Pensacola, Yas.” Airielle whispered and Yasmine felt her heart drop into her stomach. “I went to the pier to clear my mind after going to Josh’s and when I opened my eyes, he was there. Just staring at me.” Airielle whispered and all Yasmine could do was blink at her, she was trying to form words but her brain had stopped working. “He wasn’t real though, right?” Airielle asked, her eyes pleading with Yasmine to agree. Yasmine nodded instantly

“He wasn’t real Airi, I promise.” Airielle let out a shaky breath and let herself sink into the couch.

“He wasn’t real.” Airielle repeated. But no matter how many times she said it, she knew it wasn’t true, and him being in Pensacola was only the beginning.

August 20th 2021

AIRIELLEJONES

liked by yasmine_jones, trinity_fatu and 190,000 others

AirielleJones: 🥂🖤

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user: okay but the bob eats!

user: the bob!!

trinity_fatu: oooh girl. that bob is everything ! (❤️ by author)

850-876-5643: Airielle talk 2 me 850-876-5643: Please 850-876-5643: just answer the phone so i can explain. 850-876-5643: stop ignoring me.

Airielle threw her phone in her bag as she entered The Footprint Center in Phoenix, Arizona. Josh had texted her every damn day trying to explain himself and he honestly didn’t need to. He was single and could do whoever he wanted to. He didn’t owe her an explanation but he was hell bent on giving her one.

Airielle definitely needed those two weeks off, Paul had even granted her an extra week after Airielle lied and said she had a death in the family.. It was wrong but shit, the mere thought of going back outside and probably running into Christopher scared her shitless. She had somehow managed to survive off of whatever she had in her cabinets and pantry which mainly consisted of canned goods and chex mix.

“Hey.” Airielle jumped - she’s been doing a lot of that lately- “Woah.” Josh said, holding his hands up as he walked closer to her. “ I didn't mean to scare you Rih, You good?”

“You look nice.” He said and she rolled her eyes.

“Josh, wassup?”

Josh was taken aback by her standoffish attitude, she had never been like this with him. “You been ignoring me. I wanted to talk about what happened.” Airielle let out a soft grunt and looked around,checking her surroundings, she had been doing a lot of that lately, too. She let out a quiet hum as she noticed Yara and Zelina standing by the other end of the hallway, looking in her direction.

“Rih.” Josh called out, cupping her jaw and bringing her attention back to him. “I ain’t mean for that to happen. I was hurt and upset and-”

“Josh , stop” She cut him off, removing his hand from her face. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re single, you can do whatever you want.” She tried to walk around him but he stepped in her way.

“Bullshit, you’re upset.” Airielle sighed and closed her eyes. She was on the verge of a breakdown and she needed to get away from Josh ASAP.

“I’m not upset.” She lied and Josh knew she was lying. But there was nothing he could do about it and it pissed him off. He wanted her to talk to him and to stop keeping shit bottled up inside. “Can I go now?”

Josh sucked his teeth and moved out of the way, letting her pass. For some reason he felt as if he had cheated on her and he wanted to fix things, but shit.. She kissed Raymond first. He sucked his teeth again and walked in the opposite direction to start getting ready for his match against Rey Mysterio.

Airielle held her head up high as she strutted past Yara and Zelina, she had almost walked past them when Yara reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

“Hey, um- i’m gonna need you to stay away from my man.” Yara stated, flipping her cheap ass wig over her shoulder. Airielle scoffed and looked around to see who she was talking to.

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t play dumb. You know that’s my nigga now. You’re old news, you have no need to be talking to him anymore.”

“Girl, get the fuck off of me.” Airielle laughed, snatching her arm out of Yara’s grasp.

“I'm being so forreal right now. I might be new, but he’s my man and you're getting too comfortable.” Airielle had to giggle at the look of anger on Yara’s face.

“Maybe you should be having this conversation with ya’ man. He been blowing my phone up for days.”

“All I'm saying is stay away from my man.” Airielle sighed and rolled her eyes. oh boy.

“Tell your man to stay away from me.” Airielle winked and shouldered her way past an angry Yara and amused Zelina.

Airielle : 1

Yara : 0

Sooo... hope i didn't disappoint w/ this chapter 😭

Yara is a grade A BITCH but Airielle can handle that ass.

I like how Josh's number is no longer saved in her phone neither lol

it went from being Josh to Josh ❤️ to J.Uso and now just a number lmao.

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mrsjoeythehurler · 2 months ago

Text

When I Met You

(OC FMC x Liam Mairi)

All characters except for Aurora Sallow who is my OC and the FMC of this fic belong to Rebecca Yarros. The plot of Fourth Wing also belongs to Rebecca Yarros.

Content warnings: most of the warnings that are for Fourth Wing are also going to be in When I Met You. That includes: Blood, death, injury, violence and war. The only content warning I am adding is panic attacks (2)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟAurora Sallow ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

After Commandant Panchek's speech, we are given the rundown of what will happen for the next few months leading up to Threshing and what will happen after it. Then, we are all placed into our respective sections with our respective leaders.

Of course, Violet, Rhi, and I were all placed in Dain's section as he requested. We're now members of Second Squad, Flame Section. And even though I may not like Dain that much, Violet trusts him, and that's good enough for me.

As we're waiting for the rest of the wings to be called, I can't help but think back to the boy from earlier. He was so handsome I couldn't get my mind off of him. I fight the urge to look for him in the crowd, but it's hard. I want our eyes to meet again. I want to get lost in them. It was only one look, but I felt it like a charge throughout my entire body. I couldn't get him off my mind.

The roll-keeper begins speaking again, breaking me out of my thoughts. Closing my eyes and shaking my head, I turn my attention to the dais.

Earlier, we found out that 100 of us cadets survived the Parapet, while sixty-seven did not. It was hard to hear, especially when you realize that none of the fallen cadets would get a proper burial.

When people die, instead of being laid to rest, their names are called once upon those who are there to listen, and then all their belongings must be burned, not even sent back to their families for keepsakes.

They will never get to see their families again, and their families will never be able to give them the proper goodbye they deserve. It breaks my heart, so I provide the roll-keeper with all my attention whenever a name is called. I want to hold their names in memory so that I can remember them and pay my respects.

Just then, Rhiannon leans in towards Violet and I. "What do you think they're talking about?"

I look to the left of the dais and see Xaden and the other Wingleaders talking amongst themselves.

"I have no idea," I tell her.

"Quiet." Dain hisses, not even sparing us a glance.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I don't think they'll hear us from all the way over here, but I don't tell Dain that. Something tells me he hates being wrong. Or he takes his job very seriously. Maybe a little too seriously.

Suddenly, the roll-keeper looks towards our group. "Dain Aetos, you and your squad will switch with Aura Beinhaven's." She commands.

Wait, what? Are we switching squads?

Dain nods and tells us to follow him, so we do.

Right to Fourth Wing.

Why did we switch wings? I look at Rhi who gives me a confused look, mirroring my own. I then look over towards Violet, but she seems frozen…and a little pissed off.

"You're all cadets now," Xaden says, his voice carrying out over the courtyard. "Take a look at your squad. These are the only people guaranteed by Codex not to kill you."

Well, that's reassuring.

"But just because they can't end your life doesn't mean others won't." He goes on. "You want a dragon? Earn one."

Almost everyone starts cheering. I think Violet and I are the only ones who don't.

Xaden says, "And I bet you feel pretty badass right now, don't you, first years?"

More cheers erupt around us, but again, I stay silent. I don't think there was one moment in my life when I felt badass. I don't even think I understand the meaning of the word. Not even after completing the Parapet. I just felt relieved I got Sawyer and me to safety.

Xaden suddenly stops talking, and the sound of wings can be heard over the wind.

"Oh gods, they're beautiful," Rhi whispers from beside me as a riot of dragons appears.

I'm speechless.

I've seen dragons before, but only in the sky far away. Never up close.

Sometimes at night, when it was late, and I couldn't sleep because my anxiety would keep me up, I would sit beside my open window looking out into the night sky, gazing at the stars, and breathing in and out to the clouds passing in front of the moon. Occasionally, one or two dragons would fly in front of the light, creating the perfect silhouette. It would never frighten me, only make me feel comfort at a time when I needed it most. Like I wasn't really alone in my anxiety. Like the dragons were telling me they see me.

But these aren't far away like those I would catch glimpses of from my window. These dragons were headed straight towards us.

They all land on the outer semicircular wall: one red, two green, one brown, one orange, and one navy. All of them are huge and magnificent, but the navy one is massive—tremendously larger than the rest. Their large talons grip the edge of the wall, their scales shimmering with the sun's light gleaming off them, and their semi-translucent wings are gorgeous.

A few cadets around me scream, but I know better.

When I was a Scribe, I would read a lot about dragons. I wanted to know about the creatures that visited me each night beyond my window. I know what to do and what not to do when in the presence of one. You should stay calm and still and not make any noise. You also shouldn't show any fear, as they can sense it. Dragons are not dumb. You shouldn't make loud noises or try to run in the opposite direction, as this makes the dragon see you as prey. If you do that, you could die.

When I see a cadet from Third Wing make a run for it, I hold my breath. I know what will happen next, and there's nothing anyone can do about it unless they want to meet the same fate.

To my left, I see the red dragon open its mouth, revealing large, razor-sharp teeth and shooting flames toward the fleeing cadet.

He's ash on the ground in less than a second.

There are two more gusts of heat, one to the left of me and one to the right.

Two more cadets are gone.

"Anyone else feel like changing their mind?" Xaden shouts as he scans the rows of cadets, most with faces of horror after what just occurred. "No? Excellent. Roughly half of you will be dead by this time next summer." He goes on, "A third of you again the year after that, and the same your last year. No one cares who your mommy or daddy is here. Even King Tauri's second son died during his Threshing. So tell me again: do you feel invincible now that you've made it into the Riders Quadrant? Untouchable? Elite?"

Silence.

"Because you're not untouchable or special to them." Xaden continues as he points towards the enormous Navy dragon, but his eyes seem to be on Violet as he says, "To them, you're just the prey."

꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

The next day, all of us are getting ready to go to our first Battle Brief.

We met in the courtyard earlier, where Captain Fitzgibbon read the death toll of the fallen cadets. We were then instructed by Dain and Sawyer to go back to our dorms to get what we needed for Battle Brief.

Actually, I believe Sawyer's exact words were "get your shit and don't be late."

Violet, Rhi, and I are in the hallway, walking towards our dorm, which we all share, when Rhi suddenly says, "That has to be hard."

I give her a confused look.

"Sawyer." She says. "Being set back and having to do this all over again."

"Better than being dead," Ridoc says, walking past us.

I roll my eyes at Ridoc. "Yeah." I agree as we continue walking. "But Sawyer's alright. He's handling it well. He seems to be doing okay."

"Oh yeah," Rhi says, giving me a smug look. "You two are close, aren't you? Do you like him? Is there something going on?"

I laugh as we all turn a corner. "No. I don't like him like that. But he is a great friend, and if either of you ever have a thing for him, I'll be happy to put in a good word."

Rhi gives me a big smile. "I may have to take you up on that."

I haven't told either of them about the boy from yesterday who I can't stop thinking about. It's not like anything is going to happen there. Besides, who even knows if he was looking at me the way I was looking at him. Maybe I had something on my face.

We're almost to our dorms when I hear someone whistle. All of us stop in our tracks. We turn to see Dain, and his eyes are set on Violet.

"I'll be—"Violet starts.

But Rhi cuts her off. "We'll grab your stuff and meet you there. It's under your bunk, right?"

"You don't mind?" Violet asks.

"Of course not," I say. "It's no problem at all. Go."

"Thank you." Violet smiles at us before heading off in the direction of Dain.

꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

After Battle Brief, I return to my dorm to prepare for sparring.

Battle Brief is a class taught by Professor Devera, a woman with short purple hair and a purple Flame Section patch on her shoulder. It will be held every day.

It's an essential class in case any of us are called into service early. It's held in the circular tiered room that curves at the end of the academic hall. It is one of the only rooms that fits all cadets, filling every seat.

Because Battle Brief is a class that relies on the most current information, we are required to answer to Professor Markham, a scribe whom Violet and I know very well.

Violet and I were supposed to be mentored by Professor Markham this year at the Scribe Quadrant before he retires. Unfortunately, both of us were sent to the Riders Quadrant, so that won't be happening. Violet, especially, was going to be his star pupil.

During Battle Brief, we learned some new information about the upcoming war, which shocked every cadet in the room.

Professor Devera told us that last night, a drift of Braevi gryphons attacked the eastern wing near the village of Chakir because the wards faltered. Professor Devera said it took an hour for a squad to get there to protect the wards. Thirty-seven civilians were killed in the attack.

When we all heard this information, we were shocked. I swear you could have heard a pin drop in the auditorium.

When a first-year in front of me asked if this was the first time the wards had faltered, Professor Devera answered with a "no." All of us were even more shocked and confused.

Thanks to Rhi, well, it was actually Violet who told Rhi to ask the question, who asked what the altitude of the village was at; we found out it was a little less than ten thousand feet, which is way too high for Gryphon's to fly.

Gryphons aren't as strong as dragons and can't fly as high as they can. It made no sense for them to fly that high unless they knew the wards were about to fail. As Violet pointed out during class.

There's also no way those riders got there within the hour of the attack. It would have taken at least half that long to signal for help. Which means they were already on their way to the faltering wards.

Which also means they already knew the wards were breaking.

It turns out that Violet and I's suspicions were correct. Professor Devera told us that one of the dragons in the wing sensed the faltering ward and the wing flew to protect it. If they had not got there in time, there would have been more casualties, and the destruction of the village would have been worse than it is.

Xaden also made a comment during class that made me pause because it made sense. The gryphon riders were definitely looking for something, as the state of the village showed. Apparently, the buildings they'd already gone through were burned, and the others were being looted when the wing arrived.

The only question now is, what were they looking for?

That's something to think about later. Right now, I must focus on sparring and how I will get through this.

Considering my entire life has been focused on becoming a scribe and spending most of my time in the Scribe Quadrant, I have never done any sort of physical training. I have never fought another person in my life, and I wasn't planning on it. It's not like I had any time to practice before I got here. My parents didn't really give me a heads-up before they sent me here and away from my dream future like it was nothing.

After I finish putting my hair into a ponytail, I head towards my door and walk out into the hallway.

I turn the corner and bump into a wall.

Nope, not a wall. A person.

"I'm so sorry," I say, looking up and freezing.

It's him. The gorgeous boy from yesterday.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it." He says as he looks into my eyes.

He gives me a small smile that shows off a dimple, and I can't function properly.

Realizing he has his hands on my shoulders to steady me, I take a small step back.

Clearing my throat, I give him a small smile of my own. "I'm Aurora."

"Liam." He says, still looking deep into my eyes.

His eyes are so beautiful. He is so beautiful.

"Okay, well," I say, shaking myself out of my stupor, "thank you for not being a wall."

I hate myself.

Liam laughs, and I want to bottle it up and listen to it forever. "No problem, " he says, putting his hands in his pockets. "You're going to spar?"

"Yes," I say. "I'm assuming you're headed there too?"

"I am." Liam nods. "Can I walk you there?"

I look up at him with wide eyes. "You want to walk me there?"

He scratches the back of his head, and a blush creeps up his cheeks. "Yeah," Liam clears his throat, "if you'll let me."

"Um… yeah, okay, sure." I give him a small smile.

We walk in silence for a couple minutes before the anxiety gets the better of me.

"So you're in Fourth Wing," I blurt.

I'm realizing now that I am absolutely not good at small talk.

He still gives me that smile. "I am. I'm in Second Squad, Tail Section. "

"Cool. I'm in Second Squad, Flame Section."

We're silent for a minute before Liam continues. "So, how are you managing the Riders Quadrant so far?"

"I think okay. I'm not as prepared as the rest of the cadets here are, but I'm learning."

Liam looks at me for a long moment. "Did you not want to become a rider?"

"No," I say, clearing my throat. "I used to be in the Scribe Quadrant. That was my goal, becoming a scribe."

"What made you change your mind?" Liam says, looking down at me with those mesmerizing eyes.

"My parents. They told me two days before conscription day that I needed to become a rider."

Liam furrows his brows. "They didn't give you an option? They just told you that you needed to become a rider, and that was that?"

I look down, suddenly feeling stupid. "Yes," I murmur.

I don't tell him that I've never said no to my parents in my life. I don't like disappointing people or feeling like a burden, so when my parents told me that I was going to the Riders Quadrant, I went along with it—even if that meant destroying my hope for the future.

"I'm sorry." He says.

I shrug. "It's okay. My friend Violet is here too. We were in the Scribe Quadrant together."

"It's good that you have someone you know here, " he says, looking over at me. "I'm glad you have someone you know here."

Looking up at him, I give him a small smile. "Yeah, me too."

We continue down the hall in a comfortable silence until we reach the sparring gym.

#fourth wing #fourth wing fic #fourth wing x reader #liam mairi #liam mairi x reader #iron flame #xaden riorson #violet sorrengail #violet and xaden #rhiannon matthias #ridoc gamlyn #sawyer henrick #garrick tavis #bodhi durran #dain aetos #fics

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gasolinerainbowpuddles · 9 months ago

Text

'Til Death Do Us Part║ ⓛⓘⓜⓘⓣⓔⓓ ⓢⓔⓡⓘⓔⓢ

| 'Til Death Do Us Part | fourth and final part of the Whistle in the Dark limited series ║ series masterlist ║ main masterlist ║ | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x married!fem!OC

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | WORD COUNT: 20.2k 👀 | CONTENT: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, deranged Horny Demon Hours shit, cuckolding!, erotic gore, feticide/miscarriage, acts of service: extreme mode, bodily fluids in places they shouldn’t be, torture, brutality, inappropriate use of handheld tools, mental manipulation through violence, menstruation-centered erotic acts, cumplay?, kidnapping, the vibe of the pottery wheel scene from Ghost except violent, discussions of verbal/emotional/physical abuse, so much blood from multiple people, bloodplay, lots of things with a knife, WHAT!TOWN?!Joel

| SYNOPSIS: The tangled web of Matthew's deceit and manipulation have ensnared you and crafted a dismal end.

Please be aware that this installment in particular might be potentially triggering for SA/DV survivors who have dealt with the legal system and its many, many failings for the most vulnerable populations. Please read with care. 💜

You hear the dull rumblings of voices. The cadences vary from deep to soft to rushed and even some hazy amalgamation of all those things. Your head is pounding. Everything sounds like you’re underwater. Your lungs hurt like you’re underwater, too, like you’ve been submerged too long and haven’t taken a proper breath in ages. You’re stiff. You’re sore.

You’re alive.

The voices are becoming clearer - or maybe just louder - as they try to speak over one another. You can make out the sound of someone’s pitched, anxious whispering before a flurry of responses –

“ —don’t give a flyin’ FUCK what any of ‘em hafta say.” “—protocol that can’t just be ignored.” “—obviously not what’s goin’ on here, Joel.”

Your head is throbbing with indecision over whether or not you want to try moving a limb. You manage a twitch of your fingers on your nondominant hand. That goes okay, so you chance some movement from the wrist up. Instant stiffness and discomfort. You whimper. The voices continue.

“—takin’ the law into your own hands–”

“—fuckin’ makeshift town at the end of the world. Ain’t no fuckin’ laws anymore, Tommy.”

“—always been a weak spot for you, Joel.”

The overhead lights sear your vision when you finally work up the strength to open your eyes. The blinding rush acts as some sort of sensory accelerant, a deluge of sensations hitting you from all sides at once now. Almost all of it is painful and prickling. Your eyes snap shut. You’re hyper aware of the fabric laying against your skin, rubbing and gritting against you even though you are still. The dull, tired thrum of your heart beats in time to some lost song. The escalating volume and tension of the argument happening at the end of your bed – what you assume is a bed, anyway – makes your head feel worse.

Sound comes easier and clearer from one side of your head, the side that Matthew didn’t pummel.

Matthew.

Nebulous recollections leap into your consciousness, sharp and clear. The memory of him striking you makes you jerk. His taunts, his promises of your death and possibly his own if things didn’t go his way…

Matthew was going to kill you and then probably himself, all while Joel watched. The stimulus to cry comes over you, but no tears come. Exhaustion won’t allow it.

You hear a voice directly above you. “Baby?” It’s Joel, but he sounds off. He sounds worried. But Joel didn’t worry. That wasn’t like him. He just handled whatever came his way and moved on. This antsy, apprehensive voice belonged to a different Joel.

The sticky accumulation of grime and dried spit made it hard to move your mouth to respond. You wince at something wet and warm being gently dabbed against your lips.

“Hold still, honey. Just a minute now,” he soothes.

You peel your eyes open with immense effort and wait for the blurred shapes to come into focus.

Tommy. Maria. Joel.

Hushed, sniping whispers shoot back and forth. You blink away the haze and take in your surroundings. It looks like the clinic. If you had any energy left for humor, you’d laugh at the irony of it all. The last time you were here was when you and Joel were treated for injuries you sustained on patrol together. It was the same day you’d walked home after being patched up only to discover Matthew and Natalie together in your bed. Your thoughts turn to ruminations of how this could’ve been avoided if you’d just told everyone the truth about Matthew right then and there. Maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe you wouldn’t have put people’s lives in danger.

“M’sorry,” you wheeze. It hurts to talk. You wonder how long you’ve been out.

“Don’t you dare,” Joel warns, stern and unwavering.

“Take it easy,” Maria calmly suggests. You aren’t sure if she means you or Joel. Probably both.

“Been through the wringer,” Tommy adds quietly. “No need to push yourself too much.”

You move your moistened lips back and forth a few times to prime yourself for speaking. “Where is he?”

The room is quiet as if they were all hoping it would take longer for you to arrive at that question.

“He can’t hurt you,” Joel insists. “Locked up. Can’t hurt nobody. Not anymore.”

“He’s being held at the correctional center until a clear narrative of what happened can be established,” Maria supplies, sounding almost clumsy in her terse delivery.

“He-He came into—was too fast–couldn’t–”

Your explanation is cut off with a cough. Your mouth is scratchy and dry. Joel helps you to sit up straighter, drawing a hissing groan of pain from you, and tilts a cup of what you assume is water onto your lips. You gently sip in small increments.

“How long?” Your voice is thick with sleep and pain.

“Been here a few days is all,” Tommy answers. “Been comin’ and goin’ but mostly just sleepin’. Got you some medicine onboard to help with it all. Been worried. ‘Specially this one.” He juts his chin towards Joel, who scowls in their general direction.

You’d grimace if you could stand the discomfort of it. You’d roped Joel into your bullshit just like you’d dreaded. Your mind warpspeed shifts to Ellie. Ellie. You startle in your weakened state. Joel seems to understand.

“She’s okay. Knew somethin’ was up before she even made it through the door. Smart kid.”

A heavy sigh of relief escapes you. With the situation as dire as it had been - and still is - Matthew only managing to harm you was the best case scenario. You maintain a neutral face as Joel fills in the blank spots in your memory. How Ellie had come back home to gather some clothes for her sleepover. How she’d felt something was off when she sensed the unnatural stillness of the house. How she spotted Matthew hovering over your unconscious body and thought he’d killed you.

Your heart wrenches at the thought of her seeing you like that. Ellie didn’t deserve this. She didn’t ask for this. You’d brought pain onto her and Joel both. As Joel recounts how she’d run to Tommy’s for help, your lungs feel like they’ve shrunk. Apparently Matthew had been taken by surprise at her appearance, forgetting that she even lived there.

Leaders in the community spoke with Tommy. Spoke with Ellie. Even spoke with Joel and Natalie’s dad, after it came to light that Joel had sparked something in this entire collapse. Matthew had scrambled like a coward once Ellie outpaced him and went running for help. He was apprehended within the hour, and you were whisked away to the clinic even sooner.

Ellie showing up to get those clothes had probably saved your life. Your stomach gnaws and shreds itself with that piece of knowledge. This is exactly the sort of thing you’d wanted to avoid, and here you’d put so many through so much unnecessary hurt in such a short span of time.

Your stomach only felt all the more gutted as you listened to Tommy and Maria explain that interviews had been going on all while you’d been unconscious and Matthew had been in a retaining cell. Several of Matthew’s “conquests” had heard of all the news with his newly pregnant partner and the inappropriate conduct with a minor. They’d been called upon to share their testimony as to whether or not Matthew had ever suggested or carried out violent and abusive behavior towards them. They all truthfully attested that he had never been anything of the sort.

Joel shot Maria a nasty look when she volunteered the information about a few of them floating the idea that you had probably injured yourself and somehow lured Matthew to talk with you so that you could claim he’d done all this damage to you.

An idea that you were so desperate for revenge and to ruin his life that you would concoct an elaborate sort of story where such a thing would’ve happened. It was just the natural outflow of the groundwork he’d laid over the weeks about how you were supposedly physically aggressive, how you’d put hands on him before, how you weren’t the same person behind closed doors, how he’d finally put his foot down and left you.

It wasn’t just the town gossip Angelica that had been feasting on the morsels of lies that Matthew had been steadily feeding to sources that were sure to pass along such salacious information. Unfortunately for you, Matthew had always been a manipulative smooth talker, always ten steps ahead of you. He’d been setting the stage for this sort of situation, smart enough to assume at least a few of his past lover’s responses to the questions would lean towards this bastardization of events. So before anyone had even testified yet, he’d already fed the story to the leadership council. He fabricated some story about how you’d asked him to talk, and he felt sorry enough for you to agree to it.

Joel tries to shut the conversation down when he sees the tears brimming along your lashline, but you shake your head and insist on hearing it all. You have to know what you’re up against, and as Maria continues, you realize just how much of a monster you’re facing.

As it stands, his account of events is the sole firsthand statement on the situation, and it’s just as pernicious and artful as you would anticipate from a man like him. By his version of things, you’d begged him to talk to him, and he’d pitied you enough to oblige, meeting at Joel’s house as planned. When he came upstairs to find you, he discovered your intentional, self-inflicted injuries along with an already disrupted room, all meant to signal a struggle had taken place. You’d taunted him for walking right into your trap, insisting that Joel would be home soon and would react to protect you once he saw the scene you’d created. You’d laughed in his face about Joel fighting for your honor, willing to kill to protect you. All of it an elaborate ruse you’d arranged just so you could physically assault him and threaten his life.

He’d enacted just enough self-defense to prevent you from fatally attacking him, avoiding your blows whenever possible because he didn’t want to fight back and hurt you somehow in the process even though it would’ve been in his right to do so. Ellie’s surprise appearance was “an intervention from the Lord above,” or so he’d thought at the time. When she discovered him standing calmly over your unmoving body, he realized she’d fallen right into your plan as well, running off thinking he’d been the perpetrator in all of this. Fearing that she was running to find Joel and bring him back to the house - just what your masterplan had been all along - he’d fled.

He didn’t deny the large kitchen knife he’d had on his person in the house, claiming he’d gone to grab it at some point when he’d finally managed to subdue your attacks. It was the only self-defense he had if you woke up and started attacking him again. His entire narrative was one of self-defense, of fearing for his life, of fleeing on foot once he feared either Joel or his brother Tommy were going to return with Ellie and retaliate for the perceived attack.

You feel frozen to the spot as you listen. The icy sense of dread crept through your veins as it all sunk in.

The boxes from unpacking had been strewn about and a mess as you’d tried to work through them. Coupled with the upturned items in the bedroom, it presented a space in disarray. It backed up his version of events.

His body was riddled with defensive wounds from his fight with Natalie’s dad. Even with the word from John that he had in fact had a physical altercation with Matthew, it made it impossible to determine when and where his injuries had been sustained since no one else had seen Matthew between that encounter and his encounter with you. It backed up his version of events.

For all the ways he’d wronged you, he’d shown love and tenderness to a constellation of lovers, all of whom had truthfully testified that he had never once laid a hand on them, been verbally aggressive, or shown a hint of a temper. It backed up his version of events.

Your history of coming from a violent upbringing, of how you’d grown up in a world where it was normalized, was perhaps the source of your “continuation of that cycle” simply because “you’d never known anything else.” It was a particularly cold-hearted blow, and it backed up his version of events.

The knife in his hand, the weapon for his own protection if he were put in a dire spot because of your insistence on physically assaulting him, could’ve easily been used to murder you. But he didn’t. He’d had plenty of time to do it if that had been his intent, so why was he instead just “hanging around”? Why, if he had gone there to assault and murder you, hadn’t he just done it? It backed up his version of events.

He was not striking you, harming you, or aggressively engaging with you in any way when Ellie came home. She’d only seen him calmly waiting with your unconscious form. Her insistence that “it obviously didn’t seem right” fell on deaf ears. She’d only been telling the truth when she testified that she didn’t personally witness any attacks from either party. It backed up his version of events.

With a “beautiful baby on the way” and the path to “finally making decisions for a better life,” the legitimacy of his motive was questionable at best. You on the other hand had been left “bitter and jilted” by his decision to break things off and move on with someone else. He had everything to live for, everything going for him. You’d lost everything and been “left behind.” It backed up his version of events.

Each intricate, sinister lie entwined delicately into the next, so well explained and proactively contradicting to your version of events - the truth. Each fictitious strand clung to the next until a tapestry of deception had been woven, blanketing any hope you’d ever have in refuting each of the claims. He’d gotten ahead of the narrative, all because you were drifting in and out of consciousness from the battered state he’d put you into, no less.

He’d already won. He’d already won, and you hadn’t even had a chance to speak a word of truth.

The strict orders from medical staff to “take it slow” were laughable. A handful of residents were calling for your own stint in a retaining cell until all the investigation had been completed. That handful grew over the next several days while the council continued gathering all the information about the situation, getting witness accounts starting from when you got back from the patrol trip. It was a lot of information to go through and determine what was true and what wasn’t, what was embellished or glossed over.

You never strayed from the truth when you gave your piece to the Council, but it felt like it didn’t even matter. It had already been whittled down to a “he said, she said” situation. You wanted so badly to keep the faith that Council was simply doing their due diligence in getting all the facts prior to making such a huge decision as whether or not Matthew would be asked to leave Jackson…. or perhaps you. After you’d been placed on house arrest in lieu of a retaining cell - thanks to Maria’s shrewd intervention - you knew you’d truly lost.

It didn’t matter that Maria had convinced them – lied on your behalf — that you weren’t medically stable enough for the holding cells and would require frequent medical supervision. It didn’t matter that she’d gently coached you on the importance of delivering your official testimony without the visual of Joel next to you. It didn’t matter how she’d pressed the importance of not reacting to anything too abruptly unless you wanted to paint yourself as the violent, volatile assailant that Matthew had claimed you were.

None of it mattered. You’d been abused for so long. You’d been through hell with Matthew. You’d lost so much. He humiliated you. He beat you. He intended to take your life that day. And yet, here you were, sat in the same room with said man who looked deceptively forlorn and stressed. You had to watch and calculate every action and reaction of yours today so that you were a believable victim, a credible picture of a woman wronged, the embodiment of the innocent hostage to an opportunistic man. Nevermind the fact that the man in question had nearly killed you and would attempt it again if given the right opportunity and was only a glance away from you this very moment.

There wasn't a large number of people present for the hearings. The town Council. Founding residents. Longtime respected pillars within the community. All were called upon to hear your official testimonies of your version of events. Matthew went first. He tucked his body into itself, looking smaller and more unsure. He didn’t look at you. You couldn’t look away.

“I-I was trying to do the right thing, is wh-what I thought. Ya know, talk to her even though I knew she wasn’t too happy about me ending our relationship,” he sniffs pathetically. “I just.. I didn’t think, even after all she’d done to me, I didn’t think she’d do this. I mean, the whole set up. Framing me? Trying to trap me into a place where I’d lose everything because - I don’t even know - I guess that’s what she felt I’d done to her?”

He shakes his head and laughs humorlessly at his hands that he fidgets back and forth nonstop. All a carefully curated and executed display from a master manipulator.

“I’m not gonna sit here and say I’m proud for all my actions. I know messing around with somebody who’s close to 18 doesn’t mean they’re an adult yet. She was the only one I’d ever — I never went after somebody just because they were younger. It was a stupid, stupid decision. I was just– I was just so lonely.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, mouth opening and closing like he can’t quite believe things had “gone this far.” When he shifts in his seat, you notice several others in the room readjust their own posture, maybe out of discomfort or maybe just subconsciously mirroring Matthew’s body language. You keep your teeth clamped together to stop from worrying your lip so hard it bleeds.

“After all the constant verbal takedowns and abuse from her—” he glances your direction for only a moment, just long enough for others to follow his line of sight and see he is talking about you, to you “—I was just broken. I-I wasn’t even myself anymore. I started making choices that aren’t me. I started getting with any woman who’d have my company. I was desperate for it. Desperate for anything other than the hell that was waiting for me at home.”

He shakes his head again, producing big tears to gather and fall down his face. He hitches his breath and sniffs louder now.

“I made bad choices, and I own up to those. But the idea that after finally being man enough to leave that type of situation…. To finally make a home and start a family with somebody who loves me and cares for me… It just doesn’t make sense. Why would I throw all that away? What, because she was with someone else? Of course not!” he laughs in that same humorless way again.

“I just only hoped he wasn’t gonna get it bad like I did all those years. I hoped and prayed she’d find peace with him - with anyone. If she could find some peace, maybe she wouldn’t need to do all of that, you know? To find whatever it is that she’s looking for, because god knows I’m not it.”

He pauses to wipe the palm of his hand roughly against his cheeks to clear away his tears. “I wished for so long to be able to be the guy to help her. I didn’t know why I wasn’t enough, I just knew that I never was.” He hangs his head in his hands for a moment before looking upward as though seeking divine guidance.

“I just ask that the council please take into consideration her upbringing. The day I met her, she was getting beat to death by her own damn flesh and bone. Her father and brother were set to kill her. Can you even imagine that? That type of evil? How can someone coming from that know any better? She needs help. She doesn’t need to be kicked out of this place. I know what she’s done is horrible, but please, if there’s anything that can be done to-to, I don’t know- to rehabilitate her or therapy or something. Please don’t send her out those gates to die. Please. I may have decided to break things off with her, but I still care for that woman so deeply. Please.”

You feel close to retching. He’s made a strong case for himself all while casting a shadow of doubt and fault in your direction. You can feel the eyes of every Jackson resident called to attend the hearing falling squarely on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look at them anymore. What if you don’t convey the right emotion? What if your efforts to not empty the contents of your stomach onto the floor right now somehow read as guilt or remorse? What if your nerves and body language and facial expression and sounds and posture are interpreted as some admission of wrongdoing?

You can’t stare at your hands any longer if you want to avoid appearing like you’re hanging your head in defeat or regret or fault, so you settle for pushing through the queasiness and scanning the faces of the Council in front of you. A few faces remain stony or neutral, but just as many if not more have softened or, worse, looked away from Matthew at the discomfort of seeing a grown man weeping so openly. If it isn’t seen as an authentic act, that would have to mean he was some brutal, manipulative monster to fake such a moving display of grief and pain - a monster they’d allowed to live right under their noses this whole entire time. Admitting that’s who he really was would be in part admitting their own fault at not keeping Jackson safe.

The lie is working.

Midday break is called, and the air in the room feels like every particle of oxygen is dampened and weighted with the inevitability of your downfall. Matthew was going to walk away from this situation unscathed, and then he was going to kill you.

You just have to sit and wait for him to kill you.

The tremble in your hands is such that you can’t get a firm enough grip on the doorknob to get into the private adjunct room where you’d be spending break. Ellie reaches around you and turns it quickly, giving you a gentle nudge inside with Joel following closely behind. The door is no sooner shut than you double over a bin and start heaving. Joel doesn’t make a face or comment on the odor. He just helps you get straightened up before taking out the soiled container. The smell of your ruination lingers as you collapse into a nearby chair and break into sobs.

Joel returns with food you can’t imagine stomaching and water you reluctantly sip. He doesn’t speak, just pulls you close against him.

“He’s gonna kill me, Joel,” you shake out. “They believe him. He’s gonna walk away from this, and then he’s gonna kill me.” The last few words dissipate into a hitched octave, full of fear and defeat.

“No he ain’t,” Joel corrects sternly. You can only shake your head and cry, at a loss for words in this surreal situation.

“They can’t actually be buying that story!” Ellie argues. “Nobody would believe that shit! Right, Joel?”

When Joel doesn’t rush to corroborate her assessment, Ellie seems to deflate a bit. “You-you’re not serious. People think he’s innocent?”

Her tone of comprehensive disbelief is as fitting now as ever. You can’t believe this is happening, but at the same time you also know deep down this was always the only way this would go.

“We know the truth, Ellie,” Joel sighs. “People are weak. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my life, it’s that you can’t count on people to do the right thing.” He finally pulls back to look at you. Your face crumples when you catch his apologetic expression. He’s as powerless in this situation as you are.

“But what about all those times she saved your life on patrol? And taking up for everybody’s shifts and covering people’s asses? How the fuck is that a bad person? Somebody that would plan something awful like that? Like, what? There’s no fucking way!” she sputters.

You blink unfocused at the floor, unsure of what to say or do. You want to comfort Ellie, but you don’t want to lie or get her hopes up. You know how this story ends.

“I don’t even give a shit if you did do something bad to him. Fuck it! I don’t believe him. I believe you. And he deserves every bit of what he gets, and then some!” Ellie asserts in a passionate appeal.

Despite everything, you smile to yourself. Ellie and Joel might not be blood, but they are certainly family in the way that it counts. And these two staunch supporters were in your corner, so you must be doing at least one thing right.

Joel cups your face in his hands and directs your attention to him, all fiery eyes and steely expression. “No one is going to hurt you. He’s not going to hurt you.”

He says it with such firmness and conviction, you want to believe him. You brush away the fat tears slipping down the curve of your cheek. It’s silent again in the room, and Joel goes back to just sitting with you and holding you. He’s quiet and a little detached. It’s probably for the best. If he starts distancing himself now, it might make it easier on everyone when this too good to be true dynamic comes to an end.

The end of break comes and goes without anyone arriving to collect you for the afternoon session. Ellie points it out, the first person to speak in what seems like forever. Just as Joel starts to get up to see what the delay is, Tommy scoots into the room. He gives you a sympathetic, curt bow of his head and glances at Joel.

“Listen, I think there’s some funny business goin’ on with Matthew. I don’t know exactly what the hold up is, but I’ve seen a few of the higher ups come and go outta his room.”

“What the fuck is that s’posed’ta–” Joel starts as the door opens again.

Maria and another Council member squeeze into the ever shrinking room. It’s one of the members who had looked away while Matthew forced himself to cry. The air feels thinner with all the crowding and news of Matthew’s odd behavior. Somehow you still hold enough space for worry that they will be able to smell the remnants of your vomit from earlier.

“Alright, folks, sorry for the delay. Looks like we’re gonna pick up tomorrow morning from where we left off today. The, uh, other party isn’t in much condition right now to carry on, so we’re gonna adjourn for right now,” the Council member explains.

You don’t even have to turn to Joel to know his nostrils are flared and fists clenched. No one says anything, and the palpable tension in the room hangs awkwardly in the space.

“He put forth a request for additional time to collect himself after the ‘emotionally draining’ testimony that was given this morning. Given his disposition we all saw and the fact that it’s not our intent to put anyone into a position of distress during this process, Council has granted his request on a one-time basis,” Maria adds.

You bite back a scathing remark. You have been nothing but distressed. You just didn’t have the luxury of letting your emotions run wild lest you portray yourself as some volatile, unstable person - the type of person who would do all the things Matthew has charged you with. You can’t afford the negative attention that a big show of emotion would likely garner, so you just do all that you can: keep it calm and keep it moving.

You wish that you’d been able to get the first word. You wish you’d been able to get ahead of the narrative so that it benefited you - benefitted the truth. You wish that you could also be seen as brave and raw and moving if you cried in front of everyone. But Matthew had got the drop on you and delivered his “authentic devastation” to a panel of sympathetic ears. His inability to control his emotions was not a point of instability or weakness in their consideration like it might be if the roles were reversed.

Maria catches your eye. Her frown morphs into a tight lipped line, like she wants to say something to you but can’t. She looks at Joel for a moment before focusing on her counterpart.

Tommy clears his throat to dispel some of the charged climate. “Alright. Thanks for lettin’ us know. You need any help gettin’ him back to the retainer, Cliff?”

The Council member shakes his head. “Appreciate you offering, but I think they got it handled. He’s pretty out of sorts at the moment. Don’t think it’ll be much trouble getting him back.”

Tommy nods an acknowledgment and turns to Maria. “I’ll see to it she gets back to the house.” He tips his head your direction. Maria gives a quick thanks and heads out behind the other Council member, giving a tepid, short goodbye.

The walk back to Joel’s house is a disjointed, hazy blur. You’re inside, although you don’t have a clear notion of when that happened. Joel helps you out of your jacket as you stare blankly ahead. You hear Tommy murmur something to Joel that sounds something like “she alright?”

“Hey.” Joel’s voice is grounding and firm. You blink a few times and lock eyes. He’s grasping your arms like he’s holding you up. He might be. You’re not entirely sure at the moment. Every ounce of energy has been zapped from you. It all feels like a waking nightmare.

Low words are exchanged, and Ellie leaves the three of you in the kitchen. You settle clumsily into one of the chairs at the table and rest your head in your propped up arms. Joel and Tommy continue a conversation you drift in and out of.

“Considering he’s goin’ back to a retaining cell, there’s not a whole lotta reason people are gonna find to assume he’s just fakin’ it all. Ain’t the most lavish of places ‘n all that. Council meeting space is a lot more comfortable than that, so ya can’t say he’d be in some big rush to get back there,” Tommy reasons.

“Piece of shit just wants everybody to sit with his bullshit statements from this mornin’. Sleep on it and get his lies all embedded in their heads,” Joel scoffs.

“I don’t doubt that,” Tommy agrees gently. “I’m just sayin’ that you gotta keep in mind how things look, is all.”

“Are they going to ask me about his testimony?” you rasp.

The two brothers turn to you in sync. Joel is the first to pull a chair up next to yours. Tommy opts to stand at the end of the table with one hand mindlessly picking at the tablecloth.

“What do you mean, honey?” Joel asks softly.

“He talked about stuff. Today. And if I’m supposed to… defend myself, or whatever, I just– I want to know what sort of questions they’re going to ask me,” you explain.

Tommy and Joel exchange a look. You lick your dry lips and force the words out.

“Am I– Do I have to talk about my–about my dad and brother?” you choke out in a whisper.

Tommy scratches the back of his neck and looks away in much the same way as others had done to Matthew this morning when the discomfiting outpouring was too much. “I, uh, I reckon they might wanna follow up on some of what he shared, yeah. To get your side of things.” His expression pinches into an uncomfortable frown.

Your face falls when he confirms what you already knew: you were going to have to speak publicly on the most horrendous times in your life, and for no reason other than Matthew had purposefully brought it into the fold. You wrap your arms around yourself and rest your forehead against the table as you begin to cry for the millionth time today.

A strong hand from either side rests on your shoulder and back. Joel rubs small circles while Tommy gives a supportive squeeze. The tears flow freely as your fate comes into the clear. You were never going to be able to pull off being more believable than Matthew. You were never going to be able to remain composed enough to make it through this. Matthew was going to win, and then he was going to kill you.

“We’re gonna figure somethin’ out. I promise you that,” Joel vows.

“I can have Maria come by later to get a better idea of what we’re workin’ with exactly come tomorrow mornin’,” Tommy adds.

Joel pulls you against his side and wraps his arms around you. “Do you trust me?”

You blubber that you do, but it’s a mess of tears and snot as you try to explain that you’ve underestimated Matthew too many times to not have learned your lesson by now.

“Not this time,” Joel disagrees. “We’re gonna stay a step ahead of him. No matter what.”

You let him herd you into the bedroom that he’s completely rearranged so you’re not reminded of what happened here not that long ago. You’re sure Matthew prides himself on leaving you with that particular mental scar, the sacred comfort of you and Joel’s shared bedroom now tainted with memories of one of the scariest moments of your life. Joel had offered to move you both into the guest bedroom across the hall, but you declined. It felt like giving in, giving Matthew another win.

Now you aren’t so sure it really matters.

You settle into the cold bed, trying your best to focus on the scent of Joel on the sheets, and let your eyes flutter shut when he presses small kisses to your temple before going back downstairs to talk with Tommy.

The mellow sunlight filtering through the window suggests you slept longer than intended. Your muscles are sore. Your movements are stiff. How long had you been asleep? The whole hearing process must’ve truly exhausted you. Surely Joel would’ve woken you up if Maria had already arrived.

The smell of eggs wafting up the stairs leads you to the curious sight of breakfast on the table. Panic sets in once you register that you not only slept through the afternoon and the entire night, but you’d also missed Maria’s visit and advice. You hadn’t prepped at all. Joel assures you he’s got it covered and asks you to just take a breath and eat something.

You aren’t sure you can eat, but he coaxes you into some bites. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept. He promises you that he talked with Tommy and Maria and feels confident he can lead you in the right direction. You have no choice but to trust him. Ellie stays home today at Joel’s request. You ask how he managed that given how passionate she was yesterday. He shrugs and gives a noncommittal answer. You don’t press him. In all truth, you’re grateful that she won’t be present for today’s proceedings.

Prying eyes follow your every step to the Council building on Main Street. You refuse to meet any of them. You’re ushered by a standoffish attendant into the same small room where you sat for break yesterday and wait to be called into the main room.

You mention to Joel how odd the attendant was acting. He agrees but doesn’t seem all that surprised. Just as you’re getting the sense that Joel isn’t saying everything on his mind, the same Council member from yesterday enters the room.

“Cliff,” Joel greets curtly.

Cliff nods back in lieu of social niceties. “So it seems that Matthew was going through something more than we realized. We have reason to believe that, uh, that he has left Jackson indefinitely.”

Your shock propels you out of your seat. “What?!”

Joel stands quickly beside you and echoes your disbelief. “Who the hell let him leave?!” he thunders.

Cliff puts his hands up, palm side out, as if to allay the sudden uproar. “We’re gathering information as quickly as we can. We were alerted just this morning about all of this.”

“He tried to fuckin’ MURDER HER, and you’re tellin’ me you don’t know where he is?!” Joel bellows at a slowly cowering Cliff.

“We are doing everything within our power to sort this out, and I assure you that you aren’t the only one who is invested in getting to the bottom of this!” Cliff asserts with a put-on bravado.

“How do you know he left? Who let him past the gates? Who saw him?” Joel demands, rounding on Cliff.

“I’m not able to answer every single question you have, Joel,” he sputters. “I already told you this is a fast developing situation, and we’ve only just started piecing things together. It’s best if everyone just keeps a level head, alright?”

Joel doesn’t look much satisfied with Cliff’s offerings. “Keep a level head? KEEP A LEVEL HEAD?”

“Joel!” Maria barks through the door as she rushes in and shuts it behind her. “Enough! You’re so loud I can hear you down the hall!”

“What kinda establishment you got here, huh? Fuckin’ would be murderers just waltzin’ outta their cells as they please and nobody is any the wiser?” he spits.

You wrap a hand around Joel’s arm, and it thankfully seems to calm him a little.

“Joel, she just brought the letter to us a few hours ago. We’re trying to keep a hold of the situation, and you going off isn’t helping,” she chides.

“What letter? Who?” you choke out. You cling to Joel’s arm to steady yourself as the realization that Matthew has escaped starts to sink in.

Maria’s face softens as she turns to you. “Rachel. Rachel Harmon. She discovered a letter on their kitchen table early this morning. It was addressed to her with a portion written to the Council.

“The dipshit stupid enough to get knocked up by that psychopath?” Joel snips.

You give his arm a gentle squeeze. He glances down at you. You give a small shake of your head. Not now. He understands and chews the inside of his cheek against his molars.

Maria shuts her eyes and sighs, exercising some self-control in the charge of Joel’s anger. “His pregnant partner, yes,” she firmly corrects. Her eyes shift back to you. “I know it has been a difficult process, but if you could look at the letter and possibly verify whether it is his handwriting…”

“You manage to fuck up the VERY SIMPLE TASK of not letting a fuckin’ wannabe murderer escape, and now you’re askin’ his latest victim to help you? I don’t fuckin’ think so!” Joel thunders. He puts himself between you and the others.

“With all due respect, Joel, that’s not your decision to make,” Maria snips back in the same level tone as before.

“I’ll look at it,” you agree. Everyone turns to look at you as you stand there, shaking and trying to hold it together. “I can tell you if it’s his or not.”

“No. The reason Rachel can’t verify his handwriting — the fuckin’ father of her baby — is because Rachel doesn’t fuckin’ know him. Nobody does in the entire godforsaken place,” he finishes with a scowl thrown towards Maria and Cliff. “She knows him better than anybody – and she’s been tryna tell y’all the truth about him – but y’all wanna play this pretend court of law bullshit where there’s supposedly some kinda due process. As if she didn’t end up black and blue from that prick. Y’all seemed to forget all about that with his little waterworks yesterday, huh?”

Cliff looks appropriately chastised. Maria fixes Joel with a stern frown. “If you’re done showing your ass, we have work to do.”

You tug at Joel to get his attention. His angry face meets yours and deciphers the resignation written into every frown and troubled wrinkle.

He huffs and glares at Cliff and Maria. “Bring the letter.”

Cliff volunteers himself to fetch the letter, probably in an effort to excuse himself from Joel’s wrath. Maria holds steady and suggests everyone take a seat and take a breather. You slump into the chair. Your adrenaline is shot. Your mind feels like all the crucial cogs have hit a rut and won’t turn the gears. All the backup machinery of your mind is trying to keep up with things well beyond its capacity. When Cliff returns with the letter, it takes a moment to focus on the document placed before you. Your eyes adjust to read its contents.

𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕,

𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 "𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠" 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎. 𝚆𝚎’𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎, 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜.

𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢, 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎. 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑.

𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚠

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗’𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍. 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝙹𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜. ��𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔. 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛, 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗.

𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜, 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚠

Your stomach bottoms out as you scan the lines of text. “That’s his writing,” you confirm with a feeble shake of your head. You can’t understand how he escaped or why. It didn’t make any sense. This wasn’t like him. Your tongue feels thick and heavy as you try to find the words to express these concerns.

“Doesn’t explain how he managed to escape,” Joel clips.

“We believe his, uh, emotional difficulties yesterday were enough of a distraction to the attendants that they didn’t notice him taking the key off them,” Cliff explains with a notable pink flush on his cheeks.

“So you got swindled, and now a murderer is on the loose?” Joel sneers.

“Joel, if you can’t keep it civil, then I’m going to have to ask Tommy to see you out of here,” Maria warns.

“You want to keep things civil, but you can’t even keep one asshole in a cell?” he bites back. “You’re tellin’ me nobody noticed he was gone in the middle of the night? How in the fuck did that happen, huh? Somebody sleepin’ on the job?”

Cliff adjusts in his seat and sits a little taller. The rosy flush morphs into a deep red and spreads down his neck. “He, uh, he arranged his bedding to look like—”

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Joel snorts in disbelief. “He bundled up some blankets to look like a body? Like in the fuckin’ movies? And you fell for it?”

Cliff clears his throat and can’t quite meet you or Joel’s eye. Maria huffs, clearly exasperated by Joel’s condescending ire.

“Sounds real fuckin’ convenient, doesn’t it? That he managed all this by himself?” Joel challenges in a low, dangerous voice.

“Watch it, Joel,” Maria cautions. “If you’re suggesting there’s some sort of foul play or outside help, you’re dead wrong, and I’d be careful going around making such bold, suggestive claims.”

Joel laughs without a trace of amusement and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms. Maria’s jaw clenches tight with annoyance. Joel had told you before how his and Maria’s relationship was rocky at best, and this entire situation was just oxygen to a flame. You respected Maria greatly, but it felt good to have Joel stick up for you so fiercely.

“We’re done here. Until y’all get your shit together, don’t come botherin’ her. I’m walkin’ her home, and I’m gettin’ a rifle from the patrol station. You have my word if that asshole shows up, I’m shootin’ him dead on the spot.” Joel’s nostrils flare, hands slamming onto the table as he abruptly stands.

Much to your surprise, neither Cliff nor Maria take him to task on any of it.

“Come on, honey. Let’s go home,” Joel says softly to you, extending his hand for you to take.

True to his word, Joel obtained a firearm and made no attempt to downplay his intent to use it if necessary. He kept by your side, gun ready at all times, as the days pressed on. Tommy stopped by a few times a day, sometimes with updates and sometimes with nothing. By the time day three rolled around, you hadn’t learned anything that made sense of the ordeal.

Matthew had managed to steal his cell key from an attendant, leave his cell with a decoy blanket body in place, get into his and Rachel’s house to write and leave the letter, sneak into reserves and stables to gather up supplies and a horse, and, perhaps most daring of all, getting past the main gates. All without being seen or caught.

It wasn’t that he was incapable of such deceit. It’s that he left when he was already winning. That’s what bothered you the most. He was winning, and Matthew would never forfeit an opportunity to get the best of you and put you in your place. When you’d mentioned this to Joel and even Tommy, neither seemed too concerned with this crucial piece of the puzzle. Joel himself had said that you knew Matthew better than anybody, and it was starting to wear on you that even he wasn’t taking your concerns seriously. He insisted you just needed to keep a low profile and rest. Your pure exhaustion meant you didn’t put up much of a fight to his insistence.

Rachel gave her account to the Council regarding her and Matthew’s previous discussions around leaving Jackson. She tearfully recounted the few times he had spoken to her about “needing to get out of town in a hurry,” but she “never thought he meant like this.” You believed he’d had these talks with her, but not in the context of starting a new life somewhere else. You knew with every fiber of your being that he had spoken about leaving Jackson in a rush in reference to murdering you and either taking himself out with you or fleeing before facing the consequences, whichever came to be the right choice at the time.

It was coming up on five days since Matthew left. You provided your testimony yet again to the Council but didn’t share anything you hadn’t already. It was just under 15 minutes when they’d called everyone back into the room to announce you were considered absolved of any potential wrongdoings as it was impossible to confidently confirm which party had committed what actions. You were given a stern warning that any “untoward behavior” would result in immediate cause for dismissal from Jackson. You agreed to the terms, knowing that you had never been and never would be a problem.

Despite your partial exoneration, it felt like a hollow victory. You still fret to Joel about when Matthew returns and in what capacity. You’re worrying yourself sick with the looming fear of his return. If he was able to evade watchful eyes and escape, he was more than capable of getting back inside the settlement and doing god knows what. What if he didn’t find anything out there? What if he decides to come back and stay? What if he changes his mind and insists that you should be made to leave Jackson instead of him?

You sleep to get away from reality, but your dreams are plagued with nightmares of Matthew above you, choking the life out of you. You can hardly eat. Joel seems so calm somehow. You don’t know how he manages it. It might just be a show of strength to make you feel safer, but all it’s done is make you feel more frustrated. Why doesn’t he seem concerned? Why doesn’t he have the same energy about “staying one step ahead of Matthew” that was so fiery just a short time ago? A week out from your gift of grace from Council, you can’t take it any longer. Matthew has been gone for almost two weeks, and you want to tear your hair out.

“Why don’t you listen to me?” you whisper. Talking any louder guarantees you will break into a fit of tears. You’re afraid. You’re sleep deprived despite sleeping almost constantly. You’re hurt that Joel seems so detached and unbothered from the situation.

Joel’s head snaps up from his task. He frowns in confusion. “What do you mean, honey?” He sets his things aside and moves towards you.

You take a step away and hug yourself, shaking your head. “I-I keep telling you that something isn’t right, but you don’t seem bothered at all. I feel—I feel so alone, Joel.” So much for not crying. The hot pinch in your eyes spills over as you bury your head in your hands.

Joel is quick to snatch you up into a tight embrace. “No, baby. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.”

He rocks you side to side and shushes you. You can’t shake the feeling that he isn’t on the same page as you. A sickening thought tears through your mind, one you hadn’t felt since that day when Matthew gave his testimony.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Are you… Do you want me to go?” Your eyes go wide in dismay. Of course. You’ve been so distracted with everything going on that you didn’t even stop to consider the obvious: Joel wants out. This is too much for him. Too much for Ellie. This isn’t what he signed up for, playing personal bodyguard to you 24/7. He wants his life back. You can’t even blame him. Why would he choose this? Why would he choose you?

You’ve already accepted it before Joel can reply. You feel completely numb. Matthew was right. All those times he tried to tell you that no one would want you, and you decided to believe otherwise.

“What?” Joel scoffs. “What the hell? No, I don’t want you to leave! What the hell are you— Why on earth would you—” He shakes his head like he’s offended you’d even suggest such a thing. He’s gobsmacked into silence as he searches your face for some sort of clarity.

“But you—you’ve been so distant with all this Matthew stuff. A-And I just, I know it’s too much–I’m too much, and—” You ramble and try to control the flood of tears cascading down your face and neck.

“No. No, honey,” he says flatly. He shakes his head again like he can’t understand how you’d come to that conclusion. He sits you on the couch and pushes himself between your legs. He cradles your face so that you’re eye to eye with each other.

“I’m in love with you,” he states with conviction. Not a hint of reluctance or hesitation is in his voice. You can’t understand it.

“What?” you choke.

“I said I’m in love with you. I love you. It scares the hell outta me, but I do. I love you. I don’t want you to leave, not ever,” he continues. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead to yours.

“You? You love me?” you repeat.

He nods firmly a few times and pulls back to look at you. “Yeah. I do. I really, really do.”

“I–Joel—” you break. “I-I love you, too, Joel. I love you so much. I’ve loved you for so much time now. It’s been so much time, Joel. I never said it. I thought I was going to die before I could tell you—thought he was going to kill me before I could—”

Joel cuts you off with a deep, biting kiss. Your breath comes ragged and frantic with the reciprocal admission and overwrought nerves. You can’t stop crying, and you’re not even sure you know why you’re crying or what you’re crying about at this point. Everything has come to a bottleneck, and there’s no stopping the outpouring deluge.

Joel draws back for a moment to catch his breath. He considers you with a contemplative gaze for a moment before speaking. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied that I wasn’t pickin’ up on how alone I was makin’ you feel.”

You swallow and ask a question you aren’t sure you want the answer to. “What’s b-been keeping your attention?”

Joel’s lips form a thin line. He holds your searching eye and finally nods. “I haven’t been honest with you. Been waitin’ until it was the right time. I guess now is the right time.”

Your mouth turns down at the vague explanation. “Joel, I don’t know what—”

“Tonight,” he interrupts. He sounds resolute, like he’s finally decided on something. “Tonight I’m gonna show you. Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

You aren’t sure how you’re supposed to sleep after all of that, but you try anyway.

You’re quiet as the horse carries you and Joel through the dense wooded areas outside the settlement. You’d exited through the cover of a passage at the edge of the barrier you didn’t even know existed, but you didn’t ask questions. You just sat quietly and waited to see what Joel was going to show you, what the answer to all your questions was going to be.

The moonlight slipped through the branches, the dapple of a dull glow lighting the path forward, wherever that may be. You hug close against Joel and rest your head on his shoulder as the horse meanders further, past the dam, past the typical patrol points. You hold on tighter at his instruction when he turns off into a steep, obscured ravine. It levels off at the bottom, and you’re beginning to wonder just how far into the outlands this clandestine destination is. Joel slows the horse to an ambling gait and veers into an overgrown pocket of woods.

“This is it,” he announces calmly as he dismounts. He assists you off the horse, and guides it into a concealed alcove already housing three other horses. The only indication that this is even frequented by travelers is a dug-out firepit some several yards away. You start to ask where you’re going now when he points out the telltale edge and turn of a man made structure in the compact stretch of greenery and woodlands. You’re almost a stone’s throw from the camouflaged house before you recognize it, hidden in the distance to anyone not already familiar. He holds firm onto your hand as if you’re one surprise away from being scared off completely. He guides you through the entrance of the house after brushing aside well-placed bits of facade and coverings.

You have a million and one questions, and a singular unknown has been halfway answered when your eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. Two of the horses must belong to Tommy and Natalie’s father, John, who each sit on aging furniture in what you think was once a sort of living space. They offer a quick greeting, one that you’re too flummoxed to return. They don’t seem surprised at your unannounced arrival. You realize Joel must’ve already looped them in. You know it’s all in due time, but it’s difficult to not grow impatient and nervous as to when exactly all your questions will be answered.

“I’ll holler if we need anythin’,” Joel informs the pair before grabbing a flashlight from a crooked end table and leading you down a dark hallway to the left. He stops in the middle of it, checks over his shoulder that you’re out of earshot, and runs his eyes lazily over your features. “You doin’ okay?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I guess I’m alright. Just sort of feel, I dunno–” You aren’t sure why you’re whispering, but it feels appropriate for conversation in the mysterious, dark hallway of the secret, hidden house. “I trust you – I do – but I’m just getting more and more nervous with every—”

Joel grazes his thumb across your bottom lip. “You don’t need to feel nervous, pretty girl. Not anymore. Never again. I told you I got you, and I do. So now I’m gonna show you, okay? Can you let me do that? Just hold on for a little bit longer for me?”

You swallow down your fear and concede to his plea. “Yes. Okay. I can. I mean, I will.” A deep, grounding breath, and then, “ I’m ready. I trust you.”

Joel shoots you a lopsided grin. “There’s my girl. Pretty thing.” He leans down to give you a quick kiss, and you chase his lips when he draws back. “Plenty of time for that soon enough.”

He walks you to the end of the hallway and stops short of the solid paneled wall. He runs his hand down the edge of the decorative molding, stopping on some unseen point and pressing into it until a soft click sound is heard on the other side of the wall. “Hold onto my shoulder on the way down, okay? Don’t want you fallin’.” He nudges the bottom of the wall, and the entirety of it swings forward, revealing a small opening and staircase.

“Ready?”

Your eyes go a little wide, jaw a little slack, but you just nod and grab onto his jacket as you both descend into the murky space. You duck your head a few times whenever Joel does. He’s clearly been here many, many times to be so well-acquainted with every low hanging beam and jutted bit of framing. You reach the bottom and pause again. He raises a hand to the side, flicking some other out of sight thing, and a camping lantern washes light over the room.

The damp air fits the visual of the area, but it lacks the musk of an unused space. Evidence of human movement and activity are visible here and there despite it being mostly bare. “Hidden basement? Was it always here? This has always been here, or–?”

“Yeah. Came up on it by surprise a long time ago now. The work of some doomsdayer, probably. Took us a long time to find it. Got real good use out of it lately, too.”

You scan the room for some indication of what he could mean. A long folding table lines one wall, filled with random supplies and curiosities. Odd pieces of furniture are scattered here and there. A closed door leading to who knows what. Rolled work blankets, tarps, and crates lie in organized piles.

“Is it some secret outpost or something?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel fiddles with your hand in his. Buying himself some time before–

“Why’d you bring me down here?”

He continues across the space with you and hesitates outside the closed door near the back of the basement. He waits until you meet his gaze before saying anything. “Listen to me good now. We’re gonna go in there, and I need you to promise me if you need to get outta there you’ll say somethin’. No judgment from anybody if you do, alright?” His stare could bore holes into your head with the intensity of it.

“O-Okay,” you agree. You don’t know what’s inside that would potentially be too much for you, but you know he wouldn’t mention it if he didn’t think you needed the preemptive permission of an out. He nods, searches your face with an inscrutable look, and leans down into a soft kiss. He slots his mouth against yours in a slow rhythm, siphoning the jittery anticipation from you with each pass and pull of his tongue against yours. Your weight slowly gives way to his clutch, and you give and give and give your anxieties over until you feel significantly calmer.

He pulls away, appears content with your pacified demeanor, and rests his hand on the doorknob.

“I’ve got you, honey. Just remember that.”

He eases the door open, pushing it wide so you can see inside without having to enter. There’s already a few sources of light, but Joel flips something that powers a long row of bulbs. Matthew’s panicked eyes lock onto yours, a frenzied recognition taking over, and he strains against the rope bandings that hold him in place. He’s bound to a chair in much the same way as the first time Joel tied him up during your first time together. His muffled pleas and screams aren’t entirely intelligible past the wad of fabric shoved in his mouth. You let out a soft gasp at the sight of him, a little roughed up but mostly just looking terrified.

“This hopefully clears up why I wasn’t seemin’ too concerned with whether or not he was comin’ back to Jackson,” he supplies quietly.

“You-You mean…” You glance up at him, dumbfounded and at a loss for words.

He nods his head and watches you carefully, searching for some sort of upset or anger or disgust at seeing your ex-husband being held captive and worse for wear.

“But that day at the meeting! You were-You were so upset! You… was it all…..” You struggle to verbalize a logical train of thought. Joel had been pretending to be just as in the dark as you actually had been all this time. An apologetic frown pulls at the corners of his mouth.

“After that first day of the hearing, I knew we couldn’t count on those people to do the right thing. I told you I was gonna protect you. Keep you safe. I already failed you once. I wasn’t gonna fail you again.” He fixes you with a soft, remorseful look.

“Joel,” you choke. “You-You went and–after it— but, how?”

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself like he’s been waiting to finally tell you the truth, to impart this secret he’s been keeping from you for your own good. “He’s pissed off enough of the guys in Jackson that finding a few helping hands wasn’t too grand of a task,” comes his simple explanation. He glances over to Matthew with a look of pure disdain. “Had a few that owed me a major favor. Knocked his dumb ass out and took him out the back. Tommy already took the supplies, and I met him with the horse at the back passage. John lugged him on the horse here.”

You blink slowly, trying to absorb all this new information and connect it to what you already knew - or thought you already knew. You’re in such a state of shock that you don’t catch Matthew’s increasingly desperate, stifled calls for help. Joel rolls his eyes and shuts the door so the conversation can proceed in peace.

“But the letter,” you sputter. “How?”

Joel looks at the ground and knocks the toe of his boot against it a few times before looking back at you. “Might be for the best if we don’t get into that.”

“No, Joel,” you say with a tremble. “I want to know. I deserve to know.”

He shakes his head in agreement and reaches out for your hand, which you readily place in his. He hesitates a few times before speaking. “I- I don’t want you to be- I don’t want you to be afraid of me, honey.” His head lists back and forth, his eyes locked on where your hands are clasped together. “Done some bad things in my life. Not proud of all of it, but not really too sorry for it, either. I just… don’t want you thinkin’ I’m somebody you gotta be afraid of.”

With what seems to be a great amount of effort, he looks at you again. You hold his stare, a steady and unconditional hope and confidence meeting his look of insecurity. “I trust you,” you remind him firmly. You gather his hands together in yours and press them against your heart. “I trust you more than anything. I trust you with my life. I’m not afraid of you.”

He wavers for a moment before steeling himself. “I threatened to hurt Rachel and the baby. That’s how I got him to write that letter,” he admits. “Had to get him to talk, and quick, and I knew threatenin’ that would get him to write whatever I told him to.”

Your brow pinches together in an unasked question: how could you leverage something against him that he doesn’t actually care about?

“Yeah, it’s a little more’n what it sounds like. I–” he pauses for a beat before starting again, once more sounding uncertain of himself “–I don’t want you to see me different, when I tell you. Don’t think I could take you feelin’ scared of me or scared that I’d do anything to you – ever.”

You could understand his reluctance to bare these dark parts of himself. You’d spent most of your life in the long shadow of fear, the torrents of violence delivered by the mouths and hands of men you should’ve been able to trust. It was all too predictable that Joel would just become another perpetrator in the long line that existed before him, fitting into the established pattern.

Except Joel wasn’t like anyone you’d ever known, was unlike any man you’d shared space with. He jumped the circuit that had been assigned to you - the circular loop of pain and fear - and became the break in the sequence. The disruptor of the inevitable. The arm that links to yours instead of bending it backward until compliance is yielded. Joel had decided that the cycle of your suffering stopped here, and god help anyone who got in his way.

“Scared? Of you? Joel, the only thing that scares me is whether or not I can ever be for you what you’ve been for me.” The words slip out gently, like they aren’t all sharp edges patched together with threads of hope. He moves to cut the conversation from its trajectory, but you press on before he can stop your moment of timid confession. “I don’t want pieces of you, Joel. I want it all. Just like you say you want all of me. So– I’m asking you to-to trust me with the truth, the way I trust you with the truth.” You level a firm, probing gaze and watch as his reservations abate.

“I’m not stupid, Joel. I-I know what him being here– I know what it means.” You straighten taller, pushing and pressing yourself to show the faith you have in yourself and in Joel - in the two of you. “I know that he’s– I know he’s not going to-to live. I know he’s not going to survive this. He’s not going to walk out of here.”

“That ain’t up to anyone but you,” he corrects. Before you can ask what he could possibly mean, he clarifies. “Told ‘em it wasn’t anybody’s decision ‘bout what happens to him but yours. Weren’t too happy with me about it. Wanted to kill him the first night – especially John – but ain’t nothin’ gonna happen that you don’t want to happen.”

The weight of his words settles slowly, a viscid cloud that ripples and sweeps through you. Matthew’s far off, muted cries for help are the only sound other than the pounding pulse in your ears. He took your life and bent it to his will, and now he was at your mercy. His fate lies in the palm of your hand because Joel stopped others from taking that decision from you. Because Matthew had hurt you more than anyone. Because Matthew had taken the most from you, wanted to take everything from you, it should be you to decide what happens.

Because Joel wanted to give you something you’d never had before: the power to dictate your life.

Your lip quivers with the comprehension of it, the magnitude of the gift he’d gently laid at your feet, as if it weren’t the most profound gesture anyone had ever bestowed you. Your lungs pull for the inhale that will balloon your chest against the constricting cage of your ribs. You have to get it together. You have to let him know he can tell you anything, can tell you everything, all without the fear that it will be too much and be the reason you walk away.

“Because you love me.” It’s not a question. It’s an answer. An explanation of why this man in front of you would do all of this.

“Because I love you,” he echoes. His lips press into a tight line. Consideration. Resolution. And then–

“I said I would—” He falters again, searching your face for the fear he so dreads will take hold and fester in you, the fear of what he is capable of, even if it’s done with the intent to shield you from harm. You give his hand an encouraging squeeze. “I told him I’d drag her here, blow her brains out, and rip his kid from her stomach. Make him hold it until it didn’t move anymore. Kill off the future of him if he didn’t write what I told him to.”

You gulp back a gasp. “A-And would you have…? You would’ve done that?”

“Didn’t need to,” he replies instantly, skirting the question.

You press his hand firmer against your chest. “Would you have done that, Joel?”

“Yeah,” he finally admits. “If it meant gettin’ Matthew away from you, if it meant protectin’ you, then yeah, I would’ve.”

You gently nod, swallowing down the ebbing jolt of his confession, and bring his palms against your cheeks. You pivot to kiss them each in turn before looking up at him. “These hands are for– they’re for loving me. And protecting me.” You tilt towards him to emphasize your belief. His shoulders sag with relief, your sanction of his ill deeds loosening the tight nieve of guilt around him.

“And I know whatever happens in there–” an aside glance back at the door and back to Joel “–it’ll be okay. I’ll be okay, because you’re with me.”

He gives you a pointed nod and presses a kiss to your forehead. “I got you. I’ve always got you from here on out. I need you to understand, honey.”

“I do. I understand.”

“Then let’s get to it, sweet girl.”

With that, he opens the door again and drags in a heavy blanket from the other side of the basement. The distinct clink and clatter of metal can be heard even through the thick fabric. He motions for you to follow him into the room and close the door. You push it shut and watch as he hauls a cushioned chair from the corner of Matthew’s room and sets it up a few feet away from him, dead center.

Matthew’s eyes dart wildly between the two of you. You jump at the unexpected slap Joel lands against Matthew’s head. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” Matthew quiets down instantly and stills. “I’m gonna tell you this one time: do not speak unless spoken to. You will listen to her. You will answer whatever question she has. You will not lie to her. If you lie to her or start gettin’ outta line, I will gladly set you straight.”

He rips the fabric gag from Matthew’s mouth and throws it on the floor. His breathing is audible and strained without the obstruction. Joel wraps an arm around your middle and pulls you down onto his lap, sitting in the armchair he’d arranged directly across from Matthew.

He leans forward, hugging you against him. I’m here. You’re not alone. Take the power you should’ve always had. Get answers to the questions you deserve to have answered. His hands splay wide across your chest and belly, an anchor to him. He runs his nose along your neck and hairline, presses his lips gently against your ear. “Go on. I’ve got you.”

Matthew has been sitting silently as instructed, waiting on your permission to engage. Something turbulent and mirthful stirs in your gut. You can feel it spreading through you like a beast intent on carnage. It takes a few moments to recognize the feeling for what it is: power. The expression “drunk on power” finally made sense. The feeling of confidence, strength, and command makes your head buzz. It occurs to you that while this is your first time wielding such authority, it is likely Matthew’s first time experiencing the other side of things, not having any control over what’s going to happen next.

“How do you feel?”

Your question catches them both off guard, although Joel doesn’t show his surprise other than tensing for a split second underneath you. Matthew’s eyes squeeze shut, his frown deepening as he shakes his head side to side. He takes your line of questioning as a sign of possible mercy – all that understanding and patience you’ve been leached of your entire life.

“I’m fucking scared!” he croaks. His voice sounds weak and tired. “Every time they come down here I don’t know if it’s gonna be the time they kill me! Please just tell them to let me go! I’ll fucking go, I will! You’ll never see me again, I swear it.” He leans as far forward in his chair as he can manage, his desperation for your leniency coming off him in spates.

“What about Rachel? And the baby?”

Again, they both show their surprise at your choice of question. Matthew’s face flashes an answer before he can speak: what about them? Of course. Why should he care about the woman he’d impregnated out of spite? She was nothing more than collateral in this entire thing. His rooted seed in her belly nothing more than a guarantee of his lineage, a point of ego.

He works his expression into more of the calculated veneer he’s perfected over the years. “I-If you would– Listen, of course I care about them both, of course I want to take care of them both—”

You don’t bother listening to the rest. His words slacken to a halt as you turn your head towards Joel. “He’s lying to me, and you told him not to,” you say softly. Something eager and electric sparks in his eyes. “Yeah, I think he is, baby. I don’t like that one bit. What do you think?”

Matthew stutters but keeps himself from speaking, rightfully afraid of Joel’s correction.

You rest your hands atop his where he cradles you against him. “Do you remember in the cabin when you told me not to feel bad when bad people get what they deserve?”

He holds back a smirk. “I do.”

“Do you remember what I told you I liked seeing and wanted to see again?”

He doesn’t downplay the depraved grin spreading across his face. “I think I do, but I sure would love if you reminded me anyway.”

You turn to face Matthew and swallow down the delight at his anxious urgency to understand what is happening. Your expression is cold, unfeeling. “I liked it when you cried, Matthew, and I like it when Joel makes you cry—” you turn to Joel again, whose face has darkened and acidified, the drip of a lethal edge pooling at the verge “—so, I want you to do it again. I want you to make him cry, Joel. Make him cry for me.”

His smile is infectious. “Thought you’d never ask.” When he tilts you closer to his face and kisses you gently, it’s your turn to be surprised. “I love you.” A tender reminder, something free in the way he says it now that it’s already been said before. Like he wants to say it as many times as he can. Like you’ll understand how much he means it the more you hear him say it.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back.

You both ignore Matthew’s break in protocol as he rushes to explain his sincerity. Joel is in no hurry, knowing that his leisure only works Matthew into more of a frenzy. He walks calmly to the blanket he’d brought in earlier, unwraps it, and studies the contents for a moment. Opting to forgo anything in the selection, he saunters over to an ever distraught Matthew. The glint of a small blade from Joel’s back pocket catches the light.

“NO NO NO,” Matthew starts chanting, an octave higher reached with every utterance.

You flinch when Joel swings his arm up, barely stopping the momentum of it in enough time for the sharp edge of the blade to tamp directly against Matthew’s cheek. The room is quiet again. A slip of crimson trickles between the bulge of his flesh and the blade. His jaw trembles with the effort of keeping still so as to not deepen the cut.

“The only reason you ain’t laid out and bein’ beat to death right now is because of her, so I suggest you count your fuckin’ lucky stars that she’s the one callin’ the shots,” Joel growls. His fingertips are white from where he grips the hilt of the blade so tight you can practically see the itch to drive it further in.

Matthew’s eyes lock onto your face. Like the rabbit whose leg has been snapped in steel teeth, he feels the walls closing in around him. Something about your presence makes this all the more real somehow, you think. You drop your gaze, suddenly feeling uncertain if you only liked the idea of Matthew suffering and might not be fit to actually witness it. As if sensing your thoughts, Joel flicks the blade closed and returns it to his pocket.

“Now listen real close,” he drawls. Matthew’s face pouches out in little pockets of flesh between Joel’s stretched fingers where they grip his skull. The dig of Joel’s thumb into the new sliced divide of flesh triggers a string of pained gasps. “My girl wants to see you cry, so you’re gonna give her some tears. If ya can’t squeeze ‘em out during some heartfelt somethin’ or other, I’ll just hafta think of somethin’ to motivate ya.”

Joel watches you from the corner of his eye, waiting for you to take the lead when you’re ready. He senses your uncertainty at commanding the situation just yet and continues. A fractured cry pierces the air as Joel wedges his finger deeper into the cut. “Lucky for me, I’m feelin’ real creative today.”

Matthew shakes his head, although you’re not entirely sure which part of it he disagrees with. Joel doesn’t seem to notice or care and continues on. “So how about you start bein’ honest and start from day one. I wanna hear all the fuckin’ mistakes you made and all the shit you took for granted. And god help you if ya start lyin’ or fakin’ some crocodile tears.”

You find Matthew’s eyes again, settled with a defeated acceptance, and he looks scared enough that you think he might actually just tell the truth for once.

“W-When we met– the first time we met–” he sputters. He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s closing himself off from his current predicament, as if he can separate himself from the lies he’s told and his obligation to now recount the story in truth rather than through his lens of manipulation. “When I saw you, I just– I did think they were raiders. Your dad and brother. I did. But. I just thought– I knew I could catch them off guard and take them both out. I just–”

His eyes slip towards Joel, a mistake warranting censure. Joel grips his head in one hand and forces his focus towards you again. “You’re tellin’ her, not me. So keep your eyes on her when you’re talkin’.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to kill you, too, or see if maybe you could be useful to me in some way,” Matthew confesses in a bungled rush of words.

“What do you mean?” You swallow down a sick feeling and aren’t sure you want to know the answer. He’d been a liar since the very beginning, and it took you so long to see it. You’d been such a fool for so fucking long. Knowing the extent and depth of the deception only magnified the hurt stemming from this level of betrayal.

“He means he kept you around for a warm, wet hole to stick his dick in,” Joel snarls.

“It wasn’t just that!” Matthew pleads. His eyes nearly slip back to Joel, but he recovers at the last moment. “I swear! If-If it was just that I could’ve just raped you! You were already so beat down it wouldn’t have been hard!”

Your stomach sinks hearing him share this alternate version of events, something so perverse from what you’d always remembered it as. “Am I supposed to be flattered by that, Matthew?” Your voice breaks ever so slightly. You hate showing weakness, especially under the circumstances.

At least Matthew looks appropriately chastened. “I’m telling you the truth! You said you wanted the truth, and I’m doing that! PLEASE!” His lip trembles with unfettered panic. “Maybe I wasn’t some-some knight in shining armor like I had you believe, b-but if I didn’t actually want you I would’ve just dumped you sooner! You have to see that I’m telling the truth about that! I did like having you around!”

“Having me around for what?” you bite back. The look on Matthew’s face says Joel’s assertion about being a “warm, wet hole” wasn’t very far off. “So that’s really it then? Just somebody to use? Somebody to make you feel good? To be, I mean– to be, what? Forever in your debt? Someone who-who was so fucking–” you cut yourself off before the heat pinching in your eyes forms tears. You shake your head side to side to collect your resolve. “Someone who was so fucking grateful to be out of their situation that they wouldn’t even notice all the fucked up parts of their new one?”

Your voice has grown shaky and hoarse at the effort of holding back tears. Matthew’s face twists into something akin to an indignant sneer. “You can’t blame me for every little thing, you know. You didn’t have to follow me around like a lost puppy. You were plenty grown enough if you wanted to—”

The sneer morphs into a grotesque contortion of pain as Joel drives his knife straight into Matthew’s lower thigh and twists. The shocked scream erupting from him is almost as jarring as the brutal drive of the knife springing up blood through his pants.

“Let’s try that again,” Joel drawls. He yanks the blade from Matthew’s leg. The claret drips fall like a quiet rain against a window, and it makes you feel unfamiliar with yourself when you register the sort of calm it brings. The gentle pitter patter of rain against the pane. The soft spill of Matthew’s blood onto his clothes and the floor. Something contentious and changing, something ready to cleanse away the before.

You sit up straight on the edge of the chair and grip the arms, looking on in revulsion and enthusiasm. The ire churning in your gut unfurls into licking flames of white heat. “A lost puppy you were more than happy to keep on a leash,” you warble back. The edges of your vision blur in equal, indignant fever. You shove yourself up from the chair, legs shaking with the surge of emotion you no longer attempt to subdue. Hot bands of wet splinter over your cheeks, a fit pair with the jagged breaths you pull in. “How many?” you snap. “How many women were you with after you told me you loved me and cared about me?”

Matthew’s mouth hangs open as if it awaits the strangled sob in his throat to dislodge itself soon. “PLEASE,” a gasp of a prayer for your mercy.

“Ain’t a quick learner, are ya?” Joel laughs to himself, calm as ever while he jabs the flat side of his hand directly against Matthew’s windpipe.

He sputters and coughs before quickly choking out an answer. “I don’t–cough–I don’t know. I have to think!” He tilts his head back, his eyes chasing an answer along the ceiling somewhere. “I-I’m think–jesus christ I don’t know. It has to be….” He trails off with a small rocking motion as he tallies his indiscretions. “I think thirteen,” he finally decides.

“Can you even name them?” you challenge. He makes it through the first handful quickly, but his memory is hazy from when he’d finally given in to the practice of unabashed, serial infidelity. With a promise of “help” from Joel to remember the rest, Matthew manages to focus and list off names that amount to a grand total of seventeen. Seventeen others he’d sought out and prioritized over you, over his commitments and promises to you.

“Why?”

Matthew squeezes his eyes shut tight again in anticipation of the response to his truthful but less than palatable answer.

“Because I could.”

He waits for the strike or the blade to come and peels his eyes open when it doesn’t. You can see Joel’s entire frame taut beside him, fuming at the gall and arrogance. You signal for Matthew to continue answering.

“I-I knew you’d never do anything about it. I knew you were too scared no one would want you. I knew you wouldn’t ever think of crossing me.”

A physical pain roosts in your chest. He was right. You never did anything about it - not until Natalie. Even after Natalie, you remained boxed in by your own fears of having to present yourself as enough for somebody else, as if anyone would want you. You’d never crossed Matthew because he was something rather than the terrifying prospect of nothing. But none of that mattered when he made you feel so alone anyway. It didn’t matter when he isolated you from even knowing yourself.

“Joel, can I have your knife please?”

His eyebrows shoot up, hands deftly placing the weapon in your open palm. “Gonna show me some techniques, baby?” His smile falls a little when he sees the fearfulness pulling at you again. “Or are you gonna let me join ya?”

“Together,” you agree.

Matthew thrashes in his bindings. Pitiful calls for you to just wait and hold on a minute fall on deaf ears. Joel kicks his chair to the ground and gives a hard push with his boot to position him onto his back. You motion towards the gag, which Joel shoves back into place. You brace yourself over Matthew’s feet and remove his shoes and socks. The sinew of his muscle flexes as he tries in vain to get away from you. Joel kneels behind you and steadies you in his arms. Matthew’s neck is craning, eyes bulged with horror, as he watches helplessly.

“Can you…..?” you trail off, not sure how to ask what you want to ask.

Joel follows your line of sight to the arch of Matthew’s foot. He holds you in the cradle of his arms, back to chest, as he places his hands over yours and the knife clutched there. “I’m right here. You go on ahead, sweet girl.”

He guides your hands forward, releasing his grasp on one side to hold Matthew’s foot in place, and you hold your breath as you both plunge the blade into the soft bend of Matthew’s foot. His screams become clearer through the bunched fabric in his mouth. Your stomach turns at the high pitched agony. Joel frames your body closer to his and talks close to your ear. “You’ve got it, honey. You’re doin’ it. I’m right here. You just keep goin’. I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

The glittery silver disappears into reddening, wet flesh. Before you can pull it back out, Joel turns your wrist to the side and slows the extraction to a brutal crawl of blade against bone. Your hands shake as you enact the most ruthless savagery you’ve ever rendered. Joel’s hushed whispers of encouragement feel nauseating and thrilling. When the blade finally works its way out completely, you release a hard, shaky exhale.

Matthew is sobbing and writhing, his torment discernible even through his restraints and gag. Joel is unphased, passing praising kisses against your neck and cheeks. “Did so good. So proud of you.”

“I did okay?” you shake out.

He leans forward so you can see each other’s faces fully. “Did perfect, sweet girl. Perfect.”

You take a deep breath and center yourself. “Can you help me do it again?”

Joel grins, a sort of fervid vestige of a bedlamite, and says of course he’ll help you do it again and adds that he’ll help as many times as you want, baby. After you repeat the same measured, excruciating puncture on Matthew’s opposite foot, Joel asks a question you’ve only just decided the answer to.

“How many times you wanna cut him, honey?” He nuzzles against your earlobe, ever patient and calming. You know if you said you wanted to stop all of this and just walk away, he’d do just that. It makes you want to do it even more.

“I-I think that, um,” you mumble hesitantly. You try to block out Matthew’s heaving shrieks. “I think that some smaller ones for the rest. I think, maybe, fifteen smaller ones should make it–”

“–seventeen,” Joel finishes with a sinister chuckle. “Knew I had me a clever one. You’re really somethin’ else, sweet girl.”

You almost chicken out as you start to feel ill inflicting your twisted punishment, a slice into his flesh for each time he strayed from you. Joel as always helps you through it and steadies the blade to create fifteen superficial but sizable slits across the expanse of Matthew’s body from bottom to top. By the final cut, his eyes are far off and fixed on a spot above your heads. Joel jerks the chair upright and wrenches him out of his dissociative escape.

“Wake up, prick,” he snaps. A smack of his palm against the side of Matthew’s head gets his eyes focused on you again. Somehow there’s still the resonance of hatred in his gaze, a burning, putrid animosity held for you. The vitriol that comes into the centrifuge of his sight on you makes goosebumps ripple over your skin.

What feels like hours has in reality only been minutes. The encumbrance of violence has tired you quickly, and you briefly wonder how on earth people can maintain rabid, cruel tendencies for years, even decades. How they aren’t shriveled into a heap after 5 minutes of it. Then you remember, some people thrive on it. For some, it’s the only thing that swells their blood. People like Matthew who can’t seem to stray far from it without it coming back tenfold in its consuming appetite for destruction.

Your stomach burns and clenches. This is not the path you are meant to travel. There’s something decidedly wrong about it all, and you wish you could focus more on Matthew finally getting what’s been a long time coming. Instead, you avert your eyes from his, away from the splinters of torn tissue you’d carved into him.

“Hey.” Joel’s soft voice calls you from your freefall. You look over to find him already watching you, carefully pinpointing each minutia of emotion you can’t keep from breaking through. “C’mere.”

You readily shrink into his middle, his arms coming up to cage you into him. A few deep breaths of him block out the heavy, stale air of the room that’s whirling with the metallic daub of fresh blood. You let him guide you to sit in the lounge chair in his lap. You slump against his warm, broad body. Your head lolls to the side. You feel like you could just shut down right now and sleep for four months straight.

“Lemme help you relax.” The words barely register until the paired action of his hand skimming underneath your waistband catches you up immediately. Your body tenses as you turn your head to look at him. A soft, playful smile graces his lips. His fingertips dip down lower. Your lids flutter closed. Why did this feel so good in such a gruesome environment? How did this feel so germane after all the atrocities you’d just committed against another human? Nevertheless, Joel’s touch is a calming weight, settling over you in an instant.

“Gonna take these off, honey.” The scratch of denim and cotton against your legs is the beginning of your body fully switching over into corporeal awareness instead of the tumultuous sea of your mind. A whiny choke gets caught in your throat when you feel Joel’s hands against your bare skin.

“I know, I know,” he soothes. He spreads your legs across his lap, knees hooked over his thighs. Your curiosity gets the better of you when you wonder what Matthew’s face looks like.

Cold. Callous. His eyes keep flashing to the cradle of your thighs, spread and displayed.

“Messy baby,” Joel hums with a spark of humor. You aren’t sure what he means until you see the bright blood on his fingertips. “I like you messy,” he grunts, cupping your pussy against his palm.

“Joel,” you start to protest. As you stare at the menstrual blood glistening on your inner thighs, you realize the gut cramping and sick feeling you’ve been experiencing over the past hour could only partially be blamed on all the torment you’d been inflicting on Matthew.

“Knock it off,” he warns, sounding stern and resolute, when you squirm against him. You whimper and give in immediately. There’s not much fight left in you when it comes to Joel, not with all the pinpricking blooms of revenge taking to you so steadfastly. He groans against you as he sinks his fingers inside your entrance. His other hand has skirts underneath your top, toying lazily with your hardening buds.

“Gonna let him watch just like that first time,” he husks. His excitement is palpable against you, seeping into you like an osmotic, erogenous stimulant. You can feel him thick and ready beneath you. You lift yourself higher for his fingers to go deeper. He wordlessly complies and drinks in your feeble moan.

“God do you remember how fuckin’ smug he was that day? Now look at him.”

You heed his invitation and focus your hazy attention on Matthew. His eyes are glossy and bloodshot. His nose is dripping. There are patches of bright new blood and auburn, oxidizing blood all over his body. There’s a mixture of dried and fresh tears streaking his face.

“Pathetic piece of shit,” Joel laughs under his breath. He hooks his fingers into you and moves his hand back and forth in quick motions, his palm pressing firmly against your clit. Your legs clamp together reflexively, but Joel pries them back open. You pin the weight of your shoulders against his chest, arching up from where you sit in his lap.

“Give it to me. Come on, baby. I can feel it. You’re right there–yeah, come on–there you go.”

A white heat scorches through your lower belly just as you reach your peak. You’re a writhing mess against Joel, who holds you loosely against his chest. A warm pool of wet gathers on his hand and fingers, bright red mixed in with your slick. Your chest feels hot and prickly as you catch your breath. Already so awash in your afterglow, you list to the side where Joel props you gently against the back of the chair.

The entire front of his pants are flecked in smudges of scarlet. He twists and turns his hand in the light, admiring the catch of it against the mixture of fluids. He smiles to himself, stands, and saunters to Matthew, whose eyes grow larger the closer Joel gets. Thick bright red blood coating his hand is all the more evident when he flexes it into a fist.

“Bet you thought so many times about seein’ blood pour outta her,” he muses in a dangerously calm voice. “Bet you wanted to be the one to make that happen. Crack her in the skull. Cut her open. Shoot her. Huh?”

Matthew is still as a statue. You find yourself hanging onto Joel’s every word as well, mesmerized and head crooked to the side to witness whatever was going to happen next. Dissatisfied with his question going unanswered, Joel takes his clean hand to grip around Matthew’s sweaty, grimy hair and yanks him to the side. “HM?”

“Yes!” Matthew coughs and begins to cry again. “Yes, I thought about it!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Joel's entire broad frame is rigid with fury. “You wanted her blood so bad, you can have it.” The high pitched impact of Joel’s drenched hand across Matthew’s cheek practically echoes in the enclosed space. Fresh tears carve a clean line through the smear of your blood on his face. Joel slaps him again. Again and again and so many times you lose count. His face is covered in you.

Matthew had wanted you dead. He’d wanted your blood on his hands. He felt that’s what you owed him. Joel saw to it that the “debt” was repaid, just not how Matthew had envisioned it. It was a due reward for what he’d craved, and it sent a surge of righteous anger through every nerve ending in your body. Joel pauses for a moment to check in on you.

You bend your head slowly in approval. “More,” you whisper.

The million kilowatt, manic grin that brightens Joel’s entire face makes you smile shyly in return. There was something akin to pride there, something that made him swell with it just from you taking control of the situation and taking ownership in this act of vengeance. He loosens some of the restraints binding Matthew to the chair and frees his arms and legs.

With every ounce of energy he has available, Matthew lunges at you, an ineffective movement with his injuries slowing him down. It’s a stumble and a longshot. You’re not even sure why he attempted it. Joel doesn’t look surprised in the slightest. In fact, he looks like he was hoping Matthew might do something so incredibly stupid just to have a reason to further maim him. He snatches him up and sends him flying into the closest wall, crumpling into a heap. Just when Matthew manages to brace himself against the wall and sit upright, Joel’s boot slams square into his back, knocking the air from his lungs.

He twitches and gasps for breath that doesn’t come. He still hasn’t caught his breath when Joel finishes stripping him bare, a constellation of slices and gashes and bruises across his body. Joel kicks him again into the middle of the room, pins him to the floor with a knee between the shoulders. The deft movement of his fingers is mesmerizing as they work over the freshly tied knots around Matthew’s elbows and wrists. Alleviation doesn’t come when Joel stands, fully clothed with a hard foot planted into Matthew’s naked back. Something about this exhibition sends a wave of heat between your thighs.

“If you try that shit again, I won’t be as patient. You understand?”

“Yes,” Matthew sputters against the ground.

“Now, keep your arms out in front of you just like that, and if I so much as see ‘em twitch I will get to flayin’ you with a blunt knife, startin’ from your fingertips.”

Matthew makes a noise that you think can only convey a distraught understanding. You inspect the loops and knots across his body, never truly trusting that it’s enough to keep him contained. Before you work yourself up with worry, Joel walks past you to the pile of tools, plucks one of them up, and returns to your side with it. A flash of light catches against the head of a hammer.

“Let’s show this bastard what puttin’ his hands ‘round your neck gets him.”

Just like he had with the knife, Joel braces himself against you and positions you over Matthew’s outstretched hands, cupping the handle of the tool in your grasp. A visible tremor shakes Matthew’s entire body, but he doesn’t dare move his arms despite knowing what’s coming. To his credit, he doesn’t scream too loud with the first several blows of the metal tool against the delicate bones in his fingers. They bend in unnatural contours after each strike, bits of stark white peeking through gnarled, ripped sinew and flesh.

The shrill din in your ears drowns out his suffocated gasps. Even when Joel helps you stand again, your knees stuck in a tremulous lock, you barely make out his instruction to drive your foot down as hard as you can. His arm curls insistently against your ribcage, holding you upright, coaxing you into delivering the violent stampede of your sole into Matthew’s already ruined appendages. The faint, sickening crunch with each strike, the soft gurgle of blood and liquid as his bone tears through where it hasn’t been crushed already. You start to feel lightheaded and sick when Joel finally pulls you away and sets you in the chair again.

Sound comes slowly back into focus, but you don’t hear what sorts of things Joel is saying to Matthew as he crouches over his pitiful, slumped body. You can only imagine it’s the adrenaline keeping him going right now. Your expression pinches when you see Joel free Matthew of all the ties he’d carefully formed not too long ago. Or maybe it had been longer than you thought. This entire room existed in a vacuum as far as your mind was concerned. It felt as though nothing existed outside these four walls. All that existed was here and now in this moment of wrath and retribution.

Joel’s hands are warm against your face. “Hey there,” he says softly, quietly, with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s bent in front of you, eyes traveling across your expression and taking in every indication of your wellbeing. “Remember if it’s too much, we can–”

“No,” you grit out. The resolve to see this through gives another wind of life. “Keep going.”

Joel’s eyebrow ticks up. “You sure about that? You were lookin’ a little pale back there.”

You shrug. “Not used to this. That’s all.”

He gives you a sympathetic grin and rubs his hands along your bare thighs. You’d forgotten you were only half-dressed. “You promised you’d tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not if I’m with you.”

His whole face softens, tender and visceral in the way it reaches out to you and pulls you closer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You rest your hands over his where his thumbs rub small circles. “So tell me what we do next. Help me finish this.”

And with no pretense, he ushers you up from the seat and slowly over to where Matthew lays quietly on the floor. “You wanna know what I told him?” he breathes into your ear. The wet of Matthew’s eyes glisten from where he looks up at you. The fabric gag is in his mouth again, although he is entirely unbound. You wonder what it is that Joel said to have him not daring to move again. “Told him he had to come first or I’d start breakin’ the rest of him, piece by piece, bone by bone.”

“Come first? What do you–”

“Hold onto me,” is the only warning you get before Joel is crouched behind you, reaching a hand between your legs and pulling you backward against him. Your body naturally falls open, limbs askew, as you lean into him. His fingers are thick where they breach into your bloodied entrance, still wet with your earlier release.

You quickly figure out he’s working you at such an odd angle with a distinct purpose. The pleasant but unmistakable friction against your g-spot has your legs shaking in anticipation.

“Better get to work. She’s already gettin’ close,” Joel taunts.

To your horror, Matthew drags his mangled hands across the soft length between his thighs in some warped deference to Joel’s warning that he has to reach climax before you do. The gag in his mouth isn’t substantial enough to drown out his anguished sobs. A harsh pinch to your nipple snaps your attention back to Joel. “You focus right here, sweet girl,” he husks. “You show me how good I make you feel, huh?”

You squeak out a moan when he rolls your other nipple between his nimble touch. “Ohmygod,” you breathe.

“Mmmhhmmmm,” he chuckles low against your temple. “ Mmmhhmmm, yeah, there she is.”

His fingers work you faster and harder until you’re right on the cusp, closed off the rest of the world with just Joel’s voice goading you to finish. You come with a hard jerk and grab onto his solid forearm as he positions you over Matthew. It comes out of you in steady spurts, the debauched splash of your fluids landing onto Matthew’s bare body and into the valleys and gashes you’d carved into it.

He seizes up, eyes slipping into the back of his skull. You don’t have a moment to consider the acidity of it in his open wounds, how it must make it burn and aggravate the already sensitive gashes, before Joel’s hands are everywhere on you. His voice is urgent when he says he has to have you right now. You say yes because even though your body can’t take any more of it, you want whatever he’s willing to give. You want all of him, to be swallowed whole by his want, to cave into the summon of his body and his mind.

The metallic clink of his belt and rough shove of fabric. You’re practically floating. He lines himself up and pushes in, already panting and sounding close. You cling to him where you can as he begins thrusting. The split of him stings in all the best ways, and you welcome the anchoring sensation of it. “Feel so–hhngg god- feel so fuckin’ good,” he chokes.

Your feeble moan only encourages his steady pace, filling you and spreading you and molding you to him. “I want it inside,” you whimper.

Joel gives a pained groan at your request, his hips stuttering for a moment at the visual. “Yeah? Want me to come inside you again? You like that? Like being full of me?”

You make some unintelligible noise that you hope conveys your affirmation. His gravelly moan works you towards another climax, but the roll of his hips begins to falter. You know he’s close. His body drapes over yours and pushes you both closer to the ground, nearer to the strung out stare that Matthew has in between squeezing his eyes shut tight as they’ll go.

“Oh fuck, please, Joel.” You want to be marked by him, want to be hued by the color of him spilling over into you, the tones and shades of him bleeding into you and staining into one flush of congruency. “Please, I need you,” you cry out.

He empties into you with a ragged moan as you clutch to him and find purchase with your other hand against the erratic rise and fall of Matthew’s chest. The warmth of Joel surrounds you and spills out of you with each sloppy thrust until he’s laying a path of lax, wet kisses along the column of your throat. “Love you. I love you.” He says it over and over like a mantra, breathless and in reverence that you’re his.

And you love him back more fiercely than you might ever be able to put into words. You look down at the man who’d wronged you all the while feeling the protective presence of Joel behind you. This is how it was meant to turn out, you think. A bookend to the first time you and Joel came together. A thought about that first time strikes you.

“I wanna do it like that first time,” you whisper with a turn of your head.

Joel hums in approval and gathers you closer to him. His hand slips lower in silent understanding, cupping your sex as he drags himself out of you. The mixture of his cum, your slick, and your period blood rush out of your entrance and into his curved palm. Joel flicks it, and you watch as it lands with a wet slop against Matthew’s face. Far from the fearful retreat you’d dwelled in so long, a righteous indignation swells in your chest. You lean into it with Joel’s help, letting him guide you into this new side of yourself, one that’s safe to explore and execute with him by your side.

You don’t feel the need to slap Matthew more than once with the handful of fluids. Joel is only satisfied once he’s struck him several times more and spit in his face for good measure. You aren’t sure if Matthew has finally given up or if the blood loss is starting to catch up with him. His responses are coming shorter and weaker.

Joel gets himself situated again before helping you get dressed. You’re sure it’s a sight to see, all the blood and grime and fluids covering you and your clothes. When you tell him you want Matthew brought outside, Joel gives you a dubious look but doesn’t question it. You look on as Matthew hobbles naked up the stairway, down the hallway, and past a curious John and Tommy who follow along outside. You glance around for what you need, finding it on the most level table in the front living area, and head into the cool night air.

No one asks about you and Joel’s disheveled, bloodied state. All eyes are on you for direction. What happens to Matthew is your call, just like Joel said. He holds Matthew at gunpoint, almost comical in the level of overkill. He’s bleeding, naked, and struggling to stay upright. Even if everyone understands he’s not going to survive, you and Matthew both know that the last thing he can keep is his pride and die alone without anyone around to witness such a pathetic ending.

“I know that you are probably going to die out there.” You look up the side of the steep ravine and off to the side where darkness and wilderness lie in wait. Everyone shifts at the insinuation that you will give Matthew the gift of privacy in his defeated, lonely death. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t asked for my forgiveness. So, I’m offering you the chance to make that right.”

Matthew whimpers, not yet free to die alone and away from prying eyes.

“Beg,” Joel snaps – a singular, harsh warning.

Matthew meets your eye. He looks genuinely remorseful. “I never–I never deserved you.” You give him the time he needs to power through. He’s already lost enough blood to make just speaking and holding himself upright at the same time physically taxing. You can’t imagine the mental toll. “I know if you told them to kill me, they would.” He pauses to glance Joel’s direction. “I could’ve become a different person. A better person.” He sputters and coughs again. “ You could’ve done that for me - helped me get there.”

Tears flow. Real tears. Sincere tears from a monstrous man. A man who seems to have finally come to realize things could’ve been different if he wanted them to be. He sniffs and coughs and whimpers.

“I can’t ever change how I was—” he pauses to take a wheezing gulp of air “—I can’t go back and undo it. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, fat lines of tears splashing off his face.

“I know your heart is– it’s the biggest– you have so much love—”

He pauses again and steadies his labored breaths.

“If anyone had enough heart to forgive someone like me, I know it’s you.”

He holds your gaze, steady and unwavering. He means it.

“Please, please. Forgive me.”

You look at the brutalized, broken man before you, weeping and begging for your exoneration. You glance at Joel who is already watching you with a pensive expression. You look back down at Matthew. He hasn’t looked away from you as he awaits his fate.

“You haven’t earned my forgiveness, and you never will.”

Your scathing verdict hits colder than the nighttime air. Matthew’s eyes bug out, wide and terrified. You think you hear Tommy laugh. “Put him in the pit,” you command. You jerk your head towards the unlit firepit at the edge of the dense treeline.

John and Joel happily cart Matthew, flailing and fighting with the vigor that is somehow miraculously still fueling his will to live, as Tommy trains the gun on him. They heave him into the hollowed out recess and await your next decree. Matthew is screaming and clawing at the walls. You think if he weren’t so badly injured he would be able to easily get himself out. His current state, however, renders him confined to the small circular space. Your hands shake as you reach into your pocket for the item you grabbed on your way out. A silent mass butts up against your back and steadies your hand. Joel.

“I got you,” he reassures you quietly, softly.

He holds the package in place in your left hand and guides the match in your right hand across the raised pattern of the strike pad. A flash of white settles into a warm orange burn on the end of the match.

“I’ve got you, baby. Go ahead.”

You lean over the pit, over Matthew’s desperate calls for you to not do this, and drop the flame. John grabs something from the side and hands it to Joel. Accelerant. He concentrates the first few spurts onto Matthew’s body before dashing a smaller amount over your flame. He pulls you both back as the fire swirls and shoots and swells from the pit. You close your eyes and lean back into Joel as you all stand and listen to the agonized screams coming from the bottom of the cavity.

Joel pulls you closer to him, pulls you down with him to rest on the stump nearby. The sounds of Matthew’s demise come slower and slower as the blaze consumes him. You turn your body, cradling into Joel’s embrace, and nestle your head against the crook of his neck. It blocks out some of the noise. He dips his head and fills your mouth with the slip of his hot tongue. You drink him in, open wider for him, let him into whatever space of yours he wants. It’s all his. You’re both each other’s. The kiss slows until it’s just lips grazing back and forth. A quiet comfort. A soft soothing. A safe embrace.

“Did I do okay?” you ask in a hush. Joel hears what you’re really asking: Did I do the right thing?

“You did the best you could with what you had, darlin’.”

You nod, mulling over his sage take on your decision to end Matthew’s life. “And was my best good enough?” The last bit comes out in a sort of choke, your emotions getting the better of you.

“You are good enough,” Joel is quick to emphasize. “And it’s high time you started livin’ the life you deserve.”

“I only want that if it’s with you.”

“And I’m up for the challenge of makin’ up for lost time,” he replies with a soft smile.

The tortured cries have died away, lost into the high pitched sound of the wet spots being scorched from the insides of the logs.

“But what about Rachel and the baby?” You fiddle with the button on your shirt. Even though they were better off without Matthew, you still felt the guilt of leaving her with the burden of birthing and raising a child on her own. When he doesn’t respond right away, you turn to Joel. His body is tense with the knowledge of something, another hidden truth.

“Tell me,” you urge him in a hush. “We’ve made it this far. You won’t scare me. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

He pulls you closer, some form of self-soothing perhaps, and relents more of the endless dedication he holds for you. “He has no business havin’ a bloodline.” He’s quiet for a moment, weighing something in his mind. Finding the right words. You wait for him, just like he always waits for you. “Won’t be too long now before she turns up to the clinic to find out she’s lost it.”

Lost it.

Lost it?

“You… what does—”

“She won’t know any different. Prolly chalk it up to the stress of everythin’. And she wasn’t hurt in the process, neither, so don’t go thinkin’ I’d–”

“Who did it?”

Joel finally looks at you. “Somebody in the greenhouses owed me. Got a knack for medicinal herb stuff.”

“So–So, what? They made her take something–”

“Nobody made her do anythin’,” he’s quick to correct. “It was mixed in with her food rations. Had the main dose of it prepared in a cafeteria meal she had, too, just in case.” He shrugs. “ Wanted to be sure.”

You swallow hard, not letting the mix of emotions bleed through to your expression. You don’t want Joel to think you don’t trust him, that you’re scared of him, scared of someone who was capable of such a thing - not after everything you’d been through.

“So, you– whoever it was, they gave her something to make the pregnancy fail?” You already know the answer, but you want him to say it.

“Yes.”

You nod, awash in your thoughts and mixed feelings over this splintered arm of a fucked up situation. Joel is unmoving beside you, waiting in anticipation of your blessing or reprimand.

“No part of him exists anymore,” you say. It’s a plain observation, but you both sit in the spoken impact of it. “No part of him exists anymore, and the world is better for it.”

Your body feels weak and raw, but it’s unlike the weight of stress and danger that’s been plaguing you for so long. No, it’s the fragile heap of newness, the tentative foray of new life. Joel holds you close, coddles you, as you both stare wordlessly into the blazing fire. He watches you from the corner of his eye, only shifting when you meet his gaze. Thoughtful. Quiet.

“You ready to go home?”

Home. You smile at the thought of it, the house you now share, but know that home is truly wherever you and Joel are together. He grins back in understanding.

“Yeah,” you softly sigh, content and sleepy. “Let’s go home, Joel.”

Thank you thank you thank you for all the love and patience with this series! I've poured so much into this to get it right and tell the sort of story I feel deserves to be told. I am so proud of it (and that I finally finished it!), and I hope that it can heal parts of you as it did for me when I was writing it.

Many thanks to @jupiter-soups and @ghoulettesinspace for beta'ing and helping see this story come to a close.

Thank you for reading. I love you all. 💜

catch ya later, ♥Puddles♥

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cont'd in comments

#fic: whistle in the dark #joel miller x oc #joel miller fic #pedro pascal characters #cuckolding is romantic #tlou #joel miller tlou

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