#jerky hooves

[heresbasictwilight]

stupid stupid stupid YOURE STUPIDDDD!!! IM SMART!!! YOURE... STUPID!!!! STUPID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GOD!!!!!!!!! GOD GOD GOD GOD!!! YOURE STUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPID!!!

@jerkyhooves You big stinky doody head...stupid.. hmph. [ @extradan Hope I did your style well enough.]

[andy-15-07]

Hey, can I request Joel Miller x reader where reader is Dina’s older sister (like late 20s). They secretly like each other, nobody knows – Joel doesn’t want to pursue anything because he thinks she’s too young for him, and she thinks he doesn’t really like her. Everything changes when they go on patrol together, she gets him to talk and open up a bit. They come back to Jackson and there’s some party at Tipsy Bison, so they join everyone else. They end up at Joel’s house (smut) and Ellie walks in in the morning, catching them in the act…

What the Morning Brings

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1752| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Most days in Jackson passed with a quiet kind of peace. Your mornings started with coffee on the porch, evenings with a book and maybe a slow walk around the fence line. You’d lived a whole life before this,losses, grief, survival,but Jackson was the closest thing to stability you’d known in years.

And then there was Joel Miller.

Ellie’s pseudo-dad. Grumpy, grizzled, quiet. Rough hands. Warm voice. Eyes that watched too much and gave away too little.

You were Dina’s older sister by seven years,not exactly a kid, but Joel still looked at you like you were one foot in adolescence. He talked to you politely, never too much. Never too close. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t eat at you.

You liked him. A lot. Not just for the obvious reasons,the broad shoulders, the drawl, the way his hands flexed when he fixed a boot or lifted a crate,but for the way he carried everything, like it was his responsibility to hold up the world.

And you hated that he’d never do anything about it.

“Patrol?” you blinked at Maria. “With Joel?”

“Yeah.” She handed you the clipboard. “Ellie’s got a sore ankle, and you’re next on the list. South ridge and back. Shouldn’t take more than half a day.”

You didn’t know whether to groan or thank God. Instead, you just nodded and left to pack your rifle.

The ride was quiet. Typical Joel.

Snow crunched under hooves and the distant mountains glittered with frost. You’d always liked the cold,it made people slow down, made silence feel heavier. More honest.

“You always this chatty?” you finally asked after an hour of walking the fence.

Joel gave a grunt. “Ain’t much to say.”

You cast him a glance. “Bullshit. You’re just good at pretending you don’t have thoughts.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. “You don’t give up, do you?”

You shrugged, biting back a grin. “Not when I want something.”

He raised a brow. “And what is it you want?”

You hesitated. The question was casual, but your chest felt tight.

“To know why you act like I’m off-limits.”

Joel’s eyes flicked away immediately. “You’re young.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“Still young.”

“And you’re what? Fifty?”

He frowned. “Not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He turned to you, voice low and even. “The point is, I’m not gonna be the guy who messes up a young woman’s life because he’s lonely and wants a warm body in his bed.”

You stopped walking. “Is that what you think this would be?”

He didn’t answer. The snow fell gently between you, and his jaw was clenched tight.

“I’m not some little girl who doesn’t know what she wants,” you continued. “I’ve lived through the same shit you have. Lost people. Survived. Fought. I’m here. I’m whole. And I want you. Not because I’m bored. Not because I need fixing. Because I see you.”

Joel stared at you for a long time, expression unreadable. Then he turned and muttered, “Let’s keep moving. Snow’s picking up.”

You didn’t speak the rest of the patrol. But something was different.

He walked a little closer. He handed you jerky when you stopped to rest. He looked at you like he didn’t know what the hell to do with the way you cracked him open.

By the time you got back to Jackson, the sky was a watercolor of pale oranges and purples. You were chilled, tired, and emotionally drained,but then you saw the warm glow of the Tipsy Bison.

“You going in?” you asked as Joel tied up his horse.

He hesitated. “Maybe for a bit.”

You smiled. “Buy you a drink?”

His brow arched. “You offering?”

You didn’t answer. Just pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The Tipsy Bison was loud. Laughter, music, the clink of glasses. Dina waved from across the room, her hand wrapped around Jesse’s. You nodded at her, then slid onto a stool near the bar, Joel settling beside you like muscle memory.

You bought him a whiskey. He didn’t say thank you, but the nod he gave you felt heavier than words.

Two drinks in, Joel’s shoulders relaxed. Three in, you caught him watching your mouth when you laughed at something someone said. Four in, his knee brushed yours and didn’t move.

“Wanna get outta here?” he asked softly, close to your ear.

Your heart pounded. “Yeah.”

You didn’t talk on the way to his house. The air between you was taut, electric. The moment you stepped inside, Joel barely got the door closed before you grabbed his collar and kissed him.

He responded like a dam breaking.

His hands cupped your face, then your waist, pulling you in like he’d starved for this. He groaned into your mouth, low and needy, like it had been years since he’d touched someone like this. Maybe it had.

You pulled your coat off blindly. He fumbled with the buttons of your flannel. When you reached for his belt, he grabbed your wrist gently.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you.”

Joel swore under his breath and kissed you again, slower now, like he was savoring the moment.

He picked you up, lips on your neck, and carried you to his bedroom.

Clothes hit the floor. His mouth mapped a trail across your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. He took his time, like he needed to memorize the taste of your skin, the sounds you made when his hands gripped your hips, when his tongue flicked over your nipple, when his mouth dropped between your thighs and stayed there until your legs were shaking and you were moaning his name like it was holy.

“Fuck, Joel,”

“Say it again,” he muttered, mouth hot against your inner thigh.

“Joel,” you whimpered, nails curling into the sheets. “Please.”

He hovered over you then, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. “Condom’s in the drawer.”

You reached, handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaking hands.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

He paused. Then kissed your cheek, your jaw, the shell of your ear.

“More than okay.”

He slid into you slowly, watching every inch disappear inside you, his breathing ragged.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Jesus, Joel…”

He didn’t say anything, just rested his forehead against yours and moved,slow, deep thrusts that made your toes curl. His hand slid under your thigh, lifting you for a better angle, and when you clenched around him, he grunted.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he murmured. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

You cupped his face. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He made love to you like it was the only language he knew. No rush. Just raw, burning need wrapped in something tender. Something honest.

You came first, legs trembling. He followed soon after, groaning your name like it was ripped from him.

He collapsed beside you, breathing hard. You turned toward him, chest still heaving.

“Still think I’m too young for you?” you teased softly.

He smiled, real and unguarded. “Still think I don’t like you?”

You grinned and kissed his jaw. “We’re idiots.”

“Big ones,” he agreed.

You curled into his side. His arm wrapped around you.

And then,

The door creaked open.

“Joel? Are you,” Ellie’s voice cut off.

You both froze.

She stared from the doorway, eyes wide and very aware of your very-naked bodies.

“Oh my fucking GOD,”

Joel sat up, yanking a sheet over you both. “Ellie!”

“Jesus Christ,” she gagged, backing up. “Nope. Nope. Nope. I’m erasing this from my brain. Goodbye forever.”

The door slammed shut.

You stared at Joel, wide-eyed. “Well… that’s one way to make it public.”

Joel groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”

You giggled, unable to help yourself. “At least now she knows I’m not just your ‘young friend.’”

He glanced over, smirking. “She’s gonna kill me.”

“She’ll live.”

Joel reached out, brushing hair from your face. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You kissed his fingertips. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

The next morning, sunlight filtered through thin curtains, painting lazy gold stripes across the rumpled sheets. You blinked awake to the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway,and then a cautious knock.

“Joel? You in there?” Ellie’s voice was muffled but unmistakable.

Joel groaned and threw an arm over his face. “Ugh. Give us a minute?”

You propped yourself on one elbow, sheet wrapped around your chest. “Early bird, huh?”

Ellie’s footsteps paused. “I,look, I’m sorry I,I didn’t mean to barge in last night. I just… I had a nightmare and thought you weren’t here.”

Joel peeled back the sheet just enough to flash his trademark cranky grin. “Scared of the dark?”

Ellie’s head poked through the door. She was wearing Joel’s old flannel,half buttoned, one sleeve hanging off her shoulder. She cleared her throat. “Couldn’t find Dina. Thought I’d check on you.”

You leaned forward and gave her a gentle smile. “Hey pumpkin. I’m fine.”

She hesitated, then hopped onto the edge of the bed, perching awkwardly. “Right. I’m sorry if I made things weird last night.”

You sat up fully, pulling the sheet snugly around you. “Not weird,” you said softly. “Just… not exactly what we had planned.”

Ellie looked sheepish, glancing at Joel. Joel rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “Ellie, you know us. We’ll be fine.”

Ellie nodded, eyes darting between you two. “Okay. But, uh… breakfast?” She managed a small smile. “I’m starving.”

You exchanged a grin with Joel. “Sounds perfect,” you said, swinging your legs over the side. “We’ll make pancakes.”

Ellie beamed. “Yes! Pancakes!” She stood, then paused. “So… no one’s gonna talk about last night?”

Joel reached over and ruffled her hair. “Not unless you want to.”

Ellie rolled her eyes but didn’t protest. As you grabbed Joel’s worn T-shirt to throw on, you felt his hand find yours under the sheet. In that simple squeeze, you both knew: whatever awkwardness lingered, it would dissolve over breakfast and laughter,and maybe a playful,just maybe,long nap later.

You caught Ellie’s eye as you headed toward the kitchen. “Don’t tell Dina, okay?”

Ellie laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me… for now.”

And with that, you stepped into the morning light, hand in hand with Joel,no longer hiding, no longer afraid of what people might think. Because here, in Jackson, family meant more than blood. It meant loyalty, love… and sometimes, a very unexpected wake-up call.

[orangez3st]

Something More

Clone Commando Fixer × GN!Reader 

✧ Summary: It was really stupid of Fixer to ignore your affection. You're the kindest person in the world—he doesn't deserve you. But he's willing to change how he thinks about you.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pining, unrequited love, don't worry folks: eventual romance, domestic au, they live with walon vau, featuring lord mirdalan the strill, not gonna mention kyrimorut bcs author hasn't gone through the repcomm books and isn't too familiar w local mando culture

✧ Word Count: 4.8k

✧ A/N: First @deltasquadweek special coming right up!! 🗣️🗣️ This fic has been in my drafts for like. A couple of months. I hope this delivers for Alt Prompt Day 1; "You're hurt." Enjoy this one, vode! 💛💚

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Fixer (in-header image)

Settled behind a fallen tree with one knee digging into the soil, you squint—zeroing in—at your target every now and then, akin to a blaster's scope. The buck’s hide isn't as impressive as the past ones you've met, but judging by the visible weight of that beast, it would feed the entire Vau clan for days. That is, if Vau’s strill or Scorch would have sound minds not to be greedy.

Especially now that winter is nearly approaching. As fallen red-brown leaves amplify the sound of your footfalls in a series of satisfying crunch that tickles the back for your brain, everyone in the clan are running on their own errands. Mainly to stock the pantry with food and gather the crops, using the remaining heat for the sun to naturally make venison jerky in the way of your people—how you've always liked it. Vau finds it tolerable to his palate, so you guess it's a win.

Another win is that you're tasked with hunting today. The woods surrounding the compound is your arena—you had explored nearly the entirety of it in the first week here, breathing the air of the forest and the life in it. You've come from a world where your people worship forest spirits and you haven't quite forgone your beliefs. You're an excellent hunter and tracker, and that's another point in Vau's eyes.

Lord Mirdalan throws you hard glances, its golden head snarling back and forth between the buck ahead and yourself. If its teeth-baring and impatience glinting in its beady dark eyes tell you anything, it's a one word away from dashing forward in a blur, baring elongated teeth wider—deadlier, with the intent to incapacitate its game.

Your game.

“Alright alright,” you muse, gripping your bow in your hand and easing an arrow in. “I'm the one hunting, Mird’ika. I call the shots.”

The golden strill grumbles. Every blink and widening of its eyes can only indicate its mounting anxiety that their prey would run away any moment. And to be honest, yeah. Vau’s glare of disappointment flashes through your mind—he trusts you with his oldest friend—and you decide you're not going through one of those, or Sev’s bullying afterward. That man's quips are insufferable. He definitely got those from his buir.

“Yes it's your hunt too,” you whisper, as if you can read what's going through Mird’s mind. The strill lowers impossibly close to the ground upon your encouragement, ready to pounce at any given time.

Your game still fails to notice your and Mird's presence. A sparse group of ferns in front of you and hunting attire camouflage you well. Breathing in, you draw your arrow back, the coarse fletching brushes just shyly against your cheek, the sharp point zeroing in on your unsuspecting game a distance away from you. Broadside. Lungs. Heart.

Breathe out, and…

Fwt—THUCK! 

Your arrow embeds deep on its broadside—the lungs. The buck jolts, its short antlers and hooves rearing into the air before dropping onto the forest soil—dead, from what you could tell. Hopping over your cover, you go to inspect your game, poking its eyelids with your bow. No flinch. Its beady eyes dull, void of life. Killed. Becoming clan food. Maybe tonight's dinner while it's fresh. Brushing a hand across its hide, you utter a small prayer of gratitude before working to collect your killing arrow.

Baring teeth next to you, Mird throws its impeachment in a long growl as if insulting you for not calling Oya! and letting it have its way with the buck. A big bite to the neck would've been nice instead of a fatal shot! Or at least that's what it thinks. You shake your head.

“It's ethical, Mird. Quick death.” You could never. Leaving an animal to die a slow painful death at your hands is an unforgivable sin in your belief system. The least you could do to atone is a slash of your hunting dagger as soon as possible. “Not gonna be sorry about that. But sorry I topped you, though.”

Mird slaps a golden paw at your boot, its gaze still hardened, demanding for retribution.

“Fine,” you chuckle fondly, dragging a hand through its golden hide, “Let's find a couple of quails for you to snack on, then?”

You hesitate when reaching for your rope, having initially intended to tie your game by the feet and drag it all the way back home. You don't really give a damn about balding the unimpressive hide in the process—a small defeat of this hunt. Fleshing is therapeutic, but it'd take a hell lot of time to dry in the sun, something you wouldn't do in autumn’s cloudy situation.

Your options shift between that or comming one of the boys to heave it up and over their broad shoulders. Maybe there's salvation in some parts of the hide, or the skull. The antlers could be another addition to Sev's fine collection. Speaking of Sev, he can't abandon his watch post somewhere around you (you know exactly where he is), so you hold out your hope in the other three.

By your feet, Mirdalan snarls demandingly for your promised quails.

“Stand by, Mird,” you mutter, fishing your comm out of your pocket at last, “I'll comm Boss to carry this back and we'll find your quail.”

“Need some assistance with that?”

You jump at the voice, hand falling to your hunting dagger at your hip but as soon as you register it as an obscured voice filtered through a helmet, your coiled muscles relax. Your eyes flit past the autumnal umber and scarlet of the forest, easily clocking beskar approaching you in a little, if not, cautious manner.

“Fixer.”

Mird circles around his legs in greeting with its tongue out and lolling. Oh it's definitely happy, and oblivious. Fixer is one of its favorites, as far as you know. The former commando nods once in greeting at you, the T-visor of his Mando helmet shifting between you and the dead buck. “Impressive game.”

You nod in thanks, your gaze distant. Something inside you, your heart, clenches and you prefer not to dwell on it. Not now. “I'd like the help, if you don't mind.”

Fixer can hear his breath in his own helmet—can hear the disappointment vaporizing out of his body and clogging the top of his head. Hearing how you've chosen to be distant from him, putting an end to all your soft advances on him altogether—it puts him in the most uncomfortable position.

And he blames himself for that. Thinking how ridiculous and in disbelief that someone as admirable as you could find something endearing in someone like him. Him. His way to recovery after his buir and vode found him—after undergoing torture from the Empire—hadn't been smooth. There are cracks in his mind and gaps in his memory—he’s suffered. Pained. Unworthy. Broken.

But you're kind. You’re a good person. Wanting the best for everyone, wanting to help however you can after Boss found you in one of the systems in the Outer Rim escaping slavery. You're forever in their debt. You're strong. In a way, both of you are similar. Wal’buir is clearly fond of you, but somehow for Fixer it wasn't enough.

He doesn't deserve you.

“I don't mind,” he finally says, tapping the tips of his gloved fingers against his thigh plate in near nervousness. He observes the buck again, helmet tilting downward. “Heading home?”

You ignore the way your heart clenches again at the word home. You live under the same roof with them, and that's just it. It too reminds you of the pain—the way Fixer never acknowledged you with more than a slight tilt of his head when you strolled past. Never more than a blink and few words when you smiled up at him, your chest warming at, simply, the sight of him. How much of a survivor he was, every scar telling you a story of perseverance.

So yeah, if only your feelings are reciprocated. It hurt that it never became something more. Even Scorch's teasing as your unofficial wingman wasn't helping—Fixer always shut it down before he could give it a chance to bloom and probably spark something in him, and then Boss looked at you apologetically every time it happened. You hate it. It embarrassed you, moreso when Vau knew. You have zero idea what they're saying in their stern and scolding Mando'a conversations, and you're hurt and embarrassed enough to bet on a correct guess.

You sigh heavily as you shoulder your bow. “You go ahead. I'm getting quails for Mird.” Pivoting on your heels, you travel deep into the woods, Vau's six-legged strill already waltzing ahead. You pause, the weight in your chest heavy and cold when you barely look over your shoulder, the words next coming out of you sounding equally cold and distant. “Thanks, Fixer.”

The former commando stares at your retreating figure, fists clenched by his side without him realizing. A long exhale rattles his helmet's speakers. He relaxes his fists, shoulders wilting when you've completely disappeared from the subject identifier of his HUD.

“Didn't that go well.”

Sev's footfalls are heavy, fallen leaves crunch under his boots, and the barrel of his sniping blaster rifle lies on one red-painted shoulder bell. Fixer's chest tightens—Sev’s been watching. Of course. Probably from binocs, most likely perching so still on his post up top on a tree under half-assed ghillie suit.

“Shouldn’t you be on your post?”

“Boss' turn.” And his turn with the crops. Somewhere in their domestic life Boss has turned into a passionate farmer through and through—suppose it's the Vhett genes getting the best of him. Sev studies the game, precisely at the broadside wound, his buy'ce bobbing ever so slightly in approval. You and Sev along with Vau share the love for game hunting. He looks up at Fixer, slinging the rifle across his body, and squats. “Go after them. I volunteer.”

Panic rises in him. He's not ready. He's not ready for another cold shoulder from you. “I'll let them be for now—”

“No you won't, di’kut. Can't stand the tension back at the yaim. You'll finish this,” Sev jabs a finger at him. “Meanwhile I'll tell Wal’buir where you’ve gone.”

“You won't.”

“Thin ice, Fix’ika.” Sev nods his buy’ce at the direction where you've gone. “Do something about it. You're here to mend it.”

It's not even a question followed by an aren't you? directed at him—it’s a statement. Encouragement. Or Sev's version of encouragement. Baffled by his own initial intentions that he's completely forgotten and the thunderstorm of conflicts brewing inside of him, words are caught in his throat. Fixer says nothing in return, and he can feel an eyebrow lift from his vod.

Sev snorts, lifting the buck over his shoulders with ease. “Sounds like I'm right this time.”

Then he's alone.

Nothing but the sound of nature around him, and his own thoughts.

Nothing but moving forward. So, he does. The forest blurs around him as he nearly absently follows your trail.

The opportunity has been presented, the chance given. Well, by Sev. More like a push rather than a generous chance, really. You didn't look like you're giving him a chance. You gave him a lot, but he brushed you off every single time.

Wasted.

Fixer can almost hear the threat coming from Sev, something like watch me being a sheb’spalon for an entire week if you both aren't coming out of the treeline smiling and looking lovesick with each other that'd make Wal’buir gag. Exaggerated threats, but might happen. Sev doesn't back down from his threats. That man had chosen the glaring red color for his commando armor for a reason.

After his rescue, once a former medic trainee, you came to him in the compound's infirmary every rotation, never missing one. Helping to check his vitals with Boss' help, always talking so softly because sounds annoyed his broken mind and broken body at the time, always making sure he had some calories in him. You took care of him. Scorch had teased you about being his private nurse, but you let out this deep belly laughter and said you'd rather be a hunting nomad instead, and that was the day you began to tell stories of your homeworld to comfort him. Or at least, what you could remember of its beauty. You escaped slavery in the Outer Rim. You were scarred. Just like him.

That also was the day he began to feel something. Something foreign. Something that made a connection between you and himself. Something that made him think about you when you weren't in the room with him. Something that made him long for you.

After he got back on his feet, you too helped him adjust with his new life, together with his vode, away from the Empire. You started going a little easier around him, no longer treating him like a fine fragile vase but just like any other of his brothers. You treat all of them equally, and you respect Vau. That's enough for him. So much value already. That should be enough for him to trust you fully now that he's got ahold of his mind and body. Right?

Yeah. But then you were doing that again. Speaking to him a little softer, gentler, than with the others. Your eyes gleaming when you smiled at him, somehow finding himself in your company. He knew what was going on. Not that it wasn't pleasant. He just doesn't deserve you. Didn't.

“Kandosii, Mird’ika!”

Your faint voice makes him stop in his trek. That's you. You sound happy. You belong. You love nature. It's a part of your belief. You value life—human life. He heard you sneaking into the infirmary late at night. Adjusting his pillows, tucking him in, patting his hand in reassurance, whispering get well soon’s that didn't sound empty, uttering a small prayer to your deities for his health in your native tongue.

Something about it is… private. Intimate, even. Important. Is he? Important? Significant? Like the amount of encrypted data he had sliced and obtained in the past?

Special. You deemed him special. Emphasis on deemed. Conflicts swallowed him so much that he turned a blind eye on you. Fixer wishes he could've had his eyes on you when your first frown of realization rests on your brows. It was too late for him. Maybe it could've been different. Maybe he could've mended it—changed himself and talked about it at last.

Why did he come here? He came for you. He's supposed to be at the workshop right now, but he raced against time and finished ahead of schedule once he heard his chance—you, alone, doing your errands. Might be a perfect time, maybe not. Because you've been avoiding him too. Gone has the glimmer in your eyes. Enter the cold shoulder and fake enthusiasm. You’re still being nice and polite as usual, but that's your baseline. There's no longer… closeness. That bond. The bond that you have built. You alone. He wasn't even trying. He wasn't present.

It is, perhaps the first time in years, the time he curses himself at a loss. Such a loss.

Yet unbeknownst to him, it's hurting you too. How does it feel trying to be, at the very least, nice for someone you once had a crush on? Drowned in shame for believing someone like Fixer could've reciprocated your feelings. You believed in him. He sounded amazing from what his brothers told you. Talented. Thorough. Appreciative. Careful. Methodical. Maybe you pushed your luck too far. He needed healing. Much longer, much more, more time. You know how it felt to be a tortured soul. You were one, anyway. So you stepped away. It was stupid. You were doing the right thing.

Crossing the stream, Mirdalan is obviously resisting to chomp deeper into the two quails you just shot as it brought them back to you. You insisted, with a little silly argument with the strill. The least you can do is plucking the feathers before Mird can enjoy its snack of pure meat and bones and no feathers.

With the birds still warm, it's quite easy. Mird takes time to devour them. After rinsing your hands with the current of the stream, you take your time to rest for a while, making a particular smooth rock your seat as you gaze out into the trees, which now mostly are barren of leaves. Autumn usually calms your mind—you love autumn—but now it's occupied with Fixer's situation.

The rustling of the thicket behind you prompts you to grab your bow and nock an arrow in less than two seconds. Fixer reveals himself, his hands free of the blaster strapped to his thigh and are raised meaning you no harm. No harm alright, but seeing him… hurts still. Your heart has been racing in your chest and shows no sign of calming down, but you try your best to collect yourself.

“Don't sneak up on me when I've got these with me,” you remind him, stashing your bow and arrow away. Mird seems undisturbed, its loud chewing filling what seems to be a bubble between the three of you. “You could've been mistaken for a beast. And shot.”

Fixer tilts his head. “You know this forest, though. Heard from Scorch you explored the entirety of it in a week.”

“Nearly,” you correct him.

He watches you. “Well. Are there any beasts?”

You put a relief in your tense muscles. “Not that I've encountered.” Shaking your head, you're unable to help the brief little smirk on your lips. “Not that I want to anyway.”

He catches that. The smallest lift of the corner of your lips. But your eyes look as they've always been for the past time—mirthless, in which the smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, and filled with void smugness.

Fixer warily brings himself closer, his hands falling to his side. You watch his movement, willing yourself to just calm down and maybe not throwing a punch across his face. Or helmet. That's made of beskar. Yeah, no.

You clench and unclench your bare fists, leaning your backside against the rock in another attempt to make yourself (appear) relaxed. His broad commando stature approaches you carefully, settling just a few feet away. The tip of his boots graze the grass that adorns the side of the stream, T-visor methodically sweeping the area—either to take in the view, or scanning for any hostiles out of habit.

Finding nothing to look at, you watch Mird instead. One quail gone, the other now gnawed between its maw.

“I've hurt you.”

Your attention turns to Fixer. You wish you could tell the storm of emotions that's brewing under his helmet—just a little glimpse that would've allowed you to feel a little bit more smug.

“You have,” you say.

Fixer manages not to recoil when you cross your arms. Not a good sign. Was that a horrible way to start at all? He just spat out what's been running around his mind. He's hurt you. He's hurt you. He's hurt you. A man of few words nowhere near Scorch, he wishes you can just understand. But he has to talk. Conveying his… feelings. You have no idea what's going through his mind and he doesn't want to be stuck in this hellhole forever—all he wants now is to see you looking at him again with the kind of joy that he knows—so he needs to talk.

“I understand if my actions have implied distaste toward you,” he starts, tension creeping up his shoulders. “I understand too that you're angry. You have every right to, because I was… I was being an asshole.” Great, now he's using Sev's words. “You’re hurt, and I didn't mean that. Never meant to.”

You swallow. This is the day you'd hope to come—although a moment too late. “But why did you?”

The question is confrontational, a little wavering if he trusts his audio receptors, but he can still hear the hurt in your voice, demanding for answers.

“I didn't know what to do about it. I was confused,” Fixer confesses. He stares down at his hands. “I was still recovering and you just showed so much kindness. You didn't even know me, but you cared.”

You open your mouth to intervene but he continues.

“You oversaw me. Took care of me. It was too much, I couldn't… I can't act otherwise but telling you how grateful I am. I never meant to push you away. I never meant to ignore you.” These are all messy, flurry of thoughts that he’d just spill, as if written down in points and he's stuck to explaining with it, no longer calculating and methodical with his approach. This is a foreign territory for him, you realize, and this is a show of weakness in the shape of dilemma. “I wanted to welcome you. I just didn't know how,” Fixer tries, his voice grows softer, “I'm… scared. If I misstep and everything comes crashing down.”

He offers his hope high up into the sky. He wants you to teach him how. He hopes you're there to navigate his path while holding his hand and because, Manda, he wants to know how that feels too, again, with something more etched deep in your hearts—not just to comfort him and ease his pain as a friend, no.

As something more.

“I don't think I could handle it. If I lose you.” He's mistepped. He's made everything crashing down on him. The weight of the guilt is not as heavy as beskar on his body. “But I already did, didn't I?”

Your next breath of air into your lungs is sharp, through the teeth, as you take in his confession. A revelation—a light, a beacon of hope in your soul reignited. Though you're unable to see him, empathy engulfs your judgement swifter than your arrow. His words, spilled out, as if he's already defeated, and as if whatever remains of your tattered bond that hadn't broken and vanished yet, you never want to hear him pained like this again.

Softly, you take a deep breath. “You didn't lose me.” Your exhale comes a little unstable. “It was just difficult to look at you, Fixer. I thought you didn't want any of this.”

“I couldn't be certain,” says his strained voice. Raising his hand, he taps the side of his helmet. “There was a lot to process back then.”

“I know,” you sigh, an apology for your impatience and enthusiasm back then is already on the tip of your tongue.

“You are so kind. You didn't even know me,” Fixer stresses, again, his T-visor staring blankly into you. But his cadence doesn't lie. He takes one step closer to you. You don't flinch. Then one more. And one more. Until he's only a couple feet away from you. His confidence burns bright and he can feel it—you can feel it. “Why?”

“You’re one of them. You know my history, if not most of it, and I owe your aliit so much,” you explain with confidence, “I was my village's medic trainee. You need all the help you can get to full recovery, either physically or mental.”

“And by falling in love with me too?”

If anything, his tone is no longer confrontational but amused. The weight on his shoulders slowly but surely lifts, and a puff of airy laughter escapes his lips when you sigh, almost exasperatedly and caught off guard by his harmless question, and darker colors begin to envelop your cheeks.

“You know that these things happen… sometimes naturally,” you try to reason despite flushed to bashfulness, throwing your gaze away from his scrutiny. Fixer raises both eyebrows. Somehow you must know what expression he's making under the helmet, he thinks, because you're looking at him again.

With nothing but Mird's low growls and the trickling stream as the sounds enveloping your bubble, his focus zeroes in to how the cool sun makes your skin and hair glow. He can almost see your beauty blending with nature itself, catching just how much your love toward it is reflected. Your big heart, your ceaseless care toward life. You're a gem, rare to the world, moreover in what the world has become now.

And you're choosing him, out of all people. Not even his own brothers. Him.

You breathe in your confidence again, fully believing that he is here, now, for you. The distance between the two of you is a slight lean away to be completely closed, and your chest thrums at the prospect. And so you take Fixer’s hand with both of yours, his balled fist falling apart upon your touch and his glove warming your cool hand.

“Naturally, hm?” he muses.

You grin. “You have manuals to go through first before seeing where this is gonna go?”

His helmet sways a little as if he's rolling his eyes. “I don't need a manual to navigate through this.”

Before another quip escapes you, Fixer grabs both your shoulders and leans his buy’ce against your forehead. Your eyes widen at the unexpected notion, and you're certain he can see, through his visor, your whirlwind of emotions flashing in your eyes—and really, so he does. You have no idea how fluttery his chest is, how wide his smile is, and how relieved he is somehow—he can't explain it—but there they all are.

You want to kiss him, and oh how badly you want to kiss him. But you can't just ask him to take his helmet off. He probably doesn't want to anyway—that's why he initiated the lingering kov’nyn, right? This will suffice for now. Having Fixer finally close to you—with you—the heat of his body and the material of his flight suit pressing into you… it’s more than enough.

“Fixer…” you murmur, your lungs feeling so heavy and light at the same time that you're about to float.

“Cyar’ika,” he returns, “Is this… okay?”

Despite your blush at the boldly said pet name, you hold in a snort, staring deep into his visor, hoping to meet his eyes behind as best as you can. “You said you didn't need any manuals.”

A pause. You're about two seconds too late to realize why he's reaching up to the edge of his helmet and before you know it, he's taking it off.

Fixer is handsome. His unruly curls are kissing his skin just above his eyebrows, and he smells like aftershave. White-lined scars from his time under the Empire's unforgiving hold on him litter across his face, the soft lines on his face and the amber in his eyes always seem to carry such a weight. Such a pain. Nevertheless his will to live and see his brothers again was stronger than his will to die in an Imperial hellhole. Either his clone programming or Vau’s teachings—Fixer’s strength to endure, will to heal, and overall steadfastness is obvious. 

And so with such unsaid adoration, you close the distance between you by grabbing his face and pressing your lips against his—his helmet drops to the forest floor with a thud. Gently at first as you realize you've rendered him frozen, but Fixer winds both hands around you to pull you impossibly closer before returning the gesture with a sigh.

He feels and tastes like everything you could've ever imagined about him. He's careful as he kisses you, his lips dry but not cracked and becoming moistened as you attempt to quench your passionate hunger.

Your mind is fully awake as you tread carefully, following his level of comfort, running your fingers up and down softly along his cheek. Sparks continuously burst inside you as he moves his mouth against yours with vigor, as if something inside him bursts open, opening in the slightest bit in an attempt to discover how he'd like the softness of your bottom lip. A quiet, breathless noise escapes you, and just then your longtime crush pulls away, both of you gasping for air—each other's air again, eventually—the sparks in both of your eyes are now shining brighter.

“That was…” he trails off, speechless.

“Incredible,” you breathe, your wide pleased grin invites his own. The handsome sight tugs you to refrain yourself from kissing him senseless again right there and then.

“Mm,” he hums in agreement.

You tease him, “Not bad for someone who hadn’t got the time to go through the manuals.”

Chuckling, Fixer goes to gently cup the sides of your face, laying a peck to your lips that would definitely swell had he continued but he doesn't, before smiling at you. A painfully soft, sincere smile. You watch on, as you commit the lovely view to memory, as he says, “Thank you.”

“What for?” you frown, amused. “The kiss? You know you don't need to. We wanted that, and we still do.”

“Yeah, but not only that.” Fixer looks at you lovingly. “For everything.”

divider by me!

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika

Also tagging @leafdupe and @pichiflu-draws the fellow Fixer's Bitches 👀💚

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

[radioisntdead]

Hey! I really liked your headcanon about Alastor. It’s got my imagination running wild >_< What do you think about a romantic! Oneshot with Alastor where everyone can see the results of the biting game on both us and Alastor (assuming we both break skin and leave marks). I’m not sure how Alastor would be caught without his coat on, much less with with short sleeves… maybe a spilled drink on a hot day. But I keep imagining this scenario:

Angel: Asks Alastor if he had a rough night after seeing his arms covered in bites (assuming rough sexy time)

Alastor: Responds yes (remembering how he got cornered and couldn’t get away because using his shadows to escape is against the rules of the game)

Angel: :O

Good evening my dear! Thank you so much for requesting this I had so much fun writing it and I'm so glad you liked my Alastor biting headcanons!

And because I positively adore and I am mildly obsessed with deers I think that's why I like Alastor so much? The reader has deer attributes like Alastor Specifically whitetail deers because apparently they can jump eight feet in the air! And the reader jumps a bunch, reader is refered to as Prancer by Angel, I'm not gonna lie I had no idea how to end it so the ending is rushed! and everything is a tad bit messy, my apologies, Full italics is a mini flashback

Warnings!!

Biting, the drawing out of blood, the reader's blood is a vibrant pink for fun! Angel dust alluding to sexual acts, Still getting used to writing Alastor so once again leaning into fanon and possibly some OOC behaviors.

not proofread because I don't have a beta reader, Enjoy!

The two of you hadn't meant to get so carried away, it started out peacefully enough, you and Alastor were just laying on couch he had in his radio tower, it was later in the night, you suppose it was just past midnight,

He was looking over papers with whatever radio nonsense on them for tomorrow's broadcast, and you were peacefully reading a book with your head on his shoulder, with soft jazz playing in the background, your jackets were hung neatly on the coat rack, a warm cup of coffee and a nice soothing [Drink of your choice] sat on the desk.

It was treasured peaceful moment, until your beloved strawberry-flavored Bambi decided to ruin it by picking up your arm and biting into it like it was beef jerky and looking like someone had shot him with a tranquilizer dart,

You sat up quickly, your arm still in his grasp, eyes narrowed at him as he pulled away from your arm, licking away the escaping blood like the little cannibalistic freak he is

"Alastor, My darling dear, why are you like this?"

You ask with an exasperated tone as your dearly beloved just kept a smug grin on his face and patted the sides of his mouth with a handkerchief he had gotten from hell knows where,

Sitting up, you blink slowly before immediately pouncing at the Radio demon, your own sharp teeth bared and ready to bite only for your beloved deer to move out of the way and quickly moving behind you as you fall face first into where Alastor once sat,

"Ah, you have to be quicker then that my dear!"

He said with a laugh before turning around to grab his coat, clearly not expecting you to stand up on his couch like a uncivilized heathen and jump on him managing to knock him off his feet? Hooves? Whatever he has and sink your teeth into his exposed neck.

And so the game begun with the both of you biting each other.

Unfortunately this little game of yours comes with consequences and what are those consequences?

Well for starters Alastor's coat was now stained with noticable pink blood [From you of course who else!]

Bite marks littered his arms from your chompin' down, not to mention you had bitten his neck! scandalous behavior!

You weren't much better with bite marks though not only on both of your arms but shoulders, and hands, hell he almost bit your face and he would've if you didn't headbutt him!

You had grabbed his coat along with a few other articles of blood covered clothing you gently folded and placed them in a bag to take over to the drycleaners, honestly you could probably get the blood stains out with cold water but neither you nor Alastor had time for that and while you adored Niffty you did NOT trust her with washing some of the articles of clothing that you had, so the drycleaners it was!

Alastor was up in his radio tower doing a broadcast while Everyone else was scattered through the hotel, notably Angel dust and Husk were chatting about something at the bar as you walked by it you gave them a quick wave.

"Good afternoon you two! I'm heading to the drycleaners if anyone asks."

You said as you quickly made your way past the duo, making a swift plot convenient exit.

Angel dust raised an eyebrow as he briefly caught the sight of teeth marks on your wrist from the exposed hem of your sweater.

"Eh, didn't think they had it in em' to do anything beyond handholding"

"They don't, Probably they probably bit by that fucked up creature of theirs."

Husk said sliding a glass over to Angel who shrugged before downing whatever liquid was in the glass.

Alastor had entered the bar area, after a couple of minutes later, wearing a red button up and vest, the same colors as his normal attire, he had rolled up his sleeves during the broadcast and unfortunately forgot to unroll them to cover the bite marks on his arms,

He missed his usual attire but unfortunately it was gone with you for the foreseeable future.

"Oo, Rough night freaky face?''

Angel dust joked wiggling his eyebrows as he swirled whatever alcoholic drink Husk had provided him while Husk shook his head while wiping a glass.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that."

Alastor said his smile tightening as he recalled you cornering him in the Bayou in your shared room, Alastor wasn't the type to run away typically, even less the type to give up easily even to his beloved spouse,

unfortunately for him though,

The little game of yours had some rules, such as no leaving any marks on facial areas, No tearing off any chunks of flesh {Gonna love having a spouse with cannibalistic tendencies}, and No using any type of power the two of you had, which means good ol' Alastor couldn't use his funky lil' shadows

And that made him more vulnerable to his deranged spouse's tackling strategy.

"Alastor get out of the tree,"

"No."

You had no idea how you ended up chasing your spouse into a tree, you don't know how he even got INTO the tree, but he sat upon it kicking his legs back and forth like a gleeful child, staring down at you, for someone who's a deer he's oddly cat like,

You sighed turning around and walking away as your beloved laughed in taunting tone

"Running off so soon dearest? And here I thought you- aCK"

Alastor was cut off by you running back, hurling yourself off the ground and tackling him like a feral flying squirrel onto the ground.

Blinking away at the memory Alastor returned his focus to Angel dust's gobsmacked expression that turned into a grin as he laughed while Husk moved further into the bar shaking his head.

"I was jokin' around, but sounds like you and prancer actually got freaky!''

"Pardon me, we w̸̧̢͉̦̟̭̪͕̉͘ḩ̷̛̛̤̬͖̿͆̈́͘â̸͔͔̣̊̿ẗ̴̖̦̆̔͛̿̎̾̆̚͠?"

Thank you for tuning in folks! My apologies for the messy one shot, but I have a Vox x reader that's almost done that's more put together, and a more put together Alastor fic, Anyways I hope you all have a wonderful day!

[daryltwdixon]

The Ruins of Us: Chapter 1

Summary: You’re deep in the woods, hungry and focused on survival, when a familiar face from your past appears, gruff as ever, crossbow in hand. After an uneasy reunion, he lets you follow him back to his camp. Memories of shared moments—summer days by the lake and clumsy hunting lessons—surface as you fall into step behind him, feeling a hint of the ease you once had. 

Notes: If you're rereading, you might notice some changes in the passages, dialogue, etc. I was posting my first draft and have learned a lot since then! So now I'm just going back and editing where I see fit :) enjoy!!

There is nothing quite like the feeling of true hunger.

Your stomach growls, a phantom hand clutching at your abdomen—tight, unrelenting, painful. The sound has become a companion, familiar and unwelcome, a constant reminder of how long it has been since you last ate. But it does nothing to distract you from the snare you are tying together.

Soon. You’ll catch something soon.

God, it has been years since you last wondered where your next meal would come from. The feeling isn’t entirely foreign, not with your upbringing. You’ve learned to survive from what feels like the moment you were born. If only you’ve thought to grab actual necessities when you left your apartment the day the world ended. But no. You haven’t imagined you’d end up here—deep in the Georgia woods, sweating through the heat, living off stolen canned food and whatever rodents you can catch in these flimsy little traps.

Maybe by now, you should have found a group.

Family is gone. Probably dead, knowing your drunk mother. You hadn’t seen anyone that day—just ran. Bolted when you got caught in the endless traffic on I-85. You tried to go home. You really did. To see if anyone is alive. To see if…

But the bombings in the city, the dead flooding the streets--it had made the decision for you.

So here you are. Alone. Weeks later, still in the woods, still starving, still setting snares in the hopes of a half-decent meal.

A sharp snap of a twig makes your head jerk up, thoughts scattering. Your fingers tighten on the makeshift trap as you scan the trees, heart thudding. Then, movement. A flicker of tan through the brush. Relief eases through your shoulders when you spot the slender legs, the delicate hooves stepping cautiously into view. A deer. You sigh quietly. It is a comfort to see something alive, something that isn’t rotting and snarling its way toward you. But frustration coils in your gut just as fast—you wish you could hunt the damn thing.

The only weapon you have is a shitty kitchen knife, stolen from some long-abandoned house a few days back. That same night, you’d found a can of corn kernels in the kitchen and, in your excitement, sliced your palm open trying to pry it open. The wound still throbs beneath its bandage, a strip of fabric torn from your own shirt. God knows how long it has been since that has been cleaned. You stare at the deer, your stomach twisting in hunger. What you wouldn’t give for a gun right now. But even if you had one, it wouldn’t do you much good. You are alone. And the sound of a shot would carry through the valley, bouncing off the ridges, calling the dead straight to you.

You turn back to your snare, cursing when the shoelace you're using snaps apart in your hands. So much for roasted rabbit. Then—another sound. Not a twig snapping this time. Something else. A low, guttural snarl. Your head snaps up, and you aren’t the only one. The deer freezes, ears pinned forward, tail stiff. From the left, stumbling into the clearing, comes the thing you’ve been dreading. A corpse. It moves with jerky, uneven steps, tripping over its own feet. You barely spare it a glance before turning back to the deer.

Go, you will it. Go, before it’s too late.

But the deer doesn’t move. It stands frozen, locked in place, staring down the dead thing inching closer and closer. Your fists clench. If you stay hidden, the dead man won’t notice you. The deer, though? It won’t last long. If you scare it off, you’ll reveal yourself. If you wait, you’ll watch the deer get torn apart.

You make up your mind in an instant.

Lunging to your feet, you raise the knife, charging toward the corpse just as something slices through the air—Something fast and sharp. It grazes your cheek as you stumble sideways, the deer bolting at last, crashing into the trees. The dead man hits the ground, unmoving, an arrow buried in the side of its head.

“Goddammit!”

A rough voice cuts through the woods, and your breath hitches.

You scramble back onto your palms, heart pounding, watching as a man steps out of the trees with a crossbow in hand.

“I’ve been trackin’ that damn deer fer miles,” he snaps, “what’ja do that for?”

His arm swings wide in exasperation, crossbow and all, and you barely breathe as he stalks forward.

You recognize him.

The light brown hair, the gravel in his voice, the way he yanks his arrow free from the corpse’s skull and slides it back into place with sharp, practiced movements.

Your lungs forget how to work.

He turns, crossbow lifting—right at you.

For a moment, you stare down the weapon, the bolt aimed straight for your eyes. But then, he hesitates. The crossbow lowers slightly. His face, now fully visible, twists in confusion.

Daryl Dixon is staring you down in the clearing.

“What the—” he starts.

“I—I—” The words stutter out, breathless, useless.

His blue eyes lock onto you, scanning you up and down. Then, in two steps, he is in front of you, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet.

The second you are steady, he lets go and takes a sharp step back, eyes still narrowed, still searching.

“Y/N?”

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

x flashback x

“Daryl, what the hell!” you exclaimed, your voice high with laughter as he pulled up to your house, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He was leaning lazily out of the driver’s side window, arm slung over the door, sitting in the kind of junked-up old truck that looked like it might fall apart if it hit a pothole too hard.

“C’mon,” he waved you over, eyes glinting with mischief. “Merle’s finally outta the house, and we can go out to the lake.” He reached behind the seat, fishing for something, before shaking a bottle of vodka out the window like it was a winning lottery ticket. “And I got the goods.”

You didn’t hesitate. You were already running up to the rusted-out truck, hands gripping the open passenger-side window as you leaned in, squinting at the interior. The ceiling fabric was torn, cigarette burns dotted the upholstery, and the floor was littered with crumpled wrappers and old butts. You glanced at him, unimpressed, but he was still grinning like an idiot.

“Where the hell did you get this?” you asked, giving the dashboard a dubious once-over.

“Merle left it at the house after he took it off some guy yesterday,” he said, completely unfazed. “Get in.” He reached over and popped the passenger door open for you.

You slid in without a second thought, the warm leather sticking to your thighs as you pulled the door shut behind you. Before you even settled in, Daryl threw the truck into reverse, peeling away from the curb with a reckless smirk. But you just laughed, gripping the door as the wind rushed through the open windows, carrying your laughter into the thick, humid air. The streets of Atlanta blurred past, the city glowing in the late afternoon sun.

When you arrived, Daryl pulled up to a dirt patch near the lake, the tires crunching over gravel. The place was empty—no one else dumb enough to be out here in the sweltering heat. You hopped out, the bottle of Tito’s in one hand as you made your way toward the water, your feet kicking up dust. Daryl was right behind you, cigarette pack in one hand, lighter in the other. Without hesitation, you unscrewed the cap and took a swig straight from the bottle, relishing the sharp burn before passing it to him. Just as he took it, tipping it back to his lips, you started peeling off your shirt, then shimmied out of your worn jean shorts. You caught the way his eyes flicked to you over the bottle’s rim, how his lips pursed slightly around the vodka as he swallowed. But you didn’t linger on it—you were already wading into the water, the cool relief washing over your sunburnt skin.

For a second, you thought he might stay on shore, but then you heard the shuffle of fabric behind you. A glance over your shoulder told you he was stripping down to his boxers, shaking his head before following you in. The lake water swirled around you as he stepped in, and before long, the two of you were lost in it—swimming, splashing, passing the bottle back and forth between cigarettes. The hours melted away in the haze of laughter and sun-warmed skin, the alcohol sinking into your limbs like a slow burn, leaving everything feeling weightless.

Eventually, you both drifted back toward the shore, sprawling out in the dirt with your clothes balled up beneath your heads as makeshift pillows. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, painting golden streaks across the water, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything was still.

“Working on college applications?” you asked lazily, arm draped over your forehead to shield your eyes from the glare.

“Pfft.” Daryl scoffed, voice thick with dismissal. “Yeah, right. Merle’d never let me hear the end of that one.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him. His profile was sharp against the backdrop of trees, jawline taut, the scruff just starting to shadow his chin. Something about him seemed different—rougher, older. It was crazy, really, how you had known him since you were kids, watched each other grow up through scraped knees and fistfights, and now… now you were barely eighteen, on the edge of something bigger, something neither of you really understood.

A long silence settled between you, thick and heavy, until he spoke again, voice quieter this time. “We should just get outta here.” His gaze stayed fixed upward, serious in a way that made your stomach tighten. He took another slow drag of his cigarette, then exhaled, turning to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something unspoken.

You shifted onto your side, propping your head up with one hand, trying to keep your tone light even as curiosity stirred in your chest. “Where would we go?”

He shrugged, a little self-conscious now, like he was embarrassed for even saying it out loud. “Dunno. California… New York. Anywhere but this shit hole.” There was a quiet wistfulness in his voice, a rare crack in the armor, like he was daring himself to picture something beyond the life he had always known.

You smirked, rolling onto your stomach, your arm brushing against his. “But wouldn’t you miss dear old bro?”

Daryl gave you a sideways glance, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Merle’d barely know I was gone.”

“Now we both know that’s not true.” You poked his arm, teasing, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath your words. No matter how much shit Daryl talked about his brother, you both knew Merle’s grip on him was stronger than he let on.

Daryl rolled his eyes, flicking your arm in return. “You’re dumb,” he muttered, but there was something unreadable in his gaze, something quiet and lingering.

You grinned, nudging him playfully. “But you love me.”

In that moment, you weren’t sure what to call the shift in the air. Looking back, it made all the sense in the world, but then and there…you couldn’t put your finger on it. 

The way his expression flickered—just a brief hesitation, a beat too long where his eyes held onto yours, the space between you shrinking even though neither of you moved. Your smirk faded slightly as you got caught in that moment, in the way the air seemed to change, charged with something . Your heart kicked up, and you didn’t know if it was the vodka or the way his skin just barely brushed yours in the dirt, but suddenly, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you, stretched out by the lake, the sun casting golden light through the trees, your skin warm where it touched his.

The moment lingered, thick and electric, before the shrill buzz of your phone shattered it entirely.

You blinked, reality crashing in as you fumbled for your phone, flipping it over in your palm. The screen lit up—ten missed calls from your boyfriend.

“Shit,” you muttered, the glow of the screen casting blue light against your face.

“Jesus, Y/N, what does the prick want now?” Daryl muttered, but you were already pushing yourself upright, scrambling for your clothes.

“I gotta go.” The words felt heavy, like you didn’t quite want to say them, but you said them anyway. A pang of guilt settled in your chest as you pulled your shirt over your head, barely able to meet Daryl’s eyes.

There was disappointment there, even if he tried to hide it. He leaned back, perfecting that indifferent expression he’d mastered over the years, but you could feel it in the way he exhaled slowly, his fingers twisting the cigarette between them like he wanted to say something but wouldn’t.

He didn’t say a word as you hurried back to the truck, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, a quiet understanding passing between you, something neither of you knew how to put into words.

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

x flash forward x

“I left GSU when everything went to shit,” you reply, brushing off your jeans and glancing up at Daryl. “Been out here for weeks.”

He doesn’t react at first, just shifts his weight and chews the inside of his lip, eyes flicking past you toward the trees. You tilt your head, watching him closely. There’s something off about him, his rigid posture, the way he shifts uneasily without looking at you. You take a small step closer.

“What about you? How’d you end up alone out here?”

“I ain’t alone,” he mutters, adjusting the rope of squirrels draped over his shoulder.

You pause, meeting his eyes. His face is unreadable, but something in his voice makes your stomach twist.

“…Merle?”

He nods, and you exhale, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. Merle’s an asshole—an especially stupid one. But you know how much he means to Daryl, and in some backwards way, how much he means to you too. Growing up with Merle was like growing up with a dog that had been kicked too many times—never quite sure whether to bite or nuzzle you, whether to bark out a laugh or bare his teeth. He was rough around the edges, mean to anyone who didn’t know him better, but he had never let anything happen to Daryl, and by extension, nothing had ever happened to you either. 

“Where are you guys camped out?” you ask, scanning the tree line, suddenly hyper aware of how exposed you both are out here.

“Couple miles from here,” Daryl says, still not quite looking at you.

The quiet between you stretches long. There’s something about the way he’s speaking—clipped, restrained, like he’s only giving you the bare minimum. It’s strange. You and Daryl were never like this. He was never much for talking, but things had always been easy between you, comfortable. At least for most of your lives. But now, after all this time apart, after everything… there's something different. A weight in his shoulders, an edge to his voice, like he’s carrying something heavy and doesn’t want to set it down just yet.

Even though your school wasn’t far, it had been ages since you’d seen him. Not since… well, it didn’t matter now. Whatever happened back then was nothing compared to what had happened in the weeks since the world ended. And honestly? You were just glad to see him, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the apocalypse of all things might be enough for both of you to move past it.

“Do you…” you start, studying the lines of his face, the way his expression twitches slightly before settling into something unreadable. “Can I come with you? What’s up?”

He exhales, shaking his head before finally meeting your eyes. There’s something reluctant there, like he was already expecting this conversation. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course you can. C’mon,” he mutters, turning on his heel and walking off, giving the dead man a rough kick as he passes.

It’s a long, quiet walk back, and you trail behind him, your head buzzing with questions. Where was he when things first went bad? Had Merle been with him the whole time? And where the hell was his pop? The thought makes your chest tighten. You don’t ask, don’t even want to bring it up, but you hope to god the old man isn’t waiting at their camp. Daryl’s dad had always been mean, always angry, always looking for a reason to take it out on his boys—and sometimes, even on you. His mom hadn’t been any better, drinking herself into oblivion before dying in a fire years ago. It wasn’t like you didn’t know what it was like growing up with a parent who’d rather drown in a bottle than raise their kid, but Daryl… Daryl had always gotten the worst of it.

He stops so abruptly that you nearly crash into his back, stumbling slightly before catching yourself. The squirrels draped over his shoulder brush against your arm, and you recoil instinctively. He glances back at you with an amused smirk, then jerks his head forward.

There, standing motionless in the distance, is the deer from earlier.

You freeze, heart pounding as you watch the elegant, long-legged creature step cautiously through the clearing. Daryl’s already raising his crossbow, moving with the quiet, practiced steps of a tracker. You reach for your knife, feeling his eyes flick toward you at the movement.

“It was the only thing I could grab,” you whisper, lifting the dull kitchen knife slightly in a sheepish shrug. His lips twitch, barely holding back a grin.

Shaking his head, he turns his attention back to the deer, positioning himself carefully, muscles flexing as he grips the crossbow. You watch him, watch the way he moves—focused, steady.

He’d tried teaching you how to track once, back when life was simpler. You’d been clumsy at first, stepping too loudly, scaring off the smallest of animals, but you learned quick, picking up his tricks until you could match his silence. Even now, you instinctively follow his lead, moving carefully, keeping your breaths shallow as you inch forward in tandem.

Daryl’s eyes never leave the deer. Yours don’t leave him.

You don’t know when it happened—when he stopped being just a boy you knew and became this. This version of him, hardened and sharp-edged, more sure of himself than you’d ever been. He’s always been strong, always been capable, but this… this is different.

He exhales slow and steady, lining up the shot, his arms flexing as he draws back the bolt. Then—he releases.

The arrow flies, sinking deep into the deer’s hindquarters. The animal jolts, letting out a sharp, pained cry before stumbling forward and taking off into the trees. Daryl doesn’t hesitate—he motions for you to follow as he moves, quick and quiet, stepping over branches and loose dirt with that practiced ease of a hunter.

You do your best to keep up, but the heat, the exhaustion, the ache in your limbs from weeks of running on empty all start pressing in. Your breath is heavy as you weave through the trees, pushing forward, willing yourself not to fall behind.

But then there’s a scream. High-pitched. Frantic. Almost like a child’s voice.

Your steps falter, stomach twisting as the sound echoes through the trees. You glance at Daryl, but he’s already picking up the pace, muscles tense, crossbow gripped tight in his hands. You push yourself faster, heart hammering.

Eventually the screaming stops, but there are voices now. Many of them.

Muffled at first, scattered through the trees. Then clearer—closer. People moving, talking, shifting in the underbrush. Not frantic, not desperate. Steady. Familiar with each other. A group.

Daryl slows just enough to glance back at you, something hesitant flickering in his eyes. It’s close to caution—but there’s something else, something closer to reluctance. Like he knows what’s waiting up ahead, and he doesn’t want you to see it.

And then, as he pushes past the last of the branches, you emerge into the clearing—into the middle of the voices, the movement, the people.

Chapter 2 is here

[skele-bunny]

There's No Trespassing signs around the Ministry grounds for a reason.

To protect those on the inside, and those on the outside.

(cw - attempted animal death and medium description of gore)

It doesn't stop those brave few. Specifically, hunters. After all, with all the woodland it's a hot spot seemingly begging the hunters to enter and take a look of what they can find. Their issue is the fence. Brick and metal linings, high up a ladder is required for both sides. Essentially you can call it the last warning to not enter.

Crawling over with their camo and guns, usually a group of two or three. A bag of jerky and a can of water to last them the hours of the hunt.

The moment their feet touch the ground inside, a silent alarm has went off. The earth, their mother, it speaks. It's been joked as a gossiper, a rumor starter, and a tattle tail. It whispers and speaks to those who can listen, with each step is another alarm, another giggle from her sweet tone and promises of loyalty to the caretakers.

A hunt has begun.

The caretakers watch, a much larger pack than the trespassers, hidden all around without anyone ever knowing. Watching and observing as their flora is picked through and harvested, listening to both whines and thanks for the treatment. But they don't do anything. Continuing to observe and letting those who starve take what they must certainly need.

"I have a bad feeling about this place," One will say. "Like we shouldn't be here."

"It's not for long. Just a buck or two."

Even as dusk arrives, their mother quiet, the caretakers still watch. Eyeing the group that rises into their trees who are unsettled by the newest weight — guns laid on their laps. They wait until the soft steps of the fauna approach. A mother and daughter, such a small fawn that she still wobbles, looking up at her mom for guidance as ahe scratches the ground for a patch suitable for them both.

A low rumble follows as a gun is raised, but it's ignored.

It's basically a hum until the trigger is pulled, and a deep roar follows, and the forest goes silent. There's no crickets, no fireflies, no hoot of an owl. It's darker than it's ever seemed to be before. A temporary blindness back into the night. The hunters watching in both terror and confusion as the mother and daughter run away, but a third that's bleeding rises back up.

It keeps growing, keeps standing up. It's bleeding from its thigh and one of them out of fear will turn a flashlight on to it, and freeze as a demon stares back. Hooves stomping on their mother as they stare at seemingly a biblical Satan. Hooves and ram horns, the torso of a human, and the eyes of hell. Tail flicking and irritation growing.

One of them will be so shocked they'll fall from the tree, scrambling back away from the one that's lit up; unaware of a second and third right behind them. Hitting more hooves and looking up, unable to scream as they're raised up by their head, and a sickening crack follows. Their split body being thrown at the other two, one who will raise their gun again.

Four, five, and six. Seven grabs ahold of a barrel, ignoring the burning pain of hot metal as it's thrown into their home; the hunters arm grabbed and yanked with such force the muscle, bone, and skin tears directly off.

One lones gun will be left as they run away from the sound of death, screaming, lungs burning from adrenaline as they try to remember where to go. Where that ladder was that brought them to their fates, hearing stomps and growls every corner. The hunter can pray, beg for forgiveness as they reach the wall but no ladder in sight.

The caretakers pray, too.

Watching as the last survivor turns, crying, yelling for Satan's spawn to stay back, more prayer and desperate panting. They may reach a point where there's moss upon the wall, touching and grabbing frantically to see if there's any leverage.

But as they pull again, a growl will follow. Water hitting the Hunter's head as they look up and see one of the beast staring back down, angry it had been pulled on. As they turn to run, they'll find themselves surrounded by that pack, almost as if they were wolves to a rabbit.

They won't move, however. The caretakers know this one. This one wanted to leave. Watching as they beg, lowering their head and praying, shaking with fear. Their eyes are closed, forehead to the dirt for more frantic prayers.

But nothing will come.

This one did not raise a gun.

They'll eventually raise their head and see the circle of hell has left, and the ladder is back where it once was. There's a broken gun laying in front of them, but they won't attempt to grab it as they turn and frantically climb up to leave, gasping as the moment they get on the wall the one from inside is thrown into the darkness by an unseen force.

The ghouls wait in hiding until the trespasser is gone, turning to their wounded and assisting them to the ministry's hospital where a quintessence will take the careful time to remove the shotgun shell, whispering thanks to the caretaker for serving them all once more.

So please,

Do not trespass.

[vecnuthy]

Steddie western au that I might turn into a little multipart something || wc: 846 ||

Steve knew that going to the stream was stupid. The last drop of water had fallen from his canteen to his tongue eight hours ago, though, and the desert sun was ruthless in its gaze.

This land was difficult and unforgiving. It bred people who were cut from cloth as soft as suede but embedded with glass shards, and Steve had been cut so many times. His body and soul bore the scars from his father, his mother, his former fiancée, his former friends that either wanted him to be something he wasn't or tried to force a change onto him. People did what they could to make it, but Steve refused to accept those terms and vehemently stood against those conditions. And they knew it. Knew he was a good guy. Knew they could push him, provoke him, that he'd eventually bite back, wrap his own shard-flecked scarf around their neck and pull if necessary. Steve had lost too many fights, but he'd started winning them, too.

The tracks on the ground weren't terribly fresh, compared to what he and Wendy left in their wake, but something felt off to Steve. Stopping there would mean life, could mean death, but not stopping certainly lead to death.

"We'll be quick, girl," he muttered to his horse as he dismounted, pushing aside the sense of unease in his stomach.

His hands dipped into the babbling brook ahead of Wendy, then he drank. Deeply. Felt the cool water go all the way down his throat and crash into his empty stomach. He made the next handful splash over his face and sighed in relief, breathed in the smell of scrubby grass and dirt.

The cloth around his neck came off, and he dipped it into the water. The wind was warm and dry, but it sent a chill through him as it licked at the sweat-soaked hair against his neck. He tied the rag back on, eyes sweeping the land and seeing nothing but the trees along the water then vast openness beyond.

Steve grabbed a piece of jerky and his canteens. Wendy grazed as he filled them and chewed.

It was quiet. Water gurgled. Wendy's hooves crunched grass. She shook her mane and seemed at ease.

It felt off with no evidence as to why.

They couldn't stay there, he knew that. Shouldn't linger, he knew that. But his bladder was heavy. He took the pistol from his holster, cocked the hammer, saw Wendy's head pick up at the sound. She watched him move toward the evergreens.

Her hooves shuffled.

Steve stopped, the pistol raised at nothing. At anything.

It didn't feel right.

He only moved forward once Wendy's head dropped back down to the grass. He stopped once he reached a tree and listened hard for several moments.

Nothing.

Pistol still ready, he undid his belt buckle and started to undo the front of his pants to relieve himself.

Click

He froze, blood running colder than the creak behind him at the unmistakable mechanical click of a hammer.

Steve turned his head to the side, eye to eye with the cold black barrel of another's pistol. His heart rabbited in his chest, breath coming fast. He only saw the person's hand at first because the rest was still hidden behind the tree. Steve dedicated a split second to noticing the black letters on their fingers before his instincts kicked into overdrive, and Steve knocked the gun away. A resulting shot rang out, but Steve held on to the guy's wrist, snapped his own pistol in front of him, and darted around the tree, only to be met with an apparent second gun and two big brown eyes pointed directly at him.

"Don't," the other man bit out. The lower part of his face was covered by a black bandanna, but his eyes were hard, determined.

"Why not?"

Steve couldn't help but cringe at his less than ideal position. His gun in his left hand touched the guy's chest. His assailant's right arm pressed his own gun against Steve's cheek. Steve dug his thumbnail into the guy's left wrist, which probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it gave Steve a sense of satisfaction in how he winced in pain.

"I'm not the one who pulled the gun. All I wanted was water and to take a le--"

"What allegiance do you have to the Harringtons?"

Steve's face twisted in confusion and annoyance. Why would this guy be asking about his parents?

"The mark on your horse," he clarified gruffly.

Steve clenched his jaw. Wendy's flank still had the family's symbol painted on her.

"None at all. She was the only thing worth taking."

The man studied him, searching his face for something, then his eyes grew bigger. "You're the son," he said himself, clarity painting his voice.

Steve continued to stare the other man down, saw how his sharp eyes crinkled -- he was smiling. Heard it in his voice when he asked low and dangerous, enticing, "Want some revenge?"

Revenge.

Yes. Steve wanted revenge.

[atinylittlepain]

Chapter Two

no-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

warnings: dark themes surrounding history of domestic violence, references to physical injury, heavy emotions (hope can also be heavy)

a/n: all i have to say is thank you for reading, and i'd love to hear what you think

......................................

Oh, come child

In a cross bones style

Oh, come child

Come rescue me

'Cause you have seen some

Unbelievable things

Crossbones Style by Cat Power

.....................................

Not comfort. Not exactly ease either. Familiarity maybe. Both of them settling into a routine configured around the other. She likes to help with the animals whenever she can, getting up as early as him, no task too daunting or dragging for her to say no to it. Just the other day she helped him trim back the sheep’s hooves, not even flinching when one of the girls tried to give a jerky kick underneath their ministrations, all shush and soothe in her flicking ears as Joel got the job done. She understands flight and freeze like that, at least in the animals. 

They get done what chores they can in the morning before she has to get changed for work, the requisite light blue dress with the buttons down the front, an apron snug around her waist. She had made a joke about the fucking fifties the first time he saw her in her uniform, surprising him with the quick, crass humor, her half-grin as she got into the passenger seat of his truck. 

He drops her off, heads into town or to the station, whatever needs to be done, and usually is done around lunchtime. He’s supposed to be watching his cholesterol, admonished by the one doctor in town two years in a row now. So he orders a salad with a sigh when he stops into the diner around noon, though Dolores will often tuck a few fries onto the side of his plate, a quiet smile when she sets it down in front of him. Maybe he’s been leaving bigger tips than is appropriate, maybe he made sure that the money in the jar on the counter would be going to her at the end of the day, a quiet conversation with Sal while she was in the back of the kitchen. 

He lingers. Always an endless to-do at home, ignored in this instant, stealing a little extra time sitting at the counter, watching her flit and flicker around the regulars. She’s good with people, big, bright smiles that don’t quite round her eyes, laughs light as air, and as empty too. And he sees the quick slump of her shoulders when the customers aren’t looking, when she’s passing through the swinging door to the kitchen. Turn it on and turn it off. 

But there’s someone new eating lunch at the diner today. One of those climber-backpacker types, all wired-down, tan muscle against shock-white teeth, flicking back his sun-bleached flop of hair, putting on a real show for her when she drops off his burger at his booth. It’d be rude to just keep looking, to turn around on his stool and stare the man down, so he listens instead. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. Can I ask you something?” Like something small and slight being held in a fist, close to breaking or bursting, a cracked chirp of her answer, clearly flustered when she says um, yes, yeah. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a town like this?” That same sound, like she’s trying to make a laugh happen, though it comes out more like a held breath that finally gasps into an exhale. 

“That’s kind of you, but I need to get back to work, excuse me.” 

“Oh come on, where’s that midwestern hospitality you all seem to have?” 

“Do you– can I get you anything else?”

“How about a smile, sweetheart? Just a little one, for me?” For a moment, it’s silent. Joel curls his fingers in a fist, over and over, flex and extend, his back still turned. Something hot and tight closes up in his throat when he hears the man sigh, and then laugh.

“There you go, prettiest thing I’ve seen since I left Denver. I’ll be thinking about you while I’m climbing this afternoon, sweets, thank you for that.” 

“Shouldn’t be climbing in the afternoon.” He says it before he can stop himself, turning around on his stool, a thick flare of hate, maybe meanness, when he sees the uncertain curl of her shoulders and the slanted smile on the man’s face. 

“Excuse me?” The man slings one arm over the back of his booth, body splaying and slumping toward Joel, trying to take up more space than he’s worth. A little bit of preening, a little bit of plumage.

“You’re likely to get yourself caught in a storm up in the mountains this time of year. I’m surprised such an expert man like yourself didn’t know that.” Arrogant, artifice, the man grins, eyes swooping back over Dolores as he picks up his burger with one hand, a wolfish bite that he tucks into the side of his mouth, the slow roll of his jaw as he focuses back on Joel. 

“I don’t mind trying my luck. I usually come out on top. But thanks for the tip, pal, appreciate it.” He takes one more bite, half of his burger gone in two gnashing mouthfuls, all bright white teeth. With that, a quick clap of his hands together, fast heat rubbed between his palms, he pulls out a wad of cash from the front of his pack, leaving a crumpled fistful on the table before he stands with a sigh. 

“Better head out. Thank you for the smile, sweetheart, I’m gonna remember that.” He tucks a smaller fold of bills into the pocket on the front of Dolores’ apron, and Joel can see the way her stomach tenses, curling back from the suggestion of touch. The word no flashes big and battering in Joel’s mind, though there’s nothing to be done, the man already shouldering his pack and sending a slippery slide of a smile his way before he’s swaggering hips-first out the door. 

“You alright?” She doesn’t quite meet his eyes, even when he ducks his head down to try to catch her beneath her lashes. All he gets is a nod and a pointed sniff, and then she sets herself back into motion, ducking into the kitchen to pick up someone else’s order.

Dolores doesn’t like men, something he learned pretty quickly about her. The first time, when they went to the drugstore together and she wilted like a wan flower under Rod’s friendly conversation, that same curling up of her shoulders, that same drop to her eyes. It happened again when she met John one day at the small grocery store in town. She had been smiling, an easy conversation about palisade peaches being in season, quick to fall and fade when Joel introduced her to the man. Even John, with the disposition of a feckless golden retriever, had gotten that same reaction out of her. 

She tolerates the customers at the diner, lots of nervous laughter and quick movement, her sneakers squeaking hard on the chipped linoleum floor. Warm with the few children in town, the women too. But no, she doesn’t like men. All uncertain angles, folding herself up close and tight and away. Honestly, it’s a small miracle she’s softened that snap, that shrink-back around Joel. Comfort in the known, he supposes. He’ll take it. 

“Hey, you alright?” Again, he catches her on her way to another table, a quick flicker of her eyes and a nod, shrugging the trays held in her arms a little closer, already moving again. Softened, but still there, cagey, careful, and now coaxed up to a higher degree by that man, that fucking man. 

Joel leaves soon after, not wanting to corner or crowd her. Back to routine. Back to the barn and the coop and the animals and all the things that must be done around them. Fall inches ever closer, a time that demands preparation. Work that promises completion and satisfaction when done well and right. Not easy, but simple. Maybe he’s careful to keep an eye on his watch, timing his drive back to the diner right before dinner, just as Dolores is stepping out of the storefront, her face furrowed down to the bills she’s counting in her hands. 

“What’s this?” His turn to drop his brow when she gets into the passenger seat and holds out a thick fold of money to him across the console.

“This should cover the clothes, and that drugstore trip you made for me.” He stares at the money, his fingers curling tighter over the steering wheel. That was two weeks ago, nearly three now, and she’s already trying to make even. 

“You don’t– I’m not keeping score. That’s yours.” Fast fall, flustered, a stuttered exhale, not what she expected, not what she wanted, her hand staying suspended between them, shaking the money lightly as if to entice him into taking it.

“But, I can’t. I–” What he’d like to do is reach out too, curl his hand over hers to close her fingers around that money, make it all hers. But she doesn’t like touch, even the accidental kind, something else he has learned. That quick tightness, that smalling if he brushes behind her in the kitchen in the morning, so he doesn’t. If their hands reach for the radio in the car at the same time, little fire passed between fingertips, and then her immediate recoil, so he doesn’t. And he doesn’t now either.

“You don’t have to. I was happy to, no score. That’s your money, Dolores.” Like she just swallowed something bitter, her face scrunching and then slackening as she nods, careful and quiet in settling her hand, and her money, back in her lap. 

“Could I at least help with groceries?” A small compromise, for her to look at him again, if for nothing else. 

“Okay.”

Here is what makes a town. Two blocks proper, a church at one end and a bar at the other. A second hand shop that sits slumped against the post office. A library that gets new books once every two years. A restaurant, the only other one besides the diner, the downstairs of a newly-established bed and breakfast that most of the residents have turned their noses up at. A police station that sits next to the simple steeple of the church, how fitting. And a grocery store, a small one, the nearest safeway a two-hour drive east. Joel had to look up what an IGA was when he first moved here. 

And because everyone knows everyone, a trip to the grocery is never in and out, always getting stopped in the produce aisle, asked after while picking up a gallon of milk. Today, no different. 

“Hey there, you two. Can I expect to see you at the little thing at the bar tonight?” The little thing Patty is referring to is the fact that it’s the end of the month. A peculiar tradition, not a party, just an agreed-upon herding of one another. Joel has thought to himself on multiple occasions that its real purpose is to make sure no one quietly died while people weren’t paying attention, a once-a-month census.

“I don’t know, Patty, maybe I’ll drop by, keep folks from talking too much.” Dolores’ confusion is clear, searching between him and Patty. Why he’s trying to keep this from her, he’s unsure.

“Well, I hope to see the both of you there.” Patty is a particular kind of woman. Here long enough for her word to have some power behind it. She lives above the secondhand shop alone, though Joel knows she has two sons, shown pictures of them, arms slung across her shoulders, that same slanted smile of hers on both of their faces. They don’t visit. And Patty doesn’t seem sad for it. She orders a specific kind of red hair dye once a month, Joel always seeming to catch her at the post office picking up the box with a distinct logo stamped on its side. Nice enough, a little brash maybe, but she’s always been open-armed with him. And she’s been kind to Dolores too. No questions, at least not to her, no staring or stirring, like it makes the most sense in the world that Joel suddenly has a woman staying with him that he has never mentioned before. So she doesn’t press now, leaves it at that, leaves them to the produce aisle, an easy greeting and goodbye. 

“Are you gonna go?” Her hands are deft and discerning, cracking open and peeling back a pale green corn husk, a hoard of it on sale this year, fine silk tassels and that sweet, crisp, smell. 

“Oh, probably not.” He holds open the produce bag for her, a quiet yeah when she asks if four ears is enough. 

“I would go, you know, if you wanted to.”

“Do you want to?” She shrugs, the slight swing of the hem of her dress as she walks alongside him, zucchini and tomatoes.

“Patty seems like the kind of person who’s used to getting her way.” She doesn’t say it mean, only observation as she tucks two tomatoes down in the cart. He can feel a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.

“She certainly doesn’t like the word no. We could stop by, if that’s alright with you?” 

It is alright, and after dinner, summer spoils sweet and sated, he waits for her on the porch while she changes out of her uniform. It’s getting darker earlier, the sun already cracking and dripping between the mountains, everything hushing down orange and purple. Soon, it will be time for the sheep to spend their nights in the barn, and in the day too, during that deepest, tightest fist of winter. But for now, it’s quiet, save for the dull thrum of all the small, crawling things, air that’s only a relief in its coolness, not a worry. 

“Ready?” Pretty, he thinks. Hasn’t seen that before, he thinks. Crisp white with fine little flowers embroidered along the neckline and the sleeves. The neckline, a new expanse of her sternum on display, the fragile flutter of it when he stares just a beat too long. 

“Uh-huh, yeah.” Ready, dark enough that the headlights need to be flicked on, flooding yellow down the bare brush and scrub along the road. And then the bleeding neon glow of the bar on the edge of town coming into focus. 

Shoes sticking in the syrupy grime of a few decades past, dim lights and a perpetual haze of smoke, something sad and slow drifting in on the jukebox. No pretense, no pretending that folks are here for anything other than getting a little drunk at the end of another day. 

Patty is happy to see the both of them, offering a bottle that Joel accepts, and one that Dolores politely declines, though she still allows herself to be pulled along by the older woman, leaving Joel to make his rounds. The same questions, asked and answered, health and hearth and how are you. Fine, just fine. Except, a little distracted, quick glances over to the bar where Dolores is sitting. Patty still there with her, still getting her to smile, so fine, just fine until the next time he looks over.

Not Patty. Him. Big, bright shark tooth smile, fang and flare. Even more tan, skin tight and taut against quick-jumping muscle, all pumped and puffed out from his afternoon climb. A wiry arm slung around the back of Dolores’ chair, her whole body slanted and steeled toward the side as he leans in, lips pulled back in a sneer of a smile. 

Whoever Joel was talking to, he’s no longer listening, no longer even feigning interest as he watches, trying to piece together whatever that man is saying to her by the way his jaw pulls with each of his words. Waiting, really, for any excuse to step in, to make this wrong right. 

And then, enough, already in motion as he watches the man reach out, the backs of his knuckles brushing against her clavicle before she can jerk away. Gotcha, got you, gonna get you. All the ways the human body can recoil, say no, and all the ways it can refuse to listen.

He doesn’t catch the end of whatever the man is saying, words coming out on a quick bark of laughter that makes Dolores flinch harder, knuckles all curled up in her lap. He doesn’t care to know, a thick wash of no drowning it out. The thing is, Joel can get big, and loud, and mean, so mean. If he needs to. He can roll back his shoulders and set his jaw in a hard grind. He can make a fist and then make contact. He can make a man get small and get gone. But not in front of her. Another body to account for, a shivering down small body, a body that cannot bear any more violence. So he must settle for something else, a quiet heat, an expression on his face that he hopes is no enough.

“Is there a problem?” The man glances over his shoulder, all smile, all teeth.

“Hey, pal. No problem here. I was just telling this pretty thing about the climb I got in, wasn’t I?” He asks it with a duck of his head, trying to steal her gaze that she keeps on her hands in her lap. A habit of hers, the skin around her nails picked and pulled raw, soon to bleed with the way she’s worrying at them now. 

“I don’t think she’d like to hear any more of what you have to say, pal.” A flicker of something animal, the man sucks his teeth, mouth screwed to the side before he sighs. Fire needs fuel, and he’s not getting any, certainly not from her. Something that sounds like not worth it as he sways himself out of the bar. Joel knows this kind well, blown in and out in a day, maybe two. Not a problem, not really, and he won’t let it become one. 

“Thank you.” She gives Joel her eyes, a quick nod as he sits down beside her. Careful distance kept between them, space for her to spread back out, to unfurl, and she does, leaning back in her chair, a quick roll of her shoulders like she’s trying to shake off that shiver.

“I have no patience for people like that. Think they’re hot shit for hiking up a mountain when they’re just a nuisance.” Maybe he said too much, tempering his words with a swig of his beer, though Dolores seems to receive it, turning slightly toward him so he can feel the ghost of her knee brush against his.

“I just don’t like men like that.” He sighs, because what could he say to that? What hasn’t already been said in the slow fade of the bruises on her arms? 

“Drink?”

“Yeah, please.” 

It’s quiet between them for a while, each nursing a beer as the din around them lulls and lifts. He drums his fingers against his thigh, something steady while he tries to work a thick flood of words into something that might make sense, something that won’t make her recoil. 

“Can I ask you about it?” She doesn’t look at him, focused on her thumbnail working the sticker off her bottle. But she does nod, lips pursed, long sigh like she needs to make room for what she’s about to say.

“All of it?”

“If you’re okay with that, yes.”

Yes, she’s okay with that. No, her husband wasn’t always the way he is now. He was kind until he wasn’t. Quiet until he wasn’t. The first time, silly. That’s what she calls it. A silly, stupid thing. The windshield of his car had gotten chipped while she was driving it. And she saw black with the way his hand guided her skull into the wall of their bedroom when she got home. Silly, she says, a wave of her palm like, no big deal, because not the worst of it. His stomach slurs and sickens. 

She was a teacher, her lips curling around the memory like it tastes sweet. And then he told her to stop working. Command, not question. Gave her a careful fold of money each morning, like a child’s allowance, like a leash choked close and tight. What friends she had left told her to leave him, lovely sentiment, with what money? With what, with what, with what?

And then he got a gun. Waved it around like a second dick. A strange swagger, what the weight of such perfect destruction does in a man’s palms, slung on his hip, never far. 

“Did he?”

“Once, right here.” Two fingers pressed to her temple, her eyes unblinking, expressionless. Though it’s gone just as quick, her fingers flexing and curling into a quick fist before settling back in her lap, unmaking memory. 

She left then. With what, with what, with what? Nothing. A book in the passenger seat and a vague conception of the west meaning something like hope.

“You like to read?” Anything else will come out too harsh, too big with anger, so that will have to do. She seems relieved for it, shoulders settling and smoothing.

“Yes, I do.” 

“We can get you a library card, if you want.” 

“I’d like that.” 

…

They go to the library the next day, and the man who works there just seems happy that there’s anyone new to give a library card to in the first place. 

Dolores has already begun reading the first book in the small stack she checked out, quiet in the passenger seat the whole drive home. And later, when he leaves for his overnight shift, she’s on the couch, already halfway finished, lips parted and moving with the page. 

“I’ll see you in the morning then.” Still startled by his voice, quick to shut her book and look at him, and like so many other times, he wishes he hadn’t said anything, had let her stay suspended in that ease.

“Alright, thank you again.” He’s still not very good at accepting that from her, a nod and a shrug of his shoulders, out the door. 

Lately, these shifts have gotten tinged sour. Something anxious, something angry. Waiting, maybe. Willing. Wanting that car to come zipping past him on the black strip of the interstate. Wanting to chase it down. Wanting to do something that he shouldn’t want to do. He’ll come, he thinks. They always do. Men like that won’t give up the thing that makes them feel big so easily. 

For now, Joel hunkers down in the car, radio off, quiet, waiting with all the other languoring animals for something that will sate. He replays what she told him in his mind, lets something dark curl around it, poison thoughts. But he has to ask himself why. All this care, all this concern, and all this anger, why? For a perfect stranger, who’s not really a stranger now. Been living around each other for nearly a month, so no, not a stranger anymore. 

He likes her. An answer both simple and devastating at the same time. And is he just as bad as any other man? Finding a scared thing so very pretty. No, he cannot like her like that. He cannot like her like watching the rise and fall of her sternum, and he cannot like her like stealing glances of her every chance he can get. Because that is the last thing she needs. But care is allowed. Making something wrong the smallest bit right is allowed. A friend, a familiar thing, a comfort. All things he can do for her. 

…

The sun is just starting to heft its golden belly over the mountains when he gets home, pale blue light and mist rising cool and shy in the brush. Usually, at this hour, she will already be up, making breakfast for the both of them that he always feels a bit bashful accepting. 

But it’s quiet in the house this morning, still. Her book rests on one side of the couch, a rumpled blanket beside it. He doesn’t hear the old pipes groaning with the task of running water, the floorboards crackling with the fact of shuffling feet. And he shouldn’t but he does. Panic like a tight fist, like a heavy stone in his gut. 

He knocks on her bedroom door, a quiet call of her name. Nothing. And he shouldn’t, but he does. So careful, so quiet in cracking open the door. Nothing. Bed still made, untouched. She must have spent the whole night on the couch. Why does that make his heart kick and quicken in his chest? The thought of her reading right through the darkness, the singular glow of the lamp tendriling out into the night. 

Not here though. Did she? Could she? Would she? He feels drunk off this reality. But scared things have always been known to flee, haven’t they? To pretend at fragile trust until they find an opportunity to escape. Did she feel like she needed to escape from him? His palm tries to rub that thought out of his chest, real ache, real pain at the idea. 

Fresh air, because his skull is already starting to throb with this. He steps out onto the porch and tries to imagine all the ways this leaving could have been done. He hates every possibility, every phantom flight that he can conjure. But no time to let it sting or steep, because laughter, a sudden, foreign peel of it. Hers, he’s never heard hers before. But there she is, rounding the corner of the coop, a few of the chickens following close on her heels, already their favorite between the two of them. And she’s talking to them, quiet murmurings from behind a smile, another quick burst of brightness. 

“Hey, good morning.” Saying it to him, smiling at him, the biggest, best relief. He joins her, only a little grumble at the way the chickens squawk at his sudden intrusion. 

“You figure out names for them yet?” One eye dropped in a squint in the brash wash of morning light, still smiling.

“I have some ideas, yeah.” 

She’s here, how wonderful. And how awful, how quickly his heart seized and shuttered itself up at the thought of anything else. He can’t think about that too much, what that means. What danger that creates and threads through his ribs. So he focuses instead on breakfast, close in the kitchen, coffee for her with cream and a spoon of sugar, how he has found she likes it, silent sliding it across the counter to her where she’s stirring eggs in the pan. Always a thank you. 

The table in the kitchen is so small that he has to keep his chair scraped back so his knees won’t brush against hers, making space for her to spread out. 

“Thank you, for letting me stay so long. I know it’s not– you’re probably–” She stops herself, a sigh, chin tucked down. He could almost laugh, because here she is thanking him for what he was so afraid she didn’t want. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad you’re here, for as long as you’d like to be.” Trying to make it clear that this is not a cage, though the words still feel thick and foolish coming out. She swallows a careful bite of her breakfast, not looking at him, and again, he finds himself bracing for flight.

“I like being here.” 

....................................

taglist: @casssiopeia @eleganthottubfun @anoverwhelmingdin @sscorpiiio @joeldjarin @casa-boiardi @suzmagine @syakhairi @spookyxsam @northernbluess @hier--soir @darkroastjoel @wannab-urs @tieronecrush @beskarandblasters @trulybetty @softlyspector @noisynightmarepoetry @csarab615 @beskarandblasters

[youwouldntdownloadapizza]

The Gates of Jackson | Joel Miller x F!Reader | Chapter 6 - The Lodge

masterlist | ao3 | follow @youwouldntdownloadapizza and turn on notifications for updates

You showed up at the gates of Jackson with hands covered in blood and no memory of how you got there. That was two years ago. Since then, you've become Maria's right-hand woman and the person in charge of Jackson's logistical backend. Patrol schedules, inventory—all your purview. When a patrol gone wrong forces you to get to know Joel, memories of your past begin resurfacing—along with their consequences.

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pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors DNI

word count: 1.1k

tags: no use of y/n, eventual smut, no beta we die like sarah, jackson era, other additional tags to be added, slow burn, ellie needs a hug, joel lives, good parent joel, reader-insert, reader insert, forced proximity, only one bed trope, nightmares, childbirth, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, soft joel, cuddling & snuggling, fluff, masturbation, pining, joel falls first, possibly demisexual reader (tbd), ptsd, ptsd flashbacks, panic attacks, amnesia, sexual braiding

Chapter 6 - The Lodge

A light rain had begun to fall by the time you reached the lodge. The dirt trail quickly turned to mud, and the horses’ hooves squelched with every step. You braced yourself, sliding off Bailey’s back and landing in the stuff with a resolute plop . 

Though you’d had the foresight to waterproof your boots, water and mud were two very different beasts. You’d probably be scrubbing dirt out of your laces for a good long while once you got home. Which at this rate felt like it may not happen until well after you died of old age.

Sodden and starving, you tethered Bailey to a post and approached the front porch.

“More breaking and entering?” Joel asked as you crouched to a squat before the door.

“Nope.” You flipped up the corner of the doormat to reveal a hidden key. “Consider us lodge-sitters.”

“Aren’t you worried about break-ins?” Joel asked.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Joel, but this region isn’t exactly overflowing with people. And if any do find this place…” You trailed off as you slid the key in the lock, glancing up to meet his eyes. “Well, has a locked door ever stopped you?”

Before he could answer, you pushed through the door and stepped into the mercifully well-insulated structure.

The place was pretty bare-bones, with empty storage shelves built into one wall and a threadbare couch pushed up against another. The worn-down dregs of what had once been carpet covered the concrete subfloor here and there.

Despite it all, the sofa beckoned. You sank into it, backpack sandwiched between you and the rear cushions, and sighed.

Then Joel had the audacity to block your light.

“Can I help you?” you asked, opening one eye to glare up at him.

“What’s the plan?”

“Logbook. Linner. Leave.” You counted out the steps of your incredibly thorough plan on frozen fingertips.

“Linner?”

“We’re well past lunchtime. Not quite to dinner. It’s linner, the brunch of the afternoon.”

“That is so goddamn stupid.”

Even with your eyes closed, you could hear the smile in his voice. That is so goddamn adorable .

Joel trailed off towards the only other thing in the room, an old podium atop which rested the dusty, leather-bound logbook. A clicky pen sat nestled between the pages, bearing words he’d never expected to read again, let alone here:

Dr. Neil Henry, DDS - Austin Community Dentistry

He laughed, holding up the pen to show you.

“You know this used to be my dentist, back in Austin?”

“Did it now?” You smirked.

“Dr. Henry. Always used to nag me about flossin’,” he reminisced.

“Did it work?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Not ‘till after the outbreak, anyhow. No one’s around to give you a root canal nowadays. I’d rather not need one.”

“Fair point,” you said, well aware of the hypocrisy as you gnawed on an extraordinarily tough chunk of jerky. 

Your eyes swept the stunning vista visible through the lodge’s massive windows. They reminded you of the ones in your office, and in the lookout tower. There was something about them that put you at ease, which made no sense whatsoever. They were glass, and not even particularly thick glass at that. Much like life before the outbreak, they were an illusion of security at best.

But still, you liked them.

Joel followed your gaze, and his breath caught in his throat at the view. It was beautiful. Not quite as magnificent as this morning’s sunrise had been, but still breathtaking.

“Wow,” he whispered.

“Pretty, huh?” you answered without looking back.

“It’s like a screensaver. Or a wallpaper or somethin’.” Joel mused, eyes wide in awe.

“Hmm,” you mused. “Mine used to be a picture of the Great Wall of China.”

“Why’s that?”

“It was the default,” you sighed, picking out the raisins from your trail mix. “But also I’ve always thought ruins were cool as shit.”

“Plenty of those to be had nowadays,” he said.

“Too many, if you ask me.”

You both chewed in silence for a minute, watching the birds coming home from their winter vacations.

“You know Eugene leaves jokes in here?” Joel broke the silence.

“I did.”

“You hear his latest?”

“Hit me with it.”

“Alright,” Joel turned to face you, smile wide. “What do we want? Low-flying planes! When do we want ‘em? Nyeowwww.” He mimed a plane diving with his finger, eliciting a chuckle from you.

“That’s one of his better jokes.”

“Yeah, the man’s no Will Livingston.”

You smiled. You were intimately familiar with Livingston’s work, ever since Ellie decided to thank you for her new light-up sneakers with a selection of the punster’s greatest hits.

There was no need for a security sweep after you’d finished eating. The whole place was only a couple of rooms, and you’d already checked the perimeter before entering.

“Go get the horses ready,” you instructed. “I’ll finish up here.”

You scribbled your report in the logbook and tucked away the remnants of linner, swinging your pack over your shoulders before taking one last look at the view.

It was golden hour, and the sun hit the clouds in a way that transcended any screensaver comparison. It was as if you’d been granted a glimpse of heaven itself.

* * *

You watched from the porch as Joel took a drink from his canteen. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the chiseled scruff of his jawline–from an objective standpoint, the man certainly had a rugged charm to him. But he was far from the only cowboy type in Jackson. And this was far from your first rodeo.

As Joel tucked the canteen away, he remembered the outside pocket of his pack. It held loose bullets and some of Ellie’s hair ties, but most importantly, it held a ballpoint pen.

As he heard you turn the key in the lock, he called out. 

“Hang on! I forgot something.”

Unlocking the door once more, you ushered Joel inside.

He jogged over to the logbook with his offering, swiftly swapping it out for the one with a touch of home. He was halfway to the door when his brain caught up with his eyes and he turned on the spot to inspect your logbook entry.

All clear, no signs of raiders or infected.

It wasn’t the description that jarred him. It was the names. His, of course, was transcribed in loopy cursive, the standard, un-misspell-able ‘Joel Miller’. Beside it was a nickname–no, a last name –preceded by a first name that brought everything into focus:

Jane Doe.

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chapter notes:

New chapter! Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry for the long gap between updates, life has been cray.

Big Jane Doe reveal oooh!!! I would never blatantly rip off Yearling like that don't worry!!!!!!!!!! @justagalwhowrites BIG FAN THO

Curious to hear everyone's thoughts on this chapter and what's coming next, I legit have been planning out this whole fic with a very elaborate color-coded notecards-on-corkboard setup (I am, in fact, a virgo). So more fun stuff coming hopefully sooner rather than later.

Comments make me type faster!

Love you all so much, and thank you for reading! I got really creatively blocked during the writers' strike and getting back into fanfic writing has been incredibly healing. Grateful for you all.

taglist: @aspecialgreenie

[survivedthenight]

find the word game

tagged by @onyxsboxes thank you so much!! ahh these are so fun i've actually always wanted to be tagged in one of these lol so tysm!! <3

my words: line, breath, conversation, ride

all from the canon first experiences 31k wip

line

“I gave you what you wanted,” Gale interrupts. A muscle in John’s jaw twitches. The tinny light from the bare ceiling bulb casts a harsh line across his face that brings the tendon into stark, illuminating contrast, catches on the spark in John’s eyes as his mood switches again.  “Why do you keep talking like you were doing me some big favour, huh?”

breath

John’s tangy juices seep through the material and onto Gale’s tongue, his mouth filling with the bitter taste of him. He suckles it, drawing the come from the material like extracting iron ore. The spongy fabric is suctioned so tightly across his mouth he’s finding it hard to get a clean breath.

ride

He liked the horses, liked to watch them and imagine what it might be like to ride one, to feel all that muscle and raw power between his legs, and the weightlessness that could come with it. But he was still skittish around them, watched Sugar’s huge hooves cautiously, and took a jerky, practiced step back when she thrashed her head a little too quickly in his direction.

i don't have conversation sorry!!

tagging @london-cowboy @drylite @wayrad and @shipstorms if you want but no pressure!!

your words are: wet, pink, bright, linger

[theshypinkflower]

I’m a big fan of all your writing and hcs!!! Salvatore my king 🙏🙏 and I was wondering if you had any Mason headcanons there is woefully not enough love for him

OHHHH YEAH LETS GET TO THE BURLY BEAR EVERYONE LOVES

-He is remarkably self sustainable. Like bro has built basically everything in his cabin, including the cabin. Although he did have to buy the wood burner stove since…well does he look like he knows how to weld? He’s a wood working man!

-He knows how to whittle! I imagine after a long day he likes to kick back on the patio of his cabin and just whittle some animals to put on a shelf. He mostly likes doing bears and foxes but sometimes he changes it up by doing rabbits or birds or other woodland creatures.

-He has a LOT of jerky. It’s just easy to eat when he’s out hunting. Bucks got a bit of meat on them so he has plenty to food and plenty for snacks! He doesn’t waste anything. The fat? Tallow. The antlers? Decoration or also really perfect for carving (I mean cmon he used his wife’s femur as handle for his knife. The hooves? Glue. The hide? It’ll take a couple days to dry but h hide is always good for clothes and really anything.

-He has quite a couple plants indoors, mostly cause the mountain side ain’t exactly ideal for growing. He does manage to forage some pretty good finds! There’s plenty you can eat that’s outdoors! Pine cones, berries, wild greens, mushrooms. He ain’t picky. He’s a soup guy anyways! Of course some of the food he does have to go into town to buy (cheese, seasoning, seasonal fruits) but he’s pretty good about rationing his ingredients.

-He prefers his meats over his fish. Plus it’s not like fishing in the mountains is exactly easy (unless you’re a bear). Sometimes he’ll manage to spear himself some fish but it’s not a frequent thing. Rabbits and deer and birds are just easier to hunt for him (especially with his good aim).

-I imagine he’s really good at drawing. Like he has a little leather bound journal that’s just full of sketches and they’re remarkably good. It’s just one of those things he does when he’s bored. Somewhere in that journal amongst all the sketches of animals and scenery there’s sketches of his wife. I firmly believe he loved her in SOME capacity.

-Bro hasn’t shaved since he got in the woods. He is hairy EVERYWHERE. He jokes that the hair keeps him warm (and so does the fat on his body, even then he’s still got a lot of muscle). He also sucks at running, cardio was never his strong suit. Lifting heavy things tho? Yeah that’s your guy.

-He snores. He snores so. Fucking. Loud. You’d think he’d wake up half of Colorado with the way he snores. He also takes up like most of the bed so prepare to get extra snuggly with him.

-He loves size difference. Scared rabbits who are half the size of him? Well he could just eat you up (and with the rate we’re going that might not be a playful tease)! You’re just so easy for him to grab and hoist over his shoulder, kicking and trying to get away but his grip is so strong it hurts. It’s so easy for him to trap you with his size.

-Primal is literally him!! Trust me honey bunny he knows where you’ve been. The little disturbance in the leaves, the broken twigs left behind, he knows how to track you down. He swears he can just smell your fear, probably smells whatever shampoo you used before being caught and sold. You’d have to be a hunter like him to hide properly. You’d have to know what you’re doing to avoid bear traps.

[miserymerci]

<- Day 7: Recovery Day 9: Storm ->

Fluffy February Day 8: Smile - Baby’s Breath

@ // fluffyfebruary

Fandom: Lego Monkie Kid

Characters: MK and Sun Wukong (Sunburst Duo), Journey to the West Pilgrims

(Father-son, rocky first impressions, child monkey MK)

Summary: In an alternate universe, Sun Wukong comes face-to-face with the most daunting monster he has ever come across during his Journey to the West: the protector of an unheavenly peach tree.

The summer days were long and grueling.

The hours dribbled on like molasses, sugary sweet sweat sticky on their skin. It never stopped; only slowed and picked up again. To Sun Wukong, that was much, much worse than any constant weather. No thunderstorm could triumph over the discomfort of sweat through his dampening fur.

“I told you so,” said Wukong, so quietly and grumbly that he worried for a second that no one would hear.

.

.

.

“Shut up,” snapped Zhu Bajie.

Wukong grinned.

“I’m just saying that you wouldn’t be sizzling pork belly right now if we had agreed to sleep by day and travel by night,” he said. He pulled at his neckerchief and huffed.

“Well,” said Bajie, “ I’m smelling burning monkey hair.”

“Who’s fault is that !?”

“Disciples,” said Tripitaka, simply.

Wukong crossed his arms and pouted on his cloud as the day stretched on. It took five minutes for him to open his mouth again, and Sha Wujing, ever the mediator, rushed to speak first.

“Something nearby smells good.”

“…it’s char siu ,” said Wukong, dryly.

“OOH-KAY! You have been grating me all morning! Master, shouldn’t he get a penalty for this? Where is my justice?” asked Bajie, gesturing his rake in Wukong’s generally-annoying direction. “This monkey has no respect for me.”

“I have respect when you’re not being all high and mighty!”

“Master, now he’s being delusional. We should kick him out.”

“Request vetoed,” said Tripitaka, not looking back.

Ao Lie whinnied. The horse-dragon tilted his head off to the side and tossed his head up twice to the open air.

“Wujing is right, master,” he said, “something delicious is cooking nearby.”

Wukong’s nose crinkled. Past the group’s own sweaty stink and earthy dirt clinging to their clothes, he wasn’t sure how Lie or Wujing could smell anythi–!

Something rich and warm hit Wukong’s nose. It scuttled into his nostrils like some starved parasite and nested deep into his belly. His queasiness formed and twisted into the beginnings of rumbling, greedy, demanding hunger.

Wukong hurried to wipe the drool on his lips.

“Could be a trap,” he said, “everyone knows we’re going this way.”

“Could be,” agreed Tripitaka, but his eyes were glittering hopefully in the direction of rising smoke.

Wukong frowned, crossed his arms, and then said to Wujing, “How are our rations looking?”

Wujing sniffled. He swung over his bag to his belly and unclasped its buckle. The hard look in his eyes flattened into what could rival a sad, wet puppy. He winced, shrugged, and then pursed his lips.

“Alright then,” said Bajie, not needing a verbal answer, “I say we take a look. This is the fifth day in a row we’ll be eating tofu jerky, so I don’t think there’s anything we can lose.”

The group fell quiet for a moment. Wukong, in his heart, could feel all of them loudly thinking about all the possible things they could lose. Like their master, for one. And dignity, for another. The beginnings of bratty defiance was at the tip of his own tongue. In the end, everyone swallowed back any snarky reply.

“Let’s diverge, then. Do you think you can find us a path downwards?” said Tripitaka.

The smoke led the pilgrims through fir trees; spicy, sweet, and earthy. The firs, tall and proud, caught speckles of condensation and bubbled its visitors with thick air against stubborn lungs. Mud suckled the soles of their feet– sparsely, at first– until Lie completely tumbled down in a flurry of hooves and embarrassment.

Sympathetically, Wukong allowed Lie and their master to gain refuge on his own cloud, and Wukong took to the ground.

“You alright, piglet?” he called a quarter of an hour later.

Bajie didn’t reply. That would normally be welcomed, but right now was a special case. Wukong blinked, fought against the heavy sheen of moisture gathering on the lid of his eyes, and turned back.

“Pig?” he tried again.

“Shut up,” said Bajie. He was stumbling forward like a newborn goat, eyes set on the ground. “I’m saving my energy for more important things. None of them are you.”

“This is fun,” said Wujing, smilingly. He had taken off his shoes and had tied its laces snuggly to his side, webbed feet walking along the mud like it was nothing.

Wukong stared blankly at him, jealous.

Wujing perked up. At his excitement, Wukong couldn’t help but brighten too– any news from Wujing right now would be good news. “Brothers, we’re close. Just past this glade. I think there may be a creek nearby.”

“Thank goodness,” said Lie, picking the last of the leaves from his hanfu. He laughed, something he did often even in wind and rain.

They walked through the sticky glade, the hot sun catching them as they passed, before the cover of trees reclaimed them. The beginnings of a ‘fsshhhh’- ing stream was a treasure to Wukong’s ears. One by one, the pilgrims relaxed. The smoke, only a dying puff, now, had led them to a little campfire in the forest.

“This isn’t exactly an amazing place to go camping,” said Bajie.

“Or an amazing time, either,” said Tripitaka. “Maybe it wasn’t of their choice. Travelers, maybe? Wanderers? Demons?” he spared a look at Wukong, who was sifting around the ashes with his foot.

“I can’t really smell anything,” said Wukong with a sniffle. “Too many scents around. The ginger they used to cook and the firs are messing up my senses.”

“Me too– sorry, master– but the fire is fresh. Whoever they are may come back very soon. It looks like they left many of their travel packs,” said Lie. “A group of five… maybe six people? A big group for any sort of wandering demon species. Most of them fly solo.”

“That’s great, but where’s the food?” huffed Bajie. “I’m hungry.”

“Shocker,” said someone quietly.

“Don’t pretend you’re not hungry too, peach-muncher!”

Wukong glared at his companion. Any other escalation of the argument was nipped in the bud by a stare from Tripitaka.

“If it serves any importance— no hard feelings if not— I think we should sleep the rest of the day away and set off after the sun sets. The days are too hot and long to travel through,” said Lie, hopping from the cloud and reaching up to assist their master off as well.

“I believe you may have been right after all, Wukong,” said Tripitaka. He offered a lopsided smile to the rest of his disciples and dabbed his temple with a sleeve.

Bajie was looking through the abandoned backpacks off to the side. “If you ask me, I don’t think any of these guys will come back. All of these things look ratty and stolen… here: this bag looks like it follows the patterns of Mìngyùn Guǒ City’s sewing back in the East. Those folks aren’t known to leave their prissy little civilization.”

“Can no person simply travel, my disciple? No matter where they are from?” asked Tripitaka.

“I— well—! I’m just saying it’s suspicious, master.”

“We’ll just have to keep watch,” said Wujing chipperly. He flipped out one of the sleeping bags they had brought on their journey and began to pull out their cotton tent. Wukong was glad he had won in drawing lots that morning. Otherwise, he would have been the one lugging that big thing around. “We might have scared them away with our approach. Could have been a demon with an impressive set of ears.”

Wukong pretended not to hear that.

“We still need food,” he said, stretching. “Anyone want to help me scout the area?”

“Nose goes.”

“Nose goes.”

“No,” said Bajie, the loser of the game.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll pass too— I’ll head off on my own. Might be safer that way. Don’t want to save any stray piglets from a scary demon,” said Wukong with a prickly smile.

“ Goodbye Wukong,” said Tripitaka before Bajie could begin to complain, “come back in one piece.”

Wukong would come back in one piece.

That was both a vow and the truth, but in the humid fir forest, Wukong sniffed through all the spicy smells looking for sweet fruits.

Apricots were ripe for the picking– he shrunk and shoved them into the little pack he had brought with them. Once he had taken the few that looked best to eat, he dropped down from its tree in search of any other fruits.

Wukong was never really picky. But he picked ripe plums and took dragon’s eye fruits from a flourishing longan tree a small ways north, climbed the tallest tree he could find, and still couldn’t find a hint of that sweet pink color peeking through the trees.

Not being picky didn’t mean he didn’t have a preference , okay ?

Half an hour after he had set out for food, Wukong saw a flash of heaven. He blinked and stopped in his tracks.

There, hidden between the thickest and prickliest of the firs, were peaches.

Most of them had already fallen to the ground in a pile of mush. The peaches in this tree were far more ripened than their usual prime, but between the hot days and long peach-filled cravings, Wukong couldn’t find himself to care. He pocketed as much of the squishy fruit as he could. His hands, sticky now, grabbed at the tree’s tender bark and began to heave himself up.

A face-full of teeth flashed.

“ GAH !”

Wukong’s staff dinged and flipped to life in his hand. He tipped back, blind, and cracked the trunk of the struggling peach tree with a mighty swing. The wood croaked.

Quickly, Wukong realized three things: he was falling back-first, the attacker on his face was yowling bloody murder, and the tree was coming down with them.

‘cckRRNK– BOOM!’

The toothy grip on Wukong’s cheek loosened as the peach tree’s leaves gave out one last dying shudder. The forest was silent.

Staring up at the sky, Wukong could spot gray, ashy clouds blowing along– oh, that one looked like a chair… and that one looked like a pear. Wukong blinked and scrunched his nose. That next cloud looked like a monkey.

The monkey blinked back at him.

Wukong frowned. His hand, free from the staff now, swiped down his left cheek and found that his fingers were slippery and slick. He watched a cloudy red seep into the crevices of his fingerprints.

“You bit me,” he said to the now-clear monkey sitting on his chest.

“You were stealing my peaches,” declared the little monkey.

Wukong flung the little thing off to the side with a yelp. He scrambled up, reclaimed his staff, and pointed it at the demon.

The little monkey barked and smiled their toothy smile at the Monkey King.

“Where are you from?” asked Wukong.

“ Here ,” said the monkey, as if it was obvious, “where you’re not from!”

Wukong frowned down at the demon. Now that they weren’t all up in his face, he was beginning to see how much this demon wasn’t a threat. They were small like a housecat. From where they were clinging desperately to the fallen tree, fur all puffed up and angry, Wukong had to take pity on it.

“These aren’t your peaches, bud. They’re the forest’s. And because they’re the forest’s, I’m allowed to take a few. It’s called sharing– it’s a virtue.”

This was no Flower Fruit Mountain monkey. Wukong made sure to meticulously remember all the features and smells of his own troop during his long days looking after them. Not a single little monkey slipped under his radar as king. This monkey was likely too young to be one of his, anyways– none of his troop’s members had been with child before he left on his journey.

Even if they had, it was just as likely they would have perished in the fire.

Wukong hadn’t heard of any other demon monkey troops around China. Flower Fruit Mountain had been his little bubble from the rest of the world– he could only assume that any other troop would have been the same.

“Am I traveling on your troop’s territory?”

The monkey frowned. Without looking away from Wukong, they fiddled with the scattered tree leaves and retrieved mushy peaches one-by-one from the carnage.

“You are ,” they said. “This is my territory.”

“ Yours ?” Wukong couldn’t help but laugh.

The monkey’s little face remained stormy. They could only fit three peaches in their arms before they began to struggle.

“I’m the leader, the sole protector, and the warrior of this peach tree!” they said.

“Th… this peach tree?” asked Wukong, pointing vaguely to the remaining stump on the ground. The monkey’s stormy demeanor cracked into a pout, so Wukong quickly moved on. “What’s so special about it?”

“The fruits are tasty, and the leaves are nice and shady. The smells are too sweet for any meat-eating demon to want to come near,” said the monkey, proudly. Then, they narrowed their eyes at Wukong. “Are you a meat-eating demon?”

“That’s not exactly something you want to ask meat-eating demons,” said Wukong.

The monkey puffed up again and smiled at him.

“Stop doing that. You’re not scary at all, bud,” said Wukong. “Um, look– I’m sorry about your tree, but it looks like it was already in a pretty bad state…”

At first, Wukong had thought that the peaches were simply overripe. Now, he eyed the ashen wood and could see specks of white infecting the rotting and weakening wood inside. At one time, this tree had been strong and proud. The termites were eating it alive. Its flowers and fruits were sickly. Soon, only the tree’s bones would remain.

The monkey blinked their dewy eyes at him, glancing back and forth between the king and their fallen kingdom.

“ No , it’s only the season changing. That’s how it works. Things are worse before they get better,” said the monkey, squishing the peaches close to their chest. The rotten fruits stuck to their skin and fur, the sweet smell like a harsh perfume. The flesh of the peaches slipped and squelched out of their hands. They watched miserably.

“How long have you been out here?”

“Some seasons,” they said, uncertain, “maybe… more?”

The monkey grimaced at Wukong. They smiled, baring those baby teeth and gums again, before remembering that the Monkey King wasn’t scared of their aggressive display. With a blink, as if they didn’t know why they had bared them in the first place, they took an embarrassed nibble of the fruit-sauce in their hands.

“Uh– no, don’t even eat those. They’re all really really bad, bud,” said Wukong. He got rid of his staff and took a quick step forward, making the monkey puff up and squeal. The king rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, really scary– c’mere.”

In about five seconds, Wukong got another bite to his chin and a handful of monkey squeaking in alarm.

The monkey continued to holler as they were held upside-down. Wukong’s arm, slung around the monkey’s hip, kept their body against his side. A furious tail lashed against Wukong’s cheek. Two back feet kicked to match.

“Kidnapping! Kidnapping!” cried the monkey. Little baby teeth snapped at Wukong’s legs fruitlessly.

“I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t so bitey,” said Wukong, rolling his eyes. He grabbed and tossed out all of the mushy peaches in his bag and slung it on his other arm. “Listen, bud– kid? No, not used to that coming out of my mouth– oh, have you got a name?”

“ I am the leader–” a wiggle, “the sole! Protector–!” a twist, “and the warrior of this peach tree!!”

The monkey heaved out a mighty sigh and went limp in Wukong’s arm, dangling.

Wukong stared at them for a moment. The little monkey had so much fight in them, but he was just so gosh darn tiny to do anything destructive with it. He turned and followed the trail back to his companions.

“It’s okay, bud. Peach tree-protecting wasn’t really my thing either.”

When Wukong came back to camp, his fellow pilgrims had already set up their site. In the single tent they had, Tripitaka sat, meditating quietly. Wujing, Bajie, and Lie were huddled around a basin of cooling water. They were filling their canteens with the purified liquid when Bajie jumped up at the sight of him.

“Wukong, did you kill someone?”

That snapped their master out of his meditation. Tripitaka, quicker than he normally would be in any normal circumstance, rushed to Wukong to look at the dangling monkey.

“Sun Wukong,” said Tripitaka, more stunned than angry, “what have you done?”

“What? Nothing, master. I found this little demon in the forest as I was looking for food. They’re just a little baby, and they’re a monkey– and I’m a monkey– so it felt a little ironic to leave them alone.”

“So you killed it?”

Wukong glanced down at the monkey. Their tongue lolled out of their mouth dramatically, and their eyes remained very, very shut.

Wukong’s eye twitched.

He shook the monkey, and when they didn’t get a response, he flipped them onto their back into his arms.

“Oh, well. I guess I’ll have to dump this cold, dead body into this conveniently placed basin of boiling, steaming hot water,” said Wukong.

Everyone squawked and yelped, equal mixes of surprise and anger. The monkey, all pointy claws and teeth, twisted and clung to the fur on Wukong’s chest like a lifeline. In the same breath, the circlet around his head squeezed .

Wukong went breathless.

Speckles of black and white punched into his vision and continued to flash there; less of a dance, more of a scatter. His teeth grinded together as all of his other senses exploded. The ringing of his ears howled and stomped against cracking ground, hands tightening against the things that he could not see. The air stuttered and croaked in his lungs– and only when he let go of his last breath did the circlet ease.

Wukong blinked away the whiteness.

The little monkey in his arms was chittering at him. Sticky, humid hands pinched at his face and brought the smell of rotted peaches to his nose.

Wukong had fallen to his knees. He shook his head once, then twice, then shifted to sit down fully, dazed.

“…orry, Wukong,” someone, probably Tripitaka, was saying. “T…oght… illed them.”

The headache continued to taunt Wukong. Yet, the baby did not loosen their hold on him. Honey eyes stayed fixed on Wukong, even as the others quietly handed him fresh water and one of the apricots he had picked as an apology.

Half an hour later, Wukong had grounded himself again.

“No,” the little monkey was saying when Wukong finally managed to sink his teeth into the apricot, “I don’t know whose camp this was. I don’t stay far from– um… I didn’t stay far from my tree.”

“Well, if it doesn’t hurt us, then we shouldn’t worry about it,” said Lie, trying to comfort their worried-looking master.

The monkey shifted in Wukong’s lap and looked up at him.

“I’m sorry that I bit you twice,” they said as the others continued to chatter.

Wukong’s hand went up to feel the punctures on his face. They were frightfully tiny underneath his fingers, but they had bled vigorously when it had happened.

The heat of the day found it in its heart to be merciful. Clouds had begun to spread across the sky. One of them casted a shadow over the little monkey in his lap. The hardened look in their eyes twisted into fear the longer Wukong stared, saying nothing.

“It’s okay. You’ve got some serious spunk, bud– and audacity. Try not to get me into any more trouble while you’re with me,” he said, finally.

“It’s your fault that I’m with you,” said the monkey.

Wukong nodded slowly. That was true, but this monkey was a– well, a monkey; monkey like the ones that had been back home. It would be cruel and unusual punishment to let this child die all alone amidst the corpse of their own crumbling kingdom.

He watched termites crawl around the little monkey’s fur for a moment more before sighing.

“And you are going to stay with me until I can find you a proper home.”

“You’re keeping that flea-ridden thing?” asked Bajie. Wukong was glad that the group was talkative again, but some things never change; like his constant need to not hear that pig’s voice.

“They have termites , not fleas,” he said, “and yes. Isn’t this an efficient way of redeeming myself, master? By caring for poor, lost babies in the forest?”

“Well, it could get in the way with your task,” said Tripitaka, but the most important part was that he looked like he was considering it.

“But look at them, master. They’re so small and adorable– they’ll hardly be a dent in our supplies,” said Wujing.

“I grew up taking care of my sister,” said Lie through a mouthful of tofu jerky and plums. “I can help, if you’d like!”

“What? No. I’m not gonna take care of something that’s Wukong’s responsibility,” said Bajie. He crossed his arms and glared over at the monkey. They blinked at each other, and the firm look in Bajie’s eyes turned brittle before he swung his head away to wolf down a handful of longan, seeds and all.

The monkey huddled closer into Wukong, docile now, staring down at their hands. Something white obscured their vision.

“Take it,” said Wukong with a smile.

The monkey reached out and grabbed the longan from the Monkey King’s grasp. The shell and seed had already been removed. All that remained was the fruit’s sweet, soft insides. It wasn’t a peach– not by a long shot– but the monkey chewed it graciously anyways.

“There you go. That’s not so bad, huh?” Wukong cracked the next longan shell with his teeth and began to pick it off. “We have a long way to go, little cloud.”

[snarkythewoecrow]

😅

um writing update anyone? can I interest you in a snippet of dream getting a heart? quite delicious

okay, update first, the dream/hob fic with all the tropes is coming along, and gaining new angles everyday, but I swear, I think it's coming together for sure, current word count 15k (still needs at least 5k)

also, as I don't really hang in this fandom, I'm not sure there is a tag similar to Dream has heart, but oh boy, and I'm apparently about to be so literal about that shit

anyway, have an out of context snippet

tagging @thefangirloutof-time @kydrogendragon @psychiccatpanda @buckybeardreams

And like a wild horse, being forced to bear a rider, fearful of the unknown—of what the new sensations would bring—the organ thrashed, trying to escape its fate before surrendering with a twitch and quiver. 

Ancient vines of stardust anchored it in place as it gave one last jerky attempt to buck his intent before falling still, leaving Dream to wonder if perhaps a heart would never thrive within him—withering in rejection instead.

Dead meat left to rot.

But then, it happened. A faltering spasm between chambers—the timing not quite right yet but improving, his love for Hob driving its charge.

Again and again, it worked—each beat stronger than the last—the wild beast at a gallop, hooves pounding a rhythm in the sand.

Thump-thump—thump-thump—thump-thump

For the first time since his creation, Dream of the Endless had a heart.

[lucygraysboy]

a feast of all your muse's favorite foods is laid out in front of them. what's on the menu?

let me start by saying that billy is such a foodie!   he could eat a horse,  hooves and all.   unlimited desserts?   sign him up!   (have i mentioned that he also has a sweet tooth?)

in the western verse,  he’s a lot less picky about what he considers a feast —   any meal,  even only a slice of bread,  some cheese and honey-covered apple slices,  and he’s the happiest man in the universe.   he’s always grateful for any food that lands on his plate because he knows what it means to have nothing to eat and wouldn’t wish hunger upon his worst enemy.   but let me break it down:

1. main course —   roast or grilled meat:   beef,  there’s no way he’s turning down a steak or brisket,  and it’s also his favorite.   if cattle aren’t available,  pork would be his second choice,  and then chicken (fried).   but since hunting is also very common in this era,  and billy’s a skilled hunter,  he might also have buffalo / bison meat,  venison,  rabbit…   (please,  don’t tell lucy gray about this),  even squirrel for dinner if he’s particularly desperate.   

while they’re on the road or living in a particularly rough place / less prosperous setting,  he’s always got some jerky on him.

2. side dishes —   BEANS!!   living in new mexico for as long as billy has,  there’s no way that he’s escaping beans.   easy to find,  easy to cook,  cheap and filling.   carlos’ abuela used to make this slow-cooked,  hearty sauce spiced with molasses and chili and served with pork,  and billy could never get enough of it.   cornbread.   (if it’s up to billy,  he’s smearing a thick layer of butter and pouring honey all over it).   sourdough bread,  the kind his ma baked every sunday.   or biscuits baked in a dutch oven.   potatoes in any size,  shape,  form —   roasted,  boiled,  mashed,  anything goes.   

3. desserts —   billy’s favorite category!   fruit pies!!   he loves all of them —   apple pie,  cherry pie,  pumpkin pie,  any-berry pie.   he’s also a huge fan of cobblers,  peach cobbler in particular.   pudding  (the simple kind that his ma used to make when he was little,  sprinkled with cinnamon and dried fruit).   honey cake.   and of course PASTRIES!!   all and any kind of pastries.

4. beverages —   he’s a simple man.   give him a cup of strong,  black coffee brewed over a campfire and he’s happy.   he doesn’t often drink alcohol,  but when he does,  it’s always whiskey.

5. little treats —   pickles.   give him all the pickles.   hand him the whole jar!!   dried fruit (apples and peaches in particular).   eggs.   grits.

in modern verse,  he’s a huge fan of italian cuisine —   pizza,  pasta,  calzone,  cannoli,  tiramisu,  anything italian and he’s in love.   he also does his best to apply lucy gray’s rules to his lifestyle and buy only organic products,  but from time to time,  he 100% craves fast food:   CFA,  KFC,  wendy’s,  etc.   he also loves ice cream,  croissants and cereal ‘cause he’s my son 

[doxiedreg]

And here we have our second chimera who in comparison with Ajax and Spiros are uh..much more dysfunctional.. Their serpent tail Salazin's attentiveness and their desire for self presevation are the only reasons they have stayed out of serious harm.

But yeah these two absolutely hate eachother. Samson tries to just power through and ignore Rameses but most of the time this fails because Rameses just loves to antagonise people and sometimes Samson wishes he could just rip his brother's head off but that would most certainly kill him as well so he is stuck in this hell. And to make it worse they somehow ended up part of Crom's crew (most certainly by force and against their will) and now suffer abuse and exploitation by their captain as well. There's no way to escape this situation so yeah. Stuck in hell. With how janky their shared control over their body is because of their poor relationship, their movements are often jerky and staggered and quite unpredictable. This can work in their favor in confusing their opponent but it also makes them unwieldy in fights, moving in ways they dont want. Rameses is able to use the right arm to wield the sword with expertise but samson sometimes fights for control in the arm, messing up his movements. Meanwhile samson is more of a feral fighter, using his claws and teeth and kicks from the hooves when he manages to slip control there. Rameses finds this a rather undignified way of fighting and tries to fully focus his footing on swordfighting. Sometimes the brothers just fall down on all fours in frustration and do a wild charge with their horns down and their claws outstretched. They are very physically strong and the lionhead having horns is an unusual mutation, so crom is very pleased with his catch. Rameses does talk shit a lot but if Crom makes a threatening move its usually enough to shut him up. The goat remembers the pain they suffered when Crom gave them their scars..

for their old design iterations, see under the cut

Samson, Rameses and Salazin were originally designed by my friend @pteradyle and this is what they looked like when i first acquired them in 2018

Then in 2021 (2021 just seems the year of acquired ocs i guess) I turned the design into this:

which is uh..certainly a choice. Wtf is that pose and expression. It tells me nothing about them and the redesign is also just kinda bad. So with this 2025 redo, i decided to follow the original Pteradyle design more closely and have the legs and torso blend in with eachother more seamlessly! And I made the pose show off actual personality because again wtf was that old drawing.

[paldean-ranger-brandy]

[You hear them before you see them.

Well, to be more accurate it’s Keldeo you hear, hooves clopping against the baked earth. It enters your line of sight first, eyes widening with understanding (and not a small amount of relief) when it sees you. If you squint, you can see a rotom phone hovering by its side, though it’s movements seem far more ‘jerky’ than a regular rotom phone’s.

Trace emerges next, their appearance seeming to ‘flicker’ slightly in the light of the sun. When they see you they freeze up, eyes wide. Did it not occur to them that someone would be guarding the most heavily restricted place in the region? ]

//@withoutatrace-pkmn

Brandy is doing their best to not appear intimidating. She is squatting at the top of the steps to the Zero Gate, Michael at her side receiving head scratches. The mightyena is the first to perk up, eyes locked on the group and body tense, no longer leaning casually into his partner.

Brandy had considered calling in back up, but ultimately had decided against it. While this was the first time they were meeting in person, Brandy got the distinct sense that she could at least see some partial success talking Trace away from the crater. Having complete strangers around would only escalate the situation.

Their face is unreadable as they look away from Michael to the approaching group. It isn't intentionally stoic - they were just bad at emoting. She isn't doing a good job of not appearing intimidating.

"Hey, bud." She greets the group, giving up on petting Michael. There wasn't any point anymore - he was in work mode now. "What exactly is the plan here?"