#(and then posted something set in that universe but none of the main fics

[aparticularbandit]

but also for someone who has definitely played around with amnesia and rebuilding and reliving and such stuff in fic before (just because i never posted it doesn't mean i didn't play around with it), i. now kind of want to figure out how to play around with that with junko. the scenario would need to be different. but.

[macfrog]

ghost

when i wrote jet, she was always a two-parter to me. two characters, two horses, two stories. equal and distinct. you guys loved the first part so much that i figured i'd leave it as it was, but recently i hit 2k and thought this could be a cool way to mark it. think of this as jet's sister story. walks right alongside her; same universe, same joel - but still very much a standalone. she can be read with or without her predecessor. thank you a million times over for all the love y'all show me on the daily. writing for you guys is so much fun. love you all the most. 🤎🖤 dedicated to @hellishjoel whose love for this pair inspires me daily

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your loyalty to joel - and your ability in yourself - are tested in st. louis. the reward might just be worth the risk

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) post-outbreak!joel, graphic violence, moderate threat, a horse is shot and killed (though i don't think i made this too graphic, more gutwrenching), reader and joel are separated, badass stealthy reader, near-SA (more intended than attempted), very protective & very violent joel, unprotected piv sex, like...bloodplay i guess? lil bit of consensual choking and spitting, creampie, possessive!joel, dom!joel but also softdom!joel, big fluff at the end, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), strong language. this fic is not sponsored by nike. lol.

word count: 10.1k

main masterlist

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too? You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you. “Go now. Now!” And you do.

St. Louis is quiet, still, but fruitless.

It’s been two long days of wandering around and you’ve found one building safe enough to camp in. One. The rest have either been inaccessible – boarded up, broken down, or otherwise already inhabited by infected – or Joel’s deemed them too close to the middle of town, too open, not safe enough.

Not safe enough in a world overrun by a brain-rotting fungal infection? you’d asked.

He shut you up with a sharp expression which you understood simply as: Enough.

It meant that you were wasting days, though. The night you arrived, Joel quickly combed the area surrounding the barber shop you were holed up in for supplies, and found none. He woke you at the crack of dawn next morning to set off, saying he didn’t like the fact nothing was around here. Meant someone had been through before you guys and taken it all.

Meant company, is what he was saying.

So you’d ridden around for – what, maybe three hours? You and Jet, following Joel and Ghost down cracked roads, under rusted street signs. Listening to the wind circle the buildings overhead, nudging traffic lights gently until they sang in distorted, off-key creaks to you. Always keeping your eye on the Gateway Arch between buildings, using it as some kind of north star – not for any reason other than you’d never seen it before up close, but when you mentioned this to Joel, his brows furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Which meant that no, you wouldn’t be paying it a visit anytime soon.

It was mid-afternoon when Joel pulled on Ghost’s reins, brought her to a halt, and held his hand out to you. Jet huffed to a stop, and you swear you felt her cock her hip angrily at him.

“Turn back,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I said, turn back. Ain’t nothin’ out this way.”

“Turn back ‘n go where?”

He jerked his head back in the direction you’d come, swerved the reins sideways and then clicked to the black-coated horse to set off. She nodded obediently, like she knew what he was thinking and she figured he was right, and began the long walk back to the barbers.

You muttered an expletive and Joel coughed a Ha, hearing you loud and clear. So you turned to silently praying for a rainstorm, for a horde of infected, for anything you could sling an I told you so in and whip it at Joel.

You followed him, though, deliberately a good few paces behind, knowing he’d keep twisting around to check on you, and letting him fucking do it. Asshole.

When you finally arrived back at your spot, the red sun low behind the buildings and bleeding skyward into twilight, you slept with your back to him.

He didn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind when you’re distant. You wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even notice. He knows you’ll come back when you need something from him – want his words in your ear, want his body on yours, want…him.

The splintered sunlight through the boarded-up windows of the shop stirs you from your sleep. It wasn’t much of a sleep, despite Joel’s promise late last night that he’d let you lie for a little longer; knew you had a long day ahead if you were to get out of St. Louis, and he’d already drained your energy with the travelling yesterday.

You’d woven in and out of unconsciousness all night, dreaming of creaky farmhouses with clicking children inside, their skin torn and swollen and sprouting in swirls of pale white, singed with raw red and rotten green. And you dreamt of Joel’s shotgun blowing their moldy maws apart, blood and bone splattering across the floral wallpaper behind them.

You’re lying on your stomach, flat out on the floor with nothing but a worn comforter separating your fatigued body from the dusty tile. Joel’s out front feeding the horses on the street. You push yourself up, stretching your back, and a red-hot pain licks around your wrists.

“Motherf–”

You wince, falling onto your elbows, and your fingers link lightly around the red skin. The marks from Joel’s belt two nights ago still haven’t eased, haven’t cooled down so much as a degree. They’re still glowing, still burning, still painful.

Joel’s rugged face appears through a busted window. “Y’alright?”

“’m fine,” you mumble, turning over and examining the sores in the sunlight. The sting as your fingertips trace over the skin draws sharp tears to your eyes.

He feeds Jet the last handful of the hay you’d stocked up on and steps in from the golden morning to the dim light of the shop, dusting his hands on his jeans.

“You want more water on ‘em? Cold flannel?” he asks, avoiding the sight of your pained hands.

You shake your head. “Don’t think it’s helping.”

Eyebrows close, crease between them deep, he lowers himself with an achy groan and says, “We’ll find somewhere. You ready to go?”

You nod, tight lips blocking any words you think you’d probably regret later.

Joel helps you up, hands you a bag of beef jerky from his back pocket, and tells you to go get settled on Jet. He’ll pack up.

As you walk by him, he runs a hand from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck. Gentle as air. And you almost fucking turn back. Almost catch his hand as it leaves your hair, almost wind your body into his. Almost.

Almost.

You follow at Ghost’s tail for another two hours, this time west instead of north. Joel turns to check on you more than he did yesterday; asks a couple times if you need more water, if you want any food. Even asks once if you need a break.

Each time, you reply with a flat, No. It seems to come from your throat more than your lips, more a grunt than an actual rounded word. Teeth locked tight around it, barely separating to let the sound through.

And each time, Joel turns back wordlessly. A mutual understanding; an unspoken agreement – as most of them are – to not talk any more than absolutely fucking necessary.

You spend most of the ride hunched over, your palms pushing heavily against the horn of Jet’s saddle. The sleeves of your jacket rolled up to stop them from brushing against your wrists.

The horse whinnies softly, and you reply to her as though she’s actually speaking. As though you can understand her thoughts, your forehead pressed lightly to the crest of her neck. You tell her you’re fine; tell her she’s doing a great job. You notice Joel’s jaw turn whenever you speak to her.

And then he whispers, “Hey,” and you lift your head, following the flick of his head to a tiny, lone pharmacy up ahead. You could fall off Jet’s back in equal parts shock and relief.

Joel winds Ghost along the road towards the building, stops by the curb outside it.

Its windows are smashed, broken glass decorating the sidewalk in front. There’s dried blood painting the white stone exterior, and empty shell casings dotted along the paved ground. You draw your eyes from the sight to look at Joel, and he’s already noticed them. He’s staring around the street, eyes darting from building to building, looking them all up and down.

The back wall inside the pharmacy is blocked, rubble and rafters hanging loose from a huge hole in the ceiling. Dusty insulation hangs between beams, and through the tears in the candy floss material, you can see the metal grate of the dispensing area. Joel sees it, too; notes it with a grumble and a click of his teeth.

“You stay here,” he tells you, dismounting Ghost.

“’n what if you get stuck in there?”

“Stuck in front of the collapsed ceiling? I ain’t gettin’ anywhere close to bein’ stuck. Stay put.”

You slide to the side, rubber-toed sneaker angling toward the ground to jump off of Jet. Joel swings back around and shoots you a look like fire on your skin.

“You got a death wish, or som’?”

“You just said you won’t get stuck. The hell’s gonna kill me in there?”

“Me, if you don’t listen to my damn instructions. Get back on the horse.”

“I ain’t off it,” you snap, a little louder than you intended. Sure, you want him to comfort you sometimes, but fuck, he pisses you off.

Joel stalks off without another word, head low between his shoulders. You hook your foot back into the stirrup and shake your head, averting your gaze to the other side of the street where the sight of an ill-tempered man-child won’t piss you off more.

The street is lined with stores and cafes, a bar on the corner with torn-up leather seats spilling out of the door like someone’s barricaded it. Your eye travels further down, where faded, moldy bunting ruffles in the wind, hooked around a traffic light.

There’s a red-brick building directly across from you, a truck with green tarpaulin parked out front. The doors to the building creak as they swing back and forth in the wind. The windows are still intact – surprising for this deep in the city. Other than that, the place looks pretty damn abandoned.

Ghost shakes her head, ears flicking. A heavy, shuddered breath jolts from her flared nostrils in the form of two white clouds, lit golden in the sunlight. She moves from foot to foot. You pat Jet gently, distracting yourself with the feel of her long, ginger mane.

You hum quietly, filling an eerie silence. Something to the beat of your heart, quickening with each second. Trying to calm the horses, calm yourself. Joel’s still wandering around inside.

You read an article once before the outbreak that said horses can smell fear on humans. It was for a school project. Said it affected their nervous system, like, made their heartrate pick up, though they never concluded whether it made the horses more afraid themselves or not.

Feeling Jet’s body weight shift from side to side as you swerve around atop her, analyzing every movement, every sound, every change in direction of the wind on this street, you figure you know the answer now.

Yeah. She feels edgy.

The wind picks up, carrying leaves across the broken road, fluttering by burnt-out cars. There’s a scuff from the store and your head shoots back to find Joel emerging from the shadows.

“Nothin’,” he mumbles, giving the street a sideways look as he walks back over to Ghost.

“Nothing I need, or nothing at all?”

He lifts his hands to take hold of her. “Nothin’ at all. Place is ransacked. Whole damn city’s –”

It all happens in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re looking at Joel, watching his lips form the words, his fingertips coming to land on the leather strap of Ghost’s bridle, and barely a heartbeat later, there’s a deafening crack from across the street.

Ghost’s body falls to the earth like she’s nothing but an inanimate sack. Her front legs buckle first, her chest crashes down towards the smooth stone, and then she’s rolling onto her left side. She’s dead before she hits the ground.

Dust and dirt are thrown skyward as she slams down, head falling heavy and still on the sidewalk.

“Ghost!” you shriek, and then you feel Joel’s hands on the sleeve of your jacket – rough. Painfully squeezing, canvas burning against your wrists.

He’s gripping the material, hauling you down to him, only you won’t let go of Jet’s reins. You’re being tossed to-and-fro atop the now-panicking horse. Ghost is bleeding from her head; thick, dark blood spilling out like tar and dripping down the curb.

You scream at Joel, fighting his grip off, eyes never leaving the black horse. But then another shot fires, ricocheting off of the ground by the pharmacy window, missing his head by less than a foot, and you fall limp.

You let him drag you off of Jet’s back and hurl you inside the pharmacy, shoving you out of view and into the dingy shadows. When you turn, you realize she’s still out there, a chestnut-colored blur as she rears and spins, fleeing from the noise. You scream her name but Joel whips around and plants his palm flat against your mouth, smothering your cry into a muffled whimper against the curve of his calloused skin.

“Shut up,” he whispers, free hand reaching into his holster for his own gun.

You drag his hand from your face, dropping it. “Jet’s still out –”

“They ain’t aimin’ for Jet,” he replies, switching the handgun into his right. “They’re aimin’ for us, and they’re gonna be down here soon. I need you to listen to me.”

“But Ghost –”

“Baby,” he says, laced with frustration and desperation and panic. Your sentence falls flat on your tongue. “Listen – to – me. Now.”

You nod, tears forming in your eyes. The horse is still lying out front; you can see her past Joel’s shoulder. You think back to your agreement: Do as you say. He’s shaking you by the shoulders, forcing you to look him in the eye, repeating those words to you. Listen to him. Focus on him. Stay alive. You don’t survive this if you don’t wake the fuck up right now.

And then he has his hands either side of your face, shaking you back to reality. “Hear me?”

“What? No, I didn’t hear. I didn’t fucking hear!”

He wastes no time chastising you. Just says it again. Calm, clear. Every word its own sharpened shape.

“I need you to move, need you to get out of here. They’re across the street, in that red building. There’s probably a gang of ‘em, right? So we gotta take ‘em out.”

“Take ‘em out? We gotta fuckin’ run, Joel! We don’t even know how many –”

“You,” his voice sounds like he’s about to break, “are gonna head out of there.”

He points past you, behind an upturned shelving unit, where there’s a small hole blown in the side of the pharmacy. Unnoticeable from outside, though if the perps across the street have ransacked this place, they’ll know it exists.

“You’re gonna make your way around the street, head low, quiet, ‘n get in the back of that building. You got it?”

“What the fuck are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna distract ‘em. I’ll cover you, alright? Just do it.”

Just do it. Just fucking do it. I tell you what to do, and you just do it, because it’s me. Because you trust me, because we’ve kept each other alive this long.

Just do it. Because right now, what the fuck else are you going to do?

Your head’s still spinning. Pulse throbbing in your ears. Lungs hammering against your chest wall for breath. You can barely think straight.

“What do I do once I’m in?”

He’s kneeling down, swinging his backpack off of his shoulders. “Take – them – out. You’ve done it before, you know what you’re doin’.”

“Real noble of you, Joel,” you hiss, taking the spare gun he offers and slipping it under the back of your jeans, “sendin’ me in alone to kill who the hell knows how many fuckin’ guys.”

You pull the switchblade he picked up from that farm in Nebraska and flick it once, letting it glint fiercely in the light from out front, then close it and place it back in your pocket, ready to hand if – and when – you need it.

Joel’s loading his rifle, unable to meet your eye. He sniffs. “Do it quiet, you hear me? Sneak up on ‘em.”

You shake your head in disbelief, feet starting to carry you over to the side of the room. Powered by adrenaline only, letting go of any emotion that might keep you inside this stupid pharmacy. Forgetting anything in you that might convince you to stay glued to Joel’s side.

Yeah, you can fucking do it. You’re not a kid. You’ve been doing this long enough.

This was life before the QZ. You were in a group then, a collective of survivors whose only interest was staying alive. At all costs. And you got good at it. You’ve told Joel about it before – you were the first wave. Whenever you came across another group – no matter if it was hunters, smugglers, fucking FEDRA – they’d send you in, alongside Mila. The two of you lightest on your feet, best with a knife in your hands.

You started to find it fun, after a while. Thrill of the chase and all that. Creeping up behind them, dragging the blade along their throat, dropping them to their knees as they choked and gargled and bled out. The two of you could clear an entire building in ten minutes, not a single bullet fired.

Mila preferred puncturing them. She’d lift her arm and bring the knife down with the weight of her entire body, sinking it into their necks, under their jaws, sometimes through their fucking temples. You’d seen that girl do some pretty fucked-up stuff.

You’d seen yourself do some pretty fucked-up stuff. Stuff that’d have you avoiding mirrors for weeks.

And none of it scared Joel away. None of it made him think twice about setting off with you.

Certainly never made him think twice about sending you on what can only be described as a suicide mission, just to rid St. Louis of a few bandits.

Doing it isn’t the problem, though, is it? You haven’t had to do it in a while, sure. Joel takes care of you well enough that you barely have to look twice at a threat before there’s a bullet, a blade, or an arrow through it. And you’re not scared, either. Not of those guys across the street.

No. You’re scared of leaving him. Parting with him.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of just the two of you, shoulders brushing together, hips moving in stride. Horses parallel to one another, heads nodding in unison. The time you’ve spent without Joel since leaving the QZ amounts to a grand total of about ten minutes. What if something goes wrong? If he doesn’t cover himself properly? If you clear the building, come back, and you’re not only a horse down, but a partner, too?

You’re standing by the hole in the wall, trying to convince yourself to duck under the bare brick when Joel’s urgent voice does it for you.

“Go now. Now!”

And you do.

You emerge into an alleyway, concealed from the street by a rusty blue dumpster. Overgrown weeds at your feet, you stay crouched and still until you’re sure there are no eyes on you from the windows overhead.

I mean, you’d be dead by now if there were. So that’s hopeful.

You slink around the jagged metal, slow, silent. More gunshots sound from across the street, and you know Joel’s tossed them a bone. Maybe he’s shown himself – a flash of his jacket or scuff of his heel as he settles to fire back. Maybe they’ve already killed him. Who fucking knows?

At the end of the alleyway sits a black gate, bent and contorted into an archway which separates you from the street. Still covered by knee-high weeds, you kneel down onto your stomach and peer between the wiry green plant to get your first scope of the street ahead.

There’s a long-abandoned nail bar on the right, a few doors down from that bunting you spotted earlier. And right outside it, cast in shadow from the awning: a chestnut horse, saddle hanging lopsided on her back. Waiting, patiently, watching the shootout before her.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Stay there. Stay right there.

Joel’s on his knees outside the pharmacy, crouched behind a Jersey barrier. He lifts his head every thirty seconds, fires one heavy shot at the windows on the top floor of the red-bricked building, and then ducks for cover when they send a burst of erratic bullets back down to him, pelting against the concrete.

You watch for a minute, studying the pattern, and then slip back between the weeds like a lion hiding in the bushes. When Joel fires at the window, you push yourself up and make a swift run for it.

There’s a truck in the middle of the street. Black paint scraped, shot, and sun-burnt off. You take three good strides, kneeling once you’re at the tailgate. You peer around the rear of the truck, huge tires flat and melted into the broken tarmac. You spot your opening.

A gray fence faded by the sun, a few slats missing from the bottom half, guarding an overgrown yard, and, sitting wide open: the backdoor to the building.

Bingo.

It’s an easy enough route. Looks almost like someone’s laid it out for you this way, a perfect path. You wait for your signal – Joel’s gunfire – and sprint over to the fence, back flush against the rotting wood.

You pull the revolver from your jeans and open the chamber. Five bullets. Not bad. You snap it back and adjust your grip on it, finger ghosting the trigger. And then you hear them.

“The girl’s still inside,” a voice grunts from over the fence. Your blood runs cold.

“He’s gotta run out sometime. What the fuck’s Nico doing wasting bullets?”

“How often do strays come through? Let him have his fun.”

Strays. Like a little pet name. Like it’s sport for them. It pisses you off, your adrenaline channeling into rage, white hot across the nape of your neck, growing into determination to put your knife through every single one of them.

So, you return the gun, favoring your switchblade.

Old dog, new tricks. Yadda yadda.

You bend down, peering through the gap like a dog searching for scraps.

It’s just the two of them. One, standing by the door; looks about six feet tall by six feet wide, buzzcut atop a puffy face, tattooed arms hanging loose by his side. The other, pacing around the yard; when his worn jeans pass the opening in the fence, you scan up the tall figure and notice dirty blond hair, scraped back from a gaunt face into a greasy ponytail.

“And if anything hears him? Runners? Fuckin’…we ain’t ready for that.”

Neither of them seem to have a gun. Scrawny doesn’t, anyway, and if Buzzcut does, it’s not in his hands. Which gives you a few seconds’ advantage.

Once Scrawny turns away, you slip through and hook your arm around his neck, holding your knife to the spongey skin under the ridge of his jaw. Buzzcut steps forward, hands reach into his waistband. Fuck.

“Make a sound, I’ll cut him.”

It’s not hard for your voice to fall back to that pitch, that same old tone. Muscle memory. Hushed, so no one inside hears; serious, flat, not a hint of fear. Even though this guy can probably feel your heart hammering into his back.

There’s still shooting on the street. Buzzcut steps forward, pistol between his fingers, silver reflecting the sun into your eyes. He’s unsure if he should lift it or not. Unsure if he should do anything or not. There’s panic painted across his face the color of crimson. He’s not built for this stuff, and he knows it. His free hand comes up, palm forward. Half of a surrender.

Not good enough.

“Put the gun down.”

“Fucking bitch,” Scrawny mutters, wrestling around, long legs bent awkwardly as he leans into your smaller frame.

Fucking idiot, you think. He doesn’t know that this is the fun part. This is why you chose the knife, and not the gun. Blade over bullets. It’d be too easy to rip his brain apart with the squeeze of a trigger. Too quick. Nah, you want to hear him. Want to feel him writhe against you.

You let the blade sink into his whiskered neck. Ever so slightly. He hisses and settles.

“Put – the fucking gun – down.”

“Patrick,” your hostage spits, “just do it.”

Just do it.

Patrick glances down briefly and then nods, eyes flitting back to you. Your eyes stay locked on him, your grip tightens around the knife, but you deafen to the heaving of the chest under your elbow.

Just do it.

Where’s Joel? Is he alive? His voice is ringing in your ears.

Just do it.

There’s a pause between the bullets across the street. Have they hit him?

Just do it.

Patrick’s gun hits the ground with a blunt thud.

Just do it.

And then you feel it.

Searing pain, hot as fire in your upper thigh. A sharp scratch just below your hip, teeth cutting through denim and flesh, then a rutting feeling, twisting and digging and fucking burning as the knife is pushed further and further. You let an angry groan pass your lips and dig your own blade deep into his throat.

His skin bursts open like a bag of water. You pull on him, letting him sink to his knees flush against your chest. Before he’s even on the ground, you’re lurching forward, retrieving the pistol and swiping your knife at Patrick’s outstretched hand. He gasps, clutching his split palm, and then backs away a couple steps.

This time, he lifts both hands. That’s better, fucker.

“Don’t – don’t gotta –”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cut back, staring him down while his buddy writhes at your feet, taking his last few gulps of air. Fresh, warm blood seeps into the grass. Your thigh is on fire.

You edge closer to Patrick, and Patrick edges further away. Until his back is pressed against the wall, his knuckles scratching against the brick; his own blood streaming down his wrist.

“How many are in there?” you ask, head nodding to the doorway, barrel of the gun pressed into his cheek.

He gulps.

“How many?”

“Th-three. Please.”

“Where?”

“One in the h-hall. Two upstairs. Please,” he says again, and you drop the gun, leaving a white ring in his skin.

Mila would sink it in deep, right into his neck. The trapezius. Her favorite spot. She’d just plunge the knife in, push until he collapsed, and then leave him to bleed out. But this is a big guy. He’s gonna need more than that to floor him.

“Alright,” you concede, stepping forward. “Since you asked so nicely.”

You pull your arm down to your hip, knuckles white around the handle and take a fistful of his shirt with the other. Draw him in real close, and angle the blade to the sky, shoving it up under his chin. Nice ‘n snug.

It glides through his skin like it’s butter, and you catch the butt of the knife in your palm, pushing further up. You watch as his eyes widen, his pupils focus on yours long enough to take the memory of your face with him – and then they relax, roll back to check out the metal intrusion behind them.

Patrick gargles, chokes on blood and blade, then gasps as you haul it back out, bright red gushing down his front.

His body folds, both hands come up to cup his torn jaw, and with one kick which cracks into his knees, he’s flat on his face, breathing in dirt and grass and…the blood of his buddy.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” you breathe, limping over him to enter the building.

Shots are firing again upstairs. It’s dark, your eyes take a few seconds to adjust, but you’re in a derelict store. Place is empty, probably looted by these assholes.

Patrick told you there was one guy in the hall, which you assume is through the door sat ajar on your left. Patrick, however, was most likely a liar. And even if he was telling the truth, you don’t know what this place looks like. You have no idea when or where you’ll come across this one guy.

The only things you have on you are your gun and your knife. So you open the revolver again, your trembling fingers fish one bullet out, and you toss it, aiming for the sliver of light between the door and its frame.

It rattles through, rolling over the solid floor.

“Patrick?” a voice calls, and footsteps begin to approach. “Tucker?”

You duck behind a battered, empty shelf.

A third guy, long brown hair tangled across his shoulders, thick beard patchy with white and gray, pushes the door open and sidles in.

“Pat–”

You’re on him before he can finish his pal’s name, same way you jumped Scrawny – now Tucker, out there. Your blade glides across his throat and he buckles, much quicker than his predecessor outside did. You settle him face down on the tile floor, nodding to him as some twisted form of a thank-you, and slip out of the room, swinging down to collect your bullet as you go.

Patrick, as it turns out, was not a liar. The bottom floor of the house is empty. You’re in a long, narrow hallway. A bloodstained runner at your feet. There are muffled voices upstairs – roaring, cursing. The sunlight streaming in through the arch-shaped window on the front door draws you nearer.

Your breathing is labored, with stress, exhaustion, and pain. Your thigh throbs under your jeans, pain shooting like lightning from the wound anytime you put weight on it. You drag yourself to the bottom of the stairs.

More shots. You swear they’ve only been coming from this building for the last five minutes. Where the fuck is Joel?

You lift your foot hesitantly, hovering over the first step. Don’t fuck this up now. You line it up, applying your weight bit by bit until you’re pushing up off the floor with a whimper, balancing on one leg, bracing for the inevitable creak of the wood.

Nothing.

You’re about to step onto the second, when the door behind you bursts open. Light screams into the hallway, shining on you like a spotlight, and three huge figures stumble in the doorway.

“Wh–? That’s the bitch on the horse!”

You throw yourself up the stairs desperately, taking them two – three at a time, but a pair of fists are in your hair, dragging you back down to the man they belong to. You cry out, swinging around, and catch him square on the nose with your elbow. He swears, retreating only momentarily, before looking you dead in the eye, blood pouring down his lips.

“Fucking – cunt,” he seethes, arms darting out to reach up for you.

His attempt is short-lived, for a number of reasons.

First: you kick his chest before he can grab you, sending him hurtling back down where he came from.

Second: one of the two Patrick said would be up here is at the top of the stairs now, taking you by the shoulders and hauling you up.

And third: Joel just opened fire downstairs.

The bullets pelt around the hallway, coming from the side you just snuck in through. He must’ve followed you across the street.

The last thing you see as you’re dragged off into another room is the three of them ducking for cover, and then you’re being flung onto a cold, dusty floor, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the revolver from your waistband. You roll over and groan, staring up at two men standing over you.

One of them – the one whose vice grip dragged you in here – is big and bulky. Like a brick wall. You realize you’ve no chance of getting by him. His fists are clenched, face reddened, black beady eyes boring into yours. Then he lurches forward, steals the gun from the floor beside you, and points it at you. The safety’s still fucking on.

The other looks younger, but still built. Toned. His shoulders swell in the green canvas jacket he’s wearing, patches on the sleeves. Short, black hair, face sculpted and smooth, chin hairless. Lips pursed as he surveys you, tosses over what to do.

“Cute little game you were playin’, down there,” he muses. “Took out half my guys.”

“Wasn’t that hard,” you pant in reply, “you’re all fucking idiots.”

You can hear Joel fighting off the rest of them, grunts and growls of pain echoing up the stairs. You don’t know which are him and which are them, and it sends fleets of panic through your chest, tightening your breath.

“Sounds like your man’s losing.”

You laugh, masking your fear with a roll of your eyes, head leaning back. “I don’t think so.”

The two men look at each other. The black-haired one nods down to you, then turns on his heel. “Do what you want to her,” he tells Brick Wall, bored, and begins walking away.

A repulsive smile pulls on the man’s lips as he glares down at you. Putrid pink cheeks swell, eyes disappear. Your heels dig against the floorboards, beginning to push yourself in a dizzy haze backwards as his huge, beefy hand reaches down for your waistband.

Something of a scream, warped by the way your body so quickly jumps away from him, escapes your throat, but it only makes him laugh. Your hand slips up inside your sleeve, fingers clutch the cold metal handle of your blade. It flicks open under the fabric, and, just as the noise draws the attention of the man now fumbling with the button of your jeans, you take one good swipe and cut through his forearm. One clean slice, separating skin and soaking the tip of your knife in his blood.

He hisses, stumbles backwards two steps, clutching his arm. You throw yourself to your feet, backing into the corner opposite.

“Nico!” Brick Wall cries out, and the canvas jacket spins to face you.

You clutch your knife, hunched, panting. The room slowly tilts, resetting every time you blink, then begins rotating again.

Nico laughs, pulling a gun of his own and aiming it straight at your face. It’s a nightmare – two on one, both of them armed. But it’s better than what was about to fucking happen.

“Fucking – bitch,” Nico snarls.

“Y’all keep saying that,” you utter, eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun, “I don’t get it. I’m goin’ easy on you here.”

“You’re gonna fuckin’ get it,” Nico spits, apparently not paying enough attention.

The building’s silent. The fighting’s stopped downstairs. And there are no loud footsteps making their way up here, which means one thing.

There’s a quieter, deadlier threat on his way up.

A brutal shot fires from the hallway, taking your breath with it, and Brick Wall’s body flops to the floor. Bullet hole in his temple. Spray of blood across the wall. Only three beating hearts left in the building.

Nico seems to gasp, whether from fright or the way he lunges toward you, wrapping a tight, choking arm around your neck and holding the gun to your temple, both of you waiting for Joel to materialize for two very different reasons.

His figure creeps around the doorway, footsteps slow and soft. His eyes flit over yours, shoulders hunched, rifle aimed ahead. Your breath lets go in one huge, shaky gasp, feeling your muscles relax.

“I’ll do it,” Nico hisses, panic strung through his voice tighter than the bow of a violin. “One wrong move and she’s dead, asshole.”

Joel shrugs. “Do it.”

Nico doesn’t move. He shakes your body, pushes the gun harder into your skin.

Joel looks you dead in the eye. “Do – it.”

Your fingers run over the handle of your knife, lowering it until you have a good enough grip to lock your fist and tilt the blade, lifting your right arm and hammering it backwards, stabbing deep into Nico’s side.

Your head leans to the right as he screams out; he falls to the left. And Joel takes his shot.

Nico’s hand bursts open, blood spraying everywhere. The revolver is thrown from his grip, rattling against the floor as your fist takes one good swing across his jaw and then you fall apart from one another – you, rocking into the steady weight of Joel’s body, and Nico, collapsing against a desk.

Joel catches you in his arms and straightens you up, shifting you to aim his gun back at the threat – though there’s not much about him that warrants such a name anymore. He’s slumped against the dark wood, dark stain seeping through his shirt, head rolled back and groaning. One hand cupping what’s left of the other, blood snaking through his fingers and down his hand like vines on a tree trunk. He looks…pathetic.

Joel fires another shot at him without fucking looking; it lands in Nico’s thigh, and he screams. Mouth full of blood and loose teeth, it’s a gargled, drowned howl of pain.

“They try somethin’?” the fierce drawl asks you, brows low, eyes dark. You know what he’s talking about. The button of your jeans is undone.

You want to say, It’s fine, I’m fine. You want to tell Joel to leave Nico to bleed out. He’s the last one, he’ll be dead inside of ten minutes. You want to go, want to climb onto Jet’s back and let her carry your weak, limp body as far from here as her legs will gallop, and then, once she’s rested, further.

But Joel won’t hear any of that, you know it. Won’t leave this little son of a bitch to slip into a half-conscious drowse, the dripping of his own blood ticking down the seconds he has left while the sound of Jet’s hooves fading into the distance lulls him to hell.

He knows you. Joel. He can read lies on your lips like they’re words scrawled into your skin, so that’s a waste of time, too.

You nod. Joel’s jaw locks. And his eyes flood black like ink.

He hands you the rifle, pulls his arms out of his backpack, and paces over to Nico. The bloody, injured figure begins to back up, push himself further away from Joel, who’s reaching down for something.

“Look, man,” Nico heaves, “you gotta see it from our point of v-view. You guys came walkin’ into our territory, you – you…”

There’s the sound of metal dragging across the bare floorboards, vibration strong enough that it rattles your entire body. You turn away, figuring you don’t need to see him pummel a man to death with a broken pipe.

You hear it, though. Every grunt from Joel, every cry from his victim. Every time the pipe bludgeons into him, the wet squelch of warm flesh and blood meeting cold, rusting metal. You wander off to the other side of the room, closing your eyes.

It’s like a pattern – like the shooting from earlier. Joel sucks in breath as he lifts the pipe above his head, groans as he hurtles it down. There’s the blunt sound, a ding almost of the metal whacking against Nico’s skull, the splatter of blood bursting. And repeat. Deep breath as the pipe winds back – groan as it uppercuts through the dusty air, crack of bone breaking when it makes contact.

Finally, he stops. Takes three deep breaths. Drops his weapon. You turn.

The limp body lies at his feet, a dent the size of Texas in the globe of his skull. Olive skin now splattered red, face unrecognizable. Blood pouring out of somewhere – everywhere in his head, circling his body in a thin, fast-moving pool.

Joel’s staring at you when your eyes lift. Sweat glistening on his forehead, lips apart. Shoulders tight. You’re standing face to face, both of your breathing heavy and labored. Exhausted. And yet…you fucking need him.

You take one step forward and suddenly Joel’s advancing, too, hands out to meet you when you collide into him. Your fingers scram for his collar, ripping his jacket from his shoulders while he messily tears apart the waist of your jeans.

His weight bears down on top of you and he pushes you to the floor, following you down. The floorboards are dirty, coated in a thick layer of dust disturbed by the scuffle you just had, and glazed by the blood of those who lost. You sit up only long enough to remove your jacket before Joel’s pinning you down, unbuckling his own jeans and taking a grip of yours.

You flinch when he tugs on the waistband, and he pauses. Looks up, watches your expression twist. Then follows your eyeline, down to your thigh, where the fresh stab wound oozes thick, dark blood.

Joel slowly peels your jeans down your legs and over the gash. When they pool loose around your knees, you bend them, angling your broken skin in the sunlight. It’s swollen, the cut, reddened and raw. Flesh dragged back and forth, torn and ripped around the edges. You can’t even feel the pain of it anymore, only a prickling heat leading up to the ridges of your broken skin.

And so, when Joel’s fingers run through the air directly above it, and he mutters something about cleanin’ you up, you grunt. Straighten your legs. Pull him by the shoulders back down to you. Reply with a rushed whisper, a Hurry the fuck up.

And he listens; he unbuckles his own jeans, sags them low on his hips, and bends your knees at his shoulders. His cock is already stiff, bead of precum at his wide tip, which he dips between your folds to collect your slick, and then fists himself slowly.

Hurryhurryhurry “– the fuck up,” you groan, watching your wet glisten off the smooth skin of his shaft.

He smirks, then pushes straight in.

Your head hits the floor, eyes rolling with it as he fills you up. His face buries between your breasts, voice muffled by the material of the fabric when he lets out an open-mouthed moan. You both adjust to the feeling – the stretch and the tightness – and then, with a couple more shallow thrusts, Joel begins really fucking you.

He drags his forehead up to yours, sweat mixing where your skin touches. Your jaw clenched; you’re hissing every time he hits that sweet spot inside of you. Holding onto him by the shoulders as he rocks his hips forward, pushing you closer and closer to your first release.

Joel lifts his hand, placing it flat on the floor above your head to steady himself. Then, he quickly glances up at it, an unusual look on his face. You crane your neck and follow his eyeline to find his hand gleaming wet with blood. Bright red. Fresh.

It’s the guy he shot. Bullet wound peering out from the other side of the desk you’re lying next to; his blood has travelled across the uneven flooring.

Joel studies his palm intently, thrusts slowing down some. His face looks…puzzled? As if he’s never had to physically encounter the result of him and his bullets. As if he doesn’t know where to put his hand, now that it’s covered in that result.

You do, though. You know exactly where you want him to put it.

You take his wrist in both hands and draw his gaze down to you. The blood drips from his almost trembling palm down your fingers.

His expression changes – softens, when he sees you looking up at him, watching him from under hooded lids. And then it darkens, when you pull his palm flat against your neck, and the red fluid stains your throat.

You can feel the warm wet between Joel’s skin and yours – the same warmth on the back of your head, creeping through your hair as it seeps further across the floorboards. You’re both covered in blood and dirt, anyway. Joel seems to consider the same, and his grip tightens.

His thumb and forefinger pinch, cutting into your windpipe. Your vision falters for a second, Joel blinks out of focus, and a tiny wave of euphoria crashes over your body. A sick grin pulls across your lips, mirrored in Joel’s.

He releases you and you gasp, oxygen surging through your throat like a burst of water in a dried-up pipe. You let go of his wrists to run your blood-soaked fingers across his face, through his hair. He’s still fucking you hard, and you need something to ground you as white-hot heat pools rapidly between your legs, and a knot begins to tighten.

“You like that?” Joel grunts, driving his hips harder.

“Mhm,” you reply, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when his tip punches into your cervix. The edges of the world start to whiten.

“You’re mine, you hear?” he says through gritted teeth. “Belong to me.”

You’re nodding, throat tossing out an, Uhuh.

“Ain’t no one gets this but me, h-uh?”

Joel’s hand is back around your neck, this time taking either side of your jaw between his fingers, keeping your eyes trained on his. Whatever the fuck makes you do it – the look in his eye, silently commanding, or maybe your own fucking desperation – you’re not sure. But you open your mouth wider, rest your tongue on your bottom lip, and plead with your eyes for him to do it.

So, he does.

His jaw slackens and a bead of spit falls from his mouth into yours. He watches as it lands on your tongue and you run it along your lips, coating yourself in him, before swallowing it.

Joel groans, lets a staggered, “F-fuck, baby,” pass his lips.

You smile in return, filthy, but needy, and beginning to crash hard as your orgasm bursts through you.

He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, still stringing wet saliva between your lips as he kisses you. You pull away when it becomes too much, burying your head in his shoulder and biting down on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he coaxes you, “that’s it. Fuck. Nice ‘n tight, baby.”

As soon as the room starts to return to your vision, the feeling back in your body, you’re rolling him over. Ignoring the burn of the wound in your thigh, you push him back down and straddle him, his cock still deep inside.

You roll your hips lazily, fingers coming down to toy with your clit as Joel stretches you even more from this angle. He groans, hands finding home tight on your hips, head rolling back. He bucks his hips and your free hand steadies yourself on his chest.

“Faster, baby,” he says, trying to move you with his hands.

“No,” you hum, “we go slow. I want to go slow.”

He grunts, pissed off. Good. Keep him that way.

You begin to slowly bounce, pads of your fingers drawing circles over your swollen clit, almost hurting with overstimulation.

“Tell me what you did downstairs,” you whisper, eyes falling shut.

“Downstairs?” Joel asks in a broken voice.

“Mhm. What did you do to ‘em?”

He catches on. “Shot one of ‘em under the jaw.”

You shake your head. “Next.”

“Ch-choked one of them out.”

“No. Not him.”

You want blood. You want Joel’s fists wrapped around someone’s vital organs. You want the sound of your screams in his ears, whether they were really there or not, driving him to commit acts so heinous he won’t look you in the eye when he confesses them.

That’s what you want: him to confess them.

“One of ‘em had a Bowie…” he breathes, knowing what you’re looking for.

You fall forward with a deep moan. “That’s it. Him.”

“…hangin’ from his belt. Shot his leg, right above his knee –”

You moan again, sighing as you sink down on his cock and that feeling creeps over you again.

“– then took the knife.”

“He on the floor?”

“He got up. He – fuck – he stood up, ‘n I put it between his shoulders.”

“Fuck, yeah?”

“Yeah. Ripped ‘im apart, baby.”

You cry out in pleasure, bouncing up and down faster and faster the more the image replays in your head. You’re leaning forward, hovering over Joel as your skin slaps against his every time his hard length fills you. Fucking him to the thought of him slaughtering anyone who posed any threat to you. Those guys didn’t make it upstairs, you’re not even sure they got a good look at you before you were hauled away. But Joel tore them limb from limb at just the possibility.

“Did he – did he scream?”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ screamed.”

Your head drops between your shoulders, hands splayed on either side of Joel’s head, and his fingers knot in your hair. He pulls your forehead against his again, whispering into your mouth.

“Begged me not to do it,” he hums, and you’re thrown over the edge for the second time.

Your hips stop moving to allow space for your high; a second blinding, screaming orgasm ripples through you. You’re gasping now, fingers clutching for Joel, but he’s already moving again.

He slips out from underneath you and lets you down gently on your front, taking your hips and pulling them up to him as he positions himself behind you. And then, without a second’s hesitation, he’s back inside you, chasing his own high. Your back arches as he fucks you, chest flat against the floor.

There’s blood fucking everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair, on the floor beneath you, streaming down your thigh. The entire room smells of it – that suffocating, sickly sweet bite of iron. The bitterness so thick that it coats your lungs with every desperate pant of breath.

And finally, fucking – finally­, all the adrenaline and momentum is brought to a climax when Joel releases deep inside you, and you feel yourself contract around him as a third orgasm pulses through you. Your cunt swollen, aching, you almost don’t feel it, but for the way your legs give as soon as he stills inside you.

He’s groaning, borderline fucking whining, before he draws out of you and slumps down beside you on the floor. You’re both staring at one another, almost afraid to touch each other – as if you’re made of glass. Fragile. Breakable.

Yeah. You’re his. And he fucks you like you’re his, like your only purpose is to relieve his stress, tire out his anger, but then…then he looks at you like this, the sunlight twinkling in his warm eyes, dust falling over him like snow. Then he shifts the hair from your face so he can take a proper look at you, study every detail on your face – the cracks in your lips, the curve of your nose. And you know you’re so much more than that to him.

Always have been. Always will be.

You lean over and run your fingers across his cheek, dried blood the color of wine all over your hands. Joel lies still, places a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb when it touches his lips. Your nails sift through his beard. His eyes close over, laying in the comfortable stillness as you trace his face, delicately drawing from his dark brows down to the patches of skin between the graying hair on his jawline.

He doesn’t move when you push yourself up and roll over onto his chest. Doesn’t flinch when you press your mouth to his neck, running from the bottom of his ear up to the tip of his chin.

And when you bring your lips up to meet his, he kisses you back.

His hand sneaks through your hair to the crown of your head and he sits up, rolling you onto your back and caging you underneath him, teeth grazing along your bottom lip, asking it to part. His tongue slips inside, wet and warm and comforting against yours. Your fingers lace at the back of his head, your own cradled in his hands on the hardwood.

It’s like he’s starving. Like he’s been holding off on doing this, for whatever reason. And now that you’ve been the one to open the floodgates – fucking, destroy them – everything comes rushing to the surface. Every time he wanted to, and didn’t. Every time he was buried inside you, and purposefully held his jaw apart from yours. Every minute he’s spent since he met you, without his lips on yours. It all comes rocketing up.

And before it gets too heated, before he begins winding that coil again, he’s pulling away. Lips leaving yours, noses bumping together as they part. You smile, and Joel breathes a laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey.”

You glance down at his flannel: stained with dirt, with sweat, with blood. It brings you down a little from your sun-kissed, golden-rayed eutopia. You suck in a deep breath, and his finger hooks under your chin to lift your face to his.

“Should get that leg covered.”

You nod, and he pulls up off of you, letting you sit up. He wanders around the room, checking the backpacks of Nico and his guys, and pulls some gauze and a bottle of alcohol from a side pocket.

He kneels slowly by your side, offers you the white pad. You shake your head. He has to do it. You don’t know why, don’t know what’s stopping you from wrapping your own wound – something you’ve done hundreds of times by now. But it has to be Joel.

He tips the bottle over the dressing, dousing it in alcohol, and settles it carefully on the floor by your hip. You look at one another, a Ready? and a No, but do it anyway pass across your gaze.

The clear fluid seeps from the pad down his hands, thinning the bloodstains and dragging them in light orange streaks down to his wrist. And when your eyes are distracted, watching the stream of blood and alcohol, he presses the gauze to your thigh.

“Fuck – you,” you stammer, eyes screwing tight enough that you see stars.

“I know,” Joel breathes, and pushes the gauze down harder. Firmer. It shoots heat up your leg, flashes the image of that plank of wood named Tucker who stabbed you across your mind. Your teeth grit, the tendons in your neck leap.

Still holding the pad to your skin, Joel winds a dressing around your thigh. He knots it, gives it a little tug, and then sits back on his heels.

“Okay?”

You tilt your head, lift your eyebrows in form of a Yeah. A half-truth – it feels better to have it covered, but fuck is it stinging. You lift a roll of spare bandage and wrap your wrists.

Joel nods, and then passes you your jeans.

“We should go,” he tells you. Then, softer, kinder, “Gotta go back to the pharmacy. Still supplies in the…”

You push yourself to your feet, unable to listen to the end of his sentence. Ghost was carrying most of your food. The map is still in her saddlebag. Ammo, too. The thought of seeing her again turns your stomach, and Joel seems to figure.

“Why don’t you head out back, go get Jet? I’ll grab everything.”

You stare down at him. Your head shakes before words filter through it. You don’t want to be apart from him again. Not today, at least.

He seems to figure that, too. He nods once, then stands with a low grunt. He fixes his jeans, shrugs his jacket back over his shoulders, and his hand finds the nape of your neck again. He pulls you nearer him, your lips brush against the shoulder of his jacket, and then you split, grabbing your supplies and searching the room for any that these assholes might’ve left to you.

When your pockets are full, you limp at Joel’s heels down the stairs and outside, glancing down the street. The silhouette of a horse slowly meanders back over to you, head bobbing, hooves clicking across the asphalt. Show’s over.

Joel stops and waits for her to approach, lets you bury your face into her strong body when she reaches you.

You squeeze your eyes shut against her muzzle, your forehead between her glossy eyes, and hope the message finds a way through flesh and bone – strong enough and sincere enough to push its way through your skull to hers. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Joel’s hand leaves your back and he walks slowly over to the pharmacy.

Your hands run over Jet’s soft mane, combing her gently, reassuring her as if she’s the one covered in blood, bruised and pained. You hook a finger around her bridle and follow Joel.

As you slowly approach, he’s emerging from the shadows of the pharmacy, a backpack in each hand. He reaches the same curb you were stood on less than an hour ago, and looks up to check on you. Your stomach lurches, glancing down to his boots.

There she is. Black coat shining, chest not moving. Legs splayed out on the road. Pool of blood around her velvety soft ears. She seemed so lean, so fit and graceful when she was on all fours. Now, lying in a heap in the shade of some barren street, she looks huge and clumsy. It makes your eyes swell with tears.

You shift with Jet, turning her to avert her gaze. It’s stupid; she’s a horse. How would she know what’s going on? But then, the way she’s breathing – soft, quiet. It’s like – it’s like she fucking knows.

Joel does it gently – kneels beside Ghost, searches in each pocket for your belongings. He knows your eyes are on him. He pulls a box of bullets and the folded-up map from the bag, slips them into his jacket pocket. Collects the tins of soup and canned fruit in one hand, standing to roll them into Jet’s bag.

He turns to you. “You got your switchblade?”

You nod, and he holds his hand out. You drop the heavy knife into his palm, and he bends back down to Ghost’s side.

He uses your blade to cut the bridle by the corner of her mouth, slicing through the leather running from the bit up to the headpiece. Then pulls it apart, a single strap with a tiny buckle still attached, a silver hoop at one end.

He reaches for your backpack, drags it across the rough ground, and knots one of the canvas ties through the silver hoop of Ghost’s bridle. Triple knots it, to make sure it won’t budge. And then he leans back, surveys his handiwork, and turns to gain your approval.

You can’t do much more than nod, tears dappling down your raw cheeks.

When he’s sure he’s got everything, Joel passes you your backpack, slings his on, and then kneels by her side one last time. He places a gentle palm on her head, runs his hand down her muzzle. Sniffs.

A thank-you, you think. A Farewell, brave girl.

He stands again, turns back to you. Waits for you to decide it’s time to move on.

“I can’t do it…” you whisper, and Joel nods, taking a step closer. “I don’t want to leave her.”

And then you’re sobbing, and he’s taking hold of your shoulders and pulling you into his arms, and your cries are muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt. You wrap yourself close around him, bury deeper into his chest, and Joel tightens his grip. The steady beat of his heart pulls you back down, grounds you. You match your breathing with his and pull away.

You approach Ghost shakily, then crouch, fix her mane out of her eyes, scratch her silky ears one last time, and let her go.

Joel’s face is tight when you turn back. Eyebrows low. You bite the inside of your cheek as you pass him, and then hoist yourself up onto the brown horse’s back.

He pulls himself up in front and leans back into you, head cocked to wait for your signal. You snake your arms around his waist and feel a delicate hand rest on top of yours, interlaced on his belt buckle. His thumb traces your knuckles, and when you lean your ear between his shoulder blades, he clicks to Jet.

The horse swerves off, beginning your long journey out of the city.

----------

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[smartkookiee]

MasterList

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . ** . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . ** . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

That Night of Graduation // Jeon Jungkook One Shot

❥pairing: Jungkook x reader

❥genre/rating: 18+ explicit content, f2l, right person wrong time??? if you squint, post college story,

❥description: After a stupid game of Truth or Drink you are convinced into telling everyone about the time you and Jungkook hooked up together the night of college graduation. A missed connection that you and Jungkook hadn't even talked about. Bringing up some unexpected feeling that you hadn't realized had been lingering between the two of you.

❥tags: drinking, swearing, smut (hehehehe), you and Jungkook are idiots, happy end

✧˚ · . click here ✧˚ · . (cross posted to ao3)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:

Jeon Jungkook Series

❥pairing: Jungkook x reader

❥genre/rating: 18 + explicit content, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, these two really do hate each other

❥description: You and Jungkook have always been at each other's throats, bound by a mutual disdain that runs deep. You both would rather step into traffic than be alone together. But when a chance encounter at a wedding leads to an unexpected and forbidden arrangement, the lines between enemies and something more begin to blur.

As your fiery clashes give way to stolen moments and fragile truces, both of you are forced to confront the pain and secrets that have kept you apart for so long. When the past and present collide, you and Jungkook must decide whether the scars you both hide are worth revealing—and if your fractured bond can ever be whole again.

❥tags: smut smut SMUT, swearing, drinking, smoking, fighting (not physical), they do end up together, angst, slooooowwwww burrrrrnnnnnnnnnn, trust me on this one it will be worth it, mentions of cheating (not the main pair), minor character death (none of the boys)

Series Masterlist

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . ** . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . ** . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader

❥genre/rating: strangers to lovers, 18+

❥description: How to Lose A Guy in 30 Days! A guide of what you shouldn't do in the first 30 days of a relationship if you don't want him running for the hills! You get to see my experiment with the things I did wrong in the first 30 days of a brand new relationship.

You have just received your first opportunity to write your own column at Composure Magazine. This is everything that you have ever dreamed of and should be simple enough, drive a guy away in 30 days. Across town Jungkook, who hasn't committed to anyone in years, is issued a bet that he can stay with the same person for one month. Both of you being so head strong to achieve your goals cause a myriad of hilariously disastrous dates, unexpected sparks, and a countdown that neither is ready for. 30 days to fall in love or fall apart. After all, all is fair in love and war.

❥warnings: set in the universe of How to Lose A Guy in Ten Days, comedy, sort of a crack fic???, drinking, swearing, dirty talk, eventual smut, some angst, Y/N is a love girl (sigh), Jungkook used to be a playboy (heavier sigh), fluff, Y/N basically torturing Jungkook, Jungkook will never surrender lmao, I watched the movie recently and I haven't been able to get this idea out of my head (like seriously I plotted out the entire fic in like three hours), you don't have to have seen the movie to get this fic.

❥disclaimer: Might be a bit before I start this fic, I want to get Wounds We Never Show a little further along before I decide to juggle two Jungkook fics (sigh). (Also sort of want to get an interest check on this fic hehe)

COMING SOON

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・.・。.・゜✭・.・✫

[gilbirda]

The king's dead (long live the king) - Masterpost

In this post I'll be updating everything I have on this AU. The tag will be "Eldritch Ghost King!Danny" if you want to search my blog!

It was a big project I wanted to challenge myself with, with crazy lore and worldbuilding, with a lot of exploration of eldritchness and angst. But I just got absorbed by DPxDC crossover, saw my niche in writing romance, got obsessed with Jason and Jazz and the rest is history.

I feel it's a crime none of this will probably see the light of day, so. Here. Chaotic mode it is. Fish my posts boy. I will post sporadically about this AU. You have been warned.

If someone wants to take anything from the lore or ideas, you are welcome to! Tag me so I can check it out!

Also I'm down for discussing AU with people 👀✨

What is this fic about?

This was supposed to be my magnum opus. It's the "main" fic in my AO3 series You and me and our best friends make three. So far the series has side stories or one shots located in different moments of the story. The main fic was supposed to tell the full story on how it happened, how we ended up here.

Back in 2021, when I went down the rabbit hole with Danny Phantom, I envisioned a neat AU where Danny was this eldritch ghost king... with a twist.

I love eldritch Danny (those who know me can confirm) but I wanted to explore something I haven't seen a lot even in the angst torture-vivisection saturated market of this 20 year old fandom:

What if the Ghost King is not power, but a sacrifice?

What if it is not known that the Ghost King is actually the host of a powerful entity (I called it The Whisper, because it talks in your mind in whispers) who is always hungry. Always. Hungry. And if it doesn't have a host will eat all the Infinite Realms then the Living World.

The Ghost King makes a pact with the Whisper. The King can tap into the ectoplasm, the energy, of every creature, object, city, etc. in the Realms and convert that energy into food for the Whisper.

But nobody knows this. Is a secret shared from King to King, and you only find out after accepting the crown.

Why would you refuse? Is the King, it's an honor, is power, is greatness. Who would deny the Whisper its food?

Only one managed to sever the connection.

His name was Pariah Dark.

He went insane.

What is The Whisper?

Basically this ⬆

Is a cosmic entity that was stranded on Earth a loooong time ago. It created the Infinite Realms with its flesh and blood (ectoplasm) and all ectoplasmic creatures come from it.

But its hungry.

-----

Posted chunks of story so far and their order in the timeline:

Act I:

Desired - Danny meets the Core for the first time

Ceremony - Danny is crowned King

Party like you are dead - the Ghost King invites all of Amity Park to his castle. Reveals all around.

Act II:

Never judge a book by its cover (dpxdc crossover)(my very first dpxdc work!) - Justice League summons the Ghost King to help deal with an eldritch creature. What they get may be a worse monster

Hidden identities? Never heard of them (dpxdc crossover) - direct sequel to the previous part. Batman and some of the colony go to Amity to investigate. They catch glimpses of horrors that they can't help but wonder

Remedy (+18!!!)(my very first DP fanfic!) - self indulgent Porn Without Plot in this universe. Placed in a distant future where everything is fine

Race ya! - funny haha thing set a bit after Remedy

[ramblingoak]

Mini Golf and Kisses

Mushy May in Lucifer's Hollow: Day 7 - First Kiss

Mountain x Rain

This fic is set in an alternate universe in a town called Lucifer's Hollow. For Mushy May I'll be using the prompts to post little snippets of life for the humans and ghouls that live there 💙 Thank you to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together!

~ In Lucifer's Hollow Mountain has a little farm and sells flowers at the local farmer's market. Rain meets him there while selling his art. ~

Warnings: none, sfw, 700 words and thank you to @ghuleh-recs for the dividers!

Mountain didn’t want the night to end.

He drove back to Rain’s as slow as he thought he could get away with.  Taking his time at each stop sign and skipping the main road through town to take the long way.  When he snuck a glance over at Rain the water ghoul had a little smile on his face so Mountain didn’t think he minded.  When they’d finally pulled into Rain’s driveway, Mountain couldn’t bring himself to speak.  He didn’t want to do anything to break the spell of the night.

It was Rain that finally ended up being the brave one to speak first.   

“I had a really great time tonight Mountain.”

He resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air but barely, instead he kept his hands on the steering wheel.  Mountain was afraid if he took them off Rain would see how badly they were shaking from his nerves.

“I did too.”  He turned to give Rain a soft smile, appreciating once again how good he looked in Mountain’s sweater.  After a moment the smile turned into a smirk and he couldn’t help but tease him.  “Despite you cheating.”

“I’m never going to live that down am I?”  

Rain was looking at him with such fondness it made Mountain’s heart ache.  He’d give anything to be able to see that look every day from here on out.

“Cheating at mini golf is a shameful thing.  I’ll need to put a notice out in the paper about it.  Warn everyone in town.”  Mountain couldn’t help but grin when Rain rolled his eyes.  “No one will ever want to take you on a date there.”

For a second something sad seemed to flit across Rain’s face but it was gone before Mountain blinked.  He muttered an old Ghoulish curse under his breath while he reached over and took one of Rain’s hands.  Mountain marveled again at how soft they were, at how delicate.  They were just as lovely as the rest of him.

“I need to apologize for a couple of things.”

Mountain raised an eyebrow at Rain’s words, squeezing the ghoul’s fingers to try and reassure him.

“Apologize for what?  You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well, only one apology is for you.  Technically.”  Rain took a deep breath and Mountain squeezed his hand again.  “I’m afraid you won’t be getting your sweater back.  Ever.”

Mountain couldn’t stop the pleased grin from forming on his face even if he tried.  He also couldn’t stop the rumbling deep in his chest, something old and primal coming to life at the thought of Rain keeping something of his.  Something he made with his own hands.

“I’d be ok with that.”

“Good, because it’s very soft and warm.  And it smells like you.”

Their eyes connected in the dark, the only light that illuminated them was from some fairy lights Rain had dangling along his front porch.  

“What was the other apology?”

“That one isn’t for you, it’s for my mom.”  Mountain raised an eyebrow, curious as to why the water ghoul was bringing his mom up right now of all times.  Rain turned towards him, scooting a little closer on the bench seat.  His eyes were bright and so blue as he looked up into Mountain’s, his next words whispered like a dark confession.  “I always promised her I’d never put out on a first date.”

That rumbling was back, louder this time and Mountain found himself tugging on the hand he was still holding.  Tugging until Rain was practically in his lap.  He reached up and cupped Rain’s face, gently stroking a thumb along his cheekbone.  

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

“I think so too.”  Rain leaned closer until there was barely any room between them.  “Mountain?”

“Yes?”

“I need you to kiss me now.”

Mountain didn’t even hesitate, he cradled Rain’s head in his hands and brought their lips together.  The kiss was perfect just like Rain, just like their date had been, just like all the times they had spent together so far…

And just like the rest of their lives together would be.

If you'd like to be added/removed from the tag list (or if I accidentally left your name off) of this fic or any of my others please leave a comment or send me a dm! Thank you 💙

My Masterlist ~ My Archive of our Own ~ My Ko-Fi Tip Jar

More fics in the Tales From Lucifer's Hollow masterpost

[hoeforhao]

Rusted Away 🍂|| Kwon Soonyoung ||

🍁pairing : ex!soonyoung × fem!reader

🍁genre : exes to lovers, bakery shop au sort of, mostly angst, fluff towards the end, mild smut, mutual pining, slow build up.

🍁warnings : none for this part. will be added in the later ones!

🍁summary : you and soonyoung broke up almost two years ago because according to him sharing a common interest point with each other, to talk about at the end of the day was a necessity. How will things turn out for the spiriting away lovers now that their friend group has assigned them both the common job of baking muffins for the fall party!

🍁part : 1/3 [for fall-ing for u collab ]

🍁word count : 0.8k

🍁author's note : this is my first ever collab and am so excited!!! also i'm posting a full blown fic after a long break for writer's block and i don't know how this has turned out. please let me know your views ♡ last but not the least thanks to @playmetheclassics for beta-reading this for me! ily <3

"Y'all can't be serious right now" you sounded quite disgruntled with your two minions on other side of the conference call, plotting against your sanity, for universe knows how long!

"Well I mean you two quite literally run the two most loved bakeries of our neighborhood. It shouldn't come as a surprise that we will team you up." Steph's plain and unbothered voice echoes right into your ears, specially the 'team up part'.

"Yeah it shouldn't have been surprising or disappointing if it was someone else Steph. But it's with him. With Soonyoung. The Kwon Soonyoung. Out of all the people out there, you two would at least know best about what he did" your voice started shaking with each word it got closer to mentioning his name ; again ; after 2 whole years.

You still were in disbelief that your two most close ones did this to you. After being with you all those nights you cried till you couldn't breathe anymore, holding your trembling body whenever you had the worst breakdowns to seeing you slowly heal from the scabs and stabs left by him, Steph and Niall were with you the whole time. Them now setting you up with him again, for a silly little fall party felt nothing but seriously insensitive to you.

Pressing down on the side button of the phone, you were now sitting on the bed, all covered up in your comfort blankie with a blacked out screen laying on your lap ; the glass of which reflected the browns and caramels of the backdrop outside the misty windows, onto your own ones.

Fall was finally around the corner, which meant that the roads will now be iced all rusty, drizzled with honey leaves and sprinkled on by dark wine twigs. Fall also meant one more thing...the one very thing that was like the warm covering on your wounds, that meant the most to you above anyone and everyone. Your sycamore tree!

Pushing away the fluffy blanket on your legs, you quickly pulled down your pyajams to get dressed into something more appropriate for the weather outside, something more comfy and something that made you feel like you're back home once again a.k.a soonyoung's brown hoodie. While havocing through your entire wardrobe to take out all his belongings and leave back not a single essence of him around you and on you, the idiot missed out on that one brown hoodie he owned...rather the one he loved the most and the one he gave to you on your first date - under the sycamore tree.

You knew that the only thing, the only friend that could soothe the burns on you right now was that tree, the one true buddy that has stood by your side through the pains even your best friends couldn't heal, the big brother that shadowed you whenever the world's bright rays tried to scorch on your skin. So without wasting any more seconds, you hurriedly ran down the stairs leading to the hall. Upon reaching the main door of your small apartment you twist on the knob to pull open the door, and quite instantly a gust of cinnamon flavored wind engulfs all your senses.

Fall was truly your soul season. No matter how much turmoil your life was going through, or how much clogged your brain was to come up with new ideas, a walk down the leaf stained path of your favorite garden while the season's cool breeze flowed through your hair, definitely helped the caged Robin in you fly free finally.

Since the day Soonyoung broke your heart and left you all alone amidst the rusted haze, you've been visiting this sycamore tree every fall, to reminisce all the warm happy moment spent under its shade. To feel the same happiness as the day you planted the tree with your best friend, when you both were only 8 year olds, with the person who held you like the softest cotton bud dispersing away in the breeze all these years only to tear you off the stem at one go now.

You were consumed in your thoughts about how crazy love was, about how the twigs that have seen two people be in love for so long, hang around it for years, the branches that have been painted with countless giggles and soft kisses, now had its leaves shedding themselves from the agony of seeing its spiriting away child standing beneath it to shelter herself from the bleeding marks left by its other child.

Just as you were about to sit down on the dewy grass covering the entire ground below, your phone notification sound blew up suddenly. Drawing the device out from your tote, your eyes fell onto the lit up screen to see the name you've been running away from all this time.

[blainesebastian]

first christmas (ccg universe) 

words: 1,913 ship: austin butler x reader summary: (anon request) “Austin and Wife (reader) and they have a baby together and its their first Christmas as a family of three”  notes: masterlist on my sidebar :) will be posting more fics after Christmas. hope everyone has a great holiday! warnings: none tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, @gigisworldsstuff, @stylesmendeshearted

It’s almost ironic that you spend most of your time when you’re working on set praying not to get sick. Like it’s literally a mantra of some kind, worrying if a little sniffle is allergies or a cold, a sore throat stress or something worse, and usually you’re able to keep good vibes combined with Vitamin C and make it through with no issues.

So of course the universe said—you’re finally on break for Christmas and you’re sick.

You suppose you shouldn’t be too surprised—it’s been nonstop for you and Austin ever since you had your baby, Luci, a month ago. Being constantly drawn into the public eye for films, interviews, events and then on top of it, being parents, you knew it was going to be a complicated and stressful journey. But neither of you have any regrets, and you can’t find the right words to express how utterly happy you are with your little family. Austin too, you can see it in his eyes every time he holds his daughter, when he draws you close for a kiss.

It's something you wouldn’t trade for the world.

But being on cloud nine and stress factor eleven, consistently, with not really a break in-between? It definitely takes a toll.

Three days into your Christmas vacation, all the decorations set and gifts bought, and you’re fighting off this bug that has you feeling congested and tired. Before you fell asleep last night, you could see it in Austin’s eyes as he made you a cup of tea—he’s worried. Not just about you, though obviously that’s one of his main priorities, but he’s also concerned about handling Luci on his own.

It's not that Luci doesn’t adore him, she does, but it’s…clear she’s a bit of a mama’s girl to start. You make jokes that it’s all about the milk and feeding but there’s only so many times that she’s gonna cry in Austin’s face when you pass her off to him before he starts to get offended. It’s all one big learning experience, you know both know that, but it doesn’t eliminate the sting of your daughter preferring one parent over the other…and she’s not even a moody teenager yet.

You feel like it’s utterly a shock to you, being some sort of natural with kids—you wouldn’t have bet on that in a lifetime. You’re not one to assume things are automatically going work out for you, so it’s surprising that this does, at least for right now. You assure your husband that it has everything to do with that time in the womb, the bonding, that feeling of connectedness. You’re sure it has something to do with it, right?

You hear some shuffling in the living room and that’s what wakes you up, running a hand over your face and sniffling as you squint at the clock on your bedside table. Three-thirty. Groaning lightly, you press your face into the pillow and reach across the bed, palm hitting cold sheets.

Austin’s been long gone from them.

As you sit up, you realize it’s him in the living room, and he’s crooning softly. You can’t quite tell what song he’s singing, but it’s most likely Blue Christmas because of course it is. Pulling the sheets back, you shiver as you reach for a sweatshirt and tug it over your head, grabbing the sleeves to yank down over your hands.

Feet into slippers on the floor, you move slowly to open your bedroom door and wander down the hall. It’s then you hear the choruses of crying mixing with Austin attempt to soothe your daughter, talking (pleading) with her and running through a few Christmas renditions that he can remember off the top of his head. Curling your hair around your ear, you lean against the living room doorframe, your eyes finding him pacing back and forth—from the tree to the fireplace with Luci against his chest.

She’s crying in earnest, her cheeks flushed red. You wince a little at the sound and the dramatics, Austin soothing her with warm shh’s and rubbing her back in patient circles. Admittedly, it’s not a bad sight to see, your husband with Luci in his arms, trying his best to soothe her. The lights are low, the warm glow of the Christmas lights on the garland resting on the mantel and sparkling in the tree creating something comforting that Luci is not grasping yet.

“I know, I know,” Austin murmurs, his hand moving to cup the back of her head.

Your mom’s told you before that sometimes babies just need to cry but it never feels as simple when you’ve got one wailing in your arms and it seems like they might never stop. You think it’s silly for Luci to play favorites with you—how could she not completely adore Austin? Maybe you’re just bias—a soft smile tugging the corners of your mouth as you think about the gentle blue of his eyes, those wild curls that tuff along his forehead, the soothing quality of his voice, especially when he’s singing. He’s your favorite for sure.

“She giving you a hard time?” You ask, moving to perch yourself on the arm of the couch.

A soft noise that sounds like amusement leaves Austin’s nose, “Nothin’ but trouble,” He teases as he gently bounces her, “Sorry we woke you.”

You wave him off gently, your gaze wandering to the Christmas tree for a moment. Definitely one of your favorite sights of the holidays and it’s one of those weird kinda moments because, even though that tree has been up countless holidays you and Austin have spent together, this year’s completely different. A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you notice that ornament Ashley got you both, the baby’s first Christmas printed on a trio of polar bears. It’s cute.

“I wasn’t sleepin’ too sound anyways.” You assure him.

Austin shifts her from one side of his chest to another, his thumb smoothing back and forth along her neck, “Fever?”

You shake your head, “No, just generally miserable. And I missed you in bed.”

Austin chuckles lightly, “Well I think that makes one of you. Luci’s about to hold her own mutiny if I don’t pass her over soon.”

And while Austin is obviously joking, you can hear that slight tilt in his voice—nearly unrecognizable if you didn’t know him, that he’s genuinely worried that he’s fucking up this whole parenting thing. Your heart aches for him because…he’s wonderful, he’s everything that you’d want as a partner and as a father for Luci. Moments like this, when it’s hard? Of course it feels less true to him.

Right after you gave birth, you were having trouble breastfeeding. And it’s one of those things where it felt incredibly important for you to be able to do, not just for the baby’s health but…in your own mind, something that really highlighted you crossing the threshold into motherhood. It had felt so easy to do it in the hospital but then you struggled without the guidance of the nurse when you came home—you can remember feeling that sort of helplessness, unworthiness, frustration. Especially when you tried to call the assistance number the hospital gave you when you left, the woman on the other end of the phone making you feel terrible that you couldn’t figure it out that you ended up crying.

There’s a twitch of a smile at the corners of your mouth at recalling Austin’s reaction—grabbing the phone with a protective, firm tone as he asks, “what did you say to my wife?”

“You’re doing perfectly,” You assure him, important for him to know it. You sniffle and run a hand through your hair, “Did you try wrapping her up?”

Austin lets out a breath, “Feel like I’ve tried everythin’.” He chuckles before moving to a blanket you keep on the back of the couch. He sits down near you, laying the blanket out on his legs. Setting Luci down, he begins to swaddle her but not too tight.

“Yeah just—hold her for a few moments.” You reach out and run your fingers through the blonde curls in the front part of his hair.

Austin draws Luci into his chest, keeping her close as he looks up at you. A soft smile pulls at your mouth and you lean down to brush a kiss along his hairline in solidarity. Luci’s still a bit fussy but you can sense her starting to calm and she does settle, much more content with Austin holding her, rocking her.

Austin shakes his head, moving the one arm that’s not holding Luci to rest his hand on your thigh. He rubs gently, thumb brushing over your knee, “How’d you know that would work?”

A soft laugh vibrates in your chest because it’s definitely not a science, “Sometimes babies just need to cry…other times they like feeling like a burrito.”

Austin laughs and nods, moving to stand up with Luci again to keep rocking her, hoping she’ll fall asleep. He cups your cheek, brushing his lips along your forehead…as if you can’t tell he’s subtlety checking for a fever.

“Go back to sleep, alright?” He says softly, “I’ll join you soon.”

You stand from the couch and nod, brushing your hand along the crown of Luci’s head before moving to walk down the hallway. Turning to briefly look over your shoulder, you watch as Austin holds his daughter, beginning to sing a Christmas tune under his breath.

Definitely an image you don’t mind going back to sleep with.

--

There’s a stillness on Christmas morning that can’t be replicated—after breakfast, a few presents having been opened, two mugfuls of coffee, it settles on the living room like the snow outside the window. Big, fat flakes gently fluttering down.

Luci is sleeping soundly (for now) in a bassinet near the couch and Austin lets out a long sigh as he settles next to you on the floor near the Christmas tree. He settles his hand along your leg, rubbing back and forth in small circles.

You smile a little, “You know one of my favorite ways to look at a Christmas tree?”

He shakes his head, curious, and you shuffle away from the tree a bit before lying down, taking him with you. A soft chuckle leaves his lips as you lay side by side, shoulders and up underneath the Christmas tree. You tilt your head back a little, looking straight up through the branches of the artificial tree, seeing nothing but patchworks of twinkling multi-colored lights.

“Why is this your favorite?” Austin asks, turning his head a bit to look at you.

“I dunno,” You admit with a laugh before thinking about it a moment, then, “I guess because it’s something I always used to do with my dad when I was little.” You shrug, inching a bit closer to Austin so your shoulders brush. “Just nostalgic.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, nodding, turning his head back to look up through the branches as well. “Somethin’ we can do with Luci.”

You can’t help but grin, stomach fluttering at his words. Reaching your fingers down, your hand brushes his. It’s all it takes for Austin to take your palm against his own, lacing your fingers, his thumb tracing the coolness of the wedding band on your finger.

You love that thought.

[astronicht]

20 Questions for Fic Writers Tag Game

@birdylion tagged me, thanks!

1. how many works do you have on AO3?

48 apparently. I started moving stuff over from ff.net pretty late it looks like, 2014-ish.

2. what’s your total AO3 word count?

465,791

3. what fandoms do you write for?

Various! In my heart I sort of consider myself currently a mix of mdzs and F1 rpf main, hockey rpf almost main. None of these stances reflect reality <3 I most recently posted moto gp rpf, mdzs, and hockey rpf-- so hey wait maybe I'm not totally off-base.

The WIPs I'm most active in right now are, amusingly, Stranger Things and Stargate Atlantis, with mdzs making itself known on the back burner.

4. what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

WHO IS WINNING IN THE THUNDERDOME TODAY

the field meets the wood - mdzs, wangxian. The one where Lan Wangji is kidnapped by salt merchants, and Wei Wuxian unmakes them with historical math. I think this is the best prose writing I've ever done and I'm thrilled that it's currently outpacing the other usual suspects.

pro bono - mdzs, wangxian. The vampire AU I wrote as a joke based on a thread for a few friends. Due to a couple shipwrecks and banishments, WWX and LWJ get stranded in the Italian Renaissance; Lan Wangji is also a vampire; don't worry about it. If (1) is my best prose this is the overall storytelling I'm most satisfied with.

2:08 AM, softly - mdzs, wangxian modern AU. About coming home after a bad night out to find someone you most want to see. Prose is kinda weak, alas, but I get why it's up here.

swinger of birches - mdzs, wangxian Practical Magic AU. Coolest writing experience I will probably ever have. I wrote this live, via tweets, over the course of a month. I had a little staging document but i was only two or three tweets ahead at any given time. It felt like-- oral storytelling, or something.

somnophilia in the time of vampires - mdzs, wangxian, sequel to pro bono. Pretty much entirely pwp. I set it in the same inn that Anne Rice set a scene in Cry to Heaven, as a little joke for myself.

What's interesting is that every single one of these was written either directly for someone, or because someone wanted something. I love filling a need.

5. do you respond to comments?

Yeah, some, though it's totally random which ones I get to.

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

salt and vinegar, vinegar and salt (hockey rpf) is literally tagged "hopeful ending" so it's not too bad, but it's not meant to be perfectly happy.

scurvy (mdzs, wangxian) and the fic it follows (floodplain (silt)) I wrote very purposefully to not end with a sense of ease. I care about these characters I lot, and they tend to get softened down in fanon after a while. I love them in the parts of canon when they're miserable and cruel and unable to get better, too. And I needed to write that, I guess.

7. what’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

haha probably swinger of birches (see question 1). It's a romance movie fusion, which helps, but it also leans into the "second chances to have everything you thought you lost in the war" of the canon. Plus the "hey what if we DIDN'T pass on the generational trauma" that is the absolute heart of mdzs.

8. do you get hate on fics?

Once got a serial TERF commenter who was going around. Weakling.

9. do you write smut? If so, what kind?

That's my wheelhouse, baby, that's what I'm most comfortable writing and what I like. I've covered a lot, but idk what the themes are. Except maybe the intimacy of sex in the bathroom/in the shower. I write a passable amount of kink, I guess? I also write a passable amount of lesbian sex. this is because i'm gay.

10. do you write crossovers?

No. I do AUs a lot, including AUs set in another fictional universe, but I don't like crossovers. They make my teeth itch.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

Hope not!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah! I have blanket permission for translations, so long as they link back to the original (and with a strong preference that they're on ao3). Someone did my wangxian lesbian scific AU in Spanish, which is cool as hell.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yeah! Well! Okay they're not POSTED but that's mostly my fault. I learned to co-write with @dulosis. phillyverse will take the world by storm! geoverse will be our white whale and THEN take the world by storm! we have a batshit number of words of chatfic from back when I was more active in mdzs. Frankly some of my favorite writing.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you will?

in the pines, the wangxian semi-pro-dom modern AU fic. I accidentally lived out the final scene in real life with a tinder hookup (NOT what you're thinking. I took her out to eat after one of the hookups, and I was not considering fic plots at the time), and it feels kinda bad now to try to write the wangxian version of something that actually meant a lot to me (because i am both a lesbian and NOT good at casual). I think she only reads Star Wars fic if anything, but what if she found it, you know?

Also this one hockey rpf fic that was like, very much about Leon renewing his passport and the deal with living on a continent you didn't grow up on, but also-- kind of did. That's only in the gdocs tho.

16. What are your writing strengths?

You'll know the atmospheric humidity in any given scene.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Goddamn dialogue.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

A few. I've seen a very small number of good fics where bilingual folks are doing neat cultural/diaspora stuff with it, especially in modao with chinese diaspora writers. That's cool as hell, but also not my lane. I've also seen people in hockey rpf do some neat stuff with this with, say, Leon Draisaitl, especially in the context of a non-German pov character learning some German. But in those cases, the best simulation of hearing a German sentence you don't understand is written with dialogue in English interspersed with blanks.

Instead of just writing out full sentences of dialogue in a different lang from the prose, I love being conscious of what language the characters are speaking in. I am much more interested in playing with that, and I can do that best in English. If my characters are switching between languages I switch up the English diction a bit; I remember how names will come up in sentences differently, I think about how something would sound to whisper. For untranslatable things, or stuff that sounds weird in English, I just use the word in the language, in the English sentence, and that's that. I love having to abide by the limitations and abilities of Chinese or Italian or whatever; I love knowing how dialect will affect communication.

The only time a full line of dialogue in a foreign language makes sense is if the pov character doesn't understand it. But it's very unlikely that the pov character will BOTH a) not speak a language at all, necessitating that it shows up in another language from the prose, and b) the pov character can actually ID every single word clearly enough that it makes sense to write it out. So largely I'm personally uninterested in it, because outside of some narrow applications (most of which aren't my purview) it doesn't do much.

That said, Mr Fruits Baske Sohma Shigure speaking random french is perfect. What a terrible man. Love him.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Probably Fullmetal Alchemist, but I'm not sure.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

harsh! harsh! overall, maybe pro bono (wangxian vampire AU). today. tomorrow it will change.

I'm tagging anyone who wants to play!

[skeleton-mischief]

The 14 Skeleton Names:

As I type this, I know that I have a lot of other AU's I can put here, but I narrowed it down to the main 14 sets of brothers to keep it short. I'll make another separate posts including the other AU's and even the outcodes like Error, Ink, Killer, etc. Not every name I use is what others use within the community, so this just keeps things in line and even will explain the reasoning behind certain names! This is entirely based on that really cheesy trope of them all being roommates so take this as if they all decided to have names to differentiate each other! Also yes, UT brothers deserve names too, it's not fair that they hardly have their names changed in those fics and also I think that both of them would find it fun!

I also decided to name each of them with the same last name: Serrif. It's a font and I think that they'd all (mostly) agree that it's a good last name for them to share. After all, it's clear that none of the monsters underground had a need for last names.

Undertale -

Undertale Sans: Vanilla Serrif. Just like vanilla ice cream, Sans has a variety of AU's with each of their own unique "toppings." I find it fitting that the classic og has the name Vanilla because there's so much to do with vanilla ice cream, you can't do something new with something such as rocky road

Undertale Papyrus: Cyperus Serrif. Cyperus Papyrus, which is better known as Papyrus, is a species of long, aquatic flowering plants that is known for being a "paper plant." It has origins dating all the way back to when the font was first used on "Papyrus Paper." Now wouldn't that be a fun reason he chose the name? He's a smart, creative monster who would definitely do something like this.

Underfell -

Underfell Sans: Red Serrif. A classic, of course. He's more of a lazy type and I think that he'd name himself Red to seem cool, instead of naming himself after food like the og. He wouldn't put too much thought into his name, but it would stick rather well since he was one of the first to be moved from his universe.

Underfell Papyrus: Pitch Serrif. Pitch black like the leather he'd wear and pitch black like his so totally cool and edgy personality! He wanted a menacing name, and he wasn't going to just name himself after a color if it didn't sound cool! (He was going to name himself something cooler, but his brother named himself after a color and so he wanted them to secretly match with color coded names)

Underswap -

Underswap Sans: Powder Serrif. Not only is it a pretty color of blue, but it's a name that implies that he's nimble and almost "floating." He has a very active personality, so he found that it's a very fitting name! It's light like his personality and behaviors, he swears that it's a better name than just Blue. He wanted to put a little bit more thought into his name than "edgy him."

Underswap Papyrus: Stretch Serrif. Also a classic, there weren't many names that he found appealing. He was nicknamed things such as carrot, but it was actually Vanilla that helped him find his name. He commented that he was like a "stretched" out version of him, joking. Of course, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to make his name not only an inside joke, but almost a small pun that he loves.

Horrortale -

Horrortale Sans: Saint Serrif. It actually wasn't his idea to be named Saint. He was more stubborn about his name since that was an identity he wanted to cling onto. However, this was still when he was just fresh outside of his underground. At the gentle persistence of his brother, he begrudgingly let himself not be so clingy about his name. The others weren't so cruel as to name him something like Axe, Swiss, etc. In fact, Powder actually was the one to come up with the name. It means a holy one, and Powder found that it was fitting because despite everything that happened: He prevailed, and kept to at least most of his morals. Saint values his name now as he opens a new chapter of his life

Horrortale Papyrus: Lunar Serrif. He was delighted to have a new name, even if he had a history with his previous name. There's a lot of shame in the underground, and so he ended up going with the name Lunar. It's pale, faded like his magic, but it also means the moon. Unlike the Sun, it is soothing and quiet, still ever bright but in its own way.

Swapfell Red -

Swapfell Red Sans: Carmine Serrif. It's a very pretty shade of red, just like his magic. He liked the idea of making himself think of a pretty color, while also going by a name that had associations to his underground roots without specifically tying the name down to it. After all, the color carmine is the color of dried blood and is a raw pigment. As a result, he chose a name that suited his tastes

Swapfell Red Papyrus: Rus Serrif. So, he really did not care for changing his name. Some people say it's because it sounds like a name a dog would have, but it's actually because he liked the sound of it by itself separate from Papyrus. papy-RUS. Carmine tried to make him choose a different name, but he stuck with it

Swapfell Purple -

Swapfell Purple Sans: Razz Serrif. Raspberry purple is a beautiful shade of purple, and it happens to be the color of purple his magic is. So, for short, he chose to call himself Razz. Razz, however, is a word that means to heckle, ridicule, or to tease. It's a habit he happens to have, and because he's educated enough to have known this, it's the real reason he chose to name himself this

Swapfell Purple Papyrus: Cash Serrif. He has a lot of ties and intelligence revolving money, the best gambler underground in fact. He's lazy, but Razz refused him to go by anything that could be associated with his original name in the name of originality. This failed, of course. But, Razz let him keep it

Fellswap Gold -

Fellswap Gold Sans: Wine Serrif. Wine is a beautiful drink that was rare in his underground, but a pleasure he had nonetheless due to his ranking. It's also a beautiful color, so he found it only rational to name himself Wine. It's a reflection of his more classy personality, after all.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus: Coffee Serrif. He wanted to go by a name that complimented his brothers, so he did the same thing as Wine by naming himself after his favorite drink. He didn't need to put much thought into it, but it works nonetheless

Some reasons have more meaning than others, so uh,,,yeah👴👍

Pt 2 on the way

[fixfoxnox]

could you give alerudy fic rec’s? I’ve been trying to find good ones where they’re the main pair, but man is it difficult. (sorry about the red text tumblr dark mode is being difficult rn)

I will indeed! Fair warning none of these are terribly long (there aren't a lot of longer AleRudy-focused fics in general) and a lot of them are NSFW/feature NSFW

My literal favorite AleRudy fic that I've ever read is this one called The Tailor's Son by IJustWannaAskSomething. It's an alternative backstory for how they meet and fall in love and it is genuinely one of the best fics that I think I've read in the fandom in general. It's Rudy focused (which I love) and is just super fluffy with not a drop of angst in sight!

I've mentioned before, but I love the AleRudy dynamic of Rudy who has been living with his feelings for so long and handles them through hookups. My favorite one of these is i could be your holy ghost by tippytulip. It features a first chapter with a little Rudy x Soap action and some Jealous Alejandro. This fic is NSFW and also Rudy-focused!!

What Love Does To A Man by Hentaiisgreat123 is just a cute little fluffy one shot between these two with Alejandro being head over heels for Rudy (as it was meant to be). No NSFW, just cute guys being cute and in love!

Okay so, this next one was (I think) meant to be an entire fic, but the author has only written one chapter and, considering it was posted in February, it may not be getting another update. That being said, I hate the weird stigma that has popped up of people shitting on unfinished/abandoned fics and avoiding them all together. Some of the best fics I've read have been unfinished. The concept and first chapter of this fic stand alone fairly well as is, and it's good enough that I think people should take a chance to read it. It is Relax, Colonel by WinkEyeTightenTie. Also NSFW!!!

My Dear Husband (Marry Me Again) by your_executioner is a cute little isekai/alternate universe's crossing type of fic. Essentially when Rudy almost dies in the fire from the game, he somehow get transported over to an alternate universe where he and Alejandro are married! Super cute, slightly angsty. Just a good quick fic of Alejandro and Rudy being pushed into action by a universe where their other versions have their shit together lol

me gustas tu by ghvstsymphvny is a story that essentially gives its own backstory for how Alejandro and Rudy met and how they finally decided to get their shit together. It's a fairly angsty fic (though you won't be able to tell at first) and does feature Valeria as Alejandro's ex as part of the backstory. Very good read!!

The Course of Fire by Kabbal (Aledane) is a 5 +1 fic that is essentially 5 times of Alejandro being whipped then the one time that he finally does something about it. It's cute, slight bit of angst in the middle, and spicy toward the end. I love it and I love Alejandro being whipped for Rudy which is what this fic provides!!

Now for two straight up NSFW Fics I've enjoyed:

Save a Dream, Ride Me by LazyOne. Rudy gets a cowboy hat and slowly drives Alejandro insane with it. Nuff said.

One Night (Tonight) by MoMoMomma. AleRudy ABO fic where Graves says some shit about Rudy to Alejandro while he's captured and it sets Alejandro off :) This is genuinely one of my favorite NSFW fics that I've read for the ship and I stop at it literally every time I go through the tag to reread. Just the concept is so good dudes

[musicboxmemories]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @viola-ophelia <3 Thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 58 on my primary page, 38 on my trash page, and 5 on my catch-all.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? LOL if you think I'm going to add up the word count of 101 total fics, you're crazy! So instead, I'll just say my longest fic on my primary page is 96,771, my trash page is 34,787, and my catch-all is 11,722, for a total of 143,280. So with that being for just three fics, I shudder to think what my actual word count is for 101 fics lol.

3. What fandoms do you write for? Lately, TURN: Washington's Spies, though past fandoms have been H.annibal, E.mma 2020, and The M.agicians, to name a few.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? I'm just going to stick to my main page for this:

Wake-up Call (From D.usk till D.awn: the Series) (438)

Changing Winds (S.tranger T.hings) (384)

Lost in the Dark (S.tranger Things) (284)

Anyone But You (That 70s Show) (265)

To Thaw and Burst into Bloom (S.tranger Things) (235)

^^The funny thing is, none of these were fandoms I was overly into/participated in much, but they're way more popular than my favored fandoms, which is why none of what I'm TRULY proud of is listed in my top kudos ranking. Ah well.

5. Do you respond to comments? I do! In the past, I've always made friends through reviews/reviewing, so I always respond to comments and leave comments on works I've enjoyed. :) I really wish engagement/fic friendships were more encouraged these days.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Uhh, probably Folie a Deux (H.annibal) or To K.iss, to Consume (Turn). OH, and Let the Weary Rest (Turn), where I killed off Ben lol.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? After 2020, pretty much all of my fics had happy endings. The World is Made Wrong made me happiest though, I'd say.

8. Do you get hate on fics? I'd rather not jinx myself, but I haven't since I was a kiddo! And that hate was deserved tbh, cuz they were just telling me I wrote xyz wrong since I was a child/didn't bother to research.

9. Do you write s.mut? *gestures vaguely at my trash page* Uh. Yeah. lol I don't really have a specific type I write, beyond M/F, if that's what you're asking -- the specific scenarios are typically a case-by-case basis.

10. Do you write crossovers? I used to write quite a few! Nowadays, I save that more for things like RP and edits, though I do still enjoy them. Sometimes, crossovers work better than canon, I said what I said.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? I have! But I was like 13 at the time, and the person posted it in the same ship/fandom, so Idk what their plan was lol. Fortunately, they deleted it the day I reviewed.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! A few times, actually (all for the H.annibal fandom).

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Sure have! They're all RP-turned-fics though, cuz I've never actually asked someone to write something who wasn't an RPer themselves.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship? Probably David/Maddie from Moonlighting. They're timeless! <3

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I suppose my time travel romcom. It's basically me rewriting a book I've already created, but altering it for the Turn universe. Even though it's fun, it's kind of boring repurposing my old work, and most especially when there's so little engagement. I flourish on comments, alas. Other than that, I mostly tend to finish my works!

16. What are your writing strengths? An editor once told me my strengths are my dialogue and humor. She equated the first 20 pages of my book (a recent work) to a Shakespearean comedy, which really tickled me, ngl.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? World-building! I've improved with this by a lot, but I genuinely do think fic writers are conditioned to stop describing settings/appearance thanks to our audiences already KNOWING, and thus, our OG works suffer for it. Mine certainly do!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? I wouldn't do it personally, since I doubt it'd translate well, but I encourage others to do it! I'll still read!

19. First fandom you wrote for? C.owboy B.ebop.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written? Probably The World is Made Wrong, since I've since reworked it and I'm still very proud of how that second run-through turned out (not the one available on AO3 -- that version is in all its heinous first draft glory lol).

Tagging: @retrograderesemblance @pagetreader @ms-march @culper-spymaster and whoever else wants to!

[merlinrarepairfest]

Round Up 2

The second week of posting has brought us another bunch of amazing rare pairs! A huge thanks to everyone, and you can find them beneath the cut! <3

Title: Sweet violet and cherry blossom Writer: Skydragon05 | @skydragon05 Rating: General Audiences  Warnings: None Medium/Word Count: 1528 Pairing/main characters: Arthur/Gwen/Elena Up to 10 tags: Fluff, Wedding, Polyamory, Established Relationship, Flowers, Canon Era, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Episode: s03e06 The Changeling (Merlin), Oneshot

Summary: 

There could hardly be more contrast between now and the last time Arthur had stood in this spot anticipating his imminent marriage. This time, not only was he the king, but he was also happy. Today he was here entirely by choice, and for love, and he knew the warmth he felt today was shared equally amongst both of his brides. Wedding oneshot for Merlin Rare-pair Fest 2023: Elena/Arthur/Guinevere

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51389851

---

Title: The Wild Goose Writer: littlegreyfish Rating: E Warnings: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings Medium/Word Count: Fic/30,000 | Chapters: 1/6 Pairing/main characters: Balinor/Hunith Up to 10 tags: Hurt/comfort, Angst, Strangers to lovers, Injury recovery, Physical disability, Age difference, Character study, Canon era, Pre-canon, Canon compliant

Summary:

Fleeing the slaughter of his people, the last dragonlord finds home with a peasant girl.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51400252

---

Title: [ART] Two of Us Artist: Mischel | @magicalmischel Rating: G Warnings: none Medium/Word Count: Art Pairing/main characters: Gwen/Merlin Up to 10 tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gwen Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Gwen Has Magic (Merlin), BAMF Gwen (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Digital Art 

Summary: 

Gwen/Merlin or Gwen & Merlin fanart for Rare Pair Fest 2023. Prompt: AU where Gwen has magic

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51388438

---

Title: left unattended Writer: Sage_Owl Rating: Mature Warnings: None Medium/word count: Fic/4,078 Pairing/main characters: Leon/Lancelot Up to 10 tags: Canon Divergence, Time Skips, Character Study, Wings, Mild Smut, Magic, Loneliness, Mythical Creatures, King Arthur Pendragon

Summary:

It started as a way to escape. No, that wasn’t right. It started because he was drunk.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51328009

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Title: Something for the pain Writer: Ace_Teagirl | @aroaceteagirl Rating: Gen Warnings: None  Medium/Word Count: fic 11,960 words Pairing/main characters: Merlin & Mordred Up to 10 tags: Canon era; Canon divergence; Child Mordred; Past child abuse

Summary:

“Who is this?” Gaius finally asked. Merlin yelped in surprise as he turned fast enough to almost lose his balance and stumble. The purse of Gaius’ lips and the raised eyebrows told Merlin his mentor was struggling not to laugh at the display. Merlin wouldn’t admit it, but he appreciated it. “I found him on the street, I think he’s a druid. He can use mindspeech, but he can’t or won’t speak to me. I don’t really know who he is or where he’s from, but he needs help, Gaius. I couldn’t just let him freeze and starve out there. It’s just for a few days, I promise –” Or Merlin finds Mordred on the street on a cold and rainy night and decides to take him in. He starts teaching the boy how to control his magic and Mordred soon becomes Merlin's ward.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/bbcm_rare_pair_fest_2023/works/51374515

---

Title: distance your emotions Writer: Ceewelsh | @mayonnaisetoffees Rating: M Warnings: Major Character Death Medium/Word Count: Fic/1779 Pairing/main characters: Gwen/Merlin/Arthur also involved Leon, Morgana and Elyan Up to 10 tags: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Order 66, Angst

Summary:

The world seemed to be heading for a tipping point, and Arthur could only hope it would be for the better. Perhaps soon the war would be over. Once the galaxy was safe… Maybe then he would be free to leave the Jedi Order and live out his days with Gwen and Merlin. Meeting them, training with them, their bond was unmistakable. It was not the Jedi way, but not every life is built for the Order. Arthur knew that, now. His duty came first, protecting those who needed it was more important than his feelings. But maybe once there was peace, it wouldn’t feel like such a betrayal to leave.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51385720

[snakesnakerevolution]

I posted 390 times in 2022

That's 390 more posts than 2021!

66 posts created (17%)

324 posts reblogged (83%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@baka-monarch

@vadergf

@w0rped-moss

@the-final-sif

@darkeninganon

I tagged 231 of my posts in 2022

Only 41% of my posts had no tags

#snake's rec feed - 27 posts

#lore - 19 posts

#snake rattle and roll - 15 posts

#fic - 15 posts

#snake's rec list - 11 posts

#dreamnap - 11 posts

#laugh rule - 8 posts

#fav - 6 posts

#ideas - 5 posts

#mcyt g/t - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 134 characters

#lmfao i'm just imagining either all the gods are super big and so c!dream is like...sitting on their laps just doodling and not paying

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Video Blogging RPF, Minecraft (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clay | Dream/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF) Characters: Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Karl Jacobs Additional Tags: First Meetings, Misunderstandings, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Meet-Cute, Fluff and Humor, Fluff, DreNapWk2021_D1, Clay | Dream Being an Idiot (Video Blogging RPF), Sapnap is So Whipped (Video Blogging RPF), Rivalry Summary:

Day 1: Meet-Cute

In the box were four neatly presented chocolate croissants. He had never seen anything more threatening.

The owner of the new patisserie across the street leaves a treat outside Dream’s bakery every week. This can only mean one thing: war.

5 notes - Posted May 7, 2022

#4

shoutout to roman for 1) being my only follower and 2) somehow finding 6 of my 22 tumblr blogs and following them wtf

6 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

#3

Hey do you guys wanna read fic that updates on average once every 5 days and has been ongoing since August? One that focuses on heavy themes of grief, found family, revolution, and overcoming trauma? One that currently has 97,788 words across 46 chapters? One where none of the creators (except Schlatt bc that seems like something he'd like) are irredeemable, and, honestly, even villans? One where Dream and Tommy are actual, genuine friends? One where SBI family is a thing? Where Puffy is Foolish and Dream's dad? Where Dream and Ranboo are half-brothers and therefore Endersmile??

Then you may like my fic, The Ties That Bind!

It's got karlnapity, puffy/niki, Emotional Trashfire Wilbur Soot, baby Fundy (coming soon), dteam family feels, velvet is there sometimes, Dad Bad, mind control curses, and the end of the world! Oh, and have I mentioned that they're all kings/queens/princes (some exclusions apply)??

And there's more!

Puffy and Phil are married (for political reasons only)

Through marriage Techno, Tommy, Wilbur, Dream, Foolish, and Ranboo are all brothers

I accidentally made past Sam/Puffy but its okay it was platonic

Niki is Trans! I love her

Technoblade is a nerd. Half of this fic he's literally just been reading and its great

Tommy is a smart kid!!!

There is a slight hint of lemur throughout the fic

George is pissed off!!! If you want to see Rabid George click the link!!

This is essentially a Sapnap sickfic

tbh its everyone whump no one is having a good time lol

esp not the dream team tho

HAPPY ENDING!!!

There is no smut at all. I cannot write that and I don't want to lmfao

Ender dragon Dream, Niki, and Ranboo! Yeah!

Some considerations before you start reading:

HEAVY mentions of child abuse, torture, and violence. This fic's main driving thing is mind control lol

A/B/O is a thing in this world but ONLY for like...5 characters and it is completely unrelated to romantic relationships. The A/B/O is just used for 1) mind control and 2) family dynamics.

(Sorry I'm over explaining but I know a/b/o is a turn off for a lot of people and I wanna let you know its different and only relevant in that they're literally bound together through platonic love!!! They care about each other your honor!! Also I wanted to give them telepathy)

If you want to read a fic with all of this, check out The Ties That Bind Today!!!

6 notes - Posted May 11, 2022

#2

/dsmp /rp

my favorite thing on earth is platonic dreamnap they're just so *clenches fist*

it was like a year ago but I read a post about quackity selling sapnap an "enderdragon" and quackity dropping a fucked up dream off at his door and then bouncing. The thing had stopped there but my brain hadn't

was it one of those where quackity knew it was wrong? one where he expected sapnap to agree with him? did he see dream as so subhuman that he didn't think twice about it? did he hear sapnap rant about how much he hated dream and assume that he would enjoy owning Dream and getting to do to him the same things Quackity had enjoyed?

and, if he didn't, if quackity knew that delivering dream like that would cause sapnap distress, to ruin anything he may have had left with his once-fiance, did he do it out of spite? had he had dream the whole time, broken and under his thumb, until his fight with sapnap escalated? and he begun to associate dream with sapnap, and dropped him off in a way to 1) get dream off his hands and 2) get back at sapnap?

How would sapnap react? Would it be anger? would he chase quackity? would he bring dream inside and try to help, only learning more and more howbad a shape dream was in? Would quackity lie and say dream had chosen this, or it was sam's idea? Would sapnap buy it? would there be some part of him that was happy?

I dunno man my brain just keeps going

18 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

George's Desk Light

Vauge Hollow Knight au in that Dream is a lumifly. Nothing else is really specified lol

Trigger warning for dehumanization and objectification, as well as a sprinkle of neglect. This is my first writing I'm posting directly on tumblr so please be kind >.<

George loved his desk light.

It was just an object, one Quackity had given him for his birthday, but it was so perfect that he loved it.

It was a little glass jar, not ornately carved. For all he could tell, Quackity may have made it out of an old jelly jar. The top was covered in a thin metal lid that had two latches on either side. Holes were poked through, allowing the small lumifly hybrid to breathe. One in the center was larger than the others, allowing George to drop food flakes every few days to keep the hybrid alive. For a while it had begged, asking for food more often, but Quackity had warned him that this one was particularly gluttonous, and that if he fed it more than every other day that it would become sick. So, for the sake of the lumify, he ignored the small cries. They stopped eventually, anyways. 

Turning the lantern off and on was pretty simple, considering its power was near limitless. Lumiflies created their light through flight. George’s hybrid, however, would often just curl up in the bottom of the jar, sleeping or shaking. Quackity had found a solution, however. On the outside of the jar there was a small chain. On one end it was connected to a small collar around the lumify’s neck. The other had something akin to a clamp, one big enough it wouldn’t fall through the hole in the lid and get stuck. On the side of the jar a small peg had been attached. Whenever George wanted to turn the lantern on, all he would have to do is tug the chain and attach it to the peg. The chain was short enough that, once attached, the lumifly would not be able to touch the ground without choking itself. This meant that as long as the clamp was attached, the lumifly would have to fly and therefore create light. 

The chain doubled as a way to keep the lumifly contained. If George decided to change the glass, all he would need to do is affix a peg to the side and keep ahold of the little chain to place the lumifly in its new home. Sapnap had given him an ornate bottle a few days ago, one that had originally stored alcohol. George had started preparing it, just waiting for the glue to set. He’d tried to clean it out as best he could, but he figured the scent would probably last a long time. He asked Quackity, and the man said that it would be fine, that lumiflies were resistant to any fumes in the air. 

He sat at his desk, smiling as he read his book. Beside him, the lumifly fluttered, pretty and graceful in the center of the jar. Sometimes, George could swear the other was watching along, but that was silly. Lumiflies bred for captivity never learned how to read, only wild ones. And Quackity wouldn’t be the type to steal a lumifly from its home. 

George hummed, turning the page. 

Maybe he should find a couple picture books at the library. The lumifly would probably enjoy looking at the pictures. 

George loved his desk light. 

35 notes - Posted May 6, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Get to Know the Fic Writer!

Didn't get tagged and not tagging anyone

When did you post your first-ever fanfic?

oh god hard hitting questions from the jump

My first post on AO3 was July 2022 My first post on ffn (I think) was September 2007 But those weren't my first fanfiction sites. There were a couple more intermediary sites that no longer exist, but the first was Quizilla. Unfortunately Quizilla also no longer exists (nickelodeon bought them apparently) so none of that exists anymore for me to date check even if I knew for sure what my initial username was (I had... so many accounts). But I would guess... 2004? Maybe 2005?

First Character(s) you wrote?

If we're going by first published as established above, my Inuyasha OC, her name was probably Yumi or something (I was but a baby weeb). If we're going by what you could find by hunting me down on sites that still exist, Sirius Black I think? Or "Harry Potter's twin brother" (I think I named him Charlus. He had a wooden arm (think fma automail) after Harry fucked up Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk took his arm)

Main Character(s) you’re currently writing?

My MCIT character Juniper in my current WIP being posted! And my not-a-warden Surana in an unpublished fic.

Character(s) you haven’t written about before but plan to soon?

Loid and Yor Forger from Spy x Family (and I'm maybe getting back into final fantasy and want to write fic about Amarant from ff9 idk)

Fandom(s) you’re currently writing?

Dragon Age!

Platonic Pairing(s) you’re currently writing?

Hamin Surana & Solas & M!Lavellan (the main pairing of my unpublished WIP I'm working on)

Romantic Pairing(s) you’re currently writing?

I want to say June/Solas but I've yet to get to the point where either of them has any romantic feelings. Damned slowburn.

Your top AO3 tags? (go to works and click sort & filter)

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Time Travel

Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle

Current platform you use for posting?

AO3!

Snippet of the WIP you are currently working on?

From No Rest Could They Find (the aforementioned Hamin Surana & Solas & M!Lavellan:

Not that there was peace to be had in Haven that night at all. Too much had happened in too short a time, the world upended. Was still upending. The hole in the sky had slowed its spread since the morning, but it showed no sign of stopping. Meteoric masses of writhing demon flesh were still flung from it. Then there was the prisoner. Whispers tugged at my ears for hours. Even from my vantage point up near Adan’s where I’d been set to rest after he tended my leg, I hadn’t been able to see through the impenetrable phalanx that made up the survivor’s escort. The survivor. Just one. And it wasn’t the Divine as that templar had been so fervent it must be.

[themerlinlibrary]

The Merlin Library’s Merlin Finale 10 Year Anniversary Prompt Challenge

October 6 - December 25, 2022 The Merlin Library Discord

The Merlin Library is celebrating the decade anniversary after the Merlin Season 5 finale left behind one of the most memorable television endings and emotionally devastated all of its viewers as it aired on the night before Christmas…ahem. The Merlin Finale 10 Year Anniversary Prompt Challenge is a ‘prompt’ challenge designed to capture elements of each episode as the 5th season celebrates its 10th anniversary since airing. Each week is dedicated to a specific episode until the week of the finale, where the two episodes aired within days of each other.

This fest runs for 12 weeks, starting on October 6th with the original airing date of Arthur’s Bane: Part 1, and ending with Diamond of the Day: Part 2 on December 24th. 

All creators are welcome to participate. Content is open to fic, art, edits, gifs, manips, meta, poetry, podfic, and whatever else you can creatively come up with during these 12 weeks.

You do not need to do something for each week, but there will be a special prize for those who do. Participate as much or as little as you want. 

You may tag #TML10ANNIVERSARY and your content will be reblogged to our main Tumblr, themerlinlibrary.tumblr.com.  If you are submitting to AO3, feel free to add your creations to the TML_10yrfest collection.

Please read the FAQ before sending an Ask if you have questions. Additionally, you may join our Discord server, and ask the event hosts in the server directly. 

HOW DO PROMPTS WORK?

The themes of each week are dedicated to the episode that aired. You can write fix-it fics for each episode, or fanart related to that episode, or use the word prompts or color prompts for whatever you make. The content you make doesn’t have to be specific to that episode or an ‘episode tag’ art/fic necessarily. 

The prompts are meant to inspire you, not box your creative muse in. You can interpret the prompts as literally or loosely as you want. 

The only prompt requirement is that whatever you create is set in or around the canon era Merlin universe. The fest aims to celebrate the show Merlin and it’s original setting. As great as fusions, fandom crossovers, and modern setting AU content are, this is not the fest for that. 

RULES

You may combine this fest with other ongoing challenges (ie: Merlin Bingo, Kinkalot, etc).

Each prompt week opens from the point at which the episode would have aired. However, there won’t be a deadline for when you post a prompt if it’s from an earlier week, and you have until the 25th of December to post. There will also be an amnesty week after the 25th for anyone who couldn’t post their fills in time. We understand it’s a hectic season for most of us. The event will officially end (and the AO3 collection will close) on January 1st, 2023.

In the interest of fairness, all pairings (or none, if you prefer to create gen/platonic works) are welcome. 

The last rule is to have fun. Please do not stress if you aren’t inspired for every prompt, and have fun creating!

FAQ

PROMPTS

Oct 6 WEEK 1 - Arthur’s Bane: Part 1 / Winter, Lost, Wilderness #1F0322, #F8F4E3, #615C56, #486682, #C7E9F2

Oct 13 WEEK 2 - Arthur’s Bane: Part 2 / Trapped, Caves, Rescue  #FAA61F, #6C727F, #06191F, #AEC3B0, #EFF6E0

Oct 20 WEEK 3 - The Death Song of Uther Pendragon / Haunt, Shiver, Ghost #7E8D85, #B3BFB8, #F0F7F4, #A72608, #090C02

Oct 27 WEEK 4 - Another’s Sorrow / Trust, Friendship, Disguise #D2AB99, #BDBEA9, #8DB38B, #56876D, #04724D

Nov 3 WEEK 5 - The Disir / Prophecy, Choices, Magic #FAA61F, #6C727F, #06191F, #AEC3B0, #AEC3B0

Nov 10 WEEK 6 - The Dark Tower / Manipulation, Grief, Desert #E5E8E6, #FCCB3F, #E12735, #4D6EB5, #090808

Nov 17 WEEK 7 - A Lesson in Vengeance / Lies, Suspicion, Fear #F3E9DC, #C08552, #090C02, #7C0B2B, #5D737E

Nov 24 WEEK 8 - The Hollow Queen / Deception, Cruelty, Loneliness #5D737E, #CA895F, #A15E49, #4E3822, #2F1B25

Dec 1 WEEK 9 - With All My Heart / Healing, Love, Water #090B11, #E4DADB, #042641, #E59625, #831435

Dec 8 WEEK 10 - The Kindness of Strangers / Blood, Faith, Forest #BFB48F, #8F4E55, #252627, #157A6E, #297045

Dec 15 WEEK 11 - The Drawing of the Dark / Loyalty, Betrayal, Execution #1E152A, #4E6766, #5AB1BB, #A5C882, #F7DD72

Dec 22 WEEK 12 - Diamond of the Day: Part 1 / Powerless, War, Fire #FBBA72, #CA5310, #BB4D00, #8F250C, #691E06

Dec 24 WEEK 12 - Diamond of the Day: Part 2 / Death, Eternity, Deus ex Machina #E8EEF2, #D6C9C9, #C7D3DD, #77B6EA, #37393A

[dcbtv]

Title: The Last Great American Dynasty

Author: nickelkeep

Artist: solstheimart

Song: The Last Great American Dynasty

Posting date: September 21, 2022

Rating: Explicit

Any archive warnings: None

Top 10 main tags: Alternative Universe - Modern Setting, Writer Castiel, Handyperson Dean, Haunted Houses, POV Castiel, Historical Inaccuracy, Unreliable Narrator, Idiots in Love, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone Ships Cas/Dean

Summary:

Cas Novak is a famous Sci-Fi and Fantasy writer. His Angelus Series is one of the best known book series in the world. However, he's stuck. His life is in a rut, he can't find the motivation to write, and he needs something different.

Despite the reservations of his two closest friends, Cas buys a mansion on the sleepy Rhode Island coast known as Holiday House. Purchasing it sight unseen and with no research, it doesn't take long for Cas to find out that there would be consequences, and benefits, in making the purchase of a lifetime.

Author Tumblr II Link to Fic

Artist Tumblr II Link to Art