#I'm just trying to not think about all of other WIPs that have been abandoned

[beck-a-leck]

Idk if it's me thriving on Night Shift Life or just drinking nothing but Current Hyperfixation Juice

But I added 6.4k words to my WIP tonight and god I need to think of a title for this damned thing so I can start posting it because damn!

I'm 8 chapters in, with a ton more written ahead that hasn't been dropped into a chapter. And my maybe halfway done word count is about 64k. Which is an INSANE amount for me to have written on one thing in just like 6 weeks...

[luvrodite]

JASON X F!READER [12k]

synopsis. the end of the world comes and goes. you’re just trying to survive another day, but you don’t quite expect to become so attached to the green eyed boy who saves you. “i’m here,” he tells you, and a horrible part of you wonders, for how much longer?

warnings. zombie apocalypse in a no capes au, attempted sexual assault, body horror, gore, angst, character death, violence. (if you feel i'm missing any tags, please let me know) sfw but minors and ageless blogs please don't interact with my profile

note. for my sunnie @fic-over-cannon, who always lets me talk her ear off about my jason wips, and without whom i would never have listened to everywhere, everything by noah kahan properly and thought of this fic. you are such a sweetheart and deserve all the good things in the world. unfortunately all i can offer at this time is this fic. i love you, and i'm sorry

additional disclaimer that i am NOT american so i’m talking out of my ass and my expertise is like a six month stint in the midwest please ignore any inaccuracies i’m just a baby

read on ao3 | the playlist

The end of the world comes and goes. 

There is, as with all things, blood and the destruction promised. The end sweeps through the country, burnt buildings and shattered glass that crunches further under your feet. It leaves few survivors, cares not for wealth nor poverty, health nor sickness. All succumb to its touch, and the world you know slips away from your fingertips so violently you can no longer remember what it was like, in the beginning. 

The world ends, but then it doesn’t, really, it doesn’t burn when it should have. You are still here, somehow, aren’t you? (It’s only a matter of time before you aren’t. Only a matter of time before you, too, join the horde.)

You find each other in the wreckage, on the outskirts of the city you’d grown up in. The body in front of you twitches as it falls – only moments ago, inches from your throat – and green eyes assess you coldly, your own tracking his movements with your heart in your throat. Blood stains your hands, and they curl around your weapon when he lowers the barrel of his gun.

What are you even living for? All you know is gone and lost, stolen from you by a drooling maw and ever starving fingers. Blood tracks your every step, a haunting you will never be rid of. Until  your last breath, you will remember it.

You stay by his side, let him offer you a hand out of the rubble and sink your teeth into the tough skin of dried meat he pulls from his pack. It’s a kindness you refuse to leave unpaid. The days turn into weeks, and he doesn’t demand you leave. You aren’t sure when this thing became a partnership. Perhaps when he’d taught you how to wield your weapon better, clumsy movements turning precise, fear hardening a once soft heart.

I’m going to find my brothers. They’re out there somewhere. Over a small fire in an abandoned department store, he tells you this, green eyes flicking over his shoulder to meet yours.

How do you know they’re...

I just do.

Oh.

You coming? Or you got people to –

No. No, I’ll help you.

A nod, then, seals it.

The end of the world brings with it a disconcerting level of silence you find it difficult to grow accustomed to. Your skin crawls at the stillness of it all, the unmoving air of abandoned homes you use as shelter. A city once unrelenting, the echoes of what once was ring in your ears as you traverse through the city. No longer does the smoke catch in your lungs, and the nights are clearer than they ever were, stars shining on a city with no one to look up to them.

You travel out of the city, eventually. The bridges had been the first to go, in the beginning – an act of damnation perceived as absolution. Better to contain it within the island, you think bitterly, to damn the desperate millions who could not seek refuge. Still, you find a way through, travelling on foot through the tunnel they forgot to destroy – filled with stationary cars that prove just as difficult to navigate around as a destroyed bridge. You come out the other side by the skin of your teeth, and the both of you continue.

Do you know where we’re going?

A sharp look, as if questioning your loyalty. Last I heard, they were in Georgia. You getting cold feet?

No.

Then come on. We’re going to lose daylight.

It’s easier, the further you travel into the country. The quiet out here makes sense to you – it had been here long before the beginning of the end, before the beginning of all things. Gotham had never known peace, you think. It was not meant for that, ever moving, ever alive. Out here, there are less of them, too. Very quickly you learn that the end of the world did not kill with it all other vices.

Despite your rationing, despite ransacking what places you can for food, it dwindles down. Maryland, now, you think – you’d passed a sign a few hours back – he’s begun to slow down. His face is pale, but he stubbornly clamps his jaw when you try to get him to eat the last bits of your food. It’s in the middle of this argument, nearing tears and trying to keep quiet, when you’re found.

The trio makes their presence known by the deliberate snap of a branch, and you stiffen, hand flying to your hatchet as you whirl around. Jason moves closer to you, until your shoulders brush.

“You folks look like you could use a good meal.” The one at the front eyes you unabashedly as he says it, eyes trailing down your figure. A prickle of unease runs down your spine, and you shuffle closer to your partner.

“Couldn’t we all?”

He lets out a little laugh, and raises his hands. “You’re trembling, darlin’. Relax, it’s just an offer.” He looks over at your companion. “Your man over there looks like he’s about to fall over.”

It feels like a gut punch, despite his grumbled “I’m fine.” because you know he isn’t. In the end, you ignore the warning in your gut, and you find yourself making camp with them for Jason’s sake. The three men share looks amongst themselves when you shuffle closer to him, but you try your hardest not to pay them any mind, pressing bits of dried meat into trembling hands and watching him until he swallows every last bit. You don’t take a bite of your own soup until they do, relaxing only in the slightest when he seems to have gained back some of his strength.

“Where are y’all headed?” the second of them asks, and his expression rankles you less, so you answer.

“Further south,” you say carefully, looking between the three of them. “And you?”

The first grins at you in a way you think is meant to be charming. “Shit, sweetheart, I’ll go wherever you do.”

You stiffen and he lets out a laugh. “’M only joking, jeez. Going west – they’ve got communities over there.”

You can barely let out a non committal hum. Beside you, Jason’s head presses into your leg, and your gaze slides over to him. In sleep, he looks younger, more like what you think he might’ve looked like before all this. Black curls rest close to his forehead, hair cut close to the scalp courtesy of the scissors you’d found in a gas station a few days ago –

All of it?

All of it. Don’t need it getting caught on something and getting us killed.

Can’t you tie it back?

What, you attached to this look? Knotted hair does it for you?

No. It’s just –

...It’s just hair, kid. C’mon, I’m getting tired.

Fine.

– The group settles into silence after that, and though your lids weigh down, you take watch. The night is quiet for the most part. You’re kept company by the whispering trees and the occasional sound of an owl. Every so often, a branch will pop in the fire, the sound making your limbs stiffen reflexively. Your eyes scan the treeline each time, vigilant. You balance your hatchet across your knees, and wait.

Eventually, black bleeds into the cool blue of dawn and Jason stirs beside you.

“Morning. You didn’t sleep?” You dart a glance over to the three sleeping bodies a few feet away and he presses his lips together in understanding. “Should’ve woke me.”

You shrug, looking away to where daylight breaks through the thick of the trees. “You needed the rest.” And before he can argue back – you can already hear the retort, and you don’t? – you stand up, passing him your axe. There’s a small knife in your shoe, and you don’t intend to go too far, you figure it’ll be fine. “Gonna powder my nose.”

He snorts at the phrasing, and you offer him a tired smile. Relieved that he seems to be in better health today, you step away from the campsite. The breath of air you take is cool in your lungs, and you stretch your arms above your head as you step over rocks and fallen branches.

Relief muddies your senses, you think. You forget to be mindful, forget that this is not just another day, not just a camping trip of sorts. As you pull your jeans up, there’s a rustle nearby and you freeze, hands on the waistband of your pants tightening in unease when someone breaks through the foliage and it isn’t Jason.

“Oh,” he says, stopping short in front of you. There’s something like surprise in his voice but it feels short of convincing you that he hadn’t meant to find you, the artificial coating of his words doing little to hide the interest in his eyes. “Guess we both had the same idea, huh?”

You wrinkle your nose, taking a step to the side. “Yeah. It’s all yours.”

His hand clamps down on your arm as you go to walk past him and you stiffen. “Whoa, what’s the rush, little lady?”

You grit your teeth, glaring at him. “Can you let go?”

He balks at the look on your face, before his own hardens, lips tugging into a sneer. “You should be a lot nicer, you know. If it weren’t for me, you and your little friend would be dead by now. How about a thank you?”

You consider spitting in his face as you grind out, “Thank you.” Still, he does not let go. “Can I go now?”

He mulls it over, before shaking his head. “Nah. You don’t sound so thankful, let’s try that again.” At the look on your face, which suggests you’d rather die, he grins. It’s a mean thing, eyes glinting as he tugs you closer. Your heart picks up at the proximity, and by your side, your fingers curl into fists. “Or, you could just pay me back proper. How about you put that mouth to use?”

You stay still, frozen as he draws nearer. The stench of his breath makes your stomach turn and suddenly you’re in motion, raising a foot to stamp down on his with all the force you can muster. It takes him by surprise and he yells. You take the advantage to wrench your arm out of his grip, pushing him as he stumbles and booking it through the greenery.

He recovers quickly, if the crashing behind you is anything to go by, bellowing threats. Your arms sting as you push through the foliage instead of carefully stepping through as you had earlier, branches scratching and snapping as you barrel in the direction of the camp. The brush of fingers against your neck makes you scream, loud and high, and you force your legs to carry you faster.

The distance to the campsite isn’t far but every step seems to stretch and time slows with the threat of leaving you disjointed, forever stuck in this moment with hands reaching for you.

You burst into the clearing and bolt to where Jason is. He’s already on his feet and he meets you halfway, standing resolutely in place when you try to push him further away – we need to LEAVE, what are you doing? He steers you behind him when your pursuer breaks through, and you grip the back of his jacket. Still, he refuses to move, an arm stretching behind him to curl towards you protectively.

Your mind seems to black out then, because when you blink, Jason’s hands are hovering over you and there’s an awful amount of blood on them.

“You hurt? Did he touch you?”

Your gaze slides over his shoulder and your stomach begins to turn when you see what’s become of the man. Blood soaks into the earth in copious amounts, another carcass to join the millions. You tremble and he turns your face back to him. His palm is sticky, and the realisation of why brings tears to your eyes. You shudder, stepping closer to him.

“You’re fine,” Jason mutters, breathing hard. He repeats it when you begin to cry in earnest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt. “You’re fine. I got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You learn a few things that day. The first, that he’s not hesitant about taking lives if it means yours are safe. And second, that a horrible, terrible part of you doesn’t feel remorse that he did it.

In the wake of the murder, the fallen man’s companions had fled, unwilling to meet the same fate, and Jason had let them go. You keep to yourselves after that, travelling further south and avoiding the few survivors you do come across. Guilt festers in your stomach when you sneak glimpses of weary faces run haggard, but fear weighs out when you feel the phantom brush of hands on your arm and neck.

Neither of you speak about it beyond the set of the sun that day but it brings about a shift, however miniscule it may be. He’s less willing to let you stray far from his eyesight, now. Sometimes, even with your back turned, you can feel the weight of vigilant eyes on you. But it isn’t only Jason who’s affected by the changes. You linger closer to his side, now, never beyond arm’s reach, never more than a few paces away, unwilling to risk being parted once more.

The spill of blood only brings with it more carnage. It feels rather like a curse when, in the days that follow, only havoc trails after you. Blood in the spaces beneath your nails, blood that pools and darkens in linoleum and hardwood and concrete, blood in your mouth. It clings to you, a stain you’ll never be rid of, no matter how you scrub your skin. The frigid water sticks you like a thousand pins, pinking in the dying light of the day, and still you scrub.

The end of the world doesn’t harden you like you think it’s supposed to. You think maybe if you were idealistic, it would be a kindness, to retain your softness. But it has no place here, meant for a life long gone. For all the precautions you take, the weapons you wield and hide on your person, you still feel like vulnerable prey, the soft belly of your heart exposed. You flinch, you freeze, you–

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

He says it quietly, standing at the mouth of the river, behind you. Red lingers in the corner of your vision – his flannel, darkened. You ignore him.

You’ve stripped down to your underclothes and waded in until the water reached the top of your thighs. Your name falls off his lips, and your own press together tightly. Your jaw aches with the weight of all you try to hold back, and it’s only when fingers curl around your elbow gently do you let it out.

The boy pulls you out of the river with all the care of coaxing a wild animal, uncaring of the water that bleeds through his pants. The skies overhead grow darker, the air steadily cooling around the both of you, and yet you remain in place, staring at the place where his hand meets your skin.

There is no trace of what happened, nothing to suggest anything had occurred. Old scars fleck the back of his hands, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his shirt, but his hands are clean. You stare at the lines of him, the bitten nails, the tendons that flex. Hands that had, only hours earlier, killed for you.

“You’re going to get sick if you stay like this,” he says finally, and you let out a breath.

“I can’t wear those,” you whisper and he tips his head.

“There are clothes inside. They’ll probably fit.”

“Okay.”

He tilts his head, and you fall into step with him. His hand drops until it circles your wrist, and you let him pull you forward. There is only silence as you walk through the wood, save for the snap of leaves and sticks beneath your feet, clumsily pushed into your boots. You can feel the water clinging to your underwear, and you can  feel the autumn air cutting you deep.

(You can hear the sound, still, of splitting flesh.)

You return to your camp for the night, stumbling up the rotting porch and entering the cabin. Unseeing eyes trail over the living room, browns and flaking paint quickly disappearing out of sight behind a wall as you’re pulled into the next room.

“Here.”

The Henley thrust into your hands is felted over. You look up and you’ve entered what looks like the main bedroom – perhaps the only one, you think.

Time stands still in here, the air stale and near everything left untouched. The bed remains made, dust lining the window, pale light filtering in through discoloured glass. Perhaps once, you might’ve felt the discomfort of standing in a place that was not yours. Once, your skin might have crawled at the clothing in your hands, the absence of their owner a clear signal of their fate. Now, it’s all you can do to tug the rest of your clothing off and pull it on. A pair of pants are passed to you next, a size too big and settling low on your hips.

Your wet tank top remains slung over the rail of the bed frame, and you watch the water drip out, pooling on the floor. There’s the rustle of clothes behind you, and you wait until he moves back into your line of vision to look up.

In the darkening room, the boy in front of you looks older than he is. The shadows beneath his eyes smudge deeper, the hollow of his cheeks carved. You wonder what you must look like to him, half crazed and yet entirely subdued. Your breaths mingle in the air between your mouths, and you feel, not for the first time, the years you’ve lost and those forced upon you in the last months.

“Good?”

It takes you a moment to register what he’s talking about. His eyes flick down to the clothes on your body, and you nod jerkily. He seems dissatisfied at your answer, turning to rifle through the closet. When he turns back around, it’s with a jacket in his hands that he pulls around your shoulders.

It’s thick, lined with fleece that settles comfortably against your sides. It’s a wonder it hasn’t been ruined and immediately you try to shrug it off. It would fit him better – but he refuses to let you, fingers tightening on the lapels and keeping it tight around you until you settle.

“Going to freeze otherwise,” he mutters.

“What about you?” you ask dully and he shrugs.

“I run warm.” But already, even in the dim light, you can see the pink in his face. The thick sweater he’s stolen out of the closet does little to combat the chill of the water, and you push past him to rummage blindly through it until your fingers come into contact with something soft. The coat you pull out is fraying at the sleeves, loose threads tickling the skin of your wrist, but you push it against his chest anyway. You don’t move until he pulls it on, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“Better get some rest,” he tells you, tilting his chin in the direction of the bed and you nod, only to pause when he goes to turn. Your hand flies out so suddenly you have no time to feel ashamed, only fear at the thought of being left alone.

“Where are you going?”

He blinks. “I’ll take the couch. I’ll hear it if – if something tries to get in.”

“Stay here.” The words are out before you can rein them in, and you aren’t sure you want to, anyway. The bedroom is small, wide enough to fit a dresser, closet and a bed, but it looms outwards threateningly at the suggestion of only housing one occupant. As if on cue, a branch slams against the windowpane and you jerk, fingers tightening on his sleeve. He looks back and forth between the window and the door, and sighs.

When you go to bed an hour later, it’s after he pushes the couch against the front door and moves your things to the bedroom. The bags lay at the foot of his makeshift bed, spare bedding laid down on the floor beside the bed in a mess of blankets. It hardly looks comfortable, but he’s silent as he takes his place amongst them, lying flat on his back. You peer over the edge of the bed to confirm he’s still there. In the dark, it’s difficult to make out his features, but the sight of his body reassures you, the sounds of his breathing guiding you beneath the covers until you’re staring up into the blankness of the ceiling.

“You still awake?” It’s him who breaks the silence a while later, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Mm. You?”

“Yeah.” A beat, and then he says, “You know it’s not – it isn’t your fault, right?”

Your mind flashes back to the mauve blossoms you’d spotted on his stomach when he’d undressed – the only evidence of your morning.

“I almost got you killed,” you tell him, feeling dread burn in your gut. You see it once more, the horror etched in his features, the thud of a body against his, a drooling maw and rotted limbs outstretched. Your hatchet sinking into a softened skull. “You don’t need to coddle me.”

He lets out a breath. “I’m not.”

“You are. We got lucky.”

“You’re the reason I’m not -” he breaks off, letting out a shaky sigh. It’s the only thing that betrays his fear and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. “I owe you.”

“You don’t.” Your voice comes out harsh, and you fist the sheets under your fingers, suddenly burning despite the chill in the room. “Don’t say that to me. If you’d died, it would’ve been on my hands. I nearly killed you. Don’t tell me that.”

Your voice rings in the air between you, harsh, before he exhales once more.

“If that’s what you want.” Weary, he settles back into the quiet.

Your eyes burn the longer the silence stretches on, and your throat is uncomfortably thick as you force out the words, “I can’t do it again.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“I’m selfish,” your voice wobbles, but you grit your teeth. Salt tracks a trail down the sides of your face, bleeding into the fabric under your head. “I just can’t. I can’t do it alone. Not again.”

“I’m here,” he tells you, and a horrible part of you wonders, for how much longer?

Outside, the world is still and you’ve never hated silence so much, never longed more for the shriek of a car alarm and drunken arguing. Gotham lies in ruin now, motionless and hundreds of miles behind you. It only seems to grow quieter the further you travel into the country, nought but grassland and the whispers of wind to be heard.

Your hand finds his in the space between you, and it’s only then that sleep finds you.

Autumn storms sweep through the county over the next few days when you leave the cabin, driving you to take up shelter in the loft of an empty barn. Water streams in through a gap in the boards with each burst of wind, whistling echoing in the caverned space. The two of you huddle in the corner, tucked close amongst bales of dried straw and a ratty, threadbare blanket you’d found hanging over one of the stalls. Grey clouds form overhead, thick and visible from the skylights above, and you watch through a window as the grass whips back and forth violently, the entire world awash.

Jason pores over the map you’d snagged, eyes squinting in the dim light to make out the lines. It’s torn in a few places, and an entire section of Eastern Gotham and the surrounding states has bled into an unintelligible mess of ink. He looks up when you shuffle away from the window back to his side.

“If we take this route, it should get us to Georgia quicker,” he tells you, pointing a finger along the line. “We’re gonna need to find a car, though. It’ll make it easier.”

“It’ll be noisy,” you murmur, pressing your cheek into your shoulder and he lets out a breath.

“Yeah. It’s that or we keep walking. We don’t have any other options.”

Water drips in through the ceiling, and you sigh. There’s a thread of steel woven tightly into his voice, desperation that reminds you just why you’re making this journey.

“What were – what are they like?” you ask quietly, pulling your legs close and resting your chin against them. His clothes rustle as he shifts against the wall.

“Annoying,” he tells you, but there’s affection in it, voice teetering on the cusp of grief-stricken. “Before, I couldn’t get a moment of peace without one of them interrupting it, showin’ up at my place and demanding to stay ‘cause they didn’t wanna go home.”

“You didn’t live with them?”

He shakes his head, and something in his eyes shutters, a story you’re not privy to hidden in their tourmaline depths. “Moved out. The two younger ones lived with my old man. My, uh, older brother, lived in Bludhaven, but you wouldn’t even know it, always hanging around mine or my old man’s.”

“I think that’s sweet,” you murmur, and he snorts.

“You would. You’d like him, probably.”

You tilt your head to hide your smile. “We’ll see, I guess.”

He sounds more plaintive than you think he means to when he says, “Yeah.”

Rain slams against the roof, the storm no closer to clearing, and he clears his throat.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“What was it like, y’know, before?” He sounds hesitant, as if the question might hurt somehow. And you suppose it does, in a way, when you think of all that came before, of all that can never be. It will never be as it once was. You hum.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I was in college, and then I wasn’t. I thought it was gonna be like that forever, you know, finals and midterms and the break in it all when we went out, even though we had to be up the next morning.”

“You go out a lot?” he asks, curious and you shrug.

“I liked dancing,” you hum, and once more you can feel the heat of a packed room, the floaty feeling of a few drinks and the press of fingertips into your palms, sweet smiles and longing. You let out a laugh, bitter and mournful. “I always said I was too tired and then somehow ended up walking home at 2.”

 “Sounds like you had a good time, at least,” he says, and you catch a hint of envy in his voice.

“Did you not -?”

He lifts a shoulder, hunching forward. “Things got in the way of normal for a long time. By the time it started to settle, I got in a few years before..” He gestures vaguely around you. You nod,

“We’ll find your brothers soon,” you murmur, shoulder pressed against his. Your hand finds his atop the straw, and he doesn’t move away.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, tiredly. His temple knocks against yours gently and the two of you sit like that, with his head on your shoulder until the storm passes through.

You think that maybe fortune must be smiling down on you when you find a truck a few miles out from the farm and it lives long enough to carry you to the interstate, where Jason is able to siphon gas from the lineup of abandoned motor vehicles. There’s a moment when you think it might go south, your heart gripping painfully in your chest when a herd passes through just as he gets back into the truck and you have to press down into the footwell of your seat to keep from being spotted. Your fingernails leave dents in the back of Jason’s hand, stretched across the console in danger of being seen to hold onto him. He squeezes yours back intently, green eyes meeting yours from where he’s managed to fold himself beneath the wheel. A finger comes up to his mouth, and you incline your head in the barest of movements.

They pass through, eventually and you find yourself glad for the grime that muddies the windows, making it hard for already decaying eyes to catch sight of a pale arm reaching out to comfort you. You hate that he’s kind, a little. He waits until you’ve caught your breath, letting you hold his hand and press your forehead to the seat until the tremors die down before the two of you shift carefully back into your seats and pull away – mercifully, in the opposite direction of the herd.

You drive for a day and a half, switching every so often and pushing the truck into the cover of the trees when you decide to rest. Dawn comes once more, and the terrible dream continues to prove it is anything but a fiction. There is cruelty in the enduring stillness of the world around you, and you think your heart breaks for the thousandth time when, as you pass a faded billboard sign, you begin to recognise the buildings around you.

Your hand flies to the console, pushing you up from the passenger seat to take a better look out of the windows. Beside you, Jason makes a noise of concern.

“You okay?”

You blink, looking over your shoulder at him before you’re pulled back to the passing playground and a familiar set of swing tires.

“I know where we are,” you tell him, hating the way his eyes soften sympathetically before the words are even out of your mouth to explain. “I used to spend my summers here – look, there.”

He follows the line of your finger to a row of houses, and you have to press your lips together at the wave of nostalgia that washes over you.

You think about a different time, a neighbourhood washed in gold and the roughness of bark beneath your palms. The ghost of a seven year old girl in overalls stares at you as you drive past the corner store, and you remember skinned knees, bare feet on asphalt and the stickiness of ice cream dripping down your wrist. You think of the two boys that had lived three houses down, always arguing, always dragging you to the arcade with them and insisting you play the games with them. You think of barbecues and the smell of charred meat, running around under the spray of a hose and squealing when the older kids jumped into the community pool.

Madison is now broken fences and stains you don’t dare to look at too closely, abandoned tricycles and boarded windows. It’s eerie as you drive through the bones of the suburbs you’d spent your youth in. Not for the first time, grief takes your heart in its hands and squeezes.

You turn your face away from your companion when the tears start, trying to discreetly raise your hand to swipe them away. It’s unfair, that the months have done little to soften the edge of your hurt, that even in the fear you find moments to mourn. Time passes, and your scars remain as fresh as the day the city fell, wounds open for anyone to see.

Jason, though, you never catch his grief, hidden except when the light tilts just so, when he turns and you catch a glimpse of it, like a star winking before it’s gone. You envy it, that he’s able to carry himself – that he’s able to carry you, too.

Sometimes, you wonder if it wouldn’t be better if he’d left you, that first day.

Almost intuitively, his voice draws you from your thoughts, the murmur of your name on his lips as he brushes against your elbow. You blink, and water splashes against your cheeks.

“Pass me the map,” he says, tactful enough not to mention the drying tears on your face when you turn to him. He lifts his chin towards the bag at your feet. “Should be in the front pocket.”

“It’s not there,” you mumble, after rifling around and coming up with nothing. Rooting around the spare t-shirts you’d bundled after a stop at a small boutique – 3 walkers, easy enough to take out except for the one, split second when you’d fumbled with your axe – and the ripening pears you’d salvaged from the farm had brought up nothing, and Jason clicks his tongue when you tell him as much.

“It is,” he insists, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to flick in your direction. “I put it there this morning before we left.”

You frown at him, impatient as you begin to unpack the bag again. “I’m telling you, it isn’t here. Is it in the other one?”

He takes the empty rucksack from you, placing it in his lap and rummaging through it with one hand. You don’t wait for him to realise he’s wrong, twisting in your seat to reach for the other bag in the backseat. Your body blocks the gap above the centre console, and you squeal when Jason swerves a little, your hand flying to grip the headrest of his seat. His hand leaves the bag to snag onto the back of your shirt, the material twisting in his fingers. The metal bars are cool beneath your fingers, and strands of his hair tickle your palms.

“Watch it!” you tell him reproachfully, unzipping the bag as best as you can with one hand. The material proves hard but it eventually gives way, and you grin when  the glossy paper of the map comes into view. “Found it, I told you it wasn’t in there.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, looking away when you settle back into your seat.

That evening, when you make camp, you park the truck and head further into the forest. 15 minutes of walking leads you to a lake, and you grin when you come to a stop near the water, turning excitedly to Jason.

He doesn’t return the enthusiasm, eyes tracking for movement on all sides, but you see the satisfaction in his face when he sets his pack down on the edges of the lake.

“You go wash up first,” he offers, nodding his head. You’re too pleased to argue. His face warms a little, and he turns away. “I’ll keep watch.”

The stones are smooth and rounded, here, and you bite back a swear at the chill when you step in after shucking most of your clothes. It occurs to you, when you wade in about knee deep, that maybe you ought to be a little more concerned about undressing in front of him, but when you glance over your shoulder, Jason’s face is directed firmly away from you. He remains alert, poised to act at any moment, and you let out a little breath, assured in the set of his shoulders.

The water is, mercifully, not too cold. You get used to it after a few seconds, scrubbing your skin as quickly as you can.

“Don’t take too long,” he reminds you, calling over his shoulder but keeping his voice fairly low. “Don’t need you getting sick.”

“I won’t,” you mutter, but you end up lingering a little longer than you ought to, soaking your worn muscles. When you get out the sun has begun its descent in the sky and you quickly pat yourself dry with a spare rag. You take advantage of the afternoon sun to warm yourself on a larger rock as you take up your post, now your turn to keep watch as your companion washes himself off.

“Shit.”

“What is it?” you tense immediately, turning your head in a panic only to find him clutching the sodden material of his shirt. He lifts his eyes to you, and shakes his head. You realise, delayed, that he hasn’t got a shirt on, standing only in his boxers, and you look away, feeling your face warm.

“Can you pass me -”

“Yeah, sorry, got it,” you mumble quickly, leaning for his bag. An undershirt and flannel are retrieved quickly and passed to him with your eyes decisively fixed on the treeline, passing the items behind you until you feel the brush of his fingertips as he takes them from you.

You try not to think about the water pooling in the divots in his skin, or the drops falling from his hair, ink black and curling.

“You sure this water’s safe?” he grumbles, after a while, climbing up onto the rock beside you. The sun is steadily setting, and you need to make camp, but you sit, watching the shadows stretch over the lakeside, orange glowing through the leaves. “I’m not gonna contract a flesh eating disease, or something, right?”

You huff, foot pressing out to kick gently at his ankle. “We swam here all the time, back then. Relax.”

He lets out a little laugh, and you look away when it turns something in your stomach over. It’s a pleasant sound, though one you’ve rarely heard – there isn’t much cause for joy, these days, after all. You turn the sound over in your mind, wondering if this is what it might’ve been like, to be friends in another world. You sneak a look at him through your lashes, and the feeling travels up to sit beneath your ribs, stretching soft like toffee, sticking to all it touches, too sweet a feeling for a world like this one. He leans back on his palms, face relaxed. You could almost pretend, here, that nothing exists beyond the treeline.

“I’m trusting you,” he says lightly, knocking your shoulders.

“I wouldn’t lie to you like that,” you say, and it comes out like a confession. His eyes meet yours, and all that you don’t say, all that you don’t even dare to think, too out of reach and impossible to grasp between your fingertips, lies between you. Jason nods.

“Yeah, I know.”

The cicadas have begun to sing, and he keeps his gaze on you a moment longer before he pushes himself up, holding out a hand.

“C’mon. Gotta make camp, unless you want to freeze tonight.”

You take his hand, pulling yourself to your feet. He squeezes it once, before your hands fall away.

The fire he builds that night is small, stones piled high to surround the flame and keep it from drawing any unwanted attention. You watch him squat, arranging the rocks from your place on a log, leaning closer to the pit and holding your hands out.

“Can I ask a question?”

He hums.

“How do you..” you furrow your brows. “Most people don’t know how to do all this stuff. Were you like, some doomsday nut, or?”

His eyebrows fly into his hairline, a surprised laugh falling from his lips as he turns to you.

“A doomsday nut?” he repeats, amused, and you nudge him with a foot, attempting to unbalance him. Frustratingly, he only grips your ankle to still it. “Come on, tell me.”

He presses his lips to stifle a smile, shaking his head. “My old man was the doomsday nut, not me.”

You incline your head forward. “Really?”

Jason snorts. He pokes at the fire a little, before sighing. “No. I mean, kind of. He was really disciplined about all that self defence shit and being self sufficient. We used to go camping, and he’d make a game of it, a survival exercise, or something. Mostly we were just goofing around, but I guess it was interesting, and I picked up a few things.”

He looks over at you, hesitating, before he elaborates. “He and I, uh, we fell out when I got older. We mended it after a bit, but it wasn’t the same, you know. It’s all gone to shit now, but if I have one thing to remember him by, this is a damn good one, I guess.”

His thumb strokes an arc across your ankle, before he lets it go, turning back to the fire.

“Did..” you trail off, unsure, and he shakes his head.

“Kicked the bucket a few years before all of this.” He stands up, only to deposit himself by your side. “Left a fucking mess behind him, but I’m glad. That it was then, before..”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s not your fault.”

You hum. “I know. I’m still sorry.”

You press closer, resting your cheek against his shoulder. His arm comes around you, after a beat of surprised silence in which you worry you’ve overstepped, and he leans against you. The flames flicker and burn, the cicadas sing and Jason does not move.

When you wake the next morning he’s lying on his side and both your hands rest in the space between you, fingers curled and knuckles pressed against each other.

It feels like the flicker of something new. Something is forged in the earth where your hands lie, weaving your palms together, an invisible thread that ties you. His eyes flutter open a few moments after yours, and in the early light of the morning, you know you aren’t the only one who recognises it.

But there is a bigger sky over your heads, one that presses the urgency of your journey, one that has no time to address the curling in your gut or the gentleness of his fingers as they brush dirt from your jaw.

Time, time, time. You return to the truck wishing for more of it, for more spaces in between.

The road is bumpier when you return to it, and you follow the map in silence, navigating carefully around the rare lone walker.

Georgia comes faster, then, and you feel the stirrings of fear as the distance to where you’re headed, noted on faded boards, grows smaller and smaller. Jason grows tenser, too, answers short and distracted. The possibility hangs heavy in the air – of what might await you. His fingers curl into fists, and he presses his knuckles to his mouth as you drive past the first sign –

Welcome to Georgia! The Peach State.

You don’t dare to speak when he tells you to pull over, climbing into the passenger seat wordlessly. He drives slowly, and your nails dig into the fabric of your jeans when the car slows down and he mutters to you,

“We’ll walk it from here. We know where the car is, if–” he stops short, and reaches over the console to grab his pack from the backseat. You nod, biting your cheek and he looks over at you in confirmation, pausing only when he catches your obvious apprehension.

He takes a breath, and extends a hand.

“You trust me?” he asks, and you nod.

“I do.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” he presses, intent, and you nod.

“I’ve got your back, too,” you whisper, and he leans forward to knock your forehead against his.

“Let’s go.”

There is a part of you that knows you will not return to the truck – that leaving will forever alter the course of your journey. Safety is not something you can guarantee, but intuitively, you know this: the moment you close the car door, you seal your fate. This knowledge is something you know, yet are blind to, unwilling to face it, unwilling to shirk your post at his back, unwilling to abandon him now. You are at a crossroads. He will not stay a moment longer from his brothers, and you – 

You  will not leave his side.

In the end, of course, you follow.

You are tethered, caught in his orbit and unwilling to let go – he is loath to let you, but you know he would. You’ve seen the hesitance in his eyes, the silent debate of whether he should have brought you into this, if you’d be better off without him. If you asked him to let you go, you think he would.

You follow him, eyes alert and shoulders tense. The path to the bunker is a difficult one, overturned branches and muddied with fallen leaves. Once, twice, a few times, you cut down the walkers that stray into your path. The sound of a splitting skull makes your stomach turn every time, and you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, in an effort to keep from screaming when you strike.

Each time, Jason pauses to inspect their rotted faces, and you wait in apprehensive silence. Stranger. Stranger. Stranger. With each that proves to keep the chance of his brothers being alive, his face grows harder, fingers twisting around his machete.

Dread creeps up on you as the sun begins its descent in the sky, and you draw upon the outer perimeter of the place he’d detailed to you in the car.

He told me – gave me the directions to a bunker. It’s pretty deep in the woods, but he said it was secure. They’ve got some sort of system in place, so it doesn’t go down easy.

You begin to see what sort of system exactly it is, wooden spikes boring up from the ground to act as a fence. Already, a few remain impaled, their gurgling making you flinch as you pass by. A pair of heavy metal doors act as the only entrance, and you watch Jason come to a stop in front of them, hands trembling by his side.

He takes a breath.

You grip your axe.

He bangs on the door.

There is a split second, right before the door opens and a gun presses to his head, where Jason looks over at you. The face that peers through is not, judging from the mistrust on the man’s face, his brother. A large scar runs down the side of his face, red hair dry and thinning. He’s much older than the both of you – and stockier. In a fight, you don’t know that the both of you could overpower him.

“I’m looking for Grayson,” Jason spits, unrepentant and unmoving in the face of the metal digging into his forehead. Your throat closes over and you find it difficult to breathe when a cloudy eye trails over his shoulder to fix on you. “She’s with me. And he’s expecting me.”

You anticipate the words before he delivers them. You see it in the way his face eases ever so slightly, as if he’s established you aren’t a threat, though his grip on the gun doesn’t waver. You see it in the pikes propped up beyond the fence, small boards attached with writing you can’t make out – you know it in the drop of your gut, though, the loss of balance as the world seems to swim before you. You know what those are, and you know the words before he says them.

“Grayson ain’t here, kid.”

Jason stiffens, and you taste blood. The walkers nearby gurgle louder, likely catching the scent of your bitten tongue, your grief palpable in the air.

“What the fuck do you mean,” Jason says lowly, and you want to reach for him, but you’re too aware of how anything could change in a split second. “He told me he was here – how the fuck do you think I found this place, huh?”

“Jason,” you whisper and the red haired man cuts you a sharp look.

“Grayson,” he bites out, clearly agitated. “Drake. Wayne. ‘S who you’re here for, ain’t it?”

Each name he drops makes the hair on the back of your neck raise, and you look at Jason – the eerie stillness on his face, not a muscle moving. He’s barely breathing.

“Only me left, man,” he breathes out, weary. Overhead, the trees blot out the sun, so thick it feels as though night has already fallen.

“Are they dead, is that what you’re saying?”

He looks at you then, at the devastation on your face, the grief of another life lost etched into your heart, and he sighs, opening his mouth to answer but before he can, he’s cut off.

“I don’t believe you,” Jason says defiantly, chancing a look over his shoulder at you and back to the man. “You’re lying – there’s something you’re not telling us, look at him.”

And you trust him with your life, he’s kept you safe thus far, so you do look. There’s a nervous twitch of his eye as he begins to protest, and you note the sweat beginning to bead at his hairline, despite the cool evening air.

“Is that true?” you ask, voice trembling. He pales and there’s a moment when you think he might just come clean but it comes too late. Jason, fed up, shoves him, dislodging the gun from his grip and spinning it around to face the other man. You gasp, but it’s already over in a matter of seconds, the tables turned before you can blink.

“Only you, you said,” he breathes out heavily, expression hardening. He lifts the gun to point over his shoulder. “You try anything and unlike you, I won’t hesitate. I’m here for Grayson and you’re going to fucking take me to him.”

Red grits his teeth. “Fine.” He mumbles something under his breath that you strain your ears to catch as you draw closer. “Don’t...warned you, though.”

The bunker is dark as he leads you down a large stretch, your flashlights pointing straight into the black to avoid tripping. You’re aware of your obvious disadvantage – though you might outnumber him, he knows this place far more intimately – and it makes you wary as you step through. When the hallway finally opens out, it’s into a wider, caverned space, and you descend a set of stairs into a small atrium of sorts. There is no sign of any other occupants – nothing scattered across the large tables joined together to meet in the middle, chairs left firmly pushed in.

Your gut curls as he leads you through the bunker, and you draw closer to Jason. His hand reaches out to brush against yours briefly, before withdrawing. Once more, you reach a set of stairs and begin the ascent. Another exit, you note.

Twilight outside slips through when he opens the door and with it, the scent of something immeasurably wrong. You go to clutch the hem of Jason’s shirt, panic spiking in your veins, but he’s just out of reach, already stepping through. Against your will, you are tugged forward, as if a marionette on strings. The smell reaches you before you’re even out the door, and you retch when your eyes fall on what he’s brought you to.

Red is breathing hard, glancing between the both of you, unaware of just how precariously his life hangs in the balance now.

Looking at what he’s brought you before, you can’t find any pity for him.

Jason makes a strangled noise, and your own face is warm, the slide of tears dripping into the earth beneath you. Once more, you find a spiked fence, once more you find bodies speared. All strangers to you. To Jason –

There are echoes of a handsome face in the rotted visage of a nearby undead. Milky eyes stare hungrily when he draws closer, clamoured breaths fogging in the air in front of him, anguished. Red remains forgotten, attention stolen by the groans of what had once been most loved. Jason’s knees give out before him, and he falls forward into the muck, prostrate in grief.

Flanking his sides, two younger bodies – both who receive the same reception. He doesn’t have to say a word. Grayson. Drake. Wayne. The youngest, no older than 16, bears the worst injuries compared to his counterparts. Grief rolls in through you, and overhead there is a distant rumble of thunder.

You turn, the contents of your empty stomach splattering into the mud at your feet.

The acidity makes your eyes water and when you stand, wiping your mouth, you look to Jason. A new feeling grows within you, the longer you stare at him, a burning in your gut that simmers at the look on his face – too late, too late. One, two, three, all gone, before he could reach them. Worse still, his failure stands before him, a taunt of all that he had done, all that had not been enough.

Red is blurry when you turn your gaze to him, but it doesn’t soften the loathing that floods your being. He stands a few feet away, fidgeting, unsure what to make of this.

“You kept them,” you breathe out and he furrows his brows.

“Huh?”

You tilt your head in the direction of the pikes. There’s a throbbing in your head, and you’re distinctly aware of your hands growing numb. “They were your companions – and you couldn’t even put them to rest. You just left them like this, and for what? To protect yourself?”

Confusion bleeds into irritation. He isn’t forgiving of your tone, contempt in your every syllable.

“Don’t you fucking look at me like that,” he growls. “You don’t get to judge me – I’m doing what I gotta do to make it out here. Everything’s gone to hell and you wanna judge me? No fucking way, lady.”

“Fuck that,” you shoot back, shaking your head. A suppressed sob threatens to rise when you step forward to the pike, and he grows alarmed.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Putting them to rest,” you snap, and he lurches forward. He doesn’t get very far, Jason rising from the ground in silence and slamming him in the jaw with the butt of his rifle. He stumbles back, swearing.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” he warns, voice hoarse. Red-rimmed eyes seek yours out and you nod reassuringly.

“I’m okay.” You turn to Red, eyeing him disdainfully. “You can either help me get them down or go back inside, but I’m not leaving them like this.”

He chooses the latter, after some moments of silence, retreating through the doors mumbling under his breath and leaving the two of you alone with his brothers. A light mist has begun to roll in, and it clings to your hair and lashes as you move towards Jason.

He folds into you when you reach him and you stagger to support his weight, a hand resting on the back of his head as he takes a shuddering breath. His face hides in your neck, hands gripping your jacket tightly. You let out a soft sob, clutching him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, lips pressed against his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck,” he gasps, struggling to draw a breath. “Should’ve...’f I’d just fucking stayed...”

“It isn’t your fault,” you plead, but it rings hollowly between you, a feeble consolation that even now does little to free you of your own guilt.

He weeps and the mist turns to a gentle pour, rainwater streaming over your heads and muddying the ground at your feet further. You hold him like that, trembling frames clinging to each other in your shared grief. A second passes, and then another, until you’re unsure how long you’ve remained there. Long enough to grow roots, certainly. It’s difficult to move when you smooth a hand over his rain slicked head, to urge him forward.

“Come on,” you murmur thickly. “We have to do right by them.”

His face seizes again painfully, and you fear he might collapse once more. His grief holds him whole as he moves forward, and you flank him as he steps forward.

The youngest goes first, an apology on his lips as he presses the barrel of the rifle against Damian’s forehead. The silencer keeps the shot from ringing out, and his snarling face falls slack in mere seconds, slumping forward. You hold the rifle as he’s lifted; cradled in Jason’s arms, how young he truly was weighs on you, and you turn your face into your shoulder to muffle a cry. Jason places him gently on the ground, and turns back to you. Tim is next, and laid next to Damian. Jason lingers by his side, a hand cradling his head, and you feel, not for the first time, like a stranger bearing witness to something sacred, like you’ve stumbled across something not meant for your eyes.

All that’s left of their family are the two eldest, now, and Jason stands before the being that had once been his older brother. Dick Grayson leans forward, drooling and he doesn’t flinch, despite the rotted fingernails stretching out only inches from his face. One step forward, and he too would join them. You wonder if he isn’t half considering it, staring up at him.

“I’m sorry. Dick, I’m sorry, you hear me?” His voice trembles as he hefts the rifle. “You stupid bastard. I told you I was coming. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

There’s a current of betrayal in his words, hurt and grieving. In the dark, it’s hard to make out the expression on his face, but you can hear the hitch in his breath, the strangled sob he tries to bite back at the groan his brother lets out.

“B’s gonna – he’s gonna kick your ass, you know.” He’s gasping the words out, trembling violently and you’re helpless to do anything about it, rooted to the spot. Would that you could carry his burden for him – but it’s his to bear. “You better – fucking give it back. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

The last of his line, an orphan again – you hear Jason shed bitter tears as he shifts his older brother, laying his body beside the others.

He rises, sniffing loudly. The rain has stilled, but the temperature is unforgiving on your dampened skin, you fear the two of you might fall sick if you stay out here any longer. Still, it feels wrong to leave them here.

“Go inside,” Jason instructs, his voice rough. “Gonna get sick, standing around like this.”

“I’m not leaving you,” you refuse. “I’ve got your back. Come on.”

You find a shovel amongst a pile of tools, just outside the door. Within the circle, unwilling to venture beyond the safety of the fence, you dig. The muck makes it difficult, and your arms strain as you sift through the earth. The two of you take turns, and by the time your plot is dug, you’re covered in filth.

Only one grave is dug – “Keep them together,” Jason mumbles tightly and you nod. In your arms, his youngest brother is light. You kneel, lowering him into the ground with a whispered apology of your own. It will never reach the ears it was meant for, but you repeat yourself, and then once more, when the third body is laid down. You make a vow of your own, too, to these three, whose brother might have reached them in time had you been a little faster – had he not been slowed down by you.

I’m sorry, you apologise, thrice over. I’m sorry. I’ll take care of him in your stead.

You climb up, standing beside Jason as the wind begins to howl, a wordless service to the fallen. Bitter, guilty and grieving, the two of you pack the earth over their bodies. Buried, you hope they’re at rest – and hope they’ll forgive you.

It’s only in the late hours of the night that the two of you return through the doors. Red startles awake where he’d been sitting in the atrium when you shuffle in, tracking in mud and grime with you. Bloodshot eyes scrutinise you before he tilts his head. “Shower’s through there. Should be a clean towel in there.”

You tip your head tiredly, and Jason nudges you in the direction of the bathroom. You’re dead on your feet, and more than once you stumble, muscles aching and mind foggy. The cold has begun to set in, and your fingers feel numb from the hours outside.

Jason locks the bathroom door after he steps in with you, scrubbing wearily at his face. He lifts his chin, a silent request for you to go first. You don’t have any time to protest before he drops to sit against the closed toilet lid, eyes closing firmly.

Stiffly, you peel off your mud-stained clothes, stepping into the small stream of water. The warmth takes you by surprise, and Jason lifts his head at the noise you make, finding your gaze in the thin cloud of steam that’s begun to amass in the air.

You okay?

You offer him a nod, and he lowers his head once more.

Neither of you speak, when you leave the bathroom later, about the sniffles you’d been unable to mask under the thin spray of water or the red that rims Jason’s eyes. The only other inhabitant of the bunker has long since retreated to one of the bunks and you curl up in a different room, listening to the tremulous breaths across the room. In the dark, Jason lies in the bunk closest to the door, a chair wedged against the door – just in case.

It’s difficult to sleep, despite the events of the last day. Exhaustion weighs your limbs down, and though you’d scrubbed down every inch of dirt, the grave clings to you still. Beneath closed eyelids you can still see the twist of their faces, of Jason’s when denial had made way for grief, stubborn disbelief swept away by a tidal wave when he’d met milky eyes.

Tears once more. You press your fingertips to your face, shucking the duvet higher up to muffle your breathing.

He hears it anyway. There’s a warmth at your back that you don’t startle at, only shuffling closer to the wall and making room as he slips under the covers with you. Perhaps it’s for your comfort, but you don’t doubt that he seeks it, if only partly, for himself, too. His forehead presses to the back of your head, and arm sliding beneath your neck. You clasp the hand that finds a home over your stomach, turning your head to press your mouth against the skin of his forearm.

Words conjure in your mind and fall short, a static-y mess of jumbled letters. There is nothing to offer him in place of the loss he’s suffered today. Your hands remain empty. Would that you could turn back time. All that could have been taunts you in the darkness beneath your lids.

When you turn to press your face into his neck, settling your weight firmly in his arms, it feels like both a plea and a measly tribute. What is a stranger in the place of three brothers?

When dawn breaks, you are deep beneath the earth. Sunlight does not reach through the walls of the bunker, and so you are disoriented when you wake. It is as dark as when you’d closed your eyes, but you’ve shifted in your sleep, and your bed is missing a body.

Panic seizes you first, and you sit up straight, ripping the covers off. You’re halfway out of bed when you trip over the rucksacks, and the fall startles you enough into realising you aren’t in danger. Much, anyway, you reason when you slink out of the room and find Red in the hallway. He raises a brow at you, and you press your lips tightly together, unwilling to interact with him any more than you have to.

“Your man’s down the end of the hall,” he tells you gruffly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. You hum indifferently, waiting for him to leave before you start in the direction of the room.

You’re led to another bedroom, larger, with more cots pushed into it. Jason stands in the centre of it, holding a shirt in his hands that you don’t recognise from the contents of his bag. He turns over his shoulder at the sound of your footsteps, relaxing when he realises it isn’t Red.

“Hi,” you whisper, lingering at the threshold. The air is still in the room, and you’re hesitant to disturb it. A twitch of his mouth is your answer, a tilt of his head that coaxes you closer.

There’s a scribble of initials on the tag, D.G scrawled over the care instructions. Your fingers curl into a fist at your side, and you turn away, ashamed. It’s hard not to bear this guilt. It lingers with you, clogging your throat at the sight of the few possessions that clutter the room. You don’t have to draw closer to know whose room this had been.

“We’re leaving. I’m not staying here,” Jason says finally, and you turn to look at him. He clutches the shirt in his hand, fingers curling in the blue fabric.

What else is there to say? You go where he does.

“Okay,” you tell him, and only when his shoulders loosen do you realise they’d been tense in the first place, as though he had expected resistance, fearing your denial. “Should I go get our things?”

He shakes his head. “Too late to go anywhere now. We slept through the day.”

How are you up, you wonder, staring at him. How can you continue, how can you move on? But you see it, in the lines of his face, the fragility of his facade. There’s a haunting in his eyes, emerald turned viridian, and his hands tremble in front of him. Barely kept together, there’s a silent plea.

Don’t press. Not now. Now is not the time to break. There will be time to mourn your loss later.

So you don’t ask. You don’t press. You lead him out of that room, away from the ghosts, away from the pencil shavings left undisturbed and a sketchbook that never got to be filled. Another day passes, the first in a world without his brothers. He sleeps in your bed again, and your fingers intertwine in the dark. He presses his cheek against your pillow, and you remain awake until his breathing evens out.

Dawn breaks and you leave with a handful of things shoved into your packs. You don’t tell Red, nor do you care to wake him when you leave.

“Where will we go?” you ask Jason, when you break out of the woods. His face seizes painfully at the reminder that there is nothing to reach now, nobody waiting on the other end to make it worth the pain.

“Anywhere, I guess,” he croaks. He glances over his shoulder doubtfully. “You still with me?”

“I made a promise, didn’t I?” It’s far from what you want to say. But you think he understands, and there’s a hint of gratitude in the crease of his eyes – the time is not now, but not never.

That selfish hope tides you over, tightens your grip on his hand as you step out into the wasteland.

For a long time, the two of you drift. Unmoored, adrift with nowhere to go, you struggle. Days bleed into night, dusk into dawn, rinse and repeat. If you could ever find such a thing, you come closest to finding respite in the thick of the woods. Winter draws closer, closer, and you make your camp where you can find it, hollowed husks of dead trees, cordoning off the area with noise makers before you fall into fitful sleep on a bed of dead, dry leaves.

It’s difficult, grappling with the loss. There are no more moments in between – every breath spent covering as much ground as you can before nightfall and taking turns keeping watch. The cold cuts you deep out here, a knife that whittles you down to the bone. Selfish, you long for the cabin, longing for the stillness, for once. Ever in motion, you don’t linger in one place for too long. The woods are thick and you don’t intend to see winter through here.

Jason curls himself even tighter around you now. His body canvasses yours, nose pressed firm into your neck when you sleep. In the early mornings you wake in a vice grip and it becomes impossible to disentangle yourself from him without resorting to waking him, too. Always with a start, thrust violently into consciousness, he opens his eyes, alert. He seeks you out, first, before scanning your surroundings. Only when he’s satisfied there isn’t an active threat does he loosen his grip on you, following to keep guard as you relieve yourself.

He remains closer to your side than ever now, but he couldn’t feel further away.

There is a lifelessness in his eyes that only sparks when you chance upon walkers. Bloodshed sparks his adrenaline, and he takes a long time to come down, breathing heavily and eyes alight with a fire you haven’t seen since then.

Blood, always blood. You track it through the country, soles red. It cakes in your hair and darkens your clothes. This time around, there is no cabin, no wardrobe to replace your clothes. The fleece in your jacket is matted now, Jason’s shredded his further. 

You still with me? Jason asks you one night, when the two of you have curled close to a small fire. Chest at your back, all you can see of him is the white of his fingers, scarred digits curled against your own.

Still here. (Still yours, you think.)

And that is the end of it. You don’t bother with reassurances, not when his palm presses over your heart – he feels it for himself, a vow intact. The cords threading you together are silken, unbowing. As he shadows you, so do you follow in his stead, treading the path after him unthinkingly.

It makes sense, that the end comes soon, once more. 

It’s been a long year, and you’re weary. Down to the bone, you feel it, the heaviness of being. Of continuing, fighting against the grain to survive another day. You’re living on borrowed time and now, more than ever, it becomes apparent to you that it’s begun to run out. Perhaps the clock had started on that first day of it all, when the bridges had fallen. Or had it been when you’d found each other in the destroyed remains of your home city? You think it had been when you’d closed in on Georgia.

Death catches up to you. It had always been in the periphery of your lives, drawing closer with every staggered step, every brush of rotting breath, every encounter that got too close. Now, it drifts in, unbidden.

Bodies litter the forest ground, muddied, rotting. The clearing looks out on a cloudy sky, thick grey hanging low, the promise of a storm.

You and Jason fall last, staggering into the centre of the clearing. The wounds are deep this time, too deep. Copper, and the scent of petrichor. A thick mist that rolls in, a sheath for your bodies, a funeral shroud for a ceremony you won’t see. Side by side, you stare at the sky.

“I’m...” Heavy, gasping breaths. You use the last of your strength to turn your head. Fading green eyes find yours. “I’m...sorry.”

Your own burn with tears, and you brush your fingers against his. “Not your fault.”

Bloody lips press against your own, bitter against your tongue. Hand in yours, Jason goes first. His movements slacken, and then, it is only you. Time, more time. If you’d only had more of it. In the next life, perhaps. Jason goes first and, as you had promised, you follow.

The end of the world comes and goes and then you, too, join the horde.

fin.

i started this during finals season when all i could think about was the horror and tragedy of loving someone doomed to die.

'Do you still believe myths can save you? Foolish creature. Let me be clear: every version of this story ends with you being slaughtered' << this exactly.

anyway this was inspired by everywhere, everything by noah kahan but also, sort of: bones and all, the walking dead, ethel cain and the midwestern gothic ? maybe i'm misusing that term but i mean specifically location wise. the eeriness of how quiet the world would be after its end, how disconcerting it would be when all you knew was Gotham, too, never resting, always in motion. the end comes and you're driven out from a city you longed to leave, but now all you want is to go home.

at so many points throughout writing this, i wanted to keep jason (and reader) alive, even though i knew he was going to die well before i even started writing this. i struggled a lot with sticking to that decision, but i feel like in a lot of my writing i give them happier endings and i wanted to try something newer for a change. i don't think i'm as well versed in this sort of genre, i mostly write light-hearted romance. but i also think there is something beautiful in tragic romances that i don't explore enough. so here is my attempt at this.

anyway. this only makes sense 2 me, probably. i still hope you enjoyed reading it though

[lennsart]

Most of the wips I write these days can be summarized by "Legend gets hurt in fucked-up ways, and then he gets hugs" :)

(I'm fine shhh)

But I had this sitting in my drafts, and it's like the comfort part to a hurt/comfort, except I didn't like the hurt part, so posting this probably doesn't make sense, but.. I just wanted the boys to hug

Context + snippet under the cut !

Basically, Legend has been abducted for ransom (I think it was inspired by a whumptober prompt) and he didn't have a stellar time there. The rest of the chain rescues him, but they're worried he'll wake up confused at night, so they decide to watch over him. And they're supposed to take turn, but they all kinda end up sleeping next to him :)

Have this little Four POV that I quite like and feels like it can be posted without context :

Four expected to see two people in the room. One awake, that he would be about to replace, and the other asleep, that he would watch.

He hadn't expected three sleeping dudes.

He had to pause and go back to the hallway to laugh, muffling his chuckles in his sleeve. Of course Sky would have wanted to hug Legend and would have fallen asleep. Of course Hyrule would have let them, and promptly fallen asleep as well.

When he came back in and carefully closed behind him, he noticed with fondness that Legend, at least, looked perfectly content. He was sleeping on his back, Sky hugging his right arm, and he held Hyrule's hand with his left.

The traveler was mostly on the ground, head and arms on the mattress. Four winced ; that couldn't be comfortable.

Alright, he gave up (as if he hadn't as soon as he noticed them). He'd watch them three sleep, if only to gush about how cute they were tomorrow.

(He hoped Wind would bring his pictobox for his turn of watch in the morning.)

He got on Hyrule's side, and gently nudged him. This one hummed sleepily.

" - Shh, don't wake them up. " Four whispered. " Hop in.

- What...? " the traveler asked in confusion.

Four bit back a laugh at how asleep he sounded.

" - Get in the bed. " he ordered.

Hyrule may not really understand what was happening, but he didn't need to be told twice. He climbed in, wincing when he moved his legs, and abandoned Legend's hand to hug his waist, resting his head on his stomach.

The veteran softly hummed, but didn't fully wake up.

Four sat on one of the scarce empty spots of the bed, giggling to himself. He was happy that this watch had taken such a sweet turn ; he had expected to get lost in his own mind, trying to understand how they could have let one member of their group go through that. 

...

Instead, he had three sleepyheads cuddling, and he would trade for nothing in the world.

The last free spot on the mattress, above Hyrule and next to Lege, was probably too small for someone to sleep there.

...Well. He was small too, and mostly slept curled up anyway.

But, no ! He had decided he'd stay awake. No matter how comfortable those three looked, no matter how much he'd like to hug the vet, too, he would fulfill his mission.

Legend's hand opened and closed in his sleep, and he extended it further. Four blinked, and reached with his left hand. 

In a second, he was trapped, Legend satisfied with the hand he found and holding tight onto it.

...

Alright, that wouldn't be comfortable to stay sitting in this condition. Plus Legend looked like he wanted the smith to stay, and his goal had always been to watch for him, right ?

He curled up in the little free spot, his hand still in Legend’s, and definitely did not fall asleep in a matter of minutes.

[mageofseven]

How about a reader that was pregnant when they were chosen as an exchange student ? Like the baby's father is not in the picture and reader *isn't* involved with boys romantically and when the boys discover readers pregnant after lesson 16 they're just "oh Shi-"

This is an old ask from before my long ass hiatus, but I'm honestly still really interested in this.

Okay so here's some set up info for how Imma do this:

MC knew she was pregnant, but was so overwhelmed about it that she welcomed the fact that she was magically kidnapped into going to demon school and that she had something to distract herself from the literal growing problem in her uterus.

The baby was also transfered to the new body after what Belphie did to her.

Like it was requested, MC is not currently dating any of the Boys.

They found out because they had her get checked by a doctor despite Barbatos making sure she was okay with his time power; this was mostly done out of over-protectiveness and no one actually thought anything would come of it.

I don't do reader posts so obviously this will be MC.

Now that that's out of the way, let's give this a go!

•▪︎▪︎◇°●♡●°◇▪︎▪︎•

Lucifer:

Is visibly shocked by this and has MC explain herself.

When he hears how her boyfriend knocked her up and abandoned her not long before she was brought to the Devildom, the pride demon makes a mental note to ask her for the man's name at another time so he can handle that little pest.

Feels terrible guilty about what she went through and even worse that she went through it while pregnant.

I see Lucifer as this heavily anxious man with a soft spot for kids and that includes babies that are works-in-progress (WIP).

Hovers around her constantly after that, making sure she taking every vitamin and supplement she and her child needs.

Just becomes super protective of her while also trying to pretend he's not.

Eventually takes her off of cooking duty so she'll have one less thing to worry about.

Despite not being the father or having such a relationship with her, he takes full responsibility for all aspects of this from teleporting her here while pregnant to Belphie offing both her and her child in her last body.

Doesn't go as far as to call himself this child's father, but anyone who saw this man hovering over her would definitely think he was.

Like always, Lucifer just wants to take care of his family and now sees MC and her child as such.

Mammon:

Literally freaks out while trying to pretend he isn't.

To him, her being pregnant just made this whole situation 1000000x worse.

Feels bad that he didn't know about her kid.

Like, he's the brother whose been by her side the most and he never even noticed anything was off with her.

He's not the most observant man so I'm not surprised.

He's her First! She should have just told him, or so he tells her.

Keeps an extra close eye on her to keep this crazy freaking human from doing anything bad for herself or her kid

And let's face it, she literally got herself killed not long ago so anything can happen.

The further her pregnancy gets, the more this man tries to keep his brothers away from her.

He just extra possessive as time goes on.

I mean yeah, this kid ain't his but he wishes it was so freaking much but he's still gonna look after the two of them.

Honestly, this man wouldn't be able to handle a single other bad thing happening to his Human.

Leviathan:

Ohmanohmanohman--

Is really freaking out and doesn't even try to hide it.

I mean this is serious!

Not only did MC die but so did her WIP kid????

I mean yeah, they are both back but this all still sucks.

You know the phrase 'kicking a person while they're down'? Well this is like using a freaking flamethrower while the human was already down!

Honestly becomes super awkward with his Henry after learning about her pregnancy

But slowly gets used to it as he discovers that MC just wants him to treat her as he always has.

Yeah! He can do that!...kinda.

He feels bad that he can't help her through most of it.

This man knows absolutely nothing about pregnancy and feels like he is mediocre at comforting people at best.

Still, if she ever needs someone to distract her with anime so she doesn't have to think of the little WIP in her uterus then Levi is her man.

Satan:

Honestly...this man is less than thrilled.

MC is the first person he's ever truly gotten close to and that includes his 'brothers'

So to hear that the person he cares about most is pregnant...

Well on the plus side, he knows there's a human man in the other realm for him to torture so that makes him feel better.

Doesn't like kids, but is at MC's side as much as possible.

One of the brothers willing to hold her hair back during bouts of morning sickness.

Not one to hover, but does get a little protective when Belphie is in the same room as her.

Knows the Avatar of Sloth won't hurt her anymore but...well, he still can't get the image of MC's dead body out of his head

And angy boy is still angy at him for it.

Other than that, he reads a shit ton of pregnancy books to learn what MC's body is going through and different methods to comfort her through it.

Asmodeus:

Honestly, this usually chatty brother was speechless when it was announced.

When he saw all eyes fall on the human and make her overwhelmed, he ran to his friend and hugged her tightly.

Was the one to hype up the other guys and get everyone to say they'll take care of her and that they have her back

Because honestly, this woman and her child literally died for his family; you can bet your ass he's going to make sure each and every one of his brothers does their part in taking care of the pregnant human.

Doesn't immediately think about killing the runaway baby daddy, but if it becomes a family field trip to hunt the bastard and kill him, Asmo is so down for it.

Mostly focuses on what he can do for MC in the moment though.

Another brother to comfort her during morning sickness.

It's gross af but he uses it to remind his brothers that hey! I'm getting close to a vomiting woman each morning so y'all better be as dedicated to the cause as I am.

Beelzebub:

This man literally did nothing wrong, but acts as if it's all his fault.

So much happened in his family right under his nose and things led to such extremes that his twin literally killed this woman and her child.

More or less feels like he needs to step up and pay atonement for what his twin did

And is probably the brother who takes care of her the most.

This situation has shown how much he actually wants to be a parent one day

And literally asks MC later in her pregnancy if he can be her baby's daddy

He doesn't care about genetics at all, just wants MC to let him help her raise the child and make him a daddy 🥺

Literally the sweetest man to ever exist.

MC would be a fool not to accept.

Belphegor:

Probably the guiltiest of all of the men.

I mean, he did it. He killed MC and relished in it.

Granted, he didn't know she was carrying a little hitchhiker, but still.

Belphie lost himself in his pain to such a strong degree that...he wonders that even if he did know...would he have been able to stop himself from doing what he did

And honestly, the fact that he doesn't know scares the hell out of him.

Avoids MC for the first couple months of her pregnancy because honestly, he feels too guilty to even look at her

And... honestly, he doesn't know if he even trusts himself around her.

Thanks to Beel's encouragement, the sloth demon slowly finds himself interacting with the pregnant human

And eventually decides that the best way to atone for what he did (if it's even possible) is to take care of her and the kid the best he can.

He doesn't like kids and just sees pregnancy as unnecessary torture for people with uteruses

But honestly, none of that matters anymore.

He may not have been the one to knock the woman up, but he did fuck up the worst out of everyone in this situation.

Will feel better whenever the family hunting party starts and he can give that pathetic man a taste of what he deserves.

Looks like it's Human Season for this hunting demon.

Diavolo:

Also a man with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Other than the actual process of making the baby, everything that happened was either because of something he directly or indirectly did to start up the exchange program.

Also regrets not having regular check ups on his exchange students because surely they all would have discovered this sooner and prevented anything from happening to the pregnant woman.

Has regular doctor visits scheduled for MC to make sure she and her baby stay healthy and pays for all of it, including any medications she may need during this progress.

Pregnancy can be really fucking expensive, but the prince makes sure she never has to worry about that side of things.

Just focus on staying healthy and letting your baby grow, MC; he and the other men will handle everything else.

Barbatos:

Knew before everyone else did.

I mean, this man literally had to make sure the baby transfered over too.

This man is seriously a hero that doesn't get the credit he deserves nor does he seek such.

MC and her baby are safe now and that's all that matters to the butler.

Honestly frets over the woman on the inside, but shows no sign of it externally.

Is the man that takes her to all her doctors appointments and was there when she discovered the gender of her baby.

Congratulated her as she sobbed happy tears and was honestly grateful that he could share such a moment with her.

Honestly becomed really attached to MC during her pregnancy and looks forward to watching her child grow up.

Solomon:

Honestly, his intuition had been tingling for a while on this subject.

He suspected this pregnancy, but figured it was none of his business and didn't want to pry into the fellow human's personal life.

If he would have known such an event would happen with Belphie though, he would have stepped in and got answers.

He didn't though. The sorcerer had no clue how events were going to unfold.

Hindsight is telling him that he should have pryed more, but his manners told him it was right to respect the woman's privacy.

Doesn't do too much in regards to taking care of his friend since the demons seem to have it all covered and even seem to somewhat resent the sorcerer when he tries.

Believe it's better not to step on any toes, so to speak.

Is still a good friend to MC though and always offers an ear if they need to vent about the process with someone.

Simeon:

This all happened before the pregnancy had progressed enough for him to sense the baby.

He did however sense...something within the human since he met her, but didn't understand what.

Hindsight is really hurting this poor angel's heart 😔

Become the woman's biggest support in an emotional sense.

Pregnancy is hard and hormones flare and everything can seem so stressful, especially to a scared single mom.

This man is often the one comforting her when she breaks down into tears, even when it's over small stuff like someone ate the last cookie or she lost her pen.

He makes sure MC knows how strong she is and that she will make it through this this difficult time.

Luke:

Demons!!! Back away from the pregnant woman or this chihuahua will bite.

Okay, not really, but the brothers make this joke a lot.

Luke is very protective of MC in this situation.

Since he is just a child, he wasn't told what happened between her and Belphie in complete detail.

Really just thinks the stupid demon hurt her feelings and the angelic boy will not allow it to happen again!

Grows increasingly curious as MC's belly grows; angels don't have kids in this way so this boy has a lot of questions about what's happening to her body.

The fact that there's an actual baby just chilling and growing in her belly boggles this boy's mind.

Is honestly excited for MC's baby and feels like he about to be come a big brother!

This boy is determined to do his part and take care of her just like the adults do.

Mostly just keeps her company and bakes for her when her cravings give her a sweet tooth.

Little Lukey keeps her spirits up and MC loves him for it.

[diazsdimples]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by @dangerpronebuddie thanks friend!!

How many works do you have on ao3?

13! Will be 18 when I finish all my current wips (should be 19 but one has been abandoned 🥲)

What's your total ao3 word count?

230,841 words

What fandoms do you write for?

Exclusively 9-1-1, mostly because I deleted all my old British Actor RPF fics 😐

Top 5 fics by kudos:

1. Buck's Baby (By Accident) (Buddie)

2. For the rest of my life (for the rest of yours) (Buddie)

3. Sweet child of mine (Bucktommy)

4. In a drought I'll give you water (Buddie)

5. Fucking Finally (Finally Fucking) (Buddie)

Do you respond to comments?

Eventually 😬I try my best!!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

None of my published fics have a shred of angst. However, Frostpunk AU is full of it so it'll be that

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them?? But probably Sweet child of mine or For the rest of my life (for the rest of yours) for hopeful endings

Do you get hate on fics?

Not really? I did have one person get mad at me for events that transpire in Buck's Baby (By Accident) but idc really

Do you write smut?

No. Never. Smut is terrible.

(This is a blatant lie, 7/13 of my fics are smut and I have 3 wips that have smut)

Craziest crossover?

I don't write crossovers.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

If I have, I'm gonna throw hands

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of!

Have you co-written a fic before?

Currently co-writing 2 with @hippolotamus and @theotherbuckley!

All time favorite ship?

Buddie. Always Buddie. Will always be Buddie. Followed closely by Bucktommy

What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I really hate to say this but probably my Single Dads AU. She's so beefy and the size of it has scared the hell out of me. As much as I love it, I don't think it gets as much traction as other wips and the beans just haven't been there.

What are your writing strengths?

I honestly don't know, I think I can write smut pretty well? And I'm not bad at cute stuff. The honest truth is I am extremely insecure about my writing abilities and think I'm average at best.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I struggle with dialogue as I often feel like I'm being too OOC. Also descriptions. I spend the most time sitting there thinking of how tf to describe something.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I can google translate pet names and that's where I draw the line. I don't want people to say that I'm saying stuff wrong.

First fandom you wrote in?

Marvel and Sherlock, at the same time.

Favorite fic you've written?

Play me like a fiddle is my labour of love and the fact that it flopped the way it did made me so sad. My next favourite would be You've got me whipped (Brat!Buck BDSM fic) cause it was so out of my comfort zone but I feel like I did it well, or In a drought I'll give you water because I have never been funnier in a fic than in this one.

Tagging (if you wanna): @theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @daffi-990 @watchyourbuck @bidisasterevankinard

@neverevan @aroeddiediaz @spotsandsocks @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg

@jesuisici33 @wikiangela @loveyouanyway @cal-daisies-and-briars @exhuastedpigeon

@kitteneddiediaz @thekristen999 @actuallyitsellie @loserdiaz @elvensorceress

@underwaterninja13 @rainbow-nerdss @smilingbuckley @spagheddiediaz @steadfastsaturnsrings

@thewolvesof1998

[propenseverbosity]

"Go To Hell" - WIP (Gale x Tav)

I have this curse of "I can't write anything in order" (It's ADHD) so I haven't posted a lot of my writing on here yet, despite the 50+ pages of lore I have for my Tav and Gale's story XD

So instead I wanted to share a piece of this scene I'm working on! (based on Gale's First Night in Camp dialogue)

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

With little else to do aside from pacing across the grove all night, SJ decided to check on him.

Gale let out a deep sigh, warming his hands over the campfire as she approached.

“Go to hell.” He said, slowly, never taking his eyes off the flames.

She hadn't expected Gale to be optimistic about their decidedly terrifying situation, but a more polite greeting to the person who saved his life would have been nice.

Blinking at the sudden attitude, SJ replied with, “Been there, done that. Wouldn't recommend it.”

“Ha-” he turned his head to look at her with a half smile. “You're a good sport.”

“I do try. Mind if I join you?”

“By all means.” Gale gestured to the space at his side, moving away to make room as she sat down beside him.

The smoky aroma in the air, combined with the heat radiating off the fire seemed to calm the tadpole's insistent writhing.

“Anything in particular I did to deserve that lovely greeting?" SJ asked, attempting to distract herself from the sudden itching sensation behind her right eye.

“Nothing, I assure you. I'm just… poorly making a point. A rather trivial statement in other circumstances. But we've seen hell, and it isn't trivial.” he replied, staring miserably at the fire.

“So your point was best made by telling a tiefling to go to hell?” she chuckled, hoping to make light of something whatever was bothering him.

Gale opened his mouth to explain, but quickly abandoned the thought in favor of another.

“Perhaps one day I'll be able to speak to you without making an ass of myself, but it appears that day will not be today.”

“Well there’s always tomorrow.” she shrugged, already wondering what might come of their mission to rescue the archdruid. “That is, assuming we survive the night.”

“Hmm. True enough. What a difference a day makes.” he added, wistfully.

“Tell me about it. Why do you think I'm out here? I can't sleep with this... thing, in my head.”

As she spoke, SJ could already feel her eyelids grow heavier. A weariness began to seep into her body as the warmth of the flames caressed her skin. Despite the many unknowns of their unwelcome passengers, it seemed odd that the tadpole would respond to a change in temperature outside the body.

“What are you still doing up?” she asked, through a yawn.

“The fire was starting to dim. After the debacle with those goblins, I thought it best to keep as much light around us as possible.”

“I can keep an eye on it,” she offered. “if you wanted to get some sleep.”

Gale considered the statement, before shaking his head. “A ballet of flames invites reflection. I’d rather stay, if it’s all the same to you.”

It didn’t take the connection of a mind flayer tadpole to know what was really bothering him. Their shared affliction had been on (and in) everyone’s minds since escaping the Nautiloid.

“Afraid I’ll turn while you’re sleeping and eat your brain?” she smirked.

Gale wasn’t quite as amused. His eyes locked onto hers, nervously studying her face as if she was about to transform right in front of him.

“I’m just joking... I’m fine.” she said, firmly.

“Oh I’m sure you are.” Gale replied, his expression relaxing as he turned towards the fire once again. “Illithids aren’t exactly known for their wit. Famously humorless creatures.”

“Then I’ll be sure to crack a joke or two every once and a while, just so you know you’re safe around me.” SJ said, nudging his arm with her elbow. 

Hidden in the firelight reflecting off his face, she could have sworn she caught him smile.

[wangxianficrecs]

💙 A-Ying Lives Alone by DizziDreams

💙 A-Ying Lives Alone

by DizziDreams

T, WIP, 33k, Wangxian

Summary: Lan Qiren approaches, trying not to frown as he looks down at the young boy in his strange clothes. “Young man, are your parents at work? They should not have left you home alone without a caretaker." "No, shushu!" The boy shakes his head vigorously, large eyes growing wide. "A-Ying lives alone!" Kay's comments: This story is based on the Japanese manga series/TV series Kotaro Lives Alone and it's absolutely heart-wrenching. In the beginning, we follow modern AU Lan Qiren, who is trying his best to raise his nephews and also care for their mother, who is in the hospital right now. Enter, little A-Ying, who introduces himself as the new neighbor and gifts him two loquats. Soon, he realizes, that little A-Ying seems to live all alone and tries to understand what the litte boy's circumstances are as he also has to balance his own problems. It's just. So much hurt/comfort, my poor little heart. Of course, A-Zhan and A-Ying are immediately taken with each other and it's just. How can I best describe this? This story feels like a tender heartbreak, like someone delivering your bad news while hugging you tightly. There are also so many sweet moments and I'm just so invested and so worried, not just for A-Ying, but for all the various characters who inhabit the apartment complex where the main part of the story takes place. And when I say this story is heart-breaking, it's definitely the good kind of heart-break and I can't wait to see where this story goes next and learn more about who left A-Ying all alone and why. Excerpt: Lan Qiren approaches, nodding to Nie Mingjue cordially, before he turns to A-Ying. “Young man, are your parents at work? They should not have left you home alone without a caretaker." "No, shushu!" The boy shakes his head vigorously, large eyes growing wide. "A-Ying lives alone!" "What?" Nie Mingjue's voice is gruff, but his manner is kind as he crouches down to the boy's level, meeting him eye-to-eye. "A-Ying. Where are your parents?" A-Ying's smile falters as his eyes dart from Nie Mingjue, to Lan Qiren, to the floor, and then back to Nie Mingjue. He pins his smile back in place, the effort behind it making something in Lan Qiren's chest tighten. A-Ying leans forward to whisper in Nie Mingjue's ear, and Lan Qiren leans in to hear as well. "Mama and Baba are on a mission!" he announces in a carrying whisper. "They’re spies! A-Ying lives here until they come back!" "Is that so?" Nie Mingjue looks sideways at Lan Qiren, no doubt seeking his guidance. But Lan Qiren isn't sure what to say. He doesn't know what to make of this. He straightens, looking past A-Ying into the apartment. It's sparsely furnished, with no decorations. But it seems to have the essentials, and it is well maintained. There are no piles of dishes or trash, no indication of pests or difficult living. Lan Qiren looks down at A-Ying again. He looks healthy, though Lan Qiren knows that looks can be deceiving. And there are some small signs of hardship that Lan Qiren had failed to notice that morning: the boys hair is a little overgrown, and there are stains on his clothes that look as though they have been there for a while. Within the home, an alarm begins to ring. "Ah!" A-Ying jumps. "I have to go. It’s time for Huluwa! Goodnight, shushu! Goodnight da-ge!"

wip, wip rec week, pov lan qiren, pov granny wen, pov alternating, good uncle lan qiren, kotaro lives alone, good sibling nie mingjue, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, found family, modern setting, modern no powers, podfic available, character death, lan family feels, granny wen, children, child wei wuxian, child lan wangji, child abandonment, child lan xichen, child wen qing, child wen ning, @dizzi-dreams

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[whatevertheweather]

an ask game for writers to procrastinate working on your WIP(s)

Thank you for the tags @bookish-bogwitch @aristocratic-otter @youarenevertooold I've been in search of ways to procrastinate <3

1. 🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s):

I'll go with one that isn't being posted yet: Callous.

2. 🍄Describe your WIP/one of your WIP(s) in the format of “___ + ___ =___”

Touch starvation + poor communication = Baz's No Good Very Bad Night

3. 🌍What tags or warnings will one of your WIP(s) need if you intend to share it?

PTSD, disassociation, and, uh, emotional hurt/comfort?

4. 🧭An alternative title to one of your WIP(s)?

Bold of anyone to assume I'm good enough at coming up with titles that I have multiple to choose from. Oh! But actually I do for Bait and Switch, thanks to Dre brainstorming fishing idioms with me. There were 4 alternatives, but my favorite is All is Fish, because it makes no fucking sense.

5. ⚠️Which WIP your most likely to finish or update next?

It had better be Musical Chairs.

6. 💾What is your document of your WIP/ a WIP called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

In an uncommon turn of events, I only have one (active) WIP right now that's not already named as it will be posted, and that's "yeah sure let's just write some shit that's way later and not finish the other that's fine"

7. 🖍Post Any sentence(s) from your WIP.

It’s just…there’s also some deer in the headlights energy to him, which, mixed with the general aura of barely tamed violence, is throwing Shepard off. Truly, it’s been a good long while since he’s done this kind of pinballing over what he’s seeing when he looks at someone.

He does know what he’s seeing when he looks back at Simon. It’s the sort of face that has him politely averting his eyes to examine the bland thread of Simon’s shirt instead. He thinks walking in on the two of them tangled up without a stitch of clothing wouldn’t feel half as intrusive as looking at that expression did.

8. ♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP.

I had to abandon about a page of the above misnamed WIP (now to be succinctly abbreviated as YSLJWSSTWLANFTOTF) because it no longer fits the tone of the rest of the fic at all, which is sad because it made me laugh. It's too long to put here in its entirety, but here's part of one line, which shall function as the dead darling's eulogy: "I know you have a dick, Baz, I’ve fucking well been thinking about it!”

9. 🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

Okay there's one I don't want to say much about because, selfishly, I want to be the one to write it, but it's related to truth spells. (Technically I've started it because there's a document with 10 scattered lines of dialogue, but I haven't started it started it.)

10. 🤡How many WIPS are you actively working on?

I'm trying to focus on 3, but I might have to say 4 here.

11. 🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

I have rewritten the same 4 pages of Musical Chairs about 5 times. It's absurd. I know what's going to happen, I have the ending written, I have almost everything that gets us there written, and yet this section is u n d o i n g me.

12. ❤️Not a question, just a second Kudos to send.

I'm gonna take that as me sending kudos to all these lovely people: @cutestkilla @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @artsyunderstudy @fatalfangirl @whogaveyoupermission @iamamythologicalcreature @thewholelemon @facewithoutheart @martsonmars @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @larkral

[zaptrap]

(part 2)

redesigns of some old ocs! still kinda WIP but i like the direction they're heading. i don't really have in-depth lore/backstories yet but here's what ive got so far:

The Group:

A bunch of Serpentine who -through means unknown at this time- can shapeshift into humans... mostly. There's still some snake features but they can blend in well enough.

Each left or were banished from their respective tribes for one reason or another. Depending on timelines, the Merge may have further disconnected them from their tribes.

"Found family" but the family they found is a bunch of lunatics.

They all fall under that category of "is hundreds of years old, but look in their 20s" lmfao.

Dunno what they're up to in their day to day life besides eating and sleeping and avoiding arrest.

Xyla:

Anacondrai

Likes to toy with people, and LOVES messing with her friends but they're used to it for the most part.

Conveniently, uh, wasn't eaten by Pythor lmao. Maybe she was banished from the tribe before they were entombed.

Likes to hunt and eat people, but hates when it's called cannibalism cuz she's "technically a snake, sooo 😒"

Can turn invisible, which is very useful for the aforementioned hunting.

Not really into "normal" food can still consume it if necessary.

Most likely to get arrested, or would be if she couldn't turn invisible.

Bek (Honorable Mention):

Whatever species the Great Devourer was lmfao.

Peak emo boy vibes except he's legit insane. Was never part of a tribe.

Besties with Xyla. Might be besties with benefits, either way they're really close.

They're both wanted in at least 4 realms for an assortment of crimes (kidnapping people and eating them).

More of strict carnivore, gets sick if he has to eat non-meat too often.

2nd Most likely to get arrested.

Arabella:

Fangpyre

Not as openly antagonistic as Xyla, but can be a bitch when she wants to be.

Basically a vampire-idol LARPer, has an umbrella whenever the sun is out and can sing fairly well.

Is kinda frail/sickly. Not in the best physical condition. Likely abandoned by the other Fangpyre due to this.

Can turn people/objects into snakes via bite. Likes to threaten people with this to scare 'em off.

Likes ordering Goro around lmao, though it's usually simple stuff like errands or chores. They're best friends but...... complicated.

Picky eater, but likes candy and finger foods.

Least likely to get arrested 'cause she can just turn the cops into snakes lmfao.

Goro:

Constrictai

Left the tribe to be with Arabella. She helped him when they were kids and he latched onto her.

He's a little bit... extremely obsessed with everything about her in every way. They're inseparable (they should be separated).

Big puppy vibes but also rabid dog in certain scenarios (if something bad happened to Arabella). Clingly/Simpy/Spineless/you get the idea.

Would be shy/introverted otherwise.

Can burrow or constrict people.

Can and will eat trash, he doesn't give a shit.

Hasn't been arrested..... yet.

But yeah that's what I've got so far, lemme know what u think or if u have any questions !! There's a couple others a haven't really designed yet, but I'm still trying to figure out what I wanna do with 'em lmao.

[shackleton2]

I'm working on this fic where I'm trying to write an emotionally dark take on post-Winter-Soldier recovery, where Steve & Co capture Soldier-Bucky right after the events of Insight, when he's still almost entirely in the grips of Hydra's programming.

I loved this Sebastian Stan quote someone shared on here: “That’s why he doesn’t kill him. That’s why he saves him. That end scene to me was always like: ‘I don’t know what this is, I just know I’m supposed to do this right now. Whatever this is, I’m supposed to protect this for some reason.” I love the heartbreaking urge to protect Steve being impossible to erase or repress despite everything, but what stands out for me is also that this confirms what his expression and act of walking away seem to say on the riverbank: he has no idea what the hell is going on. His brain didn't go "OMG STEVE" and switch him back over to Bucky Barnes in that incredible final moment on the helicarrier—the wall of programming just got its first tiny crack.

It drives me crazy that the Soldier walks away after saving Steve—he wants to know why he saved him, how he knows him, obviously, but he walks away from the simplest way to find those answers-STAY WITH STEVE, drink hot chocolate under blankets with steve!! It also drives my fangirl heart crazy what a stubborn resilient competent independent SOB post-WS Bucky is. He doesn’t trust anyone and he doesn’t want anyone to own him ever again.

He’s got conflicting lines of thought that lead to the same conclusion: He’s programmed to kill Steve, those are his final standing orders, and obeying orders is all he knows. If he wants to keep Steve safe on some level, he knows that won’t be with him, because of those orders, because Hydra owns him. On the other hand, if he’s realized that Hydra is his enemy, he also knows that SHIELD is Hydra, and Cap is affiliated with SHIELD, and thus can’t be trusted to keep Hydra away from him. And/or he disobeyed orders and abandoned his mission, and he doesn’t know why, but he does know the consequences for doing that, and thus has a lot of resentment for the guy that made him do so.

To be clear, I love the Bucky Barnes character and I think any narrative that casts him as a reformed villain who needs to make up for his past actions is bullshit. He is a victim, not only of what was done to him, but also what he was forced with zero agency to do. Having said that, I’m also totally riveted by the Winter Soldier as a bad guy, a threat, a killer. In the MCU movies he goes off after the Insight debacle and somehow deprograms himself all alone, and the next time we see him in Civil War he’s got his sense of himself as Bucky pretty much back—he’s in control of his actions, he knows his and Steve’s history, and he doesn’t want to hurt people. I’m stuck on what else the story could have been instead of the hand-wave transition from brainwashed murderer to Steve Rogers’ loyal friend. The only traumatic encounters with the Soldier Steve experiences are those in the movie where he’s actively trying to kill him, which that’s definitely bad enough for poor Steve—but what about traumatic emotional encounters? What about Steve Rogers trying to talk and reach his friend, but the person he’s talking to is the Soldier immediately post-Insight, still mentally in Hydra’s possession much more than his own?

Anyway one day this little scene came to me and I'm building this WIP, including these notes, around it. Successfully? Who knows, not me.

He regarded Steve through the glass with a hint of curiosity. His voice was soft and quiet. “Why do you come?”

Steve leaned forward and tried to meet those icy eyes. He couldn’t help it. “You’re my friend. You might not remember me, but I will always be your friend.”

The Soldier tilted his head, still questioning. “That’s why you come here?” Every day, Steve thought he heard unspoken; he wasn’t sure whether Bucky registered his presence at all some days, but maybe every instance was recorded in his mind. Maybe not. What happened to a supersoldier brain when it incurred severe sustained deliberate damage was a riddle they were just beginning to examine.

Steve was determined to be steadfast, but there was little he could do to calm the intensity of what he felt. He wanted Bucky to ask these things, because he wanted him to know these things, and he would tell him again and again forever in the hope he would one day believe him and then remember himself.

“I’m here because I want to know how you’re doing. I want you to know I’m here. I’ll come every day unless you tell me honestly you don’t want me to.”

Still the cocked head, the mystified expression. “You come because…he was your friend.”

He leaned in an inch more and found his forehead touching the glass. “You’re my friend. You are Bucky Barnes. You were born in 1917 and we grew up together. You are a good man. What happened to you…was wrong, and I will do everything I can to make it better, for the rest of my life. That’s a promise.”

The cocked head straightened and it looked like some kind of comprehension dawned. He was looking at Steve in a way he couldn’t remember Bucky ever looking before, and after wondering for a few moments Steve realized it was pity on his face.

“You think he’s here.” The look of pity intensified. “You think you...can talk. To him.”

Steve swallowed. “I…I know he is. I don’t know how to convince you it’s true, but I swear it. We played together as kids and then we grew up and lived together and then the war came and we fought together. And now we’re here. I know you don’t remember, Bucky, but there’s no way I’m giving up on you, even if you never do. I know you. I’ve known you as long as I can remember.”

On the other side of the glass Bucky’s expression had settled into the blank resignation the Soldier often wore. He licked his lips, an oddly human gesture that hurt Steve’s heart, and then said, with what might have been an attempt at gentleness, “Your friend. Is gone.”

Steve took a moment, felt his forehead press a little harder on the glass. “If he’s gone, who am I talking to?”

“What,” the Soldier corrected, and then answered, “Hydra.”

He was going to need a lot of punching bags later. “Emotions don’t help,” Natasha had told him, brisk and flint-hard the way she was when she was being kind. “Men think they understand this, but they don’t. Understand it.”

Steve was beginning to understand. He didn’t howl or pound on the glass or leave to find a fight. Instead he swallowed again and asked with a calm that shocked him, “So you…believe in Hydra? In what they do?”

“The Soldier is the fist of Hydra. Weapons don’t believe. They do not need to. The Winter Soldier. Is. Hydra.”

That was the most the Soldier had spoken in one go.

[babblingbookends]

20 questions for fic writers

Okay so hopefully I found all the people who tagged me in this game, thank you to @fleur-de-violette @goldenraeofsun and @wildsofmarch for the tag! (If you tagged me and I didn't see it, thanks to you too!)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Thirty-eight! I didn't realize there were so many.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

50,029. A respectable number, but could be better

3. What fandoms do you write for?

DC Comics, but mostly Batman. I pretty much exclusively write fics for DC Comics, with the majority being Batman and Batfam-related comics. I have one single fic for another fandom, and that fandom is Avatar: The Last Airbender.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Tim Drake (Doesn't) Drink Coffee, which is also my first fic! It currently has 990 kudos

Do You Need Another Box of Tissues? which beats the next fic by 1 kudo, sitting at 242 kudos

Hypnogogic Jerks and Other Body Quirks is still one of my favorite titles! It has 241 kudos (update: I double checked before posting this and it now has 242 kudos, tying it for second place

Batman vs. Bridezilla has an even 200 kudos

And number five is Isern, which I'm a little shocked by considering it's currently my most recent fic. It has 156 kudos

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to! I don't get a lot of comments, so it doesn't usually take me long to get through them, but I do tend to let them build up a bit before I answer them.

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

Uhh good question. You're Just A Baby, You Can Not Fly is angst the whole way through, so maybe that one

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Realizing now that a lot of my fics are either angst or smut, soooo there's happy endings in most of the smut fics teehee. But also this one, Soda Pop, is sweet the whole way through.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I'm fortunate enough that so far, I have not! I don't feel like I'm big enough to get hate

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

I do! Not sure how to describe what kind, but I've touched on a lot of smut things. This may be TMI, but I really like writing sex that also involves pain, I think it works so well with the Batfams gestures wildly everything.

10. Do you write crossovers?

No. I'm not opposed to the idea but it sounds too complicated for my writing tastes

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I've noticed or been told about

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of! I would love to have it happen though

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

Nope! I think it sounds fun but collaboration scares me sometimes because what if. what if I'm actually stupid. and my co-writer hates everything I come up with. Horrible thought

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

My all-time favorite is a tough one to choose butttt I really like Wonderbat from Justice League Unlimited. Niche, I know, but it was my childhood ship and holds a special place in my heart. Never actually written something for it though!

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

Hoooooo-boy, I recently abandoned a buuuuunch of wips in my wip folder because I had named them random, unimaginative stuff, and simply didn't have the mental energy to go through them and see what was in them and rename them so I just put them all in a folder and started fresh. However, in that folder was another folder where I had a series planned based around Jason and a bunch of members of the Batfam. Each fic would have chapters from Jason's POV and another character. The first fic was Jason and Tim solving a missing persons case. I think Barbara's was them, like, getting trapped in a mall by the Joker, and I vaguely remember that Dick's took place in New York City.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I have no idea. Maybe my descriptions of stuff? I really like describing things in unexpected ways and trying to pull emotion into them. No idea if other people like it though!

17: What are your writing weaknesses?

I always feel like my flow is really bad. Like some places feel really slow and some places feel too rushed, if that makes sense. I also think that when I'm writing a character I always make the character feel a bit too distant, like I'm just describing what's happening to them instead of making the reader feel what's happening to them.

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

Well you see, I have this bad habit of thinking I can just learn an entire language in an afternoon, which means that no writing actually gets done. So unless it's something I can a. easily translate from a dictionary (so a single word or a simple, common phrase) or b. ask one of my international friends to translate for me, I usually find another way to say it without using the actual language. Maybe sticking the words in italics, or the old classic "he said something in Russian".

19. First fandom you wrote for? 

Batman! As I said above, my first fic was Tim Drake (Doesn't) Drink Coffee. Before that I only wrote original stories.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

All these questions about fics when I don't remember anything about any fic I've ever written XD.

Probably either Gotham Roulette or Clock-Beat, Heart-Beat. Based off of popularity, Gotham Roulette is one of my least popular, but I still like it, it was so dramatic. And Clock-Beat was really fun to write, it's about the Batfam from the perspective of a clock.

And that's that!

Tagging @cephalog0d, @adelfie, @nelson-and-murdock, and whoever else wants to play!

[emeraldhazeart]

Twenty Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you so much for the tag @hikamaus 💚 This looks really fun.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

At this moment, I have 32 works on Ao3 (most of them oneshots)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

At the time of posting this, it's 146,576, but I'm very close to posting the next chapter of Solace

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mostly Undertale right now, but I also occasionally write for Harvest Moon/Story of Seasons and Sonic the Hedgehog

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. Leaving a Mark

2. Robin's Nest

3. Solace

4. In Your Corner

5. Riding Therapy

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I love responding to comments! Even if it's just an emoji, I try to say thank you in reply, so they know I appreciate them taking the time to leave a comment.

I know there are some comments that I haven't gotten round to responding to, and those haunt me. Please know that it's either because I don't have the spoons at this moment, or because it's been so long that I'm shy about replying. But I genuinely do appreciate each and every comment I receive. 💚

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

Probably No Man's Land (which also happened to be my first Undertale fic)

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

I've got to say Photograph for that one. It still brings tears to my eyes rereading it, but they're happy tears.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No one has said anything directly to me, but I did stumble upon a comment someone left elsewhere saying that one of my fics wasn't their thing because they "[didn't] like how the story is being told".

That really hurt at the time, especially as there was no other context as to why they felt that way. But my friends gave me encouragement and support.

Please be aware that anything you say online can eventually find it's way to the author, so please be kind.

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

I don't, sorry.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not really. I've written crossovers featuring characters from separate games in the same franchise before, but nothing that spans entirely different franchises

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I would be delighted if anyone enjoyed my work enough to want to translate it

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

No, but I would love to 💚

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Do Canon Character x Reader stories count? No?

Hmm... I can't think of any that would be my OTP. I generally prefer familial/platonic relationships, tbh

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

None of my WIPs are abandoned. But probably most of the original stories I've started and then never finished over the years. It's just much harder for me to maintain motivation when I don't have anyone reading my work and cheering me on.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I've always loved painting a scene or an emotion with words.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Oof, so many 😅 one thing I struggle with is wanting to post what I've written straight away. Sometimes that can work, like freshly baked bread. But most of the time it's like a plain cake: it needs time to cool, and then be assembled/decorated/finished in order to get the best experience from it.

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

I'd only do it if I was totally confident that I'd gotten it right. A common or short phrase would be my limit otherwise. If I really wanted to write dialogue in another language, I'd ask someone fluent in the language to help me with the translation and proof read my work.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

I think it was actually Legend of Zelda. I was about 12, and my brother, his friend and I made ourselves LoZ Ocarina of Time OCs. We started writing a fic of them, but never got very far.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Probably Photograph. I'm a sucker for a moving reunion scene, and that fic genuinely brought tears to my eyes as I was writing it.

No pressure tags (I'm going to try to avoid tagging anyone that @/hikamaus already tagged 😅) : @sneakyfox55 @hannah-heartstrings @lizzie-tempest @robanilla @thebeckster and anyone else that would like to have a go 💚

[taiturner]

NEW YEARS CLEAN-UP 🎊

rules: unburden yourself from the abandoned WIPS collecting dust in your folder and share 5 gifs, then tag five people. (tagged by @yenvengerberg, thank you i feel like i can do something useful with these things now 💖)

tagging with no pressure of course: @wyllhalsin, @capinejghafa, @cardvngreenbriar, @seance, @ayoedebiris, @ughmerlin, @craintheodora, @lottiemilfews, @natscatorrcio (yeah miles i'm tagging you to be funny i know what you did with those psds)

these are all from projects that i have in a folder titled "on the bench" that i want to pretend i'll come back to, but.... some of these have been benched for so long and they're no longer fresh in my head so i fear they'll be abandoned forever. should also be mentioned that a lot of projects on the bench are literally just me making all the typography first and then losing inspo when i actually wanted to gif things.... usually by the time i do start, i change my mind about the type anyway. i also have so many abandoned gifs from other gifsets i've already posted but i'm not even sure where to begin searching so... here are some things!

one of the many gifs i already created for a prompt from @yellowjacketsoctober to put the show in a different genre. ironically, a prompt that i came up with for the event specifically to make this gifset but didn't even complete. i spent so many hours and so many days trying to gif this entire arc for these three with the intent to make it a heist drama set but after so long i realized i was just giffing exactly what happened in the show and it started to feel pointless. but at least here's a preview of something that i'll never finish. my trio of all time, can they commit more crimes together please! (should also be said that this folder is 44gb because i already saved all the caps + because these psds are so heavy... new years clean up for real)

i don't know what it is about lydia that makes it so hard for me to finish any set for her, but every time i try i seem to always lose the drive eventually (probably because twd in general just feels really uninteresting for me to blend, for some reason). from a 2022 spotify wrapped meme, i'm pretty sure i restarted this specific gifset so many different times, unhappy with the colors and the blends and the text and everything -- which is why there are two very different examples here. my girl of all time though i will finish something for her eventually (and maybe even this one, because this song is still so good for her).

one of the many gifs that were abandoned by my scream vi set for favorite slasher in october. when tumblr first changed the image upload limit to 30, i promised myself to never take advantage of that too much, but i severely underestimated how many moments i would want to include for this movie and i made so many other gifs for this set but ultimately cut them so i could try to tone it down - 18 gifs in this set still feels like a lot but i spent so much time on this set that it was hard to part with many more. anyway here's sam being the hottest final girl in the world and correct about everything.

i don't know how long this has been on the bench but it was definitely a project i started way before season 2 even aired. i think i just got stuck and wasn't sure where to go with it, but anyway her!

extra spoiler for @wyllhalsin but this was supposed to be a pride edit in june for one of my favorite lgbt characters of all time. this show's camera movements nearly makes it impossible to blend anything so i lost the drive, but i will come back for felix someday (and for coty, obviously this set was for him).

[newtonsheffield]

Till forever falls apart is becoming my favourite story you’ve ever written. The yearning, the hard times, the light moments and all while going through something traumatic. It just gets me every time. Brava Molly, you’ve truly outdone yourself. Any chance we can see post war Kathony being cute together 😍 I’ll take anything you’d give me

I'm so glad people are enjoying it. I know it has a bit of a different feel to my other fics but it's maybe my favourite current WiP so... yeah. I'm enjoying writing it.

Let's see a little bit of Anthony's bookshop

"Papa! A person!"

Anthony chuckled as the bell chimed over the door alerting him to the person anyway. Anthony put down the books he was reshelving, picked up his cane and made his way back through the store.

Anthony sighed as he look at his son, scrambling down from the counter to greet the customer, all enthusiasm at just two years old.

"I'm Neddy, you wanna book?

The man blinked down at him a little surprised, twirling his hat around, "I... Is there someone else...?"

"Hello, can I help you?"

The man seemed to relax but still he looked around a little awkwardly, "I'm looking for a book for my nephew, I'm not sure what he might like."

Anthony smiled, picking his son up and resting him on his hip, kissing his head quickly, "Well our children's books are over this way I'm sure we can find you something."

"This is my favourite one." Neddy said thrusting a book at the man, "It's about a rabbit named Peter."

Anthony smiled down at his son and his heart leapt into his throat. He couldn't believe it sometimes, even after so long. He couldn't believe he'd come through the war mostly unscathed when so many men hadn't. There were so many men that he'd known since childhood and gone to school with who would never get to do this. Better men, arguably, than he had been. And yet he was the one left here.

He might have been dragged to his lowest point, sure, he'd stood on the grass at Thriplow house and sweat had run down his forehead as he'd tried to take a single step. And inexplicably, Kate had been there every step of the way. Her hands had held his and her voice had been gentle in his ear when they laid side by side under the sunlight.

I'm falling in love with you

He'd promised himself he'd be someone who was worth the chance he'd been given. He would live his entire life, love his wife and their children and he'd be present for them. He'd stood in their bedroom, with Neddy in his arms for the very first time and he hadn't even bothered to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Kate, I love him so much. I love you so much."

Anthony had promised himself he was going to spend as much time as possible with his children. Even here in this little store.

The man smiled at Edmund, taking the book from his hand. "I think I'll get this one then, excellent recommendation sir."

"Thank you." Neddy said, leading the man to the counter, "I help my Papa with the books."

"You do a great job."

"He does do a pretty good job."

Anthony started at the sound of his wife's voice, spinning towards where she'd snuck through the door while he was distracted. She was still dressed in her uniform, her coat pulled tight around herself, the swell of her stomach just becoming visible.

"Mama!" Neddy squeaked, abandoning the man who'd been trying to slide his money across the counter to him in favour of hugging his mother around the legs, bouncing with excitement.

Anthony smiled at the man and took his money, passing him his change before he wrapped the book in brown paper. "I hope your nephew enjoys it."

"You have a beautiful family."

"I know, I'm very lucky."

The bell rang above the door as the man left and finally, he turned his attention to Kate.

"Everything all right?"

Kate chuckled, leaning against him, tucking herself into his side, Neddy wrapping his arms around both of their legs. "Everything's fine I was just walking home and I thought why not check on my handsome boys?"

"We appreciate it." Anthony kissed her cheek, resting his hand on her stomach, "How're my girls?"

"Your wife's fine, and your son is doing well also."

"Say what you will, but this is a girl."

"It isn't." Kate clicked her tongue, "You look handsome today though, I like this sweater vest."

"Yes, a pretty girl made it for me."

"Charmer."

"I try my best."

[penny00dreadful]

WIP Writing Poll

Oh boy here we go again, the number of WIPs just keeps getting bigger! 😬

Thank you @hbyrde36, my dear, for the tag. 🖤

Rules: Make a 24-hour poll with the names of your wips and then for whichever wins, write one sentence for every vote it gets (but you should also write 1 sentence for every vote each of them gets!)

I think I'll do the same and post the snippets here after I get them written so watch this space! All will be posted under their respective tags that are tagged here too. I'm currently vacillating between debilitating burnout, writers block and an idiosyncratic want to write at the same time. So hopefully this will help me get my head on straight again.

(Results)

Fic blurbs below the cut:

Return of The King - Part 8

Steddie vampire fic with vampire!Steve. Last chapter there was an earthquake, Wayne got the cliff-notes of the Upside Down, a car chase van chase, feral Steve, and they approached the gate to the Upside Down.

Comeuppance

The kids (Dustin) try to meddle in Steve's love life though they've been warned not to. Everything starts falling apart and they get their comeuppance.

Through The Valley

Post-Apocalyptic AU set roughly fourteen months after spring break. Eddie, Dustin and Nancy have a nice little community of survivors outside of Hawkins that they take care of. They're the ones who know most about this stuff after all, since the military abandoned them. They don't talk about it, but each of them hopes they can find the others again soon. But it's been so long already.

Unnamed D&D AU

Step right up! Step right up! We got a fantasy AU here! Necromancy! Enemies to lovers! Religious cults! Murder husbands! Who did this to you? Featuring Paladin!Steve and Bard!Eddie who won't stay Bard!Eddie for very long...

And They Were Roommates!

Bitchy queers Steve and Eddie don't like living together and they do not like each other. They snipe and bitch and complain. But Eddie hasn't come home yet and it's not like Steve is worried or anything... he's just... concerned for a fellow human being... that's all.

Unnamed Spies/Secret Agents AU

Containing both an established relationship oneshot and a getting together prequel. Similar to others above we've got enemies to lovers, bitchy, sexy, flirting while trying to kill each other, murder husbands, protective Eddie and maybe just a smidge of Steve getting duped. As a treat.

Unnamed PStobin+RSteddie Baby AU

Steve and his husband had always wanted kids. Except apparently Albert wasn't quite so up for it as he'd previously said. Robin is just standing there, 37 weeks pregnant with Steve's IVF baby having just punched Albert in the nose and oh god why is she leaking everywhere?? Is it happening?? IT'S HAPPENING, OH JESUS! TAXI!

Before He Cheats

I swear to god it sounds so much worse than it is. Steddie boys DO NOT cheat on each other in this fic or ANY of my fics EVER, you can be assured of that.

It's a songfic.

I'm just gonna drop this here.

Zero pressure taggy tags. @augustjustice @artaxlivs @i-less-than-three-you @xenon-demon @every-aj-needs-an-angel @mentallyundone @scoops-stevie @nburkhardt @steves-strapcollection @outpastthebrakers @hardboiledleggs

[eyesofshinigami]

WIP Weekend!

I was tagged by the always wonderful @shares-a-vest, so here we go!

The Rules:

In a reblog (or a new post w/ rules attached) post up to five (5) file names of your wips. Not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can’t share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!

The WIPs:

Teenage Dirtbag: where Eddie is a lot a bit of a creep when it comes to Stevie Harrington, but wouldn't you know it, but she's kind of into it too?

A/B/O Rarity: Where the Alpha and Omega genes are incredibly rare, but with Steve's luck, he's one of the few people who's got it. He hides it for years, until he can't/doesn't want to anymore, especially after he meets Eddie, who is the only other person he's ever met who also has the gene.

Adventures in Babysitting: another A/B/O idea where Eddie is an older Alpha and needs a babysitter/nanny for his young son, and cue them meeting Steve, the incredibly hot, young Omega babysitter who immediately pings every box he's ever had.

As for a snippet, here's one from Teenage Dirtbag that's a wee little spicy.

Things changed again, after that. Stevie abandoned all her old friends, stuck by Nancy and Jonathon Byers of all people, the three of them looking haunted and weary in a way that stuck in Eddie’s mind like a splinter in his finger. Gone was the ice princess who roamed the halls of Hawkins High like royalty, and instead was a girl who looked like she had Seen Some Shit. Eddie knew that look. He saw it enough in the mirror when it was a bad night. 

And still, it didn’t wane. It got worse again, where Eddie pictured himself as some kind of black knight that would ride in and make everything better. He thought about getting her flowers. Or asking her if she wanted to go to one of his concerts and watch him play. Wondered if she would like having a picnic by the quarry, where he could get his hand up her skirt and kiss her and tell her that she was a supernova that had completely consumed him. 

But he didn’t. Maybe there was too much Munson in him, too much of a coward to try and reach out and touch the untouchable. Stevie Harrington was always going to be the pipe dream, even more than Corroded Coffin getting discovered and him hitting the big time. Especially because she was graduating, and Eddie was still stuck spinning his wheels in this lame-ass school because he couldn’t figure out how to get his head out of all of his imaginary fantasies.

She was probably going off to some rich-kid school on a coast somewhere. She’d probably find some blonde-haired blue-eyed guy named Chad or Kevin or something and get married, pop out kids and live in the suburbs. 

Until she didn’t leave. Until Eddie was fucking assaulted with the sight of Stevie Harrington in a tiny sailor’s uniform, slinging ice cream at the mall. That skirt was criminal, even more than the stupid tennis skirts she wore to school all the time. 

His thoughts took a turn for the worst, sitting outside Scoops Ahoy like an absolute asshole and just drooling over the thought of bending her over the counter. Thinking about pulling her into the freezer and fucking her until neither of them could move, her clawing at his back and pulling at his hair and telling him what a fucking freak he was. 

No pressure tags: @ghostinthelibrarywrites, @just-my-latest-hyperfixation, @marvel-ous-m, @devondespresso

I'm sure people have already been tagged, if you have, please poke me and I'll go take a look!