#again this would be a romance that is as difficult to make work in game as saving Clan Lavellan

[greypetrel]

Ok because I'm falling down the Aisling x Fenris hole with you - could I ask for affection meme #29 - Meeting eyes across a distance and knowing what the other is thinking?

You are all enabler!

(and I want to thank you. x°D Really I was so anxious at posting that fic, I’m so glad it got some appreciation)

(reminding you all that this is much an AU, don’t worry, we’re staying in Cullen territory in Canon. … She has a kink for Templars and bisexual disasters tho. You can mock her.)

Also it’s coming in more parts! Because why suffering twice when we can all suffer more.

Soundtrack!

And Part 1 if you missed it

If I Make it to the Morning

( Meeting eyes across a distance and knowing what the other is thinking )

*Between Hasmal and the Tevinter border, 9:41, Firstfall.*

At first, the voices and tales of the Herald of Andraste didn’t caught Fenris’ attention. He just shrugged them off, not paying attention to the latest imposed saint and saviour there to solve everyone’s problems. He had spent his time in Kirkwall with the Hawkes, not enough to have him stay, but enough to learn that one person was but one person, and couldn’t be held responsible to solve the World.

He learnt about the Conclave, learnt that the Herald was an elf, and a Dalish one. But after a fleeting thought, wondering if he crossed their eyes at the Arlathven, all that time ago, he took his sword and was on the road again, after the next slavers.

He had no interest in joining the Inquisition, and if Varric needed him, he knew how to find him and contact him. It was none of his business, after all, three years with a clan and two days at an Arlathven didn’t make him a Dalish.

There were weird groups of mages, lately, crossing the border in the middle of the night and with no cages. It was clear, tho, that they weren’t exactly up to much good. The first group that Fenris ambushed didn’t look that assuming. He admittedly just saw Tevinters acting suspicious, followed them and attacked when it was clear that they were up to no good, interrogating their chief.

Venatori, he called their group. At the service of the Ancient One to restore Tevinter’s glory. Add the usual slurs and empty threats, Fenris just ended him and got on with his work, gathering documents and the informations he could. He didn’t fully understand what was going on, there definitely were some pieces of the puzzle he missed -first and foremost who this Ancient One was-, but the mentions to Red Lyrium were enough for him to catch on that Venatori meant, too, kill on sight. He sent word to Varric as soon as he got back to Hasmal and his informators, attached the document he found, and got on with his life.

*Close to the Tevinter border, 9:42, Wintermarch.*

It passed a month before another attack to another group of Venatori almost ended in disaster. He thought he had counted them all, tracking them down as they crossed the border and made their way out of the beaten path, hiding the way hahren Oshyn taught him, minding his steps not to make noise, blend in the environment. It was useful for spying as well, observing the enemy without being seen, and he was grateful for the effort the Lavellans put up with him. Except, this time he miscalculated.

He didn’t see that there was a second group, bigger, further back on the path, that descended on him as he was almost finishing the first. He cursed, thought back on his strategy. They were too many, and he was getting tired: his chance was falling back -dodge a fireball, parry another, jump back when there’s the crack of lightning, plant your sword in the ground and your hands away, shut your eyes and close your ears, the way she told him to- and retreating back in the trees, hoping he still remembered Oshyn’s teaching enough to lose them in the woods.

And then, an arrow struck a soldier. Another felled the next. Barriers were casted as a contingent of soldiers and scouts came out all around him, telling him brashly to just move.

They sported Inquisition insignia, a flaming black eye in white field, cut in half by a sword. He stared, not understanding what they did so far north. Far beyond the reaching of the Chantry. If they crossed the border and entered in arms in the Imperium, it would have caused a diplomatic disaster, and for what he knew, the Inquisition wasn’t so politically sound to withstand offending Tevinter, Herald of Andraste or not.

When the battle was over, he approached what looked like the Officer in command, and asked. They were kind, and treated him as equal. Mistook him for a Dalish, but it wasn’t the first time it happened, and he often took it as covering, not bothering to correct the mistake of seeing a tattooed elf and going for Dalish.

“We’re here on the Inquisitor’s personal orders, hunting slavers and Venatori. You shouldn’t engage neither on your own, particularly the Venatori: they’re dangerous and the prisoners are taken for experiments.”

“So close to Tevinter?”

“Yes, it’s a conjunct operation. The Inquisitor’s Tevinter advisor has contact in Minrathous. Magister Tilani joined forces with us for this operation.”

He frowned. A Tevinter advisor in contact with a Magister? He heard of Tilani, she wasn’t high on his list of targets, but still… Maybe he should have paid more attention to the Inquisition, after all, if its hand reached so far north and its leader had… Such sympathies. Weird.

“Can you tell me more about the Inquisitor? With a Tevinter advisor?”

The scout laughed, shaking her head. He followed her around, helping how he could in searching bodies and retrieving documents, orders and everything useful.

“Forgive me the laughter… You’re not the first to have doubts. The Lady Inquisitor was the Herald of Andraste, and much like her patroness, she doesn’t look at provenience, if the intentions are good. Whoever wants to help defeating Corypheus has a place.”

A Dalish elf with sympathies for Tevinter. It could… No. No, it couldn’t be. She was one of many, and she wanted to stay in the clan. He shooed that thought from his head and made another question.

“Who’s this Corypheus?”

“The Ancient One, yes, the one that the Venatori follows.”

“So, a Magister.”

“So they say. Some rumours say he’s darkspawn too, tho… But he was the one who opened the Rifts and the sky, and destroyed Haven, Lady Lavellan tho closed the Breach and dueled him in Haven… She’s the best bet against him.”

“… Lavellan, you said?”

“Yes, didn’t you know her name? I thought the Dalish knew. Do you know her?”

“… she’s a mage.”

“Yes, but-”

He thanked the Scout, a little too brashly for politeness, and was out of the clearing before she could ask him who he was exactly. And thinking back, really, how many weird elves could he think of that would have welcomed a Tevinter noble as advisor? How many elves were so prone in getting caught always in the weirdest shit so gloriously?

He needed to get South.

*Exalted Plains, 9:42, Guardian.*

It took him way longer than he would have liked to reach her.

He had considered tracking the Lavellan, just to ask… Anything, really. Because the idea of facing the Keeper and the whole clan, after almost 8 years since he left without even a goodbye was still more appealing than facing her, after leaving with yes, a goodbye, and also a conversation that left her in pieces and took the light away from her eyes.

But he owed it to her, at least. He owed it to come personally, not go looking for voices and rumours from people who knew her, not write and ask Varric how she was faring and if he believed she needed help.

He hadn’t been thinking straight, but he felt his heart in his throat and a sense of dread. He had to go and check. Even if it meant having her tell him in his face that he went way past her stupidly wide boundaries and she hated him. Just a quick detour. Check if she was fine. Offer his sword if she needed it. He owed it to her. She has just saved his life. Yet again. He was free, now, and he was done running.

But, by the time he reached Skyhold, not difficult to find once he crossed to Ferelden and found forward camps and bases flying the flaming eye all around the Storm Coast and Crestwood, drinking anecdotes and informations he could find and hear, she wasn’t there.

It was, honestly, impressive to see what she had accomplished: the tall, imposing fortress bustling with life and activities, the camp in the valley. Oh, he knew she was highly intelligent, and would have been a good leader, once her time would have come… He never expected this. As he never expected to find back from Kirkwall Knight-Captain Rutherford – now Commander, and underlining heavily how he was no more Knight-Captain- to burst his cover of “Former Lavellan member”.

It took him too many explanations to let him, Sister Nightingale and Lady Montilyet to agree and tell him where the Inquisitor was. Varric barged in, fighting guards, to vouch for him, and yet fell surprised when Leliana asked him if it was true that he knew the Inquisitor. He couldn’t answer, because he never told him which clan he knew, never told them all more than “I hid three years among the Dalish”, when Merrill noticed some idiosyncrasies he picked up and she instantly recognised. Luckily, Cullen didn’t forget he was in the Gallows too, fighting against Meredith, and it was him, in the end, who convinced his colleagues. It calmed him to see she had people around that were protective of her. The actual her, not the Inquisitor mask.

He tagged along in the next supply caravan, headed to the Exalted Plains. It wasn’t a long trip, at least.

He was welcomed by destruction. Trenches in shambles, a countryside on fire, soldiers from both parties of the civil war gathering to burn corpses, Inquisition forces working hard to keep everyone supplied, the roads safe from bandits, clean up what they could.

They pointed him North, saying the Inquisitor hadn’t been back from a couple of days. That was busy, as the Inquisition’s forces repaired the bridge to Citadelle du Courbeau, helping a Dalish Clan that was camped in Halin’Sulahn. She was bound, tho, to be at Fort Revasan in three days time, to cross the river and go check the situation in the Citadelle. Voices ran of more zombies and demons.

He sighed, not surprised that they kept having such a bad timing amongst the civil war and her fulfilling her duties to the People. As the great First that she was. He headed north, leaving the beaten path, spotting traces he didn’t really like and felt familiar from the last three, aimless years.

He climbed to the top of a low hill, facing down to a flatter strip of land where a tall, dilapidated elven building still stood and he saw it: a small camp, lit by a couple of fires and tents with the Tevinter snakes painted on top. Very unwise, to make themselves so visible and recognisable. Particularly because they were so few, all but five people, two of whom lying asleep.

He unsheathed his greatsword and slowly walked down, laying low and hiding behind fallen rocks. The position wasn’t the best, just a turn of a head and he’d be spotted. Nonetheless, he trudged on hiding until he couldn’t anymore. He was spotted and then he ran. He faded through a tent, stabbing down to the sleeping mage there, right in the middle of his chest. One less.

He faded again through a fireball, charging one of the mages, the one that alarmed the others. It wasn’t difficult, he just had to pay attention and care for his surroundings, ducking and dodging and taking his time. He had energies to spare, the long journey left him eager of getting back to work. One Venatori less, throat sliced neatly.

The third had him retreat, casting a rain of icicles he had to jump back to dodge. Not a problem, he could circle him, maybe drag the assassin they had with them in the fire, or over one of the ice mines that were casted -as if he didn’t know what they were, the idiot didn’t even put some effort in making them inconspicuous to the warrior elf glowing blue with lyrium. Amateurs.

A snap of wood behind him signalled one of the rogues, he girated around, swinging his sword –

Swiiish.

The assassin screamed in pain, as an arrow struck him right in his eye. He heard a feminine laughter, very nasal, from behind him, but didn’t stop to look, slicing through the soft belly of the assassin and leaving her on the ground to die, turning again to parry another fireball thrown at him with the flat of his weapon.

“See? I got the bull’s eye, Bull! Got it? Ah ah!”

The same voice of the laughter cheered, followed by a booming one, a laughter hidden behind every syllable, from right on his left.

“Great job, Sera-baas! Move, broomstick!”

The ground trembled, as a Qunari run after him and sliced the mage he was aiming at as if it was butter. The mage jumped behind, wounded badly but apparently not down, more resistant than one would think, or with a better armour hidden in flowy robes. The Qunari yelled. “Crap!” as he jumped back, too close to fully avoid the fire that was thrown at him. He hissed, swinging his axe to get distance, ignoring the pain and the burn. Fenris didn’t lose time, jumping right at him, zig-zaging to avoid being targeted too easily. He killed that mage by stabbing him in his chest, deep, but it left him open to the last warrior, his sword stuck in the leather brigandine the mage was clad in.

“Boss!”

He heard the Qunari yell again, as he struggled -damn Tevinter clothes with their too many straps- to free his sword and himself.

He felt it, then.

The air crackling in static all around, buzzing with energy and the distinct smell of ozone. Noise of hoofs, a horse neighing. And then-

It thundered, loud and strong. It had been eight years, but Fenris’ body, apparently, remembered, closing his eyes and letting go of the hilt, staying impossibly still where he was as the air filled with light and thunder, the woosh of flames adding up and warming the air on his face was new, and then everything quieted again. He opened his eyes and the last Vint was lying on the ground, unconscious and burnt from the lightning that just hit him, twitching jerkily as the electricity ran through his nerves, his clothes on fire in more than one part, hair completely burnt down.

They were younger, in a carefree day, years ago. It was spring, the air was full of the smell of fresh grass and flowers. He was sitting against a tree with a book she had lent him to exercise, as she slowly padded her way in the underbush, staff held tight in her hand and steps overly measured, toes checking the ground for twigs before placing her weight on it. She wasn’t a hunter: she may be not so bad when she asked him to teach her to wield a sword, but… The tongue out of her lips, the overly concentrated expression betrayed her uneasiness, long hair splaying all around, leaves stuck in the locks. She launched a rock in the undergrowth, quickly falling into position and calling on her mana as three rabbits ran away, scared. He closed his eyes and averted his eyes, not moving one bit as she told him, as thunder fell from the sky, precise as an arrow, and shocked one of the running rodents dead. She turned with a big smile on her face, expression lit up by more than the speckles of the sun that filtered through the canopy, proud of herself and looking at him for recognition.

“What for?” He had asked, barely containing a smile. He was there from a couple of years, they were unlikely friends, and he found it was difficult to stay grumpy and angry when Aisling was looking at you with that level of enthusiasm.

“Dinner, silly!” She laughed.

She wasn’t catching dinner anymore, but the precision, dead-set and carefully gained through a lot of methodical exercise, was still unmistakably hers. And yet, she wasn’t laughing anymore. She wasn’t alight with enthusiasm, and her hair weren’t long and with leaves or flowers decorating them.

She sat on a pinto horse, staff in her hand, looking straight at him with a hard expression on her face he didn’t think she even had in her. Her hair was shorter, brushing her shoulders and left loose, parted on top of her head so some stray locks covered her brow and her Vallaslin. Which was weird per se. She was very proud of her tattoos, always had been, and most often she braided her hair back to show them. Her face had lost the last roundness of childhood, her mouth had a harsh turn to it. She still wore leg wraps even with clothes and a leather cloak that were unmistakably human in cuts and materials, toes free on the stirrups.

Their eyes met, they kept looking for a long time. He notice briefly the other elf on the saddle with her, an archer taller than her that was glaring suspiciously at him, the second Mage in flowy white robes and moustaches that Fenris remembered from another life, or the Qunari of before asking questions he didn’t hear.

There she was. Aisling Lavellan, looking at him in the eyes.

Eight years had passed, but it was just like it was yesterday that they spoke for the last time. There was something he couldn’t recognise, but he still believe he knew, roughly, how to read her. He had spent a lot of time learning it, after all, and put his effort into it. With suspect at first, because she was a mage and she was eager, striving to get better, curiosity later, because she was careful and loved what she was doing, and a youthly, foolish and thought unrequited first love, lastly. They were both older, now… But she was still her, and he was still him.

He stepped forward, not breaking eye contact, until the archer rose her bow, the Altus got his staff in position and he had the Qunari’s axe at his throat, forcing him to held his chin high.

“Bull.” She just said, assertive. Her Keeper’s tone.

“Are you sure, Boss? We don’t know-”

“I knew him.”

He didn’t lose how she clicked her tongue on her palate, making the horse move without any other movement, stopping him in front of the Tevinter. Protectively.

She didn’t have to ask him, he didn’t have to answer, they still communicated silently as well as the day he left, after all. There was old hurt, distrust, and incomprehension. And yet, something steely in her eyes, that was maybe not her, but the Lady Inquisitor. He contracted his eyebrows, knowing she was reading him as well.

She lowered her eyes, nodded.

And then he spoke, for the others more than for her.

“I came to offer my sword to the Inquisitor.”

And then, someone punched him, hard, right on his right cheekbone. He fell to the ground, hissing in pain and scrambling to the side, to face-

A very angry, seething with rage, Radha Lavellan. Sharper to the corners, hair considerably shorter, daggers sheathed and hands still clenched in punches. If looks could kill, he would be dead and buried right there and then.

“Radha.” Aisling called, a note of tiredness in her voice.

The Rogue stepped back, without saying a word, still casting angry glances at him. 

“Who is our new guest, darling?” A soft, low voice came, still from behind the horse.

“A person we once knew. He won’t hurt anyone, let him come.”

There was that, at least.

*Skyhold, 9:42, Spring and Summer.*

She wasn’t angry with him. She didn’t seem so. But, she wasn’t the bubbly, friendly person of before.

She accepted him in the Inquisition, leaving to Leliana and Cullen to decide how better to take advantage of his abilities after he explained that he had spent the last 4 years after Kirkwall to hunt slavers down, on his own.

He didn’t expect to find both Raina and Garrett Hawke there, greeting him with Varric as one would an old friend. Even if he was the one of their rag-tag group that fought alongside them for the shortest time. But, they at least were welcoming.

Aisling avoided him, polite when they needed to interact, with a coldness she never had, not getting closer. He tried to speak to her, but she wasn’t reachable anymore. She didn’t want his apologies, she told him that he could be free, she didn’t need his help and didn’t want for him to stay if he didn’t want to, or if he just felt like it was his duty. He professed his wish to… Make amend, somehow. She just refused him, saying there was no need, nothing to amend for. Things happened.

He disagreed, and he stayed. Not that she seemed to mind much in good or bad.

But, she assigned him to missions, never ordering but always asking, mindful even after all that time of not making him feel trapped or forced. Radha slowly stopped looking at him as she would have stabbed him in his back, if it wasn’t for Aisling. It was something.

They danced around the other, gravitating, as they had done when the Lavellan brought him in. He knew she was observing him, he could see her looking at him from time to time. He was doing the same, both looking and not approaching. Space was what they had, space was familiar and a good compromise, as Fenris did his best to show her he was there, and he was not running, not leaving her to face a weird darskpawn-Magister alone. He could do that for her, and it wasn’t all that unpleasant.

The company was good, he got along with the Chargers -he knew the Iron Bull was familiar, after he named Seheron he knew. They never spoke about it, but they both knew. Varric… Was Varric, a knack for making you feel welcomed everywhere. He called her Lucky. It was, indeed, still Aisling Lavellan, the weirdo who thought people were good. She collected quite the rag-tag group, still making friends first and foremost with the most unlikely people around. Magisters and Altus -those were hard to accept, he stuck around as she and Dorian experimented, as Alexius joined them sometimes. He stuck around, a dagger at the ready, refusing to leave when she asked him, once, and even after she told him that Dorian had her utmost trust. Little by little, at least, he saw she was right, that the Altus really seemed to care, and the old Magister had no more bite to him. The Spirit, Cole, was the second on his list of curiosities that unsettled him: because of course she would have made friend with a Spirit in human form that read minds. And then Sera, whomever she was -he quite liked her, tho-. A Ben-Hassrath agent, and a good one, that acted like a mother cat and corrected her form with her spirit-blade. The ex Knight-Captain of Kirkwall lent her books, and they laughed together -he didn’t know Cullen was able to laugh. Apostates and Templars and Orlesian nobles charmed by her. She made it work, and he was admired.

Admired, and sad, because he knew her when she was young, and she never was that demure, and calm. Maybe it was just him and Radha that could see it, but he saw it: she was keeping her distances, keeping always three steps away from all her inner circle, save from Dorian.

She smiled more with him, as they spoke Tevene between them and experimented on magic. On that, she was still brilliant, as much as he was, and he had to admit, as much as she didn’t trust the man, they worked well together, filling each other gaps and spurring each other on. She has always been talented and elegant, thinking outside the box and, at the same time, controlled. But with him?

They made rain on the Keep. A real, true rain that filled the reserves of drinking water and saved people a long and hard trip to fetch it. And, as they travelled across Thedas, helped people as well.

As the months passed, as they found a comfortable rhythm around each other, they crossed eyes again, from time to time. Aisling started speaking to him again, unsurely and tentatively. She never touched anything much personal, always kept her distance. But, she asked about how he was. Asked him for his opinion on matters that weren’t work. Suggested him a book she thought he may like. He made a detour from the kitchen, when he passed and saw they had just taken out of the oven a tray of lemon cookies, and brought them straight to her in the library as a thank you, because he remembered she liked lemon sweets best.

One day, she told him she read about Danarius in the Tale of the Champion. That she was happy for him. And for once, her smile was sincere. As many, many times before, she tugged back the small, shy smile she had just for him. He smiled back, for old time’s sake. He hoped she saw that, in spite of everything, he was proud of her. And he regretted every single day he didn’t get back after Danarius found him and he put an end on the story, winning his freedom.

There was distance, still, a huge, gaping hole of eight year of absence, with not a word. They could work around it, falling into the most innocent of their old habits -like, he would sit in the library, reading, as Dorian taught her maths and to put magic in theory and they bickered, ten miles per hours in a mix of Tevene and Common following some weird line of thought.

He wanted more, he regretted many things. But if that was all that there could be, all that she had left to give him, he would have taken it. Work. Fixing problems together, on different sides of the same room. Exchanging glances and knowing, still, what the other was thinking. Avoiding to speak about the regret, the longing, that at least he started to feel again, after some months. That was left for sideway glances. She could concentrate on finding another person. One that wouldn’t have left.

*Adamant Fortress, 9:42, Kingsway.*

She didn’t want him in his party. It was predictable. She invented an excuse, but he really didn’t need one. He followed Raina, as he had done in Kirkwall, up the battlements.

They fought, they crossed path with Aisling, in her Keeper armour, making thunder rain from above in that way she and Dorian had to weave spells together, drawing together from the Fade to enhance each other’s power. She had Dorian and Solas with her, with the addition of the Iron Bull. As the Battlements were freed, she stopped them to assess the situation and instruct them further.

“We need to get to the inner courtyard and stop Erimond. We’ll head there, Raina and Stroud with us.” She instructed them, turning to him, Radha, Sera, Garrett and Varric. “You stay here, keep the battlements free for our soldiers, cover them as they climb. Garrett, you know what to do to call me if another Rift opens up here. Ok?”

No, it wasn’t ok. He frowned at her, and for the first time since he arrived, he spoke up to her.

“Let me come with you.”

He told her, looking at her in the eyes. He didn’t need to say why or explain, he knew she knew. He had experience with Magisters. He had known Erimond. He was the best suited, had personal grudge against the man and the category. She knew. She steeled her gaze, tho, furrowing and not budging. A challenge.

“No.”

She stepped back: Fenris didn’t realise he had stepped so close to her.

He sighed, nodding, understanding it was not a matter of ability. It was clear as day on her face.

She didn’t trust him at his side, after all.

He let her go, did what she asked. He wondered if she knew his heart went with her nevertheless.

---

When the dragon came flying, tho, he said fuck it to the plan.

“Broody!”

He heard Varric shouting behind him, as he left his flank open – but he saw Radha running his way, and he trusted that the elf would have covered for the dwarf. She was good and protective, the person you’d want covering your back. And yet, she had no experience with Magisters either, and he did. And Aisling was against a crazy Magister -he saw him, buzzing with power- on his pet Archdemon, and his feet took flight. He ignored Radha yelling at him to stop.

He opened his way, one demon after the other, heart in his throat, as the dragon destroyed old walls with his tails, his roars almost covering the thunder that rained on the Keep.

He turned and ran, ignored his lungs begging for air, muscles twitching.

A flash of green, and the Archdemon in front of him retreated, hissing in pain. Whatever the Anchor was on her hand, it was, apparently useful. Except that it made the dragon even angrier. He jumped, stabbed the reptile’s hind leg deep in the muscle. The dragon kicked, and he was too tired to duck in time. He rolled, coming to a stop against a wall, cursing how the sword was tossed in another direction.

He was about to run after his weapon, when the dragon stomped, hard, making the bridge they were standing on tremble. A loud crack, and the stones began to fall.

As the dragon flew away, Fenris was left with a choice. His weapon, on the right. Aisling, on the left, running on falling debris. She was quick on her feet, but not enough. It wasn’t really a choice.

He didn’t think and jump after her, grabbing her tight and rolling them around, not caring for much else than giving her a chance more. He heard her cursing, arm circling his chest and holding tight, instinctively.

Another flash of green, brighter than any of her lightnings. Brighter than her smile right after he kissed her back. He didn’t think it was even possible.

---

She brought them in the Fade and she got them out.

She had to leave Stroud there. Fenris offered to stay, because that’s what he could do. It wasn’t enough, not after reading on her gravestone, in the realm of the demon, that her deepest fear was Abandonment. He knew he hurt her, deeply. He had hoped he hadn’t fully break her. And then, seeing it written, a full certainty…

She refused, her quiet, mistrusting distances instantly ablaze with anger. She yelled at him not to say anything of the sort to her ever, ever again. He never saw her angry before. Once, she would have cried. Now, she didn’t. She said to Stroud to get out, she would have stayed. She couldn’t ask him to do something she wasn’t ready to do.

In the end, the last one to get out from the Fade Rift was, indeed, Aisling, stumbling on her feet and almost losing balance. Fenris didn’t know if the Warden pushed her or managed to convince her. What he did know was that in her eyes, as she rose up and crossed his eyes, looked for him, and especially him, there was anger. Hate. The same hate he felt and told her about, that night at the Arlathven. Hate masking desperation.

It wasn’t him who did this to her. But he understood.

He nodded to her, gravely.

She turned against Erimond and extended her fingers, casting lightning without her staff. Hit the Magister right on the mouth of his stomach, snaking in the tightening nets of his barrier right before he closed it. The man fell on his back, three meters away, unconscious, body twitching.

The battle was over.

And yet, it was not.

---

He found her again early in the morning, as the battlefield was cleared and soldiers moved to the infirmary. Radha thanked him for helping her sister, which was as much as a peace offering he would have gotten from her.

He found Aisling outside the infirmary, bent on herself, hands stained green, trembling like a leaf even if the sun was quickly fending the chill of the night away.

His heart broke.

“You can go, if you need to. I’ll remember you, tho. I remember everyone that leaves.”

She told him, bent on her thighs, hugging her legs with her face hidden between both knees. She was trembling like a leaf, as the night slowly left place to the dawn, vulnerable as ever and still naked under what had been his sheets, the sinewy lines of her Vallaslin he had traced with kisses and caresses few hours prior in full view, hair still tousled from their activities spraying all around.

He had no words to give her, except that it was too much for him to bear. The memories, the intimacy… No. He had been stupid, he hadn’t been as scared in his own life as he was in that moment, terror crippling him. It was too much. He couldn’t stay. He told her all the wrong words, with anger she didn’t deserve and that wasn’t even directed at her. Not really.

She hadn’t cried, she hadn’t said a word more, or even looked at him.

He had been stupid, he had been a coward, and he had gone.

She wasn’t crying, she was still clothed and her hair still neatly plaited behind her head from the battle. And yet, as stoney and sure-footed she had proved to be as the Inquisitor in the last six months, she was crumbling on herself, façade cracking, closed in a protective bubble, hugging her thighs.

Fenris shouldn’t be the one to do that. He knew she didn’t trust him anymore and she had all the reasons. But, he had come full circle now, and as many flaws as he had… He liked to think he could learn.

He knew she hated to crumble before others. She knew she spoke her affection in touches. Or at least, with others. She never touched him without his consent ever since he told her he didn’t like it, and she hadn’t even asked him why. Just accepted the thing, acted accordingly.

This time, he wasn’t a coward, and he didn’t turn his back at her. Instead, he got closer, slipped his hands under her knees and held her back as he hauled her up, holding her close. She started to wiggle immediately, trying to push him away. Hissing and pushing and making the hair crackle with static. It was like holding a wild cat, but he didn’t let go, knowing perfectly she wouldn’t have hurt him. He brought her to a small passage between two buildings, narrow and hidden and left free of rubble, miraculously. They would have been alone there.

He let her go, letting her scrumble away on the ground, heaving and panting. She looked around her, eyes spirited, full of panic, ending up on his. He nodded, knowing what she was thinking, and turned his back, sitting close but not looking at her, shielding from the outside. After a minute, she started to cry, breath ragged, sobbing out like a wounded animal.

He knew her, tho, and knew that… Maybe…

He turned to look at her, legs crossed below her, arms hugging her and swinging back and forth as she cried, breathing heavily through her mouth, still trembling.

She hadn’t moved back, tho, hadn’t sought more distance. So, he tentatively turned back to her and moved closer. Closer. She let him approach. She let him circle her shoulder with both his arms and drag her on his lap, close to his chest, holding her as she cried. She smelled of ash, and of elfroot. She always smelled of elfroot.

“G-go now if you don’t mean to stay. Please, I- I could’t take it one more time.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He told her, squeezing her tighter. “I should have got back years ago. I’m here, now.”

He didn’t move, waiting for her to stop crying. She didn’t, slowly and tentatively shifting her head to slip in the crook of his neck. She didn’t seem to care much if he still had his armour on, and clutched to the border of his breastplate with a hand, holding close.

“Why did you get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“I… You were right. You were right all along.” She sobbed. “About magic. About… About me. I left a person in the- I- I wanted to make Erimond suffer. Slowly. I still do. I… I did blood magic.”

It made her cry more, and he didn’t lie. It was a stab.

“What happened?”

“Vyrina. Two months after you left. The baby… The baby was with his feet down. She would have died, they both would... I- I moved him. It was…”

He had found it weird that she didn’t heal with magic anymore in these months, and all that praising the 1000 qualities of Elfroot. She never did it before, she was learning Spirit Healing, and the Keeper said she was good at it. With those reasons, tho, he really couldn’t say much. It was her and she still didn’t have one bad bones in her body. She wasn’t possessed, that much was clear.

“I was wrong. About magic. It wasn’t about you, it never was… I was a fool, and I was scared. I thought it better if you hated me, I deserved no less. I projected things you didn’t deserve. I didn’t mean you. I never meant you. When you fell, this night, I…”

“I am a killer.”

“Aren’t we all.” He snorted, mirthlessly.

“Then, why…” She sobbed, folding again onto herself, voice pitching. “… Why did you leave, Fenris?”

He sighed, heavily. Six months it took her to ask. He owed her an answer. Particularly because she still, somehow, cared.

“… I thought about the answer a thousand times.”. He started, tentatively. He felt her moving, but it was his turn to just… hold her a little closer, placing a hand on her head. His gauntlet caught on her hair, he untangled it as delicately as he could. But she got the message that he didn’t want her to look, and stayed where she was. “The pain, the memories it brought up… It was too much. I was a coward. And I hurt you, more deeply than you would admit.”

She sniffed, shifted a little to get more comfortable against his armour. He settled them better as she took her time to reply. She had stopped trembling, at least, as well as sobbing. He turned his head to look at her, and what was left of the messy braid she tied her hair before the battle, locks spreading all over.

“Why returning now? After all these years?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I was hoping you could forgive me. And to tell you…” He swallowed. “… And to tell you that if you could, and you somehow felt as before, that if I have to be a future nothing could be worse than the thought of living it without you.”

It was as close as he could trudge. She stopped, perfectly still. It was out, he was on the clear.

“Why are you telling me this, now?”

“Because I thought you would have died, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you not knowing. You still have battles to fight. You need to know that it wasn’t your fault.”

“I understand.”

She was back to cold mode. He slumped, fear rising back again, as well as regret. Gone was the giggling, gone were the embarrassment. She didn’t move from where she was, tho, hot breath fanning over his neck. He didn’t want her to go, ever, but… He felt her move, and let her slip away. He knew better.

“Thank you. For coming back. And for jumping after me. But…”

“It is too late.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew her. He didn’t need to even look at her to guess. She closed her fingers, slowly, over his, squeezing.

“I am sorry, Fen. But…” She was, tone of voice sweet, under hurt, old pain resurfacing. “… I don’t know. I think… I think it is.”

She kept her hand on his, not letting go. He moved and held her hand back, not saying anything else. He understood. He had stayed away so long convincing himself that she hated him and didn’t want to see him. He didn’t expect her to swallow everything or forget. They stayed there, silently mourning what was lost to bad timing, and trauma clashing badly together.

“I’d… I’d be glad if you stayed. If you want to. I… I am glad to have you around, even if…”

“You don’t trust me.”

She sighed, deeply, shaking her head in denial.

“I trust you with my life, Fen. I wouldn’t want to have anyone beside me in battle but you, Radha and Dorian, Bull and Sera.”

That much was true, she didn’t hesitate.

“I can’t trust you with my heart, tho.”

She moved forward, tentatively as she already did, but less nervous. She asked him to look at her, when she was close enough.

“One for the road?” She asked, smiling. She was crying.

“One for the road.” He smiled back, nodding.

She pecked a last kiss on his lips, no teeth this time. It was bittersweet, and she tasted like salt and ashes, and some lingering elfroot from the last healing potion she dranked. She dragged it on, and then interrupted it, moving back and letting go of his hand.

“Thank you.”

She said. It encompassed everything. Fond memories they had, young people learning to find common ground, growing together, him learning about peace and quiet, she peeking her nose in a bigger, wider world. A bigger, wider world that suited her and she was shaping.

“No. Thank you, weirdo.”

It could have been.

But, the timing was wrong.

[reidmania]

THIS IS WHAT THE DRUGS ARE FOR | spencer reid

good riddance x spencer reid one shot series masterlist

summary; when no one else helps spencer’s addiction after being kidnapped — you do, and you offer him help as a recovering addict yourself

warnings; mentions of kidnapping, early seasons reid, around the time of his addiction to dilauded, mentions of suicide, mentions of being shot (pass tense during a case) mentions relapsing, addiction to opioids mentions of being addicted to oxycodone, drug use, overdoses, hurt x comfort, angst, not a lot of romance but its sweet, fem reader, normal criminal minds stuff. mentions of the team completely ignoring spencers addiction bc that was messed up.

an; honestly this was difficult to write as a recovering oxycodone addict, a little bit self indulgent.. whoopsies!! but in honour of 5 years sober 🤗🤗 (i am too open with my issues on social media) this is probably horrible

‘This is what the drugs are for. Turn the lights off on the comedown I still get emotional, when I think about your old house. Hopefully, the high, works to change my mind’

You noticed quicker than you wanted to admit. It wasn’t like you could pinpoint a certain point, maybe it was when he turned back at you after standing up from the dead body of his kidnapper and you saw the way his pupils blew, something guilty behind them — maybe thats when your concern started.

You knew for certain when his focus was in and out daily. You knew everyone on the team had their suspicions, had the gut feeling that there was something more to the tiredness in Spencer’s eyes. You knew more than you wanted to admit.

Your hands twirled the pen on your fingers as your eyes stayed fixated on the male sitting in front of you, you watched as his hands came up to scratch the inside of his elbow. You knew the motion all too well, like muscle memory.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you heard Hotch ask a question to which only Spencer reid would know the answer to. You shifted your gaze slightly as you leant back in your chair, at his lack of response and focus.

It took Hotch saying his name a second time for his gaze to pull and a small apology to leave his lips. Hotch repeated the question and you watched as it took a minute too long for Spencer Reid’s all to long ramble to start about the detail.

Normally, someone would make a teasing comment about how Spencer had to think about it, but the tension stayed among the group as they all noticed the same thing — yet no one did anything about it.

You knew the feeling well, and it made your skin itch in anger.

Rossi handed out jobs, inviting you to stay back with Spencer to help with case work. You looked at Spencer noticed his eyes dropping, it made your chest ache.

Everyone else had left leaving you and Spencer in the conference room. Your gaze stayed fixated on him as his mind fell in and out of focus. You had to admit if you didn’t know Spencer Reid as well as you did, he hid it well.

“How long?” You muttered out, as your eyes pulled away from his to skim the case. You could feel his gaze on yours and you could practically feel the heavy breath that left his mouth.

His words came out snappy, but you knew he didn’t mean it. “What?”

You looked up at him again, seeing his gaze on yours, his pupils constricted and you could practically see the way his hand was twitching not to claw at the inside of his elbow.

You knew he knew what you meant, you knew he was playing dumb. You pulled the same thing for years. If he wanted to play the game you’d play, and you would outplay him every time. “How long have you been using?”

His face twisted up, he could’ve been an actor.

“Im not.” He pushed out. His voice betrayed his face, as it went an octave higher. For someone so smart you’d think he would know how to lie — but he didn’t, not well. Not to you. He could tell you didn’t believe him from the way your eyebrow quipped. “I don’t know why you’d think that.” He added, trying to sound convincing.

You hummed, “Your pupils are constricted for one. You aren’t focusing, you are all depressed. Oh and you’re slurring.. By the way” You pointed out with your pen in your hand directed towards him. You watched as his face fell for a split second. If you weren’t paying as much attention as you were you might’ve missed it.

But you were paying attention.

“Im just tired— and I have allergies ” He lied. It made you want to laugh at the familiarity of all his lies, the same ones you remember thinking you were so smart for thinking of in the moment so many years ago.

You let out an unconvinced ‘mhm’ as you nodded your head. You watched as it dawned in his eyes that he had been called out. You wondered if maybe he enjoyed the fact that no one pointed it out, until now, until you.

“I had allergies too, for a long time” You stated out simply, playing his game, outplaying him. Your goal here wasn’t to make him feel ashamed, in any way. It was purely to let him know that he wasn’t alone.

You remembered feeling so alone.

He spluttered slightly, his eyes widened the slightest bit. “What?” He breathed out, confused because he never would’ve guessed. You knew that. You knew the person you were now was nothing like the person you were a few years prior. You hid your addiction well but you were changed as a person, and you weren’t nearly the same person you were before the addiction.

You offered him a small smile, “I know an addict when I see one Reid, I know the addiction. I know your skin feels like it’s crawling right now and your head is probably spinning because you are going through withdrawals. I know all the lies, I used them all before” You said softly as you lean your forearms against the table; your eyes softened as your gaze stayed fixated on his.

You watched the words slowly process through his head. Slowly but surely he seemed to understand. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How- How long have you known?” He asked, his voice small, evident how confronting this conversation was for him — but he needed it. He needed to know he had someone in his corner.

“I had my suspicions for a while. I wanted to be sure before I said anything..” You muttered out as you reached across the table to take his hand in yours comfortingly, “I was waiting— hoping someone else said something, I know I’m not your first choice of a person to help you through this — but I am here” You said softly.

You weren’t not close to Spencer. You were, close in age, had similar interests and you two got along well. The childish crush you had on him remained buried in between your ribcage — that was the thing about being an addict, it made you a good actor. You could act your way through any feeling.

He almost coughed at your words, his hand tightening around yours as you gave him a supportive squeeze. “Im- Thank you. I-“ His words seemed heavy on his tongue as his head shook. “I’m glad it’s you.” He said honestly.

You offered him a soft smile. You could almost see a question weighing on his mind, “What is it spence? What do you want to ask?” You prompted him, knowing his mind was properly almost complete fog at this point, overtaken by cravings.

“What- What were you addicted to? When?” He asked, eyebrows pushed upwards as if he was trying to figure out the timeline of your addiction, it caused an uncomfortable bubble in your chest.

“I was an oxy’s girl” You said, you knew it wasn’t funny but it seemed as joking was the only way to get through talking about this no matter the unsettling feeling it left in your stomach.

You exhaled heavily, “I started taking them in college after a surgery.. and well- I got addicted, obviously.” You ran your free hand through your hair as the memory dwindled in the back of your mind. Spencer’s hand squeezed your hand softly, making a half hearted tight lipped smile line your lips.

“I was clean when I first started here.” You said, fingers fidgeting. He listened with as much focus as he could with your words — you didn’t take offence to his half out of it mind. You couldn’t. “I relapsed after I got shot and they put me on them — no one knew about my addiction and I was too embarrassed to admit it to the doctors in front of the team, I relapsed once I got out of hospital.” You stated honestly.

You remembered it clear as day, after four years sober, the day you relapsed still stayed engraved into the walls of your mind freshly. You had been shot in the shoulder on a case, you were rushed to hospital and put on oxycodone and other pain medications immediately while unconscious. When you woke up and asked what they had given you, the team was standing around your bed so all you could do was nod, the relapse happened after that.

Spencer’s hand tightened on yours as his face pulled with guilt when he realised he didn’t notice. He opened his mouth to apologise but you cut him off, already knowing what he was going to say. “It’s okay.” You said, tightening your grasp on his hand mirroring his grasp on yours. “I mastered my lies by then, after years and years of lying to everyone around me.. I knew what worked and what did it.. I did it to myself” You spoke honestly.

He chewed on his lip as his gaze adverted to the table. You held his hand tightly as you felt it twitch slightly. You knew he wanted to scratch his elbow and you knew why. Your face softened all over again.

“It’s not worth it Spence. Trust me.” You said, voice heavy with honesty and you meant it more than words could explain. “You get mean, really mean, you lose yourself more and more everyday. Its not worth losing everyone around you, its not worth losing yourself” You gaze stayed on his face even when his eyes avoided yours.

You heard the shaky breath leave his lips, and then his hand left yours as his pinched his eyelids, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes as he squeezed them shut. It made your stomach ache.

“It- Its so hard” He said quietly. You didn’t think you had ever experienced heartbreak like hearing his voice break. Any sort of pain you felt in your life didn’t quite compare to seeing him fall apart from your words.

“I know- I know” You instantly stood up from your seat as you walked around the table towards him, he stood up as well and before you could do anything his hands were around your waist, pressing his body against yours and his head into the crevice of your neck. You arms wrapped around him without a second thought.

You could feel his tears against the skin of your neck, they were hot and thick. Your hand ran across his back gently. You always thought you’d know exactly what to do if this moment ever came to be — but you didn’t.

Words died in the back of your throat as all you could do was hold the boy in your arms as he let out the quietest soft sobs that made a gut wrenching feeling settle in your bones as goosebumps ran over your skin.

“I- I want to stop — I want to- How did you stop?” He said, wiping his face as he stood up straight, arms pulled back by his side. Your heart ached and your skin burned.

You shook your head, “Do you remember when I had to take emergency leave for family emergency?” You asked, eyes looking up into his that gleamed wet and dreary. It pulled on your heart strings and uncomfortable amount,

He nodded briefly, after he took a long moment to try to recall. You nodded back, a sigh leaving your lips. “I- Um.. I overdosed.” You stated, trying to speak stronger than your voice allowed you to. “I was in hospital for two weeks, connected to machines and wires — forced to speak to someone everyday until they deemed me healthy. I didn’t tell anyone- no one knows” You continued to shake your head.

“Do not let it get to that point Spencer — Shaking on the floor and literally frothing at the mouth, feeling so cold but not even functioning enough to know what being cold is, is not want you want. I know it feels good now — but you are going to kill yourself whether you want to or not if you keep taking it.” You spoke clearly, wanting your point to be perfectly clear. It was not worth it.

He held guilt behind fogged eyes, guilt that he didn’t notice, guilt that he almost lost you — literally and he had no idea. That you were alone during the lowest point of your life and he had no idea. He allowed your words to cloud his mind for a moment as they worked to overpower the cravings that were working to controlling his system.

“i- I don’t- Im sorry.” He stuttered over his words as he failed to think of anything better to say. Your face fell briefly as you wrapped your arms around him again.

“Im here? Okay. We will do this together day by day. I am here and I’m always going to be here Spence.” You comforted non the less.

He needed it and you needed him

[haikyu-mp4]

You're not actors

Fluffy workplace romance as a streamer with your secret husband Kenma for my workplace romance event <3

requested by @dira333. word count; 837 – f!reader

Kenma loves his wedding ring. It’s just a piece of metal, but the matching one on your finger makes him giddy whenever he sees it, even if he doesn’t usually tell you that.

Unfortunately, he has to take it off for work. Your relationship wasn’t public, so he would rather not awaken any suspicions by showing his ring on camera. He’s a private person, preferring not to have everyone asking questions about his personal life.

You have separate streaming rooms on either end of the house so no noise would overlap, and so far everything ran smoothly. Sometimes, you would have to remind him about the ring as he kisses you before heading to his streaming room, and sometimes he remembers it himself. 

And sometimes you both forget.

This time, Kenma started the stream with his ring sitting snug on his finger and as time passed, he simply couldn’t move past this one level. It frustrated him to the point of running his hands through his hair and groaning at the seemingly impossible task. As the light from the screen hit metal, it glinted in the camera.

That’s how the speculations started. Is Kodzuken married? He never answers questions about his relationship status…

You’re a streamer too, often seen doing collabs with Kenma but never in person. You worried either of you might forget to act not in love while the viewers are literally observing your every move.

This time, you streamed alone. You recently started a Stardew Valley series where the viewers got to follow the progress with your fun commentary. It was very entertaining and gained you many more followers.

And Kenma knew you were streaming, so it was difficult to hide your surprise when a shattering sound ran through the house and someone hissed “Shit!”

Pausing the stream, you ran into the living room to find your husband surrounded by broken glass and spilt soda with a sheepish look. After sweeping some of it away and making sure he was okay, you hurried back to the stream and started it again to keep playing.

You pursed your lips, trying to act as if nothing happened. Unfortunately, you’re a YouTuber, not an actor.

That’s how the speculations started. Who does she live with? Is she in a secret relationship?

Following these two unfortunate events, you had no choice but to do the collab you had planned, as skipping it would seem suspicious. So just like normal, you both opened the shooter game and acted like you usually would while playing together, as if the comments weren’t bombarding you with these different rumours and some suggested your rumours were related to each other.

While you swore like a sailor at anything disadvantageous during the game, Kenma fell into the bad habit of watching your stream instead of his game, heart eyes evident to anyone who had eyes themselves. He would eventually sober up, getting revenge on anyone who went against you and then killing you so he could win alone.

His soft voice in your headphones made a shiver run down your spine and you wished the watchers were lying when they said Kodzuken is the only one you don’t curse at.

There were several heart eyes during this stream, and it was not just in the comments.

You both stood in the kitchen a couple of days (read nights) later. Kenma had accidentally woken you up by stubbing his toe on the bed and you demanded snacks so he pulled you along to the kitchen. The two of you talked about your latest work adventures or friend gossip while tapping your feet on the cold floors, a plate of apple pie in each of your hands.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Kenma said, holding his hand up when he knew you were about to say something like I’m happy you told me or else I’d miss it. “Maybe we should just tell everyone.”

When you looked confused, he flipped his hand around, wiggling his fingers to show off the wedding ring as emphasis. Your eyes widened. “That’s a pretty big thought, buddy, good job.”

He snorted, scooping up another piece of cake and feeding it to you. “I’m serious.”

“But I kinda like watching you try to keep it a secret,” you teased again before stepping closer and pressing light kisses along his jaw. Kenma sighed, pusring his lips and looking away with something that looked an awful lot like guilt.

“I might have just said I have a wife on livestream.”

Flashback to a couple of hours before, when some, probably thirteen-year-old, boy commented on Kenma’s apparent lack of rizz. A gen-Z concept Kenma had no interest in taking part in, but felt weirdly offended by.

“Bet you dont even pull, all the marridge rumors are so stupd.”

He would never admit out loud that it hit a nerve, but you wouldn’t need him to. It was evident. “You should see my wife, noob. She’s fucking gorgeous and plays better than whatever you pull.”

masterlist

/thank you @cottonlemonade for brainstorming with me<3

[taintedtort]

prompt ✧ how long they last during NNN

characters ✧ albedo, kazuha, scaramouche, xiao, childe, itto

warnings ✧ gn!reader, suggestive, no nut november

authors note ✧ i know november is over already, and i didn’t plan on actually writing this prompt… but i caved. it’s a tad late but that’s ok

ALBEDO

✧ lasts 2 weeks. he’s usually busy with experiments, so when kaeya suggested this idiotic game to him, he reluctantly agreed. he had a feeling it wouldn’t be difficult at all for him, seeing as he’s artificial and doesn’t fully comprehend or have human emotions. but he was proven wrong. the first two weeks were fine, he stayed occupied like normal while still giving you the soft attention you needed. but on the two week mark, you were both getting ready for bed and it suddenly hit him. his mind was unoccupied with work matters and simply just took over with thoughts of you. you and your cute, slightly revealing pajamas. you and your soft lips. you and your beautiful moans as he pleasured you beyond satisfaction. he lost the challenge that night,

“such a tease… did you do that intentionally?”

KAZUHA

✧ 4 days. kazuha is a true romantic, and part of that romance comes intimacy. it’s a big thing for him and he can’t go without it for very long. he did try though, he knew the other crew members who forced him to participate would make fun of him for only lasting a simple four days. he’d never live it down. but god he just couldn’t help himself, everything you did unintentionally turned him on. and it was all your fault for looking and sounding so cute when you called his name, innocently requesting his attention. he couldn’t help the plagued thoughts of you underneath him, calling out his name as he made you see stars.

“you were tempting me, i just couldn’t help myself.”

SCARAMOUCHE

✧ the entire month. out of sheer will and spite, he’d be determined to throw his victory in childe’s face. he only agreed after a lot of name calling and teasing, but he’ll be damned if he looses. then again, he’s so extremely clingy in private, he cannot keep his hands off you. and you had needs of your own! he couldn’t just take away that valued part of your relationship for an entire month! you’d intentionally tease and poke at him, begging for him to pay attention to your needs for at least one night. but again, he’s spiteful so he refuses. once december hits (he stays up till 12:00am to watch the date change) he’s on top of you and stripping your clothes off.

“times up, come here.”

XIAO

✧ 3 days. he tried to make it to five, but ultimately failed. it honestly just wasn’t a lucky day. he’d gotten back early from slaying demons, something that doesn’t often happen, and he wanted to spend some time with you. usually when he has off time, you two end up fucking. but with the challenge at hand, he tried not to. he really did, but just couldn’t help himself. everything about you was so inviting; your alluring eyes, your plump lips, your divine body, your seductive voice. it was impossible to ignore you.

“you’re so beautiful, i can’t hold myself back.”

CHILDE

✧ 3 weeks. god it was absolute torture for both of you. after the first week, everything you did got him worked up. it got to the point where he couldn’t touch you without getting hard. he was determined to win though, knowing scaramouche felt the same way. after making such a fuss about his friend being “too scared” and “having no self control” he knew he couldn’t loose. that victory would be so sweet. but alas… his dick just couldn’t take it, and the lack of affection you two were not receiving got to the both of your heads. you ended up having multiple rounds.

“fuck— i can’t do this anymore.”

ITTO

✧ less than a day. when he accepted the challenge, he was so sure he’d win. “easy breezy!” he said, completely confident. that was until… the two of you were finally alone. once you kissed his mouth after stepping inside your shared house, he couldn’t help it. his usual roaming hands were just as shameless as always. when it started to get a bit too heated you pulled back, asking about the challenge. he was confused at first, completely forgetting he had agreed, then just shrugged and continued.

“i won’t tell if you won’t.”

[a-yellow-van]

Wish You Were Here | Part 3

You and Joel get stuck in a blizzard during patrol. It leads to something unexpected.

Series masterlist

Pairing : Joel Miller x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, some smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, jackson joel, joel is a good parent to ellie, protective joel, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC : 8.9 k

Warnings for part 3 : Minors DNI! swearing, drinking, mentions of trauma and PTSD, mild violence, explicit sexual content (masturbation, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough-ish sex, praise kink, pet names, limited aftercare), more hurt than comfort I'm sorry

Writing this one hurt a lil. But I'm happy with it. So please enjoy.

It’s been half an hour. Thirty minutes of riding side by side in complete silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Old Beardy and Willow’s hooves rhythmically crunching in the snow.  It seems like an eternity. The tension is so intense it’s almost palpable. Your presence, a blur in Joel’s peripheral vision, is putting him on such an edge that, at any given moment now,  he could turn around and gallop back to Jackson, or start saying things he’d better keep to himself, or get you off your horse and take you by the waist and…

No. Nope. Stop it. 

His grip on the reins tightens and he bites his inner cheek until the stab of pain rips his mind off that absurd train of thought. He stares straight ahead at the deserted highway, the stretch of the 191 carved in a broad valley. The landscape is lost in a sea of white, the concrete below  invisible, crashed cars resembling large animals sleeping in a snowy den. Joel’s face is numb from the cold, rugged skin humid, a few wild strands of hair on his forehead pearling with ice. The brim of his insulated cap isn’t enough to shield his eyes from the stinging wind, but still, he stares, almost unblinking. His neck itches with the urge to turn and glance at you; he has been actively fighting it ever since leaving. He has to remain collected, he has to concentrate on the job. That sentence is playing on loop in his head like a mantra, so much so that the words are getting jumbled, barely making sense anymore. 

He doesn’t understand why it’s been so difficult to just move on from what happened. Not one day during those two weeks has passed without his thoughts drifting back to that brief intimacy he shared with you, without wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing. And he loathes it. Hates being confused, hates not having control, hates that you’re having such an effect on him. So, before he drives himself crazy, he decides to start counting the cars until the both of you reach the first checkpoint on the Hoback route. Joel has calculated about five miles since Jackson, only around three to go until the job gets more active. There are two cars on the right, their shapes stuck together in a permanent collision, and one on the left. Joel can make it. 

Small, repetitive rituals like this always helped him focus; back when he was working construction, a lifetime ago, he’d recite stupid ad jingles to himself, trying to remember as many as he could and associate them with the correct brand. There was a famous one that Sarah used to sing just to annoy him, delighted when it worked without fail every time. He’d be reading the newspaper in the morning, or watching a game, or driving her to school, and she’d pipe up out of nowhere. And then it’d be stuck in Joel’s head for days. Some annoying rap about credit reports. How did it go again? F-R-E-E, that spells free…something something dot com, baby. Sarah’s mischievous giggles, after he begged her to stop, echo around his mind. Less than a year back, it would have sent him down to a dark, sunken place with slippery walls nearly impossible to climb out of. Not anymore, after Ellie. The memory’s still stained with grief, but it doesn’t feel so crushing to carry. He’s accepted it as part of him. Joel tries to recall the rest of the lyrics to that damned song; he thinks Ellie might get a kick out of it. She’s always so eager to learn about even the most meaningless things that existed before the outbreak. 

It does the trick to distract him from you. It works so well, in fact, that he nearly misses the turn to the checkpoint. He pulls on Old Beardy’s reins suddenly, steering him in the right direction. The horse neighs in protest. 

So much for concentrating. 

You’ve certainly noticed the mishap, but you don’t comment on it, much to his relief.  

Get a fucking grip. 

Joel begins down the side path to an abandoned gas station, the tension rising. Maybe, if one of you were to point out the obvious, it would make this whole situation a bit less miserable. But Joel isn’t going to be the one to do it. It would come out all wrong, anyway. 

The place is small, a few pumps decaying under a canopy that’s barely holding on to four crumbling steel rods. The convenience store isn’t in better shape, its windows shattered, the signboard crashed by the entry. You take initiative and move towards the back of the building; Joel takes it as a cue for him to check out the front. The advantage of being an experienced patroller is that you can do your job without much communication; at least there’s that. He jumps off Old Beardy and walks up to the building, unworried but readying his weapon nonetheless. If there were infected around, he’d have spotted them already. Just as he thought, the interior is empty, what’s left of it is covered in a thin film of dirty snow. Just for good measure, he checks the storage and the restrooms in the back. Still nothing. He jogs back to his horse just as you turn a corner, you and Willow coming back into view, calm, unperturbed. 

You don’t wait for him to leave. He scrambles to mount Old Beardy, and you’re already back on the highway. It sustains Joel’s growing irritation; he almost yells out for you to slow down. Sure, ignoring each other is one thing, but being unsafe and disrespecting patrol rules is another. So, as a punishment, Joel spurs Old Beardy into a run and catches up before overtaking you, almost knocking you off Willow. He hears you gasp out in surprise. You try to swerve to the right, but he blocks the move. He wants to make you crack. Because he can’t be the one to do so first. You try the same move, to the left this time, and again, Joel is faster. He takes things a step further and lets out a dry, arrogant scoff. 

That’s it. You’re about to rip into him. But only the whistling of the wind responds; you keep stubbornly quiet. You don’t even give the man a glance when he finally lets you pass and get back on his side, your expression set in stone. 

Damn it. You’re good. 

Joel doesn’t attempt anything else, deciding it’s wasted energy. You both continue on the road, status quo, for another hour. You stop at a few other checkpoints around the highway : an old RV park, a fire station…Warm, sheltered places that would draw in people, or things, at this time of year. But there’s no sign of life anywhere. By this point, Joel would usually have had to take out at least a stray runner. It’s almost unsettling. Like the calm before a storm. That little seed of concern plants itself inside his mind, heightening his senses. You must feel it too, because you guide your horse closer to his, and he notices your right hand leaving the reins to rest on the rifle hanging from your shoulder. 

Sombre clouds are accumulating in the sky, hanging low, menacing. The wind increases as you both reach the highway exit to the small village of Hoback, carrying sharp snowflakes that cut Joel’s exposed cheeks. The path is narrow, flanked by tall conifers that grow denser, their branches drooping down from the weight of the snow. You’re forced to get behind the man, your gaze on his back piercing, nervous, uncomfortable. The both of you still don’t talk, but the atmosphere has shifted, the unspoken conflict momentarily forgotten. 

Joel moves forward cautiously on trot, alert, scanning his surroundings. The first cluster of residences comes into view, simple log cabins settled at the foot of a hill a couple yards away. From the distance, nothing looks out of place. He signals for you to follow him, and you patrol up and down the short street, hastily inspecting the houses on both sides. They’re frozen in a dead silence, immobile, ravaged by years of negligence and harsh elements. Instead of being reassuring, the absence of movement only causes Joel’s foreboding feeling to develop. Something is very off here. The both of you repeat the process through the village, falling into calculated, practised gestures. And, while patrollers have the habit of checking some key places for supplies to bring back to Jackson, this time, your pair instinctively works as fast as possible, not entering a single house. There’s an unwritten agreement to get the hell out of here as soon as you can. 

You’ve cleared out most of the village and, at last, you reach Snake River, the sounds of its turbulent waters mixed with the wind is tumultuous.  There’s a bridge ahead, just large enough for a car. Its wooden structure is unstable, some slats have fallen, the rest are icy and split in places. This next part has to be done on foot; the horses would collapse through the bridge and drown if they even took one step on it. Once you cross the river, you’ll need to walk a couple miles to the outskirts of the village, finishing off the route at an old golf course. The clubhouse is a great lookout to the area; it holds the patrol logbook. Joel halts Old Beardy before the river, and you stop next to him. The animal shakes his head, freeing his mane from the layer of snow. Joel hesitates, not quite ready to leave the protection and speed horseback offers. He’s debating if an acute gut feeling is reason enough to turn back and leave patrol unfinished. 

That short moment of doubt is precious. Because a second later, nature seems to fall completely silent around you. As though a predator is roaming nearby. Sudden, horrible snarls erupt from the woods stretching to your right. The ground trembles beneath fast, uneven footsteps. A lot of them. Too many. Time stops as Joel looks in your eyes for the first time in hours. They’re full of fear. 

And then a runner stumbles onto the trail about three hundred feet behind, twitching, its mangled head snapping in your direction. Followed by another. And another. It jolts the man right into action. 

“COME ON!” He urges you, spurring Old Beardy to a gallop. 

There’s no way to go, but forward. Joel barrels around the bridge and down the slope, reaching the riverbank. You don’t leave his side, thighs clenched around Willow’s flanks, arms straining with the reins. And as your horses hooves hit the ice, the horde has crossed the distance, pouring down the embankment. There’s at least twenty. Some of them fall into the water, the current seizing them immediately. But it’s not enough to stop them. Joel’s heart is hammering out of his chest, his body rocking with the movement as Old Beardy pushes on, fueled by the danger. Joel lets go of the reins, expert fingers grasping his rifle. He swiftly points it at the first runner that lunges at his left, and lodges a bullet in its brain. The next one steps on the corpse, ready to attack. It meets the same fate. The gunshots coming from your side clearly indicate that you’re handling yourself. Before long, Joel has emptied the chamber, not one bullet wasted. 

“RELOADING!” He shouts. 

You cover him, taking out an infected, mere inches before his claws dig into Joel’s ankle. He doesn’t have time to thank you, however, pulling the trigger the second he readies the rifle again. You both maintain the rhythm up for what seems to be hours, the horses snorting through the effort, runners dropping like flies. Joel has lost all sensation; he doesn’t feel his lungs burning or his muscles pulling; the adrenaline has completely taken over. He keeps riding. Shooting. Reloading. And…Yes, there.

Only two of the fuckers left. 

One on your side, one on his. He fires. Perfect shot. He thinks the two of you might make it out unscathed. 

But then, something happens. Your weapon is pointed at your own runner, about to shoot. But you hesitate. Joel watches as the creature strikes. Willow panics. She rears up. And you are thrown to the ground.   

——————————

That runner. 

It looks so much like her. 

Your body hits the riverbank, head bouncing on a rock, wind knocked out of you. A sharp pain erupts in your skull, high-pitched ringing explodes in your ears, stars appear in your vision. In a fraction of a second, the creature is straddling you. You weakly push an elbow against its chest, keeping its jaws from locking around your neck. It twitches, screams, clacks its teeth. 

And you just…accept it. Twenty-one years of surviving, and this is how it ends. 

You close your eyes. 

And you’re back in the forest. That day. You’re running, faster than you’ve ever done in your life, branches grabbing at you, slicing your skin, like they want to prevent your escape. You glance over your shoulder. She’s gaining on you. Her eyes have turned a milky white, her clothes are ripped, her skin bloodied. But she still looks so much like herself. She still sounds like herself. Your baby sister. Her discorded weeps fill you with a gutting terror. You can almost make out the repeated word. Your name. Tears fall down wildly as you dart between trees, your breathing erratic, throat on fire. 

“PLEASE! ANI! STOP!” you howl. But she’s gone. She can’t understand. So she chases, and you run. 

Until your foot catches on a large root, sending you tumbling through the underbrush. Your gun clatters away from you. You lay there, stunned, dirt in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, ankle bent at the wrong angle. 

She pins you to the ground, broken nails digging in the skin of your arms. You flail around, kick at her, trying to free yourself from her impossibly strong grip. 

“STOP IT! ANI! STOP!” you cry out again, voice raspy, hollow, desperate. 

Your right hand pats around blindly for the weapon, your left is pushed against her forehead, forcing her mouth away from your exposed shoulder. Your heart is beating so fast it seems like it’s stopped. Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve died, and this is just a flash of your last moments as you drift into peaceful, eternal rest. Or maybe it’s a horrible nightmare, and you’re about to wake up, a hand laced in your sister’s soft hair, light snores escaping her lips. She always looks so innocent when she sleeps, like all worries have washed off her, like she’s been sent back to a happy childhood in her dreams. 

Your fingers brush against cold metal. You close them around the handle. 

Bang. 

The shot echoes, in the past and in the present. 

You’re still alive. 

The runner’s corpse slumps down against you, coating you with gore, a foul smell making you gag. You’re paralyzed, trembling, chest rising and falling erratically, gasping for air. You look up at the angry grey skies, the snow plummeting down, catching in your eyelashes. Everything stands still for an instant. 

It all comes rushing back as the dead infected is ripped off your chest, discarded to the side like a rag doll. You sense a presence crouching down next to you, and Joel obscures your view. 

He calls out your last name, loud, snapping you back to reality. You focus on his face; it’s flushed, expression tight with stress, eyes darting, searching for yours. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” he yells. 

Joel takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a sitting position, the sudden movement making you dizzy. You stare back at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, unable to answer. Stunned.

“HEY! Did it bite you?” he continues, shaking you. 

You move your head side to side in response, causing it to throb in pain. You wince, raising a hand to your occiput. Your glove comes back crimson. Joel’s eyes fall to the blood, and he mutters a curse. He reaches into his coat pocket to take out a rag, balling it up and pressing it to the back of your skull. 

“Keep that there for me. Can you do that?” He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s an edge to it you pick up on. You nod and execute yourself. Willow comes over and nudges you with her nose; her way of apologising. You pat her with your free hand, reassuring. It was your fault.

Joel runs back to Old Beardy, the poor beast trembling from the fright. He takes something out of his pack’s front pocket and brings it back : a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He twists the cap off with his teeth and kneels behind you, taking the rag and pouring some of the liquid on it. He rubs it on your wound, eliciting a shriek.

Holy shit that hurts. 

Joel inspects the injury, parting your hair to expose it, the rough fabric of his gloves like sandpaper on your scalp. 

“Cut isn’t deep. But you’re gonna get a mean bump.” Joel explains, applying more pressure. He stops the bleeding, aided by the cold, and wraps the rag around your head, securing it with a tight knot. “We gotta keep moving. Can you stand up?” 

This version of Joel, assertive, protective even, catches you off guard. It’s such a stark contrast from his attitude earlier in the day. It nearly makes you forget how close to death you just came.

“Uh, I-I think so-” you reply, regaining your voice, before attempting to push yourself off the ground and falling back down. Your head spins. 

Joel offers you his hand, which you take to pull yourself up slowly, your whole body protesting. Bile rises up to your oesophagus. You lean over, breathing through your mouth. 

“Shit. I think you have a concussion,” you hear Joel say, from far away.

And, then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the storm picks up. The snow gets so dense you can barely see five feet in front of you. The man takes the lead, urgently guiding you towards Old Beardy. He helps you mount, taking you by the waist, and you don’t even think to resist. There’s no way you can ride by yourself in this condition. Joel gets on and takes the reins while you hold on to him, chest pressed against his back. He whistles for Willow over the wind. She follows right behind. 

Joel leads his horse out of the riverbank and into the surrounding woods, visibility getting even poorer. You’re blinded by snow, breathing it in, wheezing. You put all trust in Joel’s sense of orientation, praying that somehow, he gets you back onto the road. He presses forward, a hand raised in front of his face to protect it. 

What a stupid fucking way to go out. Lost in a blizzard. With Joel Miller. At least the town would have something to talk about. 

But then, miraculously, the trees begin to thin out; ahead, you can make out the faint outline of a trail. 

He did it. 

You squeeze Joel’s torso tighter, as if to thank him. Old Beardy perseveres, pushing one leg in front of the other. Your head is getting heavier, the concussion pulling you towards a dreamless sleep. 

“Hold on. We’re almost there.” Joel affirms. You’re not sure who it’s destined for : himself, you, or the horses. Maybe all four. But it’s all you need to let go, and you pass out, head slumping on Joel’s shoulder. 

——————————

You wake up to the sound of snow pelting against glass. Your skull feels like it’s being drilled into with a jackhammer. You pry your eyelids open and try to get your bearings, vision foggy, as though you opened your eyes in a chlorine pool. You find that you’ve been laid out on a frayed, deformed couch, springs digging into your back, a quilt smelling of mothballs thrown over you. Your winter attire has been taken off. You push yourself up on your elbows and look around the room. It seems to be the small living area of a cabin; there’s a rustic coffee table where both packs lay next to the bloody rag that acted as your bandage. To your left is a large, frosted-over bay window; the outside is an infinite, oppressing white. Two sets of jackets and ski pants hang from antler-shaped hooks next to the front door, a puddle forming underneath. A stone hearth takes up the wall in front of you, fire crackling inside. And, to your right, a plaid armchair. Joel is sitting in it, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you intently with knitted brows. His expression is hard, severe, unfriendly; he’s back to his normal self. You hold his gaze, your sight slowly getting clearer. 

“Uh. Hey,” you speak hoarsely, throat dry. It makes you cough, which prompts Joel to get up and rummage through your pack to retrieve your canteen. He tosses it to you carelessly, and you fail to catch it. It lands on your lap with a thump. Joel plops back into the armchair, huffing. He is very transparently upset with you. 

Great.

You take a long gulp of water and wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, the day replaying in your mind like on a movie theatre screen, pausing on your near-death experience. And you’re baffled, ashamed of your own actions. You can’t believe Joel had to step in and save your sorry ass, like you’re some kind of damsel in distress.  

Fucking rookie mistake. And now you have a goddamn concussion. 

You massage your temples and suppress a groan. “How long was I out?” you ask instead. 

“About an hour.” Joel answers, tone glacial, deprived of any sympathy. 

“Did you try calling Jackson?” You nod over at the small radio sitting on the ground by the window. 

“Couldn’t get a signal,” Joel answers, gruff, as if it’s an obvious fact. 

You roll your eyes. You know he’s right, but still, you stand up despite sore muscles, and go over to the device, cranking it a few times before trying the channel knob. You’re met with static. Joel mumbles something under his breath; it doesn’t sound pleasant, or polite. You put the radio back down and return to the couch, avoiding eye contact with the older man.

You glance at your watch. It’s right after 3PM, and the blizzard hasn’t let up. You’re going to be stuck here a while. You rest your head on the arm of the sofa, staring at the beamed ceiling, lost in reflexion. About how genuinely worried Joel seemed when you got hurt, how he jumped right in to take care of you. It makes you seethe. He tucked you in so you’d stay warm. He even changed your socks; the wet pair is drying by the fireplace. How dare he? You shift on the cushions, stiff, ill at ease. And Joel chooses that moment to break the silence. 

“What the hell was that back there?” He questions, his tone accusatory.

You tense up. The blame you’re putting on yourself is more than enough. He doesn’t need to twist the knife. You ignore him, your jaw clenching. 

“Hey. I’m talkin’ to ya,” he nags. 

It makes your blood boil, and you sit up to glare at him. “Won’t happen again,” you grumble.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” He continues, harsh. 

You take a deep breath. “Look, I-”

He interrupts you. “You don’t freeze up like that. Ever. You understand me?”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea!” You strike back, not missing a beat. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miller,” You spit out. 

Joel lets out a chilling chuckle. “Oh, you’re welcome, by the way!” He barks, “You know. For keepin’ you alive an’ all.”

You spring to your feet, heat shooting to your head, exacerbating the migraine. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help,” you utter. 

Joel gets up too, towering over you, hands balled up into fists. “Right. Next time I'll just let you get infected. That what you want?” 

“I told you. There won’t be a next time!” You shout, holding yourself back from punching him in the gut, or kneeing him where it would hurt most, or pulling him down to the couch and pushing your lips to his neck and letting him- 

No. Nope. Not again, not here, not now. 

You desperately need some air. You move towards the front door, but Joel strides up to you and blocks the way, arms crossed. 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” he warns. 

“Let. Me. Out.” You command. Your head is so painful you think it might explode. 

Joel chuckles again. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Settle down, girl.” He talks down to you as if you were a child, smug, condescending; but that word makes your heart skip a beat. 

You try to make a pass for the handle, but he grabs your wrist and shoves it backwards effortlessly. You’re seeing red. So you opt for the next best thing; you spin around abruptly and storm off to the other side of the cabin, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. 

“Oh yeah. You do that. Real mature.” Joel yells out. 

You hear the creak of the floor under his steps and the rustling of fabric as he sits back down. You take your frustrations out on the shower curtain, displacing thousands of dust particles, before biting down on your hand to muffle a scream. When you’re done, you climb into the bathtub and curl up against the lime-scaled cold porcelain, forehead on your knees. The space is dark, stuffy, suffocating. You wonder how you’ll be able to make it through the storm without ripping Joel’s head off. Or doing something exactly opposed to it. How easily that man is able to just get to you is incomprehensible. Enraging. And, worst of all, despite how reluctant you are to admit it… 

Arousing.  

It must be the concussion dysregulating you completely. But the feeling grows, and you extend both legs to squeeze your thighs together, trying to release the pressure building between them. It’s no use. There’s only one thing that would satisfy it, and he’s right outside the door. Without your control, your right hand moves to the waistband of your jeans, undoes the button and goes down, past the elastic of your underwear…Fingers reach down to your entrance, already slick, and glide back up to the hardened nub, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through your body. You rub clumsy circles around, slow at first, mind filling with Joel, his calloused hand there instead of yours, stretching you out, whispering filthy things in your ear. You increase the speed, biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning, cheeks flushed, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. You push two fingers inside, curling them to stimulate that sensitive spot, bucking into your own palm to deepen the sensation. In a matter of seconds, you’re unravelling, free hand gripping the side of the tub, your walls clamping down on the other, come seeping in the fabric below. Your lips part and you can’t help a low squeal from escaping them. You immediately clap your left hand over your mouth, heart racing. 

Fuck. 

Did he hear?

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. The reality of what you just did comes crashing down. It only worked to heighten your desire. And your anger. You button your pants back up and step out of the bathtub, wiping your hand on a scratchy towel you find in the linen closet along with a colony of spiders. 

You’ve been in here for too long. You have to go back out. It would raise suspicion if you didn’t. 

——————————

Joel is oblivious, too busy sulking over the events of the day as he tends to the fire, flames illuminating his face in a flickering glow. 

That was too fucking close. 

The image of you, frozen up under the runner, keeps snaking its way into his thoughts. It infuriates him. How you just gave up, like your life was worthless, like you deserved what came to you. And yet, the sentiment is so familiar it makes his chest ache in a burst of empathy. He can sense the burden in you, the intense trauma you endured. Most people have, in this unforgiving world, but you…There’s something more. It was the look in your eyes when you saw that infected, as if it reminded you of something so vivid it stole you away for an instant. He knows because it’s happened to him. It still does, sometimes, although less frequently. They’re these moments of sheer panic, where he’s choking, the world blurring around him. He has to count things he can see, or touch, or hear…He feels so miserably weak after it’s passed, as if he’s just a small, scared old man. Maybe it reveals his true nature. 

And he’s so angry at you for making him care. Because for some reason, he does. Ever since that night at the tavern. Maybe even before. How scared he got when he thought you might be done for is direct proof of it. 

He can’t afford to have another person to protect. 

A quiet cough brings him back to the present. He peers over his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, seemingly troubled by something; you fiddle with the hem of your sweater, gaze glued to the ground. 

He turns back to the hearth, sighing, and forces out an irritated “You good?” The thing is, he actually is concerned with the answer. 

“Fine.” You reply, your tone not an ounce more affable than his. 

That is as far as the conversation goes. Joel eventually gets tired of rotating the same log with the fire poker, pretending the action is crucial to keep the flames alive. He goes back to the armchair, glancing at you. You’ve reclined on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly chewing on a piece of dried meat. He decides to imitate you, because he needs something to do with his hands. So he digs in his bag for the sandwich he’d packed; it’s mushed, tasteless. You both eat in thick, loaded silence. 

The sunlight is starting to decline, and the storm rages on, casting the room in an eerie shadow, the cold seeping in through every tiny crack in the cabin’s foundation. Joel shivers despite himself, shoving both hands under his armpits in an attempt to preserve his body heat. 

A second later, you’re out of your seat. Joel watches as you climb up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft bedroom. You shuffle around the space, partially concealed by the railing, and come stomping back down, carrying a crumpled blanket. You hold it out to him at arm’s length. Joel cocks a brow; the sudden kind gesture leaves him completely confused. You jiggle the blanket under his nose, impatient. He decides to take it, and drapes it around his shoulders, the relief immediate. 

“Uh. Thanks,” he mumbles. 

You give a shrug in response, dismissive, wrapping yourself in the quilt and retreating to the sofa.  

What the hell? 

An hour ago, you were fiercely arguing with him. Now this. The flip-flopping is giving him whiplash. 

Time passes, excruciatingly slow, nor Joel or you daring to say another word. The sun fully sets; the darkness outside is opaque, as if the little cabin is drowning alone in an abyss. There’s no way around it, you’ll both have to spend the night here. Around half past 5PM, Joel can’t stew in the tension anymore, so he goes to check on Old Beardy and Willow, confined to the veranda at the back of the house. They’re cramped, but otherwise fine. Joel risks a short trip to the yard to fill an old, warped bucket with snow for the horses to drink. As he shines the beam of his flashlight around, he notes that the blizzard has weakened slightly. This mess might be over in the morning. Just a few hours. He can last until then. It’s not like he has any other choice. 

He feeds the animals with a pile of straw forgotten in a corner of the veranda, behind some gardening tools. At the start of the outbreak, he couldn’t help but imagine who inhabited the places he used as shelters, what their daily lives looked like, if they were still alive. Sometimes, he’d come across evidence of the contrary. It used to disturb him, he’d feel like an intruder, but he’d quickly grown desensitised. Cordyceps didn’t spare anyone. It made suffering the new normal. It’s useless to dwell on what was or wonder what could have been. So, he doesn’t pay more attention to the objects scattered around the space as Willow eats from his hand. 

Once he comes back inside the cabin, he finds you exploring the kitchenette that’s crammed underneath the loft. You’ve opened the cupboards, revealing stacks of chipped, dusty dishes. You’re going through a drawer, a few utensils clinking inside. You haven’t noticed Joel, too focused on your search for something of value. He observes quietly as you move on to the second drawer, when he decides to make his presence known. He clears his throat before speaking. 

“Don’t bother, I already checked while you were sleepin’.” 

His words only make you search harder, meticulously inspecting the contents of the drawer, bent over, your back turned to him.

Goddamn it. You’re exasperating. 

And yet, his eyes are drawn to a specific part of your anatomy, the curves made obvious by your position, your jeans hugging them so well he could just-

“Or do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, the hostility compensating for the sudden surge of lust. 

He plants himself in the armchair, once again, the noises of your continued investigation grating, setting his nerves on fire. After a few minutes, they stop. And you come walking back to the living area with a subtle, conceited smirk on your lips, and a bottle of very nice, before-the-apocalypse whisky clutched in your right hand. 

“Didn’t check well enough, Miller,” you say, failing to hide your satisfaction. 

“Where was it?” He asks, upset at himself for missing the item. 

“Back of the sink cabinet,” you answer smugly. “Quality stuff,” you add, reading the label. You’re absolutely right, but Joel isn’t going to recognise it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky,” he grumbles. You don’t waste time and unseal the bottle before raising it to your mouth. 

“Don’t think that’s smart,” Joel cautions, making you pause mid-air. “Y’know. Concussion,” he continues, his tone more unpleasant than he anticipated. 

You don’t listen to his advice, staring at him tauntingly as you sip. He’s quickly learning that you thrive in defiance. And this audacity you possess, it’s…Attractive. Joel inexplicably likes that you’re provoking him. Your expression remains neutral as you swallow, even when Joel knows for a fact it must sting like hell. You offer the bottle to him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had liquor that didn’t have an aftertaste of battery acid, and the sight makes him crave a good drink. It’d certainly make the night pass by faster. He knows it’s a terrible idea, considering where getting drunk with you led him last time, but it’s so damn tempting…

He takes the whisky from you. 

——————————

You’ve made a considerable dent in the liquor. It’s dulling the pain in your head, reducing it to a distant ache. You’re sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth, and Joel has joined you on the ground, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without having to stand up. His back is resting on the bottom panel of the couch, legs spread out casually. The fire, as well as the whisky, is enveloping you in a calming warmth, eating away at your inhibitions; you’ve taken your sweater off as a result, stripped down to a tight thermal shirt. There’s silence again between you and Joel, but this time, it doesn’t make you want to claw out of your own skin. It’s strikingly comfortable. And you find yourself wanting the man to come closer, longing for contact, connection. You haven’t forgotten your little adventure in the bathroom; in fact, the liquor is feeding those feelings,  and they’ve risen to a nearly overwhelming level.��

You take another sip, and, during the exchange, Joel’s fingers graze yours, sending your heart in a frenzy and a burst of flustered heat to your face. You jerk your hand away. 

Idiot. 

You play it off by brushing it through your hair. Joel’s mouth twitches upwards before he drinks. 

“What?” You ask, defensive. 

“Nothin’.” Joel passes the bottle back to you with a faint air of amusement. You decide it’s a good time to stop, and you set it down on the floor. 

“Done already? I was expecting more from ya,” he teases. 

You hate how well it’s efficient in riling you up. “Like you said. Concussion,” you retort, pointing at the site of injury. 

“Hm. So now it's a good enough excuse,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“Yup,” you answer simply. 

“Really? That’s all you got?” His smirk is more assured now. 

You give a drawn-out sigh in response, studying the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Damn. I was startin’ to like the snark,” he says. It seems like the liquor has taken a toll on the man’s reservations, too. 

“Don’t wanna waste my breath on you,” you reply, unable to resist the banter. 

Joel chuckles. “Ah. There she is.” 

You had forgotten how lovely Joel’s laugh is. How natural it feels to talk to him like this. Funny how booze seems to have that impact on the both of you. And, after a tortuous day of being at each other’s throats, you welcome the change of mood. “Did I just hear you say you like me?” You turn to gaze at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Nah. Must be your concussion.” He answers, deadpan, unfazed. 

You can’t hold back a smile as you reply. “Hm. Sure, Miller.”

He pauses and appears to consider something, chewing on his bottom lip. “Uh. Joel,” he finally lets out, voice deeper, more serious. “Just- call me Joel.” 

You’re taken aback by that sudden request. 

His first name. It feels informal, intimate even, as though you’ve moved past the status of coworkers, into murky, foreign territory. You know you should refuse. You’ve dropped too many of your principles with this man already. 

“Alright. Joel.” You gulp. “Uh, same goes for you.”

He gives a short nod, and mirrors your sentence, only with your name instead.

It’s significant. This moment. It feels like the two of you have reached a point of no return. Like from here on out, things can’t just go back to the way they were. 

“Man, this isn’t how I was planning to spend the night,” you revert to humour to diffuse the returning tension. 

“Yeah?” Joel follows your lead. “Got somethin’ you’d rather be doin’?”

“Pretty much anything else,” you quip. “I was gonna work on this painting I’m late on.” You’re not sure why you’re opening up about that aspect of your life, but it’s the direction the whisky has picked. It’s futile enough. Still safe. 

“Oh. Right. Painting,” he says. “I knew you did that.”

He does?

“Didn’t you do one of Tommy and Maria?” He continues. “For their wedding?” 

The man truly is full of surprises. And to think you were convinced he was completely indifferent to you, at least before today. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was me,” you reply after a few seconds. 

“It’s good work. You managed to make Tommy look half-decent. That’s talent right there,” he jokes. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I tried.” You chuckle, and your stomach flutters at the compliment. You’d shoot those butterflies one by one with a tiny gun if you could. “What about you? What’d you have on the schedule?”

“Hm,” he answers, “not much either. Was gonna ask Ellie to join me for dinner. And get rejected again.” 

“I don’t blame her,” you comment, a teasing grin forming. “What teenager wants to hang out with a grumpy old guy?” 

“Hey. Rude.” Joel feigns offence. “I can be fun,” he adds. 

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” you push further. 

“Okay then. Just you wait.” He glances around the room for inspiration, until he is hit by a stroke of genius. 

“Truth or dare?”

You snort. “Are you twelve?”

“Truth or dare?” Joel repeats, voice raising in pitch. 

You shake your head in disbelief. 

Joel fucking Miller.  

“Fine. Truth,” you capitulate. 

Joel smirks. “Okay. Uh,” he concentrates, “What’s your favourite colour?”

You take a second to process the words that just came out of his mouth. And then burst out laughing. 

“Come on,” Joel protests, a grin brightening his eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. “What’s wrong with that question?” 

It makes you double down in laughter. You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, and Joel joins in with a few low chuckles. The stoic mask has vanished. Why does he look so sweet? 

“That-that- was the best you could come up with?” you get out between deep inhales. 

Joel doesn’t back down. “You gonna answer it or what?” 

“Okay, okay. Uh-” 

You realise you haven’t thought about that tiny aspect of yourself in about two decades. Cordyceps has had that strange effect of destroying souls, personalities, the little things that used to make one human. By infecting some, and coercing others into survival. You’re not sure which fate is worse. 

“It’s yellow,” you finally reply. Yellow like the sunshine. That was your sister’s nickname. And you were Moonbeam. Opposites who completed each other. And now there’s only one left, lonely, broken.

Joel nods. “Fitting.”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” He gestures at your exposed collarbone, where a sun made up of a multitude of ink dots is etched into your skin. Joel is scarily on point; that was for her, too. 

“Yeah.” You don’t linger on the topic. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Joel replies instantly. 

You’re not prepared. “Uh- I dare you to-” Your mind is sluggish, moving in slow-motion as you try to come up with something. “I dare you to sit next to me.” It comes out without your control. 

Shit. 

“Easy,” Joel brags. He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt and takes five steps before settling back down so close that your legs are touching. He doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes on the fire ahead, and neither do you. But it sends a chill up your spine and your thoughts to a dangerous place. You determine you’ve taken a long enough break from the whisky and take a swig of the liquid courage. Joel does too. 

“Your turn,” he reminds you. 

“Truth.” You still have enough wits left to be worried of what he’d make you do as a dare. 

“Takin’ the coward’s way out?” He teases. 

You drink again, ignoring the remark. 

“Alright. Uh, tell me about- your first time,” he says, glancing over at you with a sly smile. 

That’s a huge jump from the innocence of his first question. You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You’re gonna have to be more precise.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now start talkin’,” he playfully orders. 

You sigh. “I was seventeen. With a friend I had in the QZ. Nothing special to it.” Your teenage years aren’t a period you like to reminisce about; you had to grow up much too fast. 

Joel stays quiet for a moment, and bumps your knee with his, in a movement that could be passed as accidental, or as an attempt at comfort. You’re not certain which is the truth. “D’you love him?” He asks, his tone genuine, devoid of mockery. 

“Her,” you correct. “And…I don’t know. It was years ago. Doesn’t matter.” It’s a lie. You remember it like it was yesterday. And you did.

Joel’s expression is one of surprise, and embarrassment. He turns a shade of red deeper than he was the second before, the temperature having nothing to do with it. “Oh. Uh. I- Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to assume- That’s- Good for you- I-” 

You’re very entertained by his reaction. People usually fall into one of two categories when you tell them; awkward ally or plain bigot. You’re glad it’s the first one. You cut him off before he digs the hole deeper. “It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up. Your turn.” 

He seems rather grateful for the change of subject. “Uh. Right. Truth,” he replies, regaining his composure. 

You give him a taste of his own medicine. “Same question.” 

Joel is unbothered, and tells the story nonchalantly. “Okay. It was my date at senior prom. Back of my car in the school parking lot.”

It makes you laugh. “Wow. How very original. I gotta know what kinda car it was.” 

“My dad’s busted old Wrangler. I put that car through a lot of shit.” he replies, chuckling. 

“I could have guessed that.” 

For a second, you and Joel look at each other, smiling. He almost appears timid. And for a second, the horrors of the world retreat into the shadows that birthed them. For a second, everything is alright. You could stay here forever. 

——————————

Joel could, too. He wishes time could stop here. Because he’s confident that the night will inevitably end in something he’ll regret. No way around it. It’s taking an enormous effort already to keep himself from reaching over and closing the distance between your lips and his. The booze isn’t helping. You’re not either, with that radiant smile that’s melting his hard shell little by little, and your eyes that keep wandering around his face, his chest, and lower too, though you try to be discreet. He’s doing the same, and he’s certain you’re aware of it. Now, it’s a matter of who will succumb to the temptation first. 

You speak up again. “One last thing, Joel. Did you get the girl?” The question is lighthearted, but the memories it brings back certainly aren’t. 

He sighs. “Yeah. I did.” Sarah’s mother. They’d been high school sweethearts. Young. Dumb. A tale as old as time. “Got married. Had a kid. The whole nine yards. Then she wasn’t ready to be a parent. And, well-” He trails off, the words slipping out, motivated by the liquor. He’d never have confessed such a thing in a different context. Especially not to you. And just like that, he’s ruined the mood. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock, before your expression softens, as you realise what must have happened to said child. Pity? Compassion? Joel can’t be sure. “Oh. Uhm. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know-” 

“‘S’okay. It’s, uh, it’s been a while. And I got Ellie now,” he reassures, slurring the words slightly. 

“What-what was their name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Sarah,” he answers after a pause. He’s only recently started being able to talk about her out loud without breaking down. He doesn’t know if that still applies when he’s inebriated. And he’s not willing to test it out. He drowns the sentiment in more whisky, before giving you the bottle. 

“Uhm. That’s pretty.” You take a swig and hesitate. “I, uh, I- know what it’s like. To- to lose someone like that,” you say, softly. The pain the words cause you as they escape is evident. Joel believes you.

And then something happens. Your right hand leaves your lap, moves to the side and comes to rest on his. 

His gaze travels from your hand, up to your face. It’s full of doubt, eyes wide, as though you’ve just made a horrible mistake. 

It’s all it takes for the floodgates to open. 

——————————

Joel grabs your forearm and pulls you into his lap. His mouth collapses on yours. You don’t protest, accepting the kiss immediately, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, knees on both sides of his thighs. 

A rugged hand goes to the small of your back, pressing your chest to his, while the other slides up to the back of your head, carefully tilting it to deepen the kiss. Tongues collide, hungry, eager. He sucks on yours, stifling a moan.  

You’ve been pent up so long you’re soaking already. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips across your jaw, before going down your neck, biting and swirling his tongue on your pulse point, not mindful of the mark he’s undoubtedly going to leave. He earns a gasp, your fingers interlocking with his hair, holding him in place. You grind against his growing bulge to try and alleviate the fervent pressure rising at your core. He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, the friction sending sparks of electricity to your hazy mind. A hand wanders to your breast, fingers groping the soft flesh, flicking the nipple raised through your shirt. But you need more. Need him inside of you. Now.

And you tell him so, voice quivering with desire. “Please,” you add in a whimper.

It isn’t long before your clothes are ripped off, his lips refusing to break apart from yours for more than a few seconds. He lays you down right there on the floor, bare, trembling, aching for his touch. He sits back on his heels and admires you for a moment, eyes darkened, intense, reflecting the flames as if they are blazing behind his pupils. You watch, mesmerised, as he undresses in the dim, dancing light of the fire, casting him in an aura that’s almost ominous.  He stands up to take off his underwear, cock springing free and hitting his lower stomach.

The sight makes your mouth water. God, he’s big.

He climbs on top of you, your legs encircling his torso, granting him access to your entrance. And he pushes into you. Hard. You’re so wet his cock slides in without resistance, filling you completely, nearly hitting your cervix, the jab of pain delicious. The act isn’t kind, or tender; and it’s exactly what you want. For him to use you, to ruin you. And he does. He fucks you senseless, each stroke bringing you closer to oblivion, to forgetting who you are. The sounds he’s letting out are outright sinful, grunts laced with dirty sentences that could make you finish on the spot. But you’re holding on. Until he lifts you up by the waist, angling himself to hit that bundle of nerves over and over again, making you cry out in ecstasy, clawing at his back. You’re almost there, your walls pulsate around him, driving him deeper inside. 

“Think you should come for me, darlin’,” he hums into your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

You obey. 

The orgasm ripples with such force it blinds you. You can’t even scream. You’re gone. Not a person anymore, but a being of pure pleasure. Joel coaxes you through it with a few more thrusts, erratic, uneven, as he reaches his own release. He pulls out of you at the last second, painting your belly with spurts of the thick, warm substance. Your entire body spasms before going limp. 

All the fight has been drained out of you. You’re reduced to a panting, throbbing mess on the floor, arousal pooling out of you, coating your inner thighs. 

“Did so good for me,” Joel praises, hands cupping your face, left thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. “So fuckin’ good,” he repeats.

You stay still, eyes closed, brain shutting down your functions one by one. As you’re about to drift off, you feel strong arms carrying you to the loft, carefully placing you on the bed, cleaning you off with a soft cloth. He climbs in and embraces you, limbs tangled with yours, and you nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. His fingers gently brush the hair from your face to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

“Sleep tight, darlin’,” he whispers. 

It’s so vulnerable it makes your heart ache. 

Because you know this’ll all be gone tomorrow, along with the alcohol evaporating from your system. 

——————————

You’re right.

The sky is clear by the next morning, harsh sunlight brutally waking you. You’re alone in the bed, shivering, sore, his scent all over your skin. You get dressed, head pounding, filled with excruciating remorse. 

Joel is waiting for you by the front door. Glacial. Austere. Haunting. The person that you went to bed with a few hours ago has been torn to shreds. As though he never even existed. Maybe he was a product of your imagination.

And, once you’re outside, standing side by side on the horses, ready for the return trip, Joel utters a sentence that reverberates in your head all the way to Jackson, its echo deafening as you ride in silence.

“What we did. It meant nothing. Understand?”

You keep the tears in until you’re back home. 

To read on AO3

[matan4il]

911 ep 705 first watch reactions

Of course 911 would "punish" the "You are the boss of you!" guy with an alien hand that attacks him, and does what it wants. Pooor Buck and Eddie paying the price for that...

Okay, love the storyline with Hen and Karen possibly eventually adopting an older girl. Too many shows just find easy, unrealistic ways to give their same sex couples kids, and I am really glad that 911 shows the reality of it, and that it is a more complex struggle for many, that it's an act of continuously choosing to be parents. That's actually an amazing, difficult thing, and it should be faithfully depicted and respected, for all of its heartache, and the little moments of triumph.

Buck and Tommy on a date, and Eddie comes along with Marisol? Love how Buck's bisexual awakening and coming out continues to involve Eddie so much. Tell me they're end game, even if they're not gonna get together right now, without telling me they're...

I did not need to learn Marisol is moving in with Eddie like this, with any build up, or even any sort of insight into the relationship, and nope, that does not bode well for them. IDK how 911 managed to do it, but they have somehow managed to give Eddie a love interest the show is even less invested in than Ana.

And the funniest bit, is that Marisol and Eddie's big development is only there to further Buck's journey anyway.

"You can never have too much closet space" LMAO the way 911 both made me laugh, and feel sorry for poor, baby bi Buck. XD

Hmmm. Were parts of this scene cut out? We don't get to see Eddie on his own date with Marisol, but constantly looking over at Tommy and Buck? Boo. I'm glad we at least got the BTS photos, then. But seriously, why!? That was gonna be so delicious.

Oh, Tommy's breaking up with Buck. I mean, good for him, and he ain't wrong after Buck's "after this, we're gonna go out looking for chicks" reaction, but man do I feel sorry for Buck. Him and Tommy might not be my end game (Buddie forever will be), but I do think this relationship could be good for our baby bi. Tommy being in the same profession, knowing what it's like to have this gap between who you are and the image of guys in your line of work, plus he's got more experience than Buck, is sure of himself, can help our boy figure himself out, and also Buck obviously does like his vibe. He deserves to be with someone he actually likes, not just the first woman willing to be with him that the plot pushed in his way.

Oh, baby Buck. :( You didn't even tell Maddie about Tommy. You really aren't ready it. But also (and as a Buddie shipper, more importantly), Tommy broke things off with Buck, but what is eating him up, is that he lied to Eddie. XD Yeah, this gonna end with wedding bells, sooner or later. On screen, off screen after the show ends with canon Buddie, or only in my head if 911 never dares make Buddie canon, I don't care. That kind of emotional devotion is not something that my hopelessly romantic heart can ignore.

OMG, this is how Buck comes out to Maddie? XD Via random pronoun mention, and as a by product of trying to figure out how to tell Eddie the truth? This is hilarious. lol It really makes it clear that, after all, the issue for Buck really isn't people knowing he is also dating guys (or checking their asses), even when it's the other closest person in the world for him, it's Eddie. Specifically. Buck's ready, even if he doesn't have the exact clear words yet, he's just not ready to tell Eddie. Can't imagine why. XDDD

What was that awkward post-sex scene with Eddie and Marisol? And the issues with her moving in are popping up a second after she has. But yeah, we have no idea who this woman is as a person, she's been a cardboard cut out so far, and then one of the first things we do learn about her, is that she would call her stuff better than Eddie's? Once again, this is not the stuff great romance is made of. Or... even just the stuff any kind of romance is made of.

Wait, Marisol was a nun, and Eddie didn't even know!? This whole ep is telegraphing in the news of how weird and awkward and underdeveloped this r/s is, not just for us as viewers who know nothing about Marisol, but apparently for Eddie as well.

And of course his Catholic guilt is gonna kick in now. I'd care, except 911 has given me absolutely no reason to. Seriously, I care more about Buck and Tommy after just 2 eps, than Eddie and Marisol, even though this is technically her 2nd season on the show.

Of course Buck went to find Eddie, and spotted him at the gym. Forever 201 vibes, with Eddie being the focus of Buck's attention. ^u^

I couldn't care less about Eddie's Catholic guilt crisis, and how it's actually a projection of what his real issues are with Marisol, but it's nice to see that as always, Buck's the one who can tell when something's off, and offer Eddie exactly what he needs (even when that's to talk to someone else, but Buck figures out immediately who the right person to address is), and then they just very naturally switch, because Eddie can also tell when something's off with Buck, and he wants to tell him something. Soulmates. THAT is the stuff that great romance IS made of.

:/ The imagery of Catholic nuns has not been around for over 2,000 years, please stop being ignorant about your own religion, and the very different way it looked in its early days.

Bobby is forgiven, he does give good advice, and his "her ex, the Lord" bit, which prompted that reaction from Eddie, is hilarious. XD

So... when Eddie is having issues with Marisol, he already knows he has to figure out how he feels about her, but instead of doing so, he goes to his safe place... Buck's loft.

Man, Eddie being into Tommy's choice of avoidning relationships with women, and hanging out with boys, after in the past, Eddie had dealt with his Shannon issues by running away from her, and re-enlisting in the army, where he gets to hang out with boys, when we all (Buck included) know why Tommy's "hanging out with boys"... I do like that if they want to (and hopefully they do), this further lays the groundwork for Eddie's own queer realization.

Buck and Eddie helping each other with their respective romantic problems, without realizing they are each other's respective romantic solution is gonna make me chew on my own fists. Again. But I'm not even a little bit surprised that Eddie was totally fine and accepting of Buck being bi, or that the first thing he thought of is how this reflects on them. Because their friendship IS way deeper and closer than normal for platonic friends, and Eddie's little reassurance is also an admission of that.

Man, for a second I was worried they also cut out Eddie in the loft, once more putting his thumb on Buck's pulse point possessively, in a perfect parallel to 303. I would have sued for emotional damages. But yeah, it says so much that the peak of emotional meaningfulness for Buck when coming out is in relation to Eddie, and that the scene itself peaks with Eddie, instead of finishing rushing out to take care of his own romantic business, hurries back to Buck first, to hug him, place his hand on Buck and give him orders. "Sure, you're gonna be dating this guy, but I'm still your real husband."

Well, at least Eddie amitted to himself and Marisol that he doesn't actually know her. But... I have never seen two people being both being so happy about not moving in together, and I'm supposed to think this r/s has a chance? Okay. Suuuure.

The scene with Buck going to Tommy to set things straight ready for something was lovely, it was nice seeing him excited, and get to choose, and hear he's wanted. But since the note Tommy and Buck's storyline in this ep should have ended on, is Buck showing Tommy he's ready enough to let others know he's dating a guy by inviting Tommy to come with Buck to Madney's wedding, then why is the very next scene playing the romantic switch again, making us think Buck's car just arrived at the wedding with him and Tommy, only for Buck and Eddie to walk in together? I see what you did there, 911.

Thank you for reading! If you're looking for more, you can find my s7 reactions tag here, and more of my Buddie meta and content in my pinned post. xoxox

[hpowellsmith]

Happy birthday, Royal Affairs!

It's been a year since Royal Affairs came out and I've been over the moon about how it's been received. It's meant that I've been able to write full-time, make Honor Bound as rich and detailed at high speed, and do a lot of physical and mental health recovery after various periods of burnout. I'm really grateful for everyone's support, here and elsewhere, and it really makes a huge difference.

I had so much fun returning to the characters after a while away for the epilogue - if you enjoyed the game at release and haven't replayed for the epilogue, I very much recommend giving it a go!

After beta testing, I wrote up a retrospective about what came up and how I organised my work. I thought I'd share it for some insight into my process, for players and authors. Here it is:

In Crème de la Crème I ended up adding large branches to the plot during beta, but I was fortunate not to have to do it this time around. Mostly it was building on what was there or bringing certain things to the forefront, or adding a few different ways of navigating situations.

As feedback came in, I was lucky enough to have so much that it became unwieldy to act on it in one go, so I made a priority list.

Highest priority was game breaking bugs or large continuity problems like Dominique's final game scene switching to Beaumont's.

High priority was smaller continuity bugs like the game confusing who you were romancing or whether you had or hadn't done a particular action earlier.

Medium priority was things like small scene additions or multi romance responses, or tweaking first impressions of characters, and so on.

Low priority was nice-to-haves like allowing a character to be romanced only late on.

Alongside this, I fixed typos and made small adjustments - easy wins that added polished. There were also some major sweeps that I did: a stat test clarity sweep, a stat change sweep, a reduction of tests in casual conversations, and repetitive words or phrases.

Stat test clarity:

I picked 3-4 stat tests at random from each chapter, copied their text into a separate document, and highlighted words that reflected the stats. For example: for Authoritative I had things like "I order them to..." "I tell them what to do", "I stay aloof to maintain my authority..." and so on. I edited testing choices to include these keywords, and also edited the stat guide to include them.

Checking all this had the side effect of helping me spot unnecessary tests or points where the stat being tested just didn't match the situation at hand.

Stat changes:

There are a lot of points where stats can change, and not all of them made sense at the start of beta. I did variations of this sweep several times, including the Action Skills, NPC stats, and adding a lot more chances to boost your Powers of Persuasion. Again doing this check helped me spot unnecessary or unintuitive tests and changes.

Tests in casual conversations:

This was again something that I iterated several times. Some of the commentary about Crème de la Crème said that the stat tests felt punishing or too difficult, and an early playtest from my wife flagged that some of the tests in Royal Affairs felt unfair. Why should a character's relationship reduce when you're trying to be affectionate, if the circumstances aren't in a state where that makes sense?

So I stripped out a lot of this, generally replacing a success/failure with flavour text (such as a Subtle MC perhaps being, well, more subtle about holding hands with someone). In some cases, where a character needs to be drawn out of themselves to talk more emotionally (Beaumont or Hyacinthe, on occasion), or they see the conversation as a contest or challenge in some way (mostly Javi or Trevelyan), I left them in. But I liked that they were a rarity rather than default.

Repetitive words or phrases

As I was writing, sometimes I noticed that I was overusing phrases, so if I got that feeling I would make a note for the sweep. In the end there wasn't as much as that as I thought, but there were a lot of qualifier-type words that reduce the impact of a sentence - "a little" was one, or "really", usually in dialogue - or filler words like "down" in sentences like "you sit down beside them".

I also looked for phrases like "you know" or "you suspect" to spot places where I could express whatever it was that the MC knows more elegantly (this is something a former colleague told me once and I've never forgotten it!)

More involved edits

With some major things that I did change, I'd put them on my to-do list before beta but they were either unwieldy and I wanted to start testing sooner rather than later, or I wanted to check whether other people agreed. It was great to have more opinions and mostly they confirmed what I'd thought. With others, I studied the feedback to gauge whether the effort of making the changes would be worth the payoff. In most cases, I decided to go for it.

In general, this stage involved adding things, including:

more worldbuilding details to give more context to the plot

more teacher interactions throughout; added scenes as well as offhand references to other classes; more about Clemence and Vere and expanded outcomes to their storyline

romanceable characters responding to players romancing other people: in the moment, checking in about where your relationship was at, and a set of final breakup conversations if it was left until the very last minute (this was a very big undertaking and would have been better to do earlier - a lesson I've taken to Honor Bound)

lengthening the main suffrage debate

adding slow-paced romance dynamics for two characters (I was really keen to do this but was disciplined about making it low priority - it was a lovely idea and I knew I'd enjoy doing it, but it was very much a nice-to-have compared to other things. I was delighted to be able to do it!)

more communal scenes with classmates to give more of a sense of living in each other's pockets

adding an option to confide in Asher about a particular plot point and for them to assist with it if wanted (I was so happy about adding this: it's one of my favourite Asher moments, even if few people see it!)

tweaking some of the friendship/romance conversations to add more emotional chat (mostly this applied to Javi and Hyacinthe; there was a bit added to Asher and Dominique at Verdancy)

more pet time

more narrative and conversational responsiveness about whether an imperilled character was romanced

more Javi asexuality chat

more detailed outfit descriptions throughout with more choices about what to wear

generally expanding some scenes to give more breathing room to important moments

In the end I added 45000 words to the game during beta testing, thanks to feedback from editor review, continuity testing, and copyediting. Testing took place during late December 2022 and January 2023, and I massively appreciate everyone who contributed to make this big game as polished as it is!

-

[manicplank]

Romance headcanons ;)

Peppino: Nervous wreck at first. Can barely complete a sentence without stuttering. He eventually does come out of his shell and turns into a complete gentleman. Will buy you flowers, cook a heart-shaped pizza, buy you a plush (with what little money he has). He's not too keen on touch until later on, then he's a teddy bear. He loves holding hands. He always tells you how much you mean to him and how he feels safe with you.

Gustavo: Another gentleman. Starts easy with compliments. Really listens and gets to know you well. He'll do small things that mean a lot like getting you your favorite coffee with a million different flavors like you like. He's a huge snuggle bug. Always wants a hug. He headbutts your shoulders as a silly way of showing affection. He loves to give pecks on the cheek. Has to fight off Brick at times as Brick can get incredibly jealous. Eventually, Brick will adore you just as much as Gustavo does.

Mr. Stick: Big mushy flustered mess. Gets pretty nervous when it comes to love. Has the same romantic experience as a high schooler. Cheesy, but sweet. Will get you a giant bouquet of flowers. Not the biggest hugger, but will snuggle up to you during a movie and fall right asleep. Will deny his feelings for a long time before admitting to anything. Will put his hand on your shoulder as a small way of showing affection. After a while, he will vocalize his feelings and turn into a big softie.

Pepperman: Overconfident and cocky. *Tips fedora* m'lady type of guy, you know? Will ask you to model for him while he paints you but ends up staring at you the whole time. Big hugs, likes getting kisses on the cheek. Materialistic, loves buying you things and love when you buy him things. Can be a bit overwhelming but respects it when you set boundaries.

The Vigilante: Old style gentleman. Will gently kiss the top of your hand. Relatively confident when it comes to romance despite not having much experience. Wants to take you out to dinner dates. Doesn't really like movies too much. He would rather take you to the farm and show off his legacy. The ghost of his peepaw might make fun of him a bit in a loving way, then he continues to tell you all about when Vigi was a baby (embarrassing stories that make Vigi blush).

The Noise: Overconfident and cocky at first. He acts all cool and tough. Once he falls for you, he's head over heels. He melts for you. He gets super flustered at times, especially when giving or receiving affection. Not a fan of PDA because he turns into a bashful mess and doesn't want to be seen that way. After a while, he gets a bit cocky again while also being a flustered mess. He bites to show affection. He also loves to play fight or tease you for something silly. Secretly loves affection.

Noisette: Giddy and giggly. She likes to tease and play with you. She might boop you on the nose or poke you a bunch of times. Loves to play fight. She might randomly burst out in a game of tag. Usually doesn't make the first move unless you're too nervous. Loves loves LOVES any and all affection. Loves hugs, kisses, cuddles, hand holding, etc. Loves movie dates, dinner dates, would even love to go on a hiking date as long as she gets to spend time with you.

Fake Peppino: (So this one is difficult for me as I don't see him as romanceable, so I'll write more of how he shows platonic love and affection. Sorry if yall ship him with anybody.) Big old baby! Loves affection but is finicky about who can give it to him. Loves his cheekies rubbed. Licks to show affection much like a dog would. Will rub his head on you like a cat. Will make lil noises of happiness when you talk to him lovingly. Likes his head, face, and back rubbed the most. Will bring you dead things (birds, mice, etc) as presents. Gets sad when you tell him those are not good presents.

Skipping Pizzaface sorry idk how that would work with him

Pizzahead: LOVES to be spoiled, whether it be with affection or presents. He's silly and goofy, always joking around with you. He's big in affection. He would stitch himself you your side if you would let him (but you won't). Will OBSESS over you instantly. It doesn't take long for him to fall in love. Wants to spend all of his time with you. Wants to make clones of you so he can have a million of you at once. Loves to wrap his arms around you as much as he can stretch them.

Pillar John: Charmer, big sweetheart. Can be a bit bashful at times, especially when you give him a compliment. Loves the idea of bonding over food; dinner dates and movie dates (he will buy all the snacks they have). Likes to goof around and laugh. Big jolly guy overall. Likes affection but is made of stone, so it's a bit uncomfortable. However, he does like rubs especially on his back and shoulders.

Gerome: Quiet, stoic. A bit emotionally unavailable... at least at first. He'll eventually grab your hand and hold it. He likes quiet time together. His preferred date would be a picnic as you watch the sunset. He's quiet and soft-spoken... But that just makes it more special when he compliments you or holds your hand. Will get you your favorite candy but act all casual about it as if he wasn't thinking of you the entire time. Not super affectionate overall, but will make sure you know that he loves likes you.

[moldybonessmell]

// TUA season 4 SPOILERS

This season was absolutely horrendous, not gonna lie.

My scientific diagram regarding something that used to be my favorite show:

There's absolutely nothing I like about new season.

Now, more specifically, things I hate:

Klaus being traumatized for no reason and having no character development for 2 seasons straight (see rant).

Ben preaching eternal love and hooking up with a girl he met like a day ago while people around puke venom cum😃.

Right away, adding the "comedic gore" which is a sin for so many recent shows and TUA went the same annoying and overplayed route. Bloody scenes were cool when it was Five killing people with an iconic background music and stuff, but not the gore for the gore's sake.

By the way, music game is so weak this season, they literally took out the best part of the show that has become its trademark, what are creators doing???

Storyline with Diego thinking Lila is cheating and them being drowned in family life would have worked if it was in a different show, but it's TUA and it's boring as hell, sorry. (Maybe dont get like 3 kids if it's so difficult??? idk man)

Luther is stripper? Seriously? Completely unprovoked. Made for comedic sake once again, and I don't respect that. They didn't know what to do with his character and made him into comic relief, how unexpected /sarcasm.

Tension between Lila and Five, really? You took the best platonic dinamic, them actually being sibling-coded, and made it into romance? I have zero respect left. I do not care it was 6 years for them, I truly don't give a fuck. I cringed so hard. I just wanted to turn it off completely. Episode 5 is VILE, especially RIGHT AFTER Diego recognising family is more important than work. These scenes being one after other is diabolical. Also, Five hiding "the way home" for 5 months?? OOC as hell, if you ask me. You know what even more OOC and dumb? Five fighting Diego over Lila when The Cleanse is the bigger problem at the moment. (How did Five even end up on the floor, he's like the best killer in timeline??)

" - Why did I wait to take the shot.. - Maybe because you're a good man after all." No the fuck he's not. Reginald Hargreaves is not a good man. In neither timelines. The way the show tries to make him a gray character and make us like him is cringe as hell, just stop.

When I found out last season is only 6 episodes long I was upset, but at the time I finished episode 4 I just couldn't wait till the season is over.

(I had to finish it tho, for a slight possibility it's gonna get better and my rant posts to be relevant you know).

Honestly, I'm just glad it's over. The less seasons the less possibilities for the show to get even worse.

"I think we're alone now" as a closing song was a good choice tho.

Edit: I haven't checked the tags before posting and can't believe like 20 people have already used the horse meme before me guess we all thought the same bruh

[dustdeepsea]

Writer Interview

Tagged by @my-favourite-zhent nearly 3 weeks ago and I've entirely missed the wave.

I've enjoyed reading so many interesting ones by my mutuals! Tagging (only if you're keen) @graysparrowao3 @coreene @say-lene @luvwich @grossestjay —and if I've missed your interview somehow, tag me in the comments!

Q&A after the cut—

When did you start writing?

I wrote my first fanwork at age 12. It was self-insert fanfiction with me and 2 of my friends in the Slayers anime universe, which meant it was several comedic sketches strung together with with lots of actions denoted by asterisks and emoticons. You know the ones ^_^ ^____^ @_@ T_T *slaps you gently with a trout*

We printed it out on someone's home printer and bound copies in plastic school folders with a two-hole punch. I've lost the original file ages ago, but I would love to read it again.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

When I was younger, I actively sought out "difficult stories" because I wanted to experience things beyond my day to day life. I read Nabokov at 16 because everyone kept saying Lolita was a dangerous book. I also read a lot of Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis without really understanding them.

My pretentiousness definitely peaked in my university days. My dating profile at the time listed: Herman Hesse, Kazuo Ishiguro and Mikhail Bulgakov.

Now that I'm older, I read and write stories primarily to make myself happy.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I'm not remotely at the level where I get compared to any published writers.

My favourite contemporary writer is David Mitchell (of Cloud Atlas fame), and my favourite book by him is The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

My favourite "classic" novel is The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I type at my desk, in a study shared with my partner. Sometimes if the scene is particularly spicy or they are gaming too loudly, I take the laptop to the living room.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Bouncing plot bunnies off others on Discord, talking a walk or a long train ride, playing an immersive video game and rotating characters in my head for hours afterwards.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

According to my lovely readers:

"Romantic and sweaty"; "two silly sausages frying in a pan" (thanks to my long time beta-reader @littleplasticrat)

"Purity, temperance, glimpse of [the] ability for real love / real forgiveness" (thank you @tellmeallaboutit!)

These did surprise me a bit when they were first pointed out but it makes sense—I've been accidentally writing Regency romances and repressed idiots in love without setting out to do so explicitly.

What is your reason for writing?

I put aside hobbies for many years because of my work (no matter what advertisers want you to believe—doomscrolling is not a hobby). Started doing more creative things during my sabbatical last year, and writing was one of the things that saved my broken corpo soul.

Nowadays I'm really into bread making and cooking in general. I'm trying to balance work and creative pursuits and I'm much happier overall.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Any and all comments are received with love <3 <3 <3 I really enjoy it when people let me know what lines really resonated with them or point out motifs I'd snuck in.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Friendly and approachable! Not entirely hyperfixated on That One NPC from a Video Game with Five Lines (that one might be harder now...!)

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

A fairly broad vocabulary, including anachronisms, which is useful for fantasy story settings. Writing characters who are actively lying to themselves (thinking one thing and saying/doing another).

My writing tends to be on the more contemplative side and a bit sadder and slower paced, so if you enjoy A Great Deal of Yearning along with your smut, then it would appeal to you :)

How do you feel about your own writing?

I'm pretty happy with it! I write very, very slowly, with constant edits as I go, and would probably starve if I ever had to rely on my fiction writing to be paid. Luckily, I get to do this as a hobby.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I write for myself, but I am also super blessed to have a very small but vocal audience that I can interact with directly. I guess my best advice is: Write for yourself and your 10 friends who want to read your hand-bound home-printed self-insert fanfic <3

[dumpster-dive-reading]

Yandere Harley Quinn x Nurse/Medical Assistant Reader

So I've read quite a few of these Yandere x Reader fics, and I decided to try writing one of my own after getting inspired by this post from @anxiousnerdwritings

Go check out their blog, they have more experience writing this kind of thing than I do, and their work is super good.

(Fair warning that I am quite new to the DC universe and writing x reader fics, so this may not be perfect)

Warnings: This is a yandere romance, so obsessive behaviors, mild violence, possessive stuff, some mild sleep touching. Not anything too intense.

Four years of studying criminal psychology, hours upon hours of going through disturbing case studies, reading transcripts of Joker’s interview tapes- nothing could have prepared you for this. Perhaps for the average underpaid intern, working at Arkham was draining, tedious, depressing work- working just a few feet away from the most dangerous criminals in Gotham was surprisingly dull. But you weren’t average- no, you had hope for these criminals- and that certainly caught her attention.

Harley could remember the first time she laid eyes on you. She had heard that there’d be some new folks coming into Arkham. The inmates began to make bets on how quickly the first ones would leave. She wasn’t all that interested, she’d seen far too many people come and go. It was always the same excuses: “these criminals are just far too scary” or “someone stabbed me, I really don’t want to come into work tomorrow”. They’d hire anyone in Arkham these days. These nurses couldn’t even take a tiny little death threat or twelve, they were so weak and scared. And threatening them was doing them a favor- if they couldn’t handle the little tiny knife she brought in, then what about the big tough guys like Riddler or Killer Croc?  Or some really terrifying folks like Calendar man? 

Thus, she didn’t expect to have any interest in the “fresh meat” at Arkham. Then again, nothing tends to go the way that Harley expects- she learned that lesson after being tossed into the chemical vats, and after kidnapping Batman, and after trying to win over that good-for-nothing Joker for years and years and years.

You walked into the room with Harley’s medicine. An assortment of pills in a neatly labeled paper cup, a bit of water alongside it. Your task was to get Harley to take her medicine- a task that meant you had half the patients the other nurses did. Harley was known for being a bit difficult with her medication, according to the charts. It was certainly a nice way of putting “threatened to feed a nurse to her hyenas”. Thus you had extras of her medications, and were told to get one of the guards to administer a sedative if she refused to take the medicine willingly. After a few tries being polite, most nurses would opt to either have Harley sedated or restrained while working with her. It was the first time in a while that she hadn’t been strapped up for med time.

At first, she simply watched you when you entered the room. She let her opponent make the first move, as a bit of a courtesy. 

“Miss Quinzel” you said “I have your medication here for you to take”

“It’s Doctor, actually. If you’re playing the polite game, you should use the right titles” Harley responded.

“I do believe your record states your medical license has been suspended due to your… condition” you reply. 

“Yes, yes, of course, but I didn’t spend all that time studying for nothing. I earned that doctor in front of my name, so you’d better use it.”

“Of course, Dr.Quinzel. I have your medication here for you”.

“And why should I take those little pills, hm? What if they’re tryin’ to poison me?”

“Aren’t you immune to poison?”

She laughed at that. “Alright, I see the new doctor here has looked at my file. Did your research. Tell me, what else do you know about me? D’ya know my body count? My other body count?”

“I just know the information that was on your file, Miss- I mean, Doctor Quinzel”. 

“Well, maybe we’ll get to know eachother better” Harley stated a bit suggestively.

“Would you take your meds please, Doctor Quinzel?” you asked.

Harley wasn’t certain what to do. On one hand, you were treating her like a real person, and Harley desperately didn’t want to lose that. On the other hand, as soon as she took her meds, you’d be gone- plus she really didn’t want to take her meds. They made her feel nauseous for the first hour after taking them. A normal side effect, she knew, but taking her meds was by far the worst part of her day.

But looking at you, Harley felt the urge to play along. She wanted to see you smile. Would you smile if she took her medicine? She hoped so. And wasn’t your smile worth being a little sick for an hour or so? 

She swallowed the pills in the little paper cup. 

“Thank you” you said with a smile. She loved that smile of yours, she wished she could lock it up in a box and carry it with her forever. It was perfect- you were perfect. But Arkham was dangerous for perfect people like you- people with hope and kindness. She decided right then and there that she needed to protect you, to keep you so absolutely perfect for her.

The next day, she had waited for you to arrive with her medications. She had spent all day excited for your presence. There wasn’t much else to do at Arkham, so she daydreamed about how to make the most of the few minutes you spent together. She fantasized about spending it with her arms wrapped around you, her head on your chest listening to your heartbeat. That was impossible with the glass between you two, but a gal can dream can’t she? But when the door opened, someone else was there. 

“You’re a different face- where’s the one who was here yesterday” Harley snarled at the strange nurse.

“On another rotation- now take your meds” said the other nurse, thrusting the meds into Harley’s face.

“No, no. I don’t want those pills- I want the ones that the doctor brings me”

“Doctor?”

“The person who came by yesterday.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about. Besides, your prescription hasn’t changed. They’re the same exact pills”

“They’re completely different.” Harley argued back. Of course they were the same exact pills, but Harley wasn’t above being petty with this argument. She didn’t want to take the pills if they weren't from you. 

Fourty minutes of arguments later, the nurse left, and came back with two guards. Two knocked-out guards later, and the nurse returned with you. 

“Doctor Quinzel?” you called out, entering the room. You spotted the two knocked out guards, and a shiver went down your spine. The other nurse hadn’t warned you about what Harley had been up to- only stating that Harley wanted to see you, and needed to take her meds.

“If it isn’t my favorite doctor” Harley called out. “I missed you, you know?”

“I’m not a doctor,” you replied. “Just a psychiatric medical assistant. And did you hurt these people?”

“They’ll be over it in the morning, promise. I didn’t want to scare you with any dead bodies, you know.”

“Doctor Quinzel, why did you-”

“I’m sorry!” Harley sobbed “I just got so scared without you. Please don’t abandon me- please please please. I promise I’ll be good, just don’t leave me hanging again.”

You weren’t expecting her to break out into tears. “What do you mean, Doctor Quinzel?”

“I-I-I waited all day for you to come, and you left me for some other patients!”

So the murder clown had abandonment issues. Who would’ve guessed? 

“Fine, fine. Will you take your medications now, Doctor?” you offered her the exact same medicine cup as the ones Harley had previously slapped to the floor, and Harley gladly took them from you. 

“Of course” she said, swallowing her pills nicely. She hoped that would make you smile, but your expression hadn’t changed. 

“You can’t be attacking people like that, Doctor Quinzel. They just want to help you” you said, trying to reassure her. Harley however, knew they didn’t care the way that you did. You were the only one who really did want her to get better. The others couldn’t care less. They gave her the pills out of fear- fear of the danger she posed without them. That or an automatic sense of duty. That automatic response- apathy- was worse than fear. You could see it in a person’s eyes, like the light that could have been there was gone. 

It was one of the things Harley liked about Joker back in the day. His eyes were bright with purpose. Joker was a contradiction- he never really cared about the world, and yet he lived with such a strong sense of purpose. You were different. You shined with care, wanting to make the city better. It reminded Harley of herself, well before she became Harley Quinn. You were a shining light in the darkness of Gotham.

And Harley became more and more worried that the darkness would engulf you. She felt like she needed you closer, she needed to protect you, to save you. 

It wasn’t hard convincing her psychiatrist that she needed you to be by her side more often. You were the medical assistant that she could actually trust, the one that she would listen to. You were like a security blanket to her- as she convinced the psychiatrist to put it- she felt safe around you, and feeling safe made her less violent. It wasn’t long before the doctors realized that for any procedure with Harley, she would be more cooperative if you were by her side. Thus, your job description shifted from “General Psychiatric Medical Assistant” to “Psycho Clown’s Therapy Dog”. Thus for most of Harley’s treatments and procedures, you’d be right there by her side, keeping her sane. The light in her darkness. 

Of course, Arkham was understaffed. You couldn’t spend every single moment of your work day with Harley, as much as she wanted that. There were other patients that needed to be tended to. Unfortunately, Harley was kept away from the other patients due to her “violent tendencies”, so she couldn’t watch you with the others. She was kept in a cell all by herself, meaning that whenever you were away, she’d be alone with nothing but her thoughts of you. 

Thus she needed to be on her best behavior to convince the doctors that she was getting better. She would take her medicine, she’d comply with the treatments, she’d do everything perfectly. You made her better, can’t you see that?  When the doctors finally agreed to let her mingle with the other patients, she was so excited. Sure she was kept in a straight jacket the whole time, but it was all worth it so she could watch you.

Soon after Harley was let out a bit more, you noticed the other inmates of Arkham being quite a bit nicer to you. They’d comply with your requests to take their medicine, they wouldn’t harass you anymore (in fact, the ones who used to be a bit more difficult for you to deal with ended up injured randomly). For some reason, a few of them seemed to fear you. 

Harley still didn’t like that you weren’t there every single day for her. She didn’t like it when you’d go home in the evenings, and she certainly didn’t like spending her nights alone. She wished you’d stay with her, or take her with you. 

Which is why she was so devastated when you mentioned leaving Arkham to go to Graduate School. 

“Sugar, why’s that stuffy old college so important to ya anyway?” Harley asked you.

“I want to make the world a better place, help people like you, Harley”. You had started calling her Harley after she requested it. “Besides, I can’t stay a simple assistant forever”. 

“So you’re just gonna leave me here alone?”

“You’ll be fine Harley, the doctors will take care of you. I want to further my studies in psychology, and I kind of need to go to college to do that”. 

So Harley formulated a plan to keep you by her side. 

It took a fair bit of work to convince you to keep working at Arkham while attending Graduate School. Harley, like the good friend she was, helped you with your applications. Of course, she helped you the most with applications for schools in Gotham. You ended up getting accepted, and enrolled in the most prestigious of Gotham’s psychology departments. It helped that you had such extensive work experience with Arkham. She convinced you to keep working with her, gaining some “first hand experience working with a real life nutcase” as she put it. Thus your job at Arkham changed again. You no longer saw any other patients (much to Harley’s elation). You were to work with Harley exclusively during the night, and go to school during the day. It worked well for you, considering that the damage done to Doctor Quinzel did not impact her extensive knowledge of psychology. She would help you study, offering her professional insight on your courses. 

But attending psychology classes, you came to realize that your relationship with Harley was… problematic. Thus, with the assistance of your professors, you designed a new research project: freeing Harley of her dependency on you. 

“Harley, would you be okay if I wasn’t here tomorrow?”

“Sugar, why would you even suggest such a thing?”

“Well, I was thinking of having an extra day off, you know, just having a ‘me’ day”. 

“That sounds like an absolute blast! You should do that here some time, sugar, I’d love to spend the day relaxing with you”

“That’s just the thing, Harley, I want to spend it alone”

“Uh huh”

“That means without you”

“No- no way! You can’t leave me here, sugar! I’d be so lonely without you. You know I need your sweetness in my life, hon.”

“Harley, that isn’t healthy. You need to be able to handle being by yourself-”

“No.” She shouted, her tone suddenly far more serious. “You will never leave me- got that sugar? You can never ever get away, I’ll never let you go.” She grabbed your arm, clawing into it with her nails. “We’re together, forever, honey.”

Your eyes widened in terror. 

“Now how would you like this macaroni necklace I made just for you?” she said sweetly, as though she hadn’t just threatened you. 

When you didn’t show up for work the next day, Harley was very worried. Had she really made you that scared? Sure, she might’ve threatened you a little bit, and maybe her grasp left a couple little scratches on your arm, but she didn’t mean to. She’d never hurt you. Never never never. You were her sugar, she’d do anything for you. Just ask, and she’d do it- no questions. Who do you want her to kill? Just say the name and they’re gone, sugar, she’d do it all for you. Please don’t leave her, you can do anything you want to her, but you can’t leave her. You have no reason to leave- your good friend Harley will take care of everything for you. 

No, you wouldn’t leave her. You were her perfect sugar, you’d never abandon her like that. You wanted her to be better, you made her better. She was trying to get better for you, and she was trying very very hard. It was difficult, especially when you would talk to the security guards and your attention would be on them and not her, and then her head would rush with all the different ways she could make sure those worthless guards wouldn’t steal your attention away from her ever again. But she wouldn’t touch them, because it would make you so disappointed and sad to see them get hurt, even if Harley knew that they were nothing compared to you. She couldn’t bear to make you sad.

So why weren’t you there? It had already been twenty minutes past when you were supposed to arrive, and you weren’t there by her side. What if someone hurt you? What if one of Joker’s men got to you, and was about to shove you into one of the chemical vats. That would change you forever, and she’d lose her precious sugar, Harley couldn’t have that, no. Or what if something worse happened- what if you were shot, and dyin’ in the streets, all while Harley was locked up in here unable to protect you? What if you were trapped in the old abandoned well, crying out for someone to come save you, only for no one to be there because Harley was locked up in here? No, no, no. Harley couldn’t have that, she couldn’t lose you. 

Breaking out of Arkham was easy- she had done it before plenty of times. Finding your house was even easier, of course she knew where you lived, as though she didn’t know everything about her precious sugar. She found you lying in bed, sleeping through a horrible fever. Harley breathed a sigh of relief- you were okay, you were safe. She climbed through your window, watching you as you slept. You were perfect, ya know that? And finally, finally she was right here by your side. She reached out her hand- gently brushing up against your leg. So soft, so peaceful, so perfect.

You woke up, your mind a bit foggy due to your sickness, with a psycho clown wrapped around you. She held your body tightly, her head resting on your chest. 

“Harley?” you asked. 

“Yes, sugar?”

“What are you doing in my house”?

“Aw, just lying next to my sweet sugar.”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t you be back at Arkham?” 

“Yeah, but I like it here, with you.” She nuzzled against your chest, squeezing you tighter into her embrace.

It took a few minutes to notice the blood all over Harley- blood that she had smeared onto your own body. “Harley- what did you do?” you said, the shock stirring you from your fever induced haze.

“What I had to, darling. I needed you with me, safe and by my side.”

“But you can’t kill people, Harley!”

“I’m sorry, sugar. I was just so scared, lots of bad people are out there in Gotham. Anything could happen to ya, and I just couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt or dyin’ on me, so I had to come out and keep you safe. I won’t let anything happen to you, trust me. I love you so much, sugar. So, so much.”

[toointojoelmiller]

Update: I continue to work on all things! Nothing is abandoned! New chapters will come!

The actual, fun and exciting update: I'm going to start recommending a few AMAZING TLOU fics that you might have missed on my blog every Saturday for the next while.

I hope you find some new great reads to keep you going while we wait for season 2 - our fandom is seriously so freaking talented, and there are SO many incredibly written fics out there that I want to yell about a bunch of them! Please reblog!

These fics will vary re: how closely they stick to canon and what themes they explore, but you can expect them all to be wonderfully written and, obviously, heavily feature Joel Miller.

Some of these, including this weeks, may include mature content - make sure to read and heed the trigger warnings listed on ao3!

I have never really been interested in fan fiction with OCs, so I missed out on this week's recommendation for a long time and I bet a lot of you did too. It's both a wonderfully told Joel love story and a fic that, in my opinion, really honours the world and characters of TLOU.

Go Your Own Way by @chronicallyonlinewriter 232,575 words || 31 chapters rating: mature [see ao3 tags for full content warnings] featuring: post season/game 1 life in Jackson, angst, fluff, action, romance, smut, plenty of protective Joel and parent Joel

You can check out a review from @march-flowerr below, describing some of what makes this story so special: (vague general spoilers re: themes and mature content)

“Go Your Own Way stands, in my mind, as one of the most well written piece of fiction on Archive of Our Own. Nandorluna has such an intimate and authentic take on the existing characters that we know and love (on Joel and Ellie and all the Jackson gang) but it’s her ability to create stunning, well fleshed out original characters that drew me to her story initially. Her main character, Benny, moves across the story in such a visceral and realistic way; her arc spans not just the present canon timeline, but transports us through an entire lifetime: from childhood to outbreak, to first love, to first loss, to heartbreak and grief and then finally, to her heart’s final resting place: Joel Miller.

Zee manages to write about and embrace such difficult topics as assault, pregnancy loss, and grief without ever once making a show of it. She handles each moment with quiet dignity and intense self reflection; she draws beauty from the hollow depth of heart ache and despair without ever once losing the thread of hope that The Last of Us is known for.

At the heart of Go Your Own Way is the love story of Joel and Benny. Zee manages to create a compelling story about brokenness and connection and the raw, rare glory that is finding someone with whom you can begin to fit yourself together with again. It’s a story of family - of people who when left to wander, find their hearts drawn to each other. It’s a story about love - each relationship, from Benny and Alexei’s long friendship, to Ellie and Joel’s turbulent first years, to Benny and Joel’s steadfast devotion for each other, caters to the soul. It’s a story that I’ve found myself returning to, again and again, in all moods and places in life. If I could change anything about it, it would only be that it did have to end after all."

If you read and love this, please please show the author some love and leave a kudos and comment!! Happy fandoming y'all.

[tarnishedxknight]

If Soryn and Maris were a couple, would he want to try and bring her to Archadia when he decides to work with them after his capture?

{out of dalmasca} Tagging @wovenwaves for this one, of course! =) And below the cut as always, because I ramble on forever. XD

Oh... my goodness. That's such a complex and difficult question to answer and I love it. XD I'm honestly not even sure how to answer it because it would be such a nuanced thing for him. It would depend on how long they'd been together, are they just starting to court or are they lovers, are they married, do they have any children, like... level of commitment would play into his decision.

And then the exactly circumstances of his capture and eventual deal with Gabranth would also matter. At first, he would be a prisoner, then he'd be under duress to cooperate, then willingly cooperating but under probation for a while, and then he'd be more trusted and free to do what he wanted, especially after becoming a Judge Magister.

But then that begs the question of whether Soryn would even want to make a deal or pursue becoming a Judge Magister if he has obligations to Maris to return to her. Not that he doesn't have obligations to his king and to Dalmasca, but the arrangement offered him in Archadia will actually long-term benefit Dalmasca significantly and possibly help to end the war, which is good for all of Ivalice.

So... this would really result in a painful internal battle between Soryn's personal commitment to and love for Maris and his dedication to the greater good and having a chance to help end the war. Personal honor, morality, and faithfulness would clash with his selfless desire to be a means to an end to improve Dalmasca and help stabilize Ivalice. He cannot in good conscience choose Maris over all of Ivalice or even just all of Dalmasca, but he would want to. That battle between heart and mind, love and duty, personal desire and selflessness... would be a very tough one for him.

And... sorry to just lead you off a cliff here, but I don't have any answers, heh. It would really depend upon the nature of the thread, what the status of his relationship with Maris is, and how exactly Gabranth strikes this deal with Soryn. For example, if they've only just begun courting, then he might be inclined to stay in Archadia himself and let her think he was dead, only because to ask her to move to Archadia after what they did to Landis, and for someone she's only just begun seeing, would be too much to ask.

But if they've been seeing each other for a while, if they've been at all intimate, or if she might be pregnant, etc., that's a different level of already-established commitment that he has to her. That might deter him from even thinking about not returning to Dalmasca in the first place. But if he still did make the deal, then sure he'd want to bring her to stay with him, but... there's just no way he could ask that of her. It's too much to ask, really. Then again, making that decision for her would be wrong, so he probably should at least ask her, but... he'd already be in Archadia, because he's starting out being a prisoner with no rights/privileges. So it would be some time before he would even be permitted to send word to her at all.

And that brings up another interesting facet of all of this... Soryn's timeline. So in Maris' verse where she follows Basch to Dalmasca and she and Soryn strike up a romance before he's captured, when he's captured and how long it takes before he's free to contact her again would also affect whether or not he'd want her to join him in Archadia. If I go with the Battle of Nalbina Fortress, which is just the easiest and most consequential battle to have Soryn captured during, that would be two years before the events of the main game. It's up in the air as to how Soryn's involvement would change the course of the main game's events, and whether it would shorten or lengthen the time until the eventual end of the war.

But assuming it's about the same time, Maris would be waiting almost two years for Soryn to get to the level of trust with Gabranth, Drace, Gramis, etc. to be permitted to contact anyone in Dalmasca. After that amount of time, would she still want to be with him? Especially once she hears he's working with/for the Archadians? I can't answer that for Maris, but maybe Midge wants to weigh in on that at some point, heh. So it may change the dynamic of whatever relationship they have going on for him to be away that long. If she thinks he's dead but then turns out in Archadia as a Judge Magister, she might feel betrayed or might just not want to be a part of any of that. And I think Soryn would realize how bad that would make him look to her, given her history with Archadia after the fall of Landis.

And then there's... after the game. I'm not sure if he'd want her to join him in Archadia if he's in this precarious position and the war is still raging, but... his desire to eventually return to her in Dalmasca if he decides not to ask her to move or if she refuses to move... might also have a wrench thrown in it with Gabranth's death. Soryn's participation in things could potentially change some major events of the game, but assuming they remain mostly the same and Gabranth still dies, there's a chance he would ask Soryn to protect Larsa instead of Basch. Rather that perpetuate "Gabranth" after his death, it might be better to pass protection to Soryn, especially if he's managed to establish himself as a trusted associate of Gabranth's. He would then have Zargabaath's support and would be able to keep the others at bay. Maybe he wouldn't have the same level of influence, but he'd still be an added placeholder that might change whether Basch impersonates Gabranth after his death or not.

If Soryn is asked to watch over Larsa, he would have to accept. It's too important a task to refuse. So... that would mean he would not be able to return to Dalmasca for at least a decade, since we know that Basch was still impersonating his brother eleven years after the end of the game. There's one year in between the main game's end and the epilogue, and then there's another decade between that and the events of Fortress. So that means even eleven years out, Larsa still requires protection and/or the Judge Magisters are still prone to considering fighting amongst themselves to warrant a peacekeeper being there. Would Maris even wait that long for Soryn? I doubt it, but once again, I can't answer for Midge here, heh. If it looks like he won't be free to return to Dalmasca after the events of the main game, Soryn might want Maris to come join him, but it would be up to her as to whether she does or not.

But... going back to when he's initially making this deal with Gabranth... Maris might have to be a stipulation in it heh. Soryn may be like look, I need her provided for and kept safe or there's no deal. Whether that means that she's taken to a safe location or guarded in Dalmasca or she moves to Archadia with Soryn, I'm not sure, but if he's really involved with Maris, he may consider her family, and in that case he'd want to make sure that she knows what's become of him and that she's taken care of.

I think the upshot is that, sure, he'd want her to come stay with him, but the reality is that it may not be very easy, safe, emotionally ideal, or logistically possible to do that. It would depend on the details of the thread, the AU, and how everything turned out with his deal/position in Archadia before any of that could be determined. This was a really interesting question, though, thanks for sending this in! =D

[pupmkincake2000]

So, I never thought that I'd play Baldur's Gate 3, since turn-based RPGs are not my thing. But I was literally persuaded to play this game and I just have to share my impressions.

I did watch shorts and videos on YouTube, so I was aware of the world and characters before playing. That's why I decided to start Gale's origin

and I think if I decide to replay the game, I will choose him again, since he is the best. Yes, I think he is. I love good characters, kind, sympathetic, a little ambitious, gentle and loyal. And Gale fits my taste standards perfectly. He kind of reminds me of a sweet Hank Anderson from Detroit: Become Human. Noble, kind, gentle and faithful.

And, the funniest thing is that I decided to romance Astarion. Playing as Gale.

But not because I like Astarion.

On the contrary (and now hear me out), the more I played, the more he annoyed me, and I didn’t understand why people were so crazy about him. I mean, if you want him to like you, you need to do morally questionable things. Not to mention he is absolutely not my type, I never liked characters like him. That is, Astarion is the embodiment of everything that disappoints me in characters.

And you can talk as much as you like about his life being difficult. Because this does not justify many of his actions.

However, the ship itself works surprisingly well. I mean, I really like Gale and I don't like Astarion, but their ship surprisingly works. And now in a ship Astarion seems much... likable?

Basically, they are a perfect complement to each other, which is exactly the type of relationship I love. They help each other, they do not “fix” each other, but complement each other. They heal each other. Their relationship is not abusive if both work on this relationship, and the love between them is that type of love that happens probably once in a century. And to be honest, I don't want to make Astarion an ascended vampire (I haven't finished the game yet), I'm sure Gale will find a way for him to walk in the sun without the ritual.

Well, now to the other characters. Karlach and Wyll

are just two incredible sunshines. I tried to build friendly relations with them, I didn’t choose flirt while answering their lines, but for some reason they still ended up offering me sex, and it was really awkward and painful to turn them down.

So I just started shipping them together because it's another type of relationship I enjoy. It’s a pity that their couple is not popular (is there such a pairing at all?). This is the perfect “enemies to lovers” ship and it’s a shame that they can’t, like in some games, flirt with each other if they don’t have any affair with the main character .

I have almost nothing to say about Shadowheart, I’m not particularly interested in her (my party consists mainly of Astarion, Karlach and Lae'zel), but I think she has enough fans.

Halsin… oh, he is a magnificent man, and I would have romanced him if not the reasons. But I want you to know that he is also an incredible sunshine too, kind soft teddy bear who I wanted to hug and never let go.

And finally, HIM. Mysterious Guest. I knew this was an emperor, but I really liked the look I've created for him! I made him look like Hank Anderson, of course he didn’t look exactly like him, but nevertheless… I think he turned out very beautiful.

Let me scream about this beaty for a while!

In general, apart from problems with the gameplay (it took me a long time to get used to it), the game is really nice. The only thing that, it seems to me, would be worth changing is the permissiveness of choices when you go through the origin of any of the main characters, as was done with the Dark Urge. I mean, Wyll, Karlach and Gail are sunshines, so I absolutely can't believe that they are capable of doing bad things. If you can't avoid bad deeds when playing as the Urge, why can't you make it so that good characters are unable to do bad deeds? Would you really believe that Gale, Wyll or Karlach would be capable of slaughtering the whole village of children? For example, I believe that Astarion most likely would not have saved Shadowheart in the first act; he behaves selfishly throughout the entire first act. But I don’t believe that Karlach, Wyll and Gale would be capable of leaving her caged.

So, yeah, that's it.

[orionsangel86]

The Problem With Thessaly

I’m sure plenty of fans would agree with me that there are certain elements of the Sandman comics that are going to be very difficult to adapt for television. I don’t envy the mammoth task Neil and the creative team on the show have ahead of them. But one element in particular which has been on my mind frequently is how they are going to introduce Thessaly to our screens.

It’s not just that she’s a TERF. It’s that she’s a cold, cruel, selfish, and inconsiderate bitch who only ever thinks about herself. Oh yeah, and she’s a huge TERF. There isn’t a single likeable element to her.

And yet.

We are supposed to somehow believe that our main protagonist, idiotic as he may sometimes be, depressed and seriously down on his luck as he is, will fall head over heels in love with her.

Sorry. But it ain’t happening. Something has gotta change. So here are my thoughts on how they could fix the Thessaly Problem.

Under a cut for comic spoilers (and its a bit long)

I kinda get the reason it happens in the comics. Kinda. I can’t remember the exact quote, or where I read it, but Neil explained it as “two people who you know are absolutely not right for each other and no one who knows them can understand why they are together.” He purposely wrote it to be a really weird match that didn’t make sense.

From Dream’s perspective, at this point in the story he has just had some of his biggest romantic disasters slapped in his face (at one point literally) all within a very short space of time for an entity as long lived as him. First Calliope, then Nada, and then Alianora, and he is hurting from all of them. Having to face his romantic failures one after another within the space of a few years AFTER having to go through 70 odd years of relentless suffering trapped in a glass prison has GOT to mess with your head. So I think Thessaly is basically the worst rebound in history. They are only canonically together for a few weeks but he somehow falls head over heels for this plain, dull, horrible person. 100% this is a rebound. He’s messed up. So yeah, I kinda get it.

From Thessaly’s perspective it seems she just really liked the idea of being the object of someones attention and desire even though she never returned his feelings and left him the minute he stopped devoting all his attention to her (god she really is a bitch).

So why don’t I think this will work in the show?

Because the show is a kinder universe than the comic. Dream is different in the show. He is already more thoughtful, warm, compassionate, and has a better self awareness when it comes to his shortcomings. He’s also a far more romantic character in the show, which is probably thanks to Tom Sturridge’s excellent performance and likeability and absolutely maddening sexual chemistry with literally every character he interacts with (his pretty face doesn’t hurt either). You just have to look at his scenes with Calliope to know that they are playing up the romance and kindness there when in the comics Dream is extremely cold to Calliope throughout their very short interactions.

Given the news that the writing team on Game of You will include trans writers specifically to cover the sensitivities of honouring Wanda, I don’t know how they will adapt the transphobia she suffers at Thessaly’s hand, or whether they will include that at all - personally I think they should remove it. Not to make Thessaly more likeable, but because it reinforces a really wrong view of witchcraft and magick that modern witches and pagans are working extremely hard to reject. Not to get too deep into these topics, but transphobia is a fucking plague in those communities and the last thing we need is more people thinking everyone who practices witchcraft is a fucking TERF. The comic even goes so far as to imply the actual MOON is transphobic. Like WTF? The moon isn’t fucking transphobic and “womb magic” is stupid. If I ever have to read the words “divine feminine” in a witchcraft FB group again I’m gonna scream.

Anyway my point is that I don’t think those scenes in the comic are necessary and there are plenty of other ways to adapt that story without resorting to transphobia.

The other issue is that if they do keep it in, they somehow have to deal with the fact that their protagonist is seemingly totally cool with dating a transphobic murderous bitch. Um. Yeah, not cool Dream. I think the show is going to do everything it can to make Dream MORE likeable and based on what we have seen so far I definitely think that’s the route they are taking.

So yeah Dream won’t be falling in love with a TERF in the show, that I am sure of.

The thing is, the best way they can deal with the Thessaly problem is also the simplest - Don’t include her. Just don’t write her into the show. Simples.

Because we already have a character in the show universe who technically doesn’t exist in comic canon, who knows magic and the occult, and who is MUCH more likeable and kind whilst still being a bit messy and selfish and totally a terrible match for Dream... Oh, and who also happens to be played by possibly the most well known actor on the shows main cast list.

Johanna Constantine.

Jenna Coleman is a fairly big name and one of the primary stars for the show. At least Netflix seemed to think so since her face was all over the marketing and she was included in basically every cast interview, even though her character only turns up in 1 and a half episodes. She is also playing a new version of an already well known character in pop culture and I am convinced Netflix is already considering spin off options for her. So there is no way they aren’t going to include her in future episodes of the Sandman.

Except thats where Netflix has a problem if it wants to stick to comic canon. Lady Johanna Constantine only turns up in one more Sandman story, and John Constantine doesn’t show up again at all in the comics.

So my piece of speculation that I’m almost 90% certain will happen, is that they will bring back modern Johanna Constantine in an extended or adapted role based on another character.

My money is on Thessaly. Remove Thessaly, replace her with Johanna.

I’m not just saying this because I think Johanna and Morpheus hooking up will be hot (it will be, don’t deny it. My bisexual ass knows a hot couple when I see them). But because it makes sense.

Yeah okay we have that pesky little rule about the Endless not dating mortals - but that rule currently doesn’t exist in show canon either, so theres no reason why they can’t just also scrap that for the sake of some sexy, messy, and definitely disastrous bi4bi action.

All jokes aside, with only a few tweaks to the story in a Game of You, you could seemlessly fit Johanna into it. She can be in New York for a specific case, hell, maybe Barbie and the sudden appearance of Martin Tenbones on a busy New York street IS the case she’s investigating? She can still find a way to break Hazel and Foxglove into the Dreaming AND when Morpheus shows up they can have another tantalising showdown like they did in episode 3. It works better with Johanna tbh. She actually cares about people, the motivation is there for her to want to save Barbie and protect people from supernatural sources. We can just make the storm and the collapse of the apartment block be caused by George or the cuckoo or something (or not have it happen at all since I am also practically certain that Wanda is NOT going to die in the show).

This ALSO means that much later on, when Lyta is having her breakdown and destroying the Dreaming, having Johanna being the one to protect her from Morpheus rather than Thessaly also adds a more human element to it. Morpheus has never been a killer, but sometimes his duties demand it. He goes to kill Lyta to prevent the Kindly Ones destroying the Dreaming. If it is Johanna blocking him instead of Thessaly, their motives align. Johanna would protect Lyta for the simple fact that she won’t let a supernatural creature harm a human (as much as she can - sorry Kevin), and Morpheus, being hesitant about killing anyway, would be easily talked out of it by Johanna. “Find another way to save the Dreaming, I won’t let you harm her.”

It just adds an emotional weight that isn’t there with Thessaly, who only protects Lyta because she made a deal with the Kindly Ones in exchange for more centuries of life - an ironic request when Morpheus (and Death) are keeping Hob Gadling alive simply so he can be Dream’s BFF.

It just works for me. Scrap the “no mortals” rule and you can have them have the messy disastrous relationship that doesn’t work out. It is far more believable that Johanna Constantine could break Dream’s heart - she’s already a known heartbreaker in the show (sorry Rachel). It’s a doomed love story a modern audience can get behind, makes sense, the actors already have insane sexual chemistry, and it could definitely hit all those story beats needed to get the show to a version of the Kindly Ones whilst also actively improving it.

I may first and foremost be a Dreamling shipper, but talking in terms of canon I very much want Morpheus to have a passionate short-lived heart breaking affair with Johanna. Fuck Thessaly. Keep her relegated to comic canon. Morphanna all the way.

And THAT is how we fix the problem with Thessaly.

[sleepysuburb]

chinnery, pauline, bernice and mrs levinson 😩

these feel TARGETED

under the cut because i have a lot of hcs and they might get long

chinnery

he'd love a pet of his own more than anything, but can't have one for obvious reasons. instead he has a bunch of those little animatronic toy animals with touch sensors, so he can pet them to decompress after work.

once he starts drinking he finds it extremely difficult to stop. more than once he's gone for a half pint to take the edge off and wound up blackout drunk and sobbing. at this point barbara's fairly used to him being in floods of tears in the back of her cab.

he smells like disinfectant, silage and wet wool. it's not unpleasant, just musty and weird.

he's hopeless with dating. yes, he's tried it - but as soon as someone finds out he's THAT vet, they make an excuse to leave and never talk to him again. even attachments wouldn't help him and to this day he's devastated they put 'not at all kind to animals' on his profile without even asking him.

pauline

he can't sleep without his nature soundscape cassette. either it's birdsong and rainfall, or a sleepless night.

bernice

she's an astrology freak and treats herself to a trash mag every few days, mostly so she can check her horoscope.

she's rarely sick, so when she is she makes it a whole event. constant complaining, duvet on the couch, game shows, cartoons and bargain hunt on the TV all day... whoever's there looking after her has to make her chicken noodle soup - and feed it to her - and keep her topped up with lucozade, otherwise they're "ruining it".

tells people she drinks black coffee, but she actually loads it up with mental amounts of cream, sugar and syrup.

she has hoarding tendencies. it's a constant battle to keep her space clean and tidy, because she has a habit of trawling charity shops and grabbing any bric-a-brac, clothes, books or soft toys she takes a liking to. no, she's not getting rid of her garfield plush collection, she's imprinted on them all and it would be like chucking out family.

her eyesight is horrible and she's blind as a bat without her glasses. one time in prison she got into a fight and broke them, and requested to be sent to solitary until they were fixed so she wouldn't have to worry about fumbling her way around.

her favourite pen is the one mickey gave her at the end of his restart course. that's what she'll say if you ask her in front of him, but her actual favourite pen is a metallic pink gel pen she never uses to keep it in pristine condition.

under her clothes she's absolutely covered with tattoos, all blue linework and traditional designs (mermaids, anchors, stars, angels and devils...)

mrs levinson

she has a massive unlicensed weapon collection, but being the vicar, everyone turns a blind eye.

she hates christmas, but her favourite holiday is halloween; she likes drenching herself in fake blood and revving a real chainsaw at trick or treaters to scare them away, and then steals the sweets they end up dropping.

the communion wine hasn't been wine for ages, but somehow nobody's noticed she swapped it for vodka with red dye in it yet.

despite everything she loves her job because she enjoys hearing everyone's business. it gives her a huge amount of power to know the intimate details of everyone's life, who's shagging who, who's got crippling depression, who's stealing from work... she could ruin everyone's lives in an instant, but she likes to bide her time until someone really pisses her off.

she's a bottle blonde. for years she had mousy brown hair and hated it, thinking it made her look plain and dull. pretty soon after she bleached it, iris bleached hers too in competition, so now it's a constant battle to see who can maintain it the best.

she's cycled through lots of self-employed jobs to try and find purpose after eddie's death - counselling, making her own jewellery, countless pyramid schemes, the massage parlour. none have worked out.

she does some "romance" (read: dirty) writing in her free time under a pen name, and it gives her a real ego boost to go out in royston vasey and hear people discussing her books without knowing she's sitting right there.

any 'designer' clothing or bags she bought after eddie's death are likely cheap fakes. nobody except her would ever know, but she does sometimes get paranoid that someone's going to see the wonky coach logo on her handbag and call her out for it.

she has hookups occasionally, with both men and women, if the loneliness gets too much for her. her sexuality is complicated and she doesn't want to label herself, but as time goes on she's finding herself favouring women more and more.