#but instead about the bond of being the survivors | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deepouterspacecandy · 4 months

Text

Ink and Paper Hearts

I wanted to write something for Valentine's Day, and wound up with over 8k words. Sheesh! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being here! Be kind to yourself and others. 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes. Angst, fluff, etc.

Raised on a cattle ranch, you spent your early days on horseback tending to the farm and living off the land. When disaster left you orphaned, a ragtag group of survivors embraced you as one of their own. Over time, they had become your family, and together, you’d endure natural disasters, famine, and hordes of infected.

It only took one sweep of malevolent raiders to destroy your home and turn everything you’d ever known to dust. You escaped the attack within an inch of your life.

Isaac was the one who discovered you withering away in an old diner off the freeway, fending off the infected with nothing but your integrity and a baseball bat. His medical team, which accompanied him as they moved between compounds, took care of your recovery, and nursed you back to health.

The leader of the Washington Liberation Front admired any person who possessed the strength to fight and the compassion to care for animals simultaneously, and in exchange for a safe place to lay your head, you promised to do just that.

It was a relinquishment of power; you learned early on. Anything involving Isaac came at a cost. Your bond with him was duty-bound, but he offered you another chance at having a family and a purpose. After being all alone in that desolate place, you’d been more than willing to fall in line.

Still, you were a different person when you first arrived in Seattle.

Some would say naïve. You saw yourself as a practical optimist. Now, you’re not so sure.

It’s truly astonishing how a year of unrelenting conflicts with the Scars can diminish the brightness of your silver lining.

The ability to find distraction in your work is a double-edged sword.

A jack of all trades, you spend most of your time working with the four-legged soldiers of the WLF. You have extremely limited patience for the human variety, on both sides of the fence. You tolerate a handful of your comrades, but between assignments, you’re happiest with your nose in a book, savouring the quiet and escaping into distant realms.

The drive for escapism hasn’t been a difficult undertaking lately.

A group of thirty soldiers left the grounds on assignment last month, and only two returned.

It left the stadium halls quieter, heads hanging lower than what you’d ever witnessed. Interactions that would otherwise leave you with a sunny lilt, instead left you carrying a heaviness that you couldn’t quite shake.

Few civilians choose to dive into surface level banter like they used to and the collective fear and sadness shrouding the compound has kept it that way for some time.

It serves as a reminder that even with extensive training and the most advanced military equipment, tragedy can strike without discrimination.

Unchecked and alone, the infected will forever wander through the shadows, driven by an unending quest to find their next victim. Maybe the same idea is true for all adversaries.

Your primary objective is to ensure the community remains united and intact. If you manage to stay sane, that’s a plus.

“How are you today, my little sunflower?” Manny asks, mischievously tugging your jacket.

“You better be talking to the dogs.”

“And if I’m not?” he asks, kneeling to offer unlimited ear scratches to the newest litter.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to refer you to every other time you’ve ever asked,” you say, giving the bottom of his boot a kick. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes, he does!”

A woman’s voice booms from the other side of the unit, and Manny forces a smile.

“The bane of my existence.”

You chuckle at his misery, knowing little about his relationship with Abby outside of the kinship they portray in combat and their supposed insufferable roommate arrangement. Something you’re only privy to after running into her after hours at the library as she was trying to catch some shuteye on the couch there.

“Will you quit harassing pretty girls and grab a damn dog already?”

As she approaches, tails of all shapes and sizes wag with incredible speed, exuding pure happiness. You wonder how much time she has spent in the kennels when you’re not around. Isaac has her spearheading every mission from here to Chicago, so you rarely see her. But the dogs never forget a kind face.

You exchange a few pleasantries with Abby before she drags her unenthusiastic partner to work. Manny’s womanizing ways at the stadium serve as a constant reminder of your boundaries in relationships.

You’re safer by yourself.

Abby does seem like a sweetheart, though.

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

“We ship out tomorrow morning,” Abby says, handing you an empty canteen and a backpack, a clipboard braced to her side by her white knuckled grasp.

Her abrupt tone makes you jump when it normally wouldn’t. She’s struggling to keep her voice steady, but you suspect she has more important things to worry her mind about.

“Right,” you nod. “Any idea how long?”

As she’s rushing to complete the next task, your query hits her at the worst possible second, adding to her already teetering stress load. You recognize it a moment too late and your teeth ache at the back of your jaw when she spins on her heel, pinning you with a glare.

“Do you expect a serious answer, or are you just trying to piss me off?”

“No, I—”

“Promises around here are as worthless as the ETA themselves, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Promises? What did that have to do with anything?

“I’m sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”

“Anything else I can assist you with, soldier? Or can we finish wasting my time?” Abby bellows.

You knew it would be a mistake to leave the K9 unit, but circumstances with the Seraphites have forced your hand. They not only invaded WLF territory, causing destruction and casualties among your people, but they’ve also been blocking your teams from conducting supply runs, leading to a rather grim situation in the reserves.

“You don’t have to bite my head off,” you say, feeling the tension rise as you widen your stance against her more imposing one. “We’re all stuck in this mess.”

“Oh, really?” she seethes. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to hand you a shovel next time our people turn up in body bags. Give you a break from scooping dog crap to help us grownups with the actual shit.”

Abby is your superior and you know better than to test the hierarchy. The moment you denied Isaac’s advances, you tumbled from the top spot. But you’re no chump.

“What’s your problem?”

In a split second, Abby’s body looms over you as she detonates, “You’re my problem,” her breath hot against your face.

She flinches when you lose your balance and stumble backward, narrowly catching yourself. If her instinct was to rescue you, she restrained herself just in time, her hand frozen in mid-air. A twitch nags at the corners of her tired eyes.

“You’re no different from the rest,” you say, walking backward, chest heaving. “It’s all the fucking same.”

You’re down the hall and veiled by the four walls of your room before the opportunity to fumble your conversation further buries you in shame.

It’s going to be a long night.

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

Manny runs through his roll call sheet twice, inspecting each soldier with every measure but a squat and cough. If he thought he’d catch you on a minor clothing infraction, hell, a mismatched pair of socks, he’s sadly mistaken. You wouldn’t give Abby the satisfaction and besides, you hadn’t slept a wink preparing for this assignment.

“Where’s Anderson?” Manny asks under his breath. The team surrounding him dip their heads and you try to avert your attention. Brush it off like you had been too busy inspecting your gear to overhear him.

“We’re not going blind, are we, Alvarez?” Abby says, shouldering through the group to drop her bag on the tailgate of the Humvee.

When her arm brushes yours, you recoil, your fist hitting your stomach with a muffled thud. Her head snaps in your direction, but her gaze is less volatile than before. You make a point not to place too much trust in that emotional assessment, finding solace in the familiar sensation of your twisting hands.

“Alright,” she shouts above the murmurs of your unit, the quiet chatter falling into silence. “You will work in pairs, at all times, even when we are in proximity to each other. This is unnegotiable, so don’t ask me if you have to bring a friend to the pisser. The answer is yes.”

The group’s attention is undeterred, even as a faint chuckle escapes them, their eroded black boots facing her commanding presence.

“If you hear something, say something,” she continues, her chin bowing slightly. “It may save a life.”

You swallow thickly and lean against the armed vehicle, its cold steel biting into your back. It’s possible that your sleepless night will affect your performance, but you decide not to emphasize it and hoist yourself upright before anyone notices.

“Our destination is approximately sixty miles from here, and we will cross into Scar territory temporarily, so we’ll need to be cautious. Eyes on rooftops, balconies, you know the drill.”

The group divides between the Humvee and a military truck, and it’s only after twenty minutes of driving that you realize Abby has chosen you as her combat partner for the time being. You feel the weight of her thigh against yours, as she adjusts her legs to accommodate her backpack, and you’re left pondering her decision.

There is a clear sense of trust between her and Manny, making him not only her closest friend, but a lifeline in warfare. Does she think you’re weak and in need of a stronger match? You gnaw on your bottom lip at the notion, focusing on the greenery flitting past your window.

“Come on, Anderson, your balls aren’t that big,” Manny teases, gesturing to her outstretched posture, particularly the way her legs take up enough room for two. You shift toward the door to free up some real estate between you and concentrate back on the road.

As their banter fades into background noise, your attention shifts to observing the deserted surroundings, vigilant for any indication of danger. Apart from a pair of rabbits hopping around, the streets are completely motionless.

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

The cavalry parks outside a derelict warehouse, its craggy roof adorned by a lush carpet of moss. Rust-bitten chain link fencing surrounds an expansive lot at the rear, cube vans with faded labels scattered throughout. It’s a tempting location to scavenge, but the prospect makes your stomach lurch.

The presence of tall grass and the lack of windows on each vehicle creates ample opportunity for trouble. A lurking enemy, dead or alive, is something you’d like to avoid. It’s possible that someone has already searched the vans, despite their undisturbed appearance.

“Let’s break this down into teams and tackle it all at once,” Abby announces, nodding at the parking lot and the adjoining building. “Six outside, inspecting the trucks, and six inside. We’ll scour the property first, and then we can set up for the night.”

“Wait,” you say.

She blows out a frustrated breath.

“This better be good.”

The temptation to tell her to fuck all the way off is intense.

“Maybe we should put a couple scouts up high, search the grounds together,” you say, pointing to the safest vantage points. “Eyes in the sky.”

“Any other suggestions?” she asks.

“I mean, no—but,” you begin.

Abby interrupts, holding her hand up. “Like I said. Six and six. We don’t need to be out here longer than necessary.”

“Fine.”

She guides you toward the building, her palm on your lower back, and you jerk away from her grasp. She may have the authority to call the shots, but you decide where you place your neck on the chopping block.

“I’m with them,” you say, trudging toward the trucks.

“Hey!” Abby says.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. What?”

She gives you a once over, gritting her teeth.

You throw your hands up and let them slap against your sides, waiting for her to hurl her discontent at your head, clearly eager to tear a strip off you in front of your squad. With a distant gaze, she fixates on the hollow space behind you before heading towards the warehouse.

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

It took several hours to secure the perimeter and set up camp inside.

Your heavy eyelids rejoice at the promise of rest. The team in charge of the mail trucks uncovered a mother lode of undelivered packages, chock full of useful supplies. It was almost as impressive as the haul the WLF brought back from the airport a few months back.

Within the building, soldiers set up their bedrolls among a labyrinth of cluttered offices. It’s quite comical to overhear the entertainment value of some dusty, redundant telephones and keyboards. You catch snippets of the amusing conversations while rearranging your own space, the sound of playful jabbering rising from the ashes, finally allowing you to release a deeply trapped breath.

Abby eases up on her protocols to make the rounds and ensure everyone is okay. You make use of the time alone to freshen up and explore, gathering candles from various boxes to arrange in your shared office, the wax and wicks a rare, comforting find.

Abby spots them as soon as she returns.

“Nighttime always feels darker away from home,” you explain, worried she might find them frivolous.

She doesn’t.

“Candles are good,” she says, picking one up to roll in her hands. She scrapes her thumbnail along the wax base and shifts on her feet. “I like them.”

“Alright,” you say, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

You try to ignore the intensity of her gaze as it grazes over you, but beads of sweat build along your lower back. It might be time to crack a window. Occupying yourself with that activity, you grow increasingly frustrated as the most accessible ones refuse to budge.

“Let me try,” she offers.

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” she huffs, and you glimpse her crossing her arms over her broad chest.

You reckon Abby isn’t used to being turned down, and it sours your stomach a little to be the outlier.

By climbing the desk closest to the wall, you gain some leverage and drive your palms into the ridge of the window. You feel the sharp edge digging painfully into your flesh, your back muscles tightening to an impossible degree.

“For fuck’s sake,” you grunt, putting all your might into another attempt, the image of a bottle smashing through the pane something you’d seriously consider acting upon if you were alone.

“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”

“I don’t need your help,” you groan, the tickle of sweat now threatening to break into a full stream down your spine.

“Sure seems like you do,” she says, the arrogance in her tone combined with the weight of her gaze on your back, sending your lid rocking chaotically over a burgeoning boil.

You suck in a rigid breath and ignore her remark.

“Look, if you just—”

“Abby!” you say, jolted by your own shout.

Manny must overhear the commotion, slinking against the door frame to clear his throat. As they murmur behind you, you bow your head and brace your hand against the glass, waiting to be reprimanded.

When you twist your body to offer an apology, the room is empty.

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

Even as the sun disappears below the horizon, the air in your office, as well as the rest of the building, becomes oppressively warm. You dig through your bag for a less cumbersome shirt but resort to stripping down to your sports bra and a pair of boxers. Abby hasn’t come knocking for a while, long enough for a clicker to obliterate you ten times over, but you temper your outrage.

Downstairs, there’s a treasure trove of unopened loot piled on racks, beckoning your interest. Abby abandoned her rule of two and frankly, you couldn’t care less.

Truthfully, she never wanders too far from her pack.

It’s possible she’s unaware of your whereabouts while you gather boxes from the metal racks downstairs in your underwear.

But it’s also possible she has eyes on you wherever you go.

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

“What’s all this?” Abby asks, lingering in the doorway.

Lost mail spills from the bins surrounding you. You’re captivated by the untold stories inside them. A peek into a world you’d never known.

“Letters, mostly,” you say.

Just inside the entryway, Abby slouches against the wall, absentmindedly playing with the fibers of the carpet using her socked feet.

“What kind?”

You’ve torn through dozens of envelopes, the contents of each one wildly different. It’s almost disturbing to imagine how many people had an entire universe they experienced through their eyes only.

You’ve already envisioned yourself journeying from one post office to another, gathering historical accounts and breathing new life into forgotten tales.

“I’m a bit lost with most of them,” you say, credit card debt and bank statements flying straight over your head. “Structures before the outbreak are a lot different from ours.”

Abby clicks her tongue, moving further into the room to sit across from you. She’s careful not to encroach on your space and a twinge of remorse worms into your belly. You offer an olive branch, handing her a photograph.

“But then there’s stuff like this,” you continue.

Abby’s eyes widen at the provocative image of a woman, her slender figure draped across a pristine silk sheet, the vibrant red of her lace panties and sharp stilettos creating a striking contrast. Attached to it is a note that reads:

When you’re alone, close your eyes, and I’ll be whispering your name.

Abby puffs a quiet laugh as a flush of pink creeps along the high points of her cheekbones.

“Who’s it addressed to?” she asks.

You search for the envelope among a sea of scribbled addresses and realize it’s a futile endeavour.

“I’m honestly not sure,” you admit. “I think I lost it.”

“Damn,” Abby smirks, running her thumb over the curled edges of the polaroid. “Lost in transit twice.”

You give a half shrug, noticing how enraptured she is with the picture. Her blonde lashes catch the candlelight at an angle that cast long shadows across her freckled skin.

“Manny would lose his mind,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. “He’s obsessed with shit like this—women in general, really. Horny bastard.”

You can feel the giggles bubbling up inside you, and you clamp your lips together to keep them from escaping. Abby Anderson, the most revered soldier of the Washington Liberation Front, sitting criss-cross applesauce talking smack about her best friend.

It is about the funniest thing you’ve seen in weeks.

“Have you—ever sent one?” you ask, treading dangerous waters and bracing yourself.

She blows out a ragged breath, pocketing the evidence.

You wonder if it’ll be a gift for Manny or something she keeps for herself. The notion causes vicious heat to rise across your forehead and down the bridge of your nose.

“Not a chance. It’s not really my thing.”

The mountain of mail between you becomes a welcomed distraction, and you make use of having a focal point to stare at.

When she tosses the question back your way, it throws your stuttering heart into a full gallop.

“Have you?” she whispers, leaning back to study you with a leg outstretched. The heel of her foot rocks to a slow tune only she can hear.

Her muscular arms bulge as she balances herself and you do your level best to pretend you don’t care. You expect her to wriggle uncomfortably or try to change the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she waits on you to bounce the ball she has rolled onto your court.

It’s you who can’t stop squirming.

“I haven’t found anyone worth the effort,” you say, and it feels a little embarrassing, maybe, but you figure honesty goes a lot further with Abby. “People suck.”

“Would you?” she asks. “If you found someone.”

Your racing heart leaves you dizzy.

It’s too goddamn hot in this office. You crane your neck to fire silent vitriolic arrows toward the stubborn windows, desperate for a fresh gust of air to grace the back of your damp shoulders. Abby stumbles to her feet, stepping over you to solve your problem once and for all.

With a soft click, the lock releases, and the window glides open, allowing the cool evening breeze to sweep through the space.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” Abby smirks, dropping back down to her spot on the floor. This time, she lies on her side, head propped up by her arm. “You almost had it.”

The crooked smile quirking up on her mouth hits you like a flashbang.

“I kind of hate you right now,” you say without venom. “But I should probably say thank you, huh?”

“Probably,” she grins, teeth raking slowly over the pout of her bottom lip.

She has freckles there too, and you’re suddenly envious of them.

“I won’t,” you blurt, tearing open another envelope. “Say thank you.”

“I wouldn’t either,” she laughs, and it’s a deep, warm cadence. A laugh meant only for your ears. She gestures to the letter in your hand. “What’s that one?”

The grin you’re desperately trying to hide causes your face to ache.

The brash woman you’re hardly accustomed to sharing a home with at the stadium is full of surprises, it seems. There’s a side to her that isn’t militant and melancholy, but rather the opposite.

She’s playful and witty. Her eyes, a staggering blue lake, are gentle and kind.

You could fall madly, painfully in love with a woman like Abby.

Abby herself, even. If she wasn’t an unstable box of dynamite.

You skim the handwritten letter with the tip of your finger, and another wash of warmth blooms inside you at the bulk of the sentiment.

“It’s a confession,” you explain, fixing your attention on the last paragraph. “He’s been in love with her for a long time, since they were kids.”

“Will you read it to me?”

Her gentle query sends a shiver of sunshine down your spine. Her eyelids are heavy like yours, and the shadows beneath hers speak volumes about the burden she carries. The weight of the world.

“Only if you promise to read the next one.”

“Deal,” she murmurs, sliding your bag over to use as a pillow. She snuggles into it and your whole body vibrates.

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

The trip home is lighter, despite the nearly crippling load. Clothing, toys, garden seeds, tools, home goods, toiletry items — the list is a mile long. You couldn’t take everything, but the mass of what hadn’t deteriorated or spoiled made it through the gates.

It’s a hopeful thing, not only to witness your group returning home unharmed, but with enough supplies to ease the strain taken from a new fruitful avenue.

The moment you and your squad walk into the chow hall together, you’re met with a chorus of cheers and applause. As Abby vanishes amidst the swarm of people, you exchange a few handshakes before seeking escape from the cacophony.

Your sleeping quarters are the chaotic aftermath of hurried packing and abandoned reading material, with your mattress being the only semblance of order in the disarray. It was Manny who taught you how to make your bed to military standards and perhaps his goal was to inspire more in you than routine, but either way, the habit stuck.

Gratitude simmers for it now more than ever, the crisp, clean sheets offering respite. Freshly showered and dead on your feet, you crawl into your cozy bed and drift away.

A thunderous crash shocks you awake.

You blink against the abyss, immediately comforted by the stadium lights leaking through your curtains. It drives other citizens insane, the absence of darkness, but you’re thankful for it.

Someone appears to be banging your door down.

“Cool it, already,” you say, scrambling for your cotton robe. The brutal assault on your sleep at this hour deserves to be outlawed—prohibited by the laws of the WLF. “Holy hell, are you trying to wake the whole neighbourhood?”

You tear open the door and any visceral anger coursing through you evaporates at the sight. Tall, fierce, and devastatingly gorgeous, all blended with the rich spice of amber liquor.

Loose tendrils of hair cascade along her shoulders and collarbone in protest of her braid.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have something for you. Can I come in?” Abby asks, and it’s not a question.

Before you can even request a moment to compose yourself, she unceremoniously dumps a heavy grey bin on your living room floor, adding to the chaos, before collapsing onto your couch.

“What’s going on, Abby?”

She may be a delightful, luminous drink of water when she wants to be. But damn, can she ever snore the walls down in record time.

You plop yourself onto the bin beside her and try to make sense of her unexpected visit. Should you venture down the hall to wake her roommate? There’s likely a sock hanging from the doorknob by now, but it’s an option.

“Anderson?”

The sound of your hands drumming on the sides of the plastic container fills the room, while you contemplate the amount of bourbon your crew has consumed from lunchtime until now. An indulgence that landed on your doorstep all the same.

When Abby whimpers and curls in on herself, you resolve to drape her in your heaviest blanket, hoping to help her tackle the unsteady beats of her sleep cycle and a looming hangover. She bundles the fabric in her fists and clenches it underneath her chin.

Captivated by her klutzy aura, you nearly trip on the forgotten bin.

The lid doesn’t want to come apart from its secured spot and you have the presence of mind to check for a locking device, just to be sure. There isn’t one, of course, but you’ll never let yourself live down the office window debacle.

It’s going to require elbow grease and a hefty tug. You hiss as it separates in several loud pops. Luckily, the noise only costs the weary girl on your couch a flinch or two.

Letters fill it to the brim, and you’re enthralled by Abby’s decision to bring them back with her. Your instinct is to open each one, but it doesn’t feel right without her there to chirp commentary at you.

“I don’t get it,” you breathe in disbelief, expecting your words to meld with the shadows and disappear.

Her ghost-quiet voice turns the thermostat up a thousand degrees.

“I was mean,” she stammers. “You didn’t deserve it.”

It appears that you’re tapping into her guilt-ridden subconscious, which feels so delicate you consider shaking her awake. You doubt she’d want to lay it all bare.

Does she always talk in her sleep?

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Water under the bridge.”

Your response seems to placate her overworked brain. You can relate, as your own tries to lure you back to the land of lonely slumber.

You notice her face doesn’t relax, even when her breathing slows, the lines in her forehead streaked with dirt. To never find peace, even during sleep, must be exhausting beyond what most can fathom. It seems cruel to disturb her, even if she’s restless. You settle for leaving a glass of water on the side table for her before settling in at the end of the couch. If she startles awake, you’d rather she doesn’t do it alone.

Cramped onto the only slice of cushion she hasn’t claimed, you let the commotion of the day pull you under.

As morning greets you, you find yourself back in your bed.

The familiar scent of Abby drenches your blanket, but she’s long gone.

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

It’s your first day off in months, but you check the work assignment list to confirm. On your way back from the bulletin board, the classrooms are abuzz with joyful energy. Children eagerly play with the toys and delve into the books your squad brought home, and it gives you a sense of belonging. A goal beyond surviving.

Until now, you have thought little about your life beyond protecting the community. It always made sense to put your neck on the line for the greater good. While casually strolling past the gym, not in search of a certain soldier, you can’t help but wonder if there might be other adventures awaiting you.

Abby’s breath tickles your ear, and you leap a mile out of your skin.

“Looking for me?”

“Son of a bitch,” you wheeze.

She doubles over with laughter, imitating the strangled noise you make when you’re caught off guard. She takes a minute to catch her breath before she gives you a generous shove.

“You’ve got quite a potty mouth,” she teases, wrinkling her nose impishly at a passing group of young ones. “There are little ears around here, you know.”

“Yeah, well, they probably know better than to sneak up on a person,” you say, finding Abby’s laughter rather infectious. You bite back a grin. “Who does that? Is an apocalypse not enough for you people?”

Abby breaks into another bout of giggles, seeming to enjoy your newfound passion for merging the old world with the new one.

“Is it our apocalypse though, if we were born into it?”

“Yes, Abby, it is,” you huff, eager for your heart rate to return to baseline. “We’re in an active apocalypse and you’re awful.”

As she leans against the large window you’d been peering through, the sounds of the gym fade into the background. She tilts her head at you, eyes sparkling with intrigue. Clad in workout gear that accentuates her sculpted body, she doesn’t appear sweaty.

You must’ve caught her on her way in.

“Are you busy later?”

“Not really,” you say, fidgeting with a frayed string on your sleeve. “Are you?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Okay,” you say, staring at a scuff on your sneaker before catching her gaze.

“Okay,” she mimics, directing her nose scrunch at you this time, turning your mouth dry. “Feel like being busy later?”

It’s not as if her tone is explicit or even her language, but this woman is a supernatural force. So, tingles rise into gooseflesh from your head to your toes, regardless.

“What do you have in mind?” you ask.

The roars of a lively group of soldiers reverberate through the gym, their spirited chants urging their champion to hurry her ass up. They beckon to her as if they are a part of the kindergarten cohort, causing both of you to snicker and shake your heads. One of them wolf-whistles, the rise and fall of the pitch echoing into the hallway. Abby wastes no time throwing up her middle finger in response.

“I can come by around seven. Does that work?” she asks, reaching for your wrist. She gives it a quick squeeze and slowly pulls away, her fingers sliding to the tip of your pinky.

Her simple touch is unexpected, and it electrifies you.

“Works for me.”

She beams, walking backwards through the gym doors, brows jumping at your frozen form.

You amuse her. This much is obvious.

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

A rhythmic tap grabs your attention, a stark difference from the first time Abby came knocking. But to keep with tradition, she doesn’t arrive empty-handed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, gesturing to the dishes balanced precariously in her arms.

“I wanted to.”

She sets the meal fit for an army battalion down onto the counter and searches your kitchen cupboards for something to drink from.

With a single, forceful movement of her forearm, she clears space by shoving your knick-knacks aside to make room.

“Juice cool?”

The way she effortlessly makes herself at home in your space leaves you speechless. You nod.

“Good,” she says, a repentant grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Pretty sure I’m off booze for the rest of my life.”

With the same delicate touch she used to tidy your countertop, she pours the freshly squeezed liquid, causing both glasses to hover on the verge of spilling. Abby takes a step back to assess the situation before bending over the rims, producing the most obnoxious slurping noise. It nearly sends you into hysterics as she levels out both glasses.

She hands one to you with droplets of orange decorating her chin and the collar of her shirt.

“Thanks,” you chuckle. “Quality service right here. Plus, I love germs.”

Balancing the glass to the best of your ability in your right hand, you pull your sleeve over your left and use it to pat her face dry. Abby snorts, her normally lively body becoming static under your ministrations. She swallows heavily, and a calmness settles over you.

“I don’t have germs,” she pouts. Her eyes drop to your mouth for a split-second before her cheeks erupt in swaths of vibrant pink. “I swear.”

“You’re a mess,” you scoff, enamoured by this clumsy woman, blazing a path directly into the pit of your stomach. “Did you know that?”

As she nods, her broad shoulders relax, and her frenetic breathing begins to slow.

“Nobody else sees it,” she says, her words hanging heavy in the air.

The pressure of that emotional cargo would cause any person to buckle under the weight sometimes. It’s a strenuous life for everyone on base, but the expectations placed on her are especially burdensome.

“I see it.”

Your confession doesn’t offend her; instead, it seems to liberate her.

She sighs an exhale of relief, and it makes your heart squeeze.

“I can live with that,” she whispers.

The food was prepared with love as is anything set aside for Abby, and she tells you all about the cook who put it together. An original member of the Salt Lake crew, and a phenomenal chef, he got them through their bleakest days.

When the WLF opened their arms, he committed fully to helping Abby achieve her goals, working tirelessly to support her training and keep himself on the straight and narrow after their tragic end with the Fireflies.

She doesn’t go into detail about what happened, and your instinct is to let that be okay. The heart-wrenching rumours are more than enough to go on for now.

“He’s stoked for me to have a little downtime,” she says, waving her fork at the spread now spilling onto your coffee table across various plates. “Hence the whole smorgasbord situation. As soon as I told him—”

She pauses, letting out a little whimper of embarrassment, seeming to scold herself for being so open.

“Told him what?” you press, detecting a subtle grin playing at the edges of her eyes.

“He wanted to make an impression on my friend, I guess.”

Your neck tickles with heat and you attempt to ventilate by pulling the collar of your shirt away from your collarbone for a moment.

“The man can cook,” you say with your mouth full. It comes out funnier than you expected, muffled by chewing. “Sorry.”

“You’re quite a mess yourself,” she smirks, leaning to drape her arms along the back of your couch, scanning the state of your apartment. “Your poor books.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my books!”

She hauls herself off the couch to make an example of you, crouching at a cluttered stack. So, an earthquake must’ve hit only your room—what of it?

“I mean, this is just sad.”

“We can’t all have bookshelves and organizational skills, Anderson.”

“Says who?” she chuckles, her attention diverted by a novel that has piqued her curiosity. “This isn’t a lack of skill, either. Where’s your discipline, girl?”

Maybe it’s crouched in front of you, a blonde bombshell waiting to go off and properly reduce you to human rubble.

“I’m plenty disciplined, thank you very much.”

“Yeah?” she says, tongue tucked behind her teeth in challenge.

The audacity, when you’re currently over the moon about this delicious meal, you’ll likely never get to enjoy twice.

“Yeah,” you retort, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve like a feral beast. You strip off your shirt and toss it into the abyss, grabbing a clean one from its home on a toppling lamp.

Her bright bursts of laughter make you giddy, a woman who never finds time to play, sitting on your carpet waiting for you to join her.

“Who even are you?” she asks, and it’s so gentle it stops you midway through redressing to ponder her question.

The cotton tank top falls past your hips and you smooth it out, sensitive to the wrinkles in a way you haven’t previously been.

“It looks good,” Abby blurts, reading you like the sea of books strewn about. “You’re—good.”

There’s something about the fortitude of her honesty that helps you decipher between barbs and a genuine fondness for your idiosyncrasies.

Maybe she’s someone you can trust after all.

She shuffles across the floor to the bin filled with letters and lifts it above her head with ease.

“What on earth are you doing?”

As her brows jump mischievously, she dumps the skeletal remains of a past life onto your floor, filling the room with a waterfall of bones. It ignites a fierce desire to protect this girl—create a time capsule of this moment for the next generation to build upon.

A reminder that not all broken things are hopeless things.

“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined my tidy apartment.”

“My bad,” she giggles.

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

Each passing moment feels like tiny punctures in an hourglass, causing time to trickle away. You’re both aware of it, trying to stretch the night. Abby leaves for a spell to hunt down her chef, in pursuit of caffeine. She returns flushed and sleepy, the bitter aroma wafting through the door alongside her soothing presence.

Curiosity and exhaustion get the best of you, and you ask about her friend. His thoughts on your late-night rendezvous with history. She does a goofy impression that makes you want to wrap your arms around her, and you watch her in fascination like an old cowboy reel, projected onto your heart.

“He says you’re a bad influence.”

“Bullshit,” you snicker, tossing her another envelope.

“Okay, so he didn’t say that. But he did tell me to give him a heads up if I decide to run away with you.”

You try to push that thought aside.

“Really, now? And why does he think that’s in the cards?”

“He thinks you’re my dream girl.”

She speaks as if she’s describing weather patterns to you, and you’re bewildered. The blunt force of her words mixed with the softness of her tone leaves you shell-shocked. You search for a tether; silently categorize every reason it can’t be true.

“What did you tell him?” you ask, busying yourself with a letter you read while Abby was away.

A tale of woe between two quarrelling families. It reminds you of Romeo and Juliet, some less violent, modern-day version, and based on the contents of their struggle, you gather at least one of them was grateful for the pandemic.

“Do you really want to know?” she asks, pinning you with her gaze.

You nod, a buzz of energy flitting through you.

“Yes,” you say.

“I told him to go fuck himself.”

Cackles burst from your chest, finding her candour rather precious. Of course, Abby told the guy off. But she doesn’t look away after she tells you; doesn’t shrug or scoff. She studies your reaction and holds her breath until a tiny smile breaks her anxious expression.

You forget where you are in proximity to the earth for a second.

“I guess I’ll debrief you on that situation at a later date,” you say.

“I hope so.”

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

The sound of her steady breathing is peaceful as the light of early morning whispers through the fog. She idly sips at her coffee and takes her time, setting each letter into their respective piles. It’s engrained in her to keep things orderly, an obvious clash with your paper heap. Unlike you, she finds the government letters intriguing, even the boring ass mortgage and debt related ones, and reads them all thoroughly.

Your hand catches on an envelope shaped differently from the rest. Inside is a card, with a dozen raised hearts adorning the front in varying shades of red. When you flip it open, it reads:

With you by my side, every day feels like Valentine’s Day. Thank you for being my rock, my love, and my everything.

Your family never spoke of this while you were growing up.

“Valentine’s Day?” you yawn. “What’s that all about?”

You show her the card, and she rubs her eyes, nursing the tail end of her own yawn with the back of her hand.

“Give it here, woman.”

She looks it over to confirm her suspicions, and with a knowing smile, sits up straight. She taps the card against her knee.

“My dad told me about this.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s um—it’s a tradition people celebrated near the end of winter. A day to do things for the ones you love, I guess.”

“Like a holiday or something?”

“Sort of,” Abby says, fumbling a bit with her own understanding of it. “Romantic stuff, mostly.”

She rubs her neck, mulling something over while you try to wrap your head around this new information. One day out of the year to do what exactly? Who was supposed to do the things—both people? Did the traditions start after breakfast or were you meant to wait until suppertime? Was it an endeavour meant to last the entire day?

“My dad didn’t really make time to celebrate it,” Abby continues. “He was always too busy at the hospital and then my mom—well, she worked there too, so.”

The veil of exhaustion lifts when you realize she’s peeling back a wound right before your eyes. You suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t mistake it for anything but your desire to let her speak. She drops the card on her lap and wrings her hands.

“They did these small things instead, you know? On regular days,” Abby explains. Her body droops as she seems to pick through her retention of their conversations.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice just a hair above a whisper.

“Like—okay. My dad loved to dance,” Abby says, leaning forward with a sad smile, the slouch of her shoulders regaining composure at the happier memory. “He was fucking terrible at it,” she puffs a laugh. “But he was a music buff and when he met my mom, he said it was the best excuse he could find to get close to her.”

You ache for her to have them here to tell the story, instead.

“So, they danced together a lot?”

“All the time, according to him,” Abby says, her face lighting up. “He told me that my mom was super shy, so she’d always give him hell about it. But he’d ask her to dance pretty much anywhere. Parking lots, gas stations, one time they danced in the middle of the grocery store.”

You try to imagine what Abby’s mom looks like, but your mind can’t seem to conjure up anything beyond Abby’s own image, a showcase of strength and grit.

“Do you remember much about her?” you ask.

“Not really. She died when I was a baby,” Abby explains, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. “She loved being pregnant with me, though, apparently.”

“Well, duh,” you murmur.

Abby crinkles her nose at you and bites the edge of her smile.

“Dad said her stomach got so big that he started dancing with her from behind. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, and they’d just sway back and forth.”

“I love that,” you say.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, fondness heavy on her breath.

Abby’s speech becomes slurred as the birds on your balcony greet the dawn.

“Every time they danced, the scent of her reminded him of a cabin in the woods, surrounded by these giant pine trees he used to pass on his way to work. He’d dream up this elaborate plan for them to quit their careers and live off-grid. I think he promised it to her about a thousand times.”

“That sounds kind of amazing, actually.”

“Yeah,” she says, tapping her nose with the Valentine’s card, her sleepy gaze drifting to yours. “He was a sap.”

She finishes with the most outrageously loud, cavernous yawn and you’re too tired to do much more than giggle at her larger-than-life spirit.

“You can crash on my couch again, if you want,” you offer.

She wobbles to her feet, reaching for your hand to help pull you up.

“I’m on assignment in a couple of hours anyway,” she says, supporting your elbows while you try not to slip on the paper graveyard below. “I’ll be MIA for a while, but let’s meet up when I’m back, if you’re up for it.”

“Totally.”

“Cool,” she whispers, her fingers tracing patterns on the tips of yours before reluctantly letting go.

As she turns to walk away, her steps falter, and she abruptly spins around to face you.

“Can I hug you goodbye?” she asks.

“Of course.”

Before you can blink, Abby’s arms wrap around you, and you’re a puzzle piece, snug in her embrace. She melts you from the inside out, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming against your body. The heat of her chest against your cheek lifts blissful sleepiness from the edges of your resolve and a part of you wants to ask her to stay.

As she gently moves to cup your head and support the back of your neck with her warm hands, you instinctively wrap your arms around her waist, afraid she might drift away.

“I feel so safe right now,” you whisper into her shoulder, and she nuzzles closer, squeezing you tight. Your feet are nearly off the ground before she relaxes her grip.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

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

Two weeks have passed since your visit with Abby and it’s hard to think about much else. It’s a pleasant distraction, even when the memory of her makes your insides flutter as if she tipped a bucket of butterflies between your ribs and set them free.

An unusually large number of soldiers from different stations have packed the grounds, and you’re grateful to have a unique job to keep you relatively separate from the chaos.

Dogs are coming home, but not all of them, and it shatters your heart to toss out their registration papers. You understand the nature of your contribution to this war machine, but it never gets easier. If you could, you’d gather up all the puppies and take them to the same cabin in the woods Abby’s father always dreamed about. Let them bask in the warm sunlight and frolic together amidst a maze of towering trees.

It’s a lovely thought followed closely by the sobering reality before you.

“You’ve done well.”

You drop the leash you were holding, and it clatters on the concrete.

“Isaac. You scared me.”

If Abby is a rare sight at the stadium, Isaac is a ghost. You haven’t seen him in months. He has expanded the WLF across several locations along the west coast and the number is only growing. Reports of a nearby prison piquing his interest have been swirling for a while now.

You’re not sure where he rests his head at night, but it’s almost never here.

“It’s nice to see you too,” he says, inspecting the four-legged fleet without getting close enough to pet them. “I hear your training program is working wonders.”

“I try. They make it easy,” you say, noticing that many puppies have tucked their tails between their legs. “What brings you to the stadium?”

“I’m—restructuring,” he explains, his footsteps echoing as he paces the unit, meticulously inspecting the facility.

Your heart sinks.

“What does this have to do with me?”

He exaggerates a smile, and it sets you on edge.

“You always ask the right questions,” he drawls, heavy hands landing on your shoulders. “I respect that about you. There’s never any fat to trim, just straight to the point.”

It’s more than you can say about him, frankly.

“I suspect you’ve heard about the prison.”

“I have,” you say, bending to pick back up the leash. A narrow excuse to put space between the two of you.

Isaac is still standing uncomfortably close, so you wrap the nylon around your wrist as an act of self soothing.

“Well, it’s proving to be an integral training facility. It’s both secure and unaffected by the flooding, which has been my biggest obstacle up to this point.”

You’d never seen the inside of a prison before, but you’ve read about them. A cold cement cage without access to sunlight, its surface striped with iron. It offered zero curb appeal. You made it a priority to give your dogs a comfortable enclosure for that very reason.

“They need me here,” you say, desperate to get ahead of his plan. “This is where I’ll be most effective.”

“I disagree.”

Your arms tingle with an icy chill as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.

“You said I’ve done well here,” you call out.

“It’s true,” he says over his shoulder. “And your expertise will be crucial. Transport leaves at oh-six hundred.”

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

You should pack to leave, but you’re frozen.

Isaac isn’t one to sugarcoat things and for once, you wish he would’ve.

You curl up in a plastic chair on your balcony and take in the fields below. Neatly organized rows of vibrant crops bordered by fruit trees, bursting with hues of orange and red. Berries snaking through walls of trellis, sweet and ripe. People milling about with baskets of laundry and boxes of produce, keeping society peaceful.

“You should’ve married him,” Manny sighs, dropping beside you. His hand rests on your knee. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you admit, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “All these fresh faces, and I’m the only one leaving.”

Manny moves his hand to your arm, offering a kind squeeze.

“You are not the only one,” he says, handing you a clipboard.

It’s a short list of dogs you’ll be taking with you, and you’re caught between wanting to laugh at Manny’s ridiculous disposition or sob at your utter misfortune. You wish the dogs could stay behind. They love when the little ones throw the ball for them in the afternoon.

“I have a life here,” you say, and it’s a plea to the universe. “This is supposed to be my home.”

Manny offers you a freshly picked apple and you roll the waxy surface between your palms. The image of Abby’s face flashes in your mind. Maybe it’s silly to feel so much, but you can’t stop it. The weight of never seeing her again makes you nauseous.

“I’m fucked,” you groan.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you in.

“Keep your chin up, Hermosa. Something tells me you won’t be gone long.”

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

Hey you,

I’ve tried to write this about a dozen times, and I still don’t know where to start. Fuck it, right?

I barely know you and somehow you made me miss you so fucking much while I was away. When I got home and you weren’t there, it felt like someone shot me in the chest.

Manny brought me your bin of letters and I swear I cried for the first time in years.

How did you get under my skin so fast?

I hear you were sad when you left, and that breaks my heart. It kills me thinking of you being unhappy. I hate that you’re somewhere I know nothing about.

What is it like over there? Are you safe?

I check in on the kennels every day. You’re missed around here a lot.

Keep your head up for me. I’m going to make this right.

Please write me back,

A.A.

You’re busy fixing the fence with a skeleton crew when a delivery truck arrives, and someone throws a letter at you. The thrill of it causes your heart to pound in your throat, a rush of adrenaline washing over you. It takes every ounce of self control to keep from disappearing to read it somewhere private.

Trucks come and go regularly, as they divide resources between stations. Isaac seems to prioritize the prison, especially on the artillery front.

You finish reinforcing the fence and race to your cell to lose yourself in your first piece of mail.

You can’t wait to steal a pen to write her back.

Abby,

I read your letter every day.

Okay, maybe more like three times a day, but who’s counting? Seriously… this place has no concept of time and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single clock to be found.

It makes me sad you were sad. I feel like we’re on a carousel of sadness! We should change that. (Have you seen a carousel before?)

The dogs aren’t doing too bad. They like the open fields here and they’re allowed to sleep in bed with these smelly ass soldiers, which I think is more for us than them, truly.

Thanks for checking in on my crew there. Means a lot.

My bed feels like a hard slab of steel because it is, but at least I don’t have to make it every day. Don’t tell Manny.

It’s nothing like the stadium here. We don’t have gardens and schools and we definitely don’t have a gym. I know, devastating! How will I ever beat you in an arm wrestle now?

The hot water is a work in progress, so I’m learning how to not die during cold showers. That’s also a work in progress, but I squeal less now. Which is something, right?

Try not to worry your beautiful head. I’m tough. I miss your face, though. There’s so much I want to ask you.

Please tell me something about you that nobody else knows. I promise I’m the best secret keeper, ever.

P.S.

If you find any letters from actual prisoners, be sure to fill me in. I feel like they’d have some great tips!

Yours truly,

You hope she lights up as much as you did when her letter arrives. It’s all you can hope for, aside from her safety and possibly a warmer blanket.

To: My Favourite Inmate,

You sure know how to make a girl laugh.

It’s good you don’t have clocks. That way, you can’t obsess over how long you’ve been gone the way I do.

Shit, I should send Manny over there for one of those cold showers. I gave him that polaroid we found, and he hasn’t come up for air in weeks.

It helps a bit to know those pups are there to keep you warm at night. I hope I can be that for you soon. I considered writing another letter because I was afraid to say it, but I think I want you to know. You belong in my arms.

Something I haven’t told anyone before…

Sometimes I miss being a Firefly, especially since things around here are getting worse by the day—but sometimes I guess I don’t want to be anything.

Maybe I’d like to try being just Abby for a while, you know? I’ve never tried that before. What do you think that would look like? Would you want to be a part of it?

I wish you were here beside me.

I’ve made it my mission.

A.A.

P.S.

When you wrapped your arms around me, it felt like lightning.

#abby the last of us #abby x fem!reader #abby tlou #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #abby anderson #lesbian

179 notes · View notes

bluheaven-adw · 6 months

Text

Thank you tumblr for absolutely destroying image quality. Freaking wtf?

Some more Dark Excalibur AU

The Knighting of Steve Palchuk

We all agree that Steve needed a better arc than what RotT gave him. He deserved a chance to be a hero, a path that he started in Wizards before it fizzled out into being the comedic relief. Wizards set everyone up as the better generational mirrors to Camelot. Jim to Arthur, Claire to Morgana, Douxie to Merlin, Toby probably to Galahad, and Steve very obviously to Lancelot. I've said at the start that no one comes out of this AU unscathed, so while Steve gets the heroic redemption, it comes at a cost, one that pulls on that parallel.

RotT in the Dk-E still happens, I'm not letting everyone get their happily ever after at the end of Wizards. But I'll be damned if I end it with Toby and so many others dead, and Jim pushed into a timeline reset. You can thank Steve for that. It's because of Steve that Toby lives. Steve goes with Toby in the Taco truck, and it is Steve that yanks Toby out of the way of the collapsing debris. But Steve becomes pinned himself, resulting in the loss of his arm. An act of selflessness and bravery, valor and sacrifice, that earns him the title of First Knight of the Roundtable of New Camelot. An equal advisor, responsible for not only the protection of Camelot, and those Jim has claimed as his (which is everyone, human, troll, changeling, down to the last gnome), but also finding and training new knights, those who value all life and are willing to fight to protect it, and want to see the worlds of man and magic together in harmony instead of hate and fear.

And so we come to the Knighting of Steve Palchuk. This isn't just pomp and meaningless ceremony, this has true weight and meaning to both Jim and Steve. Jim pulls on Excalibur's magic, his voice resonating with ethereal power, creating a bond of trust and loyalty that goes both ways, only formed if given willingly. Knight to his King, King to Knight, both to the protection of all worlds and their peoples. Jim's eyes light up in tandem with the blade as the power of Excalibur and Nimue courses through him, flames licking along the blade's edge and into Steve. Steve's armor reflecting this bond as the magic burns through him.

And like Lancelot, Steve will get a fully functional prosthetic arm. There will be hardship, adapting to this new reality. But Steve has become a hero. A man of courage... far from his highscool self. A survivor, who will fight with everything he has.

Rise now, Sir Steve, First Knight of the Roundtable and New Camelot.

Closeups below

Notes: some of the descriptive wording around the ceremony itself came from a discussion about Jim using Excalibur for the knighting, and are used with permission of Sakon76, who is a much better writer than I.

Expect more if Steve's story at a later time.

226 notes · View notes

ramshackledtrickster · 6 months

Note

I hope you have a wonderful autism today :3

!! Thank you!!

My Ziio fixation has returned with a vengeance lately so indeed I’m having a fun time

Lemme share some headcanons for today methinks (some may or may not relate to my personal ac3 adaptation)

Undiagnosed adhd. Like she has big time adhd but not many successful ways to channel it n she stimulates herself most with her hands (rope work, making snares, beading, twirling or doing whatever with her knife, fiddling w the hem n fringes of her clothes etc)

In her heyday in modern au she’s definitely a punk

She got her freckles from her dad

Her combat greatly incorporates rope work and she’s a bit of a traps expert (the affinity for ropes later is subconsciously mirrored with Connor’s use of the shengbiao/rope dart)

Getting this out of the way, her thing with Haytham was a one night stand and they didn’t make any plans to move in together or start a new life (she found his journal and realized he’s . Kind of a weirdo Templar) . Sorry Forsaken. (Also probably moving the kiss out of the cave temple for personal ick reasons)

She grew up very “one of the boys” ish. Lovessss wrestling n making competitions of things and hates losing. Probably also “the weird kid” if you wanna put a modern lens on it.

She was hell to raise by Oiá:ner. She’s very headstrong and it’s hard to reel her in/she wasn’t sure what to do with Ziio half the time. Their relationship gets more strained as she becomes an adult and as the war starts though, but they still have a very strong bond and love for each other despite everything. In the end they both care so much about safety and protecting each other.

Oiá:ner sees way too much of Ziio in Ratonhnhaké:ton. Especially in his pursuit of risky/radical change and calling to outside the village

Don’t wanna give away too much yet but the Southgate Fort captives-freeing mission is VERY different and sets Haytham more at odds with her

Loud snort-laughter

It was very difficult for her to re acclimate to a more secure (mundane) life in the village when she finally came back home and secured their safety in the 7 years war. It just. Feels wrong not doing anything. Not making change. (Made harder by the fact she’s barred from becoming a clan mother)

Her and Kanen’tó:kon’s mother are close friends (maybe cousins?), and Ratonhnhaké:ton was raised by em after she died

Polyglot (multiple indigenous languages since she had to help rally non-haudenosaunee forces for the prologue, English, and French. Has no respect for the French language)

Has a tendency to save others before saving herself (Connor unknowingly repeats this— due to survivor’s guilt based in trauma, and so the cycle repeats)

Born some time in the winter (I’m thinking December? December 14 or something. Which makes her a Sagittarius I guess go figure.) I also intend this to be a callback to her name and how I associate her with snow since her most memorable scenes take place during that season in that weather imo

Big appetite high metabolism I got no reason tbh

Has two separate books within her in the aftermath of the prologue— one specifically for teaching Ratonhnhaké:ton English and one to record her own thoughts and feelings in like a journal.

She figures with how the world is changing with further interactions with colonists that her son should learn English sooner than later as a means of protection as well as being an inevitability on her eyes

But also yeah Haytham having a journal and learning abt his ulterior motives is. A lot. But when she meets Achilles and he recommended her be able to vent somewhere when things become too much he recommended a book like that of sorts so yeah (and that’s probably what Connor was reading in the beginning of his sequence— maybe he mistook it for his English-book n was trynna do his mom proud n accidentally found Haytham lore instead)

Connor learned to swear from her at a young age and she . Did not. Anticipate that or meant to do that.

A lot of the times she feels super unfit to be a mother. She was a good mom tho

#assassins creed #assassins creed 3 #ziio #kaniehtí:io #my art #fanart

149 notes · View notes

manikas-whims · 1 year

Text

Reasons I despise Shadow and Bone

• Inej Ghafa in the books was an SA survivor and a girl who despite all that she went through, held hope close to her chest. Book Inej was so scared of the menagerie, she couldn't walk past it without the fear of being recaptured. She finally moved on from this fear when she choked Heleen at the Ice Court, stole her diamond choker and ran, calling her silks feathers. And finally believing that she was free after facing her fear, her abuser head on. So seeing the show Inej casually walk into the menagerie as well as merely shrugging upon hearing of Heleen's death this season, was not just extremely ooc but disrespectful and had zero depth.

• Kaz Brekker's disability was basically neglected this entire season and his cane treated like an accessory. Not only that they butchered the entire Kaz-Nikolai meeting in CK. Kaz would've immediately recognized Nikolai, like that was such a downgrade. Not to mention Nikolai threatening Kaz (and Jesper). Kaz wouldn't be threatened. Instead he'd make negotiations with Nikolai on his terms. Oh and most importantly, his entire backstory was rushed and played off like it was nothing serious. That intensity of two innocent small-town boys being tricked by an adult with agency and power, I couldn't feel it as much as I felt reading the books.

• Jesper Fahey's backstory is very emotional and beautiful. The memories with his mother and his coversations later on with his father, all lead up to him slowly accepting his grisha side more and embracing it. Embracing being a zowa. The show speed-ran through it and well, it lost its depth.

More importantly none of the backstory material makes much sense and lacks so much depth because there was nothing that lead to that development. The books, whatever transpires in SoC is what leads to and triggers their individual character developments. So any backstories stuffed in the show made no sense.

• Nina Zenik's bisexuality is completely erased by the show. Its like netflix is allergic to sapphics 😭

• Now Kanej! We got so much Kanej content we should be happy right? I agree. The scenes did give me a momentary high because those are some of my favorite parts of the books and its a blessing to be able to see them adapted on screen. Except, none of those scenes made sense, especially since season 1 barely hinted about some chemistry between the two and then season suddenly escalated all that slow burn into significant moments badly stashed into the show plot. I mean ofc we got the chapel scene and all but.. The whole wound patching-up scene was a pivotal moment in their relationship and it was completely downplayed in the show. And then there was also Kaz getting mad at Inej freeing some children from slavers? Like ofcourse even book Kaz would be slightly miffed but he wouldn't outright reprimand Inej and tell her she's off the team due to it, but thats what show Kaz did. And then after everything that happens, the sudden drop of “how will you have me” and the “without armor” dialogue completely did dirty to that moment. Like ofc she says “gloves on, fully clothed, head turned away so our lips never meet”. But in the books, Inej utters those words because of all the secrecy and lack of effort for pursuing a proper relationship between them. The “no armor” Inej says is addressed towards wanting him to be more open about himself (since Kaz knows basically everything about her, from her full name to how she was captured and ended up in Ketterdam) but Inej knows nothing about him, not even if Kaz Brekker is his real name. But the show made the “no armor” dialogue so bad. Its made Inej look so shallow as if she is merely speaking in terms of her physical wants.

Ohh and I did mention this in another post but everybody fucking knowing about Kaz's backstory? Everyone but Inej? The only person he actually tells in the books. Him even telling the fraction of stuff he tells Inej spoke volumes about their bond and how he trusted her enough to reveal this truth about himself. Show Kaz's past is revealed to Nina and Jesper casually walking in and listening??? WTF was that? And no Inej in thaf moment. Call it nitpicking but it was WRONG.

• Wesper has been reduced to the token gay couple of the show. Their sweet first encounter has been completely eradicated and they're turned into this typical trope of people who had a one night stand and accidentally met again. Their romance is so sexualised in the show, as many tend to do with queer ships (which is extremely disgusting imo). More importantly, we'll most likely never see the “no, not just girls” in that possible spin-off 🙂

• Ketterdam: the show has given no proper insight on Ketterdam. I bet most of the show only people don't understand much about the city and the gangs. I wonder if many even know whats a Dime Lion. And Pekka randomly having the stadwatch in cahoots with him was so shitty writing?

And these are just a few that i can remember right now. Also i don't want this post to get too long.

–» If you're one of those sheep fans, don't comment shit like “creators already told us its different from the books, so you shouldn't be mad” 🤪 cause I'll definitely delete your comment.

If you are one of those, scroll past this post. Cause what do y'all even mean? People can't freely discuss or criticize a piece of media now? STFU!

551 notes · View notes

phantomyre · 2 months

Text

Rebirth-Vincent Analysis/Breakdown 1 Vincent's connection to Sephiroth and why his penance is now justified (SPOILERS)

Bear in mind this is mostly an analysis and some of it may be obvious to some. But the purpose of this is to shed light on some of the more nuanced aspects pertaining to Vincent's character and what we might expect from him moving into part 3. I will be breaking these into parts so as to not create such lengthy posts. NOTE: It has been over 2 weeks so I will no longer be censoring content, but I will maintain the spoiler tags. --------------

For starters, Vincent’s personality has been well implemented in that some of his more nuanced traits are highlighted in Rebirth. Compared to OG’s depiction of him, he is more hostile and skeptical than before. In OG, he divulges everything from Sephiroth’s past to his own involvement with Shinra. Not so in Rebirth, however. As a matter of fact, he avoids talking about Sephiroth altogether (up until a certain side-quest), and only calls himself ‘security’ instead of telling the group he once worked for Shinra. Regarding the source of his guilt, it heavily revolves around Sephiroth without so much as a mention of Hojo. As a result, instead of Hojo being his target, Vincent’s driving motivation for joining Cloud’s company is Sephiroth, siting he has unfinished business with Sephiroth. Previously in OG, Vincent’s regret stemmed from his inability to prevent Lucrecia and Hojo from experimenting on their child, Sephiroth. Little else was given, and fans have long held the notion that Vincent had needlessly punished himself for something that was completely not his fault, criticizing his self-hatred as pure edginess and being overdramatic. However, Rebirth has shown there is yet another layer of tragedy regarding the reason for Vincent’s self-imposed punishment. And this leads to the topic of Vincent’s relationship to Sephiroth.

When the party first meet Vincent, though he initially plays the part of a security guard and interrogates them for a breach of ID security, his aggression quickly deflates when he learns that the party is after Sephiroth. It isn’t until Cloud steps into the chamber that used to contain Sephiroth’s samples that Vincent becomes extremely hostile towards the party, oddly protective of the room and whatever info on Sephiroth it may have had. Once Vincent is finally convinced to join the party for the sole purpose of meeting Sephiroth, Vincent states he has some ‘unfinished business’ with Sephiroth. The weight of this motivation becomes very heavy when Vincent finally tells the group the nature of Vincent and Sephiroth’s ‘unique bond’.

According to Vincent, he feels partially to blame for Sephiroth’s cruelty. While that isn’t completely new, Vincent goes on to say that he ‘had many opportunities to purge him from this world’, also sighting the countless people suffering as experiments in the basement. In OG, Vincent was unaware of the evils Sephiroth had committed until Cloud told him. Vincent even says ‘all this while I was sleeping’ when he joins Cloud in seeing the vision of Nibelheim burning—proving Vincent was naïve of the events. In later compilations, it’s implied that Vincent is indeed able to sense turmoil around him since he so happens to turn up whenever someone is about to die. This led fans to question how Vincent was so oblivious to one of the most devastating events in FF7’s story. In Rebirth, however, we learn Vincent was far from oblivious. This implies that Vincent was aware of Sephiroth massacring Nibelheim, the survivors becoming human-experiments, and likely Zack and Cloud’s experimentation as well. Vincent not only neglected to save Lucrecia and Sephiroth during the experimentations, but he also turned a blind eye to the plight of others, allowing Sephiroth to continue his rampage. And not just once or twice. But many times. This is a significant change to Vincent’s story and will likely play a large part in part 3 in his journey to redemption. The red cloak he wears now makes more symbolic sense as he carries the blood of innocents on his shoulders. Now… Vincent’s penance is justified.

#vincent valentine #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #final fantasy #ffvii #ff7 rebirth #ff7 rebirth spoilers #ffvii rebirth

107 notes · View notes

works-of-heart · 1 month

Text

"E/riel has plot!"

What plot? If they're already 'in love,' what's the plot for them to fall in love?

Oh Forbidden romance?

...You mean how Elain ISN'T FORCED AT ALL to accept this mating bond? How literally no one is forcing her hand one way or another and it's up to HER whether she wants to accept her mate or not?

How Rhys challenged Azriel to show he had ANY feelings beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to, but fell short?

Or how Rhys said that if Elain DID choose to reject it, that she would have their support? (Clearly Rhysand isn't standing in the way if Azriel's feelings for her were anything beyong "the fantasies he pleasured himself to." or could at least say with his chest he was over Mor.

Oh, you mean the tons of other 'theories' that e/riel has come up with that literally destroys all the character/ story build up she's been writing? Having an SA survivor be evil and luring men. Or having that character not be involved at all (Because you know, THAT plot threatens your ship.)

Oh riiight, the millions of different kinds of 'mate' theories. How ONLY Elucien's bond is the wrong one, but everyone else's? They're right! Even though, Lucien shares the SAME mating qualities that Rhysand and Cassian share. The longing stares, (Azriel had that for Mor too before Moriel got retconned. Don't worry Az, there's a fiery red haired beauty waiting for you!), the concern, the mate desire and the chant of "you are mine and I am yours." Sounds like Lucien's bond fits right alongside the others doesn't it?

The plots they claim would literally take Lucien's HEA away, despite SJM's OWN WORDS that there was 'someone special' for him, then making him mates with ELAIN. Then going on to say that there's a great deal of Tension, growth and HEALING for them( TOGETHER). Oh, look! That sounds like PLOT doesn't it? A plot of healing tension and growth! Something that SJM is known for in her books. Something Feyre, and Nesta got. Interesting.

Lucien is carrying the story in the Background. He has his hands dipped in Koschei, Vassa and Jurien, Beron and Eris, Spring court, Day court (finding out his true heritage), Emissary to Night court and Ally (As Rhys clearly explains).

Hmmmm. It sounds to me like Lucien has a TON of plot surrounding him. Elain being a seer, being said that Spring court was built for her. Her scent is the "Promise of Spring." (Who is currently stationed in spring court? Oh, Lucien, her mate! Look at that, it's already set up! =D) Even Rhysand states that we haven't seen all there is to Elain, and yet SJM is prepping her to go to spring.

Tell me, how does E/riel fit into spring? Do we need yet another contradicting 'plot/theory' to make it work?

The way Az's shadows don't run from Gwyn, they dance with her. They don't raise up alarm (which let's be real, if she was evil, his shadows would ABSOLUTELY tell Azriel to be cautious. Instead, they sit calmly at his shoulders. They're playful and sing.) Azriel not having to hide his scars, not having to think negative, degrating thoughts about himself while he's with Gwyn. The spark in his chest he got at the thought of her teal eyes lighting up. A thing of secret lovely beauty (Not a thing of deciept and magic). And no, he never got a spark in his chest for Elain.

The tie to Valkyrie and Illyrians, there's banter and laughter between them. Nesta being Gwyn's chosen sister, Cassian being Az's chosen brother. Think of the cute double dates they'd have!

If E/riel needs to make people who SJM have literally set up to have epic stories 'villains' or have them die, or not even exist for the ship to work, if their HEA includes ruining entire plots and stories, butchering characters, then it isn't very good now is it?

Meanwhile, Elucien and Gwynriel are set up to have intrigue, healing and growth for BOTH of the couples. I dunno, you can call the bad character breaking theories 'plots' if you want. If that helps you believe in your ship, sure? I rest easy knowing SJM isn't out here trying to rewrite her WHOLE entire story and throw out everything she wrote in the garbage, just to make ONE ship happen when she said there were clearly 2.

#elucien #pro elucien #elucien supremacy #elain x lucien #anti e/riel #pro gwynriel #gwynriel

57 notes · View notes

whateverisbeautiful · 4 months

Text

♥️ Ranking Richonne

#23: Glad To See You (S4E01)

Platonic where? 😋 I love this lovely scene that lets us know Rick and Michonne had fully won each other over during the time jump between s3 and s4. This scene arrives after several couples are spotlighted in the ep - Which is no coincidence. It also arrives directly after the sweet 'whole new plant' scene with our beloved Hershel - Which is no coincidence. Michonne even whistles to get your attention with it. Richonne and the family they form together are Rick and Michonne’s whole new plant...

I love that as the queen arrives on her horse it’s Rick and Carl who rush to let her in. Like Rick hears her coming and eagerly stands up (with a subtle smile I do believe) and immediately looks over to Carl, who is ready to run over, because they know they’ve both grown really fond of our girl Michonne.

The way Rick and Carl hustle over to her with smiles on their faces will forever melt my heart. And as if their whole body language didn’t make it clear they were happy she’s back, the first thing Rick sweetly tells Michonne is, “We’re glad to see you.” I love how much Rick and Carl like her and can’t hide it.

It's funny too because I always thought it was both Rick and Carl donning big smiles when they run to her, but watching it back, Carl is actually way more subtle in his expression than Rick lol. Gotta love that extra man. 😋

It’s sweet the way Michonne says, “Glad to see you too.” Rick and Michonne are both just the cutest, and they already look like they go together. Every scene they have reminds you that they are meant to be each other's person.

I love that Michonne got Carl that comic, and he’s so excited about it. And she's clearly so happy to have put a smile on his face. Their friendship is everything. And Carl's sincere little thank you. She brings out such a sweet side of him.

I adore that Michonne's personality is coming out more with her boys and Rick gets to witness her bond with his son here. Through Carl, Michonne began to be a mom again and I just so appreciate that.

And Michonne saying, "I get to read them when you’re done" - it's pretty much canon that she and her kids love books together and it’s adorable. 😊

Then it's so sweet Michonne's playful teasing of Rick with the razor and saying his face is losing the war. Sis told on herself a little bit, thinking about his face while out on her run. But I mean again, who can blame her?

And it's interesting that the show highlights her getting gifts for Carl and Rick specifically, showing how they're who she's grown closest to and who she thinks about while she's out. Even while somewhat still in her lone wolf era, they were already becoming family. 🥹

I like how getting gifts for both of them helps suggest that Michonne's not just on the fast track to becoming Carl's future mom, but also Rick's future wife. She's growing an undeniable bond with both of them.

I think it’s cute how Rick takes the razor and ponders what it all means, and then Michonne brings some playfulness when teasing him and smiling. She likes him, y’all. 😊 And Rick needs this kind of levity in his life. It's great how before Rick and Michonne loved each other, they really really liked each other as people and it didn't take long for them to realize that.

Also, one of the many things I so adore about how Andy and Danai play their characters is that they never play them one-dimensional. Instead of just coming across as typical 'strong and stoic survivors,' they instead add such compelling layers to their characters.

Rick isn't just tough, he's also capable of being truly warm and affectionate. Michonne isn't just a warrior, she's capable of being genuinely warm, affectionate, and playful too. 👌🏽

So Rick gives a little laugh when she teases him, and then he’s quiet for a bit. And watching this back, I'm tickled because he’s definitely a little nervous around her. 😊 This is Richonne's crush era after all, and so he seems to be feeling a lot inside perhaps.

And then he steps closer to her and asks if she’s going to stay a little while, which is something Rick always wants - Michonne to stay with him awhile. And I like that he can’t help but make it clear he wants her around.

I'm telling you, they’re so adorable in every frame of the scene, and their body language is giving ‘this won’t be platonic for long’ lol.

Michonne answers, “Just a little while,” and Rick nods cuz more time around her is always music to his ears.

Then Daryl arrives, and y’all, this part of the scene will always be curious to me.

Cuz they have Daryl say glad to see Michonne in one piece and look right over at Rick, almost like he’s especially speaking for Rick (who we already know is particularly glad to see her from their moment just seconds before). And then Rick looks from Daryl over to Michonne like he wants Daryl to be more subtle or something lol. Which had me like...

Rick has that little frustrated reaction when Michonne says she’s going to look over near Macon, and Michonne seems to notice Rick’s reaction cuz she then emphasizes, "it’s worth a shot."

It’s interesting how Rick isn’t very talkative at this moment, but his face is giving away that he clearly has thoughts and doesn't want her to go lol. But he knows Michonne can do what she wants, even if he most wants her here safe.

Rick says he’s going to stay at the prison when Daryl says he’s going on a run, and then Michonne quickly volunteers to go. And y'all, again...

Cuz idk, it almost reads like knowing Rick was staying makes Michonne quickly volunteer to go since she can’t let herself get too close to him yet - cuz the sparks be sparking when they’re together and right now that's a bit too vulnerable after her traumas from the last time she let people in close. I mean, I'm just saying.

And Carl is quick to remind Michonne that she just got here, which is super cute. It's clear that, like his dad, Carl really wants her around and fully a part of the family. But we’re not there yet in their journey, so Michonne just smiles and says she’ll be back and then walks away. My heart is always so warmed to see her presence so wanted by her boys.

Rick watches her go, of course, and then Daryl pats him in a seemingly sympathetic way before Rick goes to help them head out. And, y’all, I stand by it…Daryl knew something. 😋

I might not know what exactly, but brother Daryl knew early that something was stirring between Rick and Michonne and that she was special to Rick somehow.

I've noticed how several characters seemed to be picking up on something between Rick and Michonne even before Rick and Michonne became fully aware of their feelings - Carl in s3’s Clear, Daryl in this s4 premiere, Sasha in s5 when she tells Michonne “it worked out for you,” Deanna clocked Richonne real early, and even Abe in s6 wondered if Rick and Michonne had been intimate for awhile. Lol by the time Rick and Michonne made their romance official, you know team family was just like…

Season 4 is a big one in the making of Richonne, and Rick and Michonne's first scene together in season 4 effectively planted more seeds toward how much their relationship would blossom as this season progressed.

Establishing Rick, Michonne, and Carl’s dynamic and heightened fondness for each other in the season 4 premiere was a great way to set up how they would soon become family in the fullest sense by the end of the season.

Like to go from this scene at the prison to traveling as a trio in 4b and having such familial moments in the s4 finale is perfection. Rick and Michonne's fondness for each other only strengthened, and they became an undeniable family unit that managed to carve out some genuine happiness even wandering the woods with no home base. This truly is the season when Rick and Michonne start to become home to each other.

And I love that from the premiere to the finale of season four, these two only grew closer and closer and more and more glad to see each other. 😌

#richonne #top 30 #number 23 #rick x michonne #twd 4.01 #reveling in richonne #twd towl #the ones who live

85 notes · View notes

viaviv124 · 4 months

Text

What argument anti rayfrog shippers (or nayfrogs as i've learned, which is 10x more hillarious) that just makes me question if these people actually pay attention and is also lowkey funny to me is "Bullfrog said he watched Rayman since he was a tadpole!" That is literally not what he said. He said "i used to watch you as a tadpole"

Considering the Rayman show is probably the only or biggest kids program in Eden and Rayman is literally everywhere i doubt Bullfrog couldn't not watch him, espacially if it's mandatory viewing (which it most likely is). To me this just makes it like their Spongebob but forced, you get what i mean? I don't think this really proves a point. Bullfrog didn't even mention ever being a fan or liking the show. Just that he watched it. It's also funny to me how he dropped that line right after calling him "Eden's favorite Poster boy" like it's such a random thing to add lol, i don't think he wanted to imply he ever idolized him considering he was just mocking him the entire way through. Either way, at the time they met both of them were consenting adults able to think clearly and, again, Bullfrog hated Rayman with a passion at that point and did not idolize him, i mean, look at that glare:

If that's not pure spite and mockery i don't know what is.

What people need to understand is that no sane rayfrog shipper goes "Bullfrog likes Rayman/Ramon because he loved watching him on TV like 25 - 30+ years ago!" Pretty much all concepts/headcanons are hurt/comfort because the consensus of them bonding consists of them supporting eachother and becoming a shoulder to lean on to work out their mental stuff like Ramon's guilt about literally everything and Bullfrog's survivors guilt and eldest sister syndrome. Also, Bullfrog is quite literally a trained assassin of a group that quite literally has been fighting the templars/Eden since pretty much the beginning of human history. Pretty sure if anything his mind would default to spiting and distrusting Ramon at every turn instead of idolizing him for something he saw on tv when he was a literal toddler i mean come on are you serious. Also pretty sure his mind is clear enough to think about shit rationally.

Another point i love is "they shared only one scene." People have done more with less. Ramon and Dolph have not exchanged a single glance and Laserray (rayhawk? Idk) is a thing. People will ship anything as long as it has a good dynamic in their eyes. I'm just saying Mordetwi and other crossships.

Its genuinely hillarious to me how people hate on the popular ship instead of everything else. The two canon predators? Nope! Sarah x Jade that would, if it would be canon, be nothing but abuse considering all of their interactions in the show, as few as they were, are pretty abusive? Nope! But god forbid two consenting adults with an age gap that support eachother kiss! I absolutely do have certain problems with rayfrog but considering the lack of material we have to work with these problems are all speculations i can headcanon them away.

Also as a small note in case the conkai crowd pins me on this because of the posts i made several months ago, no, two consenting adults with an age gap are not the same as a 17 year old banging a physically 6 - 8 year old even if he has the mind of a 17 year old, thank you.

#I am by the way taking all of this very lightly #there is no real spite or smth #i genuinely think these points are just hillarious #have your own opinion boo you're valid #i'm having fun with this #by the way i've seen a post where someone lists all the arguments as to why rayfrog isn't a proship and their response was just “stfu”#truly delightful i must say #captain laserhawk blood dragon remix #captain laserhawk #rayman #rayfrog #bullfrog

89 notes · View notes

deputyrook · 7 months

Text

Impressions- 5/? Mark Hoffman x Psychic!Reader

PART 1. PART 2. PART 3. PART 4.

You're a psychic. He's a detective. And a serial killer.

(You're a team.)

Word count: 4050

WARNINGS: CORRUPTION, stockholm syndrome, abusive dynamics, general Saw-levels of horror & violence. Reader is drinking the Jigsaw Kool-Aid.

“God, you’re persistent,” you tell Kerry, laying back on your couch and rubbing your temple, “Fine. Yes, I’ll go to therapy and I'll check out the community resources for Jigsaw survivors. Are you happy?”

It's not exactly a lie. You might check out the resources. Kerry's voice crackles across the line in reply: “Good. And if you’re able to remember anything while you’re there-“

Of course. It’s not that she wants you to get help, but rather, she’s hoping that you’ll pick up on some kind of psychic lead from discussing your capture and trauma with a therapist.

A swell of bitterness fills your chest, though you wish it didn't. You’d asked her to come and help you with groceries and chores today, but she’d declined, saying that she was too busy working on the case. Somehow, Mark had been coming around to help more often than she was, and he was balancing his job with being a serial killer.

Kerry’s work has always come first, and her dedication is something you had often admired. The two of you had bonded in university over a shared discomfort at parties and social events. Neither of you had ever quite fit in with the crowd. But even knowing her for as long and as well as you did, it still hurt to know the obsession came before your friendship.

“When are you going to take a break?” You ask, instead of voicing your frustration.

“When I find Eric,” she replies, steadfast. You must make some kind of a critical noise in response, because Kerry adds, “What? Do you believe it’s hopeless? That I should just give up?”

“It’s not that,” you mutter with a sigh, already regretting this line of conversation, but knowing that Kerry won’t give it up until she pulls the truth from you.

“Then what?”

“Just that maybe Matthews shouldn’t have gone and played Cowboy Cop, shooting from the hip.” You finally snap, to Kerry’s stunned silence. “You play stupid games and you win stupid prizes, Ally. If he had just listened to the rules he’d been given-"

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you right now," She says, voice sounding more shocked than angry, "Jigsaw took your eyes, put you through hell, and you’re defending him?”

“I’m not defending him,” you bite back, wondering if you are, “But Matthews was corrupt. You know that, even I know that. Sometimes, you get what you deserve."

There's a beat of silence over the phone line, and you wonder if you've taken it a step far. It almost surprises you, to hear the words coming from your mouth. A month ago, you wouldn't have believed you would feel this way, but it's true, isn't it?

Matthews had a way out, just like everyone else did. Just like you did. If he hadn't fucked around and found out, he would have been fine.

Your sympathy for the other Jigsaw victims- the other subjects- has become somewhat muted since you became one yourself. Being able to intuit all of their faults in high definition had only dulled it further.

“You think he deserved to be murdered, is that it?" Kerry asks, and if she wasn't angry before, she definitely is now. Thankfully, you know from experience that she tends to anger quickly, and cool off just as fast. "What about you, then? You got tested, too. How the hell can you say it's deserved?”

Because I deserved to be tested, too.

Something about the topic of conversation turning to you causes a vision to spring forward from the recesses of your mind, like it had simply been waiting for the most opportune moment to reveal itself.

You see yourself, standing in what appears to be a shallow pool of water in the middle of a dense forest. It is quiet and still, save for the ripples in the water caused by your movement. You can't hear any animals- the forest is silent.

You look exactly as you remember, save for a few key details- wide, white globes for eyes stare wildly back at you, and you are drenched in the water. You are soaked through and dripping, the water running down your forehead in rivets. On your head, twisted and gnarled, is a crown of some sort. At first, you think it's a crown of branches- fitting for the forest that you've found yourself in- but once you approach and look closer, you realize it's a crown of rusted, jutting metal pieces.

In your hands, you hold out a crumpled piece of paper, one you’ve somehow kept from dissolving in the water. Carefully, you take it from yourself and unfurl it, to see a wrinkled advertisement for a Jigsaw survivor support group.

Interesting. You file that piece of information away for later. Your lips are moving, but you can't hear the words. You lean in, trying to listen. It seems you're repeating something, over and over, mouthing along to an inaudible refrain.

“Hello?” Kerry's voice pulls you out of it.

“I'm sorry,” you reply. Any anger you'd been feeling is gone, shaken out of you, “My head's been all over the place."

"I know," She sighs as well, and you can feel her unspoken apology in return as she continues, "The FBI's getting involved. I've been in contact with one of their agents."

Immediately, you think back to your vision of the two dangerous people- the man and the woman.

"Damn," you remark, before you note, "He's a lot to deal with, isn't he?"

"That's putting it lightly," Kerry huffs, and you can feel her frustration not only at you, but at the FBI agents getting involved before she's been able to find Matthews herself. She feels embarrassed by it, the scrutiny and criticism only mounting the pressure she feels to find an answer, quickly.

"Tell me this," She asks then, weary, "Is everything going to be okay?"

There's a sinking in your stomach, but you lie to her, and say, "I think so."

Your words hand in the air, as if from a hangman's noose.

"Thanks," Kerry replies, and you're not sure if she believes you.

"Hey, Ally?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful out there. Keep your head on a swivel." You feel like you can hear the smile in her voice when she responds to you, though her tone remains grave.

"Always. You too."

---

[11:47AM - Outgoing] Did you know about the FBI getting involved in the Jigsaw case?

[11:48AM - Incoming] no.

[11:48AM - Incoming] fuck.

[11:50AM - Outgoing] That one isn't a vision either, straight from Allison

[11:51AM - Outgoing] But I've seen them, too.

[11:51AM - Outgoing] Two agents I think. They look like trouble.

[11:53AM - Incoming] thanks for the heads up

[11:54AM - Incoming] fbi... what a pain in the ass

[11:55AM - Outgoing] If they start poking around, it could be a lot worse than that

[11:55AM - Outgoing] Be careful

[11:59AM - Incoming] well how about that. you do care.

[11:59AM - Outgoing] Don't let it get to your head

---

The Jigsaw Survivor Support group meeting is held in a church basement. It's the first time you've been in a church for a long time, and the atmosphere feels weighty with the desperate prayers of its inhabitants.

Of course, there isn't an elevator. Down in the cool of the basement, a circle of chairs waits for you, and you get the sense that several men and women already seated when you arrive. Hushed voices quiet to silence as you approach, tapping your cane ahead of you.

"Oh! Hello!" A woman's voice calls out as you approach, nervous but excited. From her tone, you guess that she's an older woman. "You're new! Normally, Dr. Gordon would greet you, but he's actually away this week. He's the one who organized this group."

Doctor Gordon. Why did that name seem to strike a chord of familiarity with you?

You wince as someone takes your arm. You've learned that one major difference about being blind is that strangers are all too willing to touch you, now that they think they're being helpful.

You sure wish that they wouldn't.

The person who grabbed you by the arm leads you further into the room to a chair, "helping" you sit down. They seem a bit offended when you don't thank them, instead setting your cane beside the chair and folding your hands in your lap.

"So? What'd he take from you?" A male voice asks from across the circle, after you've settled into your seat.

"Take a guess," you reply dryly. No one in the room laughs, and you're not sure if it's better or worse that you can't actually see them all, staring and judging you. You clear your throat, and try again. "My ability to see."

"You don't need to talk about it, if you don't want to," the woman placates quickly, a note of admonishment in her tone. "Ned, you can't just ask the new people what was taken them-"

"It's okay," You interrupt, feeling surprisingly calm. Between the woman who had grabbed you, and the man who interrogated you, she had bothered you more than he had, "Not much throws me off, these days."

Reaching out with your senses, you survey the circle. A tangled mess of self-pity and loathing hits you, and you have to keep your lip from curling in a sneer of distaste. These are the survivors? You only get a hit off of one of them that doesn't repulse you- a reluctant, begrudging respect, an acknowledgement that he's made changes in his life that have improved things, since the game that he was in.

Feelings of ownership, control, responsibility- could the Jigsaw games really inspire them? Mostly, it just seemed to have traumatized these people-

These people, who were so miserable and desperate to begin with, their sins writhing inside the marrow of their bones. You have to free the sins, get the them out of the marrow to save them-

Your head throbs. The headaches have lessened considerably since you... refocused your senses, but they hadn't completely disappeared.

Briefly, you itch for a painkiller, but you ignore the craving as best as you can as you listen to each subject in the group introduce themselves.

The only name you fully register is that of the young man who you'd felt the sense of kinship with- Daniel Matthews. Hm. Isn't that ironic?

"I'm still processing everything," you say, after you introduce yourself. "But to be honest... I guess I have been seeing things in a different way."

"I'm sure you've learned to appreciate your life, and be grateful," you can hear the scowl in the man called Ned's voice. You have no idea what his test was, or how he survived, but you can hear the sarcasm in his tone- if someone here is grateful, it isn't him.

You consider the words seriously instead of taking the bait.

Had you?

"I've learned to appreciate the life that I have, rather than the one I used to wish I had," You say. You can feel the attention of the others burning on you, and it makes your skin crawl. Their judgment is like a heavy blanket over the room, and its almost suffocating. But still, the words pour out of you, too honest, too raw.

"I'm the only person who can do what I do, and the only person who can see the world from my perspective. Wishing and hoping for things to be different is pointless- it's pathetic."

No one says anything, so you continue, trying to explain further how you feel. Maybe you hope that you can convince someone here to see their game in a new light. Maybe you just need to say the words have have been stuck in your throat for so long.

"I am who I am. I'm the person I love and the person I hate. Good, bad. It doesn't really matter. I don't care anymore, and I'm so tired of making excuses for being myself."

The room sits in quiet silence, until finally, Daniel Matthews speaks up for the first time in the session.

"But do you know... who that is? Yourself?"

The version of you in your mind's eye- the version from the forest lake with the jagged metal crown- looks at you and grins with teeth.

Your words in response seem to be carried by an incoming chill.

"I think I'm figuring it out."

---

You're not sure what you expected, but a house in the suburbs is not it.

"I'm renovating it, so careful where you step," Mark says, leading you through the front door with a hand on your waist. "Would be a hell of a waste if you died tripping over a brick."

"Hey, you're not allowed to make fun of me for being blind," You reply back, without any real venom. His hand squeezes your waist, playful but dominant.

"Who said anything about you being blind? I was talking about your two left feet." You jab him in the side with your elbow, and he chuckles to himself, pulling you along with him.

It feels altogether domestic- far easier than it has any right to feel. You can imagine a life together, in this home. Taxes and fighting over chores and going on trips. Putting on music as the sun goes down, brewing coffee in the mornings as it rises. You allow yourself the indulgence of it, for just a moment.

The house smells like sawdust and paint, but there's a metallic undercurrent of blood. It's hard to tell if that scent is really there, or if it's just something your mind has picked up on, independent of your objective reality. Mark seems to lead you on forever, around too many corners to count.

There it is again, that sixth sense nagging at you. Something bad happened here. Something bad will happen here. Layers of pain, like the rings in the centre of a tree. You think back to Daniel Matthews, and his nervous, angry energy. So much like his father's, but still so different.

The coffin of glass swallows the target, but he doesn't know what it means. He thinks he is safe inside, but he is wrong. The walls are closing in on him, not his opponent, who is pulled through to the heavens. This isn't how its supposed to happen.

"Is this place a maze? What kind of architect designed this?" You mutter, as Mark stops walking and crouches down beside you. You tap your cane around, noticing a hollow sound ringing from part of the floor.

"Probably John. The layout's a nightmare. But the place is huge. It'll be nice, once its fixed up." Mark responds, and you hear a loud thud. "It's a trap door," he explains.

"Great," You reply, "Always a good sign."

Mark helps you through the trapdoor and down a ladder. Your tentative movements take time, but if he's annoyed by your slow pace, he doesn't complain. Once you're down the ladder, you reach out with your mind's eye, and survey your surroundings.

It is much colder, down here, somehow. Something bothers you about it, like an open sore in the back of the mouth.

"Hey, where are you going?"

You don't realize you're walking away until you hear Mark's voice, calling after you. Something is drawing you in like a beacon. It feels, suddenly, like you're on the cusp of completing something important, something you'd nearly forgotten about.

Drawn through the cold, damp, narrow tunnels, you somehow know instinctively which ways to turn. You don't trip, or run into walls, but keep moving, deeper into the dark. Until finally, you feel yourself stop in front of... something.

Reaching forward, you grasp the bars of a cell.

"Somewhere deep and dark. Low, inside the earth," you echo your words from weeks ago now, and hear a low, guttural groan in response.

Poor Eric Matthews, more animal than man by now.

"Yeah, he's not doing so great," Mark whispers in your ear, having followed after you. You get a brief flash of vision- Mark grabbing Eric by the hair, grown matted and shaggy, and dragging him back as he sobs and claws at the ground. Mark, punching him heavy in the stomach, throwing slop at his feet.

He hated it, at first. Then he grew to relish it.

Pure horror settles in you, uneasy in your stomach.

"Why... keep him?" You ask hollowly, feeling Mark's arm around your waist again, territorial.

"Kramer wants him for the next game," He replies, too quiet for Matthews to hear, "Needs him as an incentive. You know how bad the precinct wants to save him. Hell, it's why you're here in the first place."

"Is someone out there? Help me-" Matthews pleads, his voice broken, "P-please-" Your mouth is dry. You'd been brought in to save this man, and now here he was, begging for help in front of you.

"Huh. So he does remember how to speak," Mark mutters. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort Matthews, to lie badly to him and tell him it will be alright.

But this is what it is. Open wounds, dirty basements, and pain like the refrain of a prayer. The maw of Hell itself. This is what it means, to be a part of this.

To be partners with Detective Mark Hoffman.

You jump in surprise at a sudden, loud clang- Mark has grabbed your cane, and slammed it against the rusted bars of the cell. You hear whimpering, as Eric Matthews seems to retreat. You take a few steps back, away from the cell, closing your eyes as if it will help.

"It gets easier," Mark tells you, "I know, I know. It's alright to be uncertain. Too feel sick about it. I was at first, too."

You swallow, and nod. He presses his lips to your temple, in a gentle gesture, and continues to soothe you with honeyed words.

"Don't worry. No one's going to find out. You and me, we do this together. We help each other. Right?"

You nod again, and he kisses you, on the lips this time. It's almost forceful, as though by the action alone, he can make you forget your conscience.

"Come on," He says, "Lemme show you the bathroom."

---

Although you've never set foot in this room before in your life, you feel as though you're returning back to a place you grew up in. It has an air of nostalgia about it that's almost uncanny, like a place you've dreamt about a million times, but can't quite map the layout of.

Frankly, it's kind of fucking creepy in here.

The smells of decaying bodies doesn't help. It's unmistakable, almost sweet in its rot, and you clasp a hand over your mouth as you grimace.

"You're renovating, but you couldn't take out the bodies?" You ask, fighting the urge to gag.

"Yeah, let me just carry them to my car," Mark snipes back, and you suppose he has a point. "I don't really come down here. But hey, do your thing." You hear the scrape of a chair, and wonder- is he pulling up a seat?

With a deep breath, you calm your nerves, and try to dial in to your extrasensory perception. The first task you'd been given- find Eric Matthews- has been completed. The second- find the secret apprentice- has not. That's your goal, and the reason you came here. You know that this place has the answers you seek. The walls bleed with them.

You sense Mark, somewhere behind you, curious and sharp. But you need to reach something older. Glass crunches under your boots, and you slowly pace the room, stepping carefully as not to trip over anything.

Then, you catch hold of something. Before you can understand what you're doing, you're crouching in front of one of the bodies, taking his bony, brittle face into your hands. The skin is like tissue paper under your touch.

"Oh, Adam," You murmur to him softly, "How unfair. He didn't follow his own rules for you, did he?"

"Are you... talking to the corpse?" Mark asks, an edge of disgust in his voice.

You ignore him. The corpse doesn't speak, of course, but he answers you in his own way.

"He promised," you hear your voice saying, an echo from a thousand miles away, "He promised he'd come back to save him. A Knight in shining armour. But he never did. He dies down here, missing his mother and wondering if he'll ever see her again. He dies over and over again. He exists as a ghost, haunting the third. The fourth? The secret one, the guilty one, the one who got away."

You hold the skull delicately, with a care not to disturb him. Of course, he's just a body. Just a shell. But before that-

You smell cigarette smoke, hear the click of a camera snapping a shot. Despair, fear, loneliness. Despondency, hope. Bitterness, so much resentment. A cell phone ringing, a hacksaw, tearing into flesh, pain, pain-

"Who was tested in here?" You ask Mark, letting go of the body and standing. The room spins around you, seems to pulse in the darkness. You get the impression of patterns, swirling about- the kind you can read and understand, that you can use to tell the future, if you just focus. You wipe your hands on your pants.

"That guy," Mark replies, presumably pointing to Adam, "We strung up another guy in here at one point. And Matthew's game ended up in here, with the kid and Amanda."

"Who was with Adam?" The answer is so close to you. For some reason, you think of the Jigsaw survivor group, and briefly wonder if the secret apprentice is Daniel Matthews. It partially seems to fit, but your intuition suggests that guess is off base.

"A doctor, I think. We planted his pen light. I think he ended up surviving. What the hell was his name...?" As Mark thinks, the answer comes to you, bold, in flashing neon lights.

"Doctor Gordon," you whisper. You ankle aches in confirmation.

"That was it," Mark replies, and then he pauses. "Him?"

"Him."

"You're sure?"

You see a blonde man, pale and sickly looking, crawling away as blood pours from the stump of his leg. It flows like paint spilling from an overturned tub, until the man presses it to a boiling pipe. Flesh melts and blood coagulates. He survives.

He survives. But he is alone. He has no one else but the ghosts, and the King, omnipotent in his wisdom, sees a subject in the making. A knight to stand guard, to protect the most valuable pieces. To save, when he could not save before.

"I'm sure," You reply, and you are. You hear Mark stand up from his seat.

"What now?" He asks, walking back over to you, "Do we...confront him? Ask Kramer about him?"

It's curious, you think, that he's asking for your opinion now. But you shake your head.

"No," You answer. You've never felt so sure of something in your life. The impressions of the patterns spell out hints to you, show a chessboard with its pieces, ready for play.

"No, we sit on this. We'll need him, later. We don't let anyone else know that we know," You say and you hear Mark make a small hum of contemplation.

"We'll need him?" He asks, a note of skepticism in his voice, and you nod.

"I don't know how yet. But I can feel it. Trust me on this?" You ask. He sighs.

"You haven't been wrong yet," He replies, and you smile at him in thanks. The pieces are coming into focus now, starting to settle into place. John Kramer has been lining up these dominoes for half a decade.

And you can sense what's coming. Your sight will be your survival. You catch the sound of a buzz, coming from where Mark stands.

"It's John. He wants to meet with you again, one-on-one," Mark says then, and you hazard a guess that he's looking at his phone. Does John Kramer know how to text?

"When?" You ask back. Your intuition tells you this will be important- that it might be the last time you see Kramer, face to face. He's a tyrant, his dark shadow looming over you and Mark, and you know in your soul that even when he's dead, that isn't going to change.

"Now. You ready?"

You hope that you are. You think of Eric Matthews, rotting in the dark; and Daniel Matthews, living in the day. You think of Adam, resigned to the depths to die alone, and Ned, who survived to scoff at the notion of gratitude.

It makes you sick, and not out of guilt.

A/N- A bit plot heavy, but since I actually know where this is going now, I'm actually laying down the building blocks for the end! Thank you for waiting, I'm a bit nervous about this chapter so if you liked it, please leave a review <3

TAG LIST: @icarusinstatic @honimello @haven-is-happy @karmaswitch @the-jester-calamity @teamhawkeye @thebrideofcaliban @mjrkime @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @mrs-hotforhoffman @aliengutzstuff

#mark hoffman #sawposting #slasher fic #costas mandylor #my writing #slasher x reader #detective hoffman #mark hoffman x oc #mark hoffman x reader #smut #psychicverse #saw franchise #saw movies #horror #reader insert #x reader #gn reader

125 notes · View notes

acowardinmordor · 1 year

Text

I'm never going to write it, so here, enjoy some suffering as I combine multiple fics and tropes into a bouillabaisse of angst.

----

Eddie isn't quite dead when Steve, Robin and Nancy get back to them. Since the gates are starting to weaken, it's a mad rush to get everyone through. Steve gets Nancy and Dustin through so they can at least sort of help catch Eddie -- who is entirely unconscious and lacking a lot of blood. The gate is narrowing, the Upside Down is trembling, and Steve doesn't ask, just hefts Robin up and gets her through.

She makes it, but by the time she lands and looks up to yell for him to haul ass, everyone can tell that Steve won't make it through. The gate is too narrow and they don't know, they won't risk finding out what happens if the gate closes on him.

It's closing with exponential decay, so the slow creep it started with becomes a rush, and he yells for them to get to the damn hospital.

Then he's gone.

And look, they're furious and horrified and yes, they want to go after him right this second, but Eddie is dying and Dustin's leg is broken, and they don't even know if Max is okay. Besides, its not like they know how to open a gate.

It's a few days before Team Cali gets to Hawkins, and everyone, including Max in three casts begs El to open a gate.

And she can't. Something about how Henry died, something about the hivemind and the interconnection to the whole world. She knows it's still there, but she can't reach it. She can't find Steve either.

So a few days becomes a week, and Will won't answer questions, because he knows what its like to be alone there, and telling the others when there's no hope of rescue is cruel.

Then Eddie wakes up, coherent for the first time after the infection and the fever and the pain meds. They tell him, and they try to prevent the survivor's guilt - which was already awful - from destroying him. Robin gets it. She was the last through. Steve could have gone first and left her there, but they both know he never would.

They bond over it in the next few weeks as he recovers and leaves the hospital with a few hundred stitches.

After a month, they hold a small memorial, even though they haven't reported it. Without a body, it would take more paperwork than any of them can bear to complete.

The G-men took the Munson trailer, so he, Robin and Wayne are at Harrington's place for now. And if Eddie snoops a little when the others are at work, learning more about this idiot that died instead of him, its understandable.

The way he has all the scraps of his relationship with Nancy, dwarfed by the notes and dumb gifts and mementos of the gremlins. The enormous first aid kit, right next to the enormous supply of hair spray. The box of things from before '83, shoved in a corner, but not forgotten. Post its with important dates. A bank statement showing that his parents left him the house, but no money to cover upkeep or taxes. A scratchy budget where Steve so obviously prioritized his friends over himself.

Eddie learns about Steve Harrington and wishes he could trade places. Eddie is selfish and an asshole and a failure, and he isn't worth what it cost to save his life.

No matter what Robin says about being last through, Eddie knows it must have taken longer to move him, so if it wasn't for Eddie, Steve would have made it. If Eddie had died instead of clinging to life --

When Eddie develops a cough, everyone winces in sympathy as his still achy wounds protest the movement. When his cough gets worse, they consider contacting Owens about Upside Down pathogens.

When he has a coughing fit while the others are out, and ends up with a few blood stained petals in his hand, it takes a few seconds for him to understand.

It takes a few more for it to really land.

He spends the next hour over the toilet, first vomiting, then dry heaving as he sobs.

Because see, Hanahaki might be rare and a remnant of ancient magics, but it's well studied. The sufferer has to be in love and pining. They have to have no hope of the person they love ever reciprocating.

It isn't always fatal. If they confess, and they're rejected, they'll die within a day. If they confess, and it's reciprocated, the flowers fade within a day. If they fall out of love, the flowers fade within a week. If they stay silent they'll live another month from the first petals.

There is a surgery that can remove the affliction and the affection. It's safe, it's a priority treatment in every hospital, and the only side effect is emotional disconnection from the person who caused it.

But none of that is what has Eddie sobbing.

Cause see there's another thing that science knows for sure. Hanahaki will not, does not, absolutely cannot bloom if the person they love is dead.

#steddie #Eddie Munson #my writing #except not really #someone else can have this though #hanahaki #angst

287 notes · View notes

a-998h · 29 days

Note

I wonder how the Battle Tendency crew would react to a friendly Himbo! Pillar Man! male reader who was the only survivor and last of his kind? No one, not even reader, knows how he survived. But, he somehow did. He's usually happy all the time and sometimes jokes about his trauma but he can get serious if needed. He wants revenge against Kars for killing his family.

Reader after telling his tragic backstory: Isn't that crazy? 😄

Caesar, straight up flabbergasted and mortified: Wha- I- How the hell are you even alive?

Reader: I have no idea! 😃

Lisa Lisa: Have you heard of someone called Kars?

Reader: Kars? *face goes dark while he poses dramatically in true Pillar Man fashion* I have not heard that cursed name in years.....

I love this idea. Himbo reader is best reader.

Joseph and Speedwagon were still trying to cope with everything that just happened, beating Sanvento, the pillar men's connection to the stone masks, and the death of Von Stroheim. They returned to New York and reunited with Erina, before heading to Italy.

He befriends Ceaser, meets his mentor Lisa Lisa, and begins hamon training. Things are going great, but of course life has to throw a massive wrench in the way in the form of a another pillar man.

Your stony body was quite the shock for Suzi Q to find, she ran and reported it to Lisa Lisa. You were stared at, everyone worried. If you awakened, you could kill them all. But, something compelled them to drag you to a shaded area where you awakened. They were on guard, but you didn't attack, instead you freaked out and raised your hands in surrender.

"I come in peace humans!" You exclaim.

They don't believe you, they think you're going to attack the second they turn their backs. Lisa Lisa activities her hamon, and you smile?

"Wait, members of the hamon yribe survived?!" You ask in shock, not angry but happy, like an excited puppy.

The group looks confused and have you explain yourself.

Caesar, straight up flabbergasted and mortified: Wha- I- How the hell are you even alive?

Reader: I have no idea!

Lisa Lisa: Have you heard of someone called Kars?

Reader: Kars? *face goes dark while he poses dramatically in true Pillar Man fashion* I have not heard that cursed name in years.....

They ask you to explain.

" Kars attacked, me and my people, we fought against him. I ended up being stabbed after he slaughtered them, I had attacked with more vigor but I still got injured. I remained entombed for centuries until I met you all, Isn't that crazy?" You explained.

"Final question, are you with us, or against us?" Joseph asks.

"With you all the way, friends!" You declare.

Lisa Lisa

Pleasantly surprised by you friendly demeanor

Glad you're not planning to kill them

She feels kind of bad for you

You both bond over losing loved ones

When she sees you act dumb... she is so confused

You are an ancient powerful being that could kill them all, but you stand out in the rain not moving

She doesn't know who's more ditzy, you or Suzi Q

She finds some of you antics funny

Catches you traning at night, is proud of you for trying to get better

Has a list of things you can do and touch in her house... it's a small list

Doesn't laugh at you or mocks you

Thinks your heart makes up for you lack of brain power

Tries to act as a therapist for you and your trauma

Is kind of like a mom to you

Lisa Lisa: Reader when did you eat today?

Reader: *bright smile* Last week!

Lisa Lisa: *facepalms* Dear, let's get you breakfast.

Reader: ok 😁

^ these kind of interactions are daily

She ruffles your hair and laughs with you

She gets a little nervous when you start ripping into Kars

Wonders where the soft kind Pillar Man she loves went

Teaches you how to act in the world

Joseph Joestar

You're his new best friend

You two are a Josuke and Okuyasu type duo

He enjoys your friendliness

Thankful you were not planning to kill them

Is a little worried about you

When you joke about your trauma... he doesn't laugh

Wants to help you

Asks you about your family to make you feel better

Is willing to spar with you in the middle of the night... sometimes

Teaches you how to adapt to the modern world

Teaches you a few things he knows

Feels bad that you lost everything to Kars

Whenever you do something dumb, he questions how you survived centuries

Calls you "Love" and "Handsome" but you don't understand the flirting

Is annoyed with how dense you are

"You're as dense as the rock you were trapped in!" Becomes a common phrase he uses with you

You two are peas in a pod

Ceaser Zeppeli

He doesn't trust you

You're something that could kill them all, so he doesn't trust you at all

It's only after he sees how dumb you that he starts to let his guard down, only a little

Your "coping skills" makes him a bit worried

Tries to keep his distance but your friendly nature draws him in

Once he trusts you, he tries to be the older brother to you

Also teaches you things about the world

Is horrified by your story, and the way you joke about it

It takes him a bit to realize your jokes are your "coping skills"

He is proud of your warrior spirit

Wishes he could spar without one of you getting hurt

"Sei un idiota!" This something he commonly says to you whenever you've done something dumb

He calls you "second Joseph"

Tries to help you cope in a proper way

Is now a friend of yours

Feels your hate for Kars and wants to help you get revenge

35 notes · View notes

psychedelic-ink · 1 year

Text

𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐎𝐀𝐃𝐊

Pairing: FEDRA!Javier Peña x firefly!reader

Genre: slice of life, smut, romance, angst, enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, TLOU AU, minors dni

Summary: Javier, a former member of the Federal Disaster Response Agency in Kansas City, is haunted by the guilt and violence he indirectly caused by not taking action when he should have. After fleeing Kansas City in the aftermath of Kathleen's violent overthrow of FEDRA, you and Javier seek refuge in an abandoned train in the middle of a forest.

As you and Javier turn the train into a living space and learn to navigate the dangers of a post-apocalyptic world, you gradually overcome your differences and form an unlikely bond. But when your pasts catch up with you, you must confront the demons that haunt you and make a choice that could mean the difference between life and death. Will you choose to protect each other and find a way to build a new life together, or will the ghosts of your pasts tear you apart?

word count: 5k

chapter summary: some days are harder than others. you and javier go hunting in preparation for the coming winter.

warnings: canon typical violence, no y/n, survivor's guilt (javi), anxiety & thoughts of not wanting to exist for a while (javi), minor character death, tension, oral sex (receiving), dirty talking, piv, rough sex, outdoor sex, primal kink, arguing with soft ending, hurt/comfort vibes, breeding kink, feelings

Whiffletree - A component of a horse-drawn wagon used to help navigate rough roads by connecting the wagon tongue to the horse's harness.

It’s one of those days.

Javier wakes up with you by his side. Your body pliant and soft with sleep. Your chest moves up and down steadily, you’re bare—you’re always bare for him. Telling him that you preferred it that way, that you feel safe feeling his skin pressing against yours while you were taken by dreams. Him, on the other hand, he still put on his boxer shorts and undershirt. Not for a lack of trust, but he wasn’t about to take your trust lightly by being unprepared in the late hours of the night.

Sitting up, he reaches for his pack of cigarettes then stops, he’s down to his last pack, and he had an inkling he would want to smoke a lot today. You sleep with him often now. The constant arguing stopped. Both of you are content with just being. Feelings hadn’t been discussed. In this world, the talk of emotions isn’t needed. The two of you have found a semblance of happiness, that’s all that matters.

This was what Javier hoped to achieve when the both of you sought refuge in this train. Some part of him knew that you would be special and that part of him was right.

But still. . . it’s harder to remember that on days like this.

The days where he wish he wasn’t here, with you, and instead he was with his family. Be it in this world or the next. A heavyweight settles over his chest. Breathing is always more difficult on days like this. He would be staggering, wanting to hold his chest, almost like he was having a heart attack. But he would have to hide it if that happened today. He doesn’t want you to know, to worry. These feelings will pass. The feelings of guilt, and grief, and the need to not exist, even for a little while.

Javier lets out a deep exhale. The used-up oxygen moves within his body, traveling up his throat and forcibly parting his lips. He doesn’t want to feel. It’s all so confusing but also familiar, which only adds to his confusion. Does he miss the others? Carillo, Steve, even the insufferable Adam? He misses his father, his mother, despite her passing being unrelated to the outbreak. Javier never thought he would humor his life before as a peaceful one.

With these thoughts, his heart clenches, his chest caving in on itself. In that life, he didn’t have you. And he can argue that you are the best part of both lives. Finding you, seeing you for the first time was like breathing again. He was angry with you, yes, but that didn’t stop the rush he felt whenever he was with you. Guilt follows him like a shadow. It’s mirrored in his reflection in the water, in the windows. It’s always there. He sees the deaths of his friends, family—sometimes he even sees you; your dead eyes unblinking as you stare at him through shards of glass.

The weight on his chest, it’s heavier today. How can breathing be the easiest, yet the most difficult thing he can ever do?

“Javi,” you mutter, palm finding the slope of his knee. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” he says, quickly sliding back into the sheets and pulling you into his arms. He presses his nose into your hair, your earthy scent replacing the oxygen in his lungs. “Did I wake you up?”

You shake your head and his grip around you tightens. You kiss the front of his shoulder. Your lips warm and wet. He remembers the prior night when your mouth was wrapped around him, the best feeling in the world.

“No,” you look up at him between heavy lashes. “Did I wake you?”

“No, mi amor. I just saw a bad dream.”

You nod, your head falling back into his chest. His scar burns when you nuzzle him, a bit too close to comfort. He swallows, his jaw growing taut. You never ask him about his nightmares. Javier lacks the same restraint as you, so he always ends up asking you what you saw whenever you say you had a bad dream. Luckily, you seemed to enjoy the fact that he asks.

Wind rattles the windows. Thanks to the insulation the two of you managed to put together, the inside is warm and cozy. Your beds now side by side, the curtain that separated the two gone. You pull him in for a kiss, one that he happily obliges. He slips his tongue into your mouth, licking himself deeper as you wrap your arms around him and pull him close. He could do this forever. No matter how many times the two of you are together, Javier longs to feel your heat around him, to feel your mouth, your curves, your trembling body—these are the things he had been apart from for way too long.

“Javier,” you half whisper half moan, your breaths mingle together. “I’m going to say something. Promise you won’t get mad.”

His shoulders slump. Physically, he’s only an inch away from your person, but emotionally he’s already withdrawing, the walls that leave his mind in a haze drawing up. Your eyes are closed, soft lashes kissing your skin. His mind might be surrounded by a thick victorian-like fog but, fuck, he can’t deny himself of pressing his lips to your eyelids, one by one. Javier is already highly aware that he’s not god’s strongest soldier.

You sigh into him, your body instinctively curling towards his torso.

“Is that supposed to be a promise?”

He lets out a shaky breath, lips twitching with amusement. “I already know what you’re going to say, Perla. Today is the worst possible day for any questions.”

“I know you don’t want to talk about the past,” you answer, your eyes snapping open. The same determination from the first day he met you heavy in your eyes. “And of course, we don’t have to talk about everything. But we should be able to talk about some things. Your nightmares are getting more frequent.”

It’s because I’m happy now, when I don’t deserve to be. “Look at you, so worried,” he muses, leaving a trail of wet kisses as he makes his way down your body. “What would your firefly pals think of you now?”

You’re not stupid. Javier is positive you know his ways of distraction by now, however, he is grateful you don’t press the matter. He adores the way you spread your legs for him, without question. His cock twitches at the sight of you. Your pretty pussy already soaked. He kisses the mound, avoids your clit, and presses his mouth into your folds. You sigh in bliss.

“I think they would like you,” you answer, lifting your hips to meet the heat of his mouth. He pins you down with both hands and you let out a soft giggle. “I mean…if we ignore the whole FEDRA thing that is.”

“Were you close to anyone in particular?”

Your eyes drop to where his head crowns between your legs. Playfully, you tuck a couple of soft strands behind his ear. “Not really. No.”

“Their loss.”

With a smile you cup his cheek, thumb smoothing over his growing beard, the pad of your fingers finds purchase over a patch of skin that is stubborn and bare. “You’re starting to grow a bit of fuzz,” you say. “I like it.”

“I’m glad you do. You’re going to be seeing it for a while until we find a rusty razor.”

Javier pushes his tongue between your folds, licking a stripe up until the curve of his nose bumps against your clit. His cock drips when you moan for him. Without much thought, he grinds down into the mattress and groans into you. Your breath hitches, your fingers fisting the sheets. Your whimpers grow louder and louder. He flattens his tongue, kissing your pussy, he closes his lips tightly around the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your thighs are tight around the frame of his face. He feels the shaking of your legs, the way your cunt pulses with each stroke of his tongue.

After all this time, he still knows how to make a woman come. He’s prideful of the fact. He smiles as he sucks on your clit, his pulse skyrocketing at the way you pull at his hair. A pleasant pressure that starts from his scalp moves all the way down to his tailbone. You let out a sharp cry. Your hips stuttering while you flood his mouth. Javier softens his tongue, the muscles dancing between quivering lips as you slowly settle down. Your frantic breathing fades into long languid sighs, and soon enough you’re pulling him up, capturing his lips in an equally languid and lazy kiss.

He loves distracting you.

You smell rain. An incoming storm. A ticking bomb. It’s all laid out so clearly in the wind that it’s hard to miss it. Javier had brought you along to hunt with him, even though you would much prefer to stay at the train and clean up the “kitchen area” for better use. You told him as such and he rolled his eyes, a tired yet humorful smile gracing his handsome features.

He knows you don’t like to hunt, but asked you to come anyway. Saying that you needed to learn, just in case.

“It’s not that I don’t know,” you chide, stepping over a dried-up log. “I just don’t like doing it.”

“Well, I’m not going to be the only one hunting. Do you know how heavy a deer is? I’ll pop a shoulder.”

You huff. Picking up the pace, you playfully shove your shoulder into his. “I guess that’s fair.” And you look good when you hunt so I don’t mind.

Of course, you would never admit that. The man knows he looks good, he doesn’t need you to remind him. You’re also pretty sure your eyes are a dead giveaway anyway, eating him up as he propped a rifle under his arm and watched his prey. The thing you feel is akin to liquid heat rolling down your spine.

Javier suddenly stops, his arm reaching in front of you to stop you as well. He doesn’t have to. You’re trained to feel the sudden distress of those around you. Either that or death. Still, feeling his arm gently bumping into your stomach made you smile. You’re quickly getting addicted to being cared for.

“There,” he whispers, grabbing your hand and leading you to crouch behind a thick bush. Your eyes follow to where he points, and lo behold, a handsome buck nosing the earth in search of food. Just like you two are. “Do you want to or should I?” he mutters. He’s already sliding the rifle off his shoulder.

“You already know my answer,” you lick your lips, watching unblinkingly as he takes his stance, his eyes focused. “Go ahead.”

Javier readies himself to take the shot. His finger hovers over the trigger. His breathing is slow and measured, each inhalation deep and deliberate. You can see the muscles in his arms tense, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The tendons in his hand twitch. It's as if he's completely in tune with the rhythm of the forest. The tip of his tongue slowly pokes out from between his lips and stays there.

You feel a wave of heat wash over you as you watch him. The buck comes further into focus. A gust of wind blows, playing with the soft strands that fall over his forehead. Javier's eyes narrow with concentration. You can almost feel the electricity in the air as he takes aim, his finger tightening on the trigger. You hear the soft click of it first, then a loud echo of a bullet firing out of the nuzzle of the gun.

And despite all of that, he misses.

The buck jumps with fear, running away and disappearing into the forest.

“Fuck!” Javier shouts, his sudden rage coming as a surprise to you. He quickly picks himself up from the soil and attempts to make chase, that is until he realizes you’re not following. He turns, rifle swaying across his back. The crease between his brows is deep, the scowl he’s giving you reminding you of the time your relationship was a hostile one. “What are you waiting for? Come on.”

Your lips part with the intent to tell him to give up, that the two of you should look for another target instead. But something in his eyes prevents you from saying that. With shaky legs, you stand and follow. His eyes drop to your feet, then raises again, meeting your gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“Wouldn’t be the first,” you answer, a nervous bubble of laughter escaping you. “You usually don’t miss, are you. . . um. . . are you okay?”

He contemplates your question, the world around you buried in uncomfortable silence, even the leaves completely still. Javier throws his head back and looks to the sky, then he lets out a breath. His hand slides into his pocket, pulling out his cigarette pack.

“I don’t want to lie,” he says, head falling back as he pulls the stick between his lips. “I’m not doing that well today.”

“Does it have to do with. . . you know,” you trail off and he levels you with a look. You’re not sure what he’s saying though, but you decide to continue. “Your friends.”

His eyebrows raise, cigarette loose between his lips. “Friends?”

“Steve and the others.”

“Stop it,” he lights the cigarette and drags his thumb down the curve of his nose. “Just stop talking. I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Your heart sinks upon hearing the tremble in his voice. You take a step forward, relieved when he doesn’t move away from you. Javier sucks the but of his cigarette, filling his lungs with sweet nicotine, then he exhales the smoke, burrowing it into your lungs instead.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me anymore. I know you still are. Let me apologi—”

“I’m not mad.” he shakes his head. “I just don’t want to talk about it. Not FEDRA or the life I lead before you showed up. The past should stay in the past.”

“You know that’s not true.” a bead of sweat rolls down your spine and you shudder. You walk until there’s no distance left anymore and touch his wrist. His fingers twitch. “The past is still bothering you. Maybe if you talk about it—”

“And say what?” he hisses. “That their dead because of me? That I was too weak, too much of a coward to save anyone? To explain those who were closest to me that all of what we were doing was causing the death of the people we swore to protect? Is that it?”

“Javi—”

“Or,” he says, cutting your sentence short the third time. He raised his voice abruptly, his words echoing “Do you want me to say that they died because of what you did? Is that what you want? Me blaming you? I don’t know what you’re digging for, but you’re not going to get it. I’m not going to rest my head on your lap and open my heart to you. That’s not how this works.”

“Then how does this work?” you snap back, eyes burning with coming tears. “I just want to talk. I don’t expect you to forgive me, to cry or anything like that. You’re clearly upset just let me fucking be there for you!”

“It’s not your job to be there for me.”

“So is this how it’s going to be then? Just us fucking like rabbits and saying sweet nothings only when it’s convenient? We’re not actually going to be there for each other where it counts?”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

He pulls away from you. Slipping from between your fingertips. His rage is still heavy in the air, but the wind and the forest around you comes to life again. The dirt crunches under his boots, his cigarette held tightly between his lips.

What’s the next step to take? You think bitterly. What’s the right thing to say?

You don’t know.

So you follow.

Somewhere along the way, you find your body pressed against a large tree trunk, thick moss sticking to the fabric of your shirt. Unlike before, instead of him giving you the silent treatment, Javier was chatty. He kept angrily muttering things, either directed at you or the buck that had run off. He was still adamant about finding it. No matter how many times you tried to convince him the animal was gone. He said some things that hurt, and you returned the sentiment. Your words like the knives you carried on your hips; sharp and painful. Venom spewed from the both of you, and deep, deep down, you wondered who it was helping. Him, who was still blaming himself but trying to mask it by saying it was you to blame—which he wouldn’t be wrong, you blamed yourself too— or you, who was foolish enough to think some good could come out of this world?

And with those thoughts swirling in your mind, he pushed you towards the nearest tree, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs.

His hands skim down your sides, squeezing and pulling at every inch. Javier grinds his hips into the curve of your ass and you let out a sharp gasp. He’s quick to tug down your jeans and kick your legs apart. Thick fingers follow the elastic of your underwear. You feel his breath, hot and wet, fanning over the back of your neck. The urgency in his movements slows until it comes to a full stop. He’s hesitating, you realize. But you don’t want him to stop. You want to feel the rage that built in him in the past twenty years. You want to feel his teeth sinking into your skin and fingers tearing at your flesh.

You want to take his anger from him as he buries himself deep inside you, animalistic, primal.

“Don’t get shy on me now, Javi.”

There’s a teasing lilt to your tone. Something that you hope he engages in. There’s a small tug at your lips when Javier buries his fist deep into your hair, pulling from the roots. A sharp breath leaves you as he yanks your head back, he drags his chapped lips down your neck, and much to your surprise, he leaves a kiss at your pulse.

“You’re a fucking thorn in my side,” he groans, lips moving along your heated skin.

That’s all he has to offer in the means of tenderness.

With one strong thrust, Javier buries himself to the hilt. You gasp aloud. Your forehead falling against the grooved surface of the tree. He’s so close. His clothed chest pressed up against yours, he’s panting, every breath a violent heat against your neck. You flutter around him, a weak attempt to adjust to his width. But Javier doesn’t give you much time. You’re soaked, so he pulls out and snaps back in with ease. Dripping down his length and the inside of your thighs. You attempt to bite back moans. Which results in unattractive, choked out sounds leaving you instead.

His fingers curl around your throat. The perfect necklace. Heat rolls down your spine when he tugs you back, an arch forming between bodies.

“There’s no one else here,” he growls, teeth nipping at your cheek. “Let me hear you.”

You’re shaking, trembling with the way he rolls his hips with each and every word. A whimper leaves you. And, frustrated, Javier shoves two fingers between your lips, parting your mouth wide to eliminate the filter. The pace he sets after that is brutal. It’s piercing, his cock splitting you into two, only his hips moving while he holds you in place. You moan loudly into the forest, the wind accompanying you in some weird mystic way that makes you feel free. Your knees buckle.

“You like this don’t you?” he groans, pulling you away from the tree so he would be the only one preventing you from falling. Your eyes roll back. Your skin burns at the way your breasts begin to sway with each heavy stroke. “Being fucked like this, out in the open. Like animals. Is this why you try to piss me off all—”

He changes the angle, fucking himself deeper. You cry out. “the—” he grabs your breast, squeezes it. “fucking—” he sinks his teeth into your neck, the last word coming out muffled. “time.”

You claw at his forearm that’s wrapped around your torso, holding you up. You make the mistake of briefly looking around, witnessing the greenery as he thrusts up into you, his cock hot and searing. The pleasure accompanied by the peaceful terrain makes you clench, a groan slipping past your lips. This shouldn’t feel as good as it does, at least that’s what you’re thinking.

You hear his cruel chuckle, hot and heavy in your ear. Your nipples tingle and harden further. “Filthy,” he spits out, voice dripping with amusement. “I can feel you squeezing around me. . . it feels. . . good.”

In those words, you hear a bit of clarity, a bit of softness.

“You want me to come inside you? Fill you up so you feel me for days, perla?”

Javier's voice fills the stillness of the forest, consuming you. His words lace with a raw, almost primal intensity that leaves you gasping for more. You feel the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he continues to thrust into you, a rhythm building between you that is as old as time itself.

“Yes, yes—fuck—please, Javi. Need it so bad.”

His breath is hot against your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh just below your ear. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, your body responding eagerly to his touch. You feel his fingers curling around your waist, pulling you even closer to him as he pounds into you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy.

The way he fills you up, the way he takes control, the way he possessively claims you with each thrust—all of it makes you feel alive in a way you never have before.

The moss beneath the soles of your boots appears soft and yielding, the leaves rustling gently in the breeze as you cling to Javier. The heat of his body presses against you, his chest heaving with each breath as he brings you ever closer to the edge. His fingers tighten around your throat.

You feel his cock pulsing inside of you, his thrusts becoming more desperate. Your name on his tongue becomes a fevered chant. He buries himself deep inside of you, you feel his hot seed flooding your body, filling you up until you think you might burst. The pleasure is almost unbearable, the sensation so intense that you can barely breathe. Electricity burns you as it rushes up and down your body, every muscle feeling limp and worn out. He doesn’t pull out, keeps you still, groaning as come trickles down from where his cock stretches you.

The world around you slowly comes back into focus, you realize that you are still clinging to Javier, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, his lips brushing gently against your neck.

You both struggle to catch your breath.

Screaming. Shouting. Gunfire. Blood.

He could smell it all in the air. Thick like fog. Javier’s own body felt unfamiliar to him. He moved but to where he had no idea. He pushed over god knows how many people, running, searching. Carillo, Steve…it was unlikely that they made it. The only reason Javier was still alive is due to the fact that he was on patrol. She would’ve struck the headquarters first. Which is where Carillo and Steve were stationed at.

A woman with a knife suddenly jumped in front of him. He felt the restraint in his arms as he pointed his pistol. She looked like an infected. Blood running down her cheek, her hair mussed and tangled, her eyes deranged.

“Fuck FEDRA!” she growled, jumping him.

With a twist of his body, he ducked away and didn’t turn back to watch her fall to the concrete. His gun was empty. He didn’t have the luxury of wasting time for anyone to find out. He was about to duck into an alleyway when he saw it; a young man that he once knew. Adam. It wasn’t uncommon for FEDRA to receive young officers, most of them orphans, eighteen, sometimes nineteen. He remembered teaching him how to aim. His green eyes were left open, a handle of a knife coming out of his throat like a solid plastic tongue.

Bile rose to Javier’s throat. His blood boiled, every muscle buzzing with fear and adrenaline. Adam didn’t choose this. His parents died, most likely killed, then was raised by FEDRA to be a soldier.

“I’m sorry, kid.” Javier whispered, granting himself a brief moment to lean over and close Adam’s eyes.

He was still warm to the touch.

While you didn't manage to find the exact buck you were looking for, you did manage to find a deer that was just as good.

Now the two of you sit at the table, two cups of rosemary tea in front of you. The sky dark, the stars invisible due to gray clouds thickening. Silence consumes you both. Javier stares outside, his bottom lip sucked between his teeth as he nipped unconsciously. After the…heated moment in the forest, Javier hadn’t said much. He wasn’t silent but the atmosphere was less than cheerful.

Soft drops begin to hit the glass, an echo of rain filling the train car. Anxiously, you wrap your hands around the mug and bring the porcelain rim to your lips. It was cracked.

“I did try to stop it, you know,” he mutters, his whispered words loud in contrast to the silence of the night. “Micheal and I. I was feeding him information, trying to help him to overthrow my friends. He was a peaceful man.”

You take a slow inhale. Your lungs expand and when it does you fear that even the smallest of movement might bring on back his silence. You watch. Your eyes glued to his face that was buried in darkness. He continues without looking back at you.

“But that all changed when Henry and Sam got involved. Sam was Henry’s little brother, Henry gave up where Micheal was to Carillo in return for medicine, which brought on Micheal’s death. I tried to stop it but as always, I wasn’t efficient. Before I could say, or at least attempt to put my foot down and face a similar death—Micheal was gone.”

“And Kathleen took control.”

You immediately regret speaking up but he doesn’t flinch away, only nods. “Yeah. She did.”

“I’m sorry, Javier. The fireflies shouldn’t have meddled—I…I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not your fault, cariño. You were following orders. I would be a hypocrite if I just blamed you,” he lets out a stuttered breath. “I did awful things. I stayed silent many times when I shouldn’t. I’m not a good man, and I doubt I ever was.”

“You were loyal.” you point out. “So was I.”

He scoffs, eyes following the raindrops that slide down the windows. “It wasn’t out of loyalty. I owed them, owed Carillo and Murph my loyalty. They saved me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, your nails tap against the mug. “Your scar…”

“I was captured while we were transferring a bunch of people between QZ’s. Hunters. They were going to kill me, they slit me open.” he swallows. “I still remember it. And I was prepared to die—I embraced it— but they came back for me.”

You don’t say a word. Just imagining him laid out like that, stripped of everything only to be killed. . . cold sweat coats your skin, uncomfortably sticky.

“So yeah, I owed them my loyalty. I don’t know if I would’ve done anything differently if not. Maybe I would’ve simply run away when things got so complicated.” he shakes his head. “I never got to ask them.”

“Ask them what?”

“Ask them why. So I’ll just ask you instead,” He finally turns to face you, his eyes swallowed by complete darkness, yet clearer than the stars that are hidden. “Why did you save me?”

You hear the crack in his voice. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He’s so unsure of his question, what answer it might bring. But lucky for him, your answer comes to you as naturally as breathing.

“I saw goodness in you. Saw it the day we met.”

You hear him swallow. Without touching his tea, or saying anything else, he takes you by the hand and leads you to the bed. You sit down next to him, feeling the cool metal of the train car's wall against your back. Javier leans against the wall too, his arm wrapped around your waist as you both watch the rain outside. The patter of drops against the windowpane is a soothing background noise, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder.

After a while, he pulls you so you sit between his legs. He sneaks his hands under your shirt, palms spread out over the tender skin of your stomach. You sigh, leaning into him. His lips touch your cheek.

“I’m sorry for today,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” you answer far too quickly. “I enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t mean that,” you hear the smile in his voice. “I meant the arguing, the things I said. I think the grip the past has on me is only worse now because I’m afraid of losing you. It’s easier to live with the worst of yourself when you have nothing.”

You know what he means. And you agree with him. However, your need to comfort him is much greater compared to your need to be logical.

“You won’t lose me,” you say with a certainty that surprises you. “We’re going to grow old together right here, in our little nook of normalcy.”

Javier hums, lips moving down to your neck. Hold me, he says into your skin, and you do. Turning in a way where you can wrap your arms around him. You know all the words he wants to say. How his first instinct to answer you by saying this world is full of death and wretchedness, you know this because that has always been your first instinct too. But he doesn’t. And neither do you.

You two are too stubborn not to make that dream a reality.

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x you #javier peña #narcos fic #narcos x reader #hbo the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #tlou fanfiction #tlou au

212 notes · View notes