#chapter 8 of maelstrom

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₈

This is Chapter 8 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 7.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 8

a/n:  (lightning flash warning in one of the gifs I use)

The longest walk of your life had left you battered, each step back from the cove a slow, aching trudge through the darkened woods, the soft weight of the fish sack dragging at your shoulder like a chain. The forest had been merciless—roots snagging your boots, branches clawing at your cloak, sending you sprawling into the dirt more than once. 

By the time you stumbled into Berk’s outskirts, your attire was a wild mess: mud streaked across your arms, twigs and leaves tangled in your hair, your cloak torn at the hem from a particularly vicious fall. The moon had been your only guide, its barely pale light casting long, ghostly shadows that twisted your path into a maze of doubt and hurt as you walked through the canopy of the overhanging trees.

Now, as you neared your home, the familiar silhouette of your door loomed ahead, a faint promise of rest after hours of turmoil. The forge next door glowed faintly, its hearth burning bright through the open walls, and Gobber’s low, tuneless hum drifted out, mingling with the rhythmic clink of metal on metal. He was working late, oblivious to your closing form and the churning in your chest, and you envied that ignorance as you shuffled closer, too weary to care who saw you in this state.

Hiccup, meanwhile, had spent those same hours restless, his mind a tangle of worry and guilt. He’d stayed up, pacing the forge after slipping away from Stoick’s overbearing pride, his thoughts circling back to you—where you’d gone, why you hadn’t met him as planned. The trial’s chaos had swept him away from you—this he knows—the crowd’s fervor a wall he couldn’t breach, and he’d fled to the cove to escape it all, forgetting the promise of the forge in his haste. 

When he’d returned home seeing as you weren’t there, the silence of Berk had gnawed at him, your absence a quiet ache he couldn’t shake. Now, as he glanced out from the forge’s glow, he spotted you—wild-haired, dirt-smeared, a shadow of the girl he’d left behind—and his heart lurched. He bolted after you, boots pounding the earth, desperate to close the gap before you disappeared behind your door. 

You didn’t see him, your gaze fixed downward, too tired, too angry to notice the figure closing in. Your hand gripped the latch, swinging the door shut with a dull thud, but his boot jammed into the frame just in time, stopping it cold. 

Startled, you yanked the door wider, your breath catching as Hiccup stood there, his sheepish grin flickering under the weight of your stare. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he would always do when feeling guilty, and launched into a rush of words, apologies spilling out like water from a broken dam.

“Hey—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for ditching you at the arena,” he started, his voice tripping over itself. “It was a mess, then they took me to the Hall—where I manage to sneak away—it’s just. . .everyone was in the way, and I couldn’t—I just had to get out. I went to the cove to wait, but I forgot about the forge, trying to avoid Dad and Gobber in the process, and—gods, I’m sorry about missing lunch too. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.” 

He kept going, oblivious to the change brewing in your silence, his words piling up like stones—earnest, fumbling, blind to the hurt you buried deep. It wasn’t until he paused, his eyes finally tracing over you—taking in the dirt smudged across your cheeks, the leaves knotted in your hair, the wild exhaustion etched into every line of you—that he faltered, his grin fading. 

“You. . .You look like you’ve been through it,” he said, softer now, concern creeping in as he registered the toll of your trek.

You bit your tongue, the truth clawing at your throat—you’d waited for him in the cove, hours spent in the dark with Menace, your heart sinking with every passing minute. But you couldn’t say it, couldn’t face the questions it’d raise—Why didn’t you just show yourself?

So, you tried to deflect it, but your words betrayed you—voice tight as you asked, “Why does Astrid know about Toothless?”

His eyes widened, confusion flickering across his face, followed by a flush of embarrassment. “Wait—how do you know about that?” he stammered, and the heat in your own cheeks betrayed you again. 

“I. . .I was at the cove,” you admitted, the words bitter on your tongue. “I waited there, worried about you after the trial. But when you landed with her, I—I didn’t know what to do. I stayed hidden.” 

His expression shifted, panic flaring as the pieces clicked—panic for making you wait, for sending you home alone through the dark, for the possibility you’d seen everything. 

You didn’t mention the dragons’ nest, though the anger simmered beneath your skin, a quiet fury he couldn’t miss in the hard set of your jaw. It was rare—almost unheard of—for you to be truly angry with him, and he saw it, his own guilt sharpening as he caved.

“Okay, look—I’m sorry, I’ll explain,” he said, his voice dropping as he spilled it all, unprompted. “I went to the cove to wait for you, like I said, but Astrid—she followed me somehow. I didn’t know until it was too late. She saw Toothless, Menace, everything, and I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I took her flying, showed her what I showed you, she’d understand.” 

A small blush crept up his neck as he spoke—to which you thought it was him blushing over her—his words tugging at the memory of your own flight—the clouds, the aurora, his arms around you—and the parallel clenched at your heart, a dull ache blooming where warmth had once been.

“And then—gods, it was an accident—we found the dragons’ nest. I know we were supposed to see it together, and I messed that up. I’m so sorry, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.” 

He went quiet, his eyes searching your face for something—forgiveness, understanding, anything like you always did—but you stood there, emotionless, a wall of silence he couldn’t breach. The hurt was too raw, too tangled with the image of Astrid’s kiss on his cheek, her excitement echoing in your mind. Something you couldn't muster up to do yet. 

He shuffled his feet, nervous, waiting, and when you finally spoke, your voice was flat, a forced calm that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m happy you found it,” you said, nodding stiffly, the words tasting like ash. “And that you had a good time with your crush.” 

His jaw dropped, a strangled sound catching in his throat as he floundered for a protest, “Crush? No, that’s not—,” but you cut him off with another smile, thin and hollow, a mask that felt wrong even to you. 

“I’m tired, Hiccup, I’m covered in mud and cold,” you said, gentle but monotone, the exhaustion seeping through every syllable. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Before he could respond, you shut the door, the latch clicking into place with a finality that echoed in the silence. 

On the other side, Hiccup stood frozen, his hand hovering where the door had been, guilt crashing over him like a tide. Your words—“your crush”—rang in his ears, a miscommunication that twisted the knife deeper. He hadn’t meant it like that, hadn’t seen Astrid that way not for a long time now that he thought about it, but the hurt in your eyes, the way you’d shut him out, told him he’d failed you in ways he couldn’t fix tonight. 

His chest ached, a melancholic weight settling there as he replayed it all—the trial, the cove, the troubling mistake of him telling you he shared the same flight with her as he’d shared with you—and he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner, for not finding you when it mattered. You, inside, sank against the door, the sack slumped—forgotten at your feet, your wild appearance a mirror to how you felt. 

The glow of the forge flickered through the cracks of your window, Gobber’s hum a distant drone, but it couldn’t reach the quiet mess of your thoughts—the flight you’d cherished, now shadowed by another, the nest you both were planning to find together, stolen by chance. The miscommunication between you two had stretched like a chasm, wounded trust tugging at your heart, leaving you both adrift in a melancholy neither could name.

The next day dawned heavy and gray over Berk, the sky a thick shroud of clouds that mirrored the weight pressing on Hiccup’s chest. He’d barely slept, the events of the night before replaying in restless loops—your hollow smile, the door shutting in his face, the sting of your words branding him with guilt. 

He wanted to find you; to mend the rift he’d unwittingly carved between you, but doubt gnawed at him. Space might be what you needed, though every fiber of him ached to see you, to erase the hurt he didn’t mean to cause. The looming trial—the slaying of the Monstrous Nightmare—only tightened the knot of stress twisting inside him, its shadow growing darker with each passing hour. 

He missed you, fiercely, your absence a quiet void he hadn’t realized he’d grown so much closer—so used to filling with your laughter, your steady presence that he needed right now. But he stayed away, wrestling with his regret as the morning dragged him to the forge, where duty—and you—waited. 

You were already there when he arrived, the three of you—Hiccup, you, and Gobber—huddled in the forge’s smoky warmth, the air thick with the tang of molten iron and the rhythmic clang of hammers. It’d been too long since the last dragon raid, a rare lull that left Berk’s defenses itching for readiness, and you’d all but agreed to help Gobber sharpen weapons, preparing for the inevitable chaos that could strike at any moment. 

You stood at the grindstone, your hands steady as you honed a blade, but your face was a mask—closed off, distant, a stark contrast to the easy rhythm you’d once shared with Hiccup. He worked across from you, shaping axe heads with mechanical precision, his glances flickering toward you like a moth to a flame, each one met with your resolute silence. 

The awkwardness hung heavy, a palpable thread even Gobber couldn’t miss, his eyes darting between you repeatedly with a quirked brow as he pounded a dented sword back into shape. Even for him he knew this was unlike either of you. The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, until Gobber slapped his knee with a loud crack. 

“Right, lad,” he boomed, his voice too cheerful for the tension. “Time fer trainin’. Stoick’s waitin’ at the arena ‘round now, and we’ve got a couple weeks to whip ye into shape fer that Nightmare. Let’s move!”

He clapped Hiccup’s shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts, and Hiccup’s gaze snapped to you, guilt etched deep in the lines of his face. You buried the ache clawing at your chest, forcing it down as you set the blade aside, your hands trembling faintly.

“Can I come?” you asked, your voice soft but steady, a fragile thread of hope woven into the words. “I could help out.”

Gobber’s grin faltered, and he scratched his beard, his tone apologetic but firm. “Sorry, lass—Stoick’s orders. No distractions while we’re trainin’ the boy. Needs his head in it, ye know.”

Your heart sank, a fresh wound opening beside the one from last night, but you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. Hiccup’s eyes met yours then—the first time that day—and they were pools of regret, his mouth opening to mutter a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before Gobber’s meaty hand landed on his shoulder again, steering him toward the door. 

You held his gaze for a fleeting second, the guilt in his expression a mirror to the hurt in yours, but then he turned, forced to follow Gobber out to the arena, leaving you alone with the forge’s flickering light and a mountain of unfinished work. 

The busy days that followed blurred into a slog of solitude and steel or flour and bread. You stayed at the forge one day the next in the kitchen. Hammering blades and mending armor, the clanging a dull rhythm to drown out the ache that lingered like a bruise—just the same when you kneaded dough. 

Hiccup trained with Stoick and Gobber so he was always away now, his absence a constant pull at the edges of your thoughts, though you refused to let it show. You buried your feelings deep, letting the work numb you, but the silence he’d left behind echoed louder than ever. 

Then, one afternoon, determined to bridge the gap in some small way, you packed a large lunch—smoked chicken, bread, wedges of cheese—enough for the three of them, your hands moving with care as you wrapped it all in a cloth. 

It was a peace offering, a quiet gesture to ease the strain, and you carried it to the arena with a flicker of hope, the basket heavy but your steps lighter than they’d been in days. The roar of the wind in the tunnel greeted you as you approached, the wooden gates creaking as you slipped inside—and then you saw her. 

Astrid. She was there, her axe in hand, barking pointers at Hiccup as he dodged a training dummy, her presence a sharp jab to your chest. Gobber had said no distractions, had turned you away, yet here she was, woven into their circle while you stood on the outside. 

You froze, the basket suddenly leaden in your arms, anger flaring hot and bitter—why her and not you? Stoick and Gobber spotted you first, their eyes narrowing until they saw the food, and their faces softened. 

Gobber grinning beside him, “Good lass, keepin’ us fed. He said, clapping your shoulder with his good hand. 

You managed a tight smile, your gaze sliding past them to Hiccup, who stood off to the side with Astrid, mid-conversation. He caught your eye and waved, an awkward, appreciative nod paired with a small smile, but it faltered when he saw the frown tugging at your lips. Astrid glanced over too, her expression unreadable, and the sight of them together—talking, training, allowed—twisted the knife deeper. 

Stoick and Gobber moved off, hauling gear and digging into the food, leaving you to linger a moment longer. You waved back, the gesture stiff, your frown deepening as you turned on your heel and left, the arena’s noise fading behind you.

Hiccup watched you go, his stomach sinking as the pieces clicked—Gobber’s refusal, Astrid’s presence, the hurt you couldn’t hide. He’d wanted to give you space, to spare you the mess of his guilt and the trial’s pressure, but now he saw it—every choice he made seemed to go wrong. 

The arena felt colder without you suddenly, Astrid’s voice a faint drone beside him as his mind lingered on your retreating figure, the lunch you’d brought a quiet plea he hadn’t known of your true intension's. 

You walked back to the kitchen alone, the anger simmering into a dull, familiar ache, the basket’s absence a hollow weight as you buried yourself in work again, the clang of pots and angrily stirring of stews your only companion amidst your anger as the people on the other side of the kitchen including Marta watch on with fear of crossing you.

The days at the forge stretched on, each one heavier than the last, the silence between you and Hiccup a growing gap neither of you knew how to bridge. The air in Berk carried a restless edge, the gray clouds thickening overhead as the village bustled with its usual clamor—swords clanging, carts rumbling, sheep mawing, voices rising over the wind. 

You were hauling a crate of freshly sharpened swords to the weapons storage when Bucket and Mulch shuffled by, his weathered face scrunched as he rubbed his head beneath his ever-present bucket hat. 

“Storm’s comin’,” he groaned in his loud humble voice, squinting at the sky with a grimace. “Can feel it in me skull.” 

Mulch, trailing behind with a sack of grain slung over his shoulder, chuckled dryly. “Aye, feels like a snowstorm, but not a bad’un—Bucket ain’t wailin’ too hard about it yet.” 

Bucket shot him a confused look, but the faint tremble in his voice was mild, not the howling dread that signaled true danger. Still, their words sank into you like stones, a cold unease curling in your gut. Storms weren’t just a walk in the woods to you—they were ghosts, echoes of the night your parents had been ripped away, lost to a howling tempest on the day you were born and the day of Berks’ worst recorded storm. 

Their words clung to you, a quiet fear that tightened your chest whenever the wind grew sharp or the thunder rumbled low, a secret known only to Hiccup, Gobber, Marta, and Stoick.

Your hands faltered on the crate, the metal edges biting into your palms as a flicker of that old terror stirred. Hiccup knew it better than anyone—had known it since you were small, when the storms would roll in and you’d shrink into yourself, eyes wide with a fear you couldn’t voice. 

A memory flickered to life, sharp and sweet: you, barely six, huddled beneath a rickety table, the thunder crashing outside like a dragon’s roar. Rain lashed the walls, the wind howling through every crack, and you’d been trembling, your small hands clutching the edge of a table leg as the world seemed to shatter around you. 

Little Hiccup—scrawny, all knees and elbows even then—had crawled under beside you, dragging a pile of woolen blankets he’d scavenged from the house. 

“Don’t worry, I'll protect you,” he’d said, his voice high but steady, his green eyes wide and bright in the dimness as he piled the blankets around you—four, maybe five of them, until only your eyes peeked out from the cocoon. 

He’d hugged you tight, his skinny arms wrapping around the bundle of you, his cheek pressed to the top of your head as he rambled on about the first thing that popped into his mind—how he’d seen a Terrible Terror steal Old Man Sven’s boot that morning and nearly choke on the laces. 

“It was flopping around like this,” he’d said, flailing his arms in a ridiculous mimicry, his words tumbling over each other to drown out the storm. 

You’d clung to him, the thunder fading to a dull growl beneath his chatter, and though the fear never fully left. His warmth—his presence—had made it bearable. That was Hiccup: your shield, your distraction, your constant through every tempest. 

Now, though, as Bucket's warning hung in the air, that comfort felt distant, buried beneath the strain of the past days. You finished your work at the forge in silence, the unease festering as the clouds darkened, the first flakes of snow swirling down by dusk mixed with rain followed by loud claps of thunder. Hiccup was still at the arena, training with Stoick and Gobber, the three of them pushing him hard for the Monstrous Nightmare trial despite the worsening weather. 

The storm Bucket had predicted hit that night—not a raging beast, but a steady, biting squall, rain pelting the village in gusts as thunder rumbled low and menacing. You were alone in your small home, the wind rattling the shutters, each crack of thunder sending a shiver down your spine. 

Hiccup wasn't there—couldn't be there you knew this—caught up in the arena's demands, and though Gobber and Stoick knew your fear, they'd dismissed it this time.

"It's not a bad one," Gobber had grunted earlier hiding his own worry when Hiccup, soaked from the rain, had protested, his voice rising in frustration. 

"She's tougher than that son—focus on your trainin'," Stoick had said, his massive hand steering Hiccup back to the drill, ignoring the anger flashing in his son's eyes. 

Hiccup had wanted to go to you—had felt the pull of that old promise tugging at him—but they'd boxed him in, their expectations a cage he couldn't break through. So you sat alone, huddled beneath your table just as you had all those years ago and every other storm since, surrounded by heaps of blankets you'd dragged from your bed. 

They swaddled you in layers, rough wool and fur skins scratching at you, but they couldn't block out the storm's growl—the way it echoed that night, the night you'd lost everything. Your knees were drawn tight to your chest, your hands trembling as you pressed them over your ears, trying to mute the thunder that rolled through the walls. 

Hiccup's absence was a hollow ache, sharper than the storm itself—how much you wished he'd been here, rambling about some half-baked invention or Toothless' latest antics, his arms around you like they'd always been. 

Instead, the silence beneath the table was deafening, broken only by the wind's mournful howl and the occasional crack that made you flinch, your breath hitching as you squeezed your eyes shut. You tried to summon his voice in your mind, to conjure the comfort he'd always given, but it slipped through your grasp—it wasn't the same, leaving you stranded in the dark with nothing but the blankets and the ghosts of a storm long past.

At the arena, Hiccup's heart wasn't in the training. Rain plastered his hair to his face, his tunic clinging cold and heavy as he dodged Stoick's barked commands, his mind miles away with you. He knew what storms did to you—had seen the way they stripped you bare, left you trembling—and the thought of you facing this one alone clawed at him, guilt and worry twisting tighter with every thunderclap. 

He'd tried to argue, his voice sharp with a rare edge, "She needs me, you don't get it!"

But Gobber and Stoick had waved him off, their focus locked on the trial, on molding him into the warrior they thought he should be. Now, as he swung a blunted axe at a dummy, his movements were sloppy, distracted, his chest tight with a helplessness he couldn't shake. 

You were out there, under that table, and he wasn't with you—couldn't be with you—and the weight of that failure pressed down harder than the rain, a quiet, anguished ache that lingered long after the storm began to fade. 

The storm had passed by morning, leaving Berk blanketed in the first full snowfall in what felt like ages—a pristine, glittering shroud that crunched underfoot and signaled the creeping onset of winter. The air bit sharp and cold, the village waking slow under the weight of the snow, smoke curling lazily from chimneys as the day stirred to life.

You stepped out into it, your boots sinking into the fresh powder, your breath puffing in small clouds as you pulled your cloak tighter. The storm's echoes still lingered in your head—a quiet, unsteady tremor you buried away—but the daylight helped, the routine of the village a tether to pull you forward. 

Hiccup, meanwhile, had seized a rare break from training, the first morning in days where Stoick and Gobber hadn't dragged him straight to the arena. He stood with Astrid and the gang near the center of Berk, close to the Great Hall—Snotlout flexing for Astrid in particular, Fishlegs rattling off snow facts, the twins bickering over a half-formed snowball, and a handful of other teens milling about together with them, their laughter cutting through the crisp air. 

Hiccup's eyes caught on you as you passed by, your figure a familiar silhouette against the white, and his face lit with a smile, relief softening the edges of his guilt. 

"Hey, excuse me a sec," he muttered to the group, brushing off Astrid's curious glance as he jogged to catch up with you.

"Hey!" he called, his voice bright but tentative as he fell into step beside you. "You okay? After. . .last night?" His gaze searched your face, worry flickering beneath the warmth of his smile.

You nodded, keeping your pace steady, your voice even as you replied, "Yeah, I'm fine." 

It was a lie, polished smooth from years of practice, but he didn't buy it—never did. His hand shot out, catching yours before you could pull away, his fingers curling gently around yours, anchoring you in place. 

"Come on, really," he pressed, his tone soft but insistent, his thumb brushing your knuckles like he could coax the truth out.

You faltered, the warmth of his touch tugging at the ache you'd buried, but you sidestepped it, forcing a lighter note into your voice. 

"I'm fine—But I see you're enjoying wearing that iconic breast hat," you said, nodding at the horned contraption perched crookedly on his head—a gift from Stoick he'd worn more for irony than pride.

His grin widened, a mirror to the teasing smirk he'd given you so many times before, and he tilted his head, letting the horns wobble dramatically. "What, this? It's peak Viking fashion—thought you'd appreciate seeing it again," he shot back, his voice lilting with mock offense. 

You couldn't help it—a real smile broke through, small but genuine, the first in days, sparked by the familiar dance of your banter. He laughed, a sound that eased the tension in his shoulders, relief washing over him as he saw a glimpse of the you, he'd missed so fiercely.

The flying situation with Astrid, the trial, the storm, the distance—it all faded for a moment, and he fell into step beside you, his stride matching yours as you headed toward the Great Hall. He'd meant to keep you company, to tag along for your kitchen duties and steal a few more minutes together, the way he used to before everything twisted sideways so quickly.

Your smile lingered, a quiet bloom of warmth in your chest, because you'd missed him too—missed this, the ease of him at your side, the way he made the world feel less heavy. But just as you turned toward the hall's steps, a shout cut through the snow-dusted air.

"Hiccup! Get back here!" Snotlout's voice boomed, followed by a chorus of laughter from the group.

Astrid waved him over, her grin sharp, while Fishlegs chimed in with some trivias. Then that girl—neither Astrid nor Ruffnut, but that lanky teen with a wild grin and short blond hair and a loud giggle—darted forward, grabbing Hiccup's shoulder and yanking him back with a playful tug.

He stumbled, half-turning to protest, "Hey, hold on!" But the group swarmed him, their voices overlapping in a chaotic tangle of jokes and chatter.

Snotlout shoved a snowball into his hands, the twins egging him on, and Hiccup's laugh broke free, bright and unguarded, pulling him into their orbit of a snowball fight. You paused, watching as he glanced back at you, his smile faltering for a split second before he told you to come over, but the group's energy swallowed him up, their hands tugging at his tunic, their laughter drowning out his hesitation.

Your chest tightened, the warmth from moments ago cooling again, and you sighed, turning away before he could see the shift in your face—Marta would get to you if you left her hanging during Stoick's breakfast time. The snow crunched under your boots as you walked off alone, the hall's shadow stretching long and cold ahead of you.

Hiccup caught the tail end of your retreat, his eyes following your shrinking figure through the flurry of snow and friends, but you were already gone, lost to the grand doors you had shut behind you.

The pang of guilt returned, though he didn't chase after you—not this time. He let the group pull him back—distracting, their voices filling the space you'd left, but his laughter felt half-hollow, a quiet melancholy settling in as he wondered how many more moments, he'd lose to the distance he couldn't seem to close.

The evening settled over Berk, the Great Hall humming with the lively din of Vikings gathered after a long day, their voices rising and falling over the crackle of the hearth and pit fires. Snow still dusted the ground outside, the first true bite of winter lingering in the air, but inside, the warmth was a living thing—fed by the bustle of clinking mugs, hearty laughter, and the rich, sweet aroma wafting from the kitchen.

You stood at the heart of it, elbow-deep in your seventh batch of sweet fig cakes, the rhythm of the work a steady balm against the ache that had taken root in your chest. The kitchen was your domain, a small corner of control amid the storm of the past days, and you poured yourself into it with a quiet focus that Marta, bustling nearby, couldn't help but admire.

The tables in the hall were already groaning under the weight of your efforts—platters of smoke cod, roasted chicken and goat glistening with herb butter, bowls of creamy root stew steaming in the chill, and trays of those fig cakes everyone craved, their golden tops glistening with a sticky glaze of honey and crushed nuts.

You worked the dough with practiced hands, the soft, pliable mass yielding beneath your fingers as you folded in the fig filling—plump and dark, their sweetness bursting against your tongue when you'd tested one earlier. A drizzle of honey went in next, pooling golden and thick as you stirred, followed by a pinch of good herb that dusted the air with its warm, spicy scent.

The mixture came together in a symphony of textures—soft dough, chewy fruit, the faint crunch of nuts you'd toasted over the fire until they crackled, their rich, earthy flavor seeping into every bite. You shaped the cakes with care, pressing them into small, rustic rounds, your palms sticky with honey as you laid them on the hot griddle.

They sizzled faintly, the edges crisping to a perfect golden brown, the figs caramelizing into dark, jammy pockets that promised to melt on the tongue. The scent was intoxicating—sweet and warm, a tease of comfort that drifted out to the hall and drew hungry glances from the Vikings over to you.

Marta, flipping slabs of meat nearby, shot you a grin. "Ye've outdone yerself again, lass—them cakes'll have 'em fightin' over the crumbs."

You managed a small smile, brushing flour from your cheek. The batch finished, you loaded a tray with a jug of frothy mead and a stack of the still-warm fig cakes, their glaze catching the firelight as you carried them out to the hall.

The tables were a riot of noise and motion—Vikings tearing into their meals, mugs clashing in toasts—but your steps slowed as you neared the table beside Hiccup's, where he sat with Astrid and the gang.

You kept your head down, focusing on setting the tray without a fuss, but their voices cut through the din, sharp and unmissable. The girl with the wild grin and short blond hair leaned forward, her eyes glinting as she spotted you.

"There's Hiccup's second shadow again," she said, her voice loud enough to carry, a smirk tugging at her lips.

A ripple of chuckles followed, Snotlout snorting into his mug as Fishlegs nodded absently, caught up in his own thoughts.

"Yeah, she's always right there, isn't she?" another teen piped up—a wiry boy with a red face—his tone edged with mockery. "Like a lost puppy, trailing after him. Doesn't it ever get old, Hiccup? I'd be sick of it by now."

Hiccup froze, his mug halfway to his mouth, an awkward laugh escaping him as he fumbled for a response.

"Uh, well, I—" he started, but they didn't let him finish, their voices piling over each other like stones.

The girl leaned closer, lowering her tone but not enough to keep it from you. "She's just gonna drag him down," she whispered, her words a blade slipped between ribs.

"I feel like she's only here for his fame now that he's got what it takes," another muttered.

The air went thick, your hands stalling on the tray as their words sank in, each one a quiet wound you hadn't braced for. You didn't look up, didn't let them see the way your throat tightened, but the silence that followed was deafening—they'd noticed you, their chatter dying as eyes flicked your way, wide and caught.

Before you could move, Marta stormed over, her apron flapping, and delivered a sharp smack to the back of their heads with a wooden spoon, the crack echoing through the hall.

"Mind yer tongues, ye little beasts," she snapped, her glare sweeping the table. "Show some respect or ye'll be scrubbin' pots 'til spring."

She turned, her fierce eyes softening as they landed on you, but you were already moving—your frame hunched, steps measured, walking away as if their words were nothing, a breeze you could shrug off.

Inside, though, they burrowed deep, a cold, heavy weight settling beside the hurt you'd carried since the cove. Marta watched you go, her lips pressing thin, but you didn't look back—couldn't—your hands trembling as you slipped into the kitchen's shadows, the clatter of the hall fading behind you.

The day before Hiccup's trial to slay the Monstrous Nightmare arrived like a cold blade against his throat. The snow outside was beginning to melt quickly all while Berk braced itself for the spectacle that would define him—or break him. Hiccup's nerves were raw, a live wire snapping with every gust of wind. The weight of the trial a relentless pressure he couldn't outrun. But it wasn't just the fight bothering him—it was you.

The gnawing guilt of your distance, the echo of your hurt from days past, a wound he'd inflicted and couldn't heal. He'd spent the night tossing in his bed, replaying every misstep—the flight with Astrid, the teen's cruel whispers, the door you'd shut in his face—Everything—Until finally the guilt ate at him driving him out into the frostbitten dawn. His boots crunching through the snow to find you.

He was nervous, his hands flexing at his sides, his breath puffing in shallow bursts as he approached the forge, where he knew you'd be. As he walked toward it, he made note of how he regretted not going after you in the hall when they had said those things toward you. He just hoped you weren't too mad at him. This was the moment—where he'd change, where he'd face the mess, he'd made and try to claw back what he'd lost, though he wasn't sure he deserved it.

You were there, bent over a workbench, sorting a pile of dagger blades with a focus that bordered on mechanical, the forge's heat painting your face in flickering gold—hitting you in that same light he had seen you all those weeks ago on that quiet ocean cliff you had claimed as your new spot—making a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

The forge's heat pulsed through the air, thick with the sharp tang of molten steel the hum of the fire a steady drone beneath the village's distant clamor. Hiccup lingered in the doorway a moment, watching you, his chest constricting at the sight—your wild hair flecked with ash, your shoulders hunched like you carried more than just the work.

He forced a nervous grin tugging at his lips as he stepped inside, trying to lighten the air. "Hey, where've you been hiding?" his voice was light, teasing, but it cracked at the edges, betraying the nerves he couldn't mask.

You didn't look up at first, your hands stilling on the blades, and when you did, your eyes were sharp, glinting with something raw.

"Me?" you snapped, your voice cutting through the air like a whip—the first time you'd ever turned it on him like that, and it stopped him cold.

"You're the one avoiding me, Hiccup." The words were a blade, quick and piercing, and he blinked, his brow furrowing as he took a step back, caught off guard by the venom in your tone.

"What? No, I—," he stammered, confusion knitting his features. "Is this because my dad and Gobber won't let you in on the training? I can't help what they want, you know that."

His voice rose, defensive, grasping for an explanation he could clutch or make you understand.

You set the dagger down with a clatter, turning to face him fully, your jaw clenched tight. "No, Hiccup. But it's real nice that they allow Astrid to help though. Isn't it?"

The sarcasm dripped from your words, honed with a bitterness he hadn't braced for, and his eyes widened, a flicker of realization dawning—though he misread it, his mind seizing on jealousy as the simplest thread to pull.

He crossed his arms, his own frustration bubbling up. "That's because she has experience in combat? You only know how to throw daggers," he shot back, the words spilling out before he could stop them, tinged with an edge he hadn't meant.

It was a lie—he knew you were more than that, he'd seen you wield those daggers with deadly grace—Just as precise as a Deadly Nadders' spikes—But the teens' whispers had wormed into his head, and he was floundering.

Your eyes flared, indignation sparking hot. "Oh, well pardon me then." you retorted, turning the other way.

"You're acting selfish—like your jealous or something," he went on irritated.

"Excuse me?"

He bristled, the accusation stoking his own anger, fueled by days of their voices—the teens'—hissing in his ears, twisting his doubts into something ugly.

"Yeah, maybe it is! You're mad about Astrid, right? Because I'm actually doing good in front of the village now," He threw it out, reckless, the words sharp and half-formed, a desperate grab to make sense of your hurt.

You laughed—a short, incredulous sound that held no humor. "Jealousy? That's not it at all, Hiccup, and you know it."

Your voice trembled, anger and pain tangling as you pushed back. "When you offered me those same tactics for the arena, I told you no—told you to use them, to show Gobber, your dad, Berk, that you're more than enough. I've supported you through all of it—every step, every lie. Lying to Gobber tore me up, but I did it for you because you're important to me."

The confession slipped out, small but heavy, a crack in your armor he didn't catch—because his own frustration was boiling over, drowning it out. He shook his head, jaw tightening as the teens' words clawed their way to the surface, venom he'd let fester too long.

"Maybe they're right, then," he snapped, his voice low and cutting, a reflex he couldn't rein in—couldn't understand where it was coming from.

"I can't breathe with you up my neck all the time." The blow landed like a sword in the dragons' stomach, sharp and jagged, and he saw it hit—your face crumpling, eyes widening then dimming with a hurt so stark it stole the air from his lungs.

Regret surged through him, hot and bitter, the instant the words left his mouth—their own words not his. . .not his feelings—but it was too late. You dropped your gaze, the rough-hewn floorboards blurring beneath the sheen of tears you fought to hide, your shoulders slumping under a weight he'd just doubled.

A faint nod was all you could muster, a small, broken gesture that carved into him deeper than any dragon's claw.

"I didn't mean for it to come out like that," he said, his voice rough with apology, stepping toward you as his hands flexed, aching to undo the damage. "I'm sorry."

"No," you cut him off, your head snapping up briefly, a flash of glistening eyes meeting his before you edged back, the distance growing cold between you as tears pricked at the corners.

"No, you're right." Your voice wavered, soft and fraying, as you hugged your arms to yourself, the forge's glow casting shadows across your trembling frown.

"I'm sorry—I forget you've got your own thing and need your own space to breathe, you've got the life you want now. I'm so used to meeting you every morning—since we were kids, scrambling over rocks, dodging others—that I'm constantly with you, never giving you a break. . .Hiccup—It's because you're the one I look forward to, the one I need to see every day."

"I just. . .I just need you, Hiccup, because you're the only family I've got—besides Gobber, of course. But you. . .You are all I got."

"No, that's not it—," Hiccup started, his tone urgent, stepping closer as desperation clawed at him, his boots scuffing the dirt-streaked floor. He reached out, fingers brushing the air where you'd been, but you were already retreating, the words tangling in his throat.

"It's fine. Really," you said, though your voice cracked, a fragile thread snapping under the weight of your lie.

A faint, pained laugh broke through, and you shook your head, brow furrowing as tears traced silent paths down your cheeks. You waved him off, a shaky dismissal, your hand trembling as it fell.

"I need to get back to the Hall. . .Marta probably needs me. . .I'll see you around." You turned, the crunch of your footsteps fading into the forge's hum, leaving Hiccup rooted in place—his breath shallow, his heart a wild drum against his ribs.

He'd changed in that moment, the shift seismic and irreversible. He'd thought it wrong to take Astrid on that flight—the same one he'd shared with you, a memory he'd held sacred he knew this so well—but he'd convinced himself you'd understand, that the opportunity had forced his hand when she'd threatened to expose Toothless.

He'd apologized, hadn't he? And he'd liked Astrid—or thought he did, the lines blurring now—because somewhere in the chaos, he'd started wondering if it was you, he cared for, you he needed, though he couldn't name it yet.

But hearing the people in the hall, their whispers twisting into his doubts, he'd let them poison him, let their jabs about you being clingy, a shadow, a burden, seep into his words.

He'd hurt you badly—knew he had—but your snap, the first time you'd ever lashed out, had stung him too, and he'd lashed back, thinking he didn't deserve it—but he knows he did.

Now, as you walked away, the truth crashed over him: he hadn't meant space from you, but from the world pulling him apart, and he'd pushed you away instead.

The silence swallowed him, heavy with your hurt and his failure, your retreating figure a wound he'd carved himself, leaving him teetering on the edge of a bridge he wasn't sure he could mend—and an ache that whispered maybe he'd lost you for good.

This is Chapter 8 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 9

Dbf!Joel Miller x F!Reader

"𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘐'𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨,"

summary: it's the big day

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 9

masterlist of the series!

previous | chapter 8

next | chapter 10

The night was heavy with a silence that seemed to hum with unresolved tensions. Inside Joel’s dimly lit living room, the only sound was the soft ticking of the clock as Joel’s mind raced with thoughts of vengeance. He had just finished a tense conversation with Ellie, who had reluctantly agreed to stay home and get some sleep. Her concern had been palpable.

"Now, get some sleep, Ellie, I'll be right back." He said as he pick up his jacket and his truck's key from the desk.

"Wait, where are you going?" Ellie ask, "I need to go back to her house, I need to take care of her before her father's get home," Joel lies.

"Okay," Ellie said.

Joel closed the door behind him, the weight of his decision pressing heavily on his shoulders. As he made his way to the truck, he could feel Ellie’s anxious gaze lingering on him, a reminder of the fragile line he was walking. The lie about returning to your house to take care of you was a necessary deception, a way to keep Ellie from discovering his true intentions.

The truck roared to life, its engine breaking the quiet of the night. Joel’s thoughts churned like a storm at sea, the images of your pain intertwining with the dark intent driving him forward.

He gripped the steering wheel of his truck tightly, knuckles white against the darkness, he clenched his jaw over and over again, as he drove towards the bar where Jamie was likely to be. The truck's headlights cut through the inky blackness, but they could not penetrate the veil of anger that had enveloped Joel. He was determined to find Jamie and make him pay for the harm he had inflicted on you. Joel’s thoughts were a maelstrom of vengeance, interspersed with fleeting memories of the tender moments he had shared with you. Every time his mind drifted to your pain, it only fueled his resolve.

He will keep you safe no matter what it takes.

The anger roiling inside Joel was a storm at sea, a hurricane of grief and rage that threatened to tear apart the calm facade he maintained. His feelings for you were like a fragile flower in a storm, blooming amidst chaos but vulnerable to the fury of the winds. Each image of you in pain was a dagger to his heart, a wound that only deepened with every second Jamie remained free.

When he arrived at the bar, he parked a short distance away, his eyes scanning the scene with a predator’s precision. The bar’s neon lights flickered intermittently, casting an unsteady glow on the streets. He watched from the shadows, a ghost among the night, waiting for Jamie to emerge.

Inside the bar, Jamie and his friends were oblivious to the storm brewing outside. Their laughter and raucous voices filled the air, a stark contrast to the tension simmering in Joel’s chest. He remained hidden, his focus sharp, his patience unwavering. Every now and then, he glanced at the entrance, his resolve hardening with each passing moment.

As the night wore on, Jamie finally stumbled out of the bar, his steps unsteady and his demeanor reflecting the effects of heavy drinking. But just as Joel prepared to make his move, a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision.

Unbeknownst to him, someone had been following him, moving with the same stealth and purpose. The presence was unsettling, a silent observer whose intentions were cloaked in mystery.

Joel’s attention was solely on Jamie, his anger and determination a palpable force. Jamie, heavily intoxicated, staggered towards his car, fumbling with his keys. Joel slipped out of his truck, moving silently across the empty parking lot. He followed Jamie’s unsteady path. The scene was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

As Jamie clumsily tried to unlock the door, the keys slipped from his grasp and fell into a nearby drainage ditch. "Fuck, C'mon!" Jamie cursed loudly, his frustration evident as he bent down, reaching into the dark crevice. The night was still, the only sounds being Jamie’s muffled swearing and the distant hum of traffic.

He kept his eyes fixed on Jamie, who was now still crouched beside his car, struggling with the keys. The empty parking lot was dimly lit by flickering streetlights, casting long shadows that danced with the slightest movements.

Joel’s footsteps were soft, almost imperceptible as he approached Jamie from behind. His anger was a fierce, controlled fire, burning with the intent to protect you and ensure that Jamie faced consequences.

As Jamie struggled to retrieve the keys, Joel’s voice cut through the silence. “Looking for something?” The tone was calm, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. Jamie’s head snapped up, and he looked over his shoulder to see Joel standing behind him, a chilling smile playing on his lips.

Joel's smile was devoid of warmth, more of a grimace shaped by his dark intent. His brown jacket, now illuminated by the faint light, made him appear as a looming figure from the shadows. He stood with his hands casually behind his back, but his posture and expression spoke volumes of the resolve that lay beneath.

Jamie’s eyes widened in shock and fear as he recognized Joel. “Mr. M-miller?” he stammered, his voice a mix of surprise and trepidation. The night seemed to hold its breath, the stillness around them amplifying the tension of the encounter.

Joel's demeanor remained unnervingly calm. “Are you looking for something, Jamie?” he asked with a pretense of friendliness that masked the dangerous undercurrent of his intentions. His voice was smooth, like honey laced with venom, creating a facade of benevolence while plotting something darker. The contrast between his calm exterior and the turmoil brewing within him was as stark as light against shadow.

Jamie, visibly shaken, struggled to maintain his composure. “Uh, I, uh, my car keys fell,” he stuttered, his hands trembling as he tried to retrieve the keys from the ditch. “What are you doing here?”

Joel’s response was as measured as it was unsettling. “Oh, I was just out drinking at the bar with Tommy. I think your keys might have fallen too deep.” He offered the lie with an almost casual ease, as though discussing the weather rather than the dark purpose behind his presence. “Are you heading home?”

Jamie’s fear was palpable, his mind racing to keep his anxiety hidden. The dread of Joel uncovering his involvement in your assault was almost suffocating. He attempted to push aside his panic, focusing on the trivial matter of his lost keys. The fear of Joel’s inquiry seemed to magnify with each passing second.

“Uh, yeah,” Jamie said, his voice betraying his unease. He began to back away, clearly eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere that Joel created.

Joel’s smile remained, but there was an edge to it that hinted at something darker. His voice was smooth, as though offering a simple gesture of kindness rather than concealing a deeper, more menacing intent. “Well, do you need a lift?”

Jamie’s anxiety was palpable, his body language betraying his fear. He glanced nervously between Joel and the dimly lit parking lot, where the shadows seemed to close in on him. The weight of his recent actions and the looming threat of Joel’s presence created a sense of suffocating dread.

“N-no, it’s fine,” Jamie stammered, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. “I’ll just walk.” His voice was uneven, betraying his attempt to mask his fear with bravado.

Joel’s gaze was unyielding, a quiet storm of determination masked by a façade of concern. “You sure?” he said, his tone smooth and insistent. “the roads aren’t safe this time of night, and it’s not a good idea to be out here alone.”

Joel’s demeanor was calm, yet his presence was a heavy shadow, looming over Jamie. “I can get you home quickly,” Joel pressed, his offer carrying an undertone of menace cloaked in false kindness.

Jamie hesitated, glancing back toward the bar, where the distant sounds of laughter and music seemed almost mocking in their cheerfulness. “Okay,” Jamie then said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you,"

Joel’s smile widened, not with warmth but with a predatory satisfaction. He gestured toward the truck, his movements deliberate and controlled. “No problem,"

As Jamie climbed into the passenger seat, the world outside the truck seemed to dissolve into a blur of darkness and shadow. The engine roared to life, its vibrations a stark contrast to the icy resolve simmering within Joel. The truck rumbled into motion, each bump on the road a reminder of the storm brewing in Joel’s heart.

Joel's mind was a tempest, a relentless maelstrom of anger and righteous fury. His thoughts were as fierce and unyielding as a hurricane tearing through a desolate landscape. He was not swayed by fear or hesitation; the night and its secrets wrapped around him like a shroud, fueling his unshakable resolve. He had witnessed your pain, and it had ignited a fire in him—a fire that burned away any feelings inside him.

Jamie, on the other hand, was ensnared in a cocoon of fear and uncertainty. The truck’s interior was suffocating in its silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the engine. Jamie’s eyes darted nervously from the road to Joel, trying to gauge the other man’s intentions. The weight of his secret pressed down on him like a leaden blanket, each moment of silence more unnerving than the last.

Joel's face was a mask of cold determination, his eyes fixed on the road ahead with a relentless focus. The darkness outside was a metaphor for the storm raging within him, a canvas upon which his resolve was painted in stark, unforgiving lines. He was a man forged from shadows and steel, willing to embrace whatever darkness was necessary to shield those he loved from harm.

As the truck continued its journey, Jamie's unease grew palpable. He realized with a creeping dread that the streets they were navigating were not the ones leading to his home. The road was unfamiliar, winding through the outskirts of town where the lights grew sparse and the shadows deepened.

Jamie swallowed hard, his throat dry and constricted. The weight of his fear pressed down on him as he repeated, “Uh, Mr. Miller, I think you missed the turn.” His voice trembled, betraying his mounting anxiety.

Joel’s response was a mere flicker of acknowledgment, his gaze fixed resolutely on the road ahead, an unyielding expression carved into his features. The night outside seemed to close in around them, the darkness a heavy shroud that swallowed any remnants of comfort. Jamie’s fear mounted with each mile that passed, his discomfort palpable as the unfamiliar roads stretched into an abyss of uncertainty.

“Mr. Miller?” Jamie’s voice wavered again, his nerves frayed. He tried once more to engage Joel, but the older man’s silence was more intimidating than any words could be.

“Joel, are you okay?” Jamie’s question was almost desperate, a thin veneer of concern masking his growing dread. Joel’s eyes remained fixed ahead, his face a mask of cold determination. The silence stretched, a taut string of tension that seemed to vibrate through the air.

“You did this to her,” Joel finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous growl that cut through the stillness of the night. The words hung in the air like a dark omen, and Jamie froze, his face draining of color. The realization that Joel knew, that Joel had connected the dots, was like a chilling blade pressed against his throat.

Jamie’s breath caught in his throat, his mind racing to form a coherent response. His usual bravado crumbled, replaced by a stammering mess of excuses and denials. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His words faltered, a mix of fear and confusion rendering him almost incoherent.

Joel’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white as he continued to drive further from the city lights, deeper into the uncharted darkness. The truck’s headlights cut through the night, illuminating the path ahead but leaving the destination shrouded in uncertainty. Joel’s eyes were darkened with an intensity that spoke of a burning resolve. He was a man driven by a fierce need for retribution, his mind a tempest of rage and protective fury.

The truck roared through the darkness, its engine a ferocious growl that mirrored the storm within Joel. The relentless rumble seemed to amplify the cold fury burning in his eyes. Joel’s patience had frayed, and his control, once a bastion of composure, was now cracking under the weight of his rage.

"Don't you dare fucking lie to me," Joel’s voice cut through the night, a blade of ice that seemed to slice through Jamie’s crumbling bravado. The truck hurtled onward, the asphalt giving way to the rugged expanse of the desert, a barren land that seemed to echo the desolation of Jamie’s soul.

Jamie’s attempts at deceit faltered, his voice a stuttering mess of fear and desperation. The darkness outside pressed in, its oppressive silence broken only by the sounds of the truck’s tires shredding through the emptiness.

Joel’s anger reached its breaking point. With a roar that shook the night, he bellowed, “YOU HURT HER!” The words were a thunderclap, a declaration of war against the man who had inflicted so much pain. The truck veered violently off the asphalt, plunging into the desert’s desolate grip, its speed a reckless testament to Joel’s unbridled fury.

"Fuck!" Jamie clutched at the dashboard, his fear morphing into a primal terror as the truck skidded and swerved. "Please! Please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" as Jamie screamed.

The landscape outside was a blur of shadows and dust, a chaotic dance of darkness that mirrored Jamie’s unraveling sanity. The desert stretched endlessly, an unforgiving expanse that swallowed the truck’s lights and swallowed the screams of its occupants.

When Joel finally brought the truck to a halt, the silence that followed was almost more oppressive than the storm of noise before. Jamie’s eyes darted around, seeing the monstrous transformation of Joel before him—a man driven by a fury so deep it seemed to burn from the inside out. The calm, collected Joel Miller was gone, replaced by a force of nature, a relentless predator with eyes like burning coals.

"Please, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, Please, don't hurt me," Jamie’s pleas for mercy were swallowed by Joel’s unyielding gaze. The fear in Jamie’s eyes was palpable, a reflection of the terror that now gripped him as he realized the gravity of his situation. “Please, Mr. Miller, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Joel’s response was cold, his voice a low rumble that held no hint of compassion. “And you must pay for it.” His words were a death knell, an inexorable judgment that left no room for hope.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Jamie’s desperate attempts to flee were futile as Joel locked the doors. The finality of the action was a chilling confirmation of Joel’s intent. Jamie’s sobs were raw, a chorus of despair that filled the air as Joel reached beneath the seat and retrieved the hammer.

The metallic glint of the hammer was a dark premonition, a cold harbinger of the violence that was about to unfold. Jamie’s cries for mercy mingled with the sound of the truck’s engine ticking as it cooled in the night’s oppressive silence. His pleas were desperate, trembling with the raw edge of fear as he realized the inescapable fate that awaited him.

“No, no, no! Please don’t! I’m sorry!” Jamie’s voice cracked, each word a plea for a reprieve that would never come. His eyes darted around in frantic desperation, searching for an escape that wasn’t there.

Joel’s expression remained a mask of chilling resolve. The hammer in his hand was a dark and unforgiving symbol of his determination, a tool of retribution that he wielded with a cold precision. As Jamie’s sobs grew more frantic, Joel’s grip tightened, his own emotions a turbulent sea of anger and grim satisfaction.

"No, no, NO!"

With a sudden, powerful swing, Joel drove the hammer into Jamie’s head. The impact was brutal and final, a shattering blow that resonated with a sickening thud. Jamie’s body jerked violently, the force of the hit sending a spray of blood and fragments across the truck’s interior. The sound of the hammer meeting flesh was a grotesque punctuation to Joel’s wrath.

***

The first light of morning filtered through the curtains, it cast a soft, golden glow over the room. You stirred from a fitful sleep, your body heavy and aching from the events of the previous night. The pain, particularly concentrated in your thighs and between your legs, was a constant reminder of the trauma you had endured. Each movement was a delicate balance between discomfort and exhaustion, and you willed yourself to remain still, finding solace in the dim sanctuary of the room.

Your gaze fell upon Joel, who had fallen asleep beside your bed. The sight was both comforting and surreal. His presence was a beacon of safety in the storm that had engulfed your life. Joel, dressed in a snug army-green t-shirt and jeans, looked worn yet strikingly handsome. His features were softened in sleep, a rare vulnerability showing through the rugged exterior you were more accustomed to. His hand rested gently on the bed, his fingers curled around yours, a silent promise of protection and care. His arm was draped across the bed, propping up his head in an awkward but tender manner.

The bucket of warm water and napkin on the nightstand seemed almost out of place against the backdrop of your shared anguish. They were symbols of Joel’s dedication to your comfort, a small oasis of normalcy in the wake of chaos. His thoughtful attention to your wounds was a stark contrast to the violence and fear of the night before.

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over you—relief mingled with guilt, gratitude with sorrow. You marveled at Joel’s dedication, his sleepless vigil a testament to his fierce protectiveness. His tired expression spoke volumes, each line etched into his face a story of his struggle to shield you from harm. Despite the crushing weight of your pain, there was a flicker of warmth in your heart for Joel’s unwavering presence.

You slowly extended your hand, gently squeezing Joel’s fingers. The softness of his touch was a balm to your aching body and soul. Carefully, you called out to him in a whisper, “Joel...”

He stirred, his movements slow and groggy. His eyes fluttered open, revealing the depths of his concern and fatigue. As he became fully awake, his demeanor shifted from the soft vulnerability of sleep to a sharp, focused alertness. He sat up, his gaze quickly assessing your condition with an intensity that spoke of his unyielding commitment to your well-being.

“Hey, you okay? I'm here, baby,” Joel’s voice was rough but filled with genuine concern, the harshness of the night giving way to the tenderness of the morning. His eyes searched yours, trying to gauge the extent of your pain and the depth of your emotional wounds.

As Joel's focus shifted solely to you, the outside world seemed to dissolve into a blur, leaving only the two of you in this tender moment of solace. The ache in your body was still present, a harsh reminder of the pain you had endured, but Joel's presence provided a comforting anchor, grounding you amidst the tumultuous emotions.

"I'm okay, but still hurt," you managed to say, your voice soft and strained. You shifted to a sitting position, wincing as the pain flared. Joel moved carefully to assist you, his hands steady and gentle. His concern was palpable as he looked at you, his gaze searching for any sign of distress.

“Where does it hurt?” Joel asked, his voice a low, soothing murmur.

“Everywhere,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly. “From my legs all the way up.”

Joel nodded, his expression a mixture of sympathy and determination. “Do you need anything?” he asked, his eyes filled with earnestness.

He reached for a glass of water from the nightstand, handing it to you with a steady hand. As you took a sip, your gaze wandered, and you noticed something that made your heart sink. There was blood on Joel’s forehead, a stark contrast against his otherwise rugged features.

“Joel, there’s blood on your forehead,” you said, your voice tinged with concern. You reached out instinctively, touching the area gently. “Are you okay?”

Joel’s hand instinctively went to his forehead, and he glanced at the blood with a faint, dismissive look. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said quickly, attempting to downplay the situation. “Just bumped into something last night. It’s not a big deal.”

His words were calm, but there was a hint of something guarded in his eyes, a subtle shift that made you feel uneasy. Joel’s attempt to brush off the injury was met with a frown from you, his casual demeanor not fully masking the gravity of the situation. The blood on his forehead was a silent testament to the violence that had unfolded, a stark reminder of the lengths he had gone to protect you.

Joel’s attempt to redirect the conversation was gentle, but there was a firmness in his voice that conveyed his concern. “You don’t need to go to the church fellowship event today,” he said, his tone softer now, but still resolute. “You’ve been through a lot, and you’re not in any condition to perform with the dance troupe.”

The mention of the event brought a rush of urgency and panic. Your heart raced as you remembered the hours of practice and the responsibility you carried for leading the troupe. “No, Joel, I have to go,” you protested, desperation creeping into your voice. “I’ve worked so hard for this. I can’t just not show up.”

Joel’s expression grew more serious, his eyes darkening with concern. “But you’re still not well,” he countered, his voice steady but tinged with worry.

As the reality of your situation sank in, you looked around the room, realizing the intimacy of the setting. Joel was here, and your father had not yet returned. Panic surged through you. “What about my dad? Is he back yet?” you asked urgently.

Joel shook his head slowly. “No, he's not here yet, I already spoke with your mother, made something up so she's not suspicious, said Ellie wants to make sure you're okay and send me here because I told her to prepare for the event,"

Joel’s gaze softened, yet there was a steeliness in his eyes that belied his calm demeanor. “Look, doll, you’re not strong enough to perform,” he said, his voice tender but insistent. “I need you to rest.”

You met his gaze with a determination that belied your frailty. “I’m fine, Joel. I can do it.” Your words were firm, a declaration of your will to push through despite your condition.

Joel’s eyes held a depth of emotion, a storm of conflicting feelings swirling beneath the surface. The concern etched in his features spoke of a man torn between his protective instincts and the need to respect your wishes. His gaze was a turbulent sea, reflecting a depth of care that was both comforting and unsettling.

“Okay...” he said quietly, his voice like a soft breeze before a storm, “But, I need you to tell me right away if you’re not feeling up to it, or anything else. Promise me that.”

You could see the raw intensity in his eyes, a mixture of frustration and affection that made your heart ache. Despite his gruff exterior, his eyes were windows to a soul deeply worried for your well-being.

You nodded slowly, "I promise,"

Joel’s relief was palpable, though he still wore a worried frown. He reached out, his hand brushing against yours with a gentle firmness. “Good,” he said, his voice a low rumble of reassurance. “Now, let’s get you settled," as Joel help you to get up, you held his hand.

"Joel.." you say, "Thank you," you look into his brown eyes, "For protecting me,"

Joel’s eyes held a rare tenderness as you thanked him, a flicker of warmth breaking through the stormy depths of his gaze. The sincerity of your gratitude seemed to touch something deep within him, a part of him that had long been guarded and hidden. His hands, rough and strong, gently gripped your shoulders as he knelt beside you, bringing himself to eye level.

“I’ll do anything to keep you safe,” he said, his voice a low murmur filled with an intensity that spoke of unspoken vows and sacrifices. “I’d burn the world down to see you safe, to make sure you’re protected.” His words were like a fierce storm, powerful and relentless, but also oddly comforting in their sincerity.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the space between you charged with an electric intimacy. Joel’s presence was a fortress, a wall of unwavering strength that shielded you from the chaos and pain of the world outside. His promise was a beacon in the dark, a light that cut through the shadows of your fear and uncertainty.

You leaned in, drawn by the magnetic pull of his words and the fierce protectiveness in his eyes. Your lips met his in a gentle kiss, a silent expression of the gratitude and affection that words alone couldn’t fully convey. The kiss was tender, a soft melding of your emotions and his, a moment where the world outside ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the closeness you shared.

Joel’s reaction was immediate and instinctual. His hand moved to cup your cheek, deepening the kiss with a tenderness that belied his hardened exterior. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, where the strength of his feelings was laid bare in the gentle press of his lips against yours. The kiss lingered, a shared breath of solace and connection, a promise of protection and care that transcended spoken words.

As you pulled back, the connection between you felt stronger, the bond forged in the crucible of your shared pain and Joel’s unwavering resolve. The look in Joel’s eyes was a blend of fierce determination and quiet affection, a testament to his commitment to your safety and well-being. The room, once filled with tension and fear, now held a fragile peace, a space where the echoes of your gratitude and his promise intertwined in a delicate dance of trust and protection.

As the warmth of your kiss lingered, the delicate tranquility of the room was abruptly interrupted by a soft knock at the door. The sound jolted both you and Joel back to reality. Instinctively, you pulled away from Joel, the sudden shift in the atmosphere a stark reminder of the world outside this fragile cocoon of safety.

Your mother’s voice came through the door, tender yet laced with concern. “Sweetheart, you’re awake?”

Joel, with a subtle nod of understanding, shifted aside, allowing your mother to enter. Her gaze was a mixture of relief and worry as she took in the sight of you, still seated on the bed but looking more composed than you had the night before.

"I’m fine, Mama” you said, your voice steady despite the lingering pain. “I’m feeling better, just a bit sore.”

She approached you with a comforting touch, her maternal instincts immediately taking over. “Are you sure, dear? You still look pale."

You shook your head, a sense of determination anchoring your resolve. “I have to go to the church fellowship event. I’ve practiced so hard for this, and it’s really important."

The conversation between you and your mother continued, the urgency of the situation mounting. “But you’re still in pain,” she insisted, her voice edged with a mix of worry and frustration. “It’s not worth making yourself worse.”

“I should go, Ma. I’m fine, really,” you insisted, the determination in your voice evident. You understood the importance of this event, not just for yourself but for your family’s reputation and your father’s expectations.

Joel, sensing the growing tension and the need for him to avoid your father’s possible return, decided it was best to make his exit. He rose from his seat, his movements deliberate and calm despite the underlying tension. “Well, maybe I should get going,” he said, his tone professional yet carrying a hint of warmth. “Ellie needs my help to prepare for the event."

Your mother nodded, her eyes showing a mix of gratitude and concern as she glanced between you and Joel. “Thank you, Joel. I appreciate all your help. Please, let Ellie know we’re grateful.”

"Thank you, Mr. Miller," you said to him.

Joel gave a nod, a subtle acknowledgment of your mother’s thanks, and made his way to the door. He paused briefly, casting one last, meaningful look your way. The intensity in his gaze was softened by a flicker of concern, a silent promise that he was there for you, even if from a distance.

As Joel left, you turned back to your mother, her hand still tightly clasped in yours. The weight of the conversation and the urgency of the event pressed heavily on your shoulders, but you could feel a new layer of understanding and connection between you and your mother. The barriers that had once seemed impenetrable were beginning to show signs of cracking, revealing the raw, unspoken truths that had long been buried beneath the surface.

With Joel’s departure, the room felt slightly emptier, but there was also a sense of quiet relief. Your mother took a deep breath, trying to steady her emotions, and then looked at you with a mixture of resignation and determination. 

Your mother’s expression softened as she saw the fear in your eyes, a fear she had known all too well herself. “Mama, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I don’t want to upset Father. If I don’t perform, he’ll be so angry, and I can’t… I can’t go through that again.”

She took a deep breath, her hand tightening around yours as she searched for the right words. Your eyes welled up with tears as you looked at her, the weight of your father’s expectations pressing down on you like a heavy shroud. “If I don’t do this, he will...I can’t take it, Mama. I can’t take it anymore,"

For the first time in a long while, your mother didn’t look away. Instead, she held your gaze, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry for not protecting you, for not standing up to him. I’ve been a coward, hiding behind my role as a good Christian wife, but in doing so, I’ve failed you. I’ve failed as a mother.”

Her words hit you like a wave, a raw confession that peeled back layers of pain and resentment. You could see the torment in her eyes, the struggle between the life she had chosen and the daughter she had neglected. “Mama…” you began, but she shook her head, stopping you.

“No, let me say this,” she insisted, her voice growing steadier as she spoke. “I’ve watched your father take out his anger on you, and I’ve done nothing. I told myself it was for the sake of the family, for our standing in the church, but those were just excuses. The truth is, I was scared. I’ve been scared for so long that I forgot what it means to be brave, to be a mother who truly protects her child.”

She reached out, her hands trembling as she cupped your face, her touch tender but firm. “I’m sorry for every time I stood by and let him hurt you. I’m sorry for every time I didn’t speak up, for every time I told you to be obedient, to not make him angry. I was wrong, and I’m so, so sorry.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you listened, your heart aching with the weight of her words. You had waited so long to hear something like this, to have her acknowledge the pain you had endured. But it was bittersweet, the apology tainted by the years of silence that had come before it.

“I promise, I won’t let him hurt you again.”

The sincerity in her voice, the raw emotion in her eyes, stirred something deep within you—a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different. “Mama…” you whispered again, your voice choked with emotion.

She pulled you into a hug, holding you tightly as if she could shield you from all the hurt in the world. “You’re my daughter, and I love you,” she said softly. “I should have said that more often. I should have shown it. But I’m saying it now, and I mean it. I love you."

You buried your face in her shoulder, the tears flowing freely as years of pain and longing poured out. It was a moment of profound connection, a bridge built over the chasm of fear and regret that had separated you for so long.

For the first time, you felt like you weren’t alone in this, that maybe your mother was finally ready to stand by your side. It was a fragile hope, but it was hope nonetheless, and in that moment, it was enough.

As you pulled away from your mother’s embrace, the warmth of her words still lingered in your heart, but the weight of your decision pressed heavily on your shoulders. “Mama, but I have to perform,” you insisted, your voice steady though your body still ached. “I can’t abandon my friends like that. We’ve worked so hard.”

Your mother studied you for a moment, a mixture of pride and concern flickering in her eyes. Finally, she nodded. “Alright, sweetheart,” she said softly. “But let’s get you cleaned up before your father gets home. We don’t want him asking any questions.”

With that, the two of you moved with quiet efficiency, working to cover the evidence of the previous night’s horrors. The bruises and soreness were masked with layers of foundation, and by the time you were done, you looked almost as if nothing had happened. The pain still lingered beneath the surface, but on the outside, you appeared fresh and composed.

Just as you finished, you heard the front door creak open. Your father was home. Your mother gave you a quick, reassuring glance before heading out to greet him. You followed a few steps behind, your heart pounding in your chest.

Your father’s voice was the first thing you heard, deep and authoritative as always. “How’s everything been while I was gone?” he asked your mother as he set down his bag.

“Everything’s been fine,” your mother replied, her voice steady. “How was New Orleans? How did the preachings go?”

“Productive,” your father answered curtly. “The congregation there is strong, but they need guidance. I gave them what they needed.”

His gaze then shifted to you, and your breath caught in your throat. You quickly smoothed out your expression and stepped forward to greet him. “Hello, Father,” you said, your voice carefully controlled.

He looked you up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scrutinized your appearance. “Are you ready for today’s performance?” he asked, his tone as stern as ever.

“Yes, Father,” you replied, your heart racing as his gaze lingered on you. “I’ve been practicing hard,"

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Good. Have you been a good girl while I was away? Helping Pastor Ben and your mother?”

“Yes, Father,” you said quickly, keeping your voice steady.

He seemed to study you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as if trying to catch something out of place. You held your breath, praying that the makeup was enough to conceal the bruises. Finally, he nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Alright then. We’ll head to the church together. I’ll go change first.”

With that, he turned and headed toward his room, leaving you and your mother standing there. “Make me a coffee,” he added over his shoulder to your mother as he disappeared down the hallway.

You let out a quiet sigh of relief as your mother turned to you, her expression a mix of concern and support. You weren’t out of the woods yet, but for now, you had managed to keep things under control.

As you waited in the living room for your father to return, the weight of what lay ahead pressed down on you. The church, the performance, the constant need to appear perfect—it was all so exhausting.

Meanwhile, your father, in his room, couldn’t shake the odd feeling gnawing at him. Something about you had been off since he walked in the door. You looked put together, your makeup flawless, your demeanor obedient—but there was something beneath the surface that unsettled him. As he changed out of his travel clothes, his mind kept drifting back to the look in your eyes. He knew you too well. You were hiding something.

On his way back to the living room, your father passed by your bedroom door, which had been left slightly ajar. Something in the room caught his eye, a subtle shift in the air, and he stopped. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.

The room was as you had left it, seemingly in order, but as his gaze swept across the space, his eyes landed on something out of place—a wallet on the floor, half-hidden under the bed. His brow furrowed as he walked over and bent down to pick it up. As he reached for the wallet, a small slip of paper slid out and fluttered to the ground.

Curious, he picked it up, and as he unfolded it, a photograph slipped into view. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the image—one that shouldn’t exist, one that told him everything he needed to know.

It was a photo of you and Joel.

Taken in a photo booth at the Houston night fair just a couple of weeks ago, the series of images unfolded like a nightmare. The first captured your innocent smile, Joel’s arm draped protectively around your shoulders. The next, you pressing a kiss to Joel's cheek, was enough to make his heart pound with a mix of disbelief and growing fury. But the final image—the one that made his blood boil—showed the two of you locked in a passionate kiss, your hands around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, while Joel’s hands held you close, deepening the kiss with an intimacy that could not be misunderstood.

The reality of what he was seeing hit him like a punch to the gut.

The world seemed to narrow around him as he stared at the photograph, the air in the room growing thick with his mounting rage. How long had this been going on? How could you, his pure daughter? with Joel—the man who was supposed to be his friend, a man he had trusted?

His hands trembled, the photo crumpling slightly in his grip. The room suddenly felt too small, too stifling, as if the walls themselves were closing in on him. He could feel the anger, a searing heat that spread from his chest to his temples, blurring his vision with the sheer force of it.

In that moment, a dark cloud settled over him, a mixture of fury and cold calculation. He knew now that you had been lying to him, deceiving him in the worst possible way. The facade of control he held over you began to crack, and his anger surged.

You had been tainted by Joel.

His thoughts spiraled into a storm of biblical proportions, each one more damning than the last. To him, this wasn’t just a betrayal—it was an unforgivable sin, a defilement of everything he had tried to instill in you. The preacher in him seized on the gravity of it, framing it as the ultimate transgression, a stain on your soul that could only be cleansed through punishment, through retribution. You had not just sinned against him, but against God, against the very order of the world as he saw it. He was ashamed of you.

As he turned to leave your room, the photograph burned in his mind, each image seared into his memory as a reminder of the depth of your sins. His mind raced, formulating the words, the punishment, the retribution that would follow. He would make sure you understood the gravity of your actions, that Joel understood the consequences of his. This was not just a matter of discipline; it was a matter of redemption, of cleansing his family of the shame you had brought upon it.

"Father? What's going on?"

***

Joel entered his house to find Ellie already dressed. Tommy and Maria were there too, with Little Luke gurgling happily in his mother's arms. The small family was ready, waiting for Joel to join them for the church event.

As soon as Joel stepped inside, Tommy glanced at him, noting his distracted demeanor. "Joel, where’ve you been? We’re almost late for the service."

Joel stood still, his expression hard to read, his thoughts elsewhere. The tension in his body was palpable, and it was clear that something was weighing heavily on his mind.

Tommy exchanged a concerned look with Maria, then called out again, his voice tinged with worry. "Joel, you alright?"

Snapped out of his reverie, Joel responded in a low, gruff voice as he started walking towards the stairs. "I'm fine, Tommy. Y’all go ahead without me. I’ll catch up. Just need to take a shower first."

Tommy watched him go, his brows furrowed in confusion. Joel wasn’t acting like himself, and the unease in the room grew as they watched him retreat up the stairs. Maria shifted Luke in her arms, her expression mirroring Tommy's concern, but they didn’t push further. They knew better than to press Joel when he was like this.

As Joel closed the door to his room, the walls seemed to close in around him, the familiar space offering no comfort. He stripped off his clothes mechanically, his movements stiff, almost robotic, as if on autopilot. The cold bathroom tiles pressed against his feet, grounding him momentarily, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm raging in his mind.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the cold water, letting it cascade over his head, drenching his hair, and running down his body. The chill was sharp, biting against his skin, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the darkness that clung to him. The cold water was like a penance, a physical manifestation of the anger that churned within him. It flowed over his shoulders, down his back, mixing with the sweat and grime of the day, but it couldn’t cleanse him of the memories that haunted him.

As the water beat down on him, images from the night before flashed before his eyes, searing into his mind with a vividness that made him clench his fists. He could see Jamie’s face, twisted with fear and pain, as Joel confronted him. The sound of his own voice, raw with rage, echoed in his ears, mingling with the sickening thud of the hammer striking flesh and bone.

The first strike had been deliberate, calculated, smashing into Jamie’s skull with brutal force. He remembered the way the boy’s eyes had gone wide, the life leaving them almost instantly, but Joel hadn’t stopped. The fury inside him had demanded more, had driven him to raise the hammer again and again, even as Jamie lay lifeless on the ground. Each blow was a release, a catharsis, as the hammer connected with sickening squelches, turning bone to pulp, spraying blood in every direction.

Joel’s breath had come in ragged gasps as he continued to hit, his body acting on pure instinct, on the overwhelming need to obliterate the source of his anger. By the time he was done, Jamie’s head was nothing more than a ruined mess, unrecognizable, the blood spattered across Joel’s face and clothes like a grotesque reminder of what he’d done.

Even now, under the cold spray of the shower, Joel could feel the phantom weight of the hammer in his hand, the sticky warmth of blood on his skin. He could hear the dull thud of metal meeting flesh, the sound reverberating in his mind like a macabre metronome. It was a sound that would haunt him for the rest of his life, a grim reminder of the thing he would do for you. To protect you.

The cold water did little to numb the memories, the violence replaying itself in a relentless loop. Jamie’s face, the fear that had flashed in his eyes before the first blow had landed, was burned into Joel’s mind. The brutality of it, the sheer force of his rage, was something he hadn’t fully anticipated. He had known he was capable of violence—he’d done plenty in his lifetime—but this had been different. This had been personal. This had been revenge.

As the water pounded against his skin, Joel tried to focus on the chill, the sharpness of it, hoping it would pull him out of the dark spiral. But it was futile. The memory clung to him, heavy and suffocating, as if Jamie’s blood was still on his hands, refusing to wash away.

He had justified it to himself in the moment—Jamie had deserved it. For what he had done, for the way he had hurt her. Joel had wanted to protect you, to ensure that Jamie could never lay a hand on you again, and in that blinding fury, he had become something monstrous, something he had thought he left behind a long time ago.

The boy's voice still ringing in his head.

"NO!"

Jamie’s screams became strangled, reduced to guttural noises as the hammer struck again and again. The once-bleeding man now lay in a crumpled heap, his pleas silenced by the relentless assault. Blood splattered across the truck’s seats and floor, a vivid testament to the violence that had transpired.

Joel’s breathing was heavy, his hands trembling slightly as he surveyed the aftermath. The interior of the truck was a chaotic tableau of violence, with blood staining every surface, a stark contrast to the pristine desert night outside. The once-clear lines between justice and vengeance had blurred in the haze of his fury.

The desert around them remained eerily still, a stark witness to the brutal act that had unfolded within the confines of the truck. Joel’s eyes were hard, the rage within him momentarily spent but leaving behind a cold emptiness.

He turned away from Jamie’s broken body, the hammer lay on the truck’s floor, a silent witness to the dark turn of events. Joel’s thoughts drifted back to you, his resolve to protect you unwavering despite the blood that now marked his hands and the interior of his truck.

His fingers moved methodically, driven by a deep, visceral need to erase the evidence, to scrub away the blood that had stained not just his truck, but his soul.

He dragged Jamie’s body to the back of his truck, the weight of the lifeless form a grim reminder of the violence that had transpired. The tarpaulin was a makeshift shroud, hiding the brutal reality beneath its coarse fabric. As he carefully wrapped the body, Joel's movements were precise, each action a testament to his resolve to contain the fallout of his rage.

The interior of the truck was a chaotic scene of carnage, the once-pristine surfaces now marred by splatters of blood. Joel worked tirelessly, scrubbing away the stains with a rag that seemed too small for the enormity of the task. The blood, now a dark, congealed mess, clung to every surface. Joel’s efforts were relentless, each swipe of the cloth a desperate attempt to cleanse not just the physical space, but the emotional turmoil that lingered in the air. It was as if he were trying to erase the very essence of the violence, to wash away the sin that had seeped into the fabric of his life.

As he poured water over the dirt to dilute the remaining traces of blood, the sound of someone's voice cut through the silence, a chilling revelation that made Joel’s heart skip a beat.

“You’re gonna burn in hell,”

It's pastor Ben.

Ben’s voice echoed with an unsettling clarity. Joel’s body went rigid. He turned slowly, his heart pounding in his chest, as he faced the figure emerging from the shadows. Pastor Ben, standing with an air of grim determination, had followed him all this time, tracking the aftermath of the night’s violence.

It turned out Ben has been following you, watching you all this time—Ben had seen everything. He had been there when Jamie had assaulted you, and now he had witnessed the culmination of Joel’s fury.

“Joel, you’re a monster. I’ve seen you with her. You should be in jail, and you will burn in hell for what you’ve done. Murder is a grave sin, and you’ve committed it without remorse."

Ben's voice cut through the desert night with a chilling clarity. Joel’s body stiffened, and he turned slowly to face the source of the accusation. Ben stood there, framed by the dim glow of the truck’s headlights, his face a mask of grim determination and righteous fury. The weight of his presence pressed heavily on Joel, a stark reminder of the scrutiny and judgment that now surrounded him.

Ben’s condemnation was unrelenting. “You’re not just a murderer, Joel. You’re a depraved man who preys on innocent girls. You’ll face the wrath of God for your sins. You’ve defiled yourself, and you’ve defiled her.”

Joel, who had initially been uncertain about Ben's identity, now connected the dots. This was the pastor who had condemned him, the one you had spoken about. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and Joel's heart pounded with a mix of fear and rage. His secret had been exposed, and Ben’s condemnation was a direct threat to everything Joel was trying to protect.

Feeling cornered and desperate, Joel realized there was no choice but to eliminate this threat. He seized the hammer, his mind racing with a singular purpose: to silence Ben and protect you.

Joel lunged at Ben, the hammer’s cold metal a grim reassurance in his hand. Ben, recognizing the imminent danger, bolted into the darkness. The night air was filled with the frantic sound of their pursuit, Ben’s footsteps echoing in the still desert.

Joel was relentless, driven by a combination of fear, anger, and desperation. He tackled Ben to the ground with a forceful impact, the two men grappling in the dust. Ben struggled fiercely, but Joel’s determination and strength overwhelmed him.

With a grim resolve, Joel brought the hammer down, each strike a release of his pent-up fury and fear. The hammer met Ben’s skull with a brutal finality, each impact reverberating with the sickening sound of metal against bone. The desert was silent save for the harsh breaths of Joel and the final, dying gasps of Pastor Ben.

As the violence subsided, Joel stood over Ben’s lifeless body, the hammer still clenched in his hand. The reality of what he had done settled heavily upon him. The desert night was an eerie witness to the brutality, the air thick with the smell of blood and the weight of Joel’s actions.

Joel's thinking about you, his resolve to protect you unwavering despite the blood on his hands and the chaos that surrounded him. He had done what he felt was necessary to you, so nobody gonna take you away from him, but the cost of his actions was a burden he would carry with him, a reminder of the darkness that had consumed his life.

Joel’s thoughts snapped back to the present as he emerged from the shower, the cold water rinsing away the remnants of the night’s brutality. As he dried himself, he couldn’t shake the haunting memories of the violence he had committed. His hands, once steady and sure, now trembled with the weight of his actions. The sight of his blood-stained palms, now scrubbed clean but still bearing the marks of his deeds, reminded him of the dark path he had trodden.

He had buried them deep that known only to him. These actions, buried under layers of dirt and deceit, were the grim price he had paid to ensure your safety.

Joel’s resolve to protect you was unwavering. He was willing to sacrifice anything, to face any consequence, to keep you safe from harm. His thoughts were a turbulent sea, with the constant push and pull of guilt and determination. The darkness that had overtaken his life was a relentless force, shaping his every decision and action.

Yet, even as he clung to his resolve, Joel knew that every action had its price. These bones he's hiding will bound him to the consequences of his choices.

The world was a harsh and unforgiving place, and the karma of his actions would eventually come calling.

As he prepared to leave for the church event, Joel’s mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He had done what he believed was necessary to keep you safe.

He will do anything to keep you safe. to protect you.

He will do anything. Anything.

And for the first time in a while, he pray to God to keep you safe and forgive these bones he's hiding.

[changingplumbob]

Boy oh boy this has been a long one! Sorry it's taken so long. Rotation 9 began all the way back on March 20th which means it's taken me around six and a half months to get through everyone. During this time I have also been plagued by a bad IBS flare up that leaves me fatigued so my guess is that's why things took much longer than normal.

While all households collectively aged a year and three quarters when you put it all together we've lived through 17 and a half years of sim time for a total of 70 sim days. Thank you for joining me on the journey! I'm going to be taking the rest of the month of October off from long form writing while I build SBL back up and engage in Simblreen antics. Rotations and Growing with Glenn will start back up in November.

Now, on to the noteworthy stuff! Main points followed by chapter summaries below the cut. Time to celebrate my sims achievements!

Five Sims Promoted - One max career!

Nine Skills Maxed

Eight New Builds

Seven Birthdays

One Wedding

Four Household Adoptions

York Household, Chapter 9

Calista and Aaron made their first nectar but mostly they were in parent/grandparent mode. Deanna was dumped by Paris and had a bad bug but still passed her first term of university. The youngest York aged up, realised they were trans, and she has renamed herself Artemisia, or Emi or Emisia to her friends and family.

2. Chopra Household, Chapter 6

Rahul worked from home all week to help with his young family. Mercedes and Savannah aged up to children and have started school. Savannah is still feeling the effects of her motor delay while Mercedes may have a speech delay but turns out to be gifted. Viola aged up into a wild toddler and the household is due another shake up as Cassandra discovered she is pregnant for the third time!

3. Romero Household, Chapter 1

Marta helped her fiance Keira learn about Dia de los Muertos as they paid respect to those in the forever save who couldn't attend the wedding. Keira began her job at the Marine Life Institute and Marta met some of her neighbours after barista shifts. Then the couple were married at Willow Creek church and honeymooned in Sulani. They are currently looking at options for having kids.

4. Pancakes Household, Chapter 9

Eliza got promoted to level 9 of the corporate career. She and Bob decided that rather than have another pregnancy they would adopt so infant Tiana joined the family. Ginger got another fur sibling as dog Strawberry joined the household. Fergus aged up to a materialistic teen and after a week of working on their grades and cheer skills Onyx finally got their horse, named Maelstrom.

5. New Goth Household, Chapter 4

Alexander and Milton retrieved Bella's old journals for Milton to begin reading, and the family celebrated Harvestfest with the Chopras. Alexander and James talked about having kids, and James admitted he would like to adopt a teen rather than having an infant. Milton went through a bear phase and Ariadne was adopted by the couple.

6. Villareal Household, Chapter 6

Joey released his first video game and became a one star celebrity. Devin filmed a pirate film and her regular TV series. Luna spent most of her time trying to patch things up between her younger brother Max and his wife. Alfred broke many dollhouses and Rilian got a kiddie pool to play in.

7. Nishidake Household, Chapter 7

It was a speedrun for this family but both Charlie and Kaori have finally reached the rock climbing skill needed to attempt to make it to the mountain summit. Clover learned to not eat trash but continued to knock the bin over for fun.

8. Woods Household, Chapter 2

The murder mystery took a backseat this time. The couple met the Moonwood Collective and Samir ranked up to a Veteran werewolf. Reece started his biology degree and hosted some meditation sessions. The pair have also discovered they are fated mates.

9. Knightstone Household, Chapter 9

It was festive season for the aliens in Chestnut Ridge. While Adam worked on his skills angling for that final promotion he managed to publish three books. Suzanna had a tough time with coworker Faye but reached a truce for the sake of their careers. She also finished a third collection, the My Sims trophy collection. Silas grew closer with fellow aliens Ruth and Tyree and showed off a Red Coral at show and tell. Pollock aged from an infant into a toddler and continued to learn.

10. Foster Household, Chapter 9

Winter ended in Sulani. Harvey managed to get promoted but didn't catch any new types of fish this time. Kayleigh sold enough paintings to become a global Superstar and was our first sim to reach the top of her career! The focus was mainly on Carson who was navigating a crush while figuring out his identity as an asexual. Clumsy flirting eventually led to him officially being Ariadne's boyfriend though.

Woah that was a lot huh? I need to rearrange my navigation for this save before rotation 11 starts but any pressing thoughts? Any bits you loved or hated? How was the new bold and colour coded dialogue? Did it make it any easier to follow when multiple people were talking? Any things you wish will or won't happen next time?

[kitsune024]

Naruto||Fics I Love||Pt8

Medicinal Lullaby  by @avannak | Chapters: 32/? | FFN

Problematic Soldier by @maelstrom-prince | Chapters: 21/? |

The Color of Summer by @spideywhites I Chapters 60/? I

Sunshine by @redninjalass19 I Part 1-2 I

backslide by @blackkatmagic I Chapters 32/32 I

Naruto x Code Geass

Drop of Blood by TenchiSaWaDa I Chapters: 8/? I FFN

[ask-obt]

idk if its too early in the story to ask this but what elements or plot points did you want to into obt that never made the cut

// it is a bit hard to figure out everything that could be cut since there's still a lot of story left, but there are a few things that I'm certain of dropping! I don't necessarily wish I kept all of these, but some things were established in my head for so long it feels weird to drop them.

- Malachi having a crush on Rune (cut because I changed their ages from being a year apart to making Rune about 8-10 years older than him)

- Rune staying mute and learning sign language from Dielle (a cute idea still! But I wasn't experienced enough with art and storytelling to pull off drawing gestures or commit to learning a new language myself, and I preferred having Rune speak)

- Yohann is much less present in the current story than I originally planned :( this may change in the future still, but I originally wanted him to come on the expedition before he was swapped out with Eilwyn.

- Some recruits were trimmed even though I really liked them! A Snubbull, Beautifly, and Girafarig were all recruits that I enjoyed using, but might not have room for in the comic outside of cameos. Maybe they'll still show up someday? A bit unlikely at this point though, the gang is pretty well established.

- Not a part of the main comic, but I sometimes wish Dielle's Wish could've been expanded on more! The way Mateo was written felt a bit on-the-nose, but digging deeper would require a lot more time to establish everything, which wouldn't be achievable in under 50 pages.

- Since Maelstrom doesn't have a physical body, I tend to... forget to write dialogue for her. This will work to my advantage soon though, for secret reasons.

- And not exactly cut content, but I'm still not the hugest fan of chapters 1-3, even with the rewrites. It was a bumpy path trying to figure out everything I needed to for the comic as I went, and these were the chapters that needed the most establishment in worldbuilding. Having a solid explanation for what a mystery dungeon is, the relationship between exploration teams and wild pokemon, or how aura works, I think could've helped streamline my writing later where I try picking up the slack. Live and learn though, I don't have any plans to redo the early comic again.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: sore must be the storm

Relationship: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Wen Ruohan, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji

Additional Tags: Resentment, Anger, Explosions, Yīn Iron, Memory Loss, Blood and Gore, Grief/Mourning, POV Third Person, POV Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Podfic Welcome

Part of the Hope series: “the thing with feathers” and “and sings the tune without the words.”

Summary: Wen Ruohan wakes Wei Wuxian. It does not go well for him. Set in chapter 8 of “and sings the tune without the words.”

Notes: See end

AO3 link

——————

Wei Wuxian wakes confused, in pain, and angry, so angry. Memory returns, and the anger combines with grief.

Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. A-Yuan. Nonono—

The botched array, back so far. Hope, hope.

Screaming. Pain.

Why pain?

Blood in his mouth, leaking from his eyes and nose and ears.

The seal on his memories, compromised. He/they together.

Wen Ruohan mucking about where he isn’t welcome, again. Hurting him/them. Bad man.

Hatehatehate.

Something to do with his anger and grief, then.

Qing-jie next to him, so young, so very young, and a tiny little Wen Ning flanked by his awful cousins.

Scattered targets.

Shijie near—no, Jiejie now, so much changed, and Yu-furen…

Memories flood.

Jiang Wuxian. Allowed to wear purple. Adopted. Yu-furen A-Niang. A-Lian, not dead of illness, Meimei. Cheng-gege. Safety. Love.

He wants. If only he had such a childhood.

He/they have it now.

Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, by his/their side already, alive alive alive. Husband/betrothed, alive.

Protect.

Pain, ripping at the memory seal, clumsy attempts to control resentment.

Amateur. Show him how it’s done, then. He/they know what to do.

He/they reach for resentment together, find it in the yin shard Wen Ruohan carries on him, fool. More resentment deep in his body, tainted from haphazard experiments.

Too easy.

The spirits trapped in the artifact call for release, and he/they answer.

He/they siphon the resentment into a feedback loop maelstrom to destabilize the yin iron, easier with two. Shields for all but Wen Ruohan and his sons. Spirits liberated, returning to the earth. Yank at the resentment, rip it through him.

Explosion, blood, splinters of wood. Falling, falling.

Soft arms. Warmth. Sandalwood. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. Always there to catch him/them.

Wen Ruohan, what’s left of him, a crater in his chest where he had carried the yin iron, now disintegrated into dust, nearly dismembered, resentment having ripped through flesh and bone, face a mask of blood, eyes glassy.

Dead, all that matters. Relief.

Safe. All safe.

Stay? Want, wish…

Still too much, too many terrible memories he/they don’t need. Overwhelming. Pain, pain.

Regret. Can’t stay.

Memories will trickle back, slowly over time with the seal, golden core eating at it, melding him/them to become one. Inevitable, eventually.

Thank you, A-Ying. And I’m sorry.

————

This begged to be written. This is what occurred when Wen Ruohan tried to force the resentment from A-Ying, and woke Wei Wuxian.

Some of their thoughts are separate, while others are them together. A-Ying himself isn’t a slouch, and used Wei Wuxian’s memories to help him here.

So you finally get Wei Wuxian/Jiang Wuxian’s POV.

[wannabelilybriscoe]

ASFTEOTW: Chapter 8 Commentary

Ohoho, the fun really starts in this chapter. Remus and Sirius bond, and Remus starts to feel some complicated feelings. Ahhh, I'm so obsessed with them in this story. Cutie pies. Let's see what they get up to.

Previous Chapter < > Next Chapter

Laundry duty has turned out to be a lot of work. They have to draw water from the well, heat it in big pots, scrub the clothes and linens by hand, and hang them to dry. There is a strict system for organising the clothes and linens by the owner, with labelled baskets. It was gruelling and time-consuming work, made all the more gruelling by Sirius Black.  For one thing, he never stops talking to Remus. It's like the tap is broken in his brain, so every thought that crosses his mind floods out of his mouth and can’t be shut off. When he isn't cracking jokes, or monologuing about how he believes the castle's water system could be improved, or how they could better optimise their use of electricity, or whatever else crosses his mind, he's singing. He has a great singing voice, but his song choices range from cool to eclectic to concerning. One moment, he’s singing “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” with a full-on imitation of Mick Jagger’s voice, and the next, he’s be singing “I Vow Thee, My Country” in the same style.  “Most dear to them that love her, most grrreat to them that ah know—huh!” A menace. But everyone else seems used to him, shaking their heads fondly and rolling their eyes.  “You’d never know he got top marks in his year,” Gideon Prewett had sighed that morning, scrubbing at a pair of trousers.  That’s the second person in the past week to allude to Sirius’s intelligence. What is the deal with Sirius Black? Who is this strange person who cracks stupid jokes, harmonises with rock songs on the guitar, was disowned by one of the wealthiest families in the UK, gives people goofy nicknames, and builds wind turbines? All while looking like that? That must be how he does it—he confuses people into wanting to get to know him. 

Yes, Remus. Everyone feels this way. It's not just you.

After stumbling upon Sirius’s secret tryst and not telling anyone, Sirius seems to have decided to double down on being friends. The sound of the other boy hollering “Moony!” across the hall (and sometimes right in his ear) has become a regular occurrence.  If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t really mind. Being friends with Sirius is like being friends with the wind. It’s exciting and unpredictable, and it’s easy to get swept up. He has a habit of dropping in out of nowhere, a maelstrom force, and suddenly it doesn't matter what you were doing before he arrived, because he's here now and that changes everything. But once he’s there, once he's decided to speak to you, he gives you his whole attention. When Remus talks to other people, he often finds himself drifting away, going down winding pathways of thought. It can take effort to pull himself back into the present moment. But Sirius seems to be a being wholly of the present moment. Remus can’t help but be drawn in when Sirius directs his million-watt smile at him.

Look at Sirius, sweeping Remus off his feet. 😭 Like being friends with the wind? Remus, you total sap.

Remus contemplates the morning’s events as he walks across the grass behind the castle. Up ahead, he notices a dark, droopy figure moving in the same direction. It’s Snape, headed towards one of the lavs. He's struck by the memory what Snape said to Sirius the first time Remus joined them in the Great Hall.  Should have known this would be your type, Black. You’re disgusting.  Knowing what he knows now about Sirius, Snape’s comments feel all the more ugly and hateful. Anger begins to simmer in his chest. He wants to punish Snape for saying those things to Sirius. Reckons the drip deserves it.  He looks around; no one else is here. Then his eyes fall on the shovel leaning up against the side of one of the lavs. He hangs back, waiting for Snape to go into the lav, the door swinging shut behind him. Remus acts on impulse. He stalks up, grabs the shovel, and jams it under the door's handle, digging the shovel into the ground with the heel of his boot. Snape must hear him because he demands, “Who’s there?” Remus doesn’t respond, and Snape starts trying to push open the door. The shovel holds firm.  “Let me out!” Snape shouts. But Remus turns and strolls away, hands shoved in his pockets. 

Do I condone shutting people in stinky lavatories? Certainly not. But I think this scene speaks to an interesting element of Remus's character. Because on the whole, he is a kind and empathetic person with a good moral compass. But he also has a vindictive streak, and is occasionally even capable of cruelty, particularly when it comes to defending his friends. I believe that had he gone to school with Sirius and James, he would have been complicit in their pranks.

Remus walks back through the castle gate and towards the courtyard. He hears Sirius’s familiar gait approaching him before he sees him. “Moony!” Remus looks up, and there he is, grinning at him with a row of straight, white teeth. His hair is dry now after the morning’s antics; it hangs in shiny waves, brushing the shoulders of his leather jacket. He looks like he belongs on an album cover.  “Hey, Pads.”  Sirius seems pleased at Remus’s use of his nickname despite its embarrassing origins. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, placing one between his lips and tilting the pack towards Remus. Remus accepts one, and Sirius lights them both. “Cheers,” Remus says through an exhale of smoke.  “I’ve been keeping tabs on Filch,” Sirius says conspiratorially. He exhales through his nose, plumes of smoke curling around his high cheekbones. His slender wrist peeks out from the sleeve of his jacket when he lifts his ring-covered fingers to take another drag. He looks good smoking a cigarette. But then again, he looks good doing anything, apparently. Pest. 

Did I mention I love them?

“Perfect,” Remus says, “then we’ll just bide our time until then.”  Sirius looks positively delighted. “Oh, I love plotting, Moony.” Remus takes a drag, hoping the flush he feels on his neck isn’t noticeable. 

Sirius Black: master of subtlety.

They finish their smokes and head back into the castle to meet up with James and Pete. After lunch, the foursome hangs around near the entrance to the courtyard under the guise of listening to Sirius strumming his guitar. They've staked out this spot to ensure they spot Filch, should he go to the well earlier than they expected. It's also simply good fun to listen to Sirius pick guitar riffs to songs. He purposely plays songs that he decides suit whoever passes by, which keeps sending them all into fits of raucous laughter. When McGonagall walks by, Sirius plays to the tune of “Black Magic Woman,” which makes James hoot and slap his knee like an old man. The headmistress raises a stern brow but doesn’t ask what it is that has them so worked up. James stops laughing instantly, however, when Effie walks by, greeting them with a sweet “Hello, dears,” and Sirius starts playing and singing “She’s a Lady” by Tom Jones. He cuffs Sirius upside the head for that one. 

I need to stop myself before I copy and paste this entire chapter. I just forgot how much fun stuff I packed into this one! I love it when the teens get an opportunity to act like teens. For so much of this story, they're forced to act like little adults, but they are seventeen and they are dumbasses.

They move as quickly as they dare through the corridors, their footsteps echoing against the walls, and head straight up the stairs to the dorms. Just as Sirius is about to peer around a corner to check if the coast is clear, Fabian rounds the corner first, walking right into him. Both of them jump, and Fabian yelps in surprise.  “Sirius! I was just going to see if you…” He trails off, noticing the rest of them. Remus has the shotgun slung over his shoulder and the case of silencers in his hand. Sirius has the other shotgun slung over his shoulder, and James and Pete are holding a pistol each. “Ah…what are you guys doing?” There’s a pregnant pause as they all scramble to think of a possible explanation that isn’t we just robbed the armoury.  “We just robbed the armoury.” “Pads!” James and Remus exclaim in unison. Pete just puts his head in his free hand. 

SIRIUS. My goodness.

“I didn’t know you were friends with Fabian,” Pete says, eyeing Sirius curiously.  “I suppose,” Sirius says lightly, not looking at them as he heads to the cassette deck. “We’ve been on chore rotation together a few times.”  “Do you think he’s going to tell anyone?” James asks.  Sirius shakes his head, slotting a cassette into the deck. “Nah. He won’t.”  He casts a look in Remus’s direction. Remus doesn’t say anything; he only inclines his head with a small shake. Your secret is safe with me. Sirius gives him an appreciative smile. It’s actually sort of sweet. Remus feels his stomach swoop. Unbidden, the memory of Sirius sighing manifests in his head. No! Stop it!

Cutiiiiiiies!!

Clearing his throat, he dives in.  “Right, so. I’m sure this goes without saying, but guns aren’t toys. You could hurt someone—or yourself—if you don’t use them properly. So, pay close attention to what I tell you.” “Sir, yes, sir!” Mary salutes flirtatiously. Remus feels his neck grow hot.  “Is that how you got those scars?” Fabian asks. Sirius’s head whips towards Fabian, wide-eyed. The air is immediately thick with discomfort, as everyone waits to see Remus's reaction. Fabian has the decency to look embarrassed at his own outburst. Even so, Remus feels irritation prickling in his chest. He’s already wishing Fabian wasn’t here.  “Erm—” James begins, but Remus waves a hand, cutting him off.  “No. I got mauled by a dog. Any other questions, or can I continue?”  Fabian shrugs awkwardly. “Right. No. Sorry, mate. Go on.”  Remus eyes Fabian for a moment longer before continuing. So what if he’s embarrassed? He shouldn’t have put his foot in it.

Remus is quiet, but he's not a pushover. My favourite characterizations of Remus are when he's thoughtful, quiet, and kind, but also able to cut someone down with his words in a way that catches the people around him off-guard.

He lifts the stock of the gun and rests his cheek on it. “Keep your head upright and your feet shoulder-width apart, slight bend in your knees.” Remus lowers the gun and looks around at the group. “That’s the basics. Any questions?” “When are you going to shoot the bloody gun, cowboy?” Sirius quips, poking his tongue out between his teeth. Mary laughs delightedly. Remus feels his face grow hot. 

That one was for all the cowboy Remus fans.

Also, I added this in the chapter notes of AO3, but I have never actually shot a gun of any kind (unless you count paintball). I ended up watching a bunch of YouTube tutorials on how to shoot shotguns. It was pretty interesting. I also drew on things people have told me from hunting or going to a shooting range. Gun are very scary and I've never felt particularly compelled to shoot one.

Sirius stretches his arms above his head languidly. “Well, suppose I better give it a go.” He saunters up to Remus and holds out his hand expectantly.  “Thought you would have wanted to go first, Pads,” Remus comments lightly.  “I wanted to learn from everyone else’s mistakes, Moons.” Sirius matches his tone, that glint of mischief in his eyes.

Despite how you might expect Sirius to dive head-first into an activity like this, I felt it was truer to his character to have him wait. I think he'd want to observe the others first and assess what they're doing wrong, and how he can do better.

Sirius lifts the shotgun and gets into position. He flicks his wind-snagged hair out of his face before resting his cheek on the stock. Remus assesses his position in the same way he's done with everyone else, but feels self-conscious about letting his gaze linger on one place for too long. Sirius has taken off his leather jacket and rolled the sleeves of his jumper up to his elbows. Remus can see that his forearms, while slim, are firm with wiry muscle and covered in fine black hairs. His elegant fingers curl around the fore-end of the gun, chipped black polish on his nails like some punk rocker. His brow is furrowed, dark eyebrows pulling together in focus, contrasting starkly with his light eyes. He’s holding the gun tightly against his shoulder, but it’s a bit high. “Hold it a little lower on your shoulder,” Remus says, reaching over to push the gun down a bit. He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but when he reaches for the gun, his fingers brush against Sirius’s cheek. It’s brief, only a fraction of a second, but the feeling of the soft, smooth skin of his cheekbone sends an electric shock right through him, from the tips of his fingers straight to his core. If his hearing weren’t so keen, he might have missed it—but as it stands, he does hear it—a small hitch in Sirius’s breath. Those piercing eyes are looking right at him now.  “Better?” Sirius asks quietly.  Remus nods, his stomach practically cartwheeling now. What the fuck is wrong with me? “Mhm.” He glances guiltily in Fabian’s direction, then back. Has anyone else noticed that?

Accidental cheek brush!! I can't handle it. I'm such a sucker for this part of a story, where two characters are into each other but still hiding it, and every look and touch feels charged. Truly, the best. I'll take ten.

Fabian is the last to go. He approaches Remus with what he imagines is meant to be an easy smile, but the redheaded boy is definitely nervous. Remus exhales slowly through his nose. This guy really hasn’t done anything to deserve Remus’s irritation, so he should probably try to put him at ease. But there is a non-zero part of him that is smug about being over a head taller than the other boy now that he’s standing directly in front of him. Remus recognizes that the thought is some stupid macho bullshit that Marlene—and, in a distant life, Oli—would probably make fun of him for. He’ll need to examine it later or banish it completely, along with all of his other intrusive thoughts.  In the end, Fabian does about as well as everyone else, which is to say, not great. But he takes it on the chin and laughs good-naturedly when he misses the target for the fourth time. “Guess I’d be zombie meat right about now.”  Remus shrugs indifferently. “You did alright.” 

Ohoho, jealous Remus. He knows he's being unreasonable, but he can't help it. And also...did you catch the unfortunate foreshadowing?

“I’ll catch you guys at dinner,” Sirius says nonchalantly. Fabian is standing beside him, looking far too casual. It’s suspicious, Remus thinks. But then tells himself that’s just because he knows the truth.  “Where are you off to?” Pete asks, his eyes darting between Sirius and Fabian.  “Just going to help Fabian with something,” Sirius says, waving a hand. “See you in a bit.” The two boys take off down the hallway. James and Pete watch their retreating forms curiously. Remus’s stomach feels like it’s in a tight knot as he watches them go. Their retreating figures, side by side, annoy him. But that’s a ridiculous feeling because Sirius is his friend, and he isn’t going to stay at Hogarth long, and what happened with Oli was a drunken mistake. Not something he wants to repeat with another man. No matter how pretty that man is. Right? Besides, it not like he even could, now that he's been bitten. Right? “Did he seem weird to you?” Pete asks them.  Regardless of the confusion churning inside him, Remus feels the need to protect Sirius’s secret. So, he shrugs and says, “When isn’t Sirius weird?” James laughs, clapping them both on the back and pushing them toward the castle. “Lad’s catching on.”

Poor Remus. You gotta go get your man, bb. :( And I like to think that James had an inkling of what was going on between Sirius and Fabian.

This chapter was fun to read through again. I think that this point in the story is where I really started to find my stride.

[sapphirerubydragon]

Just me again with another excerpt from my little fic about two cute little idiots who are in the middle of a maelstrom of teenaged superhero life crises with villains and betrayals and secrets and interuniversal terrorism and domestic issues.

But they are right now becoming absolute besties (until the angst actually hits) and can't concentrate on anything crucial but each other.

Oh and they also don't know how to confess their mutual interest although everybody can see it. And they may or may not ever get a chance to do it because things... are about to go not so great.

I'm updating regularly and I will probably do more updates soon. So lemme know what you think of Friends with Felonies 😀

[nw39]

"Echoes of the Past" is now live!

Chapter 8 of Weeping Shadows to Bloody Wings is now live!

We return to Baldur's Gate on the verge of exploding like a room full of runepowder, the storm surrounding it getting darker, forming into a maelstrom. The bell begins to toll....

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62693188/chapters/164011597

[knight-hiccup]

LITERALLY ON MY KNEES AT CHAPTER 8 IT WAS SO SO AMAZING dont mind me im emotionally attached to the heart of berk tbh throughout some of the scenes i was going "please, you can be more mad, you can be more angry" because it was always the reader reaching for hiccup but also i know, i was fully aware, that they were just so soft for him that they didn't want to push him too hard because of the pressures of the trial weighing him down, because of their friendship and their nature, they wouldn't let themselves be mad at him outwardly!!! and ugh the ending, the ending was soooo good the sheer emotions you and your co writer used lowkey made me go crazy because the tension, the way the two of them just fight (and from hiccups words this was probably the first time they fought where heart didn't try to soften their own anger UGH AGAIN THE EMOTIONS!!!!) im not good with words but then progression of heart (i might just start calling the reader heart because of ur title for them as the heart of berk) pushing their own feeling down and letting hiccup get away with wayyyy too many things (not to mention the sheer miscommunication between them, they are teenagers, they are so going to be emotional like that!!!) and then going to heart at the end of their line unable to let things go as they were it was beautiful ALSO RAHHH THE STORM SCENE OMG THE STORM SCENE???? (i was going "the maelstrom the maelstrom its here!!"/silly) THAT WAS ALSO A HIGHLIGHT THAT MADE MY HEART WRETCH anyway im super duper excited for the scene before the trial where hiccup is with astrid i cannot wait to see yall proceed with that scene

🍀 anon <3

LUCKY CHARM ANON UWU 💗💗💗🫂

Oh my gosh, I’ve been swamped with work and drafting, so I’m way late replying to you (6 days 😭)—my deepest apologies, my sweet luckycharm anon! ;;

I’m over here writing, internally screaming, ‘Get angry! Let it out!’ because she so deserves to unleash it. But with this slow-burn vibe and their character arcs leaning on that soft, bendy backbone right now, it’s all building up perfectly for the next chapters. It’s coming, and it’s gonna hit just right.

She’s so ridiculously soft for Hiccup—like, she couldn’t hurt a single hair on his head even if she tried. It’s her biggest flaw and her greatest strength (same goes for him), and it makes total sense. Growing up together, she’s seen all the mental garbage others have dumped on him, and it’s rooted this fierce need to shield him deep in her core. That’s the vibe I’m chasing—Hiccup deserves that kind of unwavering love, don’t you think?

But don’t sleep on her! Push her too far, and she’s got a side that’ll make you regret it. You’ll see it soon enough—hehe, suspense! Slow-burn writing is my jam, after all. LOL

I really wanted to nail that gut-punch feeling of arguing with someone you adore so much—When those ugly, untrue words slip out and you can’t reel them back in during a heated argument. It had to feel real, especially since they’re so young. Teens? They’re a mess with those wild, unfamiliar emotions—half the time they don’t even know why they’re mad! (we start to understand the more we grow up lol)

It’s all brand-new territory for them. These feelings, this drama—it’s blooming out of nowhere, and they’re flailing through it (hello, puberty!). Miscommunication’s their big bad wolf right now, and untangling it? That’s gonna take some time.

Also, MC’s nickname ‘Heart’? It’s so her. I’m obsessed with it! :’) That storm scene? Huge. It’s the heartbeat of his ‘Promise’ to her—hence the name “Maelstrom” right there 👀. Writing that cute little moment was a total joy for me.

Hope you love Chapter 9! Chapter 10’s gonna be beefier—I had more planned for 9 (only 5.7k. . .I did you guys dirty that's so low lol) but shifted it to 10 for some solid reasons. Just 3-4 chapters left in Book 1 ;;, then we’re rolling into the special chapters that’ll bridge us to Book 2—YIPPEEE!

Anyways 🥹💗Thank you, as always, my lucky charm anon ^-^—your reads and comments mean the world to me. More chapters dropping soon!🫂🥹💗

[theowritesfiction]

Thank you for tagging me, @juniperhillpatient! You know how we fic writers always enjoy an opportunity to talk about ourselves and our writing! 😉

20 Questions For Fic Writers

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 15

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 3,355,310

3. What fandoms do you write for? Avatar: The Last Airbender for the past few years, but I have also written for Life Is Strange, Dragon Age, Mass Effect and Baldur’s Gate fandoms.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

1. the burning ring – I guess not surprising because it’s the oldest of my azutara stories, and also it’s set in the canon-verse, which always gets more clicks than any AU. 2. the white lotus gambit – my ATLA Pai Sho modern AU story. I’m actually quite surprised that this story did so well because I expected it to have very niche interest, I mean who really cares about kids playing Pai Sho… but it was about so much more than Pai Sho. 3. Azula’s kitchen nightmares – shockingly my current WIP is already up to third place in this metric, which really blows me away because I haven’t been posting it *that* long. But I’m happy that readers have resonated so well with this kitchen nightmares inspired wild weirdness. 4. The raging maelstrom – one of my zutara stories, but with a very dark katara and rather bittersweet ending. I don’t really think about this story anymore, but like… it’s still there, I guess. 5. The pit of snakes – sequel to the burning ring, enough said 😊

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes, almost always, unless someone is just being rude then I will just freeze the thread and ignore them. Or if someone comments on a story that’s like 5 years old and I can’t figure out a way to respond because I have forgotten what the story was about. Also, I don’t plan to ever disable guest comments.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? From fics currently posted on Ao3, I guess that would be the raging maelstrom. Katara sacrifices herself at the end because she sees it as the only way to atone for some of the awful mistakes she’s made, so that’s a bittersweet ending at best. I have a Dragon Age fic of 4 short chapters on ffn that’s way angstier, though. It’s called the price of immortality, and it involves my blood mage Warden sequestering herself away in Warden’s Keep together with her lover and requesting a bunch of prisoners be sent to her from Denerim. It’s all a part of an experiment to attain immortality by brewing a potion from lyrium, Andraste’s ashes and the blood extracted from the prisoners. However, she runs out of prisoners just before attaining her goal. Care to guess what happens to Zevran (her lover)? Yeah, turns out price of immortality is sacrificing your humanity and going batshit insane.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Eh, most of my fics have very happy endings, certainly the Azutara ones. Personally, my favorite is probably the once in a blue moon ending (WLG sequel), because it was from an unexpected POV and set 30 years in the future, and I liked how it allowed me to celebrate the accomplishments of all the main characters. It’s just too bad that not many people saw it.

8. Do you get hate on fics? not really. I got a lot of hate on the raging maelstrom, because there are some zutara fanatics who really hate anyone writing toxic zutara. They see it as secret kataang supporters undermining the validity of their ship. I’m glad that Azutara fandom appears saner, although that’s probably just because we're fewer lmao.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Occasionally. I used to write either F/M or F/F, but if I were to write smut again it would surely be all F/F. I just have very inconsistent mood when it comes to smut. Sometimes I like to include it, but for a while now I just haven’t felt any real urge to write anything smutty.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? Yeah, I write fusion fics which is just transplanting the characters of one property into the setting of another property, where they replace the characters of that setting. I’m not sure I have written a proper crossover according to its definition.

11. there is no question 11 apparently 😊

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Someone once started translating my Mass Effect fanfics into French. I thought they were insane to even try, and they gave up after like 3 chapters.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Not really, I’m not sure that would suit me well, creatively I work better on my own.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship? Well, I can’t really say Azutara because I’ve been writing fanfic for a very long time, and they have been my focus for only the past 3 or so years, but lately, certainly they have been at the center of everything I write.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I don’t have anything like that. If I want to finish something, then I just do it.

16. What are your writing strengths? I have no idea, honestly. I guess I’m good at writing banter? I like to think I’m reasonably versatile and there’s nothing I’m amazingly good at, but also nothing I’m painfully bad with. My stories usually have a little bit of everything.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I know I’m bad at writing action scenes, but it’s just so hard to motivate myself to apply greater effort when action really bores me. Sometimes I also struggle with descriptions and setting the scene, just because English is not my native language and it can sometimes be hard to find words to properly describe what I envision.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Well, I sort of did that for my Mass Effect fic, even if it was just a Russian admiral running around screaming ‘Suka Blyat!’ XD I don’t know, there’s a time and place for it, I guess.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Baldur’s Gate 2. Really showing my age there *cry*

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? oh that’s so hard to choose. Like, the amount of plotting and research that went into White Lotus Gambit was… a lot, and I loved the result. But then again, the effort to make the ATLA characters fit into the Life Is Strange universe, the crazy amount of very detailed outlining done for that fic, and the crazy codependent Azutara… yeah, I would have to say it’s corners of the world our mere prologue

[justhere4thevibez]

*poking my head out of the hiatus hole like a gopher* anybody want a fic update?

I Can't Get Rid of You Chapter 8

Chrissy felt like she was in a dream. Or a nightmare. Or maybe even both. One minute she was curled up on the bathroom floor spiraling into a maelstrom of panic, and the next moment the unlikeliest knight of all came crashing through the door to her rescue. What made Eddie decide to help her? It wasn’t the kind of thing she’d come to expect from him, so why, all of a sudden, did he seem to care? Chrissy wanted to question him about it, doubt him, grill him, but she was hanging on by a thread and he was the only thing to cling to. So, cling to him she did.

[changingplumbob]

🩷 Rotation 7 💜 Chapter 7 💙

Household Members: Bob Pancakes, Eliza Pancakes, Dale Pancakes, Iggy Pancakes, Fergus Pancakes, Ginger Pancakes Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 3 ... Part 4

🩷 Rotation 8 💜 Chapter 8 💙

Household Members: Bob Pancakes, Eliza Pancakes, Onyx (Deadname Iggy) Pancakes, Fergus Pancakes, Ginger Pancakes Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 3 ... Part 4 ... Part 5 ... Part 6

🩷 Rotation 9 💜 Chapter 9 💙

Household Members: Bob Pancakes, Eliza Pancakes, Onyx Pancakes, Fergus Pancakes, Ginger Pancakes, Strawberry Pancakes, Tiana Pancakes, Maelstrom Pancakes Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 3 ... Part 4 ... Part 5 ... Part 6 ... Part 7 ... Part 8 ... Part 9 ... Part 10 ... Part 11 ... Part 12

[caparrucia]

Next chapter of the dragonheart inspired AU, Zhongli learns the therapeutic value of biting, Childe comes clean about his past, and Teucer is... well. Teucer.

[kitsune024]

Crossover : Code Geass

Drop of Blood by TenchiSaWaDa I Chapters: 8/? I Naruto & Lelouch

Crossover : Teen Titans

Slade's True power by GamesRMine I Chapters: 6/? I Slade is Naruto in this fic

Crossover : My Hero Academia

Edo Tensei by @asteroid-duck I Chapter 45/? I Hatake Kakashi-centric, Reincarnation, HPSC Child Hatake Kakashi, BAMF Hatake Kakash, AU- Canon Divergence

Crossover : Avatar the Last Airbender

Battle My End by @hytacorus I Chapters 66/68 I Reincarnation, Dimension Travel, Platonic Relationships, Toph Beifong & Zuko Friendship, Zuko is Sasuke & Itachi's brother

Lest you fade here all alone by @syluk-sky | Chapters: 18/? | Time Travel Fix-It, AU- Canon Divergence, Uchiha Shisui Lives, BAMF Naruto, Rebuilt Uzushiogakure, future naruto adopts lil naruto & gaara Twisted Morality by AllyMander | Chapters: 50/50 | Completed Time Travel Fix-It, Madara wins, Naruto leaves the village, Smart Naruto, Akatsuki Naruto, BAMF Naruto The wayward fox by HiHopeYouAreWell I Chapters 43/43 I Completed Naruto Leaves Konoha, Orochimaru & Naruto, Orochimaru is still Orochimaru, Sensei Orochimaru, Bamf Naruto, Slow Burn Naruto/Hinata, Fuuinjutsu Master Naruto Whispers on the Wind by penname_pending I Chapters 4/4 I Completed Sasuke/Naruto, Depressed Naruto, rebuilding Uzushio, BAMF Naruto, Naruto Leaves Konoha, Soul-Searching

Bookmark Series

Sunshine by @redninjalass19 I Part 1-2 I Naruto has a Brother, Naruto doesn't have kyuubi, naruto's brother Norio is a jinchuriki, Older Naruto, Naruto is a Chakra Sensor. Sick Naruto.

Naruto Fics with Fanart

All To Save Them by CaffeineAddicted | Chapters: 8/? |Time Travel Fix-It, Naruto is Ashura, Alternate Universe, Kakashi/future! Naruto, Hinata/Naruto, past trauma, future naruto & naruto Problematic Soldier by @maelstrom-prince | Chapters: 21/? | Sasuke/Naruto, AU- Canon Divergence, Fox Demon Naruto, Animalistic Naruto, BAMF Naruto, Team as Family Medicinal Lullaby by @avannak | Chapters: 32/? | FFN Naruto gives up on Sasuke, single dad naruto, bamf naruto, later naruto/sakura, maturing naruto backslide by @blackkatmagic I Chapters 32/32 I Completed Kakashi/future!Naruto, Sasuke/Naruto, AU - Canon Divergence, Time Travel, kurama is future naruto, Team as family, sasuke&naruto&sakura The Color of Summer by @spideywhites I Chapters 65/? I Self-Insert, SI-OC, Uzumaki Twins, things get far worse before they get better reverse by @blackkatmagic I Chapters 79/79 I Completed Bodyswap, Time Travel-Fix-It, Resurrection, Kakashi/Kyuubi | Kurama, slow burn, Kurama & Naruto

Bookmark Series

Flip the Coin by @inraindrawz | Part 1 - 2 | Sasuke/Naruto, Role Reversal, Canon Rewrite Windmill by @blaizekit | Part 1 - 3 | Timeline Shenanigans, Dimension Travel, Time Travel

[oracle-of-garbage]

We Can Be Saved - Chapter 8

Buck clutches at the side of the cliff on his way down, scrambling for any kind of purchase, but finding nothing. The surface disintegrates under his gloved hands, sending a tumble of stones down with him. A maelstrom of dust forces its way into his sinuses and coats his eyes.  Gritting his teeth, Buck digs the toes of his boots into the unstable earth and prays for a miracle. His descent slows, just a little, but he’s still moving too fast, careening towards an uncertain fate. For a single, shining moment, Buck’s left foot hits an outcropping of rock and his heart soars in relief and gratitude. Then the pain comes, searing and sharp, and he tumbles backwards, falling into nothing.

This week on We Can Be Saved - Rescue!