#maybe i'll remember to reblog with ao3 link this time

[be-compromised]

Annibirthday Comment Fest

It's our comm annibirthday on Monday - the be_compromised livejournal was created 6th May (first post 7th May) 2012. We are 12! Inspired by the Zero Comment Challenge and a chat on our comm discord, we'd like to gift comments to creative works with zero (or few) comments, hopefully spreading some joy, appreciation, and encouragement in our corner of fandom.

How Does Comment Fest Work?

From the 6 to 31 May, to comment on creative works with zero, or only a few, comments. (We're not setting a limit on this but maybe 12 or less in keeping with the theme if you're the kind of person who likes a guide.) We'd like to focus on clintasha works, or works featuring Clint and/or Natasha to support our corner of fandom. One way of doing this is to search works on AO3 for clintasha and sort by comments, but we're all ears for other ideas. We appreciate recs of any works featuring Clint and/or Natasha which will boost those comments! You can leave recs in a comment to the DW post, on the comm discord recs channel, or link to a rec on tumblr and we'll reblog on the comm tumblr.

Of course if you're inspired please feel free to comment on works that could use more comments in any fandom, and to keep going after May! Those just won't count towards...

The Comment Fest Challenge

We know poeple like fun, no pressure challenges, so (inspired by the tumblr April fools boops) the following comment fest achievements are up for grabs:

- comments on 12 creative works - recs for 12 creative works, of those you've commented on during the fest - a daily comment throughout the fest or comments on 26 creative works in total

These are on the honour system. Comments on all creative works counts, not just fic. Please free to put forward other achievements, suggest fun achievement titles, create badges, and otherwise have fun with this!

Suggestions For Leaving Comments

If you're feeling stuck here's some suggestions for leaving comments. Feel free to share guides and other top tips!

If you reached the end of a fic, lingered looking at fan art, or replayed a fan vid, then just simply saying that you liked it will very much be appreciated! If you'd like to expand on that, you could add one/a few things that stood out that you liked. And if you liked it enough that you decided to bookmark it to view again, the creator would love to hear that too.

> I really liked this! / I really enjoyed this! / Thank you for writing this! > I liked when... / I especially liked... / I loved the bit where... Could be with a brief explaination of the part you mean, or you could just copy and paste your favourite line(s). For art and other creative works maybe you liked the colours, the way the character's hair was drawn, the timing of the music and the visuals in a fanvid. > This part made me laugh... / Argh, it was so sad when... Creators love to hear your reactions. That can be copy and pasting lines and then adding 'I loved this!', 'ARGH', Clint, no. CLINT, YES.', an emoji... > I've bookmarked this to appreciate again / I loved this so much, it's one I'll reread! / I've watched this vid ten times and I'm gonna watch it again > Or you can take a page from the lovely firlalaith's book and leave a string of hearts: 💜💜💜

If you have any questions please comment on the DW post or @ a mod in the discord, but as always the things to remember are to be kind and have fun. Happy Annibirthday folks!

[preciouslandmermaid]

and i'll break all my rules for you (joel x gn!reader)

note: Reader is only 4 years younger than Joel. GN!Reader & they/them pronouns used where needed, but otherwise no other terms are used. Takes place prior to the video game & tv-show (pre-canon). 

(Not beta read, no use of Y/N). 💛 Feedback/reblogs always appreciated 💛

summary: You are paired with Joel for a smuggling run to the Massachusetts General Hospital outside of Boston. Despite Joel’s initial stoicism and penchant for antisocial behavior–you find yourself breaking all your own rules for him. 

warnings: canon-typical violence, mature language, mild hurt/comfort, mentions of drug use/addiction, a sprinkle of quiet yearning 

🍄🍄   READ ON AO3    🍄🍄

“They’re a doctor, Joel.” Tess says, “a real one.”

“Non-military?” He asks dubiously. 

You settle your hands on your hips, “I’m not a narc if that’s what you’re asking.”

Joel scoffs, “thought most of you were snatched up by FEDRA. How’d you get out?” His tone is sharp-edged and suspicious. Maybe even accusatory if you listen close. 

You bristle. This smuggler has no right prying into your past. Rule #1 of staying alive: you don’t let people get close (and most people in the QZ know how to follow that one). 

“I got lucky.”

“Joel.” Tess folds her arms across her chest, “we need them.” She gives him a weighted look. There are a thousand words in that single look. It speaks to their trust, their history, and you instinctively look away. You let Joel and Tess silently discuss your ability to run this job. 

Eventually, he bends against the category-five force of nature that is Theresa "Tess" Servopoulos and says a gruff; “Alright.”

Joel isn’t a talker. And that suits you just fine. You don’t need words to complete this job unless those words are “Look out, someone’s gonna shoot you in the face.” Although, you rather like to think you’d be quick on the trigger if someone did try and shoot your face. (Getting shot would break Rule #2 on your guide to survival). 

You make your way through the tunnels with your heart in your throat. Your sweat pools in the middle of your back. Your shirt sticks to your spine and beneath the straps of your backpack. It’s been minutes, you think, but it feels like hours. 

You’ve never been outside of the QZ.

You open your mouth to ask Joel what to expect and then snap your jaw shut. He’s not a talker and you’ll see for yourself soon enough. You remember the world before it ended. You remember movie theaters, bad karaoke, and smoke-filled restaurants. You remember brightly lit grocery stores, loud playgrounds, and quiet libraries. You thought it would never end. You thought there would always be cars, concrete, and pop music.

So much for that. You bite the inside of your check. Now we’ve got FEDRA and ration cards and a fungal infection that desires full-scale invasion. 

Joel says, “watch your head.” 

He holds a rotted plank up and you crouch beneath it. When you pass him, your nostrils twitch with the scent of his body odor, but it doesn’t smell gross. Which is surprising considering showers are a rarity and you’ve stood in line for jobs with your nose and mouth plugged to block the stench. 

The thought is quickly forgotten when you step outside for the first time in twenty years. 

You exhale, “Holy shit.” 

The world is a jungle. A cacophony of concrete and lush, vibrant wilderness. There is decay, there is destruction, you can see the iron gridwork of collapsed buildings like they’re its ribcage. But there is also beauty. The sky has never felt more open. It’s bluer, you think, than you’ve ever remembered. A shade of blue reserved for summer afternoons when you were small. The overgrowth of plant life sprawls like tiny capillaries over walls and chain link fences and through gaps in the rubble. The sunlight cuts through open rooftops and reflects rainbows off the broken windows. 

You glance sidelong at Joel. He rubs his mouth with his hand. And although he’s looking at the horizon, you doubt the view has any effect on him. You suspect he’s mentally planning your next steps.

As if to prove you right, Joel points to a narrow alleyway, “we’ll take this route.”

You shift the weight of your backpack and nod.

~~~~~~~~~~

You shimmy through narrow alleyways and climb across wooden planks. It takes several minutes before it finally hits you. You’re surrounded by silence. The QZ always contains some level of background noise whether it’s FEDRA and their trucks, or people talking, or crackling fires. You hear every step you and Joel take, every rustle of the breeze through the buildings, every shift of your clothing, every beat of your heart. You stare at the back of his head. His hair is thick and streaked thinly with silver strands. 

“Is it always like this?” You ask.

“Is it like what?”

“Like this.” You fall into step beside him and wave your arm, “this quiet.”

He glances at you. The furrowed line between his eyebrows deepens. “Could be quieter.” It’s a pointed yet passive aggressive statement. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s quiet enough, you figure, to ask the question that’s been gnawing at your stomach since yesterday morning. 

You ask, “what is your problem with me?”

Joel shifts his shoulders in an almost-stretch. “I don’t have a problem with you, doc. I just…” He glances sidelong at you, then away, his scowl etches into the lined grooves of his face. “It’s odd, alright? It’s odd that a doctor doesn’t work for FEDRA.”

He sniffs. “I don’t trust it.”

I don’t trust you. That’s what he means to say, and you’re not even surprised by it. You don’t trust him either. You trust him to complete this job. You trust him to survive (with or without you). You don’t bother trying to give him explanations as to how you’ve avoided FEDRA’s grasp. Truly, it was pure, dumb luck. You fell through the cracks. An authoritative regime liked to shoot first and ask questions later and their bureaucracy was shit. FEDRA wasn’t asking folks for their resume, and it was easy enough to lie once you were in the QZ. You’d rather be a coward and survive, then a hero and get yourself killed. 

That’s why you had rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. 

You shrug, “There are other medical professionals hiding out in the QZ. Not everyone jumped at the chance to be a FEDRA dog.”

Joel doesn’t reply. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joel explains quietly that you’ve got to cut through the library to reach the hospital. You’re not thrilled about the enclosed space, but what can you do?

The air is rich with gray dust motes and dead fungal cells. You and Joel step quietly (so silently a librarian would be proud!) through the dilapidated shelves and collapsed aisles. The magazines on the front desk are rotted into pulp. It smells of decay and damp mold and soggy newspapers. Many of the tables and chairs are snapped in half, chewed by termites, or broken by passing survivors for kindling or weapons.

The large hole in the ceiling has allowed every element of weather to permeate the library into a tomb of dead literature. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the ink running rivers through the aisles, around fallen rubble, and spilling down the stone steps. The children’s section of the library is muted in color. All the bright stuffed animals are chewed, stuffing crawls out of their eye sockets, and vibrant plastic toys are covered in grime.

You touch a shelf in passing, letting your fingertips graze the water-logged spine, and imagine the pages crumbling within. Your heart squeezes like a vice.

Mechanical textbooks, poetry, and biographies, and books on tape and DVDs–gone. As if they never existed. And now children are taught in FEDRA schools, taught to shoot, and taught the FEDRA-version of history. 

Something snags in your chest, and you instinctively turn your face away from Joel’s so he can’t see. Your eyes prick with tears. You’ve seen bodies piled to burn, you’ve seen civilians shot down in the street, you’ve seen horrors upon horrors and lost everyone you’ve ever loved. You shouldn’t be crying over dead, lost books.

But it feels like a piece of humanity that is irrevocably lost.

The future opens like a black void, like a pit, like the mouth of hell beneath your feet. What’s the point in completing this job? You ought to just take the meager supplies you have and keep walking into the abyss. Maybe you’ll find something better or maybe you’ll be eaten–consumed–by the infected. Maybe that would be better than this. This pretense of a life worth living. It wasn’t even life. It was purely survival. Your breath stutters and you clear your throat despite the sharp, cold glass lodged inside of it. 

“Hey,” Joel’s tone mirrors that of a cowboy trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Where’d you go?” He steps in front of you, snapping his fingers and it breaks your zoned-out focus on the books. You shake your head.

“‘M fine.” Your words string together like a children’s beaded bracelet. 

“Keep your head on straight, doc.” He admonishes. “We’re almost there.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

Hell breaks loose in the sound of a scream. 

It doesn’t make sense that raiders should be here so close to the QZ. But, they are. Joel grabs your arm and jerks you sideways into one of the cavernous divots formed by two bookshelves that fell into one another. You crouch-walk through the make-shift tunnel with cold, stagnant water dripping onto your head and shoulders from the shelves. 

The raiders run through the library while hollering profanities at one another. Their faces are covered by gas masks or simple cloth face-masks and ski goggles. You count the footsteps and watch the elongated shadows cross over the mossy walls. It’s a small group. Hopefully they just run through and keep going. 

Joel’s breath is warm on your cheek, “there’s three,” he whispers. 

You nod minutely to signal that you’ve heard him, but you don’t trust your voice to speak. He cranes his neck to peer around the shelf and you watch the tendons shift on his dusky throat. He glances over his shoulder toward you and lifts his index finger to his lips. His dark eyes are pensive, hard, and focused. Like two chips of dark amber, like pieces of obsidian. 

You wait, listening, your body crouched and muscles stiffening. The raiders have moved to the south section of the library. You can hear them rifling through things–furniture is moved, either smashed or kicked over, and book pages flap wetly as they are tossed aside.

Joel leans close in again. So close you feel his body heat radiating from him. You smell his sweat again. Your heart threatens to break free from your ribs. 

He whispers into your ear, “this place is already picked clean which means they’re probably looking for an old stash. If we take the second floor we can sneak past ‘em.”

You carefully follow Joel’s steps. He’s drawn his revolver, but you keep your own piece holstered at your hip. Your palms are slick, and you don’t trust yourself to hold a gun properly. If these raiders see you–you’re going to run. No question about it.

Joel grimaces, his face taught in concentration, as his shoulder slowly pushes open a rusted, stairwell doorway. Every sound he makes feels like a gunshot, like a noose tightening around your throat. You glance around, paranoid and cautious, before Joel makes a quiet sound in his throat. 

You meet his eyes. He flicks them into the created narrow space of the doorway. He wants you to go first. You angle your body to the side, your chest brushes against Joel’s as you pass, and side-step through the door. The touch doesn’t even register until after you’re in the clear and even then–your mind cannot process anything beyond the potential for death, the threat of the raiders. 

Your sticky palm holds the door handle and Joel follows you into the stairwell. You muffle your relieved sigh behind your fist. You climb the stairwell like mice trying to avoid an angry housecat. The stairwell is metal and rusted, but it holds your weight and doesn’t creak too much. Joel takes the lead. 

His eyes are constantly checking you. They are brief, passing glances. You’re not sure who is more paranoid at this point–you or him. Although, it’s probably you.

You keep checking over your shoulder as if the raiders will appear like ghosts behind you. What will you do if they find you? Where can you run to in this cramped, tinnitus-dangerous stairwell? 

Your foot slips as the rusted step gives way. Just your luck, right? You swallow your gasp of alarm, your shout of terror, and your arms windmill to regain your balance.

Joel’s hand shoots out and catches you effortlessly by the wrist. He pulls you forward with surprising, wiry strength and onto the step he’s standing upon. Your cheeks burn. He releases your wrist, nods, and you keep moving.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun has almost fully set by the time you manage to escape the library. The sounds of the raiders on the floor below echoes in your eardrums. Joel led you through the destroyed second floor (which was arguably worse for wear than the first floor). He guided you over wooden planks, and through bookshelves, until you finally climbed out through a broken window and onto the roof.

The warm air tastes so, so sweet.

You plant your hands on your knees, breathing heavily, your sweat drips down your face and over your spine in sticky, moist rivers.

Joel taps your shoulder and signals with a tilt of his head that you need to keep going. At this rate, you’ll reach the hospital by nightfall. Not an ideal situation, but what choice do you have? You have a job to do. You can’t turn away and run back to the QZ with your tail between your legs. The job runs bigger than just you and Joel, and you steal a moment to wonder if Tess told him the details. You push the thought from your mind. There is no use in speculating about Joel and Tess’s relationship. Once the job was done you’d never work together again unless fate played its tricky hand. 

Your flashlights cut sharp, white lines through the deserted and overgrown streets. The hospital is derelict and dark. It poses like a forgotten specter over the street. Alongside the destroyed cars and police vehicle, there is an overturned and torched ambulance near the ER entrance. If you were to shine your flashlight into those cars, or the doorway, you have no doubt in your mind that you would find corpses. A chill shivers across your damp skin. You hope there are no infected inside, but it’s a risk you’ll have to take. 

You lead Joel around the side of the building and shine your flashlight up toward a broken window. Wordlessly, he situates himself near the brick wall and laces his fingers to hold your foot. You grunt in unison as Joel boosts you into the window. You awkwardly grip the window ledge, avoiding a large piece of glass, and shimmy your torso up and over. 

You land and grumble, “fuck.” Your boots crunch on scattered, broken glass. 

A quick cursory glance around the room reveals two skeletons sitting upright in their beds. Their clothes and blankets have rotted and are pocketed with moth-eaten holes. Their eye-sockets bloom with dead and ashen fungus that spreads like spidery roots across the wall behind them and stretches toward the ceiling. Their wrists and ankles are secured to the beds with thick, leather clasps. You shine your flashlight over their bodies and golden, empty bullet casings glitter on the floor. Shot dead. There’s no telling when they died–were they shot on day zero? Or did some scavenger pass through and shoot them out of fear or pity? 

You take off your coat, bundle it into your arms, and sweep away some of the glass. You pull a rope from your backpack, tying it on a metal bedpost, before you drop it to Joel. The hewn rope cuts into your palms and fingers like woven splinters as you hold it steady.

You release a silent sigh of relief when Joel crests over the window and joins you. Something akin to relief uncoils in your stomach when you see him. It’s not like you expected him to bail or anything. Joel doesn’t strike you as that kind of guy. However, being alone in the hospital, even for a few seconds…is unnerving. You are safer with him beside you. It’s not sentiment or tender, warm feelings creating that thought. It’s pure, survival-based logic.

“The stash is just across the hall.” You whisper.

Joel nods gruffly.

You pull your pistol from its holster and force your arms not to shake as you walk toward the door. It creaks. The hinges are flecked with rust. A constellation of acrid, gray dust plumes and swirls in front of your face. Your flashlight beam bounces over fallen IV poles, and wheelchairs, and gurneys. And corpses. Dozens of corpses. You listen, and breathe, and push the door infinitesimally wider. The hospital yawns and stretches and rises like an old alley cat to meet you. A hundred memories tug at your shirtsleeve and beg for your attention. You tell yourself you cannot indulge in reflection. You must focus on the task at hand. You have to survive this. 

You tentatively step across the hallway with your heart lodged in your throat. The ten or so steps it takes to cross the hall feel like a hundred. You are only aware that Joel is following because you can hear his breath. You intentionally mirror him - his inhale and exhale - and a semblance of calm radiates across your worried nerves. 

The closet winces open.

The handle of a mop barrels toward you. You inhale sharply through your nostrils. 

You catch it before it hits the floor. 

Your eyes lift to Joel’s, and he gives you a look that seems to say– “Nice one.” You cannot decide if his look is sarcastic or not. You weasel yourself into the janitor closet and push your fingers behind the plastic bottles of glass-cleaner. You bite the inside of your cheek. What if it’s gone? You don’t know what you’ll do. You don’t know what you’ll say to Tess. 

After some blind searching, your fingertips finally touch a plastic bag taped to the underside of the shelf. 

Thank fuck. 

You tuck the bag of mixed pills into your backpack. You quietly slip from the closet and dip your chin toward Joel. 

He raises both eyebrows then whispers, “is it all there?”

“I think so.”

You and Joel return to the first room. Together, you brace the door with whatever spare furniture you can find. Two chairs meant for visitors. An IV pole. Two cheap, wooden nightstands. You hate how flimsy it looks. How vulnerable. An infected could easily break through that. 

“That's all we got.” Joel says. “I ain’t risking moving the beds.”

You massage your hand over your neck, “yeah, no shit.”

“We’ll move at first light.”

“Fine.” You remove a ration from your bag. A sense of unease and doubt gnaws at your empty stomach. “Joel…?”

“Hm?” 

He looks over at you with an inquisitive, yet chagrined expression. He hears the question in your tone, maybe even wants to answer, but likely hates all this talking. Realistically, you think you and Joel have said less than 50 words to each other. You tear a corner of the ration off with your teeth. It’s chewy and gritty and too salty. 

“We’re good here, right?” You ask slowly, your voice sounding far too small for your liking, “I can’t shake the feeling that the raiders followed us.”

Joel shifts his weight. He is silent for a few seconds, his face closed off, his gaze on the fungal skeletons eternally resting in their deathbeds. 

Finally, he says; “I’ll keep watch.” He glances at you, “get some rest.”

You doubt you’ll manage anything more than a few fretful minutes, but it’s better than nothing. You don’t want to be jumpy and anxious from a lack of sleep. At this sudden thought, you try to catch Joel’s eyes again.

“What about you?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

His answer annoys you. You’ve spent the entire day climbing through rubble and avoiding raiders. You brought him to the hospital. You got the stash. You followed through on your end of the bargain and yet…

“You really don’t trust me huh?”

Joel snorts, “not really, no.”

Offended, you cross your arms, “have I done something specifically or is that just your general asshole attitude to everyone?” You ask, snappish. 

You know it’s hypocritical. You know it is. You can’t help it. Whether it’s adrenaline wearing off, or hunger, or tiredness that is the cause for your tone doesn’t really matter. Your skin itches with restlessness. Hasn’t Joel been paying attention? You’re not a smuggler like him. You’ve never been outside the walls! You risked your life for this job. 

Joel cuts you with his dark gaze. “It’s my attitude toward everyone, yeah.” He replies coldly. “But especially to so-called doctors who somehow aren’t dead or with FEDRA.”

You roll your eyes.

“Oh sorry!” You pat your pockets dramatically, “I don’t have my credentials on me.”

He sighs. The weight on his shoulders deepens. He pinches his brow. Your harsh flashlight illuminates his torso and face in blue-white. His flashlight emits a halo of light. The dark, spidery-fungus frames Joel like two membranous wings. For a passing moment, he appears like a martyr, a patron saint of little patience and years of quiet agony. 

“I trust Tess.” He says, “she said we needed you because you knew where this stash was…but you wouldn’t say how you knew…and you wouldn’t tell her where it was or why you needed to go. So, I’m standing here, and I’m thinking that I could’ve done this job with Tess. And if I did then we’d be back in the QZ by now.”

He continues, “you’re inexperienced, you’re jumpy, and it’s a miracle you haven’t stepped on a network yet.”

You flinch. 

“So, yeah, doc. I’m having trouble trusting you considering you haven’t done a damn thing to earn it.”

You turn away from him. You’re too old to be sulking, but dammit (and damn him!) you are. Did watching his back not count for anything? Your success in moving stealthily? The fact that you didn’t lose your fucking cool at any point?! Your nostrils flare. You won’t jump over hoops and climb mountains to earn his trust. And why should you?! He’s kept you alive at this point but the same could be said for you. You don’t expect his whole trust, not even half of it, but you expected something. A shred of trust. A scrap. 

You settle against your backpack as a pillow and zip up your coat all the way to your chin. The minutes unhurriedly pass in awkward, tense silence. 

You realize, bitterly, that you trust him. It’s not fair that he doesn’t trust you in return. A second realization crawls into your mind. And it’s somehow worse than the first. 

The fact that you trust Joel (just a little bit!) means that you’ve let him in. You care what happens to him. You want him to survive. Hell, he’s not even a friend! Yet, you don’t see him as baggage or a liability. You don’t see him as a simple asset to your own survival. And yet….and yet…he’s earned a tiny, tiny piece of your trust.

You’ve broken rule number one: don’t let people get close. You always assumed that rule functioned in a primarily receptive way. As in, other people getting close to you and not the other way around. Your eyebrows draw together in annoyance and frustration. Silence stubbornly stretches onward while Joel watches the door and you watch him.

Quietly, you admit, “I used to work here. Not during the outbreak, though. Like, years earlier.” You stubbornly close your eyes to hide Joel’s face from your view, “an ex-resident told me about the pills. She wasn’t able to…obtain…them before they fired her.”

You flick your tongue across your dry lips.

“We were friends.”

You wonder what happened to her. You wonder if she’s alive in some other QZ. You wonder if she’s clean, or if she’s happy. Finally, you wonder if she’s dead. You try to remember the color of her eyes and are met with a void. An empty lot where a memory lived and then was evicted by your mind to make room for something else.

“She asked me to get them for her…but I never did.” You clear your throat, “we stopped being friends after that.” 

Rule number one is officially and monumentally fucking broken. 

Joel is so goddamn quiet that you suddenly fear he hasn’t been listening. Your eyes snap open. Joel is looking at you–his brow furrowed, his lips gently parted. You’ve seen this expression on his face before. He’s pensive and calm. Usually, this look is reserved for when he’s planning routes of escape.  

He asks softly, “you thought she’d come back for it?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, “she was technically banned from the hospital, but she could’ve had someone else do it or…” Your eyes trail upward to the spore-marked ceiling, “gone herself wearing a disguise or something? I don’t know.” You say while laughing weakly.

“And that’s why you wanted to come.” He guesses. 

You nod. “I knew there was a chance that I could be wrong. I didn’t want to risk anyone else for that.”

Joel’s mouth thins, “just me.”

“Yeah,” you smile, “just you.”

You sense the fragile truce between Joel and yourself. Satisfied, you close your eyes again and try to settle into a semblance of rest.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joel shakes your shoulder. Hard. Your mouth instinctively opens to groan or wince and Joel’s hand snaps over your mouth. You groggily blink at him, tugging at his coat sleeve, glaring, but Joel’s expression is pleading. His eyes are big, and sorrowful, and deep, dark brown like roasted coffee. His index finger presses to his lips. You tilt your head and try to speak against his hand. His fingers press a little harder into the meat of your cheek.

A clicking noise echoes down the hallway.

A sour taste of fear floods your senses. Your grip on Joel’s forearm tightens and your eyes widen as if they could somehow absorb all visual stimuli and discover a way out of this new mess. Joel slowly pulls his hand away from your mouth. His eyes side-glance to the window. You’re lucky you had the foresight to clean up some of the glass after your first entry.

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You establish a new knot onto the hospital bed leg and toss the rope out of the window.

Joel jerks his chin to the blossoming, rosy dawn that spills like silk into the room. You peel your jacket from your shoulders and drape it over the broken glass on the windowsill. You’d rather not accidentally slice open an artery while there’s a clicker loose in the building. You squeeze the rope in your hands. Rule #3: Always run if shit goes sideways. You throw your leg over the ledge.

The rope pulls taunt against the bedpost. The metal scrapes against the linoleum. You and Joel share an identical ‘Oh, fuck!’ expression. 

The clicker runs through the hallways and knocks over who-knows-what along the way. Always run, always run…You freeze on the ledge. Joel moves toward you. Unthinking, unbidden, your hand drops the rope and grabs Joel by the arm. 

You pull him. The world tilts sideways. A sense of vertigo rushes through your body before the ground hits you. All air is forced from your lungs in a painful, tense wheeze. A field of twinkling white stars dance in front of your eyes. Your ribs ache. You suspect more than one of them is bruised from Joel’s weight falling onto yours. 

Did it count as breaking rule number three? You ran, but you ensured Joel’s safety as well as your own. Joel lifts you to your feet. His grip is steady and sure.

“C’mon.” He whispers urgently before pulling you with him. 

Who are you kidding? Rule number three is definitely broken. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You have the shittiest luck in all of Boston. You and Joel make it nearly halfway to the library (which you are planning to go around) before a raider literally runs into you. His body collides with yours, but he’s faster on the draw with his weapon.

His heavy automatic gun swivels and points to you and Joel. 

“Hold it!” There’s a tremor of terror in his voice. You glance around. He’s alone. That’s weird. The raider is wearing a FEDRA issue body vest, camouflage pants, boots, and a visorless motorcycle helmet. His ammunition is strapped over his chest like he’s in a bad 80s action movie.

His watery brown eyes notice the backpacks, “Drop your bags! And any weapons!”

“Easy.” You say, your arms raised, “we’re just passing through. This doesn’t have to get violent.”

“You’re right!” He snaps, “it doesn’t! So, drop the fucking bags and whatever else you have!”

You’re not sure what exactly clues you into the raiders’ next move. Maybe his eyes flick to Joel for a nanosecond. Maybe, you think, he sees Joel as a bigger threat (which is rather misogynistic of him but whatever). 

Your feet move before your brain has time to catch up. 

The bullet bites into the meat of your leg and you eat a face-full of dirt and gravel. The tiny, jagged rocks burn as they scrape across your skin and rip your palms and chin. You try to pinpoint the pain radiating through your body and roll painfully onto your back. Your lungs are wheezing for air. You prod your jeans with your fingertips to find the bullet entry point. Thank God. The femoral artery and vein isn’t punctured. You’d be dead otherwise.

Your wet bloodied fingers crawl along your thigh and finally find the hole. The relief is minor compared to the pain you’re in. You dig your finger and press against the bullet hole in an agonizing, guttural cry. It feels like a clean shot, but you can’t be sure. Your rule number two (don’t get fucking shot!) has been officially broken. And you did it to save Joel. Your world goes blurry with pain and tears. The muted gray scenery takes a moment to re-focus. 

And when it does–you see Joel on top of the raider. His knuckles bloom carnation red. His chest heaves with labored, deep breaths.

“Good.” You murmur, “my risky move paid off.”

“Your risky move nearly got you killed.” He snaps before crouching beside you.

“That’s a weird way to say thank you.” You apply firm pressure to your bullet wound, “he was gonna shoot you.” Weirdly, the thought makes you want to laugh. You bite down on the hysterics bubbling inside your chest. It’s adrenaline. Your body is in shock. You tell this information to yourself like a meteorologist explaining the weather. It helps a little. 

Joel scowls. “I had it handled, doc.” His hands shake as he digs through his bag. You decide not to draw attention to it. 

Your eyebrow ticks upward toward your hairline, “were you going to glower him to death?”

“Enough.” He holds a rolled bandage in his hand, “let me see.”

“I can walk.” You start to protest and flinch when he reaches for you. “We gotta move out of here.”

“You need your hands.” Goddamn, you think, Joel is a stubborn sonofabitch. You reluctantly pull your hand away from your thigh.

“Clean through?” He asks while wrapping your thigh in gauze.

You wince. The pressure is necessary to halt the bleeding, but it still fucking hurts. “I think so. Yeah. Yeah, hopefully. ” A clean shot without any gun shrapnel or broken bones will be a miracle. 

He says, “we’ll get a better look at it later.” You look away from your wrapped leg and meet Joel’s dark gaze. He holds your stare for a beat longer than you expected. You’ve never had much time to look at him–really look at him–and you realize he’s got a handsome, weathered, and tired face. Something inside your chest flutters. 

You look away before he does. “Yeah, alright.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Wincing and breathing heavily, you manage to limp your way through the streets and caved-in buildings. You cling to Joel for support when needed until he finds a safe spot to rest. You help him push an old refrigerator in front of a doorway and black spots dance in front of your vision. The pain radiates through your leg like fire. Your face glistens with sweat.

But before you can topple over, Joel catches your shoulder in his familiar, steady grip. One moment he was standing on the opposite side of the fridge and the next moment he was next to you.

He murmurs, “easy now.” And guides you to sit down and extend your leg. You breathe harshly through your nostrils and squeeze your eyes shut.

“We have to stop the bleeding.”

You hear Joel’s bag unzipping, “I know.”

“There’s a kit in my bag.”

“Okay.” You hear your bag being unzipped. “I see it.” He says.

“Apply pressure and…”  You realize distantly that you’re slurring your words, “sterilize the needle…”

 “I know.”  

You feel his hands on your thigh. His palms and fingers encircle the painful space. You can feel the heat of him, the heat of his touch, his bodily warmth. Your eyelashes flutter open. Joel is so close…his head is bowed, his expression grim and focused, and a little sheen of sweat dappled his wrinkled forehead. Joel pours disinfectant onto his hands and briskly rubs them together. Your blood-soaked bandage is pulled away. 

He shines a flashlight into the pulsing, wet wound. Some of your blood has clotted around the entry point in thick, dark red clumps. Your fingers twitch. You want to clean and care for it yourself. You want to stitch it up. But, that would risk too much infection. Your hands aren’t clean. You have to trust Joel and trust that the injury won’t kill you.

“Here, bite down on this.” He says while handing you a faded, colorless cloth bandana. You shove the fabric into your mouth and bite down at the first sharp sting of the needle poking through your skin. 

You reach out and clutch Joel’s shoulder for support. Your fingertips dig into his muscles. Your arm trembles as you squeeze him. Your vision goes soft and blurry with tears. The needle bites and bites and bites until your skin is pulled together again. Your sense of time is completely distorted as you walk between worlds on the verge of passing out while crying out in pain. 

Joel mutters quietly, “don’t worry. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you here. You’re gonna be alright.”

You think you mumble, “I know.” but you can’t be sure. 

When Joel is finished, and the wound is wrapped, the strangest thing suddenly happens. Neither of you move. Your hand remains on his tense shoulder. His hands are applying unnecessary additional pressure to your thigh. Your ragged breath syncs to his. Your eyes burn with tears and sweat that’s dripped from your brow. 

Something magnetic draws your gaze to his. He watches you with intensity and something else–something hot and sharp and dark.  

“Are you mad at me?” You ask breathlessly. 

“You did a stupid thing.” He deadpans. 

“He was going to shoot you.” You enunciate every word.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do!” You rush out, your eyes bright from exertion, “I saw it in his face. He was going to shoot you and then me because it would’ve been easier to rob us.”

Joel replies, “he was a scared kid.”

“Fine!” You spit out, “maybe he wasn’t going to shoot us. Maybe he was just going to alert his buddies and then they’d rob us, or kill us, or capture us for their sick amusement. Either way, I don’t regret it Joel, and neither should you!”

The skin under Joel’s collar flushes red, “You got shot!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not dead!” 

Joel jerks away from you as if you’ve slapped him. His hands leave your leg, and he pulls the pocket of pills and tiny, injection vials from your bag. You scowl at his coldness, his distance. He scowls at the plastic baggie.

“I recognize some of these…”

You sigh and lean your head against the wall, “not everything in there is for pain.”

“What else is there?” He says while holding a tiny vial of morphine close to his face, “besides this I mean.”

“Antibiotics.” You say, “my friend would sell them…y’know…to people who couldn’t afford it ‘cause of the scam known as the American healthcare system.”

He nods absentmindedly while procuring some pills for you. And he passes his water bottle to you as well. You take both pills (after visually confirming that one was a low-dosage pain medication, and the other was a general antibiotic). You sit in silence while watching the tense rise and fall of Joel’s shoulder out of the corner of your eye.

You say, “I’m not sorry, Joel.”

Joel chuckles under his breath, “yeah, I know.”

He shifts his body and settles next to you with a loud, heavy sigh. His hands are smeared with your blood, the color bright like red poppies or dark like fresh cherries, depending on the angle of the light.

“We have to wait till nightfall to re-enter QZ…” He says and although there’s gruffness to his tone you think you hear warmth in it too (or its the drugs). “In the meantime, you ought to rest.”

“Mhm, yeah, alright.” 

Your head lolls sideways and your temple lands on Joel’s warm, solid shoulder. To your surprise and secret delight–he doesn’t push you away. He doesn’t relax or lean into you either. Instead, he’s more like a warm statue. But you don’t mind. You broke all your goddamn rules for him, and you can afford to be a little self-indulgent after the past two days. It won’t kill you. 

You’re going to have to establish some new rules once you return to the QZ. (And yes, rule number two should probably remain the same).

Your thoughts drift and carry you into a dreamless, gray void.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joel folds his arms across his chest, unsmiling, and watching you. Turns out–you are a doctor. (Or at least, you were before the known world ended). You crouch beside a sick kid–obviously the kid is not infected, but sick with something that looks like pneumonia based on how hard the kid is trying to breathe. Their skin is glassy with sweat and every few seconds they cough like they’re going to lose a lung. 

Tess gravitates to his side. Her hands slide into the back pockets of her jeans.

She says, “I didn’t even think to consider they were getting the drugs to help other people. I figured it was just more opioids.”

Joel sniffs, “yeah.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

He frowns and shakes his head, “not much.”

“Well, they’re honest. They gave me our agreed upon cut and then some extra.” She glances sidelong at Joel, “would you work with them again?”

He watches you as you talk quietly with someone’s mother. Your expression is smooth and there’s a practiced and comfortable ease in the way you move, the way you talk. Outside the QZ, he considered you a goddamn liability. A nuisance. But, then you took a bullet for him. You dragged him out of a window to flee from a clicker. You risked your life to help these civilians (who probably don’t deserve it). You lean against your cane and walk toward him and Tess.

Joel rubs his jaw and his stubble is scratchy and rough beneath the pads of his fingers. He recalls the weight of your head on his shoulder. He recalls your eyes bright with strain, wide with fear, sparkling with amusement, and narrowed in annoyance. He wants to answer Tess’ question before you reach him. 

“Yeah,” answers Joel, “I would.”

[fox-moblin]

Announcement

Because I changed it so that only registered users can view my works on Ao3 (due to AI scraping), I've decided to upload chapters of ATWEA to Tumblr as well for people w/o Ao3 accounts.

Chapters will be uploaded a day after their upload to Ao3 (other than the first three, which are already uploaded to Ao3 and will be uploaded today instead.) I'll have links to each chapter in my pinned post on my blog.

...So, anyways, here's Chapter 1. Rest of chapter under cut.

Comments and reblogs appreciated as always :V

***

And The World Ends Again

A Linked Universe AU set in a post-apocalyptic Mad Max-inspired world.

Chapter 1

Next Chapter, Read on Ao3

The day their mother dies, Time finds Twilight down by the old river bed, hiding beneath the fallen tree that’s been dead too long to remember what it once was. 

He’s curled up in the shadow of its corpse, all gangly limbs and stifled sobs, clutching their mother’s handkerchief to his chest; when Time peaks around the mess of dry branches and meets his eyes, his younger brother buries his face into the worn yellow fabric and cries even harder.  

The funeral procession is still going, carrying their mother’s body from their shabby little house to the top of the hill where she used to sit and sing, waiting on a husband that wouldn’t return and hoping for a day when the rain would come and stick around for more than just a few days a year. Except nobody’s singing now; Time thinks it’s a shame, because Mama always said that she’d want lots of singing at her funeral - singing and dancing and celebrating, because she’d finally be moving on from this dead world and onto the next, where there would be clean water and green grasses and nobody looking to raid their meager little village for all it was worth. 

But the people of the village don’t sing when they carry her up the hill - there isn’t even all that much crying. Instead, their footsteps fall heavy on the dusty earth, a steady beat that doesn’t seem to match the racing of Time’s heart, and the village leader’s voice is the only other sound that cuts through the dry air, droning on about how this world takes everything from the living, so it’s good practice to cling to whatever you can. 

Time crawls beneath the dead branches of the dead tree and curls around his little brother, closing his eyes against the feeling of tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt and straining to hear the fading footsteps of the funeral march. Nobody’ll come looking for them; not after they saw Twilight tear off under the midday sun, hollering like a mad dog and cursing the spoiled land beneath them. 

Time can’t blame them; people have enough problems to worry about without two motherless boys weighing on their resources. 

Still, it’ll be a hard few months; maybe not physically, because, as much as Time loathes to admit it, now there’s one less person taking up whatever meager funds he manages to collect working in the mines. Less people means more food to split between them, more blankets to share during the cold nights, more water to pass over cracked lips and dry tongues.

It’ll be hard, though, because their mother was just about the only good thing about this place and Time has a hard time imagining he can offer even half of the hope she managed to provide.

In his arms, Twilight has begun to quiet, heaving sobs turned to little hiccups and soft sniffles. Time presses a kiss to his hair, tasting the salt of his own tears, and attempts to remember the songs their mother used to sing when the dust storms blew in from the surrounding wastelands. His mind comes up empty, though, so instead he just hums nonsense tunes and rocks his little brother in the shade of the dead tree, staring out across the dried up river bed and trying to imagine the water that used to dwell in its cradle.  

The world had already ended long before he was born, but Time can’t help but think that, today, it’s been destroyed all over again. 

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

3,613 days after their mother dies (because that’s how Twilight has kept track of time since the worst day of his life), the second worst day of his life hits him like a wagon. 

Literally. 

There’s a shout behind him, the scream of a horse gone haywire, and then he’s lying on the ground, bleeding dark red all over the pale soil. He thinks he can hear someone calling for help - calling for Time, because his big brother’s still working down in the underground, where there’s barely any light and he comes home smelling like salt and shadows. 

There’s hands on his chest and his face and his head, lifting and pulling at him until he cries out from the pain, and then the world tilts as he heaved onto someone’s back, his arms dangling limply; he squeezes his eyes shut, forcing back the bile that rises in his throat as he’s jostled, and tries to keep breathing - it’s getting hard, because his chest feels like someone’s pressing their whole weight down on him and every movement of the body beneath him makes his rib bones creak and groan. 

Someone’s talking to him, telling him to stay awake. Twilight thinks they need to be quiet.

And then suddenly he’s lying on something soft. There’s still yelling all around him, a chorus of meaningless panic, but it’s muffled now, as if all the sound in the world has been smothered by a big blanket. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he can feel the darkness trying to creep in again. He tilts towards its welcoming numbness with a weak sigh. 

“-light? Baby, open your eyes for me…” 

A woman’s voice, warm and familiar, cuts through the din. Twilight lets out a low moan as something is pressed against his side, sending spikes of pain shooting through his abdomen and down his legs. He jolts, trying to get away, but soft hands hold him down with surprising strength. 

“Baby, you gotta hold still for me, now… that’s it, that’s it. Now open your eyes, Twilight.” 

“M’ma…” He murmurs, turning his face into the palm that cups his cheek. There’s a stuttered breath somewhere above him, before the voice comes again. 

“No, baby. Open your eyes for me now, c’mon.” 

The pressure in his side increases and he opens his mouth in a silent cry, jerking away from the pain as best he can. His eyes fly open of their own accord, unfocused, and through the haze of tears and what might be the beginnings of a fever, a face swims into view above him; red hair halos soft green eyes and Twilight feels a mixed rush of relief and disappointment wash over him. 

“...M…lon…?” 

The face breaks into a worried grin. 

“Hi baby. You’re gonna be okay, okay? You just gotta keep breathin’ for me, yeah?” 

“Hurts…” 

“I know, baby,” Malon murmurs and swipes her thumb across his cheek. “Time’s gonna be here soon. They already sent someone to go get him.” 

“Nnn…” Twilight tries to shake his head. “...e’s w’rkin’...” 

“Honey, you’re more important.” 

Twilight tries to object - they need supplies, dammit, and goddess knows he ain’t gonna be able to work for a while after this - but his brother’s wife just shushes him gently and presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” she tells him and Twilight closes his eyes with a groan. 

No, it’s not , he wants to say, but his chest is starting to hurt so bad his breath isn’t coming as easily and he can hear Malon starting to panic above him, calling his name and shaking him. Somewhere nearby, a door slams open and there’s more yelling, before two large hands are on either side of his face, palms worn and warm as they tilt his head up. 

“Twilight! Twilight, you open your eyes right now !” 

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t , but he knows that it’s Time holding him now, body blocking out the lantern light and bringing with him the smell of the underground. His face must be a picture, Twilight thinks, now covered in the soot of his brother’s hands, mixing with all his blood and sweat.

“Pup, you gotta open your eyes for me, y’hear - you gotta breathe- ” 

It’s getting real dark now - darker than before, even though his eyes have been closed for a while. The kind of dark that comes when you’re on the verge of falling asleep. The kind of dark that only happens in the middle of a starless night, when the clouds are so heavy they block out all the light and leave only an endless void.   

“-ake up-!” 

Twilight thinks he might be drifting towards that void as more voices join in. 

“...pressure buildin’... -is lungs…” 

“...be able to breathe…” 

“...we… to release it… gonna hurt…” 

That’s the last thing he hears before something sharp is jabbed into his side, in between his ribs and into whatever soft stuff lies beneath, and his breath comes back to him in a rush of painful air; Twilight writhes, a howl bursting from the back of his throat as his chest finally finally expands the way it’s supposed to. 

There’s more words, Time and Malon’s voices mixing together with someone else’s - the village healer, maybe - and then Twilight, for all that he can now breathe without feeling like their whole house is sitting on his chest, thinks that he’s still hurting pretty bad and his head feels like it’s stuffed with cloth and he doesn’t really want to be awake anymore. 

So, when the voices start to fade and that darkness comes back, creeping in from the boundaries of his mind like the shadows that dance at the edge of firelight, Twilight takes one last big breath in and lets the pain wash over him. Time calls his name again, frantic, but he’s too far gone to even care.

The darkness beckons and Twilight goes willingly. 

When he finally wakes, some hours later if the fading light from the window is anything to go by, he’s lying in his own bed and covered in the blanket their mother made when he was just a baby; it’s near threadbare at this point, but neither he nor Time had ever had the heart to get rid of it. 

Time, who is currently sat at his bedside and bent at the waist, his head buried in Twilight’s stomach and face turned to reveal soot stains on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He’s asleep, brow forever furrowed by the weight of the world, and he grimaces when Twilight lifts a shaky hand to brush away the messy bangs that Time refuses to let Malon clip.  

It’s a testament to the chaos of the day that Time doesn’t wake. 

Instead, Malon eventually enters the room, another blanket in her arms and her hair done up in a messy bun; she lays the blanket across Time’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head as she does. 

Twilight watches the moment with lidded eyes, feeling like an intruder in his own sickbed, until Malon looks up and meets his tired gaze with her own; surprise overtakes her features when she sees he’s awake, before she gathers herself and places a gentle hand on his chest - her other palm she presses to his cheek, pursing her lips as she does.  

“Hi baby,” she murmurs and Twilight feels his cheeks color, though he’s not sure if it’s from the endearment or the fever. He mouths ‘hi’ back, wincing when a jab of pain lances through his chest. Time’s head rocks with the movement, but his brother only mumbles something in his sleep before burrowing deeper into the blanket over Twilight’s body. Twilight lets his lip twitch upwards at the feeling. 

Malon is watching them with a fond smile, though it’s tinged with worry. After a moment, she reaches for a bowl of water sat on a nearby table and brings it slowly to Twilight’s lips, tilting his head with her free hand and helping him to take careful sips. 

The water is lukewarm from the heat of the day, metallic and bitter, but it feels like an oasis in the desert of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he whispers when she steps away and she gives him a look of such kindness that he can’t help but thank the goddess that Time finally got his shit together a few years back and actually asked for her hand. 

She’d brought back a little bit of the light the two of them had been missing for a long while and Twilight doesn’t think either of them would have survived much longer without her in their lives. 

He thinks today is probably a pretty good example of that. 

It’s as Twilight is pondering the wonders of Malon and all her ‘magic,’ that his brother finally wakes - it is, unfortunately, not at all graceful. Time jerks in his sleep, sending a jab of pain through Twilight’s chest that travels down the length of his limbs and leaves him biting out a low whine. Malon is quick to pull her husband away, supporting him as he jolts awake with a yelp. 

Were Twilight in any other situation, he might’ve laughed at the look of confusion on Time’s face. Instead, he’s too busy riding out the wave of agony that’s decided to take up residence in his body. He can vaguely feel Time’s hands on his shoulders, grounding him as he grips the blanket hard enough that his knuckles begin to turn white. By the time he’s able to regain control, he’s soaked in sweat and his chest is heaving - it aches something fierce, but at least it’s more manageable than the red hot burn that’s now slowly receding. 

When the world finally comes back into focus, Time is staring at him with a look of horror, eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. 

“I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Pup,” he stammers, hands hovering uselessly over Twilight’s body. “Oh goddess, okay, okay, uh…” 

He looks to Malon for help, but she’s too focused on dabbing Twilight’s forehead with an old rag to notice. 

Twilight reaches an uncoordinated hand in Time’s direction; it ends up falling limply back onto the bed, but it’s enough to grab his brother’s attention. Time takes it in his own, holding it to his chest as he sits back down beside Twilight’s bed. 

“S’fine,” Twilight mumbles. Above him, Malon rolls her eyes, but she steps back, allowing Time to lean in closer and press a shaky hand to Twilight’s forehead. 

She looks at Twilight over Time’s shoulder, arching her eyebrow in a way that Twilight has yet to master for himself, and mouths the words ‘I’ll be back soon,’ before gathering up her rag and the water bowl and leaving the room. 

In the quiet of her absence, Twilight closes his eyes and tries to center himself; Time is running his fingers through Twilight’s sweat-soaked hair, murmuring soft apologies. Outside, the wind is rustling the dry branches of whatever weeds manage to stake a claim in the dry soil. 

“M’sorry,” he finally says, looking at Time. His brother shakes his head, moving his hand to cradle Twilight’s head and hold it steady as he brings them forehead to forehead.  

“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout,” he murmurs. Twilight sighs and does his best to press back. Time huffs out a quiet laugh, pulling away just enough to meet Twilight’s gaze. “Accidents happen, Pup.” 

“Y’should be w’rkin’...” 

“An’ you should be restin’, but here you are sayin’ things like ‘sorry,’ instead.” 

Twilight does his best to roll his eyes, but it only makes the world spin, so he settles for looking up at the ceiling instead. It’s been patched over so many times it’s beginning to look like the quilt Malon brought with her when she first came to live with them. 

“Papa traded our last cow for it,” she’d explained to Twilight once, holding it up to show him each of the patches - scraps of all different fabrics, from handkerchiefs to blankets to old shirts. “Got it off a scavenger from somewhere West of here.” 

“Why’d he trade your cow for it?” Twilight had asked, still too young to catch the way Malon’s eyes had grown sad at the memory. 

“He was a bit senile, by the end,” she’d finally said, and that had been the last they’d spoken about it. 

“You still with me, Pup?” 

Time’s voice draws him away from the memory, concern poorly concealed by a veil of calm. Twilight nods and takes a deep breath, ignoring the way his chest smarts at the action. Time gives him a sympathetic look, placing a hand on his sternum; Twilight smiles weakly.

Time rewards him with a smile of his own, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before sitting back with a sigh and looking out the window to where the sun is beginning to set. Twilight watches him for a moment, before shifting in bed in an attempt to get comfortable. 

“Y’should… rest,” he says once he manages to get somewhat settled. “Gotta… be ready for work t’morrow…” 

Time doesn’t look at him. 

“I ain’t goin’ to the mines tomorrow.” 

“Time,” Twilight says and tries to lift himself on shaking arms. Time pushes him back with a gentle sound of admonishment; Twilight goes willingly, but he fixes his brother with a glare nonetheless. “Y’need to go… I’ll be fine…” 

“I said I ain’t goin’ to the mines tomorrow,” Time repeats and then looks away towards the door. “I ain’t goin’ at all… anymore.” 

It takes a moment for Twilight to understand what his brother is saying, but once it sinks in, it’s only the pain and exhaustion that keeps him from leaping out of bed and shaking Time by the shoulders. 

“...y’lost it… l’st the job…” 

“More like I shoved it right back up the Overseer’s ass,” Time says out the side of his mouth, but Twilight is too preoccupied with the consequences his brother’s actions admire his sass. 

“Nnoo, no nnoo,” he moans and throws an arm over his face; the movement pulls at the wound in his side, but he pays it little mind. “Why-” 

“He wanted me to stay.” Time cuts him off sharply. “Wanted me to stick around an’ keep diggin’ while you were here, bleedin’ out.” He crosses his arms with a huff. 

Twilight curls his lips in a snarl. 

“Y’shoulda stayed…” 

“Like Hell,” Time hisses. “You were dyin’-” 

“Wasn’t dyin’,” Twilight bites out and then startles when Time stands so abruptly that his chair tips over and falls to the ground with a thud. Twilight stares up to where his brother is looking down at him with an anger that Twilight hasn’t seen in nearly a decade. 

“You,” Time nearly spits. “Weren’t breathin’ when I finally made my way here. You were paler than a ghost and lyin’ so still I thought… I thought…” His voice breaks and he turns away suddenly, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth. Twilight watches, shocked. 

Finally, Time seems to collect himself enough to speak again. 

“I thought I was too late… you weren’t movin’ and Malon couldn’t get you to wake up and I… I thought I’d lost you…” 

He doesn’t look at Twilight as he all but collapses onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he curls over himself. 

“I cannot lose you,” Time whispers and finally looks at Twilight through the gaps in his fingers. 

Twilight doesn’t speak - doesn’t know what to even say . He lays there, staring at Time and unable to come up with a proper response. Time just looks at him, tired eyes boring holes into Twilight’s very being. 

The silence is broken by the bedroom door creaking open and both of them turn to see Malon peeking her head into the room. 

“Just… checkin’ in…” she says, eyeing the fallen chair. Neither Time nor Twilight offer her a response and, after a moment, she hesitantly nods and then leaves, closing the door behind her.  

This seems to break Time out of whatever stupor he’d been caught in, because he finally takes pity on Twilight and stands, knees cracking as he does. He’s looking at Twilight again, but all the anger is gone, replaced by a deep weariness that seems to pervade his entire being. He leans over to place a hand on Twilight’s head, leaving it there for a moment, before stepping away. 

“I’ll figure somethin’ out,” he says as he picks the chair up off the floor, righting it with a grunt. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout it.” 

“I worry,” Twilight responds quietly. He’s so tired. 

Time graces him with a small smile. 

“That’s my job,” he says. He makes his way to the door, before turning back one more time. “Rest, Pup. It’ll be okay.” 

Then he’s blowing out the lantern as he leaves, casting Twilight into darkness once more. 

Except this time, Twilight doesn’t fall into its embrace. Instead, he lays awake for a long while, exhausted beyond compare but unable to sleep; his mind races, trying to piece together some sort of survival plan. Without the rations from Time’s work in the mines, all they’ll be going off is whatever Malon is able to trade with passing scavengers. Despite her best efforts, the crops she manages to produce in her garden are small; the soil in this place was tainted long ago and, though Malon might have enough talent to pull some sort of goodness from the land here and her cuccos can provide some eggs (and meat, if things get truly desperate), it just isn’t enough for the three of them to get by. 

Especially now that Twilight definitely won’t be out making trade runs or hauling supplies anytime soon. 

He groans, pressing his palms into his eyes until they begin to hurt. 

Goddess be damned , he thinks sullenly. 

Sleep does not come easy.  

Time leaves early the next morning; Twilight listens to him rush out the front door and down the dusty road towards the village, not even stopping to wish his old mare, Epona, a proper goodbye from where she watches at her post. 

For a few hours, Twilight contents himself with believing that Time has come to his senses and is going to go and beg to work in the mines once more. The Overseer might be an ass at the best of the times, but Twilight has to believe that the man has some sort of kindness tucked away. 

His hopes are dashed, though, when Time returns before midday, a small bag in hand. 

“Bounty work,” he explains when he finally shows Twilight the handful of rations he’d received that morning. “This here’s the down payment. I go, finish the job, and I get triple what they’ve given me here when I return.” 

Twilight objects at first, and so does Malon, but, to Twilight’s surprise and horror, she’s quick to give in. She frowns as Time explains his plan to return after each bounty, get his promised payment, and then head out again after some time at home, but finally nods. 

“I still don’t like it,” she admits, biting her lip. “I don’t like the thought of you out there alone, huntin’ after dangerous people.”

“It ain’t all dangerous people,” Time says, taking her hands in his. “Love, one bounty alone’ll be worth more than what we could trade for in two months… you and Twilight’ll have more than enough to get by while I’m gone, and whatever is left over you can trade for… for anything you need! Anything you want!” 

“Time,” Twilight calls from the bed, but the look in his brother’s eyes when Time turns to him kills whatever argument he’s got building. 

“Pup, I promise I’ll be fine! I’ll be safe… and you two will be okay without me for a little while.” 

I can’t lose you , Twilight wants to scream. Wants to throw his brother’s words right back in his face. But Time is looking at him with so much hope, so much determination, that Twilight simply closes his eyes and sighs, relenting. 

“You better come back,” he says instead and nearly cries when Time nods with a small smile. 

“Of course.” 

“And you better come back in one piece,” Malon adds on. Time laughs, deep and rich, and Twilight tries to memorize the shape of the sound; the way his brother’s voice fills up the tiny bedroom and makes the whole house feel warm. 

He clings to that memory the way he clings to Time the next day, digging his fingers into his brother’s tunic and burying his face into Time’s neck. 

“Please,” he begs and feels Time press a kiss into his hair. “Please, come back.” 

“I promise, Pup,” Time says and then he steps back, helping Twilight to lay back down into bed. “As long as you promise me that you’ll actually rest while I’m gone.” 

“If that’s what it takes for you to come back,” Twilight responds and hates that way Time’s smile falls just a little. He’s dressed for travel, a bag slung across his shoulders and a hood fitted at his neck for when the wasteland sun becomes too much. He looks like one of the heroes from the stories their mother used to tell them; like one of the travelers from far away that appeared suddenly from the swirling sands, only to disappear like some sort of spirit or mirage. 

Twilight desperately prays that Time won’t just disappear. 

“I’ll come back,” Time reassures him again, his smile turned to something softer. And then he’s leaving - he says his goodbyes to Malon outside, their words too quiet for Twilight to make out, before he’s truly gone, his form fading slowly as he walks further and further off into the distance towards the village and whatever lies beyond. 

Twilight watches him go from his bedroom window, staring out at the horizon long after he can no longer see his brother and long after the sun has climbed high into the sky. Malon comes and sits with him eventually, though she doesn’t speak.

The two share the silence together, waiting for something that definitely won’t come within the next few hours, before finally Malon leaves to finish her work for the day and Twilight lies back down and tries to keep his promise to Time. 

That’s how the next year plays out; Time comes and goes, always returning with his promised rewards - sometimes it’s rations, sometimes it’s supplies - and a handful of new stories and scars, before heading off again on the next job. Twilight recovers, slowly but surely, and eventually he’s back to working where he can, picking up random jobs here and there and helping with trade runs when scavengers set up camp in the valley a few miles beyond the village. Malon gives him herbs and vegetables and eggs to trade for water and cloth and feed for Epona. When Time returns, they use his payments to trade for things like leather and dried meat. 

That’s how it goes, for one year, until one day it all stops. One day, Twilight and Malon wait and wait and wait, and then the day turns into two. And then three. And then five and ten and twenty. 

Twilight spends his evenings sitting on the sturdier parts of the roof of their house, eyes trained on the horizon, while Malon sets a third place at the table in their tiny kitchen. Still the days drag on.  

One day, 34 days after Time last left, Malon finally trades the last of his rations for a jug of gray water.  

182 days after Time last left, Twilight finds her sitting in her garden, tears carving tracks through the dust on her cheeks as she digs through the dry soil. She’s singing to herself. 

370 days after Time last left, Twilight finally loses hope. 

He finishes feeding the cuccos that morning and then goes out to the field, only to find Epona lying on her side, stiff and cold despite the heat of the day. The sound that tears itself from his throat reminds him distantly of the howling creatures he sometimes hears at night. 

The world ends for a third time.

Twilight falls to his knees beside her, throwing himself over her body and cursing the goddess the way he used to when he was much younger. He feels like a child, helpless and lost, except this time, there’s no older brother to wrap him up and save him. 

In the field here, he is alone with a dead horse. 

It’s how Malon finds him hours later, only by then his sobs have subsided and he’s simply sitting beside what’s left of Time’s beloved steed, running his hands over her still flank and trying to commit the exact color of her mane to memory. 

“She was all we had left of him,” he says when Malon sits beside him, a hand on his shoulder. They sit in silence for a long while.

“I still have you,” Malon finally whispers and Twilight feels his heart break just a little more.

Eventually they manage to bury Epona; they don’t drag her up to the hill where Twilight’s mother is buried, though he wants to. Instead, they lay her to rest a little ways away from the house, in the cradle of the dry riverbed, where Time used to ride her up and down its winding length. Twilight marks the spot with a large stone, doing his damndest to pound it into the ground as far as it can go, lest a dust storm come to tear it away. 

He stays there, long after Malon leaves to go back to the house, staring at the stone and the mound of freshly moved dirt it sits upon. 

There’s something building in his chest; it isn’t more tears - he thinks he’s spent all that he has of those - but some sort of terrible, wonderful feeling that reminds him of when that wagon first collided with him and crushed one of his ribs so horribly that it turned itself against him and pierced right through the thing it was meant to protect. 

It reminds him of the hope that he saw in Time’s eyes over a year ago; of the determination that sent his brother off beyond the boundary of everything they had ever known. 

It isn’t either of those things; Twilight thinks it must be some sort of desperation, strong and wild enough to burn brighter than any hope or determination that could ever exist. 

It makes him dream of something so monumentally impossible that he forgets, for a moment, that the world has ended three times now. 

He stands there, staring at the stone, until the sun sets.

When he finally returns to the house, Malon is sat alone at the table, her hands folded in front of her. She looks lost in thought and Twilight makes to simply pass her by and go to his room, but her voice stops him in his tracks. 

“You ain’t goin’ to go lookin’ for him.” 

Twilight doesn’t look at her, still staring at the door to his bedroom. Malon doesn’t seem to care. He can hear her stand from the table, slow and deliberate.  

“Didja hear me?” 

Something in her voice sends a shiver racing all the way down his spine and he finally turns, eyes trained on the ground. 

“...yes.” 

There’s footsteps and then a hand comes and tilts his chin up, so that he’s forced to meet Malon’s gaze. 

“He’s dead, Twilight,” she says and there’s so much venom in the words that Twilight flinches. “He’s dead. I’ve lost him. I ain’t about to lose you, too.” 

“Malon-” 

“No!” This time, the force of her words has him stepping back, eyes wide. Malon’s face is hard as stone and she turns on her heel to make her way over the table, planting both her hands on its wooden surface. “No, Twilight. Just. No.” 

She doesn’t turn back around and Twilight, still reeling, takes his leave, retreating to his room and collapsing into his bed, burying himself under his mother’s old blanket. It smells of dust and dirt and the many years it’s lived through; Twilight draws its tattered form around himself and tries to imagine his mother’s arms instead. 

But it’s been a long time since she left this world and the last person to hold him so tightly was Time. 

Somewhere outside, in the far off distance, something is baying and wailing into the night, its call echoing out over the barren wasteland and slipping through the window of Twilight’s room. 

He thinks it sounds eternally desperate. 

Beneath the tattered remains of his mother’s handiwork, wrapped in the ghost of a promise, Twilight makes up his mind. 

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

Hark, hear the call Of the desperate creature The wailing and the howling Of the wonderful teacher Demonstrator of killing Of baying and bounding Whose beauty and grace Is not what’s astounding But instead it’s the writhing Of its prey in its claws And the gift it provides By snapping its jaws Down upon throats Of contemptuous beasts Who scour all the lands And use them as feasts Stripping all they could offer And devouring them whole But the desperate creature Returns what they stole Eating the bodies Of the greedy and proud And ridding the land Of their terrible cloud. - 'Desperate Creature' by Lem, Wasteland Traveler

[nekoannie-chan]

Kites

Kites

Title: Kites.

Fandom: Marvel, Fantastic Four.

Ship: Sue Storm & Johnny Storm.

Word count: 241 words.

Square: 4 “Kite flying.”

Rating: Teen.

Summary: Sue wanna fly some kites with his brother like when they were children.

Major Tags: Fluff.

Additional tags: This is my entry to @marvelrarepairbingo, @marvelrarepairs Marvel Rare Mini Event Spring Fling 2024. SFW Spring Fling Bingo Card #3.

Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.

@saiyanprincessswanie

My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and I will correct them.

I don’t give any kind of permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or languages (I translate my work myself) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don't steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other people. The only exception is the ones I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

Add yourself to my taglist here.

My other media where I publish:  Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter. 

If you like it, please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog.

Tags: @sinceimetyou @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad @navybrat817 @angrythingstarlight @shield-agent78 @charmed-asylum @pandaxnienke @real-fbi @smokeandnailz @white-wolf1940 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @xoxonotme @bluemusickid @leyannrae @harrysthiccthighss @marvelatthisone @caplanbuckybarnes @whore-for-chris-evans @lizzieolseniskinda @notyourtypicalrose @hallecarey1 @nana1000night @talia-rumlow @writingshae @alexxavicry @azulatodoryuga @daemonslittlebitch @chaoticcollectivenightmare @endlesstwanted @chemtrails-club  @marigoldreamer @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @here4thefanfics @theestorm @patzammit @kmc1989 @somegirlfromasgard @rogersbarber

Sue was looking for some things in the boxes they had in the attic, she smiled when she found the old kites that she and Johnny used to fly when they were kids or just wanted to get out of trouble.

She couldn't remember the last time they had flown them, plus the situation that all the superheroes were going through right now was too stressful, so maybe it was time for them to make some space for themselves and get back to the activity they enjoyed so much.

He didn't tell Johnny where they were going, he simply asked him to come along. The confusion was evident on his brother's face when they came to a large open field.

“What are we doing here? “Johnny questioned.

“We're going to have a beautiful brotherly moment, just like when we were little. "

“Don't even think I'll let you turn me into your makeup test model again, you've never been good at that," Johnny warned.

All that makeup always looked bad and Johnny looked awful, sometimes it was even too much work to remove all that makeup.

“No, we'll just do something quieter," she replied, pulling out the kites.

“We're too old for that, aren't we? “Johnny's eyebrow rose.

“And so, you're the life of the party? Go fly your kite," Sue ordered.

A few minutes later they were both laughing as they flew the kites, just like in the old days.

[selkiewife]

1, 11, 16!

@hell-heron thank you so much! Ok this has to be fast and dirty or it will sit in my inbox forever while I overthink everything and just- no that can't happen right now so here we go! lol

1. List 3 positive things about your current fandom(s)

A Song of Ice and Fire (book series and Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon)

Well, it's still going strong! The ultimate bad bitch of a fandom that refuses to die. The fandom that keeps surviving against all odds when death might be kinder, that keeps resurrecting itself and coming back wrong. And I love it for that.

There is always amazing (at times gut wrenching) art in the tag!

So many passionate and WONDERFUL/ thought provoking writers!

Black Sails

It's a fandom that is capable of understanding and enjoying complicated characters and themes

The pure LOVE that the Black Sails fandom has for this story and these characters is absolutely palpable when you are reading the posts/metas/artworks/fics/gifs/shitposts etc.

Just thinking about this fandom makes me remember that I really should rewatch the entire series again and dive head first into this fandom and never look back.

Harlots

I had the BEST time of my fandom life in this fandom (I say had because it has kind of slowed down a lot since the ending of the show- but I still daydream about Harlots often- and I still have a few fics in mind for one day- I definitely need to do a giffing my way through a rewatch soon!)

Everyone was so supportive and because it was so small, people reblogged and commented/supported each other's work with maybe greater enthusiasm than I've found in other fandoms. People also supported ships and character fanworks that weren't their favorite which I thought was so lovely. In the spirit of this atmosphere I read a fanfic for a pair that I initially didn't like and ended up loving it!

This fandom LOVES femslash. No but like really really loves it.

11. if you're a writer or artist, what fic or piece of art are you proud of making?

I write fanfic. I've written for asoiaf, got, Harlots, fire and blood, and hotd. Not Black Sails yet! In the spirit of responding in a timely manner I'll just link to my AO3

16. A tiny detail in canon that you want more people to appreciate

In the asoiaf book canon, I love- like LOVE LOVE- that Mance and Rowan are part of the plan to steal Jeyne Poole (thinking she's Arya) from the Bolton’s because they were both (well with Rowan this is not canon just a theory)- like Theon- stolen from their original cultures (Theon was taken from the Iron Islands as a hostage, Mance was taken from the Free Folk by the Night’s Watch, and the theory is that Rowan is an Umber, who was taken by the Free Folk.)

[monstersandmaw]

hey! I was wondering if you have any advice at getting stories out there? I’ve started a sideblog to practice some writing and I’d love to get some engagement - I’m not even sure if my posts are showing in the tags I’ve used :/

Ooof, it's rough starting out when no one knows your blog name and you have no idea if your stuff is being seen or if it just hasn't found its audience yet. Hang on in there, Anon!

I'd say maybe have a few stories ready to go, and if you've already posted them, create a masterlist immediately before you lose track of where your stories are (searching for stuff on Tumblr is a lost cause), even if it's only got a few things on it to start with. That way if someone does find your work, they can find more of it immediately. Link it at the bottom of every story too, and on your blog.

Make sure your grammar and formatting is as tight as you can get it. People know quality writing when they come across it, and if it's well written and edited, they're more likely to stay than if it's full of goofy paragraphing, typos, and has a jokey 'lol un-edited' at the start (I'm exaggerating for effect, but I have actually noped out of stuff on AO3 after reading that in the author's notes at the start. If the author doesn't care, why should the reader?).

Speaking of AO3, if you have an account on there, so long as you're not taking money for your writing on here, you can also link to Tumblr from AO3 (if you don't know how to code a link, google it, it's really simple - even I can do it!!) and if people don't have to copy paste a URL, they're probably gonna check it out if they use Tumblr too. Same for other socials - link back to here. Use the audience you may already have somewhere else, but don't spam them.

Interact as your blog's name so that people see your name around the place, because tags suck. (I don't follow any tags, I only follow people, so I'll very rarely come across something 'out in the wild'.) Since you're a sideblog, you can always go anon and then sign off your ask as your sideblog's name.

Be patient. It sucks, but don't expect to get hundreds of notes overnight.

Open your blog to all the prompts and challenges that you're comfortable with. Don't burn yourself out, but if people can engage with you and if they get something out of it too, then they're more likely to reblog your work. That's what I did at the start - I just got people to send me prompts for free stories and I wrote for free, for *exposure*, you might say. (Don't write anything you're not comfortable with, obviously, but be open to new challenges and writing things you maybe hadn't thought of).

Participate in fandom challenges if it's fandom you write for, and look for other writing challenges or events. That can help build a sense of community and might bring you an audience that way.

If you're in a server with people whose opinions you trust, share your work on Discord and maybe ask them for feedback and/or reblogs if they're on Tumblr. Only if you're comfortable with that.

At the end of the day, remember why you're writing though. Notes and responses aren't the be all and end all of creating. Create stuff first because you enjoy creating it, and then share it because you want to share it. Don't give up or get disheartened if you don't get much traffic for a long time, and just keep on sharing anyway. That way, when people do find you, they've got a good backlog to go through as well!

If anyone has any more advice to add to this, please feel free to stick it in the notes!

[hyperfixation-tangentopia]

Pinned post? Pinned post! It only took me 7 months I'm right on time! Anyway -

(If you've been here for a while you can safely ignore this, I just wanted to have something.)

What to call me: HT, Hyper, Hyperfixation, Tangent, I don't care. I'll answer to anything as long as I know you're talking to me.

Pronouns: He/it/they/she and anything under the sun! Preferences fluctuate but as a general rule I don't care much.

Tags

Don't expect proper tagging here, I'm not one for organization, but a few I've used in the past -

#ht overthinks - If you want some theories, rambles, and random shit I think is interesting in the shows I watch, you'll probably find that here.

#ht go to sleep - My sleep schedule is crap. Here's the evidence.

#tealstars - This is unreliable, but my LMK Tealstars AU! I do have a post with links for it further down though, if you want something easier.

#crossover au - This is more unreliable, but a LMK x TOH Crossover AU. Links further down, again.

Tealstars AU - A LMK AU where I take the other two celestial primates and make them Chikao and Tongbi, the chaos gremlin and space monkey.

AUs and OCs

@hyperfix-tangented is where most of the AUs/OC is now (well. Will be.)

Crossover AU - A borderline abandoned LMK AU where the LMK cast is thrown into the TOH universe upon Mei getting the Samadhi Fire. (I lost the posts -_-)

Apocalyptic Twins AU - A Future!ROTTMNT AU where Mikey adopts two Krang Mutants into the Resistance, and shenanigans ensue.

Mikey AU - An AU I haven't shared on here yet, but I love and am working on and will put here so I don't forget to add it later.

SOD OCs - Also stuff I haven't shared. Also something I'm putting here purely so I don't forget.

Other Stuff

My main blog is @ghostshadowmx (though I don't use it for anything besides saving writing resources, and in the past I posted a couple LMK fanfics there)

You can talk to me! Will I respond in a timely manner? That depends on if I remembered to unpause Tumblr, or if I went to bed before 5 AM the previous night.

You can tag me! However! Keep in mind I have limited spoons and my motivation will take me 50 different directions and in the direction of that tag game is unlikely to be one of them! This does not mean I don't care or appreciate it, this just means my body/brain is shit <3

I have several tags filtered! I have a lot of "reblog this/please reblog/etc." filtered out and will not always click through anyway! Please do not mistake this as me not caring or supporting anything, I use this blog as a place to destress and distract and so I try to avoid reblogging things that will upset or trigger me.

I am anxious as fuck! If I take a long time to reply when I'm clearly online without explanation, talk weirdly, am being awkward, etc., there's a high chance I'm being socially anxious and freaking out. It's nothing personal, so please be patient with me ^^

I am part of a system! I'm usually the only one on this blog so outside of DMs (maybe) it likely won't come up, but an alter runs @the-demon-hiding-under-your-bed and I have no filter, so it's easier to have this here on the odd occasion I do reference it. I'm also a ghost :3

My hyperfixations do switch around! This does not mean I've abandoned a project or fandom, or will enjoy stuff from there any less. It just means I'll ramble about something else more, and might put said project on pause for a little bit until I come back and figure out wtf I was doing again.

My Ao3 is under GhostshadowMX! As of the current moment it consists of a LMK one-shot, a LMK fanfic my brain refuses to work on, and three angsty ROTTMNT one-shots where I refuse to Leo or Mikey a break <3 I may or may not make a post when I post something, I am super anxious about sharing my writing and often need reassurance before feeling confident enough to tell people it's there.

I will vanish for literally days at a time! In this instance, you can usually reach me on Discord (if you have me added there), as it's more likely than not me getting distracted by something. If I vanish off Discord without warning, then please do not worry. I probably just decided to isolate for a little bit and forgot to tell anyone.

PFP and Banner is by @/mythicalmagical-monkeyman (don't wanna bother but also go look at their funnies)

Anything else I can't remember right now, and this is probably too long anyway! So! Yeeup! Hope this wasn't too much lol, waves

Old pinned post

[sansxfuckyou]

When does the line blur and are we crossing it?

Summary: Every gods price for a blessing is high, it can go from eternal loyalty to mortality itself- but for a god like Philza, that of death itself, the swarm and the plague, it's a lot lower than Schlatt expected considering what he asked of the god.

And somehow Phil finds himself getting sick of it long before Schlatt does.

Warnings: heavy gore, Dream dies brutally, family drama, suggestive themes, Tubbo is kidnapped twice, gruesome murder, Ao3 port has full tags

Authors Note: your honor, concerned dudes co-parenting a traumatized goat boy, I'll go hide in my hole again. @sobredunia hey, hey remember this thing? it's been finished for me and the two other people that enjoy the notions. also, big, massive, gore warning, my inner phan was squealing with delight as I wrote it, but, on the Tumblr port I have marked them off with these --- at the start and end, so it can be avoided. anyways! if ya'll enjoyed maybe consider dropping a reblog or checking out the Ao3 port to leave a comment or kudos.

"Philza," He began a little bit breathlessly as he stared at the shadowed form in front of him.

A swarm of crows crowded out the body, allowing a mirage of height and size, he took a step forward. And then he took another, this time his movement looked more fluid, more practiced. The amount of birds flocking to his form died down with each step until he was standing in front of the man. He flared out jet black black wings and the swarm flew off in a melody of squawking and screeching.

"Schlatt," Philza responds, his voice is calm, too calm.

Schlatt can't bring himself to respond, only cower a bit more. Truth be told he had no clue what he was thinking when he found himself summoning Philza. Scouring every item and book for incantations that could summon the disgraceful god who chose a life on this planet. The same god that took the challenge of raising three children, one of which ascended, one of which died and returned, one of which is just a kid. The same god that could eliminate anyone or anything that stands in his way if he so desires, but he chooses pacifism, he chooses walking away.

"It's just Phil, drop the 'za' it's unprofessional," The god said seamlessly, each word perfectly distinct but with his voice linking them like kintsugi in the cracked language that they speak.

Schlatt nods, he still can't open his mouth and will anything out.

Phil quirks a brow, "Have I rendered you speechless? I should've left behind the flock, I've been trying to come across as 'just some guy' as of the last century," The slightest tinge of humor is on his voice.

"I," Schlatt barely manages, "I need help."

"You're supposed to be dead, is that not help enough? Even those above me pity your mortality and let you have one more tale, beg for their help not mine," Phil explained as he closed his wings to his back again, taking one step closer to the ram in front of him. He placed a hand under Schlatts chin and tilted until their eyes met, bright blue on chestnut brown, "They control so much more than I can Schlatt, if they desire that your fate is terrible then I can't change that."

Schlatt shakes his head, "It's about my son."

"What happened to Tubbo?" Phils answer comes like ice, sharp as razors and with the smallest undertone of a snarl, "Who hurt him?"

"Dream, he took Tubbo the second I wasn't looking," Schlatt explained almost frantically, "I don't know where he took my son, or if I'll get him back- please, just give me a location that's all I ask."

For a second Phil can feel the count of feathers on his wings double as they creep to his back. The talons he keeps sheathed under gloves grow larger, sharper, and small scales shoot across his hand as pinfeathers sprout. It's reeled back in, he can't save anyone if he's losing control of himself, if he lets the swarm take over. He takes a deep breath, "I'll find him and bring him back for you."

Schlatt nearly drops right then and there, he isn't sure what else to do except for stay silent. He has a million words of thanks he'd like to save but he isn't sure if he can articulate them very well. Instead all he does is ask another question, "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing," Phil answers with sharply, he shakes the unneeded feathers from his wings, "You're lucky I don't want your kid getting hurt otherwise the price would take multiple lifetimes."

"I can't just not give you anything," Schlatt said, he stumbles over his words momentarily, "Is there anything I could do to repay you?"

Phil shrugged, "We'll work out the price when your kid is under a trustable roof."

Schlatt nodded, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me until that green cunt is on his knees begging for mercy," Phil answered with, somewhere underneath sharp words was caring, what that caring was buried under consisted of acid and claws.

-/-/-/-

"What do you want?!" Tubbo snapped at his captor, he writhed in his meager constraints- wrists tied shut and an ankle to either leg chair.

Dream hummed, "Information."

"What sort of information could I give you?" Tubbo asked, voice a little bit quieter.

"The usual," Dream stated nonchalantly as he stepped closer to Tubbo, knife dangling between his fingers.

Tubbo eyed the blade cautiously. He swallowed thickly, "Like what?"

In a second the knife was zipping past his horn. His breathing hastened for only a second as the motion sped past him. He glared at Dream who only laughed, "Priceless." He hummed as he spoke, stepping a little bit closer.

"Fucker," Tubbo murmured under his breath, in that same instant fingers lodged between his jaws and sharp claws dug into the base of his tongue.

"Watch your mouth," Dream growled out, leaning dangerously close to Tubbos ear. The ram gave a hasty nod and when Dream pulled back he spat, a disgusting taste leftover in his mouth.

Tubbo took a breath, "What do you want to know about?"

"Tell me about the nuke," Dream stated calmly, Tubbo seized.

He kept his mouth zipped shut, stared at Dream, and listened. He listened for footsteps, for the hum of machinery. Any sign it wasn't just the two of them, a sign that there was a way out of this mess. He barely caught the faintest sound, akin to a mouse in a vent.

"Well?" Dream asked impatiently.

"Where do you want to begin?" Tubbo answered with calmly, trying to keep his words even. He heard it again, the mice, a little bit louder this time around.

"What you used," Dream said, "How much you used, basic stuff."

Tubbo nodded, "Cool, gimme a minute to try and remember it all though."

"Don't worry," Dream said, "I can wait all day."

---

Then it happened.

A burst of pitch black shot from the pipes, knocking off ventilation grates as it dropped down. A hundred crimson dots mixed with undulating black feathers caused a rather horrifying look. It spilled into the center of the room, deftly avoiding Tubbo, but splashing into the wall. Dream stumbled back as he reached for a weapon, but whatever he tried to throw at it was absorbed into the swarm. It just kept coming closer, bouncing back and forth, a wall of sheer terror in living form- screaming and squawking at improbable decibels.

It corned Dream, he tried to slice through it but it easily mended it's form of a hundred eyes and a thousand feathers in milliseconds. He tried to throw potions at it but when the glass shattered and it absorbed the effect absolutely nothing happened. Even as it came to form something close to humanoid it wasn't close enough for Dreams adrenaline to slow. He reached desperately for anything else to prolong his survival in the wake of whatever horrors had finally come for him.

But with nothing else left to make use of, he threw himself into it. He writhed and screamed but whatever sounds he made were lost in the cacophony of corvidian sounds. Drowning in an ocean of black he could barely register the cluster of talons imitating claws encroaching along his torso at either side. He could only cry out and try to break free on the other side of it all to get out and lock this thing in with Tubbo. He found splinters of wood and easily shattered chunks of diamond floating around him, the swarm having rended those so easily. He could only beg for mercy from the inside of the beast as his fate dawned on him.

And then there was a sickening crunch, and then a loud crack, followed by the gruesome sounds of carnage. All of it was swallowed into a void of screeching and squawking from the swarm and somewhere in the midst of this chaos Phil was thankful for that. Somehow as the swarm subsided Phil could gather his surroundings, and how heavy the blood on his clothing was. He looked down to find a mutilated corpse and glass shards in front of him, clear bites made up the gashes. He turned around to face Tubbo who only displayed a mix of mortification and gratefulness.

---

"Hi," Phil got out quietly, his voice scratched a bit, "Schlatt sent me to come find you, didn't mean to kill him like that though."

Tubbo nodded slowly, "Cool," He barely spoke loud enough for Phil to hear.

Phil slowly took a step closer to Tubbo, keeping his pace practiced until he was sure he wouldn't be lashed out at. He crouched down and undid the ankle restraints first, when he finished those he stood up, letting Tubbo relax his legs. He untied his wrists next, the thick twine coming undone in a matter of moments, Tubbos arms fell to his side.

"Thanks," He got out quietly as he stood up, his balance failed him. He took two shaking steps before he collapsed back, Phil caught him.

"Alright, let's get you home," Phil said gently as he picked up Tubbo.

-/-/-/-

"I got your kid back," Phil said as he let down Tubbo gently.

"Thank you," Schlatt barely managed as Tubbo slung an arm around his shoulders for balance. His attention was swiftly placed on the ram, "How badly did he hurt you?"

Tubbo tried to shrug, "I think my neck is bruised from where he hit me," He brought a hand to press to the base of his neck, it stung a bit.

"We're putting ice on that," Schlatt said, brushing a hand over the bruise, it was already turning purple, "Can you walk on your own?"

Tubbo nodded, "Yeah," He pulled himself off of Schlatt, "I'm gonna go inside.

"I'll be over in a minute," Schlatt said, as Tubbo turned to leave, waving off the comment.

A brief silence washed between Schlatt and Phil.

"So," Schlatt began, "The price, do I owe you my soul?"

"Naw," Phil answered with bluntly, shocking Schlatt just a bit.

"But you're like, the god of death," Schlatt said, forcing his voice from turning to an exclamation- Phil shrugged.

"Don't really care for souls these days, my request is simple," Phil spoke calmly, "If you have room to spare, I'd like to live with you and Tubbo."

"What?" Was all Schlatt could muster in response, his voice thick with shock and confusion.

Phil gave a nervous hum, "I miss living with people, the house is really, really quiet now that it's just me again," There was a hint of a sigh on his voice as he spoke, "I know it's a lot to ask of you, but, I really don't like waking up to silence and going through the day in silence, and falling asleep in silence."

Schlatt scans Phils form for a hint of a lie, "Really?"

Phil nodded, "I could help like, co-parent Tubbo and whatnot, I just don't want to live alone anymore."

"Find by me," Schlatt said, "That's a lot less high stakes than I expected, but yeah I can work with that."

Phil gives a small smile, "Thanks, I'll have to make some arrangements with the swarm first though."

Schlatt shrugged, "If the swarm wants to stick around too then so be it, I think you'd lose a lot of your intimidation points without it."

"I wouldn't bet on it," Phil answered with, that spine chilling ice on his tone again. He slit his pupils just for show, forked tongue snaking between lips and feather count doubling as his wings bolstered in size again. He took off a glove and gestured vaguely to the talons and scales creeping up his arm, "I just like to be 'some guy,' biting Dream in half isn't exactly helpful though."

Schlatt nearly chokes on his spit, "You bit him in half? With a mouth that small? And fangs like that?" Somehow an element of teasing makes it onto his voice.

Phil rolled his eyes, "The swarm, it's rather helpful in making sure I can still be a force to be trifled with," He slipped on his glove again.

"Makes sense," Schlatt hummed in agreement, "I'll go tell Tubbo."

"I'll be back once my arrangements with the swarm are done," Phil said, giving a wave as he turned to leave.

Phil gave a groan of annoyance as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. Being a light sleeper wasn't ideal, Schlatt was lucky, he was a heavy sleeper. He could sleep through the end of the world whether he wanted to or not and Phil envied that. Not Phil, he finds himself waking up at the sound of a mouse squeaking more often then not; and suddenly living in a house with a sixteen year old again is not doing him any good.

Phil stretched out his wings and glanced around his room, a large amount of bird cages, cat towers, and clothing hooks fill it. A black blob sits upon each one, a member of the swarm, he did a vague count, none of them where gone. He pushes open the door and the lamp light filtering in wakes a couple crows, they don't dare squawk with the glares Phil sends their way. He slowly makes his way to the kitchen to find Tubbo rifling through a fridge, in search of something.

"Tubbo," Phil began, glancing to the clock, "It is six in the AM, go to fucking sleep."

"Making breakfast for Schlatt," Tubbo answered with, pulling out a few eggs, "He like scrambled right?"

"He prefers over easy- I'm getting off topic," Phil said, correcting himself from going off about how Schlatt liked his eggs. He'd been living with them for a few months and to put simply he easily conjoined with the family, "Schlatt doesn't wake up until nine most days."

Tubbo shrugged, "It's Saturday, you know how he is about Saturday hunting, bright and early," The ram quirks a brow. He cracks a couple eggs, "He gets pissy if he doesn't go- especially, if you don't come with us."

Phil paused, "Oh, yeah, I guess it is Saturday, alright, fine," He gave a groan of annoyance, "Make some for me too."

"Obviously," Tubbo said, he paused, a smirk coming to his face, "Dad."

Red instantly rises to Phils face at the accusation, "I'm not your dad, I'm just co-parenting with Schlatt for convenience."

Tubbo gave a hum, "Sure," Phil gives a sigh of relief, then Tubbo speaks again, "Care to explain the dinner dates you've been going on with Schlatt then?"

"I- those, it was a new restaurant," Phil said, clinging desperately to excuses. He didn't plan on waking up only to be accused of getting it on with his faux sons father, but here he is, "I wanted to try out the food, so did Schlatt, a conjoined bill is easier to pay."

Tubbo rolled his eyes, "If you say so."

"I will ground you," Phil threatened, a bit of ice on his tone, Tubbo was used to it at this rate. The slight increase in feather count was not nearly as intimidating as it was before he joined the family to an extent.

"On hunting day? Like hell," Tubbo quipped back with, Phil faltered.

"Well played," Phil spat back bitterly as he took a seat, glancing to the window, barely able to see the beginning of the orange ombre in the sky, "Do you think Schlatts gonna wake up anytime soon?"

Tubbo shrugged, "I'd say by the time these eggs are done he'll be down here with a bow and arrow, ready to make the first breathing thing he sees submit," He keeps an eye on Phil for a reaction to his words, and somehow there's barely any reaction. He turns back to face Phil, "I doubt hunting in boxers is gonna end well, go get dressed."

"Watch your mouth," Phil snarled as he turned to leave, he reentered the room in a black cloak and whatever pair of pants he found first. They were probably Schlatts, too loose but not quite long enough, they fit

"Still no shirt?" Tubbo said, flipping an egg, focusing his attention on the pan instead of Phil, "Whore."

"That's what your daddy says too," Phil muttered under his breath almost venomously, making sure his voice was quiet enough that Tubbo wouldn't hear.

The sound of cloven hooves tapping against hardwood alerted the two of Schlatts arrival, mostly Phil. It was a quiet sound, he didn't wear more than a turtleneck of a chestnut hue and a pair of jeans. Considering he presumably just rolled out of bed it shocked Phil, how do you just wake up and wear denim? He couldn't, it was a welcome change to live with someone who could get their shit together first thing in the morning even before breakfast. Schlatt was still half asleep though, he rested his head on Phils shoulder, arms wrapped around his midsection- Phil could only shoot desperately silencing glares at Tubbo whose smirk grew wider.

"Mornin' Phil, Tubbo," Schlatt greeted, the sleepiness on his voice was palpable.

Phil shuffled his wings a bit so Schlatt wasn't pressed so awkwardly against them, "Did you fall asleep in jeans."

"Maybe," Schlatt answered with, he pressed a curved horn into the side of Phils head. He glanced over to Tubbo, "What's for breakfast?"

"Eggs," Tubbo answered with, sliding a couple onto a plate, "Are we going hunting today?"

Schlatt shrugged, still refusing to move an inch from where he latched onto Phil. He nuzzled a little deeper into the thick fabric of black and jade hues, Phil tensed just a bit. Schlatt gave a hum, "You good Phil?"

Phil nodded a little bit too fast, "Yeah, just slept funny on my wings," He ruffled his feathers a bit to punctuate his sentence, Schlatt pulled away momentarily, allowing the immortal to fix his wings. Then he slumped against Phil again, red shot to his face, he tried to discretely bring a hand to his throat to signal a I'll kill you to Tubbo who was simply grinning. He gave a small inhale, "Did you get enough sleep last night."

"You tell me," Schlatt answered with quietly, barely speaking it loud enough for Phil to hear. He pulled back from Phil and dropped down onto a chair, Phil had to fix up his wings a bit more before taking a seat.

"So," Tubbo begins, sliding a plate to Schlatt and then Phil, he takes a seat promptly after across from the two, "Hunting?"

"I think we're gonna postpone," Schlatt said, "I'm kind of sore today."

"What?! But we postponed last weekend and the weekend before," Tubbo exclaimed, a bit of distress on his voice, Schlatt and Phil shared a glance.

"Next weekend?" Schlatt offered nervously, Tubbo gave a groan of annoyance, resting his head on the table heavily.

"I guess," He spoke into the spruce wood. He lifts his head and takes a dejected bite of egg, "I just, that was our thing until Phil came along."

"Hey now, Phil makes a great addition to this family," Schlatt said, nearly snarled.

"And? You're slacking off, I'm not gonna be seventeen forever, this is your last chance to get in those precious days Schlatt," Tubbo explained, bitterness is held heavy on his voice, "You have a choice- me, your son, or Phil, your fuck buddy whose good at parenting."

Schlatt is rendered speechless.

Phil takes a heavy breath, "Tubbo," He begins calmly, tone devoid of any emotional turbulence, "Go to your room now, I'll be joining you to talk promptly."

Tubbo wants to object but he chooses against it and takes his leave, he brings his plate of eggs with him.

Schlatt gives a heavy sigh, "Fuck, Phil I'm so sorry-"

"It's fine," Phil answered with, he rested a hand on Schlatts back, "Wilbur said shit like that all the time, I got it covered, trust me."

"I guess, probably should've done a better job keeping track of the days," Schlatt said, a somewhat apathetic laugh on his voice.

"Finish your breakfast and try to think of something to make it up to Tubbo, that's what you have to do here," Phil said as he stood up, he stretched his wings as he stretched his arms, jet black feathers fluttered down to the floor.

He stepped with a shaky confidence as he inched closer to Tubbos bedroom door, he heard the door slam shut from down the hall. He didn't bother knocking, Tubbo already knew he was gonna barge in and go on some parental rant. He propped open the door slowly to find Tubbo sitting on his bed holding his head in his hands, puffy green jacket zipped entirely up. Phil sat down beside him and spread out a wing, resting it on Tubbos back.

"So," Phil began, "Did you mean what you said?"

Tubbo shook his head.

"You're still fucking pissed right?" Phil asked, turning to face Tubbo a bit more.

Tubbo nodded, "Definitely."

Phil sighed, "I know it doesn't make a difference but I could go hunting with you."

"It wouldn't be the same, that was what me and Schlatt had, even before Quackity left," Tubbo said, he drew his knees to his chest, "That was our thing, and now you're here and I don't have that as often- it's fucking weird."

"Yeah," Was all Phil said, looking for filler. When he couldn't find any he shut his mouth.

"You're cool though man, thanks for like, not letting Schlatt die or whatever, it wasn't pretty before you set your price for saving me," Tubbo said quietly, a dry, forced laugh came with the sentiment, "I respect you for that if nothing else."

"I know," Phil said, he placed a hand on Tubbos shoulder, "And you're pretty cool too, gave me a reason to actually use the swarm again- thanks for not convincing Schlatt to kick me out."

Tubbo shrugged as he stood up, "And why would I do that?"

"I dunno," Phil said, he gave a hum, feigning deep thought, "Cause you hate the guts of your dads fuck buddy- your words not mine."

"Can't hate you that much," Tubbo said, he awkwardly yanked Phil into a hug which the god took like a cat to water, "You're pretty much my dad at this point."

Phil slowly reciprocated the tight squeeze, none of his kids had grip strength this intense. Felt like Tubbo was actively squeezing the air from his lungs, "You weren't just trying to piss me off earlier?"

"Don't see why I should waste my time on that considering that Schlatt won't get rid of you unless you leave first," Tubbo said, he let go of Phil.

"Now, all of my kids hated this part the most, but you gotta go tell Schlatt you take it back," Phil said, Tubbo gave a visceral groan of annoyance as he was led back down the hall.

"Do I have to?" Tubbo asked, Phil nodded.

"Yep, I doubt that either of us like it when Schlatt is impossibly bummed out," Phil said, "And this sorta shit really messes with him; if it feels like he's slacking off that's because I'm also picking up some of the work load."

Tubbo nodded, "That makes sense."

"Cool, now go make amends," Phil said, using the arch of a wing to shove Tubbo into the kitchen.

Schlatt took another dejected bite of an egg, Tubbo sat across from him, Phil stayed in the doorway blocking it entirely. Tubbo picked at the frayed edges of his jacket hemming, he needed to fix them sooner than later.

"Sorry for what I said, I didn't mean it," Tubbo said, he pitched his voice awry, unsure if he was doing it right. He glanced to Phil and got a nod to keep going, "I miss when it was our thing."

"Still slacking off though," Schlatt said calmly, he gave a heavy sigh as he spoke.

Tubbo paused, "Not really, Phils just doing his job, being your pseudo-husband 'n shit," Phil shot a warning glare at Tubbo.

"We aren't even dating Tubbo," Schlatt said, a little bit quieter than before, "We're just friends."

"If you say so," Tubbo stated, rolling his eyes a bit, "Last time I checked friends don't do... Whatever that previous display was," Tubbo gestured vaguely with his hand as he spoke.

"Friends totally do that," Schlatt answered with, a practiced calm to his words, like he'd gone over it with Tubbo before.

"I have plenty of friends and none of them act that intimate dad," Tubbo shot back, the faintest hint of agitation rested on his voice.

Schlatt quirked a brow, "I never specified how intimate or close we are, close friends do that because close friends know they can get away with it- really close friends do not care, I could throw Phil off a bridge and he'd still live with us afterwards, it goes both ways."

Tubbo had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from going off on a tangent about how stupid that argument was.

"Schlatts right, he could throw me off a bridge but he cares too much to do so," Phil said from the doorway, walking over to lean above Schlatt, hands on the backrest of the chair.

Schlatt leaned back into him, "If you eat my leftovers too many times that may change Phil."

Phil looked down at Schlatt, "What? Really? I thought leftovers were free game."

"Not anymore," Schlatt said, bringing hands to rest at Phils neck, Tubbo had to refrain from gagging at the sheer domesticity of the interchange.

"You two can be domestic husbands somewhere that I'm not eating?" Tubbo said, snide clear on his voice, both Schlatt and Phil glared at him. Although Phils was much more menacing, slit pupils and sclera turning a vibrant yellow.

"Watch your mouth," Phil snarled, claws clipped many times already sharpening in an instant once more and digging into the wood of the chair, Schlatt pressed his thumbs into pressure points gently, turning off the monstrous reflex in Phil like one would with a cat.

"And you need to watch your reflexes, he's your kid too Phil," Schlatt said, holding down on Phils throat until his claws retracted and eyes reverted, breathing a bit of a heave as he forced the feather count down again, "You good?"

Phil nodded, "Sorry."

"It's fine," Tubbo stated, "But if we aren't going hunting then I gotta see if Tommy wants to hang out."

"Alright, don't tell him that you're brothers yet," Phil said, Tubbo quirked a brow.

"Brothers? But to be brothers you two would be husbands," Tubbo said cockily, Schlatt rolled his eyes.

"We co-parent right? And Tommy is Phils kid, so if Phil parents you and at some point in time fully parented Tommy, then ya'll would be brothers," Schlatt explained, once more Tubbo had to refrain from arguing back.

Instead he takes a deep breath, "Alright, I guess that makes sense," He crosses his arms over his chest as he speaks, "I might stay for a couple nights if he's hanging with Wilbur."

Phil shrugged, "Fine by me, more alone time."

"I don't know if it's alone time while I'm here Philza," Schlatt said, lilting his voice in such a way it made Phils wings twitch, a rosy hue rising to his face, "Or are you suggesting I leave?"

"I wouldn't dare Jschlatt," Phil answered with, bringing a hand to rest on one of Schlatts horn, Tubbo didn't even want to ask.

"Now I'm really heading out," Tubbo said, pivoting on a heel to leave as he spoke.

"Stay safe!" Phil called out as Tubbo left the room.

"I will!" Tubbo shouted back.

There was a comfortable silence between Phil and Schlatt as the front door opened and closed.

"Do you think he's gonna be safe Phil?"

"Definitely not."

Philza gave a somewhat heavy sigh as he sat down beside Schlatt, a cup of tea in hand, Tubbo was still hanging out with Tommy. Schlatt leaned into his side, nudging the curve of his horn against Phils cheek affectionately.

"Schlatt," Phil begins with calmly.

Schlatt gives a hum of acknowledgement, "Yes dear?"

Red flares across Phils face at the pet name, "We aren't even married."

"We could be," Schlatt counters with a lazy smirk as Phil wraps a wing around him.

"We could, but we aren't," Phil said, "Probably shouldn't anyways."

"Why's that?" Schlatt asked gently, running a hand along the downward arch of Phils wing.

"I'm immortal," Phil got out quietly, "And you're, not."

"What's your point?" Schlatt asked, watching Phils expression dip like a cat watching a gold fish.

"I'll outlive you," Phil said quietly, "I'll forget you, even if I am wearing a ring."

Schlatt paused, "I know that, but, that won't happen for a long time, and you'll take care of me even when I'm old and frail, won't you Phil?"

Phil nodded, "Yeah, of course I will, but that's gonna start pretty soon."

"Ouch, I'm still young, I have lots of time," Schlatt said, feigning hurt at the statement, "But I guess it doesn't feel like a lot to you."

Phil nodded again, "Not really, just feels instantaneous- like, if I blink you'll be gone, Tubbo will be gone, Tommy, and Wilbur, they'll all be gone too, and it'll just be me and Techno," He sounded a little bit choked up as he spoke, "And I can't just let everyone be immortal even if I wanted too, I doubt the admin would be pleased."

"They admin can suck a dick, you're the god of death," Schlatt stated bluntly, Phil nearly choked on the tea he was tentatively sipping, "You get to choose who avoids it if you're the one who causes it."

"I'm the one who overlooks the afterlife, where all the dead people go, I sit at the gates when my mortal body is asleep and let in all the new people," Phil explained, "It's really a fancy and misleading title. Death herself, she can't be stopped, and she makes a brutal ex-wife, we're friends- but she still doesn't like it when I try and cheat the system for the people I love, she even got the admin to side with her."

"You married death?" Schlatt asked in shock, Phil nodded.

"We divorced a couple millennia back, it was mutual," Phil said, waving off the comment, "Even back then she did most of the leg work, said I was too soft to kill baby rabbits- I am, but it still hurt to hear - and then she decided she needed my help again sometime after Wilbur was born."

Schlatt was still focused on the original talking point, "You married death, and death is a chick?"

"Kristin Rosales, she's a sight to see, you'll meet her when you die if I'm not at the gates," Phil said, "She doesn't let me into her dimension properly very often so I won't get to visit a whole lot, probably a once every hundred to a thousand years sort of thing."

Schlatt nodded, "Right, you'll live on, and I'll die, and Kristin won't let you visit."

Phil nodded, "Yeah, so, we probably shouldn't get married- because I'll outlive you in the mortal realm, and forget your name, and your face, and your voice, and your scent," His eyes were starting to water, "It'd be easier to let go without a ring."

"How am I supposed to remember you when I'm in the afterlife if I don't have a ring?" Schlatt asked hesitantly, watching the shock on Phils face with an almost predatory intent to it.

"You aren't, you're supposed to remember really influential people throughout your life," Phil explained, "You'll remember Tubbo, Quackity, and a couple others, not me-"

Schlatt pressed a finger to Phils lips, silencing the gatekeeper of death with ease. Phil gave the ram a questioning look, "Yes, you, I don't want to forget you, ever- and now that I know I won't have to forget you, I'm gonna ask you one question."

Phil lifted his wing as Schlatt shifted around a bit, "Schlatt, a hundred people have asked me to marry them before, the answers gonna be no."

"Not my question," Schlatt said, "Not yet at least."

"Then ask the damn question," Phil urged, deeply intrigued at the notions of a new question- he's sure he's heard it before, but not from Schlatt.

Schlatt holds out two necklaces to Phil, each on silver chains. One with a tigers eye pendant, and the other a jade pendant, "Don't let me forget you," He thrust the jewelry a little closer to Phil who reluctantly took hold of the tigers eye, holding it carefully, "I was saving the necklaces for later, but now works too- I think they'd work like a wedding ring."

Phil clips on the necklace, the pendent rests easily atop his sternum when he slides it under his shirt. He gives a soft smile, "I'll try my hardest to make a deal with Kristin."

"Thank you," Schlatt managed to get out, clipping on his own jade necklace, attempting at least, "Help?"

"Of course," Phil answered with gently as Schlatt turned his back to Phil, holding up the necklace. Lithe fingers easily clipped the chain into place, when he was done Schlatt leaned onto him.

"I love you Phil, I forget if I've already said that," Schlatt said, a somewhat nervous laugh on his voice as he spoke.

Phil brushed aside a couple chocolate brown strands, "You've said it before, love you too Schlatt."

"Glad to hear the feelings mutual," Schlatt said with a contented hum under his voice, reaching out to ruffle Phils feathers gently.

Loud knocks, really loud, and extremely erratic knocks, shattering their brief moment. Schlatt moved first, Phil followed, stretching his wings once or twice as he followed Schlatt through open doorways. The knocking didn't cease even for a second, only after Schlatt pulled open the door and caught a glimpse of panicked face behind it did it stop.

"What do you want?" Schlatt snarled out as their visitor heaved breaths.

"Tubbo," Quackity managed breathlessly, "Our kid got kidnapped, by Dream," He took a heavy breath, "Help."

Phil pushed ahead of Schlatt, "Where's my kid?"

"Tommy is being held back by Wilbur to prevent him from doing something stupid," Quackity explained.

Phil had to pause, "Tubbo, my kid, where is Tubbo?"

Shock played out on Quackitys face, "Your kid?"

"Our kid," Schlatt corrected, "We're co-parenting, where the fuck is he?"

"Sapnap hunted him down with George, I came here to get you," Quackity explained, "And you two are co-parenting?"

"Not explaining it now, let's go get Tubbo back," Phil said, pushing past Quackity and flaring his wing directly in his face just for show.

"But, when did that happen?" Quackity asked, trying to keep up with both Schlatt and Phil.

"Doesn't matter," Phil answered with promptly, Schlatt placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You don't have to save him this time," Schlatt offered gently, Phil was already brandishing his weapon, he did pause.

"We just had a talk about how you're gonna die before me Schlatt, and how shitty that's gonna be," Phil said, nearly spitting the words, slight venom on his voice, "And now you're gonna go try and beat up the admin to save our kid? I'm not letting that happen, you stay at home and wait patiently for me to return with Tubbo."

Stinging aches hit Schlatt all over, "But-"

"Do it!" Phil snapped before he could stop himself, voice a rumbling crescendo and wings puffing out with an ungodly amount of feathers creeping up his arms. He yanked Schlatts weapon out of his hands, "I don't want you dying on me so soon, everyone else has okay? I want you to live your life, I don't want you to die young," His grip on the weapon shook a bit, "I don't want to lose you, and I wouldn't've cared not even a year ago!"

Quackity opened his mouth to speak but chose against it.

"But here I am, please, just go home, and stay safe," The urgency on Phils tone is infectious, the pleading of his voice makes Schlatt feel tangled up inside.

He takes hold of his weapon once more and Phil shows no resistance, he knows he can't stop Schlatt, "You won't let me get hurt, I'm sure of it," He placed a hand on Phils shoulder, he could feel the visceral shaking, "Right?"

Phil nodded, "Obviously, let's go save our kid and kill that green cunt for good."

"Glad to see we're on the same page," Schlatt said, he gave a brief nod in Quackitys direction, he perked up at the motion, "Lead the way, we have carnage to ensue."

-/-/-/-

They came to a halt at the entrance of an obsidian lined cave, narrowing down into a hall. Bright blue flames lit the way, and property destruction was scattered about the mouth of the cave, a little bit inside as well. Wilbur was holding back Tommy, just barely able to do so, grasping onto his legs tightly as he struggled to stand up and run in.

"They're in there," Quackity said.

"Sapnap and George?" Phil asked.

"They didn't make it out," Quackity said, "That's why I came to get you two."

Phil nodded, "Schlatt, make sure we have what we need, I'm gonna go calm down Tommy."

"On it," Schlatt answered with obediently, it shocked Quackity a bit with how docile he was to Phils command.

"Wilbur!" Tommy practically screamed into his older brothers ear, "Let go of me!"

"You're gonna get killed!" Wilbur screamed back, digging his nails into the back of Tommys legs.

"I don't care!" Tommy answered with, just as loud and aggravated, kicking at Wilbur a bit.

Phil stood over the two of them, "Boys, are we really doing this again?"

Both Wilbur and Tommy snapped from their argument in an instant, frozen in place as they stared at their dad.

"Tell Wilbur to let me go!" Tommy shouted before Wilbur could open his mouth.

"Hey!" Wilbur snapped back, digging his nails further into his little brothers legs, unafraid of the possibility of blood, "Tell Tommy he'll get killed if I do!"

Phil took a deep breath, "Neither of you are going all the way, you'll follow me and Schlatt until we find Sapnap and George."

Wilbur and Tommy gave a nod, the older releasing his brother.

"And then you are to leave immediately and help them get healed up, understood?" Phil asked, he caught hesitation, "Understood?" He spoke it much more sternly.

"Understood," Wilbur and Tommy answered with, helping each other up.

"Good, follow me," Phil said before leading his two sons to the mouth of the cave where Quackity and Schlatt waited.

"I'll stay out here, just in case," Quackity offered.

"Fine by me," Schlatt answered with as Quackity stepped back out, "We're taking Wilbur and Tommy with us?"

Phil nodded, "They leave as soon as we find Sapnap and George."

"Then let's go save our kid already," Schlatt answered with, almost a snarl as he started in, Phil cut in front of him.

The soft blue light did little to light their way in, despite the size of the corridor their foot steps echoed. Whatever torches they brought in didn't help, the material that lined the walls, roof, and even the floor absorbed the light before it could shine very far. An amazing technique really, Phil would applaud it if he wasn't trying to save his kid from someone who should be dead. He's making a mental note to kill whoever brought back Dream, and then meet them at the gates personally to make sure they don't make it into the afterlife.

He's sure that Kristin would understand, they didn't have a kid, but she surely understand the notions of vengeance. The notions of someone getting what was rightfully coming to them, even if what was coming to them is a scar on their soul that'll follow them through each of their reincarnations. He doesn't know it but Schlatt is making a mental note of a similar subject because not many have tried to get between them and Tubbo.

Dream just happens to be the outlier in that statistic, having tried to steal Tubbo more than once.

"Phil," Schlatt got out quietly.

"Yeah?" Phil asked, taking the one turn available.

"I'm killing him," Schlatt said, Phil gave a soft chuckle.

"Not if I do first," There's almost a challenge to his tone, but they both know that Phil will be the one to truly finish him.

Everyone stops at the scent of blood, the sound of panicked murmuring, and the faintly blurred sight of George and Sapnap. Then their paces pick up as they rush over to find George on the ground, sword lodged firmly in his shoulder, he's passed out long ago. Sapnap is trying so very, very carefully to wake him up, he keeps his touches and shakes light- unsure of how close to death George even is.

Wilbur crouches down beside them, getting a closer look at the panic on Sapnaps face, "Breath."

"He's fucking dying!" Sapnap snapped, "How am I supposed to breath?!"

Tommy crouched down on the other side, "Expand your lungs...?"

"Not helpful," Sapnap got out, hands returning to rest on Georges, "He's dying."

"He isn't gone yet," Phil said bluntly, Sapnap swiveled his head to glare, "If you move fast you can go heal him before it's too late."

Sapnap paused, "I might hurt him."

"Hurt him, or lose him," Phil got out, "It sucks, but at least you have a choice.

Sapnap slowly slung an arm around the small of Georges back, the other under his knee and hauled him up. His balance was off with the test of carrying George the entire way back, "You wouldn't get it."

"You can't even begin to believe how much I do," Phil got out quietly, "Tommy and Wilbur will help you get him out, how much further in do we have to go?"

"Not much, one more turn and a barricaded door is between you and Tubbo," Sapnap explained, turning to leave.

Tommy followed right away, Wilbur hesitated.

"Don't die dad," Wilbur managed to get out.

"You know I can't," Phil answered with.

"I know," Wilbur said before turning to leave.

Phil hesitantly took the next step, and the next. His confidence slowly returned as Schlatt trailed behind him, never daring to step in front the entire time. It was just one life, one measly life, Phil had seen so many get lost in all the time he's roamed the mortal realm. But this time it's more personal, and he'll make sure nobody associated with Dream gets a chance at the afterlife if Tubbo is already dead.

Maybe that's overkill, there's plenty of innocent people who've found themselves in contact with him, but he needs to get his point across. Even if that means destroying everything, he's a god, he's allowed to do stupid things from time to time. Kristin wouldn't pleased with all of the new administrations into the afterlife, and she really wouldn't be pleased with having to beg Puffy to bring them all back. For a brief instant Phils mind sticks to Puffy, he wonders how she's been, being the one in charge of reincarnation. She doesn't do it very often, favoring weaving new souls into existence instead of repurposing the old.

Schlatt snaps Phil out of his thoughts, placing a hand on his shoulder. When Phil turns to face him his pupils are already slit, he's blunted nails have turned to talons, his wings are twitching. He's a mess, losing himself to the beck and call of the swarm, "We're at the door," He gestures to the heavily barricaded door, behind it he hears screaming and crashing.

---

That's the final straw.

Schlatt leaps back in an instant when those overgrown wings shift to a thousand crows, stray feathers twirling into birds that engulf Phils form. The door comes tumbling down in an instant, there isn't even a door left, all that remains is dust, and whatever remains of Phil stays still at the door. It partially has Schlatt paralyzed as he leans in through the door way to find Tubbo back into a corner, frantically skittering about as Dream keeps trying to end him. Diamond axe smeared with fresh blood from failed attacks lace it, he goes for it again, rending Tubbos jacket further.

And then the beast launches itself, liquid form crashing into Dream and tugging him under. He surfaces for air easily as it keeps trying to pull him down again, leaving small bites all over his form and tearing his jacket. He hacks through it but it reforms twice as fast as he tries to crawl away. His scream is ear splitting as a set of sheer black fangs bear down on his thigh and yank, flesh tears off and bone only has teeth marks. Behind that porcelain mask tears are spilling down his face, he screams again when that same set of fangs grab onto the bone. One tug to the left and his leg is snapped off entirely, the bones crunch as the swarm gnaws on it briefly leaving Dream to struggling to even move.

Tubbo is hobbling over to Schlatt, stumbling and scared. Schlatt easily holds him up and pulls him past the doorway so they don't have to watch. Tubbo is breathing heavy, head resting on Schlatts shoulder, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Schlatt asked as gently as he could.

"Getting kidnapped, I should've known better," Tubbo managed to get out.

Their conversation is mostly lost to Dreams begging for mercy, cries of agony and any other pitch in between. His mask cracks when the swarm drops him down from where it had him suspended mid air, ravenous maw latching onto his arm. Was he really dropped if he wasn't actually released? Fangs biting until the bones shatter and sinew snaps underneath that delicate human skin. His breathing is ragged, he's shocked he's even managing to keep breathing with all the blood spilling from him.

The swarm lifts him once more, a set of razor sharp talons resting comfortably underneath his rib cage. A small swatch of crows come to shatter his mask, he looks destroyed, ready to die. And then a voice residing in his skull speaks up, a low rumble he can barely understand but hear so clearly- he knows it belongs to the swarm.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

Dream can't answer, everything hurts too much.

"It's unlike you to die silently, last chance."

Dream musters up as much as he can before spitting the words, "I'm not fucking sorry."

"Wrong answer."

Claws tear into his torso, snapping his spine like it was a twig, they still grasp both halves in place as he screams. And then the swarm squeezes, watching with glee as organs and intestines spilt from either half of Dreams torso. Then he stopped breathing, that was when the fun stopped, that was when it decided it was starved. Starved for blood, starved for death, it cracked it's maw of a multitude of shapes and sizes open and dropped in the still warm corpse. It thrummed pleasantly as it eviscerated the corpse internally, the slightest hint of Phils consciousness felt disgusted- the absolute lack of morals the swarm held reveled in it.

---

"Tubbo, it's fine," Schlatt said, "Shit happens."

"I should've known better," Tubbo repeated, "I just, I should've known better."

"You had no way to know, it's fine, you're fine," Schlatt said, rubbing circles on Tubbos back. He hesitantly glanced inside the room to find Phil laying on the ground in a pile of blood and viscera, it was unsettling to say the least. He let go of Tubbo a little bit, "I'm gonna check in on Phil."

"Okay," Tubbo got out quietly as he leaned against the wall.

Schlatt slowly entered the room before sitting down beside Phil, he brought his hands to preen the unkempt feathers. It garnered a groan from Phil, the avian spreading his wings a bit in response to the touches. He curled into Schlatts leg a bit, he ached all over, probably from the swarm eviscerating a full human.

"You feeling alright?" Schlatt asked quietly.

"Full," Phil answered with.

"Full?" Schlatt echoed back.

Phil nodded, "Full, where do you think the corpse went?" He would've gestured to the splatters of blood and porcelain pieces if he wasn't so lethargic.

"Got it, no dinner for you tonight," Schlatt said, Phil nodded.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, blood splattered across every inch of him. He gave a sleepy glance to Schlatt, "Carry me."

"I don't think I can carry you and Tubbo at the same time," Schlatt got out nervously.

"Just for a little bit," Phil managed, pleading clear on his voice, "Please."

"I'll try," Schlatt said as he stood up, he heaved up Phil next. The avian gave a discontented groan of annoyance as he curled into Schlatt further.

He started to purr a little bit, "Love you Schlatt."

"Love you too Phil," Schlatt echoed back as he made his way out the door to Tubbo.

Tubbo gave a small smirk at the sight, "How cute, Phil getting carried by Schlatt."

"You should be too traumatized to make quips right now," Schlatt said, Phil nuzzled into his neck and red rose to the rams face, he gave a silencing glare to Tubbo.

"You're just like him," Tubbo said as he followed Schlatt through the cave, "He gets just like you do when you get all touchy feely with him in public."

"Shut up," Schlatt got out quietly, clearly embarrassed, Tubbo gave a single laugh.

"Then stop being so stupid around each other," Tubbo said, "Bust out the wedding ring already."

"Not gonna happen," Phil got out sleepily, "Me and Schlatt don't need to, we talked about it."

Tubbo raised a brow, "So you've even talked about marriage? Please for the love of fuck, let me and Tommy be legally brothers."

"Not happening," Phil said, letting a wing fall loose, "Too much effort."

"We have necklaces instead of rings, they work better," Schlatt said.

Tubbo rolled his eyes, "I'm telling the entire fucking server about your affair if you don't do it yourself."

"Word'll spread faster through a rumor," Phil said, "It'd be easier if you did it for us."

"Then maybe I will," Tubbo said, almost aggressively, in a faux sense of course.

Schlatt smirked a bit, "Then do it, I dare you too."

[dramamelon]

Constructicon Week is here! @constructiconweek

I'll be posting them here as well as reblogging with an AO3 link because they're all short pieces. :)

What Once Was

Day 1: Scavenger | Piston Rating: T Tags: Minimal Editing, Canon Blender of IDW1 & IDW2, Snippets of Larger Story, Abandoned & Destroyed City, Haunted Houses, updated as necessary Fic Summary: In a moment of peace that was either the End of the War or a Temporary Truce (no one was quite sure where they stood yet), the Constructicons claimed the shattered remains of Crystal City as their own. So far, no one else had raised a fuss, leaving them free to rebuild as they wished. Chapter Summary: Perhaps it all started when Scavenger found the primary medical facility surprisingly intact.

On the occasions when Scavenger snuck out to the open street of the broken city his team called home, the random array of items he collected never failed to build a strange tale in his processor. In fact, he had taken to writing them down in what spare time he had—never mind that most of the time they had now was free time. With the pause of hostilities between Autobot forces and those of the Decepticons, everyone had enough free time that it was difficult to know how to fill it. Not Scavenger, though. All it took to keep Scavenger entertained was the freedom to roam the empty streets and buildings of what had once been Crystal City.

His finds, though—his finds!—were the important part of all of it. Scrapper and Hook would be so proud of him when he returned to their ramshackle base with no more than a small selection of the large stockpile he'd discovered. In particular, Scavenger made certain to place the highly specialized pistons that Bonecrusher needed replaced into an easily accessible forearm pocket. Poor Bonecrusher had been at the mercy of inadequate substitutions for vorns, a situation that left him constantly complaining of the ache it caused him. One situation of innumerable situations that plagued the Constructicon team as a whole, situations left unremedied due to lack of the equipment to properly resolve them.

Scavenger couldn't remember off the top of his processor exactly how many pistons Bonecrusher required, so he made a point of shoving as many as he could into the forearm pocket. After a pause, he popped open the panel on his other forearm and filled that pocket, as well. He nodded in satisfaction only when closing the pockets back up proved an effort worthy of the mech the pistons were for. Standing tall to survey the bountiful treasure around him, Scavenger wondered if maybe a few other useful trinkets might be worth carrying back to the others. Behind him, his scoop arm swayed and flexed with his pondering.

Crossing his arms, Scavenger began a slow pace through the wreckage of the medical facility and its astonishingly vast store of still pristine parts. Without thought, he lowered his scoop and let it drag across the crumbling sheets of standard building grade steel. The sensors in his scoop sent tingles of information scrolling across his HUD almost too fast for him to keep up with. All the things he could actually see around him were nothing more than a scratch in the surface of what the place held.

Scrapper and Hook were going to be so proud of him, he knew it! For once in the whole of his functioning, Scavenger was going to be the hero.

He opened his end of the gestalt bond wide enough to communicate with his team members—it was safer for them all to keep their positions close to the chassis, even with the sure knowledge that no one wanted to infiltrate their home. Using their bond meant communication would go undetected by anyone or anything outside his team. ::Hey, guys!:: Scavenger exclaimed over the bond, forever informal with the other Constructicons. They were more than a team, they were family, no matter how some of them (Hook) might grumble about the term. ::You're never going to believe what I just found!::

[juniemunie]

Hey! I'm loving all the rotbtd content! I was wondering if you knew any really good fanfics or have any recommendation posts for the fandom! I'm dying without content!

.... tumblr ate whatever I was trying to say before and it destroyed me. I'll try again sdfkjgbdslfkjbsl

Hiya! Glad to see you're enjoying the rotbtd I've been reblogging haha!

As for post content, it's been a long time (YEARS) since I've last been active in the fandom so idk any recent fanfics or posts lately but I'll scroll and reblog and tag any I can so you guys can enjoy if you go through my blog! You can also check out those I've reblogged, especially those that do edited gifs and fanart! I’ll try to contribute myself when I have the time!

-//-//-//-

As for fanfictions, I'll put links for the old fanfictions I've saved in my old Fanfictiondotnet that should earn me a veterans discount kdsjgbsdkf

These are really old, and honestly, I’m too lazy to check if they are any good to current me. My tastes and opinions of the characters have evolved and changed for all the characters, but younger me enjoyed them so I’ll add it here.

All of them I think are either Guardians of the Season AU, or a Hogwarts AU

Here they are, starting off with the Hogwarts AUs:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9490838/1/The-Big-Four-and-the-Wizarding-School

This is one I remember clearly because the clashing of opening narrations was hilarious

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9248460/1/The-Big-Four-Rise-of-the-Brave-Tangled-Dragons

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9710308/1/The-Big-Four-and-the-School-for-Witchcraft-and-Wizardry

Idk if this happened to any of the fanfics I linked but I remember this one Hogwarts AU fanfic where Jack, Merida and Rapunzel fight Pitch alone recklessly, and just as they were about to be defeated, Hiccup comes in to clutch because he’s the only one with the brain cells to go “Hm, maybe, just maybe, we need to go get Sandman and the others, you know, the ones that are better equipped to deal with this” and it made me laugh so hard that I still remember it today

Guardians of Seasons/Guardians AU:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9417735/1/Guardians-of-the-Seasons

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9658154/1/The-Four-Spirits-of-the-Seasons

MISC/Modern AU:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12155701/1/How-To-Tangle-Four-Brave-Guardians

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11259884/1/Lord-Of-The-Bots

-///-///-///-

Now for AO3, I’ll add along any fanfic I come across that is good to me, but currently all of them are quite old and very Hiccup centered, because I have extreme tunnel vision for my favorite characters!

seasons die before they are born    

https://archiveofourown.org/works/744682

the only one I think that gives everyone equal screen time but in angsty ways, as you can read from the title

it is the still and silent sea that drowns

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1360195

Sail

https://archiveofourown.org/works/802157

[drustvar]

Ch. 8: Bitter Shadows

Everything begins anew right where it began : at the tavern.

WC: 1,437 A/N: Double chapter drop this week YEET. I think with chapters that are under 2k words I'll be doing that, at least until I catch up to where I currently am (~ch. 18? I think?) Ao3 Link in reblog || Full text available under read more.

The Rowdy Raven was a completely different place during the day. No crowds gathered around card tables or uproarious laughter to interrupt shanty music. Instead it was quiet and empty, a stark contrast to the past two times Rosie had been there. When she and Portia had arrived, she hadn’t even been sure it was open yet. The barkeep hardly looked up from the glasses he was cleaning as they entered, just rolled the toothpick in his mouth and gave them a nod.

“Are you sure he’d be here? It’s not even noon yet,” Rosie asked in a hushed voice, not wanting to break the glassy quiet. 

“Trust me, I know my brother. If he were going to crash anywhere it’d definitely be a place called ‘the Rowdy Raven’. And if he’s in the kind of mood I suspect…well he’d have out-drunk any sailor on the seas by now.” Even though the sun was shining brightly, the ambient light in the tavern was still dim. The two women squinted as they scanned the floor of the bar. A glimpse of auburn in one of the far corners caught Rosie’s eye.

“There,” she whispered and nudged Portia. Julian was slumped over a table, empty tankards scattered around him. His hair fell messily over his eyes; she couldn’t tell if he was awake or not.

“Oh boy,” Portia’s mouth was set in a hard line. “There he is. Listen, when he gets like this, what he really needs is a good boot to the ass. You want to deliver it, or should I?” “You go ahead.” Rosie had a feeling that the very last thing he needed in his state was to be chewed out by the woman he’d so adamantly broken things off with just a few nights ago.  “Right.” Portia strode over and slammed her hands on the table. “Ilya! What do you think you’re doing?” Julian startled, sending a few of the empty steins clattering onto the floor. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes bleary and red as he blinked at them “P-Pasha?” His gaze drifted past her and filled with guilt as he saw Rosie behind her. “Rosie…how did the two of you — where did the two of you come from? How’d you find me?”

“Oh it was easy. We just followed the sounds of miserable spiraling and day drinking. What are you doing here?!” Portia’s voice took on a more urgent tone. “Do you want to be caught?” 

“Caught? Here?” Julian drained the last of his drink from the tankard in his hand. “Nonsense. The bird would fly in and cause a racket.” “Oh, and I’m sure you’re just as spry after a dozen drinks too, right?”

He sighed and slumped back over the table. “If I did get caught I’d deserve it. It’s not safe for either of you to be near me. You’d  better go, before you get tangled in my mess.” He reached for another one of the tankards, but Portia swatted it out of his reach.  “We aren’t going anywhere without you!” Portia grabbed his arm and started trying to pull him out of the booth. “You’re my brother, I’m already tangled in your mess. Do-” her voice finally broke. “Do you have some kind of death wish, Ilya?!” 

“Pasha, oh, oh no. Don’t cry, don’t-” “I’ll cry if I want to! This is your fault, you know!” She wiped angrily at her eyes and turned away, her lower lip trembling. “Y-you’d better hold me back, Rosie. B-before I hurt him!” Rosie wrapped an arm around the shorter woman and pulled her close, rubbing her shoulder. “Pasha, oh Pasha, I’m sorry, I-” “Julian,” Rosie’s voice was measured when she finally spoke. “Do you remember what you promised me?” 

“I…I’m sorry. I’ve caused so much trouble for both of you. Wherever I go, misery follows.” 

“Would you stop with the dramatics for once?" Portia wiped her eyes again. "We already-"  "It's not dramatics if it's true."  "But that doesn’t mean you can just give up! Y-you'll be killed, Ilya!"  “Maybe I deserve to be,” he shook his head and swallowed hard, slumping back into his seat. “Barth? Barth!” he all but wailed. “I need another stein over here, please. Make it another Salty Bitters.” “No, I think you’ve had enough,” Rosie said. “Will you come with us or would you like the three of us to sit here all day cryin’ into our drinks like miserable drunkards?” 

“...It’s not the worst idea. The beer is especially good today.” 

“Or, we could figure out the truth behind what happened. Put this all to rest.” 

“Or, third, we get Ilya out of town ASAP.” 

“I can’t just run away, Pasha. I tried that before, didn’t turn out so well. It’s time to face the music.” “Oh, for God’s sake,” Rosie pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you won’t get off your ass I suppose I’ll just have to carry you." Julian didn’t have time to react before Rosie had pulled him out of the booth and slung him over her shoulders.

“R-Rosie, put me down!” 

“Quiet. Portia?” 

"Right, so as I was gonna say. If you didn’t kill the Count, someone else must have, right?” Portia said. “Well I...I didn’t actually think about that. Either I did, or there’s another killer on the loose. Which is…bad, obviously. Bad if there’s another murderer out there who isn’t me.” He started to gag, and Rosie quickly set him on his feet before his previous drinks could make an encore appearance. “Though let’s uh,” he cleared his throat. Rosie pressed her palm against his back to steady him. “Let’s be honest here. All signs point to me as the culprit.” 

“We still don’t know that, Ilya. Shouldn’t we find out for sure? For all we know you could be being framed for some political assassination that had nothing to do with you." “I suppose you make a good point...But I, and I truly hate to admit this, if it wasn't already made clear how badly I wish you two weren't getting involved-" "Too late. We already are," Rosie said as she squeezed his arm.   "Yes you've made that very clear, dear. But I...I really can't do this on my own."  “You dunnae have to,” Rosie's hand slid down to grasp his. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”  “So if you won’t leave the city yet, where do we go? What do we do?” 

‘We need a solid plan,’ Rosie thought. ‘We can’t just keep running around willy-nilly. Julian’s life is on the line. If he could just remember...' “We have to start at the scene of the crime. It might jog your memory enough to figure things out from there.” 

“That won’t be a problem for you and I, Rosie. But how will we get him into the Palace? If…if someone sees him, it’s all over,” Portia said.  Rosie grinned, her teeth glinting in the low light. “Magic.” 

“What? Do you mean I’d become another person?” 

“No, you’ll just look like one. Think of it as a stage trick.”

“That’s all well and good, but who ?” 

 Rosie and Portia exchanged a look. They both knew there was only one person that would make sense to be accompanying them to the Palace.

‘ Knowing they’ve got a history… ’ Rosie grimaced. ‘ Maybe we just don’t tell him .’ “You’ll still be just as handsome, don’t worry,” she said, waving off the question. “Let's go into the alley. There’s too much residual energy in here for me to properly cast.” She led the way out of the tavern, Portia followed, supporting Julian against her shoulder despite his protests that he needed no help staying upright.  “Now, illusions aren’t much my specialty,” Rosie said as the three ducked into a secluded corner. “So if you feel any kind of tingling, itching, or burning sensations, please speak up.” 

“What uh, what does it mean if that happens?” Rosie shrugged as she rolled up her sleeves and scooped up a handful of dirt. “Dunno. Could mean you’ll turn into a newt. But you’d probably get better.” Julian leaned against the wall, looking very pale.  The dirt shimmered in the air as she blew it. It settled finely on his skin, visibly rippling with magic. Illusions were different from true transformation, always faster and always neater. As soon as the dust had settled, Julian was no longer standing in the alley with them. “Oh, who’s that?” Portia asked. “He’s handsome!” 

“What? What do I look like?” He scrambled to a nearby puddle and dropped to his knees, staring down at his reflection. “Oh my God,” Julian, now wearing Asra’s face, shook his head. “I’m definitely too drunk for this.” 

[jrueships]

Fic you would 10/10 recommend

OKAY so i think or i heard or maybe i think i saw smthin abt this day being fic appreciation day or whatever so IM HURRYIN WITH THIS ONE so i might come back here later n reblog with some more fics i missed but I WILL GIVE YALL SOME!!! just to note tho im honestly not a big fic reader in just regular gen? I'd say I prolly read maybe like.. one fic over 2 months? And that's if a fandom gives birth to a new fic with people im intrigued by! Im a very picky reader so i don't do it often (as u can tell by my VERBOSE vocabulary of same one word showing up 50 times in one sentence i try to write) SO DON'T RLLY EXPECT LIKE. A BIBLE of recs! i also really like reading shorter fics!

You know for fic recs i GOTTA recommend the MOOTS writings!!!! btw if any other moot on here writes and posted a story that's not recommended here LEMME KNOW! LEMME READ THAT SHIT!! ANYWAYS from the moots ive read from: ok. Nevermind. I was gonna link each story and it would have been awesome but the links won't link so 😭 um. I'll just say the title of the fic and the author LMAO sorry im on mobile. OH ALSO most of these fics you're gonna need an ao3 account to read! But it's WORTH IT trrrust me paps!!

Wreck my plans (that's my man) : sunlightdappling!!! I think I read this b4 we became mooted or at the very beginning of moothood but!! The title ALONE made me excited to read it! I love titles with parentheses i love you song titles i love you two verses! The verses are unfamiliar to me but if i had to guess the title is from a swift song? Idk why! I've never really listened to her but i just get the feeling it's something she'd say? IDK what i mean is THE TITLE IS VERY SMOOTH AND ROLLING!! Which is very much how the whole story feels! It all flows so well and everyone is so real!! I love wall street exec/principal/dad/mom andre a ton here! So cool when authors include more teammates in the fic besides the two it's centered on! I'm personally not big on the warriors cause im attracted to poverty (spurs) BUT i LOVE this fic and tbh like all the warriors related stuff my moots bless me with because Warriors are Gay. And my moots? Gay. This is good stuff, everyone just IT IS JUST SOMETHING YOU WANNA AND SHOULD READ and my picky pallet self loved it VERY much! READ IT!!!!

Kdsburneraccount : <- author!! GO CHECK OUT THIS AUTHOR!!! Moot does it ALL! You see a fic in another language you really wanna read because it's like 1 outta the 4 fics your ship has? CHECK OUT KDSBA!!! (Not actually kd) translates the CUTEST stories with permission ofc so OTHERS can enjoy as well! ANDDD moot ALSO writes GREAT fics ! For very interesting ships!!! Includes lots of people in the fics without any being ooc! You can tell moot takes TIME with these!! If you're thinking of getting into nfl fic! This ur person! AND IM YOUR PLUG ‼️‼️

The whole kyle/demar tag. Read it . Just. Read it. 29 fics with love poured into each and every ONE of them (i think idk i read like half i don't remember) putting it in the moot section bcs there's gotta be some tumblr moots of mine established in these stompin grounds (or planning to set ship root here!! So just keep an eye out on this tag !)

Nahco3 : <- author! BRO. IF YOU ON SPORTS TUMBLR N NEVER READ A NAH FIC. DO IT. RN. Reading at least THREE sodium bicarbonate fics is required! Sorry! Either witness greatness or lag behind idk what to tell ya buddy! Moots ability to write like SO many 10k+ works where every single word sounds MWAH is so MWAH it's MWAH just CLICK ONNA FIC MAN!!! SEE FOR YOURSELF!!! my personal fav favs are the fics with russell just cus his personality and behavior are A1 both in real life AND fiction. Russell fics are just something to read if you like those kinda elegant but POPPIN personalities IDK lol READ IT!! Read a kyle/demar story and thank nah for being the strong pillar that ship needs to stop it from falling into the 'short one uwu smol bean baby tall one MEAN and emotionless daddy 🥺' trenches. Seriously. That's a real savior right there !!! Also james harden is so funny in the fics we hate him but we all agree a straight guy who is Straight can just be hilarious sometimes

Freaky Friday : hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)/ just moots fics in gen also legally if you read nahco3 you read HTW too! TWO-PACKED DEAL!! it's like getting TWO ps5s for the price of ONE ps5! SERIOUSLY READ THIS FIC!!! READ THE FICS!!!! I included the one that got me into moots fics (b4 we were moots! It was just such a creative concept AND all done in one chapter too? The DEDICATION??? i HAD to check it out), but read them All. OR YOU ARE MISSING OOOUT!! writing main ships are HARD. Yet this account manages to knock em outta the park EVERY time!!

Of course i love ALL my moots AND ALL THEIR WORKS so if yall want to be included LEMME KNOW and i will add yall in the rec! I'm just writing this at night rn so im trying to go a lil fast n post!

Ok now just for fics in general hmm

Tonight : anonymous A BRAD/JOHN FIC!!!!! and the fic that encouraged me to join tumblr n scrounge up some fics of my own for the fandom! John n beal have such an interesting relationship and storyline which NEEDED to have a fic done on it! AND THIS ONE IS SO GOOD! i haven't read it in forever since my start here so i can't describe all the deets but! I like it :). It has my og fav there and the perfect melancholy kind of vibe beal/john gives off.

A little TLC : madina / madina fics overall. Madina was probably one of my first fav fic authors for the fandom. AND IDK IF I JUST HAVENT MET MADINA AS A MOOT HERE OR MADINA DOESNT USE TUMBLR OR SMTHIN BUT IM KINDA SAD I CANT BE MOOTS WITH MADINA! because i just wanna COMPLIMENT madina so BAD madina is a GENIUS i LOVE madinas fics i love how madina writes russ , (and yes i am biased because madina writes a lot of my favs but STILL), IF YOU LOVE RUSS.. you'll love madina! Madina just gets PEOPLE! So right! And knows how to write main ships AND rarer ships so well! Only weakness to madina i can think of? Lakers fan lol

Just read all the kd/russ fics they're like all so high quality and good concepts and it's all written about a really complicated relationship but the fics do it so well ! JUST READ EM!! (again tho i read like half and a long time ago so😭)

Football fics now I TOLDYOU I DONT READ ALOT anyways Prom King by playclock!!! When /I/ was rec this, i thought the authors name was playc*ck so i was a little confused 😭 waiting for that thing some writers do where they label it unexplicit or mature then it has l*wd in it LMAO but no! This one is just a really soft really cute fic about stef and allen! If you're looking into getting into nfl through that ship or just that ship, READ THIS FIC!!! it gets INSECURITY it gets PLAYFULNESS it gets FRIENDSHIP it gets LOVE!!! i love it im so glad i was recced it and now im reccin it TO YOU! guys

Easy like a [tuesday] morning : counselor. CUTE title for a somber soft fic!! I love sports fics that dive into issues athletes might have that no one really considers! This one was so understandable it was sad AND I LOVED IT!! a lovely lamar and hollywood fic, their friendship is shown so well!! READ.IT.

AGAIN i mainly read whatever catches my eye, whether that be interesting characters, title, coverart, booksleeve, SO TAKE MY RECS... however you wanna take em JUST KNOW i am no historian of literature or WHATEVER ! THESE ARE FICS I LIKE, you may not like em, who cares everyone knows everything is about me lol eat shorts

[trust-and-jump]

Reverse Robins map for me

Links to all my Reverse Robins posts - Updating

because I need to put all my rr posts in one. because I want to translate all my Russian texts to English while trying to finish the Russian version and posting about the things I'm currently writing or translating helps.

upd: started posting the fic on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47417965

start

the things I need to remember:

little Dami:

A llittle older Dami but still little:

The name Robin - the name Shrike. The first Shrike:

^^^which is.... okay, Damian was being dramatic, a little, when he left, but he also felt like his mind is going to break. Because it's no fun when you're trying to adapt to three different phylosophies. Ideologies. Moral settings. He needed some time alone. With friends, maybe. Just... away from all the people putting their ideas in his head. He never cared about Gotham anyway - there are more than one city worth saving.

sai hi to Tim:

little Tim (reblog to the previous):

Bruce and Dami; some time after Jay's death:

here

TIM STOP, STOP!!!!!! STOP, WHAT ARE YOU DOING,,,,,,

HEY LOOK HERE THERE IS SOME CONTINUATION OR ADDITIONAL POST OR SOMETHING.

there should be post about Shrike!Jason because I wrote so much in Russian about it and about how Tim became who he became and also I have at least two big scenes with my feelings about Damian being indoctrinated as a child and also how he still struggles despite being all grown-up— but I didn't translate ANY of it. SHIT.

Also the worst part of writing all of this is that I don't have No Man's Land in my AU and I have no idea what to do with it. because I actually really want No Man's Land but I know I won't be able to write anything sensible out of it.

Talia and Jason:

Talia and Jason 2 (although actually I wrote it before the previous one):

a llittle funny incorrect quote or something:

I think I missed something but nevermind.

the story called Нулевая гипотеза. Or Null hypothesis.

[prettytamagnii]

Publiquei 3083 vezes em 2022

17 publicações criadas (1%)

3066 publicações reblogadas (99%)

Blogues que rebloguei mais vezes:

@thejaguarback

@perrfectly

@redknight7146

@lucarioguy15

@girlcalledwhatsername

Marquei 288 das minhas publicações em 2022

#reblogged – 20 publicações

#skyrim – 20 publicações

#signal boost – 10 publicações

#miraak x ldb – 9 publicações

#miraak – 8 publicações

#otp – 7 publicações

#dishonored – 6 publicações

#ao3 link – 6 publicações

#oc: tatianna – 6 publicações

#tes v skyrim – 5 publicações

Marcador mais comprido: 139 caracteres

#it was wild the yn character moved to london met niall fell in love with him lost her father niall supposedly cheated on her but in the end

As minhas publicações mais populares em 2022:

N.º 5

I was tagged by @bougainvillea-and-saltwater, thanks a lot!!! I'll be doing this about the protagonist of my current fic, Tatianna!

1. Favorite Tavern

Tati doesn't spend much time in taverns. Maybe the Frozen Hearth for its proximity with the College of Winterhold.

2. Favorite Drink

Spiced Wine! It brings her back to the King's Effigy on Solitude, after she helped restore the festival. Free wine and meat pies, stomach warming!

3. Travel Companion

Tati usually travels alone. Game wise, it's more practical to travel on her own so she doesn't risk losing a non essential follower (which is why after the Dawnguard DLC, Serana will be a frequent companion in travelling, since she doesn't die); Story wise, I believe Tatianna to be quite a reserved person; it's not that she doesn't like to be around people, just that she needs her own space. Sometimes, she would like to be more open to other people, to work in a team, to let people in, though.

4. Wealthy or not?

She has acquired quite the amount of gold with her various travels around Skyrim, her becoming Thane in three holds and the archmage of the College, and I'd say she has become rather wealthy.

5. Worships the Aedra or the Daedra?

Tatianna was raised within the Vigil of S'tendarr, so she mostly opposes the Daedra on principle. She doesn't hate all Daedra, thought, and there's one particular Daedra that will have an impact on her life... As for Aedra, she worships S'tendarr (for her upbringing), Julianos (for being a mage), Kynareth/Kyne (since Kyne was the one who taught the Thu'um to mortals) and Akatosh (because she's Dragonborn).

6. Biggest Fear

To lose control of herself, or sense of who she is - again (story wise). To become a "bad" person, to hurt her loved ones.

7. Pet Peeves

I've never thought about it.

8. Do they like being dragonborn?

When she first discovers it, Tati can barely believe it, and often questions why her. Then, she begins seeing at a responsability first and foremost, and while she is fighting Alduin, she doesn't question much the meaning of her nature. After defeating Alduin, questions will resurge, specially when she finds out about the First Dragonborn...

9. Favorite faction

The college of Winterhold. She hasn't given much thought to the other factions around Skyrim, and is pretty much a mage at heart. Plus, she has a certain "lone wolf" streak to herself...

10. An object of sentimental value

Never thought much about it, maybe the first enchanted robes she wore as a vigilant, because her father, who was a vigilant, gifted them to her. They serve as a something to remember her family by, even if she's not with the Vigil anymore.

11. Hobbies

Alchemy, reading and collecting Dragon Priest masks (in the case of my fic, it's not only the mask she will be collecting... 🤭)

12. Favorite city

Hard to say. She made her home in Morthal, but it is more a town than a city. Whiterun is radiant and welcoming, and so is Solitude, but she feels a connection to both Morthal and Winterhold - she is a mage, after all.

I tag: @rakimaiirisa, @kiir-do-faal-rahhe, @reachfolk, and anyone who wants to participate!

9 notas – Publicadas em 20 de outubro de 2022

N.º 4

first dragonborn meets last dragonborn.......

🐲👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨🐲

12 notas – Publicadas em 11 de outubro de 2022

N.º 3

thinking thoughts rn

13 notas – Publicadas em 12 de julho de 2022

N.º 2

the last and the first

Tatianna "Tati", born in High Rock and raised in Skyrim, ex-vigilant of S'tendarr, archmage of Winterhold, Last Dragonborn;

Miraak, hailing from Atmora of old, ex-Dragon Priest of Solstheim, Traitor, First Dragonborn;

25 notas – Publicadas em 18 de outubro de 2022

A minha publicação número 1 de 2022

thinking thoughts....

the first dragonborn who lived under the dragon rule trying to secure every last bit of fragile power to survive, conflicted between his humanity and his dragon blood, is told he can't be the master of his own fate.

the last dragonborn who knows no one else like her, is constantly warned to not let power consume her or told she's "the ultimate dragon slayer", told her fate is hers to discover.

and when the first dragonborn hears about her existence, he's threatened, because there can't be two like them at the same time, there can be no one like him who can subdue him.

the last dragonborn wants to stop him for what he's doing, and then she hears him pleading, "I'm the master of my own fate", and wonders.

maybe all he wanted was to have power over himself, because he never knew a world where he could do that.

and he is puzzled to find out that she doesn't want his power, because she has power over herself.

she's like him, dual in nature, human and dovah, yet she's nothing like him, she doesn't subjugate anyone, and doesn't allow herself to be subjugated. it's a balance he never thought was possible.

suddenly, he's fascinated by his rival.

100 notas – Publicadas em 8 de outubro de 2022

Vê agora o teu Ano em Revista de 2022 do Tumblr →

[wolf-and-bard]

Knowing Where My Glasses Went

-geraskier, ~950 words, rated T

Thank you @jaskierswolf for the idea for this!✨

---

When the door slams shut hard, Geralt looks up from his tablet. He is currently a hundred pages into proof-reading Jaskier’s newest manuscript, a romance novel his husband wants to publish under his penname Dandelion, and Roach is a golden pile of fur on his lap. A glance at the clock tells him it’s past three, not an irregular occurrence in Jaskier’s line of work, but Geralt worries nonetheless. And he always stays up, waiting for him to get home from whatever gig he’s been playing, no matter the time.

Jaskier stumbles down the hallway, past their living room without so much as a glance at Geralt.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls out, turning off the tablet and putting aside the pen he’s been marking the novel up with – a thirst-fest of hard-packed muscle and glistening skin, tailored to the tastes of Dandelion’s masses of fans. Geralt tries to be constructive, but he gets distracted so easily. “Come now, girl, get down.” He gently nudges Roach and she glares at him, jumps down when he adds ‘pretty please’.

Geralt crosses the length of their living room, bare-footed and in nothing but sweatpants, the way he is most comfortable and Jaskier likes to be greeted. Usually that is. He pops his head through the door frame, just about seeing as Jaskier emerges from their bedroom with a fresh towel and one of Geralt’s shirts. A worn one. Geralt smiles, heart warming at the sight.

“How’d your show go, love?” he asks and Jaskier glances up at him, one hand on the bathroom door handle. His hair is mussed and his glasses hang askew on his nose which is reddened and runny.

“Shower first,” he mutters. “Talk later.” And disappears into the bathroom.

Which is worrying. Usually, Jaskier likes to hop onto Geralt’s lap when he comes home, likes to snuggle up to Geralt and tell him all about his gig. Then he has a shower while Geralt makes him a hot chocolate and they go to bed, Roach already sleep-drooling onto their comforter.

“Fuck,” Geralt says and debates whether to go after his husband. He glances back into the living room at Roach who glares reproachfully at him. “You’re right, you’re right.”

Geralt approaches the bathroom door and gives a slight knock. From inside, he can hear the shower going and steam’s already curling underneath the door. He can also hear Jaskier making some stifled noises. He doesn’t reply to Geralt’s knock though and Geralt sighs.

His shoulders sag as another sob sounds over the hiss of the water, and he slips out of his sweatpants and through the bathroom door, drawing it shut behind himself.

“Jask?”

“Go away.”

Which is how Geralt knows he shouldn’t leave Jaskier alone at all. He pulls back their daisy-patterned shower curtain and steps into the tub where Jaskier’s standing in the spray, motionless. His arms hang limply at his sides and his glasses are still crooked on his nose, fogged up and speckled with water. Underneath, his tears are made invisible.

“Jask,” Geralt says, biting down on his smile. He draws the curtain shut again and reaches out to tug at Jaskier’s glasses, then deposits them with their shampoo bottles. Jaskier’s eyes widen and Geralt melts inside. The poor thing didn’t even realize.  “C’mere,” Geralt opens his arms wide for Jaskier to fall into.

“I’m such a mess,” Jaskier wails, hiccupping because he has to laugh and cry at the same time and he buries his face against Geralt’s neck, clawing at Geralt’s biceps.

“You’re my mess.” Geralt buries his nose in Jaskier’s sodden hair. It smells of smoke and sweat. “Bad crowd?”

“No, they were fine,” Jaskier says, kissing Geralt’s collarbone. It’s something he does to ground himself and to help with that, Geralt starts rubbing slow circles over Jaskier’s shoulder blades.

“Hmmm.” It’s an open-ended hum. Either Jaskier wants to talk about it or he doesn’t, Geralt knows to respect that. He kisses the top of Jaskier’s head and draws him even tighter and hopes to be the steady anchor Jaskier needs right now. Gradually, Jaskier’s mangled hiccups subside and he sighs softly.

“I wanted to play a new song,” Jaskier whispers. His grip on Geralt’s arms has loosened and he wraps his own around Geralt’s neck, drawing himself up.

That’s right, Geralt thinks, filled to the brim with pride and love and adoration for his husband. Use me for purchase, stand tall again.

“But I bailed. I wasn’t sure how it had come out and I fucking bailed. I’m so disappointed in myself.”

“You wanna sing it now?” Geralt asks, grinning as Jaskier pulls back a little to bump their noses together. His azure eyes are shot through with red, but a spot of sunshine has returned to them. He’s beautiful and messy and he’s Geralt’s. Geralt still can’t believe that on some days. “Sing it just for me?”

“My favourite audience,” Jaskier laughs. He looks at Geralt, nuzzles his cheek as he starts to hum softly under his breath, then gains confidence. The first verse is a little shaky as a few leftover sobs loosen in his chest. The second one comes out a little flat, the third is all Jaskier. Bursting with emotion and confidence and wit. He’s so witty, his husband, in a way Geralt could never be. By the time the refrain starts, Geralt’s kissing the words off Jaskier’s lips and he has to revert to humming once more. Geralt will listen to the rest of the lyrics later, right now he needs to show Jaskier how fucking much he loves him.

“Thank you,” Jaskier breathes when they part. “I needed this.”

---

not a tag list:

@littoraly-art

[glitternightingale]

Yeah so I'm also here post-animation process video drop and your brilliant break-down about Bruno's belly. Hi! I’m not on Tumblr and hope you mind a long ask in lieu of reblogging/adding to your OP.

The confirmation has been validating, is one big thing. But is it weird that with regard to the three whats/whys in your break-down (artistic choice, chub, malnutrition), I was like “ah but couldn’t it be a little, or be some combo, of all three?" - said with an intonation à la Mirabel’s "and I think it's all because of me?" I think I'm a bit of the mind that his belly is round (and "disproportionate") more due to malnutrition than from having actual healthy adipose, based on its shape? and stuff, but that's probably me reading way too into things.

There's this other part of me that's also like, what are the chances that someone like Jared Bush, who does answer questions about the canon on his Twitter, would further confirm… or maybe not confirm per se, but shed a lil insight into some of the choices?

And and: have you been able to compare the 1st and final passes at the chase scene animation? I’m no artist, but I feel like I noticed a few differences between the two Brunos (using side-by-side screen grabs bc I am 100% Like That). Ex. when he’s running toward the camera and goes to leap for the pipe: in the 1st test his stomach actually looks larger than it does in the final test; and, in the final his chest/rib cage/sternum area... and kind of his whole frame tbh... look smaller and more... shrunken/visible. Which I’m sure makes sense since it’s the final version and stuff like the muscle rigging(?) gets tweaked, but I just found the changes interesting in light of your post, the discussion, and because process stuff is cool.

This is all over the place, sorry! Last thing I swear: I love your fic, WAACH - and your art! More and more with each chapter. Always so happy seeing a telltale alliterative title in an email from AO3 :)

Oh, it could definitely be all three! I actually only broke it up into sections to structure my mess of thoughts on the matter. Well, then I forgot to point out exactly that. 😅

Here's the link to the referred post: Bruno's Belly: Artistic Choice? Chub? Malnutrition?

Bruno's Belly (2): Artistic Choice? Chub? Malnutrition?

When I wrote the first little meta about this topic, I was also really thrown off by the frames you mentioned:

(I tried my best to keep them comparable, but the more rendered version is from a slightly different, more dynamic perspective.)

And then we have this, where his belly disappears completely:

I know nothing about professional 3D animation, but this difference really strikes me. It doesn't seem to serve the purpose of exaggerating the action (like stretch and squash, for example), so where -- and why -- did it go?

Please, if anyone who reads this is brave enough, ask Jared Bush on Twitter! I need a concrete explanation. 😭

I once came upon a post where people were discussing the notion that these two Brunos aren't even the same model in the final version of the movie (correct me if I remember it wrong):

At least there's continuity where Bruno's wrists and ankles are concerned and that is that they are skinny all the time:

Here's my humble opinion on the matter in general:

I absolutely agree with your take, anon, and I think that it makes too much sense for it to not be canon. I believe Bruno is malnourished (as mentioned in my latest part of WAACH) in both meanings of the word. My fic works with the implications that Bruno had too little food (and that it wasn't of great nutritional value), as well as a diet with little variety.

Extra:

I'm so glad you enjoy my fic! I'm always really scared that I'll ruin it with my updates and that everyone who keeps up with it will be disappointed. BUT! The next installment will be called "Building The Base" and you can already guess from the first letters who it'll focus on. 😉