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onecanonlife · 2 years

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In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 5,589)

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Part Eighteen: Foolish

Foolish considers himself a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.

That’s the main reason why he accepts the invitation to the server. Dream’s server. He doesn’t have a reason not to, and he didn’t have any other plans, and he doesn’t know much about the guy but he’s heard of him. Everyone’s heard of him, he thinks, though opinions differ depending on who you talk to. He can’t say that he has one, hasn’t cared enough until now.

He’s got no idea why he was invited. So maybe he’s a little curious, too.

So he joins. He’s greeted by a dude wearing reindeer antlers. Or maybe growing them; he can’t really tell. Dream himself is lurking in the trees, but Foolish pretends that he’s doing a good job of hiding, just for the sake of politeness. Also for the sake of politeness, he decides not to mention the fact that the code around spawn feels weird, thin, like something’s been trying to break through, because surely they know already. It’s not exactly nice to barge onto someone else’s server and immediately start pointing out everything wrong with it.

He bites his tongue about the architecture, too. Such as it is. Or at least, he limits himself to a couple of comments. If this is the reason he was invited, it would make sense. He’s happy to provide some structures with a little more sophistication. For a price, of course. He knows the value of his labor.

He goes with the flow. Asks after the one who asked him here—some guy named Tommyinnit, if he’s remembering correctly—and the reindeer guy, Callahan, points him in the direction of a place called L’Manberg. So he heads off that way, and he’s greeted at the gates, obviously expected. He’s given a tour. He meets a few people, though not Tommyinnit, not yet, and his guide doesn’t seem to know exactly where he is. His guide also asks him if he wants to join, and he hems and haws because it’s a little soon to be committing himself to anything, having only just arrived, and he doesn’t really consider himself the country-joining type. He works best when he’s got a nice space to himself. The kid doesn’t seem to mind that.

Tubbo. Seems like a nice dude. A little young for government, but he’s not one to judge.

Tubbo leads him around, and he meets the other members of this place. Catches a glimpse of the president, who gives off exactly the busy sort of vibes he might have expected. He gets a cookie from the bakery. Takes a long look at the flag, probably one of the most well-made things here. Other than the walls and a few nice-looking towers, there’s really not much to write home about.

It’s only a few hours in that he starts to realize that something really weird is going on. Because a few hours in is when he meets Tommyinnit, who pops up at his side like a jack-in-the-box or a particularly determined ghost. Who takes one look at him, and then demands that he follow. There’s no real introduction, no lead-in, no basic exchange of courtesy. The guy walks up to him and tells him to come along as if there’s no way that he could choose to do anything else.

“Um, okay?” he says. “Sure. Where are we going? Is this some kind of initiation?”

“Just—come on,” Tommy says. He’s younger than Foolish might have thought. And he’s only become more perplexed upon meeting him, because looking him in the eyes, he is increasingly sure that he has never met this kid before in his life. So how he knew to ask for him specifically, and why, is beyond him. “Don’t make a fucking fuss about it, yeah? You’ve gotta see something.”

“I feel like I’ve done a lot of sightseeing today,” he says, but he follows behind the guy as he leads him out of the walls of L’Manberg, marching with purpose. Foolish looks around with interest as they walk. There’s still a lot of the server he hasn’t seen yet, but Tommy doesn’t seem interested in continuing the tour, or in stopping. Just in their destination. Wherever that may be.

Tommy’s not striking him as a go-with-the-flow kind of guy.

“Does this have to do with why you invited me here?” he asks. “You are the one who invited me, right? That’s what the deer guy said.”

“Callahan’s a fucking tattletale,” Tommy says, not looking at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it might actually matter a little,” he says, but he keeps following. It’s not like he has anything better to do, even if Tommy’s attitude toward him is definitely weird. Almost presumptuous, as if he’s taken it for granted that Foolish will follow him, and Foolish doesn’t know quite what to do with that other than play along. There’s no harm in it, at least.

When Tommy finally stops, there’s no real indication as to why. There’s a fairly large, walled-off base over to one side, and a smaller house one the other. An obsidian field laid out across the grass, or maybe replacing it. It must have taken time to gather that much obsidian. There’s a reason he doesn’t build with it very much, and that’s entirely because of the effort involved in collecting it.

“Alright, look,” Tommy says. “You’re gonna listen to me now, and you’re gonna believe me, because I speak nothing but the truth literally ever.”

“This is a promising start,” he says.

Tommy frowns at him. And it’s not the frown that gives him pause, because the frown looks like any other frown on any other teenager. But there’s a look in his eyes. It’s a familiar look, and it’s unsettling, and he doesn’t think that it belongs there. And he doesn’t like it. He can’t put a finger on it, but he doesn’t like it.

“There’s something under the obsidian,” Tommy says.

“Okay,” he says. “Judging by your tone, I’m guessing it’s a bad something.”

“Shut up and let me finish,” Tommy says. “It’s—yeah, it’s a fucking bad something. It’s the worst something. It’s the worst fucking something you’ll ever meet.”

“Okay,” he says again. “Can I ask—”

“No,” Tommy says. “No, you fucking can’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s just—it’s bad. And it’ll—you can’t go near it, because it’ll get all up in your head and then you won’t be you anymore and you’ll do whatever it asks and you’ll probably die.”

“I don’t do that,” he says automatically, and then gives a pointed glance to where they’re standing, because if they’re not supposed to go near it then this seems like a horrible place to be. Also, what is this kid even talking about.

Tommy rolls his eyes. “That’s what the obsidian’s for, shithead,” he says. “Keeps it nice and locked up, see? It can’t talk to you if obsidian’s blocking it. And it’s probably not even awake yet. But it’s down there, and it’s terrible, and it needs to go.”

Sure. Sure, why not. This might as well be a thing. He doesn’t think he’s been this confused in a very, very long time, but sure. This feels like a fever dream, or what he thinks a fever dream would feel like, since he doesn’t really get sick.

“And you’re telling me this because—?” he says, hoping beyond hope for a more clear explanation.

“I’m the only one who knows it’s there,” Tommy says. “Just me.”

“Why—”

“Because if anyone else knew it was there, they’d want to go look at it,” Tommy says. “And they’d go all mimimimi it’s just an egg, what’s it gonna do, and they’d be stupid and wrong and then they’d be mind-controlled and then it’s over. It’s game fucking over. This whole server goes under.”

“I’m sorry, did you say egg—”

“So I can’t fucking say anything, see? Because everyone else’ll be all stupid about it, and then they’ll get themselves fucking killed or some shit.”

Foolish does not think that he sees. He thinks that he is not the one at fault for this. He thinks that Tommy is not doing a very good job at explaining, as much as the kid seems to believe that he is.

“Okay then,” he says. “Then why tell me about it, exactly? I’m confused.”

Tommy levels a stare at him. There’s that same look in his eyes. Something old, something empty. Something dead. And with a start and a curl of nausea, unexpected in its onset, Foolish realizes exactly what that look is.

Recognition. Someone who knows exactly who and what they’re talking to. It’s not an expression that he’s seen in a very long time. It’s not an expression he ever thought he’d see again. He’s retired. He’s peaceful. He builds things now. His skin glimmers golden and sometimes his back twitches with the memory of wings and he gives life and creates beauty, and in Tommy’s eyes is the expectation of something else. Someone else.

And with that realization comes another: death clings to Tommy like a second skin. It’s fuzzy, indistinct, difficult to make out. Something strange about it. Transient and slippery, like the universe itself can’t make up its mind as to whether it really exists or not. But Foolish is not so far from his roots that he can’t see it.

“Because you can fight it,” Tommy says. “You’re one of the only ones who can.”

He states it like a fact. For a moment, Foolish can say nothing at all.

Then, he laughs, scrambling to cover up his unease, his growing panic.

“I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone else,” he says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m very powerful. You might even call me a god. But I’m not the god of that kind of thing. I don’t really go in for that.”

Never mind that even the suggestion is enough to set something in his blood stirring. Never mind that his fingers still remember the feel of a sword, an axe, a bow, the motion of a trident flung at a target rather than clouded skies. Never mind the lightning, the thunder, the promise of storms. Never mind the thrill. Never mind the power. Never mind all the things he pushes down, down, down. Never mind all the things he swore he’d stop being. That he has stopped being.

Never mind the fact that Tommy is looking at him like he sees all of it, no matter how impossible that should be.

“Doesn’t matter what you’re the god of, does it?” Tommy says. “Reckon you could be the god of anything, things get desperate enough.”

“I don’t do desperate,” he says, a little desperately.

“Everybody does desperate,” Tommy says. “Enough people die, you get pretty desperate.”

“Is someone dead?” he asks.

“They’re gonna be!” Tommy says. He steps forward, hands slicing through the air, a fervent gesture that Foolish isn’t quite sure how to read. “They’re gonna—this is the last fucking thing. If I can deal with this fucking shitshow, that’s it. We’ll be—everything’ll be fine. Simply poggers. But it’s—it’s fucking dangerous, and nobody took it too seriously until it was too fucking late, so if you’re gonna stand there and be stupid about it then you might as well fuck off because you’re not doing anything helpful—”

“Literally, what are you talking about?”

Tommy goes silent, lips drawing together, the blood draining from his face.

“I know you can fight it,” he says eventually. “You with your, your lightning and shit. It can’t kill you as easy, not unless you let it. And I’m not—‘m not saying you have to do anything right now. Not today. But it’s gonna wake up, and by the time it wakes up it might be too late because that’s when it’ll start taking people, and maybe we won’t get those people back, and I’m not fucking doing that. I’m not fucking—I’m not fucking losing anybody. So you’ve gotta help me.”

Nothing about this guy makes any sense at all. Foolish has never been so certain that there’s vital information that he doesn’t have. It’s a connect-the-dots picture with half the dots missing, and most of the rest of them unnumbered.

“Why me?” he says. “There’s—okay, there’s not a whole lot of guys like me out there. But I’m not the only god that exists. Why would you pick me for this? How did you even hear about me?”

That’s the real question. If Tommy has an idea of his history, a history he doesn’t even admit to himself most of the time, then maybe it’s plausible that Tommy would latch onto him as someone who could help him out with this—situation. But that would beg the question of how Tommy learned any of that at all, and how he connected the god that he was to the god that he is and always will be. It shouldn’t be easy. Not easy enough that any random teenager could figure it out, anyway, and especially not if he wasn’t already looking into specifics.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Not your fucking business, is it?” Tommy says.

“I think it is my business!” he says. “You call me to this server without telling me why, and then it turns out that you want me to go back on, like, decades of nonviolence for the sake of a threat that you can’t show me and that I have zero idea about or stake in, and I don’t even know you. I literally don’t even know you. Why should I take your word for any of this?”

The color is coming back into Tommy’s face, turning it red.

“Don’t be a pussy,” he snaps. “I just told you why I can’t show it to you.”

“And again, why should I believe you?”

“Because it’s true.”

Really, the issue isn’t even that he doesn’t believe the kid. At the very least, he thinks he believes that the kid believes it. He’s all earnestness and drive and maybe some of that desperation he was talking about, and the way he’s looking at Foolish now makes him think that Tommy is genuinely confused as to why he’s not going along with this anymore. He can’t decide whether it’s a point in his favor or not.

So the issue isn’t that he doesn’t believe Tommy. The issue is the rest of it. The issue is that he doesn’t understand why Tommy asked after him specifically and he doesn’t understand why it’s something he should care about when he’s been on this server for all of a few hours and he doesn’t want to slide back into old habits. Not that he would. Not that it’s tempting. Not that there’s some part of him just begging to be cut loose, to flex his powers and show everyone around him who’s boss. Because there’s not. Not at all.

But it’s better not to risk it.

He opens his mouth to say something to that effect, even if Tommy has been brushing past all of his other arguments up to this point, but Tommy cuts him off.

“Just don’t leave, alright?” he says. “Just—stay here, stay on this server. Go and build your stupid desert temple or whatever, be as far away as you want, but stay on this server. I’ll—I’ll figure out a way to prove it to you. You’ll see, you’ll see it’s bad. And then you’ll help.”

“You seem very sure of that,” he replies.

“You will,” Tommy says. “Doesn’t matter what kind of god you are. There’s always something—something worth protecting. Worth everything. And this thing puts everything in danger.”

His stomach flips again. He blinks. Looks from Tommy to the obsidian and back again.

“I’ll think about it,” he concedes.

“Fine,” Tommy says. “Fucking fine. Just think about it here.”

Overhead, there’s a storm gathering, dark clouds and the occasional flash of lightning, high above. He glances up at it, wondering if it’s naturally occurring or if he pulled it in, summoned it through the sheer force of his discomfort, and when he looks back down, Tommy is gone. Not completely; he catches a glimpse of his retreating back, heading back in the direction of L’Manberg. But it does seem like a retreat, like fleeing.

And he can’t help but wonder what exactly the kid thought the outcome of this conversation would be. Did he really expect Foolish to react differently? Personally, he thinks his response was perfectly reasonable. He doesn’t know anybody here. He doesn’t have a stake in their problems. All he wants to do is live peacefully, and Tommy is pretty clearly trying to pull him away from that. The whole thing was just weird, and he has a pretty high tolerance for weirdness, but this is pushing it.

He looks back at the field. There’s a figure on the other side, staring at him with a shovel in hand. It’s hard to make out more than a silhouette, the sky darkening as it is, but he thinks he sees a red flash where their eyes should be.

“Nope,” he says out loud, and turns on his heel.

He likes being out in storms, feels no urge to seek shelter. So, walking as the rain begins to fall gives him time and space to think it over. He’s curious, he’ll admit, even still. But curious enough to stay and risk—whatever it is he’d be risking? For the sake of a weird, rude kid that he doesn’t know and the weird kid’s friends who he also doesn’t know?

Maybe not.

But then again, Tommy wants his help specifically. That’s almost enough to make him feel guilty if he were to decide to leave. Even if that’s ridiculous. He’d have nothing to feel guilty about. He’d be well within his rights to put this server behind him and not look back.

But maybe if he stays, he can get them to give him gear, maybe other stuff. He could ask for payment in gold. That seems reasonable. And he can never have enough gold.

Would the pros outweigh the cons, here?

Lightning flashes, and as if summoned by his thought, his gaze catches on one of the towers he’d noted earlier. He’s wandered fairly close, and as the area briefly brightens, something gleams between the stones. Gold accenting. Whoever’s building these structures has good taste, better taste than he’s noted in any of the other builds so far. He lets his feet carry him closer, debating the merits of just leaving the server right now and trying to pretend that this never happened.

And then he draws up short.

There’s a person at the base of the tower, digging through a chest with one hand and with the other, holding a slab of wood over their head like the world’s worst umbrella. They’re muttering to themself, irritation audible even over the patter of rain and rolling of thunder. They’re wearing the same uniform that most of the other people in L’Manberg were wearing, along with a pair of unfamiliar sunglasses perched on their nose.

But it’s Eret.

It’s Eret.

He can feel the grin spreading on his face. Not that he would try to hold it back. A few things slot into place, suddenly; if Tommy originally heard about him from Eret, then that might explain why he sought him out. Honestly, Tommy probably should have led with that. It might have made him feel better about the whole thing.

“Hey there!” he calls, striding closer. Eret jerks and looks up, the white of their eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. The chest they were rooting through slips closed, their hand falling from the lid.

“Hello?” they say. They sound uncertain, startled; maybe they didn’t know he was here, or that he was coming.

“Sorry, I don’t know if you’re busy,” he says. “Don’t mind me. Are the towers yours?”

“They’re a work in progress, but yes,” Eret says, after a beat. “I’m not that busy, it’s alright. I was thinking about heading home before this started up.” They gesture at the sky, but they’re otherwise motionless. Even unable to see their eyes, Foolish feels the weight of their undivided focus. It’s a creeping static, a prickle across his spine, the regard of something distinctly other. But that’s just Eret. He’s used to it.

“Yeah, that might have been me,” he says. “Maybe. Sorry about that.”

“It’s not a problem,” Eret says. They sound strangely distant, a little hesitant. How long has it been since the last time they saw each other? Foolish isn’t great at tracking things like that, but it’s never really been necessary between the two of them. They fall apart and then fall back together again, returning to each other’s company as if no time had passed at all. They can go long periods without so much as hearing from the other, but that’s never meant that much in the grand scheme of things.

“So, how’ve you been?” he says, stepping closer. He doesn’t miss the way Eret tenses, and unease starts to open a pit in his gut. Everything about this server seems weird. Off. Is that going to extend to Eret, too? “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting to find you here. I didn’t think this kind of server was your scene.”

Eret’s head tilts.

And then, they step closer, too. Foolish doesn’t have time to feel relieved before they step forward again, and again, until they’re literally right there. Too close for comfort if it was anyone else.

For a moment, they’re completely silent.

“Um,” he says. “Eret? You good?”

Eret reaches out and puts a hand on his cheek. It’s feather-light contact, barely a hold at all, and he could pull away easily if he wanted to. He doesn’t, even though every instinct he has is starting to scream that something about this is not right.

“I’m fine,” Eret says, even though they don’t sound fine, sound hazy and troubled and a couple of other things that Foolish can’t quite put a name to. And now that they’re standing right there, Foolish can pick out the slight distortion in the air around them, the minute fracturing of the code that follows each and every breath they take, the cracking around their fingertips that heals in the space of the next blink.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary for them, not really. But there’s something about it that raises the hairs on the back of his neck.

“You seem a little stressed,” he says, and tries to crack a smile. Eret’s hand doesn’t move from his face. “I hope it’s not because of me. Maybe I should’ve written ahead. In my defense, I wasn’t really expecting I’d come here either.”

“I—” Eret says, and then stops.

Foolish waits. The smile is a little hard to maintain. Worry accumulates, a foreign tightness in his chest. It’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about Eret.

And then, Eret says the most baffling thing Foolish has ever heard from them, which is saying something, since Eret is, on occasion, very baffling. Comes with the territory.

“I know you?” Eret says, finally. It’s unmistakably a question, lilting upward and terribly, horribly uncertain.

“Uh,” he says, and attempts a laugh that very much does not sound like a laugh. Because what. “Yes? Are we stating the obvious? I can do that, too. Um, I’m a really good swimmer.”

There’s a knot in his throat. A pit in his stomach. Something that transcends worry, that feels almost like fear, except it can’t be fear, because he doesn’t fear. There’s nothing that he’d ever need to be afraid of. Except, maybe, for the expression on Eret’s face right now, the faltering touch against his face, the tremor in their voice, the way they suddenly seem so lost. He’s never seen his old friend look so lost.

“I—” Eret starts again. “I know you. I know—but I thought that it was—that doesn’t make any—you know me?”

“Of course I know you,” he says, and makes a point of looking them up and down. “Yeah, same old you. New uniform. Um, the glasses are new. But it’s you, for sure. You’re my pal Eret.”

“But that’s—” Eret shakes their head. They’re getting rained on, the both of them, and their curls are damp, well on their way to being plastered to their skull. “It’s too—I don’t think you’re supposed to be here yet, so you shouldn’t—but that’s not—I remember—”

“You remember!” he says, latching onto that. Maybe he’s misunderstanding. Maybe there’s no reason to be afraid. It’s weird, but—usual weirdness. They’ll work it out. They always do. “See, uh, maybe you’re just a little bit confused. Too much sun?” The rain splatters down a little harder, as if in direct contradiction to his words. “Or maybe you’re coming down with something. Too much work. Uh, and now it’s raining. It’s kinda cold out here, isn’t it? Maybe we should go inside.”

Eret leans forward, leans in, and the force of their attention feels like a static storm. The code is bending, and they don’t even seem to realize that they’re doing it, oblivious to their own capabilities.

Their hand moves from his face to rest gently against his neck. Their finger traces a line across his skin, passing right across his jugular, and then the hand falls.

“I saw you die,” Eret says. Barely a whisper.

It takes him a moment to find his voice. Lightning flashes overhead, followed by a crash of thunder.

“I don’t die,” he says. “Eret—”

“I watched,” they say, and they take on an odd cadence, distant and with the hint of an echo. Something resonant, something so strongly other that even he begins to feel uneasy. “I watched, and I couldn’t do a thing. You traded your life for mine. I watched it soak up your blood.”

He shudders. Some part of him wants to move back. To flee the server. He won’t, because he’s not about to flee from Eret. That would be ridiculous.

“Eret, buddy, I think you’re, uh, maybe misremembering something here—”

“You died for me,” Eret says. “You died for me. And then they killed me too.”

“Eret—”

“None of us escaped that room,” Eret says, flat, face blank. At their fingertips, the code distorts. Foolish catches a whisper, the barest hint of the void, something creeping and something watching and something sad and something that should not be. And this is Eret’s area of expertise, not his; his powers lie in a completely different direction, especially these days. But he can tell when something is very wrong. He can tell when something has broken, has been twisted against its own shape and form. He can pick up on dangerous magics, and magic clings to Eret like a death shroud. Hard to see, just like the aura around Tommy. Like it’s something that should not exist.

“Eret,” he whispers. “What did you do?”

Eret’s face crumples. It’s instinct to hug them, though the instant after he does, he wonders if that was a good move, because Eret’s memories—are in shambles, apparently, and that’s highly concerning, and maybe they really don’t have much of an idea of who he is and who they are together. But he doesn’t have to worry for long, because Eret shoves their face against his shoulder, their hands latching onto his back and gripping uncomfortably tight.

“I don’t know,” they say, voice like shards of glass. “I don’t know, I don’t understand what’s happening to me, I have memories that shouldn’t be mine and I think I broke the world, and—I should know you, I should know you, Foolish. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know—I barely know what’s real.”

“Oh, jeez,” he says. “Okay. Okay, we’ll figure it out. I’ll help you. That’s what friends are for. Weird brain things or not. We’ll jog those memories of yours.”

“I think I betrayed my friends,” Eret says. “I think—I think I did it, but I haven’t, but it makes sense. I think I would. For power.”

You do like a bit of power, he almost agrees, but manages to hold his tongue, because even he can see that that would not be a helpful thing to say right now.

“Okay,” he says instead. “Um. You did it, but you haven’t? Like—as of now, you haven’t, so that’s—that’s the important thing.” Never mind that the phrase you did it, but you haven’t definitely makes no sense. That’s not the priority at the moment.

“I keep seeing things that haven’t happened,” Eret says, only just audible. “But I know they did. I keep—affecting the code in ways I don’t mean to. I don’t understand it and I can’t stop it.”

“Well, I’m here to help now,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Just like old times.”

Eret pulls back, looks him in the eyes, though they shift their hands to take a death grip on his arms. If he blinked they could be somewhere else, somewhen else, in the aftermath of a battle well-fought—or a massacre, depending on which side was narrating—clasping arms and reveling in their victory.

“Old times,” they echo. “I don’t—I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he repeats, feeling like a broken record.

“You’re sure,” they say. “You’re sure that you know me? You’re not thinking of someone else?”

With one hand, they reach up and take off their glasses. It’s funny, how a sight that would alarm a whole lot of people is nothing but relaxing to Foolish. Because there they are, those blank white eyes, glowing with all the promise of a break in the universe, something that should not be but is. A glitch, a distortion, a corruption. That’s what Eret comes from, and that’s part of what Eret is, and they both know it; Eret comments on it often, talks about what is meant to be with a wry smile and a tilt of their head.

But Foolish doesn’t care about that. The universe can shove it.

Eret is tense, holding his gaze steadily. There is something in their face that screams of an expectation of condemnation. They haven’t looked at Foolish like that since just after they first met. He’s not sure he wants to know who put that expression back there again, because he really would like to continue upholding his vow of nonviolence.

“Same old Eret,” he says. “Memories or not.” His smile is a little more genuine this time.

Eret blinks. Once, slowly.

“I trust you,” they say. “I feel like—I trust you, even if I don’t really know why.”

“Hey, that’s a start!” he says. “See, we’ll have you remembering things in no time. And for the rest of it—I won’t lie, I’ve got no clue, but there’s nothing we can’t do when we put our heads together. You trust me, I trust you. We’re good. We’ve got this.”

Eret says nothing, just breathes, in and out. Their shoulders set, some of the anxiety falling from their face, becoming more like the Eret that Foolish is familiar with. Self-assured, powerful, always on top of things. Their gaze flicks to the side, and then back at him.

“There’s something coming,” they say. “Something terrible.”

That’s—huh.

He’d put the whole Tommy thing out of his mind in favor of focusing on this. Maybe he should reconsider that. Maybe one weird thing is connected to another.

“Under the obsidian field?” he says. “That’s what Tommy said.”

They start. “Tommy?” they demand. “Tommy—but wait—”

Their eyebrows knit together. The code distortions become more prominent, especially around their head, like an approximation of a halo. He clasps their arms tighter.

“Weird kid,” he says. “Look, I don’t really know what’s going on. But we’ll work on it. How about we get out of the rain right now? You can show me your tower. This is for sure one of the best builds I’ve seen on this server. Does no one else have any sense of good design around here? I mean, there’s a hot dog van that’s on fire. Why is that even a thing?”

Eret smiles, the furrow in their brow easing, which was the point. “The camarvan,” they say. “It’s got sentimental value. But I’ll admit, I’ve been doing a lot of the building around here. It might be nice to have a bit of help.”

“Hm,” he says. “Give me some gold, then we’ll talk.”

Eret laughs, rich and familiar, and leads him into the base of the tower. Their sunglasses are still gripped in one hand, and they make no move to put them back on. And—he can admit that this whole thing is weird and scary and bad, because never in a million years would he have expected to find an Eret who didn’t remember him, whose memories in general were all strange and mixed up, who seemed to barely know who they were at all. But Eret is still Eret, and that’s really what matters.

So, maybe he’ll end up giving Tommy the help he wants after all.

#dream smp #dsmp #foolish gamers #eret #tommyinnit #dsmp fic #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #cw mentioned death #cw slight unreality #time travel au #surprise!!! i'm back!!#betcha weren't expecting fic today

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kanekisfavoritegf · 20 days

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Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin Humps his sheets unknowingly when he dreams about you.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin swore off dating when working as a sorcerer until you came into his life.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin asks you out politely, despite the fear of being incompetent due to his lack of not only sexual relationships but emotional ones too.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin would offer to make you dinner at his place, and drink wine on his couch by the fire place.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin is absolutely mortified when he cums in his pants after you kissed him for the first time.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin is comforted by the way you treat him the exact same after he explains his lack of physical and emotional experience.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin finds himself pinning you to the couch and kissing you harder, keeping you down with his hips and making sure your legs are wrapped around him as he does so.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin doesn’t even care that his already stained pants seem to be getting worse as he rubs into you because you are letting out the sweetest moans for him.

Nanami the 35 Year old Virgin would beg you breathlessly between wet hot kisses and needily to teach him.

Teach him how to be your perfect lover in more ways than one.

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somnimagus · 5 months

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My page for @sheikahzine; about Impaz's duty to her village, empty of people and full of memories.

[id in alt text]

#legend of zelda #loz #twilight princess #loz tp #i'm still reeling that someone sent me an ask about this one.. that they took the time to find my tumblr and tell me they liked it #it really meant a lot; thank you to anyone that stops to leave comments like that. they make me happy #but yeah! here's the usual symbolism ramble:#i thought it'd be cool to have the 'spirits' flowing one way and the cats walking through them the other way #to kinda show the difference in life inhabiting the village in the past and present #link's face is covered because impaz was just waiting for 'the hero' so his clothes are what matters; not his face #and it (hopefully) gives a surreal and intangible sense to 'the hero' she could only hope would actually show up #you can feel free to interpret the glowy blue sheikah as ghosts or just as memories of the past! i couldn't decide either way #the one on the bottom left is oot impa since she's implied to be the village founder. so i guess she would be a ghost actually?#fan art #my art #project stuff #and ahhh the book-- everyone's stuff is so beautiful!!#especially the writing. some of the fics made me really tear up and some were so fun and clever. i really love them #a lot of them captured the sheer burden of the role of the sheikah; all of the time and grief and doubt #i know i always say this stuff about every project but. the people i get to work with in these are truly so skilled every time

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ghostbsuter · 7 months

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"Hey constantine, who's that?" Someone asks and Connie looks down at Danny, blue eyes staring back at him.

"My coworker."

"He's my dad."

"What?"

"What."

—

Who knew John Constantine would gain a ward, one being such a little mischievous bastard with bright eyes and good heart.

He certainly didn't.

Nor did he expect the stabby Robin to get into a heated argument with his ward, gesturing to his form next to Batman and spit venom.

"But‐ Damian! Look at him! I can fix him!" Danny argues back and Robin, so done with this, rips his mask off and—

Oh.

They have the same face.

Connie looks at Batman, nervous what the reveal will change.

("I don't care if you can 'fix' him, danyal! Return to Father, to me!")

Batman stares back.

("Connie is dad shaped! I chose him myself, damian! Leave me and my choice alone!")

The day will only get longer, it seems.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #fic prompt #writing prompt #dc x dp prompt #danny looks at constantine and goes dad shaped!#hes such a cat tbf #demon twins #batman found out abt danny like #not even a day ago #and immediately brought robin in #danny and damian are close to throwing down and deciding with their fists #danny and damian are twins #danny: i see a pathetic man and all i think is dad shaped #damian: this man is less than the servants at grandfather's #damian is like pikachu face meme #danny is now in shared custody #friday + weekends at the waynes #hes brings damian a dragon fire sword that gets lit on command and everything is forgiven

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steddieasitgoes · 4 months

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Steve owning a sphynx cat who is antisocial and always hides when he has people over at his house to the point where people don’t even know he has a cat. Cue Eddie screaming in terror when she makes her presence known on a random Saturday in December.

Steve scolds him for yelling because he’ll startle Princess and Eddie looking at Steve with astonishment, going: “That thing is not a Princess. It’s an abomination! It looks like Gollum!”

Princess hisses before strutting over to where Steve sits on the couch and cuddles up on his chest. And Steve just looks at Eddie like: “She’s my princess if you have a problem with her there’s the door.”

Obviously Eddie’s not stupid enough to walk out on Steve over a damn cat but he’s not exactly thrilled about sharing him with the hairless monstrosity staring at him.

Jokes on him though because within two weeks he and Princess are best friends, always napping together much to Steve’s chagrin. “Guess she likes me better, Stevie.”

“Yeah because you’re both heathens!”

#I saw a video of a hairless cat and here we are #steddie #steddie fic #steddie dicker #steddie Drabble #Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington ficlet #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson ticket #stranger things #stranger things fic #Dani writes

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stevebabey · 11 months

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@scooprtroopr ur tags on this post inspired a lil something and well, here you go friend <3 / also omg this fits for @steddie-week’s prompt pining! tehe / you can also read it over on ao3 :)

Steve gets that this is how karma works.

You do something bad, you don’t have the best intentions, you trample on one or two people’s feelings selfishly, yadda yadda. Then what do you know? Next month, it’s happening to you. What goes around comes around, right?

That’s how karma works. Steve gets that.

And yet, the sting in the morning when another hookup has crept out in the night feels so goddamn unshakeable. It slices through his ego, hitting every feeling on the way, and cuts right down the bone, and it hurts.

But it’s karma though, Steve knows that. He’s left a girl more than once or twice, and snuck back out the window he had crept into. Stumbled back to his car in the early morning hours.

(Steve pointedly ignores the old part of him that was- is so hesitant to stay — after the iciness of his first ever hookup, who had wrinkled her nose at the thought of him staying the night.

Who had patted him on the cheek in a near condescending way, a girl the year above him, and said, “Don’t overstay your welcome, yeah?”)

So when the other side of the bed is empty when he wakes, he knows he’s lost another game of ‘who can sneak out on who?’

Which Steve hates — it’s why he stopped going over to his dates house and instead started bringing them back to his. Hoping they might read that his invitation to stay the night extended right out til breakfast. Hell, til lunch if they wanted.

No one has come close to overstaying their welcome in the Harrington house.

Empty sheets rip a new ache in Steve’s chest and he groans, a pitiful noise because— of course, he hasn’t stayed.

Karma has the biggest bone to pick with Steve Harrington and he was really hoping it would be done after all these years. Evidently not.

But… Steve can’t help how much more this one hurts because this one was Eddie.

Steve tries to not let regret coil in his gut. Rolling over he buries his face into his pillow, eyes scrunched shut as he tries to think it over logically. Rationally. Ignores the burning in his throat.

Maybe he’s a fool for thinking Eddie would be different from the past.

But the buildup — before there had been flirting, there had been friendship, proper company between the two of them where there were no expectations. That may very well be due to the fact both of them were dudes but… Steve was so sure. So much of him believed Eddie would still be here when he woke up.

Steve huffs a loud sigh into the pillow. Pretends his chest doesn’t hurt a little bit.

“It’s fine,” He murmurs to himself, voice thick with sleep. His fists clench into the sheets for a moment. “It’s fine.”

He drags himself up and out of bed. Tugs on some stray sweats hanging over the back of his desk chair and ducks into the bathroom. Staring in the mirror, hair tousled and eyes still sleepy, Steve eyes the shower through the reflection. He should, probably, but he might get stuck on a loop in there.

Where did he go wrong this time? Why didn’t he stay? Why didn’t any of them stay? Why did—

Steve splashes cold water on his face instead, rubbing probably a bit too forcefully at his eyes. He spies the faint pink shape of Eddie’s lips, a mark left on his neck. His fingers grace over it lightly, softly, like a lover would.

Memories hazed with lust remind him of how it had got there, Eddie’s body on his, Eddie’s hands in his hair, Eddie— without thinking, Steve scrubs at the skin harshly. He wishes it wasn’t there. Wishes there wasn’t any remnant of Eddie left behind.

Steve doesn’t need any mementos to remind him he’s been left behind again.

He needs food, needs to get on with his day, Steve decides. The bathroom door swings closed behind him and Steve tries his best to wrangle his thoughts as he wanders out to the top of the stairs.

A run. That’s what he needs to clear his head. A long run til his heart is pounding in his chest so hard it hurts, til his muscles start burning, breathes coming too fast and his head is finally fucking quiet. Yep, that’s precisely what he needs to shake the sting of last night.

Steve’s so enwrapped in his head, thoughts swirling, that he get manages to get halfway down the hall to the kitchen before he hears the radio. It’s not loud, just enough to carry out the kitchen. Strange. He doesn’t remember leaving it on last night.

His feet carry him into the kitchen, another yawn creeping up and he rubs at his eyes, blinking a bit blearily and— and stops in his tracks. There’s someone at the stove.

Eddie’s at the stove.

Standing in the morning sunlight, hair lighter than ever, puckered scars along his arms standing out. He’s clearly ransacked Steve’s drawers, a pair of Steve’s plaid pj pants hanging low on his hips, his own softened band tee from yesterday still on. It’s had its sleeves hacked off, the fabric curling up into little rolls. Steve feels his stomach rise halfway up his throat, his hopes going with it. His heart does a strange stumbling pitter-patter.

He must make a noise because suddenly Eddie’s peaking over his shoulder and smiling at him.

“Hey,” Eddie says, shifting a bit to turn more toward him. Steve can see that he’s cooking, something delicious wafting up from the sizzling pan. His chest tightens, pure surprise wrapping around his sternum and gripping - so much, he can’t control the expression on his face.

“Hi,” Steve breathes. He’s still frozen where he is. He stayed. Steve blinks, taking in the scene before him; Eddie has clearly been puttering around, putting together some sort of breakfast. He fucking stayed and he’s cooking.

Eddie takes it the wrong way. He skittishly looks over the benches, covered in his mess, and tugs on the ends of his hair nervously. “I- it’s a mess, I know, I’m real sorry. I was gonna clean it, I just thought you might like…”

He trails off, unable to get a read on Steve’s expression. Steve doesn’t blame him but he can’t fucking stop his chest from feeling like it’s being pulled open, his heart from feeling like it’s soaring. He huffs an awed laugh, a smile curling at his lips.

Eddie deflates a bit in his relief, giving his own smile. He turns back to the stove quickly, giving the skillet a bit of a shake to keep it from burning and Steve draws closer, feet finally moving. Eddie watches him from the corner of his eye, barely biting back his grin as Steve gets closer. He hovers, feels the heat of Eddie’s back they’re so close.

He tries to feel brave — he stayed — and keeps his closeness, peering over Eddie’s shoulder at the skillet on the stove. It’s the Munson Special that Eddie’s cooked a few times for him over at the trailer; eggs, potatoes, shit tons of cheese, maybe a vegetable if he’s feeling healthy.

“Was gonna bring it to you in bed, but,” Eddie laughs, still tinged in nervousness. He sets down the spatula to tuck his hair behind both ears, glancing sideways at Steve as if trying to understand his silence.

He stayed and he cooked and he’s nervous. Steve thinks he might be holding his breath in disbelief, head dizzy with relief. With affection.

Very slowly, Steve’s hands move and, like he’s waiting for Eddie to flinch away, settles then very gently onto Eddie’s waist. His fingers curl into the soft fabric and Eddie makes a little chirp of happiness and leans back.

Leans into Steve a bit, like he wants his touch the morning after everything and Steve releases a shuddering breath, hooking his chin over Eddie’s shoulder. His hands grow a little more bold, sliding around to hug him around the middle.

Eddie’s cheeks have turned pink and his grin hasn’t faltered.

“Made me—” Steve starts, but his voice is a bit raspy. He clears his throat, avoids Eddie’s burning stare. “Y’made me breakfast?”

Eddie nods, his curls brushing against Steve’s cheek as he does. His tummy is warm beneath Steve’s hand and his hair smells good and Steve just wants to burrow into him- he tucks himself closer and is rewarded with a content noise from Eddie.

“That’s not weird, is it?” Eddie asks suddenly, picking up the spatula again and beginning to fiddle needlessly with the food. He flips it once, then again, so it’s on the same side as it was before.

He sounds a bit sheepish when he says, “I’m not sure- I haven’t ever really— I’m actually just gonna shut the hell up before I say anything stupid.”

Steve laughs quietly. His hands tighten around Eddie’s middle, head tilting so he can bury his grin into his shoulder— his heart is going haywire, going a million miles an hour, because karma is finally through with Steve Harrington and he gets to have this.

“S’not weird,” Steve mumbles. He thinks about pressing a kiss into Eddie’s shoulder.

“Ha, you said snot,” Eddie retorts with a childish snort and Steve can’t help it, he laughs at that too, muffled laughter into his t-shirt. Then he presses a kiss to Eddie’s shoulder, quick as lightning. Rests his chin back on it like nothing happened.

Eddie still stiffens just a bit- turns his head just a bit to glance at Steve and fuck, Steve can’t help the way his stomach swoops.

Because Eddie softens him unbearably with those nervous brown eyes, his pink lips twisted as he tries to hold back his grin. Steve’s beginning to understand that both of them seem equally surprised that this is happening.

Eddie’s free hand moves, pausing only briefly in a moment's hesitance, before it covers one of Steve’s on his tummy. It’s cold, much colder than Steve’s, and he covers it with one of his own instinctively.

Eddie’s trembling fingers give him a little squeeze. Steve thinks he must be able to feel how hard his heart is beating from where his chest is pressed against his back. It’s a lot to deal with; this perfect morning in the sun, the soft sound of the radio, the sweet boy in his arms.

They’re both grinning to themselves. Eddie focuses back on the food before him, doing all his work with one hand, and starts a little hum.

The radio switches to a love song.

#[holding my hand to my ear like im tryna harmonize] gaYyyYYy people in my PhOooooNe #enjoy some short and sweet mutual pining #both can't believe this shit is happening to them #but steve especially #but it IS! eddie thinks he's the cat pajamas!!!#ruby writes steddie #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddieweek2023

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queenie-the-court-jester · 1 month

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Yandere farm x farmhand reader 🌾

A/n: this contains few nsfw mentions, mdni please! They're not all that yandere, just a bunch of dumb silly hybrids trying to catch their favorite humans attention. This is their intro

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙

★yandere farm x farmhand reader. I know this isn't original, but I always love the concept. Just minding your business, sweaty and hot from the sun, when suddenly a certain German Shepard hybrid starts sniffing you up and down, lapping up your sweaty skin and grinning when you swat him away. How did you end up here?

★maybe you came here for a summer job, maybe some relatives owned the farm, maybe you were always working here. Either way, it doesn't take long for the hybrids to notice you once you arrive.

★the bulls and cows watching curiously from the fields, the centaurs trying to peek from their stables, the merfolk living in the lake just down the property poke their little heads out. The dogs barking from their Little homes, and the cats watching from the windows. You couldn't help but gawk at the variety of hybrids, there were so many! Merfolk, avians, cattle, cats, dogs.

★your first week there was nice, the other farmhands were nice, and the owners were so sweet! Always speaking fondly of their pets, the old couple would watch them run in the field or play by the lake. You yourself found them a little annoying. Always sniffing, grabbing, nipping at your clothes. You've had to fight your overall bottoms free from one of the pooches one too many times. The cats were no better.

★your second week you meet the cattle and centaurs. And unlike the house cats and guard dogs, they're less handsy. Simply observing from afar. Occasionally sniffing you before nodding their heads and pulling away. Letting you do your job of combing, cleaning and fixing up them and their stables. The cattle would happily let you milk them, applying the breast pumps to the females and a cock pump to the males. You ignored how they looked at you strangely during milkings

★the third week you meet the avians. Odd little bunch, hopping around and puffing up their chests. They watched you enter their enclosure curiously, you were busy picking up their molten feathers because you thought they were pretty. So bright and colorful! Walking around bent over a little when you finally notice the peacock male standing right Infront of you. He gave you a pointed look before his tail feathers expanded. Looking prideful, tilting his chin up as if in an arrogant way. Swaying side to side and closer to you, while you just held the feathers in your hands, a little confused. He got closer until he let out an incredibly loud squawk. Turning around abruptly to glare at the cuckoo who bent down to poke his butt. The cuckoo gave you a grin before climbing back up the tree, using this time as distraction, you quickly escaped.

★on the fourth week, you meet the merfolk. Having been here a month, they were eager to meet you. Watching you walk on the dock with fish feed, eagerly Perking up and swimming closer. You shook out a good handful and chucked it out for the koi fish to eat. They swarmed the area until all the food was gone, simply staring up at you. One poked her head out, tilting it a bit and making a 'click' sound with her tongue. You mimicked her, doing the same. She seemed elated, making various whistles and clicks, splashing up and down the lake. The lake was manmade and filled with koi fish when it was finished, but then again there may be more fish not even the owners know about since it was so deep. How'd they get in there? You're not sure, but you just know it.

★on the fifth week your owners told you about how they had bought multiple sheep, and goats. One male for each group. Watching the loading truck approach the little barn they were finished building. So that's why it was there, they started construction when you arrived the first week. You helped the other farmhands get them situated, at first they were rowdy and a little aggressive but for some reason calmed down when you approached them. Your colleagues now called you the sheep whisperer. You quickly learned how to shave their wool and milk the goats properly. Sometimes braiding their long hair, you just wish the ram would stop headbutting the nearest male colleague for your attention.

★On your sixth week, you went for a walk in the forest when suddenly a little body of fluffy fur tackled you, growling with it's teeth barred. You looked up to see a Pomeranian hybrid, trying it's best to look intimidating. Their fluffy tail gave them away, it was wagging 100mph. They visibly deflated when you reached up a hand to pet them, letting you for A couple minutes before getting off. Walking back into the woods towards three wolves. Dissapearing with them. Not soon after you found a friendly garden naga. Just lounging on a rock and enjoying the sun. You asked to join and they let you, laying there for a good while until you had to go back to the farm. Noticing they had wrapped their tail around you, oh boy. It'll take a good while to get out. Welp, might as well make yourself comfortable and wait for the dogs to come find you

•°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆

HYBRIDS AND THEIR NAMES:

Week one, cats and dogs;

Brutus, dog hybrid, 18, German Shepard, he/him

Dolly, dog hybrid, 26, doberman, she/her

bladviba, dog hybrid, 25, black Russian terrier, he/him

Molly, dog hybrid, 17, chow chow, she/her

Sweet pea, dog hybrid, 17, samoyed, they/them amab

bubba, dog hybrid, 37, borzoi, he/him

Princess, cat hybrid, 18, ragdoll, she/her

Prince, cat hybrid, 19, Norwegian forest cat, he/him

King, cat hybrid, 27, Khao manee, he/him

•°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆

Second week, cattle and centaurs;

Miss bené, cow hybrid, 49, white park cattle, she/her

Miss blackberry, cow hybrid, 22, Aberdeen Angus, she/her

Miss Polly, cow hybrid, 26, Aberdeen Angus, she/her

Miss frufru, cow hybrid, 28, Aberdeen Angus, she/her

Miss Vivian, cow hybrid, 35, Aberdeen Angus, she/her

Big daddy, bull hybrid, 52, Aberdeen Angus, he/him

Johnny, bull hybrid, 18, Aberdeen Angus/white park cattle, he/him

Jacqueline, centaur, 19, shire horse, she/her

Timothy, centaur, 21, galineers cob, he/him

maya, centaur, 17, fjord horse, they/them

Casper, centaur, 23, ardennais, he/him

miguel, centaur, 18, Andalusian horse, he/him

harmony, centaur, 25, Breton horse, they/them

•°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆

third week, avians;

Sydney, avian, 22, cockatoo, they/he

Evangeline, avian, 19, peacock, she/her

Gabriel, avian, 20, peacock, he/him

fajarah, avian, 24, indian ring necked parakeet, she/her

Foolish, avian, 26, owl finch, he/him

simon, avian, 28, tyto alba, he/him

•°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆

Fourth week, merfok;

tancho, koi fish merfolk, 19, tancho koi, he/him

kiko, koi fish merfolk, 19, kikokuryu koi, she/her

hime, koi fish merfolk, 19, hirenaga koi, she/her

Tsu, koi fish merfolk, 19, doitsu koi, they/them

koromo, koi fish merfolk, 19, koromo koi, he/him

Mason, lake 'monster' (crocodile), 20, freshwater crocodile, he/him

•°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆

Fifth week, goats and sheep;

Sally, goat, 25, angora goat, she/her

Opal, goat, 24, Tennessee fainting goat, she/her

Sasha, goat, 26, australian cashmere goat, she/her

kim, ram, 23, dutch landrace goat, he/him

Poka, sheep, 19, Valais black nose, they/them

Juniper, sheep, Valais black nose, she/her

violet, sheep, 18, harri, she/her

azucar, sheep, 17, Columbia sheep, she/her

Wehrner, ram, 21, American black belly, he/him

•°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆

Sixth week, the forest creatures:

roxy, wolf hybrid, 19, grey wolf, she/her

Silas, wolf hybrid, 21, grey wolf, he/him

Milo, wolf hybrid, 20, albino Grey wolf, they/them

Kiki, dog hybrid, 18, Pomeranian, they/them

Coachella, naga, 27, garden snake, they/him

•°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆ •°. *࿐ ⋆

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hier--soir · 1 year

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don't cry over spilt milk

joel miller x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: joel is not happy to find out that you slept with someone else. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] fwb!joel, major jealousy, possessiveness, reader is kinda mean and clueless, mean!joel, some unrequited feelings, smut, unprotected p in v sex, oral [f!recieving], spitting.... word count: 4.8k series masterlist | masterlist this is part three of my fwb!joel series. you can find the other parts here: one, two, four.

The community dining hall was full of people. Groups of families and friends huddled on long tables, eating dinner together. The summer heat was killing you; thick, humid air suffocating your skin, making it feel like your thin singlet was melting onto your back. And being inside the dining hall did nothing to stem the early evening warmth, so you sat and basked in the stale sticky air while you ate, trying to ignore the way sweat made the skin of your thighs stick to the chair beneath you.

“And I can head shot those fuckers from a mile out,” Tommy was saying, his fork hovering in mid-air between his plate and his mouth. “I stand up on the hill and I spot ‘em, wandering around Alpine Crest Community, and I just take ‘em out. Ain’t nothin’ to it.”

You rolled your eyes, fork pushing the remaining food around your plate. “Give it a rest Tommy, save some humility for the rest of us.”

“It ain’t about bein’ humble,” he grinned at you. “It’s about knowin’ your way around a sniper – and I know it best.”

“Oh shut up, Miller,” someone further down the table threw a dirty napkin at him, and he caught it, gripping it to his chest and chuckling in mock indignancy. “Some of us are trying to eat our dinner in peace, without having to hear any of your stories.”

“Ask Ellie,” he continued around a full mouth this time. “She saw it. I let her have a shot at it too; kid’s not half bad.”

You gave him a bemused look, “And how did Joel react to you letting Ellie use the sniper?”

“Our little secret,” he winked at you.

Fairly often the group of you would commune in the hall and share a meal together, catching up on work and family and settlement gossip. It was a nice way to connect with the community, and you would damn sure rather eat dinner with friends in the hall than alone in your house.

“Hey,” Tommy called out suddenly, the rise in volume startling you. Turning in your chair, you followed his gaze to see that Joel had walked into the hall and was making a beeline toward your table. “How was patrol?”

Joel settled beside the table, standing directly behind your chair. “Good,” he said blankly. “Uneventful.” He looked down to you, and you smiled up at him, holding out your fist as a greeting.

He didn’t return the sentiment, staring blankly at your hand in the air until you shook it at him. “You’re supposed to give me a fist bump, Joel. It’s how friends greet each other.”

Your friends tittered around the table, none of you picking up on Joel’s bad mood quite yet. “You joining us for dinner?” one of them asked him.

“Not tonight,” he shook his head, still staring at you with an unreadable expression on his face. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Sure,” you blinked, scraping the last of your food onto your fork and shovelling it into your mouth ungracefully. “You good?”

“Sure,” he replied vaguely, glancing at Tommy for a split-second. “Come outside.” Before you could respond, he had turned and was making his way out of the hall.

You let out a low whistle and rose from your chair, glancing at Tommy. He was watching you closely, a slight ridge formed in between his eyebrows. You cringed and looked away quickly, muttering a goodbye to the table before heading outside. After what happened a few weeks prior, things with Tommy were always awkward when it came to you and Joel being alone. Although he’d never brought it up or asked any questions, for which you were eternally grateful, you knew he had to be curious, and his mind would’ve been whirring at a hundred miles a minute trying to figure out the situation going on between you and his brother. You just thanked your lucky stars he didn’t have the guts to ask you about it outright.

When you stepped outside the doors the summer air smacked you in the face all over again and you grimaced, spotting Joel marching away from the hall and jogging to catch up to him.

“What’s going on?” you followed him, speaking to his back as he walked ahead of you, leading the pair of you down the street. “Joel?”

He spun suddenly; feet planted in the dirt as he stared you down. His expression was unreadable, but you could see in his posture that something was brewing deep inside of him. He was tense; hands fisted tightly by his sides, jaw locked.

“Lloyd Peterson, huh?”

“What?” your face twisted in confusion. “What about Lloyd Peterson?”

“Overheard him on patrol today,” he said gruffly. “Was telling Davis he fucked you last week.”

An uneasy feeling rolled through your stomach. “Christ,” you huffed. “What an ass.”

“He’s lyin’ then?” Joel raised an eyebrow.

“Oh,” you paused, rocking back on your heels. “I mean, no; he’s not lying. Just didn’t think he was the type to shout it from the rooftops.”

As you spoke, you didn’t immediately notice how poorly Joel was reacting, but soon enough you were locked into a staring match with him, realising just how badly he was reacting to the information.

He was silent. For a moment, you weren’t even sure if his chest was rising and falling. The summer breeze whistled between you two, playing with his dark curls. But his face was stony. Lips sealed shut and dark eyebrows drawn tight in the middle of his forehead as he glowered at you.

You opened your mouth to speak again, but he cut you off in an instant, his cold words slicing through the tense air. “You fuckin’ many other guys?”

Eyebrows raised high, you shook your head no slowly.

“Just Peterson then.”

“It was one time Joel, it’s hardly a regular thing.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

Your stomach dropped. With those words you saw past the stormy expression on his face, the way his fingernails dug crescent moons into the palms of his hands, and understood the insecurity hidden underneath it all. The jealousy. Your heartrate kicked up a notch as you wondered where the fuck this was coming from. Sure, you and Joel fucked around and spat possessive nonsense at each other while you fucked, but this seemed bizarre. You’d been close friends for years, and had been fucking casually for months. So why was he suddenly acting like you had betrayed him?

“What do you mean?” you questioned him slowly.

“Thought we had fun together,” his tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. “Didn’t realise I wasn’t doin’ it for you anymore.”

“Joel, this has nothing to do with you,” you huffed.

“The hell it doesn’t,” he barked, and you flinched, looking around quickly to see how many people were within earshot of the conversation. You were standing in the middle of the street for fuck’s sake.

“Shut up,” you hissed. “You’re making a fucking scene.”

Joel took two quick steps forward until your chests were close to touching, staring down at you with an intensity that almost made you shudder. “Tell me why you fucked him.”

For a split second, you despised him for the guilt you felt. Heat soared across your cheeks, and your palms were damp with perspiration. He was glaring, dark eyes holding your gaze and making it almost impossible to look away. So you allowed your guilt to shift to anger.

“What the fuck is it to you?” you whispered viciously, painfully aware of a woman walking past. “Jesus Christ, Joel. Last I checked, you and I are friends. Just because we get our rocks off together doesn’t mean I owe you anything, least of all an explanation for fucking someone else.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he spat, words laced with venom. “I’ve never once asked you for anything. Not for anything other than what we’ve been doin’, never pushed you for more. And I thought we had a good thing goin’; thought we had an understanding. We rely on each other, we trust each other. Didn’t think you’d go off and fuck someone else while I was out on patrol one day.”

The implication behind his words made your chest tighten. The insinuation that if he had his way, you two would be more. You pushed the thought out of your mind to deal with later.

“It just happened!” you said, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You placed them on his chest and pushed him back a step, eager to have some space between you. “It was in the heat of the moment, he made a move, and it happened, okay? It’s not like I waited for you to leave the fucking gates and then I beat down his door.”

He was breathing heavily, and you could see the cogs turning rapidly in his head as he soaked in your words. You spoke again before he could. “You’re telling me you don’t fuck anyone else?”

Joel’s face twisted into an ugly snarl, and his silence was all the response you needed. And really, you shouldn’t have been surprised. If he was so scorned by the idea of you and Peterson, he obviously wasn’t fucking other people.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked, voice softer. “I’m sorry, okay? You’re my friend, and I care about you Joel, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I don’t want an apology,” he scowled.

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to tell me,” his voice lowered, and he stepped closer, leaning down to breath his next words into your ear. “Tell me how he fucked you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, mouth drying instantly. “What?” you mumbled in shock.

“You heard me,” he whispered, so close that his minty breath tickled across your face. “How did he fuck you?”

“Joel,” you shook your head, trying to ignore the sudden pulsing at the apex of your thighs. “This is ridicu-“

“Did you let him taste you?” he growled. “He put his tongue inside you?”

“N-no,” you stuttered out, wetting your lips desperately. “No, he didn’t.”

“Shame,” Joel chuckled mirthlessly. “He’s missin’ out.”

You prayed he didn’t notice the way your nipples had hardened through the thin material of your shirt.

“So what then?” he prompted. “Tell me.”

“Are you being serious?” your cheeks blazed. “I blew him, we fucked. What do you want me to say?” His eyes darkened considerably at the mention of another man’s cock in your mouth, and you willed yourself to hold strong and not back down. God he was intimidating when he wanted to be.

“How did he fuck you?”

“He was on top,” you grunted, feeling like a student getting scolded by their teacher.

Joel hummed in response, his eyes raking over your features, before flitting down and taking in the sight of your body. Your hands were shaking with frustration, but your legs were pressed tightly together were you stood, thighs tensed in anticipation.

“Let’s go,” is all he said, before turning and marching in the direction of his house. You followed him wordlessly on shaky legs.

The house was empty and quiet when you got there.

He held the front door open for you, and once you were inside he slammed it, sliding the lock into place. You jumped slightly at the loud noise, a nervous wreck as you anticipated what was about to happen.

“Upstairs,” he muttered, leading you up and into his bedroom.

As soon as you reached the room, Joel was on you, pressing you against the closed door. Large hands kneaded your flesh, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. His kiss was rough, all wet tongue and lips and teeth bumping against teeth, as he pushed himself desperately close to you. You gasped into his mouth, whimpering as his teeth bit down on your lower lip, enjoying the sharp sting as he pulled back and stretched it out before letting go. He gripped the hem of your singlet and ripped it over your head, bearing your chest to him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he sponged kisses down your neck, across your collarbones, before wrapping his lips around one of your aching nipples. You sighed in relief, gripping his hair tightly as he sucked and licked at the tight bud, his teeth lightly grazing it occasionally. His left hand drifted up your sternum to pinch the other one, rolling it between his thumb and index finger, and groaning into your chest at the pathetic sounds that drifted from your mouth.

Over the sounds of your own panting, you heard the sound of a zipper being undone, and looked down to find him pulling himself out of his jeans. He was already hard, the tip red and weeping precum as he began to stroke himself slowly, never stopping the movements of his mouth on you.

“Joel,” you panted, pushing his face away from your chest. “I want to taste you.”

He grunted, eyes never leaving your face as the muscles in his right arm tensed with every tug on his cock. “Take your clothes off and get on the bed.”

Considering the heat, you were happy to do as he asked, sighing in relief as you peeled your sticky clothes from your body and settled yourself in the middle of his large bed, sitting balanced on your heels, waiting for him to join you. He pushed his jeans down his legs slowly, tearing his shirt over his head until he was just as naked as you were. Your mouth salivated as you stared at him, eyes constantly drifting between his face and where he fisted his cock, desperate to feel the weight of him on your tongue.

“You want my cock in your pretty mouth, baby?” he asked lowly, and you nodded quickly, mentally begging him to get on the bed. Joel stared at you for a moment, contemplating, before a mean grin split across his face. “Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we, sunshine?” You faltered, frowning at him as he reached out and pressed on your shoulder, pushing you down so you laid on the bed.

Joel got onto the bed and rested on his knees, gazing down at you. “Spread your legs. Go on, show me that pretty pussy.”

Splaying yourself open on the bed, you basked in the feeling of his eyes raking over you, taking in every inch of skin on display, every detail of your body. His eyes worshipped you, and your heart panged in your chest as you recognised the look in his expression. It was awe.

“Look at that,” he leered. “You’re fuckin’ soaked. Dripping wet and I’ve hardly even touched you yet. Who’s that for?”

“For you,” you breathed.

“That’s right. Because it’s mine, ain’t that right?” It wasn’t abnormal for him to talk like this when you were fucking, but in that moment the words felt heavier. They held more gravity, a more honest yearning in them than usual.

And yet you nodded. “Yours, Joel.”

Upon hearing your words he leant down to press his chest on the bed, and his lips were dragging along your inner thigh, coming dangerously close to where you wanted his mouth the most, but not quite going there yet.

“Unlike that fuckin’ boy,” he snapped. “I’m gonna enjoy takin’ my time with you. Not gonna waste an opportunity to get my mouth on this beautiful cunt.”

Your chest heaved at his words, and you were about to make a snarky comment but then his mouth was on you and all thoughts left your brain. He pressed deep, longing kisses into your folds, his tongue swiping between them in broad strokes, moaning as he tasted you for the first time in over a week. Strong hands gripped your thighs and held them apart as he devoured you, his tongue dipping into your entrance before moving up to lathe slow circles around your aching clit.

Your head was buried in the pillows, hips shifting restlessly and pushing against his grip, trying to grind yourself up against face, desperate for more friction. But he held you down, refusing to speed up his movements.

“Fuck,” you moaned lowly, reaching down to grip his shoulder, digging your fingernails into his skin to show him how good it felt. Joel groaned into you in response, dragging his tongue along the entirety of you, ending it with a sharp flick across your bundle of nerves. You gasped, twitching underneath him.

He hooked a finger inside you, the tip pressing deliciously into the spongy spot on the roof of your walls. You whined desperately, longing for release as he painstakingly lapped and sucked and kissed your sopping core. One hand gripped his shoulder, and the other clawed frantically at the bedsheets, searching for leverage, for something to bear yourself against as he built up your orgasm.

“Feels so good,” you gasped, torso writhing against the bed. “I need more, please, Joel.”

Without warning, he pressed a second finger inside you, and then a third, stretching you out while his tongue flicked against your clit. A broken cry spilled out of your mouth, your stomach tensing painfully tight as he pressed into you. Liquid heat began to spread through your abdomen and thighs, and you longed to wrap your legs around his head, press him in closer, have him gasping for breath against you. But his grip tightened, forcing you to stay splayed on the bed.

“Not yet,” he murmured against you.

“I’m so close,” you mewled.

“Not yet,” he repeated, pulling back to stare down at where his fingers worked you so perfectly, pushing against your walls, stretching you out for him. He leaned down and spat onto your pussy, and you clenched painfully tight around his fingers, mouth ajar at the feeling. And then his mouth was back on you, strong tongue flicking back and forth over your clit savagely, and you moaned his name desperately, begging him to let you come. Finally, you couldn’t take it any longer, and heat flooded your body, your own heartbeat rushing in your ears, body twitching and writhing beneath him as he removed his fingers from you and pressed his tongue into your entrance, sucking and licking up every drop of your release. Your eyes were shut tight, and your mouth hung open in elation, breathy moans of praise slipping from between your lips.

As you came down from your high, he pressed soft kisses against you, giving gentle kitten licks against your clit as you twitched into the bed, away from the pressure on your overstimulated nerves. Finally, his mouth dragged away, and he pressed kisses all the way up your sternum before his lips were against yours. His face was wet from your slick, and it smeared across your cheeks, but you didn’t mind, kissing him eagerly, tongue delving into his mouth to taste yourself.

For a few moments, the pair of you simply laid there, legs tangled together and kissing messily, sighing into each other’s mouths. But it was like a switch flipped suddenly, and Joel pushed himself off you, his walls flying back up. The frown descended back over his face, and you sighed in frustration, wishing he would just forgive you.

Reaching out, you trailed your fingers over his abdomen, touch featherlight, and enjoyed seeing the way goosebumps rippled across his olive toned skin. He shuddered, the muscles underneath his skin tightening as your fingers lowered, trailing through the curls at his base before gripping his thick length. He grunted at the feeling, hips pushing forward slightly. You stroked him lazily, swiping your thumb across his tip and collecting some of his precum before lifting it to your mouth and tasting him. You hummed, tongue swirling around your finger.

“Enough,” he said quietly, manoeuvring himself to rest between your open thighs. His cock bobbed against his stomach, smearing a light sheen across his skin in its wake. Your core ached, clenching around nothing. You were so wet you could feel it dripping out of you, soaking the sheets underneath where you laid.

Joel gripped his cock and leaned forward, dragging the tip through your folds, covering himself in your slick. You moaned in unison at the sensation.

He tapped himself roughly against your clit once, twice, three times until you were trembling, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip, eyes screaming please just fuck me.

He nudged the head of his cock against your entrance and pushed forward ever so slightly, looking down to watch his tip push inside of you. The slight obtrusion made you hold your breath, impatiently waiting for him to take you. He gripped the backs of your knees and wrapped your legs around his waist, where you locked your ankles to hold him against you. The only sound in the room was of your erratic breaths, mingling together in the air. You made eye contact with him and offered a small, encouraging smile. Without wasting another second, he pressed forward, your walls welcoming him until he was so deep inside, bottoming out as his hipbones collided with your thighs.

A choked gasp escaped you. The weight of him inside of you was so heavy, his thick length filling you up to the point where you felt like the wind had been knocked out of you.

“Always so fuckin’,” Joel groaned, hips pulling back a fraction before he pressed back into you. “Tight for me. Squeeze me so good, s’like you were made for me.”

“You’re so big,” you panted. “Feels so fucking good, Joel.”

He began to move with slow thrusts, pressing into you deeper, harder, with every shift of his hips. You threw your head back into the pillows, eyes squeezed shut as your body sang from his touch. His hand disappeared from your leg and gripped your face, thumb pressing into one side of your cheek while his fingers dug into the other.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and your eyes flew open as he squeezed your face, lips parting wider. “I want to see those eyes while I fuck you.”

“Okay,” you acquiesced, tone laced with apology for daring to look away for even a second. His thumb hooked into your open mouth, and he leaned forward so his lips were almost touching yours. But Joel didn’t kiss you. Instead, he spat right into your mouth, and you moaned deeply, swallowing it down. He pressed his thumb against your lips and you opened up for him again, so he could work it into your mouth, pushing down onto your tongue as he fucked you painfully slow. You closed your mouth around the digit, lathing your tongue over it and coating it in a mix of your saliva and his. He groaned in response, his hips jutting forward in a sudden harsh thrust. Dragging his hand from your face, he gripped your thighs again, grinding down into you and making you whimper at the friction as his coarse hair rubbed against your clit. You looked down at where you were connected, watching him rub himself against you.

“Was it like this?” he asked quietly. Your eyes snapped back to his.

“What?” you mumbled, mind hazy with desire.

When Joel spoke again, your entire body stilled. “You said he was on top?”

You hesitated before nodding, your heart palpitating in your chest.

“Was it like this?” he repeated the question, his movements pausing.

“Sort of,” you muttered shyly. It felt silly, to be shy in front of him when he had his cock inside you and you were both fully naked, but nonetheless, you were.

“Tell me,” he said those damn words again.

“He,” you gulped in a breath of air, forcing yourself to speak. “He pushed my legs up, so I had my-“

Joel’s movement interrupted you, as he pushed your thighs down to press against your chest, your ankles resting on the top of his shoulders. “Like this?”

“Yes,” you gasped, trembling at the new angle. “He said it would be deeper; said it would feel better.”

“And did it?” he spoke through gritted teeth, jaw clenched tightly as he watched your face. “Did it feel good when he fucked you like this?”

Your face blazed, and in an effort to take back some control, you grinned up at him slyly. “It felt fucking great.”

He pulled out almost completely before slamming his length back into you, and you moaned brokenly, face twisting at the sharp pain that shot through you. There was no denying that Joel was the biggest you’d ever experienced; your walls stretched sharply around him every time, always needing a moment to adjust. But he was relentless, fucking into you roughly, hands gripping your ankles to keep your legs up. The heat in the room had tripled from your joint exertion, and your skin felt tight, beads of sweat rolling off your forehead and into your hair.

“Fuck,” you cried loudly.

“You like this?” he growled. “You like me fuckin’ you the way he did?”

“Joel,” you sobbed, tears of pleasure leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“You wish it were him instead of me?” he asked, pressing a sloppy kiss to your shin, and you frowned, mouth twisting into a grimace.

“No,” you babbled. “No, Joel, he could never fuck me like this, so deep, you’re so big, fill me up so perfectly. No one could fuck me like you.”

“That’s right,” he grunted, pounding into you mercilessly. “This pussy is mine. No one else could get you like this; so desperate, begging me to make you come. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cried out, that all too familiar heat igniting in your stomach like a match had been lit. “I’m gonna come Joel, don’t stop, please don’t.”

“Come for me, baby.” Sweat was rolling down his neck, and you gazed up at him through bleary eyes, chest heaving with deep breaths as you felt yourself rest precariously on the edge of your orgasm. “Wanna feel you grip me, I’ve been missin’ it. Show me how good I make you feel, c’mon now.”

His voice was ultimately what pushed you over the edge. That rasping, Southern drawl that you loved hearing mutter filth into your ear. You pulsed around him, an animalistic cry tearing from your throat as he fucked you through your high. You could vaguely hear him rattling off a mix of curses and your name as he bucked into you, and then you felt him paint your insides with his spend. Joel rocked you both through your highs, fingers kneading the flesh of your thighs as he worked himself inside of you, a mix of both of your cum squeezing around his cock and dripping down onto the bedsheets.

When all was said and done he pulled out slowly, watching you closely as you winced at the loss of his weight inside you. Wordlessly, he disappeared into the bathroom before returning with a wet cloth, and used it to clean you up. He settled heavily on the bed beside you, lying flat on his back and cracking his knuckles loudly.

“I’m fuckin’ spent,” he drawled, scratching his beard. You rolled onto your side so you could stare at him, and murmured a quiet agreement. He stared up at the roof, and you frowned, frustrated to feel tears welling up in your eyes.

“Joel,” you whispered. He must’ve heard your voice break, because he turned on his side so you were facing each other straight on. His face was calm, wrinkles smoothed out, jaw relaxed. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” His eyes darted across your face, noting the unshed tears on your waterline, dangerously close to spilling. With a quiet sigh, he reached up and rested his palm on your face, thumb stroking the soft skin underneath your eye.

“Don’t cry,” he said softly, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“If you don’t want me to fuck anyone else, I won’t,” you said, voice wobbling. “I’m plenty satisfied with you, I shouldn’t have made you feel otherwise.”

“Okay,” is all he said. “It’s okay, sunshine.” The familiar nickname made your chest ache.

“Joel,” you whispered his name, gazing forlornly at him. “You’re my best friend, you know that right?”

Joel stared, silently absorbing your words. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you shut your eyes, leaning into him.

“Stay for a while,” he whispered against your skin. “Don’t want you to go yet.”

The words he spoke earlier rang through your mind. I’ve never once asked you for anything. Not for anything other than what we’ve been doin’, never pushed you for more.

“Okay,” you nodded, laying an arm over his side. “Just for a little while.”

final part

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #the last of us #tlou #my writing #cat's outta the bag #don't cry over spilt milk

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charliemwrites · 3 months

Text

As promised some time ago: Gaz!

No CW for this one. Just fluff and care!

The new house is… well, you don’t dislike it. It’s beautiful, already renovated while you were busy selling the old house. Just new, unfamiliar. You’re unaccustomed to the noises it makes, the shadows it casts, the echoes off the walls.

You’re not too proud to admit (to yourself and your dogs) that you’re a bit of a chicken the first couple weeks. Too many nights watching spooky media about people living in walls or stalking new tenants — despite Skipper’s best efforts. So you keep one or more of the dogs with you at all times, fingers in their fur and lights on as you go. Ghost has been especially tolerant, leaning against your leg when the sun goes down and the house feels too strange.

You’ve always been grateful for the peace of mind that four huge wolf-dogs brings, but never more than now. With several sets of teeth surrounding your bed and guarding your locked doors, they’ve made the transition so much easier on your nerves.

The new forest behind the house is also some cause for concern. The first day you brought them home, you went out by yourself for quick inspection of the yard and immediate area. Sharp-eyed looking for glass, metal, or anything else dubious.

You came back to four extremely grumpy pups and were basically bullied out of leaving them alone again. Skipper was especially huffy that night.

But things feel like they’re beginning to settle. You’ve gotten a bigger couch, bigger floor cushions. There’s a second story to this new house — or more of a half-floor really. A loft? It consists of the master bedroom, master bathroom, and a sort of open-spaced landing that you’re using as a satellite collection zone for toys.

Sometimes, when you’re on the couch, you’ll catch a bit of movement and get spooked by one of the boys staring from the railing that overlooks the den. Have fussed at wagging Johnny twice now for it.

Still, the transition to your new home has been as smooth as you could ask for with four giant, protective dogs. You miss the old place a bit; have the irrational fear that you’re going to miss another displaced dog in need of a home, but you try not to think about it.

Maybe you should have thought about it a little more.

One evening, you let the boys out for their pre-bed potty. There’s a cup of chamomile tea in your hand, a blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders. Winter will be setting in soon. It’s already cold enough to set your teeth on edge. Never mind that it’s been raining all day, only just letting up to light patter at sunset.

Commotion at the edge of the (much larger) yard catches your attention. All of your boys seem to be gathered around something. They’re not barking or growling, and from the dim porch light, you don’t see hackles raised but still. Anything that catches their attention is worth investigating.

Cursing under your breath, you set your mug aside, slip into some shoes, and snatch up your phone for the flashlight. It’s only when you’re halfway there that you remember to pray that it’s not something dead. Or dying. Or creepy.

“Please don’t let this be a spooky doll or something,” you whisper to yourself.

Skipper must hear you, because his head pops up. He doesn’t… look concerned. But he’s a dog, how would he know that something in the yard is of human concern?

He trots away from their little congregation to meet you, almost like he’s escorting you to whatever they’re gathered around. You realize why when the flashlight illuminates a ball of soaked fur.

“Oh,” you breathe, “oh no…”

You gently nudge Konig aside to kneel down, a dry sob bubbling up in the back of your throat when you hear a quiet, miserable mew. A pair of brilliant green eyes squint and shy from the light, wide and sad.

“Oh, baby,” you coo. “Please come here. C’mon.”

You slowly, carefully extend a hand. Palm up, just a couple fingers. You’re not as familiar with cats anymore, but you remember enough to know that there‘ll be no scooping it up, even if it needs help. It’ll have to come to you of its own accord.

Relief floods you when you get the briefest cursory sniffle, and then the kitty is bumping its head against your hand for a scritch. You take a moment to pet what you can, heart breaking a bit with each shiver in the cold.

You keep coaxing it closer, gentle words and patient petting, getting bolder with your touch. When it’s finally close enough, the faintest purr rattling in its chest, you decide to try.

Apart from a nervous glance, the cat remarkably tolerant about letting you wrap your now-wet blanket around it, then scooping it up.

“Oof, you’re a big kid, huh?” You mutter, pausing to get a better hold. The darkness and hunkering down to preserve body heat was deceptive. This cat feels huge. “That’s alright, I’m used to it.”

You breathe a huge sigh when you enter the house again. It’s toasty inside — or at least it feels that way after sitting in the cold rain for fifteen minutes.

The boys files in after you, politely shaking off at the door before stepping into the mudroom. (Another upgrade you’ve been extremely grateful for.

You pause, try to get your bearings. You’ve got four soaked dogs, one possibly hypothermic cat, and you.

Christ, sometimes you wish you had an extra pair of hands.

“Okay. Let’s get the heater first.”

It’s already going, so you just turn it up a bit more, warm enough to start drying everyone. Then you go to the cupboard, sparing an arm from your oversized bundle to extract a towel.

You cross back to the heater and sit down, gently nestling your cat-burrito into the well of your legs.

The same big green eyes blink up at you, another mewl comes from it.

“Hi,” you croon, “isn’t that better already? Much warmer in here.”

You present the towel for inspection, let it sniff and decide it’s non-threatening before gently wiping it along the clumped fur. The dogs, to your surprise, don’t crowd to investigate. Skipper stops by to give the cat a sniff, before ultimately flopping down against your hip. But the other three arrange themselves around you, watching, but giving you and the kitty some space.

Remarkably thoughtful of them, and you tell them as much, praising their good behavior. The kitty, in the meantime, just… stares. It’s been a long time since you interacted with one, but you don’t remember your grandma’s tabby being so…

“Can I help you, little one?” You ask, grinning when it blinks at you slowly. You brush a finger under its chin, grinning when its eyes go half-lidded and nearly cross. “You’re worse than my Johnny boy with the staring.”

You receive a huff for that and laugh softly, making kissy noises at him until his tail thumps against the absorbent floor mat.

The cat is back to staring, though, ears up. You hum and keep up the half-scratching, half-drying technique until its fur starts to fluff up and you can take proper stock of the animal you’ve just rescued.

You weren’t kidding about it being big. Biggest cat you’ve ever seen — you’d almost think it was wild if not for the sweet face. You’re sure you might have seen the breed somewhere before…

Maine coon, maybe? Or… Siberian something or other? It’s fluffy, that’s for sure. But even without all the fluff that’s beginning to poof out like a dirty cotton ball, it’s a big cat. Big enough to be an average dog.

You huff in amusement that more it dries out.

“You look like a little storm cloud,” you giggle. “Well, little being relative.”

You receive a more normal-sounding meow for that. It thrills you that it’s already sounding better. Less sad, for sure.

The purring even start up again, developing into a deep hum like a running motor. It’s instantly soothing, the same way listening to the dogs’ breathing is. It lulls you until you’re nearly dozing sitting up. Only the wet nose of Skipper against your cheek rousing you.

“Jesus, right,” you say, jolting. Take a drowsy look around. All the boys seem dry or mostly dry. The only damp spot left on your new feline friend seems to be the feet, which won’t take much longer. “Let’s get inside proper.”

You lock up the mudroom and turn the heater low again, then urge everyone into the den. The cat doesn’t even hesitate, threading cleverly between your moving legs as you shuffle to the kitchen.

You prep an extra bowl of food and leave it up for the cat where the dogs can’t get it. Give it one last stroke from head to tail before trudging for the bathroom.

Normally, you’d be more concerned about leaving a cat in a house full of dogs. But the boys proved already that they have no interest in hurting the cat, despite the earlier crowding. Figure there are plenty of places to hide if they do make the kitty uncomfortable regardless.

The hot shower only serves to thicken the drowsiness blanketing you, leaving you heavy-lidded and sluggish. You pull the curtain aside to the usual audience of huge eyes, a new pair among them — the cat perched on the bathroom sink.

When you lean to grab your towel, they stick their face close for a sniff and you pause, always patient for curious creatures. When the little nose gets too close to your mouth, you twist and drop a quick peck to its snout before leaning back. The flabbergasted look makes you laugh as you begin toweling off.

“What a funny little thing you are,” you coo. “Would you like to be mind.”

“Mrrrow!”

“Yeah, I made a good first showing, huh?”

You have absolutely zero supplies for a cat, but that’s a problem for tomorrow. Right now, you just want to climb into bed and conk out. Home-making and animal-saving takes a lot out of you.

As always, the furry procession to your room leaves you warm and happy. Johnny always the first to hop into bed, licking your shoulder when you climb in beside him. Konig takes your other side, much more willing to snuggle now that you have the California King mattress to accommodate your pack. Ghost licks at Skipper’s chin in the doorway, then jumps up to lie by your hip, cuddling Johnny.

Skipper comes up last, padding over to receive one last kiss from you before lying by your feet, on the side closest to the door. You’re less concerned about kicking him now with the extra room, and enjoy the heat for your toes.

You almost startle at the soft thump next to your head. Turn and blink to see big green eyes blinking down at you, a purr nearly rattling your brain.

“Oh, hi,” you murmur, “make yourself at home.”

The cat does just that, curling himself onto a pillow and pressing his forehead into your neck. You nearly melt as you flick off the light. It’s warm and quiet and dark, just the breathing of warm bodies and soft tap of rain.

“I love you all so much,” you whisper, fingers threading into Konig’s coat. “My loves.”

The house’s new echoes are still unfamiliar, so it’s just a product of being half-asleep that makes you think you hear voices in the middle of the night.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #1fur1 #dog john mactavish #dog john price #dog konig #dog simon Riley #cat Kyle Garrick #woof woof au

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heraldofavalir · 1 year

Text

shoulder the sky

(read on ao3)

Here is how the story goes on: mud up to her ankles, the buzz of magic lingering in the air like gulping down static, and the stench of rot. Elody is more than familiar with the smell, knows her way around a battlefield, knows the ways in which death announces itself. It blows in from ahead of her, on the road, and she almost—almost—goes around.

There are times when a fight is needed. There are times when a fight is best avoided. Her numbers are few; she picked a handful of her knights to accompany her, on this one, last, desperate search for allies. If she leads them into a trap, walks them into something for which they are unprepared, then that will be the end.

She is tired. But she is not ready for that.

So she almost gives the order to find a different path. But the rot is thick, and smells like not just flesh, but also wood and cloth and perhaps fruit, something growing that undoubtedly is no longer. And that buzz of magic—difficult to ignore, that. She is here for anything that could give her an edge. Anything to reclaim her kingdom, save her people.

She calls her knights to a halt.

“I’m going to investigate,” she says. “If I do not return, or if you hear me give the order to do so, proceed back to Shoeberg. I don’t want anyone taking foolish risks.”

They want to protest, she can tell. They will not. She is their princess.

(armor is so much heavier than a gown, but she has learned that a crown and a helm weigh much the same)

It is raining, a steady drizzle. The mud sucks at her boots. Mace in hand, she walks forward, and the buzz grows stronger. Rattling her bones, her teeth. She grimaces.

She sees the pumpkin first, massive and dead, hollowed out and falling apart. There is furniture scattered about here, and it sends shivers up her spine even before she understands what she is seeing, sees the twisted malformity, sees a human face here and a human arm there and she can only hope that this was furniture transformed and not people, because either way is grotesque and terrible but the latter would be worse.

There are bodies. People. Animals. Much of it not fresh. Splintered wagons. Remnants of armor, swords. Torn clothing, bones picked clean and bones still glistening. It is easy to guess what they fell victim to, and she watches the furniture warily, her arm loose and ready, mace held steadily. But it does not stir, and though the magic still hangs here like a plague of locusts, it feels purposeless. Aimless. An aftershock, a release, a last violent cry.

She picks through the battlefield. This is familiar. It is not only mud on her boots. She finds fresher bodies; a few days old at most, only just begun to decompose. An old man, clutching a book to his chest; she wonders if it was worth dying for. A young woman, briars curling around her skin, and further inspection reveals that the thorns grow from her flesh rather than the ground. They weave around her like an embrace, and Elody does not try to move her.

She finds the young girl between two hills. Her stoicism cracks; she has seen many corpses. Not so many dead children. The girl is surrounded by furniture, some of it whole, some of it hacked to pieces. She fought.

Elody crouches. Closes the girl’s eyes. Breathes in and out.

There are more bodies, older. Dead horses. A cat wearing a cape and boots, someone’s beloved pet or a sentient creature in its own right; impossible to say which. Torn belongings, rusted swords, a child’s doll, a puppet half devoured by termites and covered in moss.

She finds the fairy. Dead. Dead for a long time, by the looks of her, though the strength of the magic here tells her that that cannot be right. The fairy’s face is frozen in a howl, her eyes glassy and wild and something deeply unnatural about her state of decay.

Elody does not think that there is a threat here. Not anymore. She feels a bit of relief,

(she does not hold with fairies, not their promises and not their curses)

but mostly just an emptiness. Perhaps determination, if she is feeling generous.

One last time, she inspects the fairy. Just to be sure that she is dead. No threat.

Satisfied that she has discerned the source of the rot, she almost does not see Gerard.

Almost.

(here is how the story goes on, and here is why: the story must go on because the story is ever after, and there is no beginning to that and there is no end, because the ever after is implied in the once upon a time and no beginning is true and no ending either because there is always another story and it does not stop)

(once upon a time, there was a frog prince in a pond)

(once upon a time, there was a boy who was a child who was a child around the wrong person)

(once upon a time, there was a princess with a golden ball)

(once upon a time, there was a girl who made a friend)

It doesn’t register, at first. She sees him. Knows him. Thinks, what is he doing here? Thinks, that’s odd, because she doesn’t know where her husband is because the castle has fallen and her people are scattered and she has had so many other things to worry about than tracking down which group of refugees Gerard fled with, which band of children and elderly. Because Gerard fled, of course; she never considered he would do anything else.

(because he is alive, of course; she never considered he could be anything else)

The image is so incongruous. Gerard belongs in the castle, eyes shining and cheeks flushed with wine. Gerard belongs in the castle, willfully ignoring the rest of the world and all it has come to. Gerard belongs in the castle, trying to pretend that his eyes have not changed and his skin has not grown sallow

(she is not blind)

and that everything is just fine.

Gerard has never belonged on a battlefield. No matter how often she wished that he could just be there for her, with her, at her side. He does not belong on a battlefield.

She takes a step. Stumbles. Her knees sink into the mud next to him. The mud is not just mud.

“Gerard,” she says. Her voice is a whisper, a rasp. She puts her hand on his chest, just over where the glass shard protrudes. His body is stiff. Flies land on his face; she bats them aside, but they come back.

He is far more froglike than the last time she saw him. How long ago was that? She doesn’t remember.

(she does)

His hands are bloody, torn to shreds. One of them lies near the glass—a spear, if anything, though no spear she has ever seen the like of.

The flies keep returning. She can’t get them off.

“Gerard,” she says again, like that will do anything, like saying his name will call him to her, will force life into a heart that stopped beating days ago when she wasn’t there. She feels a scream in her throat, and she swallows it, swallows the scream and swallows the nausea and the only noises that escape her are little hitching gasps, because it has been a very long time since she cried and it seems that she cannot allow herself to do so even now, not properly.

This is no place for you, she wants to tell him. Wants to shout. She has never shouted at him. Not even when she was angry. And she used to be angry, used to resent him, and all of that is suddenly gone because he is gone and there will be no chance to be angry at him again, and there will be no chance to fix what they had or even decide if she wanted to, if the war ever ended and she came home alive.

This is no place for you. What were you doing here?

She reaches for the shard. She does not want the shard to be in him. She reaches for it, slices her hand open. Retreats.

The damn flies are—

And he didn’t even know how to fight.

He didn’t know how to fight, and this fight found him all the same, and he is dead. He has laid here for days, and he is going to lay here longer, because this glass spear pins him to the ground and she cannot take it out. So ends Prince Gerard of Greenleigh, far from home, far from family, far from anyone who lo—

Even her mind cannot form around the word.

(this is no place for you she wants to scream and something in her wails and this is no place for me and it is no place for you or me but she has not had the luxury of caring about that for so long and she cannot start now and she cannot go back to when things were easy and good and falling in love with a frog was the simplest thing in the world and when she looked at him she felt sparks and fireworks and not hollow frustration and not this, not this gaping wound this gaping nothing where a person should be)

(this is how the story goes on, and who dictates, in the end, what is a place for a prince and princess?)

The flies—

“Get off of him,” she says. Barely a noise at all. “Leave him be.”

She swats at them. They return. She leans over his face, holds him. Holds him like she should have been here to hold him days ago, because she does not remember the last time she held him, and now, this will be the last time, and he is dead.

Hitching gasps. Nausea rolling in her stomach. A bleeding hand. An embrace unfelt. The whisper of his name.

This is what she can offer. Her eyes are dry. She can’t keep the flies away.

(the story goes on, and this world does not end because Gerard has left it)

----------

(When she departs from the castle for the final time, she has not slept in the same bed as him for more than three weeks. He still comes to see her off. He has taken to wearing shirts with increasingly high collars. She has pretended not to notice his lack of a nose, or the way his eyes are drifting slowly apart.

She has wondered, occasionally, if it hurts. She has not asked. Asking would require talking about it. She has not talked to her husband about anything in a while. She’s stopped trying.

“You won’t be gone long, right?” he asks. He shifts from foot to foot. Agitation. Maybe discomfort. He seems to be having a little more trouble with his stance today, with standing up straight.

A million responses flit to her tongue. She chooses a more neutral one.

“I’ll be gone for as long as it takes to eradicate the threat Snowhold poses us,” she says.

“Right, but like—that’s not gonna take—” He trails off, gesturing.

There is so much fear in his eyes. And it’s not that she didn’t know. Not that she didn’t know Gerard has never been able to stop looking over his shoulder whenever the dogs bray. Not that she didn’t know that some part of Gerard has always stayed in that pond.

It’s just that she dismissed it. Thought the past was in the past. And for a long time, that worked fine, until the shadows knocked at their door.

How much can she blame him, really, for wanting to draw the curtains and hide in the illusion of safety?

“It will take however long it takes,” she says. “I’ll—I’ll try not to be long.”

It’s the only comfort she’s willing to give him. She knows very well that this might take months, or years. Snowhold’s might is nothing to scoff at, and Greenleigh is not a large kingdom. This will not be an easy war; there is no such thing as an easy war to begin with.

She might not return at all.

But Gerard can’t confront that. She looks at him and feels nothing, and she does not have the energy to try, once again, to explain to him how important this is, how great the danger and how heavy her duty. She certainly does not have the energy to try, once again, to persuade him to take on some of the burden that she once thought they would share.

So: pithy words that she knows he’ll accept and wishes he wouldn’t.

“Okay,” Gerard says. So easily. Bitterness flares in her chest. “Just—stay safe, alright?” And then, he tacks on, “We’ll have a celebration when you get back. A big one. Party of the year. We’ll make all your favorites.”

Do you know what those are? she thinks, which is uncharitable, because he does. And then, Do you understand how little that matters to me right now? which is far closer to the mark.

“Alright, Gerard,” she says. She mounts her horse. She rides out, her knights behind her, her banner streaming. She does not look back.)

----------

(The bitter truth: she knows he loved her. Dearly. Above all else, if not enough to confront responsibility, if not enough to be what she needed.

An even more bitter truth: there are times she wishes that it could have been enough. That she could have allowed herself to stay, to shut out the Times of Shadow and dance until the morning came. To drink and be merry and charm all the people and fall into his arms and sleep soundly.

There are times when she wonders if she was the problem.)

----------

For the first time, she meets a princess who wears armor, like her.

“Princess Elody?” the other princess says. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

And Princess Cinderella of Elegy tells her a story.

(a story of stories, and this is how it goes on)

Elody considers the idea that she has lost the capacity to feel. Lost it in the mud and the blood next to her husband’s corpse, or before that in the swing of her mace into an enemy combatant’s head, or when she rode away from home and did not look back then or ever again, or the first time she woke up and stared at Gerard and her chest was empty and the sparks were gone.

She understands, now. Everything about her life suddenly makes sense. She had a fate written out for her, a love story prescribed. And the story went on, and she lost the happily but not the ever after, and all of her fighting has meant nothing at all. It’s not the part of the story that matters. She has lost everything and gained nothing, and the only thing that will be remembered about her is that she kissed a frog and made him into a prince.

And she feels numb.

“I’m sorry,” Cinderella says. “I know this is a lot to take in.”

“Yes,” she allows. “Why have you come to me?”

“There’s a group of us,” Cinderella says. “We’re not—content, let’s say, to let the fairies shove us back into our stories. We’re tired of destiny, tired of their little project. We intend to stop them, by whatever means possible, and we’d like you to join us.”

(elody, too, is tired)

“Because I’m a princess?” she says.

Cinderella’s lips twitch. “We do have a bit of a theme,” she says. “But it’s more that—you deserve to know. We all deserve to know that we don’t get to make our own choices. And we deserve the chance to change that.”

She considers the idea.

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” she says.

“That’s okay,” Cinderella says. “You don’t need to. I’ve given you a lot to ponder.”

“Where would we be going?”

“I told you about the other worlds,” Cinderella says. “One of our number, Sleeping Beauty, has awoken in a different one. We would need to go there to find her; we think that continuing our efforts in this world would be immensely more difficult than trying to move on to the next.”

Intentions, efforts. It’s all so very vague.

“I would abandon my people here,” she says, chewing on the words. Tasting them. “My duty.”

Cinderella’s gaze is even. But it is deep, and there is a vast sadness there. And an understanding. True understanding. Elody has craved understanding for so long

(though perhaps not like this, not this terrible knowledge, not fate and destiny and world upon worlds pressing down upon her, not the dawning realization that none of it, none of it at all really matters)

and here it is, in this woman’s eyes and her stance and the way she grips her polearm and holds her helm beneath her arm in a perfect mirror of how Elody has carried herself for years now.

“It’s your choice,” Cinderella says. “If you don’t want to come, that’s alright. I understand completely.”

And here is the thing: she looks at Cinderella and sees glass. Glass armor, glass helm, glass polearm. That last, in particular, catches her attention. She can trace a pattern, all the way back to the shard in Gerard’s chest.

And so, another understanding: Gerard was caught in a fight he should never have been near, that he know nothing of. A war that was never his. A casualty of circumstance, of forces far bigger than him, far greater than he could ever hope to match. Senseless loss. Meaningless.

“There’s nothing left for me here,” she says, and it tastes like truth.

She meets Cinderella’s eyes, and sees that she understands that, too.

----------

(A meeting: other princesses. A woman with lips red as the rose, skin white as snow and cold as ice, footsteps dogged by the dead. A woman smiling, a woman vivacious and bubbly and a mask to face the world, hair a whirl and words calculating. A woman who ate the beast and became the beast and who holds books so gently in her hands.

They tell her who they’re looking for. A princess by the sea. A princess of thorns.

She tells them much. She finds understanding. Company. Friends. Sisters. She does not tell them about Gerard.

By a count of years, she is older than all of them, older by a decade at least. But some of them have eyes that are ancient, and sometimes, she feels like she is the child among them, fumbling her way alone in the dark. But she is not alone, because they are there; or maybe it is that they are all alone together, all alone in the dark.

And so.

A journey: the gaps between the worlds, horrible to comprehend, difficult to walk, the shadow of the gander’s wings, beating them down into the earth. Troubled dreams; a woman’s face enters her mind, a book and a name—Scheherazade.

She is not alone. That is the most important thing. She is no longer alone. And if she is, she is alone with them.)

----------

They take the castle at dawn. The Snow Queen refuses to relent, and Elody finds that she has little mercy in her heart for her. She has lost everything to Snowhold, has little inclination to give quarter to Snowhold’s allies. There is no beauty in death, little satisfaction, but at the end of the day the castle is theirs, the library is theirs, and Snow White finally has the time to tell them why her mood has been almost warm.

“Sleeping Beauty was here,” she says. “She and her friends knew where the princess by the sea is. They’re going to find her and come back.” A smile, an eager twirl of her hands, more emotion than Elody has ever seen from her.

“We’ll be seven,” Cinderella breathes.

Elody knows that these princesses have been waiting longer than she has. The relief in Cinderella’s voice is palpable. Despite that, there is little hope—but perhaps that is to be expected.

Snow White keeps darting glances at her.

“It’s not just that,” Snow White says. “Several of her companions possess true books. One of them, an old witch has one, and it’s almost entirely blank. I offered to take a look at it for him, but he bargained dearly for it, didn’t want to part with it—but with this library here, we’ll be able to discern its nature and how best to use it. And, and—the place I saw in my mirror, the palace made of books, they’ve been there. They know where it is. It’s not in the Neverafter at all, but somewhere in between worlds.”

It’s positively an effusive speech, from her. The Beast looks intrigued; books are her wheelhouse. Rapunzel’s hair drifts about her head, some strands slow and ponderous and others moving whip-coil fast.

“She does move quick,” Cinderella says. Surprise, even a bit of awe. Affection. How easily, these women accept others into their fold. How easily they show warmth. Elody finds herself looking forward to meeting this Sleeping Beauty.

(she has never had sisters before, only distant parents and then even they were gone and she was alone in the castle and her closest connection after that was a frog in a pond a frog who was her friend once upon a time)

“She’s not kept idle,” Snow White agrees. Another glance at Elody—why is she doing that? But then, another glance at Cinderella, even less certain. “There were other things they said. Other things that—well, I’m not certain if now is the time. We’ve already so much to think about, so much to do.”

“One problem at a time,” the Beast says. “The library is large; cataloging anything of use to us will take some days.”

“Time is something we may not have much of,” Cinderella says. “But if we await Sleeping Beauty and her companions—perhaps we can afford a little.”

Rapunzel’s eyes in particular gleam brightly; already, she has sent her hair spinning throughout the castle, and Elody knows that she will leap at the chance to become more entrenched, to make it hers, to weave through the rooms and make tea for the five of them, for the seven of them, for seven of them and more.

And for her part—there is much to do, yes. So much left to fight. To plan. But for a time, they will stay, and Elody has not relaxed in a very long time, has forgotten how to let down her guard, and even here, she cannot do it. None of them can.

But maybe, for a little while, some rest.

---

(and this is how the story goes on)

---

(and cinderella walks into the hall and with her is a princess that elody has seen somewhere before like an itch in the back of her mind and with her is)

---

It’s not a gut-punch, seeing him again. It’s not a revelation. It’s not all the air leaving the room, or sparks suddenly bursting in a dead heart, or tears welling up and overflowing. She has not cried in a long time; now is not an exception.

What it is, is going for a breath to find that her lungs have forgotten what air is. It is the long-ago scream, still trapped but making itself known, beating at the cage of her throat like a rabid thing. It is hands that do not shake and knees that do not tremble, because her muscles don’t see movement as an option and the marrow of her bones is as frozen as the crown on the decapitated head out on the balcony upstairs.

Gerard walks in—alive. He is not quite the same. He is all frog and almost no man, for all that he still strides on two feet. He wears a sword sheathed at his hip; it appears functional rather than decorative. He is a little rougher, a little more ragged, something a little shadowed in his eyes.

He hugs her. She hugs him back.

(she is holding a corpse, and the flies won’t stop landing on his face, and she has never felt more powerless)

She means to keep herself distant. It should be easy; this is not her world, not her Gerard. She’d even thought about it in a vague way, the possibility that she might see him somewhere here, alive and well. Steeled herself against it. She means to be aloof, to speak to him civilly and cordially and without any weight to their interactions at all. But then he talks about the bigger picture and the things of him and—

She can’t.

She can’t—

She maintains her composure. She’s good at that. But she asks for privacy, clears the room, because—well. He obviously has things to say. Things he should be saying to the Elody of this world, no doubt. But he says that he won’t trouble her with the things of him, and it’s such a Gerard thing to say and so very not a Gerard thing to say all at the same time, clumsy and awkward as ever and self-deprecating in a way that is entirely new, and something in her shatters a little more just from the way he’s looking at her.

(the bitter truth: he loves her. that’s the way the story goes. that’s always the way the story goes. and maybe she is the problem, if he can keep loving her and she can’t keep loving him, but if she is the problem then it is because the problem has been put on her shoulders without her looking for it, written into her story without her permission, and she has never asked to be remembered as the princess who fell in love with a frog)

(it’s so hard to parse out questions of fault when she doesn’t know if anything of herself is her own)

He apologizes. It’s difficult to listen to.

Because here is the thing: they made it to the end of their story. They made it to the happily ever after. And then it didn’t end, and everything in her life that has been hardest for her is everything that will not be remembered, will not be written. Everything that was struggle, everything that was difficult, that is what the fairies want to erase.

(once upon a time, there was a princess who went to war, but that is not how the story starts, isn’t even in the middle, so who can give those words weight?)

She cannot be angry with him for being what their story made him to be. She cannot be angry with him for supposing the story was over, because if not for the Times of Shadow and the incessant beat of the Gander’s wings, it would have been. She cannot be angry with him.

But she still cannot explain. Not really. She can try, and hope that he hears what she means. But she still lacks the energy.

Words are just words. She doesn’t have the strength to be someone’s inspiration

(not when all she ever wanted was for him to stand by her side of his own volition, because he decided it was right, because he wanted to do it, not when all she ever wanted was an equal partner on equal ground)

and she does not have the voice to express her disappointment when he tells her he would have done nothing, nothing at all, if he didn’t know she was here.

Words are just words. And so many of his—are the right ones. Are, maybe, things she wanted to hear. Maybe he has changed. Maybe he has grown. Maybe there are coals here that can be fanned back to life; maybe the embers aren’t dead just yet.

But this isn’t even her Gerard.

At the end of the day, she doesn’t know what to feel. Doesn’t know what to do with a husband-not-hers who apologizes and claims her as inspiration and professes to be better and puts the ball entirely in her court.

(doesn’t know what to do with a husband that breathes, with a story that continues, and she’s sick of ever after, would rather just live happily, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon, it seems)

(once upon a time, a frog pushed a golden ball out of a lily pond, and it’s not because he was kind or funny or someone worth befriending but rather because that’s just how the story goes)

So she leaves the room. That’s easier. To leave him behind, to pretend he never came back in the first place.

----------

(They have time, now. Of that, she is certain. Ever after never ends. They��ll have all the time in the world to figure this out. If there’s anything to figure out.

Part of her wants that. Part of her wants nothing more than to learn this new version of him, to allow herself to hope that he really has changed. Part of her wants to learn his friends, too, this motley assembly that he came in with, that were so eager to jump to his cause and who he is—comfortable with, at the very least. These people with whom he seems to be a little more settled in his skin.

They will have time. She will have time. She can afford to take this slowly, inch by inch. To be certain before she allows him anywhere near her heart. To let down her walls as painlessly as possible, and to have time to build them back up again if that’s what she needs, what she decides.

They’re all together in this castle, now. They will have time.)

----------

She should have known better. Is there anyone to blame but herself for allowing her to hope?

(she hadn’t even realized, how much she was hoping)

Maybe this is just how the story goes, though in her heart of hearts, she knows that this isn’t written in any book. Her narrative was never supposed to twist toward war. His was never supposed to lead beyond the pond. And so here they are, another castle but the same old song; she stays, and he flees.

(after what was perhaps the most frustrating conversation of her life and really, what was she supposed to do with any of what he was telling her, and she can’t possibly believe that he was being truthful, not now, not like this, even if there’s a voice in the back of her mind that takes his words and takes the looks in her friends’ eyes and whispers doubt and whispers what if)

“It’ll be alright,” Cinderella says. She doesn’t sound like she believes herself. Elody shakes her head.

She thinks he looks back. Does he look back? It’s so hard to tell; the sunlight gleams on the snow and renders her blind.

Does it matter? Does any of it?

(he has left her so many times, and what is one more in the face of that, what is an emotion as foolish as hope)

The ramparts are the only thing holding her up as she watches them go, a party of six fading into dots against the snow, and then vanishing. Cinderella and Snow White are steady presences at her side, bulwarks of empathy and compassion, and they know. They understand. They have lived so many lives and she only one, but they still understand the loss. They understand what it is to be the one who has to keep fighting. They understand what it is to be left behind.

They understand, but she’s still so cold.

It’s not until she goes back inside that she realizes she’s been weeping. She is capable of crying after all; whether she’s crying for this fresh betrayal or a corpse pinned to the mud or the loss of all her innocence or the joy she once felt in a castle that was hers as light spilled from every room and fireworks burst overhead and Gerard cracked a stupid joke and she laughed and laughed and laughed—whether she is crying for one of those things or all of them or none of them, she couldn’t say.

And it’s all too little, too late, in the end.

----------

(“Hey, Elody?” the whisper comes. She’s snuffed her candle. Her room is lit by moonlight.

“Yeah?” she whispers back. Gerard is a formless lump in his little bed on her nightstand, but she thinks she can make out the yellow gleam of his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he says. “It’s just that you seem a little stressed.”

“I’m okay,” she says. “It’s just, with my parents gone—and sometimes I feel—”

Like I have no idea what I’m doing. Like I’m all alone in the world. Like this is a position I wasn’t made for, and now I have no choice but to fill it, to grow and to twist and to force myself into a shape that will fit the empty space that my people need. Like I’m not strong enough to become who I think I’ll need to become.

“Oh,” Gerard says. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re pretty great.”

Something in her chest unclenches; something in her breathing eases.

“Thank you, Gerard,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “You should probably get some sleep. I remember sleeping at night. Pretty important.”

“Pretty important,” she agrees.

The moonlight drifts in, gentle and sweet. Frogs are largely nocturnal; Gerard will probably stay up for a long time yet. She likes to think that staying up in here, with her, is less lonely for him than staying up by himself, in the frog pond, surrounded by nobody that understands him.

“Gerard?”

“Uh huh?”

“Thank you,” she says again. “I’m glad you’re here.”

And that is how the story goes.)

#dimension 20 #d20 #neverafter #elody of greenleigh #gerard of greenleigh #d20 cinderella #cw for non-graphic description of corpses #anyway haven't posted on tumblr in a hot minute but i've decided this is an elody/gerard blog now /hj #cat writes fic

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anzukero · 4 months

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Cat Draco AU

so i may have drawn an AU where harry finds draco who has been hexed as a cat, adopts him, and tries to figure out how to undo what’s happened to this poor boy 😙

#drarry #IF SOMEONE WRITES A FIC BASED ON THIS ILL BE ECSTATIC #HAHAH #drarry au #hp au #harry potter au #hp #harry potter #drarry art #drarry fanart #harry potter fanart #draco malfoy fanart #harry x draco #draco x harry #harco #and cats #cats!#my art #hpdm

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theabysss · 10 months

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I was just sitting and watching funny cat videos when it dawned on me. Just imagine the sagau!Zhongli who isekai'd into your world and you allow him to stay in your apartment. Let's say you have a cat and at some point you decide to buy catnip, or you already had supplies and all of a sudden it starts to affect him. (suggestive)

Zhongli's breathing becomes heavier and deeper, his pupils become vertical and scales appear on his cheeks. When he kneels before you, his gaze is full of awe and greed emanating from his dragon nature, which he usually hides. His thoughts are full of you as always, Zhongli wants to serve you, to be with you. What a blessing that among all your followers, it was he who was lucky to be in your world. But the part of him, the selfish part that he usually tries to shut up, blossoms in all its glory. He served you for such a long time, millennia after millennium prayers in your honor escaped his lips. Zhongli wants a reward, some kind of confirmation that you noticed his efforts and appreciated them. And he takes the liberty of leaning his head against your thigh, begging for your mercy, for your touch. When your hand rests on his head and you start stroking him, the Zhongli make a short, semi-growling, semi-purring sound. Horns grow out of his skull, whose bases are very sensitive and touching them makes him moan, tears of pleasure welling in the corners of his eyes. Zhongli's tail crawls excitedly across the floor, his eyes are covered with long eyelashes, hiding the arousal burning in them from you.

#ummm #dragons are big cats #I want to write this idea as a full fic #but i'm working on the request now #and the started fic with Dottore looks reproachfully at me #sigh heavily (--_--)#genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau x reader #sagau #sagau x reader #sagau cult au #sagau zhongli #theabysss writes

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f1version · 10 months

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11. “am I your favorite?” “I like your dog a bit more than you I won’t lie” with max but instead of dog it’s cats🫶🫶

P1 IN YOUR HEART ★ MV1

pairing: max verstappen x fem! gf! reader

summary: 5 times you told Max his cats were P1 in your heart, and 1 time he did a Grand Slam.

warnings: 5 + 1 format ( it’s my first time doing it ), fluff, teasing & joking, established relationship, sassy and jimmy are the favorites ( duh! )

word count: 1.7k

note: this just reminded me how much i LOVE writing fluff, thank you kay <3

general masterlist ★ 1k special

1. SEPTEMBER 30, 2023

The first time it happened, it was Max’s birthday. It wasn’t race week and the obnoxious party Red Bull was going to throw him, was the following day. That left you, Max, Jimmy, and Sassy against the world.

“You are so pretty,” Max said while petting Sassy. You smiled, he loved those little beings so much.

“They may be my favorite thing on this house” You answered jokingly, Jimmy crawling into your lap “Taking P1 indeed”

Max looked at you funny because was he really behind his cats? You bet. Max Verstappen loved being first, even if it meant fighting his cats to be P1 in your heart.

“Oh really?” the Dutchman teased “I’ll be the judge of that” He finished as he picked up Jimmy from your lap and ran away.

2. NOVEMBER 28, 2023

The second time it happened, it was Tuesday, two days after Abu Dhabi. Max had already secured his third world championship back in September, but RedBull had kept both of you there until Monday for partying.

You had just arrived at your shared apartment in Monaco, Jimmy and Sassy surprisingly purring at your arrival, tangling in your feet.

“Hi lovelies!” you said softly, petting both of their tiny heads “How are my favorite beings in the universe?”

“Oh, now they’re your universe?” Max complained, leaving his bags on the floor to pet his cats too “I figured a three-time world champion would be”

You just laughed at his childish behavior “Oh shut up, Maxie. Let them have their moment”

3. DECEMBER 31, 2023

The third time, was on New Year’s Day. You were at a party in Monaco, the sky adorned with stars, and the place was full of friends, family, and colleagues; One minute away from giving a warm welcome to 2024.

Max was holding you close, one arm around your waist, the other one caressing your arm. Your arms were wrapped around his torso, eyes focused on the stars before they drifted to him.

“Maxie” You called, he hummed, his arm around your waist losing a bit. “What’s your year's resolution?”

You and Max usually took that question as a joke, even after you achieved the majority of last year's. Max thought about it for at least 8 seconds before a grin popped on his lips.

“That one’s obvious. I will overtake the cats and become P1 in your heart,” He said, unserious. You laughed.

“Hard one. They will always be my favorite”

Max rolled his eyes, bringing you close one more time that year, his eyes shined with happiness and little mischief.

His temple met yours.

“Well, they don’t get to kiss you right…three, two…now”

Cheers and celebrations were shared while Max cupped your cheeks, kissing you sweetly.

“Happy new year, schatje”

4. JANUARY 29, 2024

The fourth time was on purpose. Max was away in Milton Keynes for testing and practice, you were home with two little creatures.

It had been a long day at the office and you missed Max, so around dusk, you decided to tease him a bit with a picture of the cats.

you: [ 1 image attached ]

you: actually my favorites ever EVER

Max laughed at loud when he saw it, getting a whistle from Christian and a pat on the back from Danny (they had just wrapped up a meeting). Max rolled his eyes, focusing back on your messages. He could win this one.

max: you know what’s my favorite EVER?

you: what?

max: [ 1 image attached ]

max: the new car😍😍😍

you: i could fight you and your vroom vroom AND win

max: good luck with that schatje

5. FEBRUARY 14, 2024

The fifth time was on Valentine’s Day. That morning, when buying groceries, you found yourself in the middle of the pet section, buying a couple some cat accessories and costumes for Valentine’s Day.

You were so eager to try it on the cats that when you got home, you discarded the other bags in the kitchen knowing Max would organize everything while you styled the two furry demons.

“Max! Look at their little costumes!” You said picking up Sassy, she had a heart-shaped antenna headband and a tutu.

“I’m one hundred percent sure she will hate you for the rest of her life” Max answered picking up his phone to take a photo.

“Oh yeah?” You challenged, picking up Jimmy so Max could take a photo of him too. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, since I’m hers and Jim’s favorite… and they’re my favorite”

“Really, schat? On Valentine’s Day?” Max said in faked disbelief “I knew you hated me, but this is heartless”

You just laughed, turning around so you could take off the costumes before they were destroyed.

“I love you, babe!”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Max said “I love you too”

+1 . . . CLOSURE

Finally, it was a “normal” Sunday. Max had a two-week break before the next race, so he took one week off the factory to be with you.

But the thing is, Max, had been acting suspicious. All week long he had been so secretive but also so loving and touchy. What made you realize something was a bit off was his attitude around Friday, Saturday, and today.

On Friday, he decided to go hiking with you, gifting you a beautiful bracelet with three charms: A cat that looked just like Jimmy, a second cat that looked like Sassy, and a couple for both of you. You were used to Max gifting you things, usually, they were simple, handmade items, but he also bought you expensive stuff. You loved everything he gave you.

Then Saturday came. He prepared a dinner date in your favorite Monegasque restaurant, where he gave you flowers and a necklace, it had a heart with an M engraved on it. You loved it.

Even after two days of wonderful gifts and sunshine, Sunday morning was still a surprise. Max decided to wake you up with breakfast in bed and tons of kisses, a lovely morning of you asked anyone.

After that, he said you had to be ready for a picnic at 4 PM, you could have begged him to tell you why but you knew he was stubborn enough to resist everything.

Either way, that’s why you found yourself at the top of Monte Carlo, having a picnic while the sun was burned by the ocean.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s been this weekend?” You asked after taking a sip of wine, it was enchanté.

“Why? Is it out of character?” He asked back jokingly, you rolled your eyes, smiling. “I’m joking”

“I know”

“Follow me”

You grabbed Max’s hand, getting up from the floor. He started walking towards the sunset, golden light shining on his face, blue eyes turning green.

“This past month, we have been talking—daydreaming about a life together” Max started, you nodded “And, yes, we already live together but remember how we wanted more?”

You nodded again, your chest growing warm, this had to be going the place you wanted it to. This had to be the moment you had been waiting for. Max got close, taking your other hand in his as the sky turned pink.

“Well, I figured a couple of months ago before the season started,” He continued “That I want to spend the rest of my days, nights, years, life, and eternity with you”

He started to move away, making up space for a final movement.

“So, I wanted to know,” He knelt “Would you marry me?”

The world stopped. It stopped and even if the sun was setting, daylight had just sprung out from the bottom of Earth.

You started shaking your head yes.

“Yes! Yes, and a million times yes!” You exclaimed, wrapping your arms around him.

Max let out a loud sigh, laughing a bit before sliding the ring into your finger and launching himself at you “Thank you, baby. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you so so much”

“I love you so much more, Max”

There were hugs, kisses, laughter, and the dizzying feeling of adrenaline drove the car to the top of the podium. Max, drunk in happiness, cupped your face in his hands.

“Now that's out of the way. Am I your favorite?” He asked, almost laughing, but so hopeful. He was so cute.

“Max Emilian Verstappen!”

“I’m just joking…” He laughed, hugging you for a second and then holding your waist “But am I?”

“I like your cats a bit more than you, I won’t lie”

“Oh for fu-”

That’s when this whole situation clicked for you. Max had started all of this on Friday so it could be like a race weekend, finishing P1 on Sunday’s race.

“Schatje, I’m kidding, you’ve always been my favorite,” You said, now you were cupping his face in your hands “And you just did a Grand Slam,” You said, kissing your future husband.

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